Some pictures, no painting and not quite a thousand words.

History, like many things, can be a bit repetitive. I'm not making a profound statement about historical patterns or some such but when it comes to the visual and the arts many of us believe we have seen pretty much all there is to see. It doesn't have to be history! Films, books, music, we sometimes think there can't be much more. But you'd be surprised. How many of us who know and revere The Duke of Wellington see him as anything other than a painting? I certainly did for many years, until I saw the image below. 

It is quite remarkable. There is actually a photograph of Wellington. To be accurate, the image is actually a daguerreotype. Commercially, this was the first successful photographic process. The daguerreotype above was made in 1844 by Antoine Claudet and although quite grainy and faded, the shark-like demeanour and ruthless determination that carried the Allied armies to victory at Waterloo in 1815 is evident in the eyes of the ageing 'Iron Duke.' An outstanding piece of the past. The first successful daguerreotype was made in 1837 by Louis Daguerre, the French artist and chemist after whom the process was named. It was not until spring the next year, in 1838, that the first photographic image of a person was captured. And here it is. 

Boulevard du Temple, Paris. Spring, 1838. On the pavement at bottom left can be seen a man having his boots cleaned by a shoe-shine boy. Every other person on the street was either too far away or moving too quickly for Daguerre's process to capture them. Whoever these characters are, little did they know that they were to be the first of many to have their picture taken. After this success, Daguerre and his disciples went on to make studies of countless people. Wellington was not the only figure of great historical renown to have been immortalised by the daguerreotype. This next image is the first authenticated shot of one of the most famous figures in U.S. history, Abraham Lincoln. 

Sans beard and round hat, he cuts an unusual figure and one almost has to look again to see that it is in fact the honest old president himself. This daguerreotype dates from 1846 and has been attributed to Nicholas H. Shephard of Illinois. Lincoln was, at this time, a U.S. Congressman elect. Perhaps due to their age, the daguerreotype bleeds an eerie quality on occasions. They are our first untainted glimpses of the past, unsullied by the artist's brush or chronicler's pen. This study of Edgar Allan Poe a year before his untimely death in 1849 is stunningly frank and raw.

Consumed with grief in the wake of his wife's death in 1847, the face is moulded by the demons that plagued his mind and enabled him to be the unrivaled master of mystery and the macabre. Such visual accompaniment to history offers the subject a human angle, one with which we can immediately identify. A set of eyes into which we may gaze, and who stare back at us through the centuries. (Ok, so Wellington is staring to the side but you get my deep and meaningful point, right?)

Professor Richard Holmes, 1946-2011.

2011 has been a black year with regard to famous figures leaving us for good. One of the greatest, if not the greatest, actor in Britain, Pete Postlethwaite passed away in January and at the end of the same month the world lost film composer John Barry. The man responsible for the famous theme tune of countless James Bond movies and a host of other epic soundtracks such as 'Zulu' and 'Dances with Wolves'. These deaths saddened me greatly, but this past weekend the world bade adieu to arguably the finest military historian the world has ever, and in all likelihood, will ever, see. 

Professor Richard Holmes was my hero. This word, as tainted with risky mawkish connotations as it is, I use without hesitation. As a kid growing up, I spent hours upon hours watching Richard Holmes present his spell-binding documentaries dealing with wars, battles and the men who shaped them. Shows such as 'War Walks', 'Wellington: The Iron Duke' and 'Rebels and Redcoats' moulded my perception of history and were crucial in laying a foundation of context and general (not to mention wonderfully trivial!) knowledge that would inspire me to study history at A and degree level. As an author of dozens of books dealing with military history, he was in a league of his own. Amusing, accessible and deferential, his work was popular yet outstanding in its quality. If you have not read any of his material, I strongly urge you to do so. 

Of course, Professor Holmes will not be as familiar to many compared with the likes of Simon Schama and David Starkey but their brand of aloof and politically charged popular history pales depressingly when contrasted with that of Richard Holmes. My everlasting memory of this great man will be his pacing across the fields of Northern France and Belgium, satchel and memoirs in hand, sitting amongst trenches, farmyards and fields, recounting the experience of ordinary soldiers in their own words. Whether it was galloping across the battlefields of the Peninsula War, retracing the steps of the Duke of Wellington or demonstrating how to operate a brown bess musket, Richard never once talked down to his audience. And from people who had the privilege of meeting him, I understand his television personality differed not a fig from his actual manner. The man seemed incapable of being disingenuous or uninteresting and as a serving officer in the Territorial Army, and a teacher at Sandhurst Military Academy, his respect and affinity for real soldiers shone through in every second of his screen time. 

His death at the age of 65 has left me numb with disappointment. I'd sincerely hoped that one day I'd meet him. Alas, this will never happen. But we are left with a catalogue of work, of television shows and books, that echo the downtrodden voice of the common soldier who gave so much for so often very little. The British army has lost its greatest champion and chronicler. And the world the finest military historian who ever drew breath. When I was ten I wanted to be Professor Holmes, and although I will never come close, I owe him more than he could ever have known. Thank you, Richard, and farewell.