LEARNING INTENTIONS

To investigate the changing nature of archaeological excavation and recording techniques. 

To explore contemporary issues in archaeology such as whether sites should be restored or conserved.

The changing nature of archaeological excavation and recording techniques

Biography 1

Giovanni Belzoni (1778-1823) was an Italian explorer, archaeologist, and adventurer who made significant contributions to the field of Egyptology during the early 19th century. He is best known for his work in exploring and uncovering ancient Egyptian tombs and temples, particularly in the Valley of the Kings.

Belzoni was born in Padua, Italy, and began his career as a circus strongman and performer. In 1803, he moved to England, where he became interested in ancient Egypt and the study of hieroglyphics. He began to study the language and eventually made his way to Egypt in 1815.

Once in Egypt, Belzoni began to explore and excavate various ancient sites, including the Temple of Ramesses II at Abu Simbel, the tomb of Seti I in the Valley of the Kings, and the tomb of Queen Hatshepsut at Deir el-Bahri. He also discovered the tomb of Sety I, the tomb of Psusennes I and the tomb of Amenhotep II.

Belzoni's excavations were notable for their scientific approach and attention to detail, and he made a number of important discoveries that contributed to the study of ancient Egypt. He also gained fame for his impressive physical strength and ability to move large monuments, such as the Colossus of Memnon and the head of the Great Sphinx.

Belzoni also wrote extensively about his explorations, publishing several books including "Narrative of the Operations and Recent Discoveries within the Pyramids, Temples, Tombs, and Excavations in Egypt and Nubia"

Although he died at the young age of 45, Giovanni Belzoni's legacy endures as one of the most important figures in the early study of Egyptology and his discoveries have been instrumental in the understanding of ancient Egyptian culture and history.

Biography 2

The Archaeologist as Titan by By Alida Becker

His introduction to the wonders of the ancient world could hardly have been less auspicious. While in Cairo in the summer of 1815, awaiting an audience with Mohammed Ali Pasha, Turkish viceroy of Egypt, the Italian monk-turned-peddler-turned-hydrologist-turned-circus impresario Giovanni Belzoni paid a visit to the Great Pyramid and became so tightly wedged in one of its internal passages that his guides had to forcibly extract him. It was merely the first of many indignities endured by this 6-foot-6 “giant,” whose adventures in the Nile Valley would yield some of the most imposing treasures in the British Museum. They would also earn him the undying enmity of his successors in a field that only later acquired the polish of a professional discipline — archaeology.

While granting that Belzoni may be what a colleague has called “the most notorious tomb robber Egypt has ever known,” Ivor Noël Hume, the former director of Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeological research program, also admits to a fondness for this indefatigable entrepreneur. And while it’s entirely possible to cringe at Belzoni’s methods (blasting through walls with battering rams, crunching bones underfoot and squashing mummies when he sat on them, incising his name into ancient statues) it’s nearly impossible to resist the story of a life, as Hume puts it in the prologue to “Belzoni: The Giant Archaeologists Love to Hate,” full of “naïveté, ambition, duplicity, avarice and poverty worthy of Charles Dickens or Henry James, differing only in that it happens to be true.”

One of four sons born to a barber in Padua, Belzoni escaped army recruitment by entering a Capuchin monastery, then escaped the monastery by becoming a peddler of religious talismans. He wound up in England, hoping to establish himself as a hydraulic engineer. (How he acquired this fascination with waterworks is, Hume explains, just one of his subject’s many mysteries.) To support himself in the interim, Belzoni found work in a sideshow and became such a success as the “Patagonian Samson,” carrying as many as a dozen “smallish” men around the stage on a steel frame strapped to his waist, that the next decade was spent on the road, incorporating his act into an increasingly flamboyant theatrical show, aided in large part by the acquisition of a very clever, very determined wife who (more mysteries here) may have been Irish and may have been a tightrope walker.

Sarah Belzoni was with her husband in Malta, on their way to what they hoped would be a new audience of rich Turks in Constantinople, when a chance encounter in a hotel led to a detour to Cairo — and one particularly rich Turk whose interest in making more efficient agricultural use of the Nile might finally allow Belzoni to return to his true passion. But he was thwarted yet again: sabotaged by the suspicions and superstitions of the local workmen and, as Hume nicely has it, “their innate reluctance to overwork.” Stranded and short of cash, the Belzonis fell into the orbit of the British consul general, a sycophantic former portrait painter named Henry Salt, who owed his appointment to a wealthy patron back home, keen to acquire Egyptian antiquities.

The early 19th century was a time when well-endowed dilettantes vied to amass impressive collections of artifacts, and, thanks to Napoleon’s expedition to North Africa, the land of the pharaohs had become an especially tempting target. The atmosphere, Hume writes, was rather like that of the gold rush of the American West, with rival groups furiously staking their claims and scheming to edge out the competition. Add to this the increasingly convoluted tactics of the local authorities, ever eager to exploit gullible foreigners, and the rigors of operating in a climate where the daytime temperature could soar above 120 degrees, and you have the ingredients for a comic melodrama that, had he less amour-propre, Belzoni might easily have brought to the stage.

When they weren’t trying to ensnare him in their feuds or drinking up all his wine or warning him away from temples supposedly guarded by huge man-eating serpents, the local people must certainly have found Belzoni a source of great amusement. One group entered into negotiations by pretending they didn’t understand the concept of money; elsewhere, he was presented with a diamond that turned out to be the glass stopper from a cruet bottle. Belzoni’s mere presence could provide slapstick entertainment: A camel fell on top of him. A tunnel he wanted to explore turned out to be blocked with bat dung. A trek across the desert to what was billed as the Pompeii of the Red Sea yielded nothing but a few bumps in the sand — which was, in a way, a good thing since no one had remembered to pack any shovels, leaving the major excavation to be performed by a little boy with a seashell. When Belzoni managed to get a 25-foot obelisk from an island in the Nile onto a specially constructed loading dock, both the obelisk and the dock gracefully sank into the river. Small wonder that he had a reputation for “colorful language.”

The equally colorful foreign members of the Belzoni saga’s supporting cast were led by a textbook villain, Bernardino Drovetti, an Italian-born relic hunter in the employ of the French, possessed of a “provocatively twirled” handlebar mustache and a suitably menacing mien. Foiling at least some of this devious rival’s maneuvers, Belzoni eventually succeeded in amassing a significant haul, but he fell out with his employer and, despite a flurry of fame on his return to Europe to mount an exhibition of Egyptian wonders, he was soon wrangling with everyone from the British Museum to his long-suffering wife. Attempting to restore his reputation (and, presumably, his finances), he set off in 1823 to search for the source of the Nile and died of dysentery in Benin, leaving Sarah, as usual, to cope as best she could.

In her prime, Belzoni’s pistol-packing, pipe-smoking spouse had been more than up to the challenge: constructing a brick house on top of the temple where he left her stranded for almost two months, submitting to a local cure for sun-induced blindness that involved sitting for 40 days in the steam from pots of boiled garlic, single-handedly repelling robbers from Belzoni’s boat while he fossicked in the Nubian sands. But as the years of her widowhood passed, Sarah was unable to recoup her husband’s losses. She was, however, still capable of putting on a good, if limited, show. A visitor to her lodging house found her dressed in tattered mourning clothes, sharing her room with a large coffin containing a mummy that, she insisted, had once been an Egyptian priestess. It seems somehow in keeping with the charade-like aura of the Belzoni enterprise that when the remains — which, Hume says, had “the look of a prop left over from a Boris Karloff movie” — were finally autopsied, many years after Sarah’s death in 1870, they turned out to belong to a 50-year-old man. No, make that two men. The mummy and its original head seem to have parted company.

Giovanni Battista Belzoni, archaeologist of his time, or smash and grab looter?

The Importance of the FINDSPOT

What happens to an archaeological site after the archaeologist’s work is completed? Should the site (or parts of it) be restored to what we believe (based on evidence) it once looked like? Or should the site be protected through conservation and left as is? 

A visit to an unrestored archaeological site can be uninspiring—even the most lavish ancient sites can appear to be piles of unorganized stones framed by broken columns and other fragments. And while modern conservation principles insist on the reversibility of any treatment (in case better treatments are discovered in the future), in the past, conservators didn’t have the resources or science that is available today.

Knossos

The archaeological site of Knossos (on the island of Crete) —traditionally called a palace—is the second most popular tourist attraction in all of Greece (after the Acropolis in Athens), hosting hundreds of thousands of tourists a year. But its primary attraction is not so much the authentic Bronze Age remains (which are more than three thousand years old) but rather the extensive early 20th century restorations installed by the site’s excavator, Sir Arthur Evans, in the early twentieth century.

Archaeological restorations offer important information about the history of a site and Knossos doesn’t disappoint—one can see the earliest throne room in Europe, walk through the monumental Northern entrance to the palace, marvel at colorful wall paintings and enjoy the elegance of a queen’s apartments. All these spaces, however, are the result of extensive, contentious and, in some cases, damaging restoration. Knossos asks us to consider how we can preserve an archaeological site, while at the same time providing a valuable, educational experience for visitors that nonetheless remains true to the remains.

Considering Evans’ reconstructions

The Evans restoration at Knossos are important for several reasons:

• If Evans hadn’t worked to preserve and restore so much of Knossos beginning in 1901, it would have undoubtedly been largely lost.

• The restoration of the site undertaken by Evans, with its elegantly painted Throne Room (below) makes very real our historical understanding, originally revealed by Homer, of the power and prestige of the kings of Crete.

• The beautiful, although sometimes inaccurate, restorations of architecture and wall paintings by Evans evoke the elegance and skill of Minoan architects and painters.

• These are the undeniable benefits of Evans’s restorations and among the aspects of a visit to Knossos that everyone values. It is the smooth corniced walls, bright paintings, and whole passages stepped with balustrades at Knossos that the post cards, camera snaps, and human memory preserve, and that has translated into important support for the site—intellectually, politically, and financially.

Problems

At the same time, the Evans restorations are problematic. In some cases, what is restored does not accurately reflect what was found. Instead, a grander, and more complete, experience is presented. For example, when you visit Knossos, because of the way it is reconstructed, it is very easy to believe that all that was ever found there was a Late Bronze Age palace.

Evans’s restoration of the Throne Room (and much else at the site) privileges the Late Bronze Age period of its history. The typical visitor likely won’t grasp that the Throne Room dates to the latest phase of Knossos—the end of the 2nd millennium B.C.E., though the site was occupied nearly continuously from the Neolithic to the Roman era (from the 8th millennium B.C.E. to at least the 5th century C.E.).

The power of Evans’s interpretation and reconstruction of the site as purely Minoan—the product of the indigenous culture of that island—is very much still with us despite the fact that much has changed about how art historians and archaeologists understand the different periods of construction at Knossos. Today, much of its final plan and form, which Evans reconstructed (including the Throne Room and most of the frescos), are understood as being of Mycenaean construction (not Minoan). Although this information is noted in texts mounted at the site, it is too often overlooked by visitors.

Contemporary view of Knossos looking southwest from the Monumental North Entrance (photo: Theofanis Ampatzidis, CC BY-SA 4.0)

What is archaeological restoration?

When archaeological remains are revealed through excavation, they are often delicate and cannot survive long unprotected. Some archaeologists backfill their trenches (refill the excavated holes with the material that was removed) to help preserve remains. In other instances, architecture, graves, or the impressions left from ephemeral building materials (such as wood) are sometimes left exposed, and when this happens some sort of conservation should occur. By definition, any sort of conservation is restoration when the modern materials are layered on the ancient and made to look harmonious in form, color and/or texture. As a result, restorations are sometimes nearly indistinguishable from authentic materials, and this is where things get tricky—such as the situation at Knossos.

Before making an archaeological restoration, three essential issues must be examined:

1. What specific point in a site or monument’s history will be the subject of the restoration? Many (most!) archaeological sites reflect a long occupation or use, and within that timeframe things change, are repaired, or rebuilt. What era of the site will be privileged by the restoration—and in turn, which eras of the site’s history will become harder to see and understand?

2. How will future changes in the interpretation and knowledge about a site or monument be accommodated by restorations? Archaeological interpretations of sites evolve all the time, often through new discoveries elsewhere. Restorations, in order to remain accurate, need to take into account potential new scholarship that can change the history or meaning of a site or monument.

3. Lastly and most importantly, restorations must be non-destructive and reversible. The first role of restoration is conservation. Therefore, the original remains must be entirely safe and not harmed in any way by restoration methods and materials. The reversibility of restorations not only has to do with the accommodation of changes in interpretation made above, but also with the need to leave the way open for less invasive, more gentle restoration methods in the future.

Restoration at Knossos

Aside from some gaps (for instance, during the First World War) Evans excavated at the site of Knossos each year from 1900 to 1930. Restoration of the architectural finds began almost immediately and can be divided into three phases, each characterized by the architect Evans hired to do the work. These three men, Theodore Fyfe, Christian Doll, and Piet De Jong, each had very different restoration philosophies.

Phase 1: Theodore Fyfe

From 1901 to 1904, a young architect by the name of Theodore Fyfe was charged with the restorations at Knossos. It is likely that Evans hired him because the winter of 1900/01 had damaged the newly exposed Throne Room—the most important space excavated during that first season at the site.

Fyfe’s work at Knossos can be characterized by two things. First of all, he was devoted to the concept of minimal intervention. Second, when intervention was necessary, he made great efforts to use materials authentic to the Bronze Age structure (wood, limestone, rubble masonry) and even to use Bronze Age construction techniques, which he was able to glean from his onsite work. Clearly Fyfe was highly concerned about the truthfulness of his interventions and reconstructions; the only exception to this was his construction of modern-style pitched roofs to protect the Throne Room and the Shrine of the Double Axes.

Phase 2: Christian Doll

The second phase of restoration work at Knossos dates from 1905 to 1910, and was directed by Christian Doll. The first conservation work to which Doll had to attend to in 1905 was that of Fyfe’s. Essentially, Fyfe’s zeal to use authentic materials resulted in failure: he neglected in many cases to treat timbers before their use and he tended to use softwoods rather than hardwoods (all of which lead to rot). Also, rain was a destructive force in the winters, especially when it ran through newly exposed parts of the site. Doll’s first and most important project was to stabilize and reconstruct the Grand Staircase to its original four story height. This was an extremely difficult job as the exact nature of the ancient design eluded both him and Fyfe, so a certain amount of improvisation was needed. And, because the weight of the structure was so great, Doll used iron girders (imported from England at great expense) covered in cement to make them look like ancient wooden beams.

Doll’s approach to conservation was still anchored in preserving the excavated remains. However, Doll was no fan of the authentic materials used by Fyfe, as he saw how they had failed to preserve the many areas where they had been employed. Instead, Doll constructed structural systems based on techniques used in London at the time. Moreover, he employed contemporary architectural materials, such as the iron girders mentioned above, as well as concrete (the first use of this material at Knossos).

Phase 3: Piet De Jong

Piet de Jong, reconstruction of the “Dolphin Fresco,” Queen’s Megaron, Knossos (public domain)

The third phase of conservation work was executed over a longer period of time, from 1922 to 1952, by Piet De Jong. The vast majority of what Knossos looks like today, with large passages of reconstructed walls and rooms, is his work.

Three main elements characterize De Jong’s work at Knossos. The most prominent was his use of iron reinforced concrete. In the twelve years between Doll’s and De Jong’s work, the use of reinforced concrete had grown in popularity because of its speedy construction, its relative cheapness, and its ability to be molded into nearly any shape. It was also thought to be nearly indestructible.

Another essential characteristic of De Jong’s work at Knossos was his use of reinforced concrete to construct parts of the palace beyond what had been found—some passages were based on archaeological evidence, some were not (the bases of these reconstructions came from Evans himself).

De Jong often did not merely end walls at the height of their discovery but would either finish them off with a flat roof and cornice, often decorated with double white horns (what some contemporary wall paintings of Bronze Age houses looked like), or would leave the top edge of walls with irregular stones, evoking a picturesque, antique view. When a complete vision of ancient Knossos could not be reconstituted, a romantic one was built instead.

The reconstruction of the interior decoration of the throne room was executed during this period and similarly exhibits a combination of the truthful reflection of archaeological remains and Evans’s creativity.

Lastly, an important characteristic of De Jong’s restorations was the placement of reproductions of wall paintings around his newly built spaces. Some paintings were placed very close to their findspots and therefore aimed at a more authentic reconstruction, while other paintings were reconstructed at some distance from where they had been discovered.

The question remains: why did Evans encourage De Jong’s radical approach to conservation, especially after two more conservative predecessors? Several reasons are at play, no doubt. The first, and possibly the most important, is the condition of Knossos after almost eight years of abandonment during the First World War. Aside from the wild overgrowth of weeds, there was much weather-related and other damage. However, the parts of the site that had been roofed (such as the Throne Room and the Shrine of the Double Axes) and sections that were more intact (such as the Grand Staircase), were in excellent shape and this no doubt convinced Evans of the importance of aggressive conservation work. Second, the iron-reinforced concrete which De Jong proposed to use was inexpensive and could be employed quickly. Third, Evans, in a masterful anticipation of the desires of future tourism, aimed to make a site that would vividly conjure the culture he had discovered, as much evocative and picturesque as historically accurate.

Conservation at Knossos after Evans

It is only fair to reflect upon the restorations of Knossos within their historical framework. The aims, methods, and materials used in restoration at the site over a period of some sixty years changed, reflecting a long list of crises, constraints, theories, and desires. Perhaps most significant, however, was Evans’s overriding conviction that the conservation of Knossos was an obligation born out of its great antiquity and unique importance. He knew this from his own Edwardian education, British colonial outlook, and his twenty-four year directorship of the Ashmolean Museum at the University of Oxford. Evans was keenly aware of how intimately connected the teaching of Knossos’s history was with how it was presented on site. He made Knossos into a museum and a showcase for the newly discovered Aegean Bronze Age chapter of ancient history and the earliest example of cultural tourism, today a mainstay of public historical education—not to mention local economies. Evans did it first at Knossos.

Conservation at Knossos has continued since De Jong’s work, although with new challenges. The most recent conservation work on the site has been focused largely on repairing Evans’s reconstructions. Despite a belief that reinforced concrete would last indefinitely, it has proven to be susceptible to the wet Cretan winters, crumbling and allowing for rust on the interior ironwork. In other areas the reinforced concrete proved to be structurally unsound.

In addition, the steady increase of tourist traffic since the 1950s has meant growing stress on both the original architecture of Knossos as well as its reconstructions. Sustained foot fall, increasing weight load as well as touching and sitting, is increasingly destructive. To combat this, the Greek Archaeological Service, under the Greek Ministry of Culture and Sports, has closed off large sections of Knossos and generally restricted circulation on the site. In the 1990s it conducted extensive conservation of both ancient and modern structures as well as building new corrugated plastic roofing. At present the Service is working on a visitor management plan for the site and the Greek government has applied to UNESCO for World Heritage Status for Knossos as well as four other Minoan palatial sites which would afford much needed support for ongoing conservation efforts.