The rocky road to ruins: trying to understand Hampi

 

Fig 1 Hampi: ruined temples in a rocky landscape

The thing I most wanted to see on my recent Indian trip was Hampi, a sprawl of half-ruined temples in the central Deccan plateau, about 300km east of Goa. I had never heard of it until the archaeologist George Michell gave a lecture to my SOAS class. Michell had an understandable fondness for Hampi, having first seen it in the 1960s when its decaying ruins were occupied by mystic yogis and pot-smoking backpackers. It was largely through his work that the site became a subject for serious archaeological research. 

Hampi is commonly described as the former capital of a great Hindu empire that was destroyed by its neighbours, the five Muslim sultanates to the north (see map below). The 40 sq km city was the core of the Vijayanagara empire (founded in the 14th C) whose rulers filled it with temples and palaces. These were decimated after the Battle of Talikota (1565) when the five sultanates ganged up, invaded the place and beheaded the 80-year-old de facto ruler Rama Raya, after which the empire never recovered. This account sits comfortably with popular socio-political views in present-day India. 

Fig 2  Vijayanagara Empire in 1520 (modern cities shown for reference). Source: globalsecurity.org 

Except there is clearly a lot more to it. As you stagger up and down the rocky slopes from one temple to the next, it becomes clear that Hampi was based around a cluster of myths and legends re-interpreted by rulers who switched from one deity to another over a period of two centuries. 

For a start, the site was never known as Hampi but as Vijayanagara – “City of Victory” – which gave the empire its name. It was founded in 1336 by two brothers from the Sangama clan, successful military commanders looking to build an empire. They settled by the village of Hampi whose name derived from the local river goddess Pampa. Pampa does not appear in ancient Hindu texts but the legend somehow spread that she had married the god Virupaksha (a form of Shiva). Virupaksha just happened to be the family deity of the Sangama clan, who clearly understood the power of mythology.

This fascination with mythology continues in the Ramachandra Temple (the “Hazara Rama”, Fig 3), built in the early 15th C by King Devaraya II. The Sangamas’ allegiance seems to have shifted to Vishnu by this time, but Devaraya went further and chose to worship him in the form of Rama, ninth avatar of Vishnu and hero of the ancient epic the Ramayana. No-one knows why he did this (there may already have been a local Rama cult) but like his ancestors, Devaraya understood the power of being associated with a religious legend.

Fig 3  Scenes from the Ramayana at the Ramachandra Temple (Hazara Rama)

This may be why Hampi is thick with references to the Ramayana. Images of the monkey god Hanuman, who helped Rama to rescue his abducted wife Sita, appear everywhere (Fig 4). Hampi was said to be the location of Kishkindha, the monkey kingdom in the legend. To underline this, various sites were named after key points in the story: Anjaneya Hill (where Hanuman was born), Malyavanta Hill (where Rama and his brother Lakshmana took refuge),  Sugreeva’s Cave (where the monkey king Sugreeva found Sita’s jewellery which she had dropped as a clue) and Matanga Hill (home of the sage Matanga and the meeting-place of Rama, Hanuman and Sugreeva). 

Fig 4  Carving of Hanuman with Rama and Lakshmana, on Hemakuta Hill

Fig 5 Modern-day monkeys on Hemakuta Hill

Archaeologists also believe that temples like the Ramachandra were aligned with these auspicious sites to ensure power and protection, e.g. Matanga Hill and Malyavanta Hill are both directly visible from the centre of the Ramachandra’s principal shrine (Fig 6). 

Fig 6 Alignment of Ramachandra Temple with important Ramayana sites, by John Fritz. 

Source: The Ramachandra Temple at Vijayanagara, ed. Anna Dallapiccola

Despite his fascination with Rama, Devaraya was careful not to forget Pampa, the site’s original goddess. The main shrine at the Ramachandra bears the inscription: “Devaraya too is blessed by Pampa”. This courtesy is absent from later monuments, for example the huge Narasimha statue built by King Krishna Devaraya of the later Tuluva dynasty in 1528 (Fig 7). The statue, now a major tourist attraction, originally comprised Narasimha and his consort Lakshmi. Only the man-lion remains now, Lakshmi having been pulverised by the sultanates' armies in 1565. Perhaps it was unwise to neglect Pampa.

Fig 7 Figure of Narasimha, man-lion avatar of Vishnu, 1528. H: 6.5m

Similarly, the gorgeous Vittala temple complex (mid-15th to mid-16th C) is an entirely Vaishnavite monument, known for its chariot-shaped Garuda shrine (Fig 8) and the ornately carved pillars of the main temple hall (Fig 9). By this time, the ruling Tuluva dynasty had quietly forgotten about Virupaksha and Pampa.

Fig 8 Garuda shrine, Vittala temple complex

Fig 9  Carved pillars, main hall, Vittala temple complex

So how did the Vijayanagara empire meet its end? The popular version of a Hindu empire destroyed by Muslim invaders does not give the full story. The remains of ancient mosques and Jain temples show that the city was tolerant of other faiths. Thousands of Turkish and Persian men were employed in the army. The influence of Muslim or “Persianate” culture is visible in the beautiful Lotus Mahal (Fig 10), with its lobed arches and ornate plaster work. The same Persianate flair is seen in the nearby Elephant Stables (Fig 11) with domes and pointed arches set in perfect symmetry.

Fig 10  Lotus Mahal royal pavillion, c. mid-15th C

Fig 11  Elephant stables, c. mid-15th C

North of the border, though, relations with the five Muslim sultanates were shaky, partly due to Vijayanagara’s periodic attempts to invade their territory. In 1543, Rama Raya (son-in-law of Krishna Devaraya) seized power from his nephew, the rightful heir. Rama Raya was a capable leader who maintained the empire’s position by playing off the sultanates against each other, knowing that no individual state had a bigger army than he did. But his growing sense of superiority (he once forced the Sultan of Ahmednagar to eat betel-nut from his hand as a form of humiliation) was his downfall. The sultanates eventually realised that their combined forces were a lot bigger than Rama Raya’s. So they invaded Vijayanagara and executed him, leaving behind a picturesque set of ruins to be enjoyed by tourists of all denominations.

Getting some perspective on Hampi required a lot of research, not least because the archaeological studies (brilliant though they are) are not closely tied to Vijayanagara’s socio-political history. On the latter, I found the work of Richard Eaton indispensable, especially his account of the life of Rama Raya. 

There was also a lot of misleading tourist information to wade through. But most tourists, I suspect, are just glad to have seen Hampi without tumbling down one of its steep rocky slopes. My rather elderly tour group made it back in one piece, thanks be to Hanuman! (and Pampa)

References:

City of Victory: Vijayanagara (1991), John Fritz and George Michell

A Social History of the Deccan (2000), Richard Eaton

India in the Persianate Age 1000-1765 (2020), Richard Eaton

Demons in the detail: temple architecture of the Hoysala dynasty

Fig 1. Narasimha at Chennakeshava temple, Belur

I recently visited the state of Karnataka, India, where I fulfilled a long-standing ambition to see the ancient temples of the Deccan region. But not everything translated well into print or pictures: the famous site of Hampi, for example, is a vast complex of ruined temples dotted across a rocky landscape which quite defeated my pathetic phone-camera.

Instead, it was the less famous though equally beautiful temples that provided good blog material. And this image (Fig 1)  has always been a favourite of mine, partly because it’s deliciously gory but also because of its underlying legalistic humour.

What we see is the god Vishnu disembowelling the demon-king Hiranyakashipu (those two long chains are his intestines, meticulously carved in stone). As told in the Bhagavata Purana (an 8th-9th C religious text), the demon persuaded the god Brahma to make him invincible. The terms of the gift, however, were that Hiranyakashipu could not be killed (a) by man or beast, (b) indoors or outdoors, or (c) by night or day. 

Vishnu overcame these parameters easily by assuming the form of the man-lion Narasimha (neither man nor beast ✓) and killing the demon on the threshold of his home (neither indoors nor outdoors ✓) at the point of sunset (neither night nor day ✓). Which goes to show that even a demon-king needs to check the small print.

This particularly gruesome version comes from the Chennakeshava temple at Belur, a 12th C temple dedicated to Vishnu, built by the kings of the Hoysala dynasty. The Hoysalas ruled a large part of the Deccan from the 10th to the 13th C, but are not especially famous today: they never achieved the domination of the Cholas (whose rule extended to South-east Asia) or the glory of the Mughals. 

Fig 2. Approximate area of Hoysala kingdom, 10th-13th C

Their place in history is secured, however, by their temple architecture which is ornate to the point of obsession. The level of detailing stands out even in a milieu that is not known for restraint. Italian Rococo is perhaps the only other school that comes close.

In Fig 3 for example we see the 12th C Hoysaleswara temple at Halebidu, dedicated to Shiva.  As at Belur and the other great temple at Somnathpur (which I didn’t visit), the façade is densely layered and segmented, providing multiple surfaces for the display of religious sculpture. The material used was chloritic schist, also known as soapstone (not to be confused with the soapstone in fake jade jewellery). This relatively soft but supple stone can be carved intricately without crumbling, a quality of which the Hoysala sculptors took full advantage.

Fig 3. Hoysaleswara temple, Halebidu

Each of the carved panels looks like it took a lifetime to complete. And from the architectural plans (below), it seems that each of the linga sanctuaries (the star-shaped sections on the left) was designed with as many facets as possible to provide space for ornamentation.

Source: Temples of Deccan India, George Michell

The two door-guardians at the main entrance (Fig 4) are perfect examples of the microscopic detailing typical of Hoysala sculpture.

Fig 4. Door-guardians at Halebidu

The outer walls are covered with carved panels with borders of leaves, flowers or animals. The one in Fig 5 depicts Ganesha (right) and a rare image of Brahma riding a peacock (left). Each bead in their jewellery and head-gear is carved in three-dimensional detail. Even Ganesha’s pet rat (under his feet) wears a jewelled harness and has sharp little claws on each toe. 

Fig 5. Brahma (L) and Ganesha (R) at Halebidu

Stories from the Bhagavata Purana, the Mahabharata or the Ramayana were the sculptors’ favourite subjects. The panel in Fig 6 depicts the ace archer Arjuna (from the Mahabharata) shooting an arrow into the eye of a fish-shaped target suspended high above. In the story, Arjuna uses only a reflection in a bowl of water to take his aim. The sculptor depicts Arjuna’s right arm pulled back and his hand wide open as if he has just released the arrow. His right leg is bent so that he can shoot upwards but his eyes are downcast, looking only at the reflection in the water.

Fig 6. Arjuna the archer, Belur

In Fig 7 at Belur, Vishnu outwits another demon-king, named Bali, who has taken over the universe. Vishnu, disguised as a dwarf, begs Bali to give him a little piece of land, so small that he can cover it in three steps. The demon-king agrees. Vishnu then reveals himself and takes two gigantic steps covering the earth and the universe. Bali, admitting defeat, offers his own head as the last step and Vishnu takes it, thus securing his victory. 

Fig 7. Trivikrama panels at Belur

The story is carved on two neighbouring niches: the dwarf on the left (with his little umbrella) making his request to Bali, and Vishnu on the right, taking one of his giant steps which makes him look like he's dancing the can-can. This popular image, known as Trivikrama (the three steps), appears at Vishnu temples across southern India. 

It was touching to see these stories being re-told to groups of local visitors (we were the only foreigners there), as they probably were hundreds of years ago. 

More trip-based posts to come when I finish sorting out my 300+ photos.

God or goddess? Guan-yin at the Burrell Collection

 

Fig 1  The bodhisattva Guan-yin. Approx 1100-1200 CE, Song Dynasty, China
Wood with paint and gilt. Burrell Collection, Glasgow

A year after my Berlin fiasco with British Airways, I spent my measly refund (thanks, BA!) on a flight to Glasgow to see the Burrell Collection, a huge stash of art amassed by Scottish millionaire William Burrell in the early 20^th century.

After a major refurbishment, the museum re-opened in 2022. The renovated spaces are lovely (and warm – important in Scotland!) but it was the new display labels that set off a Twitter-storm. In fact, that was the main reason for my visit because I couldn’t believe what I had heard.

Fig 2  The renovated Burrell building in typical Scottish weather

Attention centred on the labelling of two figurines of the Chinese deity Guan-yin. This deity, widely worshipped in East Asia as a goddess, evolved out of the Indian male bodhisattva[1] Avalokitesvara after Buddhism spread from India into China. This gender evolution is one of the great mysteries of East Asian Buddhism and worthy of close study. But the Burrell went with:

Figs 3-5  Figure of Guan-yin and accompanying labels. Burrell Collection, Glasgow

This was the most notable, but not the only, example of “new” labelling. Elsewhere, a Tang Dynasty dancer figurine was labelled: “Do you like to dance? This girl does. She’s moving her body and clothes to show off her dancing skills.” And other examples in a similar vein.

All British museums are under pressure to be more “inclusive” if they want to retain public funding, so the Burrell’s labels may be driven by this. Or it may be an attempt to go viral to boost visitor numbers. The museum has defended its approach (see this link) and was even named as the UK Art Fund’s 2023 Museum of the Year. It pushed me to research Guan-yin’s evolution in greater detail, which turned out to be quite complicated (surprise!) so this post is a bit long.

The name “Guan-shi-yin”, later shortened to “Guan-yin”, first appeared in Chinese translations of Buddhist scriptures in the 3^rd century CE. In one of the main scriptures, the Lotus Sutra, the Buddha praises the compassionate nature of a bodhisattva named Avalokitesvara. When this was translated from Sanskrit, the name Avalokitesvara (“lord who sees from high”) became “Guan-shi-yin” (“one who perceives/senses the entire world”), reflecting his mission to hear and assist all persons in need.

The original sutra does not specify Avalokitesvara’s gender. The “svara” component of his name typically refers to a male aristocrat or lord. But the sutra lists 33 different forms which he has assumed in order to carry out his tasks, of which 7 are female, so it seems a female persona was not ruled out.

Indian religious art invariably depicts Avalokitesvara as male, as in Fig 6 below where he sports a luxuriant moustache, a bare chest and an impressive set of abs.

Fig 6   Figure of Avalokitesvara. Approx 200 CE. Grey schist stone. Gandhara, Pakistan. Source: Los Angeles Country Museum of Art

But in China and amongst the Chinese diaspora, the same deity is worshipped as a goddess and is typically depicted as below. How did the Indian version evolve into this?

Fig 7   Guan-yin. 18th C, Qing Dynasty, China. Dehua porcelain. Source: National Gallery of Australia

Early Buddhist imagery in China focused on the Buddha himself. This changed in the 5^th- 6^th centuries when the religion prospered under a series of devoutly Buddhist rulers. Guan-yin began to appear in sculpture as a slender figure dressed in elaborate robes and jewels (Figs 8 and 9). The clothes and jewellery probably came from Indian religious imagery, as well as from the Lotus Sutra which says that Avalokitesvara once received a magnificent necklace as a reward. But sculptors seemed to prefer a slimmer physique, unlike the Indian model. A modern viewer might already perceive these figures as female, though one cannot assume the same of 6^th C viewers.

Fig 8 (L) Guan-yin. Northern Qi Dynasty (550-577). Sandstone. Source: British Museum
Fig 9 (R)  Guan-yin. Northern Zhou or early Sui Dynasty (approx 580 CE). Limestone. Source: Museum of Fine Art, Boston

By the 8^th-9^th C, Guan-yin’s role as a saviour deity had won him a major following in China, especially at the Mogao cave temples in Dunhuang. Devotees commissioned paintings of him in various sitting and standing poses: someone even requested a double portrait (Fig 10 below).

Depictions from this period give him a softer, more fluid appearance: apparently, the 8^th C painter Han Gan sometimes used local courtesans as models for his bodhisattvas.  Nonetheless, the deity often had a pencil moustache and sometimes a tiny beard (as in Fig 10) as a reminder of his gender. In some paintings, this looks odd against the languid posture, full lips, plush robes and jewellery. Were artists already pushing the gender boundaries? 

Fig 10  Two Guan-yins painted on silk banner. 8-9th C. Mogao caves, Dunhuang. Source: International Dunhuang Project, British Museum 

In the 10^th century, the gender issue became more apparent with two new depictions of Guan-yin. One was the Water-Moon Guan-yin, showing him seated in a relaxed pose by a bamboo-fringed pond against a full moon. He still has masculine features: in the earliest known version from 943 CE (Fig 11), he has a vestigial moustache and beard, while in Fig 12 he is clean-shaven but has broad shoulders and muscular arms.

When this image was popularised in sculpture a century later, the deity still looked androgynous – see for example the Burrell’s own 12^th C piece (Fig 1). A variation known as Guan-yin of the Southern Seas often showed the deity looking positively Amazonian (Fig 13).

Fig 11  Water-Moon Guan-yin painted on silk. 943 CE. Mogao Caves, Dunhuang. Source: Musee Guimet, Paris

Fig 12  Water-Moon Guan-yin. 925-975 CE. Painting on paper. Mogao Caves, Dunhuang. Source: British Museum

Fig 13  Guan-yin of the Southern Seas. 11-12th C. Wood with paint and gilt. H: 2.4m. Source: Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, Kansas City.

The other new image to emerge was the White-robed Guan-yin, which historian Yu Chun-Fang suggests was the first overtly feminine depiction. An early example is at the Yanxia cave temple near Hangzhou (Fig 14) from the 10^th or 11^th C. This sculpture has much in common with modern Guan-yin images: the flowing hooded robe, the soft posture, demure downward-looking face and the prayer-beads held in one hand.

Fig 14  Guan-yin in a hooded robe. Mid-10th C. Limestone. 1.85m. Yanxia Caves, Hangzhou. Source: Broeskamp, 2014

But then the evidential trail starts to run cold. The decline of the Mogao cave temples meant fewer religious paintings to show us developments in the depiction of Guan-yin. With the rise of Confucianism under the new Song Dynasty, painters preferred subjects like landscapes and nature. Images of Guan-yin from that period are more often found in sculpture, where the Water-Moon or Southern Seas versions were popular.

Artists never lost interest in the White-robed Guan-yin though: in this rare 13^th C painting (Fig 15), the artist has fused two forms: he has painted the bamboo and full moon from the Water-Moon but the deity is White-robed with a feminine appearance. 

Fig 15  White-robed Guan-yin. 13th C, Southern Song Dynasty. Ink on paper. Source: Cleveland Museum of Art, Ohio 

And in this early 14^th C painting (Fig 16), the full moon has become a halo but the deity wears a billowing hooded white robe. I think these images show how the foundations of modern Chinese Guan-yin imagery were laid.

Fig 16  White-robed Guan-yin. Approx 1300 CE, China. Ink on paper. Signed by Jueji Yongzhong. Source: Cleveland Museum of Art, Ohio

By the 13-14^th centuries, images of Guan-yin with masculine features had become rare in China. Instead, worship centred on the belief that the deity could help women to bear children. This “child-giving” ability was highlighted in a locally-penned Chinese sutra which (in modern terms) went viral. Unsurprisingly, when artists wanted a template to portray a Child-giving Guan-yin, they chose the feminine persona of the White-robed Guan-yin. Yu Chun-Fang argues that this was the deciding factor in Guan-yin’s gender transformation in China, which I think is plausible.

To emphasise her raison d'etre, the Child-giving Guan-yin was portrayed carrying a child, looking unmistakeably female. This appeared as early as the late Song/Yuan period as in Fig 17 below, and remained popular for centuries thereafter.

Fig 17 (L)  Stele of Guan-yin holding a child. 11th-14th C. Grey stone. Source: Christie's
Fig 18 (R)  Guan-yin with infant. Late 17th C. Dehua porcelain. Source: Royal Collections Trust, UK

The feminine Guan-yin received further impetus when Christian missionaries arrived in China in the 16^th century. Some of them (it is alleged) used the visual similarity between the Child-giving Guan-yin and the Virgin Mary to attract converts. The Virgin and Child certainly became one of the most popular Christian images in the region. A major producer of these was the Dehua kilns in Fujian who were famous for their white porcelain Guan-yins; only a small tweak in iconography was needed for their Christian clientele.

As an interesting side-note, the Guan-yin/Virgin link gained significance in Japan in the 17^th-18^th C when Christianity was banned. Christians could, however, acquire a “Guan-yin” figure (known in Japan as Kannon) and secretly worship it as the Virgin Mary. This gave rise to the Maria Kannon (Fig 19), often made at Dehua in China and smuggled into Japan. The similarities with Fig 18 above are obvious, though Maria Kannons usually had a concealed Christian icon (e.g a tiny crucifix). 

Fig 19  Maria Kannon. 17th C, Ming or Qing Dynasty. Dehua porcelain.Source: Tokyo National Museum

In both Japan and Korea, where the child-giving aspect was not so wide-spread, images of Guan-yin with male features persisted well into the 19^th C, as in the two examples below where he has a moustache and beard. A 17^th C moustachioed figure of Gwaneum (as he is known) is listed as a national treasure of Korea and worshipped at the Beopjusa Temple to this day. In China and the major centres of Chinese migration (Singapore, Taiwan and Hong Kong) however, it would be nigh impossible to find a non-female Guan-yin now.  

Fig 20 (L)  Bodhisattva Kannon on a dragon, by K Kyosai. 19th C. Japan. Source: Tokyo National Museum

Fig 21 (R)  White-robed Avalokitesvara (Gwaneum). 19th C. Korea. Source: Philadelphia Museum of Art

This post is a ruthlessly summarised account of one issue (gender transformation) within a complicated topic where a lot of key historical facts are missing. To sum up: Avalokitesvara as Guan-yin was portrayed in China as male until at least the 10^th C, when depictions began to diverge. The popularity of the Child-giving Guan-yin weighed in favour of a female image, and the Guan-yin/Virgin connection supported this preference. I haven’t had space to discuss other avatars of Guan-yin, like the Thousand-armed Guan-yin or the intriguingly named Fish-basket Guan-yin.

Researching this subject, I’ve been struck by how fluid religious beliefs can be over time. In this troubled era, Guan-yin’s role as a non-judgemental saviour of humanity rather suggests that his/her gender is irrelevant. So although I'm still dubious about the Burrell’s labels, the Burrell Guan-yin’s advice (after many years in Glasgow) would probably be to get over it and be grateful that such an impressive collection is accessible for free. Definitely worth a visit if you are in Scotland.

References:

Guanyin: the Chinese transformation of Avalokitesvara (2001), Yu Chun-Fang

"The Construction and dissemination of a new visual idiom - the White-robed Guanyin and the Upper Tianzhu monastery in Hangzhou" (2014). Bernadette Broeskamp

Chinese sculpture - a great tradition (2007), Ann Paludan

[1] In Buddhism: an enlightened being who chooses to serve the mortal world instead of ascending to Nirvana. Often depicted in art as attendants of the Buddha.

Imperial clocks from the Palace Museum, Beijing

Fig 1. Clock in the form of a pagoda with extending mechanism. Height 126cm, to 158cm fully extended.
Gilded copper with coloured stones. 18^th C. Made in England (maker’s name unknown)

This summer, London’s Science Museum plays host to 23 magnificent clocks from the Palace Museum, Beijing. Among the precious objects collected by emperors of the Qing dynasty (1644-1911), clocks were a great favourite, especially those with automated features known as zimingzhong 自明钟 (“self-chiming clocks”). The Palace Museum holds hundreds of them.  

But as you might expect of the Qing (not known for their restrained taste), these are not any old clocks. Time-keeping seems to be a secondary function: their main purpose is to knock your eye out with dazzling adornment and mechanical trickery.

Fig 2. Clock in the form of a crane with pavillion. Gilded copper, enamel and coloured stones.
18^th C. Made in England by James Cox, possibly with additional decoration in China. 

The one used on the exhibition’s publicity material (see above) is a modest example. Standing 38cm high, made of gilded copper and coloured glass, it takes the form of a crane carrying a pink-and-gold pavilion on its back, with a small clock-face attached. The crane turns back to offer an auspicious lingzhi fungus to the residents of the pavilion. It plays a tune every hour, or so we’re told: none of the exhibition’s clocks is active. 

While this is one of the least ostentatious pieces in the show, it embodies all the key attributes of the collection: the influence of foreign clock-makers (its mechanism was made in England), automated functions, the use of natural and religious imagery, and dazzling ornamentation.

A more typically bling example is the pagoda clock (Fig 1) which greets you as you enter the exhibition. Standing 1.26m high, elaborately wrought from gilded copper inset with deep blue stones, its nine tiers extend upwards like a concertina every three hours, and then retract three hours later, while the music box plays a Chinese folksong. It is one of a pair of pagoda clocks previously owned by the Emperor Qianlong. You can see its twin in action in this video from the Palace Museum (go to 02:00).  Have a look too at other examples of automation at 06:30 to 06:50. The museum workshop obviously takes great pride in restoring these devices.

Fig 3. Clock in the form of a lotus jar with opening flowers, swimming ducks, Daoist figurines and
musical device. Gilded copper, glass and enamel. Height 118cm. 18^th C. Made in the Palace workshops, Beijing.

I was very taken by this lotus jar clock (Fig 3), whose blossoms open to reveal three Daoist figurines (see below), while the little ducks swim round the pond to the sound of music.   

Fig 4. Detail from the lotus clock. The blossoms open to reveal (from left) a white ape,
the Queen Mother of the West, and a boy holding a peach. The blossoms close again when the music ends.

I could go on about the other pieces on display but here are some of the blingiest:

Fig 5. From L to R:

1) Elephant with clock on a plinth borne by four lions. Gilded copper with coloured stones. 18^th C. Height approx 100cm. Made in England. 

2) Double-gourd shaped clock mounted on two layers of automated scenes decorated with auspicious symbols. Gilded copper and enamel. 18^th C. Height 112cm. Made in Guangzhou, China.

3) Clock with knight and horse under a jewelled canopy. Gilded copper with coloured stones. 18^th C. Height 143cm. Made in England by Stephen Rimbault. The curtain rises and falls to music while a dragon flies across.

While the clocks are dazzling, the overall purpose of the exhibition is a bit vague. Is the aim just to astonish us with sparkly toys? In a display of “self-chiming clocks”, it’s disappointing to find none of them operational (a small notice explains that they are too old to be played regularly). There are a couple of videos showing clocks in action, and another video in the hall outside showing an automated farmyard scene with pecking chickens and a barking dog. Otherwise you have to read the labels and use your imagination.  

Perhaps there is a scientific purpose? The exhibition offers some models of cogs and wheels to play with but these time-keeping mechanisms were known in Europe two centuries before they arrived in China. The Science Museum has a Clockmakers gallery so perhaps this seemed like a good fit, but there’s no explicit link to it, which is strange. Also strange is the absence of an exhibition catalogue. A well-illustrated catalogue would have sold by the truckload, giving the museum some much-needed cash.

I found all this a tad frustrating because the rise of the Imperial clock collection links a number of important historical threads: notably the infiltration of foreign missionaries into China and the adoption of foreign technology by Chinese artisans. 

The Jesuit missionary Matteo Ricci (see my earlier post) first gave a pair of mechanised chiming clocks to the Wanli emperor of the Ming dynasty in 1601. Prior to this, Chinese timekeeping relied on cumbersome devices like sun-dials or water clocks. One famous water-driven clock, invented in 1092, was about 6m high (see below). Some foreign visitors were bemused that the Chinese, who invented printing and gunpowder, hadn’t figured out automated time-keeping.

Fig 6. Water-driven clock invented by imperial engineer Su Sung in 1092. Source: Cambridge University Press

The advent of European clocks running on weights and springs, much smaller and prettier than any existing devices, must have resembled the arrival of the iPhone. Eventually, any visitor seeking favour with the imperial court would include at least one luxury clock in their array of gifts, preferably sourced from elite makers like James Cox of London (French and Swiss makers were also in vogue). 

As the imperial collection grew, the Jesuits helped to repair and service these delicate toys. This, plus their skills in fine arts and astronomy, helped consolidate their place at court. They also practiced “cultural accommodation”, allowing their Christian converts to observe Confucian practices like ancestor worship. All other Christian missionaries forbade this and were duly thrown out of China by the Kangxi emperor in 1721. I like to think that the emperor didn’t want to lose the only people who could fix his precious clocks. 

Ever responsive to new trends, Chinese artisans began making their own zimingzhong, both within the Palace and around the city of Guangzhou where the Jesuits had their first Chinese mission. Their work shows a distinct blend of Chinese and European design features, as in Fig 7 where the double-gourd (symbol of health and longevity) sits on a platform borne by four rams. The animal-mounted platform (featuring lions, rhinos, bulls, etc) was a favourite detail used by British clock-makers. 

Fig 7. Double-gourd clock with mechanical features including automated scenes of Chinese rural life. Gilded copper with enamelling. Height 94cm. Dated 1790. Made in Guangzhou. Source: Liao (2002)

The Guangzhou clockmakers also catered for wealthy local residents for whom a European-style clock was a prestige item. This appeared in contemporary literature like the 18th century novel Dream of the Red Chamber, where the ownership of clocks and watches highlights the Jia family’s elite status. Eventually, of course, they became an everyday item for all levels of society.

Given this rich background, the Science Museum could have done more to flesh out the history of these devices (here's where a catalogue would have been useful!). But I’m grateful that they were able to bring these amazing pieces to London. As long as you’re happy to be blinded by bling, this exhibition is well worth a visit.