End of the Line: short life and strange death of a white elephant

Posted on by
1

At shallow depth, just inside of the gates of the Linwood Cemetery, lies buried the remains of a white elephant, or, perhaps more accurately, just the archaeological trace remains of her 19th century tracks. More than eight years ago now I wrote one of my first archaeology blogs, which was about the archaeology of our old city tramways. Back then, lots of old tramline remains were resurfacing as a result of the post-earthquake   SCIRT infrastructure rebuild. In that blog I made brief mention to the tram line that once ran out to the Linwood Cemetery, and the strange saga of the Council’s tramway hearse. I was excited to discover that not only part of that 1880s cemetery tramline still survives to this day, but of all the many old tram routes the city once had, this particular one had perhaps the most interesting tale to tell. And so, some eight years down the track (no pun intended), the time has finally come to further flesh out the story of the city tram that once went out to the Linwood Cemetery, (or sort of once did), and the tramway hearse that, for better or worse, never got a chance to fulfil its true potential (or at the very least, fulfil its intended function). So, dear readers, the time has finally come to buy the ticket and join us for the ride, (don’t worry, in this instance a one way ticket is fine), for today we get off at the last stop, the cemetery at the end of the line.

Map of the Linwood Cemetery. Image: Christchurch City Council [online].

The Linwood Cemetery

Located off Butterfield Avenue behind Bromley Park, the Linwood Cemetery is the fifth oldest public cemetery in Christchurch, established in 1884. Although now surrounded by suburbia, 139 years ago this was a sparsely populated rural spot that was located a safe distance outside the city limits. This was important, as by this time there were genuine public health concerns about the practice of continuing to bury the dead in cemeteries that were located within built up urban areas. Christchurch’s biggest cemetery, in Barbadoes Street, was filling up fast (with over 300 internments a year), and the Council were starting to receive complaints from local residents about the objectionable odours that emanated from the swampy cemetery grounds, and of fears that the groundwater in their backyard wells would become contaminated by the decomposition of the dead (Bowman et. al. 2009). And so, in October 1883, the City Council formed a cemetery committee (made up of Councillors Bowman Vincent, Louisson, and Kiver) to look into finding an appropriate new spot where the dead could be buried a safe distance away from the living (Star, 16/10/1883: 4). The chosen location in Linwood was a most suitable one. It wasn’t too close to town but not too far away (something of a ‘Goldilocks Zone’). Spread out across a rolling sand dune, the sandy ground here was easy to dig, with tests confirming that except for the spots where there were hollows, no groundwater was encountered at a depth less than six feet (Press, 29/11/1883:3). In a peculiar irony, the first person to be buried here was Sarah Ann Freeman, the wife of the cemetery’s first sexton (caretaker/gravedigger), on 10 July 1884, a few months before the cemetery was officially opened in October (Burgess et. al 2006:12).

Gated entrance to the Linwood Cemetery, off Butterfield Avenue. Meet you here sometime, Morrissey Photo: Hamish Williams.

The Corporation Tramline and the tramway hearse

In March 1884, while the cemetery site was still being prepared, the City Council decided that given its location out of town, they would need to construct a tramway linking the city and cemetery, in order to make it easily accessible. This tramway, (which became known as the Corporation Line) was intended to have a threefold function. Firstly, it would be used to convey funeral traffic to the cemetery. Secondly, it would be used to convey rubbish and nightsoil to the Council’s rubbish and nightsoil reserve, which was located just past the cemetery, near what is now Rudds Road. And thirdly, it would serve as a passenger service. The council would operate the rubbish and nightsoil service themselves under the cover of darkness, while during the day the business of conveying passengers out to the cemetery (both dead and alive) would be leased out to private contractors (Alexander 1985:11). A substantial loan was taken out by the council to cover the costs of the trams and the building of the tramline, which ran from the Council’s yard on Oxford Terrace, via Worcester Street, Linwood Avenue, and Buckleys Road to the new cemetery and the rubbish reserve. John Brightling won the tender for laying the three miles of track, which took four months to complete, and was officially opened on April 23, 1886 (Alexander 1985:11).

It was Councillor James Bowman, chair of the Council’s Cemetery Committee, that championed the call for the city to invest in a custom-built tramway hearse to operate on the new Corporation Line. The intention was that the tramway hearse, otherwise known as the Corporation Hearse, could be leased out, evidently to funeral directors, to provide Christchurch’s less wealthy citizens with a low-cost funeral transportation option. Local coachbuilder William Moor and Son won the contract to build the special tram hearse, which was delivered to the Council yard in September 1885 at a cost of £300 (Alexander 1985:11). Capable of carrying up to four caskets at a time, it was a painted a dignified black colour, had fine wooden panelling, elliptical plate glass windows, and up top had decorative brass railings where one could fix floral tributes. When not in use, the tram hearse lived at the council yard in a purpose built storage shed.

The only known picture of the infamous tramway hearse. Image: Press 21/2/1970:5.

As well intentioned as the idea of a tramway hearse was, unfortunately, the concept of ‘funeral procession by public transport’ never ever took off and in the end, there would be no [under]takers keen on using it. To make matters worse, little money was to be made from leasing out the line to private operators for a daytime passenger service. Of the three original intended functions of the Corporation Line, the only one that proved to be of any value was the nighttime conveyance of rubbish out to the rubbish reserve. Nightsoil removal by this time was not so much of a pressing issue for the Council, as the Drainage Board’s new sewerage system was well in operation. The night-time rubbish removal trams kept operating on the line until 1902, by which time city rubbish was being dealt with by burning it in town instead of carting it away and burying it. Interested in finding out more about the Municipal Destructor? – we wrote a blog a while back about that too, check that out here.

Sitting idle in the Council yard, the reality that the tramway hearse was in fact just a white elephant soon set in. In late 1887, Councillor Gray considered the tramway hearse to be a useless asset and suggested that it might be sold or otherwise repurposed into something the city might find useful, like a dust-cart (Star, 15/11/1887:4). But the £120 cost of conversion was not considered economical, so it was decided that for now, the council best just retain it as it was, just in case the city was struck by a ‘municipal emergency’ like an epidemic (Timaru Herald, 11/1/1888: 2). Thankfully no big epidemic came, and three years later the Council decided to try to sell the hearse, hoping to recoup at the very least the £90 cost of the 5% interest on the loan raised six years earlier to help pay for its construction (Press,17/3/1891:6). Unfortunately, not a single soul was interested in buying the tram hearse. In 1892, Councillor Gray again brought up the subject of the useless ‘Corporation Hearse’ that was languishing in the council yard and how it might be repurposed or otherwise disposed of (Press, 7/6/1892: 6). Little however came of this, short of Gray having to make a formal public apology to the community, and especially to Bowman’s widow, in respect to his callous character attacking of the recently deceased former Councillor (Press, 14/6/1892:3). It appeared that the Council might possibly just be stuck with this white elephant forever. By July 1894 the Council had still not managed to get rid of it, but at least they had managed to free up some space in their storage yard. The hearse was finally relocated out to the cemetery, where here the proverbial ‘white elephant on wheels’ got a new lease on life, being fixed up by the sexton and transformed into a fowl house (Star, 31/7/1894:2). Fresh eggs anyone?

At the end of 1897, what to do about the hearse again came up for discussion in Council meeting – and whether the undercarriage of the tram hearse could be repurposed into something useful, like a water cart (Press, 7/12/1897:3). The undercarriage was inspected, but determined unsuitable for conversion, but that it would surely fetch a good price at auction (Press, 21/12/1897:6). Sadly, again no so soul came forward with an interest in buying it (Lyttelton Times, 5/2/1898:3).

For sale: one tramway hearse, mint condition, never been used. Image:  Lyttelton Times, 5/2/1898:3

Eventually, in August 1901, the tramway hearse would finally be sold at auction, for the sacrificial sum of just £3. Local MP Samuel Paull Andrews brought it and gave it a new lease of life. Andrews relocated it to his St Andrews Hill quarry, where it served as an explosives store until about 1906 or 1907. Thereafter, his sons Hastings and George built a wooden pontoon and placed the hearse on it, turning it into a houseboat (or hearseboat?) that had four bunk beds and a collapsible table. It was moored for some time off what was known as Moncks Jetty in Redcliffs, near the site of what is now the Christchurch Yacht Club, and the boys spent many summers living on it. One night, just before World War 1, a storm broke it free from its moorings and carried it across the estuary, beaching it on the New Brighton Spit. It was towed back across the estuary to Mount Pleasant and beached up near the site of the present bowling green. The pontoon had by this time begun to leak badly and often needed a great deal of pumping to stay afloat. The fate of the hearseboat after that time remains something of a mystery (Press, 24/2/1970:18). Do any of our readers know what ever became of the hearseboat? If so, we’d really love to hear from you.

The approximate last known location of the hearseboat, as far as we can tell. Image: Jamie Hearfield.

Archaeological trace remains of the original 1885 Corporation Line tram tracks still survive today within the Linwood Cemetery grounds, and these are well worth a visit to check out. Although since covered over by a thin layer of asphalt, you can still make out where the 2.2 m long timber sleepers were placed in alignment some 139 years ago, set apart at approximate 600 mm intervals. Over time the sleepers have all seemingly rotted away, leaving behind shallow depressions into which the asphalt has sunk and settled, marking their location. There is also a small section where the iron rails, nailed to the sleepers (at the standard gauge of 4ft 8 and a half inches) remain in-situ, because for whatever reason back in the day these weren’t ripped up and removed for reuse elsewhere.

Tram tracks in the cemetery. Image: Hamish Williams.

Tram tracks in the cemetery. Image: Hamish Williams

Tram tracks in the cemetery. Image: Hamish Williams

Tram rails in the cemetery, laid at the standard gauge of 4ft 8 and a half inches. And four-legged archaeologist. Image: Hamish Williams.

Although good intentioned, the fact that the Bowman’s tramway hearse was rejected by the community it had been built to serve and was never used for its intended purpose of transporting the dead – reflect strong feelings of the time that no matter how poor people are, all people deserve more respect and dignity than being transported, en masse, by means of public transport, to their final resting place (Burgess et. al 2006:65). A fine reminder that inextricably tied in with the surviving physical bits of the past that constitute an archaeological site, are the intangible, and sometimes elusive – thoughts, feelings, values, and intentions of the past peoples whom that physical stuff once related to. God bless, everybody.

Hamish Williams

References

Alexander, M., 1985. Rails in the Roads: the steam and horse tram era in Christchurch. Christchurch NZ: Christchurch Transport Board and Tramway Historical Society.

Bowman, I., Wilson, J., Beaumont, L., and Watson, K. 2009. Conservation Plan, Barbadoes Street Cemetery. [online]. Available at:  https://ccc.govt.nz/assets/Documents/Culture-Community/Heritage/BarbadoesStreetCemeteryFinalPlan.pdf

Burgess, R., Bowman, I., May, J., and McKenzie, D. 2006. Conservation Plan, Linwood Cemetery. [online]. Available at: https://ccc.govt.nz/assets/Documents/Services/Cemeteries/FinalConservationPlanLinwood.pdf

Lyttelton Times [online]. Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/

Press. [online]. Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/

Star. [online] Available eat: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/

Timaru Herald. [online] Available at: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Theo Schoon- the matter of interpretation

Posted on by
1

Oh hi – if you are an avid reader of our blog a couple (ok a few) years ago one of our historians (me) went rogue writing about the artistic life of Tony Fomison – who was known as an archaeologist amongst the said historian’s archaeology peers. Amongst the tangent of found art and ramblings of an avid fan, mention was made of a very polarizing individual, Theo Schoon, who crossed paths and opinions with Fomison and pretty much everyone else. Such was the topic of Schoon that it was worthy of its own blog post, and a promise was wildly made to said colleagues. Well folks, here is the promise fulfilled; another art/archaeology crossover special – this time a controversial tale of a colonial childhood, a misaligned love of art form that resulted in cultural appropriation, and a white saviour mentality only to be topped off by a perceived bitter rejection. I know it sounds grim, but read on, these topics are relevant in our current climate and form a delicate balancing act, reflecting on our past to improve our future. For this blog post, we will be focusing on the archaeology lens of Schoon the polymath.

But before we ‘dig’ into the archaeology, here is a quick summary of the life and times of Theodorus Johannes Schoon (1915-1985) #youalwaysneedcontext. Schoon was of Dutch heritage and was born in Kebumen, Java, Dutch East Indies (which would become known as Indonesia). Schoon grew up as the child of a Dutch civil servant and, as a result, was educated alongside the children of Javanese nobility. It was within this environment that Schoon learnt classical Javanese dance. The Javanese way of life would permeate into many aspects of Schoon’s life as an adult. Schoon’s education continued in the Netherlands where he attended the Rotterdam Academy of Fine Arts during the 1930s (Skinner, 2000). Schoon returned to Java in 1936, establishing a studio creating photographic folios of the local environment, people and their lifestyles. In 1939 Schoon’s family immigrated to New Zealand, and Theo, aged 23, followed his family to New Zealand where they settled in Christchurch. Schoon ensconced himself into the New Zealand art world, briefly attending Canterbury University College School of Art, before a move to Wellington in 1941. If you imagine the art world that Schoon entered, you would have seen Schoon rubbing shoulders with the likes of Rita Angus, what we know as ‘The Group’ or ‘Bloomsbury South’, Gordon Walters, and Dennis Knight Turner (Skinner, 2000).

Portrait of Theo Schoon posed and wearing a Balinese costume. Image: Spencer Digby Studios, 1943.

The year 1946 brings us to our lens, a time and place of discovery for Schoon, and it is here where Schoon’s upbringing within the Javanese culture (albeit with a colonial perspective) and art education would colour his approach to and interpretation of his exposure to Māori rock shelter drawings. The Māori rock art would leave a permanent impression on Schoon, who recognised the significance of the work much earlier than many Pākehā, and for that we should acknowledge Schoon, but that of course comes with a caveat.

Cue Damien Skinner, biographer of Schoon. It is a role that Skinner is especially well equipped for; as a researcher and writer Skinner is acutely aware of the responsibility of reformatting Pākehā thinking. To quote: “I would call it decolonisation. Schoon is my problem” (Lopesi, 2019).

In Skinner’s biography, Schoon’s first encounter with Māori rock shelter art was reading an article in the Journal of Polynesian Society by historian G. B. Stevenson from 1943, which noted rock drawings observed in the Waitaki Valley, Te Waipounamu (Skinner, 2018: 94). To preface this interest, you must note Schoon’s art education in Europe, which had included the African and Pacific art that inspired the development of art movements such as Cubism. Schoon, cognisant of this link, also knew that Māori rock drawings were somewhat underrepresented (at the time) in anthropology and archaeology. New Zealand artists were preoccupied with establishing a New Zealand style of art based on regionalism and a sense of local identity that still had roots in Europe’s art movements (Ministry for Culture and Heritage, 2012).

Schoon travelled to South Canterbury to see the drawings for himself. As luck would have it, earlier in 1945 Roger Duff, the ethnologist at Canterbury Museum, had very recently surveyed the rock drawings in the area and concluded that the drawings he had observed required accurate protection and recording in the form of site photos, drawings, and tracings (Skinner, 2018: 94-98). Enter the ubiquitous Theo Schoon with his uncanny knack (here I quote Anthony Bryt from 2019, call him a ‘Zelig’ if you like) to suddenly appear at the scene of an opportunity (Byrt, 2019).  As a result, Schoon was employed on a project where he travelled to Gordon’s Valley, South Canterbury, with Duff and recorded the drawings. The resulting copies were in oil on canvas boards. Duff was impressed with the faithfulness and accuracy of the works. This initial work acted as a segue to recording rock art in the South Canterbury region. Funding for eight weeks was provided by the Department of Internal Affairs and was endorsed by no other than William Vance, the local department officer and author of High Endeavour (ok I sense another blog post), and the works were to be supervised by the Canterbury Museum.

What could go wrong? Māori rock art around Aotearoa was being accurately recorded and catalogued, and the project was fine until some of the rock drawings got “schooned”… WTF? Schooned (McCulloch, 1985)? Yeah, that was me too… read on dear reader for the term “schooned” exists within a context… although I could coin the phrase “schooned” for use in many a situation. So, to provide you with the said “context” I will cast you back to Duff from the Canterbury Museum mentioning in his initial survey that the drawings required protection measures…

Imagine heraldic triumphant noises and in rides from stage left, Theo Schoon and his trusty box of crayons, ooh and some red raddle, why not…to retouch the rock drawings complete with a flourish of his signature… you may now facepalm. It is here that we can concede that the state of the drawings was subject to agricultural and environmental conditions (Skinner, 2018: 130). You could argue that retouching the work was an act of ‘preservation’, not unlike the processes in place by museums and art galleries maintaining the condition of their artefacts. The difference was a lone restorer (yes, I know you are thinking of the Ecce Homo fresco), not aware of his material impacts on the original drawing, and not to mention the most important factor, lack of consultation with local iwi and professionals. By 1946, Duff was overseeing Schoon’s work in South Canterbury and Duff’s field books record accounts of Schoon’s retouching. This was referred to in Fomison’s report to the New Zealand Archaeological Association regarding the topic of ‘Theo Schoon and the Retouching of Rock Art’ (Fomison, 1987). To be honest, the retouching was something that Duff also struggled with if his field books are anything to go by. In October 1946 Duff notes that in a ‘judicious restoration’ Schoon had brought to light a ‘previously scarcely recognisable figure’ of Gould’s Taniwha cave. By March 1947, Duff had not been in the field with Schoon for four months, and his take on Schoon’s flagrant ‘schooning’ had time for reflection. Fomision’s report recounts Duff asking Schoon not to restore any figures in the future. Fomison went on to say that the retouching of the work in ‘grease crayon’ had so far proved ‘irremovable’. The crayons used were black and a red raddle (for marking sheep) – despite the fact the rock art varied from a ‘near-purple’ through to the ochre ‘yellow-orange’ (Fomison, 1987; Skinner, 2018: 102). Schoon also did not attempt to cover mark for mark (well here you could argue ICOMOS principles that you can delineate between the original work and the assumed restoration…? No, Nah, didn’t think so). Fomison’s report recounted that the retouching work was done prior to the photography that was also used to record the drawings (Fomison, 1987).

“Birdmen,” a recreation of Maori rock drawings in Frenchman’s Gully, Pareora, by Theo Schoon, at the Robert McDougall Art Gallery. Image: Press, 25/9/1985: 26.

It’s very conflicting stuff, right? Probably why it’s taken so long to write this blog (and my tendency to overthink things). Fomison’s report culminated in a description of a recorded interview of Schoon before he returned to Sydney for his final year . Fomison quipped:

‘In a matter of days, film footage and sound tapes had been used up; and Theo had picked enough fights to confirm his decision to return to Sydney, which he did.’

Schoon’s approach to recording and restoration was forthright, much like his approach to life in general. Schoon, I guess, held at one point a great certainty in himself and not much self-awareness, which I think enabled a type of clarity in his observations, especially that of Māori archaeology and art and its much-needed inclusion in the New Zealand narrative.’ (Skinner, 2018: 297).

By the 1960s, Fomison had become part of the emergence of recorded archaeology in New Zealand, surpassing Schoon’s efforts on a far more scientific level, with one very pointed observation that most of the Māori rock art was found not in caves but in undercuts/ledges in the bases of limestone bluffs (Skinner, 2018: 297). Schoon was given the chance to respond to Fomison’s findings and opinions on his preservation work, which was published in the New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter (it was edited as I guess you could imagine). Schoon acknowledged that the retouching was undesirable, but wetting the works did nothing to bring out the deteriorated drawings for the photography. Thus, Schoon stated that he resorted to retouching. Schoon was taking on a task that no one else was prepared to do, and he was willing to stand accused of vandalism if it meant some sort of record was preserved… #rescuearchaeology anyone (Skinner, 2018: 300)? It’s here I defer to one of my colleagues, the superstar archaeologist and inadvertent ‘found art’ artist T. Wadsworth, to explain that Schoon’s vandalism was also scientific:

“So we now have methods of analysing pigments and dating rock art based on charcoal content, but a recent study (O’Regan et al. 2019. Dating South Island Māori rock art: Pigment and pitfalls) found that Schoon’s retouching has resulted in false results and compromised such analysis. We also have new digital technology and better methods to record and identify faded rock art, which has also been complicated by Schoon’s retouching (pers comm. Wadsworth, 2023).”

Wadsworth’s morning teas have been exclusively photographed by A.E. Gibson as found art and have featured for the past three years on Instagram. Image: Gibson, 2021.

I guess the report and his rebuttal cemented Schoon’s malaise (well bitterness as the story goes) of New Zealand entirely, one of the final nails if you will (Skinner, 2018: 297). This negative perception of New Zealand blindsided his insight into Māori art. Schoon thought it should be preserved in time, and as such, his aggrieved conclusion of New Zealand did not account (or did he just not live long enough?) for Māori art to evolve into the current narrative, now firmly translated into New Zealand modernism. Sydney, Australia, was his next and final stop with his 34 boxes of possessions (Skinner, 2018: 300). It has to be noted that while Fomison’s account of Schoon’s interview in his report was articulate and focused on Schoon there was a typical artistic melee around the production of the audio and film. An ad hoc team assembled for the event at Fomison’s house, as Schoon’s accommodation was too small, but still, it was not a comfortable environment for the now-infirmed Schoon. In attendance were art historian Michael Dunn, John Edgar (stone carver) and David Simmons (anthropologist), all friends of Schoon and who managed to steer the conversation to bring out an informed and approachable flow. By Skinner’s account, this was interjected by a drunk foetal positioned Fomison and fellow (likely intoxicated) artist Allen Maddox playing stuck riffs of Jimi Hendrix records (Skinner, 2018: 300).

In Anthony Byrt’s review “Book of the Week: That total asshole Theo Schoon” of Skinner’s book as ‘a tortured biography’, Bryt’s opinion of Schoon is described as being ‘hinged on whether he’s master or mulch’ (Bryt, 2019).  I mentioned this in my last blog post in a more measured account… In Skinner’s biography, Schoon’s achievements in championing others are highlighted as are his drawing attention to traditional Māori art forms (rock drawing and gourd carving) for a ‘new New Zealand art’. Byrt sees Skinner’s struggle to navigate all the positives that Schoon’s perceptive eye was capable of uncovering only for Schoon to obfuscate it all with his infuriating personality. Ok yes, as Bryt says, he could be a right dick sometimes. Can I say that? Too late.

All this confusion around Schoon, and his misaligned, but nonetheless important contribution to archaeology, does raise questions about our own approach. Schoon is the unravelling thread. We too will no doubt in the future will be called to account around best practices in archaeology. It is that evaluation of our past to improve our future. It is part of being a historian, to be the recall in the current realm – reminding us we need balanced research so that we don’t repeat ourselves but also admit to our own ‘schooning’. Simply put, try not to make dick moves; you’ve got the benefit of hindsight.

The Artistic Historian

References

Byrt, Anthony, 2019. Book of the Week: That total asshole Theo Schoon. The Spinoff [online] Available at: <https://thespinoff.co.nz/books/28-02-2019/book-of-the-week-that-total-asshole-theo-schoon> Accessed June 2023.

Fomison, Tony, 1987. Theo Schoon and the retouching of rock art. Archaeology in New Zealand 30: 158-160. [online] Available at:  https://nzarchaeology.org/download/theo-schoon-and-the-retouching-of-rock-art. Accessed February 2023.

ICOMOS New Zealand Te Mana o Nga Pouwhenua o Te Ao, 2010. The ICOMOS New Zealand Charter, Te Pumanawa o ICOMOS o Aotearoa Hei Tiaki I Nga Taonga Whenua Heke Iho o Nehe. [online] <https://icomos.org.nz/charters/> Accessed June 2023.

Jones, Sam, 2018. How ‘Monkey Christ’ brought new life to a quiet Spanish town. The Guardian [online] Available at: <https://www.theguardian.com/world/2018/dec/28/how-monkey-christ-brought-new-life-to-a-quiet-spanish-town> Accessed June 2023.

Lopesi, Lana, 2019. The debate over Theo Schoon, who built his career on the backs of Māori artists. The Spinoff [online] Available at: <https://thespinoff.co.nz/art/08-08-2019/the-debate-over-theo-schoon-who-built-his-career-on-the-backs-of-maori-artists> Accessed June 2023.

McCulloch, Beverley, 1985. Maori Rock Drawings: A Matter of Interpretation. Robert McDougall Art Gallery and Canterbury Museum. [online] Available at: < https://christchurchartgallery.org.nz/media/uploads/2010_08/TheoSchoon.pdf> Accessed June 2023.

Ministry of Culture and Heritage, 2012. A new New Zealand art. [online] Available at: <https://nzhistory.govt.nz/culture/nz-painting-history/a-new-new-zealand-art> Accessed February 2023.

Press, 1861-1979. [online] Available at: <https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/> Accessed June 2023.

Skinner, Damian, 2000. ‘Schoon, Theodorus Johannes’, Dictionary of New Zealand Biography, first published in 2000. Te Ara – the Encyclopedia of New Zealand. [online] Available at:  <https://teara.govt.nz/en/biographies/5s4/schoon-theodorus-johannes> Accessed February 2023.

Skinner, Damian, 2018. Theo Schoon. A Biography. Auckland: Massey University Press.

Spencer Digby Studios, 1943. Portrait of Theo Schoon posed and wearing a Balinese costume. [online] Available at:  Te Papa Collections Online < https://digitalnz.org/records/176921/tn-theo-schoon> Accessed June 2023.

 

 

 

Where did that wood come from?

Posted on by
Reply

Archaeology is a broad discipline, with a multitude of subsects and specialisations. One of these is buildings archaeology, where we use archaeological methods to record and analyse buildings and see what that can tell us about the people that constructed them. We’ve written various blogs before about some of the different houses that we’ve recorded, and while this blog is also within the realm of buildings archaeology, it’s also quite different to those other blogs. Part of our work as archaeologists is to place things within the historical context of the period that they date to. If we were excavating a Roman villa and we found glass windowpanes, then we’d be interpreting that villa as probably belonging to a pretty wealthy individual. However, when we find window glass in Christchurch, that doesn’t really tell us anything about the status of the person that built that house, as window glass was readily available and used in the majority of buildings. We’re really lucky as historical archaeologists that there are large historical datasets that we can use to help us with determining the context of the period that our sites date to. However, there’s hours and hours of research that goes into building a database from raw historical data, and even more hours spent looking at patterns and trends to help us establish that historical context.

Returning to buildings archaeology, one of the key elements that we look at when we record a building is what it was made from. Here in Christchurch, that’s almost always timber. From our recording, we know what types of timbers were typically used here in Christchurch for houses, but that’s only half the story. By doing detailed historical research on the timber industry, we can find out if there were patterns in what species were available for purchase and then use that historical information to provide more context to what we find in the archaeological record. It all sounds so simple, but let me tell you it’s not. I’ve spent countless hours doing research into the Christchurch timber industry, and I’ve only gotten through the first 20 years. That period is going to be the focus of this blog.

That sure is some nice timber, I wonder where it came from?

Prior to 1850, the year that the city of Christchurch was founded, the Canterbury Plains were largely devoid of forests. Although opinion is divided on the exact extent of forested area in Canterbury at the time of Pākehā settlement, Roche (1990) estimates that the combined forest area in the Canterbury settlement added up to only 240,000 acres, or 12 % of the total land area (Roche 1990: 75). Near Christchurch there was a small forest of 54 acres where Christchurch’s most notable pioneers, the Deans brothers, established their Riccarton farm in 1843 (Orwin 2015: 25-26). The largest areas of forest were located some distance away. These included the native podocarp forest of Banks Peninsula, comprised mainly of matai (then known as black pine), kahikatea (white pine) and totara (for some reason just known as totara); and the mixed podocarp and beech forest at Harewood Forest, with kahikatea, rimu (red pine), matai and totara, with silver and black beech (they called it birch back then and were big time into their colour naming system; Roche 1990a).

Map of bush cover in Canterbury collated and reconstructed from 1850s and 1860s surveyor’s notebooks and maps by W. B. Johnson and redrawn for Pawson and Holland (2005: 171).

An 1851 sketch of the upper reaches of the Waimakariri River showing Harewood Forest, one of the largest areas of bush close to the city of Christchurch. Image: Fox, W. and Allom, T., 1850-1851.

Suitable building timber was not readily available in Christchurch and so Canterbury’s pioneer settlers built their houses from materials that they either brought with them from elsewhere, such as canvas, calico and sheets of iron to form tents and rudimentary temporary dwellings, or resources that might have been available on or near their chosen sections. These included volcanic stone, rammed earth, sod or mud brick for the walls and thatched or slab roofs made from raupo, toetoe, tussock, or bark (Bowman 1941, Isaacs 2015, Salmond 1986). In areas where timber was more plentiful wooden slabs or logs were used to build basic wooden structures, but even then, some timber had to be imported because of the difficulty in getting the logs milled once they were cut down.

Although it was located right beside one of the largest stands of forest near Christchurch, Deans Bush, the first house on the Canterbury Plains built by the eponymous Deans brothers was constructed from framing timber that they brought with them from Wellington (Bowman 1941).

Photograph of the first house built by the Deans brothers near Riccarton Bush in 1843. The house was built with timber brought from Wellington but was dismantled in the late 1890s. Image: Canterbury Times, 1900.

With the founding of Christchurch city and the rapid expansion of its Pākehā population, an increasing number of settlers had to obtain the materials they needed to construct their permanent residences, fuel their fires, and fence their farms. Although Canterbury was comparatively bereft of a sustainable supply of timber, wood was still the dominant building material for houses in Canterbury in the nineteenth century (Government Statistician, Registrar-General’s Office 1874). This all led to the establishment of a burgeoning timber importation trade (Roche 1990).

Banks Peninsula was the largest and most easily accessible source of timber close to Christchurch, meaning this region was one of the major suppliers of building timber and firewood to the colony. If you want to read more about sawmilling on the peninsula and what happened after the timber arrived in Christchurch, I highly recommend that you read Lydia’s excellent post on the topic from earlier in the year. The timber supply from Banks Peninsula was, however, short lived and the capacity to saw and ship it was limited, so in this post we’re going to explore exactly where Christchurch got all its wood from.

By combining the magic of PapersPast and the dark arts of Excel, I tracked the ups and downs of the Canterbury’s timber economy over the first few decades of Pākehā settlement in Christchurch to figure out where the town was getting its timber from and how this changed over time.

January 11, 1851, was the first issue of the Lyttelton Times to be published and the first issue to include a list of vessels that had arrived in Lyttelton Port since the previous December, including the first four ships carrying the pioneer settlers and all of their possessions to Lyttelton (Lyttelton Times 11/1/1851: 5). Included was a schedule of the cargo each vessel carried, with the schooner, Phoebe, the first reported timber carrying vessel arriving from Wellington carrying a load of timber. For the first few years of settlement Wellington was to be the predominant supplier of Canterbury’s timber.

Not the Phoebe. Also not Lyttelton, but this is probably what it looked like when the first load of timber arrived in Lyttelton. Image: Frederick Nelson Jones.

Although several gangs of pit sawyers had established themselves in many of the bays of Banks Peninsula by this time, their contributions to the overall timber supply in the first years of settlement were negligible in comparison to other regions. Timber imports soon picked up though, as did the quantity of timber arriving in the city from Banks Peninsula. By the mid to late 1850s, imports from Tasmania were contributing a significant quantity of timber to the market, and from the early 1860s vessels from North America and the Baltic region were bringing large cargoes of Northern Hemisphere timber, such as Baltic pine, Douglas fir and cedar.

Within the first ten years of the arrival of the settlers, timber imports had increased considerably. This coincided with an increase in the population of Canterbury, as well as the number of wooden dwellings that were being built. This was a pattern observed across the study period, although population tended to increase in a more or less linear fashion, while timber imports fluctuated more but trended upwards almost exponentially overall.

A steep decline in the quantity of timber being imported to Christchurch and Lyttelton occurred in the late 1860s. There were several factors that probably contributed this. The population had continued to grow, and wooden dwellings were also being constructed at an increasing rate, so it was not likely a lack in demand for house building materials. The market commentary in the newspapers around this time suggests that the timber supplies were overstocked, likely due to huge shipments arriving from overseas and the from the Nelson and Marlborough region. On several occasions in 1866 newspaper correspondents reported that the timber market was depressed, Sales were low and likewise timber prices had tanked (Lyttelton Times 7/7/1866: 2, 2/11/1867: 2). This glut in the market likely caused timber merchants to refrain from importing new stocks until the oversupply had diminished and prices had increased. Due to the time lag between orders and shipment this reduction in imports was not fully realised until 1867-1868.

Customhouse Street wharf area, Wellington, circa 1868, with the harbour and Queens wharf in the background. The sailmaking premises of John S Burn, a boat under construction, and a timber yard, are visible.  Couchman, (Mrs), active 1967. Customhouse Street wharf area, Wellington. Ref: 1/2-029401-F. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. /records/22751906

A notable shift in the regions supplying timber occurred after 1864. Shipments from the Wellington and Auckland/Northland regions declined towards the late 1860s, but were replaced with considerable supplies from the upper South Island. Imports from the West Coast were non-existent until around 1867, which coincided with the end of the gold rush in this region. The milling industry in Westland was initially established in order to supply the requirements of gold miners, but, after the rush was over, had expanded significantly. By the 1870s the West Coast milling industry was supplying sawn timber to other regions, including Canterbury, as well as a thriving trans-Tasman export trade (Roche 1990a: 179).

While mainland Australia was a consistent, albeit minor, contributor to timber imports over the study period, Tasmania remained an important supplier to the Canterbury timber economy, from the first cargoes that arrived with the pioneer settlers in 1850, up until at least the early 1870s. It is likely that most, if not all of the timber that was imported from Tasmania at this time was harvested by convict labour. From 1804 convicted felons were transported to Van Diemen’s Land, as it was then known, and forced undertake hard labour while also forming a founding population for the new British colonies. Convict labour was employed in the harvesting of timber, a task that served both as punishment and progressed the economic ambitions of the colony by generating an exportable commodity, which found a ready market in Christchurch (Tuffin and Gibbs 2020; Tuffin et al 2020).

The original human centipede? Convicts hauling a log at Port Arthur c.1836. Image: State Library of Victoria: ML 185. 

The predominant target species were varieties of Eucalyptus, mainly stringy bark and blue gum. Stringy bark was favoured for construction and blue gum was used as a general-purpose timber and for ship building (King 2019; Tuffin et al 2020). The Tasman Peninsula remained a timber production centre until the closure of the Port Arthur penal settlement and prison in 1877. Although Tasmanian timber was available on the Christchurch market, imports from there declined towards the 1870s, possibly as a result of the decline in the use of convict labour.

The number of inward arrivals and quantity of timber being imported dramatically increased again towards the mid-1870s when large quantities of timber began arriving from Auckland. Commonly known as ‘The Vogel Era’, the 1870s was a boom time for the New Zealand economy, stimulated by the flow of money from the gold rushes of the previous decade and the success of the wool export market, and accelerated by a public borrowing programme instituted by Julius Vogel (McLintock 1966). Vogel instigated heavy public investment in infrastructure, such as a roads and railways, which saw a corresponding expansion in timber milling, including the revival of milling at Harewood Forest (Roche 1990a). This increase in arrivals to Christchurch is, therefore, predictable, as millers geared up to supply timber for railways and ports.

Over the course of the entire study period Banks Peninsula supplied the greatest quantity and the highest proportion of timber in total, though this supply began to decline towards the end of the study period. Roche (1990a: 79) notes that the number of sawmills in operation on Banks Peninsula had dropped from at least ten in the late 1850s to just four by 1876; although those that remained were by all accounts “doing a brisk trade”. Milling on the Peninsula had all but ceased by the 1880s, and although the study period doesn’t cover these later years, the data for 1875 seems to reflect the decline of the milling industry on Banks Peninsula with a diminishing contribution to the Christchurch timber market.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to continue the shipping research beyond the latter 1870s. Scrolling through PapersPast collecting this data takes an extraordinary amount of time, but I really want to know what happened to the Canterbury timber economy in final decades of the nineteenth century, through the decline in milling on Banks Peninsula (and the regions that replaced this supply), the 1880s depressions era and the subsequent economic recovery. I probably wouldn’t get your hopes up, but one day I might write a sequel to this story.

Kirsa Webb

References

Bowman, A., 1941. The study of the historical development of domestic architecture in Canterbury, New Zealand. Thesis submitted for membership of the Royal Institute of British Architects.

Government Statistician, Registrar-General’s Office, 1874. Results of a Census of the Colony of New Zealand taken for the night of the 1st March 1874. Wellington, NZ: Government Printer.

Isaacs, N.P., 2015. Making the New Zealand House 1792-1982. Thesis submitted for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. Victoria University of Wellington, Wellington, New Zealand.

King, S., 2019. The Architecture of Van Diemen’s Land Timber. Fabrications, 29(3): 338-358.

Lyttelton Times 1851-1920. Newspaper [online]. Retrieved from https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/lyttelton-times. Accessed: April 2022.

McLintock, A. H. (ed.), 1966. “The Vogel Era: economic history”. An Encyclopaedia of New Zealand [online].Retrieved from: http://www.teara.govt.nz/en/1966/history-economic/page-3. Accessed: July 2022.

Orwin, 2015. Riccarton and the Deans Family – History and Heritage. Auckland: David Bateman Ltd.

Pawson, E. & Holland, P., 2005. Lowland Canterbury landscapes in the making. New Zealand Geographer, 61:167-175.

Roche, M., 1990. History of New Zealand Forestry. Wellington: New Zealand Forestry Corporation.

Salmond, J., 1986. Old New Zealand Houses 1800 – 1940. Auckland: Heinemann Reed.

Tuffin, R. and Gibbs, M., 2020. The Archaeology of the Convict Probation System: The Labor Landscapes of Port Arthur and the Cascades Probation Station, 1839–55. International Journal of Historical Archaeology, 24: 589–617.

Tuffin, R., Gibbs, M., Clark, D., Clark, M. and Rigozzi, P., 2020. ‘…One of the Most Severe Duties …’: Landscapes of Timber-getting at a Former Tasmanian Convict Station. Industrial Archaeology Review 42(2): 126-140.

Up in the Clouds: Aerial Archaeology

Posted on by
Reply

Today on the blog we are taking to the skies to talk about aerial archaeology; the investigation of archaeological sites and landscapes from a higher altitude. There is nothing quite like having a bird’s eye view, and, when investigating archaeological sites or considering the archaeological potential of an area, one of the first things we look at is aerial imagery. For much of the 20th century aerial imagery was recorded via a plane, but in our modern era we have access to high quality satellite imagery and drone footage. Aerial archaeology is just another everyday tool in the archaeologist’s belt, and today we are going to go through a bit of background before diving into some local examples.

If we go back to the very beginning, on a small farm outside of Temuka, a humble Kiwi farmer was one of the first people to fly and land a powered heavier-than-air machine (Figure 1). I’m talking of course about Richard Pearse, who flew in 1902, nine months before the Wright Brothers – not that I am keeping score. While our friend ‘Bamboo Dick’ (yes that’s what they called him) didn’t take any photographs from his ‘monoplane’, his inventions and trials mark the beginning of flight in New Zealand – it would be rude not to give him a shout out.

Figure 1: Richard Pearse and his ‘monoplane’ forever remembered on a limited edition stamp and in our hearts (New Zealand Post, 1990).

Once people were up the air, it didn’t take long before the first aerial photographs were taken, including those of archaeological sites. To begin with this largely took place in Europe and America with iconic sites such as Stonehenge being among the first to be photographed from the air (Figure 2). In New Zealand things were a little bit slower, but by the 1920s aerial surveys were being completed in specific areas throughout the country. Within Christchurch, the 1920s aerials are pretty much limited to the coastline and the Port Hills. Unfortunately, we don’t have coverage of the CBD at this stage, but we do have a great view of Lyttelton. The quality is actually really good, and you can easily see the contours of the topography and individual buildings. But one of the most striking things we can see, is the development of the Lyttelton Port over the past 100 years (Figure 3).

Figure 2: Stone Henge from a hot air balloon 1906 (Renfrew and Bahn, 2012:78).

Figure 3: Above: Lyttelton Port late 1920s. Below: Modern aerial imagery (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

The 1940s, and the advent of World War Two, resulted in widespread systematic aerial surveys of Canterbury and wider New Zealand, including Christchurch’s CBD (Figure 4). Photos from this era and much of the 20th century are black and white, which is preferential for us as archaeologists. Black and white photos clearly show contours, shadows, and topography, especially if they are oblique (at an angle to the landscape). In contrast vertical photos are much better for understanding spatial layout and are handy for mapmaking (Figure 5).

Figure 4: Christchurch within the four avenues, early 1940s (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Figure 5: The two types of aerial image – yes, I took this from my first-year textbook (Renfrew and Bahn, 2012: 79).

Further aerial surveys were completed throughout the 20th century, with all of New Zealand photographed by the 1950s (Jones 1996: 25). By the 1990s we even had colour! But don’t get too excited as the quality is terrible, I tend to avoid the photos from 1995-2004 altogether (Figure 6).

Figure 6: A very blurry, but coloured, Christchurch Cathedral (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

By the 1950s and 1960s, the systematic use of aerial photographs for archaeological purposes had commenced and there are a few early reports and articles that talk about this ‘new’ technology (Gorbey, 1967). However, in the world of aerial archaeology in New Zealand, one person in particular comes to mind – the late great Kevin Jones. Kevin made both nationally and internationally significant contributions to aerial archaeology. I even learnt about him and his contributions while studying at university (and was just a tad starstruck when I met him). His book Ngā Tohuwhenua Mai Te Rangi: A New Zealand Archaeology in Aerial Photography is nothing short of quality research and sheer beauty. It showcases New Zealand’s archaeology much more eloquently than I could ever dream to discuss in a blog. For anyone who wants to check it out, his book is available digitally here (https://nzetc.victoria.ac.nz/tm/scholarly/tei-JonTohu.html). Thank you for all of your mahi Kevin <3

Figure 7: A key text typically found on most archaeologist’s bookshelf.

Let’s look at some archaeology!

Perhaps the most iconic archaeological site type we have in New Zealand is the pā. Many pā, particularly in the North Island, have been photographed and surveyed from the air, as their earthwork features are stunning from this viewpoint (Figure 8). Cascading pits, tumbling terraces, and extensive earthworks really shine in oblique black and white photographs. While pā are more common up north, we do have some spectacular pā here in Canterbury, including those accessible to the public. One example is Ngā Niho Pā on the Kaikoura Peninsula (Figure 9). Its location against the Peninsula’s rocky edge provides both a natural defence and clear viewpoint along the coastline. Another example a little closer to Christchurch is Ōnawe Pā, located at the head of Akaroa Harbour (Figure 10). Its long thin neck provides a natural defensive feature, and from black and white aerials we can clearly see further defensive earthworks on the interior of the pā (Figure 11). Make sure you stop in to visit these sites on your next road trip, just remember to be respectful and follow any outlined tikanaga. And, of course, if you want to learn more about these places, check out some indigenous resources like the Kā Huru Manu: the Ngāi Tahu Cultural Atlas.

Figure 8: Cascading pits at Kohukete, one of the largest pā in the Hawkes Bay (Jones, 1996: 27).

Ngā Niho Pā on Kaikōura Peninsula. Strategically located against the steep hillslope. This pā is open to public access (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Ōnawe Pā – using the environment to its advantage (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Close up of Ōnawe Pā – can you see the defensive ditches? (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Within the Christchurch CBD, most of what we see in aerial photography is buildings – no surprises there. But through aerial photographs we can see changes, additions, and demolitions, which is all useful information we need to understand the history of a site. Sometimes all we need to see is the roofline of a house to better understand how it has been added to over time (Figure 12). Sometimes all we have left to physically indicate a building ever existed is the footprint or the foundations (Figure 13, Figure 14, Figure 15). And sometimes you are just being nosey and stumble upon something a bit more interesting and uncommon than usual (Figure 16).

Figure 12: A cluster of late 19th century houses in Christchurch that were demolished after the Canterbury earthquakes. Can you see all those lean-tos? (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Figure 13: At first glance you may think this was another pā but no! This is the site of Christchurch’s first (of three) quarantine Stations. It’s located over in Camp Bay and those are the former building platforms. The cemetery is located on the headland (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Figure 14: The concrete foundations of ‘Mansion House’ in Cheviot (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Figure 15: A photo of ‘Manion House’ in Cheviot c. 1890 (unknown, 1890).

Figure 16: Ripapa Island – former pā, former quarantine station (the second one), Russian Scare fort, WW1 and WW2 defence. What an over achiever (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

From the air we also see scars of the former landscape and environment. A good Christchurch example is Horseshoe Lake over in Shirley. The lake is a redundant and cut off loop of the adjacent Avon River (Figure 17). It would have likely been cut off following a flood event where the Avon changed course, leaving the lake behind. Other former or remnant river channels are visible in aerial imagery throughout Canterbury, and they attest to the dynamic nature of our braided river systems.

Another major scar we see is the impact of the Canterbury Earthquakes. A review of aerial imagery from after 2010 is a particularly sobering experience. Collapsed buildings, liquefaction, spilling bricks, and sheer chaos can be taken in from above. Many of the gaps left behind in the city still lay vacant today and if we move outward into suburbia the rise of the Red Zone resulted in the death of many neighbourhoods (Figure 18).

Figure 17: Horseshoe Lake (top centre) now isolated from the main body of the Avon River(Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Figure 18: The extensive Burwood Red Zone (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

In contrast we also see the birth of new towns like Pegasus Town, to the north of the city (Figure 19 and Figure 20). When comparing different decades of aerial imagery, it can feel like these new towns and subdivisions spring up overnight. They may seem like a major change, but in reality, it’s just another step in the urban growth of the region and the start of a new story.

Figure 19: The location of Pegasus Town prior to development in the mid 2000s. Woodend is tucked in the bottom left corner (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

Figure 20: Pegasus as it stands today (Canterbury Maps, 2023).

I could go on for hours showing off more sites and explaining the uses of aerial archaeology, but I am nearing my word count. So, lets park it for now and maybe we can come back again and share more finds from the sky in future. In the meantime, check out some historic aerial imagery and have a snoop! These resources are free and online. You never know what you will find!

Alana Kelly

References

Canterbury Maps, 2023. Canterbury Maps Viewer. [online] Available at: https://canterburymaps.govt.nz/

Gorbey, G. 1967. ‘Aerial Photography in New Zealand archaeology’, New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter, 10(4): 167-175.

Jones, K. 1996. ‘Aerial Archaeology in New Zealand Archaeology’, Australasian Historical Archaeology, 14: 25-33.

New Zealand Post, 1990. Heritage – the Achievers stamp issue. [Stamp]. Available at: https://teara.govt.nz/en/postage-stamp/6562/commemorating-new-zealands-first-flight

Renfrew, C. and Bahn, P. 2012. Archaeology: Theories, Methods, and Practice. 6th edn. London: Thames and Hudson.

Unknown, 1890. Mansion House, Cheviot Estate. [Photograph]. Available at: https://ndhadeliver.natlib.govt.nz/delivery/DeliveryManagerServlet?dps_pid=IE57788&dps_custom_att_1=emu Accessed March 2023.

 

Bits and Pieces

Posted on by
Reply

Today’s blog post is a collection of bits and pieces that we have catalogued recently and thought were particularly interesting or unusual. Enjoy!

–Clara

While many of the patterns that decorated ceramic vessels in the mid-19th century were formulaic in their design and consisted of a series of set elements, there were designs produced that were inspired by current and historical events. This fantastic pattern is aptly named Hannibal Passing the Alps and depicts the Carthaginian general Hannibal crossing the Aps to battle with Roman soldiers in the Second Punic War. Hannibal is front and centre in the pattern, his sword holding arm outstretched as he leads the charge, with a soldier to the right of him helpfully pointing the way to Italy. The almighty Alps provide a backdrop to the scene, but perhaps the best detail is the elephant behind Hannibal. The war elephants that were part of Hannibal’s army are often included in artistic depictions of the crossing and its presence is a nice touch by the artist to clearly convey that the scene depicts the historical event. This pattern was produced by Knight Elkin and Co., who were a partnership at the Foley Potteries in Fenton between 1826 and 1846. Given that the cup had to have been made by 1846, at the latest, the cup pre-dates the creation and settlement of Christchurch by European settlers in 1850. It is very likely that the cup was a treasured possession that was brought to Christchurch by a settler, perhaps a lover of history. While we know that the pattern wouldn’t have been able to purchase in Christchurch from the manufacture date, that this is the only cup to have been found with this pattern so far in the city also indicates to us that the cup was brought to the city by a settler, rather than imported by a retailer.

Similar to today, most bottles in the 19th century were sold with a paper label that advertised the contents of the bottle and the maker of the contents. While the use of a paper label was no doubt sensible to the manufacturers and retailers of the time, given that they were no doubt far cheaper to produce than purchasing specially designed embossed bottles, and they allowed for bottles to be reused by different manufacturers, they aren’t as helpful to us archaeologists given that by the time we’re digging back up the bottles, most of the time the labels are long gone. That made this small wine bottle fragment with a stamped blob seal all the more exciting, as it meant that we could identify the manufacturer of the wine that the bottle contained. Rodolphe Bay and Co. were a French company formed in April 1855 and based in St Estephe, Bordeaux. Unfortunately we were unable to find very little information about the company, other than some advertisements in a New Orleans newspaper. A New Orleans agent, V. and E. Maignan, imported French wines to the city between 1859 and 1861, indicating that the company had to have been in operation until at least 1861. No similar advertisements were found in New Zealand newspapers, suggesting that there wasn’t a similar agent here importing the wine, and online searches of the HNZPT digital library indicate that this is the only wine bottle with a Rodolphe Bay and Co. seal to be found in New Zealand, giving further evidence that the winery was not manufacturing for the New Zealand market. This makes the presence of the wine bottle all the more interesting. It may be that the bottle was purchased for a special occasion while the purchaser was overseas, and it was brought to New Zealand where it was opened in celebration.

This decorative porcelain tray was one of three matching vessels that we recently found that we were able to identify as being made by the Derby Porcelain Works. We don’t often find British porcelain vessels like these on our archaeological sites here in Christchurch. Most of the time we find cheaper whitewares, or we find cheap bone china that was decorated in common mass manufactured designs. To find vessels made by Derby then, was quite unusual. The Derby Porcelain Works were established in the mid-18th century and were well known to produce high quality porcelain wares. The factory was run by the Duesbury family, with the factory passing from generation to generation until 1815, when ownership of the factory passed outside the family to Robert Bloor. During the period of operation by the Duesbury family, the Duesburys were determined to ensure that the factory was well regarded for only producing high quality wares. Any vessel that did not meet their standards was not sold, and instead was stored in a back room of the factory. When Robert Bloor took over the factory in 1815, he held large auctions selling off this stock, resulting in a large quantity of Derby seconds flooding the market in the late 1810s and early 1820s. Under Bloor’s leadership, the quality of the porcelain produced decreased, particularly when compared to earlier years. Bloor operated at the pottery until 1845, after which the works were discontinued and sold. Some of the potters who worked at the pottery established their own business, based on King Street, producing Derby China. This operation continued until 1935 and operated under various names. In 1877, Edward Phillips purchased the old Derby factory and land and established the Derby Crown Porcelain Co., with this company still in operation today. Based on the maker’s mark that was found on this tray, which depicted a painted red crown with the letter D below it, the tray was made during Bloor’s period of operation. It may be then that the purchaser of the set knew that Derby porcelain was regarded as being of high quality and expensive, and purchased it knowing that while the vessels they were purchasing were not of the same quality as the earlier wares, they would still be able to gain social standing off the Derby reputation and social kudos by being the type of family that owned Derby Porcelain.

Sometimes it’s the simple things about an artefact that make it interesting. In the case of this glass bead, it was its similarity to a blackball lolly, albiet a slightly longer shape, that we enjoyed. From the copper metal accretions that were stuck to the bead, we suspect that it likely once had a brass attachment and was part of a piece of jewellery or something similar.

This saucer came from an 1850s feature. We don’t often find features dating to the first decade of Christchurch’s settlement. Most of our assemblages are from the 1860s onwards, which does make sense as by this time the population had increased and the city was well established. It is always interesting when we find features that date to the 1850s, as there are subtle differences in the material culture from this decade when compared to the 1860s assemblages that make it quite distinctive. Take this saucer, for example. While it didn’t have a maker’s mark, there were subtle differences in the ceramic body and the ware that helped to identify it as probably having been made in the 1840s or early 1850s. The design of the pattern, entitled Chase, is very different to the floral and romantic patterns that were popular at the time, and is quite unlike any pattern that I have ever seen from a Christchurch archaeological site. The British potteries were producing for a number of global markets, and would sometimes produce patterns and designs that were specially sold to a certain market. The design of the pattern is quite similar to other patterns that I have seen that were produced specially for eastern markets, such as those exported to countries like India, Singapore, and Indonesia among others. While it may be that the unusual design of the pattern is simply a temporal matter, and that we don’t see similar patterns because design styles and fashions had changed by the 1860s, I can’t help but wonder if this saucer was produced specifically for one of those eastern markets, but some how ended up in Christchurch instead.

 

And finally, these fragments from a bone china can that had A Present from Canterbury in gilt writing on it. No doubt these were sold as a souvenir for visitors to Christchurch to purchase and take home with them to remember their trip, or for residents to send to loved ones back home in Britain as a reminder that they had not forgotten them.