In 1822, Jean François Champollion laboriously drew from the enigmatic Egyptian hieroglyphs the names of Ptolomy and Cleopatra, and the age of Archeology dawned across the European continent. With the beginning of this age, the worlds to be discovered were increased a hundredfold, for the globe was no longer merely spatial, but extended into a distant past that could now be read and mined directly for its mythos. A craze for all that was antique and mysterious spread over the continent and suddenly it was no longer sufficient to colonize the present, but the ancient past had to be collected and categorized as well. It is to this age, and to this desire to capitalize on the past, that we owe the works reproduced here, that have come to be known under the collective name, “The Sighs of Granite”. For those familiar with the extensive body of scholarship that exists regarding the Sighs of Granite, the controversies are well known: Neither an age nor a place of origin has yet been determined for the work[ It does seem that a minority consensus is emerging in support of a Near Eastern source. See the recent work by Dr. Agapita Luz de La Luz, The Sighs of Granite and the Tower of Babel, Cochita Press. 2017.]. No accord has been reached on whether they are purely artistic depictions, what linguistic information might be included within them, or what their original purpose might have been and yet they remain, arguably, some of the most well-known and referenced pieces from the ancient world. For those less familiar with the academic writings, abridged commentaries from some of the most famous, or in some cases infamous, scholars to have tried their hands at deciphering the meaning behind the pieces have been included, and interested readers are invited to enter into this quagmire forewarned. However, since the purpose of this offering is not to add to said academic morass, but merely to provide the Sighs of Granite itself to a new generation of potential interpretations, this introduction will focus not on the pieces themselves, but on the two men to whom we owe their original discovery: The sailor Andrew Ewan Murphy-Smith, and the artist known to us historically, only as Lufa.
It has been often repeated, that if what we know for certain about the Sighs of Granite can fit into a teacup, then what we know of Andrew Ewan Murphy-Smith can fit into a thimble, and though slightly hyperbolic, the claim is perhaps accurate. We can attest with some assurance for example, that Mr. Murphy-Smith was a sailor during the final decades of Britain’s golden age of sail. Beyond this, all else falls into contradiction and enigma. Without ceremony or any hint of introduction, our seafaring collector first appears on the roster of the HMS Trove as a Coxswain, or rather, ultimately appears on the ship’s roster as Coxswain. An, “A. E. Murphy-Smith” is entered amongst the ships petty officers, and then crossed out, followed by the names, “T. R. Owens – Master’s Mate” and, “M. K. R. Backridge – petty officer”. Immediately follows: “A. Murphy-Smith – an Irish man”, also crossed out. Finally, below several more names, once again, “A. E. Murphy-Smith – Coxswain”.
This sort of confusion seems to have dogged Mr. Murphy-Smith throughout his twenty-some years long career at sea, even to the point of his apparently being enrolled as a Master’s Mate on the HMS Burgundy off the east coast of South America, at the same time that he was also Gunner on the frigate HMS Palaver near the Red Sea. It is true that amongst the difficulties in tracing his life, Andrew Ewan Murphy-Smith was possessed of a name almost connivingly average, and thus it is not unlikely that many of the supposed contradictions and enigmas surrounding his life must be best explained by mistaken identity, but it has certainly provided fodder for some bizarre theories as to his past[ Candross Mines. The Art of the Warlock. Cassiopeia Press, 2002.]. The truth of the matter, for better or for worse, is probably far less interesting: It seems most likely that Mr. Murphy-Smith was no doubt an officer on various ships over a long, but not particularly noteworthy career, as he evidently did well enough to maintain himself on one vessel or another without any great scandal, but not well enough to stay at sea when retirement became a possibility. Said retirement must have occurred in the mid-1860s, as from this point on, his name (for the most part) appears no longer on ship’s rosters, but as an unsuccessful gentleman of the intellectual leisure class in London. Again however, there is a vagueness about the references to him which seems nearly conspiratorial[ The socialite Helena Panton wrote of him disarmingly as, “…that boorish sailor haunting the entranceway with his terrible eyebrows and mysterious baggage.” See her published letters.]. He is noted to have attempted entry into the more popular salons of the age simply by offering as show pieces certain ‘relics’ in his possession, yet these relics are never described. He himself, never tried to publish them nor to have given any interpretation of them. At any rate, he seems to have met with little initial success, and indeed he, and the Sighs of Granite, might have been lost to history except for a serendipitous collaboration with an otherwise unremarked artist, known to us only as Lufa.
The precise relationship between Captain Murphy-Smith and Lufa has been much speculated upon with everything being proposed from father and illegitimate son to surreptitious lovers but the truth is that not enough is known of either individual to provide an edge to one claim or another. Even less is known of Lufa than of Mr. Murphy-Smith himself, as is perhaps befitting for the historic recorder of the Sighs of Granite. His name has prompted speculation of both Greek and Norwegian origins but it seems to have only been a sort of nom-de-plume, for it is appears variously as Lufa, Lvfa and Loofa, none of which points to an easy origin. It is possible, though seemingly unlikely that the name may have actually referred to more than one individual, as the few brief descriptions of the artist that remain, offer contrary remarks, both dark and blond, thin and solid. The only thing certain is that Lufa was an artist whose only extent claim to fame was a series of refabricated versions of Murphy-Smith’s relics, which series became popular enough for the pair to be welcomed into some of the most prominent salons of the time[ His attendance, with no known introduction, at the home of Mrs. Cassowar Clak, mother of the acclaimed Waksakan Anthropologist, Dr. Tamuel Clak, in 1866, should stand as sufficient proof that he and Lufa entered high-society with remarkable facility. ]. Indeed, for a brief, three year period, it, and the unlikely pair, seem to have been the talk of London: Numerous plays were staged, “depicting events in the mysterious plates of one Mr. Murphy-Smith[ Devon Mark. Erotic Adventures in the Jungles of Hwush. ]” and there is even a suggestion that a royal inquiry was made regarding their origins and meaning.
Sadly however, the social success Lufa and his patron achieved was short lived, for in 1869, some misstep occurred at an Imperial themed soiree hosted by Lord Rory Zephyr[ Perhaps somewhat ironically, as the original plates have never been found, it was Lord Zephyr’s copies by Lufa that remained to represent the work of Lufa, and indeed were used in recreating the plates presented here.]. No precise description of the event has come down, but it has been described as variously, “most unfortunate”[ Simon Bottoms, one of the attendees.], “most deserved”[ Chief Magistrate Coolah, in official proceedings but not apparently, regarding any action against Mr. Murphy-Smith or Lufa.] and “downright hilarious”[ David Highnee, of the society paper, About It. ]. Whatever happened, it was sufficiently well disseminated to not only bring a precipitous end to the social life of both Mr. Murphy-Smith and Lufa, but to also to be showcased as a popular series of ‘Murphy-Smith Acts’ in local circuses of the time, one most intriguingly subtitled, ‘Including an Appearance by Loofah and the Bear Necessities.” It might be noted that several of these were shut down due to public decency concerns, although their popularity only seems to have waned as new material captured the public imagination.
These comic farces mark the final record of both participants. There is only one more mention of Mr. Murphy-Smith in history, marking his death as a pauper in the winter of 1887. No estate is mentioned and there is no reference to any of his notorious relics. Lufa similarly disappears although a Mr. Lufa did apparently move to Taos in the territory of New Mexico and much speculation exists as to a possible common identity. In the historical record, there is nothing further, the two rose from obscurity and disappeared in shame, yet to these unknown individuals, we owe some of the most bizarrely recognizable works of the ancient world.
And so too, began the history of The Sighs of Granite: Perhaps this is a fitting origin tale for the Sighs, for being given to the public with as much reverence as mockery, they have always belonged to the public, inspiring as much pop art as scholarly comment. Unlike so many of the past’s great, enigmatic relics, they have not been entombed in the ivory towers of historians, nor relegated to the detritus of mere public fashion, but have continued to live and breath, inspire and discomfort, as though they were modern creations rather than some deep sigh of the past. With no place of origin yet determined, no age, and no specific meaning, they yet belong to no people, no time and no purpose, but remain a gift for all.