I was waiting to come across the right piece to write about a board game-related plaything, and when I saw this toothy face, I knew I had found my subject. Much like when I drew Space Dog, this piece made me smile a great deal this week; I spent a quite a few slow, relaxing hours on him, and enjoyed his company immensely.
He is one of the famous Lewis Chessmen, a hoard of chess pieces made of walrus ivory found in Uig (Isle of Lewis, Scotland) in 1831 and originating from 12-13th C Scandinavia. At this time, the Isle of Lewis was in fact part of the kingdom of Norway, and its culture was a mix of Gaelic and Scandinavian. This page from the National Museum of Scotland website offers an interesting overview of these spectacular pieces and the background to them.
The hoard contained 93 pieces, including 78 chess pieces, 14 other gaming pieces (see these draughts pieces) and a stunning ivory belt buckle. It was broken up soon after its discovery, whereupon most of the pieces went to the British Museum, and the remaining eventually ended up at the Museum of Scotland. There are currently 6 pieces on loan from the British Museum at the Museum nan Eilean (Lewis). This page gives some more detailed history of the discovery, though the Museum of Scotland suggests that the exact way they were discovered is a little unclear.
As a group they are enchanting, but I found it particularly interesting to look at them individually and take a moment to note the choices made to portray each of the figures. There were probably about four chess sets’ worth of pieces in the hoard, and therefore there are several pieces of each type (8 kings, 8 queens, 16 bishops, 12 warders, 15 knights, and 19 pawns).
The queens are leaning their face on one hand, and holding their elbow with the other hand (see for instance here, or here or here). I tried to find more information about whether this particular pose was meant to signify anything in particular, but I did not get far, though I am sure there are interesting paths to go down here.
One thing that really stood out is that each piece of the same type is slightly different. The third photograph on this page shows a group of 4 queens, all of which are distinct, and have their own features and specific decorations. This is the case with all the types of chess pieces, except for the pawns.
The kings hold swords on their laps in a horizontal position (see five kings here, third image in gallery). The ‘warders’ (equivalent to a rook in modern chess) are a varied bunch – some have facial hair, some don’t, some hold their shields in front, some to the side (see here, third and fourth images in gallery). The bishops alternate holding a bible or a staff in different hands, and some have the two fingers raised sign we often see in religious art (see here, fourth image in the gallery). The knights are lovely, each horse slightly different, each shield too – see fourth image). The pawns are beautifully simple.
Our piece is a ‘warder’ and represents a ‘berserker’ (from the old Norse ‘berserkr’, meaning ‘bearskin’) – a Viking figure who was fiercely brave, bold, and aggressive, and fought in a sort of animalistic trance-like state. They are meant to have bitten their shields to drive themselves into a frenzy, and the exposed teeth make for a particularly wonderful expression.
As I look at him in 2021, I see a wonderful character – he seems to me a rather reticent ‘berserker’ who might be having second thoughts about it all. His proportions and his demeanour remind me of a toddler dressed up for battle who has just realised that perhaps he is not that keen on attacking after all and might prefer to stay at home and have a snack instead. He looks funny to us now, but I wondered what his 12th century owners thought of him when they looked at him, and whether his exposed teeth were specific enough as a symbol to endow him with the air of powerful menace.
Pondering about this I came across an interesting thread by medievalist Erik Wade, which referenced an article by Kim Philips called ‘The Grins of Others’, in which Philips argues that Europeans saw tooth-bearing grins as signs of the ‘irrational and brutish’. In this case, the paper focuses mostly on representations of race and othering, but perhaps it helps explain the symbolism – if bared teeth were used to signal animal-like and non-human behaviour, this fits well with the trance-like animalistic elements of berserkers. Perhaps symbolism took precedence over all the other little details included when crafting these figures, and bare teeth had the immediate effect of conveying aggression, however neat the bite and however even and tidy those teeth may appear to our eyes now. Or maybe berserkers simply bit their shields in battle, but the visual impact does seem to have a large symbolic element.
I have always found chess more than a little intimidating; I never engaged with it enough to learn how to play properly, and I have always thought that my inability to appreciate the appeal of the game was due to not being properly acquainted with its language. Over the years, I have probably avoided my fair share of books with strong chess references and metaphors, because I have thought I would not be able to enjoy them fully.
It took me by surprise, then, to realise that I found researching chess sets unexpectedly moving and beautiful. Dipping my toes into chess collections has filled me with excitement, making me feel as though I have stumbled – centuries late to the game – upon a universal language of beauty that has stood the test of time, and, with it, upon a possible secret key to what makes human beings tick.
Perhaps what I have been most taken with is the care and respect for the game that seems to shine through the sets I looked at in different collections. The makers appear to have crafted them in the hope that their sets would be worthy of the game, reflecting their love for it in the process. As a laywoman looking at it from the outside, it would appear that chess lends itself to a sort of treasured intimacy to be shared with fellow players.
It has been fascinating to see how successfully the game has been ‘localised’ the world over. Image after image, I was completely disarmed as I saw an Inuit set made in ca. 1885 from walrus ivory; a beautiful set from 20th century Nigeria; a 10th-11th C piece from England made from whale bone; an 8th century piece from Egypt, this lovely piece from 17th C India or this wonderful Japanese piece from the 19th century. I enjoyed looking at the Bauhaus chess set designed by Josef Hartwig, and Man Ray’s designs for chess pieces, which were produced a year later and are still sold today.
I have also realised how satisfying and exciting it is to see how the language of representation has changed over the centuries, and how objects can reflect back different things through time. It is beautiful to look at an object that still manages to elicit a strong reaction from us centuries after it was made, even when its past symbols and meanings might have dissolved into the background and we might be focusing on other aspects.
In the case of this piece, I think most of my delight comes down to the character I see in him. Is he begging to be in a story, ‘The Reticent Berserker’? Watch this space.