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WHY WERE BLACK CHILDREN USED AS FURNITURE: An unexpected history lesson at the Countess of Edla's Chalet in Sintra, Portugal.
My daughter and I took our much-anticipated trip to Lisbon in August. One of the places on our itinerary was Sintra, a popular tourist destination in Portugal, famous for its colourful palaces, historic estates and picturesque landscapes.
Although, having visited, I am still wondering why Sintra enjoys quite so much popularity, especially for someone like me who has absolutely zero interest in hiking. The endless winding roads leading up to the palace made for a rather stressful adventure. I did not enjoy it. At all. Colourful palace or not.
But the winding roads and exhausting journey weren't the only things I hadn't anticipated.
Inside one of the rooms at the Countess of Edla's Chalet, I encountered something I certainly wasn't expecting to see, let alone appreciate: two pieces of Blackamoor furniture depicting Black figures crouching beneath oversized decorative cushions. And standing right beside me was my curious seven-year-old Black daughter.
I'm open to learning about history, and it isn't lost on me that many museums, palaces and historic sites across Europe carry stories so brutal they could have your intestines spinning just imagining them. Still, encountering these objects with my little girl added an entirely different layer of disgust. But one thing I am grateful for is that the guilt of these grotesque chapters of history has no bearing on my conscience. I can confront them, question them and be appalled by them without carrying responsibility for the societies that created them. And so, in case this is your first encounter with Blackamoor art, here's a quick history lesson.
When Black Bodies Became Decorative Objects
Blackamoor art is a European decorative tradition with roots in medieval imagery that became especially fashionable during the Renaissance and subsequent centuries. This form of art frequently depicted Black people dressed in elaborate clothing, often positioned as servants or attendants. The figures appeared in paintings, sculptures, jewellery and furniture.
Some carried trays. Others held lamps. And some were designed to support furniture, like the two pieces I photographed inside the Countess of Edla's Chalet. By the 17th and 18th centuries, Blackamoor objects had become fashionable among wealthy European households. They were regarded as symbols of wealth, sophistication and status.
But their popularity also developed alongside European colonial expansion and the transatlantic slave trade.
While Black people were being exploited for their labour, representations of Black bodies were becoming fashionable decorative objects in the homes of Europe's wealthy.
Think about that for a moment.
The very people whose humanity was being denied in one part of the world were being recreated as ornamental symbols of luxury in another. And apparently, this was considered sophisticated. These Weren't Just Random Antiques . What made my discovery even more unsettling was learning that historical research documents an 1870 purchase of Blackamoor furniture for the Countess of Edla. The order reportedly included two crouching Blackamoor figures positioned between cushions to function as seats. The description closely resembles the objects I photographed, although I have not independently confirmed that they are the exact pieces recorded in the purchase.
In 1870, representations of Black people supporting furniture were still considered desirable additions to aristocratic homes. For context, slavery had already been abolished in mainland Portugal, although its abolition across Portuguese-controlled territories followed a more complicated timeline. Brazil, a former Portuguese colony, would not abolish slavery until 1888. Yet objects like these were still being acquired as fashionable furnishings.
It is easy to dismiss something like this as simply a sculpture, a decorative object or a product of its time.
But a body designed to carry the weight of someone else's comfort is not quite so simple.
There is an unspoken answer to the questions of what exactly these objects were celebrating and what they communicated about the people they depicted. And that answer is deeply offensive. The elaborate costumes, beautiful colours and craftsmanship do not make the underlying imagery any less troubling. If anything, they make it more uncomfortable.
Because somewhere in the history of European luxury, the image of a Black person in a position of servitude became an aesthetic. And people paid money to own it.
Then Came the Question I Couldn't Answer
As if the discovery wasn't uncomfortable enough, my curious seven-year-old daughter asked the very question I was silently asking myself. "Mummy, why are these Black kids used as furniture designs?"
Why, indeed?
How do you explain to a seven-year-old that representations of people who look like her were once considered appropriate decorations for wealthy homes? How do you explain that these objects were regarded as beautiful?
And how do you reconcile the craftsmanship with the uncomfortable history behind it? My daughter didn't need an art history degree or an understanding of colonialism to recognise that something about the objects was strange.
She saw figures resembling Black children, crouching beneath cushions, and wanted to know why anyone would design furniture that way. It was such a simple question. And yet the answer required centuries of history.
Preserving History Is One Thing. Explaining It Is Another. I don't believe these objects should be destroyed or hidden away.
Quite the opposite. They should be preserved because they tell important stories about the societies that created, purchased and celebrated them. But preservation without context risks turning uncomfortable histories into decorative attractions. We cannot continue to admire historical craftsmanship without examining the ideas, attitudes and social hierarchies that informed it.
When we visit historic buildings, we are often invited to appreciate their architecture, furniture, art collections and the lives of the wealthy people who once occupied them. We hear about their exquisite taste, their travels and their love of beautiful things. But what about the people whose images were used to decorate those beautiful things?
What about the histories that aren't quite so flattering?
And what responsibility do museums and heritage institutions have to ensure visitors understand the full significance of what they are looking at? I'm not suggesting every historic object needs a lengthy explanation or a moral lecture. But surely, when an object carries such obvious racial imagery, some context is necessary. Preserving history is one thing. Explaining it is another.
I walked into the Countess of Edla's Chalet expecting to admire a piece of Portuguese history.
I left thinking about colonialism, representation and the conversations we still need to have with our children.
My daughter is growing up in a world where I constantly remind her that she is beautiful, capable, deserving and equal.
Yet there she stood, looking at figures resembling Black children, designed to support someone else's comfort.
And all she wanted to know was why. Some people would walk past those objects and see nothing more than antiques, others would argue that they should simply be appreciated within the historical context in which they were created.
But understanding history does not require us to stop questioning it. Nor does appreciating art mean we must ignore the attitudes it represents.
I went to Sintra expecting beautiful palaces, colourful architecture and, apparently, an unreasonable amount of walking.
I certainly didn't expect a lesson in how Black bodies became decorative objects in European aristocratic homes.
But that's the thing about history. Sometimes it confronts you when you least expect it. And sometimes, it takes a seven-year-old to ask the question that makes you look at it differently.
"Mummy, why?" More than a century and a half later, it's a question that still deserves an answer.
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