This section of our website is a place for short articles, reminiscences, interviews, objects, recipes, poems, and much more.

Anyone is welcome to submit something that they would like to share or to offer suggestions.

Submissions, feedback and ideas can be emailed to voccabo@gmail.com.

The Past and Ourselves
2021-09-22 | Karen Jennings

Recently, something I wrote received some international attention. The work touches on the legacy of colonialism in Africa and how its impact might be felt in certain contexts. In interviews this is what people kept coming back to – what right does a white person have to write about such matters? Of course, the question is an important one and wholly justified.

Questions like that must be asked. However, I am not here to answer it at present; this is not the platform for it. Rather, what interests me is the ways in which we as individuals and as societies engage with the past. For some it is sacred and it must be protected, remaining unaltered. For others it is a source of anger and bitterness. Or perhaps of shame. Some might be fascinated by certain aspects, like a particular ancestor, or a style of clothing, or the ways in which technology developed. Each one of us has an interest in the past; indeed, we each have our own personal history, and each one of us is entitled to lay claim to a part of the grand history of the world.

The past is never only told by one person, never peopled by only one character. Even facts, let’s be honest, are not as set in stone as we would like them to be. Perhaps a date has been recorded incorrectly, or a name, maps are unreliable, drawings of “exotic” plants or animals can be laughably inaccurate. And let’s not forget that statues tumble, the names of buildings and roads are altered. Nothing remains the same in unending time. What, then, are we left with?

In effect, we are left with ourselves.

History is about us. It is how we understand our place in the world, not only in isolation but in relation to those around us. The past influences us; it is inevitable. But too often we are instructed in how this influence has occurred. We are told what it means and how we ought to interpret it. Many years ago, I picked up a history of the United States of America. Within the first few pages, the author had said that history can only ever be about the victors; there is no place for the vanquished.

There, in a single sentence, he had decided to erase the Native American histories and cultures from the narrative. Simply done, flippantly done. So much easier to write about those whose stories have already been told, stories that are accessible and widely recorded.

If, as I suggested above, history is about ourselves, then it makes sense that each one of us has not only the right, but I would even call it a duty, to investigate it, to interrogate it and learn to understand it as thoroughly as we can. How else can we exist, truly exist with those around us, if we deny them their place in history or if we want them to sit and listen to our narrative only, ignoring theirs?

I am thinking now of the recent (excellent) “Slavery” exhibition at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam where the lives of both enslaved people and those who benefited from slavery are examined. One of the objects in the exhibition is a finely engraved seventeenth-century golden collar that had been donated to the museum in 1881. At that time, it had been labelled as a dog collar. When the curators began to prepare for their “Slavery” exhibition several years ago, their research showed them that this object had in fact not been designed for a pet, but rather was meant to be worn by a human – specifically by young African male slaves – a sign of being possessed, of being part of another’s fortune.

Now, what is important to remember is that in all this time the collar has not changed. It has been the same golden, ornate object for 300 or more years. What has changed is us. We have taken the time to reevaluate the object, to look at it in new ways. And through this act, we have been able to come to a greater understanding of ourselves, however unpleasant that might be.

 Slave collar from the Rijksmuseum “Slavery” exhibition

Consider an ordinary object – something that you have with you right now. A cheap T-shirt from a fast-fashion clothing store, a sparkly little purse. Whose hands have created these items and under what circumstances? You do not know. But what would you do if you did know that a small child worked day and night in a sweatshop to produce that piece of clothing? Or that someone on the other side of the world was being held captive to make thousands of fun objects for mass consumption? The hope is that you would feel something, no need to put a name to it precisely. Certainly, your view of the object would change, and of yourself. More importantly, your view of the world, and your place in that world, would be altered.

People grow frightened when history is interrogated. They think it is about erasure or about claiming one narrative and denying everyone else the right to one. But that is not the truth. Because history represents us, it is something that cannot be allowed to stagnate. It must be permitted to grow and breathe and move. If we can allow it to do that, then we too will flourish.

You can access the Rijksmuseum “Slavery” exhibition here: Slavery Exhibition

Zacharias Wagenaer: Patterns From The Past

2021-07-10 | Karen Jennings

As humans, we are always looking for patterns. They help us to understand the world and to make sense of events or behaviour on a large scale. However, sometimes patterns can lead us towards something more subtle, something that, however small, can tell us a little bit more about a person and the way in which they engage with the world. This subtle pattern-recognition is something that is quite common, though not exclusive, in historical research. It is one of the ways in which we can breathe life into a long-dead individual. For example, I have been reading a lot about Zacharias Wagenaer (also Wagener and Wagner) recently. Not only was he second commander of the Cape, after Jan van Riebeeck, but he lived an interesting and multi-faceted life, travelling the globe in a variety of capacities. Today I will focus on only one of those facets – his artistic talent – and how it influenced the trajectory of his career to a greater or lesser extent.

Wagenaer was born in 1614 in Dresden-Neustadt in present-day Germany. His father was a portrait painter and perhaps taught the young Wagenaer some of what he knew. By the time Zacharias reached the age of 18 or 19 and needed to be thinking about his own future, there were very few opportunities available to him. The Thirty Years War had decimated much of the surrounds and the economy was suffering. So, with his parents’ permission – as he is clear to point out in his autobiography – young Wagenaer set off for Amsterdam, where he began working for the famous mapmaker and publisher Willem Blaeu as an illustrator of maps. It is worth recognising that Blaeu is unlikely to have employed the young man unless he had some skill and talent.

After a year of copying the outlines of far-distant places and feasting his eyes on images of exotic creatures and objects, Wagenaer seems to have gotten itchy feet and wished to go in search of adventure of his own. He writes in his autobiography that Blaeu encouraged him to join the Dutch West India Company (WIC), and he soon signed on as a common solider and set sail for Dutch Brazil. Once arrived in Pernambuco, it was not long before his fine penmanship – a much sought-after skill, especially in a place where the death rate was so high – saw him promoted to a clerk. A few years later he was taken into the service of the new (and only) governor-general of Dutch Brazil, Johan Maurits of Nassau-Siegen. Maurits, since known as the humanist prince, had brought with him a cohort of painters and scientists to record the marvels of the new world. It is little wonder then that Wagenaer, with his artistic background and with so much stimulation around him, went on to produce his own drawings and descriptions of the flora and fauna of Brazil in his Tier Buch.

Painting and description of caju (cashew fruit) – note where the cashew nut grows on the fruit.

After seven years in the employ of the WIC, Wagenaer returned home, but the quiet life was not for him and within a few months he had signed on with the VOC, making his way to Batavia where he worked once more as a map designer. At the age of 34 a tactical marriage to a much older and influential widow saw Wagenaer promoted to junior merchant. He travelled on various missions around the East Indies, including to Canton as head of a trade embassy, attempting, amongst other things, to enhance the trade in Chinese porcelain, which was much desired in Europe. Unfortunately, the mission was a failure. Nevertheless, he made enough of a name for himself to be promoted to head merchant or opperhoofd of the Dutch factory at Deshima, Japan in 1657 and 1659. Here he played a central role in encouraging the Japanese to imitate, as closely as possible, Chinese blue-and-white porcelain, providing them with samples sent from Batavia. In fact, with all his years of experience as a draughtsman, Wagenaer even designed his own pattern – “silver tendril work on a blue ground”. But he complains in his daghregister (journal) that unsolicited imitations of an inferior quality soon overwhelmed the market stalls of Japan – items produced at speed by individuals hoping to take advantage of the demand for such goods. As a result, Wagenaer bought none of these initial Chinese replicas, nor those of his own design, for export to Europe.

An example of the type of blue-and-white porcelain that was being produced by the Chinese and that the Dutch would have wanted the Japanese to try and imitate.

By the time he reached the Cape as commander in 1662, Wagenaer had developed a great knowledge and enthusiasm for the art of ceramics and ceramic design. Moreover, he had grown accustomed to the wealth and associated luxury of the East Indies. It was a devastating blow when he arrived in the Cape, having intended to live a peaceful life there in semi-retirement, to discover that the rudimentary colony was short of food, was constantly ransacked by the Cape’s violent storms, that there was no glass in the window frames, and no decorations on the walls. This last, for a visual person, must have been hard to accept and he wrote to Batavia, requesting that pictures be sent at once. None came. There was also no pottery of any kind (other than that produced by the indigenous people, which the Dutch did not deign to use), and he wrote once more to Batavia, speaking of his shame when visitors landed at the Cape and had to look upon the VOC employees eating from shells or with their hands. He requested that skilled potters be sent, or if that could not be done, then at the very least some coarse pottery. Almost three years after his arrival at the Cape, on 26 September 1665, Wagenaer records in his daghregister: “This morning, for the first time, diverse kinds of baked and glazed earthenware were taken from the oven in the new pottery and found to be very good. Some were sold this afternoon on the public market, and a considerable quantity kept back for the next market day.”

It is also likely due to his own efforts that a shipment of 185 pieces of Persian ware was sent from Batavia in late 1666. Unfortunately, Wagenaer was not there to receive it when it arrived at the Cape. He had recently returned to Batavia as a result of ill health. No doubt his successors dined off it for some time, though Persian ware is brittle and easily damaged, cracking if in contact with boiling water.

Example of what the Persian ware set in 1666 might have looked like.

This cursorily sketched pattern that runs through the life of Wagenaer allows us to trace the ways in which his artistic skills stood him in good stead throughout his 35-year career in the WIC and VOC. It brought him into the periphery of the world of travel and trade through his initial work on maps, which then inspired him to set off and participate in that world himself. The years to come saw his talents allowing him to engage with and record the flora and fauna of a land that was unknown to him. Later, he was able to influence fashions in porcelain design and assist in encouraging trade in Japanese porcelain. At a more practical level, his interest in ceramics saw the daily lives of soldiers and free burghers at the Cape improve by making pottery available to them when it had not been before. Much of this influence has been forgotten by now and Wagenaer is unlikely to ever be listed amongst the ‘big names’ of VOC history. Yet, what would I not give for an item of his own porcelain design to be discovered. No doubt there is an ancient, cracked plate somewhere, or fragments waiting in the ground. The hope is that these can one day be unearthed, that his simple design, of which he had been so proud and which had so disappointed him through the inferior imitations, can be added to the pattern of his artistic life.

References

• S.C. Jordan, ‘Coarse Earthenware at the Dutch Colonial Cape of Good Hope, South Africa: A History of Local Production and Typology of Products’, International Journal of Historical Archaeology, 4.2 (2000), 113-143.
• C.S. Woodward, Oriental Ceramics at the Cape of Good Hope, 1652-1795 (Cape Town: A.A. Balkema, 1974).
• K. Zandvliet, ‘Zacharias Wagenaer 1614-1668. A Life in the Service of the Dutch East India Company and the Dutch West India Company’, in Oranda Higashi-Indo Kaisha: Deshimashokan-sho Wahe-varu-ten. The Dutch East India Company in the 17th century: Life and Work of Zacharias Wagenaer 1614-1668 (Nagasaki: Nagasaki Holland Village, 1987), 20-35.

Coming Back to the Past

2021-07-01 | Karen Jennings

In 1992, when I was 9 years old, my class went on an outing across the road to the Education Museum in Aliwal Road, Wynberg, Cape Town. I had always loved museums, old things and history, but this visit was something special and stands out in my memory as an important moment in my life because it was the day that I met Dr Sleigh, then curator of the museum. I remember his baggy jersey, his ruffled white hair, and, of course, the marvelous extent of his knowledge about all things. My little heart fell in love with him because there I saw, for the first time, the way in which history could live and do and breathe, the way in which it could be touched and interacted with. It didn’t have to be limited to books and dusty displays behind glass.

I began to visit Dr Sleigh regularly in the afternoons after school, no doubt making a nuisance of myself! I had already started accumulating old bottles and other curiosities by then, and later that year when the museum hosted a competition for collections, I entered my “Bottles and Bygones” collection, being awarded the prize for most enthusiastic collector. It remains one of the proudest days of my life, meaning more to me than other awards I have received over the ensuing years.

My Bottles and Bygones collection, 1992

I continued with my collection and my interest in history, still visiting Dr Sleigh. Then, in 1994, he encouraged me to enter the Education Museum’s history project competition, suggesting the topic of early medicine at the Cape. I did so with gusto, and again received an award – this time a book: Oriental Ceramics at the Cape of Good Hope 1652-1795 by C.S. Woodward and published by Balkema in 1974. I was too young to appreciate the book at the time, though I did attempt to read it at various intervals over the years, but it never captured my attention. It remained on my bookshelf, untouched for longer than I would care to say.

Book and certificate awarded to me for my project on early medicine at the Cape, 1994

Skipping forward a few decades, in 2015 I moved to Brazil with my Brazilian husband. I found it a great challenge to adapt to a new culture and language; indeed, to an entirely new landscape and climate. Though the world can feel small at times, it can also feel vast and alien and isolating at others. I struggled to, for lack of a better phrase, understand “my place” in the world. I felt lost, with no idea what to do with myself or my life. I had shipped my collection of old bottles and bygones over (though some broke during the long passage across the ocean), as well as the book on ceramics at the Cape. I displayed them in our home and used to sit looking at them as I sweltered in the tropical heat while toucans and araras (parrots) cried nearby and monkeys chattered in the trees (we lived next to a nature reserve). They were idyllic days in some ways, but without purpose.

When the pandemic arrived, I decided to grab time by the forelock, to no longer simply sit looking at these objects of a past that I had lost, but to finally pursue my long-time dream of completing a PhD in History. I enrolled at the University of Johannesburg under the supervision of the wonderful Cape historian, Gerald Groenewald. I had originally wanted to explore natural history in some way, but was not quite certain how. Gerald very kindly pointed me in the direction of Zacharias Wagenaer who had been the second commander of the Cape after Jan van Riebeeck. I was astounded when he told me that Wagenaer had started his career in the Dutch West India Company in Brazil, as I had been unaware of the Dutch presence in Brazil before that. He also informed me that Wagenaer had produced a book of paintings and descriptions of flora and fauna in Brazil, entitled Thier Buch. I began to read about this man with interest, marveling at his drawings of animals, some of which I had encountered, some of them not (after all, Brazil is a massive country and Wagenaer and I had lived in very different parts). Yet, despite the matter of time and distance, there was something strangely comforting in learning about his experiences and of trying to imagine his difficult ocean passage to Pernambuco, of his being confronted with diseases, of his encounters in a new land, with new people, new ways of being and thinking, his ordeals due to a general lack of food and supplies. Though our experiences were clearly very different, reading about his made me feel less lonely, less like I was stagnating in a faraway place without an idea of what my future would hold. It was, in its own muted way, my own adventure.

Drawing and description of a tamandua (anteater) by Zacharias Wagenaer in his Thier Buch. I was fortunate enough to see one early one morning while I was walking the dogs.

I read, too, of his further journeys, of how after leaving Brazil he joined the VOC and travelled all over the Dutch empire, including Japan, where he served as opperhoofd of the Dutch factory at Deshima in 1657 and 1659. There he was involved in trying to encourage Japanese production of replica Chinese porcelain. In the process, he learned a great deal about the subject, knowledge which he took with him a few years later when he became commander at the Cape of Good Hope and encouraged the production of pottery there.

It was then that I remembered the book on ceramics that I had been awarded in 1994. I dug it out (by now it was in storage, as we had moved away from the idyllic nature reserve in Goiania and into the cement- and tar-filled urban jungle of Sao Paulo due to circumstances related to the pandemic). Simply holding it in my hands once more, this treasured possession that I had never read, brought back to me memories of my old friend, Dr Sleigh, and of those happy afternoons when I would visit him and wander through the Education Museum, those days when history was brought alive all around me and I felt the thrill of possibility for my own future. I remembered walking across the stage to receive the book at prizegiving, my father’s pride, his comment that it was a very special book, I remembered wrapping it in bubble-wrap before it was boxed and shipped to Brazil, making sure that it would be safe and come to no harm. I began to feel, once more, that decades-old thrill, to feel that I could, yes I could, be part of bringing history to life.

Shortly thereafter, I joined the VOC Foundation and found myself reunited with Dr Sleigh, digitally across this distance. Dear Dr Sleigh, who looks the same as he did all those years ago, wearing the same baggy jersey, his hair as unkempt as ever. There is comfort in that too, as though I have stepped into that museum again, aged 9, and come home to not only myself but to a sense of wonder and purpose.