Journal articles on the topic 'International Exhibition (1862 : London)'

The evidence is here reviewed from which to conclude that a chair now at Kelmscott Manor was designed by Philip Webb and exhibited in the Mediaeval Court at the 1862 International Exhibition in London, despite the fact that it has nothing stylistically medieval about it. Analysis of the design does, however, suggest the assimilation of older Egyptian and Japanese ideas and thus that the chair in 1862 was considered derivative.

Abstract In 1862, the collector Pavel Tretyakov made his second visit to Britain, and lent three paintings to the International Exhibition held in London that year. Then aged just thirty, he had bought his first Russian paintings just six years previously, yet his collection was already of sufficient calibre for the Imperial Academy of Arts in St. Petersburg to desire works from it for the Russian submission to the London event. Moreover, the genre paintings which Tretyakov lent added spice to what was otherwise a rather routine academic display. In this respect, Tretyakov’s contribution to the 1862 exhibition could be seen to foretell his later patronage of the Peredvizhniki, who similarly unsettled the academic status quo. Yet one small but telling fact disrupts this narrative of a collector who championed the innovative and the marginalized. Tretyakov had in fact suggested lending to the exhibition paintings by Vladimir Borovikovsky, Fedor Bruni, Karl Briullov and Vasily Khudiakov, all of whom were established members of the academic firmament. But his proposal was overruled and replaced by the alternative selection of genre paintings put forward by Fedor Iordan, a stalwart of the Academy. Far from confirming an image of Tretyakov as a nonconformist whose pioneering vision shook up the practices of the establishment, the case of the 1862 exhibition thus sees the binary which has often been drawn between this ground-breaking collector and the hidebound conservatism of the Academy significantly reversed.

In this article, I examine in unprecedented detail little-known Victorian craftsman William Coombe Sanders’ remarkable sheepskin Frame Resembling Carved Wood with Lobster and Crab Motif, now at the V&A, but first exhibited at the International Exhibition in London in 1862. The article asks three questions: What might we learn, from Sanders’ craft, about the likely mid-Victorian reception of Gibbons’s closely related marine works? How might we better understand Sanders’ and Gibbons’s work in the context not just of Victorian craft and design, but natural history and early twenty-first-century critical animal studies and vegan theory? And what might Sanders’ Gibbons-like relief teach us about the status of animals and humans in the longer history of still life as a genre?

The second half of the nineteenth century was a period of rapid change in the natural sciences in Britain, reflecting changes in social conditions and improvements in education. A growing number of naturalists were becoming socially conscious and aware of the need for a proper study of the sea and its products, following the success of the ‘Challenger’ Expedition of 1872–6. In 1866 the Royal Commission on the Sea Fisheries, which included among its officers Professor T. H. Huxley, one of the new breed of professional scientists, had reported that fears of over-exploitation of the sea-fisheries were unfounded, and had recommended doing away with existing laws regulating fishing grounds and closed seasons. Nevertheless, the rising trade in fresh fish carried to towns by rail or by fast boats (fleeting), and the consequent increase in size and number of registered fishing vessels, was causing widespread concern, and there were reports from all round the coasts about the scarcity of particular fish, especially soles. This concern was expressed at the International Fisheries Exhibition in London in 1883, a conference called to discuss the commercial and scientific aspects of the fishing industry, attended by many active and first-rank scientists. However, in his opening address Professor Huxley discounted reports of scarcity of fish, and repeated the views of the Royal Commission of 1866: that, with existing methods of fishing, it was inconceivable that the great sea fisheries, such as those for cod, herring and mackerel, could ever be exhausted.

Josiah D. Whitney and William P. Blake shared common social and educational backgrounds and pursued similar professional career paths at a time when employment in geology was undependable. Their professional paths crossed numerous times over the course of five decades in what initially was an amicable professional relationship that evolved by 1860 into competition for state geologist and director of the first California Geological Survey, and California commissioner for the London International Exhibition. Beyond simple competition, Whitney and Blake disagreed over important mainstream geological and ethnological issues germane to California during the latter half of the nineteenth century. The primary issues evolved around the potential economic value of oil and the Bodie Mining District, earthquakes and seismic risk, origin of the Yosemite Valley, the significance of the Calaveras Skull and the antiquity of man, the age of the gold-bearing rocks of California, and formation of the College of California. Both men were influential, however, Blake's contributions to the early geologic understanding of California were more optimistic and compatible with California's needs, while correctly forecasting the state's potential growth and providing insight into the geology and mineral and agricultural resources of the region. Despite Whitney's contributions while serving as director, his personal disposition and pessimistic views sealed the fate of the first geological survey of California.

As exposições universais durante o século XIX eram denominadas “festas do progresso”, vitrines para apresentar o melhor de cada país. Essa busca por uma representação civilizada poderia ocorrer de várias formas quando se tratava dos países das américas do sul e central, no caso brasileiro o relatório da Exposição Universal de Londres (1862), escrito por Francisco Inácio de Carvalho Moreira, demonstra uma escolha por ressaltar a diversidade dos produtos provinciais. Indo ao encontro dessa exposição da diversidade, este artigo busca entender as formas regionais de representação das províncias do Pará e do Amazonas, cujos produtos eram notadamente objetos naturais, advindos do extrativismo, pela comissão brasileira; partindo de uma discussão sobre civilização e natureza na região da Amazônia.Palavras-chave: Região; Exposição; Amazônia; Londres; Natureza; Civilização. AbstractThe universal exhibitions during the nineteenth century were called "festivals of progress", showcases to present the best of each country. This search for a civilized representation could occur in many ways when it came to the countries of the South and Central America, in the Brazilian case the report of the Universal Exhibition of London (1862), written by Francisco Inácio de Carvalho Moreira, shows a choice to emphasize the diversity of provincial products. Going to this exhibition of diversity, the aim is to understand the representation regional forms of Pará and Amazonas provinces, whose products were notably natural objects, derived from extractivism by the Brazilian commission; starting from a discussion about civilization and nature in the Amazon region.Keywords: Region; Exhibition; Amazon; London; Nature; Civilization. ResumenLas exposiciones universales durante el siglo XIX eran llamadas “fiestas de progreso”, escaparates para presentar lo mejor de cada país. Esa búsqueda por una representación civilizada ocurrió de varias formas cuando se trataba de los países de América del Sur y Central. En el caso de Brasil el informe de la Exposición Universal de Londres (1862) escrito por Francisco Inácio de Carvalho Moreira, demuestra una acción por resaltar la diversidad de productos provinciales. Yendo al encuentro de esa exposición de la diversidad, este artículo busca entender las formas regionales de representación de las provincias de los Estados del Pará e del Amazonas escogidas por la comisión brasileña, cuyos productos seleccionados eran mayoritariamente naturales, producidos por la actividad extractiva; iniciando una discusión sobre civilización y naturaleza en la región de la Amazonia.Palabras clave: Región; Exposición Universal; Amazonia; Londres; Naturaleza; Civilización.

The Society was said ‘to poke its nose into everything’ and this can be seen from the awards it made across a wide spectrum of activities, including the discovery of cobalt in the United Kingdom, mapping of English counties, improved methods of extracting the ore, assaying, reclaiming land, mining equipment, improving crucibles and portable furnaces. The Society also laid the groundwork for the Great Exhibition of 1851 and organized the second exhibition at South Kensington in 1862. From the mid-nineteenth century the Society's lecture program represented the wide range of its activities, including mineralogy and geology. This paper provides a brief overview on the work of the Society, its influence worldwide, and also highlights some individuals with a particular interest in mineralogy and geology, connected with the Society, including one of the founding members of the Geological Society of London, Arthur Aikin.

The International Exhibition of Chinese Art that took place in London’s Burlington House from November 1935 to March 1936 is recognised as the major exhibition of ancient and classical Chinese art of the twentieth century. Over two hundred collectors and institutions from 14 countries provided their objects of art to the exhibition. None of the previous exhibitions had had as many items: the number of objects was extraordinary with 3,080 entries in the catalogue of the London exhibition. Moreover, it was the first foreign exhibition presenting items from the former imperial collection of the Forbidden City (Gugun Museum since 1925). In addition to numerous porcelain and bronze items from private and museum collections, the exhibition contained about 300 paintings (monumental painting, scrolls, album sheets, and fans). While it is generally believed that western collectors only started being seriously interested in painting after World War II, the exhibition contained over a hundred paintings of non-Chinese provenance. Due to its scale, the International Exhibition of Chinese Art of 1935 could be considered a representative example of trends in the Chinese art collecting of the 1930s. For this reason, a close analysis of the catalogue may help enrich our idea of the formation of collections of Chinese art, the formation of taste, and its evolution over time. Data related to the paintings from the catalogue are analysed and then compared to the current descriptions from museum databases and catalogues.

The exhibition of decorative and industrial arts that was held in Jaipur in 1883 under the patronage of Maharaja Sawai Madho Singh II (1880–1922) brought together the work of artists and craftsmen from many regions of India, but gave special treatment to the neighbouring states of Rajasthan, and to the pupils of Jaipur's own recently established School of Art. It led to the establishment of a permanent museum of industrial arts in Jaipur, which still exists and continues to hold many of the original exhibits. One of many ambitious exhibitions that followed in the wake of the Great Exhibition of 1851, the Jaipur Exhibition was the first such to be held in an Indian state, coinciding with the International Exhibition in Calcutta and preceding the Indian and Colonial Exhibition in London of 1886.

A report on elements of the Chartered Institute of Personnel and Development Annual Conference and Exhibition, 9–11 November 2009 in Manchester, and Going Global: The Association for Coaching International Conference, 11–12 March 2010, in London.

The article analyzes the experience of an original exhibition experiment – the reconstruction of XVII th century buildings at the sites of international exhibitions of the 1880s in London. The circumstances of the origin of the idea and implementation in South Kensington «Streets of Old London» are considered. It was an eclectic set of buildings that really existed in the British capital before the 1666 Great Fire and reproduced in almost original form in 1884. Based on exhibition documents, press publications and photographs, a description is given to the appearance of the «street» and its place within the expositions. Based on photographs and printed sources, a description of the buildings themselves is given: typical urban residential buildings, shops, churches, etc. It is concluded that this example illustrates the educational function of the thematic exhibitions in London, their close interweaving with the problems of the city's architecture, as well as the temporality and transiency of such structures. The last is a characteristic feature of the exhibition space.

Raumkunst by Teodor Axentowicz
 Three exhibition arrangements analysed in the article – the halls of Polish artists on the exhibitions in St. Louis (1904), London (1906) and XI International Biennial of Art in Venice (1914) – allow us to consider Teodor Axentowicz as a precursor of the new form of organisation of the exhibition space within the Polish culture. This form was a pattern for the subsequent architects of exhibitions belonging to the Society of Polish Artists “Art”. Projects of Axentowicz perfectly fitted to the modern style of exhibition interior arrangement, which was promoted by the Viennese environment of “Secession” at the turn of the 20th century.

No event of the post-Second World War decade in Britain is recalled as affectionately or enveloped in such an aura of nostalgia as the Festival of Britain, a five-month series of cultural events and exhibits, with its centerpiece at the South Bank in London. But the Festival dear to the recollections of those growing up during and after the war diverged sharply from the original conception of its progenitors.In 1943 the Royal Society of the Arts, partly responsible for the Great Exhibition of 1851, suggested to the government that an international exhibition along similar lines be staged in 1951 to commemorate the earlier event. To propose a celebratory occasion in 1943 was an act of faith that the war would not only end successfully, but that Britain would have recovered sufficiently by 1951 to warrant such a demonstration. In September 1945, with the war over and Labour in power, Gerald Barry, the editor of the News Chronicle, addressed an open letter to Stafford Cripps, then President of the Board of Trade, advocating a trade and cultural exhibition in London as a way of commemorating the centenary of the Crystal Palace. Such an exhibition would advertise British products and display British prowess in design and craftsmanship. He favored a site in the center of London, such as Hyde Park or Battersea, either of which would provide ample space for such an exhibition. What prompted these suggestions was the need to provide practical help to British commerce at a time when it was clearly under pressure shifting from wartime controls to peacetime competition.

MICROSCIENCE 2010 was held at the ExCeL International Exhibition and Conference Centre, London, from June 29 to July 1. The conference attracted 519 delegates—the first time that the 500-barrier has been broken. Overall, 2139 visitors from 30 countries from across 5 continents passed through the doors during the three days.

What led to the establishment of a new library space in London specializing in international contemporary drawing? Beyond providing access to collections, how will this research hub support artists practice and scholarship, and encourage deeper engagement from exhibition audiences? This article looks at the development of Outset Study's collections, audiences and events programme, and reflects on successes and challenges faced in the first year.

Angel Cabrera Latorre (1879–1960) was the authority on mammalian studies in Spain during the early twentieth century. Even though his first professional progress at the Museo Nacional de Ciencias Naturales in Madrid were driven by the former naturalists of Comisión Científica al Pacífico (1862–1866), nevertheless Oldfield Thomas (1858–1929) acted as his mentor. Cabrera's mastery was learned at the British Museum (Natural History) in London where he spent a month during 1910. After returning to Madrid, Cabrera introduced in a short time several modifications in the vertebrate collections, museum's display and nomenclature, and in 1914 contributed the volume about mammals to Fauna Ibérica. Cabrera's Mamiferos remains a landmark in Iberian faunal studies.

Kader Attia lives and works in Berlin and Algiers. His first solo exhibition was held in 1996 in the Democratic Republic of Congo. In 2003, he gained international recognition at the 50th Venice Biennale. In 2014, he was awarded the Berlin Art Prize: Jubilee Foundation 1848/1948. Recent exhibitions include Culture, Another Nature Repaired (solo show), Middelheim Museum, Antwerp; Contre Nature (solo show), Beirut Art Center; Continuum of Repair: The Light of Jacob’s Ladder (solo show), Whitechapel Gallery, London; Repair. 5 Acts (solo show), KW Institute for Contemporary Art, Berlin; Construire, Déconstruire, Reconstruire: Le Corps Utopique (solo show), Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris; the Biennale of Dakar; dOCUMENTA(13) in Kassel; Performing Histories (1) at MoMA, New York; and Contested Terrains, Tate Modern, London.

In May 1969, Charles Harrison reviewed Morris Louis’ exhibition at the Waddington Galleries in London. Months later, he helped to install the exhibition When Attitudes Become Form at the Institute of Contemporary Arts. Harrison also wrote the catalogue text, published in Studio International. Those two texts marked a significant point in Harrison’s career. They were indicative of his disillusionment with modernist criticism, and of his burgeoning interest in the work of post-minimal and conceptual art. In this respect, the two essays mark a transition from modernism to post-modernism in the space between a formalist analysis of the art object and a more dispersed field of artistic practice, where a changed relationship between art practice, criticism, and curating was taking place. However, in the 2000s, Harrison came to reflect upon this cardinal moment. Harrison referred to his recollected experiences of the late 1960s as a ‘cherished moment of involuntary realism’, opening up issues around art writing which remain pertinent to the practice of art history.

The aim of the article is to present Regina Wasiak-Taylor – a person of many talents, as a journalist, an efficient animator of the cultural life of the Polish diaspora in Great Britain, a president of the Union of Polish Writers Abroad [hereinafter: ZPPnO – Związek Pisarzy Polskich na Obczyźnie]. The following methods have been used: qualitative analysis of the press content, critical analysis of documents, heuristic analysis, interviews. We get to know Mrs Wasiak-Taylor’s scope of activity: involvement in the organisational life of the ZPPnO, in the Pamiętnik Literacki [Literary Memoir] edited in London, practicing socio-cultural journalism and literary criticism, writing scientific articles, popularisation of the emigration’s literary life and Polish ballet, organizing, among others, multimedia theatre and stage programmes – Poetic Scene [Scena Poetycka] at the Polish Social and Cultural Association [POSK – Polski Ośrodek Społeczno-Kulturalny] in London. Also: initiation of the Literary Parlour within the Polish Watchfire at the Exhibition Road, addressed to the Polish and international intelligentsia in London, active participation in international scientific conferences. Regina Wasiak-Taylor conducts editorial work on books. She is the author of readings, laudations, and her own publications: Dzieje Nagrody Literackiej ZPPnO 1951–2011 [The History of the Literary Award of the ZPPnO 1951–2011] (London 2011), Ojczyzna literatura [Literature Fatherland] (London 2013), Alfabet wspomnień Szymona Zaremby. II Rzeczpospolita, II wojna światowa, emigracja [Szymon Zaremba’s Alphabet of Memories, Second Polish Republic, World War II, emigration] (London 2015). She initiates and promotes books by Polish authors and moderates other meetings of literary and scientific circles at the Polish Embassy in London, at the International Book Fair in Warsaw and at literary events in various places.

AbstractHistorians have given much attention to museums and exhibitions as sites for the production and communication of knowledge in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. But few studies have analysed how the activity and participation of visitors was designed and promoted at such locations. Using Francis Galton's Anthropometric Laboratory at the International Health Exhibition in London 1884 as the empirical focal point, this paper explores a new mode of involving exhibition audiences in the late nineteenth century. Its particular form of address is characterized by an ambition to transform the visitors' self-understanding by engaging them with various techniques of scientific observation and representation of social issues. By analysing the didactics of this particular project, I argue that the observational ideal of ‘mechanical objectivity’ and associated modes of representation in this instance became an integrated part of a political vision of self-observation and self-reformation. Thus the exhibit and related projects by Galton not only underpinned a theoretical lesson, but also were part of an effort to extend a complex set of practices among the general public.

Garden Palace stripped to the bone. Art as anamnesisLondon’s Crystal Palace, the site of the first international exhibition in 1851 and the architectural symbol of modernity, was widely imitated not only in Europe. Sydney also had its crystal palace. The Australian Garden Palace, similarly to the ones in London, New York and Munich, burnt to the ground in 1882. In 2016 aboriginal artist Jonathan Jones tried to restore it in Australia’s collective memory. However, Jones’ project, barrangal dyara skin and bones, introduces a postcolonial perspective and recoveres the narratives that were repressed in White Australia, with the hope of working through the common past.

Between the years of 1811 and 1861, Andrew Reed (1787–1862 served in the East End of London as minister of New Road Independent Chapel, Stepney, which was rebuilt on a nearby site in 1829 and renamed Wycliffe Chapel. There were only sixty members of the church on Reed’s arrival, but the congregation grew during his ministry to regularly number two thousand in the 1840s and 1850s. Alongside his preaching and pastoral work, Reed conducted an extensive ministry at an exacting pace, becoming involved in a range of philanthropic projects, as well as organizations for evangelism and overseas mission, a number of which he founded. He also contributed to the development of Congregationalism as an English denomination, and was engaged in moves for general union amongst Evangelicals. In addition to his wide-ranging work in Britain, Reed maintained an extensive international network of relationships through organizational activities, regular correspondence and personal visits. His work offers insights into how broader trends and patterns were played out at an individual and local level. Although his ecclesiology was rooted in English Independency, Reed was no isolationist. Indeed the extent of his international involvement takes this study well beyond the particular, to demonstrate the wider significance of both personal and institutional religious networks in the first half of the nineteenth century. His work also shows how sustainable structures could be created from dynamic personal networks, but that such a process was often fraught with difficulties. The following discussion will concentrate upon four broad areas of Reed’s international relationships.

Through a close reading of the curatorial project Long March: A Walking Visual Display (), this article considers that Long March was an experimental curatorial response to the conditions of contemporary Chinese art and contributes to introducing the discourse and practice of ‘curating’ to China. Tracing the main curator Lu Jie’s curatorial motivation, this research looks into what Lu has termed ‘the dilemma of contemporary Chinese art’ during the 1990s – the division of discourses from realities and artistic practices in the curating of contemporary Chinese art, which led to invalid transcultural communication in international exhibitions. This research paid special attention to Lu’s study in the ‘Creative Curating’ MA programme at Goldsmiths, University of London (1998–99), which encouraged Lu to experiment with alternative exhibition formats and review art in visual culture. These inspired Lu to relocate ‘contemporary Chinese art’ from the institutional context to its original realities in China along the historical route of the Long March. Analysing the development of Lu’s curatorial proposal Long March: A Walking Exhibition from 1999 to 2001, this research shows how the main elements of Lu’s curating shifted from objects to participants and argues the project’s curatorial intention to provoke participants was a process of localizing ‘curating’ in the Chinese context. Instead of assuming that ‘curating’ was imported into China from the West, this article views the introduction of ‘curating’ as a new discipline which helps local practitioners identify the artistic values and authorship in making art public.

Leaving to one side the sui generis Royal African Society, which in 2000 marked its centenary with a special history (Rimmer and Kirk-Greene, 2000), the formalised study of Africa in British academia may be said to be approaching its 80th year. For it was in 1926 that the International African Institute, originally the Institute of African Languages and Cultures, was founded in London, followed two years later by the maiden issue of its journal for practising Africanists, Africa, still among the flagship journals in the African field. Indeed, the 1920s were alive with new institutions promoting an interest in African affairs, whether it be the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine (1924); the Phelps-Stokes Commission reports on education in British Africa (1920-24), culminating in the Colonial Office Memorandum on Education Policy (1925); the major contribution to public awareness made by the Empire Exhibition at Wembley, however politically incorrect some of its idiom seems today; or the attention generated by the League of Nations’ Mandates Commission, the bulk of whose remit was focused on Africa and whose British representative was no less than Lord Lugard, the biggest “Africanist” of his day.

This article asks what is the significance of making the soldiering body (hyper)visible in war. In contrast to the techno-fetishistic portrayals of Western warfare in the 1990s, the recent counterinsurgency campaign in Afghanistan witnessed a re-centring of British soldiering bodies within the visual grammars of war. In the visibility of this body, violences once obscured were rendered viscerally visible on the bodies of British soldiers. Locating the analysis in the War Story exhibition at the Imperial War Museum, London, the article details two moments of wartime violence experienced and enacted by British soldiers, tracking how violence was mediated in, on and through these hypervisible soldiering bodies and the attending invisibility of ‘other’ bodies. The article argues that during the Afghanistan campaign, soldiers’ bodies became not just enactors of military power but crucial representational figures in the continuance of violent projects abroad and their acceptance back home.

EXPO, which is used as the abbreviation of the word 'exposition', which means 'World Exhibition' or 'World's Fair' in English; It is a global event that has been organized around the world since the 19th century and aims to promote the city and country in which it is held in the national and international arena, raise awareness, educate the public, share innovations, produce, support development and encourage cooperation. Our country participated in this event for the first time with the 1851 London Expo Organization during the Ottoman Empire Period. It was hosted for the first time with the Expo Organization held in Antalya in 2016, and it is the host country for the second time with the Expo organization held in Hatay on April 1, 2022. Expo 2021 Hatay, whose full name is 'International Horticulture Fair Hatay, Turkey 2021'; It was accredited as a Class B international Expo by the International Association of Horticultural Producers (AIPH) on January 23, 2017 and registered according to the decision of the AIPH Board of Directors. Within the scope of this study, the economic, cultural and environmental effects of the EXPO'21 Hatay organization, which is a very important tool for the national branding and development of Hatay, were evaluated, and suggestions were made about the correct reuse of the fairgrounds and their sustainability after the organization was over.

This article aims to shed light on a curatorial momentum that was generated at the turn of the 2010s in the broader international art world, allowing contemporary Chinese ink works for the first time within the context of the new century to have a more geographically widespread spotlight of attention under a dual label of the Indigenous and the international. Indeed, in the run up to the 2008 Beijing Olympic Games, the curatorial approach to ink art in both China and North America and Europe began to change, emphasizing not only ink’s cultural uniqueness but also its transcultural applicability. The pioneering event to do this was the Third Chengdu Biennale in China, following which there was a noticeable escalation in similar exhibitions across countries like the United States or the United Kingdom. These ranged from the ground-breaking Ink Art: Past as Present in Contemporary China (2013–14) at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art (The Met) to exhibitions at international auction houses and commercial galleries, such as Christie’s or the London-based Saatchi Gallery. By focusing on the Third Chengdu Biennale and The Met’s Ink Art exhibition as the two case-study examples, this article elucidates in what specific ways present-day Chinese ink works were framed by these two significant internationally oriented exhibitions, as well as what kind of critical reception this attracted. Drawing from this analysis, the article also provides a reflection on this curatorial momentum’s both achievements and limitations, suggesting that altogether they present an important foundation for present-day curators to devise new constructive ways of positioning Chinese ink as the global contemporary medium of artistic expression.

Russia’s relationship with nation is marred by contradictions that stem from its place in comparison to the West. Cultural nationalism in artistic production originated with the arrival of the Peredvizhniki [Wanderers] in the 1870s. Moscow merchant Pavel Tretyakov, in collecting Russian and European art, openly embraced a nation that encompassed Western ideas in conjunction with distinctly Russian themes. The unparalleled collecting of French modern art by Moscow merchants Sergei Shchukin and Ivan Morozov in the early 20th century continued this embrace. The nature of their collected paintings produced shockwaves in late tsarist and Soviet society and politics before being inculcated into Russian national identity in the 21st century. This article explores the life of Henri Matisse’s The Dance (1909), commissioned by Sergei Shchukin. It follows the work across time and regimes as it assumes pride of place in not only Russia’s national collections but also within its identity. Through a focus on the 2008 exhibition From Russia at the Royal Academy of Arts in London, this article examines Russia’s relations and protection of this work to understand, why even as the country seeks to define itself once more actively through its opposition to the West, their cultural diplomacy speaks to an openness built on a transnational history of the most prized works in their national collections.

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Architectural casts collections — the great majority of which were created in the second half of the nineteenth or the early twentieth centuries — have in recent years met with a variety of fates. While that of the Metropolitan Museum in New York has been dismantled, that of the Musée des Monuments Français in Paris has with great difficulty been rearranged to suit current tastes. Notwithstanding this limited rediscovery of architectural cast collections, they remain part of a past era in the ongoing history of architectural museums. While drawings and models have always been standard media for the representation of architecture — whether or not ever built — architectural casts seem to have become the preferred medium for architectural displays in museums during a period beginning in 1850. Indeed, until the development of photography and the democratization of foreign travel, they were the only way of collecting architectural and sculptural elements while preserving their originals in situ. Admittedly, the three-dimensional experience of full-sized architecture in the form of casts, or even of actual fragments of architecture, played a considerable part in earlier, idiosyncratic attempts to display architecture in museums, indeed as early as the late eighteenth century. Nevertheless, it was only from the mid-nineteenth century that they became the preferred medium for displaying architecture. The cult of ornament reached its climax in the years 1850–70, embodied, in the field of architecture, in the famous ‘battle of styles’ and in the doctrine of ‘progressive eclecticism’, and, in the applied arts, in attempts at reform, given a fresh impetus by the development of international exhibitions. It is not surprising, then, that the first debate about architectural cast museums should have been generated in the homeland of the Gothic Revival and of the Great Exhibition of 1851. For it was in London that this debate crystallized, specifically between the Architectural Museum founded in 1851 and the South Kensington Museum (now known as the Victoria and Albert Museum) created in 1857.

This article, written by JPT Technology Editor Judy Feder, contains highlights of paper SPE 200560, “CO2-EOR and Storage Potentials in Depleted Reservoirs in the Norwegian Continental Shelf,” by Elhans Imanovs, SPE, and Samuel Krevor, SPE, Imperial College London, and Ali Mojaddam Zadeh, Equinor, prepared for the 2020 SPE Europec featured at the 82nd EAGE Conference and Exhibition, originally scheduled to be held in Amsterdam, 8–11 June. The paper has not been peer reviewed. A combination of carbon dioxide (CO2) enhanced oil recovery (EOR) and storage schemes could offer an opportunity to produce additional oil from depleted reservoirs and permanently store CO2 in the subsurface in an economically efficient manner. The complete paper evaluates the effect of different injection methods on oil recovery and CO2 storage potential in a depleted sandstone reservoir in the Norwegian Continental Shelf (NCS). The methods include continuous gas injection (CGI), continuous water injection (CWI), water alternating gas (WAG), tapered WAG (TWAG), simultaneous water above gas coinjection (SWGCO), simultaneous water and gas injection (SWGI), and cyclic SWGI. CO2 EOR and Storage in the NCS In recent years, the number of newly explored fields in the NCS has decreased. Approximately 47% of total resources in the NCS have been produced, and approximately 20% of resources are estimated as recoverable reserves. To fill in the gap between energy demand and recoverable reserves, EOR methods could be employed. One of the most efficient EOR methods is CO2 injection, because complete microscopic sweep efficiency can be achieved, leading to a total depletion of the reservoir. The three major types of CO2 EOR processes—miscible, near-miscible, and immiscible—are described and discussed in the full paper. Four primary CO2-trapping mechanisms are used in the subsurface: structural/stratigraphic, solubility, residual, and mineral trapping. The main locations for underground geological storage are depleted oil and gas reservoirs, coal formations, and saline aquifers. Currently, underground CO2 storage is believed to be a major technology to dramatically reduce CO2 amounts in the atmosphere. According to the International Energy Agency, 54 major oil basins around the world have the potential to produce 75 Bsm3 of additional oil and store 140 Gt of CO2. CO2 EOR and storage projects in the NCS could have several benefits. First, surface and subsea facility availability in the NCS region reduces capital expenditures. Second, in addition to the revenue from extra oil production, carbon credits could be awarded for the CO2 storage. The main challenges of CO2 EOR and storage offshore projects are high operational and capital expenditures. In depleted reservoirs, these include modification of offshore platform materials; additional power supply for CO2 compression and recycling; and replacement of the tubing because wet CO2 is highly corrosive, resulting in scale, asphaltene, and hydrates formation. Contamination of a gas cap with injected CO2 might lead to loss of hydrocarbon gas market value. Only one CO2 EOR project has been implemented offshore—the Lula field in Brazil’s Santos Basin—meaning that industry has very limited experience in such projects.

Rong Cave is one of the more important caves in northern Vietnam’s Dong Van Karst Plateau Geopark (part of the Global Geoparks Network), because its subterranean lake provides agricultural and domestic water for neighboring communities. Maintenance and utilization of Rong Cave’s water reservoir, as well as touristic cave use, require frequent human access to Rong Cave. Depending on the availability of seasonal drip water and the water level of the lake, the abundant clay-rich sediment in the back portion of Rong Cave and possible seepage of gas from deeper strata along geologic faults provide seasonally elevated concentrations of radon in cave air. Based on repeated measurements over 10 months in 2015 and 2016 of the concentrations of radon isotopes (222Rn and 220Rn, also called thoron) with a portable SARAD® RTM 2200 instrument (SARAD® GmbH, Germany), the human total annual inhalation dose was estimated according to the UNSCEAR (2000) algorithm. The result indicates that the radon-related radiation exposure is insignificant for short-term visitors but may reach ~1.8 mSv a-1 for tour guides and ~25 mSv a-1 for cave utility workers. The latter values exceed the IAEA-recommended safety threshold of 1 mSv a-1 (IAEA, 1996). We recommend radiation monitoring for cave utility workers and tour guides. Prolonged human presence in Rong Cave should be avoided during periods of seasonally elevated radon concentrations.References Cigna A.A., 2005. Radon in caves. Interna-tional Journal of Speleology 34(1-2), 1-18. Ha Giang Statistics Office (GSO), 2016. Statistical Yearbook of Ha Giang 2015, 404 pages, Ha Giang (in Vietnamese). Dumitru O.A., Onac B.P., Fornós J.J., Cosma C., Ginés A., Ginés J., Merino A., 2015. Radon survey in caves from Mallorca Island, Spain. Science of The Total Environment, 526, 196-203. Etiope G., Martinelli G., 2002. Migration of carrier and trace gases in the geosphere: An overview. 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- G.W.J. Drewes, Taufik Abdullah, Islam and society in Southeast Asia, Institute of Southeast Asian studies, Singapore, 1986, XII and 348 pp., Sharon Siddique (eds.) - Th. van den End, T.Valentino Sitoy, A history of Christianity in the Philippines. The initial encounter , Vol. I, Quezon City (Philippines): New day publishers, 1985. - R. Hagesteijn, David G. Marr, Southeast Asia in the 9th to 14th centuries, Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian studies and the research school of Pacific studies of the Australian National University, 1986, 416 pp., A.C. Milner (eds.) - R. Hagesteijn, Constance M. Wilson, The Burma-Thai frontier over sixteen decades - Three descriptive documents, Ohio University monographs in international studies, Southeast Asia series No. 70, 1985,120 pp., Lucien M. Hanks (eds.) - Barbara Harrisson, John S. Guy, Oriental trade ceramics in South-east Asia, ninth to sixteenth century, Oxford University Press, Singapore, 1986. 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Doedel, Liesdek, De Sanders, De kom en de werklozenonrust 1931-1933, Nijmegen: Transculturele Uitgeverij Masusa, 1986, 224 pp. - Anke Niehof, Patrick Guinness, Harmony and hierarchy in a Javanese kampung, Asian Studies Association of Australia, Singapore: Oxford University Press, 1986, 191 pp. - C.H.M. Nooy-Palm, Toby Alice Volkman, Feasts of honor; Ritual and change in the Toraja Highlands, Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, Illinois Studies in Anthropology no. 16, 1985, IX + 217 pp., 2 maps, black and white photographs. - Gert J. Oostindie, Jean Louis Poulalion, Le Surinam; Des origines à l’indépendance. La Chapelle Monligeon, s.n., 1986, 93 pp. - Harry A. Poeze, Bob Hering, The PKI’s aborted revolt: Some selected documents, Townsville: James Cook University of North Queensland. (Occasional Paper 17.) IV + 100 pp. - Harry A. 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At the start of the twentieth century, many young Australian artists travelled abroad to expand their art education and to gain exposure to the modern art movements of Europe. Most of these artists were active members of artist associations such as the Victorian Artists Society or the New South Wales Society of Artists. Male artists from Victoria were generally also members of the Melbourne Savage Club, a club with a strong association with the arts.This paper investigates the dual function of the club, as a space where the artists felt “at home” in the familiar environment that the club offered whilst they were abroad and, at the same time, a meeting space where they could engage in a stimulating artistic environment and gain introductions to leading figures in the art world. For those artists who chose England, London’s arts clubs played a large role, for it was in these establishments that they discussed, exhibited, shared, and met with their English counterparts. The club environment in London would have a significant impact on male Australian artists, as it offered a space where they were integrated into the English art world, which enhanced their experience whilst abroad.Artists were seldom members of Australia’s early gentlemen’s clubs, however, in the late nineteenth century Melbourne, artists formed less formal social groupings with exotic names such as the Prehistoric Order of Cannibals, the Buonarotti Club, and the Ishmael Club (Mead). Melbourne artists congregated in these clubs until the Melbourne Savage Club, modelled on the London Savage Club (1857)—a club whose membership was restricted to practitioners in the performing and visual arts—opened its doors in 1894.The Melbourne Savage Club had its origins in the Metropolitan Music Club, established in the late 1880s by a group of professional and amateur musicians and music lovers. The club initially admitted musicians and people from the dramatic professions free-of-charge, however, author Randolph Bedford (1868–1941) and artist Alf Vincent (1874–1915) were not content to be treated on a different basis to the musicians and actors, and two months after Vincent joined the club, at a Special General Meeting, the club resolved to vary Rule 6, “to admit landscape or portrait painters and sculptors without entrance fee” (Melbourne Savage Club). At another Special General Meeting, a year later, the rule was altered to admit “recognised members of the musical, dramatic and artistic professions and sculptors without payment of entrance fee” (Melbourne Savage Club).This resulted in an immediate influx of prominent Victorian male artists (Williams) and the Melbourne Savage Club became their place of choice to gather and enjoy the fellowship the club offered and to share ideas in a convivial atmosphere. When the opportunity arose for them to travel to London in the early twentieth century, they met in London’s famous art clubs. Membership of the Melbourne Savage Club not only conferred rights to visit reciprocal clubs whilst in London, but also facilitated introductions to potential patrons. The London clubs were the venue of choice for visiting artists to meet their fellow artist expatriates and to share experiences and, importantly, to meet with their British counterparts, exhibit their works, and establish valuable contacts.The London Savage Club attracted many Australian expatriates. Not only is it the grandfather of London’s bohemian clubs but also it was the model for arts clubs the world over. Founded in 1857, the qualification for admission was (and still is) to be, “a working man in literature or art, and a good fellow” (Halliday vii). If a candidate met these requirements, he would be cordially received “come whence he may.” This was embodied in the club’s first rules which required applicants for membership to be from a restricted range of pursuits relating to the arts thought to be commensurate with its bohemian ideals, namely art, literature, drama, or music.The second London arts club that attracted expatriate Australian artists was the New English Arts Club, founded in 1886 by young English artists returning from studying art in Paris. Members of The New English Arts Club were influenced by the Impressionist style as opposed to the academic art shown at the Royal Academy. As a meeting place for Australia’s expatriate artists, the New English Arts Club had a particular influence, as it exposed them to significant early Modern artist members such as John Singer Sargent (1856–1925), Walter Sickert (1860–1942), William Orpen (1878–1931) and Augustus John (1878–1961) (Corbett and Perry; Thornton; Melbourne Savage Club).The third, and arguably the most popular with the expatriate Australian artists’ club, was the Chelsea Arts Club, a bohemian club formed in 1891 by local working artists looking for a place to go to “meet, talk, eat and drink” (Cross).Apart from the American-born founding member, James McNeill Whistler (1834–1903), amongst the biggest Chelsea names at the time of the influx of travelling young Australian artists were modernists Sir William Orpen, Augustus John, and John Sargent. The opportunity to mix with these leading British contemporary artists was irresistible to these antipodean artists (55).When Melbourne artist, Miles Evergood (1871–1939) arrived in London from America in 1910, he had been an active exhibiting member of the Salmagundi Club, a New York artists’ club. Almost immediately he joined the New English Arts Club and the Chelsea Arts Club. Hammer tells of him associating with “writer Israel Zangwill, sculptor Jacob Epstein, and anti-academic artists including Walter Sickert, Augustus John, John Lavery, John Singer Sargent and C.R.W. Nevison, who challenged art values in Britain at the beginning of the century” (Hammer 41).Arthur Streeton (1867–1943) used the Chelsea Arts Club as his postal address, as did many expatriate artists. The Melbourne Savage Club archives contain letters and greetings, with news from abroad, written from artist members back to their “Brother Savages” (Various).In late 1902, Streeton wrote to fellow artist and Savage Club member Tom Roberts (1856–1931) from London:I belong to the Chelsea Arts Club now, & meet the artists – MacKennel says it’s about the most artistic club (speaking in the real sense) in England. … They all seem to be here – McKennal, Longstaff, Mahony, Fullwood, Norman, Minns, Fox, Plataganet Tudor St. George Tucker, Quinn, Coates, Bunny, Alston, K, Sonny Pole, other minor lights and your old friend and admirer Smike – within 100 yards of here – there must be 30 different studios. (Streeton 94)Whilst some of the artists whom Streeton mentioned were studying at either the Royal Academy or the Slade School, it was the clubs like the Chelsea Arts Club where they were most likely to encounter fellow Australian artists. Tom Roberts was obviously attentive to Streeton’s enthusiastic account and, when he returned to London the following year to work on his commission for The Big Picture of the 1901 opening of the first Commonwealth Parliament, he soon joined. Roberts, through his expansive personality, became particularly active in London’s Australian expatriate artistic community and later became Vice-President of the Chelsea Arts Club. Along with Streeton and Roberts, other visiting Melbourne Savage Club artists joined the Chelsea Arts Club. They included, John Longstaff (1861–1941), James Quinn (1869–1951), George Coates (1869–1930), and Will Dyson (1880–1938), along with Sydney artists Henry Fullwood (1863–1930), George Lambert (1873–1930), and Will Ashton (1881–1963) (Croll 95). Smith describes the exodus to London and Paris: “It was the Chelsea Arts Club that the Heidelberg School established its last and least distinguished camp” (Smith, Smith and Heathcote 152).Streeton, who retained his Chelsea Arts Club membership when he returned for a while to Australia, wrote to Roberts in 1907, “I miss Chelsea & the Club-boys” (Streeton 107). In relation to Frederick McCubbin’s pending visit he wrote: “Prof McCubbin left here a week ago by German ‘Prinz Heinrich.’ … You’ll introduce him at the Chelsea Club and I hope they make him an Hon. Member, etc” (Streeton et al. 85). McCubbin wrote, after an evening at the Chelsea Arts Club, following a visit to the Royal Academy: “Tonight, I am dining with Australian artists in Soho, and shall be there to greet my old friends. How glad I am! Longstaff will be there, and Frank Stuart, Roberts, Fullwood, Pontin, Coates, Quinn, and Tucker’s brother, and many others from all around” (MacDonald, McCubbin and McCubbin 75). Impressed by the work of Turner he wrote to his wife Annie, following avisit to the Tate Gallery:I went yesterday with Fullwood and G. Coates and Tom Roberts for a ramble … to the Tate Gallery – a beautiful freestone building facing the river through a portico into the gallery where the lately found turners are exhibited – these are not like the greater number of pictures in the National Gallery – they represent his different periods, but are mostly in his latest style, when he had realised the quality of light (McCubbin).Clearly Turner’s paintings had a profound impression on him. In the same letter he wrote:they are mostly unfinished but they are divine – such dreams of colour – a dozen of them are like pearls … mist and cloud and sea and land, drenched in light … They glow with tender brilliancy that radiates from these canvases – how he loved the dazzling brilliancy of morning or evening – these gems with their opal colour – you feel how he gloried in these tender visions of light and air. He worked from darkness into light.The Chelsea Arts Club also served as a venue for artists to entertain and host distinguished visitors from home. These guests included; Melbourne Savage Club artist member Alf Vincent (Joske 112), National Gallery of Victoria (NGV) Trustee and popular patron of the arts, Professor Baldwin Spencer (1860–1929), Professor Frederick S. Delmer (1864–1931) and conductor George Marshall-Hall (1862–1915) (Mulvaney and Calaby 329; Streeton 111).Artist Miles Evergood arrived in London in 1910, and visited the Chelsea Arts Club. He mentions expatriate Australian artists gathering at the Club, including Will Dyson, Fred Leist (1873–1945), David Davies (1864–1939), Will Ashton (1881–1963), and Henry Fullwood (Hammer 41).Most of the Melbourne Savage Club artist members were active in the London Savage Club. On one occasion, in November 1908, Roberts, with fellow artist MacKennal in the Chair, attended the Australian Artists’ Dinner held there. This event attracted twenty-five expatriate Australian artists, all residing in London at the time (McQueen 532).These London arts clubs had a significant influence on the expatriate Australian artists for they became the “glue” that held them together whilst abroad. Although some artists travelled abroad specifically to take up places at the Royal Academy School or the Slade School, only a minority of artists arriving in London from Australia and other British colonies were offered positions at these prestigious schools. Many artists travelled to “try their luck.” The arts clubs of London, whilst similarly discerning in their membership criteria, generally offered a visiting “brother-of-the-brush” a warm welcome as a professional courtesy. They featured the familiar rollicking all-male “Smoke Nights” a feature of the Melbourne Savage Club. With a greater “artist” membership than the clubs in Australia, expatriate artists were not only able to catch up with their friends from Australia, but also they could associate with England’s finest and most progressive artists in a familiar congenial environment. The clubs were a “home away from home” and described by Underhill as, “an artistic Earl’s Court” (Underhill 99). Most importantly, the clubs were a centre for discourse, arguably even more so than were the teaching academies. Britain’s leading modernist artists were members of the Chelsea Arts Club and the New English Arts Club and mixed freely with the visiting Australian artists.Many Australian artists, such as Miles Evergood and George Bell (1878–1966), held anti-academic views similar to English club members and embraced the new artistic trends, which they would bring back to Australia. Streeton had no illusions about the relative worth of the famed institutions and the exhibitions held by clubs such as the New English. Writing to Roberts before he joins him in London, he describes the Royal Academy as having, “an inartistic atmosphere” and claims he “hasn’t the least desire to go again” (Streeton 77). His preference lay with a concurrent “International Exhibition”, which featured works by Rodin, Whistler, Condor, Degas, and others who were setting the pace rather than merely continuing the academic traditions.Architect Hardy Wilson (1881–1955) served as secretary of The Chelsea Arts Club. When he returned to Australia he brought back with him a number of British works by Streeton and Lambert for an exhibition at the Guild Hall Melbourne (Underhill 92). Artists and Bohemians, a history of the Chelsea Arts Club, makes special reference of its world-wide contacts and singles out many of its prominent Australian members for specific mention including; Sir John William (Will) Ashton OBE, later Director of the Art Gallery of New South Wales, and Will Dyson, whose illustrious career as an Australian war artist was described in some detail. Dyson’s popularity led to his later appointment as Chairman of the Chelsea Arts Club where he initiated an ambitious rebuilding program, improving staff accommodation, refurbishing the members’ areas, and adding five bedrooms for visiting members (Bross 87-90).Whilst the influence of travel abroad on Australian artists has been noted, the importance of the London Clubs has not been fully explored. These clubs offered artists a space where they felt “at home” and a familiar environment whilst they were abroad. The clubs functioned as a meeting space where they could engage in a stimulating artistic environment and gain introductions to leading figures in the art world. For those artists who chose England, London’s arts clubs played a large role, for it was in these establishments that they discussed, exhibited, shared, and met with their English counterparts. The club environment in London had a significant impact on male Australian artists as it offered a space where they were integrated into the English art world which enhanced their experience whilst abroad and influenced the direction of their art.ReferencesCorbett, David Peters, and Lara Perry, eds. English Art, 1860–1914: Modern Artists and Identity. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000.Croll, Robert Henderson. Tom Roberts: Father of Australian Landscape Painting. Melbourne: Robertson & Mullens, 1935.Cross, Tom. Artists and Bohemians: 100 Years with the Chelsea Arts Club. 1992. 1st ed. London: Quiller Press, 1992.Gray, Anne, and National Gallery of Australia. McCubbin: Last Impressions 1907–17. 1st ed. Parkes, A.C.T.: National Gallery of Australia, 2009.Halliday, Andrew, ed. The Savage Papers. 1867. 1st ed. London: Tinsley Brothers, 1867.Hammer, Gael. Miles Evergood: No End of Passion. Willoughby, NSW: Phillip Mathews, 2013.Joske, Prue. Debonair Jack: A Biography of Sir John Longstaff. 1st ed. Melbourne: Claremont Publishing, 1994.MacDonald, James S., Frederick McCubbin, and Alexander McCubbin. The Art of F. McCubbin. Melbourne: Lothian Book Publishing, 1916.McCaughy, Patrick. Strange Country: Why Australian Painting Matters. Ed. Paige Amor. The Miegunyah Press, 2014.McCubbin, Frederick. Papers, Ca. 1900–Ca. 1915. Melbourne.McQueen, Humphrey. Tom Roberts. Sydney: Macmillan, 1996.Mead, Stephen. "Bohemia in Melbourne: An Investigation of the Writer Marcus Clarke and Four Artistic Clubs during the Late 1860s – 1901.” PhD thesis. Melbourne: University of Melbourne, 2009.Melbourne Savage Club. Secretary. Minute Book: Melbourne Savage Club. Club Minutes (General Committee). Melbourne: Savage Archives.Mulvaney, Derek John, and J.H. Calaby. So Much That Is New: Baldwin Spencer, 1860–1929, a Biography. Carlton, Vic.: Melbourne University Press, 1985.Smith, Bernard, Terry Smith, and Christopher Heathcote. Australian Painting, 1788–2000. 4th ed. South Melbourne, Vic.: Oxford University Press, 2001.Streeton, Arthur, et al. Smike to Bulldog: Letters from Sir Arthur Streeton to Tom Roberts. Sydney: Ure Smith, 1946.Streeton, Arthur, ed. Letters from Smike: The Letters of Arthur Streeton, 1890–1943. Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1989.Thornton, Alfred, and New English Art Club. Fifty Years of the New English Art Club, 1886–1935. London: New English Art Club, Curwen Press 1935.Underhill, Nancy D.H. Making Australian Art 1916–49: Sydney Ure Smith Patron and Publisher. South Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1991.Various. Melbourne Savage Club Correspondence Book: 1902–1916. Melbourne: Melbourne Savage Club.Williams, Graeme Henry. "A Socio-Cultural Reading: The Melbourne Savage Club through Its Collections." Masters of Arts thesis. Melbourne: Deakin University, 2013.

The term “coffee palace” was primarily used in Australia to describe the temperance hotels that were built in the last decades of the 19th century, although there are references to the term also being used to a lesser extent in the United Kingdom (Denby 174). Built in response to the worldwide temperance movement, which reached its pinnacle in the 1880s in Australia, coffee palaces were hotels that did not serve alcohol. This was a unique time in Australia’s architectural development as the economic boom fuelled by the gold rush in the 1850s, and the demand for ostentatious display that gathered momentum during the following years, afforded the use of richly ornamental High Victorian architecture and resulted in very majestic structures; hence the term “palace” (Freeland 121). The often multi-storied coffee palaces were found in every capital city as well as regional areas such as Geelong and Broken Hill, and locales as remote as Maria Island on the east coast of Tasmania. Presented as upholding family values and discouraging drunkenness, the coffee palaces were most popular in seaside resorts such as Barwon Heads in Victoria, where they catered to families. Coffee palaces were also constructed on a grand scale to provide accommodation for international and interstate visitors attending the international exhibitions held in Sydney (1879) and Melbourne (1880 and 1888). While the temperance movement lasted well over 100 years, the life of coffee palaces was relatively short-lived. Nevertheless, coffee palaces were very much part of Australia’s cultural landscape. In this article, I examine the rise and demise of coffee palaces associated with the temperance movement and argue that coffee palaces established in the name of abstinence were modelled on the coffee houses that spread throughout Europe and North America in the 17th and 18th centuries during the Enlightenment—a time when the human mind could be said to have been liberated from inebriation and the dogmatic state of ignorance. The Temperance Movement At a time when newspapers are full of lurid stories about binge-drinking and the alleged ill-effects of the liberalisation of licensing laws, as well as concerns over the growing trend of marketing easy-to-drink products (such as the so-called “alcopops”) to teenagers, it is difficult to think of a period when the total suppression of the alcohol trade was seriously debated in Australia. The cause of temperance has almost completely vanished from view, yet for well over a century—from 1830 to the outbreak of the Second World War—the control or even total abolition of the liquor trade was a major political issue—one that split the country, brought thousands onto the streets in demonstrations, and influenced the outcome of elections. Between 1911 and 1925 referenda to either limit or prohibit the sale of alcohol were held in most States. While moves to bring about abolition failed, Fitzgerald notes that almost one in three Australian voters expressed their support for prohibition of alcohol in their State (145). Today, the temperance movement’s platform has largely been forgotten, killed off by the practical example of the United States, where prohibition of the legal sale of alcohol served only to hand control of the liquor traffic to organised crime. Coffee Houses and the Enlightenment Although tea has long been considered the beverage of sobriety, it was coffee that came to be regarded as the very antithesis of alcohol. When the first coffee house opened in London in the early 1650s, customers were bewildered by this strange new drink from the Middle East—hot, bitter, and black as soot. But those who tried coffee were, reports Ellis, soon won over, and coffee houses were opened across London, Oxford, and Cambridge and, in the following decades, Europe and North America. Tea, equally exotic, entered the English market slightly later than coffee (in 1664), but was more expensive and remained a rarity long after coffee had become ubiquitous in London (Ellis 123-24). The impact of the introduction of coffee into Europe during the seventeenth century was particularly noticeable since the most common beverages of the time, even at breakfast, were weak “small beer” and wine. Both were safer to drink than water, which was liable to be contaminated. Coffee, like beer, was made using boiled water and, therefore, provided a new and safe alternative to alcoholic drinks. There was also the added benefit that those who drank coffee instead of alcohol began the day alert rather than mildly inebriated (Standage 135). It was also thought that coffee had a stimulating effect upon the “nervous system,” so much so that the French called coffee une boisson intellectuelle (an intellectual beverage), because of its stimulating effect on the brain (Muskett 71). In Oxford, the British called their coffee houses “penny universities,” a penny then being the price of a cup of coffee (Standage 158). Coffee houses were, moreover, more than places that sold coffee. Unlike other institutions of the period, rank and birth had no place (Ellis 59). The coffee house became the centre of urban life, creating a distinctive social culture by treating all customers as equals. Egalitarianism, however, did not extend to women—at least not in London. Around its egalitarian (but male) tables, merchants discussed and conducted business, writers and poets held discussions, scientists demonstrated experiments, and philosophers deliberated ideas and reforms. For the price of a cup (or “dish” as it was then known) of coffee, a man could read the latest pamphlets and newsletters, chat with other patrons, strike business deals, keep up with the latest political gossip, find out what other people thought of a new book, or take part in literary or philosophical discussions. Like today’s Internet, Twitter, and Facebook, Europe’s coffee houses functioned as an information network where ideas circulated and spread from coffee house to coffee house. In this way, drinking coffee in the coffee house became a metaphor for people getting together to share ideas in a sober environment, a concept that remains today. According to Standage, this information network fuelled the Enlightenment (133), prompting an explosion of creativity. Coffee houses provided an entirely new environment for political, financial, scientific, and literary change, as people gathered, discussed, and debated issues within their walls. Entrepreneurs and scientists teamed up to form companies to exploit new inventions and discoveries in manufacturing and mining, paving the way for the Industrial Revolution (Standage 163). The stock market and insurance companies also had their birth in the coffee house. As a result, coffee was seen to be the epitome of modernity and progress and, as such, was the ideal beverage for the Age of Reason. By the 19th century, however, the era of coffee houses had passed. Most of them had evolved into exclusive men’s clubs, each geared towards a certain segment of society. Tea was now more affordable and fashionable, and teahouses, which drew clientele from both sexes, began to grow in popularity. Tea, however, had always been Australia’s most popular non-alcoholic drink. Tea (and coffee) along with other alien plants had been part of the cargo unloaded onto Australian shores with the First Fleet in 1788. Coffee, mainly from Brazil and Jamaica, remained a constant import but was taxed more heavily than tea and was, therefore, more expensive. Furthermore, tea was much easier to make than coffee. To brew tea, all that is needed is to add boiling water, coffee, in contrast, required roasting, grinding and brewing. According to Symons, until the 1930s, Australians were the largest consumers of tea in the world (19). In spite of this, and as coffee, since its introduction into Europe, was regarded as the antidote to alcohol, the temperance movement established coffee palaces. In the early 1870s in Britain, the temperance movement had revived the coffee house to provide an alternative to the gin taverns that were so attractive to the working classes of the Industrial Age (Clarke 5). Unlike the earlier coffee house, this revived incarnation provided accommodation and was open to men, women and children. “Cheap and wholesome food,” was available as well as reading rooms supplied with newspapers and periodicals, and games and smoking rooms (Clarke 20). In Australia, coffee palaces did not seek the working classes, as clientele: at least in the cities they were largely for the nouveau riche. Coffee Palaces The discovery of gold in 1851 changed the direction of the Australian economy. An investment boom followed, with an influx of foreign funds and English banks lending freely to colonial speculators. By the 1880s, the manufacturing and construction sectors of the economy boomed and land prices were highly inflated. Governments shared in the wealth and ploughed money into urban infrastructure, particularly railways. Spurred on by these positive economic conditions and the newly extended inter-colonial rail network, international exhibitions were held in both Sydney and Melbourne. To celebrate modern technology and design in an industrial age, international exhibitions were phenomena that had spread throughout Europe and much of the world from the mid-19th century. According to Davison, exhibitions were “integral to the culture of nineteenth century industrialising societies” (158). In particular, these exhibitions provided the colonies with an opportunity to demonstrate to the world their economic power and achievements in the sciences, the arts and education, as well as to promote their commerce and industry. Massive purpose-built buildings were constructed to house the exhibition halls. In Sydney, the Garden Palace was erected in the Botanic Gardens for the 1879 Exhibition (it burnt down in 1882). In Melbourne, the Royal Exhibition Building, now a World Heritage site, was built in the Carlton Gardens for the 1880 Exhibition and extended for the 1888 Centennial Exhibition. Accommodation was required for the some one million interstate and international visitors who were to pass through the gates of the Garden Palace in Sydney. To meet this need, the temperance movement, keen to provide alternative accommodation to licensed hotels, backed the establishment of Sydney’s coffee palaces. The Sydney Coffee Palace Hotel Company was formed in 1878 to operate and manage a number of coffee palaces constructed during the 1870s. These were designed to compete with hotels by “offering all the ordinary advantages of those establishments without the allurements of the drink” (Murdoch). Coffee palaces were much more than ordinary hotels—they were often multi-purpose or mixed-use buildings that included a large number of rooms for accommodation as well as ballrooms and other leisure facilities to attract people away from pubs. As the Australian Town and Country Journal reveals, their services included the supply of affordable, wholesome food, either in the form of regular meals or occasional refreshments, cooked in kitchens fitted with the latest in culinary accoutrements. These “culinary temples” also provided smoking rooms, chess and billiard rooms, and rooms where people could read books, periodicals and all the local and national papers for free (121). Similar to the coffee houses of the Enlightenment, the coffee palaces brought businessmen, artists, writers, engineers, and scientists attending the exhibitions together to eat and drink (non-alcoholic), socialise and conduct business. The Johnson’s Temperance Coffee Palace located in York Street in Sydney produced a practical guide for potential investors and businessmen titled International Exhibition Visitors Pocket Guide to Sydney. It included information on the location of government departments, educational institutions, hospitals, charitable organisations, and embassies, as well as a list of the tariffs on goods from food to opium (1–17). Women, particularly the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union (WCTU) were a formidable force in the temperance movement (intemperance was generally regarded as a male problem and, more specifically, a husband problem). Murdoch argues, however, that much of the success of the push to establish coffee palaces was due to male politicians with business interests, such as the one-time Victorian premiere James Munro. Considered a stern, moral church-going leader, Munro expanded the temperance movement into a fanatical force with extraordinary power, which is perhaps why the temperance movement had its greatest following in Victoria (Murdoch). Several prestigious hotels were constructed to provide accommodation for visitors to the international exhibitions in Melbourne. Munro was responsible for building many of the city’s coffee palaces, including the Victoria (1880) and the Federal Coffee Palace (1888) in Collins Street. After establishing the Grand Coffee Palace Company, Munro took over the Grand Hotel (now the Windsor) in 1886. Munro expanded the hotel to accommodate some of the two million visitors who were to attend the Centenary Exhibition, renamed it the Grand Coffee Palace, and ceremoniously burnt its liquor licence at the official opening (Murdoch). By 1888 there were more than 50 coffee palaces in the city of Melbourne alone and Munro held thousands of shares in coffee palaces, including those in Geelong and Broken Hill. With its opening planned to commemorate the centenary of the founding of Australia and the 1888 International Exhibition, the construction of the Federal Coffee Palace, one of the largest hotels in Australia, was perhaps the greatest monument to the temperance movement. Designed in the French Renaissance style, the façade was embellished with statues, griffins and Venus in a chariot drawn by four seahorses. The building was crowned with an iron-framed domed tower. New passenger elevators—first demonstrated at the Sydney Exhibition—allowed the building to soar to seven storeys. According to the Federal Coffee Palace Visitor’s Guide, which was presented to every visitor, there were three lifts for passengers and others for luggage. Bedrooms were located on the top five floors, while the stately ground and first floors contained majestic dining, lounge, sitting, smoking, writing, and billiard rooms. There were electric service bells, gaslights, and kitchens “fitted with the most approved inventions for aiding proficients [sic] in the culinary arts,” while the luxury brand Pears soap was used in the lavatories and bathrooms (16–17). In 1891, a spectacular financial crash brought the economic boom to an abrupt end. The British economy was in crisis and to meet the predicament, English banks withdrew their funds in Australia. There was a wholesale collapse of building companies, mortgage banks and other financial institutions during 1891 and 1892 and much of the banking system was halted during 1893 (Attard). Meanwhile, however, while the eastern States were in the economic doldrums, gold was discovered in 1892 at Coolgardie and Kalgoorlie in Western Australia and, within two years, the west of the continent was transformed. As gold poured back to the capital city of Perth, the long dormant settlement hurriedly caught up and began to emulate the rest of Australia, including the construction of ornately detailed coffee palaces (Freeman 130). By 1904, Perth had 20 coffee palaces. When the No. 2 Coffee Palace opened in Pitt Street, Sydney, in 1880, the Australian Town and Country Journal reported that coffee palaces were “not only fashionable, but appear to have acquired a permanent footing in Sydney” (121). The coffee palace era, however, was relatively short-lived. Driven more by reformist and economic zeal than by good business sense, many were in financial trouble when the 1890’s Depression hit. Leading figures in the temperance movement were also involved in land speculation and building societies and when these schemes collapsed, many, including Munro, were financially ruined. Many of the palaces closed or were forced to apply for liquor licences in order to stay afloat. Others developed another life after the temperance movement’s influence waned and the coffee palace fad faded, and many were later demolished to make way for more modern buildings. The Federal was licensed in 1923 and traded as the Federal Hotel until its demolition in 1973. The Victoria, however, did not succumb to a liquor licence until 1967. The Sydney Coffee Palace in Woolloomooloo became the Sydney Eye Hospital and, more recently, smart apartments. Some fine examples still survive as reminders of Australia’s social and cultural heritage. The Windsor in Melbourne’s Spring Street and the Broken Hill Hotel, a massive three-story iconic pub in the outback now called simply “The Palace,” are some examples. Tea remained the beverage of choice in Australia until the 1950s when the lifting of government controls on the importation of coffee and the influence of American foodways coincided with the arrival of espresso-loving immigrants. As Australians were introduced to the espresso machine, the short black, the cappuccino, and the café latte and (reminiscent of the Enlightenment), the post-war malaise was shed in favour of the energy and vigour of modernist thought and creativity, fuelled in at least a small part by caffeine and the emergent café culture (Teffer). Although the temperance movement’s attempt to provide an alternative to the ubiquitous pubs failed, coffee has now outstripped the consumption of tea and today’s café culture ensures that wherever coffee is consumed, there is the possibility of a continuation of the Enlightenment’s lively discussions, exchange of news, and dissemination of ideas and information in a sober environment. References Attard, Bernard. “The Economic History of Australia from 1788: An Introduction.” EH.net Encyclopedia. 5 Feb. (2012) ‹http://eh.net/encyclopedia/article/attard.australia›. Blainey, Anna. “The Prohibition and Total Abstinence Movement in Australia 1880–1910.” Food, Power and Community: Essays in the History of Food and Drink. Ed. Robert Dare. Adelaide: Wakefield Press, 1999. 142–52. Boyce, Francis Bertie. “Shall I Vote for No License?” An address delivered at the Convention of the Parramatta Branch of New South Wales Alliance, 3 September 1906. 3rd ed. Parramatta: New South Wales Alliance, 1907. Clarke, James Freeman. Coffee Houses and Coffee Palaces in England. Boston: George H. Ellis, 1882. “Coffee Palace, No. 2.” Australian Town and Country Journal. 17 Jul. 1880: 121. Davison, Graeme. “Festivals of Nationhood: The International Exhibitions.” Australian Cultural History. Eds. S. L. Goldberg and F. B. Smith. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1989. 158–77. Denby, Elaine. Grand Hotels: Reality and Illusion. London: Reaktion Books, 2002. Ellis, Markman. The Coffee House: A Cultural History. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2004. Federal Coffee Palace. The Federal Coffee Palace Visitors’ Guide to Melbourne, Its Suburbs, and Other Parts of the Colony of Victoria: Views of the Principal Public and Commercial Buildings in Melbourne, With a Bird’s Eye View of the City; and History of the Melbourne International Exhibition of 1880, etc. Melbourne: Federal Coffee House Company, 1888. Fitzgerald, Ross, and Trevor Jordan. Under the Influence: A History of Alcohol in Australia. Sydney: Harper Collins, 2009. Freeland, John. The Australian Pub. Melbourne: Sun Books, 1977. Johnson’s Temperance Coffee Palace. International Exhibition Visitors Pocket Guide to Sydney, Restaurant and Temperance Hotel. Sydney: Johnson’s Temperance Coffee Palace, 1879. Mitchell, Ann M. “Munro, James (1832–1908).” Australian Dictionary of Biography. Canberra: National Centre of Biography, Australian National U, 2006-12. 5 Feb. 2012 ‹http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/munro-james-4271/text6905›. Murdoch, Sally. “Coffee Palaces.” Encyclopaedia of Melbourne. Eds. Andrew Brown-May and Shurlee Swain. 5 Feb. 2012 ‹http://www.emelbourne.net.au/biogs/EM00371b.htm›. Muskett, Philip E. The Art of Living in Australia. New South Wales: Kangaroo Press, 1987. Standage, Tom. A History of the World in 6 Glasses. New York: Walker & Company, 2005. Sydney Coffee Palace Hotel Company Limited. Memorandum of Association of the Sydney Coffee Palace Hotel Company, Ltd. Sydney: Samuel Edward Lees, 1879. Symons, Michael. One Continuous Picnic: A Gastronomic History of Australia. Melbourne: Melbourne UP, 2007. Teffer, Nicola. Coffee Customs. Exhibition Catalogue. Sydney: Customs House, 2005.

IntroductionIn March 2015, I visited the Lambing Flat Folk Museum (established 1967) in the “cherry capital of Australia”, the town of Young, New South Wales, in preparation for a student excursion. Like other Australian folk museums, this museum focuses on the ordinary and the everyday of rural life, and is heavily reliant on local history, local historians, volunteers, and donated objects for the collection. It may not sound as though the Lambing Flat Folk Museum (LFFM) holds much potential for a fashion curator, as fashion exhibitions have become high points of innovation in exhibition design. It is quite a jolt to return to old style folk museums, when travelling shows such as Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty (Metropolitan Museum of Art 2011 – V&A Museum 2015) or The Fashion World of Jean Paul Gaultier (V&A Museum 2011­ – NGV 2014) are popping up around the globe. The contrast stimulated this author to think on the role and the power of curators. This paper will show that the potential for fashion as a vehicle for demonstrating ideas other than through rubrics of design or history has been growing. We all wear dress. We express identity, politics, status, age, gender, social values, and mental state through the way we dress each and every day. These key issues are also explored in many museum exhibitions.Small museums often have an abundance of clothing. For them, it is a case of not only managing and caring for growing collections but also curating objects in a way that communicates regional and often national identity, as well as narrating stories in meaningful ways to audiences. This paper argues that the way in which dress is curated can greatly enhance temporary and permanent exhibitions. Fashion curation is on the rise (Riegels Melchior). This paper looks at why this is so, the potential for this specialisation in curation, the research required, and the sensitivity needed in communicating ideas in exhibitions. It also suggests how fashion curation skills may facilitate an increasing demand.Caring for the AudienceThe paper draws on a case study of how Chinese people at the LFFM are portrayed. The Chinese came to the Young district during the 1860s gold rush. While many people often think the Chinese were sojourners (Rolls), that is, they found gold and returned to China, many actually settled in regional Australia (McGowan; Couchman; Frost). At Young there were riots against the Chinese miners, and this narrative is illustrated at the museum.In examining the LFFM, this paper points to the importance of caring for the audience as well as objects, knowing and acknowledging the current and potential audiences. Caring for how the objects are received and perceived is vital to the work of curators. At this museum, the stereotypic portrayal of Chinese people, through a “coolie” hat, a fan, and two dolls dressed in costume, reminds us of the increased professionalisation of the museum sector in the last 20 years. It also reminds us of the need for good communication through both the objects and texts. Audiences have become more sophisticated, and their expectations have increased. Displays and accompanying texts that do not reflect in depth research, knowledge, and sensitivities can result in viewers losing interest quickly. Not long into my visit I began thinking of the potential reaction by the Chinese graduate students. In a tripartite model called the “museum experience”, Falk and Dierking argue that the social context, personal context, and physical context affect the visitor’s experience (5). The social context of who we visit with influences enjoyment. Placing myself in the students’ shoes sharpened reactions to some of the displays. Curators need to be mindful of a wide range of audiences. The excursion was to be not so much a history learning activity, but a way for students to develop a personal interest in museology and to learn the role museums can play in society in general, as well as in small communities. In this case the personal context was also a professional context. What message would they get?Communication in MuseumsStudies by Falk et al. indicate that museum visitors only view an exhibition for 30 minutes before “museum fatigue” sets in (249–257). The physicality of being in a museum can affect the museum experience. Hence, many institutions responded to these studies by placing the key information and objects in the introductory areas of an exhibition, before the visitor gets bored. As Stephen Bitgood argues, this can become self-fulfilling, as the reaction by the exhibition designers can then be to place all the most interesting material early in the path of the audience, leaving the remainder as mundane displays (196). Bitgood argues there is no museum fatigue. He suggests that there are other things at play which curators need to heed, such as giving visitors choice and opportunities for interaction, and avoiding overloading the audience with information and designing poorly laid-out exhibitions that have no breaks or resting points. All these factors contribute to viewers becoming both mentally and physically tired. Rather than placing the onus on the visitor, he contends there are controllable factors the museum can attend to. One of his recommendations is to be provocative in communication. Stimulating exhibitions are more likely to engage the visitor, minimising boredom and tiredness (197). Xerxes Mazda recommends treating an exhibition like a good story, with a beginning, a dark moment, a climax, and an ending. The LFFM certainly has those elements, but they are not translated into curation that gives a compelling narration that holds the visitors’ attention. Object labels give only rudimentary information, such as: “Wooden Horse collar/very rare/donated by Mr Allan Gordon.” Without accompanying context and engaging language, many visitors could find it difficult to relate to, and actively reflect on, the social narrative that the museum’s objects could reflect.Text plays an important role in museums, particularly this museum. Communication skills of the label writers are vital to enhancing the museum visit. Louise Ravelli, in writing on museum texts, states that “communication needs to be more explicit and more reflexive—to bring implicit assumptions to the surface” (3). This is particularly so for the LFFM. Posing questions and using an active voice can provoke the viewer. The power of text can be seen in one particular museum object. In the first gallery is a banner that contains blatant racist text. Bringing racism to the surface through reflexive labelling can be powerful. So for this museum communication needs to be sensitive and informative, as well as pragmatic. It is not just a case of being reminded that Australia has a long history of racism towards non-Anglo Saxon migrants. A sensitive approach in label-writing could ask visitors to reflect on Australia’s long and continued history of racism and relate it to the contemporary migration debate, thereby connecting the present day to dark historical events. A question such as, “How does Australia deal with racism towards migrants today?” brings issues to the surface. Or, more provocatively, “How would I deal with such racism?” takes the issue to a personal level, rather than using language to distance the issue of racism to a national issue. Museums are more than repositories of objects. Even a small underfunded museum can have great impact on the viewer through the language they use to make meaning of their display. The Lambing Flat Roll-up Banner at the LFFMThe “destination” object of the museum in Young is the Lambing Flat Roll-up Banner. Those with a keen interest in Australian history and politics come to view this large sheet of canvas that elicits part of the narrative of the Lambing Flat Riots, which are claimed to be germane to the White Australia Policy (one of the very first pieces of legislation after the Federation of Australia was The Immigration Restriction Act 1901).On 30 June 1861 a violent anti-Chinese riot occurred on the goldfields of Lambing Flat (now known as Young). It was the culmination of eight months of growing conflict between European and Chinese miners. Between 1,500 and 2,000 Europeans lived and worked in these goldfields, with little government authority overseeing the mining regulations. Earlier, in November 1860, a group of disgruntled European miners marched behind a German brass band, chasing off 500 Chinese from the field and destroying their tents. Tensions rose and fell until the following June, when the large banner was painted and paraded to gather up supporters: “…two of their leaders carrying in advance a magnificent flag, on which was written in gold letters – NO CHINESE! ROLL UP! ROLL UP! ...” (qtd. in Coates 40). Terrified, over 1,270 Chinese took refuge 20 kilometres away on James Roberts’s property, “Currawong”. The National Museum of Australia commissioned an animation of the event, The Harvest of Endurance. It may seem obvious, but the animators indicated the difference between the Chinese and the Europeans through dress, regardless that the Chinese wore western dress on the goldfields once the clothing they brought with them wore out (McGregor and McGregor 32). Nonetheless, Chinese expressions of masculinity differed. Their pigtails, their shoes, and their hats were used as shorthand in cartoons of the day to express the anxiety felt by many European settlers. A more active demonstration was reported in The Argus: “ … one man … returned with eight pigtails attached to a flag, glorifying in the work that had been done” (6). We can only imagine this trophy and the de-masculinisation it caused.The 1,200 x 1,200 mm banner now lays flat in a purpose-built display unit. Viewers can see that it was not a hastily constructed work. The careful drafting of original pencil marks can be seen around the circus styled font: red and blue, with the now yellow shadowing. The banner was tied with red and green ribbon of which small remnants remain attached.The McCarthy family had held the banner for 100 years, from the riots until it was loaned to the Royal Australian Historical Society in November 1961. It was given to the LFFM when it opened six years later. The banner is given key positioning in the museum, indicating its importance to the community and its place in the region’s memory. Just whose memory is narrated becomes apparent in the displays. The voice of the Chinese is missing.Memory and Museums Museums are interested in memory. When visitors come to museums, the work they do is to claim, discover, and sometimes rekindle memory (Smith; Crane; Williams)—-and even to reshape memory (Davidson). Fashion constantly plays with memory: styles, themes, textiles, and colours are repeated and recycled. “Cutting and pasting” presents a new context from one season to the next. What better avenue to arouse memory in museums than fashion curation? This paper argues that fashion exhibitions fit within the museum as a “theatre of memory”, where social memory, commemoration, heritage, myth, fantasy, and desire are played out (Samuels). In the past, institutions and fashion curators often had to construct academic frameworks of “history” or “design” in order to legitimise fashion exhibitions as a serious pursuit. Exhibitions such as Fashion and Politics (New York 2009), Fashion India: Spectacular Capitalism (Oslo 2014) and Fashion as Social Energy (Milan 2015) show that fashion can explore deeper social concerns and political issues.The Rise of Fashion CuratorsThe fashion curator is a relative newcomer. What would become the modern fashion curator made inroads into museums through ethnographic and anthropological collections early in the 20th century. Fashion as “history” soon followed into history and social museums. Until the 1990s, the fashion curator in a museum was seen as, and closely associated with, the fashion historian or craft curator. It could be said that James Laver (1899–1975) or Stella Mary Newton (1901–2001) were the earliest modern fashion curators in museums. They were also fashion historians. However, the role of fashion curator as we now know it came into its own right in the 1970s. Nadia Buick asserts that the first fashion exhibition, Fashion: An Anthology by Cecil Beaton, was held at the Victoria and Albert Museum, curated by the famous fashion photographer Cecil Beaton. He was not a museum employee, a trained curator, or even a historian (15). The museum did not even collect contemporary fashion—it was a new idea put forward by Beaton. He amassed hundreds of pieces of fashion items from his friends of elite society to complement his work.Radical changes in museums since the 1970s have been driven by social change, new expectations and new technologies. Political and economic pressures have forced museum professionals to shift their attention from their collections towards their visitors. There has been not only a growing number of diverse museums but also a wider range of exhibitions, fashion exhibitions included. However, as museums and the exhibitions they mount have become more socially inclusive, this has been somewhat slow to filter through to the fashion exhibitions. I assert that the shift in fashion exhibitions came as an outcome of new writing on fashion as a social and political entity through Jennifer Craik’s The Face of Fashion. This book has had an influence, beyond academic fashion theorists, on the way in which fashion exhibitions are curated. Since 1997, Judith Clark has curated landmark exhibitions, such as Malign Muses: When Fashion Turns Back (Antwerp 2004), which examine the idea of what fashion is rather than documenting fashion’s historical evolution. Dress is recognised as a vehicle for complex issues. It is even used to communicate a city’s cultural capital and its metropolitan modernity as “fashion capitals” (Breward and Gilbert). Hence the reluctant but growing willingness for dress to be used in museums to critically interrogate, beyond the celebratory designer retrospectives. Fashion CurationFashion curators need to be “brilliant scavengers” (Peoples). Curators such as Clark pick over what others consider as remains—the neglected, the dissonant—bringing to the fore what is forgotten, where items retrieved from all kinds of spheres are used to fashion exhibitions that reflect the complex mix of the tangible and intangible that is present in fashion. Allowing the brilliant scavengers to pick over the flotsam and jetsam of everyday life can make for exciting exhibitions. Clothing of the everyday can be used to narrate complex stories. We only need think of the black layette worn by Baby Azaria Chamberlain—or the shoe left on the tarmac at Darwin Airport, having fallen off the foot of Mrs Petrov, wife of the Russian diplomat, as she was forced onto a plane. The ordinary remnants of the Chinese miners do not appear to have been kept. Often, objects can be transformed by subsequent significant events.Museums can be sites of transformation for its audiences. Since the late 1980s, through the concept of the New Museum (Vergo), fashion as an exhibition theme has been used to draw in wider museum audiences and to increase visitor numbers. The clothing of Vivienne Westwood, (34 Years in Fashion 2005, NGA) Kylie Minogue (Kylie: An Exhibition 2004­–2005, Powerhouse Museum), or Princess Grace (Princess Grace: Style Icon 2012, Bendigo Art Gallery) drew in the crowds, quantifying the relevance of museums to funding bodies. As Marie Riegels Melchior notes, fashion is fashionable in museums. What is interesting is that the New Museum’s refrain of social inclusion (Sandell) has yet to be wholly embraced by art museums. There is tension between the fashion and museum worlds: a “collision of the fashion and art worlds” (Batersby). Exhibitions of elite designer clothing worn by celebrities have been seen as very commercial operations, tainting the intellectual and academic reputations of cultural institutions. What does fashion curation have to do with the banner mentioned previously? It would be miraculous for authentic clothing worn by Chinese miners to surface now. In revising the history of Lambing Flat, fashion curators need to employ methodologies of absence. As Clynk and Peoples have shown, by examining archives, newspaper advertisements, merchants’ account books, and other material that incidentally describes the business of clothing, absence can become present. While the later technology of photography often shows “Sunday best” fashions, it also illustrates the ordinary and everyday dress of Chinese men carrying out business transactions (MacGowan; Couchman). The images of these men bring to mind the question: were these the children of men, or indeed the men themselves, who had their pigtails violently cut off years earlier? The banner was also used to show that there are quite detailed accounts of events from local and national newspapers of the day. These are accessible online. Accounts of the Chinese experience may have been written up in Chinese newspapers of the day. Access to these would be limited, if they still exist. Historian Karen Schamberger reminds us of the truism: “history is written by the victors” in her observations of a re-enactment of the riots at the Lambing Flat Festival in 2014. The Chinese actors did not have speaking parts. She notes: The brutal actions of the European miners were not explained which made it easier for audience members to distance themselves from [the Chinese] and be comforted by the actions of a ‘white hero’ James Roberts who… sheltered the Chinese miners at the end of the re-enactment. (9)Elsewhere, just out of town at the Chinese Tribute Garden (created in 1996), there is evidence of presence. Plaques indicating donors to the garden carry names such as Judy Chan, Mrs King Chou, and Mr and Mrs King Lam. The musically illustrious five siblings of the Wong family, who live near Young, were photographed in the Discover Central NSW tourist newspaper in 2015 as a drawcard for the Lambing Flat Festival. There is “endurance”, as the title of NMA animation scroll highlights. Conclusion Absence can be turned around to indicate presence. The “presence of absence” (Meyer and Woodthorpe) can be a powerful tool. Seeing is the pre-eminent sense used in museums, and objects are given priority; there are ways of representing evidence and narratives, and describing relationships, other than fashion presence. This is why I argue that dress has an important role to play in museums. Dress is so specific to time and location. It marks specific occasions, particularly at times of social transitions: christening gowns, bar mitzvah shawls, graduation gowns, wedding dresses, funerary shrouds. Dress can also demonstrate the physicality of a specific body: in the extreme, jeans show the physicality of presence when the body is removed. The fashion displays in the museum tell part of the region’s history, but the distraction of the poor display of the dressed mannequins in the LFFM gets in the way of a “good story”.While rioting against the Chinese miners may cause shame and embarrassment, in Australia we need to accept that this was not an isolated event. More formal, less violent, and regulated mechanisms of entry to Australia were put in place, and continue to this day. It may be that a fashion curator, a brilliant scavenger, may unpick the prey for viewers, placing and spacing objects and the visitor, designing in a way to enchant or horrify the audience, and keeping interest alive throughout the exhibition, allowing spaces for thinking and memories. Drawing in those who have not been the audience, working on the absence through participatory modes of activities, can be powerful for a community. Fashion curators—working with the body, stimulating ethical and conscious behaviours, and constructing dialogues—can undoubtedly act as a vehicle for dynamism, for both the museum and its audiences. 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This article examines the Exhibition of Flemish and Belgian Art, 1300 to 1900, which was hosted by the London Royal Academy in 1927. Based on materials from multiple archives, it demonstrates that this event showcased both artefacts and the internationalist policies that had led to their preservation and display. This exhibition constitutes a leading example of a new kind of political performance, which expanded after 1945 and still affects international gatherings and cultural diplomacy to this day.

At the Royal Academy's exhibition, Sensing Spaces: Architecture Reimagined, curator Kate Goodwin sets a loose brief to seven international architects: to create works that ‘encourage visitors to question their ideas about architecture and test its capacity to move them’. While the resulting large-scale installations fulfil the brief's open agenda (what work doesn't deal with the field of sensory experience?), the exhibition goes no further to challenge the larger political issues at stake in architecture and the city today, which is problematic given that it is presented at a major London art institution and geared towards educating the general public about the importance of architecture.

Abstract This article examines the display of two sculptures of medieval figures at the Great Exhibition in 1851. Those sculptures – Carlo Marochetti’s Richard Coeur de Lion and Eugène Simonis’ Godefroid de Bouillon – both honoured figures remembered as crusaders, and are better known in their permanent bronze versions that stand today in London and Brussels respectively. However, it is often overlooked that both works appeared at the exhibition, with Marochetti displaying his work on behalf of England, and Simonis exhibiting his on behalf of Belgium. Their appearance in 1851 stimulated a multi-faceted national rivalry, evidently encompassing both the two sculptors and the respective heads of state, Victoria and Leopold I of the Belgians. Drawing from written evidence and visual culture, this article traces the shared history of the sculptures at the Great Exhibition, before exploring contemporary responses to their appearance there. Its findings contribute to scholarly debates over the status of the Great Exhibition as either a peace congress or the catalyst for international competition, as well as to discussions over the cultural impact of the medieval past in the nineteenth century.

Tracing the journey of artistic engagements with the Indian Modernist artist Benode Behari Mukherjee’s works, starting from Satyajit Ray’s 1982 documentary ‘Inner Eye’ to a 2020 exhibition ‘After Sight’ in London, this article reassesses scholarly and artistic encounters with Benode Behari’s artistic consciousness in the light of international Modernist art movements and the artist’s lifelong search for an ideal form. The role of nature in the development of his artistic uniqueness and ingenuity is discussed; as Benode Behari has often been erroneously imagined as a metropolis-centric Modernist artist, thereby also bringing to focus the broad subject of the significance of nature and the pastoral idyll in the development of Bengali Modernism and modern South Asian artistic consciousness. In this piece, a trajectory of the reception of his works is also drawn.