Geoffrey H. Priestman. An Illustrated Guide to Minton Printed Pottery, 1796–1836. Sheffield, England: Endcliffe Press, 2001. 373 pages, 600 bw illustrations, 115 color plates. $78.00. Many years ago I was privileged to visit the storeroom for the engraved copper printing plates of Minton’s manufactory in Stoke-on-Trent. Joan Jones, the curator of the Minton Collection, estimates that there are some 30,000 copper plates. They include not only table and toiletware patterns for printing in monochrome but also printed outline designs for hand coloring. There are engraved plates for tiles and acid patterns for the rich embellishment of fine bone china, as well. Packed very tightly into pens stretching from floor to ceiling, the plates present a formidable challenge to anyone wishing to research them. Geoffrey Priestman, who undertook this task with determination and dedication, has given us a comprehensive book that should be in the library of every Minton collector and of most collectors of blue-and-white, transfer-printed earthenwares. Thomas Minton’s career as a skilled engraver and entrepreneur is outlined in the first chapter. With the support of his family, Minton was dedicated to producing earthenware and bone china of the highest quality. Personal reminiscences of printers and transferers provide a delightful insight into the factory scene. The naming of patterns by printers is of particular interest, especially those named after the craftsmen who produced them, even if these names never reached the oYcial lists. For example, one Copeland pattern had been christened “Jam Tart,” a pattern name that clearly would have made advertising diYcult. Instead, it became known as the more marketable “Royal Bracelet,” then “Majestic.” After this contextual chapter, the book focuses on patterns and shapes attributed to the Minton factory. A useful Pattern Reference Guide illustrates all of the Minton patterns in full color, enabling the reader to appreciate the delicate differences in the tonal quality of blue. The “Broseley” pattern is the principal Chinese landscape printed in the paler ultramarine blue, whereas most of the other oriental-style designs are printed in the darker royal blue.1 The chapter titled “Early Landscapes” (perhaps more aptly called “Early Chinese Landscapes”) is a comprehensive catalog of designs, providing valuable comparisons between identical patterns produced by different manufacturers. The same detailed attention has been given to subsequent chapters. One section illustrates the subjects that were used on black prints and bat-printed wares, each one helpfully numbered. Priestman’s attribution to Minton of previously unattributed patterns like “Roman,” “Bewick Stag,” “Camel and Giraffe,” and the “Monk’s Rock” series is of the greatest satisfaction. (The Dictionary of Blue and White Printed Pottery will need to be updated.2 And I wonder if a further examination of the reverse of some of the copper plates might reveal indisputable proof of the author’s claims?) Despite the enormous number of existing copper plates, it is nevertheless surprising that Priestman was unable to find any for a number of Minton patterns, including “Roman,” “Shepherd,” “Monk’s Rock,” and “English Scenery,” and only two for “The Hermit” pattern, one of which was engraved on the reverse of another pattern. It seems probable that some of the Minton copper plates were sold in the mid-nineteenth century. The earliest list of Minton printed patterns is thought to have been made about 1870, at the start of the Franco-Prussian war when the demand for copper for munitions would have affected their value. Other mid-century conflicts that may have affected the disposition of copper plates were the Crimean War from 1853 to 1856 and the Indian Mutiny in 1857. Priestman does not mention the inclusion of the previously named patterns in the 1870 record book, so it seems likely that the copper plates had been sold already. (Copeland produced a similar book about 1865 which recorded all, or nearly all, of the patterns. Some were marked “Engravings destroyed,” which meant that copper plates of redundant patterns were “knocked up”—the reverse surface was leveled by knocking up deeply engraved areas so that a new design might be engraved thereon.) Collectors might wonder why manufacturers did not keep paper records of transfer-printed patterns that were printed in only one color. Keeping records of one color patterns was believed unnecessary because the engravings were almost always available. Pattern books were introduced to record those designs that were either entirely hand decorated or were embellished with extra color applied by hand, known as print and paint. These books usually only recorded patterns that were decorated on top of the glaze, sometimes called “enamel” decorations. One factor affecting the thickness of the copper plates was the variation in cobalt colors. The early, thin plates were appropriate for the strong, deep color of cobalt blue, so the depth of the engraving was slight. Ceramic historian Paul Holdway has pointed out that the strength of cobalt lessened through time, requiring deeper line engraving and stipple punch work to achieve a comparable result. Hence, thicker copper plates were needed.3 For patterns for which no engraved copper plates have been found, Priestman has made use of his extensive collection of ceramic objects, linking their shapes to archival sources and identifying the patterns with those named in the lists retained in the archive collection. In this endeavor, he acknowledges the valuable and dedicated work of the late Alyn Giles Jones, the archivist appointed by John Hartill, the factory’s last managing director before Royal Doulton acquired Minton. Jones created and maintained an enormous index of irreplaceable material. One reason for the book’s focus on pattern identification is revealed in the chapter “Early Minton Factory Marks.” Nonetheless, one wonders why Minton was so reluctant to link his name to his early transfer-printed wares, only inscribing a modest scripted M instead of the formal printed marks that show such ingenuity of design. The detailed photographs of printed workmen’s marks with the accompanying patterns are especially useful and must have taken a great deal of study to assemble. These marks are distinctive and should help collectors authenticate an attribution to Minton. As Priestman cautions, however, workmen’s marks cannot be any more than a guide since workers moved from one manufactory to another, and similar marks could have been used by others. The chapter illustrating various shapes is quite helpful and, in the finer points of detail, should be of great assistance in attributing unmarked objects to Minton. In particular, the reproduction of part of the 1827 dinnerware factory book showing thirty different hollow ware shapes will be useful to collectors of blue-and-white, transfer-printed pottery. One criticism, though minor, is the omission of various cup sizes. The inventory of January 1817 (p. 15) lists “London handled teacups @ 5/- dozen, Norfolk handled cups @ 4/6 dozen, and Irish handled cups @ 6/6 dozen.” London-size cups were the most common. Today, as in 1817, a teacup holds about seven to eight fluid ounces, so the most expensive Irish-size cup probably relates to today’s breakfast-size cup, which holds nine to ten fluid ounces. The Norfolk cup may be equivalent to the coffee cup, holding five and one-half fluid ounces. As late as 1872, an industry Foreign Price List records only Norfolk-, London-, and Irish-size cups. Also, the sizes of hollow ware (p. 257) are misrepresented. Numbers like 12s, 24s, 36s, and so forth, represent the number of clay objects to be counted carried on a six-foot ware board into the “greenhouse” (where the unfired, or “green,” clayware was collected and placed into the biscuit oven). A 12s pitcher, while being the basis for pricing a “potter’s dozen,” was also about five to five and one-half inches in diameter and would have held about two and one-half to three pints of fluid. A 36s pitcher holds one pint of sixteen fluid ounces. The “sizes” refer to dimensions, rather than to capacity. A clay maker needed to make, say, thirty-six pitchers of that size in order to earn the price per dozen. These sizes have been abandoned because the present staff in retail shops no longer understands the peculiarities of the pottery counts.4 Illustration captions are clear and detailed, including measurements in millimeters and approximate dates. The photographs are distinct and of a size that makes it easy to distinguish important features. Pictures of the plate’s and saucer’s reverse are unusual, but helpful. Use of the term foot ring is to be applauded, instead of the more widely used, and incorrect, term foot rim. At the end of each chapter there is a list of references, 186 altogether, many attributed to the Minton archive collection. There is no separate bibliography. The two indexes—one solely for pattern names—complete this truly remarkable, thoroughly researched, and superbly illustrated publication. The book’s importance as a record of the Minton factory heritage is accentuated by the pending loss of some of the material products of that tradition. The Minton manufactory site has been vacated and, as I write in May 2002, is being offered for sale along with most of the ceramic collection. Joan Jones has succeeded in retaining a small number of representative pieces for display in the Minton Room at the Royal Doulton Visitor Centre in Stoke-on-Trent. The copper plate archive collection and the paper archive collection are accommodated at the Nile Street site of Royal Doulton in Burslem, Stoke-on-Trent. Robert Copeland Historical Consultant to The Spode Museum Trust, Stoke-on-Trent 1. Robert Copeland, Spode’s Willow Pattern and Other Designs after the Chinese, 3rd ed. (London: Studio Vista/Cassell, 1999), opposite p. 70. 2. A. W. Coysh and R. K. Henrywood, The Dictionary of Blue and White Printed Pottery, 1780–1880 (Woodbridge, Suffolk, Eng.: Antique Collectors’ Club, 1982). A. W. Coysh and R. K. Henrywood, The Dictionary of Blue and White Printed Pottery, 1780–1880, vol. 2 (Woodbridge, Suffolk, Eng.: Antique Collectors’ Club, 1989). 3. David Drakard and Paul Holdway, Spode Printed Ware (London: Longman, 1983), p. 25. 4. Robert Copeland, Spode and Copeland Marks and Other Relevant Intelligence, 2nd ed. (London: Studio Vista, 1997), pp. 142–43. Henry Glassie. The Potter’s Art. Philadelphia, Pa., and Bloomington and Indianapolis, Ind.: Material Culture and Indiana University Press, 1999. 149 pages; 76 bw and 25 color illustrations; bibliography, index. Photography and design by the author. $10.40 (softcover). “It is good to be a potter. At work, the potter manages the transformation of nature, building culture while fulfilling the self, serving society, and patching the work together with pieces of clay that connect the past with the present, the useful with the beautiful, the material with the spiritual” (p. 116). In The Potter’s Art, Indiana University folklore professor Henry Glassie has given us simple explanations for complicated mechanisms that define the intersection of ceramic objects and human society from the potter’s point of view. This is a global story, enriching our view of the craftsman with portraits of dignity, nobility, and sincerity, and exposing the complexity of a simple, traditional utilitarian pot. Based on his wide-ranging fieldwork carried out over a lifetime of looking at pottery and talking to potters, Glassie’s treatise explores the nature of art and demonstrates the common links that join potters across diverse cultures. Henry Glassie likes potters. He wants us to share his enthusiasm. And, frankly, it is hard to resist his passion in The Potter’s Art. In this slim volume, we meet a mix of potters from around the world: the Pals of Bangladesh who make kalshis (common utilitarian pots of all kinds) and murtis (images of the deities for worship); traditional stoneware potter Lars Andersson of Raus in Skåne, Sweden; the Meaders and Hewell families, figural stoneware potters of Georgia; Acoma, New Mexico, potters Lilly Salvador and Marvis and Wanda Aragon, who base their contemporary collectible pottery on ancient patterns and practices; the master potters and decorators of Kütahya, Turkey; the Tatebayashi family of Kakiemon potters in Arita, Japan; and the potters of yaki ware working in Hagi, Japan. This diversity is reflected in their wares, which have been carefully chosen to exhibit both sacred and secular goals, ranging from the Bangladeshis’ murtis to the Georgians’ face jugs. For students just learning about ceramics, the insights presented here will likely be a revelation about goods that most people ignore. As Glassie notes, his “goal is to illustrate how common clay is made to carry value” (p. 19). For collectors who have loved these pots for years, his words are confirmation of long-held beliefs. Those readers who fall in between these extremes, however, will likely be struck by his narrow definition of value in clay. Glassie’s potters make things by hand in traditional forms and glazes; Glassie, the folklorist, values folk over fine, handmade over machine made. He explains that hand work takes time out from the “rush for modernity,” that “technological process divides people from the earth and separates the mind from the hands, reducing art to design” (pp. 54–56). Ergo, we will not find English shell-edge pearlware or Russel Wright’s famous American Modern dinnerware discussed in this book. But that should not keep us from embracing Glassie’s point of view, at least for the duration of his narrative. Indeed, readers who choose to follow along are rewarded by Glassie’s inspiring insights into pottery. The section on transformations, for example, is pure poetry. Here he rhapsodizes on pottery as it goes from wet to dry, soft to hard, dull to bright, and useless to useful. On the central issue of his treatise, however, Glassie waZes. He explains that art is a cultural phenomenon in which the object’s value is defined by its integration into society, rather than its rarity or monetary value. “Art disturbs nature to embody values,” he writes, “the object’s worth lying in its ability to provoke and sustain argument” (p. 18). He cautions that this definition of art is not a market phenomenon; it is not defined as the part of the marketplace where art equals higher prices (or even the reverse, that high price equals art). He blames the market for skewing the production values of potters through the buyer’s misunderstanding of what art is: “Conditioned by ideas from art-appreciation classes so suffused with the idea of the pictorial that the craft of photography has been embraced as an art, and the art of pottery is still called a craft, today’s buyers want few churns and many face jugs” (p. 39). He laments that many potters shift from utilitarian ware to ornamental in order to see their work gain higher monetary value. In a modern society that uses plastics, machine-made ceramics, and metals for utilitarian purposes, we want our handmade pots to be decorative. Finally, he admonishes us to see things differently: “Where use meets beauty, where nature transforms into culture and individual and social goals are accomplished, where the human and numinous come into fusion, where objects are richest in value—there is the center of art” (p. 34). On the other hand, he cherishes the ability of potters to pursue their art by adapting to new markets, for we are also shown how the execution and interpretation of selected wares have changed positively over time. For example, Glassie demonstrates how Acoma pots once used to carry water are now valued for the high prices they can attain in Santa Fe art galleries. Because of these shifts in value, the art of decoration is driven toward greater perfection. In Kütahya, Turkey, the number of ateliers (and pottery workers) actually increased during the twelve-year period that Glassie studied them, from the mid-1980s to the late 1990s, because the city’s art has gained global recognition. This new value gives the potters and decorators confidence in their skills and in themselves to carry forward in other aspects of their lives. Similarly, families of traditional stoneware potters continue to work in Georgia because buyers see art in their face jugs and are willing to pay prices that keep the potters in business. Glassie would rather that the work of these potters was integrated into their societies as it had been in the old ways, but he’s willing to accept their current successes as an opportunity to meet and study them as living beings. If their work had been completely eclipsed by modern society, if they were no longer living and working as potters, he would have had only their historic wares at hand. He yearns for potters of the past, but welcomes the company of potters in the present. This is not a bad thing, although one wonders why Glassie, with all his passionate embrace of potters, has not taken to the wheel himself. If you like pots, The Potter’s Art is a “feel good” book. After reading it you will feel good about the potters. You will feel good about their pots. And you will feel good about yourself for being able to appreciate it all. You might even learn a thing or two. All of which makes it a worthwhile book to read, despite its limited range of appreciation for the ceramic arts. One final note regarding the origins of The Potter’s Art. The book is a revision and slight expansion of the fourth chapter of Material Culture, Glassie’s textbook study of material culture, a concept which he defines as the “place” where history and art connect.1 For those who know this chapter entitled “The Potter’s Art,” the book The Potter’s Art will seem very familiar and may not need to occupy space on your shelf. On the other hand, those who are attracted to the study of pottery in the context of material culture studies may find that Material Culture is a more appropriate purchase than The Potter’s Art. Ellen Paul Denker Museum consultant and writer 1. Henry Glassie, Material Culture (Bloomington, Ind.: Indiana University Press), 1999. Charles L. Venable, Ellen P. Denker, Katherine C. Grier, and Stephen G. Harrison. China and Glass in America, 1880–1980: From Tabletop to TV Tray. Dallas: Dallas Museum of Art, 2000. Photography by Tom Jenkins. 496 pp., 345 illustrations (255 in color), catalog documentation, references, index. $49.50. From Tabletop to TV Tray takes a comprehensive look at a century of changes in dining and the American market as reflected by tableware. Packed with information and illustrations, this fine book is recommended for collectors, archaeologists, museum curators, historians, and others interested in American culture, tablewares, the pottery industry, and material culture from 1880–1980. The book presents 209 catalog entries from the more than 500 objects in the collections of the Dallas Museum of Art and the Newark Museum, both of which hosted the accompanying exhibit. Focusing on objects made for household use in the American market, the collection includes American and foreign manufacturers such as Wedgwood, Spode, Homer Laughlin, Lenox, Haviland, Rosenthal, and Noritake. Despite the central role of tableware in many cultures, most art museums do not seriously collect “dishes.” Connoisseurship, recent age, mass production, and utilitarian function have worked against the collection and study of modern tablewares, as has the perceived superiority of twentieth-century modernism over more conservative revival designs. On the other hand, thriving online auctions, mass-market antiques publishing, ceramic collectors clubs, and flea market economies show that plenty of collectors put serious time and money into collecting dishes. Groups such as the Friends of Blue, Transferware Collectors Club, White Ironstone China Association, and Tea Leaf International abound, competing for every known maker, vessel form, pattern, or shape. The authors bring to the tabletop not only their professional experiences in the museum, history, American studies, and anthropology fields but also their collecting interests as self-described “dishaholics.” All four admit to home cupboards bulging with tablewares bought at department stores and antique stores or acquired as gifts and travel souvenirs. In addition, the charming introduction to chapter 1 includes descriptions of family dish legacies that each author will inherit—from Franciscan Ware’s “Woodside” pattern to Limoges porcelain in a floral and gilded pattern, and from Bavarian china in a rose pattern edged in gold to the “Ballerina” shape of Universal Potteries. Design, production, marketing, and consumption aspects of tableware are all considered in this book. Chapter 1 by Kasey Grier with Stephen Harrison provides a social history of modern tableware in the American market, delightfully illustrated with contemporary advertisements and photographs. This chapter touches on a variety of issues, such as mail order catalogs, open stock purchasing, specialty tableware, and cocktails and drinking in the home. The placement of this consumption-oriented chapter at the book’s beginning gives substance to a diverse and changing American market. Among the chapter’s wealth of information is a citation from Lucy Allen’s 1915 book, Table Service, indicating the relationship between middle-class family tableware sets of the late Victorian/Edwardian era and cheap domestic labor. According to this book’s guidelines, a four-course dinner for six diners called for a total of 151 service dishes, place settings, and flatware pieces to be washed, or twenty-five pieces per diner.1 The focus of the next two chapters is on tableware production. Chapter 2 by Lenox archivist Ellen Denker with Charles Venable covers American production, and chapter 3 by Charles Venable with Stephen Harrison describes foreign (primarily British and Japanese) production. Case studies in both chapters also include useful information on design and marketing. Data presented in chapter 3 on British imports, critical to the American market until the end of the nineteenth century, could have been summarized better graphically. The description of post-World War II British production is extremely useful. Chapter 4 by Charles Venable describes marketing. Chapter 5 by Charles Venable and Stephen Harrison focuses on design but also covers marketing. Intriguing trends include the end of open stock selling and the shift to sales of place settings in the late 1930s and especially after World War II; adversely, set sizes and the variety of sizes and shapes offered to department stores and consumers shrank considerably. Sidebars sketch histories of importers Ebeling & Reuss of Philadelphia, designers Frank Graham Holmes of Lenox and contract designer Belle Kogan, the Pittsburgh trade show, retailer Marshall Field, and bridal registries. Tom Jenkins’ stunning photography provides its own narrative of changes in the American market, reducing the light to avoid glare on whitewares, while using the transparent qualities of glass to make the subjects sparkle. Photographs are balanced with a variety of advertisements and other ephemera to provide context for the great variety of wares. Most of the catalog entries were written by Venable and Harrison with contributions by Denker. Information includes shape and pattern names, dates, makers, designers, size, and marks. Catalog illustrations are integrated seamlessly into the body of the text. No marks are illustrated. The integration of porcelain, earthenware, and glass objects into a single catalog makes good sense on a consumption level, as well as in terms of design and marketing. I offer a few notes on the exhibit, which I saw at the Newark Museum. I enjoyed the “Great Wall of China,” displaying an array of plate decorations, and I really appreciated the use of the Vernon Kilns “Our America” pattern, featuring a map of the United States with an accompanying panel describing the American market. Another attentive touch: the exhibit invited those people who actually used these dishes to interact by jotting down their tabletop memories in a handy notebook for visitors. The part of the exhibit that I kept coming back to was the video area set up in the front hall of the Newark Museum. It featured a living room setting with a 1950s-vintage television showing “Choice in China,” a post-World War II trade film by the American Fine China Guild. Despite the film’s premise (the ghost of an old potter guides his descendant in selecting her china pattern, with scenes at home, at the china store, and in the factory), which seems campy to twenty-first-century eyes, the video touched on important aspects of production, marketing, and consumption. In addition to factory images of chemistry, filling clay presses, batting out and jiggering, slip casting, fettling, lining, applying decals, and applying handles, three scenes portrayed the competition between American and British manufacturers, porcelain versus earthenware, and problems of glaze crazing. In one of these scenes a china salesman was pushing the young lady to purchase American china by disparaging British bone china as heavy, while an older (hilariously British) couple urged her not to buy the British ware. Another scene set up a not-so-subtle demonstration of the stain-resistant properties of earthenware and porcelain plates. Each ware was dipped into dye, which completely washed off the porcelain plate, but left the earthenware plate stained. As crazing was a problem for British and later American white granite wares when first introduced, the video demonstration showed that earthenware crazes, porcelain does not. (The crazed earthenware plate was promptly dropped into the trash can!) This video reminded me strongly of the promotional booklet, The Potter’s Wheel, published by a Trenton pottery in the 1880s.2 The booklet’s premise involved an unfortunate accident with a folding table, a lot of broken china, and a tour through the Burroughs & Mountford factory in Trenton for replacements. The booklet, despite its clichéd premise, like the video provides a wealth of good description and illustrations of contemporary pottery manufacture and decoration. There must have been compelling reasons to place the video area at the exhibit’s front and center. Perhaps it was because the TV tray symbolized the exhibit’s title, but the location and technical limitations detracted from the video’s impact. The main problem was the video location in a noisy open area between the front door and the atrium, which meant street noise (including a fire engine parade) drowned out the audio. The vintage television was visually perfect, but the screen size was small and the video quality poor. The use of an authentic set probably limited potential for improving sound that could have been remedied by headphones with adjustable volume controls. The slide show nearby had headphones and was perfectly audible, but it was the video that intrigued me, and I stayed through several showings until I had heard the entire clip. The exhibit and book successfully bridge the gap between museum and popular interests in a century’s worth of wares on the American table. The unified multiauthor voice helps make this publication successful as a research contribution, museum catalog, and collector book. The result is a book suited, fittingly enough, for both nostalgic coffee-table browsing, as well as for serious reading about pottery, china, and glass in America. Amy C. Earls Ceramics in America 1. Lucy G. Allen, Table Service (Boston: Little, Brown, 1919). 2. W. S. Harris, The Potter’s Wheel and How It Goes Round in the Nineteenth Century (Trenton, N. J.: Burroughs and Mountford, [1886]). Amanda E. Lange. Delftware at Historic Deerfield, 1600–1800. Deerfield, Massachusetts: Historic Deerfield, Inc., 2001. 165 pp.; 169 color illus., bibliography. $50.00. Deerfield’s extensive collection of English tin-glazed earthenware, commonly called delftware, is the basis for the catalog Delftware at Historic Deerfield, 1600–1800 and major exhibition “Delicate Deception.” As the first in a series of decorative arts catalogs planned by Deerfield, this thoroughly researched and beautifully illustrated publication showcases not only the museum’s collection but also the scholarship of curator Amanda Lange and her staff. The majority of delft objects in the museum’s collection were given by two couples, Henry and Helen Flynt, Deerfield’s founders, and Reginald and Rachel French. The Flynts purchased many rare and spectacular examples from major dealers, while the Frenches concentrated on more common pieces with local histories. It is unusual for two such different collecting philosophies to be represented in one collection, but Lange wisely has combined them with recent acquisitions and loans to display a broad spectrum of tin-glazed wares. Three essays introduce the catalog. “Collecting Delftware at Historic Deerfield” focuses on the Flynts, who were influenced by Colonial Williamsburg and especially Winterthur to enhance their carefully assembled interiors with ceramics. Of the dealers who supplied the Flynts with ceramics, John Kenneth Byard and Millie Manheim are profiled in this chapter. Although it is understandable that the Flynts should have top billing, it is disappointing that less than one paragraph was devoted to the Frenches. As Lange says in her final sentence, “The French collection’s breadth of ceramic patterns virtually makes it an encyclopedia of delftware exported to the New England region” (p. 10). The second essay covers the history and manufacture of delftware, concentrating on the introduction and development of the ware in the British Isles. In 1567, two potters arrived in Norwich from Holland, founding an industry that continued for more than two centuries. Lange attributes delftware’s popularity to the passion for Chinese porcelain, so easily imitated by delft, and the change in dining and drinking patterns requiring specialized ceramics; its fragility, especially when used for hot liquids, was the reason for its decline. This is an abbreviated version of a well-documented history. Lange does not address the similarities between the early English and Dutch delftwares nor the histories of the individual pottery centers. “Delftware in the Connecticut River Valley,” the third essay, is the most valuable for students of U.S. ceramic consumption. Much has been written about delftware in the mid-Atlantic region, most notably John Austin’s comprehensive volume on Williamsburg. However, aside from the catalog of the China Students Club of Boston’s fiftieth anniversary exhibit, little research has been published on delftware in New England.1 Lange’s presentation of evidence from probate inventories and merchants’ accounts in the Connecticut River Valley, combined with family artifacts from the Dr. John Williams household, reveals that the most commonly listed items were plates and bowls, with gallipots and ointment jars appearing archaeologically. The inhabitants of Deerfield were slow to replace pewter and treen with earthenware, so delftware did not enjoy the same popularity there as it did in New England seaports. Considering the difference in terminology between eighteenth-century accounts and current names for ceramic forms, and the fact that smaller items were frequently combined in inventories, it may well be that Deerfield households had a greater variety of delftware than previously realized. The catalog is organized by functional category: dining wares, flower containers, lighting devices, and an impressive collection of ointment pots. Some of the more unusual items in the collection, although not specified in Connecticut River Valley inventories, have been noted in other New England locations. Flower containers, stands or salvers, draining bowls or colanders, salts, and monteiths are among them. It is important to remember that the most common utilitarian vessels are least likely to survive. While the London-made bottle and basin (fig. 90) are beautiful examples of toilet articles, hand-wash basins and plain chamber pots far outnumbered any other forms in sanitary wares. Similarly, small, undecorated ointment pots are common archaeologically but were too unimportant to appear in inventories. Lange introduces each functional category with a brief history of the customs of the times relating to ceramic use. She then describes each object, adding historical or archaeological data concerning the related pieces. For example, figures 15 and 16, punch bowls decorated with blue fish on powdered manganese ground, are accompanied by an explanation of the fish as a symbol of drinking and with references to other fish bowls in North American contexts. This is extremely valuable research information. The publication of Irish Delftware by Peter Francis has drawn attention to delftware production in other locations in the British Isles.2 New England ships were calling regularly at Scottish and Irish ports, so it should be no surprise that ceramics were included in the trade; however, this exhibit is the first to display pieces with New England histories. The French collection contains examples with local histories from Delftfields in Glasgow and possibly from Dublin. Both Irish and Scottish sherds have been identified recently in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Lange has correctly attributed these pieces when possible and has explained the diYculty in distinguishing between Liverpool and Dublin examples. Mounting a major ceramics exhibit presents challenges for many museums. It is especially diYcult to create an exhibit that will appeal to both the general museum audience and to specialists in the field. Highly ornamental wares, like Meissen porcelain, present well in exhibit galleries, but delft, with its inexpensive, utilitarian forms, is much more diYcult to display. Although Lange’s research has produced an impressive teaching experience, and she draws from an extensive collection, the objects themselves lack the drama of high-style ceramics, and a large gallery space tends to diminish rather than enhance their impact. The space does allow for more use of partial room settings with appropriate accessories, such as the dining table arrangement. This type of presentation could have also been used for other categories and would have worked well with Historic Deerfield’s large collection of related objects. A video of contemporary potter Michelle Erickson making delftware reproductions not only helped to explain the potting process but also provided a connection with the people who originally produced these pieces. In complete contrast to the exhibit gallery are the visible storage study galleries, where most of the French collection resides. Here, the ceramics enthusiast can find case upon case of objects, each carefully identified. The catalog combines the best of both presentations. The dust jacket, with its multiple plates, is as enticing as the study of galleries, while the catalog entries give a thorough analysis of each significant object. Delftware at Historic Deerfield is a valuable reference in a compact volume. It deserves a place in the library of anyone with an interest in English delftware exported to North America. Louise P. Richardson Research Associate for Ceramics, Strawbery Banke Museum 1. John C. Austin, British Delft at Williamsburg (Williamsburg, Va.: Colonial Williamsburg Foundation in association with Jonathan Horne Publications, 1994); China Students Club of Boston, Unearthing New England’s Past: The Ceramic Evidence (Lexington, Mass.: Scottish Rite Masonic Museum of Our National Heritage, 1984). 2. Peter Francis, Irish Delftware: An Illustrated History (London: Jonathan Horne Publications, 2000). Nancy E. Owen. Rookwood and the Industry of Art: Women, Culture, and Commerce, 1880–1913. Athens, Ohio: Ohio University Press, 2001. 355 pp.; color plates, b/w figures, appendix, notes, bibliography, index. $24.95. Rookwood enthusiasts might compare reading Rookwood and the Industry of Art to a train ride. Those readers already interested in American art pottery, china painting, international expositions, and decorative arts at the turn of the twentieth century will enjoy the trip immensely. Written by Nancy E. Owen, a lecturer in American art and women’s studies at Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois, the well-designed and generously illustrated text (many familiar images) focuses on running the Rookwood pottery business. At departure, the author announces the journey’s route: “This book explores the ways in which the production, marketing, and consumption of Rookwood pottery reflect and inflect the commercial and cultural milieu in the United States from 1880 to 1913” (p. 2). Owen arrives at her destination after concluding that Rookwood was so successful at marketing itself as art that it failed commercially in the years before World War I. There are some interesting meanderings and important stops during the trip. Chapter 1 introduces the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition, the American aesthetic movement, American ceramics at the Centennial, and the American art pottery movement. Chapter 2 addresses women in middle-class American culture during the late nineteenth century and their role in the arts, in Cincinnati (where the Rookwood industry originated), and at Rookwood. In chapters 3 and 4 readers learn valuable information about the pottery’s labor history, the ideal aesthetic of the arts and crafts workshop, and the impracticality of that model for Rookwood, although its pottery operators used romance to ensconce all of its output as art. In her discussion of Rookwood and its participation in international expositions of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in chapter 5, Owen addresses the question posed to institutions and individuals attending these exhibits: “What’s so American about Rookwood?” Chapter 6 tackles the diYcult task of placing a name, face, and class on the pottery’s consumers, and the epilogue lists the changes in technology and world order that helped end Rookwood’s elite position in the national market. Readers meet some fascinating individuals along the way. Photographs of seated women—each with a paintbrush in hand—gazing at a decorated Rookwood pot are interpreted rightly as portraits “reminiscent of a long tradition of representations of male painters in their studios” (p. 94). Former pottery manager William Watts Taylor, who was given the Rookwood business by founder Maria Longworth Nichols Storer, reveals himself in a complaint to colleague Charles Fergus Binns, “The Pottery has been written about to a rather tiresome degree from the ‘woman’s standpoint’ and . . . you can imagine how this has been rather written to death. . . . Of course you know Rookwood so well that you appreciate how its characteristic development has been the work of the other sex to at least a controlling extent” (p. 16). Owen also introduces the thorny personality of decorator Laura A. Fry and recounts the lawsuit she brought against the pottery for alleged patent infringement of a Fry-developed atomizer used for decorating ceramics. (Rookwood won the suit.) Another decorator, Patti Conant, expresses a laborer’s point of view as she reminisces about her career at the pottery: “The prestige of being a Rookwood decorator and the ‘love of art for art’s sake’ was supposed to compensate for the very low pay, which is just unbelievable today”(p. 78). All the while, readers learn about people deeply engaged in the art and business of the pottery industry. There are some snags in the line. Owen states that her book is based on her dissertation. Such a document usually includes a review of the literature, as well as the author’s contribution to the overall scholarship of the topic. Rookwood and the Industry of Art would have done well to include such a review since there has been so much written on the pottery hailed as a “dominating force in the pottery market.” Authors of dissertations also typically state what is original about their inquiry. While not addressed in this publication, I venture to say that Owen’s book-length focus on Rookwood attempts to expand a strictly art history perspective to include a cultural history context, including commerce and consumerism. Readers understand that Owen knows the Rookwood literature, but the author still needs to provide references for many statements, which she assumes are familiar to her readers. In some cases, quotations and paraphrases are not attributed at all, while others are attributed incorrectly. As a result, the reader is advised to use the book’s endnotes with caution. The author provides plenty of directions in the main body of the text: “This chapter [6] imagines the intended audience for various Rookwood wares by examining the ways in which Rookwood management attempted to influence consumption through advertising, mail-order sales, and selection of retail agencies” (p. 80). And again on page 81: “The second part of this chapter argues that the consumption of Rookwood can be understood in terms of the mechanisms by which demand shaped supply.” But such signposts may lead to unwelcome intrusions into the text. For Owen, repetition becomes an occupational hazard for choosing a topic that defies strict chronological chapter organization: the subject involves a relatively brief era with overlapping theories of aestheticism, arts and crafts, and art nouveau. Such diYculties might have been addressed by more careful editing; perhaps a second edition could incorporate improvements. Ultimately, readers have the sense that everyone in the book is acting true to form. There are no surprises. Rookwood is a vehicle to view the tension between culture and commerce, and it is a good and familiar one. Owen does place the pottery in its cultural milieu, but it may be helpful to examine other art industries and other potteries. Further informative queries might include: What were other ceramic manufacturers doing as points of comparison? Did Rookwood mirror other art industries born around the time of the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition? Why was Rookwood operated as a business under Taylor despite its loud claims of art for art’s sake? Does the culture versus commerce polarity bring ceramic historians closer to understanding the complexities of gender, business, art, consumerism, and American culture? If so, how? In summary, Owen is a new conductor whose enthusiasm for her topic is apparent on every page. She tracks the Rookwood story, places it within a business context, and searches for feeder lines, or story sidelights. Some, such as chapter 4’s discussion on American collectors, are intriguing; others, such as the discussion of the novella The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman (p. 17), are mere digressions. Yet there is enough inherent interest in the Rookwood story for readers to join this one in saying, “All aboard!” Cynthia Brandimarte Southwest Texas State University and Texas Parks and Wildlife Department San Marcos and Austin, Texas Christiaan J. A. Jörg and Michael Flecker. Porcelain from the “Vung Tau” Wreck: The Hallstrom Excavation. Singapore: Oriental Art, 2001. 172 pp.; 273 color illus. $60.00. The study of Chinese porcelain has been transformed during the past two decades by the discovery and excavation of shipwrecks. Each wreck encapsulates the trade of a specific period, and many of the wrecks are datable by means of objects found on board other than porcelain. Many of these wrecks have been excavated by commercial salvagers, rather than by underwater archaeologists, and art historians are dependent on their results whether or not we approve of their methods. It is far more expensive to carry out underwater excavations than excavations on land, although often the underwater excavations yield more valuable artifacts. This is particularly true in the case of ships transporting Chinese porcelain since, unlike other trade goods such as silks or lacquer, some types of porcelain can remain in seawater for a significant period of time and retain their decoration. The clear glaze on blue-and-white wares may be degraded by seawater, but the underglaze blue decoration will remain. The Vung Tau (named for the nearby south Vietnamese province where it was found) was a Chinese junk loaded with porcelain and other cargo. The ship was most likely bound for Batavia when it burned and sank off Vietnam’s coast around 1690. A fisherman found the wreck in 1986, and soon local divers had pulled a large number of porcelain pieces from the foundered vessel (p. 103). Of the 48,000 pieces recovered from the site, many went to antique dealers in Vietnam, Hong Kong, and Singapore. Eventually these activities were stopped by the Vietnamese government, which arranged for Sverker Hallstrom, a commercial salvager, to excavate the wreck. The expectation was that the sale of salvaged porcelain would be profitable, and it was. After the Vietnamese selected a few hundred pieces for their museums, the remaining 28,000 pieces were sold at Christie’s, Amsterdam, on April 7–8, 1992, where they realized a return of $7.3 million. Porcelain from the “Vung Tau” Wreck is divided into two sections. The first section, by Christiaan Jörg, concerns the porcelain. Jörg is one of the world’s premier scholars of Chinese porcelain, and his extensive knowledge of the Dutch East India Company (Verenigde Ooost-Indische Compagnie, or VOC) trading records makes him uniquely qualified to discuss inter-Asian trade and to analyze the porcelain from the Vung Tau. Jörg begins with a thorough discussion of the Dutch China trade in the seventeenth century and uses engravings of porcelain rooms by Daniel Marot to illustrate Europe’s “passion for porcelain.” It was a revolutionary time for the China trade, as the Dutch took over from the Portuguese, and the VOC began, in 1635, ordering tableware made in specifically Western shapes from the Chinese. (No hard-paste porcelain had, as yet, been produced in Europe.) Most important in this section is Jörg’s discourse on the Chinese junk trade and the founding of Batavia in 1619 to “attract junks and create facilities for Chinese settlers. . . . Chinese merchants joined forces with the Company [VOC] to develop and expand trade networks throughout Southeast Asia” (p. 23). Although the book’s locator map helpfully pinpoints the wreck, an additional map showing the trade routes between China and the Indonesian archipelago would have been useful. Blanc de chine pieces, storage jars, and porcelain figures were included among the ship’s cargo. The majority of the collection, however, was made up of blue-and-white porcelain hollow and flatwares composed of two main groups: (1) the finer quality wares fired in the kilns of Jingdezhen, and probably intended for Batavia, then the Netherlands or Islamic markets, and (2) a group of blue-and-white wares made in provincial kilns and destined for Southeast Asia. Each shape is discussed in the context of function. For example, the discussion of cups and saucers is particularly interesting because it involves the evolution of tea and coffee drinking in seventeenth-century Europe. It is not possible to know whether the porcelain was intended for the Dutch or Islamic market or both. Although Jörg mentions that there are many cups and saucers from the Kangxi period (1662–1722) in the Netherlands, he cautions against assuming that their presence rules out an Islamic connection (p. 57). The pieces’ painted floral designs would be acceptable to Islamic patrons, who could not accept decorations incorporating human or animal figures. The cargo also included hookah bases, kendis, and ewers, which were “not primarily for the Dutch market” (p. 74). The publication’s photographs are taken from the Christie’s catalog and are generally clear, each item dramatically silhouetted against a white background. The layout is arranged effectively so that featured pieces and relevant text are usually on the same page. Unfortunately, the images do not include accompanying dimensions, and, inconsistently, some illustrated pieces are mentioned in the text, but others are not. The second part of the book concerns the actual excavation and is written by archaeologist Michael Flecker. Since I am an art historian, not an archaeologist, I am not qualified to judge his report. However, Flecker seems to have organized the excavation properly. He writes: “Commercial salvage outfits have in the past earned a bad reputation, and rightly so, for tearing out everything of financial value without bothering to record anything of the site” (p. 109). Further, he was determined to approach the excavation “systematically, thoroughly, and pragmatically” (p. 109). In spite of his resolve, his collaboration with Hallstrom taints his work in the eyes of the underwater archaeology community. As one of the ethical positions of the Society for Historical Archaeology states: “The collecting, exchanging, buying or selling of archaeological artifacts and research data for the purpose of personal satisfaction or financial gain . . . are declared contrary to the purposes of the society.”1 The archaeological community feels strongly about cooperating with for-profit excavations. The Convention on the Protection of the Underwater Cultural Heritage, organized by UNESCO and held in Paris in November 2001, dealt with this issue as follows: “The commercial ex-ploitation of underwater cultural heritage for trade or speculation or its irretrievable dispersal is fundamentally incompatible with the protection and proper management of underwater cultural heritage. Underwater cultural heritage shall not be traded, sold, bought or bartered as commercial goods.”2 It is a diYcult issue, since it is unrealistic to expect significant funds to be allocated for proper underwater excavations in less-developed countries. Countries without the financial resources to excavate shipwrecks on their own can be tempted to make such arrangements with salvagers. The loss of ceramic information through shipwreck salvage can be devastating. Typical of such loss is the Nuestra Señora de la Concepcion, which was wrecked off the Dominican Republic in 1641. Commercial salvagers have excavated this site over several decades, and many pieces of blue-and-white porcelain have been found. The Dominican government made an agreement with the salvage company that the ceramics from the wreck would be shared equally. The pieces that the salvagers kept have probably been sold, along with any record of their existence. Some of these pieces may have been unique and important for porcelain dating, but this information is now lost. In comparative terms, the Vung Tau wreck is less of a loss because we have the Christie’s catalog, and a large number of pieces remain in Vietnam. Even so, Jörg discusses the impact of this particular for-profit excavation on the availability of knowledge. Because 28,000 of the 48,000 pieces of porcelain were sold, our record relies on the Christie’s auction catalog (p. 95), which did not depict all of the collection’s various shapes and decorations. The porcelain sold by the auction house has been dispersed all over the world and is lost to scholarly study. Furthermore, there is no information available on the pieces owned by the Vietnamese government. And who knows what the divers left behind? This book is essential for anyone interested in Chinese porcelain of the late seventeenth century. The thoughtful discussion of each vessel type’s function and the coverage of inter-Asian trade make it an invaluable reference. Linda R. Shulsky Parsons School of Design 1. UNESCO, Convention on the Protection of the Underwater Cultural Heritage (Paris, November 2, 2001), Rule 2, p. 16. 2. Ethical Positions of the Society for Historical Archaeology, Bylaws, Article VII (March 30, 2001).