The 'British Museum of Modern-Antiquities' (an oxymoron if you ever needed one) lies on Gower Street in London's bustling tourist-land. It is mid-February and under a heavy leaden sky shredded by a squinting sun, the streets are thronged with the patter of the hordes; giggling Japanese with their digital cameras, Germans in full hiking regalia, Indians with their bored boisterous children and the students and academics from the nearby university in a variety of guises: goth, nerds, the clinically self-conscious, and the antediluvian professors; tweedy, dusty and anachronistic in a world of automobiles and cell-phones.
As you approach the museum from the Euston Road end of Gower Street, you’ll pass the new hospital building on the right; its shiny-polished surfaces covered in protective bubble wrap and its jade matt windows bragging: ‘I am a hospital’ and ‘I am brand new!’ Behind it is the old hospital building it replaces; brooding under a shadow from its bigger brother. It is encased in a latticework of red ochre and has a head that is a jumble of spires and steeples like a Gaudi inspired mausoleum. When viewed under a swirling mass of angry February sky it looks terrifyingly sepulchral - a place for the living or for the dying; you wonder.
Farther on, beyond the university gates, is the ‘Centre for Tropical Diseases’ standing in an explosion of 50’s Art Deco. Supremely designed architecture is always timeless; not seduced by fads, always ‘La Mode’, never ‘out’ always ‘in’. The centre for tropical diseases was out of date the day it was unveiled to a horrified squirming audience.
As you approach the Museum of Modern-Antiquities from the side, you’ll notice the large white limestone wash dating back to the 1600s; now faded and mossy in the cracks. The building is constructed from large rectangular granite slabs, slammed together with Pyramid like precision. The building itself when viewed from the front is square, squat, rising three storeys, and wears an aspect of smug repose. A portico with columns and marble balustrades covers the entrance. The styling is simple; neat clean lines, classically shaped windows, and healthy proportions that please the eye. It’s highly likely that there is an element of deliberate contrivance in this as the architect, Sir Christopher Wren, was known to have been a patron of the ‘Golden Ratio’ – a mathematical theory stating that beauty is found in proportions that are multiples of Pi. The golden ratio can be found hidden in many of the buildings designed by the celebrated architect.
Surprisingly and perhaps curiously, there’s no signage at the front or anywhere near the building that announces to the casual viewer that this is a museum of modern antiquities. The only inkling of its importance is a vague washed-out frieze above the entrance; the ashen-faced Latin inscription severely blunted by weathering; but still legible. It reads (in English): “Here lies the darkest mysteries known to man, enter thy crypts and be damned!” The huge front door is made from tropical Rosewood. The grains and knots clearly visible and the whole thing is covered in a layer of gloss that emphasize its organic-ness and earthly provenance - so that it looks almost alive. The ornate brass fittings add to the sense of authority and permanence. A permanence at odds with the shape-shifting world outside. The world changes, people come and go; like seasons, like lovers, but amidst this transience, this bulwark door remains unflinching.
As you approach it, you feel as if you are about to leave this particular rabbit-hole and enter another rabbit-hole. Which in a way you are because inside this building lies the largest collection of modern artifacts and documents in the whole world. You wonder whether the absence of any self-promotion arises, in part, from a hyper-awareness of the Trustees to the ignominious history of the artifacts – you see many of the items kept in the museum were purloined during the Empire days when the British went on a ransack and therefore have a chequered past.
When you enter the building you’re relieved to find it is not overrun by grimy tourists or twitchy students. In-fact, to your delight and amusement, you discover that you are the sole patron. The three floors hold a sizeable collection, but that is not the reason you are here. So with haste you head for the man sitting in the reception area. He looks up at you wearily when you approach; his face slightly pudgy and dyspeptic. But he has keen eyes that hover around your face for a while searching for something before landing on one spot. You speak:
“Hello there, I was wondering whether I could see the ‘Dr Alexander Von Nutterboffin Collection’ please” and then you smile - for emphasis.
This is obviously an uncommon request and he is somewhat taken aback. You can hear the software in his brain whirring.
And you don’t let go of his eyes. The words rolling out of your tongue are precise, carefully measured with a slight weight on the ‘Co’ of collection. Your voice is smoky, rich and with texture; in short the voice of a tobacco smoking academic used to lecturing in large lecture halls. You continue staring at the man your eyes not wavering. There is a short-lived (and one might say furtive) glint of recognition in his eyes; as if he is in on the secret. He picks up the telephone and dials a buzzer. Then gesturing at the dusty leather sofa he says ‘If you would just care to take a seat sir, someone will be up to collect you shortly’.
So you sit and wait.
This is perhaps as good as any time to explain what you are doing here. Not many people know this but the collection held by the British Museum of Modern-Antiquities is divided into two sub-sections. That which is above ground, on public display for all to see, over three magnificent shiny floors. There is also that which is of much greater academic importance and therefore kept hidden away in dank underground catacombs deep within the bowels of the museum building. Some statistics: The items on display constitute 5% of the total collection held in trust by the museum. Thus 95% of what the museum holds is underground, largely unstudied and a potential goldmine. And here’s the best bit. The collection was bequeathed to the Museum in the 1800s when, the then owner, Sir Henry Waldport (a megalomaniac and empire builder) passed away. The Thatcher government in the 1980’s nationalized the Museum and the collection passed into public ownership. So, although nobody will tell you about the underground collection; for there are no signs in the lobby that point towards it, it is not mentioned in the literature or on the museum circuit tours, there is no mention of it on the museum website either, but if you ask, if you swagger into the museum and with a petulant wave of the hand ask to be shown it, the Museum has no choice but to oblige you. The ‘Dr Alexander Von Nutterboffin Collection’ is one of many veritable collections held in the underground vaults; a teeming warren of stifling chambers and tunnels deep below the London trafficscape.
But who is Dr Alexander Von Nutterboffin and why are you interested in him?
