All is revealed: A century-old case of mistaken identity (Page 2)

His fantasy stories, published by his own Kelmscott Press in his own neo-Gothic typeface, stimulated the twentieth-century tales of J. R. R. Tolkein and C. S. Lewis; his medievalism influenced the poetry of W. H. Auden. He was a member of the Pre-Raphaelite circle of artists; indeed, his wife Jane was Dante Gabriel Rossetti's most frequent model (and later his mistress), becoming in the process the paradigm of Pre-Raphaelite beauty. Morris personified the Arts and Crafts movement, a reaction against the hideous and impersonal productions of the Industrial Revolution. The Morris credo, that everyday objects should be beautiful as well as functional, was reflected in the textiles produced by Morris & Co., and later found expression in the productions of Walter Gropius's Bauhaus school. And his lobbying for the preservation of old buildings in London was the first stirrings of the architectural heritage movement which was now passing though McGill's Faculty Club. Morris's influence seems boundless, and probably is.

Workers carefully remove one of 43 fragile fabric panels. Each is cleaned with a small vacuum, then washed twice in a special detergent bath. Once blocked and dried, the fabric is ready to be hung -- right side out. PHOTOS COURTESY EVA BURNHAM

So McGill had a treasure. "My understanding is that the fabrics are the only example of this pattern we know of in North America," Julia Gersovitz, BScArch'74, BArch'75, a McGill professor and an architect who specializes in heritage buildings, had said before their origins came under scrutiny. While no one had a clear idea about what condition the fabrics were in, the renovation team was committed to finding out. As Bourbouhakis observed, "we knew that material was William Morris -- the rest was in our hands."

Or, more specifically, in Eva Burnham's hands. A textile restoration expert, Burnham is regularly contracted by the McCord and other museums whenever they are displaying old fabrics -- costumes, draperies, or whatever -- to clean them, restore them, and ensure that the fabric is stable enough to last. Because no one knew if the fabric was actually recoverable, Burnham did a test. One of the 43 woven panels was gingerly removed, and, as her preliminary restoration report observed, "the effects of smoking, heating and daily wear and tear...[were] severe." The colours were faded and the material was soiled, rendering the threads weak and brittle. In person, Burnham is even more critical of their pre-restoration condition: "They were filthy. It was a bit, shall we say, disgusting." The initial prognosis was as dim as the once-lovely fabrics.

But a careful and painstaking cleaning that began with micro-vacuuming and delicate brushing, and then continued to a soapy bath, revealed a surprise: the fabrics had been installed backwards. Early photos show that initially the fabrics were placed with the bright sides exposed; some time after McGill bought the house the fabrics were reversed -- "perhaps to extend the life of the fabrics," suggests Gersovitz, "or maybe the colours were just too wild." At any rate, the reversal was good news, as the bright sides had been protected from decades of harm. The restoration, while still no easy chore, would be entirely successful, and considerably cheaper than had first been anticipated. The treasure would be fully recovered. In fact, the colours were brighter than anyone had thought: red and green silk shot through with gold thread, giving them a shimmer that set the walls glowing and also warmed the hearts of those working on the building's restoration. Burnham passed the summer cleaning the remaining fabrics -- each individual panel taking between four and eight hours, depending on its size. By September 1999 all of the panels were back in place in the Faculty Club, looking as glorious and radiant as they must have in 1899.

But if Burnham's work revealed that the panels were better preserved and more colourful than had been imagined, it also turned up something else. "At first I was convinced they were Morris fabrics because of the pomegranate design," Burnham recalls. But as she toiled, she became increasingly suspicious. She conferred with a visiting friend, Ed Maeder, an expert in 18th-century costumes, who shared her doubts. "Look at the elaborate way the red and green silk is woven together." Burnham says Morris tended use blocks of colour. "Also, he didn't use gold thread." They decided to contact the reigning authority.