Contested Holdings: Museum Collections in Political, Epistemic and Artistic Processes of Return 9781800734241

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Contested Holdings

Museums and Collections Editors Mary Bouquet, University College Utrecht, and Howard Morphy, The Australian National University, Canberra As houses of memory and sources of information about the world, museums function as a dynamic interface between past, present and future. Museum collections are increasingly being recognized as material archives of human creativity and as invaluable resources for interdisciplinary research. Museums provide powerful forums for the expression of ideas and are central to the production of public culture: they may inspire the imagination, generate heated emotions and express conflicting values in their material form and histories. This series explores the potential of museum collections to transform our knowledge of the world, and for exhibitions to influence the way in which we view and inhabit that world. It offers essential reading for those involved in all aspects of the museum sphere: curators, researchers, collectors, students and the visiting public.

Recent volumes: Volume 14 Contested Holdings: Museum Collections in Political, Epistemic and Artistic Processes of Return Edited by Felicity Bodenstein, Damiana Oţoiu and Eva-Maria Troelenberg Volume 13 Transforming Author Museums: From Sites of Pilgrimage to Cultural Hubs Edited by Ulrike Spring, Johan Schimanski and Thea Aarbakke Volume 12 Exchanging Objects: NineteenthCentury Museum Anthropology at the Smithsonian Institution Catherine A. Nichols

Volume 9 Visitors to the House of Memory: Identity and Political Education at the Jewish Museum Berlin Victoria Bishop Kendzia Volume 8 Museum Websites and Social Media: Issues of Participation, Sustainability, Trust, and Diversity Ana Luisa Sánchez Laws Volume 7 The Enemy on Display: The Second World War in Eastern European Museums Zuzanna Bogumił, Joanna Wawrzyniak, Tim Buchen, Christian Ganzer and Maria Senina

Volume 11 Extinct Monsters to Deep Time: Conflict, Compromise, and the Making of Smithsonian’s Fossil Halls Diana E. Marsh

Volume 6 Exhibiting Europe in Museums: Transnational Networks, Collections, Narratives, and Representations Wolfram Kaiser, Stefan Krankenhagen and Kerstin Poehls

Volume 10 The Witness as Object: Video Testimony in Memorial Museums Steffi de Jong

Volume 5 Borders of Belonging: Experiencing History, War and Nation at a Danish Heritage Site Mads Daugbjerg

For a full volume listing, please see the series page on our website: https://berghahnbooks.com/series/museums-and-collections

Contested Holdings Museum Collections in Political, Epistemic and Artistic Processes of Return

Edited by Felicity Bodenstein, Damiana Oţoiu and Eva-Maria Troelenberg

berghahn NEW YORK • OXFORD www.berghahnbooks.com

First published in 2022 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com © 2022 Felicity Bodenstein, Damiana Oţoiu, Eva-Maria Troelenberg All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Bodenstein, Felicity, editor. | Oțoiu, Damiana, editor. | Troelenberg, Eva-Maria, editor. Title: Contested holdings : museum collections in political, epistemic and artistic processes of return / edited by Felicity Bodenstein, Damiana Oțoiu and Eva-Maria Troelenberg. Description: New York : Berghahn Books, 2022. | Series: Museums and collections ; volume 14 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2021040501 (print) | LCCN 2021040502 (ebook) | ISBN 9781800734234 (hardback) | ISBN 9781800734241 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Cultural property--Repatriation--Case studies. | Human remains (Archaeology)--Repatriation--Case studies. | Museums--Collection management--Moral and ethical aspects--Case studies. | Museum exhibits--Moral and ethical aspects--Case studies. Classification: LCC CC135 .C6295 2022 (print) | LCC CC135 (ebook) | DDC 363.6/9--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021040501 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021040502 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978-1-80073-423-4 hardback ISBN 978-1-80073-424-1 ebook

Contents List of Illustrationsvii Acknowledgementsix Abbreviationsxi Introduction1 Felicity Bodenstein and Damiana Oţoiu Part I. From Objects Back to People: Ways of Life and Loss Chapter 1. The Value of Art – a Human Life? Works of Art in the Crosshairs of the Persecution of Jews under National Socialism Ulrike Saß Chapter 2. Return as Reconstruction: The Gwoździec Synagogue Replica in the Museum of the History of Polish Jews Ewa Manikowska Chapter 3. The Other Nefertiti: Symbolic Restitutions Ruth E. Iskin

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Part II. The Subject of Return: Between Artefacts and Bodies Chapter 4. Blurring Objects: Life Casts, Human Remains and Art History Noémie Etienne Chapter 5. Of Phrenology, Reconciliation and Veneration: Exhibiting the Repatriated Life Cast of Māori Chief Takatahara at the Akaroa Museum Christopher Sommer

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Chapter 6. Ancestors or Artefacts: Contention in the Definition, Retention and Return of Ngarrindjeri Old People Cressida Fforde, Major Sumner, Loretta Sumner, Tristram Besterman and Steve Hemming

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Part III. ‘The Making of Law’: Politics and Museum Ethics Chapter 7. A Long-Term Perspective on the Issue of the Return of Congolese Cultural Objects: Entangled Relations between Kinshasa and Tervuren (1930–80) Placide Mumbembele Sanger Chapter 8. ‘How Would You Like to See Your Great-Grandfather in a Museum?’ The Issue of ‘Human Dignity’ in Repatriation Processes (Cases Involving French Museums) Cristina Golomoz Chapter 9. (De)Museifying Collections of Physical Anthropology: The Display and/or the Restitution of Human Remains of Indigenous Peoples from Southern Africa Damiana Oţoiu

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Part IV. Partial and Paused Returns Chapter 10. Baroque Returns: The Donations and Reuses of Francesco Gualdi Fabrizio Federici Chapter 11. Getting the Benin Bronzes Back to Nigeria: The Art Market and the Formation of National Collections and Concepts of Heritage in Benin City and Lagos Felicity Bodenstein Chapter 12. What Future for Looted Syrian Antiquities? The Clash between the Law and Practice for the Repatriation of Cultural Property to Countries in Crisis Erin Thompson Conclusion. Unfinished Projects of ‘Decentring’ Western Museum Practices Felicity Bodenstein, Damiana Oţoiu and Eva-Maria Troelenberg

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Illustrations Figure 1.1. Julius Scherb: Palais Louis von Rothschild, Treppenhaus Heugasse 26 (currently Prinz-Eugen-Straße 20–22), 1943, Bildarchiv Austria, 294681-D. 

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Figure 1.2. Julius Scherb: Palais Louis von Rothschild, Runder Salon, Heugasse 26 (currently Prinz-Eugen-Straße 20–22), 1943, Bildarchiv Austria, 294685-D.

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Figure 2.1. M. Starowieyska and D. Golik, the Gwoździec synagogue replica, 2014.

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Figure 2.2. Szymon Zajczyk, the synagogue in Olkienniki, 1936. 

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Figure 3.1. Nora Al-Badri and Jan Nikolai Nelles, The Other Nefertiti. Still from video, 2016. 

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Figure 3.2. Portrait of James Simon. Photograph, c. 1914. 

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Figure 5.1. Life cast of Chief Takatahara. Permanent exhibition. Akaroa Museum, 2010. 

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Figure 5.2. Diorama of a coastal scene featuring a mannequin depicting tangata whenua. Permanent exhibition. Akaroa Museum, 2010. 

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Figure 5.3. Life cast of Chief Takatahara. Horomaka. Akaroa Museum, 2013. 

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Figure 6.1. Handover Ceremony, Australia House, October 2016. 

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Figure 6.2. Angas (1847), Plate 36. The merikin is featured in the foreground.

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Figure 7.1. The handing over of the Kuba Ndôp royal statue to the Zairian authorities in March 1976, HP.2011.76.1, collection RMCA Tervuren.

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Figure 10.1. The two reliefs from Christian sarcophagi assembled by Francesco Gualdi in the porch of Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome in 1635 (from Meroni 1635). 

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Figure 10.2. The monument to Scipio Africanus erected in 1655 by Francesco Gualdi on the north side of the Palazzo Senatorio, Rome, Capitoline Hill.  203 Figure 11.1. The British Museum pendant mask (Af1910,0513.1) reproduced on the cover of the brochure Nigerian Heritage, published for FESMAN, 1966.

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Figure 11.2. Photo of Akenzua II by Taro Joseph, 1976, Nigerian Observer, 15 November 1976.

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Acknowledgements The questions we address in this volume were formulated by the editors in the context of two international research projects dedicated to different aspects of the challenges of global, transcultural contexts for museum collections, past and present. Eva-Maria Troelenberg led the Max Planck research group Objects in the Contact Zone: The Cross-Cultural Lives of Things at Kunsthistorisches Institut in Florence – Max-Planck-Institute. As a postdoctoral researcher in this group, Felicity Bodenstein and Damiana Oţoiu co-organized the conference ‘What Do Contentious Objects Want? Political, Epistemic and Artistic Culture of Return’, which was held in Florence in 2016, with the generous support of the Kunsthistorisches Institut. The theme arose from the research group’s interest in cross-cultural museum histories and created the initial space for the discussions that led to this book. We would like to thank Constanza Caraffa, Annie Coombes, Larisa Förster, Elena Franchi, Christoph Frank, Christian Fuhrmeister, Andrzej Jakubowski, Lucas Lixinski, Anna Seiderer and Laurajane Smith for their insightful contributions to the important conversations that took place over those three days. The research group itself was a wonderful environment in which to think through these complex issues and we would particularly like to acknowledge the presence and input of Alison Boyd, Anna Sophia Messner, Matthias Weiß and Cristiana Strava during the early phase of bringing this book together. Additional research environments played a key role in the conception of this book. Between 2015 and 2017, Damiana Oţoiu led the project Museums and Controversial Collections. Politics and Policies of HeritageMaking in Post-colonial and Post-socialist Contexts, financed by the Romanian Research Agency (UEFISCDI) through the Institute of Advanced Studies ‘New Europe College’, in Bucharest. The six members of the team (Gruia Bădescu, Simina Bădică, Felicity Bodenstein, Damiana Oţoiu, Anna Seiderer and Margareta von Oswald) dealt with the following overarching questions: what is the relationship between the postcolonialera museum and the ‘source communities’ of the objects exposed? How

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do/can post-colonial museums deal with the legacy of the colonial past? What interactions exist between the colonial archives and current artistic practices? Moreover, certain members of the team tried to adopt and develop the abundant post-colonial analysis of museums in their research on problematic museum collections in Eastern Europe. How can postcolonial studies help us to understand museums in the post-Cold War era? Can similar practices be observed in museums that deal with very different, difficult pasts? This project allowed us to work alongside colleagues from different countries, notably within the framework of a series of postgraduate educational programmes: the monthly seminars on Rewriting the Colonial Past: Contemporary Issues in Museum Collections (which took place in Paris, at the Ecole Normale Supérieure and at the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales, between October 2016 and June 2019), the doctoral workshops on The Museum as a Terrain: Stratifications of Colonial Legacies (which took place in different museums in and around Paris, between October 2017 and February 2020) and the doctoral school in arts and anthropology, entitled Heritage-making, Uses and Museumification of the Past, held in Istanbul at the French Institute of Anatolian Studies (IFEA; June–July 2016), in Cape Town at the Iziko Museums of South Africa (July–August 2017), in Porto-Novo at the Ecole du Patrimoine Africain (July 2018), and at the Centre for the Less Good Idea in Johannesburg and the Iziko Museums of South Africa (July–August 2019). All these research and educational projects, developed in collaboration with different institutional partners, scholars, artists and curators working on colonial archives, collections and memories, provided an ideal framework for years of dialogue on the issues addressed in this volume. We are particularly grateful to our hosts and co-convenors, notably Wendy Black, Benoît de L’Estoile, Monica Heintz, Didier Houenoudé, William Kentridge, Bronwyn Lace, Margareta von Oswald, Dominique Poulot, Laurella Rinçon, Bénédicte Savoy, Wilhelmina Seconna, Jane Taylor and Paul Tichmann. This book has also benefited enormously from the comments and feedback of the series editors, Mary Bouquet and Howard Morphy and their colleague Jessica Largy De Healy, as well as the input of the two anonymous reviewers. Bucharest/Paris/Utrecht, April 2021

Abbreviations The 1970 The Convention on the Means of Prohibiting and Convention Preventing the Illicit Import, Export and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property AICA

International Association of Art Critics (Association Internationale des Critiques d’Art)

AIJSW

Association of Italian Jews for Spiritual Work

AJHI

Association of the Jewish Historical Institute

AMNH

American Museum of Natural History

BM

British Museum

COPAMI

Commission for the Protection of Indigenous Arts and Crafts in the Belgian Congo (Commission pour la Protection des Arts et Métiers Indigènes au Congo Belge)

CPIA

the Convention on Cultural Property Implementation Act of 1983 (implementing the 1970 Convention in the United States)

DCMS

British Government’s Department of Culture, Media and Sports

DGAM

the Directorate General of Antiquities and Museums (Syrian agency responsible for antiquities)

EEA

European Economic Area

ICE

United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement

IDA

Institute for Digital Archeology

IMNZ/C

Institute of the National Museums of Zaire/Congo (Institut des Musées Nationaux du Zaïre/Congo)

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Abbreviations

IRSAC

Institute for Scientific Research in Central Africa (Institut pour la Recherche Scientifique en Afrique Centrale)

IS

The radical Islamic group calling itself the Islamic State

ISC

Independent State of the Congo (Etat Indépendant du Congo)

JHI

Jewish Historical Institute

NAGPRA

Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act

NHC

Ngarrindjeri Heritage Committee, Australia

NLPA

Ngarrindjeri Lands and Progress Association, Australia

NNTMC

Ngarrindjeri Native Title Management Committee, Australia

NS

National Socialist

NSDAP

National Socialist German Workers’ Party (Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei), commonly referred to in English as the Nazi Party

NYSM

New York State Museum

RBK

Netherlands Office for Fine Arts (Rijksdienst Beeldende Kunst)

RP&M

Royal Pavilion and Museum, Brighton, United Kingdom

SAMA

South African Museums Association

UNESCO

United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization

UNGA

United Nations General Assembly

YIVO

Institute for Jewish Research

Introduction Felicity Bodenstein and Damiana Oţoiu

Works of ancient and modern art, archaeological or ethnographic artefacts, physical anthropology and natural history collections generally occupy separate realms in the museum world, with dedicated institutions and disciplines. Yet, the claims on museum collections made by former owners, descendant communities or nations, and the growing discourse surrounding these claims, unite them in a very specific category, one that we will set out to define and will refer to as ‘contested holdings’. As such, they can range from old masters owned by Jewish collectors in the 1930s to the ancestral remains of indigenous populations, which were fervently sought after by racial anthropologists in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. They can include things that may appear to have little in common at first glance; therefore, the term ‘holdings’ in no way qualifies the nature of the things referred to and for which, in some cases, even the term ‘object’ or ‘artefact’ proves problematic. It indicates, rather, their state as kept collections, which has become problematic due to the conditions in which they were taken at some point in their trajectories. It is the questioning of these conditions, the perception that museums and public opinion have of them and how they are judged that, in fine, defines the contested holding. Contested holdings are museum collections that become involved, at some stage, in a process of contestation and (potential) return, a term that can be understood as encompassing both restitution, defined by Piotr Bienkowski as a ‘return to legitimate owner, based on property rights’, and repatriation, a ‘return to country or sub-state group, based on ethical considerations’ (2015: 433). In her foundational study, Jeannette Greenfield (1989: 368) had already privileged the term ‘return’ over repatriation or restitution in order to encompass as many different kinds of case studies as possible. As well as encompassing diplomatic and legal actions that may lead to restitution or repatriation, return, in its different stages, may

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also take the form of ethical and historical inquiries, such as provenance research (see chapter 1), critical artistic expressions (see chapter 3), restoration and recreation (see chapters 2 and 11), activist interventions and healing ceremonies (see chapter 4) or internal debates for the redefinition of standards and procedures in the museum milieu (see chapters 8 and 9). This process of return also takes the form of a radical questioning of the museum institution, the epistemic authority of the disciplines built around these collections, and the usefulness of these very holdings – a questioning that is perhaps most visible when we look at what were formerly defined as specimens of physical anthropology before being demuseified and transformed into ancestors (see chapters 5, 6 and 9). The extent to which museums have come to be judged on the basis of their treatment of contested collections can best be understood by taking into consideration the long and intense history of requests, debates and in some cases the returns that have followed.

Return, Restitution, Repatriation? Historicizing the Current Debates It is clear that the museum, place of the impostor discourse of European museology, must disappear, pushed off the scene by a disruption imposed by a museographic practice nourished by the experience of those billions of people who continue to be ignored and who, every day, more and more, know that they have to propose models other than those bequeathed by classical Greece and the Renaissance. (Adotevi 1971: 133)

Though we cannot know for certain exactly what kind of ‘museographic practice’ the philosopher and politician Stanislas Spero Adotevi, the then director of the National Archives and Museums in Benin, was advocating for, his project of ‘decentering the West’ (Clifford 2013: 1) remains a burning issue, as does the question of the status of museum collections and their possible restitution to the countries where they were created. Since the 1970s, the arguments for and against the status quo of colonial collections, as well as concerns about the illicit trafficking of cultural objects, have produced an exponentially growing body of literature by museum professionals (e.g. Coggins 1969; Eyo 1979 – and all other articles from the same special issue of Museum, Goy 1979). Their concerns have been echoed by other actors, in particular artists, such as the Ghanaian documentary and feature film maker Nii Kwate Owoo, who drew attention to the vast quantity of objects of contentious origins to be found in European museum collections. You Hide Me, a film

Introduction3

that he wrote, produced and directed, was shot in the basement of the British Museum in 1970 and was intended as a plea for the restitution of African collections. At the same time, multiple political initiatives aimed at facilitating dialogue between states in order to promote repatriation were emerging, including the drafting of the UNESCO Convention on the Means of Prohibiting and Preventing the Illicit Import, Export and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property, in 1970, the elaboration of a Study on the Principles, Conditions and Means of Restitution or Return of Cultural Property for the Reconstitution of Dispersed Heritage, carried out in 1977 by the International Council of Museums (ICOM), the call for the return of museum collections made in 1978 by the then director general of UNESCO, Amadou-Mahtar M’Bow (M’Bow 1979), or the creation of the Intergovernmental Committee for Promoting the Return of Cultural Property to its Countries of Origin or its Restitution in case of Illicit Appropriation within the framework of UNESCO, in 1978. The 1970s also saw the multiplication of United Nations resolutions on this subject: the United Nations General Assembly (UNGA) Resolution 3187 (XXVIII) on the Restitution of Works of Art to Countries Victims of Expropriation, 18 December 1973, the UNGA Resolution 3391 (XXX) on the Restitution of Works of Art to Countries Victims of Expropriation, 19 November 1975, the UNGA Resolution 32/18 on the Restitution of Works of Art to Countries Victims of Expropriation, 11 November 1977, and the UNGA Resolution 33/50 on the Protection, Restitution and Return of Cultural and Artistic Property as Part of the Preservation and Further Development of Cultural Values, 14 December 1978. Even if most of these political gestures have not had a substantial impact on national legislations, some famous transfers of collections between the former metropolitan areas and the former colonies were initiated in the 1970s, as, for example, in the case of the Congolese collections presented by Placide Mumbembele Sanger in chapter 7 (see also Wastiau 2000 and Van Beurden 2015). In the 1990s, the issue of the restitution of colonial collections in European museums faded into the background somewhat as the focus shifted to resolving the consequences of what Lynn H. Nicholas famously termed ‘the rape of Europa’ in 1994. This endeavour, formalized by the establishment of the Washington principles on Nazi-Confiscated Art in 1998, largely affected an entirely different category of museums as energies were initially focused on the destinies of modern and ancient European art in Jewish collections. This shift was felt by heritage actors of former European colonies as an expression of a kind of double standard, which could be observed in an even longer history of restitution demands.

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Indeed, the Greek author Polybius was the first point of reference for the Cambridge-educated Nigerian archaeologist Ekpo Eyo (1931–2011), who, shortly after independence, became the director of the Nigerian Federal Department of Antiquities in 1969 (later renamed the National Commission of Museums and Monuments). In an account of his experience of restitution requests, written in 1994, he refers to Polybius’s famous passages from Historiae, questioning the right of the Romans to seize and maintain their trophies from the wars against Greek city states and uses this as an argument to establish a European intellectual tradition recognizing the right to reclaim heritage. He also goes on to quote the Viscount Castlereagh, the British delegate at the Vienna Congress, and his arguments for the enforcement of the return of art looted by Napoleon and the French Revolutionary Armies across Europe. After establishing a chronology of attitudes against plunder that ends with the United Nations Declaration of 1943, shortly before the end of the Second World War, he remarks on the differences he perceives between historical instances of plunder within Europe and those that took place in colonial contexts: ‘It is interesting to note that in all these examples the restitution process and the transfer or traffic in cultural property took place within Europe. These measures can, therefore, be seen as self-protective because most, if not all, of the countries of continental Europe had at one time or another been conquered territories. Plunder was thus seen as demeaning and unjust’ (Eyo 1994: 332). Eyo details his frustrated attempts with international agencies, principally UNESCO, to ensure the restitution and implementation of texts that inhibit the illicit export of antiquities throughout the 1970s and 1980s. For Eyo, the lines of the debates surrounding ongoing failed efforts for restitution to former colonies in the 1990s, in particular Nigeria, could be drawn between the diverging interests in this question for the ‘nonindustrialized and the industrialized nations’ (Eyo 1994: 332). Eyo’s provocative reading of Europe’s history of restitution highlighted the need for a global history of restitution in the twentieth century, a history that is currently emerging (Gaudenzi and Swenson 2017; Bodenstein, Savoy and Lagatz 2021). This volume seeks to contribute to and reframe this history by including cases relating to material culture and ancestral remains, as well as collections that are at the frontier between museum objects and human bodies (casts of human bodies). Such a history, or rather histories, build on the body of literature on the restitution or repatriation of museum collections that has emerged and grown exponentially over the last fifty years. As a full review of this literature is, of course, beyond the scope of this introduction, the references provided

Introduction5

here should merely be considered exemplary; many are at once sources for and contributions to this history. A particularly important corpus examines legal and anthropological perspectives, the legal framework, its dynamics, its inconsistencies, as well as the social and political ‘making of the law’ (see, for instance, Vrdoljak 2006; Sandholtz 2007; Arvanitis and Tythacott 2014). Another group of writings considers the long history of collecting and looting practices, particularly in a colonial context, and includes studies illustrating the strong interweaving of the violence of colonial conquest, the subjection of populations and the violence of the appropriation of objects and human remains, providing a rapidly growing foundation for addressing the issue of restitution (see, for example, Wastiau 2000 and 2017; Legassick and Rassool 2000; Foliard and Arzel 2020; Hicks 2020; Lagatz, Savoy and Sissi 2020; Aly 2021). Recent developments in curatorial policies and practices, and the ownership debates have also been examined in the light of the relationship between historical memory (or amnesia) and restitution (see, for instance, Diner and Wunberg 2007) or the impact of postcolonial studies upon the museum field (e.g. Simpson 1996; Seiderer 2014). From a practice-based perspective, one can observe the gradual proliferation of texts relating to political and legislative initiatives and the emergence of new internal procedures and codes of ethics in museum institutions (e.g. Speaker 2003). It is in dialogue with these growing fields of literature that the authors in this volume have analysed a series of case studies covering a wide range of geographies and time frames.

Overview of the Volume The political and social nature of what are essentially relational processes will be examined in a series of twelve chapters organized into four parts reflecting different modalities, stages and degrees of the process and practices of return. By bringing together scholars and practitioners interested in case studies related to a wide range of object types or museum collections, this book presents a multidisciplinary engagement that is not restricted to any particular period or geographical context. The authors included in this volume come from a wide range of disciplinary backgrounds and their current positions illustrate the growing interest in such specific fields of inquiry as art crime, for which Erin Thompson is associate professor at John Jay College, New York, or provenance research, for which Ulrike Saß is junior professor at Bonn University. This diversity of perspectives, arising from art history, anthropology, archaeology, political

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sciences, legal studies and museum studies, allows this volume to explore different inflexions and cultures of return and to give greater historical depth to a phenomenon that is often considered exclusively through the lens of contemporary debates that neglect the more layered and complex histories on which these often repose. Nevertheless, the contributions in this book are directly relevant to the situation of museum collections today, as they lay out some of the wider ramifications of contested holdings for museum legitimacy and transparency in relation to their collection history. Implicit to this is a range of questions about how objects can be exemplary expressions of sometimes contradictory values that they negotiate across periods and cultures, but also across public and private spheres of ownership. Contested holdings of the twenty-first century are collections whose identification as displaced things and persons with often extremely violent histories of extraction has taken centre stage in a growing narrative about the durability (Stoler 2016) of certain histories, in particular those from colonial contexts: their potential to encapsulate the memory of larger conflicts makes them ideal bodies through which the continued impact of those conflicts on our present can be interrogated, explored, debated and contested. The organization of the chapters was designed to highlight several fundamental tensions between the different values that are entangled in dealings with the histories of displaced things and persons in museum holdings (Bienkowski 2010). Contested holdings are often, albeit in very different ways, traces of lost lives and lost ways of life, their biographies closely tied to the biographies of former owners, collectivities and collectors. This relationship will be explored in Part I, entitled ‘From Objects Back to People: Ways of Life and Loss’. The overall management of requests for the repatriation or restitution of human remains, in particular, previously conceived of as a museum specimen like any other, has raised the possibility of changing the ontological status of these collections, which have become, symbolically and sometimes legally, ancestors. This has led to the formation of practices and values that question the traditional heritage values that formerly defined museums’ archaeology and biological anthropology collections (see Fforde 2002, 2020; Rassool 2015; Förster and Fründt 2018). Aspects of this change will be examined in Part II, ‘The Subject of Return: Between Artefacts and Ancestors’. Part III, ‘“The Making of Law”: Politics and Museum Ethics’, explores how legal and ethical standards related to processes of return form over time and who contributes to establishing them, both inside and outside of institutions. Finally, Part IV, ‘Partial and Paused Return’, presents cases

Introduction7

that question the limits of the term ‘return’ itself and consider certain geopolitical and economic factors that inhibit or limit these processes. Methodologically, the focus on contested holdings leads to an examination of the museum and the private collection as a distributed entity engaging many actors both inside and outside of the institution and reaching out to the many contexts from which the collections originate, an approach that builds on the concept of the ‘relational museum’ (Gosden, Larson and Petch 2007). These case studies show how returns are related to the recognition of the museum’s role as a site of soft power and how these relate to changing museum ethics and knowledge systems, calling on new actors and forms of curation and ‘curature’ (Hamilton and Skotnes 2014) and producing more hybrid or heterogeneous biographies and identities that question traditional categories of classification. Although the cases dealt with tend to consider the trajectories of specific objects or groups of objects, analysing their agency as contested things, they do not intend to provide complete object biographies. This nevertheless allows for these contributions to go beyond the questions of legal property and identity politics that tend to dominate restitution issues and introduce an approach anchored in the relations and affordances of the museum thing itself at specific moments in its story, calling on institutional, cultural, legal history and heritage studies, but also the anthropology of colonialism and the history of art history to frame their meanings.

Part I. From Objects Back to People: Ways of Life and Loss The volume opens with two chapters that deal with the consequences of the Second World War, an indubitable turning point in the negotiation of historical injustices (Barkan 2000); however, both adopt rather unusual perspectives in relation to some of the more frequently explored narratives of Nazi-looted art and its restitution. On the one hand, Ewa Mankowska’s chapter allows us to think through strategies of coping with the loss of traditional Jewish ways of life in the museum context, whilst, on the other hand, Ulrike Saß evokes the systematic confiscation of Jewish holdings as expressed through modern and ancient art collecting, leading to contested holdings that arguably remain the most widely discussed and most often restituted museum objects today. Behind the scenario of the outright pillaging and spoliation of Jewish modern and ancient art collections, Saß considers secret negotiations relating to the artworks of Jewish collectors and dealers in the Netherlands during Nazi occupation and how they literally bartered art for their lives

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or the lives of family members. Such instances of forced commodification, which are often key moments in the lives of contested museum things, represent an extreme form of value transformation. The equivalence of human life with a material object reminds us of Igor Kopytoff’s (1986: 64–65) discussion of enslavement, in which he introduces the many varied states of commodification that ‘things’ can go through on a sliding scale from object to subject. Ulrike Saß’s contribution allows for the lives saved by the artworks to come back into focus alongside what the artworks meant and their value, both for those from whom they were taken and for those who appropriated them, showing us that the writing of this history is in itself a form of return, a dialogue with the conditions of how something was taken. In negotiations around Nazi-looted art, gaining a fuller picture of the intentions involved is key as what it meant to take is directly related to what return and restitution signify. Ewa Manikowska’s contribution provides an important counterpoint to the focus on Jewish collectors of modern paintings and old masters and discusses an essential marker of Jewish traditional and religious heritage. Manikowska traces a history of interest in the study and documentation of European synagogues that goes back to the end of the nineteenth century and shows how, at the height of Holocaust memorial culture, this essentially antiquarian interest was transformed and developed to provide recreations of these edifices or parts of them as museum objects. These constitute the product of a particularly complex process of return, one that has clearly been conceived of as a means of compensating for what has been lost. The replica of the synagogue is used in the Polin Museum of the History of Polish Jews in Warsaw (‘Polin’), in particular, to index the lost presence of Jewish communities in Poland. Its role in the Polin is to offer a key moment in the museum’s narrative, filling a void and providing a frame for the re-enactment of the ways of life of Eastern European Jewish communities. Most of the museums discussed in relation to the central case study of Polin are examined as institutions that actively provide the frame for these recreated spaces; this is arguably a liminal case in the context of our category of contested holdings, as these objects seem to constitute the end of the process, the homecomings. Although, in some instances, they had already been musealized in other contexts; one case is the 1968 donation by the Bamberg Museum in Southern Germany of the painted ceiling of an eighteenth-century synagogue to the Israel Museum (see chapter 2). This donation can, of course, be read as a form of repatriation, one that can only be understood in relation to Holocaust memorial

Introduction9

culture, as the object itself was already in the Bamberg Museum in 1913 and was sent far from its original site at Horb am Mein to a new patrie. Ruth Iskin’s contribution weaves together different strands related to the restitution claims that have long been made in relation to the famous polychrome Nefertiti head, today displayed in isolated glory at the Neues Museum in Berlin. By drawing parallels between efforts made by the famous Jewish collector and donor James Simon in the 1920s to have the head returned to Egypt and contemporary artistic activism, which has led to the circulation and reburial of a 3D copy of the head, she shows that the question of return can rarely be reduced to a simple confrontation between the interests of two nation states. The Other Nefertiti by the artists Nora Al-Badri and Jan Nikolai illustrates how return can take the form of reappropriation in the absence of restitution. The role of James Simon in this story, the long amnesia in Berlin’s cultural circles regarding his activities and their recent ‘rediscovery’, and the homage that has finally been paid to him through the opening of the James Simon gallery, just in front of the Neues Museum, shed a different light on German reactions to demands for the Nefertiti head. Ruth E. Iskin examines how one story can cover another, pointing to intersections that explain the deep sense of unease in relation to collections acquired in colonial contexts that is currently moving through Germany’s museum world (Savoy 2017) and the new parallels that are being drawn in public opinion between the spoliations of Jewish heritage and what happened in the decades preceding them (Zimmerer 2015; Bodenstein and Howald 2019).

Part II. The Subject of Return: Between Artefacts and Bodies From the intersection of the biographies of objects and persons, the second set of chapters moves towards examining the boundaries between museum specimens and individual bodies. What is the fate of the old physical anthropology collections, created especially by racial anthropologists and phrenologists, once their scientific projects have been questioned and shown to be obsolete and potentially damaging for the representation of certain persons or groups? Who has the right to hold those collections of human remains, which, in some countries, are becoming ‘ancestors’, both from a legal and a symbolic point of view? How can one reconstruct the provenance of these collections? What is the status of life casts and their moulds: artefacts, scientific specimens, remains containing traces of human DNA, (representations of ) ancestors? What role do different

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actors (politicians, museum professionals, legal practitioners, indigenous activists, public historians, etc.) play in the debates about the fate of museum collections? These are all questions that the three chapters in Part II attempt to answer. Noémie Etienne analyses life casts of people, their ambiguous status ‘at the frontier between artefacts and human bodies’ and the complexity and multiplicity of the circumstances in which these casts were made. These include not only Renaissance portraits of wax, plaster or clay, pervading Italian private and museum collections, but also anthropometric casts made by racial anthropologists during the fairs and colonial expeditions of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. She reveals different ways of displaying them (or not) in museums, in different contexts and eras, and shows that they are as valued, exposed and omnipresent as they are disturbing, painful, and concealed in other contexts. Even if these artefacts – persons carry simplifying labels, which identify them as casts of individuals or stereotyped representatives of a given population, Etienne shows us that they were sometimes true ‘assemblages’, made up of the arms, legs and bodies of different people. This is, for instance, what the anthropologist Arthur Parker and the German sculptor Caspar Mayer had to do in order to put together the dioramas for the museum in Albany in the United States at the beginning of the twentieth century. Parker noted in his correspondence that ‘I have no females available and if he went ahead he would have to do as other museums do – use white models for the bodies – and attach Indian arms and heads’. Finally, Etienne turns to recent debates about these collections to show how the fate of collections has varied in France, Italy, the United States and South Africa, and how views can differ radically in different contexts. If the old dioramas are perceived as highly problematic and a way of perpetuating the violence of the racial sciences, their transformation into artistic representations of known individuals can be seen as liberating. This is precisely the fate of the casts that, in around 1990, were removed from the New York State Museum in Albany, the capital of New York State, which went from being considered politically incorrect to being exhibited after 1995 as an act of restitution in an indigenous museum created near the US–Canadian border. Etienne concludes her chapter by insisting on the importance of meticulously reconstructing the historical context of cast production ‘through a close observation of the material objects and the reading of archives’, thus bringing ‘to light the identity of the people studied and whose singularity had been – partially and temporarily – erased’. Christopher Sommer takes up this challenge in the next chapter. Sommer, too, traces the longue durée history of life casts, from the time

Introduction11

of the casting projects carried out by French phrenologists at the beginning of the nineteenth century to the current debates about the return of these casts and their (re)museification. He does this with reference to a specific case study: the biography of (what is presented as) the life cast of Takatahara, a chief of Ngāi Tahu, the principal Māori iwi of the southern region of New Zealand, on display in a small local museum, the Akaroa Museum on Banks Peninsula. How and when do these life casts return to the communities of the descendants of the indigenous populations studied by phrenologists in the nineteenth century? What is the role of local indigenous communities, museum professionals and politicians in these restitution processes? Are these casts displayed in museums or are they too problematic to be placed there? If the casts are displayed, which historical narratives become part of the museography and which are forgotten? What is the relationship between museum politics, museum narratives and iwi politics? And what do visitors see when they look at the showcases created by museum professionals in close collaboration with local indigenous communities (iwi)? Sommer provides answers to these questions on the basis of an ethnography conducted within the Akaroa Museum and exhaustive research in local archives. And he expresses them in a nuanced way, insisting on the limits of the sources and the need to combine archival ‘certainties’ with doubts and unverifiable conjectures. We are advised that the central object of the Akaroa Museum exhibition, the life cast of the Māori chief Takatahara, may not be his life-cast, since the Māori regard the head as tapu (sacred, untouchable). It is likely that this cast was in fact a copy given as a diplomatic gesture in 1991, following a request made by the former curator, Steve Lowndes, through the French Ambassador to New Zealand. Moreover, Sommer underlines that the ‘local Māori did not play a significant role in this repatriation process’. In any case, the restitution of the cast (or its copy) creates an opportunity for dialogue between the museum professionals and representatives of local tribes (iwi). The article and the photos that accompany it allow us to see the metamorphoses of the museum exhibition and especially a ‘slow change in displaying indigenous artefacts from an ethnographic mode of display perpetuating the colonial gaze to a collaborative model that acknowledges and reflects Māori belief systems and expectations’, as stated by the author in the abstract of his chapter. Sommer assures us that this close collaboration between the museum and the iwi, which goes as far as co-ownership of the Māori taonga (treasures), represents a major paradigm shift. But this shift has not been met with unanimous appreciation – the display of Māori taonga is not widely accepted.

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However, there is another component of the ancient racial anthropology collections that is even more problematic than the life casts: the remains of humans from autochthonous populations that the university laboratories and the museum collections of anthropology and natural history and are full of. The status of the ancestral remains disturbs the museums’ taxonomies and reveals not only the history of scientific practices but also the production of ‘rules’ and ‘regimes of truth’, as shown by Cressida Fforde, Major Sumner, Loretta Sumner, Tristram Besterman and Steve Hemming in chapter 6, in which the authors consider the case of the return of ancestral Ngarrindjeri remains from British museums. While many have already been repatriated, this chapter focuses on a special type of ancestral remains usually inventoried in museums under the name ‘cranial water vessel’. But for the members of the Ngarrindjeri Nation of Australia, they are simply ‘Old People’, deceased kin (or merikin). The history of controversies surrounding these merikin is not simply a history of negotiating the return of the remains to their descendant community. It is, above all, a form of recognition of the epistemic authority of contemporary Ngarrindjeri representatives. This question of epistemic authority has consequences for the constitution of a (new) legal framework for these collections.

Part III. ‘The Making of Law’: Politics and Museum Ethics Part III includes anthropological and historical analyses of the elaboration of laws and principles aimed at the potential restitution or repatriation of collections – be they of cultural objects or human remains. The authors of the three chapters in this part not only examine how laws are being revised, but also how the convictions of certain protagonists regarding what is just/unjust or necessary/unnecessary and their understandings of the definition of heritage are gradually changing. Who should own the collections? Can human remains be considered ‘heritage objects’? The answers to these questions are formulated not only in the museum sector, but also through a sometimes heated dialogue between museum professionals, lawyers and politicians. Methodologically, all three chapters are based on long-term fieldwork and therefore on a constant dialogue with the actors who have built and implemented museum standards: museum professionals and lawyers, but also diplomats, civil servants and politicians. They all take an approach that historicizes what is very often (including in recent scientific literature on the subject) seen as moral evidence. In other words, the authors do not start from the conviction that mainstream discourse

Introduction13

on the subject is the obvious solution, that the principles of some of their interlocutors represent the way forward; rather, they show how norms, vocabularies and even the most banal gestures of everyday collection management change over time. Such changes are, in many ways, responsible for how laws themselves are transformed. Chapter 7 by Placide Mumbembele Sanger presents a complex history of Belgian–Congolese relations, full of ambiguity and conflict, which at times pits the metropolitan administration against Belgian elites in the Congo. In a letter sent on 16 June 1945 to the Minister of the Colonies, Pierre Ryckmans, the Governor General of the Belgian Congo, expressed his opposition to the idea of systematically sending objects of great value from Congo to Belgium: ‘In my opinion, except perhaps in the case of zoological specimens, I doubt whether it is appropriate to send out [from the Congo to Belgium] unique specimens … Today scientists must be globetrotters in order to study them. I rather believe that the Government’s duty towards future generations is to absolutely prohibit the export of unique pieces. They are part of the Colony’s heritage and we are responsible for them as guardians.’ It is through wide-ranging research, combining the reading of archival sources with interviews with political decision-makers of the time, that the author manages to present a non-simplifying perspective on the colonizer–colonized relationship and to account for the sometimes divergent interests of the different actors in both countries. At the same time, the chapter shows to what extent the fate of the museum collections (both in the final decades of the colonial period and following independence) was strictly dependent on bilateral political relations and the political and economic interests of both countries, for example, the fate of Belgian mining companies established on Congolese territory. Perhaps counter-intuitively, the highly political character of museum-building and collection negotiations does not mean that the decision-makers were exclusively diplomats or politicians. Very often, the basis or even the vocabulary of the negotiations was provided by museum professionals. Cristina Golomoz examines the role of curators in the following chapter, considering some cases of repatriation requests made to French museums in relation to human remains. She chooses to assess these claims for repatriation from a ‘law in action’ perspective – that is, by considering the way in which professionals in charge of managing the museum collections engage with cultural property law and how they navigate the tension between moral considerations and legalistic norms when dealing with repatriation claims.

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For almost two centuries, the norm concerning the inalienability of public collections has been a founding principle for the French heritage code (Cornu et al. 2012). The charter of ethics for heritage curators and other scientific managers of museums in France (Circulaire n° 2007/007 of 26 April 2007) also states that ‘The curator is the warrantor of the inalienability of the collections … She/ He is liable for the collections entrusted to his care. His/her mission is to ensure the safeguarding of the assets.’ But the legal categorization of physical anthropology collections, and human remains in particular, is neither straightforward nor stable. Are they scientific specimens (and therefore inalienable heritage objects) or are they human body parts (and therefore subject to the constraints of bioethics legislation, which excludes the idea of ownership or commodification)? With reference to two repatriation cases from the 2000s, relating to the human remains of Sarah Baartman and twenty Māori heads, the author shows that French curators appeal to the moral concept of human dignity to distinguish between ‘named’ and ‘unnamed’ remains and thus between ‘specimens’ and ‘persons’. Although categorizations change through legal and political interventions and repatriation decisions take the form of parliamentary law-making, Golomoz demonstrates that the way in which curators engage with cultural property law might be an important factor in these decisions. In chapter 9, Damiana Oţoiu also focuses on museum professionals in order to explore the metamorphosis, over the last thirty years, of the norms concerning the management of human remains. In all museums established during the colonial era, be they in South Africa, France or elsewhere, physical anthropology collections contain a significant number of human remains from the indigenous populations of southern Africa. Long regarded as scientific specimens, these ancestral remains are now seen as material traces that tell the story of colonial violence and the objectification of indigenous populations by racial anthropologists and museum professionals. There is already an extensive body of scholarly literature on the ‘repatriation’ or ‘reburial’ of human remains, mainly centred around militant actors and pressures that originate outside the museums (communities of origin, pro-restitution activists, public historians, politicians). Chapter 9 showcases the environment of museum professionals and the way they redefined their role and the ethical norms governing their profession, starting in the mid-1990s. How did the curators of these collections address this ethical, but also epistemic, challenge? When, why and how did these debates appear on the agenda of South African professional organizations and, in particular, on the agenda of the South African Museums

Introduction15

Association (SAMA)? How do other actors, including members of the descendant communities, politicians, public historians and other researchers, take part in these ethical and legal debates? How do ideas and norms circulate between South Africa and other countries, particularly other former settler colonies? These are the main questions that the chapter addresses in its examination of a case of international restitution (the repatriation of Sarah Baartman’s remains by France to the South African state) and the debates surrounding South African collections. Moreover, by highlighting the process of elaborating norms concerning human remains, the projects aimed at inventorying the human remains and the first collaboration projects with the communities identified as current descendants, Oţoiu illustrates the complexity of the debates at the infra-state level. It is precisely this complexity that is neglected in many restitution solutions, which are conceived mainly as a result of diplomatic negotiations between officials of two states.

Part IV. Partial and Paused Returns In the last part of the book, degrees of return across different geopolitical spheres of control and property (private, ecclesiastical, municipal, national and international contexts) are considered, as well as the intentions of their sometimes unexpected agents. Diving into the early modern history of antiquarianism, Fabrizio Federici’s chapter takes this volume outside of its largely twentieth-century chronological frame and explores whether the urge to return a collected object to something akin to its original context of place or function can be observed in contexts preceding the creation of the modern public museum. Taking us to CounterReformation Rome, a city that already had a rich history of antiquarian collectionism by the seventeenth century, this chapter examines the efforts of the erudite collector Francesco Gualdi to replace certain pieces of his collection in adapted religious or historic settings related to their former use or past institutional connections. Gualdi’s actions, as well as his discourses, in particular in a pamphlet entitled Oratio de Christianae Antiquitatis Reliquiis (Discourse on the remnants of Christian antiquity), demonstrate that return as a practice was, from the outset, a reaction to the processes of modernity and secularization that generally worked to excerpt and extract materials for scholarly or ostentatory purposes. The French architect and neoclassical theoretician Antoine-Chrysostome Quatremère de Quincy is generally credited with developing the notion of the importance of the original context for artworks as he attempted

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to sway public opinion in relation to the spoliation of Rome’s collections by Napoleon’s army in Italy at the end of the eighteenth century (Quatremère de Quincy and Poulot 2012). Though Gualdi’s actions did not take place in a situation of conflict, return is described with reference to the ancient Roman military concept of tanquam postliminium, which relates to the rights of prisoners of war upon returning to their homes after captivity, essentially comparing the sacred object in a private collection to an exile. This idea became a trope in discourses on restitution from 1800 onwards, as observed by Bénédicte Savoy during her conferences at the Collège de France (Savoy 2017). It sets out a line of thinking about return in a context and at a time when notions such as collective heritage were still nascent. Federici makes it clear that the notion of replacing objects in what was considered a kind of original context can be observed even before the development of the modern museum and contemporary notions of return or redress. Changing frontiers and changing conceptions and frames of sovereignty often make it difficult or impossible to return objects to the polities that once owned them as they are delegitimized or assimilated within new political regimes. Felicity Bodenstein’s examination of the global history of demands for the return of the Benin pieces, taken by the British naval forces in 1897, uncovers the complicated interrelationship between local Benin actors and national colonial and subsequent postcolonial requests. The buying back of objects that had been looted in Benin through the international art market by colonial authorities in the 1950s, for the new national museum that opened in Lagos in 1957, illustrates a partial case of return, not to a place or function of origin but to the national museum frame defined by the colonial authority, one that assimilated Benin City into the territory of Nigeria. Due to the superior buying power of Nelson A. Rockefeller and the newly established Museum of Primitive Art, colonial Nigeria failed to acquire for Lagos one of the most coveted pieces that appeared on the market during this period, a situation that led to the transformation of an ivory hip mask and its pendant in the British Museum into an icon of pan-African postcolonial resilience, the FESTAC Mask. Providing a necessary backstory to a contemporary debate (Bodenstein and Howald 2019), chapter 11 shows how and why the question of the Benin pieces has come to dominate public discourse on the restitution of African heritage (Hicks 2020). Finally, in the last chapter of the volume, Erin Thompson focuses on a contemporary and ongoing situation, considering the legal and political ramifications of the intermediate states in which objects can be caught during or as a consequence of military conflict. Her intricate interweaving

Introduction17

of contemporary reports and current legal jurisdiction both in the United States and internationally illustrates the range of difficulties surrounding the ‘paused’ returns of archaeological findings to Iraq and to Syria. Once seized from dealers or illegal sales, these objects, often initially circulated through ISIS networks, should, in principle, immediately be returned to the existing sovereign states of Iraq and Syria. For obvious reasons related to fragile security situations, this has not occurred in many instances. She examines, in particular, the difference in the treatment of objects considered to be of Iraqi provenance and those that are most likely to have come from Syrian territory (though it is not always easy to make this distinction with certainty). Thus, she shows how a current political relationship can supersede obvious legal standards and thereby pause even the most clearcut forms of return. Moving through the very different contexts invoked in this book, from baroque Rome to zones of ongoing conflict in Iraq and Syria, the reader is encouraged to consider a series of important questions that guided the selection of chapters and their organization. How can we understand historic cases of restitution or returns before the Second World War in relation to the contemporary culture of reparations and redress, led by the human rights movement? What do negotiations related to Nazi-looted art have in common with the legal and ethical questions associated with objects appropriated in colonial contexts? Have the growing number of negotiations regarding human remains had an impact on how we perceive the issue of ownership for other types of collections, for example, when specific cultural objects or artworks are perceived as unique bodies, akin in status to persons? To what extent do processes of return decolonize, in so much as they effectively challenge imperial and colonial constructions and categories of knowledge? Can the desire for return also be read as a deeper reaction to the accumulative and appropriatory nature of European and North American collection-building inherent in the nineteenth-century expansion of the museum world? Felicity Bodenstein is a lecturer in the history of museums and heritage studies at Sorbonne University, Paris. She is also a principal investigator in the digital humanities project, financed by the Ernest von Siemens Foundation, ‘Digital Benin’ (https://digital-benin.org/), which will bring together data from the close to two hundred museums containing pieces from the 1897 British colonial expedition to Benin in their collections. She was recently guest editor of the Journal for Art Market Studies, on ‘Africa: Trade, Traffic, Collections’, vol. 4, no. 1, 14 October 2020, and

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co-editor of the volume Translocations. Histories of Dislocated Cultural Assets (Transcript, 2021) with Bénédicte Savoy and Merten Lagatz. Damiana Oţoiu is a political and legal anthropologist (PhD, Free University of Brussels) and is currently an assistant professor at the Political Science Department, University of Bucharest. Her research is focused on how property rights over museum collections are (re)defined and disputed in postcolonial contexts. She has carried out long-term ethnographic fieldwork in the Democratic Republic of Congo, South Africa, France and Belgium and co-ordinated several research projects, including Museums and Controversial Collections. Politics and Policies of Heritage-Making in Post-colonial and Post-socialist Contexts (2015–17) and Decolonial Practices in Museum Collections (Europe and Sub-Saharan Africa): Local Histories and Global Circulations (2021–22).

References Adotevi, S.S. 1971. ‘Le musée dans les systèmes éducatifs et culturels contemporains’, Actes de la 9e Conférence Générale de l’ICOM, September 1971, Grenoble. Republished in. Aly, G. 2021. Das Prachtboot: Wie Deutsche die Kunstschätze der Südsee raubten. Frankfurt am Main: S. Fischer. Bienkowski, P. 2015. ‘A Critique of Museum Restitution and Repatriation Practices’, in C. McCarthy (ed.), The International Handbooks of Museum Studies. Part 3. Processes. Chichester: John Wiley & Sons, Ltd, pp. 431–53. Bodenstein F., B. Savoy and M. Lagatz. 2021. Translocations. Histories of Dislocated Cultural Assets. Bielefeld: Transcript. Bodenstein F., and C. Howald. 2019. ‘Weltkunst Unter Verdacht. Raubkunst, Ihre Geschichte Und Erinnerungskultur in Deutschen Sammlungen’, in J. Zeller and M. Bechhaus-Gerst (eds), Deutschland Postkolonial. Berlin: Metropol-Verlag, pp. 25–43. Bouquet, M. 2012. Museums: A Visual Anthropology. London: Berg. Clifford, J. 2013. Returns: Becoming Indigenous in the Twenty-First Century. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Coggins, C. 1969. ‘Illicit Traffic of Pre-Columbian Antiquities’, Art Journal 29(1): 94–114. Diner, D., and G. Wunberg (eds). 2007. Restitution and Memory: Material Restoration in Europe. New York: Berghahn Books. Eyo, E.O. 1979. ‘Le point de vue du Nigéria sur le retour et la restitution des biens culturels’, Museum XXXI(1): 18–21.  . 1994. ‘Repatriation of Cultural Heritage: The African Experience’, in F.S. Kapan (ed.), Museums and the Making of “Ourselves”: The Role of Objects in National Identity. London: Leicester University Press, pp. 330–50. Fforde, C., J. Hubert, and P. Turnbull (eds). 2002. The Dead and Their Possessions: Repatriation in Principle, Policy and Practice. London: Routledge. Fforde, C., T. McKeown, and H. Keeler (eds). 2020. The Routledge Companion to Indigenous Repatriation: Return, Reconcile, Renew. London: Routledge.

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Foliard, F., and L. Arzel (eds). 2020. ‘Tristes trophées. Objets et restes humains dans les conquêtes coloniales au XIXe siècle’, Monde(s) 17. Förster, L., I. Edenheiser, S. Fründt, and H. Hartmann (eds). 2018. Provenienzforschung zu Ethnografischen Sammlungen der Kolonialzeit. Positionen in der Aktuellen Debatte. Berlin: Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin. Förster, L., and S. Fründt. 2018. ‘Menschliche Überreste in Deutschen Institutionen: Historische Entwicklungen und Zukünftige Perspektiven’, in J. Zeller and M. Bechhaus-Gerst (eds), Deutschland Postkolonial? Die Gegenwart der Imperialen Vergangenheit. Berlin: Metropol-Verlag: 505–31. Cornu, M. et al. (sous la direction de) et al. 2012. L’inaliénabilité des collections, performances et limites. Paris: L’Harmattan. Gaudenzi, B., and A. Swenson. 2017. ‘Looted Art and Restitution in the Twentieth Century – Towards a Global Perspective’, Journal of Contemporary History 52(3): 491–518. Geismar, H. 2013. Treasured Possessions: Indigenous Interventions into Cultural and Intellectual Property. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Gosden, C., F. Larson, and A. Petch. 2007. Knowing Things. Exploring the Collections at the Pitt Rivers Museum, 1884–1945. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Goy, R. 1979. ‘Le retour et la restitution des biens culturels à leur pays d’origine en cas d’appropriation illégale’, Revue Générale de Droit International Public 4: 962–85. Greenfield, J. 1989. The Return of Cultural Treasures. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hamilton, C., and P. Skotnes. 2014. Uncertain Curature: In and Out of the Archive. Johannesburg: Jacana. Hicks, D. 2020. The Brutish Museum: The Benin Bronzes, Colonial Violence and Cultural Restitution. London: Pluto Press. Kopytoff, I. 1986. ‘The Cultural Biography of Things: Commoditization as Process’, in A. Appadurai (ed.), The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 64–91. Lagatz, M., B. Savoy, and P. Sissis. 2021. Beute. Ein Bildatlas Zu Kunstraub Und Kulturerbe. Berlin: Matthes & Seitz. Legassick, M., and C. Rassool. 2000. Skeletons in the Cupboard: South African Museums and the Trade in Human Remains 1907–1917. Kimberley: McGregor Museum. M’Bow, A.-M. 1979. ‘Pour le retour, à ceux qui l’ont créé, d’un patrimoine culturel irremplaçable’, Museum XXXI (1): 58–59. Nelson, R.S. 2003. ‘Appropriation’, in R. Shiff (ed.), Critical Terms for Art History. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, pp. 160–73. Nicholas, L.H. 1994. The Rape of Europa: The Fate of Europe’s Treasures in the Third Reich and the Second World War. New York: Vintage Books. Quatremère de Quincy, A.-C., and D. Poulot. 2012. Letters to Miranda and Canova on the Abduction of Antiquities from Rome and Athens. Los Angeles, CA: Getty Research Institute. Rassool, C. 2015. ‘Human Remains, the Disciplines of the Dead, and the South African Memorial Complex’, in D. Peterson, K. Gavua, and C. Rassool (eds), The Politics of Heritage in Africa: Economies, Histories, and Infrastructures. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 133–56. Sandholtz, W. 2007. Prohibiting Plunder: How Norms Change. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Savoy, B. 2017. Objets du désir, désir d’objets. Paris: Fayard, Collège de France. Simpson, M.G. 1996. Making Representations: Museums in the Post-Colonial Era. London: Routledge. Seiderer, A. 2014. Une critique postcoloniale en acte: les musées d’ethnographie contemporains sous le prisme des études postcoloniales. Tervuren: RMCA. Skrydstrup, M. 2010. ‘What Might an Anthropology of Cultural Property Look Like?’, in P. Turnbull and M. Pickering (eds), The Long Way Home: The Meaning and Values of Repatriation. New York: Berghahn Books, pp. 57–80. Smith, L.T. 1999. Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. London: Zed Books. Speaker, S. 2003. ‘Repatriating the Remains of Ishi: Smithsonian Institution Report and Recommendation’, in K. Kroeber and C. Kroeber (eds), Ishi in Three Centuries. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, pp. 73–86. Tythacott, L., and K. Arvanitis (eds). 2014. Museums and Restitution: New Practices, New Approaches. Surrey: Ashgate. Vagues: une anthologie de la nouvelle muséologie, vol. 1, textes choisis et présentés par André Desvalées, Mâcon/ Savigny-le-Temple, W./MNES, 1992. Van Beurden, S. 2015. Authentically African: Arts and the Transnational Politics of Congolese Culture. Athens: Ohio University Press. Vrdoljak, A.F. 2006. International Law, Museums and the Return of Cultural Objects. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wastiau B. 2000a. Congo–Tervuren. Aller–retour: le transfert de pièces ethnographiques du Musée royal de l’Afrique centrale: l’Institut des musées nationaux du Zaïre, 1976–1982. Tervuren: RMCA.  . 2000b. Exit Congo Museum: un essai sur la ‘vie sociale’ des chefs-d’œuvre du Musée de Tervuren. Tervuren: RMCA.  . 2017. ‘The Legacy of Collecting. Colonial Collecting in the Belgian Congo and the Duty of Unveiling Provenance’, in P. Hamilton and J.B. Gardner (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Public History. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 460–478. Zimmerer, J. 2015. ‘Kulturgut Aus Der Kolonialzeit – Ein Schwieriges Erbe?’, Museumskunde 80(2): 22–25.

Part I

From Objects Back to People Ways of Life and Loss

Chapter 1

The Value of Art – a Human Life? Works of Art in the Crosshairs of the Persecution of Jews under National Socialism Ulrike Saß

Spectacular restitution cases such as the return of Ernst Ludwig Kirchner’s Berliner Straßenszene (Berlin Street Scene) to Alfred Hess’s heiress or paintings by Gustav Klimt to the heiress of Adele Bloch-Bauer, both in 2006, receive special public attention. This is mainly due to the fact that these cases involved artworks of high monetary value and a special identity-forming character for the respective institution or society that returned the work. In the public discourse on the material or even immaterial value of the artwork, however, that which is really at stake is often forgotten, namely the responsible treatment of one’s own history and the recognition of the injustice done to those who were persecuted and murdered under National Socialism. Indeed, restitution today is still representative of that which can never be returned: the people once loved. The artworks in museums testify to this suffering, as is possibly the case for the painting by Francesco di Girolamo da Santacroce discussed in this chapter. This painting is now in the Bonnefantenmuseum in Maastricht. The mechanisms whereby the Jews were persecuted were closely connected to the works of art seized in the context of NS persecution. This becomes apparent when we consider the barter trade during National Socialism, which flagrantly contradicts basic moral concepts, involving as it did the bargaining for human life. This barter trade system makes it especially clear how the massive deprivation of the rights of persons categorized as Jewish initially turned them into second-class citizens and then further degraded them into little more than material goods or even the designated commodity of exchange.

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What was in essence a system of ‘human trafficking’ served National Socialists to exchange prisoners, mostly those persecuted for reasons of race, for Germans imprisoned abroad, foreign currency, company shares and other assets. This is particularly well known in connection with the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp (Wenck 2000). In addition, this system of exchange has been described and discussed in wide-ranging ways in popular scientific literature and journalistic reports (Moskin 2005; Hilter’s Slave Traders. Jews as Goods for Exchange 2010–11). Persons categorized as Jewish under National Socialism, but of non-German citizenship, were in fact partially protected from various mechanisms of persecution because the NS regime suspected ensuing diplomatic pressure (Wenck 2000: 46– 54). This protection applied especially to American and Western European citizens who had been used, primarily since 1939, for the exchange of civilian prisoners between Germany and her enemies during the Second World War (Wenck 2000: 54–76). In 1942, Adolf Hitler additionally granted Heinrich Himmler full authority to approve the release of captives – regardless of their citizenship – in exchange for foreign currency. Officially, such approvals were only granted under certain conditions, such as the advanced age of the applicant or if at least 100,000 SFR were paid per person (Wenck 2000: 80–82). Such negotiations and enquiries were, for example, brought to the top echelons of NS government via the German Consulate General in Switzerland or the Sicherheitsdienst (Security Service) of the SS in the occupied Netherlands. There was a clear economic reason for this: Nazi-Germany urgently needed foreign currency to maintain the war effort. The Swiss franc was particularly well suited for this purpose as it was the only freely convertible currency in Europe aside from the Portuguese escudo (Sandkühler and Zeugin 1999: 8). A comprehensive and profound study on ransom extortion in the occupied Netherlands was presented by the Unabhängige Expertenkommission Schweiz – Zweiter Weltkrieg (Independent Commission of Experts Switzerland – Second World War) in 1999: it documents around four hundred individual cases between 1940 and 1944 (Sandkühler and Zeugin 1999). Switzerland served as the hub for raising the required funds (Sandkühler and Zeugin 1999: 9). The high point of ransom negotiations took place between the summer and the end of 1942 (Sandkühler and Zeugin 1999: 119). Different procedures were involved: Arisierung (Aryanization) as a form of ransom payment, with a foreign currency, and omission of deportation in exchange for a foreign currency payment (Sandkühler and Zeugin 1999: 139–97). In the final years of the war, however, the exchange of civilian prisoners and extortion involving diamonds and works of art came to the fore (Sandkühler and Zeugin 1999: 199).1

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Generating monetary value and especially foreign currency clearly made economic sense in the case of ransom negotiations or the extortion of diamonds. The extortion of works of art during the war may also have been encouraged by the prospect of monetary gain. In contrast to the attention paid to ransom extortion, research has, up until now, almost completely ignored the part played by works of art which were a constituent element of human trafficking under National Socialism. Only a few cursory references to such transactions can be found in studies on the art trade during the NS era.2 The only exception is the work of Christian Fuhrmeister and Susanne Kienlechner. In their research on the art historian Erhard Göpel (1906–66), they show how he was involved in bartering people for works of art. Fuhrmeister and Kienlechner question Göpel’s motivations to direct his enquiries to key authorities (Fuhrmeister and Kienlechner 2018: 16): Why did he support negotiations and play a leading role in them? Was he trying to maximize profits? The barter transactions, which have been examined for the first time by Fuhrmeister and Kienlechner, provide a solid basis for this chapter, yet they need to be placed in a broader context. They are the result of the malevolent National Socialist system which aimed to segregate the persecuted. My analysis will show not only that the artworks were part of the barter transaction because of their monetary value, but also that immaterial values and motivations played a decisive role. To understand what restitution can mean today, it is necessary to clarify the extent to which the possession or dispossession of art and cultural assets before and during National Socialism correlated to a person’s positioning in society. I will approach this question from two perspectives. Firstly, I will address the significance of dispossessing citizens categorized as Jewish of their property during National Socialism. Secondly, I will consider two different forms of extorting art and cultural assets: on the one hand, the extortion of high profile families, which was carried out in a very public manner, and, on the other hand, the barter trade in the occupied Netherlands which largely took place behind closed doors.

Expropriation and Deprivation of Rights under National Socialism The importance of research into the mechanisms of the deprivation of rights and the expropriation of property of the persecuted as a task necessary for coming to terms with National Socialism cannot be overestimated. The deprivation of property of individuals persecuted under

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National Socialism was immense. Those persons categorized as Jewish according to the National Socialist racial laws were particularly affected. There were many forms of successive expropriation, including the socalled Arisierung of businesses, firms and enterprises, as well as special taxation and forced relocation. The expropriations had financial and psychological dimensions that should not be underestimated in relation to the victims and their reputation within society: property had a high social relevance for early twentieth century societies. First of all, property is an artificial construct, namely a legal model for assigning things to persons that regulates the relationship between people, institutions and goods (Siegrist and Sugarman 1999: 11–13). The understanding of the right to property is closely associated with the citizens of a society, based as it is on a fundamental assumption of the right to one’s own body and the fruits of one’s own physical labour (Siegrist and Sugarman 1999: 24). The right to property thus became the basic right of the economically independent citizen pushing for political co-determination (Gosewinkel 1999: 87). It guarantees security and autonomy and is decisive for the existence and self-image of a bourgeois/civil society (Horwitz 1999: 45). The safeguarding of property over several generations is regarded as the basis for the stability and legality of a constitutional state. In addition, ownership has a direct influence on the social standing and reputation of the respective owner. ‘Those who have property, or at least are not in principle excluded from access to it, are attributed specific characteristics such as diligence, zeal for work, and the ability to master one’s own life’ (Horwitz 1999: 17). Thus, the act of dispossessing those persecuted under National Socialism of their property resulted in more than a transfer of financial capital, it was also a privation of social and cultural capital. It also resulted in the degradation and humiliation of the individuals whose property was taken. In addition to expulsion from public life, associations and clubs, expropriations and other forced seizures of property were another key instrument in demonstrating, personally and publicly, to these people that they were no longer part of society and that they no longer enjoyed basic rights (Bajohr 2015: 34– 35). The deprivation of ownership also called into question the validity of other legal norms for the group of persons affected (Stengel 2007: 9). In historiographical research, the term ‘social death’ is used; the term was originally defined in reference to the position of slaves in a society (Füllberg-Stolberg 2007: 40). Through social segregation, the citizens categorized as Jewish under National Socialism, like slaves, were degraded to ‘second-class’ individuals and found themselves in a ‘permanent state of

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dishonour’ (Füllberg-Stolberg 2007: 40). In this way, the expropriation and deprivation of the rights of the persecuted served as a prerequisite for their subsequent murder and the social acceptance of such acts (FüllbergStolberg 2007: 36, 42; Bajohr 2000: 17). The dispossession of art and cultural assets played an important role in this system since the property of people categorized as Jewish was regarded as ‘national property’ that had been unjustly acquired. Accordingly, the works of art were seen as unlawfully co-opted cultural assets (FüllbergStolberg 2007: 37). The two examples discussed in the following section make it clear that the National Socialists’ dispossession of art and cultural assets took place under the eyes of a global public, thereby representing a public demonstration of these new legal relations.

Hostage-Taking during National Socialism The imperial eagle with the swastika extends over and dominates the magnificent staircase of the palace of Louis von Rothschild (1882–1955) in Vienna (Figure 1.1) on what was then the Heugasse (Kunth 2006: 71–73).3 Another image shows a life-size portrait of Adolf Hitler in the so-called Round Salon (Figure 1.2). The Palais, which was designed at the end of the nineteenth century by the architect Hippolyte-Alexandre Destailleur (1822–93), is a prime example of a type of representational or prestige-based architecture used by wealthy citizens to illustrate their wealth and social status. Although the power insignia of the NS regime and the portrait of Adolf Hitler look like foreign bodies, this drastic intervention makes them appear all the more substantial in these historicist rooms, clarifying their claim: to appropriate the building and its prestigious radiance. The photographs reproduced here date back to 1943 when the Europäische Post- und Fernmeldeverein (European Post and Telecommunications Association) was housed in the building. The Round Salon with the portrait of Adolf Hitler served as a business room. Previously, from August 1938 to the summer of 1942, the Zentralstelle für jüdische Auswanderung (Central Office for Jewish Emigration), which had organized the deportations of the persecuted, had been based in the Palais (Anderl 2004: 122–24). This was a particularly perverse repurposing of the palace since it coincided with ongoing negotiations by the von Rothschild family on behalf of a family member held captive by the National Socialists on 13 March, only a few days after the so-called Anschluss (annexation) of Austria (Lillie 2003 330–33).

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Figure 1.1. Julius Scherb: Palais Louis von Rothschild, Treppenhaus Heugasse 26 (currently Prinz-Eugen-Straße 20–22), 1943, Bildarchiv Austria, 294681-D. Photo: Österreichische Nationalbibliothek.

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Figure 1.2. Julius Scherb: Palais Louis von Rothschild, Runder Salon, Heugasse 26 (currently Prinz-Eugen-Straße 20–22), 1943, Bildarchiv Austria, 294685-D. Photo: Österreichische Nationalbibliothek.

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Louis von Rothschild was the only one of three brothers who found himself in Austria as the Germans marched in. Alphonse and Clarice von Rothschild had stayed with their son Albert in London in March 1938 and had not returned to Austria, travelling instead to Switzerland. Eugène von Rothschild had already moved to Paris (Dorrmann 2008: 121–26; Kunth 2006: 83–86). The family’s negotiations with Nazi-Germany for Louis von Rothschild’s release from imprisonment under intolerable conditions lasted more than a year, until May 1939 (Wixforth 2006: 292). In return for the release of Louis von Rothschild, who then emigrated to the United States via Switzerland and Argentina, Nazi-Germany received all the assets on German soil belonging to him, other family members and the banking house. In addition to company shares, cash and real estate, the art objects of the von Rothschild family were of particular interest to the National Socialists. The highly symbolic appropriation of the palace of Louis von Rothschild was accompanied not only by the seizure of its art collection but also by the appropriation of the art of all his family members on German or Austrian territory. On 14 March 1938, the two Viennese palaces of the von Rothschild family were sealed off by the Gestapo in order to ‘secure’ the art objects within, in the interest of the National Socialists, before they could be exported from Austria (Kunth 2006: 63–68, 87).4 Various representatives of museums and other institutions showed interest in individual works of art (Kunth 2006: 88, n.138; 89–90). Apparently, the fact that this was a private collection in Austria led to an absurd sense of entitlement. This can also be observed, for example, in the behaviour of the director of the Städel, Ernst Holzinger (1901–72), in relation to the collections of persecuted individuals in Frankfurt (Francini 2011: 118). In June 1939, however, Adolf Hitler issued the so-called Führervorbehalt (Führer prerogative), which guaranteed him the right of first use of confiscated art objects and referred in particular to the art collection of the von Rothschild family (Schwarz 2004: 36). The decree expressly states, first, that Hitler did not wish for the works of art to be used for the furnishing of the bureaus of the authorities or other offices and, second, that he was considering making the works of art available primarily to the smaller cities in Austria.5 Hitler thus staged the confiscation of the Austrian private collections of persecuted persons as a recovery of cultural value for the population. Hence, such dispossession, as well as the de facto appropriation of these places of family prestige, was not motivated solely by the prospect of material gain. It was actually much more about politics on a symbolic level. An example was made of the von Rothschilds since the family combined

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and embodied many of the NS functionaries’ images of their enemy: that of the wealthy Jewish banker as well as that of the educated and art-loving member of the upper class who was extremely well-connected in society. A similar attempt by the National Socialists to extort Jewish property occurred in 1938 after the Pogrom Night in Munich. Members of the Bernheimer family, who ran a flourishing, internationally renowned antiques and home furnishings company, had been imprisoned in Dachau concentration camp (Bilski 2007: 26–27). Through the transfer of their property they obtained their release and were able to leave Germany. The company, as well as its prestigious, centrally located headquarters at Lenbachplatz, passed into the possession of the NSDAP through a fiduciary acquisition on the part of the so-called Kameradschaft der Künstler (Comradeship of Artists) (Bilski 2007: 29; Schleusener 2004: 35). Although the international fame of the Bernheimer company and its significance in the Munich art business were decisive for the preservation of the company and the direct takeover by the NSDAP, this did not protect it from being expropriated. Despite the family’s international network, it – like the von Rothschild family – was officially stripped off its rights and immediately expelled from society. This had no negative consequences for the company, which now had a new National Socialist leadership, indeed, its business experienced an economic upswing (Schleusener 2004: 35). Both the von Rothschilds and the Bernheimers, members of which were held hostage by the National Socialists, enjoyed great national and international prominence. Thus, these cases represent remarkably public and highly effective precedents: The property of both families – their monetary assets and their physical possessions – was not only publicly seized, but also publicly appropriated by the National Socialists. The deprivation of rights and the human devaluation of both families thus took place on the world stage and served to demonstrate with particular force the inferior position of those categorized as Jewish under NS rule. At the same time, the properties, companies and buildings of the families were perceived as prestigious and worthy of preservation. The National Socialist rulers thus demonstrated the ‘lawfulness’ of depriving such people of their rights under the eyes of an international public. The social segregation of individuals considered as Jewish was not only demonstrated internationally, but also brought into German Society by official means. Hitler’s decree granting himself the right of first use for artworks and other cultural assets highlights the importance that taking possession of works of art had for the National Socialist elite and, in relation to their redistribution in Germany at that time, the significance that art was made to have for society.

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The Barter Trade in the Occupied Netherlands While the two previous examples of hostage-taking can be regarded as public displays of the deprivation of the rights of individuals categorized as Jewish under National Socialism, the following discussion will focus on the bartering of works of art for human lives as a special form of ransom extortion that did not take place in public. The occupation of the Netherlands by Nazi-Germany had devastating consequences for the population group categorized as Jewish under National Socialist racial legislation (Happe 2017). In just about five years of occupation, 107,000 out of a total of 140,000 people considered Jewish were murdered (Romijn 2017: 103). The methods applied in Germany – depriving these people of rights, expropriating their assets and socially isolating them – allowed for a particularly rapid compartmentalization, which is what makes genocide possible (Happe 2017: 109, n. 44). The resulting social and societal isolation meant that the persecuted were placed entirely at the mercy of the persecuting authorities in the Netherlands – just as they were in Germany (Füllberg-Stolberg 2007: 40). Dutch Jews, who had, until then, been well integrated into Christian society, were confronted with an emotionless efficiency combined with incredible violence and brutality on the part of the occupiers. The persecuted had little chance to protect themselves from internment in the concentration and extermination camps in Eastern Europe. The Germans did more to thwart legal emigration than they did to encourage it and, with neighbouring countries also occupied, escape seemed impossible. To make matters worse, at the end of October 1941, Heinrich Himmler strictly prohibited the emigration of Jews from all territories under German rule (Happe 2017: 79). In addition to trying to go underground in the occupied country itself, ransom payments represented one way of escaping almost certain death. The following three case studies show that this ransom did not always have to take the form of money. The focus here is on the networks necessary for a successful barter transaction, the negotiations and arguments that led to a successful conclusion and the artworks that were part of these transactions. The small 50  ×  50 cm banquet scene attributed to Francesco di Girolamo da Santacroce, now in the Bonnefantenmuseum in Maastricht, may have been part of such a barter deal.6 After the Second World War, the painting was inventoried at Munich’s Central Collecting Point, one of four large collection points for found works of art and cultural assets that had been set up in the American occupation zone (Lauterbach

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2015). Since the provenance of the work could not be unequivocally determined, it was sent back to the Netherlands and transferred to the collection of the Stichting Nederlands Kunstbezit (Netherlands Art Property Foundation), which is today administered by the Rijksdienst Beeldende Kunst (Netherlands Office for Fine Arts) (see Rijksdienst Beeldende Kunst 1992: 100). According to the restitution file from the Central Collecting Point, on 12 August 1942 the work was included in the inventory of the Sonderauftrag Linz (Special Commission Linz), a cultural-political undertaking of the NS regime which included the building of a museum in Linz as well as the massive acquisition of cultural assets by the state.7 It has not yet been possible to determine exactly who made the purchasing decision. Although the then Sonderbeauftragte (special representative) for Linz Hans Posse (1879–1942) had suffered from tongue carcinoma since March 1942 and died a few months after the purchase on 7 December 1942, he was regularly kept up to date by his staff in his final months and still made personal decisions on business matters.8 It is unclear to what extent his diminished strength and condition, impaired by sedatives, gave his employees, such as Gottfried Reimer (1911–87), greater freedom of action (Iselt 2010: 196–200). Reimer largely took over operations following Posse’s death (Rudert 2015: 144–47). In June of the same year, the work of art was still the property of the family of the deceased Swiss art collector Otto Lanz (1865–1935) who had lived in Amsterdam since 1902. In a letter dated 29 June 1942 from Gerd Lanz, Otto’s son and an attorney-at-law in Amsterdam, to the aforementioned Erhard Göpel, the Sachverständiger (official expert) at that time for the Sonderauftrag Linz in the Netherlands and France, Lanz offers Posse the work as a gift. Yet he does so only on the condition that the latter might exercise his alleged influence on behalf of a person named by Lanz.9 Although the letter does not specify exactly what or whom Lanz hoped to protect with Posse’s help, an appendix to the letter contains a detailed dossier on Alexander Lifschütz (1890–1969).10 Lifschütz was trained in the law and had been working as an attorney and notary in Bremen since 1916 (Hesse 2005). During National Socialism, he was persecuted as a Jew. As early as 1933, his permission to practise law was revoked. He emigrated to Switzerland in 1934 before moving further to Amsterdam in 1935. After the Second World War, he returned to Bremen. Lifschütz tried to take legal action against his categorization as Jewish until 1943 (Richter 1990: 189–99). However, since the offered work of art was part of the collection of the Sonderauftrag Linz, it can be speculated that a deal was made, which might explain why Lifschütz was not

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interned (no other reason is known). This is all the more probable as influential NS culture officials had harboured a special interest in the art collection of the Lanz family in the occupied Netherlands, an interest that proved disastrous for the family – despite the fact that they could not be persecuted for religious reasons. Otto Lanz himself – as ‘one of the best-known international collectors and connoisseurs’, in Adolph Donath’s words – was well known in Germany to those interested in art (Donath 1920: 20–22; for the history of the Otto Lanz collection, see Van Os 1978: 147–74). In his book Psychologie des Kunstsammelns (Psychology of Art Collecting), published in several editions, Donath recounts several anecdotes from Lanz’s travels in Italy. In addition, his collection and its individual works of art were presented in richly illustrated form in various German and international art journals (Pit 1912; Swarzenski 1914; Lanz 1922, 1923, 1929). In August 1940, the Lanz collection was presented at the Rijksmuseum (Degenhart 1941: 34–40) and in March of the following year, it was sold to the Sonderauftrag Linz. This sale had clearly been coerced, because the members of the Lanz family, who all had Swiss citizenship, had been prohibited from exporting the collection. In Amsterdam, however, various bodies of the German occupation regime also threatened to seize the collection (Iselt 2010: 267). The painting found today in the Bonnefantenmuseum was not part of the collection that had been sold to the Sonderauftrag Linz, as Gerd Lanz expressly emphasized in the aforementioned letter. The work in his family’s possession, which was obviously desired by the Germans, was to be transferred to Germany as a gift, on the condition that Alexander Lifschütz would receive protection from anti-Semitic persecution. The insistence that it had previously belonged to the Lanz collection provides a clear indication that – as in the case of the von Rothschilds – the monetary value of the painting was not the primary incentive. The fact that the painting had originally been part of the collection must be considered essential for the barter transaction and the historical understanding of the possibly life-saving value of this specific work of art. The same observation can be made in one of the two other cases. In September 1942, the Dutch art dealer Pieter de Boer (1894–1974) was involved in negotiations with Robert Hobrik of Handeltrust West, a subsidiary of Dresdner Bank, and with the Sicherheitsdienst of the SS.11 He first tried to have his parents-in-law and his wife, all of whom had been categorized as Jewish by the National Socialists, placed under special protection and to facilitate their emigration. It is clear from Erhard Göpel’s report to the Reich Commissioner for the Occupied Netherlands

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that the art dealer ‘had been informed in this context that the provision of a painting could possibly be of use’.12 Göpel and de Boer agreed upon a painting by Salomon Ruysdael.13 This came into the possession of de Boer by 1938 at the latest, though it had been known on the German art market before 1933 (Stechow 1938: 94).14 In 1936, it was offered in the catalogue of the Goudstikker Gallery in Amsterdam on behalf of the Saxon Count Schall-Riaucour of Gaussig (Upper Lusatia).15 Göpel based his decision in favour of the work on its good condition and its provenance. It seemed to have been of particular importance that the painting had previously been part of the count’s collection; it was therefore important that the work ‘made its way back to Germany’.16 In addition to its provenance, which the Nazi cultural functionaries apparently considered special thus making the work desirable, there was obviously a network in the occupied Netherlands that made a barter transaction possible. As well as those individuals in the occupied country – the son of an art collector and an art dealer – who had to be well connected among the NS functionaries and wanted to save people through negotiations with the occupying power, supposedly neutral third parties, such as the representative of the Handeltrust West, were also involved. Equally ambivalent is the position of those NS functionaries – as Erhard Göpel in the cases mentioned – who assumed the role of mediators for those higher NS officials powerful enough to make such fateful decisions. Erhard Göpel, in particular, seemed to play a special role. In our third example, he was also involved in the barter transaction. On 7 January 1943, a brief note was sent to the aforementioned art dealer Pieter de Boer: his former partner Otto Busch wrote that he had decided to emigrate and would require de Boer’s help.17 By this time, Busch and his wife had already been interned in the so-called transit camp Westerbork, as can be developed from the sender’s address. This was a highly life-threatening situation. Since July 1942, deportations from Westerbork to Auschwitz had taken place so regularly that by the end of September of the same year almost nineteen thousand people had already been deported (Happe 2017: 109). The situation continued to worsen in 1943: from March on, the trains were directed to the extermination camp in Sobibor, where most people were murdered as soon as they arrived (Happe 2017: 164). The protracted negotiations concerning departures for a ‘neutral country’, as it was termed in the documents, were conducted by Pieter de Boer with Erhard Göpel – once again – as well as by the then Sonderbeauftragte for Linz, Hermann Voss (1884–1969), and Heinrich

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Himmler. In exchange for the Busch couple, de Boer had proposed four paintings that were at that time attributed to Jan Brueghel the Elder and have since been destroyed (Löhr 2016: 184–85).18 In a letter from de Boer to the Sonderauftrag Linz written in September 1943, he assured the commission that he would deposit the four paintings by Jan Brueghel at a ‘neutral place’ as soon as Busch and his wife had left the Westerbork camp.19 The paintings were stored in the Amsterdamsche Bank and were not to be handed over to Erhard Göpel until a written declaration had been submitted that the Busch couple had crossed the border into a neutral country. It seems to have taken more than a year for negotiations to reach a successful conclusion: on 24 March 1944, the German customs office in Basel certified that Otto Heinrich Busch and his wife Frieda had crossed the German border into Switzerland.20 Heinrich Himmler had granted the official permission for this barter transaction in a letter.21 Himmler’s willingness to give his consent in this case can be explained by the deteriorating military situation. In fact, there is a synchronism between his willingness to negotiate the granting of civilian captives exchanges and the turning point of the war, which was evident after the encirclement of the 6th Army in Stalingrad in November 1942 and its capitulation at the end of January 1943 (Wenck 2000: 91). Although the artworks are considered lost today, the transmission of the process they were part of remains important. The surviving evidence explicitly reveals the persons and bodies involved in the trade, namely the initially direct connection between Erhard Göpel and the art dealer de Boer as well as the official permission granted by Himmler. The Busch couple was clearly a victim of Nazi persecution and in mortal danger, as they had been interned in the Westerbork camp. Furthermore, the documents bear witness to a meticulous bureaucracy and the role of the Amsterdamsche Bank as a supposedly neutral administrator of the goods bartered. It seems nearly impossible that such a transaction could have been kept ‘secret’ as there were too many people involved. In the negotiations for de Boer’s parents-in-law and wife, the German occupation regime made the de facto suggestion to the art dealer that he arrange a deal involving a work of art. Otto Busch on his part seems to have been aware of both, this opportunity and his former partner’s good contacts. In all three cases, the monetary values of the works of art played a subordinate role. Although the current market prices of the offered paintings by Ruysdael and Brueghel the Elder are mentioned by the art dealers in the enquiries, this market value is not mentioned again in subsequent negotiations or in arguments for carrying out the barter deal.22 Otto Lanz

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does not even mention a current market price for the painting offered in his enquiry. In contrast to the Swiss francs earned from the ransom extortion – valuable foreign currency – the works of art from the occupied Netherlands could not provide a comparable monetary equivalent. The bartering of works of art in the occupied Netherlands is – unlike the release of persons for foreign currency – in no way explainable in terms of its financial benefit. Instead of the monetary values of the respective work or works of art, the NS functionaries were interested in using this kind of barter deal to acquire works of art that seemed particularly desirable to them. In at least two of the three examples, it is clear that, in addition to the quality of the work of art and the art historical relevance of the artist according to the criteria of the time, the provenance was important. In the documents, the fact that the works belonged to the Lanz collection or the collection of Count Schall-Riaucour appears to serve as a special characteristic of the paintings. Isolated references to other barter transactions in the occupied Netherlands, which are similar to those described in more detail here, as well as barter transactions in Germany or in other territories occupied by the National Socialists at the time require further investigation. Often these references are only narratives that have been told or handed down and have not yet been worked through and verified using archival sources.23 Such sources could be used to determine the dynamics of these negotiations, as well as the decision-making power and motives of the individuals involved. By focusing on the nature of the artworks, the way they shaped these negotiations comes even more sharply into view. A quantitative evaluation of individual cases in terms of the various characteristics and provenance of the respective works of art and their significance in the barter transactions could result in a more differentiated conclusion than the one reached here on the basis of the three exemplary case studies: that the actual, monetary value of the work does not seem to have been of any great significance. Although all three cases involve old masters of good quality, they are by no means icons of art history. The obvious question as to which works of art were valuable enough to be exchanged for one or more human lives must therefore be answered – according to recent research – as follows: any work of art, as long as it can be placed in a higher quality category. So far, only barter transactions involving old masters are known in the occupied Netherlands. The actual success of a barter transaction seems to have been dependent on the political, economic and military situation of Germany at the time it occurred. On the other hand – unsurprisingly – soft factors were also important, such as one’s personal network and

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conceivably even the current mood of the decision makers at the moment of the request.

The Dispossession of Art and Cultural Assets as a Mechanism of the Persecution of the Jews While the hostage-taking of members of the von Rothschild and Bernheimer families was part of the process of segregating the persecuted from the rest of the population, bartering in the occupied Netherlands was a logical consequence of this dynamic. The deprivation of the rights of persons categorized as Jewish in Germany was the basic prerequisite for the bartering of works of art for human life in the Netherlands. The system of segregation was immediately established under German occupation and created fear, despair and a sense of hopelessness among the persecuted. The expropriation of the Bernheimer and von Rothschild families before the world public demonstrated the legal claim of the National Socialists to categorize a population that had formerly enjoyed equal rights into different classes with different rights. The Führervorbehalt mentioned in this context illustrates the symbolic value enhancement of art and cultural assets that, according to the National Socialist way of thinking, were being returned to their ‘rightful’, that is to say ‘German’, owners. The de facto seizure of objects and property resulted in an instant value enhancement of the goods, regardless of who the previous owner had been. The expropriated art and cultural assets immediately served the National Socialists’ own aspiration for prestige and were conferred with their own values. Corresponding to NS ideology, it was not that the objects possessed by the persecuted were inferior, but rather that the persecuted were not entitled to possess them. The barter trade in the occupied Netherlands makes it unmistakeably clear how closely correlated the deprivation of the rights of the persecuted, the dispossession of their art and cultural assets and their murder were. Only in the generally accepted system of devaluing human beings and upgrading objects was the bartering of people for works of art, similar to the slave trade, made possible at all. The public appropriation and accumulation of art and cultural assets by the National Socialist ruling elite thus not only served to symbolically represent their domination, but was also a mechanism for the persecution of the Jews and an expression of National Socialist racial theory. Staging the personal property of the power elite and the ostentatious assembling of looted museum collections

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did not fail to achieve its symbolic effect of clearly showing who was entitled to take possession of culture and its artefacts – and who was not. Precisely because barter gives rise to the morally weighty question of how much the life of a loved one is worth, it must be stated here that, even during the bartering procedures, this question was neither discussed nor decided in terms of monetary values. On the contrary, the symbolic value enhancement of art and cultural assets and the National Socialist state’s status as the self-proclaimed legitimate owner of the cultural value inherent in the works of art was the driving force behind the exemptions made to the anti-Semitic policy. This is an important point in view of the current restitution debates. Any discussion about seized assets has always taken place on behalf of the murdered. ‘So it comes about that talking about things replaces talking about the people murdered,’ as the historian Dan Diner aptly puts it (Diner 2008: 18). And, in fact, the restitution of confiscated assets that had already taken place during the 1950s represented a civil procedure for regulating ownership issues (Unfried 2014: 40–41). Today’s morally justified restitution of NS persecution-related art and cultural assets cannot negotiate the loss of those murdered, nor can it negotiate monetary values. Given the close interdependence between the act of dispossessing people of works of art, the mechanisms of the persecution of the Jews and the deprivation of the rights of those persecuted, the restitution of works of art and other real property retroactively recognizes the rights the persecuted were deprived of by National Socialism and rehabilitates the murdered from the status of second-class human beings to full members of society with equal rights who have suffered incredible injustice. Ulrike Saß is Junior Professor in Art Historical Provenance Research at the University of Bonn since 2018 and specializes in provenance research, art market studies and the history of collections. She studied art history and archeology in Leipzig and Bologna and received her doctorate in 2016. In her thesis she examines the activities of the Gerstenberger Gallery in Chemnitz and the art dealer Wilhelm Grosshennig. She held a scholarship of the Land Sachsen to pursue her PhD at the Zentralinstitut für Kunstgeschichte in Munich from 2011 to 2014. She was a research fellow at the GRASSI Museum of Applied Art in Leipzig and worked as researcher at the Hamburger Kunsthalle.

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Notes  1. The publication contains three examples from 1943 and 1944 in which ‘valuable paintings’ were exchanged for emigration visas (Sandkühler and Zeugin 1999: 199).   2. In his work on the Thyssen art collection, Johannes Gramlich (2015: 157), for example, cites three instances of works of art being given in exchange for persons persecuted as Jews being allowed to emigrate.   3. Today Prinz-Eugen-Straße. Louis von Rothschild had inherited the palace from his father, Albert von Rothschild (1844–1911).   4. The two palaces referred to here are the palace of Louis von Rothschild mentioned at the outset and the palace of Nathaniel von Rothschild (1836–1905) on Theresianumgasse, which Alphonse von Rothschild (1878–1942) had inherited.  5. Hans Heinrich Lammers’s letter to Himmler dated 18 June 1938. Bundesarchiv (hereafter abbreviated BArch) Berlin, R43 II/1269a, 5–6, as quoted in Schwarz 2004: 36.   6. Francesco di Girolamo da Santacroce (?), Banquet, c. 1545, oil on wood, 49.5 × 51.2 cm, Jong-Janssen 1995: 118–19.  7. Database on the Central Collecting Point of the Deutsches Historisches Museum, restitution file: https://www.dhm.de/datenbank/ccp/dhm_ccp_ add.php?seite=6&fld_1=2410&suchen=Suchen (retrieved 21 September 2021). Here it is noted that the work of art was allocated to the so-called Posse special account.   8. Hans Posse had been in treatment for the disease since March 1942. He started working again at the end of July after a lengthy break, but he was once again admitted to the Berlin Landhausklinik on 17 August (Rudert 2015: 144–47).  9. Letter from Otto Lanz to Göpel and Posse dated 29 June 1942, BArch Koblenz, B323/110, 371–72. 10. Appendix to the letter dated 29 June 1942 from Otto Lanz to Göpel and Posse, ibid., 373–74. 11. BArch Koblenz, B323/411, 490; B323/110, 133–35. 12. Letter dated 21 September 1942 from Erhard Göpel to the Reich Commissioner for the Occupied Netherlands, BArch Koblenz, B323/110, 133. 13. Salomon van Ruysdael, Chapel with Open Belfry, c. 1650, oil on canvas, 87 × 127 cm, current location unknown (Stechow 1938: 94). 14. In 1930, for example, the work was exhibited at the Kölner Kunstverein (Cologne Art Association) and sold through a Berlin gallery (Kölnischer Kunstverein 1930: cat. no. 74, figure on p. 47). 15. In 1936, the Goudstikker Gallery’s exhibition catalogue mentions ‘collectie Graaf Schall, Saksen’ as the owner (Galerie Goudstikker 1936: 20, cat. no. 37, figure 37). On Goudstikker, see Senger 2008. The art shop was aryanized in 1940 by Alois Miedl.

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16. Letter dated 16 September 1942 from Erhard Göpel to the Reich Commissioner for the Occupied Netherlands, BArch Koblenz, B323/110, 135. 17. On the case, see BArch Koblenz, B323/411, 456, 461, 490; and B323/144, 146–58, 165–68. 18. Jan Brueghel the Elder, Allegory of the Four Elements, oil on wood, 57 × 95 cm (fire) / 56 × 96 cm (air) / 57 × 95 cm (water) / 56.5 × 95 cm (earth), destroyed by fire on 13 December 1945 in Dresden. 19. Letter from Pieter de Boer to the Sonderbeauftragte for Linz dated 4 September 1943. BArch Koblenz, B323/144, 168. 20. Certificate, Deutsches Zollamt (German costum office) Basel, dated 24 March 1944. BArch Koblenz, B323/144, 149. 21. Letter from the office of the Reichsführer-SS to Hermann Voss dated 3 November 1943. BArch Koblenz, B323/144, 167. 22. The Ruysdael supposedly had a market value of 150,000 guilders and the four paintings by Brueghel the Elder had a supposed value of 250,000 guilders. Letter from Göpel to Hobrik dated 18 September 1942, BArch Koblenz, B323/110, 135, and letter from Pieter de Boer to the Sonderbeauftragte for Linz dated 4 September 1943, BArch Koblenz, B323/144, 168. 23. For example, the history of the Engelberg family, which allegedly received an exit visa to Switzerland by bartering a painting by Otto T.W. Stein. Journalists from Deutschlandfunk Kultur tried to research the history in the context of a report: https://www.deutschlandfunkkultur.de/die-kunstjagd-wo-steckt-dasverschollene-gemaelde.1076.de.html?dram:article_id=326450 (retrieved 21 September 2021).

References Anderl, G. 2004. Die Zentralstelle für jüdische Auswanderung als Beraubungsinstitution. Vienna: Oldenbourg Verlag. Bajohr, F. 2000. ‘“Arisierung” als gesellschaftlicher Prozess. Verhalten, Strategien und Handlungsspielräume jüdischer Eigentümer und “arischer” Erwerber’, in P. Hayes and I. Wojak (eds), ‘Arisierung’ im Nationalsozialismus. Volksgemeinschaft, Raub und Gedächtnis. Frankfurt am Main: Campus-Verlag, pp. 15–30.  . 2015. ‘Arisierung und wirtschaftliche Existenzvernichtung im Nationalsozialismus’, in A. Bambi and A. Drecoll (eds), Alfred Flechtheim. Raubkunst und Restitution. Berlin: De Gruyter, pp. 29–35. Bilski, E.D. (ed.). 2007. Die Kunst- und Antiquitätenfirma Bernheimer. Munich: Edition Minerva. Degenhart, B. 1941. ‘Zur Ausstellung der Sammlung Otto Lanz im Rijksmuseum von Amsterdam’, Pantheon 14, pp. 34–40. Diner, D. 2008. ‘Restitution’, in I. Bertz and M. Dorrmann (eds), Raub und Restitution. Kulturgut aus jüdischem Besitz von 1933 bis heute. Göttingen: Wallstein, pp. 16–29. Donath, A. 1920. Psychologie des Kunstsammelns. Berlin: Schmidt.

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Dorrmann, M. 2008. ‘Der Raub an Louis von Rothschild. Familienarchiv und Kunstsammlung 1938–2001’, in I. Bertz and M. Dorrmann (eds), Raub und Restitution. Kulturgut aus jüdischem Besitz von 1933 bis heute. Göttingen: Wallstein, pp. 121–26. Francini, E.T. 2011. ‘Im Spannungsfeld zwischen privater und öffentlicher Institution. Das Städelsche Kunstinstitut und seine Direktoren 1933–1945’, in U. Fleckner and M. Hollein (eds), Museum im Widerspruch. Das Städel und der Nationalsozialismus. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, pp. 93–145. Fuhrmeister, C. and S. Kienlechner. 2018. Erhard Göpel im Nationalsozialismus – eine Skizze. N.p. Retrieved 29 April 2019 from urn:nbn:de:bvb:255-dtl-0000003675. Füllberg-Stolberg, C. 2007. ‘Sozialer Tod – Bürgerlicher Tod – Finanztod. Finanzverwaltung und Judenverfolgung im Nationalsozialismus’, in K. Stengel (ed.), Vor der Vernichtung. Die staatliche Enteignung der Juden. Frankfurt am Main: Campus-Verlag, pp. 31–58. Galerie Goudstikker (ed.). 1936. Catalogus der Tentoonstelling van Werken door Salomon van Ruysdael. Amsterdam. Gosewinkel, D. 1999. ‘Eigentum vor nationalen Grenzen. Zur Entwicklung von Eigentumsrecht und Staatsangehörigkeit in Deutschland während des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts’, in H. Siegrist and D. Sugarman (eds), Eigentum im internationalen Vergleich, 18.-20. Jahrhundert. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, pp. 87–106. Gramlich, J. 2015. Die Thyssens als Kunstsammler. Investition und symbolisches Kapital (1900–1970). Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh. Happe, K. 2017. Viele falsche Hoffnungen. Judenverfolgung in den Niederlanden 1940– 1945. Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh. Hesse, H. 2005. Konstruktionen der Unschuld. Die Entnazifizierung am Beispiel von Bremen und Bremerhaven 1945–1953. Bremen: Selbstverlag des Staatsarchivs. Hilter’s Slave Traders. Jews as Goods for Exchange. 2010–11. [Film] Thomas Ammann and Caroline Schmidt. dir. Germany: Agenda Media GmbH. Horwitz, M. 1999. ‘Eigentum und Person’, in H. Siegrist and D. Sugarman (eds), Eigentum im internationalen Vergleich, 18.-20. Jahrhundert. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, pp. 33–44. Iselt, K. 2010. ‘Sonderbeauftragter des Führers’. Der Kunsthistoriker und Museumsmann Hermann Voss (1884–1969). Cologne: Böhlau. Jong-Janssen, C.E. de. 1995. Catalogue of the Italian Paintings in the Bonnefantenmuseum. Maastricht: Bonnefantenmuseum. Kölnischer Kunstverein (ed.). 1930. Meisterwerke Älterer Kunst aus dem deutschen Kunsthandel. Cologne: Schauberg. Kunth, F. 2006. Die Rothschild’schen Gemäldesammlungen in Wien. Vienna: Böhlau. Lanz, O. 1922. ‘Ein Tizian-Porträt in Holland’, Belvedere, pp. 14–16.  . 1923. ‘Two Pictures by Dosso Dossi’, The Burlington Magazine for Connoisseurs 43, no. 248, pp. 184–87.  . 1929. ‘A Veronese Portrait of Daniele Barbaro’, The Burlington Magazine for Connoisseurs 55, no. 317, pp. 88–93. Lauterbach, I. 2015. Der Central Collecting Point in München. Kunstschutz, Restitution, Neubeginn. Berlin: Deutscher Kunstverlag. Lillie, S. 2003. Was einmal war. Handbuch enteigneter Kunstsammlungen Wiens. Vienna: Czernin Verlag.

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Löhr, H.C. 2016. Das Braune Haus der Kunst. Hitler und der Sonderauftrag Linz’. Kunstbeschaffung im Nationalsozialismus. Berlin: Gebr. Mann Verlag. Moskin, M. 2005. Um ein Haar. Überleben im Dritten Reich. Munich: BertelsmannTaschenbuch-Verlag. Pit, A. 1912. ‘Quattrocento-Plastik der Sammlung Lanz-Amsterdam’, Münchner Jahrbuch 7, pp. 39–57. Richter, W. 1990. Dr. Alexander Lifschütz. Ein Leben für die Gerechtigkeit. N.p. Rijksdienst Beeldende Kunst (ed.). 1992. Old Master Paintings. An Illustrated Summary Catalogue. Zwolle: Waanders. Romijn, P. 2017. Der lange Krieg der Niederlande. Besatzung, Gewalt und Neuorientierung in den vierziger Jahren. Göttingen: Wallstein. Rudert, T. 2015. ‘Konservativer Galeriedirektor – Kulturdiplomat der Weimarer Republik – NS-Sonderbeauftragter. Bausteine zu einer Biografie Hans Posses’, in G. Lupfer and T. Rudert (eds), Kennerschaft zwischen Macht und Moral. Annäherungen an Hans Posse (1879–1942). Cologne: Böhlau, pp. 61–149. Sandkühler, T. and B. Zeugin (eds). 1999. Die Schweiz und die deutschen Lösegelderpressungen in den besetzten Niederlanden. Vermögensentziehung, Freikauf, Austausch 1940–1945. Bern: Chronos. Schleusener, J. 2004. ‘Vom Kunsthändler zum Kaffeebauer. Ausschaltung und Emigration am Beispiel Bernheimer’, zeitenblicke3, no. 2. Retrieved 13 September 2004 from http://zeitenblicke.historicum.net/2004/02/schleusener/index.html. Schwarz, B. 2004. Hitlers Museum. Die Fotoalben Gemäldegalerie Linz. Dokumente zum ‘Führermuseum’. Vienna: Böhlau. Senger, N. 2008. ‘Ein Gemälde aus der Galerie Goudstikker. “Winterlandschaft mit Schlittschuhläufern bei einem Wirtshaus”’, in I. Bertz and M. Dorrmann (eds), Raub und Restitution. Kulturgut aus jüdischem Besitz von 1933 bis heute. Göttingen: Wallstein, pp. 230–32, 241–44. Siegrist, H. and D. Sugarman (eds). 1999. Eigentum im internationalen Vergleich, 18.-20. Jahrhundert. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Stechow, W. 1938. Salomon van Ruysdael. Eine Einführung in seine Kunst. Berlin: Mann. Stengel, K. 2007. ‘Einleitung’, in K. Stengel (ed.), Vor der Vernichtung. Die staatliche Enteignung der Juden. Frankfurt am Main: Campus-Verlag, pp. 9–30. Swarzenski, G. 1914. ‘Gemälde der Sammlung Lanz-Amsterdam’, Münchner Jahrbuch 9, pp. 87–105. Unfried, B. 2014. Vergangenes Unrecht. Entschädigung und Restitution in einer globalen Perspektive. Göttingen: Wallstein. Van Os, H.W. 1978. ‘Otto Lanz en het verzamelen van vroege Italiaanse kunst in Nederland’, Bulletin van het Rijksmuseum 26, no. 4, pp. 147–74. Wenck, A.-E. 2000. Zwischen Menschenhandel und ‚Endlösung’: Das Konzentrationslager Bergen-Belsen. Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh. Wixforth, H. 2006. Die Expansion der Dresdner Bank in Europa. Munich: Oldenbourg.

Chapter 2

Return as Reconstruction The Gwoździec Synagogue Replica in the Museum of the History of Polish Jews Ewa Manikowska

Introduction This chapter analyses the Gwoździec synagogue replica (Figure 2.1), one of the exhibits of the Polin Museum of the History of Polish Jews in Warsaw (‘Polin’). As the first mounted element of its core exhibition, the replica forms its centrepiece. Handmade and based on lost woodworking techniques, it stands out from the rest of the display. In fact, the centuries-old history of Polish Jews and mutual Jewish–Polish relations and influences are shown in the Polin through a narrative, objectless, interactive exhibition, overloaded with information and visual stimuli. But why was a historical reconstruction given such a prominent place in the Polin? The idea of establishing this museum was launched in 1993, directly inspired by the recently inaugurated United States Holocaust Memorial Museum (USHMM; Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 2016). In fact, the USHMM’s novel model of a narrative core exhibition – based on facts rather than objects and endowed with an educational focus – made it possible to show a thousand years of the history of Polish Jews without the use of artefacts. The annihilation of Jewish culture – through confiscation, the plundering of the assets of individuals and communities, the intentional destruction of shtetls, synagogues and Jewish cemeteries – was an integral part of the Nazi ‘Final Solution’. This human and cultural genocide was particularly dramatic in Poland, where the Holocaust claimed the lives of 90 per cent of the Jewish community and literally

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wiped out its material culture. The pre-war communities were never rebuilt and what was left of their cultural heritage was partially looted, destroyed or abandoned. Indeed, the tragedy of the Holocaust is inscribed in the museum itself. The Polin stands in the heart of the former Warsaw Ghetto, close to the Monument to the Ghetto Heroes. Its symbolic and suggestive block form, designed by the Finnish architect Rainer Mahlamäki, has materially and symbolically filled an unnaturally empty space in the heart of the town – the site of the battles of the Ghetto Uprising of 1943 and numerous tragic and anonymous deaths. The museum is incorporated into to the so-called ghetto trail, one of the most popular touristic routes in Warsaw. According to Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, the chief curator of the Polin’s core exhibition, ‘the museum completes the memorial complex: we go to the monument to honour those who died by remembering how they died; we come to the museum to honour them by remembering how they lived’ (Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 2011). But is it really possible to stage a museum exhibition about the history of an exterminated community without using material traces of its culture?

Figure 2.1. M. Starowieyska and D. Golik, the Gwoździec synagogue replica, 2014. Museum of the History of Polish Jews, public domain.

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In her review of the Polin, symptomatically entitled ‘The Empty Museum’, Abigail Morris, director of the Jewish Museum in London, deems this project to be an attempt at ‘filling a hole which is vast and void-like’ (Morris 2014). Along the same lines, Jason Francisco, a professor of film and media studies at Emory University who is involved in the photographic documentation of Jewish heritage in Eastern Europe, defines the Polin as ‘a fear of empty spaces, and the still-palpable nearness of Jewish oblivion’ (Francisco 2014). Francisco deems the reconstruction of the roof, ceiling and bimah of a synagogue that was intentionally destroyed during the Second World War as incomplete. Arguably, it lacks an insight into and connection with the present-day context of its former location. Francisco believes that information about the fate of this provincial town, now in the borderlands of Ukraine, as well as a photograph of the emptiness of the spot where the synagogue once stood, would serve as an important complement to the replica. Both Morris and Francisco, however, recognize that the design and scenography of the core exhibition and its narrative strategy seem to go beyond the Holocaust context. This applies to the most tangible element of the exhibition, the Gwoździec synagogue replica. In this chapter, I argue that the Gwoździec synagogue replica is not just a faithful reconstruction of a specific building; it also represents erased Eastern European Jewish heritage and the Jewish community in general. Once an important feature of the cultural landscape of the region, wooden synagogues were recognized as heritage to be protected as early as the second half of the nineteenth century. As a result of their peculiar architecture and the fragile nature of timber, they became an important focus of the first preservationist movements in the region. For the same reasons, they were an easy target of the Nazi policy of intentional destruction. Thus, of the dozens of wooden synagogues (the oldest of which dated back to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries), only a few very humble examples survived the ravages of the Second World War. Importantly, synagogues, once centres of the shtetls’ spiritual life, are also powerful symbols of the bygone Eastern European communities. Their intentional destruction was intended to erase and eradicate Jewish heritage and memory and is considered an element of the Holocaust. I analyse the Gwoździec synagogue replica on two levels. First, as an exceptional reconstruction project based on historical and vernacular wooden techniques, and the heritage of the pre-war preservationists’ efforts in Eastern Europe. As the synagogue was a sacred building of great significance for the Jewish community, I argue that the replica cannot be reduced to its material and technical aspects. I juxtapose it with other

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post-war and recent wooden synagogue renovation projects carried out in Israel, Latvia and Lithuania. Inspired by the New Globe – one of the most famous replicas of a no longer existing wooden building – I use the term ‘re-enactment’ to define such reconstructions and renovation projects, thereby highlighting their community focus. Second, I analyse the cultural links connecting the replica project with post-war salvage and the return of heirless Jewish heritage to Jewish communities around the world. Based on the understanding of Judaica as part of a living Jewish heritage, this novel restitution philosophy advocated for their redistribution according to the principle of nationhood and ethnicity rather than their place of origin. As noted by Leora Bilsky, these postwar efforts promoted a novel concept of restitution ‘as a forward-looking means for cultural rehabilitation and reconstruction’ (Bilsky 2020). With this in mind, I analyse the post-war reinstallation of wooden synagogues from diasporas in museums in Israel. By viewing these projects as important predecessors of the Gwoździec synagogue replica, I argue that the Polin constitutes the next step of the post-war process of ‘rehabilitation and reconstruction’. Finally, I will relate the Gwoździec synagogue replica to the spirit of the Washington Conference of Holocaust Era Assets (1998) and to wider issues of Holocaust remembrance and education.

Making the Gwoździec Synagogue Replica The Gwoździec synagogue replica was initially conceived in the framework of a larger reconstruction project. It was only in 2007, due to KirshenblattGimblett’s initiative, that it was transformed into a museum exhibit. Since 2002, Rick and Laura Brown, co-founders of the non-profit Handshouse Studio, have carried out academic and educational projects focused on the reconstruction of historical masterpieces of engineering and craftmanship, such as the Trojan Horse, Egyptian obelisks or medieval cranes (Handshouse Studio). In 2003, they were invited to an international conference organized in Białystok (Poland) to discuss the idea of reconstructing, in the regional ethnographic park, one of the most famous wooden synagogues in Eastern Europe, which had stood in the village of Zabłudów before its destruction during the Second World War (Barański 2003). Although this project was never completed, the Browns became so fascinated by it that they embarked on an ambitious research project dedicated to the reconstruction of Eastern European wooden synagogues. Indeed, the idea was perfectly in line with the Handshouse Studio’s focus

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on traditional and vernacular tools and building techniques, on the one hand, and its interest in buildings and objects known only from historical and visual sources, on the other. Thus, before the reconstruction works could take place, it was essential to recover the knowledge of how a synagogue was made and what it looked like. Over the next four years, during workshops and seminars involving students, scholars and craftsmen, the Browns worked on a model of the Zabłudów synagogue block and a small replica of its doors (Making a Model 2004). Soon, however, their interest turned to another synagogue, the one erected around 1640 in Gwoździec, a small village near Lviv (Replicating the Gwoździec). In the trailer for Raise the Roof, a documentary on the Gwoździec synagogue replica project, Rick Brown holds in his hands an early twentieth-century photograph of the synagogue, highlighting the fundamental role played by visual sources in this reconstruction undertaking (Raise the Roof 2015). In fact, the Gwoździec synagogue – severely burnt at the time of the First World War, reconstructed in its aftermath, burnt to the ground in 1941 by the Nazis and never rebuilt – has shared the fate of other Eastern European synagogues. Present-day knowledge about their appearance is based on visual surveys undertaken from the second half of the nineteenth century by amateurs, scholars, architects and photographers fascinated by their original style and architecture. The interest in wooden synagogues was strengthened by the awareness of their deteriorating state of preservation: during the nineteenth century alone, hundreds of historic wooden synagogues were burnt down, simply collapsed or were replaced by stone ones. Zygmunt Gloger (1845–1910), a Polish ethnographer, archaeologist and folklorist from Podlachia, a region rich in examples of Jewish architecture, was one of the first to commence the survey of wooden synagogues. As early as 1870, he made drawings of the oldest synagogue in his region, which he published in a popular Polish illustrated magazine, calling upon its editors to systematically document these vanishing monuments (Manikowska 2019). Just a few years later, Mathias Bersohn (1824–1908), a Jewish banker, collector and amateur historian living in Warsaw, commissioned various provincial professional and amateur photographers to document the wooden synagogues in their neighbourhoods. He used the photographs as a source for a richly illustrated history of wooden synagogues (Bersohn 1895–1903). At around the same time, the art history section of a Polish scientific society, the Academy of Learning in Cracow and the Russian art historian and artist, Grigori Loukomski (1884–1952), organized two independent surveys of the Jewish synagogues in eastern Galicia (present-day Ukraine; Loukomski and Roth 1947). Wooden synagogues were also captured by

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Solomon Iudovin (1892–1954), the photographer of An-sky’s Jewish Ethnographic Expedition in the Pale of Settlement (Avrutin et al. 2009). All these surveys were inspired by preservationist ideas. Drawing and especially photography were seen as the only tools capable of preserving the vanishing Jewish cultural landscape for posterity. The same ideas informed several photographic surveys conducted in the inter-war period in Poland and Lithuania. The most impressive and famous survey is certainly that of Szymon Zajczyk (1900–44), a Jewish art historian and photographer. This was a professional survey conducted in collaboration with students of architecture from the Polytechnic School in Warsaw and resulted in the most detailed and largest documentation of Eastern European wooden synagogues, consisting of several thousand plans, watercolour drawings and photographs (Figure 2.2). Until recently, Zajczyk’s photographs and drawings (now in the holdings of the Institute of Art of the Polish Academy of Sciences) – published in the aftermath of the war – was the only widely known survey of its kind. Over the last twelve years, however, research and digitization projects have brought to light documentation that, for decades, had lain forgotten in museum, archive and library storerooms. This was true of the Gwoździec synagogue’s documentation, part of a survey of

Figure 2.2. Szymon Zajczyk, the synagogue in Olkienniki, 1936. Courtesy of the Institute of Art of the Polish Academy of Sciences.

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seventeenth- and eighteenth-century synagogues in Galicia undertaken from 1910 to 1914 for a census work by Alois Breier (1885–1948), a student of the Polytechnic School in Vienna. Consisting of about two hundred albumen prints, as well as measured drawings in Indian ink and watercolour, this survey was presented by the architect himself to the recently founded Tel Aviv Museum of Art in 1937. However, it was not until Thomas Hubka, the American architectural historian, began to investigate eighteenth-century Eastern European synagogues that this documentation became more widely popularized. Several photographs and drawings, published in 2003 in Hubka’s seminal work, which has as its main focus the Gwoździec synagogue (Hubka 2003), attracted the immediate attention of the Browns. Indeed, Breier’s photographs, measured drawings and watercolours constitute one the most accurate surveys of an Eastern European wooden synagogue and includes unique documentation of the peculiar eighteenth-century polychromy. Moreover, the Browns could rely on Zajczyk’s accurate measurements and photographs. Based on the analysis of the visual documentation and the vernacular building techniques in use in Eastern Europe, the replica project carried out in collaboration with students, volunteers, scholars and experts is indeed an exceptional example of an ‘archaeological’ reconstruction project. However, as I will argue in the following section, the significance of this project goes far beyond its purely technological and material aspects.

Reconstruction as ‘Re-enactment’ David Roskies, a literary and cultural historian of Eastern European Jewry, in his review of the Polin main exhibition, compared the Gwoździec synagogue replica to Shakespeare’s Globe, one of the most famous architectonic reconstructions (Roskies 2015). This comparison is justified by the quasi-archaeological nature of the project, the role of historical and iconographic sources, the reliance on ancient construction techniques and the number of professionals and experts involved. The groundbreaking reconstruction project focused on the famous London theatre demolished in 1644 was the vision of the established actor and theatre director Sam Wanamaker (1919–93), who, from the 1950s, collaborated with the main British theatres specializing in Shakespeare’s repertoire. After the 1934 Chicago International Exhibition, during which a small Globe Theatre replica was put on show, Wanamaker became obsessed with the idea of Shakespeare’s historic performances. In 1969, he launched the project of a faithful reconstruction of the building,

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for which there was hardly any visual or written documentation. The New Globe, inaugurated posthumously in 1996, was a pioneering example of a new way of approaching monument reconstruction (Conkie 2006). Firstly, the project, carried out by a team of architects and scholars, was based on extensive archaeological, archival, iconographic and literary research. Secondly, an important aspect of the reconstruction was the use of historical materials and techniques: for example, the timber construction did not make use of any metal elements. The Globe project, however, went far beyond the material aspects of reconstruction. It was Wanamaker’s ambition not only to reconstruct a historical building, but also to re-enact the physical performance space and the true experience of the Elizabethan public. Accordingly, the project assumed that the Globe’s space would be used to stage performances in keeping with the rules and conditions of Shakespeare’s time: in daylight, without any kind of sound system and with live music. This innovative idea was a true and brilliant success. Since the theatre’s inauguration, the auditorium of 1,700 people is always full; moreover, Wanamaker’s approach has been emulated by many. Of course, the literal use of the category of ‘re-enactment’ is not justified when considering the Gwoździec synagogue replica. However, in using this term, I want to highlight that the reconstruction of wooden synagogues should be considered living, community-based and -focused processes of memorialization and revitalization. In my analysis, I will refer to several other wooden synagogue restoration projects. In particular, I will use the example of the Conegliano Veneto eighteenth-century wooden synagogue reinstalled in the aftermath of the Second World War in Jerusalem as the synagogue of the Italian Jewish community. I will also refer to recent restauration projects undertaken in Lithuania and Latvia in the framework of the Norway and EEA grants (Bonfil 2014; ‘Revitalizing’ 2015; ‘Safeguarding’ 2014). The Green Synagogue in Rēzekne (Latvia), the synagogue in Ludza (Latvia) and the Pakruojis synagogue (Lithuania), dating back to the first half of the nineteenth century, are rare examples of preserved historic wooden synagogues in Eastern Europe. All three were unused and in a state of decay and the projects were designed to both restore and revitalize them. As in the case of the Gwoździec synagogue replica, all the restauration projects – Jerusalem, Rēzekne, Ludza, Pakruojis – relied on a careful analysis of visual sources and historic and vernacular tools and building techniques. The restauration of the Pakruojis synagogue – used after the war as a recreation centre and a cinema and finally abandoned and badly damaged in a devastating fire in 2009 – was based on historic photographic

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documentation. Its exact and detailed survey was carried out in 1938 by the philologist and eminent Lithuanian intellectual Chatzkel Lemchen (1904–2001) and the photographer Stasys Vaitkus (1907–89) on commission from the Historical and Ethnographical Society in Kaunas. The photographs, kept in the Aušros Museum in Šiauliai, showed not only the building and its structure, but also details of the interior and, in particular, polychrome images on the walls and ceiling, whose exact reconstruction constitutes the highlight of the renovated building today. The Green Synagogue was restored as the result of a collaboration between students from Latvian and Norwegian secondary schools and local craftsmen. Similarly, the Browns elaborated the timber roof truss of the Polin replica with a team of volunteers, students and experts during workshops organized at the Museum of Folk Architecture in Sanok (Poland). Timber was also a central concern in the case of the Conegliano Veneto synagogue reinstallation. In fact, the hot and dry climate of Israel was a real challenge for the keepers of the fragile construction and its furnishings, which had been shipped from Italy to Jerusalem. Giuliano Orvieto (1931–2017), an Italian emigrant and self-taught craftsman, dedicated his life and skills to salvaging the heritage of the Italian Jewish community in Israel. He was the founder of the Wood Restoration Centre, nowadays a world-renowned research and conservation institute, focused on the salvage and preservation of sacred wooden heritage in Jerusalem. Thus, even such material, technical and academic aspects of reconstruction should be framed as an element of the ‘re-enactment’ process. Woodcraft and conservation are, for example, at the heart of the revitalized Green Synagogue, which today hosts a wooden architecture heritage centre. Traditional materials and building techniques are also evident in the Museum of the History of Polish Jews. The timber roof, rising above the exhibition space to the upper level, is the first thing that visitors see upon entering the Polin. The construction can be analysed closely in a special space, which includes an educational area explaining the history of the making of the replica. Importantly, all the synagogue restoration projects were based on and inspired by the efforts undertaken in the past by the local communities, preservation societies, scholars, artists, etc., to safeguard and document the vulnerable wooden synagogues. As mentioned above, historic photography, survey drawings and visual documentation played an essential role in all the wooden synagogue reconstruction projects in Latvia and Lithuania, as well as the projects carried out by Handshouse Studio. The ‘re-enacting’ of restored, rearranged or reconstructed synagogues also involves the recovery or reinvention of their functions. The glittering

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baroque interior of the Conegliano Veneto synagogue was moved from its original location to distant Jerusalem to meet the spiritual and cultural needs of the repatriated Italian Jewish community. In the case of the Green, Ludza and Pakruojis synagogues, the only inheritors of the communities who made and used them live thousands of miles away nowadays. Thus, their ‘re-enactment’ had to meet the needs of the present-day inhabitants of these Latvian and Lithuanian villages. In all three cases, the new function of the synagogues was conceived as a bridge between the past and the present, the former and present-day inhabitants of Rēzekne, Ludza and Pakruojis. Thus, the restored Pakruojis synagogue hosts the children’s literature section of the Juozas Paukstelis Public Library and an exhibition on the history of the Jews of the Pakruojis region; besides the already mentioned wooden architecture heritage centre, the Green Synagogue was designed as a cultural space with an exhibition about Jews in the region; the Ludza Great Synagogue, today a branch of the local museum, features an exhibition on the history of the Ludza Jewish community, as well as an exhibition on two Latvian-Israeli personalities, the film director Herz Frank and his father, the Ludza photographer Wulf Frank. The Handshouse Studio team worked on the replication of the interior painted decorations during workshops organized in seven existing, restored and reactivated masonry synagogues in Poland. One of the aims of such workshops was the engagement of the local Jewish communities in the project. Arguably, the Gwoździec replica is one of the most powerful elements of the Polin exhibition precisely because of its still-living emotional and symbolic qualities, which are important for the descendants of the Jewish communities of Eastern Europe. Indeed, since 2007, the museum has been the main context for the ‘re-enacted’ Gwoździec synagogue replica. To fully grasp the meaning of a synagogue as a museum object, I will recall in the following section the history of the transformation of the reinstalled wooden synagogues in Israel into museums and museum objects.

How the Synagogue Became a Museum Object? Post-war Reinstalment of Synagogues and Judaica to Israel The reinstalment of the Conegliano Veneto synagogue in Jerusalem was the central and most important element of the efforts undertaken in the aftermath of the Second World War by the Italian Jewish communities in Jerusalem to acquire ritual objects, architectonic elements and even whole interiors from historic synagogues in Italy (Contessa 2014).

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Donated by the Jewish community in Venice to the Association of Italian Jews for Spiritual Work (AIJSW) – founded in 1944 to sustain the community of Italian emigrants in Jerusalem and their will to maintain spiritual and cultural traditions – the Conegliano Veneto synagogue was shipped to Jerusalem, reinstalled and inaugurated in 1952 in the Schmidt Compound, a building in the heart of the city, which, in the 1940s, became the cultural and spiritual centre of the Italian Jewish community. This sumptuous baroque building used for the last time on Yom Kippur in 1918 by Rabbi Moshe Deutsch of the Austro-Hungarian army, was in a state of abandonment well before the outbreak of the Second World War. From 1952 on, the Conegliano Veneto synagogue experienced a true revival: the oldest interior of its kind in Jerusalem continues to be regularly used by the Roman rite Italian community. In the following years, the AIJSW, with the intermediation of Shlomo Umberto Nahon (1905–74), the leader of the Italian Zionist movement, managed to acquire numerous historic and ritual objects from Jewish communities and private persons in Italy. Such transfers were envisaged as a repatriation of historic objects of worship: a living heritage and element of identity of the Italian Jewish communities in Israel. However, not all such ritual objects were fit for their original use. Thus, in the spaces of the Schmidt Compound, an exhibition was organized, which included precious historic ritual objects, many of them dating back to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and from such important centres of Italian and Jewish culture as Mantua or Padova. Eventually, in 1981, the exhibition was transformed into the Umberto Nahon Museum of Jewish Italian Art with the still functional Conegliano synagogue as its centrepiece. Craft, material and history are the focus of its permanent exhibition. Entitled Made in Italy: Material Side of Spiritual Objects and arranged according to materials, techniques and general conservation issues, it constitutes a display of Italian Jewish cultural heritage in Israel. Moreover, the museum safeguards historic photographs of the Conegliano and other Italian synagogues, shipped to Jerusalem together with the artefacts. The AIJSW’s efforts to salvage, reinstall and reuse Italian Jewish heritage were associated with another important project launched by the painter Mordecai Narkis (1898–1957), who served as director of the Bezalel Museum from 1925 to 1957. The Bezalel was the first Jewish national museum in Jerusalem. It was founded before the official creation of an Israeli state by the artist Boris Schatz (1866–1932) next to the Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design in Jerusalem. Under Narkis’ directorship, it was modelled on the best European and American examples and envisaged as a universal and all-Jewish museum for Jewish people

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worldwide (Berger 2017: 459–546). Significantly, both the Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design and the Bezalel National Museum had played an important role in establishing the concept of Jewish art. While the museum’s collecting policy was focused on contemporary Jewish artistic production during the first dozen years, with the outbreak of the war and the tragedy of the Holocaust, it shifted to the salvage of Jewish heritage in Europe. Narkis, who was deeply concerned about the fate of Jewish museums, private collections and ritual objects, recognized the duty of Jews in Palestine to salvage such national heritage. In 1942, he managed to establish a special fund (the Schatz Fund) for the exclusive purpose of acquiring endangered elements of Jewish heritage (Kochavi 2017: 82–103). Given the limited resources at his disposal, Narkis focused in particular on ritual objects. Driven by the need to commemorate the communities that had perished during the Holocaust, his efforts intensified in the aftermath of the war and were followed by other cultural institutions in Israel, including Yad Vashem, the National Library, the Kibuttz of the Ghetto Fighters and the AIJSW. Narkis’ and AIJSW’s salvage projects often crossed paths. After Narkis’ death, when the Bezalel Museum was renamed the Israel Museum and transferred to a new and larger site in 1965, Nahon and the AIJSW intermediated in the expatriation and installation in the new museum of the interior of another fully preserved inactive wooden synagogue from the Veneto region: the sumptuously decorated baroque synagogue from the town of Vittorio Veneto, very similar in architecture and decoration to the synagogue in the nearby Conegliano Veneto. Installed for the museum opening with the help of Italian artisans and the Italian government, the synagogue was soon joined by another unique example of Jewish ritual architecture that had survived the Holocaust. The painted barrel-vaulted eighteenth-century synagogue from Horb am Main (Southern Germany) escaped the ravages of war as it had been kept in storage at the Bamberg Museum from 1913. This unique preserved example of a wooden synagogue, whose architecture was specific to Central and Eastern Europe, was donated to the Israel Museum in 1968. The next two acquisitions of historic wooden synagogues, made in the 1990s, while not connected to the Holocaust, followed Narkis’ salvage idea. The sixteenth-century Kadavumbagam synagogue from Cochin (Southern India) was sold to a dealer at the time when the Cochin Jewish community moved to Israel. The Israel Museum managed to acquire this important element of Jewish heritage in India and, at around the same time, secured, in the form of a long-term loan, another exceptional synagogue interior, that of the Tzedek ve-Shalom synagogue in Paramaribo (Suriname), which ceased

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to be used in 1992. In 2010, the four synagogues were inaugurated as the New Synagogue Route in the framework of the Israel Museum’s reinstalled Mandel Wing for Jewish Art (Brinn 2010). The curator of this new exhibition, Tania Coen-Uzzielli, wanted it to be as true to life as possible. Thus, for example, the pavement of the Tzedek ve-Shalom synagogue is topped with white sand, as it was in Suriname. According to the then director, the Israel Museum ‘is the only museum worldwide where visitors can see together in one venue four synagogues from three continents’ (Rare and Newly Restored 2010). Importantly, both the Umberto Nahon Museum and the Synagogue Route illustrate the importance of the involvement of local Jewish communities worldwide in safeguarding and reinventing the function and meaning of the inactive wooden synagogues in the museum space. Thus, the Synagogue Route cannot be considered an ordinary museum exhibit. Like the Conegliano Veneto synagogue, the Israel Museum synagogues are still of an important cultural, symbolic and emotional value for the respective Italian, Surinam, Indian and German diasporas in Israel.

Sacred Judaica as Museum Objects in Warsaw in the Aftermath of the Washington Conference on Holocaust-Era Assets The synagogue museum projects in Israel analysed in this chapter are rooted in the cultural heritage restitution activity undertaken in the new centres of Jewish life in Israel and the United States in the aftermath of the war. In fact, the individuals and organizations involved in the postwar salvage and restitution of heirless Jewish cultural property and assets called for the redistribution of the remaining cultural treasures in accordance with the new geographical and political situation of Jews around the world (Bilsky 2020). Such efforts were also undertaken by the decimated Jewish community in Poland. Importantly, the origins of the Polin are closely linked to these post-war salvage and restitution activities. The idea of establishing a museum dedicated to the history of Polish Jews was launched in 1993 by the Association of the Jewish Historical Institute (AJHI), a research organization founded in 1947 as a continuation of the Jewish Historical Commission established in 1944 to document Nazi crimes in Poland and to save as much of the Jewish legacy in the country as possible. Thus, this museum has its origins in the activity of two institutions involved in the post-war salvage and restitution of Jewish cultural assets in Poland (Cieślińska-Lobkowicz 2009). Thanks to their efforts, the Jewish Historical Institute (JHI), a memory institution run by

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the AJHI, became the repository of nationalized archival, library and artistic collections of former Jewish communities in Poland. Sacred Judaica and saved elements of synagogues’ decoration were among the most precious objects that found their way to the JHI collection. However, as a result of the new geopolitical reality and the decimated Warsaw Jewish community, they remained hidden in the depots for decades. Arguably, the memorialization of such heritage in a museum space could only take place in the aftermath of the Polish democratic revolution. In 1997, the Warsaw kehillah was reactivated and important links with Jewish communities worldwide were gradually re-established. The founding of a museum of the history of the Polish Jews was just one of several projects of its kind. Another important initiative involved the rearrangement of the JHI’s permanent exhibition. In 2000, the Bejt Tfila – House of Prayer was inaugurated in the JHI’s seat (Mała Synagoga). This museum reconstruction of a synagogue interior arranged using the furnishings of various destroyed or abandoned synagogues from the JHI’s collection and supplemented with replicas of missing items, was conceived as an educative and commemorative space. In the same years, the Nożyk synagogue – the only preserved Jewish house of prayer in Warsaw – was gradually renovated and restored to its role as a place of worship. In 2001, several objects rescued from the Warsaw synagogues were deposited in the synagogue by the National Museum in Warsaw, which had kept them in its storerooms since 1943 (Martyna 1993). The sacred artefacts, however, were not restored to their ceremonial functions, but were, rather, placed in a display case in the synagogue’s vestibule. Indeed, given their educational and commemorative meaning, the two synagogue exhibitions in Warsaw – the Bejt Tfila and the display case of Judaica in the Nożyk synagogue – can be likened to the Synagogue Route in the Israel Museum and the Umberto Nahon Museum of Jewish Art. What distinguishes them, however, are the clear references to the Holocaust context. In fact, the Warsaw displays of sacred Judaica refer to the history of Nazi-era looting and destruction. Importantly, they were conceived of and arranged in the aftermath of the Washington Conference on Holocaust-Era Assets, organized in 1998 by the Holocaust Memorial Museum and the US Department of State. The Washington Conference Principles on Nazi-Confiscated Art, a statement released upon the conclusion of the conference, urging the restitution of cultural assets that were unlawfully confiscated and looted during the Second World War, has encouraged museums worldwide to establish provenance research and to confront the contested objects in their holdings and the difficult history and heritage of the Holocaust (Washington Principles). It has also

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urged memory institutions worldwide to study, exhibit and popularize the Jewish heritage in their holdings. While the 2001 restitution of Judaica by the National Museum in Warsaw to the Warsaw kehillah should be directly linked with the Washington Principles, the Bejt Tfila – House of Prayer exhibition and the Polin are rooted in more general ideas of Holocaust education and commemoration. At the same conference, the Declaration of the Task Force for International Cooperation on Holocaust Education (now the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance), an intergovernmental organization founded in the same year with the aim of strengthening, advancing and promoting Holocaust education, research and remembrance worldwide, was presented (Declaration of the Task Force). Accordingly, the restitution of Jewish collections and artworks looted or confiscated during the Nazi era should always be considered in the larger context of the process of remembrance and reconciliation.

Reconstruction of Wooden Synagogues as Holocaust Commemoration Indeed, the recent reconstruction, restoration and revitalization projects of Eastern European synagogues discussed in this chapter should be analysed with the post-1998 ideas supporting Holocaust education and commemoration in mind. The revitalization of all three Baltic synagogues was made possible thanks to a special programme of EEA and Norway grants, directed towards reviving Jewish cultural heritage in Europe and combating antisemitism. Such an approach based on retrieving a difficult past through the restoration of a forgotten monument and the ‘re-enacting’ of such a monument in the present, is inscribed in the programme. As stated in its premises, ‘remembrance is crucial in order to keep our shared values alive … Several former synagogues are being renovated for the sake of remembrance but, also, they can be used for religious purposes and as creative spaces for artists, for education and as multicultural community centres’ (Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs 2015). The Gwoździec synagogue replica should also be analysed in this context. First, it is a centrepiece of a museum with Holocaust education and commemoration inscribed in its mission. Second, it was conceived by its authors not only as the recovery of a lost monument, but also as the recovery of its bygone community and the lost world in which it used to function. Shortly after the burning of the synagogue, the Gwoździec Jewish community was deported to the Bełżec extermination camp. So, while working on the project, the Browns had to study objects (the synagogues)

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and sources (survey photographs) that had already become symbols of the Holocaust and its commemoration. Szymon Zajczyk, the author of the already mentioned survey of wooden synagogues conducted in the framework of the activity of the Polytechnic School in Warsaw, was murdered in 1944. In the same year, the Institute of Architecture of the Warsaw Polytechnic School, which held this documentation, was destroyed. The small percentage of photographs, measurements and drawings to survive the war became, in its aftermath, an impetus for the reconstruction of a Jewish diaspora identity. Two Polish architects, Maria and Kazimierz Piechotka, undertook the project of publishing Zajczyk’s recovered documentation as one of the main initiatives of the re-established Polytechnic School. In the aftermath of the war, the memories of the former cultural landscape were still alive and vivid. The book Wooden Synagogues, published in Polish in 1957 and English in 1959, was conceived of as the recovery of a ‘martyred heritage’ and it had an enormous international impact, not only as a good piece of architectural scholarship, but also as a testimony and touching evocation of the Holocaust (Piechotka and Piechotka 1959). Moshe Verbin, one of the founders of the kibbutz Yakum, was inspired by the book to create, with great exactness, three-dimensional small models executed in wood and straw based on Zajczyk’s documentation. Verbin was born in 1920 in the land of the wooden synagogues, in the town of Sokółka (Poland), and moved to Israel at the age of fifteen. His models must be seen not as an academic or artistic project, but rather as a process of retaining a fading memory, of ‘repatriating’ a cultural identity embedded in the lost world of wooden synagogues (Verbin 2004). The models are designed to revive the memory of those who emigrated to Israel from Eastern Europe. Moreover, Verbin’s models, which, from the 1990s, have been displayed in numerous exhibitions in Israel and abroad, have contributed greatly to the popularization of formerly little-known Eastern European cultural heritage and to its significance in the construction of a Jewish identity. Maria and Kazimierz Pieechotka’s book also made a great impression on the renowned American artist Frank Stella. His Polish Villages series is, however, a totally different reiteration. Stella is not an East European Jew and his perspective is that of an outsider. He was deeply impressed by the construction elements of the synagogues, which he used as an inspiration for his form-building experiments. Both Verbin and Stella, in their reconstructions, emulated the nature of the professional architectonic survey so well reflected in Zajczyk’s pictures. Zajczyk’s photographs are peopleless, focused on the construction elements, detached from the surrounding landscape. Both types of artistic interpretations became

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essential evocations of an Eastern European Jewish identity, framed in a new, ‘extra-territorial’ dimension. Importantly, Stella’s series featured in one of the earliest and most popular temporary exhibitions to be organized at the Museum of the History of Polish Jews (Tanikowski 2016). Indeed, the historic photographs and surveys were not just accurate visual sources and research tools for the Browns; they gave true meaning to the whole project. As Laura Brown stated in an interview on the replica project: What surprised me was the awesome power of the finished synagogue roof and ceiling to everyone who saw it, who walked under it. It made me speechless and overwhelmed. And then the lack of awareness of the history of the wooden synagogues in the Jewish community and in Poland. And the need for more knowledge about it – the who, the what, the why – the many questions that came from directly experiencing the Gwoździec synagogue. And we cannot provide answers. We just provided the synagogue. What surprised me was that in the end, after years of work and hundreds of people whose hands and heart and minds went into the finished synagogue roof and painted ceiling and bimah – that this was just the beginning. Just the beginning of the many, many questions. (Q&A)

Conclusion In this chapter, I’ve argued that Eastern European synagogues, and in particular the wooden ones, are powerful objects in the living and ongoing Jewish cultural rehabilitation and reconstruction process that has been taking place since the end of the Second World War, a process that is well rooted in nineteenth-century Eastern European preservationist movements. This continuity is perfectly illustrated by the Dorfman archive in Yad Vashem (Couple Donates 2013). From 1987, Rivka and Ben-Zion Dorfman, a couple of American-born Israeli teachers, travelled across Central and Eastern Europe discovering and documenting in 30,000 photographs the still standing synagogues in this region. In 2000, they published a selection of them in a book with the telling title Synagogues without Jews (Dorfman and Dorfman 2000). In 2013, they presented the whole collection to Yad Vashem, the memorial, research institute and museum of Jewish victims of the Holocaust. The Dorfmans, in their eighties at the time, donated the outcome of their work in the hope that their research on lost communities, seen through the lens of ruined synagogues, would be continued. They defined their travels as a literal recovery of Jewish heritage and landscape. They were asked about the forgotten and often devastated buildings many years before anyone else. Sometimes, their visit

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constituted an important stimulus for the local community to rediscover the synagogue and the history of its bygone community. This was the case in Rychnov (Czech Republic), where, on the initiative of the mayor after the Dorfmans’ visit, the synagogue, which had been used as a warehouse, was renovated and transformed into a Jewish museum (Roitman-Meir 2013). A monument in memory of the Holocaust victims was erected in front of it and every year the synagogue is the venue of the International Holocaust Remembrance Day commemorative celebrations. The museum is an important context for the cultural rehabilitation and reconstruction process analysed in this chapter. As I have argued, the Gwoździec synagogue is in keeping with the ideas behind the post-war museum reinstallations in Israel and is grounded in the community principle behind the post-war restitution of heirless Judaica. Moreover, it is the centrepiece of a Jewish museum conceived and built in the aftermath of the Washington Conference on Holocaust-Era Assets. Importantly, the model of the Zabłudów synagogue, made in the framework of the Handshouse Studio Eastern European wooden synagogues project, also found a permanent place in a museum space. In 2016, it was donated to the YIVO Institute for Jewish Research in New York (Lost Wooden Synagogue). Founded in 1925 in Vilnius, the YIVO aimed to document and study Jewish culture and society worldwide, with a particular focus on Eastern Europe. In 1940, during the Second World War, as the Nazis advanced, it was relocated to New York, becoming one of the main centres of Jewish research and culture. In the aftermath of the war, it managed to retrieve a portion of its impressive library and archive. Expanded with donations and acquisitions, the YIVO’s collections are today an important source of documentary history of East European Jewry and a surviving record of millions of lives of Jewish victims of the Holocaust. Thus, the Zabłudów synagogue model, on view in the John and Swen Smart gallery, just like the YIVO, embodies both the memory of the richness of Jewish culture and the tragic fate of the Jewish nation. Ewa Manikowska serves as an Associate Professor at the Institute of Art of the Polish Academy of Sciences in Warsaw (Poland). She holds a European Doctorate in the Social History of Europe and the Mediterranean (University of Warsaw/Ca’ Foscari University of Venice). She has also worked for various museum institutions, including Galleria Palatina in Palazzo Pitti in Florence (Italy) and the National Museum in Warsaw. Currently, she acts as Principal Investigator of the Polish research team of the EU-funded project ‘Digital Heritage in Cultural Conflicts DigiCONFLICT’ (https://digiconflict.net).

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Note This chapter was written within the framework of the research project ‘Digital Heritage in Cultural Conflicts’, supported by Poland’s Ministry of Culture, National Heritage and Sport under the JPICH Digital Heritage programme – support for scientific research on cultural heritage under the Joint Programming Initiative on Cultural Heritage (JPICH), No. 98/DSAP-JG/2018.

References Avrutin, E.M., et al. 2009. Photographing the Jewish Nation. Pictures from S. An-sky’s Ethnographic Expeditions. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England. Barański, M. 2003. ‘Międzynarodowe warsztaty ochrony tradycji drewnianego budownictwa’, Wiadomości Konserwatorskie 13: 104–11. Berger, N. 2017. The Jewish Museum: History and Memory, Identity and Art from Vienna to the Bezalel National Museum, Jerusalem. Leiden: Brill. Bersohn, M. 1895–1903. Kilka słów o dawniejszych bożnicach drewnianych w Polsce. Kraków: Drukarnia Czasu. Bilsky, L. 2020. ‘Cultural Genocide and Restitution: The Early Wave of Jewish Cultural Restitution in the Aftermath of the World War II’, International Journal of Cultural Property 27: 349–74. Bonfil, R. (ed.). 2014. The Italian Jewish Centre in the Heart of Jerusalem. Jerusalem: Hevrat Yehudè Italia Lif ’ulà Ruhanit – U. Nahon Museum of Jewish Art. Brinn, D. 2010. ‘The Synagogue Route: A Jewish Time Machine’, Jerusalem Post, 29 September. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from https://www.jpost.com/Jewish-World/ Jewish-Features/The-Synagogue-Route-A-Jewish-time-machine. Cieślińska-Lobkowicz, N. 2009. ‘Dealing with Jewish Cultural Property in Post-war Poland’, Art Antiquity and Law (14)2: 143–66. Conkie, R. 2006. The Globe Theatre Project. Shakespeare and Authenticity. Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press. Contessa, A. 2014. ‘“From Italy to Jerusalem.” The Birth of the Italian Museum of Jewish Art in Jerusalem’, in R. Bonfil (ed.), The Italian Jewish Centre in the Heart of Jerusalem. Jerusalem: Hevrat Yehudè Italia Lif ’ulà Ruhanit – U. Nahon Museum of Jewish Art, pp. 53–68. ‘Couple Donates Synagogue Photographic Collection to the Yad Vashem’, 22 October 2013. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from https://www.yadvashem.org/blog/couple-donates-synagogue-photograph-collection-to-yad-vashem.html. ‘Declaration of the Task Force for International Cooperation on Holocaust Education, Remembrance and Research’, released on 3 December 1998. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from https://www.lootedart.com/web_images/pdf2014/12-03-98%20Declarations%20 of%20the%20Task%20Force%20for%20International%20Cooperation%20on%20 Holocaust%20Education,%20Remembrance,%20and%20Research.pdf. Dorfman, B.-Z., and R. Dorfman. 2000. Synagogues without Jews and the Communities who Build Them. Philadelphia, PA: JPS. Francisco, J. 2014. ‘Polin’. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from http://jasonfrancisco.net/polin.

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‘Handshouse Studio. Making History’. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from https://www. handshouse.org. Hubka, T. 2003. Resplendent Synagogue: Architecture and Worship in an Eighteenth-Century Polish Community. Waltham, MA: Brandeis University. Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, B. 2011. ‘Why Do Jewish Museums Matter? An International Perspective’. Keynote Lecture from the 2011 Conference of the Association of Jewish Museums. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from https://www.aejm.org/site/assets/uploads/2014/07/Barbara-Kirshenblatt-Gimblett_Why-Do-Jewish-Museums-MatterAn-International-Perspective_Keynote-2011.pdf.  . 2016. ‘Polin. From a “Here You Shall Rest” Covenant to the Creation of a Polish Jewish History Museum’. Interview by Christopher Garbowski. The Polish Review 61(2): 3–17. Kochavi, S. 2017. ‘Salvage to Restitution. “Heirless” Jewish Cultural Property in PostWorld War II’. PhD dissertation. University of Leeds. ‘Lost Wooden Synagogue of Zabłudów, 4 August 2016’. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from https://www.yivo.org/Lost-Wooden-Synagogue-of-Zabludow. Loukomski, G., and C. Roth. 1947. Jewish Art in European Synagogues. From the Middle Ages to the 18th Century. London: Hutchinson & Co. ‘Making a Model of Zabłudów Synagogue’. 2004. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from https:// www.handshouse.org/zubludow-synagogue. ‘Mała Synagoga na Tłomackiem’. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from https://www.jhi.pl/ wystawy/bejt-tfila-dom-modlitwy,91. Manikowska, E. 2019. Photography and Cultural Heritage in the Age of Nationalisms (1867–1945). Europe’s Eastern Borderlands. London: Bloomsbury. Martyna, A. 1993. Judaica w zbiorach Muzeum Narodowego w Warszawie. Warsaw: Muzeum Narodowe w Warszawie. Morris, A. ‘The Empty Museum’, The Jewish Chronicle, 27 November 2014. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from https://www.thejc.com/culture/features/ the-empty-museum-1.62083. Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. 2015. ‘Fighting Antisemitism and Reviving Jewish Heritage in Europe’. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from https://www.regjeringen. no/contentassets/b3ad66a463e042edae44e46ddfce196f/fightingantisemitismua.pdf. Piechotka, M., and K. Piechotka. 1959. Wooden Synagogues. Warsaw: Arkady. ‘Q&A with Rick and Laura Brown’. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from https://www.polishsynagogue.com/browns-qa. Raise the Roof, trailer 2015. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from https://www.polishsynagogue. com/movietrailer. ‘Rare and Newly Restored 18th-century Synagogue from Suriname to Be Highlight of Israel Museum’s New Synagogue Route’, press release 24 May 2010. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from http://www.jodensavanne.sr.org/smartcms/downloads/Library/ Suriname%20Synagogue%20press%20release.pdf. ‘Replicating the Gwoździec Synagogue Bimah’. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from https:// www.handshouse.org/work#/gwozdziec/. ‘Revitalizing Jewish Cultural Heritage in Lithuania’. 2015. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from https://eeagrants.org/news/revitalising-jewish-cultural-heritage-in-lithuania. Roitman-Meir, T. 2013. ‘350 Synagogues in 70 Weeks’, Jewish World, 25 December. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from https://www.ynetnews.com/articles/0,7340,L-4454795,00.html.

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Roskies, D.G. 2015. ‘Polin: A Light onto Nations’. Jewish Review of Books, Winter. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from https://jewishreviewofbooks.com/articles/1435/ polin-a-light-unto-the-nations/. ‘Safeguarding Latvian Cultural Heritage in Partnership’. 2014. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from https://eeagrants.org/news/safeguarding-latvian-cultural-heritage-in-partnership. Tanikowski, A. (ed.). 2016. Frank Stella and Synagogues of Historic Poland. Warsaw: Museum of Polish Jews Polin. Verbin, M. 2014. ‘Wooden Synagogues of Poland in the 17th and 18th Century’. Retrieved 22 March 2019 from http://www.zchor.org/verbin/verbin.htm. ‘Washington Conference Principles on Nazi Confiscated Art. Released on 3rd December 1998’. Retrieved 22 March from https://www.state.gov/ washington-conference-principles-on-nazi-confiscated-art/.

Chapter 3

The Other Nefertiti Symbolic Restitutions Ruth E. Iskin

The Other Nefertiti (2015) by Berlin-based artists Nora Al-Badri and Jan Nikolai Nelles, is a contemporary postcolonial artwork dedicated to restitution. It raises questions regarding dispossession in colonial and postcolonial times and asks who owns the art object – the physical object, as well as the rights to make and distribute copies of it. This chapter considers the wider context for restituting Nefertiti to Egypt and discusses the attempt made in 1930 by James Simon, the major Jewish philanthropist who financed the archaeological excavations that unearthed the bust and who actually donated it to Berlin’s museum.1 It will highlight how Simon’s name and role in the museum’s history as its most important benefactor and the person who enabled the archaeological excavation that led to the discovery of Nefertiti and the bust finally reaching the German museum were all purged from history by National Socialism. This chapter also analyses more recent efforts to acknowledge him. It concludes with a discussion of the contentious object in the context of restitution discourses and the digital era. My argument is composed of two parts. First, I argue that the artists of The Other Nefertiti use art in the digital era to create a unique intervention in the restitution discourse; they merge restitution politics with internet activism, deploying the symbolic capital of the original masterpiece through three-dimensional copies of the bust in order to question the contemporary geopolitics of cultural possession from a postcolonial perspective. Second, I demonstrate that when a restitution discourse relies exclusively on the postcolonial perspective, it may obscure a fuller history of the object

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and of its contentiousness, erasing the specificities of dispossessions of different kinds.

Al-Badri and Nikolai Nelles’s Other Nefertiti In 2015, Al-Badri and Nelles staged an intervention, which they presented as using new technologies of scanning and three-dimensional printing of data. Their intention was to make the data for a reproduction of the 3,000-year-old limestone and stucco Nefertiti bust presently displayed in the Neues Museum in Berlin freely available. The artists were motivated by the fact that the bust, which was discovered in and taken from Egypt by German archaeologists in 1912, has remained in Germany, despite repeated Egyptian demands for its return. The artists claimed to have symbolically ‘freed’ the bust from the German museum’s exclusive possession by ‘returning’ a digitally produced copy of it to Egypt. They further ‘freed’ the object from the hold of the German museum by releasing the scanning data that they had obtained, so that anyone with access to a three-dimensional printer could print a copy of Nefertiti, as they themselves did. The artists also staged the ‘return’ of a three-dimensional copy of the bust to Egypt, burying it in the sand, videotaping this performance and giving a copy of the bust to the American University in Cairo, where it is to reside permanently (Figure 3.1). Symbolically treating the digital copy as an original, they announced, ‘Nefertiti is returning to the place where it was found’ (Voon 2016). Most of the media attention paid to The Other Nefertiti has centred on the artists obtaining the scanning data of the bust and releasing it on

Figure 3.1. Nora Al-Badri and Jan Nikolai Nelles, The Other Nefertiti. Still from video, 2016. Courtesy of Nora Al-Badri and Jan Nikolai Nelles. © Nelles/Al-Badri.

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the internet (Wilder 2006). In this context, certain critics and journalists also discussed issues relating to the repatriation of the original bust and quoted the artists’ critique of the German museum’s ownership of the physical Nefertiti and the museum’s insistence on its exclusive right to the high-resolution scanning data of the bust. The artists’ narrative regarding their guerilla action of clandestinely scanning the bust in the gallery, was accompanied by a photograph documenting their action, and drew a lot of media attention. However, when experts asserted that the high-quality scan that was released could not have been obtained directly from the mobile scanning Kinect device that the artists used inside the museum, Al-Badri and Nelles issued an ambiguous statement that shrouded the origin of the scan in obscurity: ‘Maybe it was a server hack, a copy scan, an inside job, the cleaner, a hoax. It can be all of this, it can be everything. We are not revealing details. We are standing by the fact that we actually scanned it, but we don’t want to dismiss the other options at the same time’ (Esage G: 2016; Voon 2016; Wilder 2016). Whatever the source of their scanning data, the main point the artists made was that they considered their project a decolonizing act that contests Western museums’ neocolonial refusal to return looted artworks to their countries of origin. Raising the issue of cultural ownership, they asserted the right to free access to data that would allow the creation of a high-quality copy. In a manifesto entitled ‘Nefertiti Hack’, the artists state: ‘From today on everybody around the world can access, study, print or remix a 3D dataset of Nefertiti’s head in high resolution. This data is accessible under a public domain without any charge, this torrent provides you a STL-file (100 MB)’; they also provided a link for downloading the data.2 The artists note that the Neues Museum in Berlin has not permitted access to the data: ‘With the data leak as a part of this counter narrative we want to activate the artifact, to inspire a critical reassessment of today’s conditions and to overcome the colonial notion of possession in Germany’.3 Thus, Al-Badri and Nelles placed at the centre of their work not only the repatriation of the original bust, but also the right to copy it.4 Clearly, the possession of a copy cannot substitute the act of repatriation of the original object; nevertheless, the wide circulation of high-quality copies free of charge challenges the German museum’s claim to possess the sole authority to produce such copies.5 Hence, The Other Nefertiti simultaneously works towards restitution in two ways – by campaigning for a physical return of the original bust and by evoking symbolic restitution through the dissemination of data allowing for the production of digital three-dimensional copies of the

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original. I also argue that The Other Nefertiti is a form of appropriation using technologies of copying and media circulation to make a new contentious object, one that is neither the original nor the copy, but its own original work, which always remains in dialogue with the original bust. In this respect, the work is part of a practice of appropriation widely used in contemporary art, for example, by artists such as Elaine Sturtevant and Sherrie Levine, who create copies of original works as part of a postmodern practice. But Al-Badri and Nelles’s project differs from these examples in that they use appropriation to make the bust a contentious object that intervenes in Egypt’s restitution claim. Their use of the copy and its reference to the original serves to create a symbolic restitution.

James Simon and the Excavated Nefertiti, 1912–33 Before returning to the implications of this artwork as a contentious object, I want to provide some historical information on what happened to the original Nefertiti bust between 1912 and 1933, and discuss another restitution, that of James Simon (1851–1932; Figure 3.2). Simon, a German Jewish philanthropist and art collector, founded the German Orient Society (Die Deutsche Orient-Gesellschaft) in 1898 with the idea that it would serve as an organization through which state museums and influential circles could co-operate (Schultz 2016: 16). Simon funded the excavations in Tell el-Amarna, from 1911 to 1914. In December of 1912, this excavation unearthed the workshop of the sculptor Thutmose, which contained the famous bust of Queen Nefertiti (Siehr 2006: 126–27; Urice 2006: 139; Musacchio 2006). Simon reserved the excavation licence because he had been convinced of the importance of German archaeologists undertaking excavations in Egypt by the German archaeologist Ludwig Borchardt, who had served as the scientific attaché at the Imperial General Consulate in Cairo (Schultz 2016: 16). Simon took it upon himself to fund the excavations and obtained the Egyptian agreement whereby half the findings would belong to him and be taken to Germany, and half would stay in Egypt (this arrangement, partage, was common at the time; Siehr 2006: 117). In 1913, Simon lent the entire share of his excavation objects to the Egyptian Museum in Berlin and, in 1920, designated the loans as gifts (The State Museums of Berlin and the Legacy of James Simon 2008). Simon, who had gained his wealth from his family’s cotton business, was a very generous philanthropist who supported numerous philanthropic associations, regularly donating about a third of his income to

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Figure 3.2. Portrait of James Simon. Photograph, c. 1914. Courtesy of Olaf Matthes.

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humanitarian and social projects, many of which focused on the welfare of children (Schultz 2007: 12; Matthes 2007). A Prussian Jewish patriot, he was also dedicated to elevating Berlin museums so they could better compete with those in London, Paris and Vienna. To this end, he donated his collection of Renaissance paintings, Japanese woodblock prints and thousands of antique objects to the State Museums of Berlin (Schultz 2007). Simon’s efforts through the German Orient Society and using his own funds were responsible for the German museums becoming the repositories for the extensive findings of the German-funded excavations (Schultz 2007: 16). The German archaeologist in charge of the Tell el-Amarna excavation, Borchardt, sent the bust of Nefertiti to Berlin. It arrived in February 1913 and was first displayed for several months in Simon’s private residence, where the German emperor Wilhelm II saw it (Schultz 2007: 18). Simon gave the emperor the first copy of the bust on 3 October 1913 (Schultz 2007: 18)6 and a few months later he lent the original to the Königliche Preußische Kunstsammlung, keeping a copy of the bust on display in his own home. The copy was placed on a small pedestal, in the space between the painted portraits of his mother and father, Adolphine and Isaak Simon, as seen in the photo published by Schultz (2007: 17). In July 1920, Simon transferred the ownership of the artwork to the Ägyptische Museum (Egyptian Museum) in Berlin (Bodenstein 2005). However, Simon donated Nefertiti on the condition that the German National Museums would return the bust if Egypt so requested. In 1924, a year after the bust was first put on public display in Berlin, Egypt requested its return (Siehr 2006: 115–16). Egypt asserted that the Nefertiti bust was removed from Egypt under dubious circumstances that involved a deliberate deception regarding the value of the bust, a claim the German government disputed (Schneider 2004: 287–88).7 In 1930, Simon himself attempted to negotiate the return of Nefertiti, securing the co-operation of the Berlin and Cairo museums to exchange the bust for objects of equal value from the museum in Cairo – the life-size statue of high priest Ranofer and a portrait of Amenhotep (Goldschmidt 1930). In an open letter to the German Minister of Science, Art and Education, published in the Berliner Tageblatt (on 28 June 1930), Simon passionately argued for this arrangement and noted that he hoped this resolution would enable the resumption of German excavations (Ganslmayr and Paczensky 1984: 304–5).8 Apparently the exchange of Nerfertiti with two other important Egyptian statues was imminent. A New York Times reporter in Berlin claimed that ‘the city of Berlin consented … As a consequence of this the Queen of Nofretete has started on her return trip

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to her Egyptian country, while the above-named sculptures are on their way to Berlin’ (Goldschmidt 1930). The article in the New York Times noted that the ‘departure of the Egyptian Queen has stirred Berlin to such an extent that whole columns of post-mortems appeared in papers, and Nofretete was for some time the daily topic of this otherwise not easily excitable city’ (Goldschmidt 1930). In the end, Simon did not succeed in his efforts and the exchange did not take place (Schneider 2004: 289). In 1933, the Egyptian government again demanded the return of the Nefertiti bust, which was on display in the Kaiser Friedrich Museum. Attempting to secure Egypt’s political allegiance to Germany, Hermann Göring, then a minister in Hitler’s new government, suggested to the Egyptian King Fu`ad I that the German government would agree to return the bust (Krauss 1991). But Adolph Hitler informed the Egyptian government (through the ambassador to Egypt, Eberhard von Stohrer) that he insisted on Germany keeping Nefertiti. This in itself is not surprising given that Hitler systematically looted artworks. He proclaimed his special admiration of this ancient bust and, perhaps curiously, the non-Aryan beauty it represented. Apparently, Hitler marvelled at the bust many times, suggesting that Nefertiti continually delighted him. He also revealed his intention to build a new Egyptian museum in Berlin, with a dedicated chamber, crowned by a large dome, where Nefertiti would be enthroned. He concluded, ‘I will never relinquish the head of the Queen’ (Siehr 2006: 116; Urice 2006: 135–65; Greenfield 2007: 389–99; Breger 2006: 295). Nefertiti has remained in Berlin despite numerous subsequent Egyptian demands for its return. Simon had donated his entire Egyptian collection, giving more than 20,000 objects to the museums of Berlin in 1920 (D’Arcy 2009). He died in 1932 (after losing his fortune in the 1929 crash), a few months before Hitler rose to power in 1933. Although he had donated his extensive art collections to Berlin’s museums and was by far the most significant benefactor of the city, Simon was purged from history for many decades, beginning with the rise of National Socialism in the 1930s, when the Nazis seized the art and other property belonging to Jews and exterminated most of those who had not been able to flee (D’Arcy 2009). Simon’s role was disavowed for many years after the end of the Second World War. To this day, the state museums have failed to fulfil their contractual agreement to dedicate a Simon Hall for the presentation of his Renaissance collection (Schultz 2007: 18). The museum acknowledged Simon by hanging a placard in the gallery in which Nefertiti was exhibited in 2009, when the bust was moved to its current location in the Neues Museum on the Museum Island (Schultz 2007: 18).9

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The first full-fledged homage to Simon was initiated not by the German state museums and did not take place in Germany, but rather took place in the United States. An exhibition at the Palace of the Legion of Honor in San Francisco, titled The State Museums of Berlin and the Legacy of James Simon, which opened in October 2008, displayed 150 objects that had been donated by Simon to German museums (The State Museums of Berlin and the Legacy of James Simon 2008). Significantly, the exhibition was the result of the efforts of Tim Simon, a great-great-nephew descended from James Simon’s cousins who fled the Nazis. A Bay Area businessman, Tim Simon also provided part of the funding for the exhibit. In 2009, the State Museums of Berlin began work on the design for the James Simon Gallery, a new central entrance building and exhibition hall, planned by British architect David Chipperfield on the Museum Island, which opened in 2019. In 2009, in the Neues Museum’s new installation of the Nefertiti bust, the museum took another step. Whereas ‘for decades, Berliners neither knew nor cared as to how they came to possess one of the world’s most exquisite pieces of antiquity in their city’, today, a small bronze bust of Simon is installed across from the Nefertiti bust in the large museum gallery in Berlin (Thiel 2013). To position a small bust of Simon in the gallery dedicated to Nefertiti (with no other objects present) seems like an odd gesture. It may well be an overcompensation for the earlier deliberate obscuring of Simon’s role as a benefactor. But perhaps it has an additional function: to serve the German state museum in establishing the German ‘roots’ of the bust. Dr Kwame Opoku, who criticized the display of the two busts from a postcolonial perspective, pointed out that Nefertiti had formerly been displayed in a well-lit room at the Altes Museum along with her Egyptian relatives.10 Now, however, she was separated from her native family context, placed in the darkened gallery she shared only with a non-Egyptian man in modern European attire (a reference to Simon’s bust).11 Thus, the museum severed Nefertiti from her Egyptian roots and realigned her with her European ‘discoverer’. Ironically, in a post-National Socialist regime, the Jewish German benefactor who had been ousted from the history of the museum could now be used to help legitimize the contested German location of Nefertiti, gesturing towards the bust’s German ‘roots’. When Dr Opoku deplores the loss of Nefertiti’s ‘relatives’, he is referring not to her being wrested out of Egypt, but rather to her earlier display in the German museum before she was moved to her current location in the Neues Museum. These comments on Nefertiti’s loss of her relatives echo Henry James’s writing about the ‘most merciless case of transplanting’

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ancient Greek artworks upon his encounter with an Aphrodite sculpture displayed in the United States (James 1907: 252–53). James’s musing on the Greek Aphrodite displayed in Boston is relevant to the case of Nefertiti in Berlin. His 1907 essay predated the archaeological discovery of Nefertiti by just a few years and represents a pre-restitution colonial discourse. He writes, ‘The little Aphrodite, with her connections, her antecedents and references exhibiting the maximum of breakage, is no doubt as lonely a jewel’ (1907: 253, emphasis in original). James justifies Aphrodite’s severance from her original Greek context by claiming that this has actually increased her power: She has lost her background, the divine creature – has lost her company, and is keeping, in a manner, the strangest; but so far from having lost an iota of her power, she has gained unspeakably more, since what she essentially stands for she here stands for alone, rising ineffably to the occasion. She has in short, by her single presence, as yet, annexed an empire, and there are strange glimmers of moments when, as I have spoken of her consciousness, the very knowledge of this seems to lurk in the depth of her beauty. Where was she ever more, where was she ever so much, a goddess – and who knows but that, being thus divine, she foresees the time when, as she has ‘moved over’, the place of her actual whereabouts will have become one of her shrines?

Poetically evoking the artwork’s ‘lonely’ existence in a culture not its own, James claims that compensation is amply provided when such a divinity is displayed in the American institution. He suggests that in the new context, where the divinity is a rarity, it stands out and gains more power than in its original location. James’s writing endows the divinity/ art with an imaginary consciousness and agency, writing that she ‘strayed out of ’ her original setting, as if she had not been removed by those foreign archaeologists who had the means and power to do so. The apex of his poetic disavowal of the Western power that removed objects from their original locations and brought them to the United States is his declaration that she thus ‘annexed an empire’. It should be noted that, this idealizing discourse not withstanding, during this period, Western nations increasingly measured the civilization of a nation on the basis of its historical monuments and art treasures as well as their preservation and care. They undertook to preserve their own heritage and attempted to prevent important masterpieces from being exported (often as a result of the buying power and interest of American collectors; Swenson 2013). It took more time before the Mediterranean countries that were the sites of Western archaeological excavations could enforce their own rules to protect their heritage.

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Conclusion: The Contentious Object in the Contemporary Media Habitat and within a Longue Durée Before concluding, let us note that it had originally been the privilege of the very few to possess a copy of Nefertiti: the first was the German emperor, the second the philanthropist who donated the original bust to the museum. Since then, numerous others have owned a copy, including, most recently, those who could afford to buy the painted three-dimensional printed copies of the Nefertiti bust issued in an edition of one hundred by the Prussian Cultural Heritage Foundation at the cost of €8,900 (about $9,650) each.12 As we have seen, the history of the Nefertiti bust between 1912 and today has been complex. Yet, The Other Nefertiti stays focused on the contemporary call for restitution, without exploring that history. It is an intervention by two artists who are primarily associated with the contemporary art world and the internet. They deploy a form of institutional critique of the museum, a critique that is motivated by a postcolonial perspective and a commitment to decolonization that is focused on restitution. The artwork The Other Nefertiti did much more than make high-quality three-dimensional copies of the bust available to members of the public at no charge. It deployed the symbolic capital of the original masterpiece echoed in ‘liberating’ it by enabling the possibility of copying it in order to question cultural dis/possession. To do this, it released digital files that evoked a slippage between the original, the scanned data and the physical copy. The artists created a new kind of contentious object – one that is not defined by the binary notion of the authenticity of the auratized original versus the de-auratized copy (Benjamin 1969). The new contentious object thrives on the imbrication of original and copy – the original’s resonance in the copy and the copy’s inevitable ‘presence’ in the apprehension of the original in a photographic and digital era. Today, the contentious object does not reside in one place – neither in its original site, where it was once unearthed, nor in its current museum display – rather, it exists in a mode of perpetual circulation in an escalating media habitat. With the aid of three-dimensional printing technologies and internet dissemination, The Other Nefertiti symbolically wrests the power that the German state museum has assumed as the sole source for the production and dissemination of copies of Nefertiti. Furthermore, in going to Egypt to rebury the bust and videotaping the process, the artists also restitute a symbolic material connection between the digital-born bust and the

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physical grounds of the Egyptian nation from which the original bust was removed. These forms of restitution recharge the original object as contentious. Thus, The Other Nefertiti demonstrates that contemporary art can intervene in an evocative way, both digitally and materially, in the current discourse on restitution. Through a series of symbolic acts, this intervention not only contests colonial cultural dispossession, but it also symbolically enacts a repossession. Responding to the question, ‘What do negotiations around Nazilooted art have in common with the legal and ethical questions related to objects appropriated in colonial contexts?’, I have aimed to show the intersection of both in the case of Nefertiti. When we take into account the fuller history of the bust, it becomes clear that it is a contentious object in more than one sense. By going directly from 1912, when the bust was excavated, to its present display on the Museum Island in Berlin via the postcolonial trajectory alone, The Other Nefertiti skips over a more complex history. Yet the contentious Nefertiti bust traverses Germany’s history, not only in terms of its colonial-inspired excavations, but also its Nazi regime and the erasure of the role of the Jewish benefactor. Simon is particularly relevant to this case, not simply because he was the most important benefactor of Berlin museums, but rather because he included a specific condition in his bequest of Nefertiti to the German museum that the museum would return the bust if Egypt made that demand and because, no less importantly, he actually attempted to restitute Nefertiti to Egypt. Given all this, The Other Nefertiti inspires us to ask to what extent an exclusive focus on the dispossession produced by any single regime (including colonialism) in a longer historical continuum may exclude a fuller and more complex story of multiple marginalized histories pertaining to provenance and restitution. Ruth E. Iskin, Professor Emerita at the Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, is the author of The Poster: Art, Advertising, Design and Collecting, 1860s–1900s (Dartmouth College Press, 2014) and Modern Women and Parisian Consumer Culture in Impressionist Painting (Cambridge University Press, 2007). She is editor of Re-envisioning the Contemporary Art Canon: Perspectives in a Global World (Routledge, 2016) and co-editor of Collecting Prints, Posters, and Ephemera: Perspectives in a Global World (Bloomsbury Academic, 2019). Her articles have been published in numerous journals, collected volumes and exhibition catalogues of museums, including the Guggenheim Museum (Bilbao, Spain) and the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek (Copenhagen, Denmark).

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Notes A brief version of this chapter was first presented in the conference, “What Do Contentious Objects Want?” at the Max Planck Institute, Florence, 21–22 October 2016. My thanks to Emily D. Bilski, Paula Birnbaum, the anonymous readers, and Felicity Bodenstein for their carefull readings and insightful comments. Thanks to Nora Al-Badri and Olaf Matthes for providing photographs for publication and to Renée Dreyfus for helpful information.  1. For another study regarding a negotiation between France and Germany that further complicates the possession of Nefertiti, see Savoy 2011.  2. For the artists’ statements, see: https://theinfluencers.org/en/nora-al-badrinikolai-nelles (last accessed 8 October 2021).  3. For the artists’ statements, see: https://theinfluencers.org/en/nora-al-badrinikolai-nelles (last accessed 8 October 2021).  4. Al-Badri challenged the museum ‘to achieve a great outreach by opening their archives to the public domain, where cultural heritage is really accessible for everybody and can’t be possessed’ (Voon 2016).  5. An increasing number of major museums have allowed high-resolution images to be downloaded from their websites for academic publication purposes, including, for example, the National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Moreover, today museums increasingly recognize the potential of artists’ digital engagements with their collections. See Younan and Eid 2016.  6. This was the first official copy of the bust. On copies made from the bust in 1920, see ‘A Short History of the Bust of Nefertiti’.  7. On the possibility of Borchardt’s having deceived the Egyptian Antiquity Authority (which was headed by French archaeologists at the time), see Breger 2006: 281–86. On the legal implications and restitution issues associated with the Nefertiti bust, see Siehr 2006: 117–26.  8. Open letter from James Simon to the German Minister of Science, Art and Education, published in the Berliner Tageblatt, 28 June 1930 and reprinted in Ganslmayr and Paczensky 1984.  9. In 2005, the Nefertiti bust was moved from the Egyptian Museum in Charlottenburg to the Altes Museum on the Museum Island, where it stayed till 2009. 10. On the display of the bust in the Egyptian Museum in Berlin, see Breger 2006: 286–87. 11. Dr Opoku also notes that placing Simon’s bust in the shadow of Nefertiti in the obscurity of the darkened gallery ‘smacks of half-heartedness and reluctance’ and proposes that the bust should be displayed in ‘a visible position in the museum’ in the planned James Simon new gallery entry to the museum (Opoku 2009). 12. For a history of copies of the Nefertiti bust, see ‘A Short History of the Bust of Nefertiti’.

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References Anderson, G. 2009. ‘The State Museums of Berlin and the Legacy of James Simon’, Legion of Honor, 18 October 2008–18 January 2009, ARThound, 5 January. https://genevaanderson.wordpress.com/2009/01/05/the-state-museums-of-berlinand-the-legacy-of-james-simon/. Benjamin, W. 2013. ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’, in Hanna Arendt (ed.), Illuminations, trans. Harry Zohn. New York: Schocken Books, pp. 217–51. Bodenstein, J.F. 2005. ‘James Simon and the Nefertiti in Berlin’, Prometheus, Internet Bulletin for Art, News, Politics and Science 98, August. http://www.meaus.com/98-nefertiti-berlin.htm. Breger, C. 2006. ‘The “Berlin” Nefertiti Bust, Imperial Fantasies in Twentieth-Century German Archaeological Discourse’, in Regina Schulte (ed.), The Body of the Queen: Gender and Rule in the Courtly World, 1500–2000. New York: Berghahn Books, pp. 281–305. D’Arcy, D. 2009. ‘The Hyperbolic Philanthropy of James Simon’, 8 January. http://forward.com/culture/14886/the-hyperbolic-philanthropy-of-james-simon-03113/. Easage, Alisa, G. 2016. ‘One of the Greatest Art Heists of Our Time Was Actually a Data Hack’. Information Security Newspaper, 11 March. http://www.securitynewspaper.com/2016/03/11/one-greatest-art-heists-time-actually-data-hack/.Ganslmayr, H., and G. von Paczensky. 1984. Nofretete will nach Hause: Europa – Schatzhaus der ‘dritten Welt’. Munich: C. Bertelsmann. Goldschmidt, L. 1930. ‘From Rembrandt to Nolde’, New York Times, 25 May. Greenfield, J. 2007. The Return of Cultural Treasures, 3rd edn. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. James, H. 1907. ‘Boston’, The American Scene. London: Chapman and Hall. Krauss, R. 1991. ‘1913–1988: 75 Jahre Büste der Nofertete/Nefert-iti in Berlin’, Jahrbuch der Preußischen Kulturbesitzes XXVIII: 123–57. Matthes, O. 2007. ‘The Art of Worthwhile Giving, James Simon as Philanthropist’, in B. Schultz (ed.), James Simon; Philanthropist and Patron of the Arts. Munich: Prestel, pp. 140–51. Musacchio, T. 2006. ‘Appendix I: “The Bust of Nefertiti: An Annotated Bibliography’”, in J.H. Merryman (ed.), Imperialism, Art and Restitution. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 166–74. Opoku, K. 2009. ‘Nefertiti, Idia, Tiye, and Others Revisited: Nefertiti in Splendid Isolation?’, Modern Ghana, 16 November. https://www.modernghana.com/ news/249547/nefertiti-idia-tiye-and-others-revisited-nefert.html. Savoy, B. 2011. Nofretete: eine deutsch-französische Affäre 1912–1931. Cologne: Böhlau. Schneider, P. 2004. Berlin Now: The City After the Wall, trans. Sophie Schlondorff. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Schultz, B. 2007. ‘The Forgotten Patron’, in B. Schultz (ed.), James Simon; Philanthropist and Patron of the Arts. Munich: Prestel, pp. 10–24. ‘A Short History of the Bust of Nefertiti’. https://mathstat.slu.edu/~bart/egyptianhtml/ kings%20and%20Queens/Short-history-bust-Nefertiti.html.

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Siehr, K.G. 2006. ‘The Beautiful One Has Come – to Return: The Return of the Bust of Nefertiti from Berlin to Cairo’, in J.H. Merryman (ed.), Imperialism, Art and Restitution. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 114–34. Society for the Promotion of the Egyptian Museum in Berlin, http://egyptian-museum-berlin.com/c01.php. ‘The State Museums of Berlin and the Legacy of James Simon’. 2008. Exhibition dates: 18 October 2008–18 January 2009. Press release, October. https://www.famsf.org/ press-room/state-museums-berlin-and-legacy-james-simon. Swenson, A. 2013. The Rise of Heritage: Presenting the Past in France, Germany and England, 1789–1914. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Thiel, H. 2013. ‘The Beauty and the Berliner’, Jewish Voice from Germany, 21 January. http://jewish-voice-from-germany.de/cms/the-beauty-and-the-berliner/. Urice, S.K. 2006. ‘The Beautiful One Has Come – to Return: The Return of the Bust of Nefertiti from Berlin to Cairo’, in J.H. Merryman (ed.), Imperialism, Art and Restitution. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. pp. 135–65. Voon, C. 2016. ‘Artists Covertly Scan Bust of Nefertiti and Release Data for Free Online’, Hyperallergic, 19 February. http://hyperallergic.com/274635/ artists-covertly-scan-bust-of-nefertiti-and-release-the-data-for-free-online/. Wilder, C. 2016. ‘Swiping a Priceless Antiquity … With a Scanner and a 3-D Printer’, New York Times, 1 March. https://www.nytimes.com/2016/03/02/arts/design/other-nefertiti-3d-printer.html. Younan, S., and H. Eid. 2016. ‘How Digital Artist Engagement Can Function as an Open Innovation Model to Facilitate Audience Encounters with Museum Collections’, International Journal of the Inclusive Museum 9(2): 27–39.

Part II

The Subject of Return Between Artefacts and Bodies

Chapter 4

Blurring Objects Life Casts, Human Remains and Art History Noémie Etienne

Fabricated through the contact between people and materials, casts are at the frontier between artefacts and human bodies. Their meaning is highly connected to the context of their production and exhibition. Moreover, life casts are not easily classified or defined. They challenge the way societies have divided particular fields (such as art and the sciences) and disciplines (such as art history and anthropology) and, more broadly, produced knowledge. At a time of intense discussion about the role and place of museums, casts appear as singular objects whose multiple and complex production histories raise questions about what they really are and where they belong. Exploring their uses over time through a couple of case studies, in this chapter I will share some thoughts about these specific objects and how they are both blurred and blurring in a context of political debates about provenance and ownership. Casts of human bodies taken in anthropological contexts are not at the heart of art history. In fact, casts are often set aside in the larger discussion conducted by art historians, except when they relate to the Italian Renaissance, a period that I will therefore briefly evocate below, and the nineteenth century, when they came back to the forefront of discussions about sculpture (Papet 2001). In art historical discourse, casts indeed occupy a specific place in the history of sculpture (for casting after death, see, in particular, Krass 2012). Produced though a mechanical process, they stand on the threshold between arts and crafts, invention and reproduction. Thus, precisely for these reasons, their presence in the

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realm of sculpture generated debates, calling into question the definition of art itself. However, life casts are part of the current discussion about repatriation and decolonization, to which this chapter seeks to contribute (see Arndt 2018, and Bodenstein et al., forthcoming). Indeed, casts in plaster are everywhere in the museum world: not only in art museums, but in each anthropology or natural history institution’s storage and, more and more frequently, (re-)exhibited in museum galleries. They are one of the many tools of knowledge production, but also domination and classification widely used since the beginning of physical anthropology in Europe and the United States (and elsewhere). From the nineteenth century, anthropologists used life casts to record and study the physical appearance of human beings, focusing on the face, but sometimes also the hands, feet, arms or chest. In addition to photographs of faces and profiles, anthropologists were among the many scientists who made extensive use of casts to produce records, with the casts sometimes being developed into busts and used as museum tools for didactic purposes or in exchanges with other museums. In this chapter, I would like to emphasize the specific case of life casts taken in upstate New York by the anthropologist Arthur C. Parker and the sculptor Caspar Mayer in order to create dioramas, the life-sized displays used to exhibit objects with the help of plaster figures in front a painted background.1 I will then connect life casts to an earlier European tradition in which the identity of the sitter or the maker was often recorded; these casts are estimated to be more valuable by art historians. Finally, I will contrast such casts with more common work produced in an anthropological milieu. In this context, the sitter’s and the maker’s identities were often anonymized. The current trend of re-exhibiting these casts in museums generates a certain discomfort. Indeed, even if they look similar nowadays, the numerous painted masks that can be found in museum storage are by no means all the same. The quality of life casts can vary in terms of the material and artistic skills involved, often reflecting their different contexts of production and the ambitions of their makers. Their origins and provenance need to be retraced by art historians and historians of sciences through a close inspection of the objects and the archives associated with them, in order to better understand the narratives they can convey – and the ways in which they should be dealt with in museums in the future.

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Casting People in Albany The set of dioramas based on life casts that was created in Albany, the capital of the State of New York, by the anthropologist Arthur C. Parker in around 1910 represents a special case. The particularity of these dioramas is connected to the museum’s location – an administrative city very close to many Native reservations – and the background of its main protagonist – a curator of Onondowahgha, Seneca (Haudenosaunee, Iroquois) descent on his father’s side who was largely self-taught as an anthropologist.2 Parker was not alone in creating this work. In order to fabricate dioramas representing the different Nations of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, Arthur C. Parker employed the German sculptor Caspar Mayer. Parker was introduced to Mayer, who had emigrated to the United States in around 1900, by the anthropologist Franz Boas, himself an immigrant who worked at the American Museum of Natural History from 1896 to 1905. In making the dioramas, Parker asked people he knew personally or people in his extended network to serve as models. Consequently, the museum archives contain a large part of the correspondence between Parker and these models. Unlike other anthropologists, such as Lidio Cipriani, whom I will briefly mention below, he did not cast the individuals in a systematic way, but personally chose people whose physical features he admired and wanted to include. Furthermore, Mayer signed the casts with his initials, claiming a certain authorship over his production. By crafting the majority of the figures for the museum’s dioramas in New York and Albany in the period before the First World War, Caspar Mayer and Arthur C. Parker made a significant contribution to the visual culture of museum anthropology in North America in the early decades of the twentieth century (Etienne 2017). Even if their approach was peculiar, the making of dioramas nevertheless encompassed a significant amount of basic negotiation and pragmatic decisions. For instance, it was more difficult to convince Indigenous women to be casted. Therefore, Parker decided that the resulting deficit in casts could be remedied by using White bodies and affixing Native American arms and faces: ‘I have no females available and if he went ahead he would have to do as other museums do – use White models for the bodies – and attach Indian arms and head.’3 This seems to suggest a mixture of White and Indigenous figures. The same was also done with casts of men and women. On 14 July 1909, the director of the New York State Museum (NYSM), John M. Clarke, wrote to Parker to tell him

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that one of the figures made at Albany seemed problematic to him: ‘I am more than ever convinced, after repeated views of the model, that it is a woman’s face on a man’s body.’4 Indeed, mannequins were produced and arranged according to the requirements of the museum’s organization, even if they aimed (and, for the public, pretended) to be a true depiction of reality. Furthermore, the violence of colonization and the defiance of the people had an impact on the casting process, even when it was supervised by a local actor. In addition, the whiteness of the artistic materials – and its potentially political undertone – did not go unnoticed by the models. An anecdote recounted by Arthur C. Parker conveys how the experience must have felt for the models: ‘One Onondaga woman whose face I was casting lost confidence just before the plaster hardened, and clawing it from her head, rushed to a watering trough, scolding me the while for conspiring with the government to transform her into a white woman!’5 The woman was afraid of being made physically and symbolically white. Her distrust related to the colour of the plaster applied on the skin, an impression that was reinforced by the sense of confinement that models felt as the plaster hardened. The whiteness of the material was as important as the casting procedure itself in the sense of oppression felt by the models, who were paid for their services. Nevertheless, the quality of Parker and Mayer’s casts is particularly high. The imprints were delicately taken and the casts were painted with a glossy substance in order to underline the specific texture of eyes and lips. Their afterlife is similarly remarkable. The dioramas were dismantled in the 1990s. Following the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA), requiring federal institutions to return human remains and sacred cultural items that had been criminally taken, certain artefacts exhibited in the dioramas, such as the masks used for the New Year ceremony, were returned to the local community. More surprisingly, certain plaster mannequins that had formed part of Parker’s dioramas were repatriated or, more precisely, given on indefinite loan to the Shako:wi Cultural Center, which opened in 1996 a few dozen kilometres from Albany, the capital of New York State and the location of the NYSM. The centre is a log cabin that serves as a meeting house, as well as a work and exhibition space. Several of the figures created by Parker and Mayer are exhibited today on the second floor of this institution. The diorama was dismantled. The little fictional scene that it represented no longer exists. The figures have been separated and placed in individual exhibition cases, with labels detailing the identities of the individuals represented: their names, forenames and professions.

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Since they were made from life casts and have been individually re-exhibited, the figures are now presented as portraits of people to whom names have been restored – thus inscribing the cast in another European artistic tradition, that of the hyper-realist portraits involving casting evocated in the first part of this chapter. As I mentioned above, Parker personally knew the models chosen for his dioramas, but the transformation of these figures into types had made their bodies temporarily anonymous – even if the archives I consulted preserved many traces of them. Now they have been renamed and re-exhibited in this new space. Far from being deemed politically incorrect, these figures seem to be cherished by the community for their capacity to preserve the memory of the deceased, whose identities are retraced by the new labels.6

Mimesis, Memory and Materiality Art history has shown an interest in portraits based on life casts, even if it has rarely concerned itself with objects created in anthropological contexts. Indeed, art historical research has until now mainly focused on casts of people whose identity was better recorded, be it through the name of the sitter or that of the artist. In his book La ressemblance par contact, Georges Didi-Huberman, for instance, has demonstrated the disruptive power of life casts in art history. The discipline of art history, described by the French art historian and philosopher as being obsessed with the concept of mimesis, is, in his view, nevertheless resisting to integrate life-casts in its narration (Didi-Huberman 2008). According to him, the Panofskian tradition that dominated the discipline in the twentieth century purposely avoided taking casts into account due to their mechanical dimension. However, as Didi-Huberman reminds us, life casts in sculpture were a topic of great interest in early German art historical discourse. Indeed, a vast body of literature developed in the first decades of the twentieth century, exploring the connection between mimesis, memory and materiality. However, life casts made in the context of anthropology, natural history or popular culture are rarely mentioned.7 Almost a century before, the German art historian Julius von Schlosser considered the hyper-realistic tradition of portraits produced in wax during the fifteenth century in Florence (von Schlosser 1911). Similarly, Aby Warbug studied boti, the effigies used as ex-votos and displayed, among other places, in the church of the Santissima Annunziata in Florence at the time (Warburg 1902). More recently, a new research trend has been developing, involving first and foremost German and

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North American scholars who study the interconnection between portraits, resemblance and indexicality. Much of this research explores bust portraits and reliquaries, discussing the connection between lifelikeness, casts and the representation of individuals (see, for instance, Kohl 2013 and Panzelli 2008). Such studies are also grounded in the research conducted at the beginning of the twentieth century by Charles Sanders Peirce, who distinguished between iconicity and indexicality: ‘firstly likeness or, as I prefer to say, Icons, which serves to represent their objects only in so far as they resemble them in themselves; secondly Indices, which represents their objects independently of any resemblance to them, only by virtue of real connections with them, and thirdly Symbols, which represents their objects, independently alike of any resemblance or any real connections’ (Peirce 1998: 460–61). Wax, plaster and clay are the most common materials used to create life-casts. As many authors have emphasized, Renaissance portraits based on life casts are both icons and index: they represent individuals through iconicity and their similitude is based on the close contact between the material and the sitter. Such portraits are ubiquitous in different time periods. They exist in different media, such as the glazed terracotta made by the Della Robia’s workshop during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. In the Resurrezione Antinori, for instance, there is a large-scale glazed terracotta lunette by Giovanni della Robbia, now preserved in the Brooklyn Museum in New York. The figure of the donor, a member of the Antinori family, situated on the left of the panel made of glazed terracotta, is a portrait. The size (slightly smaller than life size due to the contraction of the clay) and the naturalistic qualities, reinforced by the glazing varnish developed by the Della Robbias, evoke a portrait that might have been sculpted using a funerary mask and imprint.8 Many of the realistic-looking sculptures made by the artist Guido Mazzoni are based on life casts, reworked and integrated into standing figures. This tradition is grounded in the work of canonic artists such as Donatello or Andrea del Verrocchio. In the work of Mazzoni, even some accessories and costumes seem to be based on castings (see Vaccari 2009: 86). Life casts were often taken after death. This is true, for instance, of Filippo Brunelleschi’s mask, which was taken by his apprentice Andrea Cavalcanti at Buggiano in 1446 and is still on display at the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo in Florence. This mask is a full bust, including face, neck, chest and shoulders. The eyes are closed and have not been opened. The cast was not reworked as a terracotta sculpture, as in the examples I just mentioned, but kept as it was. Before the object is fired, the artist can

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make alterations. Art historian Jeannette Kohl recalls the Florentine interest in truthful representation, which extended to displaying dead faces in representational contexts. As she explains, quoting Vasari again, there were death masks and portraits in plaster and terracotta in every house in Florence (ibid.: 62). Such masks, and life casts more broadly, embodied the absent and perpetuated his or her existence in the household or the city. As Kohl explains, the association between individuals and their casts is so strong that, after the Pazzi conspiracy of 1478 and, in particular, after the Medici family’s exile of 1494, the production of cast-based images of Lorenzo reached its peak (Kohl 2013: 60). In this case, casts were indeed used and diffused in order to represent the exiled rulers. They were almost a substitute for the bodily presence of the man who had left Florence. Life casts serve as substitutes – at least partly – for human beings. They preserve something of the living person from contact with whom they originated. For this reason, they have also traditionally been connected to relics. Indeed, parts of human bodies, known as relics, were frequently displayed in anthropomorphic sculptures, which often gave a generic face to the saints. A reliquary made by Donatello is often mentioned as the first object that really gave a saint a portrait-like face (Moskowitz 1981). Furthermore, according to German art historian Martin Gaier, clay, a typical material for life casts, is so closely associated with human remains that it almost equated to them. Studying the reliquary and bust of San Laurent preserved in the church of San Lorenzo in Florence, previously attributed to Donatello and today attributed to Desiderio da Settignano, the author suggests that the choice of terracotta and the liveliness of its treatments, with traces of fingers visible on the surface, make the bust of Saint Laurent a plausible portrait and almost a reliquary, even without the presence of relics. Thus, according to the author, terracotta itself becomes the guarantee of individuality and almost a substitute for flesh and human remains (Gaier 2012). The long association between certain materials (wax, plaster and clay) and life casts has yet to be explored by art historians in the context of another part of the field: life casts taken as part of anthropological projects. The quality of such objects can be surprising, as I have indicated in relation to the example of Albany. And if the identity of the artist in many such projects is unknown, this lack of study is less the result of the disappearance of sources than it is of the disinterest of scholars. As I have emphasized in the case of Albany, the sculptor Caspar Mayer was mentioned in a significant amount of archive material and even signed his production. Rather, the lack of knowledge regarding anthropological life casts is due to the legitimate yet limiting concern of the discipline about

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(high) art and a tendency to overlook works made in other contexts. However, the tools of art historians – that is, their specific knowledge about materiality and techniques, their capacity to identify the multiple hands involved in the artworks and their expertise in decoding the meaning of visual production – can highlight the complexity of objects such as life casts and reconstruct their making and nuance, helping to determine how they could be handled in the future.

Re-exhibiting Life Casts (or Not) Lastly, I would like to consider a brief selection of casts taken during world fairs or colonial expeditions during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and how they are currently visible (or not) in museum galleries. I will suggest that their omnipresence in museums of diverse disciplines constitutes one of the future challenges for museums, in particular in the fields of natural history and anthropology. As complex objects with long histories, I have shown that casts are deeply connected to questions of death, relics, human remains, identities and ancestors. On the one hand, some plaster moulds literally include human remains, such as the hair of the model encrusted in the material, as in the case of many examples in the collection of the American Museum of Natural History in New York, all of which are stored in a garret and not on view in the galleries (for more on this material, see Etienne 2017, 2020 and 2021). On the other hand, the violence of colonial history has affected such works and the surviving objects in museum storage embody the power imbalance between people – evident in the parable about the model who feared that she would be whitened through the casting process. Nowadays, different anthropological or natural history museums demonstrate an interest in, if not an anxiety about, the possession and visibility of their casts. Certain re-exhibition projects reveal the uneasiness surrounding such objects, as well as the difficulty accessing the casts in storage. Museums such as the Museum of Mankind in Paris try to re-exhibit them (Blanckaert 2015). The Museum of Mankind, first inaugurated in 1938 in Paris, was recently renovated. In 2015, the museum reopened and proposed a new approach to its collection (many objects having been transferred to the newly opened Quai Branly Museum). Among other changes, a gallery in the museum presents many painted life casts, re-exhibited and rearranged in a display intended to show both the diversity of humankind and the tools used by physical anthropology and anthropometric scientists to create such casts. Thus, the casts speak,

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come alive and address audiences in a variety of languages through audio and video animations. Other institutions, such as the Anthropology Museum of Florence, conserve a significant number of plaster casts produced during various campaigns, reflecting the (sometimes dark) history of the institutions. A large part of the collections housed at the Florentine museum is made up of casts taken by Lidio Cipriani, a promotor of Italian Fascism, who, in 1938, signed the ‘Manifesto della Razza’, a text promoting the purity of the Italian ‘race’ written by a group of ten male scholars (Cecchi and Stanyon 2014). Cipriani had travelled to Africa multiple times from 1927 and many of the casts exhibited in the museum were created by him. However, it is difficult to access this collection. It has been impossible, despite repeated demands, to access the collection of life casts in the museum’s storage. Recently, a display aiming to show the variety of humankind was created. The masks, however, also tell another story. Indeed, the plaster casts are of modest quality. The junction between the imprint of the faces and the bust is visible. In terms of the painting, one colour is uniformly applied to the whole face. The result is a standardized, simplistic vision of a face that doesn’t closely resemble a human face (see Feldman 2008). The casts were produced by an amateur cast-maker and convey poorly elaborated and racist representations of humankind. In comparison, the life casts produced in the United States under the supervision of the Seneca anthropologist Arthur C. Parker in around 1900 were more masterly. They demonstrate a variety of skin tones implemented by the collaborating artists. Many examples convey other attitudes towards such works, including in connection to dioramas. In her work on South African museums, the historian Annie Coombes discusses an installation created in the Iziko South African Museum, Cape Town’s natural history museum (founded in 1825). This diorama represents people of Khoi-San origin,9 who were violently persecuted during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. In 1952, the commission for the ‘preservation of Bushmen’ was established by the apartheid regime. Its goal was to ensure the ‘purity of specimens’ (Coombes 2003: 211). The Khoi-San, it was perversely argued, provided insight into the roots of humanity and their society was to be preserved as evidence of primitive, if not prehistoric, humans (idem: 206–42, see also Pietersen 1996; Douglas and Law 1997; Nutall and Coetzee 1998; Jackson and Robins 1999). This diorama was made in 1950, during the early years of the apartheid regime, but the figures are older; they were based on life casts made of the Khoi-San population by the taxidermist James Drury in 1911.

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The installation was dismantled in 2002. Beginning in the 1980s, several forms of mediation were undertaken in order to present this diorama to the public, with explanatory panels being added (see also chapter 9 in this volume). In 1996, an exhibition entitled Miscast opened in the South African National Gallery in Cape Town, exhibiting moulds of the casts from the diorama. The idea was to draw attention to the political implications of different museological choices. Miscast proved controversial. At the time of its opening, debates on the repatriation of Sarah Baartman’s human remains were a key topic in intellectual and emotional discourses in South Africa (Coombes 2003: 222; Goodnow 2006: 18; see also chapters 8 and 9 in this volume). Baartman had become a symbol of the dispossession of the Khoi-San and their struggle to reappropriate their culture. The similarity between life casts and human remains seemed to make their exhibition intolerable, even in the form of resin moulds or for a critical exhibition such as Miscast. The particular status of these casts is illustrated by the homages paid to the diorama itself. Dawid Kruiper, leader and medicine man of the ≠Khomani San, had brought members of the Khoi-San nation to the Cape Town Museum of Natural History to pay tribute to the casts in the early 1990s. The statues were famous and considered ancestors (Dawid Kruiper quoted by Gordon et al. 1996: 269). The cast of Sarah Baartman’s body, as well as her skeleton, was exhibited at the Museum of Mankind from 1816 until 1976 (Boëtsch, Snoep and Blanchard 2012: 45–46; see also Blanckaert 2013). Her cast was then withdrawn from exhibition but not repatriated, despite a repatriation proposal made by the French museum. Indeed, those responsible for repatriation refused to return the casts, which were deemed highly but insufficiently indexical and therefore not equivalent to human remains (Esquerre 2011: 233). The issue of casts now became the responsibility of the museums that had them in their collections. A spokesperson for the Museum of Mankind stated: ‘A request for restitution could only be made in respect of human remains. When we welcomed the South African representatives, we asked them: “Do you want the casts too?”. They replied: “No, that’s your problem”’ (ibid.). In 2011, however, another position was adopted in relation to the life casts in Cape Town. After a series of consultations with different stakeholders, the museum direction accepted the recommendation made by the Committee on Human Remains to consider the body casts made by James Drury as unethically collected human remains (Davison 2018, see also chapter 9 in this volume). The casts were classed as human remains and viewing them was prohibited. This change of epistemological status

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is significant. It also goes beyond the diorama. In 2013, all life-casts were removed from the galleries, except for a few casts made with the full consent of the sitters. Even if this decision raises the question of what exactly ‘consent’ is in a colonial context, the unbalanced power relation became one of the criteria for removing life casts from public view. I believe that these examples invite museum professionals and academics to become aware of the complexity and sensitive nature of life casts and the important differences between these life casts and similar-looking artefacts that have yet to be studied by art historians.

Conclusion The casts do indeed represent a problem for museum professionals and for scholars. It seems likely that one of the next challenges for museums of anthropology will be the conservation, exhibition and possible restitution of such casts, which can be found in large numbers in all such institutions. Some institutions have already attempted to establish forms of mediation, which range from placing them out of sight in the museum reserves to establishing new and different forms of exhibitions. In contrast, in 2016, an exhibition devoted to German colonialism at the German Historical Museum in Berlin did not exhibit the casts, but rather presented the moulds, sealed and behind glass, in which the casts were replicated. In any case, the particular place of casts in Western (art) history, which can be traced at least as far back as the Renaissance, explains the sensitivity surrounding these objects that are deeply connected to memory and human remains. Life casts are blurred because they are constantly reworked in order to construct different conceptions of bodies and races. They also blur our epistemological categories and challenge academics and museum professionals. As I suggested, casting occupies a peculiar place in the history of material culture: the technique of casting and the lifelikeness of the result are so closely associated with human bodies that the presence of life casts creates a certain malaise. (This is also the reason why, for instance, I choose to not reproduce any image of life casts in this chapter.) Furthermore, the context of violence, domination and colonization in which most casts in anthropological enterprises of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries were produced is often visible in the casts themselves: fixing the expressions of forced models, they testify to a violence that the museum curators and scholars have to confront nowadays. In the context of the proclaimed decolonization of the museum world, this

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embarrassment is mediated by different procedures. I believe that this process will intensify. Moreover, it is my conviction that scholars can help in this process. Art historians, among others, can retrace the particular histories of such casts: through close observation of the material objects and the reading of archives, it is possible to understand how they were made and even to reconstitute the identity of their creators, providing important knowledge for historically contextualizing the casts and reconstructing the conditions of their production. In parallel, casts resurface in contemporary art, in which they are used purposefully. From the 1990s, the figure of the artist as ‘ethnographer’ emerged. Such artists engage in openly thematized research activity. They adopt the formal codes but also the objects of the scientific world, as in the case of Fiona Pardington, an artist of Māori origin, who (re) photographs plaster castings made in the early nineteenth century by Pierre-Marie Alexandre Dumoutier, an anatomist and founder of the Phrenology Society of Paris. It is not only the ethnographic approach that is updated in this work, but also its historical products, its traces and its archives (Baker and Rankin 2011). Pardington does not do her own surveys, but rather uses old, potentially problematic anthropological material. She re-enacts these plaster faces stored in the reserves and restores the names of the models in the titles of her photos. Such work thus brings to light the identities of the people studied, whose singularity had been – partially and temporarily – erased. Noémie Etienne is Professor of Art History at the University of Bern and a specialist in the fields of early modern art, global conservation, heritage and museum studies. She was previously the Andrew W. Mellon Postdoctoral Fellow at the Institute of Fine Arts of New York University and a postdoctoral fellow at the Getty Research Institute in Los Angeles. She is currently leading a research project on the exotic in Europe between 1600 and 1800. Recent publications include Exotic Switzerland? Looking Outward in the Age of Enlightenment (Diaphanes, 2020, co-editor), Les autres et les ancêtres. Les dioramas de Franz Boas et d’Arthur Parker à New York, 1900 (Les Presses du réel, 2020) and The Art of the Anthropological Diorama (De Gruyter, 2021).

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Notes   1. This case study is taken from my books, Etienne 2020 and 2021. The writing of this chapter has benefited from a stay as a fellow at the Kunsthistorisches Institut in Florence in 2019, and I would like to thank Hannah Baader for her invitation.  2. Regarding this important but little-known figure, see the biography by Porter 2001 and Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2009.   3. Albany, New York State Museum Archives (henceforth NYSM), Life Group, file 2, 8 February 1912, letter from Arthur Parker to John M. Clarke.   4. Albany, NYSM, Life Group, file 1, 14 July 1909, letter from John M. Clarke to Arthur Parker.   5. Albany, NYSM, Life Groups, file 7, 23 July 1924, letter from Arthur Parker to Arthur Pound.   6. Oral communication from the centre’s director, Candice Watson, 2013.   7. Exceptions include the casts made from architecture. See, for instance, Flood 2004.  8. Giovanni della Robbia, Resurrezione Antinori, c. 1520, glazed terracotta, 174  x  364  x  33, New York, Brooklyn Museum, inv. 99.5. See Gentilini 2017: 45–47.   9. The term covers two ethnic groups, formerly called Hottentot (Khoikhoi) and Bushman (San).

References Primary Sources Albany, New York State Museum Archives (NYSM), Life Group, files 1, 2 and 7.

Secondary Sources Arndt, L. 2018. ‘Corps sans repos, voix en errance. Moulages raciaux et masques surmodelés dans des collections muséales et des interventions artistiques, en France et en Allemagne’, REVUE Asylon(s) 15. Retrieved 13 November 2019 from http://www. reseau-terra.eu/article1405.html. Baker, K., and E. Rankin (eds). 2011. Fiona Pardington: The Pressure of Sunlight Falling. Dunedin: Otago University Press. Blanckaert, C. (ed.). 2013. La Vénus hottentote: entre Barnum et Muséum. Paris: Muséum national d’Histoire naturelle.  . 2015. Le Musée de l’Homme, histoire d’un musée laboratoire. Paris: Editions Artlys/Muséum national d’Histoire naturelle. Bodenstein, F. et al. 2022 (forthcoming). Traces. Les manifestations du (dé)colonial au musée. Paris: Horizons d’attente.

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Boëtsch, G., N. Snoep and P. Blanchard (eds). 2012. The Invention of the Savage: Human Zoos. Arles: Actes Sud. Cecchi, J.M., and R. Stanyon. 2014. Il Museo di Storia Naturale dell’Università delgi Studi di Firenze. Le collezioni antropologiche ed etnologiche. Florence: Firenze University Press. Colwell-Chanthaphonh, C. 2009. Inheriting the Past: The Making of Arthur C. Parker and Indigenous Archaeology. Tucson: The University of Arizona Press. Coombes, A.E. 2003. History after Apartheid: Visual Culture and Public Memory in a Democratic South Africa. London: Duke University Press. Davison, P. ‘The Politics and Poetics of the Bushman Diorama at the South African Museum’, ICOFOM Study Series 46 (2018): 81–97. Didi-Huberman, G. 2008. La ressemblance par contact: archéologie, anachronisme et modernité de l’empreinte. Paris: Les Editions de Minuit. Douglas, S., and J. Law. 1997. ‘Beating around the Bush(man!): Reflections on “Miscast: Negotiating Khoisan History and Material Culture”’, Visual Anthropology 10(1): 85–108. Esquerre, A. 2011. Les os, les cendres, et l’État. Paris: Fayard. Etienne, N. 2017. ‘Dioramas in the Making. Caspar Mayer and Franz Boas in the Contact Zone(s)’, Getty Research Journal, 9: 57–74.  . 2020. Les autres et les ancêtres. Les dioramas de Franz Boas et d’Arthur C. Parker à New York, 1900. Dijon: Les Presses du réel.  . 2021. The Art of the Anthropological Diorama: Franz Boas, Arthur C. Parker, and Constructing Authenticity. Boston and Berlin: De Gruyter. Feldman, J.D. 2008. ‘Contact Points: Museums and the Lost Body Problem’, in E. Edwards, C. Gosden and R. Philips (eds), Sensible Objects. Colonialism, Museums and Material Culture. Oxford: Berg, pp. 245–67. Flood, F.B. 2004. ‘Signs of Violence: Colonial Ethnographies and Indo-Islamic Monuments’, Australian and New Zealand Journal of Art 5(2): 20–51. Gaier, M. 2012. ‘Die Büste als Reliquie’, in M. Gaier, J. Kohl and A. Saviello (eds), Similitudo Konzept der Ähnlichkeit in Mittelalter und Früher Neuzeit. Munich: Wilhelm Fink, pp. 165–81. Gentilini, G. 2017. ‘La Resurrezione Antinori di Giovanni della Robbia: genesi e fortuna, memorie et significati’, in Da Brooklyn al Bargello. Giovanni della Robbia, la lunetta Antinori e Stefano Arienti. Genova: Sagep Editori, pp. 45–47. Goodnow, K. 2006. ‘Why and When Do Human Remains Matter: Museum Dilemmas’, in J. Lohman and K. Goodnow (eds), Human Remains and Museum Practices. London: UNESCO, pp. 16–21. Gordon, R., C. Rassool and L. Witz. 1996. ‘Fashioning the Bushman in Van Riebeeck’s Cape Town, 1952 and 1993’, in P. Skotnes (ed.), Miscast: Negotiating the Presence of the Bushmen. Cape Town: South African National Gallery, pp. 256–71. Jackson, S., and S. Robins. 1999. ‘Miscast: The Place of the Museum in Negotiating the Bushman Past and Present’, Critical Arts: South-North Cultural and Media Studies 13(1): 69–101. Kohl, J. 2013. ‘Casting Renaissance Florence: The Bust of Giovanni de’ Medici and Indexical Portraiture’, in P. Motture, E. Jones and D. Zikos (eds), Carvings, Casts and Collectors: The Art of Renaissance Sculpture. London: Victoria and Albert Museum, pp. 58–71.

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Krass, U. 2012. Nah zum Leichnam. Berlin: Deutscher Kunstverlag. Moskowitz, A. 1981. ‘Donatello’s Reliquary Bust of Saint Rossor’, The Art Bulletin 63(1): 41–48. Nuttall, S., and C. Coetzee (eds). 1998. Negotiating the Past: The Making of Memory in South Africa. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Panzelli, R. (ed.). 2008. Ephemeral Bodies. Wax Sculptures and the Human Figure. Los Angeles, CA: Getty Research Institute. Papet, E. (ed.). 2001. À fleur de peau. Le moulage sur nature au XIXe siècle. Paris: RMN. Peirce, C.S. 1998. A Sketch of Logical Critics, 1911, in The Essential Peirce: Selected Philosophical Writings, 2 volumes. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, vol. 2. Pietersen, C. 1996. ‘Miscast: Negotiating Khoisan History and Material Culture’, South African Historical Journal 35(1): 135–39. Porter, J. 2001. To Be Indian: The Life of Iroquois-Seneca Arthur Caswell Parker. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. von Schlosser, J. 1911. ‘Die Geschichte der Porträtbildnerei in Wachs: Ein Versuch’, Jahrbuch der Kunsthistorischen Sammlungen des Allerhöchsten Kaiserhauses, Bd. XXIX, Heft 3. Vaccari, M.G. 2009. ‘Guido Mazzoni e Antonio Begarelli: Due Mastri della terracotta tra tecnica e problemi di conservazione’, in G. Bonsanti and F. Piccinini (eds), Emozioni in Terracotta: Guido Mazzoni Antonio Begarelli, Sculture del Rinascimento Italiano. Modena: Franco Cosimo Panini Editore, pp. 85–90. Warburg, A. 1999. ‘The Art of Portraiture and the Florentine Bourgeoisie: Domenico Ghirlandaio in Santa Trinità. The Portraits of Lorenzo de Medici and his Household’ (1902), in The Renewal of Pagan Antiquity: Contributions to the Cultural History of the European Renaissance. Los Angeles, CA: Getty Research Institute, pp. 435–51.

Chapter 5

Of Phrenology, Reconciliation and Veneration Exhibiting the Repatriated Life Cast of Māori Chief Takatahara at the Akaroa Museum Christopher Sommer

The small township of Akaroa on Banks Peninsula is the only French settlement in New Zealand and fosters an – albeit manufactured – French ‘place image’. It was established by a group of German and French immigrants1 in 1840; however, within three years of its foundation, British settlers, attracted by the economic opportunities afforded by the new settlement, were already in the majority and it can be argued that British traditions and culture shaped the township’s history from that point on.2 Nevertheless, Akaroa is widely acknowledged throughout the country as a ‘French town’ due to a successful marketing campaign in the 1960s that later also encompassed a French festival, promoting ‘French’ Akaroa.3 In such a setting, the local Akaroa Museum plays an important role in disseminating Akaroa’s diverse history, including its historical French connection, but also Māori presettlement.4 Banks Peninsula was not terra nullius before the bi-ethnic group of settlers arrived. Rather, it was already populated by a mélange of European whalers and Māori. The presence of the latter made it necessary for the settlers to intermarry or enter into negotiations with local tribes to foster good relations and acquire land for settlement or other purposes (Minson 1998: 54). Among early French explorers, Jules Sébastien César Dumont D’Urville has gained some notoriety as a result of his brief foray into phrenology, a pseudoscientific discipline that purported to categorize

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character and intelligence based on protuberances and depressions of the head (Rochette 2003: 251–68). He undertook two expeditions to the Pacific, including New Zealand, the first between 1827 and 1829 and the second between 1837 and 1840. His mentor Pierre Marie Dumoutier, a staunch phrenologist, accompanied him to collect plaster casts of the heads of indigenous people, which were later displayed in France. The motives for making such casts to record various racial types went beyond neutral scientific curiosity; the casts were imbued with discriminatory presumptions and ultimately suggestions of racial inferiority (see also chapters 4 and 9 in this volume). These notions were further reinforced by Dumoutier’s perception of the indigenous people of New Zealand: he saw them as civilizable, but not civilized. In his view, they were brutes (Rochette 2003: 256; Rankin 2003: 96). Through the casts, racial characteristics could be defined and peoples could be ranked, which was necessary to justify European dominion over other peoples. While the casting process did not inflict any harm, it probably caused considerable discomfort and the underlying motives for creating such casts created an unsavoury suspicion vis-à-vis this form of contact between the two cultures. Allegedly, Takatahara5 of Akaroa Harbour (1772–1847), a renowned chief of Ngāi Tahu, the principal Māori iwi of the southern region of New Zealand was among Dumoutier’s subjects. Ngāi Tahu faced an invasion led by Chief Te Rauparaha (c. 1760–1849), a war leader of the Waikato region (North Island) Ngāti Toa tribe. Forced out of their land by intertribal warfare, the tribe engaged in a military campaign to subdue tribes of the southern parts of the North Island and the northern parts of the South Island, thereby greatly extending their influence, including through raids in the Akaroa region. This brought them into conflict with Ngāi Tahu, the principal tribe of the South Island and its chief, Takatahara. Takatahara took part in raids and campaigns against Ngāti Toa, killed one of their chiefs, Te Pēhi Kupe, in 1829 and organized the ill-fated defence of Ōnawe pā in 1832, but escaped. Subsequently, he led a charge against Ngāti Toa between 1832 and 1833, repelling their invasion. Given that Māori regard the head as tapu,6 it is shocking that Takatahara agreed to this procedure. Dumoutier notes in his diary on 31 March 1840 that he gave an old uniform to an unnamed male Māori as compensation for taking a cast. Whether this was Takatahara is uncertain. However, Dumoutier made two more casts on the same day, one of them a woman (see the discussion in Calman 2011: 116). To complicate matters, there was also a younger man with the name Takatahara who lived in Otago in 1840. According to Akaroa Museum curator Daniel Smith (2016), it is

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quite possible that the life cast does not portray the renowned chief, but rather the younger man. Despite this uncertainty, the life cast came to represent Chief Takatahara from Akaroa Harbour. The life cast left Akaroa with the French explorers and remained in France for more than 150 years. During the festivities in honour of the 1991 visit to Akaroa of the French prime minister, Michel Rocard, the life cast, or perhaps a copy of it, was presented to the Akaroa Museum.7 This might have been the result of then curator Steve Lowndes approaching the French Ambassador to New Zealand in December 1988 for assistance, after his earlier attempts to acquire photographs or a copy of the cast had not received a response. According to Lowndes, the sinking by French agents of the Rainbow Warrior, which had been protesting against French nuclear testing in the Pacific, in Auckland Harbour in 1985 might have played a role in the decision to gift the cast as a reconciliatory gesture to the museum and, by extension, New Zealand, especially given the importance of Chief Takatahara in local history (cf. Akaroa Museum 2013). However, local Māori did not play a significant role in this repatriation process. This brief object biography of the life cast of Takatahara illustrates the contentious qualities of this taonga8 imbued with his mana9 by association. Firstly, the association of the life cast with Chief Takatahara is contested, as explained above. Secondly, it may be a derivative plaster cast and not the original. Whether the mana of the original was transferred while creating the copy is a matter of interpretation and conviction and would influence the cast’s status as taonga. Finally, exhibiting taonga without consulting local tribes or iwi – even when acquired through a legitimate exchange of wares or as a gift – is not widely accepted among contemporary Māori and voices asking for the return of taonga to iwi are growing louder. Despite these contentious qualities of the cast, it has been on permanent display at the Akaroa Museum as an authentic taonga since it was donated to the museum in 1991. Having established the context and set the scene, I seek to show how indigenous contested objects are exhibited in a rural setting in New Zealand. I will endeavour to answer three main questions relating to the example of the Akaroa Museum. First of all, how did the repatriation of the life cast affect the museum and did the modes of display change as a result? Secondly, in what ways has Takatahara’s life cast been exhibited and thus how has the representation of Māori culture changed over a period of almost thirty years? Finally, which co-operative strategies, if any, are employed at the Akaroa Museum to embrace Māori customs and traditions with regard to museum objects and specifically taonga?

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To answer these questions, I will first provide a short history of the Akaroa Museum, followed by an analysis of exhibitions that featured the life cast: The French Connection and Horomaka. A ‘thick description’, after Clifford Geertz (1993) and Jana Scholze (2004), is thus created, which will allow analysis of the representation of the life cast, the historical Takatahara and interactions between Māori and settlers. This is aided by a selection of visitor perceptions of the cast, collected at the Horomaka exhibition through qualitative interviews.10

Akaroa Museum: A Short History In December 1964, the museum opened coincidentally with the ‘rediscovery’ of Akaroa’s ‘French connection’. This was reflected in the initial exhibition and the historic ensemble of buildings in which it was located. The museum complex was planned to comprise two elements: first, the historic Langlois-Eteveneaux house (Turner 1977), redesigned in provincial Louis Philippe style. In its redevelopment, its built structure was modified so that visitors could view the two front rooms through a continuous glass pane, which replaced a wall (Hendry 1962). The second museum element, a new building, was connected to the house via a passage and signalled a much wider scope than the French connection alone: while the period rooms, furnished with a French-style table, bed and cabinets, predominated, establishing a connection with Akaroa’s early French history, other immigrant groups, such as the German settlers, were represented by handicrafts or curios. Furthermore, pre-European Māori settlement of the peninsula was also a part of the museum display (Chapman 1969: 31). A series of amendments to the museum’s built structure followed between 1978 and 2009, all focused on creating more exhibition space and alleviating storage problems caused by the steady acquisition of new objects. These amendments included the acquisition of the adjacent historic Court House, which was managed as part of the museum from 1976 onward. It is noteworthy that apart from the period room, a surprisingly small number of special and permanent exhibitions have focused exclusively on Akaroa’s French immigration story since the museum’s opening. While some of those exhibitions focused on the lives of early settlers or touched on the topic of French immigration, it was only with the creation of the film 1840 (1990) that the French immigration story gained more attention at the museum. Interaction with Māori was not part of the narration. Instead, the film inflated the influence of French settlers. In contrast to 1840, the 1998 museum film Akaroa the Long Harbour (1998) did not

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focus on the French immigration story. Narrated by then museum director Steve Lowndes, it replaced 1840 and summarized the history of Banks Peninsula, starting with its geological formation and concluding with modern-day Akaroa. Immigration to Banks Peninsula was implicitly presented as a constant factor influencing the natural environment and the indigenous people living in the area. The French Connection exhibition was mounted in 1998 to ‘foster the community’s ongoing connection with France’ (Lowndes 1997: 3). Between 1998 and 2013, this permanent exhibition remained largely unchanged, apart from small additions and object interchanges. It was not a separate exhibition; rather, it was inserted into an assortment of pre-existing displays11 and object arrangements that occupied the space in which the new elements would be exhibited. Any redesign or redevelopment plans were brought to a halt by the 2011 earthquake, which prompted the Christchurch City Council to assess buildings within the region for their structural soundness. The Akaroa Museum, although it had suffered only minor damage, proved not to be in compliance with the new earthquake-proof requirements. This resulted in a complete closure of the museum in June 2012 and the dismantling of all exhibitions, with the building being reconstructed to comply with the new guidelines. Although work had not fully finished in mid-2013, the museum partially reopened in July 2013. Initially, the complete closure was viewed as a setback; however, in time, it came to be appreciated as an opportunity to fully redesign all exhibitions, rather than just reassembling the old ones (Wallace 2013). Horomaka was the first exhibition after reopening and marked the beginning of a new era for the museum.

The French Connection In 2010, the permanent exhibition space comprised sections on Akaroa’s geological history, Māori presettlement, whaling, the Treaty of Waitangi, the French connection and the French contribution to botany at Akaroa, as well as a collection of community trophies. Half of the room was arranged as a theatre with chairs and audiovisual equipment to screen the film Akaroa the Long Harbour, which served as an introduction to the history presented in the museum. Māori presettlement of Banks Peninsula was represented by segments employing an ethnographical mode of display. These were comprised of a diorama of a coastal landscape including objects of Māori provenance, a model of the Māori pā on Ōnawe Peninsula, the life cast of Takatahara,

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which was placed in the entrance area in front of the model, a number of photographs of revered Ngāi Tahu ancestors and finally display cases featuring Māori dress.12 The early European settlement was represented by whaling equipment, a scale diorama of a scene depicting the construction of a blockhouse and a display case with European objects inspired by Māori designs. Interpretative texts for the sections on French Akaroa were surprisingly sparse. The succession of display cases were not organized chronologically and there was no coherent thematic pattern. The section consisted of four display cases containing porcelain vessels and souvenirs, dolls of different kinds in the possession of the settlers, various objects affiliated with Akaroa families, the journey to and life in early Akaroa, and nautical instruments, as well as model ships.

Encounters with the ‘Other’: The Life Cast of Takatahara, the Coastal Diorama and the Model of Ōnawe Visitors were welcomed into the section on Māori presettlement by the life cast of Takatahara (see Figure 5.1), with interpretative text describing him as a ‘renowned fighting chief ’. Furthermore, the text connected the cast with the history of nineteenth-century science, Dumont D’Urville’s voyage and the life casts made by Pierre Marie Dumoutier. Accordingly, the life cast connoted intimate contact between French explorers and Māori, but was also related to the short-lived celebrity of phrenology. In the exhibition, the cast’s function was to honour Takatahara, but it also suggested amicable relations between the two peoples. Pre-existing knowledge determined what visitors perceived upon encountering the life cast, as with other historical objects. If the difficult history is disregarded,

Figure 5.1. Life cast of Chief Takatahara. Permanent exhibition. Akaroa Museum 2010. Photo: Christopher Sommer by permission Akaroa Museum.

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as it was in this case, what remains is an aesthetically pleasing object, imbued with gravitas. A case located adjacent to the life cast contained assorted objects, including walking sticks with Māori-inspired carved details, pipe holders featuring Māori designs, a tea cosy made of New Zealand flax and tobacco boxes with designs influenced by New Zealand’s flora and fauna. Interpretative text contextualized the assortment of objects for visitors and connected it to the cast: ‘These items, chosen from the Museum’s collections, illustrate the use of Māori artifacts, imagery and language in conjunction with European objects. The most intriguing example of this juxtaposition is the life cast of Takatahara made by Demoutier [sic] in 1840.’ While all the objects are from different periods and differ in provenance, the focus was exclusively on the possibility of one-way cultural exchange: Europeans using or even appropriating Māori designs, as opposed to Māori being influenced by European fashions. The landscape of New Zealand and the life of Māori before the arrival of Europeans was represented by a diorama, featuring a naturalistic painted backdrop of a coastal landscape, with a life-sized male Māori mannequin positioned among original Māori artefacts (see Figure 5.2). The

Figure 5.2. Diorama of a coastal scene featuring a mannequin depicting tangata whenua. Permanent exhibition. Akaroa Museum 2010. Photo: Christopher Sommer by permission Akaroa Museum.

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mannequin’s body language, facial expression and dynamic positioning were realistic. However, it still evoked an uncanny feeling as a fabricated reproduction of a human being, which became especially apparent when the ‘skin’ was inspected more closely, revealing its artificiality. The figure was situated amongst tools ostensibly being used to clean a fish and looked up to meet the gaze of the visitor, as if interrupted at the task. This pose suggested an ‘awareness’ of being examined. Being physically separated by glass and exposed to the gaze of visitors gave the impression of ‘racial performance’, as in the entertainment industry of nineteenth-century Europe.13 Given that dioramas are a common way of representing animals in natural history collections, this could even have suggested a zoo environment, with the representation of a Māori restrained behind a barrier and expected to perform his daily deeds for the pleasure of the curious onlooker. Sandra Dudley’s concept of ‘gaze’ can be usefully employed to describe the power relations that can be communicated by such a display. For Dudley (2015: 44), ‘gaze’ signifies a psychological relationship of power in which the gazer is superior to the object of the ‘gaze’. The museum object is apparently rendered effectively weaker than the incomer from the distant world outside. In this the museum encounter is analogous to the colonial encounter, at least as far as it initially appeared to colonials traveling from metropole to periphery: the traveler from afar (the museum visitor) comes to a wondrous place full of strange and amazing objects, where things are done very differently and all is unfamiliar; yet, although she is a visitor, out of her comfort zone and far from home, it is still her way of seeing that apparently comes to dominate the engagements between herself and the dwellers (the objects) in this foreign land (the museum). (Dudley 2015: 44)

However, as Dudley points out, colonial encounters were never unidirectional and were characterized by ambivalence and shifting power relations (Dudley 2015: 46). We thus have to take the agency of the object into account, which leads to other, less negative connotations: the Māori mannequin’s awareness of being looked at could have been seen as an ironic statement that took into account changed perceptions of traditional modes of display and new museological trends, thereby criticizing the absurd idea of exhibiting people in the same fashion as artefacts. In addition, since the Māori presettlement section focused on interaction between Māori and Europeans, the encounter could have been interpreted as signalling the exhibition’s layout: visitors ‘meeting’ not only the mannequin, but also Takatahara’s life cast as the first objects on their circuit through the exhibition, emphasizing this moment of initial contact. Dioramas may be a discredited form of display, but this diorama communicated from

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the outset that immigration invariably implied contact with indigenous people: visitors looked at the Māori mannequin with curiosity, just as he looked back at them. The display thus embodies, perhaps unintentionally, the multidirectional nature of colonial encounters using a simple scenographic strategy: the returned ‘gaze’, which questions power relations and traditional modes of display. It can also be read as showcasing the relational nature of the ‘other’. Visitors might be prompted to imagine themselves in the position of Māori encountering Europeans for the first time, allowing for multiple perspectives. The model of Ōnawe Peninsula, a volcanic plug inside Akaroa Harbour, contained, not unlike the diorama, an assortment of Māori artefacts, adzes and pendants (hei tiki) found at the site, with accompanying labels offering brief information on provenance and object type. Additional information was provided on the geology of the peninsula, its mythological importance and the pā (fortified structure) constructed there. Again, the pā illustrated interaction with Europeans, as (according to interpretative text) the introduction of musket warfare influenced the design of the pā, which was specifically built in response to the threat of Te Rauparaha’s raids into the South from the North Island, facilitated by his acquisition of European weaponry. The Ōnawe Peninsula display thus hinted at the effects of European immigration on intertribal warfare and its escalation in the early years of settlement, as well as the national migration of Māori tribes resulting from these clashes. The often asymmetric conflicts between tribes had devastating effects and, in the case of Ōnawe, led to the outright massacre of the unsuccessful pā defenders. However, the text on the pā did not use the word ‘massacre’, nor did it focus on the fate of the defenders. Rather, it provided the political prelude to and the aftermath of the sacking in 1832 and a detailed discussion of how it was accomplished, with less of a focus on the subsequent violence. Interaction between Māori and Europeans was thus presented as having negative effects, in addition to any positive effects represented by peaceful initial encounters or Takatahara’s curiosity-driven interaction with French explorers. The Treaty of Waitangi was presented as a stabilizing element in this narrative, assuring ‘lawful authority’ for both tangata whenua and tangata tiriti.

Horomaka: A Cross-cultural History of Banks Peninsula The exhibition Horomaka, the indigenous name for Banks Peninsula used by the Ngāi Tahu tribe, was curated by collection manager Daniel Smith, who was appointed in 2010. The design process was heavily influenced

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by iwi politics and community and council agendas, as well as prior exhibitions and existing collections. To satisfy expectations, it was imperative to include the life cast of Takatahara and historical photographs of important Ngāi Tahu personalities, both of which had featured in The French Connection since its inception. During the dismantling of exhibitions, museum staff invited Ngāi Tahu representatives to perform the rituals necessary to move taonga according to their customs (Smith 2013). Those consulted established that Takatahara would not wish to be moved into storage and that he would want to have an unobstructed view of the street, to see life passing by. The museum honoured this preference and left the cast in its original position. Later, when the doors to the old exhibition galleries had to be blocked because of safety requirements, it was moved, again after consulting Ngāi Tahu representatives, to the entrance area of the museum. Strengthening the relationship with local Māori and honouring their traditions, values and belief systems are a significant part of the museum’s mission, as stated in its vision statement. Although Smith had been working with local Māori since his appointment, Horomaka was the first exhibition in which iwi politics had such a strong influence on the inclusion and positioning of objects and their presentation. Lynda Wallace (2013) emphasizes the importance of good working relationships with the tribal council and views their investment in Takatahara positively. For Wallace, opening the museum up for such rituals and interactions is intrinsic to the museum’s responsibility to be a place for both tangata whenua and tangata tiriti. According to Smith (2013), the mission statement of Horomaka was threefold: to include Māori and tangata tiriti perspectives in the narration; to represent the changes caused by the immigration of Europeans to New Zealand; and finally to illustrate the effect of immigration on personal biographies, as well as object biographies. Neither Smith nor Wallace wanted to reproduce the past display’s disproportionate focus on Akaroa’s French history or its ethnographic approach to Ngāi Tahu; they hoped to strike a balance between the French and other histories. The design was markedly different to The French Connection. Within the room’s stark white walls, a selection of objects, each focusing on an aspect of the history of Banks Peninsula, was presented. Material culture was displayed in cases, while framed photographs and paintings were hung on the walls. Each was accompanied by a text label or wall panel detailing its significance or connection to Akaroa’s history. No orders of succession or directions were provided. However, a small, easily accessible booklet in a wall-mounted brochure rack offered some curatorial notes. The centre of the room was free of exhibits and there were no

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subdivisions. The life cast of Takatahara formed the visual centrepiece. Resting on a plinth in front of a slightly raised, blue segment of the back wall featuring the exhibition title, it at once separated and connected the left and right sides of the room. The plaster cast was the only object elevated on a plinth and not enclosed in a display case (see Figure 5.3). A treasured greenstone (pounamu) and fresh leaves were arranged ceremonially in front of the cast. These design choices confirm that the plaster cast was a central key in the exhibition narration and that it was displayed according to Māori protocol.14 On the left side, in an anti-clockwise direction, five photographs of Ngāi Tahu ancestors were followed by various Māori artefacts in display cases: a rain cape, a fish hookshaped breast pendant, and a woven tea cosy and basket made from New Zealand flax. On the right side, in a clockwise direction, the artist Will Watkins’s landscape painting of the Akaroa Harbour was accompanied by a medicine case and medals attributed to the Watkins family in the corner. These were followed by two pendants in a display case with two photograms of these objects hung above the case. Next were artefacts related to the local artist John Henry Menzies: a photograph of the central hall of Rehutai house, which Menzies designed and decorated, a book of original drawings of Māori patterns and a canteen of cutlery. Horomaka focused on both amicable cross-cultural exchange between settlers and Māori and the conflict and detrimental effects experienced by Ngāi Tahu as a result of immigration. In this respect, it was similar to old permanent displays. As in the preceding exhibition, the life cast of Takatahara represented early European journeys of exploration, but also racial theories of the time. An interpretative text provided a selective account of his life and achievements, as well as the circumstances in which the life cast was created. Seven framed photographs, both full-length and portrait, of Ngāi Tahu ancestors were connected by an interpretative text about the effects of introducing European weaponry to Māori culture and the destructive consequences of intertribal warfare and Europeans siding with one war party over another. Two figurative Māori pendants found at Ōnawe established a connection with the massacre via interpretative text. They, in effect, stood in for the model of Ōnawe in the earlier display. Thematically, Māori are cast by interpretative text as witnesses to a world that was changing as a result of the gradual introduction of muskets by Europeans, which led to increased tensions and fostered military campaigns between Māori tribes, especially Ngāti Toa, who invaded the South Island at the time. The asymmetric nature of warfare between Ngāi Tahu and Ngāti Toa, initially a much stronger opponent, is highlighted.

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Ngāi Tahu are represented as the subjects of several attacks, which are characterized by the slaughtering of people who were inferior in terms of weapons and numbers. Mention is made of two events that support a sympathetic view of the struggle as a fight between the underdog and a ruthless attacker. First, the Elizabeth ship incident connects the intertribal conflict with European intervention, exemplifying the often controversial role played by the settlers. Captain John Stewart of the Elizabeth collaborated with Ngāti Toa by transporting warriors to Akaroa, where they slaughtered resident Ngāi Tahu, destroyed their settlement and took prisoners, including the local chief and his daughter, while using the ship as a base for the attack.15 Secondly, the depiction of the Ōnawe massacre being followed by ‘ritual cannibalism’ (according to the interpretative text) may evoke a strong emotional response in the viewer. The insertion of this gruesome detail, as opposed to the factual account of the prelude and aftermath of the taking of the pā in the earlier display, may prompt disapproval, disgust and contempt for the invader and sympathy for the slaughtered defenders. However, ritualistic cannibalism was common in this period. Thus, it can be assumed that Ngāi Tahu would have acted similarly if the roles had been reversed. In addition, the initial years of this conflict favoured Ngāti Toa; however, Ngāi Tahu repelled their

Figure 5.3. Life cast of Chief Takatahara. Horomaka. Akaroa Museum 2013. Photo: Christopher Sommer by permission Akaroa Museum.

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opponents and launched counterattacks. The interpretative text thus tells only a selective story and may lead to bias in visitors. Takatahara played an important role in these events. This was outlined in the interpretative text: TANGATAHARA (1772–1847) The plaster life cast of Tangatahara, a Horomaka rangitira (chief ), was moulded by the French phrenologist Pierre-Alexandre Dumoutier (1797–1871) in 1840. Tangatahara was born near Onawe, Akaroa Harbour in 1772, a younger son of a high status family of the Ngai Tahu tribe. During his lifetime he was able to witness the gradual changes brought to Māori society by contact with the outside world, particularly the escalation of traditional Māori warfare through the introduction of the musket. Tangatahara was deeply involved in the rebuffing of the attacks on Ngai Tahu rohi (territory) led by the Ngai Toa chief Te Rauparaha. He killed Rauparaha’s lieutenant Te Pehi in 1829, organised the ill-fated defence of the Onawe pa in 1832, and led the canoe from Akaroa in the Ngai Tahu reprisal during the 1832–3 fighting season. In 1840 Tangatahara was in Otago and Dumoutier moulded his head on board the French ship Astrolabe captained by Dumont d’Urville. Dumoutier moulded the heads of many indigenous people on his journey on the Astrolabe. The resulting busts were displayed in France on their return. In 1991 this copy was gifted by the French Prime Minister Michel Rocard to Akaroa. The most astonishing thing about the cast is that someone with Tangataharas mana (prestige) would allow his head, the most tapu (sacred) part his body, to be handled by Dumoutier. Whether it was Tangatahara’s intention or not, in an era before photography, this likeness ensured a measure of immortality that few of his contemporaries share. To his many descendants he remains a powerful presence.

The alleged ambivalence of Takatahara, who could be described, on the one hand, as a warlord and a murderer,16 or, on the other hand, for his role in pacifying the region, as a beneficiary of European settlement of Banks Peninsula, is not discussed in the interpretative text. The text aims at objectivity and does not use emotive, judgemental words, but nevertheless falls short of a multiperspective narration. Whether the life cast truly depicts Chief Takatahara is not a point of discussion; instead, the cast is clearly identified as Takatahara of Akaroa Harbour.17 Surprisingly, visitors in the sample focused on the cast’s aesthetic qualities, paying less attention to the associated history. For a visitor from France, Takatahara ‘looked’ like a chief, an impression of high status possibly enhanced by the exhibition design: ‘Artistically speaking very impressive, yes, also you are looking at the features of a chief, you know

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it is a chief. He gives a very charismatic impression. I said to my sons, look at it, it is a museum piece, a piece of art’ (Visitor 3, 2013). Another perceived him as a documentary record of the past appearance of tangata whenua and imagined how he would have looked in life: ‘What a handsome man he must have been… He looks lovely’ (Visitor 2, 2013). The same visitor perceived him as an example of a ‘real’ Māori. For her, modern Māori are of mixed race through intermarriage with immigrants. Authenticity of tangata whenua is thus dependent on how much their phenotype diverges from the ‘original’, the authentic ‘real’ one, ostensibly represented by Takatahara’s life cast. In this way, its function is surprisingly similar to its original pre-museum European purpose: to showcase difference, only here the life cast is compared to modern-day tangata whenua, in contrast to the original intention to compare it to European types. The successive influxes of European immigrants led, in this visitor’s mind, to a ‘watering down’ of the ‘real’ Māori, as represented by the cast. Finally, the closed eyes, necessitated by the casting process, may be associated with sleep, a state of daydreaming, contemplation or death. Ross Calman (2011: 113) points out that the closed eyes could also be interpreted as a sign of vulnerability, something a Māori chief would have avoided. One visitor was reminded of death masks, which were common in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in the West (see Rankin 2011: 93); this association resulted in an uncanny feeling of looking at the face of a deceased person, his final expression immortalized in plaster (Visitor 5, 2013). The curator attempted, not always successfully, to overwrite old notions of racial superiority and racial stereotyping connoted by the cast. However, these can never be totally erased and are but one of the object’s many layers of meaning. The more prominent layer, fostered by the design choices and interpretation, as perceived by visitors, is that of veneration and acknowledgement of Māori as the first immigrants to New Zealand. In addition, visitors left with strong impressions of intertribal warfare and the detrimental effects of European immigration and involvement in Māori politics. The repatriation of the cast and its status among Māori are implied both through interpretative text, its central positioning and its presentation according to Māori customs. That said, only his high status and historical importance were alluded to in visitor responses. More complex contextual information was only accessible to tangata tiriti visitors with pre-knowledge.

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A Gaze Reflected Even though the Akaroa Museum is a comparatively small museum and has existed for several decades as a semi-professional institution, significant changes in the representation of Māori presettlement have taken place over the past forty years. These have partly been prompted by the repatriation and presentation of Takatahara’s life cast, which became one of the central objects on display, symbolizing interaction between tangata whenua and tangata tiriti. Another factor was the appointment of a new director and full-time curator, which facilitated a shift from a focus on Akaroa’s French heritage to a more balanced depiction embracing Māori history and co-operation with local iwi. In the first two of those four decades, there was a focus on social history, with no specific attention paid to tangata whenua. Exhibits on New Zealand’s indigenous population followed an ethnographical mode of display rooted in the past, eschewing a contemporary framework for tangata whenua. While displays in the Langlois-Eteveneaux cottage were intended to illustrate the life circumstances of the early settlers, the disregard for the social context of the early settlers and interactions with Māori, combined with a desire to portray them positively, resulted in the presentation of an imagined past, informed by the ideas and desires of contemporaries, rather than a coherent reconstruction. An overarching theme of ‘French refinement’ inappropriately influenced later exhibitions in the new sections of the museum added in 1978. The French Connection was less a coherent interpretative exhibit than a display superimposed onto a pre-existing overview of Māori presettlement and Banks Peninsula geological history, again following an ethnographical mode of display. Taken alone, The French Connection exhibition surprisingly reverted back to the earlier paradigm of exclusively representing ‘French refinement’. In combination with the displays on Māori presettlement and Akaroa the Long Harbour, the narration was, however, more balanced and less biased. Sections focusing on Māori presettlement introduced peaceful initial contact and cultural exchange between early settlers and tangata whenua, represented by Takatahara’s life cast. Furthermore, they commented on the effects European immigration had on New Zealand as a whole, as well as Banks Peninsula more specifically. These effects were represented as mostly negative, disruptive and in some cases devastating for Ngāi Tahu: the introduction of advanced weaponry, the escalation of intertribal warfare and violent conflicts between European settlers and tangata whenua. While still clinging to the old idea of ‘French refinement’, a more nuanced picture of the

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past was presented. It is noteworthy that both the life cast and the Māori mannequin on display subverted common narratives of colonialism and introduced, perhaps by accident or subconsciously, the ‘colonial gaze’ turned back on the visitor in his or her interactions with both sculptural representations of tangata whenua. Lynda Wallace’s appointment contributed to this move away from a unidirectional gaze on tangata whenua, towards opening up a multidirectional and multiperspective approach to colonialism and its effects on Māori. Slowly, existing displays were transformed into a more inclusive and balanced narration. Acknowledgment of other ethnicities that contributed to Akaroa’s development led to a multicultural narration. However, at first, this did not include tangata whenua, which still constituted a separate entity from tangata tiriti. With Horomaka and the appointment of a full-time curator, the paradigm shift was fully realized, with local iwi and their co-ownership of taonga being acknowledged. The paradigms of the past still have an effect on the new displays. However, a new emphasis has been superimposed, albeit not always successfully, on multiple perspectives and a multicultural paradigm that encompasses tangata whenua. Not unlike older exhibitions, Horomaka illustrates the impact immigration had on tangata whenua; however, it intertwines their fate with tangata tiriti to present a bicultural interpretation of New Zealand history. This is achieved by presenting objects and biographies as interconnected and the period of early settlement as a period of cultural interchange in both directions. The negative, often devastating impact of immigration on tangata whenua is once again a strong aspect of the narrative. It may seem odd to propose asking a contentious object how it would like to be displayed, yet this very possibility exists and was employed at the Akaroa Museum. Regardless of one’s own convictions, the example of Akaroa shows that such a gesture can be mutually beneficial. The museum has created strong bonds with the local iwi groups and has indicated that it is a place for Māori to celebrate and cherish their culture. Local iwi can influence the way their taonga are presented, in contrast to normal display strategies in the 1990s that focused on New Zealand’s Pakeha settler history, with Māori cast as a marginalized or absent group (see Bell 1996: 79). The Akaroa Museum illustrates the value of acknowledging other world views in the context of contested and repatriated objects and suggests that contemporary exhibitions need to overcome traditional ethnographical modes of display perpetuating the colonial gaze.

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Christopher Sommer is a research associate at the Institute of Material Culture at the Carl von Ossietzky University Oldenburg, Germany. His research interests are the representation of immigration in museums, currently with a focus on the New Zealand context, and the transnational representation of military history in museums. From 2018 to 2020, he co-ordinated the digitization project Qualität Plus – Digital Literacy am Standort Materielle Kultur, funded by the Ministry for Science and Culture of Lower Saxony. His current research project, Taming War – The Representation and Perception of War in Military History Museums, funded by the German Research Foundation, explores visitor perceptions of war and violence in Germany, England and New Zealand.

Notes  1. The original fifty-seven settlers (twelve of German descent) arrived at Akaroa Harbour on board the French vessel Comte de Paris in August 1840. They had been recruited by the Nanto-Bordelaise Company in Le Havre and Rochefort in France. The French were nearly all poor peasants, carpenters, gardeners, stonemasons or labourers (Tremewan 2010: 61), while the Germans were tradespeople from south-western Germany (Bade 1998: 114–16). Some of the German settlers separated themselves after their arrival at Akaroa and founded German Town in the neighbouring bay of Takamatua or ‘German Bay’ (Bade 1998: 114ff.).  2. Initially, the British and French were outnumbered by local Māori, who were in turn outnumbered by new immigrants (predominantly of British descent) when the settlements of Christchurch and Lyttelton were established in 1849 (Tremewan 2010: 181). Peter Tremewan (2010) provides an excellent account of the early years of the settlement and an in-depth analysis of the settlement’s social and economic arrangements.  3. Historian Joanna Fountain (2002) argues that a ‘tourist gaze’ has been constructed retrospectively to focus predominantly on Akaroa’s ‘French connection’. In the 1960s, the small township realized the promotional potential of Akaroa’s ‘French connection’, which usefully and attractively distinguished Akaroa from other seaside New Zealand towns. English street names were replaced with French names (Akaroa Mail, 12 July 1960: 1) and guidebooks subsequently emphasized Akaroa’s French origins and attempted to focus the ‘gaze’ of visitors on this particular aspect of the township’s history.  4. Despite the still-prevalent promotion of Akaroa as the ‘French Town’ (see Christchurch and Canterbury Tourism 2013: 11), it is clear that Lynda Wallace (2013), the current director, is interested in achieving a more balanced representation of the township’s history: she perceived the old display

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 5.  6.

 7.

 8.  9.

10.

11.

as perpetuating the idea of a French Akaroa, which did not represent the community outside the museum’s door. Different spellings of his name exist. In this chapter, I follow the southern dialect spelling ‘Takatahara’ rather than ‘Tangatahara’. The Māori Dictionary Te Aka (2018) defines tapu as a supernatural condition. A person, place or thing is dedicated to an atua, a supernatural being, deity or an ancestor with continuing influence, and is thus removed from the sphere of the profane and put into the sphere of the sacred. It is untouchable, no longer suitable for common use. According to curator Dan Smith (2013), a comparison with the other existing casts reveals that the Moko (tangata whenua tattooing designs on the face or body) is not as pronounced, which could indicate that the cast was made on the basis of an already existing copy, not the original cast, which would thus make it a derivative plaster cast. According to the Māori Dictionary Te Aka (2018), taonga can be understood as a treasure or anything prized. It can also be applied to anything considered to be of value. The Māori Dictionary Te Aka (2018) translates mana as prestige, authority, control, power, influence, status, spiritual power and charisma. However, its meaning is not congruent with Western concepts of those terms. It is a supernatural force in a person, place or object. Mana and tapu are inextricably intertwined, the one having an effect on the other. The more prestigious an event, a person or an object is, the more it is surrounded by tapu and mana. ‘Mana is the enduring, indestructible power of the atua and is inherited at birth, the more senior the descent, the greater the mana. The authority of mana and tapu is inherited and delegated through the senior line from the atua as their human agent to act on revealed will.’ The atua delegates authority as a spiritual gift; man can never be the source of mana, only its agent. The elders confirm this choice of the atua through consecratory rites. The authority to lead communal activities and to make decisions affecting a society is granted through mana. It can increase through success or decrease through failure. The chief of a tribe empowered by his/ her people, who give him/her mana, spreads in turn his/her mana to his/ her people, including land, water and resources. In our case, it is important to note that animate and inanimate objects can have mana, too, which they derive from the atua because they are associated with people imbued with mana or because they are used during significant events. The design of the qualitative study relied on purposeful sampling (N=13), which attempts to select information-rich cases for in-depth study. As Michael Patton (2002: 230) cogently puts it: ‘Studying information-rich cases yields insights and in-depth understanding rather than empirical generalizations.’ The botany section was transferred from the displays in the Court House in 1981 (Holderness 1981), while the Māori section featuring a diorama with a Māori mannequin was acquired in 1994 (Akaroa Museum Board 1994)

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and the life cast of Tangatahara was acquired in 1991 as a gift from the French prime minister (Stott 1991). The model of Ōnawe Peninsula and pā was created in and displayed from 1997 (Akaroa Mail, 4 April 1997: 9). The exhibition analysis focuses on the section ‘Māori presettlement’. See Sommer (2016) for a more comprehensive treatment of the other sections, which cannot be addressed here. A prominent case of exhibiting humans in a depreciatory manner is that of Khoikhoi (the native people of Southern Africa) Sarah Baartman (see Rankin 2011 and chapters 8 and 9 in this volume). Sold into slavery at an early age, she was displayed in Europe as the ‘Hottentot Venus’. Her ‘exotic’ appearance piqued the interest of contemporaries and was the reason for her exploitation. According to Conal McCarthy (2007: 37ff.), Māori had more agency when they were part of a ‘living exhibit’. As voluntary participants, they did not conform to racial stereotypes and did not necessarily feel subservient in such a role. This illustrates the complexity of colonial encounters. The leaves signify that the object has the status of a living thing (see Mead 2003), as does the fact that some visitors converse with or hongi (the traditional greeting of tangata whenua, which consists of pressing the noses together) Takatahara (Wallace 2013). See Taylor (1950/2001) for the Ngāi Tahu, Travers and Stack (1906) for the Ngāti Toa and Reed (1948) for the whaler’s version of this story. Allegedly, Te Pēhi Kupe was consumed by his murderers and his bones used to carve fishhooks. This detail is missing, but would showcase similar practices on both sides. This is also true of the new permanent exhibition that followed Horomaka.

References Archival Documents, Akaroa Museum Archive Akaroa Museum. 2013. ‘1991.646.1’. Akaroa Museum Collection Database. Whakaahua. Akaroa Museum. Akaroa Museum Board. 1994. ‘Minutes of the Akaroa Museum Board Meeting held at the Akaroa Museum on Monday, 19 September, 1994 commencing at 1.30pm’. Akaroa Museum. Hendry, J.A. 1962. [Letter to Lucien Felix]. ‘Re the Langlois-Eteveneaux House Akaroa’. 7 September. Holderness, L. 1981. ‘Langlois-Eteveneaux House and Museum, Akaroa. 16.6.81’. [Lowndes, S.]. 1997. ‘Initial brief museum development January 1995. Amended July 1997’. Stott, J.W. 1991. ‘Notice of a meeting of the Akaroa Museum board to be held at the Akaroa Museum on Monday, 11th November, 1991 commencing at 1:30pm’.

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Audiovisual Sources 1840 (1990) [VHS]. Produced by S. Lowndes. New Zealand: Akaroa Museum. Akaroa the Long Harbour. A Twenty-Two Minute Video about the Geological, Natural and Social History of Akaroa and Banks Peninsula (1998) [DVD]. Produced by B. Parker. New Zealand: Akaroa Museum.

Interviews and Correspondence Smith, D. 2013. Curator History, Akaroa Museum. Interviewed by Christopher Sommer, 23 August.  . 2016. Email to Christopher Sommer, 7 October. Visitor 2; Visitor 3; Visitor 5. 2013. Akaroa Museum. Horomaka. Interviewed by Christopher Sommer, 23 August. Wallace, L. 2013. Director, Akaroa Museum. Interviewed by Christopher Sommer, 22 August.

Exhibitions The French Connection. Akaroa Museum. 71 Rue Lavaud, Akaroa 7542, Banks Peninsula, New Zealand. Date of visit: 16 September 2010. Horomaka. Akaroa Museum. 71 Rue Lavaud, Akaroa 7542, Banks Peninsula, New Zealand. Date of visit: 19–23 August 2013.

Published Sources Bade, J.N. 1998. ‘Deutsche Siedlungen in Canterbury und Westland’, in J.N. Bade (ed.), Eine Welt für sich: Deutschsprachige Siedler und Reisende in Neuseeland im 19. Jahrhundert. Bremen: Edition Temmen, pp. 114–22. Bell, C. 1996. Inventing New Zealand: Everyday Myths of Pakeha Identity. Auckland: Penguin Books. Calman, R. 2011. ‘He āhua tīpuna: Faces of the Ancestors’, in E. Rankin and K. Baker (eds), Fiona Pardington: The Pressure of Sunlight Falling. Otago: Otago University Press, pp. 113–32. Chapman, C. 1969. A Survey of the Akaroa Museum. Akaroa. Christchurch and Canterbury Tourism. 2013. Akaroa and Banks Peninsula: Official Visitor Guide 2013/2014 [Brochure]. Christchurch: Christchurch and Canterbury Tourism. Dudley, S.H. 2015. ‘What, or Where, is the (Museum) Object? Colonial Encounters in Displayed Worlds of Things’, in A. Witcomb and K. Message (eds), The International Handbooks of Museum Studies: Museum Theory. New York: John Wiley & Sons, pp. 41–62. Fountain, J.M. 2002. ‘Behind the Brochures: the (Re)construction of Touristic Place Images in Akaroa, New Zealand’, PhD dissertation. Perth, Australia: University of Murdoch. Geertz, C. 1993. Dichte Beschreibung. Beiträge zum Verstehen kultureller Systeme. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp.

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‘Mana’, ‘Tapu’, ‘Taonga’. 2018. Māori Dictionary. Te Aka. Retrieved 11 June 2018 from http://www.maoridictionary.co.nz. McCarthy, C. 2007. Exhibiting Māori: A History of Colonial Cultures of Display. Wellington: Te Papa Press. Mead, H.M. 2003. Tikanga Māori: Living by Māori Values. Wellington: Huia. Minson, M. 1998. ‘Tendenzen in der Immigration Deutscher nach Neuseeland’, in J.N. Bade (ed.), Eine Welt für sich: Deutschsprachige Siedler und Reisende in Neuseeland im 19. Jahrhundert. Bremen: Edition Temmen, pp. 54–59. Patton, M.Q. 2002. Qualitative Research and Evaluation Methods. London: Sage Publications. Rankin, E. 2011. ‘Facing Difference. Casts as Documents and Display’, in E. Rankin and K. Baker (eds), Fiona Pardington: The Pressure of Sunlight Falling. Otago: Otago University Press, pp. 93–101. Reed, A.H. 1948. The Story of New Zealand. Wellington: Reed. Rochette, M. 2003. ‘Dumont d’Urville’s Phrenologist: Dumoutier and the Aesthetics of Races’, The Journal of Pacific History 38(2): 251–68. Scholze, J. 2004. Medium Ausstellung: Lektüren Musealer Gestaltung in Oxford, Leipzig, Amsterdam und Berlin. Bielefeld: Transcript. Sommer, C. 2016. ‘The Representation of Immigration in a Museum Context in New Zealand’, PhD dissertation. Auckland: University of Auckland. Taylor, W.A. 2001. Lore and History of the South Island Māori. Facsim. ed. Christchurch: Kiwi Publishers. Travers, W.T.L., and J.W. Stack. 1971. The Stirring Times of Te Rauparaha (Chief of the Ngatitoa) Also the Sacking of Kaiapohia. Auckland: Wilson & Horton. Tremewan, P. 2010. French Akaroa. An Attempt to Colonise Southern New Zealand. Christchurch: Canterbury University Press. Turner, G. 1977. Akaroa. Banks Peninsula. Dunedin: McIndoe.

Chapter 6

Ancestors or Artefacts Contention in the Definition, Retention and Return of Ngarrindjeri Old People Cressida Fforde, Major Sumner, Loretta Sumner, Tristram Besterman and Steve Hemming

In October 2016, there was a handover ceremony at Australia House in London. The event marked the official transfer by four British institutions of the mortal remains of thirteen Aboriginal people back to Indigenous custodianship. Major and Loretta Sumner, cultural elders of the Ngarrindjeri Nation of South Australia, performed the ceremony (see Figure 6.1). One of the thirteen individuals was Ngarrindjeri. It is the history of how this Old Person came to be in a collection and the protracted processes surrounding the Old Person’s return that are the subject of this chapter. The case reveals some important issues that arise when certain types of Ancestral Remains are categorized as artefacts by museums even though they are not perceived as such by their originating communities. Such divergence has resulted in the retention of these types of modified human remains, while unmodified remains in the same museums have been repatriated. This chapter is concerned specifically with what Western museums identified as a rare type of Ancestral Remain, almost all of whom originated in Ngarrindjeri Country (Yarluwar-Ruwe), and in particular the individual who was transferred back into the care of Ngarrindjeri at the 2016 handover. Often fitted with a rope handle and containing grass, this type of remain came to be known in the Western world as ‘cranial water vessels’ or ‘cranial drinking cups’. Ngarrindjeri refer to all their

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deceased kin, including these remains, as ‘Old People’. Merikin is recorded as the Ngarrindjeri name for these types of Old People in the Ngarrindjeri Dictionary: First Edition (2009: 51). A very small number of remains modified in this way made their way into museum collections. Less than twenty are known to be in museums, compared to the thousands of unmodified Australian Ancestral Remains held in institutions in Australia and overseas. Such rarity speaks to their very special cultural significance, as well as secondary internment practices. Despite requests having been made for others, the Old Person handed back in 2016 is the first to be returned from an overseas museum, which is an indication of their contentious nature. In the United Kingdom, museums known to hold (or have once held) this type of Ancestral Remain include the Pitt Rivers Museum, the Oxford University Museum, the Brighton Museum, Derby Museum and the private collection of Joseph Barnard Davis, which once held five. The Pigorini Museum in Rome holds two, who were acquired by the Italian collector Enrico Giglioli. Aldo Massola, Curator of Anthropology at the National Museum of Victoria, reported in 1961 that only six examples were known to be in Australian collections, all but one being from Ngarrindjeri Country. He also reported that one (from the South Australia/Victoria border) was in the hands of a private individual (Massola 1961: 415). There is much to say about these Old People, about the nature of contention and agency, and also the nature of truth and authenticity, and how all of these factors have played out in the repatriation space. In this chapter, we wish to explore three main points. First, what this case reveals about how hard it has been for museums and related academic disciplines to acknowledge that Ngarrindjeri are experts in their own culture. It has been difficult for institutions to accept that the correct meaning to attribute to these remains is that which was attributed to them by the people who created them, not that which was attributed to them subsequently, and that this meaning is known to Ngarrindjeri people today. Second, how these later meanings are intimately related to the manner in which their retention has been justified. Third, how the extinguishment and replacement of meaning is part of a colonizing, discursive landscape in which accusations of inauthenticity and extinction are familiar to Ngarrindjeri and many other Indigenous peoples (see Healy 1997; Hemming 2000; Bennett 2004; L. Smith 2004; MoretonRobinson 2007; Hemming and Rigney 2010).

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Appropriation of Meaning For Ngarrindjeri, these remains are those of high-status people revered as knowledge holders. Their transformation into vessels took place by means of a ceremony as one mechanism by which this knowledge, still present, could be shared with chosen close relatives. Knowledge suffused the water held in the vessels, which then flowed directly into the drinker. Rather than degrading their status as ‘human’, their transformation into merikin enhanced, honoured and respected their humanity and what they had achieved in life. In contrast, Western observers rarely respected or valued their cultural meaning. Instead, they remarked on their strangeness and the outlandish custom involved in their production, and gave prominence to what they perceived as a utilitarian function. Massola’s 1961 report was published in Mankind. Official Journal of the Anthropological Societies of Australia, under the category ‘Australia: Material Culture’ (1961: 445). The report includes a brief overview of early anthropological interest, identifying G.F. Angas (1847), the Reverend H. Meyer (1846) and E.J. Eyre (1845) as the first to record such remains in the 1840s, followed by J.C. Wood in 1868. Massola refers to the plate in Angas (1847), which is one of very few early illustrations of these remains (see Figure 6.2). These historical descriptions by European artists, missionaries, explorers and antiquarians illustrate the

Figure 6.1. Handover Ceremony, Australia House, October 2016. Photo: Cressida Fforde.

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observers’ incorrect perception that such remains were mere utensils and hence that their use as such by Aboriginal people was a reflection of savagery and a lack of care for the dead. These observations became ‘fact’ in the colonial discourse of both empire and emerging Social Darwinism. Ignorant of their local cultural meaning and unable to grasp without judgement the role of these remains in the world of the living, these accounts often articulated the observers’ shock that people would drink from the skull of their relative. For example, as recorded by Massola (1961: 416), Angas (1847: 136) describes meeting an old man and a girl: ‘The girl carried a human skull in her hand; it was her mother’s skull, and from it she drank her daily draught of water!’ Robert Brough Smyth (1878: liii) reports that he had ‘never seen any of these hideous drinking cups’. Encapsulating many of the themes relating to these remains that are apparent in the writings of early observers, Wood (1868: 86) writes: Among many of the tribes may be seen a strange sort of ornament, or rather utensil; namely, a drinking-cup made of a human skull. It is slung on cords and carried by them, and the owner takes it wherever he or she goes. These ghastly utensils are made from skulls of the nearest and dearest relatives; and when an Australian mother dies, it is thought right that her daughter should form the skull of her mother into a drinking-vessel … inconsistency is ever the attribute of savage minds. Although they consider that to convert the skull of a parent into a drinking-vessel, and to carry it about with them is an important branch of filial duty, they seem to have no very deep feelings on the subject. In fact, a native named Wooloo sold his mother’s skull for a small piece of tobacco. His mind was evidently not comprehensive enough to admit two ideas together, and the objective idea of present tobacco was evidently more powerful than the comparative abstraction of filial reverence. The specimen exhibited in the illustration was drawn by Mr. Angas from one which was carried by a little girl ten years of age. Like ‘Little Nell’, she was in attendance upon an old and infirm grandfather, and devoted her little life to him. In nothing was the difference of human customs shown more plainly than in the use of her mother’s skull as a drinking vessel – an act which we should consider as the acme of heathen brutality, but with these aborigine is held to be a duty owed by the child to the parent.

Massola also provides a general overview of these types of Ancestral Remains in Australian museum collections. Drawing upon Western accounts only, and consistent with Australian settler society of the time, he did not seek information from Indigenous knowledge holders, despite the clear identification of most of these Old People as Ngarrindjeri and the continuing existence of strong Ngarrindjeri communities at, in particular, Point McLeay mission (now Raukkan; see Bell 1998). As a

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Figure 6.2. Angas (1847), Plate 36. The merikin is featured in the foreground.

museum curator and anthropologist, he was an authorized, settler colonial expert on the ‘extinct’ cultures of South Eastern Australia. As he confirms in the introduction of his book, The Aborigines of South-Eastern Australia: As They Were (1971: ix): This book, which I have written to provide basic reference material for use in schools, is an account of the Aborigines of south-eastern Australia as they were. For in contrast to the other regions of Australia where the Aborigines, even if not still living a tribal life, continue to practice certain aspects of their indigenous culture, the Aboriginal cultures of the South-East no longer exist and are almost forgotten.

Although he opens his report with statements about rarity, Massola continues the anthropological and museum narrative that they were everyday utensils, explaining their use as such as being the result of ‘the scarcity of suitable material to make water carrying vessels. In the timbered regions further east, for example, gnarls from trees were used, while further north water containers were cut from suitable trees’ (Massola 1961: 145). He suggests another reason for their production, which shows how connected his explanations are to underlying discourses of Aboriginal deficit and inferior positioning:

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This reason for the use of the skull-cups must perhaps be coupled with the psychological impulse which causes peoples of a certain cultural level to retain the skull of the dead, as the seat of the ego, or personality, of relation, friend, or enemy. This phenomenon has occurred at all times, and in all countries. Ramifications of this custom can be seen in head-hunting and skull-worship. (1961: 415)

The status of these Old People as strange curios is also found in newspaper reports. For example, in March 1950, The Adelaide News ran a short piece by Henry Bennett on ‘Museum Oddities’ that reported on the display in the Australian Museum in Sydney of the plaster cast of a ‘skull cup’ of the ‘Coorong tribe’, the original of which was in Adelaide Museum. Bennett described the custom that transformed the remains as ‘one of the world’s most amazing death ceremonies’ (Bennett 1950: 6). A powerful trope familiar to Ngarrindjeri can be identified in Joseph Barnard Davis’s 1867 catalogue entry for five merikin: the extinction myth. He wrote: They have all been used as vessels to carry water in, prepared for that purpose by the closure of the sutures with fragments of shell of the native oyster, attached by means of the resin of the gum tree (Eucalyptus), and furnished with cords for the convenience of holding … It is related by travellers that the father’s calvarium becomes an heirloom to be utilized by the son. … [they] were presented by Mr. Matthew Moorhouse, Protector of Aborigines, South Australia. The last exhibits almost an entirely European conformation, although Mr. Moorhouse regarded the authenticity of its origin as unquestionable. The great obliquity of the internasal suture confirms this. These cranial drinking vessels are now rare objects, as the tribe which prepared them and used them is extinct, or nearly so. (Davis 1867: 260)

Matthew Moorhouse was Davis’s brother-in-law. In relation to the individual that Davis described as of ‘entirely European confirmation’, the associated entry in his manuscript catalogue (on which the later published version was based) states that ‘Moorhouse assured me he knew the woman and ordered the policeman to procure and send him the skull’ (Davis 1857–1878, vol. 1, no. 340). The acquisition pathway reveals Davis’s use of his family connections and the protector’s use of the police to secure what was desired. For Ngarrindjeri, familiar with police violence and the power of the protector, refusal to hand over their Old People would have been very dangerous. Although other accounts do describe the special nature of these remains and a clear cultural, rather than solely utilitarian, role, their status as ‘the dead’ is not represented. Whether perceived as artefacts of utility or sacredness, descriptions in museum catalogues, newspaper reports

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and anthropological literature emphasize their status as objects rather than Ancestors. All observers note their rarity, but, as shown above, this was not seen as relating to any associated and special cultural meaning. Instead, the issue of scarcity was either ignored or explained by assumed Ngarrindjeri extinction.

Extinction and the Ngarrindjeri Like many First Nations, Ngarrindjeri have had to fight hard to overcome the myth of extinction that has for so long legitimated settler societies such as Australia (see Woods 1879; Jenkin 1979; Langton 1981; Keen 1988; Berndt, Berndt and Stanton 1993; Hemming 2006, 2007; Wolfe 2006; Moreton-Robinson 2007; Hemming and Rigney 2010; Bignall, Hemming and Rigney 2016). As Steve Hemming and Daryle Rigney have written (2008: 762): In the mid-nineteenth century, non-Indigenous scholars such as J.D. Woods were signalling the extinction of the Indigenous people of South Australia’s River Murray region (Woods 1879). One hundred years later, Adelaide University historian Graeme Jenkin (1979: 274) wrote in his book, Conquest of the Ngarrindjeri, that ‘most Ngarrindjeri now live in precisely the same way as many of their fellow Australians and appear to be distinguishable from them only by a distinctive surname, or a slightly darker skin, or possibly not even these’.

By declaring the Ngarrindjeri to be ‘culturally’ extinct, the implication for non-Indigenous politicians, native title lawyers and natural resource managers has been that the Ngarrindjeri have lost any authentic claim to South Australia’s lands, waters and natural resources. Justice in this context is filtered through cultural lenses. These powerful myths of south-eastern Indigenous extinction continue to frame relations between the Ngarrindjeri nation and the state. For First Nations such as the Ngarrindjeri, the pathway to the repatriation of Old People has required a political programme of Indigenous nation (re)building, theorized research and sustained resistance and negotiations with settler authorities to overturn the myths of extinction that have excluded them from making decisions about their own Country and their Old People (see Hemming et al. 2020). Existing populations, significantly affected by the removal policies that created the stolen generation, were not considered ‘real’ Aboriginal people, but remnants whose knowledge was depleted at best. Thus, the extinction myth underpins the associated perception that the validity of cultural

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knowledge put forward by modern Ngarrindjeri is not authentic and even, somehow, tragically fraudulent, particularly if it does not accord with the descriptions found in the records of early non-Indigenous observers. The 1995 Hindmarsh Island Bridge Royal Commission into Ngarrindjeri traditions was the highest-profile example of the settler state’s apparatus of authenticity testing applied to cultural heritage and identity issues (see Bell 1998; Simons 2003; Hemming and Rigney 2010). It seems clear that in 1961 Massola did not consult with Ngarrindjeri people at Raukkan (Point McLeay) about their ‘water vessels’ because of the prevailing notion that there were no ‘real’ Ngarrindjeri people left and that those who claimed Ngarrindjeri identity had lost their traditional knowledge.

Contested Meanings, Contested Ownership These remains were not contentious in their original and correct cultural context. Rather, they have come to be so only because of the refusal of institutions to accede to repatriation claims, even when they agreed to the return of other Ancestral Remains whose form had not been transformed after death. Refusal has been based on the meaning and value ascribed to them as ‘drinking vessels’, a perception that is in turn used to assume rights of possession. Thus, the contention arises because of the imbrication between meaning and ownership. The early decision of the Pitt Rivers Museum to repatriate some Aboriginal Ancestral Remains, but not the ‘drinking vessels’ in its collection, is instructive. As an ethnographic and archaeological museum, with ‘no display or research use for ordinary skeletal material, whatever its origin’ (Jones 1994: 29), in 1990 the Pitt Rivers Museum decided to return all the Aboriginal Ancestral Remains in its collection who had not been altered post-mortem. However, the museum retained the Ngarrindjeri Old People represented as ‘drinking vessels’ because, according to its director, Schuyler Jones (1994: 29), ‘we feel that it is one thing to return specimens of skeletal material that should not have been in the museum in the first place, and quite another to return cultural artefacts – the subject matter of our collections’. In a repatriation context, the Pitt Rivers Museum’s understanding that, as a result of their modification, these remains had stopped being legitimately perceived as Ancestors and had instead entered the realm of cultural artefacts has been a key factor in why museums have decided not to return them. Ngarrindjeri, of course, know these Old People very differently and, during a visit to Oxford in 2008, informed museum curatorial

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staff that the so-called culturally modified objects were Ngarrindjeri Old People and Ngarrindjeri business. It is important to point out that within the history of the repatriation debate, this type of contention is not an isolate. From the time that museums began to accede to repatriation requests, they did so on a ‘sliding scale’. Some only agreed to return named individuals (see also chapter 8 in this volume); others required recipients to be biological descendants; still others only wanted to return remains that were less than one hundred years old. These arguments appear to have had less to do with scientific importance and more to do with how those in decision-making positions perceived the human remains in their care – whether they perceived them primarily as ‘the dead’ (and thus justifiably returnable) or primarily as ‘objects’ (which thus belong in a museum). Some institutions found it particularly difficult to perceive modified Ancestral Remains who continue to have personhood in the culture that created them as returnable. The Ngarrindjeri Old People discussed here are one example. Toi moko (preserved and tattooed Māori heads) and the so-called decorated or divination skulls from the Torres Strait are others. The British Museum has refused to return both these types of remains.

Contested Meanings in Repatriation To illustrate how different meanings and values are integral to notions of ‘ownership’, we now return to the specific example of the Ngarrindjeri Old Person who figured in the 2016 handover. This merikin had been housed in Brighton Museum, within the Royal Pavilion and Museums (RP&M) group, itself under the control of Brighton City Council. The merikin had been donated to Brighton Museum by Frederick William Lucas (1842–1932) on 16 November 1925 as part of a large group of osteological and ethnographical items, most of which had been on loan to the museum since September 1922. It is not yet known how or when Lucas acquired the merikin, although most of his acquisitions date to the mid- to late nineteenth century. In June 2005, the Australian government requested the return of five Indigenous Ancestral Remains held by what was then known as Brighton and Hove Museums: two skulls and two thigh bones in the Natural History collections and the Ngarrindjeri ‘water vessel’ in the World Art collection. At the time, the Ngarrindjeri Heritage Committee (NHC), the Ngarrindjeri Native Title Management Committee (NNTMC) and the Ngarrindjeri Tendi (traditional governance body) led the research

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and negotiation associated with bringing all Old People home to rest in Ngarrindjeri Country. The Ngarrindjeri Lands and Progress Association (NLPA) at Meningie in South Australia provided the resources to support this programme. Hemming and Rigney, based at Flinders University, provided ongoing research support, with Hemming’s experience as a South Australian Museum curator adding detailed collections, historical and archival knowledge to the team. Tom Trevorrow (now deceased), chair of the NHC and the NLPA, led negotiations with the Australian government regarding ongoing repatriation cases and Major Sumner representing the Ngarrindjeri Nation in the majority of repatriation ceremonies internationally. In February 2009, the Culture, Recreation and Tourism Cabinet meeting of Brighton and Hove City Council upheld the museum’s recommendation to retain the ‘water vessel’, but to return the four other Ancestral Remains in the Natural History Collection. These four were collected by representatives of the Ngarrindjeri Nation, Major Sumner and George Trevorrow (then Rupelle or head of the Ngarrindjeri Nation) on Friday, 15 May 2009. In Brighton, they met Tristram Besterman, one of two mediators appointed to assist further discussion about the future of the ‘water vessel’. Mediation led to success for Ngarrindjeri and, during the visit, the cabinet of Brighton and Hove City Council accepted their concerns and reasoning as genuine and valid and agreed to return the ‘water vessel’. The mayor, in particular, was keen not to attract any negative media attention and saw the return as both politically necessary and the right thing to do. Seven years later, this Old Person was eventually transferred to Ngarrindjeri custodianship as part of the handover ceremony at Australia House in October 2016.

Recommendation and Response: Knowledge in Contention On 10 February 2009, the museum recommended retention of the ‘water vessel’ to the Cabinet Member Meeting, Culture, Recreation and Tourism. It did so for the following reasons: • R  P&M has followed the government’s guidance on responding to requests for the return of human remains from museum collections (Department for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport Guidance – DCMS) in arriving at its recommendation. • The water carrier has been identified as the product of a specific community (the Ngarrindjeri) and place (the Coorong Peninsula in South Australia). This clear provenance awards the object significant scientific, educational and historical value.

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• Th  e water carrier is of great importance and rarity; only one example of such a vessel is known of in an Australian museum collection and just a handful of examples exist in European collections. • The water carrier is made from modified human remains (worked on and with the addition of gum, shell and a carrying handle). • Water carriers were made from the skulls of deceased people once the appropriate funerary rites had been completed. They were used by friends and relatives of the deceased. We have found no evidence to suggest such vessels were intended for burial. • The piece was donated in 1925 by FW Lucas. Although RP&M does not know how and from whom he acquired the water carrier, contemporary written reports record that water carriers of this kind could be traded for European goods. • If RP&M returned this piece it would be in danger of setting a precedent impacting on other museums. Major collections such as the British Museum and University of Oxford Museums will only consider the return of modified human remains where it can be established that they were intended for burial. • Following the undertaking of this detailed criteria for assessing the claim for return, it is recommended that RP&M continue its custodianship of the water vessel. (Cabinet Member Meeting. Culture, Recreation and Tourism 2009)

This summary supported the museum narrative that these remains were museum artefacts and therefore specimens of value to European science. An expanded, similar argument is found in the museum’s original statement of evidence for retention.1 The museum view and the Ngarrindjeri response show how the museum staff’s understanding diverges significantly from that of representatives of the culture who were the original creators and custodians. This is an interesting position as museums play a key role in educating the public about the knowledge and diversity of cultures internationally. The museum’s statement was drawn from historical sources and the expertise of British museum curators with similar remains in their collections. Like Massola in 1961, it did not consult with contemporary Ngarrindjeri knowledge holders. These documents were prepared under the category ‘The Cultural Spiritual Significance of the Remains’ of the DCMS Guidance for the Care of Human Remains (2005), which informs museum repatriation policies in the United Kingdom. The museum’s statement includes an explanation that ‘Water vessels of this kind appear to have been commonly made and used in this part of Australia’, noting contemporary written evidence that ‘suggests that they were made from the skulls of deceased people once the appropriate funerary rites had been completed’. It then refers to the ‘impression’ gained by Norman Tindale (a South Australian Museum ethnographer) from Clarence Long (a senior Ngarrindjeri man who died in 1941) and who was the ‘last man of the Coorong to use a skull as a water vessel’ that

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the vessels carried personal value only and there is evidence to suggest that Coorong individuals were willing to exchange them for European goods. It is unclear how such objects were disposed of although, having already undergone funerary rites and been judged spiritually inert, the idea of relatives then performing a further, supplementary, funerary ritual for the cranium seems very unlikely …2

The written response prepared by Ngarrindjeri representatives provided a very different perspective:3 The knowledge associated with the use of an Old Person used in this way would not normally be shared beyond the appropriate people within the community, hence the lack of documentation relating to these practices in the written record. The Ngarrindjeri representatives have decided to share this knowledge, which would not normally be imparted to outsiders, in the hope that it will help Brighton Museum understand their position. After the natural death of a respected member of the Ngarrindjeri community, the Old Person, modified for use in this way, would be entrusted to a close family member for safekeeping. The fact that examples of Old People used in this way are so rare in western collections may reasonably be taken as evidence of the tradition of reburial. This knowledge of traditional custom and belief is an ancient oral tradition passed down through the Ngarrindjeri generations. It is only imparted to those worthy of trust and able to impart responsibly to others. This is the only authentic account of these traditional customs relevant to this Old Person. From the foregoing, it is clear that this Old Person is not considered to be ‘spiritually inert’.4

The ‘authentic account’ reference in the Ngarrindjeri response asserted their knowledge authority and their identification of the underlying discourse of extinction/authenticity/validity at play in the museum recommendation. This discourse is also echoed in the statement about Clarence Long being ‘the last man of the Coorong to use a skull as a water vessel’. The assertion by the museum that these remains were ‘spiritually inert’ was rejected by Ngarrindjeri, who had to push back against the established Western interpretation of these Old People as mere artefacts and the associated perception that claims for their repatriation as Ancestral Remains were thus fundamentally invalid. It is the case that museum staff considered these remains spiritually inert precisely because of the Ngarrindjeri cultural practice that had transformed them into merikin. Ngarrindjeri were in the doubly invidious position of having to prove not

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only that these remains were Ancestors, but also that their own cultural practices had not rendered them objects. Furthermore, in order to do so, they had to reveal knowledge that they would otherwise have kept private, the past retention of which was a contributing factor in misleading anthropological accounts. This type of Kafkaesque situation – in which the absence of information in the anthropological literature led to the assumption that no such information existed (rather than that no such information had been imparted) and was thus used both to secure an outcome detrimental to Ngarrindjeri and to affirm Western notions of their inauthenticity – was very familiar to Ngarrindjeri. It was the fundamental accusation levelled at them throughout the unsuccessful opposition to the building of the Hindmarsh Island bridge in the 1990s. A final point to unpack is the museum’s support for interpreting the remains as an ‘object’ because there was evidence that these types of remains had been ‘traded for European goods’. This reasoning is based on the prima facie assumption that any such exchange was free trade between parties exercising comparable agency and/or somehow supported the notion that Ngarrindjeri also saw them as commodities. For a more nuanced perspective, we note again the evidence in Davis’s manuscript catalogue that the Protector of Aborigines, Matthew Moorhouse, had sent the police to acquire at least one of the water vessels in Davis’s collection. Clearly, Ngarrindjeri did not have market stalls selling these Old People, nor did they purvey them to passers-by on street corners, nor did they manufacture them in large numbers for the tourist market. To support an argument that they were objects fit for commodification (and not loved and revered ancestors, as asserted by Ngarrindjeri), because some Ngarrindjeri in the past, who were dealing day-to-day with an oppressive and violent state regime, had to give them up to Westerners who thought they were engaging in a free exchange is, at best, to misunderstand the historical context.

Conclusion This case illustrates the importance accorded to historical literature a museum’s decision to recommend the retention or return of modified human remains claimed by an Indigenous nation. As the museum had recommended the repatriation of non-modified remains, the museum did not question Ngarrindjeri concern for the return of their Ancestors. Rather, it questioned Ngarrindjeri belief that these modified remains should be correctly perceived as Ancestors. In recommending retention,

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the museum judged the Ngarrindjeri knowledge of these remains invalid because this truth was not corroborated by contemporaneously written accounts by white Europeans or modern British curatorial expertise. This served two functions. First, the museum would retain a very rare item. Second, it would retain its knowledge authority. In the end, it was not up to the museum to make the decision. Despite having initially accepting the museum’s recommendation, on receipt of information from the Ngarrindjeri delegation and seemingly influenced by other factors, the mayor and town council approved the repatriation of the ‘water vessel’. It appears that the Pitt Rivers Museum is also now likely to accede to Ngarrindjeri requests for the return of the Ngarrindjeri ‘water vessels’ in its collection. Discourses of authenticity are woven throughout this case, which reveals the way in which, faced with the loss of a rare item, museums seem more comfortable accepting earlier Western observations as true, rather than accepting the validity of Ngarrindjeri expertise today. There was little critical analysis of earlier reports, of the historical context in which they were created or the reality for Ngarrindjeri people at that time. Although, as shown above, such reports are suffused with bias and assumptions about Ngarrindjeri ‘worth’, the authority of their interpretation of the meaning attributed by Ngarrindjeri to these remains in the past – as commodities and utensils – seemingly went uncritiqued. Curators at Brighton Museum had recommended the return of the unmodified Ngarrindjeri human remains in its collections. In making and accepting this recommendation, the museum had made a significant move towards a position that recognized the validity of the Ngarrindjeri world view and accepted that this outweighed any scientific or curatorial arguments for retention. The museum was not the first to make this shift, so it was not necessary to set a precedent. The move required museum staff to understand the unmodified human remains primarily as the dead rather than objects. In doing so, they could draw upon Western concerns for the dead both to empathize with the Ngarrindjeri view and to help facilitate a shift in how these remains were ‘known’ by the museum. However, a transition to understanding the merikin as an Ancestral Remain, who, though transformed post-mortem, was nonetheless also an Ancestor (rather than a cultural object), presented further challenges. This would set a significant precedent, go against a decision by at least one other major holding institution and could not draw upon analogous Western cultural practices to facilitate understanding and empathy. Understood in this way, a curious form of cognitive dissonance can be identified in the holding museum. For Ngarrindjeri,

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these nuances of definition, this imposed taxonomy of human remains, is academic in every sense. Despite the return of unmodified human remains, the museum’s recommendation for the retention of the merikin illustrates one way in which it remained in a colonizing relationship with Ngarrindjeri, recycling museum practices so powerfully intertwined with the dispossession and oppression of Indigenous peoples. As part of the colonial apparatus, museums played their part in making Indigenous peoples the subjects of Western power, their bodies turned into museum objects of scientific value thought to forever be the property of the colonial institutions. Repatriation claims and successful outcomes make significant inroads into resetting these past relationships and creating new ones that are more equal and just. As was briefly mentioned, the Ngarrindjeri case is not unique. The British Museum has refused requests for the repatriation of Māori Toi moko and decorated skulls from the Torres Strait. All of these types of remains were modified after death; all were considered to retain their personhood; all were modified by their own communities so they would continue to impart wisdom to the living; that some were received by Westerners in ‘exchange’ for goods influenced museum consideration of legitimate title;5 and all are wanted back. As in the Brighton Museum case, the issue of the lack of evidence of secondary funerary internment was highly influential. For the British Museum, it was its fundamental reason for non-return as it was not clear to the trustees that ‘the process of the mortuary disposal of the skulls had been interrupted’.6 Both the British Museum and the Brighton decisions highlight an important final point for consideration. The Indigenous deceased whose high status in life meant that their remains were transformed so they could continue to impart their knowledge to the living exist at the threshold of what some museums are willing to return, whether the Indigenous claimants perceive them as ancestors or not. It may not, therefore, be the asserted ‘artefactual’ nature of these remains that is the greatest obstacle to return, but rather that the continued traditional social role of these ancestors makes their status as ‘the dead’ controversial. For Ngarrindjeri, the important thing is that these Old People are returned home. Cressida Fforde is a senior research fellow at the Centre for Heritage and Museum Studies at the Australian National University (ANU). From 2011 to 2019, she was Deputy Director of the National Centre for Indigenous Studies at ANU. Since 1991, she has undertaken research within the repatriation field for Indigenous communities and

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institutions internationally, particularly in the location and identification of Ancestral Remains through archival research. Since 2014, she has been the lead chief investigator for a number of Australian Research Council-funded projects dedicated to applied and scholarly research in repatriation. She was primary editor of The Dead and Their Possessions: Repatriation in Principle, Policy and Practice (Routledge, 2002) and The Routledge Companion to Indigenous Repatriation (Routledge, 2020). Major Sumner, AM (Uncle Moogy) is a senior Ngarrindjeri man and has been a leading figure in Ngarrindjeri repatriation since the 1990s. He has been involved in repatriation negotiations with national and international museums and has performed ceremonies at handover events, welcome-home ceremonies and reburials. He has been Chair of the Ngarrindjeri Heritage Committee and works closely with the Ngarrindjeri heritage team in the planning of reburials. He was appointed as a member of the Advisory Committee on Indigenous Repatriation (ACIR) in 2015 and is also a member of the Restoring Dignity Facility Advisory Group, providing advice to the project on a range of issues that assist the development of the Return, Reconcile, Renew Digital Archive. He was a community-based researcher on the Return, Reconcile, Renew Australian Research Council Linkage Project (2013–16). Loretta Sumner (Auntie Bubbles) is a Ngarrindjeri Elder, cultural performer, artist and educator. She has worked with her husband Major Sumner on Indigenous repatriation for several decades. She is a founding member of Ngarrindjeri cultural performance group Tal-Kin-Jeri Dancers (1997). Tal-Kin-Jeri showcase Ngarrindjeri dance, stories, music, art, language and culture. She has travelled extensively with the dancers and her husband to support international repatriation and to conduct ceremonies to help bring the Old People home. She has played a leading part in Ngarrindjeri repatriations, working with other Ngarrindjeri miminar (women) to prepare the Old People for their reburial. Tristram Besterman is a UK-based freelance adviser and writer on museums and the ethics of social accountability, dispossession and restitution. He was Director of the Manchester Museum from 1994 to 2005, chair of the Museums Association Ethics Committee until 2001 and a member of the UK Government’s Ministerial Working Group on Human Remains from 2001 to 2004. He is an advocate for, and has been instrumental in, the repatriation of ‘human remains’ to source communities in Australia and New Zealand from Manchester, Brighton and the British

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Museum, and the return of artefacts from Exeter to the community of origin in Canada. Steve Hemming is a researcher at the Indigenous Nation Building and Collaborative Futures Research Hub in the Jumbunna Institute for Indigenous Education and Research at the University of Technology Sydney. He has been working with Indigenous nations in South Australia for forty years as a community researcher and native title anthropologist. For several decades, his research has focused on strategies for resisting and transforming the colonial genealogies of cultural heritage and natural resource management. More recently, he has focused on Indigenous nation (re)building with First Nations such as the Ngarrindjeri in South Australia. In 2017, he was part of a Ngarrindjeri treaty negotiation team.

Notes This chapter is the result of research undertaken during the ARC-funded projects Return, Reconcile, Renew: Understanding the History, Effects and Opportunities of Repatriation and Building an Evidence Base for the Future (LP13010013) and Restoring Dignity: Networked Knowledge for Repatriation Communities (LE170100017). Many thanks to Winsome Adam for conveying the last draft of this chapter to Major Sumner in Edinburgh during his tour as part of the theatre production The Secret River. Many thanks also to Paul Tapsell for providing advice on moko mokai, uru moko and Toi moko, and to Johanna Parker for information about Frederic Lucas.  1. Neither the papers before the Culture, Recreation and Tourism Committee (10 February 2009) nor this statement are published. However, the documentation can be examined on application to the Head of Collections and Interpretation at Brighton and Hove Museums.  2. This information contains a number of very vague assumptions and no direct reference to a specific source in the Norman Tindale archives held in the South Australian Museum. The contemporary Ngarrindjeri understanding of the sensitivities and significance of merikin provided to the Brighton Museum was consistent with the existing ‘record’. It was provided by senior Ngarrindjeri and not merely an ‘impression gained by Norman Tindale’.  3. Tristram Besterman helped facilitate the written response. For further information, see Besterman (2020) and Sumner, Besterman and Fforde (2020).  4. Written response by representatives of the Ngarrindjeri delegation (prepared by T. Besterman, M. Sumner and G. Trevorrow) to evidence gathering at Brighton Museum when the claim for the return of Old People was under negotiation, under the category ‘The Cultural Spiritual Significance of the Remains’ of the DCMS Guidance for the Care of Human Remains (2005).

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Unpublished transcript made and amended 15 May 2009, deposited with Brighton Museum and Art Gallery, copy also retained by T. Besterman.  5. In customary times, the tattooed heads of any enemy leaders taken in battle became trophies and were called moko mokai. They were used as objects of ridicule and desecration.  6. See British Museum Statement: https://www.britishmuseum.org/our-work/ departments/human-remains/request-repatriation-human-remains-torres-strait-islands (accessed 28 September 2021).

References Angas, G.F. 1847. Savage Life and Scenes in Australia and New Zealand: Being an Artist’s Impressions of Countries and People at the Antipodes, vol. 1. London: Smith, Elder and Co. Bell, D. 1998. Ngarrindjeri Wurruwarrin: A World That Is, Was, and Will Be. North Melbourne: Spinifex. Bennett, H. 1950. ‘Museum Oddities: Skull Used as Drinking Cup’. Adelaide News 9 March, p. 6. Bennett, T. 2004. Past Beyond Memory: Evolution, Museums, Colonialism. London: Routledge. Berndt, R.M., C.H. Berndt and J.E. Stanton. 1993. A World That Was: The Yaraldi of the Murray River and the Lakes, South Australia. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press at the Miegunyah Press. Besterman, T. 2020. ‘Contested Human Remains in Museums: Can “Hope and History Rhyme”?’, in C. Fforde, C.T. McKeown and H. Keeler (eds), The Routledge Companion to Indigenous Repatriation: Return, Reconcile, Renew. London: Routledge, pp. 940–60. Bignall, S., S. Hemming and D. Rigney. 2016. ‘Three Ecosophies for the Anthropocene: Environmental Governance, Continental Posthumanism and Indigenous Expressivism’, Deleuze Studies 10(4): 455–78. Brough Smyth, R. 1878. Aborigines of Victoria: With Notes Relating to the Habits of the Natives of Other Parts of Australia. London: Trubner and Co. Cabinet Member Meeting. Culture, Recreation and Tourism 2009. ‘Agenda Item: Request for Return of Human Remains to Australia’ 10 Feb 2009. Unpublished document available on application to the Head of Collections and Interpretation at Brighton and Hove Museums. Davis, J.B. [1857–1978] ‘Catalogue of Human Crania in the Collection of Joseph Barnard Davis Vols 1-IV.’ Unpublished manuscript housed by the Royal College of Surgeons of England. Davis, J. 1867. Thesaurus Craniorum: Catalogue of the Skulls of the Various Races of Man, in the Collection of Joseph Barnard Davis. Printed for Subscribers, London. Eyre, J. 1845. Journals of Expeditions of Discovery. London. Gale, M., and Ngarrindjeri Elders and Community. 2009. Ngarrindjeri Dictionary: First Edition. Raukkan: Raukkan Community Council on behalf of the Ngarrindjeri.

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Healy, C. 1997. In the Ruins of Colonialism: History as Social Memory. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hemming, S. 2000. ‘Ngarrindjeri Burials as Cultural Sites: Indigenous Heritage Issues in Australia’, World Archaeological Bulletin 11: 58–66.  . 2006. ‘The Problem with Aboriginal Heritage: Translation, Transformation and Resistance’, in G. Worby and L.-I. Rigney (eds), Sharing Spaces: Indigenous and Non-Indigenous Responses to Story, Country and Rights. Perth, WA: API Network, pp. 305–28.  . 2007. ‘Managing Cultures into the Past’, in D.W. Riggs (ed.), Taking up the Challenge: Critical Whiteness Studies and Indigenous Sovereignties. Adelaide: Crawford House Publishers, pp. 150–67. Hemming, S., and D. Rigney. 2008. ‘Unsettling Sustainability: Ngarrindjeri Political Literacies, Strategies of Engagement and Transformation’, Continuum: Journal of Media and Cultural Studies 22(6): 757–75.  . 2010. ‘Decentring the New Protectors: Transforming Aboriginal Heritage in South Australia’, International Journal of Heritage Studies 16(1&2): 88–104. Hemming, S., et al. 2020. ‘Ngarrindjeri Repatriation: Kungun Ngarrindjeri Yunnan (Listen to Ngarrindjeri Speaking)’, in C. Fforde, C.T. McKeown and H. Keeler (eds), The Routledge Companion to Indigenous Repatriation: Return, Reconcile, Renew. London: Routledge. Jenkin, G. 1979. Conquest of the Ngarrindjeri: The Story of the Lower Murray Lakes Tribes. Adelaide: Rigby. Jones, S. 1994. ‘Crossing Boundaries’. Museums Journal July: 29. Langton, M. 1981. ‘Urbanizing Aborigines: The Social Scientists’ Great Deception’, Social Alternatives 2(2): 16–22. Keen, I. (ed.). 1988. Being Black: Aboriginal Cultures in ‘Settled’ Australia. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Massola, A. 1961. ‘A Victorian Skull-cap Drinking Bowl’, The Australian Journal of Anthropology 5(10): 415–19.  . 1971. The Aborigines of South-Eastern Australia: As They Were. Melbourne: William Heinemann, Australia. Moreton-Robinson, A. 2007. ‘The Possessive Logic of Patriarchal White Sovereignty: The High Court and the Yorta Yorta Decision’, in D.W. Riggs (ed.), Taking up the Challenge: Critical Whiteness Studies in a Postcolonising Nation. Belair, SA: Crawford House, pp. 109–24. Simons, M. 2003. The Meeting of the Waters. Sydney: Hodder Headline. Smith, L. 2004. Archaeological Theory and the Politics of Cultural Heritage. London: Routledge. Smith, L.T. 1999. Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. London: Zed Books. Sumner, M., T. Besterman and C. Fforde. 2020. ‘Sharing Reflections on Repatriation: Manchester Museum and Brighton Negotiations, a Decade On’, in C. Fforde, C.T. McKeown and H. Keeler (eds), The Routledge Companion to Indigenous Repatriation: Return, Reconcile, Renew. London: Routledge. Wood, J.C. 1868. Natural History of Man. An Account of the Manners and Customs of the Uncivilized Races of Men. London: George Routledge and Sons.

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Woods, J.D. (ed.). 1879. The Native Tribes of South Australia. Adelaide: E.S. Wigg. Wolfe, P. 2006. ‘Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native’, Journal of Genocide Research 8(4): 387–409.

Part III

‘The Making of Law’ Politics and Museum Ethics

Chapter 7

A Long-Term Perspective on the Issue of the Return of Congolese Cultural Objects Entangled Relations between Kinshasa and Tervuren (1930–80) Placide Mumbembele Sanger

The establishment of the first colonial museum in the Belgian Congo dates back to the 1930s, when the members of the Commission for the Protection of Indigenous Arts and Crafts (Commission pour la Protection des Arts et Métiers Indigènes, henceforth COPAMI) expressed ‘the wish that … the planned institution be named “Museum of Indigenous Life” or “Museum of Indigenous Arts and Crafts” (Musée de la Vie Indigène or Musée des Arts et Métiers Indigènes) and that this institution be able to use the overabundant specimens that exist in the collections of the Museum of the Belgian Congo in Tervuren’.1 Not having a suitable building, the museum was provisionally installed in a vast room made available by the managing director of a Belgian company. Thanks to donations from companies and individuals, the museum grew quickly. The support it received is evidence of the importance of this new cultural institution and its role in the colony. At the same time, significant transfers of objects by colonial administrators and other personalities were made to the Museum of Indigenous Life in Leopoldville. Many of these objects served to provide information about the different regions from which they came. The commitment by the colonials clearly indicates that these kinds of museums were first and foremost spaces for

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the public display of the territory under their control, producing forms of representation that played a significant part in the production of a reality effect (Herzog 2004: 366). They were also spaces for the promotion of the development of conquered territories and the celebration of European colonization (Gaugue 1999: 726). This enthusiastic interest in collections on the part of the various actors involved, both European and African, also reflected both an interest in traditional cultural achievements and pride in what existed in their province or territory. What image of the colony did the Museum of Indigenous Life produce? The Museum of Indigenous Life was supposed to showcase the protection of indigenous art and crafts. Thus, it intended to play an educational role, though it was, of course, influenced by colonial propaganda. The Congolese museum was nevertheless conceived as different in content from the museum in the metropole.

‘Congolese Objects of Real Ethnographic Interest Must Be Studied and Preserved in Tervuren’ Based on a pyramidal model, whereby orders came from above, the friendly relations between the colonial cultural institutions of the metropole and those of the colony were often paternalistic. In fact, from the creation in 1910 of the Museum of the Belgian Congo in Tervuren, near Brussels, a Royal Decree of 1 January 1910 defined the centralizing and scientific role assigned to the Tervuren Museum, which consisted in bringing together all the objects relating to the political, moral, scientific and economic history of the colony. Consequently, all initiatives to establish museums in the colony were to be closely monitored by the Belgian Congo Museum in Tervuren (Couttenier 2010), which considered that museums in the Congo should remain solely didactic museums and not become science museums. Relations between the Museum of the Belgian Congo and the museums of the colony had been constantly strained from the first days of the existence of the Museum of Indigenous Life in Leopoldville in 1935, as evidenced by the letter sent by the director general De Jonghe to the Minister of Colonies: There can therefore be no question of creating a replica of the Tervuren Museum in Leopoldville. Congolese objects of real ethnographic interest must be studied and conserved at Tervuren, especially if these objects, because of their age or fragility, require conservation care that would be impossible or too expensive to provide in Africa. Before making a final commitment, it would also be useful to

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seek the opinion of the director of the Museum (Tervuren) on the viability of the project. (De Jonghe 1935)

In 1936, Henri Schouteden, the director of the Tervuren Museum from 1927 to 1946, gave instructions that the museum created in Leopoldville should only show on-site the main aspects of indigenous arts and crafts, for the education of both Europeans and the locals. He also wanted this to be done in a schematic manner. He writes to the Minister of the Colonies: It would be dangerous to give an existing museum in the colony an extension that would logically make it an institution with considerable collections and give it the importance of a science museum… A museum limited to a small number of pieces may be interesting; if it becomes too large it will no longer be interesting for the visitors it is called upon to receive because of its location in Africa. A museum with vast scientific collections can only be understood in Belgium! It does honour to our Fatherland and carries our reputation far and wide. (Schouteden 1936)

The sentiments expressed by Tervuren’s representative in Leopoldville are not new in the relations between Belgium and its colony, which had sometimes become defiant towards the orientations of the metropole. By the same logic, the museums in the colony were understood as sources of artefacts and information for those in the metropole. Thus, only Belgium could have a museum with vast scientific collections, as explained by Schouteden, the director of the Tervuren Museum (1936): An exaggerated development given to a local museum would necessarily result in regrettable competition with our institution, which has so brilliantly demonstrated its usefulness. Correspondents, so numerous in number and enriching our collections every year, will perhaps be tempted to send their letters to Leopoldville, unaware of the superior scientific interest of sending a letter to our Museum, hoping perhaps also to be noticed; pressure could even be exerted on them, in certain cases. Likewise, the higher interests of Science would be harmed by the intensive development of a local Museum, not easily accessible by the researchers who come in such numbers to Tervuren.

In conjunction with the above-mentioned rationale, the representatives of the Tervuren Museum believed that the conservation of collections in Africa would always be haphazard, which could lead to the loss of scientifically rare items. Schouteden (1946) proposed the establishment of scientific collaboration between Tervuren and the museums of Africa, but remained cautious: ‘I still consider that the best formula was that of scientific collaboration between the Museums of Africa and the Museum of Tervuren, which I consider to be the most suitable information centre for similar institutions in the Colony.’

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The Ministry of Colonies, for its part, agreed with the theses of the Tervuren Museum concerning the place and role of the museums of Africa. In this quest to establish a hierarchy of museums, in which those of the colony must occupy the lowest position, it affirmed that: in order to safeguard the scientific interests of the Tervuren Museum and while keeping to that of Leopoldville the educational character which was assigned to it at the time of its creation, it was agreed that in the future the acquisitions which will enrich that of Leopoldville would be brought to the attention of the Director of the Museum of the Belgian Congo; Any documentation requested by the latter concerning these objects will be supplied to him; the original of a piece of exceptional interest will be given in exchange for a cast of it to the Museum of Tervuren when the latter expresses the wish to do so.2

What Tervuren wanted was to maintain its hold on the museums of Africa by asking them to regularly send it a list of their acquisitions. For the Museum of the Belgian Congo in Tervuren, complete scientific studies and even the determination of numerous specimens were not yet possible in the Congo. This work required the collaboration of highly qualified specialists, the consultation of an abundance of documentation, the consultation of foreign specialists and of comparable artefacts existing only in the major European or North American scientific institutions. Jacques Lepersonne (1945) concluded that: All rare specimens, all new pieces, all types should be sent to Europe for conservation and, if this cannot be done on site, for study and determination. The African Museum should content itself with presenting common specimens to the public, keeping its doubles to the strict minimum of what is necessary for the maintenance of the vitrines and regular training (as the conservation conditions, due to the climate and parasites are mediocre in Congo), fulfilling an essentially didactic ambition.

In the Belgian Congo, the colonial authorities had a different take on this relationship and did not share this one-sided point of view. In his letter of 16 June 1945 addressed to the Minister of the Colonies, Governor General Pierre Ryckmans reacted to Lepersonne’s remarks at the Tervuren Museum and noted that: In my opinion, except perhaps in the case of zoological specimens, I doubt whether it is appropriate to send out unique specimens. The arguments in Lepersonne’s note 619 have already served to disperse in all the Museums of the World the unique specimens whose place is in Cairo and Athens. Today scientists must be globetrotters in order to study them. I rather believe that the Government’s duty towards future generations is to absolutely prohibit the export of unique pieces.

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They are part of the Colony’s heritage and we are responsible for them as guardians. (Ryckmans 1945)

The rivalry between the Museum of the Belgian Congo in Tervuren and the colonial museums created in Congo can be explained in part as colonial domination strategies that set the colonizer/colonized, dominant/dominated, superior/subaltern, centre/periphery in opposition, but also as a reaction of the local (colonial) elite against the excessive interventionism of the colonial state that wanted to impose its world view on the museal institutions in Africa. The ideologies of imperial inclusion and differentiation were challenged both by those trying to defend or create a political space that was totally external and by those acting within the ideological and political structures of empires (Cooper 2005: 37). Throughout the period, the new museums created in the colony remained a subject of tension between the ‘Congolese’ Belgians and the metropolitan administration. Relations between the new museums and the reference museum in the metropolis, in this case the Tervuren Museum, were often paternalistic and, above all, strained. Tervuren envisaged the increased dominance of the colony’s museums and thus curbed their emancipation in order to monopolize the masterpieces. On the other hand, these conflicts show that the study of museums in Africa should not only take into account the colonizer–colonized relationship, but also the views of all the actors involved, whose interests and opinions were often divergent.

‘Our Collections’… The history of the Belgian and Congolese collections is intimately linked to the political history of both countries. Indeed, in addition to the central question of independence that the Congolese delegates to the negotiations at the Brussels Political Round Table of January 1960 raised, other demands of an economic, cultural and social nature were made. These were the subject of another meeting, the Economic Round Table held in April 1960 and chaired by Franz De Voghel, vice-president of the National Bank of Belgium. In the context of the detailed and extraordinarily complex history of the so-called ‘BelgianCongolese Litigation’ (Contentieux belgo-congolais), we shall focus on the analysis of the collections of the Congo from 1960 to 1970, which sheds light on the history of the Institute of the National Museums of Zaire/Congo (IMNZ/C).

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Prior to the Economic Round Table, the Abako (Alliance des Bakongo) of Kasa-Vubu, a political party that wielded great influence in the Belgian Congo, had demanded a complete inventory of all colonial movable and immovable property in Belgium and a timetable for its transfer to the Congo. To this end, the Kasa-Vubu party demanded that the Round Table provide: ‘The complete inventory of all property; a long-term investment plan; a timetable for the transfer of parastatals; the resignation of all those holding companies created through the colonial portfolio; the inventory of the Colonial Museum of Tervuren, followed by the division of the property that composes it and which is the property of the Congo. We suggest that the Belgian government create a similar building in Congo to be erected with its own funds; the settlement of the question of the Colonial Lottery’ (Anonymous 1960). These demands were supported by other political parties in the Congo, such as the MNC (Mouvement National Congolais [National Congolese Mouvement]), with which Patrice-Emery Lumumba was associated. But it is important to point out that several Congolese demands for restitution in fact reiterated the claims of the (Belgian) colonials, who believed that since the colony was legally distinct from the metropole, its heritage belonged to it and should be in the Congo rather than in Belgium, as one could read for example in Ryckmans’s letter of 16 June 1945 concerning the colony’s heritage, addressed to the Minister of Colonies. The Abako declaration on the inventory and transfer to the Congo of colonial movable and immovable property before 30 June 1960 caused concern in Belgium. The analysis of this sensitive and urgent dossier before the Economic Round Table of April 1960 was entrusted to the Inspector General of the Legal Service, André Durieux, who was tasked with examining the legal status of the collections of the Tervuren Museum. Durieux contacted the department of the 2nd Directorate General of the Ministry of Belgian Congo, on which the Tervuren Museum depended, in order to determine the origin of the Tervuren collections. He divided the origins of the Tervuren collections into five categories: firstly, those artefacts from collections from the Independent State of the Congo (ISC); secondly, those resulting from gifts and legacies from private individuals or companies; thirdly, those resulting from deposits made by third parties; fourthly, accounting for the largest number of artefacts, those paid for by the Colonial Treasury; and finally, those paid for by the metropolitan budget (Durieux 1960). The conclusions of Durieux’s study can be summarized as follows: he attributes ownership of the objects and collections to one of the heritages, Belgian or Congolese, according to the budget that bore the acquisition costs, the conditions attached to gifts and

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legacies made by individuals or private companies, or their provenance. Thus, the collections from the ISC would belong to the colony, the donations and legacies would be part of this same heritage and the collections paid for by the Belgian Treasury would belong to metropolitan Belgium. André Durieux’s examination from a Belgian legal point of view did not satisfy Lucien Cahen, then director of the Tervuren Museum. In a letter addressed to the Minister of the Belgian Congo and RuandaUrundi on 13 April 1960, Cahen attempted to thwart the Congolese claims and explained that the Royal Museum of the Congo had acquired its collections in various ways in accordance with museological standards (Cahen 1960). He classifies these collections into six categories. First category – requisitions. In relation to these, the director of Tervuren points out that the museum’s archives do not provide information on any simple requisition procedure. However, legal seizures are reported in the archives. But the latter fall under the circular of Governor General Auguste-Constantin Tilkens, dating from 1929, stipulating that the seized objects will be sent to the Royal Museum of the Belgian Congo. Second category – purchases on-site. According to Cahen, this encompassed two types of purchases: those made by administrative agents requisitioned for this purpose and those made with ad hoc credits. He cites as an example the five hundred gold francs made available in each district in 1911 for the purchase of coins for the museum. On the other hand, purchases made by some volunteers were reimbursed by the museum. Third category – purchases in Europe. In this category, he includes all purchases made by the central administration of the ISC from ‘explorers’ and ‘pioneers’ or their families, antique dealers, etc. Fourth category – donations. Among the donations received by the Belgian Congo Museum were those from Africans (e.g. Charles Mutara, Musinga, Mwambutsa); European personalities (Albert I, Leopold III, J. Renkin, E. Vandervelde); Europeans from the Congo, for example, representatives of the Compagnie du Kasaï, Compagnie Bunge, religious congregations (e.g. Scheut), private individuals, the Association of Friends of the Museum and Belgian public institutions (e.g. Royal Museums of Art and History). Fifth category – legacies. In this category, we note, for example, Count de Briey (1914), Dr P. Bertrand, General Wibier and A. Van Iseghem. Sixth category – exchanges. In relation to this category, the director of Tervuren explains that in 1908 collections were bought by the ISC to be offered to the American Museum of Natural History. E. Coart, curator at the Museum of the Congo, obtained the right to see these objects, remove some of them and replace them with duplicates from the Museum of the Congo.

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As regards the generosity of the ISC or the Ministry of the Colonies in dealings with foreign museums, Cahen indicates that several institutions received gifts from the ISC, including the British Museum in Great Britain, which contains in its ethnographic collections important pieces donated by the ISC, and the Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunde in Leiden in the Netherlands. The Missiological Museum of the Lateran in Rome, for its part, received a collection of about five hundred objects from the Ministry of the Colonies in 1926. These objects came from the Congo Museum in Tervuren. Cahen also writes that the Luigi Pigorini National Museum of Prehistory and Ethnography, in Rome, received gifts from the ISC. The Museum für Volkenkunde, in Leipzig, received, before 1899, 293 artefacts considered duplicates of items in the Congo Museum as a gift from the EIC. In 1908, the ISC donated a collection to the Anthropology Section of the American Museum of Natural History in the United States. Concerning the dissemination of Congolese collections, Cahen concluded that some fifty foreign museums contained collections with numerous important pieces and these, taken together, far exceeded the number of objects of an equivalent level in the Royal Museum of the Belgian Congo. Private collections abroad and in Belgium also had to be taken into consideration. An exact count was considered difficult to establish, but estimates of their contents certainly largely outnumbered the holdings of the museums. As it was, the known private collections as a whole comprised more works of quality than what was held in the Royal Museum of the Belgian Congo. Finally, there were the collections of religious congregations. Especially in Belgium, important collections taken by religious congregations constituted real museums. One might mention the collection of the Jesuits in Leuven or those of the FPs Blancs and the Redemptorists in Antwerp – each of these collections contain many pieces that have no equivalent in the Royal Museum of the Belgian Congo. The director of Tervuren did not share the opinion of those who thought that Belgium should share the collections of the Tervuren Museum with its former colony. This was also the position of the Second Directorate General, who drew heavily on the notes of the director of the Tervuren Museum. Consequently, it informed the Minister of the Belgian Congo and Ruanda-Urundi on 14 April 1960: The problem is very complex and the service is of the opinion that there can be no question of sharing the collections, based solely on the titles of ownership. Rather, it believes that the solution must be sought in a general transaction (cultural agreement) whose purpose is to provide the Congolese State with one

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or more museums at Belgium’s expense, and to ensure them with a series of collections representative of the various aspects of the life, fauna, flora, etc., of the Congo, collections which would ultimately be supplemented by certain objects in the Tervuren Museum, of which the Congo is at present completely devoid. (Gille and Vanhove 1960)

Tervuren recognized, however, that there was a legal basis for the Congolese claims, since the operating costs of the Royal Museum of the Belgian Congo were borne partly by Belgium and partly by the Congo (Cahen 1960). On the one hand, Cahen argued that whilst the museum is Congolese in terms of the source of the materials and the geographical framework of its studies, it also benefits the Congo by the considerable increase (sometimes unique in Africa) in knowledge pertaining to many fields that it facilitates and by the outpouring of sympathy it arouses in Belgium for matters relating to the Congo. Nevertheless, Cahen continues, it is Belgian in terms of the training of the scientific staff, the work that has been invested in it and the geographical location of the institution. On the eve of the conference of the Economic Round Table, in order to thwart any attempt to share the collections, the General Service of the Ministry of Belgian Congo and Ruanda-Urundi clearly defined the red line that should not be crossed and notably made the following five points: First of all, determining the provenance of the objects (such as budget, donation to the Museum – Belgian Congo or donation to the Museum – Belgian State) as well as their value would require months of work on the part of the Museum’s staff in order to draw up an inventory of the millions of objects there. Secondly, in the opinion of the General Service, there could be no question of sharing the collections. In fact, the great majority of the collections are made up of donations by individuals and corporations or by acquisitions charged to the metropolitan budget, the minority being acquired with the aid of the Colony’s funds. Thirdly, should the question of the Museum’s collections be raised at the Conference, it is necessary – and the Service is of the opinion that this is for the time being the only solution – to conclude in due course with the Congolese Government a cultural agreement containing a clause concerning Belgium’s obligations towards the new State arising from the numerical balance to be discussed later. … Fourth, on the question of how to present the solution, opinions may differ and only the climate of the conference will decide how to respond to the Congolese … Fifth, it would seem appropriate to delimit the field of negotiations by excluding from the agreement those objects whose value lies mainly in the scientific study

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devoted to them by the staff of the Museum and which can easily be found in the Congo: zoological, geological, mineralogical, prehistoric, paleontological, tropical wood collections, part of the ethnographic collections, etc.; likewise the archives of the African pioneers belong to the history of Belgium and should also be excluded from the agreement. (Anonymous 1960)

For the director of Tervuren, the solution of a division on the basis of how the collection was acquired, even if legally defensible, would risk satisfying no one and result in the dispersal of series of scientific value (Cahen 1960: 2). To this end, he proposes a financial arrangement along the following lines: Belgium spent X million and Congo Y million on the Congo Museum. Belgium acknowledges that it owes the Congo Y million. Of this sum, M million has already been paid for various services: scientific publications for the benefit of knowledge of the Congo, scientific discoveries that have benefited the Congo, etc. P million remains. These P millions will be reimbursed in the form of scientific services rendered by Belgium (and in particular by the Museum) to the Congo. (Cahen 1960: 3)

At the end of its work, the conference recommended that a working group be set up to continue the in-depth study of the problems that the conference had, in its resolutions, deferred to the authority of that group. The group was tasked with working in collaboration with the minister responsible for Economic and Financial Affairs of the Belgian Congo and Rwanda-Urundi, the General Executive College and the Political Commission and reporting its conclusions to the Congolese government. The group was to meet, as necessary, in Brussels or Leopoldville. It would comprise fifteen Congolese nationals designated by the conference, including Bahizi, Kalume, Kikumbi, Kongolo, Koy, Lihau, Lumbala, Mobutu and Ndela (Anonymous 1960: 524). It should be noted that the above working group did not explicitly have culture or collections in its remit. In any case, it never met. At the national level, there was also a lack of co-ordination on the issue of the restitution of cultural objects, but this was due to the fact that the Congolese leadership was concerned with political independence and monetary and public finance problems. Having unsuccessfully sought access to the archives and information concerning the work of the Economic Round Table Conference, I am not in a position to say whether the Congolese really raised the issue of the Tervuren Museum collections there or not. Nevertheless, during the 1960s, relations between the Congo and Belgium gradually deteriorated both politically and in relation to financial

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disputes. After thorough preparations by and discussions between Belgian and Congolese experts, Moïse Tshombé and the Minister of Foreign Affairs Paul-Henri Spaak finalized negotiations on 6 February 1965. The representatives of the two governments signed an agreement on the settlement of issues relating to the public debt and portfolio of the Belgian Congo colony and an agreement on the status of the Belgian–Congolese amortization and management fund they had just created (Brassinne 2009: 68). On his return to Leopoldville, the Congolese prime minister received a triumphant welcome in recognition of the official signing of the documents relating to the handover of the portfolio to the Congo, as well as the financial arrangement that had been made regarding the debt. Tshombé declared that the final settlement of the Belgian–Congolese dispute would lead to a new era of co-operation (Brassinne 2009: 69). However, the main financial problems, although settled by the Tshombé government in February 1965 on the basis of agreements negotiated in 1963 and 1964 by Cyrille Adoula and Paul-Henri Spaak, were called into question by President Joseph-Désiré Mobutu in 1966. Sarah van Beurden writes that in 1966 there was another bilateral meeting to deal with the various disputes between the two countries. During the talks, the Belgian Minister of Foreign Affairs, Pierre Harmel, confirmed Belgium’s willingness to construct a building in Congo for scientific, cultural and administrative purposes. However, this agreement was never ratified by the Belgian government (van Beurden 2009). The talks between the two parties were eventually abandoned. However, relations became even more strained when the Congolese authorities passed two ordinances-laws specifically targeting the powerful international company Mining Union of Upper-Katanga (Union Minière du Haut-Katanga, UMHK). The first, promulgated on 7 June 1966, required companies whose head office was located in the Congo to set up their registered and administrative offices there. The second, known as the Bakajika law, granted the Congolese state full entitlement to all land, forest and mining rights conceded before 30 June 1960. On 30 June 1966, the Congolese government unilaterally decided that the Belgian–Congolese dispute was closed, but Belgium did not accept this and proposed to the Congolese people that the problem be reviewed at a very high level. While maintaining the possibility of conversations, the Congo rejected any discussion of points of contention or the unilateral decisions it had taken. From that moment on, relations between Brussels and Kinshasa were particularly tense. It was not until private talks between the foreign ministers of the two countries in the autumn of 1966 that a certain easing of tension was achieved. In October, Pierre

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Harmel and Justin Bomboko held talks in New York on the sidelines of the UN General Assembly, during which they discussed a number of important issues (Brassinne 2009: 114). From 1966 onwards, an important actor emerged in Belgian– Congolese relations, Colonel Powis de Tenbossche. This Belgian officer had been sent to the Congo in 1949 in order to integrate the Public Force. It was probably during his time in the Public Force that Mobutu met the man who would later become one of his main advisers, after a short stint as an adviser to Kasa-Vubu. Colonel Powis also became head of President Mobutu’s civil house and exerted a significant influence over him (Interview with Kama, 2011). For several years, Powis was an important liaison between Belgian politicians and Mobutu and his entourage. He also had a personal relationship with King Baudouin of Belgium. Powis became one of the key figures in the negotiations between Congo and Belgium concerning the possible restitution of the collections of the Tervuren Museum. In this new role, he was the intermediary between the Congolese presidency and the director of Tervuren; he was often assisted by Alfred Cahen, a cousin of Lucien Cahen, a political counsellor at the Belgian Embassy in Kinshasa (Brassinne 2009: 29), who got on well with both the Congolese and Belgian high officials (Interview with Daniel Cahen, July 2010). At the end of 1969, Powis spoke with the director of the Royal Museum of Tervuren at the Royal Palace in Brussels, no doubt about the cultural dispute between Belgium and Congo. At the end of this meeting, Cahen travelled to the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) to meet President Mobutu. On 3 March 1970, President Mobutu wrote to the Belgian Minister of Foreign Affairs, with copies of the letter also being sent to the Minister of Development Co-operation and the Minister of Education: Mr Minister, my Government and I have decided to erect a National Museum in KINSHASA. I would be happy to be able to count on the collaboration of the Royal Museum for Central Africa in Tervuren for the realisation of this project. The Museum at Tervuren has acquired a fair reputation in the field of studies relating to Africa in general and to the Congo in particular, and it seems to me to be only fitting that this tradition should henceforth be continued in the Democratic Republic of the Congo as in Belgium. I would therefore ask you to respond favorably to the following points: 1. authorize Professor L. CAHEN, Director of the Tervuren Museum, to take on the senior management of the project. I would confer upon Mr CAHEN the title of Director General of the Museums of Congo. Although he would be in charge of the project, Mr CAHEN would not be expected to make extended stays in Congo and would be represented there by a member of the museum’s scientific staff. Expenses relating to Mr CAHEN’s missions to the Congo would be charged to the budget of the Presidency of the Republic. 2. To

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allow a member of the scientific staff of the Tervuren Museum to be made available for extended stays in Congo at the appropriate time, under the authority of Mr Cahen, who would manage the project in Congo. At the appropriate time this assistant would be assisted by a Congolese curator, and a Belgian curator, who would reside permanently in the Congo. 3. To ensure, through long-term training courses at the Tervuren Museum, the training of Congolese curators and technicians of the General Directorate of Museums in the Congo. These last two points would seem to me to be settled within the framework of the Belgian Technical Assistance agreements. Please accept, Mr Minister, the assurance of my highest consideration.3

Furthermore, Cahen believed that a favourable response from Belgium to the requests made by President Mobutu would avoid further claims by the Congolese on the Tervuren Museum. This would also put an end to the thesis defended by the Belgian Minister of Affairs in the Congo in the 1960s, recognizing the partial validity of the thesis of the Congolese regarding the status of the Tervuren Museum as partly belonging to the Congolese state. He wrote that ‘[t]his gesture would be particularly appreciated in the Congo and would cancel out previous hesitations through the establishment of an official document stipulating that the Tervuren Museum belongs to the Belgian State (see on this subject the second paragraph of President Mobutu’s letter)’ (Cahen 1970). On the other hand, the director of Tervuren proposed a donation of two hundred authentic traditional Congolese objects, the total value of which was estimated to be 16,356,000 Belgian francs on the Brussels market. Cahen believed that these prices would be much higher in London, Paris or New York and concluded that this collection represented something like 1–2 per cent of the museum’s entire art collection in quantity and perhaps three to four times more (3–8 per cent) in value. These pieces were to be selected from the museum’s duplicates and were among those objects presented in a major exhibition that travelled in the United States and Canada (Minneapolis, Baltimore, New York, Dallas, Milwaukee and Montreal) from 1967 to 1969. As he confirmed in this correspondence addressed to the Minister of National Education: It is this collection which would serve as the basis for the proposed operation; however, the Director of the Minneapolis Museum, for reasons of personal taste, has eliminated the representation of certain peoples of the Congo in order to strengthen that of the peoples whose art is most commonly appreciated in the West. As a result, the collection presented in America is not sufficiently representative of the art of the whole of the Congo and we are counting on the 200 objects mentioned in the catalogue, replacing 40 of them (marked with a cross on the list pp. 63 to 69) with objects from the peoples not represented in the exhibition from America. Among these 40 are also some which cannot be given for legal reasons and which will be replaced by equivalent items. (Cahen 1970)

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With regard to the origin of these collections, Cahen explains that the objects under consideration were part of the collections of the Museum of the Belgian Congo before 1960 and are part of the Belgian–Congolese litigation. The donation was proposed to get out of this situation. In his appeal to the Minister of National Education, Cahen makes it clear that the donation would have no considerable impact on the Tervuren collections or the ministry’s budget: The donation would not include any pieces that would have to be replaced. Despite their quality, these are only pieces taken from the duplicates of the reserves. There will remain one or more similar pieces of superior or equivalent quality. Therefore, no additional appropriations should be considered for their replacement. The purchase programme since 1960 is quite different from the previous programme and has been drawn up taking into account the wealth of the collections of Congolese works of art acquired before that date. As a result, no sums spent by the National Education Department have been or will be used to compensate for the loss of objects that are being considered for donation. (Cahen 1970)

In October 1970, Cahen wrote to Mobutu and explained that the Belgian government had agreed to the donation of two hundred pieces from the Tervuren Museum and that he would be officially informed by the Minister of Foreign Affairs. He informed him in the same correspondence that the Jesuit Provincial Council had assured him that their congregation would make a gift of 100 to 150 better-quality pieces to the DRC. He also promised President Mobutu an important collection of five hundred coins from the Institute for Scientific Research in Central Africa (Institut pour la Recherche Scientifique en Afrique Centrale, henceforth IRSAC) in Rwanda. Cahen believed that the state could only divest itself of its heritage by means of a law and suggested to the legal adviser of the Ministry of National Education and Culture that a law be drafted to this effect. But, for the legal adviser, these were items that belonged to the public domain of the state, so an arrangement of a political nature with a foreign state was needed. Thus, the matter should be settled by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which should proceed, through diplomatic channels, by means of an exchange of letters. Hence the difficulty of enacting a law to facilitate such a procedure. This legal vagueness seemed to leave the door open to questioning any decision, given that the two parties had not yet signed a formal agreement. In the absence of a law, Cahen proposed that the terms used to describe Belgium’s gesture should be carefully chosen both for the letter from the Minister of Foreign Affairs and for the possible announcement by the king. He also recommended a long-term (or permanent)

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depot, that is, without an official transfer of ownership, which would make it possible to honour the declaration. Three years after Cahen’s pledge to donate two hundred pieces from the Tervuren Museum in Zaire, none of the promised pieces had found their way into the Institute of National Museums of Zaire (IMNZ; Mumbembele 2019: 466). This further complicated relations between the two countries. Mobutu chose the 3rd Extraordinary Congress of the International Association of Art Critics in N’Sele, Congo (Association Internationale des Critiques d’Art, AICA), and the forums of the 28th General Assembly of the United Nations in New York to clearly address the problem of the restitution of expropriated works of art from countries that had been colonized. However, it should be pointed out that despite his speech on the enhancement of African cultural heritage, President Mobutu did not visit the exhibition of the best pieces from the Provisional Museum in Kinshasa held on the occasion of the International Congress of AICA. It was visited by very few Zairians; nine-tenths of the visitors were Europeans. In his address to the 28th General Assembly of the United Nations, Mobutu comes across as a great defender of formerly colonized countries that were victims of expropriation of their cultural heritage. In Belgium, these interventions by Mobutu were seen as a new claim on the Tervuren collections. During the 1970s, relations between the two countries were very turbulent. In June 1974, the Executive Board of UNESCO examined a number of decisions taken by the United Nations system, including United Nations General Assembly resolution 3187 concerning the restitution of works of art to countries that had been victims of expropriation. The resolution was proposed by Zaire to the 28th General Assembly of the United Nations in 1973. It was adopted by 113 votes to none, with seventeen abstentions. Unsurprisingly, most Western European countries, including Belgium, abstained; the United States also abstained. Addressing the meeting on this subject, the Deputy Permanent Delegate of Zaire to UNESCO, Pendje Demodetdo Yako, began by stressing respect for the authenticity of each culture, one of the themes dear to Mobutu’s Zaire. Secondly, he regretted that cultural exchanges between states were a one-way street. One of the reasons for this was that during the colonial period, transfers of cultural property were made under the law of the strongest and not on the basis of mutual consent. According to Pendje, countries that took advantage of this situation should retrocede these works of art. In the course of his speech, the Delegate of Zaire showed the members of the council the book L’Art de l’Afrique Noire au pays du fleuve Zaïre by J. Cornet (Arcade edition, 1972), pointing out that the photographs contained in this work were taken from collections

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in museums in Europe and elsewhere. In fact, all the photos came from the private collection of a Belgian, Jef Vandestraete. This speech is identical to the one Mobutu gave at the 3rd Extraordinary Congress of AICA in Kinshasa in 1973. Pendje also recalled that the 1970 Convention on the Means of Prohibiting and Preventing the Illicit Import, Export and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property does not guarantee the free restitution of works of art. He would, moreover, like UNESCO to take concrete measures to follow up this resolution prior to the 30th General Assembly of the United Nations. This was unlikely to leave the Delegate of Belgium to UNESCO indifferent. Since the 1970s, the question of the return of cultural objects to their countries of origin had been a matter of concern for political decision-makers and had been the subject of UNESCO regulations. After several years of debate and research within this international organization, the 1970 UNESCO Convention was adopted on 14 November 1970 at the 16th session. In an appeal launched by Amadou-Mahtar M’bow on 7 June 1978 for the return of irreplaceable cultural heritage to those who created it, the Director-General of UNESCO noted: ‘the peoples who have been victims of this sometimes centuries-old looting have not only been stripped of irreplaceable masterpieces: they have been dispossessed of a memory that would no doubt have helped them to know themselves better, certainly to make themselves better understood by others’ (Camara 2010). However, it was only on 22 October 1987 that the UN General Assembly adopted this convention in the form of Resolution 42-7 on the Return or Restitution of Cultural Property to its Countries of Origin, which states: ‘The return of cultural property of fundamental spiritual and cultural value to its countries of origin is of paramount importance for the peoples concerned with a view to establishing collections representative of their cultural heritage’. The long interval between the two dates reflects the explosive nature of the problem. This was evidenced by the abstention of the main industrialized countries of the West, including those of the European Union, the United States, Australia, Israel and others, from voting on the Resolution. But what was the situation between Zaire and Belgium? As I have tried to show, the question of the restitution or return of collections is intimately linked to the colonial dispute between Zaire and Belgium. However, it is also a response to the contact between the Belgian and Zairean governments in 1969, which led to a bilateral agreement between the two countries in 1970. From the outset, it was envisaged that Belgium would contribute to Zaire a collection of works of art intended to enable the Zairian museums to present to the public a vision of national art that

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was representative both in terms of quality and geographical distribution (Cahen 1973–74: 111, Van Geluwe 1989). It was mainly as a result of this agreement that some cultural items were returned to Zaire. Josette Shaje Tshiluila (1987) writes that cultural property returned to Zaire fell into four categories. Firstly, pieces belonging to the former Museum of Indigenous Life in Kinshasa that had been presented at the 1958 Exhibition in Brussels, totalling thirty-one objects. Having come for the Brussels Exhibition, these objects had been used at the end of the exhibition for another travelling exhibition in Germany and Austria until August 1960. However, as a result of the instability of the Congo after independence, the same objects were kept at the Tervuren Museum pending their repatriation to their country of origin. Secondly, pieces from the former IRSAC, which were in Belgium before independence and were waiting to be returned to Zaire. Thirdly, pieces stored at the IRSAC in Rwanda. With regard to the collections from the IRSAC, it should be noted that they were well documented and more numerous than others (about six hundred pieces). Boris Wastiau writes on this subject that they had been collected and documented in the framework of scientific field research before 1960. There were important collections made and documented by J. Vansina, L. de Heusch, E.J. Maquet and J. Hiernaux, among others (Wastiau 1999: 5). Finally, the 114 pieces that Belgium sent to Zaire as a donation. This category includes ninety-four purchases, eleven donations, five objects collected by ethnographers from the museum, three objects from the Old Collection (before the creation of the museum) and one exchange (Wastiau 1999: 5). Categories two and three make up the largest lot: 726 objects (Shaje 1993: 19). As we can see, the first three categories of objects constituted no more than a return of objects that were the property of Zaire. Only the fourth category can be considered a gift from the Royal Museum for Central Africa to the Institute of National Museums of Zaire. That brings us to the question of what happened to the two hundred pieces from the Walker Art Center exhibition in Minneapolis in the United States in 1967, mentioned by Director Cahen in his various letters to the Minister Abel Dubois of National Education and President Mobutu in 1970? What became of the final list of the two hundred pieces, and the value attributed to them, transmitted to the Minister of National Education on 2 July 1970? First of all, it should be noted that the various objects were sent in three stages: 1976, 1978 and 1982 (Wastiau 1999: 5). In March 1976, the Minister of Foreign Affairs and Development Co-operation, Renaat Van Elslande, personally travelled to Kinshasa to hand over a Kuba Ndôp

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royal statue to the Zairian authorities (see Figure 7.1). After this symbolic handover in March 1976, the first real shipment did not take place until 24 March 1977, with the sending of four crates containing a total of twenty-eight objects, twenty-two of which belonged to the Museum of Indigenous Life in Leopoldville and only one of which was from the Royal Museum for Central Africa (RMCA) collections (Mumbembele 2019: 469). Cahen admitted that the handing over of objects originally belonging to the Museum of Indigenous Life could pose a diplomatic problem for the two countries. This situation had also worried the Minister of Foreign Affairs, who, in a telephone conversation with Albert Maesen, head of the ethnography department in Tervuren, felt that there should be a real contribution from the Tervuren Museum, considering the four boxes of the Museum of Indigenous Life merely constituted a return of Zairean property. Finally, the last shipment of firty-four objects, taken exclusively from the Tervuren reserves, was carried out in 1982. It had been planned as early as September 1977, but due to logistical problems and the instability that marked Zaire during the two Shaba wars of 1977 and 1978, Belgium delayed the return of the objects. However, the Zairean side was of the opinion that most of the objects returned to Zaire were of very little artistic or monetary value. On examination of the situation of the transfer of objects from Tervuren to Kinshasa, a question arises: why did the first transfer take place so late? The absence of a museum is a clear explanation. This was previously stated in the views of the director of Tervuren, Lucien Cahen. Another reason was the opposition of the employees of the Tervuern Museum, Huguette Van Geluwe and Maesen, to any transfer of the RMCA collections. On the other hand, between 1973 and 1975, there was a cooling of relations between Zaire and Belgium. In addition to the discourse on the restitution of cultural property, the year 1973 was characterized by the policy of authenticity and the radicalization of Zairian positions with regard to foreign companies. On 30 November 1973, President Mobutu, after questioning Belgium’s exploitation of the country until 1960, announced the Zairianization of most foreign property in Zaire (Brassinne 1985: 34). This consisted of dispossessing expatriates of their businesses, farms and agricultural estates and handing them over to Zairian citizens in order to create a distinctly Zairian bourgeoisie. As one can imagine, the Zairianization of foreigners’ property caused many difficulties, mainly with Belgium. Most of the expropriations were to the detriment of Belgian citizens and companies.

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Figure 7.1. The handing over of the Kuba Ndôp royal statue to the Zairian authorities in March 1976, HP.2011.76.1, collection RMCA Tervuren; 1976, © RMCA Tervuren.

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Conclusions It is interesting to note that the debate on the ‘restitution’, ‘transfer’, ‘return’, ‘exchange’ and even ‘donation’ of the Tervuren collections to the Congo began well before independence, pitting the Belgians against each other. As early as the 1930s, when the Museum of Indigenous Life was created in Leopoldville, COPAMI had expressed the wish that this institution should be able to use some of the multiple examples of works that existed in the collections of the Museum of Belgian Congo in Tervuren. However, almost a decade later, Tervuren had sent only a few objects. From 1960 onwards, as part of the independence negotiations, certain Congolese political leaders expressed the desire to take over, among other things, the collections of the Museum of Tervuren. Tervuren opposed this as it wanted to maintain its monopoly on the scientific study of the collections, while making them accessible to national and foreign visitors. These demands were taken up during the same decade by Congolese intellectuals in the context of discussions on the Belgian–Congolese litigation. One may wonder why the Tervuren collections occupy a prominent place in this famous litigation. This interest, which arose at the end of colonization, speaks to an awareness of the need for the Congolese to rediscover their past and affirm their identity. This interest is no doubt also explained by the highly symbolic value of Tervuren for the Congolese. Not only does it represent a sumptuous and impressive royal palace; it is also a great ‘cemetery’ where the masterpieces of our ancestors, torn from their environment and diverted from their function, are buried. Desacralized, they have become mere objects of curiosity, reduced to the role of consumer goods. But, on the other hand, Tervuren is also where Congolese objects are ‘transfigured’ and, thanks to international museology, they are now famous worldwide. Moreover, as Damiana Oţoiu has shown (Oţoiu 2020), the fate of the Congolese collections and the wider question of the musealization of Belgian colonial history, continues to be a major issue in public debates. With a little hindsight, it is clear that several Congolese requests for restitution in fact echo the demands of the Belgian colonists who believed that the colony was legally distinct from the metropolis, that its heritage belonged to it and that it should remain in the Congo. This was, for example, the point of view of Pierre Ryckmans, a Governor General who was very close to the Congolese and who wrote to the Minister of Colonies on 16 June 1945 about Tervuren’s attitude towards the colony’s collections: ‘I rather believe that the duty of the Government towards future generations is to absolutely prohibit the export of unique pieces.

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They are part of the Colony’s heritage and we are responsible for them as guardians’ (Ryckmans 1945). It was not until 1970, ten years after independence, that the idea of repatriating cultural property to the former colony began to take shape. Two events can explain this. Firstly, the creation in 1970 of the Institute of the National Museums of Zaire/Congo (IMNZ/C), which was largely the result of the desire of the Tervuren management to suspend the transfer of cultural property as no attempt had been made in the Congo to bring together representative collections and to create the conditions for their conservation and study. Supported in an important way by Belgian co-operation through two successive special agreements, the Zairian claims led to the creation of the IMNZ, impressive collection building, research, conservation and training, and even, in fine, to the transfer of a few hundred objects, including some major works. Few former colonies have obtained so much from their former metropole and Belgium’s attitude has been cited as an example by UNESCO. The second important event was the statements on the return to Africa of cultural property expropriated during colonization made by the Zairian authorities in 1973 both at the 3rd Extraordinary Congress of International Association of Art Critics organized in Kinshasa and at the United Nations. From 1973 to 1982, these calls were answered and some objects were returned by Belgium to Zaire. It should be noted, however, that while the demands of these Congolese leaders in the 1960s were strictly cultural, heritage and identity-related, this was not the case after 1970, when the same demands were made to reinforce the dictatorial regime of Mobutu. At the political level, moreover, the demand for the restitution of property continues to be made by Zaire as a way of applying pressure during crises between the two countries. The most positive and paradoxical aspect of this saga, no matter what the future outcome, is that the debates on ‘restitution’ have continued to nourish discussions and thus relations between the two parties. As in many traditional societies, what is most important is not what is exchanged between individuals or groups, but the relationship thus created. Giving in too hastily is often seen as an affront, a way of refusing a relationship. Even if the ‘uncles from Belgium’ were probably never aware of it, the many museological exchanges and relations between the Congo and the RMCA are largely the result of this never-ending restitution demand. But beyond this panorama, the question of the restitution of the collections raises a certain number of questions of principle at the international level, which are still being debated: should all objects be returned to their countries of origin? Are there objects that deserve to be returned to

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their countries of origin because of their intrinsic and unique value? How can the younger generations benefit from the heritage of their ancestors outside their national territory? How can that which is considered today common heritage be made accessible to the countries concerned? Are the conditions of reception in the countries of origin ready and adapted? Are the laws on the protection of cultural heritage adapted and applied? What is the state of the art of the museums that should host these same objects in the countries of origin? Are the countries concerned genuinely committed to such an approach? Only adequate solutions to these problems will result in cultural heritage no longer being a rigid and inaccessible concept, but rather something universal, widely accessible to the social strata that are too often marginalized. ‘In any case, the right to restitution of cultural property or reparation is recognized today by the United Nations. Some states want to recover works of art that were taken away at a time when the balance of power – during colonization – was unfavourable to them’ (Boutte 2014: 52). Placide Mumbembele Sanger is a Doctor in Political and Social Sciences of the Université Libre de Bruxelles. He teaches the history of Congolese museums at the University of Kinshasa. He is currently working on the issue of the restitution of cultural property from Belgium to the Democratic Republic of Congo. His publications include The World Heritage Label in Africa: Between Illusion and Disillusionment. The Case of the Democratic Republic of Congo (African World Heritage Fund, 2014) and ‘Museum, Political Struggle and National Demands in the (Post-)Colonial CongoKinshasa’ in the Annals of the Faculty of Social Sciences of University of Kinshasa, 2019.

Notes   1. Fonds COPAMI, portefeuille 4790, liasse 47.19, Africa Archive (henceforth AA), Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Brussels (henceforth Bruxelles: MAE), p. 9.   2. Fonds COPAMI, portefeuille 4794, liasse 47.10, AA, Bruxelles: MAE, p. 659.
  3. J.D. Mobutu, Letter to the Minister of Foreign Affairs of Belgium, 3 March 1970. Archives of the Institute of National Museums in Zaire, Royal Museum for Central Africa (MRAC, Musée Royal de l’Afrique Centrale).

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References Archives of the Belgian Ministry of Foreign Affairs Anonymous. 1960. Note concernant la propriété des collections du Musée royal du Congo belge à Tervuren. CAB 3754, liasse 324. Bruxelles: MAE. Cahen, L. 1960. Lettre au Ministre du Congo belge et du Ruanda-Urundi. Musée royal du Congo belge-note n°4. Notes Juridiques, 13 avril. CAB 3754, liasse 324. AA. Bruxelles: MAE. Durieux, A. 1960. Note à Monsieur le Ministre du Congo belge et du Ruanda-Urundi, 23 mars. CAB 3754, liasse 324, AA. Bruxelles: MAE. Gille, A., and J. Vanhove. 1960. Note pour Monsieur le Ministre, 14 avril. CAB 3754, liasse 324. AA. Bruxelles: MAE. Vender Stichele, A. 1960. Note pour Monsieur le Ministère, 5 mai. CAB 3754, liasse 324. AA. Bruxelles: MAE.

Archives of the Royal Museum for Central Africa, Tervuren Cahen, L. 1970. Lettre au Ministre de l’Education Nationale, 11 mars. Archives IMNZ au MRAC. ———. 1973. Lettre au Rév. Frère J. Cornet. C/o Académie des Beaux-Arts. Tervuren, le 13 juillet. Archives IMNZ au MRAC. De Jonghe. 1935. Note pour Monsieur le Ministre, 18 décembre. MRAC, Archives AA.03, D11. Lepersonne, J. 1945. Note au sujet d’une demande de subside introduite par le Musée d’Elisabethville, 5 mai. MRAC, Archives AA.03, D11. Ryckmans, P. 1945. Lettre à Monsieur le Ministre des Colonies à Bruxelles, 6 juin. MRAC, Archives AA.03, D11. Schouteden, H. 1936. Lettre au Ministre des Colonies, 8 février. MRAC, Archives AA.03, D11. ———. 1946. Lettre à Monsieur le Directeur Général MAGOTTE, Ministère des Colonies, Bruxelles, 24 juin. MRAC, Archives AA.03, D11.

Interviews 2010, Interview with Daniel Cahen, son of the former director of the RMCA and IMNZ/C. He has also conducted excavations archaeological sites in Kinshasa and Katanga. 2011, Interview with Kama Funzi Firmin, cultural and scientific advisor (1968–80) to President Mobutu at the time of the creation of the IMNC.

Published Sources Anonymous. 1960. ‘A la Table Ronde Economique’, Notre Kongo, 2 April.  . 1973. ‘Vers la restitution de nos objets d’art’, Salongo, 7 November, Kinshasa. Basilewsky, P. 1977. ‘Lucien Cahen’, Africa-Tervuren XXII-2, 29–30. Tervuren: MRAC.

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Brassine, J. 2009. ‘Congo: l’épopée des équipes administratives de 1947 à 1967’, retrieved 29 January 2014 from http://www.brassinnedelabuissiere lumumba.be/…/ Livre%20_Congo_épopée.  . 1985. La coopération belgo-zaïroise 1960–1985. Brussels: CRISP. Camara, A. 2010. ‘La conservation du patrimoine: un combat de tous les jours’, retrieved 6 February 2014 from http://www.afrik.com/article19753.html. Cooper, F. 2005. Le colonialisme en question. Théorie, connaissance, histoire. Paris: Payot. Couttenier, M. 2010. Als muren spreken. Het museum van Tervuren 1910–2010/Si les murs pouvaient parler. Le Musée de Tervuren. Tervuren: Musée royal de l’Afrique centrale. Gaugue, A. 1999. ‘Musées et colonisation en Afrique tropicale’, Cahiers d’Études Africaines, 39, 155–56 (3–4): 727–45. Paris: EHESS. Herzog, A. 2004. ‘Quand les géographes visitent les musées, ils y voient des objets… de recherche’, L’Espace géographique, 33(4): 363–68. Liebaers, H. 1977. ‘Hommage à Lucien Cahen’, Africa-Tervuren XXIII-2. Mumbembele, P. 2019. ‘La restitution des biens culturels en situation (post)coloniale au Congo. Entre enjeu politique et sauvegarde du patrimoine’, Volkskunde 3: 461–74. Oţoiu, D. 2022. ‘Diaspora(s), communautés d’origine et collections muséales. Collaboration et controverses autour de la rénovation du Musée Royal de l’Afrique Centrale, à Tervuren’, New Europe College Yearbook, 2018–2019. NEC: Bucharest. Shaje, A.T. 1987. ‘L’inventaire des biens culturels mobiliers: exemple de l’Institut des musées nationaux du Zaïre’, Museum 1,153: 50–51. van Beurden, S. 2009. ‘Authentically African: African Arts and Postcolonial Cultural Politics in Transnational Perspective (Congo (DRC), Belgium and the USA, 1955– 1980)’. PhD dissertation. University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia. Van Geluwe, H. 1979. ‘L’apport de la Belgique au patrimoine culturel zaïrois’, in ‘Retour et restitution de biens culturels’, Museum 1: 32–37. Wastiau, B. 1999. Congo-Tervuren/Aller-retour. Le transfert de pièces ethnographiques du MRAC à l’IMNZ 1976–1982. Tervuren: MRAC.

Chapter 8

‘How Would You Like to See Your Great-Grandfather in a Museum?’ The Issue of ‘Human Dignity’ in Repatriation Processes (Cases Involving French Museums) Cristina Golomoz

Introduction In the post-Second World War era, there has been a proliferation of cultural property rules and standards at both international and national levels. In my wider research, I examine the relevance, significance and influence of these norms on the ground. I study them from a ‘law-inaction’ perspective by focusing on a rarely seen aspect of museum practice: curators engaging with cultural property law and ethics. How are legal and ethical rules applied in curatorial practice? What significance do they have in museum work beyond their practical application? How have they shaped different aspects of curatorial practice? To address these questions, I draw on observations made in museums, as well as conversations with curators. I thereby aim to approach such questions from an informant-driven perspective. In this chapter, I take this approach in order to explore how curators mediate between legalistic norms and more value-based understandings of museum ethics. I draw on data from the fieldwork I conducted in three Parisian museums, which I use as case studies and field sites: the Quai Branly – Jacques Chirac Museum (Musée du quai Branly – Jacques

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Chirac), the Louvre Museum (Musée du Louvre) and the National Museum of Natural History (Muséum national de l’Histoire naturelle). Throughout my fieldwork, I discussed with curators their understanding of cultural property norms – both national and international – and what the relevance of these norms was for their curatorial work. Similarly, my fieldwork allowed me to observe how curators understand and interpret more open-ended and value-oriented ideas that also seemed to guide them through their curatorial work. In this chapter, I look at how curators navigate the tensions that sometimes arise between such openended, moral considerations and legalistic norms, using the notion of human dignity as my lens. In this chapter, I discuss the notion of human dignity in the context of repatriation debates that have been taking place in France in recent decades. One of the reasons why this notion is important in this debate is legal: the existence of human dignity, or the lack thereof, influences the legal regime that applies to the museum item. If human dignity is considered to have been maintained, the item in question falls under the jurisdiction of bioethics legislation, which provides a legal regime of protection for human body parts. In the latter case, public property law is applicable, as is more generally the case for museum objects’ administration and protection. Another important reason is moral and relates to questions regarding the appropriate treatment of these items in the context of museum collections and repatriation claims. As I describe below, the different legal and moral questions surrounding the notion of human dignity add another layer of complexity to the repatriation debate taking place in France. One particularly interesting detail relates to how the determination of whether or not a museum object has its human dignity is made. The analysis I present below shows that, in certain cases, this determination process – which can alter a museum object’s classification under the law – was heavily influenced by curators.

Categorizing Human Remains in the Law The history of repatriation claims involving human remains from French museums illustrates that these items’ legal classification is not fixed. Rather, it could be said to oscillate between two points. On the one hand, human remains can be understood as objects that can be owned. As such, they are protected within the law as property. On the other hand, human remains can also be understood in relation to the human body that they once constituted. In this case, the law envisages a different regime

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of protection that appeals to moral categories, such as dignity and respect, which are commonly associated with the human person. To show how these classifications work in practice, I briefly review two repatriation cases that captured public attention in France in recent decades. The first prominent case involved a request by South Africa that France repatriate Sarah Baartman’s human remains, which was first made in 1994 (see also chapters 4 and 9 in this volume). Baartman was a woman of South African descent who died in France in 1815, after having been exhibited for several years in so-called freak shows (Holmes 2016). Her remains were kept in the collections of the Museum of Mankind (Musée de l’Homme), the former anthropological section of the National Museum of Natural History in Paris. At the time, the French government opposed this repatriation on the grounds that the item constituted inalienable (non-transferable) public property as part of the museum’s collections (see Le Garrec 2002). As a form of property, Baartman’s remains were therefore seen as a museum object. Yet, this status was challenged in 2002, when the case was brought into the public eye. Reacting to the bad press France was getting both at home and abroad for opposing this repatriation (see, for example, Briet 2002 and Webster 2000), and to the renewed request by South African authorities, the French Parliament reopened the case for further examination. As a result, a 2002 report by the French Senate found that a law from 1994 – known as the bioethics legislation – applied in this case. Briefly explained, this legislation designates a special regime of protection for the human body and its parts, which extends from the moment of the person’s birth to their death and even after. The protection afforded by the bioethics law includes, for example, a ban on any forms of ownership of human body parts, as well as a ban on the use of human parts in commercial activities.1 The 2002 report by the French Senate had noteworthy implications for South Africa’s repatriation request. One of these was the conclusion that Baartman’s remains had been miscategorized within the law. Initially considered an object that could be appropriated by the French state and its institutions, Baartman’s remains were instead to be understood as still maintaining a close connection to the human body they once constituted. As such, it was noted, they deserved to be treated with respect and to have their human dignity protected. In more practical terms, this new categorization opened the way for the remains to be repatriated to South Africa. Later that year, the Parliament passed a bill to this end – the Law No. 2002-323 of 6 March 2002 on the return by France of the mortal remains of Saartjie Baartman to South Africa.

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The second well-known case involved a request by New Zealand for twenty mummified Māori heads held in French museums, notably at the National Museum of Natural History in the city of Rouen, the Museum of Mankind and the Quai Branly – Jacques Chirac Museum in Paris. In 2007, the Rouen Local Council agreed to the request by invoking the above-mentioned 1994 bioethics legislation and the Baartman case as a precedent. Shortly afterwards, however, the French Ministry of Culture challenged the Rouen Council’s decision in an administrative court (Jugement Commune de Rouen contre Préfet de la région Haute-Normandie, Préfet de Seine-Maritime [2007] Tribunal Administratif de Rouen 0702737) on the grounds that Rouen Council’s decision lacked the approval of the National Scientific Commission of the Museums of France (Commission Scientifique Nationale des Musées de France) – a body consisting of museum professionals whose role included examining and approving applications to deaccession museums objects, including in cases relating to repatriation claims.2 Newly established, the commission had not yet become fully functional at the time of the decision made in the Baartman case. The administrative court upheld the ministry’s view. It ruled that the remains continued to be a form of public property as part of museums’ collections. However, the court regarded this status as compatible with the bioethics legislation – a view that differed from the interpretation given to the legislation in the Baartman case (ibid.). Whilst the human remains in this case were to be treated with respect and their dignity was to be protected according to the bioethics law, the court considered that they could continue to be kept in the museum. Consequently, Rouen Council’s decision to repatriate the Māori remains to New Zealand was set aside. A few years later, in 2010, this decision was upheld by the appellate court (Arrêt Commune de Rouen contre Préfet de la région Haute-Normandie, Préfet de Seine-Maritime [2010] Cour d’appel de Douai  15DA02020). Later that year, however, the French Parliament made another exceptional intervention, passing a bill to terminate the Māori remains’ incorporation into French museum collections with a view to returning them to New Zealand – Law No. 2010-501 of 18 May 2010 authorizing the return by France of Māori heads to New Zealand and relating to the management of collections (Loi no 2010-501 du 18 mai 2010 visant à autoriser la restitution par la France des têtes maories à la Nouvelle-Zélande et relative à la gestion des collections). The two cases discussed above illustrate that the legal categorization of museum items consisting of human remains can be altered over time through legal and political intervention (see also Oțoiu 2021). This is an interesting observation, especially when considered against the

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background of the French legal notion of inalienability. This notion designates a regime of protection that applies to assets owned by the French state and its institutions as part of the public domain (see, for example, Chatelain and Taugourdeau 2011: 18–21). This regime of protection is characterized by an interdiction on selling, donating or otherwise alienating such publicly owned assets (ibid.). This is specified in article L 3111-1 of the Code Général de la Propriété des Personnes Publiques (the code that governs the administration of public domain assets), alongside imprescriptibility – a correlative rule that holds that public domain assets cannot be appropriated by private entities by way of prescription or lapse of time. According to Françoise Chatelain and Pierre Taugourdeau, these two notions, taken together, establish that, in principle, ‘a public domain asset can never cease to belong to the public domain’ (signifie qu’un bien qui appartient au domaine public ne cesse jamais d’appartenir au domaine public; ibid.: 19). In my doctoral thesis, I discussed the relevance of the legal regime designated by inalienability and imprescriptibility when applied to public museum collections in France in the context of repatriation requests (Golomoz 2018: chapter 5). I showed that these principles have generally represented very serious obstacles to such restitution claims. In the words of Felwine Sarr and Bénédicte Savoy (2018: 72), restitution requests involving French museums have so far come up against something resembling a legal blockade, whereby, in practice, inalienability and imprescriptibility have been conceived as absolute rules that cannot be disputed and to which there can be no exceptions. What these authors allude to is not only a legal context that leaves little hope procedurally for restitution requests to succeed (ibid.); they also posit that this legal context was exacerbated by ‘strict application(s)’ of the law. Similarly, in my doctoral thesis, I found that there has been a pronounced tendency in France to interpret the inalienability rule in conservative and rigid ways that leave little room for challenging the public ownership of the museum items requested for repatriation (Golomoz 2018: 171–73). Whilst this tendency could be observed in legal interpretations of this principle in the available jurisprudence relating to repatriation requests (ibid.: 69; 172), a particularly strong voice seemed to come from inside museums. During my fieldwork, I interviewed curators and other museum professionals from three large Parisian museums – Quai Branly – Jacques Chirac Museum, the Louvre Museum and the National Museum of Natural History – with the aim of documenting their attitudes and positions in relation to the repatriation requests French museums had been dealing with in recent years. Curators often indicated collections’

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status as inalienable public property as a major factor influencing the way French museums have handled repatriation cases. They often described restitution and repatriation requests as a challenge to collections’ inalienability and directly opposed such claims on the grounds that the objects are ‘inalienable according to the French law’. For example, a senior curator at the National Museum of Natural History suggested that inalienability was commonly taken to mean that ‘museum collections are for eternity’ (La collection, c’est pour l’éternité!). Others, such as one of my informants from the Quai Branly – Jacques Chirac Museum, related collections’ inalienability to museums’ mission of preserving culturally valuable objects for future generations. Restitutions and repatriation requests were seen by my informants as having the potential to significantly weaken the principle of inalienability and, as such, pose a threat to museums’ mission of safeguarding collections for the generations to come. Consequently, some of the curators I spoke to seemed to be a lot more interested in legal classifications than one would otherwise expect. In the next section, I explore some of the ways in which my informants navigated the intricate legal questions posed by cases involving so-called named human remains.

How Do Curators Navigate the Debate if the Requested Objects Qualify as Named Human Remains? One of my informants from the Museum of Mankind recalled the museum’s reaction to the Māori case. A retired curator who had been in charge of the museum’s anthropology section spoke about the uncertainty that surrounded the human remains collection during this time. This uncertainty, he recounted to me, was felt more acutely during the Māori case than in 2002, when the repatriation of Baartman’s remains was decided. As he explained, this was because the Māori remains were ‘unnamed’ or ‘anonymous’, that is, they could not be linked to a known individual, unlike in Baartman’s case. As most of the human remains held in this museum were unnamed, allowing the Māori heads to be repatriated was seen as a dangerous precedent. Other Parisian museums also house human remains collections that are predominantly unnamed: the Quai Branly – Jacques Chirac Museum holds a collection of artefacts made of both human and animal tissues, which are used in religious rituals in some societies. The Louvre holds an important collection of Egyptian mummies, which is among its main attractions. These, too, my informant suggested, would be at risk should the repatriation of unnamed remains be allowed.

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Whilst no such obligation was legally imposed on the museum, my informants recounted that the Museum of Mankind made the decision not to put named human remains on display. I spoke about this approach with one of the museum’s most senior curators and the director of the curatorial section. According to my informant, the museum adopted this approach after the repatriation of Baartman’s remains in 2002 in response to the bioethics legislation. This view was recurrent among my informants: most curators described this approach as a way of showing ‘respect to human dignity’. Curators’ language closely resembled that of the bioethics legislation: ‘the law … prohibits any attack on the person’s dignity, and guarantees the respect of the human being’.3 Whilst named remains were removed from display out of respect for their human dignity, unnamed human remains were not thought to deserve the same type of deference. Instead, curators often depicted them as objects used in scientific research, in disciplines such as evolutionary biology, biological anthropology and archaeology. For example, one of my informants, a biological anthropologist at the Museum of Mankind, described these human remains to me as ‘invaluable archives of information’ about human society’s evolution. As I illustrate below with two recent cases, curators also approached named and unnamed remains differently in the context of repatriation requests. The first case is the 2014 repatriation of a Kanak leader’s remains. The Kanak people are an indigenous population from the Pacific island of New Caledonia, a territory that has been under French sovereignty since the nineteenth century. In 1878, a Kanak leader called Ataï led an insurrection against the French, but was defeated. His remains were brought to Paris and acquired by the Anthropological Society of Paris (Société d’Anthropologie de Paris), a private organization. In the 1950s, the collections of the Anthropological Society of Paris were transferred for preservation purposes to the Museum of Mankind through an arrangement between the two institutions.4 In 2011, these remains were requested by certain representatives of the Kanak people. According to one of my informants, a curator involved in the case, the museum showed ‘no reluctance’ to assist with the repatriation. My informant described this decision as a gesture of respect for ‘our [common] humanity’. According to my informant, the museum actively ‘sought a solution’ to ‘overcome the legal obstacle [of inalienability]’ that prevented the repatriation. The legal experts consulted by the museum revealed that Ataï’s remains continued to be legally owned by the Anthropological Society of Paris and were therefore not publicly owned. This meant that the human remains were not protected by inalienability. According to my informant, this allowed for the repatriation to be rapidly conducted, without the need to obtain

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the approval of the National Scientific Commission of the Museums of France (see also a paper authored by curators from the National Museum of Natural History, Marchal et al. 2016). The second case is France’s agreement to repatriate all Australian indigenous human remains kept in French museums. This agreement was signed by the French president and the Australian prime minister in 2014. My informants from the Museum of Mankind were critical of this decision. For example, they spoke about the practical challenges posed by repatriating these remains. According to one of my informants from this museum, the ‘Australian collection’ includes predominantly unnamed remains, which only bear the notation ‘Terres australes’ (literally, ‘Southern lands’). Past recording practices make it difficult to determine the exact provenance of these unnamed remains: ‘it could be in Australia or the surrounding territories’, the curator explained to me. Like many of his colleagues, this curator was concerned that mistakes could be made if these returns are to be carried out, such as returning human remains that may have no connection with Australian indigenous communities. He suggested that repatriations should be conducted on a case-by-case basis, with the remains’ origins being confirmed through DNA studies and ‘without threatening the integrity and inalienability’ of the museum’s collections. These two cases illustrate recurring opinions among museum professionals in the context of the repatriation of human remains. In the former case, curators actively sought ‘a legal solution’ that would facilitate repatriation, appealing to the moral notions of respect and dignity.5 In the latter, curators expressed concerns about collections’ integrity, using language that was reminiscent of numerous other conversations I conducted with curators on the topic of museum collections’ inalienability. Named remains, I came to understand, were seen by my informants as distinct from other types of museum objects. If the requested objects qualified as named human remains, curators seemed to prioritize the consideration of moral values over collections’ inalienability. What explained these attitudes? A possible insight can be found in my informants’ terminology. The Larousse dictionary defines repatriation as follows: ‘to send someone to their country of origin’ (Larousse). The term primarily applies to people rather than objects, as noted in the dictionary. As I explained above, my informants described named human remains in terms that are regularly associated with the human person: worthy of respect and capable of dignity. Moreover, I noticed that on several occasions curators spoke about named remains as if these somehow represented or stood for the known individual they were the remains of. For

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example, when I asked one of my informants from the National Museum of Natural History to explain why he agreed that in principle the repatriation of named remains was desirable, he replied: ‘Well, how would you like to see your great-grandfather in a museum?’ Like other curators I interviewed at this museum, this informant viewed named remains as personified and therefore different to other museum items. It is, I think, no coincidence that my informants sometimes suggested that a possible resolution to the repatriation of named remains could be sought by claimants under family law, rather than the public property law (droit de la propriété des personnes publiques) under which inalienability is codified. From a layperson’s perspective, the former might be seen as the law governing relations with a person rather than an owned object, in contrast to how the latter, property law, might be understood. This, I argue, is another illustration of how curators regarded named remains as unlike other types of museum items.

Conclusions In this chapter, I looked at legal classifications and their importance on the ground when dealing with repatriation claims for museum objects. I focused on the issue of human dignity and its relevance to how museum collections consisting of human remains are classified, protected and administered in the law. My findings concern two main, related aspects. The first relates to the consequences of such legal classification in the context of repatriation requests. The second concerns the manner and setting in which some of the museum objects I discussed in this chapter have been classified. Firstly, this chapter has analysed the consequences of museum objects’ legal classification in repatriation claims, specifically in cases where such objects constitute human remains. By reviewing a series of historical repatriation cases that French museums have dealt with in recent decades, I showed that museum objects’ legal classification – that is, as French inalienable public property or as human remains that have retained their dignity – has had important implications for the solutions reached in certain repatriation cases. For example, in the case of Sarah Baartman’s remains, their initial classification as public property meant that legally the repatriation could not allowed. However, their reclassification under the bioethics legislation opened the way for the remains to be repatriated to South Africa. As explained earlier in this chapter, this was considered a gesture that was consistent with the respect owed to the remains’ human dignity.

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Focusing on the issue of human dignity, I showed that museum objects’ legal classification and subsequent alterations to this classification can be a major factor in determining the solution reached in repatriation cases. Secondly, this chapter showed that, in some cases, the determination of whether objects were to be considered remains retaining their human dignity was made in the setting of the museum. For example, in the Ataï case, this determination was heavily influenced by curators from the museum housing the human remains in question. The item represented the remains of an individual who could be named. Consequently, the curators demonstrated more openness to finding a solution that would allow the remains to be repatriated. The reference to the idea of the individual’s name being an indication that the remains had kept their human dignity illustrates one of the ways in which curators navigate the complex legal and moral questions related to the repatriation debate. It also shows, I suggest, that in certain cases, curators’ positioning in these debates is an important – yet unacknowledged – factor that can determine the outcome that will eventually be reached in the repatriation claims in question. Cristina Golomoz completed her PhD at the University of Oxford, Centre for Socio-Legal Studies, in 2018. Her doctoral research focused on using approaches from anthropology and law to study the relevance of cultural property law in museum practice. Prior to her doctoral research, she studied museum anthropology, politics and law at the University of Cambridge, the London School of Economics and the University of Bucharest.

Notes  1. ‘Le corps humain, ses éléments et ses produits ne peuvent faire l’objet d’un droit patrimonial’, article 3, Loi n° 94-653 du 29 juillet 1994 relative au respect du corps humain [Law No. 94-653 of 29 July 1994 on the respect for the human body], codified under article 16-1 of the French Civil Code.  2. The commission was reorganized in 2010. The main change was in the membership, which ceased to exclusively comprise museum professionals: a third of the new commission’s members are politicians, civil servants and academics. This decision was taken after the commission was repeatedly criticized by the Parliament for deliberately avoiding engaging with the issue of deaccessioning, including during several repatriation cases.   3. French Civil Code, article 16.   4. More details can be found in Fontanieu (2013: 104–110).   5. Discussing ‘respect’ and ‘dignity’ as moral categories is common in moral philosophy. See the entries on ‘respect’ and ‘dignity’ in Blackburn (2008).

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References Laws and Parliamentary Reports Le Code Civil (The French Civil Code), 21 March 1804. Le Garrec, J. 2002. ‘Rapport sur la proposition de loi autorisant la restitution par la France de la dépouille mortelle de Saartjie Baartman à l’Afrique du Sud’, Committee on Cultural, Family and Social Affairs, National Assembly. Retrieved 15 September 2016 from http://www.assemblee-nationale.fr/11/rapports/r3563.asp. Loi n° 94-653 du 29 juillet 1994 relative au respect du corps humain [Law No. 94-653 of 29 July 1994 on the respect for the human body]. Loi no 2002-323 du 6 mars 2002 relative à la restitution par la France de la dépouille mortelle de Saartjie Baartman à l’Afrique du Sud [Law No. 2002-323 of 6 March 2002 on the return by France of the mortal remains of Saartjie Baartman to South Africa]. Loi n° 2010-501 du 18 mai 2010 visant à autoriser la restitution par la France des têtes maories à la Nouvelle-Zélande et relative à la gestion des collections [Law No. 2010-501 of 18 May 2010 authorizing the return by France of Māori heads to New Zealand and relating to the management of collections].

Court Decisions Arrêt Commune de Rouen contre Préfet de la région Haute-Normandie, Préfet de SeineMaritime [2010] Cour d’appel de Douai 15DA02020. Jugement Commune de Rouen contre Préfet de la région Haute-Normandie, Préfet de SeineMaritime [2007] Tribunal Administratif de Rouen 0702737.

Published Sources Blackburn, S. 2008. The Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Briet, S. 2002. ‘Les tribulations de la Vénus hottentote’, Libération, 21 February, retrieved 27 March 2017 from http://www.liberation.fr/sciences/2002/02/21/ les-tribulations-de-la-venus-hottentote_394542. Chatelain, F., and P. Taugourdeau. 2011. Œuvres d’art et objets de collection en droit français: à jour de la loi du 20 juillet 2011 sur les ventes volontaires de meubles aux enchères publiques. Paris: LexisNexis. Fontanieu, G. 2013. ‘La restitution des mémoires: une expérience humaine, une aventure juridique’, Journal de la Société des Océanistes 136–37: 103–118. Golomoz, C. 2018. ‘Cultural Property in Practice: The Role of French Museum Professionals’, PhD dissertation. Oxford: University of Oxford, Faculty of Law. Holmes, R. 2016. The Hottentot Venus: The Life and Death of Saartjie Baartman: Born 1789 – Buried 2002. London: Bloomsbury Publishing. Marchal, F., et al. 2016. ‘La restitution des têtes osseuses d’Ataï et de son compagnon’, Bulletins et Mémoires de la Société d’Anthropologie de Paris 28: 100–5. Oțoiu, D. 2022 (forthcoming). ‘“Restitution”, “transfert”, “retour” des collections muséales issues du contact colonial. Enjeux historico-politiques, juridiques et épistémiques’, in

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F. Bodenstein, D. Oțoiu, A. Seiderer and Margareta von Oswald, Traces. Les manifestations du (dé)colonial au musée. Paris: Horizons d’attente. ‘Rapatriement’. Larousse – Dictionnaire français en ligne, retrieved 21 March 2017 from https://www.larousse.fr/dictionnaires/francais/rapatriement/66469. Sarr, F., and B. Savoy. 2018. The Restitution of African Cultural Heritage. Toward a New Relational Ethics. November. Retrieved December 2018 from http://restitutionreport2018.com/. Webster, P. 2000. ‘France Keeps a Hold on Black Venus’, Guardian, 2 April, retrieved 27 March 2017 from https://www.theguardian.com/world/2000/apr/02/paulwebster. theobserver1

Chapter 9

(De)Museifying Collections of Physical Anthropology The Display and/or the Restitution of Human Remains of Indigenous Peoples from Southern Africa Damiana Oţoiu

In August 2017, the curators of Iziko Museums of South Africa,1 in Cape Town, organized, in collaboration with representatives of several indigenous groups (the Kei !Korana and Nguni traditional authority coalition)2, a ritual aiming to ‘cleanse’ the ethnography gallery. It was meant to symbolize a ‘reconciliation process’, with regard to both the violent appropriation of human remains of indigenous populations (Iziko holds the second-largest collection of human remains and plaster casts in South Africa) and the history of physical anthropology, seen as a history of epistemic violence and objectification of indigenous populations by museum professionals. The ‘healing ritual’ is just one event in a long series of initiatives that bring together representatives of descendant communities, public historians, politicians and curators of the largest network of museums in South Africa. In the case of Iziko Museums of South Africa, their collaboration takes different forms: from co-curating temporary exhibitions to making exhaustive inventories of human remains and evaluating research proposals from academics who wish to access the collection of human remains. These forms of collaboration are nowadays crucial to the (re)making of the former colonial museums and archives in Southern Africa, Australia, the United States, Canada, Europe and elsewhere. The ‘indigenization of museums’ discussed by Ruth Phillips (2011), among others, and defined

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as ‘the incorporation into the mainstream museum world of concepts, protocols, and processes that originate in Aboriginal societies’ (Philips 2011: 10) and the partnership between museum and descendant communities have become important imperatives of the contemporary museum world. In this chapter, I aim to historicize this recent phenomenon of ‘decolonization’ and ‘indigenization’ of the former ethnographic museums by looking at the history of debates among South African curators and within different associations of museum professionals since the early 1990s,3 the history of collaborative museum practices and the activism of indigenous groups in the context of the complex postcolonial and post-apartheid politics of identity and indigeneity. Relying on different institutional archives (especially the Iziko Museums Archives, the South African Museums Association Archives and the archives of the University of the Western Cape and the University of the Witwatersrand), private archives (of current and former members of Iziko Museums, researchers, artists and diplomats, including former members of the ‘Ad-hoc Committee on the reburial of Saartje Baartman’)4 and exchanges with museum staff,5 I have tried to take a closer look at the first debates concerning the repatriation of human remains from European institutions that took place within the community of museum professionals. I have also examined more closely the first attempts at ‘Transforming the Curatorship of Human Remains’6 stored at Iziko Museums and at discussing their potential restitution; these attempts were initiated at the beginning of the 2000s by the members of the Social History Collections Division in collaboration with academics from other institutions in Cape Town and community representatives from Northern and Western Cape. I have chosen to take a closer look at these initial debates and projects because the already extensive scholarly literature (i.e. Crais and Scully 2009; Lalu 2009; Peterson, Gavua and Rassool 2015), the public testimonies of academics involved in restitution processes (i.e. Gibbon 2020) and different other sources (such as the documentary film The Return of Sarah Baartman by Zola Maseko, 2002) have focused principally on the militant actors and pressures that originate from outside the museums: communities of origin, pro-restitution activists, public historians and politicians. This chapter examines how the members of the South African Museums Association and Iziko Museums of South Africa redefined their role and the ethical norms governing their profession starting in the mid-1990s, as well as considering the transnational circulation of concepts, principles and vocabularies in the field of museum studies. It is not only an attempt to examine what Hilde Hein calls ‘institutional morality’ (Hein 2000), that is, the transformation of museum ethics from within the museum,

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but also an endeavour to see how the museum professionals try, with varying degrees of success, to involve external actors (members of ‘descendant communities’, artists, public historians, academics, politicians) in this initial reflection and how they tackle mutual misunderstandings and even conflicts of an epistemological (or political) nature. I focus on two key moments in this process of restitution of the human remains of the indigenous peoples from Southern Africa. At the outset, in the first part of the chapter, I follow the deliberations on the international request for repatriation made by the South African state to the French state. The request concerned the remains of Sarah Baartman, a young Khoekhoe woman exhibited in freak shows in England and France, whose human remains have been kept at the Museum of Mankind (Musée de l’Homme) in Paris (see also chapters 4 and 8 in this volume). I follow the deliberations as they take place in the framework of the South African Museums Association (SAMA) and, subsequently, during the meetings that the members of the SAMA Humanities section are holding in Cape Town, to which the initiators invite representatives of indigenous peoples and various other experts. In the second part of the chapter, I show that the issue of the restitution of collections of human remains administered by South African museums to descendant communities is just as contentious as the international claims. I follow the curators of Iziko Museums of South Africa in their attempts to define a boundary between ethically and non-ethically constituted collections in order to develop policies for the management of human remains and to engage in a dialogue on the potential future restitution and reburial of remains. If the first international restitution, that of Sarah Baartman, went well beyond the sphere of museum transformations and became a central issue on the Franco–South African political-diplomatic agenda, the debates on the reburial of human remains stored in South African museums are very much shaped by internal politics: by the growth of a globally connected indigenous peoples movement (Robins 2010: 26) and by the success of a major land claim (the ≠Khomani San land claim) based on indigenous identity arguments in 1999 (Robins 2000, 2010; Ellis 2012). By looking at these key moments in the history of debates regarding human remains, I will explore how the museum professionals examine, not only in their significant scientific contributions (see especially Davison 1991, 1998, 2001 and, on more recent projects, Tichmann 2019), but also in their daily activities, the links between the history of their institutions’ collections and the violence perpetrated against the indigenous populations of Southern Africa. What are the vocabularies

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and the collections that have become ‘embarrassing’ and ‘problematic’ for the curators of the ‘ethnographic’ and archaeological collections? Why and when? Who initiated the first projects of provenance research and different internal debates regarding the potential return of ethnographic objects and of human remains? Who decided when and how a physical anthropological specimen was to be deaccessioned and transformed into an ancestor, buried and memorialized? Why and when? How do curators share the curatorial power with people who are not museum professionals (if they do so)? What kind of knowledge is ‘musealized’ and what is the place of ‘indigenous knowledge systems’? How far are the contemporary museum professionals and the ‘source communities’ that they collaborate with from the ‘colonial archives and its modes of evidence’ (Lalu 2009) when trying to imagine ‘transformed’ museum narratives and museum instruments (databases, inventories, storage spaces)? And, finally, what is the specific role that different actors (museum professionals, anthropologists, public historians, representatives of indigenous peoples, etc.) played in the ‘making of law’ (Latour 2002)?

International Claims: Bringing Back the ‘Mother of the Nation’ Among the numerous Africans exhibited in the very lucrative freak shows and human zoos of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (Lindfors 1999), and whose bodies were transformed after their death into museum specimens, Sarah Baartman, also known as Hottentot Venus, is perhaps the most notorious. She has been the subject of an impressive number of biographies, films, art installations, poems and plays, and several institutions bear her name (for instance, the Saartjie Baartman Centre for Women and Children’ for survivors of abuse, situated in Manenberg, a Cape Town township on the Cape Flats). Here, for example, is how her dramatic life story is summarized on the website of the Centre: In 1810, when Saartjie Baartman was in her early twenties, she was persuaded by an English ship’s doctor, William Dunlop, to travel to England to make her fortune. However, as a Khoikhoi woman she was considered an anthropological freak in England, and she found herself put on exhibition, displayed as a sexual curiosity. … Abolitionists unsuccessfully fought a court battle to free her from her exhibitors. Saartjie Baartman was taken to Paris in 1814 and continued to be exhibited as a freak. She became the object of scientific and medical research that formed the bedrock of European ideas about black female sexuality. When she died in 1816, the Musée de l’Homme in Paris took a deathcast of her body,

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removed her skeleton and pickled her brain and genitals in jars. … After five years of negotiating with the French authorities for the return of Saartjie Baartman’s remains, the South African government, together with the Griqua National Council which represents the country’s 200 000 Griqua people, part of the Koi-San group, brought Saartjie Baartman back to South Africa. On Friday 3 May 2002, in a moving ceremony attended by many representatives of the Khoikhoi people, Saartjie Baartman was welcomed back to Cape Town. Her final resting place is in the Eastern Cape, where she was born. By naming our centre after Saartjie Baartman, we are remembering and honouring a woman who has become an icon, not only to her own Khoikhoi people, but to all women who know oppression and discrimination in their lives.7

Immediately after the fall of the apartheid regime, one of the most prominent groups claiming indigenous status, Griqua National Conference (see Schweitzer 2015), called for the return of Sarah Baartman’s remains to her descendants. Mansel Upham, legal advisor and representative in South Africa and the United Nations (UN, in Geneva) for the Griqua National Conference of South Africa and other indigenous groups (1995–2000), who was a lawyer and diplomat during the apartheid regime,8 presented this claim in different national and international arenas, including the UN. Initially, this demand was not backed by the South African state. For example, during Nelson Mandela’s state visit to France in July 1996, the claim was not on the presidential agenda.9 However, the South African government finally decided to take up this cause as part of post-apartheid nation construction, gradually building a state-centric repatriation discourse, beyond the stakes of indigenous politics (Kerseboom 2011: 70, Schweitzer 2015: 177). It was at this time that Philip Tobias, Professor of Palaeoanthropology at the University of the Witwatersrand’s Medical School, was officially mandated to begin negotiations with the director of the museum in Paris, Henry de Lumley. They seemed like the ideal pair for this difficult negotiation: two colleagues who had been close friends and collaborators for several decades.10 Nevertheless, they failed to find a solution after six years of negotiations. On the other hand, by a miracle that cannot be explained by the laws of the parliamentary majority in the French legislative assembly, in 2002 the Senate unanimously passed a special law for the return of Sarah Baartman.11 Parallel to these lengthy Franco–South African negotiations, South Africa’s leading professional museum association was organizing several debates and workshops on the necessity to develop policies on the management of human remains and the need to reflect on the post-restitution fate of the ex-museum specimens transformed into ancestors.

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The Collections of Human Remains on the Agenda of SAMA Members of the South African Museums Association (SAMA) could read the following in the programme of the SAMA anniversary conference held in 1996 in Kimberley, the capital of Northern Cape province:12 The debate surrounding the demands for the return of the remains of Saartje Baartman from Musée de l’Homme in Paris has drawn attention to wider issues concerning human remains and other sensitive material in museum collections. This session [the first sectional meeting of the conference, bringing together the members of the Humanities section] will draw from experiences from other parts of the world in working towards the establishment of recognized guidelines for curatorial practice.

The conference was an important one, not only because it was the ‘Diamond Jubilee’ conference, marking the sixtieth anniversary of the founding of South Africa’s leading professional museum association. The conference was significant mainly because it brought together, two years after the first democratic elections, museum practitioners who wanted to conceive a post-apartheid, transformed museum. That was actually the official theme of the conference: ‘Museums for the People. Restructuring and transformation of the museums of South Africa’. The issue of ‘policies regarding ancestral remains in museum collections’ had been on the agenda of South African museum professionals and professional organizations before the subject became an important part of the political agenda. And this reflection was carried out in a constant dialogue with museum professionals from other parts of the world, notably countries such as the United States, Australia or Canada, where the issue of human remains of indigenous peoples had been discussed for some time. Amareswar Galla, from the University of Canberra, opened the meeting of the Humanities section at the SAMA conference in 1996, with an intervention on ‘Who Owns the Past? Ancestral Remains and Cross-Cultural Heritage Management’.13 Participants were told to prepare for the session by reading three issues of Museums Journal, the specialist journal published by the main British professional association, the Museums Association. The association had commissioned Moira Simpson to undertake research on its behalf on the question of attitudes and policies concerning the collections of human remains, and the experiences of British museum practitioners in dealing with repatriation requests (Simpson 1996: 271). The results of this research were published in one of the issues of Museums Journal discussed at Kimberley (Simpson 1994).

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The outcome of the proceedings in the framework of SAMA was not limited to a(nother) debate among museum professionals on the need for transformation or the necessary commitment to socially engaged projects. The participants also adopted a resolution ‘in support of the South African government’s request to the French government for the return of the remains of Saartje Baartman to South Africa’.14 The dialogue on ‘the respectful treatment of human remains and the rights of the community in decisions relating to them’ continued in May 1996 during a planning workshop on ‘sensitive materials’ convened by SAMA at the South African Museum Cape Town, facilitated, once again, by Amareswar Galla and ‘attended by museum professionals and representatives of “Khoisan interest groups”’.15 However, apart from general discussions concerning the restitution and management of the human remains currently in different archaeology and physical anthropology collections, the SAMA Humanities section organized a special session entitled ‘Saartje Baartman: What Should Happen to Her Remains in the Event of Their Return to South Africa?’ at the South African Museum in Cape Town on 20 June 1996. As in the many forums, symposia and conferences on these issues that have preceded this session and will follow it,16 the staff of the South African Museum who convened this session were striving to create a platform for a genuine dialogue between researchers representing several disciplines and several universities (the University of the Western Cape, History and Anthropology; the University of Cape Town, Fine Arts, Archaeology, Anatomy; the University of the Witwatersrand, Fine Arts and Anthropology), delegates from indigenous groups (Griqua National Conference), one representative of the National Monuments Council, high officials (from the Department of Environmental Affairs and Tourism) and museum professionals.17 But this dialogue was not always possible for various reasons (the existence of tensions both between different communities – i.e. Nama, Griqua, Kei !Korana – and, intra-community, the difficulty of reaching out to remote communities for economic reasons, etc.). The representatives of indigenous groups participating in this (and other) meeting(s) challenged each other’s legitimacy and engaged in competing ‘rights talk’ (Engle Merry 2003). Moreover, they sometimes denounced any involvement of a state-funded institution as an attempt to capture a cause that, in their view, is first and foremost an indigenous issue, strictly related to their fight for other political and economic rights. Here is, for example, an excerpt from the letter of protest made public by Griqua National Conference on the day of the event, in which they

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explain why they have decided to take part in the meeting, while also publicly drawing attention to the problematic nature of such initiatives: Given the insensitive and dismal role played by the Musée de l’Homme – an institution not any different to the South African Museum, Given that the South African Museum is an arm of the nation-state government of a colonially-created South Africa which has yet to conform to and recognise international standards pertaining to disempowered indigenous groups … Given the non-acknowledgement thus far by Government of the GRIQUA NATIONAL CONFERENCE OF SOUTH AFRICA’s endeavours to redress the colonially disadvantaged indigenous GRIQUA and other KHOISAN First Nations of South Africa … * we fail to see why the whole question of the late Saartje Baartman and even this particular meeting should be organised and co-ordinated by the SA Museum * we fail to see how the SA Museum can contribute to addressing the entire issue of dehumanised porrayals [sic] of the KHOISAN ancestors of the GRIQUA UNLESS THE SA MUSEUM COMMITS ITSELF TO RETURNING FOR REBURIAL A L L THE KHOISAN REMAINS IT HAS IN ITS ILLEGAL CUSTODY, UNLESS THE SA MUSEUM COMMITS ITSELF TO ACTS OF REPARATION AND TO BURYING THE REST OF ITS ANTHROPOLOGICAL COLLECTION At this stage the museums are the last institutions that should be involving themselves in such a campaign as the late Saartje Baartman’s return for reburial. We have attended this meeting under protest because of our sincere desire to restore the dignity of the late Saartje Baartman who embodies the colonial and nation-state dismemberment of the indigenous GRIQUA and their KHOISAN ancestors. For the reasons mentioned above, however, we are not prepared to participate any further in a meeting which is being hijacked by questionable monolithic, paternalistic, tokenist and indigenous-insensitive structures.18

A group that decided not to participate (!Hurikamma Cultural Movement) nevertheless sent a letter expressing a similar position, insisting on the fact that the absence of descendants of the Khoisan people among the employees of the museum would make their initiative illegitimate: ‘we are at a loss concerning the standing of the South African Museum in this issue. Is the institution perhaps composed of descendants of the Khoisan? If not, on what basis does your institution acquire

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the right to have any say concerning the future of the body of Mrs. Bartman [sic]?’ They asked that their letter be read and included in the minutes of the meeting ‘so that we can be assured that the voices of the Khoisan have been heard’.19 Despite their reticence vis-à-vis these ‘benign’ forms of ‘strategic essentialism’ (Spivak 1988: 26; Robins 2010: 34), the museum professionals who convened these debates remained convinced of the fertile nature of the dialogue between different actors and of the imperative of transforming the South African Museum (SAM) into an arena for these voices to be heard. Indeed, it was to the representatives of Griqua National Conference that they decided to grant the role of main organizers of the next meeting, devoted to the fate of the humans remains of Sarah Baartman: the Forum ‘Free Saartjie Baartman!’, which took place in the South African National Gallery in March 1997. For SAM’s curators, one cannot ‘unlearn imperialism’, to use Ariella Aïsha Azoulay’s words (Azoulay 2019), and engage with the problematic history of the institution and with the reification of indigenous bodies without a constant ‘engagement with the complexities, ambiguities, cultural hybridities and contradictions that characterize the everyday experiences of marginalized indigenous groups’ (Robins 2010: 34). That is why, starting in 1996, Iziko Museums of South Africa has repeatedly organized public forums or symposia to which representatives of the indigenous peoples represented in the exhibition have been invited.20 In these forums, several questions have been addressed: how are indigenous peoples represented in South African museums? What is the fate of the San and Khoekhoe physical anthropology collections located in the reserves of South African and European museums? But also more pragmatic questions, such as what solutions can be found to reduce the economic precariousness of indigenous peoples? More importantly, the curators from Iziko Museums of South Africa have not limited themselves to these public debates and dialogues with indigenous peoples, but have started an internal process of creating standards for the management of collections of human remains (standards that are nowadays the basis for the creation of a code at the national level, the National Policy on Repatriation and Restitution of Human Remains and Heritage Objects21) and a first study regarding the provenance of the human remains accessioned into Iziko collections.

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National Claims and Dilemmas: ‘What about the Skeletons Still at Wits?’ Sarah Baartman’s funeral ritual was attended by all the actors who played a role in putting the cause of restitution on the public and political agenda, including those involved in the long negotiations that preceded the funeral. Philip Tobias, Professor of Palaeoanthropology from the University of the Witwatersrand, emphasized, ‘She is an icon, a symbol from an era when colonial and imperial subjugating of peoples was carried out’. But he was interrupted by an angry participant, who shouted, ‘What about the Khoisan skeletons still at Wits [the University of the Witwatersrand], Professor Tobias?’22 It was common knowledge that there were human remains of indigenous people in storage in South African museums and university laboratories. Tobias, who was involved in negotiating for the return of Sarah Baartman’s remains with his French counterpart, was himself being confronted with demands for the return of remains he had unearthed in 1961. In 1996, he was even the host of the ‘first repatriation ceremony of sensitive remains ever to take place in the new South Africa’ – ‘an unique ceremony at which the skeleton of the Griqua Captain Cornelius Kok II (1778–1858) will be returned by the Wits Department of Anatomical Sciences to the living descendants of the Kok family led by Captain Adam Kok V’.23 But the cupboards of his institute were filled with human remains – from the oldest hominid fossils to skeletons unearthed only a few decades earlier. The importance of provenance research projects concerning the collections of human remains was well known, both because of the discussions that had taken place within the framework of professional associations such as SAMA and because of the ‘vocal repatriation lobby [that] forced [the museums] to recognise the colonial contexts in which their collections were often assembled’ (Basu 2011: 28). There were also extensive research projects that showed the extent to which these collections were the result of massive and appalling international trafficking (Legassick and Rassool 2000). But projects aimed at making exhaustive inventories of human remains and studying the exact context of the constitution of the collections were still lacking. The Social History Collections Division launched just such a project at the beginning of the 2000s. It had three main goals: ‘to complete an audit of human remains in Iziko collections, to develop policy with input from stakeholders, and to negotiate future curatorship of human remains in consultation with descendant communities.’24 It was in the

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framework of this first provenance research project that a physical anthropologist from the University of Cape Town, Deano Stynder, completed, in 2003, an inventory of the human remains in the Iziko Physical Anthropology collection. The main objective of this first inventory was to make the distinction between ethically and unethically collected human remains. He took a procedural approach to collection ethics and defined as ‘non-ethically collected’ remains for which the collector did not respect the procedures that existed at that time. The basis for acquiring these human remains was therefore ‘problematic’, the researcher concluded. The bones and skulls resulting from ‘non-procedural’ racial research (or what Martin Legassick and Ciraj Rassool call ‘gross acts of plunder and defilement of human bodies’, 2000: 2) had been transformed into museum specimens between 1900 and 1930. It was only as a result of these ‘non-ethically collected’ remains that a process of questioning and unsettling colonial categories began, a process of transforming specimens/museum objects into ancestors, with all the legal and bureaucratic consequences that this would entail.25 Gradually, subsequent to different internal decisions, their ontological status has changed (from objects to persons), they began to be stored in a separate space and, finally, in the case of thirty persons (or, more exactly, human remains from thirty persons), the museum proceeded to decommission the remains (though this was not followed by the return or burial of the remains). It is mainly these same bodies, demuseified and transformed (symbolically and legally) into ancestors, that will be at the centre of several outreach projects involving the ‘communities of origin’, as recommended by Stynder in 2003. The museum employees Gerald Klinghardt and Lindsay Hooper from the Social History Collections Division had already undertaken a field trip to the Steinkopf and Pella communal areas in Namaqualand between 10 and 14 March 2002 ‘in order to collect items to develop the divisional collection of artefacts from the region, investigate the possibilities for broader community involvement in the Iziko Mobile Museum project and make an exploratory approach to a local Nama representative in Steinkopf about possible future arrangements regarding human remains from Steinkopf in the Physical Anthropology Collection’.26 Subsequently, in 2004, Yvette Abrahams, a doctoral student who had written a thesis on the life of Sarah Baartman and was involved in several research projects on the same subject, was appointed community liaison officer. She visited several localities where the bodies of the ex-specimens – since turned into ancestors – had been unearthed (Steinkopf in northern Namaqualand, !Kuboes in the Richtersveld, Vanrhynsdorp and Calvinia) and, with the help of anthropologists from

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Iziko who had done fieldwork in these areas, tried to ‘initiate contact with leaders of affected South African communities and provide them with details about the human remains in Iziko collections’.27 The main focus of these discussions was to engage with the ‘descendant communities’ on the issue of the curatorship of human remains, to identify affected communities in areas from which human remains were unethically removed, make contact and establish links with such communities, negotiate with the communities on how the process will work, identify official channels of communication and mutual expectations, establish and implement a schedule of visits to these communities in order to undertake discussions about the future treatment of the remains, arrange and implement a consultation workshop for community representatives and other stakeholders, document all negotiations, participate in Iziko discussions and decisions on a plan of actions, and compile and disseminate records of those decisions to stakeholders28.

But very soon it became clear that this issue, although sometimes disturbing and of great importance to local communities, and which local political leaders were quick to grasp, cannot be discussed without taking into account the very concrete problems that the descendant communities face on a daily basis: chronic poverty, non-existent or poor infrastructure (for instance, in relation to water supply) and the necessity of economically supporting the members of the group.29

Conclusions: ‘The Bones Have Been Returned, but the Graveyard Belongs to Somebody Else’ The Museum of Mankind in Paris is the ‘descendant’ of the first anthropological museum founded in Paris in 1878, the Ethnographic Museum of Scientific Expeditions. The South African Museum, in Cape Town, is the oldest museum in Southern Africa, having been founded in 1825. What these two museums have in common is an extensive physical anthropological collection (from fossils of ancient hominids to recent human remains, from anthropometric photographs to plaster casts). Besides having similar collections, the two institutions have something else in common: in the 1970s, a new generation of curators and collection managers was employed at both museums. In our conversations, they confessed to being somewhat embarrassed by the presence of human remains and plaster casts in the permanent exhibition. In Paris, the new curator in charge of the museum’s anthropology section decided to move some of the skeletons, including the remains of the famous

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Sarah Baartman, into the storerooms. ‘When I arrived in 1967, I was outraged by this morbid heap in the anthropology room. … We had between 100,000 and 150,000 visitors a year, many of them school groups. I didn’t think it was very smart to show that to grandchildren of immigrants.’30 In Cape Town, the two newly appointed museum curators, Patricia Davison and Gerald Klinghardt started engaging with the history of their own institution and making minor changes in the most controversial display – the Bushman diorama (a set of plaster casts depicting a nineteenth-century hunter-gatherer camp). First of all, they decided to put some clothes on the semi-naked plaster casts, with the aim of replacing a representation of indigenous populations that was intended to be timeless with a historically accurate reconstruction. Then, in 1988, they conceived a small meta-exhibition entitled About the Diorama, illustrating previous ways of exhibiting the casts, the racial stereotypes perpetuated by this display of indigenous peoples as ‘primitive Others’ and the violence of the casting process itself. In recent decades, however, in post-apartheid South Africa, museum professionals seem to have had a much more difficult task than their French counterparts. They have been subject to strong political pressure from the governmental milieu, with one of the most important issues being the imperative to transform the museums ‘into more democratic, inclusive institutions’ (see, for instance, the debates within Arts and Culture Task Group, ACTAG, 1994-1996, UCT Libraries, special collections). But critical reflection on the modes of display and an important shift in museological practices are not simply a form of obedience to political orders. They are also the result of a constant dialogue with experts from outside the museum (public historians, anthropologists, archaeologists, lawyers, artists, etc.) and with museum professionals from countries such as Australia, the United States, Canada, Namibia, etc. More importantly, South African museum professionals are constantly trying to engage in a dialogue with those they consider to be ‘relevant stakeholders’, as well as trying to understand what role should be given to source communities in the creation of new museographies. Who speaks for whom? Archaeologists such as Albino Jopela (Jopela 2015) have theorized about epistemic symmetry and the necessary collaboration between different forms of knowledge. These issues have become crucial for South African museum professionals, as indigenous people are demanding the right to have a voice in the museum, to be involved as consultants or curators of exhibitions. But to discuss at length the issues of museum representation that are of concern to heritage professionals, to participate in oral history projects

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to try to reconstruct the history of illegal burials in the early twentieth century, to discuss the policies developed by Iziko Museums for the management of collections – all this is a luxury that very few representatives of indigenous peoples can afford. Moreover, some of the Khoisan groups have insisted that the question of repatriation of human remains cannot be discussed separately from the recognition of the first nation status of the Khoisan, and from the question of land dispossession.31 ‘The bones have been returned, but the graveyard belongs to somebody else!’, a member of the Khoisan communities exclaimed at the time of the return of the remains of Captain Cornelius Kok II by academics from Wits University. While recognizing the symbolic and strategic value of engaging with academics and heritage practitioners, the fate of the San and Khoekhoe physical anthropology collections located in the storerooms of South African and European museums cannot be detached from more pragmatic questions, such as what solutions can be found to reduce the economic precariousness of indigenous peoples? This is one of the reasons why the management of ancient collections of artefacts, human remains and archives (be they in ethnographic, physical anthropology or archaeology collections) in South Africa has become extremely complex from a legal, ethical and political point of view. Sometimes the temporary closure of the former ethnography gallery, seen both as a form of decolonial justice, and as an attempt to close the public debate, is only the beginning of a reinvention of the museum through new collaborative projects. Damiana Oţoiu is a political and legal anthropologist (PhD, Free University of Brussels), currently an assistant professor at the Political Science Department, University of Bucharest. Her research is focused on how property rights over museum collections are (re)defined and disputed in postcolonial contexts. She has carried out long-term ethnographic fieldwork in the Democratic Republic of Congo, South Africa, France and Belgium, and co-ordinated several research projects, including Museums and Controversial Collections. Politics and Policies of Heritage-Making in Post-colonial and Post-socialist Contexts (2015–17) and Decolonial Practices in Museum Collections (Europe and Sub-Saharan Africa): Local Histories and Global Circulations (2021–22).

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Notes   1. Iziko Museums of South Africa is a network that includes eleven national museums located in or near Cape Town (the South African Museum, the South African Gallery, the Slave Lodge, the Castle of Good Hope, etc.). The oldest institution is the South African Museum (SAM), created in 1825. It is SAM (to be more precise, SAM’s Department of Archaeology) that currently holds the physical anthropology collections.   2. Throughout this text I have used different terms to refer to indigenous populations from Southern Africa, including broad terms such as Khoekhoe, San, Khoesan, or more specific terms such as Kei !Korana, Nguni, ≠Khomani San. Some of these terms are problematic, as they carry traces of historical (colonial and post-colonial) processes of classifying and constituting culturally and racially different populations. I have tried to keep in the text the (changing) categories used by the groups when they self-define, in different moments in time.   3. This does not mean that the debates started at the beginning of the 1990s, but simply that (for reasons of space) I limit myself in this chapter to the period that immediately follows the end of the apartheid regime.   4. In this text, I use the name Sarah Baartman (the original name on her British birth certificate), since the Afrikaans diminutive form Saartjie is currently regarded as derogative and patronising. I use Saartjie only when it is necessary to indicate the original terminology, for example when mentioning the names of institutions such as the Committee on the reburial of Saartje Baartman.   5. I would like to gratefully acknowledge the time taken by many current and former employees of Iziko, and by academics and politicians involved in different repatriation and reburial processes, to share with me their knowledge and experience. Although there are many to name, I am especially indebted to Wendy Black, Henry C. (Jatti) Bredekamp, Patricia Davison, Janette Deacon, William Ellis, Lailah Hisham, Robyn Humphreys, Gerald Klinghardt, Annelize Kotze, Premesh Lalu, Vusithemba Ndima, Alan Morris, Wilhelmina Seconna and Paul Tichmann. I thank, once again, Patricia Davison and Paul Tichmann for reviewing an earlier version of this chapter, and providing important clarifications. The usual disclaimer applies.   6. Transforming the Curatorship of Human Remains in Iziko Collections is a ‘Transformation Project’ initiated by the Social History Collections Division of Iziko and made possible by governmental funding (a grant offered by of the Department of Arts and Culture).   7. ‘Saartjie (Sarah) Baartman’s Story: Who Is Saartjie (Sarah) Baartman, and Why Have We Named Our Women’s Centre after Her?’ Retrieved August 2020 from http://www.saartjiebaartmancentre.org.za/about-us/ saartjie-baartmans-story/.   8. According to the short biographical note published by Upham on his website. Retrieved July 2020 from http://www.e-family.co.za/ffy/ui46.htm.

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  9. University of Fort Hare, African National Congress Archives, Nelson Mandela Papers, Series Reports: S, Box 192, Folders 396 to 402, ‘State Visit to the United Kingdom and France, 9–16 July, 1996, Background briefing’ (and the other documents from the same box). I would like to thank Anna Konieczna for bringing the existence of this file to my attention. 10. University of the Witwatersrand Archives, Johannesburg, Tobias P[hilip] V[allentine] Papers, Personal Correspondence, File ‘Henry de Lumley’. 11. Loi n° 2002-323 du 6 mars 2002 relative à la restitution par la France de la dépouille mortelle de Saartjie Baartman à l’Afrique du Sud [Law n° 2002323 of 6 March 2002 pertaining to the restitution by France of the mortal remains of Saartjie Baartman to South Africa]. 12. University of South Africa Archives, Pretoria, SAMA Archival Funds, File Annual General Meeting (AGM) & Conference, Kimberley 1996, Programme of the SAMA Conference, compiled and co-ordinated by Elisabeth Voigt and David Morris, p. 7. 13. Amareswar Galla was the founding director of the National Affirmative Action programme for the participation of Aboriginal Peoples and Torres Strait Islanders in museums, galleries, national parks and World Heritage Areas in Australia (programme of the University of Canberra, 1985–92), and held the position of International Technical Adviser for the transformation of Arts Councils, National Museums and Cultural Institutions and the National Parks Board in post-apartheid South Africa (between 1994 and 1999). 14. University of the Western Cape Archives, Funds Institute for Historical Research, Folder ‘Sarah Bartman [sic] Project: Human Rights Foundation, 2003–2004’, Box 21, Invitation to a meeting of the SAMA Humanities section to be held at the South African Museum on 20 June 1996. 15. ‘Editorial’, The South African Archaeological Bulletin, Vol. 54, No. 170 (December 1999), p. 80. 16. The Indigenous Peoples Symposium, South African National Gallery, April 1996; Forum ‘Free Saartjie Baartman!’, South African National Gallery, March 1997; Khoisan Identities and Cultural Heritage – The Third International Conference on KhoiSan Studies, South African Museum, July 1997, etc. 17. Summary of the debates made by Alan G. Morris, participant in the session (private archives of Professor Alan G. Morris, Professor Emeritus in the Department of Human Biology at the University of Cape Town), 20 June 1996. See also University of the Western Cape Archives, Funds Institute for Historical Research, Folder ‘Sarah Bartman [sic] Project: Human Rights Foundation, 2003–2004’, Box 21, South African Museums Association, Humanities Section. Return of the remains of Saartje Baartman to South Africa. Summary of a meeting held at the South African Museum on 20 June 1996. 2 p. 18. Summary of the debates made by Alan G. Morris, participant in the session (private archives of Professor Alan G. Morris, Professor Emeritus in the Department of Human Biology at the University of Cape Town), 20 June

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1996. See also University of the Western Cape Archives, Funds Institute for Historical Research, Folder ‘Sarah Bartman [sic] Project: Human Rights Foundation, 2003–2004’, Box 21, GRIEKWA NASIONALE KONFERENSIE VAN SUID-AFRIKA. Press Statement: Meeting at the South African Museum on Thursday 20 June 1996 at 14h14 concerning ‘What would constitute appropriate action in the event of the remains of Saartje Baartman being returned to South Africa [sic]’, 20 June 1996, 2 p. 19. University of the Western Cape Archives, Funds Institute for Historical Research, Folder ‘Sarah Bartman [sic] Project: Human Rights Foundation, 2003–2004’, Box 21, Fax from !Hurikamma Cultural Movement to the attention of P. Davison, L. Hooper, 20 June 1996, 1 p. 20. See note 16. 21. Drafted by the Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and approved by Cabinet on 16 March 2021. 22. ‘Saartje was victim of colonial era, says Tobias’, Saturday Dispatch, 25 April 2002 in University of the Western Cape Archives, Funds Institute for Historical Research, Folder ‘Sarah Bartman [sic] Project: Human Rights Foundation, 2003–2004’, Box 21. 23. Invitation to the ceremony, private archives of Professor Alan G. Morris, Professor Emeritus in the Department of Human Biology at the University of Cape Town. See also Kuljian 2016: 218. 24. Dr Patricia Davison, Transformation Project Progress Report, February 2005 (project title ‘Transforming the Curatorship of Human Remains in Iziko Collections’, Social History Collections Division), 11 February 2005 (private archive of Patricia Davison, Emeritus Research Associate at Iziko Museums of South Africa, the first Director of Iziko Social History Collections, former Executive Director with responsibility for collections, research, education and exhibitions). Also in the archaeology collections of Iziko Museum of South Africa, file ‘project of community liaison Transforming the Curatorship of Human Remains in Iziko Collections’, received in September 2019. 25. This qualification has consequences for researchers’ access to collections, since the Iziko Human Remains Policy precludes research access to the ‘unethically collected’ human remains. 26. Report on field trip to Namaqualand, 10–14 March 2002, G.P. Klinghardt and L. Hooper, Social History Collections Division, the archaeology collections of Iziko Museum of South Africa, file ‘project of community liaison Transforming the Curatorship of Human Remains in Iziko Collections’, received in September 2019. 27. Dr Patricia Davison, Transformation Project Progress Report, February 2005 (see note 24). 28. Brief for community liaison officer (n.d.). The archaeology collections of Iziko Museum of South Africa, file ‘project of community liaison Transforming the Curatorship of Human Remains in Iziko Collections’, received in September 2019.

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29. First report to Iziko Museums, 17 September 2004; Workshop Report, Steinkopf Library Hall, Steinkopf, Northern Cape, 13 October 2004; Workshop Report, Vanrhynsdorp Community Centre, Vanrhysdorp, Western Cape, 15 October 2004; Report three for Iziko Museums on Human Remains Policy, 22 October 2004; Workshop Report, Club Lennox, Calvinia, Northern Cape, 26 October 2004; Report of Meeting, Kareersing Municipality, Carnarvon, Northern Cape, 27 October 2004; Workshop Report, Kuboes Municpal Hall, Kuboes Northern Cape, 1 November 2004; Report four for Iziko Museums on Human Remains Policy, 5 November 2004; Final Summary Report, Iziko Museums Consultation Process, 30 November 2004. The archaeology collections of Iziko Museum of South Africa, file ‘project of community liaison Transforming the Curatorship of Human Remains in Iziko Collections’, received in September 2019. 30. Interview with André Langaney, Geneticist, former director of the biological anthropology laboratory of the Museum of Mankind, Paris, July 2012. 31. See, for instance, the invitation to the ‘repatriation’ of Cornelius Kok II by the Wits Department of Anatomical Sciences to the living descendants of the Kok family, sent out by ‘The Griquas of Adam Kok V of Campbell incorporating SAGRAD (South African Griqua Research and Development) in association with the Khoisan Representative Council’ on 26 July 1996: ‘The skeletal remains of the hereditary and territorial excellency would definitely finalize the difficulty of the Griquas and Khoisan Africans to receive their fair share of recognition as traditional natives of South Africa. This will also boost their claims of traditional land dispossession’. University of the Witwatersrand Archives, Johannesburg, Tobias P[hilip] V[allentine] Papers, Personal Correspondence.

References Primary Archival Sources Iziko Museum Archives, SAM and SANG University of Cape Town Libraries: Special Collections (Manuscripts and Archives), Archives of the Arts and Culture Task Group (ACTAG), 1994–1996. (South African National Gallery) Archival Funds. University of Fort Hare, Alice, African National Congress Archives, Nelson Mandela Papers. University of South Africa Archives, Pretoria, SAMA Archival Funds. University of the Western Cape Archives, Bellville, Institute for Historical Research Archival Funds. University of the Witwatersrand Archives, Johannesburg, Tobias P[hilip] V[allentine] Papers, Personal Correspondence.

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Published Sources Azoulay, A.A. 2019. Potential History: Unlearning Imperialism. New York: Verso Books. Basu, P. 2011. ‘Object Diasporas, Resourcing Communities: Sierra Leonean Collections in the Global Museumscape’, Museum Anthropology 34(1): 28–42. Crais, C., and P. Scully. 2009. Sara Baartman and the Hottentot Venus: A Ghost Story and Biography. 1670 – 1834. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Davison, P. 1991. ‘Material Culture, Context and Meaning: A Critical Investigation of Museum Practice, with Particular Reference to the South African Museum’, PhD dissertation. Cape Town: University of Cape Town. . 1998. ‘Museums and the Reshaping of Memory’, in S. Nuttall and C. Coetzee (eds), Negotiating the Past: The Making of Memory in South Africa. Cape Town: Oxford University Press, pp. 143–60. . 2001. ‘Typecast: Representations of the Bushmen at the South African Museum’, Public Archaeology 2(1): 3–20. Ellis, W. 2012. ‘Genealogies and Narratives of San Authenticities The ≠Khomani San Land Claim in the Southern Kalahari’, PhD dissertation. Bellville: University of the Western Cape. Engle Merry, S. 2003. ‘Rights Talk and the Experience of Law: Implementing Women’s Human Rights to Protection from Violence’, Human Rights Quarterly 25(2): 343–81. Gibbon, V. 2019. ‘Skeletons and Closets: How One University Reburied the Dead’, The Conversation. Retrieved 11 November 2019 from https://theconversation.com/ skeletons-and-closets-how-one-university-reburied-the-dead-126607. Hein, H.S. 2000. The Museum in Transition: A Philosophical Perspective. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Books. Jopela, A. 2015. ‘Public Archaeology, Knowledge Meetings and Heritage Ethics in Southern Africa: An Approach from Mozambique’, World Archaeology 47(2): 261–84. Kerseboom, S. 2011. ‘Grandmother – Martyr – Heroine: Placing Sara Baartman in South African Post-apartheid Foundational Mythology’, Historia 56 (1): 63–76. Kuljian, C. 2016. Darwin’s Hunch: Science, Race and the Search for Human Origins. Johannesburg: Jacana Media. Lalu, P. 2009. The Deaths of Hintsa: Postapartheid South Africa and the Shape of Recurring Pasts. Cape Town: Human Sciences Research Council. Latour B. 2002. La fabrique du droit: une ethnographie du Conseil d’Etat. Paris: La Découverte. Legassick, M., and C. Rassool. 2000. Skeletons in the Cupboard: South African Museums and the Trade in Human Remains 1907–1917. Kimberley: McGregor Museum. Lindfors, B. 1999. Africans on Stage: Studies in Ethnological Show Business. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Peterson, D.R., K. Gavua and C. Rassool (eds). 2015. The Politics of Heritage in Africa: Economies, Histories, and Infrastructures. London: Cambridge University Press. Philips, R.B. (ed.). 2011. Museum Pieces: Toward the Indigenization of Canadian Museums. Montreal: McGill – Queen’s University Press. Robins, S. 2000. ‘Land Struggles and the Politics and Ethics of Representing “Bushman” History and Identity’, Kronos: Journal of Cape History 26: 56–75. . 2010. From Revolution to Rights in South Africa: Social Movements, NGOs and Popular Politics After Apartheid. Woodbridge: James Currey.

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Schweitzer, E. 2015. The Making of Griqua, Inc.: Indigenous Struggles for Land and Autonomy in South Africa. Münster: LIT Verlag. Simpson, M.G. 1994. ‘Burying the Past’, Museums Journal 94(7): 28–32. . 1996. Making Representations. Museums in the Post-Colonial Era. London: Routledge. Spivak, G. 1988. In Other Worlds. New York: Routledge. Tichmann, P. 2019. ‘Challenges of Rewriting the Khomani San/ Bushman Archive at the Iziko Museums of South Africa’, paper presented at the conference Museum Collections in Motion: Colonial and Postcolonial Encounters, Cologne, July 2019. Cologne: Rautenstrauch-Joest Museum. Retrieved 12 December 2019 from https://boasblogs. org/humboldt/challenges-of-rewriting-the-khomani-san-bushman-archive-at-izikomuseums-of-south-africa/.

Part IV

Partial and Paused Returns

Chapter 10

Baroque Returns The Donations and Reuses of Francesco Gualdi Fabrizio Federici

Counter-Reformation Rome was the centre of a growing interest in early Christian art, seen as proof of the long and glorious history of the church and, more specifically, as a confirmation of the ancient use and the validity of sacred images, whose cult had been questioned by many Protestant Reformers. The activity of the collector Francesco Gualdi (1574–1657), who donated and exhibited in public spaces Christian objects and sarcophagi (but also classical sculptures), represents a peculiar expression of this interest. The new places of exhibition were carefully chosen: objects were returned to their original contexts (in a broad sense), as Gualdi himself affirms in a pamphlet he commissioned from Paolo Giuseppe Meroni, the Oratio de Christianae Antiquitatis Reliquiis (1635). In doing so, Gualdi, on the one hand, was connected with the tradition, particularly strong in Rome, that viewed collecting as a contribution to publica utilitas, and was inspired by some antecedents of artworks that had been returned to their rightful owners. On the other hand, the nobleman somehow seemed to anticipate the contemporary phenomenon of returning contentious objects and – as a passage of the Oratio suggests – to prefigure the modern notion of the rights of objects (Savoy 2017). His deep (albeit not philological) concern with contexts appears to be ahead of the times, an antecedent to some extent to the ideas expressed by Quatremère de Quincy in his famous Lettres à Miranda (1796). Gualdi gathered in his house near the Trajan Markets (demolished at the end of the 1920s) objects and artworks from different historical periods: antiquity, the early Christian age and the Middle Ages (Franzoni and

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Tempesta 1992; Massimi 2003; Federici 2010).1 He had a peculiar conception of his museum, a dynamic view that combined the usual approach of acquiring objects with the opposite movement: often pieces from the collection left Gualdi’s studio. Sometimes as reproductions, as a form of diffusion, through the use of prints.2 In other cases however, the exit of objects from the museum was a real and concrete one: Gualdi donated pieces to important cultural institutions in Rome or placed sarcophagi and ancient reliefs in the porches of Roman basilicas and on the façades of significant buildings.3 Thus, the collector saw his museum as an open organism, whose integrity had to be guaranteed, of course, but that, to some degree, constituted an instrument for the temporary recovery of the objects, before their removal to their final and most appropriate destination.4 In this way, Gualdi partly inverted the movement of pieces from the streets and monuments of Rome to the collections, and so from public spaces to private houses, that had started in the city around two hundred years before (Franzoni 2001; Settis 2008; Stenhouse 2017). The ten donations sponsored by the nobleman took place in a time span of twenty-seven years, between 1630 and 1657. In four cases, sacred marbles were ‘given back’ to churches, in order to allow them to recover their nature as holy images and inflame believers’ devotion: early Christian sarcophagi were displayed in the churches of Santi Apostoli (1630), Santa Maria Maggiore (1635) and Santa Maria della Rotonda (1646), and a bust of the Virgin Mary was placed in the church of Santa Maria in Aracoeli. In some other cases, pieces were returned to ecclesiastical institutions closely linked to them, because these objects were produced by those institutions or because the pieces constituted an important trace of their history: hence, a group of papal bulls was donated to the pope’s library (1630) and a seal of Stefano Paccaroni, prior of St Peter’s canons, was donated to the Vatican Chapter’s Archive (1635). The reditus of Scipio to the Capitoline Hill (1655) constituted a ‘lay’ return. In three other instances – the donation of a devotional medal to the Vatican Library, the arrangement of ancient capitals outside the church of Trinità dei Monti (1652) and that of decorated fragments on the Torre Colonna (1657) – there is no connection to the reditus or return of the objects, which were donated and displayed for other reasons, as we will see.

Returns to Loca Sacra A first wave of donations occurred in 1630: in this year, Gualdi financed the publication of a woodcut that reproduced a selection of the medieval

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papal lead bullae he had recently donated to the Vatican Library, ‘with the aim of illustrating Church history’.5 In the same year and again to the Vatican Library, Gualdi donated a bronze devotional medal, carved on both sides, with depictions of the Apostles Peter and Paul crowned by Jesus, on one side, and the Adoration of the Magi on the other. The medal is now in the Vatican Museums and can be dated to the sixth or seventh century ad.6. The donation was celebrated in a print on which, beneath the reproduction of the ‘vetus sacrum numisma’, we find a Latin poem by the Jesuit Alessandro Donati, the focus of which is the dove with the olive branch carved above the Adoration.7 Thus, the gift of the medal becomes a moment of celebration of the new era of peace, ensured by the mighty pontiff Urban VIII. In the frame that surrounds the Latin poem, there are two little images with the same iconography as the medal (the Adoration of the Magi): one of them reproduces a lost marble fragment, part of the front panel of an early Christian sarcophagus, that Gualdi had placed in the Roman basilica of Santi Apostoli in the same year (1630).8 The fragment was accompanied by an inscription that mentioned the contemporary donation to the Vatican Library of a similar image, not incomplete like this one, but intact.9 Thus, one can appreciate the close connections and cross-references that exist between the different levels of Gualdi’s strategy to publish the museum (prints, donations, reuses of marble reliefs).10 The following group of donations dates to 1635. The lead seal of Stefano Paccaroni, prior of the canons of St Peter’s in the fourteenth century, was donated by Gualdi to the archive of the chapter of St Peter’s basilica. Today we can admire it in the ‘tesoro’ displayed in rooms adjacent to the church. The seal is preserved in a fine leather box with golden decorations and is accompanied by a woodcut reproducing the design of the seal and a small sheet of parchment, whose text underlines the value of the object as a trace of a no longer existing position, that of ‘prior’ of the Vatican canons, which had been substituted by the title of dean (Lipinsky 1950: 50, with the transcription of the text written on the parchment).11 In the same year, Gualdi also donated two front panels from two different Christian sarcophagi, which were assembled in the porch of Santa Maria Maggiore.12 The two reliefs, now in the Vatican Museums (Bovini, Brandenburg 1967: 12, nr. 13 and 94, nr. 145; Franzoni, Tempesta 1992: 14), were offered to pious believers, with an inscription that underlined that the figures were sculpted ‘laborante sub tyrannis Ecclesia’, that is to say, in the bloody and glorious days of persecutions (actually they were made after the end of Christian oppression). The inscription also specified

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that the two marbles had been transferred to the church in order to make them more venerable, ‘thanks to the sacredness of the new setting’ (‘ut esset loci sanctitate venerabilior’).13 This reference introduces the theme of the consistency of objects and places, which is central in Gualdi’s reflections and in the text, published in that same year (1635), in which Gualdi’s ideas are exposed and articulated. The Oratio de Christianae Antiquitatis Reliquiis (Discourse on the remnants of Christian antiquity) was commissioned by Gualdi from Paolo Giuseppe Meroni, a Milanese cleric resident in Rome.14 The pamphlet, at the very beginning of which there is an engraved depiction of the sarcophagus ‘created’ by Gualdi in the porch of Santa Maria Maggiore (see figure 10.1),15 constitutes a significant demonstration of the strong interest in early Christian antiquities, which was stimulated by the publication, in that same year, of the Roma Sotterranea by Antonio Bosio. Meroni’s oration was pronounced in the house of the famous traveller Pietro Della Valle. From the beginning, Gualdi is the protagonist of the discourse: Meroni praises him and his museum, formed in order to illustrate and confirm both sacred and profane history, and underlines how the nobleman desired that other people too would seek to preserve and study the memories of the past. Then we find Gualdi himself speaking: the collector expresses his satisfaction regarding the appreciation that the archpriest cardinal Antonio Barberini and all the Liberian canons have shown for the reuse of the sacred reliefs and, moreover, explicitly formulates the idea of the ‘return’ of the objects to their contexts, which is of fundamental importance in understanding his donations. ‘I would like so much’, Gualdi says, ‘that sarcophagi like this [the one of Santa Maria Maggiore], that can be seen in private houses, could be returned, tanquam postliminio, to sacred spaces, whence they were surely taken away!’16 So, in Gualdi’s view, the exhibitio of Santa Maria Maggiore is only the first step: many other sacred images needed to be rescued from private collections (not to mention degrading uses, such as serving as basins for fountains and troughs).17 The expression tanquam postliminio is particularly deserving of attention: the reference is to the ancient Roman right of postliminium, the right of Roman soldiers who had been imprisoned during a war and had then regained their freedom, to reobtain their civil rights and properties, once they had returned to Rome or their native town. Thus, the use of the expression ‘as by the right of postliminium’ seems very significant: it implies that objects, like soldiers or citizens, have rights and compares their stay in private houses to an imprisonment or an exile.18

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Figure 10.1. The two reliefs from Christian sarcophagi assembled by Francesco Gualdi in the porch of Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome in 1635 (from Meroni 1635). Photo: Fabrizio Federici.

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In the following pages of his discourse, Meroni deals with a theme that was typical of the Counter-Reformation, the polemic against the Protestants in relation to the use of images: according to Meroni, the sarcophagi testify that images were used by the first Christians and so the Roman Church can go on using them, against Protestant iconoclasm.19 In the closing of the Oratio, Meroni returns to the idea of exhibiting the early Christian images in a decent way: he emphasizes how their display can be an important weapon against ‘the lies of the heretics’ (‘haereticorum mendacia’).20 This is an aspect that had not hitherto been present in Gualdi’s donations, but was evident in his donation in 1646. In that year, he erected in the porch of the Pantheon, that is to say the church of Santa Maria Della Rotonda, a monument that included an early Christian sarcophagus, now in the Vatican Museums (Bovini and Brandenburg 1967: 35–36, nr. 40; Franzoni and Tempesta 1992: 14–17; Monetti 2015; Federici forthcoming). The polemic against the Protestants is underlined in the inscription (the sarcophagus is a ‘proof against iconoclasts’):21 this emphasis resulted not only from the influence of Meroni, but also from the fact that the monument was dedicated to Cardinal Giulio Mazzarino, the Catholic prime minister of a country, France, that was divided between Roman Catholics and Huguenots. The monument, which was later removed, is relayed by a print and a painting commissioned by Gualdi: in the latter, a column of the porch has been left out in order to show the viewer the shape of the monument more clearly (Donati 2004; Pasini 2005; Monetti 2015: 163–65; Federici forthcoming). While all these donations by Gualdi can be precisely dated, thanks to prints and inscriptions, one is not: a bust of the Virgin Mary, inserted in a gilded wooden frame that was given by Gualdi to the church of Santa Maria in Aracoeli, where it is still preserved, on the back wall of the left transept.22 As with other donations of sacred sculptures, this precious bust thus ceased to be only a collection piece, deserving of the admiration of connoisseurs, and became again a sacred effigy, attracting and inciting the faith of the believers.

The Final Years: Donations of Classical Sculptures and of the Museum Itself Through the actions and writings that have already been mentioned, Gualdi seems to be deeply rooted in the Counter-Reformation: early Christian artefacts are seen through the lens of religion and devotion,

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while reference is also made to the controversy with the Protestants regarding the use of images.23 However, we cannot reduce Gualdi’s intentions in returning these objects to religious considerations: indeed, he demonstrated in some cases (the papal bullae donated to the Vatican Library and especially the seal returned to St Peter’s archive) an approach to sacred objects that was more historical and antiquarian than devotional. He also donated and reused, in the last years of his life, ancient objects, that is to say classical marble reliefs, sculptures and capitals,24 and one case in particular can be considered a form of return. In 1655, Gualdi erected a sort of monument to Scipio Africanus (figure 10.2) on the north side of the Palazzo Senatorio, the headquarters of Rome’s municipality, on the Capitoline Hill (Franzoni and Tempesta 1992: 17–19, 22–28).25 Together with a bust of Scipio at the top and a panoply at the bottom, there are some (heavily restored) reliefs that allude to Africa and an archaistic depiction of Athena, which stands, I would argue, for Rome.26 As the inscription explains, Scipio is ‘redux’ (returning back) to the Campidoglio, like a ghost (‘umbra’), who returns to re-enact his triumph.27 Figure 10.2. The monument to Scipio Africanus erected in 1655 by Francesco Gualdi on the north side of the Palazzo Senatorio, Rome, Capitoline Hill. Photo: Fabrizio Federici.

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The last reuse sponsored by Gualdi dates to the final months of his life (he died on 26 April 1657)28 and, as an assemblage of heterogeneous pieces, it can be compared to that on the Capitoline Hill, erected only two years before. It is located on the side of a medieval tower owned by the Colonna family, at the corner of Via delle Tre Cannelle and Via 4 Novembre, near Piazza Venezia. It is composed as follows: beneath a column, garlanded and surmounted by a crown (which alludes to the coat of arms of the Colonna), there are two fragments of frieze decorated with acanthus spirals, framed by marble strips. They come – as stated in the inscription – ‘Ex musaeo Francisci Gualdi’; another short inscription (‘Ex ungue leonem’) is engraved on the topmost strip above the first fragment, which shows, at one end, the back of a feline. At the base of the composition, there is a smaller marble fragment depicting a phytomorphic figure and a cornucopia.29 The purpose of this reuse was not to return the objects to their original contexts, but to assure the greatest fruition of these artworks, in connection with the belief in the utilitas publica of ancient remnants. The expression ‘Ex ungue leonem’ (from the claws of the animal you understand that it is a lion) is, first of all, a reference to the lion partly visible on one of the reliefs; it is also an allusion to the fact that ‘from the fragment one can mentally reconstruct the whole’, that is, the entire frieze, or even the splendour of ancient Rome, in a sense like that of the famous adage ‘Roma quanta fuit, ipsa ruina docet’ (how great Rome was, its very ruins tell).30 At the end of Gualdi’s life, after several donations of single objects and marbles from his collection, the nobleman made another surprising decision, donating his entire museum in an attempt to preserve it from the usual fate of dispersal. The museum was offered to the young King of France, Louis XIV, on the understanding that it would remain forever in Rome in the convent of Trinità dei Monti, as Museum Regium or Cabinet Royal (Federici 2010: 229–30, 256–58; Federici forthcoming). The king accepted the gift and so, in 1652, Gualdi’s antiquities were arranged in two rooms of the convent. To signal the presence of the museum, Gualdi wanted a beautiful oval capital to be placed on either side of the staircase leading to the entrance of the church, surmounted by two ancient sepulchral altars, partially reworked with the effigies of St Louis of France and St Francis of Paola.31 In the donation of the museum, too, we can recognize the idea of return: in his letter to the king announcing the gift, Gualdi recounts that his passion for collecting started during a youthful stay in France and so the donation to the French king could be seen as a form of return. He writes: ‘My intention is that of returning all things to their starting

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point’ (Federici 2010: 229).32 Unfortunately, Louis XIV interpreted this sentiment literally and, soon after Gualdi’s death in 1657, he ordered that the collection be transported to Paris, where it became part of the royal collections and lost its unity.

Why Gualdi Returned Objects? Reasons and Antecedents A series of different reasons can be identified as having initiated these actions. An important role was surely played by Gualdi’s ambition and desire for glory.33 His name, as the donor, is always present, written in texts or engraved in marble, and so is the provenance of the pieces ‘ex musaeo Francisci Gualdi Ariminensis’. Thus, donations and reuses can be seen as a significant element of the strategy of self-promotion developed by the nobleman; the fact that almost every one of Gualdi’s actions was diffused via print confirms this. The desire to honour powerful figures is also evident: important patrons such as the Barberini cardinals and Giulio Mazzarino are sometimes mentioned and celebrated.34 But along with these more self-serving motivations, we can identify at the origin of these donations noble aims, linked to that idea of the publica utilitas of artworks and collections, which was present already in ancient Rome35 and which, in many cases, guided antiquarian research and collecting in the Renaissance and baroque city.36 This idea led many scholars and collectors, including Gualdi, to gladly open their collections to ‘virtuosi’ and learned travellers.37 Through the donations, Gualdi could provide an even wider audience with access to the objects, especially in the case of those pieces that were set up in streets and public spaces, where the objects could recover their functions: either to incite devotion, in the case of sacred, and especially early Christian, marbles or to illustrate the past glory of Rome, when ancient fragments were donated and reused. The choice of the new sites where objects would be placed was not accidental, but meticulously planned, to allow the pieces to ‘speak’ as clearly as possible. The idea that moved Gualdi was the ‘return’ of the objects to their original contexts, or in any case to contexts that were profoundly suited to the nature of the objects and their history – an idea that, as we have seen, is clearly formulated in Meroni’s pamphlet, commissioned by Gualdi himself.38 Gualdi’s idea of return is not to be interpreted literally, in an exact topographic sense, but in a broader sense related to the meaning and functions of the places chosen. The Christian sarcophagi were returned not to the places where they originally stood (tomb buildings, catacombs, cemeteries and cemetery churches), but to basilicas in the

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centre of Rome: the most important thing was that they were returned to ‘loca sacra’, where they could be admired as expressions of faith and not just as artworks, as they had been in private collections. The bust of Scipio was returned to the Campidoglio, not because this artefact had stood there originally, but because it was there that the famous captain had lived his greatest moment of glory after the victory over Hannibal. As regards the possible inspirations for Gualdi’s idea and actions, we can, first of all, say that, in general terms, the Christian view of life as an exile on Earth, whose end corresponds to the return to the Father’s House, must have been of the utmost importance for the pious Gualdi: the objects, like human beings, had to go back to their natural ‘home’. The nobleman, however, may also have had in mind some specific historical episodes, the first of which was the famous donation of ancient bronze sculptures to the Roman municipality, made by Pope Sixtus IV in 1471: as the inscription in the Capitoline Museums states, the pontiff wanted to ‘give the statues back to the Roman People, who created them’.39 The actions of members of the high ecclesiastical hierarchy aimed at safeguarding Christian sarcophagi, too, could have had an influence on Gualdi’s conduct: we know from Bosio, for example, that the great mentor of the young Gualdi, Cardinal Alessandro de’ Medici (pope for only twenty-seven days, in 1605, with the name of Leo XI), ordered the moving of a Christian sarcophagus from the garden of Sant’Agnese fuori le Mura to the interior of the church.40 The medieval practice of reusing ancient marbles, which was, for obvious reasons, particularly remarkable in Rome, must also be considered a very important example for Gualdi: we might mention the Casa dei Crescenzi, with its façades rich in spolia, as well as a later case, that of the house of Lorenzo Manili (1468).41 This practice continued in Gualdi’s lifetime, with classical marble fragments, restored and assembled in various ways, being used to decorate the courtyards of noble palaces and the façades of villas (Federici 2002; Herrmann Fiore 2008). But, in these cases, the aim was primarily aesthetic and usually the congruence or ‘convenevolezza’ (pertinence) between objects and sites that characterizes Gualdi’s donations does not exist. In fact, Gualdi harshly disapproved of this lack of congruence in the decoration of façades with reused marbles. In his treatise Memorie sepolcrali, we can read that ‘day by day, the illustrious ecclesiastical antiquity is damaged. See, at the end of the Sacre Grotte Vaticane by Torrigio, the monuments with the portraits of great men transferred on the façades of the villas located in famous Roman gardens.’42 The reference is to the sepulchral equestrian portrait of the fifteenth-century condottiero Roberto Malatesta, once in Old St

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Peter’s. Cardinal Scipione Borghese ordered that the equestrian high-relief be reused, together with classical marbles, on the façade of his villa, in a context that bore no relation to the object: nothing sacred, nothing heroic.43 Thus, it is no surprise that Gualdi was outraged by this choice: this was not a return at all; to his mind, it was a sad exile. We find, however, in Gualdi’s Rome, proof of a cultural awareness in relation to contexts that is in contrast to the insolent reuse of Malatesta’s sepulchral monument and akin to the spirit that supports the donations made by the nobleman. In 1640, the famous Nile mosaic of Palestrina, which had previously been transported to Rome, was sent back to Palestrina (Whitehouse 1976; Cifani and Monetti 2006: 163–69; Cecalupo 2015).44 In 1634, Urban VIII requested that two ancient inscriptions of Pope Leo IV (847–55) be relocated to the top of the archway of the Leonine Wall that leads from Via di Porta Angelica to St Peter’s Square, as they had formerly been placed in that same wall; they are accompanied by the pope’s coat of arms and a modern inscription explaining that Urban placed the old ones there, having taken them ‘from very dark locations’.45 These were acts sponsored by the pope and the Barberini family: so we cannot exclude the possibility that Gualdi himself, who was familiare of the pontiff, could have played a role in these choices. Similarly, certain episodes dating back to the beginning of the eighteenth century could have been inspired by Gualdi’s donations, even if the reuses of early Christian sarcophagi sponsored by the nobleman had been dismantled after a few years or decades. In 1700, the famous antiquarian Francesco Ficoroni installed on the external side wall of the church of San Giuseppe dei Falegnami a fragment showing the Adoration of the Magi, together with a modern inscription.46 In 1718, the abbot and future cardinal Alessandro Albani arranged in the porch of San Sebastiano fuori le Mura the front panel of a Christian sarcophagus, accompanied by an explicative inscription to commemorate the ‘restitution’ of the marble to its original position.47 In more general terms, we can say that Gualdi’s actions and the writings of authors such as Meroni and Paolo Aringhi about the disrespectful uses of Christian sarcophagi and the need to safeguard them seem to anticipate the climate that led, in 1757, to the creation of the Vatican ‘Museo Cristiano’.48 This initiative, however, can also be seen as a defeat of Gualdi’s point of view: it posited that the best place for the preservation and the fruition of sacred artworks from the past was not the church, but the museum, in its new, scientifically ordered form, which was replacing the fascinating chaos of the cabinet of curiosities created in the previous century.

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Fabrizio Federici studied art history at the University of Pisa and the Scuola Normale Superiore. From 2008 to 2012, he was the team leader of the project ‘Osservatorio Mostre e Musei’ at the Scuola Normale, while from 2016 to 2018 he was post-doctoral fellow at the Bibliotheca Hertziana in Rome. His interests include art patronage and collecting in the seventeenth century, the history of antiquarianism and the reception of medieval art. He is the author, with Jörg Garms, of the book “Tombs of Illustrious Italians at Rome”. L’album di disegni RCIN 970334 della Royal Library di Windsor (Leo S. Olschki, 2010).

Notes I would like to thank the editors of the book, and especially Felicity Bodenstein for her suggestions and improvements to this contribution. Many thanks go to Clare Kobasa for her aid in the writing of the English text and to Lucia Faedo and Ingo Herklotz for their remarks and advice.  1. Francesco Gualdi (1574–1657), knight of the Order of Saint Stephen, was a nobleman and a native of Rimini who was employed for nearly forty years at the papal court, as cameriere segreto of Pope Leo XI and then as familiare of three other pontiffs (Paul V, Gregory XV and Urban VIII). His interest in medieval objects, which aroused little curiosity among scholars and collectors during the early modern age, is one of the peculiarities that make Gualdi significant for modern art historians. It led him to write, with the aid of various collaborators, a vast treatise on medieval tomb-slabs preserved in the floors of Roman churches, entitled Memorie sepolcrali and illustrated with one hundred woodcuts that reproduce, with great accuracy, a selection of tombstones (Federici 2003). Another peculiar feature of Gualdi was his concern for the safeguarding of ancient and medieval monuments and artwork: he was not a collector confined to his own studio, but rather played an active role in the preservation and restoration of works such as the mausoleum of Caecilia Metella and the tomb of Cardinal Easton in Santa Cecilia in Trastevere (Federici 2014).  2. In a unique strategy of self-promotion, Gualdi was able, on the one hand, to insert mentions of the museum in some of the most important publications in Barberini’s Rome, and commissioned, on the other hand, the printing of illustrated pamphlets and single sheets devoted to pieces from his collection (Franzoni 1991; Franzoni and Tempesta 1992).  3. For the archaeological analysis of the single fragments donated by Gualdi see Franzoni and Tempesta 1992: 12–30.  4. Gualdi’s peculiar view of his own collection was not always understood by his contemporaries. In a rare tense moment in the relationship between Gualdi and Peiresc, the latter expressed, in a letter of 20 October 1633 to

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 5.

 6.  7.  8. 9.

10.

11. 12.

Claude Menestrier, his astonishment at the fact that the Roman collector did not want to donate a precious gem to him, when he had donated many papal bullae to the Vatican Library (see Tamizey de Larroque 1894: 659; Federici 2010: 241–42, 268). ‘ad illustrandam ecclesiasticam antiquitatem’. There are at least two versions of this woodcut, with differences in the choice of the sixteen bullae reproduced (we do not know the exact amount of pieces donated by Gualdi on this occasion). Apparently Gualdi’s bullae, which marked the beginning of the antiquarian and numismatic collections of the Vatican Library, have disappeared (see Le Grelle 1910–13: xvii). Inv. n. 60537. The medal is reproduced in De Rossi 1869: 55, pl. III, n. 9. See Franzoni and Tempesta 1992: 12–14, 33–34, for a discussion of the copy of the print preserved in Modena, Museo Civico, which does not bear the name of the author of the verses. We know of two versions of the print, which bear or omit the name of Alessandro Donati as author of the poem (see previous note), with differences in the images inserted in the frame. ‘Bibliothecae Vaticanae simile vetus numisma aeneum integris imaginibus dedit’ (Torrigio 1639: 120; Franzoni and Tempesta 1992: 14). Both the relief fragment and the inscription have disappeared, probably during the renovation work on the basilica at the beginning of the eighteenth century. These two prints (the one with the medal and the one with the lead bullae) circulated both as single sheets and as part of the 1630 edition of the Vitae Pontificum by Alonso Chacón: thus, Gualdi could ensure that his actions (and his museum) would gain wide fame. The nobleman sent an example of the print with the ‘vetus sacrum numisma’ to the Paduan antiquarian Lorenzo Pignoria, who answered with a learned Latin letter on this object, which remained unpublished, but which may have been meant to be printed in a never realized new edition of Pignoria’s Symbolarum Epistolicarum Liber (a copy of the letter can be found in Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Cod. Vat. Lat. 10486, f. 36r, followed by a Latin epigram on the medal, perhaps by Pignoria himself ). See De Rossi 1869: 54–55; Franzoni and Tempesta 1992: 12, 38. The print of the seal’s design is reproduced in Torrigio 1639: 605–6 (who specifies that the donation happened on 19 February 1635) and in Ughelli 1647, col. 769. The date of this operation is controversial. While the inscription that accompanied the assemblage bears the date 1630 (it is still preserved, along the stairs of the canonica of Santa Maria Maggiore; see Franzoni and Tempesta 1992: 14), in Bosio’s Roma Sotterranea, published at the very beginning of 1635 (even if its frontispiece is dated 1632), there is an engraving of the two reliefs, the description of which explains that the sarcophagi are still preserved in the house of Gualdi, who has decided to donate them to the basilica (Bosio 1632 [1635]: 589). And at the bottom of the engraving that reproduces Gualdi’s reuse (inserted in Meroni 1635), we find the date ‘1635’.

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14. 15.

16.

17.

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An important confirmation is provided by a side commentary written in Munich’s Bavarian State Library copy of the 1635 edition of Sacre Grotte Vaticane by Torrigio (Shelfmark: H.eccl. 1146). On page 120, Torrigio speaks of Gualdi’s donation and the anonymous reader (who left a lot of commentaries on this volume and seems to be well informed about Roman antiquities and contemporary cultural life) adds the following comment: ‘postovi adì 31 di marzo 1635’. Therefore, the combination and installation of the two reliefs would have happened just a month and a half after the donation of the lead seal to the Vatican, and at the same time as the publication of Meroni’s oration, which is closely linked to this reuse promoted by Gualdi. It is not easy to explain the presence of the date ‘1630’ in the inscription: maybe everything was prepared that year and then, for unknown reasons, the donation had to wait five years before it was carried out. On the two sarcophagi, see also Aringhi 1651: II, 394–95. For the text of the inscription, see Franzoni and Tempesta 1992: 14. It is worth noting that no mention is made of the fact that this was actually the combination of parts of two different sarcophagi; on the contrary, the text speaks of a unique arca marmorea. Meroni 1635. On this text, see Herklotz 2008: 152, 182–83. A copy of the Oratio was sent by Gualdi to Peiresc; see Federici 2010: 255. In the engraving, the arca lapidea is accompanied by three early Christian objects preserved in Gualdi’s museum (a gem, a medal and a lamp), which bear the Christogram. Their presence in the plate is probably linked to the fact that, in the oration, Meroni briefly speaks about the symbolic depictions of Christ, such as the Chi Rho (see note 19). ‘Honestissimum, pijssimumque hoc illius studium cum ego aliquando, pro re nata, laudarem, ac praesertim dicerem, magnam eum a viris pijs gratiam inisse, quod arcam lapideam sacra Veteris, Novique Testamenti historia insignitam in porticu Basilicae Sanctae Mariae Maioris decentissime collocandam curaverit, ille: ‘Gaudeo equidem – inquit – meum hoc factum a viris pijs, maxime vero ab eiusdem Basilicae Canonicis, eorumque Archipresbytero Antonio Barberino Cardinali valde probari, sed quam vellem, ut eiusmodi arcae, quae in privatis aedibus cernuntur, in loca sacra, unde haud dubie asportatae sunt, tanquam postliminio redeant!’ (Meroni 1635: 2). See Aringhi 1651: t. I, lib. II, 332–33, where a sarcophagus in the atrium of the palace of the counts of Marsciano, ‘in usum profanum conversus’ (probably as a fountain), is mentioned and reproduced, along with a fragment that had also been badly reused, inserted in the façade of a building (the print appears already in Bosio 1632 [1635]: II, VIII, 101). The mention of the sarcophagus is followed by praise for Gualdi as the rediscoverer of forgotten arcae (‘nonnullas [arcas] e tenebris, quibus involutae, abiectaeque diu iacuerant, in lucem afferere, et per porticus principum basilicarum disponere gloriae sibi, ac honori merito duxit. Indignum enim probi, ac sagacis vir ingenij arbitrabatur, ut marmorea haec monimenta, quae veterum Christianorum, id est sanctorum (tales enim nascentis Ecclesiae fideles erant) corpora intra

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18. 19.

20. 21.

22.

23.

se quondam complexa sunt, et quae instar cuiusdam autographi Christianae fidei mysteria exarata praeseferunt, profanari, ac alieno usu pollui, et non potius ad rerum maximarum contemplationem, venerationemque mortalium animos identidem, ut nata sunt, excitandos in publico Orbis conspectu collocari’). In Aringhi 1651, the augmented Latin edition of Bosio 1632 (1635), Gualdi is given great exposure: the sarcophagi placed in the porches of Santa Maria Maggiore and the Pantheon are described and reproduced (see t. II, lib. IV, cap. XLVII, 394–95 and t. I, lib. III, 622–23), and he is remembered also as a collector of early Christian and medieval pieces, such as three crucifixes that are reproduced in a plate together with devotional medals and lamps and that demonstrate that the correct way of depicting Christ on the cross is fixed to the wood by four nails, and not three, as was common among modern painters (t. II, lib. IV, cap. XLVII, 406). On the collecting of early Christian objects (and relics) in Seicento Rome, see Herklotz 2014. In his analysis of early Christian images, Meroni is explicitly guided by Bosio’s Roma Sotterranea: ‘Praeibit nobis Antonius Bosius, coeca ducens filo vestigia; eius, inquam, libro, qui roma sotterranea inscriptus nuper in lucem prodijt, utemur duce’ (Meroni 1635: 4). Firstly, Meroni examines the images of Christ, both represented in a symbolical way (the Christogram, the lamb) or ‘sub humana forma’ (such as in the case of the Good Shepherd); then he discusses the early Christian images as a source for clarifying and confirming sacred history. He underlines, through examples such as the famous mosaic of Saint Sebastian in San Pietro in Vincoli, bearded and not naked, but rather dressed as a soldier, that ancient artists deserve our trust, much more than modern ones, who ‘non raro peccant, transiliuntque historiae lineas’. ‘anne nos Christiani … patiemur, ut sacrae vetustatis fragmenta, quibus tanquam armis iconomachia labefactatur, et tanquam base historiae veritas constabilitur, in profanos usus vertantur?’ (Meroni 1635: 13). ‘Tanquam nascentis Ecclesiae adversus iconomachos testimonium Franc(iscus) Gualdus Arimin(ensis) … e tenebris in lucem huc transferri et veluti trophaeum erigi curavit.’ For the complete text of the inscription, still preserved in the courtyard of Palazzo Massimo di Rignano, see Franzoni and Tempesta 1992: 14. Due to the similarity between this text and Meroni’s Oratio, we can suppose that the Milanese cleric was the author of the inscription. Franzoni and Tempesta 1992: 19; Russo 2007: 92 (where the sculpture is suggestively linked to the oeuvre of Agostino di Duccio, the Tuscan artist that worked for a long time in the Tempio Malatestiano in Gualdi’s native Rimini). It is not easy to say whether the bust (placed in a high position, far from the viewer) is in marble or, as seems more probable, wood. Huskinson 2018: 371: ‘Gualdi’s explicit use of sarcophagus reliefs for the purpose of contemporary religious debate shows just how far the Church’s

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polemical use of early Christian antiquities had developed since the mid-sixteenth century.’ 24. Alongside the examples here discussed, we must mention a much earlier intervention, the insertion by Gualdi of a copy of an ancient inscription (CIL VI, 1101) on the façade of his house. The inscription includes a reference to Gualdi’s native town Rimini, which is why he wanted to exhibit this piece. This insertion can be seen as an antecedent to later reuses, even if we are dealing with a copy in this case and original sculptures later. 25. We find the first explicit references to the project of the monument in two letters to Cardinal Mazzarino written at the beginning of the year 1654 by his agent in Rome, Elpidio Benedetti: ‘Gli sto attorno per levargli dalle mani tre belle medaglie antiche, che ha destinato di far porre in Campidoglio con una sua memoria ma non so se mi riescirà, essendo troppo fisso in queste sue vanità d’immortalare il suo nome’ (Archives du Ministère des Affaires Etrangères, Paris, Correspondance Politique, Rome, vol. 126, f. 46r, 26 January 1654); ‘Non mi è successo di disporre il cavalier Gualdi a donare a Vostra Eminenza quelle 3 [scil. ‘medaglie di marmo’] africane, persistendo di voler collocarle in Campidoglio, e parendogli forse di essere più tosto creditore che debitore della Francia havendogli donato tutto il suo, e tirato molti pochi anni quella sua piccola pensione’ (ff. 81v–82r, 9 February 1654). The project, however, dates to some years before, as Gualdi wanted to place on the Capitoline Hill the two capitals he bought from Leonardo Agostini in 1652 and that he actually installed, in that same year, outside the church of Trinità dei Monti (see note 31). The monument to Scipio is not the only intervention by Gualdi on this side of the Palazzo Senatorio: a few metres away, there is a sixteenth-century coat of arms of the Gualdi family that the nobleman surrounded with three inscriptions celebrating his ancestors Galeotto and Francesco (Galeotto’s son), who had been Senators of Rome, respectively in 1510 and (quite exceptionally on two occasions) in 1539 and 1544. This celebration of the family’s illustrious past does not seem to be linked to Scipio’s monument; otherwise, we could read this ‘diptych’ as a glorification of Roman republican and civic institutions, during antiquity (Scipio) and in the modern age (the Gualdi senators). In any case, the choice of celebrating republican Rome through one of his most famous figures seems to be courageous, as the church presented itself as the heir of the Roman Empire (on the figure of Scipio in early modern culture and art, see Bettini 2006; Geerts 2014); and it is perhaps not by chance that the monument was erected, as stated in one of its inscriptions (see Franzoni and Tempesta 1992: 39), in pontificatus interregno, that is, during a ‘sede vacante’ period. Gualdi’s bravery is demonstrated also by his Pantheon monument, which constituted a public homage to Cardinal Mazzarino, who was one of the greatest enemies of the reigning Pope Innocent X. 26. Athena seems to allude to the very close fountain of Minerva / Dea Roma, in the Piazza del Campidoglio, where the association between Minerva with Rome is made evident. Thus, in the words of the inscription et Pallade

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27.

28.

29. 30.

31.

conciliata comite, we can identify a reference to a reconciliation between Scipio and the city: the captain was accused, in the last years of his life, of having been corrupted by Antiochus III of Syria and he reacted to the accusation with a voluntary exile in his country seat at Liternum (Campania), where he died in 183 bc. Gualdi had bought the relief with Athena from the sculptor Orazio Pacifici (Dodero 2014: 215–17). For the figure with an elephant-head crest sculpted in one of the reliefs, which constitutes a personification of Africa, see Spicer 2016. The main inscription reads: ‘Scipionem Africanum / cum hisce tropheorum reliquiis / et Pallade conciliata / comite triumphantem ad / Capitolium in imagine / hac veluti umbra reducem / e museo suo exibuit / Franciscus Gualdus Ariminen(sis) / eques S(ancti) Stephani anno MDCLV.’ For the text of the two other inscriptions, see Franzoni and Tempesta 1992: 39. It may have been conceived as a return, comparable to that of Scipio on the Capitoline Hill, an episode that we know very little about, the donation by Gualdi to his native town Rimini of a statue of Julius Caesar (see Ritratto di Roma antica 1627: 303–4). Crossing the Rubicon, near Rimini, in 49 bc, marked a fundamental step in Caesar’s conquest of power. See Gualdi’s letter to Cardinal Girolamo I Colonna, written on 23 November 1656: ‘Sono a rendere a Vostra Eminenza humilissime gratie del favore fattomi di comandare che il fogliame di marmo antico sia esposto alla publica curiosità. Doveranno anco meco restarlene obbligati tutti coloro che delle antichità si dilettano’ (Subiaco, Biblioteca del Monastero di Santa Scolastica, Archivio Colonna, Carteggio di Girolamo I Colonna, 1656, fasc. 665). The installation of the marble fragments can be dated to the beginning of 1657 (Strunck 2007: 59, 472, 492). Franzoni and Tempesta 1992: 28–30. While the monument to Scipio was restored in 2010, these marble fragments are in a very bad state of conservation, due to the smog generated by the traffic on Via 4 Novembre. The lion was, indeed, the symbol of municipal Rome. It can also be viewed as a reference to Gualdi himself, as a rampant lion appears on his coat of arms. The idea of engraving the sentence may have been influenced by the reading of Vasari 1568: I, 43. On the expression, see Winner 2009. The capitals and the reworked altars are still in situ (see Franzoni and Tempesta: 17, 19–22). According to Father Martin, in his Histoire du couvent royal des Minimes français, the altars were part of Gualdi’s collection, but were installed on the capitals only after the death of the nobleman: ‘Le 6 juillet [1657], en consignant à messire Gueffier pour le roi le cabinet du chevalier Gualdi, il resta pour la maison … deux bas-reliefs en pierre l’un de saint Louis et l’autre de saint François de Paule, lesquels furent placés sur les deux extrémités de la rampe du double escalier de l’église fait par Sixte V, où ils se voient encore avec cette épigraphe: Ex dono equitis Gualdi’ (Martin 2018: 258–59). The two inscriptions, engraved on the bases under the capitals and not on the altars, actually read: ‘Donum Eq(uitis) Gualdi Ariminen(sis)’, with the date (only on the right base) ‘MDCLII’. On the staircase of the church, there is a

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35.

36.

37. 38.

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third capital of a different shape, surmounted by an altar with an image of the Madonna, that does not seem to have been placed there by Gualdi, but by a later imitator. In fact, this capital does not appear in the plate dedicated to Trinità dei Monti in Falda 1665, while it is visible in Vasi 1747–61: pl. 178. Gualdi’s capitals are most likely the two capitals that the nobleman bought in September 1652 from the antiquarian Leonardo Agostini and that Gualdi initially wanted to place on the Capitoline Hill, probably in the monument to Scipio Africanus (Herklotz 2004: 57, 71, 81). ‘mon intention est de faire retourner le tout à son principe’. Writing to Cardinal Mazzarino in 1654, Abbot Elpidio Benedetti underlined how Gualdi wanted to ‘immortalize his name’ (‘essendo troppo fisso in queste sue vanità d’immortalare il suo nome’); see note 25. Gualdi’s donations, however, are not really dedicated to patrons: their names primarily serve as chronological references (for example, at Santa Maria Maggiore: ‘Card(inali) Antonio Barberino archipresb(ytero)’ [While cardinal Antonio Barberini was archpriest]), or, as in the case of Pantheon’s monument, the initiative is put ‘under the auspices’ of Cardinal Mazzarino, who, however, did not know in advance that Gualdi was going to erect the monument (Federici forthcoming). In a speech mentioned by Pliny (Naturalis Historia, XXXV, 26), Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa (the close friend of Augustus who ordered the construction of the Pantheon) affirmed that works of art should be displayed in public rather than hidden away in the homes of the wealthy (‘Exstat certe eius oratio magnifica et maximo civium digna de tabulis omnibus signisque publicandis, quod fieri satius fuisset quam in villarum exilia pelli’); see Geiger 2011: 237–38. In 1546, the merchant of antiquity Antonio Conteschi (also known as ‘Antonietto delle Medaglie’) adorned the façade of his Roman house with a sgraffito inscription in which he claimed to have done so much for the excavation and recovery of antiquities ‘publicae utilitatis potiusque sui rationem habens’ (having more in mind the public utility than its own profit); see Lanciani 1902–12: III, 256–57. A century later, the erudite Giovanni Battista Casali (†1648) wanted these words to be engraved on his tombstone: ‘reconditos … / thesauros sacros et prophanos / disciplinarum studiosis aperuit’ (‘opened to the scholars hidden sacred and profane treasures’, with a double reference to his writings and to his collection; for the text of the lost inscription, see Forcella 1869–84: V, 96, n. 287). Princes and cardinals, on the contrary, were not usually so generous in opening their collections, as Gualdi remarks in a letter of 27 December 1624 to Peiresc: ‘[la] gelosia che hanno questi nostri principi di Roma in tener sotterato di nuovo le loro antichità’ (Herklotz 1999: 29; Federici 2010: 251). Gualdi is defined as ‘a knight of eminent Learning, Curiosity, and Civility to Strangers’ in Evelyn 1955: II, 314. The importance of the idea of return for Gualdi’s donations has already been realized by Claudio Franzoni: ‘la “conservatione” [è] solamente il primo,

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39.

40.

41.

42.

indispensabile passo; il gradino successivo è quello del reinserimento delle varie opere nel loro contesto, non tanto come esito di un approccio filologico, quanto come condizione per lo scopo che il promotore si era prefisso, trasformare cioè i resti antichi in testimonia, far svolgere loro una sorta di funzione retorica, imaginibus coarguere’ (Franzoni and Tempesta 1992: 32–33). ‘[Sixtus] ob immensam benignitatem aeneas insignes statuas priscae excellentiae virtutisque monumentum Romano populo unde exorte fuere restituendas condonandasque censuit’; see a reproduction of the inscription in Dell’Era, Tittoni 1984: 23. On the donation of Pope Sixtus, see Parisi Presicce 2020. The reference to the return of the object, inspired by the words of the 1471 inscription, is present also in the inscription celebrating the arrival on the Capitoline Hill of the Lex de Imperio Vespasiani in 1583 (see Parisi Presicce: 71). Another episode that could have influenced Gualdi, especially in relation to the ‘return’ of Scipio on the Capitoline Hill, was the donation of the ancient bronze bust known as the Capitoline Brutus, which Cardinal Rodolfo Pio da Carpi assigned to the ‘Popolo Romano’ in 1564 because of the importance of Brutus, founder of the Roman Republic in 509 bc, in the history of the city (see Franzoni 2001). See Bosio 1632 (1635): 425. On the relationship between Gualdi and the cardinal, see Federici 2014. We also have to remember the long-lasting phenomenon of reusing sarcophagi inside the churches, for example, as parts of altars (see, with reference to the case study of Provence, Elsner 2009). Gualdi’s reuses seem to establish a link (though it is not clear how consciously) with the first phase of Roman antiquarian collecting, that of the fifteenth century, when the gathering and exhibition of antiquities occurred especially in outdoor spaces (courtyards, gardens) and through the insertion of the sculptures in the (external) walls (see Settis 2008). Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Cod. Vat. Lat. 8251, III, f. 541r: ‘giornalmente vien deteriorata la veneranda antichità ecclesiastica. Leggansi le Sacre Grotte Vaticane del Turrigi circa il fine, ove vedranno i monumenti di bassorilievo con li ritratti di gran personaggi riportati in pubbliche facciate de’ palagi situati ne’ giardini famosi di Roma.’ Gualdi alludes to Torrigio 1639: 601: ‘Roberto Malatesta d’Arimini, detto il Magnifico … Eravi già la sua statua equestre di marmo …; la quale nel 1607 fu di lì levata con l’occasione della demolitione della vecchia basilica, e fu posta sotto queste sacre grotte, ma nel 1616 adì 6 d’ottobre fu indi estratta, me presente, e portata alla vigna del cardinale Scipione Borghese a Porta Pinciana, dove è stata affissa nella facciata del suo palazzo.’ On the equestrian statue of Malatesta, bought by Napoleon along with the Borghese antiquities and now at the Louvre, see Caglioti and Montanari 2000; Cazenave 2007; Herrmann Fiore 2008: 232, 244; Di Benedetti 2009: 22–24; Di Benedetti 2012: 215–16; Pierguidi 2015. In Gualdi’s words, we can probably recognize the influence of Agrippa’s oration mentioned by Pliny, with its condemnation of the ‘exile’ of artworks in private villas (in villarum exilia pelli); see note 35. Gualdi

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was particularly concerned with the destiny of Malatesta’s sepulchral effigy, because the condottiero, too, was from Rimini. Among the marbles formerly located on the façade of the villa, there were also early Christian reliefs (Di Benedetti 2009: 22), a fact that surely deserved, like the reuse of the effigy of Malatesta, Gualdi’s disapproval. A very interesting episode of disrespectful reuse is that discussed in Faedo 2018: in 1678, two Christian fragments (one with Christ feeding the multitude and the other depicting Eve) were reused, together with Pagan figures, in a pastiche representing the worship of Venus, which was installed on the garden façade of Palazzo Barberini. Gualdi mentions this episode in his Discorso del conservare le memorie; see Federici 2014: 169. ‘Ex obscurioribus locis huc transtulit’. Precious details about this initiative are given in Torrigio 1639: 400–3. See Francesco Valesio, Chiese e memorie sepolcrali di Roma, Archivio Capitolino, Rome, Cred. XIV, vol. 40, f. 159v. We cannot exclude the possibility that this was the same fragment that Gualdi had previously placed in the church of Santi Apostoli, which could have been removed from there as a result of the dramatic renovation of the basilica, carried out between 1702 and 1714. ‘pristinaeque stationi restitui curavit’. See Forcella 1869–84: XII, 157, n. 204. Both the reliefs (this one and that of San Giuseppe dei Falegnami) were later moved to the Vatican Museums. See, for example, the letter that Giuseppe Bianchini wrote to Pope Benedict XIV in 1754: ‘le più insigni lapidi … sono quasi tutte ite a male, e i capi mastri le hanno barbaramente adoperate per riempir fondamenti, per ristorar case, e per lastricare i pavimenti delle chiese, per non avere esse qui in Roma ritrovato mai chi dasse loro un asilo di sicurezza in qualche sito comodo della città. Anche i superbi sarcofagi cristiani … piangonsi ora per la maggior parte rovinati, o convertiti ad usi profani, con vivo dolore di chi ha qualche amore della sacra venerabile antichità, essendo stati in varie guise spezzati, ovvero a grande ignominia della Città Santa, ridotti ad uso indegno di vasche, per abbeverare le bestie’ (Galletti 1762: 228; see also Morello 1981; Lega 2010).

References Aringhi, P. 1651. Roma subterranea novissima. Rome: typis Vitalis Mascardi. Bettini, A. 2006. ‘Publius Scipio Africanus Reipublicae Propugnator’, in B. Adembri (ed.), Aei mnēstos. Miscellanea di studi per Mauro Cristofani. Florence: Centro Di, II, pp. 836–47. Bosio, A. 1632 (1635). Roma sotterranea. Rome: Guglielmo Facciotti. Bovini, G., and H. Brandenburg. 1967. Repertorium der christlich-antiken Sarkophage, I. Rom und Ostia. Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag.

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Caglioti, F., and T. Montanari. 2000. ‘I monumenti funebri’, in A. Pinelli (ed.), La Basilica di San Pietro in Vaticano. Modena: Panini, III (Saggi), pp. 359–65. Cazenave, F. 2007. Entry on Roberto Malatesta, in K. Herrmann Fiore (ed.), Dürer e l’Italia, Catalogue of the Exhibition (Rome, Scuderie del Quirinale). Milan: Electa, p. 175. Cecalupo, C. 2015. Giovanni Calandra e il restauro del mosaico nilotico di Palestrina nel XVII secolo, in Atti del XX Colloquio dell’Associazione Italiana per lo Studio e la Conservazione del Mosaico (Rome, 19–22 March 2014). Tivoli: Scripta Manent Edizioni, pp. 639–46. Cifani, A., and F. Monetti. 2006. Giovan Battista Calandra (1586–1644). Un artista piemontese nella Roma di Urbano VIII, di Maderno e di Bernini. Turin: Allemandi. Dell’Era, M., and M.E. Tittoni. 1984. Il Campidoglio all’epoca di Raffaello. Milan: Electa. De Rossi, G.B. 1869. Le medaglie di devozione dei primi sei o sette secoli della Chiesa, in Bullettino di Archeologia Cristiana, series I, nr. 7. Di Benedetti, P. 2009. ‘Il reimpiego di alcune “memoriae” della vecchia Basilica Vaticana durante il pontificato di Paolo V Borghese: nuove testimonianze documentarie’, Bollettino d’arte, 7.Ser., 94 (1): pp. 13–40.  . 2012. ‘Una nuova vita per le memoriae medievali e rinascimentali della basilica di San Pietro’, in G. Morello (ed.), La basilica di San Pietro: fortuna e imagine. Rome: Gangemi, pp. 197–243. Dodero, E. 2014. ‘“Tutto quel di buono, che habbi osservato tra marmi, e metalli che fussero capaci di suggerir qualche notitia riguardevole dell’antico”: il Museo Cartaceo di Cassiano dal Pozzo e qualche novità sulle collezioni romane di antichità’, Studi di Memofonte 12, pp. 211–34. Donati, A. 2004. ‘Francesco Gualdi e una seicentesca veduta del Pantheon’, L’arco. Quadrimestrale di attualità e cultura della Fondazione Cassa di Risparmio di Rimini II 1, pp. 32–39. Elsner, J. 2009. ‘The Christian Museum in Southern France: Antiquity, Display, and Liturgy from the Counter-Reformation to the Aftermath of Vatican II’, The Oxford Art Journal, XXXII, 2, pp. 181–204. Evelyn, J. 1955. Diary. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Faedo L. 2018. ‘Una metamorfosi di Eva a Palazzo Barberini’, in V. Nizzo and A. Pizzo (eds), Antico e non antico. Scritti multidisciplinari offerti a Giuseppe Pucci. Milan: Mimesis, pp. 231–40. Falda, G.B. 1665. Il nuovo teatro delle fabbriche. Rome: G. Giacomo De Rossi. Federici, F. 2002. ‘“Veterum signa tanquam spolia”. Aspetti del reimpiego di sculture antiche a Roma nel Seicento, in Senso delle rovine e riuso dell’antico’, Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa, Serie IV, Quaderni, 14, pp. 273–84.  . 2003. ‘Il trattato Delle memorie sepolcrali del cavalier Francesco Gualdi: un collezionista del Seicento e le testimonianze figurative medievali’, Prospettiva 110–11, pp. 149–59.  . 2010. ‘Alla ricerca dell’esattezza: Peiresc, Francesco Gualdi e l’antico’, in Marc Bayard (ed.), Rome – Paris 1640. Transferts culturels et renaissance d’un centre artistique. Paris: Somogy Editions d’Art, pp. 229–73.  . 2014. ‘Battaglie per la tutela nella Roma barocca: Francesco Gualdi e la difesa delle “memorie antiche”’, Studi Romani, LXII, 1–4, pp. 149–72.  . Forthcoming. ‘Un partisan de la France en quête de protection: ce “bon vieux” chevalier Francesco Gualdi et le cardinal Mazarin’, in Y. Loskoutoff (ed.), Mazarin et l’Italie. Rouen: Presses universitaires de Rouen et du Havre.

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Forcella, V. 1869–84. Iscrizioni delle chiese di Roma e d’altri edificii di Roma dal secolo XI fino ai nostri giorni, vol. XIV. Rome: Coi tipi di Ludovico Cecchini. Franzoni, C. 1991. ‘Ancora sul museo di Francesco Gualdi (1576–1657)’, Annali dell’Istituto storico italo-germanico di Trento 17, pp. 561–72.  . 2001. ‘“Urbe Roma in pristinam formam renascente”. Le antichità di Roma durante il Rinascimento’, in A. Pinelli (ed.), Roma nel Rinascimento. Rome: Laterza, pp. 291–336. Franzoni, C., and A. Tempesta. 1992. ‘Il museo di Francesco Gualdi nella Roma del Seicento tra raccolta privata ed esibizione pubblica’, Bollettino d’arte, LXXVII, 73, pp. 1–42. Galletti, P. 1762. Memorie per servire alla storia della vita del cardinale Domenico Passionei. Rome: Salomoni. Geerts, W. (ed.). 2014. Scipione l’Africano: un eroe tra Rinascimento e Barocco (Proceedings of the Conference, Rome, Academia Belgica, 24–25 May). Milan: Jaca Book. Geiger, J. 2011. ‘The Augustan Age’, in G. Marasco (ed.), Political Autobiographies and Memoirs in Antiquity. A Brill Companion. Leiden: Brill, 233–66. Herklotz, I. 1999. Cassiano dal Pozzo und die Archäologie des 17. Jahrhunderts. Munich: Hirmer.  . 2004. ‘Excavations, Collectors and Scholars in Seventeenth-Century Rome’, in I. Bignamini (ed.), Archives & Excavations. Archaeological Monographs of the British School at Rome 14, pp. 55–88.  . 2008. Die Academia Basiliana: griechische Philologie, Kirchengeschichte und Unionsbemühungen im Rom der Barberini. Rome: Herder.  . 2014. ‘Antiquities in the Palaces: Aristocratic, Antiquarian, and Religious’, in Gail Feigenbaum (ed.), Display of Art in the Roman Palace. Los Angeles, CA: Getty Research Institute, pp. 234–49. Herrmann-Fiore, K. 2008. ‘The Exhibition of Sculpture on the Villa Borghese Facades in the Time of Cardinal Scipione Borghese’, Studies in the History of Art 70, pp. 219–45. Huskinson, J. 2018. ‘Early Christian Art and Archaeology in Sixteenth- and SeventeenthCentury Rome’, in R.M. Jensen and M.D. Ellison (eds), The Routledge Handbook of Early Christian Art. London: Routledge, pp. 364–79. Lanciani, R. 1902–12. Storia degli scavi di Roma e notizie intorno le collezioni romane di antichità. Rome: Loescher. Lega, C. 2010. ‘La nascita dei Musei Vaticani: le antichità cristiane e il museo di Benedetto XIV’, Bollettino dei Monumenti, Musei e Gallerie Pontificie 28, pp. 95–184. Le Grelle, S. 1910–13. ‘Saggio storico delle collezioni numismatiche vaticane’, in C. Serafini, (ed.), Le monete e le bolle plumbee pontificie del medagliere vaticano, III. Bologna: Arnaldo Forni Editore, I, xv–lxxix. Lipinsky, A. 1950. Il tesoro di San Pietro. Guida-inventario. Città del Vaticano. Martin, C.-H. 2018. Histoire du couvent royal des Minimes français de la très Sainte Trinité sur le Mont Pincius à Rome, edited by M.G. Canzanella-Quintaluce. Rome: Ecole Française de Rome. Massimi, M.E. 2003. Entry ‘Gualdo, Francesco’, in Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani, LX. Rome: Istituto dell’Enciclopedia Italiana, pp. 154–56. Meroni, P. 1635. Pauli Iosephi Meroni oratio de Christianae antiquitatis reliquiis quae sacras imagines praeseferunt, habita in aedibus illustrissimi patritii Romani Petri a Valle. Rome: apud Haeredes Iacobi Mascardi.

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Monetti, S. 2015. ‘“In porticu celeberrimi Templi Pantheon”: il monumento paleocristiano ideato da Francesco Gualdi nel 1646’, Bollettino dei Monumenti, Musei e Gallerie Pontificie 33, pp. 161–84. Morello, G. 1981. ‘Il Museo Cristiano di Benedetto XIV’, Bollettino dei Monumenti, Musei e Gallerie Pontificie 2, pp. 53–89. Parisi Presicce, C. 2020. ‘Antichità sul Campidoglio: l’eredità del Popolo Romano e l’archetipo del museo moderno’, in S. Settis and C. Gasparri (eds), I marmi Torlonia. Collezionare capolavori, Exhibition Catalogue (Rome, Musei Capitolini, 14 October 2020–29 June 2021). Milan: Electa, pp. 66–77. Pasini, P.G. 2005. ‘Ignoto pittore del XVII secolo, Veduta del Pantheon’, in P.G. Pasini (ed.), Dal Trecento al Novecento. Opere d’arte della Fondazione e della Cassa di Risparmio di Rimini. Rimini: Panozzo, pp. 70–71. Pierguidi, S. 2015. ‘Il Marco Curzio e la perduta Amazzone a cavallo di Pietro Bernini: dal bassorilievo al “tutto rilievo”’, Arte documento 31, pp. 58–63. Ritratto di Roma antica. 1627. Rome, Per Andrea Fei, a spese di Pompilio Totti libraro. Russo, L. 2007. Santa Maria in Aracoeli. Rome: De Rosa. Savoy, B. 2017, Objets du désir, désir d’objets. Paris: Collège de France (Leçons inaugurales du Collège de France, 270). Settis, S. 2008. Collecting Ancient Sculpture: The Beginnings, in N. Penny and E. Schmidt (eds), Collecting Sculpture in Early Modern Europe. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, pp. 12–31. Spicer, J.A. 2016. ‘The Personification of Africa with an Elephant-Head Crest in Cesare Ripa’s “Iconologia” (1603)’, in W.S. Melion and B.A.M. Ramakers (eds), Personification. Embodying Meaning and Emotion. Leiden: Brill, pp. 677–715. Stenhouse, W. 2017. ‘From Spolia to Collections in the Roman Renaissance’, in S. Altekamp, C. Marcks Jacobs and P. Seiler (eds), Zentren und Konjunkturen der Spoliierung. Berlin: Edition Topoi, pp. 381–404. Strunck, C. 2007. Berninis unbekanntes Meisterwerk: die Galleria Colonna in Rom und die Kunstpatronage des römischen Uradels. Munich: Hirmer. Tamizey de Larroque, P. (ed.). 1894. Lettres de Peiresc, V. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale. Torrigio, F.M. 1639. Le Sacre Grotte Vaticane (Viterbo 1618). Rome: appresso Vitale Mascardi. Ughelli, F. 1647. Italia sacra sive De episcopis Italiae et insularum adjacentium rebusque ab iis praeclare gestis, deducta serie ad nostram usque aetatem, II. Rome: apud Bernardinum Tanum. Vasari, G. 1568. Vite de’ più eccellenti pittori, scultori e architettori. Florence: appresso i Giunti. Vasi, G. 1747–61. Delle magnificenze di Roma antica e moderna. Rome: Pagliarini. Whitehouse, H. 1976. The Dal Pozzo Copies of the Palestrina Mosaic. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. Winner, M. 2009. ‘“Ex ungue leonem”: eine kunsttheoretische Vignette in Sandrarts Teutscher Academie’, in S. Ebert-Schifferer and C. Mazzetti di Pietralata (eds), Joachim von Sandrart, ein europäischer Künstler und Theoretiker zwischen Italien und Deutschland, Proceedings of the conference, Rome, Bibliotheca Hertziana, 3–4 April 2006. Munich: Hirmer, pp. 193–209.

Chapter 11

Getting the Benin Bronzes Back to Nigeria The Art Market and the Formation of National Collections and Concepts of Heritage in Benin City and Lagos Felicity Bodenstein

In 1976, the Daily Times, Lagos, published a long, commented interview with Saburi Oladeni Biobaku (1918–2001), a scholar and specialist of Yoruba history, by the journalist Willy Bozimo, known for his commentary on cultural affairs and the arts (though his work was more generally dedicated to political and state affairs). At the time, Biobaku was chairman of the Nigerian antiquities commission and had just edited a collective volume entitled The Living Culture of Nigeria, a publication financed by Shell PB and prefaced by the Oba of Benin City, Akenzua II (1899–1978). The dialogue between Biobaku and Bozimo presents some of the predominant points of view concerning the question of Nigerian antiquities that were being voiced in Nigeria in the 1970s: Talking about the ways of bringing back all antiquities looted from our shores, the chairman, Professor Saburi Biobaku told me that there are three ways open to the country to retrieve the looted antiquities. ‘Firstly, there is the diplomatic channel between government to government – which is not very easy. Secondly, there is the attempt at buying back most of the valuable antiquities – which are usually found in private collections. For example, the war generals who took part in the sack of Benin in [the] 1897 Expedition made away with most of the precious antiquities which are now in private collections. In these cases, we have to go to the open markets to bid and haggle with other buyers. A single

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Benin bronze could easily cost ₦200,000. Third avenue is to appeal to people’s voluntary will … Of all these methods, the government to government approach is not easy and the British Museum is very reluctant to send back the antiquities in their custody. The nearest best bet is to give us a replica of the originals.’ (Bodenstein 2018)1

Bozimo frames the issue from two points of view, firstly as a cultural question about the place of antiquities in Nigeria’s perception and appreciation of its artistic achievements, as set against what is presented as a certain popular and traditional preference for the performing arts of dance and theatre. The second, more pragmatic perspective considers how to develop a strategy for Nigeria’s antiquities, a finite resource whose collection and preservation requirements incur a considerable financial burden. He also asks: what attitudes should be adopted in relation to those antiquities abroad, taken and sold during the colonial period, and their continued illicit trafficking? To what extent should the Nigerian government invest resources into acquiring these on the market or into funding political campaigns for their return? What would be the cultural gains of showcasing these in Nigerian museums? The pedagogical aim of this interview was to present the notion of ‘antiquities’ to a broader public and to explain the difference between cultural and economic values. The dilemma for the journalist, as he tried to promote the importance of Nigerian antiquities, was the confrontation between their importance as objects of history and ritual, on the one hand, and the high prices that they were being sold for on the international market. Biobaku’s discourse tries to extract the importance of the antiquities from such ‘materialist’ considerations in order to focus on the notion of ‘spiritual regeneration’, yet, as the article shows, the issue of their acquisition and the fight against illicit trafficking makes it very difficult to construct a discourse around this material heritage that avoids constant equivalences between cultural and economic values. In this chapter, we examine how the constitution of Nigerian and Benin concepts of heritage, notably through the establishment of museum collections, was entangled and often inhibited by the commercial values attributed to Nigerian cultural objects on the international market, in particular the so-called Benin bronzes, where they have continued to fetch ever higher prices, in a process of an exponential rise in value that, in many cases, has prohibited efforts to see them returned, efforts that have included, but have not been limited to, requests for restitution. We will consider some of the different ways in which the return of the objects from Benin City was envisaged, on the one hand by the royal

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court, symbolically reinstated in 1914 with the reign of Oba Eweka II, and, on the other hand, from a national perspective, first colonial and then independent and federal. Early requests for the return of the Oba’s court regalia in the 1930s will be examined, followed by an overview of a series of purchases that enabled the National Museum of Lagos to come into possession of some of the objects taken from Benin in 1897. Lastly, we shall see how the failure to acquire a particularly precious ivory mask in the 1950s contributed to the establishment of the entire group of the ‘Benin bronzes’ (for the most part made of brass) as symbols for restitution demands related to colonial contexts (Bodenstein and Howald 2019). Indeed, as a group, the ‘Benin bronzes’ have attained a global level of public recognition that can only be compared to that of the bust of Nefertiti in the Neues Museum in Berlin or the Parthenon marbles in the British Museum in London; however, in contrast to these famous cases, their destiny cannot be reduced to a presence in any one particular museum collection. It is estimated that between three thousand and five thousand objects were taken in the immediate aftermath of the invasion of Benin City in 1897; some of these can still be found circulating on the international art market and in private collections (Dark 1982: v). In February 1897, over a thousand men, armed British naval officers largely supported by native fighters, entered a deserted Benin. Ill equipped to face off the Maxim machine guns and rockets, soldiers and civilians had fled the city after just a couple of days of intense fighting and the head of the court, the Oba Ovonramwen N’Ogbaisi, had gone into hiding (Hicks 2020). In those organs of the British press that viewed commercial colonial expansion favourably, the expedition was described as a necessary retaliatory response to the killing of a group of British administrators and their native carriers at the city’s gates two months earlier. They had come to ask for an interview with the Oba in order to convince him to enforce a trade treaty that he had been coerced into signing in 1892 and that would allow for the free movement of goods, such as palm oil kernels, through the region still under his control. They were killed before they could reach the city, after failing to accept the Oba’s refusal to meet with them and engage in further negotiations during a period of annual festivities that did not allow him to receive foreigners. The Oba and his men had much to fear, as several other important chiefs had been overthrown and exiled since the beginning of the 1890s in the surrounding territories. And their suspicions were justified: a range of archival documents clearly attest that the administrators of the Niger Coast Protectorate (as the area under British control was called from 1893 to 1900), along with the businessmen who supported them, had been calling for the deposition of the

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Oba for several years and were keen to find a pretext to remove him from power (Igbafe 1979: 340). In a document drawn up in 1898 and addressed to the British Crown Agents responsible for financial affairs in the colonies, general consul Ralph Moor justifies his very large private holdings of objects pillaged in Benin City during the 1897 invasion (Bodenstein 2020: 72). Moor writes that upon entering the city he immediately ‘took charge of everything of value found there, and indeed of the entire City i.e. as a property’. After scouring the royal court for artefacts made of ivory, brass and other materials, this ‘property’, insomuch that it was portable, was for the most part divided up between the members of the expedition. The most important objects were, however, retained by high-ranking members of the expedition, in particular those objects found in the private chambers of the Oba and in the most important sanctuaries of the palace complex. The total number of objects that left the city remains an estimate as only limited lists or inventories were made and most of the pieces were taken as the personal loot of admiralty officers and protectorate administrators. Auction catalogues from the years following the events describe how members of the expedition dug up bones and ancestral objects, ripped elements from altars and removed souvenirs from the bodies of victims (Bodenstein 2020: 74) as the city was systematically stripped of all signs of what was perceived as the bloodthirsty cult generically termed ‘juju’ by the colonialists (Strother 2017). The practice of human sacrifices, a reality the scale and true nature of which is impossible to determine due to the one-sided and propagandistic nature of the sources at our disposal, was placed in the foreground and served as a convenient moral justification for the pursuit of what were, in fact, essentially commercial interests. The objects taken were in many cases directly related to the expression of courtly power and a large number functioned in the context of a cult of ancestors that gave them a status close to personhood; their ensuing commodification thus perpetuated a systematic form of desecration.

Reclaiming Regalia: Oba Akenzua II and the First Returns to Benin City The vast majority of the objects taken by British naval forces and protectorate administrators were inalienable objects, not in our contemporary legal sense, as there were no binding legal documents that could be called upon to define this status, but in a social and anthropological sense, as discussed by Annette Weiner (1992). A large part of what was taken was

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the court regalia, as well as cult objects, or was otherwise made up of objects produced by royal guilds that were intended to be neither bought nor sold, but rather preserved and transmitted from one generation to the next. As has been shown by Professor Kokunre Agontaen-Eghafona (Agbontaen-Eghafona and Ikechukwu Okpoko 2004), the concepts associated with collecting objects in Benin clearly predate the colonial era, for example, indigenous preservation techniques that were regularly applied by designated persons dedicated to the care of the collections. In order to relativize the gravity and wholesale nature of this looting, commentators have sometimes pointed out that Benin had, for a long time, been involved in exchanges with foreign powers and that Benin artworks had circulated in Europe long before 1897 (Kilb and Trinks 2019). It should be underlined that this is a somewhat disingenuous argument. As I have shown in a study dedicated to the texts produced by members of the expedition, most of the objects’ types were ‘discovered’ in 1897, insomuch as they had never been seen before in European museums and, aside from some exceptional donations, had never circulated outside of the sociocultural sphere of the court (see Bodenstein 2020: 66–67). There was both a sense of exhaustivity in the process of pillaging and an awareness of the cultural importance of what was being taken. The destruction was clearly premeditated and associated with the taking of the objects as a form of punishment necessary to achieve the objectives of the expedition: I would add that the destruction of Benin City, the removal and punishment of the King, the punishment of the fetish priests, the opening up of the country, &c., will prove a wonderful impetus to trade in this part of the Protectorate, and at the same time do away with a reign of terror and all its accompanying horrors. (White Book 1897: 22)

Nevertheless, certain expedition members expressed their admiration for the aesthetic qualities of what had been destroyed. The official report published by the expedition doctor, Robert Allman, describes his perception of the city as follows: The dwelling houses, especially those of the king’s harem, were beautifully built and tastefully decorated throughout, some of the mud seats and couches being artistically inlaid with cowries, which had a most pleasing effect. (Allman 1897: 44)

Sale catalogues provide some insight into the actions taken to gather objects as private loot, which was often quickly sold off by members of the expedition once they had returned to London. A Steven’s Auction House catalogue from 1898 mentions the provenance of three objects

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seized from the ‘king’s harem’, where the floor had been systematically excavated in search of gold without success, principally yielding human remains. Other objects are described on the basis of information recorded a few weeks later in exchanges with the Oba Ovonramwen, who was in captivity. Object No. 142, entitled ‘The Actual Historic Mace of Office of Duboar, Late King of Benin’, is accompanied by a note explaining that the Oba himself recognized the object and ‘demonstrated that it had been passed from king to king over the centuries’ (Stevens 1898: 11).

Figure 11.1. The British Museum pendant mask (Af1910,0513.1) reproduced on the cover of the brochure Nigerian Heritage, published for FESMAN, 1966. Author photo.

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Unsurprisingly, the cultural importance of pieces related to the person of Oba Ovonramwen and to former Obas, such as the Queen Mother Iy’Oba Idia’s ivory hip masks or coral crowns and jewellery, taken from his personal living quarters, has resulted in them being particularly prominent in the demands for return that have been formulated since 1897. The first documented request for a return was made in 1935 by Akenzua II. As the second Oba to be named in colonial Benin, he was particularly active in the restructuring of traditional customs of court life, trying to reclaim a certain degree of independence from the control exercised by the colonial administration and reconciling Christian practices with religious belief systems of precolonial Benin. In particular, he founded one major festival, the Igue, to make it compatible with the demands of the British colonial administration and wider movements of modernization. One of the most important actions that the Oba needed to carry out to honour his ancestors and perpetuate his powers was to visit their shrines during the different annual festivals. According to a recent biographer: ‘the reigning Oba had to wear the regalia of any Oba whose shrine was to be visited. The bone of contention here was that a large number of artworks and beaded crowns had been stolen from the palace during the Benin Punitive Expedition of 1897; and most of the shrines could not be visited without these beheaded crowns’ (Osaro Edo 2018: 333–45). The first requests made by Akenzua II sought to recover specific objects that were necessary for the execution of essential court rites. In 1935, he met with the Earl of Plymouth in Benin City. The earl made at least two visits to the city in 1935 as Under-Secretary of State for the Colonies (1931 to 1936) and in 1938 as Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs (1936–39; Staples, Kaplan and Freyer 2017: 22, 67). The first visit in 1935 led to an explicit request for the return of his predecessors’ regalia; the demand for two royal throne stools, respectively from the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries, is particularly well documented. Audrey Péraldi, who has written about this request, has shown that considerable research was undertaken by the Foreign Office to ascertain the whereabouts of the objects, beginning with the information provided by Akenzua II that the stools had been taken directly by Ralph Moor. The aim was to retrieve the objects and the Oba even made the offer to buy back the throne stools at a reasonable price (Peraldi 2017: 25). Gerald Creasy (1897–1983), a young colonial officer who had accompanied Lord Plymouth, went to some lengths to find the desired pieces, describing the Oba as an ‘extremely able and cultured man’, adding that ‘the Government of Nigeria would, I know, be glad if his wishes over this stool could be met’ (quoted in Peraldi 2017: 25). When they were finally located in the collections

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of the ethnographic collections in Berlin, having been acquired from Moor’s collection after his death in 1909, a series of interactions with the German embassy and the museum led not to a return of the object but to the production of galvanoplastic copies that were offered to the Oba in Benin for the price of £130. Akenzua II ordered that the copies delivered to Benin in 1939 carry inscriptions designating the stools as ‘1897 Benin Expedition war trophy now in the State Museum in Berlin’. In parallel, it would appear that other efforts were undertaken to locate pieces of Oba Ovonramwen’s regalia and, in 1938, Lord Plymouth returned to Benin and presented Akenzua II with elements of his predecessor’s coral regalia. This return was certainly a symbolic gesture, possibly designed to soften the disappointment of the failed attempt to recuperate the throne stools, facilitated by the intervention of the Foreign Office. It was, however, in fine possible due to the personal initiative of G.M. Miller, the son of a member of the Benin expedition who had lent them to the British Museum in 1935 (Plankensteiner 2016: 140). This was also the case in the only other instance of a direct return of objects to the Benin court, which was carried out by Mark Walker, the grandson of an expedition member who personally returned three objects in 2014. It is documented that Oba Akenzua II celebrated the return of the regalia with great joy and ‘burst into a song “Obi gb ‘Eni Sagelemayo” (poison has killed the elephant), to which he danced with the crown resting on his head’ (Osaro Edo 2018: 345). A photograph taken by the court photographer Solomon Osagie Alonge shows how this return was staged as an official state affair, with the Oba Akenzau II standing between the Earl of Plymouth and Sir John Macpherson, governor-general of Nigeria; both are wearing full official military dress (in contrast to a very similar photograph taken during the earl’s visit in 1935, in which he accompanies the Oba in civil attire), whilst he stands in the middle grasping the objects with visible emotion. Today, a life-size version of this image taken by the court photographer is at the entrance of the National Museum of Benin City, but the figures of both British officials have been cut away, leaving only that of Akenzua II. The poster is positioned a few steps away from the copies of the throne stools, whilst the coral regalia are still part of the Oba’s treasure and continue to be used in specific ritual contexts. That same year, Kenneth C. Murray (1902–72), who was working at the Education Department in Lagos to establish a department to ‘save Nigerian antiquities from destruction through human and natural agencies, and to create in Nigerians an awareness of the country’s cultural heritage’ (Agbontaen-Eghafona 2001: 117), organized an exhibition of African arts in London, which led the then Secretary of the Colonies

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William Ormsby-Gore to officially announce his intention to support the building of a museum in Nigeria. It was the beginning of a long and difficult genesis that culminated in the opening of the National Museum in Lagos twenty years later in 1957, as well as six other museums in Nigeria before independence in 1960. Different members of the department expressed their desire that such a museum would be provided with collections through the return of objects that had left the country in the previous decades, with E.M. Duckworth writing in 1937: ‘The day may come when people will voyage from all parts of the world to see the museums and exhibitions rooms in Lagos, Abeokuta, Ife and Benin City’ (quoted in Okita 1985: 7). The discovery at Ife in 1938 of a cache of exceptionally fine bronze sculptures close to the Oni’s palace had provoked a new sense of urgency in relation to the idea of establishing a department of antiquities that might reduce the outward flow of material and one of Murray’s great successes was to be the successful return to Ife in 1950 of two heads bought from the anthropologist William Bascom for a few pounds (Tignor 1990: 429–30). In a letter to William Fagg at the British Museum, he writes of this as ‘a triumph’, which had, amongst other negotiations, been achieved by refusing Bascom entry into Nigeria, pending the return of the heads. In requesting of Fagg that the story of this return be published in the journal Man, he added, ‘but at the same time it is to his credit that he should have agreed to do so. … I should have liked to bring to the notice of anthropologists the fact of the return and how Bascom’s action is appreciated and thought a generous one.’2 But, of course, Murray and his colleagues also saw the museum as a way of protecting culture from being lost or destroyed through neglect in local contexts in situ, a phenomenon he understood as being largely accelerated by processes of modernization and the rejection of aspects of traditional lifestyles, but also by differences in ideas about preservation: ‘About the art works in every province a tale of destruction could be told … The old bronzes remaining in Benin are left lying on a mud altar without satisfactory protection’ (Murray 1942: 246). For Murray, museums and collections could help restore a lost sense of pride in local populations and result in better protection of cultural objects. Of all the groups in Nigeria and their associated objects, he considered the situation of Benin court art to be particularly dramatic: At present, however, it is easier to study Nigerian art in Europe than in Nigeria. Thus, for instance, while there are two thousand pieces of old Benin sculpture in Europe, in Benin itself there are only a dozen indifferent ones. … The need,

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indeed, for a collection of Nigerian art in Europe cannot be as vital as the need for one in Nigeria. In Europe it would chiefly have an academic purpose, but in Nigeria it is wanted for the cultural life of the country itself.

And whilst he mainly worked towards the constitution of a large national museum in Lagos, he believed in the equal importance of local museums: ‘At Ife and Benin small museums should be established for the bronzes and terra-cottas, which would need little but periodic attention once they are properly housed’ (Murray 1942: 248). The plans for a museum in Benin got underway only a few years later and were elaborated in collaboration with the Oba Akenzua II, who provided the core collection with a donation of objects in his possession, and the historian Jacob Egharevba.

Buying the Benin Bronzes Back for Nigeria (1946–60) Whilst initiatives for the establishment of museums in Ife, Benin and Lagos were unfolding despite underfunding (Hellman 2014), Murray, who had been named Surveyor of Antiquities in 1943, began a campaign to buy back some of the most important Benin pieces that became available on the art market in Europe and North America. This process was informed by his collaboration with Egharevba, with whom he wrote the Benin museum collection’s first catalogue (Egharevba 1969: 4), and it was supported in Nigeria and internationally by such figures as the painter Ben Enwonwu.3 Nevertheless, we need to underline that the sources that we were able to consult are insufficient when it comes to detailing the nature of these important relationships; indeed, there is no correspondence in the archives of the National Museum in Lagos, nor is there any in Benin City itself. It is, however, clear that Murray began his campaign in 1946, the same year that Oba Akenzua made the donation that allowed for the foundation of the museum in Benin. Murray discussed the nature of the collections in Britain and the objects that he sought to acquire with the funding of the Nigerian government with both Akenzua II and Egharevba, encouraging them to visit the British Museum during the Oba’s stay London in 1950 and calling on other local dignitaries for support in making his acquisitions when the Nigerian government failed to cover his costs.4 At the opening of an exhibition of Enwonwu’s work at the Berkely Gallery in London in May 1946, a public appeal was made by representatives of the Colonial Office to ‘all possessors of traditional works of art taken from Nigeria, to consider if they would not be of more value

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in Nigeria’.5 This appeal coincided with the first acquisition inquiries abroad and the official opening of the Department of Antiquities, following a decade of campaigning for support from colonial officials and collecting objects related to material culture across Nigeria (on Murray’s collecting efforts, see Hellman 2014: 82). In that year, Bernard Fagg, the brother of William Fagg, keeper in the Department of Ethnography and a keen observer of the London art market, sent a letter to Murray suggesting the acquisition of a bronze head of an Oba, which he had negotiated from £350 down to £100 with a dealer in London, the Arcade Gallery, and which was owned by Louis Clarke of Cambridge, adding ‘My brother is of the opinion that we could get a number more in this country from time to time’.6 In his response announcing the head’s acquisition, Murray writes of this first purchase in Britain of a Benin piece: ‘I am feeling most bucked that we have got it, for there is only one undamaged head in Nigeria.’7 Bernard Fagg also believed that Nigeria might profit from the Benin collections in Germany, where ‘most of the bronzes are in British hands somewhere in the British Zone. I gather that the Reparations idea is off, but the Museums might sell some to us!’8 Indeed, since 1943, there had been some hope that once the war finished, the Germans, having lost, might be prevailed upon to cede some of the Benin collections, including the two throne stools discussed above, as part of a list of works to be returned not to Britain, but to British Nigeria (Peraldi 2017: 27). Needless to say, none of this came to pass, but it shows that no stone was left unturned and that the Oba’s request had not been forgotten. Preserved in the archives of the National Museum in Lagos, Murray’s correspondence with Bernard Fagg, who was appointed government archaeologist for Nigeria in 1948, and his brother William illustrates some of the intricacies and tensions of this collaboration between nascent colonial and metropolitan institutions. Indeed, the attempt to reverse the flow of cultural material out of Nigeria was bound to come into conflict with the continued development of major collections in Europe and North America. The exchange between Bernard Fagg and Murray attests to their elaboration of strategies designed to outplay or outbid the British Museum, as their desire to acquire the best pieces for Nigeria led to a divergence of interests with colleagues in Britain, including Bernard Fagg’s own brother. Bernard Fagg even suggests the possibility of directly entering into negotiations with the former dealer and collector William W. Oldman, who had shocked staff at the British Museum by secretly selling off his entire collection of Oceanic objects to the New Zealand government in 1948 (for another example of such tensions, see chapter 7 on the

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case of Congo in the 1930s). However, this tension came to a head at the end of the 1950s as a result of the Iy’Oba Idia ivory mask, which we will consider below. A very large number of Benin pieces were bought in collaboration with William Fagg, who acted as an agent for the Nigerian government in these acquisitions. A number of these came directly from the collections of the British Museum itself. In 1949, the trustees of the museum agreed ‘to dispose of “duplicate” Benin specimens to Nigeria’. Ten of the two hundred bronze plaques directly donated to the British Museum by the Foreign Office after the 1897 expedition were sold in 1953 to the museum in Lagos for what was described by an official of the museum in 1982 as the ‘especially low price of £1500’.9 It was, however, in no way a ‘special’ deal; on the contrary, when compared to the prices that Murray paid for other objects on the market, the average of £150 per plaque seems to be on par with other acquisitions from the early 1950s, before a major rise with the sales of 1953. In a letter to Bernard, Murray notes: ‘I hope the BM will offer more things. I am most pleased to have got the plaques. I do think it a bit hard and impolitic if they ask almost maximum prices, but it might be pointed out that the Nig. Govt. does not deserve to get them cheaply since they do not build anywhere to keep them.’10 William Fagg also served as an intermediary for other acquisitions on the London market, including, in 1953, a particularly beautiful bronze head, from the collection of R.B. Allman, who had been the principal medical officer of the 1897 expedition, sold for £5,500 at Sotheby’s. There was apparently no competition with the British Museum on this piece, perhaps because it already owned a very similar head that was donated in 1897 by Sir William Ingram of the London Illustrated News, which had covered the invasion of Benin. Although, the Allman piece was less damaged, having retained its original pedestal.11 It was the most important object of the sale. Before the sale, Bernard Fagg proposed to get the ‘Shell Company to guarantee the Queen Mother’s head for whatever it fetches’ and though it is unclear whether Shell did in fact pay for the piece, this would explain its acquisition for what was, in 1953, a record price, along with a series of other important pieces from the same collection.12 In an article that clearly indicates the growing desire for national independence, the Lagos Daily Times13 reported on how William Fagg ‘purchased an entire collection of Benin bronzes and carvings on behalf of the Nigerian Government, so that they are now the property of the Nigerian people – who owned them originally’. Though it was clearly not unambiguous, a nevertheless solid working relationship between William Fagg in Britain and his brother and

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Murray in Nigeria made a number of important acquisitions for the future national collections possible. However, this relationship failed to secure the acquisition of what was clearly the most coveted Benin piece to come onto the market: the so-called ‘Seligman’ ivory mask, today in the Metropolitan Museum in New York.14 Even more than the throne stools, this piece would come to represent the cause of the return of the Benin pieces to Nigeria, alongside a multiple at the British Museum that closely resembles it15 and three other similar masks that are considered to represent the same historical figure, Iy’Oba Idia (Bodenstein 2019). The two masks were bought in 1909 by Charles Gabriel Seligman (1873–1940) from the family of the recently deceased Consul-General Ralph Moor (1860–1909). Moor had led the expedition for the protectorate administration alongside the naval forces under the direction of Rear-Admiral Harry H. Rawson (1843–1910) and had also presided over the trial of Oba Ovonramwen Nogbaisi (ruled 1888–1897) that condemned him to his exile. As we already saw, he was amongst those who had the first choice of loot in the palace. On returning to Britain, he had refrained from selling the pieces, despite requests to view them made by Charles Read of the British Museum. In 1910, Seligman resold one of the masks to the British Museum for the price of £37. This was a fairly standard price for a Benin piece at this time; between 1897 and 1910, such pieces were sold in a price range of between £30 and £100, depending on their size. It was, however, an exceptionally high price in comparison to other ethnographica on the London market. He kept the other mask in his own personal collection and, after his death in 1940, it became known in the small world of experts on African artefacts, including Murray and Bernard Fagg, that his widow might be prevailed upon to sell it. In 1948, Murray writes to Bernard Fagg: I think I told you that I am thinking of raising £1000 or more by subscription from wealthy Africans in order to try and persuade Mrs Seligman to let Nigeria have her ivory Benin mask. To help in getting the money can you get from the BM a cast, if they have one, of their ivory mask. … Of course, if meanwhile you happen to have a chance to persuade Mrs S. to bequeath her mask don’t trouble about the cast. I have had one offer of £40 since this idea occurred to me and with a cast of the BM mask to show what is being talked about I have hopes of finding some 40 others.16

A month later, he writes to B. Fagg to thank him for his activities relating to the mask. He also shares some of his concerns about the arrival on the market of Rawson’s collection, as well as the Seligman mask, which, it would appear, was also coveted by the British Museum in 1948:

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I should like to come to some arrangement with Braunholtz over it (the mask and the Rawson collection), but I don’t see what the BM can offer in exchange that will be of equivalent value. I don’t see why Nigeria should be contented with second rate stuff. The BM has a far better Benin collection than Nigeria will ever have, but when Braunholtz suggested that the BM might let Nigeria have some Benin works, he only seemed able to offer third rate objects and was hanging on pretty tightly to the Beazley collection.17

Negotiations moved very slowly over the following years. Letters again show that the owner worried about the conservation conditions in Nigeria and Murray argues that it would be easier to negotiate if they had a solid museum to show her.18 The campaign in search of support continued in Nigeria. Oba Akenzua II may have seen the mask himself during his stay in London in 1950; in 1956, he published an article in the Nigerian Observer identifying the mask as the effigy of the Iy’Oba or Queen Mother (Blackmun 1991: 9) – and, more precisely, the first officially named Iy’Oba: Idia, mother of Oba Esigie (1504–50). The mask became a well-known object in Benin, where it was no longer an anonymous ‘ivory mask’, but was considered the cherished representation of an exceptional ancestor. The Lagos Museum opened its doors in 1957, at the same time as the Museum of Primitive Art in New York. In addition to his role at the British Museum, William Fagg had become an advisor on African art at the Museum of Primitive Art, which had been founded a few years earlier by Nelson A. Rockefeller. In the same year, at William Fagg’s suggestion, the ‘Seligman’ mask was chosen as the Royal Anthropological Society’s postcard (see Figure 11.2): ‘A selection perhaps made more than usually appropriate by its possible association with the first Christian king of Benin’ (Fagg 1957: 113). He also provides his own identification of the mask with the figure of Idia’s husband, Oba Ozolua – an identification that seems to have been invented for the occasion. He gives an appraisal that clearly aims to increase its value and presents it as the most beautiful and valuable Benin antiquity still in private hands. At the same time, Seligman’s widow had promised to donate part of the profits from the sale of the mask to fund the Royal Anthropological Society, which was on the verge of bankruptcy. It was at this point that the Seligman mask was presented to the management of the Museum of Primitive Art as an even more beautiful piece than the one in the British Museum and even as ‘the best object of its kind known’ (LaGamma 2004: 7). It was under these circumstances that the Seligman mask went to New York to become the ‘Rockefeller mask’ for the record price of £20,000, a sum never before achieved by an artefact from the African continent and an offer that the Nigerian colonial government was certainly unable to match.

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This exceptional price resulted in the sale of two of the four other masks that appeared on the market shortly afterwards. In 1960, the mask from the Allman collection was offered for sale at Sotheby’s in London for £20,000 before being acquired in New York that same year by Katherine C. White, who bequeathed it to the Seattle Art Museum in 1981. In 1964, in order to regain its financial health, the Pitt Rivers Museum (Farnham) sold its mask for the new record price of £22,000 to the Linden Museum (Stuttgart). In the space of six years, as Nigeria was gaining its independence, more than £60,000 was invested, in Europe and the United States, in the sale and acquisition of these objects, which saved two British heritage institutions from bankruptcy.

Post-Independence Demands and the Refusal of the Loan of the FESTAC Mask The archives of the National Museum in Lagos attest to the reactions of members of the Benin court immediately after the sale. In a statement in support of a local petition, Chief Omo Osagie, one of the city’s leading private collectors and the Parliamentary Secretary to the Federal Ministry of Finance, made no secret of his disappointment: ‘I accuse the British of stealing and in order to redeem the good name of the only nation which is fair and just – they must repurchase the mask.’19 It is hard to say whether there were diplomatic reasons for not forcing this issue, as Rockefeller was also doubtlessly perceived as a potential donor and there are mentions of gifts from the Rockefeller Foundation in the acquisitions register in Lagos in the years following Rockefeller’s visit to the museum in 1960. Through the media coverage given to the Seligman mask in Nigeria, the unsuccessful attempt to acquire the mask paved the way for its transformation into a key symbol of local culture in Benin, but also of Nigerian and even pan-African culture. In a spirit of resistance and resilience, characteristic of the transition to independence, the failure to acquire the piece was perceived above all as the refusal of Great Britain and the colonial government to intervene to ensure the return of the equivalent of the mask in the British Museum. It was therefore this latter mask, rather than the one that left the Rockefeller Collection in 1974 for the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, that attracted most of the attention of heritage actors in Nigeria in subsequent decades. Indeed, in 1961, it appeared on a postage stamp and, in 1966, it was used as the cover of the brochure on Nigerian heritage published on the occasion of the First World Festival of Negro Arts in Dakar. In 1973, after heated debate, it was finally chosen

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as the emblem of the Second World Festival to be held in Lagos in 1977, FESTAC ’77, making it one of the most frequently reproduced works of African art in the years that followed (see Malaquais and Vincent 2019). In that same year of 1973, a new purpose-built museum opened to the public in Benin, hosting about one hundred objects, many of which were copies, including the plaster casts that William Fagg had sold to Murray in 1956. Also in 1973, the Nigerian delegation at the Assembly of the International Council of Museums (ICOM) in Grenoble, France, submitted a resolution specifically requesting donations to the new museum of ‘one or two Benin items from museums and collectors who had sympathy for the looting of Benin treasures by the British in 1897’ (Eyo 1994: 337). The request was transformed into a general appeal but received absolutely no response. The request for the loan of the mask, so that it might be present in Lagos for the festival, was also denied by the British Museum. The long series of negotiations involved can be examined in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office archive. The general tone conveys a favourable diplomatic view of this loan, which was seen as a straightforward way of easing the very tense relationship with Nigeria; however, an important set of documents attests to the museum’s strategies to justify its decision not to lend the mask, which was presented in very obscure technical terms as particularly fragile. In a report that seems to have been written by a museum employee and is labelled ‘in confidence’, the anonymous author asks ‘Why Single out Britain?’20 and points to the existence of other fine collections of Benin City objects elsewhere, citing Berlin’s and Russian collections (though these are not very important) before going on to state: ‘The Benin ivory mask for instance is not unique: two similar ones are in private hands; and another is in the Museum of Primitive Art in New York. Cannot the Nigerian government buy back pieces as they come on to the market?’ Given the situation of the Metropolitan mask that we have just considered, this seems like a particularly cynical remark, but it merely shows that the author was completely unaware of this history and felt it would be a natural course of action for Nigeria to buy back its heritage on the art market, rather than pursuing this issue by requesting loans from the British Museum. In Benin, the reaction to this situation was eminently pragmatic, but also a symbolic expression of cultural resilience. A photograph of Oba Akenzua II (1899–1978), published in 1976 on the front page of the Nigerian Observer (see figure 11.2), a newspaper published in Benin, depicts the traditional chief of the ancient kingdom of Benin as a scholar of the objects of his ancestors. He is holding a brass mask in his hand, the

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details of which he seems to be scrutinizing in order to compare them to an image of an ivory pendant mask reproduced in the book open on the desk in front of him. The ivory object is, of course, none other than the British Museum mask that he had identified as representing Iy’Oba Idia in 1956 and that would not be present in Nigeria for the Second World Black and African Festival of Arts and Culture (FESTAC), scheduled to begin two months later in Lagos, despite being the official emblem of the festival. The

Figure 11.2. Photo of Akenzua II by Taro Joseph, 1976, Nigerian Observer, 15 November 1976.

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brass mask that he was holding, meanwhile, had been found in the possession of another traditional chief, the Obi Oligbo of the neighbouring town of Isseles. The title of the article published in the Nigerian Observer, ‘The brass mask is authentic!’, indicates the intention to affirm the authenticity and historicity of this object, a message reinforced by the highlighted quotation from Oba Akenzua II: ‘It is of the same value as that of Queen Mother Idia. It is an older mask.’ The brass mask is identified by Akenzua II in this article as a representation of the Oba Ozolua (1483–1504), husband of Idia and father of the Oba Esigie (1504–50). Its discovery was indeed timely: could it serve as an alternative or counterpart to the ivory mask that was so out of reach due to the British Museum’s refusal to lend it? Yet such a replacement was unpractical – Idia’s image was already widely associated with the festival – and what was needed was a replica and not one made by the British, who had finally decided against such a gesture for fear that it might be perceived as insulting.21 A team of five sculptors from the ivory sculpting guild in Benin, the Igbesanmwan, was commissioned by the Oba to produce a replica on the basis of the photographic documents with which they were provided. The replica was presented on 3 January 1977, just a few days before the opening of FESTAC, by the military governor of Bendel State, Commodore Husaini Abdullahi, to the head of state, Lieutenant-General Olusegun Obasanjo. The front page of the Daily Times saluted the collective work of Benin’s artists, titling its coverage ‘Replica of FESTAC symbol – Boost to Nigeria’s Ego. Hail 5 ivory carvers’ – the work later became primarily associated with the name of one of the five sculptors, Joseph Alufa Igbinovia (Plankensteiner 2007: 505) – and the paper went on to proclaim that the nation’s reputation had been saved thanks to an act destined to restore pride to the ‘black world’ as a whole. Since 1977, the image of Idia (also known as the FESTAC Mask) has become omnipresent in Benin through an endless multiplication of new masks made of brass and ivory, but also plastic and wood. The National Museum in Benin City displays photographs of the masks from the British Museum and the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Conclusion The kind of commercial and military colonialism that transformed the territories of present-day Nigeria was in many ways dedicated to maximally extending the domain of what could be bought and sold, of who and what should be subject to the logic of the free market (Strother 2017).

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Since 1897, the value of the Benin objects has increased exponentially on the ‘tribal art’ market, where they have fetched some of the highest prices ever reached internationally by objects from the African continent. And the dispersal of the objects taken in 1897 is still underway. Auction houses, including Sotheby’s and Christie’s, continue to trade and make sizeable profits from the sale of objects most likely looted in Benin, whilst new museums with universalist ambitions, such as the Louvre Abu Dhabi, continue to acquire them. In 2010, another ivory mask resurfaced in London. Its value was estimated at £4 million by Sotheby’s before controversy led the house to withdraw it from sale. It is therefore probably still in the possession of the Galway family, descendants of Captain Henry L. Galway (1859–1949), who had brought home his own share of ‘a wonderful collection of ivory and bronze bracelets, splendid ivory leopards, bronze heads, beautifully carved wooden stools and boxes, and many more articles too numerous to mention. A regular harvest of loot’ (Galway 1914: 94). Felicity Bodenstein is a lecturer in the history of museums and heritage studies at Sorbonne University, Paris. She is also a principal investigator of the digital humanities project, financed by the Ernest von Siemens Foundation, ‘Digital Benin’ (https://digital-benin.org/), which will bring together data from the close to two hundred museums holding pieces from the 1897 British colonial expedition to Benin in their collections. She was recently guest editor of the Journal for Art Market Studies, on ‘Africa: Trade, Traffic, Collections’, vol. 4, no. 1, 14 October 2020, and co-editor of the volume Translocations. Histories of Dislocated Cultural Assets (Transcript, 2021) with Bénédicte Savoy and Merten Lagatz.

Notes   1. The full text of this article is transcribed in Bodenstein 2018.  2. Archives of the National Museum in Lagos, letter from Kenneth Murray to ‘Bill’ (it appears to be William Fagg), 9 September 1950.  3. Archives of the National Museum in Lagos, obituary for Kenneth Murray by Ben Enwonwu.  4. Archives of the National Museum in Lagos, letter from Kenneth Murray to ‘Bill’ (it appears to be William Fagg), 9 September 1950.  5. Archives of the National Museum in Lagos, Kenneth Murray archive, newspaper clipping, dated by hand 8 May 1946 and titled ‘Nigerian’s own Exhibition’. The name of the publication is missing.

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 6. Archives of the National Museum in Lagos, Bernard Fagg to Kenneth Murray, 28 December 1946.  7. Archives of the National Museum of Nigeria in Lagos. File B. Fagg. Letter from Kenneth Murray to Bernard Fagg, dated 27 March 1947.  8. Archives of the National Museum in Lagos, Bernard Fagg to Kenneth Murray, 28 December 1946.  9. British Museum Archive A/136/121/3.1992 – Restitution Claims. Benin Ivory Mask and other. 10. Archives of the National Museum in Lagos, letter from Kenneth Murray to Bernard Fagg, 9 September 1950. 11. British Museum, accession number Af1897,1011.1. 12. Archives of the National Museum in Lagos, letter from Bernard Fagg to Kenneth Murray 30 November 1953. 13. Archives of the National Museum in Lagos, Daily Times clipping, 10 December 1953. 14. Metropolitan Museum, accession number 1978.412.323. 15. British Museum, accession number Af1910,0513.1. 16. Archives of the National Museum in Lagos, letter from Kenneth Murray to Bernard Fagg, 6 August 1948. 17. Archives of the National Museum in Lagos. Letter from Kenneth Murray to Bernard Fagg, 19 September, 1948. 18. Archives of the National Museum in Lagos, letter from Bernard Fagg to Kenneth Murray, 16 July 1949. 19. Archives of the National Museum in Lagos, file no 131. 20. Kew, The National Archives. FCO 65/1797, Antiquities of Nigeria: Refusal of British Museum to Loan Benin Ivory Mask, 31 December 1976, anonymous document titled ‘Why Single out Britain?’ 21. Kew, The National Archives, FCO 65/1797, letter from David R. Lewis to J.R. Johnson Esq., Lagos, 19 January 1976.

References s.n. 1989. White Book or (Parliamentary) Papers relating to the Massacre of British Officials near Benin and the consequent Punitive Expedition. London: Harrison and Sons. Agbontaen-Eghafona, K. 2001. ‘Curating Benin Cultural Materials: Towards Integrating Indigenous and Orthodox Methods’. Doctoral Thesis in Archaeology. Nsukka: University of Nigeria. Agbontaen-Eghafona, K., and A. Ikechukwu Okpoko. 2004. ‘Curatorship of Benin Cultural Materials: Toward Integrating Indigenous and Orthodox Methods’, African Study Monographs 25(4): 195–213. Allman, R.B. 1897. ‘With the Punitive Expedition to Benin City’. The Lancet, 3853(2) (3 July 1897): 43–44.

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Blackmun, W.B. 1991. ‘Who Commissioned the Queen Mother Tusks? A Problem in the Chronology of Benin Ivories’, African Arts 24(2): 55–91. https://doi. org/10.2307/3336853. Bodenstein, F. 2018. ‘Commentary of Bozimo: Nigeria’s Antiquities Abroad, A Daily Times Investigation (1976)’, in Translocations. Anthologie: Eine Sammlung kommentierter Quellentexte zu Kulturgutverlagerungen seit der Antike, published on 19 October. Retrieved XX from https://translanth.hypotheses.org/ueber/bozimo.  . 2019. ‘Cinq masques de l’Iyoba Idia du royaume de Bénin: vies sociales et trajectoire d’un objet multiple’, Perspective. La Revue de l’INHA 2: 227–38.  . 2020. ‘Une typologie des prises de butin à Benin City en février 1897’, Monde(s) 17(1): 57–77. Dark, P.J.C. 1982. An Illustrated Catalogue of Benin Art. Boston, MA: G.K. Hall. Egharevba, J. 1969. Descriptive Catalogue of Benin Arts. Benin City: Eribo Printers. Eyo, E. 1994. ‘Repatriation of Cultural Heritage: The African Experience’, in F.S. Kaplan (ed.), Museums and the Making of “Ourselves”. The Role of Objects in National Identity. London: Leicester University Press, pp. 330–50. Fagg, W. 1957. ‘143. The Seligman Ivory Mask from Benin: The Royal Anthropological Institute Christmas Card for 1957’, Man 57: 113. https://doi.org/10.2307/2794430. Galway, H.L. 1914. ‘Lecture by Leit.-Colonel Sir Henry L. Galway, K.C.M.G., D.S.O., Before the Royal Geographical Society of Australasia on July 14, 1914’, Proceedings of the Royal Geographical Society of Australasia 16: 77–105. Hellman, A.H. 2014. ‘The Grounds for Museological Experiments: Developing the Colonial Museum Project in British Nigeria’, Journal of Curatorial Studies Journal of Curatorial Studies 3(1): 74‑96. Hicks, D. 2020. The Brutish Museum: The Benin Bronzes, Colonial Violence and Cultural Restitution. London: Pluto Press. Igbafe, P.A. 1979. Benin under British Administration. The Impact of Colonial Rule on an African Kingdom, 1897–1938. Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities Press. Kilb, A., and S. Trinks. 2019. ‘Streitgespräch über Beutekunst: War Humboldt Kolonialist?’, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 3 January. Retrieved XX from https:// www.faz.net/1.5969024. LaGamma, A. 2004. ‘The Nelson A. Rockefeller Vision: In Pursuit of the Best in the Arts of Africa, Oceania, and the Americas’, The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 72: 4–17. Malaquais, D., and C. Vincent. 2019. ‘Three Takes and a Mask’, in N. Edjabe, W. Soyinka and E. Dyangani Ose (eds), Festac ’77: 2nd World Black and African Festival of Arts and Culture. Cologne: Chimurenga, Walther König, pp. 53–56. Murray, K.C. 1942. ‘Art in Nigeria: The Need for a Museum’, Journal of the Royal African Society 41(164): 241–59. Okita, S.I.O. 1985. ‘The Emergence of Public Museums in Nigeria’, in A.E. Afigbo (ed.), The Museum and Nation Building. Owerri, Nigeria: New Africa Publishing Co., pp. 1–21. Osaro Edo, V. 2018. ‘Oba Akenzua II: The Grandeur of Royalty’, in O.U. Onuwaje (ed.), The Benin Monarchy. An Anthology of Benin History. Nigeria: Wells-Crimson, pp. 333–55. Peraldi, A. 2017. ‘Oba Akenzua II’s Restitution Requests’, Kunst & Kontext, 1: 23–33.

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Plankensteiner, B. (ed.). 2007. Benin Kings and Rituals: Court Arts from Nigeria. Ghent: Snoeck.  . 2016. ‘The Benin Treasures: Difficult Legacy and Contested Heritage’, in B. Hauser-Schäublin and L.V. Prott (eds), Cultural Property and Contested Ownership: The Trafficking of Artefacts and the Quest for Restitution. London: Routledge, pp. 132–66. Staples, A., F. Edouwaye Kaplan and B.M. Freyer (eds). 2017. Fragile Legacies. The Photographs of Solomon Osagie Alonge. Washington, DC: National Museum of African Art, Smithsonian Institution. Stevens, J.C. 1898. Curiosities: To Be Sold on Monday, April 4th, 1898. London: Pettitt & Cox. Strother, Z.S. 2017. ‘“Breaking Juju”, Breaking Trade: Museums and the Culture of Iconoclasm in Southern Nigeria’, Res: Anthropology and Aesthetics 67–68: 21‑41. https://doi.org/10.1086/692780. Tignor, R.L. 1990. ‘W. R. Bascom and the Ife Bronzes’, Africa: Journal of the International African Institute 60(3): 425–34. https://doi.org/10.2307/1160114. Weiner. A.B. 1992. Inalienable Possessions: The Paradox of Keeping-While-Giving. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Chapter 12

What Future for Looted Syrian Antiquities? The Clash between the Law and Practice for the Repatriation of Cultural Property to Countries in Crisis Erin Thompson

In 2015, Augusta McMahon, a senior lecturer in archaeology at Cambridge, and Alessio Palmisano, of University College London, went undercover (Bacchi 2016; Hardy 2016; Channel 4 2015). The archaeologists visited antiquities shops in London to see if they could find artefacts recently looted in Syria or Iraq and smuggled into the UK. The looting of archaeological sites has long been a problem in the Syria/Iraq region, known for its rich cultural heritage after millennia of occupation by Ancient Near Eastern cultures, as well as Greek and Roman traders and settlers. However, an acute looting crisis developed following the disintegration of order that accompanied the rise of armed rebel groups disputing Syrian president Bashar al-Assad’s government in 2011. The radical Islamic group calling itself the Islamic State (IS) took advantage of this chaos to establish claims to territory in both Syria and Iraq. IS was not the first to loot in the region, but it sped up the pace of the looting by encouraging professional looters with heavy machinery and archaeological knowledge to dig archaeological sites in return for payment to IS of a ‘tax’ on the value of what they found (Al-Azm, Al-Kuntar and Daniels 2014; CBS News 2015). Reports from inside IS-controlled territory were fragmentary, but researchers tracked the looting of archaeological sites in Iraq and Syria using a variety of

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means, including the analysis of high-resolution satellite photographs to identify looter pits and record their proliferation over time (Casana 2015: 142–52). These photographs showed the looting of thousands of archaeological sites. According to Amr Al-Azm, a professor of anthropology and Middle Eastern history who collected reports from inside Syria, IS even charged jihadist bureaucrats with issuing official-looking permits allotting sites to approved looters, appraising their finds and connecting sellers to foreign dealers who take possession of the artefacts at the border (CBS News 2015). From there, the material went underground, moving from middleman to middleman until it appears on the legitimate art market, usually with false paperwork. McMahon and Palmisano, the undercover archaeologists, carried a hidden camera, but what they found was displayed openly on the sales floor of a posh Mayfair gallery: a 6-foot-long piece of stone, once the lintel of a doorway, carved with a menorah and other Jewish symbols. Eventually, the archaeologists, posing as interested buyers, spoke to the owner of the lintel, Fares Dalloul. Dalloul provided sale, shipping and storage invoices describing the movement and sale of some objects in 2007. He claimed that this paperwork related to the lintel. However, as is so often true of paperwork in the antiquities market, the documents did not give a complete provenance, since they did not mention the original source of the artefacts. The paperwork was also of a type that is relatively easy to forge (Hardy 2016a). Additionally, it gave vague descriptions of the invoiced objects, so it is possible that it is genuine, but simply relates to completely different artefacts. Dalloul also mentioned that the lintel had been published in a reference book, which turned out to be true. McMahon found it illustrated in an 1886 book (Schumacher 1886: 173), in which it is described as an ‘ornamental lintel from a Jewish house at Nave’, a product of Syria’s Byzantine period (fourth to seventh centuries ad). Nawa (also transliterated as Nave, Naveh, Nawe and Neve), a town near the Israeli border, is known for its Jewish artefacts. McMahon also found records and photographs of the lintel as an architectural element in a standing building up to 1936 (Mayer and Reifenberg 1936: 1–8) and a record from the Syrian Directorate General of Antiquities and Museums showing that the lintel was in a Syrian museum in 1988. She concluded that ‘[t]here is no question that this object in the photograph and the object that is in London are exactly the same thing’ (Hardy 2016b). Syrian law has generally prohibited the export of antiquities since 1963 (Article 69 of the Antiquities Law of 1963 was maintained in the amended

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Antiquities Law of 1999). From then on, antiquities could only be taken out of the country with an export licence, as gifts to scientific excavators of Syrian sites or as exchanges with scientific bodies outside Syria. Evidently, then, the Nawa lintel, recorded in a Syrian museum in 1988 and now in the hands of a private seller, without an export licence or record of gift or exchange, had been stolen from the museum and smuggled out of Syria, albeit by persons unknown. Regardless of who originally stole the lintel, it clearly left Syria illegally. Accordingly, the archaeologists notified the authorities and the Metropolitan Police’s Art and Antiquities Unit seized the lintel in February 2015. Syria subsequently requested its return. This investigation is not the only recent discovery of antiquities likely to have been recently looted in Syria or Iraq in the London marketplace. For example, Professor Mark Altaweel of the University College London Institute of Archaeology has also located artefacts in London shops from the second to fourth centuries BC, including glass, a statuette and fragments of bone inlay, that are ‘very likely to be coming from conflict regions’ in Iraq and Syria (Shabi 2015).

The Return of Cultural Property: International Law The next step should have been clear, since there is an international convention specifically devoted to the issue of the repatriation of stolen cultural property like the Nawa lintel. On 14 November 1970, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) adopted the Convention on the Means of Prohibiting and Preventing the Illicit Import, Export and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property (the 1970 Convention). The 1970 Convention describes its goal of international co-operation to stop the looting and smuggling of cultural heritage in sweeping terms, requiring the governments of member states to take action at the request of any other member state whose cultural property has been stolen and to collaborate to solve major crises in the protection of cultural property. However, the 1970 Convention does not specify exactly what actions or collaborations members states must take to fulfil these obligations and generally leaves it up to member states to translate these goals into law. Accordingly, there is a broad range of domestic cultural heritage legislation among member states, ranging from strict bans on exporting or even owning antiquities in some countries to more permissive trading regimes in many countries with active antiquities dealers and collectors.

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There is one key exception to the 1970 Convention’s lack of specific obligations: Article 7 states that The States Parties to this Convention undertake … (b)(i) to prohibit the import of cultural property stolen from a museum or a religious or secular public monument or similar institution in another State Party to this Convention after the entry into force of this Convention for the States concerned, provided that such property is documented as appertaining to the inventory of that institution;  (ii) at the request of the State Party of origin, to take appropriate steps to recover and return any such cultural property….

Thus, the 1970 Convention requires its member states to ‘take appropriate steps’ to ensure the return of a limited class of objects: stolen artefacts documented in the inventories of museums and similar institutions. Such cases are quite rare. First, it is much less risky to obtain artefacts by looting an archaeological site than a museum, because large, underfunded sites have much less security than museums. Second, even if an artefact was stolen from a museum, many museums do not have full documentation regarding their holdings. Creating a full inventory of holdings both on display and in storage is an endeavour that requires time, money and expertise that many museums have simply not been able to afford. But the Nawa lintel is one of those rare cases and the 1970 Convention clearly mandates its return to Syria. The 1970 Convention entered into force on 12 May 1973 for Iraq and on 21 May 1975 for Syria. In addition to the 1970 Convention, there have been a number of United Nations Security Council Resolutions addressing the looting of antiquities from Iraq and Syria, including Resolutions 1483, 2199 (12 February 2015) and 2253 (17 December 2015). Thus, for example, Resolution 2199 calls upon all UN member states to ‘take appropriate steps to prevent the trade in Iraqi and Syrian cultural property … illegally removed from Iraq since 6 August 1990 and from Syria since 15 March 2011, including by prohibiting cross-border trade in such items, thereby allowing for their eventual safe return to the Iraqi and Syrian people’ (S.C. Res. 2199, U.N. Doc. S/ RES/2199 [2015]). This phrasing is telling: the returns must be ‘safe’ and may be ‘eventual’ and they are to be directed towards the ‘Iraqi and Syrian people’, rather than to the government. It should also be noted that there is another major international treaty that addresses stolen cultural property: the 1995 UNIDROIT Convention on Stolen or Illegally Exported Cultural Objects. However, this convention has far fewer member states than the 1970 Convention and neither Syria nor Iraq are signatories.

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The Return of Cultural Property: International Practice Despite the mandate of the 1970 Convention, UK police are still holding the lintel. In April 2016, the police told the International Business Times that the owner of the shop had ‘co-operated fully’, but that they were unable to establish details of the provenance of the lintel, which had been placed in secure storage ‘until such time as provenance could be established’ (Bacchi 2016). Elias Assad, the shop owner, is quoted as saying that he ‘had no idea about the lintel’s history’ and that he was not selling it but was ‘merely and perhaps naively’ storing it as a favour for Dalloul. A spokesman for Assad added that ‘he does not, and never has, dealt with antiquities from Syria … and ensures that his pieces are genuine with appropriate provenance’. The police said that no arrests had been made and that the enquiry was continuing. The lintel has since disappeared from the public record. As of this writing, in late 2021, its current status is unknown. Any further enquiry by the UK police might well uncover interesting information, like the identity of those who removed the lintel from Syria or those who brought it into the UK. But this information is not necessary for returning the lintel to Syria. All that is needed to trigger the responsibility to return an artefact is the knowledge that an antiquity was removed from a specific country in violation of that country’s laws. Unfortunately, it is often the case that even this small amount of information is not available. An antiquity can remain in legal limbo if nothing about its appearance or known history links it definitively to a source country, as with the socalled Sevso Treasure, a horde of ancient silver tableware that could have been fashioned anywhere in the Roman Empire and that has been claimed in a series of lawsuits by Croatia, Lebanon and Hungary (Merryman 2012; Landesman 2011). By contrast, the Nawa lintel – repeatedly drawn and photographed in situ until well after the passage of Syrian law that banned its export – should be as close to an open-and-shut case as is possible in the often frustratingly complex and elusive world of antiquities smuggling. The retention of the lintel is less surprising when examined in the context of the fate of other seized Syrian antiquities. In the last few years, a number of countries have announced the seizure of thousands of artefacts, from Ancient Near Eastern sculptures to Roman coins to medieval Islamic texts, which they describe as having been smuggled out of Syria. These countries include Bulgaria, which reportedly seized antiquities from Syria in 2016, and Turkey, which has seized more than 6,800 Syrian artefacts, mostly coins, since 2011, as well as three mosaic panels suspected to have been looted from a Syrian museum (Myers and Kulishjan 2016; İstanbul’da tarihi eser operasyonu 2016). A Syrian official has also claimed

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that Israel has seized smuggled Syrian cultural property (Nasralla 2015). And it appears that the United Kingdom has seized a number of other Syrian artworks besides the Nawa lintel: Christopher Marinello, chief executive of the London-based Art Recovery Group, stated that ‘we know of a recent container that was seized here in the UK with a great deal of Syrian looted objects in it, and I can’t go too much beyond that because it’s a current investigation here in the UK’; additionally, the British Museum has stated that it is holding at least one object looted from Syria ‘in the hope of returning it when the country is stable’ (BBC News 2015a; BBC News 2015b). The authenticity of a number of these seized objects has been called into question (Barford 2015). Maamoun Abdulkarim, when he was chief of Syria’s Directorate General of Antiquities and Museums (DGAM), was of the opinion that most of the ‘antiquities’ seized in Syria and Lebanon upon suspicion of having been looted during the recent conflict are actually forgeries (Cornwell 2016). It is generally true of the illicit market for cultural property that forgeries are mixed in with authentic pieces by sellers eager to increase their profits and at least some of the seized materials are authentic. However, in August 2016, Abdulkarim claimed that only Lebanon and Jordan have returned any seized antiquities to Syria since 2011 – and that Jordan ceased to do so sometime after 2015 (Cornwell 2016; Nasralla 2015; Domat 2015). The thousands of artefacts seized by other countries remain in limbo. (Although beyond the scope of this chapter, there have been other countries, including Libya and Afghanistan, that, like Syria, have experienced prolonged conflicts that have resulted in the theft and smuggling of items from a rich cultural heritage and worries about the safety of the items upon their return (Lee 2012; Simpson 2015)). The situation is completely different when it comes to the return of seized Iraqi cultural property. Iraq has seen a steady stream of repatriations; for example, in 2015, Iraq announced the return of eight hundred items from museums, universities and auction houses in the United States, Italy and Jordan, which included artefacts identified as stolen when they came up for sale at auction houses and nearly two hundred items taken from Saddam Hussein’s presidential palaces after he was overthrown (Evans 2015). Germany has also recently returned a number of artefacts to Iraq, including an ancient Sumerian clay cuneiform tablet in 2016 (seized by criminal police in the State of Schleswig-Holstein after having been offered in an online auction, in violation of the EU ban on the trade of Iraqi cultural property); an ancient inscribed clay brick from Babylon in 2015 (after a German non-profit received the brick as a donation from an

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individual who had illegally removed it from Iraq in 1975); and, in 2013, thirteen ancient objects, including cylinder seals, sculptures and a cuneiform tablet, at least one of which was stolen from the National Museum of Iraq in Baghdad in 2003 (UNESCO 2016; UNESCO 2014). Even Syria has returned stolen Iraqi cultural property, repatriating, in April 2008, some seven hundred ancient artefacts, including gold coins and jewellery, which had been stolen after the fall of Hussein (UNESCO 2009). The United States has returned a strikingly large number of antiquities to Iraq. US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) estimates that it has repatriated 1,350 items of Iraqi cultural property since 2008 (GAO 2016, 25–26; Mashberg 2016) and the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) has reported recovering and repatriating a number of antiquities to Iraq, including eight ancient cylinder seals in 2005 and four more in 2013 (GAO 2016: 26). The Department of Homeland Security, the FBI and other federal agencies opened seventeen cases regarding Iraqi cultural property between 2011 and February 2016, with a single case involving Syrian cultural property in the same period (GAO 2016: 25). These cases involved both individuals and transnational criminal organizations dealing in illicit cultural property, from those that attempted to sell artefacts to museums and major galleries to those selling cultural property on Craigslist without import documentation (GAO 2016: 25). Of course, not every country is as eager as the United States to return cultural property to Iraq. For example, Israeli officials seized antiquities, which they described as looted from Iraq, from antiquities shops in Jerusalem’s Old City and elsewhere in early 2016, with a spokesperson stating that the goal was to return them to the Iraqi government ‘eventually’ (Hasson 2016). The Iraqi Ministry of Culture has also stated that it is working with the governments of Romania, Algeria, Slovenia, Britain, France, Lebanon, Jordan, the United Arab Emirates and Egypt to recover more than ten thousand artefacts (Iraq Recovers 483 Artifacts 2016). Presumably these countries, too, have notified Iraq of seizures but have not immediately returned the artefacts, showing that they are not as willing to carry out returns as quickly as the United States. Nevertheless, overall, there have been far more repatriations of cultural property to Iraq than to Syria. One particularly dramatic seizure and return of cultural property is an especially good illustration of the different ways in which Syria and Iraq are treated vis-à-vis repatriations. In May 2015, US Special Operations troops entered eastern Syria to raid the house of a man known as Abu Sayyaf, an IS leader (Morris 2015). While searching the house, the troops found antiquities, including cylinder seals, pottery and hundreds of coins. Among

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the items were three Babylonian stone seals, marked with collection identification numbers from the National Museum of Iraq, Baghdad; they were probably among the large number of similar seals stolen from the museum in 2003 just after the chaotic capture of Baghdad by US forces, during which the museum suffered substantial losses (Bogdanos 2015). In July 2015, barely two months after the raid, the United States handed over more than four hundred artefacts seized from the Sayyaf house to the Iraqi government during a ceremony in Baghdad. Members of the Iraqi Culture Ministry said that they had not had time to fully study the objects and could not be sure whether they were of Iraqi or Syrian origin, but, as the Iraqi Director General of Museums put it, ‘We’re just happy to have them back’ (Morris 2015). But was it possible that Iraq was being given things that it had never lost? The seals with collection identification numbers from the Iraq National Museum, if authentic, came from Iraq, but they accounted for only three of more than four hundred items. It is frequently impossible to ascertain the modern source country of an antiquity merely by examining it – as the Iraqi museum officials indicated when they mentioned their difficulties in telling the Iraqi cultural property among the seized objects apart from the Syrian cultural property. Moreover, the seizure itself took place in Syria, making it highly likely that at least some of the antiquities were looted from Syria, not Iraq. And yet, despite these difficulties, the United States rapidly handed over all the seized antiquities to Iraq, without seeming to even contemplate the possibility that some of them belong to Syria. What are the causes for this striking difference in repatriation practices? One might reasonably explain a delay in repatriating cultural property to Syria because of the ongoing conflict there and a desire to ensure the safety of returned artefacts, but the security situation is similar in Iraq. IS has seized territory in both Iraq and Syria and is looting antiquities from both states. Both states are engaged in ongoing conflict against IS. But the United States has repatriated these objects to Iraq despite the ongoing conflict. In fact, Brent Easter, a Special Agent for the Cultural Property, Art, and Antiquities unit of Homeland Security Investigations, a branch of the Department of Homeland Security, has said that it is ‘phenomenal’ to be able to repatriate ‘conflict antiquities’ to Iraq, ‘especially during the horrible turmoil that they are facing and after … the destruction of similar pieces in their country. To know that they have this piece back safely, that’s gratifying’ (Bruer and Rosen 2016). In both Iraq and Syria, some areas of the country are in turmoil while others are relatively secure. Thus, Ahmad Deib, DGAM Director of Museum Affairs, stated in mid-2016 that ‘99%’ of the collections of the

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forty-one DGAM museums in Syria had been moved to safe areas within the country (Qaddour 2016). In theory, then, artefacts repatriated to Syria could be held in facilities as far as possible from the ongoing conflict, as is the case in Iraq. It seems that ongoing investigations or security concerns are forms of polite excuses for not returning cultural property to Syria, since such concerns do not prevent repatriations to Iraq. The question then becomes whether or not the United Kingdom, the United States or other member states of the 1970 Convention who have seized Syrian cultural property are in violation of their international treaty obligations if they indefinitely delay the return of these artefacts to Syria. Since the 1970 Convention’s language is so broad, this question can be answered only by examining the obligations to which individual member states have committed themselves in their interpretation and implementation of the convention. The United States, home to deep-pocketed and passionate art collectors, is one of the major market countries for antiquities. The remainder of this chapter thus looks at US law and practice related to the protection of Syrian and Iraqi cultural property.

Current Legal Instruments for the Return of Iraqi and Syrian Cultural Property Imported into the United States The United States implemented the 1970 Convention through the Convention on Cultural Property Implementation Act of 1983, Public Law 97-446, 19 U.S.C. 2601 et seq., as amended (CPIA). The CPIA prohibits the import into the United States of cultural property documented as belonging to the inventory of a museum or religious or secular public monument or similar institution that was stolen from such a museum, monument or institution in a 1970 Convention member state after 12 April 1983 (19 U.S.C. § 2607). More broadly, the CPIA allows for the imposition of import restrictions on cultural property (19 U.S.C. § 2606). Any 1970 Convention member state may request the imposition of these restrictions through the formation of a bilateral agreement. Under such an agreement, the United States will temporarily prohibit the import of designated cultural property unless this material is accompanied by documentation proving that it is being legally exported from the partner state (19 U.S.C. § 2606(a)). If this documentation is not provided or if there is evidence that the material was stolen from a museum or religious or secular public monument or similar institution, the material is subject to seizure and forfeiture (19 U.S.C. § 2609(a)). Once forfeited to the US

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government, the material must ‘first be offered for return’ to the partner state from which it came, although no return will be made unless the partner state ‘complies with such other requirements relating to the return as the Secretary [of the Treasury] shall prescribe’ (19 U.S.C. § 2609(b)). The CPIA does not describe what such requirements might be, or whether the secretary of the treasury must declare them publicly or can keep them private, and it seems that the secretary has never publicly imposed requirements that have blocked or delayed a return under the CPIA. Nor does the CPIA require that the partner state make a specific request for the seized property. Neither Iraq nor Syria has bilateral agreements with the United States under the CPIA. However, the CPIA allows for the unilateral passage of import restrictions in emergency situations (19 U.S.C. § 2603). The Emergency Protection for Iraqi Cultural Antiquities Act of 2004, Pub. L. No. 108-429 (3 December 2004), intended to implement UN Resolution 1483, allowed the president to exercise his authority under the CPIA to apply import restrictions on Iraqi archaeological or ethnological material. President George W. Bush designated the authority to determine the existence of an emergency condition under the Act to the Department of State, which made this determination on 2 July 2007. The Department of Homeland Security, US Customs and Border Protection, then issued a regulation, Import Restrictions Imposed on Archaeological and Ethnological Material of Iraq, on 30 April 2008 to reflecting the imposition of import restrictions under the Act. The Protect and Preserve International Cultural Property Act, Pub. L. No. 114-151, signed into law on 9 May 2016, with implementing regulations promulgated on 15 August 2016, resulted in similar emergency protection for Syrian archaeological and ethnological material. Authority to determine the existence of an emergency condition was similarly delegated to the Department of State, which made this determination on 2 August 2016, after which the US Customs and Border Protection regulations were revised to reflect the new import restrictions on 15 August 2016. Cultural property seized under either of these Acts should be treated following the procedure laid out in the CPIA; that is, these artefacts should be offered to Iraq or Syria for return as long as this return complies with any requirements prescribed by the secretary of the treasury. There have been a number of other relevant US legal initiatives. These are either specifically dedicated to the protection of cultural property from Iraq or Syria, or are broadly directed against terrorism and can be applied to cultural property insofar as it is used by terrorist organizations as a source of funding. Thus, purchasers of cultural property sold by IS can

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be prosecuted for providing financial support to a terrorist organization under 18 U.S.C. 2339A or under the Iraq Stabilization and Insurgency Sanctions Regulations, which, among other provisions, prohibits the trade in or transfer of ownership or possession of Iraqi cultural property or other items of archaeological, historical, cultural, rare scientific and religious importance that were illegally removed or for which there is a reasonable suspicion that they were illegally removed from Iraq since 6 August 1990.1 If imported in violation of the Iraq Stabilization and Insurgency Sanctions Regulations, cultural property is subject to seizure and forfeiture under the same laws that generally prescribe both criminal and civil penalties for the smuggling of goods in violation of US law or the importation of goods by means of false statements.2 The goods in such cases will be seized and forfeited.3 In general, these laws do not mandate the final disposition of forfeited goods, but allow for a great deal of discretion in their treatment, including the return of the goods to a foreign government (Title 18 U.S.C. 981(i)) or simply their retention by a US federal agency (Title 18 U.S.C. 981(e)). In theory, then, the US federal government might address a case of the attempted import of stolen Iraqi cultural property using the Iraq Stabilization and Insurgency Sanctions Regulations, which would allow the government the discretion to determine whether or not to return these goods to Iraq. But the legislation currently allowing for the seizure and forfeiture of imported Syria cultural property is either the CPIA (for material documented as belonging to the inventory of a Syrian museum or religious or secular public monument or similar institution that was stolen after 12 April 1983) or the Protect and Preserve International Cultural Property Act (for material listed in the import restrictions implemented on 15 August 2016), which follows the CPIA’s regulations for return. Accordingly, the United States must offer seized and forfeited Syrian cultural property to Syria as long as this return complies with any requirements prescribed by the secretary of the treasury – and no such requirements have been prescribed, at least publicly.

The Status of the Syrian Government The reluctance of many countries, including the United States, to co-operate with the Assad government is understandable. Not only does the regime government have an atrocious record of human rights abuses, but it has also been attempting to use cultural property as a lever to gain Western backing. For example, Assad insisted that the recapture of the archaeological

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site of Palmyra, Syria, by regime forces from IS, accomplished in early 2016, was ‘another indication of the success of the strategy pursued by the Syrian army and its allies in the war against terrorism’ (Assad Says Palmyra Shows Army’s Success against Terrorism 2016). The ‘liberation’ of Palmyra was marked with a concert held in the site’s ancient theatre in May 2016, with the Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra of St Petersburg performing for an audience of Syrian schoolchildren, Russian and Syrian soldiers, UNESCO officials, and journalists, who were also treated to a speech by Russian president Vladimir Putin, via a live video link. Putin argued that the world should unite with Syria to restore Palmyra as a sign of hope in the battle against terrorism – Russia being one of the most prominent backers of the Syrian regime (Press 2016; Tharoor 2016). In this atmosphere of the exploitation of antiquities as propaganda, returning Syrian cultural property to the Assad government would not be a neutral move, concerned solely with the legal ownership of the artefacts, but would instead probably be eagerly exploited by the government as a sign of its importance and official status. Nor would the repatriation of cultural property to the regime be welcomed by all Syrians. For example, Nawa, from which the ancient lintel discussed earlier was stolen, was one of the first cities to rebel against the regime in 2011 and has been repeatedly shelled, bombed and occupied by regime forces in the years since (Hardy 2016b). It does not seem likely that the regime would return the lintel to Nawa if it obtained it or that Nawa’s citizens would approve of this opportunity to benefit the regime. Abdulkarim, when he was chief of the DGAM, seemed to recognize the reality that few foreign governments are eager to co-operate with the Assad government. Abdulkarim reported to the Ministry of Culture, which in turn reports to Assad (Romney 2015). Abdulkarim attempted to distance himself from the regime, stating that he had not accepted a salary from the government for serving as chief of the DGA, and that he threatened to quit whenever his ability to make decisions on behalf of Syria’s cultural heritage was challenged (Romney 2015). But Abdulkarim’s manoeuvrings had limited results. In 2016, he told the Art Newspaper that he knew that Turkey and Jordan were holding Syrian artefacts but that ‘I don’t ask that they return all objects to Syria, because I know there will be a negative response’ (Cornwell 2016). Instead, he appealed to Turkey and Jordan simply to release information on what they had seized, either publicly or at least to UNESCO or Interpol. That Turkey has not returned any cultural property to the DGAM is hardly surprising given Turkey’s backing of rebel groups seeking to overthrow the Assad government (Nasralla 2015).

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The United States, too, had provided support to the moderate Syrian opposition, as well as showing other signs of disapproval of the regime, such as withdrawing its ambassador from Syria, closing its embassy in Syria and expelling all Syrian diplomatic staff from Washington (Blanford 2011; Shadid 2012). Various representatives of the US government, including President Obama, have called for the resignation of President Assad (Phillips 2011). In 2012, Obama stated that a group known as the Syrian Opposition Coalition would be recognized as ‘the legitimate representative of the Syrian people’ (Dwyer and Hughes 2012). However, the political recognition of an opposition group does not release the United States from its obligations to the Assad government. Even if not politically recognized by another state, the government recognized by international law remains the subject of international law, and all rights and duties stipulated by treaties or customary international law remain in force in the mutual relations between these states (Crawford 1988: 54; Kelsen 1941: 615; Talmon 2013: 219–53). Under international law, the legally recognized government of a state is the one that has territorial control over it (Kelsen 1941: 614–15). Thus, the Assad government is still the legal government of Syria under international law. Even states that have politically recognized opposition groups continue to fulfil their international treaty obligations by working with the Assad government, for example, by fulfilling its requests that they seize Syrian passports from travellers (see Graham-Harrison 2016; Erlanger 2012). Thus, repatriations of cultural property from the United States to Syria would currently have to be directed towards the Assad government.

Training Initiatives: Different Practices for Antiquities that Remain in Syria Still, the lack of repatriations to Syria cannot be explained simply by a reluctance to work with the regime. Numerous United States-based initiatives, by both governmental and non-governmental actors, have worked with members of the Assad government to provide training and other forms of assistance to facilitate the protection of Syrian cultural property. For example, the Smithsonian Institution has trained Syrian antiquities professionals in the use of emergency protection materials for museum collections. Similar training programmes by other countries have aided Syrians, including a major initiative, the Emergency Safeguarding of the Syrian Heritage Project, funded by the European Union in collaboration with UNESCO and based in the UNESCO Field Office in Beirut,

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Lebanon. This project, which resulted in numerous workshops and training meetings so far, was launched in March 2014 and ran for three years.4 Its goals included the training of Syrian antiquities professionals in emergency preparedness and conservation strategies. It is usually the case that the Syrians who receive such training, be it from UNESCO or individual states, are employees of the DGAM or other governmental branches, such as the police or customs forces. They are thus members of the regime government. Why, then, is it thought permissible to provide training and other resources to enable the regime government to protect antiquities in Syria, but not to return to their care any antiquities that have left Syria?

Historical Attitudes towards Islamic Owners of Greco-Roman Antiquities: Alternative Explanations for the Reluctance to Return Antiquities to Syria Western countries are willing to work with regime officials when it comes to safeguarding cultural property still within the boundaries of Syria, but refuse to work with them when it comes to deciding the fate of cultural property that has left Syria. That they are sometimes willing to co-operate with Syrian regime officials means that the refusal to repatriate artefacts to them is not based solely on a general boycott of the regime government. Instead, the pattern of sometimes collaborating and sometimes boycotting seems to indicate that the underlying values that guide these decisions are 1) a privileging of the preservation of artefacts over ethical issues of regime support and 2) the belief that these artefacts would be better off outside of Syria. There is a long history of antiquities collectors in the United States and Western Europe believing that they are the best owners for these objects. These collectors have frequently justified breaking the laws of source countries in order to obtain antiquities by describing the current possessors of antiquities as unworthy owners who are neglecting or damaging artefacts: Here in Rhodes, there are many very excellent sculptures … Since these have not received recognition they are neglected, berated, and kept in such vile conditions that they lie exposed to wind, rain, snow, and storm, and so they are eaten up or ruined. I was so moved with pity for their cruel fate, no differently than if I had seen the disinterred bones of my own father in such conditions. (Christian 2010: 195)

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These are the words of Fra Sabba da Castiglione, writing to his patron, the collector Isabella d’Este, in the early sixteenth century about the neglect of ancient Greek sculptures by the Turkish rulers of the island of Rhodes. A hundred years later, Henry Peacham expressed similar thoughts about the Muslim possessors of Greek sculptures in the Ottoman Empire: in Greece and other parts of the Grand Seignior’s Dominions (where sometimes there were more Statues standing than men living, so much had Art out-stripped Nature in these days) they may be had for the digging and carrying. For by reason of the barbarous religion of the Turks, which alloweth not the likeness or representation of any living thing, they have been for the most part buried in ruins or broken to pieces, so that it is a hard matter to light upon any there that are not headless and lame, yet most of them venerable for their antiquity and elegancy. (Scott: 91)

Elsewhere in the same book, Peacham praises the collection of Greek antiquities formed by his patron, Lord Arundel, who had the artefacts smuggled out of Turkey. Similar stories of destruction pervade many collecting narratives, which claim that inhabitants of Islamic countries have no connection to the pre-Islamic past and believe that figural art is heretical. Seeing this neglect and destruction, the collector aspires to rescue antiquities and provide them with a better, safer home. As Charles-François Olier, Marquis of Nointel, France’s ambassador to the Ottomans, wrote in a dispatch from Athens in 1674, asking (unsuccessfully) for funds to bring the Parthenon marbles to Paris: ‘There they would be safe from the insults and injuries done to them by the Turks, who, in their horror of what they call idolatry, deem it a worthy act to break off a nose or some other part’ (Constantine 1984: 12). These justifications for taking pre-Islamic antiquities from the control of Islamic populations (with their accompanying misunderstandings of the role of iconoclasm in Islamic culture) are not merely historical. A number of prominent Western collectors and museum officials have recently made strikingly similar arguments against the repatriation of IS-looted antiquities. For example, Gary Vikan, former director of the Walters Art Museum, Baltimore, told the New York Times that he believed museums should become more conservative about returning art to Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan and northern Africa, given the violence happening there, which he stated ‘will put an end to the excess piety in favor of the repatriation model’ (Mashberg and Bowley 2015). Boris Johnson, then mayor of London, pointed to the destruction of art by IS in Iraq and Syria as reason enough to justify, retroactively, the removal and retention of the Elgin marbles from Greece (Mashberg and

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Bowley 2015). And James Cuno, president and chief executive of the J. Paul Getty Trust and Museum, referring to the actions of IS, wrote in a letter to the editor of the New York Times that ‘antiquities will remain at risk’ as long as the 1970 Convention allows for ‘the retention of antiquities within the borders of the modern state that claims them’ because ‘[t]hat state, very sadly, also has the authority to sell them on the illegal market, damage them or destroy them’ (Cuno 2015). Such statements are evidence that there are many who would be eager to seize upon the excuse of concern about the safety of artefacts or about the advisability of collaborating with a particular regime to justify ignoring the international legal obligation to repatriate stolen art.

Conclusion: A Growing Problem that Requires Transparency about Seizure and Return The problem of the looting of cultural property is not a new one (Thompson 2010). Nor is IS the only insurgent group to have realized the potential inherent in the destruction or sale of cultural property, which is now an important part of current conflicts in Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, Egypt, Yemen, Mali, Tunisia, Nigeria, Azerbaijan, Ukraine and many parts of Central America. In short, though the question of how to handle the repatriation of cultural property stolen from a country in crisis may currently be most acute for Syria, the future unfortunately promises an expansion of the issue to a number of other states. Colonialist assumptions about who ‘deserves’ to own objects will creep into our answers to the question of what to do with seized antiquities unless we rigorously examine the pertinent laws and fill the gaps that would allow indefinite retention and de facto acquisition under the guise of concern for the safety of objects and the stability of states. However, safety and stability remain legitimate concerns, even if they cannot justify permanent retention by the seizing government. Proper policy for the treatment of seized Syrian cultural property must address these concerns without providing incentives for permanent retention. On a national level, seizing governments should be transparent about what they have seized and what conditions must be met for the return of seized goods. Such transparency can be relative; for example, Interpol maintains a database of stolen artworks, certain areas of which are accessible only to authorized users from national police forces. Thus, the country or countries from which seized artefacts were likely stolen can be notified that the artefacts have been added to this database.

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Similarly, there must be transparency about the conditions imposed upon repatriation whether by the secretary of the treasury or another relevant authority. Information about these conditions should be available to the public, so that interested groups, such as scholars and museum professionals, can analyse the conditions and track the progress of the source country in meeting them. Without this transparency, retaining countries might simply impose more and more conditions, providing cover for their lack of intent to return. For example, the secretary of the treasury could declare that Syrian cultural property will not be repatriated except to a democratically elected government or will only be repatriated when the United States has re-established full diplomatic relations with Syria as marked, for example, by the reopening of the US embassy there. Of course, conditions like these might violate underlying international treaty obligations. Thus, there must be a recognized international body to handle disputes between source countries claiming seized antiquities and countries that are unwilling to return these antiquities. Fortunately, such a body already exists: the UNESCO Intergovernmental Committee for Promoting the Return of Cultural Property to its Countries of Origin or its Restitution in Case of Illicit Appropriation (Delepierre and Schneider 2015). This committee was established in 1978 in order to provide a forum for the negotiation of requests for the return of cultural property, whether under the 1970 Convention or otherwise, in cases where UN member states have failed to reach bilateral agreements. The committee has not yet handled any disputes involving the non-recognition of governments or the safety of returned artefacts, but there seems to be no reason why it could not. This committee is a consultative body; its decisions have no legal weight. It seems likely that a push for transparency and the provision of a forum for discussion are all that would be needed to prevent 1970 Convention member states from using the excuses of ongoing investigations or security concerns to justify indefinite detention, but, if the committee’s mediation efforts failed, claimant countries could have recourse to legal action in national or international courts. Many of the training programmes provided by UNESCO or other bodies to Syrian antiquities professionals include discussions of the 1970 Convention and other international and national legal mechanisms for the repatriation of stolen cultural property. For example, the Emergency Safeguarding of the Syrian Heritage Project lists the communication of this information to Syrians as one of its official goals and four or the five training events it has so far held explicitly included instruction in these laws.

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But what is the purpose of training Syrian officials in the operation of laws about the return of cultural property when the holding countries show no willingness to actually carry out such returns? The situation is too complex for countries to simply practise what they preach, since the repatriation of seized cultural property to the Assad regime is not palatable to many, both inside and outside Syria. But an increase in transparency would allow the Syrian people to understand that the rest of the world hopes, along with them, for the swift return of their cultural heritage. Erin Thompson holds a PhD in Art History from Columbia University and a JD from Columbia Law School. An associate professor of art crime at John Jay College (City University of New York), she studies the damage done to cultural heritage and communities through looting, theft and deliberate destruction of art (as well as its deliberate preservation). She is also interested in the legalities and ethics of digital reproductions of cultural heritage, as well as art made by detainees at the US military prison camp known as Guantánamo Bay; she curated an exhibit of this artwork in New York in 2017–18. Besides traditional scholarly publications, she has written on the above topics in general audience publications including the New York Times and the Nation. She has written Possession: The Curious History of Private Collectors (Yale University Press, 2016) and Smashing Statues: The Rise and Fall of American Monuments (Norton, 2022).

Notes   1. The Iraq Stabilization and Insurgency Sanctions Regulations, 31 CFR part 576, were finalized in 2010, but implement a number of Executive Orders dating back to 1990, namely, Executive Order 12722 of 3 August 1990; Executive Order 13290 of 20 March 2003; Executive Order 13303 of 22 May 2003; Executive Order 13315 of 28 August 2003; Executive Order 13350 of 29 July 2004; Executive Order 13364 of 29 November 2004; and Executive Order 13438 of 17 July 2007. Note that Executive Orders 12722 and 12724 restricted most imports, including cultural property, from Iraq from August 1990 until they were revoked by Executive Order 13350 (Exec. Order No. 13350, § 4, 69 Fed. Reg. 46,055, 46,056 (30 July 2004), (codified at 31 C.F.R. § 576.208)).   2. See also Title 18 U.S.C. 545: ‘Whoever fraudulently or knowingly imports or brings into the United States, any merchandise contrary to law, or receives, conceals, buys, sells, or in any manner facilitates the transportation, concealment, or sale of such merchandise after importation, knowing the

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same to have been imported or brought into the United States contrary to law – Shall be fined under this title or imprisoned not more than 20 years, or both. Proof of defendant’s possession of such goods, unless explained to the satisfaction of the jury, shall be deemed evidence sufficient to authorize conviction for violation of this section.’ Note that this law operates to convict only those guilty of smuggling an item that it is illegal to import under US law. Just because it is illegal under the law of a foreign country to export an object does not guarantee that it is illegal under US law to import the item. Title 18 U.S.C. 542 Entry of Goods by Means of False Statements: ‘Whoever enters or introduces, or attempts to enter or introduce, into the commerce of the United States any imported merchandise by means of any fraudulent or false invoice, declaration, affidavit, letter, paper, or by means of any false statement, written or verbal, or by means of any false or fraudulent practice or appliance, or makes any false statement in any declaration without reasonable cause to believe the truth of such statement, or procures the making of any such false statement as to any matter material thereto without reasonable cause to believe the truth of such statement, whether or not the United States shall or may be deprived of any lawful duties; or Whoever is guilty of any willful act or omission whereby the United States shall or may be deprived of any lawful duties accruing upon merchandise embraced or referred to in such invoice, declaration, affidavit, letter, paper, or statement, or affected by such act or omission – Shall be fined for each offense under this title or imprisoned not more than two years, or both.’ If a prosecutor does not have enough evidence to prove that a defendant committed a crime beyond a reasonable doubt, the prosecutor can choose to undertake a civil action under Title 18 U.S.C. 981 or Title 19 U.S.C. 1595a, taking advantage of the more lenient preponderance of the evidence standard of a civil action to accomplish the recovery of cultural property that was imported via false statements or smuggling or that was stolen in violation of the source country’s national ownership laws. This cultural property can then be repatriated to the country of origin, although the persons responsible for attempting to smuggle it into the United States are unfortunately free to try again.   3. Title 18 U.S.C. 982 mandates the forfeiture of any property relating to the crime when a defendant is convicted either of making false statements under section 542 or smuggling under section 545; Title 18 U.S.C. 981 allows for the seizure and forfeiture of goods in civil cases.   4. A workshop on the fight against illicit trafficking of cultural property and its restitution in Syria was held in Lebanon from 30 November to 2 December 2015; its topics included the ‘international legal framework’ and ‘measures to facilitate return and restitution of cultural objects’, and it was attended by DGAM staff and Syrian customs and police officers. A meeting of experts to discuss inventories of cultural heritage in Syria was held in Lebanon from 16 to 18 February 2015; it was attended by DGAM staff. Training on securing movable heritage was given in Lebanon from 26 to 30 January 2015;

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its topics included the legal frameworks that combat the illicit trafficking of cultural objects and it was attended by DGAM staff. Training to fight against the illicit trafficking of Syrian cultural property was given ‘at the explicit request expressed by Syrian stakeholders and authorities’ in Lebanon from 10 to 14 November 2014; its topics included ‘normative presentations focusing on international treaties and conventions and national legislation for the protection of cultural heritage’ and it was attended by police and customs officers from Syria. A workshop on the fight against illicit trafficking of cultural property was held in Damascus, Syria, from 10 to 13 May 2013; its topics included a discussion of ‘legal aspects and local and international regulations’ associated with combatting illicit trafficking.

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Conclusion

Unfinished Projects of ‘Decentring’ Western Museum Practices Felicity Bodenstein, Damiana Oţoiu and Eva-Maria Troelenberg

I hope that sooner or later we will get those artefacts out of the UK museums, and our societies, our nations will move on despite what has happened during colonial times and other times. —Evelyn Paraboy Kaney, Decolonising Cultural Spaces: The Living Cultures Project

At the beginning of August 2020, the premiere of the documentary film Decolonising Cultural Spaces: The Living Cultures Project took place online, within the context of the ‘Medicine Festival’.1 Viewers were able to explore the galleries and storerooms of the Pitt Rivers Museum at the University of Oxford and the Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology at the University of Cambridge, while witnessing the dialogue between seven Maasai representatives from Tanzania and Kenya and several British museum curators. The dialogue focused on the objects labelled as ‘Maasai’, especially the function and the role of these objects in the Maasai communities and the lack of information about these objects (or the inaccuracy of the information presented) in British exhibitions and archives. The film also shows a collaborative session, in which the two teams work together to try to reconstruct the biographies of some of the objects, based on provenance research carried out in different European archives. The curators and museum directors appear in unusual situations: apologizing for not having initiated this dialogue earlier, or consulting a sacred calabash. While the violent context in which some of these objects were appropriated by

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museum collectors is a recurrent topic of conversations between the two teams, the topic of repatriation or restitution is rarely touched upon when the teams are working together. However, some members of the Maasai team (for instance, Evelyn Paraboy Kaney, whose words we have quoted at the beginning of these concluding remarks) confess to the director of the film their hope that the subject will soon be on the table. While this project has been extremely visible in recent years, especially thanks to the involvement of InsightShare, a non-governmental organization that uses different communication technologies as a form of ‘community engagement for marginalized groups’, numerous other similar collaborative projects are currently taking place in different collections (see, for instance, Tichmann 2019). As the contributors to this volume show, many dilemmas that these collaborative projects raise have been on the agenda of museum professionals (but also politicians) since the period of disintegration of the European empires and even before. But the last few decades have seen an unprecedented wave of museum projects that reconsider the biography of objects, including the history of their appropriation in highly problematic contexts, such as the so-called punitive colonial wars (e.g. Wastiau 2000, Reuther and Schulze 2018, Hicks 2020). There have been a significant number of renovation projects that provide a meta-museum perspective on collections, introducing a critical reflection on the history of the institution, sometimes conceived in dialogue with experts from outside the museum (e.g. Davison 1998; Oțoiu 2020). Provenance research, previously associated with the study of ownership in Western art collections, is now being undertaken in ethnographic and extra-European art collections, adopting a specific methodology (Förster et al. 2018, Fuhrmeister and Hopp 2019). These include attempts to imagine a truly ‘symmetrical history’ (Bertrand 2011) of objects and collections, through what has been called ‘cooperative provenance research’ (see, for instance, Heidelberg Statement 2019).2 Laws aimed at the restitution/repatriation/ transfer/management of colonial collections of artefacts and human remains are also multiplying, including in countries where museum professionals and political decision-makers have previously spoken out against these processes. So are the forums in which the potential modifications of the legislative framework are discussed: professional museum organizations (e.g. German Museums Association)3, ethics committees within museums, different committees of the International Council of Museums, expert commissions (such as the the Sarr-Savoy commission convened by the French president Emmanuel Macron),4 collaborative working groups (such as the Benin dialogue group), think tanks and NGOs, such as AFFORD.5 In addition, more and more institutions are developing and

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making publicly available their own procedures for handling requests for restitution and repatriation (e.g. the Restitution and Repatriation policy issued by Horniman Public Museum and Public Trust on March 2021).6 While, as noted by Martin Gammon (2018: xv), ‘there is much anxiety or discontent at the prospect of deaccessions’ and many still believe in the utopia of ‘perpetual conservation’ (Gammon 2018: 3), the contributions in this volume show that collaborative projects such as those currently taking place in many museums, ‘troubling colonial legacies’ (von Oswald and Tinius 2020), may help reinvent the institution of the museum in a creative way. These modes of reinventing museum institutions, which have been examined in the successive chapters of this book as processes of return, take multiple forms, with implications for collections that go well beyond the quest for and the attainment of physical restitution or repatriation. Many contributions to this volume have also examined important aspects of the long history of return understood in its largest sense as a mode of thinking and dealing with collections against the grain of their status as appropriated things and in relation to their connection to former places of provenance and owners and to trajectories of displacement. The conception of contested holdings as a category with its own history and dynamics owes much to research on the ‘translocation’ of objects undertaken in the context of the project led by Bénédicte Savoy from 2017 to 2020 (Bodenstein, Lagatz and Savoy 2021). Recent discussions of the place of translocated objects in European collections has tended to focus on extra-European collections and have been tied to appeals for transparency in provenance or more inclusive social engagement with source communities (von Oswald and Tinius 2020). The ‘overwhelming shift in museological practices in relationship to colonialism’ (Modest 2020: 67) in terms of actors, vocabularies and challenges has affected both the work and fieldwork of the editors and, in this concluding text, we would like to provide some perspective on these shifts on the basis of our experience of working with and through them respectively in certain African and European contexts. We propose to focus on these experiences in order to consider two important lines of thought that were present in bringing together this volume. First, we asked ourselves how to consider the different historical contexts of plunder (in particular, the paradigmatic contexts of Nazi looting and colonial appropriations) without making simplistic comparisons. What intersections exist between these contexts and the methods used by researchers to study them? Secondly, how can the processes of the restitution and the transfer of museum collections, which often take the form of state-to-state negotiations, account for the complexity of political histories

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of different regions and the multiplicity of substate actors, for example, the families from whom these collections were looted or the communities that produced or held them. How can one understand the interaction between the different interests and strategies of the other above-mentioned actors, for instance, the professional museum organizations, the expert commissions or the collaborative working groups, in many ways better endowed to manage the complexity of these processes than the political decision-makers, who nevertheless often determine specific outcomes?

Multidirectional Memory and Practices in the History of Collections One of the key ambitions of this volume was to bring together examples of cases of spoliation within Europe, in particular the paradigmatic context of the Second World War and cases related to European colonization and influence in other parts of the world. In a conference organized by the editors in 2016,7 many participants commented on the fact that it was the first time that they were speaking about restitutions and return to a mixed audience of experts from the fields of ethnographic and physical anthropology collections, as well as those historians and art historians dealing with the massive displacements of collections in Europe during the Nazi era. Ruth E. Iskin’s contribution in this volume examines an unusual intersection between the destiny of an iconic archaeological find in Egypt and the biography of the famous Jewish collector James Simon, whose place in the German museum world was, until recently, tellingly erased. Such intersections are becoming more tangible as historians and provenance researchers start to focus on the destinies of ethnographic and archaeological collections during the Second World War. In the case of the Benin objects, this has led to the identification of objects that were looted twice, first in the colonial context and then again during the war. Indeed, in the last few years, there has been a consistent tendency to associate extra- and intra-European contexts, one that plays out in conference programmes, research careers and the development of the field of provenance research especially in Germany, where methods and indeed researchers move from one domain to the other. This is obvious, for example, in the work of Bénédicte Savoy, Professor of Art History, who moved from a doctoral thesis attained in France on the history of Napoleonic spoliations in German-speaking Europe and their restitution in 1815, to developing provenance research into Nazi-looted art at her department at the Technical University in Berlin before being mandated

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in 2018 by the French president, Emmanuel Macron, to provide a report on the restitution of African cultural materials taken in colonial contexts. In March 2021, she published a volume dedicated to the history of restitution demands from African nations in the 1970s and 1980s that has since given rise to new debates about the need for the Humboldt Forum in Berlin to be more proactively involved in processes of restitution, in particular regarding the so-called Benin bronzes. A very different but equally intriguing crossover is the most recent book by Götz Aly, the much-read journalist and independent historian, author of over a dozen books dedicated to the history of the Third Reich, the destiny of Germany’s Jewish community and the close correlation between the confiscation of Jewish property and the National Socialist state construction. Published in May 2021, Das Prachtboot: Wie Deutsche die Kunstschätze der Südsee raubten tells a deeply contextualized provenance story of a ship built on the Island of Luf in Papua New Guinea, showing the connections between German military activities in the 1880s and later sales of cultural material due to the long-term effects of colonial rule. Similarly, the museum world has seen historians dedicated to provenance research move from projects and positions created to deal with National Socialist contexts to the question of colonial collections: it is clear, for example, from the work of Silke Reuther at Hamburg’s Kunstgewerbe Museum and Esther Tisa-Francini at the Rietberg Museum in Zurich, that the focuses of institutional research are shifting. Perhaps the clearest indication of this shift was the establishment in 2020 of a German helpline for information on collections from colonial contexts as part of the Lost Art Foundation previously dedicated to the question of Nazi-looted art. Another obvious connection has come from a transfer of vocabulary. In Germany, since the formulation of the Washington Principles of 1998, it has become commonplace to see provenance research being presented as a moral requirement in order to clarify questions of Raubkunst. The German term Raubkunst does not have an exact equivalent either in French or in English; it is specifically related to the work done over the last twenty years on the works seized or sold during the Nazi era. Thus, in Germany, this word applies not only to cases of works being stolen illegally – as in English when we speak of stolen art – but more particularly to an institutionalized form of theft that was considered legal in the official context of National Socialist Germany. In English, it has been translated as ‘looted art’ – but ‘loot’ as a verb has moved in the opposite direction as its current meaning is more readily associated with individual theft in situations of anarchy (Bodenstein, Lagatz and Savoy 2021). In the current debate on colonial heritage in Germany, Raubkunst has

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become embedded in a new expression, koloniale Raubkunst, used widely by the media in the last two to three years, often specifically in relation to the British looting of the Benin bronzes (Reuther and Schulze 2018; Bodenstein and Howald 2019: 557–58), thus essentially extending a category developed for designating works taken by the Russians in Germany, or by the Germans in Europe, to colonial contexts of plunder. These shifts and practices can perhaps best be understood as forms of ‘multidirectional memory’, to quote Michael Rothberg’s Multidirectional Memory: Remembering the Holocaust in the Age of Decolonization, published in English in 2009. The 2021 publication of its translation into German (Rothberg 2021) is also a sign that there is a need to understand how these two very different memory cultures are currently connecting, a connection that has largely been created by discussions about the return of museum collections. As Andreas Huyssen, Anson Rabinbach and Avinoam Shalem (2017: 2) stated in their considerations on Nazi-looted art: ‘Generally speaking and beyond the frame of the Shoah, it is no wonder, then, that museums and other public institutions that amass and store cultural goods become the main areas in which truth telling, memory, and histories are tested and contested. Today these institutions are put under moral scrutiny.’ The Humboldt Forum in Berlin is currently a prominent example of an institution under scrutiny, where layers of difficult pasts intersect. The reconstruction of the classicist Hohenzollern Castle constitutes, from a merely urbanistic perspective, a conservative decision that overwrites several layers of German history. Situated in the centre of Berlin and replacing the demolished Palace of the Republic, the castle’s reconstruction creates a historical shortcut that largely circumvents the heritage of the twentieth century. It seeks to glorify an idea of Prussian enlightenment and at the same time displays collections of the State Museums’ ethnological and Asian collections, among them highly contested pieces with colonial provenances, such as the Benin treasures, objects looted from the Summer Palace in Beijing (Bodenstein and Howald 2019) and many pieces directly related to German colonial history (Reyels, Ivanov and Weber-Sinn 2018; Aly 2021). During the long planning phase of the Humboldt Forum, it was very much presented in terms of a celebratory and naïve concept of ‘globalism’, as it still is (MacGregor 2015) – with the absurd effect that its highly contested holdings all too often seem to be instrumentalized in a context that glosses over the colonial entanglements of German imperialism and National Socialism and its repercussions and afterlives throughout the Cold War and post-reunification. Public and academic debate has reacted sharply to this constellation of

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a reconstructed palace and world museum (e.g. Häntzschel and Savoy 2017; Kilb and Trinks 2019), even leading to the creation of the Boas Blog entirely dedicated to bringing together different voices on this topic (see introduction by Brus et al. 2017), and it is the presence of contested holdings such as the so-called Benin bronzes in this specific place, with its local historical connotations, that has attracted the most attention to this entangled problem-scape. This example illustrates why it is necessary and productive to think about these very different historical contexts in which the terms ‘Raubkunst’ or ‘loot’ are used in a relational way. The intention is not to compare or rank the suffering associated with histories of violence and contested holdings. It will often be necessary to identify not just one, but multiple layers of historical asymmetry. Those layers do not tell linear, teleological histories and one layer never relativizes another, but when considered in relation to each other, they may facilitate a better understanding of how ‘belated transitional justice’ (Huyssen, Rabinbach and Shalem 2017: 2) can be done to such holdings and their owners even after long periods of time.

‘The Museum Is National’ (Singh 2002): And So Is the Return? Beyond these complex issues of provenance and multi-directional memories, another seemingly simpler question arises: in practical terms, how and to whom should returns be made? How should the complexity of multiple histories and the multiplicity of protagonists on the ground be dealt with? Whether these processes will also lead to the creation of new museum forms is an open question: will there be a shift from museums as ‘shrines to the national culture’ (Singh 2002: 177) to museum projects built as a result of transnational collaborative networks of scholars trying to (re)build old royal collections? Or to transnational projects such as the very ambitious, but very elusive, plans of the African Union for a Great Museum of Africa to be ‘hosted by the People’s Democratic Republic of Algeria on behalf of the continent’?8 The case of the return of Sarah Baartman’s remains, which has been examined in several chapters of this book, could be turned to again for some answers. Specifically, the ritual of burying her remains in Hankey, Eastern Cape, on 9 May 2002. This long-prepared ritual brought together all the protagonists who had been involved in reclaiming the remains from the Museum of Mankind (Musée de l’Homme) in Paris and discussing their post-restitution fate: national politicians and diplomats, local officials, representatives of different indigenous communities and umbrella

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organizations such as the National Khoi-San Consultative Conference, researchers with different backgrounds (palaeoanthropologists, archaeologists, public historians), inhabitants of the region, journalists, artists, priests and other spiritual leaders. ‘Fellow South Africans, thank you for coming to this important day and occasion in our national life’, said President Thabo Mbeki, addressing the massive attendance at the graveside, adding ‘I am honoured to announce that this place of final rest for Sarah Bartmann has been designated as a national heritage site’9. Although the complex constellation of participants in this important (national) burial ritual played an important role in putting the issue of Sarah Baartman’s repatriation on the national and international agenda, the decision was ultimately made through bilateral negotiations between representatives of France and South Africa and it was validated by a unanimous vote of the French National Assembly. Around each returned object, around each ancestral remain that is reburied, there is a complex network of many different protagonists who sometimes collaborate and at other times challenge each other. In the case of indigenous populations, those identified as descendants of depredated or museified populations may find themselves in a very tense relationship with the state authorities and may see the involvement of the state and its desire to gain stewardship over processes of return as a further usurpation of an indigenous cause, as a new dispossession. Very often at the time of return and during the negotiations that precede it, these dissonant voices are ignored and the negotiations are only conducted on a bilateral, government-to-government basis. This type of approach, centred exclusively on the nation state and its contemporary borders, presents many challenges, such as those highlighted in the 1980s by Shaje Tshiluila, the then deputy director of the Institute of National Museums in Zaire (IMNZ), Kinshasa, who eventually became the founding president of the International Council of African Museums (AFRICOM). In an article published in Museum, the journal edited by ICOM, she presented the project to compile a comprehensive inventory of the IMNZ’s heritage and pointed out that the project required, before anything else, ‘elucidat[ing] … the delicate problem of the origin of each object, because administrative borders do not always correspond to cultural limits’ (Tshiluila 1987: 51). As Kwame Anthony Appiah has also cautioned, defining an object as (national) heritage invites us to reflect on the history of political and cultural borders: When Nigerians claim a Nok sculpture as part of their patrimony, they are claiming for a nation whose boundaries are less than a century old, the works of a civilization

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more than two millennia ago, created by a people that no longer exists, and whose descendants we know nothing about … Indeed, a great deal of what people wish to protect as ‘cultural patrimony’ was made before the modern system of nations came into being, by members of societies that no longer exist. (Appiah 2006: 119)

The case of France and President Macron’s speech at the University of Ouagadougou, in 2017, are very often cited as the moment of (a commitment to) a radical patrimonial breakthrough. Even if, four years later, there has been no massive restitution of museum collections (only a few dozen specific objects having been returned) or any legal modification to support this comprehensive promise, the words ‘In the next five years, I want the conditions to be met for the temporary or permanent restitution of African heritage to Africa’ have already shaken up French and foreign heritage institutions. In the framework of the Sarr-Savoy mission, the authors of the report, in collaboration with legal scholars and other experts, tried to work out solutions to the problem of ad hoc restitution laws and decisions on specific objects. But even these solutions start from the premise that it is through politico-diplomatic decisions, ‘within a bilateral framework’ (Sarr and Savoy 2018: 71) and by ‘privileging a procedure of state to state management’ (ibid.: 83), that a new relational ethic could be envisaged. And, implicitly, a return of goods resulting from highly problematic historical contexts and appropriation processes claimed by the countries of the South, ‘undertaken on the basis of a formal demand from the country making the request’ (ibid.: 79). Certain policy papers recently drafted in sub-Saharan African countries, such as the report on The Value of the Repatriation of South African Museum Artefacts: Debates, Case Studies and a Way Forward, submitted to the Department of Arts and Culture by Nelson Mandela University, in Partnership with Rhodes University, University of Fort Hare and University of KwaZulu-Natal, go so far as to propose that state representatives involved in settlement negotiations should pragmatically promise economic benefits in exchange for collections: ‘in the museum context, some concessions on cultural artefacts might be invited to yield, for example, some period of favourable trade terms, or progress in some completing defence sector contracts’ (The Value of Repatriation: 24). But can we imagine other ways of envisioning this ‘time of returns’ announced by authors like Felwine Sarr and Bénédicte Savoy (2018: 43) or Dan Hicks (2020: 17) beyond these state-to-state negotiations? Relying on other legal constructions or involving other protagonists in the dialogue? And reflecting on the power disparities that characterize international relations and affect bilateral negotiations between states? Both legal provenance research, informed by decolonial theoretical perspectives, and

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recent transnational research and policy approaches give us hope for a positive response. Matthias Goldmann and Beatriz von Loebenstein, in a recent paper entitled ‘Thieves in the Temple? The Role of Law for the Restitution of Cultural Artefacts’, make a very compelling case for the ‘potential of legal provenance research inspired by postcolonial theory to inform the restitution debate’ (Goldmann and von Loebenstein 2020: 1). Rather than looking at the law as a monolith that is necessarily unjust because it was created in an imperial context, by considering the ambiguities of the historical legal framework, by debunking and contextualizing colonial law, critical legal provenance research makes it possible to not perpetuate injustices and processes of ‘othering’.

Networks of Experts and Demands for a Shift towards Post/ Supra-National Museums It is also possible to observe (political or scientific) endeavours that transcend the borders of nation states. In the case of collections constituted in a colonial context on the African continent, the era of transnational approaches and ambitions seems to have begun. The African Union’s Agenda 2063 lists the issue of cultural heritage as one of the organization’s priorities.10 The union’s theme for 2021 is ‘Arts, Culture and Heritage: Levers for Building the Africa We Want’ and UNESCO proposes to work closely with the union’s Cultural Directorate ‘particularly on issues related to the restitution of cultural property and heritage, African languages and the establishment of the Great Museum of Africa, amongst others’.11 In 2015, when drafting ‘the first ten-year implementation plan. 2014–2023’ for the ‘Agenda 2063’,12 policymakers anticipated that at least 30 per cent of all cultural heritage would have been retrieved by 2023. Beyond the very ambitious museum projects and the impressive figures, but disconnected from the reality of the demands formulated by the countries of the African Union, there remains the important and unprecedented political project of co-ordinated transnational demands. Alongside these continental political strategies, there are specific initiatives for large-scale international co-operation between academics and museum professionals. This is true in the case of the Benin royal treasures currently at the epicentre of what has been widely heralded as an historic shift in the conversation on restitution. In March and April of 2021, a series of declarations by institutions such as the University Museum of Aberdeen in

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Scotland (Bakare 2021) and German institutions (Federal Foreign Office 2021) made it clear that many museums across Europe and their governing boards are now very seriously considering restituting objects to Nigeria and, in some cases, firm decisions have already been made. Strong activist movements had led to increased political pressure over the last four to five years: for example, the No-Humboldt group in Germany; the Rhodes Must Fall movement in Oxford; and the student movement concerning the Benin Cockerel of Jesus College in Cambridge (Zetterstrom-Sharp and Wingfield 2019). It is also necessary to understand the long process of negotiations and the changes in institutional environments that have made this shift possible from a practical perspective. The uniqueness of the Benin case lies in the creation of processes of institutional collaboration that have worked towards restitution both in Europe and in Africa. One particular arena where this shift has been happening is the international meetings of a working group principally made up of museum and heritage professionals, also known as the Benin Dialogue. The group was established in 2008 by Barbara Plankensteiner, the current director of the Museum am Rothenbaum in Hamburg, following her curation of one of the largest monographic exhibitions dedicated to the Benin pieces ever held. The exhibition was presented at the Ethnographic Museum in Dahlem, Berlin, after its inauguration at the Museum for Völkerkunde in Vienna (now called the Welt Museum Wien), and also travelled to Paris and Chicago; it did not, however, have a showing on the African continent. At the time of the first meetings held in Berlin in 2010, there was little or no political support in Europe for the idea of the restitution of cultural objects related to colonial contexts, though the issue had already become a very important one where collections of human remains were concerned, as evidenced by France’s decision to restitute its Toi moko (socalled Māori heads) to the Te Papa museum in New Zealand that same year. The initial aim was to establish more integrated forms of collaboration between the largest museums holding Benin objects in Europe and those cultural institutions in Nigeria, in Benin City, and at the federal level of the National Commission of Museums and Monuments. Many issues were discussed, including modalities for the exchange of information about the collections and exemptions to image reproduction rights amongst members of the group, but of course it could not be ignored that the endgame for certain interlocutors, in particular on the Nigerian side, was and remains restitution – a sentiment explicitly expressed during the first meeting, which was held in Benin City in 2012. After a long pause, the group was reactivated again in 2017 in Cambridge and then in October 2018 in Leiden, when the specific

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proposal of a series of loans to be made by European museums to Benin marked a clear shift from earlier meetings, which had not addressed the physical issue of the objects themselves. The plan that emerged involved the creation of a rotating exhibition of Benin objects that would be situated in a purpose-built museum on the grounds of the royal palace in Benin City. Thus, restitution came to be considered one end of a spectrum of institutional positions concerning the ‘ownership’ of the Benin pieces seized in 1897; this spectrum ranged from firm retentionist positions, as maintained in the earliest meetings, with the middle ground being occupied by different types of discourse on the circulation of these collections. Additionally, in the wake of the publication of the report on restitution commissioned by French president Emmanuel Macron (Sarr and Savoy 2018), Nigerian authorities began reaffirming claims to cultural heritage at a higher political level. In particular, the Nigerian Ambassador to Germany in Berlin, Yusuf Maitama Tuggar, addressed an official letter to German chancellor Angela Merkel and to Federal Commissioner for Culture and the Media Monika Grütters on 16 August 2019, in which he requested the restitution of the Benin bronzes, but also objects from other parts of Nigeria. The European institutions that are today part of the Benin Dialogue were all key players in the acquisition and appropriation of the Benin pieces from the time of their arrival on the market in the summer of 1897, just a few short months after the so-called punitive expedition. These institutions, ranging in size from the British Museum in London to the Volkenkunde Museum in Leiden, have tended to adopt or suggest the possibility of very different positions on the spectrum of solutions to the question of rightful ownership. Whilst it is difficult to ascertain with certainty how these positions played out or played against each other in the confidential forum of this dialogue, it is clear that there was a shift from the position of ‘circulation’ without change of legal title as an acceptable middle ground to the position adopted at the meeting held again in Benin City in 2019. The press release published on 11 July 2019 focused on the plans for a new royal museum to be built in Benin (since named EMOWAA, Edo Museum of West African Art) by Sir David Adjaye, the award-winning architect of the National Museum of African-American History and Culture on the Washington Mall.13 It also highlighted discussions regarding the rise of restitution initiatives across Europe, and the double use of ‘return and restitution’ replaced the notion of loans and circulation. Return and restitution become one end of a spectrum in which retentionist positions are no longer tenable at all. It was after this meeting that another very important and more official organizational body was formed,

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the Legacy Restoration Trust, officially established in 2020. It describes itself as ‘an independent not-for-profit entity incorporated in Nigeria to mobilise resources and oversee a series of cultural heritage research, restoration, archaeological and education projects’.14 Its mission is to represent the different political bodies and heritage actors in Nigeria (in particular, the governor of Benin City, the National Commission of Museums and Monuments and the royal court of the Oba of Benin, Ewuare II) by forming one main interlocutor for museums that wish to discuss the return of all or part of their Benin collections. It is also focused on amassing the financial means necessary for the construction of the new museum and the conservation of the collections once they have been returned. Its formation represents a major advancement in the shift of agency from Western institutions to Nigerian actors as the process had, up until 2019, been hampered by the lack of transparency on an essential point – to whom and to where should restitutions of the Benin pieces be made? The recent joint announcement by German political and cultural actors concerning all of Germany’s many ethnographic museums (Marshall 2021) also sets a precedent in institutional decision-making across intra-national actors; it remains to be seen what impact this will have on other European countries and specifically in Great Britain. Meanwhile, different collaborative projects are attempting to establish the inventories that are needed to map out the physical reality of the dispersal of material cultural heritage from the African continent and that are a condition sine qua non for the initiation of meaningful dialogues for restitution, but also for all forms of research programmes and cultural museum policies in the countries of origin. In relation to the case just discussed, the Digital Benin project was set up in October 2020 to connect the data on the Benin treasures held in close to two hundred public institutions across the world and to provide a Benin-focused perspective on them by allowing them to be commented and curated by Benin-based scholars.15 Focusing on objects whose provenance can be tied to the current political territory of Kenya, the International Inventories Programme was set up in 2017 to bring together data from museums across the world holding relevant cultural material. It is run by an interdisciplinary team of researchers, curators and artists and associated with the National Museums of Kenya and several major German ethnographic museums.16 Other initiatives are burgeoning across the continent, seeking to respond to needs for local, national and indeed Pan-African collaboration, and the next decade will undoubtedly witness the development of innovative ways of developing novel processes for return.

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Felicity Bodenstein is a lecturer in the history of museums and heritage studies at Sorbonne University, Paris. She is also a principal investigator in the digital humanities project, financed by the Ernest von Siemens Foundation, ‘Digital Benin’ (https://digital-benin.org/), which will bring together data from the close to two hundred museums containing pieces from the 1897 British colonial expedition to Benin in their collections. She was recently guest editor of the Journal for Art Market Studies, on ‘Africa: Trade, Traffic, Collections’, vol. 4, no. 1, 14 October 2020, and co-editor of the volume Translocations. Histories of Dislocated Cultural Assets (Transcript, 2021) with Bénédicte Savoy and Merten Lagatz. Damiana Oţoiu is a political and legal anthropologist (PhD, Free University of Brussels) and is currently an assistant professor at the Political Science Department, University of Bucharest. Her research is focused on how property rights over museum collections are (re)defined and disputed in postcolonial contexts. She has carried out long-term ethnographic fieldwork in the Democratic Republic of Congo, South Africa, France and Belgium and co-ordinated several research projects, including Museums and Controversial Collections. Politics and Policies of Heritage-Making in Post-colonial and Post-socialist Contexts (2015–17) and Decolonial Practices in Museum Collections (Europe and Sub-Saharan Africa): Local Histories and Global Circulations (2021–22). Eva-Maria Troelenberg is Professor for Modern and Contemporary Art History at Utrecht University. Her main fields of interest include transcultural art and museum history, arts and visual cultures of the modern Mediterranean, Islamic art history and Orientalism. She was head of the Max Planck research group Objects in the Contact Zone at Kunsthistorisches Institut in Florenz – MPI and she has taught at the universities of Heidelberg, Vienna and Zürich. Her publications include the co-edited volumes Collecting and Empires: An Historical and Global Perspective (Harvey Miller Publishers, 2019) and Reading Objects in the Contact Zone (Heidelberg University Publishing, 2021).

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Notes  1. Part of the Living Cultures project co-ordinated by InsightShare, Oltoilo la Maa (Voice of the Maasai) and the Pitt Rivers Museum at the University of Oxford in partnership with MAA Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology at the University of Cambridge. Information about InsightShare’s Living Cultures initiative and its Decolonising Cultural Spaces project is available at https://insightshare.org/network/ (retrieved March 2021).  2. ‘All world cultures and ethnographic museums and collections understand that it is their duty to ensure the maximum transparency when dealing with the history and contents of their collections, with cooperative provenance research as a general standard.’ Statement approved on 2 May 2019, on the occasion of the Annual Conference of the Directors of Ethnographic Museums in German Speaking Countries, in Heidelberg. Retrieved from http://www.braunschweig.de › museen.  3. The third version of the Guidelines for German Museums. Care of Collections from Colonial Contexts was developed in 2021. Retrieved April 2021 from https://www.museumsbund.de/publikationen/guidelines-on-dealingwith-collections-from-colonial-contexts-2/.  4. Prepared by the Senegalese economist Felwine Sarr and the Franco-German art historian Bénédicte Savoy, the pivotal report On the Restitution of African Cultural Heritage: Toward a New Relational Ethics was published in November 2018. Retrieved January 2019 from http://restitutionreport2018.com/.  5. African Foundation For Development, a British charity created in 1994, ‘with the aim of expanding African diaspora contributions to African development’ (https://www.afford-uk.org/our-history/), which recently launched a new ‘programme to achieve restitution of stolen African artefacts and human remains from UK museums and other cultural institutions’, entitled ‘Return of the Icons’. The programme is part of the wider $15 million initiative to ‘strengthen efforts to restore cultural objects looted from the African continent’ supported by Open Society Foundations (https://www.opensocietyfoundations.org/newsroom/open-society-pledges-support-for-african-cultural-heritage-restitution). Information retrieved on March 2021.  6. Retrieved April 2021 from https://www.horniman.ac.uk › uploads › 2021/04.  7. What Do Contentious Objects Want? Political, Epistemic and Artistic Cultures of Return was a three-day conference held at the Kunsthistorisches Institut in Florence, https://www.khi.fi.it/en/aktuelles/veranstaltungen/2016/10/contentious-objects.php.  8. Questionnaire: Great Museum of Africa (GMA) – A Flagship Project of the AU Agenda 2063, p. 1, retrieved March 2021 from https://au.int/en/ documents/20200924/questionnaire-great-museum-africa-gma.  9. Speech of Thabo Mbeki, retrieved March 2021 from http://www.dirco.gov. za/docs/speeches/2002/mbek0809.htm. 10. See the webpage of the agenda, https://au.int/en/agenda2063/overview, retrieved March 2021.

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11. See an article summarizing the main decisions taken during the 37th Ordinary Session of the Executive Council held on 13–14 October 2020, published on 30 October 2020, retrieved April 2021 from https://en.unesco. org/news/regional-perspectives-africa-0, and the ‘Concept Note on 2021 as the Year of Arts, Culture, and Heritage in Africa’, Minutes of the Executive Council Session, 30 September–14 October 2020, EX.CL/1231(XXXVII) Rev.1, retrieved April 2021 from https://au.int/en/documents/20210322/ concept-note-2021-year-arts-curlture-and-heritage-africa. 12. The African Union. Agenda 2063, The Africa We Want: A shared Strategic Framework for Inclusive Growth and Sustainable Development. First TenYear Implementation Plan. 2014–23, September 2015, retrieved April 2021 from https://au.int/en/agenda2063/ftyip. 13. https://www.tropenmuseum.nl/nl/press-statement-meeting-benin-dialogue-group-1, retrieved 8 October 2021. 14. https://legacyrestorationtrust.org/, retrieved 8 October 2021. 15. https://digital-benin.org/, retrieved 8 October 2021. 16. https://www.inventoriesprogramme.org/about-iip, retrieved 8 October 2021.

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Index Abako (Alliance des Bakongo, Congolese political party), 144 Adjaye, David (Sir), 277 Adotevi, Stanislas Spero (philosopher and politician), 2 Adoula, Cyrille (Prime Minister of the Independent Congo Republic), 149 African Union, 275 African Union’s Cultural Directorate, 275 AFFORD (African Foundation for Development), 267 Akaroa Harbour immigration to, 96 invasion of, 97 Akenzua II (Oba of Benin), 220, 223, 225–29, 229, 233, 235, 237 Al-Badri, Nora (artist), 9, 65–68 Albani, Alessandro (collector), 207 Albany, 10, 83–84, 87 Allman, Robert, 224, 231, 234 Alonge, Solomon Osagie, 227 Aly, Götz, 270 Amsterdamsche Bank, 36 ancestors, Benin bronzes, 223. See also human remains as ancestors anthropology anthropology museums, anthropology sections/ departments in museums, 12, 82, 88–89, 91, 146, 168, 186, 266 physical anthropology specimens/collections, racial anthropology collections, 9, 12, 14, 178, 181, 183, 185–88, 188–89, 269 physical/biological anthropology, 1–2, 9, 14, 82, 88, 169, 175 racial anthropologists, anthropometric scientists, 1, 9–10, 14, 88 antiquarianism, 15 antiquities, Nigeria, 221, 227–31 Antwerp, 146 apartheid regime, 89, 179 the fall of/post-apartheid, 176, 179–82, 187 Arcade Gallery (London), 230 architectural survey, 50, 59 art market Brussels, 151 Christie’s (auction house), 238 market countries for antiquities, 250

New York, 151 Paris, 151 Sotheby’s (auction house), 231, 234, 238 Steven’s (auction house), 224–27 tribal art, 238 aryanization (Arisierung), 24 Assad, Bashar al- (Syrian president), 252–56 Association of Italian Jews for Spiritual Work (AIJWS), 54–56 Association of the Jewish Historical Institut (AJHI), 56 Ataï, Kanak leader (New Caledonia), 169, 172 Australia Australian indigenous communities, 170 Australian society, 117–23, 126–27, 154, 170, 175, 180, 187 political institutions of (Government, Prime minister), 125–26, 170 Austria, exhibition travelling in, 155 authenticity notion of, claims to, 74, 118, 122–23, 129–30, 153, 156 state apparatus of, 124 Syrian antiquities, 247 Zairian policy of, 154, 156 See also Hindmarsh Island Bridge Royal Commission authenticity/inauthenticity human remains, 109, 118, 122, 129 Baartman, Sarah, 14–15, 90, 165–68, 168–71, 171, 177–87, 187, 189, 272–75 Ad-hoc Committee on the reburial of Saartje Baartman, 176 Saartjie Baartman Centre for Women and Children’ for survivors of abuse, 178–81 The Return of Sarah Baartman (film by Zola Maseko), 176 Bakajika law, 149 Banks Peninsula, 96, 100–1, 104–8, 110 Bascom, William, 228 Baudouin, King of Belgium, 150 Belgian Congo. See Congo, colonial times Belgian government/State/Embassy in Kinshasa, 144, 147, 149, 150–52, 154 Belgium, 141, 146–49, 152–56, 159 Benin bronzes, 220–52, 269, 275–80

286 Benin City, Nigeria, 221–40 Benin dialogue group, 267, 276–79 Berkeley Gallery (London), 229 Bernheimer (family), 31, 38 Bersohn, Mathias, 48 Biobaku, Saburi Oladeni, 220 bioethics (law/legislation), 14, 164–68, 169, 171. See also legal framework Bloch-Bauer Adele, 23 Boer, Pieter de (art dealer), 34–36 Bomboko, Justin (Congolese Minister of Foreign Affairs), 150 Borchardt, Ludwig (archaeologue), 68 Bozimo, Willy, 220 Breier, Alois, 50 Brown, Rick and Laura, 47 Brueghel, Jan the Elder, 36 Brussels, 140, 143, 148–51 exhibition of 1958, 155 See also art market Cahen, Alfred (political counsellor at the Belgian Embassy in Kinshasa), 150 Cahen, Lucien (director of the Tervuren Museum), 145–47, 150–53, 155–56 Canada, 175, 180, 187 exhibition travelling in, 151 Cape Town, 175–81, 181, 185–89 Capitole (Campidoglio) Rome, 198, 203–6 Castlereagh, Robert Stewart (Viscount), 4 Central Collecting Point (Munich), 32–33 Chipperfield, David (architect), 72 Chicago, 50, 276 Churches and basilicas San Sebastiano fuori le Mura, 207 Sant’Agnese fuori le Mura, 206 Santa Maria della Rotonda (Pantheon), Rome, 198, 202 Santa Maria in Aracoeli, 198, 202 Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome, 198–201 Trinità dei Monti, 198 Cipriani, Lidio (anthropologist), 83, 89 Clarke, Louis, 230 collection(s) in colonial contexts, 2–3, 9, 17, 184, 221–24, 267–72, 275–78 ethnographic, 12, 148, 178, 226–29, 269 of natural history, 1, 12, 148 of physical anthropology (see anthropology, physical anthropology specimens/collections) colonial history colonial expeditions, 88 colonial heritage, 270, 143–44 colonial law, 275 colonial propaganda, 140 colonial violence, 5, 14, 88, 223, 266–69, 271, 276 German colonialism (exhibition devoted to), 91 Juju, 223 Niger Coast Protectorate, 222, 224

Index punitive expedition (Benin), 224, 226, 238, 267, 277 settler colonialism (and expertise), 120 colonial legacies, 268 Commission for the Protection of Indigenous Arts and Crafts/Commission pour la Protection des Arts et Métiers Indigènes, 139, 158 commodification barter trade, transactions, 24, 32, 37–38 Benin bronzes, 223, 237–38 forced, 7 human beings, 24–26 Congo, Art of the, 3, 151–52 colonial times, Belgian Congo, 139, 142–44, 147–49, 231 Democratic Republic of Congo/Zaire, 144, 147–59 Independent State of the Congo, 143–46 peoples of the, 151, 158 contemporary art, 92 art(ivist) interventions, 2, 9 The Other Nefertiti, 9, 65–75 contested holdings, 1, 6–7, 268, 271–74 Coorong Peninsula (South Australia), 126 ‘Coorong tribe’, 122, 127–28 copy Nefertiti Hack, 67. See also replica Creasy, Gerald, 226 de Jonghe, Edouard, 140 de Lumley, Henry (director, Museum of Mankind), 179 de Tenbossche, Powis (Belgian officer), 150 de Voghel, Franz (vice-president of the National Bank of Belgium), 143 deaccessioning of museum collections/ specimens, 178, 185 deathcast of a body, 178 decolonial practices, decolonisation decolonial justice, 188 decolonial theoretical perspectives, 274 decolonisation of museums, 82, 91, 176, 266–71, 274 del Verrocchio, Andrea (artist), 86 della Robbia’s workshop, 86 demuseification/(re)museification of physical anthropology specimens, 2, 11, 185 depot/loan (long-term) of collections, 152–53, 277 descendant/originating/source communities, 1, 11–12, 15, 117, 125, 175–81, 182, 184–88, 268–71, 273 Didi-Huberman, Georges, 85 diorama(s), 10, 82–85, 89–91, 100–3, 187 and colonial gaze, 103–4 and museum mannequins, 102–4 Directorate General of Antiquities and Museums Syria (DGAM), 247, 253, 260–63 DNA/DNA studies, 10, 170 donation of objects, 139, 145, 147, 151–52, 155, 158

Index287 Donato di Niccolò di Betto Bardi (Donatello, artist), 86–87 Dresdner Bank, 34 Drury, James (taxidermist), 89–90 Dumont D’Urville, Jules Sébastien César (navigator), 96–97, 101, 108. See also phrenology Dumoutier, Pierre-Marie Alexandre (phrenologist), 92, 97, 101, 108. See also phrenology Durieux, André (Inspector General of the Legal Service, Belgium), 144–45

genocide, 32, 44 German Orient Society (Deutsche OrientGesellschaft), 68 Germany debates concerning the provenance and the (potential) restitution of collections, 270, 276 exhibition travelling in, 155 Gloger, Zygmunt (ethnographer), 48 Göpel, Erhard (NS functionary), 35–36 Grütters, Monika (Federal Minister of Culture, Germany), 277 Gualdi, Francesco, 197–207

Egharevba, Jacob, 229 England/Great Britain, 146, 177–80, 278 Enwonwu, Ben, 229 epistemic/knowledge authority, 2, 12, 14, 128, 130 epistemic symmetry, 187 epistemic violence, 175 ethics changing museum ethics, 7, 12, 14, 165, 176 codes of ethics, ethics committees in museums, 5–6, 14, 267 collection ethics, 185 See also human remains, ethically and unethically collected European Union, 154, 254 Eweka II (Oba of Benin), 222 exhibitions About the Diorama, 187 Chicago International Exhibition, 50 Horomaka, 99–100, 104–8, 111 Miscast, 90 The French Connection, 99–100, 105, 110 export laws, 243–46 Eyo, Ekpo (Nigerian archaeologist), 4

handover, ceremony, 117, 119, 125–26, 149, 156. See also repatriation Harmel, Pierre (Belgian Minister of Foreign Affairs), 149–50 Himmler, Heinrich, 24, 32, 35–36 Hindmarsh Island Bridge Royal Commission, 124 Hitler, Adolf, 24, 27, 30–31, 71 Holocaust, 8–9, 44–47, 55–62, 271 Holzinger, Ernst (museum director), 30 Hubka, Thomas, 50 human dignity the notion of, 14, 165–68, 169–74, 182 human remains/ancestral remains, 5, 9, 13, 87–88, 90–91, 117, 165, 168, 170, 172, 175–83, 184–88, 188, 273, 276 and/as ancestors, 2, 6, 10, 88, 117–22, 124, 128–29, 178–81, 182, 185 appropriation of, plunder of, 175, 184–87 ‘cranial water vessels’ or ‘cranial drinking cups’, 117, 119–20, 122, 124, 127, 130 divination skulls from the Torres Strait, 131 Egyptian mummies, 168 ethically/unethically collected/removed, 185–88 legal classification/categorisation of, miscategorisation, 164–68, 168, 171–74 Merikin, 118–22, 125, 128, 130–31 modified/un-modified, 129–31 named/unnamed, 168–73 ‘Old People’, ‘Old Person(s)’, 118, 125, 128, 131 and/as objects, public property, 166, 169 policies regarding the management/the curatorship/the treatment of human remains, 180–83, 183–86, 186 requests for the repatriation of, 6, 175, 177, 180, 188 Toi Moko/Tattooed Māori heads, 14, 125, 131, 138, 166, 168, 276 human trafficking, 25 human zoos, 178 Hussein, Saddam (president of Iraq), 247–50

Fagg, Bernard, 230–34 Fagg, William, 228–37 FESTAC’77 (Second World Black and African Festival of Arts and Culture), 16, 234–39 Ficoronoi, Francesco (antiquarian), 207 Foreign Office (British), 226, 227, 231, 235 France, 14–15, 165–68, 177, 179, 269, 273–76, 276 debates about museum collections taking place in, 10, 165 French museums and collections, 164, 166–73 French political institutions (Government, Parliament, Senate, President), 165–68, 169, 179, 181, 273 National Scientific Commission of the Museums of France, 166, 170 Führer prerogative (Führervorbehalt), 30, 36, 38 funeral rituals, 184 Galla, Amareswar (Professor of Museum Studies), 180–83, 190 Galway Henry L. (Captain), 238

ICOM, International Council of Museums, 3, 235, 267, 273 Idia (Iy’Oba of Benin), 225, 231–35, 235–39 Igue (festival Benin), 226

288 illicit trafficking, 2, 4 Iraq, 240–44 Nigeria, 221 imprescriptibility, legal notion of, 167 inalienability Benin bronzes, 223 legal notion of, 14, 165–73 indigeneity, politics of, 176 indigenization of museums, 175–78 indigenous/aboriginal societies, 176 indigenous claims, to land, water, natural resources, 123, 177, 188, 192 indigenous knowledge systems and holders, 119–20, 127, 178 indigenous populations activists/activism, 10, 176–79, 179, 181–84, 187, 273 ancestral remains of, 1, 175, 180 associations representing indigenous populations: !Hurikamma Cultural Movement, 182 economic precariousness of, 188 Griqua people, Griqua National Council, Griqua National Conference, 179, 181–85 Kei !Korana, 175, 181 Khoekhoe, Khoi-San, Khoisan, Khoikhoi, San and Khoekhoe, 89–90, 177–81, 181–86, 188, 273 ≠Khomani San, 90, 177 Nagarrindjeri Nation of Australia, 12 Nama, 181, 185 Nguni, 175 representations in museums, 187, 273 representatives of, 177–80, 181, 186–90 violence perpetrated against, dispossession of, 177, 182–85, 273 indigenous preservation techniques, 224 Ingram, William (Sir), 232 InsightShare, 267 Institute for Scientific Research in Central Africa/Institut pour la Recherche Scientifique en Afrique Centrale in Rwanda, 152, 155 International Association of Art Critics/ Association Internationale des Critiques d’Art, Congress of the, 153–54, 159 International Council of African Museums (AFRICOM), 173, 273 International Council of Museums (ICOM), 3, 235, 273 International Inventories Programme, 278 International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance, 58 Iraq, 17, 244–54, 256–59 Israel, 154 Jesuit religious congregation collection in Leuven, 146 Jesuit provincial council, 152 Jewish museums, 53–56 Jones, Schuyler (director, Pitt Rivers Museum), 124

Index judaica, 47, 53, 56–58, 61 Kanak people (indigenous population, New Caledonia), 169. See also Ataï Kasa-Vubu, Joseph (first president of the Independent Congo Republic), 144, 150 Kinshasa, 139, 149–50, 153–56, 159, 273 Kirchner, Ernst Ludwig (artist), 23 Klimt, Gustav (artist), 23 Kok, Adam, V (Griqua Captain), 184 Kok, Cornelius the II (Griqua Captain), 184, 188, 192 Kuba, Ndôp royal statue, 155, 157 Kwame, Opoku (writer), 72 Lagos, Nigeria, 220–40 Lanz, Otto, 33–34, 36–37 Legacy Restoration Trust, 278 legal decisions, jurisprudence, in an administrative court (Tribunal administratif de Rouen), appellate court (Cour d’appel de Douai), 166–69 legal framework (general laws concerning museum collections, restitution/repatriation) Convention on Cultural Property Implementation Act (1983), 250 Iraqi Cultural Antiquities Act (2004), 251 Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA), 84 UN Resolutions, 3, 153–54, 245, 251 UNESCO 1970 Convention on the Means of Prohibiting and Preventing the Illicit Import, Export and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property, 3, 154, 244–48, 250, 257–60 UNIDROIT 1995 Convention on Stolen or Illegally Exported Cultural Objects, 245 See also bioethics legislation, United Nations legal regime of an item/of protection for human parts, 164–67 Léopoldville, 139–42, 148–49, 156, 158 Lepersonne, Jacques (conservateur, Musée du Congo belge), 142 life casts, 4, 9–12, 81–92 Bushman diorama, 187 casting process and technique(s), 11, 81, 83–85, 88, 91, 97, 101, 187 Lidio Cipriani’s collection of casts, 83, 89 moulds of casts, 10, 88, 90–91 plaster casts, 89, 175, 186–89, 235 Takatahara (life cast/plaster cast of ), 96, 98, 100–3, 105–10 See also deathcast Lifschütz, Alexander, 33 litigation ‘Belgian-Congolese Litigation’/Contentieux belgo-congolais, 143, 152, 158 London, 30, 46, 117, 151, 222–26, 227–36, 238, 256

Index289 loot, 4, 5, 45, 67, 154 definition of, 270–74 Raubkunst (in German), 270–73 looting Benin objects, 16, 221, 223–26, 232, 235, 238 Islamic State (IS), 242 of archeological sites, 242, 245–51, 250, 257 Summer Palace (Beijing), 271 Lost Art Foundation (Germany), 270 Louis XIV (King of France), 204 Lowndes, Steve (curator and director Akaroa Museum), 11, 98, 100. See also Rocard, Michel Lumumba, Patrice-Emery (first Prime Minister of the Independent Congo Republic), 144 M’Bow, Amadou-Mahtar (Director general of UNESCO), 3, 154 Maasai community, 266–67 Macpherson, John (Sir), 227 Macron, Emmanuel (French president), 267, 270, 274, 277 Maesen, Albert (head of the ethnography department in Tervuren), 156 Mahlamäki, Rainer (architect), 45 Mandela, Nelson, 179 Massola, Aldo (curator of Anthropology at the National Museum of Victoria), 118–21, 124, 127 Mayer, Caspar (sculptor), 10, 82–84, 87 Mazzoni, Guido (artist), 86 Mbeki, Thabo (president of South Africa), 273 Merkel, Angela (president of Germany), 247 Meroni, Paolo Giuseppe, 197 Mining Union of Upper-Katanga/Union Minière du Haut-Katanga, 149 Minister/Ministry of Colonies (Belgium), 140–42, 144, 146, 158 Minister/Ministry of Foreign Affairs (Belgium), 149–50, 152, 155–56 Minister/Ministry of the Belgian Congo and Ruanda-Urundi, 144–48 Ministry of National Education and Culture (Belgium), 150–52, 155 Mobutu, Joseph-Désiré (president of the Independent Congo Republic), 148–56, 159 Moor, Ralph (General Consul of the Niger River Protectorate), 223, 226–29, 232 Moorhouse, Matthew (Protector of Aborigines, South Australia), 122, 129 Murray, Kenneth C., 227–37 multidirectional memory, 269–72 museum association(s) German Museums Association, 267 Museums Association (the main British professional association), 180 See South African, Museums Association museum professionals, 2, 10–14, 91, 166–69, 170, 172, 175–80, 180–83, 183, 187, 258, 267, 275–78

museum(s) Adelaide Museum, 122 Akaroa Museum, 11, 96–102, 107, 110–11 American Museum of Natural History, 83, 88, 145–46 Anthropology Museum of Florence, 89 Archaeological Museum, Cairo, 70 Australian Museum (Sydney), 122 Bamberg Museum, 8–9, 55 Bonnefanten Museum (Maastricht), 23, 32, 34 Brighton Museum, 118, 125, 128, 130–31, 133 British Museum (London), 3, 16, 125, 127, 131, 133, 146, 221–24, 227–39, 266, 277 Brooklyn Museum (New York), 86 Capitoline Museum (Rome), 206 Derby Museum, 118 Edo Museum of West African Art, 277 Ethnographic Museum (Berlin), 227 Ethnographic Museum of Scientific Expeditions (Paris), 186 German Historical Museum (Berlin), 91 Great Museum of Africa (plans for), 272, 275 Horniman Museum (London), 268 Humboldt Forum (Berlin), 270–73 Institute of the National Museums of Zaire/ Congo (IMNZ/C), 143, 153, 155, 159, 273 Israel Museum, Jerusalem, 8, 55–57 Iziko Museums of South Africa, 89, 175–79, 183–89 Museum of Decorative arts/Kunstegewerbe Museum (Hamburg), 270 Legion of Honor, Fine Arts Museum of San Francisco, 72 Linden Museum (Stuttgart), 234 Louvre Abu Dhabi, 238 Louvre Museum (Paris), 164, 167–70 Luigi Pigorini National Museum of Prehistory and Ethnography, 118, 146 Metropolitan Museum (New York), 232, 234, 235, 237 Minneapolis Museum, 151 Missiological Museum of the Lateran (Rome), 146 Museo dell’Opera del Duomo (Florence), 86 Museum für Volkenkunde (Leipzig), 146, 277 Museum of Archaeology and Anthropological (Cambridge), 266 Museum of Folk Architecture Sanok, Poland, 52 Museum of Indigenous Life/or of Indigenous Arts and Crafts (Leopoldville), 139–40, 155–56, 158–59 Museum of Mankind/Musée de l’Homme (Paris), 88, 90, 165–68, 168–72, 177–83, 186, 272 Museum of Primitive Art (New York), 16, 233, 235 National Archives and Museum in Benin, 2

290 National Museum of African-American History and Culture (Washington DC) 277 National Museum of Benin City, 227, 235, 237 National Museum of Iraq, Baghdad, 249 National Museum of Lagos, 222, 228–34 National Museum of Natural History (Rouen), 166 National Museum of Natural History/ Muséum national de l’Histoire naturelle (Paris), 164–67, 167–70, 170–73 National Museum of Victoria, 118 National Museums of Kenya, 278 Neues Museum (Berlin), 9, 66–67, 71–72, 222 New York State Museum (NYSM), 10, 83–84 Oxford University Museum of Natural History, 118, 124, 127 Pitt Rivers Museum (Farnham), 234 Pitt Rivers Museum of Anthropology and World Archeology (Oxford), 118, 124, 130, 266 Polin Museum of the History of Polish Jews (Warsaw), 8, 45–47, 50, 52–53, 56, 58, 60 Provisional Museum in Kinshasa (on the occasion of the International Congress of AICA), 153 Quai Branly – Jacques Chirac Museum/ Musée du quai Branly – Jacques Chirac (Paris), 88, 165–66, 166–70 Rietberg Museum (Zurich), 270 Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunde (Leiden), 34, 146 Royal Museum for Central Africa (Tervuren), or Museum of the Belgian Congo, or Tervuren Museum, 139–48, 150–53, 155–59 Royal Museums of Art and History, 145 Seattle Art Museum, 234 South African Museum (Cape Town), 89, 181–85, 186 South African National Gallery (Cape Town), 90, 181, 183 State Museums of Berlin, 70, 72, 271 Te Papa Museum, 276 Tel Aviv Museum of Art, 50 Umberto Nahon museum of Jewish Italian Art, Jerusalem, 54–57 United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, USHMM (Washington), 44 University Museum of Aberdeen, 275 Vatican Museum, 199, 202–5, 207 Welt Museum Wien (formerly Museum for Völkerkunde in Vienna), 276 Namibia, 187 Napoleon, 4, 16, 269, 271 Narkis, Mordecai, 54–56 National Commission of Museums and Monuments of Nigeria, 278

Index National Congolese Mouvement (Mouvement National Congolais) political party, 144 National Monuments Council (South Africa), 181 National Socialism, 23–25, 27, 30–33, 39, 65, 71, 270–73 racial laws, 26 Nazi-looted art, 7, 8, 17, 38, 57–58, 71, 75, 268–69 Nefertiti, 9, 222 Nelles Nikolai, Jan (artist), 9, 65–66 neocolonial, 67 New York, 5, 10, 82, 150–51, 153 art market, 151 New Zealand, 96–98, 102, 105–6, 109–12 requests made by, 166 Ngāi Tahu (principal Māori iwi of the southern region of New Zealand), 11, 97, 101, 108 conflict with Ngāti Toa, 97, 106–8, 110 cooperation with Akaroa Museum, 104–6 Ngarrindjeri (the Ngarrindjeri Nation of South Australia, representatives of ), 12, 117–20, 122–31 Ngarrindjeri Country (Yarluwar-Ruwe), 117–18, 126 Ngarrindjeri Heritage Committee, 125 Ngarrindjeri Lands and Progress Association, 126 Ngarrindjeri Native Title Management Committee, 125 Ngarrindjeri Tendi (traditional governance body), 125. See also Hindmarsh Island Bridge Royal Commission Ngāti Toa and Te Pēhi Kupe, 97, 108, 114n16 and Te Rauparaha, 97, 106–7 See also Ngāi Tahu Niger Coast Protectorate, 222, 224 Nigeria heritage, 221, 227–31, 234–38 No-Humboldt group (Germany), 276 Nok sculpture, 273 norms and policies (cultural property) Guidance for the Care of Human Remains, 127 literature on, 5 relevance for curatorial work, 5, 165–66 See also legal framework, human remains/ ancestral remains, policies regarding the management/curatorship/treatment of human remains N’Sele (municipality in Kinshasa city-province), 153 Oldman, William W., 230 Omo Osagie (Chief Benin City), 234 Ōnawe Peninsula massacre on, 104, 106–7 museum model of, 100–1, 104 pā on, 97, 100–1, 104, 106–8 Ormsby-Gore, William, 228

Index291 Ovonramwen N’Ogbaisi (Oba of Benin), 222, 225–29, 232 Owoo, Nii Kwate (film maker), 2 Ozolua (Oba of Benin), 233, 237 Palmyra, 253 Papua New Guinea Island of Luf, 270 Pardington, Fiona (artist), 92 Paris, 169, 178, 276 Anthropological Society of Paris/Société d’Anthropologie de Paris, 169 Parisian museums, 165–70, 177–82, 186, 272, 276 See also art market, Paris Parker, Arthur C. (anthropologist), 10, 82–85, 89 Peirce, Charles Sanders (scientist and philosopher), 86 Pendje, Demodetdo Yako (Deputy Permanent Delegate of Zaire to UNESCO), 153–54 phrenology, 9, 11, 92, 96–97, 101, 108 pillage, 223 Plankensteiner, Barbara, 276 plunder, 4, 44, 185, 268 Point McLeay mission (now Raukkan, Australia), 120, 124 Polybius, 4 Posse, Hans, 33 post-restitution the post-restitution fate of collections/ specimens, 179, 272 postcolonial artworks, 65–68 discourse, 5, 65, 72 studies/theory, 5, 275 Protector of Aborigines, the office of. See Matthew Moorhouse provenance, 9, 17, 35, 126, 145, 147, 170, 205, 243, 268, 270–74, 278 critical legal provenance research, 275 research projects, 2, 5, 178, 183–87, 266–69, 269–72, 274–77 Prussian Cultural Heritage Foundation (Stiftung Preußischer Kulturschutz), 74 public domain of the state, 152, 167 public force (military force in Colonial Congo), 150 Publica utilitas, 205 Quatremère de Quincy, Antoine-Chrysostome, 16 racial sciences, 10, 11. See also anthropology, racial anthropologists, anthropometric scientists Rawson, Harry H. (Rear-Admiral), 232–35 re-enactment, 50–52 Read, Charles, 232 reburial/burial of human remains, 14, 128, 176–79, 182, 185, 273

reconstruction of historic buildings, 48–52 religious congregations collections of/taken by, 145–46 reliquary, 87 reparation, 17, 160, 182, 230 repatriation cases (see Ataï, Baartman, Sarah, Kok, Cornelius, Toi moko) ceremonies of, 126, 184, 226-227 claims, requests, lobby, 6, 124–25, 118, 124–25, 128, 131, 164–71, 171–74, 177, 180, 184, 268, 273 current discussions/opinions/debates about, 2, 82, 90, 125, 159, 164, 170–74, 179, 183, 188, 267, 274 definition(s) of, literature on, 1–2, 4, 14, 170 Iraq, 17, 242–59 Iraqi cultural property, 247–50 practice, cases, laws/policies aimed at, 3, 9, 11–15, 84, 90, 98, 109–10, 123–27, 129–30, 155, 165, 165, 168–74, 183, 249, 264, 267, 273 Syrian antiquities, 242–61 See also legal framework (restitution/ repatriation) replica Benin bronzes, 221 Gwoździec synagoge, 8, 44–62 ivory mask (Benin), 232, 237 New Globe theatre, 47, 50–51 throne stool (Benin), 227 resilience, 16, 235 restitution of African collections/works of art, 3, 154, 156, 274–77 definition(s) of, literature on, 1–2, 4–5, 7, 47, 270, 275, 277 pro-restitution activism(ts), 14, 176, 270 processes, policies, 1–4, 7, 10–12, 15, 17, 148, 153–54, 175–79, 183–86, 267–72, 274, 276–80 requests, demands, initiatives, 3–4, 6, 9, 144, 150, 153–54, 158–59, 166–70, 268, 277–80 right to, 154, 160 tropes of discourse, debates on, 3, 8, 16, 156, 158–59, 177, 181, 267, 269, 275–79 See also legal framework (restitution/ repatriation) restoration of historic buildings, 51 return definition(s) of, debate(s) on, 1–2, 7–8, 11, 16, 158, 178, 180, 182, 271, 277 international practices and statements, 3–4, 17, 154, 159, 246–50, 273–76, 277–80 Loca Sacra, 198 processes, practices and specific cases, 1–2, 5–9, 11–12, 15–17, 84, 90, 98, 108, 117–18, 124–27, 129–31, 139, 154–55,

292 158–59, 165–68, 170, 176, 178–84, 184–90, 268–71, 272–76, 278 sarcophagi, 198–200, 205–7 Reuther, Silke, 270 Rhodes Must Fall movement (Oxford), 275 Rocard, Michel (French prime minister), 98, 108 and sinking of the Rainbow Warrior, 98 Rockefeller, Nelson, 16, 233–36 Rome, 15, 17, 27, 197–207 Rothberg, Michael, 270, 271 Rothschild, Louis von (Collector), 27–31, 34, 38 Rouen (France), Rouen Local Council, 166. See also National Museum of Natural History (Rouen) and Legal decisions, jurisprudence, administrative and appellate courts Round tables Belgium – Congo (Economic and Political), 143–44, 147–48 Royal Anthropological Society (London), 233 Ruysdael, Salomon (artist), 35–36 Ryckmans, Pierre (Governor General, Belgian Congo), 13, 142–44, 158 Sarr, Felwine, 167, 267, 274, 277 satellite photographs, 243 Savoy, Bénédicte, 16, 167, 268–69, 274 Schlosser, Julius von (art historian), 85 Schouteden, Henri (former director of the Tervuren Museum), 141 segregation, 25–26, 38 Seligman, Charles Gabriel, 232–34 Sevso Treasure, 246 Shell Oil Company, 220, 231 Simon, James (collector), 9, 65, 68–69 James Simon Gallery, 9, 65, 72 Sixtus IV (pope), 206 Smith, Dan (curator Akaroa Museum), 97–98, 104–5, 113n7 South Africa, 10, 14–15, 165, 175, 177, 179–84, 184, 187–90, 273 South Africa(n) authorities/state, 15, 165, 177, 179, 181 museum curators, 15, 176, 187 Museums Association (SAMA), 15, 176–79, 179–83, 184 requests of repatriation to South Africa, 165, 171 South African museums, 89, 177, 180, 183–86, 188, 274 See also Baartman, Sarah and Museums/Iziko Museums of South Africa, South African Museum (Cape Town), South African National Gallery (Cape Town) Southern Africa, 14, 175, 177, 186 Spaak, Paul-Henri (Minister of Foreign Affairs, Belgium), 149 Special Commission Linz (Sonderauftrag Linz), 33–36 specimens

Index museum specimens, 2, 9–10, 13–14, 89, 124, 127, 139, 142, 179, 185 spolia, 206 spoliation, 7, 9, 16 Napoleonic spoliations, 269 Stella, Frank (artist), 59 Stewart, John (captain of British brig Elizabeth), 107 Stynder, Deano (physical anthropologist), 185 Sumner, Major and Loretta (cultural elders of the Ngarrindjeri Nation of South Australia), 117, 126 symmetrical history, 267 synagogue(s) Conegliano Veneto, 51–56 Eastern European, 45, 47, 48 Zabłudów synagogue, 47–48, 61, 63 Syria, 17, 242–60 Takatahara biographical sketch, 11, 96–97, 108 campaign against Ngāti Toa, 107–8 See also life cast (plaster cast) of Takatahara tax, 242 Tilkens, Auguste-Constantin (Governor General), 145 Tisa-Francini, Esther, 270 Tobias, Philip (palaeoanthropologist), 179, 184 transitional justice, 272 translocation, 268 Tshiluila, Josette Shaje (anthropologist, museum executive), 155, 273 Tshombé, Moïse (Congolese businessman and politician), 149 Tuggar, Yusuf Maitama (Nigerian ambassador in Germany), 277 UNESCO, 3–4, 153–54, 159, 254–57, 275. See also M’Bow, Amadou-Mahtar UNESCO 1970 Convention (Convention on the Means of Prohibiting and Preventing the Illicit Import, Export and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property). See Legal framework (restitution/repatriation) United Nations, 153, 159–60, 179 declaration of 1943, 4 General Assembly, 3, 150, 153–54 Intergovernmental Committee for Promoting the Return of Cultural Property to its Countries of Origin or its Restitution in case of Illicit Appropriation, 3 Resolution on the Return or Restitution of Cultural Property to its Countries of Origin and other UN resolutions, 3, 153–54, 245, 251 United States, 10, 17, 82–83, 89, 146, 153–54, 175, 180, 187 exhibition travelling in the, 151, 155 University of Cape Town, 181, 185 University of the Western Cape, 176, 181

Index293 University of the Witwatersrand, 176, 179, 181, 184, 188 Upham, Mansel Upham (lawyer and diplomat), 179 Urban VIII (pope), 199, 207 Van Geluwe, Huguette (Museum curator, Tervuren), 156 Vandestraete, Jef, private collection of, 154 Verbin, Moshe, 59 Vienna Congress, 4 Walker Art Center, exhibition in 1967 at the, 155

Walker, Mark, 227 Wallace, Lynda (director Akaroa Museum), 105, 111, 112n4 Warburg, Aby (art historian), 85 Washington Conference of Holocaust Era Assets, 47, 56–57, 61 Washington Principles on Nazi-Confiscated Art, 3, 58, 270 White, Katherine C. (collector and donor), 234 Wilhelm II (German emperor), 70 Zaire. See Congo, Democratic Republic of Congo/Zaire Zajczyk, Szymon, 49