There are a number of great map collections around the world in public and private ownership.

The British Library map collection isn’t the largest – with 4.5 million maps still some way behind the Library of Congress Map Division's 5.2 million, nor can it claim to be the strongest in terms of early maps (the Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana.) It is more its combination of size, scope and significance that makes the collection the best in the world.

Taken as a whole, the collection is vast and complex. In fact, it is is probably more useful to think of the map collection as composed of smaller collections, many of them formally private collections, which found their way into public ownership in 1753 and later. Each have their own focus, peculiarities and research strengths. What I’d like to do is begin to introduce some of these collections to you. I might as well start with the Daddy of them all.

1. The Geographical Collections of George III (incorporating the Topographical and Maritime collections)

 

Type: printed and manuscript maps, topographical views and prints, architectural drawings, with worldwide coverage

Size: approximately 50,000 items

Dates of coverage: c.1540 – c.1824

Former owner: the Royal map collection, the bulk of which collected by George III (reigned 1760-1820)

Date reached British Museum: 1828 (Maritime collection in 1844)

Star items: too many to mention, but here goes: the Duke’s Plan of New York (pictured), the Roy map of Scotland, the Klencke atlas, architectural drawings by Nicholas Hawksmoor, drawings by Bernardo Bellotto.

Key research areas: British 18th century colonial history, the Americas, British topography.

Unusual facts: George III hated travelling. The maps were stored next to his bedroom.

Catalogues: British Library Search Our Catalogue

Online Links:  Help for reasearchers pages; Online exhibition of watercolours, topographical drawings and prints from the collection.

Further reading:  Peter Barber, 'George III and his collection'. An electronic offprint from The wisdom of George the Third: papers from a symposium at the Queen's gallery, Buckingham Palace June 2004(London: Royal Collection, 2005.)

The recent controversy surrounding the Times Comprehensive Atlas of the World was interesting in all sorts of ways.

 
Photo: Times Comprehensive Atlas of the World 

To recap: the publicity which accompanied the new 13th edition of the Times Atlas focused upon changes visible on the maps which had been wrought by environmental change. We saw the Aral Sea - or more appropriately the Aral mudflat. We also saw the eastern coast of Greenland with alarmingly diminished ice cover – 15% less ice than in 1999 according to the press release.

“We’re all going to die!” shouted the majority of the inhabitants of Norfolk, and promptly ran for the hills. “Hang on a minute, this can’t be right” shouted an incensed scientific community. And united in fury at the obvious inaccuracy (as well as not having been consulted in the first place), they forced concessions including an apology from the publishers HarperCollins, a promise to include an updated insert map, with a printed explanation of the error. Science showed cartography who was boss, no mistake there.

Whether the error was the result of deception or just a horrible misunderstanding (and it is difficult to believe the former), perhaps the only real mistake of the map was to define the incorrect border between the white (ice) and brown (once ice) so very clearly. The map, in short, was too good, and that made it terrible. My own pocket atlas shows a far more gradated, blurred division between ice and non ice. Actually, if you look at it in a certain way and with certain intent, it does seem to agree with the withdrawn claims. Now you see how very dangerous maps can be.

The widespread astonishment which greeted the revelation of an inaccurate map will have raised a wry smile amongst those of you who recognise the inherent subjectivity of maps.

However, to me the most interesting point about the argument is that it concerns the receding of ice-cover, a process of movement, whilst the map is a snapshot of a static and unmoving earth. Not a brilliant thing to show movement and change. Even while the atlas was being printed, the situation would have changed. At a sufficiently large scale, local changes in the ice would happen before our eyes. Why not publish a seasonal atlas, one for the summer months, one for the winter months, if you want to try and catch the flow, as well as the ebb.

There aren’t many precedents for a Cartographic and Topographical Materials departmental blog. Even if one includes pre-web incarnations such as log-keeping, reports and dispatches, early communication by British Museum/Library departments was underpinned by principles of formality and ‘need to know.’

In 1880, for example, when quaintly known as the ‘Map Library’, the department’s head R.H. Major was requested in writing by the principal librarian to

‘forward to me, as soon as you conveniently can, a report on the business done in the Department of Maps and on the nature and extent of the additions made to the collections under your charge,’ adding:

‘please cause the account of progress to be written out on one side only of the paper.’

Such extravagance in stationary usage did not extend to the language and content of the response, cursorily written with figures and understatement.

It is with revulsion that our predecessors would surely have greeted this first instalment of the Cartographic and Topographical departmental blog, formally the blog of last year’s British Library Magnificent Maps exhibition. Written by members of the curatorial team, the blog is a space for us to unashamedly communicate the work of the department and aspects of the collection, our projects, events and exhibitions, as well as allowing for comment upon maps, views and mapping in their wider contexts.

It seems appropriate for us to join the clamour of map-related online content. Map collections and their users continue to shape perceptions of cartography and topography. Mapping is increasingly created in diverse media, and ever more broadly defined. As things we use to define ourselves, the relevance of maps is arguably greater now than ever.

Hopefully, this blog will serve to remind you why maps are important, and with no economising on paper.

TH
Twitter feed: #BLMaps

Magnificent Maps ended last Sunday, and may I say a huge thank you to those of you who came and saw it over the past four months, making it the most successful exhibition in the history of the British Library.

It was genuinely thrilling to walk through the exhibition each afternoon, especially during the final weeks, and to see so many of you enjoying the spectacles. Many of you were also wearing spectacles. In fact, I strongly suspect a number of you visited the exhibition more than once, which is why free exhibitions are so great.

Here are some comparison shots of a) the gallery during the final weekend and b) the gallery a few moments ago.

 

All good things come to an end, and my task this week, and the task of the British Library's exhibition and conservation teams, has been to dismantle the show and get the maps of magnificence back safely into their cool, dark, underground homes. Laura from our registrars office has been co-ordinating the return of the loan maps to their various institutions. Its all proceeding really smoothly thanks to the dedication of all, and a real reminder of the large number of people and expertise needed to make something like this happen.Thank you to everyone who made Magnificent Maps a reality.

The show may be over, but the blog must go on! I see no reason to stop talking about maps, since not only have I and my colleagues much more to say, but maps continue to be around us, even if there isn't a map exhibition in the vicinity. Maps continue to excite opinions, anger and pleasure, in equal measure! Thanks for watching, and watch this space.  

We are into the final week of Magnificent Maps, and if you haven't seen it already may I heartily recommend that you do so.

Those who have seen the show will have noticed a great many features and details of maps which only they have identified. The proliferation of finger prints and, dare I say it, nose-prints, on the glass protecting many of the maps, tells me that visitors have been studying the exhibits perhaps a bit too carefully.

So, for those of us who like to look very carefully at maps, and would look even more carefully had we the time and eyesight, here is a detail of a map from 1570 for you to savour.

Yes, a ship which looks quite a lot like a woodpecker.

Lubecca Urbis Imperialis...
by Elias Diebel.
Lübeck, 1552 (1574),
woodcut on 24 sheets, 74 x 338 cm.
British Library Maps R.17.c.10

 
This monstrous woodcut view of Lübeck in Northern Germany really knocked me out when I first unrolled it. It is one of the largest, most animated and powerful depictions of a city I think I've ever seen, and the image above really doesn't do justice to it. Observe below, from left to right. It goes on... 

and on...

and on...

and on.
 

It is one of only two surviving examples of the giant view of Lübeck first produced in 1552 (the British Library's example dates from 1574). It was printed from 24 separate blocks of wood onto 24 sheets of paper which were then joined. It rather puts the de' Barbari map of Venice, which comprises a mere 6 (albeit far larger) sheets, firmly in the shade.

The monumental scale and effort was, of course, designed to impress. Lübeck was one of the world's busiest and most powerful cities, and it had been since the 14th century, when had been granted the status of Imperial Free City by the emperor. This made it autonomous, exempt from taxes and laws, able to do what it liked. It was the chief town of a massive trade organisation known as the Hanseatic League, which pretty much controlled trade in the Baltic and northern waters. Lübeck was their proud capital, the 'Queen of the Hanse.'

Lübeck is described by the BBC website as 'another picturesque little German town,' but in the 15th century it was one of the big urban centres. Imagine its modern equivalent as New York City (or Newport, Gwent), imagine a sixteenth century German Jay-Z waxing lyrical about it via the gift of song. 

Yes, this print is Lübeck's 'look at me' moment, and what really gets me is its extraordinary verticality. The eye is caught by the movement of the water and foreground activities, it travels up through the winding streets, up through the complex verticals of the churches and on to the soaring spires, flags and pediments, flocks of birds swooping and screeching around them.

This is a lively city, bustling with the activities of trade. Ships depart to the Baltic sea in the extreme right, whilst tradesmen enter the city to the left. An old crone with a rosary narrowly avoids getting run over by one of their carts. Again, just like New York! Don't walk...

 
This is a view of amazing vitality, and had I the opportunity again, perhaps it would have been squeezed into the exhibition. All 3 metres of it.

Map of Near and Middle East Oil
by Brian Orchard Lisle.
Fort Worth, 1965,
lithograph, 95 x 125 cm.
British Library Maps 46825.(6).

 
Maps and big business go well together. In the boardroom, as Hollywood confirms, the map is the essential 'prop' assisting the giant corporation on its path towards world domination, acting as a powerful symbol in the most serious money-making spaces.

Aiming for similar theatricality, we introduced into Magnificent Maps the 'merchants' room' space and filled it with maps supporting or commemorating big business ventures. Exhibits include maps of North Atlantic fishing quotas (Newfoundland, 1693) and land speculation (Pennsylvania, 1687-8).  

This map, however, which we excluded from the final selection, deals with the biggest business of modern times: oil. 

The 'Map of Near and Middle East Oil' was one of a number of oil maps published from the 1940s onwards in Texas by the American oil trade publication The Oil Forum. It was updated throughout the 1960s to show, for officials and investors, the increasingly complex networks of ownership and influence, concessions, oilfields, refineries and pipelines in the decade prior to the oil boom of the 1970s.

It is a mesmerising mish-mash of tables, statistics, symbols, borders, lines, colours and patterns. Utterly incomprehensible to the lay viewer, and that is exactly the point of the map; it speaks to the initiated in their own language.

The map confuses me for a number of reasons. Its traditional format, the compass rose, the faux-Arabic lettering of the title, not to mention the colloquial labels and in-jokes ('European Turkey- to be or not to be' presumably refers to legislation governing oil drilling in the former Ottoman Empire) appears out-of-context with the map's otherwise humourless tone. I just don't understand it or where it is coming from. However, I'm intrigued by the feeling of distance it establishes between itself and me, even though it is a comparatively recent creation.  

I suppose what this tells us is that all maps have their particular audiences, and that our understanding of them has probably more to do with our perceptions of these audiences than the people themselves, their priorities, and for that matter, their maps.

[A map of Laois and Offaly]
London, ca.1565.
Ink and colours on linen, 51 x 36 cm.
British Library Cotton MS.Augustus I.ii.40

 
This map of Laois and Offaly in Ireland, painted onto cloth, was made in around 1565. I wasn't keen to include it in the exhibition because I felt it too small and not sufficiently awe-inspiring. But in hindsight (ah wonderful thing) I wish it had been included, since it illustrates an important point about the origin of the word 'map,' which derives from the medieval Latin meaning 'cloth.'   

Painted cloths are essentially poor man's tapestries. Anyone can afford to pay somebody to daub some paint on a rag and hang it on a wall, but it takes skill, materials, time and money to weave a tapestry. And so it is unusual, then, that this painted cloth map was probably produced for the decidedly unpauperish English royal family. 

It shows the the land immediately to the west of the English-controlled area of Ireland known as the 'Pale,' land which had hitherto been very much beyond it, but which in 1557 had found itself firmly within English sights. This map signifies the first English 'plantation' scheme in Ireland, which involved the confiscating of land from its owners (in this case the O'Moore and O'Connor clans) and settling mainly English soldier-landlords in their place. It shows the land, the woods, the terrain, natural boundaries which would continuously impede the English troops in their helpfully bright red uniforms. It also gives the names of Irish inhabitants, people who knew their land far too well to need the help of maps.

The Map presented the lie of the land favourably for the monarch and chief advisors' eyes. Laois and Offaly have been renamed King's and Queen's counties, the two main forts renamed Maryborough and Philipstown after Queen Mary (reigned 1553-1558) and her husband. Your majesties! It also provided important, secret and presumably quite urgent geographical information for the eyes of the ruling elite. Let's face it, you wouldn't want to wait for the tapestry, you'd settle for the speedily produced tapestry imitation 'painted cloth!', which offered at least a modecum of insulation for the walls of that drafty palace.