Digital resources in the Social Sciences and Humanities OpenEdition Our platforms OpenEdition Books OpenEdition Journals Hypotheses Calenda Libraries OpenEdition Freemium Follow us

Preserving geodiversity of ore deposits for future research: a call for action

Stefan Peters looks at geodiversity and explains its importance for science – a comparatively neglected topic, considering e.g. ongoing discussions on biodiversity.


Commercial mining permanently removes vast volumes of rock from Earth’s crust. How can we strategically collect and document these geological materials to safeguard their scientific value for future generations? A retrospective look at samples gathered in the past.

Kommerzieller Bergbau entfernt dauerhaft große Gesteinsmengen aus der Erdkruste. Wie können wir diese geologischen Materialien strategisch sammeln und dokumentieren, um ihren wissenschaftlichen Wert für zukünftige Generationen zu bewahren? Eine Rückschau auf in der Vergangenheit gesammelte Proben.


One mid-sized mountain per year

Whether you will be reading this blog on your phone, a tablet, or a desktop computer screen, there will be several tenths of grams of rare earth elements, copper, and other heavy metals involved in the background technology enabling you to read it. Many of these elements are in high demand in industry – not only because they enable your phone to function, but also because they are crucial for infrastructure development of modern cities and for transitioning from a fossil fuel-based economy towards more sustainable alternatives [1]. The high demand for these metals in industry has led to a situation in which more minerals are being mined than ever before. In 2024, mining industry analysts estimated that there were around 20,000 active commercial mine sites worldwide, collectively responsible for the extraction of several tens of billions of metric tons of rock in a single year [2,3]. That is roughly equivalent to the volume of a mid-sized mountain such as the Zugspitze, Germany’s highest peak.

Commercial mine sites offer geologists exciting opportunities to study outcrops and collect rock samples that would otherwise remain inaccessible, as these rocks would not naturally be exposed at the Earth’s surface. However, the time window for collecting such samples is limited. By definition, commercial mining involves the excavation and processing of rocks for metal extraction. As a result, many geologically interesting rocks have already been permanently removed from the Earth’s crust (e.g., Fig. 1). While the loss of biodiversity from Earth’s surface environments has become a widely discussed topic in science and politics in 2025, the loss of geodiversity has received comparatively little attention.

Fig. 1 Gold-bearing conglomerate from the South Reef in the West Rand area, Witwatersrand Basin, South Africa, sampled from a gold mine in 1931 (collection: Museum of Nature Hamburg). The Witwatersrand Basin holds the world’s largest known gold reserves today, yet the geological origin of gold enrichment remains poorly understood. This particular sample originates from a geologically unique section of the Witwatersrand basin, from which all ore-bearing rocks have now been excavated and processed for metal extraction [1]. The sample thus offers geoscientists a rare opportunity to investigate this particular section of the Witwatersrand Basin today, despite not being able to sample it in the field anymore.

Past, present, and future of ore deposits in institute collections

As a curator at the Museum of Nature Hamburg, it is my job to safeguard a collection of 90,000 rocks and mineral samples and make them available for geoscientific research and education. But I am also passionate about preserving geodiversity for future generations of geoscientists. Given the current boom in the mining industry, I am particularly interested in collecting samples from ore deposits that are at risk of being lost to science forever. But how can we collect these samples in a way that allows future generations of scientists to make full use of them? Can we establish or improve a collection strategy by studying how ore deposits were sampled in the past, and by reflecting on how these samples were used for scientific research since?

With these questions in mind, I have studied the inventories of ore collections based at the Sedgwick Museum of Earth Sciences (University of Cambridge) and at the Museum of Nature Hamburg (Leibniz Institute for the Analysis of Biodiversity Change). Perhaps not surprisingly, I found that samples and their corresponding documentation frequently reflect the scientific Zeitgeist of the time when they were collected. For example, historic ore specimens collected in the 19th century often exhibit mineralogical peculiarities and are accompanied by descriptions of crystal forms and habitus types, but lack any geospatial information about where the samples were taken (e.g., Fig. 2a). Ore specimens collected later, in contrast, especially those gathered in the context of ore prospecting activities, tend to be more representative of local geology and are typically accompanied by geospatial information and genetic interpretations of the ore deposits (e.g., Fig. 2b). These different approaches to sampling at distinct points in history illustrate how geosciences evolved from a primarily descriptive science focused on cataloguing rocks and minerals 150 years ago, to a spectrum of hypothesis-driven geoscientific disciplines as we know them today.

Fig. 2 Typical examples of documentation associated with ore samples collected at different points in history. a) Entry for a historic lead (Pb) ore sample collected by J. Carne in the early to mid-1800s, recorded in an 1899 inventory by W.J. Lewis, who had acquired the specimen for the Sedgwick Museum of Earth Sciences. The description is detailed and strictly focused on mineralogical aspects of the sample, offering only a vague indication of regional origin (Cumberland or Cornwall?). b) Label accompanying the gold conglomerate sample shown in Fig. 1, collected in 1931 by the company operating the gold mine (West Rand Consolidated Mines Ltd). The label provides geospatial context of the mining area within the Witwatersrand basin from which the sample was taken (South Reef), including its orientation within the mine (East shaft, 6th level East).

Ore samples such as the specimen from the historic Carne collection in Fig. 2a still hold value for contemporary geoscientific research, particularly in the field of mineralogy. However, many other subdisciplines of geoscience increasingly rely on geological context and geospatial data. More recent samples with a higher degree of contextual documentation, such as the gold conglomerate sample shown in Fig. 2b, consequently tend to offer greater utility for addressing contemporary questions in geoscientific research, such as how the formation of ore minerals can be linked to tectonic or volcanic activity in a particular geological setting, and how tectonic and magmatic processes evolved over time. Placing ourselves in the shoes of a 19th century geoscience curator, this realisation reminds us that we cannot foresee the full range of scientific objectives future researchers may pursue. So how can we ensure that we do not miss out on crucial sample information and miss key sampling strategies for future research, when we incorporate new samples from ore deposits into our collection?

The Apollo samples as a precedent

Inspiration for answering these questions might come from an unexpected corner of the Solar System. During the era of the Apollo programme (1961–1972), NASA astronauts sampled approximately 380 kg of rocks and soils on the Moon. These samples were collected with few specific scientific objectives at the time, but with the clear intention that they should serve future generations of geoscientists – much like the purpose for which I argue ore deposits should be sampled today. During the Apollo programme, samples were therefore taken from a diverse suite of geological settings on the Moon, and each sample was photographed in situ before collection, labelled with precise geospatial coordinates, and was meticulously documented with notes on orientation and surrounding features (Fig. 3). Some samples were even sealed, frozen, or stored in vacuum or helium in vials that were first opened 50 years later [5]. Today, more than half a century since the Apollo missions, we know that this sampling approach has paid off: Geoscientists have made extensive use of the Apollo sample suite and continue to do so, often using analytical techniques that did not yet exist during the era of the Apollo programme. For example, the Moon was long considered bone-dry until, in the late 2000s, advanced analytical techniques revealed traces of water in Apollo samples that had previously remained undetectable. This finding fundamentally reshaped our understanding of the Moon’s formation, several decades after the samples were collected.

Fig. 3 Astronaut and geoscientist Harrison Schmitt collecting a soil sample on the Moon in 1972, equipped with a photo camera and sampling scoop (Apollo 17; Image courtesy of NASA and the Project Apollo Archive).

Collecting data beyond the object

In practice, curators of academic collections do not have the resources to implement an Apollo-style strategy for curating rock samples, particularly when aiming to sample many of the active mining sites around the world. But the success of the Apollo missions can serve as a reminder to collect and curate as much contextual information as possible alongside new ore samples. The most challenging aspect of this approach would be to record field information that seems scientifically irrelevant at present, but which might become important for research in the (far) future. This could include seemingly mundane details such as weather conditions, background mineral assemblages, or even logistical constraints during sampling.

As a concluding reflection, it is somewhat ironic to look to the Apollo programme’s lunar sampling practices as inspiration for preserving Earth’s geodiversity. New sample return missions to the Moon will likely take place in the upcoming decades, theoretically allowing robotic landers and astronauts to revisit and resample rocks from the original Apollo landing sites. By contrast, rocks from ore deposits on Earth, once excavated and processed for metal extraction, can never be sampled again. If these materials are not systematically incorporated into academic ore collections at present, together with the appropriate contextual information, they risk being lost to science and education forever.


Bibliography

[1] Gielen, D. (2021). Critical minerals for the energy transition. International Renewable Energy Agency, Abu Dhabi.

[2] Jasansky, S., Lieber, M., Giljum, S., & Maus, V. (2023). An open database on global coal and metal mine production. Scientific data, 10(1), 52.

[3] Reichl, C., & Schatz, M. (2024). World Mining Data 2024. Federal Ministry of Finance, Austria.

[4] Pegg, C. W. (1950). A contribution to the geology of the West Rand area. South African Journal of Geology, 53(1), 209-224.

[5] Shearer, C. K. et al. & ANGSA science team. (2024). Apollo Next Generation Sample Analysis (ANGSA): An Apollo participating scientist program to prepare the lunar sample community for Artemis. Space Science Reviews, 220(6), 62.


Stefan Peters leads a research group, curates a collection of over 90,000 rocks and minerals, and manages a 500 m² exhibition area at the Museum of Nature Hamburg – Mineralogy. He is also a guest lecturer in geochemistry at the University of Hamburg. In 2024, he was a Leibniz-Cambridge Museum & Collection Fellow at the Sedgwick Museum of Earth Sciences, University of Cambridge.


Title picture: A copper mine in Sweden, LOP Project.

Are we heading towards an “Anthropocene 2.0”?

In diesem Beitrag geht Mark Lawrence der Frage nach, ob wir uns bereits in einem neuen Zeitalter befinden, in dem die Menschheit ein neues Verhältnis zum aktiven Umgang mit dem Planeten Erde entwickelt (hat).

The Anthropocene concept challenges us to rethink humanity’s role in the Earth system. Is it time to start thinking about the implications of the ongoing shift from uncoordinated and largely unintended global environmental impacts towards coordinated, intentional stewardship of the planet?

Das Konzept des Anthropozäns erfordert ein neues Verständnis der Rolle der Menschheit im Erdsystem. Ist es an der Zeit, über die Bedeutung des gegenwärtigen Übergangs von unkoordinierten und weitgehend unbeabsichtigten globalen Umweltauswirkungen zu einer koordinierten und bewussten Verantwortung für unseren Planeten nachzudenken?


“Stop talking about the Holocene! We’re not living in the Holocene anymore; we’re living in the… uh… the Anthropocene!”

When Paul Crutzen blurted out that exclamation at a meeting of the International Geosphere-Biosphere Programme (IGBP) nearly 25 years ago, he probably had no idea of the storm he was about to unleash. Then again, Crutzen was no stranger to groundbreaking ideas that had major influences on the world – his capacity to shake up science won him the Nobel Prize in Chemistry in 1995. This moment, however, was less a casual outburst than a spark that set off a paradigm shift in how we understand Earth’s history.

At the time, Earth System indicators – such as atmospheric CO₂ levels and unprecedented global temperatures – painted a picture of rapid, human-driven change. Crutzen believed that the new reality, in which humanity had become the dominant force shaping the planet, was no longer reflected in the Holocene, the stable geological epoch spanning the past 12,000 years which we had used to define our place in time. In his viewpoint – and mine as well – we have entered the Anthropocene.

Paul Crutzen with his close colleagues Klaus Töpfer, Susan Solomon and Jos Lelieveld at the Anthropocene Symposium, 12. December 2013. Copyright: Carsten Costard

While Crutzen popularized the term, the Anthropocene wasn’t entirely new. It had surfaced before: Russian geologist Alexei Petrovich Pavlov used it in 1922, and biologist Eugene Stoermer had been using it informally since the 1980s. Others had floated related terms such as “Anthroposphere” or “Noösphere”. But when Crutzen revived the term in the late 1990s, it struck a chord. At the heart of his argument was a simple but profound observation: the changes in Earth’s System over the past century have been greater than the fluctuations during the entire rest of the Holocene.  The impact of humanity – deforestation, mass extinctions, and greenhouse gas emissions – had reached a scale that could no longer be ignored. Crutzen’s credibility as a scientist lent weight to the concept of the Anthropocene, while his persistence kept the term in the spotlight.

Crutzen and Stoermer joined forces in 2000 and published a seminal article in the IGBP Newsletter introducing the Anthropocene. Crutzen’s follow-up article in Nature in 2002, boldly titled “Geology of Mankind,” propelled the Anthropocene into both public consciousness and scientific discourse. Central to Crutzen’s vision was a call for formal recognition of the Anthropocene as a new geological epoch. He argued that humanity’s impact, captured in markers such as the CO₂ concentration, plastics, and radioactive isotopes, was so profound that it warranted its own distinct place in Earth’s timeline.

Layers of rock, known as strata, preserve a record of millions of years of Earth’s history, capturing changes in environmental conditions over time, as shown in this photo of the Painted Desert in Arizona, USA.

I had the privilege of continuing to work with Crutzen after he retired to what he humorously called his “post-postdoc” phase, freeing him from administrative leadership responsibilities so that he could better pursue his scientific interests. His office was just across the hall from mine, and I often had the privilege of witnessing his boundless curiosity firsthand as he frequently popped in and radiated enthusiasm as he discussed his latest ideas. On the day that he returned from the now famous IGBP meeting where he declared the Holocene Epoch obsolete, he excitedly told me about his experience. For him, the term Anthropocene better captured the unprecedented human-driven changes transforming the Earth system. This spontaneous moment of frustration became a rallying cry and a catalyst for discussion with colleagues around the world. And as it turned out, the Anthropocene resonated not only with Earth scientists but also with philosophers, artists, policy makers, journalists and others.

The Anthropocene quickly became a lightning rod for interdisciplinary exploration. At the Research Institute for Sustainability (RIFS, formerly IASS), we explored its cultural, political, and ethical implications. Klaus Töpfer, the institute’s founding director, often referred to Crutzen’s work, using it to underscore humanity’s collective responsibility for the planet. Töpfer and I invited prominent thinkers to RIFS to deepen the conversation. Collaborations with organizations such as the House of World Cultures (HKW) and the Max Planck Institute for the History of Science enriched these discussions and underscored the power of the Anthropocene to bridge science and society.

In 2009, the International Committee on Stratigraphy (ICS) established the Anthropocene Working Group (AWG) to investigate whether the Anthropocene could be formally recognized as a geological epoch. Paul Crutzen, a member of the group until his passing in 2021, contributed to its efforts to identify stratigraphic markers-evidence preserved in the Earth’s layers-that could define the beginning of the epoch. They found compelling evidence in many different markers, including the very prominent signal of radioactive fallout from mid-20th century nuclear weapons tests, and submitted a proposal to formalize the Anthropocene as an epoch starting in the 1950s. Despite the quality of the evidence they had gathered, the proposal was rejected by the ICS in early 2024. But the decision has reignited debate about the future of the term. The ICS noted several criticisms, including that an Anthropocene starting in the 1950s would neglect the millennia of human development leading up to the present state, and suggested that the Anthropocene could remain an informal concept, for instance repurposing the term as a geological “event” or episode, outside the formal Geological Time Scale (GTS) framework. However, this repurposing would be a relativization and a significant change from what Crutzen and the AWG proposed that the Anthropocene should stand for, and I would strongly support that the proposal for the Anthropocene as a geological epoch starting in the mid-1900’s should be resubmitted in the near future, with further accumulated evidence, as well as clear counterarguments to the concerns expressed in the IUGS statement, and, perhaps, a new term for an informal geological episode leading up to the formal Anthropocene.

Worldwide light pollution showcasing the growth and expansion of human presence. (Data courtesy of Marc Imhoff of NASA GSFC and Christopher Elvidge of NOAA NGDC. Image by Craig Mayhew and Robert Simmon, NASA GSFC)

As we consider what to do with the term Anthropocene, it might also be time to start considering what might happen beyond the Anthropocene.  In this sense, might there one day be significant shifts in the character of the Anthropocene, like the sub-epochs of the Holocene? And if so, what would be different? 

In the early days of RIFS (while it was still the IASS), these questions led Klaus Töpfer and me to consider the idea of an “Anthropocene 2.0”. Nearly a decade ago, we began exploring what a shift might look like as humanity moves from the Anthropocene as we know it – characterized by mostly unintended environmental impacts that result from our activities to provide food, shelter, energy, transportation and entertainment to an exponentially growing global population – to a possible new, intentional, conscious and coordinated form of global impact, which we thought could be characterized as an Anthropocene 2.0. Töpfer and I had slightly different perspectives on what the “Anthropocene 2.0” might look like. Töpfer saw it through the lens of global governance, imagining a world where international climate negotiations and coordinated environmental policies revolved around collective human responsibility and cooperation to stabilize the Earth’s systems. My own interpretation was influenced by my critical observation and assessment of the growing number and seriousness of proposals for immense, globally coordinated technological intervention in the earth system, known under the umbrella term of “climate geoengineering” – the deliberate manipulation of the Earth’s climate to attempt to counteract the effects of global warming. These hypothetical approaches, ranging from solar radiation management to large-scale carbon capture, raise profound questions about humanity’s role in the Earth system. Would such interventions represent an incremental evolution in our relationship with the planet, or a radical, qualitative shift to an altogether new form of the Anthropocene (at least as significant as the differences between the sub-epochs in the Holocene and other recent epochs)? While I favor the latter interpretation, an extensive, community-wide discussion would be needed to come to any form of consensus around these and other possible interpretations.

While the idea of an “Anthropocene 2.0” is provocative, it is not intended to be interpreted as automatically optimistic or desirable. Both Töpfer and I shared concerns about the risks of such a future – technological hubris with its associated ethical dilemmas and unintended environmental and societal consequences could all pose serious challenges. But exploring this possibility helps us imagine how humanity’s relationship with the global environment might evolve. What would it mean for humanity to act as a conscious and coordinated geological force? Could such a transformation ever be consistent with principles of equity and sustainability? But perhaps before we address these questions about an “Anthropocene 2.0” further, we should first reconsider how to reach an international agreement on the meaning and use of the term “Anthropocene” itself. Over the last quarter century, the concept of the Anthropocene has already reshaped how we view our relationship with the planet. Whether or not the Anthropocene becomes an official geological epoch, it has been and will likely continue forcing us to confront uncomfortable truths about our impact on the Earth system, as well as challenging us to imagine a future in which that impact is equitable and sustainable, regardless of the degree to which it becomes intentional and coordinated. The Anthropocene has its roots in geology and Earth system science – but as the global debate over its use and interpretation continues, one thing has become clear: the meaning of the Anthropocene goes far beyond geology. It’s really about humanity’s collective history – and future.


Mark Lawrence is scientific director at the RIFS in Potsdam and an integrative scientist who addresses key challenges of the Anthropocene by bringing together and applying a wide range of academic expertise in his team as well as involving societal actors in a transdisciplinary approach.


Title picture: Will humanity end up attempting to engineer the planet as a whole, and would that constitute an Anthropocene 2.0? Copyright: Research Institute for Sustainability (RIFS)

Scientific Instruments in the Greek Enlightenment

In diesem Beitrag skizziert Artemis Yagou die Verwendung wissenschaftlicher Instrumente und die damit verbundenen neuen Praktiken und Mentalitäten in Griechenland um die Wende zum 19. Jahrhundert.

Welche Arten von wissenschaftlichen Instrumenten wurden um die Wende zum 19. Jahrhundert in Griechenland, damals eine Provinz des Osmanischen Reiches, verwendet? Artemis Yagou skizziert die Verwendung wissenschaftlicher Instrumente und die damit verbundenen neuen Praktiken und Mentalitäten in Griechenland.

What kinds of scientific instruments were used around the turn of the nineteenth century in Greece, then a province of the Ottoman Empire? Artemis Yagou outlines the uses of scientific instruments and the associated emerging practices and mentalities in Greece.


The bearded, long-haired man shown on a copperplate portrait of the late eighteenth century appears intelligent and confident (title picture). He wears the attire of an Orthodox Christian priest, holds a small book, and is surrounded by objects underpinning his activities as an educated man: numerous leather-bound volumes, a pair of compasses, and a globe. He is the Greek scholar Anthimos Gazis (1758–1828), from the village of Milies (Pilio mountain, Thessaly). The portrait is printed on the frontispiece of his book Γραμματική των Φιλοσοφικών Επιστημών, a translation of The Philosophical Grammar, originally published in 1735 by Benjamin Martin (1705–1782), the English lexicographer and maker of scientific instruments. This translation was one of several publishing initiatives meant to introduce the Greek-speaking public to the latest scientific developments.

In 1813, Gazis also founded a school at Milies, in collaboration with other Greek scholars. He equipped the school with scientific instruments that he brought from Vienna, some of which still survive at the Public Library of Milies; one of them is a standard electrostatic machine. This object is very similar to the machine with Accession number 2231 kept in the Whipple Museum of the History of Science in Cambridge, dated c. 1775–1800 and typically used for demonstration purposes (Fig. 2). The electrostatic machine at the Milies School was likewise used to conduct electrical demonstrations and familiarise students and other locals with electricity and its properties; the experiments conducted there greatly impressed those who attended them. Such scientific experimental performances ushered in a new, critical outlook. The teachers of that school aimed to make students – and anyone else interested – aware that natural phenomena had logical and scientific interpretations. Through their pioneering activities, these men aimed to fight superstition and prejudice by popularising scientific findings and applying them to the daily lives of people.

Fig. 2: Electrostatic machine, British, c. 1775–1800, Whipple Museum of the History of Science, Cambridge, Accession No 2231.

Clearly, Gazis and other Greek scholars had realised the seminal significance of experiments. Nevertheless, they could only perform relatively simple experiments, serving primarily purposes of demonstration and proof and only rarely of research. In other words, experiments were not used for measurements that could lead to the formulation of physical laws. Making experiments in Ottoman Greece was not easy at all; one of the major obstacles was the lack of appropriate equipment and materials. In their publications, Greek intellectuals discussed numerous physical and chemical experiments, as well as the instruments and materials required for their realisation, among others: electrostatic machines, Leyden jars, precision scales, precision timers, air pumps, Magdeburg hemispheres, armillary spheres, magnets, lenses, sufficient quantities of mercury, chemical reagents, etc. (Fig. 3). Alas, most of these were difficult or impossible to find locally, therefore many experiments were not feasible. Despite the limitations of their experimental practices, Greek scholars of the time managed to develop their way of thinking, assimilate new scientific ideas, and become more confident in their teaching activities. They realised the significance of direct, hands-on practice for acquiring new knowledge and felt empowered.

Fig. 3: Copperplate illustration of an air pump included as ‘Table a’ in Anthimos Gazis, Γραμματικὴ τῶν Φιλοσοφικῶν Επιστημῶν [Grammar of Philosophical Sciences], Vienna: Schraembl, 1799.

The actions of these highly educated individuals were embedded within a broader sociocultural transformation that was taking place during the last decades of the eighteenth century and the first of the nineteenth. An emerging Greek middle class was enjoying financial prosperity and intellectual growth, and had internalised the significance of education. That period, later termed Greek (or Neohellenic, or Balkan) Enlightenment, was directly influenced by the wider philosophical and intellectual movement in eighteenth-century Western Europe, and is considered a local manifestation of the overall European Enlightenment. The major characteristic of the Greek Enlightenment was a shift in consciousness, a fundamental change in the way people had begun to think about themselves. The Greek Enlightenment encompassed the belief in rational thinking, self-improvement, and the pursuit of happiness; the usage of scientific instruments contributed to these themes.

Historians often also describe the decades of the Greek Enlightenment as ‘pre-revolutionary’, since they prepared the ground for the Greek Revolution (Greek War of Independence) (1821–c.1830), a protracted and extremely violent struggle for self-determination and liberty by Greek populations of the Ottoman Empire. As soon as the Greek Revolution erupted, scientific instruments for education inevitably became sidelined, lost, and destroyed during the chaotic and harrowing times that followed. During the revolutionary years, the scientific instruments that became more visible and critical were telescopes, marine compasses, and other nautical instruments. Such portable items were already familiar and available to Greek sailors of the pre-revolutionary merchant marine; they were subsequently used by for war-related purposes. Originating primarily from England, France, Russia, and the Habsburg Empire, these instruments were acquired through various channels. Typically, Greeks ordered them from the countries of origin or purchased them locally in Europe; Philhellenes also sponsored and donated them. Diasporic Greeks and various foreigners brought such instruments with them when they came to Greece to join the liberation struggle. But that is another story.

Fig. 4: Ramsden Electrostatic Machine, late eighteenth century, National Historical Museum, Athens.

My personal involvement with the topic of scientific instruments is a spin-off from my work on late eighteenth to early nineteenth century pocket watches and, more generally, on the material culture of early modern Greece. Small numbers of the scientific instruments under discussion survive today in various collections, predominantly in Athenian museums: the National Historical Museum, the Benaki Museum, the War Museum, the Athens University History Museum, the National Observatory of Athens, and the Philhellenism Museum (Fig. 4). Early scientific instruments may also be found in the Historical Archive–Museum of Hydra island, in the Municipal Library of Milies, in the Kairios Library (Andros Island), as well as in various private collections. Systematic, object-based investigation of these artefacts remains to be conducted; further research and hands-on examination of the artefacts are needed in order to acquire a deeper understanding of the provenance and circulation practices of scientific instruments, the mentalities of individual actors, and the appropriation processes involved.


Recommendations for further reading

Roderick Beaton, Greece: Biography of a Modern Nation, London: Allen Lane, 2019.

Costantine Skordoulis, Gianna Katsiampoura and Efthymios Nikolaidis, ‘The Scientific Culture in Eighteenth to Nineteenth Century Greek-speaking Communities: Experiments and Textbooks’, in Peter Heering and Roland Wittje (eds), Learning by Doing: Experiments and Instruments in the History of Science Teaching.

Artemis Yagou, Products, Users, and Popular Luxury in Early Modern Greece, New York and London: Routledge, 2024.


Artemis Yagou, PhD, is a historian of design and technology, Research Associate at the Deutsches Museum in Munich.


Title picture: Portrait of Anthimos Gazis used as a frontispiece in his book Γραμματικὴ τῶν Φιλοσοφικῶν Επιστημῶν [Grammar of Philosophical Sciences], Vienna: Schraembl, 1799.

Die Komposition von Mustern in der Leinenweberei im Süddeutschland der frühen Neuzeit

Ellen Harlizius-Klück untersucht in diesem Beitrag frühneuzeitliche Weberbücher und Stoffe, die Arbeit der Weber:innen und deren Einfluss auf bekannte Wissenschaftler wie Jungius und Leibniz.

Haben Weber:innen für die Wissenschaft in der frühen Neuzeit eine Rolle gespielt? Auf welchem Aspekt des Handwerks könnte ein solcher Einfluss beruhen? Ellen Harlizius-Klück untersucht die Notationen der frühneuzeitlichen Weberbücher, um aufzuzeigen, wie Weber:innen ihre Muster komponieren, kombinieren, und transformieren.

Did weavers play a role for science in the early modern? What aspect of the craft might have had an impact? Ellen Harlizius-Klück examines the notations of early modern weavers’ books to show how weavers composed, combined and transformed patterns.


Betritt man das Obergeschoss des Markgrafenmuseums zu Ansbach, fällt der Blick auf ein Doppelporträt des Markgrafen Alexander (1736-1806) und seiner Gattin Friederike Charlotte (1735-1791). Es sind typische höfische Porträts des 18. Jahrhunderts, die kunsthistorisch von eher geringem Interesse und in keinem Katalog oder Werkverzeichnis abgebildet sind. Dennoch bin ich von München über Nürnberg nach Ansbach gereist, um das Porträt der Friederike Charlotte mit eigenen Augen zu sehen. Was macht für mich als Wissenschafts- und Technikhistorikerin den Wert dieses Gemäldes aus, auf dem es nichts Besonderes zu sehen gibt?

Seit ich 2006 in der Bibliothek des Deutschen Museums ein ungewöhnliches Buch-Manuskript zur Weberei entdeckte, bin ich auf der Suche nach den Stoffen, deren Herstellung in diesem Buch beschrieben ist. Es handelt sich um eines der ersten Musterbücher für Weber:innen: das Weber Kunst und Bild Buch des Nathanael Lumscher (1708), durchschossen mit vielen ursprünglich leeren Seiten auf denen mehrere Generationen von Webern seit 1748 ihre eigenen Entwürfe, aber auch historische Ereignisse, Geburten und Todesfälle dokumentiert haben. Es ist das früheste Werkstattjournal dieser Art im fränkischen Raum, geführt von den Webern Georg Thaller, Michael Schoder und Lorenz und Georg Klug in Oberschwarzach.

Beispiele für die in solchen Büchern behandelten Stoffe zu finden, ist nicht leicht. Von den Weber:innen werden sie als Kölsch, Golsch, Schachwitz, gesteinte Zwilch, Ligetuhr, oder Bauren Damasck bezeichnet. Der Name Bauerndamast hat dazu geführt, dass man diese Stoffe als minderwertig im Vergleich zu den Damaststoffen der großen Zugwebstühle angesehen und sie der Volkskunst zugerechnet hat. Sie wurden und werden von Museen kaum gesammelt. Das Porträt der Markgräfin von Ansbach belegt, dass diese Stoffe durchaus im höfischen Kontext beliebt waren, und zwar nicht nur als Tischwäsche, sondern auch als Bekleidungsstoff. Das Kleid der Friederike Caroline zeigt ein Muster aus Streifen und stilisierten Bäumen. Es wurde möglicherweise vom Ansbacher Hofweber Johann Michael Frickinger gewebt, der das wohl berühmteste deutsche Weberbuch verfasst und 1740 publiziert hat.

Detail des Hausgewandes auf dem Bildnis der Markgräfin Friederike Charlotte von Brandenburg-Ansbach mit einem der grafisch-geometrischen Mustern, deren Herstellung in den frühesten Weberbüchern aus Süddeutschland beschrieben wird. Es zeigt Streifen und stilisierte Bäume. Detailfoto: Ellen Harlizius-Klück.

Das neue Interesse von Wissenschafts- und Technikhistoriker:innen an dem Einfluss des Handwerks auf die Geschichte der Wissenschaftsentwicklung verändert derzeit auch den Blick auf das Wissen der Weber:innen. Pamela H. Smith von der Columbia University in New York sowie ihre Kolleg:innen argumentieren, dass die praktischen Handwerke zur Entwicklung neuer naturwissenschaftlicher Ideen zwischen etwa 1400 und 1800 mehr beigetragen hätten, als bislang anerkannt worden sei. Obwohl in den Darstellungen solcher fähigen Handwerker auch Weber erwähnt werden, nehmen sie doch in den Untersuchungen kaum Raum ein.

Ein neues Buch des Wissenschaftshistorikers Michael Friedman scheint diese Lücke zu füllen. Er hat umfangreiche bisher wenig bekannte Notizen des deutschen Philosophen und Mathematikers Joachim Jungius (1587-1657) publiziert und kommentiert, die Untersuchungen und Betrachtungen zur Weberei enthalten und auf eine mathematische Beschreibung von Stoffstrukturen abzielen. Die Notizen sind mit dem Titel Texturae Contemplatio, also: Meditationen über die Textur/die Gewebe versehen. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646-1716), der schon 1675 eine geometria sartorum einforderte, also eine Geometrie der Schneiderei, hat auf der Basis von Jungius Notizen weitergearbeitet und sich um eine Publikation des Konvoluts bemüht, ist aber damit gescheitert. Friedman versucht, herauszufinden, inwiefern hier eine Mathematisierung der Weberei vorliegt, die evtl. die mathematischen Arbeiten von Leibniz beeinflusst hat. Er nimmt an, dass die Notationen in den Büchern Gesten der Weber:innen codieren und Gedächtnisstützen für solche Gesten sind. Friedman resümiert, Jungius habe aber diese manuellen Operationen nicht ganz verstanden und deshalb sei der Rückgriff auf die Weberei eher ein metaphorisches als ein mathematisches Projekt.

Friedman zieht auch die Manuskripte und frühen Drucke süddeutscher Weber zu Rate, hält ihre Wirkung aber für lokal begrenzt. Doch die süddeutschen Bücher zur Weberei, die über einen Zeitraum von 1677 bis etwa 1850 erschienen sind, haben eine globale Wirkung erzielt, die nicht zu unterschätzen ist. Maler wie Velazquez, El Greco oder Tizian haben die komplexen Stoffe, deren Entwurfstechnik in diesen Büchern beschrieben wird, als Leinwände für ihre Meisterwerke verwendet. Designhochschulen auf der ganzen Welt haben diese Bücher, die oft von immigrierenden Webern mitgebracht wurden, für ihre Bibliotheken gesammelt. Die teilweise extrem seltenen Exemplare existieren dennoch nicht nur in Europa, sondern auch in den Vereinigten Staaten, in Kanada, Vietnam, den Philippinen und Japan.

Einen Hinweis auf das Porträt der Friederike Charlotte von Ansbach fand ich in der Fußnote eines Beitrags von Patricia Hilts über Blockdamaste in der deutschen Tradition der Leinenweberei. Hilts ist Weberin und eine ausgewiesene Expertin, was die technischen Bedingungen dieser Webereien angeht, die für Nicht-Weber kaum verständlich und selbst für Weber nur in der Praxis nachvollziehbar sind. Das Muster auf dem Kleid der Markgräfin folgt demnach dem Prinzip der kombinierten Block-Muster, die erst ab 1720 in den Musterbüchern auftauchen und an deren Weiterentwicklung der Ansbacher Hofweber Frickinger den größten Anteil hat. Die Erzherzogin Anna von Österreich, Herzogin von Bayern, trägt ein Kleid aus einem solchen Stoff auf einem ganzfigurigen Gemälde von Hans Mielich.

Erzherzogin Anna von Österreich, Herzogin von Bayern (1528-1590), Bildnis in ganzer Figur (1556). Gemälde von Hans Mielich (1516-1573), Öl auf Leinwand, 212 × 115,5 × 2,8 cm. Zurzeit ausgestellt in Schloss Ambras, Innsbruck, im Besitz des Kunsthistorischen Museums, Wien. Permalink: www.khm.at/de/object/2330

Detail des Porträts der Anna von Österreich mit dem typischen sogenannten Rosenmuster.

Leinen mit solchen sich diagonal kreuzenden Linien und diagonal angeordneten Rechtecken, sogenannten ‚Rosen‘, findet sich häufig als Malerleinwand der großen Meister des 16. bis 18 Jahrhunderts. Die Weberin Helena Loermans hat zahlreiche dieser Leinwände identifiziert, rekonstruiert und nachgewebt. Zum Beispiel findet man das Muster des Kleides der Anna von Österreich ähnlich als Leinwand von Alonzo Sánchez Coellos Porträt der Infantin Isabel (siehe Abb. 5), sowie als Leinwand des Bildes vom Begräbnis des Grafen von Orgaz, gemalt von El Greco. Beide Bilder werden auf 1585 bis 1588 datiert. Auch Tizian hat solche Leinwände benutzt, etwa für das Mahl in Emmaus und das Porträt der Isabella d’Este.

Alonzo Sánchez Coello, Infantin Isabel Clara Eugenia mit Magdalena Ruiz, Prado. Foto: Public domain.

Leinwand des Porträts der Infantin Isabel Clara Eugenia von Alonzo Sánchez Coello, rekonstruiert und nachgewebt von Helena Loermans. Foto: Helena Loermans. Vgl. Lab O.

Die Leinwände zeigen, dass diese Muster in der frühen Neuzeit weit verbreitet und nicht auf den süddeutschen Raum beschränkt waren. Um zu verstehen, wie die Konstruktion dieser Muster funktioniert und inwiefern hier mathematische Prinzipien am Werk sind, die das Interesse von Jungius und Leibniz geweckt haben könnten, untersuche ich zurzeit die Weberbücher und die zugehörigen Entwurfsstrategien im Rahmen des Leibniz-Fellowships „Wert der Vergangenheit“. Dabei kann ich die Bestände der beiden Leibniz Institute Deutsches Museum München und Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nürnberg ideal verbinden, indem ich das Weberbuch und Werkstattjournal von Lumscher/Thaller mit anderen Büchern und Manuskripten in Nürnberg vergleiche.

Ziel ist es, den Wert der Bücher sowie der komplexen Arbeit der Weber:innen für zentrale Ideen der Wissenschaft der frühen Neuzeit zu verstehen. Dabei kann es nicht darum gehen, die Weber:innen als Vorläufer der experimentellen Naturbetrachtung anzusehen. Eher geht es um Vorformen einer symbolischen Algebra (an der bereits Leibniz arbeitete), Grundideen der Matrizenrechnung (auch hier hat Leibniz wichtige Beiträge geleistet) oder um die Entwicklung einer binären Arithmetik für die Konstruktion von Rechenmaschinen (für die Leibniz berühmt geworden ist). Weber:innen verwendeten schon früh die Prinzipien der Substitution, der Transformation, oder der Kombination und nahmen damit vorweg, was Charles Babbage und Ada Lovelace im Zusammenhang mit dem Jacquardwebstuhl und dem Entwurf eines ersten Universalcomputers als „algebraische Muster“ bezeichnen.

Breite und Zusammenhang der mathematischen Felder, die das Weben abdeckt, können aber nicht erfasst werden, wenn man die im Herstellungsprozess entscheidende Einheit von Weber:in-Webstuhl-Gewebe in ihre Bestandteile zerlegt und separat formalisiert. An der Weberei lässt sich zeigen, dass die Bedeutung der Materialität für die Wissenschaftsgeschichte darin besteht, dass sie nicht nur komplexe Wissensbestände einschließen, sondern diese auch über lange Zeiträume hinweg vermitteln kann — selbst wenn Texte oder andere Beschreibungen fehlen.


Leseempfehlungen

Smiths, Pamela H., From Lived Experience to the Written Word: Reconstructing Practical Knowledge in the Early Modern World, Chicago & London: The University of Chicago Press, 2022.

Loermans, Helena, “Historical Canvasses Deciphered”, in: Conserving Canvas, hg. V. Cynthia Schwartz, Ian McClure und Jim Coddington, Los Angeles: Getty Conservation Institute, 2023, Kapitel 46.

Friedman, Michael, On Joachim Jungius’ Texturæ Contemplatio: Texture, Weaving and Natural Pholosophy in the 17th Century, Cham: Springer Nature, 2024.

Harlizius-Klück, Ellen, “Weaving as Binary Art and the Algebra of Patterns”, in TEXTILE Cloth and Culture 15, 2017(2), 176–197.

Hilts, Patricia, “Roses and Snowballs: The Development of Block Patterns in the German Linen-Weaving Tradition”, ARS TEXTRINA 5 (1986), 167-248.


Ellen Harlizius-Klück ist Senior Researcher im Forschungsinstitut für Technik- und Wissenschaftsgeschichte des Deutschen Museums und war kürzlich Leibniz-Fellow des Forschungsverbundes “Wert der Vergangenheit” am Germanischen Nationalmuseum in Nürnberg.


Titelbild: Doppelporträt des Markgrafen Alexander von Ansbach und seiner Frau Friederike Caroline im Hausgewand. Johann Michael Schwabeda und Johann Leonhard Schneider, um 1760, Öl auf Leinwand, je 210 x 100 cm, ehemals Schlafzimmer des Jagdschlosses Deberndorf, heute im Markgrafenmuseum Ansbach. Foto: Ellen Harlizius-Klück.