MARGINALIA
Meissen Chymistry
Roald Hoffmann
The art of making porcelain was a Chinese technology known and
valued in the West, yet Europe tried—and failed—to
emulate this secret for hundreds of years. Porcelain was eventually
made in Saxony in 1709, in a successful piece of applied chemical
research by the "collaboration" of three men of strikingly
different character. One of these, Johann Friedrich Böttger,
was an alchemist who, in his life and work, illustrated the scant
separation of alchemy and chemistry during that time. Let me tell
their story.
My Precious
Merchants first brought Chinese porcelain to Europe overland. And
travelers told stories of how it was made. So Marco Polo wrote:
[In the city of Tin-gui …] cups or bowls and dishes
of porcelain-ware are manufactured. The process was explained to be
as follows. They collect a certain kind of earth, as it were, from a
mine, and laying it in a great heap, suffer it to be exposed to the
wind, the rain, and the sun, for thirty or forty years, during which
time it is never disturbed. By this it becomes refined and fit for
being wrought into the vessels above mentioned. Such colours as may
be thought proper are then laid on, and the ware is afterwards baked
in ovens or furnaces.
The manufacture of ceramics was well developed in medieval and
Renaissance Europe. Yet all attempts to replicate porcelain failed,
leaving a legacy of ceramics that imitated the whiteness (or
celadon-like coloration), or the hardness, or the translucency of
true porcelain. But never all qualities together.
Seventeenth-century merchants fanned the ardor for porcelain through
the East India trade that brought Asian wares to Europe. As a
result, if one could wait three years, one could have any pattern
made in fine porcelain. I have seen a Swedish plate in which the
European designer's words of instruction were faithfully replicated
in classic, cobalt-blue underglaze—the potters in China had
treated the instructions as the pattern.
The Right Stuff
Porcelain is a ceramic material. Once it was simple to define
ceramics as inorganic, refractory, porous, brittle, and insulating.
All parts of this definition have frayed at the edges: It’s
fun to open a ceramics text, see the authors struggle for a
definition at the outset—and then take it all back. There are
ceramic superconductors, and brittle is not the word for the stuff
of turbine blades. Does one need a definition? Yes: It may be
essential for good science, as in the defining moments of
thermodynamics. No: It may be merely a refuge for people who want
their world clean and neat, this not that. A way the world refuses
to be.
Perhaps transformation by heat, if not fire, remains the defining
essence of ceramics. The chemical and physical changes in the kiln
are certainly complex. Porcelain is a high-temperature–fired
ceramic with recognizable, if fuzzily defined, properties of
whiteness, hardness and resonance—that ringing tone when
struck. Its traditional components varied, as there was not one
Chinese porcelain but many: Longquan Celadon, Jingdezhen-ware, the
products of the Dehua kilns. But the fine, white clay called kaolin
was essential. Other fusible materials were added: the mineral
sericite (a type of mica called petuntse) by the Chinese, alabaster
by the Böttger workshop. The bulk of kaolin is kaolinite, a
layered, hydrated aluminosilicate with the nominal formula
Al2O3
·2SiO2
·2H2O. Heating expels water, then
some silica, which may form its high-temperature form, cristobalite.
The remainder of the aluminosilicate exists as mullite,
3Al2O3
·2SiO2. The special qualities of
porcelain derive from the development of fine needle-like crystals
of mullite, cemented by glassy silica.
The sequence of transformation on firing porcelain is more
complicated than this summary. Yet, as in so many things in this
world, complexity (or is it our partial understanding?) is
absolutely no barrier to reproducibility, whether the porcelain is a
fine Chinese export or one's toilet bowl.
The Alchemical Fire
The first of the three men whose talents joined in the development
of European porcelain was Augustus the Strong, the Elector of Saxony
and King of Poland, who was besotted by Chinese porcelain. Serving
him was Ehrenfried Walter von Tschirnhaus, an aristocratic natural
philosopher and polymath with a practical bent. He wrote on
mathematics, but also learned how to make soft-paste porcelain in
France and built giant burning-lenses that reached the highest
temperatures yet observed.
The third man was Johann Friedrich Böttger, a young alchemist
in the classical vein, who believed in the central philosophy of
alchemy (and chemistry), that of essential transformation. He was
also a very good, practiced chemist, familiar with metallurgical
techniques and the arts of pharmacy. To be an alchemist at this time
was a precarious profession, a calling that required great political
skill. To gain patronage, one had to promise gold or medical cures.
To keep it, one had to practice, with refinement and skill, the art
of eternal, creative procrastination: always assuring more, always
asking for more. No wonder alchemists were always on the move! As in
the story of the goose that laid golden eggs—were the
alchemist to succeed, his patron would not want to lose such an
economic force—Augustus imprisoned Böttger in the
Saxonian capital of Dresden. The incarceration was, in part,
punishment for the failure to produce gold, in part, security of the
supply, should Böttger succeed.
At stake was not just Augustus's displeasure. Figure 3 is a
reproduction of a broadside, a contemporary account of what happened
to a Neapolitan alchemist, Count Domenico Emanuele Cajetano, who was
found cheating. He was hanged. Augustus’s mien—you can
see why he was called "the Strong"—is captured in a
statuette of the King, made in Böttger's lifetime from a
marvelous red stoneware the alchemist labored to perfect.
Tschirnhaus convinced Augustus to put Böttger to the task of
making "white gold," or porcelain. It took only two years
to do so, when so many other attempts had failed, because of a
felicitous conjunction of materials and people. First, there were
nearby deposits of kaolin that were known to Tschirnhaus. This
Saxonian clay lacked the traces of potash mica that lent plasticity
to its Chinese counterpart and allowed Eastern potters to experiment
with more curvaceous forms. Still, this clay and no other was the
essence of porcelain. Next, Böttger could build kilns, in them
"the gehennical fire," that could reach the requisite high
temperatures. And finally, talent to decorate the porcelain existed
among the artists at Augustus’s Dresden court. Figure 4 shows
a Meissen vase that imitates Japanese Arita porcelain
(left); in time unique decorative modes and figurines
(right) were elaborated.
But most of all, the success of the project was due to the careful
experimentation of the alchemist-turned-industrial-chemist. Set on
his way by Tschirnhaus (who died in 1708), Böttger first made
true, white porcelain in 1709 at the age of 27. In 1710 the
porcelain manufactory moved 15 miles down the Elbe River to the city
of Meissen and became known by that name. By 1713 it was an economic success.
Crystals of Porphyry and Borax
The story of this rediscovery of porcelain, Böttger’s
story, is told beautifully in Janet Gleeson's 1998 book
Arcanum. She cites an emotional poem that Böttger
wrote to Augustus late in 1709:
The King will yearn for golden fruit,
Which the weak
hand yet cannot present.
It puts but crystals of porphyry and
borax
Before the King's throne in place of such
sacrifices.
Yes, the hand extends even the heart, in vessels of
porcelain.
This rings true. Böttger was caught. I sense from the poem that
he would have liked to get out of the alchemist's bind and rest on
his great practical synthesis, the making of the translucent
"white gold." But he was not allowed to do so. Although
the porcelain was of immense value and eventually contributed to the
King’s coffers, it took time to establish a market for it.
Meanwhile Augustus did not give up his dream for gold, and
Böttger remained a prisoner. Time and again he was pressed to
make good on his promises of making gold, and he finally staged a
"successful" transmutation in 1713. Böttger was freed
in the end, even ennobled. But he was ill and exhausted. He died in
1719, the year porcelain was first made outside of Meissen. It's not
easy to keep an industrial secret.
Chymistry
Did it take an alchemist to make porcelain? Could a chemist of the
time have done it? The question assumes a distinction between
alchemy and chemistry that I believe did not exist in Böttger's
day. People transformed matter—in metallurgy, in the making of
medicines and cosmetics, in cooking, in dyeing fabrics—before
there were ever chemists. And these wonderful protochemistries, as I
like to call them, are one of many crafty threads into modern chemistry.
Another is alchemy, a unique cultural experiment, which adopted
chemical change (as we now know it) as a symbol, a kind of logo, for
its philosophy of transformation. Why chemistry? Because chemical
transformation was at the same time familiar and
spectacular. Imagine fire, or the smelting of ore. Imagine a
brightly colored vat of indigo dye reduced by fermented urine to a
muddy liquid, then resurrected in its blue glory by exposure to the air!
So the philosophy of change took on a chemical face. And then, I
imagine, was co-opted by it. Alchemists became chemists. A strict
distinction between the protochemists of the time and alchemists is
an ex post facto simplification of a world of overlaps,
which are beautifully exemplified by Böttger during his short
life. In their convincing arguments for a lack of separation,
historians William R. Newman of Indiana University and Lawrence M.
Principe of Johns Hopkins suggest that the bridging word
"chymistry" best describes alchemy and chemistry in the period.
I like the word. And yet, and yet, even as I imagine Böttger
keeping careful laboratory notes of his formulae and protocols, I
wonder if it could have been done without the underlying alchemical
imperative. One could make stoneware and glass, use them in everyday
life. But anyone who has held a fine Song or Koryo vessel in
one’s hands, rotated it, followed the fine crackle, I think
feels that porcelain is something more. It is sublime. To aspire to
transform mere clay into that refined essence that catches light and
begs to be held as no other ceramic does—that vision takes
more than laboratory skill. The synthesis (I have to call it that)
of porcelain demands faith in the possibility of transformation and
a conviction that nature can be improved.
I think it took an alchemist. And the knowledgeable naturalist
Tschirnhausen. And the forceful tyrant Augustus the Strong (no,
please, there's no lesson here for contemporary granting agencies)
to make this sublime, applied research work out.
Transmutation
A final comment on alchemy: In the 1968 translation of his
remarkable book Forgerons et Alchemistes, Mircea Eliade
traced the tripartite relationship between metallurgy, alchemy and
religion. In conclusion, he writes:
We must not believe that the triumph of experimental
science reduced to nought the dreams and ideals of the alchemist. On
the contrary, the ideology of the new epoch, crystallized around the
myth of infinite progress and boosted by the experimental sciences
and the progress of industrialization which dominated and inspired
the whole of the nineteenth century, takes up and carries
forward—despite its radical secularization—the
millennary [sic] dreams of the alchemist. It is in the specific
dogma of the nineteenth century, according to which man’s true
mission is to improve upon Nature and become her master, that we
must look for the authentic continuation of the alchemist’s
dream.
You can sense that Eliade will go on to disapprove, not of the
alchemist’s dream, but of modern, industrial society's twisted
reincarnation of that dream. Even as I worry about the hubris
implicit in the ceaseless flaunting of our transformative power, I
don't disdain our present state as much as Mircea Eliade. But I do
think he is essentially right about chemistry: Modern chemists,
screaming to high heaven that they have nothing to do with alchemy,
have fulfilled the alchemist's dream—transmuting sickness into
health and, with superb ingenuity, changing mud (the raw materials
of organic synthesis) into gold (what pharmaceutical companies sell).
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to Camille Moore for help in research on this
topic, and to Louise Spence and Pamela Vandiver for their comments.