The one thing everybody tells you about the world’s great museums is “don’t try to do it all in one day”. I worked at the Smithsonian for six years and still only saw a fraction of what they had and understood less. So here I was in London with a whole day to spend at the British Museum, desperately trying to heed the advice. I had been here five years ago, with an hour before a mad dash to the airport. Back then, I made a beeline to the Rosetta Stone and feasted my eyes until my wife dragged me to a cab.
This time would be different—a whole day to spend and a million (minus one) things to see. I was going to see stuff, learn stuff until I bled from the ears. All I needed was a plan, the plan I had needed since this trip was conceived.
We walked through the front doors and into the courtyard. The new roof connecting several buildings made this the largest enclosed space in Europe and I was going to need every inch of it. Pat and Ariel found seats at a table by the food court and planned to sally forth to various rooms as the spirit moved them. Me, I was going to keep moving till I dropped or my brain went into overload. Whichever came first. As I stood admiring the three story tall Haida and Tinglit totem poles by the lunch counter, right next to the first century Roman equestrian statue, a plan finally formed. I would ask a guard what to see. After all, who better knew the ins and outs, the wheat from the chaff than someone who spent their working life amid the treasures of a thousand empires representing two million years of human history? Whatever else you may say about the Brits, they are a nation of collectors. It seemed that everyone with enough where-with-all to go abroad spent their time looting antiquities. On return, they handed it over to the British Museum.
“Excuse me, I was here several years ago and only had time to see the Rosetta Stone. Could you recommend three or four items on your favorites list?” I had the spiel down pat and asked several guards. I figured I would take the high scores and hit those. Surprisingly, they all had the same response: the Parthenon Sculptures, the Lion Gate of Ashurnasirpal II, the Mummy Room. One guard added the Enlightenment Room, and another said not to miss the Portland Vase. “When I retire, I’m taking it with me.” That was good enough for me and off I went.
I wandered into the Enlightenment Room for starters and was completely bowled over the sheer amount of stuff on display. Grecian urns floor to ceiling, a statue of Bast, the Egyptian cat goddess tucked away in the corner. Tahitian war clubs and Australian boomerangs collected by Captain Cook, even a piece of bark cloth made by Fletcher Christians (of Mutiny on the Bounty fame) Polynesian wife. Books everywhere. A copy of the Rosetta Stone with the sign “Please touch” and the legend on the side “Captured in Egypt by the British Army, 1801” which justified its being in London…”we nicked it off them what nicked it off the Egyptians.”
A few steps away Ancient Greece began in earnest. The stacks of Greek vases in the Enlightenment Room were a mere appetizer compared to the riches offered in the Greek wing. A marble wine mixing bowl big enough to bathe in with exquisitely carved swans whose intertwining necks formed the handles.
An entire transplanted temple, and pride of place, the Parthenon Sculptures. They used to be known as the Elgin Marbles but political correctness dictated the name change. Lord Elgin was the Royal representative to Greece back in Georgian days. He bought the entire north frieze of the Parthenon from a Turkish dealer who apparently had stolen them outright. A bone of contention between Britain and Greece ever since, it appears that it will never be resolved. I for one am glad of the theft, since they are at eye level and although somewhat fragmentary, take your breath away.
Walking out of the gallery, took me through the next check on the list, the Gate of Ashurnasirpal II. Ten foot tall lions with human heads, made from stone they loomed over us mere mortals, looking ready to bring back the glory of the Assyrians. The statues have five legs, and depending on how you view them, are either striding into eternity or ready to pounce on the emperor’s enemies. Blocks of cuneiform writing listing the triumphs and battles of Ashurnasirpal II stand beneath the legs. I couldn’t help but think of the Shelly poem Ozymandias, “look upon my works ye mighty and despair”. Look upon my works ye mighty and find the men’s room.
A brief stop to check with the wife in the snack bar with a spin through the Aztec, Maya, and Toltec gallery (I told you they have everything from everywhere) to see the Aztec lightning god and a modern Mexican paper mache sculpture of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse hanging from the ceiling, and it was off to Ancient Egypt and the Mummy Room.
I’m amazed there is anything left anywhere in Egypt. Mummies, sarcophagi, mummy cases, canoptic jars for storing various internal organs, grave goods, the Sphinx’s beard, more mummies, human, falcon and cat—a cultural avalanche of all things Egyptian. Tucked into corners, almost as after thoughts, were everyday items used by real people and placed in the tombs for use in the afterlife. Combs, copper mirrors, even a pair of dice if the afterlife got boring. By the time I stumbled out, my head was spinning.
I don’t know if there is any rhyme or reason to the floor plans, but it seemed the Egyptian stuff lead directly to the Roman stuff. Case after case of it. If the Brits got it, they want you to see it. Dozens of marble busts of various emperors and their ladies, the men all looking stern and politic, the women all with the same half smile. Weapons, arrowheads, and a Centurion’s armor, complete with brass buckles. I bet if he knew where it was going to end up, he would have used more polish. I walked right past the Portland Vase on my first pass and had to backtrack to find it. About the size of a gallon milk jug, deep cobalt blue and two thousand years old, it was made by blowing a blue glass bubble and dipping it into molten white glass to cover. A master gem cutter spent the better part of a year cutting off the white to show a story of a seaside wedding. You can almost see the movement, feel the joy.
They were right; you can’t do it all in a day. You can’t even do some of it in a day. You could spend years and still not absorb it all. I’m sure there are wandering tribes of feral scholars, looting the vending machines in the basement for food and feasting their souls the rest of the time.
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