Conservation Skills For The 21st Century Judgement Method and Decision Making 1003009077 9781003009078 Compress

Conservation Skills for the 21st Century
Conservation Skills for the 21st Century provides a much-needed update to the original
Conservation Skills volume, presenting an overview of current issues facing conservators
of historic and artistic works.
Beginning with the basics – why the past is important, as well as an overview of the
nature and history of conservation – the book allows the reader to develop a holistic
appreciation of the subject. As with the first edition, this volume assists with the
development of judgement in conservation students and young professionals. A
selection of new case studies representing issues conservators are likely to face in the
21st century illustrates the crucial considerations that must be made when proposing
and executing a conservation treatment. Incorporating recent developments and use of
new technologies in conservation processes, the book also covers topics such as
conservation ethics; recording and documentation; investigating and cleaning objects;
stabilisation and restoration; values, decision-making, and responsibilities; preventive
conservation; approaches to the treatment of working and socially active objects;
sustainability in conservation; and the conservator’s role as advocate.
With detailed case studies and written in a clear, accessible style, Conservation Skills
for the 21st Century remains essential reading for student conservators and conservation
professionals around the globe working across a wide range of conservation disciplines.
Chris Caple is Emeritus Reader in Archaeological Conservation having been director

of the Durham University postgraduate programme in artefact conservation
1988–2018. Author of 7 books including the first edition of Conservation Skills:
Judgement, Method, and Decision-Making. He is currently writing up his archaeological
excavations at Nevern Castle.
Emily Williams is Associate Professor of Archaeological Conservation at Durham

University where she directs the MA in the Conservation of Archaeological and
Museum Objects. Prior to this she was the Senior Conservator of Archaeological
Materials at the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. She has worked at museums or
sites in Australia, Belgium, Bermuda, Egypt, Iraqi Kurdistan, Syria, Tunisia, and
Turkey.
Conservation Skills for the
21st Century
Judgement, Method, and
Decision-Making
Second Edition
Chris Caple and Emily Williams
Designed cover image: Durham Cathedral Galilee Chapel – Roundel created in the
19th century composed of fragments of the original 13th–15th century stained glass
windows of Durham Cathedral. Installed in 1963 in the central window on the west
side of the Galilee Chapel, Durham Cathedral. Photo: Chris Caple.
Second edition published 2023
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© 2023 Chris Caple and Emily Williams
The right of Chris Caple and Emily Williams to be identified as authors of this
work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright,
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised
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infringe.
First edition published by Routledge 2000
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Caple, Chris, 1958- author. | Williams, Emily, 1969- author.
Title: Conservation skills for the 21st century : judgement, method,
and decision-making / Chris Caple and Emily Williams.
Other titles: Conservation skills | Conservation skills for the twenty-first century
Description: Second edition. | Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge,
2023. | “First edition published by Routledge 2000.” | Includes bibliographical
references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022055705 (print) | LCCN 2022055706 (ebook) | ISBN
9780367443313 (hbk) | ISBN 9780367443320 (pbk) | ISBN 9781003009078 (ebk)
Subjects: LCSH: Antiquities‐‐Collection and preservation. | Historic
sites‐‐Conservation and restoration. | Cultural property‐‐Protection. |
Historic preservation.
Classification: LCC CC135 .C29 2023 (print) | LCC CC135 (ebook) |
DDC 363.6/9‐‐dc23/eng/20221130
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022055705
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022055706
ISBN: 978-0-367-44331-3 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-0-367-44332-0 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-003-00907-8 (ebk)
DOI: 10.4324/9781003009078
Typeset in Times New Roman

by MPS Limited, Dehradun
Contents
List of Figures x
Preface xiii
1 Reasons for Preserving the Past 1

The Importance of the Past 1
Remains (Objects and Sites) 2
Narrative 2
Heritage and the Past 3
Valuing the Past 5
Devaluing the Past 9
Authenticity 10
Preservation Mechanisms: Legislation, Preservation in Situ, and
Collection 11
Legislation 11
Preservation in Situ 13
Collection 15
Biases in Collections and Displays 17
1A Case Study: The De Walden Antique Helmet Collection 20
De Walden Collection No. 7.33 20
1B Case Study: The Laetoli Footprints 23
2 The History of Conservation 28

Conservation’s Prehistory 28
The ‘Three-Legged Stool’ 29
Conservation Emerges: 1888–1950 32
Conservation Evolves: 1950–Present 35
The Emergence of Formal Conservation Training 36
vi Contents
2A Case Study: The Portland Vase 37
2B Case Study: Sutton Hoo Helmet 40
3 Conservation Aims and Ethics 45

Conservation: A Definition 45
Charters, Ethical Codes, and Guidelines for Practice 46
Shared Themes and Evolving Concepts 48
Controversial and Enduring Concepts 49
True Nature 49
Reversibility and Retreatability 50
Minimum Intervention 51
Implementing Ethics 52
Revelation, Investigation, Preservation (RIP) 53
The Conservation Process 55
Factors Influencing Conservation 57
The Initial Desired Outcome 57
Durham Cathedral Doors 58
The Envelope(s) of Possibility 58
Context 59
3A Case Study: The Statue of Liberty 60
3B Case Study: The Mary Rose 65
4 Objects: Their Investigation and Recording 69

Objects and Society 69
The Structure and Decay of Objects 72
Investigation 74
Visual Examination 75
Non-Visual Physical Properties 76
Analysis 77
Sampling 81
Reporting Analytical Results 82
Purpose and Nature of Documentation 82
The Conservation Record 84
4A Case Study: Bradwell Box 88
4B Case Study: Archimedes Palimpsest 90
5 Cleaning 95
Cleaning 95
Soiling 95
Removing Soiling 96
Original Surface: A Concern When Cleaning 98
Overpaint 99
Varnishes, Lacquers, and Painting Cleaning 100
Cleaning Processes 102
Contents vii
Risk/Benefit Analysis 103
The Goldilocks Principle 105
Cleaning: Concluding Thoughts 106
5A Case Study: The Sistine Chapel 108
6 Restoration 114
Restoration 114
The Development of Restoration 116
Restoration in Practice 119
Challenges Presented in the Purpose, Acceptability, and Extent of
Restoration 123
Alternative Approaches 125
Replication 126
6A Case Study: Hans Holbein’s painting The Ambassadors 128
6B Case Study: The Loch Glashan Satchel 132
7 Stabilisation 135
The Nature of Survival and Stability 135
Survival 135
Stability 135
Change 137
The Nature of Stabilisation 137
Biological 138
Chemical 138
Physical 140
Treatments 140
Stability of Conservation Materials 141
Assessing Stabilisation Effectiveness 143
When Stabilisation Is Not Possible 144
7A Case Study: Lindow Man 145
7B Case Study: The H.L. Hunley 149
8 Preventive Conservation and Storage 154

Preventive Conservation 154
Ideal Museum Standards 155
Risk Management 156
Disaster Planning and Response 159
Storage 160
Condition Surveys 162
Sustainable Storage 163
8A Case Study: Neil Armstrong’s Spacesuit 164
8B Case Study: Brodsworth Hall 169
viii Contents
9 Preserving Intangible Heritage: Working and Socially Active Objects 174
Working/Dynamic Objects 175
Working Objects in Museum Contexts 178
Balancing the Roles of Working Objects 180
Socially Active Objects 184
People-Centred Conservation and Consultation 190
9A Case Study: The Forth Railway Bridge 191
9B Case Study: The Organised Upright Grand Piano 194
9C Case Study: Conservation of a Tlingit Basket 198
10 Perception, Judgement, and Decision-Making 202

Perception 202
Learnt behaviours 205
Judgement 205
Learning 206
Limitations and Biases in Perception and Judgement 208
Improving Judgement in Conservation 209
Optimal Decision-Making 211
Cost-Benefit Analysis 213
Adding Complexity 215
Risk Assessment for Museums 216
The Bigger Picture 217
Consultation 218
Developing Decision-Making 220
10A Case Study: The Bush Barrow Gold 221
11 Responsibilities, Skills, and Sustainable Practices in the 21st Century 226

The Responsible and Effective Conservator 226
Health and Safety 226
Mental Health 228
Professional Competence 229
Conservation Outreach 231
Media 232
Conservation Exhibits 233
Social Media 234
Volunteer Engagement 235
Impact 236
Challenges for the 21st Century 236
Climate Change 237
Reducing Environmental Impact 237
Diversifying the Face of Conservation 238
Digital World 239
Expanding Heritage and Diminishing Resources 240
Neutrality 241
Contents ix
Conclusion: Judgement, Skills, and Decision-Making in the
21st Century 241
11A Case Study: The Contents of a Danish Vets Dispensary 242
11B Case Study: Tullio Lombardo’s Adam 245
Bibliography 252
Index 290
Figures
1.1 The 15th century Khanqah (a Sufi ritual space) and Mausoleum of
Sultan Farag ibn Barquq. Felicity Turner 5
1.2 The equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius. © Sovrintendenza
Capitolina – Foto in Comune 6
1.3 Time-value curve applicable to almost all artefacts. Chris Caple 8
1.4 Examples of different approaches to preserving and displaying
ancient remains, based on Stubs 1995. Chris Caple 14
1.5 Frontispiece of Museum Wormianum (pub) 1655. © Trustees of the
British Museum 16
1.6 Helmets from the De-Walden Collection in the National Museum of
Wales. National Museum of Wales. Redrawn by Yvonne Beadnell
from Wollny 1996 20
1.7 X-radiograph of two of the De Walden Helmets in the National
Museum of Wales. National Museum of Wales. From Wollny
(1996) 22
1.8 The trackway of 3.6-million-year-old human footprints, Laetoli,
Tanzania, preserved beneath layers of sand, geotextile, biobarrier,
Enkamat, local soil and rocks. © 1995 J. Paul Getty Trust (Photo:
Neville Agnew) 25
2.1 The Portland Vase, after conservation. © Trustees of the British
Museum 39
2.2 Sutton Hoo Helmet: the original 1946 reconstruction. © Trustees of
the British Museum 41
2.3 Sutton Hoo Helmet: the 1968/9 reconstruction. © Trustees of the
British Museum 43
3.1 The aims of conservation: the RIP balance triangle. Chris Caple 54
3.2 Conservation process – the sequence of actions and considerations
undertaken to enact conservation. Chris Caple 56
3.3 Watson’s elements of conservation (Watson 2010). John Watson 59
3.4 The Statue of Liberty. Robert Baboian 64
3.5 The starboard half of the Mary Rose hull, slowly drying out in the
Mary Rose Museum, following PEG impregnation. Mary Rose
Trust. © Hufton + Crow 66
4.1 Object production and use sequence. Chris Caple 71
Figures xi
4.2 Gravestone in the churchyard at Staindrop, County Durham. Emily
Williams 73
4.3 Decay detection sequence. Chris Caple 74
4.4 Common techniques used for the analysis of inorganic and organic
materials in the opening decades of the 21st century. Chris Caple 79
4.5 The Bradwell Box. Redrawn by Yvonne Beadnell from Keepax and
Robson (1978) 89
4.6 The Archimedes Palimpsest (Eucologion 17r–16v). © Owner of the
Archimedes Palimpsest 92
5.1 12th-century arrowhead from Nevern Castle. Martha Infray & Chris
Caple 97
5.2 Partially cleaned fresco from the Sistine Chapel ceiling.
© Governorate of the Vatican City State Directorate of the
Vatican Museums 110
6.1 Pottery exposed during archaeological excavation. Emily Williams 116
6.2 A restored polychrome tile (left) exhibited next to a complete
monochrome original (right). Emily Williams 122
6.3 Recreation/replica of the Sutton Hoo helmet. © Trustees of the British
Museum 127
6.4 Hans Holbein’s painting The Ambassadors, following restoration.
© The National Gallery 131
6.5 The Loch Glashan leather satchel. Redrawn by Chris Caple from
Lewis 2005b 133
7.1 Decay rates for an excavated archaeological object (from Dowman
1970) and a repaired continually working object, such as a clockwork
mechanism. Chris Caple 137
7.2 Sources of decay and their mitigation. Chris Caple 138
7.3 Light damage the varnished wood has darkened through interaction
with light, except where it was shielded by decorative oval plaques.
Emily Williams 139
7.4 The Hunley during the de-concretion process. Friends of the Hunley 151
8.1 Levels of storage. Chris Caple 161
8.2 Poster image designed to raise awareness and support for the
conservation of Neil Armstrong’s Apollo 11 spacesuit. National
Air and Space Museum of the Smithsonian Institution 168
8.3 Unused furniture and other items stored in an upstairs servant’s
room in Brodsworth Hall (English Heritage). Chris Caple 169
8.4 The kitchen at Brodsworth Hall. Chris Caple 172
9.1 Furness Railway Steam Locomotive No. 20. © Greg Fitchett 176
9.2 Move from functioning object to preserved remains via repair and
restoration. Chris Caple 179
9.3 Table of the principal forms in which working objects are displayed
and stored in museums 182
9.4 Monument to Everard t’Serclaes by Julien Dillens (1902) in Brussels.
Emily Williams 185
9.5 Black lives matter themed graffiti on the base of the (removed)
Robert E. Lee statue in Richmond, VA. Katherine Ridgway 186
9.6 The Forth Railway Bridge. Chris Caple 192
xii Figures
9.7 Organised Upright Grand Piano, after treatment. The Colonial
Williamsburg Foundation. Museum Purchase. Conservation of this
instrument is made possible by a gift from Constance Tucker and
Marshall Tucker in memory of N. Beverly Tucker Jr 197
9.8 Tlingit basket, before treatment. Crista Pack 199
10.1 The Hippopotamus at the Zoological Gardens, Regent’s Park Zoo,
London. The Royal Photographic Society 204
10.2 The Pyramid of Learning, developed by the National Training
Laboratories Institute (Bethel, Maine). Redrawn by Chris Caple 207
10.3 The Peterborough petroglyph. Drawn by Robert Bednarick 209
10.4 A decision tree used at Library and Archives Canada (LAC) to
prioritise conservation work. Redrawn by Chris Caple 214
10.5 Excerpt from a risk assessment for a camera crew coming to film in a
museum and the measures that might be employed to mitigate the
risks from handling. Chris Caple 216
10.6 The gold lozenge from Bush Barrow, Wiltshire. Wiltshire
Archaeological and Natural History Society 222
11.1 A conservation MA student discusses fills with a “Junior
conservator” at an outreach event. Emily Williams 232
11.2 Two volunteers rehouse archaeological objects. Emily Williams 236
11.3 The contents of a Danish Vet’s Dispensary, Østfyns Museum 242
11.4 Data excerpts from the spreadsheets. Jenny Arnsby 243
11.5 Adam by Tullio Lombardo. Fletcher Fund, 1936, The Metropolitan
Museum of Art 248
Preface
The first edition of this book, Conservation Skills: Judgment, Method and Decision-
Making, set out to introduce emerging conservators to the process of conservation
decision-making, to look at the balance of skill and judgement that informed the
process and to explore where various options, such as partial cleaning of
archaeological iron artefacts or the full restoration of a painting, might lie within
that spectrum. The book tried to appreciate that conservation was still a developing
subject, emerging from different material/museum collection disciplines (fine art,
furniture, sculpture, industrial, archaeology, natural history, etc.) and to consider how
consistent conservation principles could be applied to different objects in a collection,
whether they were 5,000 or 50 years old, static or working, plastic or cast iron.
Nearly 23 years later, the field of conservation has changed significantly. How we
conserve objects (the skills part of conservation) has changed as new technologies have
been introduced but many of the goals remain the same. Where the field has
experienced more profound change is in the areas of what we conserve and why we
conserve it. The importance of values was just beginning to be explored when the first
edition of the book was written. Increasingly, their role in informing statements of
significance guides decisions about what will be conserved and which aspects of an
object’s history are privileged and retained during treatment. Objects are conserved
because they matter to people, they connect people with their past (both real and
imagined). As conservators and others have explored these connections, it has become
increasingly apparent that who we are conserving for matters as well. Cultures
throughout the world now draw upon conservation, adding ideas taken from their
own traditions of caring for ancient and valued artefacts. This is enriching the subject,
allowing engagement with a broader set of ideas, approaches, artefacts, and heritage
and subtly reshaping the discipline. As a result, it seemed the right time to update
Conservation Skills and to reflect some of the changes and challenges to the field that
are emerging in the 21st century.
Like the first edition, this volume is intended primarily to help orient those new to
the field but we hope that it may also serve as a useful tool for those who have been
in the field for a number of years and for curators, archaeologists, and those
engaged in allied professions. Although many of the ideas in the book are universal,
we acknowledge that the examples given are drawn largely from those we are
familiar with and are limited by our own reading and experience working in Britain,
the United States and Europe. We have used the terms ‘object’ and ‘artefact’
synonymously to refer to all things which are not buildings, monuments, or
landscapes and have made an effort to broaden the scope of the case studies
xiv Preface
offered so that they now range from wall paintings to statues, leather bags to woven
baskets; from the artistic to the functional.
We would like to thank the many people who played a role in developing the ideas
and case studies highlighted in the first edition of the book. In addition, we are deeply
grateful for the help that John Watson, Carolyn Riccardelli, Lisa Young, Mary
Brooks, Kate Ridgway, Lynn Grant, Angelika Kuettner, Molly Gleeson, Johanna
Rivera, Felicity Turner, Crista Pack, Bob Kentridge, Ida Hovmand, Louise Mumford,
and Jenny Arnsby have given us in preparing this edition. We would also like to thank
the many conservators whose work (both in the lab and in journals, books, and
conference papers) has inspired and challenged us. Your work defines and shapes the
field.
Chris Caple & Emily Williams

1 Reasons for Preserving the Past
The Importance of the Past

Before discussing how we preserve the past, or even what parts of the past we should
preserve, it is essential to answer the question, why is the past important? Human
perception is based on our previous encounters with the physical world; we under-
stand the world around us through correlating our present perception with past ex-
periences. Therefore, a personal past is essential to us. As social beings, humans
require points of contact (shared experiences and mutual beliefs) as a basis for com-
munication. Our past also provides us with a wider sense of belonging, often
manifested in an interest in our ancestry or the maintenance of traditions from a long-
departed homeland. A poignant example of this can be found in tokens from
London’s Foundling Hospital. In the 18th century, mothers sometimes abandoned
children that they could no longer care for at the door of the children’s home. They
frequently left them with an object, a token such as an engraved or split coin, button, a
scrap of fabric, a pendant, or a lock. If the mother’s fortunes improved, she could
reclaim her child either by successfully identifying the token left with the child, or by
presenting a matching part, such as the key that fit the lock left with the child or the
other half of the split coin. These tokens were the only link to the child’s earliest
identities and connected the child to their past. Remembering a visit to the hospital,
Robert Cox, a former pupil stated
I was taken up to the Picture Gallery and … beside the pictures on the wall were two
or three showcases … There was all little tokens in there … bits of ribbon, bits of
lace, buttons, bits of material, bits of tickets, coins … I knew instantly that these
were things that … mothers had left to be able to identify their child by … I suppose
they all hoped at some stage … I was just transfixed by this … I kept wondering
what my mother had left with me. Not realising, at that stage, that that system had
finished years before … It was just a heart-breaking moment.
(Foundling Museum n.d)
Like individuals, groups may cherish a past; indeed, many define themselves and their
traits or qualities by reference to their past. Thus, regiments record their battle hon-
ours, sports teams record their victories, and nations erect monuments to celebrate
individuals and momentous events in their past. Many cultures start their pasts with a
creation myth – a narrative of the past that explains the world they inhabit. Names
from these creation myths are often given to features of the landscape through which
DOI: 10.4324/9781003009078-1
members of that society move as a means of explaining and claiming them (Layton
1994). For example, the name of the Welsh mountain Cadair Idris translates as ‘Idris’
Chair’ referring to a mythological giant who was said to have used the mountain as his
throne, explaining its shape. The giant Idris was skilled in poetry, astronomy, and
philosophy (valued Welsh traditions) and is often conflated with the early Welsh
prince, Idris ap Gwyddno (also known as Idris Gawr or Idris the Giant) who won an
important battle against the Irish and whose military prowess was worthy of emula-
tion. Thus, the name not only connects an existing story to an origin myth but also
reinforces societal values and offers tips for survival or integration in the present.
Similarly, ‘songlines’ or dream tracks, associated with the ancestral past known as ‘the
Dreaming’, continue to connect modern Aboriginal Australians with their land and
guide their travels across it.
In Western European society, creation stories and the biblical narratives that re-
placed them were challenged by Enlightenment era beliefs that sought to create a
single provable past – ‘the past’ – based on physical evidence and reason. The past has
many forms: oral history, written history, buildings, landscapes, objects, pictures,
memories, sounds, smells, tastes, people, etc. In creating our own personal pasts, we
often experience all or many of these elements together and they remain connected in
our minds; however, we engage with ‘the past’ primarily in two forms, as the physical
remains of objects and sites and as narratives.
Remains (Objects and Sites)

Physical remains, often referred to as material cultural or as ‘tangible cultural heri-
tage’ (UNESCO 2020), may include archaeological sites, monuments, and functional
and decorative objects. These are often seen as primary sources (documents) that can
objectively be read to understand events in their creation, working life, and the society
that made and used them (Lipe 1987; Jones 1990, Caple 2000; Caple 2006; Watson
2010). Many objects are complex and have been altered over the years for a variety of
motives and it is important to remember that past interventions can distort how we
perceive them in the present (Genbrugge 2017; Case Study 1A: De Walden helmets).
For example, St Wenceslas’ helmet consists of an early 10th century cap consistent
with Wenceslas’ life; however, the rim and nasal, with Christian imagery, were likely
added later in the century as support grew for the saint’s cult (Vlasatý 2019). Since
objects and sites act as mnemonic devices, every time we encounter them, they bring
the past to mind. Physical ‘touchstones’ of the past may therefore be created to
provide authority or to point to early periods or to commemorate past events
(memorials); for example, at the Step Pyramid of Djoser in Saqqara, a symbolic south
tomb alludes to older dynastic burials in Upper Egypt and speaks to Djoser’s role in
unifying Egypt (Baines 1994: 134), similarly war memorials give physical presence to
past triumphs and losses.
Narrative
A narrative may be a myth or tradition, oral or written history, museum label,
guidebook, or other account of the past that relates physical remains to a wider un-
derstanding of events in the past. Objects of the past always have a narrative, even if it
is simply a date or an association with someone in the past. The narrative provides a
Reasons for Preserving the Past 3
context beyond that of the object’s immediate surroundings. Through the narrative,
people interpret and appreciate an object’s previous existence (its past) and connect its
physical remains to a societal past. The more detailed and engaging the narrative, the
more important (valued) the object will appear. Narratives contain:
• Facts: Details about composition, date, manufacture, discard and use recovered
from the object, its context and contemporary sources. Conservators may play a
key role in revealing and adding facts to narratives due to their intimate
engagement with the objects they work on.
• Interpretation: Deductions made from the facts that draw the meaning or role of
the object into a wider understanding.
Whenever a narrative is presented, facts may be selected or elided, and the narrative
biased consciously or unconsciously. To be accepted, narratives must normally fit the
‘established’ view of the past. However, narratives are adjusted to fit new evidence or
an ‘improved’ understanding of the past. Recently, many museums have revised the
narratives about ethnographic objects to incorporate traditional forms of knowledge
associated with their source communities.
The power of narrative can be seen in the project A History of the World in 100
Objects. Initially a radio programme created by the BBC and the British Museum,
where objects were used as engaging mnemonics that drew listeners into stories and
explanations of the past, the project later developed into a book (MacGregor 2012)
and a touring exhibition.1 It was very popular and drew people to the British Museum
to see the real objects; however, the initial trigger was the narrative.
Heritage and the Past

Heritage can be defined as something inherited or passed on from a previous generation.
Although heritage may be experienced personally, its focus is on communal or group
memory and on rendering the past useable in the present (Lowenthal 1996; Harrison
2013). Like historians, heritage practitioners create narratives about the past; however,
there are some differences between them. The work of historians explores and explains
the past but focuses on verifiable facts usually contained in written documents. It seeks
to create a detailed authoritative version of the past. Heritage, on the other hand, is ‘an
actively constructed understanding, a discourse about the past that is ever in fluctuation’
(Moody 2015: 113). Lowenthal (1996) illustrated this by citing the example of the Tiv
tribe in Nigeria who first recounted their tribal genealogy and account of their past to
anthropologists over 50 years ago. The anthropologists’ written record (or history) no
longer corresponds to the present-day genealogy and account of their past told by the
tribe. Over the intervening years, the narrative has changed. The members of the tribe
adapted and amended the record to reflect changes and to ensure that the past continued
to serve the needs and purposes of the present. The line between history and heritage is
not a sharp one. It is blurry. History museums are part of the heritage industry and
historical facts underpin many heritage narratives. The difference between the two lies in
how the past is used. While all elements of the past are historical, only some are heritage.
Heritage is a product of selection and designation by a group or society.
Cultural heritage is the legacy of human creativity and expression that is inherited by
the present from the past. It is composed of both tangible elements (physical artefacts,
buildings, works of art, and written words) and intangible elements (customs, traditions,
performances, beliefs, and rituals). Tangible and intangible heritage are not mutually
exclusive; both can be present in a single artefact. For example, a mask can be both a
tangible wooden structure and the manifestation of a supernatural entity (Seip 1999).
Heritage is established and maintained through three processes:
• Identification: This may include research to discover as much information or

evidence as possible. Linked to notions of authenticity and truth.
• Preservation2: The idea of heritage as an inheritance from the past is important since
it carries with it the idea that as we inherited these things, we should also pass them
on and that we should ideally pass them on in similar or better condition. For many
this is seen as an important social responsibility. Preservation is a process that aims
to protect the object for the future. In 2001, UNESCO adopted the Universal
Declaration on Cultural Diversity, which states in Article 7 that: ‘heritage in all its
forms must be preserved, enhanced and handed on to future generations as a record
of human experience and aspirations, so as to foster creativity in all its diversity and
to inspire genuine dialogue among cultures’ (UNESCO 2001).
• Presentation: Making cultural heritage and information about it accessible to the
public. Traditionally, this has been done through physical display or performance.
Digital technologies offer opportunities for virtual displays allowing heritage to be
presented in ways that might not be possible otherwise. Displays select some of
the ‘truths’ about the object and through the narrative (verbal or written), or the
nature of the display, emphasise and communicate them. It is necessary to
evaluate displays critically as those who control the means of presentation have
the power to intentionally or unintentionally bias the narrative presented.
Today, the processes of identifying, preserving, and presenting heritage are often
undertaken by large interdisciplinary teams that may include architects, archae-
ologists, exhibit designers, curators, fundraisers, historians, conservators, security
professionals, collections care specialists, and others. Collectively, these individuals
are often referred to as heritage professionals and the industry within which they work
is referred to as the heritage sector. In 2019, in England alone, it was responsible for
employing 464,000 and contributing nearly 2% to the nation’s gross value added or
GVA (Historic England 2019).
Modernisation has meant that many connections with the past have been lost. People
increasingly live away from larger family units and as a result, traditions (or intangible
heritage) and heirlooms (tangible heritage) may not be handed down; new technologies
are replacing older methods of working and multi-storey buildings in newly created
cities often replace vernacular forms of architecture (Figure 1.1). In periods of change,
the new (what is unknown) can be threatening and the past (what is known) is re-
assuring. As vestiges of the past become scarcer, they are valued more highly.
Traditional food and music are sought and objects that were once seen as old become
‘collectible’, ‘vintage’, and ‘antique’. Heritage becomes a poultice for the trauma of loss
and the disturbance of the new. Consequently, people attempt to collect and preserve the
past; to freeze it. This is not a new phenomenon; writers in Imperial Rome sought the
certainty of the earlier Republican Age. However, what we consider ‘our’ or ‘the’ her-
itage varies from one individual to another and from one group to another. It can be
deeply personal, which leads to conflict and to ‘contested heritage’. Dominant groups
Figure 1.1 The 15th century Khanqah (a Sufi ritual space) and Mausoleum of Sultan Farag ibn
Barquq, once isolated in Cairo’s Northern Cemetery is now encroached on by
modern, often unpermitted, structures. Felicity Turner.
may portray other groups as lacking a past. They may appropriate elements of another
group’s heritage as a means of controlling that group. Heritage can therefore be a
cultural process through which individuals and social groups express, contest, and ex-
pand their power (Ireland and Lydon 2005). Thus ‘heritage’ although tied to an in-
dividual’s need to have a past, goes beyond it and becomes an essential component of
social and political organisation (Kavanagh 1990; Fowler 1992).
Valuing the Past

Cultural heritage survives when it is deemed valuable to succeeding generations or when
it is buried or otherwise hidden. When its value is higher in another form, for example as a
raw material, it is altered. Thus, bronze statues are melted down when their value as scrap
is greater than the memory of the individual they portray (Figure 1.2). The value of the
past is relative. It is dependent on economic circumstances, geography, cultural back-
ground personal experience, religious beliefs, academic training, etc. William Stukeley
(1743) recorded an early example of the differing values inherent in an object. The late
17th and 18th centuries saw both the wholesale destruction and the simultaneous
recording of the prehistoric stones (sarsens) at Avebury. Stukeley, an 18th-century
English antiquarian, observed a local man, Tom Robinson, and his accomplices breaking
up sarsens. They dug pits beneath the stones, lit fires in the pits, heated the stones,
Figure 1.2 Initially one of at least 22 similar statues of its type, the equestrian statue of Marcus
Aurelius, a Roman Emperor, is today the only surviving example. Later Roman Kings
and Pontiffs, believed erroneously that it depicted Constantine, the first Christian
Emperor. Therefore, they valued the statue and preserved it. © Sovrintendenza
Capitolina – Foto in Comune.
shattered them by throwing cold water on them, and then collected and sold the frag-
ments as building stone (Stukeley, 1743: 15). For Stukeley, who recorded what remained,
the stones had value for their connections to the past and the ways in which they fuelled
his antiquarian imagination; for Robinson and his helpers, the stones had value as a raw
material – a single stone broken up in this manner provided enough building material for
an entire cottage (Stukeley 1743: 31). Robinson also valued the cleared land for growing
crops (Stukeley 1743: 22). For Stukeley, an Anglican cleric, Robinson’s actions may have
seemed even more objectionable because he was a member of a dissenting community
(Edwards 2004), demonstrating how complex values can be and how they can be influ-
enced by seemingly unconnected beliefs. With no way to settle their differences, all that
remained to Stukeley was to pillory Robinson in his writing.3
Today, museums and heritage agencies carry out conscious valuation processes to
ensure that valuable heritage is not lost, to clarify which aspects of the past are important,
and to justify allocating resources to their preservation. In 1903, the art historian Alois
Riegl identified three values (measures of importance) that he felt were key to the iden-
tification and preservation of artistic and historic works (Stanley Price et al. 1996): age
value, historical value, and commemorative value. Each of these values could, he argued,
be further qualified by two additional values: use and newness. Thus, an old and historic
building, such as Hagia Sofia in Istanbul, may be valued for its age, its ability to docu-
ment key historic moments, and its continued use to the community. In seeking to pre-
serve it, all three values must be considered, or the essence of the building may be
damaged. The notion of values gradually found its way into the preservation field. In
1964, the Venice Charter noted that the aim of restoration was to ‘preserve and reveal the
aesthetic and historic value … based on respect for original material and authentic
documents’ (ICOMOS 1965). This rather narrow view of values, which focused on
maintaining the authenticity of the piece through the materials it was made from, was
augmented in 1979 by the Burra Charter, which recognised a new class of values – cul-
tural values (ICOMOS Australia 1979). Cultural values were defined as the ‘qualities for
which a place has become a focus of spiritual, political, national or other cultural sen-
timent to a majority or minority group’ (ICOMOS Australia 1999). Over the intervening
years, a number of different values have been identified. Mason and Avrami (2000)
included historic, aesthetic, social (or civic), spiritual (religious), symbolic (identity),
research, nature, and economic values in their list. In practice, several values are often
grouped together under one ‘master’ value term, such as ‘communal value’, which may
encompass financial value, use value, social and religious value (English Heritage 2008).
It is important to note that

• Values can be subjective and culturally dependant (Figure 1.2).
• Values can be measured and expressed in different ways, including financial
(monetary value), visitor numbers (popular value), citations or references (impact
value), emotional response (aesthetic value), etc.
The value of objects changes over time. A generalised curve of the changing overall value
of objects over time can be derived (Figure 1.3), highlighting three distinct phases.
When clearly articulated, values help identify the aspects of an object or monument
that are particularly important and/or preservation worthy, i.e. the fabric, appearance,
context, location, and/or use. The individuals, groups, and corporate entities holding
Phase III
Value Phase I
Phase II
Time
Figure 1.3 Time-value curve applicable to almost all artefacts. In Phase I, objects have an initial
value based largely on their functionality. This declines as the objects wear, decay
and grow older. In Phase II, objects are old, broken and obsolete. They have little
value beyond the recyclable materials they contain (high for gold jewellery, low for
most things). Most objects cease to exist. By Phase III, a few objects survive, slowly
acquiring value due to their increasing age, scarcity and mnemonic function.
Conservation and restoration activities enhance their (many) values ( Thompson
1979; Ashley-Smith 1999; Waller 2003; Hucklesby 2005; Strlic et al. 2013;
Thompson 2017). Chris Caple.
and articulating these values are referred to as stakeholders. Values are summarised
and communicated through a ‘statement of significance’, which can be created for
sites, monuments, and objects. English Heritage (2008) defines the ‘significance’ of a
place as its capacity to provide physical evidence of the human past (evidentiary
value); its associations with people and events and how these connect the past with the
present (historical values); the sensory and intellectual stimulation the place provides
(aesthetic value); and the meaning the place holds to the lives of those living there,
using it and who have experienced it (communal value).
Once significance has been established the next steps are to identify the obligations
arising from its significance, such as identifying the physical condition and any future
resource needs, as well as any resources, opportunities, and constraints that might be
present (ICOMOS Australia 2013). The final step is to prepare a management plan,
including priorities, resources, responsibilities, and timings and then implement that
plan. Values and significance can inform planning at the level of a single artefact
(Russel and Winkworth 2009) or on a national level (Kirby Talley Jr. 1999).
Establishing the significance of a place (or object) is not an entirely objective pro-
cess. As Riegl noted in 1903, ‘it is modern viewers rather than the works themselves by
their original purpose that assign meaning and significance to a monument’. Heritage
agencies frequently engage with stakeholders (community members, politicians,
business leaders, and heritage groups as well as others) to explore the values of an
object or place. But who is a valid stakeholder? Does anyone with an opinion get a
voice, or should there be some test of validity or worthiness before you can be con-
sidered a stakeholder? How can we successfully negotiate unequal power structures
and recognise that some stakeholders are very powerful, and some may be acutely
unempowered? How frequently should the group of stakeholders be reconstituted? If
consensus is achieved one year, how soon can it be revisited if there is a dissenting
voice or finding? Since values may be measured in different ways it can be difficult to
balance them to reach a conclusion (Mason and Avrami 2000: 25). Unfortunately, in
these situations monetary concerns may trump other units of measurement and impact
which elements are seen as most significant.
Devaluing the Past

Identifying, preserving, and presenting heritage emphasises its value for ‘our’ identity
and can make it a target for those wishing to undermine or eliminate that identity.
This may be tactical or punitive. In 1944, the Nazis purposely destroyed Warsaw as a
punishment for the Warsaw Uprising (Chamberlin 1979). During the Bosnian war,
Serbian Nationalist forces deliberately targeted libraries and archives seeking to
destroy historical records that might offer written proof that non-Serbians once lived
in the area. The communal records of over 800 Muslim and Croat (Catholic) com-
munities were destroyed. In 1993, the Stari Most Bridge in Mostar, which was com-
missioned in 1557 by Suleiman the Magnificent and connected disparate Christian,
Orthodox, and Muslim communities, was destroyed by Croat nationalist forces as a
way of excising that shared cultural heritage and peaceful coexistence. In an interview
about the bridge’s destruction, a militiaman serving in the forces of Mate Boban, a
Croat Nationalist warlord, noted that ‘it is not enough to cleanse Mostar of the
Muslims … the relics must also be destroyed’ (Riedlmayer 1994: 3).
The idea of excising the past and ‘killing memory’ (Riedlmayer 1994) is not a
uniquely modern concept nor is it solely associated with ethnic cleansing. It can be
carried out for political and religious reasons as well. In ancient Egypt, Thutmose III
ordered the obliteration of the name and image of Hatshepsut, the powerful
eighteenth-dynasty queen who had usurped his throne and declared herself Pharoah
(Quirke and Spencer 1992). In ancient Rome, the ‘damnatio memoriae’ (condemna-
tion of memory) punished tyrants, traitors, and state enemies; their images and any
inscriptions mentioning them were destroyed. After the fall of Baghdad in 2003, the
statue of Saddam Hussein in Firdos square was toppled, decapitated, jumped, and
stomped on, and then dragged through town and beaten with shoes. The physical
indignities enacted on the statue, which served as a surrogate for Hussein’s own body,
allowed Iraqis to express their anger at their treatment by his regime.
Changes in religious belief often lead to iconoclasm (the rejection or destruction of
religious images as heretical). As Christianity spread across Europe, many temples and
their contents were destroyed or converted to churches to demonstrate the van-
quishing power of the new God. In areas that later came under Muslim rule, these
same churches were converted to mosques. For Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, this meant
that the iconostasis, altar, ambo, and baptistery were removed, figural mosaics
showing Christ, Mary, and saints and angels were plastered over and a minbar,
mihrab, and minarets were added. When Turkey embraced secular governance in the
20th century, the plaster was removed, and the mosaics revealed again. During the
Reformation, protestants destroyed or damaged many Catholic statues, paintings, and
books that they felt were idolatrous. Often this damage corresponded to existing
corporal punishments for crimes (Graves 2008).
Occasionally, wars throw up icons such as the bombed shell of Coventry Cathedral or
the Genbaku Dome in Hiroshima, which are preserved to remind subsequent genera-
tions of the destructive power of wars. Such monuments are rare; typically, the debris
from conflict is swept away. Humanity seeks to tidy away its messes. Order imparts a
sense of inevitability to the outcome, but it also wipes away trauma; therefore, pre-
serving damage can be an important element in acknowledging historical events.
The fact that heritage is never universally shared makes it vulnerable. Dominant
groups may valorise and protect their heritage, while subordinate groups may lack the
power to advocate for theirs. Similarly, the sense that something is not one’s own
heritage (and therefore not relevant or valuable to one’s identity) may lead to
acquiescence to, or participation in, its destruction or to the failure to use valuable
resources to preserve it.
Authenticity
Authenticity, value, and preservation are tightly linked. We preserve objects because
we believe they are genuine in some way: a ‘real example’ of a medieval castle or of a
painting by Van Gogh. What makes an object authentic is tied to both its tangible
aspects (materials and manufacturing techniques) and its intangible aspects (historical,
aesthetic, and spiritual values). For example, when we assess the authenticity of a
painting, we look for evidence that the paints used and the ways they are handled are
consistent with the period in which the artist was working and the style of their work
and that the aesthetic qualities of the work accord with those attributed to the artist.
Authenticity is a concept that we deploy unthinkingly in our everyday lives. We
speak about things having an authentic look or flavour and we purchase certain
brands because they are the ‘real thing’ as opposed to others which we deem to be
counterfeit. Authenticity can seem straight forward and yet in a preservation context it
is a problematic and much debated concept (Muñoz Viñas 2005; Gordon et al. 2014;
Scott 2016). What is the authentic state of an object? Is it the pristine condition it was
in when it left its maker’s hand? Is it the state it achieves after it has been in use for
many years? Or is it the possibly corroded or misshapen state in which we now see it?
If we intervene, are we restoring it to a more authentic aesthetic version or acting to
stabilise its current state, which may more truthfully reflect its use and history? For
objects that have had a long history of use, adaptation, and repair this becomes more
difficult to determine. HMS Victory, Nelson’s flagship at the Battle of Trafalgar, was
initially commissioned in 1765 and had several refits prior to playing its part at
Trafalgar in 1805. In 1812, it was refitted again and substantially updated. Around
this period, it also began a gradual shift from a replaceable warship to the status of
‘national icon and tangible memorial to Nelson and Trafalgar’ (Wessex Archaeology
2015: 12). A plaque was added to the quarterdeck where Nelson fell and to the cockpit
on the orlop deck where he died, and his funeral barge was stored on the ship. Further
refits, an early conservation campaign to return it to its 1805 appearance, repairs after
the ship was rammed by another ship, bomb damage in the Second World War and a
major battle with fungal attack and death watch beetle all followed. This raises the
question of how much of what we see today is Nelson’s ship? Recent work suggests
that much of the lower decks (including the orlop deck), the keel assemblage and
elements of the longitudinal bow structure are 18th and early 19th century but that the
most visible parts, the hull framing, and upper decks largely post-date 1922 (Wessex
Archaeology 2015). Does that make the ship less authentic?
Western tradition places a premium on the authenticity of the materials. Material
authenticity is seen as conveying an objective truth to the object that endures long
after interpretations have changed. Objects are sometimes viewed as documents that
can be unlocked and read through the study of their material constituents (Caple 2006;
Watson 2010). The emergence of fields such as conservation science, technical art
history, and archaeometry speaks to the importance of these concepts in Western
thinking, but it is also reflected in the notion that a key part of the conservator’s job is
to facilitate the ‘legibility’ of the object. Other approaches to the relationship between
authenticity and preservation exist. In Japan, the Ise Jingū temple and its ancillary
shrines are dismantled every 20 years and rebuilt at great cost to exacting historic
specifications. The current Ise Jingū temple dates to 2013 and is the 62nd iteration of
the temple. The rebuilding process celebrates the idea of perpetual renewal, presenting
a site that is both new (in material terms) and ancient (in terms of form). Additionally,
it celebrates the perpetuation of craft knowledge and the transmission of these skills –
the 20-year renewal cycle being shorter than one generation (Sand 2015) – in a way
that is echoed by the tradition of designating craftsmen who epitomise perfection in a
craft idiom as ‘living national treasures’. Both these practices root authenticity not in
materials but rather in form, craft skills, and other intangible criteria.
The Nara Conference held in 1994, examined the question of authenticity and
resulted in the production of the Nara Document on Authenticity (ICOMOS 1994).
Although it has not resolved all the issues surrounding authenticity, it is widely seen as
expanding the definition of the term and of opening the heritage field to a more
multicultural and multivocal approach.
Preservation Mechanisms: Legislation, Preservation in Situ, and

Collection
Once the values associated with an item of cultural heritage (building, object, land-
scape) are established, it is common to begin to think about how they can be pre-
served. This typically occurs through one of three mechanisms – legislation,
preservation in situ, or acquisition – which one is chosen often depends on the size of
the object and its location.
Legislation
Laws have been developed by different societies over time to protect things that are
valued, from human life to heritage. Initially, significant monuments and landscape
features valued by a community may become the focus of traditions, which protect
them from harm. Children raised within the community learn the traditions and thus
this social protection effectively preserves the heritage. Aurel Stein, in his 1903 ac-
counts of his journey through central Asia to China, recorded an example of such
social valuation:
Shami Sope, a withered old man of about ninety, had heard from his father and
grandfather, who had both died at a great age, that the little mound had ever been
respected by the folk of Somiya as a hallowed spot not to be touched by the
plough share. Some unknown spirit is supposed to have sat upon this spot, and
evil would befall those who should touch the ground. The name of the saint is
forgotten … But the people of Somiya never pass without saying a prayer.
(Stein 1903: 265–266)
As societies grow both in terms of population size and geographic range and an
increasing number of individuals are unaware of local tradition, laws are created to
provide protection. In Europe, heritage legislation principally developed in the 19th
century (Cleere 1984; Caple 2016: 144–156). Such laws were often created as new
nations were establishing themselves and seeking not only to assert a claim to the land
but also to define membership within the nation. Greek legislation passed in 1834,
only four years after Greece won independence from Turkey, succinctly expresses
these nationalistic aims ‘all objects of antiquity in Greece being the productions of the
ancestors of the Hellenic people, are regarded as the common national procession of
all Hellenes’ (Cleere 2002). Heritage legislation was not always popular since it was
perceived as curtailing the rights of the landowners. In the case of England and Wales,
where a land-owning class controlled the government, the first heritage protection was
the 1882 Ancient Monuments Protection Act, which was voluntary for landowners
with ancient monuments on their land (Breeze 1993; Champion 1996). Only when
centralised governments became stronger in the 20th century and the threats to a
nation’s heritage were more immediate was more powerful protective legislation
passed. In England and Wales, the 1913 Ancient Monument Consolidation and
Amendment Act, was passed shortly after Tattershall Castle – ‘the finest piece of
medieval brickwork in England’ (Pettifer 2002: 145) – was sold with the intention to
demolish parts of it and rebuild them in the United States (Thompson 2006: 49–59;
Thurley 2013: 72–75). Even then, the legislation only protected specific ancient sites,
which were added to a national schedule or list; the ground and its contents continued
to belong to the landowner. This practice continues today and explains why activities
such as metal detecting flourish in Britain, where private landowners possess all the
rights to the land and everything found on it but are often illegal in countries where
the state maintains a claim of ownership on resources, including archaeological ones
(Thomas and Stone 2009).
As awareness of the archaeological past grew in the late 20th century, and its loss due
to development (i.e. housing, infrastructure, industrial cf. Coles 1987; Darvill and
Fulton 1998) became a source of public concern, governments faced an increasing (and
often unwelcome) financial burden to excavate and protect the archaeological past. At
the same time the wider social principle of ‘the polluter pays’ was becoming established.
Applied to heritage protection, this principle establishes that archaeological remains
have a value to society and if threatened with disturbance (pollution) then the developer
(the polluter) should avoid them, if possible. If it is not possible to avoid them, the
developer must compensate society by creating a detailed record, which is normally
achieved through funding the excavation of the site, the study of the finds and the
publication of the results. This approach became enshrined in legislation as early as 1974
in the United States (Archaeological Resources Protection Act). In Europe, the 1992
European Convention on the Protection of the Archaeological Heritage (Valletta)
required all countries in the European Union to develop relevant legislation (Willems
2008). These developments led to the establishment of the commercial archaeology
industry (also known as CRM – Cultural Resource Management). This industry un-
earths millions of artefacts every year that are subsequently deposited in museums.
Legal protections have theoretically resulted in millions of artefacts still buried in the
soil being preserved in situ and protected by law from damage and loss by anything
other than a detailed and approved archaeological excavation, although instances of
illegal disturbance and looting occur in most countries. Buried artefacts typically decay
extremely slowly since they near equilibrium with the surrounding environment; how-
ever, there is still a measurable loss of artefacts (Rimmer and Caple 2008). Practices such
as aerating the soil through ploughing and the use of fertilisers are believed to increase
the corrosion rates of buried metal artefacts (Fjaestad et al. 1998; Galliano et al. 1998;
Pollard et al. 2004, 2007). For objects preserved in waterlogged, desiccated, or frozen
conditions any disturbance of the burial environment, such as drainage, irrigation, or
global warming, will lead to active decay of the preserved remains (High et al. 2016,
2018; Peacock and Callanan 2018). Legislation whilst protecting sites and their buried
objects from deliberate damage by humans has no jurisdiction over subsoil chemistry
and millions of objects may be lost, even from familiar ancient monuments, without ever
having been seen.
Preservation in Situ 4
Most buildings are preserved in situ5 (Figure 1.4). This occurs for practical reasons,
such as size and cost, but also because the context of a building remains crucial to
understanding its role. To protect standing structures as well as excavated archaeo-
logical ruins, a range of options are available:
• Standing buildings (with a roof on) are costly to care for in the long term,
consequently the building must either have an appropriate continued use or an
organisation committed to its care. Some form of restoration and adaption is
usually required. Considerable efforts are often taken to accurately preserve the
historic character of such structures.
• Ruins are normally conserved to a state where they can survive with low-level
maintenance; for example, ensuring that they are physically stable and can shed
water effectively, that cracks and other faults are corrected, and that vegetation is
removed. Attempts to use shelters over ruins can be intrusive and are often
unsuccessful in the longer term, though they may facilitate excavation (Atalay et
al. 2010; Caple 2016: 439–449).
• Reburial takes advantage of the fact that decay rates under the soil are often much
lower than those above ground.6 Although it is desirable to make excavated
remains accessible, often heritage authorities must choose between an active, and
potentially costly, conservation and restoration programme and preservation,
which may be most effectively achieved through reburial. The location of the site,
its accessibility, its durability, and its significance as well as the potential costs of
conserving the remains play into this. Reburial is standard practice on many
archaeological sites, especially those with waterlogged deposits. Recognising that
cycles of decay, conservation, and exposure can cause damage and that upkeep is
costly to maintain, some long-exposed sites have been reburied or partially
reburied (Ford et al. 2004). Recent decades have seen increased efforts to monitor
and even control burial conditions (Corfield et al. 1998; Williams 2012; Caple
2016: 383–395; Case Study 1B: The Laetoli footprints).
Successful preservation in situ is always supported by legislation, which creates a legal

framework that supports the protection of the site from deliberate human damage.
This may occur at an international level (through conventions such as the World
Heritage Convention), at a national level (through national laws) or at a local level
Approach Sites
Sites remain unexcavated Unexcavated sections of Pompeii, Italy
Tomb of Emperor Qin Shi Huang, China
Reburial; backfilled sites after Rose Theatre, London

excavation San Diego Presidio, California, USA
Preserved
Reburial; backfilled sites Woodchester, Gloucester, England

occasionally unearthed Rock art sites in Scandinavia
Above ground ruins left ‘as Wigmore Castle (most of it)

found’
Temporarily protected Flag Fen

(roofed) site ‘as found’
Stabilised ruins Machu Picchu, Peru

Coventry Cathedral (Medieval), England
Mycenae, Greece
Stabilised ruin with Paestum, Italy

Part Preserved, Part Restored
associated museum Skara Brae, Orkneys, Scotland
Stabilised ruin with Benjamin Franklin’s House, Philadelphia (1)

(1) projected outline of the Knossos, Crete (2)
original building Great Zimbabwe(2)
(2) small section restored Pompeii (excavated), Italy (2)
Stabilised ruin beneath roof Casa Grande, Arizona, USA

or substantial shelter Fishbourne Palace, Sussex, England
Villa Romana del Casale, Piazza Armerina, Sicily
Çatalhöyük, Turkey
Ruins incorporated within Theatre of Marcellus, Rome (1)

later structure (1) or garden Roman Baths, Bath, England (1)
/landscape (2). Fountains Abbey (Medieval) & Studley Royal (18thcentury)(2)
Anastylosis Library at Ephesus, Turkey

Temple of Trajan, Pergamon, Turkey
Restored Ruins Cardiff Castle & Castell Coch, South Wales.
Temple of Hatshepsut, Deir el Bahari, Egypt
Colonia Ulpia Traiana, Xanten, Germany
Restored
Relocated Buildings Abu Simbel, Egypt

Temple of Dendur, Metropolitan Museum, New York
Skansen, Stockholm
Reconstructions Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia, USA

Biskupin, Poland
Stari Most (bridge at Mostar), Bosnia Herzegovina
Figure 1.4 Examples of different approaches to preserving and displaying ancient remains,
based on Stubs 1995. Chris Caple.
(through city or county ordinances). Preservation in situ is not always a viable option.
If a building is at risk, it may be necessary to relocate it as was the case between 1964
and 1969 when the Temple of Abu Simbel was relocated to save it from the con-
struction of the Aswan High Dam.
Collection
Portable objects, such as paintings, statuary, furnishings, and personal adornments,
are typically acquired and displayed in personal collections or in those of museums.
The physical manifestation of collecting has formed the basis of most of the world’s
museum collections and has consequently been defined and studied by many authors
(Belk 1994; Pearce 1994; Pomian 1994; Belk 2014). Motives that have contributed to
the creation of collections include:
• Belief: Many sacred sites retained collections of artefacts, often in a secure

location or treasury, that embodied important tenets of the faith (i.e. relics) as well
as objects that were also offered to the shrine as dedicatory items or expressions of
the congregant’s beliefs. Examples include the Athenian treasury at Delphi
constructed to hold votive offerings to the God Apollo, the Toji treasure house
in Kyoto, which houses the collection of the widow of the Japanese emperor
Shomu (724–756 AD), the shrine at Mashhad, which houses objects related to the
Muslim martyr Alī al-Ridā, (765–818 AD) and the treasury at Aachen Cathedral
(Lepie and Minkenberg 2013). Other beliefs, such as the importance of civic
engagement and democratic representation, have led to the creation of collections
and museums (The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, Williamsburg VA).
• Control: When the past can be collected and understood, it can be used to provide
explanations. Since the past gives rise to the present, being able to explain the past
makes it possible to explain, influence, and justify the present. In the 19th century
many emerging states established national museums, a trend which has continued
into the 20th century. Such national collections not only highlighted the origins of
nations through their collections, but also frequently laid claims to territories both
at home and abroad through their collections and served as a form of propaganda
for the country. More recently, the reliance of many modern museums on donor
funds has raised questions about who controls the ways collections are used and
what stories are told about the past (Kilian 2002). To quote George Orwell, ‘Who
controls the past, controls the future; who controls the present controls the past’
(Orwell 1949).
• Curiosity: Gaudy, symmetrical, outsized, and interesting items attract attention.
Collections of the unusual formed the basis for the ‘cabinets of curiosities’ created
in the 16th and 17th centuries, which often mixed myths with reality incorporating
tokens of mythical creatures such as mermaids, unicorns, and barnacle geese.
These collections established by Europe aristocrats and wealthy merchants were
designed to fascinate themselves and their visitors. Collectors, including Ole
Worm (1588–1654) of Copenhagen, Athanasius Kircher (1602–1680) in Rome,
and the Tradescants in England (1570–1662), studied their collections as a means
of explaining the world, publishing books, and opening museums to share their
curiosities with others. After their deaths, many of these collectors bequeathed
their collections to the towns, learned societies or universities, which were
springing up around Europe. A number of these private collections eventually
formed the basis of national museums. For example, Worm’s collection become
part of the Danish Royal Collection (Figure 1.5) and later the Danish National
Collection.
Figure 1.5 Frontispiece of Museum Wormianum (pub) 1655. The assortment of objects
exhibited illustrates the eccentric nature of cabinets of curiosities. ©Trustees of the
British Museum.
• Understanding (scholarship): Objects are collected to study what they are, how they
relate to one another and to the world at large, as well as so that they can be ordered
and classified. In the sixth century BC, Ennigaldi-Nanna, the daughter of
Mesopotamian king Nabonidus, created a collection of ancient objects, together
with inscribed clay cylinders which may be interpreted as labels, in a building which
has been interpreted as a school or museum, the first example of a collection used to
educate others (Remer 2020). In the 18th and 19th centuries, there was an interest in
categorising natural-history specimens, resulting in the foundation of many modern
sciences such as geology, zoology, and botany. Concepts such as evolution, genetics,
natural selection, adaptation, stratigraphy emerged to explain the observed differ-
ences. In the latter half of the 19th and early 20th century, museums began to open as
places of self-education. Natural history, ethnographic and science museums, and
museums/galleries devoted to ‘good’ art and taste (such as the Victoria and Albert)
were seen as a means of educating the populace.
• Nostalgia: The notion that the past is fleeting and that if it is not captured and
frozen, important lessons will be lost is a powerful motivator for collecting objects
from the recent past. Nostalgia for a ‘lost’ rural way of life led to the founding of the
first open air museum at Skansen in Sweden in 1891. Similarly, as industries close,
there is often a campaign to preserve worksites and materials associated with them.
For example, the Historic Whaling Station in Albany preserves the last Australian
shore-based whale processing factory and a whale chasing ship, while at the Big Pit
National Coal Mining Museum in Blaenavon, Wales ‘the tunnels and buildings that
once echoed to the sound of the miners now enjoy the sound of the footsteps and
chatter of visitors from all over the world’ (Big Pit National Coal Museum n.d.). The
goal of such collections is to elicit an empathetic and emotional response from the
museum visitor as well as impart an understanding of a past way of life. They seek to
convince the viewer that these aspects of the past are important and part of a
communal heritage. In 1858, the Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association (MVLA)
purchased and began restoring George Washington’s home. This effort like many
other preservation initiatives was characterised by a form of ‘personalism’ that
stressed the idea that human attachments (both material and immaterial) were worth
noting and nurturing, and that they provided intimate links to the past that could be
used to educate (Lindgren 1996).
• Aesthetics: Works of art on canvas or paper, sculpture, glass, ceramics, textiles,
photographs, and buildings are all more likely to be saved if they appeal to the
aesthetic sensibilities of the collector. In some instances, such as the Victoria and
Albert Museum, collections of ‘good art’ were amassed explicitly to demonstrate
to the masses what ‘good taste’ was.
• Monetary worth: The value of objects that are rare, well-known, beautiful, or
associated with famous/infamous people, events, and places is expressed in
financial terms. Today many objects are collected, wholly or in part, because of
their financial value. Some are seen as investments and retained in bank vaults.
The works of an artist invariably rise in value and are more assiduously collected
after their death. The emergence of a ‘valuable’ past has given rise to fakes and
forgeries (Jones 1990).
• Memories: Retaining an object may remind someone of another person or of a
particular aspect of their personal past and often accounts for the short-term
survival of an object, often something small and of little monetary value (e.g. a
grandfather’s medals, a toy from childhood or a souvenir from a holiday).
• Age: Places and objects are valued for their age. Initially, age veneration may have
been tied to ancestor cults (Schwartz 2013). Some ancient objects, such as Roman
coins found in Saxon graves, were retained as personal mementoes and apotropaic
charms (Knight et al. 2019). That something has survived a long time suggests
that it is valuable, powerful, different from the norm, and important to others. In
1819, the artist Charles Willson Peale painted Yarrow Mamout’s portrait because
Peale believed Mamout was 140 years old, and Peale was seeking to understand
the personal traits that supported long life.
Collections are rarely built through one motivation alone and two or more may be at
play during the acquisition of a given object.7 What frequently unites even disparate
collections is the desire to own and display the materials in them.
Biases in Collections and Displays

In placing objects of the past on view, curators and collectors seek to convey their own
understanding (beliefs) regarding the past (or present). The authenticity of objects and
the fact that they are regarded as ‘the real thing’ makes such displays convincing.
Exhibits are frequently regarded as educational and impartial depending on the extent
to which the viewer subscribes to the viewpoint of the display. However, various
elements of the display process and of the survival of objects can introduce dis-
sonances and biases. For each item that has survived to be collected, many more have
been lost to natural decay processes or to human actions (including but not limited to
iconoclasm). As a result, what we see may not represent all that was made. A number
of factors have helped to bias the shape of collections:
• Decay bias: Some materials such as wood, textile and leather decay quickly and as
a result are under-represented in collections. Other materials such as ceramic,
stone, and many metals do not decay as quickly and survive much better;
consequently, they are over-represented in museum collections. Rare survivals in
waterlogged or frozen conditions demonstrate that the majority of objects in the
Stone Age and Bronze Age were organic and yet museums are filled with tens of
thousands of stone and bronze axe heads and only a handful of wooden items.
• Collection bias: Collectors often preferentially acquire and study small decorative
objects or high-value items such as paintings or jewellery. Larger, more mundane,
or undecorated objects are frequently under-studied and consequently rarely
collected. Similarly, the desire to ‘complete’ a set and acquire an example of each
item of a type (for example coins or stamps) may motivate some collectors (and
curators) leading to more complete holdings in those areas. This can lead to an
unrepresentative overvaluing or undervaluing of portions of a collection.
• Temporal bias: The more distant a society is in terms of time or social geography
(different social systems) from the modern period, the less likely we are to be
able to correctly explain how and why the objects were used. This may make
collecting an item less desirable and impact its long-term retention and survival.
Our perception of the distant past is primarily through fragmentary archaeo-
logical remains that must be interpreted through written or pictorial records.
Therefore, the truth about the past is relative; some interpretations are
considered more accurate than others. It is obvious that the less functional an
object, the older it is and the more numerous the phases of use and reuse, the
greater the difficulty in accurately interpreting it. Thus, prehistoric monuments
or ritual objects that were used for a long time will be particularly hard to
accurately interpret (Chippindale 1983).
• Social bias: Collecting cannot be easily divorced from its social context.
Collectors, especially publicly funded institutions, may avoid acquiring and/or
displaying objects that are blasphemous, racist, or pornographic, although as with
many things the definition of these terms depends on the beholder. An excellent
example is the controversy over Robert Mapplethorpe’s photographs in the late
1980s. For some, the works were beautiful celebrations of the human body, others
deemed them obscene. Deaccessioning policies, the deliberate targeting of
elements of collections because they run counter to beliefs, and repatriation and
restitution all have the potential to alter the face of collections. Again, the context
is dependent on one’s viewpoint. While repatriation of objects to indigenous
communities has been welcomed by many as an indicator of respect and inclusion
(Ford et al. 2004; Turnbull and Pickering 2010; Cuno 2012; Pouliot et al. 2017), it
has been critiqued by others for curtailing scholarly access (Hunt 2001).
• Presentation biases: Displaying many similar objects is perceived to imply that
minor variations between similar objects are important. A single object displayed
alone invites the visitor to see the object as a work of art with meaning in its form,
colour, and decoration. When an object is displayed as part of a diorama the
object is seen as important in terms of its function and its association with the
objects around it, but such displays often group disparate objects together and
may have no relation to the actual or known history of the object. Similarly, the
limited space on museum labels or explanation panels necessitates the selection of
some information about the object and the omission of other aspects. What is
exhibited (and how) depends on the purpose of the display, museum policy, the
personal bias of the curator, the state of knowledge, what is fashionable in
museum/academic circles at that time and what is socially acceptable to display in
a public place.
The public views museum objects selectively and fit them into existing knowledge
frameworks (Chapter 10). Consequently, they frequently ignore objects and infor-
mation that do not fit into their existing pattern of understanding. They literally
cannot make sense of them, having no hooks on which to hang this information.
Dioramas, didactic panels, videos, and other tools that integrate the new object or
information with their existing knowledge help to bridge this gap and build a more
holistic view of the past. The more complete and detailed people’s views of the past the
easier they find it to add existing information and thus to ‘decode’ museums
(Kavanagh 1990; Pearce 1990) and ancient monuments.
Since heritage is linked to memory, the past on view is the past that we feel is
important to remember but it is important to note that our notions of what is
important change with time. Thus, objects are constantly re-examined and new
information and meaning ascribed to them. In 1919, a statue of Lincoln was given to
the citizens of Manchester in England by an American, Charles Phelps Taft. The
statue celebrated the fact that, after receiving a letter from Lincoln ‘to the Working
Men of Lancashire’ during the American Civil War, they had refused to spin cotton
from the Confederate South. In 1986, the statue was refurbished, and the dedicatory
inscription was altered to read ‘to the Working People of Manchester’ Lowenthal
1996). This modification reflects the political correctness of the late 20th century,
Lincoln’s words have been rewritten and there is a danger that they may be mistaken
for the original. John Bintliff (1988) pessimistically noted that such actions put us at
risk of ‘self-projection onto an essentially unknowable past’.
To preserve the past successfully, we must be able to successfully define why it is
valued, be cognizant of the factors that have influenced its survival to date and look
critically at our motivations for preserving and displaying it. We should also be aware
of how our actions may transform the object and potentially act against our aims. In
the next chapters we will discuss the way in which conservation emerged as a pro-
fession, look at its nature and ethics and then examine key actions that conservators
undertake before ultimately considering some of the emerging challenges that con-
servators face in the 21st century.
1A Case Study: The De Walden Antique Helmet Collection ( Wollny

1996)
Thomas Evelyn Scott Ellis, 8th Baron Howard de Walden and 4th Baron Seaford, came
of age in 1901 and inherited his full titles and estates, making him a wealthy young man.
Subsequently, he built up a considerable collection of weapons and armour with a
particular emphasis on the classical period. There is little information about how he
acquired the objects, which he initially displayed at his home in Kilmarnock and after
1911 in Chirk Castle in Wales, where he lived for most of his life. After his death in 1946,
his collection passed to the National Museum of Wales. He wrote to the director of the
museum, Sir Cyril Fox, ‘there are certain pieces you may not wish to have, such as a few
oriental specimens and several specimens of doubtful authenticity’. We do not know how
many objects were held back on these grounds, but the bulk of the collection was
deposited with the museum. In 1990, Kate Hunter, the museum’s antiquities conservator,
surveyed and repackaged the 136 objects of the collection. Amongst the most notable
pieces were a number of copper alloy helmets that appeared to be fragile and either
corroded or patinated and there was evidence that many had been crudely ‘restored’.
Eight of the helmets were recorded and investigated in greater detail over the next
decade ( Figure 1.6).
Figure 1.6 Helmets from the De-Walden Collection in the National Museum of Wales.
National Museum of Wales. Redrawn by Yvonne Beadnell from Wollny 1996.
De Walden Collection No. 7.33

This helmet has the rounded open-fronted skull form of the Corinthian helmet
frequently depicted as worn by Greek hippolytes. The nose-guard is broken off,
as is the front of the left-side protective neck guard. Cracks on the top of the
helmet had been crudely repaired with a cement-like gap filler and internal
supports of adhered textile and metal were visible. X-radiographs indicated
that the helmet had been formed from a single piece of metal. Many small
indentations, hammer marks from extensive shaping, were visible. Around the
eyeholes and the lower edge of the helmet were numerous regular small holes
for the attachment of internal and edge padding. Metal analysis revealed that
the helmet was made of a typical ancient bronze with 8.6% tin. Fourier
transform infra-red (FTIR) spectroscopy analysis confirmed the presence of
normal copper-alloy corrosion products principally malachite plus traces of
chrysocolla. Chrysocolla (copper silicate) is rarely seen in copper corrosion
crusts but is a commonly used artist’s green pigment. This object is almost
certainly an original Greek helmet with 19th-century restorations.

This helmet, which has a roll-formed rim and cheek pieces, has a top that
curves upward to form a knop in a form identical to that used by early
Republican Roman legions circa 400 BC. X-radiographs showed the slight
irregularities of hammer marks present on the main part of the helmet, which
was formed from a single piece of metal. The cheek pieces have many small
bubbles apparent in the metal suggesting they were manufactured through a
poor-quality casting process. Metal analysis revealed that the helmet was
made of a typical bronze with 7.7% tin, the cheek pieces of a leaded tin bronze
containing 5% tin and 5% lead – a typical casting metal composition with a
raised lead content. The form, methods of manufacture and composition of this
object clearly suggest that it is an original unrestored object.

This helmet has an inverted shallow bowl with a pair of ears or wings riveted to
the side. No comparable examples are in any other museum collections. The
metal is thin (0.55 mm thick) and the top of the helmet is cracked with small
pieces of the metal missing. The metal was analysed revealing that it was
composed of a 35% zinc brass. The Romans, the first civilisation to make
extensive use of brass, only achieved brass with zinc contents of up to 30% due
to technical limitations in the cementation process ( Craddock 1978). Brass with
35% zinc was only seen in Europe after the 17th century ( Pollard and Heron
1996); therefore, this object is a modern (19th century) forgery.

This helmet consists of an inverted basin with deep sides. On top of the helmet
is a damaged sinuous figure forming a crest probably initially in the form of a
hippocamp or centaur and curved cheek pieces, attached through hinges, to
the sides of the helmet. This form of helmet is not readily paralleled by any
known ancient examples. X-radiographs revealed that the helmet was of
unusually poor construction formed by a shallow bowl soldered to a ring of
sheet metal to for the sides. Analysis of the metal revealed that it was
composed of a 5–10% tin bronze, consistent with ancient metal. Analysis of the
corrosion products using FTIR identified copper acetate (verdigris) as one of
the principal minerals present. This is an extremely rare corrosion product,
which hardly ever appears in normal burial conditions. Since it can form very
quickly, in a matter of weeks or months and looks like many more natural slowly
formed corrosion products such as malachite, it is frequently deliberately
created by forgers to make new objects appear corroded and ancient.
Therefore, it appears likely that this object is either a modern (19th century)
forgery or a pastiche, composed of several pieces of ancient metal, which have
been formed into a helmet and re-corroded.

This helmet forms an inverted basin, which curves down the back of the head
with a line of five, originally six, square-section spikes with domed bases
protruding 50–60 mm from the central line of the helmet. There is a thin nose-
guard and hinged cheek pieces attached to the sides. Again, no comparable
example of this helmet can be found from antiquity. X-radiography revealed
that the helmet was formed from a shallow cap with a series of four bands of
metal soldered to each other to form the deep sinuously contoured sides of the
helmet ( Figure 1.7). The whole helmet had also been split along the crest,
presumably to assist in inserting the spikes and then soldered back together.
This helmet, formed of ten separate plates soldered together, was an extremely
weak form of construction, which would have provided little practical protection
for the wearer. Analysis of the metal composition revealed that the sheet metal
of the helmet was low tin bronze, and the spikes were of leaded bronze,
compositions consistent with an antique origin. Based on the unusual form and
weak construction the helmet is probably a modern forgery or a pastiche using
ancient pieces of metal.
Figure 1.7 X-radiograph of two of the De Walden Helmets in the National Museum of
Wales. National Museum of Wales. From Wollny (1996).
Lord Howard de Walden, a collector fascinated with the study of arms and
armour, amassed a varied collection of ancient helmets while recognising that
some items may not have been original. Modern analytical techniques, a clear
set of comparable analyses to known ancient artefacts and an understanding of
ancient technology and the practices of 19th century forgers have enabled
modern investigators to reach a judgement about which objects in this
collection are fakes (7.19), which are probable fakes or pastiches (7.20,
7.23), and which are likely to be genuine (7.33, 7.34). This same set of
knowledge and skills has enabled other helmets to be authenticated, such as
the Yarm helmet, which was felt to be of dubious origins when it entered a
museum collection and later shown to be a genuine Viking helmet and only the
second to be excavated ( Caple 2020b).
Lord Howard de Walden’s collected some original objects from antiquity, but
his interest and wealth also unintentionally promoted a market in fake artefacts.
Forgeries, present even in antiquity ( Jones 1990), are carefully executed to
meet the tastes and expectations of potential purchasers. De Walden’s fakes
reflect rather romantic Victorian notions of the past with winged helmets (7.19)
and helmets with cruel and vicious spikes (7.23). When collecting, cataloguing,
researching, preserving, or explaining the past it is always necessary to
investigate objects closely to ensure that an accurate picture of the past
(history) is drawn rather than a modern-day fiction.
1B Case Study: The Laetoli footprints ( Agnew and Levin 1996;

Demas et al. 1996; Agnew and Demas 1998)
In 1978–1979, Dr Mary Leakey uncovered footprints left by three australo-
pithecines in the bedrock at Laetoli in Tanzania. The footprints are 3.6–3.75
million years old and constitute the earliest and most important evidence of
bipedalism in early hominids. The tracks had been made, together with those of
numerous animals, in wet volcanic ash that had then set hard so preserving the
impressions. The footprints run in two tracks for over 27 m and contain over 70
individual prints. The principal track was made by a large individual with a
stride length of 0.87 m, a smaller individual walked beside it. A third individual
followed the pair, walking in the footprints of the large individual. These
impressions showed that the feet which made them had raised arches, rounded
heels, pronounced balls, forward pointing big toes and were thus very similar to
a modern human foot. They demonstrate that bipedalism was almost fully
evolved in early hominids of this date and was one of the earliest human traits
to develop ( Renfrew and Bahn 1991). Evidence of movement and soft-tissue
form are extremely rare in the study of early hominids, which is normally
confined to the study of small scraps of fossilised bone.
After the footprints had been excavated, fully recorded and casts had been
taken, the tracks were covered over with loose soil capped with a layer of
boulders to prevent damage to the site by the feet of cattle and elephants. In
1992, the condition of the trackway was reassessed. The boulders had created
shade and a condensation trap, which had led to the growth of acacia trees
whose roots were now found to be damaging the footprints.
In 1992, the options for preserving the footprints were considered:
• It would be very costly to lift and transport all the footprints for storage or display, in
a museum. There was no museum big enough in Tanzania and thus a new one
would need to be built.
• As part of the cultural heritage of the people of Tanzania, removal outside the
country would neither be permitted nor was it desirable.
• The rock which contains the footprints is friable, so lifting and transporting it would
create a substantial risk to the well-being of these fossils.
• Creating open shelters to protect remains in situ has been shown not to work well
and to consume scarce resources ( Agnew 2001). Exposed or sheltered sites
degrade very quickly.
• Laetoli is very remote and very few visitors are likely to come and see the
footprints if they were on open display or in a museum at Laetoli.
• The footprints in situ have a context and associated information, such as the
animal prints, the volcano that deposited the ash and the surrounding natural
landscape. This would be lost should the trackway be moved.
• The conservation of the trackway should be a viable solution that could be
maintained by the existing authorities and people of Tanzania.
• Burial had proved effective preservation for the footprints for over 3 million years.
After considering these options, the best and most ethical solution was felt to
be reburial since it would preserve the footprints in situ ensuring that they
retained their context and could be investigated in future if necessary
( Figure 1.8).
In 1995, Site G, the southern end of the trackway, which contained a 6.8-m-
long stretch of the best (29) footprints, was re-excavated. Root damage from
the acacia trees was fortunately limited to three of the footprints. The roots
were carefully cut away and the friable tuff consolidated with an acrylic colloidal
dispersion (Acrysol WS-24). The root voids were filled with Acrysol WS-24 and
fumed silica. Any remaining root material was injected with a biocide and
insecticide, both to kill off the root and remove any problem of potential
infestation by termites. The footprints were recorded in great detail and fully
resurveyed. They are no longer as clearly visible as they were originally,
because of the exposure upon excavation and the use of Bedacryl (polybutyral
methacrylate) which was applied to consolidate the surface of the footprints
prior to making casts of the footprints in 1979. This polymer could not be easily
removed without potentially damaging the footprints, so it was left in place.
To preserve the site, it was provided with a covering which consisted of:
• Sand from the Kakesio and Garusi rivers, in which the geotextile and biobarrier
layers were seated. The sand was sieved so it contained no seeds or rocks and
has similar chemical and physical properties to the volcanic rock so there should
be no physical stress or chemical exchange between the rock and sand media.
Figure 1.8 The trackway of 3.6-million-year-old human footprints, Laetoli, Tanzania,

preserved beneath layers of sand, geotextile, biobarrier, Enkamat, local soil
and rocks. © 1995 J. Paul Getty Trust (Photo: Neville Agnew).
• Geotextile: A water-permeable long-lasting polypropylene textile to deflect any

future root growth. The geotextile marks the footprint horizon and protects the
friable rock and sand beneath.
• Biobarrier: A polypropylene geotextile that has nodules that slowly release a long-
acting root-growth inhibitor, ‘Trifluralin’, which will stop root growth but not kill off
plants and is largely insoluble so it will not wash away (two layers).
• ‘Enkamat’: A tough erosion-control matting to ensure that the sand was not lost.
• Local soil that was mounded up over the sand and geotextiles at an angle of
10–14 ° to deflect water away from the trackway.
• A substantial layer of lava boulders to provide physical protection from human and
animal erosion.
These protection procedures were repeated in 1996 over the northern section
of the hominid trackway. In addition:
• Banks of laval boulders were constructed to divert any rainwater run-off away from
the site, so ensuring that there was no erosion of the site by running water.
• A committee of Tanzanian political representatives, national heritage officials and
international experts was established to focus attention on the site and ensure that
there is a mechanism for getting national and international assistance to the site if
it is required.
• Locals were employed to maintain the site, both in terms of providing security and
annually removing tree seedlings to limit any future damage to the site. Similar
local-management agreements have become a feature of many of the successful
arrangements for preserving sites throughout the world.
• The site was ceremonially adopted by the local Masai tribes as a sacred site. This
raised its prominence and meaning to present day inhabitants of the area.
It is believed that this multi-pronged strategy, involving both technical mea-

sures and site management, will be the most likely chance of preserving the
tracks for future generations. Conservation can be seen to be working at
numerous different levels at this site.
Notes
1 Episodes are available for download as podcasts at https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/
b00nrtd2/episodes/downloads. Accessed 5/28/2022.
2 Preservation can be defined as ‘The protection of cultural property through activities that
minimise chemical and physical deterioration and damage and that prevent loss of informa-
tional content. The primary goal of preservation is to prolong the existence of cultural property’
( AIC (American Institute of Conservation) n.d.). As such it encompasses a wide range of
activities, including, but not limited, to legislation, physical protection, and conservation.
3 For a fuller description of the biographies and changing values associated with the sarsens at
Avebury from their use as sharpening stones prior to their erection to their deliberate burial
in the medieval period; see Gillings and Pollard (1999).
4 This is a large topic with its own extensive body of literature covering topics such as building
conservation ( Jokileto 1999; Ashurst 2007) and burial environment monitoring ( Corfield et
al. 1998; Caple 2016) as well as long-term degradation studies ( Fjaestad et al. 1998; High et
al. 2016, 2018).
5 Exceptions to this include taking down, relocating, and re-erecting buildings. An early example
of this practice was when the Gol stave church was dismantled and reconstructed in (1884–1885)
in the open air museum of King Oscar II of Sweden and Norway on the peninsula of Bygdøy,
west of Oslo (founded 1881). Many folk museums, open air museums and historical museums,
such as St Fagan’s National Museum of History in Wales and Historic Deerfield in the United
States have adopted similar practices, to preserve not only the buildings but a sense of what the
past was like. Individual buildings have also been relocated, such as Agecroft Hall, a Tudor
manor relocated from Lancashire, UK, to Richmond, VA. Initially, the relocated house was
used as a private home although it now serves as a historic house museum.
6 In a study on the impacts of weathering on archaeological sites, written in 1932, Herdman
Cleland observed, ‘When Delphi was excavated the archaeologists did a splendid piece of
work, judged by their standards. They uncovered every column, every inscription, every
carving and foundation stone that nature had so carefully preserved. Everything, in fact, is
exposed and the destructive work of the weather is at a maximum. The interesting notices in
small Greek characters which tell of the freeing of the slaves, are on walls where they must
inevitably rapidly become illegible … At Carthage not only are the mosaics exposed to the
sun, but some of them are the stamping grounds for herds of goats’ ( Cleland 1932: 169–170).
7 Many rulers acquired and displayed collections to show their wealth, sophistication, erudi-
tion, aesthetic taste, and power. These royal collections formed the basis for some of the
earliest museums.
2 The History of Conservation
Conservation’s Prehistory
Keeping, safeguarding, and repairing objects are not a uniquely modern concern;
however, what we now call ‘conservation’ is a product of the mid-to-late 19th century
and the 20th century.1 To understand how it has developed, it is necessary to look at
why and how objects were preserved through history.2
Each civilisation collects and cares for the objects it values most highly. The
necessities of life in the hunter-gatherer communities of our Palaeolithic and
Mesolithic past required that everything had to be carried from one location to
another to find and exploit food resources.3 Function was valued and the few attempts
to repair and restore things that have come down to us, such as the Montastruc spear
thrower suggest that preserving function was important, although aesthetics or other
factors may have played a secondary role (Ward et al. 2009). Bitumen repairs on stone
and ceramic objects in the Neolithic and Bronze Age suggest similar motivations
(Dooijes and Nieuwenhuyse 2009).
By the Greek and Roman Period, aesthetics played an important role in the
retention and appreciation of objects, and we begin to see the names of makers (or
artists) being associated with their works. Additionally, objects began to serve an
educational component. Public displays of art showcased the wealth, authority and
exceptional achievements of men who commissioned them. Greek sculpture was va-
lued by the Romans and taken as booty to decorate monuments, serving also as
testimonies to the military accomplishments of victorious Roman generals (Kousser
2015). In his Natural History, Pliny the Elder cites a reverence for objects of the past as
the reason that ‘restoration’ was undertaken by the Romans on both objects and
monuments (Sease 1996). There are also references by both Ancient Greek and
Roman writers to the damaging effects of damp, light, and the threat posed by fire
and insects (Strong 1973; Caple 2011: 2–5) indicating that the individuals collecting
objects were aware of the need to care for them and had some understanding of what
we might now term the agents of deterioration.
During the early medieval period, we see tantalising glimpses of preservation efforts
tied to the curation of older items, for example, the signature of an Anglo-Saxon me-
talsmith on a reworked and restored brooch (Penn 2000). There are also continued
efforts to combat decay mechanisms, such as the storage of manuscripts in satchels
(Case Study 6B: Loch Glashan Satchel). However, functionality continues to be the
focus and instances of preservation were balanced with instances of loss as many ancient
buildings and structures were dismantled and used as quarries for pre-worked stone.
DOI: 10.4324/9781003009078-2
The History of Conservation 29
The Renaissance interest in the Classical world and its art meant that it became
fashionable for elite individuals to collect classical statuary and architectural details
recovered from excavations at Roman, Etruscan, and Greek sites and to display them
in their gardens, private rooms, and public spaces. These pieces were rarely displayed
as found, but instead were normally cleaned and often restored. Following the ex-
ample of Cosimo de Medici in Florence, who employed Donatello to consult on the
cleaning and acquisition of his antiquities (Sirèn 1914: 444), Cardinal Andrea della
Valle (1463–1534) commissioned the sculptor Lorenzo di Ludovico to complete some
of his broken classical marble statues, adding heads, arms, and legs as required. This
appears to have set a trend for restoration, Vasari commented in 1550 ‘antiquities thus
restored certainly possess more grace than those mutilated trunks, members without
heads or figures in any other way maimed and defective’ (Jokilehto 1999: 23). The
sculptor Cellini regarded such work as the province of inferior artists, but did in fact
undertake it himself, as he records chiselling off the earth and corrosion products
covering classical bronze statues (Cellini 1878; Sease 1996). These restorations sought
to repair the work and integrate the aesthetic values of the pieces. The sculptors did
not know the exact form of the original and often used a certain amount of artistic
license in reconstructing the piece, as evidenced by the various designs submitted to
the contest to restore The Laocoön.
Not all works of art were restored. From the very first some statues, such as the
Belvedere Torso of Hercules, were deliberately displayed in the broken state in which
they were found (Jokilehto 1999: 24). Artists and sculptors such as Canova, refused to
restore the figures carved by Phidias that Lord Elgin removed from the Parthenon,
claiming it would be sacrilege to touch them (Podany 1994). This duality of approach,
some objects restored, others preserved ‘as found’, continues to the present day.
The publication of Giorgio Vasari’s Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors,
and Architects in 1550, helped to establish the scholarly tradition of art history and
connoisseurship that has been considered a mark of education and refined taste in
Western European society ever since. This book also introduced the notion that the
works of dead artists should have more value than the work of living ones and es-
tablished the cult of the ‘old masters’. Despite an increasing veneration of ‘old art’
throughout the 18th century, restoration work could still be extensive, and artists of
the ability of van Dyck and Sir Joshua Reynolds undertook restoration work (Kirby
Talley 1998). The involvement of lesser artists in the process, and the high fees artists
often commanded for this work, led to controversy, as did matters of aesthetics. The
declaration by the art patron and tastemaker, Sir George Beaumont (1753–1827), that
‘a good picture like a good fiddle should be brown’ profoundly influenced taste to the
extent that works were deliberately varnished with mixtures that would discolour and
create a golden haze (Kirby Talley 1998). Artists like Hogarth, who lampooned it in
his print Time Smoking a Painting, contested this aesthetic but it has remained a
dominant one leading to cleaning controversies throughout the 19th Even in the late
20th century, the critique levelled at the conservation of the Sistine Ceiling echoed this
idea (Beck and Daley 1996; Case Study 5A).
The ‘Three-Legged Stool’

By the late 17th century, the taste for classical Greece and Rome had taken hold in
Northern Europe and aristocratic young men were starting to make the Grand Tour
to visit Rome and the lands of the Mediterranean, a practice that peaked in the 18th
and early 19th centuries. Souvenirs of these travels included ancient statuary, cera-
mics, and coins as well as paintings. Over time, these objects began to coalesce (along
with other more locally excavated objects) into national collections that highlighted
both the national identities and learning of their host nations as well as their imperial
aspirations. To serve these goals, objects needed to look complete, impressive, and
well-maintained. By 1836, the British Museum was employing John Doubleday as a
craftsman to clean and repair objects in its collections. Subsequent appointments of
George Smith, Robert Sparrow, and W.H. Ready as craftsmen cleaners and repairers
of objects in the British Museum were part of a continuing tradition of employing
craftsmen-restorers to ensure that the collections were, as specified in the British
Museum Act of 1753, ‘preserved and maintained, not only for the Inspection and
Entertainment of the learned and the curious, but for the general Use and Benefit of
the Public’ (Watkins 1997: 223). Similar craftsmen-restorer appointments were made
at the Ashmolean Museum including G.A. Rowell and W.H. Young (Norman 2001;
Schmisseur 2016). However, the names of many such individuals working in similar
roles throughout Britain and the rest of the Europe remain unrecorded. The focus of
their work was purely aesthetic, to transform dirty degraded fragments to complete
objects which would engage the public: a continuity of the ‘aesthetic integration’ of the
Renaissance. This is best exemplified by Doubleday’s reassembly of the shattered
fragments of the Portland Vase, smashed by a vandal in 1845 (see Case study 2A),
which is a shining example of their skill. No recording, no analysis, no ethical dis-
cussion was requested of these skilful men by their appreciative museum directors.
This ‘age of craftsmen’ is perhaps best summed up by the description of one of the last
such individuals, Arthur Trotman. Appointed in 1936 as a ‘boy learner’ to assist in
objects restoration work at the Museum of London, Sir Mortimer Wheeler said of
Trotman ‘most of his brains were in his hands’ (Johnson 2001).
Throughout Europe, the enthusiasm for recovering archaeological remains,
prompted by the discoveries at Herculaneum and Pompeii, led many antiquarians to
attempt to clean and stabilise the fragile, decaying objects they recovered from the
ground. Doubleday was mentioned, by Sir Henry Layard, as being particularly skilful
in conserving the ivories from his Nineveh excavations. In Denmark, the collections of
The National Museum in Copenhagen, founded in 1807, were classified and catalo-
gued by C.J. Thomsen, who cleaned objects in the collection using vinegar and car-
borundum and paid others to wash clean the runestones in the collection (Brinch
Madsen 1987). Thomsen was an archaeologist who, working with colleagues such as
Christian Herbst, Japetus Stenstrup, and Christian Jorgansen, developed or utilised a
number of techniques for conserving freshly excavated finds, including leaving
soft freshly excavated prehistoric pots to stand and dry in order to harden and pre-
serving fragile finds from the Hvidegard grave at Lyngby by coating them with
shellac immediately after they were discovered. Thomsen also preserved waterlogged
wood by boiling the wood twice in a solution of alum and coating it, about a month
later, in purified linseed oil. This marked the start of the treatment of waterlogged
archaeological materials although it has often received little recognition since it was
published in Danish (Brinch Madsen 1987; Brinch Madsen et al. 2001). More widely
read as it was published in English was advice by Flinders Petrie published in 1888 on
‘the treatment of small finds’ in the Archaeological Journal, while Albert Voss,
the director of the Berlin Museums, published the German handbook Merkbuch
(Caldararo 1987; Seeley 1987). Throughout the 19th century, most advice and infor-
mation, both to and from antiquarians regarding cleaning and care of their artefacts,
comes in the form of discussions or private letters.
The difficult preservation problems posed by some archaeological objects and the
instability of many salt-ridden objects excavated in Southern Europe and the Near
East, once they were brought to Northern Europe, led to the involvement of chemists
in the study of decay mechanisms and the pairing of scientific lines of inquiry with the
crafts-based approaches of the past. The very delicate charred papyri uncovered in
1752 in the Villa of the Papyri at Herculaneum were some of the first finds to incite
scientific investigation. They were a source of interest for many scholars and there was
a desire to unroll them and access the contents. Work in the late 18th century by
Antonio Piaggio, a Genoese monk and sub-librarian at the Vatican, led to the
development of a technique for gradually unrolling and supporting these papyri scrolls
by gluing them onto a thin backing of parchment (Seeley 1987). This technique was
not always successful, but many of the less charred papyri were unrolled and trans-
lated. The British Prince Regent was fascinated by these discoveries and acquired
copies of the translations. After he became King George IV in 1818, he instructed the
President of the Royal Society, Sir Humphrey Davy, to study the remaining papyri.
Davy, who had previously analysed classical wall paintings and vases, undertook a
coherent body of research seeking to examine the condition of these papyri, looking
for the cause of their decay, prior to devising a solution to the problem (Davy 1821).
This is an approach that we would recognise as modern conservation research, a
tradition of investigating the material and determining its process of decay. It was
copied in 1826 by Sir Humphrey’s brother Dr John Davy in his investigation of the
corrosion on an ancient Greek copper alloy helmet (Davy 1826). Similar scientific
exploration of the relationship between a material’s composition, environment, and
decay was shown by Sir David Brewster in his work on iridescence on glass (Brewster
1861) and James Fowler in his extensive work on the corrosion of glass (Fowler 1880).
Throughout the mid-19th century, in addition to using craftsman-restorers, the British
Museum consulted notable British scientists such as Faraday, William Brande,
Professor Hoffmann, and Dr Frankland to advise on specific aspects of problems
related to the corrosion of metals and the problem of salts in stone (Watkins 1997).
Scientific investigation was not only limited to archaeological materials, in 1843
Michael Faraday undertook research on the decay of leather book bindings in the
vicinity of gas-lamp burners (Faraday 1843), the phenomena we now know as ‘red
rot’, which he demonstrated was caused by high levels of SO2 (Caldararo 1987). The
problem with gas burners continued to receive attention in later years (Woodward
1888) and marks an awareness about pollution and the environment that has con-
tinued to be important in conservation. Similarly, in 1888, two scientists, Dr W.J.
Russell and Captain Abney, were enlisted to conduct a study of the fading of wa-
tercolours. They conducted extensive experiments on 39 pure colours and 34 mixtures,
subjecting them to different light sources, wavelengths, intensities, exposure times, and
environmental conditions to investigate their permanence (Lambert 2014).
In the mid- to late-19th century, the fashion for Gothic architecture swept through
England, France, and other countries. Many churches were altered to remove original
features and later additions and to recreate imagined gothic interiors and exteriors. In
1877, seeking to prevent further ‘desecration’, William Morris and other luminaries of
the Arts and Crafts movement founded the Society for the Protection of Ancient
Buildings (SPAB). They aimed to stop further ‘restoration’ work and raise the value
and appreciation of the original historic fabric. In the first report of this body, Morris
wrote:
Restoration of ancient buildings … a strange and most fatal idea – which by its
very name implies that it is possible to strip from a building, this, that and the
other part of history, of its life that is, and then to stay the hand at some arbitrary
point and leave it still historical, still living and even as it once was … .
(Morris 1996: 319)
Support for SPAB from academics, architects and the public grew, and schemes to
renovate the tomb of Edward the Confessor in Westminster Abbey and the front of San
Marco in Venice were halted through SPAB pressure (Chamberlin 1979). The idea that
the original fabric of the object and its subsequent history were things that needed to be
considered and respected became an important concept that spread from the preser-
vation of buildings to all objects of the past. When paired with the existing tradition of
craftsmanship and the emerging scientific practices of technical investigation, it formed
part of what George Stout, the first president of the International Institute of
Conservation, described as the ‘three-legged stool’ of conservation (Stoner 2015).
Conservation Emerges: 1888–1950

Perhaps the first instance of conservation as the discipline we know today, can be seen in
the appointment of Friedrich Rathgen as the Director of the newly formed Chemical
laboratory at the Royal Museums of Berlin in 1888. Rathgen, a young chemist was tasked
with solving the problems of ancient Egyptian artefacts excavated in the 1830s by the
German archaeologist Lepsius and transported to the Royal Museum in Berlin. They
were showing signs of significant decay. Rathgen created a laboratory and developed
many of the earliest conservation treatments, such as the desalination of stone, the baking
of unfired clay tablets to preserve their inscriptions, and the use of synthetic polymers for
adhesion and for coating artefacts. Rathgen collaborated with and built on the work of
others. In 1889, Adolf Finkener developed electrolytic reduction to treat corroding
bronze objects, while in 1892 Axel Krefting developed electrochemical reduction for
cleaning corroding antiquities. Rathgen used and developed these methods and utilised
the work of Marcellin Berthelot who, in regular papers to the French Academy of
Sciences, had identified the role of chloride ions in causing high rates of decay in copper
alloy objects. Crucially, Rathgen carefully diagnosed the nature of the decay of the ar-
tefacts and kept records monitoring progress. Thus, he was able to start building up a
record of successful techniques, which could then be repeated. In 1898, Rathgen pro-
duced one of the first textbooks on conservation Die Konservierung von Altumsfunden
(The Conservation of Antiquities), which was translated into English in 1905 (Gilberg
1987). In 1915, he revised, enlarged, and republished it adding materials about the
conservation of ethnographic, folk art, and museum objects. The German loss of power
and influence after World War I meant that few read Rathgen’s later work, and the work
of British and American authors on conservation became better known (Gilberg 1987).
Rathgen’s appointment was followed, albeit slowly, by the formation of similar labs
elsewhere. In 1890, Georg Rosenberg was appointed to the National Museum in
Copenhagen. Trained as a sculptor, he taught himself the science he needed and
established conservation laboratories and procedures in the Danish National
Museum. He was also an early advocate of preventive conservation measures
(Rosenberg 1917, 1933). After the discovery of severe mould, corrosion and soluble-
salt damage affecting the British Museum’s collections stored in the damp conditions
of the London Underground system during World War I, Dr Alexander Scott of the
British Government’s Department of Science and Industrial Research was seconded to
the British Museum to provide greater scientific input for the preservation of the
collections (Plenderleith 1998). He published a number of reports in the 1920s under
the general title The Cleaning and Restoration of Museum Exhibits and established
laboratory facilities in the British Museum. The lab ran on a shoestring but was a
vibrant place that was regularly visited by archaeologists such as Leonard Wooley,
Howard Carter, Alfred Lucas, who brought samples and compared techniques for
preserving artefacts (Plenderleith 1998). Lucas, a chemist who directed the conser-
vation of the finds from Tutankhamen’s tomb, subsequently wrote an influential book
Antiques: Their Restoration and Preservation in 1924, based on his work on the objects
from the tomb, followed in 1926 by Ancient Egyptian Materials and Industries, an
examination of the technological approaches used to make Egyptian artefacts (Gilberg
1997). The excitement about Tutankhamun’s tomb did much to promote the field of
conservation; the public were interested in all things related to the find and Lucas gave
numerous interviews about his work and his efforts to save the boy king’s treasure,
which reached audiences around the world and helped to catalyse the formation of
other laboratories (Williams 2021). Many of these newly formed departments focused
not just on the conservation of objects but also of paintings and other materials.
In 1928, Edward Waldo Forbes, the director of the Fogg Art Museum at Harvard,
established a new Research Department, which was soon renamed the Department of
Conservation and Technical Research. Forbes was interested in what would now be
termed Technical Art History and taught a course on ‘Methods and Processes of
Paintings’ at Harvard. In 1925, he invited Alan Burroughs, an early champion of the
use of x-radiography in the analysis of paintings, to work at the Fogg (Hindin 2014:
8). In 1927, with the opening of a new building to house the Fogg collection, Forbes
hired the artist George Stout, who had trained with a paintings restorer. In 1928,
chemist Rutherford John Gettens joined the team. In 1932, the Fogg began publishing
Technical Studies in the Field of the Fine Arts. It was the first journal dedicated to
conservation and played an important role in sharing methodologies within the nas-
cent field. Additionally, the Fogg conservation team undertook the training of many
aspiring conservators and both staff and students went on to found additional con-
servation programs at museums throughout America (Bewer 2010; Hindin 2014) and
to be influential of the formation of the field.
In 1930, the International Museums Office, a part of the League of Nations’
International Institute of Intellectual Cooperation, convened an international con-
ference in Rome on the ‘Study of Scientific Methods Applied to the Examination and
Conservation of Works of Art’. Nearly 125 delegates from at least 20 nations attended
(Coremans 1969; Hindin 2014). Although the proceedings were not published in their
entirety, Plenderleith and Stout published important articles based on their attendance
in the Museums Journal (Plenderleith 1932) and the Fogg Art Museum Notes (Stout
1931) and additional papers were published in Mouseion (1931).
The 1930s saw the establishment of many conservation laboratories. In 1930 the
Museum of Fine Arts in Boston founded a lab. In 1931, the British Museum
laboratory was permanently established as the British Museum’s Research
Laboratory (Johnson 1993; Oddy 1997). It continued to be involved in training
individuals, generating publications, and giving advice to numerous archaeologists
and museums, shaping conservation in Britain for the rest of the century. In the
same year, the Louvre, the Walters Art Museum, and the fledgling Colonial
Williamsburg Foundation (Williams 2000) established conservation departments.
In 1932, the Gabinetto di Restauro was established in Florence. 1934 saw the es-
tablishment of conservation at the Courtauld and the Brooklyn Museum of Art
(under Sheldon Keck, a former Fogg tutee). Other labs established or formalised
in the 1930s include those at the National Gallery of Art in London (under
F.I.G. Rawlins) and at the Musées Royaux d’Art et d’Histoire in Brussels (under
Paul Coremans).
The build up to war and the Second World War itself limited the establishment of
new laboratories and impacted international exchange; however, communication
between departments and conservators continued. Important exchanges about safe-
guarding art in times of conflict took place in both Britain and the United States
(Brooks 2000; Lambert 2014; Hindin 2014) and Stout’s work with the Monuments,
Fine Arts and Archives Section or ‘Monuments Men’ brought him to Europe and
permitted meetings with Rawlins, Plenderleith, and Coremans. Importantly, the
notion of an association of conservators dedicated to training, establishing standards
of practice and information sharing began to be discussed. The idea gained strength
during the trial of Hans Van Meegeren, when many specialists including Plenderleith,
Rawlins and Coremans were called to testify and during the Weaver Commission
where experts including Stout and Coremans were brought to London to resolve issues
of cleaning at the National Gallery (Brooks 2000). In 1950, the International Institute
for Conservation, the field’s first professional body, was formed. In 1952, IIC began to
produce the journal Studies in Conservation, which remains an important publication
within the conservation field. The organisation grew and spawned regional groups,
some of which have since broken off to establish national conservation bodies such as
the American Institute for Conservation and the United Kingdom Institute for
Conservation (UKIC), which later merged with other UK conservation organisations
to form ICON in 2005.
In 1959, UNESCO founded ICCROM (International Centre for the Study of the
Preservation and Restoration of Cultural Property) in Rome, which in turn supported
ICOM (International Committee of Museums) in an attempt to develop international
standards in the care of cultural property and provide a forum for interchange of ideas
on best practise in all aspects of curating cultural heritage. In 1965, International
Council on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS) ‘a professional association that works
for the conservation and protection of cultural heritage places around the world’ was
founded, following the conference which established the Venice Charter (1964). Along
with IIC, these organisations have advised national governments and international
agencies, provided intellectual leadership for the subject, spurred on the development
of training programs, and fostered international communication between conserva-
tors, architects, archaeologists, curators, and others. They also help establish stan-
dards and extend best practice, which is achieved through publications, guidelines,
charters, and encouraging the development of professional associations that have
codes of ethics and practice.
Conservation Evolves: 1950–Present
Since the end of World War II, conservation has continued to evolve within a broader
sphere of developments in the heritage sector and wider social change, which continue
to shape the field. The damage caused by the Second World War, the urgent need for
housing, and the increasing popularity of automobiles led to the redevelopment of
many urban areas throughout Britain and Europe. Public concern about the loss of
historic buildings and landscapes led to the formation of heritage advocacy groups
and legislative change. In Britain this included the founding of the Victorian Society
(established in 1958 to advocate for Victorian buildings) and the passage of the Town
and Country Planning Act of 1968. The need to provide housing, infrastructure, and
food for a rapidly increasing global population, which has grown from circa 2.5 billion
in 1950 to 7.8 billion in 2020,4 has resulted in threats to heritage in every country.
Economic factors, including post-war debt in European countries and financial
booms in new global markets, meant that significant amounts of art moved from
private ownership to public ownership. In England, for example, death taxes rose to
65% in the aftermath of the war and many landowning families found that they either
had to sell possessions or give them to the government to pay off these taxes. By 1955,
one country house was being demolished every five days while their contents were
often sold to American buyers for export to the United States. In the 21st century, the
economic power of many of the Gulf Oil states and of Asian economies has seen the
migration of art to these areas. As art has become increasingly mobile, it has led not
only to greater international collaboration between experts (curators and conserva-
tors) but also eventually to blockbuster travelling exhibitions, which has prompted
conservators to develop new tools for documenting works of art and for keeping them
safe as they travelled and were exhibited in new venues. As technological advance-
ments altered traditional jobs and household chores, the public had more travel and
leisure time, and heritage became increasingly important to locales as a way of
attracting tourists and their money. Conservation was no longer located only in
national museums and heritage bodies; a wider range of organisations, municipalities,
local governments, and private foundations began to employ conservators and there
was also increasing scope for conservators to go into private practice and to contract
their services to smaller organisations (or private owners) who needed help but could
not afford to retain a conservator full time.
By the late 1980s, it was increasingly apparent that there were large quantities of
heritage and only finite resources (both fiscal and human) to take care of it. Increasing
emphasis was placed on the development of preventive conservation approaches. The
recognition that some environmental factors (light, humidity, pollutants, and pests, for
example) cause damage and that certain actions can mitigate this damage has been
present from the earliest days of collecting (Caple 2011; Staniforth 2013; Lambert 2014).
However, it was not until 1978 and the publication of The Museum Environment by Gary
Thompson that preventive conservation began to emerge from the shadow of inter-
ventive conservation. Work at the Canadian Conservation Institute structured ap-
proaches to the agents of deterioration within a risk management framework further
emphasising the tactical role that preventive conservation can play in the care of large
collections (Costain 1994; Michalski 1994). The rapid introduction of new analytical
techniques and materials, particularly since the 1990s, has also altered the face of
conservation, leading to the reevaluation of old techniques and the need to develop new
ones as well as adding complexity to the training of conservators. There is a broader
knowledge base for the practitioner to master. The global recession between 2007 and
2009 and the financial repercussions of the COVID-19 pandemic have both impacted the
heritage sector, including layoffs and in some cases the permanent closure of heritage
venues (ICOM 2021). While we cannot know the full impact of the pandemic on the field
yet, it has already changed working patterns and opened digital possibilities such as the
virtual couriering of museum loans and virtual conference attendance. Many of these
themes are ones that we will return to throughout this book.
The Emergence of Formal Conservation Training

One of the questions that motivated the formation of IIC was how to train new
conservators and share knowledge. Up until the 1950s, much of the training carried
out was informal or on the job training. In Britain, the Institute of Archaeology had
opened in 1937 and it offered some coursework in conservation as part of its degree
program, but a dedicated conservation training course was not offered until much
later. In 1944, the Instituto Centrale per il Restauro began training paintings conser-
vators in Rome. It was not until 1961 that the first graduate-level program in con-
servation opened; the program at the Institute of Fine Arts at New York University
was led by Sheldon Keck and brought many former members of the Fogg team,
including Gettens and Stout, back together as instructors and advisors (Smyth 1989).
Until this point conservation remained a discipline that most practitioners learned
through apprenticeships and although knowledge was increasingly shared through
publications, the transmission of practical knowledge was largely informal and still
had elements of secrecy associated with it.
On November 4, 1966, an event occurred that stunned the world and changed the face
of the field. After a week of heavy rain, the Arno burst its banks, flooding into Florence
and bringing with it approximately 600,000 tons of mud, rubble, and sewage. An esti-
mated 3–4 million books and manuscripts and 14,000 movable works of art were
damaged. Art students, restorers, scientists, and budding conservators from around the
world flocked to the city to help with salvage efforts. The opportunity to share ideas and
methodologies proved very powerful. New treatments such as phased conservation and
mass-deacidification were trialled and implemented. The entire city became ‘an enor-
mous restoration lab combining expertise, methods, and techniques from around the
world’ (Pintus 2009: 13). Discussions followed about how to continue such engagements
and ensure that treatments were passed down. Formal education was seen as playing a
role. This event contributed to the establishment of a number of training programs
including Cooperstown (now SUNY-Buffalo-1970), the Royal Danish Academy of Fine
Arts (1973), Winterthur/Delaware (1974), and Queens (1974). Simultaneously, the
growth in archaeological and expansion within the University system led to the founding
of courses specialising in archaeological conservation at Cardiff (1974) and Durham
(1976) and the creation of archaeological science programs at other UK universities.
Since the 1970s, conservation programs have continued to open around the world and
there are now a diverse number of programs being offered at both the Bachelors and
Masters levels in countries from China to South Africa.
Formalising the training that conservators receive as well as the creation of ethical
codes of practice and the growing exploration of a discrete theoretical framework,
which goes beyond the ‘hows’ of treatment and begins to consider its ‘whys’, have
been important steps in the professionalism of the field. The creation of a series of
textbooks in the early 2000s, including the initial volume of this book Conservation
Skills, Judgement and Decision-Making (Caple 2000), as well at Liz Pye’s Caring for the
Past (2001), Miriam Clavir’s Preserving What Is Valued (2002), and Salvador Muñoz
Viñas’ Contemporary Theory of Conservation (2005) spoke to this and were initial
attempts at critically examining the field and the ways in which conservators work.
They joined and have been augmented by many specialised publications that focus on
individual materials.5 However, as the knowledge base needed to practice competently
has increased – Joyce Hill Stoner (2015) has commented that what was once a ‘three-
legged stool’ is now a ‘twelve-legged settee’ – and conservation has increasingly moved
out of museum environments and into the commercial/contract realm, conservators
have struggled for visibility and recognition (Henderson 2001; Jones and Holden
2008). Although their contributions differ from many of their allied professions (such
as archaeometry, technical art history and collections management), these differences
are not always clearly visible to the public or to funding bodies who may be com-
missioning work, and concern is frequently voiced about this in professional circles.
Responses to this have included engagement in professional outreach (Williams 2013)
as well as the development of national accreditation and/or certification schemes,
which seek formal demonstration of competence in key skills and on-going proof that
these skills are being developed and maintained. Additionally, the growing number of
conservators seeking PhDs signals the field’s evolution away from its technical/crafts-
based origins towards a more mature and well-rounded discipline.
2A Case Study: The Portland Vase ( Smith 1992; Williams 1989)

This Roman glass vase, composed of white cameo-cut glass depicting a
classical scene on a deep blue background, was probably created in the first
century AD or BC. Clearly of the finest craftsmanship, it had always been a
prized object and was disinterred in 1582 from a marble sarcophagus located
beneath a huge burial mound south of Rome, believed to be that of Emperor
Alexander Severus (222–235 AD). The vase passed through the hands of
several owners before the Dowager Duchess of Portland acquired it in 1783. In
1810, The 4th Duke of Portland loaned the vase to the British Museum for
display and safe keeping. In 1845, William Lloyd, a young man described as
being ‘in a state of nervous excitement after a week of drinking’ used a heavy
object to smash the museum case and shatter the Portland vase into hundreds
of fragments. He could provide no reason for his vandalism and was sentenced
to pay £3.00 or serve two months hard labour for the destruction of the museum
case. He could not be prosecuted for the destruction of the vase as the Wilful
Damage Act only applied to objects up to a value of £5.00. Subsequently, in
response to this crime, Parliament passed The Protection of Works of Art and
Scientific and Library Collections Act.
In 1845, the craftsman-restorer at the British Museum, John Doubleday, reassembled
the vase, although 37 of the fragments could not be fitted into the restoration. The vase
was displayed in this form until 1948 when, following its purchase by the British Museum,
another restoration was conducted. The vase was ‘taken down’ and reassembled by the
museum’s chief restorer, J.H.W. Axtell but 34 fragments still could not be incorporated
into the restored vase. By 1988, the adhesive used in Axtell’s reassembly had begun to
turn yellowish-brown in colour. Tapping the glass produced a dull knock, rather than a
ringing sound, which indicated the presence of unadhered cracks in the restored vase,
and areas of the 1945 gap filling had visibly shrunk. Therefore, Nigel Williams and
Sandra Smith, senior conservators in the Glass and Ceramics section of the British
Museum Conservation Department, undertook the re-conservation of this vessel.
There were no records from the 1845 and 1948 restorations of the vase, only
a watercolour by T. Hasmer Sheperd immortalising the smashed fragments and
the occasional image of the conserved vessel. The adhesive used in the 1948
restoration was unknown and when retired staff members were consulted, each
gave a different answer. The gap fills were made of pigmented wax. Following
the creation of temporary inner and outer moulds of blotting paper, the inner
one stiffened with a thin wash of plaster of Paris, the vase was left in an
atmosphere of water vapour and methylene chloride (1,1,1-trichloromethane)
for three days, which softened the adhesive and allowed the glass fragments to
be removed one by one. The fact that the adhesive was so degraded that it
softened in the atmosphere, composed largely of water vapour, vindicated the
judgement that re-conservation was needed due to the weakened state of the
object. After mechanically removing the remaining adhesive from the edges of
the sherds and cleaning the dirt and dust from the surface, through gentle
washing in a solution of non-ionic detergent, 189 separate sherds were ready
for reassembly. In reassembling the sherds, it was essential to choose a stable
adhesive that would not discolour and would hold the vessel together
effectively for many decades. It was also necessary to hold the glass fragments
together in their exact registration so that there were no steps or gaps between
the fragments. After testing, it was found that the most effective way to achieve
these criteria was to use two adhesives: one, a slow curing (seven days) epoxy
resin (Hxtal NYL) as the principal adhesive, the second a quick-setting UV
cured acrylic resin applied in small patches just to hold the glass sherds
together in the correct position while the epoxy resin gradually set. This
necessitated the use of a strong UV source to ensure the acrylic set quickly.
It proved difficult to line up the pieces of glass accurately while wearing
protective gloves and goggles, essential when using the UV source ( Smith
1992). The reassembly continued well up to the level of the shoulder; however,
above this level around the neck of the vessel the sherds did not always fit
together well. Closer examination revealed that, in a previous restoration, the
pieces had been abraded with a file to make them fit, resulting in gaps between
some of the sherds ( Smith 1992). To achieve the correct shape of the vase,
these missing areas were subsequently gap-filled. All but seventeen minuscule
fragments were incorporated in the new reconstruction of the vase ( Williams
1989). They all came from heavily damaged areas, where glass was missing
due to the damage caused by the original breaking of the vase in 1845. The
missing areas of glass were filled with epoxy resin tinted to resemble the glass.
In creating the gap-fills, although the original shape of the blue background was
clear, the details of the white cameo-cut figures were less certain. However,
plaster casts and drawings of the vase made in the 16th century provided the
information required to enable an exact copy of the original lines and
decoration of the figures to be created. The whole vessel was subsequently
given a coat of microcrystalline wax to restore the sheen to the surface of the
glass ( Smith 1992; Williams 1989) ( Figure 2.1).
The decision to dismantle and reassemble the vessel was dictated by the
fragility of the 1948 restoration and the clear risk to the vase’s continued
integrity. It was also apparent that building on developments in the restoration
of glass and ceramic vessels, considerable improvement in the visual appear-
ance of the object could be achieved using more stable modern materials. The
conservators prioritised the need for good adhesion between the glass
fragments over other considerations such as reversibility, and thus an
irreversible epoxy resin adhesive was chosen. The gap fills and surface coating
of wax restored its visual integrity (aesthetic quality) an important quality for its
role as a display object. The 1988 conservation campaign revealed the
deficiencies of the earlier restorers, both in terms of the lack of records and
in terms of damaging the object. These practices were not unusual for the time,
but they do demonstrate how conservation standards have evolved.
Figure 2.1 The Portland Vase, after conservation. ©Trustees of the British Museum.
2B Case Study: The Sutton Hoo Helmet ( Maryon 1947; Williams

1992)
The Sutton Hoo helmet, discovered in the rich Saxon boat burial at Sutton Hoo in East
Anglia, consisted of nearly 500 pieces of mineralised iron and gilded-bronze when found.
Excavated hurriedly in 1939 on the eve of World War II ( Bruce-Mitford 1978; Evans
1986) and stored throughout the war, subsequent analysis of the contents of the grave
suggests that it belonged to Raedwald, the Anglo-Saxon king of East Anglia, who died
around AD 625. Herbert Maryon initially undertook the conservation and reconstruction
of the helmet in 1946 at the British Museum Research Laboratory ( Maryon 1947). His
initial reconstruction was subsequently taken down and reconstructed in 1968–1969 by
Nigel Williams and the staff of the British Museum ( Williams 1992).
X-radiographic examination and physical cleaning of the helmet fragments,
together with some elemental analysis, revealed that the helmet was composed
of iron plates decorated with thin tinned-bronze foils that were stamped with a
series of complex figurative and decorative designs. Decorative gilded-bronze
castings inlaid with silver wires, niello, and garnets formed a nosepiece with
moustache and mouth, eyebrows, and crest terminals. The thin tinned and
stamped bronze foils were affixed to the exterior of the iron plates using fluted
bronze strips, which overlay the foils and were riveted to the helmet. The
corrosion processes had fused the iron and thin bronze foils and strips
together, forming a brown mineralised crust.
There were no photos or other records documenting the original positions of
the pieces during excavation, thus the only guide was to try to piece together
the helmet from the corroded iron pieces using actual joins between the pieces,
the patterns of the decorative foils and the lines of fluted strip visible on the
surface of many of the pieces. Comparison with the decorative and stylistic
features of a series of similar helmets from Vendel culture graves in Sweden
suggested the helmet was composed of a skullcap to which a face mask, neck
guard, and ear flaps were attached.
Maryon’s original restoration, which did not incorporate every piece, was
heavily based on what little had been published about the Vendel helmets by
1946. After months of piecing together mineralised helmet fragments, he
mounted them onto a preformed head made from plaster of Paris. Wire mesh
and plaster backing were used for the earflaps. Any remaining gaps between
the helmet fragments were filled with more plaster, which was coloured with
brown umber to match the corroded iron. The principal lines of the fluted strip
and decorative plates were incised into the plaster to give the viewer a clear
impression of the helmet as a whole ( Figure 2.2).
Subsequently, as additional information about Saxon and Vendel helmets
became available, new excavations at the site revealed additional pieces of the
helmet, and certain practical limitations to the reconstructed form became
apparent, a new restoration was required. It was only because there was a first
restoration that could be constructively criticised, that there was the impetus
and greater knowledge needed for a second restoration.
It is unclear to what extent Maryon was conscious of using reversible

materials when he made his first reconstruction. Removing heavily corroded
iron pieces from a plaster backing is not a simple task; however, due to the
difference in density between the corroded iron and plaster, the original
reconstruction could be X-rayed, and the original helmet fragments and
restorative plaster distinguished. Then the brittle nature of the plaster made
it possible to remove the plaster from around the corroded iron leaving the
pieces of the original helmet largely intact. Thus, the first reconstruction proved
to be physically reversible, although it did require considerable effort.
Figure 2.2 Sutton Hoo Helmet: the original 1946 reconstruction. ©Trustees of the
British Museum.
The limited cleaning that the mineralised iron fragments received prior to the first
restoration ensured that much evidence remained. There were variations in
thickness and corrosion patterns on the inside of the helmet that may have related
to internal leather padding and traces of gilding on the bronze strips near the
helmet’s crest. This information, together with a clearer understanding of the nature
and arrangement of the tinned-bronze plaques on the helmet exterior, allowed
the second restoration to place many more fragments in their original locations. After
the position of as many of the fragments as possible had been determined, they
were adhered together, and the missing areas infilled with a jute textile stiffened with
adhesive, which was heat softened to form the curved shape of the missing areas
and covered with pigmented plaster of Paris to recreate the full visual appearance of
the helmet. This second restoration was larger than the original and gave greater
protection to the head in the form of more effective earflaps and less room for sword
thrusts at the neck and eyeholes. A clear pattern was established for the punched
decorated bronze plaques and the location of all the cast dragon’s-head terminals,
including one which had not been incorporated in the original reconstruction, were
found. This second restoration is widely accepted as more accurate than the first
( Figure 2.3). The Tower of London armouries created a replica of the helmet that is
currently displayed beside the original enabling museum visitors to appreciate how
the helmet originally appeared ( Figure 6.3).
Maryon’s work, like the efforts of Renaissance sculptors as they approached
classical statuary, was hindered by a lack of information as to how the helmet
should look. However, in assessing Maryon’s approach, it is important to
remember that the iron fragments by themselves would have provided little
interest to visitors or possibly even to scholars (after all museum stores are full
of fragments of corroded iron). His efforts resulted in a recognisable object that
could be appreciated and critiqued, and which could contribute to scholarly
dialogue. The images and information generated both during his restoration
and the later work by Williams indicate how new conservation interventions can
add to historic ones. The restored helmet has been illustrated in almost every
book on the Anglo-Saxon period produced since World War II and it is one of
the British Museum’s most iconic objects.
Figure 2.3 Sutton Hoo Helmet: the 1968/9 reconstruction. ©Trustees of the British Museum.
Notes
1 Conservation in Western Europe and North America tradition developed out of a desire for
evidence, (a provable truth – creating not ‘a past’ but ‘the past’) a tradition stretching back to
the Age of Enlightenment. However, other cultures do not necessarily place the same value on
material evidence and may value other aspects more highly, such as tradition, intangible
attributes or the form and decoration of the object. Replacing decayed parts to preserve the
form or materials of the object or repainting the motifs on an object’s surface may serve as
desirable means of preserving both the tradition of making an object and its intangible at-
tributes. These activities can also be understood as falling within the wider sphere of con-
servation.
2 What follows is a brief history of object conservation with some examples of sculpture and
painting conservation to illustrate similarities or divergences. Each subdiscipline of conser-
vation has its own history of repair, restoration, and evolution.
3 Surviving Palaeolithic art occurs as small carved and incised designs on bone/ivory or stone,
such as the lion man sculpture from Stadel Cave in Germany, or as art on the walls of caves,
such as Altamira (Cook 2013). This may be the result of differential preservation processes
where only robust materials from caves survives or because of the peripatetic nature of the
hunter gatherer community who needed to carry everything that they needed for life with
them.
4 World population by year taken from www.worldometer.info/world-population/worl-
population-by-year/, accessed May 28, 2022.
5 See for example architecture ( Jokilheto 1999), textiles ( Brooks and Eastop 2011), paintings
( Conti 2007; Sitwell and Staniforth 1998), furniture ( Rivers and Umney 2003; Wilmering
2004), glass and ceramics ( Buys and Oakley 1993; Koob 2006), and wall paintings ( Mora
et al. 1984).
3 Conservation Aims and Ethics
Conservation: A Definition
In the previous chapter, we saw how historic skills-based approaches to cleaning and
restoration merged with science-based inquiry and respect for the integrity of the
object to form the basis for the modern practice of conservation. But what is con-
servation? Over the years, many authoritative conservation organisations and in-
dividuals have tried to define what conservation is and or what conservators do.
The activity of the conservator-restorer1 (conservation) consists of technical

examination, preservation and conservation/restoration of cultural property.
(ICOM-CC 1984)
Conservation encompasses all those actions taken toward the long-term preservation
of cultural heritage. Activities include examination, documentation, treatment, and
preventive care, supported by research and education.
(AIC 2020)
The primary goal of conservation professionals, individuals with training and special
expertise, is the preservation of cultural property. Cultural property … is material
which has significance that may be artistic, historic, scientific, religious, or social …
an invaluable and irreplaceable legacy that must be preserved for future generations.
(AIC 1994: 1)
Conservation is the action of safeguarding the objects and structures, which
compose the material remains of the past, and it aims to ensure that these remains
are available to use and enjoy today and in the future … Therefore it embraces a
range of activities from protective legislation to laboratory treatments.
(Pye 2001)
The conservator-restorer is a professional who has the training, knowledge, skills,
experience and understanding to act with the aim of preserving cultural heritage
for the future … The fundamental role of the conservator-restorer is the
preservation of cultural heritage for the benefit of present and future generations.
The conservator-restorer contributes to the perception, appreciation and under-
standing of cultural heritage in respect of its environmental context and its
significance and physical properties.
(ECCO 2002)
DOI: 10.4324/9781003009078-3
What is clear in all these excerpts is that while preserving cultural heritage is a key
component of what conservators do, the ways in which they do it are evolving and
increasingly encompassing actions beyond treatment alone. Conservators are increas-
ingly involved in advocating for artefacts, helping to develop legislation for the pro-
tection of cultural heritage, and working with curators to develop exhibits and catalogue
raisonné.2 They educate other conservators and allied professionals and conduct sci-
entific analyses. They also work in a broad range of contexts from archaeological sites,
libraries and museums to private labs, universities, auction houses, granting bodies,
heritage organisations and even corporations. Conservation projects are often inter-
disciplinary, and conservators are increasingly involved in the design and management
of these projects as well as the fundraising, marketing, and publicity needed to make
them happen in the first place. Finally, conservators work on a wide range of objects
ranging from collections of buildings to pixels and bytes of data, as well as an array of
materials that can vary from highly ephemeral to very robust.
As can be imagined, with such a diversity of actives there are also a variety of
perspectives on what the goals of the field are and how they should be achieved.
Without concurrence, mutual understanding, and shared vocabularies, these divergent
voices could become cacophonous. In this chapter, we will examine some of the
mechanisms used to define conservation practice in greater detail.
Charters, Ethical Codes, and Guidelines for Practice

In Chapter 1, we discussed the importance of charters in articulating the role of values
for cultural heritage management. International charters, such as the Athens Charter
(1931), the Venice Charter (1964), the Burra Charter (1979), and the Nara Charter
(1994), express a course or principle of action adopted or proposed by an organisation.3
There are also many national charters and statements of principles such as Principles for
the Conservation of Heritage Sites in China (China ICOMOS 2004). Due in part to the
size and complexity of standing structures, many of the charters generated by the
preservation field have focused on architectural monuments; however, it is important to
note that the ideas in them are often applied to the conservation of moveable heritage as
well. Preservation charters express consensus opinion of the members of the many
different heritage organisations involved, though inevitably they cannot cover every
aspect of heritage conservation practice. They require periodic adjustment and the
creation of additional documents to refine them and guide practice. Sometimes this is
through the creation of new charters or the revision of existing charters. For example,
the Burra Charter refined and added to the Venice Charter. Additionally, the Burra
Charter itself has been periodically revised and rewritten. It is a living document that is
reworked as new understandings of heritage management and its implications for an
Australian context have developed. In its most recent iteration (2013), it includes the
addition of the Burra Charter Process, a mechanism for applying the concepts of values
and significance contained in the charter to create and implement management plans.
Further guidance, beyond those contained in charters, is presented via codes of
ethics and guidelines of practice. Ethics are defined as ‘the principles of good or right
conduct’ and are predicated on ‘a series of moral principles or values’ (Edson 1997).
Like charters, ethical codes are generally drawn up by consensus. Ethics or moral
principles are a function of a society and as such vary from one society to another for
example ‘cannibalism is moral (and hence ethical) in a cannibal country’ (Butler
Conservation Aims and Ethics 47
quoted in Child 1997). Ethical approaches may also alter over time. Laws represent
the tools for achieving the ethical standards agreed by a country and transgressions
are enforced through punishment. Ideas of right and wrong are determined by the
society in which one lives and are designed to modify the behaviour of the individuals
in that society for its benefit.
Like societies, most professions, including conservation, have developed specialised
codes of ethics, which govern the behaviour of members and provide a basis for decision-
making. Group members are expected to abide by these ethical codes and, in extreme cases,
may be penalised with fines or expulsion for contravening them. There is always some
uncertainty within any group as to how strictly the ethical codes of the group should be
followed. Some groups and individuals treat such codes as absolute rules, which can lead to
a regulatory environment that may stifle innovation (Ashley-Smith 2017), while others may
regard them as guidelines to be consulted and/or challenged (Allington-Jones 2013). Such
variations in approach can cause friction within the group and can be particularly con-
fusing to new members of the group. Accreditation, certification, and licensing may be
additional mechanisms that groups use to ensure compliance with ethical codes and to
define the attributes that make a profession (and its practitioners) credible and respectable.
As conservation grew into a specialised profession, characterised by high-level training
courses, conferences, and journals, conservators accepted a common series of aims or
objectives and began to define acceptable and unacceptable behaviour for members of the
field. The Murray Pease Report, which contained conservation’s first code of ethics, was
formally written and ratified between 1961 and 1963 by the American Group of IIC (now
known as the American Institute for Conservation or AIC) and was published in Studies in
Conservation in 1964 (Murray Pease Committee 1964). This document continues to be a
living document that is periodically revised and reissued4). Many other national conser-
vation organisations have created codes of ethics. In 1981, the United Kingdom Institute
of Conservation (now the Institute of Conservation or ICON) developed an ethical code,
which was revised and published in 1983, Guidance for Conservation Practice (UKIC 1983).
The most recent iteration, ICON’s Ethical Guidance was approved and published in 2020.
The European Confederation of Conservator-Restorers’ Organisations established in
1991, produced Professional Guidelines by 1993, which were revised in 2002 (ECCO 2002).
Similarly, the Australian Institute for the Conservation of Cultural Material (AICCM)
adopted and published a Code of Ethics and Guidance for Conservation Practice in 1986
(AICCM 1986), which was revised and reissued in 2002 (AICCM 2002). The New Zealand
Conservators of Cultural Material (NZCCM) adopted their Code of Ethics in 1985 and
revised it in 1995 and 2006 (NZCCM 2006) while the two primary Canadian conservation
groups jointly issued a Code of Ethics and Guidance for Practice in 2000, which was a
revision of one originally drafted in 1986. The fact that these codes have all been revisited
and revised makes it clear that conservation ethics are both complex and evolving.
Similarly, the fact that they are defined and developed at a national level rather than an
international level (IIC and ICOM-CC), points to the important roles that a common
cultural understanding, shared language, familiarity, and the local environment play in
building the consensus needed to enact such codes.
In addition to the ethical codes that govern the conservation organisations of which
they are a member, conservators may need to be aware of the ethical codes that govern
allied professions. For archaeological conservators, this may involve familiarising
oneself with archaeological codes of ethics, while for a conservator working within a
museum context, familiarity with the International Council of Museum’s code of
ethics may be essential. There are also wider international conventions such as CITES
(the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and
Flora) whose regulations may affect the materials used by conservators.
Shared Themes and Evolving Concepts

The various conservation ethical codes form a series of coherent statements about the
ethical basis for approaching conservation work. They share many similarities although
there are also some key differences that speak to particular concerns within the com-
munities that authored them. In each of the codes, there are clear statements about
operating to the highest standards, the importance of documentation, recognising the
limits of one’s personal skill, the necessity of promoting the profession, the need to
support education, professional conduct towards one’s colleagues and the importance of
the integrity of the object. Most contain specific statements regarding the need to use, or
consider using, preventive conservation measures wherever possible. The codes of ethics
are all accompanied by codes of practice, which invariably describe the nature of the
relationship between the conservators, owners, curators, and fellow heritage professionals
in greater detail. AIC goes further still and includes commentaries to its guidelines, which
provide the rationale for each guideline and the minimum and recommended practice.
The AICCM, NZCCM, and the Canadian include glossaries in their codes that spell out
the definitions of key words to ensure that there are no doubts about meanings.
In the earliest codes of ethics, there was a conviction that the conservator’s role was to
reveal and preserve the ‘true nature’ of the object. However, by the 1990s attitudes were
changing and increasingly museums and conservation organisations had dropped the
concept of ‘true nature’ and were emphasising the conservator’s responsibilities to the
owners/custodians of cultural property and ‘to the people or person who created it’
(AICCM 2002). They emphasised the need for conservators to work with others to
understand both the tangible and intangible attributes of the object prior to undertaking
work. For some national groups a generic reference to ‘stakeholders’ is sufficient (ICON
2020), whereas other national conservation organisations are more explicit about whom
to include and how. The AICCM Code of Practice notes that members
should recognise the unique status of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander
peoples as first peoples, and as key stakeholders in the conservation of their
cultural heritage material. When undertaking conservation of Aboriginal and
Torres Strait islander cultural property, the AICCM member should recognise
that the objects and the information relevant to them are of equal importance, and
that conservation practice must adapt to cultural requirements, particularly in
respect of secret/sacred items.
(AICCM 2002)
The idea of stewardship is deeply rooted in most conservation ethics. The term derives
from the medieval period; when the lord or master of the house was away, his steward
was responsible for the safekeeping of the house and its contents. When the master or
his heirs returned, the steward was expected to hand the household back intact and as
the master had left it (if not slightly improved). Museums and cultural heritage or-
ganisations have come to be seen as stewards of the nation’s patrimony. They hold
and safeguard materials for future generations and conservation plays an important
role in this. Increasingly as the impacts of climate change are better understood,
conservators are being called on to steward not only cultural heritage but also the
natural environment. AICCM invites its members ‘to undertake conservation treat-
ments, or use materials, which have the lowest potential to pollute; unnecessarily
waste resources; or otherwise damage the natural environment’ (AICCM 2002) while
ICON directs member to ‘aim for the best quality and most sustainable action
achievable with available resources’ (ICON 2020). As sustainability initiatives increase
throughout the field, it is likely that new language around the conservator’s respon-
sibility to the environment will be added to most codes of ethics.
Controversial and Enduring Concepts
True Nature
The concept of an object’s ‘true’ or authentic nature has been at the root of many
ethical dilemmas in conservation. The cleaning and often substantial restoration of
classical objects undertaken by sculptors during the Renaissance aimed to reveal the
‘true’ beauty or nature of the object as the 15th/16th-century artist and his wealthy
patron understood it. Aesthetic criteria were defined as the measures of an object’s
‘true nature’. Offended by the removal of later and post-medieval additions from
medieval buildings, the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings (SPAB) pro-
posed the notion that the true form of a building included all elements of its history,
and that none should be more prized than others. The definition of true nature thus
came to embrace historical value as well as aesthetic value. Early codes of ethics
embraced the concept of true nature. The 1983 UKIC Guidance for Practice defines
conservation as
the means by which the true nature of an object is preserved. The true nature of an
object includes evidence of its origins, its original construction, the materials of
which it is composed and information as to the technology used in its manufacture.
Although perhaps originally intended to define a moment in the object’s past before it
decayed, this definition does not include evidence of use or of addition or alteration. It
presumes the object is still as its creator intended it. However, no object exists solely
for a single moment. Every object evolves through its use and interaction with the
environment around it; any, and every, point along this trajectory can be described as
its ‘true nature’. A sword may eventually become a piece of scrap iron and both states
represent the true nature of the object. Every object contains numerous truths, making
it impossible to define any one point as the true nature of the object as opposed to any
other. The purpose of this concept was undoubtedly to try to express the desire to
remove later alterations and additions, which obscure the initial purpose of the object,
and to remove decay and dirt from periods of burial or neglect. Problems defining any
one precise state of an object as its true nature led to the demise in the use of this term
and it vanished from the ethical codes of the 1990s. Contemporary codes of ethics
mention the importance of respecting the ‘physical, historic, aesthetic and cultural
integrity of the object’ (AICCM 2002).
The notion that objects have a ‘true’ nature persists, however, in discussions sur-
rounding authenticity (Scott 2016) and the notion of ‘truths’ continues to inform
discussions of meanings, significance, and value even if these are increasingly under-
stood to be multiple, situational and to vary based on the viewer’s perspective (Gao
and Jones 2020). The idea of a true nature can be a useful concept expressing a desire
to move towards revealing the truth(s) about an object and away from obscuring dirt,
decay, or inaccurate and inappropriate restoration, but it is one that should be
deployed cautiously.
Reversibility and Retreatability

By the mid-20th century, conservators were becoming aware not only of the impacts
of past treatments but increasingly the impacts of their own approaches. Some late-
19th- and early-20th-century approaches, such as filing down the edges of some sherds
as a precursor to rejoining them (Case Study 2 A: The Portland Vase), had perma-
nently altered objects and newer materials, such as soluble nylon and polyvinyl
alcohol, were also beginning to show problems. The concept of reversibility – the
ability to undo an action or remove a chemical added to an object – began to be
espoused. Reversibility was enshrined in the earliest (1961) AIC Code of Ethics. It
demonstrated the post-Second World War faith in the capability of science and
technology to create desirable polymers (i.e. ones that were stable and readily
removable). It also indicated that people had begun to lose their faith in the perma-
nence of things. There was appreciation that although nothing stayed the same for
very long, this did not matter provided you could undo what had previously
been done.
The principal architects of the Murray Pease Report, where the term reversibility
was used first, were paintings conservators (Applebaum 1987). They were no doubt
thinking of processes such as inpainting, varnishing, and lining paintings. In this
context, the public and the rest of the heritage profession could easily understand
reversibility. It indicated that a more careful approach was being adopted by con-
servation and this created a distinction between conservators and the repairers and
restorers of the past. The work of conservators was now intended as much for the
future as for the present.
The terms ‘soluble’ or ‘removable’ were subsumed into the term reversible and
applied to materials and processes alike (Applebaum 1987). As the use of the term
grew during the 1970s, it became increasingly obvious that little the conservator did
was in the strictest sense reversible (Jedrzejewska 1976). In reality, all cleaning ac-
tions, such as washing paper or textiles, were irreversible. Excavating archaeological
objects caused irreversible chemical changes and analysis increasingly showed that
any contact with a material left a few molecules present on the object. Horie’s
analysis of the consolidation of a modern earthenware ceramic with polymethyl
methacrylate demonstrated the irreversibility of impregnation even with stable
polymers (Horie 1983). Fifty per cent of the impregnating polymer was retained in
the ceramic even after it had been refluxed with solvents in a Soxhlet extractor for
eight hours (Horie 1983). In another example, the use of enzymes to treat stains on
paper was shown to leave up to 2% of the enzyme in the paper even after extensive
careful washing (Andrews et al. 1992).
There was additional concern that the term ‘reversibility’ could be potentially
harmful since although conservators should have considered the aesthetic appropri-
ateness or stability of the conservation material that they were using on an object
(Feller 1978), they might still rely on the impractical notion that they could remove
any material that proved unsuitable in the long term (Applebaum 1987). The idea that
nothing ought to be done that cannot be undone is an impossible goal, but it is one
that remains desirable and something worth striving for. To this end, other terms such
as removability (Charteris 1999), retreatability (Applebaum 1987) and minimum
intervention have been proposed; however, none is without fault.
Retreatability, or the idea that a given treatment should not impede future con-
servation, is alluring but has its own risks. Objects are complex constructs, often
combining multiple chemical makeups as well as various breakdown products and
once we begin to add additional materials, it can be difficult to model what will
happen and what the impacts will be over an extended period. When we factor in the
combined impacts of environmental factors, it gets even harder. Additionally, prac-
ticalities such as size, cost, and feasibility may impact retreatability. For example,
although polyethylene glycol treated wood is retreatable, is it realistic to assume that
large, complex structures such as the Vasa or the Mary Rose, which took decades to
treat initially, can be retreated? Do we in fact lull ourselves into a false sense of
confidence about the future of such objects? Finally, to what standard should we hold
retreatability? Claims have been made that wooden objects treated with alkoxysilanes
are retreatable (Tejedor 2010), when in reality the properties of the alkoxysilane mean
that only more alkoxysilanes can be applied in the future. While semantically, the
wood can be retreated, will it be desirable to add the same material again if it is failing
or no longer fulfilling its original purpose?
Despite all these issues, the ideal of reversibility remains at the heart of conservation
practice. After a period where the term reversibility vanished from ethical codes,
ICON’s most recent ethical guidance stipulates that ‘Actions should allow future re-
treatment and remain as reversible as possible’ (ICON 2020). Reversibility represents a
laudable if unachievable perfection. It remains a useful concept when trying to explain
the aims of conservation to a wider audience.
Minimum Intervention
Minimum intervention received prominence as an ethical approach to conservation in
the 1980s when the term reversibility was declining in use. Minimum intervention has
been defined or rephrased a number of times. Pye and Cronyn (1987) found it difficult
to define minimum intervention and compared it with homeopathy, where reversibility
was standard medicine. Corfield (1988b) considered that to practise minimum inter-
vention ‘the conservator is required to carefully weigh every process that is proposed
for the object and decide whether or not it is really necessary … the less that is done
the better’. Brooks (1998) defined it as ‘doing the least possible consistent with the
future safety of the object’. It was described as the ‘minimalist principle’ by Hanssen-
Bauer (1996), who considered that together with the ‘principle of reversibility’ and the
‘principle of stability’ it formed the three principles to guide any intervention. Muñoz
Viñas has pointed out that the term is illusory, that no treatment can be absolutely
minimal and interventive – the two terms inherently contradict each other (Muñoz
Viñas 2005).
The problem with minimum intervention is that it is an incomplete phrase – the
minimum intervention needed to achieve what? Although we may take as a given that
it is the minimum necessary to preserve the object, the question is dependent on
context – for how long and in what conditions remain unstated. A minimally inter-
ventive approach to preserving an object sufficiently for it to stand outside exposed to
the elements for ten years will necessarily be very different from the one taken to
exhibit it for ten years in a controlled museum environment. Minimum intervention
must therefore be defined for a given object over a given time in a given set of con-
ditions. The alternative is not to use the phrase but rather to employ it as a question to
assess each proposed conservation action (Corfield 1988b).
Implementing Ethics
Single ethical injunctions are easier to resolve than those instances where one or more
ethic seem to be in conflict. For example, the notion of stewardship is central to most
conservation codes of ethics (whether stated or unstated); however, the idea of pro-
tecting materials for future generations often conflicts with the idea of access and use
in the present. If we prioritise one set of stakeholders (future generations) in our
decision-making, we may exclude another set (those who could benefit today)
(Henderson 2020). However, if we prioritise our contemporaries, we risk using up
objects in the present. Discussion, negotiation, and context can inform decision-
making. Conservators should not be making such decisions in a vacuum. Ethical codes
seek to guide the conservator towards the considerations they should prioritise but in
each case the conservator needs to listen, compromise, and consider how to balance
other goals with those of the field.
Another impediment to implementing ethics lies in the allocation of resources.
There is a rarely stated but ever-present truth that what can be achieved in terms of the
conservation of any object is dictated by the resources available (Staniforth 1990;
Ashley-Smith 1999; Unruh and Harbeck 2021). With limited time and budget, the
conservator often selects the most suitable adhesive to hand, rather than testing every
known adhesive to find the perfect solution. They use their knowledge and judgement
to achieve the best possible result given the time, expertise, funding, and facilities
available. When the constraints on resources impose limitations that are significant
enough to potentially cause damage to the object, conservators should consider
whether it is appropriate to continue. Lack of resources is not a justification for
slipshod work or inadequate research.
It is important to consider what will realistically happen to the object if no con-
servation work is carried out. Sometimes the object can be protected in storage until
resources are found; in other instances (especially within archaeological contexts),
action may be the only way to record an object before it is lost. Balancing the risk
imposed by the lack of resources with the potential for loss can be difficult and
conservators must on occasion knowingly triage the care of objects. Good examples of
this may be in the selection and treatment of better preserved or more unusual iron
artefacts from historic sites rather than the treatment of all iron objects found at the
site (Caple and Garlick 2018). Similarly, when considering both past and present
conservation efforts, we should remain aware of the hidden impacts that resourcing,
administrative edicts, history and even volume may have on decision-making and
exercise understanding.
The ability to balance a wide range of ethical considerations is a key aspect of
judgement. When exploring the case studies in this book it is possible to study how other
conservators have balanced ethical considerations. While a minimally interventive
approach was taken to the exterior of the Statue of Liberty (see Case Study 3A), inside
the statue a far more pragmatic series of options associated with working objects was
chosen. In the case of the Portland Vase (see Case Study 2A), the aesthetic properties of
the vase outweighed the desirability for a reversible adhesive. There is little standardised
information as to how ethical ideas should be considered or implemented and the
individual circumstances of each object and each institution mean that what is ethical in
one case may not be in another. Although Ashley-Smith (2017) and Wharton (2018)
have suggested that institutions and sub-disciplines of conservation may need to develop
their own bespoke codes of ethics, Applebaum (2013) has argued that the existing codes
of ethics are flexible enough to extend to new circumstances and new media. Some
institutions, such as the Conservation Department at the Victoria and Albert Museum,
have developed checklists of ethical questions that every conservator should be asking
themselves before engaging in any decision-making regarding an object to encourage the
use of ethical actions in practice at every stage of the conservation process (Ashley-Smith
Smith 1994; Richmond 2005); however, for many conservators the process remains an
internalised one.
The problem posed by many of the guiding ethical ideas of conservation is the
extent to which any of them can realistically be applied in a given situation. The extent
to which any single ethical idea should be followed is difficult to judge when con-
sidered in isolation. For example, the desire to preserve all evidence following Oddy’s
stricture ‘nothing should be done to an object which compromises any original part of
it’ (Oddy 1996) can leave a conservator too worried about removing evidence pre-
served in corrosion products to attempt any cleaning of a corroded iron object. The
idea of preserving the past ‘as found’ untouched and with just the ‘golden glow’ of
time is appealing to many (Eggert 2009); however, if taken to its logical extreme, we
risk being surrounded like Miss Havisham5 by piles of dust, fragments, and in-
decipherably corroded remnants (Lowenthal 1996). It is impossible to truly ‘freeze
time’ and see the past. Entropy will win out; decay processes will continue and all
structure and meaning will be obliterated. A more constructive method of
approaching the ethical considerations inherent in conserving an object is to identify
the desired balance between revelation, investigation, and preservation, and then ex-
plore the most ethical way of achieving it.
Revelation, Investigation, Preservation (RIP)

Before worrying whether the conservation treatment being undertaken is ‘reversible’ is
‘minimally interventive’ or ‘does no harm’, it is essential to establish what one is
seeking to achieve through treatment. The aims and activities of conservation can be
expressed in the form of three almost opposing goals: revelation, investigation, and
preservation.
Revelation: Revealing the object to a past form (either an original form or a

transformed one) to make it more accessible. The visual form can be cleaned or
restored to give the observer, typically a museum visitor, a clear visual
impression of the original form or function of the object.
Investigation: All research and analysis which uncover information about the
object, from visual observation and X-radiography to complete destructive
analysis. This information informs the narrative which accompanies every
object.
Preservation: Maintenance of the object in its present form, without any further
deterioration. This will typically involve a full range of preventive conservation
practices and the stabilisation processes of interventive conservation.
At the extremes, these activities are mutually exclusive; thus, to best preserve an
archaeological object (and all the information preserved on it), it may not be excavated
or even cleaned. Similarly, an object that is subjected to the fullest form of examination
may be dissected, dismembered, or even destroyed to achieve as complete a file of
information on the object as possible. Conservation can be seen as a balance of these
three activities; in almost all cases, conservation involves all three of these activities and
is rarely carried to any extreme. Thus, conservation activities can be characterised as
lying in the space between these extremes (Figure 3.1). The individual activities practised
by conservators – such as cleaning, gap filling, X-radiography, etc. – can be plotted in
this RIP triangular space. It is useful in reminding the conservator of the balance and
compromise they strike in undertaking conservation; for example, in cleaning
(revealing) an object they will have less of the original object and its evidence to preserve.
Some activities such as recording, though dependent upon investigation and used for
education and revelation, are intended primarily as a means of preservation.
Investigation
destructive analysis
non-destructive analysis
Archaeological Conservation - Specific processes
Fine Art Conservation - Areas of conservation
aqueous washing
paper & textiles
Working Object Conservation
gap filling
in painting
Revelation Preservation
lining and backing reburial
Figure 3.1 The aims of conservation: the RIP balance triangle. Chris Caple.
It is possible to describe both the entire conservation process as well as individual
aspects of the conservation process within the RIP balance triangle. In cases of an
entire conservation process the specific location derives from all the separate processes
carried out as part of the conservation process; that is, the sum of all the different
processes: cleaning, recording, analysis, the use of a reversible adhesive and storage
with inert buffered materials. It should be emphasised that this is a relative measure
with no numerical scales or absolute values. The relative ratios of the different pro-
cesses may allow the suggestion that the balance differs for different types of objects.
Archaeological objects may have higher ratios of investigation and preservation than
revelation, whereas an object with considerable aesthetic properties, such as a work of
art, may have a higher ratio of revelation to preservation or investigation (see
Figure 3.1).
Processes such as cleaning do not serve a single purpose, the removal of dirt and
corrosion products reveals the object, aids in investigation and will often help to
preserve the object; for example, removing corrosion promoters such as chlorides
from metal-corrosion crusts and removing acidic, hygroscopic dirt from the sur-
faces of textile, paper, glass, plastic, ceramic, and metals. The removal of such
material will expose more of the original surface of the object, allowing closer,
more accurate, and more detailed examination revealing information about the
use and manufacture of the object. Thus, cleaning processes can occupy several
points within the RIP balance triangle depending on the relative contribution the
cleaning makes to the preservation and investigation of the object as well as the
revelation.
Ethical concepts such as ‘minimum intervention’, ‘reversibility’, and ‘do no
harm’ can be described as forces moving towards the extreme of preservation,
whilst concepts such as ‘true nature’ can be seen as moving towards investigation
and revelation. The RIP balance is drawn at a single moment in time; as further
additional information is uncovered during the conservation process, the balance
may be amended. When objects in museums are cleaned, re-assembled, and
restored multiple times (Case Study 2B: Sutton Hoo Helmet), the conservation
balance will be reassessed a number of times and a series of triangles may be
created.
There is great value in exploring the relationship between the activities undertaken
by conservators and the aims and objectives of conservation (Watson 2010). It ensures
that the conservator questions what they are doing and why they are doing it, and
avoids inappropriate and unnecessary activities, whilst keeping the values of the object
to present day society and the future clearly in view.
The Conservation Process

For an object undergoing conservation a generalised sequence of actions and decisions
can be envisaged (Figure 3.2). Not all the steps in the sequence must be enacted.
At every step in this process the conservator is required to exercise judgement, no
step is automatic.
A
Object Curator / Owner S
Initial Desired Outcome
S
E
Investigation S
Recording Analysis
Research S
M
E
Values (Significance) N
T
Conservation Aims (& Objectives)
P
Conservation Proposal H
A
Curator / Owner S
Approval
E
Cleaning A
Storage C
Display Consolidation T
Use I
Stabilisation O
Preventive
N
Conservation
Coating Restoration Only P
H
Box / Stand A
S
Complete Record E
Figure 3.2 The conservation process – the sequence of actions and considerations undertaken to
enact conservation. Chris Caple.
In almost all cases conservation starts with an object, which usually comes with a
request, an ‘initial desired outcome’, from the curator/owner or archaeologist. This
initiates assessment activity by the conservator, which may be relatively rapid for a
small object with which they are familiar or time-consuming for a large or complex
object, or one with which they are not familiar. The object is recorded, which normally
includes a written description of the nature and extent of decay as well as photography
but may include drawing, x-radiography etc. The object may also be researched to
uncover information regarding dating, manufacturing techniques and maker
(although sometimes this information is provided by the curator and merely needs
checking). This may include considering any traces of its past life that are detectable
and the context(s) from which it derives. Analysis, such as elemental analysis, is un-
dertaken to identify how the object was made, what from and how it is decaying.
Considering the values the object has, and to whom, permits a clear understanding
of its significance to be reached. Subsequently, the aim(s) of the conservation process
can be formulated. These should meet the custodian’s desires while respecting the
physical nature of the object and its decay/stability issues and retain and enhance the
tangible and intangible significance of the object (considering RIP here may help
the conservator to reach a balanced decision). A series of optional objectives articu-
lating specific details of the conservation work can be created. Where appropriate, a
conservation proposal is created and sent to the curator/owner to ensure that they are
aware of the work being done and that they formally approve that proposal. Proposals
are particularly important for complex objects, where large teams of conservators and
others are involved or for situations where the conservator has limited experience of
this type of work, but they may not be necessary for experienced conservators un-
dertaking familiar work for a client who has been engaged in the process or already
approved similar work.
Subsequently, any interventive conservation work6 agreed is undertaken. At any
stage within the interventive conservation process, particularly during cleaning further
analysis or recording may be undertaken. The information recovered is incorporated
into the conservation record, which itself informs part of the narrative associated with
the object. If after assessment, interventive conservation processes such as cleaning are
not considered appropriate or cannot be resourced, then preventive conservation
processes7 alone may be undertaken. Both interventive and preventive measures may
be carried out on the same object; for example, the removal of corrosion from an iron
object and its subsequent packaging with silica gel to control the relative humidity and
prevent further corrosion. The phrase Box/Stand acknowledges the need for specia-
lised packaging, mounts and other preventive measures including handling and dis-
play instructions or specifications.
Factors Influencing Conservation

The subsequent chapters of this book will examine specific aspects of the conservation
process such as documentation, cleaning, stabilisation, and restoration in greater
detail and will consider some of the conservators’ responsibilities as well. However, it
is important to note several factors that must be considered at each point in the
process.
The Initial Desired Outcome

Establishing the goals of conservation work is not undertaken by the conservator
alone but also normally involves the curator or custodian of the object (Ramsay-
Jolicoeur and Wainwright 1990). The reasons that have led the owner/curator to
consider an object worthy of collection, study, preservation, and display (Chapter 1),
also usually contribute to the desire to have it conserved. Numerous factors need to be
considered, including the:
• Intended use of the object

• Context
• Conservation ethics
• Condition of the objects
• Object composition
• Evidence on and from the object
• Aesthetic appearance
• Informative activity
• Resources
• Conservator’s competence
• Belief systems embodied in the object
• Artistry or living artist
• Stolen/looted objects
The intended use of the object is often the primary consideration. Factors such as the
object’s context and condition also weigh heavily in the balance. The range of factors
and their weighting are different for every object, which is why every object, and its
conservation, is unique.
In discussing the work with the client (owner/curator), the conservator needs to
have a well-developed and clear understanding of the aims of and ethics of conser-
vation as well as the technical possibilities and health and safety considerations for any
proposed conservation work. This initial desired outcome needs to factor into the
conservator’s thinking; however, the conservator will normally undertake research/
investigation before continuing the discussion with the client. Therefore, the initial
request may be amended in light of new information (cost, practicality, date, etc.)
provided by the conservator or that emerges during conservation. Throughout the
process, as new information is revealed, it is important to consider any modifications
to the treatment approach with the initial request in mind. Do the alterations meet the
needs of both the object and the client?
Durham Cathedral Doors

An example of a decision-making process and how the RIP space was negotiated
because of changing information and changing values is provided by the Durham
Cathedral Doors Project. In 1991, as the 900th anniversary celebrations of the
founding of Durham Cathedral approached, the cathedral authorities working with
the cathedral’s Fabric Advisory Committee and the cathedral architect sought to
adapt the north doors of Durham Cathedral so they could be easily opened for
processions and to improve their appearance with a new coat of black paint. A
conservator was consulted and following research that suggested that the carpentry of
the door’s construction was early, a series of samples were taken for dendro-
chronology and radiocarbon dating. The north and south doors of the cathedral were
dated to the 12th century using both C14 dating and dendrochronological analysis.
They were thus shown to be the original doors and as old as the stonework sur-
rounding them. They also had paint sequences on their exterior stretching back to the
17th century (Caple 1999; Caple 2006). This evidence of original fabric altered the
shape of the project. The notion of repainting the doors was abandoned and an aged
appearance was deemed appropriate for the original material of the doors. The new
information generated changed the value of the doors and the narrative of the ca-
thedral’s construction. Although, initially the project was focused more towards
revelation, the results of investigation led to a greater focus on preservation. This
example illustrates the way in which approaches and decisions making can alter in
mid-stream leading us to renegotiate the RIP balance.
The Envelope(s) of Possibility

All conservation activities occur within an envelope of available resources. As the
discussion of values in Chapter 1 indicated, the overall value or significance of an
object may determine the resources available. Where objects are large and
internationally significant (Case Study 3A: Statue of Liberty) the resources that can be
made available may be substantial; however, when the object is less broadly valued,
such as a small scruffy piece of leather recovered from an underfunded excavation
largely undertaken by volunteers (Case Study 6B: The Loch Glashen Satchel), the
resources may be very limited. The resources available will often depend on where you
are in the world, the size of the museum or excavation, even your own personal
standing. Sometimes recording the object and its condition in the museum record or
providing a protective housing made of stable storage materials may be the only
interventions that resources will allow.
John Watson (2010) has created a useful conceptual model, which extends the RIP
triangle to include economic practicalities (Figure 3.3). He charts these beside other
conservation objectives – accessibility (revelation), integrity and durability (preser-
vation) and against common conservation actions (investigation, intervention, pre-
vention, and communication) – to show the range of possible outcomes paths open to
a conservator.
Actions
Investigation Intervention Prevention Communication
Accessibility Read evidence Restore Facilitate Share results of
making objects through limited access investigation
understandable scientific and use
examination
Durability Analyse forces Stabilise Provide safe Advocate
Helping artefacts of deterioration environments preservation
survive for objects
Objectives
Integrity Investigate Minimise Focus Maintain

Protecting historical interventions preventive conservation
historical evidence & and make them measures on records
evidence treatment detectable culturally
alternatives to significant
preserve qualities
evidence
Practicality Limit Fit intervention Balance cost Make

Economic and investigation to to time and cost and benefit in documentation
safety fit time and constraints planning affordable
considerations financial preventive
constraints measures
Figure 3.3 Watson’s elements of conservation ( Watson 2010). John Watson.
Context
Typically, an object is part of a larger entity, such as a collection, a room in a historic
house or even a landscape. Context is the relationship that an object has with other
objects, places, and people which surround it, and with which it forms sets or groups.
The object contributes to the group and critically it may derive its meaning from its
context. Context is crucial when considering any conservation work (Eastop 1998).
Brooks et al. (1996) and Jaeschke (1996) have noted that sometimes, identical objects
that come from different contexts can receive different conservation approaches. In
such cases, the balance of revelation, investigation, and preservation is clearly different
for each object. For example, the Victorian (19th-century) upholstery on an antique
Georgian (18th-century) chair may be preserved if the chair belonged to a famous
Victorian person. However, if the chair were being conserved prior to an exhibit of
Georgian furniture, a strong case might be made for removing the upholstery and
restoring the chair to its original Georgian upholstered form. Similarly, the issue of
context was an important consideration of the preservation in situ of the Laetoli
footprints (Case Study 1B).
3A Case Study: The Statue of Liberty ( Baboian et al. 1990)

The Statue of Liberty, a quintessential American icon, was conserved between
1982 and 1986. The work was covered by the international press and exposed
the public to many conservation philosophies and practices for the first time.
The statue was treated as part of its own centennial celebration. This object is
important to Americans for the ideals it represents, although as the only statue
of its size made in the period it also represents a major artistic and technical
achievement.
Auguste Bartholdi, a French sculptor, initially sculpted the statue at reduced
scale. France paid for the fabrication of the full-scale statue, which was created
between 1874 and 1884 at the workshops of Monduit & Co. Composed of 300
2.5-mm-thick copper panels that were hammered into moulds to form the
shape, the statue was riveted together over a wrought-iron armature. This thin
bar iron was attached to an angle-iron frame, which was in turn attached to a
central ‘A’ frame wrought-iron pylon composed of four substantial vertical
girders. Gustav Eiffel probably designed the iron frame. This ‘curtain wall’ form
of construction and the use of wrought iron for the armature allowed the statue
to flex slightly in high winds and during thermal expansion and contraction
without any weakening of the structure. To prevent galvanic corrosion, the iron
armature was attached to the copper skin by a series of copper strips or
saddles, which ran over the iron-bar armature and were riveted to the copper
skin. A layer of asbestos soaked in shellac was inserted between the iron bar
and the copper saddle and skin, separating the two metals so reducing the
possible opportunities for galvanic corrosion.
The pieces of the statue arrived from France and were erected on a
substantial hollow concrete plinth sheathed in polished granite blocks in the
centre of Fort Wood on Bedloe’s Island, subsequently renamed Liberty Island,
in New York Harbour. The 151-ft-high (46-m) statue atop its five-storey plinth
was officially inaugurated on October 28, 1886. Just prior to the opening,
circular holes were cut through the skin of the torch and an electric light
installed inside the torch, so that the statue radiated light and acted as a
harbour light and a symbol of the freedoms of the New World (see Figure 3.4).
The public could access the interior of the statue and the torch. The US Light
House Board managed the statue until 1902, when it subsequently entered the
care of the War Department from 1902 to 1933, before becoming one of the
earliest national monuments in the care of the National Park Service.
Originally, the copper metal inside the statue was left bare. In 1911, it was covered in a
coal-tar emulsion sealing compound, which was later covered with a total of 11 layers of
paint: aluminium flake paint (1932), lead paint, enamel paint (1947), alkyd paint and in
the 1970s, vinyl paints. In 1916, the flame had numerous holes cut in it and stained glass
was inserted to create a brighter and more highly coloured appearance.
By 1982, many problems were evident with the statue:
• The asbestos layer had degraded and adsorbed salt-water spray creating very
active galvanic corrosion cells and the iron armature was extensively corroded.
The iron-corrosion products were pushing the copper skin and the retaining
copper saddles outwards.
• In a few areas, where water collected, the copper skin was severely corroded.
• There were rust and paint stains on the exterior of the statue, where the internal
iron corrosion and earlier paint coatings had seeped through cracks in the statue’s
skin.
• The torch was severely degraded. A lot of water had seeped in through the poorly
joined glass panels inserted in 1916. The torch needed substantial repair and, to
stop the problem reoccurring, the torch flame needed to be redesigned to make it
waterproof.
• The paint in the statue’s interior was peeling.
• The crown and spikes showed evidence of deterioration and required repair.
• Although the junction between the torch arm and the shoulder of the statue had
been reinforced with steel plates in 1932, it required further strengthening.
A Centennial Commission was set up to oversee the conservation of the Statue

of Liberty and of the neighbouring Ellis Island (the principal immigration point
for the United States throughout much of the 19th and 20th centuries). The
Commission worked with the existing Statue of Liberty – Ellis Island Foundation
to fundraise and commission work. Over the four years of the project, the
Foundation raised $66 million for the conservation work with further funds
coming from the National Park Service. Private contractors overseen by the
National Park Service principally carried out the conservation.
‘Lady Liberty’ is a national icon, a manifestation of ideals, so conservation
had the potential to arouse strong feelings. The project team judged that the
visual appearance of the statue was its most important aspect, and that major
visual changes would be viewed negatively. They decided, therefore, to leave
the external green patina of the statue intact. Although it would have been
possible to strip the patina off and leave the statue ‘penny bright’, this
appearance was not viable in the long term due to the corrosive coastal
environment. Crucially the patina retarded the rate of corrosion; thus, the
statue would last far longer by retaining its corrosion. The patina of the statue,
which is principally composed of brochantite and antlerite (copper sulphate
minerals) and atacamite (basic copper chloride), was simply washed with
freshwater to remove dirt and accumulated salts. Paint and rust stains were
mechanically removed. Inside the statue, the internal iron armature was
corroding, and the continued pressure caused was damaging the external
copper sheeting. After testing a number of metals, the whole iron armature was
replaced with type 316 L stainless steel (UNS S31603), which was corrosion
resistant, had similar physical properties to wrought iron (e.g. thermal expan-
sion and strength) and could be cut to exactly the same size as the wrought iron
that it replaced. The removal of the 1,800 pieces of the iron armature had to be
carried out in full protective suits because of the health problems associated
with asbestos dust. Each piece of stainless steel was individually shaped to
match the wrought-iron piece it replaced and after shaping was annealed,
cleaned, and passivated before being riveted into place with a layer of Teflon
between the stainless steel and the copper skin and saddle to limit the
electrochemical contact that could occur. A sample of the original wrought-
iron armature, which was in good condition, was left in the right foot of the
statue as a record of the original materials and structure used in the construc-
tion of the statue.
All the paint inside the statue, much of which was now failing as a protective
coating, had to be removed from the inside of the statue to replace the iron
bars. This removal could not involve any vigorous mechanical cleaning
because of the potential damage to the copper metal skin and its outer patina.
It was hazardous to use chemicals in the sealed confines of the statue because
of the rapid build-up of toxic fumes. After experimentation, the outer layers of
paint were removed by blasting them with liquid nitrogen (−196 °C), which
made them brittle, so they flaked off easily. Traces of the initial coal-tar initial
paint layer remained but could be abraded away using a stream of compressed
air (60 psi) containing sodium-bicarbonate particles. This worked well,
although if the sodium bicarbonate spilled through existing cracks onto the
exterior it tended to turn the patina blue. Washing the exterior removed the
sodium bicarbonate. Since paint had not originally been applied to the interior
of the copper skin, it was decided to leave the skin unpainted. To stop water
getting into the statue through the cracks between the copper plates, a silicon
sealant was used. The central iron pylon and the rods connecting it to the
armature were originally covered with red lead primer and six further coats of
paint, much of which was flaking off. This was blasted clean with an air abrasive
system using aluminium-oxide powder and an inorganic zinc dust and
potassium-silicate coating was applied to the freshly exposed ironwork. This
coating, developed by NASA, provided excellent corrosion protection and was
subsequently sealed with three coats of ‘Diamondite’, a water-borne two-part
epoxy-polyamide coating, which gave a very tough, irreversible, glossy, graffiti-
resistant coating.
The torch was so degraded that most of it was replicated using the traditional
methods and materials employed to create the original and replaced. Based on
photographs and drawings, the torch’s flame was recreated in the original
completely solid form and gilded (as the original had been before 1905). When
lit by spotlights on the ground and in the rim of the torch, it gives the effect of a
glowing flame, the original intention. This created luminescence without the
need for any holes in the skin that might admit water and promote corrosion
within the monument. This was judged to be the best long-term solution for
preserving the monument by the project conservators. It restored the artist’s
original intentions and the original form of the monument, while the original
flame and upper part of the torch was cleaned and placed in a museum in the
statue’s plinth, preserving its evidence of manufacture as a document to the
changing uses of the monument.
Additional stainless steel reinforcing bars were added to the statue’s
shoulder to provide better support for the torch arm. The possibility of
remounting the arm into a slightly more secure position (possibly originally
intended by Bartholdi) was considered but not undertaken because the visual
transformation would be too great and would remove evidence of the original
installation. The rays of the crown and their armature were made of brass,
which originally appeared golden, rather than the pure ‘tough pitch’ copper
used throughout the rest of the stature. They were extensively restored. Holes
in the copper skin were repaired. Any new metal pieces and all the new rivets
used in the replacement of the armature were patinated to blend in with the
present exterior visual form of the statue.
In addition to the direct conservation and restoration of the statue, measures
were taken to improve public access to the structure, to improve the visitor
experience and to modify the interaction between the visitors (ca. 2.5 million
annually) and the statue. A museum was created in the plinth to divert some
visitors from ascending the statue and explain the monument and its conser-
vation more. The spiral staircase that provides access to the crown level was
strengthened and cleaned. Air conditioning was installed to cool the statue’s
interior, reducing the relative humidity fluctuation in the statue and making it
more pleasant for visitors. New lighting, security and fire-protection systems
were also installed. Where visitors could touch the copper skin at the crown
level, it was protected with three coats of epoxy-polyamide paint on an acrylic-
polymer base coat.
Conserving this statue required conservators make a series of careful
judgements. Balance was needed between revealing the statue (replacing
the torch, retaining the patina, and cleaning the unpainted internal surface of
the copper skin), investigating it (studying the preservative effect of the patina
and the form and construction of the replacement torch) and preserving it
(retaining the original torch, sealing the cracks to stop water ingress, painting
the iron support pylon, and adding air conditioning). The decisions made have
meant that the statue in its present form is a restored compromise, with the
patina of 100 years, the new flame in its original form and an open internal
structure with modern air-conditioning, stainless-steel stairs, and glossy
epoxy-painted ironwork. It has not been restored to an original state, nor
thoroughly remade in a modern form, but instead gives (much of) the visual
impact of the original while incorporating modern safety requirements essential
for any public space and retaining the patina of age.
Figure 3.4 The Statue of Liberty. Robert Baboian.

3B Case Study: The Mary Rose ( Jones 2003)

In July 1545, the fully equipped Tudor warship Mary Rose keeled over and sank
in the Solent, as she was preparing to engage the French fleet. Almost all her
crew drowned, they and her contents were trapped in the hull, which rested on
its side on the seabed. Subsequently the tides slowly dragged away the timbers
of her port side leaving the starboard half of the ship and its contents buried in
the soft silt of the seabed. In the silt, oxygen-free (anoxic) conditions
developed, which preserved much of the organic material. Rediscovered in
1971, by 1978 the decision had been made to excavate the site and recover
the remains ( Marsden 2003). Excavations between 1979 and 1982 removed
the overlying silt, recovered over 19,000 artefacts, and exposed the hull. The
internal decking, which was loose since all the iron nails had corroded away,
was removed. Subsequently a steel frame was lowered into the water above
the ship from which wires ran through the ship’s structural framing to jack the
half hull free of the seabed. The hull, suspended from the frame, was placed on
a lower frame (cradle), which was bolted to the upper frame. The whole
assembly was raised to the surface on live television. An estimated audience of
60 million people worldwide watched the ship emerge from the sea ( Pearson
and Schofield 2021).
The cradled hull of the Mary Rose was craned onto a barge and transferred to
a dry dock in Portsmouth. Subsequently, still resting on its lower cradle, a
temporary shelter was built over the dock permitting the hull to be cleaned and
sprayed with chilled water (<5 °C) water to prevent microbial growth and
prevent the timbers drying out and shrinking while allowing the marine salt to
be washed out. Following detailed research, which showed that the wood of the
hull had a microbial degraded outer layer and bacterially weakened internal
structure, the hull was sprayed with a water-soluble wax (polyethylene glycol –
PEG) solution to help preserve it. Initially (1994–2004) a low molecular weight
PEG (PEG 200) was sprayed on the timbers, which helped stop the shrinkage
of the cell walls of the wood. The concentration was incrementally increased to
40%. Subsequently (2004–2013) a heated solution of higher molecular weight
PEG (PEG 2000) was sprayed on which helped fill the lumens and prevent cell
collapse of the degraded wood cells on the outside of the ship’s timbers. This
solution was incrementally increased until it reached 60%. Since 2013, the ship
has been slowly air-drying in a carefully controlled atmosphere (54% RH, 19 °C)
to minimise the shrinkage and cracking of the wood. For the first few years, ducting
was in place to distribute the conditioned air as evenly as possible and to prevent
pockets of uneven drying or mould growth. The heterogeneous distribution of decay,
PEG, and thus moisture content, within the wood has resulted in differential drying
and thus slight movement of the hull ( Lipkowitz et al. 2021).
While the hull was being treated, over 19,000 artefacts of different materials
recovered from the ship were treated and in 2016, a new museum was opened
in the dry dock, surrounding the ship, allowing all these finds to be seen
alongside the ship. The conservation of the first artefacts retrieved from the
Mary Rose started in 1970 and has continued to evolve through to the present
day. The initial challenge, as with all wrecks, was to conserve the very large
numbers of waterlogged, salty, and vulnerable objects efficiently. Priorities
needed to be set, a large team recruited and trained, and, in some cases, new
treatment methods researched and developed. The materials the objects were
made from, and the extent of their decay, guided the conservation treatment.
Figure 3.5 The starboard half of the Mary Rose hull, slowly drying out in the Mary Rose
Museum, following PEG impregnation. Mary Rose Trust. © Hufton + Crow.
The decision to keep the ship intact ( Figure 3.5) and to treat it in the
configuration in which it was found has had a major impact on its treatment.
While it might have been possible to dismantle the ship piece by piece and treat
the timbers separately in large tanks and then air-dry them or to cut large
beams into smaller pieces to fit in a freeze-dryer (as was done with the Dover
Canoe and the Arles Rhone 3 ship), these approaches have downsides.
Dismantling a ship, reduces its visibility, few people can see and understand
it when it is a group of timbers in tanks, it can fall off the public’s radar and
interest can be lost. Cutting up timbers raises many ethical questions (Bernard-
Maugiron and Courboulès, 2018). While these can be justified in certain cases,
it is a hard decision to make. On the other hand, spray application of
polyethylene glycol can lengthen treatment times, as it takes longer for the
PEG to penetrate large pieces of wood.
An intact ship meant that members of the public, who already felt a
connection to it after seeing it emerge from the harbour, could come and visit.
Between 1982 and 2016, an estimated 7 million visitors saw conservation in
action. They watched the timbers being cleaned and sprayed and air-dried and
they generated valuable ticket revenues, which helped fund the ongoing work.
The Mary Rose Trust is a private charity (rather than a government funded
project) so these funds were critical to the ongoing success of the project. The
Trust has worked hard to generate a constant stream of media appearances,
which focussed on research projects such as the ethnic origins of the sailors
(DNA) or the medicines used by the ship’s Apothecary, after the excitement of
discovery and raising of the hull. Only such a high profile helps keep paying
visitors coming and corporate sponsors and grant making bodies giving. If
funding were to dry up, as it did for the Hasholme logboat, then the project
risked being abandoned and only half-done.
Keeping the ship intact, also meant that the museum had to be built around
the ship, necessitating even more careful and detailed planning than is typically
needed for museum construction. Had the ship been being treated off site this
might have been an easier process. Throughout the project, it has been
essential to change both the organisational structure and focus from time to
time. Different phases of the project from discovery and excavation to recovery
and conservation to research and long-term conservation and display have
required different skillsets and staffing configurations. The large initial team
that focused on stabilisation has given way to a smaller team that is focused on
maintenance and presentation. Such change is critical for the project to create
a sustainable organisation that is capable of maintaining the hull and artefacts
into the foreseeable future.
Ships are important part of the heritage for every major maritime nation, and
many countries have now conserved ancient vessels (Sweden – the Vasa,
Norway – the Oseberg ship, Denmark – the Roskilde ships, Germany – the
Bremen Cog). Such ships provide a very detailed fragment of life at a specific
moment (the day of the sinking) and are often prized as ‘time capsules’. They
have the capacity to captivate the public imagination as movies such as Pirates
of the Caribbean attest. Although archaeologists focus on narratives of trade
and shipboard life, rather than pirates and treasure, conserving such wrecks is
a lengthy and hugely expensive business and only a small number of such
projects can be sustained. Consequently, heritage authorities often prefer to
preserve ships in situ, such as Grace Dieu, Amsterdam, and HMS Hazardous
on the south coast of England ( Oxley 1998). In England the Protection of
Wrecks Act of 1973, legislation prompted by the risks faced by the Mary Rose
whilst still a wreck site ( Marsden 2003), now protects designated wreck sites.
Excavation is only permitted if the site is under threat or there are sufficient
funds guaranteed to see the project through to completion.
The research carried out on the materials from the Mary Rose has helped to
shape our approaches to the conservation of archaeological objects from
marine sites. Some of the initial conservation problems of dealing with wrecks
have now largely been solved. However, new longer-term conservation issues
have started to emerge:
• The stability of wood containing iron sulphides – the iron sulphides are slowly
oxidising inside the wood making it acidic and causing it to lose strength. How can
we address these problems without subjecting the ships to a costly and lengthy
retreatment?
• Vessels that were designed to be supported by water are struggling to remain
dimensionally stable on land and are slowly starting to slump. What are the best
ways to support the ships and still make them accessible visually?
• Sustainability. Once the treatment is done, will visitors lose interest, or will we be
able to continue generating the needed funds to support these materials? Since
PEG treated wood has rather strict environmental conditions, how will we maintain
these conditions as museums embrace the need for more environmentally
sustainable solutions?
These are challenges for the 21st century.
Notes
1 The term conservator-restorer is often used in European definitions since in many European
countries, especially those that speak the so-called ‘Romance languages’, variations on the
term restorer are used to describe those who undertake conservation work.
2 A descriptive catalogue of works of art with explanations and scholarly comments.
3 For a full list of the charters relating to cultural heritage and links to their texts, please see
https://www.getty.edu/conservation/publications_resources/research_resources/charters.html
[Accessed 8/4/2020].
4 As of 2021, the Codes of Ethics are in the initial phase of another round of review.
5 Miss Havisham is a character in the novel Great Expectations by Charles Dickens (1861). She
lives in a mouldering mansion forever accompanied by her past.
6 Interventive conservation – also sometimes called remedial conservation ( Keene 1996) aims
to prevent further decay and reveal information about the object through physical and/or
chemical means. Interventive conservation activities typically include cleaning, consolidation,
stabilisation, mending, and aesthetic reintegration. They are tailored to each object,
depending on its composition and the extent and nature of the decay. Almost all early
conservation textbooks ( Rathgen 1898; Plenderleith and Werner 1971) focused on inter-
ventive conservation.
7 Preventive conservation – Aims to prevent further damage or decay from occurring. This
involves mitigating threats to the object’s safety by controlling the materials and environment
around the object. Preventive conservation involves limiting access and handling of the object
(e.g. through security, recording, packaging), physically supporting the object (e.g. appro-
priate packaging and mounts), and ensuring that environmental factors such as light, pol-
lutants, relative humidity, and temperature do not promote decay. Many aspects of
preventive conservation such as basic storage and simple cleaning (often defined as good
housekeeping) can be undertaken by volunteers or staff not specifically trained in conser-
vation. Other aspects, such as legal protection, risk assessment and environmental mon-
itoring, are of a more specialised nature and are normally undertaken by heritage
professionals.
4 Objects: Their Investigation and Recording
Objects and Society

Objects are products of larger cultures/societies, therefore examining objects care-
fully and understanding them not only allows scholars (and conservators) to learn
something about the society that created an artefact but is fundamental to how we
begin to recognise an object’s values and significance. The complex relationship
between people and objects as well as the ways in which modern Western society
interprets past societies from their artefacts have been a matter of considerable
study (cf. Miller et al. 1991; Pearce 1994; Hoskins 1998; Schiffer 1999; Caple 2006;
Tilley et al. 2006; Hurcombe 2007; Robb 2009; Abousnnouga and Machin 2010;
Gilchrist 2012; Hodder 2012) and the subject of a number of conceptual models that
have explored the relationships between objects and people. In the 19th century,
archaeologists interpreted objects as having a simple functional role, the form and
construction of the object being directly related to the technological development of
the society that made and used the object (Pitt Rivers 1875). The work of early 20th-
century anthropologists, such as Malinowski and Radcliffe Brown, showed that
complex social structure was invariably reflected within objects, while 20th-century
archaeologists have shown that there is a complexity between social belief and the
expression of form and decoration of an object. This has led to an awareness that all
objects are culturally and contextually sensitive (Tilley 1994), and that even the
materials of their construction have complex meaning and symbolism (McGhee
1994).1 Thus, objects must be understood in terms of the culture and date from
which they derive. Objects can also be seen as palimpsests, having an evolving series
of meanings over time (Ames 1994; Williams 2020). Hodder (1987) has proposed
that objects possess three forms of identity:
• As an object: raw materials shaped by technology to form an object, which

performs a function within a given society.
• As part of a context: when associated with other objects, an item forms part of an
assemblage that is codified and reinforced by the social order.
• As a signifier: embodying and signifying past experience, through its appearance it
carries ideas (religious or ideological) of the past into the present.
Objects are physical manifestations of the thoughts and ideas of a culture. Everything
which is created, as opposed to being found, is formed by the action of tools (including
machines) upon raw materials. The tool is important but so too is the craft or expertise
DOI: 10.4324/9781003009078-4
to use the tool or operate the machine. Products emerge from this creative process. A
carpenter’s tools create a piece of furniture (product) from a block of wood (raw
material). Equally, less tangible products can be produced; blowing air (the raw
material) through a musical instrument (a complex tool) can with the ability of a
skilled musician (expertise) create music (product). An author can produce a written
document (product) using a pen (tool) and paper and ink (raw materials). The evi-
dence of these processes is unevenly represented in the record of the past. A carpen-
ter’s tools and even his furniture may survive, but his expertise, his knowledge of
joinery, does not survive directly. It must be deduced from the surviving tools and
furniture. Where the product does not survive (e.g. music, or food), expertise may be
impossible to deduce, although it may be partially preserved in the form of written
description, recipes, musical notations, and/or descriptions of the artists or craftsmen
at work. It is important to remember that a product can also serve as raw material for
a subsequent process; for example, flour is both the product of a mill and a raw
material for cooking, similarly a statue (product) may be melted down (raw material)
to create another object.
Archaeologists, anthropologists, and curators have developed systems for exploring
the wider cultural, technical, and social connections objects have. Such systems
include:
• Chaîne Opératoire: A methodological approach that looks at the production steps

needed to move from raw material to the creation of a desired object. Analysis of
prehistoric flints in France revealed that visually similar flint tools had been
formed using different sequences of flaking actions and that this occurred with
consistency across a number of sites. Consequently, it was deduced that two
groups or cultures were present; the sequence of events or chain of operations in a
manufacturing process is often specific to (characterises) one culture (habituated
activities reinforcing social organisation and beliefs) and distinguishes it from
another (Soressi and Geneste 2011).
• Object biography: A life history of the object from its production (birth), through
its use (life) to its discard (death). Proposed as an analytical technique by Igor
Kopytoff (1986), object biography has been seized on to explore the relationships
between objects and people and has been applied to both individual objects (Peers
1999; Seip 1999) and groups of objects (Rainbird 1999; Whitley 2002;
Schamberger et al. 2012).
• Object production and use sequence (OPUS): This technique (Figure 4.1) builds on
both chaîne opératoire and object biography to consider the object as a series of
production and use sequences, which may include recycling and reuse, abandon-
ment, loss, or rediscovery (Caple 2006).
• Fragmentation and enchainment: Artefact fragments have value as a means of
invoking the whole object (enchainment). The part derived from and representing
the whole is seen in Neolithic pottery fragments from the same vessel placed in
separate postholes of a building (Chapman 2000; Chapman and Gaydarska 2007)
to the fragments of the ‘true cross’ dispersed throughout Christendom. In such
contexts, it may be inappropriate to unquestioningly re-join fragments as this may
obscure their history as separate and valued objects.
Objects: Their Investigation and Recording 71
Cost Function
Value of the resources The purpose the product
Tools
required to win and refine raw (object) is intended to serve
The resources available to
materials and transport the
manufacture the product
processed materials to the
including tools (from lumps of
place of manufacture
stone to computerised Aesthetic
machinery), power sources and Attributes given to the
workshop facilities.
Availability product (object) by the
Only materials which are artist/craftsmen, which
available can be utilised. evokes a response in the
Materials with poorer viewer/user/owner.
properties may be used, if
they are more readily Materials Expertise
available, to ensure continued All raw and The sum of
manufacture. processed human Technique (Skill)
materials from ingenuity used
The abilities of the
which the to create the
artist/craftsmen to
product is product
Properties transform materials into the
manufactured
The material should possess desired form. It derives
desirable properties in from the individual’sartistic
production and use. They talent, their experienceand
cannot posses properties hand eyeco-ordination plus
which prevent its production the craft tradition of the
and use culture in which they
developed.
Product (Object)
Recycling The product (object) created utilising
Product reduced to its basic the expertise of the artist/craftsman
materials and reformed into a and the materials and tools available,
new product e.g. metal usingthe tools available. It could be
collected, remelted and anything from a chair to a poem
recast. Utilisation of recycled
materials is governed by
availability, cost and usability,
like all other materials.
Use Reuse
Objects bear traces of their use, The object retains its basic
both deposits and surface damage. form but is repaired or
There may be many phases of use, improved, utilising further
interspersed with periods of expertise and materials, to
storage or neglect, ending with become functional again.
discard/loss, burial/sacrifice or
storage/abandonment.
Burial/Sacrifice Discard/Loss Storage/Abandonment

Object ritually broken, discarded, Object discarded without intention Object placed in an environment
or buried, often with a body. The of reuse and with the intention to where it was to remain until
object is lost to use. The act of allow it to decay. The same affect subsequently retrieved. This may
discard has ritual significance. achieved through accidental loss. be storage or simply left in situ.
Recovery & Curation

Product (object) retrieved through discovery or excavation.
This may result in damage. Subsequent examination and reuse
as a record of the past, usually resulting in storage or display
Figure 4.1 Object production and use sequence. Chris Caple.

• Actor network theory (ANT), Symmetrical archaeology and entanglement theory:
These related approaches posit that everything exists in constantly shifting
networks of relationships (Hodder 2012). All elements, humans, objects, ideas,
and processes are equally important in creating social situations; humans may act
on objects, but objects may also act on people shaping perceptions and world-
views and on other objects. Symmetrical archaeology in particular seeks to avoid
the imposition of essentialist dualisms (human/non-human; materiality/sociality;
past/present) often present in our study of material culture. These methods are
useful for conservation in terms of thinking about the agency of decay (Edensor
2011) and how it mediates our perceptions of objects and our world.
Objects are studied and preserved both because of the information they contain and
for what they represent, which may change through time. Establishing the date of an
object may be an important part of accessing this information and is usually carried
out by:
• Typological comparison of the object’s form or decoration with a known series of

objects or artistic style or movement.
• Recovery from a known dated context.
• Identification of a material in the object that was introduced or abandoned after a
given date.
• Identification of a historical record of the object in either written or visual form;
for example, a specific mention in a will or its presence in a painting or
photograph.
• Attribution to a known artist or craftsman, sometimes through a signature or
maker’s mark. In some cases, hallmarks may be used to date the gold and silver
objects.
• Scientific means such as radiocarbon dating for organic materials, dendro-
chronology for wood and thermoluminescence for fired ceramic materials.
The Structure and Decay of Objects

Important information is present at the object’s surface, which typically bears all the
traces of decoration, signs of wear, manufacturing marks, and evidence of repair.
This thin ephemeral layer (often only 1–2 mm thick) is also the one that endures
constant damage and loss from use, the burial environment, excavation, and
handling (Figure 4.2). Consequently, considerable effort is necessary to recover
and preserve the valuable and fragile traces of evidence present at such surfaces and
avoid removing them with hasty or excessive treatments. The surface may be soiled
(Chapter 5), decayed, corroded, contain mineral preserved organics, or hold traces
of gilding or paint, or accretions from use, such as cooking residues or DNA.
Features of surface decay, such as craquelure (cracking on picture varnishes) or
patinas on some copper alloy objects, may be desirable indicators of age, despite
being products of decay.
Figure 4.2 Gravestone in the churchyard at Staindrop, County Durham. The surface inscription
is being lost due to weathering and decay. If this continues unchecked it will even-
tually be impossible to see for whom it was erected. Emily Williams.
Information is also present in the body or substrate of the piece – the main
material(s) from which the object is composed, which may provide structural
integrity to the object. The substrate’s properties inform the nature of the object, for
example, a ship with a wooden hull will behave differently from one with a metal
hull. An underlying structure, such as a framework or armature, may support the
substrate. In the case of a painting, the paint layer is the surface, the body of the
painting may be canvas and the stretcher acts as the support (or framework) that
holds the canvas taut. Similarly, bronze statues may have internal iron armatures
that tie various, separately cast, elements together and support them (Case Study 3A:
The Statue of Liberty). The role of the support may also be filled or augmented by
fasteners, such as dowels, nails, and screws. Like the surface both the body and the
supporting elements are subject to decay and this may endanger the object. For ex-
ample, marble statues and architectural elements may be broken and stained by cor-
roding iron supports, while the painted surfaces of Egyptian sarcophagi and statuettes
can be endangered by fungal and termite attack to the wooden substrate (Davis and
Chemello 2014).
Where is the decay?

Identify the Identify the
Is it structural, in the
mechanism agents promoting
body, or on the
of decay the decay
surface?
Record and repeat until all the areas of decay

and agents of decay / mechanisms of
decay have been identified.
Figure 4.3 Decay detection sequence. Chris Caple.
Decay may be the result of physical, chemical, or biological decay processes. If the
object is not stabilised, it may lose its surface and any associated information, and the
decay may continue until the whole object is too fragile for handling or display and is
eventually lost. It is not always easy to identify the primary mechanisms of decay and
the agents that cause them (Cather 2003). The fact that multiple forms of decay may
be present, one triggering or building on another (synergy), often complicates matters
and results in a far more degraded artefact. To successfully conserved and stabilise an
object, it is essential that the nature and extent of all the forms of decay forms are
identified accurately (Figure 4.3). It is important that the most damaging issues,
particularly those causing structural problems (such as the iron armature supporting
the Statue of Liberty, Case Study 3A) are dealt with before the surface (cosmetic)
issues are tackled.
Decay mechanisms are usually identified indirectly through observing their break-
down products, such as the frass from insect infestation, or their consequences, such as
flaking paint or a loss in density. It is often appropriate to analyse and identify the
cause of the decay either directly such as identifying the insect or fungi attacking the
object or indirectly – identifying the breakdown mineral on a corroded metal object.
Investigation
The investigation of any object starts with a series of questions. These may include:
• What is the object’s function? How does its shape or the materials that it was
made from help or hinder this function and why?
• Why were the shape, colour, and decoration (including but not limited to writing,
symbols, and figural motifs) chosen? What might they have signified to the user?
And what knowledge or belief systems might others have needed to understand
such symbols?
• Is there evidence of use, wear, or repair? What does it say about the changing uses
of the object?
• What does the object’s association with other places and things (its context) tell us
about it?
• What can the object’s deterioration tell us about its history?
The study of a complex object, or assemblage, with a complicated history may involve
teams of curators, scientists, and conservators and be the subject of long-term
research. However, individual conservators often find themselves needing to investi-
gate discrete objects to begin formulating treatment approaches.
Careful examination and analysis enable the conservator to ‘read’ an object and
understand how it was created, what materials were used, how they were assembled, as
well as the nature of the decay processes that afflict those materials and whether
subsequent repair or conservation work has been undertaken and how. To do this
successfully, the conservator should take a holistic approach that avoids introducing
pre-conceived notions of what should or should not be present, consult published
information and where possible seek advice from experts. The process may consist of
two steps:
1 Examination: A visual assessment of the object to determine what is present, how

it was formed and whether it has altered. This is an ongoing process that does not
stop with an initial assessment but continues to be carried out and revised
throughout the conservator’s engagement with the object.
2 Analysis: An exploration of the elemental, isotopic, molecular, and crystalline
characteristics of specific material elements of the artefact using microscopic,
instrumental, and chemical techniques. Analysis may help to determine specific
attributes such as the cause of decay, date, or culture of the artefact. It may
require sampling (testing a small amount) and be either non-destructive or
destructive.
It is important to record both the observations and analysis so that they

can inform not only the study of the object but also wider technical, social, and
cultural studies.
Visual Examination
An initial visual examination can determine whether elements are missing from the
object, as well as what parts are cracked, damaged, broken, and decayed. Cracks,
folds, tears, corrosion, and losses should be photographed or diagrammed to record
them. Many corrosion and decay products can be identified during this process
through familiarity with the decay processes and visual observation of colour, texture,
and form. The extent to which dirt, decay and loss obscures the surface is important to
record, as so much of an object’s informational content lies at its surface. This helps to
determine the condition (stability or lack thereof) of the object and informs its
treatment. Visual examination may also reveal features that are uniquely created by
specific tools or manufacturing techniques, such as weave details on textiles, laid lines
of paper, joining methods in wood and file marks in metal. These can be enhanced
using raking (low angled) light which highlights small changes in surface texture. This
information can help date the object and identify the culture that created it. Evidence
of wear (smooth areas, loss of decoration, scratching) may point to the history and use
of the piece.
Magnification (using stereo or binocular microscopy) extends visual examination
making important features of manufacture and use more apparent. In the case of
Roman boxwood combs, magnification revealed the presence of nits and hair lice
between their teeth (Fell 1996). This small find graphically revealed the problems of
life in Roman Britain.
Visual examination can be augmented using portions of the electromagnetic spec-
trum. The most common of these examination techniques include:
• X-radiography: This technique reveals changes in the thickness and density of

materials enabling the identification of iron objects buried in a mass of corrosion.
Similarly, supports and internal armatures can be identified, as can earlier
versions of compositions under paintings and discontinuities or flaws in materials
(Gilardoni et al. 1994; Lang and Middleton 2005; O’Connor and Brooks 2007).
Since the two-dimensional rendering of three-dimensional objects on the
x-radiography may complicate interpretation (Figure 1.6) and there may be several
possible explanations for the features seen, it is advisable to examine the object and
x-radiograph together.
• Infrared reflectography: This technique relies on the differential reflectance or
absorption of infrared radiation to reveal changes in composition. Infrared light is
absorbed by charcoal revealing underdrawings that might otherwise be hidden by
the paint surface and may reveal discrepancies between what the artist planned to
do and what they ultimately painted (van Schoute and Verougstraete-Marcq 1986;
Walmsley et al. 1992). It has also been used to make faint traces of ink more
visible and allow early texts to be read. Examples include the waterlogged Roman
writing tablets from Vindolanda (Bowman et al. 1974).
• Ultraviolet-induced visible fluorescence: This technique takes advantage of the
fact that different minerals and resins are excited by exposure to UV radiation,
causing them to emit characteristic visible fluorescence (Hickey-Friedman 2002).
In contrast, areas that are not excited by ultraviolet radiation absorb it
and appear dark. It can facilitate detection of modern restorations on a variety
of surfaces and permits the separation of leaded glass from soda-lime glass
(Measday 2017).
New imaging techniques including multispectral imaging (Case Study 4B: Archimedes
Palimpsest), hyperspectral imaging, and reflectance transform imaging (RTI) are ex-
tending these capabilities further.
Basic knowledge needs to be combined with visual observation to identify things
correctly. For example, many materials decay in characteristic ways, which can aid
identification; for example, copper corrosion may be green or blue, iron corrosion is
normally orange or red. Familiarity with a range of materials from different time
periods, cultures, and burial or storage conditions can facilitate identification and may
speed the process rendering it nearly intuitive.
Non-Visual Physical Properties

The visual qualities of a material are only one of many physical attributes that it
possesses, including density (weight), smell, surface texture, hardness, elasticity, drape,
magnetism, even taste. By comparing these with known specimens, conservators can
often successfully identify the materials from which an object is composed. Examples
include identifying plastics by the characteristic smells of their deterioration products
or separating metallic iron from other white metals by using a magnet. The require-
ments placed on materials by functionality, as well as the limited range of materials
cheaply available and normally used by any given society at a given date, may aid in
the identification. Differences in properties can distinguish between likely materials;
for example, melting point can be used to identify materials such as waxes, although
mixtures can make this difficult.
Analysis
It might be imagined that conservators would want to analyse every bit of an object
before they started conservation, so they could be certain about what they had, why it
was decaying, and what had been done to it before. However, as noted above, there
are often a limited number of possibilities and analytical techniques can be expensive,
time consuming, and at times difficult to interpret. Therefore, in most cases, analysis
may not be practical or even affordable. Prior to commissioning or undertaking
analysis, a conservator should consider:
• Whether there is a sufficiently good justification for doing the analysis. Reasons
that might justify the time and cost of analysis include the uniqueness of the
object, the degree to which the answer can guide the treatment, and the
accessibility of the analytical technique.
• Whether the analytical method selected can provide the information required.
Although all analytical techniques provide information, it is important to
formulate the questions carefully first to determine which technique can best
answer them.
• The importance of qualitative information (the presence or absence of a particular
element) and quantitative information (the amount of an element present).
Quantitative information is more difficult and consequently expensive to obtain.
• Whether the conservator can understand and interpret the information produced.
Interpretation usually requires detailed background knowledge and comparative
samples or data against which to compare the unknown. Therefore, it may be as
important to get comparative data or expert advice and interpretation as it is to
get the initial analyses. Dauntingly, there may be several explanations for any
analytical result.
• Whether the proposed treatment will render future analysis impossible. For
example, some treatments can render later dating techniques invalid.
• Any reasons for not examining or analysing an object. These may include damage
caused by taking samples from the object or ethical constraints (such as sampling
sacred objects).
It is invariably appropriate to start with the simplest, cheapest analytical method

capable of delivering a useful answer. Many materials, inorganic and organic, can be
identified through microscopy, which reveals unique visual aspects of their micro-
structure, enabling their characterisation. Wood species (Hoadley 1991), leather
(Haines 1985), textiles (Robertson et al. 2018), pollen (Moore et al. 1991), pigments
(Feller 1978; Roy 1994), stone (Reedy 2008), paint cross-sections (Byrne and Cook
1976), dust (McCrone and Delly 1973), and metals (Scott 1991) can all be identified
successfully by conservators with optical microscopy training. Where higher magni-
fication is required, or additional analytical information required, scanning electron
microscopy (SEM-EDS) is often used.
Simple chemical spot tests (Odegaard et al. 2005) can help identify many materials.
In medieval British wall painting, common red pigments used were ochre (iron oxide),
minium (lead oxide), and cinnabar (mercury sulphide). Chemical spot tests can
identify them inexpensively but may require sampling and can be very time consuming
if there are many samples to analyse. Using an elemental detection technique, such as
portable X-ray fluorescence (pXRF) can eliminate the need for sampling, but the cost
of the equipment may limit its availability. Information about which pigment was
employed would be useful in the context of an archaeological report (cf. Caple 2007:
165–170) although treating the material to prevent flaking and pigment loss could
potentially be done without knowing the answer. On the other hand, the treatment of
the Mary Rose (Case Study 3B) could not have been carried out without a variety of
forms of analyses, which have helped to determine the degree of sulphur contami-
nation present and offered new treatment approaches (Chadwick et al. 2012).
Conservators should be familiar with the range of available scientific analytical
techniques (Pollard et al. 2007) and their potential application to the analysis of
historic, archaeological, and artistic works (Bromelle and Thomson 1982; Caple 2006;
Stuart 2007; Artioli 2010; Shugar and Mass 2012). Since analytical techniques are ever
evolving, detection limits are changing, sensitivity is increasing, and recommendations
about sample size, handling, and storage can change, it is also important for con-
servators to update their knowledge regularly. Figure 4.4 shows some of the more
commonly used techniques for the analysing inorganic and organic materials. Multiple
techniques may be employed to provide accurate and complete answers. The more
complicated the question, the more important it is for the conservator to work with a
conservation scientist to define the optimal methodology and testing sequence nec-
essary to provide the best answers and to utilise the fewest samples.
Every analytical system has strengths and weaknesses that must be understood.
Repeated analysis of two corroded bronze statues from ancient Egypt took place at
the Fogg Art Museum and subsequently the Harvard Art Museums between 1945 and
the present day (Bewer et al. 2017). Various corrosion products were identified, and
these identifications contributed to different interpretations of the cause of active
decay and different interventions at different dates. However, the variety of instru-
ments used – XRD, FTIR, and Raman – each with different sensitivities to various
corrosion minerals may well account for the differing results (Bewer et al. 2017).
Although the presence of a specific mineral was clearly demonstrated by the analytical
system in each case, it was the assumptions made in relating the mineral to a specific
decay mechanism and treating that as ‘the’ explanation of the object decay that was
problematic.
Qualitative Elemental Analysis

EDXRF, pXRF (non-destructive)
Detects all except light elements (Z<10 e.g. carbon, oxygen) at a surfaces imultaneously. Metals
& alloys, pigments, glass & its colourants, decolourants & opacifiers, ceramics, slags, types of
stone & minerals identified.
Quantitative Elemental Analysis

pXRF, EDXRF, WDXRF, ICPES, PIXE (sample normally required)
Standards normally required and samples usually dissolved. Major, minor and trace
elements determined, sensitivity varies. ICP techniques achieve ppm/ppb. Can identify
Inorganic provenance where there are well characterised natural samples with unique chemical
Materials signature.
Analysis
Isotopic Analysis
TIMS, ICPMS (sample required)
What is the Identification of elements and isotopes Isotopic ratios can be related to biological,
simplest, low chemical amd physical processes, leading to dating, specific biological processes
cost method (food groups) and provenancing where there are well characterised natural samples with
to provide unique isotopic signatures.
the
information Mineral Determination
you require?
XRD, FTIR, Raman (sample normally required)
Determines mineral present from absorption or diffraction of radiation wavelengths.
Dependant of sample form e.g. crystallinity for XRD. Comparative spectral libraries
required.
Optical Microscopy
Metallography, Thin Section Petrology (sample required)
Identifies crystal structures which affect light reflection or transmission. Matching
characteristic patterns usually requires skilled operator. Sample preparation skills
required.
Molecular Spectroscopy
UV/Vis, IR, FTIR, Raman Spectrometry (sample normally required)
Identification of basic organic compounds, especially dyes, waxes, adhesives and consolidants.
Pattern matching of adsorption spectrum with library required. Best with single component organic
compounds.
Chromatography Techniques
GC, HPLC (sample required)
Organic Mixtures of organic compounds split on the basis of molecular weight and chemical activity by
Materials monitoring time taken to pass through a column with known standards. Identification of
Analysis components in known systems using known standards.
What is the GC & Mass Spectrometry

simplest, low GC-MS, GC-Pyr-MS (sample required)
cost method Mixtures of organic compounds split using GC, may be broken up using pyrolysis and fed into a
to provide mass spectrometer which identifies the molecules on the basis of mass. Isotopic resolution also
the possible to identify molecules with specific biological origins eg.dairying.
information
you require?
Optical Microscopy
Fibre, Wood, Bone, and other biological tissues (sample required)
Microscopic structure of many biological materials such as wood is unique and can be related to
species level.
Matching characteristic patterns usually requires skilled operator. Sample preparation skills
required.
Scanning Electron Microscopy

As above but SEM used rather than light microscope to achieve higher magnifications.
Figure 4.4 Common techniques used for the analysis of inorganic and organic materials in the
opening decades of the 21st century. Chris Caple. 2
Conservators should be cautious about the analytical data they obtain themselves
or receive from others. Analytical techniques are often promoted as a ‘black box’
capable of answering any question; however, the answers are seldom so clear-cut. A
single analysis of a surface without background knowledge of the culture, its tech-
nology, and period, using only one analytical technique, by an operator lacking ex-
perience with the device, can lead to meaningless, even potentially misleading results.
Multiple analyses across the object using a range of techniques with standards and
comparative material, interpreted by an analyst or conservator familiar with the
material and technology of the period can provide information that is much more
meaningful. Caution is necessary when analysing and interpreting data from historic
and archaeological material for the following reasons:
• Corrosion and surface soiling on the exterior surfaces of archaeological artefacts,

especially metal artefacts, may mean that the correspondence between the results
and the object’s original material is limited. Although portable X-ray fluorescence
systems can increasingly provide non-destructive elemental analysis at reasonable
cost, surface analysis can be misleading (Caple 2000: 86; Shugar and Mass 2012).
• The apparent accuracy of many analytical techniques, which quotes results to
several decimal places, is often illusory. It is advisable where possible to analyse a
certified analytical standard along with the unknown samples and compare the
published results against the determined composition for this standard. It is good
practice to publish this data as part of the project results.3
• The operating conditions and sensitivities of analytical instruments can vary
enormously. It is important to be aware of the sensitivities and abilities of the
analytical system in use and to know the minimum detectable limit of the element,
mineral, or molecule being analysed. Such knowledge can prevent non-detection
being interpreted as absence.
• An element can be present in many different forms (species). For example, copper
may be detected in a liquid as; metal particles in suspension, as an oxidised
mineral form (e.g. CuCO3 in suspension), as a reduced mineral form (e.g. Cu2O in
suspension), dissolved in solution as a soluble ion Cu2+, held in the form of a
sequestered complex or deposited in some form on the sides of the vessel. Element
identification is often only a partial answer.
• It is important to ensure that the analytical equipment is not contaminated in any
way prior to carrying out the analysis, since this can lead to misleading results.
Analysing a blank or a control sample of known composition first is one way to
check this.
• Calibration and careful maintenance of equipment is important to ensure the
veracity of results.
• It is important to be aware of natural background levels. Many elements are
present in small quantities in the soil, groundwater, or atmospheric dust. The level
detected must be significantly above background levels to be meaningful. Thus,
the presence of traces of titanium in a pink paint (red and white pigments) may
indicate an impurity in the iron oxide (red component) rather than that the white
pigment was titanium dioxide.
• The surfaces of archaeological and historic objects are often aged, dirty, oxidised,
and degraded. They consequently rarely provide simple clear analytical results.
Analysts who normally analyse modern materials may consequently have
difficulty interpreting the results in a meaningful way.
Sampling
Sometimes the only way of gaining meaningful data is to sample the object, i.e. to
remove a small part to ascertain information about the whole. This may be because of
the type of analysis to be undertaken, the location of the analytical technique, or the
size of the object itself. In cases where the object is not homogeneous (due to natural
variations in the manufacture or mixing of the component materials, construction, or
decay) it may be necessary to sample in several locations. In the case of the Yarm
helmet, four triangular pieces of iron sheet up to 18 mm × 8 mm were cut from
separate bands and plates of the helmet and subjected to metallographic examination
including SEM-EDS analysis of the slag particles. The samples were taken from areas
that were already damaged and showed that the entire helmet was made of a low-
temperature smelted phosphoric iron hammered from multiple blooms, typical of
early medieval ironwork and very different to the homogeneous low carbon steel
typical of the post-medieval period. The object, which lacked a secure archaeological
context, was shown to be an original Viking helmet and not a 19th-century copy as
had previously been hypothesised. The losses caused by sampling were subsequently
filled. In this case, the damage caused by sampling was justified by the quality and
certainty of the information recovered (Caple 2020a).
Despite the importance of samples for answering specific questions, it is important
to remember that multiple sampling campaigns can inevitably eat away at the object
and that future techniques may ultimately provide better answers. The long-term
concern over the ‘brown spots’ on the walls of Tutankhamun’s tomb and the worry
that they were associated with visitation led to multiple sampling campaigns, resulting
in significant loss (Wong et al. 2017). Eventually, improvements in scanning and
imaging techniques permitted the careful comparison of historic images of the tomb
with modern images and the realisation that the spots had neither multiplied nor
changed since the tomb was opened initially.
Some analytical methods (destructive techniques) consume the samples, whereas
others (non-destructive techniques) permit their retention. The owner’s permission
must be obtained before any sample is taken from an object; the risks and rewards
associated with sampling should be clearly laid out to enable them to decide whether
the information to be gained justifies the damage to the object. Where possible, it is
important to retain the samples for future re-analysis. In some cases, such as metal-
lographic samples, this may require special storage to ensure that the samples do not
deteriorate over time. Samples should be catalogued in a way that clearly references
the object they are taken from and allows them to be easily located. When removing a
sample from an object, it is important to ensure that the removal process does not
result in the contamination of the sample. This may require removing and storing the
sample in very carefully controlled circumstances depending on the nature of the
analysis.
Reporting Analytical Results
Any analytical work that is undertaken must be reported to the object’s curator/
owner. Details of the analytical system and its operating conditions should be given,
so that any effects/biases of the system, such as non-detection, can be correctly
interpreted. The report should:
• Describe the object and indicate where it was sampled.

• Describe the analytical method used. Indicate the accuracy, precision, minimum
detectable levels, and operating conditions of the analytical system used. Any
sample preparation techniques used should also be described as well as any data
manipulation and standards used to obtain the analytical data.
• Present the data.
• Interpret the data with reference to comparative analyses.
• Present conclusions drawn from this analytical work.
Consideration should be given to making the information available to a wider audi-

ence such as publication or proving copies of the information to appropriate data-
bases.
Purpose and Nature of Documentation

Documentation is a key component of ethical conservation practice, it is also a
practice that is embedded in scientific method, so it is not surprising to find that
Rathgen advised taking photographs prior to treatment to ensure information was
retained in case the treatment failed or the object was lost (Rathgen 1905: 57).
However, early conservation literature rarely referenced documentation (Moore 2001)
and the standards of the documentation carried out varied widely (Aleppo 2003;
Hindin 2014). Some early documentation was created for management purposes, to
statistically demonstrate the types of work conservation studios carried out each year
and how much of it they did (Aleppo 2003). The inclusion of specific guidelines on
how to document treatments in the Murray Pease Report, the profession’s first code of
practice (Murray Pease Committee 1964), suggests that conservators viewed docu-
mentation as important and as something that set them apart from cleaners and
‘restorers’.
Making a record of the object and its conservation serves many purposes:
• Detailed examination: Encourages conservators to examine objects in detail and

ensures that they are fully aware of all aspects of the object’s composition and
decay and that the proposed cleaning and conservation work is appropriate. This
sort of examination can take days or even weeks in the case of complex objects.
Recording the process minimises the risk that details will be forgotten contri-
buting to accidental damage or delay in the conservation process.
• Information source: All the information discovered about the object is assembled
to form the record. This is an essential element in the investigation process,
ensuring that all the information uncovered is available to others. The record pulls
together a wide variety of different types of information about the object: X-rays,
photographs, analyses, observations, and published references. Findings made
during examination and treatment can inform the work of allied professionals and
speak to a broad range of topics ranging from the provenance of the object to its
biography to the working techniques of the maker.
• Preventive conservation practice: A body of evidence is created that can be
examined instead of the object itself. This may provide more information than the
object and forms a preventive conservation measure limiting the need to handle
and observe the object directly (e.g. the costume collection of Warwick Museum;
Kavanagh 1990).
• Collections management: A visual and written record of the object at a given point
in time is created in order that changes, such as corrosion, loss, or damage, that
occur during conservation or during subsequent storing, handling and display,
can be detected. Should the object’s unique identifier (e.g. museum number or site
code) be lost or deliberately removed, this record may facilitate identification.
• Treatment evaluation: A record of the conservation work and materials used on
the object. Details of all chemicals, treatment times and coatings are recorded so
that, in the future, the success of a particular conservation treatment or chemical
can be established (Sully and Suenson-Taylor 1996; Williams 2004).
• Treatment design: A record of the information necessary to allow an object to be
successfully re-conserved. It also provides health-and-safety information re-
garding the use of chemicals, biocides, and solvents and identifies any risk-
posed objects or future conservators by the presence of hazardous materials. A
valuable example for other conservators designing treatments for similar objects.
The creation of a conservation record recognises that treatment is not an end in itself,
but rather part of a series of ongoing processes, which last for the object’s entire life. It
provides an important element of the object narrative and it acknowledges that others
will come after the present conservator who will need information about the object
and who may undertake further investigation, revelation, or preservation work. The
record’s importance is often recognised when it is consulted and found to contain
valuable information such as evidence of the original appearance that subsequent
deterioration has removed or details of a conservation treatment that was successfully/
unsuccessfully applied. To be useful, the record must have three key attributes:
• Permanence: The record survives intact. It is no use if it is degraded/corrupt.

• Accessibility: It is useless if it survives but cannot be found when required.
Computerised records with searchable terms fit the accessibility criteria.
• Valuable content: Images and information that are useful. It is not useful when it
is found intact but was poorly compiled and does not contain the required
information.
Digital records hold tremendous promise in terms of accessibility, but permanence can
be an issue, since the lifespan of some hardware used to store digital media can be
as low as five years (Beck 2013). Paper records and print photographs may last a
100 years or more but can be harder to access unless robust tracking systems are in
place. While the conservator undertaking work on the object is responsible for the
initial record, it is important to identify who has responsibility for maintaining the
conservation record (from carrying out periodic migrations of digital records to en-
suring that paper records are accessible and kept in appropriate archival conditions).
The Conservation Record

Whilst the need for a conservation record is unquestionable, its nature and extent are a
matter of judgement. Consequently, the type of information and level of detail noted
in a conservation record can vary enormously (Bradley 1983; Corfield 1983; Corfield
1992; Dollery and Henderson 1996; Keene 1996; Applebaum 2007: 395–417; Watson
2010: 171–179). No single recording system is universally applied due to both the
variations in the type and nature of objects treated and the fact that the conservation
record is often part of a larger sequence of records maintained by a heritage institution
(Aleppo 2003). The individual facts recorded in the conservation record provide
information relevant to one or more of the functions mentioned above.
Information is often grouped into two forms:
• Conservation proposal: A proposal of the work to be undertaken. This may be

created for a client (curator/owner) to approve or as roadmap for a group of
conservators working together on a complex project to help ensure that roles,
sequences, and approaches are clear.
• Typically, it will include information from sections A, B1, and C.
• Treatment report: A report of the treatment work undertaken. Typically, these are
individual records tailored to each object although occasionally they may also
be batch records, reporting on the identical treatment of a group of artefacts. The
level of detail included is a matter of professional judgement depending on the
complexity and ‘value’ of the object. The potential benefit from the record is
balanced against the time (cost) taken to create the record.
• Typically, it includes information from sections A, B2, and C.
The following list indicates information that is frequently recorded, although not all
treatment reports contain every field:
A – Object Data
Client’s name: This may be a curator in the heritage institution where the
conservator works, or it may be the owner (an individual or another institution)
who is commissioning the work. The client is the entity that will approve the
work and to whom reports should be sent.
Object number: Every object should have a unique identifier (typically an
alphanumeric sequence but occasionally, as in the case of a painting, a title) and
which usually relates to the museum or collection where the object is housed or
the place from where it was excavated or recovered. Some objects have several
numbers, all of which should be included in the conservation record.
Name: This may include the common/short name and if known the full or correct
name. Wherever possible reference should be made to standardised terminology
(Thesauri) and definitions where they exist ( MDA 1997; Szrajber 1997).
Laboratory number: In some institutions this may be the object number, in
others every object coming into the laboratory is given a unique number. The
object or laboratory number ensures that information, unique to each object, is
associated with the correct object.
Photograph/digital image: Every object should be photographed to capture the
detail of its appearance ( Dorrell 1989; Warda 2011). The image should contain a
scale, colour card, and object or laboratory number. A ‘before’ image is normally
taken to record the condition prior to treatment, and an ‘after’ image is taken once
conservation is complete. For three-dimensional objects a full record requires that
all sides of the object are imaged. Additional ‘during photos’ may be taken to
record new information revealed or steps in the treatment. These may be in the
form of details or overall images.
Drawing: Annotated sketches or drawings are a particularly effective way of
providing information about an object. They can be very quick sketches or full
technical drawings ( Adkins and Adkins 1989; Griffiths et al. 1990). The act of
drawing an object can help a conservator to better understand how component
elements integrate and why it is in the condition it is in.
References to further information: This may include the numbers and location of
photographic negatives or positives, past treatment records, digital images, IR
reflectograms, UV images, X-ray plates, technical analysis.
Technical information: Trade names, maker’s marks or numbers associated with
the object should be recorded. Bear in mind these may only become visible once
treatment has been initiated.
Provenance: Where is the object from? If known, who was the artist/manufac-
turer? If known, when does it date to? 4 Some of this information may be
provided by the curator or client.
Dimensions: Maximum dimensions of the object expressed as length, height,
width, breadth, depth, or thickness. Weight is also sometimes recorded.
Measurements should be in SI (metric) units: millimetres and metres, grammes,
and kilogrammes.
Materials: The principal materials used in the construction and decoration
together with the method of identification.
Detailed description: A full description of the object ensuring that details, such as
the method of fabrication and decoration, the presence of paint or other coatings,
the colour of various pieces and wear or use, is noted. Colour(s) may be described
using a standardised colour recording system such as L*a*b* ( Minolta 1988)
especially areas of original colour or where the object has dyes or pigments that
are fading/likely to fade.
History: It is not necessary to recreate existing curatorial records, but any
previous repairs or conservation work should be noted. Recent history that may
contribute to condition is also worth noting.
Values/statement of significance: Why is this object valuable to people in the
present day? What elements are important, to whom and why? Tangible and
intangible values should be considered. This may be recorded separately
( Cutajar et al. 2016) or may, more commonly, be part of the object description.
Condition: The state the object is in. It should include, but is not limited to, the
extent and nature of dirt, damage, corrosion, fading, loss, and how fragmentary
or fragile the object. The source of the dirt, damage, or decay should be
determined and noted.
Aims: What will be achieved through the proposed conservation work? This
should take account of the significance/value of the object and its condition – the
threats it faces.
B1 – Treatment Proposal
Proposed conservation treatment: Proposed conservation treatments, these
should be justified – explaining how they achieve the stated aims of the work
and preserve or enhance the stated values.
Authorisation: Box for the signature of the owner/curator/archaeologist/senior
conservator to authorise and approve the treatment proposal and date.
B2 – Treatment
Conservation treatment: All aspects of the conservation treatment should be
recorded. Details of the tools and/or chemicals used, their concentration and any
specific temperatures or pressures used should be recorded. Any additional
information about the object that comes to light during the cleaning and
conservation process should be noted. Any deviations from the conservation
proposal and the reasons for them should be recorded. This information should
be filled in as the conservator goes through the conservation process, so details
are not lost or forgotten.
Name of the conservator(s) undertaking the treatment.
Dates on which the work was carried out.
C – Future Care
Storage and recommendations: The conditions in which the object should be stored
or displayed should be recorded together with details about any support or
housing created for the object and any restrictions to the object’s handling or use.
For management purposes additional information, such as the time taken, or cost is
sometimes recorded. Ideally, all conservation activities should be recorded, even
simple ones such as washing ceramics or building a new storage box for an object. The
length of the conservation record may be short where involvement with the object is
limited or considerably longer when major work is undertaken. Other forms of con-
servation records that may be generated include condition surveys.
In the 21st century, conservation records are typically generated in digital form.
There is a lot of variation in the records produced from simple ‘Word’ documents to
bespoke relational databases that integrate the curatorial and conservation records. It
is important to migrate and update digital information, so it remains available and
useful. Rapid software and hardware evolution can leave data stranded on obsolete
systems; frighteningly, by 1975, the computerised data from the 1960 US Federal
Census could only be read by two computers, one of which was already a museum
exhibit (Westheimer 1994). Unfortunately, the longevity of digital media has not
improved. Three factors impact the longevity of digital media: the storage medium
itself, the hardware, and the interpretive software (Beck 2013). It is the conservator’s
responsibility to guarantee the permanence of their records. In larger institutions,
information technology (IT) teams may be responsible for backing up the data and
migrating it to new servers but in smaller labs the conservator should familiarise
themselves with these procedures (Warda 2011). At a minimum, a second digital (back
up) copy and a physical hard copy (paper) record are important to ensure that con-
servation records are not lost (Applebaum 2007: 413). Physical copies of records
should, if possible, be stored according to archival standards (i.e. BS 4971:2017). Older
records (1880s–1990s) will often be in paper form. Images are often on film (slides,
negatives, prints), which may be unstable (Townsend and Tennent 1993). The desir-
ability of digitising these records, to increase the accessibility of their information is
widely recognised; however, such projects can be daunting for small institutions.
Frequently, conservators are the individuals who study objects most closely. They
are often the only person to examine an object under a microscope or sees an artefact
when it is disassembled so it is important for them to record any details, such as wear,
construction, or alteration. It is important that these details and any discoveries made
during conservation are shared with the curator, owner, or archaeologist responsible
for the object. A copy of the conservation record is normally retained by the labo-
ratory treating an object and a second copy of the record normally accompanies the
object, especially when the treatment is a private commission.
The importance of records within conservation means that it is essential that time is
made in the working day to ensure that they are completed. The conservator exercises
considerable judgement regarding the extent to which any object is recorded. It is
possible to waste considerable time illustrating and describing the most
inconsequential details of an object, information which will never be required. Equally
it is possible to ignore information that is crucial to the understanding of the object
and neglect to record information that is subsequently lost when the object is cleaned.
It remains particularly difficult to judge what information will be considered essential
by a future generation of conservators. Inadequacies in past records, particularly re-
garding the use of pesticides, mean that conservators working with ethnographic and
natural history collections struggle to determine how safe it is to handle some older
collections (Odegaard and Sadongei 2005). Finding the perfect balance between effi-
ciency and utility is difficult but should be a goal for all conservators.
4A Case Study: Bradwell Box ( Keepax and Robson 1978)

During the excavation of the Bradwell Roman villa a corroded mass of iron
fragments was discovered. The archaeologists and conservators on the
excavation judged that that there was considerable potential for gaining further
information from this concreted mass and decided to carefully lift and excavate
it back in the laboratory in order to facilitate slower and more careful micro-
excavation in controlled conditions. The corroded iron mass was carefully
isolated from the surrounding soil, covered in aluminium foil and after a wooden
crate had been inverted over this, the gap between the foil covered mass and
the crate was filled with expanding polyurethane foam. The object was
detached from the soil beneath and taken, safely held in its wooden crate, to
the conservation laboratory. It was X-rayed and identified as the fittings of a
chest or box dating to the 2nd century AD. Painstaking excavation followed. No
traces of the wood from which the box had originally been composed were
recovered. Only the iron nails, corner clamps, straps, and hinges remained.
As iron corrodes, it releases ferrous ions into solution. These subsequently
oxidise to form ferric-oxyhydroxide minerals (rust). If iron corrodes quickly in
association with organic material, the iron minerals can be deposited:
• Around the organic material forming a ‘cast’. Eventually the organic material will
degrade leaving an impression of the decayed organic material and its structure.
• Inside the organic material replacing it as it degrades. This forms an exact copy or
‘pseudomorph’ of the organic material.
• In both ‘cast’ and ‘pseudomorph’ forms.
Such deposits are known as mineral-replaced organics or mineral-preserved organics,

and they can reproduce the microscopic features of the organic material ( Keepax 1975).
This process occurred on all the iron fittings of the Bradwell Box.
By noting the mineral-replaced organics present on the fittings, information about the
type of wood and the construction of the box could be deduced. Microscopic examination
of the microstructure of the mineral preserved wood permitted its identification as oak
(genus Quercus). Observing the depth of the wood grain on the nails and the length of
the nail shank before the points were bent over clarified that the base board of the box
was 22 mm thick, whilst the sides were 25 mm thick, as was the lid. Evidence remained
that the boards were made from sawn planks. 5 The direction of the wood grain on the
corner clamps made it possible to deduce that the four pieces of wood forming the sides
of the box were held together with dovetail joints, which conformed well in size and shape
to modern carpentry practice. These traces indicate the high level of expertise of the
craftsman who constructed this object. The dovetail joints were only used for joining the
lower half of the sides of the box; the upper half used mitred joints. Iron straps that ran
from the front of the box all the way to the top of the box’s back appeared to have been
hinges running under the lid of the box. Their spacing was preserved by the careful lifting
allowing the height and depth of the box to be determined, whilst the positions of the
corner clamps that had also been preserved allowed the approximate width of the box
to be established.
Figure 4.5 The Bradwell Box. The direction of the grain of the mineral-replaced wood
permitted the original nature of the joints of the box to be deduced and the
accurate reconstruction of the box. Redrawn by Yvonne Beadnell from
Keepax and Robson (1978).
Crucially, the on-site recognition of the object’s potential to reveal information, the
use of X-radiography and microscopy to examine and identify the mineralised
fragments, and the decision not to clean off the evidence permitted the carpentry
techniques involved to be revealed. A thorough examination allowed the traces left
by the mineral-preserved organics to be deciphered and permitted an accurate
reconstruction of the original box to be created (see Figure 4.5). The careful
documentation of this object added to our knowledge of Roman furnishings and
forms a useful reference point for approaches to similarly corroded fastenings. It is
important to note that at many points along the way crucial information could have
been lost. Had the excavators chosen to recover the iron lumps individually,
had the corroded iron been cleaned quickly or without an understanding of
the information it contained, had measurements not been taken and documentation
not been maintained, the significance of the object could not have been
appreciated.
4B Case Study: The Archimedes Palimpsest ( Griffiths et al. 1990;

Down et al. 2002; Quant 2002; Netz et al. 2011a, 2011b)
The Archimedes Palimpsest, a manuscript written in Greek in the early 10th
century, is the earliest surviving compilation of works by the 3rd century BC
Greek philosopher, scientist, and mathematician Archimedes. Likely produced
in Constantinople, the manuscript is a large (188 page) book that contains what
are the only surviving copies of Archimedes’ The Method of Mechanical
Theorem (which uses mathematical examples that prefigure calculus), On
Floating Bodies (about the displacement of water) and the Stomachion (a
mathematical puzzle). The manuscript also contains four other Archimedean
treatises, which have survived in less complete versions in later manuscripts,
as well as several other texts. Two hundred years later, the bound manuscript
was taken apart and the parchment was recycled. To realise this, the surface of
the parchment was treated with weak organic acids and then scraped with
pumice to try to remove traces of the ink (the term palimpsest derives from
the Greek word for scraping ‘palimpsestos’). Traces of the text would still
have been visible, so the scribe rotated the sheets 90 ° before making an
Euchologion (a liturgical text) and decorating it with large coloured initials and
decorative borders along the top.
The Euchologion may have spent part of its life in a Greek Orthodox
monastery in Palestine, where it would have been used in services and may
have been damaged by fire and water, as well as rebound. In the mid-19th
century, the palimpsest returned to Constantinople where a visiting German
scholar identified it as a palimpsest and removed a single leaf (a single sheet
consisting of two pages), which was later sold to Cambridge University. In
1899, the palimpsest was catalogued by a Greek scholar. In 1906, it was
photographed by the Danish philologist and expert on Archimedes, Johan
Heiberg, who published a series of articles about it on his return to
Copenhagen. The next few years of the palimpsest’s life are mysterious but by
1930 it was in the hands of a collector, Marie Louis Sirieix. Either during this
period or after Sirieix acquired it, several leaves were vandalised or lost, mould
growth occurred and ‘medieval’-style Evangelists’ portraits were painted on
four pages, possibly to raise the sale value of the manuscript. Following a legal
battle over ownership, it was sold by Sirieix’s daughter at Christies auction
house in 1998. The buyer, a wealthy American, partnered with the Walters Art
Museum to disband the manuscript, conserve, image, transcribe, and ulti-
mately exhibit the palimpsest.
The palimpsest was very fragile, the mould had broken down the protein of
the parchment in many places causing holes and losses, additionally there
were tears, folds, and wax deposits from use and reuse over time. Before it
could be studied, it had to be stabilised, the binding had to be removed, the wax
deposits needed to be removed to make imaging more successful, repairs
needed to be made to the tears and fragile areas supported. Additionally, the
parchment was humidified and relaxed to help flatten sheets that had become
cockled, and the leaves were encased in a double-sided frame. The decision
not to rebind the book, meant that each leaf could be more easily studied and
that portions of the Archimedean text that were in the gutter of the binding
would no longer be hidden.
Although Heiberg had published much of the Archimedean text, he was
hampered by the binding of the manuscript and by areas where the text was
difficult to discern because of the overwriting. Additionally, he had not paid
attention to diagrams that had been copied into the text. Multispectral imaging
(numerous photos taken at different wavelengths of visible, infrared and UV
light) was carried out as well as raking light images. Algorithms were then
applied to the digital images to bring out particular characteristics of the ink and
to permit the Archimedean text to be separated from the Euchologion, false
colour was added to separate them further and make the palimpsest easier to
read ( Figure 4.6). Further computer processing was used to help predict the
shape of letters in areas where the scraping had been too successful. Each
letter and line were checked by a team of scholars who transcribed and
translated the text ( Netz et al. 2011a, 2011b), including the non-Archimedean
parts of the palimpsest that Heiberg had not translated, and which turned out to
include unknown speeches by an important Athenian orator, Hypereides. In
2005, X-rays produced by synchrotron radiation were used to scan the pages
covered with gold leaf – allowing the words hidden beneath to be imaged and
transcribed.
Over the seven-year duration of the scanning, the technology used changed
dramatically. Initially, each leaf was imaged at 600dpi in 10 sections using
three spectral bands. However, by 2007 a new system allowed each leaf to be
scanned once using 12 spectral bands and captured at 800dpi.
Figure 4.6 The Archimedes Palimpsest (Eucologion 17r–16v). Lower – page as seen in
normal white light, Upper – multispectral image, combined red, green, and
blue under UV (365nm illumination), leaving the palimpsest drawings and
text clearly visible.© Owner of the Archimedes Palimpsest.
The Archimedes Palimpsest has a complex biography, which speaks to how

different forms of knowledge were valued at different periods. Although Heiberg
translated much of it, the new analysis added considerably to our understanding of
the text and pushed the development of new imaging techniques. The careful work
taken to document and preserve the manuscript will allow its continued study as new
analytical tools become available. 6
Notes
1 McGhee (1994) has argued that the people of the pre-Inuit, Thule Culture in northern
Canada, made harpoons and ice knives primarily from ivory (seal or walrus) whilst their
arrowheads were made from caribou antler. These materials were selected partially for their
magical sympathy with their intended use. This belief system, which correlated sea-mammal
ivory with winter, women, and the sea and antler with men, the land and the summer, also
carried on into the verbal traditions of the later Inuit peoples ( McGhee 1994).
2 Acronyms of major analytical techniques:
EDXRF = Energy Dispersive X-Ray Fluorescence
pXRF = Portable (energy) Dispersive X-Ray Fluorescence
WDXRF = Wavelength Dispersive X-Ray Fluorescence
ICPES = Induction Coupled Plasma Emission Spectrometry
PIXE = Particle (or Proton) Induced X-Ray Emission Spectrometry
TIMS = Thermal Ionisation Mass Spectrometry
ICPMS = Induction Coupled Plasma Mass Spectrometry
XRD = X-Ray Diffraction
UV/Vis = Ultra-Violet & Visible Light Adsorption Spectrometry
IR = Infrared Adsorption Spectrometry
FTIR = Fourier Transform Infrared Adsorption Spectrometry
GC = Gas Chromatography
HPLC = High-Performance Liquid Chromatography
GC-MS = Gas Chromatography & Mass Spectrometry
GC-Pyr-MS = Gas Chromatography – Pyrolysis – Mass Spectrometry
TG = Thermogravimetric
DSC = Differential Scanning Calorimetry
Also
OES = Optical Emission Spectroscopy
AAS = Atomic Adsorption Spectroscopy
3 Accuracy of a Bruker Tracer 5i pXRF system; using ‘GeoExploration’ software for quanti-
tative analysis of geological materials, run at 50 kV for 90 seconds in an air path with a
collimator giving an 8 mm x 100 mm beam spot area, analysing a 13-mm diameter, 5 mm
thick, disc of compressed powdered homogenised material. Geological standard NBS 99a
‘Soda Feldspar’ Related to published mortar analyses ( Caple 2020c).
Sample NBS 99a – Soda Feldspar NBS 99a – Soda Feldspar Publish analysis NBS 99a –
Sample Analysis 1 Sample Analysis 2 Soda Feldspar
Al2O3 19.56 20.05 20.64

SiO2 73.85 73.39 65.64
CaO 1.40 1.38 2.15
Fe2O3 0.05 0.06 0.07
MnO nd 0.02 0.00
MgO nd nd 0.02
K2O 5.12 5.07 5.24
S2O3 0.03 0.03 0.00
P2O5 nd nd 0.00
TiO nd nd 0.00
Na2O nd nd 6.24
Total 100 100 99.99
4 This may be a culture (e.g. Roman or Ancient Egypt) rather than a specific date. The culture
that made the object may be different from the one that used and deposited it.
5 Sawn planks are a characteristic product of Roman carpentry that replaced the radially split
planks used in prehistoric Britain. Sawing produced planks more efficiently and at less cost
and maximised the number of planks that could be cut from a single tree; however, the quality
was not equal to the earlier split planks.
6 The palimpsest’s owner has made all the images and findings publicly available. Additional
information about the palimpsest is available at http://www.archimedespalimpsest.org/
5 Cleaning
Cleaning
In a conservation context, the term ‘surface cleaning’ can encompass a variety of
activities including brushing dust and insect debris off objects, washing, soaking, and
mechanically removing dirt particles and corrosion products from the surface of an
object or chemically removing stains, salts, and other encrustations. It can also include
the removal of discoloured varnishes, aged adhesives and overpaint. Surface cleaning
is normally undertaken to make the surface of the object more legible, improve its
appearance, and remove the threat that dirt may represent to the stability of an object.
It can be carried out either as an independent treatment or as a treatment step prior to
other steps, for example, cleaning the edges of a ceramic vessel prior to mending them
together.
The impulse to clean, to remove the dirt and dust that obscures an object, stems
from the idea that cleanliness is an exalted state. This notion, dating back to the
Babylonians, has deep roots in many world religions, which often include elaborate
purification rituals involving both physical and metaphorical cleaning. In the early
18th century, the cleric John Wesley coined the phrase ‘cleanliness is next to
godliness’. In the past, the concept of cleanliness also held class implications,
denoting those who had people to clean for them and those that did not, a con-
nection that was further reinforced in the 19th century as disease was linked to dirt
and squalor. In the museum context, a coating of dust is frequently seen by visitors
as a sign of neglect, whereas a clean object demonstrates that the owner values and
cares for it.
Soiling
Soiling in the form of dirt from burial, caked-on mud, grease, oil, dirt, sweat or even
blood from use, and dust from storage is often deposited on the surface of objects and
can damage them. The sharp edges of soil particles can scratch metallic surfaces and
abrade the surfaces of fibres. On organic objects, soiling acts as a food and moisture
source for microorganisms. Microbial activity centres on the soiled area, resulting in
subsequent attack of the substrate by microorganisms such as moulds and pests. Soil
DOI: 10.4324/9781003009078-5
96 Cleaning
particles and microbial growths adsorb water and retain it in close contact with the
substrate, acting as a source for metal corrosion and the hydrolysis of organic ma-
terials. Soiling is usually acidic; the corrosion and hydrolysis reaction rates increase as
the pH decreases. Soluble materials drawn into the object cause staining and dis-
colouration.
Dirt and dust can obscure the surface of the object, making it appear duller and
darker than it actually is and hiding decorative details and other features. Soiling may
be present on the surface of the object in several forms:
• Solid matter deposited during burial or storage. In the case of storage, this is
sometimes referred to as ‘museum dust’.
• Solid matter deposited during use (Oddy 1994). Also sometimes referred to as ‘use
dirt’ or, historically, as ethnographic dirt (Greene 2006).
• Decay products: the layer of material produced from the reaction between an
object’s primary or secondary materials and water, light, oxygen, or biological
organisms. This may include corrosion products on metals or yellowed varnishes.
Under these layers, secondary materials (layers of materials added to the object
through its working life, for example, paint layers) and primary materials (the
substance of the original object) may be present. Although conceptualised as dis-
tinct, soiling and decay products frequently form a single layer. It may be almost
impossible to identify and deal with these layers as separate deposits. The extent to
which the conservator removes soiling and decay products is a matter of careful
judgement, balancing the loss of information that these materials can contain
against the benefit of improving the stability of the object and revealing more of its
original visual form.
Removing Soiling
Museum dust is often removed with little concern due to its obscuring and unin-
formative nature. An argument can be made that this too is part of the object’s
biography and that, ‘an object never ceases to accumulate history’ (Jaeschke 1996) but
it is not necessarily a revealing part when compared with the interpretive histories an
object may accrete during its time in a museum. Conservators have studied both the
make-up and deposition of museum dust (Lloyd et al. 2002; Wurst et al. 2005; Uring
et al. 2020) and used the results to create mitigation strategies. In general, the potential
damage dust can cause is felt to necessitate its removal and museums, historic sites,
and other heritage organizations carefully undertake periodic cleaning programs
wherever possible to reduce dust levels.
Many archaeological objects have corroded, discoloured, and are covered in earth
because of their long burial in the ground. It is often appropriate to remove adhering
soil and corrosion (Figure 5.1) from the object’s surface; however, it is important to
determine whether the soil and corrosion products contain valuable information (such
as mineral preserved organics or gilding) prior to removing them.
Cleaning 97
Figure 5.1 12th-century arrowhead from Nevern Castle. Left – as found, centre - X-radiograph,
right – after cleaning using air abrasion. Removing the soil and concretion has
revealed the form of the object permitting study. Martha Infray & Chris Caple.
An object’s interpretation may determine what is retained and what is sacrificed

during cleaning, while the object’s artistic merit, as well as the date and pervading
ethical climate when the decision to clean was made may impact the degree of
cleaning. During the Renaissance, whatever obscured the beauty of classical statuary
was removed – cleaned, ground, or chipped away (Cellini 1878). This urge to clean off
the dirt and decay that comes between the viewer and the artist’s vision has in the past
been justified as revealing the ‘true nature’ of the object. However, because it is dif-
ficult to define any single point as the true nature of the object, cleaning can just as
easily remove aspects of an object’s ‘true nature’. The Vix crater, regarded as the most
important example of Greek metalwork imported into North-West Europe in the Iron
Age, was buried around 500BC. It is the largest known metal vessel from classical
antiquity and demonstrates both the wealth of the Celts and their contact with the
classical world. When it was excavated in the 1950s, traces of soil and degraded
leather, which surrounded this object when found, were cleaned off as it was perceived
that ‘they harmed the beauty of the object’ (France-Lanord 1996). The aesthetic
nature of the crater and the classical scenes depicted in the metalwork, outweighed
the evidence that it had been wrapped in a piece of leather for burial. In the case of the
Bradwell Box (see Case Study 4A), a more utilitarian object, the importance of the
evidence held in the mineral preserved organics was privileged over cleaning the iron
hinges and straps, items that are well-represented in other collections. In the case of
archaeological objects where considerable cleaning is considered appropriate, an area
may be left deliberately uncleaned to preserve evidence of the extent and nature of the
corrosion, as in the case of the Lincoln Hanging Bowl (Hunter and Foley 1984: 18).
Where soiling relates to the use of the object, there is a more difficult balance to be
struck between preservation of the object and preservation of the information about
its use. Accepting accelerated decay due to the retention of dirt, dust, staining, body
fluids, etc. may be judged worthwhile if the information is crucial to the understanding
of the object. This retention of soiling can become a matter of subtle judgement. In the
case of a biker’s leather jacket from the 1950s, the textile conservator at the York
Castle Museum judged that the jacket was deliberately kept and used by its owner in a
98 Cleaning
stained and soiled state as part of the antisocial rebellious creed of the biker sub-
culture. While the jacket undoubtedly had points within its history when it was clean,
there was additional information and a message in its dirty state (Eastop and Brooks
1996). Similarly, the hood worn by Robert Merrick, known as ‘the Elephant Man’,
was not wet cleaned; it was felt that future analytical techniques might be able to
recover information from the body staining of this cloth, which could not be obtained
at present (Eastop and Brooks 1996). Even simple surface cleaning, such as va-
cuuming, can remove evidence of a garment’s use that we might wish to retain; for
example, the turn-ups on an agricultural worker’s trousers might contain wheat seeds
and husks, which can provide evidence for the wearer’s occupation (Eastop and
Brooks 1996). In some cases, deliberate attempts have been made to keep crucial
evidence. At the Australian War Memorial Museum, the uniform of a WWI soldier
who had served at the Somme in France was consolidated to retain the mud of the
battlefield, which was viewed as a key element of this object’s significance (Brooks and
Eastop 2006). The nuanced awareness of the significance of soiling that is apparent in
some areas of conservation, such as textile conservation, is not always routinely
present in other areas of conservation, such as the conservation of historic vehicles. It
remains challenging for conservators to distinguish between use dirt and the dirt
acquired during storage or burial or accretions added to the object during its use and
those added by museums or collectors after it was acquired (O’Hern et al. 2016).
Particle size may be a differentiating factor but often there is little physical or visual
difference.
In the case of fine and modern art, the artist’s intent when creating the work is a
guiding principle that influences the way in which it is cleaned. Where the piece is by a
contemporary artist or creator, it is not only possible but also desirable to discuss the
cleaning and restoration of the work with them. In some cases, the artist may be
interested in how the work decays and does not want it to be altered or cleaned but in
other cases they may be interested in maintaining a pristine quality to the work and
regular cleaning is essential. The older the work of art, the less likely that the artist’s
real intent can be known and the more that artist’s intent becomes a matter of
curatorial judgement. For example, overpaint may be valued as part of an object’s
history or cleaned away as being detrimental to appreciating the artist’s intent. Once
the object has become established in a particular condition, it can be difficult to argue
for it to be cleaned to its original look – as seen in the case of the Statue of Liberty
(Case Study 3A). In the case of archaeological objects, the degree of transformation
that an object may have experienced in the burial environment and the potential for
that transformation to tell us about the use life of the object (i.e. the presence of
mineral preserved organics on the surface) mean that objects may not be fully cleaned
or returned to their original appearance. Thus, although cleaning is often presented as
a simple binary opposition (clean or not clean), we see that different factors ranging
from aesthetics to ideology to scholarly interest may inform how clean the object
really is.
Original Surface: A Concern When Cleaning

The original surface of an object contains valuable evidence about how the object was
manufactured and used; therefore, retaining this information is a logical goal in
cleaning. However, both its identification and nature pose problems for conservators
Cleaning 99
since the surface is also the interface between the object and the environment and
therefore a site of alteration. Organic materials preserved in waterlogged contexts,
such as wooden timbers, have delicate surfaces on their exteriors, which often preserve
tools marks but can be so soft that excavators can put finger marks into them when
lifting the object from the ground. Other surfaces that we think of as robust, such as
glass, can be transformed and flake away, while in metals corrosion can hide the
surface.
The Danish conservator Gustav Rosenberg was the first to put forward the concept
that the original surface could be retained in the corrosion products found on metals
(1917). However, he offered little guidance for retaining these surfaces, in part because
many of the techniques used for treating metals were electrochemical and resulted in
the stripping of the corrosion products from the metal. Although these techniques
stabilized the object and halted further decay, in removing all the corrosion layers they
also removed valuable surface evidence (Norman 1988). In the 1960s, the idea that the
original surface could be preserved in the corrosion layers was revived again and
began to be conceptualized prior to being defined and fully embraced in the late 1980s
(Bertholon 2004). More recently, Regis Bertholon has noted that even though the
morphology of the surface may be preserved by the corrosion, the ‘original surface’ is
no longer truly extant because it has been altered through corrosion. He proposed
employing the term ‘limitos’ to talk about the limit between what makes up the
original surface of the object (be it metal, mineral, or organic) and the environment at
the time the object was abandoned (Bertholon 2002, 2004). When cleaning very cor-
roded archaeological metal objects, we are seeking a non-material entity (the limitos)
that can only be identified by carefully reading the material clues above it (the
inclusion of sand and pebbles in the concretion), those corresponding to it (the way in
which corrosion layers cleave apart, the presence of secondary metal coatings or
inlays) and those below it (changes in corrosion products, voids, and bare metal). This
means that the choice of how far to clean remains a subjective one, subject to the
conservator’s eye and recognition of the layers, and it also remains dependent on
cultural ideas of what should or should not be removed (Case Study 3A: The Statue of
Liberty).
As stone decays, it can form a crust above a fragile powdery layer. This crust can
blacken and be visually disfiguring. Durham Cathedral is built of a beautiful honey-
coloured sandstone, which, by the 18th century, had become blackened with soot and
degraded by weathering. The cathedral architect, John Wooler, had stonemasons
chisel ‘a couple of inches’ of stone off the whole of the outside of the cathedral
(Roberts 1994) to restore the beauty of the building. This changed all the exterior
architectural details; the windows were circa 100-mm wider, while the pillars and all
other decorative motifs were circa 100-mm thinner altering the proportions of the
stonework. Today we would not dream of taking such a drastic approach to the
treatment of stone, but it is not uncommon to use lasers to remove a microns-thick
layer of blackened crust and return stone to its original appearance.
Overpaint
Original surfaces can also be buried beneath layers of later applied material. Artists
often chose to overpaint their own work. Sometimes these overpainted areas were
small areas, the movement of a hand or the repositioning of background elements but
100 Cleaning
occasionally entire images were overpainted with alternate subject matter. Such re-
working can reflect the recyclying of canvases or speak to broader world events. In
1589, Adrian Vanson painted Sir John Maitland over Vanson’s own earlier portrait of
Mary Queen of Scots. Mary had been executed two years earlier and owning her
image might have endangered the artist/owner (Kennedy 2017). When it comes to
conservation decisions about removing the overpaint, the later image is usually
retained because it preserves both the original image (even if unseen) and the subse-
quent one, because it reflects the artist’s intention or because the image below may
never have been completed, as is the case in the Vanson painting. In some instances
where the overpainting is applied later, the decision-making is more nuanced. The
later overpaint may hide damage, meaning its removal would require the application
of new overpaint by the conservator to reintegrate the work and might not add to our
knowledge of the image. In such a case, the overpaint might be removed if it were
poorly done or had aged differently from the original painting. Less frequently,
paintings were partially overpainted at later stages in their life to update them and
make them more fashionable. The painting Henry Prince of Wales on Horseback by
Robert Peake the Elder was painted circa 1610–12. The original image is of the young
prince seated on a medieval warhorse, surrounded by the iconography of courtly love
and jousting. At a later point (most likely between about 1690 and 1730), the back-
ground was overpainted, and the horse remodelled so that the prince was now shown
on a dashing white horse in front of an arboreal Arcadian landscape (McClure 1992).
At the time, the complex iconography of the original painting would have seemed
obscure and old-fashioned and the overpaint was designed to bring the picture in line
with contemporary fashion and taste. After consulting with the owner and art his-
torians, the conservation team documented the overpainting and removed it. In this
case, the original painting represented the artist’s complete vision and perhaps his
most impressive work, whereas the later alterations simply indicated the fashions of a
later age. Undertaking such a radical transformation of a work can be daunting,
and the conservator should have both the confidence and experience to make such
decisions.
Varnishes, Lacquers, and Painting Cleaning

Historically, varnishes, waxes, and lacquers have been applied to decorative surfaces
for a variety of reasons. Tinted varnishes were sometimes deliberately used to make
cheap materials appear richer and warmer or to tone down overly bright and raw
surfaces allowing them to meld with other materials. Furniture was polished, metal
surfaces were coated to retard corrosion and oil paintings were varnished to protect
their surfaces (Beeton 1859). Such coatings worked in three ways. They formed a
protective film over the surface, saturating the surface, reducing light scattering, and
making colours appearing deeper and more intense rather than cloudy and dull and
made painted surfaces more robust, reducing flaking, powdering and loss of surface
pigment. Initially transparent, if not clear, many coatings yellow or darken over time
and can shrink and/or crack slightly. They can hold dirt and dust on their surface,
especially at higher RH and temperatures.1
Traditionally, many coatings were removed (either mechanically in the case of
furniture waxes or with solvents, in the case of painting varnishes) and new ones
reapplied. Often as it was the outer surface of the varnish that held dust and had
Cleaning 101
yellowed, most of the varnish was removed. The newly applied coating covered the
object surface sealing and protecting the very base of the original varnish with the
object. This process was well understood by the craftsmen traditionally involved in
such work and there are references to painters cleaning and revarnishing the works of
their predecessors (Kirby Talley 1998). Modern conservators continue the tradition of
removing old varnish and replacing it with new, more stable but ultimately replaceable
varnishes.
The noticeable visual alteration of pictures, when they have had their yellowed
varnish and the dirt and grime of decades removed, is shocking to some. Photo-
oxidation affects almost all organic materials and induces a noticeable yellowing in
traditional picture varnishes over time. Dauma and Henchman (1997) studied the
distorting effect of yellowing varnish on the chromatic diversity of varnished oil
paintings. Using colour measurement, such as the CIE or L*a*b* system, the chro-
matic variation experienced by a viewer looking at an aged, varnished picture was
shown to be limited to a narrow variation in the yellow-brown part of the spectrum.
The only method of seeing something close to the original colours and the original
intention of the artist is to reduce or remove the varnish layer. Walden (1985) critiqued
the ‘complete cleaning’ of oil paintings as practised principally in Britain and North
America as over-cleaning and saw the ‘partial’ or ‘selective cleaning’ practised in
continental Europe as preferable2; however, Hedley (1986, 1990) noted that no
objective evidence has yet been provided showing the loss of original paint during
complete cleaning. Walden (2006) drew a correlation between the clarity and bright-
ness of completely cleaned pictures and the art, advertising, television, and photog-
raphy of the late 20th century. This, she suggested, was the distinctive visual style of
the late 20th century to which modern-day conservators unconsciously transformed
the pictures upon which they worked. Walden (1985, 2006), Gombrich (1962), Beck
and Daley (1993), and others believed that the darkened pictures of the past possess
greater subtlety and harmony. This may, however, be largely attributed to the tonal
harmony induced by the yellowing varnish (Hedley 1986, 1990). A preference for
looking old can be just as subjective as a preference for looking bright and new. As
noted by Hedley (1986, 1990), the image presented by any picture in the present day is
not quite the one intended by the artist; the pigments have differentially aged and have
reacted with the binder and covering varnish to permanently alter the chromatic and
tonal balance of the picture. This means that no matter how a picture is cleaned, it is
impossible to fully recover the artist’s intentions and a new ‘relativity’ between the
artist and the viewer must be established. However, the removal and replacement of
varnish can bring the picture closer to the original intended by the artist.
The chromatographic effects of aging varnishes and their impact have been most
enthusiastically explored in the painting conservation literature, but these effects are
not uniquely experienced by paintings. Objects that have varnished or lacquered
surfaces also experience chromatographic shifts. Because original coatings contain
important information about the object’s history, it is important to understand
whether any discolouration is linked to a coating applied when the object was man-
ufactured or to one applied at a subsequent point. For example, a yellowed lacquer on
a wooden funerary object from the Egyptian New Kingdom excavated in the 1920s
could be either Pistacia resin applied when the object was made to give it a yellow
appearance that was considered more divine and more suitable for the afterlife
(Serpico and White 2001), or a shellac coating applied when the object was excavated
102 Cleaning
to consolidate flaking paint, or a later application of a cellulose nitrate-based con-
solidant (Gleeson 2014). Before removing the coating, it is critical to understand what
it was and why it was applied.
Cleaning Processes
When cleaning is required, it is important to select the most appropriate method and
materials. Cleaning techniques can be divided into two categories:
• Mechanical cleaning – these are methods in which a material or force (such as an

abrasive powder, dry ice, or sound waves in the case of ultrasonic cleaning) or a
tool (such as a scalpel, porcupine quill, or brush) mechanically breaks the bonds
between the dirt and the object. Some cleaning methods such as laser cleaning and
ultrasonic cleaning utilize physical forces to effect a mechanical cleaning action. In
ultrasonic cleaning, high-frequency sound waves cause the formation of bubbles
in a solution which implode with such force against the surface of an object that
they dislodge dirt and other contaminants. Laser cleaning utilizes thermal
expansion and steam generation.
• Chemical cleaning – methods which use chemical means to break either the
primary or secondary bonds between the dirt and the object’s surface.
Temperature and pressure can be varied to increase the efficiency of chemical
methods (Drews et al. 2013). Chemical methods can also be paired with
mechanical methods; for example, silver polishes that combine abrasives and
sequestering agents.
A single cleaning method can involve both techniques (for example, agitating an
object in a detergent solution) or several cleaning methods involving different tech-
niques may be paired together (for example, mechanically cleaning a ceramic by dry
brushing to remove most of the dirt and then soaking it to remove the remaining dirt).
The choice of which cleaning method is most appropriate depends on the object’s
materials and condition, the nature of the soiling, the surface topography, the size and
construction of the object, health, and safety considerations, and to a lesser extent the
expertise of the conservator and the availability of the technique. Cleaning methods
may be tested on surrogate materials although, due to the many variables involved in
the creation, soiling, and biography of an object, these are not guaranteed to perfectly
simulate either the object’s surface or the effect of cleaning. When testing on the object
itself, cleaning methods should always be tested on as inconspicuous a part of the
object as possible to ensure that if there is an unexpected side effect, it will leave the
least trace. When testing any cleaning method, it is important to carefully note all
the parameters of the test (concentration, dwell time i.e. the amount of time the
material was left on the surface, number of applications, and any removal method),
and to record the results of all methods (both successful and unsuccessful). Numerical
scores and comments are often used to rate efficiency and ease of application. It is
important to be as consistent as possible when using these so that they can be easily
assessed after the fact.
The nature and extent of cleaning will depend on the agreed aims of the conser-
vation. Mechanical cleaning with hand tools can be highly controlled but it is slow,
painstaking, time-consuming work. Chemical cleaning is much faster but often means
Cleaning 103
trading some control for speed. For finds such as coin hoards where large numbers of
almost identical artefacts are recovered from the same archaeological context, con-
servators, working in conjunction with numismatists, may clean some coins by hand,
but may clean the remainder in small batches using chemical methods to identify all
the coins within a reasonable time.3
Greater analytical capability has permitted the accurate identification and mon-
itoring of both the object and the cleaning agent during the conservation process,
which in turn has permitted greater control of the process. Early attempts at elec-
trolysis utilised rapid hydrogen evolution at the object’s metal surface to strip away
the corrosion layers resulting in information loss while objects without a coherent
metal core often fell apart. Better understanding of the roles chlorides play in iron
corrosion and their chemical removal has made the process more controllable and
yielded better results (Hamilton 2010) while monitoring and control of the current has
enhanced consolidative reduction (Carradice and Campbell 1994). Improved under-
standing of scientific principles and material reactions has facilitated the appropriation
of new cleaning methods, such as laser cleaning, from other industries. The devel-
opment of Q switched Nd:YAG lasers4 in the 1990s led to their adoption for con-
servation work (Cooper 1998; Nimmrichter et al. 2006). More recently Er:YAG lasers
have been introduced (Teppo 2020). Initially used primarily for cleaning stonework,
lasers are now used for a wider range of materials; their use being largely limited by
the initial cost. The development of tuneable lasers is making the removal of different
types of soiling far more precise.
As it has become easier to study the impact of chemicals on objects, it has also
become easier to study their impact on conservators. Concerns over health and safety
have led to reductions in the volumes of chemicals used and in the toxicity of che-
micals chosen. Green approaches have been introduced (Sousa et al. 2007) and the use
of solvent gels, especially for painted surfaces, has reduced the volume of solvents
used, increased control over the cleaning, and improved the safety for the conservator
(Anglove et al. 2017). As sustainable approaches to conservation practice continue to
develop, this is an area that is likely to see continued growth.
As many studies have shown, no cleaning method is entirely without risk to the
object. Even cleaning methods that appear to be benign on a macro level can cause
residual damage on a micro-level (Goodburn-Brown 1996; Gessler and McEnroe
2019). Decisions about which cleaning method to use may at times be question of
choosing the least aggressive method, or the one that will result in the least potential
damage or choosing not to clean at all.
Risk/Benefit Analysis
Just because it is possible to clean an object does not mean that it should be cleaned. A
conscious decision is required as to what the conserved state of the object should be,
and the reasoning should be explicitly stated. Cleaning is an irreversible process, and it
is important to be aware that any cleaning activity can unintentionally remove evi-
dence of the object’s past or alter the object. This is balanced against the harm that the
dirt and corrosion layer may inflict on the object if left. Furthermore, cleaning has the
potential to damage some objects. Bleaching paper may remove staining and improve
the aesthetic appearance of paper but must be set against the potential damage that
bleaching may do to the paper fibres. For a badly stained print that is going on
104 Cleaning
display, the balance given may lie with the ‘cleaning’ action due to the desire to see the
subject matter. For a historic document in an archive, the balance may lie with
preservation and against bleaching.
Cleaning an object should stop when the risk of damage outweighs the benefit of the
desired result. Leaving dust in place obscures the object and acts as a potential centre
for corrosion; however, removing dust simply by wiping it off can drag hard gritty
particles across an object microscopically scratching the surface. Almost all
mechanical polishing processes are mildly abrasive and mechanical removal with
scalpels, wire wool, jeweller’s rouge, or air abrasive can potentially damage the layers
beneath the dirt or corrosion. In the hands of a skilled conservator, the risk of such
damage is minimized. The decision to clean should be taken only when the risk of
damage to the object is acknowledged and judged acceptable.
More aggressive and potentially damaging cleaning methods may work faster, while
gentler ones may take a longer time. A balance must be struck between minimising
damage to the object and completing the cleaning in a reasonable time. There is a cost-
benefit element to cleaning; if the conservator spends a long time carefully cleaning
one object, then other objects may not be treated.
Examples of over-cleaning are rarely published meaning that emerging conservators
are often overly concerned that they will be the first to clean too far. All conservators,
even experienced ones, have, at one time or another, found themselves unintentionally
over-cleaning objects (Smith 1990). Difficult and embarrassing as it is to admit, this is
where the question of an ethical approach becomes crucial. It is not ethical to damage
an object intentionally; therefore, once a problem is noted, continuing in the same vein
is not an option. The conservator’s willingness to stop cleaning, record the damage
they have unintentionally done and modify their cleaning method, demonstrates their
commitment to ethical practice. Upon discovering that an object has been over-
cleaned there may be an urge to ‘cover up’ the mistake. Concealing the damage to
restore the visual integrity of the object may even be appropriate. Such an action
should be seen as restoration and like other restoration actions should be recorded and
reversible restoration techniques and materials should be used where possible
(Chapter 6).
The more that our ability to target cleaning approaches improves and the more
enhanced our ability to extract meaningful information from the tiniest samples
becomes, the more that objects once regarded as ‘clean’ now appear to have been
‘over-cleaned’. When assessing past cleaning actions, we must be careful not to project
present-day ethical and environmental standards into the past. The British Museum
has been critiqued for over-cleaning the Elgin marbles, resulting in the loss of paint
from the surface. While it is true that many of the methods used would be considered
overly aggressive today (Oddy 2002), many were a response to pollution levels that
were much higher than those currently experienced and were undertaken using the
tools available at the time. However, our present understanding of the past develops
slowly and imperfectly when evidence is stripped away.
Although criticism is often levelled at over-cleaning, it is rarely levelled equally at
under-cleaning. Indeed, the narrative of discovery that is key to the scientific under-
standing of objects celebrates the under-cleaned objects that permit later analysis to be
carried out and to reveal new information about a known item (Case Study 2B: The
Sutton Hoo Helmet). While much research focuses on optimizing cleaning techniques,
what is rarely discussed or assessed is what losses (in terms of accessibility, and
Cleaning 105
potentially accelerated deterioration) may have been caused by under-cleaning. Doing
nothing and leaving objects ‘as found’ leaves the public admiring piles of dust only
able to see a dirty, dusty, damaged past, devoid of the colour, beauty, and energy of
the ancient world. Neither over-cleaning nor under-cleaning is justifiable, and thus we
must judge the evidence carefully as we clean, cautiously revealing every aspect that is
original while removing the obvious later soil and dust. This approach relies on the
discretionary judgement of conservators and other experts and can lead to the sorts of
inconsistencies inherent when comparing the work of any group of professionals who
may assess values and risks differently.
The Goldilocks Principle 5

In the museum setting, the public, confronted with replicas and reproductions, may
not believe that a clean, seemingly flawless object is authentic. Their perception, based
on relentless marketing campaigns that promote the purchase of ‘new’ consumer
goods, is that old things should look dirty and damaged. In the limited time that many
members of the public interact with an object, museums want them to read the object
correctly and understand that it is authentic. Therefore, some soiling giving an ‘aged’
appearance may be appropriate. This leads to the concept of a ‘Goldilocks point’, not
too clean (so it is seen as ‘real’) and not too dirty (so it does not appear uncared for).
For some objects this is not difficult to achieve; for example, it can be hard to remove
all the ingrained dirt from porous ceramic or stone surfaces without damaging the
object, so some soiling invariably remains after conservation. For other objects, it is
more challenging. It is not suggested that anything should be added to make it ‘look’
old. The Goldilocks point, varies with artefact type; dirt is expected on archaeological
objects, but not on fine art. It is also culturally contexted; it varies with public per-
ception (Lithgow et al. 2018). It changes over time and is different in different parts of
the world. Conservators should collaborate with curators, owners, or other heritage
professionals to define the extent to which objects should be cleaned, ‘since the sig-
nificance of many museum objects depends (partly) on their being old, cleaning
involves achieving a balance between clarification of surface features and retention of
the signs of age’ (Pye 2001: 134).
Silver cleaning exemplifies the Goldilocks principle well. Silver is a bright reflective
metal that naturally tarnishes forming a thin layer of black silver sulphide when it is
exposed to hydrogen sulphide (a common gaseous pollutant). Silver objects were often
decorated with raised and sunken decoration. In flickering candlelight or low-light
environments, the raised areas would have thrown light back and the shadowed
sunken areas would have given a sense of depth, making the decoration more legible.
In today’s museum environments, with bright even lighting conditions, if we polish the
silver too much, we lose much of that contrast, the surface becomes uniformly bright
and the decorative detail less clear. Retaining small amounts of tarnish in the crevices
allows the relief decoration to stand out more and ensures that the decorative scheme
is readable. Therefore, conservators often attempt to polish the silver only to a ‘his-
toric’ level (one that is not too bright and that may retain some depth). Defining
exactly where this point is, is a matter of judgement, personal preference, and nego-
tiation with stakeholders.
Another place where we can see the Goldilocks principle in action is in the approach
to historic interiors. Historic houses often contain furniture and decorative elements
106 Cleaning
from numerous styles and periods. Occasionally, a room is conceived as a single
coherent element and survives through time in that state (this is often the case in ‘state
rooms’ in English country homes) but more frequently, items from many different
periods cohabit in one room. In many cases, such spaces are retained in their present
form and cleaning may become a delicate balance between removing dust and
maintaining an integrated appearance. These spaces may contain a variety of surfaces
that no longer have their original characteristics; for example, the silvering on a mirror
may have tarnished or puckered and may no longer possess its original finish, the
varnish on an oil painting may have yellowed, and the dyes on textiles may have been
soiled by years of handling. Within such an environment, cleaning one element too
much, for example, polishing metal surfaces too highly, can create a visual imbalance
that visitors find difficult to resolve; one component of the room (the metal) looks
more cared for, and consequently more valued, while other elements of the space look
less cared for and less valued.
Cleaning: Concluding Thoughts

After careful consideration of the nature of the object, its condition, and its intended
use (display, study, or storage), the conservator and curator/owner should reach a
decision regarding the nature of the conservation work required. Though cleaning
may then commence, conservation is an iterative process, and further evidence is often
recovered during the conservation process. The original judgement often needs re-
evaluation due to this new information. Berducou (1996) has described this as a
‘dialectical relationship’ between studying the object and realizing its cleaning. In
some cases, this may mean cleaning further than originally intended and in others, it
may mean being less aggressive as the nature of the dirt and decay deposits are better
understood. When viewed in these terms the final cleaned, conserved form of the
object can be described as ‘the concrete expression of a critical judgement’ (Berducou
1996).
Cleaning imposes a vision upon the object, a conscious decision is taken to remove
some things and not others; thus, cleaning is not an interpretively neutral treatment
(Orlofsky and Trupin 1993; Eastop and Brooks 1996). The conservator has a
responsibility to decide what aspects of the object are important and reveal them
through cleaning so that they can be displayed. Such decisions can be difficult, and it is
important to remember that:
• The present surface of an object is an arbitrary effect resulting from its

interactions with humans and nature. A dusty, damaged, rusted, dirty surface
may have occurred due to neglect by previous owners, the attentions, and
deprivations of servants in centuries past, the variable effects of burial in the soil
or the impatient cleaning of an archaeologist. It is frequently not a deliberate or
meaningful surface. Research and investigation can generate a clearer picture of
the object and its history, and a more meaningful surface can be identified and
recovered.
• Conservators are in a unique position to make decisions regarding cleaning. They
have unparalleled access to the object’s surfaces and understand their significance
and fragilities better than most. Consequently, they have the greatest chance of
successfully revealing the desired result. It may be appropriate to recommend that
Cleaning 107
an object not be cleaned based on the information at hand. However, it is also
important to weigh the possibility that in that case, and particularly if the decision
is controversial, other less well-informed and less-skilled individuals may be asked
to do the work. The conservator’s approach to recording and treatment will not
be used. The conservator should be cognizant of the potential consequences of
their inactions as much as of their actions.
• If a decision is made not to clean, the reasons for not cleaning should be clearly
stated in order to inform subsequent conservators. Objects that are not cleaned
because of a desire to preserve the soiling and information associated with the
object should be distinguished from those objects where cleaning with the present
facilities, expertise or methods presents an unacceptable risk of damage to the
object.
• Every effort should be made to minimise risk to the object. The deeper the
cleaning the greater the risk.
• Cleaning takes time and resources, consequently it is sensible to consider cleaning
options in cost/benefit terms (Caple 2000: 170–174). The conservator must make
decisions throughout the cleaning process to minimize risk to the object and to
any evidentiary value present in the soiling. These decisions may include the
decision not to clean, the decision to clean but to remove samples of soiling for
future analysis, or the decision to partially clean an object. Careful documentation
is an element in minimising risk.
• Cleaning should not be undertaken simply because similar objects have
previously been cleaned, or are always cleaned, in a particular manner. A
case needs to be made for each object as a separate entity and, even if a process
is repeated on one object after another, it is because it can be justified in each
separate case.
• It is important to remember that all the aspects of an object’s past are important.
A conscious decision regarding the balance of revelation, investigation and
preservation should be made for each object. This decision should balance the
loss of information upon cleaning against the information revealed.
• Cleaning is not an end in itself. The future use of the object should be
considered and where possible consideration given to avoiding future cleaning
or prolonging the intervals between cleanings. This may include considering the
benefits and pitfalls of applying coatings, minimizing handling or use, or
designing storage and display environments that incorporate protective cover-
ings and scavenging materials. Cleaning may lead to the need for other
decisions, such as how to present an area of loss or whether to apply a
protective coating to an object.
Although there are risks inherent in cleaning, it is important that a conservator not
over-value the object to the point that they are afraid to touch it. Emerging conser-
vators may lack confidence when they first start to clean artefacts. Developing con-
fidence takes time and practice and the experience of seeing a variety of different
surfaces and how they respond to different cleaning methods. Confidence without
ability is dangerous and can result in damage. Good judgement and good conservation
skills are required to balance the risks of damage to the object against the benefits of
gaining information and transmitting it through display.
108 Cleaning
5A Case study: The Sistine Chapel ( Brandt 1987; Ekserdjian 1987;

Colalucci 1991, 2017; Mancinelli 1991, 1992; Beck and Daley 1993)
The Sistine Chapel was built by Pope Sixtus IV in 1477–1480. Between 1481 and 1483,
Tuscan and Umbrian artists, including Sandro Boticelli, decorated the walls with
frescoes. These were primarily executed in the true or buon fresco technique in which
finely ground inorganic pigments were painted on to fresh lime-based plaster. In 1508,
Pope Julius II commissioned Michelangelo to replace the original ceiling scheme of a
starry firmament, with nine scenes from the book of Genesis flanked by figures of youths,
prophets, and sibyls. Michelangelo also undertook the decoration of the lunettes above
the windows with depictions of the ancestors of Christ. Subsequently in 1536–1542,
Michelangelo painted The Last Judgement on the altar wall replacing an earlier damaged
fresco by Perugino.
As early as 1543, the office of ‘mundator’ (cleaner) was created to keep the
frescoes of the Sistine Chapel clean from dust and lamp smoke. Accessible
areas were likely cleaned annually. There are sixteenth-century written refer-
ences to the blackening of the ceiling by the smoke of candles and to the
presence of salts and cracking. A substantial cleaning operation is recorded in
1625; Simane Lagi cleaned the wall and possibly the ceiling frescoes, initially
dusting them with a linen cloth then scrubbing them with slices of coarse bread,
occasionally moistened with water. In 1710–1712, Annibale Mazzuoli cleaned
the frescoes with Greek wine and sponges. While many artists and writers still
found the frescos visible and exciting works of art well into the 19th century,
others commented on their obscured darkened and blackened form.
More substantial ‘restoration’ work was also carried out. Between 1565 and
1572, Matteo da Lecce and Hendrick van der Broeck repainted the frescoes on
the entrance wall following subsidence damage sustained in the early 16th
century. In the late 16th century, Domenico Carnevali restored the ceiling,
reworking several of the scenes and figures. Where these additions and
restorations sought to match the colour of the earlier Michelangelo frescos
the artists used much darker colours since the original frescoes were dis-
coloured with soot. The fact that cleaning and restoration work started in the
16th century indicates that there was extensive soiling and some damage to the
original frescoes early in their lives and consequently what was seen by
the mid-20th century was not what the artist had originally intended.
In 1904, Seitz sealed and consolidated the plaster and conducted limited
cleaning tests. In the 1920s and 1930s, Biagetti also undertook consolidation
work. Between 1964 and 1974, the frescoes on the side walls were cleaned to
remove the accumulation of surface soiling. Following work in 1975 to prevent
rainwater reaching and damaging the ceiling, the van der Broeck and da Lecce
frescoes on the entrance wall were cleaned in 1979. These frescoes had been
subject to numerous previous cleanings and restorations, and after the 1979
removal of the surface dirt, these later restorations created a patchy image.
The Vatican conservators argued that a more unified and thorough cleaning
and restoration programme was needed to give visual integrity to the chapel
and to address structural problems.
Cleaning 109
The conservation work of the 1930s and the 1970s indicated the presence of a thick
even layer of glue over much of the surface of the ceiling frescoes, which was impacting
the chromatic range of the fresco colours ( Dauma and Henchman 1997). In places there
were several layers of glue with deposits of dust and soot present between them and on
the surface. The glue, attributed to Mazzuoli’s 18th-century restoration, was causing
some flaking of the paint; therefore, the Vatican restorers decided to remove it. It is
important to note that there is no mention in the historic records of any cleaner or restorer
putting glue or varnish onto the ceiling, although clearly, they did. Other unrecorded work
included the over-painting of details on The Last Judgement in 1762 and the regilding
around some the ceiling figures in 1814. In a building that is otherwise regarded as
having a well-documented history, the poverty of the historical record regarding cleaning
and restoration speaks to the regard in which these activities were historically held and
the difficulties of researching past interventions.
Conservation of the ceiling frescoes commenced in 1975. First, the vault
above the frescoes was waterproofed to stop the ingress of water, which had
caused problems of salt efflorescence and cracking and delaminating of the
intonaco (the thin surface layer of plaster containing the pigment). The cleaning
and conservation was undertaken in three phases: the images of the Popes and
the lunettes 1980–1984, the ceiling 1985–1989, and The Last Judgement
1990–1993. The work, sponsored by Nippon TV (who in return, gained the
visual rights to the Sistine Chapel images for the period of the restoration plus
three years), was completed by April 1994. Visitor access to the Sistine Chapel
was maintained throughout the conservation work and many tens of thousands
of people consequently saw the conservation process in action.
The cleaning of the ceiling was principally undertaken using AB57, a solution
of ammonium bicarbonate, sodium bicarbonate, and Desogen (a fungicide,
bactericide, and mild sequestering agent) in a paste of carboxymethyl cellu-
lose. It was applied for three minutes and removed with a repeat application
24 hours later followed by thorough washing in distilled water. This cleaning
agent solubilised the glue and dirt layers, and acted on the calcium sulphate
crusts, which can form on the very outer skin of marble, limestone, lime plaster,
and mortar surfaces, holding dirt at the surface. The limited application time
and gel formulation restricted the penetration of this agent into the plaster
ensuring it only had a surface effect. Any areas of a secco work (pigment held
in a binder added to the dry plaster wall, often used to add details and apply
fugitive pigments to buon fresco images) that were identified were consolidated
with Paraloid B72 (an acrylic copolymer) while cleaning occurred around
them. They were then separately treated with appropriate organic solvents.
Substantial areas of the intonaco were found to be delaminating from the
underlying arriccio (the substantial plaster backing of the wall), due to the
infiltration of rainwater over the centuries. This necessitated re-adhesion of
the intonaco using Vinnapas (a polymer-based dispersion) and, where necessary,
grouting the voids with La Farge desalinated hydraulic mortars. The overall effect of
removing the dirt and darkened glue was a dramatic heightening of the colours of the
ceiling frescoes ( Figure 5.2).
110 Cleaning
Figure 5.2 Partially cleaned fresco from the Sistine Chapel Ceiling. © Governorate of the
Vatican City State Directorate of the Vatican Museums.
The cleaning of The Last Judgement was achieved using a slightly different
approach. Michelangelo completed substantial areas of this fresco a secco
using Naples yellow and lake pigments, which must be applied in a binding
medium because applying them directly to the alkaline plaster degrades the
pigments and their colour. The Last Judgement was initially washed with
distilled water then treated with an ammonium carbonate solution and nitro
thinner. A second application 24 hours later used the same solution applied
through Japanese paper and then washed off with distilled water. Weak and
powdering areas were consolidated with Paraloid B72 or Primal (an acrylic
colloidal dispersion). The few damaged or missing areas on the fresco were
gap-filled with lime and marble dust and then coloured using watercolours in a
cross-hatching technique to give visual continuity to the image, while allowing
the restored areas to be readily identified upon close inspection.
When The Last Judgement was unveiled in 1541, initial reaction was mixed.
Many clerics were troubled by the nudity displayed and the positions of some of
Cleaning 111
the figures. One year after Michelangelo’s death, Daniele da Volterra was hired
to repaint two of the figures (Saints Catherine and Blaise) and to cover some of
the other naked figures, following an order by the Council of Trent in 1564.
Additional coverings were painted onto figures in the 18th and 19th centuries.
During the conservation work, the draperies that post-dated 1600 were
removed where possible, while those dating to the 16th century were retained
as they were judged to be of ‘significant historical importance’ ( Colalucci 2017:
93, 98). This decision to honour one set of alterations but to remove another
speaks to the complex balance of decisions at play in any conservation. Since
da Volterra had chiselled away the surface of the fresco to repaint the two
saints, restoring Michelangelo’s intent in that area would have been difficult.
In addition to the interventive cleaning work, preventive conservation work
was undertaken. Following the study of the chapel’s microclimate, a new cold-
lighting system was introduced, and an anti-dust carpet was laid on the steps to
the chapel to reduce dust levels. The windows were sealed to prevent the
polluted Roman air entering the building and air conditioning was installed to
help maintain stable temperature and humidity despite the large numbers of
visitors to the chapel.
The art historian James Beck, a vocal critic of the Sistine Chapel fresco
cleaning, has questioned whether the glue layer was, at least in part, the a
secco work of Michelangelo and thus part of the original fresco. Based on
analysis carried out during the cleaning the Vatican conservators have
indicated that there is virtually no a secco work by Michelangelo on the ceiling.
Beck and others claim that it is extensive based on their reading of other artist’s
statements about Michelangelo’s style. Paint cross-sections show slight dirt
layers beneath the glue and a part of the original fresco covered by the
1560–1570s restoration does not exhibit a glue covering. Additionally,
Michelangelo consistently used earth pigments in his work on the ceiling
frescoes, pigments which survive well in buon fresco, rather than the less
stable pigments that are associated with a secco work. This evidence supports
the suggestion that the ceiling was completed almost entirely in pure fresco
techniques.
It appears likely that the initial application of glue, which stabilised the plaster
also obscured the salts that were forming and increased the depth of colour of
the frescos. It was applied at a date well after the frescos had been completed.
There were a number of subsequent applications of glue producing a complex
indivisible sequence. Traces of black outlines and shadows present within this
glue layer are seen as the work of later restorers either enhancing the outlines
of Michelangelo’s figures, which were becoming indistinct as a result of the
accumulating glue and dirt layers, or creating additional modelling and shading
(chiaroscuro). The exact dates and creators of these effects are unknown,
wherever possible they were deduced from traces of stratigraphy within the
glue layer by the conservators working on the image.
Despite concerns raised by Beck regarding the loss of shading, there
remains considerable evidence of shading and modelling on the images.
Differences, particularly in the extent of shadows and shading, have been
112 Cleaning
observed between the photographs taken prior to the restoration and those
taken after it. Brandt (1987) has suggested that photographic evidence is a
poor guide to the visual improvements in the frescoes. The pre-cleaning
photographic images minimised the effect of the dirt layer because of the
penetrating depth of the photographic lights and some of the post-treatment
images appear flat and thin since the rougher surface of the fresco now deflects
a large amount of the strong photographic light ( Brandt 1987). Statements by
writers, art historians, and others from the Renaissance to the present day
regarding Michelangelo’s use of shading, modelling, and colour are entirely
subjective and unreliable in determining the truth of this matter. The cleaned
images with their heightened colour appear similar to other Renaissance
frescoes, and Michelangelo’s use of pigment and technique is consistent with
the Tuscan tradition of fresco painting.
Beck’s criticism of the work pitted his connoisseur’s eye and expertise
against the scientific underpinnings of conservation – a tactic that he is not
alone in adopting ( Scott 2016). 6 Cleaning can bring about dramatic change and
for those whose professional life is bound up in the study of an artist or a period
this change can be threatening. Conservators, and those who employ them,
need to be aware of the responsibility to bring public opinion with them,
especially when cleaning well-known and much-loved works of art. In Italy,
decisions regarding the release of information on conservation projects are
made by the art historians, scientists, and owners/curators of the object, who
are in overall charge of the project (Cather, personal communication). In this
case, the hierarchical structure of Italian wall painting conservation projects
and the natural reserve of the Vatican initially led to a slow and limited
response to the criticisms by Beck and others over the cleaning of the Sistine
Chapel frescoes. This allowed the criticism to take hold in the media, which
embraced the controversy ( Lister 1991) and struggled to convey the science;
thus, opinions about the cleaning, voiced principally by art historians, initially
overshadowed the cleaned images and technical information emerging from
this conservation project.
Now that the ‘shock of the new’ has died away a wider public has become comfortable
with the bright colours of Michelangelo’s frescos, which are now understood to be typical
of Medieval and Renaissance fresco work. Scholars have begun to re-appraise
Michelangelo’s work in its cleaned form with the new information on technique,
approach, symbolism, and meaning that it conveys ( Colalucci 2017). Slowly the old
appearance of the ceiling has faded from memory and with it the ideas of an older
generation of art historians. The subjective response has changed; initially weighted to
the ‘I loved it when it was dirty’ (Pollini quoted in Colalucci 2018: 173) side of the
argument, new authors have responded positively to the cleaned image ( Trutty-Coohill
2005). It is in the nature of academic debate for experts to disagree; such controversy
can stimulate research, scholarship and even release funding. Such disagreement can
be beneficial, even to those whose work is being attacked. Colalucci wrote that ‘it obliged
me to verify the validity or otherwise of whatever argument was brought against the
restoration’ (2018: 172). The controversy over the Sistine Chapel work was not the last of
its kind. The conservation of other frescos, including Leonardo da Vinci’s extensively
Cleaning 113
damaged The Last Supper ( Barcilon 2001), has subsequently attracted critical attention.
It is unlikely that these will be the last such controversies and conservators will need to
continue to document their actions carefully and communicate their processes and
decision-making to the public to counter the strong pull that the familiar and known (if
sometimes fictive) image can exert.
Notes
1 Different varnish mixtures have different glass transition temperatures (Tg) or points where
the polymer transitions from hard to pliable. Above this Tg, particles slowly adsorb into the
surface ( Horie 2010).
2 Criticism of the degree to which paintings have been cleaned has been a recurrent theme in the
history of conservation – a point satirised in Hogarth’s painting Time Smoking a Picture.
Controversies erupted at the National Gallery in London in the mid-19th century, the 1930s
and 1940s ( Kirby Talley 1998; Modestini 2005) and in Italy in the 1980s (Case Study 5A).
3 A single coin hoard may contain hundreds or even thousands of coins. Ascertaining what the
earliest and latest coins are, whether forgeries are present and where the coins come from
(mintmarks) is important to interpreting the hoard correctly ( Goodburn-Brown and Jones 1998).
4 Nd = Neodymium, Er = Erbium, YAG = yttrium aluminium garnet.
5 The Goldilocks Principle is recognized in other fields, including developmental psychology,
biology, astronomy, engineering, and economics. It is derived from the children’s story
Goldilocks and the three Bears in which a young girl tastes three different bowls of porridge.
She prefers the bowl that is not too hot and not too cold but rather ‘just right’.
6 Another common trope that Beck employs is the idea that conservation actions are deter-
mined by a secretive cabal who carefully guards its knowledge ( Beck and Daley 1993;
Rodgers 2004). This notion, which has roots in the secretive practices of 18th- and 19th-
century restorers, has little connection to the transparent approaches of modern practitioners
but has traction since the scientific underpinnings of the field can seem inaccessible and
because conservation literature has traditionally been sequestered in its own journals and
publications.
6 Restoration
Restoration
Restoration encompasses the various treatment steps needed to return an object to an
earlier and/or more understandable state. These steps may include reassembly, re-
shaping, loss compensation (the addition of new materials to replace missing elements
of the piece), and aesthetic reintegration (inpainting or toning designed to make the
new elements harmonise with the original material).
Restoration is an important part of the process of the meaning-making that takes
place in museums and other heritage institutions. It makes objects visually accessible
(Figure 6.1) and augments the written interpretation that the curator or specialist
produces (Doumas 2010). It may also add value to an object (Case Study 2B: the
Sutton Hoo helmet). Restoration implies the use of original material, often a sub-
stantial amount, and a resulting visual form that is very close to the original. Actions
taken during restoration should satisfy the desire for aesthetic harmony and legibility
but not at the expense of authenticity. They should be evidence-based and stop at the
point when imagination begins. ‘Restoration must aim to re-establish the potential
unity of the work of art, as long as this is possible without producing an artistic or
historical forgery and without erasing every trace of the passage of time left on the
work of art’ (Brandi 1996).
Given the important role that restoration plays in making objects legible and ‘ex-
plain(ing) how things work’ (Mann 1994), it is imperative that areas of restoration are
detectable, so that the additions can be identified under close inspection and the
veracity of the object revealed. Definitions of what constitutes conservation acceptable
restoration have varied, often depending on the date, culture, and history of the object
and the experience of the conservator-restorer.
Definition of terms
Different terms are used to describe activities that are similar to restoration but
which can differ subtly. Sometimes, particularly in the popular press, these terms
are used incorrectly. Similarly, dictionary definitions are frequently too broad
and self-referencing to provide useful distinctions between the terms. The
definitions offered below focus on the most common agreed usages, allowing
a wide range of subtle and specific meanings to be conveyed. 1
DOI: 10.4324/9781003009078-6
Restoration 115
• Reconstruction – Bringing the object to a form very similar to the whole
original, where there is evidence or material from the original. Thus, historic
buildings may be reconstructed from existing foundations, surviving
fragments, and documentary evidence.
• Recreation – Like reconstruction but starting with nothing of the original. It
is undertaken using new materials and may involve a certain amount of
imagination. A recreation was made of the Sutton Hoo helmet in its ‘as new’
state.
• Renovation – Return to working order usually using some parts of the
original object. It implies subsequent use of the item and is generally more
complete than a repair. ‘Action of renewing an object without necessarily
respecting its material or significance’ (BS EN 15898:2019).
• Rehabilitation – The process of returning a property to a useable state
through repair or alteration, enabling an effective contemporary use, while
preserving those portions and features of the property that are significant to
its historic, architectural, and cultural values ( Brand 1994). Although
initially used for buildings the term may also be applied to objects.
• Refurbishment – As for rehabilitation, implies bringing back into use or
improved use, but is used to refer to equipment and other objects as well as
buildings.
• Replacement – Constructing new parts or an entire object to perform the
function of an original. Usually used in conjunction with the creation of a
part in a new material to take the place of an old, damaged, or worn part.
Damaged or exhausted parts of machines are replaced to keep them
running.
• Repair – Make good and return to working order. When repaired, a watch
will work again.
• Reuse – Brought back into use, previously dormant and unused it again
performs a function. As with reused timber, it does not have to perform its
original function, though it often does. ‘Adaptive reuse’ is often used to
refer to the reuse of a building for a function it was not originally designed
or intended for.
• Revived – Brought back into use after a period of dormancy and neglect; the
item performs its original function. Life, worth, and vigour are implied.
• Renewed – Made functional or valid again.
• Replication – Manufacture using new materials to exactly resemble an
original visual form. Often a specific object is faithfully copied.
• Reproduction – Manufacture using new materials to resemble an original
visual form. It usually implies a generic style from the past (e.g. reproduc-
tion furniture) rather than a specific copy of an object.
• Repristination – made appear new or pristine again.
• Reassembly – putting fragments or pieces back together.
• Reintegration – additions of substance and colour to infill areas, which are
missing to achieve a more complete form or appearance.
116 Restoration
Figure 6.1 Pottery exposed during archaeological excavation. While the form of the chalice is
immediately recognizable the small vessel beneath it is heavily fragmented and its
form can only be understood through reconstruction. Emily Williams.
The Development of Restoration

Restoration is in many ways the most visible aspect of conservation and its history is
tied closely to the history of conservation. Due to the close connection between
restorative approaches and the way we see and experience art, it has also engendered
controversy, especially over the last 200 years. As discussed in Chapter 2, numerous
instances of restoration and repair have been recovered from the archaeological
record. These include the repair of a 13,000-year-old Magdalenian spear thrower
(Ward et al. 2009), bitumen fills, and repairs on ceramics from the Near East (Dooijes
and Niewenhuyse 2007), lashings on prehistoric canoes and ceramics from Denmark
(Brinch-Madsen 2009) and metal repairs to many materials including ceramics, metals,
stone, glass, and even organics (Brinch Madsen 2009; Cobb and Evans 2009; Balogh
and Grayson 2019; Williams 2021). What is unclear in some of these examples is
whether the goal was merely to retain the function of the item or to restore its visual
and aesthetic aspects or whether those undertaking such actions distinguished the
meanings from each other. King Nabonidus of Babylon (ca. 620–539 BCE) undertook
one of the earliest recorded examples of restoration after discovering a statue of King
Restoration 117
Sargon that was missing part of its head (Grayson 1973). Nabonidus brought in expert
craftsmen and had the head and face restored. He is also credited with excavating,
recording, and restoring the temple at Ebbabar founded by Hammurabi (Berducou
1996). Nabonidus’ approach to these objects reflected his reverence for the earlier
Babylonian kings and was commemorated on cuneiform tablets.
The repristination of ancient statues in the Renaissance period was also rooted in an
appreciation of the past (Giusti 1994). It took many different forms but could include
either cutting or abrading decayed, discoloured material from the exterior, adding new
pieces of marble (often heads, arms, and legs) to the stumps of an antique torso to return
the object to its pristine ‘as new’ state or marrying parts from several statues together to
create a pastiche. This placed the aesthetic beauty of the object and its fitness for display
above all other things. It was felt that the damage evident on classical statues was an act
of barbarism and that restoration removed evidence of that barbarity (Yourcenar 1996).
These practices continued into the 18th century, however increasingly they drew criti-
cism. By the early 19th century, there was a movement away from such interventive
restorations to classical sculpture. This has been attributed in part to Canova’s refusal to
restore the Parthenon sculptures (Podany 2003) as well as to the development of classical
archaeology and the Romantic notion of the purity of the ‘fragment’ (Pinelli 2003;
Risser and Saunders 2013). In 1818, a royal decree prohibited the integrative restoration
of all classes of ancient objects including ceramics and wallpaintings found in Pompeii,
Herculaneum, and their surrounds (Milanese 2013). The decree noted that restorations
were an obstacle to the interpretation of objects because it was difficult to tell the
original features from the additions. However, Andrea Milanese (2013) notes that
another reason for the decree may have been that it was becoming increasingly difficult
to tell forgeries from restored antiquities.2
Unfortunately, a recurring historical theme is that appreciation of items from the
past can be distorted by current fashions and too often enthusiasm for one period
leads to damage and to neglect of other periods. The fashion for Gothic architecture in
the late 18th and 19th century led to the removal of substantial amounts of 15th- to
18th-century architectural features and the incorporation of many ‘Gothic’ features
into restored buildings for which there was no evidence. In the mid-19th century, art
was also ‘restored’ for moral purposes, which manifested itself as the additions of fig
leaves and loincloths to cover genitalia. Cleopatra’s leg, amorously draped over
Anthony, was cut from a Brussels tapestry owned by the Worshipful Company of
Goldsmiths and the gap woven in red to replicate part of Anthony’s cloak (Brooks
et al. 1994). The differential fading of dyes has now resulted in a bright orange leg-
shaped patch on the cloak. Conservators in the 1990s were uncomfortable restoring
the leg since they knew nothing about the detail of 18th-century original and so the
distracting orange patch remained as a very visible reminder of 19th-century moral
sensitivities (Brooks et al. 1994).
As early as 1846, Alfred Bonnardot produced a book on the restoration of paper in
which he warned other practitioners against the removal of historical evidence as part
of the restoration process (Kosek 1994). The Italian painter/restorer Secco-Suardo
who, in 1866, advocated avoiding excessive retouching, and using tempera or water-
colour for retouching since they do not darken upon ageing (Bomford 1994), also
evinces a similar sensitivity to the restoration of works of art. The formation of the
Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings engendered a wider spread of
118 Restoration
sympathy for the value of original work and the value of objects, such as buildings, as
historic documents (Chapter 2).
As conservation developed into a discreet profession, it sought to separate its
methodologies from those of other practitioners. As a result, the term ‘restoration’
was often problematised, and a bright line was drawn between its practices and those
of conservation. Restorers were painted as having little interest in the object and
lacking skill and intemperate analogies to religious or medical divisions were some-
times drawn (Philippot 1996).3 In reality, restoration is an inseparable part of the
conservation process. Like cleaning, it increases the accessibility of an object and
moves it towards a more informative state, adding material to the object rather than
removing it.
The 1960s saw the concept of ‘de-restoration’ emerge. The Glyptothek in Munich
removed restored elements from pedimental sculptures of the Temple of Aphaia in
Aegina. The fragmentary sculptures were excavated in 1811 and then heavily restored
by the sculptor Bertel Thorvaldsen between 1816 and 1818. Subsequent excavation at
Aegina in 1901 had shown that his interpretations were fanciful at best and frequently
very mistaken. Between 1962 and 1965, Thorvaldsen’s additions were removed and
when the museum reopened in 1972, metal supports were visible in the place of the
former interventions. The decision to de-restore may have been due to many factors,
including a desire to remove reminders of the Nazi affection for the sculptures
(Diebold 1995), but it also spoke to the increased emphasis on authenticity following
events like the van Meegeren trial (Godley 2015) and the changing influences that
modern art brought to aesthetics. Other museums undertook similar de-restoration
campaigns.
Objects and paintings were increasingly valued not only for their aesthetics but also
as rich sources of information about themselves. In this environment, it was under-
stood that damage may be of equal value to understanding the work and its history
(Te Marvelde 2011). Additionally, there were demands from some art historians to
distinguish the original material in paintings from subsequent restoration campaigns,
leading to developments such as visible in-painting (Bomford 1994). This could be
achieved at numerous different levels, from using a neutral monotone in the infilled
area, to copying the colours and shapes exactly as in the painting but not imitating the
natural craquelure of an aged paint film. The Instituto Centrale del Restauro in Rome
developed perhaps the best-known technique of ‘visible’ inpainting (Idelson and
Severini 2018). Known as tratteggio, this technique uses discrete vertical brush strokes
in the colours of the missing elements of the picture, which allow the original colours
in the missing area to be reproduced when seen at distance, but the vertical strokes
remain visible, and thus the in-painting is obvious, upon careful inspection. The
tratteggio technique has been used to good effect on many wall-painting restorations
(Mora et al. 1996), although the main use of this technique has been for infilled areas
in oil paintings. The success of tratteggio, and related techniques such as rigatoni, can
be variable, depending on the nature of the painting and the skill of the practitioner as
it is not easy to achieve the required chromatic balances (Vaccaro 1996).
Although many de-restorations were carried out with fanfare (Diebold 1995), since
the late 1980s museums have increasingly chosen to re-restore statues. For example, in
1991 the Getty chose to re-restore the Lansdowne Hercules, a statue that had been
Restoration 119
de-restored less than 20 years earlier (Podany 1994). The reasons for re-restoration
vary from institution to institution but generally centre around questions of legibility.
Fragmentary objects are harder for the public to read and appreciate and often the
losses dominate perception, drawing attention away from what remains. The desire to
easily remove and insert restorations has led to the exploration of new treatment
methods. Examples include detachable fills (Koob 2006), non-intrusive approaches to
upholstery conservation (Graves and Howlett 1997; Eastop and Gill 2001; Graves
2015; Spicer 2013), the use of 3D scanning for virtual reconstructions (Stanco et al.
2011), and digital restoration of old photographs (Ctein 2010). There is also a growing
interest within the conservation field in the history of restoration and earlier resto-
rations as well as restorer’s practices are increasingly being studied (Te Marvelde 1999;
Risser and Saunders 2013).
Restoration in Practice
Since humans recognise objects, or parts of objects, by comparing them with existing
images from their memories (Chapter 10), the gaps, losses and disconnects between the
viewed object and the remembered object are automatically highlighted in the mind.
For example, a jug without a handle is troubling because we are conditioned to expect
the handle to be there. Such losses stand out. Eye movement studies indicate that
perception is achieved through initially seeing the outline and key elements of an
object, thus the outline of losses shows up quickly and prominently in perception
(Schutz et al. 2011). Particularly in two-dimensional works, such as paintings, the
losses can become so prominent that what we perceive are patterns of voids instead of
the paint surface itself. The image cannot be viewed without first seeing the loss
(Vaccaro 1996). In a three-dimensional work, because of differences in the planes and
angles of an object, we are initially better able to visually compensate for smaller losses
(such as chips); however, larger losses can make it difficult to understand the form and
function of an object. Thus, to see and experience the object, especially a decorative
object, and not focus on the damage, the loss or break needs to be visually integrated
into the whole.
The object, the information available, the time and materials available, the expertise
of the conservator/restorer, and what is appropriate for each individual loss will
dictate the level of integration chosen. Different levels of integration may even be
appropriate on the same object depending on how much is known about the loss (Case
study 6 A). The ethical position on restoration, or loss compensation, has become
more consistent in recent years. The AIC Guidelines for Practice regards compensation
for loss as acceptable, provided:
• It is fully recorded.
• It is reversible.
• It is detectable by common examination methods.
• It does not falsify the aesthetic, conceptual, or physical characteristics of the
object.
• It does not remove or obscure original material (respect for the traces of time).
120 Restoration
Restoration comprises:
• Reassembly of the broken pieces of an object. This is undertaken to achieve the

most complete form of the object possible. Wherever possible all fragments of the
original object are included. The resultant object should be stable, and the pieces
should be in their correct, original positions.4 Reassembly is widely practised.
Examples include, but are not limited to, putting together fragments of stone
forming parts of a building (anastylosis), mending ceramic or glass sherds to form
a vessel or assembling the pieces of metal in a clockwork mechanism. Depending
on the complexity of the object, re-assembly is a time-consuming and potentially
costly business. It can result in unstable and incomplete objects. Particularly in the
case of archaeological materials, losses and deterioration during burial may result
in fragile, fragmentary objects that require additional support (Baldwin 2017;
Unruh and Harbeck 2021). In some cases, such as a bag of ceramic sherds, it is
important to remember that their current form may be more stable (although less
legible) than the reconstructed (but potentially partial and unbalanced) vessel and
to weigh the necessity of reassembly. If determining the typology of the vessel or
the decorative schema on the surface will help to date the site or context or
provenance of the piece, reassembly may be required; if the type is already
recognisable and well-understood it may be better not to reassemble the vessel
unless it is required for display or illustration. Where the breakage was deliberate
(such as when an object is ritually ‘killed’) or when the fragments were
subsequently used as objects in their own right (Chapman 2000) it may not be
appropriate to reassemble them. Adhesives used in reassembling objects should be
weaker than the object so that if failure occurs it is the adhesive that fails (breaks)
rather than the object. Similarly, they should not shrink and pull on the object or
deteriorate in a manner that will cause further damage to the object.
• Reshaping. Materials, especially organic materials, are often distorted by their
own weight, by objects placed on them or by the pressure of surrounding soil
during burial, and may require reshaping. In reshaping an object, the conservator
is imposing their idea of the ‘correct’ shape on the object. This shape may relate to
the original shape of the object, the shape acquired during use or a shape that is
closer to these but mediated by the damage the object has incurred. In theory, the
distortions caused by neglect, burial, etc. are removed and those associated with
use are normally retained; however, unless an object is very well understood it can
be difficult to differentiate these. Reshaping is an interpretive act, and it can be
controversial as in the case of the Bush Barrow gold (Case Study 10 A). Metal
objects are reshaped using heat and pressure and must be ductile enough to permit
this approach. In the past, bent archaeological metal artefacts were often reshaped
to recover their original form. This is now undertaken less frequently as the
deliberate folding and breaking of metal objects is appreciated as a final act in
their working lives (Needham et al. 2006; Greaves et al. 2019).5 Cellulosic
materials (such as paper, textiles, wood, cotton, and linen) and proteinaceous
materials (such as leather, wool, and silk) are often reshaped through humidifica-
tion and weighting or clamping. Supports may be needed to maintain the new
shape or to combat the object’s ‘memory’ of its old shape.
Restoration 121
• Reintegration. Reintegration can be further broken down into two activities.
• Loss Compensation, also sometimes called gap-filling or infilling, refers to the
filling of a loss and may be used in reference to filling a surface finish, a
substrate or the decorative elements of an object. Replacing the missing leg of
a chair, reapplying the missing ground layer in a painting loss, or reworking a
hole in a tapestry, are all examples of loss compensation. Fills may provide
structural support for the object, or they may re-establish the aesthetic or
functional attributes of an object. For example, filling the gap in a mosaic
with new tesserae ensures that the original tesserae adjoin the lost edge do not
work free and become lost, further damaging the piece. Similarly, replacing a
missing leg on a chair or chest of drawers prevents the furniture from
overbalancing and being damaged. Depending on the object, different levels
of gap-filling may be carried out. On archaeological ceramics, gap filling is
often limited because archaeologists are interested in seeing the degree of
damage and loss and accessing the broken edges of the ceramic, which may
reveal information about the vessel’s fabric type, provenance, and manufac-
ture. Line chips (the small chips along break lines) and other small losses are
rarely filled. On the other hand, break lines and line chips on decorative
ceramics are almost always filled as leaving them would detract from
the aesthetic nature of the piece. The decision to fill should consider the nature
and type of the artefact, its intended use (i.e. handling, storage, display) as well
as whether the damage has historical or cultural significance.
• Aesthetic Reintegration. Also sometimes called inpainting or retouching,
aesthetic reintegration aims to make the loss and any resulting fill blend into
the original object. Again, different approaches may be taken, a background
colour may be applied, making the fill less visible, but not emulating the
existing decorative scheme (Figure 6.2). This approach is the most appro-
priate when the exact nature of the decoration is unknown but can be
unconvincing and distracting if poorly executed. Mottled colour schemes, like
camouflage, may be more natural and less visually intrusive than large fields
of a single colour. Alternatively, the filled area may be restored to its ‘original’
appearance and all elements of the design included (Case study 6 A: The
Ambassadors). Inpainting is time-consuming and costly, and the approach
taken may depend on the nature of the object, the size of the fill and intended
use of the object. The larger the loss, the greater the conjecture and skill
needed to emulate the decoration. When inpainting a fill it is important to
consider any variations in lighting between the studio/laboratory and the
place where the object will be displayed as these can change the appearance of
the inpainting. It is important to consider how the materials will age, as
variations in ageing characteristics between old and new materials can make
initially discreet fills highly visible within a short time. Simple guidelines, such
as ‘6 foot 6 inches’ suggesting that inpainting be undetectable from a distance
but visible on closer inspection, provide a memorable articulation of the
desire to maintain the visual continuity of objects while allowing restoration
to be detectable (Hodges 1975; Buys and Oakley 1993). In practice, much
closer inspection with UV light, raking light, microscopy, or x-radiography is
often necessary to detect very skilful inpainting.
122 Restoration
Figure 6.2 A restored polychrome tile (left) exhibited next to a complete monochrome original
(right). The added elements are toned with a neutral colour and enough of the
missing elements of the scene are indicated to make the tile legible, but other
(unknowable) elements are omitted. Emily Williams.
The choice of restoration materials can present challenges. Unconsidered use of

modern materials in the past, such as Portland cement (Burden et al. 2004; Ballard 2004),
AJK or BJK dough (Koob, 1998; Fulcher 2014), and soluble nylon (Sease 1981), has led
to visually intrusive and damaging restorations. The reaction in some cases has been a
return to the use of traditional materials and in others to develop more sympathetic and
long-term stable conservation materials. Traditional manufacturing materials are often
well suited to restoration as their properties are closely related to those of the object
itself.6 However, they can be difficult to distinguish from the original materials. On the
other hand, traditional stewards and caretakers may see modern conservation materials
as problematic. Ethical restoration involves careful consideration of all the materials
used, their short-term benefits and their long-term advantages and shortcomings as well
as consultation with all stakeholders to determine the best course of action.
Where an object is too fragile for restoration, increasingly digital options are
available. Damage or alteration of the object to facilitate its restoration is generally
considered unacceptable (Brooks 1998); however, in a limited number of cases,
damage may be accepted as a regrettable necessity. Examples include sculpture and
furniture conservation where conservators assembling heavy, structural elements may
need to secure a broken piece by drilling into the object and inserting a pin or dowel
(Case Study 11B: Tullio Lombardo’s Adam),7 or removing and remaking an element
that is too weak or damaged to provide structural support any longer. It is important
to reduce the amount of loss associated with such activities and the risks inherent in
them (Podany et al. 2009). For example, drilling may release stresses in an object
leading to cracking and breaks and improperly chosen dowels can cause additional
stresses to the object. If poorly done, the damage incurred may outweigh the gains.
Similarly, while reversible adhesives are generally sought, stronger more irreversible
ones, such as epoxies, may be required when the object is heavy or lacks purchase
(Case Study 2 A: the Portland Vase). Being cognisant of the risks and working to
minimise them will generate a better outcome.
Current ethical guidance regarding restoration demands that restoration only be
carried out when there is clear evidence for the final form. Thus, symmetrical vessels
Restoration 123
can readily be restored, and objects with repeating decoration easily be inpainted.
However, what constitutes ‘clear’ evidence may vary depending on the object, the
owners, and the specialism of the conservator and need not be limited to the evidence
on the object itself. Paintings’ conservators frequently study related works by the same
artist to see how they handled certain elements and look to prints and other paintings
to better understand the fashions of the time to determine how best to inpaint areas.
Similarly, an object conservator treating a jug that is missing its handle might look to
other period examples to determine what handle type is most likely to have been
present. In instances where there is no information, vague generalised shapes may be
used to convey the impression of the work and avoid visual disharmony, such as the
use of featureless faces for the unidentified saints depicted in the reconstruction of the
13th-century glass mosaic from the Baptistery of Florence (Giusti 1994).
Challenges Presented in the Purpose, Acceptability, and Extent of

Restoration
Differing approaches to restoration can stem from dissimilar aesthetic and evidentiary
(historic) values. Factors such as age, original function, and rarity may also play a
role. In practice, the nature of ownership also often affects the choices regarding the
extent and nature of restoration. Objects that are in personal collections are often
more extensively restored than items, which are held in public collections (Edge 1994).
This relates both to the way privately held objects are displayed and how they are
acquired and traded. Private collectors often live with their collections around them
and to achieve visual balance, it is easiest to raise everything to a pristine condition.
Evidence of age, history of use and original features may take second place to the
owner’s view about how the object should look. Additionally, because of the often-
competitive nature of collecting and the machismo that can be associated with large,
showy purchases, auction houses and dealers may extensively restore items to an
idealised condition prior to sale, knowing that such conditions will command higher
prices. This was the case when the heavily restored Crosby Garrett Roman parade
helmet sold for 2.3 million pounds in 2010 (Breeze and Bishop 2013; Barnes 2010).
Such sales and the associated publicity and advertising normalise expectations about
the condition of these types of objects and can result in calls for publicly owned objects
of this type to be restored to a similar standard (Case Study 6 A: The Ambassadors).
These commercial considerations, often transmitted through television shows, such as
The Repair Shop, Art Detectives and American Restoration, and via newspaper
headlines, influence how restoration work is perceived by the public and how they
value objects from the past (Chapter 1). Consequently, restoration (or perhaps more
accurately renovation or refurbishment) for aesthetic purposes and functionality often
has greater importance in the eyes of the public, than in the eyes of the heritage
professionals, such as conservators.
If condition is associated with value in the private sphere, in the case of religious art
there can be associations between condition and veneration. Fresh coats of paint or
fanciful restorations may be seen to signal devotion and may or may not be guided by
what previously existed (Molina and Pincemin 1994; Williams 2002: 464). This can
present a challenge for conservation since both the intangible, in this case the religious
practices of the community, and the tangible, the materiality of the object, must be
balanced. In 2012, parishioner Cecilia Giménez attempted to restore the 80-year-old
124 Restoration
fresco Ecce Homo (Behold the Man) in the Sanctuary of Mercy church in Borja,
Spain. Her work, motivated by fear that the water-damaged figure might otherwise be
lost, resulted in a figure with a pasty and bloated face, and led to condemnation and
ridicule. However, once it was understood who had undertaken the work and why,
there was no prosecution and little local criticism. Due to the media and internet
coverage the painting became an unexpected tourist attraction (Jones 2018). In four
months, more than 40,000 people visited the church. Although the visitor numbers
later fell, sales of merchandise and visits have provided funds for a local charity and
employment for townspeople (Jones 2018). Not all such cases have ended so fortui-
tously and there are many instances where similar actions have led to additional work
and expenditure or loss; however, it is important to consider what the restorer seeks to
maintain – the shape or the substance. In the case of Ecce Homo, the devotional
substance was preserved, but the shape was lost.
Building material that is weathered away or worn down by visitors, such as steps,
may be routinely replaced to provide safe access and to preserve the historic form of
the structure. Weathered stone and wood siding is routinely replaced on historic
buildings, paint and gilding renewed on exterior surfaces. Although we often think of
these actions as ‘maintenance’ or ‘preservation’, such restorations help to retain the
historic form of the monument and thus the power and emotion it arouses. Like
objects that are repeatedly restored over time such buildings pose problems. At what
point does object identity triumph over material authenticity (Lowenthal 1992)? Does
a thing remain the same after many or all its parts are replaced? Plutarch famously
posed the problem of Theseus’ ship.8 Saved by the Athenians, the boards were slowly
replaced until no original boards remained (Plutarch 1914: 47). At what point does the
ship cease to be Theseus’ ship? The answer depends on whether you consider the term
‘Theseus’ Ship’ to be the ‘title’ and idea of the object or whether you consider it to
relate to the materials composing the object. An interesting corollary for the art world
is whether there is a point at which a damaged painting or work of art should cease to
be attributed to the artist and instead be attributed to the last restorer? This question
was tested in Ascalon vs. Department of Parks and Recreation et al. (Grant 2010). The
artist David Ascalon successfully sued the Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, Department of
Parks and Recreation after his work was heavily restored and his name removed from
it. Although the restoration had not been carried out in a particularly ethical way,
Ascalon’s win reinforced the importance of working with living artists when preparing
to restore their works.
Many modern artists have exploited the impermanence of art materials to explore
issues such as impermanence, ownership, obsolescence, and transience. Frequently,
the intentions of the artist and the owner may vary. Some artists wish their artwork to
continue to decay, others wish to replace (restore) the decaying material in order that
the visual impact of the initial work survives. Owners, who may have invested heavily
in the art, often want the work to be sustained. This provides a variety of challenges to
the conservator (Heuman 1995; Skowranek 2007; Marçal 2019). When working with
such artworks, the conservator must work with the artist (if living) or their re-
presentatives as well as with the owner/curator to establish their desires for the future
of the artwork.9 There should be no a priori assumption that the work is intended to
be physically preserved and restored.
Although restoration seeks to restore an object to its former appearance or an
earlier form, we should remain aware that in the process we are altering the object that
Restoration 125
we seek to restore. We are creating something that it never was. If we think about a
ceramic vessel where losses have been filled, the object may now consist of ceramic,
plaster, acrylic paints, and a conservation-grade adhesive. It is changed by the addi-
tions (even if they are reversible) and will react differently to the environments it
encounters. Similarly, if we have chosen not to fill the cracks and line chips it may also
present an altered appearance (complete but broken) that it did not present before.
Although the vessel is more legible, it is also no longer what it once was. Muñoz-Viñas
(2020) argues that acknowledging this alteration can make us both more prudent
(because we are less likely to uncritically accept routine processes) and more decisive
(because we are less constrained by the fear of altering the object). Sweetnam and
Henderson (2021) take this concept further advocating the use of ‘disruptive conser-
vation’ as a way of centring the role of interpretation in conservation and confronting
what they see as damaging narratives in conservation and museum practice.
In presenting the past, we project, often unconsciously, our present ideas into it,
selecting the facts we consider relevant and important and shaping history to the form
that we currently think it ought to have. In restoring objects, we unconsciously mould
the physical form of objects to fit our perception of the past. Thus, restoration says as
much about the present day as it does about the past. The colour and texture of the
materials used, the examples copied, the knowledge exhibited and the extent and
nature of the restoration, all betray the age and aesthetic tradition to which the res-
toration belongs. No matter how much guidance the object may offer about its
original appearance and nature, restoration work is always an interpretive act and as
such it is not neutral. We (as a society) choose which objects are ‘worthy’ of con-
servation and restoration and how the work should be carried out (Genbrugge 2017).
As conservators, we make both large and small decisions about how much damage can
be tolerated, what evidence is present and how to interpret and utilise it, which values
it is significant to preserve and how best to do that with the resources at our disposal.
It is important to be as conscious as possible about these decisions, examining our
biases and documenting the decision-making process and the factors that influenced it
(Bomford 2003; Unruh and Harbeck 2021).
Alternative Approaches
For some cultures, the original material of the object is less essential than what the object
symbolises and what it embodies (Yagihashi 1988). Within Japanese culture the tradition
of kintsugi (‘patch with gold’) and kintsukuroi (‘repair with gold’) seeks to transform a
broken or flawed object through the intentional inclusion of the damage. In this tradition,
the damage becomes a ‘central element of the metamorphosis of the damaged ceramic
into an object imbued with new characteristics and an appearance that exerts a com-
pletely different approach’ (Iten 2008: 19). Objects repaired in this way are often valued
more highly than when they were whole and are seen as expressions of two Japanese
philosophies mottaini (remorse over wasted or misused resources) and wabi-sabi (seeking
peace with the natural progression of life by accepting the beauty of change) (Iten 2008).
The repair thus becomes a tangible expression of intangible concepts.
In societies that have a tradition of building in stone, decay is often associated with
loss and destruction whereas societies that have extensive traditions of using organic
materials often develop an acceptance of decay and renewal as an integral part of their
culture. For these latter groups, the act of copying or renewing the object may be
126 Restoration
considered more significant than attempting to preserve the original material
(Kitamura 1988; Clavir 2002). Within cultures where artefacts may be viewed as an-
cestors, the process of restoration should be considered as extending not only to the
physical form of the artefact itself but also to the networks of relationships within
which the ancestor is a part (Sully and Cardoso 2014; Pouliot et al. 2017; Johns 2018).
In some instances, because of the fragility of the object, or the tangible values it is
invested with, it may not be possible to restore the object itself. In such cases, repli-
cation may offer alternative approaches.
Replication
Replicas can be created as exact copies of the object in its current form, or they can be
a recreation of the object in its original form. Replicas are useful didactic tools because
they reveal the original form of an object that may have subsequently changed. In the
19th century, plaster of Paris replicas of famous sculptures and important works of
art, allowed working men and women to access cultural icons in their own towns. Cast
galleries were established in many museums. Today, the ease of travel allows people to
see the ‘real thing’ so replicas may play a supporting role in displays or stand in for
objects that have perished or are highly degraded. For example, the recreation of the
Sutton Hoo helmet’s as new appearance gives us a different sense of the helmet than
we might have when we view it in its corroded state (Figure 6.3). Other powerful
reasons for making replicas include:
• Experimentation: Replicas also allow us to investigate ancient technologies and

understand how objects were used in the past. The replica of the Sea Stallion from
Glendalough, a replica of the Skuldelev 2 vessel found in Roskilde Fjord (Bill
2007) is touted as the largest and most authentic Viking longboat. The replica
allows us to better understand the skill needed to build such a ship, the amount of
time it might take a skilled boatbuilding team to create such a vessel and how the
ship performs when it is on the water. It has the added benefit that we can test it to
destruction if desired, whereas even if the original vessel were seaworthy, we might
not test it in the same way.
• Recording: Replicas can help us to preserve an accurate record of what is
currently present but may not survive due to environmental factors or the
instability of the materials from which it is made. Analyses of 19th-century plaster
cast taken from marbles at the Parthenon, which were not removed by Lord Elgin,
provide a graphic example of how both pollutants and tourists have changed the
sculptures in the intervening years (Payne 2019).
• Replacement: Replicated elements have been used to replace damaged or missing
components of objects, particularly working objects (Chapter 9). Similarly,
historic houses often use both replica and reproduction textiles to ‘dress’
furniture, such as beds, or historic rooms (Nylander 1990).
• Access: Replicas are frequently used to enable visitors to understand what an
object may have looked like in its original context after the object itself has been
moved into a museum for safekeeping. Replicas also permit people, especially
children, the blind and the partially sighted, to interact with objects through
touch and minimise the risks to original objects from handling (Pye 2008;
Wilson et al. 2017).
Restoration 127
Figure 6.3 Recreation/replica of the Sutton Hoo helmet in its ‘as new’ condition. © Trustees of
the British Museum.
Most replicas fulfil several roles. The original cave at Lascaux was closed to the public in
1963 due to the damage caused by the increases in temperature, relative humidity and
microorganisms resulting from the rising number of visitors (Mauriac 2011; Geneste and
Mauriac 2014). In 1983, a replica (Lascaux II) opened near the site.10 In 2016, an improved
replica (Lascaux IV) opened which replicated more of the cave and incorporated inter-
active galleries to improve the visitor’s experience (James 2017).11 Over 10 million people
have visited Lascaux II and IV. The replicas help preserve the original by giving visitors a
way to approximate the experience of visiting the cave and learning about the paintings.
They take the pressure to provide access to the original off of the authorities, while at the
same time providing a revenue stream that helps with additional preservation efforts.12
Replication brings with it risks and ethical issues. There are risks of damage to the
original object when creating a mould. Silicone rubber and other moulding materials can in
rare circumstances stain the surface of the original and they can exert pressure, pulling at
the surface, causing very small amounts of the surface material to be lost. These risks are
reduced when using non-contact techniques such as 3D Scanning and Photogrammetry
scanning to create a 3D model that can then be printed in metal, ceramic, or a polymer
using rapid prototyping (RP) technology such as 3D printing (Coon et al. 2016). The costs
associated with such equipment are becoming increasingly affordable but as with all
technology the more accurate the need the more costly the product will be. The polymers
used in RP technologies change rapidly. New products are continually introduced, and
128 Restoration
many contain additives including stabilisers, flame retardants, antioxidants, plasticisers,
and colourants. The long-term stability of these materials is difficult to assess but there are
indications that the heat used in the printing process may initiate deterioration and that
some of the materials emit solvent vapours that could result in changes in historic materials
(Cimino et al. 2018). The need to store multiple versions of an object, which may be made
for different purposes, poses sustainability issues for many museums (Coon et al. 2016).
The ability to cut stable materials to exact copies of objects using computer numerically
controlled (CNC) milling machines is a potential alternative (Baumeister et al. 2020)
although it permits less freedom of shape and can be more expensive.
With more traditional moulding materials there can be issues of accuracy; cheaper
moulding compounds, such as alginate moulding compounds, do not pick up as much
detail as more expensive materials such as silicon rubber. Mould materials, such as rubber
latex, are not always chemically or dimensionally stable over long periods, thus it is
advisable to make casts soon after moulding using materials such as epoxy resin or plaster
of Paris, which are more stable. In selecting the right technique, it is important to know
how the replica will be used, how accurate the mould must be, and how much loss of detail
can be tolerated. For example, some loss of detail may be tolerated in a replica created for
children to handle but might not be tolerable in a research application. Many 19th-century
casts were ‘improved’; missing areas were filled although the accuracy of the fills could be
poor. As a result, the cast was neither an accurate copy of what was present at the date of
the moulding nor an accurate restoration (Payne 2019).
Many 20th-century artworks have discoloured, distorted, and degraded as the
polymers from which they were made decayed. They no longer convey what the artist
intended. In some cases, museums and galleries have removed them from display and
created ‘authentic replicas’ with the approval of the artist (if still living) or their estate.
For example, Naum Gabo’s Construction in Space (Crystal) of 1937–1939 was rep-
licated by the Tate Gallery in 2015 (Lawson and Cane 2016). Such objects are des-
ignated ‘authentic replicas’ to distinguish them from other replicas and fakes.
Although there is little or no physical difference between such replicas, they have an
added (intangible) value as an approved copy that is guaranteed to continue conveying
the artist’s vision. This can be important since not only the lack of 3D colour printing
standards can create challenges for faithful replication (Coons et al. 2016) but changes
in material availability can also result in slight compromises in appearance.
Foster and Jones (2019) have argued that replicas are not just copies but things in
their own that acquire their own cultural biographies. These biographies are distinct
and different from those of their source object and can engage visitors and build
emotional responses and connections that are separate from those formed by the ‘real’
object. As a result, conservators are increasingly engaged in analyzing and conserving
replicas (Foster and Jones 2020; Turner 2020; Risdonne et al. 2021).
6A Case Study: Hans Holbein’s painting The Ambassadors

( Wyld 1998)
Many objects, particularly paintings, have long histories in which they change ownership
and are restored many times. This history does not end once they reach a museum as
the case study of The Ambassadors by Hans Holbein shows. Painted on an oak panel in
Restoration 129
1533, the picture is a full-length double portrait depicting Jean de Dinteville, French
Ambassador to England, and Georges de Selve, Bishop of Lavaur, standing on an
intricately inlaid marble floor, with a rich green patterned curtain in the background.
Between the two men is a table covered with a carpet on which scientific instruments
(including two globes, a quadrant, and a polyhedral sundial) as well as a lute and hymn
book sit. In the foreground is an anamorphic depiction of a skull, an image depicted as if
seen through a distorting lens or at an extreme angle ( Figure 8.3).
The picture, regarded as one of Holbein’s finest, was passed through the de Dinteville
family and there are records of it being taken to Paris, to the South of France and then back
to Paris. During this period, it is possible that the painting was divided into two and
displayed in two different locations, since the half depicting Jean de Dinteville shows signs
of having been exposed to a different environment (including much higher humidity and
possibly a flood) than the other half. There is also evidence that the damage caused by the
humidity necessitated restoration work. One clue that suggests a date prior to 1787 for
some of the restoration is that the medal de Dinteville wears was accurately retouched
despite belonging to the Ordre de Saint-Michel, a French chivalric order. In 1787 The
Ambassadors was auctioned, and by 1792 it had been sold again and had made its way to
England. In 1808–1809 it was purchased by the Earl of Radnor, who hung it in Longford
Castle. At some point, possibly to make it more attractive for one of its sales, the green
curtain was heavily overpainted, and its colour changed from a light green to a dark green.
In 1890, the painting was sold to the National Gallery. Public excitement over the purchase
meant that it was hurriedly displayed, despite evident structural issues.
In 1891, the painting was restored. William Morrill worked on the wooden panel, and
William Dyer worked on the painted surface. The panel, formed from a series of planks,
was planed down from the back to a thickness of 5 mm and then subjected to heavy
pressure to flatten them and a mahogany ‘cradle’ (two-layered lattice of vertical and
horizontal batons) attached to the back to provide a more stable backing. Although this
sounds extreme, it was designed to counteract the concave warping across their width,
which had created gaps that had necessitated ‘cement’ fills in prior restorations. Dyer
removed and replaced the worst of the earlier restorations revealing some details, such
as a silver crucifix and the original curtain colour, which had not previously been visible.
He also replaced the discoloured varnish.
Despite the structural work carried out on the panel, it continued to be unstable. And
splits and blistering paint were noted and addressed in 1892, 1895, 1929, 1939, 1940,
and 1952. The impact of changes in Relative humidity was not well understood and
rather than making the panel more stable thinning it made it more reactive to
environmental changes. It was only when air-conditioning was installed in the gallery
in 1952 that both the relative humidity and the panel stabilised.
By the early 1990s, the varnish had darkened and was foggy in areas due to exposure to
high light and UV levels between the 1890s and 1950s, which hastened the discolouration
of the mastic and walnut oil mixture that Dyer had used. As the 500th anniversary of
Holbein’s birth was approaching, conservators at the National Gallery were asked to
restore the painting as the centrepiece of an exhibit entitled Making and Meaning:
Holbein’s Ambassadors. Within this context, a heavy emphasis was placed on the use of
extensive analytical investigation to guide the restoration efforts. Dendrochronological
130 Restoration
analysis of the oak planks determined that the last growth ring dated to 1515 and that the
oak originated in the Baltic-Polish region. Gas-chromatography mass-spectroscopy (GC-
MS) was used to analyse the binders in the paint and cross sections of minute amounts of
paint in test-cleaned and adjacent uncleaned areas were used to ensure that the solvents
that were chosen to remove the varnish and the overpaint did not have a negative impact
on the original paint. These cross-sections also provided information about Holbein’s
working techniques, which was paired with Infrared reflectance imaging and careful
examination of other Holbein paintings. X-radiographs of the painting were consulted to
determine where losses and areas of overpaint lay. If the earlier retouchings did not cover
areas of original paint, were of a similar texture as the original surface and the fill below
them was firmly attached, they were left in place.
The removal of the 1890s’ varnish and of some earlier restorations revealed even
more of the Holbein original than had been expected. Details of the original form of the
dagger hilt, the original notes and words of the hymn score and aspects of Jean de
Dinteville’s clothing were revealed. The extent of Holbein’s original work was fully
recorded, and new information gleaned about both the making of the painting and its
history. The National Gallery’s policy is that its public should enjoy an image without the
interruptions caused by damage, loss, panel joins, etc. As a result, it usually chooses to
retouch paintings, restoring them to their original image, while recognising the need to
balance legibility and authenticity. Images are only restored where there is a clear
indication of the colour and form of the original image. In most cases, the losses on The
Ambassadors were so small that the missing areas could be clearly extrapolated from
the colour and form of the surrounding areas. In some areas, such as the floor and
carpet, the symmetry of the image clearly indicated what was missing. In one or two
areas, though the general nature of what was missing was apparent, the exact nature of
the original could not be determined. In these areas, difficult decisions had to be made
balancing the need to achieve the true aesthetic experience of the picture and avoid
falsehood. In each case, the range of possible outcomes was discussed between the
conservators and curators and the approach that best achieved the desired aims
selected. In one example, the folds of the drapery suggested that the figure of Jean de
Dinteville originally wore a codpiece; however, insufficient information existed to
indicate the form or extent of such a garment and so the existing dark folds of the
garment, seen in earlier restorations, were replaced. Similarly, restored areas on the
globe were retouched according to information from existing globes of the period.
Outlines of continents were added but lettering and any other specific information were
omitted. The skull posed a particular quandary, large losses in the jaw and the nasal
area distorted the anamorphic depiction; however, each skull differs slightly from
another, and the conservators did not have access to Holbein’s original skull.
Discussion centred around whether the right transformation of perspective could be
achieved and if not, whether viewers would accept an unfinished or generalised
approach to such a key area. Ultimately, extensive research using digital imaging
enabled the distorted form of the anamorphic depiction of a skull to be accurately
reproduced allowing the conservators to feel more confident that the principal
components of the skull could be accurately restored ( Figure 6.4).
Once the inpainting was complete, the picture was varnished with a dammar resin,
which, although it yellows slightly on ageing, was found after testing to be preferable to
Restoration 131
modern varnish alternatives that required a heavier less period-appropriate coating to

saturate the colours of the picture properly. A new frame, suitable to the period was made
and the picture displayed.
Figure 6.4 Hans Holbein painting: the ambassadors, following restoration. © The
National Gallery.
Information panels, publications, and television programmes explained the process of

conservation to the public as well as the judgements that the conservators had made.
Earlier restoration work created issues for this conservation project, but not all past
restorations needed to be removed. Close examination, analysis, and historical
perspective all provided important information to guide the decision-making process.
The reaction both to the restored image and to the careful conservation work was very
positive.
132 Restoration
6B Case Study: The Loch Glashan Satchel ( Lewis 2005a, Lewis

2005b)
In 1960, an artificial island (known as a crannog) formed of earth, timber, and stone and set
within a ring of timber piling was hastily excavated at Loch Glashan in Scotland. Conducted
over three-and-a-half weeks, the excavation took place in advance of the construction of a
dam that would submerge the site. Dating to the early medieval period (late 6th to 9th
century AD), the crannog was waterlogged. Pottery, stone, and wood artefacts were
recovered from it as well as 90 pieces of leather, including fragments that were interpreted
by the excavator, Jack Scott, as a jerkin. This interpretation stuck and after conservation
the jerkin was partially re-assembled and mounted on a mannequin for display whilst the
unattached fragments were stored. It was subsequently pictured in books describing early
medieval Scotland ( Alcock 2003). Scott died in 1999 and the site was not written up and
published until 2005 ( Crone and Campbell 2005). A re-examination of the finds, prompted
by the archaeologist/curator Colleen Batey, revealed that the re-assembled jerkin did not
make a convincing garment. Problems included the fact that the seams did not meet, there
was a questionably narrow waist, similarly narrow cuffs, an implausibly high neckline, and
the garment had creases in places that did not correspond with normal human wear.
Although the initial conservation in 1960 had preserved the leather, the fragments were
now stiff, dark, brittle, and glossy and there were clumpy deposits of wax on the surface.
Consequently, the object was removed from the mannequin, re-evaluated, and re-
conserved; a process complicated by the absence of the original conservation records.
Solvent tests indicated a wax was used in the initial conservation. A mercury II chloride
test suggested the wax was polyethylene glycol (PEG) ( Hoffman 1983) and thus water
soluble, although the molecular weight was unknown. All the fragments were recorded
on sheets of Melinex®, detailing creases, tears, and cuts. Based on the drawings and
careful study, it could be determined that:
• A fragment of a thong woven through a line of slits in the leather indicated how the
leather was fastened together.
• The presence of two lines of identical slits with a crease mark between showed
that the flat leather had been thonged together to create a 90 ° turn ( Figure 6.5).
• A number of pieces of leather had identical sequences of irregularly spaced lines of
slits – indicating that they had been cut and thonged together to join pieces of leather.
• When the pieces of leather were reassembled using this information, the object
formed by these pieces of leather was not a jerkin but a book satchel.
• The cockling and creasing of the leather corresponded with that normally seen on
a satchel. Damage, loss, and additional slits corresponded with the point a
carrying strap would have been attached to the sides.
• The cut end of the thong and worn state of the leather showed that at the end of its
life the object had been disassembled and was being used as scrap leather for
repairs (recycled).
Subsequently the leather was re-conserved; removing as much PEG as possible through
repeated soaking in water until PEG could no longer be detected. It was then treated with
20% glycerol in water and freeze-dried. After re-humidification, the pieces regained their
Restoration 133
natural shape, colour, and texture. They were stored as separate pieces and an
illustration of the restored form of the object was created to avoid the unnecessary strain
reassembly would have placed on the leather.
Books were very valuable in the early medieval period; they were viewed as containing
the word of God and took thousands of hours to create using rare and precious materials.
There were very few of them and they were vulnerable, especially to moisture. Books
were protected in satchels, such as the one from Loch Glashan, which could be hung from
projections on the walls of monastic cells for safety. Only three other satchels are known,
all from Ireland, but all are of 12th–15th-century date, making the Loch Glashan example
by far the oldest. At 370 × 370 × 15 – 120 mm it is the correct size to hold a gospel book,
such as the Book of Kells ( Meehan 2005). The satchel is also one of the earliest objects
from Britain associated with care and preservation of an historic and artistic work.
The initial function posited for the leather unintentionally biased the subsequent
observations and reconstruction. It stayed with the fragments until they were fully
reconsidered and re-conserved. Securing appropriate resources to fully research and
conserve dirty wet archaeological fragments retrieved from a brief excavation with very
limited stratigraphy can be challenging; however, the effort put into securing resources for
the conservation work enabled the leather to survive. The initial conservation treatment
was reversible, allowing the object to be reconsidered. This study highlights the
importance of careful investigation prior to the reconstruction of any object and the
need for good communication between the archaeologist and the conservator. It also
speaks to an increasingly prominent element of the conservator’s workload, the revisiting
and rethinking of past interventions.
Figure 6.5 The surviving Loch Glashan leather fragments and the reconstruction as a
satchel. Redrawn by Chris Caple from Lewis 2005b.
134 Restoration
Notes
1 The European Committee for Standardisation has developed and published Conservation of
cultural property – main general terms and definitions BS EN 15898:2019. These drew in part
on definitions given in the first edition of this book ( Caple 2000).
2 When restoration began again in 1821, strict rules were in place to better demarcate the two
( Milanesi 2013).
3 Terms such as ‘back-alley restorer’ were sometimes used to distinguish between those with
the knowledge and equipment to do the job properly (conservators) and those who did not.
4 ‘Floating sherds’ – sherds whose position could be guessed but that had no physical join to
the reassembled vessel used to be located in their approximate position within the fill. This
practice is carried out less frequently now.
5 The exception is where the value of the information recovered is seen to outweigh the value
of the metal in its final use state, such as in the case of Roman curse tablets and window
leads. The potential to extract inscriptions and dates from these objects means that they are
frequently unrolled and opened ( Dove 1981; Cunliffe 1988; Egan 2012).
6 For example, hide glue may be used to both make and repair a chair.
7 Substantial repair elements (such as a new leg on a chair) are often marked or dated to help
future conservators identify original materials, early repairs, and later restoration work.
8 Similar questions have been posed by others using alternate objects. For example, Chris
Caple approached the question by considering how the changes to his grandfather’s axe
might alter it over time (2000: 132). The issue of scale may mean that some objects are
impacted by multiple phases of restoration more rapidly than others. In a small object such
as an axe it may take considerably fewer modifications to alter the piece than it does in a
larger object such as a ship.
9 Such consultative practices honour the ‘artist’s intent’, which is protected by the Berne
Convention and in many countries by copyright law.
10 https://archeologie.culture.fr/lascaux/en/lascaux-ii-and-iii.
11 Lascaux III is a travelling exhibit that has toured the world and includes replicas of key
panels from the cave.
12 This is not an unusual role for replicas to play. The creation and sale of numerous replicas
and recreations of both smaller objects and scaled-down versions of larger objects provides a
source of income, identity, and awareness for many museums. Costs ranging from
inexpensive to very expensive relate to the accuracy of the replica and the materials and
manufacturing techniques used to make it.
7 Stabilisation
The Nature of Survival and Stability
Survival
The surviving remnants of the past represent the difference between everything that
has ever been created and everything that has subsequently decayed or been destroyed.
They have survived through two mechanisms:
• Accidental (unconscious) preservation: this occurs when the artefact (object,

image, building) is protected from destructive forces such as people or weather.
Although it reacts with the surrounding environment, the reactions occur slowly;
low decay rates can lead to the preservation of objects in their historic context.
Tutankhamun’s tomb and the artefacts in it were preserved through a fortuitous
accident. The debris and worker’s huts from later Ramesside tombs covered the
entry to the boy king’s tomb allowing it to pass out of memory and saving it from
the depredations of tomb robbers. Inside the tomb the dry environment and low
oxygen levels led to the preservation of a wide variety of organic materials as well
as metal, stone, and ceramic items.
• Deliberate (conscious) preservation: the artefact is deliberately preserved by
human action. Resources, including skilled and knowledgeable practitioners as
well as time, energy, and effort, are poured into shielding the artefact from
potential threats such as human beings, insects, wind, oxygen, and water. Such
efforts are normally made only to protect valuable or significant parts of the past.
The efforts expended are intended to make the object ‘stable’ in perpetuity.
Stability
One of the primary goals of conservation is to make materials stable where possible.
Stability is not an absolute state. An object is only stable relative to the environment in
which it is situated and over the period being considered.
• Environment: If a buried object has survived for hundreds or thousands of years,

it has reached (near) equilibrium with its surrounding burial environment. A
waterlogged boat may remain stable inside the saturated waterlogged soil for
centuries, bodies may be preserved intact for millennia in frozen ground or
glaciers. However, after excavation rapid changes in the environment surrounding
DOI: 10.4324/9781003009078-7
136 Stabilisation
the object can place this equilibrium in peril. Waterlogged wood will dry out,
warp, crack, and start to break apart within hours. In museum conditions, a
frozen body will quickly warm and decay. To ensure an object’s stability, it must
be at equilibrium with its new environment. Typically, the greater the difference
between the original environment and the new environment, the less stable an
object is likely to be and the more interventive stabilisation is likely to be. In
general, treatments seek to stabilise objects in typical museum display conditions.1
Many historically utilised materials have survived well in environments that were
often less benign than museum environments. In the 20th century we have
increasingly begun to utilise materials that are unstable. These include news-
papers, plastics, polymers, pigments, dyes, and even metals such as aluminium
(Quye and Williamson 1999; Shashoua 2008; Chemello et al. 2019).
• Time: Rapid decay, such as the drying out, cracking, and warping of waterlogged
wood, prompts a quick conservation response. Slow, long-term degradation, such
as the fading of coloured textiles, can often go unnoticed and unaddressed over
decades. As human being we are focused on change over short time intervals. We
notice changes that happen over the period of a few hours or a few days easily but
are poorer at noticing changes that occur over years. As museums and their
collections are designed to survive for centuries, conservators should consider
object survival over longer time frames; however, many economic decisions are
shaped by short-term fluctuations.
As we seek to make objects stable (for research, investigation, or public display) we

can either make the object stable with regard to the museum environment or adjust the
museum environment to support the object’s stability. Making the object stable to the
museum environment is typically referred to as interventive or remedial conservation,
adjusting the environment is referred to as preventive conservation (Chapter 8).
Interventive and preventive conservation can be seen as parts of a continuum; it is
possible to utilise one or the other or both to achieve the goal of a stable object.
Interventive conservation approaches have traditionally been used to make
archaeological, historical, and art objects stable. Recently greater use has been made
of targeted preservative environments for archaeological and historic artefacts such as
the low humidity storage of archaeological iron, the use of oxygen-free (anoxic)
conditions for the display of the US Declaration of Independence, Constitution and
Bill of Rights or the refrigerated storage of Őtzi (a Bronze Age man preserved in an
alpine glacier). The high costs associated with maintaining non-standard museum
environments to stabilise objects, especially for display, continue to limit the extent of
these approaches.
Objects that are stored or displayed outdoors are subject to more extreme chemical,
physical, and biological conditions than those in museums. Conservators frequently
respond by seeking to put more substantial protection in place for the object.
Interventive approaches may include the deliberate creation of protective patinas, the
removal of plants and biological growth, and the use of coatings. Preventive conser-
vation measures include the construction of shelters. Since most shelters and applied
coatings break down after a few years, maintenance programs, such as regular re-
painting, will be required to maintain stability. In some cases, such as that of the
Statue of Liberty (Case study 3 A), natural, partially protective patinas may be formed
naturally or created and maintained artificially.
Stabilisation 137
Change
In the case of an object buried in the soil, the rate of decay will initially be quite fast,
although it usually slows with time as it comes to equilibrium with its environment
(Dowman 1970). This is due to the build-up of the decay or corrosion layer at the
interface which slows the rate at which active chemical, biological agents diffuse
through this buffering layer. If the object does not reach equilibrium with its en-
vironment, it will continue to decay at an accelerated rate and will ultimately be lost.
When the object is disturbed (e.g. through excavation), the rate of decay will suddenly
increase until it eventually slows as it comes to equilibrium with its new storage en-
vironment (Figure 7.1). Again, if it fails to reach equilibrium with its new environ-
ment, decay will continue until the object is lost.
For objects that are in continual use, the process is slightly different. The object will
initially be stable but as time passes use wear will result in degradation including loss of
hardened or protective surface material or increased pressure as forces act on smaller areas.
Consequently, as reliability engineering has shown, the rate of degradation will increase as
small-scale damage is enlarged until there is either a catastrophic failure (Strlič et al. 2013:
83), or the object is conserved, and the rates of decay return to low levels to again climb
slowly with time (Figure 7.1). Similar decay curves have been suggested for the decay of
buildings. Brand (1994: 112) showed that reduced decay and lower costs were achieved
with regular maintenance, occasional maintenance led to higher decay rates and higher
costs, whilst no maintenance led to extremely high decay rates and the high costs of total
refurbishment. This is because buildings are not initially stable structures and are under
constant attack from the weather, which is an aggressive continual-use environment.
Eventually buildings become ruins slowly reaching equilibrium with the environment.
Archaeological Artefact Working Object
Decay Decay
Excavation Repair
Burial Use
Time Time
Figure 7.1 Decay rates for an excavated archaeological object (from Dowman 1970) and a
repaired continually working object, such as a clockwork mechanism. Chris Caple.
The Nature of Stabilisation

The cessation of decay processes (or more frequently their slowing to a minimal rate)
results in stabilisation. It requires that the cause(s) of decay and its mitigation be
identified. Any stabilisation, whether interventive or preventive, normally seeks to
retain the object’s present visual form so maintaining its historic, aesthetic, and cul-
tural values. Decay and stabilisation processes occur in three categories: biological,
chemical, and physical (Figure 7.2).
138 Stabilisation
Category Measure
Biological Immobilise organisms – reduce oxygen, water, light, temperature
Create barriers to organisms or reaction agents
Kill organisms – biocide, eliminate oxygen, water, impose
extreme temperatures, introduce predatory organism.
Chemical Remove reaction agents – water, light, oxygen, light, catalysts etc
Create barrier to reaction agents
Add agents to deactivate further decay
Physical Eliminate reaction agents – force, water, oxygen
Create barriers to reaction agents
Consolidate and support
Figure 7.2 Sources of decay and their mitigation. Chris Caple.
In the laboratory, the decay of individual materials can be accurately predicted

through dose-response relationships; however, in real-life multiple agents are involved,
creating a synergistic system where one decay process enhances another, leading to
accelerated rates of decay, which are difficult to model and predict (Pollard et al. 2004,
2006). Thus, the decay of waterlogged wood occurs through chemical decay,
hydrolysis of cellulose, and consumption of cellulose by micro-organisms (fungi or
bacteria depending on the environment) leading to a weakened structure, which is then
supported by water. The loss of the water (drying) causes physical damage in the form
of cell collapse and shrinkage of the cell walls (Cronyn 1990).
Biological
Stabilisation of biological decay processes can be achieved through the denial of
reaction agents essential for sustaining biological organisms. This includes placing an
insect-infested object in a freezer to deny the insects heat, which will kill them (Blyth
and Hillyer 1993; Carrlee 2003) or placing the object in an oxygen-free environment,
such as fumigating with nitrogen (Gilberg 1991), to deny the insects oxygen. In
modern-day conservation treatments, these denial mechanisms are preferred to using
fumigants, insecticides, and biocides,both because they are less interventive ways to
stabilise an object and because of health and safety concerns (for both conservators
and the public). Barriers, such as biobarrier materials to prevent root growth (Case
Study 1B: the Laetoli Footprints), may be effective over the short term, but as with all
barriers, given the risk of failure, checking and maintenance are advisable.
Chemical
Chemical decay, such as the corrosion of metals, can be stifled by removing one or
more of the agents of decay such as oxygen, water, or salts. Storing archaeological
metalwork with a desiccating agent, such as silica gel, denies water vapour to the
corrosion reaction, though reconditioning the silica gel is often required. In other
instances, metals may be given coatings, such as paints, to reduce or slow down the
Stabilisation 139
ingress of moisture. Light can initiate chemical changes in textiles, paper, and other
organic materials. Storage in the dark blocks the damaging effect of light (see
Figure 7.3). Plastics and rubber degrade via oxidation and may be stored in oxygen-
free environments to slow deterioration (Dyer et al. 2011; Shashoua 2008: 2014).
Almost all chemical reactions can be stifled by removing heat. As all chemical
reactions virtually halve their rate of reaction with every drop of 10 °C simply low-
ering the temperature will considerably slow reactions.
Chemically unstable materials, or materials that catalyse decay processes, such as
soluble salts or acids, can in some cases be removed from objects. A variety of tech-
niques have been developed to remove chlorides from corroding archaeological iron
(Watkinson 1996; Mardikian 2013; Watkinson and Rimmer 2014). Although elim-
inating the materials that promote or catalyse decay is desirable, it can be hard to fully
achieve in practice; however, in most cases their reduction can improve object
Figure 7.3 Light damage: the varnished wood has darkened through interaction with light,
except where it was shielded by decorative oval plaques. Emily Williams.
140 Stabilisation
stability. An alternate approach is to add chemical agents to the object to stop the
reaction. These agents often react with or block the most chemically active sites on the
object. Examples include adding antioxidants to organic consolidant systems to soak
up radicals and prevent their reaction (Bilz et al. 1993), the use of alkaline-buffering
agents to stop the acidic hydrolysis of the cellulose in paper (Smith 1987), using
benzotriazole to curb the copper-corrosion process (Brostoff 1995), and employing
DTPA to neutralise iron/sulfur salt formation in waterlogged wood (Pearson et al.
2018). The development of nanoparticles has added a new method of delivering
chemical agents to suppress chemical reactions (Baglioni et al. 2015).
Physical
Physical forces apply pressure to an object. Soluble salts present in porous materials,
such as ceramics, stone, or bone, may exert enormous pressure as they crystallise,
breaking up the structure of the material. Removing the soluble salts or controlling
factors, such as the temperature and humidity, so the soluble salts do not repeatedly
recrystallise can prevent damage. For a standing structure, a barrier, such as a damp
course, can prevent the access of soluble salts. The formation of ice crystals can also
damage porous materials. Background heating can prevent the freezing and ice for-
mation of some building stones. Physical damage may occur when objects are moved.
Creating a suitable box or container around an object can prevent impact and
vibrational damage, while physical supports can prevent the distortion of fragile
objects by gravitational forces. Such supports may include linings for oil paintings,
support cloths sewn to fragile textiles, mounting fragile paper prints on to a new paper
backing or armatures for heavy and unwieldy objects.
Fragile porous artefacts may also be strengthened physically by impregnating them
with a consolidant. Consolidants, normally liquids, permeate an object and solidify
providing cohesion and support. Whether they solidify by cooling (wax or solder), or
solvent evaporation (polymer solvent or aqueous systems), consolidants are difficult to
reverse; those which solidify through chemical reactions (epoxy resins or silanes) may
be impossible to reverse. Consequently, any consolidant used should be stable over the
long term, so that it will not degrade and harm the object later. The use of soluble
nylon in conservation serves as a useful cautionary tale with regards to consolidants.
First mentioned in the conservation literature in 1958, soluble nylon was rapidly
adopted and used on a wide range of materials, however, what was not initially
understood was that despite many other excellent properties, it cross-linked over time
resulting in darkened, obscured objects. In less than 23 years, conservators were
making the case against using it (Sease 1981) and it has now been abandoned,
although many museum objects remain irreversibly marked by it.
Treatments
To successfully treat an object, it is important to understand exactly what is degrading
it, the mechanism by which the degradation operates and the agents that cause the
process to continue. The more you know, the more options you have to stop the decay
without damaging the object or reducing its values. Many early conservation treat-
ments focused on the symptoms rather than a cure. They did not halt decay, they
merely delayed it for a while; eventually making the situation worse (see for example
Stabilisation 141
Case study 5 A: the Sistine Chapel ceiling or 6 A: The Ambassadors). Once decay
mechanisms were better understood, stabilisation techniques evolved. Today our
awareness of decay mechanisms suggests that more holistic approaches are required.
Where multiple agents create a complex synergistic effect, treatment can be chal-
lenging. It can be beneficial to combine several different stabilisation techniques; for
example, treating a copper alloy object with benzotriazole to chemically deactivate the
corrosion process, then coating the surface with ‘Incralac’, an acrylic copolymer that
reduces the rate of ingress of water and oxygen, and storing the object with silica-gel to
reduce water-vapour levels. While this may not represent a minimally interventive
approach, it ensures the object’s continued stability even if, despite one’s best efforts,
the surrounding environment changes and becomes less benign.
Stabilisation treatments can sometimes alter the visual form of an object; for ex-
ample, consolidation can darken a surface or make it overly glossy. It is important to
strike a balance between gaining a physically stable, robust object and the change in
visual appearance. Where the goal is to preserve the object unaltered because of its
importance as an historic document or the subtlety of its colouring, then consolidation
may not be appropriate, although the object remains at greater risk of physical
damage. Where the greater need is to preserve the whole form of the object for
informational or aesthetic purposes then it may be appropriate to consolidate.
Knowing which features or traits of the object are significant is important. It allows
judgement to be exercised and if necessary, permits less important features to be
sacrificed to ensure the survival of more important ones. Equally importantly, defining
the significant features can guide experimentation and the search for new stabilisation
methods that respect all the object’s values.
In searching for appropriate stabilisation treatments, be wary of making such
substantial interventive changes that you end up altering the very thing that you were
trying to save (Sanchez and Allen 1990). Equally if the object’s stability must be
maintained in a bespoke environment, there will be little benefit unless the object can
be accessed, displayed, and analysed when necessary. The balance between stabilisa-
tion and access presents challenges to objects that are to be stabilised and preserved in
situ.
Stability of Conservation Materials

Up to the 1970s conservation used a wide variety of commercially available polymers
as adhesives, coatings, and consolidants. However, as problems became apparent with
materials such as soluble nylon (Sease 1981; Bockhoff et al. 1984) it was clear that
long-term polymer degradation and cross-linking had not been fully appreciated.
There was an increasing awareness that the plastics industry’s concept of stable re-
ferred to a working life of a few years, and not the decades to centuries that conser-
vation requires. In 1978, Robert Feller categorised common conservation polymers by
a system of stability to light degradation based on the ISO R105 and BS 1006:1971
‘Blue Wool’ standards. He used a simplified classification system to define their sta-
bility (Feller 1978):
• Class A: Excellent stability with a stable working life of more than 100 years (e.g.
Paraloid B72) (Al > 500 years, A2 > 100 years).
142 Stabilisation
• Class B: Intermediate stability with a stable working life of 20–100 years (e.g.
Elvacite 2044).
• Class C: Unstable or fugitive with a stable working life of less than 20 years.
• Class T: Materials which should only be in temporary contact with an object
having a stable working life of less than 6 months.
The breakdown of a material is not a single event, but a gradual one. Polymers have
numerous different breakdown stages; an epoxy resin may yellow with age, although it
may still adhere strongly. Thus, the critical factor may not be the onset of change. As
ageing progresses, the polymer normally breaks down rendering it inadequate for the
function for which it was intended. Protective coatings may begin to fail, rendering
objects more susceptible to corrosion and other forms of damage while adhesive
failure may potentially cause physical damage as fragments detach and fall. A final
point that some polymers may reach is the point where their breakdown products
begin to promote degradation in the object itself. Hanssen-Bauer (1996) has empha-
sised the need to be more aware of these stages. Some materials are better as con-
servation materials since their failure does not harm the object, whilst other materials,
initially resistant to breakdown, have damaging breakdown products, such as the
hydrochloric acid gas given off by degrading PVC. Thus, a profile of the breakdown
pathways and resulting products is ideally needed to accurately judge the appropri-
ateness of any conservation material for use.
Although many adhesives, varnishes, and consolidants have been tested for use in
conservation (Down 2015), barriers remain to both the testing of materials and the
development of new materials appropriate to conservation needs:
• There is no well-funded central agency to undertake testing.

• Tests carried out in different labs and with different setups may produce different
results, making interpretation difficult (Green and Thickett 1993; Green and
Thickett 1995; Korenberg et al. 2018).
• The range of parameters for which stability could be tested is enormous.
• The commercial nature of many products means that manufacturers can (and do)
vary the exact formulation of products. They also contain additives such as
detergents and plasticisers which make potentially stable products unstable.
• As an industry conservation remains small and it can be difficult to support the
creation of new materials suited to its need. Testing is expensive and there is no
funding for such work.
• There are problems with accelerated ageing, the traditionally used method of
testing for shorter times at higher temperatures. Both Down (1995) and Bilz and
Grattan (1996) found problems using the Arrhenius equation to extrapolate back
from higher temperature experiments to normal storage and display temperatures.
The need for stable materials in conservation is not limited to adhesives, coatings, and
varnishes but also extends to display and storage materials as well. Rapid tarnishing of
silver by materials releasing sulphurous gasses and the corrosion of lead by materials
that gave off volatile organic compounds (VOCs), led Andrew Oddy of the British
Museum to develop a simple test for materials intended for use in museum displays
and storage (Oddy 1973; 1975). These ‘Oddy Tests’ have been subsequently developed,
refined, and expanded (Blackshaw and Daniels 1979; Green 1991; Green and Thickett
Stabilisation 143
1993; Lee and Thickett 1996 Korenberg et al. 2018). Additional tests can be used to
augment the Oddy test and provide a more comprehensive series of tests for material
stability (Lee and Thickett 1996).2 Though many products have been tested, there are
always new ones to be assessed and the frequent reformulation of products by com-
mercial companies demands constant retesting of ‘safe’ materials.
Conservators have an ethical responsibility to ensure that materials used in con-
servation, as well as for the display and storage of objects, are stable and will not cause
harm to objects over time (Ganiaris and Sully 1998). Larger museums may have staff
who are dedicated to materials testing, however many smaller museums do not and are
reliant on past experience and reports of successful tests from other institutions.3 This
situation is not necessarily problematic if staff at these museums understand the
limitations of the tests and how to interpret them. Museum exhibits have become
shorter in length due to concerns about light exposure and the desire to attract and
retain visitors. This compression places burdens on staff and can lead to shorter
planning cycles as well as pressure to reduce exhibit costs. In this environment, the
lead time needed to test materials is often consumed4 and institutions may rely on
previously used materials or opt to take risks and use less stable materials for short-
term exhibits. This type of calculation may work well until circumstances, such as
unexpected postponements, staff changes, global pandemics, or insufficient funding,
mean that rotations are delayed. It remains important to record what materials are
used in the conservation and storage of objects so that unstable materials/products can
be identified and their use stopped and encourage research as well publication of
material tests.
Assessing Stabilisation Effectiveness

Analysing conservation records and conducting condition assessments of treated and
untreated artefacts allow the effectiveness of treatments to be established (Ganiaris
et al. 1982; Paterakis and Hickey-Friedman 2011). In practice, few treatments or storage
conditions have yet been described in terms of their statistical ‘likelihood of achieving
stability’ (Keene and Orton 1985; Keene 1994; Rimmer et al. 2013). This is partly due to
missing or incomplete conservation records and frequent gaps in the environmental data
for storage, which often results in insufficient data on which to form an accurate
assessment. Gaps highlight the need to create and retain accurate, detailed conservation
records and records of storage conditions,5 and to consider stability with reference to the
specified timescale. As reversing past treatments and re-conserving objects is becoming
an increasingly large part of the conservator’s workload (Pye 2001, 135; Caple and
Garlick 2020) the need for assessing the efficacy of stabilisation efforts over the long
term is rising.
Conservators are becoming increasingly aware of the full costs of conservation
processes and are seeking to achieve stable artefacts in a more sustainable manner.
Although the term sustainability is increasingly being associated with environmental
practices such as reducing energy consumption, managing waste and how we procure
materials it is fundamentally a cost-benefit equation.
• What is needed to keep the object stable?

• What is the cost?
• Is that cost something society is prepared to pay?
144 Stabilisation
To ensure the stability of objects and collections over a period of 100 years or more,
the timeframe Feller suggested conservators should think in, requires ecologically
sustainable approaches that incorporate long-term funding solutions, decision-making
processes that focus on the big picture rather than short-term objectives and work
practices that can be maintained. Achieving this will include:
• Using a balance of interventive conservation stabilising treatment and the

preventive conservation conditions to create the most long-term sustainable
situation for each object.
• Looking critically at the lives of objects to determine where, when, and why
stability has (or has not) been achieved and using these factors as a basis for
improving care. This process can prove challenging because many factors may be
at play (synergy) and there should be a commitment to engage with the process
holistically rather than to simply find the easy answer. It is simple to say that an
object has become unstable because of a change in RH but it is only when all the
root causes for that change are examined that a sustainable solution can be
identified.
• Establishing the actual cost of keeping objects stable over decades and critically
assessing this against the value(s) society places on them. Extending this further
and considering how these costs may impact the potential to achieve sustainable
solutions for other objects adds a level of complexity to the equation. However, it
is important to also factor in the potential for the values associated with the object
to change over time.
When Stabilisation Is Not Possible

There are circumstances where it can be difficult to stabilise the object either by in-
terventive or preventive means. These include:
• Those situations where the objects or monuments are exposed to the weather and/
or it is not possible to move it.
• Those instances where the object and the materials from which it is made are
inherently unstable. Examples include some 20th-century plastics such as cellulose
nitrate film.
• Where there is insufficient money to fund stabilisation or environmental control
e.g. for large complex collections, large objects, buildings, machines, or even
landscapes as well as for some archaeological materials.
• Where a religious or cultural object is in active use and that use is causing damage.
• Situations where the object is threatened by conflict.
In some cases, decay can be minimised by providing some form of shelter as at the
neolithic site at Çatalhöyük (Atalay et al. 2010), or a regular cleaning and mainte-
nance regime as at the Forth Road Bridge (Case Study 9 A) or reburial for monuments
preserved in situ, as in the case of the palaeolithic footprints at Laetoli (Case Study 1B).
In other cases, it is simply not possible to preserve the object for the long term. It may
therefore be most appropriate to carefully record the object and to make a replica
of it (Chapter 6). An example where this approach was taken is the stone pillar at
Eliseg6 (Watkinson 1982).
Stabilisation 145
7A Case Study: Lindow Man 7 ( Stead et al. 1986; Turner and Scaife
1995; Omar et al. 1989; Joy and Farley 2019; Daniel 2019)
Lindow Moss is a 30-hectare (74 acre) peat deposit located near Wilmslow in Cheshire.
In August 1984, two men working on the peat-processing machinery discovered a
severed human foot. Excavation by the Cheshire County archaeologist in the area where
the peat had been cut, several months earlier, revealed additional human remains
belonging to a single individual (initially referred to as Lindow II and later as Lindow Man).
They were removed on a block of peat and sent to Macclesfield District Hospital.
Following the removal of samples for radiocarbon dating and further careful excavation
and packing, the peat block was placed in the hospital mortuary cold store.
Following confirmation from the radiocarbon dates that the remains probably came
from the late Iron Age/early Roman period, they were sent to the British Museum for
excavation and investigation. The body was stored at 4 °C to prevent microbial growth. It
was X-rayed to aid the excavation, which commenced using water jets, brushes, plastic,
and wood tools to gently remove the peat from the body; no sharp or hard implements
were used that could damage the fragile skin. Regularly sprayed with distilled water to
keep it damp, the body temperature was monitored and every time it rose to 10–12 °C
excavation was stopped and the body re-cooled. To minimise the temperature, the
number of people around the excavation was kept to a minimum and ‘cold lights’ were
used for filming the process. The body, which had originally been found in a slumped
face-down position, had been packed with peat and turned on its back during the
lifting process. Consequently, the front was now visible and was fully exposed and
cleaned.
An exact mould was made of the front using cling film followed by a layer of water-
activated fibreglass tape and layers of fibreglass and resin. These layers set hard
enabling the body to be turned and the back cleaned. Subsequently a mould of the back
was made using fibreglass and, with the two pieces of rigid mould bolted together, the
remains could be safely moved for further investigation. Conventional X-radiography,
computer aided tomography, and nuclear magnetic resonance imaging were used to
image the internal features of the body. The body also underwent endoscopic
examination and samples were removed for analysis.
The excavation and analysis revealed that:
• Due to the damage from the peat cutting, only the upper half of the body was
present together with the left foot. There was considerable damage to the hands
and lower arms.
• The body was naked apart from a small band of fox fur on the upper arm.
• The body was that of a strong, well-built man around 25 years old and 5′6″ tall. His
beard and moustache had been carefully trimmed with shears (indicated by the
stepped pattern on the cuts) and the smooth ends of his fingernails suggested that
he did not undertake manual labour, implying that he was a member of a religious
or secular elite.
146 Stabilisation
• The stomach contents indicated a last meal of unleavened bread, such as a

griddle cake, containing heather-charcoal fragments from the cooking. He drank
water with traces of ‘sphagnum’ suggesting that his last meal was prepared and
eaten near a bog or moss, such as the one in which he was sacrificed. The
presence of small amounts of mistletoe pollen, the sacred plant of Druids, may
suggest some religious rite associated with the last meal.
• He had several wounds:
• Two blows from a blunt axe on the crown of the head probably administered
when the victim was in the kneeling position. These would have rendered him
unconscious.
• A blow from a blunt instrument to the occipital region of the skull.
• A broken rib consistent with a blow to the chest.
• A sharp deep cut to the throat, which severed the jugular vein.
• A short two-strand ligature was found around his neck. The ligature, made
of animal sinew, was knotted at both ends and had an overhand knot
securing it tightly around the victim’s neck. Although the ends of the ligature
were quite short and thus would have been difficult to use to strangle the
victim, they could have acted as a garrotte where the ligature was tightened
with a stick, constricting the windpipe, and breaking the neck. Damage to
the third and fourth cervical vertebrae were consistent with this form of
execution. From this evidence, it appears likely that blows were delivered to
the victim’s head to render him unconscious, then he was garrotted
(breaking his neck and probably a rib in the effort), and finally his jugular
vein was cut to induce a spurt or stream of blood.
• From the excavation, it is clear that after being killed, the individual was dumped
into the pool of boggy water in the middle of Lindow Moss.
• Radiocarbon dating of parts of the body by different laboratories gave dates
between 2 BC and 119 AD. The practice of depositing bodies in bogs appears to
have been most prevalent in North-West Europe circa 800 BC to 200 AD. The fact
that a number of bodies have similar strangulation and stab wounds suggests that
many were ritually killed.
The body was preserved by being quickly buried in the anoxic (oxygen-free) waterlogged
deposits of the bog. Chemicals such as sphagnan (5-keto-D-mannuronic acid) present in
the sphagnum moss of the bog have a variety of preservative, antiseptic, collagen-
stabilising actions ( Painter 1995).
When bog bodies or any waterlogged skin or leather is allowed to dry out naturally, they
harden, shrink, crack, lose all strength, and often fall apart. Consequently, it is necessary
to stabilise such materials if they are to be retained for future research and display. Prior to
Stabilisation 147
the recovery of Lindow Man, no bog bodies had been recently conserved, though bog
bodies recovered earlier in the century had received a variety of treatments:
• Grauballe Man (Denmark) discovered in 1952 ( Glob 1969) was conserved by

tanning through soaking in a slurry of oak bark which was refreshed three times
during the 18-month submersion. This was followed by immersion in Turkey red oil
and gradual drying and impregnation with a mixture of glycerol, lanolin, and cod
liver oil. Some areas were additionally consolidated using cellulose nitrate
dissolved in ethanol and diethyl ether.
• Tollund Man (Denmark) discovered in 1950 ( Glob 1969) was soaked in a solution
of formaldehyde and acetic acid for six months, then in a solution of 30% ethanol
followed by 99% pure ethanol with toluene, pure toluene, and then toluene
containing increasingly high concentrations of wax.
To conserve Lindow Man, experiments were undertaken using freeze-drying, a

conservation technique that is used for preserving waterlogged archaeological leather
and wood. Conservators practised on pieces of pigskin, which had been packed in peat
for several months. The best results were obtained by pretreating the pigskin in a solution
of polyethylene glycol 400 (PEG 400) and then freeze-drying. Accordingly, Lindow Man
was attached to a Perspex support, immersed in 15% PEG 400 for 10 weeks, then frozen
to −28 °C and freeze-dried. After slow acclimatisation to room temperature and humidity,
it was clear that Lindow Man had been successfully conserved with only slight shrinkage
(1.4–4.5%). The skin had lightened and stiffened slightly, although it remained flexible.
The body was otherwise quite stable with no hardening, cracking, or odour. To increase
the long-term stability of Lindow Man’s remains, they were placed in an air-conditioned
showcase to ensure a stable temperature and relative humidity (53–58% was achieved).
It was recommended that the body be displayed at reduced light levels (<100 lux).
Subsequently, where slight cracking was observed, surface applications of a PEG 400
solution were employed, increasing flexibility, and removing the cracking ( Daniel
2019: 60).
The body has been on permanent exhibit in the British Museum since 1986 except for
three loans to the Manchester Museum (the closest major museum to the find site) in
1987, 1991, and 2008–2009. Over time the body has become noticeably lighter. Light
monitoring, in March 1990, showed occasional readings of up to 1200 lux due to light
spillage from nearby skylights and spotlights. Repositioning the case, using a canopy,
and covering the case with a cloth when not on public display reduced light levels to
average weekly levels of 40–129 lux. Since 1997, a new case facing into a corner has
further reduced average weekly light levels to 30–50 lux. Experiments have shown that
some of the lightening of the skin is likely due to photochemical damage, however, the
loss of PEG from the surface and changes in the surface texture are also significant
factors ( Daniel 2019: 65).
It is now clear that at least three individuals were ritually killed and deposited in Lindow
Moss in the late Iron Age/early Roman period. In 1983, a woman’s head (Lindow I) was
148 Stabilisation
found. In 1987, 70 pieces of a male body (Lindow III) were uncovered from Lindow Moss.
In 1988, the buttocks and left leg of a male were retrieved, very close to the site where
Lindow Man was recovered and are believed to belong to Lindow Man. 8 These deposits
appear to be part of a long-lived cult of human sacrifice in watery places; only those
deposited in the preservative environment of bogs have survived.
The treatment of human remains reflects the cultural norms of a society. In Northwest
Europe, prior to 1950 bog bodies were normally reburied in Christian cemeteries,
reflecting the dominant cultural beliefs and practices of the era. By the 1950s, when
Tollund Man was unearthed, the significance of the antiquity of these bodies was
becoming appreciated, as was the value of scientific investigation, and an archaeologist
and not the local priest was contacted to deal with these remains. Subsequently many
bog bodies have been conserved and put on display in the museums of Northwest
Europe.
Human remains are frequently popular displays for the public; Lindow Man’s body has
remained one of the most visited exhibits in the Iron Age galleries (visitor numbers and
enquiries) over the last 30 years ( Joy and Farley 2019). However, the display of human
bodies remains a subject of debate within the academic and museum professions
( Giesen 2013), and human remains are increasingly located in spaces where visitors
must make a conscious decision to see them, often behind offset entry points that
highlight what the visitor will see if they choose to enter the space.
Discussions of the treatment of human remain often centre around questions of
respect ( Cassmann et al. 2007; Balachandran 2009; Antoine and Taylor 2014; Science
Museum Group 2018). However, respect is socially constructed and contingent on many
factors. What may be respectful at one time or in one culture may not be in another. If we
impose a single approach to all such remains, are we in fact disrespectful to some? Thus,
decisions to rebury human remains and bog bodies in Christian burial grounds in the 19th
and early 20th century might have been deemed respectful by those who were doing the
burying but, if it had been possible to consult them, might have been viewed as very
disrespectful by those being buried, particularly if they did not share a Christian
worldview. In Ireland where, active peat cutting continues, recent bog body finds have
prompted the establishment of the National Museum of Ireland’s Bog Body Tissue
Samples Bank, formalising the basis on which such specimens are stored, investigated,
and held ( Mullhall 2020). Similarly, there is an Ancient Egyptian Mummy Tissue Bank at
the Manchester Museum ( Lambert-Zazulak 2000; David 2008). Such tissue banks
speak to the importance our society places on scientific research. While the banks are
run according to strict protocols aimed at incorporating respectful treatment, there is a
growing discussion about the ethics of sampling and the violence inherent in such an
approach. Such discussion stems in part from past colonial engagements with human
remains which aimed to prove racialised theory using techniques such as craniometrics
and physiognomy. Even the use of terminology is being questioned. The term mummy,
most frequently applied to Ancient Egyptian remains but also frequently used in the
context of bog bodies ( Ogilvie 2020), has been critiqued for its objectification of
the deceased individual ( Abd al Gawad et al. 2020; Parent 2021; Artifact lab 2021).
Stabilisation 149
The importance of stabilisation remains a key tenet of these discussions but approaches
to stabilising and presenting human remains will continue to be shaped not simply by
what is chemically feasible but also by the social engagement with this topic.
7B Case Study: The H.L. Hunley ( Mardikian 2004; Smith 2016;

Rivera and Scafuri 2017)
In 1863, the submarine H.L. Hunley was constructed in Mobile, Alabama. A tube made of
3/8′′ (10 mm) thick steel plates riveted onto a steel frame and pinched shut at either end,
the submarine was just 39′5′′ (12 m) long, 4′3′′ (1.3 m) tall, and 4′6′′ (1.37 m) wide. It had
two short conning towers of cast iron with glass portholes for observation, each had a
hatch that closed on a rubber gasket forming a watertight seal. A simple rudder and bow
planes allowed the vessel to be steered by the captain who stood looking out of the
forward conning tower. A hand crank turned by seven seated crew members drove a
screw propeller, achieving speeds of up to 4 knots. Iron weights beneath the keel,
attached with screws, helped keep the vessel submerged. Ballast tanks, filled with water
or air, controlled buoyancy. Attached to the submarine’s base was a 22 ft (6.7 m) long
spar at the end of which was a copper canister (torpedo) containing 135 lbs of
gunpowder, which could be pushed against the hull of a ship where it would explode
on contact or be detonated from the submarine.
After sinking twice during trials, killing members of the crew, the Hunley slipped quietly
away from a quayside on Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina on February 17, 1864, to
attack the USS Housatonic, part of the Union blockade of Charleston Harbour ( Hicks and
Kropf 2002). The charge detonated and sank the Housatonic, but the Hunley was not
seen again. In 1995, the wreck was located by the National Underwater Maritime Agency
(NUMA) funded by author Clive Cussler. In the following years the ownership of the
submarine, and which Federal or State agency should oversee the recovery and display
of its remains, was disputed. Eventually a joint arrangement was reached; title to the
wreck lay with the Federal government while the State of South Carolina would control
the Hunley’s recovery and interpretation (under the aegis of the Hunley Commission).
Work to excavate the submarine was undertaken by the National Park Service
(Underwater Archaeology Branch) and South Carolina Institute of Archaeology and
Anthropology (SCIAA) culminating with the submarine’s raising on August 8, 2000.
The hull was largely filled with silt, within which were believed to be the remains of the
crew as well as associated artefacts. Therefore, the decision was made to recover the
submarine intact from the seabed and undertake controlled excavation in the laboratory.
As the Hunley was slowly exposed from the surrounding silt, slings suspended from a
steel framework (truss) were run beneath the vessel to retain its 45 ° list. When totally
free of the seabed, the submarine secure in its truss was craned onto a barge that
transported it to the Warren Lasch Conservation Centre, at the former Charleston
Harbour Naval yard, where it was placed in a 90,000-gallon filled with water. Throughout
150 Stabilisation
the journey the submarine was sprayed with water to keep it wet and prevent the marine
corrosion crust from drying out and cracking off, which would accelerate the corrosion
process.
The conservation, currently being undertaken by Clemson University, supported by
funds raised by the Hunley Commission and the Friends of the Hunley, has three phases:
excavation of the contents, removal of the bulky external corrosion products, and
desalination to remove the harmful chloride minerals that catalyse iron corrosion. Once
this work is completed, the submarine will be dried out and placed on permanent display.
Limiting corrosion during the first two phases was paramount. So that the Hunley did not
continue to corrode in the tank of water, an impressed current cathodic protection system
was used. The object served as the cathode and long anodes connected to an external
power supply, ran alongside it to suppress corrosion. The impressed current system also
protected the steel truss in which the wreck remained suspended. Further safeguards to
reduce decay included chilling the water in the tank to 10 °C and passing it through filters
so that it did not support microbial life and remained clear so visitors could see the
Hunley.
The excavation of the submarine’s interior commenced in February 2001. Three plates
were removed from the top of the hull, providing entry for archaeologists and enabling the
sediment to be safely removed. Removing the plates required drilling out several
hundred rivets, but it was the only way to gain safe access. Later a fourth plate was
removed so the whole vessel could be cleared. Archaeologists and conservators working
together slowly excavated the remains of the eight sailors who manned the vessel and
following analysis of their remains, they were reburied with full military honours. Over
1500 artefacts were recovered from the vessel’s interior. The excavation process
involved block lifting areas of sediment (49 in total) to recover the remains of the sailors’
clothing. As the excavation proceeded the positions of all the artefacts and bones were
measured in 3D prior to their removal, in the hope that their distribution would shed light
on the fate of the Hunley and its crew. Many specialists were involved in the conservation
and analysis work. To prevent active corrosion, the corroded metal crust surface was
kept wet through the long days of excavation and the cathodically protected vessel was
covered in water each night.
After excavation, the hull was laser-scanned to create a virtual 3D model that was
employed to assess its strength using finite element analysis ( Blouin et al. 2010). With
11 tons of sediment and the keel ballast blocks removed, it was deemed safe to rotate the
hull in its slings slowly over the course of three days. In 2014, removal of the outer
corrosion crust, which was over an inch (25 mm) thick in places, began. Pneumatic
chisels and hand tools were used to reveal the original iron plates beneath. Throughout
this process, the marine crust was wetted so it did not uncontrollably crack and restart the
corrosion. Initially, the crust along the seam lines was removed to facilitate study of the
construction techniques. Removal of both the interior and exterior crusts took many
months to complete ( Figure 7.4).
Stabilisation 151
Figure 7.4 The Hunley during the de-concretion process. Friends of the Hunley.
Perhaps the greatest challenge facing the conservation team was how to stabilise the
iron of the submarine after its 135-year soak in the chloride-rich environment of
Charleston Harbor. Iron attracts chlorides when it is buried, and these chlorides
contribute to and accelerate corrosion processes. The impressed current was not a
long-term solution for stabilising the Hunley. Chloride removal was necessary and to this
end the team investigated the efficacy of traditional desalination techniques ( Mardikian
et al. 2010) and developed new methods such as the use of sub-critical fluids 9 ( Drews
et al. 2013; Näsänen et al. 2013). In addition to the stabilisation of the submarine itself
the variety of materials recovered from its interior required the use of unusual
conservation methods, such as freeze-drying highly degraded textiles from ice blocks
( Peacock 2005) and employing supercritical fluids to stabilise waterlogged cork ( Drews
et al. 2010).
To desalinate the metal, the fresh water and cathodic protection system has been
replaced and the tank filled with a bath of sodium hydroxide. Testing showed that soaking
in this solution was the most effective and feasible way to safely lower the chloride levels,
diffusing them into the sodium hydroxide solution ( Mardikian et al. 2009). Although the
use of sub-critical fluids was extremely promising, it could not be scaled up to treat
something the size of a submarine economically. It will take years of soaking and many
solution changes to reduce the chloride levels, but it is not realistic to presume that they
can be completely eliminated. Although plans for the final display of the submarine are
still being developed it will most likely be displayed in a very low RH environment to
minimise the risk of corrosion resuming. The already conserved contents also require
very stable conditions for storage, prompting the creation of dedicated, air-conditioned,
steel-walled storage units, one for metals (20%RH), the other for organics (45%RH ±5%)
( Rivera 2017) inside the Warren Lasch Conservation Centre.
152 Stabilisation
The care taken with the conservation of the H.L. Hunley contrasts with earlier, less
successful experiences conserving iron vessels.
• In 1956, USS Cairo, the first of the ‘City’ class ironclad gunboats which secured
the Mississippi and Ohio rivers for the Union in the American Civil War, was found
in the mud of the Yazoo River. Beginning in 1960, numerous well-preserved
artefacts were recovered from the ship, including the pilothouse, and an 8-inch
cannon. In 1964 the state authorities attempted to raise the hull of the vessel.
Without an accurate appreciation of its fragility or the stress of the lifting process,
the steel lifting cables sliced into the hull spilling the contents of the vessel into the
river. She was subsequently cut into three sections and efforts were made to
preserve and store her iron and timber elements. Corrosion, weather, and
vandalism took a toll on the remains, which have now been incorporated into a
part replica/part restoration in the Vicksburg National Military Park, which is under
shelter but not enclosed ( Bearss 1980).
• Holland I, the first Royal Navy submarine entered service in 1901 and sank in the
English Channel in 1913 whilst being towed to the breakers yard. Located in 1981
it was raised by commercial salvage contractors and Royal Navy divers without
any significant conservation input. The vessel was treated as a working object
( Chapter 9) by engineers who made it look like an old working submarine. The hull
was cut into three sections to facilitate its transport to the Royal Navy Submarine
Museum, Gosport where it was ‘restored’. The three pieces were welded back
together, some corroded parts were discarded, parts from other submarines were
added, and replica pieces were made. No records were made or kept. The hull
and internal machinery were painted, a doorway was cut into the side of the vessel
to allow the public to enter, and it was displayed outside. The failure to stabilise the
iron vessel meant that it quickly re-corroded and by 1995 analysis showed that;
the sheet metal had thinned, the rivet heads had largely corroded away, there was
deep crevice corrosion and overall, it was in a fragile state, too weak to be moved.
Consequently, to conserve it, a tank was constructed around it, and it was
immersed in an aqueous sodium carbonate solution to stabilise the corroding iron.
The solution was replaced five times. In 1999, the chloride levels were generally
found to be below 40 ppm, and the next phase of the project began. The sodium
carbonate treatment was removed, the vessel was dried and cleaned and most of
the interior was painted white as it would have been in use, the exterior was given
a wax sealant coating and a building constructed around it. A dehumidification
system maintains approximately 30% RH in the building ( Patterson et al. 2002;
Mealings 2009).
What has been important to the success of the Hunley outcome has been the focus on
stabilisation throughout and the recognition that stability is not a single point. It alters
throughout the course of an object’s recovery, treatment and eventual display and
requires continual assessment. For some objects, it is more easily achieved, while for
others, such as the Hunley or the Mary Rose (Case Study 4B), the pursuit of stability is
complicated by the size, economic factors, aspects, and the factors, such as chlorides,
that are causing deterioration in the first place.
Stabilisation 153
Notes
1 Typical museum conditions are often understood to be 18–22 °C, 40–60% RH, 50–1000 lux,
and 20% oxygen (MGC 1998a).
2 Examples include the Azide ( Daniel and Ward 1982), Beilstein ( Williams 1986), Iodide-
Iodate ( Zhang et al. 1994), Chromotropic ( Zhang et al. 1994), Surface and Aqueous Extract
pH tests (BS 2924: 1983), as well as chromatographic techniques ( Stephens et al. 2018).
3 Results of Oddy testing can be found at: https://www.conservation-wiki.com/wiki/Materials_
Testing_Results
4 An Oddy test takes 28 days to complete and if the material fails, additional time is needed to
identify a new material and test it.
5 The move from paper to digital records over the last 30 years has resulted in the need to
digitise and transfer paper conservation records onto interrogatable digital databases. This
has still to happen or be completed for many institutions. The closure of conservation lab-
oratories and museums makes access to their conservation records even more difficult.
6 Believed to be the shaft of a 9th-century cross, the pillar was inscribed in Latin with the
pedigree of the Kings of Powys, a Welsh kingdom, and set on a Bronze Age barrow. The
pillar was broken up in the English Civil War and then reerected in 1779. Due to the extent of
weathering, the importance of the pillar’s placement relative to the barrow, and the near
illegibility of the inscription, a mould was made, and a replica cast as a record. The pillar itself
was left in situ.
7 We recognise that viewing human remains is troubling for some and accordingly we have
chosen not to include an image of Lindow man. If you are unfamiliar with him and would
look to seek out an image, they can be found in any of the publications cited for this case
study or on the internet.
8 Were this a marble statue, such elements would probably be rejoined. This is not seen as
necessary or appropriate in this instance.
9 Fluids where the application pressure and temperature are elevated significantly to optimise
their performance.
8 Preventive Conservation and Storage
Preventive Conservation 1
Preventive conservation encompasses ‘all measures and actions aimed at avoiding and
minimising future deterioration or loss … These measures and actions are indirect –
they do not interfere with the materials and structures of the items. They do not
modify their appearance’ (ICOM-CC 2009). Preventive conservation actions include
environmental management (light, humidity, pollution, and pest control), risk man-
agement (emergency planning, staff training, security, developing museum procedures
for registering, handling, packing, and transporting objects), and legal protection of
sites or collections.
The human need to surround oneself with objects and to interact with them poses
risks for the objects and considerable research has centred around the resultant need
to define ‘safe’ parameters for storage and display conditions that support low rates of
decay (Thomson 1978; Knell 1994; Roy and Smith 1994; Caple 2011a; Staniforth
2013). Historical examples of object care can be found in the treasuries built to store
historic objects in ancient Greece and Japan and protect them from earthquake, fire,
and weather (Caple 2011) and in the elaborate housekeeping procedures that devel-
oped to protect objects housed in castles and country estates during the early modern
period. As scientific investigation turned to the analysis of artefacts in the late 18th
and early 19th centuries, studies focused on mitigating the effects of light and pollu-
tion (Lambert 2014). Museums began to adopt the use of air-conditioning as early as
1908 when a system was installed in the Museum of Fine Art in Boston to maintain a
range of 55–60% relative humidity. The Cleveland Museum of Art installed heating
and humidification in 1915 with the aim of maintaining 50–55% RH. Attempts to
protect national collections during the two world wars confirmed the importance of
considering relative humidity when safeguarding collections. During World War I,
many items from the British Museum collection were stored in Holborn’s under-
ground railway tunnels. The end of the war revealed that mould damage and corro-
sion had resulted from the high relative humidity and poor airflow in the tunnels.
Preparations to safeguard collections during World War II placed greater emphasis on
relative humidity. The British Museum collections were moved to the Bath stone
quarry at Westwood, where many months of preparation including sealing the porous
limestone walls and installing a refrigerant dehumidification system had achieved a
stable RH. Similarly, the National Gallery stored their collections in specially con-
structed buildings within the huge caverns of the Manod slate quarry in North Wales.
Heating the air in the buildings to 63 °F (17 °C) enabled a near constant RH of 58% to
DOI: 10.4324/9781003009078-8
Preventive Conservation and Storage 155
be achieved. An epidemic of blistering paint and other forms of instability when
collections were returned to their less environmentally stable museums placed tre-
mendous focus on the importance of RH control in collections care in the years fol-
lowing World War II and created a desire for clear environmental standards to
minimise damage (Davies and Rawlins 1946; Haynes 1993; Lambert 2014) (Case study
8 A: Neil Armstrong’s spacesuit).
The publication of Gary Thomson’s influential book The Museum Environment in
1978 was an attempt to define such standards in scientific terms and to bring them
together into a coherent form. Thomson articulated the case for establishing appro-
priate environmental conditions based on the museum’s climate zone, identifying
bands within which artefacts might be safely stored and monitoring environments to
ensure that the desired conditions were attained. His recommendations were rapidly
adopted and were widely implemented throughout the museum world. Monitoring
environmental conditions, a process greatly aided by the increasing availability and
affordability of computers and digital monitoring devices from the 1990s on, became a
commonplace museum task.
Unfortunately, although the notion of environmental standards gained acceptance,
in seeking to demonstrate their level of care and concern for their objects, museums
began to specify increasingly narrow levels of light, RH and temperature for the loan
of their objects. These new ‘ideal’ standards were problematic for a number of reasons.
Frequently they could not be accurately monitored, let alone achieved (Ashley-Smith
et al. 1994). Although national museums often specified very tight parameters for
loaning collections to other museums, few of the national collections could reliably
and consistently meet such standards themselves and increasingly environmental
standards became viewed as an exclusionary control mechanism rather than a pres-
ervation tool. The conditions frequently promulgated – 50% RH ± 5% and 20–22 °C
(70 ° F ± 2 °) – were only attainable for portions of the year in a small temperate band
(largely restricted to Northern Europe) or through the extensive use of climate control
(HVAC-heating ventilation and air conditioning) and for collections acclimatised to
drier or more tropical conditions they could prove damaging (Agrawal 1981).
Additionally, maintaining non-fluctuating year-round temperatures and humidities
was increasingly shown to be impractical given the varieties of buildings that collec-
tions are housed in, the budgetary constraints of museums and the variable numbers
of visitors who frequent museums. As the realities of climate change and the demand
for sustainable solutions for storage and display have become more pressing, con-
servators have increasingly embraced the need to reexamine and reformulate such
standards (Rhyl-Svendsen et al. 2010; ICOM-CC 2014).
Ideal Museum Standards

Reflective of a mid-20th century belief that science could provide hard and fast an-
swers and technology could provide solutions, the conventional late 20th-century
approach to museum environmental conditions has been to set single ‘ideal’ standards
and if these cannot be achieved specify ‘compromised’ or ‘relaxed’ conditions (gen-
erally understood as 40–60% RH). The further the actual conditions diverged from the
‘ideal’ standards the greater the resultant damage was held to be (Michalski 2007).
Establishing ‘ideal’ standards, hard and fast values, makes life easier for all those
involved with protecting collections – curators, registrars, architects, engineers, and
conservators. Such standards give us single points against which we can measure our
successes and generate the metrics that administrators and funders often require and
value. They also provide shared reference points that facilitate the quick indoctrina-
tion of new members of the profession; it is much easier to learn a single formula than
to wrestle with all the contingent factors that might be at play. Frequently to make
such standards work we must overlook outliers and adopt an approach that puts the
needs of the many over the needs of the few. For example, although it is well docu-
mented that archaeological iron is vulnerable to corrosion at relative humidity above
12% (Turgoose 1982; Watkinson and Lewis 2005; Watkinson et al. 2019), the choices
for many museums are to display such objects at ambient or potentially ideal museum
conditions (40–60% RH), segregate them from the rest of the collections both in
storage and on display (potentially limiting their interpretive value) or integrate them
with other collections but display them in expensive and often visually intrusive mi-
croclimates. The latter choice while safest can be hard to justify given the aesthetic and
monetary values associated with corroded iron, and many museums adopt the former
path, accepting the need for repeated interventions (treatments) to address outbreaks
of active corrosion, while implementing preventive approaches elsewhere.
Every conservator must judge how close to the ideal they can/should achieve. How
stable (and costly) should conditions be? The stability of archaeological metals is
determined by the reactivity of the most unstable mineral in the corrosion crust. In
practice and depending on the site from which they are retrieved, archaeological
metals may contain greater or fewer unstable mineral species. Additionally, the
unstable mineral may be locked in a dense corrosion crust, often with limited per-
meable to water vapour. Thus, in practice, corroded archaeological objects may
survive well over shorter timescales at relative humidities above the ideal levels
(Watkinson et al. 2019). The balance of how low an RH the museum can achieve and
maintain against cost and time remains a matter of judgement for the conservator
(Thunberg et al. 2021). Experiments achieving stability for archaeological metals using
anoxic environments have proved promising (Mathias et al. 2004) although issues such
as the permeability of the polymers and seals to oxygen and the capacity of oxygen
absorbers to achieve 0% have not been fully tested (Dyer et al. 2011). It remains
difficult to measure low values of oxygen and testing over long periods of time have
not reported results.
Risk Management
Work carried out in the early 1990s at the Canadian Conservation Institute (CCI) and
at the Smithsonian Institution tested some of assumptions underlying the establish-
ment of tight RH parameters. The work demonstrated that RH cycling in the mid-
range (40–60% RH) does not damage most objects (Michalski 1993; Erhardt and
Mecklenburg 1994); however, extremely high, or low RH may lead to direct damage,
especially in the case of stressed, jointed, or composite objects. Costain (1994),
Michalski (1994), Waller (1995), and others also found that museums were becoming
concerned about RH and were spending limited resources on increasingly accurate
ways to monitor RH rather than ensuring they had adequate fire alarms and smoke
detectors. Consequently, these researchers advocated a more holistic approach to
threats to collections based on the principle of risk assessment. Risk assessment
promotes an objective evaluation of risk in which risks are identified, their potential
consequences and the probability of occurrence are weighed, and ways to mitigate or
reduce probability are identified and implemented.
The ten risks to collections were identified as:
• Physical forces – these range from earthquake damage to dropping an object.

• Criminal activity – including object theft of objects and vandalism.
• Fire – damage may occur from direct combustion or the effects of smoke.
• Water – including floods but also rising damp and sprays from fighting fires.
• Pests – insects such as wood boring beetles and cloths moths, also moulds, fungi,
and rodents.
• Pollutants – gases and dust, from degrading display and storage materials or from
the wider environment i.e. road pollution and industrial waste.
• Light – damage, such as fading and embrittlement, may occur due to both UV and
visible light.
• Incorrect Temperature – heat can cause thermal expansion and softening even
melting of waxes and polymers. Cold can lead to condensation, shrinkage,
cracking, and the embrittlement of polymers. It is important to note that the
greatest risk caused by temperature lies in its relationship to relative humidity.
• Incorrect RH (Relative Humidity) – high RH leads to biological activity such as
mould growth, encourages insects and exacerbates metal corrosion. Low RH can
lead to shrinkage and cracking of organic materials.
• Custodial neglect – including the loss of objects or records.
All the environmental factors mentioned above will lead to the loss of objects when
extended over long periods of time e.g. 100 years, although some factors (such as fire)
may result in more immediate loss. We can therefore see that loss may be associated
with three types of events:
• Catastrophic events (rare), such as fire and flood, these are combatted by reducing
risk and being prepared for such occasions – emergency (disaster) plans.
• Severe events (occasional) – such as insect infestation and dropping an object,
these are combatted through developing good collections management.
• Gradual change (continual) – such as light damage, pollution, and RH fluctua-
tions, these are combatted by monitoring and control.
It is essential to compile factual evidence about actual damage and loss to gain an
accurate picture of the greatest threats to the collection and the most appropriate
mitigation strategies. For example, a study by Peek (2011) examining theft in Dutch
museums found that the theft of Old Master paintings was low (despite the enthusiasm
with which the press highlighted each case) and that the potential of recovery was
high, whereas the theft of books and manuscripts was much higher and the potential
of recovery low. In Peek’s study, the risk of internal theft was shown to be higher than
that of external theft, suggesting that organisational controls such as staff training,
collections registration, staff screening, controlled access, and bag checks may all be
important to implement especially in collections with small, portable objects that are
not well recorded.
Some risks can be mitigated with simple, no-cost approaches, whereas others may
require much more expensive approaches (such as the installation of sprinkler systems
for fire suppression). The severity of the threat may vary greatly depending on whether
objects are on display, in storage or in transit. Additionally, it is important to
remember that threats do not act in isolation, one or more may combine and this may
magnify their impact. Collecting and sharing data allows museums to assess the
potential of the risk, the nature of the threats, and the most appropriate responses to
them. This process allows every museum, from a small volunteer-run institution to a
large national museum to identify how it can best enhance its procedures and focus its
resources to reduce the risk of harm to its collections.
Risk assessments can be carried out quite simply, such as assessing the impact and
likelihood (1–5 scales) for the risks associated with different agents of deterioration
and comparing them to a series of possible mitigation options (including doing
nothing) or RAG ratings2 allow clear visual representations of the risks to be created.
Such approaches can provide clear visual information and serve as justifications for
action (Garside et al. 2018). Alternatively, risk assessments can be very detailed
(Ashley-Smith 1999; Waller 2003) and may become specific even to the level of indi-
vidual objects and audiences (Pretzel 2000, Michalski 1997). Such assessments may
require considerable teamwork to accomplish successfully. Administrative buy-in,
staff support from multiple departments (conservation, curatorial, maintenance,
security), and on-going financial commitment are all necessary. Very few museums
have the analytical and/or staff resources to engage in a full and detailed risk
assessment but any organisation can undertake a basic risk assessment.
Risks change with time, sometimes creating opportunities and sometimes exposing
new threats. Risk assessment is a cyclical process rather than a one-off one.
Monitoring risk has contributed to changes in collections care in many areas,
including the following:
• Thinking about balancing light exposure and access has led to new practices.
Greater appreciation of the difficulty that older visitors have in perceiving object
details at low light levels (Michalski 1997) has led to a move away from simple
maxima light levels to the use of annual exposure limits of 100,000 lux hours (for
the most sensitive materials) or 450,000 lux hours (for moderately sensitive
materials). Such limits permit the planning of shorter displays at higher light levels
but may mean that a greater number of objects receive light exposure on an
annual basis. New technological advances have reduced risk. For example,
Thomson’s initial limit for UV radiation – 75 microwatts per lumen (Thomson
1978) – was set in response to the capabilities of incandescent lights available in
the 1970s. However, the current availability and use of LED lights and UV filters
means that much lower levels of <10 microwatts per lumen can now be achieved
(Bickersteth 2014).
• Concerns about chemical use have led to a reduction in the use of fumigants and
insecticides. Insect pests are now normally monitored and managed through
housekeeping regimes, quarantines, and integrated pest management rather
than periodic mass extermination. Such approaches reduce the risks to the
collection and the risk, through fumigant and insecticide toxicity, to the
conservator and others (Child and Pinniger 1994) but may not be as lethal
for the pests themselves, allowing pest populations to flourish. Additionally,
monitoring and housekeeping routines are vulnerable to staff change, economic
cuts, and institutional mission creep.
• Warming temperatures have meant that pests are now being found in places that
they were not previously found (Xavier-Rowe et al. 2018).
• The increasing dependence on blockbuster exhibits and the constant movement of
objects between museums around the world for exhibitions poses risks. Examining
the shock experienced at each point in the transportation process using triaxial
accelerometers has shown how vulnerable objects are to damage during transport.
Preventive measures from careful handling to using air ride suspension vehicles
and trollies have reduced shock levels (Kamba et al. 2008) as has the development
and widespread use of impact-resistant packing cases that can be climate
controlled (Mecklenburg and Merrill 1997; Marcon 2011).
• Vibration during building work has been recognised as a potential collection
threat resulting in increased monitoring (Johnson et al. 2013). Mitigation
measures include removing the most vibration susceptible objects (those with
old adhesive joints) and agreeing protocols with construction companies for
actions, such as cessation of activity, when specific trigger levels are measured.
Vibrations greater than 13 mm/sec are responsible for cracking plaster (Johnson
et al. 2013) therefore a threshold level of 3 mm/sec was used for the cessation of
activity during construction at Liverpool Museums in 2011 (Wei et al. 2018).
• Dust threatens many objects. Dust levels are often related to visitor activity
(Lloyd et al. 2002) and are an inevitable consequence of display, especially open
display Air filtration has often been considered necessary to make significant
reductions in dust particle levels. Such filtration is often present as part of HVAC
systems; systems which may be an unjustifiable and unsustainable cost for most
historic houses and smaller museums. However, active monitoring of relative dust
levels can identify dust sources (which can be removed) and identify the dustiest
locations (where the nature of floor coverings and cleaning schedules can be
adjusted to minimise dust levels).
• The role of gaseous pollutants in the degradation of objects is better understood
and has expanded from concerns about the high concentrations of sulphurous
gases to a broader understanding of the impact of nitrogen oxides (from cars) and
volatile organic compounds (from case materials, paints, adhesives, and furnish-
ings) and improvements have been made in detecting and reducing individual
gases in museum environments (Tetreault 2003; Thickett 2018; Smendemark et al.
2020). Where additional work remains to be done is on understanding the
synergistic impacts of pollutants (Thickett 2018).
• Longitudinal studies of how climate change has altered rainfall patterns and
placed more historic properties at jeopardy of flooding have led the National
Trust and English Heritage to subtly alter historic buildings by changing roofing
specifications and installing larger capacity gutters and downspouts (Street 2008;
Watson 2008).
Disaster Planning and Response

Loss often triggers improvements in collections care. A series of high-profile and
costly disasters in the late 1980s and early 1990s including the Hampton Court fire
(1986), Uppark House fire (1989), Hurricane Hugo (1989), the Loma Prieta
Earthquake (1989), and Winsor Castle fire (1992) prompted efforts to ensure that all
museums, galleries, and historic houses had disaster plans and disaster response teams.
Disaster plans detail the procedures to be followed in the event of a disaster together
with appropriate building plans, information, suppliers’ addresses, etc. Disaster
response teams comprise trained individuals who enact both disaster mitigation
measures aimed at preventing emergency situations from escalating3 and response
measures once the disaster has occurred (Keene 1996). Disaster response teams may be
formed at the institutional level or at an organisational level (such as The National
Parks Service Incident Management Teams), or regional and national level (such as
the Alliance for Response initiative in the United States and the American Institute for
Conservation’s National Heritage Responders program). Despite concerted interna-
tional efforts to ensure that museums draft disaster plans many small and volunteer-
run museums still do not have them. A survey of American institutions found that
while 85% of large and medium museums had disaster plans only 45% of smaller
institutions did and only 24% of all museums have both a plan and staff trained to
carry it out (IMLS 2019). These numbers are not unique to America and many
museums continue to have work to do in this area as the risk of collections damage
from severe weather and climate change continues to increase.
Storage
As part of museum collections, objects have both financial and cultural value which
depend on many factors including rarity, informational content, source, artist, and
relevance to a community or place (Cane 2009). The purpose of storage is to retain
objects as a source of information without diminishing their value for education and
display. To do this, we seek to minimise change and to preserve them as near as
possible to their present condition. At its simplest, putting a chair in an attic may store
it for the future ensuring that it is both preserved and readily retrievable. However,
storage is not static. Eventually the attic roof may leak or pests may find harbourage
and a useful food source there. It is, therefore, helpful to think of storage as a con-
tinuum – a series of measures taken to increase protection. A series of increasingly
protective and useful levels of storage can be defined, which may be considered in
three levels each of which consists of one or more steps (Figure 8.1):
BASIC Storage
• Initially objects are gathered together (collected) in a safe place, normally a room
or building, to prevent their loss, deliberate damage, or disposal.
Basic storage can be improved when
• Every object is given a unique identifier (catalogued) and a written record of

information about the object is made. The more information that is captured and the
more widely it is communicated (through a database, publication, or website) the
more accessible the object will be enabling a wide range of people to be aware of it.
GOOD (Standard)
• The collections are categorised by type or location and stored together to aid
object and information recovery.
• The collections are housed providing some protection against physical and
environmental damage. Large objects may be covered while smaller objects are
boxed. Such measures reduce handling and physical damage to objects, insulate
the object against changes in temperature and humidity and reduce accessibility
for insect pests. Objects are placed on shelves or on pallets to lift them above the
floor surface and the risk of flood damage. Security measures such as locked doors
reduce the risk of theft.
BEST (Superior)
• The collections are in environmentally controlled storage which is monitored

and maintained. Objects are stored in specialised conditions with regard to their
material composition e.g. archaeological ironwork is stored at low humidities to
prevent further corrosion or photograph negatives are stored at low tempera-
tures. Archival/inert storage materials are used. Many objects, especially fragile
ones, will have specially made supports that provide high levels of physical
support and protection. Objects are stored in specific locations that are
numbered (building, room, aisle, bay, shelf, box) and marked on the museum
object record.
Figure 8.1 Levels of storage. Chris Caple.
This incremental approach of moving from ‘Basic’ to ‘Best Practice’ corresponds with
the desires of museum staff to improve the care of their collections. Similar ap-
proaches have been advocated by the Museum and Galleries Commission (1998b),
Re:source (2002) and the Collections Trust (2018) to guide and encourage improve-
ments in museum storage. Many countries have also established standards to promote
collections care. In the UK, one of the first national standards was for archives. BS
5454 Recommendations for the storage and exhibition of archival documents was first
issued in 1977 and revised in 1989 and 2000. In 2012 it was replaced by BSI (British
Standards Institute), PD 5454:2012 Guide for the Storage and Exhibition of Archival
Materials. Subsequently the BSI has issued over 40 (in 2020) British and European
standards on specific topics associated with ‘conservation of cultural heritage’, many
of which relate to preventive conservation, such as BS EN 16893:2018 Conservation of
Cultural Heritage – Specifications for location, construction and modification of build-
ings or rooms intended for the storage or use of heritage collections. The frequent
revision of these standards indicates that this is a subject where rapid development and
change is occurring. To achieve these preventive conservation measures, museums
require trained staff to monitor and enact mitigation measures.
Condition Surveys
Recognising that the stability of the object is a function of its materials and its sur-
rounding environment, it is appropriate to survey museum storage and the objects
therein to assess how stable the objects are, how well the museum’s store is func-
tioning, and what improvements (if any) are needed (Walker and Bacon 1987; Keene
1991, Keene 2002). Collection surveys are typically based on the premise that the
condition of the collection can be ascertained by taking a representative sample and
recording data on the objects’ conditions and the nature of the storage. Using a series
of standardised categories allows for statistical analysis and these can be maximised
when specific criteria are assessed numerically (Sully and Suenson-Taylor 1996;
Wellman 2010). The resulting data facilitates decision-making regarding which actions
may need to be taken to maintain or improve the storage and how best to deploy
limited resources to ensure the greatest positive result.
Effective collection surveys are designed around key questions and careful selection
of the questions posed and the categories of information collected allow the infor-
mation produced to be maximised. Questions may be as simple as ‘have the conditions
in storage materially changed in the last ten years’ or they may be more complex such
as ‘given the conditions in storage, should a small number of objects be stored well or
a larger number of objects be stored at a more basic level?’ In 1994, faced with the
large amounts of archaeological iron and the eternal question of which to treat first,
the National Museum of Wales paired a condition assessment and curatorial assess-
ment (grading the object in terms of its research importance and display potential) to
determine the priority for conservation and storage resources (Dollery 1994). This
approach ensured that objects that were likely to degrade but had high archaeological
value were given conservation treatment first, while stable objects of little archaeo-
logical value were treated later.
Although condition surveys have been critiqued as lacking objectivity (Taylor
2013; Taylor 2017), these limitations can be minimised. Standardising and defining
terms, ensuring that a limited number of trained assessors carry out the process and
that all assessors are initially trained or ‘calibrated’ on a control group of objects so
that they all record the same in the condition issues the same way helps to minimise
‘surveyor bias’.
Effective condition surveys, particularly in large collections, take time to carry out
and require a serious allocation of resources. Time spent in assessing the results of past
surveys and in the careful set-up of the new survey can help to ensure that the data
produced is optimised and that there is broad institutional buy-in. Although surveys
can produce very valuable information, caution should be exercised about over-
interpreting results, especially between surveys. Financial resources frequently limit
the extent to which all the findings of a survey can be carried out; however, the greater
the time since the survey, the more potential for change within the collection there is
and the greater possibility that what was once a viable solution may no longer be
sufficient. Ideally, surveys should be repeated on a periodic basis, but careful thought
must be given to how much time should elapse between each survey given the
resource-intensive nature of carrying out surveys.
Although a survey allows one to understand the problems facing a collection, a
number of subsequent stages are needed in order to effect change. These include:
• Determining a solution – in some cases the solution may be obvious, such as the
need to replace non-archival storage materials, but in other cases it may be more
complicated and may require working with engineers and others to figure out.
• Gaining resources – this may include reallocation of existing budget lines if the
solution is relatively cost-effective, recruiting volunteers, or even lengthy grant
writing.
• Implementing the solution
• Monitoring the solution to ensure it is working – this may require a new or follow-
up survey. In such a case it is important to consider whether the survey needs to
revisit all the objects surveyed initially or just a sub sample.
• Ensure the solution is maintained – this step, while seemingly the easiest, can be
one of the hardest to ensure as priorities shift, and new problems are identified
elsewhere in the collection.
In practice, storage conditions (and solutions) are greatly influenced by the limitations
on the museum’s resources; the need to have easy access to objects at minimal costs
often means retaining the existing storage systems even when that means potentially
maintaining sub-optimal storage. A survey of the storage conditions for archaeolog-
ical ironwork in the museums in the northeast of England in 2006–2007, revealed that
more than 50% had no environmental control (Harder 2007).
Sustainable Storage
Bringing objects into a museum collection, cataloguing them, and providing storage
materials and facilities is costly. Storage costs include:
• Building and Environment: rent, rates (local taxes), services, security, mainte-
nance, heating, cleaning, environmental monitoring, and control.4
• Materials: storage boxes, acid-free tissue, shelving, purpose-made supports,
computers, or cards for recording.
• Time: curator to catalogue; museum assistant, volunteer, or conservator to store;
curator or museum assistant to retrieve object when required.
The costs of collecting and storage are appreciable (Lord et al. 1989), the higher the
object’s value the greater the extent to which the benefits of storage outweigh the costs.
Storage costs are easily justified for valuable objects such as ‘old-master’ paintings;
however, in the case of lower value or less aesthetically pleasing objects, collections
managers may need to work harder to secure funds. Archaeological collections can be
particularly problematic as finds are constantly being deposited by commercial
archaeology companies (CRM) resulting from work done in advance of development.
The large number of objects found on sites can put enormous pressure on collecting
institutions and repositories (Swain 2010). Increasingly, repositories have instituted
‘box fees’ to offset the cost of storage. The downside of such approaches is that they
promote no-collection policies and can result in only a limited selection of ‘special’
finds being deposited rather than the whole assemblage, impacting our ability to go
back and reinterrogate the site. The high cost of storage has also led to the exploration
of reburial or in-situ preservation schemes (Case study 1B: the Laetoli Trackway) and
the recording of objects (Means 2017), especially larger ones, rather than collecting.
While these alternatives may have lower initial costs there are issues of long-term
sustainability to consider. Reburial initiatives require careful thought and work to
ensure that they are not merely object dumps. They also need long term-measures to
ensure that the area is protected, and the site is monitored. Recording also incurs
costs. Physical records need storage, while digital records must be stored and peri-
odically migrated to ensure that they remain accessible. As recording techniques have
become increasingly sensitive the size of the files that they produce has increased as
have the costs of storing those digital files.
Museums are becoming more aware of the full costs of storage and are seeking to
stabilise artefacts in more sustainable ways. It is increasingly clear that to balance
appropriate storage and display environments with economical sustainability means:
• Adopting broad RH and temperature limits and allowing seasonal fluctuations.

• Maintaining only a small number of objects in tighter but more costly environ-
mental conditions.
• Conducting effective, accurate, detailed monitoring over the long term and
evaluating its results.
For museums and archives in urban areas achieving this balance may also mean
increasing the distance between storage and display or accepting limitations in access.
DeepStore, located in a former salt mine in Cheshire, and Iron Mountain’s
‘Underground’ facility (situated in a limestone mine) offer long-term storage solutions
that take advantage of the stable environmental conditions at such sites although ease
of access is sacrificed.5
8A Case Study: Neil Armstrong’s Spacesuit ( Baker and McManus

1992; Savage 2019; Young and Avino 2013; Young and Young
2001)
Spacesuits seem like they should be indestructible. They are made of the
highest-tech modern materials and are built to withstand the harshest environ-
ments, including temperatures ranging from −150 °C to 120 °C. They are
modern marvels of engineering designed to keep their wearer safe for a single
mission; built up from over 20 layers of synthetic polymers and natural rubbers
they contain complex internal structures that permitted the astronauts to
breathe oxygen, eat drink, void waste, and regulated their body temperature
as well. What they were not designed for was long-term preservation in a
museum environment. As early as the manufacturer’s testing and design
phases, oxidisation of the neoprene and natural rubber blends that make up
parts of the suits was noted. Because of the time pressures imposed by
America’s race for space, stop gap measures were introduced which were
designed to extend the life of these materials beyond the planned usage time
(typically reckoned to be six months).
In March 1967, an agreement between the National Aeronautics and Space
Administration (NASA) and the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum
(NASM) gave the museum first refusal on items retired from service in the
space agency. In the years that followed, spacesuits sporadically entered the
museum’s collections, along with other space-related hardware and equip-
ment. Divided into two categories, ‘flown’ suits (those which had been used on
a mission) and ‘training’ suits (those used in training and simulations), the
spacesuits were initially loaned and displayed without much thought to their
long-term preservation. The newness of the materials and the suits themselves
meant that little experience of the ways in which they might deteriorate had
been built up and in the absence of this experience it was difficult to build an
effective preventive conservation strategy.
As early as 1978 damage was noted in the spacesuit collection, during a
museum-wide inventory. At this point, loans of the most significant and iconic
spacesuits began to be limited and a refrigerated ‘Bally Box’ storage unit was
commissioned at NASM. The unit was designed to maintain a storage
environment of 45% RH and 41 °F (5 °C) and represented a ‘best guess’ at
appropriate storage based on existing information about the ageing of rubber.
In the period between 1980 and 2000, the suits in this storage continued to
show signs of deterioration as did those on display and it became apparent that
other factors were at work. In particular, it was noted that the Polyvinyl chloride
(PVC) tubing used for the life support hoses showed signs of advanced
deterioration including stickiness and it had changed from clear to dark brown.
Additionally, it was causing staining to neighbouring materials. Rubber com-
ponents were seen to be brittle and flaking or oozing and distorted while the
aluminised fabric of the Mercury program spacesuits was changing colours.
Other issues that were noted were distortions resulting from inadequate
support, patchy discolouration due to uneven light when on display and in
several cases (including Neil Armstrong’s suit) potential damage from alkaline
cement dust that was used to create a ‘lunar landscape’ in two display cases
that exhibited materials from the Apollo 11 and Apollo 17 missions. The cement
dust had penetrated the weave of the fabric and was suspected of contributing
to the flaking of the outer layers of the material.
In March 2000, NASM initiated a major research project, with support from
the Save America’s Treasures grant program, designed to document the
current condition of all the spacesuits, undertake research into the causes
and mechanisms of deterioration of the suits, design and test storage systems
and produce guidelines and standards for the handling, storage, and display of
spacesuits both at NASM and at those institutions to which it loaned items. The
project revisited the question of refrigerated storage but also considered issues
relating to the size of physical storage, the types of cabinets used, the support
of the suits, and the nature of pollutants to which they were exposed. The
recommendations produced stipulated that spacesuits should be maintained at
temperatures between 63 and 65 °F (17–18.5 °C). This very tight window is
necessary because below 60 °F (15.5 °C) rubber may begin to crystallise while
over 68 °F (20 °C) there was a greater likely that mould spores and fungal
colonies could grow on the suits. It was recommended that the RH be
maintained at or below 35%. Light levels should be limited to 100 lux and UV
exposure should be minimal. It was recommended that handling be kept to a
minimum as it has a high potential to cause damage due to the weight and
awkwardness of the suits as well as the presence of lunar dust on the lunar
suits. The dust, which consists of sharp, angular pieces of silica and other
minerals, is highly abrasive and can tear and cut the fabric of the cloth. Finally,
pollutants such as sulphur dioxide, nitrogen dioxide, carbon dioxide, and ozone
should be monitored and removed. The Bally box was altered to meet these
new specifications and filtration systems were put in place to remove pollutants
and the suits were supported on purpose-built trays that allowed them to be
moved without manipulating the suit itself.
The decision to put Neil Armstong’s suit on display both for the 2019
commemoration of the lunar landing and in the Destination Moon exhibit
planned as part of NASM’s multi-year transformation, posed many issues for
conservators. As perhaps, the most iconic space-related item the suit has
tremendous emotional value to visitors. It was on continuous display between
1973 and 2001, when the difficult decision to take it off view was made to
ensure its preservation. How could it be best presented to the public without
causing further damage to it? NASM launched a $500,000 Kickstarter cam-
paign entitled ‘Reboot the Suit’ 6 designed to study this problem and raise
awareness about the preservation issues that modern materials and spacesuits
in particular face. Headed by Lisa Young, who had led the earlier Save
America’s Treasure grant-funded research and had continued to work with
the space collection in the intervening years, the project aimed to conserve,
digitise, and display the suit. Scanning the suit using 3D scanning, CT scans,
and other visualisation techniques allowed the conservators to better under-
stand aspects of the suit, document all the stitch holes, repairs and coatings,
and tailor solutions to the suit’s unique measurements. The scans also serve as
a reference point against which further change and deterioration can be
measured and created a resource that the Smithsonian has made available
worldwide for use in classrooms and other educational facilities.
Designing the support system for the suit was a major challenge. The suit,
which weighs 45lbs (20.4 kg), was made to Armstrong’s measurements
although it has shrunk slightly as the materials have aged. Given the deterio-
ration of the PVC and other materials that has already occurred, it was
important that the mannequin push the suit out gently enough to provide
support but not push it out hard enough to cause additional damage.
Additionally, unlike clothing that can be draped over a mannequin, the
mannequin used for the space suit would have to be assembled inside the
spacesuit using the limited access provided at the arms, feet, and neck. A
lightweight aluminium structure that could be clicked together and could rotate
at key points was designed using a Computer Aided Design (CAD) program and
then 3D printed. This skeleton was then padded to the exact specifications
needed at each point in the suit using an inert polyethylene foam covered with
an archival textile to keep the foam from catching on the interior. Since
attaching the boots, gloves, and helmets to their original attachment fittings
creates a closed environment that allows the degradation products of the
various plastics and acids to build up inside the suit and accelerate damage,
new mounts needed to be created that allowed air movement. To further
promote airflow through the suit, external air hoses connect to the suit and
pump fresh, filtered air into the suit allowing the air inside to exchange with that
in the case every three days. The case was equipped with mechanical systems
that maintain the tight temperature and RH standards achieved in storage and
permit the air to be scrubbed and all pollutants removed.
The careful accretion of knowledge about how best to store and display these
complex and highly vulnerable objects will hopefully ensure the preservation of
the spacesuits for many decades yet to come and allow NASM to continue to
share these inspirational objects. Although the engineering involved in both
their manufacture and preservation remains a key element of their presenta-
tion, it was important to the conservators and curators that they convey the
humanity of the individuals wearing the suits. Therefore, in building the
mannequin and support structure emphasis was given to creating ‘movement’
and a sense of Armstrong taking his ‘giant leap for mankind’ rather than a static
display. The project was further humanised by the hundreds of press interviews
and appearances that Lisa Young has given over the last 20 years and the
enthusiastic way in which she has conveyed the importance of preventive
approaches for this material. These public engagements have highlighted not
only the marvellous engineering of this American icon but also its fragility and
the research and care needed to ensure that it continues to inspire future
generations ( Figure 8.2).
Figure 8.2 Image created by the National Air and Space Museum to raise awareness
and support for the conservation of Neil Armstrong’s Apollo 11 spacesuit.
National Air and Space Museum of the Smithsonian Institution.
8B Case Study: Brodsworth Hall ( Allfrey 1999; Allfrey and Xavier

Rowe 2012)
Between 1976 and 1979, the National Trust for Historic Preservation 7 commissioned studies
of one of their newly acquired properties, Drayton Hall, to help them determine how best to
preserve it. The house, recognised as one of the finest Southern plantation houses was built
between 1738 and 1742, had survived hurricanes, earthquakes, and the American Civil War
and had entered the 20th century largely unmodified although economic downturns meant
that some architectural features and the house’s contents had been removed (Drayton Hall
Preservation Trust 2018). At the end of these studies the decision was made to stabilise the
property ‘as found’ without restoring or altering it. Highly controversial at the time ( George
1984) this decision has gone on to influence the preservation of other houses, including, in
the UK, Calke Abbey (1985), Brodsworth Hall (1990), Mr. Straw’s House (1990), and
Tyntesfield (2002), and Rouse Hill House in Australia (1999). 8 These ‘time capsule’ houses,
complete with their contents, recorded not only the decorative schemes of the period of their
construction, but also their role as homes and the decline these properties suffered during
the 20th century. The decision to preserve the buildings and contents and display them
unrestored, recognised that up to this point almost all historic houses had been restored to a
particular period; invariably the principal period of the decorative scheme of the house and
that consequently the story of the decline of the English Country house and the ‘lived-in’
quality of such houses had not been told 9 ( Figure 8.3).
Figure 8.3 Unused furniture and other items stored in an upstairs servant’s room in
Brodsworth Hall (English Heritage). Chris Caple.
Brodsworth Hall is a country house with nearly 60 rooms located in South

Yorkshire. It was constructed, decorated, and initially furnished in 1861–1863.
It is a typical Victorian English historic house, but after World War I its owners
lacked the income from the dwindling estate to pay for the large staff required
to run the house. 10 Consequently, they shut up rooms and failed to fully
maintain the rest ( Carr-Whitworth 2009). Crucially the family stopped redec-
orating and remodelling rooms in the latest fashion, as their predecessors had.
This meant that what they inherited survived largely intact, decaying gently with
just a few modern conveniences such as electric lights and heaters added to
make the rooms in which they lived habitable. When acquired by English
Heritage in 1990 Brodsworth was described as ‘the most complete surviving
example of a Victorian country house in England’. For curators working on the
project the opportunity to ‘stop the clock’ was exciting and it was felt that the
Tupperware in the kitchen was as important to the story of the place as the old
master paintings in the dining room.
The decision to conserve a building ‘as found’ and the logistics of doing it are not the
same. At Brodsworth Hall, the building was suffering from subsidence, water was coming
in from the roof, there was rising damp from blocked drains and rotting timbers. There
were active pest infestations, mould was rife, and many fragile objects were falling apart
under their own weight or from the pressure of other object heaped upon them. Paint was
flaking off walls and objects, and light-damaged textiles were turning to dust. On the back
stairs, the pink Sienna marbled paintwork appeared dull orange-brown due to aged,
discoloured varnish. Following an extensive recording process, all the contents (over
17,000 objects) were removed while major structural repairs were undertaken, and a new
roof put on the building. Meanwhile the objects were cleaned and conserved. Throughout
this work care was taken to maintain the ‘as found’ appearance. Preventive conservation
steps included freezing (down to −30 °C) to kill larvae as well as insects, although where
necessary (upholstered furniture) some fumigation was used ( Berkouwer and Church
1993). Because it is not advisable to leave dust on objects, 11 damaging moulds, dirt, and
dust were removed from all objects. The heating system (radiators) was repaired and was
supplemented with electric heaters to create a conservation heating system (RH). 12 An
integrated pest management system (IPM) was put in place.
Active treatment included supporting and consolidating fragile elements where
required. However, the objects were not restored. Flaking paint was consolidated, but
missing areas were not retouched ( Babbington and Hughes 1992). Most metal objects
were left with their patina in place and not polished. However, interestingly, repairs made
during the later occupation of the house, such as self-adhesive tape, which can cause
damage, or crude overpainted losses which obscured the original surface finishes were
removed, filled, and consolidated to blend with the present appearance. After five years,
the objects were carefully returned to the house. In some of the principal rooms that had
been maintained in a reasonable state, meaning they appeared almost as they did in their
heyday of the 1860s, the ‘as found’ appearance of the house did not vary much from what
visitors expected to see in a stately home. Other rooms, such as the bedrooms in the
servant quarters, were filled with the discarded debris from 130 years of inhabitation.
Further rooms appeared cluttered and ‘lived in’ and exhibited subtle signs of age such as
water damage or peeling wallpaper.
Historic houses encourage visitors to learn through context without the visual intrusion
of notices. At Brodsworth, room stewards ensure security and provide information to
visitors through a friendly chat. Guidebooks are available for purchase for those
interested in specific facts as well as ambience, but there are not normally notices or
labels. Though English Heritage hoped to convey a ‘well-worn and gently dilapidated air’,
to get across a message that the ‘as found’ state of some of the rooms was deliberate, in
practice they found some initial visitor instruction was required so that they did not feel
that parts of the house were simply neglected ( Allfrey 1999). The ‘conserved as found’
appearance of some historic houses has drawn criticism from those who found the piles
of ‘rubbish’ meaningless, the impression of neglect overpowering any appreciation of the
period its art, achievement, and beauty. Simon Jenkins labelled Calke Abbey ‘not a time
warp just a house in need of a visit from the dustman’ and pilloried the fact that ‘every
tonic bottle, every matchbox’ was taken out catalogued, stabilised, and replaced as it was
( Jenkins 2003). Visitor numbers suggest that there is appeal to this approach with
407,000 visiting Calke Abbey in 2021 ( ALVA 2021). For some the attraction may lay in a
sort of prurient fascination in the ‘warts and all’ lives of other people but for others it is the
way in which these houses humanise the experience of living in a big house, removing
some of the glamour and reducing the experience to the common headaches of replacing
roofs and keeping up with the cleaning.
Maintaining a fully consistent ‘conserved as found’ approach is not entirely
possible. Modern health and safety legislation and accessibility regulations
require adaptations to historic buildings that are open to the public. For
example, original electrical wiring must be replaced with new and additional
lighting, fire detection and alarm systems must be installed, although this is
done as unobtrusively as possible. Reflecting on the results of a comprehen-
sive risk assessment, conducted nearly 20 years after Brodsworth opened,
Allfrey and Xavier-Rowe (2012) also questioned whether it was a sustainable
approach. They noted that concessions had had to be made. Inappropriate light
levels meant that UV filtering film had to be placed on windows and curtains
purchased for some rooms that had not previously had them. The fragility of the
house’s surviving carpets and floor surfaces meant that they needed to be
covered with druggets (coarse durable floor coverings) or matting along the
visitor access paths. Despite attempts to match colour schemes to the faded
appearance of the floor these coverings often remain monochromatic and
visually intrusive ( Allfrey and Xavier-Rowe 2012). As historic houses have
increasingly embraced more free-form visitation and less confined access
ways, houses like these can come under pressure to remove stanchions and
permit greater access. Finally in properties such as Brodsworth there are
frequently divides between the ‘conserved as found’ building interiors and
other portions of the property such as the gardens which are cleared of
overgrowth and replanted replicating the original planting schemes – effec-
tively restored, these spaces can create cognitive dissonances for visitors that
make it harder for them to see past the unkempt interior.
In 2017, major renovations were undertaken at Brodsworth. The roof was
repaired. The existing heating and electrical systems were once again updated
and new environmental monitors were installed. Despite this, maintaining an
RH low enough to ensure object stability is challenging in some spaces

( Figure 8.4). Major repairs were also made to the roller shutters, one of the
house’s original protections against light. The renovations offered a chance to
check collections and to find out more about the visitor’s perception of the site
and the conservation approach taken at it ( Chitty 2018), which was overwhelm-
ingly positive.
Preserving buildings and their contents in a ‘conserved as found’ state minimises
the amount of restoration and replication work required. However, the objects cannot
be simply left as they are, they need to be conserved, a realistic appraisal of their
likely rate of decay should be made and steps are taken to minimise that decay.
Thus, this approach is best understood as a philosophy and a visual style to which
objects are conserved, cleaned, and restored like any other period in the object’s life.
It requires resources (staff and finances) and commitment to succeed and must be
re-evaluated periodically to ensure that it is accomplishing its goals. Such ‘as found’
properties permit not only reflection on the lives of the houses’ inhabitants but also
the resources needed to care for 18th- and 19th-century houses in the 20th and 21st
centuries.
Figure 8.4 The kitchen at Brodsworth Hall. Note the juxtaposition between the aged
interior and the RH monitoring equipment and heater used to control the
RH levels. Chris Caple.
Notes
1 Also referred to as preventive care ( Pye 2001) and care of collections (Knell 1994), however,
preventive conservation has become the most widely used term ( Roy and Smith 1994, Caple
2011, Staniforth 2013). Staniforth (2013, xiii) defines preventive conservation as ‘procedures
that generally act on a group of objects or a collection by adjusting the condition in which
these objects are kept’.
2 RAG (Red-Amber (or Yellow)-Green) ratings, also known as ‘traffic lighting’, are used to
summarise indicator values, where green denotes a ‘favourable’ value, red an ‘unfavourable’
value, and amber a ‘neutral’ value.
3 Such measures may include moving collections away from windows, battening down hat-
ches, and putting out sandbags in advance of severe weather, such as hurricanes or floods, or
it may include protecting collections in times of conflict. Examples of the latter include the
work done to protect the mosaics in the Ma’arrat al Nu’man Museum during the Syrian
Civil War ( Al Quntar et al. 2015).
4 Rising energy costs have prompted many museums to place a greater focus on improving
building envelopes, buffering, insulation, and slow seasonal variations (Cassar 1995) to
reduce their reliance on air conditioning.
5 Such solutions may be seen as being somewhat akin to Preservation in Situ solutions. They
prioritise the preservation of the object for future generations over access in the present.
6 Although the campaign was designed to raise $500,000, it was so successful that it ultimately
raised $720,000. This is an indication not only of the public affection for this object but also
of the effectiveness of the educational efforts run in conjunction with the campaign.
7 This American preservation organisation is not to be confused with the English National
Trust, although it is in part modelled on it.
8 English Heritage also adopted a similar approach to Wigmore Castle ( Coppack 1999).
9 Properties such as Mr Straws’ House and Hardman House and Studio (National Trust) told
the story of the lives of the middle class and professional people (English).
10 They abandoned many traditional housekeeping practices such as regular dusting and
cleaning regimes, leaving curtains drawn, blinds down and shutters closed, this led to
increased dust, insects and light damaging the objects and interiors.
11 Dust stains and promotes corrosion and when the RH is over 80% can start to adhere to
objects ( Brimblecombe et al. 2009).
12 Known as ‘conservation heating’ such systems go into operation when the humidity reaches
a particular set point at which time the heating raises the temperature to a few degrees above
ambient temperatures thus bringing the humidity down due to the inverse relationship
between heat and relative humidity. This serves to protect the interiors from the damaging
effects of relative humidity, such as mould growth and metal corrosion.
9 Preserving Intangible Heritage:
Working and Socially
Active Objects
While the preceding chapters of this book have focused on mechanisms that pre-
serve the physical material of an object, it is important to note that the intangible
characteristics of the object can be equally important to consider when designing
treatments. In the late 1980s, the importance of intangible heritage was formally
introduced into discussions about the preservation of cultural heritage, beginning
with the 1989 UNESCO Recommendation on the Safeguarding of Traditional Culture
and Folklore. This document was followed by the 2001 UNESCO Universal
Declaration on Cultural Diversity and the 2002 Istanbul Declaration and in 2003
UNESCO adopted the Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural
Heritage which formally identified, defined, and created lists to aid in the protection
of intangible heritage. These documents acknowledge the importance of intangible
cultural heritage as a ‘mainspring of cultural diversity’ (UNESCO 2003) and define
intangible heritage as ‘the practices, representations, expressions, knowledge skills
as well as instruments, objects, artefacts, cultural spaces associated therewith, that
communities, groups and individuals recognize as part of cultural heritage’
(UNESCO 2003). UNESCO’s definition of intangible heritage focuses on the
nonphysical intellectual wealth (folklore, customs, beliefs, traditions, knowledge,
and language) that is expressed through oral traditions, performing arts (music,
dance, plays, etc.), social practices and festive events (food preparation, celebra-
tions, etc.), knowledge and practices concerning nature and the universe, as well as
traditional craftsmanship.
Nonphysical qualities are often both dependent on and vested in tangible
objects. For example, falconry has been recognised as part of the intangible
heritage of many countries. The knowledge needed to rear and train the birds
are intangible aspects while tangible manifestations of the practice include the
hoods used to calm the birds, the jesses they wear and the falconer’s gauntlets.
How we preserve certain material objects is therefore informed and altered by
the intangible characteristics that are rooted in the object. These may include the
sounds, smells, motions, tastes, and emotions produced by or associated with the
object but may also incorporate the beliefs and traditions employed to make or
use the object. These characteristics are often part of the values that the object has
for people and communities (Chapter 1). In the case of working/dynamic objects
DOI: 10.4324/9781003009078-9
Working and Socially Active Objects 175
and socially active objects these intangible qualities play important roles in con-
servation decision-making.
Working/Dynamic Objects
All objects initially performed a function (worked), however the term working
objects is typically used for objects that contain moving parts where the motive
power is provided either by the human body (a bicycle) or coiled springs and
descending weights (clocks), water (mills), wind (organs), steam (engines), elec-
tricity (machines), or some other power source (Pye 2016). Objects that do not
exhibit physical movement, but which emit light and sound, such as radios,
computers, and televisions, are often also considered to be working objects. The
movement of the object as well as the noises, smells, and traditions associated
with its use may be as important as its aesthetic and tangible characteristics. In
some instances, such as the Gamelan1 (Jacobsen et al. 1975; Jones-Amin et al.
2006), tradition and belief may add an additional layer of cultural significance
that requires consideration.
There are many types of working or dynamic objects. The most common are
vehicles (from carts to spacecraft), various forms of manufacturing machinery (from
spinning wheels, early washing machines to conveyor belts), clocks, and musical
instruments. Given their size and complexity, dynamic objects are frequently chal-
lenging to care for and to maintain in working conditions (MGC 1994; Dollery and
Henderson 1997; Newey 2000; Thorrowgood and Hallam 2004; Child 2006; ABTEM
2018). There are advantages and disadvantages to keeping working objects in running
order and periodically using them.
Advantages include:
• Enhancing the use of the object as a visitor attraction and educational

exhibit. Objects, such as mills and clocks, are understood better when seen in
motion.
• Using an object can prevent damage that might otherwise occur from static
display and lack of use. The higher RH (relative humidity) generated by
periodically playing wooden musical instruments prevents them from drying out
and cracking. Similarly, engines and other mechanisms benefit from lubrication
during use and regular movement adjusts the loads in a structure, preventing
distortion of stressed or loaded components such as wheels and tensioning wires.
Brief periods of use are sometimes considered better at preventing deterioration
than simple static storage (Thorrowgood and Hallam 2004).
• Sound, smell, taste, and touch are highly evocative senses and add to the intensity
and apparent ‘reality’ of any experience. Viewing a steam train is a far more
immersive encounter when one smells it, hears it, and feels it thundering past
(Figure 9.1).
176 Working and Socially Active Objects
• Museum visitors are drawn to movement, light, and sound – they are attracted to
working objects and enjoy seeing them work. The engaging experiences of
movement, sound (particularly music), and smell move the visitor from the here
and now into ‘the’ past2.
Figure 9.1 Furness railway steam locomotive No. 20 (built in 1863 by Sharp, Stewart & Co. for
the Furness Railway, Britain’s oldest standard-gauge operational steam locomotive)
hauling two vintage Caledonian Railway carriages at the Bo’ness & Kinneil Railway.
© Greg Fitchett (cc-by-sa/2.0).
Disadvantages include:
• The potential for component failure (Wain 2017: 82). Components are stressed
during use (e.g. the strings of musical instruments), leading to an increased risk of
failure (such as a broken string). The loss of the last airworthy de Havilland DH
98 Mosquito T3 (G-ASKH, ex-RAF serial RR299), which crashed one mile west
of Manchester Barton Airport (EGCB) during an air show on July 21, 1996,
illustrates the risk of catastrophic loss inherent in using some working objects.
• Use may alter the object. Working objects must meet modern safety standards
and it is difficult to achieve this without making significant additions or
modifications to the objects; for example, installing guard rails, adding covers
to hide exposed machinery, installing cut-out switches, even replacing old boilers
with new, safe, and certified ones. Such measures can create false impressions of
the past and damage the object as a historic document preserving evidence of the
past. However, it is also worth noting that a desire to remove later modifications
and to return a working object to a ‘purer’ original state can also be problematic.
In the case of the de Havilland Mosquito, investigation of the crash suggested that
lack of later understanding regarding modifications to the carburettors (made to
prevent failure under negative g-forces during use in the 1940s) contributed to the
loss of the plane (AAIB 2014).
• The wear and heat generated during running degrades the condition of the object,
even if it occurs at barely perceptible levels such as the increased oxidation and
eventual breakdown of the polymer sheathing on electrical wiring. Similarly
running a gearbox or similar mechanical device, even with an oil-filled sump to
keep it lubricated, will still lead to wear on the teeth on the gear cogs. No historic
working object can operate without wear. The wear and tear of use requires that a
maintenance regime be established to replace worn parts.
• Keeping working objects running is expensive, which is why so many are static
(Wain 2017: 86–87). Costs include:
∘ Operators and maintenance staff must be properly certified (e.g. have a
current driving licence or pilot’s licence).
∘ Training and retaining skilled staff.
∘ Regular safety checks and inspections – this is particularly true for vehicles
that take passengers such as members of the public.
∘ Fuel costs in some cases.
∘ The regular replacement of consumable components.
∘ Space in which to manoeuvre the object. Many working objects are large and
sometimes unwieldy and require significantly more space than a static object
does, which has associated costs.
• Restoring an object to working order often requires that damaged and worn parts
are replaced rather than repaired. Original material may be lost raising questions
of authenticity. How long will a working object retain its original materials if the
worn and damaged parts are replaced? Some restored cars have little more than
the original chassis number remaining in some instances. Working objects
challenge our perceptions of originality. Does original mean the material that
was present when it was first made? Is it a reflection of the designer’s intent or
does it encompass the materials accumulated over the different periods in which
the object was active? (Wain 2011) Although these questions are relevant for all
objects, the regular replacement of components and improvement of some
working objects make them more pressing in these cases.3
• Smaller working objects, such as musical instruments or watches, are susceptible
to wear and damage due to their portability, frequent movement, extensive
handling, and the adjustments (and repairs) needed to improve their functionality.
It is unusual to find musical instruments that still have all their original elements.
Typically, elements such as reeds, strings, and skins that are under stress (from
pressure, load, or impact) are replaced frequently.
• Larger working objects are frequently housed outside. Maintaining external
structures, especially ironwork, against the effects of weather is an expensive, but
essential, process (Case Study 9A: Forth Railway Bridge). These processes begin
shortly after the object is commissioned and must be maintained throughout its
life, including display.
• Can an object be kept working in perpetuity? Do the resources exist, and is the
device capable of such sustained use?
It is possible to overcome many of these disadvantages. Working objects can be

operated at lower temperatures and pressures to reduce the risk of dramatic failure;
for example, running steam engines on compressed air rather than steam (as at
Bradford Industrial Museum),4 running vehicles on private roads without other users,
limiting the number of users and the length of run times.5 Similarly using gradual
warm-up procedures, suspending operation when trained personnel who know that
particular object well are not available, performing regular maintenance and devel-
oping disaster response procedures can mitigate the risk of damage and loss. In
addition to the normal museum and conservation records, working objects require
operating manuals in which all aspects of safely operating the object (e.g. warm-up
times, fuel, lubricants, operating temperatures and pressures) are outlined, as well as
an operation log that records each use. These records help ensure safe operation, limit
the risk of catastrophic failure, and ensure that minor faults are reported and checked.
Working Objects in Museum Contexts

Working objects can be present in a variety of museums but are often found in large
numbers in the following types of collections:
• Science-and-technology museums – originating in the late 19th century these

institutions seek to make the public aware of scientific and technical principles and
achievements, which working objects are often uniquely able to demonstrate.
• Folk and industrial museums – these large often open-air museums emerged in the
late 19th century to preserve traditional lifeways threatened by industrialisation
(Kavanagh 1990). Rural activities, such as milling and threshing, were demon-
strated as well as traditional crafts. As early forms of technology also began to
become obsolete or were replaced, industrial museums often grew up around
them. Examples include the Albany Whaling Museum (Western Australia), Iron
Bridge Gorge (England), and the Rahmi M. Koç Museum (Istanbul).
• Transportation museums – collections of vehicles, objects, and memorabilia
associated with those vehicles. In some cases, the museum collects a single type of
vehicle (i.e. trains), and in other cases, they may collect multiple types (i.e. planes,
trains, and automobiles).
• Military museums – since the advent of the atlatl and bow and arrow, warfare has
been dominated by working objects. The regular obsolescence of military
hardware means there is a constant stream of weaponry for heritage displays.
Many military museums, from regimental museums to mothballed aircraft
carriers and submarines (USS Intrepid, HMS Belfast, HMAS Ovens), preserve
and present these devices.
• Local and regional museums – many collect machines and other working objects
that are important to local industries or daily life in their towns or regions.
• Specialist museums such as clock museums and musical instrument museums.
Some working objects, such as vehicles, are readily understood out of context because
of their form or their similarity to other examples,6 but many working objects, such as
the diesel-powered generator in the Wustermark railway shunting yard near Berlin,
only make real sense when seen in situ, connected to other equipment such as a rotary
current generator, transformers, wiring, and junction boxes, delivering electric current
to all parts of the marshalling yard (Dempwolf 2006). Initially preserved by accident
or neglect – they are often too large and difficult to break up for scrap value; sited in
unvalued old industrial locations, such machines (steelworks, mines, and other large
factories) rarely survive unless some key elements have sufficient value to be delib-
erately preserved (Khatchadourian 2019).
As they pass from industrial use into museum collections, working objects go
through a series of identifiable phases (Figure 9.2). The value of the object’s func-
tionality declines, its educational role increases and eventually the value of the original
material becomes so high that the object’s value as a record (evidence) of the past (or
the work of an original creator) becomes paramount. While a few (rare) working
objects, such as the Antikythera mechanism (Jones 2019), are clearly at the end of this
process, most working objects are nearer the start. Mann (1994) highlighted this in the
regret he expressed that the original fragments of Stephenson’s Rocket were not
treated like valued archaeological objects but instead had been incorporated into
various reconstructions.
Devices in poor Device restored to Devices preserved and

condition are show it in working. no longer run to avoid
cannibalised to keep Now only used for damage as it is rare.
the others working display / education Invariably in a museum.
role to demonstrate Any restoration work is
how things used to minimal, accurately
Devices
be done. and carefully done.
repaired to
The ‘best’ device is Restoration is Any new restored parts
keep them
repaired carefully to undertaken. Device marked as
functional
keep it in working often repainted to replacements.
condition appear ‘as new’.
Devices discarded when

they were no longer used.
FUNCTIONAL EXEMPLAR ICONIC (HEIRLOOM) DOCUMENT

OF THE PAST
Figure 9.2 The movement from functioning object to preserved remains via repair and resto-
ration. Chris Caple.
Individuals from the industries that made, maintained, and used working objects
are often involved in their initial care. When an industry shuts down, or a mechanism
(such as a vehicle) reaches obsolescence, there is often a brief window where former
operators and manufacturers voluntarily sustain and restore the material remains of
the industry/vehicle. Such individuals bring unique and detailed knowledge to the
process but may prioritise the restoration of the object over the retention of evidence.
An unconscious perception that an ‘as new’/showroom ready look is correct can run
deep. The role of the commercial product and the historic object can become con-
fused, leading objects to be ‘ruthlessly glamorised’7 a state seen as desirable by many
owners of historic vehicles. On the other hand, conservators who may be more attuned
to the preservation needs of the object and more adept at balancing its historic nature
with its modern appearance, often lack the specialist knowledge needed to restore the
function of the item. In a plea for interdisciplinarity between organ builders and con-
servators, theorist and instruments conservator John Watson noted, ‘the one who
knows how to reconstruct a traditional feeder bellows is not the same person who can
employ spectrographic examination methods to reveal evidence of the long-lost original’
(2010: 10). Increasingly, museums, such as the National Air and Space Museum
(Washington, DC) and the National Railway Museum (York, England), that curate
large numbers of complex and highly specialised dynamic objects are building and
maintaining multidisciplinary teams to care for and restore these objects. Within such
teams, cross-disciplinary training, and respect for the expertise that each member brings
are important commodities and can help to balance the potential for loss (either of
material or functionality). Given the size of many working objects and the scale
of conservation projects on them, large numbers of volunteers are often essential. If
the community of volunteers do not enjoy the working environment, like each other’s
company, learn things, and have a project in which they can take pride, they will not
come. Conserving industrial heritage requires enthusiasm, leadership, organisation, and
funding and it can be difficult to draw all these elements together. While the first
challenge of preserving large working objects may be as obvious as protecting them from
the elements, the long-term issues of sustaining working objects in perpetuity are the real
test of the conservator’s ability and often require the development and nurturing of soft
skills in addition to ‘hands-on’ conservation competencies.
Balancing the Roles of Working Objects

Although enthusiasts often focus on getting an object running, in a museum context a
wider range of options including appearance, function, and preservation may be
considered. Where multiple examples of an object exist, it is possible to select different
examples for different roles. Where there is only a single example, it is necessary to
consider which role or balance of roles it will have before commencing work as any
decision will affect the extent of cleaning and restoration work and thus the cost. Such
decisions should consider rarity, condition, and preservation (the degree of original
completeness) (Barclay 2005). It is difficult to change directions later in the process
(Mann 1994). The options are:
• Returning the object to its original function. Here the primary goal is seeing or
hearing the object work and the approach may be more invasive. It means
cleaning and checking that all parts work and are lubricated, ascertaining that
they are safe to operate (guard rails are in place, operating instructions exist, users
are trained, and parts meet modern safety codes), replacing worn and unsafe
components, and obtaining operating licences and insurance for public operation
if necessary.
• Preserving the object and retaining any evidence in or on it. Investigation is
extensive; each part, when it was added or altered, repainted, etc. is recorded so that
the object’s history is understood. When the most fragile or at-risk parts of the
object (where evidence may be most easily lost) are identified, they can be protected
and regularly monitored. Cleaning may be very limited to preserve the evidence of
operation. In some cases, preserving the object may mean returning it to use for a
short time/single instance to record its sound or action (Case Study 9B: Organised
Piano). This may be paired with replication; where the original object is preserved
but a careful replica is made, based on the investigation of the original, that can
demonstrate the object in action (Hoffmann 2013).
• Focusing on the appearance of the item at a particular point in its working life.
Working condition may be a secondary consideration and the object may be static
or only occasionally used. Any cleaning and restoration should balance the
evidence lost against the improvement in appearance (and thus information for
viewer). In this instance a restored finish may be seen as more informative or
accurate than a poorly preserved but original finish and invasive surface
intervention may be undertaken.
The approach to the object’s cleaning and conservation depends on the values of all its
parts (tangible and intangible) as well as its condition. Where it is rare, fragile, rela-
tively complete, and has important historic information, greater emphasis may be
placed on preserving the material (tangible) nature of the object. Where more
common, more robust, and less complete more active cleaning and conservation
activities can take place emphasising its intangible characteristics, which are a by-
product of function (Barclay 2005; Lithgow et al. 2008). It should be noted, that
although it is normal to run some types of working objects, others, such as firearms,
are returned to working order less frequently. Weapons are often deliberately de-
activated by removing the firing pin or filling the barrels for museum display. The
benefits and the risks to the object, user, and viewer are all important to consider.
Balancing function, preservation, and appearance results in many different com-
binations (Figure 9.3). Where an individual object sits within these options is deter-
mined by the object, the stakeholders, the professional judgement of the conservators
and curators, and the preserving institution’s aims. A good example of such a dis-
cussion is the National Museum of Australia’s decision to retain the Sundowner, the
car famously driven by Francis Birtles in 1927 from London to Melbourne, in a state
‘capable of operation’ but uncleaned and not restarted. The museum retained the
persistent oil leak the caked-on oil, and the scratches, dents, sand, mud, and grass
from the journey arguing that the social history of the journey was every bit as
important as the physical machine itself. Thorrowgood and Hallam, who treated the
car, justified the decision, likening correcting faults and removing evidence to
‘straightening the leaning tower of Pisa’ or ‘editing Shakespeare’ (2004). Although
such decisions are made every day, they are less commonly discussed in print.
Essential
State Actions
Records
1 Working Device continues to operate normally, though there may be restrictions O, C, N, A
on time, temperatures and pressures of operation to ensure continues to
operate safely. Trained operators where needed, maintenance
programme and log of maintenance and use.
2 Working As above, but only working on a limited number of occasions to minimise O, C, N, A

occasionally wear and slowing decay to low levels. Times of operation advertised to
maximise visitation.
Worked by alternative means such as compressed air or a hidden electric
motor.
3 Working Conserved / restored so it can run once and be recorded. Thereafter the O, C, N, A
once recording can be played toshow motion / sound etc. Any temporary
restoration undertaken to make it usable can be retained or reversed and
object is kept in visible static condition. (Powell and Wills 2001)
4 Emulation / Original shell, new interior mechanisme.g. computer monitor in old TV R

Pastiche showing old programmes, digital speaker in a radio playing music of the
periodor an electric motor beneath an old car chassis. (X)
5 Replica Replica of an original working object. Elements may be changed for Accuracy
safety,display and education reasons such as glass windows inserted to should be
allow mechanism to be seen. recorded
6 Static Original shell and mechanism, remains on display. Cleaned and made safe O, C, N, A
(display) for public viewing (public access controlled, elements of device shielded
from public).It may be displayed in restored, partially restoredor
unrestored condition.
7 Static Original working object stored, normallyavailable for approved and

(stored) trained researchers and requested viewings. Preserves all evidence of
operation. Not intended ever to run again.No restoration or safety work
undertaken on objectbut notices alert staff and approved researchers to
any unsafe element of the device.Emphasis on preserving all the physical
evidence rather than some by record.
8 Spare Working object to be used for spares to support working objects.
O – The percentage of original parts should be recorded, key examples given.
C – The percentage of parts cannibalised from other machines should be recorded and key examples given.
N – The percentage of new parts should be recorded and key examples given. Any modern or newly made
parts should be marked with date of creation so it is clear they are modern replacements and not
original. They should wear at similar rate to the original so that try do not damage surrounding elements.
New parts may be custom made to accommodate unusual size, voltage or other characteristics.
A – Any adaptations made for safe working should be recorded.
X – Provided no damage is done to the object carcass being used or the removed parts, and they are saved,
this can be an ethical approach preserving both the historic object without damage or wear and giving the
aesthetic experience of the working object.
R – Good records of the dismantling and the current location of the different parts shouldbe made.
Figure 9.3 Table of the principal forms in which working objects are displayed and stored in
museums.
Many working objects consist of a mechanism (i.e. an action or engine) and a
surrounding shell (i.e. the case and face of a clock or the bodywork of a car).
• Mechanism – may be mechanical, electromechanical, or electrical and when

working may move and/or produce sound. Respecting the object’s working value
normally requires the mechanism to continue to operate either through repair or
replacement. The original parts have value, and even when replaced, are often
retained.
• Shell – protects the mechanism and often has a decorative surface that conveys
information and/or appeals to the viewer through its colour and form. It signals
attributes such as stylishness and wealth, as well as function, to the viewer. Layers
of paint or repairs to the object are a valuable record of the object’s history and
evolving ideas of taste and economy in that society. Conservation may either
preserve the final appearance or restore the colour and decoration to an earlier
period in the object’s life.
In some instances, different conservators may work on different components. For

example, a furniture conservator may work on the shell of a tall-case clock while
a metals conservator or a horologist may undertake repairs to the mechanism.
Differences in the conservation approaches to the mechanism and the shell are
based on the different values of each component. These differences are seen in the
conservation of kinetic sculptures (the fusion of modern art with movement
devices to add time and motion to artistic expression). The mechanism often fails
due to component wear (reminding us that not all working objects are designed or
built for long-term repeated use) generating ethical issues regarding replacing
original parts (Rivenc and Bec 2018). Conservators approaching such objects
recognise the key point of such sculptures is their movement and have conse-
quently been prepared to repair, remake, or replace the functional element. As
many electrical components quickly become obsolete and unobtainable, this may
result in attempts to emulate their actions with later components rather than true
replacement (Wolfe and Wood 2020). The aesthetic element may be treated like
other artworks, retaining as much of the original as is present, while restoring
areas of damage and loss so that the artist’s original intent is recovered and can
be experienced.
For non-working objects, simple storage in a benign environment may be
appropriate. However, where there are surfaces that move over one another, are
under tension, load, or pressure, and contain sealed compartments where corrosion
may occur, it is important to consider what is the most appropriate method of
‘static’ storage. Should things be left under tension? Should the tension be reduced
or removed? Should components (especially polymer and rubber components such
as tyres) be routinely moved to prevent distortion? A number of measures are
necessary to safely store large working objects. For example, aircraft wings should
be supported to avoid bending or breaking due to constant static load in one
direction, vehicles should be placed on axle stands to allow tires to be rotated and
engines with oil in them may need to be hand cranked to lubricate the parts and
prevent gaskets and seals from failing (Wain 2017: 84–85). Although it may seem
less expensive and even easier to remove working objects from use, it is never as
simple as simply placing them on a shelf and leaving them. The decision to place
them in storage should be undertaken carefully and thoughtfully and with a
recognition that on-going maintenance and engagement will remain a reality of
their care (Wain 2017).
Socially Active Objects

Working objects are not the only types of objects where it is important to consider the
intangible nature of the pieces. Many collections contain objects that are socially
active. These objects express and embody (often literally) the beliefs, identities,
traumas, and traditional cultural practices of modern groups and communities.
Socially active objects include but are not limited to:
• Sacred Objects – objects created for veneration or imbued with the essence of a
divinity or holy individual. Sacred objects may be routinely used in a variety of
rituals that can involve wearing, touching, kissing, carrying, and exhibiting the
objects and even renewing or remaking them. Many sacred objects are also
venerated through prayers and offerings. In some instances, offerings are made at
a remove, such as laying flowers in front of a shrine, but in others they are applied
directly to the object itself, such as the Hindu tradition of pouring milk on a Shiva
Lingam. Sacred objects, and the beliefs they embody, may be linked to other
forms of intangible heritage, such as song (chants, hymn), or dance, that are
important to consider and preserve as well.
• Objects associated with superstitions – often these are secular objects around
which a legend centres (Figure 9.4). Interactions with the object are believed to
bring good fortune to individuals or, in some cases, ill fortune to their rivals.
• Objects from Indigenous and World Cultures – although such objects may include
ceremonial and sacred objects, they may also include functional, everyday objects
that permit identities to be negotiated, maintained, and expressed. Traditional
forms of knowledge, information about lineage, or prerogative, may be trans-
mitted through the choice of materials and the patterns and motifs used to
decorate the objects. For diasporic populations and for communities where
colonial intrusions have disrupted traditional hierarchies and the transfer of
traditional knowledge, engagement with objects in collections around the world
can facilitate cultural revitalisation (Seip 1999; Case Study 9 C: Tlingit basket).
The importance of using the appropriate indigenous terminology for plants and
other materials in (conservation) documentation, as a means of supporting
language revitalisation efforts and helping to preserve another aspect of intangible
culture often associated with objects from these cultures has been noted
(Pearlstein 2021).
Figure 9.4 Monument to Everard t’Serclaes by Julien Dillens (1902) in Brussels. Touching the
statue is said to bring luck and to grant wishes. The wear from countless hands is visible
in the loss of patina and the wear on features such as the cherub’s face. Emily Williams.
• Ceremonial objects – these objects exemplify the power, status and identities of
individuals, nations, or organisations.8 They often include ornamental items made
of precious materials, such as crowns and other regalia, as well as thrones and other
seats of power, but may include more vernacular items, such as miners’ banners.
They are retained for occasional use (often annual but sometimes less frequent) and
are stored carefully, meaning that many can be of considerable age. Many are
displayed when not in use. For example, the Lord Mayor of London’s coach, built
in 1757 and considered to be the oldest ceremonial vehicle in regular use in the
world, is exhibited at the Museum of London for approximately 50 weeks of the
year. In late October, it is taken from the museum, serviced, and used to transport
the Lord Mayor of London from Mansion House to the Royal Courts of Justice to
swear allegiance to the reigning monarch before being returned to the museum
(Boylan 2006).9 The recent history of the Stone of Scone demonstrates the power
that ceremonial objects can hold within a country’s national mythos even after
hundreds of years.10 It is important to note that ceremonial objects may embody a
mixture of social, political, and spiritual significance and that each element must be
considered when approaching their treatment or care.
• Monuments – although not all monuments are socially active, either because the
individual or moment they commemorate has been largely forgotten or is
uncontested, many are and may serve as lightning rods for controversy. Their
presence on landscapes offers physical sites where abstract ideas can be negotiated
and power dynamics can be contested and/or reaffirmed (Chidester and Linenthal
1995) (Figure 9.5). Decisions about how to conserve public monuments may
involve complex political, social, cultural, or aesthetic considerations as was the
case during the lengthy treatment of the statue of Kamehameha I (Wharton 2011)
or the Statue of Liberty (Case Study 3A).
Figure 9.5 Black lives matter themed graffiti on the base of the (removed) Robert E. Lee statue
in Richmond, VA. Graffiti such as this poses a challenge for conservators and city
managers. It represents a form of social discourse and civic engagement for some but
is challenging to others. Should it be retained as evidence of a historic moment or
documented and removed as an eye sore? Katherine Ridgway.
• Objects and sites of trauma – such objects and places are the survivors of war,
genocide, assassination, terrorist attacks, and natural disasters. They are emo-
tionally laden and engage with viewers calling on them to remember and bear
witness. Exhibiting and conserving them requires a careful balance between
stabilisation and not removing or altering the damage that gives them power.
Discussing the treatment of the Ladder 3 truck in the National September 11
Memorial Museum, which became a symbol of resilience for New York City
Firefighters after it was heavily damaged when the North Tower collapsed, Jane
Klinger noted that the twinned themes of survival and destruction, reverence, and
fear, had to be balanced in all the decision-making (Klinger 2013). The latter were
manifest in the 9/11 dust that still coated part of the truck. The dust held the
potential to contain toxic chemicals (a source of fear) but also minute quantities of
human remains (a cause for reverence). Decisions about cleaning had to weigh
both elements but also had to consider how a mangled truck that looked
sparklingly clean might read for visitors. Time, location, and the type of trauma
may change the delicate balance between pathos and presentation and mean that
there is a continual process of renegotiation and rebalancing. At sites associated
with World War I and World War II, exposure to the elements and the resultant
decay still prompts difficult decisions about whether to retain decaying original
(historic) material or to replace it to better support the process of memorialisation
and witnessing (Curry 2010).
• Human remains and ancestor objects – death is a biological process, but it is also a
social process that is invested with deep spiritual, social, and mnemonic
significance. As a result, human remains hold deep fascination for many, spiritual
significance for others (Beck 2001; Dahl 2020), and political importance for some
(Laroche and Blakey 1997). Humans have used their bodies as canvases for
expressing their identities and beliefs for millennia. Practices like tattooing,
piercing, tooth modification, and ritual scarification permanently alter bodies
while temporary alterations include hairstyles, clothing, and adornment. Diet,
disease, past medical practices, kinship, places of origin, labour practices, and
burial practices can all be studied through careful analysis of human remains
(Case Study 7 A: Lindow Man). Interest in extracting data from human remains
has often led other values to be overshadowed, particularly in the Western
scientific tradition where a clear distinction between the living and the dead is
understood to exist. This has often led human remains to be treated differently
from the grave goods found with them (Cassmann 2001) and even curated
separately. In non-western and indigenous cultures, the distinction between the
dead and the living and the objects buried with them can be more fluid. Kinship
and ancestral relationships can be understood in ways that transcend simple
genealogical descent. Objects may be imbued with the spirit or essence of an
individual (often the maker or primary user) or clan and may be understood to be
‘living’ embodiments of that ancestor (Sully 2007). Such objects may demand
certain levels of care from their descendants while at the same time reinforcing the
social ties within those communities (Swieringa 2021).
• Contemporary art – some contemporary artworks seek to challenge public
perception, provoke a response from the media and/or develop, and inform
public opinion. These socially active objects are often at their most powerful
shortly after their creation and may gradually lose their power to challenge
and engage the viewer in critical discourse as time progresses. For example,
Impressionist artists sought to challenge the academy, encouraging new forms
of seeing and a focus on movement and ordinary subject matter. Initially their
work was derided and heavily critiqued, and the artists were forced to establish
alternative exhibits outside the mainstream ones to sell their art. Today many
of their works are regarded as part of the artistic canon and Impressionism
is so well accepted that package holidays visit the homes of Impressionist
painters and Impressionist paintings command eye-watering prices in art sales
(Loft 2019).
Socially active objects may require very different levels of conservation depending on
why they are active and to whom. For example, some contemporary works of art
actively utilise inherent vice11 to provoke viewer interactions. Dieter Roth created a
series of chocolate and birdseed busts in the 1960s to explore the inevitable trans-
formation of the human body. The temporary nature of these works was important to
his concept and his intent was that they would be exhibited outside. Many have
subsequently been acquired by museums and although they may accept the inevitable
transformation and decay of the chocolate, conservation efforts have focused on
preventing them from becoming a vehicle for the deterioration of other collections. To
this end, pest management strategies have been employed (Assis 2022), but restoration
has been avoided. In the case of Janine Antoni’s chocolate sculptures, Lick and Lather
and Gnaw, however, desire is part of the message and so Antoni wants viewers to be
able to get close, to smell the material, and even potentially to interact with it
(Cembalest 2013). She recasts the chocolate busts if they are damaged, and conser-
vators maintain a stock of the same chocolate to effect smaller repairs. Visitor en-
gagement is often a key element of contemporary art. Felix Gonzalez Torres’ work
Untitled (Portrait of Ross in LA) consists of a spill of candy that commemorates the
loss of his partner, Ross Laycock, from AIDS. The shape of the spill is less important
than its weight, roughly 175 pounds (79 Kg), Laycock’s weight when healthy. Visitors
are invited to take a piece of candy away and the institution hosting the work is asked
to replenish the candy regularly to maintain the same approximate weight.12 As the
spill of candy diminishes, it parallel’s Laycock’s own weight loss due to the disease
while the restocking of the candy metaphorically grants perpetual life but also sym-
bolises the invisibility that many AIDS victims suffered. In this instance, the medium
of the work is edible (a potential risk) and the desire for the visitor to interact with it is
integral (another risk); therefore, conservation cannot impact either element but may
seek to limit the impact of the risks through the placement of the spill within the
gallery and increased pest management.
In contrast to this minimalist approach, ceremonial objects often receive more
interventive approaches. Frequently, it is important for them to convey a sense of
power and prestige. Therefore, such objects are cleaned, polished, and maintained
frequently to keep them in a condition that mimics their ‘as new’ appearance. In
Western traditions, this may mean that when, and if, they become damaged or worn,
invasive restoration techniques, such as reshaping or replacement, may be routinely
undertaken. Additionally, alterations may be made that would not be considered if
the piece were merely a historic item. Reinforcing elements have been added to some
historic seats of power and some ceremonial vehicles have been retrofitted to permit
the addition of bulletproof glass and other safety devices. Since many ceremonial
objects are made of precious materials and their loss could cause public humiliation,
security may play an outsized role in their care and curation. When such objects are
retired or replaced, they are often formally decommissioned in a ceremonial way,
and it is common for them to become museum exhibits, if they were not previously.
When this occurs, the object begins to transition towards being a historical object
and may lose some of its social activity, a process which inevitably changes how the
conservator is asked to engage with it and the levels of care that may be seen to be
appropriate for it.13
This process of museumification14 may not be appropriate for all socially active
objects. Discussing the conservation efforts carried out by the George Floyd Global
Memorial, Jeanelle Austin (2021) noted that the end goal is not to create a museum
but rather to create a ‘rememory’, a term taken from Toni Morrison’s novel Beloved,
in which the grief, protest, and hope that motivated people to memorialise Floyd’s
death are reexperienced and the visitor is commissioned to go out and do something
more (to take the protest further and to work to enact change). To serve this goal, the
‘street conservation’ practised by the caretakers at the site takes a minimalist approach
in which damage is accepted and even embraced. Conservation is enacted intentionally
but with the preservation of the story taking precedence over the materiality of the
piece (Austin 2021). The act of conserving the material is principally seen as a
mechanism for continued participation in the protest for racial equity and an act of
healing. This emphasis varies from the ‘traditional’ Western conservation viewpoint,
which has tended to be positivist, scientific, and data-driven (and to draw heavily on
concepts derived from Enlightenment era thinking as we saw in Chapters 1 and 2).
Traditionally, the view of many indigenous groups have also varied from the Western
one.15 For them, the idea of prolonging the existence of an object is not seen as natural
(Clavir 2002: 123). Objects were viewed as having a fixed life span in which they
fulfilled a purpose and when they are damaged or no longer served the function for
which they were created, they were remade and the original was allowed to decay or
was buried or burnt. Speaking about Totem Poles, Gloria Cranmer-Webster,
Kwakwaka’wakw, noted ‘many Indian people feel that once a pole has served its
purpose it should be allowed to go back into the ground. I think this attitude has a lot
to do with the way Indian people look at the objects. The objects themselves are not
important; what matters is what the objects represent. They represent the right to own
that thing, and that right remains even if the object decays or is otherwise lost’
(Cranmer-Webster 1986). Don Bain, Lheit-lit’en (Carrier) nation, notes that although
one object may replace another one, it takes on its own identity – ‘the knowledge that
is contained within the object is important, but [it] can be transferred to another
object’ (cited in Clavir 2002: 122). The new version of the object does not have to
follow the form of the older object perfectly but rather may draw from a shared
decorative language. For a conservator working on such material, it is important to
understand the culture and the worldview that created the object and to be thoughtful
about how that impacts the conservation approach they may take and how in turn the
conservation impacts the object.
Many religious objects remain symbols of belief that are actively used in the present
day. If the object is valued for its evidentiary value as well as its intangible values, this
can lead to conflict between the care of the object and the needs and desires of the
faithful. Molina and Pincemin (1994) recount an example where conservators adopted
a minimally interventive approach to the cleaning and restoration of medieval
polychrome statues in Northern France, only to face dissatisfaction from congrega-
tions who expected to see the surfaces refreshed. Similar disappointments have been
documented in Norway (Spaarschuh and Kempton 2020: 365). They reflect a desire by
the congregation to honour their deity and to see the objects as items of devotion,
contemplation, and beauty. These interactions also stem from an overemphasis by the
conservators on the historical/evidentiary values of the items rather than their
intangible ones. In some instances, the local community subsequently undertook the
repainting of the images themselves (Molina and Pincemin 1994). By working more
closely with the community to manage expectations and/or adopting a more people-
centred approach that addresses the needs of the community in the treatment design, a
more successful outcome might have been achieved.
People-Centred Conservation and Consultation

People-centred approaches to the conservation of sacred items and other socially
active objects build on the understanding that the complex biographies that objects
often have do not solely spring from their travels through time but also from their
interactions with the communities and individuals for whom they are meaningful.
People-centred conservation approaches therefore seek to consider how the conser-
vator’s work impacts the community that cares about the collections. Instead of re-
lying on the notion that whoever owns heritage decides how it will be conserved, these
approaches seek to involve those for whom the heritage is meaningful, empowering
communities to participate in substantive decision-making about the care of collec-
tions (Clavir 2002; Peters 2008; Krmpotich et al. 2013; Sully and Cardoso 2014;
Henderson and Nakamoto 2016; Swierenga 2021). Such approaches may seek to
understand the significance of the artifact and the beliefs embedded in it and adapt
treatments to accommodate them. For example, Drumheller and Kaminitz (1994) note
that after recognising that many Native American objects are viewed as living objects
led the National Museum of the American Indian to change its approach to pest
management leading to the use of more traditional and nature-based approaches (such
as cedar and naturally occurring insect repellent plant secretions) and utilised fewer
toxic approaches such as fumigation and freezing that might ‘kill’ the object.16 At the
Museum of Anthropology at the University of British Columbia (MOA), it is
understood that many ceremonial objects ‘play important roles in expressing family
lineages and inherited rights and privileges’ that are of importance to the cultural
survival of the communities that created them and that as such the non-material,
intangible elements should be weighed heavily when considering any risks to the
material aspects of pieces that might result from loans or use (Swierenga 2021). The
minor alterations that are at times necessary for, or that result from, use (activation)
are viewed not as damage but as valued changes demonstrating the continued lives of
the objects.17 Conservators work closely with community members to ensure that the
appropriate balance is struck between the tangible and intangible components of the
materials and that one is not valued more highly than the other. Careful consultation
(Chapter 10), a willingness to listen, and flexibility are at the heart of this work. The
conservator does not abandon their duty of care for the objects but rather seeks to find
solutions that can accommodate and preserve all the possible meanings of the object.
Peters (2008) has noted that conservators engaged in these processes do not represent
either the people or the objects but rather aim to work with the outcome of the
connections between the people and the objects, strengthening them and ensuring their
successful and sustainable development.
Adopting people-centred approaches and undertaking consultations can be difficult
for conservators. There are no blueprints for success since each case will be different
based on the stakeholders involved, the object under discussion and its needs as well as
the history of engagement that may have taken place. For conservators new to the
process, it can feel as if their proficiency is being challenged and this can be particu-
larly difficult given the time and training that it can take to build such expertise. Ellen
Pearlstein (2021) also notes that reconciling differences between indigenous knowledge
and the results of scientific findings can feel problematic at times and that this can
strain the process. Interactions with stakeholders who have experience working with
conservators and familiarity with conservation approaches will be different from in-
teractions with stakeholders who are unfamiliar with the process. Limited resources
and distance from source communities can impose restrictions on the adoption of
these sorts of approaches. Although virtual consultations are a possibility, they are
dependent on infrastructure to support them, and this may not always be in place.
Additionally, building the mutual trust and understanding needed to conduct and
sustain meaningful engagements often relies on shared activities and experiences (such
as shared meals, workshops, etc.) and this can be difficult to replicate virtually.
The adoption of people-centred approaches recognises that in addition to being a
technical and scientific process, conservation is a social one (Eastop 2006; Peters 2008)
and that this puts a responsibility on conservators to consider and respond to wider
social, economic, and political factors to ensure that their work is relevant, sustain-
able, and does not harm others. Although people-centred approaches originated in
legally mandated consultation processes that sought to address the very disparate
power dynamics between museums and collecting bodies and indigenous communities
(Wharton 2005; Johnson et al. 2005), increasingly, as museums are pushed to broaden
access to other marginalised communities and to the public, such approaches are being
extended to include other constituencies. For example, the Museum of London has
used people-centred approaches to curation and conservation projects aimed at en-
gaging and reskilling homeless and unemployed populations (Ganiaris and Lang
2013). The conservation efforts carried out by the George Floyd Global Memorial is
guided by the idea that the people are more sacred than the memorial itself and that
every offering (object left at the memorial) is somebody’s offering, so it is important to
ensure that everyone’s voice is heard and that their story is told (Austin 2021). The
responsibilities that engaging with the social aspects of conservation brings will be
examined in further detail in Chapter 11.
9A Case Study: The Forth Railway Bridge ( Paxton 1990, Glen et al.
2012)
In the 1880s, the North British Railway needed to bridge the Firth of Forth to
complete its railway link between Edinburgh and Dundee. Designed by the
engineers Sir Benjamin Baker and Sir John Fowler, the Forth Railway Bridge
comprises three huge cantilevers with viaducts at each end, the whole edifice
spanning 1.5 miles. It was only the second cantilevered bridge in Europe and is
the world’s second-longest single cantilever span at 1,709 ft. Construction necessi-
tated the use of steel to withstand the stresses created by the form, rather than cast
iron, the normal material for metal bridge construction of this period. The construction
of the bridge, between 1882 and 1890, cost approximately £3 million and was
undertaken by a consortium led by William Arral of Glasgow. It consumed 740,000
cubic ft. of granite, 48,000 cubic yards of stone, 64,300 cubic yards of concrete, and
54,160 tons of steel held together with 6.5 million rivets ( The Sunday Times 1995).
The monumental structure was deliberately created in such a sturdy form to withstand
the ferocious North Sea gales that had collapsed the Tay Railway Bridge in
December 1879. The Forth Railway Bridge opened as a functioning railway bridge
on 4 March 1890 and continues to be used by over 200 trains a day ( Glen et al. 2012;
Figure 9.6).
Figure 9.6 The Forth Railway Bridge. Its size and exposed position require a continuous
maintenance programme that is funded by the continued use of the bridge as a
functioning railway bridge. Chris Caple.
From the outset, a regular routine of repainting was essential to maintain this
bridge, particularly its 145 acres of steel. This herculean task involved rubbing
down of the metalwork with wire brushes and metal scrappers followed by
painting with several coats of the distinctive red lead-based ‘Forth Bridge Red’
paint manufactured by Craig & Rose of Leith Walk, Edinburgh. By 1993, the
maintenance programme consumed 1,000 gallons of paint, employed 16
painters as part of a forty-strong workforce and cost £600,000 per annum
( Bowditch 1993). The idea that the painters started at one end and worked their
way to the other end, only to restart at the beginning is a modern myth. Instead,
they tackle those areas that are in most urgent need of repainting. The painting
of the Forth Railway Bridge has, however, passed into everyday usage as a
metaphor for any unending task.
From 1989 onwards, the regime of wire brushing was replaced with shot-blasting,
a more effective way to remove the old paint. The metal thus exposed was covered
within four hours using a primer followed by two undercoats and finally two topcoats
of the distinctive ‘Forth Bridge Red’ paint. The original lead-based paint was
replaced with an iron oxide-based primer and undercoat, and vinyl-alkyl-based
topcoat. Where possible the undercoats and topcoats were normally sprayed on to
ensure even coverage. In 1993, attempting to save money, the owner of the bridge,
British Rail (Railtrack from 1994), was reported in The Times as suspending the
maintenance programme for a year ( Bowditch 1993). Although the bridge was
floodlit in 1991 and Railtrack spent £3 million in 1994 strengthening and renewing
the railway line running over the bridge to allow trains to traverse the bridge at up to
50 mph rather than the previous 20 mph, by 1996 Railtrack was required by the
Health and Safety Executive to start an emergency maintenance programme or risk
prosecution ( The Times 1996). The impression given was that the owner, Railtrack,
had cut the maintenance schedule to a minimum. Following a review in 1996–1997,
Railtrack announced a £40 million programme of repairs and repainting for the
bridge running from 1998 to 2001 ( Railway Technology 2012).
In 2002, Network Rail replaced Railtrack as owners of Britain’s railways,
including the Forth Railway Bridge, and agreed to a £130 million contract with
Balfour Beatty to restore and renovate the bridge. This involved working along
the bridge, covering it section by section in scaffolding and polymer sheeting to
create an enclosure around each original girder to keep it dry and trap waste.
Working inside the enclosure, any defective steelwork was replaced, the old
lead paint and corrosion were blasted off with abrasive copper slag grit at
120 psi and the clean bare steel surface repainted with a three-coat paint
system consisting of (1) zinc phosphate primer, (2) a tough protective 400-
micron thick glass-flake epoxy coating capped with an acrylic urethane topcoat
giving UV protection, and (3) the traditional ‘Forth Bridge Red’ colour (manu-
factured by Leigh Paints now Sherwin-Williams Paints). This paint system is
identical to that used on North Sea Oil rigs and is designed to last 20–25 years
before replacement is needed. The waste from the process, lead paint dust and
grit, was collected and disposed of safely. The shielded environment and spray
coating resulted in a faultless protective coating ( Andrew 2011; Glen et al.
2012). The Victorian steelwork was found to be in excellent condition, virtually
no metalwork replacement was required.
Although William Morris described the bridge as ‘the supremist specimen of
all ugliness’ ( The Sunday Times 1995), more recent critics have seen it as a
structure of beauty and merit ( Black 1997). It has become a heritage icon in
Scotland – appearing in books, TV, films, computer games, advertising, and on
banknotes and coins – providing an identity based on engineering achievement
rather than tartans or romantic castles. Historic Scotland recognised its
importance to the national psyche and listed the structure in 1973. UNESCO
inscribed the bridge as a World Heritage Site on July 5, 2015, recognising it as
‘an extraordinary and impressive milestone in bridge design and construction
during the period when railways came to dominate long-distance land travel’.
Its listing as an ‘ancient monument’ gives protection against deliberate human
damage, but it is the bridge’s maintenance regime and its paint coating that
provide protection against the weather. The importance of the original colour
and form of the bridge was acknowledged by British Rail, Railtrack and later
Network Rail and Balfour Beatty who retained the original paint colouring in the
final coat of their repainting regimes.
Once people begin to treasure any particular part of the past, it ceases to be
retained purely for its functionality, it is also retained for its social and historic
value, its aesthetic qualities and its value as evidence documenting the historic
past. This raises the question: to what extent is the repainting of the Forth
Railway Bridge an act of conservation? The repainting of the structure
undoubtedly preserves the Forth Railway Bridge. Although the original paint
has long since been lost to the effects of wire brushing and shot blasting, the
original steelwork is preserved through this process and the original colour and
finish of the object is clearly restored through the cleaning and repainting
process.
In the case of the Forth Railway Bridge the maintenance costs are huge and
at present can only be met whilst this bridge is part of a functioning railway. No
heritage agency could fund these repair and repainting costs. Smaller bridges,
such as the one at Ironbridge Gorge, are of a scale that they can be
successfully conserved purely as monuments. The Forth Railway Bridge’s
role as a working object is manifest every time a train thunders over it. Only
when the bridge ceases to be a functioning railway bridge, which may be well
into the future, will we discover whether the Scottish public treasure it
sufficiently to see it conserved and are prepared to meet the full (and
continuing) costs of preservation.
9B Case Study: The Organised Upright Grand Piano ( Watson n.d.;

Watson 2014; Bridges 2016)
In 2012, The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation acquired a combination of six-
stop pipe organ and upright grand piano, known as an ‘Organised Upright
Grand Piano’. It was created in 1799 for one of Williamsburg’s most prominent
families. The instrument was in unaltered condition, untouched by past
restoration, but it survived in a disassembled state with loose parts that were
too weak and damaged to be assembled without conservation. It was missing
its piano action, which had been discarded early in the object’s history, and
most of the trapwork for switching between the piano and organ. The 256
original lead pipes were mangled and crumpled and had, in some cases, been
chewed by rodents. For most people, the boxes of fragments and individual
pieces might not have warranted a second look but for John Watson, then
Colonial Williamsburg’s Curator and Conservator of Instruments, the object
was an important item that he had been researching and pursuing for much of
his career at the Foundation. In recognising the object’s value as a historic
document, Watson began a process that helped to define its significance. This
is not an uncommon role for curators, conservators, archaeologists, and other
knowledgeable individuals to play in ensuring the survival of historic objects.
As both the curator and conservator of this object, he was uniquely placed to
understand its values and to work to preserve them.
The only surviving example of an organised upright piano, 18 the instrument
was a powerful status symbol. St. George Tucker (1752–1827), the scion of a
wealthy and influential Bermudian family, came to Williamsburg at age 19 to
study law under George Wythe. Tucker fought in the American Revolution and
later served as a judge and as a Professor of Law at the College of William and
Mary, ‘through his cultivation of business and political relationship, mainte-
nance of loyal kinship bonds … and marriages to widows from other leading
families, [he] served as a virtual CEO of a far-reaching enterprise’ ( Watson
2014). For such a wealthy, powerful, and influential individual, the presence of
a complex, fashionable, and unusual instrument, made in England and
imported at cost, would have signalled his global connections, while its
decoration in the ‘neat and plain’ style favoured in the new Republic, signalled
his loyalties. At nearly 9’ tall 7’ wide (2.92 m) and 18’ deep (0.45 m), the
presence of the organised piano would have been hard to miss. It was likely the
most complex domestic instrument in the state of Virginia if not the country.
As acquired, the instrument was a powerful document of an unusual and
historically important period in instrument manufacture. An inscription on the
nameboard tied it to an important firm of 18th-century instrument dealers and
additional inscriptions within the instrument itself related it to a significant
maker of keyboards and an early 19th-century restorer with links to important
figures in the state of Virginia. There was a powerful argument to be made for
leaving the instrument as it was and preserving it as an unsullied record.
Indeed, this was in keeping with the Foundation’s approach to the acquisition of
musical instruments, which advocated for the restoration of instruments only
when previous restoration had already contributed to the loss of those
elements most commonly replaced during refurbishment. On the other hand,
as a collection of fragments, the instrument was hard to read and could never
be exhibited. Additionally, its ‘voice’ could not be heard. As the single survivor
of its type, this meant that important information about the object’s nature
including the sounds it produced, which are unique and characteristic of the
period, would not be recovered or appreciated.
After careful consideration, the decision was made to restore the instrument
using an approach known as ‘restorative conservation’ ( Watson 2010).
Restorative conservation seeks to fuse the goals of conventional instrument
restoration (which often prioritises form and sound over substance) with
preservation (the protection of substance as a bearer of historical information).
In this instance, the musical and aesthetic qualities were restored using non-
traditional and state-of-the-art conservation methods that aimed to preserve
the historical evidence that might otherwise be lost in conventional instrument
restoration. The goal was not to make the instrument playable on a daily basis,
but rather to put the instrument back together and permit the sound (an
intangible aspect) to be recorded and communicated to visitors. As a result,
less invasive and less permanent approaches could be taken where warranted.
The work undertaken included careful documentation of every facet of the
piece. Most of the crushed pipes were reshaped and the holes in them were
filled although several were left unrestored as documents of the object’s
history. The stop action for the organ was largely intact and was cleaned and
repaired. A new piano action was made to replace the missing one using
technical information from other upright grand pianos. Luckily, the replication
of this element, which would normally take the most wear and tear, insured that
the instrument could be played with minimal wear to the most vulnerable
elements. Additionally, the bellows were re-leathers, missing knobs and
veneers associated with the keyboard were replaced and the cloth front
restored ( Figure 9.7).
The treatment, which ultimately involved a team of 24 individuals including
organ builders, piano restorers, researchers, upholstery conservators, material
analysts, and furniture conservators, allowed an important piece of Virginian
history to be fully appreciated. Not only could the unusual form of the
instrument be viewed and understood but also the unique sound it produced
could be experienced. Five different period appropriate pieces of music were
recorded, and a video of the instrument being played was also made. 19
Once treatment was complete, the organised piano was installed in the
Changing Keys exhibit where it was shown along with other historic instru-
ments. Different approaches to the restoration of each of these instruments
were dictated by the condition of the instrument and by its past treatment. As a
corpus, they preserve a wealth of important historical information including the
changing appearance of historical keyboards, the variety of materials they
were made from, evidence of the craftsmanship needed to produce them, and
the sounds that they produced.
Figure 9.7 Organised Upright Grand Piano, after treatment. The Colonial
Williamsburg Foundation. Museum Purchase. Conservation of this
instrument is made possible by a gift from Constance Tucker and Marshall
Tucker in memory of N. Beverly Tucker Jr.
9C Case Study: Conservation of a Tlingit Basket ( Pouliot et al.

2017)
‘Before me stands an old American Indian basket, it is a production of my own
people. As I look and study its dilapidated form I feel as if it recognizes me, and
my thoughts flash across thousands of miles, back to the land where we both
belong, and then back to the age stained old piece before me. It seems to me
that I have seen this before. Is not this the old ‘Rest-in-shadow’? It may be that I
only heard of it when I was yet too young to remember important things’
( Shotridge 1921).
In 2007, a damaged Tlingit basket was sent to Winterthur/University of
Delaware Program in Art Conservation (WUDPAC) with a short note expressing
a hope that students could practice with it. The basket was in poor condition,
which its packing and transport to Delaware had exacerbated. The rim was in
several fragments, there were multiple tears throughout the basket, as well as a
thick layer of dirt and debris ( Figure 9.8). Normally an object in this condition
might have been added to WUDPAC’s study collection as something for
students to sample and practice treatments on; however, Bruno Pouliot, a
conservator at Winterthur and a professor in WUDPAC had recently returned
from a trip to Alaska and saw a different potential for the object.
A graduate student on the WUDPAC course undertook a careful examination
of the object, confirming that it was an older basket and worthy of treatment.
During the examination process, the student contacted Teri Rofkar, a well-
known Tlingit basket maker based in Sitka. Consultation with Rofkar helped to
draw out details about the basket, its weave, and decoration.
When treatment was later undertaken on the basket, Rofkar again helped to
guide the work, sharing insights about the behaviour of spruce root, and
shaping the conservation goals. She was not averse to the addition of standard
conservation materials but felt it was important to understand any products that
might have been added in the past and to carefully clean the basket. Analysis of
the dyes suggested a potential date for the object and UV examination showed
that past owners had made a series of repairs in the past. No traces of the
heavy metals associated with pesticides were identified on the basket,
supporting a history of retention in private collections. Repairs were made to
the basket using Japanese tissue and wheat starch paste to stabilise the tears
in the body. The losses to the rim were not repaired as they required the
addition of too much new material.
Rofkar dubbed the basket ‘the old one’ noting that ‘we are the ones moving
through the lives of these “old ones” rather than the other way around’. For
Rofkar one of the key goals of the treatment was to allow ‘the old one’ to
continue to share its experiences and to experience new things itself. Toxic
treatments were to be avoided because they would limit both of those goals
( Figure 9.8).
Figure 9.8 Tlingit basket, before treatment. Crista Pack.
In 2016, once the conservation was complete, the basket was given to Rofkar
to take back to Sitka, to share with the community and to participate in her
teaching about traditional basket weaving techniques. Such teaching helps to
revivify cultural traditions and to pass traditional knowledge onto the next
generation in indigenous communities. Rofkar used the basket in a series of
programs including:
• Summer programs in the Sitka School District designed to deepen the teachers’
understanding of traditional arts and traditions and demonstrate how basket
making contributes to the skills acquisition in the classroom.
• The Sitka Native Education Program Berry Camp where children were permitted
to hold it, learn about it and even place the sorts of berries it was originally
designed to hold in it. For Rofkar one of the joys of this experience was watching
the connections that modern children built with the old one and the way in which
they used contemporary culture to understand and connect with it.
• A residency at the Sheldon Jackson Museum in Sitka in which Rofkar shared the
artistry and techniques of basket making and in which the ‘the old one’ acted as a
bridge between the modern weavings being demonstrated and older baskets
carefully tended in cases within the museum.
Through the collaboration between conservators and traditional artists, ‘the old
one’ has become an active object once again, building new connections with
the people around it, experiencing the world, and creating new bridges between
generations. It has served as a teacher both within and without the Tlingit
community, and along with other similar objects is helping to revitalise Tlingit
culture and to promote dialogues within the community that support and
strengthen the Tlingit worldview and identity. Both the material characteristics
embodied in its form and decoration and its intangible characteristics – its
presence, its experiences, its personality – are vital aspects of its ability to act
as a guide and both are worthy of preservation. ‘The old one’ and other objects
like it are also helping to teach conservators how to work in new ways, to share
authority and to look beyond simply the materials of which objects are made
and consider all their meanings.
Notes
1 Gamelan is the traditional ensemble music of Indonesia. Primarily composed of percussive
instruments, it also incorporates bamboo flutes, stringed instruments, such as the Siter and
Rebab, and human voice and is traditionally used to accompany religious ceremonies,
wayang puppet theatre, dance concerts, and other performances. The instruments are pro-
duced in traditional workshops, using craft techniques that are specific to the production of
these instruments. The sounds produced by the multi-timbre ensemble are unique and are so
deeply rooted in Indonesian culture that a popular saying holds that nothing is final until the
final gong is hung. Imbued with spiritual significance, there are also ritually prescribed
approaches and treatments to the instruments.
2 The movement, sound, smell, warmth, and vibration produced by machine are also char-
acteristic of living creatures. It is not surprising that machines are often described as living
( Wain 2017: 84). Musical instruments are said to have voices and breath ( Watson 2010) and
often described using anthropomorphised terms such as throat, belly, and mouth. People
talk to machines, name them, and often have complex interactive relationships with them
similar to those they may have with living creatures.
3 It should be noted that actions like changing the oil and replacing worn parts in working
objects are not dissimilar to re-leading stain glass windows or revarnishing a painting. All
are actions aimed at retaining the function of the object. However, the frequency and scale
with which such actions may be carried out on working objects is what is sometimes seen as
problematic.
4 However, it is important to note that while changing the source of power can produce
cleaner, quieter experiences it can also fundamentally change the visitor’s encounter and the
sensory effect of the machine ( Wain 2017).
5 The Silver Swan at the Bowes Museum in County Durham, England, an automaton dating
to 1773, is only run once a day at a set time. For visitors, whose visits do not coincide with
this, videos of the swan in action are available. Interestingly, lack of use during the Covid-19
pandemic in 2020/2021 caused the mechanism to seize up, pointing to the importance of even
this limited use to the ongoing functioning of the object.
6 Although it has fewer wheels, a unicycle can still be understood through its similarities to the
more familiar bicycle. While the shape and materials of many objects reveal their function, more
recent electrical and computational devices often form a ‘black box’. The function is not
immediately clear and thus there is a greater need to show such devices at work ( Newey 2000).
7 A term used by Ernst Van de Wetering to describe the restoration of works of art, but
appropriately extended to historic vehicles ( Van de Wetering 1996, 193).
8 Such organisations may include civic corporations, academic institutions, regiments,
sporting associations, and fraternal orders, such as the Freemasons or Oddfellows.
9 This procession is known as the Lord Mayor’s show.
10 Also known as the ‘Stone of Destiny’ or the ‘Coronation stone’ and traditionally used to
crown the kings of Scotland the stone was forcibly removed from Scone Abbey by Edward I
and taken to London in 1296. It was incorporated in a throne on which all subsequent
monarchs of England and the United Kingdom were seated during their coronation. In
1950, Scottish nationalists stole the stone from Westminster Abbey. Although the stone was
returned to England four months later the theft reinvigorated the nationalist cause. In 1996,
the stone was returned to Scotland as a ceremonial response to rising Scottish nationalism.
11 Inherent vice is the tendency of an object to self-destruct or deteriorate due to the instability
of the materials it is made of their incompatibility or poor construction that does not respect
the character of the materials.
12 Although not necessarily carried out by conservators, this act of restoration may be seen as
similar to the restoration carried out on The Ambassadors (Case Study 6 A) – a near invisible
act that permits the artwork to function as the artist intended.
13 Other socially active objects may undergo similar processes. Writing about tombstones,
Harold Mytum (2004) has noted that their social activity begins to diminish rapidly if rel-
atives move or die. Exceptions to this may include war cemeteries, such as those in El
Alamein or Normandy, where the massing of graves from a single conflict provides a focal
point for memory, engagement, and reflection beyond the lives of those close to the
deceased; and National burial sites, such as Arlington National Cemetery in the US or St.
Paul’s Cathedral in Britain, where the assembled burials and monuments reinforce aspects of
the national identity. In the US, Canada, and Ireland, communities have recently re-engaged
with African American graveyards ( Palmer and Palmer 2015) and graves associated with
Native schools and Magdalene laundries leading to recognition of the treatment of in-
dividuals and groups at these sites, strengthened community bonds, and in some cases legal
redress.
14 Public perception of the museumification process typically consists of cataloguing, preser-
vation actions that limit interaction with the object (i.e. ‘please do not touch signs’ or
wearing white gloves to handle the object) and display in a glass case.
15 It is important to note that as there is a diversity of western views, there is a diversity of
views among indigenous groups, First Nations and world cultures.
16 It should be noted that this example predates the formal use of the term ‘People-centered
conservation’ however it clearly relates to this practice and remains an excellent one for
showing how conservation practices can be altered to support community beliefs and values.
17 Although some conservators may express discomfort at the idea of a process that tolerates
damage, it is something that we must remember occurs every day in museum settings as
objects receive light damage from display or experience handling from being on open dis-
play. It is also important to note that if we only preserve the material components of objects,
then damage is being done to their conceptual and intangible components.
18 Organised pianos were fashionable in the late 18th and 19th century but the ones that
survived are all square pianos with a small number of organ pipes inserted below the action.
The upright nature of this piano allowed a considerably larger number of pipes to be
inserted. Fourteen British organised square pianos survive ( Watson 2014:19).
19 An example of the unique sound of the organised piano can be heard at http://update.jrw1.
com/top/1%20Haydn_Adagio_CMaj_Sonata%20(piano%20&%20organ%20together).mp3
(Accessed March 1, 2022).
10 Perception, Judgement, and
Decision-making
Conservators, like many other professionals, face complex problems with numerous
possible solutions. They must identify what the problems are, determine the options
for dealing with them, decide on the solutions and then enact them. There are fre-
quently no simple answers; every intervention to a historic or artistic object requires
careful judgement. Successful conservation depends on the conservator knowing what
the object is, where it comes from, what it relates to (context), the materials it is
composed of, how those materials decay, and the various measures that could be
implemented to clean, stabilise, and preserve the object. Crucially, successful outcomes
also depend on the conservator’s ability to determine (or judge) which interventive or
preventive measures are most appropriate to implement. Judgement, or the weighing
of knowledge leading to a decision, includes considering the ethical issues, the extent
to which intervention is warranted, the resources available, the wishes of the object’s
owner, the risk of damage to the object, and any health and safety implications, as
well as other factors, such as the values inherent in the object. This can be challenging
for those entering the field, who may seek defined ‘rules’ or prescriptive approaches,
and for allied professionals who may find the variability of approaches demanded
challenging.
Perception
It is comforting to think that we all perceive the same thing when looking at the same
object; unfortunately, this is not the case. The process of viewing and identifying the
object is, in large part, a mental process involving our memories and experiences,
meaning that we all perceive what we see slightly differently.
Perception begins when light bounces off an object and enters the eyes. The light is
focussed by the cornea and lens onto the light-sensitive retina cells at the back of the
eye. These cells act as transducers and convert the photons of light into electrical
impulses that pass through the optic nerve to the visual cortex of the brain. Different
retinal cells (i.e. rod and cones), are more or less sensitive to different light levels while
different photo-pigment particles within the cone cells are receptive to different wa-
velengths of light giving us colour vision. These signals are processed in the brain in
two ways:
• bottom-up processing – where the longer we look the more detail we see, and the
more the visual image builds up
DOI: 10.4324/9781003009078-10
Perception, Judgement, and Decision-making 203
• top-down processing – where we draw contextual information, recognise patterns,
and draw from memory to suggest hypotheses about what we are seeing.
In the bottom-up process, different light effects are correlated with events in the
physical world (Gibson 1966); for example, brighter objects are understood as nearer,
objects diminishing in size are perceived as moving away, and where one image is
blocked by another, one is understood to be in front of the other. This system evolved
in simple organisms to detect what was in the environment to avoid collisions. Such
basic capacities allow us to learn about the world around us, even as newborns.
Similarly, humans tend not to look at fixed points, our eyes move around scenes,
locating interesting parts and building up mental 3D maps of the scene. We uncon-
sciously focus on key aspects of the image such as edges/outlines or the faces of people
as we seek to understand what the image is. We probably start our images with a
simple 2D outline, then move to fill in light and shade developing a 3D model. The
repeated focus on key areas suggests an interactive process gathering and updating
information, which is accumulated and interrogated in the brain.
Top-down processing refers to the use of contextual information in pattern
recognition. We use partial information and draw on previous images and associated
information (schemata) to aid our understanding (Gregory 1970). For example, reading
one scrawled word can be difficult but when it is part of a sentence it may be easier
because we can use the meaning of the words surrounding it to help us understand. This
can lead to misidentifications. Similarly, our perception of colour and shade are relative,
influenced by the colour and shade of the things that surround them.
Vision developed in a competitive evolutionary situation. There are benefits to
gaining information quickly (such as detecting threats) but also to gathering accurate
information, which builds up slowly avoiding misidentification, unnecessary action,
and wasted energy. Thus, both a quick system, imparting partial information and
seeking correspondence with known information, and a slower checking detail system
are desirable. All brain activities consume energy (calories!) and evolution seeks to
minimise energy expenditure. Thus, we do not look at all things closely, if we are
satisfied with the correspondence between the image and our perception (identifica-
tion) then we do not pursue the matter further – though we may be left with a mis-
identification. Where there are visual discrepancies between the image being registered
in our brains and what we think we perceive, then the brain works to resolve the
problem, focussing on the differences, thus we pay more attention to them. This may
well be why we focus on the cracks in a plate or chips in a mug. They do not corre-
spond well with the idea of a whole object, which we perceive in our heads; we
therefore focus on the errors and blemishes and try to better understand them.
As we look and perceive, images and cues flood into our short-term memory, which has
limited capacity; typically holding between five and nine elements (images and infor-
mation) for 15–30 seconds (Miller 1956). Information is therefore grouped together; ei-
ther ‘chunked’ together (e.g. memories of a given time and place), categorised into groups
where similar things are corralled, or run together as complex sequences of actions
(schemata, patterns). Humans do not normally see single images; the visual image is part
of a continuous stream of information with other associated images (i.e. a context). Thus,
when seeking to identify an object, we are selecting from a group of restricted images –
those that correspond to the surrounding context. The patterns or schemata carry cues or
links to further patterns and thus humans perceive in a sequence of patterns (images,
204 Perception, Judgement, and Decision-making
actions, movements) described as cognition sequences. This develops into a series or
cascade of existing patterns, one triggering another, with an inhibiting or checking
mechanism that registers the degree of correspondence or lack of correspondence and
automatically generates the next pattern, which may better correspond with the received
image (Margolis 1987). Thus, a small white cylinder in a room could be a cigarette or a
wooden stick, but the cue of a blackboard in association with the room identifies the
white cylinder as a piece of chalk (Figure 10.1). This type of continuous perceptual
hypothesis testing requires constant evaluation of many hypotheses in parallel using
information collected over time (Bob Kentridge personal communication). It is, however,
through such mechanisms that the conservator identifies the object and in so doing ac-
cesses images, actions, information associated with it (Figure 10.1).
Figure 10.1 The Hippopotamus at the Zoological Gardens, Regent’s Park Zoo, London.
Photographed by Count de Montizon in 1855. Caged people and a blissful hippo
or a caged wild animal and intrepid onlookers? Although we perceive the animal,
bars and people, the meaning of the image is entirely derived from our associated
information. The Royal Photographic Society.
The pattern (chunks, categories, schemata) with all its cues can lead to unconscious
associations e.g. stereotypes. Patterns are learnt slowly in the first place, but repetition
(rehearsal) leads to speeding up of the thinking process, as alternatives to the norm are
inhibited. Thus, the world becomes an ordered (non-surrealist) place of sequences,
such that when watching a game of chess, you expect one move to follow another
rather than expecting the chess pieces to become fish. The creation of the patterns by
chunking, categorising, and sequencing is rarely even raised to consciousness during
operation. They become attention-free, automatic processes and complex actions can
be performed while other thinking activities are run in parallel. The patterns are either
quickly overwritten or moved to long-term memory.
When humans acquire additional information, it is incorporated into existing pat-
terns of understanding. Additional knowledge is more easily added or assimilated into
an area where there is already a significant number of patterns.
Learnt Behaviours
The behaviour of elementary organisms can be explained by simple feedback loops
from stimuli; these actions (initially trial and error in response to the stimulus) led to
positive outcomes (food, reproduction, survival) and thus evolved into permanent
instinctual traits. This reaction sequence can be modified by associating consequences,
such as a pleasant or unpleasant stimulus, and the resulting behaviour of the animal
can be altered or habituated. These ‘learnt’ patterns can become more complex and
through repetition become unconscious. The acquisition of learnt patterns and
responses leads to choices and since there are options there are also different outcomes
and different consequences. The more extensive the memory capacity and the greater
the level of experience then, theoretically, the wider the range of options and choices
and the greater level of consideration attendant on any response.
Judgement
Where there are choices, at higher levels of thought we come to a process, which can
be termed judgement. Margolis (1987) defines this in terms of an ability to solve a
problem not previously encountered and concludes that it requires some form of
imagination for its solution. For example, when chimpanzees are faced with the need
to get food suspended high above its head, some can figure out that putting one box
onto another will enable them to gain sufficient height to pick the fruit, without having
been previously shown. These chimpanzees have run through the possible actions in
their heads and building from an existing pattern of reaching food at a lower level by
standing on one box have imagined the consequence of standing one box on another.
Human experience suggests that two routes lead to judgement (Kahnemann 2011).
In the fast ‘seeing that’ approach, an intuitive line is drawn through existing facts and
extrapolated to form the complete picture, theory, or idea. These intuitive unconscious
‘jumps’ in understanding, which we all experience, are known as naturalistic decision-
making or heuristic thinking (Kahnemann 2003). They are fast, automatic, and
effortless and can be both emotionally charged and difficult to modify because they
are governed by habit. The slower controlled mode (Kahnemann 2003) or analytic-
deliberative (AD) process (Renn 1999) is more deliberate, effortful, and more likely to
be consciously monitored and deliberately controlled. The speed of the heuristic
process is favoured by evolution, but the exactness, executability, communicability,
and reproducibility favoured by our culture demand the reasoned path. There is no
guarantee that the AD approach has to define a truth and, though less prone to error
than the heuristic approach, it is possible to justify an inaccurate or erroneous thought
or action. The AD process can be seen as rationalisation while the heuristic process
can be equated with belief and may, in unconscious form, generate emotions and
movement. Where reason and belief correspond, we have certainty; where there is
belief but no proof or there is proof but no belief there is a paradox and doubt exists.
Such states of doubt are frequently encountered in the learning process.
Future potential outcomes (judgements) are communicated through the complex
medium of language. It permits concepts to be measured against each other to
determine the most effective one. This is the process we refer to as reason and it
enables humans to use collective judgements to modify or support their judgement.
Learning
Learning can be understood as a lasting change in perception or behaviour resulting
from experience. Initially existing patterns of activity/behaviour/understanding are
employed in a new situation and modified based on trial and error. Thus, learning to
clean a dirty or corroded object with a scalpel may utilise familiar actions, such as
using a knife for paring an apple or for whittling, to guide the movement of the
scalpel. As one gains experience with the corroded surface, the patterns are altered by
trial and error and improved; actions that are perceived to have improved the situation
are slowly improved, retained, and repeated (becoming almost instinctual). When
learning new ways of doing things, or re-ordering knowledge in a new way, it is dif-
ficult to learn to do things the new ‘slow’ way rather than using the old ‘fast track’
pathways and there is a constant problem of sliding back into the old ways of thinking
(Margolis 1987). However, once established, the thought process speeds up through
repetition (rehearsal). In situations where there are a large variety of activities hap-
pening simultaneously, such as stimulating social and changing environments with
much to see and do, learning proceeds quickly, whereas in more static environments it
proceeds slowly. Where there is external influence (teaching), behaviour can be
deliberately modified (learnt), especially where punishments or rewards (operant
conditioning) are employed.
An important element within any learning process is not simply establishing a
sequence or pattern of thought, but also generating a correct answer. Learnt processes
must have some correspondence with reality if they are to be useful to us. Reality
testing can take two forms (Abercromby 1960):
• Communication Reality Testing – communicating one’s understanding to others

and comparing one’s judgement with theirs. Since experiential learning is slow,
humans have developed technologies such as speech, writing, and imagery to pass
on information at an enhanced rate. Complex ideas can be communicated in writing
or speech forming a fairly quick and easy method of reality testing, which may only
approximate reality since there can be misunderstanding by the individuals
involved; the more experienced the group, the less likely this is to occur.
• Physical Reality Testing – the correspondence of one’s perception with real
objects and real situations. Is what I believe true? For example, if I have worked
out, or simply believe, that this object is light enough for me to lift, I can try lifting
it to test my hypothesis. Confidence is gained if the ‘learnt’ thinking process is
proved to be correct. If it is not correct, further facts and information are sought
and the thinking process is repeated with the additional information factored in.
A conservator’s professional training requires a substantial component of practical

work handling, studying, and conserving objects to fully test their developing un-
derstanding since there must have a very close correspondence between their under-
standing and the reality of the objects they handle and conserve if they are to be
effective.
The patterns we create through our own experience are strong. They have more
associated cues (smells, sounds, touch) than material learned by reading alone; we
preferentially image and interpret using our own experience. Although personal ex-
perience provides richly cued patterns, it is a slow-learning medium particularly for
reasoned ideas. It is far easier to learn a reasoned idea, such as Pythagoras’s Theorem,
than to derive it for yourself. While it may be imagined that to learn efficiently one can
simply read a book or hear a lecture, teachers have lamented throughout time that
such communications frequently do not lead to the retention of information. There is
a Swedish proverb that states ‘What you hear you will forget, what you see you will
remember, what you do you know’ (Kavanagh 1990; Figure 10.2).
Audio Visual Kinesthetic Activity

Retention Rate Learning Activity Input Input Input Level
5% Listening to a lecture.
10% Reading.
20% Watch audio-visual.
30% Watch a demonstration.
Engaged in a group
50%
discussion.
75% Practice what one learned.
Teach someone else/use

90% immediately.
Figure 10.2 The Pyramid of Learning, developed by the National Training Laboratories
Institute (Bethel, Maine). Widely used and repeated as it appears to correspond
well with human perception of the how well we learn. Redrawn by Chris Caple.
Learning can involve absorbing large amounts of information. Retaining infor-

mation as a series of separate facts is difficult, therefore it is normally presented
(taught) in chunks, categories, or sequences so that relationships between the pieces of
information are highlighted, such as through linear narratives of cause and effect. The
greater the learner’s knowledge of a subject, the more fine grained the chunks of
information and the more accurately they are categorised and understood. Many
other factors such as motivation, confidence, and the surrounding environment affect
learning. Not all taught materials are equally powerful; those that are more recent are
more powerful than those that are older. Formal, scientific presentation is often
preferentially believed over informal, artistic performance. Dramatic facts and inci-
dents are more readily remembered than the boring or mundane; failure looms large
(we all remember our failures) whilst the status quo is unremarkable and is poorly
remembered. Therefore, it is not simply the information of images gained that is
important, but also the way in which that information was received that influences the
power and reliability of the image in the mind.
Limitations and Biases in Perception and Judgement

A series of patterns, such as images, may correspond to the word ‘knife.’ When
associated cues, such as the context or features of the knife, are added, they may allow
the knife to be placed in a particular chronological period or associated with an
activity, such as eating, hunting, or fighting, or linked to a specific group. In these
patterns, evidence (facts) invariably becomes bound up with associated ideas.
Although this may be very beneficial for wider understanding, it is important for
conservators to distinguish between the facts (the basic image itself) and the as-
sumptions (the ideas or conclusions drawn from it) so that each element can be
critically analysed and changed if appropriate. Unless conscious efforts are made to
focus on the exact nature of the knife and check every detail, key information such as
worn and dirty maker’s marks may be missed. Our ability to notice detail, especially
changes in detail, is crucial in many human tasks, and has been shown through ex-
perimentation to be poor (Gunnell et al. 2019). The fact that we fail to spot change
when an image is altered (change blindness) shows that our visual perception does not
hold a lot of detail, just enough to enable us to function. There is evidence that we
overwrite images, fail to reconcile differing images of the same thing, or hang onto an
initial image even when things have changed (Simons 2000). We also see what we want
to see or expect to see, consequently we miss things (inattentional blindness), this often
occurs because we are looking for specific pieces of information and do not look
‘outside the box.’ Drew et al. (2018) illustrated this when they asked CT radiographers
with expertise in screening for lung cancer to look for lung nodules, which appear as
light circles on chest cavity X-radiographs, 83% of the experts failed to identify the
black and white image of a gorilla that had been included in the X-radiograph. The
radiographers were so focused on the task that they failed to take in the whole.
Once their minds are made up, humans are generally poor at changing them.
Previous experience tends to dominate thinking and lead to the repetition of well-used
methods. Experienced individuals use tried and tested methods that they are adept at
using, even if it gives a significant bias. A model for reaching or changing a judgement
developed by Tversky and Kahneman suggests that judgement is a heuristic process of
anchoring and adjustment (Meyer and Booker 1991). The individual starts with an
initial decision that is based on previous experience (an intuitive insight based on
previous patterns) and this judgement is simply modified with each piece of additional
information. This would suggest that a judgement is never wholly recreated from the
facts. Having made a judgement, it becomes the dominant fact within the assemblage
and cannot be ignored. People are invariably predisposed to weight their own
thoughts highly, as well as ideas or facts that they have accepted (Figure 10.3; Case
Study 6B: Loch Glashan Satchel). These previous judgements and accepted ideas act
as an anchor constraining future consideration of the problem; the final judgement
may show a skew or bias towards the original reaction. This unwillingness to embrace
a new judgement manifests itself as stubbornness or fear of new ideas. We may even
devalue certain pieces of evidence that do not agree with our existing views and
overvalue other evidence when it agrees with what we ‘know’ (confirmation bias).
Figure 10.3 The Peterborough petroglyph: (a) as identified and recorded – a snake and three
eggs. This image was outlined in wax crayon so subsequent viewers all saw this. (b)
The same petroglyph re-examined, crayon removed and photographed in raking
light, revealed a figure with raised ears originally pecked into the rock. Even now
these markings may be part of a large image which is no longer visible (Bahn et al.
1995). Drawn by Robert Bednarick.
Experienced conservators often weigh options unconsciously and only raise them to
conscious consideration when there are several options that have similar likelihoods of
success or failure. Although it might appear logical to suggest that judgement is based
on selecting the best likely result from a range of weighted options, less logical
methods are often utilised:
• One or two crucial or higher ranked categories dominate the process.

• A selection is made based on the options that minimise conflict or require lower
levels of resources.
• One source of evidence is prioritised over others because we are more familiar
with it.
Improving Judgement in Conservation

If judgement is a process of assessing and drawing conclusions based on the available
evidence, decision-making is the process where someone chooses between the multiple
alternatives. Sound judgement is needed to make optimal decisions. When applying
judgement to complex conservation processes, evidence can be understood as indi-
vidual elements (the object’s form, decoration and composition, the extent and nature
of the decay mechanism, the extent and nature of preserved evidence, the appropriate
ethical considerations, previous treatments), all of which can vary between objects and
even in different areas of a single object. This evidence is weighed and contributes to a
series of options for conservation processes, such as the extent of cleaning, appropriate
stabilisation treatment, appropriate final visual form of the object. These options are
also weighed, and a considered decision is reached. Since each object is unique, when
deciding what intervention is needed, the conservator should not automatically per-
form an oft-repeated process that has developed into an unconscious cognition
sequence but should seek to follow a conscious judgement process in which a range of
options and possible outcomes are considered.
Experts are often highly proficient at making judgements. They perceive more; for
example, experienced chess players can remember how 25 pieces are arranged on a
board after seeing it for five seconds, whereas novice players will only remember the
positions of around five pieces (Chase and Simon 1973). Experts have exercised many
more judgements that have been reality tested and thus they can imagine more suc-
cessful scenarios, automatically discarding unsuccessful ones. However, it is often
difficult for an expert to say why one option was chosen rather than another, since
much relevant information is perceived and judgement is made unconsciously in a
heuristic process. This makes it difficult to accurately describe all the information and
factors that were weighed and explain them. For professions where there is a constant
stream of problems and data, such as medicine, weather forecasting and conservation,
reality provides a natural feedback loop, whose results quickly feed heuristic thinking,
and are only occasionally analytically and deliberately analysed.
In areas where there are large amounts of different evidence and many options,
judgement is challenging. There is not a single correct answer, but a series of more
correct answers and a series of less correct answers. Experiments have shown that a
group of experienced doctors confronted with a series of X-radiographs some of which
show signs of tuberculosis, will not always pick out the same radiographs, especially in
less obvious cases (Abercromby 1960). Confronted with the same set of radiographs a
few days later, a doctor may not even pick out the same radiographs as on the pre-
vious occasion. The error can be one of observation, failing to see all the important
aspects of the image, but is more usually one of judgement where all the aspects of the
image were seen but not considered significant. In such cases, shadows seen in the
radiograph were considered to be within the natural background variation for human
tissue. While errors in observation can be minimised to assemble an accurate under-
standing (for example by having several experienced observers look at the subject,
discuss it and try to consciously strip away their assumptions), it is the nature of
judgement that there will always be errors. Good judgement derives from keeping
these errors to a minimum. Persistent errors of judgement are called biases and due to
their consistency can be detected and counteracted. As mentioned above, one of the
most consistent forms of bias is the reluctance to change one’s mind.
Many techniques can be used to improve judgement, these include the following:
• Limiting the number of choices. Since only about five to nine elements can be held
at one time in the short-term memory, rather than considering many options
consider pairs of options and select one as preferable to the other. Continue the
process until one option emerges as preferential to all others.
• Breaking the subject down into many smaller questions. When approaching more
complex conservation judgements, break it down into a series of smaller
judgement steps (Caple and Garlick 2018). Solve each separate stage, then
explore the issues imposed by increasing the size or number of objects, adding
additional processes or the interactions of one material or technique on another.
• Developing a model of the problem. There has been little exploration or
development of this technique within conservation because of the unique nature
of most objects, but for managing repetitious tasks it is possible.
• Being aware of engaging in a decision-making process. Through discussing the
reasoning behind decisions with colleagues, one engages in thinking at the AD
level (Henderson and Waller 2016).
• Communicating and writing down the evidence considered, and the deductions
drawn at each stage. After describing and assessing the condition of an object, the
next step is generally to propose a conservation treatment. Such conservation
proposals can and should be written down to help clarify the various steps that are
required. When treating relatively simple objects, experienced conservators may
not always write out conservation proposals since the procedures involved are
often very familiar but even then, the process of documenting the proposed
approach is a useful check against bias. When the conservation of a large and
complex object is envisaged, the work can be so multifaceted and involve so many
conservators and specialists that written treatment proposals are essential.
Treatment proposals are critical when conservation work is done on contract or
through a tendering process, so that the client is aware of the work envisaged and
its likely outcome and effect. Thus, written conservation proposals support and
develop the judgement process.
There is no certainty in a judgement. In conservation, there may be several viable

options rather than a single correct answer. However, there are often solutions that are
inappropriate or carry significant risk to the object or to the conservator and it is
important to weigh these and discard them. There will always be alternate paths and
they are an essential part of judgement; good decision-making rests on considering the
alternatives and becoming comfortable evaluating the balance of probability.
Optimal Decision-Making
In the 1970s, the development of management theories led to the mathematical
modelling of decision-making and methods to aid the process were created. Many of
these methods use courses of action (options) supported by weighting factors ex-
pressed as probabilities and mathematical models to select the most beneficial course
of action based on Bayesian probability.
Although much of the literature concerning ‘decision theory’ focuses on different
mathematical models for evaluating the options (selection process), in practice most of
the decision maker’s time is spent clearly establishing what the question is, as well as
determining what the key options are, finding evidence to support them, establishing
the extent of the variables (probabilities), and designing new possible options to
consider (Hansen 2005). It would be simpler if this was a linear process; however, in
practice it is often circular. As we think about possible options and obtain further
information about them, we often return to the question to further clarify it.
The key to good decision-making is asking the right question. Careful phrasing is
crucial to ensuring that any answer obtained is meaningful and useful. The question,
‘does the RH range in the gallery pose any significant threat to the object,’ is not that
same as, ‘is the RH in the gallery between 50% and 60%.’ The first is far harder to
answer but more relevant for the object’s care than the second, which is far easier to
answer. When we are faced with difficult questions, we often unconsciously change
them to ones that are easier to answer (attribute substitution) offering a reasonable
answer to a question that we have not been actually been asked (Kahnemann 2003).
Like judgement, decision-making depends on heuristic approaches and AD ap-
proaches. Heuristic decisions are effective in simple, pragmatic, contextualised situa-
tions where there are just a few options to choose from. They draw heavily on personal
experience and are frequently influenced by past successes and recent events, especially
interesting or alarming incidents (Henderson and Waller 2016: 312). The advantages
are that heuristic decision-making can operate when high levels of uncertainty exists
and the broad picture (the area in which the right decision must fall) can be appre-
ciated. Experienced practitioners use it extensively since it is very quick (cost effective),
and they have a large amount of relevant experience to draw from. Heuristic decisions
invariably give ‘workable’ solutions to the problem, though not always ‘the best’
answers. However, when there are too many options, heuristic thinking can struggle to
reach a decision resulting in decision paralysis and the need to move to an AD process.
Analytic deliberate decision-making is slow and takes time and effort. It deals well
with a large range of options and enables careful logical decision-making in complex
situations. It is aided by decision support tools; however, it is less effective when there
is a large amount of uncertainty. AD decision-making processes lend themselves to
being written down, which enables the process to be shown to a range of people and is
useful when a decision needs to be seen by, and may well be checked by, others
(Henderson and Waller 2016: 310). Where there are likely to be strong feelings, the
pragmatic evidence-based approach of an AD decision, especially if it is clearly
identified and laid out, may allow a decision to be reached in a calmer, less con-
frontational manner. Whilst AD decisions focus on a set number of options and find
the best solution, heuristic decision-making can be broad ranging, can reframe the
problem, and can come up with innovative solutions; however, heuristic decisions may
fail to quantify things and sometimes may even ignore certain pieces of evidence
(Henderson and Waller 2016).
The value of things changes over time, which is not something that can easily be
factored into an AD-type decision. Value-based decisions may be better made with
heuristic processes (Henderson and Waller 2016). Had the full cost of raising the Mary
Rose, conserving the recovered artefacts, building a new museum, and putting it all on
display (Case study 4B) been known at the start, the project might never have been
undertaken (Margret Rule, personal communication) Completed and now celebrated
as an important piece of the nation’s maritime heritage, most people would now
consider the cost of the project worthwhile.
Conservators are expected to justify their decisions when writing up objects for
publications and reports, which encourages AD decision-making. Heuristic decisions
are rarely reported in print; arguably, they are seen as a less acceptable form of public
discourse for conservation, reflecting the increased role of science, ethics, organisa-
tional priorities, and ‘the need to justify decisions’ within the discipline. Prior to the
late 1980s, most of the decision-making in conservation was based on previous ex-
perience and was largely heuristic. As an increasing number of conservation methods
and materials became available but resources became increasingly limited, the need to
make decisions more justifiable and balanced became important. Emphasis on pre-
ventive conservation approaches, where there was a need to establish the probability
associated with a range of risks and consider a range of possible outcomes and their
associated costs, led to a greater awareness of AD decision-making processes. Greater
access to personal computers from the 1980s onwards also aided AD decision-making
to take hold, allowing statistical expression of variability (uncertainty) to be incor-
porated into the calculations.
In all decision-making, there is an inbuilt bias towards inaction as people have a
stronger reaction to action than inaction (Henderson and Waller 2016: 311). The
greater the scrutiny of the decision, the more likely inaction is. Since actions often
require arguing for additional resources, to avoid the effort, risk of failure, and ex-
penditure of one’s valued time, the cheaper option (inaction) is often selected.
Cost-Benefit Analysis
One of the simplest, most widely referenced methods of reaching a decision is cost-
benefit analysis (cost-effectiveness analysis). It was first used by the 19th-century
French engineer Jules Dupuit to explore the social profitability of constructing a
bridge by establishing how much people would pay to use it and how much it would
be used, allowing the total potential income to be calculated and compared to the
cost of construction. This enabled a social benefit to be expressed in financial terms.
Similar calculations have been employed for many major infrastructure develop-
ments during the 20th century, especially since the 1950s. It can be used as a hard
economic model (the project proceeds if the cost of the income received is greater
than the cost of construction) or in non-financial terms where the wider social
benefits are considered against the financial outlay. It can also be used as a simple
indicative exercise to make stakeholders aware of the money being invested and
encourage them to explore how to gain the greatest benefit (effectiveness) out of
such development.
Simple decision support tools, such as decision trees, can easily be drawn up
(Figure 10.4). The actions within the decision tree may cost money to enact and thus
the costs for undertaking a particular course of action can be calculated. The route
with the greatest profit or the least investment, or a total that matches the funds
available may be selected; however, conservation objectives are invariably more
complex and successful outcomes often consist of the greatest increase in value of the
object (information, aesthetics, social use, etc.) for the available funding (Caple 2000:
170–175).
Collection Copying Treatment

Management
C
U Enduring Review for
No
R value ? disposal
R
E Yes
N
T Health & Appropriate Treat as
Yes
safety accommodation required
No
Provide access
A Yes
C Client Copy
Yes
C request available Restricted Copy as Treat as
C No access e.g. in required required
No enclosure
E
S
Legal
S Yes Total cost of Copy as Treat as
requirement
ownership required required
No
Program
Yes Negotiate Copy as Treat as
request
selection required required
No
Appropriate
Yes accommodation
(Near) Preservation
L Obsolete copy available Generate Treat if
O No preservation required
copy before
N No
copying
G
High
Poor Copy as Treat as
expected Yes Yes Rehouse
condition required Required
T use
E
Yes Yes Appropriate
R accommodation
No
M Access copy
available Acquire extra Copy as Treat as
No required
copy required
A
C Inherent No Appropriate
vice Accommodation
C
E
Yes
S Appropriate
Yes
S accommodation
Poor Preservation
Condition Yes Generate Treat as
copy available No preservation required
copy
No
Appropriate Preservative
accommodation stabilisation
Figure 10.4 A decision tree used at Library and Archives Canada (LAC) to prioritise conservation
worksuch as converting media on outdated technology (obsolete software and hardware)
as well as traditional book and paper repair, while supporting collection use and meeting
legal and health and safety requirements (Clark 2008). Redrawn by Chris Caple.
Adding Complexity
A simple example of the use of cost-benefit analysis in conservation might be the
answer to the question ‘which technique should I use to clean an object?’ If there are
three cleaning techniques available in the laboratory and all are equally safe and
effective, but the price of the materials used varies (option A is cheap, option B has
some cost, option C is expensive), then a simple preference for lower cost might mean
that option A is selected. The greatest benefit is achieved for the lowest cost (cost-
benefit analysis). If the available options have different cleaning abilities or work at
different speeds and with different risks to the object this adds complexity to the
question and it may be helpful to introduce numbers to quantify the efficacy, speed,
cost, and risk. If the options have many different attributes, the calculation may
become very complex. To reach a simple mathematical answer the different options
should be considered using the same units, the most widely used is money.
Conservator time (salary and laboratory costs) can be converted to monetary values,
similarly materials and time can both be expressed as currency; however, choosing
between greater or lesser risk of damage to an object (object value) is a difficult unit to
work with as it varies between people. Some people may judge that there is a monetary
value to an object (you can replace it by buying another one at auction) in which case
the calculation can be completed in monetary units. However, if the object contains
unique historical evidence from a specific time and place in the past then the decision
cannot be accurately reduced to money. One can then use two or more units in a
statement to express the options, such as ‘the object may be cleaned without any risk
of surface damage (value) for X£’ or ‘cleaned with slight risk of loss of surface (value)
for Y£’. Or one can create arbitrary units (i.e. utility or significance), establish a simple
relative scale of values, such as ‘crucial, important, significant, and limited’ that can be
given numerical scores (i.e. 1 to 4) then each feature of each cleaning technique is
scored. The total value for each technique is calculated and a relative value for each
technique is obtained, with the highest/lowest value selected.
The use of realistic monetary values as opposed to arbitrary numbers or statements,
helps communicate conservation costs to managers and stakeholders however the
results may not always be as nuanced as when other values are incorporated into the
decision-making process. Crucially, whichever process is used, it can be checked by
heuristic comparison; having made the calculation, does this decision feel right? In
cases where the answer feels ‘wrong’ (counterintuitive), then one may reconsider each
step and see what drives the numerical answer. It may be necessary in some cases to
revise aspects of the ranking, or to challenge one’s own heuristic perception and ‘go
with the numbers.’
Clarity of thinking can sometimes be achieved by ranking one variable against
another for every option or by including more variables and factoring in uncertainty,
which can be expressed statistically. A wide range of mathematical models are
available, examples include analytic hierarchy process (AHP), multi attribute utility
theory (MAUT), multi criteria dimension analysis (MCDA), and Bayesian reasoning.
Each technique has its strengths and weaknesses, but it is important to note that many
are designed for particular applications. Software packages are available that allow
one to input numbers, express preferences, and generate a suggested answer, but it is
important to understand the basis of the calculations, else one risks generating an
answer that is poorly matched to the circumstances.
Risk Assessment for Museums
The most common use of AD decision-making in conservation is associated with risk
assessments of objects and collections (Ashley-Smith 1999; Waller 2003; Brokerhof
and Bülow 2016; Pedersoli et al. 2016; Rogerson and Garside 2017; Garside et al.
2018). For any proposed museum action two factors are considered: the likelihood of
detrimental impact and the degree of that impact consequence on a museum object.
These are assessed using a simple numerical scale1, the product of which gives a
numerical indication of risk. Using a 1–5 scale (5 = high, 1 = low), a product above 20
represents high risk (i.e. highly likely to have catastrophic impact), scores below 10
represents low risk (i.e. unlikely to have much impact). This tends to produce a table,
matrix, or spreadsheet whose cells can be colour coded usually red (high risk), yellow/
amber (medium risk), and green (low risk). The traffic light comparison is intentional
and allows for a quicker appreciation of risk level than looking through a column of
numbers.
• The overall risk level can be obtained by summing the risk factors, or simply
looking at the range of coloured cells. The museum can determine the overall level
of risk (risk appetite) it is willing to accept for a particular object (related to object
value) or across all objects in the institution (consistency). Where objects are rare
or unique, institutions may only accept very limited risk, where objects have lower
value (several examples exist and the objects are easily replaceable) or there is a
benefit to be gained e.g. working objects (widest sense), they may tolerate higher
risk levels.
• Risk assessment is relatively transparent because the information is based on
specific evidence and can easily be seen and compared with previous assessments.
This can lead to consistency in decision-making, which gives senior managers,
stakeholders, and colleagues confidence in the system. Loan requests can be
approved or rejected based on evidence and subjective discussion in meetings is
reduced. The format can be widely understood, which helps communicate the
decision to the staff and to stakeholders (such as borrowers).
• Where risks are identified, mitigation strategies can be proposed and the risks re-
assessed (Figure 10.5), an approach widely used in health and safety assessment.
Risk Risk Description Impact Likeli- Risk Mitigation Impact Likeli- Risk
Nature hood hood
Handling Breakage or loss 5 4 RED Handling protocol 3 2 GREEN

through observed. Object only
improper handled by museum
handling. staff. Any weakened
areas identified and
avoided or an alternate
object substituted.
Figure 10.5 A single line from a risk assessment for a camera crew coming to film in a museum
and the measures that might be employed to mitigate the risks from handling.
Subsequent lines assessed the risks of fire, light damage, theft, etc. Chris Caple.
Many natural and economic phenomena describe a Pareto distribution, where a small
number of large events make up the bulk of the total, the rest is composed of many
small events. Risks such as fire and major structural collapse pose the greatest
potential risk to the largest number of objects in a collection while other potential
risks, such as handling issues, have lesser impacts on fewer objects (Michalski and
Karsten 2018). Reducing the threat posed by fire is a highly effective way of reducing
risk to the collections, and thus a cost-effective measure. However, whilst commercial
businesses might be able to take out a loan to fix the situation and pay it back
annually, public institutions need to obtain a significant grant for such a large
investment. Thus, the political, economic, social, cultural, and organisational context
in which a museum or heritage institution operates determines its approach to risk
management and to decision-making (Pedersoli et al. 2016).
The Bigger Picture

Decisions about cultural heritage are made at a series of levels. National priorities,
organisational aims, collection requirements, and curatorial interests all impact the
preservation and display of individual objects. There is little point in making a deci-
sion at a lower level, only to have it overruled at a higher level. So, it is sensible to try
and ensure that all decisions fit into the ‘bigger picture’. For example, in Britain’s
National Trust, all decisions, even those around the conservation of objects in historic
properties, are considered for their impact on people, finance, and environment
(social, economic, and environmental capital). This is intended to ensure the survival
and sustainability of both the organisation and the planet (Lithgow 2011). Noting that
a number of issues come down to differences between preservation and access, where
such issues cannot be resolved (always the initial approach), the Trust invokes the
Sandford Principle, placing greater emphasis on preservation (Lithgow 2011). This
principle, originally articulated for the UK’s National Parks (Lord Sandford chaired
their review 1971–1974) was given the weight of law in the 1995 Environment Act ‘if it
appears that there is a conflict between those purposes, [the legal authority] shall
attach greater weight to the purpose of conserving and enhancing the natural beauty,
wildlife and cultural heritage of the area comprised in the National Park.’ The Trust
also tests this principle against the sustainability of the organisation since its contin-
uation is deemed to benefit all the things it cares for and therefore to outweigh the
benefits to any one object or property within its care.
Although organisational decision often centres around economic considerations,
some decisions are heavily influenced by wider organisational and ethical considera-
tions. When a conservation action is proposed, it is important to assess the action
against a series of searching questions to ensure both good judgement and clear an-
swers to the question of why the work must be done. In 1994, the Victoria and Albert
(V&A) Conservation Department devised such a list to guide conservators (Richmond
2005). The questions (with clarification for wider use in brackets) that conservation
staff were asked to consider include the following:
• Why is conservation needed? (who benefits and how, what happens if nothing is
done?)
• Have I consulted existing records?
• Do I need to consult the clients, my peers, other specialists?
• Have I considered all the factors contributing to the identity and significance of
the object: historical, technical, associations, sanctity, creator’s intention? (what
values does it have and to whom?)
• What effects will the conservation have on the evidence of these factors?
• Do I have sufficient skill and information to assess and implement the conserva-
tion?
• What are my options for (interventive) conservation which will produce an
acceptable result with minimum intervention?
• What are the advantages of each course of conservation?
• Can the use of environment be adapted instead of intervening on the object?
(preventive conservation options)
• What are the resource implications of my actions, (do I have the resources?) and
does my intended conservation make best use of resources?
• Do established courses of action need to be adapted or new ones developed?
• Are all my actions fully documented to a known and accepted standard?
• Are my records accessible to appropriate users?
• How will my conservation affect subsequent conservation work?
• Have I taken account of the future use and location of the object? (can it be
maintained/sustained?)
• How will I assess the success of the conservation and how will I get feedback from
owners/curators and peers?
These questions are a useful tool for any conservator faced with designing a conser-
vation treatment, implementing preventive conservation, or managing the care of cul-
tural heritage. By working through them the conservator is forced to consider issues of
sustainability (can the treatment be maintained), resourcing, and social valuation
(consultation). Furthermore, by carefully answering the questions for themselves, their
ability to articulate their decision-making process to stakeholders and to advocate for
the object(s) is improved as is the likelihood that their decision will be supported by
management and other decision-making bodies.
Consultation
Although successful conservation has always depended on engaging with others to
help define the aims of treatment, for much of the field’s history this engagement was
limited to other professionals, such as architects, curators2, archaeologists and sci-
entists, and owners. It took place within the context of what Laurajane Smith has
dubbed the ‘authorised heritage discourse’(AHD), which relies on the ‘power/
knowledge claims of technical and aesthetic experts and is institutionalised in state
cultural agencies and amenity societies’ (2007: 11). This discourse tends to privilege
monumentality and an innate artefact significance (object truth) that is often tied to
age, scientific expert judgement, and grand narratives often tied to nation building
projects. Smith and others have argued that there is a performative element of heritage
management and preservation that is engaged with the construction and renegotiation
of cultural identity, memory, belonging, and serves as a vehicle through which
meanings (narratives) and values are rejected or reaffirmed. Within conservation, this
important work is carried out through a process known as ‘consultation’, which serves
as a collaborative approach to decision-making and invites a variety of stakeholders to
participate in the process alongside owners, conservators, curators, and other spe-
cialists. These stakeholders include the following:
• Indigenous communities, traditional landowners, and source communities

• religious leaders
• living artists and after their death the custodians of their vision such as
foundations, family, and friends
• members of the public
• those who used dynamic objects such as operating machinery or playing musical
instruments.
During the consultation process, a collaborative mode of decision-making is estab-

lished in which parity is sought between specialists (such as conservators and curators
or archaeologists) who can bring certain types of expertise to the table and the col-
laborating partners who bring other perspectives and expertise to the discussions that
may not be available otherwise.
In some instances, consultation is legally mandated3; more importantly, however, it
has become recognised as a key component of ethical decision-making and is refer-
enced in most conservation codes of ethics. Beyond this, consultation has come to be
seen as an important tool for decisions relating to the creation of statements of sig-
nificance (Russell and Winkworth 2009), the redressing some of the negative impacts
of colonialism and racism (Krmpotich and Peers 2013; Swieringa 2021), and also
engaging communities in decisions about their heritage (Hughes 2011; Lithgow et al.
2018).
Consultation is not always an easy process. Identifying who to consult with is not
always straightforward. How wide you throw the net will influence the answers you
get and may lead to paralysis due to the volume and potentially contradictory nature
of what is said. However, if the consultation is too tightly bounded or those consulted
are reduced to tokenistic roles and not accorded parity in the process, there is the risk
that valuable time will be spent reaching a decision that is quickly challenged and must
be revisited.
It is important to note that it can take time to build the relationships of trust on
which successful consultations are based and that patience is needed (Message 2021).
Conservators should be aware of the baggage that their institutional affiliations may
bring with them and try to find ways to set collaborators at ease and assure them that
communication will be open and respectful. Such assurances may come through
hospitable gestures or other modes of interaction (Johnson et al. 2005: 208). It is
advisable to record the consultation where possible, ideally using direct quotes of what
was said and by whom. This will help explain what conservation work was done and
why, as well as aid future conservators dealing with the object.
Where consultation is undertaken but there is a failure to act on the results, the
undertaking should be regarded as unsuccessful (Henderson and Nakamoto 2016).
Such outcomes may occur because the conservator did not have the authority to make
the final decision or did not involve key decision-makers in the process. Consultation
takes time on both the part of the conservator and their collaborators and institutional
pressures can create difficulties. Smith and Ngarimu (2021) have shown that despite
many institution’s aspirations to grant access to collections and to involve indigenous
collaborators in the exploration of their collections, access can be stymied by other
preservation concerns and workloads, and this can have a detrimental impact on the
potential for future consultation. Another reason that the process may breakdown is
that conservators, curators, and other specialists may perceive that their technical
expertise or the scientific basis of the field is being questioned and feel challenged by
that (Henderson and Nakamoto 2016).
Consultative practices can be undertaken with any object. Increasingly consultation
has been extended to the general public who have been asked how historic houses
interiors should appear (Hughes 2011; Chitty 2018; Lithgow et al. 2018), their per-
ception of ‘damage’ to furniture (Luxford and Thickett 2013), and how illumination
levels should be adjusted (Evans and Kaborg 2013). Such efforts have been very
beneficial in terms of developing public understanding about the costs associated with
conservation and the ways in which deterioration factors act on heritage. The influ-
ence that social valuation and aesthetic preferences have on conservation decisions
such as cleaning and restoration should not be underestimated. Both the Statue of
Liberty and the Acropolis in Athens are World Heritage Sites; however, the Statue of
Liberty retains its green corrosion crust (Case Study 3A), whilst the Acropolis’
stonework was cleaned of its blackened stone crust, giving it a fresh white marble
appearance (Kapelouzou 2012: 177). Neither monument was returned to its original
appearance, but in both cases some later alterations to the appearance were removed
moving the objects closer to their earlier appearance although, crucially, one which is
aesthetically valued by present-day society. The weight placed on such factors in the
decision-making process becomes explicit when there is wider (public) consultation.
The value placed on the appearance of statues, ruins, and objects of local and national
identity is high and influences both decisions and decision makers.
Developing Decision-Making
Interventive (remedial) conservation involves greater risk to the object than other
approaches. In universities the focus on health and safety, rising costs for laboratories,
less curriculum time for practical work, and fewer teaching support staff, can mean
that less interventive conservation is taught and practised. Jonathan Ashley-Smith
(2016) has expressed concerns about the loss of practical skilling in conservation
training courses and the ways in which the focus on preventive conservation ap-
proaches may reinforce a ‘hands-off’ attitude to conservation. Such factors can con-
tribute to a lack of confidence about using interventive methods for the treatment of
important historic and archaeological objects (Child 1994). Educational settings
accustom students to undertaking AD-type processes. Although such decision-making
takes time, energy, and effort one learns to make reasoned, balanced decisions. Over
time and practice, experience is gained and heuristic decision-making improves. As
greater experience is gained conservators become increasingly comfortable using
whichever decision-making method, heuristic or AD, is most appropriate. Emerging
conservators should therefore seek out a broad range of practical experiences. Such
experiences enable a broader range of solutions to be considered and may spring from
a variety of sources including formal training, structured internships, and continuing
professional development (CPD) courses as well as more informal activities such as
crafting and volunteer work.
Experimentation offers a way to test and evaluate results before making the final
decision regarding the conservation of the object. However:
• It is possible to become too focussed on uncertainty (the things that are not
known or understood) and this can lead to inaction. Focus on the things that can
be controlled and where progress can be made. It is important that conservators
accept that there will be some uncertainty when predicting the future of an object/
treatment while also taking steps to minimise any negative impacts (Henderson
2018).
• The more research is undertaken, the greater the cost and the longer time the
decision-making process will take, so it is important to judge when one has
information to make a good decision.
• When repeating an experiment, if you get the same result or similar information,
the necessity for gaining more information is reduced. If, on the other hand, the
information recovered when the experiment is repeated increases the variety of
answers, more experimentation/ research may well be required.
Consulting stakeholders and then conserving an object with reference to a client’s brief
can be a challenging skill to develop. Ellen Pearlstein’s innovative solution was to have
students conserve heirlooms from each other’s families. This gave them experience of
consultation: interviewing each other or each other’s families, before drawing up
statements of significance, agreeing a conservation proposal, and then undertaking the
conservation work (Pearlstein 2017). The students became very aware of the value of
other people’s heritage and were reminded that the conservator’s emphasis on pres-
ervation or minimal intervention is often not shared by a wider public who want to
actively engage with their heritage.
Emerging conservators can also gain useful insights into decision-making pro-
cesses through hearing or reading more senior conservator’s autoethnographic ac-
counts of conservation projects (Stiger 2016). These accounts highlight how
different factors are weighted and that there is some uncertainty in any conservation
activity. Conservators tend to publish articles that celebrate successful treatments.
Although every conservator has at some point in their career experienced a treat-
ment that did not go the way they hoped it would, failures and mistakes are often
swept under the carpet. Often the subject of self-deprecating conference coffee-break
chatter, these stories are vital learning tools that deserve a wider place in the field.
Increasingly their value is being recognised through informal sessions at conferences
that are often paired with tips and tricks and the other sorts of useful information
infrequently captured in scholarly papers.
10A Case study: The Bush Barrow Gold ( Chippindale 1988;

Corfield 1988; Kinnes et al. 1988; Shell and Robinson 1988)
In 1985, the British Museum was asked to loan objects recovered from Bush Barrow in
Wessex to an exhibition entitled ‘Symbols of Power’ ( Clarke et al. 1985) at the National
Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh. They did this after first reshaping, cleaning, and
remounting the large sheet-gold lozenge from Bush Barrow. Subsequently an exchange
of views about the merits of this decision was published in the journal Antiquity with staff
at the British Museum who undertook the restoration, representatives of the Wiltshire
Archaeological and Natural History Society, who owned the object, the chairman of the
United Kingdom Institute of Conservation (UKIC), and the editor of the journal weighing
in. The discussion highlighted the differences in approach and judgement regarding the
reshaping of metal objects prevalent in the 1980s, and created a test case, which has
shaped subsequent discussions on conservation ethics.
The Bronze Age site at Bush Barrow was excavated by William Cunnington in 1808.
He uncovered a human skeleton surrounded with grave goods including several pieces
of gold work, amongst which was a 186 mm by 157 mm lozenge made of thin gold alloy
foil (0.1–0.2 mm thick). The front surface of the lozenge was decorated with four
concentric lozenges outlined by groups of three to four parallel incised grooves. The
outermost of the four bands was decorated with an incised zig-zag pattern, the innermost
with an incised criss-cross design, the second and third bands were undecorated
(see Figure 10.6). The lozenge was bent over along each side forming a 3- to 4-mm
ledge and the very edge of the foil was further bent to grip a thin layer of wood that
originally formed the object’s backing. Brief details about the lozenge and an idealised
drawing were published along with full details of the excavation and contents of Bush
Barrow in Ancient History of South Wiltshire written in 1812 by Sir Richard Colt Hoare,
who had financed Cunnington’s excavation.
In 1883, The Bush Barrow gold became the property of Wiltshire Archaeological and
Natural History Society. It was displayed in their museum in Devizes until 1922 when it
was deposited on ‘indefinite’ loan with the British Museum because of concerns over
security in Devises.
Figure 10.6 The gold lozenge from Bush Barrow, Wiltshire. Left – as photographed in
1912 (Abercromby 1912). Right – current image following reshaping.
Wiltshire Archaeological and Natural History Society.
Noting the extremely fragile nature of the object, the continued demand for exhibitions
and research and the ease with which thin gold foil is damaged the British Museum staff
decided to ‘remove the major undulations’ ( Kinnes et al. 1988), clean the lozenge and
provide a firm new backing. The cleaning of the object and its fragile nature were
discussed with Paul Robinson of the Wiltshire Museum, though no permission to
reshape the object was sought or given. The conservation staff of the British Museum
had considerable expertise in restoring metal artefacts and believed they were carrying
out minor conservation work that was appropriate to the preservation of this object.
They noted that the crumpled gold metal of the front surface of the lozenge was almost
slack within the more rigid bent sides and that the outer incised lines were in the form of
a slight curve. They concluded that the metal had originally had a shallow domed form,
with a slight keel at the principal axes. Using fingers, wood, plastic hand tools, and metal
tools wrapped in leather, the worst creases were eliminated from the lozenge, which
consequently regained a keeled domed form curving 8 mm above the horizontal.
Measurements of the incised lines, taken using a series of 90 ° offsets, showed that in
the reconstructed domed form, the lines form a very regular straight-lined lozenge
design. This restoration helped to bring together the edges of the slight tears in the
sides of the lozenge ( Oddy 1994). Consequently, the British Museum believed that the
object now had the appropriate ‘as original’ domed profile. An exact Perspex mount was
created to fully support this restored form.
The British Museum regarded the distorted shape of the Bush Barrow lozenge as
resulting from damage incurred during burial, excavation, and subsequent handling;
consequently, they restored it. Following reshaping, the lozenge was cleaned through
the gentle application of Goddard’s Long Term Silver Foam diluted with water and
detergent. This cleaning agent in part cleans using a very fine (1-micron-sized particle)
abrasive. While preserving the tool marks and scratches from use or previous cleaning of
the object, it has given the surface a reflective shiny finish.
When the object was seen on exhibition in Edinburgh by a member of the Wiltshire
Archaeological and Natural History Society, they were surprised by the shiny appear-
ance and reshaped form. Subsequently concerns regarding the reshaping and
cleaning were raised by Shell and Robinson (1988) and Chippindale (1988). They
questioned:
• The need to undertake any work. Why allow an object to be studied, or go on

exhibition if there is a risk of it being damaged by this process? 4
• The accuracy of the reshaping work and the necessity of cleaning. Measurements
taken on a cast of the electrotype of the Bush Barrow lozenge made in 1922, and
housed in Devizes Museum, using an Omicron 3-D digitiser which determines
surface contours to 0.001 mm, suggested that the dome had originally been very
shallow with a maximum height of 3 mm above the horizontal. This raised
concerns that the British Museum reshaping had plastically deformed the soft and
malleable gold foil.
Shell and Robinson (1988) suggest that the domed form may have been due to distortion
from post-excavation care between 1808 and 1922 and that the object may well have
originally been flat. They dismissed, the evidence of the gently curved incised lines as a
deliberate decorative feature. Additionally, they noted that all the other gold from the
Bush Barrow and its surrounding barrows has a matte finish at present and there is no
evidence to suggest that it originally had a highly reflective surface.
Corfield (1988), quoting the newly penned 1983 UKIC ‘Guidance for Conservation
Practice,’ described the aim of conservation as ‘to reveal the true nature of the object.’
Restoring or reshaping metals may reveal one ‘truth’ while destroying another since
almost every object holds many truths. Therefore, a balanced judgement must be made
as to what is most important to reveal. It is not normally considered an ethical practice to
remove any damage or distortion deliberately enacted upon an object during its life.
Occasions where reshaping metal may be considered ethical include:
• Where it can be done without damaging the object. It should be done by an

experienced and competent metalworker.
• Where the distortion of the metal results from the burial of the object or its
excavation and the distortion clearly did not represent an important aspect of the
past history of the object (e.g. the damage caused to the Coppergate helmet by
the mechanical excavator ( Tweddle 1992), or the crushing experienced by the
Anastasius Dish when the Sutton Hoo burial chamber’s collapsed ( Oddy 1994)).
• Where important information can be uncovered; for example, the unrolling of
Roman lead curses (thin sheets of lead on which worshippers scratched
messages to the gods) to reveal the inscriptions inside them ( Dove 1981).
Similarly, the flattened and broken bronze bust of Lucius Aurelius Verus ( Smith
1977) was reshaped to identify who was depicted, whilst the Hockwold Treasure
was reshaped in order to determine how many objects were present ( Oddy 1994).
In these examples, the reshaped object provides more information than the
flattened, rolled, or distorted form.
Following Colt-Hoare’s publication of the lozenge, it appeared in many subsequent

publications. Photographs showed that it had a slightly creased or crumpled form that
appeared to have changed with time. Although variations in the lighting between the
photographs obscured the precise extent of the distortion, Corfield (1988) suggested that
handling damage may have occurred, supporting the British Museum’s view that the
object was at risk if unsupported.
Responding to Shell and Robinson, the British Museum team suggested that shrinkage
from the silicone rubber mould and the electrotyping process might have distorted Shell
and Robinson’s measurements meaning that the derived shape did not accurately reflect
the original dimensions of the lozenge. Since the work on the lozenge had already been
carried out, no further evidence could be obtained to resolve the issue as to whether the
gold was plastically deformed.
The question of the cleaning and degree of reflection from the surface is another area
where it is difficult to be certain of the true nature of the object. The degree to which this
was the original condition or something that developed during burial (e.g. through etching
of the silver from the surface of the metal during the decay of the body) is as yet
unresolved. Consequently, the present aesthetic experience, whether shiny or matt, is
entirely subjective.
Having decided that the object was to be restored, clearly although the treatment was
regarded as ‘standard practice’ rather than major restoration work by the British Museum,
others did not regard it in the same light and greater consultation before the work was
undertaken might have eliminated the later controversy. The significant visual change,
like that of the wall paintings on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, drew attention to the
conservation work, and emphasised the high social value vested in the appearance of
objects. It seems likely that the conservation decision by the British Museum was initially
a heuristic one, successful previous conservation work on similar objects was quickly
cited as a reason for their approach. The subsequent controversy and publication
stimulated the AD arguments presented in the papers in Antiquity. It remains difficult to
judge how far one should go in reshaping. Leaving our museums filled with broken
crumpled objects gives a distorted view of the past, as does filling them with beautiful fully
restored objects. Whilst all the items on loan from Wiltshire Archaeological and Natural
History Society have now been returned to Devizes the most enduring legacy to
conservation has been the exposure that this subject received. The high level of research
undertaken on this object took place as a result of the controversy and was far greater
than would have otherwise occurred. The research highlighted the fragile and easily
distorted nature of gold foil. It emphasised the threats posed to objects in museum care
and questioned assumptions regarding the original form of objects. It moved the subject
of conservation forward with wider awareness and debate on the issue of reshaping
metal artefacts. It should be noted that gold sheet artefacts, such as the Ringlemere Cup
unearthed in 2001 ( Needham et al. 2006), which have subsequently entered the British
Museum collections, have been left in the ‘as found’ condition, even when heavily
damaged and distorted. In the case of the Ringlemere Cup it remains unclear whether the
distortion occurred due to deliberate damage to the cup as part of the burial ritual or
through the subsequent collapse of the grave chamber and plough damage.
Notes
1 In the following discussion it is the process that is important, rather than the number of
categories, colour, etc. It is important that the same process is consistently used so results are
comparable and that clear definitions are created. The National Museum of Australia has
some definitions in its Collection Care and Preservation Policy version 1.0. Available at:
https://www.nma.gov.au/__data/assets/pdf_file/0004/558769/POL-C-042-Collection-care-and-
preservation-v1.0.pdf (Accessed June 5, 2022).
2 Stable et al. (2021) explored the role the Keeper of Art and Archaeology, a renowned
Egyptologist, had in determining the appearance of artefacts in the ancient Egyptian Gallery
at the National Museum of Scotland.
3 Examples of laws which mandate consultative processes include but are not limited to the
Native American Graves Repatriation and Protection Act-NAGPRA (1990-United States),
Treaty of Waitangi Act (1975-New Zealand), and the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander
Heritage Protection Act (1984-Australia).
4 While this is a valid question, one must also ask, if an object is not accessible is the museum
fulfilling its purpose?
11 Responsibilities, Skills, and
Sustainable Practices in the
21st Century
The Responsible and Effective Conservator

Conservators do not work in isolation. Their work takes place within a wider context
that includes regulatory frameworks, legal obligations, and public perception. To be a
responsible and ethical conservator and to ensure that their work remains valued and
relevant, a conservator should have many qualities including the following:
• The judgement and practical skills to undertake the conservation of objects. This
includes a clear understanding of the aims of conservation, an ability to balance
competing treatment needs and make good decisions, as well as the skills to enact
the decision reached (Chapters 1–10). The conservator needs to undertake these
activities safely and responsibly for the object, themselves, their colleagues, and a
wider society.
• An appreciation that they are not simply an individual conservator but are part of
a profession and that the reputation of that profession is important in determining
its standing (and access to resources) within the heritage community. To be seen
as a good professional, there is a need act responsibly, but also to be effective and
‘get the job done’ well.
• The ability to communicate their work to others and to share its value. This may
include working as a team member within an organisation, public outreach, or
educating the next generation of conservators.
• Ensuring that the conservation work they undertake is not wasted and that
sustainable solutions are enacted. This means considering the implications of
everything they do and seeking to preserve both cultural heritage and the planet
itself.
Health and Safety

Conservators have a responsibility not to endanger themselves, their colleagues, the
public, the objects they treat, or the environment itself. Threats (things likely to cause
damage) may come from either the objects themselves or from the conservation
processes used and may take many forms including biohazards, toxic chemicals,
radioactive materials, using sharp tools and moving heavy objects. The threat posed
depends not only on the nature of the material or activity but also on the extent and
duration of the activity, the nature of the exposure to the substance and how much is
DOI: 10.4324/9781003009078-11
Responsibilities and Sustainable Practice 227
used; for example, short exposures to dilute acids are less risky to objects than longer
exposures to more concentrated acids.
The initial issue in dealing with any risk is the unknown. The next problem may lie
in assessing the risk and determining what controls if any should be put in place i.e.
identifying what the material is and what risks it poses and how to mitigate them. The
expertise needed may be in-house or it may be external. In some cases, correspondence
with peers may be sufficient to determine an appropriate course of action, but in
others, it may be necessary to hire a consultant.
Objects can present safety issues (Case Study 11A: Danish Vet’s Dispensary).1 Some
materials are inherently unsafe, such as radioactive materials (contained in some
natural minerals and luminescent dials), or toxic (for example, pigments such as
cinnabar or orpiment), while some objects (such as those that emit electricity or those
with sharp blades) pose other risks. Some objects pose health hazards because of the
ways they were treated in the past; for example, many natural history specimens and
ethnographic materials were historically treated with pesticides, which contained
arsenic, mercury, chlorine, and other chemicals (Odegaard et al. 2005). When ex-
amining objects from ethnographic and natural history collections, it is important to
know as much about the history of the collection as possible. Simple precautions like
wearing personal protective equipment (PPE), such as gloves, dust masks, and labo-
ratory coats, are important. Portable XRF may indicate whether heavy metals (linked
to some persistent pesticides) are present. If there are concerns, it is advisable to notify
colleagues of any potential threat, bag, or box the object to minimise contact, and then
arrange for further testing or analysis.
There has been increasing awareness in recent decades of the threats chemicals pose
to human health (i.e. as toxins, carcinogens, mutagens, etc). Many countries have
passed laws and regulations to control threats to health and safety and conservators
should be familiar with them.2 If chemicals are used, a risk assessment, which includes
awareness of the nature of chemicals being used and the controls that can be put in
place to minimise their effects, is often required.3
Some conservation treatments used heavily in the 19th and early 20th centuries are
no longer safe or appropriate. In reviewing chemical treatments over the past 50 years,
the following trends can be noticed:
• There is less bulk use of chemicals and in particular acids. Poultices and spot
treatments are frequently preferred over immersion to minimise the quantities of
chemicals needed.
• Where chemicals are used, more controls are in place. They are used in minimal
quantities, are more dilute, and are used, where possible, in contained environ-
ments, such as gloveboxes or fume cabinets.
• Solvent use has been reduced and confined principally to areas with extraction
capabilities. Additionally, less carcinogenic solvents and those with higher boiling
points have been employed to minimise risk to the conservator.
• Non-toxic approaches, such as freezing and/or high temperature treatments
(Xavier-Rowe et al. 2000; Carrlee 2003) or anoxia (Child 2002), are now widely
used to control pest infestations in historic artefacts instead of biocides.
• A greater emphasis has been placed on the need to label chemicals and to make
others aware of the risks posed. Chemicals should be disposed of according to the
228 Responsibilities and Sustainable Practice
local regulations or legal requirements, these may include safe disposal by
commercial waste disposal firms.
Chemicals are not the only hazards that may be present in labs. Sharp tools, such as
scalpels, pin vices, board shears, guillotines, and even lathes, band saws, and other
power tools, require safe storage and an awareness (often acquired through training)
of how to work safely around them as well as an understanding of which materials
each will cut effectively. Not using such tools when distracted or tired may also be an
important control. Repetitive actions, such as scalpel cleaning under a microscope,
inpainting, or airbrasion can lead to muscular stress and it may be important to get up
and to stretch periodically to avoid strain. Exposure to vibrations and sound should
also be limited; in the case of vibrations, this may involve only working for a certain
duration and then taking a break, sound abatement may include the addition of
architectural baffles or the use of ear protectors. Similarly moving heavy, large, or
awkward objects requires both practice and a plan. When moving large or heavy
objects, planning the route to minimise periods when one might have to hold rather
than carry the object, considering whether one or more people are needed for the
move, learning to lift so that stress is not placed on back, using appropriate lifting and
moving equipment and seeking advice from others with more experience are all
invaluable. New conservation methods and equipment bring the potential for asso-
ciated risks, each should be assessed for risk, and appropriate regulations consulted,
and procedures implemented, as seen in the precautions associated with using lasers in
conservation cleaning (Cooper 1998). It is difficult to accurately assess the risks of a
process with which you are not familiar, so it is important to talk with others who
have experience with the process. Small tips and tricks can enhance the safety of an
operation, an effective conservator should strive to be risk aware rather than risk
adverse.
Mental Health
Mental health is an important consideration. Stress occurs when there are constant
demands that go beyond our ability to cope with them. These can be imposed by
others or by oneself. High levels of chronic stress can lead to anxiety and depression as
well as physical symptoms. For conservators working in private practice, especially if
their lab is in or connected to their home, establishing a work life balance can be a real
factor, while conservators working in institutional environments report that paper-
work and research often must be done afterhours or at home due to interruptions,
meetings, and other responsibilities in the workplace. The boom in virtual meetings,
conferences, and activities such as virtual couriering that the COVID-19 pandemic
fuelled has meant an increase in work-related activities occurring outside of ‘regular’
business hours, which can contribute to a sensation of burnout. It is important to
balance workload and to be reflective when presented with new opportunities. While it
can feel difficult or unwise to turn down opportunities, especially as an emerging
conservator, one should carefully consider how they are serving one’s practice or
career goals. It is important to ask yourself:
• Does this project, no matter how exciting or flattering, help me to learn new
material or to advance my practices in the directions I want it to go? Do I have the
skills now to do the work and if not, will I be supported adequately in acquiring
the skills needed?
• Do I have the time for this both from a professional and a personal point of view?
Can I add this to my current workload without feeling overburdened? If it means
doing some of the work in my ‘downtime’, how will I feel about that?
• Will I be able to meet the deadlines? Are they reasonably spaced? Are they in
competition with any other deadlines I already have? How will they impact my
work if they alter – is my schedule so tight that any variation will cause an issue?
If the answer to any of these questions is no, it may be appropriate to turn the project
down or negotiate different parameters, such as additional training or the spacing of
deadlines. One may also need to adjust career goals and the way one works.
Recently the impact on mental health of working with supernatural and sensitive
materials has been raised (Pickering 2020). Although the question is raised in relation
to the impacts of such objects on indigenous staff members in Australian museums, it
is important to note that the issue is broader than this. Conservators working with
objects and sites of trauma have noted that such objects can take a mental and
emotional toll. The closeness that working with objects requires can compound these
effects and teams that discuss their experiences with each other are better able to
process them and are thus more resilient (Reeve and Adams 1993).
Professional Competence
The various codes of ethics that govern conservators spell out a number of responsi-
bilities for conservation professionals (AICCM 2002; ICON 2020; AIC 2020). Some are
quite specific, related to conservation activities such as the responsibility to document
treatments and demonstrate informed respect for the unique character of cultural
property and the people or persons who created it. Others speak to personal conduct and
the need for self-control such as practicing within the limits of one’s own competencies,
operating within the laws of the country in which you are practising conservation and
avoiding bringing the field into disrepute.
If clients, stakeholders, and allied professionals have a positive experience of
working with conservators, perceive the work to be of value and to have been done
well, the conservation profession can be justified and sustained. If on the other hand,
the experience is negative, the work has little value or is of a poor quality, they will
lose faith in the individual conservators and quite possibly in the field itself. Key to
retaining stakeholders’ confidence is the idea of the conservator working within the
bounds of their ‘professional competence’. Competence is built through training
(awareness of current practice and knowledge about the object and its materials and
decay) and hands on experience (experience carrying out similar processes) and is
typically communicated through qualifications and referrals. While professional
competence is easy to define in certain areas – one is not competent to drive a forklift
unless one is trained in its usage – in conservation determining competency can be
more nuanced because of the unique nature of many objects and the distribution of
conservators. For example, a furniture conservator may know a tremendous amount
about wood, but should they take on the treatment of waterlogged archaeological
wood? With time and effort, they could presumably research the aspects of water-
logged wood that make it unique and the current approaches to its practice, build a
treatment plan, and undertake the work. A more cost effective or optimal result could
be gained by referring the object to someone with more experience treating water-
logged wood. However, in regions where there are few archaeological conservators
with expertise treating waterlogged wood, it may be necessary for the furniture con-
servator to stretch their competencies. Careful reflection, research and decision-
making will be key to making this decision a success.
Within the conservation field, new skills and techniques are initially gained through
training programs, apprenticeships, placements, internships, and fellowships and later
through continuing professional development (CPD), the importance of which is
underscored by the fact that many professional conservation organisations now
include a requirement for individuals to engage with it on a regular (often annual)
basis. The definition of CPD is typically broad and may include attending workshops,
seminars, and conferences, taking art or craft classes, reading articles, and visiting or
working in labs other than one’s own for short periods. The experiential demands that
building and maintaining competency place on conservators has given rise to a cor-
ollary responsibility within the field, which relates to delivering training. Training may
take the form of mentoring emerging conservators, supervising placements and in-
ternships, or designing and delivering short courses or it can be a more informal
approach such as showing a colleague how to carry out a treatment step. Training
(like outreach) takes time, thought and energy; however, it is vital to the development
of the field. Confidence can be a barrier to sharing skills. Conservators can lack
confidence in their ‘mastery’ of techniques and therefore be protective of their work,
reluctant to share and to open it up for potential criticism (Clare 2018). It is important
to remember that competence and mastery (or expertise) are not the same thing. They
are different points on a scale of skills acquisition (Dreyfus and Dreyfus 1980) with
competence implying a good working understand of the skill and its background as
well as an ability to work independently to an acceptable standard and mastery
suggesting an authoritative knowledge and an ability to easily go beyond existing
interpretations and apply the skill in a new and innovative way (ECCO 2011; ICON
2020). In practice, most conservator’s work is a mix of the two with areas of com-
petency and areas that approach mastery of a technique or concept occurring
simultaneously. Accepting this allows us to be more reflective about our practice, spot
knowledge gaps, and communicate better with others. It also permits us to see where
we have skills that we can share.
Professional competence is reinforced through good business practices. These
include the following:
• Willingness to consult with others to acquire the necessary information to plan

and conduct conservation projects and to identify any unusual skills that may be
needed.
• Accurately estimating the resources needed to carry out conservation work.
• Successful management and completion of projects i.e. completing the work on
time and within budget.
• Problem solving to ensure that both the stakeholder’s and the objects’ needs are
met and successfully communicating those solutions to all involved.
• Crediting and acknowledging the contributions of others to the work.
• Maintaining an awareness of laws and regulations that impact conservation
practices including those addressing, health and safety, looted and stolen property
(Tubb 1995; Tubb and Sease 1996), and sacred and religious materials as well as
human remains (Hutt and Riddle 2007) and endangered species (Owczarek et al.
2015).
• Ensuring that those whose training or activities they supervise are prepared,
equipped and appropriately supported to carry out the work.
As the case of the Bush Barrow Gold demonstrates, issues of ownership, permission,
and the scope of work to be done need to be resolved prior to any work being
initiated (Case Study 10A). Permission for the work must be given and stakeholders
should be aware of what will be done (Figure 3.2). If a conservator is asked to carry
out work that they consider inappropriate or unethical they can decline to undertake it
or advise the owner/curator of why such actions are inappropriate (Balachandran 2007).
Prior to discussing conservation measures, conservators, and stakeholders (owners,
curators, community members, etc.) should discuss the nature and importance (values)
of the object and a formal written contract between the parties for the conservation work
should be drawn up. This may vary in scope depending on the scale of the project.
Ensuring that the object is appropriately insured and secured when in the care of the
conservator, and any subcontractors, may be important parts of such contractual
negotiations.
Conservation Outreach
Conservation outreach, where conservators engage with the public, has become an
important part of the conservator’s responsibilities in the 21st century (Figure 11.1;
Pye 2001; Brooks 2008; Williams 2013). Outreach takes many forms including pub-
lication, exhibitions, media appearances, social media, tours, lectures, training, and
volunteer engagement. There are many reasons for conducting outreach activities,
including but not limited to:
• Increasing public awareness and support for conservation. Direct support for
conservation, including funding and advocacy for conservation projects or the
field in general, may be a by-product of outreach but that should not necessarily
be the overriding goal. Indirect support such as name recognition, understanding,
and goodwill may be equally important.
• Increased engagement with collections care. There are not nearly enough
conservators to care for the world’s cultural heritage. Outreach to allied
professionals, such as curators, collection managers, and archaeologists can
help lift the level of care that both moveable and immoveable heritage receive.4
Similarly, volunteer projects engage the public and spread the conservator’s reach
(Ganiaris and Lang 2013). Outreach efforts may also impart valuable information
about how to interact with heritage (many museums now include ‘please touch’
panels or displays to demonstrate the impact of repeated handling and touching
on objects). Teaching the public to care for their own objects ensures that objects
that might not otherwise get care do.
• As part of an approach to shared decision-making. Outreach may be a part of a
consultation process. The Attingham Rediscovered project invited members of the
public to help shape the National Trust’s approach to the conservation of the
building (Hughes 2011).
Figure 11.1 A conservation MA student discusses fills with a ‘Junior conservator’ at an out-
reach event.
Source: Emily Williams.
Media
There are many different venues through which outreach may be delivered. Radio
interviews, television programs, magazines, and newspapers have the advantage of
reaching the broadest audiences, but it is important to remember that many of these
outlets have their own agendas and their own narratives to advance. If a story fits
neatly within these, it may be presented nearly as submitted; however, if it does not it
may be edited to create a more dramatic or controversial story. Tropes that the media
sometimes employs include the idea of the object transformed, characterised by dra-
matic before and after imagery, and the ‘forensic’ investigation, characterised by lots
of close ups of conservators in lab-coats peering through microscopes and other high-
tech equipment to reveal precious information about the past. Such imagery conforms
with how conservators often present themselves; however, Mary Brooks (2008) has
pointed out that they do not always serve the field well. Although they focus on as-
pects of conservation work, they often render the conservator largely invisible (a pair
of disembodied hands wielding tools or an operator for an analytical device). What is
left out, because it does not generate strong, recognisable images (Podany and Lansing
Maish 1993), is the interpretive decision-making and the social process that adds to an
object’s value, both of which are key elements of the conservator’s job.
Although interventive treatments are reported on with some frequency, preventive
conservation attracts less attention. The threat of loss can be a goad to action, but
many heritage institutions are wary about suggesting that their collections are not in
an ideal state as this can lead to accusations of neglect (Pye 2001: 188). Jones and
Holden have noted that despite the importance of collection care, headlines stating
that collections are not degrading are not very exciting (2008: 61). An exception oc-
curred during the lockdowns associated with the COVID-19 pandemic when pre-
ventive conservation was seen as essential work and one of the few activities for which
one could leave home. It therefore became newsworthy as the changes experienced by
collections became a way of understanding spaces without humans in them and the
magnitude of the disruption caused by the virus (cf. Chilton 2020; Gillett 2021).
Generally, conservators have a positive public image since they have unusual skills,
save things from destruction, and make much loved items whole and beautiful again.
In 2006, when a visitor fell and broke three Qing dynasty vases at the Fitzwilliam
Museum in Cambridge, the museum’s careful management of their public relation
transformed early criticism into a powerful success story that highlighted their col-
lections care and was picked up by international news agencies, enhancing the
museum’s reputation worldwide.5 However, adverse stories fed by criticism from allied
professionals (Case Study 6 A: Sistine Ceiling) or journalistic outrage about the cost of
heritage may have longer lives than feel-good stories. When dealing with the media it
is therefore important to get good advice; many museums and heritage organisations
have press and publicity officers who can help with interview preparation.
• Be prepared; know your topic, consider your key points, and learn why you are
being interviewed. It is okay to ask the reporter in-depth questions about what they
expect from the interview beforehand or to ask for a list of potential questions.
• Be prepared for the reporter to go off topic. Think about how you might redirect
them back to your key points.
• Brief answers are more effective. They help to make the dialog in an interview to
seem more like a conversation. Avoid the lengthy detail that often forms the core
of conservation documentation since time and space are often limited.
• Be careful about using lots of qualifying words; conservators are taught to qualify
observations with words like ‘almost certainly’, ‘probably’, and ‘may be’ but the
public tends to hear this as uncertainty rather than an indication of probability.
• Avoid the use of jargon and think carefully about how to simplify complex
technical details and make them relatable. If the interview is for radio or a
podcast, think about how you might describe what the audience is not seeing.
Adding a few descriptive metaphors or colourful images will help the audience to
‘see’ what you are saying and will make your message more memorable.
Conservation Exhibits
When conservators drive the communication, whether in the form of an exhibition,
tour, lectures, or social media, they control the message directly and can be subtler and
more nuanced. There have been many powerful and effective conservation exhibitions
and exhibits that include substantive conservation components.6 Such exhibits, like
behind-the-scenes tours of conservation labs, may offer visitors an opportunity to see
objects from unexpected angles, sometimes quite literally but also metaphorically.
Visitor numbers often illustrate the popularity of such exhibits, but few formal studies
have been carried out to determine how successful the messaging is. Do people learn
what we want them to? Does it really lead them to change their behaviour or to look at
other cultural heritage in a different way? How well do they read the labels and if they do
not is the content clear or somewhat baffling? Many exhibit evaluations are ad-hoc and
address enjoyment rather than knowledge gained (Williams 2013b). Some important
work has been done in this area (Drago 2011: 33–36; Koutromanou 2017) but more
remains to be done to understand how effective such outreach truly is. Although ex-
hibitions are excellent ways of focussing public interest in conservation, one down-side is
that they are often short-term and rapidly replaced. Even the Conservation Centre at the
National Museums Liverpool, a whole museum devoted to explaining conservation that
opened in 1996 and won the 1998 European Museum of the Year award, had a relatively
short run closing to the public in 2010 (Watts et al. 2013).
Static exhibitions lack the immediacy of seeing work in progress, although video
components can inject this aspect to a limited capacity. Consequently, many museums
and heritage organisations have built ‘open’ conservation labs where visitors can see into
the lab (Lochhead and Tonkin 2013; Peters 2013; Arista and Drayman Weisser 2013).
These labs allow visitors to watch conservation in action but, without explanation, the
work can be puzzling; especially, if it involves activities that appear violent, such as
hitting an object with a hammer to remove concretion layers, or actions that appear to
make the object look worse (such as the removal of overpaint on a painting revealing
fields of gesso and primer beneath). How to offer explanation while accommodating
changing numbers of objects and their natures has been an area of discussion (Peters
2013; Lochhead and Tonkin 2013).7 The Penn Museum’s Artifact lab successfully ad-
dressed these issues. The lab has glass windows through which visitors can look and the
surrounding gallery supports its work by presenting conservation case studies. Text
panels and video introduce conservation while a reading corner offers interested visitors
an opportunity for deeper engagement. Windows into the lab are opened twice a day
allowing visitors to interact with conservators and to ask questions about the work.
Designed as a short-term answer to the conservation needs of the Museum’s Egyptian
collections, its popularity has led to its extension. Since there is another conservation lab
in the building, conservators can choose which objects are suitable to treat in front of the
public and which are not. Due to the size of the museum’s conservation team, staff can
rotate in the lab allowing a degree of freshness. The conservators working in the Artifact
lab have been careful to monitor their impact.8 Open labs have an added benefit in that
they help to make conservation more visible not only to visitors but also to other staff
within the host institution (Drago 2011). Where conservation has been viewed as a
technical role that is subservient to other heritage professionals, this can be particularly
powerful in disrupting the narrative and elevating the conservator’s voice.
Social Media
Conservators have successfully presented conservation information through social
media. Most heritage organisations have websites. Conservation projects can provide
positive stories for these, demonstrating the care and expertise that collections in
the organisation receive. Such stories may be the public’s first encounter with
conservation. Websites and other forms of social media engage audiences who can be
very far away as well as much closer to home, but they require frequent updating to
ensure they remain relevant and ‘fresh’. Social media can draw people interested in
specific aspects of the past, or technology, into conservation. The engaging blog run
by conservators at the Mariner’s Museum has introduced an audience interested in the
American Civil War, and more specifically in the USS Monitor and her pioneering
engineering, to the methods, aims, and ethics of conservation. Institutions or labs may
have their own social media presences and it is important to understand whether they
have any restrictions about what can be said or posted on the official and platform or
shared on employee’s personal accounts. When sharing conservation materials on
websites and social media, it is important to:
• Share your enthusiasm about your work and the excitement of discovery. This is
what grabs others and prompts them to engage.
• Proofread content.
• Check with your institution, clients or stakeholders, or other individuals regarding
image permissions and releasing new information.
• Be aware that data protection laws vary in different countries and may impact
what you can or cannot post.
• Be certain the image selection supports the message you wish to send; for example,
a messy or overcrowded bench space may not convey careful object handling.
• Remember that once something is posted, you lose some control of it since others
can share, quote, extract, and copy it.
Volunteer Engagement
Volunteers have worked effectively on archaeological excavations and as room guides
in historic homes for many years. Heritage organisations around the world have also
involve volunteers in collections care-related capacities including rehousing initiatives
(Figure 11.2; Ganiaris and Lang 2013), running and restoring historic working
objects,9 and carrying out preventive conservation tasks, such as light readings and
pest monitoring in historic properties (Lithgow and Timbrell 2014; Xavier-Rowe 2018;
Lloyd and Lithgow 2021). Volunteers may be most effective when working as a team
on a large project or where many small items of a similar nature require simple
interventions. Both the volunteers and the organisation should gain from the activity.
An enjoyable and sociable workplace, doing meaningful tasks is often important for
older volunteers (Lithgow and Timbrell 2014). For younger volunteers, training and
work experience opportunities may be crucial elements to help them develop their
resumés, gain additional skills, and demonstrate their productivity and reliability to
future employers. Good training, a clearly organised activity with support and
supervision in a convivial working environment are frequently key to the success of the
project. Long-term, regular volunteers frequently become highly skilled and can or-
ganise and supervise others making them more valuable to the organisation.
Organisations that use volunteers effectively put time, energy, and effort (resources)
into planning and managing their activities (Ganiaris and Lang 2013). The resource
invested should be smaller than the benefit derived from the work, or there is no
advantage to the organisation.10 If their experience is good, volunteers are frequently
passionate advocates for heritage organisations, promoting them at a grass roots level
with a credibility that springs from personal experience and is almost impossible to
match. Although some conservators have reservations about the appropriateness of
using volunteers in conservation, often citing concerns about security, safety, and the
potential that volunteer positions will replace paid staff posts, those involved with
volunteer programmes rarely express such concerns. In many institutions (both large
and small), volunteers are fundamental to accomplishing the collections care agenda.
Figure 11.2 Two volunteers rehouse archaeological objects.

Source: Emily Williams.
Impact
Increasingly government funding and research grants are tied to impact (the demon-
stration of a marked effect or beneficial influence) on the public. Impact can be hard to
measure but engagement and outreach provide clear metrics (numbers) that can be used
for such purposes. Metrics that can be gathered may include simple information like the
total number of participants, or more nuanced information such as the total number of
individuals from different socio-economic or ethnic backgrounds reached or the degree
to which participants felt the program changed their perception of a topic. Conservation
outreach activities generate impact but as has been mentioned it is important to be
thoughtful about what data will be collected and disciplined in its collection.
Challenges for the 21st century

Conservation (and the larger heritage sector) face a number of social and environmental
challenges in the 21st century. How conservators address them will be dependant on
their skills and judgement as well as their ability to recognise, understand, and manage
the impact of these changes.
Climate Change
Climate change is the most pressing challenge for both humans and cultural heritage
in the 21st century.
• Weather patterns have become more unpredictable, and the severity of storms has
increased. Warming ocean waters are fuelling ever more powerful storms11 that
are unleashing more rain on the areas they hit.12 In 2016, heavy rain and flooding
of the Seine, necessitated the emergency relocation of materials from underground
storage locations at the Louvre (Muñoz 2021).
• It is predicted that by 2100, sea levels may rise by 80–200 cm (Lindsey 2020)
flooding many coastal cities and ports, such as Shanghai, Tokyo, New York,
Amsterdam, and Venice as well as cities such as London that are located near tidal
estuaries. Large populations will be displaced (potentially leading to conflict for
resources) and collections of arts and antiques, as well as immovable cultural
heritage, concentrated in these cities will require relocation or face potential loss.
• Wildfires have escalated in both scale and severity due to increasing seasonal
temperatures, dry winds and dry vegetation and exacerbated by the impacts of
urbanisation and the abandonment of traditional fire management protocols.
Archaeological sites which are often covered by vegetation and/or situated close
to forests and other flammable plant materials have historically been at the most
risk; however, increasingly wildfires are now threatening large urban areas and the
cultural heritage that is often massed there.
Recently nearly a third of the objects in the Louvre were relocated to a purpose-built
collections care facility in the north of France to protect them from flooding (Muñoz
2021). Such moves are likely to become increasingly common as the impacts of climate
change are increasingly felt. They offer opportunities to build in state-of-the-art
protections and energy efficiencies and may be shared between heritage institutions
creating cost-savings. However, they require long-term sustained planning (on the
order of a decade or more), which tests the 3–5-year planning cycles that are common
for museums and heritage organisations.
Reducing Environmental Impact

Beginning in the mid-1990s, many businesses began adopting a new framework for
measuring their performance. Known as Triple Bottom Line (TBL) accounting, it
encouraged businesses to measure not only their profits but also their impact on
people and the planet, in order to measure and support the implementation of sus-
tainable practices (Elkington 1994). Additional measures such as cultural sustain-
ability are sometimes added. Museums and heritage organisations are increasingly
adopting the TBL framework to guide their practice.13 New initiatives are often
required to demonstrate their potential positive impact in each of these areas prior to
adoption (Lithgow 2011).
International efforts aimed at reducing carbon emissions have contributed to the
notion that conservation activities should not only be minimally interventive to the
objects themselves but also have as minimal an effect on the environment as possible.
In addition to the chemicals used, and the impact of their disposal, energy emissions
from air-conditioning and lighting storage and display spaces must be carefully con-
sidered. A growing awareness of the amount of energy that museums consume in
maintaining tight environmental set points has led to the quest for lower energy
solutions for environmental control, a growing emphasis on the use of microclimates,
revisions to environmental standards, and the search for greener materials and
equipment.
Although all conservators have a role to play in achieving environmental sustain-
ability, challenges may be posed by the definitions of conservation practice, time
constraints, identifying tools for decision-making, and institutional support.
Identifying truly sustainable solutions is time-consuming. A holistic appreciation of
the needs is required; for example, recycling is only effective when it is continued
beyond the laboratory to the regional collection facility and the material is reused as a
raw material and not simply added to landfill. The literature on climate change is
prolific and often utilises a variety of models to predict future impacts, which can be
confusing. Similarly, what may appear to be an easy win in terms of sustainability can
prove to have a hidden tail when one undertakes a Life Cycle Assessment.14
Manufacturers often make exaggerated claims about the green credentials of their
products or the energy-saving benefits that may accrue through their use, a process
known as ‘greenwashing’ that can take time and energy to parse correctly. For some
conservators, the process of keeping up to date on all the sustainable options in
addition to media specific conservation information feels overwhelming and can lead
to inaction; worry about taking the ‘wrong’ action and difficulty in determining how
to weigh environmental sustainability against treatment efficacy are also barriers to
action. Recognising the personal and institutional impediments to action is important
as it allows the development of strategies to overcome them.
A growing number of tools are being developed to aid conservators in their
decision-making. For example, the Sustainability Tools in Cultural Heritage (STiCH)
project has developed a Carbon Calculator that allows conservators to examine the
carbon footprint of treatment alternatives,15 while ICCROM’s Our Collections Matter
project disseminates resources for museums and cultural heritage institutions to suc-
cessfully link their initiatives to the United Nations Sustainable Development Goals
(SDGs).
Diversifying the Face of Conservation

Conservation can be a tool for social justice, preserving the stories of minority groups
and offering counternarratives to dominant histories (Peters 2020; Williams 2020).
The more diverse the profession is and the more cultural perspectives, life experi-
ences,16 and broader social networks it incorporates, the more it is enriched and the
better able it is to identify, preserve, and uphold the multiple meanings of objects
(Balachandran 2016). Dean Whiting (1995) noted that when members of the Māori
community acquired conservation qualifications, the face of conservation in New
Zealand changed. They were
asked by their people to help define the peculiar mix of cultural preservation and
conservation philosophy to produce policy and charters that will help guide
conservation within tribal and national contexts … [creating] … a degree of
acceptance and relevance that will continue as long as Māori have a role in the
development, decision making, and implementation processes.
In North America and Europe, conservators are overwhelmingly white. In a 2018

survey conducted by AIC, 91% of the respondents identified as white, while in the UK,
88% of conservators identified as white in a recent survey (Membership Designation
Working Group 2018; Francis 2021). In North America and Europe, conservation is
increasingly dominated by women; many of whom come from middle-class back-
grounds. Within the American Institute of Conservation, while 34% of the member-
ship identified as male in 1995 and only 18.4% did in 2018 (AIC 1996; Membership
Designation Working Group 2018).17 A disproportionate number of males are in
leadership positions, which is reflective of broader museum hiring practices (Davis
2019). Important work is being done to transform the field, to combat gender
inequalities, to make salaries more transparent and equitable, to elevate the conser-
vator’s ‘voice’ and to encourage participation from non-traditional backgrounds,18
although Balachandran (2016) has noted that historically initiatives aimed at raising
the number of non-white conservators in the United States have been largely
ineffective. Diversifying the profession will continue to be a challenge as the 21st-
century progresses. What constitutes success may look quite different from institution
to institution and country to country, which can complicate the process.
Digital World
Prior to the late 20th century, information was embedded in books, whereas
increasingly, data can be stored and retrieved digitally fundamentally changing its
availability. While research has been greatly facilitated by the accessibility of infor-
mation and the interrogation of ‘big data’, the challenge is increasingly how to use
information meaningfully:
• What questions to ask

• How to create a framework of understanding into which to place data
• Learning to distinguish reliable information from biased, falsified, or poorly
collected data.
As museums, libraries, and cultural heritage organisations digitise more collections,

communicating the value of the physical object (with all its storage, treatment, and
staffing needs) becomes increasingly important. Digitisation projects often provide
funding for physical intervention (stabilisation and interventive conservation), but
ongoing data storage and migration costs can divert funds from collections storage
(especially if there is a perception that the digital version is more ‘visited’ than the
original). For conservators, one of the challenges of the 21st century may centre on
striking a balance between the needs of the physical copy and the digital record.
Negotiating this balance may be further tried by concept of versioning. Many modern
works of art, such as installations and performance art change each time they are
presented. Such presentations, authorised (licensed) by the artist and created to their
specifications, are considered ‘versions’ of the artwork and must be documented fully
to create a record of their existence. Full recording can be substantial to capture the
complexity of placement, audio-visual and technological change. As there are slight
variations between each recreation/performance, they are often recorded as a num-
bered version of the artwork so that they can be accurately referenced.19 The more a
piece is shown the larger and more complex the dataset associated with it becomes.
Expanding Heritage and Diminishing Resources

Increasing wealth and the facility of travel combined with urban development has led
to a significant rise in cultural tourism in the 21st century. The number of museums
worldwide has increased from 22,000 in 1975 to 95,000 today (UNESCO 2020). In
China alone, the number of museums has increased, from 349 in 1978 to over 5,100 in
2019 (Zuo 2019). At the same time, there has also been a tremendous rise in the
number of sites, monuments and buildings that are deemed worthy of preservation,
retention, and public access. On the one hand, this growth is an asset for the cultural
heritage sector providing opportunities for new narratives, preserving a more diverse
and relevant record of the past and creating new employment opportunities. However,
resourcing the world’s museums and cultural heritage is a challenge. Many heritage
institutions begin as private initiatives (a collector choosing to make their collection
accessible or a local interest group preserving a building or site) but, as broader
communities engage with the site, pressure may be put on local government or
national government to support these projects. To accomplish this, funds may be
diverted from other collections or sites and the ‘pie’ sliced ever more thinly. In the UK
and other countries, small regional museums funded by local governments, which also
deal with a wide range of social issues, are struggling financially. Budgets are being cut
and museums are being pushed to show their societal value by supporting an
increasing number of educational and societal programs that often divert staff from
collections care. To reduce core costs, some museums have laid off specialist curators
and conservators and shut conservation laboratories and administrators rely on
buying in conservation services on a commercial basis. In such arrangements, because
conservators may only have ‘keyhole’ visions of the collection that centres on a single
object or small group of objects that need conservation, the long-term views of how
both collections materials and conservation materials interact with each other in ‘real
world’ scenarios may be lost. These longitudinal studies have in the past provided
critical tests to treatment and storage approaches and highlighted areas where the
complexity of material and environmental interactions has prompted unexpected
reactions. An important example is in waterlogged wood conservation where long-
term observations of ship’s timbers highlighted the degradative effects of sulphur and
alum salts. It is also worth noting that for many conservators working commercially,
participating in conferences and writing papers for publication represents a loss in
income since few contracts include disseminating the treatment information meaning
that creative solutions to conservation problems may also be lost.
Larger museums are also coming under increasing public pressure to deaccession
collections. When this issue is raised it is often the museum’s highlights that are tar-
geted rather than the bulk collections that support study. Whether such recommen-
dations are fuelled by the astronomic prices that art can command or the ongoing
costs of collections storage, they pose an issue for museums and conservators. That
museum collections cannot continue to grow unceasingly moving from storage site to
ever larger storage site like some form of hermit crab is understood, but divesting
collections of attractive assets that bring in visitors and resources is also unwise.
Conservators may need to become more engaged with conversations about how
deaccessioning may be a collections care tool in the decades to come (Swain 2010;
Williams 2020).
Neutrality
The focus in the last decade of the 20th and the first two decades of the 21st century on
why we conserve what we conserve has led to a focus on the narratives that animate
objects and give them significance. Where conservators previously saw themselves as
neutral actors focused primarily on material questions such as what should be con-
served and how that can be achieved technically, there is a growing awareness that our
actions are not neutral. We contribute to how others perceive objects and thus to the
value(s) of objects (Cane 2009; Genbrugge 2017; Williams 2020). Conservators, as well
as conservation organisations, have biases (both conscious and unconscious) that play
a role in their decision-making processes (Chapter 10) and that can influence their
responses to situations and cause unintentional harm.20 Durant (2020) and Henderson
(2022) have shown that in attempting to maintain a position of neutrality the field is in
fact making decisions that may work to support structural inequalities and negative
narratives. As conservation increasingly prioritises the interactions between humans
and objects and works to facilitate them, it is increasingly active in giving a voice to
subaltern narratives and communities and in challenging ingrained positions.
However, conservators should also be cognizant about their power and the privilege
that their work with objects grants them. Choosing not to preserve certain materials
because they do not agree with one’s politics or beliefs may be as problematic as not
examining the positions those objects reinforce. There is a balance to be threaded
between professional activism and personal activism and the conservation profession
must be more reflective about its approach. Internal guidance may need to be
developed addressing whether there are situations in which conservators can and
should remain neutral. For example, are there situations in which individual conser-
vators can and should recuse themselves from working on objects? How do we ensure
that our personal views do not drown out or unduly influence the views of the com-
munities with which we work? Since the values vested in objects are not static and will
change as society transforms around them, conservators and the conservation pro-
fession must engage in an iterative process of self-reflection.21
Conclusion: Judgement, Skills, and Decision-Making in the

21st Century
The more holistic appreciation of ‘collections care’ that manifested itself in the last
decade of 20th century and the first quarter of the 21st century is being combined with
longer term concerns about the planet’s environment and diminishing resources.
Conservators are being challenged to seek more sustainable solutions for both inter-
ventive conservation activity (increasing recycling and reducing chemical usage) and
storage of museum artefacts (lowering energy costs). The increased involvement of a
wider range of people in heritage decision-making and the availability of funding
demand more transparent prioritisation systems and that conservation actions are tied
to significance and value. Conservators have the technical tools needed to help them
negotiate these challenges. The implementation of risk management systems, carefully
defined decision-making protocols, and assessment frameworks that naturally prior-
itise object biographies and the connections that objects and people all form will help
to meet these challenges. Conservators are skilled at understanding and managing
change, however they will be required to continue developing and extending their
communication skills to position their expertise at the centre of heritage decision-
making. Teamwork will continue to be a part of the conservator’s toolkit but 21st-
century conservators will increasingly rely on (and need to develop) a broad range of
soft skills including leadership skills (Clare 2018; Wickens and Norris 2018; Davis
2019). The conservator’s dedication to preserving the past and making it accessible to
both the people of the present day and those of the future and the unique insight that
multi-temporal perspective grants them will remain constants.
11A Case Study: The Contents of a Danish Vet’s Dispensary

( Arnsby 2017)
A collection of 153 labelled containers (tins, porcelain jars, and glass bottles, all with lids
or stoppers) owned by the Østfyns Museum were sent to the Bevarings Center Fyn (a
regional conservation centre) for treatment ( Figure 11.3). Dating from the 1950s to the
1970s, they held pharmaceutical compounds. Previously displayed as part of a
traditional veterinary surgery belonging to Carl Nielsen of Nyborg, the collection was
slated for storage but uncertainty over the toxicity of the contents prompted a curatorial
request to remove and safely dispose of the contents, retaining the containers.
Additionally, the museum was unable to meet new legal requirements regarding
licensing and security for drugs and there were concerns about the safety of visitors
and staff.
Figure 11.3 The contents of a Danish Vet’s Dispensary, Østfyns Museum. Jenny Arnsby.
The dispensary project presented conflicting responsibilities for the conser-

vator. Disposing of the contents would remove the potential to study them later.
While the 20th century does not seem very distant and it may be expected that
little can be added to our understanding of such recent medicines, research
has shown this not to be true. Many historical medicines have an unexpected
range of compounds beyond what is listed on the label (Fischel et al. 2016).
Therefore, the only evidence of what was administered may come from the
compound itself. On the other hand, retaining such materials, even in sealed
containers, represented a potential threat to museum staff and to the public. It
is essential to know what is present and to ascertain the risk to staff and public.
To truly determine risk, chemical analysis is necessary, but the costs associ-
ated with such analysis may be beyond the budget of a small museum.
Retaining the contents of containers can also pose a risk to the object, as
the contents may exacerbate corrosion and other forms of chemical break-
down. Following discussions with the curators, the conservator identified the
compounds, arranged for their safe disposal, cleaned the containers so no
compound remained, and cleaned and conserved the containers and labels so
that they could continue to function as a useful museum display.
Contents
It was essential to know what was present – both to ensure safe disposal and to form an
accurate historical record of what such a collection contained. The conservator was
English, and the labels were written in Danish and Latin. To ensure all information was
retained and understandable, it was necessary to work in all three languages. Two
spreadsheets were created one inventorying the materials and their usage and the other
containing additional details about their form and their toxicity and the requirements for
handling them ( Figure 11.4):
Label Danish English Usage

Creolin Udtræk fra stenkulstjære Coal tar distilate Disinfectant, cleaner, flea remedy
Chemical Toxicity Form Weight Details Precautions Protective Toxicity – current

Kemikalie Giftighed Form (g) Vegt + Bemærkinger Forholdregier Equipment data
container Værnemidler Giftighed ud fra
nutidig data
Lead + Powder 442 Almost Avoid contact with Goggle, gloves, Heavy metal
nitrate empty skin, eyes and mask / fume hood harmful to health,
(crude) clothing. Avoid environmentally
ingestion and harmful
inhalation (see data
sheet)
Plumbi + Pulver 442 Naesten tom Undgä kontakt med Beskyttelsesbrillier, Tungmetal,
nitras hud øjne og tøj. handsker, maske / sundhedsskadeligt,
venal Undgä indtagelse og stinkskab miljøskadeligt
indänding (se
datablad)
Figure 11.4 Data excerpts from the spreadsheets. Jenny Arnsby.
When completed these allowed the museum to retain details of the collection’s
contents and provided information about the threats posed to health. Following
consultation with local authorities, a range of disposal options was agreed:
• Plant material was disposed with usual lab waste.

• A local pharmacy accepted and disposed of all medicinal compounds except
acids, alkalis, and heavy metals.
• The local authority (Kommune) collected and disposed of the remaining haz-
ardous wastes.
Exceptions were made to this. For example, powdered plant material incorpo-
rating foxglove which contains digitalis (a heart stimulant that is toxic in large
doses) was disposed of with other pharmaceuticals rather than the plant
material.
Containers
The contents of metal containers, normally powders or dried plant materials,
were scooped or brushed out and the material disposed of. Any rust was
removed from internal and external surfaces using a Dremel tool with various
abrasive heads. As much original surface was retained as possible. The tins
were degreased and given a coating of microcrystalline wax to give some
protection.
The contents of paper bags, normally powders or dried plant materials, were
scooped and brushed out and the material disposed of.
The contents of ceramic jars, normally ointments, were scooped out. The
interior was wiped down using paper towelling and the material disposed of.
Solvents or heat were used (in a fume cupboard if required) to ensure all the
residue was removed. If the ceramics were broken, they were re-adhered with
HMG Paraloid adhesive. No further restoration was undertaken.
The contents of glass bottles, normally liquids, were poured into a plastic
container for disposal. The interior was wiped down using solvents (in fume
cupboard) if required to ensure all residue removed. Solids were broken up in
to powders and poured out or dissolved in the appropriate solvent. Where the
stoppers created problems, they were drilled out and cut away (cork) or
loosened with lubricating oil, tools, heat, and force in combination (glass
stoppers). If the glass was broken, the pieces were re-adhered with Hxtal NYL
adhesive.
Labels were dry cleaned with an eraser. If they were loose or contaminated,
they were detached using humidification ( Navarro 2011) washed in warm mater
to remove adsorbed chemicals and acidity, then dried under weights between
sheets of blotting paper. If they were fragile, they were backed with Japanese
tissue. The labels were reattached to the container exterior with wheat starch
paste. Some tins contained internal labels, these were also removed with
humification, washed, dried, and returned loose to the tin. All deliberate
markings were carefully preserved. The containers were then packed in
suitable boxes for museum storage
Considerations
The approach taken raises the question of what is being conserved and where
the conservator’s responsibility lies. Is the appearance (of a mid-20th-century
veterinary assemblage) or the contents (the materials used) what should be
valued? The collection remains an accurate image of what the contents of a

mid-20th-century Danish veterinary clinic dispensary looked like, though it is
now a poorer historical document and has reduced research potential. It is safe
to store and display both now and for the foreseeable future. The approach is a
good compromise in which health and safety and didactic values have been
served as well as the organisational needs of the collecting institution
(removing a legal requirement for expensive testing and controls). The
Østfyns Museum is not unique in making such decisions, many museums
have chosen to remove ‘dangerous’ materials from their collections and many
others have policies prohibiting the collection of such material. Other organisa-
tions, such as Museums and Galleries of New South Wales, have argued that it
is impossible to remove all risk and therefore prefer to ensure there is an
accurate awareness of risk and that it is effectively managed ( Arnsby
2017: 30).
When one institution makes such the decision to deaccession material, there
is informational loss but if such material is present in other collections the loss
may be limited. In the case of the veterinary collection, it was felt that the action
could be justified because other collections within Denmark retained repre-
sentative samples of some of the plant materials. 22 However, without discus-
sion and information sharing between organisations, there is the risk that the
collections that one institution is relying on to serve as a repository may make
similar decisions to deaccession materials resulting in total loss.
11B Case Study: Tullio Lombardo’s Adam ( Metropolitan Museum

of Art 2014; Riccardelli et al. 2014)
On October 6, 2002, at 5:59 pm, the pedestal supporting Tullio Lombardo’s
Adam (ca. 1490–1495), one of the sculptural masterpieces of the Renaissance,
collapsed. Security camera footage suggests that the collapse occurred within
an eight-second window. The life-sized Carrara marble statue toppled onto a
stone floor in The Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Vélez Blanco Patio (a 16-
century period room used to display Renaissance statuary) shattering into 28
large pieces and hundreds of smaller fragments. The arms and lower legs were
most damaged while the head, face, and torso were relatively unharmed.
The statue, carved circa 1490–1495, was commissioned for the tomb of the
Venetian Doge Andrea Vendramin (1398–1478) but was removed from the
tomb in 1819 and acquired by The Met in the 1930s. It is recognised as the first
monumental nude from the Renaissance to closely follow the idealism of
classical Roman statuary and one of the ‘most profound contemplations of
divine and artistic creation, of human beauty and frailty, of temptation and sin
and redemption ever realized’ ( Syson and Cafà 2014) The museum’s director
at the time of the accident, Phillipe de Montebello, described the collapse and
damage as ‘about the worst thing that could happen in a museum’ ( Syson and
Cafà 2014) and determined that the statue should be returned to its original
appearance. Recognising that the project required a variety of expertise (from
management, to recovery, mending and aesthetic aspects as well as material

selection and 3D imaging and media relations), a multidisciplinary team of
conservators, curators, engineers, designers, media specialists, and adminis-
trators was assembled to tackle the project.
The first step towards the statue’s reassembly was to recover all the fragments. To this
end, a grid was established on the patio floor and each fragment was mapped and given
its grid location as it was collected. Over the course of several years, the team carefully
studied every fragment to determine its condition and position within the sculpture.
Initially it had been hoped that the position of fragments on the floor might provide clues
to their position within the statue, but this was not the case, and it took years to piece all
the fragments back together in even a single area of damage. Fragments were not
adhered together at this point to avoid locking pieces out. Care was taken in handling and
piecing the fragments together to prevent degradation of the fresh break edges.
While undertaking this work, the team also evaluated the traditional methods
for stone sculpture reconstruction. They found that few fundamental studies
existed and set out to:
• understand the nature of the forces acting on each element of the sculpture
• test specific reassembly and restoration materials and methods
• evaluate the feasibility of implementation.
To do this, the team undertook a complete three-dimensional laser-scan of all

the major fragments, which allowed full and one-fifth scale physical models to
be created (minimising handling of the originals) and permitted finite element
analysis (FEA) to be carried out. FEA, a computer-based structural analysis
technique, is used to assess the distribution of force, stress, and strain in an
object, while taking into consideration its material characteristics. This analysis
provided graphical stress plots that described the nature and magnitude of the
force on each join in the sculpture. The information gleaned from this analysis
helped the team determine the necessary strength of adhesive and which parts
of the sculpture might require pinning (dowelling), a traditional but invasive
technique designed to help strengthen joins. The development of additional
focused FEA models allowed the team to virtually evaluate several pinning
scenarios including their size, location, orientation, and method of insertion.
A literature review suggested that although thermosetting adhesives (such as
polyester and epoxy resins) had previously been favoured in stone reconstruction, other
thermoplastic adhesives (such as acrylic resins and in particular Paraloid B-72) had the
potential to provide sufficient strength to bond large marble sculpture while providing
other benefits, such as greater potential for reversibility. Tests were conducted on marble
disks to gauge the strength of a number of adhesives, their bond-line thickness (i.e. how
much space is added by the adhesive film between the two marble fragments), and the
deformation experienced when the adhesive was placed under a load over time
(adhesive creep). Additionally, pinning materials were tested under a variety of
scenarios. Combining the results of physical materials testing of materials with the
insights obtained from virtual FEA pinning models, the Tullio team chose a 3:1 mixture of
Paraloid B-72 and Paraloid B-48N as an adhesive and to use fiberglass pins but to limit
their usage to only the joins most vulnerable to shear stress.
The experiments indicated the importance of pressure in minimising bond
line thickness, permitting the reconstruction of the sculpture with nearly
invisible gaps between the fragments. Given the contours of the sculpture it
was impossible to deliver this pressure using traditional clamping methods
alone and the team felt that a ‘self-clamping’ method where the weight of the
sculpture itself was used to create the pressure on each join was required. To
accommodate this decision, a custom-made rig was constructed consisting of
an external armature composed of carbon fibre straps, ball joints and a rigid
framework that could be used in tandem with an overhead bridge crane and a
custom-designed lifting table. Once the armature was created, an initial dry run
was carried out, permitting the overall alignment of the fragments to be
assessed and allowing conservators to plan the safest order in which to
mend the fragments. FEA analysis determined that three pins were needed:
one in the left knee and one in each ankle. The holes for the pins were carefully
drilled using custom-built rigs to hold the pieces steady and maintain the
correct alignment of the fragments and the drill bit. Drilling was carried out
using custom-fabricated diamond core bits and a bench lathe. During drilling
water was used to cool the bit and the stone and to flush the marble dust
generated from the hole. Later, when it was time to mend the left knee and the
ankles, the insides of the holes were coated with a thin barrier layer of Paraloid
B-72 and then epoxy sleeves were cast into the holes. Fiberglass pins were
inserted into the sleeves prior to bonding the fracture surfaces with the acrylic
resin mixture.
Adhering the statue together was carried out over months. Rather than
simply start from the bottom and work upward, a strategic approach was
adopted taking into account the adhesive setting times, the complex shapes of
the fragments, and the stress that would come to bear on each join as it was
bonded. Using a ‘dry stacking’ method, the conservators bonded only one join
at a time, each time assembling all of the remaining leg fragments without
adhesive. Once the fragments were fully assembled, the sculpture was left
alone, immobile for at least one month, because acrylic resins set by the slow
process of solvent evaporation. Only then were the remaining unbonded
fragments disassembled and the process repeated for a different join. This
approach allowed the conservators to monitor the alignment of the fragments
with each join that was mended. The slow and painstaking process of making
Adam stand again started with the left arm, then moved to the upper left thigh,
progressed to the ankles, and then to the remaining leg fragments. The
fragmentary right arm was mostly assembled independently from the torso
and was attached only after the sculpture was freestanding, unencumbered by
its external assembly armature. The final pieces – the head, and a branch held
in Adam’s right hand – were attached two and a half years after the first
fragment was bonded.
Once the sculpture had been reconstructed, the next step in its treatment
was cleaning. Past surface applications, including fats and oils to impart gloss,
and dust accumulation had yellowed and darkened the surface over time in an
uneven manner. Cleaning was undertaken using vinyl eraser strips that were
slightly moistened with saliva. Once cleaned, the losses associated with the
breaks were filled using a mixture of B-72, a bulking agent (powdered alumina)
and colouring agents such as white earth, pumice sepiolite and rottenstone,
which created a translucent, dough-like material that could be worked into the
losses and emulated the look of marble. Once hardened, the fills could be
shaped. Archival photos, from the statue’s accession in 1936, informed
reconstruction of the areas of most profound loss. Pains were taken to match
the tool marks in adjoining areas of the marble and the final step was to tone the
fills with pigments in a polyvinyl acetate medium to match the colour of these
areas ( Figure 11.5).
Figure 11.5 The reassembled statue of Adam by Tullio Lombardo. Fletcher Fund, 1936,
The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
The statue’s fall was shocking for the museum and its staff. For conservators
and curators whose careers are dedicated to the care and preservation of
objects, such an event can be traumatic and emotional. For an institution as
storied as The Metropolitan Museum, such an event can be embarrassing.
However, the careful and thoughtful approach of the museum and the Tullio
team permitted many positive elements to be extracted from the experience. It
was transformed into an opportunity to learn more about the statue, about
Tullio’s working practices, to contribute to the conservation field and to
highlight the museum’s commitment to its collections. Petrographic study
was carried out to determine the provenance of the marble, careful analysis
of the tool marks revealed information about Tullio’s working technique and
surface analysis provided information about the presence of past surface
finishes. Additionally, curatorial research focused on the classical sources that
Tullio had used revealing new insights about the statue and its art historical
significance ( Syson and Cafà 2014; Cafà 2014). The careful and deliberate
assessment and evaluation of the conservation approaches available has
resulted in the publication of at least five academic publications ( Jorjani et
al. 2009; Rahbar et al. 2010; Riccardelli et al. 2010, 2014; Rosewitz et al.
2016), several masters theses and provided valuable learning experiences for
a number of conservation interns. As a result, the findings will continue to
inform other treatments and contribute to the development of new approaches
to the conservation of sculpture. Throughout the process the conservation work
was carefully documented, resulting in a number of videos (cf. After the Fall:
The Conservation of Tullio Lombardo’s Adam available at https://www.
youtube.com/watch?v=3oznnP6SkSc) and articles in popular publications.
When Adam did return to public view in a bespoke gallery for the exhibition
Tullio Lombardo’s Adam: A Masterpiece Restored, 23 all aspects of the
conservation project were featured in carefully crafted videos describing
decision-making, research, and the hands-on process accomplished by the
team. Few institutions would have had the resources to carry out this treatment
in that manner that The Met could; staffing a project for nearly 12 years,
commissioning specialist equipment and committing to research are all costly
endeavours. However, when shared, high profile projects, such as this one,
tend to benefit not just the institution that carried them out but the entire field as
well. The public’s interest is seized by the artistry and skill involved. Sharing
the decisions made involved also permits both the public and other profes-
sionals to understand the complexity and care necessary, while sharing the
results helps to inform and advance future conservation undertakings.
Notes
1 Details of hazardous materials in museum collections and the appropriate steps to take to
minimise the threat they pose can be found at https://hazardsincollections.org.uk.
2 These regulations require employers to provide safe working conditions, ensure all equipment
and practices meet the regulations, and supply relevant safety equipment, employees are
required to comply with instructions and use the supplied equipment. Many large organisations
employ Health and Safety officers who help to ensure compliance, but conservators working in
small museums or in private practice may need to do more of this work themselves.
3 Chemical data sheets can be obtained from https://www.hse.gov.uk/coshh/basics/datasheets.htm
Key terms used include: Pathogen – causes disease; Carcinogen – causes cancer; Toxic –
poisonous, potentially lethal; OES – Occupational Exposure Standard; MEL – Maximum
Exposure Limit (this must not be exceeded); LD50 – Lethal Dose 50% (when 50% of a test
population of animals died after exposure to this chemical at the stated level of concentration);
LEV – Local Exhaust Ventilation; PRE – Protective Respiratory Equipment; PPE – Personal
Protective Equipment; TWA – Time Weighted Average; REL – Recommended (maximum)
Exposure Limit (long term = 8 hours exposure, short term = 15 minutes); TLV – Threshold
Limit Value (normally applied to dangerous dusts and expressed in mg/m3 e.g. <0.005 mg/m3).
4 An excellent example of this is the Connecting to Collections Care (C2C Care) program run
by the Foundation for the American Institute of Conservation (FAIC), which provides
resources and professional development to staff working at small and mid-sized museums
that might not otherwise have access to conservators in their institutions. C2C Care offers
webinars on a variety of topics relating to collections care and also an on-line community in
which people can ask questions and seek advice.
5 https://stories.fitzmuseum.cam.ac.uk/kangxi-vases-conservation/
6 A list of many of these is maintained on the Conservation Wiki site and in many cases
there are also links to exhibit content. https://www.conservation-wiki.com/wiki/PR_
and_Outreach-Exhibiting_Conservation, accessed March 31, 2021.
7 Other issues that conservators have faced in such labs are the fact that critical parts of a
conservator’s work like documentation, report writing, and even preventive conservation
largely involve sitting at a computer which visitors do not find engaging. Some conservators
have reported that visitor interactions, tapping on the glass, pulling faces, etc. …, can be
distracting and/or irritating and make the conservator feel a little like an exhibit in a zoo.
8 By 2020, eight years after it had opened, conservators in the artefact lab had spoken to over
40,000 visitors, created programs for 500 summer campers, treated over 700+ objects (many
of which required at least 100 hours of treatment time) and 13 human mummies, spent
12 hours on the front page of Reddit.com and given formal presentations about work in the
lab at five professional conferences and eight other professional events.
9 The North Yorkshire Moors Historic Railway Trust (NYMHRT) rely on approximately
550 volunteers to help maintain and run steam trains on 24 miles of track. https://www.
nymr.co.uk/north-york-moors-historical-railway-trust
10 Unskilled and untrained volunteers doing a few hours here and there are of limited use and
projects that seek to utilise them may need to put a lot of energy into clearly defining and
supporting their work, which makes the benefit even smaller.
11 Particularly hurricanes (Atlantic Ocean), typhoons (Pacific Ocean), and cyclones (Indian
Ocean). Such storms form when water temperatures are over 80 F (26 C) and there is suf-
ficient moisture in the system and uniform winds to fuel them. The frequency and size of
other storms has also increased, and a growing number have been christened ’superstorms.’
12 In 2017, Hurricane Harvey drenched southeast Texas with 60 inches (1.52 m) of rain. Since
the late 20th century, there has been a six-fold increase in the probability of a rainmaker of
Harvey’s magnitude and a study suggests that in Texas, hurricane rains of 20 inches will
evolve from once-in-100-year events to once-in-5.5-year events ( Emmanuel 2017). Another
study suggests that a global rain increase of 14% may occur by the end of the 21st century
( Knutson et al. 2015). In England.
13 In 2003, the Western Australian Museum was the first museum to employ TBL action plan
reporting following a call from Museums Australia that urged museums to apply TBL
performance metrics to their overall performance ( Graham-Taylor 2003), while in England
the National Trust had begun employing TBL indicators to guide their approach to con-
servation ( Lithgow et al. 2008).
14 Life Cycle Analysis (LCA) is a method of quantifying environmental impacts associated
with a given product by creating an inventory of resources used and pollutants generated in
the production (cradle to gate) and use of a particular product from the gathering of the raw
materials needed to create the product to the point where all residual materials are returned
to the earth (cradle to grave). The Sustainability Tools in Cultural Heritage (STiCH) website
https://stich.culturalheritage.org/ offers examples of LCAs in conservation.
15 https://stich.culturalheritage.org/carbon-calculator/#browse. Other tools that have been
developed include a series of free books on waste and materials, energy, and social sus-
tainability ( https://www.kiculture.org/ki-books/).
16 In addition to gender and race/ethnicity other areas where diversity is desirable include
religion, sexual orientation, gender reassignment and identity, socio-economic background,
education, age, and disability.
17 The results of both surveys need to be approached with some caution as to the final num-
bers. Neither survey was a comprehensive survey of the entire membership. Instead, both
surveys allowed members to opt in. As a result, they may be more indicative of general
trends than as a set of hard and fast numbers.
18 For example, the UCLA’s Andrew W Mellon Opportunity for Diversity in Conservation
(mellondiversityconservation.org) and the Winterthur University of Delaware collabora-
tions with historically black universities and colleges in the United States ( https://www.
artcons.udel.edu/outreach/diversity-initiatives/tipc-c-program).
19 The notion of versioning can also be usefully applied to working objects that have spent a
substantial time in one restored form and then been restored to another form or appearance
or to long standing structures that have been much altered through time.
20 When Kim Kardashian wore the dress in which Marilyn Monroe famously sang Happy
Birthday to President Kennedy to the Met Gala in 2022, ICOM Costume critiqued the
owner of the dress for permitting this, saying ‘historic garments should not be worn by
anybody, public or private figures.’ This response was criticised in turn as being Eurocentric
and focusing too much on the associated historic and material values of such textiles. Puawei
Cairns, director of audience and insight at Te Papa in New Zealand, wrote ‘Some textiles in
museums should be worn if they are of use in ritual ceremonies or continuing the connec-
tions between object and kin. Conservation is increasingly about becoming the bridge to
enable that to happen, not the block. Good Ol’ ICOM. Only thinking of its own eurocentric
cultural bubble’ ( https://camd.org.au/icom-apology-prompted-by-maori-curator/).
21 It is important to note that continued discussion and engagement with a wide range of
communities should be considered an important ingredient in this process.
22 The National Medicine Museum, part of Copenhagen University, retains a collection of
plant material used in Danish folk medicine.
23 https://www.metmuseum.org/press/exhibitions/2014/tullio-lombardos-adam
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Index
Aachen Cathedral 15 Archaeological Resources Protection Act

Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Heritage (1974) 12
Protection Act 225 Archimedes Palimpsest 90–92, 94
Abu Simbel 14 Arles Rhone 3 ship 66
AB57 109 Arlington National Cemetery 201
Acropolis, Athens 220 Arral, William 192
Acrysol WS-24 24 Artifact Lab (Penn Museum) 234
Actor Network Theory (ANT) 72 Artist’s intent 101, 124
Adam, Tullio Lombardo’s 245–249 Ascalon vs Department of Parks and
aesthetic reintegration 121 Recreation et al 124
Agecroft Hall, Richmond, VA 26 Ashmolean Museum 30
Alexander Severus (Emperor) 37 Aswan High Dam 14
alkoxysilanes 51 Atacamite 61
Al-Ridā, Alī 15 Athenian Treasury, Delphi 15
Altamira 43 Athens Charter (1931) 46
Ambassadors, the 128–131, 201 Attingham Rediscovered 231
American Civil War 19, 235 Austin, Jeanelle 189
American Institute for Conservation 34, 47; Australian Institute for the Conservation of
Foundation for 250 Cultural Material (AICCM) 47, 48
Amsterdam 67 Australian War Memorial Museum 98
analytic hierarchy process (AHP) authenticity 10–11, 17–18, 49–50, 118
analytical techniques: acronyms for 93; Avebury 5–6, 26
common techniques available 79; Axtell, J.H.W. 38
interpretation 80–81; selection of 77; Azide test 153
sensitivities of 78, 80
anastylosis 120 Baker, Benjamin 191
Ancient Egyptian Mummy Tissue Bank 148 Bartholdi, Auguste 60, 63
Ancient Monument Consolidation and Batey, Colleen 132
Amendment Act (1913) 12 Bayesian probability 211, 215
Ancient Monuments Preservation Act (1882) 12 Beaumont, George 29
Andrew W. Mellon Opportunity for Diversity Beck, James 111–112, 113
in Conservation (UCLA) 251 Beilstein Test 153
Anthony and Cleopatra (tapestry of ) 117 Beloved (novel) 189
Antikythera mechanism 179 Benzotriazole 140, 141
Antiquity 225 Berthelot, Marcellin 32
antlerite 61 Bertholon, Regis 99
Antoni, Janine 188 Bevarings Center Fyn 242
Apollo 11 165 Big Pit National Coal Mining Museum,
Apollo 17 165 Wales 17
archaeological objects: corrosion of iron 139, Bill of Rights (US) 136
151, 156; equilibrium with the burial Birtles, Francis 181
environment 135–137 Black Lives Matter movement 186
Index 291
Boban, Mate 9 computer aided tomography 145
Bog Body Tissue Samples Bank 148 condition surveys 162–163
Bo’ness & Kinneil Railway 176 Connecting to Collections Care (C2C Care) 250
Bonnardot, Alfred 117 Conservation: definition of 45–46; ethics,
Book of Kells 133 evolution of 46–48; ethics, implementation
Botticelli, Sandro 108 of 52–53; exhibits 233–234; factors
Bowes Museum 200 influencing 57–60; heating 173; history of
Bradford Industrial Museum 178 28–40; interventive, definition 68; materials,
Bradwell Roman box 88–90, 97 stability of 142; need for diversification
Brande, William 238–239, 251; outreach 37, 231–236; people-
Brewster, David 31 centered 190–191, 201; preventive,
British Museum 3, 30, 37, 42, 104, 142, 145, definition 68; process 55–57; public
221–222; collection storage, World War I monuments 186; restorative 196; street 189;
33, 154; collection storage, World War treatments, assessing long term stability
II 154 143; volunteer engagement 235–236;
British Museum Act (1753) 30 Wiki 250
British Rail 193 Conservation Centre, Liverpool 234
brochantite 61 conservator: mental health 228–229;
Brodsworth Hall 169–172 professional competence of 229–231;
Brooklyn Museum of Art 34 qualities of 226
Bruce, James (8th Lord of Elgin) 29 consolidation 140
Burra Charter (1979) 7, 46 Constantine (Emperor) 6
Burroughs, Alan 33 Constitution (US) 136
Bush Barrow Gold 120, 221–225, 231 Construction in Space (Crystal) 128
consultation 190–191, 218–220
Cadair Idris 2 contemporary art 188
Cairns, Puawei 251 Convention on International Trade in
Caledonian Railway 20 Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora
Calke Abbey 169, 171 (CITES) 48
Canadian Conservation Institute (CCI) 156 Coppergate helmet 224
Canova, Antonio 29, 117 cost-benefit analysis 213
Carnevali, Domenico 108 Courtauld 34
Carter, Howard 33 Coventry Cathedral 9
Çatalhöyük 144 COVID-19 36, 228, 233
Cellini, Benvenuto 29 Cox, Robert 1
Cellulose nitrate 147 Crosby Garrett Roman parade helmet 123
chaîne opératoire 70 cultural heritage: intangible ( see intangible
Chirk Castle 20 heritage); tangible 2
Chromotropic Test 153 cultural resource management (CRM) 12, 164
chrysocolla 21 Cunnington, William 222
cleaning: chemical 102; cost benefit analysis Cussler, Clive 149
104; ethics of 106; as exalted state 95; extent
of 102; green approaches 103; laser 102, da Lecce, Matteo 108
228; mechanical 102; of objects 54–55; da Vinci, Leonardo 112
overpaint removal 99–100; selection of da Volterra, Daniele 111
methods 102; ultrasonic 102; varnish damage: flooding 158; light 139, 147, 158; pest
removal 100–101 138, 158; pollutants 142, 158; soluble salts
Clemson University 150 140; vibration 158
Cleveland Museum of Art 154 Davy, Humphrey 31
climate change 237–238 Davy, John 31
reducing environmental impact 237–238 de Dinteville, Jean 129
collecting: biases in 17–19; motivations for de Medici, Cosimo 29
15–17 de Montebello, Phillipe 245
Colonial Williamsburg Foundation 15, de Montizon, Count 204
34, 197 de Selve, Georges 129
colour measurement 101 decay: bias 18; causes of 137–140; curves 137;
Colt Hoare, Richard 222 surface 72–73; synergy 74
292 Index
decision making 211 Florence: Baptistery 123; Flood (1966) 36
adding complexity 215; AD approaches 212; Fogg Art Museum, Harvard 33, 78
decision trees 213, 214; developing 220–221; Forbes, Edward Waldo 33
heuristic approaches 212; optimal 211 Forth Road Bridge 144, 191–194; red 192, 193
Declaration of Independence (US) 136 Foundling Hospital, London 1
DeepStore 164 Fourier transform infra-red spectroscopy
deHavilland DH 98 Mosquito T3 176, 177 (FTIR) 21, 22, 78
della Valle, Andrea (Cardinal) 29 Fowler, James 31
derestoration 118 Fowler, John 191
Desogen 109 Fox, Cyril 20
di Ludovico, Lorenzo 29 Frankland, Edward 31
Diamondite 62 fragmentation 70
Dickens, Charles 68 Friends of the Hunley 150
digital world 239–240 Furness railway steam locomotive No. 20 176
Dillens, Julien 185
disruptive conservation 125 Gabinetto di Restauro 34
Djoser 2 Gabo, Naum 128
documentation, conservation 82–87; Gamelan 175, 200
accessibility 87; attributes of 83; contents Garusi River, Tanzania 24
84–87; making time for 87; reasons for Genbaku dome, Hiroshima 9
producing 82–83 George IV (King) 31
Donatello 29 George Floyd Global Memorial 189, 191
Doubleday, John 30, 37 Gettens, Rutherford John 33
Dover Canoe 66 Getty Museum 118
Drayton Hall 169 Giménez, Cecilia 123–124
Dreaming, the 2 Glass transition temperature (Tg) 113
Dupuit, Jules 213 Glyptothek, Munich 118
Durham Cathedral: cleaning 99; doors 58 Gnaw 188
dust, museum 96 Goddard’s Long Term Silver Foam 223
Dyer, William 129 Gol, stave church 26
Goldilocks principle 105
Ebbabar, temple 117 Grace Dieu 67
Ecce Homo 124 Grauballe Man 147
Edward I (King) 201 Great Expectations 68
Eiffel, Gustav 60
El Alamein 201 Hagia Sophia 7, 9
Elgin marbles 29, 104, 126 Hammurabi 117
Eliseg, pillar of 144 Hampton Court 159
Ellis island 61 Hatshepsut 9
Ellis, Thomas Evelyn Scott (8th Baron Health and Safety 226–228, 249; laws and
Howard de Walden) 20, 23; collection regulations 227; vibrations 228
20–23 Heiberg, Johan 90
enchainment 70 Henry Prince of Wales on Horseback 100
English Heritage 170, 171 Herbst, Christian 30
entanglement theory 70 Hercules: Belvedere Torso 29; Lansdowne 118
Enkamat 25 heritage industry: value of 4
Ennigaldi-Nanna 16 Hippopotamus at the Zoological Gardens 204
environmental standards 155 Historic Deerfield 26
European Committee for Standardisation 134 Historic Scotland 194
European Convention on the Protection of the Historic Whaling Station, Albany, Western
Archaeological Heritage (1992) 11 Australia 17, 178
A History of the World in 100 Objects 3
Faraday, Michael 31 H.L. Hunley 149–152
Feller, Robert 141 HMAS Ovens 178
finite element analysis (FEA) 246 HMS Belfast
Finkener, Adolf 32 HMS Hazardous 67
Fitzwilliam Museum 233 HMS Victory 10
Index 293
Hockwold Treasure 224 Laocoön, the 29
Hoffmann, August 31 Lascaux cave 127
Hogarth, William 29 Last Judgement, the 108, 109, 110–111
Holbein, Hans 128–131 Last Supper, the 113
Holland I 152 Layard, Henry 30
Human remains: display of 148; as social Leakey, Mary 23
objects 187; treatment of 148; respect Learning 206; Pyramid of 207
for 148 Lee, Robert E. 186
Hunter, Kate 20 Lepsius, Karl 32
Hurricane Harvey 250 Lick and Lather 188
Hurricane Hugo 159 Life cycle assessment (LCA) 238, 250
Hussein, Saddam 9 limitos 99
Hxtal NYL 38, 244 Lincoln, Abraham 19
Hypereides 91 Lincoln Hanging Bowl 97
Lindow Man 145–149, 153
ibn Barquq, Farag, Sultan 5 Liverpool Museum 159
ICCROM 34 Lloyd, William 37
ICOM Costume 251 Loch Glashan satchel 132–133
ICOMOS 34 Loma Prieta Earthquake 159
iconoclasm 9 Lombardo, Tullio 245
Idris ap Gwyddno 2 London: Lord Mayor’s coach 185; Mansion
Incralac 141 house 185; Regent Park Zoo 204; Royal
Infrared Reflectography (IR) 76 Courts of Justice 185; St. Paul’s
Institute of Archaeology, London 36 Cathedral 201
Institute of Fine Arts, New York 36 Longford Castle 129
Instituto Centrale del Restauro, Rome 118 loss compensation 121
Intangible heritage 2, 174–191; definition 174 Louvre 34, 237
International Institute of Conservation (IIC) Lucas, Alfred 33
32, 34, 36 Lucius Aurelius Verus 224
integrated pest management 170
Inuit 93 Ma’arrat al Nu’man Museum, Syria 173
Investigation 54 Magdalene laundries 201
Ironbridge Gorge 194 Manod slate quarry, Wales 154
Iron Mountain 164 Maitland, John 100
Ise Jingū (temple) 11 malachite 21
Malinowski, Bronislaw 70
Jorgansen, Christian 30 Mamout, Yarrow 17
Judgement 202–221; analytic-deliberative Manchester Barton Airport 176
process 205; definition 202, 205; heuristic Manchester Museum 147, 148
thinking 205; limitations and biases 207 Mapplethorpe, Robert 18
Julius II (Pope) 108 Marcus Aurelius 6
Mariners Museum 235
Kakesio River, Tanzania 24 Mary, Queen of Scots 100
Kamehameha I, statue of 186 Mary Rose 51, 65–68, 78, 152, 212
Kardashian, Kim 251 Maryon, Herbert 40
Kennedy, John F. (President) 251 Mashhad shrine 15
Kickstarter 166 Mazzuoli, Annibale 108, 109
Kintsugi 125 Melinex 132
Kintsukuroi 125 Mental health 227–228
Kircher, Athanasius 15 Merrick, Robert 98
Kopytoff, Igor 70 Met Gala 251
Krefting, Axel 32 methylene Chloride 38
Metropolitan Museum of Art 245, 249
La Farge desalinated hydraulic mortar 109 Michelangelo 108, 110, 111
Laetoli footprints 23, 144 microcrystalline wax 39
Lagi, Simane 108 microscopy 78
Ladder 3 truck 187 mineral preserved organics 88, 97
294 Index
minimum intervention 51–52, 55; definition 51 Neil Armstrong, spacesuit of 164–168
Monroe, Marilyn 251 Nelson, Horation (Admiral) 10
Monuments Men 34 neoprene 165
Morrill, William 129 Network Rail 193
Morris, William 31, 193 Neutrality 241
Morrison, Toni 189 New Zealand Conservators of Cultural
Mottaini 125 Material (NZCCM) 47
Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association Nielsen, Carl 242
(MLVA) 17 Nineveh 30
Mouseion 33 North Yorkshire Moors Historic Railway
Mr. Straw’s House 1990 Trust (NYMHRT) 250
multi attribute utility theory (MAUT) 215 Nuclear magnetic resonance imaging 145
multi criteria dimension analysis (MCDA) 215
multispectral Imaging 91, 92 Object Production and Use Sequence (OPUS)
Murray Pease Report 47, 50, 82 71–72
Museum of Anthropology, University of object(s) associated with trauma 187;
British Columbia (MOA) 190 biography 70, 92, 128, 242; ceremonial 185;
The Museum Environment 35, 155 dating 72; from Indigenous and World
Museum of Fine Arts, Boston 33, 154 Cultures 184; investigation 74–77;
Museum of London 30, 185, 191 methodologies for study 70–72; risks to 157;
‘museumification’ 189; definition of 201 sacred 184, 189–190; sampling of 81–82; as
Museums Journal 33 social products 69–72; socially active 184
museums: folk 178; industrial 16, 178; local Oddy, Andrew 142
179; military 178; natural history 16; open Oddy Tests 142, 153
air 16; regional 179; science and technology Organized Upright Grand Piano 194–197
178; specialist 179; transportation 178 original surface 98–99
Museums and Galleries of New South Orwell, George 15
Wales 245 Østfyns Museum 242
Oscar II (King of Sweden) 26
Nabonidus (King) 16, 116 Ötzi 136
Nara Charter (1994) 11, 46 Our Collections Matter project 238
narrative 2–3
National Aeronautic and Space Paraloid B48N 247
Administration (NASA) 62, 165 Paraloid B72 109, 110, 244, 246, 247
National Air and Space Museum (NASM) past, the: devaluing 9–11; as history or
165, 180 heritage 3–5; importance to the present 1–2;
National Gallery of Art, London 34, 113, 129, remains of 2; valuing 5–9
130, 154 Peake, Robert (the elder) 100
National Heritage Responders program 160 Peale, Charles Willson 17
National Medicine Museum (Copenhagen Pearlstein, Ellen 191, 221
University) 251 perception 202; learnt behaviours 205;
National Museum of the American Indian 190 limitations and biases 207
National Museum of Australia 181, 225 Perugino 108
National Museum of Ireland 148 Peterborough Petroglyph 209
National Museum of Scotland 225 Petrie, Flinders 30
National Museums Liverpool 234 pH tests 153
National Park Service (US) 61, 149 Phidias 29
National Park Service Incident Management Piaggio, Antonio 31
Teams 160 Pirates of the Caribbean 67
National Railway Museum 180 Pisa, leaning tower 181
National September 11 Memorial plaster of Paris 37, 40, 42
Museum 187 plastics: degradation 139, 165; stabilisation of
National Trust (UK) 217, 231, 250 141–143
National Trust for Historic Preservation Plenderleith, Howard 33, 34
(US) 169 Pliny (the elder) 28
Native American Graves Repatriation and Plutarch 124
Protection Act (NAGPRA) 225 polyethylene glycol 51, 65, 132, 147
Index 295
polymethyl methacrylate 50 Rofkar, Teri 198–199
polyvinyl chloride (PVC) 142, 165, 167 Rosenberg, Gustav 99
Portland Vase 30, 37–39, 53 Rosenberg, Georg 32
Pouliot, Bruno 198 Roth, Dieter 188
preservation 54; definition of 26; in situ 13, Rouse Hill House 1999
164, 173; legislation 11–12; mechanisms 135 Rowell, G.H. 30
Preventive conservation 154–164, 170; Royal Navy 152
definition 68, 173 Royal Navy Submarine Museum,
Primal 110 Gosport 152
Principles for the Conservation of Heritage Rubber, deterioration 165
Sites in China 46
professional competence 229–231 Saint Fagan’s National Museum of History,
Wales 26
Radcliffe Brown, Alfred 70 Saint Wenceslas, helmet 1
Radiocarbon dating 146 San Marco, Venice 32
Radnor, Earl of 129 Sandford Principle 217
Raedwald (King) 40 Sargon (King) 117
Rahmi M Koç Museum 178 Saqqara 2
Railtrack 193 Save America’s Treasures Grant Program 166
Raman Spectroscopy 78 Scanning Electron Microscopy (SEM) 78
Rathgen, Friedrich 32, 82 Scone: Abbey 201; Stone of 185, 201
Ready, W.H. 30 Scott, Alexander 33
reality testing 206; communication reality Scott, Jack 132
testing 206; physical reality testing 206 Shakespeare, William 181
reassembly 115, 120 Shepherd, T. Hasmer 37
reburial 13, 164 significance, definition 8
reconstruction 115 Silver Swan (automaton) 200
recreation 115 Siriex, Marie Louis 91
refurbishment 115 Sistine Ceiling 29, 108–113, 225
rehabilitation 115 Sitka (Alaska): Native Education Program
reintegration 115 Berry Camp 199; school district 199;
‘rememory’ 189 Sheldon Jackson Museum 199
renovation 115 Sixtus IV (Pope) 108
repair 115 Skansen 16
replacement 115 Skuldelev 2 vessel 126
replication 115, 126–128 Smith, George 30
repristination 115, 117 Smith, Sandra 38
reproduction 115 Smithsonian Institution 156
restoration 114–126; alternative approaches Society for the Protection of Ancient
123–126; artist’s intent 124; definition 114; Buildings (SPAB) 31, 49, 117
development of 116–119; digital alternatives sodium carbonate 152
122; disagreements about 29; ethics of 119, sodium hydroxide 151
122–123 soiling 95–96; removal 96–97; retention of 97
retreatability 51, 55 Soluble nylon 141
reuse 115 Sope, Shami 11
revelation 53 South Carolina Institute of Archaeology and
Reynolds, Joshua 29 Anthropology 149
reversibility 50–51 Sparrow, Robert 30
Riegl, Alois 7, 8 sphagnan 146
rigatoni 118 spot tests, chemical 78
Ringlemere Cup 225 stabilisation 135–144; cost benefit analysis
RIP triangle 53–55 143; difficulties with 141; impossibilities
Risk assessment 158, 216 of 143
risk management 35, 156, 241 Stari Most Bridge, Mostar 9
Robinson, Tom 5, 7 stakeholders 8
Robinson, Paul 223 Statue of Liberty 53, 60–64, 136, 220
‘Rocket’ (railway locomotive) 179 Stein, Aurel 11
296 Index
Stenstrup, Japetus 30 Folklore 174; Universal Declaration on
Step Pyramid 2 Cultural Diversity 4, 174
stewardship 48, 52 United Kingdom Institute for Conservation
storage 160–162; costs of 164; sustainability of (UKIC) 34, 47, 49, 222
163–164 Untitled (Portrait of Ross in LA) 188
Stout, George 32, 33 Ultraviolet-induced visible fluorescence 76
Studies in Conservation 34 Uppark House 159
Stukeley, William 5, 7 USS Cairo
sub-critical fluids 151 USS Housatonic 149
Sundowner (automobile) 181 USS Intrepid 178
sustainability 49, 68, 103, 155, 163–164, 171, USS Monitor 235
237–238, 241
Sustainability tools in Cultural Heritage Van de Wetering, Ernst 200
(STiCH) 238 Van der Broek, Hendrick 108
Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) 238 Van Dyke 29
Sutton Hoo: Anastasius Dish 224; helmet Van Gogh, Vincent 10
40–42, 127 Van Meegeren, Hans 34; trial of 118
symmetrical archaeology 70 Vanson, Adrian 100
Synchrotron radiation 91 Vasa 51, 67
Vasari, Giorgio 29
Taft, Charles Phelps 19 verdigris 22
Tatershall Castle 12 Vendramin, Andrea 245
Tay Railway Bridge 192 Venice Charter (1964) 7, 34, 46
Te Papa 251 Vicksburg National Military Park 152
Temple of Aphaia, Aegina 118 Victoria and Albert Museum 16, 17, 53, 217
theft 157 Villa of the Papyri, Herculaneum 31
Theseus’ Ship 124 Vinnapas 109
Thomson, Gary 35, 155 virtual couriering 228
Thomsen, C.J. 30 Vix crater 97
Thorvaldsen, Bertel 117 Voss, Albert 30
Thule culture 93
Thutmose III 9 Wabi-sabi 125
Time smoking a Painting 29, 113 Walters Art Museum 34, 91
Tiv people, Nigeria 3 Warren Lasch Conservation Centre 149
Tlingit basket 198–200 Warwick Museum 82
Toji treasure house, Kyoto 15 Washington, George 17
Tollund Man 147, 148 Watson, John 59, 180, 197
Torres, Felix Gonzalez 188 Western Australian Museum 250
Town and Country Planning Act (1968) 35 Westminster Abbey 200; Tomb of Edward the
Tradescant, John (elder and younger) 15 Confessor 32
trateggio 118 Westwood quarry 154
Treaty of Waitangi Act 225 Wheeler, Mortimer 30
Trifluralin 25 Wigmore Castle 173
Triple bottom line accounting (TBL) 237, 250 Wilful Damage Act 37
Trotman, Arthur 30 William and Mary, College of 195
true nature 49, 55, 97 Williams, Nigel 38
T’Serclaes, Everard 185 Wiltshire Archaeological and Natural History
Tucker, St. George 195 Society 222
Turkey red oil 147 Windsor Castle 159
Tutankhamun, tomb of 33, 81, 135 Winterthur/University of Delaware Program
Tyntesfield 169 in Art Conservation (WUDPAC) 198, 251
Wooler, John 99
UNESCO 34, 194; Convention for the Wooley, Leonard 33
safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural working objects 175–184; advantages and
Heritage 174; Recommendation on the disadvantages in use of 175–178; costs of
Safeguarding of Traditional Culture and running 177; in museums 178; roles of 180
Index 297
World Heritage Convention (1972) 13 X-ray fluorescence, portable (pXRF) 78, 80,
Worm, Ole 15 93, 227
Worshipful company of Goldsmiths 117
Wrecks Act (1973) 67 Yarm, helmet 23, 81
Wythe, George 195 York Castle Museum 97
Young, Lisa 166, 167
X-radiography 20, 21, 40, 76, 88, 130, 145 Young, W.H. 30
X-ray diffraction (XRD) 78

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Conservation Skills for the 21st Century

Chris Caple is Emeritus Reader in Archaeological Conservation having been director

Emily Williams is Associate Professor of Archaeological Conservation at Durham

First edition published by Routledge 2000

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

ISBN: 978-0-367-44331-3 (hbk)

Typeset in Times New Roman

1 Reasons for Preserving the Past 1

2 The History of Conservation 28

3 Conservation Aims and Ethics 45

4 Objects: Their Investigation and Recording 69

8 Preventive Conservation and Storage 154

10 Perception, Judgement, and Decision-Making 202

11 Responsibilities, Skills, and Sustainable Practices in the 21st Century 226

Chris Caple & Emily Williams

The Importance of the Past

Remains (Objects and Sites)

Heritage and the Past

• Identification: This may include research to discover as much information or

Valuing the Past

It is important to note that

Devaluing the Past

Preservation Mechanisms: Legislation, Preservation in Situ, and

Successful preservation in situ is always supported by legislation, which creates a legal

Reburial; backfilled sites after Rose Theatre, London

Reburial; backfilled sites Woodchester, Gloucester, England

Above ground ruins left ‘as Wigmore Castle (most of it)

Temporarily protected Flag Fen

Stabilised ruins Machu Picchu, Peru

Stabilised ruin with Paestum, Italy

associated museum Skara Brae, Orkneys, Scotland

Stabilised ruin with Benjamin Franklin’s House, Philadelphia (1)

Stabilised ruin beneath roof Casa Grande, Arizona, USA

Ruins incorporated within Theatre of Marcellus, Rome (1)

Anastylosis Library at Ephesus, Turkey

Relocated Buildings Abu Simbel, Egypt

Reconstructions Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia, USA

• Belief: Many sacred sites retained collections of artefacts, often in a secure

Biases in Collections and Displays

1A Case Study: The De Walden Antique Helmet Collection ( Wollny

De Walden Collection No. 7.33

De Walden Collection No. 7.34

De Walden Collection No. 7.19

De Walden Collection No. 7.20

De Walden Collection No. 7.23

1B Case Study: The Laetoli footprints ( Agnew and Levin 1996;

Figure 1.8 The trackway of 3.6-million-year-old human footprints, Laetoli, Tanzania,

• Geotextile: A water-permeable long-lasting polypropylene textile to deflect any

It is believed that this multi-pronged strategy, involving both technical mea-

The ‘Three-Legged Stool’

Conservation Emerges: 1888–1950

The Emergence of Formal Conservation Training

2A Case Study: The Portland Vase ( Smith 1992; Williams 1989)

2B Case Study: The Sutton Hoo Helmet ( Maryon 1947; Williams

It is unclear to what extent Maryon was conscious of using reversible

The activity of the conservator-restorer1 (conservation) consists of technical

Charters, Ethical Codes, and Guidelines for Practice

Shared Themes and Evolving Concepts

Controversial and Enduring Concepts