Malachite and the Origins of Copper

In economically developed nations like the UK, we benefit hugely from the conveniences that modern manufacturing brings. Sophisticated means of mass production and increasingly global supply chains mean that we have greater access to the industrially produced goods that we desire at a rate that is both faster and cheaper than ever before. At the same time, however, this convenience has created a growing sense of detachment from the origins of the materials and objects we use every day.

As a jeweller, I see these patterns of disconnection mirrored in my own field. I can easily order a precisely specified piece of copper without needing to know anything about how it was formed, what processes it went through, or where the raw material came from. The technical precision of the materials I work with is incredibly useful, but it also means that much of the story behind the metal, its geological origins, the environmental cost of extraction, the labour involved in refining it, is rendered invisible.

This separation feels symptomatic of a wider cultural shift.  I myself have been delving more and more into many different forms of digital fabrication, laser cutting, 3D printing, and also incorporating 3D scanning and augmented reality into my work. I enjoy the accuracy and speed in which I can create, and also the challenge of learning new skills and incorporating them in creative ways. However, I have found myself craving something more tactile, more grounded, and more connected to the physical world.

In this context, I think it’s important to reflect on how materials are sourced and understood, not only in terms of their function or aesthetic value, but also in terms of their histories, origins, and impacts. Understanding where something comes from, and how it is made, fosters a deeper awareness of the systems that support our lives. As a maker, I see this as part of my responsibility, to remain curious about my materials, to ask questions about their origins, and to stay connected to the physical world even as technology mediates more of our experience.


My interest in smelting began through conversations with Vince Hart, the Paint and Surface Specialist Technician at Central Saint Martins. His focus is on pigments, and because metals and pigments often share the same mineral origins, we spent a lot of time discussing their overlap. This connection becomes even more interesting when considering the theory proposed by R. F. Tylecote in The Prehistory of Metallurgy in the British Isles, where he suggests that metals may have first been discovered by people working with minerals for pigments.

“That copper was first accidentally smelted in a pottery kiln. Possibly a copper ore has been used as a pigment and the conditions were so reducing that the pigment was converted to metallic copper and ran down the pot.”


Photo of malachite found at The Great Orme, Wales. This image was taken on a microscope at the Central Saint Martin’s Biolab. From the bright green colour, you can see why people were first drawn to this mineral for use in painting.


I find it fascinating that metalwork, ceramics, and painting are historically intertwined in this way, and that I now work closely alongside specialists in all three areas. Knowing this history makes the disciplines feel less separate and the materials more connected.

Working as a technician at Central Saint Martins for the past two and a half years, I’m asked questions, often unexpected ones, which have pushed me to expand my understanding. Wanting to develop a deeper knowledge of metals, it felt natural to start at the beginning.

With the aim of learning how to smelt metal, I reached out to my workshop group, the Society of Model Experimental Engineers. Through them, I was put in contact with Salim Patel, who had previously given a lecture on smelting and bronze casting. Salim was incredibly generous with his knowledge and invited me to his workshop in Havant, where I spent the day with him and his friend  Jim smelting copper and experimenting with bronze casting.

What stood out most in this experience was the directness of the process. Smelting requires attention, patience, and an understanding of material behaviour that you can’t fully grasp through theory alone. It made the transformation from mineral to metal feel immediate and tangible in a way that industrial production rarely does.


Copper smelted from a piece of malachite with Salim. Originally carved into an ornamental  form of a cat, the stone was found in a charity shop, its potential as a source of metal hidden in plain sight.


Salim and Jim had originally met while working at Butser Ancient Farm, which became another important point of reference for me. Through conversations with them, I learned about the Great Orme in North Wales, the oldest known Bronze Age copper mine in Britain, dating back around 4,000 years.


Images of the pilgrimage I took from London to Wales with a piece of malachite from The Great Orme. The mineral was bought from a collector and taken back to the mines where it was originally formed.


Visiting the Great Orme marked a turning point in my research. It transformed something abstract into something physical. Over five miles of prehistoric tunnels have been discovered underground in Llandudno, North Wales. A vast and intricate labyrinth, more organic than engineered.
When I first descended into the Great Orme Mines, I realised how much my expectations had been shaped by popular culture. In my mind, a mine was something out of Indiana Jones, with rail tracks and wooden supports. But the reality was something very different and much more fascinating.

The tunnels felt alive. They twist and turn through the limestone like root systems or underground rivers. The floors rise and fall unpredictably, and narrow corridors suddenly give way to wide chambers with jagged, fractured walls. There are no straight lines, no grand design, only the logic of the malachite veins, which dictated where the Bronze Age miners would dig. They weren’t carving out space for convenience; they were following the green malachite, wherever it led.

Being in that environment created a tangible connection to the past. It felt like piecing together a vast historical puzzle, where the relationship between material, process, and human effort becomes much clearer when experienced first-hand.
 

Photo of a ring: Materials that tether us to ancient rites on display at the Lethaby Gallery in Kings Cross.


This sense of connection has made me think more critically about how differently we engage with materials today. Where early metalworkers had an intimate understanding of the materials they worked with, much of our contemporary relationship to metal is mediated through layers of industry, technology, and global supply chains.
This becomes particularly evident when considering the role of copper in our current technological landscape. Demand for copper continues to rise, driven in part by the expansion of digital infrastructure, including data centres and artificial intelligence systems.

To better understand this contemporary context, I visited a large-scale distribution centre in Dartford. The level of automation was striking. Systems powered by artificial intelligence coordinate the movement of goods, using robotics, real-time data analysis, and predictive models to optimise efficiency. Processes that once relied on human judgment are now handled by complex, largely invisible systems.


Amazon warehouse video.


While these technologies can feel distant from traditional craft practices, they remain deeply dependent on the same materials. Copper, in particular, is essential to this infrastructure, used extensively in wiring, servers, and communication systems. Despite the apparent immateriality of digital life, it is still grounded in physical resources extracted from the Earth.

This raises important questions about awareness and responsibility. As we continue to develop and rely on advanced technologies, how do we remain conscious of the material and environmental implications that support them? Is it possible to engage with these systems critically, while still embracing their creative potential?

In my own practice, I’ve begun collecting copper from electronic waste as a way of exploring these questions more directly. By reclaiming and reworking this material, I’m trying to better understand the quantity of resources required to produce even a small object, such as a ring. This process feels, in some ways, like a return to earlier forms of material engagement, working more closely with the substance itself, while remaining aware of its broader context. It creates a link between past and present: from the extraction of malachite at sites like the Great Orme, to the hidden material networks that sustain contemporary digital life.

Through this ongoing exploration, I’m not necessarily seeking definitive answers, but rather a deeper awareness. By tracing the journey of metal, from its geological origins to its place within modern systems, I hope to remain more connected to the materials I work with and to the wider structures they are part of. I look forward to creating something with the materials I collect in the future.

The ring Materials that tether us to ancient rites can be seen on display as part of the exhibition A Common Thread at The Lethaby Gallery, Kings Cross till April 26th. Featuring work by 30 students, staff and alumni at Central Saint Martin’s.

 

About the author

Victoria King is a London-based jewelry designer. She's a graduate of The Cass in BA Silversmithing and Metalwork. She has curated and exhibited at 32 exhibitions nationally and internationally. She is part of both Dialogue Collective and Precious Collective. She is also a technician at Central Saint Martin's, metalwork, woodwork, and digital fabrication

victoriakinglondon@gmail.com
@victoriakinglondon