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The Book of Kells: "a masterpiece of medieval calligraphy and painting"
"The Book of Kells is a masterwork of medieval calligraphy and painting", writes Michael Wood
The Book of Kells, one of the greatest pieces of medieval art, is today displayed in the library of Trinity College Dublin. This illuminated gospel book is named after the monastery in County Meath where it was kept in the Middle Ages. It’s a masterwork of medieval calligraphy and painting, with its Celtic knot patterns, scintillating colour, and the staggering intricacies of the display pages and canon tables – all smoky golden magnificence. An Irish annalist called the book “the great Gospel of Columcille [Columba], the chief relic of the western world”. It may be the work described by the historian Gerald of Wales in the 1180s, in his book on Ireland. “Look more keenly at it and you will penetrate to the very shrine of art,” he wrote. “You will make out intricacies so delicate and so subtle… that you might say that all this were the work of an angel, and not of a man.” The book survived war, plunder and the English – Cromwell’s troops were once billeted in Kells. In the 19th century, it was a huge influence on the Celtic revival movement in the arts, and today is seen as the pinnacle of the western tradition of illuminated manuscripts. Read more | Michael Wood on amazing insights into medieval daily life The book was produced around the end of the eighth century, just at the moment Britain and Ireland were about to be changed forever by the arrival of the Vikings. It was long believed to have been created on Iona. But in The Book of Kells: Unlocking the Enigma, published in October, Victoria Whitworth suggests that it was actually written at the Pictish monastery of Portmahomack on the Moray Firth in north-east Scotland. This is one of the least known areas of the medieval British Isles. The Pictish monasteries were destroyed in the Viking age, and with them virtually all written records. The kingdom of the Picts became part of the Scottish kingdom of Alba in the ninth century, and gradually the memory of the Picts faded, leaving many unsolved mysteries. One key survival is their stone carving, of which there are brilliant examples in the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh. Some, such as the huge memorial slab from Hilton of Cadboll etched with horsemen and hunting dogs, are absolutely stunning. You can still see these wonderful works of art on the ground when you head up the coast of north-east Scotland. At Aberlemno is a magnificent carving perhaps commemorating the battle of Nechtansmere in 685 at which the Pictish king Bridei defeated and killed the Northumbrian invader King Ecgfrith. And by St Vigeans Church on the outskirts of Arbroath there’s a fascinating museum holding more than 30 pieces of Pictish sculpture. This Pictish trail leads to Portmahomack, a beautiful spot on the Tarbat peninsula looking across to the distant hills of Sutherland. The origins of Christianity here are still obscure. Bede mentions a saint whom we know as Ninnian, who evangelised in the fifth century. In the sixth century came St Columba, who reached as far north as Moray. Read more | Medieval miracle worker: how St Columba transformed Christianity in Britain But it was only in the 1990s that the first excavation of a Pictish monastery took place at Portmahomack. Its construction began around 550 – which might fit with a foundation by St Columba – and was probably destroyed in a Viking attack in the early ninth century, though some kind of community hung on after that. It was later dedicated to St Colman of Lindisfarne, who played a famous role in the Synod of Whitby in 664 – the great debate over Celtic and Roman traditions of Easter. Colman then returned to Iona and died in Ireland, but he was still celebrated in later times at Portmahomack. When excavating the levels burned during the Viking raid, the archaeologist found over 200 fragments of Pictish stone carving in a style very similar to the Book of Kells. This led Dr Whitworth to propose that the most famous of all Irish manuscripts was actually made here. Indeed, finds from the dig included workshops and a room where vellum was prepared, interpreted as a scriptorium – perhaps the very place where the Book of Kells was written? All of this only underlines how much we still don’t know about the early Middle Ages in the outer reaches of Britain. We don’t even know the site’s original name. As for the Picts themselves – still known today by the name that the late Romans gave them, meaning the ‘painted people’ – their identity eventually merged with the Scots, and their language (probably pre-Indo-European?) became extinct. But recent DNA studies suggest that their legacy endures in the genetic inheritance of people across Scotland. And of course in Trinity College Dublin you can still glimpse the unique, dazzling, colourful vision that infused the astonishing art of the Picti. This column was first published in the December 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
Hitler's war on words: how the Nazis used art to bolster their murderous regime
Hitler and his acolyte Joseph Goebbels wielded propaganda as a potent weapon in the battle for German hearts and minds. Lisa Pine shows how posters targeted all sectors of society to promote prejudice and bolster support for party policies
FAMILY PLANNING The Nazis considered nuclear families to be the building blocks of a ‘pure’ German nation The family was exalted in Nazi ideology and propaganda as “the germ cell of the nation”. In the Nazi Party platform, a 25-point programme outlining their political goals, it was declared that: “The state must ensure that the nation’s health standards are raised by protecting mothers and infants.” This 1936 poster shows the Nazi eagle spreading its wings protectively over the valuable German family. Echoing the eagle, the father of the family has his arms around his wife and one of his children; the mother holds a baby in her arms, while a third young child smiles out at the viewer. “The NSDAP protects the national community” is the headline slogan, with further wording proclaiming that “national comrades” could turn to their local NSDAP group for help or advice. The Nazi Party did indeed provide assistance and counsel to families – provided that they were deemed ‘pure’ German, hereditarily healthy, and of good blood and character. OWNING THE AIRWAVES Encouraging universal uptake of radios, the Nazis hijacked broadcast media for propaganda purposes Radio offered a convenient way of streaming propaganda and speeches directly into homes – so, unsurprisingly, the Nazis were keen to ensure that as many Germans as possible had their own radios. Hence the Volksempfänger (‘People’s Receiver’), a range of low-cost sets developed by the government from 1933. “All Germany listens to the Führer with the People’s Receiver,” proclaims this 1936 poster, one of several designed to encourage take-up. The implication was, of course, that every proud citizen would be expected to buy a set and tune in to listen to Hitler. And the effort succeeded: by 1939, 70 per cent of German households owned a radio, creating a mass audience for the regime’s output. In 1933 alone, Hitler made at least 50 radio broadcasts. Communal listening was also encouraged, to heighten the emotional impact of speeches, with loudspeakers set up in town squares and other public areas for this purpose. Read more | The rise of the Nazis and the importance of heeding warnings DRIVING FORCE A scheme designed to boost car ownership reflected the regime’s plan to motorise Germany The Nazis were determined that Germany should be a nation of motorists as a signifier of the regime’s modernity, speed and progress. From August 1938, workers were encouraged to save for a Volkswagen (‘People’s Car’) via the government-backed Kraft durch Freude (KdF; Strength through Joy) organisation. To make car ownership accessible to all Germans, not just the wealthy elites who were previously able to afford one, the KdF-Wagen scheme involved paying instalments of 5 Reichsmarks each week for four and a half years. Posters such as this 1938 example, showing a black Volkswagen with a voucher card, were produced to promote the scheme. By 1939, some 270,000 people had signed up. The Volkswagen was intended as “a car for free time and leisure” – no longer largely the preserve of the business sector but a desirable, useful and enjoyable consumer product. However, the outbreak of war in 1939 choked the output of KdF cars, as the economy was diverted to support armament production and factories were dedicated to turning out military vehicles. FEMALE GAZE Posters played on the fears of economically deprived women during the Depression At the height of the economic crisis in Germany, in 1932 some 6 million people were unemployed across the country, leading to widespread poverty. The Nazis played on the hardships suffered by so much of the population, using posters to declare that only Hitler and his party could lift the country – and its citizens and their families – out of the deprivation that afflicted so many. To maximise the impact, campaigns were cannily targeted, using images, language and themes to appeal to specific groups .This example, aimed at women, proclaims: “Frauen! Denkt an Eure Kinder!” (“Women! Think of your children!”). The picture shows a young family – a dejected, unemployed father, an anxious mother and two small children – with the clear message to “save the German family”. The suggestion being that voting for Hitler was the best way to secure a brighter future for the nation’s children. Read more | “I hope I would have defended the Nazis at Nuremberg” FIGHTING TALK Posters were deployed to boost public morale during wartime In this “Ein Kampf, Ein Sieg!” (“One Struggle, One Victory!”) poster designed by Hans Schweitzer in 1943, a brown-shirted member of the Sturmabteilung (Stormtroopers, the paramilitary force that played a key role in Hitler’s rise to power) joins a Wehrmacht solder in stretching his right arm in a Hitler salute beside swastika flags. The dates at the top, 30 January 1933–1943, imply that the war was simply an extension of Hitler’s continued efforts, right from the moment he took power, to make Germany great and to defeat its enemies. This evokes the sense of a continued battle from the early days of Nazi political success to projected victory in the war. This strikingly martial and belligerent poster was intended to bolster endurance among the German people by reinforcing the prowess, fortitude and ideological determination of German soldiers. It was one of many designed to boost morale and dictate the public narrative about the progress of the war. ANTISEMITIC ART Nazi posters painted Jews as the root of Germany’s economic and political problems In Nazi propaganda, the Jew was frequently used as a scapegoat for all that had gone wrong in Germany. In his writings and speeches, Hitler repeatedly blamed the Jews for both the disaster of the First World War and the outbreak of the Second. Using lurid colours to highlight the alarming nature of the Jewish ‘enemy’, antisemitic posters appeared on the streets of Germany and across Nazi-occupied territories to try to influence the public as they went about their daily activities. This 1943 example by Hans Schweitzer epitomises the themes and style. It features a caricature of the ‘capitalist’ Jew, presented as hook-nosed, fat and repellent in his black hat and suit, wearing a yellow Star of David bearing the word “Jude” (“Jew”). The text makes no bones about the perceived culpability of the Jews. “Der ist schuld am Kriege!” (“He is responsible for the war!”), it shouts, the word “Der” (“He”) presented in a much larger font size to emphasise who’s to blame for the conflict. Read more | Did Hitler have a secret Jewish grandfather? Our DNA research has solved the mystery AMIABLE OCCUPATION The Nazis attempted to pacify the civilian inhabitants of the countries they invaded The Nazi regime was keen to extol the benefits of occupation to the populations of some lands its troops invaded. For example, in this positively cheerful poster from 1940 by Theo Matejko, aimed at civilians in occupied France, a German soldier is shown holding a smiling French child munching a piece of bread, with two more French youngsters gazing hopefully up at him. The caption, in red and black lettering, reads: “Populations abandonnées, faites confiance au soldat allemand!” (“Abandoned populations, place your trust in the German soldier!”). Such calculated propaganda, offering reassurances about the occupying forces, belied the truth of their aims. This gentle image of a German soldier was very different from those portrayed on propaganda posters distributed in Germany – such as the one shown on the opposite page – which showed the Wehrmacht as ruthlessly determined in the face of its enemies. Slogans intended for a German audience were powerful and memorable: “Life or Death”, “For Freedom and Life”, “Perish Judah”, “Victory at any Price”. Lisa Pine is a fellow of the Institute of Historical Research at the University of London. Her most recent book (co-authored with Kees Boterbloem) is Soviet and Nazi Posters: Propaganda and Policies (Bloomsbury, 2025)
Michael Wood on the rise and fall of Asian empires
"Emperor Jahangir and Shah Abbas literally bestride the world like colossi", writes Michael Wood
Watching the recent spectacle of those latter-day emperors President Xi of China and India’s Narendra Modi hugging each other at the summit in Tianjin, my mind cast back to an earlier image of a pan-Asian summit. There’s a wonderful painting from 1618 of the Mughal emperor Jahangir embracing Shah Abbas of Iran – one of several such pictures painted for the Indian ruler. These heads of two superpowers were in fact not bosom buddies but intense geopolitical rivals, especially in the Kandahar region of south-west Afghanistan, then under Mughal control. Framed by a huge golden halo, in an image of peace, one stands on a lamb, the other on a lion, both on a globe whose surface extends from the strait of Gibraltar to the South China Sea: they literally bestride the world like colossi. In the foreground of the map, a product of the new science of cartography, are shown north Africa, India and south-east Asia, with the Nile, the Ganges and the Yangtze accurately depicted. The painting is allegorical; the hoped-for meeting never actually took place. But the timing, and the details, have much to tell us. In the painting, western Europe lies, unseen, over the horizon. Yet at that moment the small, aggressive maritime powers on the edge of the Eurasian landmass were already extending their influence and carving up the New World – and were now threatening the old powers in the Asiatic heartland of civilisation. The Spanish had begun colonisation of the Philippines in 1565, the Portuguese leased Macao in 1557, the English East India Company was founded in 1600, and the Dutch East India Company was established two years later. Elizabeth I had earlier sent an ambassador to Jahangir’s father, Akbar, to negotiate trade links. In another painting, Jahangir greets a Sufi mystic in the presence of the Ottoman Sultan and King James VI & I – not an imaginary likeness but one taken from a portrait brought to India by the ambassador Thomas Roe in 1616. In an uncanny touch by the painter, James stares coolly out of the picture, straight at the viewer, as if to say: “Our time has come.” And it had. Read more | Gulbadan Begum: the Mughal Jane Austen The Mughal artist Abu al-Hasan, who painted that magnificent picture of Jahangir and Abbas, cannot have imagined that his world – the world stretching from the Mediterranean to the Yellow Sea, created by the great Asiatic civilisations – was about to be shaken to its core by the violent energies, the inventiveness and the sheer ambition of the Europeans. Jahangir never got his summit with Shah Abbas. Nor did he meet the ailing Wanli Emperor, who was destined to die a couple of years later in Beijing. Since then, the turning of the wheel of history has been astounding: empires, world wars, the colonisation of entire continents, the triumph of capitalism – changes so huge that it is hardly possible to take them all in. The world has been remade in our likeness. And now, in 2025, President Xi hosts a summit calling for an alternative world order – “a more just and equitable global governance system”. We may not like President Xi’s choice of friends, but such is the realpolitik of our age. And to be sure, some would say that the American empire has accumulated enough misdeeds of its own to merit a reaction. Xi, in particular – an avid reader of history books (the Chinese translation of Peter Frankopan’s The Silk Roads reportedly among them) believes in the destiny of China. He thinks that China’s time has come, after the ‘Century of Humiliation’ at the hands of western powers. Eighty years on from the Second World War, Xi now says that China’s rise to global leadership is “unstoppable”. So back to these images of empire: Jahangir and Abbas, Modi and Xi. Some would say that they represent wish fulfilment: a rebuke to what President Xi’s baleful friend Putin calls “outdated Eurocentric and Euro-Atlantic models”. But behind the hugs and the photo ops, behind that amazing piece of diplomatic grandstanding in the giant military parade in Beijing celebrating China’s role in the Second World War, perhaps there is more than that: a vision of the future, uncomfortable though it may be to us in the west. As for Jahangir’s globe, the painting was a dream. But there are few images from the past that more powerfully distil what might have been. And now, as Shakespeare put it, “the whirligig of time brings in his revenges”. This column was first published in the November 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
Who should decide the stories museums tell?
Increasingly, museums are being challenged on how they select, display and interpret their collections. Six historians explain how these institutions can adapt to suit 21st-century audiences
“If museums truly want to be inclusive, they should tell the full life history of every object in their collection” – Justin M Jacobs It has become fashionable today for critics of major western museums to call for a ‘reckoning’ or ‘coming to terms’ with the imperialist and racist histories of some institutions. This approach is rooted in the idea that, every time a museum chooses to tell a particular story, this story inevitably reflects the unconscious biases of the curators who tell it. There’s much to recommend this approach – but there’s also a problem. Too often, institutions simply replace the bygone voices of long-dead white men with the present-day voices of people descended from the communities or nations that originally produced the artefact on display. But is this really a more inclusive approach? Scholars who study the history of artefacts in museums are acutely aware that nearly every object on display has served different functions and had a different symbolic value down the years. In addition, many diverse peoples have owned or interacted with these objects. It follows that choosing to tell only a single story closely associated with present-day ideological agendas does a great disservice to the museum-going public. Take the Parthenon (or Elgin) Marbles, for instance. Over the course of the past 2,000 years, they have played an integral role in embodying the political power and cultural beliefs of the ancient Athenians, Romans, Christians, Muslims, British and modern Greeks. Yet according to current intellectual fashions and political sympathies, only one of these stories is deemed legitimate: that promoted by the modern Greeks. This, of course, is merely a reflection of the unconscious bias of our own day and age, which consistently promotes the alleged authenticity of nation states that didn’t even exist prior to the modern era. This is the very antithesis of an inclusive approach. If museums truly want to be inclusive, they should tell the full life history and evolving symbolisms of every object in their collection – even when these stories don’t reflect the ideological trends of the present moment. Justin M Jacobs is a professor of history at American University in Washington, DC, and the author of Plunder? How Museums Got Their Treasures (Reaktion Books, 2024) “There is something colonial about leaving decisions on displays to only those who can afford to work in museums” – Christienna Fryar Few institutions teach more people about the past than museums. Historians may wish otherwise, but more people pop into a museum or National Trust property on a day out than read the latest scholarship. It’s their importance that has made the question of who decides what stories museums tell so vexed in recent years. These questions are necessary, because museums are colonial institutions. They flourished in the 18th and 19th centuries as repositories for the so-called curiosities European collectors had purloined from territories abroad. Museums in the west still claim to be the best protectors of treasures that countries of origin want back. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/11/J4X823-CMYK-80ca370.jpg" width="3286" height="2190" alt="A painting showing a group of people crouched down in a large forested area, poised to attack" title="A painting shows members of the Maroon community of formerly enslaved Africans during an ambush in Jamaica, 1795. Christienna Fryar argues that museums should cover their story more (Image by Alamy)" /> Then there’s the matter of who works in museums. Entry-level museum jobs are often poorly paid and based in expensive cities – not very attractive to people whose families cannot subsidise their lives. There is also something colonial about leaving decisions on displays to only those who can afford to work in museums and who received traditional university educations. Museums must work more consciously, consistently and collaboratively with descendant historians (those who research people they descend from), curators, artists and storytellers. Many institutions now cite co-production as a key value, but employing these experts and paying them appropriately is as important as working with local volunteer groups to design exhibitions. Descendant experts often use family histories and community knowledge to tell stories ignored by traditional scholarship. Read more | "Museums are magical places": Kavita Puri on a new initiative encouraging close encounters with history Take the history of enslavement. Too often, the focus in Britain is on the goods that circulated the Atlantic basin in the so-called ‘Triangular Trade’ (often sidestepping the brutality of the trade in humans) and the money that changed hands. But what about the swamps and the mountains where fugitives from slavery established Maroon communities? Museums are also responsible for telling these stories of survival, daring, skill, environmental know-how and community. Christienna Fryar is a historian of Britain and the Caribbean, and CEO of the Liverpool charity Mary Seacole House “In the 21st century, there need to be multiple stories in and about the museum – and multiple storytellers” – Adam Mosley The origins of today’s museums lie in pre-modern princely and scholarly collections. Historically, the collectors – along with the curators they employed and those who followed them – exerted considerable power over the museum as a space in which the world was represented and knowledge was produced. Curators still play a key role in choosing and shaping the stories their institutions are best positioned to tell. Many are enormously knowledgeable about the objects in their care, and it would be a tragedy to disregard their expertise, or that of academics, when using heritage collections to illuminate past, present and future. However, most curators and scholars know that they cannot and should not monopolise the generation of stories. It would be futile, in any case, for curators – let alone politicians – to attempt to dictate absolutely the message conveyed in any exhibition. Visitors bring with them their own memories, insights and perspectives. Their knowledge can supplement or correct that of ‘experts’. They may connect with displays emotionally in unexpected ways. They have stories of their own to tell about what they find in a museum. Increasingly, museums work in partnership with the public to tell new stories with their collections, to give a voice to those historically under-represented and excluded, and to unlock the meaning of their holdings for diverse audiences. Histories get rewritten in the museum, just as they do in universities. Sometimes these fresh interpretations can cause discomfort to those who would prefer museums to retell familiar stories. New perspectives can also challenge the very grounds on which a museum claims the right to hold particular objects. The ways in which museums are responding to these kinds of dialogues constitutes an evolving story in itself – one concerned with whose views matter and how to deal with problematic legacies from the past. In the 21st century, there need to be multiple stories in and about the museum – and multiple storytellers, too. Single-voice stories are no longer sufficient. Adam Mosley is an associate professor in history at Swansea University “Two-thirds of curators in the UK are women – but museum leadership is still largely an old boys’ club” – Caroline McCaffrey-Howarth Henry Cole, the first director of the South Kensington Museum (now the V&A) from 1857, once declared that museums should be a “schoolroom for everyone”. But that begs a question: who sets the curriculum? Who is making the decisions on which stories museums tell, and why? Is it the curatorial team, senior management, external funding bodies or the gift shop? And what is the demographic of these groups? Although two-thirds of museum curators in the UK are women, museum leadership is still largely an old boys’ club. Recent reports by Art Fund and the Museum X project have shown that cultural diversity across the sector is at an all-time low. Can we ever truly diversify the stories that museums tell without first achieving greater diversity in the museum workforce? Read more | Kavita Puri's hidden histories: "A UK museum that tells the long, rich history of migration is long overdue" My own research focuses on art collectors, particularly the agency of women, non-binary and trans people. This topic is being explored across more museums thanks to schemes such as Katy Hessel’s audio series Museums Without Men. The National Gallery, too, is conducting research into female benefactors, noting the fact that only 27 out of its 2,300 paintings are by women. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/11/MP38ER-CMYK-a676a50.jpg" width="1899" height="1266" alt="A 1782 self-portrait by French artist Élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun – one of only 27 works by women among the National Gallery’s 2,300 paintings (Image by Alamy)" title="A 1782 self-portrait by French artist Élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun – one of only 27 works by women among the National Gallery’s 2,300 paintings (Image by Alamy)" /> It’s 140 years since Lady Charlotte Schreiber, one of the greatest Victorian collectors, split her trove of 5,000 objects between the V&A and the British Museum. Charlotte was determined that the artworks she spent decades researching should become the property of the nation. Honouring the spirit of that act of generosity, surely we have a duty to be in dialogue with the public and to keep them at the forefront of the stories that museums choose to tell? I believe that the future lies in collaboration and co-creation through public engagement. Museums are most successful when they reach out and establish meaningful dialogues with local communities, artists, academics, PhD students, schoolchildren, youth groups and more. Museums should be places of curiosity, creativity and connection that are always changing and evolving – just like the stories they should tell. Caroline McCaffrey-Howarth is a senior lecturer in the history of art at the University of Edinburgh, and the author of Lady Charlotte Schreiber (Lund Humphries, 2025) “Museums need to be alert to the risk of a fragmentation of culture and history” – Jeremy Black Museums should inform, educate, inspire, entertain and preserve – but this says nothing about how best to do this. Which objects in the permanent holding should be shown? How should museums drum up interest? How should holdings be curated, and how best explained? What temporary exhibitions should be commissioned? How should collaborations be organised? Who should be guest curators? What role should the public or government play? In 2024, Birmingham Museums established a Citizens’ Jury. This summer, the National Gallery announced the launch of NG Citizens – the first time a UK gallery or museum has set up a national citizens’ assembly. These bodies will presumably question the aesthetic judgment of curators. There will be lapses and controversies. Nevertheless, it is always good for an institution to find out what its potential audience wants. Of course, not everyone is happy about such initiatives, but their legitimacy is difficult to deny in a democracy. The National Gallery has a clue in the name: it is supposed to be national. More generally, developing processes that promote and support public involvement puts institutions in a solid position when defending the way they present their collections, put on and organise exhibitions or justify funding applications. An institution is harder to criticise if a cross-section of the population has advised it. In pursuing such public involvement, it is necessary to avoid ‘pillarisation’ – a term borrowed from the Dutch verzuiling, which describes a society in which different groups have their own distinct social institutions and organisations. Apply this to museums and there’s a risk of different interest groups, however defined and represented, putting on exhibitions or organising collections to reflect what they prefer. Museums need to be alert to the risk of a fragmentation of culture and history, which can in turn create an endless spiral of groups spawning sub-groups, and museums becoming mired in controversy. Yet, though democratic processes of consultation pose many problems, the alternatives are worse. Jeremy Black is a historian, formerly a professor at the University of Exeter, and the author of more than 180 books “Ideas once thought impossible, such as the return of the Parthenon Marbles to Greece, are now frequently discussed” – Mirjam S Brusius For a long time, museums have suggested that each object has just one official story – the one written on its label. Large institutions such as the British Museum often present themselves as neutral spaces that show the world simultaneously from ‘nowhere and everywhere’. Yet this approach rarely acknowledges how these objects were collected, nor how museums reshape the objects’ presentation to fit particular narratives. So who really speaks through the labels we see in museums? Is it a team of curators, one individual or the institution as a whole? And why do labels usually rely on expert voices instead of including personal accounts by those who used these objects, or the histories of how the objects entered the collection in the first place? These questions feel especially urgent today. Museums are under growing pressure to confront their colonial legacies, to consider returning certain objects, and to tell stories that include more perspectives. Ideas once thought impossible – such as the return of the Parthenon Marbles to Greece – are now frequently discussed. Still, while demands for repatriation have been voiced for decades, many communities remain unheard, many stories untold. Read more | The Bayeux Tapestry is finally coming home to Britain – and you can see it next year It is time for museums to rethink how they frame their collections. This means creating space for voices from the global south where many of these objects originated, and acknowledging their cultural and historical significance beyond western narratives. We have an opportunity today to reimagine these institutions as spaces for dialogue, reflection and accountability. One way forward is through even more participatory approaches, involving both visitors and source communities in shaping museum narratives. New tools – digital platforms, interactive displays, labels that offer multiple perspectives – can help objects tell more than one story. This approach could not only enrich our understanding of the past but also transform museums into more inclusive, honest and engaging spaces. Mirjam S Brusius is a historian and one of the initiators of 100 Histories of 100 Worlds in 1 Object (100histories100worlds.org)
Just how many Bayeux Tapestries were there?
As a new theory, put forward by Professor John Blair, questions whether the embroidery was unique, David Musgrove asks historians whether there could have been more than one ‘Bayeux Tapestry’
The Bayeux Tapestry is an amazing artefact – and it’s exceptional not least because of its very existence today. Precious few pieces of embroidery from the medieval period survive, let alone ones that are almost 70 metres long. And, of course, the story it tells – of the conquest of England by the Normans – is one of immense historical significance. So we rightly celebrate it, and excitement about its forthcoming loan from Bayeux to the British Museum is high. But what if this artefact wasn’t really so very exceptional at the time it was made? What if it was just one of several embroideries produced to commemorate the Norman victory over the English at the battle of Hastings in October 1066? Professor John Blair, an expert in the Anglo-Saxon period at the University of Oxford, believes that might be the case. “This is a reaction against the idea that the Tapestry had to be something extraordinary or unique, beyond the fact that it is an extraordinary and unique survival,” he says. “There are abundant references to decorative domestic hangings, but of course they had virtually zero chance of survival. The Tapestry is a wonderful piece of design, but the actual stitching isn’t particularly fine, and a big team of embroiderers in a workshop could have done it quite expeditiously.” Purported patron Why did the Tapestry survive when so few other embroideries did? Well, most scholars agree that it was probably made some time after the battle that it records, so in the mid-late 11th century, and likely on the orders of – or to curry favour with – Bishop Odo of Bayeux. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/Odo-blessing-the-feast4548webready-e50a4fb.jpg" width="1921" height="1281" alt="Bishop Odo, William’s half-brother, says grace before a feast. It’s thought that Odo commissioned the Tapestry to be displayed in his new cathedral in Bayeux (Image by Bayeux Museum)" title="Bishop Odo, William’s half-brother, says grace before a feast. It’s thought that Odo commissioned the Tapestry to be displayed in his new cathedral in Bayeux (Image by Bayeux Museum)" /> Odo, the half-brother of William the Conqueror, was made Earl of Kent after the conquest. The case for him being the Tapestry’s patron rests on the fact that he plays a particularly prominent role in the embroidery. Additionally, three lower-profile characters called Wadard, Vital and Turold are specifically (and surprisingly, given their status and role in the story) named in the Tapestry. These three men are thought to have been Odo’s followers. Read more | “I counted the penises in the Bayeux Tapestry and I have no regrets”: what one Oxford professor found when he studied the rudest bits of the embroidery One line of thought suggests that the Tapestry was made to be displayed in Odo’s new cathedral in Bayeux on its consecration in 1077. We know nothing of what happened to the embroidery in the four centuries that followed – until the late 15th century, when we have a documentary reference to it in an inventory of that cathedral, noting that it was displayed annually on a specific feast day. It’s possible that the Tapestry survived for such a long time because, except for its annual airing, it was kept in a chest in the church. It therefore wasn’t subjected to the wear and tear of daily display that might have caused other contemporary embroideries to fray and fall apart. One theory even has it that the Tapestry might have been walled up in a crypt below Bayeux Cathedral for centuries. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/GettyImages-2154318346webready-cc73479.jpg" width="5600" height="3733" alt="Bayeux Cathedral, consecrated in 1077 by Bishop Odo but largely reconstructed in the 13th century (Image by Getty Images)" title="Bayeux Cathedral, consecrated in 1077 by Bishop Odo but largely reconstructed in the 13th century (Image by Getty Images)" /> So, if Professor Blair is right in his theory that the uniqueness of the Tapestry rests principally in its survival, what does he think about its original manufacture? Where was it made, by whom – and was it one of a kind? “Since it seems most unlikely that none of the other members of the Norman elite had embroidered hangings representing the Conquest,” he explains, “the possibility struck me that there might have been a set of stock designs, which the workshop then customised for each individual patron: we just happen to have the one made for Odo. “On that argument, the scenes highlighting Odo – the meal before the battle, Odo brandishing his club, and so on – and Odo’s named followers Wadard, Vital and Turold would be insertions into the standard sequence,” he continues. “To take that further would need a closer analysis of design, sequence, correlation with the borders and so on than I have done. But the Wadard scene definitely does have possibilities, since the mounted knight captioned ‘Hic est Wadard’ does rather look as though he has been interposed into a sequence of three houses and three followers.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/3AJKTPH-Doctored-CMYKbrightwebready-1eecbc0.jpg" width="1771" height="1181" alt="Our doctored version of the Tapestry (below) shows how it might have looked without Odo’s follower Wadard (on horseback in the upper, existing iteration), illustrating the idea that he might have been inserted into a stock design on Odo’s orders (Image by Alamy)" title="Our doctored version of the Tapestry (below) shows how it might have looked without Odo’s follower Wadard (on horseback in the upper, existing iteration), illustrating the idea that he might have been inserted into a stock design on Odo’s orders (Image by Alamy)" /> To see how that might have worked, we’ve doctored that section of the Tapestry (above) so that you can compare the original sequence with a version in which the mounted Wadard has been removed. Mass production Gale Owen-Crocker – professor emerita of the University of Manchester, one of the most respected and well-published Tapestry scholars, and author of the forthcoming book The Design of the Bayeux Tapestry – likes the idea. “I am sure that there were workshops making these woollen hangings,” she says. “The workmanship is too assured for the Bayeux Tapestry to be a one-off.” She has previously argued, along with her co-author, Maggie Kneen, that the Tapestry designers employed templates for the motifs and images that were most likely drawn onto the linen cloth as guides for the final stitching by the embroiderers. That, too, accords with Professor Blair’s theory. Read more | The Bayeux Tapestry: a political football for 900 years Manchester Metropolitan University’s Dr Alexandra Makin, an authority on early medieval embroidery and author of The Lost Art of the Anglo-Saxon World, is minded to agree in broad terms: “There’s no denying that the Bayeux Tapestry is an important embroidery, but we have evidence that indicates wall hangings that told stories were a popular way of memorialising the heroic deeds of family members,” she says. “An example is the Byrhtnoth wall hanging that was made by that ealdorman’s wife, Ælfflæd, and possibly other women in the household. It depicted the ‘great deeds’ of the ealdorman, and was given to the monastery at Ely at some point after his death at the battle of Maldon in 991. “Meanwhile, in a poem written by Baudri of Bourgueil to William the Conqueror’s daughter, Adela of Blois, Baudri describes three different wall hangings, one of which is very similar to the Bayeux Tapestry,” she adds. “The way the Bayeux Tapestry’s narrative is set out also brings to mind the woven tapestries found in the ninth-century Oseberg ship burial in Norway, which are thought to tell stories relating to warrior ideology in the Viking world,” Dr Makin continues. “The Bayeux Tapestry sits in a long tradition of telling heroic stories through textiles, so early medieval people were well aware of this and understood what it was telling them. This also suggests that other people could have commissioned embroidered or woven wall hangings to tell their own story of what happened in 1066. Whether these were as big as the Bayeux Tapestry is another question.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/hengteMennv005rework-Credit-Stig-Saxegaard-og-Kulturhistorisk-museumwebready-38495e2.jpg" width="5353" height="3569" alt="A colourful tapestry showing groups of people and a tree-like structure in the middle. On the right, there is a large blue horse. The border at the top and the bottom of the tapestry is blue, with a zigzag pattern on it" title="A reconstruction of a woven tapestry found in the ninth-century Oseberg ship burial in Norway, reflecting the tradition of telling heroic stories through textiles (Image by Stig Saxegaard & Museum of the Viking Age, University of Oslo)" /> According to Dr Makin, the way the embroidery was made lent itself ideally to the purpose for which it was designed. “The materials and stitches used to create the Bayeux Tapestry are perfect for the job,” she says. “They are bold, quick to work, cover the ground fabric easily and would be seen from a distance. This is not a fine piece of work like the 10th-century gold-and-silk embroidered stole, maniple and ribbons found in the tomb of St Cuthbert in Durham Cathedral – but using tiny stitches would not have worked for a wall hanging that was meant to be seen by lots of people at a distance. “When the stitching is examined, its precise execution, and the economical use of thread, demonstrates that the Bayeux Tapestry is an accomplished piece of work,” Dr Makin concludes. “But we simply cannot compare it to pieces made from gold and silk threads. They were meant to do a different job.” Evidence for uniqueness Professor Michael Lewis, another leading Tapestry expert based at the British Museum, is less convinced by Professor Blair’s theory. He contends that Bishop Odo’s presumed key role in the making of the Tapestry actually argues for it being a one-off embroidery: “We know from Domesday Book that Bishop Odo, the Tapestry’s likely patron, was a cultured man with the considerable wealth needed for the creation of a monumental artwork like the Bayeux embroidery,” he says. “Surely it was his unique position as Earl of Kent that also enabled access to the illuminated manuscripts that were evidently used in the Tapestry’s designs. Perhaps he could have granted similar access to other potential patrons – but is that likely or realistic? “Another aspect to consider – key, perhaps – is whether the Tapestry was ever actually used for its original purpose, presumably to be displayed from place to place as an advocacy piece for Odo’s role in the Conquest,” he continues. “The likely period of its creation (1072–77) was within a new political environment in which William was moving towards a more oppressive regime than in the early days of the Conquest. Yet the Tapestry’s story seems to reflect a pre-1070s narrative, with William hoping to bring the English around by more persuasive means. So maybe it was never toured [because it didn’t reflect the newly prevailing narrative] and was unlikely to be emulated.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/ManiplePetertrans1137webready-d304d89.jpg" width="756" height="504" alt="The 10th-century maniple found in the tomb of St Cuthbert in Durham Cathedral exhibits much finer needlework than the Bayeux Tapestry (Image by Stig Saxegaard & Museum of the Viking Age/Bayeux Museum)" title="The 10th-century maniple found in the tomb of St Cuthbert in Durham Cathedral exhibits much finer needlework than the Bayeux Tapestry (Image by Stig Saxegaard og Kulturhistorisk museum/Bayeux Museum)" /> Professor Lewis further wonders whether the scale of the embroidery and, thus, the resources required would have made duplicate versions less likely: “It is true that the Bayeux embroidery uses relatively simple materials – flax for linen, wool for its threads, and plant material as dyes – but its scale, which could have been even larger than its extant 70m, suggests a different level of resources than might have been typical,” he notes. “This has not been explored in any meaningful way, and surely it is an opportunity not to be missed [when the Tapestry is conserved in 2027] for scientifically investigating its materiality?” If Professor Blair’s theory does hold water – and clearly more research is needed to bolster the case – it demands that we consider the Tapestry and its message in a different light. As it stands, the Bayeux Tapestry is a key source for our understanding of the Norman conquest. The narrative it offers, which is at once celebratory for Duke William, conciliatory towards King Harold, and exclusionary of other dimensions to the story – the most obvious omission being Harald Hardrada’s invasion in northern England before Hastings – has had a significant influence on the way we see 1066. If it was only one of a number of similar but different embroideries, then we need to review our interpretative framework, and consider why this particular version showed this particular narrative. Read more | Why the Nazis fell in love with the Bayeux Tapestry “Should this idea turn out to be right, it would emphasise both the sophistication and the complexity of 11th-century life, with major embroideries produced for several aristocratic households on a factory-line basis,” Professor Blair remarks. “When trying to understand material culture in the early Middle Ages, we have to remember what a minute and unrepresentative sample has come down to us.” Hopefully, this article might lead to further research on this interesting theory. In the meantime, if anyone reading happens to be descended from one of the leading Norman families of the 11th century and has an unopened chest lying around, please feel free to have a look – and get in touch if it contains a 70 metres long embroidery. This article was first published in the December 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
Michael Wood on women's contributions to the Bayeux Tapestry
"We should remember the unknown women who made the Tapestry", writes Michael Wood
Like all readers, I am sure, I was thrilled to hear the news that the Bayeux Tapestry is coming to England next year. 1066 is the most important date in British history, and the Tapestry is the greatest single source, taking the tale from the last days of Edward the Confessor through the drama of Harold and William, the Norman invasion, and the defeat and death of Harold at Hastings. The Tapestry has been in Bayeux since the Middle Ages and has never left, save briefly during the Franco-German War and under Napoleon and the Nazis, who both sought to weaponise it prior to their own invasion attempts. But it was made in England in the aftermath of the Conquest, probably at Canterbury by English needlewomen. Scholars think that it was commissioned by the Conqueror’s brother Odo, bishop of Bayeux, who features prominently on the Tapestry along with his followers. One of those, Vitalis, is singled out and named, shown mounted and in full armour, reporting to William the whereabouts of the English army. Perhaps he was the leader of a scouting detachment who had gone ahead of the Norman army. Read more | The Bayeux Tapestry is finally coming home to Britain – and you can see it next year The artistic inspiration was the English school of manuscript painting in Canterbury, but there may have been Roman models, too. Trajan’s Column, in particular, depicts the emperor’s Dacian campaigns in a similar manner – like a strip cartoon. Odo himself had been to Rome; so, too, had Scolland, abbot of St Augustine’s Abbey, who may have designed the Tapestry – perhaps using a sketch book from his travels? It’s a huge artwork, some 68.3 metres long, but damaged at the end: perhaps as much as 3 metres is missing. It is generally agreed that the Tapestry originally finished with William’s crowning at Westminster at Christmas 1066 – a mirror image to the opening panel of the enthroned Edward the Confessor. Based on that assumption, a brilliant full-scale reconstruction has been completed by embroiderers on Alderney (alderneybayeuxtapestry.com). It’s thought that the Tapestry was commissioned for the consecration of Bayeux Cathedral in 1077. Art historian Christopher Norton suggests that its original length would perfectly fit the nave of Odo’s new church, along three walls of a rectangular space 31 metres long and 9 metres wide, taking account of doorways and architectural supports. Possibly the first record of the embroidery tells us that, in the 15th century, it was hung in the nave at Bayeux on the feast of the cathedral’s relics, 1 July, and for the following week. By the 18th century, that period stretched from the Feast of John the Baptist on 24 June till the end of July. This gives us a key clue to its original purpose: perhaps it was made specifically to be shown in the cathedral on the relic feast. On the Tapestry, Harold has a bigger role than William, and his story unfolds as a tragedy. Harold’s fate is sealed when he breaks his oath to support William’s claim to the English throne. Before then, he was a great and successful warrior. So he’s portrayed not as a Judas but as a Macbeth – a brave man led by his ambition into disloyalty. It is possible that his fateful oath was actually sworn on the cathedral’s relics at Bayeux. If the Tapestry was dedicated by Odo to his cathedral, then the part of the relics in the story is central. Read more | “I counted the penises in the Bayeux Tapestry and I have no regrets”: what one Oxford professor found when he studied the rudest bits of the embroidery We know nothing of the women who made it. Yet we do know that the work of Old English needlewomen was later prized abroad as opus Anglicanum, ‘English work’. We know that Earl Byrhtnoth, the hero of the battle of Maldon in 991, was depicted on a tapestry hung in Ely Abbey (now Ely Cathedral) that perhaps also commemorated the faithful retainers named in the famous Old English poem. And even middling people had embroideries in their houses depicting heroic or biblical scenes, which provided richly coloured decoration and acted as draught-proofing. In her will from the 940s, a woman called Wynflaed gives her friend her “long hall tapestry”, which must have been a fine heirloom. So much bigger in scale, the Bayeux Tapestry was commissioned by a rich and powerful person at the top of society. As for its actual makers, it is only later in the Middle Ages that we start to learn the names of some of the women who created such wonderful works of art that were prized across Europe. So when we stand in front of the Tapestry next year, and take in the immense drama of the Conquest, we should also remember the unknown women who made it: the likes (let’s imagine) of Eadgyth of Sittingbourne and Ælfflæd of Whitstable. Now, they would have a story to tell. This column was first published in the September 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
What have the Etruscans ever done for us?
The wealthy civilisation that dominated the Italian peninsula before the Romans left a legacy that’s full of surprises. Lucy Shipley explains why we have the Etruscans to thank for the way we write, the shape of our towns, Renaissance art – and even horror movies
They taught us to read and write (well, kind of) Long before the Romans came to dominate the ancient world – before Caesar crossed the Rubicon, Claudius invaded Britain and Vesuvius buried Pompeii – another civilisation dominated the Italian peninsula: the Etruscans. You may have heard of them, or that name may mean nothing to you. Either way, there’s little doubting their influence, continuing through the long hegemony of the Romans (who occupied Etruscan settlements) and the medieval period all the way to the modern age. The Etruscans, whose name is echoed in the modern region of Tuscany, emerged in central Italy around 900 BC. Their heartland, Etruria, lay between the rivers Tiber and Arno, and their cities were often perched on imposing plateaus with views across the fertile fields and metal-bearing soils that made their fortune. Their ports sent vessels out into the Tyrrhenian Sea (which bears their Greek name), trading as far afield as Spain and the near east. If you know the Etruscans at all, you might identify them as the villains of many a Roman tale or Greek myth. But who were these people? How did they live? And what impact do they have on our lives today? <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/GettyImages-webready150617775-378ec5d.jpg" width="3602" height="2401" alt="A pale green and cream tablet with white letters inscribed across the top" title="An ivory writing tablet discovered in Marsiliana d'Albegna. The characters of the Etruscan alphabet inscribed along the top clearly influenced modern Latin letters (Image by Getty Images)" /> Well, a good place to start is with the words you’re reading on this page. Without the Etruscan alphabet, the Latin characters we use in modern English writing could have developed totally differently. Etruscan letters are clearly influenced by Greek and Phoenician scripts, but you’ll find you can read them with relative ease because the letter forms are so familiar. Read more | The history of Florence: Italy's Renaissance powerhouse Helpfully, a miniature ivory writing tablet dating from the seventh century BC has been discovered in a burial site at Marsiliana d’Albegna in southern Tuscany. Running along the top edge is the Etruscan alphabet, its letters inscribed in order from right to left – the Etruscan way of doing things. Some of the letter forms had not yet reached the shapes with which we’re familiar today – H, I and M look quite different, for example – but the origins of our modern Latin alphabet are plain to see. There is, though, a catch: linguists are still working to fully understand Etruscan. Though it’s easy to read many of the words, we aren’t always sure what all of them mean. We do know, though, that Etruscan wasn’t an Indo-European language – so it wasn’t related to Latin, Umbrian or most other tongues spoken in ancient Italy. There’s another problem: Etruscan texts are in short supply. We know that Etruscan people commonly wrote and read texts – from initials on weaving tools to detailed legal contracts – but, because the majority of their written works were on linen, few have survived. There are extraordinary exceptions – an incredible Etruscan religious book that was slashed to make mummy bandages, for example, and golden plaques boasting about a local politician’s gifts to a temple – but, as yet, no Etruscan poetry or history. Perhaps the Etruscan version of Herodotus is out there, waiting to be discovered. In the meantime, we have views of this people only from its enemies – all to be taken with a hearty pinch of salt. They were innovative pioneers of urban design The Etruscans were exceptional town planners – and that very success is one reason why our knowledge of their culture is so limited. Archaeological research has shown that some Etruscan settlements occupied the same sites for centuries, stretching back into the early Iron Age. Many of these places were so popular that they remained continually occupied through the Middle Ages and into the modern day. As a result, much evidence of Etruscan life lies buried beneath the winding streets of photogenic Italian towns and cities. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/GettyImages-475602207webready-14f01f4.jpg" width="1500" height="989" alt="The Etruscan site now known as Marzabotto, near Bologna, was constructed on a neat grid pattern in the sixth century BC – a fine example of early town planning that influenced the Romans (Image by Getty Images)" title="The Etruscan site now known as Marzabotto, near Bologna, was constructed on a neat grid pattern in the sixth century BC – a fine example of early town planning that influenced the Romans (Image by Getty Images)" /> Fortunately, thanks to some extraordinary surviving remains, we know a great deal about how Etruscan people organised their lives in towns. The site now called Marzabotto, near Bologna, seems to have been constructed as a new town in the sixth century BC. It’s built on a neat grid pattern or orthogonal plan, with a careful designation of what looks like public spaces as well as domestic buildings. There’s written evidence for a zilath, or magistrate, responsible for maintaining roads, and for another role responsible for managing weights and measures. Destroyed by invading Gauls in the fourth century AD, the site epitomises the peak of Etruscan expansion. Read more | Blood, guts and spectacle: 6 shocking events from the history of ancient Roman gladiators The Etruscans’ complex urban communities influenced those who came after. The neat patterns of Roman forts and the iconic insulae (apartment blocks) at Pompeii and elsewhere have much in common with Etruscan town-planning ideals. In fact, we know that the Etruscans occupied Pompeii, and it was during their rule that the first forum and the Temple of Apollo were built. From Marzabotto to Milton Keynes, the orthogonal or grid plan continues to influence town planning today. They created the concept of combat as entertainment It’s arguably the most iconic scene at the climax of surely the most iconic film of 2000, Ridley Scott’s multi-Oscar-winning Gladiator. Maximus (played so memorably by Russell Crowe) wanders through a wheat field into the afterlife. That episode was filmed in the Val d’Orcia in Tuscany, at the heart of the Etruscans’ ancient homeland. Coincidence? Probably. Yet, given the Etruscans’ role in the inception of gladiatorial combat, it’s rather fitting. Though gladiators will forever be synonymous with ancient Rome – thanks in no small part to Spartacus and Maximus himself – we have the Etruscans to thank for the rise of this brutal form of entertainment. There’s plenty of evidence for this – notably in a network of painted tombs at Tarquinia, about 45 miles north-west of Rome. This amazing necropolis contains numerous burial chambers decorated with images of Etruscan life and imaginings of the afterlife. Some are inspiring, drawn from sharply poignant observations of the natural world. Others are disturbing, showing the extent of human cruelty. Take the late sixth-century BC Tomb of the Augurs. This features depictions of funerary games – exhibitions of strength and athleticism in honour of the dead. You can see two nude wrestlers grappling in front of a series of three piled bowls (clearly the prizes). There’s also a referee holding the lituus, or ceremonial staff. So far, so jovial. But on another wall is a more disturbing image. A masked man holds a long leash restraining a creature who is viciously biting the legs of another man, armed with a club but hopelessly entangled. The creature may be a dog or, perhaps, a black leopard – its long tail and raking claws suggest the latter. This cruel contest between man and beast is a clear predecessor of the celebrated Roman games, for which thousands of animals were imported. The Roman names for some of the officials at these contests were derived from Etruscan, and the dreaded figure of Charon, who finished off wounded gladiators with his massive hammer, was derived from the Etruscan death demon Charun. The Romans may have refined and supercharged the concept of armed combat as entertainment. Yet they clearly didn’t invent it. They've scared us witless In 1972, horror fans immersed themselves in a ghoulish tale of intrigue and death set in central Italy, L’etrusco uccide ancora (The Etruscan Kills Again). The film tells the story of a spate of murders by a killer who gets his (or her) kicks out of dispatching young couples and leaving their corpses posed in recreations of Etruscan art. A strange conceit, you may think – but that didn’t stop The Etruscan Kills Again becoming something of a cult classic. The Etruscans and their homeland have proved to be a rich source of inspiration for modern writers and film-makers. Scenes in the astronomically successful book/film saga Twilight were set in the Etruscan hill town of Volterra. And the award-winning 2023 film La Chimera follows grave-robbers led by a down-at-heel British archaeologist attempting to steal artefacts from an Etruscan dig. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/BAL4642126webready-26b39dd.jpg" width="835" height="1240" alt="The Etruscan god of the underworld, Aita, represented in a tomb painting in Tarquinia by a man wearing a wolfskin (Image by Bridgeman Images)" title="The Etruscan god of the underworld, Aita, represented in a tomb painting in Tarquinia by a man wearing a wolfskin (Image by Bridgeman Images)" /> The terrifying figures on the tomb paintings at Tarquinia have had a particularly long cultural afterlife, perhaps influencing modern depictions of werewolves. One fearsome character among them is a man wearing a wolfskin over his head, representing Aita, Etruscan god of the underworld. There are also more menacing werewolf-type Etruscan demons, including Calu who is depicted on reliefs from urns at Perugia and Volterra, often popping out of a sunken container or well and taking on a group of gathered heroes. This myth is very old: one eighth-century BC bronze situla (container) from Bisenzio seems to show a group of armed men battling a monstrous canine. This scary figure survived in Etruscan culture for 500 years, and its descendant still terrifies us today. Read more | Paint your own pot, like an ancient Etruscan Also at Tarquinia, the late fifth-century BC Tomb of the Blue Demons features terrifying figures with blue skin who are shown wielding snakes. And on a wall in the Tomb of the Infernal Chariot at Sarteano rears a three-headed serpent that will haunt your nightmares. They inspired the Renaissance What’s the connection between the Etruscans and Michelangelo, Raphael and Botticelli? This may appear to be an odd question, given that the more-ancient civilisation had been absorbed into Roman society at least a millennium before those Renaissance greats were in their pomp. But visit the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua, and it might not appear quite such a preposterous proposition after all. This chapel is home to one of the great masterpieces of western art: a fresco cycle painted by the Florentine artist Giotto between 1303 and 1305. These frescoes depict scenes from the lives of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. But it is the artist’s portrayal of the Last Judgment – and particularly the horrendous figure of Satan – that features suspicious hints of Etruscan influence. Giotto’s prince of darkness is azure-skinned – the same colour as the eponymous entities in Tarquinia’s Tomb of the Blue Demons, created by Etruscan artists 1,700 years earlier. The infernal figure is also flanked by adders in a pose almost identical to that depicted in the Etruscan tomb. Could Giotto have been aware of his ancient predecessors’ work? <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/ALAMY-2C81WHJwebready-eb195c5.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A painting of showing a large blue Satanic figure, surrounded by several naked people in hell" title="Giotto’s Last Judgment fresco in Padua’s 14th-century Scrovegni Chapel, with an azure Satan – perhaps influenced by figures like those in the Etruscan Tomb of the Blue Demons (Image by Alamy)" /> Etruscan art may also have influenced Renaissance culture in less hellish forms. In his Comedy of the Nymphs of Florence, penned c1341–42, the writer Giovanni Boccaccio called his Tuscan arcadia “Etruria”. Meanwhile, the philosopher Leonardo Bruni proudly recounts the Etruscan history of Florence in his History of the Florentine People, begun in 1415. It seems unlikely to be a coincidence that the first reported discovery of Etruscan pottery comes from Bruni’s hometown of Arezzo, describing artefacts found during building work on the city wall and diligently recorded by the monk Ristoro d’Arezzo in 1282. The Renaissance was clearly inspired by medieval Europeans’ engagements with the entire span of classical art. Yet we can speculate with some confidence that the Florentine Renaissance was influenced more specifically by that city’s own Etruscan heritage. They helped kindle our love affair with the ancient Greeks Nothing says ancient Greece quite like the Attic black and red-figure vase. In fact, it’s safe to say that such pieces – decorated with depictions of everything from ancient battles to erotic scenes – have become icons of the Greek world. But why are we talking about them in an article about the Etruscans? The answer is that the vast majority of the complete examples of Attic vases that survive today were excavated from Etruscan tombs in the late 18th and early 19th centuries – in fact, they were known then as ‘Etruscan vases’. Collectors in northern Europe, fresh from their Grand Tour shopping trips, displayed these vessels in dedicated Etruscan rooms. The potter Josiah Wedgwood was so inspired that he named his factory Etruria, and produced a range of pots imitating these ‘Etruscan’ vessels. When art historians finally recognised that the vases were Greek, their Etruscan connection was unceremoniously pushed to one side. But why did the Etruscans so value Greek vases that they chose to be buried with them? This can’t be explained simply by notions of Greek cultural superiority – especially now evidence shows that certain pottery shapes developed in Etruria were later produced in Athens. In fact, we still don’t have a comprehensive explanation for the Etruscans’ Greek addiction. All we can be certain of is that, without Etruscan collectors, thousands of these vessels would have been lost forever, along with their enduring influence on 19th and 20th-century pottery. Lucy Shipley is an archaeologist and researcher. She is the author of The Etruscans: Lost Civilisations (Reaktion, 2017) This article was first published in the September 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
The wrong moustache in the Battle of Hastings
What's going on with the facial hair in King and Conqueror, have we been suckered in by an overly literal understanding of the Bayeux Tapestry, and what did a Viking beard really look like?
How and why did they get the facial hair so wrong in the new BBC 1066 drama King and Conqueror, and what did an actual Viking look like on the hair and beard front? Find out in my in-depth analysis of moustache-gate, framed, as is my wont, in the context of the Bayeux Tapestry. The new 1066 drama King and Conqueror has been accused by numerous commentators of playing fast and loose with the historical narrative of the Norman Conquest. That’s a reasonable criticism, but on my assessment of the critiques of the series, the deepest opprobrium has been reserved for the facial hair fantasy. Dad tache or bad tache? The problem is that Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, as Duke William of Normandy, sports a bristling tache (memorably described by Lucy Mangan in the Guardian as a ‘1970s dad tache’ and in the Daily Mail as an Asterix look), while the upper lip of James Norton’s Harold Godwinson is unequivocally hairless. That, as many experts have pointed out, is directly at odds with the Bayeux Tapestry. The famous 11th-century embroidery, which provides the earliest visual representation of the 1066 story, quite clearly shows a moustachioed Harold and a clean-shaven William. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/528361-7b9d210.jpg" width="6224" height="4672" alt="A man with shaggy hair and a moustache stands on a beach, dressed in a dark cloak and holding a sword. Behind him, a small group of people gather around a wooden boat on the shoreline" title="William bosses the beach with his 1970s dad tache in King and Conqueror (Image by BBC/CBS Studios)" /> Harold’s facial hair in the Tapestry is in line with that of his Anglo-Saxon compatriots: they tend to (but don’t always) boast moustaches, some of which are thin and straggly, while others are impressive handlebar efforts. The Normans, on the other hand, lack upper lip action. The embroiderers were clearly following a style guide to try to offer a visual prompt to the viewer about which side the respective figures were on. Menacing reverse mullet It wasn’t just moustaches in the Tapestry that helped viewers to know who was on which team – the haircuts also offered a clue. The Normans often had curious shaved necks, which, in the words of the great Tapestry scholar Professor Gale Owen-Crocker were ‘sometimes accompanied by a menacing lock of hair at the forehead’, or a ‘reverse mullet’ as Dr Thomas Williams has fabulously described it. The English generally had a decidedly less scary bowl-cut bob sort of look going on. This was significant because one of the things with the Bayeux Tapestry is that it doesn’t give you very much information in the captions to describe what’s occurring and who is doing what, so you needed these visual hints to keep up with the story. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/GettyImages-moustach-Harold815687404-ddc875b.jpg" width="3543" height="2753" alt="A scene from the Bayeux Tapestry depicts a group of men sitting at a high table under a red, yellow and green canopy. Around them, there are animals" title="Anglo-Saxons feasting and drinking with their big Bayeux Tapestry taches (Image by Getty Images)" /> Read more | Shakespeare didn't do the Norman Conquest, but the Bayeux Tapestry did, so where does that leave the BBC's King and Conqueror? Aside from the moustache debacle, King and Conqueror doesn’t, for my money, capture the spirit of the Bayeux Tapestry with the barnets either. Norton’s haircut isn’t quite dorky enough, and Coster-Waldau’s isn’t really as shavenly intimidating as it ought to be. Maybe Luther Ford’s Tostig Godwinson gets closest to a Tapestry look with his bowl-cut (though Tostig himself does not specifically appear in the embroidery, so I’m generalising about the Anglo-Saxon vibe). I haven’t seen any explanation in the crew interviews for the TV series for this obvious diversion from the historical facial hair facts. However, I do note that Norton had originally hoped to play William. His plan, apparently, was scuppered by a contractual obligation with HBO that he could only appear in King and Conqueror if his character died. That legal stipulation ruled out the option of him appearing as the Norman Duke, who does not die at Hastings, and left him little choice but to take on the ill-fated Harold instead, who famously does. So maybe they just forgot who was supposed to grow the tache after that. Manly strength, modernity and bravery I do understand this level of moustache anxiety, particularly in these days of hipster facial hair. I’m reminded of a great HistoryExtra article from the eminent beard historian Dr Alun Withey on moustache matters. He said, “Like many other facial hair styles, the moustache has a long and complicated history. In some periods it has symbolised manly strength, modernity and bravery; in others it was decried as an affectation of fey young men. It’s easy to write facial hair off as something that is quirky or irrelevant, but it often tells us a very great deal about individual men across time, as well as shifting attitudes towards masculinity and the male body.” Having established the importance of facial hair, I’m surprised that not many people have been exercised by the chin of Eddie Marsan’s Edward the Confessor in King and Conqueror. Marsan’s simpering mother-beaten monarch is very different from the Bayeux Tapestry version, because the embroidered king wears a long flowing beard. I know Marsan can grow facial hair because he was bearded in his depiction of noted canoe conman John Darwin in an ITV drama a few years ago, so again, the King and Conqueror team have apparently made a deliberate decision to ignore the evidential pogonotrophy of the Bayeux Tapestry. I can only assume that they figured Marsan with a beard wouldn’t look as weak-willed as they wanted his King Edward to be. Someone who is clearly tooled up to look intimidating in King and Conqueror is the Norwegian King Harald Hardrada, played by Sveinn Ólafur Gunnarsson. He is resplendent with a big brash beard that Brian Blessed would be proud of. Hardrada’s invasion, accompanied by King Harold’s disaffected brother Tostig, is the preliminary story to the Norman Conquest (and if you want the full story, watch my chat with Marc Morris all about it on the HistoryExtra YouTube channel). Harold’s victory over his brother and the mighty Hardrada at the battle of Stamford Bridge would have been the stuff of legend if it wasn’t overshadowed by his own defeat and death a few days later at the hands of William and the Normans at Hastings. The Tapestry devotes zero attention to the Hardrada story so we cannot say whether the King and Conqueror depiction of a big beardy Viking is accurate. Actual Viking facial hair evidence However, and this is breaking news, an archaeologist at the National Museum of Denmark, Peter Pentz, has just published some research on a remarkable Viking period figurine, which gives us a very rare glimpse of what a Viking hair style actually looked like. Granted it’s from the 10th century rather than the 11th, and obviously sartorial trends can move fast, but nevertheless, it’s a good insight. The little figurine, currently on display in the Viking Sorceress exhibition at the museum in Copenhagen, has a middle parting with a side wave that leaves the ear visible, while the hair has been cropped at the back. Plus he’s got a large moustache, a long, braided goatee and sideburns. It’s some look, and according to Peter Pentz, it’s quite a find: “Hitherto, we haven’t had any detailed knowledge about Viking hairstyles, but here, we get all the details – even the little curl above the ear is marked. This is the first time we see a figure of a male Viking with his hair visible from all angles. It’s unique”. Hardrada, in King and Conqueror, isn’t quite aligned with this Viking look, given that he has a full beard rather than tache, goatee and sideburns, but this research has only just come to light, so we can let the producers of the series off on that one at least. Read more | How historically accurate is King and Conqueror? Here’s the real history that should have happened What’s interesting, I think, is to dwell briefly on whether we are reading far too much into these Bayeux Tapestry haircuts and moustache designs. Might perhaps we better assume that the designer and embroiders were simply trying to remind the viewers about who was English and who was Norman, as I mentioned above, and not really be attempting to represent the hairy reality of the day? As the noted scholar of Old English Dr Thijs Porck pointed out in this excellent blog post a few years ago, the early 11th-century Anglo-Saxon religious writer, Ælfric of Eynsham, had cause to write a letter of complaint, admonishing his fellow monks for adorning themselves ‘in Danish fashion, with bared neck and blinded eyes’. That shaved back of neck and hair flopping over the eyes sounds quite a lot like the Norman look in the Bayeux Tapestry, and not dissimilar to what we can see in the Viking figurine. So maybe both the Anglo-Saxons and the Normans were trying to look scarily Viking in the 11th century, and the Tapestry has slipped us a red herring by making out that the two groups adopted different hair styles. Maybe moustache-gate is simply an overly-literal reading of the embroidery. As Marc Morris has noted, however, there is other documentary evidence besides the Tapestry to suggest that there were stylistic differences in hair and face between Normans and English. William of Poitiers recorded how the French and Normans 'looked with curiosity' at the long-haired English hostages that the Conqueror brought home with him in 1067, and other sources do point to the Normans being clean-shaven and the English wearing facial hair. One final point on faces, moustaches and hair is this: quoting Professor Owen-Crocker once more, ‘No-one ever looks happy in the Bayeux Tapestry’. The range of facial expressions in the embroidery are limited, though Harold does look notably downtrodden when he’s making his famous oath in the presence of Duke William in Bayeux. So, if we’re being picky about facial hair and divergence from the Tapestry, we ought also to criticise King and Conqueror for allowing its characters to smile on occasion, because that really isn’t in the spirit of the embroidery. If you want to know more about the Bayeux Tapestry, feel free to have a scan of <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Story-Bayeux-Tapestry-Unravelling-Conquest/dp/0500297657/ref=sr_1_1?crid=36VNPUZVD7AT0&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.MMpoBk9Uovbmr3TEL7v4h5yCcHHB7TibT_bIrEGBOBxY2Pe3qyULcF9azzUe6FSS77dBGNHt1jXTxYq4ZklhYwbTl0vPLrwYXklZE3_uXH7g1YMSgVfU06y_VHZZkn57MW1kw48WMMOmwhS-d_wuHIBjqgzxJOdyiDL2g6zJrYe7mf3Joj6Mhuu-i1x8EDFrhQ6EEihQAOCndaf5Z0YMQXFMhbJ8bz6lOmHeW7nnRG8.LiqZZPaTMKhqXNti1OiwZBLnizdALx5kanimdfEvyVM&dib_tag=se&keywords=story+of+the+bayeux+tapestry&qid=1756389351&s=books&sprefix=story+of+the+bayeux+tapestry%2Cstripbooks%2C68&sr=1-1&tag=bbchistory045-21&ascsubtag=historyextra-288879" rel="sponsored" target="_blank">The Story of the Bayeux Tapestry, by myself and Professor Michael Lewis. This article is part of HistoryExtra's new Life Lessons from History Substack newsletter. Subscribe to the newsletter for more articles and podcasts exploring the ways in which history can help us live better, happier, healthier or more productive lives.
Michael Wood on lessons on good government from medieval Siena
"When justice is sovereign, the wicked are stripped of all power", writes Michael Wood
Siena is one of the great historic cities – a living vision of the medieval world found now in very few places. Here is the architecture and street plan of a medieval city-state, the oldest bank in the world, and one of the oldest universities. Siena was even the first place to ban the car, in 1966! In its centre, the great square called the Campo hosts the famous Palio horse race twice a year. It’s a place to relish the continuance of the past into the present. In the Middle Ages, Siena was run by the Nine, who rotated every two months as a bulwark against tyranny. They met in the council hall in the Palazzo Pubblico (Public Palace) on the Campo. On the first floor is a room adorned with some of the most extraordinary paintings in western art. Three fresco panels, painted by Ambrogio Lorenzetti in 1338, offer a vibrant vision of life in town and country on the eve of the Black Death. This huge work, known as The Allegory of Good and Bad Government, covers three walls. In the dim light, the eyes need a moment to take in the scale and the colour – the deep, luminous ultramarine skies created with a paint made from ground lapis lazuli. It’s the last great creation of the school of painting in Siena that came to an abrupt end when the plague struck Italy in 1348, killing half the city’s population – including Lorenzetti and his elder brother, Pietro. These extraordinary frescoes came to mind while visiting the National Gallery’s fabulous Siena exhibition this summer. The focus there was on four painters: Duccio, Simone Martini and the Lorenzettis. It encapsulated an exquisite, idiosyncratic moment, with none of the advances of Renaissance art: perspective, anatomy, realism. Instead, as the cultural historian Erin Maglaque eloquently remarks, we saw “silk, gold, and suspended emotion – an embrace of mystery that feels archaic and alien”. Read more | Michael Wood on amazing insights into medieval daily life Florence lies close by, but the Sienese were seduced by the solemn power of Byzantine art. (“It was certainly mean-spirited of the Sienese to persist in being purely medieval right through the Renaissance,” wrote one Victorian critic!) The effect is spine-tingling, dominated not by the ideal landscapes of Florentine or Venetian art but by gold – crusted, layered, stamped; gold revealed by scraping away paint so it seems to flicker below the surface. It’s a secret, enclosed world of ornate chapels and churches in towering streets heavy with sun, the burnt red-earth colour of the landscape. Which brings me back to 1338 and Ambrogio Lorenzetti, executing his stupendous frescoes. That year was fraught, the city in a state of emergency. The threat of authoritarian rule by one man was rising, undermining the idea of the common good. The painting, remember, enfolds the room in which the Nine met to run the city: Lorenzetti was reminding them of just how much was at stake. What constitutes good governance? And its opposite? In The Allegory of Good Government – one of six scenes in Lorenzetti’s frescoes – we see the commune of Siena, magistrates and officers linked by the woven cords of community and justice that bind them. Above them is the guiding figure of Wisdom, with the virtues of good government personified: Peace, Fortitude, Prudence, Magnanimity and Temperance. We see the city at peace: tradesmen, shopkeepers, wedding processions, music and dancing – all the good things that civilisation brings. Another section provides a bird’s-eye view of the fecund Tuscan countryside, with an inscription: “When justice is sovereign, the wicked are stripped of all power.” Read more | Michael Wood on the New Angel | "Few works of 20th-century art have such a distinguished list of past owners" There is also The Effects of Bad Government, dominated by a horned demon who embodies Tyranny. Below him, the figure of Justice lies bound with allegorical figures of Cruelty, Deceit, Fraud, Fury, Division and War. Above Tyranny float Avarice and Pride, enemies of humanity. Once humming with life, in this scene the town lies in ruins, houses demolished, shops and workshops closed except for armourers, the arms dealers of their day. Armies advance on each other: we see looting, murder, rape, abuse of women – a Guernica of the 14th century. Thinking of these images, I was reminded of our own era of disasters and injustice, and of the challenges to the rule of law in the US. In Siena, Lorenzetti asked the council to “Turn your eyes to behold her, you who are governing, who is portrayed here: Justice, crowned on account of her excellence, who always renders to everyone his due. Look how many goods derive from her, and how sweet and peaceful is that life of the city where is preserved this virtue who outshines any other.” This article was first published in the August 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
Designs for life: the lasting impact of Art Deco
In the interwar era, artists and designers embraced a sleek modern style that embodied the optimism and elegance of the age. On the centenary of the Paris expo that launched Art Deco on the international stage, Emma Bastin explores its origins and lasting impacts
On a cold, wintry December day in 1935, the Duke and Duchess of York arrived in Bexhill-on-Sea to open a new public venue. Lining the route were well-wishers of all ages, from Brownies and Cubs to war veterans wearing campaign medals. By the time the royal couple reached their destination, the crowd numbered in their thousands; no doubt the duke and duchess found it difficult to fully appreciate the building. With its unadorned cream walls, acres of glass and sleek lines, the De La Warr Pavilion did not so much proclaim its modernity but shout it out loud. The stylish façade hid a welded steel frame, the first of its kind in Britain. Inside were an auditorium seating 1,300, a restaurant and a library, all for “the common enjoyment of the people”. Quickly dubbed ‘The People’s Palace’, it was – and still is – an iconic embodiment of Art Deco style. Art Deco – a shortened, anglicised version of arts décoratifs – was never referred to as such in its heyday in the 1920s and 30s. Like most art movements, it gained its name long after its popularity had waned. The first use of the term as we use it now was by art historian Bevis Hillier in 1968. Facade of the Folies Bergère, Paris Maurice Pico, 1926 The dancer Lila Nikolska was the model for the gold bas-relief facade of the most famous cabaret in Paris – the Folies Bergère. Dancers were important to Art Deco sculptors, their bodies epitomising fluidity and strength. Here, movement is emphasised by the sequences of lines that surround the model, which also suggest that strident, modern music is playing. As with many other forms of art and design before and since, Art Deco was a response to the social, cultural and economic climate in which it emerged. It drew inspiration from a diverse range of sources, from ancient Egypt to the avant-garde, incorporating motifs from nature as well as concepts of mass-production using artificial materials. As a result, defining Art Deco is notoriously difficult. Some art historians have proposed that, rather than seeing it as a style, we should view Art Deco as a celebration of the imagination and creativity of the interwar years. Yet there is something distinctive and recognisable about its character. The form of an Art Deco object is usually simplified, often incorporating geometric shapes; functionality is important. Decorative features are stripped back to the essentials, but popular motifs include chevrons, sunrays, plants and human figures. Century of style By the time the De La Warr Pavilion was opened, the style had been growing in prominence for more than a decade. For many historians and enthusiasts, 2025 is being celebrated as the centenary year of Art Deco. That was the year when L’Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes (usually loosely translated as the International Exhibition of Decorative and Industrial Arts) was held in Paris. The organisers had declared that exhibits must show “modern inspiration and a real originality”, and the expo brought together the best in contemporary design from around the world. Vogue cover Pierre Mourgue, 1930 As the foremost fashion magazine in the US, Britain and France, Vogue led the way with stylish, avant-garde cover illustrations produced by a talented roster of artists. Pierre Mourgue, one of several artists Condé Nast discovered in France, relocated to the US where he produced several covers for Vogue. This example from 1930 exudes elegance, shows off the latest fashions, and references the modern skyscrapers springing up in New York City in that era. However, the roots of Art Deco date from as early as the 1910s, when French artists began to move away from the intricate detailing of Art Nouveau and towards a simpler style. Luxury French fashion magazines like Gazette du Bon Ton and Femina commissioned artists including Paul Iribe and Georges Lepape to illustrate the latest avant-garde fashions by couturiers such as Paul Poiret. Outside of France, there were moves towards simplified architecture by Austrian Josef Hoffmann and Scot Charles Rennie Mackintosh. Styles of modern art that developed in the years before the First World War, such as Cubism, Vorticism and Futurism also influenced Art Deco style. Unsurprisingly, advances in art and design were temporarily halted during the war but quickly leapt forward in the following years, driven largely by the desire to forget – to make a break with what had gone before – and for modernity. Read more | Michelangelo: the Renaissance polymath who transformed Western art Seven years after the end of the war, the 1925 Paris expo established Art Deco as a mainstream style. Some 16 million visitors passed through its doors in the seven months it was open – importantly, that included tastemakers, buyers, designers and journalists from around the world. Articles in the press raved about the “dream city” that had been created with temporary pavilions. The impermanent nature of these buildings, along with the expectation that the style should emphasise the modern, inspired architects to produce groundbreaking designs. Postcards and photographs showed off the astonishing assembly of buildings to a global audience. For those present, elaborate arrangements of searchlights illuminated the pavilions and grounds at night, and extraordinary sights – such as a 15-metre-tall crystal fountain by jewellery designer René Lalique – enhanced this vision of modernity. Ekco A76 radio c1934 In the 1930s, Ekco radios combined innovative design with the latest technology; today, they’re highly sought after by collectors. Radio ownership boomed in the interwar years, when the use of Bakelite (an early plastic) allowed Ekco to create alternatives to earlier square wooden cases. Well-known architects and designers such as Serge Chermayeff and Wells Coates were commissioned to create new ranges, introducing Art Deco design into homes across the nation. Conspicuous consumption The Paris expo hosted 15,000 exhibitors, many of which were businesses promoting themselves and selling their wares. The organisers wanted to showcase design not just in terms of production but also consumption. Large department stores such as Galeries Lafayette occupied their own pavilions, and luxury boutiques lined the Pont Alexandre III across the Seine. The French wanted to highlight the skills of their artists, and a model French embassy was created in which sumptuous interiors and furnishings were displayed. This was Art Deco for the elite, not the masses, designed to appeal to those with deep pockets. But in an age when trends percolated down, many of the designers fully expected that the style they had developed would be taken up by the lower classes, albeit at a later date and in more economical forms. Mass consumerism, faster communications and new technologies enabled Art Deco to spread both widely and rapidly. Thanks to the variety of ways in which this style could be applied, it appeared in myriad forms – one of the most imposing and widely visible being architecture. London Underground poster Edward McKnight Kauffer, 1931 Inspired by Futurism, this ultra-modern poster was seen by hundreds of thousands of travellers in the early 1930s, when such a combination of image and text was still a novelty. One of the boldest artists commissioned by London Transport, McKnight Kauffer – who used an airbrush to create the 3D effect on the numbers 6 and 12 – was also one of the most prolific, producing nearly 100 posters. Businesses keen to show their inventiveness employed forward-looking architects to create factories and headquarters in the most modern style. Along the Great West Road in London, an array of cutting-edge buildings sprang up, among them modern factories for Firestone, Gillette and Coty cosmetics. The Hoover Building was erected in Perivale, and the Oxo Tower on the south bank of the Thames in central London. Outside the capital, Littlewoods built a vast modern headquarters in Liverpool, and Scotland welcomed Art Deco buildings such as India of Inchinnan, and Luma Tower in Glasgow. Retailers also realised the commercial potential of Art Deco: the simple lines and large areas of glazing allowed their products to shine. Burton and Marks and Spencer both favoured an Art Deco-inspired neoclassicism, with grand pillars and repeated motifs. Their buildings can still be seen today on high streets in towns and cities such as London, York, Halifax and Swansea. Read more | Michael Wood on the New Angel | "Few works of 20th-century art have such a distinguished list of past owners" The streamlined style of Art Deco was perfect for railway stations and airports, too, its sleek lines evoking speed and efficiency, and its wide open spaces accommodating large numbers of passengers. Dozens of Art Deco tube stations built in suburban London in the 1920s and 1930s were designed by Charles Holden, who enjoyed an excellent working relationship with Frank Pick, the man who modernised and united the London Transport network. Together they created a unified look for stations and their interiors across the network. Often beacons of modernity in a land of mock-Tudor semis, their stations welcomed hundreds of thousands of passengers every day in places such as Acton Town, Cockfosters and East Finchley, which is still guarded by Eric Aumonier’s Art Deco Archer statue. Group of Four Nudes Tamara de Lempicka, 1925 This Polish-born artist’s work is instantly recognisable, pushing boundaries of style and subject. This painting blends Cubism with the traditional: bodies are drawn in strong, angular lines, but beautifully toned shading and colours give a sense of depth. Intensely erotic, it was deemed shocking at the time. Picture palaces Cinema proved to be a potent force in the spread of Art Deco. The explosion in movie-going fuelled demand for a large number of new venues, many of which were built in the latest style. From their gleaming white exteriors to their modern foyers and plush interiors, cinemas allowed the audience to lose themselves in fantasy for a few hours. It was not only the cinema buildings that were Art Deco: the films themselves were also heavily influenced by the movement. From the 1920s, the industry led the way in fusing modernity and glamour. Hollywood art director Cedric Gibbons, who visited the 1925 expo, became the master of Art Deco styling in films. The MGM movies on which he worked in the interwar period showcased his vision of heightened luxury and elegance, particularly his interior sets, such as those in Our Dancing Daughters (1928) and Grand Hotel (1932). In the 1930s, musicals developed the ‘Gibbons look’, and vast Art Deco sets with high ceilings, repeated motifs and sweeping lines were created for films like Top Hat (1935). Hollywood shared this glossy style with a global audience of around 80 million people each week, helping to create consumers with aspirations to live like their favourite movie stars. Eltham Palace entrance hall Rolf Engströmer, 1936 When Stephen and Virginia Courtauld added an Art Deco extension to the existing medieval hall of Eltham Palace, south-east London, Swedish designer Rolf Engströmer was commissioned to create the circular entrance hall. Natural light floods through the domed glass roof to illuminate exquisite marquetry walls, modern furniture and a rug designed by textile artist Marion Dorn. Modernity prevailed throughout the new section of the house, which boasted underfloor heating, multi-room sound systems and a centralised vacuum cleaner. Need for speed Beyond the cinema, Art Deco adorned advertising boards, magazines and newspapers. Graphic designers embraced the new style, recognising that simplicity and ease of reading were essential for capturing the public’s attention; French poster designer Paul Colin noted that the best advertising “must be readable at 100km an hour”. The intricate drawings and acres of text found in Victorian and Edwardian adverts were swept away, replaced with striking, pared-back visuals creating an efficient and dynamic look. Frank Pick at London Transport advocated this modern look, commissioning commercial artists such as Edward McKnight Kauffer, André Édouard Marty and Dora M Batty to create posters displayed across the transport network. Like movies, these posters had a huge audience, and the public soon became familiar with this modern style – consciously or not. Seeing the success of the London Transport posters, other businesses began to use Art Deco in their own marketing material. Railway companies and shipping lines produced some of the most iconic advertising, but this new form of graphic design was also used to market clothing, make-up, cars, food – almost anything, in fact. Manufacturers quickly realised that Art Deco was a style that could easily be reproduced en masse. Its simplicity of form and design allowed objects such as radios, telephones, mirrors, china and printed fabrics to be created easily, often using mass-production techniques. There was a ready market for these goods, too – the number of people with disposable incomes was growing, and products that offered a sense of modernity along with ease of living were in demand. Cartier brooch c1925 Art Deco jewellery was dazzling – and no one created dazzle quite like Cartier. This brooch has a jadeite background showcasing diamonds and sapphires set in a geometric design. Jade had long been used in the far east, and this brooch demonstrates how inspiration from other cultures was mixed with modernity to create a brand new style. In Britain, geometric clocks and photo frames appeared on mantlepieces, as did brightly coloured ornaments. Potteries employed forward-thinking artists such as Clarice Cliff to decorate their tableware, and furniture became more streamlined. Even those on limited incomes could buy into the look: Littlewoods offered Art Deco tea sets, electric light pendants and dressing-table trinkets for as little as 10 shillings, payable in instalments. Read more | Beauty before durability: the interwar beginnings of fast fashion Reclaiming the past The heyday of Art Deco ended with the outbreak of the Second World War. Quickly, utility and practicality replaced consumerism and design. The style was largely relegated to the doldrums during the reign of stark Modernism and Brutalism in the 1950s and early 1960s, but by 1965 a tentative revival had begun. The 1920s and 1930s represented a period before the living memory of younger members of society but, in their desire for self-expression, they looked to the interwar era as a golden age of individualism, youth and newly liberated sexuality. This interest was fuelled by the emergence of design studies, and the idea that Art Deco could not be simply dismissed as commercialised and lightweight. Exhibitions were staged, and books and articles were written on the subject. Fashion designers and retailers such as Biba took the glamour of Art Deco and reinterpreted it for a new audience. Postmodernism and pop art borrowed the bright colours, geometrics and fun to break with the austerity of postwar Modernism, and original Art Deco items became sought after by collectors. Chrysler Building, New York City William Van Alen, 1930 When completed, the Chrysler Building was the world’s first supertall skyscraper – the loftiest building in the world, soaring 319 metres into the New York City sky. It’s an Art Deco icon, largely due to its terraced ‘crown’ featuring concentric arches and radiating sunbursts. Typical of the style, ornamentation is exuberant – stylised hub caps, oversized Chrysler hood ornaments and radiator caps all reference the source of the wealth that underwrote this building: making and selling cars. The centenary of the Paris expo has sparked another resurgence of interest, as designers look to the past for inspiration. There are efforts to preserve Art Deco heritage around the world, and celebrations and exhibitions celebrating the innovations it made. Art Deco has proved to be timeless. Its sleek aesthetic transcends shifts in fashions, and the glamour and luxury it epitomises remain desirable. It changed the way we view art and design: no longer the preserve of the rich and urbane, mass produced objects were beautiful, fun and functional, accessible to all. Today, the ideal of Art Deco – melding beauty with utility – remains a guiding principle in design and its consumption. Dr Emma Bastin is a historian of the early 20th century, particularly focusing on the interwar period. She explores material and cultural history, including fashion and retail This article was first published in the August 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine