It will not have escaped anybody's attention that the most coveted prize of world football, the solid gold World Cup trophy, is all about the map. The globe has been crafted being borne aloft by players at the moment of ecstatic victory, not a struggling Atlas in sight.

 
I don't hear any complaints about the 'inaccuracy' of the globe in the statue, maybe because its accuracy is completely beside its purpose. It exists as a symbol of universality, inclusiveness, world domination (football-wise of course), meanings which accompany the image of the globe in statues, monuments and trophies the world over. I think the intended symbolism of this globe has been particularly potent to the 2010 World Cup, despite there being a predictably Latin American - European dominance to the quarter final line-up. Perhaps we may yet witness a huge surprise.

Unfortunately we were unable to include the trophy in the Magnificent Maps exhibition. We asked a certain 11 sportsmen to fetch it for us, but they appear to have returned empty-handed.   
   

A formidable double act indeed.

We now have a podcast of 'The Map in the Palace' event, recorded in our Conference Centre on 14 June.

The inimitable Dr David Starkey and Head of Maps Peter Barber discuss the importance of maps in medieval and early modern palaces, and how they combined art, science, and power to enhance their impact.

Warning! It lasts for 70 min 38 sec, so don't try to download it if you are on a slow internet connection.

(Or play it in your default media player.)

This link will take you to our Magnificent Maps podcast page

A big thank you to everyone who attended the British Library academic symposium 'Maps in Context' on Monday afternoon. The event featured six papers which looked at the display and function of maps within their original settings. These included the Elizabethan Sheldon Tapestry maps (presented with some superb images by Hilary Turner), the political circumstances which motivated Fred Rose's Serio-comic Maps (Rod Barron), the crescent moon in European mapping (Lauren Beck), and the role of military maps of Scotland in the 18th century (Carolyn Anderson).

Another of the papers, by Genevieve Carlton, emphasised many of the problems which greet researchers looking into the display and reception of early maps, in Genevieve's case the 16th-century Venetian home. Inventories and lists of contents of these places are seldom so specific as to state implicitly the author, date, or subject of maps, and there is usually great ambiguity whether that discussed is a map at all. I know that this is something that affected Magnificent Maps, which was organised as far as possible upon documentary evidence for the types of maps selected.

We were treated to a perceptive evaluation of the modern map exhibition by Chris Perkins, who curated Mapping Manchester at the John Rylands Library last year. His compelling case for maps obtaining fresh histories from their modern display was based on visitor feedback, types of marketing and publicity, choice of exhibits, and reference to the present blog. Paranoid? I don't know what you mean!

The contextual approach to maps is very much a theme of the exhibition, and of the study of maps in general since the 1980s, the History of Cartography series, conceived by Brian Harley and David Woodward, advocated a social and cultural history of mapping. One of the aims of the symposium was to suggest that whereas map historians place maps within their contexts, historians in other fields could do worse than develop their contexts with the aid of maps.

A Map of the Great Levell of the Fenns...
by Jonas Moore.
London, 1658 (1824)
copperplate engraving on 16 sheets, 143 x 198 cm.
British Library Maps 184.l.1

 

There are two perspectives on Jonas Moore's map of the English Fens. On the one hand, it is a very large and dull map of one of the most featureless parts of England, which focuses upon the intensely dull subject of irrigation.

Alternatively, it is one of the real great British maps, a colossally expensive printed map of an up-and-coming part of eastern England, which celebrates one of the most important and multi-national business ventures of the seventeenth century. It even has great in its title.

 

The map commemorates the draining the English Fenland undertaken by the Bedford Corporation from the 1630s. The project promised the development of vast areas of rich pasture land (big money stuff), and involved a lot of digging, channelling and sluicing, planning, negotiation and investment.

Sir Jonas Moore (1617-1679), an ambitious man of surveying and mathematics, produced the map to commemorate the success of the project, finished by 1656 and approved by the appointed commissioners. The investors got their return (unsurprisingly, since many of them also sat on the commission), and there was much rejoicing. They also would have got a copy of the map to put on their wall as a symbol of their success. If you look at the map, you can see the newly-dug channels stretching diagonally across the land, carrying the excess water out to sea; incredible, almost violent changes wrought upon the land. The project had literally changed the face of the land, and the map proves it. This was big-business, 17th century style.

Only one example of the first edition of the map survives, in The National Archives at Kew. This has the arms of each of the investors around the edge of the map, which were removed from subsequent printings as many of the men were to see their positions compromised with the restoration of the monarchy in 1660. The map was re-printed a number of times, even as late as 1824, suggesting that a century-and-a-half later it had assumed an almost iconic significance.

Moore's map has been termed 'a giant amongst early English printed large scale topographical maps,'
but magnificent? The jury's still out.

“The Red-Lined Map”

by John Mitchell.

London, 1775 (with manuscript additions to 1782)

Copperplate engraving on 8 sheets, 136 x 195 cm.

British Library Maps K.Top 118.49.b

 
John Mitchell's The British and French Dominions in North America is a hugely significant map with an incredible history, and one would have thought The British Library's copy of it - 'The Red-Lined Map' - a dead cert for inclusion in Magnificent Maps. 

Mitchell's was the most up-to-date map of North America from the 1750s, but by 1783 its title at least was out of date, since the 'British and French dominions' had become the 'newly independent and victorious United States of America' after the British defeat in the American War of Independence that same year.

Now here is the interesting part. The British Library's copy of the map was actually used by the British delegation in negotiations for the Treaty of Paris, which established the terms of the United States' independence. Red lines were drawn onto it by British delegates to show the proposed new borders of the country. Hence the 'Red-Lined Map' moniker. 

But here is the even more interesting part. If you look at the map you'll see a red horizontal line running across northern Canada, far further north than the eventual U.S.A.-Canadian boundary, established in 1783. Clearly the British were prepared to surrender far more land than they eventually did, and so scared were they at this being found out that successive governments forbade unauthorised access to the map in the British Museum until 1896.

I bet they wished they'd used a pencil.

And so why, you ask, why did this cartographic colossus not make the exhibition? Well (I answer), the map deserved a rest after appearing in the amazing Maps: Finding our Place in the World in Chicago in 2007-8, as well as in the British Library's own Lie of the Land show of 2001-2. Perhaps more importantly, we were keen to include as many lesser-known maps as possible, so we opted for a different side of the story to the 'Red-Lined Map', and a map which has lived in its shadow for too long. Abel Buell's map of 1784 is the first map of the United States to have been made by an American, and a true demonstration of national pride. Come and see it if you possibly can. Let nothing stand in your way.  

A Delineation of the Strata of England and Wales...
by William Smith,
London, 1815.
Copperplate engraving on 15 sheets, 258 x 180 cm.
British Library Maps K.Top 5.76.6.TAB 

 

The first of our magnificent maps that didn't make the final cut is the first geological map of England and Wales, made by William Smith in 1815. One of the British Library's examples was owned by King George III. I've started with this map partly in order to quell any unrest at its non-inclusion, but also to emphasise how oh so close it was to making it.

The life work of amateur geologist William Smith (1769-1839) has been compellingly told in Simon Winchester's The Map That Changed the World (London, 2001). Smith was one of a new breed of late eighteenth-century scientists to see the earth as comprising the compressed remains of the past. The idea of a world many millions of years older than traditionally thought held big implications, both for religious denominations, and for fossil-fuel powered Britain in the early nineteenth-century. Smith's map was the first national map to express this visually by indicating different rock types and strata using colour, added by hand. These subtle shades of colour lend the map an almost accidental elegance and beauty.

Maps don't often herald change, they reflect it. Smith was one of those driven, inspired figures occasionally encountered in history, and his achievement in producing the map was immense, but he wasn't alone in pioneering the study of geology. James Hutton, for example, had published an important paper on geology in 1785, whilst Georges Cuvier and Alexandre Brongniart had already produced a geological map of the environs of Paris in 1810-11. Smith's achievements weren't properly acknowledged at the time, but perhaps they have been overstated since.

So to the reason for its non-choosing. Smith's is a wonderful map, and would have been perfect for the 'school area' of the exhibition because of its contrubution to understanding and the advancement of knowledge. Unfortunately, at over 2.5 metres tall, it was just too big for the particular part of the gallery.

And so, unlucky William Smith, the fates have conspired against you once more.

Selecting 100 magnificent maps from a collection of 4.5 million wasn't easy. Would you like to know how we did it?

I shall tell you anyway.

Although Peter had been developing ideas for an exhibition of display maps arranged contextually for some time, preparations began in earnest in January 2009. We had already established the framework of spaces in which to place the maps (palace, schoolroom etc.), and had a reasonable idea of the sort of messages we wanted the maps to contain. We felt it important to consider any maps which we knew were originally displayed in these spaces (The c.1425 Cottonian map of Italy for example, which was almost certainly owned by Henry VIII and displayed in Whitehall). 

We knew of specific maps in the collection which we wanted to include - The Klencke atlas, and the Desceliers world map of 1550, but we felt that other big favourites, like the 'Red-Line Map' of the United States, should not automatically be guaranteed a place. You see, we wanted to show as many objects as possible which had not been displayed before. We decided, therefore, to look at as many maps from the collections as we could, leaving no map unglimpsed. Our criteria for our searches was simple: maps needed a) to have been 'separately issued' - i.e. not published in book form, and b) be visually impressive.

Although there exist records for the British Library's maps on the Integrated Catalogue and various printed catalogues, in none of them are you likely to find information such as 'this is a really beautiful map with wonderful colour.' Library catalogues just don't work like that. So, with a clear grasp of my mission, and armed with a pad of paper and a pencil, I headed solemnly for the basement.

I emerged some 6 months later with a long list of around 800 maps. I'd looked at each of the 1,400 maps stored as rolls (see below), and around 250 portflios containing large maps stored as separate sheets. In addition, I'd looked at each of the 26,000 sheet maps produced before the year 1800. I proceeded to make myself a nice cup of tea.

 
Above: in the storage area, with the tremendous Cornelis Anthoniszoon map of Amsterdam from 1544 which sadly (and somewhat unbelievably) didn't make the final cut.  

Above: These childish scribbles show the selection process in action. We graded maps A - C, A being the best.   

To the 800 we also included a significant number of maps from the Manuscript collection, and a small number from the Oriental collections. We had uncovered some absolutely remarkable maps and views, many of which had not been looked at for possibly hundreds of years, but we had enough material for 8 exhibitions.

Reducing the number of maps from 800 to 100 was a long and painful process (not unlike infanticide, Peter observed, as many dear maps were to fall by the wayside). I think we chose wisely, and in accordance with the very strict requirements of the settings. But as an apology to those great maps not included, and to placate those of you whose favourites didn't make it, from next week I'll be featuring in turn the 'Ten Magnificent Maps which didn't quite make the exhibition.'

Taking my thrice daily stroll around Magnificent Maps I've needed to be nimble on my toes! Such has been the extraordinary level of interest in the show that groups of visitors gather around pretty much every map, or stand admiring the overall effect of the spaces we have recreated.

An early frontrunner for the most popular map, apart from Stephen Walter's The Island, is the hand-painted world map of 1582 by the Greek sailor Antonio Millo. It looks positively sublime when looked upon from the opposite side of the gallery, but reveals itself to be rather odd upon closer inspection. See if you can spot the sea-monster/King Charles Spaniel swimming in the Atlantic Ocean. 

There have also been some very interesting and well-attended guided tours, which I am enjoying very much. I noticed Peter's tour yesterday - or at least, I noticed a throng of around 40 people with Peter's voice emanating from somewhere in the middle.

But most pleasingly there's been a great mix of visitors, and as I read somewhere in a recent article, some very articulate visitors with perceptive comments: comments I reserve the right to borrow for further guided tours should I happen to overhear them.

Alas, I'm afraid I haven't seen a visitor as appropriately dressed as I would have liked. No map-themed ties or T-shirts, and certainly no threads as special as those illustrated in Christa Weil's Fashion Preserve blog. Marvellous stuff, and don't listen to Christa: matching dress IS compulsory.

Perhaps we should have created a catwalk space in the exhibiiton. Verily I say, maps are everywhere.