The scale of war
Sergeant Cecil Malthus with poppies
I have to admit that I’ve paid comparatively little attention to the many exhibitions and events surrounding the centenary of the First World War. While I was very intrigued and impressed by Jeremy Deller’s piece We're here because we're here performed to commemorate the Battle of the Somme, somehow I’ve just not been that attracted to new exhibitions and galleries on the subject.
As my readers know, however, I’m currently travelling in the Pacific. On a recent visit to the national museum of New Zealand in Wellington – Te Papa Tongarewa – I had heard much of their current display, Gallipoli: The Scale of our War (also an impressive website) so made an effort to visit.
What a thought-provoking, moving exhibition. There was much here that I might usually find uncomfortable. There is a clear narrative of heroism. The text is voiced in a very particular, informal way, constantly using ‘our’ and ‘we’ to make the visitor feel part of the story. I noticed one soldier was even referred to as a ‘poor bugger’. Often this kind of familiar text irritates me, and seems contrived, but here it really did draw you into the experiences of the people involved.
The exhibition focuses both on a clear chronology and on personal stories, which work well alongside each other. The visitor follows a timeline throughout the floor of the displays, learning about the significant events in the Gallipoli campaign and the crucial role of ANZAC forces, ending on the Western Front. The scrolling narrative also unrolls along the walls, focusing on the experiences of different figures in these events, through personal objects and accounts. There was a definite frisson from seeing three names that I recognised: Gordon and Robin Harper, two brothers that our AirBnB host had told us were her ancestors; and Te Rangi Hīroa (Peter Buck), who I know as an anthropologist of the Cook Islands, but hadn’t known was an army medical officer.
The most debated part of the show has been a series of larger-than-life models of a number of characters. These have been produced by WetaWorkshop (better known for working on the Lord of the Rings movies) and are minutely detailed down to beads of sweat and torn threads of uniform. When these were described to me before visiting, I thought they sounded rather a gimmick, especially as visitors are encouraged to photograph them. They are, however, both moving and thought-provoking.
Each figure (or in one case group of figures) is displayed in its own room, beautifully lit and with snippets of their personal account appearing in writing on the walls and spoken in an audio. You can walk all the way around each figure, and really look into them. A female nurse - Sister Lottie Le Gallais is included alongside the male soldiers and medical personnel. My only query was why no Maori soldier was chosen as one of these models. As my colleague Sacha put it particularly eloquently, what makes these models so poignant is that they make each ordinary life monumental, bringing out the tragedy of each individual story.
Two simple invitations to participate in the exhibition also genuinely moved me to tears. The first asks simply ‘If you knew you might never make it home, what would you say to your loved ones?’. The messages left by visitors were all of unassuming love and support. At the end of the exhibition, visitors are invited to take a paper poppy, add a message to the back if they wish, and then place it at the feet of the final model of Sergeant CecilMalthus – a young soldier whose face looks particularly lost and haunted. This simple act had been carried out by hundreds of visitors, I felt with a clear sense of respect and gratitude to the individuals whose stories they had shared.
I remain conflicted about the sometimes-fine line between celebration and commemoration of war, especially in how we remember the pain and suffering of every side in the great 20th-century conflicts. Te Papa’s Gallipoli, though, has made me curious to see what exhibitions are doing in the UK when I am lucky enough to make it home myself.
[Note. In fact I was wrong here, apparently one of the soldiers in the group of three was Maori, I'm ashamed to say that I didn’t notice.]