Julie Dawson is the head of conservation at the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge and co-curator of Death on the Nile: Uncovering the Afterlife of Ancient Egypt (until 22 May), the first major exhibition of the museum’s 2016 bicentenary celebrations.
Does this exhibition examine the people who made Egyptian coffins rather than those who were in them?
Yes. It is arranged chronologically to explore changing beliefs and practices; the move from rectangular boxes to anthropoid [body-shaped] coffins was quite a big deal, for example. We look at the issues the coffin-makers would have faced, such as restrictions on materials during times of economic and political upheaval.
We reveal what coffins can tell us about how the Egyptians approached the business of death and how they prepared for it practically and spiritually.
Not everybody got a gold-leaf sarcophagus, did they?
We reflect the huge range of coffins, some of which were almost certainly bought “off the shelf” with inscriptions already on them, so the name of the dead person was squeezed in at one end. At the other end of the scale, there’s our set of Nespawershefyt coffins [made for a temple official at Karnak], which display a fantastic level of art.
You can see they were made well before Nespawershefyt’s demise because workmen altered his details every time his job title changed.
We have x-rayed and CAT-scanned the coffins, unusually not the mummies, so you can see below the beautifully decorated surface, and the fact that a lot of them were made from repurposed wood. A British Museum analysis has revealed one of our coffins is made up of 74 pieces and at least 150 dowels.
Speaking of which, have you tried to assemble flat-pack furniture?
I’ve had a go, yes; funnily enough, we have another Middle Kingdom coffin that came from an excavation in constituent parts – two long sides, two short sides and a lid, but the bottom was missing – and it didn’t come with confusing instructions.
Did you always know you would be a conservator?
After I’d been through the usual early horse and ballet-dancing phases, I knew I wanted to do something hands-on with history.
I was lucky to work as a curatorial assistant at the old Museum of Costume and Textiles in Nottingham. I made replica shoes and 17th-century support garments for the mannequins, which is probably what sparked my interest in conservation, though I took a route via archaeology.
Does this exhibition examine the people who made Egyptian coffins rather than those who were in them?
Yes. It is arranged chronologically to explore changing beliefs and practices; the move from rectangular boxes to anthropoid [body-shaped] coffins was quite a big deal, for example. We look at the issues the coffin-makers would have faced, such as restrictions on materials during times of economic and political upheaval.
We reveal what coffins can tell us about how the Egyptians approached the business of death and how they prepared for it practically and spiritually.
Not everybody got a gold-leaf sarcophagus, did they?
We reflect the huge range of coffins, some of which were almost certainly bought “off the shelf” with inscriptions already on them, so the name of the dead person was squeezed in at one end. At the other end of the scale, there’s our set of Nespawershefyt coffins [made for a temple official at Karnak], which display a fantastic level of art.
You can see they were made well before Nespawershefyt’s demise because workmen altered his details every time his job title changed.
We have x-rayed and CAT-scanned the coffins, unusually not the mummies, so you can see below the beautifully decorated surface, and the fact that a lot of them were made from repurposed wood. A British Museum analysis has revealed one of our coffins is made up of 74 pieces and at least 150 dowels.
Speaking of which, have you tried to assemble flat-pack furniture?
I’ve had a go, yes; funnily enough, we have another Middle Kingdom coffin that came from an excavation in constituent parts – two long sides, two short sides and a lid, but the bottom was missing – and it didn’t come with confusing instructions.
Did you always know you would be a conservator?
After I’d been through the usual early horse and ballet-dancing phases, I knew I wanted to do something hands-on with history.
I was lucky to work as a curatorial assistant at the old Museum of Costume and Textiles in Nottingham. I made replica shoes and 17th-century support garments for the mannequins, which is probably what sparked my interest in conservation, though I took a route via archaeology.
