Every time I see historic swords, I am reminded of this strange person I encountered in the Accademia in Florence. An Englishman wearing a Thor's Hammer medallion, he divined that I shared his language, and, seemingly-eager to speak it, he began a lecture on the role of painting in the capturing an accurate image of historical weapons.
"I always look at paintings to see what historical weapons really looked like," he began. "Those museum pieces are all rubbish." This was his hook.
"A sword in a museum," he intoned, "is probably an artistic piece from the collection of some king or duke, or else a practical weapon. If it was practical, well, answer me this: if you bought a sword in England, and then you were out fighting in Brittany, and your pommel broke, would you buy a whole new sword? No," he answered his own rheotrical question, "you would not. You would just buy a new pommel."
He paused, his smile showing too many teeth.
"So!" he continued. "If you were then fighting in Burgundy, and your cross-hilt broke, you might just get that repaired or replaced. You might just replace your own hilt out of local wood. Now you have an English blade and tang, a Breton pommel, a Burgundian cross-hilt, and a field-rigged hilt with Burgundian wood. Where is that sword from? What kind of weapon is it?
"Painting, on the other hand, well. If you were a Florentine painter, like this fellow was," he waved idly at the painting I had been admiring, "and you wanted to paint a mace, you wouldn't go ask a soldier, would you? No, of course not. You would just go downstairs, to the markeplace, and sketch a new piece, fresh from the forge.
"That mace, therefore," and again, he gestured, thrusting one tobacco-stained finger at the painting, "is going to be more accurate to the period and locality than anything you might see in a museum."
At this point, his erudition expended, he began to tell me about some time-and-space-traveling British pulp hero (not Doctor Who; apparently it's a common theme in British popular fiction!) until I was able to make my excuses and slip away.
Every time I see historic swords, I am reminded of this strange person I encountered in the Accademia in Florence. An Englishman wearing a Thor's Hammer medallion, he divined that I shared his language, and, seemingly-eager to speak it, he began a lecture on the role of painting in the capturing an accurate image of historical weapons.
ReplyDelete"I always look at paintings to see what historical weapons really looked like," he began. "Those museum pieces are all rubbish." This was his hook.
"A sword in a museum," he intoned, "is probably an artistic piece from the collection of some king or duke, or else a practical weapon. If it was practical, well, answer me this: if you bought a sword in England, and then you were out fighting in Brittany, and your pommel broke, would you buy a whole new sword? No," he answered his own rheotrical question, "you would not. You would just buy a new pommel."
He paused, his smile showing too many teeth.
"So!" he continued. "If you were then fighting in Burgundy, and your cross-hilt broke, you might just get that repaired or replaced. You might just replace your own hilt out of local wood. Now you have an English blade and tang, a Breton pommel, a Burgundian cross-hilt, and a field-rigged hilt with Burgundian wood. Where is that sword from? What kind of weapon is it?
"Painting, on the other hand, well. If you were a Florentine painter, like this fellow was," he waved idly at the painting I had been admiring, "and you wanted to paint a mace, you wouldn't go ask a soldier, would you? No, of course not. You would just go downstairs, to the markeplace, and sketch a new piece, fresh from the forge.
"That mace, therefore," and again, he gestured, thrusting one tobacco-stained finger at the painting, "is going to be more accurate to the period and locality than anything you might see in a museum."
At this point, his erudition expended, he began to tell me about some time-and-space-traveling British pulp hero (not Doctor Who; apparently it's a common theme in British popular fiction!) until I was able to make my excuses and slip away.
But as I said, it stuck with me.