STATUE OF LIBERTY : THE MAKING OF

The Statue of Liberty (Liberty Enlightening the World) was a gift from France to the United States to commemorate the centennial of the War of Independence.  The monument by Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi is a remarkable feat of engineering.  Prior to tackling the 151' tall masterpiece, Bartholdi first made three smaller versions, gradually grading them larger and adjusting the design as problems presented themselves.  His final maquette was 1/4th the scale of the final and from this a plaster copy was made using painstaking calculation.  From this plaster model, a wooden mould was created that was then used to hammer the 3/32" thick copper plates into shape.  Gustave Eiffel, the renowned bridge builder and namesake of Paris' most famous landmark was commissioned to create an internal structure to support the copper skin, allowing for the strong winds in New York Bay, and fluctuations in temperature.

The Americans undertook the making of the pedestal and both projects saw considerable difficulties in funding.  Although the statue was completed 10 years later than the centennial, it was received with considerable pomp and remains to this day a symbol of liberty, immigration, hope and fraternity between nations.  You can learn more about the construction here.  You can see photos of the construction here.

These two dioramas from the Musée des Arts et Metiérs show the making of the full scale plaster model and the construction of the copper skin.

FABERGÉ ABROAD : NEAR WINCHESTER

Just another lonely boy from the city finds his way back home

sit in quiet down by the river

wait and hope for my luck will change

sit in silent sounds in the mirror

watch my twig slowly drift away..

An hour outside of London is the city of Winchester: known for its namesake cathedral, the former capital of England, and the location in which the Domesday Book was compiled.  Twenty minutes further southeast and you will find yourself in Bishop's Waltham.

I traveled there to visit Loopy, a darling friend who runs the award-winning Bowman Ales Brewery and who appointed himself my de facto tour guide through Hampshire. 

One of our first visits was to the New Forest, a surprisingly large area of pasture, heathland and forest to be found in such a densely populated county. We found a modest Canadian war memorial dotted with flags and faded photographs; according to Loopy, the New Forest was the international site for D Day preparations where tens of thousands made camp and prepared for their call. The heath is now populated by indigenous ponies and donkeys who happily graze in peace.

Nearby in the tiny town of Fritham is the most marvelous of pubs, the Royal Oak. Its timber walls and thatch roof frame two cozy rooms, a fire roaring in its hearth and ramblers sipping pints of best bitters well before noon. 

Across the parking lot we found the site of the Schultze Gunpowder Factory. Suffering rapid decline in business during the early twentieth century due to anti-German sentiment, all that remains of Schultze is a metal post box. 

We next ventured to Pagham, a seaside village in the country of West Sussex. As we walked along the beach, Loopy explained that it was the site of massive coastal erosion. An ever-growing spit has displaced the entrance to the harbour, and is forcing an aggressive tide to flow parallel to the beach. Last year during a storm the tide rose up to the door of the yacht club, and residents were panicking about the lack of interest and support they were receiving from the government. After our walk we continued our beer tour at the nearby Kings Beach Hotel, named for King George and also under threat of purchase by a supermarket chain.

The next morning I was left to my own devices, and was intent on finding Hazelholt Farm. My parents were tenants in a servants lodge on the property (the other lodge apparently occupied at the time by a German POW), and it was there that I had spent some of my earliest days on this earth. I set out across a public access footpath and wandered from farm to farm, eventually relying on the kindness of strangers to guide me. The quaint little lodge was deserted, bucolic, and predictably not at all as I remembered it.

-Henri Fabergé