Journal articles on the topic 'Palais du Louvre'

The Archives des Musées Nationaux in the Palais du Louvre comprise the archives of the Louvre itself, and of the Direction des Musées de France including the Réunion des Musées Nationaux. The archives of the Louvre include both ‘les registres de copistes’, a record of artists who sought entry to the Louvre, to visit and to make copies, during 1821-1850, and ‘les registres des salons’, covering the years 1824-1853 when the salons were still held in the Louvre. Together these comprise an invaluable source of information on artists in the first half of the 19th century, including as they do details of particular works, and artists’ addresses. A detailed analysis of this documentation was scheduled to begin at the start of 1990.

El objetivo del presente artículo es atraer la atención sobre una tabla flamenca de principios del siglo XVI que, en 1901-1903, se encontraba todavía en la iglesia de las Carmelitas descalzas de Peñaranda de Bracamonte (Salamanca). En 1946 esta tabla, de la que parecía haberse olvidado la procedencia española, fue adquirida en París por el Museo del Louvre y depositada en el Palais de Beaux-Arts de Lille. Representa un tema bastante raro: Cristo bendiciendo a María. El pintor debió trabajar en Brujas. De hecho, en otra obra que se le puede atribuir, una Virgen con el Niño rodeada de Santa Catalina y Santa Bárbara, conservada en Florencia, se ha inspira en un modelo utilizado con bastante frecuencia en la pintura de Brujas: la Virgo inter virgines atribuida a Hugo Van der Goes.

This short study considers the artist Hubert Robert’s Imaginary View of the Grande Galerie in the Louvre in Ruins and Design for the Grande Galerie in the Louvre, a pair of pendants that were exhibited at the 1796 Salon du Louvre and are now part of the national museum’s permanent collection. Robert’s thought-provoking display explored the formation of the national collection at the Louvre as part of the broad spectrum of revolutionary iconoclasm. This article examines Robert’s contribution to emerging debates about patrimoine and his professional role working as keeper for the Louvre in relation to the production and exhibition of the views representing the museum. It proposes that while various interpretations were plausible, Robert presented his views of the Louvre’s transformation from a royal palace into a republican museum as a process characterized by creation and destruction.

The national project for the measurement of radiocarbon includes different scientific partners for the accelerator named ARTEMIS (French acronym for Accélérateur pour la Recherche en sciences de la Terre, Environnement, Muséologie Installé à Saclay), available to the scientific community since 2004 (Cottereau et al. 2007). The French Ministry of Culture uses this accelerator mass spectrometry (AMS) facility at the request of archaeologists or curators of museums or of historical monuments. For the preparation of some samples, a laboratory has been installed at the Centre of Research and Restoration of the Museums of France, located in the Louvre Palace. In this report, the first data carried out on vegetal samples from museum objects or archaeological remains, dates are presented in terms of yr BP (before AD 1950).

AbstractDuring the Spring of 1991, the Fall of 1993 and the Summer of 1994, a major effort was completed to measure all the surviving untrimmed, monolithic and essentially entirely preserved Late Assyrian sculptured slabs and figures from Khorsabad, dating to the time of Sargon II, that are now held in Western museums. The programme of measurement was undertaken as the Paris slabs were in the process of being installed in their new home in the Richelieu Wing, Musée du Louvre, Paris. The Khorsabad slabs in the British Museum, London, the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, and the Sargon stele in the Pergamon Museum in Berlin were also measured. In addition, a number of slabs in the British Museum from the South-West and North Palaces at Nineveh were measured. Some were carved during the reign of Sennacherib, while others, from Room 23, were decorated in the reign of Assurbanipal.The first stages in the analysis of the measurements have already led to a number of useful observations concerning the standards of measurement used in decorating Late Assyrian Palaces. Measurement of untrimmed slab widths and frieze heights from Nineveh portraying battle scenes suggest that the standard Late Assyrian cubit equalled 51.5 cm in length. Slabs from Khorsabad Façade L are cut to this same cubit. On the other hand, religio-mythological royal emblemata, or guardians of the gates, at the palace of Sargon at Khorsabad were carved in accordance with a cubit of 56.6 cm, precisely three finger-breadths longer than the standard cubit. A slab featuring King Sargon was carved to a cubit 55 cms in length, precisely two finger-breadths longer than the standard. This confirms the existence of three Late Assyrian cubits: a standard cubit, a “Big Cubit” (KÙŠ GAL-ti in the annals of Sennacherib, AS4.LUM GAL-ti in a text of Esarhaddon), and the rare “Cubit of the King” (KÙŠ LUGAL in Late Assyrian cuneiform documents), which is probably the same as the “Royal Cubit” (basileios pēchys), three finger-breadths longer than the standard cubit, mentioned by the Greek historian Herodotus (I, 178).

Edward Said argued that since the beginning of western civilization there has been a conception that the rulers of the East, the famed “Oriental despots”, were decadent, obsessed with luxury, and consumed by the collecting of objects (1978: 119, 203). The trope of the decadent Orient is deeply embedded in the western imagination. In the Louvre Museum in Paris sits a masterpiece of French Romantic painting, The Death of Sardanapalus, by Eugène Delacroix (Fig. 1). The painting depicts an Oriental despot, the mythical Ninevite king Sardanapalus, reclining with emotional detachment on a great bed amidst the chaotic destruction of his harem, palace, and empire. He wears a golden crown and earrings and his robe falls in great folds around his hefty body. Extra garments, which he does not need to wear but which he nevertheless possesses, swirl voluminously around his figure. His vast bed, puffy and soft, is richly adorned with red cloth. The pleasures of his life, including the women of his consummately available harem, are wasted at the murderous hands of his mutinous palace slaves. Around his bedroom lie the precious objects of his palace service: golden ewers and cups; lyres and textiles; and jewellery and horse trappings. If we peal back the layers of meaning that this painting holds in its swaths of colour and light, we can begin to comprehend the human fascination with objects.

Published in 1994, Louise Erdrich’s The Bingo Palace traces the journey of Lipsha Morrissey, who is called to return to his childhood home, a fictional Ojibwe reservation, after years of living off-reservation with his father. Upon his return, Lipsha becomes enamored with a young woman, Shawnee Ray, and entangled in conflict with Lyman, Lipsha’s uncle, half-brother, and the father of Shawnee Ray’s child, who plans to build a glamorous “Bingo Palace” on reservation land to bring wealth to the Ojibwe people. As Lipsha struggles to reconcile his conflict with Lyman, he faces questions of identity, family, and an ethical dilemma: would the economic benefits of a “Bingo Palace” outweigh the cultural costs?

I will begin by considering some themes from Proust's wonderful essay on Chardin, Chardin and Rembrandt (Proust, 1988). Proust speaks of the young man ‘of modest means and artistic taste’, his imagination filled with the splendour of museums, of cathedrals, of mountains, of the sea, sitting at table at the end of lunch, nauseated at the ‘traditional mundanity’ of the unaesthetic spectacle before him: the last knife left lying on the half turned-back table cloth, next to the remains of an underdone and tasteless cutlet. He cannot wait to get up and leave, and if he cannot take a train to Holland or Italy, he will at least go to the Louvre to have sight of the palaces of Veronese, the princes of van Dyck and the harbours of Claude. Doing this will, of course, make his return to his home and its familiar surroundings seem yet more drab and exasperating.

Las ciudades mesopotámicas estaban amuralladas desde sus orígenes. Muralla y ciudad, símbolo de civilización, eran dos conceptos inseparables. Por mandato de los dioses, el rey era el responsable de la fundación de las ciudades y de la construcción de sus sistemas de defensa, que fueron evolucionando como respuesta a los cambios producidos en el arte de la guerra en el Próximo Oriente antiguo. En este artículo se analiza, en particular, la documentación arqueológica y textual de dos modelos de ciudad fortificada: Mari (III-II milenio a. C.), en el norte, y Babilonia (II-I milenio a. C.), en el sur. Se realiza una nueva propuesta de interpretación del recinto defensivo interior de Babilonia. Palabras clave: Ciudades mesopotámicas, fortificacionesTopónimos: Habuba Kabira, Mari, BabiloniaPeríodo: IV-I milenio a. C. ABSTRACTMesopotamian cities were walled from their origins. Wall and city, a symbol of civilisation, were two inseparable concepts. By mandate of the gods, the king was responsible for the foundation of the cities and the construction of their defence systems, which evolved in response to changes in the art of warfare in the ancient Near East. This article analyses, in particular, the archaeological and textual documentation of two models of fortified cities: Mari (3rd-2nd millennium B.C.), in the north, and Babylon (2nd-1st millennium B.C.), in the south. A new approach to the interpretation of the inner wall of Babylon is proposed. Keywords: Mesopotamian cities, fortificationsPlace names: Habuba Kabira, Mari, BabylonPeriod: IVth-Ist millennium B. C. REFERENCIASAbrahami, Ph. (1997), L’armée à Mari, tesis doctoral, Université de Paris I (inédita).al-Rawi, F.N.H. (1985), “Nabopolassar’s Restoration Work on the Wall Imgur-Enlil at Babylon”, Iraq, 47, pp. 1-9.Aurenche, O. (dir.) (1977), Dictionnaire illustré multilingue de l’architecture du Proche Orient Ancien, Lyon, MOM.Azara, P. (dir.) 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The aim of this paper is to provide an in-depth information of two pedestal tables (named Table du Sacre and Guéridon Mauresque) designed by Leloy, and kept in the royal collections of Patrimonio Nacional (National Heritage). Despite their differences, they both have some elements in common: not only Sèvres porcelain was used as their main decorative material offering painted historical scenes, but also both of them were gifts from French sovereigns to Spanish monarchs. The two pieces were also displayed in the 19th century at the Louvre Royale Manufactures Exhibitions as an example of the high quality that the Sèvres Manufacture achived. Although the Table du Sacre (table of coronation due to its iconography) is of great interest, the decoration of the Guéridon Mauresque is specially remarkable as it provides an interesting insight between courts. It depicts Boabdil leaving the Alhambra, being directly inspired by the Nasrid Palace (15th century): a piece of furniture depicting a scene of the Spanish Moorish past, was made in France and later offered as a gift to the regent of the Spanish Kingdom María Cristina de Borbón.

On Wednesday 24 May 1871, during the uprising of the Paris Commune, the Sacristine of the convent of the Sœurs Auxiliatrices des Ames du Purgatoire was disturbed by the sound of rapidly approaching gunfire and explosions. From the secluded convent compound in the rue de la Barouillère in Paris, she wrote in the convent diary: ‘Everyone believes that the house is shaking! . . . The Mother Superior makes an act of faithfulness to the Holy Will of God! . . . it is an explosion in the Luxembourg gunpowder magazine and our tiled floor shatters! The Tuileries, the Louvre, the Ministry of War, the Palace of the Legion of honour are in flames.’ However, the Sacristine's attention was soon shifted from the noise of conflict towards the many other types of sounds outside and within the convent. Even the sound of the doorbell began to strike with a seemingly ominous edge. At ‘1 o′clock pm: The bell rings very loudly, the Mother Superior looks out of the window, it is her brother!’ Amidst the noises of war surrounding the compound, the nuns continued their musical routine of song and organ playing: ‘6 pm: Les Mères nevertheless sing pieces to the Holy Sacrament and the Most Holy Virgin.’

Literaccy kuzyni „Reservation dogs”: analiza komparatystyczna utworów Louise Erdrich i Shermana Alexie Artykuł przedstawia analizę komparatystyczną współczesnej prozy rdzennych Amerykanów (powieści Love Medicine i The Bingo Palace Louise Erdrich oraz wyboru opowiadań The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven Shermana Alexiego) oraz serialu Reservation Dogs Taiki Waititi i Sterlina Harjo. Celem artykułu jest wykazanie podobieństw na poziomie konstruk­cji młodych bohaterów w tekstach literackich i dziele filmowym z uwzględnieniem takich kategorii jak dekonstrukcja stereotypów Indian, humor umożliwiający przetrwanie (survival humor – Lincoln 1993) oraz kwestii gatunkowych. Ta ostatnia kategoria obejmuje opowieści o dojrzewaniu, opowieści drogi, opowieści o powrocie do domu (homing novels – Bevis 1987) oraz realizm magiczny. Wykorzystana metodologia to studia kulturowe, postkolonializm i postmodernizm. Autorka artykułu zamierza wykazać, że wiele środków stylistycznych wykorzystanych do konstrukcji postaci w serialu Reservation Dogs pojawiło się znacznie wcześniej w kanonicznych utworach współczesnej prozy rdzennych Amerykanów i twórcy serialu wydają się podejmować inteligentny dialog z tradycją literacką, ponieważ podobnie stawiają na afirmację współczesnej kultury indiańskiej, podkreślają jej związki z popkulturą i bardzo często wprowadzają czarny humor, oddając rdzennym Amerykanom sprawczość i kontrolę nad własną opowieścią. ABSTRACT The article is a comparative analysis of contemporary Native American fiction (Louise Erdrich’s novels Love Medicine and The Bingo Palace, Sherman Alexie’s short story collec­tion The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven), and the series Reservation Dogs by Taika Waititi and Sterlin Harjo. The aim of the article is to indicate similarities in the construction of young protagonists of the selected literary texts and the series, with an emphasis on Indian stereotype deconstruction, survival humour and the genres. This last category encompasses bildungsroman, road novel/story, homing novel/story and magical realism. The methodology used in the article includes cultural studies, postcolonialism and postmodernism. The author of the article wants to argue that many stylistic devices used in the character construction in Reservation Dogs have appeared much earlier in the canonical works of Native American fiction and Waititi and Harjo seem to enter into an intelligent dialogue with the literary tradition because similarly to it, they affirm contemporary indigenous culture, stress its connection with popular culture and very often introduce the black humour which turns Native Americans into subjects of their narratives and gives them back control over their own stories.

The subject of this research is the problem of a painting in Jacques Derrida’s philosophy, namely the so-called “hypothesis of blinding” advanced in his work “Memoirs of the Blind: The Self-Portrait and Other Ruins”: “a painting… and the process of painting must be slightly related to blinding”. Derrida examines this established ontotheological tradition of classical metaphysics: blinding here becomes an essential sacrificial act, a condition that enables transition from physical eye to spiritual. Therefore, Derrida describes it as “sacrificial” economy, inevitably followed by the artist. Each work of the artist is prophecy of a blind person and designates horizons of the future. Explicating the aforementioned hypothesis of J. Derrida, the author refers to not only the text of “Memoirs of the Blind” and the accompanying documental narrative but also attempts to reconstruct the eponymous exhibition held the Louvre Palace in 1990, coordinated by Derrida. Comparison of these three layers provided better understanding “hypothesis of blinding”, and allowed inscribing to a more general philosophical context of deconstruction, as well as reconsidering the problems of figurative, mimetic and representative nature of a painting. The author comes ti the conclusion that essence of a painting is no way related with the visible, but its origin takes roots purely from memory.

The literary tradition has preserved three Artes Rhetoricae written for the last of the Valois kings, who reigned in France under the name of Henry III from 1574 to 1589. These three texts are Jacques Davy Du Perron's Avant-discours de rhetorique, ou Traitté de l'eloquence, Jacques Amyot's Projet de l'eloquence royale, and Germain Forget's Rhetorique françoise faicte particulierement pour le roy Henry 3. All three very likely originated as academic speeches pronounced at the Louvre, in the presence of Henry III, in the final sessions of the Palace Academy during the summer of 1579. This article offers a re-reading of the three treatises in order to situate them in the history of rhetoric. It aims to show how each author collects and presents teachings of the principal rhetorical traditions. Thus, Du Perron, inspired mainly by Quintilian and Cicero, proposes a kind of abridged version of the rhetorical thought of Latin Antiquity. Amyot, for his part, puts forth a synthesis of ancient Greek rhetorical theory starting with Plutarch, Dyonisius of Halicarnassus and Demetrius of Phalerus. Germain Forget provides an account of Renaissance innovations, by adopting the nomenclature of Peter Ramus under the rubric of elocutio. The objective of this essay is to shed light on the complementary nature of the three treatises, as well as to suggest a probable order in which they were presented to the King, following a logical gradation from the most general to the most specific.

In this paper I trace the emergence, development, and demise of a hitherto largely ignored but peculiarly French architectural type, the domed entry pavilion. The essential features of the Porte Dauphine at Fontainebleau are traced to the elder du Cerceau's projects for portals at Verneuil I and Charleval combined with suggestions drawn from temporary structures erected for royal entries, particularly that of Henry IV into Rouen. I then propose that the formal logic of the Porte Dauphine compels one to interpret it as an architectural proclamation of Henry's emerging claim to royal absolutism, an assertion backed contextually by a close scrutiny of the sociopolitical situation at the time of its inception and erection. This new monarchic image of power finds its aesthetic maturity in the better-known domed entry pavilion of the Luxembourg Palace. This pavilion in turn is a fusion of the Porte Dauphine with alternative formal possibilities found at Verneuil II and Montceaux, the latter already an important seat of the Luxembourg's patron and Henry's consort, Marie de'Medici. In a possible challenge-and-response series, the duchess of Longueville's château of Coulommiers, its domed entry based on the Valois mausoleum, had immediately preceded the Luxembourg. Coulommiers in turn proved a foil for the immense country seat of Richelieu, itself a foil for the project for Blois promoted by Marie's younger son. Thirty years later the architect of Blois, François Mansart, sought to revive the motif of the domed entry with all of its layers of significance in his masterful designs for the east façade of the Louvre. Formally and politically such a revival was not possible in the age of Louis XIV.

‘Can I fix Rome for you on this poor sheet of paper?’ Something like Petrarch's lament must precede any attempt to sum up Rome in words; only an Atlas could do justice to the vast weight of such a city. But there is at least one compensation: we are describing a city that we all know, or think we know. For Montaigne, it was the first city that entered his consciousness: ‘I have had knowledge of the affairs of Rome long time before I had knowledge of those of my own house. I knew the Capitol and its platform before I knew Louvre, the palace of our kings in Paris; the river Tiber before Seine’. And for him it remained the ultimate city: ‘And therefore can I not look so often into the situation of their streets and houses, and those wondrous-strange ruins, that may be said to reach down to the Antipodes, but so often must I amuse myself on them. Is it nature or by the error of fantasy, that the seeing of places we know to have been frequented or inhabited by men whose memory is esteemed or mentioned in stories doth in some sort move and stir us up as much or more than the hearing of their noble deeds or reading of their compositions?’ For Freud, the city provided the best analogy for the human consciousness itself, an overlayering of past and present events, all capable of being experienced simultaneously. He asks us, in a flight of fancy, to ‘suppose that Rome is not a human habitation but a psychical entity with a similarly long and copious past — an entity, that is to say, in which nothing that has once come into being will have passed away and all the earlier phases of development continue to exist alongside the latest one’.

This paper examines the discursivity of nationalism in Egypt during the late nineteenth century; a period of vibrant political and architectural transformation that manifests the ragged edge of British empire. To explore this discursive terrain, this paper examines the transnationalism of multiethnic intellectuals and architectural themes. Progressive intellectuals, including the Armenian and Jewish Italian Adib Ishaq, and Yaqub Sanu—all disciples of the originally Persian scholar Jamal al-Din al-Afghani—coincided with the design of ambivalent architectural themes. The architecture and urban context of this period, whether patronized by the colonized or the colonizer, reflected the notion of transculturation through mutual fluctuation and ambivalence between traditional and imperial expressions. Projects such as the Egyptian Museum, Muntazah Palace, Awqaf building, the Lord residency, and the New Hotel, coincided with a context that interprets the ‘contact zone’—a concept posited by the theorist Mary Louise Pratt in Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation (2007). For Pratt, the contact zone is a site of creative possibility, where innovative exemplars of transculturation, resulting in the mutual transformation of subjects and histories after their trajectories intersect in a space of copresence. The aim is to fray polarized representations of nationalism and to better appreciate the progressive creative and intellectual transformation that shaped Egypt ahead of the militaristic or religious expressions of nationalism that dominated the twentieth century.

La correspondance de l'astronome Ismaël Boulliau (1605-1694), conservateur du cabinet Dupuy au palais parisien de la famille De Thou, constitue un fonds majeur pour l'étude des échanges scientifiques, diplomatiques et politiques du XVIIe siècle. Grâce aux rapports qu'ils entretenait avec Stanisław Lubieniecki, théologien socinien, et avec Johannes Hevelius, astronome actif à Gdańsk, Boulliau était toujours bien informé des nouvelles polonaises. En même temps, il recevait les copies des rapports qu'un agent envoyait régulièrement de Vienne à Pierre des Noyers, secrétaire de la reine de Pologne Louise-Marie de Gonzague. De surcroît, ses informateurs polonais et viennois permettaient à l'astronome français d'être au courant des événements de Hongrie, théâtre militaire de la guerre menée par les forces ottomanes contre l'alliance chrétienne en 1663-64. Dans la possession de Boulliau, on retrouve plusieurs documents relatifs à Nicolas Zrínyi (1620-1664), poète, écrivain et chef de guerre croato-hongrois, dont les exploits militaires lui valurent une renommée européenne pendant ce conflit. Dans cet article, nous présentons quelques lettres qui parlent de lui, ensuite nous nous focalisons sur un poème latin composé au lycée protestant de Gdańsk, dont la copie manuscrite fut reçue par Boulliau. Écrit à l'éloge de Zrínyi, le texte fut originairement publié sous forme imprimée, dans une édition bilingue, munie d'une version allemande. L'ode fut récitée le 15 mai 1664 dans l'auditoire du lycée par l'élève Christoph Crebisius, avec le soutien de son professeur Johann Peter Titz (1612-1689). Vu leur expérience avec la poésie circonstancielle, tous les deux ont pu contribué à la genèse des deux poèmes, et puisque tous les deux écrivaient de temps en temps des poèmes paratextuels pour des ouvrages astronomiques, l'un et l'autre ont pu faire parvenir le poème à Boulliau. Tandis que le poème latin abonde dans les lieux communs d'une culture scolaire, comparant les exploits chrétiens aux douze travaux d'Hercule, la version allemande évite de surcharger son lecteur avec des références érudites. Les deux textes s'accordent sur la nécessité d'une alliance entre les pouvoirs chrétiens sous l'enseigne de l'empereur Léopold Ier. Enfin, l'article propose une édition des poèmes latin et allemand avec une traduction littérale hongroise.

Natural asphalt (or bitumen) deposits, oil seepage and liquid oil shows are widespread in the Middle East, especially in the Zagros mountains of Iran. Ancient people from northern Iraq, south–west Iran and the Dead Sea area extensively used this ubiquitous natural resource until the Neolithic period (7000 to 6000 BC). Evidence of earlier use has been recently documented in the Syrian desert near (Boëda et al. 1996) near El Kown, where bitumen–coated flint implements, dated to 40,000 BC (Mousterian period), have been unearthed. This discovery at least proves that bitumen was used by Neanderthal populations as hafting material to fix handles to their flint tools. Numerous testimonies, proving the importance of this petroleum–based material in Ancient civilizations, were brought to light by the excavations conducted in the Near East as of the beginning of the century. Bitumen remains show a wide range of uses that can be classified under several headings. First of all, bitumen was largely used in Mesopotamia and Elam as mortar in the construction of palaces (e.g. the Darius Palace in Susa), temples, ziggurats (e.g. the so–called ‘Tower of Babel’ in Babylon), terraces (e.g. the famous ‘Hanging Gardens of Babylon’) and exceptionally for roadway coating (e.g. the processional way of Babylon). Since the Neolithic, bitumen served to waterproof containers (baskets, earthenware jars, storage pits), wooden posts, palace grounds (e.g. in Mari and Haradum), reserves of lustral waters, bathrooms, palm roofs, etc. Mats, sarcophagi, coffins and jars, used for funeral practices, were often covered and sealed with bitumen. Reed and wood boats were also caulked with bitumen. Abundant lumps of bituminous mixtures used for that particular purpose have been found in storage rooms of houses at Ra's al–Junayz in Oman. Bitumen was also a widespread adhesive in antiquity and served to repair broken ceramics, fix eyes and horns on statues (e.g. at Tell al–Ubaid around 2500 BC). Beautiful decorations with stones, shells, mother of pearl, on palm trees, cups, ostrich eggs, musical instruments (e.g. the Queen's lyre) and other items, such as rings, jewellery and games, have been excavated from the Royal tombs in Ur. They are on view in the British Museum. With a special enigmatic material, commonly referred to as ‘bitumen mastic’, the inhabitants of Susa sculpted masterpieces of art which are today exhibited in the Louvre Museum in Paris. This unique collection is presented in a book by Connan and Deschesne (1996). Last, bitumen was also considered as a powerful remedy in medical practice, especially as a disinfectant and insecticide, and was used by the ancient Egyptians to prepare mixtures to embalm the corpses of their dead. Modern analytical techniques, currently applied in the field of petroleum geochemistry, have been adapted to the study of numerous archaeological bituminous mixtures found in excavations. More than 700 bituminous samples have been analysed during the last decade, using gas chromatography alone and gas chromatography coupled with mass spectrometry and isotopic chemistry (carbon and hydrogen mainly). These powerful tools, focused on the detailed analysis of biomarkers in hydrocarbon fractions, were calibrated on various well–known natural sources of bitumen in Iraq, Syria, Iran, Bahrain and Kuwait. These reference studies have made it possible to establish the origins of bitumen from numerous archaeological sites and to document the bitumen trade routes in the Middle East and the Arabo–Persian Gulf. Using a well–documented case history, Tell el ‘Oueili (5800 to 3500 BC) in South Mesopotamia, we will illustrate in this paper how these new molecular and isotopic tools can help us to recognize different sources of bitumen and to trace the ancient trade routes through time. These import routes were found to vary with major cultural and political changes in the area under study. A second example, referring to the prehistoric period, describes bitumen traces on flint implements, dated from Mousterian times. This discovery, from the Umm El Tlel excavations near El Kown in Syria, was reported in 1996 in Boëda et al . At that time, the origin of the bitumen had not been elucidated due to contamination problems. Last year, a ball of natural oil–stained sands, unearthed from the same archaeological layer, allowed us to determine the source of the bitumen used. This source is regional and located in the Jebel Bichri, nearly 40 km from the archaeological site. The last case history was selected to illustrate another aspect of the investigations carried out. Recent geochemical studies on more than 20 balms from Egyptian mummies from the Intermediate, Ptolemaic and Roman periods have revealed that these balms are composed of various mixtures of bitumen, conifer resins, grease and beeswax. Bitumen occurs with the other ingredients and the balms studied show a great variety of molecular compositions. Bitumen from the Dead Sea area is the most common source but some other sources (Hit in Iraq?) are also revealed by different molecular patterns. The absolute amount of bitumen in balms varies from almost zero to 30% per weight.

The RMS Titanic was the ultimate symbol of the power and ubiquitousness of the British Empire. Everything was in the finest Edwardian Classic style. The public rooms were sumptuous with a grand Baroque stairway leading into the Grand Salon. There was the first-ever on board swimming pool, a Palm Court, a Parisian Café and a lounge modelled after a room at the Palace of Versailles. On the evening of 14 April, 1912, the ship hit an iceberg. It took two hours and 40 minutes after hitting the floating ice for the ship to go down. Construction of the Parliament Buildings in Wellington began in 1912. The finally approved design was an amalgamation of the winning competition entry of John Campbell and Claude Paton and the fourth placed design by Campbell and Lawrence. The design was in the distinct Edwardian Classic image of the British Empire but with only a little of the exuberance of some of Campbell's Imperial Baroque work. Interestingly, the building displayed some New Zealand character, most notably in the use of materials and in the Māori Affairs Committee Room. The building was not completed, half finished, until 1922. This paper discusses the nature of the entries to the Parliament Building competition and the politics surrounding the event. It focuses on the architecture of John Campbell, most notably his affinity for the Edwardian Classical style. The paper explores the significance of the style in the New Zealand context and conjectures on other influences that might have held some sway. Finally, the paper suggests the building might have benefited from suffering a fate similar to that of the Titanic.

Artykuł dotyczy mało znanego, pierwszego etapu funkcjonowania pałacu Belweder w Warszawie (Ujazdów), który został wybudowany z drewna (1659–1663) przez Krzysztofa Zygmunta Pac, kanclerza Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego jako ekskluzywna podmiejska willa. Jej powstanie nawiązywało do tradycji otium, willi włoskich, ale też do znanego z czasów dynastii Wazów kreowana siedzib otoczonych ogrodami, które również spełniały funkcje reprezentacyjną. Fundując Belweder Pac stworzył ekskluzywną, choć drewnianą, siedzibę położoną na malowniczej skarpie Wisły, przy reprezentacyjnej trasie prowadzącej do Warszawy. Podarował ją swojej żonie, Klarze Isabelli de Mailly Lascaris, krewnej królowej Ludwiki Marii, spowinowaconej z najwybitniejszymi rodami francuskimi, a także z cesarzami bizantyjskimi. W ten sposób Krzysztof Zygmunt Pac nawiązał do tradycji miejsca, bowiem dobra Ujazdów były związane z Anną, księżniczką mazowiecką oraz Anną Jagiellonką. Dzięki wykorzystanym w artykule źródłom ikonograficznym i archiwalnym udało się zrekonstruować wygląd budynku i otaczających go ogrodów, a także przywołać wyposażenie pałacu z czasów Krzysztofa Zygmunta Paca. Parterowy pałac zbudowano na planie kwadratu, na wysokim cokole, z reprezentacyjną galerią otwierającą się na widok od strony Wisły. Projektantem budowli był najpewniej Tylman van Gameren. The Belvedere Palace of Krzysztof Zygmunt Pac and Klara Isabelle de Mailly The article deals with the little-known, first stage of the history of the Belvedere residence in Warsaw when it was constructed and arranged (1659–1663) by Krzysztof Zygmunt Pac, Chancellor of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Referring to a tradition, established in the times of the Vasa dynasty, of seats surrounded by gardens and of an antique otium and Italian villa, Pac created an exclusive seat, albeit made of wood, situated on a picturesque escarpment of the River Vistula, on the ceremonial route leading to Warsaw. He gave it to his wife, Klara Isabella de Mailly Lascari, a relative of Queen Marie Louise and a descendant of the most eminent French families, who at the same time was related to the Byzantine emperors. In this way Krzysztof Zygmunt Pac drew upon the tradition of the place, as Ujazdów had been connected with Anna, Princess of Mazovia as well as Anna Jagiellon. Thanks to iconographic and archival sources as yet not analysed, it was possible to reconstruct the outline of the building and at least partially map its furnishings. The villa was constructed on a square plan, erected on a high plinth as a ground-floor building with four sections, with a representative gallery opened wide onto the Vistula side. It appears from this that the palace was designed by Tylman van Gameren.

Dijian tushuo (帝鑑圖說; The Emperor's Mirror, Illustrated and Discussed) is a book compiled by Zhang Juzheng (張居正, 1525-1582), a great scholar during the late period of the Ming Dynasty of China. The book was made for the education of Wanli Emperor (萬歷帝, r.1572-1620), who rose to the throne at an early age. It contains 117 stories about the virtuous and evil deeds of previous emperors, complete with illustrations and relevant articles. After its presentation to the emperor in 1572, several editions of the book were produced by the end of the nineteenth century, and copies were distributed to neighboring countries like Korea and Japan and even to France via Jesuit missionaries. There are copies of more than twelve extant woodblock-printed and lithographic editions in East Asia, as well as copies reprinted with copper plates in France. Also, copies of the book with color illustrations remain in China and France. In Korea, colored illustrations of Dijian tushuo are kept under different titles such as Gunwang jwaumyeong (君王左右銘; The King's Motto) and Dohae yeokdae gungam (圖解歷代君鑑; The Mirror of Rulers throughout the Ages, An Illustrated Explanation) at the Gyeonggi Provincial Museum and the Jangseogak, the archive of the Academy of Korean Studies, respectively.<br/>In China, Dijian tushuo formed part of the education of the crown princes during the Ming and Qing Dynasties. More than eight different editions were made by the flourishing commercial publication industry during the two dynasties. In Joseon royal court, the book was recognized as one of the didactic books for the discipline of kingship. As for Japan, the shoguns of the Edo Bakufu used the book to advertise themselves as ideal rulers or to make Chinese royal palace genre paintings as an exotic hobby. Isidore Stanislas Henri Helman (1743~1809), a French engraver, made reprinted copies of the book amid Chinoiseries popularized in eighteenth-century France. The French edition reflects not only the public criticism of King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette but also Helman’s implicit intention to receive financial support from Marie Louise Josephin de Savoie and the Count of Provence (later Louis XVIII), first in line to the throne at the time.<br/>Dijian tushuo was adopted in various countries in East Asia and Europe between the end of the sixteenth century and the early twentieth century, although the way it was used differed from country to country depending on their respective political, social, and cultural situations. However, all these countries had one thing in common– they had future rulers read the book. Perhaps, the fact that it was written for the education of the crown princes of China served as the stimulus for leaders and intellectuals alike. Studies on the ways in which books like Dijian tushuo were distributed as an aggregation of knowledge, information, and culture are thought to be significant and useful in identifying certain characteristics shared by diverse countries and in shedding light on differences in their political and social backgrounds and their art history.

Na de schipbreuk van het Verdinaso, maakte Jef Van Bilsen (1913-1996) nog kortstondig deel uit van de groep Dinaso's rond Paul Persijn en diens alternatieve Verdinaso-directorium. Ondertussen ging hij ook op zoek naar andere manieren om aan betekenisvolle politiek te doen onder het bezettingsregime. Vanuit de overtuiging dat Duitsland nog lange tijd heer en meester over Europa zou blijven, raakte Van Bilsen in 1941 verwikkeld in een kluwen van nationalistische en royalistische Nieuwe Orde-initiatieven. In die middens ondernamen ook socialistisch voorman Hendrik De Man en de industrieel Tony Herbert afzonderlijke pogingen om iets zinvols te ondernemen in afwachting van het oorlogseinde.Tijdens Van Bilsens reis naar Berlijn in oktober 1940 was de idee ontstaan om een soort eenheidsbeweging rond Hendrik De Man op te zetten. Concreet moest De Man, in de hoedanigheid van een soort kanselier, een kabinet vormen met Dinaso’s. Dit op basis van een gemeenschappelijk programma waarin de Dinaso-ideologie centraal stond. Van Bilsen stond echter alleen met zijn enthousiasme want andere Dinaso's zagen een mogelijke samenwerking met De Man niet zitten. Bovendien stond ook De Man zelf bijzonder sceptisch tegenover het hele opzet. Verder dan een introductiegesprek tussen Van Bilsen en De Man is het aanvankelijk niet gekomen.Pas begin februari 1941 vond een eerste weerzien plaats tussen Van Bilsen en De Man. Deze laatste toonde zich toen bijzonder geïnteresseerd in de ontbinding van het Verdinaso en op 1 maart volgde een tweede ontmoeting in verband met de De Mans voorbereidingen voor de uitgave van Le Travail, dagblad van de Unie voor Hand- en Geestesarbeiders. De Man was op zoek naar enthousiaste medewerkers voor zijn krant en hengelde daarom naar Van Bilsens hulp. Van Bilsen negeerde dit en stelde voor om een Nederlandstalig dagblad 'met standing' uit te geven, los van de Unie voor Hand- en Geestesarbeiders en qua programma vergelijkbaar met dat van het Rexistische Le Nouveau Journal. Een bezoek van Otto Abetz (Duits ambassadeur in bezet Frankrijk en oud-leerling van De Man) aan Brussel, bracht dit voornemen in een stroomversnelling. Met de steun van Abetz zou het mogelijk zijn om een Vlaams dagblad uit te geven dat 'de Belgische thesis' verdedigde. Van Bilsen ging mee in die redenering en werkte alvast een voorstel uit. Van Bilsen wilde een 'politiek, cultureel, economisch informatie- en leidingsblad' uitgeven met als taak het 'negatieve nationalisme, zoals het 'anti-Fransch, anti-Waalsch en anti-Hollandsch', te bestrijden. Het 'België van morgen' zou volgens de ontwerpnota georiënteerd zijn op de vereniging van de Nederlanden en om dit alles te realiseren moest na de bezetting een 'Orde-revolutie van bovenaf' worden doorgevoerd. Er moesten echter nog heel wat praktische zaken geregeld worden vooraleer tot een daadwerkelijke uitgave kon overgegaan worden. In het bijzonder de financiering van het project en het vinden van een geïnteresseerde drukker bleek al snel onmogelijk. Door een gebrek aan middelen is er van een dagblad dan ook niets in huis gekomen.Toch had Van Bilsen de ontwerpnota niet voor niets opgesteld. Tijdens het voorjaar van 1941 vond De Man inspiratie in een initiatief van Robert Poulet en Raymond De Becker, de respectieve hoofdredacteurs van Le Nouveau Journal en de 'gestolen' Le Soir. Zij brachten alle rechtse Waalse groeperingen samen onder de noemer 'Parti Unique des Provinces Romanes de Belgique'. Eind mei 1941 voerde De Man van zijn kant een aantal gesprekken met als doel een soortgelijke organisatie aan Vlaamse kant uit te bouwen. Daartoe werd ook Van Bilsen opnieuw ingeschakeld. Eind mei 1941 werd hem verzocht om de voornoemde ontwerpnota aan De Man over te brengen. Waarschijnlijk hoopte deze de ontwerpnota nu te kunnen gebruiken als politiek-ideologische fundering voor een eventueel blad ter ondersteuning van de nog op te richten nieuwe formatie.Tijdens een eerste samenkomst op 6 juni 1941 deed De Man zijn plannen uit de doeken aan een achttal genodigden, onder wie ook Van Bilsen. De Man wilde samen met de Parti Unique een alternatieve eenheidsbeweging vormen voor de taalgrensoverschrijdende collaboratiecoalitie tussen het VNV en Rex. Daarvoor moest eerst en vooral een Vlaams pendant van de Parti Unique opgestart worden met een aantal 'Vlaamse personaliteiten'. De politiek-ideologische agenda van de op te richten beweging werd voorgesteld in een 'Schets van een Programma voor een Vlaamsche Beweging in het kader van een Belgisch Federale Staat'. De beweging zou zich niet profileren als een nieuwe partij. Het zou louter gaan om een groepering van 'thans geïsoleerde personen, en kernvorming, als mogelijk element van een ruimere constellatie later'. Ten tweede zou de groepering nationaal-socialistisch zijn, voor een socialistische orde en een autoritaire staat. Van Bilsen struikelde echter over De Mans federalistische opvattingen voor de toekomst van het Belgisch staatsverband. Het was duidelijk dat er tussen De Man en Van Bilsen een communautair meningsverschil bestond dat voor die eerste onbelangrijk scheen, maar voor Van Bilsen van onoverkomelijk belang was. Uiteindelijk bleken Van Bilsens reserves ten aanzien van een zoveelste samenwerking met De Man overbodig. De oprichting van een Nationale Bond-Vlaanderen (NBV), zoals het project ondertussen heette, werd namelijk verboden door de Duitse militaire overheid.Voor Van Bilsen was het na deze laatste poging met De Man duidelijk dat een zinvolle aanwezigheidspolitiek onmogelijk was onder de bezetting. Hij sloot zich vervolgens aan bij de clandestiene beweging van Tony Herbert, maar eigenlijk maakte Van Bilsen de mentale overstap al vroeger. Herberts beweging vond zijn wortels in een netwerk van kleine 'morele weerstandsgroepen'. Herbert was een van de weinige figuren die nooit heeft willen twijfelen aan een geallieerde eindoverwinning en vond dat men, gezien 'een Duitse overwinning voor ons land en volk een katastrofe zou zijn, slechts in één hypothese moest werken'. Hij zag het daarom als zijn plicht om tijdens de bezetting een eensgezinde groep mensen klaar te stomen om, onmiddellijk na de bevrijding, de eenheid van het land te verzekeren om zo de economische, sociale en politieke problemen van de naoorlogse periode het hoofd te bieden. De grootste uitdaging hierbij zou volgens Herbert de integratie van Walen en Vlamingen in een nieuw België zijn.Concreet begon Herbert tijdens het najaar van 1940 voordrachten te geven 'over de nationale betekenis van de Vlaamse Beweging'. Toenadering tussen Waalse en Vlaamse elites en de vervlaamsing van de Franstalige Vlamingen stonden hierbij telkens centraal. Met dit 'werk van nationale vernieuwing' oogstte hij al snel succes, ook omdat het patriottisme hoogtij vierde in de middens die hij aandeed. Begin 1941 kon Herbert al een beroep doen op een bescheiden netwerk van geëngageerde studiegroepen, al was het toen nog te vroeg om van een georganiseerde beweging te spreken. Vanaf maart 1941 vertakte dit netwerk zich ook tot in Wallonië en op 19 juni dat jaar, exact een week voordat de oprichting van de NBV verboden werd, had Van Bilsen een beslissend gesprek met Herbert. Qua politiek-ideologische instelling sloot de ultraroyalistische en antiparlementaire actie van de Herbert-beweging goed aan bij Van Bilsens discours. Bovendien was attentisme niets voor iemand met een innerlijke gedrevenheid als die van Van Bilsen. De concrete aanpak van de clandestiene Herbert-groepen moet, na de resem Duitse weigeringen tot erkenning, een heuse verademing geweest zijn.Het staat vast dat Van Bilsen zich vanaf september 1941 volledig aan de Herbert-beweging wijdde. Van Bilsens 'schamele' advocatenpraktijk bleek de ideale dekmantel om 'herbertianen' te ontvangen, vergaderingen te houden en de werking van de beweging te stuwen. Bovendien liet zijn registratie bij de balie hem toe om afspraken te regelen in het Justitiepaleis en de vredegerechten. Herbert zorgde aldus voor een nieuw kantoor op een centrale locatie in Brussel waar Van Bilsen daarna, van september 1941 tot februari 1944, het hart van de Herbert-beweging leidde. Mede omdat zich onder de Herbertianen een groot aantal verzetslieden bevonden, verzeilde ook Van Bilsen geleidelijk in de wereld van het actieve verzet.________Jef Van Bilsen between Hendrik De Man and Tony Herbert. The political search by a former DinasoAfter the failure of the Verdinaso party, Jef Van Bilsen (1913-1996) briefly joined the Dinaso Group led by Paul Persijn with his alternative Verdinaso-directory. Meanwhile he also started searching for different ways of being involved in significant politics during the regime of the Occupation. Based on the conviction that Germany would continue as lord and master of Europe for a long time to come, Van Bilsen was caught up in a tangle of nationalistic and royalist New Order initiatives. The socialist leader Hendrik De Man and the industrialist Tony Herbert also started separate initiatives in that environment to undertake something meaningful while awaiting the end of the war. During his trip to Berlin in October 1940, Van Bilsen conceived the idea of starting a kind of unity movement centred around Hendrik De Man. This meant in fact that De Man, as a kind of chancellor was to constitute a cabinet together with the Dinaso members, based on a common programme focused on the Dinaso-ideology. However, Van Bilsen was isolated in his enthusiasm, for the other Dinaso members did not consider it feasible to cooperate with De Man. Moreover, De Man himself was very sceptical towards the whole concept. At first, Van Bilsen and De Man did not get beyond an introductory conversation. Not until the beginning of February 1941 Van Bilsen and De Man met again. At that time, De Man was very interested in the dissolution of the Verdinaso party and on 1 March, a second meeting took place in view of De Man’s preparations for the publication of Le Travail, a daily paper of the Union of Manual and Intellectual Workers. De Man was searching for enthusiastic collaborators for his paper and he therefore angled for the assistance of Van Bilsen. Van Bilsen ignored this attempt and proposed instead to publish a daily paper ‘of standing’ in the Dutch language that would be separate from the Union of Manual and Intellectual Workers and whose programme would be comparable with that of the Rexist Le Nouveau Journal. A visit by Otto Abetz (the German Ambassador in occupied France and a former student of De Man) to Brussels gave impetus to this intention. With the support of Abetz it would be possible to publish a Flemish daily paper that would defend the ‘Belgian proposition’. Van Bilsen agreed with this line of thinking, and immediately drafted a proposal. Van Bilsen wished to publish a ‘political, cultural, economic informative and leading newspaper that would have the mission to combat ‘the negative nationalism ‘like ‘the anti-French, anti-Walloon and anti-Dutch’ types of nationalism. According to the draft note, the ‘Belgium of tomorrow’ would be geared towards the reunion of the Netherlands, and in order to bring all of this about it would be necessary to carry out a ‘top-down Order-revolution’ after the occupation. However, a large number of practical matters needed to be resolved before a factual publication could be produced. It soon proved that in particular the financing of the project and finding an interested printer was impossible. Because of a lack of finances, the daily paper never saw the light of day. However, Van Bilsen had not composed the draft note in vain. During the spring of 1941, De Man was inspired by an initiative by Robert Poulet and Raymond De Becker, the respective chief editors of Le Nouveau Journal and the 'stolen' Le Soir. They united all right-wing Walloon factions under the common denominator of the 'Parti Unique des Provinces Romanes de Belgique'. At the end of May 1941, De Man had a number of conversations in his turn in order to set up a similar organisation for the Flemish side. Van Bilsen became involved again for this purpose. At the end of May 1941, he was asked to hand over the previously mentioned draft note to De Man. The latter probably hoped to make use of the draft note as a politico-ideological foundation for a future publication for the as yet to be founded formation. During a first meeting on 6 June 1941, De Man revealed his plans to eight invited guests including Van Bilsen. De Man wanted to start an alternative unity movement together with the Parti Unique to achieve a collaboration coalition across the language boundaries between the VNV and Rex. A preliminary to this end was to start up a Flemish counterpart to the Parti Unique that would include a number of ‘Flemish personalities’. The politico-ideological agenda of this future movement was presented in an ‘Outline of a programme for a Flemish movement in the framework of a Belgian Federal State’. The movement was not to be profiled as a new party. It would only concern a grouping of ‘persons that were isolated at present, and could form a core, which might be a possible element of a larger constellation later on’. Secondly, the grouping would be national-socialist, propagating a socialist order and an authoritarian state. However, Van Bilsen considered the federalist concepts of De Man an obstacle for the future of the Belgian Union of state. It was clear that De Man and Van Bilsen had different opinions about the communities. The former considered this of little importance, but for Van Bilsen it was an insurmountable problem. In the end, Van Bilsen’s reservations about yet another attempt of cooperation with De Man proved to be superfluous, as the German military authorities forbade the foundation of a National Union-Flanders (NBV) as the project was called by then. After this last attempt with De Man, Van Bilsen concluded that a meaningful politics of presence was impossible during the occupation. Consequently, he joined the clandestine movement of Tony Herbert, though he really had already switched his allegiance earlier on. Herbert’s movement was based on a network of small ‘moral resistance groups’. Herbert was one of the few people who never wanted to doubt the eventual victory of the Allies and he considered that in view of the fact that ‘a German victory would constitute a catastrophe for our country and our people, you could really only act based on one hypothesis’. Therefore, he considered it his duty to prepare a group of like-minded people during the occupation in order to be able to ensure the unity of the country and thereby confront the economic, social and political problems of the post-war period immediately after the liberation. Herbert considered that the main challenge would then be the integration of the Walloons and the Flemings into a new Belgium. During the autumn of 1940, Herbert started in fact to give lectures about the ‘national significance of the Flemish Movement’. He always focalised on the rapprochement between Walloon and Flemish elites and the process of converting French speaking Flemings into Flemish speakers. He quickly became successful with this ‘work of national renewal’, in part because patriotism reigned supreme among the circles he visited. At the beginning of 194l, Herbert could already call on a modest network of committed study groups, even if it was too early to call it an organised movement. From March 1941, this network also started spreading into Wallonia and on 19 June of that year, exactly one week before the foundation of the NBV was forbidden, Van Bilsen had a decisive discussion with Herbert. The politico-ideological views of the ultra-royalist and anti-parliamentarian action of the Herbert Movement fitted in well with the discourse of Van Bilsen. The concrete approach of the clandestine Herbert-groups must have provided great relief, after the series of German refusals for recognition. It has been established that Van Bilsen dedicated himself completely to the Herbert Movement from September 1941. Van Bilsen’s 'humble’ lawyer’s office proved to be the ideal cover for receiving the members of the Herbert Movement, to organise meetings and to promote the operation of the Movement. Moreover, his registration at the bar allowed him to organise meetings in the Justice Palace and the justice of the peace courts. Thus, Herbert provided a new office in a central location in Brussels, from where Van Belsen led the core of the Herbert Movement from September 1941 until February 1944. In part, because the Herbert Movement counted a large number of members of the resistance, Van Bilsen gradually also ended up in the world of active resistance.

NB: Artiklen er på engelsk, kun resuméet er på dansk.Da Henrik af Anjou i 1575 efter at være vendt hjem fra Polen blev kronet som Henrik III, konge af Frankrig, samlede han et akademi omkring sig. Henrik III var overbevist om, at han ved at erhverve en humanistiske kultur ville kunne befæste sin dømmekraft og udbrede en følelse af samdrægtighed til sit folk, der siden 1562havde været plaget af borgerkrig mellem katolikker og protestanter. Håndskriftet Thott. 315 fol. i Det Kongelige Bibliotek i København indeholder de moralfilosofiske forelæsninger, som digterne Pierre de Ronsard, Philippe Desportes, Jean-Antoine de Baïf, Amadis Jamyn, Jean Bertaut holdt ved Akademiet i 1576. I sin artikel præsenterer Rouget håndskriftet og beskriver dets historiske betydning gennem en sammenligning med de andre tekstsamlinger, der indeholder Paladsakademiets forelæsninger. Rouget inddrager nye dokumenter og identificerer forfatterne til de forelæsninger som hidtil har været anonyme. Thott. 315 fol. var blandt de håndskrifter, som Det Kongelige Bibliotek ved testamentarisk bestemmelse arvede fra Grev Otto Thott i 1795, og der vides intet om dets tidligere proveniens. Det består af 195 blade, målet 340 x 232x 36 mm. og er indbundet i samtidigt lyst kalveskind. Håndskriftet indeholder sytten moralfilosofiske forelæsninger om emner såsom forholdet mellem de moralske og de intellektuelle dyder, om glæde og nedstemthed, om vrede, om ærgerrighed, om misundelse og om frygt. Thott. 315 fol. udgør den mest kohærente og righoldige samling af de taler, der blev holdt i 1576 og det blev derfor af Édouard Frémys benyttet som kildetekst til udgivelsen af forelæsningerne i det banebrydende værk L’Académie des derniers Valois. d’après des documents nouveaux et inédits, i 1887. Der fidnes også andre tekstkilder. På det franske nationalbibliotek findes et håndskrift, der mangler den første tale, og som enten stammer fra det københavnske håndskrift eller fra en fælles apograf (BnF, Fonds fr. 2585). Derudover findes håndskrifter med enkelte af forelæsningerne, som fx Ronsards forelæsning om De l’envie (Om misundelse, BnF, Fonds Dupuy 559). François Rouget har for nylig genfundet et håndskrift, der ligeledes indeholder forelæsningerne, og som blev fremstillet på bestilling af Marguerite de Valois, kongens søster - også kendt som La Reine Margot - der i 1576 befandt sig i overvåget ophold på Louvre. Håndskriftet, der nu befinder sig i Sir Paul Gettys Wormsley Library i England, er indbundet i en luksuøs mosaik maroquin indbinding og indeholder dronningens håndskrevne noter. Håndskriftet er blevet præsenteret af Rouget i Renaissance & Réforme, XXXI (4), 2009, pp. 19-39. I Thott. 315 fol. er forfatterne til de enkelte tekststykker med få undtagelser ikke angivet. Der findes i Paris et senere håndskrift fra begyndelsen af det 17. århundrede (BnF (Nouvelles Acquisitions Françaises, n° 4655) der indeholder ti af det københavnske håndskrifts sytten forelæsninger. Gennem en sammenligning af de eksisterende håndskrifter lykkedes det Rouget at rette op på Frémys identifikation af forfatterne og identificere forfatterne til alle de eksisterende forelæsninger fra Paladsakademiet. Til sidst konkluderer Rouget, at undersøgelsen minder om, at forskningsmæssige fremskridt kun er mulige ved at gå tilbage til kilderne.

In 1800, the “Grand dessein” established under Henri IV that aims at uniting the Louvre and Tuileries palaces was relaunched and the completion of the Cour Carrée was undertaken. Historiographical debates followed, with the idea of understanding better and respecting the ancient parts of these buildings. The result was that the Louvre of Lescot and Goujon could be used as a reference for the construction site, or even for everything that had been built up until Henri IV, but the contribution since Louis XIV took a back seat. This historicizing approach made it possible to finally begin the completion process.

In the neoliberal era, to attract more visitors, museums serve not only as cultural landmarks but also as commodities. The new role leads to a transnational and consumer-oriented subsequent form of museums. Many private museums and royal palaces are renovated into publicly accessible consumer-driven architecture. Such a transformation sometimes employs globalised identities, involving collaborative architectural practice in balanced cultural exchanges of ideas. However, since the museums are national projects, they are guided by governments more or less different agendas. So as to understand the role these governments play with, comparisons between two national landmark museums - the Louvre Pyramid in Paris and the Northern part of the Palace Museum in Beijing - will be made here, according to their extension and renovation. The paper analyses similarities in museum situations and it investigates different renovation strategies to fulfilling the respective transformation. Moreover, it discusses causes and effects between the functions, political situations and global practices, associated with ‘governmentality’, referring to the economics and politics in the 1980s’ France and the 21

The Mouweiss site (Shendi area, about 250 km North of Khartoum) is a Nilotic city of the Meroitic period (4th century BCE to 4th century CE), which the Louvre Museum (Paris) began to excavate in 2007. This was a large settlement that included a palace, which was later destroyed. The ruined walls of the palace also housed a medieval necropolis. About thirty rather crudely fashioned pits dug directly into the rubble of the palace were excavated. Radiocarbon dating from the tombs suggests funerary occupation from the “early Christian” to the “classic Christian” period. A macroscopic examination of the skeletal remains of the individual in grave 13 revealed palaeopathological signs pointing to Rhinomaxillary syndrome. The cranium of this 40- to 50-year-old woman showed significant bone resorption, particularly in the nasal area. Associated with these lesions are several modifications of the hands and feet, namely phalangeal acro-osteolysis and destructive diaphyseal remodelling. Differential diagnostic testing, in particular for other infectious/inflammatory diseases, concluded that the type and distribution of the lesions displayed by the individual from grave 13 at Mouweiss were indicative of leprosy. These findings contribute new data to understand the distribution of this disease and new evidence for leprosy in Sudanese Nubia, where there are very few palaeopathological cases illustrating its presence.

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.

Five textile specialists from various backgrounds came together to explore shared interests in Indian fabrics, histories, and architectural patterns. Guided by Rahul Jain’s extraordinary scholarship and generosity, we visited weaving workshops producing exquisite fabric and metallic yarn in our quest to understand the naqsha system for drawloom patterning. In Cholapur and Varanasi, we studied drawlooms set up to weave velvet, lampas, and samite, and a distinguished naqshaband demonstrated the making of a naqsha that provides the design for drawloom lifts. We examined rare historic textiles in New Delhi’s National Museum, Ahmedabad’s Calico Museum of Textiles, Varanasi’s Bharat Kala Bhavan Museum, and private collections. In Jaipur, we visited the Indian Institute of Crafts and Design, Nila House, Anokhi Farm, City Palace Museum, and Prince Albert Hall Museum, and in Ahmedabad, the National Institute of Design and the Kasturbhai Lalbhai Indigo Museum. At Patola House in Patan, we observed the preparation and weaving of double ikat. Our diverse perspectives resulted in a most enjoyable interdisciplinary traveling seminar. Come with us as we share our adventure in collaborative textile research. Themes of inquiry:• Understanding the naqsha harness for the Indian drawloom • Examining relations between textiles and architecture • Using symmetry analysis to recognize pattern repeats • Considering fashion in India, an evolving tradition • Learning about the revival of natural indigo in India • Observing craft traditions preserved through development and sustainability Our team: • Annin Barrett—textile artist and designer; instructor, fashion history and sustainable design • Carol Bier—curator, The Textile Museum (1984-2001); research associate (2001-2020); research scholar, Center for Islamic Studies, Graduate Theological Union • Anna Jolly—curator of textiles 1500-1800, Abegg-Stiftung, Riggisberg, Switzerland • Louise Mackie—curator emerita, Textiles & Islamic Art, the Cleveland Museum of Art, Royal Ontario Museum, and The Textile Museum • Barbara Setsu Pickett—associate professor emerita, Department of Art, University of Oregon

At a time when a trip abroad was out of the reach of most women, even if they could not make the journey, Australian women could imagine “abroad” just by reading popular women’s magazines such as Woman (later Woman’s Day and Home then Woman’s Day) and The Australian Women’s Weekly, and journals, such as The Progressive Woman and The Housewife. Increasingly in the post-war period, these magazines and journals contained advertisements for holidaying abroad, recipes for international foods and articles on overseas fashions. It was not unusual for local manufacturers, to use the lure of travel and exotic places as a way of marketing their goods. Healing Bicycles, for example, used the slogan “In Venice men go to work on Gondolas: In Australia it’s a Healing” (“Healing Cycles” 40), and Exotiq cosmetics featured landscapes of countries where Exotiq products had “captured the hearts of women who treasured their loveliness: Cincinnati, Milan, New York, Paris, Geneva and Budapest” (“Exotiq Cosmetics” 36).Unlike Homer’s Penelope, who stayed at home for twenty years waiting for Odysseus to return from the Trojan wars, women have always been on the move to the same extent as men. Their rich travel stories (Riggal, Haysom, Lancaster)—mostly written as letters and diaries—remain largely unpublished and their experiences are not part of the public record to the same extent as the travel stories of men. Ros Pesman argues that the women traveller’s voice was one of privilege and authority full of excitement and disbelief (Pesman 26). She notes that until well into the second part of the twentieth century, “the journey for Australian women to Europe was much more than a return to the sources of family identity and history” (19). It was also:a pilgrimage to the centres and sites of culture, literature and history and an encounter with “the real world.”Europe, and particularly London,was also the place of authority and reference for all those seeking accreditation and recognition, whether as real writers, real ladies or real politicians and statesmen. (19)This article is about two Australian writers; Helen Seager, a journalist employed by The Argus, a daily newspaper in Melbourne Australia, and Gwen Hughes, a graduate of Emily McPherson College of Domestic Economy in Melbourne, working in England as a lecturer, demonstrator and cookbook writer for Parkinsons’ Stove Company. Helen Seager travelled to England on an assignment for The Argus in 1950 and sent articles each day for publication in the women’s section of the newspaper. Gwen Hughes travelled extensively in the Balkans in the 1930s recording her impressions, observations, and recipes for traditional foods whilst working for Parkinsons in England. These women were neither returning to the homeland for an encounter with the real world, nor were they there as cultural tourists in the Cook’s Tour sense of the word. They were professional writers and their observations about the places they visited offer fresh and lively versions of England and Europe, its people, places, and customs.Helen SeagerAustralian Journalist Helen Seager (1901–1981) wrote a daily column, Good Morning Ma’am in the women’s pages of The Argus, from 1947 until shortly after her return from abroad in 1950. Seager wrote human interest stories, often about people of note (Golding), but with a twist; a Baroness who finds knitting exciting (Seager, “Baroness” 9) and ballet dancers backstage (Seager, “Ballet” 10). Much-loved by her mainly female readership, in May 1950 The Argus sent her to England where she would file a daily report of her travels. Whilst now we take travel for granted, Seager was sent abroad with letters of introduction from The Argus, stating that she was travelling on a special editorial assignment which included: a certificate signed by the Lord Mayor of The City of Melbourne, seeking that any courtesies be extended on her trip to England, the Continent, and America; a recommendation from the Consul General of France in Australia; and introductions from the Premier’s Department, the Premier of Victoria, and Austria’s representative in Australia. All noted the nature of her trip, her status as an esteemed reporter for a Melbourne newspaper, and requested that any courtesy possible to be made to her.This assignment was an indication that The Argus valued its women readers. Her expenses, and those of her ten-year-old daughter Harriet, who accompanied her, were covered by the newspaper. Her popularity with her readership is apparent by the enthusiastic tone of the editorial article covering her departure. Accompanied with a photograph of Seager and Harriet boarding the aeroplane, her many women readers were treated to their first ever picture of what she looked like:THOUSANDS of "Argus" readers, particularly those in the country, have wanted to know what Helen Seager looks like. Here she is, waving good-bye as she left on the first stage of a trip to England yesterday. She will be writing her bright “Good Morning, Ma'am” feature as she travels—giving her commentary on life abroad. (The Argus, “Goodbye” 1)Figure 1. Helen Seager and her daughter Harriet board their flight for EnglandThe first article “From Helen in London” read,our Helen Seager, after busy days spent exploring England with her 10-year-old daughter, Harriet, today cabled her first “Good Morning, Ma’am” column from abroad. Each day from now on she will report from London her lively impressions in an old land, which is delightfully new to her. (Seager, “From Helen” 3)Whilst some of her dispatches contain the impressions of the awestruck traveller, for the most they are exquisitely observed stories of the everyday and the ordinary, often about the seemingly most trivial of things, and give a colourful, colonial and egalitarian impression of the places that she visits. A West End hair-do is described, “as I walked into that posh looking establishment, full of Louis XV, gold ornateness to be received with bows from the waist by numerous satellites, my first reaction was to turn and bolt” (Seager, “West End” 3).When she visits Oxford’s literary establishments, she is, for this particular article, the awestruck Australian:In Oxford, you go around saying, soto voce and aloud, “Oh, ye dreaming spires of Oxford.” And Matthew Arnold comes alive again as a close personal friend.In a weekend, Ma’am, I have seen more of Oxford than lots of native Oxonians. I have stood and brooded over the spit in Christ Church College’s underground kitchens on which the oxen for Henry the Eighth were roasted.I have seen the Merton Library, oldest in Oxford, in which the chains that imprisoned the books are still to be seen, and have added by shoe scrape to the stone steps worn down by 500 years of walkers. I have walked the old churches, and I have been lost in wonder at the goodly virtues of the dead. And then, those names of Oxford! Holywell, Tom’s Quad, Friars’ Entry, and Long Wall. The gargoyles at Magdalen and the stones untouched by bombs or war’s destruction. It adds a new importance to human beings to know that once, if only, they too have walked and stood and stared. (Seager, “From Helen” 3)Her sense of wonder whilst in Oxford is, however, moderated by the practicalities of travel incorporated into the article. She continues to describe the warnings she was given, before her departure, of foreign travel that had her alarmed about loss and theft, and the care she took to avoid both. “It would have made you laugh, Ma’am, could you have seen the antics to protect personal property in the countries in transit” (Seager, “From Helen” 3).Her description of a trip to Blenheim Palace shows her sense of fun. She does not attempt to describe the palace or its contents, “Blenheim Palace is too vast and too like a great Government building to arouse much envy,” settling instead on a curiosity should there be a turn of events, “as I surged through its great halls with a good-tempered, jostling mob I couldn’t help wondering what those tired pale-faced guides would do if the mob mood changed and it started on an old-fashioned ransack.” Blenheim palace did not impress her as much as did the Sunday crowd at the palace:The only thing I really took a fancy to were the Venetian cradle, which was used during the infancy of the present Duke and a fine Savvonerie carpet in the same room. What I never wanted to see again was the rubbed-fur collar of the lady in front.Sunday’s crowd was typically English, Good tempered, and full of Cockney wit, and, if you choose to take your pleasures in the mass, it is as good a company as any to be in. (Seager, “We Look” 3)In a description of Dublin and the Dubliners, Seager describes the food-laden shops: “Butchers’ shops leave little room for customers with their great meat carcasses hanging from every hook. … English visitors—and Dublin is awash with them—make an orgy of the cakes that ooze real cream, the pink and juicy hams, and the sweets that demand no points” (Seager, “English” 6). She reports on the humanity of Dublin and Dubliners, “Dublin has a charm that is deep-laid. It springs from the people themselves. Their courtesy is overlaid with a real interest in humanity. They walk and talk, these Dubliners, like Kings” (ibid.).In Paris she melds the ordinary with the noteworthy:I had always imagined that the outside of the Louvre was like and big art gallery. Now that I know it as a series of palaces with courtyards and gardens beyond description in the daytime, and last night, with its cleverly lighted fountains all aplay, its flags and coloured lights, I will never forget it.Just now, down in the street below, somebody is packing the boot of a car to go for, presumably, on a few days’ jaunt. There is one suitcase, maybe with clothes, and on the footpath 47 bottles of the most beautiful wines in the world. (Seager, “When” 3)She writes with a mix of awe and ordinary:My first glimpse of that exciting vista of the Arc de Triomphe in the distance, and the little bistros that I’ve always wanted to see, and all the delights of a new city, […] My first day in Paris, Ma’am, has not taken one whit from the glory that was London. (ibid.) Figure 2: Helen Seager in ParisIt is my belief that Helen Seager intended to do something with her writings abroad. The articles have been cut from The Argus and pasted onto sheets of paper. She has kept copies of the original reports filed whist she was away. The collection shows her insightful egalitarian eye and a sharp humour, a mix of awesome and commonplace.On Bastille Day in 1950, Seager wrote about the celebrations in Paris. Her article is one of exuberant enthusiasm. She writes joyfully about sirens screaming overhead, and people in the street, and looking from windows. Her article, published on 19 July, starts:Paris Ma’am is a magical city. I will never cease to be grateful that I arrived on a day when every thing went wrong, and watched it blossom before my eyes into a gayness that makes our Melbourne Cup gala seem funeral in comparison.Today is July 14.All places of business are closed for five days and only the places of amusement await the world.Parisians are tireless in their celebrations.I went to sleep to the music of bands, dancing feet and singing voices, with the raucous but cheerful toots from motors splitting the night air onto atoms. (Seager, “When” 3)This article resonates uneasiness. How easily could those scenes of celebration on Bastille Day in 1950 be changed into the scenes of carnage on Bastille Day 2016, the cheerful toots of the motors transformed into cries of fear, the sirens in the sky from aeroplanes overhead into the sirens of ambulances and police vehicles, as a Mohamed Lahouaiej Bouhlel, as part of a terror attack drives a truck through crowds of people celebrating in Nice.Gwen HughesGwen Hughes graduated from Emily Macpherson College of Domestic Economy with a Diploma of Domestic Science, before she travelled to England to take up employment as senior lecturer and demonstrator of Parkinson’s England, a company that manufactured electric and gas stoves. Hughes wrote in her unpublished manuscript, Balkan Fever, that it was her idea of making ordinary cooking demonstration lessons dramatic and homelike that landed her the job in England (Hughes, Balkan 25-26).Her cookbook, Perfect Cooking, was produced to encourage housewives to enjoy cooking with their Parkinson’s modern cookers with the new Adjusto temperature control. The message she had to convey for Parkinsons was: “Cooking is a matter of putting the right ingredients together and cooking them at the right temperature to achieve a given result” (Hughes, Perfect 3). In reality, Hughes used this cookbook as a vehicle to share her interest in and love of Continental food, especially food from the Balkans where she travelled extensively in the 1930s.Recipes of Continental foods published in Perfect Cooking sit seamlessly alongside traditional British foods. The section on soup, for example, contains recipes for Borscht, a very good soup cooked by the peasants of Russia; Minestrone, an everyday Italian soup; Escudella, from Spain; and Cream of Spinach Soup from France (Perfect 22-23). Hughes devoted a whole chapter to recipes and descriptions of Continental foods labelled “Fascinating Foods From Far Countries,” showing her love and fascination with food and travel. She started this chapter with the observation:There is nearly as much excitement and romance, and, perhaps fear, about sampling a “foreign dish” for the “home stayer” as there is in actually being there for the more adventurous “home leaver”. Let us have a little have a little cruise safe within the comfort of our British homes. Let us try and taste the good things each country is famed for, all the while picturing the romantic setting of these dishes. (Hughes, Perfect 255)Through her recipes and descriptive passages, Hughes took housewives in England and Australia into the strange and wonderful kitchens of exotic women: Madame Darinka Jocanovic in Belgrade, Miss Anicka Zmelova in Prague, Madame Mrskosova at Benesova. These women taught her to make wonderful-sounding foods such as Apfel Strudel, Knedlikcy, Vanilla Kipfel and Christmas Stars. “Who would not enjoy the famous ‘Goose with Dumplings,’” she declares, “in the company of these gay, brave, thoughtful people with their romantic history, their gorgeously appareled peasants set in their richly picturesque scenery” (Perfect 255).It is Hughes’ unpublished manuscript Balkan Fever, written in Melbourne in 1943, to which I now turn. It is part of the Latrobe Heritage collection at the State Library of Victoria. Her manuscript was based on her extensive travels in the Balkans in the 1930s whilst she lived and worked in England, and it was, I suspect, her intention to seek publication.In her twenties, Hughes describes how she set off to the Balkans after meeting a fellow member of the Associated Country Women of the World (ACWW) at the Royal Yugoslav Legation. He was an expert on village life in the Balkans and advised her, that as a writer she would get more information from the local villagers than she would as a tourist. Hughes, who, before television gave cooking demonstrations on the radio, wrote, “I had been writing down recipes and putting them in books for years and of course the things one talks about over the air have to be written down first—that seemed fair enough” (Hughes, Balkan 25-26). There is nothing of the awestruck traveller in Hughes’ richly detailed observations of the people and the places that she visited. “Travelling in the Balkans is a very different affair from travelling in tourist-conscious countries where you just leave it to Cooks. You must either have unlimited time at your disposal, know the language or else have introductions that will enable the right arrangements to be made for you” (Balkan 2), she wrote. She was the experiential tourist, deeply immersed in her surroundings and recording food culture and society as it was.Hughes acknowledged that she was always drawn away from the cities to seek the real life of the people. “It’s to the country district you must go to find the real flavour of a country and the heart of its people—especially in the Balkans where such a large percentage of the population is agricultural” (Balkan 59). Her descriptions in Balkan Fever are a blend of geography, history, culture, national songs, folklore, national costumes, food, embroidery, and vivid observation of the everyday city life. She made little mention of stately homes or buildings. Her attitude to travel can be summed up in her own words:there are so many things to see and learn in the countries of the old world that, walking with eyes and mind wide open can be an immensely delightful pastime, even with no companion and nowhere to go. An hour or two spent in some unpretentious coffee house can be worth all the dinners at Quaglino’s or at The Ritz, if your companion is a good talker, a specialist in your subject, or knows something of the politics and the inner life of the country you are in. (Balkan 28)Rather than touring the grand cities, she was seduced by the market places with their abundance of food, colour, and action. Describing Sarajevo she wrote:On market day the main square is a blaze of colour and movement, the buyers no less colourful than the peasants who have come in from the farms around with their produce—cream cheese, eggs, chickens, fruit and vegetables. Handmade carpets hung up for sale against walls or from trees add their barbaric colour to the splendor of the scene. (Balkan 75)Markets she visited come to life through her vivid descriptions:Oh those markets, with the gorgeous colours, and heaped untidiness of the fruits and vegetables—paprika, those red and green peppers! Every kind of melon, grape and tomato contributing to the riot of colour. Then there were the fascinating peasant embroideries, laces and rich parts of old costumes brought in from the villages for sale. The lovely gay old embroideries were just laid out on a narrow carpet spread along the pavement or hung from a tree if one happened to be there. (Balkan 11)Perhaps it was her radio cooking shows that gave her the ability to make her descriptions sensorial and pictorial:We tasted luxurious foods, fish, chickens, fruits, wines, and liqueurs. All products of the country. Perfect ambrosial nectar of the gods. I was entirely seduced by the rose petal syrup, fragrant and aromatic, a red drink made from the petals of the darkest red roses. (Balkan 151)Ordinary places and everyday events are beautifully realised:We visited the cheese factory amongst other things. … It was curious to see in that far away spot such a quantity of neatly arranged cheeses in the curing chamber, being prepared for export, and in another room the primitive looking round balls of creamed cheese suspended from rafters. Later we saw trains of pack horses going over the mountains, and these were probably the bearers of these cheeses to Bitolj or Skoplje, whence they would be consigned further for export. (Balkan 182)ConclusionReading Seager and Hughes, one cannot help but be swept along on their travels and take part in their journeys. What is clear, is that they were inspired by their work, which is reflected in the way they wrote about the places they visited. Both sought out people and places that were, as Hughes so vividly puts it, not part of the Cook’s Tour. They travelled with their eyes wide open for experiences that were both new and normal, making their writing relevant even today. Written in Paris on Bastille Day 1950, Seager’s Bastille Day article is poignant when compared to Bastille Day in France in 2016. Hughes’s descriptions of Sarajevo are a far cry from the scenes of destruction in that city between 1992 and 1995. The travel writing of these two women offers us vivid impressions and images of the often unreported events, places, daily lives, and industry of the ordinary and the then every day, and remind us that the more things change, the more they stay the same.Pesman writes, “women have always been on the move and Australian women have been as numerous as passengers on the outbound ships as have men” (20), but the records of their travels seldom appear on the public record. Whilst their work-related writings are part of the public record (see Haysom; Lancaster; Riggal), this body of women’s travel writing has not received the attention it deserves. Hughes’ cookbooks, with their traditional Eastern European recipes and evocative descriptions of people and kitchens, are only there for the researcher who knows that cookbooks are a trove of valuable social and cultural material. Digital copies of Seager’s writing can be accessed on Trove (a digital repository), but there is little else about her or her body of writing on the public record.ReferencesThe Argus. “Goodbye Ma’am.” 26 May 1950: 1. <http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/22831285?searchTerm=Goodbye%20Ma%E2%80%99am%E2%80%99&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=195>.“Exotiq Cosmetics.” Advertisement. Woman 20 Aug. 1945: 36.Golding, Peter. “Just a Chattel of the Sale: A Mostly Light-Hearted Retrospective of a Diverse Life.” In Jim Usher, ed., The Argus: Life & Death of Newspaper. North Melbourne: Australian Scholarly Publishing 2007.Haysom, Ida. Diaries and Photographs of Ida Haysom. <http://search.slv.vic.gov.au/MAIN:Everything:SLV_VOYAGER1637361>.“Healing Cycles.” Advertisement. Woman 27 Aug. 1945: 40. Hughes, Gwen. Balkan Fever. Unpublished Manuscript. State Library of Victoria, MS 12985 Box 3846/4. 1943.———. Perfect Cooking London: Parkinsons, c1940.Lancaster, Rosemary. Je Suis Australienne: Remarkable Women in France 1880-1945. Crawley WA: UWA Press, 2008.Pesman, Ros. “Overseas Travel of Australian Women: Sources in the Australian Manuscripts Collection of the State Library of Victoria.” The Latrobe Journal 58 (Spring 1996): 19-26.Riggal, Louie. (Louise Blanche.) Diary of Italian Tour 1905 February 21 - May 1. <http://search.slv.vic.gov.au/MAIN:Everything:SLV_VOYAGER1635602>.Seager, Helen. “Ballet Dancers Backstage.” The Argus 10 Aug. 1944: 10. <http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/11356057?searchTerm=Ballet%20Dancers%20Backstage&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=194>.———. “The Baroness Who Finds Knitting Exciting.” The Argus 1 Aug. 1944: 9. <http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/11354557?searchTerm=Helen%20seager%20Baroness&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=194>.———. “English Visitors Have a Food Spree in Eire.” The Argus 29 Sep. 1950: 6. <http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/22912011?searchTerm=English%20visitors%20have%20a%20spree%20in%20Eire&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=195>.———. “From Helen in London.” The Argus 20 June 1950: 3. <http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/22836738?searchTerm=From%20Helen%20in%20London&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=195>.———. “Helen Seager Storms Paris—Paris Falls.” The Argus 15 July 1950: 7.<http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/22906913?searchTerm=Helen%20Seager%20Storms%20Paris%E2%80%99&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=195>.———. “We Look over Blenheim Palace.” The Argus 28 Sep. 1950: 3. <http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/22902040?searchTerm=Helen%20Seager%20Its%20as%20a%20good%20a%20place%20as%20you%20would%20want%20to%20be&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=195>.———. “West End Hair-Do Was Fun.” The Argus 3 July 1950: 3. <http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/22913940?searchTerm=West%20End%20hair-do%20was%20fun%E2%80%99&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=195>.———. “When You Are in Paris on July 14.” The Argus 19 July 1950: 3. <http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/22906244?searchTerm=When%20you%20are%20in%20Paris%20on%20July%2014&searchLimits=l-title=13|||l-decade=195>.

This paper addresses that natural consort of love: sex. It particularly considers the absence of actual sex from mainstream popular culture and the marginalisation of 'fun' sex as porn, requiring its illicit circulation as ‘illegitimate’ videos. The absence of sex from films classified and screened in public venues (even to over-18s) prevents a discourse about actual sex informing the discourse of love and romance perpetuated through Hollywood movies. The value of a variety of representations of sexual practice in the context of a discussion of love, sex and romance in Western cinema was briefly illuminated for the few days that Baise-moi was legitimately screened in Australia. For all that love is one of the great universal themes, Western cinema tends to communicate this ‘finer feeling’ through recourse to romance narratives. Which is not to say that romantic representations of love are devoid of sex, just that that the cinematic convention is to indicate sex, without showing it. Indeed, without the actors 'doing it'. The peculiarity of this situation is not usually clear, however, because there is so little mainstream sex-cinema with which to compare the anodyne gyrations of romantic Hollywood. Which was where Baise-moi came in, briefly. Baise-moi is variously translated for English-speaking cinema audiences as 'Fuck me' (in Australia) and 'Rape me' (in the US, where, astonishingly, Rape me is seen as a less objectionable title than Fuck me.) Of the two titles, Fuck me is by far the cleverer and more authentically related to the meaning and content, whereas Rape me is a travesty, particularly given the shocking power of an extremely graphic and violent rape scene which initiates much of the succeeding violence. An early appeal by the Australian Attorney-General (to the Review Board) against the Office of Film and Literature Classification’s granting of an R rating meant that Baise-moi was hastily removed from Australian cinemas. The movie is, however, heavily reviewed on the web and readers are referred to commentaries such as those by Gary Morris and Frank Vigorito. The grounds on which Classification was refused were given as ‘strong depictions of violence’, ‘sexual violence’, ‘frequent, actual detailed sex scenes’ and ‘scenes which demean both women and men’. Violence, sexual violence and ‘scenes which demean’ are hardly uncommon in films (although it may be unusual that these demean even-handedly). If the amount of violence is nothing new, the sex was certainly different from the usual cinematic fare. Although this was not the first time that ‘unsimulated’ sex had been shown on the art-house big screen, the other major examples were not entirely similar. Romance was wordy, arguably feminist, and a long way from mindless sex-because-they-like-it. Intimacy 's ‘sex scenes are explicit but totally non pornographic, they’re painful, needy, unsatisfying except on an orgasmic level’, according to Margaret Pomeranz, who reviewed the film for SBS. Baise-moi is different because, as Vigorito says, ‘please make no mistake that the two main characters in this film, the so-called French Thelma and Louise, certainly do want to fuck’. (They also like to kill.) Baise-moi is often characterised as a quasi-feminist revenge movie where the two protagonists Manu (a porn star) and Nadine (a sex worker) seek revenge with (according to Morris) ‘ultimately more nihilism than party-hearty here, with the non-stop killings laid squarely at the doorstep of a society that’s dehumanized its citizens’. While the brutality depicted is mind-blowing (sometimes literally/visually) it is the sex that got the film banned, but not until after some 50,000 Australians had seen it. The elements that separate Baise-moi from Intimacy and Romance (apart from the extreme violence) is that the characters have (heterosexual) sex with a variety of partners, and sometimes do so just for fun. Further, although the Office of Film and Literature Classification ‘considers that the film has significant artistic and cultural merit’ (OFLC), one of the directors wrote the novel on which the film is based while the other director and the two stars are former porn industry workers. If Baise-moi had been accepted as cinema-worthy, where would the sex-on-the-screen factor have stopped for future classification of films? The popular culture approach to romance, love and sex moves comparatively smoothly from the first kiss to the rumpled sheets. Although the plot of a romantic film may consist in keeping the love and sex activities apart, the love is (almost invariably) requited. And, as films such as Notting Hill demonstrate, true love these days is communicated less frequently through the willingness of a couple to have sex (which generally goes without saying), and more often through commitment to the having and rearing of a shared child (whereas off-screen this may more usually be the commitment of a shared mortgage). Sex, in short, is popularly positioned as a precursor to love; as not entirely necessary (and certainly not sufficient) but very usually associated with the state of 'being in love'. It is comparatively rare to see any hesitation to engage in sex on the part of a film-portrayed loving couple, other than hurdles introduced through the intervention of outside forces. A rare example of thinking and talking before fucking is The Other Sister , but this means it rates as an R in the States because of ‘thematic elements involving sex-related material’. In contrast, the film Notting Hill, where the characters played by Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant hardly pause for breath once attraction is established, rates a PG-13 (‘for sexual content and brief strong language’). Thus it is all right for producers to have sex in a storyline, but any hesitation, or discussion, makes the film unsuited to younger audiences. Given that characters’ thinking about sex, and talking about sex, as part of (or preliminary to) having sex apparently increases the age at which the audience is allowed to see the film, perhaps it should not be surprising that actually showing sex about which the audience can then think and talk is almost entirely banned. Yet for a culture that associates sex so strongly with love, and celebrates love so thoroughly in film, television and literature (not to mention popular magazines such as Woman's Day, New Idea, New Weekly and Who), to be occasionally challenged by a film that includes actual sex acts seems not unreasonable, particularly when restricted to audiences of consenting adults. Ian McEwan's debut collection of short stories, First love, last rites explores this conundrum of 'the sex that shall only be acted, never performed' in a short story, 'Cocker at the theatre' (McEwan 57). The tale is about a theatrical production where the actors are new, and nude, and the theme of the play is copulation. It is a story of its time, mid-seventies, the resonating-hippie Age of Aquarius, when Hair still rocked. McEwan's naked couples are assembled by the play's director and then pressed together to begin the rhythmic moves required to complement the thumping musical score of GTC: ‘Grand Time Copulation’. The male and female actors are not near enough to each other, so they are spliced closer together: ‘When they began to move again their pubic hair rasped’ (57-8). The director is unimpressed by the result: ‘I know it's hard, but you have to look as if you're enjoying this thing.' (His voice rose.) 'Some people do, you know. It's a fuck, you understand, not a funeral.' (His voice sank.) 'Let's have it again, with some enthusiasm this time.' However, all is not entirely well, after a good second beginning. ‘Them on the end, they're going too fast, what do you think?' [says the director to the stage manager] They watched together. It was true, the two who had been moving well, they were a little out of time ... 'My God,' said [the director] 'They're fucking … It's disgusting and obscene … pull them apart.' (58-9). The issue raised here, as in the case of the removal of any classification from Baise-moi that effectively prevented further public screenings, is the double standard of a society that expends so much of its critical and cultural energies in exploring the nature of love, romance and sexual attraction but balks (horrified) at the representation of actual sex. Yet one of the values of a cinematic replay of 'unsimulated sex' is that it acts as a ‘reality check’ for all the mushy renditions of romance that form the mainstream representation of 'love' on-screen. So, if we want to see sex, should we not simply consume pornography? In modern-day Australia it is impossible to discuss depictions of live sex without conjuring up connotations of ‘porn’. Porn, however, is not usually consumed in a manner or place that allows it to interrogate media messages from mainstream production houses and distributors. Watching porn, for example at home on video, removes it from a context in which it could realistically prompt a re-evaluation of the visual diet of love and sex Hollywood-style, an opportunity that was provided by Baise-moi during its temporary season. The comparative absence of on-screen sexual activity means that there is an absence of texts through which we can interrogate mainstream representations of lovemaking. Whereas the Eros Foundation aims to promote debate leading to ‘logical perspectives on sex and rational law reform of the sex industry’, and avoids using the term 'pornography' on its home page, it is hard to find any representations of unsimulated sex that are not classified as porn and consequently easily pigeon-holed as 'not relevant' to cultural debate except in general terms regarding (say) 'censorship' or 'the portrayal of women'. It is hard to know what Baise-moi might have said to Australian audiences about the relationship between sex, authenticity (Morris uses the term ‘trashy integrity’) and popular culture since the film was screened for only the briefest of intervals, and throughout that time the ‘hype’ surrounding it distracted audiences from any discussion other than would it/wouldn't it, and should it/shouldn't it, be banned. Hopefully, a future Attorney-General will allow the adults in this country to enjoy the same range of popular cultural inputs available to citizens in more liberal nations, and back the initial (liberal) decision of the OFLC. And what has love got to do with all this? Not much it seems, although doesn't popular culture ‘teach’ that one of the main uses for a love theme is to provide an excuse for some gratuitous sex? Perhaps, after all, it is time to cut to the chase and allow sex to be screened as a popular culture genre in its own right, without needing the excuse of a gratuitous love story. Works Cited McEwan, Ian. First love, last rites. London: Picador, 1975. 56-60. Morris, Gary. “Baise-moi. Feminist screed or fetish-fuckathon? Best to flip a coin.” Lip Magazine 2001. http://www.lipmagazine.org/articles/revi... OFLC. Classification Review Board News release, 10 May 2002. http://www.oflc.gov.au/PDFs/RBBaiseMoi.pdf Pomeranz, Margaret. “Intimacy.” The Movie Show: Reviews. http://www.sbs.com.au/movieshow/reviews.... Vigorito, Frank. “Natural porn killers.” Offoffofffilm 2001. http://www.offoffoff.com/film/2001/baise... Filmography Baise-moi. Dirs. Virginie Despentes and CoRalie Trinh Thi. Dist. Film Fixx, 2000. Intimacy. Dir. Patrice Chereau. Dist. Palace Films, 2001. Notting Hill. Dir. Roger Michell. Dist. Universal Pictures, 1999. Romance. Dir. Catherine Breillat. Dist. Potential Films, 1999. The other sister. Dir. Gary Marshall. Dist. Touchstone Pictures, 1999. Links http://www.offoffoff.com/film/2001/baisemoi.php3 http://www.eros.com.au http://film.guardian.co.uk/censorship/news/0,11729,713540,00.html http://www.sbs.com.au/movieshow/reviews.php3?id=838 http://www.michaelbutler.com/hair http://www.oflc.gov.au/PDFs/RBBaiseMoi.pdf http://www.movie-source.com/no/othersister.shtml http://www.lipmagazine.org/articles/revimorris_128.shtml Citation reference for this article Substitute your date of access for Dn Month Year etc... MLA Style Green, Lelia. "Sex" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.6 (2002). Dn Month Year < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0211/sex.php>. APA Style Green, L., (2002, Nov 20). Sex. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 5,(6). Retrieved Month Dn, Year, from http://www.media-culture.org.au/0211/sex.html

IntroductionFirmly located within the discourse of visible culture as the lofty preserve of art exhibitions and museum artefacts, the noun “curate” has gradually transformed into the verb “to curate”. Williams writes that “curate” has become a fashionable code word among the aesthetically minded to describe a creative activity. Designers no longer simply sell clothes; they “curate” merchandise. Chefs no longer only make food; they also “curate” meals. Chosen for their keen eye for a particular style or a precise shade, it is their knowledge of their craft, their reputation, and their sheer ability to choose among countless objects which make the creative process a creative activity in itself. Writing from within the framework of “curate” as a creative process, this article discusses how the state banquet for Queen Elizabeth II, hosted by Irish President Mary McAleese at Dublin Castle in May 2011, was carefully curated to represent Ireland’s diplomatic, cultural, and culinary identity. The paper will focus in particular on how the menu for the banquet was created and how the banquet’s brief, “Ireland on a Plate”, was fulfilled.History and BackgroundFood has been used by nations for centuries to display wealth, cement alliances, and impress foreign visitors. Since the feasts of the Numidian kings (circa 340 BC), culinary staging and presentation has belonged to “a long, multifaceted and multicultural history of diplomatic practices” (IEHCA 5). According to the works of Baughman, Young, and Albala, food has defined the social, cultural, and political position of a nation’s leaders throughout history.In early 2011, Ross Lewis, Chef Patron of Chapter One Restaurant in Dublin, was asked by the Irish Food Board, Bord Bía, if he would be available to create a menu for a high-profile banquet (Mahon 112). The name of the guest of honour was divulged several weeks later after vetting by the protocol and security divisions of the Department of the Taoiseach (Prime Minister) and the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade. Lewis was informed that the menu was for the state banquet to be hosted by President Mary McAleese at Dublin Castle in honour of Queen Elizabeth II’s visit to Ireland the following May.Hosting a formal banquet for a visiting head of state is a key feature in the statecraft of international and diplomatic relations. Food is the societal common denominator that links all human beings, regardless of culture (Pliner and Rozin 19). When world leaders publicly share a meal, that meal is laden with symbolism, illuminating each diner’s position “in social networks and social systems” (Sobal, Bove, and Rauschenbach 378). The public nature of the meal signifies status and symbolic kinship and that “guest and host are on par in terms of their personal or official attributes” (Morgan 149). While the field of academic scholarship on diplomatic dining might be young, there is little doubt of the value ascribed to the semiotics of diplomatic gastronomy in modern power structures (Morgan 150; De Vooght and Scholliers 12; Chapple-Sokol 162), for, as Firth explains, symbols are malleable and perfectly suited to exploitation by all parties (427).Political DiplomacyWhen Ireland gained independence in December 1921, it marked the end of eight centuries of British rule. The outbreak of “The Troubles” in 1969 in Northern Ireland upset the gradually improving environment of British–Irish relations, and it would be some time before a state visit became a possibility. Beginning with the peace process in the 1990s, the IRA ceasefire of 1994, and the Good Friday Agreement in 1998, a state visit was firmly set in motion by the visit of Irish President Mary Robinson to Buckingham Palace in 1993, followed by the unofficial visit of the Prince of Wales to Ireland in 1995, and the visit of Irish President Mary McAleese to Buckingham Palace in 1999. An official invitation to Queen Elizabeth from President Mary McAleese in March 2011 was accepted, and the visit was scheduled for mid-May of the same year.The visit was a highly performative occasion, orchestrated and ordained in great detail, displaying all the necessary protocol associated with the state visit of one head of state to another: inspection of the military, a courtesy visit to the nation’s head of state on arrival, the laying of a wreath at the nation’s war memorial, and a state banquet.These aspects of protocol between Britain and Ireland were particularly symbolic. By inspecting the military on arrival, the existence of which is a key indicator of independence, Queen Elizabeth effectively demonstrated her recognition of Ireland’s national sovereignty. On making the customary courtesy call to the head of state, the Queen was received by President McAleese at her official residence Áras an Uachtaráin (The President’s House), which had formerly been the residence of the British monarch’s representative in Ireland (Robbins 66). The state banquet was held in Dublin Castle, once the headquarters of British rule where the Viceroy, the representative of Britain’s Court of St James, had maintained court (McDowell 1).Cultural DiplomacyThe state banquet provided an exceptional showcase of Irish culture and design and generated a level of preparation previously unseen among Dublin Castle staff, who described it as “the most stage managed state event” they had ever witnessed (Mahon 129).The castle was cleaned from top to bottom, and inventories were taken of the furniture and fittings. The Waterford Crystal chandeliers were painstakingly taken down, cleaned, and reassembled; the Killybegs carpets and rugs of Irish lamb’s wool were cleaned and repaired. A special edition Newbridge Silverware pen was commissioned for Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip to sign the newly ordered Irish leather-bound visitors’ book. A new set of state tableware was ordered for the President’s table. Irish manufacturers of household goods necessary for the guest rooms, such as towels and soaps, hand creams and body lotions, candle holders and scent diffusers, were sought. Members of Her Majesty’s staff conducted a “walk-through” several weeks in advance of the visit to ensure that the Queen’s wardrobe would not clash with the surroundings (Mahon 129–32).The promotion of Irish manufacture is a constant thread throughout history. Irish linen, writes Kane, enjoyed a reputation as far afield as the Netherlands and Italy in the 15th century, and archival documents from the Vaucluse attest to the purchase of Irish cloth in Avignon in 1432 (249–50). Support for Irish-made goods was raised in 1720 by Jonathan Swift, and by the 18th century, writes Foster, Dublin had become an important centre for luxury goods (44–51).It has been Irish government policy since the late 1940s to use Irish-manufactured goods for state entertaining, so the material culture of the banquet was distinctly Irish: Arklow Pottery plates, Newbridge Silverware cutlery, Waterford Crystal glassware, and Irish linen tablecloths. In order to decide upon the table setting for the banquet, four tables were laid in the King’s Bedroom in Dublin Castle. The Executive Chef responsible for the banquet menu, and certain key personnel, helped determine which setting would facilitate serving the food within the time schedule allowed (Mahon 128–29). The style of service would be service à la russe, so widespread in restaurants today as to seem unremarkable. Each plate is prepared in the kitchen by the chef and then served to each individual guest at table. In the mid-19th century, this style of service replaced service à la française, in which guests typically entered the dining room after the first course had been laid on the table and selected food from the choice of dishes displayed around them (Kaufman 126).The guest list was compiled by government and embassy officials on both sides and was a roll call of Irish and British life. At the President’s table, 10 guests would be served by a team of 10 staff in Dorchester livery. The remaining tables would each seat 12 guests, served by 12 liveried staff. The staff practiced for several days prior to the banquet to make sure that service would proceed smoothly within the time frame allowed. The team of waiters, each carrying a plate, would emerge from the kitchen in single file. They would then take up positions around the table, each waiter standing to the left of the guest they would serve. On receipt of a discreet signal, each plate would be laid in front of each guest at precisely the same moment, after which the waiters would then about foot and return to the kitchen in single file (Mahon 130).Post-prandial entertainment featured distinctive styles of performance and instruments associated with Irish traditional music. These included reels, hornpipes, and slipjigs, voice and harp, sean-nόs (old style) singing, and performances by established Irish artists on the fiddle, bouzouki, flute, and uilleann pipes (Office of Public Works).Culinary Diplomacy: Ireland on a PlateLewis was given the following brief: the menu had to be Irish, the main course must be beef, and the meal should represent the very best of Irish ingredients. There were no restrictions on menu design. There were no dietary requirements or specific requests from the Queen’s representatives, although Lewis was informed that shellfish is excluded de facto from Irish state banquets as a precautionary measure. The meal was to be four courses long and had to be served to 170 diners within exactly 1 hour and 10 minutes (Mahon 112). A small army of 16 chefs and 4 kitchen porters would prepare the food in the kitchen of Dublin Castle under tight security. The dishes would be served on state tableware by 40 waiters, 6 restaurant managers, a banqueting manager and a sommélier. Lewis would be at the helm of the operation as Executive Chef (Mahon 112–13).Lewis started by drawing up “a patchwork quilt” of the products he most wanted to use and built the menu around it. The choice of suppliers was based on experience but also on a supplier’s ability to deliver perfectly ripe goods in mid-May, a typically black spot in the Irish fruit and vegetable growing calendar as it sits between the end of one season and the beginning of another. Lewis consulted the Queen’s itinerary and the menus to be served so as to avoid repetitions. He had to discard his initial plan to feature lobster in the starter and rhubarb in the dessert—the former for the precautionary reasons mentioned above, and the latter because it featured on the Queen’s lunch menu on the day of the banquet (Mahon 112–13).Once the ingredients had been selected, the menu design focused on creating tastes, flavours and textures. Several draft menus were drawn up and myriad dishes were tasted and discussed in the kitchen of Lewis’s own restaurant. Various wines were paired and tasted with the different courses, the final choice being a Château Lynch-Bages 1998 red and a Château de Fieuzal 2005 white, both from French Bordeaux estates with an Irish connection (Kellaghan 3). Two months and two menu sittings later, the final menu was confirmed and signed off by state and embassy officials (Mahon 112–16).The StarterThe banquet’s starter featured organic Clare Island salmon cured in a sweet brine, laid on top of a salmon cream combining wild smoked salmon from the Burren and Cork’s Glenilen Farm crème fraîche, set over a lemon balm jelly from the Tannery Cookery School Gardens, Waterford. Garnished with horseradish cream, wild watercress, and chive flowers from Wicklow, the dish was finished with rapeseed oil from Kilkenny and a little sea salt from West Cork (Mahon 114). Main CourseA main course of Irish beef featured as the pièce de résistance of the menu. A rib of beef from Wexford’s Slaney Valley was provided by Kettyle Irish Foods in Fermanagh and served with ox cheek and tongue from Rathcoole, County Dublin. From along the eastern coastline came the ingredients for the traditional Irish dish of smoked champ: cabbage from Wicklow combined with potatoes and spring onions grown in Dublin. The new season’s broad beans and carrots were served with wild garlic leaf, which adorned the dish (Mahon 113). Cheese CourseThe cheese course was made up of Knockdrinna, a Tomme style goat’s milk cheese from Kilkenny; Milleens, a Munster style cow’s milk cheese produced in Cork; Cashel Blue, a cow’s milk blue cheese from Tipperary; and Glebe Brethan, a Comté style cheese from raw cow’s milk from Louth. Ditty’s Oatmeal Biscuits from Belfast accompanied the course.DessertLewis chose to feature Irish strawberries in the dessert. Pat Clarke guaranteed delivery of ripe strawberries on the day of the banquet. They married perfectly with cream and yoghurt from Glenilen Farm in Cork. The cream was set with Irish Carrageen moss, overlaid with strawberry jelly and sauce, and garnished with meringues made with Irish apple balsamic vinegar from Lusk in North Dublin, yoghurt mousse, and Irish soda bread tuiles made with wholemeal flour from the Mosse family mill in Kilkenny (Mahon 113).The following day, President McAleese telephoned Lewis, saying of the banquet “Ní hé go raibh sé go maith, ach go raibh sé míle uair níos fearr ná sin” (“It’s not that it was good but that it was a thousand times better”). The President observed that the menu was not only delicious but that it was “amazingly articulate in terms of the story that it told about Ireland and Irish food.” The Queen had particularly enjoyed the stuffed cabbage leaf of tongue, cheek and smoked colcannon (a traditional Irish dish of mashed potatoes with curly kale or green cabbage) and had noted the diverse selection of Irish ingredients from Irish artisans (Mahon 116). Irish CuisineWhen the topic of food is explored in Irish historiography, the focus tends to be on the consequences of the Great Famine (1845–49) which left the country “socially and emotionally scarred for well over a century” (Mac Con Iomaire and Gallagher 161). Some commentators consider the term “Irish cuisine” oxymoronic, according to Mac Con Iomaire and Maher (3). As Goldstein observes, Ireland has suffered twice—once from its food deprivation and second because these deprivations present an obstacle for the exploration of Irish foodways (xii). Writing about Italian, Irish, and Jewish migration to America, Diner states that the Irish did not have a food culture to speak of and that Irish writers “rarely included the details of food in describing daily life” (85). Mac Con Iomaire and Maher note that Diner’s methodology overlooks a centuries-long tradition of hospitality in Ireland such as that described by Simms (68) and shows an unfamiliarity with the wealth of food related sources in the Irish language, as highlighted by Mac Con Iomaire (“Exploring” 1–23).Recent scholarship on Ireland’s culinary past is unearthing a fascinating story of a much more nuanced culinary heritage than has been previously understood. This is clearly demonstrated in the research of Cullen, Cashman, Deleuze, Kellaghan, Kelly, Kennedy, Legg, Mac Con Iomaire, Mahon, O’Sullivan, Richman Kenneally, Sexton, and Stanley, Danaher, and Eogan.In 1996 Ireland was described by McKenna as having the most dynamic cuisine in any European country, a place where in the last decade “a vibrant almost unlikely style of cooking has emerged” (qtd. in Mac Con Iomaire “Jammet’s” 136). By 2014, there were nine restaurants in Dublin which had been awarded Michelin stars or Red Ms (Mac Con Iomaire “Jammet’s” 137). Ross Lewis, Chef Patron of Chapter One Restaurant, who would be chosen to create the menu for the state banquet for Queen Elizabeth II, has maintained a Michelin star since 2008 (Mac Con Iomaire, “Jammet’s” 138). Most recently the current strength of Irish gastronomy is globally apparent in Mark Moriarty’s award as San Pellegrino Young Chef 2015 (McQuillan). As Deleuze succinctly states: “Ireland has gone mad about food” (143).This article is part of a research project into Irish diplomatic dining, and the author is part of a research cluster into Ireland’s culinary heritage within the Dublin Institute of Technology. The aim of the research is to add to the growing body of scholarship on Irish gastronomic history and, ultimately, to contribute to the discourse on the existence of a national cuisine. If, as Zubaida says, “a nation’s cuisine is its court’s cuisine,” then it is time for Ireland to “research the feasts as well as the famines” (Mac Con Iomaire and Cashman 97).ConclusionThe Irish state banquet for Queen Elizabeth II in May 2011 was a highly orchestrated and formalised process. From the menu, material culture, entertainment, and level of consultation in the creative content, it is evident that the banquet was carefully curated to represent Ireland’s diplomatic, cultural, and culinary identity.The effects of the visit appear to have been felt in the years which have followed. Hennessy wrote in the Irish Times newspaper that Queen Elizabeth is privately said to regard her visit to Ireland as the most significant of the trips she has made during her 60-year reign. British Prime Minister David Cameron is noted to mention the visit before every Irish audience he encounters, and British Foreign Secretary William Hague has spoken in particular of the impact the state banquet in Dublin Castle made upon him. Hennessy points out that one of the most significant indicators of the peaceful relationship which exists between the two countries nowadays was the subsequent state visit by Irish President Michael D. Higgins to Britain in 2013. This was the first state visit to the United Kingdom by a President of Ireland and would have been unimaginable 25 years ago. The fact that the President and his wife stayed at Windsor Castle and that the attendant state banquet was held there instead of Buckingham Palace were both deemed to be marks of special favour and directly attributed to the success of Her Majesty’s 2011 visit to Ireland.As the research demonstrates, eating together unites rather than separates, gathers rather than divides, diffuses political tensions, and confirms alliances. It might be said then that the 2011 state banquet hosted by President Mary McAleese in honour of Queen Elizabeth II, curated by Ross Lewis, gives particular meaning to the axiom “to eat together is to eat in peace” (Taliano des Garets 160).AcknowledgementsSupervisors: Dr Máirtín Mac Con Iomaire (Dublin Institute of Technology) and Dr Michael Kennedy (Royal Irish Academy)Fáilte IrelandPhotos of the banquet dishes supplied and permission to reproduce them for this article kindly granted by Ross Lewis, Chef Patron, Chapter One Restaurant ‹http://www.chapteronerestaurant.com/›.Illustration ‘Ireland on a Plate’ © Jesse Campbell BrownRemerciementsThe author would like to thank the anonymous reviewers for their feedback and suggestions on an earlier draft of this article.ReferencesAlbala, Ken. The Banquet: Dining in the Great Courts of Late Renaissance Europe. 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