How Will a New Pope be Chosen in Rome? An Expert Explains the Conclave

Pope Francis leaves the Sistine Chapel after being elected pope and shortly before appearing for the first time on the central balcony of St. Peter's Basilica at the Vatican in March 2013. CNS/L'Osservatore Romano

By Darius von Guttner Sporzynski

Following the death of Pope Francis, we’ll soon be seeing a new leader in the Vatican. The conclave – a strictly confidential gathering of Roman Catholic cardinals – is due to meet in a matter of weeks to elect a new earthly head.

The word conclave is derived from the Latin con (together) and clāvis (key). It means “a locked room” or “chamber”, reflecting its historical use to describe the locked gathering of cardinals to elect a pope.

Held in the Sistine Chapel, the meeting follows a centuries-old process designed to ensure secrecy and prayerful deliberation. A two-thirds majority vote will be needed to successfully elect the 267th pope.

History of the conclave

The formalised papal conclave dates back centuries. And various popes have shaped the process in response to the church’s needs.

In the 13th century, for example, Pope Gregory X introduced strict regulations to prevent unduly long elections.

Pope Gregory X brought in the rules to prevent a repeat of his own experience. The conclave that elected him in September 1271 (following the death of Pope Clement IV in 1268) lasted almost three years.

Further adjustments were made to streamline the process and emphasise secrecy, culminating in Pope John Paul II’s 1996 constitution, Universi Dominici gregis (The Lord’s whole flock). This document set the modern framework for the conclave.

In 2007 and 2013, Benedict XVI reiterated that a two-thirds majority of written votes would be required to elect a new pope. He also reaffirmed penalties for breaches of secrecy.

The secrecy surrounding the conclave ensures the casting of ballots remains confidential, and without any external interference.

The last known attempt at external interference in a papal conclave occurred in 1903 when Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria sought to prevent the election of Cardinal Mariano Rampolla. However, the assembled cardinals rejected this intervention, asserting the independence of the electoral process.

How does voting work?

The conclave formally begins between 15 and 20 days after the papal vacancy, but can start earlier if all cardinals eligible to vote have arrived. Logistical details, such as the funeral rites for the deceased pope, can also influence the overall timeline.

Historically, the exact number of votes required to elect a new pope has fluctuated. Under current rules, a minimum two-thirds majority is needed. If multiple rounds of balloting fail to yield a result, the process can continue for days, or even weeks.

After every few inconclusive rounds, cardinals pause for prayer and reflection. This process continues until one candidate receives the two-thirds majority required to win. The final candidates do not vote for themselves in the decisive round.

The ballot paper formerly used in the conclave, with ‘I elect as Supreme Pontiff’ written in Latin. Wikimedia Commons

How is voting kept secret?

The papal conclave is entirely closed to the public. Voting is conducted by secret ballot within the Sistine Chapel in the Apostolic Palace, the pope’s official residence.

During the conclave, the Sistine Chapel is sealed off from outside communication. No cameras are allowed, and there is no live broadcast.

The cardinals involved swear an oath of absolute secrecy, and face the threat of excommunication if it is violated. This ensures all discussions and voting remain strictly confidential.

The iconic white smoke, produced by burning ballots once a pope has been chosen, is the only public signal that the election has concluded.

Who can be elected?

Only cardinals who are under 80 years of age at the time of conclave’s commencement can vote. Older cardinals are free to attend preparatory meetings, but can not cast ballots.

While the total number of electors is intended to not exceed 120, the fluctuating nature of cardinal appointments, as well as age restrictions, make it difficult to predict the exact number of eligible voters at any given conclave.

Technically, any baptised Catholic man can be elected pope. In practice, however, the College of Cardinals traditionally chooses one of its own members. Electing an “outsider” is extremely rare, and has not occurred in modern times.

What makes a good candidate?

When faced with criticism from a member of the public about his weight, John XXIII (who was pope from 1958-1963) retorted the papal conclave was “not a exactly beauty contest”.

Merit, theological understanding, administrative skill and global perspective matter greatly. But there is also a collegial element – something of a “popularity” factor. It is an election, after all.

Cardinals discuss the church’s current priorities – be they evangelisation strategies, administrative reforms or pastoral concerns – before settling on the individual they believe is best suited to lead.

The cardinal electors seek someone who can unify the faithful, navigate modern challenges and maintain doctrinal continuity.

Controversies and criticisms

The conclave process has faced criticism for its strict secrecy, which can foster speculation about potential “politicking”.

Critics argue a tightly controlled environment might not reflect the broader concerns of the global church.

Some have also questioned whether age limits on voting cardinals limit the wisdom and experience found among older members.

Nonetheless, defenders maintain that secrecy encourages free and sincere deliberation, minimising external pressure and allowing cardinals to choose the best leader without fear of reprisal, or of public opinion swaying the vote.

Challenges facing the new pope

The next pope will inherit a mixed situation: a church that has grown stronger in certain areas under Francis, yet which grapples with internal divisions and external challenges.

Like other religions, the church faces secularisation, issues with financial transparency and a waning following in some parts of the globe.

One of the earliest trials faced by the new pope will be unifying the global Catholic community around a shared vision – an obstacle almost every pope has faced. Striking the right balance between doctrine and pastoral sensitivity remains crucial.

Addressing sexual abuse scandals and their aftermath will require decisive action, transparency and continued pastoral care for survivors.

Practical concerns also loom large. The new pope will have to manage the Vatican bureaucracy and interfaith relations, while maintaining the church’s stance on global crises such as migration and poverty – two issues on which Francis insisted mercy could not be optional.

The cardinal electors have a tough decision ahead of them. The Catholic community can only pray that, through their deliberations, they identify a shepherd who can guide the church through the complexities of the modern world.

Darius von Guttner Sporzynski, Historian, Australian Catholic Universit

Pagan Loaves, Christian Bread, a Secular Treat: a Brief History of Hot Cross Buns

Ancient Greeks baked small round loaves marked with crosses to honour their gods. Early Christians made a cross to show their devotion on bread. Pagan Saxons worshipped a spring goddess called Eostre, which gave us the English word for Easter. 

By Darius von Guttner Sporzynski

Hot cross buns aren’t just a sweet snack that appear at Easter. They carry centuries of storytelling in their dough. From ancient gods to modern supermarkets, these sticky spiced buns have crossed many borders and beliefs.

Today, you can buy them in all kinds of flavours. But their story is far richer than chocolate chips and salted caramel.

Ancient beginnings

In some ancient cultures, bread was more than just food. It was a symbol of faith. Ancient Greeks baked small round loaves marked with crosses to honour their gods. According to some historians, these marks could represent the four seasons or four phases of the moon.

Jewish people have also shared special bread during holy times like Passover, and scholars have debated whether these customs influenced early Christian bread traditions.

Pagan Saxons worshipped a spring goddess named Eostre. They baked bread during springtime festivals to celebrate new life and longer days. The name “Eostre” is where we get the English word “Easter”. Over time, some of these springtime bread traditions blended with Christian customs.

From Pagan loaves to Christian buns

Early Christians started marking bread with a cross to show their devotion and ate it throughout the year.

They believed the cross kept away evil spirits and helped the dough rise. Over time, the Christian view of the bread marked with the cross shifted to focus on Jesus’ crucifixion and became associated with Easter.

Baking bread as illustrated in the 16th century Book of Hours. Getty

By the Middle Ages, many bakers only kept the cross on Good Friday bread.

According to popular tales, one 12th-century English monk made spiced buns marked with a cross on Good Friday, because that day is the “Day of the Cross”.

Monks often used spices to show the day was special. These spiced buns helped people remember the crucifixion of Christ and the spices used in his burial.

In 1592, Queen Elizabeth I restricted the sale of spiced bread and buns, perhaps because of religious tensions. England had broken away from the Catholic Church, and new Church of England officials worried that “holy” buns looked too much like Catholic superstition. Others say it was an issue of bread prices and profits. Then again maybe they were just too special for just everyday.

Under these laws, commercial bakers could only make spiced bread on Christmas, Easter and for funerals.

Good Friday and magic buns

By the 18th century, English street vendors sold “hot cross buns” on Good Friday. We even see an old rhyme about them in Poor Robin’s Almanac in 1733, which says:

Good Friday comes this month, the old woman runs,
With one a penny, two a penny, hot cross buns.

Soon, people believed these Good Friday buns had magical powers. Some hung them from kitchen rafters, believing they would never go mouldy. They kept them for protection against evil or illness. If someone felt sick, they crumbled part of an old hot cross bun into water, hoping it would cure them. Others placed buns in their grain stores to keep pests away.

These beliefs might sound odd today, but they were part of daily life for many.

This hand-coloured etching from 1799 shows a woman selling hot cross buns in London. The Metropolitan Museum of Art

In Victorian England, people exchanged hot cross buns with friends on Good Friday and said, “Half for you and half for me, between us two good luck shall be”.

Whatever ancient superstition the cross once warded off, today it’s the flavour roulette that keeps us coming back. Proof that tradition now serves taste, not fear.

An enduring symbol

Traditional buns contain dried fruit and spices like cinnamon and nutmeg, but many modern versions swap sultanas for chocolate chips or add flavours like salted caramel, orange – or even Vegemite and cheese. They have become a secular treat. Yet the crisscross pattern remains on top, hinting at the Christian origins.

When you smell a fresh batch of these buns, you’re sharing an experience people enjoyed centuries ago. Ancient Egyptians, Greeks, Poles, Romans, Saxons, medieval monks and 18th-century street sellers all had their versions of spiced, crossed bread. Each group gave the buns its own meaning, from honouring gods to celebrating Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection.

A woman giving hot cross buns to two children, in an illustration from 1899. British Library

Eating hot cross buns at Easter also shows how traditions change with each generation. At first, they were hard to find outside Good Friday. Now, you might see them in shops just after New Year’s. They once symbolised pagan festivals, then moved into Christian rites, survived royal bans, and sailed through waves of superstition. Yet they remain a symbol of Easter in Australia and around the world.

Darius von Guttner Sporzynski, Historian, Australian Catholic University

Glowing Up: How Lee Broom Created the Cascade Collection with Spanish Porcelain House Lladró

At Milan Design Week, British designer Lee Broom at his installation launching a new lighting collection. 

One of the highlights of this year's Salone del Mobile in Milan, amid the vast halls of Euroluce where LEDs blink, gleam, and dazzle, was a quieter, more immersive installation that stopped visitors in their tracks. A hush emanated from a mirrored space where porcelain lanterns glowed. There, British designer Lee Broom unveiled Cascade, his latest lighting collection and his first collaboration with Spanish porcelain house Lladró, writes Antonio Visconti

The designer visited Lladro's

porcelain works in Valencia,

to oversee the creation of the 

new lights.

LEE BROOM, celebrated for his theatrical, often high-drama approach to lighting design, doesn't shy away from spectacle. His past Milan presentations have included moving installations, immersive soundtracks, and surreal, crystalline displays. Yet the new design for the Cascade lights, signal a turn toward a more contemplative, almost meditative approach.

"When Lladró asked me to collaborate on a collection, I wanted to explore how light emanates through porcelain and how I could interpret this in a way that was reminiscent of paper lanterns illuminated by candlelight," explains the designer.  

"Having explored the use of mirrors with many of my installations, for the Lladró Euroluce presentation I decided to revisit the idea of optical illusion to create a cascade of lanterns in a joyous moment of light.”

The collection is composed of three pendant shapes and a compact table lamp, all handcrafted in Lladró’s workshops in Valencia, Spain. The pieces draw inspiration from traditional paper lanterns, those humble and enduring icons of festivity, memory, and ritual, particularly in East and Southeast Asia.

"I wanted the light to evoke an emotional response and bring that sense of joy as lanterns do at commemorative events, especially when hung in clusters,” Broom said.

The lantern references are subtle, filtered through Broom’s signature lens of geometry and proportion. The forms are pared down: spherical and cylindrical volumes rendered in matte white porcelain. The glow is internal and warm, reminiscent not of modern lighting but of candlelight. 

"I wanted to explore how light emanates through porcelain and how I could interpret this in a way that was reminiscent of paper lanterns illuminated by candlelight."

Lee Broom holds the new porcelain

lamps that when strung together

 form a "cascade" of light. 

The decision to work in porcelain ~ a notoriously delicate and temperamental medium ~ was not taken lightly.  The British designer has not worked with the material before, and he found it quite different to glass and metal. Porcelain changes in the kiln and as it dries so there is element of unpredictability and imperfection.

Porcelain, particularly unglazed, also takes light differently. It absorbs, diffuses, and softens it, rather than reflecting or amplifying. For Broom, who often works with reflective materials, this posed a creative and technical challenge. 

The pieces had to emit light evenly while maintaining structural integrity. To achieve the desired effect, Lladró’s artisans used precise layering techniques and complex internal LED configurations to maintain both warmth and consistency.

Broom’s approach to product design is often inspired from his early background in fashion and theatre. His Milan installations have become something of a cult draw, each year more ambitious in scope. From his famously recreated brutalist church interior in a Milanese courtyard to a dreamlike mirrored labyrinth punctuated by celestial forms.

But Cascade avoids overt narrative. Instead, the installation with mirrored walls and ceiling conjured an infinity of floating lanterns. The effect was all enveloping and yet tranquil. Visitors paused, phones momentarily forgotten, drawn into the experience.

The ability to shift tone so deftly speaks to Broom’s confidence as a designer. Rather than repeating a signature look, he has chosen to experiment with material and mood. It is not, he insists, a pivot away from his aesthetic roots, but an expansion. Not everything has to be bold to command attention.

"For the Lladró Euroluce presentation I decided to revisit the idea of optical illusion to create a cascade of lanterns in a joyous moment.”

While the pendant lights are designed

to be modular, there is also a compact

moon-like table lamp that casts a warm

glow on its surroundings. 

Beyond its poetic presence, Cascade also reveals a strategic versatility. The pendant lights are designed to be modular, allowing users to build vertical compositions of varying lengths, a nod to the way traditional lanterns are often strung together in sequences. 

The table lamp, portable and compact, brings the same ethereal glow to smaller spaces, suggesting a range of domestic and hospitality applications.

This flexibility is intentional. While the design is rooted in craft, it is also made with contemporary living in mind. The lights are powered by low-energy LED technology, and the modular system allows for customization. 

Yet what sets the design of Cascade apart from other modular lighting systems is its emotional dimension. The lights are not just fixtures but have a certain presence. Whether in clusters or standing alone, they seem to hum with a quiet life of their own.

Lladró, founded in 1953, has been undergoing a subtle reinvention in recent years. Known for its elaborate porcelain figurines and classical style, the brand has increasingly turned toward lighting and contemporary design collaborations to broaden its relevance. Previous partnerships with designers such as Marcel Wanders hinted at this new direction, and Cascade is part of the realignment.

The designer visited the Valencia factory during the development process, observing traditional techniques, experimenting with forms, and pushing the boundaries of what porcelain could achieve.

The pendant designs allow users to build

their own vertical compositions of light. 

Indeed, much of the success the new design stems from the genuine creative exchange between designer and maker. 

Broom visited Lladró’s factory during the development process, observing traditional techniques, experimenting with forms, and pushing the boundaries of what porcelain could achieve.

As Milan Design Week drew to a close, the design press began compiling its lists of highlights: the flashiest tech, the boldest forms, the most photographed rooms. 

Yet Cascade lingered in memory for different reasons. It didn’t demand attention but rather invited reflection.

In a cultural moment oversaturated with image and immediacy, Broom's porcelain lamps feel like a pause button. A whisper rather than a headline. And in the context of Milan ~ where bigger often means better ~ that restraint might just be its boldest gesture.

 

Siena: The Rise of Painting 1300-1350 at London's National Gallery is a Remarkable Achievement

Duccio Maesta - Panels 1308-11, Christ and the Woman of Samaria. Tempera and gold on panel. Museo Thyssen Bornemisza, Madrid (133 (1971.7). © Copyright Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid

By Louise Bourdua, University of Warwick

Simone Martini, The Angel Gabriel, 

about 1326-34, Tempera on poplar.

Collection KMSKA - Flemish Community

Photograph: Hugo Maertens

I had been looking forward to the National Gallery’s exhibition Siena: The Rise of Painting, 1300-1350 for several reasons. 

First, it was many years in the making. Its curator, Professor Emerita Joanna Cannon of the Courtauld Institute of Art, had been working on it for a decade or so. Duccio, one of the exhibition’s featured artists and one of the greatest Italian painters of the middle ages, had a major show in Siena in 2003. Another featured artist, Ambrogio Lorenzetti, had a smaller exhibition in the same city in 2017.

Second, the National Gallery’s late medieval Italian paintings had not been seen for two years because of the refurbishment of the Sainsbury Wing. That is, except for a select few displayed in an excellent exhibition on Saint Francis of Assisi in 2023.

Last, there was the publicity generated by the Metropolitan Museum’s iteration of this show – complete with a tantalising video tour by two of its curators.

The National Gallery’s take on the most exciting 50 years of Siena’s artistic production makes the most of its ground floor gallery rooms, enabling conversations between objects and medium.

The exhibition is a remarkable achievement: a pleasure for the eye and commendable for its ability to make medieval religious art accessible.

Britain’s love affair with Sienese painting is well documented from the late 19th century at least. But this exhibition focuses on much more than the celebrated four painters – Duccio, Simone Martini and Ambrogio Lorenzetti and his brother Pietro.

The wealth of Siena’s visual culture is represented with illuminated manuscripts; sculptures in marble, ivory, terracotta and walnut; reliquaries (containers for holy relics) and croziers (hooked staves) made from gold and enamel; and rugs and silks.

Simone Martini, The Way to Calvary. 

Tempera on poplar. Musee du Louvre, 

Département des Peintures, Paris.

 (INV 670 bis) RMN Grand Palais

Musee du Louvre/Gerard Blot

Panels with protagonists painted in bright reds, blues, pinks and greens with tiny brushstrokes using pigments mixed with egg on gilded backgrounds abound. But there are also frescoes, detached from their original mural setting, yet able to tell the story of their making and meaning.

Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s Annunciation (1344) is defined only by lines brushed on wet plaster using a red pigment (sinoper). This was a common initial step to set the composition, over which another layer of plaster would be applied again with contours painted but now filled with colour.

In another room, a beautifully modelled painted head of Jesus split into two, carved by Lando di Pietro (1338), is all that remains of a larger crucifix after bombing by allies in the second world war. It is the only known work of the sculptor. He was identified by the personal handwritten prayers concealed within the sculpture, which are displayed next to it.

The showstoppers

The curators have managed to do what could not be achieved in Siena in 2003: bring Duccio’s three triptychs into a single venue. The first two are shown just a few metres apart, to enable comparison and close viewing of all sides. Their painted backs and the geometric motifs behind their folding wings enable us to understand them as three-dimensional, portable objects.

The Crucifixion triptych, bought by Prince Albert in 1845 and lent to the exhibition by King Charles, is not too far from the pair, inviting comparison.

Duccio’s Healing of the Man Born Blind finds itself reunited with seven of its companions for the first time since 1777. This is the closest reconstruction we’ll ever get of the back predella (a box-like shelf with images that supported the main panels) of Siena cathedral’s enormous double-sided high altarpiece (known as the Maestà), which was carried in procession through the city streets in 1311.

Originally painted on a massive horizontal poplar plank, the individual episodes depicting Jesus’s ministry were sold on the art market in the 19th century and dispersed across two continents. A ninth panel which probably started the narrative has never been found, although you wouldn’t know it from this display.

Duccio, Triptych with the Crucifixion, Saint Nicolas, 

Saint Clement and the Redeemer with Angels, 1311-18,

Tempera and gold on wood. Museum of Fine Arts

Boston. Grant Walker and Charles Potter Kling

Funds (45.880). 

Nothing can distract from close viewing – you’ll want to enjoy it for as long as you can stand. This privileged view is unusual in an exhibition and possibly comes close to that enjoyed by the clergy during processions or pilgrimages in Siena cathedral. A photo montage of the reconstructed altarpiece is tiny and displayed on the wall opposite the reconstructed predella, alongside the panels originally on the front predella.

The other showstopper is Pietro Lorenzetti’s altarpiece. It’s usually on the high altar of the church of Santa Maria della Pieve in Arezzo, but has been lent by the diocese and placed on a low plinth. This allows us to imagine just how immense Duccio’s Maestà must have been.

This altarpiece represents the most popular formula created in early 14th-century Siena. These were large polyptychs of five (or seven) vertical panels usually displaying the virgin and child in the centre, surrounded by saints relevant to the locality and patrons.

The Arezzo polyptych is approximately three metres in height and width, with three registers but has lost its predella, having been dismantled and relocated several times. The type was so popular that it, and the Sienese painters who created it, were in demand throughout Tuscany and beyond.

Each of the objects displayed in this exhibition merits a long look. Since there are over 100, my last reflection will be on another extraordinary reunion: a small gilded glass icon depicting once again the virgin, child and saints above the Annunciation (1347). Its double-sided reliquary frame still contains 17 relics.

It’s conceived as a miniature altarpiece, imitating the basic shape of the larger Sienese altarpieces on display. It also uses the same materials in addition to glass that has been gilded, incised and painted in red, blue and green.

Such precious materials and meticulous craft testify to the richness of Sienese art during the first half of the 14th century.

Siena: The Rise of Painting, 1300-1350 is at the National Gallery until June 22.

Louise Bourdua, Professor of Art History, University of Warwick

Trump Thinks Tariffs Can Bring Back the Glory Days of US Manufacturing. Here’s Why He’s Wrong

President Trump is mistaken if he believes that tariffs will bring a new golden age of manufacturing.

By James Scott, King's College London

The “liberation day” tariffs announced by US president Donald Trump have one thing in common – they are being applied to goods only. Trade in services between the US and its partners is not affected. This is the perfect example of Trump’s peculiar focus on trade in goods and, by extension, his nostalgic but outdated obsession with manufacturing.

The fallout from liberation day continues, with markets down around the world. The decision to apply tariffs on a country-by-country basis means that rules about where a product is deemed to come from are now of central importance.

The stakes for getting it wrong could be high. Trump has threatened that anyone seeking to avoid tariffs by shifting the supposed origin of a product to a country with lower rates could face a ten-year jail term.

The White House initially refused to specify how it came up with the tariff levels. But it appears that each country’s rate was arrived at by taking the US goods trade deficit with that country, dividing it by the value of that country’s goods exports to the US and then halving it, with 10% set as the minimum.

It has been noted that this is effectively the approach suggested by AI platforms like ChatGPT, Claude and Grok when asked how to create “an even playing field”.

Economically, Trump’s fixation on goods makes no sense. This view is not unique to the president (though he feels it unusually strongly). There is a broader fetishisation of manufacturing in many countries. One theory is that it is potentially ingrained in human thinking by pre-historic experiences of finding food, fuel and shelter dominating all other activities.

But for Trump, the thinking is likely related to a combination of nostalgia for a bygone (somewhat imagined) age of manufacturing, and concern over the loss of quality jobs that provide a solid standard of living for blue collar workers – a core part of his political base.

Nostalgia is not a sensible basis for forming economic policy. But the role emotions play in international affairs has been receiving more attention. It has been identified as an “emotional turn” (where the importance of emotion is recognised) in the discipline of international relations.

Of course, that’s not to say that the concern over jobs and the unequal effects of globalisation is misplaced. It is clear that blue-collar workers have suffered in the US (and elsewhere) for the last 40 to 50 years, with governments paying little attention to the decline.

Many blue-collar workers, like these GM car plant employees in Missouri, have paid a high price for globalisation. Jon Rehg/Shutterstock

Data on weekly earnings in the US split by educational level show that wages for those without a degree have declined or stagnated since around 1973, particularly among men. This is the cohort that disproportionately voted for Trump. Globalisation has created many benefits, not least to the United States, but these tend to be concentrated among the better educated.

All too often the service-sector jobs that have filled the gap left by declining manufacturing have been precarious. That means low wages, low security, lack of union representation and few opportunities for moving up the ladder. It is unsurprising that there has been a backlash.

Can’t turn back the clock

So will Trump’s tariffs plan address this? The great tragedy is that there is little reason to think that they will.

The loss of manufacturing jobs is partly about globalisation, which Trump is seeking to reverse. But research shows that trade and globalisation are often more of a scapegoat than a driving force, responsible for only a small chunk of job losses (typically said to be about 10%).

The main cause of manufacturing’s decline is rising productivity. Today it simply requires fewer people to make goods due to the relentless increase in automation and the associated rise in how much each worker produces.

If the whole US trade deficit were rebalanced through expanding domestic industries, this would increase the share of manufacturing employment within the US by about one percentage point, from about 8% today to 9% according to US Bureau of Labor Statistics figures. This is not going to be transformative.

The effects of tariffs are also doubled-edged. They will probably shift some manufacturing back to the US – but this could be self-defeating. More US steel production is good for workers, but the higher cost of US steel feeds through to higher prices for the products manufactured with it.

This includes the cars Trump obsesses about. Less competitive prices means lower exports and a loss of jobs. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

The 1950s were a unique time. By the end of the second world war, the US was a manufacturing powerhouse, accounting for one third of the world’s exports while taking only around a tenth of its imports.

There were few other industrialised countries at the time, and these had been flattened by the war. The US alone had avoided this, creating a world of massive demand for US exports since nowhere else had a significant manufacturing base. That was never going to last forever.

The other point about that time in history is that the economic system had been shaped by colonialism. European powers had used their position of power to prevent the rest of the world from industrialising. As those empires were dismantled and the shackles came off, those newly independent countries began their own processes of industrialisation.

As for the US today, President Trump is mistaken if he really believes that tariffs will bring a new golden age of manufacturing. The world has changed.

James Scott, Reader in International Politics, King's College London

Ancient Rome Used High Tariffs to Raise Money Too and Created Other Economic Problems Along the Way

Nuntiya/Shutterstock

By Peter Edwell, Macquarie University

Tariffs are back in the headlines this week, with United States President Donald Trump introducing sweeping new tariffs of at least 10% on a vast range of goods imported to the US. For some countries and goods, the tariffs will be much higher.

Analysts have expressed shock and worry, warning the move could lead to inflation and possibly even recession for the US.

As someone who’s spent years researching the economy of Ancient Rome, it all feels a shade familiar.

In fact, tariffs were also used in Ancient Rome, and for some of the reasons that governments claim to be using them today.

Unfortunately for the Romans, however, these tariffs often led to higher prices, black markets and other economic problems.

Roman tariffs on luxury goods

As the Roman Empire expanded and became richer, its wealthy citizens demanded increasing amounts of luxury items, especially from Arabia, India and China. This included silk, pearls, pepper and incense.

There was so much demand for incense, for example, that growers in southern Arabia worked out how to harvest it twice a year. Pepper has been found on archaeological sites as far north as Roman Britain.

Around 70 CE the Roman writer Pliny – who later died in the eruption that buried Pompeii – complained that 100 million sesterces (a type of coin) drained from the empire every year due to luxury imports. About 50 million sesterces a year, he reckoned, was spent on trade from India alone.

In reality, however, the cost of these imports was even larger than Pliny thought.

An Egyptian document, known as the Muziris Papyrus, from about the same time Pliny wrote shows one boat load of imports from India was valued at 7 million sesterces.

Hundreds of boats laden with luxuries sailed from India to Egypt every year.

At Palmyra (an ancient city in what’s now Syria) in the second century CE, an inscription shows 90 million sesterces in goods were imported in just one month.

And in the first century BCE, Roman leader Julius Caesar gave his lover, Servilia (mother to his murderer Marcus Brutus), an imported black pearl worth 6 million sesterces. It’s often described as one of the most valuable pearls of all time.

Julius Caesar gave his lover, Servilia, an imported black pearl worth 6 million sesterces. AdelCorp/Shutterstock

So while there was a healthy level of trade in the other direction – with the Romans exporting plenty of metal wares, glass vessels and wine – demand for luxury imports was very high.

The Roman government charged a tariff of 25% (known as the tetarte) on imported goods.

The purpose of the tetarte was to raise revenue rather than protect local industry. These imports mostly could not be sourced in the Roman Empire. Many of them were in raw form and used in manufacturing items within the empire. Silk was mostly imported raw, as was cotton. Pearls and gemstones were used to manufacture jewellery.

With the volume and value of eastern imports at such high levels in imperial Rome, the tariffs collected were enormous.

One recent estimate suggests they could fund around one-third of the empire’s military budget.

Inflationary effects

Today, economic experts are warning Trump’s new tariffs – which he sees as a way to raise revenue and promote US-made goods – could end up hurting both the US and the broader global economy.

Today’s global economy has been deliberately engineered, while the global economy of antiquity was not. But warnings of the inflationary effects of tariffs are also echoed in ancient Rome too.

Pliny, for example, complained about the impact of tariffs on the street price of incense and pepper.

In modern economies, central banks fight inflation with higher interest rates, but this leads to reduced economic activity and, ultimately, less tax revenue. Reduced tax collection could cancel out increased tariff revenue.

It’s not clear if that happened in Rome, but we do know the emperors took inflation seriously because of its devastating impact on soldiers’ pay.

Black markets

Ancient traders soon became skilled at finding their way around paying tariffs to Roman authorities.

The empire’s borders were so long traders could sometimes avoid tariff check points, especially when travelling overland.

This helped strengthen black markets, which the Roman administration was still trying to deal with in the third century, when its economy hit the skids and inflation soared. This era became known as the Crisis of the Third Century.

I don’t subscribe to the view that you can draw a direct line between Rome’s high tariffs and the decline of the Roman Empire, but it’s certainly true that this inflation that tore through third century Rome weakened it considerably.

And just as it was for Rome, black markets loom as a potential challenge for the Trump administration too, given the length of its borders and the large volume of imports.

But the greatest danger of the new US tariffs is the resentment they will cause, especially among close allies such as Australia.

Rome’s tariffs were not directed at nations and were not tools of diplomatic revenge. Rome had other ways of achieving that.

Peter Edwell, Associate Professor in Ancient History, Macquarie University

Medieval Venice Shows Us the Good Art Can Do in Times of Crisis

Miracle of the Cross at the Bridge of S. Lorenzo, by Gentile Bellini, c.1496-1501. Gallerie dell'Accademia, Venice.

By Stefania Gerevini, Bocconi University

In an increasingly polarised world, the arts and humanities play a key role in sustaining democracy. They foster critical thinking, open dialogue, emotional intelligence and understanding across different perspectives, all of which are essential for a healthy democratic society. Also, people who participate in cultural activities are much more likely to engage in civic and democratic life.

The Pala d'Oro, the gold Byzantine altarpiece

in St Mark’s basilica. Steve Tulley/Alamy

Yet the way the arts are funded differs widely from country to country, especially in times of economic hardship or significant change. During and after the pandemic, for instance, some EU countries increased public spending on culture, while others made significant cuts.

The reasons for these contrasting attitudes are many, from local cultural values, to shifting economic priorities and politics. But at their core, different funding strategies express different attitudes towards two questions: what contribution does art make in times of crisis? And how do communities express their experiences of uncertainty?

As I argue in my recent book Facing Crisis: Art as Politics in Fourteenth Century Venice, the medieval city of Venice provides a remarkable historical example for addressing these questions.

Between the sixth and 12th centuries, Venice grew into an independent city-state ruled by an elected council and an elected head of state, called the doge.

Set on an island, the city lacked some of the resources necessary to its survival, so it quickly established strong maritime trade networks across the Mediterranean. It gradually developed into an international merchant empire, acquiring strategic territories along the eastern Adriatic Coast, Greece and the Aegean Sea.

By the mid-14th century, Venice was a leading global power. Yet, between 1340 and 1355, the city also faced famine, plague, a violent earthquake and fierce military conflicts with Genoa and the Ottomans.

Internally, Venice tackled dramatic political tensions (including a coup and the public execution of a doge in 1355), as non-noble citizens were gradually excluded from public office. Strikingly, it was during this period of acute crisis that the government initiated a series of ambitious artistic projects in the state church of San Marco.

The Palo Feriale, the ‘weekday’ altarpiece

 in St Mark’s basilica, painted on wood 

panels, completed in 1345. Artgen /Alamy

A new baptistery and a chapel dedicated to Saint Isidore of Chios were lavishly decorated with mosaics. In addition, the high altar, which provided religious focus for the faithful, was revamped. This included turning its uniquely precious golden altarpiece into spectacular moving machinery that would open and close to reveal different images daily, and on feast days.

These projects, which required substantial public spending at a time of financial strain, hardly represented business as usual for Venetian policymakers. Instead, they were a central part of the government’s wider response to crisis.

On one level, these new projects revealed the range of pressing concerns that engulfed the Venetian government and people at the time. The painted altarpiece displayed on the altar of San Marco on non-festive days exhibits an emphasis on human suffering, miracles and saintly interventions that may relate the need for reassurance in uncertain times.

The bloody conflict against Genoa likely influenced the dedication of a chapel to St Isidore. The saint’s body was transported to Venice from the Greek island of Chios, a vital Genoese stronghold in the 14th century. To the people of Venice, the physical presence of St Isidore’s relics in San Marco provided reassurance and the promise of protection and victory as their state engaged in a risky conflict.

Finally, uncertainty about the nature and boundaries of citizenship and political authority – which the expansion of Venice’s overseas territories transformed into an ever more urgent problem – offer a valuable way to interpret the imagery in the baptistery. Here the apostles are rendered in mosaic as they baptise the “nations of the earth”, offering an idealised image of union in diversity.

Yet, on another level, the projects sponsored by the Venetian government during this period represented the active exercising of the political imagination. In ways that some of us may find alarmingly familiar, Venice’s ongoing instability made traditional approaches to decision-making, communication and control ineffective in dealing with the challenges it faced.

Venice’s governors responded to the crisis which threatened the very survival and stability of the city and its political foundations with a wide-ranging strategy of legal, institutional and historical revision, aimed at clarifying the nature and functions of the Venetian state.

The government reaffirmed Venice’s civic laws and reorganised its international treaties. The authority of the doge was progressively restricted, and over time, the government clarified the rules for holding public office. The first official history of Venice was completed in 1352.

In this context, the San Marco projects did not merely express the anxiety of the Venetian people, or their hopes for renewed stability. They represented the establishing of a new political landscape, which was envisioned most clearly on the east wall of the baptistery.

The 14th-century mosaic in the baptistery of Venice’s 

San Marco Basilica showing the crucifixion

scene with the Venetian doge and two officers

of the city beneath. University of Bologna

Three secular figures – a doge and two officers – are depicted as kneeling supplicants within a monumental mosaic of the crucifixion (see image at left). Blending the sacred with the secular, this image offered an abstract “state portrait” that simultaneously expressed a political reality and suggested a new political ideal.

The mosaic now rendered Venice’s doge as a humble ruler, and it represented the business of government as a collective enterprise. In so doing, this image articulated a new vision of government as public service and shared responsibility. This idea, which developed through political reforms in Venice and from broader debates in other medieval Italian city states, has went on to influence western approaches to government and public life to this day.

Venice’s state-sponsored artistic commissions were not propaganda in the modern sense. Instead, they offered a compelling visual reflection on the nature of leadership and the necessary limits of authority. They kindled a new vision of government that enabled Venice to navigate one of the most turbulent phases of its history – reminding us, too, of the power of the arts to inspire and imagine new futures in difficult times.

By Stefania Gerevini, Associate Professor of Medieval Art History, Bocconi University