A Cultural History of Dress and Fashion in Antiquity Volume 1 9781474206365, 9780857856968

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Introduction MARY HARLOW

A modern audience would recognize an image of a clothed “classical” Greek or Roman with little difficulty. This image might be mediated through original sculptures seen in museums or in situ, or through Renaissance or Neo-classical interpretations and copies, or more recently through the prism of film, television, or computer gaming. A modern audience may not, however, immediately recognize the subtleties in wardrobe that identify particular Greco-Roman cultural identities. This volume will outline the nuances and messages of dress and fashion in Antiquity through a survey of the available evidence and by asking particular questions of the material in a period c. 500 BC to AD 500. In any context, past or present, the clothed body transmits a series of messages about the wearer that can signify a complexity of identities. These identities will be considered and unpicked across the chapters in this volume, but before we begin there are some important points to make about the nature of clothing in Antiquity, and the question of fashion. The ancient Greco-Roman wardrobe was, by modern standards, rather limited. Across several centuries it consisted essentially of some form of tunic worn with a mantle, cloak, or wrap. Despite this relative simplicity of type, the styles of clothing and the textiles they were made from allowed ancient people to make assessments about the rank, status, ethnicity, age and, most importantly of all, the class and gender of any individual they encountered. A quick glance at the clothing, accoutrements, and body language of another person would allow the viewer to place them socially, and, if they could not identify the dress code, at the very least to perceive whether the wearer was a stranger. The modern viewer depends on a range of evidence to understand these signals from Antiquity: images allow us to visualize the idealized models of clothed bodies; literary and documentary evidence provides a background against which to read the visual imagery, and to understand attitudes towards certain items of dress; and the survival of archaeological textiles supplies a grounding level of reality with the potential to understand both methods of production and the experiential nature of ancient clothing. Roland Barthes would recognize this situation. Although he addressed fashion in women’s magazines in his Système de la mode (1967), he identified the difficulty of combining the evidence of the actual garment, the iconic garment (in the photographs), and the written garment (in the commentary). This is a difficulty that historians of dress in Antiquity also face. The wide range of available evidence is not unproblematic. The ancient world, as studied in this volume, reaches from Hadrian’s Wall in the north of England, across western Europe to the Rhine and Danube, south to North Africa and Egypt, and east to Syria, and covers a chronological period of over a millennium. It therefore encompasses many peoples and many major political changes and cultural shifts. However, across the period, the tools used to make the textiles and garments remained relatively static and followed strong, local cultural traditions, so it is possible to talk about clothing, at least in the areas surrounding the Mediterranean, in both a synchronic and a diachronic manner. Most of the chapters in this volume concentrate on the dominant cultures of the period, those of 1

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FIGURE 0.1: Red-figure cup, Briseis Painter, c. 480–70 BC . The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.

Classical Greece, which in reality often means the city of Athens and its environs, with an excursus into Sparta, and the Roman Empire and its areas of influence. Evidence from these societies is by no means scarce; but it is often fragmentary and does not neatly dovetail in terms of chronology or geography. Visual material in the form of vase painting, sculpture, mosaics, and the plastic arts survives, but the context of any given image and the method of its production have a strong influence on iconographic programs; genre images usually also present genre dressing, so any analysis needs to take this into account. Written evidence is likewise bound up with genre, and readers need to be aware that neither authors nor artists were in the business of creating fashion plates, but were portraying recognizable figures which audiences could both appreciate and relate to. Written and visual material is a product of its political and cultural time. Motifs and styles often begin as part of elite culture, but ancient societies show evidence of the “trickle down” effect: as a style becomes popular it is taken up by those lower down the

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social scale, but once worn by those outside the elite, its intrinsic value as a cultural and social symbol changes.1 The visual and literary categories of evidence have one advantage over the material remains in that they are wide-ranging; from 500 BC all but a few of the cultures studied here produced art and literature to a greater or lesser extent. The surviving archaeological evidence is more patchy. Textile tools, particularly spindle whorls, are found across the geographical and chronological span; but textile remains come mainly from the desert conditions of areas of Egypt, Syria, and Jordan, and often date to late in the period. Occasionally, fortuitous environmental conditions have allowed the survival of textiles in other parts of western Europe, but these are relatively rare.2 To create an understandable picture of dress and fashion in Antiquity, researchers have to engage in some methodological gymnastics and must beware over-generalizing from evidence that is highly contextualized. One of the most fundamental aspects of ancient dress, from 500 BC almost to the end of the period covered by this volume, is that most clothing was made to shape on the loom. It required very little tailoring, and the tradition was not to cut garments from a length of cloth and sew them into shape but to weave them as an entity.3 Cut and sewn garments were known by both the Greeks and the Romans but were seen as something foreign, as symbolizing the clothing of a different culture. Their own world was marked by clothing which draped and wrapped around the body with a minimum of additional fastening. Some garments were pinned (notably the Greek peplos) and some cloaks or mantles fastened with the use of brooches, but close-fitting, tailored clothing was a rarity. Weaving to shape imposed a particular dynamic on the production of clothing. From the outset the finished garment was in the mind of the spinner and the weaver. The loom was set up to produce that particular garment, not one created randomly once the warp was threaded or a bolt of cloth woven. In domestic production the decision to make a particular garment dictated choices from the beginning of the chaîne opératoire. If a garment was to be soft and smooth, only certain parts of the fleece might be chosen, or the linen might be processed in particular ways. If a colored garment was required, the wool would be dyed either as fleece or spun yarn before it was put on the loom. The shape of an item would also dictate the way a loom was set up: should the warp be stronger or harder spun than the weft? Should the weft be denser than the warp? If patterned bands were required was it necessary to have a cartoon of the design to hand and to understand the mathematics of thread counting to ensure a balanced and symmetrical patterning? Will the ends be in-woven or left as fringes? Very little about ancient textile production was left to chance or the lucky availability of a particular yarn. Textile archaeology has done much to enhance our understanding of this process, even when only textile tools or fragmentary fabric survive. Ancient textile production may look “primitive” in comparison with modern industrialized processes, but it was a highly complex activity that required great skill.4 The essential wardrobe item, for men, women and children, was the tunic which could be woven in a number of ways. To speak in general terms, in the Greek world, the male chit¯on and the female peplos and “buttoned” chit¯on could all be made from the same piece of cloth, a rectangle, styled in different ways. For men, it could be made of two rectangles sewn at the shoulders, or made in one piece woven lengthwise or horizontally on the loom, sometimes with an internal selvedge created to make a gap for the head and to shape the neckline. For women, the peplos required a large rectangle which would first be folded over to approximately a third of its length, then wrapped around the body with the folded edges pinned at the shoulders, the over-fold reaching to the waist or upper

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FIGURE 0.2: Black-figure lekythos (oil flask) attributed to Amasis Painter, showing warp-weighted loom, c. 550–530 BC . Image © The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Fletcher Fund, 1931.

thighs. It would have one open side which could be sewn up, but the amount of fabric could also be belted and manipulated to hide those parts of the body which should not be seen. The female chit¯on was created from a rectangle folded in half, or two rectangles, and fastened along the shoulders and down the “sleeves,” which were created from the excess width of cloth, not sewn in. On Roman statuary, this type of garment is often called a “gap-sleeved” tunic as sculptors often show the fastenings, with a gap between each one. It is not clear how the fastening worked: it does not appear to be buttoned in the modern sense of an accompanying buttonhole or hook, but some form of fastening was obviously created.5 All tunics could be belted to gather up, contain and control excess material, and to create shape and personal style. Many more tunics and tunic fragments survive from the Roman period, so we have a better sense of their construction. They continued to be woven to shape on the loom. When clavi (two decorative bands running from shoulder to hem) became common, it was far easier to weave the tunic horizontally on the loom, so the clavi could be in-woven by tapestry or other techniques, as an integral part of the weft. The neckline would be produced by weaving two internal selvedges around the gap left for the head. When the weaving was taken off the loom, it was turned through 90 degrees and became a tunic that could be slipped over the head. This basic shape would suit men, women and children, but the way a garment was worn would define the gender of the wearer, particularly by its length and perhaps also in choice of textile, decoration and color.6 Over time, some

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changes were made in the shaping of the tunic, and sleeves came to be included. In this case, weaving started at the cuff of one sleeve; increased incorporation of warp threads would be used for the body of the tunic, and then decreased again to create the other sleeve. The weaving could incorporate decoration and the neckline, and would finish at the opposite cuff. Again, once off the loom, the garment would be turned through 90 degrees, might be sewn up the sides and the underside of the sleeve, and would be ready for wear. When it was worn, the warp threads ran across the body of the tunic. Cloaks and mantles were constructed in similar fashion. Rectangular mantles were made in a single piece on the loom, as were those with curved edges. Even the ubiquitous Roman toga was made in single piece, although its dimensions would require a very large loom.7 Garments were taken off the loom and finished in a variety of ways, sometimes simply by sewing up the sides, sometimes by extensive fulling procedures to raise or flatten the nap, soften the fabric, or create particular effects such as pleating. The apparent sameness of the wardrobe in Antiquity raises the question: how far is it possible to talk about fashion? This is a matter which is contested among some ancient historians, particularly those who focus on economics. While it is patently true that it is not possible to equate modern, post-industrial ideas of fast-paced, global fashion with the much slower world of Antiquity, it is possible to track change over time: in preferences for particular types of textiles; in the ways they are processed; in the appearance of new shades of color; in the manner in which clothes are worn; and, over the long term, in the

FIGURE 0.3: Coptic tunic c. fifth century AD Egypt, undyed linen with wool decoration. Image © The Metropolitan Museum of Art, gift of Edward S. Harkness, 1926.

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arrival of clothing practices of different ethnic groups. These material aspects of dress were often combined with a desire on the part of some individuals to create a look that did not conform to socially prescribed dress, or which played with the boundaries of “respectability.” It is the position of this volume that the interaction between these two directions—the availability of a range of fabrics, colors, and decoration combined with the aim of looking individual or different from the crowd—amounts to ideas and acts of fashion. The difficulty lies in identifying this convergence in the surviving evidence. In literary representations in particular, the idea of looking different or over-adorned often met with a negative response; the moral discourse surrounding the clothed body is a theme that runs through several chapters in this volume.8 Dressing contrary to the social norms always raised comment in the ancient world, particularly if one affected the clothing of a culture seen to be foreign. It was not until the very end of the period covered here that tight-fitting tunics with long sleeves or leggings became both fashionable and acceptable as dress for the upper classes. These types of garments were not unknown in the cosmopolitan worlds of ancient Athens and Rome, but were previously viewed as belonging to barbarian cultures, and thus not considered socially acceptable wear for citizens.9 The perception of over-adornment could also raise censure; conversely, and somewhat paradoxically, so could over-playing the ascetic look in Christian rhetoric.10 Debates about fashion highlight the role of dress in both the cultural and vestimentary code of a society; this is as true of Antiquity as it is today. In Antiquity, the position is particularly bound up with notions of class, status, and gender, as the dominant voice of any discourse is that of the elite males who produced the literature and commissioned the works of art that often dictate our view of the past. Textile archaeology and the close study of material remains, therefore, have a very important role to play in measuring change and fashion. Color is one of the aspects of ancient clothing that remains elusive. Dyed textiles survive from Antiquity, and dye analysis has demonstrated that the ancients were aware of the coloring properties of many plants, insects, mollusks, and minerals, and could instigate complex mechanics to extract them.11 Some colors had symbolic resonance, which made their use both in reality and as part of a dress code significant. Purple is the most obvious example. From at least the earliest centuries of the second millennium BC , the color purple was connected to economic and social power, and to royalty. The most precious and most lustrous purple was manufactured from the glands of varieties of the murex mollusk, though many less expensive substitutes were created by mixing components such as blues (from woad or indigo) with red (from madder).12 It is often difficult to visualize the colored clothing of Antiquity, particularly since our aesthetic of the classical is strongly embodied in the monochrome images from Greek vase paintings and the white marble statues that fill museums and galleries. Recent innovative work on the polychromy of ancient sculpture is beginning to change this view, but it is still quite challenging to be faced with the painted reproduction of the Peplos Kore, the Persian rider from the Acropolis, or the painted Prima Porta Augustus.13 Various analyses have been applied to some famous statuary from Antiquity, with intriguing results. Figures from the Hellenistic period where the color survives or can be reproduced give the impression that, in contrast to the more solid primary colors of the classical period, softer shades were in use, with a preference for pastel pinks, light blues, lavenders, and light yellow. This occurs when the contemporary sculptural preference is for craftsmanship that can show multiple layers of clothing, with careful carving demonstrating the fall of lightweight, almost transparent, tunics beneath a mantle, one garment being clearly shown as heavier in weight than

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another.14 Terracotta figures from the same period show a similar palette.15 The color used on the clothing and ornamentation of the statues serves to stress the expense of both the dye used in real clothing and the pigments used on the sculpture.16 To move from sculptural representation to the reality of clothing is a complex matter, but literary texts from the third century BC onwards often stress the luxurious nature of clothing, including color and texture. Plautus, a third-century BC comic playwright, can make a character complain about the choice of clothing the women in his household have access to: they can choose linen or wool, which can be densely woven or so finely worked as to be almost transparent. Linen could be finished and oiled to give it a sheen, and wool could be dyed a range of colors. This would suggest that, even if constrained by fairly standard shapes, women at least could choose to individualize their clothing through texture and color.17 Altering textures would also affect the manner of draping and the way clothing worked when garments were layered above one another. The potential to create a “look” is clearly present in the available material, and is witnessed by the anxiety expressed by male authors. In Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, even a slave girl can brighten up her linen tunic with a red belt.18 Research into the polychromy of ancient statues and discussions of color in written material is complemented by the analysis of dyes in archaeological textiles. Some sites have revealed remarkable colors and color combinations in finds which often, like the painted reproductions of sculptures, can be quite jarring to modern sensibilities; this is a tacit reminder that color combinations and taste are as much culturally determined as fashion. The textiles from Didymoi (a third-century AD Roman garrison in the Egyptian desert) run to a range of pinks, purples, lavenders, reds, oranges, greens, and many shades in between. The presence of color, which is often associated with the female wardrobe, might also alert us to the personnel in the garrison. As the excavators and textile archaeologists have surmised, the colors of the garments closely reflect those in RomanoEgyptian mummy portraits, where color does survive in the images.19 In Roman mummy portraits (see, for example, Figure 6.9), color is much more prevalent in female portraits than in the male, which tend to show plain white or off-white tunics, colored only by clavi, and perhaps showing a glimpse of a colored mantle. Evidence from some mummy portraits has also identified a change in style from wearing single to layered tunics, which pre-dates the appearance of this style in Roman sculpture, leading the archaeologist to suggest this is an instance of fashion change moving from the periphery to the center.20 Both men and women were susceptible to changes in fashion in all periods, but literary texts present this attention to personal appearance in highly gendered ways. Throughout Antiquity, men and women walked a social tightrope between fulfilling social demands and proprieties of dress and adornment, and over-stepping the mark. The moralizing discourses that spill out of the pens and mouths of men express anxieties about sexuality and sexual conduct, about social control and social conformity, and about economics and the potential for diminution of the patrimony. Across the entire period, there was also a shared worry about the power of dress to enable deception and allow the misappropriation of status symbols, and at the same time to be a marker of social mobility. Paradoxically, the elite writers who expressed these anxieties lived in a cultural milieu that thought that the differences in status between the rich and the poor, between citizen and non-citizen, and between men and women should be clearly marked in dress and its accoutrements. Readers will find that these tensions crop up in every chapter of this volume; providing a background noise to all literary discussion of dress and appearance. They show that the clothed body was as much open to interpretation in the past as it is an object of comment today.

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In Antiquity, the close observation of how people dressed was matched with a much closer understanding of the processes of production than many people possess today. In the modern world, most individuals relate to clothing as the finished garments seen in shops, in magazines, on television, or the internet. In the Greco-Roman world the situation was very different: almost everyone would have direct interaction and knowledge of all stages of the chaîne opératoire. The ancient economy was essentially agricultural, and for the whole of Antiquity a large amount of clothing was domestically produced. People would grow, harvest, and process the flax that produced the linen, and rear the sheep that produced the wool. All women and some men would learn how to spin. The amount of spun yarn required for a single garment could range from several meters to several kilometers, and even for professional spinners this took time to produce in consistent quality and quantity. Hand spinning on a drop spindle could be done at odd times of the day, in all seasons of the year. It required little space and the tools were easily portable. Weaving required more substantial tools and was a static occupation, but most women would learn to spin and to weave from an early age. The ability to work well and to produce excellent textiles was a symbol of virtue, nobility, and worth.21 Over time, and particularly in the Roman period when the production of clothing moved out of a solely domestic sphere, men were trained as weavers and a more organized process of supply and demand came into play.22 This meant that everyone had some direct experience of textile production at some stage. Children in poorer households would observe their parents processing flax or fleeces, watch their mothers, aunts, and older sisters spin and weave, and would learn the craft from them. Some might become proficient enough to make a surplus that could be sold to enhance the family economy, but at all times textiles formed part of the family’s own wealth. Children in wealthier households might see less actual production but still would observe slaves engaged in the process. The amount of criticism or praise that could be aimed at an individual’s clothes suggests a good knowledge of wool types and qualities on the part of the observer, and, we might assume, a good understanding of the amount of time and resources that went into production. Comments about an individual’s appearance—see-through faux-silk of courtesans, the use of rough rather than smooth wool, a recognition of good, soft, white, wool—imply a perception not only of quality but also of labor and expense, and therefore of status. Jokes can only be made about sartorial mistakes if an audience shares notions of propriety; moralizing comments only have value if the material worth of clothing is understood. The material value of clothing at the other end of the social scale can be seen in the careful repairing and recycling of clothing evident in the archaeological finds. At Mons Claudianus, a Roman-period quarry site in Egypt, where the population was of the working and craftspeople class, two very patched tunics have been discovered in which, despite extensive repair, someone was careful to retain the line of the clavi.23 Patched, old, and worn tunics could also be pledged to pawnbrokers, sent to the menders, or cut down to fit children, suggesting that even at the lower end of the social scale, clothing retained an intrinsic value until it was very ragged.24 The almost intuitive knowledge of the processes of the chaîne opératoire, particularly spinning and weaving, is evident in the ways in which textile-related terminology is used in ancient writing. From earliest times, metaphors and images associated with textile production are some of the most visual aspects of language: the Fates spin out the lives of humans, stories and songs are woven, Arachne and Minerva have a weaving contest, Ariadne saves Theseus from the Labyrinth with a ball of thread—there are endless examples from ancient mythology, poetry, and drama to make the point.25 However, an

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even more fundamental point is made by the use of textile terminology to articulate complex constructs such as mathematics and the existence of the cosmos. The knowledge required to set up a loom, an understanding of the binary system of warp and weft, and the ability to predict the technical relationship between warp tension, loom weights, and finished cloth provided a language for philosophers to talk about mathematics, cosmology, and the workings of the ideal state.26 Despite this knowledge, and the intellectual recognition of its complexity, many of the skills required in the production of clothing in Antiquity were granted only low status, as they often are today. This is partly because textile work was considered part of domestic production and, as such, more as “women’s work” than the public world of men concerned with politics and war. Even when men became part of the process, mainly as weavers, craft and artisan work were forms of manual labor and thus not considered suitable for the educated classes.27 Some forms of written evidence offer a different view of the world of dress and fashion in the period. One is the documentary papyri that survive from Hellenistic and Roman Egypt. The desert environment that enabled the survival of many textiles also preserved estate accounts, tax demands, dowry and pawnbrokers’ lists, demands for clothing production and excuses for failing to fulfill orders, and private letters. Collectively, this material produces intriguing insights into textile production and the value of clothing. A pawnbroker’s list from the second century AD lists tunics pledged for money, a red tunic at twenty drachmae being worth almost twice as much as a white (or plain) one.28 In personal letters, individuals ask for yarn of a particular color to be bought and sent to a weaver, or that relatives at home remember to check for moths, or send garments on to relations away from home.29 Similar letters from the other end of the empire, from Vindolanda on Hadrian’s Wall, show soldiers being sent socks and underpants.30 These offer small glimpses into the reality of access to both functional and superfluous clothing. Towards the end of the period covered by this volume, the Edict of Maximum Prices was enacted by the emperor Diocletian (AD 301). A large part of this very long text addresses the cost of clothing, shoes, and raw materials. It lists, among other items, the prices for a woman’s dalmatic (wide, sleeved tunic) of coarse wool striped with archil purple; a partsilk dalmatic with hood; a range of hooded cloaks listed by toponyms (e.g. Laodicean, Nervian, Taurogastric, Noric, Britannic, Gallic, African); light cloaks from Mutina; linen dalmatics and wraps from first to third quality, including coarse linen suitable for slaves; dalmatics and face-cloths priced by the amount of purple dye they contained. The aim of the Edict was to control prices across the empire, and what it shows is that, despite any rhetorical discourse, a range of garments of different styles and qualities was available for those who could afford them. We should imagine that across Antiquity people wore the clothes they could afford. If they stood outside the circles of political influence, but had the money, they could wear what they chose and ignore any potential for moral censure.31 Two further, interlinked aspects of current research should also be considered here: the role of reconstructions, and that of experimental archaeology. Increasingly sophisticated approaches to reconstructions of ancient dress are being used to examine and question the process of production and to understand the experiential nature of ancient clothing. Researchers are applying ever more stringent and carefully-defined criteria to their work, now assisted by sophisticated virtual reality techniques that can model the weight and weave, and thus, flexibility of drapery and the feel of cloth. The reproduction of ancient clothing allows us to get a better idea of the body language that certain garments required.32 The draped and wrapped clothes of some Greek and Roman

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men and women, for instance, are said not to allow vigorous movement and thus to preclude the wearer’s ability to engage in manual labor; thus, it is argued, their very wardrobe imposed a certain status and lifestyle. However, in modern communities where draped and wrapped clothing is still the norm, both men and women undertake heavyduty labor.33 Reconstructions also help to elucidate elusive aspects of dress such as sound and smell. They can help in understanding the possibilities of fabric manipulation in Antiquity, and aid our recognition of both the force and conventions of literary discourse. Put together with experiments using replicas of ancient technology, important insights have been attained into production times, with implications for a better understanding of the ancient chaîne opératoire and the intrinsic economic and status value of textiles. Reproductions and reconstructions produced with integrity also make visual the fundamental differences in dress practice, and thus in the cultural reading of dress, between the past and the present. The research undertaken for this volume is part of an early twenty-first-century explosion in work on dress and fashion in Antiquity that is slowly shifting the subject from the position of a niche topic into the mainstream. Over the last century, the history of dress in the Greco-Roman period has evolved from odd costume histories to a tidal wave of publications covering all aspects of textile production, studies of the clothed and unclothed body in art and literature, specialist studies on the dating of archaeological textiles and on dye analysis, work on the role of dress as a cultural indicator, and gender, ethnicity, and status identifier, and work on the literary use of dress as a narrative tool and metaphor. The extensive bibliography at the end of this volume testifies to the range of current research. This is not the place for a full review of the history of study of dress in Antiquity; but in order to place this volume in context, some consideration of the development of the discipline is required. In the past, the study of dress in the Greek and Roman worlds was dominated by the discussion of iconography. Images on vase paintings, relief sculpture, statuary, wall paintings, mosaics, and in other plastic arts provided the primary evidence and were often privileged over other types of information. These data were complemented by selective literary and documentary evidence, and very occasionally by reference to surviving textiles, which remained the prerogative of specialist archaeologists. Publications, not surprisingly, followed the methodologies of traditional academic disciplines: classicists and classical archaeologists tended to privilege iconography and literature; archaeologists to consider material remains of both textiles and textile tools; museum conservators to consider preservation, structure, reconstruction, and display. Again, this is not unusual; we all tend to play to our own strengths and the demands of our disciplines. One of the early twentieth-century exceptions to the rule is the work of Lillian Wilson whose work (The Roman Toga, 1924 and The Clothing of the Ancient Romans, 1938) took a multidisciplinary approach. Her seminal scholarship remains influential today. In the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries change came from several directions. One was the recognition that inter- and cross-disciplinarity is essential in the study of dress. If we wish to translate garments from visual and literary images to the reality of dress as worn (or as near as we can get to it), we need to think about the textiles the garments were made from and the mechanics of production that might create “the drape” that is key to antique clothing. Likewise, if we wish to decode subtle messages about status, gender, age, ethnicity, rank, religious affiliation, and other identifiers, we need to understand levels of terminology, of literary allusion, and visual symbolism—we need to engage with the methodologies of literary criticism, cultural studies, and the social sciences.34 Silk, for

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instance, is a fabric that carried connotations of wealth, exoticism, and the erotic, as well as having the physical properties of shine and sheerness; all of these things could convey positive and negative messages. Appreciating the ramifications of finding silk in an archaeological context, grasping the reality of its use in actual garments, and reading the rhetoric that surrounds it in literary texts is imperative for our understanding of both ancient dress and ancient social attitudes. Another equally significant direction of change was that this new awareness of the problems of studying dress in Antiquity coincided with the emergence of “new dress history,” which in itself benefited from taking cross- and multi-disciplinary approaches that brought together historians of fashion, dress, art history, cultural studies, anthropology, and other disciplines with hands-on artifact-based museum curators.35 At the same time, scholars of the past and the present became both critically aware of and self-consciously reflective about the methodologies used to study dress. This conjunction was expressed and contested in new journals—e.g. Fashion Theory: Journal of Dress, Body and Culture (since 1997) and Textile: Journal of Cloth and Culture (since 2003)—as well as many publications which emphasize their authors’ use of a range of methodologies and cover primarily the modern and early modern periods. Historians have adopted cross-disciplinary approaches with enthusiasm and alacrity, and have taken on board the new ways of thinking—studies of dress and adornment have become powerful tools in the analysis of ancient society and social attitudes. Research projects that focus on dress in its many aspects are being funded more and more frequently.36 Earlier descriptive work on ancient dress produced visual catalogs that defined, named, and depicted garments. They were only implicitly analyzed as a social code, however, by their categorization into clothing worn by citizen and non-citizen, rich and poor/slave, and by different ethnic groups. This paradigm has now given way to more overtly analytical approaches. In more recent work, the balance between description and analysis has become more central, with scholars using dress as one piece of kit in the methodological toolbox.37 To create a holistic image of dress and fashion in Antiquity, researchers need to communicate and share knowledge and approaches. The authors of this volume come from academic backgrounds that cover textile archaeology, art history, ancient literature, religious studies, ancient economics, ancient history, and classics; this collaboration is reflective of the current interdisciplinary and international nature of dress research. They are part of this new dress history for Antiquity. Their work here is witness to the fundamental changes that have taken place within the discipline, and the rich insights such change has brought.

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CHAPTER ONE

Textiles EVA ANDERSSON STRAND AND ULLA MANNERING

INTRODUCTION In its widest definition, the term textile includes more than a woven fabric, it can denote any fibrous construction, including nets, braided, and felted structures. A textile is the result of complex interactions between resources, technology, and society. The production process of a textile, from fiber to finished product, consists of several different stages. It is important to note that even when different types of textiles were produced in different periods and regions, the textile chaîne opératoire involved the same stages of production, e.g. fiber procurement, fiber preparation, spinning, weaving, and finishing, and each stage involved several sub-processes. Thus, the production of a textile is the result of, on the one hand, resources, technology, and society and, on the other, the need, wishes and choices of a population, which in turn influence the exploitation of resources. Moreover, the availability of resources condition the choices of individuals and society.1

Textiles and Preservation In Antiquity, textiles were made from natural fibers of either plant or animal origin. Like any perishable organic material, these fibers were subject to rapid decomposition in archaeological contexts and their preservation required special conditions to avoid their destruction by micro-organisms. Environmental conditions that affect the survival of plant and animal fiber materials in positive ways are acidic conditions, favoring the preservation of proteinaceous fibers; a basic environment does the same for fibers of vegetal origin. As most degradation requires the presence of air, many archaeological textiles are found in contexts where anaerobic and/or waterlogged conditions occur. Other conditions—like extreme dryness or permanent frost, or the presence of salt, or exposure to a fire that leads to the creation of carbonized samples, or through mineralization when coming into contact with metal salts—have also preserved many textiles. In Europe, most textile remains have been found in connection with burials, such as costumes, wrappings of human remains and/or grave goods, furnishing, and other utility textiles. As the organic materials in inhumation graves are exposed to heavy and fast degradation, textiles recovered from these contexts are often highly fragmented. In northern Europe, bogs and wetland deposits have preserved many complete wool textiles and other objects made of skin and fur.2 Other important contexts where textiles or associated goods may occur are ritual offerings, settlements, refuse heaps, earth fillings and, of course, in written sources and iconography. Depending on the context, geography, and chronology, textiles have survived in differing quantities and qualities from north to 13

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south, east to west.3 In southern Europe, preservation conditions are different, finds of textiles are less well-preserved and fewer finds are known.4 By contrast, the dry conditions of Egypt have allowed a vast quantity of textiles to survive, both in the form of whole garments but, more often, in fragments. While textile designs vary greatly, textile technology and textile tools changed less in the period under examination. In general, people were using the same raw materials, fiber processing methods, tools and textile techniques all over Europe for most of the millennium between 500 BC –AD 500, but with varying intensity and purpose.

FIBERS FOR PRODUCING TEXTILES Plant Fibers and Their Processing Flax deriving from the annual plant of the Linacea species, notably Linum usitatissimum, hemp (Cannabis sativa), and nettle (Urtica dioica) are plants that were used to produce textile fibers in ancient societies across Europe, North Africa and the Near East.5 Flax (Figure 1.1) as a cultivated plant has always been considered to be one of the most important fiber plants used in ancient textile production.6 By comparing the size of preserved flax seeds from Germany and Switzerland, scholars have proposed that by the late Neolithic period (from c. 3400 BC ), several different flax varieties already existed. This is supported by DNA analysis.7 Today the best quality flax fibers have a diameter of approximately 20 microns (0.002 centimeters) and are strong and soft with a

FIGURE 1.1: Flax. Courtesy of Margarita Gleba.

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fiber length of 45–100 centimeters. It has been suggested that prehistoric flax was shorter with a fiber length of 21–30 centimeters.8 Flax fibers have a silky luster and vary in color from a creamy white to a light tan. Linen textiles are cool to wear, since flax fibers conduct heat extremely well. Moreover, linen textiles have the propensity to absorb moisture very easily. At the same time, moisture evaporates quickly from them. During use, linen textiles can become almost as soft and lustrous as silk, but, in general, flax fibers lack elasticity.9 The best conditions for flax cultivation are fertile, well-drained loams. Depending on the region and climate, flax is sown at different times during the year. Since the roots grow near the surface and are weak, the soil has to be prepared carefully. Flax reduces the nutrients in the soil and a crop rotation with long gaps between sowing is required. The yield will otherwise be reduced and the flax will become more susceptible to disease, such as fungi attacks. During cultivation, flax needs regular access to water. It is likely that in ancient societies cultivation was well planned, especially where flax was produced on a large scale.10 When the flax is ripe it is pulled up by the roots and the seeds are stripped. The flax then has to be retted. The stems are either placed in water or spread on the ground. The moisture assists in the process of dissolving the pectin between the fibers, the bark and the stem. When flax is retted in water, it becomes extremely smelly, due to the bacterial activity. Retting pits were, therefore, usually placed outside settlement areas. The next step is breaking. In this process, a wooden club or another specialized tool, known as a break, is used to break up the dried stems and their bark in order to separate the fibers from the wooden parts (Figure 1.2). Then the flax has to be scutched, a process that scrapes away the last remains of stem and bark, which can be done with a broad wooden blade (Figure 1.3). Finally, the fibers are hackled or combed in order to separate them further and make them parallel; the fibers can also be brushed (Figure 1.4).11

FIGURE 1.2: Wooden club used to break the flax stems. © Annika Jeppsson and CTR .

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FIGURE 1.3: Wooden blade used to scutch flax. © Annika Jeppsson and CTR .

FIGURE 1.4: Brush used for brushing linen fibers. © Annika Jeppsson and CTR .

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Both hemp and nettle (Figure 1.5) fibers are prepared in a similar way to flax. Hemp was not used in Europe until the Iron Age.12 The hemp plant is taller than flax but the fibers are generally coarser. Most likely, hemp was preferred for the production of sails, ropes, and nets. Archaeological finds of textiles made of nettle fibers are extremely rare, but some finds indicate that nettle was used as a textile fiber in northern Europe as well as in the Mediterranean region. Nettle fibers are, in general, shorter and thinner than flax and hemp fibers, but are well suited for producing textiles for clothing, as well as rope and other textile products. Since it is difficult to distinguish between hemp, flax, and nettle fibers, and this analysis requires specialist knowledge and equipment, archaeological plant fiber textiles have often been recorded as flax, although hemp and nettle fibers cannot be excluded. A renewed focus on species identification will hopefully provide new results on the use of various plant fibers in a European context in the future.13 Cotton is mentioned in Roman written sources, but evidence for its cultivation and use in Antiquity is scarce. It has been suggested that cotton cultivation developed in the Arabian Peninsula in association with the highly specialized agro-systems of irrigated date palm gardens already in place during the middle Bronze Age.14 Cotton textiles have been identified in Roman contexts in the eastern and western Roman provinces and Egypt, but it is often not clear if they were produced locally or imported from India.15 Other plant fibers such as types of reeds and basts were used for various textile products. These were primarily used to produce utilitarian items like baskets, mats, ropes, cordage, and nets.

FIGURE 1.5: Nettle, Urtica dioica, is growing wild all over Europe. The plant may be up to two meters high and contains fine white fibers. © Ulla Mannering and CTR .

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Animal Fibers and Their Processing Different types of fibers of animal origin have been used in textile production. Wool fibers derive primarily from sheep but different goat breeds also produce fibers suitable for textiles. Wool fibers are flexible and elastic. They also have kinks, producing air pockets between the kinks, hence wool’s excellent insulating properties.16 Wool is not easily flammable, which makes it excellent protection against intense heat. Sheep were domesticated around 9000 BC in the Middle East. However, the first domestic sheep only provided skins for clothing and meat, not wool for textile production.17 The amount of wool a single sheep can yield depends on the breed, and whether it is a lamb, ewe, ram, or wether. Differences in wool yield also depend on the availability of food and the climate (Figure 1.6). Throughout Antiquity, wool was obtained by plucking or shearing. In the period 500 BC –AD 500, shears were used in south and central Europe while plucking was still preferred in northern Europe until at least the beginning of the Common Era. A sheep can be sheared twice a year, but only plucked once a year. Primitive sheep moult the fleece of the current year during late spring/early summer.18 It is an advantage to pluck a fleece so that the growth of the previous year is removed at exactly the right point, leaving the new growth rising cleanly on the sheep. If started too early, the fibers may have been difficult to remove, and if left too late, old fibers would have been mixed with the new, resulting in a poorer quality wool. It is not painful for the sheep to be plucked by hand. Today, it takes one person about fifty minutes to pluck a sheep if the wool is easily removed. If working ten hours, one person can pluck ten to twelve sheep a day. If the

FIGURE 1.6: Sheep from Crete. © CTR.

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flocks were large, many people may have been involved in this work during a short period of time.19 The analysis of ancient textile fibers is a tool used to identify fiber materials and to characterize wool fineness and wool types by measuring the fiber diameters.20 There is a current discussion on how the diameter of wool fibers can be related to different sheep breeds, which can provide information on the development of the woolly sheep.21 Furthermore, it is well known that there is a great variation in the coarseness of wool fibers depending on which part of the sheep the wool is obtained from. Wool from the thighs, for example, is coarser and longer than the wool from the side and shoulders. Sheep wool contains three different kinds of fiber: kemp, hair, and underwool. The hair ranges in diameter from c. 50 to 100 microns (μ). The underwool fibers are thinner; in general between 10 and 30 μ in diameter, and tend to be shorter than the hair. Yarn spun partly or entirely from underwool is soft and preferred for textile production. The kemp fibers generally range in diameter from 100 to 250 μ and are stiff, brittle, and break easily. Kemps are not desirable in a textile as they make the surface hard and prickly, but during processing and use the kemps will slowly disappear.22 Goat wool is, in general, considered to be coarser than sheep wool but can also be of a very fine quality.23 The sorting and processing of wool fibers is important for the outcome of the spun yarn.24 After plucking/shearing, the different fiber types can be sorted, if desired. The criteria for wool sorting may be color, fineness, crimp, length, strength, and/or structure.25 If the wool is washed before spinning, a little fat has to be reapplied, since the lanolin (the natural wool grease) is washed out. The lanolin helps to glue the fibers together during the spinning process. If the wool is to be dyed, the fibers have to be washed or the dyestuff will not penetrate. The wool can be spun immediately after it has been cut or plucked from the sheep, but usually it is first teased by hand or combed with the aid of combs with long teeth (Figure 1.7). Regrettably, there are few finds of combs that can be securely identified as wool combs.

FIGURE 1.7: Wool combing. © Annika Jeppsson and CTR .

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During the combing process, the long hairs are separated from the underwool. The short wool fibers—the underwool—can also be teased out with the aid of a teasel. Combing and teasing both remove dirt and tangles, and thus make the spinning process easier and the yarn produced more even.26 Another way of preparing the wool is to flog the wool fibers with a whip. One can beat the fibers on an entire fleece, but care must be taken that all the fibers are evenly mixed. A great deal of wool is wasted during these various processes, but this may be used for other purposes, such as felting, filling, or insulation. The need for wool of different qualities for different types of textiles and textile products may also explain why wool is frequently labeled and divided into different categories in written sources. In textile production, the choice of fiber material will control both the quality and the properties of the finished textile. A hazard of all this wool work was pulmonary anthrax, also known as the wool sorter’s disease. This is a deadly disease for both animals and humans. The earliest known reference to anthrax is in the Bible, in the Book of Exodus. This disease is also later well described by the Roman author Virgil.27 balatu pecorum et crebris mugitibus amnes arentesque sonant ripae collesque supini. iamque catervatim dat stragem atque aggerat ipsis in stabulis turpi dilapsa cadavera tabo, donec humo tegere ac foveis abscondere discunt. nam neque erat coriis usus, nec viscera quisquam aut undis abolere potest aut vincere flamma. ne tondere quidem morbo inluvieque peresa vellera nec telas possunt attingere putris: verum etiam invisos si quis temptarat amictus, ardentes papulae atque immundus olentia sudor membra sequebatur, nec longo deinde moranti tempore contactos artus sacer ignis edebat.

555

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The rivers and thirsty banks and sloping hills echo to the bleating of flocks and incessant lowing of cattle. And now in droves she deals out death, and in the very stalls piles up the bodies, rotting with putrid foulness, till men learn to cover them in earth and bury them in pits. For neither might the hides be used, nor could one cleanse the flesh by water or master it by fire. They could not even shear the fleeces, eaten up with sores and filth, nor touch the rotten web. Nay, if any man donned the loathsome garb, feverish blisters and foul sweat would run along his fetid limbs, and he had not long to wait before the accursed fire was feeding on his stricken limbs. Virgil, Georgics 3, 554–66 Anthrax is known to be associated with moist soil, rivers, valleys, swampy districts and lake regions.28 The disease can have a devastating effect on a society whose economy is based on wool and textiles. It has been calculated that in the mid-eighteenth century AD half of all the sheep in Europe died as a result of anthrax. The occupations at risk from anthrax include wool sorters, combers, carders and spinners, as well as weavers.29 Silk is another animal fiber. It was not used in textile production in northern Europe until after AD 500. However, silk textiles were known in the Mediterranean area from the Roman period.30 Classical writers considered silk a luxury material but, together with the many prohibitions on wearing silks, they reveal a wider use than the textile finds may testify to.31

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SPINNING In textile production, the making of the yarn is one of the most important processes, which in essence determines the texture and fineness of a textile. Yarn can be produced in several different ways and different spinning methods are known throughout Antiquity. During spinning, the fibers can be twisted in two directions: if twisted clockwise the yarn is described as z-twisted (in accordance with the direction of the letter), and if it is twisted counter-clockwise it is described as s-twisted (Figure 1.8). The choice of spin direction depends primarily on tradition, but can be affected by whether the spinner is left or right handed (approximately 90 percent of a population is right handed). A yarn can be hard or loosely twisted, recorded as the twist angle of the fibers in the yarn (recorded in degrees) (Figure 1.9), and the thread can be thick or thin, recorded as the diameter of the yarn (recorded in millimeters). Thus, the yarn characteristic will affect the visual appearance of the finished textile, and choices made by spinners when producing the yarn depend on the type of textile the yarn was intended for, and the fiber materials and tools available. For instance, some types of yarn are suitable for coarse strong textiles like sails, while others are more suitable for finer high-quality textiles. In Antiquity, several different spinning methods were known and used, but they are all based on hand spinning. In its simplest form, fibers could merely be drawn out without the use of a tool and the thread created by twisting the fibers by hand or by rolling them

FIGURE 1.8: Yarn twist (z-spin and s-spin) and ply (Zs-ply and Sz-ply) directions. Drawing by Annika Jeppsson, based on work by Bender Jørgensen, 1992.

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FIGURE 1.9: Twist angle measurements can be performed with an angle meter. Most ancient yarns are twisted 25° to 45°. © Irene Skals and CTR .

against the thigh (also known as thigh spinning). This technique is also the slowest. It is, therefore, not surprising that spinning tools were invented in order to help and speed up the spinning process. Basically, the same process takes place using a spinning hook (Figure 1.10C). Here the hook controls the twist, but as the spinning is performed in a horizontal position, it is the power of the hands and not the weight and movement of the tool that controls the yarn. The most common spinning tool was a hand-held spindle (Figures 1.10A–B).32 In general, a spindle consists of a spindle shaft, mostly made of wood, and a spindle whorl. However, a spindle can also be completely made of wood. Spindle whorls can be made of many different materials, but most preserved spindle whorls are made of fired clay, stone, or bone (Figure 1.11). The shape and weight of the spindle whorl also varies greatly depending on context and chronology (Figure 1.12).33 Since the shaft is rarely preserved, most of our knowledge about spinning in Antiquity is based on finds of spindle whorls. However, it is important to note that spinning cannot be excluded even if no spinning tools are found. Furthermore, it is possible that different spinning techniques and tools were used simultaneously. From the Mediterranean region, there is also iconographic evidence for spinning, for example, on grave stele.34 While the choice of spinning tool and technique is largely dependent on craft traditions, it may also be influenced by the type of fiber used. When the fibers were being prepared, they could be pre-twisted by hand into a short thread or roll of fiber that was attached to the shaft. When spinning with a supported or suspended spindle, the raw material was most often placed on a distaff, so that the prepared fibers were not mixed up again. Furthermore, it was possible to place more fiber on the distaff than could be held in the hand (Figure 1.13). It has been suggested that long distaffs (held under the arm or in a belt) were used for longer fibers, while shorter hand-held distaffs were used when spinning short fibers.35 Distaffs were used as attributes of, and signs for, married woman, and could also signify high status.36

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FIGURE 1.10: Different types of spindles and spinning techniques. (A) Low-whorl spindle/ suspended spinning; (B) high-whorl spindle/supported spinning; (C) hooked spindle/thigh spinning. © Annika Jeppsson and CTR .

FIGURE 1.11: Spindle whorl from Klovtofte, Denmark. It is made of shale and dated c. 600 BC . © National Museum of Denmark.

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FIGURE 1.12: Different types of spindle whorls. © CTR .

During spinning, the spindle shaft is rotated while the spinner simultaneously draws out the fibers, and it is the twisting of the fibers around their own axis that forms the thread. During this process, the spindle may hang freely (also called a suspended spindle) or it can be supported with the shaft resting on the ground or in a bowl (called a supported spindle). On a suspended spindle, the whorl can be placed at the top (high-whorl), the bottom (low-whorl), or sometimes in the middle (mid-whorl) of the shaft. Using a supported spindle (Figure 1.10B), the whorl is most often placed at the top of the shaft. When a certain length has been spun, depending on whether the spinner stands or sits, the thread is wound up on the spindle, and the spinning can be continued. This process is repeated until the spindle shaft has been filled with thread which is then wound up on a reel, a bobbin, or into a ball. Experiments have testified that there is a difference in how many fibers a thread may contain when spinning with different whorls.37 Thus, the lighter the spindle whorl, the fewer fibers are used per meter and the thinner the thread. Likewise, a heavier spindle whorl will produce a thicker thread with more fibers used per meter. The difference in thin and thick yarns can be expressed in terms of the weight/diameter of the thread. A light/thin yarn has, in general, a small thread diameter, while a heavier/thicker

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FIGURE 1.13: Spinning with a distaff. Drawing by Christina Borstam,† © Eva Andersson Strand.

yarn in general has a wider thread diameter since it contains more fibers. However, it is important to note that it is also possible to spin many fibers into a thin thread if they are hard twisted. The choice of spinning tool does not control or affect the spinner in spinning s- or ztwisted yarn. When spinning on a high-whorl spindle, a right-handed spinner will normally start to spin by rolling the shaft downwards on the thigh, and, in this case, the thread will automatically be s-twisted. When spinning on a low-whorl spindle the spinner starts to flick the spindle by hand. Here it is more natural for a righthanded spinner to flick the spindle to the right resulting in a z-twisted thread.38 After a yarn is spun, it can be twisted together with one or more threads to obtain a plied yarn. Also the plied yarn may have an S and Z-ply direction (Figure 1.8). Usually, plied or cabled cords have different twist directions in the different parts so that the yarn is not untwined.

WEAVING The Loom A loom is a specialized tool designed to control the two thread directions in a textile. In Antiquity several different types of looms were used, each with its advantages and disadvantages for production. One of the most common loom types in Antiquity was the warp-weighted loom.39 (Figure 1.14). This type of loom has been used from the Neolithic to the present day, probably originating from the northern part of the Fertile Crescent.40 The

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FIGURE 1.14: Warp-weighted loom with a tabby setup (with all details): (A) tying the starting border; (B) heddling; (C) fasten the loom weights; (D) changing shed. © Annika Jeppsson and CTR .

warp-weighted loom is easily recognized in the archaeological record by the presence of loom weights, which were used to keep the warp threads straight. Loom weights could be made in many different materials but most preserved loom weights are made of clay, ceramic or stone.41 The wooden parts of looms are only rarely preserved in the archaeological record. A loom that is less easily recognizable in the archaeological record—as it does not use warp weights—is the two-beam loom (Figure 1.15), which can be placed either horizontally or vertically. Tapestry looms and the giant Iranian Zilu carpet loom are versions of the vertical two-beam loom.42 The two-beam loom probably originated in Syria or Palestine. The earliest depictions of a horizontal ground loom are found in Egypt in the latter part of the second millennium BC . In Pharaonic Egypt, the horizontal ground loom was primarily used for weaving linen textiles, and due to its construction, it is ideal for weaving with the less flexible plant fibers.43 The horizontal ground loom is hitherto not attested in a European context, except possibly in iconography.44 A less well-documented loom type is the back-strap loom, which due to its simple and flexible set up, primarily using body tension, leaves almost no traces in the archaeological record.45 It is assumed that this loom type was used to produce smaller textiles and different bands. As the construction of loom types differ, so the weaving, too, is performed differently. When weaving on the warp-weighted loom, the weaver stands beating the weft threads upwards (Figure 1.14), while on a two-beam loom, both the vertical and

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FIGURE 1.15: Loom with two beams. © Annika Jeppsson and CTR .

horizontal types, the weaver is most often seated packing the weft downwards (Figure 1.15). The different working positions are often used to identify different loom types in iconography and can also be used to evaluate the number of persons involved in the weaving. Furthermore, it is generally known that textiles woven on a two-beam loom are wider than textiles woven on the warp-weighted loom, as there is a limit to the number of loom weights it is possible to hang on a loom and still be able to lift the shed rods. In Austria, finds of looms weights from Iron Age contexts attest to weaving with warp-weighted looms over three meters wide.46

The Weave A fabric is created by weaving together two (or more) thread systems using a loom. One system, the warp, runs parallel to the sides of the loom and is kept fixed and stretched during weaving. The other system, the weft, is inserted at a right angle to the warp and runs alternately over and under the warp threads in different pattern sequences (Figure 1.16). The tabby weave is the simplest weave made on a loom. In a tabby, the warp threads are divided in two layers with weft threads passing alternately over and under one warp thread (Figure 1.16A). Half basket and basket weaves are variations of tabby with double warp threads in one or both thread directions (Figure 1.16B). Twill is a more complex weave that has many variations and entails the use of more than two layers of warp threads in the loom setup. In a twill weave, the weft threads pass over and under more

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FIGURE 1.16: (A) Tabby weave with the direction of warp and weft given by the arrows; (B) basket weave. Drawing by Annika Jeppsson, based on work by Stærmose Nielsen, 1999.

FIGURE 1.17: Different types of twill weaves: A. 2/2 twill; B. 2/1 twill. Drawing by Annika Jeppsson, based on work by Stærmose Nielsen, 1999.

than one warp thread. The most common twill weave is the 2/2 twill in which the weft passes alternately over and under two warp threads, each weft row being moved one step to the side. This creates a characteristic diagonal effect which can be used to create many different patterns (Figure 1.17A). In a 2/1 or 1/2 twill, the weft passes alternately over one and under two warp threads (Figure 1.17B). Twill may occur in multiple variations, for example diamond twill, damask or samite. A textile can be open, with a few threads per centimeter, or the threads can be packed closely together. The twill weave is excellent for making dense textiles as the thread flow makes it easier to pack the threads closer together. Thus, twill weaves are especially suitable for making unbalanced fabrics. A balanced fabric is defined as a textile with an equal number of identical warp and weft threads per centimeter. In an unbalanced fabric, one of the thread directions has more threads per centimeter than the other. For example, a fabric is weft-faced if it has more weft threads than warp threads per centimeter, or if the weft threads are much thicker and dominate the surface. Likewise a warp-faced fabric has more warp threads per centimeter than weft threads.

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The thread count in a textile refers to the number of warp and weft threads recorded per centimeter, and is a standard characteristic in describing an archaeological textile. Even small differences in the thread diameter, sometimes not even visible to the eye, will affect the visual appearance of the finished fabric. In a textile, both single spun and plied yarns can be used in warp and weft. The recording of the twist direction is another standard characteristic used to describe an archaeological textile, which can be used as a chronological parameter. In northern Europe, the twill weave is synonymous with Iron Age technology, and is the dominating weave in this period.47 Together with the use of the warp-weighted loom, this offered the possibility to develop thinner, but more warp-dense, wool textiles. In southern Europe, a greater variety was employed in textile design, but, in general, tunics were woven in tabby, while heavier textiles like cloaks and textiles for interior decorations were made in different twill variants, regardless of the fiber used.48 Another supplementary technique used primarily for making decorated textiles is the tapestry technique. Tapestry textiles are created on a two-beam loom, but the weave is not controlled by shafts. Instead, weft threads of different color and structure are inserted freely and not continuously. This technique flourished in Roman textiles and costume production, but was not introduced to northern areas before the medieval period.49 Looped and piled textiles were known in Antiquity primarily for utilitarian purposes. Sprang is created by twisting adjacent parallel threads, resulting in a flexible and patterned net-like cloth (Figure 1.18). Sprang textiles may be created on a simple frame or a two-beam loom type. Sprang textiles were most often used in Antiquity for head coverings, but also for complete garments with sleeves, or in trousers.50 Tablet weaving was a popular technique for making bands and decorative borders. The tablet-weaving technique was also used to create and fix the warp in a warp-weighted loom, thus creating a starting border. In tablet weaving, the weave and moving of the warp is controlled by tablets into which the warp threads are threaded (Figure 1.19). The most common tablets are square and have holes in each corner, thus each controlling four warp threads. When the tablets are rotated forward or back the warp threads form different sheds. By rotating the tablets in different combinations and/or by using different yarn colors, it is possible to create different patterns and textures.51 The tablets, most often made of wood, bone, or hardened leather, only rarely survive in archaeological contexts (Figure 1.20).

FIGURE 1.18: Successive stages of sprang. Drawing by Christina Borstam,† © Eva Andersson Strand.

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FIGURE 1.19: Tablet weaving with spools. Drawing by Lise Ræder-Knudsen, © Lise Ræder-Knudsen.

FIGURE 1.20: Wooden tablets from Dejbjerg, Denmark, dated to AD 100–300. © National Museum of Denmark.

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A special kind of clay spool has recently been identified as weights used in tablet weaving (Figure 1.19).52 These spools are not known in northern Europe. Another technique used to produce textiles is knotless netting, also called needle binding (nålebinding). This is an ancient technique that was used in Antiquity for making socks and gloves.53

Patterning, Coloring, and Finishing Treatments In Antiquity, textiles could be patterned and decorated in different ways, for instance by using yarn and weaving structures (textures), by using colors of natural fiber pigments or applied colors of natural origin (dyeing/painting), or in applied decorations, e.g. brocading, sewing, and embroidery. The production of spin-patterned textiles, which is a refined, but subtle and not always visible kind of patterning, is well documented in Antiquity in both north and south Europe (Figure 1.21). Textiles preserved in Roman Egypt have shown a variety of other methods, like twist for crêpe-like surfaces and different weaves for obtaining different surface textures.54 Taqueté, also known as weftfaced compound tabby (Figure 1.22), and block twill damasks (Figure 1.23) are known

FIGURE 1.21: Monochrome spin-patterned textile from Hjørring Præstegårds Mark, Denmark. The textile measures 8 × 8 centimeters. It is made in 2/2 twill and has 4 s- and 4 z-twisted threads in each direction. The find is dated to the third century AD (Hald 1980, 86–8). © National Museum of Denmark.

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FIGURE 1.22: Taqueté textile in white, green, and red wool yarn. Found at the Roman fort and quarry Mons Claudianus, Egypt. The textile is dated to the second century AD . © Lise Bender Jørgensen.

primarily from Roman Egypt, which suggests that these textile types were also produced in this area.55 Taqueté was usually used for bed furnishings and wall hangings, while damasks were also used for clothing.56 Plant fibers have, in general, a uniformly gray to white color, and may be bleached by various methods to obtain white textiles. Wool comes in a variety of natural shades of red, brown, and gray colors, and a single fleece may contain several different colors. The different shades of wool can be sorted and spun separately, taking advantage of the shades in the weave. The creation of sheep breeds with entirely white wool is an effect of selective breeding. Throughout Antiquity, in north European textile production natural pigmentation was still an integral part of the textile design, while in the more southern areas white wool combined with plant dyeing techniques dominated.57 Dyes may come from plants, insects, and marine mollusks, and were highly appreciated and traded over long distances in Antiquity. In the Roman world, colors were used as status symbols, and some color substances, like the so-called Royal or Tyrian purple (from various species of marine murex), were at certain times controlled by the elite. In general, Roman textiles were much more colorful than previously thought when interpretations were based on classical sculpture on which the original color has disappeared. Well-preserved textiles recovered from various Roman forts and caravan posts in the Eastern desert in Egypt have revealed a fantastic variety and colorfulness in textile production that is in great contrast to the whitish Roman ideal exhibited in modern museums. In northern Europe, plant dyes were introduced into textile production around 500 BC ; until then only natural pigmentation was used to create color patterns.58

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FIGURE 1.23: Block damask in green wool yarn. Found at the Roman fort and quarry Mons Claudianus, Egypt. The textile is dated to the second century AD . © Lise Bender Jørgensen.

Several methods are used for dyeing textiles, depending on the dyeing substance used. Direct dyeing involves soaking or boiling certain plants in water, and the fibers/yarn/ textile are then immersed in the resulting dye bath. The majority of the dyes extracted from plants and animals do not bind chemically to the textile fibers unless a mordant is introduced.59 In Antiquity, various metal salts, such as aluminium, iron, or copper, or tannins from tree bark or galls were used as mordants.60 Each mordant will, in its own way, change or deepen the color. Another dyeing method is vat dyeing—the technique used to dye with indigo and murex. As these color substances, in general, are waterinsoluble, they have to be made soluble to impregnate the textile fibers. The method involves a reduction process in alkaline conditions. When the fibers absorb the dyes in their soluble reduced forms they are barely colored. It is at the point when the fibers are taken out of the vat and exposed to oxygen in the air, that indigo and purple precipitate again and gradually take on blue or violet shades respectively.61 A wide range of plants are known to have been used for dyeing in Antiquity, for example blue could be obtained from woad (Isatis tinctoria L), red from dyer’s madder (Rubia tinctorum L.), yellow from dyer’s weed (Reseda luteola L.), and saffron (Crocus sativus L.). While only very few plants can give bright red and blue colors, yellow, brown, and green colors can be obtained from many different plants and lichens. Colors can be changed by combining hues and natural pigments in textile fibers. For example, if a gray yarn is dyed in a yellow

34

A CULTURAL HISTORY OF DRESS AND FASHION IN ANTIQUITY

dye bath, the yarn becomes greenish, or if a blue yarn is subsequently dyed in a red dye bath, it becomes purple. These dyeing combinations were recorded in Danish Pre-Roman Iron Age textiles and in the Roman world.62 As the evidence for dyeing in textiles is reduced by preservation, it is important to look for indirect signs of dyeing in other archaeological sources. For instance, water installations, tools like grinders, pestles and mortars, as well as debris from murex shells and pollen from dye plants may indicate that dyeing took place. After the textile was taken off the loom, it could be fulled or smoothed to improve or change the surface structure. Fulling was done to make the textile denser and/or waterproof, which was preferred for outer garments or wool sails. The fabric was kneaded, stomped, and pounded in wet and preferably warm conditions until the surface was matted to the desired degree.63 Smoothing was done to give the fabrics, especially linen, a shining and even surface. A simple round and smooth tool of stone or glass was used for this process. Sewing for finishing or decoration was done with needles that were made of metal, bone, or wood. In the Roman town Pompeii in Italy, several fullers’ workshops have been identified.64 Also multiple lead labels, known as tesserae plumbeae, document the existence of a specialized and extensive finishing industry for textiles.65

CONCLUSION Knowledge about textiles from the Greek and Roman world is widespread and multi-faceted, thanks to surviving literary and iconographic sources. However, comparatively few archaeological textiles are preserved from southern Europe compared to other parts of Europe.66 Well-preserved Roman textiles are primarily known from various locations in Egypt, while less spectacular but informative textile remains continue to be left unidentified and unrecorded in many southern European museums. Roman textile production in this period was quite advanced and adapted to large-scale production, specialization and circulation of both raw materials and finished products. In literary sources many different aspects of textile production are explained, and knowledge of trade, prices, and the value of textiles much discussed.67 Most textiles in northern Europe in the period were produced in wool in 2/2 twill weave.68 The use of twill weave follows from Iron Age technology, while the preceding Bronze Age textile production primarily favored the use of the tabby weave. In northern Europe, the many finds of loom weights suggest that the warp-weighted loom was the preferred tool for weaving, while in Scandinavia, it was probably not until after AD 500 that the warp-weighted loom dominated textile production. Several different types of fibers of both plant and animal origin were used to produce textiles in Europe in Antiquity. In northern Europe, there was a strong tradition of using wool fibers, while the use and production of plant fibers is less well documented.69 In southern Europe, there is evidence for the use of many different fiber materials, such as wool and linen but also silk, sea silk and cotton.70 Written sources and iconography from Antiquity demonstrate that clothing and textiles were important for an individual throughout his or her lifetime, from birth to death. In most ancient societies, there would have been a need for a wide variety of textiles: for clothing—ranging from utilitarian, everyday dress to elite costumes—for rituals, as gifts, for trade, for furnishing, and for such practical items as sails and nets. It is plausible that a large part of the population in any ancient society would have been involved in, at least, some of the production processes in their daily lives. Yet, before the manufacturing of a

TEXTILES

35

textile could take place, several decisions had to be made in order to achieve the best result. These choices were influenced by access to fibers and tools, but also by craft traditions and the needs and desires of individuals. Therefore it is important to understand the properties, production and use of textiles and other textile products in order to work with the wider cultural meanings and aspects of textile production.

Acknowledgement We kindly thank Cherine Munkholt for her excellent suggestions and proofreading, Sidsel Frisch for her professional help with the images, and Peder Flemestad for his valuable help in finding Virgil’s original text and its translation. We also thank Mary Harlow for important comments and her patience. This chapter is written with the support from the Danish National Research Foundation’s Centre for Textile Research, Copenhagen University (DNRF 64).

36

CHAPTER TWO

Production and Distribution KERSTIN DROß-KRÜPE

Textiles play a major role in the social and economic fabric of any community. Everyone needs textiles for clothing, protection, as household items, both functional (e.g. bags, curtains, bedding, tents) and for decorative and ornamental purposes. This translates into an extensive demand for textiles of different qualities that, from raw materials to finished product, involves people of every status and class. In the ancient world, the textile economy was of particular importance—after agriculture it was the second most important field of activity—securing livelihoods for many people. By examining the processes of production and distribution we can, in turn, gain insights into the structure and organization of society. In Antiquity, textile production was undertaken by individual households, small- and large-scale workshops, collections of workshops and even sometimes something akin to “factory” production. These different establishments were neither mutually exclusive nor did they follow an evolutionary development—they existed simultaneously and it is often hard to identify what we are looking at, given the fragmentary nature of the source material. This chapter will work through the available material in a chronological manner, first focusing on textile production, commencing in the Homeric epics. In the second part, again beginning with Homeric times, ancient textile trade and distribution will be discussed. In what follows, it is important to bear in mind that in Antiquity, the semantic fields of textile and garment overlap. As is discussed further in the Introduction and in Chapter 3, clothing was largely formed on the loom rather than being cut and sewn afterwards. The making processes of garments and textiles were therefore the same, and over its lifetime a single length of cloth might have many uses on the body and around the home.

TEXTILE PRODUCTION FROM THE HOMERIC TO THE ROMAN PERIOD Unfortunately, our knowledge of the organization of textile production in the ancient Greek world is rather scarce. It is particularly interesting to note a significant gap between normative guidelines in the literary and iconographic sources and social realities presented in documentary sources and archaeological record. This disjunction in the evidence is characteristic for the entire ancient world, from 500 BC to AD 500, from the Atlantic coast to the ancient Near East. Beginning with the Homeric epics, literary sources stress the role of women in the procurement of textiles and cloth for their families: when Homer introduces Helen, Queen of Sparta, a woman of legendary beauty, he chooses a domestic setting in Priam’s palace in Troy:1 Helen is presented weaving a purple garment 37

38

A CULTURAL HISTORY OF DRESS AND FASHION IN ANTIQUITY

of double fold, in which the “horse-taming Trojans” and the “brazen-coated Achaeans” are figured during battle. Likewise, Penelope, wife of Odysseus, is presented while weaving a garment—a shroud for her deceased father-in-law.2 In the Homeric epics textile production is exclusively connected to virtuous (noble and mythological) women who produce garments supported by their slaves. Other possible ways of textile procurement are not mentioned. Thus the textile work of these women does not necessarily reflect reality but their behavior is an exemplary ideal to be emulated by other decent women. There is ample evidence in the written record for a gender related division of tasks in ancient times.3 While war along with agriculture, animal husbandry, and trade was considered male business, the chief tasks of women were situated within the household (oikos). Being able to produce high-quality textiles remained a desired female virtue throughout Antiquity. The comic playwright, Aristophanes, describes the effeminate Cleisthenes in Birds (ll. 829–31) by ridiculing him for weaving instead of bearing arms, reinforcing the upper-class perspective of weaving as a task for noble women, but not for noble men. Among peasant and poorer urban households, weaving was undertaken for the family, and surpluses were sold to earn a living.4 Xenophon’s Oeconomicus (written in the fourth century BC) provides some insight into the workings of an Athenian household of the period. This work, however, is to be understood as a description of an idealized household rather than an actual description of de facto everyday life, and its target audience was other wealthy Athenian citizens.5 The speaker, Ischomachus, identifies the tasks of his wife and their slaves. He mentions that his wife, before getting married, only knew “how to take wool and produce a cloak, and had seen how spinning tasks are allocated to the slaves.”6 Now, after the marriage, her tasks have expanded to supervising the (textile) work of her slaves and to instructing them.7 Other slave tasks are mentioned implicitly: among other things they are responsible for wool preparation, in particular spinning.8 Similar tasks are mentioned by the classical Greek tragedian Euripides, when Polyxena (the daughter of Priam of Troy) imagines her future life in slavery: grinding, baking, cleaning, and weaving.9 However, the living and working conditions described by Xenophon may not be typical for classical Greece as a whole or even for classical Athens.10 This is an example of the problems historians face when dealing with the disjunction between literary evidence and evidence for social reality. Male authors of the Greek world present a picture of archaic and classical Greece in which wealthy women (were supposed to) spend hours and days producing precious and richly decorated garments.11 These garments played an important role in the social fabric of the time, as they were obviously not only produced for the women and their families to wear, but also to be given away as precious gifts to other warlords and honored guests of the household.12 Being able to gift textiles produced within a household was a manifestation of power and wealth, which made the fabrics both socially and economically valuable. Precious textiles circulated as gifts and were also highly coveted items during sacking and pillaging in time of war.13 In the fourth century BC , Demosthenes even mentions that stealing textiles was punishable by death.14 The economic importance of textiles is also clearly demonstrated by the mention of them on the so-called Attic Stelai (a group of inscriptions recording the sale of personal items confiscated in 415 BC ).15 Among many other items several garments are listed here: for example, ampechonon (a mantle or shawl), exomis (working man’s tunic), himation (rectangular piece of cloth used as a cloak, or blanket). The importance of textiles as objects of great value and social makers can also be seen in records of women’s dowries from across the entire ancient world.16 It is interesting to note that in all these Greek literary sources, written exclusively by men, the craft (and art) of weaving by women deserves special attention, whereas other

PRODUCTION AND DISTRIBUTION

39

steps of the production chain are more or less neglected. Fiber preparation and finishing are hardly mentioned and even spinning receives little consideration.17 In contrast, in the iconographic evidence for archaic and classical Greece, the image of women using a spindle is one of the most common motifs for both vase painting and sculptural reliefs.18 The picture painted by the literary and iconographic evidence, presenting virtuous housewives producing the family’s garments aided by slave workers, is to a certain degree contradicted by documentary sources such as inscriptions that mention professional textile craftsmen laboring in textile workshops. Greek inscriptions from archaic to Hellenistic times show several professional textile craftsmen, though again focusing on the polis of Athens.19 Among these craftspeople—almost exclusively men—are wool weavers, fullers, wool workers (maybe indicating spinners), a spinner, and a flockweaver.20 Thus in the Greek world, textiles were obviously produced by women within the oikos alongside professional textile establishments, where men predominated. Unfortunately we do not know details about the organization of the workflow or common workshop sizes. From the classical period onwards, the archaeological record demonstrates indeed that the production of textiles in individual Greek households was common, but equally provides evidence for textile production on a larger scale, certainly exceeding personal needs. For example, in 432 BC on the initiative of Perdiccas II of Macedon, several nearby settlements moved to Olynthus on the peninsula of Chalcidice,21 leading to the expansion of the settlement area. This resulted in the construction of a new quarter in the last third of the fifth century BC . Here, excavations have shown that almost all houses included loom weights (usually ten to forty per building and thus sufficient for one, maybe two looms),22 pointing to an active household textile industry. At the same time the excavation hints at a professionalized textile industry outside the individual oikos: within

FIGURE 2.1: Plan of House A viii 7–9 at Olynthos, showing placement of loom weights. © Nick Cahill.

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A CULTURAL HISTORY OF DRESS AND FASHION IN ANTIQUITY

the so-called “house of loom weights” (A viii 7), a total of 297 loom weights was discovered, of which 247 were found very close together in the western part of the portico.23 This amount of loom weights might be sufficient for five to twelve warpweighted looms,24 thus a broad hint at a commercial weaving establishment. Similar findings have been made in other parts of Greece: in the last quarter of the fourth century BC , a settlement was established on the Rachni at Isthmia near the Saronic Gulf. This settlement and its houses does not conform to the standard Hellenistic city plan, but most likely consisted of a series of industrial complexes connected by staircases. In a great number of houses, textile tools, primarily loom weights, were found. Other buildings included vats and tanks, tentatively interpreted as professional dyeing or fulling establishments.25 Thus excavations indicate a more or less industrial complex for the production of textiles—a considerable textile industry outside the oikos.26 In the Hellenistic period the most prominent source for operations in textile production on large estates come from Hellenistic Egypt. The surviving papers of Zenon of Caunos, manager of the estate of Apollonius, chief financial officer of Egypt, cast an interesting light on woolen textile production in mid-third century BC Memphis. The account books of Zenon record payments for raw materials (wool and dye-stuffs) for finished garments and wages for textile workers, though it is difficult to decide if these are independent workers or paid laborers.27 In this period we can also tentatively identify the first hints of associations of professional textile workers.28 Among the most prominent examples of an early textile company is the Kafizin inscription from Cyprus, which indicates an extensive cultivation of flax and probable commercialization in the third century BC .29 To sum up: clothing was not exclusively made within the home by female household members as suggested by normative source material, but textile production was both a domestic and a commercial activity in ancient Greece from Homeric to Hellenistic times.30 Our sources mention professional textile craftspeople for various stages of the production chain but do not shed light on the actual workflow. It appears that independent workshops existed for each stage of production, rather than integrated working processes. In the Roman world, the art of textile production retains an important place in the catalog of female virtues, specifically for girls and women of the upper classes.31 Spinning, in particular, along with wool preparation (lanam fecit),32 is praised as an outstanding virtue for women in the literary sources and in epitaphs from across the Empire—again establishing a normative discourse. At the same time there is considerable evidence for professional textile production, maybe even reaching a proto-industrial level. Professional textile workers are mentioned in several literary sources and also appear in inscriptions and papyri.33 Indeed, the very first Roman economic law we know about, the republican lex Metilia fullonibus dicta, dealt with a textile profession, namely the water supply for the Roman fullers.34 Funerary inscriptions and dedications identify people (mostly, but not exclusively men) involved in fulling, dyeing, wool-carding, and other associated occupations, though it is notable that weavers rarely appear.35 Setting up an inscription was an expensive matter, so may only have been done by wealthier textile workers. Consequently this means the epigraphic record again focuses on a selective social and economic group. Some information about associations of Roman textile workmen survives. Though the actual nature of these occupational associations is obscure,36 they clearly indicate a sense of occupational identity and may have served as a way for the local sub-elites to constitute “symbolic capital,”37 strengthen their multiple networks and generate a common value system for traders and craftspeople.38 By establishing occupational associations, colleagues

PRODUCTION AND DISTRIBUTION

41

FIGURE 2.2: Reproduction of the Igel monument. © Rheinisches Landesmuseum Trier. Photo: Thomas Zühmer.

in business were presumably able to merge services, resources, and supplies in order to strengthen their economic position. Distinctive institutions, such as the laws of these occupational associations, tried to shape interaction between members, and translate values into behavior—thus increasing trustworthiness and reducing uncertainty for the association’s members and their business partners alike.39 The collegia opificum, ascribed to the legendary Etruscan King Numa, is said to have included associations of weavers, fullers, and dyers.40 A group of fullers, probably collegiati, made a dedication to a certain Eumachia in Pompeii41 and such craftsmen appear also in several other inscriptions from different parts of the Roman Empire.42 The collegium centonariorum, an association of textile dealers, was widespread in the western Roman Empire from Augustan times until the early fifth century.43 In Aphrodisias in Caria, an association of linen-weavers existed in the Severan period.44 This small town seems to have been a center for linen production, as was Saittai in Lydia.45 The same is true for the production of wool and woolen textiles in southern Gaul—where the famous Igel column, the burial monument of the Secundinii family near Igel, Germany (c. AD 250) depicts the business of a textile merchant.46 In Imperial Hierapolis in Phrygia, textile workers, including wool washers or dyers and their associations, assumed such a strong economic position that they are omnipresent in the local epigraphic record.47 In all cases we are looking at specialized professionals, not private surpluses.48 The people engaged in these associations produced their goods for sale and profit.49 In other parts of the Roman Empire, estate-based textile production was predominant, e.g. in southern Italy or Gallia Belgica. For the Roman world it is possible to broaden the perspective of literary sources and inscriptions with papyri, ostraca (inscribed potsherds), and tablets. These reveal

42

A CULTURAL HISTORY OF DRESS AND FASHION IN ANTIQUITY

information about attitudes and practices from a broad social spectrum, particularly the middle and lower classes, thus the majority of the people that ancient authors keep us ignorant of. Papyri and ostraca, in particular, make the individual tangible and enable the researcher to explore an “individual micro-history” helping to bring administrative trading records to life. This evidence provides an unfiltered view of real-life circumstances of all population classes, allowing for a more detailed analysis of the economic procedures of Roman textile production. It also encourages a comparison between the available documents from Egypt with material from other regions, for example, the writing tablets from Vindolanda or Vindonissa, lead tesserae from Noricum, or graffiti from Pompeii or Ephesus. From papyri it is possible to extract immediate information regarding business relations, prices, assumed markets, ways of procurement and the networks between producer, distributor and consumer.50 The analysis of several hundred documents from Roman Egypt has brought to light a broad and diverse range of specializations, aligning with the overall epigraphic record from the Roman world.51 Twenty-seven different textile professions have been detected. They include dyers, weavers, fullers, and needle-workers—reflecting the basic stages of the production chain, with the notable exception of spinners. All these craftsmen seem to be working independently in individual small- to middle-scale workshops. The papyri also list various specializations regarding materials and types of garment produced.52 Labor division and specialization enabled a significant increase in productivity and capacity as occupational specialists could take advantage of economies of scale.53 The imposition of taxes by the Roman state demonstrates that these people were professional craftsmen, running a business to earn their living. Numerous tax receipts indicate both a dense web of textile craftspeople and a close organizational and monitoring system by the Roman state.54 At most main stages of the production chain male and female craftspeople appear, the only exception being the craft of dyeing.55 Even women were subject to taxes on the crafts they practised. In Roman Egypt at least (and probably in many more parts of the Roman Empire as the above mentioned epigraphic record indicates), textile production to a large extent took place outside the individual household in professional craft workshops. It was not oriented towards personal requirements, but towards third-party requirements, aimed at selling marketable goods for money.56 The Roman educational system for textile workers is instructive regarding labor and performance. Contractual agreements between the (mostly male)57 master and the family of the child apprentice were made to ensure a smooth running of the training. Thirty-two apprentice contracts have been identified in textile production for Imperial Egypt. There is evidence for children under the age of fourteen serving as apprentices to weavers, to wool carders, wool shearers, and as needle-workers. It is interesting to see that boys and girls, freeborn and slaves were trained. A slave educated in the craft of weaving significantly rose in value for the master, who could either have his own garments produced by this slave or lend him/her out to a workshop, earning the master an additional income. The financial burden of the apprentice’s training—such as food, clothing, trade tax and poll tax or wages—was distributed more or less evenly between the family of the child and the apprenticing craftsman, creating a win-win situation for both parties. The duration of an apprenticeship varied between twelve and sixty months.58 Apprentices and additional workers within a family must have been very important for all parts of the textile production chain; in contrast, paid work can be seen as insignificant59 and occupying slaves seems less common in Egypt than in other parts of the Empire.60 Nevertheless, it must be assumed that textile artisans all over the Roman Empire rarely

PRODUCTION AND DISTRIBUTION

43

FIGURE 2.3: Plan of a fullery in Ostia V vii, 3. © Miko Flohr.

worked alone. The results of experimental archaeology clearly indicate that the traditional loom types work best, and produce more, if a team of two or more weavers is engaged.61 Moreover, the papyrological evidence indicates teams of two to four weavers.62 Similar business models can be suggested for other stages of textile production. When connecting the papyrus documents with archaeological finds, workshops from two to eighteen textile artisans can be identified in Roman Egypt, Timgad, Rome, Ostia, Pompeii, and Florence, for example.63 The engagement of local elites and middle classes in urban textile industries can be seen by the fact that 40 percent of all textile workshops in Pompeii were attached to large atrium-peristyle houses belonging to wealthy men,64 and we should not forget the textile craftsmen in Hierapolis mentioned earlier, who were part of the local elite and held political offices. The Roman textile industry was obviously a profitable economic sector. By contrast, assessing the economic status and viability of weavers, the most fully documented textile workers in the classical world, is an exercise fraught with difficulty. An experiment in creating a balance sheet of cost and profit for a weaver in Roman Egypt produced some interesting results.65 There are obvious drawbacks with the nature of the evidence but the results suggest that even in the city a professional weaver did not live a very prosperous existence. These were craftsmen whose earnings would still have found it difficult to feed their families, suggesting a need for additional sources of revenue to survive. This relative poverty of weavers perhaps explains their lack of presence in the epigraphic record—they simply could not afford permanent memorials. For private textile orders, the development of a process model is difficult to decipher: the surviving texts reveal a variety of (inter)actions and possibilities. It appears the process is set in action by the individual customer who forms the pivotal element, linking the

44

A CULTURAL HISTORY OF DRESS AND FASHION IN ANTIQUITY

FIGURE 2.4: Plan of a fullery in Pompeii VII 2, 41. © Miko Flohr.

specialized textile craftsmen in their workshops. Professional craftsmen apparently often manufactured textiles and garments for a particular contract, not for an undefined market, following the just-in-time principle. Only clearly-defined contracts are found in the papyrus documents. Papyri often show that a number of different people were involved in the supply of warp and weft yarn, of dyestuffs and other materials, and it is unclear how far such material might travel. Apparently the procurement of raw materials and colors was not in the hands of textile artisans, but were provided by the client—the customer was responsible for the resources, while the weavers, dyers, fullers etc. supplied the labor. It is worth noting though that these craftsmen did not pass the textile material/ garments to one another for further processing, but were linked by the customer. There is no evidence from any region of the empire for large workshops combining subsequent working processes as, for example, weaving and fulling. In the case of public orders, such as demands for military garments, there is evidence for some sort of advance payment, which was probably used by the craftsmen to procure the necessary raw materials. One element of manufacture and supply that can be visualized is the textile supply for the Roman army from Egypt:66 The state ordered large and small batches of textiles to clothe its soldiers. It is likely that the orders were received in a central unit and distributed from there to the districts and villages. The professional associations may have had the task of distributing the order within the villages to the individual weaver. Such an approach would also fit with the proven workshop sizes—it would not be necessary to have large proto-industrial workshops and craftsmen who are solely employed by the state. It is worth noting that the state paid for the supplies ordered, production was not a duty the associations or the weavers were required to fulfil. Whether the current market prices were paid cannot be deduced due to the scarcity of evidence and the lack of reference values.67 The weavers certainly benefited from government contracts, since this was a guaranteed sale and thus guaranteed income, not exposed to the uncertainties of the market. Two papyri, however,

45

48,00

110,64

281,31

6,86

additional work forces (apprentice)

living costs (♂)

overall costs (♂+additonal worker)

average wage per garment 29

13,67

397,59

161,52

113,40

122,67

2nd cent.

?

?

977,27

247,44

617,16

122,67

3rd cent.

25

13,67

6,86 35

340,12

161,52

93,60

85,00

2nd cent.

237,64

110,64

42,00

85,00

1st cent.

Tebtynis

?

?

949,60

247,44

617,16

85,00

3rd cent.

31

6,86

211,11

110,64

41,80

58,67

1st cent.

28

110,64 + 86,28

395,59

6,86

living costs (♂+♀)

overall costs (♂+♀)

average wage per garment

number of garments produced 58 to cover overall costs

122,67 + 76,00

taxes (♂+♀)

1st cent.

34

13,67

462,33

161,62 + 140,04

122,67 + 38,00

2nd cent.

?

?

609,23

247,44 + 201,12

122,67 + 38,00

3rd cent.

Soknopaiou Nesos

47

6,86

320,25

110,64 + 86,28

85,00 + 38,33

1st cent.

31

13,67

424,99

161,62 + 140,04

85,00 + 38,33

2nd cent.

Tebtynis

?

?

571,89

247,44 + 201,12

85,00 + 38,33

3rd cent.

43

6,86

291,59

110,64 + 86,28

58,67 + 36,00

1st cent.

13,67

396,33

161,62 + 140,04

58,67 + 36,00

2nd cent.

29

?

?

923,27

247,44

617,16

58,67

?

?

543,23

247,44 + 201,12

58,67 + 36,00

3rd cent.

Oxyrhynchos

13,67

388,19

161,52

168,00

58,67

3rd cent.

Oxyrhynchos 2nd cent.

TABLE 2.2 Annual costs for a team of a male and a female weaver in drachmai based on the papyrological record

number of garments produced 41 to cover overall costs

122,67

taxes (♂)

1st cent.

Soknopaiou Nesos

TABLE 2.1 Annual costs for a single male weaver with an apprentice in drachmai based on the papyrological record

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A CULTURAL HISTORY OF DRESS AND FASHION IN ANTIQUITY

FIGURE 2.5: Chart depicting the potential range of relationships in production of garments in the Roman period. © Kerstin Droß-Krüpe.

indicate that state orders did not necessarily enjoy the highest priority, as fulfilling a state order of only five garments obviously took several months.68 It has traditionally been thought that military units were normally supplied from the area where they were stationed, pursuing a principle of the shortest possible route between producers and consumers.69 The papyri evidence suggests otherwise: garments were made in Egypt for soldiers in the provinces of Cappadocia or Iudea.70 It cannot be proven that these orders were related only to garments that were not available locally. Therefore, it seems legitimate to explain this phenomenon by using the transaction cost theory that argues that efficient and rational economic processes are always associated with minimizing the costs connected with the initiation and execution of a transaction.71 Thus it can be assumed that this type of organization of the textile supply was simply cheaper than producing the fabrics closer to the military unit. The excellent route network and the busy shipping routes indicate that a relatively cheap and fast transport of textiles was possible. In late Antiquity, the production situation changed: state controlled textile workshops, the so-called gynaecea, were established,72 though their exact workings remain unclear. The focus was now clearly on large-scale, almost industrial, textile production, organized and controlled by the state. Apart from these late antique state monopolies, in most regions textile production remained organized by private business.73 In addition, a new form of textile procurement for the military occurred, the vestis militaris, i.e. a clothing tax paid in kind. It was introduced to guarantee a cost-efficient textile supply for the soldiers.74

TEXTILE TRADE AND DISTRIBUTION FROM THE HOMERIC TO THE ROMAN PERIOD The exact operating mechanisms of ancient textile trade and distribution are obscure. It is particularly important to distinguish between these terms, thus giving a definition deriving from modern economics seems most helpful.75

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47

Trade: purchase of goods from one (or several) producer(s) or supplier(s), transportation, stockage and sale of these goods to customers without modifying or processing them significantly. Traders (or trading companies) normally act with the intention of making a profit. Distribution: any process of making a product or service available for use or consumption by a consumer or user. These definitions clearly show that historians of the classical world are often too quick to use the term “trade,” as not all exchange processes fit the definition. Other distribution channels such as gifts, subsidies, tributes, and booty should not be neglected, though it is often difficult to identify subtle differences between them. Nevertheless, it is important to keep in mind that not every occurrence of a “foreign” textile should automatically be interpreted as an indication of trade relations or networks. For textile trade, the most revealing sources are those that mention people actually involved in the business. Tradespeople appear in the Homeric Epics (though trade has a negative connotation here and is exclusively connected with the Phoenicians, never with the Greeks).76 Piracy, booty, and robbery seem to have been most common ways in the archaic world to appropriate articles in favor.77 For the social elites, as Homeric warlords, procurement was supplemented by exchanging precious gifts between peers. Professional Greek traders are mentioned in the plays of Aristophanes in the late fifth century BC .78 Here, we get the impression that the Athenian agora is the most important terminal for any trading business,79 complemented by a port of trade (emporion) in the harbor area. Among the traders described are wool traders, who also appear in the Athenian epigraphic record.80 Literary sources also explicitly mention wool imported to Greece from other parts of the Mediterranean world: from Phrygia, the Cimmerians (said to have lived in the north of the Caucasus and the Black Sea), or Miletos.81 Tradesmen specializing in linen are mentioned both in Attic comedy and inscriptions.82 Linen is said to have been imported from Colchis in the Black Sea region, Carthage, and Egypt.83 Professional clothessellers (himatiopoloi) are also recorded.84 Again, this suggests the existence of a textile economy exceeding sheer personal needs of the individual oikos, thus—to some degree at least—a market-oriented professional trade of cloth and garments. The distribution network for textiles in the Roman Empire has been largely underresearched up to now.85 This is surprising considering the range of evidence available for textiles as traded goods. The Periplus Maris Erythraei (PME, dating to the first century AD ) illustrates the importance of textiles as trading goods from the Roman Empire all the way to the Arabian peninsula and India and back again.86 It is a unique description of trade routes meant as a manual and sea itinerary for merchants based in Egypt who were trading with the East. It lists specific trading conditions for each port of trade. Items of clothing of various kinds and qualities are listed twenty-five times among the exported goods from Egyptian ports. Garments that are imported to Egypt are mentioned fourteen times, demonstrating the importance of textile items as trading commodities. A tax law from Palmyra (AD 137)87 provides evidence for the import and export of raw materials, for example, purple fleeces (at eight asses tax each),88 as well as the profession of clothes trader.89 Its geographical location gave Palmyra, which was connected by the caravan routes with Mesopotamia and Arabia,90 an advantageous position as a center of distribution for goods that were transferred to the ports of Syria and ultimately into the Roman Empire and vice versa. It is particularly famous for being a port of trade for precious silk textiles from Asia.

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The epigraphic record provides ample evidence for privately-organized goods exchange and professional textile trade alike in the Roman world, covering short, medium, and large distances.91 Textile traders (vestiarii) are well documented, but other professions also appear as the negotiator lanarius (wool trader) or the mercator sagarius (trader of a certain type of mantles).92 Many inscriptions record freedmen (and women) earning their living in trading professions connected to textiles. Aulus Cornelius Pricus, for example, a freedman, was a trader of woolen mantles (sagarius), operating at the warehouses of Galba (horrea Galbae) next to the Roman river port.93 His business was obviously flourishing, as his epitaph is not only of very fine quality but also lists several people to be buried there, including his own freedmen. Two freedmen of Decimius Veturius were purple traders (purpurarii),94 one of them even acting as patron for women likewise operating in this field.95 Though male textile traders seem to predominate, women also engaged in this business on a professional level.96 Avilla Philusia, for example, is said to have pursued a career as vestiarius.97 All this evidence for professional trade of textile items and raw materials runs alongside sources that indicate a significant level of private exchange.98 Again it is papyri in particular which shed light on this. Private letters provide information about the transfer of goods across the entire province of Egypt, as they record orders for various commodities, including textiles.99 P.Mich. 8/467 for example, dating to the early second century AD , is a letter from Claudiaus Terentianus to his father (?) Claudius Tiberianus, acknowledging receipt of certain articles, requesting military equipment and clothing:100 “I ask and beg you, father, for I have no one dear to me except you, after the gods, to send to me by Valerius a battle sword, . . . a pickaxe, a grappling iron, two of the best lances obtainable, . . . cloak, and a girdled tunic, together with my trousers, so that I may have them, since I wore out my tunic before I entered the service and my trousers were laid away new.”

CONCLUSION In Antiquity, manufacturing textiles was considered a female virtue for (noble) women. Apart from the production of garments in the individual household by the lady of the house—supported by her slaves if available—professional textile craftsmen working in their workshops can be detected as early as archaic times. Documentary sources and the archaeological record indicate that professional textile craftspeople manufactured their products mainly for a particular contract in individual workshops with two to eighteen workers but could hardly earn their living. In late Antiquity, household production and professional small- to medium-sized textile establishments are expanded by the introduction of state controlled large-scale workshops. Professional trade and distribution networks including precious and simple garments as well as raw materials existed from the fifth century BC onwards. In particular during the Roman Empire, these networks covered not only short and medium but also long distances and involved men and women, freeborn, freedmen, and slaves, who sometimes achieved considerable affluence in this business. In all periods private textile exchange played an important role.

CHAPTER THREE

The Body GLENYS DAVIES AND LLOYD LLEWELLYN-JONES

Ancient Greco-Roman dress was no empty sign; it was a multifarious and complicated social, cultural, aesthetic, and material phenomenon to its wearers, observers, and depicters.1 Dress was not only material, it was worn; it was as much a process as an artifact. Ancient art and literature often provide “snapshots” of this, showing garments in use, but to access more oblique information about the cultural nature of ancient dress requires more methodical work. In what ways, for instance, did ancient dress relate to the bodies that it covered, concealed, displayed, or altered? As we will go on to see, nudity, in spite of the Classical artistic ideal, was not commonplace in ancient Greece and Rome. The requirement for the human body to be clothed is a deep-set reality in the Classical world, stretching as far back as the “Homeric Age,” where it is clear that societal codes of morality required the human body to be covered. In Homer, nakedness is simply not acceptable.2 In fact, throughout the Greco-Roman period the acculturated body was a clothed body. In the Greco-Roman past, much of the Classical body was covered by draped garments; only arms, necks, faces, feet, and sometimes (and mainly for men) legs were routinely exposed. Not surprisingly, Greco-Roman concepts of bodily beauty, especially of women, focused on the shine of pale skin: “white armed” and “white footed” are commonly used epithets for beautiful women (thus, Penelope’s skin is “whiter than sawn ivory,” Odyssey 18. 195–6).3 Luster is also important for a beautiful image: hair and skin must shine and glow for a truly natural beauty to be noticed. Clothing enhanced aspects of physical beauty. The maiden Pandora, crafted by the gods as a punishment to mankind and adorned with jewels and fine garments, was seen as the ultimate kalon kakon, or “beautiful evil,” because, like a proto-Russian doll, her corrupt and hateful character was masked by an external bodily beauty, which in turn was enhanced by her fine garments: a fine-spun robe and a silvery veil, complemented by ostentatious jewelry (Figure 3.1). Nonetheless, Greek and Roman women seem to have consulted beauty manuals on how best to achieve a fashionable make-over. Ovid’s Medicamina Faciei Femineae (Art of Beauty) is a rare example (or parody) of what was probably a popular genre. Male beauty was equally prized. Good musculature, bronzed skin, and well-dressed hair (or wigs) are eulogized in Classical societies. Male beauty contests are also attested in the Greek world: Sparta displayed the beauty of its men in contest, and in Athens a contest of manliness was held to find the best in bodily strength and beauty.4 The essence of the fashionable body shape remained constant throughout Greek and Roman history, but noticeable shifts in detail argue for a developing concept of “fashion” throughout Classical Antiquity, although the fashionable look developed and changed more slowly than it does today. By the late Antique period, Roman men, including emperors, were even wearing trousers, the one-time symbol of barbarism, and the one garment that altered the Classical body-silhouette radically. 49

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FIGURE 3.1: Attic calyx-krater, showing Pandora in center of the upper register being decked out in finery by the gods. Painted by the Niob`id Painter. © Trustees of the British Museum.

THE SOMATIC EXPERIENCE OF WEARING DRESS Ancient Greek clothing was unstructured. It lacked cutting, shaping, and tailoring, and was constructed only temporarily from simple rectangles of cloth of various sizes and held onto the body with pins, brooches, and belts. There was no such thing as a “finished” garment, since the various elements of dress could be easily unpinned and reused. By definition, because of fabric-type, weight, and bulk, Greek and Roman clothing did not fit snugly to the body, nor did it necessarily accent the body shape beneath, despite the artistic conventions which sometimes show figure-hugging clothes, clinging seductively to the body; this is an artistic construct, not a reality (Figure 3.2). Large lengths of cloth could be used at will for a variety of other purposes; we should not be surprised to find that one person’s robe is another’s bed sheet. A lively passage from Apollonius’s Argonautica makes this clear; we are told that a splendid robe (peplos) was made by the Graces for Dionysus; it was handed down as a precious heirloom in the family of Thoas and finally became the property of Jason, who wore it with pride. But even this priceless object had had another, more worldly, function—it had been used as a bedspread by Dionysus when he made love to Ariadne.5

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FIGURE 3.2: Artistic vision of figure-hugging garments emphasising the buttocks, thighs and legs in the manner of sculpted kor¯e figures. From a red-figure vase c. 500 BC. Drawing by Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones.

The largest worn Greek cloth was known as the himation (a word which also functioned as a general term for “dress” or “clothing”), a large and voluminous oblong of fabric diagonally draped across the torso, wrapped around the body, supported on one shoulder and arm—not unlike a simplified version of the later Roman toga (see below). The himation tended to be worn over a tunic, although Greek men frequently wore it alone, revealing part of the chest, shoulders, and one arm. Women, however, always wore the himation with a long chito ¯n. In iconography, the male himation is first attested c. 650 BC, but the first female use is much later, c. 520 BC. The himation was made from heavy wool, woven with elaborate colored patterns in the Archaic period; in the Classical period the fashion was for a plain white or unbleached himation (except during mourning periods when it was black). Its rectangular shape clearly distinguished it from the toga and other types of Roman cloak (it became the Roman pallium or palla), and in the Roman era it continued to be associated with the Greek world, and intellectual activity in particular. The chito ¯n was made from two large rectangles of light linen, sewn up both sides, fastened on the shoulders and arms with small brooches, and held in place by a belt at the waist. The chito ¯n was a staple element of Greek male and female dress.6 This fashionable

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dress is said to have been introduced into Greece from Caria in Asia Minor. Generally, the female chito ¯n reached to the ground, but it could be shortened to knee-length by hitching up the excess fabric. In its shortened state, the chito ¯n becomes known as the chito ¯niskos (“little chito ¯n”) and was worn by women in athletic pursuits and religious rituals—girls in the cult of Artemis Brauronia wore yellow-red chito ¯niskoi, for instance. In vase paintings, the lightness of the female chito ¯n was often represented as diaphanous or semi-transparent, probably reflecting the desired fashionable “look” (Figure 3.3). Fine diaphanous linen was expensive and clearly a status-marker, often imported into mainland Greece from Egypt or Amorgos. In daily life, however, and certainly when out of doors, women were required to cover themselves in extra layers of clothing, including a himation or pharos (wrap) which was pulled over the head as a veil. The peplos, a different kind of female garment, was constructed from a huge rectangle of uncut, unstitched woolen cloth, folded over above the waist to create a deep over-hang or flap of cloth (known as an apoptygma), and held on the shoulders by pins or fibulae thereby exposing the wearer’s “white arms.”7 In Homer the best quality peploi are noted for their sheer size—a symbol, clearly, of wealth.8 The conspicuous “leisure” of a Homeric noblewoman’s lifestyle is thereby reflected by the size of her peplos, the volume of which disables her from participating in any active work beyond the genteel practices of woolworking and weaving. That the peplos was a kind of pinned “blanket-dress” is supported by the fact that the word itself was used to describe coverings for beds and couches, chairs and chariots as well as wall hangings (Figure 3.4). It was distinguished from the linen chito ¯n by heavier fabric without seams, being folded around the body and pinned. The

FIGURE 3.3: Drawing of a transparent chito ¯n from a red-figure vase by Makron, now in the British Museum c. 480 BC. Drawing by Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones.

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FIGURE 3.4: Black-figure lekythos attributed to the Amasis Painter, showing women wearing the peplos as they spin and care for garments c. 550–530 BC . © The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Fletcher Fund, 1931.

peplos routinely refers to general, everyday dress in Homer, and the type remains common in artistic representations throughout the fifth century BC . Just as with Greek dress, so Roman clothing was neither tailored nor shaped to fit the body snuggly: rather it was intended to fit loosely and to be draped around the body, held in place at most with pins or brooches. The purpose of the drapery was to cover the body in accordance with ideas of modesty, although this did not preclude the use of thin seethrough fabrics, or material that clung to the body in a way that left little to the imagination (Coan silk was particularly associated with this quality). Underwear (in the form of a loincloth or briefs) was not normally worn in either Greece or Rome, although GrecoRoman women may have worn a breastband as underwear.9 The standard garment for Romans of all ages and both sexes was a straight and fairly baggy tunic, sleeveless or with short, loose sleeves, which by men was generally worn approximately knee-length and belted at the waist (although it could be longer or shorter, and at times was worn without a belt), while for women it was ankle-length or longer, and could be belted below the bust rather than at the waist. More than one tunic might be worn at the same time, for various reasons.10 The traditional toga of the Roman citizen was, in the late Republic and imperial

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period, worn over a tunic, although according to Roman tradition it was worn without a tunic in earlier times, perhaps with a loincloth beneath. The toga of the Republic (like the Etruscan tebenna) was relatively easy to wear, and was a flexible garment: it consisted of a single thickness of cloth large enough to be draped diagonally round the body, passing over the left shoulder and under the right armpit, but could be draped in other ways for various activities (Figure 3.5). In the time of Augustus (and presumably as a result of his revival of the toga as the national dress of Rome), the toga became a much larger and more cumbersome garment, folded over so that it was of double thickness and draped in a much more complicated way (Figure 3.6).11 No fastenings were used to hold it in place: to achieve the correct draping would require assistance from slaves, and it would need practice and constant diligence to keep the drapery in place. As the toga was made of wool it must have been very hot in summer and inconvenient to wear at all times. It is not surprising that the expectation that it would be worn by Roman citizens on certain occasions (such as by clients attending their patrons each morning) was resented, and the toga was dispensed with whenever possible.12 Married Roman women (matronae) wore a second tunic of specialized form (the stola) on top of their tunic: this was very long and fell over their feet.13 Outdoors they would also wear a large wrap (the palla), which might

FIGURE 3.5: Bronze statue known as the ‘Arringatore’ (Orator) c. 100–80 BC showing the easly version of the toga. Florence Archaeological Museum. Photo: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Rom. 63.602

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FIGURE 3.6: Marble statue of a member of the Julio-Claudian Imperial family (possibly Drusus Minor) wearing the early imperial style of toga. From Velleia, in the Museo Nazionale de Antichità, Parma. Photo: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Rom. Neg. 67.1601

be worn draped over the head (Figure 3.7). This, like the toga, was not fastened by pins, and so had to be held in place by the hands, and needed constant adjustment and attention. Cloaks for men came in a variety of sizes and designs, but were mostly held in place by a brooch or some other fastening, leaving the hands free.14 Since the construction of Greek and Roman dress was primarily draped, not tailored, folds were essential to the appearance and the experience of wearing clothes. Many outer garments were defined by being elaborately draped, not fastened, and the social meanings and symbolism of the primary Greek and Roman outer garments such as the himation and the toga were bound up in how their folds were arranged and maintained on the body. The aesthetically-pleasing effect of complex draping is well attested by ancient art, but particularly elaborate folds would seem to have had essential social meaning because creating and maintaining them required skill, control, and relatively leisurely movement. They required large quantities of fabric (sometimes double the area required to simply fit the body or even more) so asserting status and wealth. Men might wear long and complex garments to express leisure, gravitas, and status (as opposed to youth and activity): thus the toga was worn by the leisured, urbane Roman citizen, as opposed to the tunics of soldiers and the lower classes.

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FIGURE 3.7: Marble portrait statue of a woman in the “Small Herculaneum woman” type, wearing a large palla as a veil. Palazzo Braschi, Rome. Photo: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Rom. Neg. no. 70.1553R

DRESS, MOVEMENT, AND THE BODY In the contemporary west, we are not used to “controlling” our clothes in the way the ancients must have been. Our garments are often tailored to shape and are secured with buttons, zips, and other fastenings; in the morning we put on a shirt and a pair of jeans, or a blouse and a skirt, or a fitted dress and, to all intents and purposes, these garments need little or no re-arranging or handling until we take them off again at night. But in other parts of the world, the regular interaction with clothing is much more acute. Some garments need constant attention and re-arranging: in India a woman wearing a sari must control the intricate folds of this beautiful uncut, unstitched, and unwieldy cloth; her hands are therefore continually preoccupied with adjusting the way the fabric drapes over her shoulders or over the top of her head when she uses part of her sari as a veil. The sari demands the vigilance of the wearer and, for her part, the wearer dances between modesty and exposure as her garment fluidly moves around, off, and on her body. Greco-Roman clothing worked in a similar way. The male and female himation, the toga, the female peplos and chito ¯n, as well as the Roman stola and palla were all made from long-lengths of wide, unstitched cloth and demanded vigilance; slippage must have been commonplace. Wearing a himation made from lengths of heavy uncut cloth, for instance, was clearly difficult. It was meant to be. A well-bred Greek man was noted for

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how he carried his himation with style and flair, sometimes affecting negligence by letting it deliberately slip off from shoulder to waist as he rested upon a staff.15 On the east-frieze of the Parthenon (Figure 3.8) the god Apollo is shown with his voluminous himation slipping off his shoulder; he tries to secure it by placing his thumb within its folds, and he elegantly attempts to return the fabric to its correct position. His sister, Artemis, is having a similar “dress-malfunction”: the pinned “sleeve” of her chito ¯n slips from her clavicle, down past her shoulder. Nonchalantly, and with great finesse, she stops its descent with an elegant twist of her fingers. In Greek culture, ideal femininity (even for goddesses) was best expressed by a quiet deportment, with the head bowed and the eyes fixed on the floor. Women were expected to adopt a closed body posture, which took up as little space as possible. Feminine movements were supposed to be graceful and elegant (Figure 3.9). In addition, Greek women routinely veiled themselves. “Veil” is here used to mean an unstitched garment, like a mantle or cloak, which has the capacity to be pulled up onto the head and, if required, across the lower face, like the modern Iranian chador. This was a routine way of wearing an “uncut garment” in ancient Greek societies, and pan-Hellenic literary and material evidence from several successive centuries strongly supports the notion that the veiling of the female head or lower face was routine for many types of women.16 Sporting a veil meant that a woman had to be vigilant in safeguarding its use, preventing it from slipping, twisting, or falling off. Like the wearer of a modern sari, a Greek woman wearing a himation veil must have been in a constant state of movement.17 At Rome too, the imperial toga and the stola and palla ensured that elite men and women moved in a suitably restrained and dignified way in public: the length of a woman’s stola (which covered her feet) prevented rapid walking, while the voluminous palla

FIGURE 3.8: Apollo and Artemis from Block VI of the east frieze of the Parthenon. © Acropolis Museum. Photo: Socratis Mavrommatis.

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FIGURE 3.9: Warrior leaving home, his wife adopting the veil gesture. Side A of an Attic red-figure stamnos by Kleophon Painter, 440–430 BC . From Vulci. Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek München. Photo: Renate Kühling.

ensured the hands were kept occupied in holding it place, and were not available for an inappropriate amount of gesturing, or any work-related activity (see Figure 3.7).18 The toga, on the other hand, was generally draped so it did not fall over the feet, making walking at a measured pace possible, but not more vigorous movement, and the draping of the toga left the right arm free to gesture (the left arm was only capable of making more limited movements as it supported a large swathe of drapery) (see Figures 3.5, 3.6, 8.11). One of the most important activities performed by men wearing the toga was oratory, and the fullest handbook on the practice of oratory in the early empire (Quintilian’s Institutio Oratoria) is much concerned with how the orator should wear his clothes, and the movements that could, should, and should not be made while giving a speech wearing the toga.19 The right arm and hand should take the brunt of the gesturing, but should not be raised too high or spread too wide.20 The movements it was possible to make were constrained by the need to keep the toga in place, although it was acceptable to let it unravel towards the end of the speech, as the oration became more impassioned. Although the simpler and smaller early form of the toga was said to be a practical garment that could be worn while laboring on the farm or even fighting in battle, the imperial toga precluded a wide range of activities, for which other garments were worn. It was possible to wear the toga while reclining at dinner, but more comfortable and convenient to wear a range of different garments at other times (see later). Horsemen and soldiers might also wear knee breeches (feminalia/braccae) under their tunics, and the tunic alone, or a loincloth, was worn by those engaged in more physically demanding work such as agricultural laborers and craftsmen of various kinds. Working women also tended to wear ankle- or calf-length tunics, without the palla.

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MODIFICATION OF BODY SHAPE Generally speaking, Classical clothes were expected to conceal body shape rather than to reveal, modify, or enhance it. There are a few examples of redefining the body shape, though: textual evidence suggests, for instance, that in Greece pornai (common prostitutes) were readily identifiable by their flower-patterned, semi-transparent dresses worn over padded busts and rumps which were intended to draw the eye of prospective clientele. Ovid includes in his advice to women (Ars Amatoria/Art of Love, book 3) ways in which they could maximize their bodily assets by choosing clothes and hairstyles to suit their coloring and body shape, and ways to correct faults such as being too skinny, too short, or too bony.21 One of the uses of the breastband was to improve the shape and size of the bust, though it is not clear from the surviving literature whether it was used primarily to enlarge or diminish the size of the bust, or to make it firmer and provide uplift. An epigram by Martial (14.134) addressed to a breastband does not entirely clarify the issue of its purpose: Band, compress my lady’s swelling breasts, so my hand may find something to clasp and cover. Ovid advises women on its use for the flat-chested.22 He also suggests that thick-soled shoes or sandals should be worn by short women to give them the appearance of greater height, and even Augustus is said by Suetonius (Augustus 78) to have worn raised shoes to make him seem taller. Any attempt by men to change their appearance was frowned upon (especially the removal of body hair), but many famous Roman men are known to have been sensitive about receding hair and baldness: Julius Caesar was said to have worn a laurel wreath to cover his lack of hair, and the emperor Otho’s portraits clearly show him wearing a wig. The Emperor Domitian was so preoccupied with his incipient baldness that he published a treatise On the Care of Hair. Wigs were not commonly worn by the Greeks, although false hair pieces may have been braided into natural locks, but the increasingly elaborate fashionable hairstyles worn by Roman elite women of the late Republic and Empire often necessitated the use of wigs and hair pieces (made from human hair taken from the heads of captives), forming a lucrative trade for hair traders and wig makers. One style of body armor which mimics the muscles of the torso (the “muscle cuirass”) was also surely designed to suggest the wearer’s well-toned body: it was popular for statues of Greek heroes and hoplites and for Roman emperors and generals, but may have been parade armor rather than what would be worn on the battlefield. But generally speaking both the Greeks and Romans expressed distaste for what might be perceived as “modification of body shape”: this can be seen in their attitudes to “barbarian” dress, and in particular the shaped garments (sleeved tunics and coats, as well as trousers and other forms of leg-coverings) of Persians, Celts, and other foreign peoples. Persian dress, for instance, consisted of a pair of trousers, a pair of anaxyrides (leather or suede “chaps”), and a sleeved tunic (ependyt¯es), long enough to be secured around the waist with a belt. The ensemble could be augmented with a coat with long hanging-sleeves (kandys), often draped over the shoulders like a cape, sometimes fastened over the chest with ties. The Greeks were as much fascinated with this ensemble, calling it “the most beautiful of garments,”23 as they were puzzled and repelled by it. But it was the leg-coverings, shaped to fit the waist and legs, which were a distinctive hallmark of “barbarians” according to Greek and Roman understanding. Early fifth-century Greeks conceived of the Amazons as trouser-wearing warriors; they no doubt modelled them on their Persian

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FIGURE 3.10: Amazons dressed as Persians preparing a warrior to arm for combat. Attic red-figure amphora by Euthymides c. 480 BC. Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek München. Photo: Renate Kühling.

foes (Figure 3.10), since Persians, essentially sophisticated nomadic horse-people, wore baggy trousers as part of their cavalry attire. Similarly, Roman references to bracae and bracati usually imply contempt for the trouser-wearer’s lack of civilization. The conspicuous covering of the body in shaped garments was seen as anathema to the Classical ideal.

HEALTH AND HYGIENE Health was not apparently an aspect taken much into consideration when it came to dress in the Classical world. There are references to extra garments that could appropriately be worn by those who were in poor health: Suetonius says that Augustus’ weak constitution caused him to wear extra layers of clothing in winter (Suetonius Augustus 82)—in addition to his toga he wore a woolen undershirt, four tunics, and strips of cloth (fasciae) wrapped around his legs. Quintilian also states that such fasciae were only to be worn by orators if they were ill (Institutio Oratoria 11.3.144). Augustus also wore a wide-brimmed hat to avoid the sun.24 More generally though, Greeks and Romans relied on amulets to ward off physical and supernatural ills. The Greeks considered body hygiene and physical beauty to be hallmarks of a civilized society; Hippocrates thus recommended sage- or cumin-based remedies as fumigations,

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rub-downs, and baths, to keep the body in a state of health. In the stadium and gymnasium, athletes smeared their bodies with oil, removed afterwards with strigils. But how much did this love of cleanliness relate to clothing? It is worth emphasizing that in many modern societies all but the destitute have access to many garments and everyday cleaning facilities, but ancient clothing was rarely “cheap” and few people could afford multiple changes of dress. Most garments, however modest, represented a considerable investment of time or resources and needed to be cared for. People could wash their lighter garments; they could brush, air, and lightly bleach their heavier ones to clean them and restore the finish of the fabric. If more drastic improvements were required, garments could be taken to professionals, who would employ stronger bleaches, dyes, and other chemicals. Many woolen outer garments were “dry cleaned” by brushing, carding, and fulling with natural chemicals. White garments required special treatments to restore the purity of their color, but without particularly effective soaps, such garments were often bleached in the sun, and treated with Fuller’s earth.25 Laundry scenes are a topos in ancient Greek literature, often emphasizing and romanticizing the work of young women (most famously the Homeric character Nausicaa).26 Such scenes revolve around rivers, but water supplies were often in practice limited and clean water was too valuable to use for washing clothes; at best in urban settings, water which had already been used for cooking and body hygiene might have been employed to wash textiles. Roman clothing was probably cleaned infrequently, and hygiene would not appear to have been a major concern. Lighter linen or wool undertunics would, however, have been easier to wash than the outer garments of thicker wool or silk.27 Underwear, in the form of knickers, briefs, or loincloths, was not normally worn in the Roman world by men or women, although such garments could be worn on their own or under shorter tunics, usually for modesty’s sake rather than reasons of hygiene.28 It is not known how women coped with menstruation: they might have worn such garments as underwear at this time of the month. There is no evidence to suggest that special garments were worn in bed.

THE UNDERWEAR/OUTERWEAR DISTINCTION This does not appear to have been much of an issue as far as Greek and Roman dress was concerned. The Greeks and Romans wore little by way of “underwear,” and tunics, the himation, the toga, and the stola functioned as outerwear both indoors and out, with the possibility of putting a mantle or cloak on top if it was cold or wet outside. Garments such as loincloths and tunics, which were worn under the himation or toga, could also be worn on their own by a wide range of men in a variety of circumstances (see later), and women might also wear briefs or “bikinis” for exercise or as entertainers. The later Roman empire (late third and fourth centuries) saw the development of a fashion for wearing two tunics at the same time: the inner one was longer and had long fitted sleeves, while the outer was shorter and wider, with shorter wider sleeves, so the inner tunic was visible at hem, wrist and often also at the neck. This fashion was worn by both men and women.

DRESS, THE BODY, CLIMATE, AND ACTIVITY The climate in the Mediterranean does not tend towards extremes of weather, and ancient Greek and Roman dress was not especially well designed to cope with very cold, hot, or

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wet weather. Pliny the Younger (Letters 3.5) says his uncle wore a long-sleeved tunic in winter. Another way of coping with cold temperatures was to wear multiple tunics and wrappings around the legs (and other parts of the body). A cloak (such as a lacerna or laena) could be worn over the toga: this might provide some protection from rain as well as cold. Cloaks and capes were not usually worn by women (except when traveling): they wore the more cumbersome palla under normal circumstances, which would not have been so effective against bad weather. The cloaks worn by civilians tended to be lighter than those worn by soldiers: the basic Roman military cloak (the sagum) and the paenula (a cape with a hood, which fastened up the front) were designed to cope with inclement weather. The paludamentum worn by officers (including the emperor), a cloak fastened on the right shoulder with a brooch, was a more impressive garment, but possibly less effective as a protection against the elements. Cloaks might be worn by travelers, and capes with hoods by agricultural workers (Figure 3.11): they would be made of thick wool (with the lanolin left in for extra rain-proofing, or felted) or of leather. It is not surprising that many of the names recorded for such garments (such as cucullus, caracallus, birrus) seem to derive from the north-west provinces (especially Gaul): these garments designed to withstand poor weather conditions were adopted by the Romans from these areas, and often continued to be made in and exported from the provinces. Likewise the kausia (“warmer”) was a Macedonian broad-brimmed felt hat used for

FIGURE 3.11: Bronze statuette of agricultural worker (a ploughman) wearing a hooded cap, probably of leather. © Rheinischen Landesmuseums Trier.

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protection against the elements. The dress of Roman provincials and soldiers stationed in frontier regions tended to be adapted to the local climate: a pair of woolen stockings was found in a grave at Les Martres-de-Veyre (Gallia Lugdunensis) and supplies of socks are mentioned on the Vindolanda tablets, suggesting these were worn by soldiers and their families stationed along Hadrian’s Wall.29 Clothing certainly impacted on the activities—both real and symbolic—of the Greeks and Romans. Gesturing with clothes was vital to non-verbal communication throughout the ancient world, and could elicit many “readings.” Putting on or throwing off elements of clothing, lifting and hiding behind garments were all indicators of a wide range of emotions. As a gesture of modesty, for instance, young men in Greece were supposed to keep their hands inside their garments, highlighting inexperience, since hands were considered organs of action, only to be used by mature males in public debate, in sport, hunting, or warfare. In public, Greek women should not have active hands either. This is frequently stressed in art, where women’s hands are either held close to the body beneath their garments, or are engaged with the important task of veiling the face or covering the mouth. By raising or lowering her veil a woman could indicate a wide array of emotions including shame, modesty, playfulness, and bashfulness; assert status or indicate an overt sexuality. The casting off of garments signified distress or grief in women. Conversely, men would cover their heads to signify grief, shame (or in Rome, piety). The ripping or tearing of garments indicated great anxiety in both sexes. The toga was a garment best suited to the performance of the public duties of a Roman citizen, especially those of the elite senatorial class. Presiding over religious rites as a priest also required the wearing of the toga capite velato (with a fold over the head) and some of the more traditional priesthoods (such as the flamines) wore specialized forms of dress (see Figure 4.1). Although the earliest form of the toga could be worn for a variety of more energetic activities (for example, by using a method of securing it at the waist known as the cinctus Gabinus it could be worn in battle), the toga of the late Republic and early Empire was not suitable for vigorous activity, and it was considered inconvenient for a range of leisure activities too. Other garments were preferred for dining (the synthesis combination of tunic and cloak), and for intellectual pursuits (a tunic with a pallium worn with sandals instead of closed shoes): the pallium or some other wrap draped round the body was the dress associated with philosophers and other intellectuals. There was less variety in the traditional dress worn by Roman women, reflecting their rather less varied activities. Other garments and costumes were, however, worn by men when engaged in more vigorous physical activity. The clothing worn for riding and by huntsmen generally consisted of a short tunic and cloak: the standard Greek male hunting costume was a short tunic, chlamys (cloak), and petasos (wide-brimmed hat). In addition, Roman horsemen might wear knee breeches and huntsmen a loincloth under the tunic. Roman soldiers’ tunics were also shorter than those worn by civilians: they were worn with elaborate belts, which held their sword and dagger, and were fastened by buckles (unlike those worn by civilians, which were knotted). These often highly decorated belts were seen as characteristic of the military. Soldiers are also represented (for example, on Trajan’s column) wearing knee-breeches under their tunics. The military shoe changed over time, but was characterized by the use of hobnails. Ancient Greek society permitted male nudity on specific occasions, but female nudity was unacceptable in daily life. In Greek art, male nudity is a symbolic construct, foregrounding timeless heroic aspects of masculinity. Nudity can therefore be viewed as a

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type of “heroic costume.”30 Male nudity was certainly an accepted aspect of athletic society, and no doubt a central element of the Athenian council’s public inspection of the bodies of young men upon their coming of age too. It was certainly acceptable in controlled contexts like the gymnasium and the stadium. Nonetheless, the Greek term for the sexual organs, aidoia (like Latin pudenda), is closely connected to the word for “shame,” suggesting that nudity was not de rigueur. People turned a blind eye to an open robe or carelessly wrapped himation at a symposium perhaps, but it is hard to believe that naked Athenian men paraded alongside girls during the Great Panatheneia in Athens, as recorded on the Parthenon frieze (Figure 3.12). This is an artistic construct designed to highlight Athens’ heroic image and the glories of the polis. The nudity that was associated with athletic activities among the Greeks was not practised to the same extent by the Romans: light tunics might be worn for exercising at the baths, or some form of briefs which covered the loins (known as the perizoma in the Greek world, and possibly the campestre by the Romans).31 Young men are also described as wearing caps on their heads when engaged in exercises,32 and a there were thick cloaks to keep them warm after exercise. Women too might wear briefs, with or without a breastband, to exercise at the baths: the well-known mosaic from the baths of the villa at Piazza Armerina, dating from the fourth century AD , shows a group of young women engaged in athletic activity wearing what appear to be bikinis (Figure 3.13), and leather garments like modern bikini bottoms have been found in London, though these may have been worn by entertainers (such as acrobats or dancers) rather than ordinary women for exercising. Specialist costumes were worn by gladiators: a fancy loincloth with a metal belt was standard, but otherwise the armor, clothing and equipment varied according to the type

FIGURE 3.12: “Heroic nudity” on the north frieze of the Parthenon (part of the Panathenaic procession, see also Figure 4.2). © Trustees of the British Museum.

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FIGURE 3.13: So-called “Bikini girls” mosaic, Villa del Casale, Piazza Armerina, Sicily, Italy. Early fourth century AD . Photo: Werner Forman/Universal Images Group/Getty Images.

of gladiator. Charioteers too wore a specialized costume designed to provide some protection and which developed over time in response to their needs. It included a lacing of straps around the torso over two tunics, fasciae wound around their legs to protect them, and a small cap-shaped helmet. While in Greece there do not appear to have been any restrictions on foreigners or slaves wearing any form of garment, beyond the obvious economic ability to buy, make, or own it, working middle- and lower-class Romans, whether freeborn, freedmen, or slaves, would not wear the toga. Those in more supervisory positions and ordinary Romans out on the streets are shown in artistic representations wearing a calf-length tunic, with a cloak over it if needed. These tunics are often worn unbelted, and paintings and mosaics suggest they were often dark in color. Men engaged in work that required more vigorous physical activity (such as smiths or farm laborers) might wear a shorter tunic fastened at the waist with a belt (so it ended on or above the knee) or the right arm might be slipped out of its sleeve. For very hard manual work, or work in a hot or damp environment (fishermen or workers in a bakery, for example) a loincloth alone might be worn. Those working outside in winter might also wear protective capes and hoods. Rural workers and horsemen also wore material wrapped round their legs for added protection. Hats were not routinely worn by Romans, but were worn by travelers, fishermen and sailors, all of whom might spend a long time out in the sun. Working women (serving in bars or saleswomen serving customers fruit and vegetables at a market stall, for example) are shown in art wearing simple tunics which end above the ankle, rather than the long dresses and hampering mantles of the elite.

DRESS AND THE MATURING BODY: CHILDHOOD TO OLD AGE Greek and Roman babies were routinely swaddled: the medical writer Soranus gives instructions on the best technique, and recommends babies should remain in swaddling for the first forty to sixty days of life.33 Thereafter children wore miniature versions of adult clothing, the most common garment being a tunic (examples have been found with

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tucks designed to be let out as the child grew). Small children did not, it seems, wear nappies: on Greek vases they tend to be shown naked but for an amulet on a chain; a toddler is shown on the north frieze of the Ara Pacis reaching up to his parents, exposing his bare bottom as his short tunic rides up. Elite Roman boys, of the early imperial period at least, wore a special type of toga with a purple border (the toga praetexta) and a bulla, an amulet of a distinctive circular shape made of metal or leather: both the praetexta and the bulla were thought to provide protection during childhood.34 On the Ara Pacis even quite small boys are represented wearing the toga, despite the fact this could hardly have been a practical garment for small children (Figure 3.14). When a boy reached the appropriate age (usually fifteen or sixteen) his dress began to indicate his new-found status. In Greece, the chlamys (rectangular cloak) and the petasos (broad-brimmed hat) were the insignia which demarcated the special status of ephebes (sexually mature adolescent boys); in Rome a boy went through a coming-of-age ceremony which entailed laying aside his toga praetexta and bulla, and adopting the plain white toga of the adult Roman citizen instead (the toga virilis).35 Evidence for the dress of Greek girls is sparse, although it appears that they wore miniature imitations of adult female dress, while for very young children it seems that nudity was commonplace. There is little evidence to show that pre-pubescent girls were veiled, but the silence of the sources should not necessarily rule out the possibility. There are hints that veiling was imposed on (or was even keenly anticipated by) girls who had reached puberty and had experienced menarche. We know that this rite of passage was

FIGURE 3.14: Children (two boys and a girl) on the south frieze of the Ara Pacis Augustae (Altar of Angustan Peace). The boys also wear the bulla. Photo: Glenys Davies.

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marked by the addition of at least one “grown up” garment since Classical sources tell how the zo ¯n¯e , or waist-sash, was first worn by a girl at puberty only to be dedicated to Artemis as part of the subsequent marriage process. On the wedding night the groom loosened the bride’s zo ¯n¯e and in childbirth a woman sympathetically had her waist-sash untied. Brides wore distinctive costumes in Greece and bridal dress was loaded with color and symbolism. In Classical Athens, the bride was ritually dressed in elaborate wedding costume and jewelry—with symbolic designs, such as pomegranate motifs—on the first morning of the wedding celebrations, then crowned with a stephan¯e (tiara) or a chaplet of flowers (Figure 3.15). Over all this went a special krokos-colored (yellow-red) veil, temporarily lifted during the ceremony of the anakalypteria, and finally removed by the groom at the climax of the wedding festivities. Although Roman girls are usually represented wearing a long belted tunic, there are a few references and representations of girls, like boys, wearing the toga (but not a bulla). For girls, the significant garment change came with their marriage, for which the bride

FIGURE 3.15: Red-figure loutrophoros depicting a bridal procession, the bride wears a veil decorated with stars – probably representing its vivid color: red-orange, c. 450–425 BC. Photograph © 2016 Boston Museum of Fine Arts.

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wore a special costume of a tunica recta girt with a belt tied in a special knot (the nodus Herculaneus), with a special hairstyle (seni crines), and a flame-colored veil (flammeum) and flame-colored shoes.36 After her marriage the Roman matron wore a stola over her tunic, and a palla.37 There were no particular forms of dress associated with old age, although widows may have worn a distinctive form of small mantle as a head covering (the ricinium). Quintilian suggests that bright colors were inappropriate for the elderly, and a passage in the Historia Augusta says that the emperor issued an edict permitting old men to wear the paenula in the city in cold weather, suggesting that some relaxation of normal dress codes was acceptable for those of advanced years.38 In the Classical world, the death of an individual was often marked by the donning of particular garments by those in mourning, although it is difficult to know if a prescribed, protracted period of mourning followed all deaths. People certainly wore black, dark blue or gray as marks of grief; dirty clothes were also associated with mourning at Rome (atratus, sordidatus): men traditionally wore the toga pulla. Such clothes could also be worn in the face of other disasters or misfortunes, to show the wearer’s lack of care about their appearance.

NATURISM AND THE HEALTHY BODY UNCLOTHED The Greeks permitted, and indeed fetishized, situational nudity. The gymnasium was the place to display the healthy beauty of the male body and it was therefore a place routinely associated with sexual tension and courtship activity. The Greeks described the youths who frequented the gym as kaloi k’agathoi—the beautiful and the virtuous (compare the French jeunesse dorée)—suggesting that physical perfection was somehow directly linked to a man’s character: if one was beautiful on the outside, it stood to reason one must be good on the inside too. Therefore, for the Greeks the situational exposure of the healthy body in the gym or at the stadium was an expression of a man’s all-round moral excellence. The overt covering up of the body, as practised by the Persians, was therefore questionable to the Greeks. Indeed, they saw their eastern enemies were inherently weak, effeminate, and distrustful simply because they concealed their bodies too conspicuously. The idea that it was beneficial for health that the body be unclothed was more alien to the Romans. The representation in art of men (and to a lesser extent women) completely or virtually nude suggested one of two seemingly contradictory identities: barbarians (who were too uncivilized to wear clothes) and deities or heroes. The latter give their name to this form of dress: heroic nudity, as the nudity suggests the god- or hero-like qualities of the person so portrayed.39 Their bodies took an ideal form, and their nudity has been described as a “costume.”40 In real-life situations the Romans were more wary of nudity, which Italian tradition never embraced to the same extent as the Greeks for activities such as athletic competition or exercise.41 It would seem that Roman men were naked when bathing in the communal baths, although this may not have been the custom in the early- to mid-Republic, and clothes would appear to have been worn for exercising at the baths. The evidence is less clear for women, but again it is likely that all but the most prudish bathed naked. Bathers were, however, advised to wear sandals at the baths to protect their feet against the underfloor heating.

CONCLUSION Greek and Roman dress was in its basic form very adaptable and the same items of clothing could be worn in a variety of different ways according to circumstances, but that

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did not prevent the development (especially by the Romans) of a variety of specialist garments or for wearing at specific times, such as when working outdoors in inclement weather, or engaging in particular activities. In addition to covering the body for comfort’s sake, clothing also performed a number of other functions, including the expression of gender identity and sexuality: these too involved the relationship between the clothing and the body it covered (or the parts of the body it did not cover). This aspect will be considered further in Chapter 5.

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CHAPTER FOUR

Belief CARLY DANIEL - HUGHES

This chapter considers the reconstruction and functions of religious dress from Classical Greece to Christian late Antiquity. While not exhaustive, this survey begins with an examination of ritual dress in Greek, Roman, and “foreign” cults and mysteries over these centuries, concluding with fashion shifts corresponding to institutional developments within Christianity. “Belief” serves imperfectly to describe religious attitudes related to dressing the body for much of our survey of the ancient Mediterranean world. “Religious” refers here to ancient conceptions of divine beings, the rituals in which ancient people engaged to maintain relationships with those beings, and the institutions they established to support them. Ancient religions, particularly the cults of Greece and Rome, emphasized ritual performances, were devoid of dogma, and were notable for their diversity and local variety. Dress, we will discover, played various, and often integral, roles in those performances. The latter part of the chapter turns to early Christian materials where the category of belief becomes more salient. Christians freighted dress with moral and theological significance.1 In late Antiquity, dress became a primary marker of identity for all believers, and essential to the establishment and authorization of emerging social roles (monk, nun, priest) and institutions (monastery and church).

RITUAL DRESS IN GREEK AND ROMAN CULTS A first-century BC inscription of a sacred law for the mysteries of Demeter and Kore at Andania in the Peloponnese offers our richest and most detailed source on ritual dress in ancient cultic life.2 It will orient the discussion that follows. Nearly sixteen lines of the sacred decree concern the dress of initiates and cultic officials. At the Andanian mysteries all initiates are told to wear white, linen tunics and mantles, as opposed to those made of wool or transparent materials, and to go barefoot within the sacred precinct.3 In religious rites uniform dress—commonly white, or undyed, linen robes—signified that cult participants were bound to one another by a common ritual experience. At the same time, the more elaborate garb reserved for cult officials accentuated the “symbolic capital” of those who presided over the festivities.4 The Andanian law suggests that dress should differentiate among women according to ritual and economic status. The expense of women’s garments and their decoration could vary among classes of women: free women, girls, slaves, and “sacred women” those who presided over the rites. The free adult women, however, could have larger stripes and borders on their mantles, and more expensive mantles than that of girls or slaves.5 Sacred women were distinguished by wearing an undecorated kalasiris (a tunic-like garment) with fringe—a garment inspired by Egyptian styles.6 71

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Linen, being made from plant and not animal, was often considered ritually pure, and its simplicity and availability also made it appealing to variety of communities.7 Its association with Egypt meant that linen figured in the dress of initiates in the Isis cult.8 Commenting on the linen garments and shaved heads of Isiac priests, Plutarch (early second century AD) explains that they avoid hair (in the form of a woolen garment or on their own bodies). As something the body expels (like excrement), hair was seen as ritually contaminating.9 The fabric of choice for Pythagoreans, a philosophical sect widely known for its veganism and ascetic austerity,10 linen clothing was also worn in service in the Jerusalem Temple and later by Christians.11 Concerns with ritual purity may likewise explain the Andanian prohibition on shoes during the procession, and a restriction in the law forbidding shoes, except those made of felt or sacrificial leather, during the rites.12 It may have been common to go barefoot in sacred precincts in order not to carry “unholy ground between the sacred and secular boundaries.”13 In Antiquity “white” was often specified for religious contexts. Terms, such as the Greek leukos or Latin candidus, albus could indicate undyed, higher quality wool, clothing that had been bleached in the sun, or clothing to which pigment had been added to obtain a whiter look.14 “White” might indicate a range of hues, not simply pure white, and signified luminosity and brightness—qualities associated with the gods.15 Cultic officials regularly wore it, as did devotees.16 A sacred law from Cos indicates that the priests of Herakles Kallinikos donned white.17 Laws from Pergamon and Priene, like that at Andania, required white dress for those who entered the sacred compound.18 In the sanctuaries of the healing god, Asclepius, devotees donned white robes.19 The association of white with purity made it a choice hue for the cults of young women and matrons as well. Pausanias reports that the aged priestess of Sosipolis at Olympia (a women’s cult) wrapped her head in a white linen veil.20 Tertullian of Carthage indicates that white was the preferred color of the initiates of Ceres, a goddess associated with fertility.21 Ovid reports that the color was suitable to her April games, the Ludi Cereales.22 White clothing was especially associated with mystery cults, explaining its presence at Andania. Similarly, Apuleius’ novel, the Metamorphoses, records a sacred procession of the goddess, Isis, in which her initiates all don “ ‘shining robes.”23 Mystery cults emphasized ritual initiation in which the devotee gained a new ritual status, and in some cases a better fate in the afterlife. White could signal this shift. In late Antiquity, this symbolism was retained in Christian baptismal rituals, where the newly baptized were given white robes to indicate membership in the Christian community, and their improved spiritual status.24 Where white was suited to initiations and cult festivities, dark or gray tones were reserved for mourning and funerary contexts.25 A third-century BC inscription from Asia Minor insists that female mourners wear gray.26 In Roman contexts, citizen men would be expected to don the toga pulla (a dark toga), during periods of mourning.27 Mourning protocol for Roman women (which lasted for a longer period) dictated dark or black mantles and tunics along with the removal of insignia (such as jewelry).28 Wearing black clothing in periods of mourning is also attested among Jewish communities.29 For initiates into mystery cults, the wreath was also a crucial part of their costume, and was generally used on ritual and festive occasions.30 Wreaths of various kinds could adorn doorposts during festivals, were worn by brides, by soldiers in military triumphs,31 and by cultic officials and celebrants. Greek priestesses wore crowns in imitation of the goddesses they served.32 Roman women also regularly wore crowns, wreaths, and infula (below) to signal their role as priestesses of cults, such as Ceres and Fortuna.33 Male officials regularly

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donned wreaths as part of their sacred duties. On the sacrificial procession that appears on the great altar of Augustus, the Ara Pacis, various members of the priestly colleges and the imperial family appear wearing their laurel crowns (Figures 4.1 and 4.2).34 In mystery cults, gaining the crown was the central point of the initiation ritual. At Andania, all first-time initiates exchanged their tiaras for wreaths.35 In the Great Mysteries of Demeter and Kore, held annually just outside Athens at Eleusis, first-time initiates (neophtyes) were wreathed with myrtle crowns. In the cult of Dionysius, gold crowns, called lamellae, would be given upon initiation. Often inscribed with messages, and arranged in a leaf-pattern, these crowns have been found in tombs. Engraved with instructions, they were thought to help an initiate navigate the afterlife.36 To facilitate the transformative effect of particular cultic rites, an initiate might manipulate or change their clothing. A cloth veil could shield the initiate’s eyes during important moments indicating his or her access to sacred mysteries.37 Prenuptial rites of passage attest to more dramatic costume changes. At the Arkteia in the Artemis sanctuary at Brauron, for instance, Athenian girls donned a special garment, the saffron krokotos, which they then shed as a symbol of the transition from childhood to maidenhood.38 Similarly at the Heraia at Olympia, girls donned a short chit¯on with breast bared, a garment normally worn by male soldiers.39 At the Cretan Ekdusia, it was young men who wore feminine clothing as part of their transition into adulthood.40 This temporary ritual

FIGURE 4.1: Procession of the imperial court and family on North Side of the Ara Pacis. Photo: DEA /G. DAGLI ORTI /De Agostini/Getty Images.

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“cross-dressing” signaled the leaving behind of sexual ambiguity, and the assumption of the accepted roles—for girls, of wives and mothers; for boys, soldiers and citizens.41 In the Roman context, dress likewise facilitated boys’ transition into manhood. In a formal ceremony, young citizen boys would abandon their bordered toga and protective amulet, the bulla, for the white robe of the male citizen, the toga virilis.42

Dress as an Offering Devotees regularly made gifts of clothing to deities—a practice that is attested particularly among female devotees to Athena and Artemis. The most prominent example occurred at the Panathenaia festival during which the goddess Athena Polias was given a sacred peplos for her protection of the city and its agricultural seasons.43 The peplos was a traditional archaic garment, one associated with femininity, chastity, and domestic labor—as such, fitting for Athena, the patroness of weavers. Woven by a special class of Athenian girls (ergasitinai), this garment was decorated with mythical scenes, and was saffron yellow (krokos) in color. This hue symbolized femininity and was used regularly in ritual contexts (such as the Brauron, see above).44 On the eastern and central frieze of the Parthenon, we see a scene showing the dedication of the peplos to Athena. It features a procession perhaps lead by the ergasitinai and the priestess of Athena Polias. At the priestess’ back stands the archon basileus and a young child, possibly a girl in the goddess service, one of the arrephoroi. The pair accept the garment on behalf of the goddess whose statue will be adorned with it (Figure 4.2).45 Individuals gave clothing to temple treasuries, motivated by individual piety, or in commemoration of a ritual event. Following initiation in the Eleusinian mysteries, for instance, an initiate could dedicate his or her clothing to Demeter in remembrance of a new ritual status.46 At Artemis’ Temple in Brauron women gifted a variety of dress items— mirrors, tunics, belts, and himations. These may have been made for the goddess, or chosen as favorites of the women who owned them.47 As personal items, clothes were a fitting expression of gratitude for this goddess who oversaw childbirth and the onset of menarche. This form of piety was likely limited to the elite, given the expense of clothing in Antiquity.48 Clothing dedications were not always intentional, however; a devotee

FIGURE 4.2: East frieze of the Parthenon. © The Trustees of the British Museum.

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might be forced to donate clothing to a deity if she violated a sumptuary law. A sixthcentury BC bronze tablet inscription from a sanctuary of Demeter in Arcadia reports that women who appear for the festivities in “brightly-colored” robes must dedicate their garments to the goddess.49 Similarly, at Andania, women’s clothing that did not meet the sartorial requirements outlined there could be destroyed, or given to the gods.50

Ritual Dress and Women Prescriptions regarding ritual dress were often more restrictive for women than for men. At the Andanian mysteries, for example, female devotees were prohibited transparent clothing, gold, rouge, and white make-up and shoes (unless made of felt or sacrificial leather). Hair could not be braided or worn with ribbons.51 Bound and plaited hair was forbidden, along with strapped leather shoes because binding and knotting were linked with magical spells.52 Women’s loose hair also differentiated festive from hair styles in mundane times.53 Prohibitions against women’s luxurious garb likewise curbed ostentatious display that might be read as seductive.54 Restrictions on women’s dress routinely targeted sacred processions. Women’s participation in these public spectacles offered them a unique opportunity to be on display. For this reason, we find similar restrictions on women’s adornment at funerals, which also included processions to the graveside.55 These restrictions reflect ancient male perceptions of women as irrational and potentially disruptive, particularly in public gatherings. The containment of women’s dress operated on the notion that it would constrain their behavior as well. So critical was this concern that in Greek cities the office of the gynaiokonomos (the controller of women) was established to ensure that women were arranged in an orderly manner and observed sartorial requirements.56 While sacred laws limited ostentatious display, literary and artistic accounts suggested that women should appear alluring during sacred processions to showcase their marriageability. Greek literary accounts of the kanephorus—the young girl who carried the basket of sacred paraphernalia, often at the head of a procession—commonly stress the girl’s beauty and white make-up, the very look discouraged in the Andanian law.57

Ritual Dress and Cultic Officials For much of the Greek and Roman world, cult officials did not sport a regular priestly costume that differed markedly from the clothing of devotees.58 Rather, as with the classes of women at the Andanian mysteries, subtle sartorial differences distinguished cultic officials. Some exceptions can be made for major Roman priesthoods, as well as priesthoods of foreign cults, as we will see. In iconography, priests of Greek cults might be identified by their long chit¯ons—as in the image of archon basileus on the Parthenon frieze59—but are usually identified by the implements they carry, such as a sacrificial knife, or in the case of priestesses, a temple key.60 Purple cloaks, gold jewelry and crowns, wreaths, and headbands were regular features of priestly dress.61 In Roman contexts, priestesses might wear woolen bands, infulae (below). Crowns, gold jewelry, and purple belonged both to royalty and divinity throughout the Mediterranean world, and thus, indicated the prestige of cult officials, and their affiliation with the sacred in caring for the gods or overseeing initiation rites.62 Cultic officials regularly wore purple (commonly paired with white).63 Purple took on another valence in the Roman context, indicating civic rank and office, of which civic priesthoods were a part.64 The color figured into a nuanced vestimentary code that

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distinguished citizens from non-citizens, and identified ranks among citizen elites in Rome and its territories. Priests (flamines) of major Roman cults wore the toga praetexta with a purple stripe at its edge, a garment they shared with magistrates.65 During sacrifice, the presiding priest would draw his long toga over his head (capite velato) as Marcus Agrippa does on the Ara Pacis (see Figure 4.1).66 This posture became a favorite in imperial portraiture, as a way for emperors to showcase their priestly office and their piety.67 The most ancient Roman priesthoods had other sartorial requirements. Augurs—whose job it was to interpret the will of the gods through various means of divination—carried a curved stick, the lituus, and donned a trabea, a short-rounded mantle.68 The flamen Dialis, the priest of Jupiter, donned a thick-wool cloak, the laena (reportedly woven by his wife, the flaminica), over a bordered toga.69 On his head he wore an albogalerus, a white conical cap made from the skins of sacrificial animals and topped with a spike of olive wood, the apex.70 Members of the highest-ranking flamines also wore a galerus with apex, as is shown on the Ara Pacis south frieze (see Figure 4.3).71 The flamen Dialis had additional restrictions: he could have no knot or ties in his dress, and he could not appear in public without his galerus and tunic. These prohibitions coincided with others that preserved his connection to Rome and his ritual purity: his bedposts were daubed in mud so that he would never loose contact with Roman soil; he could never oversee an army, or enter a graveyard; and if divorced, he must resign.72

FIGURE 4.3: Ara Pacis relief of Augustus in procession with priests (flamines) in their special headgear and laena (mantle). Photo: DEA /G. DAGLI ORTI /De Agostini/Getty Images.

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The flaminica Dialis, too, was reportedly identifiable by her dress. Her hair, made up in a titulus, a towering bun, was bound with woolen purple fillets, vittae, overlaid by a wreath and saffron veil.73 She wore a stola, signifying her matronal status. The dress of the Vestal Virgins was inspired by her archaic costume.74 Their signature hairstyle, the seni crines (or sex crines), included six braids that wrapped the head, was adorned with infula.75 Elaine Fantham has argued that these woolen hanks of red and white wrapped the head, and woolen ribbons, called vittae, were attached to them.76 Like wreaths, woolen fillets were used commonly in Roman ritual contexts, adorning altars, sacrificial victims, and were worn by priests and priestesses—demarcating the ritually exclusive and pure.77 At sacrifice, Vestals added a siffibulum, a short white veil.78 In a second-century portrait bust, a Vestal wears the siffibulum on the top of the infula, which wrap her brow and fall in loops on either side of her head (Figure 4.4). The garb of flaminicia and the Vestal Virgins signified purity, and their hairstyles, sexual chastity, revealing a logic in which the cultic agent represented the divinity he or she served. Just as the flamen Dialis was believed to be the living image of Jupiter,79 Ovid reports that the Vestals were pure and chaste because the goddess they served is “virgin who neither gives nor takes seeds” (virgo est, quae semina nulla remittit nec capit).80 This logic could apply to appearance as well. Cult officials and devotees might model their garb on that of the divine beings they attended, perhaps especially in processions.81 A Greek novel, An Ephesian Tale (second century AD ), reports how one maiden, the fourteen-yearold Anthia, lead a procession for Artemis, adorned in imitation of the goddess, equipped with a purple tunic, fawnskin, quiver and bow, appearing to her on-lookers as an epiphany

FIGURE 4.4: Roman statue of the High Priestess of Vesta. National Museum, Rome. Photo by CM Dixon/Print Collector/Getty Images.

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of the goddess.82 Imitative dress could also add dramatic realism in cultic contexts that included sacred dramas, such as at the Eleusinian mysteries or Themosphoria where initiates re-enacted Demeter’s long search for her daughter Persephone.83

Clothing of Foreign Cults Priests and devotees of foreign cults, such as that of the Great Mother from Anatolia, Isis from Egypt, or the priests of the Jerusalem Temple, wore distinctive, even exotic dress. The eunuch priests of the Great Mother, the galli, were known (and derided) for their shrill singing and music as well as their flamboyant garb.84 These bands of long-haired galli were painted with make-up, wore saffron or multi-colored robes, upon which they attached small reliefs.85 Their elaborate costumes could include rings and other jewelry, turbans (mitra), and fanciful crowns.86 This distinctive dress is apparent in this secondcentury funerary portrait from outside Rome of a priest of Cybele (Figure 4.5).

FIGURE 4.5: Marble relief of a Priest of Cybele second century AD . Capitoline Museum, Rome.

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Participants in the Isis cult adopted a particular style of dress that symbolized their ritual purity, and the Egyptian heritage of their cult. Where male priests wore linen tunics and had shaved heads, female initiates and priestesses of the cult donned a linen mantle with a knotted fringe.87 Worn cross-wrapped over a tunic, both ends of were tied in a slipknot at the chest.88 A second-century AD Attic funerary stele commemorates a female initiate of the Isiac mysteries. This woman, Sosibia, wears the Egyptian tunic with slipknot and holds a rattle (sistrum) and a small vase (situla), ritual implements associated the cult (Figure 4.6).89 While ancient Jews had some unique clothing habits, related to biblical injunctions, they were not necessarily visually distinctive from other groups in the Roman world.90 However, distinctive dress could also be found on priests of the Jerusalem Temple. These men reportedly dressed in linen tunics over pants, a headdress, and sash.91 The high priest wore these items with the addition of a crown, ephod, and breastplate—these were richly ornamented garments of gold, blue, and purple, encrusted with stones—and an outer robe, lined with bells and cloth pomegranates.92 On the Day of Atonement, he abandoned this elaborate clothing in exchange for simple linen tunic, undergarments, and turban.93 Whether items of Jerusalem Temple priestly dress retained the same look and were worn in the same way from the biblical into the Roman period seems unlikely.94 Reconstructing priestly clothing from the Greek and Roman periods is complex because we do not have visual representations of it that date to the period of the Temple.95 In the third-century AD frescoes of the Dura Europos synagogue in Syria, we find an image of Aaron in his ornate high priestly clothing (Figure 4.7). Whether this image bears

FIGURE 4.6: Second-century funeral portrait of Isiac initiate. Roman, from Attica, AD 160–170. The Greek inscription reads “Sosibia [daughter of] Euboios of Kephissia.” Photograph © 2016 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

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FIGURE 4.7: Consecration of the tabernacle and its priests (WB 2 Plate LX ), Dura Europas. Yale University Art Gallery.

true resemblance to Jewish priestly costume, or is an imaginative representation of biblical passages, is not clear.96 This image recalls other treatments of priestly dress after the Temple was destroyed in AD 70 when some Jews continued to develop a rich semiotics of this garb. Reflecting on biblical passages and the (defunct) sacrificial system outlined in them, some asserted that the garments of the high priest mirrored the cosmos and had divine origins.97

DRESS IN ANCIENT CHRISTIAN COMMUNITIES Like others in the Roman Empire, Christians wore tunics and mantles of differing types, and as fashions changed into late Antiquity, hooded cloaks and various kinds of trousers.98 Clerical vestments developed from these mundane items of dress (below). Our earliest written accounts of Christian clothing, the gospels, stress the ordinary simplicity of Jesus’ and his disciples’ dress. They preferred unstained, linen garb, which was treated as an indication of their humble faith and contrasted with the opulent garb of the high priests, the Jewish Pharisees, and royalty.99 Over the centuries, however, clerical vestments moved from simplicity towards elaborateness.100 Christians did not develop totally unique clothing, but endowed dress with symbolism more intensely than the other communities we have considered. Christians relied on notions about the body drawn not from ancient cultic religion, but from moral philosophy—namely, that outer appearance revealed inner disposition, even divine truths. Extending this view to their entire community, they made clothing a critical marker of Christian identity.101 Early Christians used biblical metaphors for dress, notably the apostle Paul’s image of baptism as “putting on Christ,” as a way to speak about the transformative effects of baptismal ritual (which included vesting and divesting), or as a metaphor for Christian

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living.102 They often attached this language to their views on Christ’s incarnation to lend theological significance to the clothed bodies of Christians.103 Some Christians held a deep affinity for the philosophical mode of life and claimed its iconic garb—the Greek himation/Latin pallium—as their own. Ancient philosophers regularly critiqued luxurious dress, promoting instead a look that indicated the virtues of modesty and self-control: a worn-out pallium together with unkempt hair and beard.104 Early Christian men who wore the pallium, like Justin Martyr (AD 100–165), did so to assert their intellectual credentials and the credibility of their movement as a philosophy.105 But Tertullian of Carthage (AD 160–220), who wrote the first early Christian treatise about men’s dress, On the Pallium, alternatively emphasized selfdiscipline and a rejection of civic politics. Tertullian stresses the simplicity of the garment in comparison with the long and fussy folds of the toga, the signature garment of the Roman statesman. The pallium represents a mode of life based on solitude and contemplation. Ultimately, the pallium’s association with pagan philosophy made it less appealing as everyday garb once the Empire became Christianized.106 Yet it remained popular in visual representations of biblical figures, the prophets and apostles, and especially of Christ himself. A garment that suggests learned wisdom was the ideal costume for these holy figures that guide believers in the life of faith.107

Monastic Dress for Men In the fourth and fifth centuries, ascetic writers developed a rich symbolism of the uniform of male monastics following the logic that it both reflects a man’s moral virtue and conditions him towards this goal. A standard uniform was developed for men in these communities, which included a hood, tunic (colobia), shoulder straps (scapular), cape, sheepskin mantle (melote), and staff.108 Produced in the monastic house, this costume was worn by all brethren. Desert monastics donned a similar outfit, though perhaps made of haircloth.109 In exchanging his regular clothing for it, a monk signaled his renunciation of the secular world and unity with others in his house in the pursuit of Christ-like discipline.110 Evagrius of Pontus (AD 345–399) writes that the monastic uniform reveals the virtues of Christ—humility, charity, purity, and even, his saving death—in wearing it, the monk conforms himself to them.111 John Cassian (AD 360–435) explains that the cowl calls the monk to childhood innocence and simplicity, and the linen tunic is like a mourning shroud, indicating that he “has died to a worldly way of life.” He insists that every item of the monastic uniform is biblically based, in an effort to place this emerging social identity, monk, in a venerable lineage. The prophets Elijah and his predecessor Elisha, he notes, wore the sheepskin mantle. Elijah likewise carried a staff, a representation of the cross. It has protective power: a monk must call on it to beat back the evil spirits who aim to thwart his spiritual progress.112 The notion that dress could have magical and protective power, however, is attested outside monastic and even Christian circles. Henry Maguire has demonstrated that Byzantine tunics with embroidered clavi and roundels were worn to attract prosperity as well as fend off malevolent spirits. Similarly as pilgrims, ancient Christians commonly wore amulets, phylacteries with written charms, and relics in order to obtain divine protection; some Christians were also buried with these items.113

Modest Dress and Christian Women For many early Christian writers it was women’s, and not men’s, dress that captivated their attention. Promoting the modest look, Christian men picked up a discourse borrowed

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from Roman moral philosophy that dress indicated not only women’s virtue, but also that of their household and community. Beginning with the apostle Paul, they held up the idea that women in their communities should cultivate and display modesty in their dress.114 They warned against make-up, jewelry, wigs, braids, embroidered and dyed fabrics, ribbons, and perfumes, employing shaming tactics to cajole Christian women to compliance.115 John Chrysostom (AD 347–407) complained that women who adorned themselves used wealth improperly—and their opulent look revealed that men were failing to manage their households in a virtuous and edifying manner.116 The secondcentury teacher, Clement of Alexandria, linked women’s adornment with idolatry and fornication. Tertullian and Cyprian of Carthage (AD 200–258) raged that adorned women advertised their sexual desirability. Calling women the “Devil’s Gateway,” Tertullian extended this rhetoric to its limit, arguing that women’s elaborate dress was the occasion for human sin.117 In part, these writers feared that in wearing fine dress, women showcased their independent wealth, a threat to male-led households and churches. Yet Christian women of means did not routinely abandon luxurious garb upon entering these communities. Jewelry and ornate dress were valuable ways for Roman women to indicate their social and marital status, and it served them as status markers in Christian contexts.118 Yet women who pursued an ascetic vocation did indicate their new spiritual vocation through a change of clothing.119 Casting off ornate garb, they donned dark, unadorned woolen clothing, and in some cases shaved their hair as a sign of their renunciation.120 Some women opted for the monastic garb of Christian brethren, including a coarse tunic, belt, and haircloth cowl.121 The austerity of ascetic women’s dress was a complication for some early Christians, however. In foregoing fine garb, these women erased social distinctions and potentially the gendered distinctions upon which church offices were being founded. The Council of Gangra (AD 325–381) rejected what it deemed theatrical transvestism as a form of false asceticism.122 Subsequent imperial edicts barred women who had cut their hair from even entering the churches.123 This particular legislation coincided with the promotion of the veil for consecrated virgins. Following Paul, male Christian writers routinely advocated veiling for women in their communities—a practice initially associated with Roman matrons. In the fourth century, it became the marker of Christian virgins. In a public ceremony (the velatio), a bishop would bestow a veil upon a virgin, indicating her vow of lifelong celibacy and submission to episcopal authority.124

Clerical Vestments Where ascetic dress was austere and downplayed distinctions, episcopal dress increasingly emphasized the dignity of male office holders over the laity, and distinguished between bishops, priests, deacons and the other orders. Resplendent dress was increasingly seen as the appropriate clothing for representatives of the heavenly realm—just as gold and fine textiles regularly figured in the iconography of the saints.125 In the third century, Pope Sylvester maintained that deacons should wear the dalmatic in the churches, a short tunic worn unbelted, with long, wide sleeves, which could be decorated with the broad stripes (angusti clavi) (Figure 4.8). The fourth-century Council of Laodicea forbade sub-deacons, readers, and chanters to wear the orarium.126 A predecessor of the stole, this garment was worn around the neck.127

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Though it is only in the thirteenth century that we can speak of standardized clerical vestments in the Latin Church,128 already by the fifth century, particular items had become routine in episcopal costume: the orarium and dalmatic (above) and the paenula and pallium.129 Borrowed from the mundane dress of the late antique Roman world, these garments evolved and were refined over the centuries, imbued with theological symbolism and retained into the Medieval period.130 Our earliest visual representation of a Christian bishop, a mosaic of Ambrose of Milan (AD 340–397), shows him wearing a white tunic (tunica alba) under a dalmatic with clavi and a brown paenula (Figure 4.9). The paenula (or casula) was originally a semi-circular cloak with hood, a practical garment designed for harsh weather. Predecessor of the medieval chasuble, clerics wore the paenula without a hood, made of wool or silk, and dyed in a variety of colors suited to liturgical occasions.131 The origin of the bishop’s pallium is more complex. A circular scarf of white, the garment was draped around the neck forming a “Y,” embroidered with crosses, and could be embellished with fringes, shown on the Bishop Maximianus in the San Vitale mosaics (Figure 4.10). This garment seems to have evolved from the himation/pallium of the same name, and decreased in size over the centuries. By the early Medieval period, it was the signature garment of metropolitan bishops in the Latin Church.132 In giving the garment, the Pope transferred ecclesiastical power and communion in the apostolic lineage of St. Peter.

FIGURE 4.8: Orans figure from the Catacomb of Priscilla, Rome, showing praying woman in dalmatic with head covered. Photo: Scala/Art Resource, NY .

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FIGURE 4.9: Mosaic of Ambrose of Milan, Sant’ Ambrogio, Milan. Photo: Scala/Art Resource, NY .

FIGURE 4.10: Mosaic of Justinian and his entourage, including Bishop Maximianus, from San Vitale, Ravenna. Image http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Meister_von_San_Vitale_in_Ravenna_003.jpg

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Christians rendered clerical vestments meaningful by linking them with the dress of biblical prophets as well as that of the Israelite priesthood.133 Jerome (AD 347–420) commented on biblical prescriptions for the dress of Levitical priests in the Holy of Holies, suggesting that Christian priests should wear special clothing when serving at the altar.134 Gregory the Great (AD 540–604) compared the luminous pallium with the Jewish high priest’s ephod.135 In this context, episcopal clothing obtained authority by relying on a notion that dress communicated moral character and theological truths, and it was used to highlight priests’ status as mediators of the divine in presiding over the sacraments (notably the Eucharist) of the Church.136

CONCLUSION Dress was a dynamic part of the religious lives of ancient Mediterranean people. It demarcated sacred space and festive time; it facilitated ritual experience and played a pivotal role in rites of passage and initiation. It fostered identity; it distinguished between communities and within them; it asserted and maintained group bonds and boundaries; it displayed deeply held values of community members; it solidified institutional structures. Yet in Greek and Roman cultic contexts, dress was relative rather than absolute; ritual clothing was temporary, worn in particular contexts and on particular occasions; its significance was drawn from these things, and its suitability was based on codes of ritual purity, rather than morality. For early Christians, however, dress began to take on moral and theological character. Belief, they held, should be manifest on the bodies of the faithful. Yet Christians did not always agree on the dress best suited to their communities. And they used dress in a variety of ways: to articulate their identity within the Roman Empire, to shore up gender roles and differences, and increasingly, to legitimate the status of ascetics and clerics, and to confirm the growing institutional power of the Church over all aspects of Christian life.

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CHAPTER FIVE

Gender and Sexuality GLENYS DAVIES AND LLOYD LLEWELLYN-JONES

In his illuminating mid-twentieth century study, The Importance of Wearing Clothes, Lawrence Langner asks a fundamental question: “Why do men’s and women’s clothes differ?” He answers by noting that the need to distinguish between the two sexes is only superficially correct since nature “at the outset ordained that men and women should differ in appearance by providing their bodies with distinctive physical characteristics.” So why are there gendered differences in dress? Langner finds an explanation in “the male’s desire to assert superiority over the female and to hold her to his service. This he accomplished through the ages by means of special clothing which hampered or handicapped her movements.”1 Moreover, the hampering of female movement is closely linked to what Langner termed “the erotic impulse” in which the female (more than the male) is the focus of sexual desire that is emphasized through and around her clothing and, as an extension of the idea, the shedding of garments. Langner’s theories, though lacking contemporary finesse of interpretation, nevertheless hold well for concepts of dress, gender, and sexuality in Antiquity. In spite of initial appearances regarding the basic “unisex” structure of ancient Greek and Roman garments, men and women would have been easily discerned as different by their dress and the way it was worn throughout the Classical world and at all periods of Antiquity. The idea that men and women wore different types of clothing is even enshrined in Roman legal writings: Digest 34.2.23 talks about clothing intended for the use of men or women or children (but the text also recognizes that some garments were common to both sexes and includes slaves as a separate category). However, many Greek and Roman garments which one would assume to be gender-specific on closer examination are revealed to indeed have had a unisex function. The Greek chito ¯n and Roman tunic, for example, were staple elements of Greek and Roman male and female dress, but the female versions of these garments were usually longer and more voluminous (women’s tunics were at least ankle-length and could cover the feet—and sometimes trail on the floor—whereas men’s were usually worn knee-length or, at most, at mid-calf). While the basic shape and, sometimes, the name of a garment may have been identical for men and women, it was often the draping of the cloth that gave clothing its gender distinction. Thus in the Greco-Roman world, although the garments worn by men and woman might seem to us similar in design and construction (for instance, a tunic with a draped mantle on top was worn by both sexes) they were recognizably different in aspects such as their colors and fabrics as well as how they were worn or draped. For example, both the pallium worn by men and the palla worn by women are large rectangular pieces of cloth, but the ways in which men and women normally draped them around the body were quite different (see Figures 5.1, 5.4 and 5.9). 87

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Garments with complex folds tended to be associated with femininity,2 and men (who spent more time out of doors) often wore thicker wool and linen, whereas fine linen and even silk were associated with women (when they could afford it) and were considered effeminate if worn by men. Women’s clothing could be any of a wide range of colors and hues, whereas men’s clothing tended to be more limited in range, with a preference for white or dark colors, especially the natural colors of undyed wool. The Roman toga was plain white, the only possible variants being the added purple edging of the toga praetexta worn by boys and certain magistrates, and the dark-colored toga worn when mourning. There were, however, some garments that had strongly gendered connotations. The peplos is a well-known and easily recognizable form of Greek female dress, never worn by men. But the history of this type of garment is, in fact, rather complex and problematic: well attested in art in the Archaic period, after that the peplos was not part of daily dress and, in practice, it became primarily a ritual garment, important in artistic representations because it had a profound symbolic association with Greek tradition, particularly ideas of gender. It expressed feminine virtues of chastity, fecundity, and domestic labor.3 Similarly steeped in gender ideology are the Roman toga and stola. Although Roman antiquarian tradition says that in early Rome both men and women wore the toga, by the late Republic and into the imperial period the toga was associated with the Roman citizen male, the plain white toga virilis being the form worn by adults after their coming of age ceremony, and the toga praetexta (with its purple border) by their sons.4 The stola was the garment worn by Roman citizen wives, matronae, and it signified not only their gender but also their status as chaste married women: it was visually and in its design a very different kind of garment from the toga. The toga, however, was also the garment supposedly worn by prostitutes and adulteresses, women who were not entitled to wear the stola, and whose transgressive behavior as women was signaled by wearing malegendered clothing. Oddly, though, the toga was also, for a time at least, seen as appropriate for young girls of aristocratic families, presumably because, before puberty, they were not yet fully gendered as female.5 For an adult woman wearing a toga was an admission of transgression (adultery), and for a man to be said to be wearing a stola was an insult.6 In addition to differences in design, draping, fabric, and color, there were also significant gendered differences in the ways the garments were worn and manipulated while being worn. In both Greece and Rome, modesty could be expressed by binding the arms close to the body by wrapping one or both inside the himation, pallium or palla: statues of Greek politicians and other civilians often show them adopting such a pose and some early statues of Roman men in togas do too, but this rather reticent way of wearing their drapery, which restricts movement of the arms and hands, was associated particularly with youths and above all women (see Figures 3.7, 5.9, and 6.7). The Roman man’s toga was in many ways just as awkward and hampering as the outdoor garments worn by Roman matrons, but it was generally draped in such a way that it did not (or at least should not) need constant adjustment and did not fall over the feet, making walking at a measured pace and gesturing with the hands possible: however they are draped, the toga and himation worn by men appear to remain in place without them having to hold or adjust them. In contrast, women are more likely to be shown actively manipulating their drapery, and constantly clutching at clothes was a feminine characteristic for both Greek and Roman women.7 These movements often accentuate their grace and elegance, and emphasize parts of the body underneath. Women touch, raise, clutch, or pull at folds of their drapery in gestures that suggest refinement and feminine sensuality (Figure. 5.2 “veil

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FIGURE 5.1: Demosthenes draped in himation. Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, Copenhagen. Photo: Ole Haupt.

FIGURE 5.2: Young woman raises her pharos in a veiling gesture. Line drawing from a stone votive relief from Sparta c. 520. Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, Copenhagen. Drawing by Lloyd Llewellyn–Jones.

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gesture”).8 This is clearly seen in art, but that manipulation of drapery was something a well-bred girl was expected to master in real life is suggested by Sappho’s criticism of the peasant girl who does not know the elegant art of raising the folds of her skirt.9 Many women in Classical art are shown lifting a portion of a sleeve, a skirt, or a veil simply because it looks pretty, in a gesture that seems to have no other obvious rationale. Women’s garments could hamper freedom of movement, especially when worn outdoors: the length of a woman’s chito ¯n or stola made rapid walking impossible and the voluminous himation and palla ensured the hands were kept occupied in holding it in place (especially if used as a head veil or to veil the lower face), but scenes set inside the home on Greek vases and tombstones suggest that the arms were sufficiently free to allow for domestic activities such as spinning, weaving and looking after children, and they also allow them to adopt more alluring poses for the benefit of those living in the house (their husbands)—and, of course, the viewer of the vase on which the image is placed (see Figure 0.2, Amasis Painter weaving scene). Jewelry too was particularly associated with women. Greek and Roman men might wear a signet ring or fasten a cloak with a brooch but only women wore necklaces, earrings, bracelets and other types of rings. Although men complained about women’s love of finery (especially pearls and gemstones such as emeralds) as a drain on the polis, state, or household economies, and a sign of women’s natural weakness, jewelry and other forms of adornment were seen as typically feminine and to be expected in women’s dress.10 The myth of the first woman, Pandora, tells how she was sent to earth from the gods weighed down with fine jewelry, crafted by Hephaistos and Athene, and bedecked like a bride. In fact, Greek bridal jewelry could be highly symbolic, with pomegranates and pomegranate seeds crafted in gold and semi-precious stones to symbolize bounteous fertility and, of course, the myth of Persephone’s separation from her mother, the goddess Demeter, and her marriage to the god Hades, a story of deep emotional resonance for any young Greek bride.11 On Attic tombstones, married women are shown choosing jewelry from a casket, and in vase paintings (especially on vases made in Southern Italy) women are shown wearing gold and pearls. In the Roman world, painted Egyptian mummy portraits represent women wearing a wide range of different designs of necklaces and earrings: men are not shown wearing such jewelry, although amulets may be worn by boys.12 It would seem, however, that many emperors saw themselves as exceptions to the normal Roman masculine dress codes, having a penchant for expensive dyes and fabrics (in particular purple, cloth made with gold thread, and silk) and they might also wear precious jewels as a sign of their pre-eminence.

EFFEMINACY AND CROSS-DRESSING In spite of the norms of gendered ideas of dress, and even the laws on gendered dressing, the distinction between the sexes was not always as obvious in Greek and Roman clothing as in medieval and modern dress. The nature of Greek and Roman clothing means that gender differences were often blurred, their nuances difficult for us to understand today, leading to a degree of confusion in scholarship. For instance, a group of bearded men on a series of late Archaic (Anakreontic) vases were once regarded as cross-dressers for their voluminous flowing garments: in fact, these are more probably early examples of luxurious Ionian linen garments, indicating wealth and leisure (some are depicted with Persian-style parasols) but not of transvestism (Figure 5.3).13 Nonetheless, a concept of purposeful

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FIGURE 5.3: Red-figure amphora. Side A: Komast holding a skyphos and playing a barbiton. First quarter of fifth century BC , Athens. Louvre, Paris. Photo: Herve Lewandowski © RMN -Grand-Palais/Art Resource, NY .

cross-dressing obviously existed in Antiquity. Men wearing female garments, or adopting other female attributes, are criticized or derided: ancient Hebrew law condemns men wearing female garments (Deuteronomy 22:5), though formal restrictions are less consistently apparent in the Classical sources. Men were from time to time represented wearing women’s clothing in Classical literature and art: perhaps the best known example of such cross-dressing is the story of Herakles/Hercules and Omphale, in which he adopts her clothing and lifestyle, and she takes on his lion-skin and club. Men might also wear women’s clothing as a disguise, for example as part of the plot in a comedy (such as Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae, in which a man wishes to infiltrate a women’s religious gathering, and is not only shown dressing as a woman but is also advised on how to manipulate his clothing in a feminine way). Cross-dressing as a disguise may also have happened in real life in emergency situations (both by men and by women), but perhaps the most infamous instance of cross-dressing is P. Clodius’ adoption of female disguise to attend the women-only rites of the Bona Dea in 62 BC , an incident used by Cicero to belittle his political enemy.14 This is rather different from habitual cross-dressing, for which there is rather less evidence. Certain male deities and some men in real life chose to wear clothing that was considered more appropriate for women than men, such as yellow-red (Greek krokos) chito ¯ns. Krokos, a dye made from saffron, was regarded as the feminine color par excellence; for a man to wear it opened him to comment. So Aristophanes depicts the poet Agathon wearing all the correct feminine accoutrement,

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including a krokos gown; Dionysus wears the lion-skin of Herakles over a krokos-colored dress as he descends into Hades and Heracles drags up in the krokos robes of Queen Omphale in her Lydian palace.15 In imitation of such tropes, Mark Antony and Cleopatra exchanged dress and armor during their Alexandrian revels.16 Female-to-male transvestism is less commonly reported, but mythological women, such as Omphale and the Amazons don masculine garb (see later). While transvestism was commonplace in the theater, the relative lack of gender distinction in dress led to a broad spectrum of types of crossdressing, from full impersonation (generally female) to simple or subtle assumption of items or gestures associated with gender norms. At Rome, certain elements of dress were considered to contravene the manly man’s dress code, but they appear to have been adopted by some men nevertheless: in the late Republic and up until late imperial times (when fashions changed) it was considered effeminate (effeminatus, mollis) for men to wear long sleeves (falling to the wrists) or ankle-length tunics; fringes were suspect, and so was wearing a belt tied too loosely, jewelry, soft indoor shoes (socci), and garments made of silk. In fact, generally taking too much care about one’s appearance (hairstyle, body-hair removal, carefully arranged drapery folds) was, for a man, a sign of a lack of true Roman masculinity. The suggestion of being effeminate or womanish was a potent weapon in Roman political invective, and how one dressed (along with movements, voice, and physical appearance) was used as a clear indication of effeminacy.17 The accusation of effeminacy manifested in dress and mannerism was made against some surprisingly famous and well-regarded men: the orators Demosthenes and Q. Hortensius, the cultural guru of the Augustan court Maecenas, and even Julius Caesar. These men were said actually to revel in their supposedly unmanly appearance, and it has been suggested that such “effeminate” affectations were in fact deliberately adopted by late Republican “popular” politicians to distinguish themselves from the more traditional optimates.18 These aristocratic politicians and orators may have extended the gender boundaries in their clothing and appearance, but they could not be said to cross-dress. Some emperors (most notably Caligula) were also said to have worn various forms of inappropriate dress, including that of women. Occasionally, women are reported to have worn male clothing as a disguise, but this was usually for a specific purpose such as when escaping with their husbands into exile. Women like Caligula’s wife Caesonia, who adopted elements of male dress (in her case a masculine-style cloak, helmet and shield when visiting the army), were not generally judged positively.19 Cross-dressing as a lifestyle choice and expression of sexual identity only appears to apply in a few special cases, such as certain priests in foreign religious cults with exotic practices, like the eunuch Galli in the cult of Cybele, who wore long brightly colored garments with long sleeves and on their heads an elaborate headdress (mitra), with lots of jewelry (including earrings and finger rings) and ornaments on their chests. They also had long hair and often wore makeup. In short they dressed and behaved like women (see Figure 4.5).20

CONCEALMENT AND REVELATION It is important to realize that Greek women routinely veiled themselves.21 The extent to which Roman women were also veiled is more difficult to ascertain as they are frequently shown in art without any covering over their elaborate hairstyles, yet some literary texts seem to imply that women were still expected to wear their palla as a veil when out in public.22 Respectable Roman women certainly wore long dresses which covered their

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ankles, with an all-enveloping wrap (the palla) that would cover most of the rest of their bodies, and various anecdotes suggest that it was important that they did not reveal too much flesh when out in public. Plutarch, for example, tells a story about Theano, the wife of Pythagoras: in putting her cloak about her, Theano exposed her arm. Someone in the crowd remarked on how lovely her arm was: Theano replied, “But not for the public.”23 Although this story relates to earlier times, it was still meaningful when Plutarch was writing in the Roman imperial period. In an illuminating study of the life-experiences of contemporary Muslim women, the sociologists Chahla Chafiq and Farhad Khosrokhavar have suggested that society is fundamentally split into two categories. The first of these can be called “Revealed Civilizations” (les civilisations de l’ouvert), in other words the societies where bodily display is immediate and routinely visible, although this openness about revealing the body does not necessarily have to have sexual connotations. These are societies where, because of marketing strategies and even fashion ideals, bodily voyeurism and exhibitionism are positively valued and where body language stresses its accessibility to the other (or same) sex. The second category can be labeled “Covered Civilizations” (les civilisations de la couverture). These societies have a clear desire to cover the human form (particularly the female body) in an attempt to regulate sexuality, sexual relations between the sexes, and, more generally, relationships in society at large.24 The societies that made up ancient Greece and Rome fall into this latter category. Even though male nudity was endorsed on certain occasions in Greek daily life and became a symbolic statement in itself, and even though artworks might show the idealized male and female body in various stages of undress or transparency, at the heart of Greek culture there beat a notion that modesty was the correct facet of a civilized society.25 In the ancient Greek and Roman world, clothing was inextricably connected to the idea of modesty. Langner understood the link between modesty and clothing as, “conditions where sexual modesty comes into play, where something is revealed in public, and something is covered up. Uncover that which is usually covered up in public, and you become immodest.”26 But the conditions and constrictions of modest dressing are gendernuanced. When a modern Western man takes off his jacket in public he is not immodest, but he is if he should remove his trousers. Generally, men need to strip off more layers of clothing than women before they are considered immodest, and it is usually the case in Western history that men have been inclined to wear headgear and clothing that can be removed at will. In the case of the ancient Greek male, Hans van Wees has shown how the conscientious slipping off of the himation and the meticulous care of the posture of his semi-naked body expressed that the wearer was a member of the leisured class and the dominant male elite (Figure 5.4). Thus the half-clothed body became an element of “dress” in its own right.27 Women, on the other hand, tend to be placed beneath headdresses and clothing that are either fixed in place or are not easy to remove (at least not by a single person; we think of corsets, laced-up gowns, pinned-in sleeves, powdered wigs, and jeweled headdresses) or, if they can be removed effortlessly (as must have been the case with the female peplos, palla, stola, and chito ¯n), women are strongly discouraged from doing so. The veil (a head or face type) is a good example of such a garment, although it should be remembered that there is an element of reverse thinking operating here too, since, because the veil is prone to slipping off, it requires constant vigilance and so it keeps women’s attention persistently occupied on adjusting the cloth. The veil is also symbolic since it marks out people’s intentions about moral issues. Veils are not covers intended to make women unfeminine;

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FIGURE 5.4: Red-figure kylix by Makron. Elite young men allow their garments to slip and shift in a deliberate impression of nonchalance. Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek München. Photo: by Renate Kühling.

instead they emphasize femininity by covering up female imperfections like pollution and sexual shame, which in turn often highlight aspects of alluring female sexuality. Veils offer women endless opportunities for them to drop, adjust, tighten, or loosen the cloth, thereby making full use of the potential of the garment as a symbol of female selfexpression. The veil provides the illusion, if not the reality, that a woman is chaste and morally attentive. Greco-Roman garments (like the peplos, the stola, and the chito ¯n) and large wraps (like the Greek himation and pharos or the toga and pallium) rarely conceal more of the flesh than that which is already covered by the clothing worn underneath. It should be observed that the peplos and the chito ¯n cover much of the body and only reveal to any great extent the arms (less so in a chito ¯n), the neck, face, and hair. The fact that garment and outer-wrap veils do little to secrete the figure beyond what is already accomplished by ordinary dress, indicates that these garments should be considered more as symbols of modesty and morality rather than as guarantors of that morality. Indeed, the fact the female body was supposed to be covered up meant that the exposure of parts of the body for brief or protracted moments would have an enhanced appeal.28 Despite (or possibly because of) this ideology of covering the female body with drapery, Greek and Roman art presents many examples of slipped, wet-look, and transparent drapery which reveal much more of the female form than would normally be seen in real life. Aphrodite/Venus in particular was frequently represented with her chito ¯n slipping off one shoulder, sometimes even uncovering one breast, and portraits of Roman matrons sometimes copy this as a sign they are as physically attractive (to their husbands at least) as Venus herself. Aphrodite, Nereids, and other divine females are also shown with their drapery in disarray or plastered to their bodies with sea-spray (Figure 5.5). For the most part this and the transparent clothing seen in Greek vase painting is an artistic convention which does not reflect reality, although flimsy, see-through garments may have been worn by the flute–girls and dancers who provided the entertainment at symposia, as well as by

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FIGURE 5.5: Nereid in “wet-look” drapery c. 400 BC . © The Trustees of the British Museum.

some prostitutes, and possibly even in the privacy of their own homes by respectable married women. In Roman times, relatively see-through clothing would appear to have been worn by some of the elite, as it is commented on adversely by moralists such as Seneca.29 Such revealing dress would presumably have been worn primarily at private events such as intimate dinner parties.

CLOTHING AND EROTICISM Exposing all or part of the body is generally seen as having erotic potential in most human cultures, but how much exposure, and of which parts of the body, varies; different cultures at different times find different things erotic. Despite modern ideas on naturism, the nude figure is often seen today as erotic, but as we saw in Chapter 3, nudity had a different set of connotations for the Greeks and Romans than it does for us. Ancient Greek society expected or permitted male nudity on specific occasions, and tolerated it at a pedestrian level, but female nudity was not acceptable in daily life (if a woman wanted to retain her good name and family respectability). The Romans did not embrace nudity in real life even for men (certainly not to the same extent as the Greeks), and the extent to which the

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Romans accepted and resisted total nudity for athletes has been hotly debated.30 The Romans seem to have been ill at ease with complete nudity for athletes, seeing it as an alien Greek practice, at least in the Republican period. It is possible that it was confined to the “Greek” games (introduced in 186 BC ) while competitors at other games still wore a loincloth (subligaculum); Augustus forbade Livia to watch the Greek games because it was not acceptable for her to watch naked athletes. Plutarch relates that earlier Romans had even resisted bathing with their relatives to avoid being naked in front of them.31 But nevertheless, nudity was used quite extensively in art: a surprising number of statues represent important Romans nude (especially emperors who hold attributes associated with Jupiter), while a few women even appeared as naked or semi-clothed Venus (Figures 5.6 and 5.7).32 Such images suggest that, as in Greek art, nudity functioned as an heroic costume. Its primary aim was not eroticism, and indeed such statues may not have appeared erotic at all to their original audiences. Some instances of eroticism in ancient art (flagrant sex scenes on Greek vases or Pompeian brothel walls, for instance) are very evident to modern eyes, others not so at all, but in considering the erotic aspects of ancient Classical cultures (perhaps more so Greek than Roman) our own perspective on sex and the eroticism of the body remains

FIGURE 5.6: Portrait Statue of a woman (sometimes identified as Marcia Furnilla) as Venus (Capitoline type). She wears a hairstyle typical of late first century AD. Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, Copenhagen. Photo: Ole Haupt.

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FIGURE 5.7: Statue of a woman (sometimes identified as empress Vibia Sabina) as Venus Genetrix, early 2nd century AD. Her left breast is partially covered by drapery: in most versions of this statue type it is completely exposed. Early second century AD . Rome, Museo di Ostia Antica. Photo: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Rom. Neg. 68.3877.

fundamentally based on Christian ideas of the body, nudity, modesty, and sexuality.33 Instead of focusing on obvious (to us) ways of eroticizing the body and clothing, we should perhaps start with those elements in which ancient attitudes to the erotic body are more clearly visible. Modern western cultural eroticization of the female often focuses on the semi-clad body; the depiction of underwear is a primary modern marker of erotic femininity since it reveals, conceals, emphasizes, and continually reinforces the inherent eroticism of female sexuality. Underwear does not play this role in ancient art or in concepts of eroticism. This is not to say that the female body was not eroticized in ancient art, just that it was accomplished differently. The mythical Amazons, for instance, were clearly eroticized in Classical art through their dress (Figure 5.8): in one sense, this was accomplished (in our eyes) simply by dressing them in the body-exposing heteromaschalos, a short thigh-exposing tunic fastened on only one shoulder; in Greek society, however, the really erotic charge was probably provided by the gender-blurring qualities of this garment and the fixation was on the nubile, athletic female body clothed in characteristically male garb, implying the best of both sexual worlds for the Greek male

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FIGURE 5.8: Wounded Amazon exposing her breast in a chitoniskos. First to second century AD copy of Greek bronze (c. 450–425 BC ). © The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

viewer. Female cross-dressing is a common-enough topos in art and myth to remind us that the elaborate social and erotic construction of male-male sexuality in Greek culture did not exist in a vacuum. Amazons aside, women in Greek art are eroticized literally through, rather than by, their clothing. In art, we tend to focus on the way the body can be seen through clothing, in what appear to be primarily artistic conventions of transparent, fine, and clinging textiles. However, given the relative lack of coyness with which the naked body is otherwise portrayed and discussed (and the aforementioned anachronistic concern with Christian ideas of bodily concealment) this should perhaps not be read so literally. The erotic charge here perhaps comes not so much from a peepshow mentality, as from the instantiation of complex metaphors about femininity. The female body depicted through clothes asserts the existence of both the socially constructed, concealing “front” (the personal expression of sophrosyne, the social control of female enclosure) and the intimate “other” world within (of unbounded female sexuality, emphasized rather than denied by Greek culture, and of private intimacy—in the home, in the body—to which male access was radically restricted). Such ideas are encapsulated in Greek bridal dress and the rituals of the anakalypteria (unveiling), and it is notable that in literary and artistic representations of the bride, intense, fetishistic, and (certainly) erotic attention is devoted

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to the elaborate and luxurious garments which cover and enclose the fertile young female, implying the desirability of what is covered, because it is covered and worth covering. In short, the eroticization of the feminine in Greek culture focuses as much on the covering as the covered (see further below).34 Many sociologists and dress historians now accept the idea that the deliberate concealing of certain parts of the body does not necessarily discourage sexual interest but often activates sexual stimulation. This idea that concealing clothes are to be imagined as a tease or a turn-on is a point endorsed by Alison Lurie who claims that, “it is certainly true that certain parts of the human form considered sexually arousing are often covered in such a way as to exaggerate and draw attention to them. . . . People [clothed in layers] . . . affect us just as a birthday present does: we’re curious, turned on; we want to undo the package.” 35 In the 1930s the psychiatrist J.C. Flügel famously expounded the theory of the “shifting erogenous zone,” a system whereby certain parts of the body (sometimes parts with no direct sexual appeal, like the waist, the back, or the nape of the neck) become temporarily imbued with immense sexual attraction. He noted that areas of the body that were most completely covered became the center of erotic focus and that momentary glimpses of taboo areas normally hidden behind concealing clothes were and are especially sexual.36 Drawing on Flügel’s original ideas, Lacan has noted the importance of the “rim” or the “cut” in the sexuality of dress and dressing, and suggests that erogenous zones occur at the margins of the body where a cut or a discontinuity is apparent. For Lacan, “the very delimitation of the ‘erogenous zone’, that the drive isolates from the metabolism of the function, is the result of a cut expressed in the anatomical mark of a margin or borderlips, ‘the enclosure of the teeth’, the rim of the anus, the tip of the penis, the vagina, the slit formed by the eyelids, even the horn-shaped aperture of the ear.”37 Greco-Roman clothing operated completely around this notion of the rim because as the cloth was wrapped around the body, concealing and revealing simultaneously, it created a rim that framed and emphasized the figure. The cuts, rims, slashes, and openings exploited in Classical clothing can be astonishingly sexualized. Although the nude figures represented in Greek and Roman art were not necessarily intended to be erotic, this may not be the case with those which show figure-hugging clothes, clinging seductively to the body or drapery which only partially covers it. An early example of this is the way the folds of the chito ¯n at the back of late Attic korai cling to their buttocks and thighs: this less visible part of the statue (which was normally seen from the front) is emphasized in a way the breasts and pudenda are not.38 Later Greek artists experimented with the revelation of the shape of the female body through their clothing, which was made to look very thin or wet, clinging to breasts, bellies, and thighs (see Figures 5.5 and 5.7). Even when the drapery was thick and apparently covered the body densely the shape of the woman’s body, and in particular the pudenda, might be “mapped” by the folds (see Figure 5.9). Alternatively, part of the body, usually one breast, was shown emerging from drapery, or an otherwise nude statue was represented with a large swathe of drapery covering part of the body, usually hips and thighs.39 Body jewelry could also be used to “clothe” an otherwise naked body: see, for example, a well-known statuette of Venus from Pompeii. She appears to be wearing a necklace, armbands, bracelet, sandals, body chains, and a see-through bra. It would seem that all these devices are an artistic construct, not a reality, except perhaps for the dress of prostitutes and in Roman theatrical performances of the more low-brow kind.

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FIGURE 5.9: Portrait statue of a woman in the Large Herculaneum Woman type, mid second century AD. Capitoline Museums, Rome. Photo: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Rom. Neg. no. 54.1076.

CLOTHING AND SEXUALITY Clothing in the Greco-Roman world was used to enclose and protect sexuality rather than to express or display it. For Roman children, especially boys, the purple border of the toga praetexta was supposed to act as a protection against adult sexuality,40 and it is likely that Greek girls began to veil once they reached puberty, to hide their developing sexuality from others. Much of the clothing symbolism at Greek and Roman marriage ceremonies was also directed towards the sexuality and fertility of the bride, which is thereby transferred to the sole use of the groom. A significant moment in the celebration of a Greek marriage was the anakalypteria, the raising of the bride’s veil so her face could be seen, to be removed altogether by the groom at the end of the marriage process (Figure 5.10). The Roman bride’s veil (the flammeum) also functioned to protect her chastity (pudor).41 In both Greek and Roman marriage ceremonies, the bride’s belt (Greek zon¯e, Latin cingulum or zona) was untied by the husband who was to take her virginity: the belt of Roman brides was fastened by the Herculean knot, which was difficult to untie and also symbolized her fertility. Once the Roman bride became a married woman (a matrona), she wore the stola and bound her hair with woolen vittae, signaling her control of her sexuality, which, like her beauty, was for her husband alone. The emphasis throughout is on the enclosure and protection of the woman’s sexuality, which should be kept hidden and bound by the various garments she adopts from all except her

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FIGURE 5.10: Fragment of a loutrophoros depicting the unveiling of a bride, by the Phiale Painter, c. 430–425 BC . Photograph © 2016 Boston Museum of Fine Arts.

husband, thus ensuring the legitimacy of her children. Despite these intentions, however, as we saw earlier, the rare glimpses of the hidden face of the bride as she raises her veil or the ankles of the chaste matron might have seemed more alluring than the openly displayed bodies of prostitutes and theatrical performers in their see-through or minimalist costumes. A common misconception is that all prostitutes in Antiquity wore an identifiable form of revealing dress marking them as sexually available. This notion is as preposterous as

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imagining all contemporary prostitutes in a standard stereotype “uniform” of mini-skirt, boob-tube, and stiletto heels. Ancient prostitution incorporated women of differing backgrounds, ethnicities, skills, economic capabilities, and social strata. Scholarship now stresses that no black-and-white model for ancient prostitution exists; all prostitutes walked a tightrope of respectability and dishonor. The highest-earning courtesans might earn fortunes and enjoy the patronage of (usually) one male client, but at the other end of the social scale, streetwalkers struggled to make a living or, indeed, to live in any degree of security. The majority of prostitutes lay between these two extremes—either working for pimps and madams, or in brothels, or else as entertainers (dancers, musicians, etc. perhaps routinely performing sexual roles). Naturally, the money and status achieved by individual prostitutes no doubt affected their dress style and ability to wear certain garments. The subtle relationship between prostitution and dress obeys the principle of “levels of concealment” from totally naked to conspicuously covered.42 In Classical Athens, highranking courtesans (hetairai) demanded high prices (not necessarily always for sexual favors); fantastical vase paintings often show them at symposia reclining on couches and striped to the waist, but texts suggest that in reality these women were circumspect in their dress. As “respectable” disrespectable women, great hetairai wore fine garments at home, in essence dressing no differently from wealthy citizen wives and, indeed, outdoors, like citizen women, they too wore veils (Figure 5.11). Thus hetairai operated on the level of total concealment. However, the lowest stratum of Greek prostitution, the pornai, are recorded standing outdoors naked, or semi-nude, in a bid to procure passing trade, operating within the framework of total exposure. Inexpensive semi-transparent tunics

FIGURE 5.11: Veiled hetaira spinning. Attic red-figure alabastron c. 470 BC , Pan Painter. Photo: bpk, Berlin/Antikensammlund, Staatliche Museen, Berlin/Art Resource, NY .

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(l¯edos) could be worn by flute-girls, dancers are depicted in transparent tunics or G-strings (diazo ¯n¯e), but not all Greek entertainers wore the same “uniform” of a cheap transparent dress. It is also difficult to assign prostitution a specific color (as red is used in contemporary imagination). Anthinos (“flowery”) garments are often associated with Greek prostitutes, and kroko ¯toi indicated that, at the very least, the wearer was “fun loving”—both patterns and colors were highly visible, and not at all circumspect. It was widely supposed that Roman prostitutes were immediately recognizable by dress (wearing the toga in rejection of the moral code incorporated in traditional female dress) but this point of view is difficult to justify; the Latin texts tend to emphasize the toga for adulteresses and women who fail to live up to the female ideal of chastity, as an implied slur on character.43 In other words, these may be respectable women fallen from grace not professional prostitutes (although perhaps in the Roman mind an adulteress was a whore, no further specification necessary). Moreover, there is no evidence that prostitutes and adulteresses were compelled to wear the toga.44 In fact, Plautine comedies depict prostitutes in a wide variety of colorful garments, and Horace suggests that their dresses were so transparent that they might as well be naked.45 There is little doubt that different types of Roman prostitutes were as susceptible to the vagaries of dress, wealth, and status as their Greek counterparts (absence of a stola may have been enough to mark out some as prostitutes). Certainly there were similar levels of concealment in Rome as found in Athens and brothel whores and streetwalkers are described standing naked in public.

CONCLUSION In his account of the fall of Agrippina the Younger, the emperor Nero’s mother, the Roman historian Tacitus briefly diverts attention from the main thrust of the story to ponder on the nature of Nero’s infatuation with the beautiful but corrupt noblewoman, Poppaea Sabina. Noting her beauty, and her ingrained depravity, he states: Poppaea had every asset except goodness. From her mother, the loveliest woman of her day, she inherited distinction and beauty. Her wealth too was equal to her birth. Her speech was clever and elegant and not preposterous. She put forward a front of respectability, but her life was depraved. In her few public appearances she went out with part of her face veiled to arouse curiosity and because it suited her.46 In other words, Tacitus notes how Poppaea deliberately contrived to magnify her mystique by making only very occasional public appearances during which time she skilfully veiled herself in such a way that the half-drawn veil highlighted her beauty and charms and captured the imagination of the Roman populace. Her skilled veiling techniques were a deliberate attempt to tease the onlookers with the skilful pretence of appearing modestly covered while effectively heightening her sexuality and her great beauty. Poppaea was not the first or last woman in history to understand and exploit the inherent dichotomy of the clothing she wore. Working within a system which essentially demanded that women be inconspicuous within the voluminous folds of their clothing— the essential idea which was propounded by Langner, that clothing deliberately disables women—women could actually challenge that notion by using their garments as erotic props. Men also participated in this clothing system, stressing leisure, status, and manliness through the manipulation of their clothes; the arts of Greece and Rome encoded these ideas too, alongside ideals of the erotic. Classical dress served many socio-cultural roles,

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but in spite of a prime facie reading of ancient clothing as being routinely functional, the dress of the Greeks and Romans had the potential to be erotically charged, and certainly conveyed richly encoded gender messages. For the modern scholar of Classical culture, the study of dress helps us access the sexual ideas and erotic imagination of the western world’s most formative civilizations.

CHAPTER SIX

Status KELLY OLSON

The involvement of dress in articulating and constituting social stratification and social groups in the ancient world was enormously important, possibly the most immediately recognizable of all such signs, as clothing was a “portable and ubiquitous medium for expressing wealth, skill, affiliations, individuality,” all of which contribute to status.1 In significant ways, ancient culture was a visual culture, and clothing and ornament emitted constant, complex social messages about one’s place in society and among one’s peers. Clothing and adornment conveyed specific identities or aspirations to those identities, both constructing and mirroring identity and status.2 “Rank” is defined here as a juridical category (citizen, metic, senator, etc.), and “status” as informal prestige among peers or as financial standing. Social standing was made apparent by visual symbols: the hierarchy of status (as distinct from that of rank) had a material form which could generate conflict. In addition, there existed other types of status besides economic: sexual status, for instance, could also be visualized by clothing. Consumption is a process of communication, and thus luxury was heavily implicated in the negotiation of status. Social symbols were not the exclusive property of the dominant class, nor could they be regulated as such: because many status symbols were an effect of wealth, any rich man or woman could appropriate them, especially in ancient Rome. The reason the Romans tried so hard to control the indications of prestige informally was precisely because the social hierarchy was fluid and such signs easily manipulated. It was often difficult to discern rank by appearance alone: there was often a pronounced gap between rank and status. The rich man of low birth confused the supposedly clear-cut social categories. This chapter explores how a person’s status and wealth could be worn on the body in the ancient world, whether by fabric, pattern, color, complex folds, excess fabric, or the impracticality of the garment. The discussion omits those status symbols which require a certain juridical rank to assume: the Roman trabea, for instance (the special cloak of equestrians) or the chlamys, a long cloak fastened on the right shoulder with a brooch, the dress of the late-antique Roman emperor and his officials.3 Symbols of status, on the other hand, could be worn by all those of wealth or those with pretensions to a certain status, whether economic or sexual.

HOMERIC GREECE Generally, in Greece we do not find the same degree of explicit visualization of status as we do in Roman Antiquity. But even though Greek dress was simpler and carried fewer 105

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overt signs of rank and status than Roman, this does not mean that Greek dress was less significant. “Greek dress carried an equal range of meanings, but these were less formalized, or unified, as we would indeed expect from this diverse culture.”4 Dress in the poetry of Homer carries many significant status indicators. For men, the basic item of clothing is the tunic, which could be soft and lustrous, dyed, single or double, and of varying lengths.5 The pharos was a large cloak, worn by royalty.6 When assumed by men, the pharos is a garment of leisure: large, delicate, and wrapped (not pinned) around the shoulders, it inhibited strenuous movement, and seems to have been a finer, lighter and rarer piece of cloth than the chlaina or cloak. Although often found on women, men wear it because in these instances status is more important than gender.7 Normally, it is women’s clothing in Homer that is spectacular: patterned, large, with many fastenings. Homeric women wear the peplos, a garment praised for its luster and delicacy, although modern scholars are in some disagreement over what the peplos actually looked like.8 In Homer the garment may be solid-colored: white, saffron, purple, or black. Some are embellished with decorated figures or multi-colored, all of which add value to the garment and mark the wearer out as one of high status.9 It is a pinned garment clearly designed to show off the woman’s arms but also to display the number of fibulae required to close the garment along the upper arms and shoulders (hence the gift of a peplos with twelve pins to Penelope).10 The garments of noblewomen are especially long and large (pharos, peplos) and they are often white in Homer; their impracticality signaling the woman’s freedom from physical labor.

FIGURE 6.1: Red-figure column krater with veiled dancers, c. 450–445 BC . Attributed to the Eupolis Painter. Mount Holyoke College Art Museum, South Hadley, Massachusetts, purchase with the Nancy Everett Dwight Fund. Photo: Petegorsky/Gipe.

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Noble women also wear a veil (krêdemnon, kalyptra, kalymna, Figure 6.1). The veil was an excellent way of displaying upper-class status, as in addition to the fabric itself, often brightly colored or patterned, it was an impractical garment and required the wearer’s constant vigilance to ensure it did not twist, slip or fall off.11 Slaves in Homer do not veil unless they are personal attendants of noble women.12 Outside Homer, the veil is found only sporadically in archaic literature although there is ample artistic evidence from this period for veiling.13 In Homer and Hesiod, we also find women wearing crowns and wreaths of gold, gold and amber necklaces, and golden earrings.14 Fabric indicated economic condition but also gender. Although linen took three or four times as long to weave as wool and was a symbol of status in classical Greece (see below), linen in Homer is worn by women alone; it is not mentioned as a material for male garments. In addition, clothes are sometimes said to be lustrous with oil; clothes seem to have been stored with oil in chests.15

CLASSICAL GREECE: MEN In classical Greece, men wore a tunic (the simple Doric chit¯on) that could be long, most notably in the case of priests or as worn at religious festivals, or short to the knees (or the longer and more luxurious Ionian chit¯on in the sixth and fifth centuries). The cloak or himation was worn over the top. The prevailing colors of the clothes of Greek men were white, gray, or brown, colors natural to the textile from which the garment was woven, and there seems to have been little in the way of ornamentation. As scholars are aware, at some point in the fifth century BC there was a change in the style of clothing worn by men: the long Ionian chit¯on, golden grasshopper pins in flowing hair, as well as purple or decorated cloaks were abandoned and a simpler dress (a large woolen himation worn over a short chit¯on, or with no chit¯on at all) taken up instead (see Figure 6.2).16 The chronology of this change can be confusing. Mills notes that at three times during the fifth century, men’s dress in ancient Athens is said to have undergone a substantial transformation.17 This change to a Spartan mode of dress is said to have taken place possibly after the Battle of Marathon (Athen. 12.251b–c); “recently” (among the older men of Athens; Thucyd. 1.6.3–4); or during Pericles’ generalship (Schol. Hom. Il. 13.685). Scholars have posited that the reforms of Cleisthenes and the resulting “equality” of all citizens may have resulted in an initial assumption of simple clothing, but the change in men’s dress was likely a slow and complex process.18 We should note in addition that there was no belt or pin on the himation and it must have been very impractical, requiring skill and unremitting attention to wear.19 Authors of the fifth and fourth centuries ridicule luxurious dress.20 But the popularity of luxurious clothing for men waxed and waned throughout the sixth and fifth centuries, and patterning came in and out of fashion.21 In Athens, highly decorated garments appear on vases at the start of the sixth century and again in a more subdued fashion at the end of that century. A return to a more decorated taste began at the start of the Peloponnesian War, only to die down. Finally, towards the end of the fifth century, figured and patterned bands appear to have been back in style.22 Athenian men at certain points in their history also adopted items of foreign dress as markers of status. Wearing foreign items seems to have been a custom which arose in the sixth century BC , when Greece was encountering a range of different cultures.23 Later literary references attest to the popularity of such items in Athens: ps.-Xenophon wrote that “. . . the Athenians have adopted a mixture of fashions from Greeks and barbarians.”24 One

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FIGURE 6.2: Man in a himation buying an amphora. Red-figure amphora, 480 BC , Boreas Painter Inv: ca 1852. Musée du Louvre, Paris. Photo: Erich Lessing/Art Resource, NY .

foreign garment that gained popularity was the ependytes, a luxurious over-chit¯on. Assumed by men (and women; see below) as a fashion item in the second quarter of the fifth century, it was short, made of wool or linen, and colorful: black, red, violet, blue, or green.25 A number of ependytai on red-figured vases are entirely patterned.26 Its obvious function was to add a decorative sumptuousness to one’s dress (its ostensible function, to keep the wearer warm, could easily have been performed by any number of traditional Greek cloaks). Other kinds of dress also marked status: in the period 530–430 BC Thracian dress was a fashionable exotic luxury.27 Good hoplite equipment was also a mark of status.28 And dandified young men in the late fifth century “laconized” or used clothes to imitate the Spartans: short, fringed cloaks made of rough cloth, long hair, beards, and dirty hands.29

CLASSICAL GREECE: WOMEN High-status female clothing involved the use of the usual markers: superfluous material and unnecessary trimmings. Of course, men were inextricably bound up in the subject of female ostentation: men paid for their clothing and adornment, and male status was thereby reflected in what the woman wore. The ownership of expensive clothing was ideally proof of social dominance, and this sartorial norm was ideally not supposed to cross boundaries of class or economic status.30

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Like their male counterparts, certain types of female garments expressed status. The long and luxurious Ionian chit¯on appears on women in Greek art in the mid-sixth century and almost completely supplants the earlier Dorian peplos until the early classical period, c. 480–450 BC , when the peplos again becomes the predominant mode of feminine dress.31 Although it is unclear to what extent Thucydides’ testimony concerning the democratization of male dress in the fifth century also applies to women’s dress, it might reflect a change to a more modest style at some point during the fifth century (see Figures. 1.1, 3.2, 3.3, 3.4 and 3.8).32 But as with men, luxurious garments appear on women sporadically throughout the fifth century, and women also adopted Persian garments as signs of status. From 475 BC onwards, various garments are named in the sources. Persikai, an elegant ladies’ shoe, was imported from Persia or made in Athens.33 In vase painting from this time, women start to wear a decorated thigh-length sleeved garment over an ordinary chit¯on, presumably the chit¯on cheiridotos or the “little sleeved tunic,” probably produced in Athens from an eastern model. At the end of the fifth century, an ankle-length sleeved dress made an appearance in women’s clothing, and citizen girls and women continue to wear the sleeved chit¯on well into the fourth century (see Figures 3.2 and 3.3). Late in the fifth century, garments that look like sleeved jackets and coats began to appear in depictions of Athenian women and children, probably an adaptation of the Persian kandys (see Figure 6.3). In the clothing dedications, the kandyes were rich garments

FIGURE 6.3: Grave stele of Myttion showing a kandys, c. 400 BC . The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.

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FIGURE 6.4: Terracotta oinochoe: chous (jug), attributed to the Meidias Painter, c. 420–410 BC . Woman wearing patterned ependytes perfuming garments. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

and clearly worn by the elite. Ependytai were also worn by women (see Figure 6.4), and iconography illustrates them as being both plain and patterned; known colors include black, red, violet, blue, and green. Both vases and inscriptions record a variety of decorative borders (the pattern types appear to be purely Hellenic).34 Women had just as much power to express their status as men did in terms of patterning, color, and jewelry—perhaps more, as ornament was more appropriate for women in the classical era than for men. Some chitoniskoi are described as multi-colored in the inventories.35 We must keep in mind too that the wealth that citizen women displayed in their clothing was always the wealth of the male members of their family, and thus in a way men were free to display their financial power without having to give up the simple dress of the citizen male.

GREECE: SUMPTUARY LEGISLATION Although clothing regulations were generally sparse in the ancient world, they are nonetheless important sources for the social and economic significance of ancient clothing.36 There were a series of sumptuary regulations concerning clothing in ancient Greece, which aimed at controlling extravagance or immodest styles for women.37 Thus, the Solonian laws forbade a woman to leave her house with more than three outer garments for example, and limited ostentatious female display at funerals and feasts.

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These laws also restricted the clothing included in a woman’s dowry.38 If Plutarch may be trusted, Solon’s sumptuary legislation of the sixth century BC curbing women’s extravagance in dress was perhaps part of an attempt to check aristocratic display in general.39 Most Greek clothing regulations, however, are religious, and concern those who wish to enter temples. Clothing in this context was regulated according to the number of garments, their cost and decoration, and the offending articles were to be confiscated.40 But to judge from sparse extant evidence, clothing was not something that Greek secular law had any real interest in controlling.

GREECE: SLAVES AND THE POOR The clothing of these social groups is not well-represented either visually or in literary sources, but some information exists. The tunic of the workman in the classical era was called the exomis; it was short, for ease of labor, and made of undyed material. It was worn wrapped around the waist or off one shoulder, leaving an arm free for work. Not only the type, but also the maintenance of clothing distinguished rich from poor: wellwashed clothing was important.41 Dirty, torn, patched-up tunics belonged to the poor, and in all periods, rags were generally associated with people of low political, social, and economic condition such as outcasts or beggars.42 Large pieces of clothing as well as those difficult to move about in (such as the pharos or himation) also differentiated rich Greeks from poor. Nonetheless, although Athenians may have believed that rank and status ought to be recognizable from appearance, in practice social status through outward show was difficult to determine. In vase painting, for instance, it is difficult to establish the woman’s status by her clothing, length of hair, or facial appearance.43 Truly grand hetairai covered up like respectable women while in public, distorting social boundaries (see Figure 5.10).44 The Old Oligarch complained that in Athens slaves and free men were not distinguished visually.45

THE ETRUSCANS46 Etruscans were known in Antiquity for love of their luxurious dress, extending even to the garments of their servants.47 Etruscan clothing had much in common with Greek clothing but was in general more colorful with complicated patterning, and more luxurious.48 Evidence exists mainly in frescoes and other art, and to judge from visual sources it seems that Etruscan dress made use of bright colors, fine fabrics, decoration, and borders on their basic items of dress: the chit¯on and cloak, as well as other items such as the chit¯oniskos.49 Chit¯ones and mantles and/or their borders were dyed in bright colors, or patterned with rosettes, plaid patterning, meanders, and dots. Luxury decoration such as gold and purple was also used (Figure 6.5). Gold plaques in a variety of designs were sewn onto clothing in the early period, possibly an import from the Near East.50 According to literary sources, Etruscans wore sandals with golden laces, which were popular enough to be imported into Greece.51 The individual Etruscan adorned himself or herself with a profusion of jewelry and accessories, to judge from representations on cistae, mirrors, and urns.52 Etruscan costume had a strong influence on Roman dress in terms of fabric, decoration, luxury, and complicated accessories, and it is to this subject that we now turn.

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FIGURE 6.5: Procession of dancers from a copy after the fresco at the Tomb of the Triclinium, Tarquinia. Artist: Minguez Sagrario. Photo: Album/Art Resource, NY .

ROME: MEN In Rome, status was similarly shown in clothing by color, fabric, ornament, size of garment, and occasionally by Greek dress. Male clothing was less likely to show signs of status in Roman Antiquity than female clothing, for a variety of reasons: Republican ideals dictated that upstanding moralistic Romans would shun items such as expensive or ornamented clothing, garments which may have been used by the nouveaux riches to parade their wealth. There is also some evidence that bright colors and adornment may have indicated effeminacy to the Romans, as adornment was associated with women.53 Because the appearance of the Roman man was staid and plain, togas were usually woven of undyed light wool,54 but we do hear of expensive togas of different textures: silk, for instance, and a shaggy pile-weave called gausapa or gausapina.55 In addition, we should note that some types of wool could also be luxury fabric, finer and softer and whiter than others.56 In addition, there is plenty of literary, artistic, and archaeological evidence for color in male clothing.57 Purple was the color which indicated rank most strongly, in the stripes on a senator’s tunic and toga and on the equestrian tunic.58 The most prized hue was sea-purple, which went by a variety of names in Antiquity. Expensive and colorfast, it was extracted with great care and expense from the bodies of sea-mollusks.59 Purple was the quintessential symbol of wealth and success, employed legitimately by the elite and illegitimately by everyone else eager for a visual claim on that social group’s status.60 Some scorned the color altogether, and in the late Republic and early Empire, purple dye could be manipulated to create or exacerbate political and social tensions.61

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Like purple, the various forms of scarlet were also symbols of status because of the difficulty and expense of the dye extraction. Puniceus (phoeniceus, poeniceus) was a shellfish dye, but distinguished from purple by being a bright vermillion.62 Coccinus (coccineus) was an opulent scarlet hue, expensive and colorfast, extracted from the eggs and embryos of the insect kermococcus vermilio.63 White, far from being the “normal” color of Roman clothing, was in most cases an applied color: the method was to use a variety of pigments (e.g. lime, kaolin, sulfur) to create a bright white.64 White clothes were expensive to maintain and difficult to care for and the color was not likely worn by the lower or working classes, instead being a sign of wealth or foppishness.65 For men, the synthesis or cenatoria was another sign of status, a costume comprising a tunic and a small wrap or pallium, the parts of which were designed to be worn together. The terms appear in the first century AD to designate an especially rich costume, which could display dazzling colors. It was a costume for warm weather or for the Saturnalia, and also a dinner garment, replacing the more formal tunic and toga.66 The pallium was the rectangular Greek cloak: a large version was worn by literati or philosophers or those with pretensions to culture and learning.67 One other sign of status in clothing for the Romans was, oddly enough, fold-lines (Figure 6.6). Historians of ancient clothing have not traditionally examined the presence or meaning of fold-lines in material representations of clothing, with the notable exception of Hero Granger-Taylor’s excellent article (1987). But “neat fold marks in clothes would

FIGURE 6.6: Pallium-drape toga: grave relief of a married couple from the Via Statilia, 75–60 BC . Detail of man’s toga. Musei Capitolini: Centrale Montremartini, Rome: inv. 2142. Photo: Kelly Olson.

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have emphasized the fact that they were either brand new or were just newly laundered,”68 and for this reason fold-lines came to be desired in their own right. Clothes-presses, clothes chests,69 and irons were used to put creases and folds into clothes. The scent of clothes indicated the maintenance of clothing and hence status. Clothes when fulled or washed with urine continue to smell even after rinsing, but to the Romans, the scent may have been a welcome indication of new or cleaned clothes.70 Treating cloth with sulfur, making the garment softer and whiter,71 also left an odor. Clothing dyed with Tyrian retained the stench of the dye and also the smell of the urine used in its preparation.72 But one had to walk a fine line: the number of times clothes had been washed helped identify their worth, as fulling had an abrasive and destructive effect on clothes. Clothes cleaned regularly were thus less valuable.73

ROME: WOMEN Women had a wide range of color for their clothing: among other hues, Plautus mentions sky-blue, marigold-yellow, and red-orange.74 Ovid, writing 200 years later, begs women not to wear purple continually, and suggests instead colors that compliment the complexion, such as sea-blue, golden, yellow, dark green, amethyst, or pale pink.75 Women’s clothes were sometimes described as versicolori, of many or varied colors.76 Some authors did not consider purple seemly for women, probably because of the strong status implications involved, but Caesar’s restrictions on purple assumes women wore the color often.77 Yellow was a quintessential woman’s color: men who wore it risked being branded as effeminate.78 Silk was the fabric most closely associated with women in Antiquity. Both wild silk (Coan silk) and Chinese silk were worn by women of doubtful reputation.79 Garments made from this fabric were either transparent or, as one scholar has suggested, merely close-fitting, as this used less of a very expensive material.80 Silk was doubly dangerous because the fabric was costly and could therefore display female economic power and status. Female clothing could indicate a woman’s sexual status as well. Respectable Roman women of the middling or upper classes ideally wore the mantle or palla drawn up over their heads when outdoors.81 The enveloping cloak also served to mark the woman as one who was sexually upright, as it hid her body and her head from the gaze of men.82 Of course, the palla could also advertise a woman’s financial standing: because the palla was not pinned or attached to itself in any way, it was unsuitable for the working classes, and often had expensive decoration in addition (see Figure 6.7).83 For a time, some women also wore the stola,84 a long slip-like overdress, another garment which indicated a sexual status: only legally married women wore it. Since Roman women could own and bequeath property in their own right, it was not specifically the wealth of her husband or father she displayed on her body. Ornamenting herself with gems and gold presented certain obvious advantages for a woman. Women used jewelry in the same way as they used clothing: to make known their rank to society, to ensure deference, and to display tiny gradations of status within the same class to their peers. Ownership of expensive finery was ideally proof of social dominance, and this norm was not supposed to cross boundaries of class or economic status, although counterfeit jewels were worn.85 Female devotion to ornament often brought criticism;86 but it is clear that such items were necessary for a woman of eminence, or a woman with pretensions to eminence (Figures 6.8 and 6.9).

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FIGURE 6.7: Faustina the Elder, AD 140–160. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.

FIGURE 6.8: Head of a woman from Velia family, fresco, Tomb of the Ogre, 340–280 BC , Etruscan. Photo: Gianni Dagli Orti/Art Resource, NY .

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FIGURE 6.9: Mummy portrait of a woman attributed to Isidora master, c. AD 100–110, proudly displaying jewelry. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.

ROME: SUMPTUARY LEGISLATION87 Although most sumptuary legislation was aimed at cenae (dinners),88 there were attempts at clothing laws aimed at curtailing sartorial signs of wealth and status (as distinct from the regulation of the usurpation of juridical symbols of rank such as the latus clavus). Much extant legislation concerns the use of the color purple:89 various emperors attempted to restrict purple to official insignia and imperial garb. The emperor Tiberius legislated against the wearing of silk by men, citing its unsuitability.90 The law did not, however, prevent Tiberius’ successor Caligula from assuming silk garments.91 Sumptuary legislation in relation to symbols of status in men’s clothing is remarkable not only because it is infrequent, but also because despite its rarity it stands in sharp contrast to the almost complete absence of such legislation directed at women. Scholars often cite the Lex Oppia as an example, but the law (passed in 215 BC which forbade women certain kinds of adornment) was likely a wartime emergency measure rather than formal sumptuary legislation.92 In 184 BC , perhaps as a direct result of the repeal of the Lex Oppia, Cato (then censor) taxed women’s clothes, jewelry, and vehicles exceedingly heavily. Whether aimed at symbols of rank or those of status, sumptuary legislation in most premodern societies had a broad social aim: to construct an ideal (visual) narrative of the social order.93 There is, however, little evidence that thrift at Rome ever became fashionable. Sumptuary legislation and ideals of frugality simply could not compete with the drive for status display.

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ROME: SLAVES AND THE POOR Reference to slave clothing is slim in both written and visual sources, and in images status is often unclear.94 Bradley has pointed out that because the toga was assumed by free men mainly on formal occasions, and because slaves at Rome had no special racial characteristics, the appearance of the toga-less poor (or even middling) free was likely to be confused with that of slaves.95 Some slaves worked naked or clad only in loincloths, but most slaves wore simple tunics, a style characterized by plain utility.96 Care of the body also indicated status: thus slaves are often described as grubby, shabby, or dirty.97 Some slaves, however, were dressed in expensive clothing and ornamented, a practice that called attention to the fact that their master or mistress was wealthy.98 Funerary inscriptions from the imperial households of Augustus and Tiberius indicate that beauticians for the slave boys were employed.99 The ancillae (slave girls) of courtesans in Roman comedy are especially noteworthy for their adornment.100 Lower-class citizen men are described as wearing short or thin tunics or togas, threadbare ones, or ones riddled with holes. They also wore shabby cloaks and broken shoes.101 Their underclothes were also ragged: Horace is indignant that his tattered under-tunic (subucula) is a subject for ridicule.102 Poor men did not own many clothes.103 In visual evidence, lowerclass men and women wore short tunics with short sleeves,104 but lower-class women at Rome were not without some adornment, in the form of costume jewelry.105 The clothing of the poor is often described as pullus (“gray,” “black,” or “dark”) in a variety of genres.106 There were, however, other colors, garish and ridiculous, which may have been considered vulgar, possibly associated by the elite with upstart parvenues struggling for status. These included prasinus (prasinatus), a strong greenish-blue; cerasinus, a bright pinkish-red;107 galbinus seems to have been a yellowish-green, often associated with effeminacy; russus (russeus, russatus), a bright red; and venetus, a dark blue.108 Sebesta has noted that three of these colors (prasinus, russeus, and venetus) were also colors of the chariot factions in the Roman circus, and this perhaps reinforces their categorization as lower-class colors.109

LATE ANTIQUITY By the late third and early fourth centuries, the signs of status in Roman costume had changed. The usual dress of tunic plus toga was replaced in official circles by a longsleeved, tighter-fitting tunic, covered by a cloak (the chlamys), and long leggings: signs of the military and the barbarian, the non-citizen.110 Purple and gold garments in this period were restricted to the emperor, and only the emperor could wear a bejeweled brooch on his mantle (lesser officials wore gold only).111 Everyone seems to have worn a tunic, often with decorative tapestry elements: the size, complexity of design, colors, and fineness of yarn now expressed the status of the wearer. Tunics worn by men usually came down to the knees and were long-sleeved; longer ones may have been a marker of elevated status.112 The late-antique dalmatic was a loose, wide, long-sleeved tunic with tight sleeves usually held by a belt, made of expensive fabric, normally a sign of luxury and effeminacy, and worn by both sexes.113 Buckles of precious metals were also worn on the belt around the tunic. Owning more than one tunic or layering two tunics at one time was a mark of wealth: the poor usually had only a single tunic, which they wore constantly until it became threadbare. A number of upper-class Christians affected this type of dress as a marker of asceticism.114

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Women in late Antiquity appear covered up by the dalmatic, and female tunics regardless of the social rank of the wearer seem to have been adorned with clavi and decorative bands at the sleeves.115 Women wore belts as well, and this helped keep the voluminous sleeves close when work had to be done. However, despite the recommendations of authors that Christian women avoid adornment, we still hear of elaborate calcei (shoes) and socci (slippers) described by Jerome as “curled,” or rattling with ornaments, elaborate hairstyles, and slaves dressed in finery to augment the status of the mistress.116

CONCLUSION Status was communicated in ancient clothing in diverse ways: by colored dyes and patterning, the use of gold thread, sartorial impracticality, the number of garments assumed, the amount of fabric used, any maintenance such as pressing and cleanliness, and the assumption of expensive clothing imports, such as the Athenian ependytes. Status was also, however, often made known somewhat ironically through the lack of ornament: Athenian men’s “democratic” dress, for instance, or the stern Republican frugality of certain Romans, or the self-abasement of Christians through shabby dress. While women’s adornment in ancient Athens was always the wealth of a male relative, women’s ornamentation in ancient Rome was not always identical with the economic and political realities of their husbands’ wealth and social power. In addition, there were different types of status that clothing could communicate to an ancient viewer: thus Roman women could display their sexual status (chaste, married, upright) through their long tunic and stola and the palla drawn over the head when out of doors. And sartorial symbols could convey half-truths about the wearer: status dissonance meant that sometimes expensive clothing was assumed by the lower classes or slaves. Ancient clothing laws and even normative statements on clothing thus constituted a form of social practice tied to economic status and social mobility.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ethnicity URSULA ROTHE

INTRODUCTION Ethnicity is a term that has come to have a range of meanings in a modern context, symbolized in anything from skin color to food preference. Mainstream definitions of the term leave it open for interpretation as a biological and/or cultural concept,1 paving the way for ambiguity. And when we look for “ethnicity” in the ancient world, we find, as is so often the case, that modern categories do not overlap with those of societies in the past. Nonetheless, trying to understand the cultural configurations and interactions in the regions that came under the sway of ancient Greek and Roman culture is central to understanding these societies, and dress is a valuable instrument for getting to grips with the very specific cultural groupings that pertained in the Greek and Roman worlds. As such, the purpose of this chapter is not to provide an encyclopedic account of all evidence of ethnic difference expressed in dress in the Greek and Roman worlds, but to look at a selection of examples in which dress played a central role in the way cultural identities were formulated, and to investigate the insights this gives us into the ethnic dynamics of the period. The ancient Greeks and Romans may not have defined themselves in the way that modern societies do, but they did recognize and engage with cultural difference, and whichever source we turn to, it is clear that appearance—and especially dress—played an important role in how such cultural differences were perceived and formulated. Sociologists have long identified a crucial communicative element in the role of dress in human societies, and it has been closely linked with language both as the closest human behavioral analogy and as a means of understanding its varied meanings.2 In the ancient world, there is reason to believe that the links go even further. Certainly in the Roman Empire, the survival of pre-Roman dress has been shown to go hand in hand with the persistence of ethnic endonyms,3 and Andrew Wallace-Hadrill has recently produced an elegant discussion of the links between dress and language in the way that Greeks and Romans formulated their respective identities. For Wallace-Hadrill, both dress and language are primary cultural identifiers, yet the toga played a more central role in Roman self-identification than the himation/pallium—the main Greek male garment—ever did; inversely, for the Greeks, language was of central importance while Latin was much less so for the Romans. He sees this as reflecting a basic difference between Greek and Roman cultural identity, one which it is useful to consider before we address the question of ethnicity in these societies: Roman discussion repeatedly offers us “Roman” and “Greek” as a balanced and matching pair; and so accustomed are we to dividing the ancient world into Greek and 119

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Roman that we take the balance for granted. But in terms of ethnic identity, they are radically different: “Roman” is a juridical category, defined by citizenship, by membership of the populus Romanus, or by relationship to Roman imperium, in a way never true for “Greek”, which never until the modern period describes a political entity; whereas “hellenic” existed as a cultural category, to describe people with a shared language and culture, in a way never true for the peoples of the Roman empire.4 In looking at ethnicity in Antiquity, we will invariably be focusing on the different cultural groups within the Greek and Roman worlds, and the differences between the “core” Greek and Roman cultures and others with which they were in contact; but the very basis for comparison—Greek and Roman ethnicity—is a complex cultural construct, and one that was constantly evolving.

CLASSICAL GREECE By the classical period, the dress worn by men and women in the different city states of Greece had become a common mixture of garments. Certainly, there is an element of ethnic origin in the “Doric” and “Ionian” streams of dress, the former characterized by a sleeveless tunic (usually called a peplos) and the latter characterized by a tunic (usually called a chito¯n); but by classical times the origins were of little ethnic significance to the people of the Greek states who chose or rejected them primarily as a matter of fashion. Moreover, while it is true that the earlier Doric dress originated in mainland Greece and was, for example, more common in Sparta in the classical period and that the finer, more luxurious Ionian dress from western Asia Minor was becoming more fashionable in places like Athens, it would be going too far to suggest that these garments reflected anything resembling an ethnic discrepancy. Iconographic evidence shows that the Greeks of this period shared a common sartorial repertoire consisting of a foot-length, belted tunic and large rectangular mantle often pulled up over the head for women and a knee-length, belted tunic for men that was worn with a large, draped rectangular cloak (himation). The choice of Doric or Ionian forms of the tunic became more a matter of fashion and status than anything else. Of course most of our written evidence is from Athens, and many of the differences between the different Greek poleis are no doubt unknowable to us now, but one difference we do hear about regularly in Athenian sources relates to the dress of Spartan women. In the writings of Xenophon and the plays of Aristophanes and Euripides the apparently scanty dress of Spartan women (consisting when described of a short tunic—the chito¯n exomis—that revealed some of the chest and the thighs) was used as a visual symbol of the scandalous license with which they were seen to function in their society (see Figure 8.8).5 The character of Lampito in Lysistrata with her manly beauty and revealing clothes was portrayed by Aristophanes as a striking contrast to the more fragile, feminine women of Athens covered from head to toe in clothes. But Thomas Scanlon has argued convincingly that this costume was dependent on context, namely the athletic contests enacted by young, unmarried Spartan adults, in which men performed naked and women in the short chito¯n exomis for ease of movement.6 Otherwise, Spartan women appear to have worn long robes and the cloak veiling the head just like the women of Athens.7 The exaggerated stereotype of Spartan women almost certainly served to provide a

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clear “other” against which the Athenians could more easily identify their own cultural character. The use of dress stereotypes to assert cultural boundaries and bolster identity is not confined to this example; it is, of course, a commonplace of human societies ancient and modern, including Rome (see later). But its use in another context is of central importance to the question of ethnicity in ancient Greece. Wallace-Hadrill defined Greek ethnicity as one that was cultural rather than defined by political boundaries, and the formulation of a sense of commonality is indeed something that can be observed making some interesting developments in the classical period. Language was crucial. From the earliest times of Greek colonization, language—as well as the legacy of myths and histories it was used to formulate—formed a vital link between Greeks across the Mediterranean. The Greeks saw their opposite in the “barbarians” that surrounded them, and this word comes from the “bar-bar” sound non-Greek speakers were perceived to utter in their various nonGreek tongues: “barbarians” were literally those who did not speak Greek. With everintensifying interaction with external peoples like the Persians—culminating in the Persian Wars of the fifth century BC —we see an increasing visualization of difference in Greek iconography, and dress played a central role in this. François Hartog has shown how Greek writers like Herodotus, who engaged among other things in comprehensive ethnographies of the Achaemenid Persians and Scythians (the eastern and northern neighbors of the Greek world of his day), used the construct of an exotic “other” to act as a mirror through which to better formulate what made Greeks Greek.8 We can see a similar development in Greek iconography of the classical period.9 Some elements of Persian and Scythian dress meant that it lent itself to contrast of this kind. Although the Achaemenid rulers are usually shown in their own iconography (such as the Apadana reliefs at Persepolis) to have worn long, flowing coat-like garments, the male cavalry dress consisting of trousers and a sleeved jacket that probably originated in central Asia was also a common element of Persian dress at this time, and was probably used mainly in a military context.10 It is the latter dress that was picked up on in Greek iconography, as the tailored and fitted nature of the sleeved top and trousers provided a striking and, for the Greeks, outlandish contrast to their own clothing which was mainly draped, or, in the case of their soldiers, revealed large swathes of the body. Scythian male dress also involved trousers and sleeved jackets, as many iconographic sources from within Scythian territory reveal.11 As such, their dress also lent itself to visual representation of their “otherness”, as can be seen in the image of a Scythian archer on a red-figure plate from Vulci (Figure 7.1). The way the dress hugs the body and is covered in elaborate decoration would have seemed alien to the Greeks, and both the Scythian and the Persian dress was probably exaggerated in this regard for maximum effect. The Scythians and the Persians were also both famous for their archery, and with their dress styles the imagery of both became somewhat blurred in Greek depictions of “barbarians.” An indication of this is the fact that both are often depicted in the rounded cap that can be seen in Figure 7.1, while Scythians were more generally associated with a kind of peaked cap that can be seen in other images of this kind.12 As Margarita Gleba has shown, however, there is very little evidence for hats of either kind from the Scythian region itself, and it seems likely that what was perhaps a rare element was emphasized by the Greeks on account of its exotic character:13 apart from the helmets of soldiers, Greek men did not generally wear hats.

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FIGURE 7.1: Attic red-figure plate signed by Epiktetos showing a Scythian archer in trousers, jacket, and cap. © The Trustees of the British Museum.

FIGURE 7.2: Attic alabastron showing an Amazon wearing trousers and holding a bow and arrow. © The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

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The Persians and Scythians were, however, not the only “other” against which the Greeks defined themselves. In many ways the process had already been ongoing from the early sixth century when Amazons—exotic mythical female warriors of the Iliad— were represented alongside “normal,” male warriors in vase art. These figures were originally clad in Greek military dress, but over time they began to acquire the vestments of Greece’s “barbaric” neighbors. An alabastron from c. 510–500 BC in the Metropolitan Museum of Art (Figure 7.2) clearly shows an Amazon holding a bow and arrow (echoing the archery element of the Scythians and Persians) and wearing a sleeved top and trousers. The inverted gender roles represented by the Amazons made them another ideal “other” against which to define Greek culture, and it was in this function that their image began to elide with that of the “other barbarians.”

THE ROMAN EMPIRE The Romans adopted from the Greeks the use of appearance, and especially dress, to signify the “others” around them. The Gauls, Germans, and Dacians to the North and the Parthians to the East are routinely depicted in sleeved tunics and trousers (which the draped Romans viewed with just as much amusement and distaste as the Greeks) in triumphal art and on coinage, which served as a visual metaphor for their barbarian status.14 The Roman story is, however, very different from that of the classical Greeks. From the moment they started expanding into neighboring regions in the earliest period of their history, the Romans were by necessity dealing directly with groups of people ethnically different from them and absorbing them into the Roman state. This is what makes Roman identity so difficult to grasp, and is the reason why it is almost impossible to define it in ethnic terms. The famous speech of Claudius on the admission of Gauls to the Roman senate that is recorded on an inscription in Lyon (CIL XIII 1668) and related, almost certainly with authorial embellishment, by Tacitus is illustrative of this process: I am not unaware that the Julii came to us from Alba, the Coruncanii from Camerium, the Porcii from Tusculum; that . . . members were drafted into the senate from Etruria, from Lucania, from the whole of Italy; and that finally Italy itself was extended to the Alps, in order that not individuals merely but countries and nationalities should form one body under the name of Romans. The day of stable peace at home and victory abroad came when the districts beyond the Po were admitted to citizenship, and, availing ourselves of the fact that our legions were settled throughout the globe, we added to them the stoutest of the provincials, and succoured a weary empire. . . . What else proved fatal to Lacedaemon and Athens, in spite of their power in arms, but their policy of holding the conquered aloof as alien-born? But the sagacity of our own founder Romulus was such that several times he fought and naturalized a people in the course of the same day!15 Whether the wording was chosen by Claudius or Tacitus, passages like this show that even for some Romans, ethnicity was an evolving, relatively inclusive affair. The garment that came to symbolize Rome more than any other is the toga, and its use in the empire reflects perhaps better than any other cultural trait the complexity of Roman identity.

The Toga in Rome The toga appears to have had close historical links to the tebenna, an earlier garment of the Etruscans.16 Like this, and unlike other ancient mantles such as the Greek himation,

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the toga was semi-circular in shape (see Figure 6.5). Latin writers tell us that it was originally worn by both men and women without a tunic underneath.17 It appears to have served as a kind of “national garment” of the Romans from an early stage. In the Augustan period Virgil famously referred to the Romans as the gens togata—the “toga-clad race”— in his stirring nationalistic poem the Aeneid.18 While in the Principate the toga was the dress expected of men in positions of power and for use on public occasions, there is some indication that it was not a comfortable garment to wear, and that it might have been avoided when possible.19 It could only legally be worn by those who possessed Roman citizenship, and as such it also came to represent that privileged legal status. As the Roman garment par excellence, the toga gained something close to ethnic significance in the wave of Hellenization that swept through Roman culture in the late Republic and Empire and affected almost all aspects of Roman life.20 With its distinctive character, the toga stands somewhat in contrast to Roman women’s dress which, although we are told it began as the toga, by the time of our main iconographical sources consisted of a tunic and mantle that were virtually identical to those of Greek women. Although a lot of symbolic weight was placed in literary sources on a Roman pinafore-like garment called the stola that was worn over the female tunic and represented the modest virtues of respectable married women, visual evidence for it is extremely scarce,21 and almost nonexistent in the provinces.22 In contrast, the toga persisted, although Greek men’s dress also found its way into the Roman man’s wardrobe in the form of the himation (Latin: pallium), which, due to the ease with which it was worn and its association with sophisticated Greek culture, became a popular garment, at least among the Roman elite. It was considered appropriate attire for private leisure activity only, and the symbolism of this fact was so strong that Cicero could use accounts of officials wearing Greek dress on duty in the provinces as a visual metaphor for morally scandalous behavior.23 The implied contrast is the serious, respectable way that a Roman governor was supposed to behave, which was embodied in the toga. As late as the 160s, a delegate from North Africa could commit a major indiscretion by turning up to one of Septimius Severus’ banquets dressed in a pallium. We are told on that occasion the emperor saved the day by lending the offending party one of his togas.24 On the other hand, the pallium does seem to have been widely worn, and the Roman culture of the late Republic and Empire can in many ways be seen as perpetually suspended in the tension between the urbane Greek ways with their air of softness, and the rigid and austere, but honored, old Roman ways. Trying to describe the toga as an ethnic garment is, however, complicated by the fact that Romanness was characterized by so much more than simple ethnic identity. The toga was the badge of Roman citizenship and in Rome this meant—at least for the elite—taking part in the civic and political life of the city. While Roman citizen children of both sexes wore a special toga called the toga praetexta, when girls came of age and married they adopted the dress of Roman matrons, and boys took on the full toga of the male citizen body: the toga virilis. It is of central importance to the symbolism of the toga that this garment was ceremonially put on by young men on the day they first entered the city as an adult accompanied by family and friends;25 for the people of Rome, citizenship was not just a legal status but also an obligation to act within the civic body in a certain way. That legal status was, however, of central importance is illustrated in anecdotes such as the one related by Suetonius that in a court case in which a Greek man was accused of usurping Roman citizenship, Claudius decided that he should wear the pallium when the prosecution was speaking and the toga during his defense.26 In such cases it is impossible to separate ethnicity (“Greek” dress/“Roman” dress) from legal status. When we look to the provinces, the ambiguity is even more acute.

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The Toga in the Provinces In Agricola 21, Tacitus mentions the toga along with classical education, Latin language, bathing, and banquets in the list of Roman cultural attributes he claims the people of Britain adopted as a result of Agricola’s successful management of the province. And we know from visual evidence that some provincial men did indeed wear the toga, or at least were portrayed in it in portraits. But the toga cannot only have symbolized cultural affiliation with Rome for the men of the provinces as the Tacitus passage suggests. At least up until the second century AD , Roman citizenship was a status only few provincials were able to acquire. As such it must also have served as a symbol of privilege more generally. Moreover, as the garment expected of men performing public duties in Roman municipalities, the toga is likely to also have acquired a connection with standing in the community. A few examples will serve to illustrate these possibilities. Figure 7.3 is a gravestone from Walbersdorf in eastern Austria dating to the Neronian period. The portrait depicts a man wearing a tunica and toga and his daughter wearing the Roman tunica and palla with a necklace of local disc-style around her neck. The inscription tells us that the man, Tiberius Julius Rufus, served in the ala Scubulorum, an auxiliary cavalry unit, for fifty years and died when he was eighty-five. Rufus almost certainly gained his citizenship as a result of having served in this auxiliary unit for twentyfive years, as was the norm from Augustus onward. There is no mention of a wife, so the

FIGURE 7.3: Grave stele from Walbersdorf showing a retired cavalryman in a toga and his daughter in Roman dress. Courtesy of Ubi Erat Lupa.

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mother of the daughter depicted may have already died, perhaps before Rufus could marry her legally on leaving the army. The choice of the toga in this portrait could be interpreted as a sign that Rufus—or his daughter, who commissioned the stone—was proud of the legal status he had acquired as a result of his military service. The Roman dress of his daughter along with the scene of Eteocles and Polynices at the bottom of the stone and the scene in the middle of a Roman cavalryman shooting a bearded and trousered man (=barbarian) with an arrow also testify to a more general identification of this family with Rome and Roman culture. The necklace around the girl’s neck—perhaps an heirloom from her mother?—is the only element on the monument that links it to the culture of the local area. In any case, legal status cannot have been the only factor involved in the choice of the toga. In northern Gaul and Lower Germany, for example, we have funerary monuments for men who are clearly Roman citizens on account of the tria nomina recorded in their inscriptions, but they wear local sleeved tunics and hooded capes instead of the toga they would have been entitled to.27 In fact, the overwhelming majority of men in gravestone portraits in Gaul wear local Gallic dress, and as such the men who are depicted in the toga stand out as a special group. The fact that these men are also depicted on the largest and most elaborate of the monuments suggests that they were members of the very wealthiest families. A good example of this is the main portrait on the large early to mid-thirdcentury AD monument at Igel in Germany dedicated to the Secundini, a family of wealthy landowners and cloth merchants operating out of Trier. The 22m-high monument is covered in everyday scenes such as clients inspecting cloth, goods transport, people at work in the office, a family meal, and tenant farmers bringing rent in kind. In none of these scenes does anyone wear a toga. In the main portrait, on the other hand, two of the men wear togas, albeit over local sleeved tunics.28 Although the inscription only mentions a long series of names, the obvious wealth of the family attested in the size of the monument means that they probably had a high social status and perhaps performed important functions in their local community. It would appear that it was this that rendered the toga appropriate for their funerary portrait when so many of their contemporaries chose local dress (see Figure 2.2).29 On the other side of the empire in the Syrian city of Palmyra, Roman dress is markedly scarce in images of the townsfolk. Apart from very few grave loculi such as the late second century stone now in the Liebieghaus in Frankfurt, the toga tends to only appear in official municipal portraits and in secondary scenes on sarcophagi.30 Figure 7.4 shows a sarcophagus for a local man who is portrayed in the main reclining portrait on the lid in the splendid Parthian-style trousers and tunic that were popular with the local merchant elite. In the scene below, he is shown sacrificing at an altar accompanied by sacrificial attendants. The “modius” hat on the pedestal next to his head signifies that he is a priest, and he wears a toga. This man performed an important function as a priest of one of the municipal cults, and it would seem that for this public role the toga was considered the appropriate garment. In other words, for this man the toga may have symbolized nothing more than the correct dress for a formal public duty. The examples cited above illustrate how difficult it is to assign ethnic or cultural meaning to the fact that some provincial men decided to wear or portray themselves in the toga. On the other hand, Roman culture was in and of itself a complex phenomenon, and attempts to separate legal status and public position from cultural orientation may have seemed baffling to the people of the Roman Empire. The fact that the Romans, most unusually in human history, chose to grant their citizenship to the people they conquered

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FIGURE 7.4: Sarcophagus from Palmyra showing the deceased reclining on the lid and a sacrificial scene on the base. Palmyra Museum. Photo: A. Schmidt-Colinet.

suggests that even for them, being Roman was not about ethnicity in the sense it is used in modern anthropological literature, but about membership of a citizen body and a shared set of values and socio-political structures that, just like the toga, could be “put on” by people from diverse backgrounds.

A Multicultural Empire Another striking feature of Roman identity is that it could exist, apparently harmoniously, with other forms of cultural identity. The grave monuments in the previous section have shown how the Roman toga could be combined with local elements. It is especially through the medium of funerary monuments, which number many thousands, that we gain an insight into the cultural identities of ordinary people in different parts of the empire, both because they are so numerous and because they represent people as they chose to be portrayed. Very few provincial populations left a literary record like that of Rome with which we could explore answers to such questions. Other sources for provincial dress include public portraits from urban contexts (but these generally depict important local people, and they tend to be dressed in Roman clothing in this medium), excavated artifacts like metal fastenings, textile remains (in only very few areas), and other visual evidence like frescoes and mosaics. We can, however, only explore provincial dress in those regions in which sources exist. There are some parts of the Roman Empire (such as most of North Africa) in which we have very few surviving grave monuments; and textiles and other visual evidence that has survived hasn’t done so in meaningful quantities. Altogether, the evidence reveals that in many areas of the empire local dress customs thrived, even though the medium in which they have come down to us—such as figurative

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grave monuments—is often Roman in character. The following examples are intended not as an exhaustive account of all ethnic dress in the Roman Empire, but as case studies to show the diversity of dress styles and what they tell us about the cultural identities of those who wore them.

The Middle Danube Provinces One region of the Roman Empire in which we can grasp the finer nuances of ethnic identity through dress are the middle Danube provinces of Noricum and Pannonia. The native men’s dress of this region is difficult to separate from the dress worn by Roman soldiers, namely a tunic and either a rectangular cloak held with a brooch over the right shoulder or a hooded cape that covered the upper part of the body. Both of these items are likely to have been adopted by Roman military personnel at an earlier stage through their dealings with the northern provinces. As such, in a region like that of the Danube provinces, where large numbers of troops were stationed throughout the Roman period, in the absence of other information we can never be sure if the men wearing them are local civilians or Roman soldiers.31 This, however, stands in marked contrast to the dress of the local women, which was highly elaborate and varied strikingly between local regions. In general, the Iron Age dress of women in all of the northern regions of Europe conquered by the Romans consisted of a set ensemble of garments: a sleeved bodice, a long skirt, an overtunic constructed of a tube of heavy cloth held at the shoulders with brooches, a cloak, and some form of headdress. Although we do not have visual evidence, the overtunic with fastenings at the shoulders appears to have had a long history, judging by the pairs of pins found in female grave contexts going back to the early Iron Age. Many of the women in the inhumation burials at the eponymous site of Hallstatt in Austria, for example, were buried with large pins at their shoulders.32 It is probably no coincidence that the Doric peplos mentioned previously was similar in construction: they almost certainly have a common ancestor, and it may be that the entire ensemble was a considerably more ancient European dress combination.33 And while the garment combination never fluctuated, in the Danube region in the Roman period it was in the varying styles of the garments themselves—in particular the form of the overtunic and the headdress—that we see the expression of what appear to be tribal or regional identities.34 Figure 7.5 shows the different types of overtunic worn by women on the Romanperiod gravestones of Noricum and Pannonia. The map shows the distribution of these different types, displaying clear regional grouping. Overtunic 1, a plain overtunic sometimes folded up over the underskirt such that it balloons out, is found mainly in eastern Noricum and the bordering part of northern Pannonia and is perhaps a general Norican style. We might expect to find it in western Noricum as well if we had more stones from this region that depict women fullfigure. Overtunic 2 has an extra layer of tunic, or perhaps a separate cloth, that is tucked into the belt and pinned to the right shoulder. It is found exclusively in and around the city of Virunum in the core part of Noricum. Overtunic 3, consisting of the plain overtunic with an extra layer of cloth around the sides, often with tassels or weights on the corners, is found in the Leitha area north of Neusiedlersee, and Overtunic 4, a plain overtunic tucked up into the belt on the sides such that the skirt falls in chevron-shaped folds, is found only in the area of the Danube bend. It is difficult to attribute these dress styles with any certainty to known tribal groups. The distribution of Overtunic 1 suggests it is perhaps the dress of the original Norici, the leading tribe of the Norican kingdom that later

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FIGURE 7.5: Overtunics in Noricum and Pannonia: types and distribution map. Drawing by Ursula Rothe.

became the Roman province. (The pre-Roman settlement at Virunum was the kingdom’s capital.) The Boii were a tribal group associated with the area around Neusiedlersee where Overtunic 2 was worn, but the whole of northern Pannonia was in a state of flux in the early imperial period, and other groups, including perhaps some Eravisci from the Danube bend, had moved to the area. The Danube bend itself was inhabited by two different groups: the Eravisci in the south-east and the Azali, a group that had moved north from southern Pannonia in the north-west.35 When we look at headdresses, a slightly different pattern emerges, as some selected examples in Figure 7.6 show. H 2, a tight, multi-layered cap and H 3, a single-layered, bulbous bonnet, cluster around the Danube bend in the region of Overtunic 4, perhaps signifying membership of either the Eraviscan or the Azalian groups. The turban headdress H 4 is found exclusively in the Danube bend as well, but only appears five times in total, so it is difficult to give an ethnic reading any especial weight. The boat-shaped hat H 5 that appears from the working on the stone to have been made out of fur appears in precisely the same region north of Neusieldersee as Overtunic 3, but is never worn together with this, suggesting separate ethnic groups in this region. The women’s dress of the provinces Noricum and Pannonia is particularly interesting for a number of reasons. For example, it is striking that it fell to the women in this society to continue local dress customs. While the men wore their generic garments or adopted

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FIGURE 7.6: Headdresses in northern Pannonia: types and distribution map. Drawing by Ursula Rothe.

the Roman toga, the overwhelming majority of women on the circa 1,500 portrait gravestones from these provinces, which date from the early first to the mid-third century AD , are depicted in local ethnic dress. This phenomenon has been observed in a diverse range of places and historical periods, and is usually explained in the fact that men functioned in the public sphere, and as such were under more pressure to conform to prevailing dress expectations, while the private sphere of women was a locus for continuing traditions.36 In this way, families could have a foot in several cultural worlds. There is no indication, however, that local men’s dress in the region was ever more elaborate than the simple garments in which they are depicted on the stones, nor that they displayed regional ethnic characteristics. (It is important to note, however, that the original paintwork on the gravestones has only survived in patches on a handful of stones and as such we may be missing a whole layer of meaning.) It seems that women may have played a special role as “guardians of ethnicity” in the pre-Roman cultures as well. In any case, the frequent appearance of women wearing local dress with husbands and sons in Roman dress rules out any notion that the two cultural spheres collided in any way. Rather, it seems that being Roman in Pannonia simply did not preclude simultaneous membership of the family in smaller local groups. Second, this is one of the only regions of the Roman Empire in which we can observe the continuation of pre-Roman dress right

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up until the third century, pointing to a local population that placed a lot of importance on maintaining local ethnic identities. This is paralleled in the epigraphy: almost uniquely for the northern provinces, tribal ethnonyms like “Eraviscus” are found frequently in Pannonian inscriptions long into the third century.37 And this despite the fact that especially this region saw a huge influx of immigrants from all over the Roman Empire in the form of soldiers and merchants.38 It may be that it was precisely this multicultural mix that gave rise to a desire on the part of local people to preserve their old affiliations.39

Gaul The tenaciousness of dress customs in the middle Danube provinces is all the more remarkable if we contrast it with Gaul. Here, the Iron Age women’s ensemble of undergarments, overtunic with brooches, cloak, and headdress outlined above can be observed on some very few early gravestones from this region dating to the first half of the first century AD , such as the famous Claudian stele for a Rhine shipman and his wife from Mainz.40 By the end of the first century, however, this is replaced by a new ensemble closely resembling the generic Gallic dress of the men. Like the men’s dress, it consisted of a long-sleeved tunic worn to the ankles (rather than the calf length of the men’s dress), and like the male version usually worn without a belt. Over this, instead of the male hooded cape, Gallic women wore a rectangular cloak and a simple beret-like bonnet on the head (Figure 7.7).

FIGURE 7.7: Gravestone for a Gallic couple, Arlon, second century AD . Courtesy of D. Colling.

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This was a new ensemble—it didn’t appear before the Flavian period—and it was distinctly un-Roman in its sleeves, its bonnet, and the fact that it was worn without a belt. The remarkable thing about this dress is that it was worn across the whole of Gaul (not including the Narbonnensis), the German provinces, and even Britain,41 suggesting that in the late first century, a new, much wider regional identity evolved in these provinces. It is difficult to imagine that this process was unrelated to the fact that it was precisely in the Flavian period that local rebellions ended and this region began to become fully integrated into the Roman Empire, with fully-fledged urban infrastructure appearing in the towns and the development of a long-distance trade economy across the whole of the northwest.42 In other words, it would appear that as a result of full inclusion in the Roman Empire, this region developed not a new Roman identity, but a new form of ethnic or cultural identity that was pan-regional in character.43

Palmyra

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If we cross to the far eastern part of the empire, completely different cultural processes were at work. The city in this area for which we have the most abundant evidence is Palmyra in Syria. As noted earlier, in the copious funerary art of this city, consisting of elaborate sarcophagi and more simple relief loculus plates,44 Roman dress is conspicuous by its near absence. Here, it is confined almost exclusively to official municipal portraits45 and scenes of official duties on private grave monuments (e.g. Figure 7.4). Roman women’s dress is almost entirely absent. The people represented in the grave portraits mostly wear Greek, Parthian, or local dress. Palmyra is one of the only places in the Roman Empire where we have both visual and textile evidence for clothing, and the textile finds (mainly from grave contexts) tend to reflect what is depicted in the portraits.46 Greek dress consisted of the tunic and himation, usually draped in an arm-sling style, for men, and for women the chito¯n and draped himation (although it should be noted that there are far fewer depictions of women in Greek dress than men). Only Palmyrene men wore Parthian-style dress consisting mainly of baggy trousers with decorated bands, a sleeved tunic, again with ornamental bands, an elaborate belt and decorated boots (Figure 7.4), sometimes with a sleeved coat over the top.47 A short, rectangular cloak with decorated edges worn like the Roman sagum or the Greek chlamys with a brooch on the right shoulder may be a local variant of these classical garments.48 The local dress comprised an array of sleeved tunics often decorated with vertical bands similar to Roman clavi. Men wore rectangular cloaks that were either fringed or decorated with H or shapes.49 Another variant of local dress most commonly worn by native gods is a short-sleeved tunic with a large, skirt-like cloak draped around the lower body and reaching to the feet that was folded over at the waist and formed wide vertical folds at the front between the legs. It is worn by a row of genii on a relief scene from the north-west of Palmyra,50 local deities on a relief from Wadi el-Miyah,51 and a man on a family relief portrait now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.52 It is also strikingly similar to the dress worn under the chainmail coat by the “Syrian archers” on Trajan’s Column.53 Women wore an additional body garment over their long- or short-sleeved tunics consisting of a cloth wrapped around the lower body and attached over the left shoulder with a large brooch. Figure 7.8 shows a bust of a woman with this method of fastening and an image of a woman in the background showing the hang of the garment. Both Stauffer and Goldman have seen this as a method of wrapping the himation, while Goldman referred to it as a “variation of Graeco-Roman costume”.54

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FIGURE 7.8: Loculus plate depicting a bust of a woman in Palmyrene dress with a full-figure image of a woman in the background. Photo: A. Schmidt-Colinet.

On their heads, Palmyrene women wore a headband and turban, usually covered by a cloak or veil. In addition, they often wore large amounts of heavy jewelry on their headdresses and ears, and around their necks, wrists, and ankles. The sumptuous jewelry, together with the highly ornamented textiles, represents a manifestly eastern tradition of elaborate adornment. The textile finds show that the high level of ornamentation of the Palmyrene clothing was not just artistic convention, and there is reason to believe that some of the shapes and patterns correspond to kinship and status groups.55 The question as to what ethnicity the Palmyrene men and women displayed in their dress is a difficult one. The streams of dress choice do not in any way correspond to groups in society, and indeed run through individual families.56 As an important trade hub on the caravan route through the Syrian Desert, it was subjected to a great deal of outside influence, and the dress shows us that this came mainly from the Parthian Iranian culture further east. This is understandable given its close proximity, the close trade dealings, and the fact that the city will have seen many people from further east passing through its streets. It may also be that the elaborate nature of that style of dress lent itself especially to the display of wealth and status of the rich merchant families that are well-represented in the funerary art. However, although the Parthian style of dress in Palmyra may amount to nothing more than a fashion, it is significant that the source of that fashion impulse came from the east beyond the frontier rather than from Rome.

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On the other hand, through Greek conquest and influence, the tunic and himation had long gained status as a sartorial lingua franca in the whole of the eastern Mediterranean and parts of the Middle East, and incorporation into the Roman Empire did nothing to change this fact. As such, the Greek dress worn at Palmyra is unlikely to have held ethnic significance at all, and may have served as de facto Roman dress as it became the default clothing for the eastern part of the empire. It does, however, seem significant that Roman dress proper was confined to a very few images that were official in nature. The toga, and perhaps Roman citizenship in general, simply does not appear to have made a large impact on the cultural identity of these people. Consequently, if one had asked a Palmyrene about their ethnic identity, they might simply have replied that they were Palmyrene first and foremost, and free to adopt whatever dress, local or external, fit within their own ideas of status, fashion and good taste.

CONCLUSION It is clear that a close observation of dress can tell us a great deal about ethnic groups and cultural affiliations in the ancient world, perhaps more than any other kind of evidence. What we discover is a complex set of group identities that were constantly evolving, were different in character to one another, and rarely conform to modern ideas of ethnicity. New cultural groups could evolve, clear ethnic groupings could be visually indistinguishable in their dress, and what appear to be quintessential “national costumes” like the toga could signify a very different type of cultural identity than one might expect. What is clear is that dress was not merely a passive reflector of identity. It could be used actively both to define who was inside or outside a certain group, and to signify integration across a range of ethnic groups. Dress studies of the kind summarized here constitute a relatively new field, and there are many parts of the Greek and Roman worlds for which the dress has not yet been studied in detail. It is to be hoped that the next few years will bring us a more detailed view of the fascinating range of different types of dress worn across the classical world.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Visual Representations LENA LARSSON LOVÉN

The impressive amount of sculpture and other types of visual evidence that has survived from the Greco-Roman world constitutes an extensive group of source material for the study of ancient dress. Both Greece and Rome were clothed cultures, and dressed men and women appear in a variety of artistic genres, from large-scale free-standing sculpture, to reliefs, paintings, mosaics, and minor arts reflecting the use of clothes throughout Antiquity. Dress was used, as it still is, as a means of visual communication, and clothes played a vital role in communicating a number of aspects of the status of wearer. The regular use of clothes in turn mirrors an extensive production of textiles that, however, are easily degraded over time, and few complete Greek or Roman garments have survived in the archaeological record. Fortunately there is the richness of contemporary depictions of clothing which reflect a variety of garment types, modes of dressing, and change over time in clothing practices; and how dress was used as a marker of age, gender, status, and a range of other categories. When using images as a source for ancient dress practices, it is important to keep in mind that it was not a primary aim of any visual medium to present a detailed description of dress but clothing details could add meaning to an image. With scant archaeological evidence, images have become an invaluable source for understanding ancient clothing practices as well as ancient perceptions of dress. This chapter will address aspects of representations of clothes and clothing practices in Greco-Roman visual media.

MEN, WOMEN, AND CLOTHES IN GREEK ART: FROM ARCHAIC TO CLASSICAL TIMES The Greek tradition of large-scale stone sculptures can be dated back to the mid-/late seventh century BC . Stone sculptures, sometimes larger than life, representing either young men or young women survive from the period. By far the majority of them are standing figures, following a standard male or female pattern. The men stand with straight arms along their sides, legs in a walking pose, with one foot in front of the other. This is the so-called kouros type which remained a standard motif in Greek sculpture for centuries, modified over time in artistic style and in the rendering of the human body and face. The parallel female motif, likewise depicting young women, is the so-called kore, maiden, type.1 The female statues are also standing figures but, in contrast to the young males, the women are standing with the legs together and arms extending frontwards from the elbow. Archaic males and females have similar facial renderings and long, curly hair but there is one striking difference between them: the men are naked while all the women wear clothes. The representations of men with no clothes and clothed women mirror different views of male and female bodily norms in general. 135

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FIGURE 8.1: Strangford Apollo. © The Trustees of the British Museum.

However, in daily life men wore clothes and in sixth century BC Athens, fashionable men would wear long linen chito ¯ns and have their hair long, like the kouroi sculptures, but bound in knot. This fashion can be seen in Attic vase painting. According to the Greek historian, Thucydides, there was a shift in men’s fashion at the beginning of the century, apparently some time around the Persian wars, when the long chito ¯n was replaced by a shorter one which could be worn under a woolen cloak, the himation.2 This was the standard male outfit for the Classical period and it is seen in both sculpture and vase painting from the fifth century BC onwards. This clothing combination appears together with a shorter hairstyle for men (Figure 8.1). In the visual arts, male chito ¯ns are represented as shorter and less voluminous than those worn by women. Men wearing longer chito ¯ns do occasionally appear in fifth century BC art, like the bronze charioteer from Delphi (c. 460 BC ), but by that period they did not represent the common, everyday male clothing. The Archaic korai (female) sculptures are all dressed and some wear the traditional garment for women, the peplos, which covers the body from neck to toe. An early representation of a peplos is seen in a small lime stone sculpture, the Lady of Auxerre, from the mid-seventh century BC , now in collections of the Louvre.3 It is a statuette of a c. 75cm-high female with the characteristic early Archaic face and hair style. Like other representations of the peplos, it appears to be a heavy garment that covers the body under thick layers of wool, obscuring the contours of the female physique.4 The dress of the

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FIGURE 8.2: Peplos Kore. © Acropolis Museum. Photo: Socratis Mavrommatis.

Auxerre statuette gives the impression of a tubular garment of some width where the upper edge of the back part of the dress has been pulled down over the front part of the shoulders, forming sleeve-like loops hanging down to the elbows.5 The peplos also occurs on Attic vase painting. One example is the famous black-figured vase made by Amasis around 550 BC , with scenes of textile production (see Figures 3.4 and 5.4); spinning, weaving, and handling the finished textile product, the women involved in the work wear peploi. From this example and others it is clear that a peplos could be decorated with patterns or stripes.6 The lower edge at the back of the dress of the Lady of Auxerre also shows carved traces of patterns that support the idea of decorated and colored female dresses.7 Another example of a peplos in sculpture is found on one of a group of korai sculptures that were found on the Acropolis in Athens in the late nineteenth century and named after its dress, the Peplos Kore, (1.18m high).8 It is dated to around 530 BC , still Archaic in style but clearly shows how the facial features have been transformed into more rounded forms during the hundred years since the Lady of Auxerre was made (Figure 8.2). The pose of the Peplos Kore is still rigid, the hair style long and curly, and the dress rendered as a heavy woolen garment but now with a subtle curvature of the female body detectable under the peplos. By the time the Peplos Kore was made, the peplos was no longer very frequent in sculptural representations. Instead, the chito ¯n had become the common female dress. The chito ¯n appears in Greek art from the mid-sixth century BC . It is worn by several of the

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maidens from the Acropolis and is frequently depicted in Attic vase painting.9 The chito ¯n, originally a garment from the Greek east (Ionia) and hence sometimes called the Ionian chito ¯n, was “buttoned” along the upper edges of the fabric which created a sleeved garment and was worn belted. A chito ¯n could be made of high quality cloth such as fine linen and the quality of the fabric is often carefully rendered in the arts, both in sculpture and in vase painting, revealing the form of a woman’s body under the cloth.10 The abundant amount of fabric used for the garment and the fine quality of the cloth speak of economic means and luxury that could be further emphasized by details and accessories such as jewelry. In the early Classical period (c. 500–460 BC ), and especially after the Persian Wars in the 480s, the female chito ¯n was abandoned in favor of a revival of the peplos. This socalled Doric peplos, appears to have come back into fashion in this period, at least in sculptural representations. In the iconography of this era it is regularly worn by the goddess Athena, as seen for example, on a votive relief from c. 460 BC , sometimes called the Mourning Athena (Figure 8.3). A slightly later example of a peplos is seen on a grave stele, the so-called Dove Stele in the Metropolitan Museum in New York. This is dated to c. 450–440 BC and made in memory of a girl who is seen in profile, standing and dressed in a peplos with an open side (Figure 8.4). Peploi and chito ¯ns also occur side by side in artistic representations from this period, for instance in vase painting, and on the various sides of the Parthenon frieze. It has been argued by Mireille Lee that dress representation in the Early Classical period should not

FIGURE 8.3: Mourning Athene. © Acropolis Museum. Photo: Socratis Mavrommatis.

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FIGURE 8.4: The Dove Stele, c. 450–440 BC . © The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

be understood as reflections of contemporary dress practices but that the peplos was possibly a dress used in ceremonial contexts and as a symbolic, traditional Hellenic garment.11 As mentioned, the peplos with its tubular shape covers the contours of the female body while the chito ¯n in the arts more often reveals the form of a woman’s body under the cloth. In the mid-fifth century BC , the relation between body and garment in sculpture was taken a step further when a style was developed with clothes depicted as rich in fabrics, pleats, and folds. An early phase of this style is visible in the grave stele of the girl mentioned above. The caryatids from the Erechtheion on the Acropolis in Athens illustrate the representation of the peplos in the High Classical period (Figure 8.5). Here the peploi exhibit traditional elements: being sleeveless, fastened on the shoulders by brooches, and with a clear “overfall,” apotygma. But, they differ from the more tubular shape of the early Archaic sculptures and give the impression of a softer, but rich fabric. The rich drapery and the vertical folds of the dress on these upright standing females resemble the flutes of columns. The Erectheion maidens have the same function as columns in a building and their richly draped clothes can be seen as an architectural element rather than as clothes, and the overall impression created by the combination of statuary bodies and dress evoking associations to columns, is monumental.12 During the Classical period, clothes also look as if they were made of transparent fabrics that may reveal more of the female body than they cover. This style is seen at

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FIGURE 8.5: Erechtheion Caryatid © The Trustees of the British Museum.

its most developed stage in the Parthenon sculptures from the 430s BC . A group of females (goddesses) from the east pediment of the temple is a good example of how the relation between female bodies and clothes of very light material could be sculptured in the later fifth century BC . Another slightly later example is a statue of the goddess Nike from Olympia, the so-called Nike of Paionios, where the goddess of Victory is seen at the moment when she comes in to land after flight. The soft peplos is pressed against her body exposing one breast and her left thigh. A similar type of sculpture and rendering of clothes is found in the collections of Ny Carlsberg Glypotek in Copenhagen. A female, possibly divine and originally part of an architectural decoration, appears in a dress of very light and soft material. The pressure of the wind makes the cloth almost cling to her torso and left leg but leaving her right leg bare from hip to toe (although the foot is now lost) and revealing the right breast. This female has somewhat more rounded bodily forms than usual in Classical sculpture, giving her a sensual appearance (Figure 8.6). The women in these examples all represent divine or mythological persons but no decent woman would appear in public dressed like this. However, clothing in iconography for ordinary women was not unaffected by the new sculptural style as can be seen in funerary art from Athens in the late fifth century, and in vase painting. It is important to remember that the images and the women in them are idealized but still they tell something of how women were expected to dress and look.13 Vase painting of the fifth century BC

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FIGURE 8.6: Nike. Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, Copenhagen. Photo: Lena Larsson Lovén by permission of Ole Haupt.

is dominated by the red-figure style with motifs from daily life: women preparing for their wedding, domestic work, together with children, in mourning and more, but taking no part in public life. In short, the repertoire is a woman’s world and in concordance with gendered ideals in Athenian society where women did not engage in public life. Reflections of the female fashion in sculpture can be seen in clothes rich in pleated fabric and in drapery.14 Funerary stelai from the late Classical period also present a range of images of women in a domestic environment, sometimes with family members and servants. The female body is normally covered by a long garment of finer cloth, possibly a chito ¯n but not always identifiable as a specific garment, and a mantle of a heavier fabric, the himation. Sometimes they are veiled, although the face is never covered, and very often the woman may clasp the edge of the veil or the himation.15 Both men and women used a himation, a mantle, as an outer garment. When outdoors, a married woman would use part of the mantle to cover her head as a sign of her married state and of modesty. In a recent debate about face veiling in ancient Greece, Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones has argued that it was the standard for women in the Greek world for centuries,16 but this is not how women normally were depicted in the arts. This may be yet another illustration of how to read iconographic evidence: artistic representations of clothes can have several purposes and cannot automatically be read as depictions of the actual clothes worn in everyday life.17

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BODY, CLOTHES, AND NUDITY IN GREEK ICONOGRAPHY It would take another hundred years, from the time of the Parthenon sculptures until the mid-fourth century, before a woman could be portrayed without clothes in a life-size Greek sculpture. The Aphrodite of Cnidus from c. 350 BC , ascribed to the sculptor Praxiteles, is normally considered to be the first known large-scale sculpture of a nude female in the Greek tradition. The goddess is seen standing naked but holding a piece of cloth in her hand, possibly her dress. It has been argued that this is a key to the reading of the sculpture as it symbolizes her control over her own body, whether to obscure or to expose it.18 By the time this was made there was already a long tradition of portraying gods without clothes, in so-called divine nudity, but to represent a Greek goddesses in a life-size sculpture and without clothes was an innovation in the mid-fourth century BC .19 Today, the Aphrodite of Cnidus is an iconic piece of art but its beauty was also widely admired in Antiquity. It was much reproduced, either as Aphrodite in the Hellenistic Greek world or as Venus by the Romans, either naked or semi-clothed. Ordinary women portrayed in large-scale sculpture, on the other hand, continued to appear as fully dressed females with clothes covering most of their bodies. As mentioned earlier, in ancient Greek culture both men and women wore clothes in their daily lives but visual representations of male and female bodies were made according to gender-based ideals. Men who did not have the status of a god could still be represented without clothes while ordinary women, and for along time goddesses too, were generally clothed. In Greek art we see nude men as gods, heroes, athletes, and naked men in battle scenes that do not reflect reality. Greek men did not go to battle naked and we have ample archaeological evidence of armor and images representing clothed men in armor.20 Nudity is a complex issue and its appearance in ancient art may have several different purposes and meanings.21 For the occurrence of nude male in Greek art from Archaic times onwards, the role of athletics has often been stressed. Sports and physical exercise was a male business performed in the nude that to a certain extent, made male nudity accepted in public life.22 This offered artists the opportunity to study the male body, its movements and ripple of the muscles when in physical exercise. Larissa Bonfante has argued that nudity in iconography may sometimes be read as a costume rather than as simply a naked body, and that to the Greeks, male nudity was a cultural ideal and the highest expression of beauty, especially when personified in the physique of the young male athlete.23 Representations of naked athletes are recurrent over time in Greek sculpture, sometimes with a symbol added to define a particular physical activity. Some of the most famous examples are the Doryphoros with the spear, the Diadoumenos with the band of victory, from the fifth century BC , and the Apoxyomenos with his strigil, by the sculptor Lysippos in the fourth century BC —all young men without clothes, with perfect bodies and symbols of physical activities (Figure 8.7). In general, women did not take part in sports and there were few opportunities for artists to study the female body in the nude. A rare example of an athletic female is a seminude bronze statuette from the Archaic period showing a young girl in a running pose (Figure 8.8). Female beauty was not viewed through the same lens as male beauty, and it was not considered socially acceptable for decent women to appear without, or with very little, clothing.24 In vase painting, especially in red-figured vase painting of the fifth century BC , women sometimes do appear naked and this has often led to interpretations of such images as representations of prostitutes.25 Some vase paintings where naked women and

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FIGURE 8.7: The Vaison Diadoumenos (Roman copy of Greek original). © The Trustees of the British Museum.

FIGURE 8.8: Bronze figure of running girl. © The Trustees of the British Museum.

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men appear are clearly erotic scenes but as pointed out by Sian Lewis in her study of women in Athenian vase iconography, a woman depicted without clothes should not automatically be interpreted as a prostitute. Images where women appear without clothes can be scenes where they take care of their personal hygiene or brides taking the ritual bath before the wedding.26 Underlying these divergent views of the male and female body lie ancient gender constructions, but the interpretations of images is also a matter of modern engendered views.

COLORS AND FEMALE GREEK CLOTHING Ancient Greek sculptures, today mostly white marble and without colors, were originally polychrome, with clothing and bodies, particularly facial details, painted in different colors and patterns. Most of the once-rich spectrum of colors is now lost but occasionally traces of patterns or paint can still be seen on sculptures, such as on the Peplos kore, but only as a faint reminiscence of the vivid polychromy that once existed. Detailed technical and chemical analysis of sculptures has recovered the rich, original coloring. And, by applying the results to full-scale replicas, among them the Peplos kore, demonstrate the polychromy of ancient clothing to modern viewer.27 In general, it was more exclusive to possess dyed clothes and, a woman’s manifestation of high status and wealth could be further emphasized by wearing jewelry and other accessories. A good example of how a young woman could display her family’s status through her outfit, is an Archaic statue of a young female called Phrasikleia.28 It was found in 1972 together with a kouros statue in a grave at Myrrhinous (Merenda) in Attica, in an unusually good state of preservation that allowed obvious traces of its original polychromy to survive. Phrasikleia has been analyzed and recolored in a full-scale replica by the Brinkmann team and the reconstruction shows a young female with long, curly dark hair and a crown of lotus buds and open flowers. She is wearing a foot-length red dress decorated with rosettes in different colors, some gold plated, and swastikas. The upper and lower edges of the dress, and along the front and sleeves are decorated with multi-colored borders. She is wearing earrings, a necklace, and a bracelet. In her left hand she is holding a lotus bud, and with her right hand she is holding part of her dress. On her feet are white sandals.29 This statue is also unusual in its identification. Most Archaic korai statues are anonymous but this has a name linked to it: Phrasikleia, identified through an inscription found prior to the sculpture and commemorating an unmarried female. The inscription reads: Tomb of Phrasikleia. Kore I must be called evermore, instead of marriage, by the Gods this became my fate.30 Marriage was the central rite of passage for a young female. Women and preparations of marriage is a regular theme in Attic vase painting, more so than in sculpture. In vase painting scenes, the bride is often depicted wearing a transparent garment that reveals the bodily contours and also stresses the sexual attraction of her body.31 A married woman’s most important role was to give birth to legitimate children to secure the continuity of the family line and to provide new members for society. An untimely death, as in the case of Phrasikleia, would imply an unfulfilled life course. A wedding was also an opportunity to

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display the financial status of the bride’s family—for instance by the bridal dress, which could be colored by expensive dyes such as saffron and purple. In addition, the bride could be adorned with jewelery, as demonstrated by Phrasikleia, who in her funerary statue is dressed up as she may have been on the wedding day she would never experience. Life-size stone sculptures of men and women represent costly works of art that functioned as, in the case of Phrasikleia, as funerary sculpture, or as offerings to gods and goddesses and put up in temple precincts, or as public monuments. It was not an option for everybody to commission a large-scale stone sculpture which in itself, through size and artistic quality, is a statement of the commissioner’s economic status. More affordable for wider social circles were smaller statuettes or figurines made of cheaper material, such as terracotta. One category of clay figurines of special interest for dress practices is the so-called Tanagra figures, an extensive group of terracotta figurines dating to the Hellenistic period and representing women who are fully dressed. The statuettes were found in large numbers at Tanagra, Boeotia, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, hence the label, but similar figurines were produced widely over the Hellenistic world from the mid-fourth century BC (Figure 8.9). They are generally interpreted as representing mortal women, not divine creatures or goddesses, but taking their inspiration from large-scale sculptures. The women are sumptuously dressed and traces of paint on the clothing survive in bright colors, such as pink, green, yellow, and blue mirroring the richness in color that was significant for the ancient world. Some garments have edges in gold emphasizing the exclusiveness of the women’s clothes. Most of the statuettes have their heads covered by a mantle and few of them have a face veil thrown back over the head and some of them have mantles covering the bottom of the face.32 The human body was the main motif in Greek art and as a clothed culture humans are regularly represented with clothes. All clothes in sculpture, however, do not clothe the body as sometimes a piece of cloth may, but rather emphasize other aspects, such as nakedness or the elegance of a form through or beneath the clothing. Dress as seen in art

FIGURE 8.9: Tanagra statuettes. Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, Copenhagen. Photo: Lena Larsson Lovén by permission of Ole Haupt.

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can therefore not automatically be read as representations of ordinary people’s clothing. Statuettes of the Tanagra type versus large-scale sculptures with mythological motifs may serve as an example of the role of female dress in various artistic genres. The smaller terracotta statuettes with partly preserved colors, are likely to reflect the street fashion of ordinary women to a higher degree than for instance the dress of maidens of the Erechtheion or the females of the pedimental group from the Parthenon (see Figure 4.2).

ROMAN MEN IN TOGAS Ancient Greek and Roman dress practices have several similarities, among them the art of drapery as a characteristic clothing style, and wool being the most fundamental textile fiber. Like Greek sculpture, Roman sculpture was originally polychrome but it has not yet been as thoroughly investigated and reconstructed. Complementary and contemporary Roman evidence of the colors of clothing is also found in Roman painting, in particular from Pompeii in the early Imperial period, in mosaics and in mummy portraits from Roman Egypt. All of them are genre images but they also reveal a great deal about the colors and patterns of Roman clothes. Both cultures also produced an abundance of images in a variety of artistic forms. Roman free-standing sculptures were from the second century BC more regularly made in stone, and many represent a man dressed in a toga, a togatus. Roman art in general is populated by men dressed in togas—the most wellknown and iconic Roman clothing item. It was made of wool, rich in cloth and estimated to be somewhere around 16 square meters for a man of 1.80m, and draped around the (Figure 8.10; see also Figures 3.5, 3.6, and 6.6).33

FIGURE 8.10: Togatus figure. Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, Copenhagen. Photo: Lena Larsson Lovén by permission of Ole Haupt.

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Among adults the so-called toga virilis, an undyed and undecorated garment, was worn by men only. From the extensive number of representations of togati over a long period of time, it is possible to understand the importance of this garment and also to see a development in the style and draping of the toga as well as changes of fashion over time. In late Republican times (the first century BC ), togas are represented with both arms arranged close to the body, by the first century AD the mode of draping had changed to leave the right arm free, and the toga is often represented as richer in cloth and arranged in sweeping folds forming U-shapes across the body. The cloth may fall to the feet but does not cover them.34 The change in the draping style appears to have occurred during the early years of the reign of Augustus (30 BC –AD 14); it is reflected in sculpture where the new style of the toga produced more impressive effects.35 The toga is a garment embedded with symbolism. The right of wearing the toga was reserved for Roman citizens and as such it was a significant visual mark of a man’s legal and social status.36 From late Republican times, successful freedmen (ex-slaves) would often commemorate themselves with a stone memorial featuring family portraits. The men in such images are regularly dressed in the toga, as an important and visual mark of their new status and identity as Roman citizens. There was a wide range of social status and rank among men who were entitled to wear the toga and details on the garment would further emphasize the status of the wearer. For instance, a broad purple border marked the high status of a Roman senator who had the right to wear a toga praetexta. Such borders are seldom visible on sculptures as their original colors are now lost but they can be seen in paintings and mosaics. The toga praetexta was also worn by children in Roman citizen families. The child toga was decorated with purple borders but appears to have been a gender-neutral garment as it was worn by boys and girls alike. It was reserved for children of Roman citizens and as such it was a significant marker of their status as freeborn members of citizen families. There are many artistic representations of boys in togas but not of girls. One example is seen on the Ara Pacis (see Figure 3.14), another is the girl in a group of two females discussed later, wearing a toga as a sign of her social status.37 An additional symbol for young citizens was the bulla, a protective pendant worn around the neck. In artistic representations it appears regularly but only for boys, from members of the Imperial family to sons of ordinary Roman families but not for girls. It can be seen worn by the young boys on the Ara Pacis (see Figure 3.14). By the reign of Augustus, and in spite of the emperor’s best efforts, the toga was not used as the ordinary everyday male clothing. The toga was an outer garment worn with a tunic underneath, but the tunic was the all-round and variable garment used in daily life. In round sculpture, a male tunic is often covered by a toga or mantle, but paintings provide a better view of a tunic. It was regularly decorated with two red/purple stripes as is seen in various art genres such as mosaics and the many painted mummy portraits from Roman Egypt. The mummy portraits were painted on wooden tablets, often with wellpreserved colors (Figure 8.11). In the visual arts, tunics were also used to symbolize people of low status, for instance slaves who would wear only a tunic, and the dress is used to mark their inferior social and legal position: a short tunic regularly signals a person involved in manual labor. Someone of even lower status might wear the short, sleeveless exomis, made of less fabric than a tunic and fastened on one shoulder only. Such tunics appear especially in Roman funerary iconography reflecting the world of working people.38

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FIGURE 8.11: Mummy portrait of a priest of Serapis showing clavi. © The Trustees of the British Museum.

Other types of male outdoor garments were mantles that could be worn over a tunic, and cloaks. There are a number of Latin expressions for cloaks and we may not always be able to tell the difference between them. One common cloak was the paenula, a hooded woolen outer garment, worn by both men and women.39

VISUALIZING THE DRESS OF ROMAN WOMEN The most well known occasion when a change of clothing was required for girls was after their first marriage that could occur in the early teens. Men married in their togas but according to written sources there was a special wedding outfit for the bride. Visual evidence shows married couples, but there is a striking absence of images of both the wedding itself and the bridal dress.40 In daily life, women in Roman society were draped in clothes that covered most of their bodies. A married high-status woman was a matrona and her dress consisted of several pieces of clothing of which the most significant were the stola and the palla. The stola, was a sleeveless garment that was hooked on each shoulder by straps and worn over a tunic. The stola is not always easily identifiable in the visual arts but can be seen both in large-scale sculpture and in minor arts. Members of the Imperial family were represented in various art genres and commonly as role models for Roman

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men and women. An essential role for the adult females was as the married, chaste matrona. The first empress of Rome, Livia, appear regularly in this role and dressed accordingly, as a matrona stolata. One example in the collections of the Louvre shows her as a full-scale sculpture and dressed in a tunic fastened along the arm and a stola, hooked on each shoulder. Her mantle is draped around only the lower part of the body which leaves the clothing details of upper body unusually visible to the viewer. Another example is a partly preserved cameo which shows a portrait of the empress in profile with a tiara and the back of her head covered by the palla. Livia is also wearing a necklace and is dressed in the stola, with the shoulder straps visible (Figure 8.12). More often women have the stola covered by the mantle which implies a general problem of identifying the garments of the female outfit, and the social status that came with the right of wearing the stola. An illustration to this is a sculptural group from the first century BC of an adult woman and a girl, usually interpreted as a mother and daughter from a funerary group of possibly a whole family (Figure 8.13)41 The woman is dressed in a mantle, a palla, covering most of her body and part of her head. She wears a tunic but it is impossible to see if there is also a stola under the palla. By dress and gesture, this woman communicates her status as married and her wifely chastity. Married Roman women of practically all social classes would cover their heads in public as a sign both the married state and of modesty, but there is no visual evidence that their faces were covered in public. In this case the woman, however, has an arm raised to her face that may be interpreted as if ready to pull the mantle over the face, if necessary (see

FIGURE 8.12: Cameo of Livia with stola. Inv. AC 12067 Roma Musei Capitolini, Medagliere Capitolino from the Archivo Fotografico dei Musei Capitoline.

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FIGURE 8.13: Mother and daughter group, Museo Capitolini.

Figures 3.7 and 5.9).42 This gesture relates to a regular motif in Roman sculpture of the so-called Pudicita type and raises general questions of the relation between representations of clothes in sculpture and the actual clothes worn by women. The Pudicitia type is one of a limited number of Roman standard female sculptural types of which has recently been argued that the combination of dress and body language displays female virtues rather than accurate depictions of women’s clothes in daily life (see Figures 3.7 and 5.9).43 The combination of clothes of a matrona stolata was a mark of gender, social class, and identity as it could only be worn only by women married to Roman citizens and mostly in the higher social layers. Women such as female slaves or those of low social status or non-Roman ethnic origin could not use the stola.44 Many women who were not entitled to wear the combination of stola and palla would still use clothes covering their bodies. A woman of any social status would wear a floor length tunic but in the visual arts it is seldom entirely displayed, as one or more other garments would cover it. As already mentioned, a married woman and not only of a higher social class would also cover her head when in public as is demonstrated in a funerary relief of a family group of a manumitted man and woman (Figure 8.14).

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FIGURE 8.14: Funerary relief of a freedman and his wife, Vatican Museum. Photo: Gjon Mili/ The LIFE Picture Collection/Getty Images.

CHANGE AND CONTINUITY IN ROMAN DRESS Clothes were used by everyone in Greco-Roman societies on a daily basis, and in the visual arts and through centuries, men and especially women are regularly represented wearing clothes and this artistic convention clearly reflects the view in both Greek and Roman societies of the clothed body as the standard bodily norm in daily life. Changes in clothing practices took place over time but were slow. The most iconic Roman garment is the toga, and in Roman Italy it appears in the visual arts for centuries. In free-standing sculpture from the first and second centuries, the hands of toga-clad men are free from cloth and the figure may even gesticulate, holding their arms and hands away from their bodies. Such figures create a spatial width that was adopted for male body postures, in particular for powerful men.45 The many representations of men in togas demonstrate the longevity and strong symbolic value of this garment. As a ceremonial dress for men, the toga continued to be used into late Antiquity and to be represented in the visual arts, with some changes in the draping of the toga.46 In that respect, the toga was part of Roman dress practice for centuries.47 There is no imagery available to document a parallel continuity in female dress, but gradually, and like the toga, the traditional dress of the Roman matron had fallen out of fashion in everyday life and appears to have been used primarily at public occasions, but always with a clear symbolic meaning and indication of status. It appears in the visual arts in the early second century AD but after around AD 170 it may have been in a decline as it is only rarely depicted.48 This may imply that the female traditional costume was out of frequent use from somewhere around the turn of the third century AD but the palla and the tunic remained the essential female dress items throughout late Antiquity as women continued to cover most of their bodies with clothes.49

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CLOTHES AND CULTURAL IDENTITY IN THE VISUAL ARTS In the Greco-Roman world, clothes were constantly used to visually identify gender, social status, and sometimes also the legal status of the wearer, as in the case of the Roman toga. Clothes were furthermore considered to be a sign of culture and civilization which contrasted with barbarians who, at least in Greco-Roman perceptions, were often thought to appear naked or at best, semi-clothed.50 As discussed earlier, nudity is a complex symbol with several different purposes but, in the context of Greco-Roman clothing practices, it could be a symbol of “barbarism,” meaning a lesser degree of civilization. At the same time there was an awareness of “the others,” being dressed in ways that differed from ordinary Greek and Roman clothing traditions. One significant dissimilarity in male dress among Greeks and Romans and in those from other clothing traditions is the use of pants or leggings. It was not unknown in the Greco-Roman world as is demonstrated by recurrent iconographic examples over centuries but it constantly appears in relation to people of other ethnic origins. One example from the late sixth century BC is the inside of a red-figured plate by Epiktetos, showing a Scythian archer dressed in a patterned tight tunic with pants (see Figure 7.1). He is wearing head gear known as a Phrygian cap, another mark of non-Greek ethnic identity. More examples of a similar kind are found in the sculptures from the pediments from the temple at Aphaia on Aigina. The sculptures (early fifth century BC ), illustrate battle scenes between Greeks and Trojans. The western pedimental sculptures have been investigated by the Brinkmann team, mentioned above, and the reconstruction of one of the archers shows a man clothed in a multi-colored tight tunic, tights, and head gear similar to the figure on the Epiktetos plate. He represents a Trojan, i.e. a person of a non-Greek origin. The Romans, too, used dress to indicate cultural identity and romanitas which can be exemplified by the Ara Pacis Augustae, the Augustan Altar of Peace built 13–9 BC . In the early reign of Augustus, a number of traditions were revitalized and clothes played a central role in the revival of the allegedly old Roman traditions. This is clearly demonstrated on the great friezes of the altar with men, women, and children. The decoration has several levels of significance and dress is one essential element. The emperor himself appears at the head of the procession on the south side dressed in a toga, with head covered as performing a sacrifice. On the north side are a number of men, “Roman senators” dressed in togas, the proper male dress required on all public occasions.51 The cultural reformations during the reign of Augustus embraced male and female clothing and members of the Imperial household played important roles as models for the citizen body. The female outfit equal in status and symbolic value to the male toga is the combination of stola and palla and the imperial women are all properly dressed. Like the male toga, the combination of a stola and palla was a sign of both romanitas, of cultural identity and social class with special demands of the status and social position of its wearer. Until then, non-mythical women and children were unusual in the decoration of Roman public monuments but their appearance on the Ara Pacis can be seen in relation the program of cultural renewal emphasizing traditional male and female roles, marriages, family values, procreation, and the conduct and dress of Roman citizens and their children.52 On the southern frieze is a group of three children, two boys and a girl, all three apparently wearing child togas. Both boys have a bulla but the girl does not. Instead, she wears a crescent shaped pendant, a lunula, perhaps with a similar function as the bulla. This supports the idea of the bulla as gender-specific and that girls did not use it but

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may well have had other protective pendants or amulets. On the northern frieze another girl appears wearing a pearl necklace, but no bulla (see Figure 3.14). The status of the Imperial family and important citizens as Romans and visualized through dress is even more emphasized by the presence of some non-Roman children in the procession. The children, who are boys, have been suggested to represent foreign princes of non-Roman ethnic origin who differ in dress from the Romans. A boy on the southern face wears a short-sleeved belted tunic, and has a hairstyle different from that of the Roman boys. In contrast to the Roman male hairstyle of this time that is cut short, this boy’s hair is longer and slightly curly. Like the red-figured Scythian archer and the sculpture from the Aigina temple mentioned earlier, he has head gear of the Phrygian cap type—a long standing iconographic symbol representing “eastern” origin. This boy has been interpreted as Bosporian royalty that can be related to Roman political activities in this region in the years directly before the altar was built. For a boy on the northern face a Gallic identity is proposed. It is a very young child (toddler?) with a short tunic, half curly hair and a metal collar, a torque, around his neck. He is associated with Augustus’ reorganization and pacification of the provinces of Gaul and Spain. Both boys, with their symbols of eastern and western origin, can be read as cultural symbols of the Roman Empire, Pax Augusta, and the politics of Augustus (Figure 8.15).53 The same type of metal collar as the younger, “Gallic” boy has is found on one of the most well-known sculptures from the ancient world also representing a Gaul, the Dying Gaul. This is a Roman copy of a Hellenistic sculpture representing a nude male, fatally

FIGURE 8.15: Procession on the south side of the Ara Pacis showing Augustus, with head covered, and to his right, a small boy with long curly hair wearing a torque. Photo: PHAS /UIG / Getty Images.

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death, and with a “barbarian” appearance through his moustache, the torque and a hairstyle different from Greek and Roman male hair fashions.

CONCLUSION From a survey in the visual arts it is clear that Greek and Roman clothes and clothing styles share several characteristics: the art of drapery is an essential element which is obvious in all kinds of iconography. Another is the gender-specific characteristic of women’s clothing with heads covered in public, normally most of the body covered by clothes and being more voluminous and longer than men’s clothes The amount of cloth used for a single garment, male or female, is also a matter of status, with more cloth evoking associations of wealth and high status, and consequently clothes made of less fabric were normally a mark of lower status. There were also culturally-specific garments which in the visual arts were used over time to identify a person as either Greek, Roman, or of another ethnic origin.

CHAPTER NINE

Literary Representations MARY HARLOW

Gorgo: Praxinoa, that pinned garment with ample folds suits you. Tell me, what did it cost you off the loom? Praxinoa: Yes, don’t remind me. More than two minas of pure silver. I put my whole soul into working it. Gorgo: But it turned out as just the look for you.1 This extract from a poem by Theocritus, written sometime in the first half of the third century BC , is full of details to delight the dress historian. It takes the form of a comedy of manners expressed through a conversation between two married women, Praxinoa and Gorgo. They discuss Praxinoa’s new dress which she has bought off the loom from the weaver but has finished off herself. Gorgo congratulates her friend on the effect she has created in fashioning a final garment that really suits her; she has created her own look from the standard dress with full fold. Theocritus expects his audience to laugh at the complaints and compliments of the two women, which reflect stereotypical attitudes to female activity as light-minded. In effect, he may have inadvertently revealed to posterity one of the skills of women, the ability to take the standard woven garment and create a different look (a touch of fashion) that mark a dress as personal. The earlier part of the poem is also full of information that attracts the dress historian: Gorgo complains that her husband bought dirty fleeces at the market which will make it harder for her to work; a cat has spoiled the spun yarn by sitting on it; precious clothes are kept in a locked chest.2 The rather clunky description of the pinned and folded garment in the first line above is a reflection of the difficulty with both translation and poetic language—Theocritus is writing in Sicilian dialect—and highlights both the delights and difficulties in reading literary representations of dress in Antiquity. Literary representations provide us with a language of dress that is different from but complementary to the language of visual representations and material remains. The three different types of evidence for dress in Antiquity speak to each other, but they do not speak the same language. In any given literary text, dress serves a multiplicity of roles in which the language of dress and dress as a language are carefully crafted to communicate a series of codes, signs, and symbols to the audience or reader. Dress can function as metaphor, as an indicator of the wearer’s personality, as an expression of inclusion or exclusion, of status and class and, most fundamentally, of group and individual identity. Both the immediate and everyday presence of dress and the intimate relationship between clothing and the body allowed ancient authors to use these dynamics to express the basic differences between male and female, and thus to illuminate expectations of gender roles and relationships. The body, and in particular the clothed body, was a canvas on which 155

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ancient authors could project social and moral codes and ideas of conformity or difference3—ideas which, in other periods, might be associated with fashion. For early modern and modern literature, it is claimed that references to dress and appearance enhance the “reality effect,” making characters more visible to the reader.4 The situation for Antiquity is a little different. Most literary, as opposed to documentary, writing in the ancient world was created by a relatively small group of elite males, writing primarily for an audience of their peers. The world view of this literate elite exhibits a remarkable continuity across Antiquity and into the early Christian period, reflecting a shared education and cultural background which encouraged a moral compass in which dress and appearance played particular roles. These roles were tied into constructions of gender, but also to associated notions of austerity and excess, and virtue and vice. Any “reality” that is visible therefore requires some nuancing, as the context of any given literary genre is key to grasping “dress in action” within a text.5 Certain textiles and garments carry with them a ton of ideological baggage that needs decoding in order to understand the implications of the text and of the dress described. Greeks and Romans were well aware of how to manipulate dress in both rhetoric and reality to create particular effects. Before we discuss some examples of the ways ancient writers used dress, there are a couple of caveats that need to be taken into account. Nowadays, many researchers and those interested in dress history more generally read translated texts. With the best will in the world, translators cannot be experts in all terminologies or techniques, and often translations of dress and textiles terms use vocabulary that is either unsuited to ancient material or reflects the clothing norms of the translator’s period rather than Antiquity. Embroidery is a case in point. Until recently, many translations have rendered terms that describe decorated or multi-colored textiles as “embroidered,” as this is how we might expect such textiles to look today. However, archaeological remains suggest that embroidery (decoration with a needle on finished garment or cloth) was a very late development in our period, and most decorated textiles were the result of tapestry weave techniques; that is, the patterns were woven into the garment as it was being constructed on the loom.6 Another of our problems is that the exact meaning of some terms has been lost over time. For instance, both Greek and Latin languages had a number of words which can be translated by “mantle” or “cloak:” that is, garments which wrapped around the body in some way and might or might not be fastened by some form of clasp (e.g., to name a few: himation, abolla, pallium, palla, cyclas, epibl¯e ma, ampechonon, amphimallos, lacerna, chlamys, sagum). To use a single English word for different terms often obscures the range of meaning and nuance that might come with the term in its original language, so readers need to be aware that subtlety may be missed at times. Many of the terms derive from the idea of draping or wrapping around, but some have particular connotations. The ampechonon, for instance, is a veil or shawl worn by women, so to suggest a man is wearing such a garment is to imply effeminacy, while the sagum is a military cloak and should not be worn in civic contexts.7 This type of association was taken as read by an ancient audience but is often lost on a modern one. As noted in the introduction to this volume, people in Antiquity were in general much closer to the processes of textile production, to the extent that in everyday language textile craft and dress terminology were used to describe any amount of concrete and abstract concepts, and certain terms became imbued with particular symbolic power.8 The Romans, for instance, could describe themselves as the gens togata (the people who wore the toga): a nation described by a garment.9 To return briefly to the exchange between Praxagora and

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Gorgo: the “pinned garment with ample folds” is a translation of the Greek. It is variously translated as “full gathering” and glossed as “a Dorian pinner” (i.e. a peplos) by J.M. Edmonds in 1923; as a “heavy-pleated gown” by Anna Rist in 1978; and as “full dress with fold” by Robert Wells in 1988. Translators need to use language that will both appeal to and be understood by their readers and agendas that are dictated by the nature of their publication. An academic linguistic translation requires a different attention to language to that of one interested in sharing poetry. Wells, for instance, chooses to add “embroidering the pattern” into Praxinoa’s response, which scans well in his translation and creates a neat vignette for the modern reader but produces a false image of what the original garment may have looked like.10 The most common literary use of dress, metaphorical or otherwise, was as an aid to describing character and identity. Dress was an easy marker of ethnicity with its associations of belonging or exclusion, writers could mark out “others” by a brief, and often stereotypical, mention of their clothing.11 For the Greeks and Romans, dress was also key to gender identity. Throughout Antiquity it was considered important that men and women wear different clothes, or if they wore similar clothes (e.g. cloaks or mantles), that they be worn in ways suited to each sex. The rhetoric of dress in ancient writings is thus framed around particular ideas of masculinity and femininity. In this scheme, the overarching view is that men are the rational, physical, political, military, and dominant sex while women are ideally submissive, domestic, modest, child-bearing, and pertinently, more concerned with the body than the soul or mind. Of course, this is a broad generalization, but the belief that this sexual and social hierarchy was part of the natural order was upheld in the Platonic dialogues and in the Hippocratic and Aristotelian understandings of the body. These ideas of male physical and mental superiority and female inferiority translated into the social life of Antiquity because men were associated with the public world of politics and the military, while women were ideally confined to the family and the domestic sphere; men could perform the activities of their lives with expansive body language, while women should rarely appear in public and when they did so should act with modesty and decorum. Social reality, and indeed the practical realities of daily life, of course, cannot always conform to ideals, and there are plenty of examples of both men and women dressing inappropriately or crossing the gender boundaries created by their community. For the purposes of this chapter, it is important to understand that it is the ideal gendered background against which many authors composed their works. They could share with their audience a common view of how the world should be, and thus give significance and authority to their writing as it supported or denied their shared assumptions. One of these fundamental assumptions was that men who paid too much attention to the way they looked could expect censure from their peers, while women, on the other hand, might “naturally” care more about their appearance and were expected to cultivate a look that would not disgrace their menfolk. Both men and women in the ancient world trod a fine line between caring for their appearance and creating an acceptable “look” (the art of cultus), and spending too much time on such things. The line was policed by their communities, and it is primarily in literary representations that the policing of social dress codes was expressed.12 The appearance of the ideal male citizen was defined by his social, cultural, and political context. In Athens it was to wear the chit¯on and himation, in Rome to wear the tunic and toga at civic events. In both cultures, cleanliness was also the sign of the civilized man, while demands on the acceptability or otherwise of facial hair varied over time. Masculinity was defined by citizenship and identification with the group, so sartorial

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conformity was important for one’s reputation. As literary representations tend to stress the different rather than the normative, it is often in this context that clothing is mentioned. A humorous and direct use of dress can be seen in Theophrastus, a colleague of Aristotle writing in the later fourth century BC , who created a series of Characters in which behavior towards clothing and dressing is one of the tools used to indicate particular personality traits: the Boor sits with his cloak hitched up over his knees, revealing his nakedness to those around him; the Penny-pincher wears a cloak too short to cover his thighs, and when his cloaks go to the cleaners insists on the use of a lot of fuller’s earth so that he doesn’t need their services so frequently; the Squalid man goes to the agora in a thick tunic under a thin and stained cloak; the Chiseller borrows clothes when his own are at the cleaners and then wears them for several days before returning them.13 While here clothing provides an immediate comic visual image of the character, it also demonstrates its role in inter-personal relations and manners, and its economic value to households, particularly those who may not possess more than one change of dress, suggesting that beneath the humor lies a moralizing undertone. Roman rhetoric developed this trope so effectively that character assassination by wardrobe became part of the literary armory. It was easy to attack an opponent’s masculinity and thus his ability to act in an appropriate manner (i.e. like a Roman) by passing comment on his dress. The orator Cicero was a master of this. Many of his speeches use dress as a shorthand to imply a lack of appropriate manliness and thus Romanness. For instance, in a long forensic speech against Verres, a Roman governor of Sicily accused of corruption, Cicero manipulated the symbolism associated with the toga in contrast to other types of clothing to enhance the defamation of his opponent. To stress Verres’ blatant disregard for his duties as governor, Cicero lays out very visual vignettes of his behavior in which dress plays a key role in underscoring his lack of moral and civic scruples: Verres appeared in public more than once in a purple pallium, long tunic (talaris tunica), and slippers,14 thus damning himself in more ways than one. Not only did he fail to wear the correct garments of a magistrate representing Rome (tunic, toga, and senatorial shoes), he chose to wear a Greek garment (the pallium), colored purple (an expensive dye with symbolic overtones of indulgence and eastern luxury), and a tunic of a length more suitable for women. Cicero makes much of Verres’ use of the Greek pallium in other sections of his speeches, in which Verres is also said to have worn it with a tunica pulla, that is a colored tunic, not the white one with the senator’s purple stripes, which his rank allowed and his political position in Sicily demanded.15 The contrast between Greek and Roman clothing is rather disingenuous here: urbane Sicilians in the period were largely members of the Greek communities, and Verres could arguably have been wearing the garments of his social situation. Romans were very used to not wearing the toga except for official business, and often preferred to wear Greek-style clothing in private or when it suited their political ends. This type of “code-switching” was part of elite culture, where a desire for the trappings of Greek culture in the form of language, literature, and art was considered by some to be part of the erudite, sophisticated world. Cicero himself could argue the opposite position for another of his defendants, Rabrius Postumus, who is praised for wearing the pallium in his dealings with the Egyptian ruler, in order to help him achieve his aims.16 Later Roman authors adapted this model of character criticism to imply that emperors were not suited to rule. While Augustus, the model princeps, was known to have insisted that the toga be worn at public events and to have always had one to hand in case he was called to official business,17 his successors failed to live up to this sartorial, and by

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implication, moral uprightness. Caligula was said to “not to follow the usage of his country or fellow citizens . . . Or even of his sex” and: “. . . often appeared in public in a decorated paenula [cloak] covered with precious stones, with a long sleeved tunic and bracelets; sometimes in silk and in a woman’s robe [cycladatus, a circular mantle with a decorated border]; now in slippers or . . . in boots, such as the emperor’s bodyguard wear, and at times in the low shoes which are used by females.”18 Suetonius uses similar descriptions of Nero, who, he alleges, often appeared in public in an unbelted synthesis (tunic and mantle, an outfit more suited to private occasions) and slippers, with a handkerchief around his neck.19 Such literary representations became common place by late Antiquity; the late fourth-century author of the Historia Augusta, a series of satirical and sometimes scurrilous biographies of third-century emperors, can even play literary games with his audience. In the introduction to the biography of Macrinus, the author states that it is not the business of writers to relate trivial matters such as an emperor’s wardrobe or diet unless they reflect on character—and then proceeds to delight in such details as Elgabalus’ silk Persian tunics studded with jewels, or Gallienus’ long-sleeved purple and gold tunics and “reticulate shoes” (i.e. like a woman’s hairnet).20 As the description of the clothed individual allows the audience to visualize the character, so particular garments or body language describing the use of clothing came to be synonymous with or symbolic of a particular emotion. In Greek poetry and drama, the action of veiling, with its dual ability to both conceal and reveal, is used to express a range of emotions. Context usually alerts the audience to the expected emotion, particularly in epic and drama where the mythological story might be widely known. Helen, the cause of the long war between the Greeks and the Trojans, is described by Homer as veiling as she leaves the palace to go to the battlements and look down on the fighting. This action reflects traditional female modesty when outside the home, but hides her tears and, Douglas Cairns argues, also her shame at abandoning her husband; perhaps we might add self-pity at the loss of her reputation.21 Thus the single act can convey a series of messages. Men also veil, often also in the context of aid¯os (honor/shame, with all its connotations from self-respect to embarrassment and dishonor), particularly if their honor had been questioned or impugned. The use of the veil is such an emotive gesture in Greek literature and art, with its ability to play with notions of being seen and unseen and its associations with a range of emotions, that by extension the garment itself comes to embody the emotions. Douglas Cairns also discusses Agamemnon, leader of the Greek force outside Troy, who is described as “clothed in shamelessness,” his veiled becoming an expression of the emotion.22 The metaphorical use of textiles, garments and acts of dressing and undressing are a feature of ancient and indeed modern language and literature. We talk of night covering the land, a sky blanketed with stars, of secrets being unveiled. This is a metaphorical language we have inherited from the classics where, for instance, just as veiling often signifies mourning for the dead, so death is expressed as night or darkness clothing the head. The notion of death being seen as a metaphorical garment is reinforced by the fact that the dead are literally covered by the shroud and the earth, and by the veiled mourners who cover their heads. Metaphors demonstrate the complexity of the language of dress and its ability to express a vast range of both concrete and conceptual notions.23 Some garments can be said to have a literary life of their own. The Greek female peplos has an interesting history, particularly in Greek drama. In early Greek epic and poetry, the peplos is valued and is often a symbol of both luxury and femininity; a garment worn and woven by the heroines of the old stories. Helen, for instance, gives one to the son of

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FIGURE 9.1: Mosaic personification of Ktisis (Foundation), early sixth century AD . Note the use of jewelry and decorated textiles are now more common. The male figure wears late Roman long-sleeved tunic with typical decoration. © The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Odysseus as a gift for his future bride.24 It was also at one time the everyday wear of Athenian women. Its decline is explained by the historian Herodotus as the result of a single historical event. When the sole survivor of a battle arrives in the city to report a great defeat to the women of Athens, they encircled the man and stabbed him to death with their dress pins. From this time on, women were not allowed clothing that had to be pinned and they were forced to change their dress to the “buttoned” chit¯on.25 A change of clothing styles is, according to Herodotus, the result of one murderous act by a group of Athenian wives, and the switch to a different style of tunic imposed not as a fashion choice but a punishment and means of control. The peplos as a garment with murderous associations continues to exist in fifth-century Greek drama. In the retelling of the myths of Clytemnestra, Deianeira, and Medea, the garments they use to wreak havoc in the lives of their menfolk are all described as peploi.26 In these stories the garments act as both physical carriers of poison (Deineira and Medea) and the wealth of the household (Clytemnestra) while at the same time acting as a curse and symbol of hubris.27 In the same period, outside the world of mythology and drama, the garment retained its ritual significance for Athens, as a new peplos was woven every year for the cult statue of their patron goddess, Athene, and the dedication of this peplos formed a central ritual of a great civic festival, the Panathenaia.28 A garment could thus have many real and literary symbolic uses, its multi-faceted meanings defined by context and by the erudition of its audience.

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Most of the texts mentioned in this chapter thus far do not describe dress in any detail. Writers assumed their audience would understand and recognize the terminology used, together with its associated ideology. Despite critiques of the way clothing was worn, little information survives on how to wear a garment in the manner considered appropriate; for that we rely on visual representations. The one exception to this in the written sources is the Roman toga. The guidance on how to wear the toga and how to comport oneself in it amounts to the longest direct description of any garment in extant Roman literature.29 It appears in a long didactic piece on oratory written by Quintilian in the first century AD . He provides a very graphic image of the orator in action, stressing the performative nature of court behavior, the way the toga might behave as its wearer moved, and how to manage its drapery. Quintilian acknowledges the inherent dilemma embodied by the notion of cultus: the individual should appear “distinguished and manly” (splendidus et virilis) and wear a toga that is properly shaped, while at the same time he should not be over-careful about his appearance. Quintilian’s description of the length of the tunic—to reach just below the knees in front and to the middle of the calf at the back—places the orator neatly between the opposing extremes of wearing it too long (like a woman) or too short (like a soldier). The front edge of the toga should reach the middle of the shin, the back edge a little higher; the sinus should reach to just above the hem of the tunic. The balteus should not be too tight or too loose. The umbo should be worn low, the better to keep its place, and the remaining material of the sinus should be carefully arranged over the left shoulder with the edges of the toga falling to the same level on both back and front.30 Quintilian was aware of the effect of the toga on the body language of the wearer, but also the effect the orator could create by manipulating it in particular ways. It should be worn so as to leave the chest exposed, as a wide chest was deemed impressive; the left arm should only be raised as far as the elbow, presumably as this controlled and prevented any fall of material from the shoulder. This position is, Quintilian admits, only really workable at the start of a speech; once in full flow there may be moments of theatricality, such as throwing back the toga from the left shoulder or pulling out the sinus if it sticks. There may also be moments where vigorous movements have caused the speaker to overheat; then the toga needs to be pulled away from the upper part of the body, or the looser folds picked up over the left arm—these movements are calculated and acceptable as they suit the action of a speech, particularly towards the close when some physical disarray, including disordered clothing reinforces the emotional appeal of a speech.31 Earlier in his treatise, Quintilian has advised restrained movements which reflect the dignity of the orator and his profession: he should refrain from excessive gestures such as waving the arms about too much, or throwing the spare material of the toga over the left shoulder too often and too vigorously so that it is not safe to stand behind him, or from holding the toga in his right hand and gesturing with the left.32 All of these actions may indeed reflect the reality of moving in the toga and the fact that the body language required to wear it, particularly in venues where appearance was part of the performance, was a skill that had to be learned. Indeed, the emperor Caligula was ridiculed for having stumbled over his toga as he left the theater in a fit of temper.33 It has been argued that the sheer unwieldiness of the imperial toga was the cause of its demise as a garment worn on anything other than civic or ritual occasions.34 It is true that apart from Quintilian much of what we know about the wearing of the toga comes either from literary contexts in which its wearing is encouraged, or indeed insisted upon, or the converse, complaints about it in satire or polemics such as the Christian Tertullian’s De pallio.35 These discourses present a negative view, decrying the difficulty and cost of

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maintaining the garment or the social pressure to wear it on given occasions, and providing a counter-dialog to the ideal of the toga as embodying positive cultural ideals of citizenship and masculinity. The satirists suggest that not everyone shared this view. Their poetic personae complain of having to keep a toga in order to engage in the daily duties of a client in the city. This counter-dialog is not about finesse or elegance, but is engaged instead in a rhetoric in which the toga is a social and physical burden: the idea of the toga as the public expression of high status is turned on its head, and instead it becomes the public expression of the individual’s lowly place in the social order, as a harrassed client attending his patron.36 For Martial, the toga almost develops a persona of its own. He complains that it is hard to maintain the look of fresh new wool, and laments the aged look of his yellowed toga which when new shone resplendent and white—but now it is likened to an old woman and not worthy even of a pauper.37 Satire makes the point that the toga is a high-maintenance garment, both in the wearing of it and the caring for it.38 The difficulty with satire is that its imagery and the immediacy of its pseudo-realism are seductive. It does make life in the ancient city more “visible,” but it is the vision of a particular type of literature. The mastery of Martial and Juvenal is such that we are able to picture the harried client having to wake up in the early dawn and put on his toga in poor light, unable to check whether the folds are right, or if it is marked with last night’s dinner. It may easily come into disarray in the tramp across the city; it needs to be held up and controlled so that it does not unravel or fall into any sort of muck that might be underfoot, or get caught by passers-by or snagged on pack animals, carts, or street furniture.39 It is all too easy to imagine the client arriving hot and bothered, his tunic rucked up and his toga awry, having to rearrange his drapery on the threshold of his patron’s house. While satire may reflect some of the realities of wearing a toga—in the same that way Quintilian’s careful instructions might also do—we should be wary of over-interpretation and mindful that satire has an agenda that has little to do with telling the modern reader about dress. As noted at the beginning of this chapter, the rhetoric of dress worked differently for men and women. While women were thought to be naturally attracted to physical adornment, this was not a simple discourse. Women were expected to look attractive but not step outside the bounds of social propriety in any given context. Like men, women were expected to look clean and well-groomed, and were granted a certain latitude in terms of additional adornment in the form of cosmetics and jewelry, given their weaker natures. However, a good wife was not meant to look like a courtesan. The fifth-century comic playwright Aristophanes plays with these ideas in many of his works. In the opening lines of Lysistrata, a play in which the women of Athens decide to hold a sex-strike to stop the war with Sparta, two female characters have a conversation: Kalonike: We women! What bright ideas are we ever going to come up with, sitting at home applying our blusher, wearing our saffron gowns and generally flaunting ourselves in our cambric shifts and our flimsy slippers? Lysistrata: But that’s exactly what I mean. Little saffron dresses, perfumes, flimsy slippers, blusher, see-through chit¯ons – those are just the things we need if we’re going to save Greece.40 In a very concise set of words, the playwright establishes the plot and presents a stereotypically gendered view of women: confined to the home, interested only in their appearance and in flaunting themselves. But they also possess the dangerous power, particularly through dress and the use of cosmetics, to disguise and deceive, to appear as

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they are not, to be seductive, and to mislead. The comic irony here is twofold: in the play the female characters become very effective political actors precisely through manipulating their “feminine wiles”; and, of course, in Greek drama all characters are played by male actors.41 The difficulty of reading women in ancient texts has been the subject of much scholarly attention. The main challenge in accessing women’s attitude to dress is that female voices are rarely heard in ancient literature in their own right, and when their opinions are represented they tend to fall into stereotypes seen through the prism of the male mind.42 Dressed women fall anywhere in the spectrum between respectable wife and disreputable whore. This spectrum is articulated through discussions of the dressed and adorned body.43 Again, this is a discourse with a very long history. In the second century AD the Roman author Aelian reminds his audience to refer back to Aristophanes for examples of the female wardrobe. One surviving fragment of his work lists a woman’s accoutrements as containing razor, scissors, mirror, wax-salve, niter, wigs, dress-trimmings, hair-ribbons, headbands, alkanet, white face-powder, perfume, pumice-stone, brassiere, hair-nets, veil, rouge, necklaces, mascara, soft gowns, girdle, shawl, negligee, bordered robe, tunic, striped jacket, curling irons, earrings, gold jewelry, necklet, cluster pin, anklet, brooches, bracelets, chains, foot bangles, rings, plasters, breast-bands, carnelians, chokers, and “lots of other things which you wouldn’t have the strength to list.” Aelian’s claim is that such a catalog of accessories was still typical of women in his own time, and the implication is that women are inclined to spend time and money on such ephemeral but expensive goods. In such a discourse, women become more closely linked to fashion in the sense that they are assumed by male writers to be attracted by the shiny, the new and the different. Fashion is particularly hard to track across Antiquity, but changes of style are noted by ancient authors, often in contexts that are causing anxiety. In Athens, new types of both male and female dress are framed in terms of political change and the wider discussions of luxury and moderation. The historian Herodotus explains the change from the socalled Doric peplos to the Ionian chit¯on as I have discussed earlier. The change to a linen tunic, which did not require pins, is thus explained not as a fashion choice but as a political move. Not long after, a change in the male wardrobe is explained by Thucydides as part of the development of Athenian democracy. In contrast to earlier times when some individuals expressed their places in the social hierarchy by virtue of more luxurious dress and hair clasps in the form of golden grasshoppers, men are now following the Spartan mode of dressing more moderately and plainly.44 However, this idea that everyone dressed in a similar manner and in relatively restrained styles should not be taken at face value: it is part of a rhetoric that articulates social and political change through personal appearance. Change of clothing styles is also comically expressed as part of the conflict of the generations in Aristophanes’ Wasps (performed in 422 BC ). The play is a political critique of one of the leaders of Athens, Cleon, and the Athenian jury system; it is played out through the comic effect of a generational conflict between a father, Philocleon, and his son, Bdelycleon. Bdelycleon, the young man-about-town, wants his father to wear new type of cloak, a heavy wool kaunakes, of Persian origin, but the older man is loath to give up his old, threadbare garment (trib¯on). Philocleon complains about the weight of the new cloak, comparing it with a rough sheepskin mantle (sisura¯) from a rural part of Attica. His son chastises his father for his willful ignorance and, like a flashy salesman stresses the foreign exoticness of the cloak, the amount of wool taken to make it, and its

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expense. The father continues to be sarcastic and makes play of suffocating in the warmth of the kaunakes, declaring his son is trying to smother him. The final part of the outfit is new “Laconian” shoes to replace the father’s old boots. This allows the old man to object further, declaring he does not want to wear the footwear of his old enemies. The contrast between traditional clothing and new fashion is used to reinforce the tension in the characterization between the older narrow-minded generation and the younger, openminded one. Philocleon stands for the old values of Athenian jurors, while his son is a reflection of the young, urbane men who appear in Athenian history at this time.45 One such young and flamboyant statesman, famous among other things for his physical beauty and courage in battle but also his general bad behavior, was Alcibiades, described by Plutarch as “effeminate in his dress and walking through the agora trailing his long purple robes.”46 These examples suggest that even if there was a discourse of dressing modestly and relatively uniformly, there was also a desire for novelty and wearing clothes in a way that expressed some individuality. Different genres of literature produce different examples of “dress in action.” They trace change over time and present it in different ways; but they share an underlying moralizing tone that implies that there is a gold standard that is somehow being missed. At Rome a political debate about women’s access to luxuries reveals a sense of fashion in terms of the ability to express difference and individuality. In 215 BC , at a time of crisis during the Punic Wars, a sumptuary law, the lex Oppia, was passed, prohibiting women from possessing more than half an ounce of gold or wearing purple in their garments. The law had a twofold effect: it controlled expenditure but, perhaps, more importantly, it attempted to encourage a return to a perceived traditional female modesty—a virtue perceived to be undermined by a woman’s ability to express and show off her wealth and status through dress. It was hoped that this return to traditional values (the mos maiorum) would please the gods and enhance the chance of military victory.47 The historian Livy, writing late in the last century BC , presents a record of events when the repeal of the law was debated in 195 BC . The event is famous in Roman history, as it was allegedly the occasion for a demonstration by the women of Rome. The two main protagonists, the conservative consul Cato and the tribune Lucius Valerius, discuss their opposing views of the relationship between women, dress, and adornment. Cato argues that when everyone dresses the same—that is, without the gold and purple prohibited by the law—all women look the same, rich and poor alike. The women, he says, respond by saying, “Why should they all look alike, why should upper-class women not be conspicuous in the wearing of purple and gold; they wish to differentiate themselves from poorer women.” Cato speaks of the dangers of extravagance: rich women will want to own what others cannot have, and the poor, to avoid the shame of poverty, will spend what they (and their husbands) do not have in trying to emulate the fashions of the wealthy.48 In response, Valerius argues that the law, passed in time of war, should now be repealed. He states that while men wear purple on their outer garments there can be no good reason for denying it to women. Significantly for notions of fashion in Antiquity, Valerius’ main argument is that as women hold no political offices or priesthoods and cannot win honors such as decorations and spoils of war, their badges of honor are elegance of appearance, adornment, and apparel. They may lay aside their ornaments at time of mourning, but in times of celebration they should put on their most beautiful clothes and jewelry. It is part of the natural order for women to adorn themselves. The debate presented by Livy is a carefully choreographed piece of rhetoric, structured to present the two opposing sides. While it is ostensibly about female appearance and contains tropes familiar to Livy’s audience (expense, the

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potential for deception, the danger of individuality, the economic risk to the lower classes), its less than subtle subtext concerns the social and political tensions surrounding luxury and display, and the preferred virtues of modesty and self-control in his own late first-century BC context. At the same time, it is clear that women sought to look different from each other and to express their status in dress and adornment. This type of literature does not allow us to see those outside the upper classes, but we can imagine that those who could afford to buy attractively dyed or decorated textiles, exotic and expensive silks might choose to do so, and might wear them to enhance their appearance in their own social groups (and for themselves). Moral censure might be vocal, but it had little effect on the market.49 The arguments expressed by Livy illustrate the sense of self-presentation expressed in the Roman art of cultus. This careful self-fashioning on the part of both men and women should present an image to the public world which reflected excellence of character. Men could express their masculinity and moral rectitude in careful grooming and the wearing of correct dress, but for women the situation was more complex. The ability to manipulate one’s appearance and look through the use of cosmetics and hair dye had the potential to be deceptive and even dangerous, as women could present themselves as other than they were. At the same time, an Athenian wife and a Roman matrona were expected to be elegant and reflect the status of their husband and family in the way they looked and behaved.50 In the first century AD , the poet Ovid wrote a series of “eroto-didactic” poems on the Art of Love (Ars amatoria).51 Ovid has a positive take on the notion of cultus. He advises that so long as women enhance their natural looks and do not cross over into attempting to disguise their faults or deceive men (in this context, their clients/lovers) by looking other than they are, the adornment of the face and body is acceptable. Ovid, in the person of a madam (lena), advises her girls (courtesans) that they should avoid luxuria (expressed as in the Lex Oppia by reference to gold and purple) and choose colors to suit their complexions. The range of colors includes the blues of the sky, gray, yellow, sea-green, amethyst purple, rose-white, chestnut brown, and “as many colors as there are spring flowers.”52 Ovid makes the point that wool is the textile that retains the best colors. Wool is also the fabric of modesty which lacks the immoral connotations of exoticism and luxury that attend silk in this period. Ovid is, without doubt, playing a complex literary game here, talking about unsuitable subjects in a high literary genre, ascribing authority to the subject of female dress and the clothing of courtesans that most Roman men would consider beneath their consideration. Like satire, such literary representations provide a visual world that is otherwise lacking. Here, Ovid also literally adds color to the Roman wardrobe, color that is missing in most of the visual evidence, but strikingly present in the archaeological remains of textiles.53 Early Christian writers play with similar tropes with regard to female dress.54 Tertullian gives a new slant to earlier classical stereotypes, teaching that through their association with Eve, all women are temptresses and “the gateway to the devil.” Tertullian’s view is on the extreme side: women should dress as penitents, as any color, jewelry or mode of dress that might attract the attention of men proves women to be little short of Ovid’s puellae. Tertullian thinks that dress should be plain and of natural undyed fabrics, saying that if God had wanted women to wear colors he would have produced purple and skyblue sheep.55 In the late fourth and early fifth centuries, Jerome, an evangelist for the ascetic movement, picks up many of these themes and reapplies them to upper-class women of Rome. In AD 414 he pens an unsolicited letter to a high-born young girl who

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had decided to dedicate herself to a life of holy virginity on the night before her wedding, advising thus: Shun gay and thoughtless girls who deck their heads and wear their hair in fringes, who use cosmetics to improve their skins and affect tight sleeves, dressed without a crease, and dainty slippers; and in the name of virgins put themselves up for sale. Moreover the character and tastes of a mistress are often inferred from the behavior of attendants. Regard as fair and loveable and a fitting companion one who is unconscious of her good looks and careless of her appearance; one who when she goes out in public does not expose her décolleté nor reveal her neck with her head thrown back, but one who veils her face, and goes about barely exposing one eye, when she needs to find the way.56 Jerome has absorbed the literary topoi of his classical education and Christian learning, which realigned traditional gender stereotyping with the new Christian dispensation. It has to be noted that this literary tendency to decry female adornment is just that, a literary representation. It is not supported by the archaeological and material evidence at all. Material culture in the form of funerary monuments and small finds attests to the use of cosmetics, wigs, jewelry and some very fine, beautifully dyed and decorated textiles across the period.57 Literature provides a different picture of dress and fashion to that found in visual and material evidence. It helps the modern viewer to read the dress codes expressed in statuary, paintings, and mosaics, and highlights the ideological moral codes that authors sought to express; but it conceals a large part of the lived, experiential nature of clothing. The experience of texture, drape, flow, smell and sound of clothing in Antiquity is almost entirely lost to us, but the written texts do give an idea of how clothing and the dressed individual might interact in society and the way that such an image might be articulated. In reality we have to assume that individuals outside the opinion-making (or seeking) classes might have worn what they could afford, in styles they might manipulate to make their own.

NOTES

Introduction 1.

2.

3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

14.

See in particular chapters 6, 8, and 9 in this volume. For influential historic theories of dress history see Michael Carter, Fashion Classics from Carlyle to Barthes (Oxford: Berg, 2003); Kim K. Johnson et al. (eds), Fashion Foundations: Early Writings on Fashion and Dress (Oxford: Berg, 2003). For examples see the case studies in Margarita Gleba and Ulla Mannering (eds), Textiles and Textile Production in Europe from Prehistory to AD 400 (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2012). Hero Granger-Taylor, “Weaving clothes to shape in the ancient world: the tunic and the toga of the Arringatore,” Textile History 13 (1982): 3–25. See Figure 3.5 in this volume. See Chapter 1 in this volume for a full discussion of production processes. For images and reconstructions see Alexandra Croom, Roman Clothing and Fashion (Stroud: Tempus, 2000), 76–7, plates 11 and 12. See Chapters, 3, 5, 6, 8, and 9 in this volume for ways in which tunics could be worn and serve as markers of identities. For looms, see Chapter 1 in this volume; Eric Broudy, The Book of Looms (Hanover & London: University Press of New England, 1979). See Aileen Ribeiro, Dress and Morality (Oxford: Berg, 2003), 19–29; chapters 4, 6, and 9 in this volume. See Chapter 7 in this volume. See Chapters 4 and 9 in this volume. Dominique Cardon, Natural Dyes: Sources, Tradition, Technology and Science (London: Archtype Publications, 2007). See Chapter 1 in this volume. Cardon, Natural Dyes, 565–92; Meyer Reinhold, History of Purple as a Status Symbol in Antiquity (Brussels: Collections Latomus, 1970). See Jan Stubbe Østergaard, “The polychromy of antique sculpture: a challenge to western ideals?” in Circumlitio: The Polychromy of Antique and Medieval Sculpture, eds M. Hollein, V. Brinkmann, O. Primavesi (München: Hirmer, 2010), 78–105. On the techniques for revealing polychromy, see Heinrich Piening, “From scientific findings to reconstruction: the technical background to the scientific reconstruction of colours,” in Circumlitio, 108–13. On the Persian archer, see Vinzenz Brinkmann and Ulrike KochBrinkmann, “On the reconstruction of ancient polychromy techniques,” in Circumlitio, 105–35. Experiments with UV -VIS absorption spectroscopy have identified a diamond pattern in the Persian rider’s leggings (anaxyrides) that included blue, green, red, and yellow. Above the anaxyrides, an equally colorful and patterned fragment of tunic has been analyzed displaying a similar range of hues. This use of color and garment highlights the foreign nature of Persian dress; see further Chapter 7 in this volume. Stubbe Østergaard, “The polychromy of antique sculpture,” 94–7; Clarissa Blume, “Bright pink, blue and other preferences,” in Transformations: Classical Sculpture in Colour, eds Jan Stubbe Østergaard and Anne Marie Nielsen (Copenhagen: Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, 2014), 166–90; Blume also stresses that the color used on the clothing and ornamentation of the statues serves to stress the expense of both the dye and the pigment, 183.

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NOTES

15. On terracottas see Violine Jeammet, “Sculpture en miniature: polychromy on Hellenistic terracotta statuettes in the Louvre Museum’s collection,” in Transformations: Classical Sculpture in Colour, 208–23. 16. Blume, “Bright pink, blue and other preferences,” 183. 17. See Judith Sebesta, “Tunica ralla, tunica spissa: The colors and textiles of Roman costume,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds Judith Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante (Madison: University of Wisconsin, 1994), 65–76; Plautus, Epidicus, 229–35. 18. Apuleius, Metamorphoses, 2.7. 19. Dominque Cardon, Hero Granger-Taylor, Witold Nowik, “What did they look like? Fragments of clothing found at Didymoi: Case studies,” in Didymoi: une garnison romaine dans le désert oriental d’Égypte, ed. Hélène Cuvigny (Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 2011), 273–362. 20. Cardon et al., “What did they look like?” 303. For images of Roman mummy portraits, see Susan Walker (ed.), Ancient Faces (London: British Museum, 1997). 21. See Chapter 1 in this volume on textile production; on the relationship between textile work and female virtue see: K. Carr, “Women’s work: spinning and weaving in the Greek home,” in Archéologie des textiles des origines au Ve siècle, eds Dominique Cardon and Michel Feugère (Montagnac: Editions Monique Mergoil, 2000), 163–6; Lena Larsson Lovén, “Lanam Fecit—wool working and female virtue,” in Aspects of Women in Antiquity, eds Lena Larsson Lovén and Agneta Strömberg (Jonsered: Paul Åströms Förlag, 1998), 85–95; EAD , “Wool work as a gender symbol in ancient Rome. Roman textiles and ancient sources,” in Ancient Textiles: Production, Craft and Society, eds Carole Gillis and Marie-Louise Nosch (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2001), 229–36. 22. See Chapter 2 in this volume. 23. Ulla Mannering, “Roman garments from Mons Claudianus,” in Archéologie des textiles des origines au Ve siècle, 283–90. 24. P.Oxy. IV . 736 (first century AD ); P. Mich. Inv. 3163 in Elinor Husselman, “Pawnbrokers’ accounts from Roman Egypt,” TAPA 92 (1961), 251–66. 25. Cf. John Scheid and Jasper Svenbro, The Craft of Zeus: Myths of Weaving and Fabric (Cambridge Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1996); papers in Giovanni Fanfani, Mary Harlow, and Marie-Louise Nosch (eds), Spinning the Fates and the Song of the Loom (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2016). 26. Ellen Harlizius-Klück, Weberei als episteme und die Genese der deduktiven Mathematik: in vier Umschweifen entwickelt aus Platons Dialog Politikos (Berlin: Ebersbach, 2004); EAD , “The importance of beginnings: gender and representation in mathematics and weaving,” in Greek and Roman Textiles and Dress. An Interdisciplinary Anthology, eds Mary Harlow and Marie-Louise Nosch (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2014), 46–59. 27. Cf. Larsson Lovén, “Lanam Fecit” and Chapter 2 in this volume. 28. P.Lond. 193V. 29. E.g. P.Giss. 21; P.Mich. XV 752; P.Mich. III 218. 30. Vindolana Tablet 399, http://vindolanda.csad.ox.ac.uk/index.shtml. 31. Edict 19, 24, 26, 28. The Edict of Maximum Prices is a very difficult document to decode in terms of relative economics. It also raises a lot of questions about sources and quality of clothing. See S. Lauffer, Diokletians Preisedikt (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1971); John Peter Wild, “Facts, figures and guesswork in the Roman textile industry,” in Textilien aus Archäologie und Geschichte. Festschrift für Klaus Tidow, eds Lise Bender Jørgensen, Johanna Banck-Burgess, and Antoinette Rast-Eicher (Neumünster: Wachholtz Verlag, 2003), 37–45. 32. See Ida Demant, “Principles for reconstruction of costumes and archaeological textiles,” in Textiles y Museología, eds Carmen Alfaro, Michael Tellenbach, and R. Ferraro (Valencia: Autor/a, 2009). Demant defines three categories: C standard—factory woven fabric, in quality as close as possible to the original, machine-sewn, except where the stitching would

NOTES

33. 34.

35.

36.

37.

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have been visible and used for those who want to experience the feeling of natural fibers; B standard—garments made from hand-woven fabric from machine-spun yarn, in quality as close as possible to the original; plant dyed; suitable for museum displays and living history environments; A standard—hand-spun fiber, as close to the original as possible, woven on correct contemporary loom, hand sewn, plant dyed. Suitable for research reconstructions. See Ida Demant, “From stone to textile: constructing the costume of the Dama di Baza,” Archaeological Textiles Newsletter 52 (2011), 37–40; Karina Grömer, “Reconstruction of the pre-Roman dress in Austria: a basis for identity in the Roman province of Noricum,” In Textiles y Museologíca, 155–65. Demant and Grömer’s research was undertaken as part of the European Dress ID project (2007–13) (http://www.dressid.eu). For more reconstructions see also François Gilbert and Danielle Chastenet, La Femme romaine au début de l’empire (Paris: Éditions Errance, 2007). On the use of tools and timings for spinning see Eva Anderson Strand, “The basics of textile tools and textile technology: from fibre to fabric,” in Textile Terminologies, eds Cécile Michel and Marie-Louise Nosch (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2010), 10–22. See, e.g. Mukulkia Banerjee and Daniel Miller, The Sari (Oxford: Berg, 2003). For recent reviews of methodologies and approaches to dress in Antiquity see John Peter Wild, “Methodological Introduction,” in Ancient Textiles: Production, Craft and Society, 1–6 eds C. Gillis and M-L. Nosch (Oxford: Oxbow Books 2007); Mary Harlow and MarieLouise Nosch, “Weaving the threads: methodologies in textile and dress research for the Greek and Roman worlds—the state of the art and the case for cross-disciplinarity,” in Greek and Roman Textiles and Dress. An Interdisciplinary Anthology, (Oxford: Oxbow Books 2014) 1–33. See Lou Taylor, The Study of Dress History (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2001); EAD , Establishing Dress History (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2004). For example, the Danish National Research Foundation’s Centre for Textile Research (CTR ), University of Copenhagen (2005–15); the Research Network of Textile Conservation, Dress and Textile History and Technical Art History, University of Glasgow (since 2010); the research group, the Textile Revolution, in the German excellence cluster TOPOI (since 2012); in Leiden in the Netherlands, Gillian Vogelsang Eastwood runs the Textile Research Centre (TRC ). The European Science Foundation has funded a number of dress and textile related research projects in the recent past: e.g. DressID Clothing and identities. New perspective on textiles in the Roman Empire (2008–13); Fashioning the early modern (2010– 13); Creativity and Craft Production in the Middle and Late Bronze Age (2010–13). There are many new research projects currently being funded. For a recent list see Mary Harlow and Marie-Louise Nosch (eds) Greek and Roman Textiles and Dress. An Interdisciplinary Anthology (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2014), 2–3 notes 4–10. See e.g. Léon Heuzey, Histoire du costume antique d’après des études sur le modèle vivant (Paris: É. Champion, 1922); Herbert Norris, Costume and Fashion vol. 1: The Evolution of European Dress Through the Earlier Ages (London: J.M. Dent & Sons, 1924; reprinted as Ancient European Costume and Fashion, Mineola, NY : Dover, 1999); Mary G. Houston, Ancient Greek, Roman and Byzantine Costume and Decoration (London: Adam & Charles Black, 1947); François Boucher, A History of Costume in the West (London: Thames & Hudson, 1966). Fuller discussions of the historiography of ancient dress can be found in Jonathan Edmondson and Alison Keith (eds), Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008), 1–20; Mary Harlow and Marie-Louise Nosch (eds), Greek and Roman Textiles and Dress. An Interdisciplinary Anthology (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2014), 1–6; Kristi Upson-Saia, Carly Daniel Hughes and Alicia J. Batten (eds), Dressing Judeans and Christians in Antiquity (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014), 1–7. See also Larissa Bonfante, “Introduction,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds Judith Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante (Madison: University of Wisconsin, 1994), 3–10.

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NOTES

1 Textiles 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9. 10.

11. 12.

13. 14.

15.

16.

Eva Andersson Strand, Karin Frei, Margarita Gleba, Ulla Mannering, Marie-Louise Nosch, and Irene Skals, “Old Textiles—New Possibilities,” European Journal of Archaeology V 13 (2): (2010): 149–73. Karl Schlabow, Textilfunde der Eisenzeit in Norddeutschland (Neumünster: Wachholtz, 1976); M. Hald, Ancient Danish Textiles from Bogs and Burials (Copenhagen: The National Museum of Denmark, 1980); S. Möller-Wiering, War and Worship: Textiles from 3rd to 4thcentury AD Weapon Deposits in Denmark and Northern Germany (Oxford: Oxbow, 2011). Margarita Gleba and Ulla Mannering, “Introduction: Textile Preservation, Analysis and Technology,” in Textiles and Textile Production in Europe from Prehistory to AD 400, eds Margarita Gleba and Ulla Mannering (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2012), 1–23. See various chapters in Margarita Gleba and Ulla Mannering (eds), Textiles and Textile Production in Europe from Prehistory to AD 400: Y. Spantidaki and C. Moulherat, “Greece,” 185–202; A. Stauffer, “Case Study: The Textiles from Verucchio, Italy,” 242–53; Carmen Alfaro Giner, “Spain,” 334–46. M. Gleba, “From textiles to sheep: investigating wool fibre development in pre-Roman Italy using scanning electron microscopy (SEM ),” Journal of Archaeological Science 39.12 (2012): 3643–61. Margarita Gleba, “Linen production in Pre-Roman and Roman Italy,” in Purpureae Vestes. Textiles y tintes del Mediterráneo Antiguo, eds C. Alfaro, J.P. Wild, B. Costa (Valencia: University of Valencia, 2004), 29–38; Elizabeth J.W. Barber, Prehistoric Textiles. The Development of Cloth in the Neolithic and Bronze Ages with Special Reference to the Aegean (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991), 15–20. Barber, Prehistoric Textiles, 11; Marie-Louise Nosch, “Linen Textiles and Flax in Classical Greece: Provenance and Trade,” in Textile Trade and Distribution in Antiquity, ed. K. Droß-Krüpe (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2014). C. Herbig and U. Maier, “Flax for oil or fibre? Morphometric analysis of flax seeds and new aspects of flax cultivation in Late Neolithic wetland settlements in southwest Germany,” Vegetation History and Archaeobotany 20.6 (2011): 527, 532. U. Körber-Grohne, Nutzpflanzen in Deutschland (Theiss: Stuttgart. 1994); U. Leuzinger and A. Rast-Eicher, “Flax processing in the Neolithic and Bronze Age pile-dwelling settlements of eastern Switzerland,” Vegetation History and Archaeobotany 20.6 (2011): 535–42. B.J. Kemp and G. Vogelsang-Eastwood, The Ancient Textile Industry at Armana, 23 (Egypt Exploration Society, 2001), 26. E. Andersson Strand, “The textile chaîne opératoire: using a multidisciplinary approach to textile archaeology with a focus on the Ancient Near East,” in Préhistoire des Textiles au Proche-Orient/Prehistory of Textiles in the Near East, eds C. Breniquet, M. Tengberg, E. Andersson Strand, and M.-L. Nosch, Paris; Paléorient 38 1–2 (2012), 21–40. Andersson Strand, “The textile chaîne opératoire.” N. Shishlina, O. Orfinskaya, and V. Golikov, “Bronze Age textiles from North Caucasus: Problems of Origin,” in Steppe of Eurasia in Ancient Times and Middle Ages, Proceedings of International Conference, ed. J.J. Piotrovskii (Saint Petersburg: The Hermitage, 2002), 253– 9; M. Gleba, Textile Production in Pre-Roman Italy (Oxford: Oxbow, 2008), 70; Barber, Prehistoric Textiles, 18. C. Bergfjord and B. Holst, “A procedure for identifying textile bast fibres using microscopy: flax, nettle/ramie, hemp and jute,” Ultramicroscopy 110 (2010): 1192–7. C. Bouchaud, M. Tengberg, and P. Dal Prà, “Cotton cultivation and textile production in the Arabian peninsula during Antiquity; the evidence from Madâ’in Sâlih (Saudi Arabia) and Qal’at-Bahrain (Bahrain),” Vegetation History and Archaeobotany 20.5 (2011): 405–17. J.P. Wild, F. Wild, and A.J. Clapham, “Roman cotton revisited,” in Purpureae Vestes. Textiles y tintes del Mediterráneo Antiguo, eds C. Alfaro, J.P. Wild, B. Costa (Valencia: University of Valencia: 2008), 143–8. Gleba, Textile Production in Pre-Roman Italy; Barber, Prehistoric Textiles, 20.

NOTES

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17. M.L. Ryder, Sheep and Man (London: Duckworth, 1983); M.L. Ryder, “The human development of different fleece-types in sheep and its association with development of textile crafts,” in Northern Archaeological Textiles, Textiles symposium in Edinburgh 5th–7th May 1999, NESAT VII , eds F. Pritchard and J.P. Wild (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2005), 122–8. 18. Barber 1991; Andersson Strand, “The textile chaîne opératoire.” 19. H. Waetzoldt, Untersuchungen zur neusumerischen Textilindustrie. Studi economici e technologici 1 (Rome: Centro per le antichita‘ e la storia dell’arte del Vicino Oriente, 1972); D.T. Potts, Mesopotamian Civilization: The Material Foundations (Ithaca, NY : Cornell University Press, 1997). 20. Lise Bender Jørgensen and P. Walton, “Dyes and Fleece Types in Prehistoric Textiles from Scandinavia and Germany,” Journal of Danish Archaeology 5 (1986): 177–88; Barber, Prehistoric Textiles, 20–30; Michael Ryder, “The human development of different fleecetypes in sheep”; A. Rast-Eicher, and L. Bender Jørgensen, “Sheep wool in Bronze and Iron Age Europe,” Journal of Archaeological Science 40 (2013): 1224–41. 21. Waetzoldt, Untersuchungen zur neusumerischen Textilindustrie; Potts, Mesopotamian Civilization; Ryder, Sheep and Man; ibid., “The human development of different fleece-types in sheep”; A. Rast-Eicher, Textilien, Wolle, Schafe der Eisenzeit in der Schweiz, Antiqua 44. (Veröffentlichung der Archäologie Schweiz: Basel. 2008); A. Rast-Eicher and L. Bender Jørgensen, “Sheep wool in Bronze and Iron Age Europe.” 22. Ryder, Sheep and Man; Barber, Prehistoric Textiles, 20–1. 23. M. Frangipane, E. Andersson Strand, R. Laurito, S. Möller-Wiering, M.-L. Nosch, A. Rast-Eicher, and A. Wisti Lassen, “Arslantepe, Malatya (Turkey): Textiles, Tools and Imprints of Fabrics from the 4th to the 2nd millennium BC ,” Paléorient Pluridisciplinaire Review of Prehistory and Protohistory of Southwestern and Central Asia. 35.1 (2009): 5–29. 24. Eva Andersson and M.-L. Nosch, “With a Little Help from My Friends: Investigating Mycenaean Textiles with Help from Scandinavian Experimental Archaeology,” in METRON. Measuring the Aegean Bronze Age, eds K.P. Foster and R. Laffineur (Liege: Aegeaum 24. 2003), 197–206; E. Andersson, L. Mårtensson, M.-L. Nosch, and L. Rahmstorf, “New Research on Bronze Age Textile Production,” BICS 51 (2008): 171–4. 25. E. Leadbeater, Handspinning (Bradford: Charles T. Brandford Company, 1976), 21–6; Gleba, Textile Production in Pre-Roman Italy, 98. 26. Andersson Strand, “The textile chaîne opératoire.” 27. A.J. Witkowski and L.C. Parish, “The story of anthrax from Antiquity to the present: a biological weapon of nature and humans,” Clinics in Dermatology 20.4 (2002): 336–7; Virgil. Eclogues. Georgics. Aeneid: Books 1–6, trans. H. Rushton Fairclough, revised by G.P. Goold, Loeb Classical Library 63 (Cambridge, MA : Harvard University Press, 1916). 28. M.F. Laforce, “Woolsorters’ disease in England,” Bulletin of the New York Academy of Medicine 54 (1978): 957. 29. Witkowski and Parish, “The story of anthrax from Antiquity to the present,” 340. 30. Lise Bender Jøgensen, “The question of prehistoric silks in Europe,” Antiquity 87 (2013): 581–8. 31. Berit Hildebrandt, “Seide als Prestigegut in der Antike,” in Der Wert der Dinge. Güter im Prestigediskurs, eds B. Hildebrandt, C. Veit. München: C.H. Beck (Münchener Studien zu Alten Welt, 2009), 175–231. 32. G.M. Crowfoot, Methods of Hand Spinning in Egypt and the Sudan (Halifax, Bankfield Museum, 1931); Barber 1991, 43. 33. Barber 1991; Frangipane et al., “Arslantepe, Malatya (Turkey)”; Andersson et al., “New Research on Bronze Age Textile Production”; Andersson et al., “Old Textiles—New Possibilities.” 34. M. Gleba, “Linen production in Pre-Roman and Roman Italy.” 35. M. Gleba, “Linen production in Pre-Roman and Roman Italy,” 109.

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36. S. Lipkin, “Textile Making—Questions Related to Age, Rank and Status,” in Making Textiles in Pre-Roman and Roman Times. Peoples, Places and Identities, eds M. Gleba and J. PásztókaiSzeoke (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2013), 19–29. 37. Andersson et al., “New Research on Bronze Age Textile Production”; Andersson Strand, “The textile chaîne opératoire.” 38. G.M. Crowfoot, Methods of Hand Spinning in Egypt and the Sudan; Bette Hochberg, Handspindles (Santa Cruz: Bette and Bernard Hochberg, 1977). Barber, Prehistoric Textiles, 65–8. 39. Margarita Gleba and Ulla Mannering, “Introduction: textile Preservation, Analysis and Technology,” in Textiles and Textile Production in Europe from Prehistory to AD 400, 1–23. 40. Barber, Prehistoric Textiles, 91; E. Broudy, The Book of Looms. A History of the Handloom from Ancient Times to the Present (Lebanon NH : University Press of New England, 1979), 26. 41. For more information on weaving on a warp-weighted loom and loom weights please see Andersson Strand and Nosch 2015 and Mårtensson et al. 2009. 42. J. Thompson and H. Granger-Taylor, “The Persian Zilu Loom of Meybod,” CIETA-Bulletin 73 (1996): 27–53; Martin Ciszuk and Lena Hammerlund, “Roman Looms—a study of craftsmanship and technology in the Mons Claudianus Textile Project,” in Purpureae Vestes. Textiles y tintes del Mediterráneo Antiguo, eds C. Alfaro, J.P. Wild, and B. Costa, 119–34. For more information on weaving on a warp weighted loom and loom weights see Eva Andersson Strand and Marie-Louise Nosch (eds), Tools, Textiles and Contexts. Investigating Textile Production in the Aegean and Eastern Mediterranean Bronze Age (Oxford: Oxbow Books 2015); L. Mårtensson, M-L. Nosch and E. Andersson Strand “Shape of things: understanding a loom weight,” Oxford Journal of Archaeology 28 (4) (2009), 373–98. 43. See E. Broudy, The Book of Looms. 44. Karina Grömer, “Austria: Bronze and Iron Ages,” in Textiles and Textile Production in Europe from Prehistory to AD 400, eds M. Gleba and U. Mannering, 27–64, 54, 58. 45. E. Broudy, The Book of Looms; K.-H. Stærmose Nielsen, Kirkes væv. Opstadvævens historia og nutidige brug (Lejre: Historisk-Arkeologisk Forsøgscenter, 1999). 46. Karina Grömer, “Austria: Bronze and Iron Ages,” 54. 47. Lise Bender Jørgensen, L. Forhistoriske tekstiler i Skandinavien. Prehistoric Scandinavian Textiles (Nordiske Fortidsminder Serie B 9, Copenhagen, 1986); ibid, North European Textiles until AD 1000 (Aarhus. Aarhus University Press, 1992). 48. Ulla Mannering, “Roman Garments from Mons Claudianus,” in Archéologie des textiles des origines au Ve siècle, eds D. Cardon and M. Feugère (Monographies Instrumentum 14. Montagnac 2000), 283–90; Lena Hammarlund, “Handicraft Knowledge Applied to Archaeological Textiles,” The Nordic Textile Journal 8 (2005): 86–119. 49. Sabine Schrenk, Textilen des Mittelmeerraumes aus spätantiker bis Zeit (Riggisberg: AbeggStiftung, 2004); Lise Bender Jørgensen, “The Mons Claudianus Textile Project,” in Archéologie des textiles des origines au Ve siècle, eds D. Cardon and M. Feugère, 253–63. 50. P. Collingwood, The Technique of Sprang, Plaiting on Stretched Threads (New York: WatsonGuptill Publication, 1974); S. Halvorson, “Norway: Bronze and Iron Ages,” in Textiles and Textile Production in Europe from Prehistory to AD 400, eds M. Gleba and U. Mannering, 275–90; D. Drinkler, “Tight-Fitting Clothes in Antiquity—Experimental Reconstruction,” Archaeological Textiles Newsletter 49 (2009): 11–15; P. Linscheid, P. Frübyzantinishe textile Kopfbedeckungen, Typologie, Verbreitung, Chronologie und soziologischer Kontext nach Orginalfunden. Spätantike—frühes christentum-byzanz kunst im ersten jahrtausend, Reihe B: Studien und Perspektiven Band 30 (Wiesbaden: Dr. Ludwig Reichert Verlag, 2011). 51. P. Collingwood, The Technique of Tablet Weaving (New York: Watson-Guptill, 1982); M. Hald, Ancient Danish Textiles from Bogs and Burials; Lise Ræder-Knudsen, “Tiny Weaving Tablets, Rectangular Weaving Tablets,” in North European Symposium for Archaeological Textiles X, eds E. Andersson Strand, M. Gleba, U. Mannering, C. Munkholt, and M. Ringgaard (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2010), 150–6.

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52. M. Gleba, Textile production in Pre-Roman Italy; Lise Ræder-Knudsen, “Tiny Weaving Tablets, Rectangular Weaving Tablets.” 53. Ulla Mannering, “Roman Garments from Mons Claudianus.” 54. Lena Hammarlund, “Handicraft knowledge applied to archaeological textiles.” 55. Martin Ciszuk, “Taquetés from Mons Claudianus—Analyses and Reconstruction,” in Archéologie des textiles des origines au Ve siècle, eds D. Cardon and M. Feugère, 265–82; M. Ciszuk and L. Hammerlund, “Roman Looms—a study of craftsmanship.” 56. Sabine Schrenk, Textilen des Mittelmeerraumes aus spätantiker bis Zeit. 57. Ulla Mannering, “Early Iron Age Craftsmanship from a Costume Perspective,” Arkæologi i Slesvig/ Archäologie in Schleswig, Sonderband Det 61. Internationale Sachsensymposion 2010 (Haderslev, Danmark 2011): 85–94. Dominique Cardon, Natural Dyes, Sources, Tradition, Technology and Science (London: Archetype Publications 2007). 58. Ina Vanden Berghe, B. Devia, M. Gleba, U. Mannering, “Dyes: to be or not to be. An investigation of Early Iron Age Dyes in Danish Peat Bog Textiles,” in North European Symposium for Archaeological Textiles X, eds E. Andersson Strand et al., 247–51. 59. D. Cardon, Natural Dyes, 4. 60. Margarita Gleba, Textile production in Pre-Roman Italy, 76. 61. D. Cardon, Natural Dyes, 4. 62. I. Vanden Berghe et al., “Dyes: to be or not to be. An investigation of Early Iron Age Dyes in Danish Peat Bog Textiles”; Peder Flemestad, “Theophrastos of Eresos on Plants for Dyeing and Tanning,” in Purpureae Vestes IV . Production and Trade of Textiles and Dyes in the Roman Empire and Neighbouring Regions, eds C. Alfaro, M. Tellenbach, and J. Ortiz (Valencia: University of Valencia, 2014), 203–9. 63. E. Barber Prehistoric Textiles, 216. 64. J.-A. Dickmann, “A ‘Private’ Felter’s Workshop in the Casa dei Postumii in Pompeii,” in Making Textiles in Pre-Roman and Roman Times. Peoples, Places and Identities, eds M. Gleba and J. Pásztókai-Szeoke (Oxford: Oxbow Books 2013), 208–27. 65. K. Gostenˇc nik, “Austria: Roman Period,” in Textiles and Textile Production in Europe from Prehistory to AD 400, eds M. Gleba and U. Mannering, 65–88. 66. Margarita Gleba and Ulla Mannering, “Introduction: textile Preservation, Analysis and Technology,” in Textiles and Textile Production in Europe from Prehistory to AD 400. 67. M. Tellenbach, R. Schulz, and A. Wieczorek (eds), Die Macht der Toga. Dresscode im Römischen Weltreich (Roemer- und Pelizaeus-Museum Hildesheim, in cooperation with the Reiss-Engelhorn-Museen Mannheim, 2013). 68. L. Bender Jørgensen, Forhistoriske tekstiler i Skandinavien. Prehistoric Scandinavian Textiles; ibid, North European Textiles until AD 1000. 69. Ibid. 70. M. Gleba, “Linen production in Pre-Roman and Roman Italy”; J.P. Wild, F. Wild, and A.J. Clapham, “Roman cotton revisited”; Felicitas Maeder, “Sea-silk in Aquincum: first production proof in Antiquity,” in Vestidos, textiles y tintes, Estudios sobre la producción de bienes de consume en la Antigüedad. Purpureae vestes II, eds C. Alfaro and L. Karali (Valencia: Universitat de València 2008), 109–18.

2 Production and Distribution 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Il. 3.125. Od. 2.104–6 and 19.138–50. cf. other weaving women in the Iliad and Odyssey: Andromache Il. 22.440–1. Hecabe (Il. 6.294–5), Circe (Od. 10.222), and Calypso (Od. 5.62). E.g. McClure 2002 Cf. Homer IL. 6.490–3. Hesiod Op. 63–4 and 538; for a detailed terminology. Aristophanes Frogs 1346–51. Cf. S.B. Pomeroy, Xenophon—Oeconomicus. A Social and Historical Commentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), esp. 51.

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6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

Xen. Oec. 7.6. Xen. Oec. 7.35; 7.41. Xen. Oec. 9.9 and 9.16. Euripides Hec. 357–64. E. Hartmann, Frauen in der Antike. Weitliche Lebenswelten von Sappho bis Theodora (München: C.H. Beck, 2007), 64–5. Garments stored in trunks in the bed-chambers: Cf. Hom. Od. 15.104–5; Il. 24.228. Hom. Od. 8.392. Hom. Od. 23.341; Men. Aspis 86–9. Dem. 4.47; 24.114–15. Thuc. 6.27–9. Cf. W.K. Prichtett and A. Pippin, “The Attic Stelai: Part II ,” Hesperia 25/3 (1956), 205–8. IG 13/421, col. 4, 222–49. Dowries, Hom. Od. 18.292–3; Hymn Ven 139–40; Isaeus 11.40 or TAD B 3.3:4–6. See the summary account of preparing fleeces by Aristophanes (Lys. 574–82). Cf. Homer Od. 4.121–2; 6.305–6; 17.96–7. Lisa C. Nevett, House and Society in the Ancient Greek World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 40; R. Reuthner, Wer webte Athens Gewänder? Die Arbeit von Frauen im antiken Griechenland (Frankfurt: Campus, 2006), 238. See Larsson Lovén in this volume. E.M. Harris, “Workshop, Marketplace and Household. The Nature of Technical Specialization in Classical Athens and Its Influence on Economy and Society,” in Paul Cartledge, E.E. Cohen, L. Foxhall (eds), Money, Labour and Land. Approaches to the Economies of Ancient Greece (London and New York: Routledge, 2001), 67–99. Wool weavers: IG 22/13178. Fullers: epigraphic evidence appears as early as the sixth century BC . All evidence collected by K. Ruffing, Die berufliche Spezialisierung in Handel und Handwerk. Untersuchungen zu ihrer Entwicklung und zu ihren Bedingungen in der römischen Kaiserzeit im östlichen Mittelmeerraum auf der Grundlage der griechischen Inschriften und Papyri (Rahden/Westf.: Marie Leidorf, 2008), 498. Wool workers (maybe indicating spinners): IG 22/1553–78; SEG 18/36; SEG 25/180. M. Faraguna, “Aspetti della schiavitù domestica femminile in Attica tra oratoria ed epigrafia,” in F. Reduzzi Merola and A. Storchi Marino (eds), Femmes-esclaves. Modèles d’interpretation anthropologique, économique, juridique (Napoli: Jovene, 1999), 68–73; Ruffing, Spezialisierung, 767–8), a spinner: IG 5.1/209, and a flock-weaver: IG 13/1341bis (= IG 22/7967). Cf. A. Bresson, La cité marchande (Bordeaux: Editions Ausonius, 2000), 34. Thuc. 1.58. D.M. Robinson and J.W. Graham, Excavations at Olynthus VIII: The Hellenic House. A Study of the Houses Found at Olynthus with a Detailed Account of Those Excavated in 1931 and 1934 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1938), 209. D.M. Robinson, Excavations at Olynthus XII: Domestic and Public Architecture (Baltimore: John Hopkins Press 1946), 34–40; N. Cahill, Household and City Organisation at Olynthus (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2002), 250–2. Robinson, Olynthus, 34–5 n. 105; Cahill, Household, 251. C. Kardara, “Dyeing and Weaving Works at Isthmia,” AJA 65/3 (1961): 261–6. An interpretation as tanning workshops is also conceivable: V.R. Anderson-Stojanovic, “The University of Chicago Excavations in the Rachi Settlement at Isthmia 1989,” Hesperia 65/1 (1996): 91. A specialization in textile goods can also be observed in Megara. Bresson, La cité, 293; R.P. Legon, Megara: The Political History of a Greek City-state to 336 BC (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1981), 231–2, 279–81. A. Loftus, “A textile factory in the third centruy BC Memphis. Labor, capital and private enterprise in the Zenon archive,” in D. Cardon and M. Feugère Archéologie des textiles des origines au Ve siècle, eds (Montagnac: Éditions monique mergoil, 2000), 173–84.

11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

17. 18.

19.

20.

21. 22.

23.

24. 25.

26.

27.

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28. J.S. Kloppenborg, “Collegia and Thiasoi. Issues in Function, Taxonomy and Membership,” in Voluntary Associations in the Graeco-Roman World, eds J.S. Kloppenborg and S.G. Wilson (London and New York: Routledge, 1996), 17; V. Gabrielsen, “Brotherhoods of Faith and Provident Planning: The Non-public Associations of the Greek World,” Mediterranean Historical Review 22/2 (2007): 189–94. 29. M.-L. Nosch, “Linen Textiles and Flax in Classical Greece. Provenance and Trade,” in K. Droß-Krüpe (ed.), Textile Trade and Distribution in Antiquity (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2014), 17–42. 30. Greek literary sources mention professional and specialized textile craftspeople: dyer: Pl. Resp. 429d; fuller: Antiphanes fr. 121, Ar. Plut. 166, Dem. 54.7; Lys. 3.15–16, and 23.2, Theophr. Char. 10.14 and 18.6, weaver: Pl. Grg. 449d; Pl. Phd. 87b–c; Arist. Pol. 1.3.1256a6; linen-worker: Alexis fr. 36 K–A (= Poll. 7.72). Cf. Harris, “Workshop.” 31. E.g. Laudatio Turiae (ILS 8393; 8394) or CIL 12/1211 (= ILS 8403); Suetonius Aug. 64. 32. L. Larsson Lovén, “Wool-work as a gender symbol in ancient Rome,” in Ancient textiles: Production, Craft and Society, eds C. Gillis and M.-L. Nosch (Oxford: Oxbow, 2007), 229–36. 33. E.g. Mart. 12.59.6; CIL 4/8259. 34. Plin. NH 35.197; R. Vishina, “Caius Flaminius and the lex Metilia de fullonibus,” Athenaeum 65 (1987): 527–34. 35. To give just a small selection from different parts of the Roman Empire: CIL 6/9813; ILS 7290a; AE 1950, 167; CIL 2/5812; CIL 4/3529; AE 1952, 135; CIL 2/5519 (= ILS 7594); weavers: CIL 13/7737. 36. For an overview of the scholarly debate see J. Liu, Collegia Centonariorum: The Guilds of Textile Dealers in the Roman West (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 1–24. 37. N. Tran, Les membres des associations romaines. Le rang social des collegiati en Italie et en Gaule, sous le haut-empire (Rome: École française de Rome, 2006). 38. K. Verboven, “The Associative Order: Status and Ethos Among Roman Businessmen in Late Republic and Early Empire,” Athenaeum 95 (2007): 871–2. 39. W. Broekart, “The economics of culture. Shared mental models and exchange in the Roman business world,” in K. Droß-Krüpe, S. Föllinger, K. Ruffing (eds), Ancient Economies and Cultural Identities (2000 BC–AD 500) (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2016), in preparation. M. Silver, “A forum on trade,” in W. Scheidel (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Economy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 295. 40. Plut. Numa 17. 41. CIL 10/813(= ILS 6368). On this inscription see the controversial positions of W.O. Moeller, The Wool Trade of Ancient Pompeii (Leiden: Brill, 1976); W. Jongman, The Economy and Society of Pompeii (Amsterdam: Gieben, 1988), 155–72; F. Pesando and M.P. Guidobaldi, Pompei, Oplontis, Ercolano, Stabiae (Roma: Laterza, 2006), 44–6. 42. E.g. CIL 14/4573, 4364. Cf. a more detailed collection G. Labarre and M.-Th. Le Dinahet, “Les métiers du textile en Asie Mineure de l’époque hellénistique à l’époque impériale,” in Aspects de l’artisanat du textile dans le monde méditerranéen (Paris and Lyon: Diffusion de Boccard, 1996), 49–116; F. Vicari, Produzione e commercio dei tessuti nell’Occidente romano (Oxford: BAR , 2001). 43. Cf. Liu, Collegia. 44. J. Reynolds, “The linen-market of Aphrodisias in Caria,” in Arculiana. loanni Boegli anno sexagesimo quinto feliciter peracto amici, discipuli, collegae, socii dona dederunt, eds F.E. König and S. Rebetez (Avenches: L.A.O.T.T., 1995), 523–7. 45. K. Droß-Krüpe, Wolle—Weber—Wirtschaft. Die Textilproduktion der römischen Kaiserzeit im Spiegel der papyrologischen Überlieferung (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2011), 136–9; Ruffing, Spezialisierung, 139–40. 46. Pliny NH 22.2. Cf. J.P. Wild, Textile Manufacture in the Northern Roman Provinces (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009 (2nd ed.)); M. Rorison, Vici in Roman Gaul (Oxford, 2001), 53; J.F. Drinkwater, “The Gallo-Roman woolen industry and the great

176

47. 48. 49. 50.

51.

52. 53. 54.

55. 56.

57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63.

64.

65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71.

NOTES

debate. The Igel column revisited,” in Economies Beyond Agriculture, eds D.J. Mattingly and J. Salmon, 297–308; F. Vicari, “Economia della Cisalpina romana—la produzione tessile,” Rivista storica dell’Antichà 24 (1994): 239–60. Droß-Krüpe, Wolle, 262–5. On Oxyrhynchos see Droß-Krüpe, Wolle, 78–86 contra. P. van Minnen, “The Volume of the Oxyrhynchite Textile Trade,” MBAH 5/2 (1986), 88–95. Silver, “Forum,” 292–3. Papyri are skewed both chronologically and geographically, providing most evidence for the second century AD and the Arsinoites. References to other areas are sparse. W. Habermann, “Zur chronologischen Verteilung der papyrologischen Zeugnisse,” ZPE 122 (1998): 144–160. Vicari, Produzione, 114–15; for Ptolemaic textile production cf: W. Habermann and B. Tenger, “Ptolemäer,” in B. Schefold (ed.) Wirtschaftssysteme im historischen Vergleich (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2004), 304–9. Droß-Krüpe, Wolle, 47–102. Ruffing, Spezialisierung, 213–14. Droß-Krüpe, Wolle, 167–9; F. Reiter, Die Nomarchen des Arsinoites. Ein Beitrag zum Steuerwesen im römischen Ägypten (Paderborn et al.: de Gruyter, 2004), 111–44; S.L. Wallace, Taxation in Egypt from Augustus to Diocletian (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1938), 200–1. A female dyer from the fourth century AD : P.Oxy. 24/2421. Bang states that approximately 50 percent of the overall production of consumer goods in Roman times entered the market. P.F. Bang, “A Forum on Trade,” in W. Scheidel (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Economy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 299. A female master: SB 18/13305. All evidence collected by Droß-Krüpe, Wolle, 107–8. Droß-Krüpe, Wolle, 164–6. In Rome weavers (textores) were probably exclusively slaves (Dig. 114.4.1.1). E.B. Andersson et al., “New Research on Bronze Age Textile Production,” BICS 51 (2008), 173. Droß-Krüpe, Wolle, 197–8. A. Wilson, “Timgad and Textile Production,” in Economies beyond Agriculture, eds D. Mattingly and J. Salmon, 271–96; M. Flohr, The World of the Fullo: Work, Economy and Society in Roman Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), esp. 242–87. For Rome, Ostia, and Florence see Flohr, Fullo: 77, for Pompeii see Vicari, Produzione, 15. D. Robinson, “Re-thinking the social organisation of trade and industry in first century AD Pompeii,” in A. MacMahon and J. Price (eds), Roman Working Lives and Urban Living (Oxford: Oxbow, 2005), 94. Droß-Krüpe, Wolle, 221–32. Droß-Krüpe, Wolle, 175–82. A. Jördens, Statthalterliche Verwaltung in der römischen Kaiserzeit: Studien zum praefectus Aegypti (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2009), 215–19; 241–2. BGU 7/1564; 1572. L. Wierschowski, Heer und Wirtschaft. Das römische Heer der Prinzipatszeit als Wirtschaftsfaktor (Bonn: Habelt, 1984), 58. BGU 7/1564; P.Ryl. 2/189. R. Coase, “The Nature of the Firm,” Economica 4 (1937): 386–405; O.E. Williamson, The Economic Institutions of Capitalism: Firms, Markets, Relational Contracting (New York: Free Press, 1985). For more information on weaving on a warp weighted loom and loom weights see Eva Andersson Strand and Marie-Louise Nosch (eds), Tools, Textiles and Contexts. Investigating Textile Production in the Aegean and Eastern Mediterranean Bronze

NOTES

72. 73.

74. 75. 76. 77. 78.

79. 80. 81.

82. 83. 84.

85.

86.

87. 88. 89. 90.

91. 92. 93. 94.

177

Age (Oxford: Oxbow Books 2015); L. Mårtensson, M-L. Nosch and E. Andersson Strand “Shape of things: understanding a loom weight,” Oxford Journal of Archaeology 28 (4) (2009), 373–98. Cod. Iust. 11.9.1. Vicari, Produzione, 17–18; A. Kazhdan, s.v. Gynaikeion, The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium 2 (1991), 888–9. P. Herz, “Textilien vom nördlichen Balkan. Ein Beitrag zur Wirtschaft der römischen Provinz Raetia,” in Handel, Kultur und Militär. Die Wirtschaft des Alpen-Donau-Adria-Raumes, eds P. Herz, P. Schmid, O. Stoll, (Berlin: Frank & Timme, 2011), 70. J.A. Sheridan, Columbia Papyri IX—The vestis militaris codex (Atlanta: American Society of Papyrologists, 1998), 73–105. D. Piekenbrock (ed.), Gabler Kompakt-Lexikon Wirtschaft. 4500 Begriffe nachschlagen, verstehen, anwenden (Berlin: Gabler, 2013 (11th ed.)). Hom. Od. 14.287; 15.415–86. M. Austin and P. Vidal-Naquet, Gesellschaft und Wirtschaft im alten Griechenland (München: C.H. Beck 1984), 34–6. Ar. Pax 545–9; 1198–1263. Cf. J. Spielvogel, Wirtschaft und Geld bei Aristophanes. Untersuchungen zu den ökonomischen Bedingungen in Athen im Übergang vom 5. zum 4. Jahrhundert. v. Chr. (Frankfurt: Marthe Clauss, 2001), 83. Spielvogel, Wirtschaft, 132–9. Aristoph. Frogs 1346–1351. E.g. IG 22/1568; SEG 11/84 A 18. Phrygia: Ar. Plut. 493; the Cimmerians: Dem. 35.34; Hom. Od. 11.12–19; Hdt. 4.11–12; A.K. Gade Kristensen, Who were the Cimmerians, and where did they come from? Sargon II, the Cimmerians, and Rusa I (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1988); Miletos: Aristophanes. Lys. 278–80; 729. Ar. Hipp. 129; IG 22/1570, 24; 1572, 8. Black Sea: Hdt. 2.105; Carthage: Xen. Cyn. 2.4; Egypt: Poll. 5.26. For linen see Nosch, “Linen Textiles” with a summary of older literature. Clothes-seller (himatiopolis): IG 22/11254 (Harris, “Workshop,” 67–99). Another example of this profession is IG 22/1673, recording a total of twenty-eight exomides purchased for public slaves from various himatiopoloi. Cf. Jongman, Economy and van Minnen, Volume, 88–95: contra, see J.P. Wild, “Facts, Figures and Guesswork in the Roman Textile Industry,” in L. Bender Jørgensen et al. (eds), Textilien aus Archäologie und Geschichte. Festschrift für Klaus Tidow (Neumünster: Wachholtz, 2003), 37–45. Cf. L. Casson, The Periplus Maris Erythraei (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989). Cf. K. Droß-Krüpe, “Textiles and their Merchants in Rome’s eastern Trade,” in M. Gleba and J. Pásztókai-Szeo ˝oke, Making Textiles in Pre-Roman and Roman Times. People, Places, Identities (Oxford: Oxbow, 2013), 150; J.P. Wild and F.C. Wild, Berenike and textile trade on the Indian Ocean, in K. Droß-Krüpe (ed.), Textile Trade and Distribution in Antiquity (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2014), 91–109. TUAT NF 1, 280–92. P III 16–18/G II 11–12. P III ii 86–7/G II ii 57. Cf. J. Teixidor, “Un port romain du desert. Palmyre et son commerce d’Auguste a Caracalla,” Semitica 34 (1984: 1–125; A. Schmidt-Colinet, Palmyra. Kulturbegegnung im Grenzbereich (Mainz: v. Zabern, 2005 (3rd ed.)). E.g. a purple trader in Raetia (negotiator artis purpurariae, CIL 3/5824 [= ILS 7598]). Vestiarius: e.g. CIL 6/9962, CIL 11/868; negotiator vestiarius: CIL 13/4564; negotiator lanarius: CIL 11/862; negotiator sagarius: CIL 5/5925. CIL 6/33906 (= ILS 758). AE 1929. 23; CIL 6/37820.

178

NOTES

95. For the city of Rome alone, twenty men and women trading purple are known by name. A. Kolb and J. Fugmann, Tod in Rom. Grabinschriften als Spiegel römischen Lebens (Mainz: v. Zabern, 2008), 136. 96. E.g. a vestiaria in CIL 6/33920. 97. CIL 6/33920. 98. Parties involved in this privately-organized goods transfer are found inside and outside the family, dealing with both every day and exotic goods. This system exhibits multi-level and hierarchical dependencies between trading partners which can be labeled as “principal— agent” relationships according to New Institutional Economics (NIE ). Cf. E.G. Furubotn and R. Richter, Institutions and Economic Theory. The Contribution of the New Institutional Economics (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2005 (2nd ed.)). 99. K. Droß-Krüpe, “Regionale Mobilität im privaten Warenaustausch im römischen Ägypten. Versuch einer Deutung im Rahmen der Prinzipal-Agenten-Theorie,” in E. Olshausen and V. Sauer (eds), Mobilität in den Kulturen der antiken Mittelmeerwelt (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2014), 373–83. 100. S. Strassi, L’archivio di Claudius Tiberianus da Karanis (Berlin & New York: de Gruyter, 2008).

3 The Body 1.

2.

3.

4. 5. 6.

7. 8. 9.

10.

See further Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones (ed.), Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002); Liza Cleland, Mary Harlow, and Lloyd LlewellynJones (eds), The Clothed Body in the Ancient World (Oxford: Oxbow, 2005); Liza Cleland, Glenys Davies, and Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, Dress in Ancient Greece and Rome A–Z (London: Routledge, 2007); Georges Losfield, Essai sur le costume grec (Paris: De Boccard, 1991); Georges Losfeld, L’Art grec et le vêtement (Paris: De Boccard, 1994); Judith Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante (eds), The World of Roman Costume (Madison and London: University of Wisconsin Press, 1994); Jonathan Edmondson and Alison Keith (eds), Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture (Toronto, Buffalo, and London: University of Toronto Press, 2008). Homer, Iliad 2.262; Odyssey 6.28–48, 214; Hans van Wees, “Greeks Bearing Arms: the State, the Leisure Class, and the Display of Wealth in Archaic Greece,” in Archaic Greece: New Approaches and New Evidence, eds N. Fisher and H. van Wees (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 1998), 333–78. See further Bridget Thomas, “Constraints and Contradictions: Whiteness and Femininity in Ancient Greece,” in Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World, Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones (ed.), 1–16. For a study of the semantics of the Greek conception of beauty see David Konstan, Beauty. The Fortunes of an Ancient Greek Idea (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). Apollonius Rhodius, Argonautica 4. 421–34. The word probably derives from the Akkadian kitinnu (linen garment), a non-specific word for clothing. Supposedly of Ionian origin, in the Homeric period it is attested only as a male garment, but in the Classical era it is predominantly female. Homer, Iliad 14.180, Odyssey 18.292–4. For the epithet “white arms” see Homer, Iliad 1.55, 6.371. See Bridget Thomas, “Constraints and Contradictions”. Homer, Iliad 6.90, 271, 293; Odyssey 15.107. For underwear see Kelly Olson, “Roman Underwear Revisited,” Classical World 96, no. 2 (2003), 201–10. The breastband was a long piece of cloth bound round the breasts. A lighter under-tunic could be worn as underwear, or several tunics might be worn on top of one another in cold weather. Wearing two tunics became fashionable in the later imperial

NOTES

11.

12. 13.

14.

15.

16. 17.

18.

19. 20.

21.

22. 23. 24. 25.

26. 27.

179

period: the inner one had long sleeves and fell to the ankles, while the outer one had shorter sleeves and was mid-calf length. For the various ways in which the toga was draped see Hans R. Goette, Studien zu römischen Togadarstellungen (Mainz: von Zabern, 1990); Shelley Stone, “The Toga: From National to Ceremonial Costume,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds Judith Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante, 13–45. Michele George, “The ‘Dark Side’ of the Toga,” in Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture, eds Jonathan Edmondson and Alison Keith, 94–112. For the dress of women see Birgit Scholz, Untersuchungen zur Tracht der römischen Matrona (Cologne: Böhlau, 1992); Judith Sebesta, “Symbolism in the Costume of the Roman Woman,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds Judith Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante, 46–53; Alexandra Croom, Roman Clothing and Fashion (Stroud: Amberley Publishing, 2000); Kelly Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, Self-presentation and Society (London and New York: Routledge, 2008). There has been much discussion about the design of the stola but it appears to have been a tube suspended on shoulder straps: like the toga, its use was “revived” by Augustus, and it is debatable whether it was in fact much worn in practice. For the various types of cloak available see Lillian Wilson, The Clothing of the Ancient Romans (Baltimore 1938; reprinted by Johns Hopkins Press, 1978); F. Kolb, “Römische Mäntel: Paenula, Lacerna, Mandye,” Römische Mitteilungen 80 (1973), 69–167. Hans van Wees, “Greeks Bearing Arms: the State, the Leisure Class, and the Display of Wealth in Archaic Greece,” in Archaic Greece: New Approaches and New Evidence, eds N. Fisher and H. van Wees. See Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, Aphrodite’s Tortoise: The Veiled Woman of Ancient Greece (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2003). See Sue Blundell, “Clutching at Clothes,” in Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World, ed. Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, 143–69. Veiling was part of a Greek ideology that required women to be socially invisible; by placing herself beneath a veil a woman was symbolically separated from society. See Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, Aphrodite’s Tortoise; Douglas Cairns, “The Meaning of the Veil in Ancient Greek Culture,” in Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World, ed. Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, 73–93. See Mary Harlow, “Dressed Women on the Streets of the Ancient City: what to wear,” in Women and the Roman City in the Latin West, eds Emily Hemelrijk and Greg Woolf (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 225–42. See esp. Quintilian Instituto Oratoria 11.3.137–49 and Chapter 9 in this volume. See Emeline Hill Richardson and L. Richardson Jr., “Ad Cohibendum Bracchium Toga: An archaeological examination of Cicero, Pro Caelio 5.11,” Yale Classical Studies XI (1966): 253–69. Women should adopt a hairstyle to suit the shape of their face (3 135–54), and the color of their clothes to suit their complexion (3.188–92; 269–70); skinny women should wear bulky garments and a loose robe, and padding for shoulder blades that stuck out too far; women with ugly feet should wear closed ankle boots, and so on (3.261–74). Ars Amatoria 3.269; the medical writers Soranus and Galen also suggest the breastband could be used to prevent a girl’s bust growing too big. Xenophon, Cyropaedia 8. 3.3. Suetonius, Augustus 82; Quintilian Instituto Oratoria 11.3.144. Elizabeth Barber, Prehistoric Textiles: the Development of Cloth in the Neolithic and Bronze Ages with Special Reference to the Aegean (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991), 225, 236–40. Homer, Odyssey 6.50–100. Matrons might wear an under-tunic called the indusium or intusium, and girls one called a supparum, but it is not clear how these garments differed from one another: Kelly Olson, “Roman Underwear Revisited.”

180

NOTES

28. Cicero mentions that an actor should wear a loincloth (subligaculum) under his tunic so as to avoid the risk of exposing himself to his audience (de officiis 1.35.129), and it is possible that soldiers and huntsmen, who wore shorter tunics, wore some form of underwear too. 29. Alexandra Croom, Roman Clothing and Fashion, 95. See Chapter 8 in this volume. 30. Larissa Bonfante, “Nudity as Costume in Classical Art,” American Journal of Archaeology 93 (1989): 543–70. 31. This type of garment was also called a subligaculum, subligar, licium, and cingullum: the precise differences implied by the existence of so many names are uncertain. The Etruscans, like the Romans, seem to have disliked the Greek practice of exercising and competing naked, and preferred to wear a perizoma—which could be quite a fitted garment on the lines of the modern Y-front. 32. Martial 14.30: leather cap (galericulum) worn to prevent hair from becoming dirtied. 33. Soranus, Gynaecology 2.14 [85]. Swaddling was thought to encourage the growth of straight limbs: Alexandra Croom, Roman Clothing and Fashion, 117–18. 34. H. Gabelmann, “Römische Kinder in Toga Praetexta,” JDAI 100 (1985): 487–541. 35. Fanny Dolansky, “Togam virile sumere: Coming of Age in the Roman World,” in Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture, eds Jonathan Edmondson and Alison Keith, 47–70. 36. Laetitia La Follette, “The Costume of the Roman Bride,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds J. Sebesta and L. Bonfante, 54–64; Kelly Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 21–5. 37. Birgit Scholz, Untersuchungen zur Tracht der römischen Matrona; Judith Sebesta, “Symbolism in the Costume of the Roman Woman”; Kelly Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 25–41. 38. Quintilian, Institutio Oratoria 11.1.31; SHA , Severus Alexander, 27.4. 39. For a discussion of the phenomenon, and numerous examples, see Christopher Hallett, The Roman Nude. Heroic Portrait Statuary 200 BC–AD 300. Oxford Studies in Ancient Culture and Representation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). The only goddess routinely represented naked was Aphrodite/Venus. 40. Larissa Bonfante, “Nudity as Costume in Classical Art,” 543–70. 41. Romans taking part in Greek-style games may have competed nude, but the extent to which the Romans embraced nudity otherwise is debated.

4 Belief 1.

2.

3. 4.

5.

6. 7. 8. 9.

Gils Bartholeyns, “Le moment chrétien. Fondation antique de la culture vestimentaire médiévale,” in Vêtements Antiques. S’habiller, se déshabiller dans les mondes anciens, ed. F. Gherchanoc and V. Huet (Arles: éd. Errance, 2012), 113–34. Sokolowski LSCG 65. For a critical text and commentary of this inscription, see Laura Gawlinski, The Sacred Law of Andania: A New Text and Commentary (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2012); ibid, “ ‘Fashioning’ Initiates: Dress at the Mysteries,” in Reading a Dynamic Canvas: Adornment in the Ancient Mediterranean World, eds C.S. Colburn and M.K. Heyn (Newcastle, UK : Cambridge Scholars, 2008), 146–69. Gawlinski, The Sacred Law of Andania, 113. On differentiation in terms of color, see Christopher Jones, “Processional Colors,” in The Art of Ancient Spectacle, eds B.A. Bergman and C. Kondoleon (Washington: National Gallery of Art/New Haven, CT and London, UK : Yale University Press, 1999), 251. The law specifies that daughters of female initiates and slaves can wear the kalasiris and sindonitan, the latter was made of fine linen (muslin), or even cotton, see Gawlinski, The Sacred Law of Andania, 123–4. Ibid, 123. On the fringed mantle, see Elizabeth Walters, Attic Grave Reliefs that Represent Women in the Dress of Isis (Princeton, NJ : American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 1988), 8–11. Jones, The Art of Ancient Spectacle, 251; Gawlinski The Sacred Law of Andania, 122. See Apul. Met. 11.7–11. Plutarch De Is. et Os. 4=Mor. 352b–c.

NOTES

181

10. Eibert Tigchelaar, “The White Dress of the Essenes and the Pythagoreans,” in Jerusalem, Alexandria, Rome: Studies in Ancient Cultural Interaction in Honour of A. Hilhorst, eds F. García Martínez and G.P. Luttikhuizen (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 303 and 306. 11. See Ex. 28: 40–3 and Ezek. 44: 17. Lynda Coon, Sacred Fictions: Holy Women and Hagiography in Late Antiquity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press 1997), 56. 12. Gawlinski, The Sacred Law of Andania, 115–17. Ibid, Reading a Dynamic Canvas, 160. 13. Gawlinski, The Sacred Law of Andania, 116. 14. Alexandra T. Croom, Roman Clothing and Fashion (Stroud: Tempus, 2000), 28. 15. Christopher Rowe, “Concepts of Colour and Colour Symbolism in the Ancient World,” Eranos Jahrbuch 41 (1972): 44; Judith L. Sebesta, “Symbolism in the Costume of the Roman Woman,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds J.L. Sebesta and L. Bonfante (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2001), 48; Tigchelaar, Jerusalem, Alexandria, Rome, 306. 16. Joan B. Connelly, Portrait of a Priestess: Women and Ritual in Ancient Greece (Princeton, NJ : Princeton University Press, 2007), 90–1. Cf. Valerius Flaccus on the priest at Delphi in a “white robe shining from afar” (Argon. 3.430–3). 17. The Greek term used in the following examples is leukos. IC os ED 180 and IC os ED 215; Connelly, Portrait of a Priestess, 91. At Andania, some officials wore a felt, white cap, see Gawlinski, The Sacred Law of Andania, 111. 18. Sokolowski LSAM 11 and 35. 19. Alexia Petalis-Diomidis, Truly Beyond Wonders: Aelius Aristides and the Cult of Asclepius (Oxford: Oxford University Press. 2010), 236–7. E.g. a third-century inscription for an Asclepeion in Pergamon, see Sokolowski LSAM 14. 20. Paus. 6.20.2–3; Connelly, Portrait of a Priestess, 91. 21. The Latin term used is candidus, see De pall. 4.10.10; Gawlinksi, The Sacred Law of Andania, 118. 22. Ovid Fast. 4.619–20. 23. Apul. Met. 11.7–11. 24. Vincenzo Pavan, “La veste bianca battesimale, indicium escatologico nella Chiesa dei primi secoli,” Augustinianum 18 (1978): 257–71. 25. Jones, The Art of Ancient Spectacle, 252; Gawlinski, The Sacred Law of Andania, 108. 26. Sokolowski LSAM 16; Harriet Mills, “Greek Clothing Regulations: Sacred and Profane?” ZPE 55 (1984): 260–1. 27. Shelly Stone, “The Toga: From National Costume to Ceremonial Costume,” in The World of Roman Costume, 15. 28. For a detailed consideration of Roman women’s mourning clothing, see Olson, “Insignia Lugentium: Female Mourning Garments in Roman Antiquity,” American Journal of Ancient History 3–4 (2004–2005): 89–103. 29. Dafna Schlezinger-Katsman, “Clothing” in The Oxford Handbook of Jewish Daily Life in Roman Palestine, ed. Catherine Hezser (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 377. 30. Gawlinski, The Sacred Law of Andania, 110. 31. Festus Gloss. Lat. 56L; Kelly Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman: Self-Presentation and Society (London and New York: Routledge, 2008), 24; Cynthia Thompson, “Hairstyles, Head-Coverings, and St. Paul: Portraits from Roman Corinth,” Biblical Archaeologist 51.2 (1988): 100; Mary Beard, John North, and Simon Price, Religions of Rome, vol. 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 59. 32. Uta Kron, “Götterkronen und Priesterdiademe. Zu den griechischen Ursprüngen der sog. Büstenkronen,” in Festschrift für Jale ˙Inan Arma˘ganı (Yayınevı: Arkeoloji Sanat Yayınları, 1989), 373–90. 33. Emily Hemelrijk, “Local Empresses: Priestesses of the Imperial Cult in the Cities of the Latin West,” Phoenix 61 (2007): 331–8. 34. Inez Scott Ryberg, Rites of the State Religion in Roman Art (Rome: American Academy in Rome, 1955), 47.

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35. Gawlinski, The Sacred Law of Andania, 111–12. 36. Gawlinski, Reading a Dynamic Canvas, 151–4. 37. Ibid, 155; Douglas Cairns, “Vêtu d’impudeur et enveloppé de chagrin. Le rôle des métaphores de ‘l’habillement’ dans les concepts d’émotion en Grèce ancienne,” in Vêtements Antiques. S’habiller, se déshabiller dans les mondes anciens, 179. 38. Connelly, Portrait of a Priestess, 32–3. Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood, Studies in Girl’s Transitions: Aspects of the Arkteia and Age Representation in Attic Iconography (Athens: Kardamitsa, 1988), 119–24. 39. Nancy Serwint, “The Female Athletic Costume at the Heraia and Prenuptial Initiation Rites,” AJA 97.3 (1993): 403–22. 40. Pironti, “Autour du corps viril en Crète ancienne: l’ombre et le peplos,” in Vêtements Antiques. S’habiller, se déshabiller dans les mondes anciens, 93–104. 41. Serwint, “The Female Athletic Costume at the Heraia,” 420–1. Plutarch (Quaest. Graec. 304b–e) states that the priest of Heracules on Cos wore female garb and a turban during sacrifice. 42. Stat. Silv. 116–20; Sen. Ep. 4.2; Fanny Lyn Dolansky, “Coming of Age in Rome: the History and Social Significance of assuming the Toga Virilis,” Ph.D. thesis, University of Victoria, BC , 1999. 43. Evy Johanne Håland, “The Ritual Year of Athena. The Agricultural Cycle of the Olive, Girls’ Rites of Passage, and Official Ideology,” Journal of Religious History 36.2 (2012): 258. 44. Elizabeth J.W. Barber, “The Peplos of Athena,” in Goddess and Polis. The Panathenaic Festival in Ancient Athens, ed. J. Neils (Princeton, NJ : Princeton University Press, 1992), 112–17. 45. Arrephoroi were young Athenian girls in Athena’s service, who at the festival of the Chalkeia set up the loom for the weaving of the peplos. For a discussion of the frieze, see Håland, “The Ritual Year of Athena,” 267–8. The identification of the figures in the Parthenon frieze is debated, see Olga Palagia, “The Parthenon Frieze: Boy or Girl?” Antike Kunst 51 (2008): 3–7. 46. Gawlinski, Reading a Dynamic Canvas, 164. 47. Liza Cleland, The Brauron Clothing Catalogues: Text, Analysis, Glossary and Translation (Oxford: John and Erica Hedges, Ltd., 2005). 48. How clothing was stored in temples is less clear, see Matthew Dillon, Girls and Women in Classical Greek Religion (London and New York: Routledge, 2002), 19–23. 49. Sokolwski LSS 32; Mills, “Greek Clothing Regulations,” 258. 50. Daniel Ogden, “Controlling Women’s Dress: Gynaikonomoi,” in Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World, ed. L. Llewellyn-Jones (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2003), 206; Gawlinski, The Sacred Law of Andania, 122–3. 51. Mills, “Greek Clothing Regulations,” identified similar laws at Pergamon, Rhodes, and the cult of Demeter near Patras and Lycosura. 52. Gawlinski, The Sacred Law of Andania, 128. 53. Ibid, 128. Elizabeth Bartman, “Hair and the Artifice of Roman Female Adornment,” American Journal of Archaeology 105 (2001): 1–25. Plutarch, Quaest. Rom. 14, 267, points out that women’s hair in mourning is the opposite of their expected routine. 54. Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 80–95. On Christian anti-adornment rhetoric see Alicia Batten, “Neither Gold nor Braided Hair (1 Timothy 2.9; 1 Peter 3.5): Adornment, Gender, and Honour in Antiquity,” New Testament Studies 55 (2009): 484–501. On the Jewish position see Naftali Cohn, “What to Wear: Women’s Adornment and Judean Identity in the Third Century Mishnah,” in Dressing Judeans and Christians in Antiquity, eds K. UpsonSaia, C. Daniel-Hughes, and A. Batten (Farnham, UK and Burlington, VT : Ashgate, 2014), 21–36. 55. Mills, “Greek Clothing Regulations,” 260; Gawlinski, The Sacred Law of Andania, 109. 56. See Ogden, “Controlling Women’s Dress” in Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World.

NOTES

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57. On whiteness as an ideal of female beauty see Bridget Thomas, “Whiteness and Femininity from Women’s Clothing in the Ancient Greek World,” in Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World, 1–16. 58. Margaret Miller, “The Ependytes in Classical Athens,” Hesperia 58.3 (1989): 319–23. For a discussion of the various ranks of officials, including slaves and freedman, see Marietta Horster, “Living on Religion: Professionals and Personnel,” in A Companion to Roman Religion, ed. J. Rüpke (Malden, MA : Blackwell, 2011), 331–42. 59. Jenifer Neils, The Parthenon Frieze, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 168–9; Ralf van den Hoff, “Images of Cult Personnel in Athens between the Sixth and First Centuries BC ,” in Practitioners of the Divine Greek Priests and Religious Officials from Homer to Heliodorus, eds B. Dignas and K. Trampedach (Washington, DC : Center for Hellenic Studies. Cambridge, MA : Harvard University Press, 2008): 113. 60. Connelly, Portrait of a Priestess, 92–104; van den Hoff, Practioners of the Divine, 117. 61. At Andania, the leaders, called the Ten, wore a purple headband that may have imitated the iconic clothing of the Eleusinian mysteries, see Gawlinski, Reading a Dynamic Canvas, 164 and Connelly, Portrait of a Priestess, 92. 62. Connelly Portrait of a Priestess, 87–90. 63. Connelly, Portrait of a Priestess, 92; Gawlinski, The Sacred Law of Andania, 131. At Eleusis, for example, the main priests were known for their purple cloaks, the phoinikides, see Kevin Clinton, The Sacred Officials of the Eleusinian Mysteries. (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1974), 46–7, 48 and 68. 64. Rowe, “Concepts of Colour and Colour Symbolism,” 46–7; Jonathan Edmondson, “Public Dress and Social Control in Late Republican and Early Imperial Rome,” in Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture, eds J. Edmondson and A. Keith (Toronto, Buffalo and London: University of Toronto Press, 2008), 28. 65. Stone, The World of Roman Costume, 13–15. Bonfante-Warren on the antecedents of the notes that the dark-colored, boarded toga: “Roman Costumes: A Glossary and Some Etruscan Derivations,” Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt I.4 (1973): 591 n23. 66. Ryberg, Rites of the State Religion in Roman Art, 43. 67. Valerie Huet, “Le voile du sacrifiant à Rome sur les reliefs romains: une norme?” in Vêtements Antiques. S’habiller, se déshabiller dans les mondes anciens, 47–62. 68. On the lituus, see Livy 1.18.7–10. On the trabea, Serv. Ad Aen. 7.612; John Scheid, An Introduction to Roman Religion (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2003), 132. This garment was also worn by the sodales salii, see Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 70.1–2. 69. Serv. Ad Aen. 4.262. 70. Katharine Esdaile, “The Apex or Titulus in Roman Art,” Journal of Roman Studies 1 (1911): 212–26; Bonfante-Warren, “Roman Costumes,” 605 and 607. 71. Esdaile “The Apex or Titulus,” 215; Ryberg, Rites of the State Religion in Roman Art, 43–6. 72. Aul. Gell. NA 10.15.1–25; Bonfante-Warren, “Roman Costumes,” 588. 73. Varro Ling.7.44; Festus Gloss. Lat. 484 and 486L; Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 38–9. 74. Laetitia LaFollette, “The Costume of the Roman Bride,” in The World of Roman Costume, 56. 75. Festus Gloss. Lat. 454 L. For a modern reconstruction of the Vestal’s hairstyle, see hairstylist Janet Stephens https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eA9JYW h1r7U. Accessed January 19, 2015. 76. Elaine Fantham, “Covering the Head at Rome: Ritual and Gender,” Roman Dress, 163. 77. Judith Sebesta, “Women’s Costume and Feminine Civic Morality in Augustan Rome.” Gender and History 9 (1997), 35. 78. Festus Gloss. Lat. 100 L and 474 L; Robin Lorsch Wildfang Rome’s Vestal Virgins: A Study of Rome’s Vestal Priestesses in the late Republic and Early Empire (London and New York: Routledge, 2006), 13. 79. Scheid, An Introduction to Roman Religion, 133.

184

NOTES

80. Fast. 6.293–4 (trans. LCL 253 Fraser 1931: 340–1); see Lorsch Wildfang, Rome’s Vestal Virgins, 13. 81. On imperial priestesses’ imitation of the empress they served, see Hemelrijk, “Local Empresses,” 343. Beard, North, and Price, Religions of Rome, 143–4. 82. Xen. Ephes. 1.2.5–7; see Connelly Portrait of a Priestess, 106. 83. Gawlinski, The Sacred Law of Andania, 132. 84. Craig Williams, Roman Homosexuality: Ideologies of Masculinity in Classical Antiquity (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 177–8. 85. Apul. Met. 8.24–30. 86. Maarten J. Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis: the Myth and the Cult (London: Thames & Hudson, 1997), 97. 87. Elizabeth Walters challenges earlier interpretations that suggest funerary reliefs of women adorned as Isis are her priestesses; she suggests instead that they are initiates commemorated in this look in order to highlight their privileged relationship the goddess and her exclusive cult, see Attic Grave Reliefs, 52–7. 88. Ibid, 6–7. 89. Ibid, 35 and 79–80. 90. Lucille Roussin, “Costume in Roman Palestine: Archaeological Remains and the Evidence from the Mishnah,” in The World of Roman Costume, 188; Jodi Magness, The Archaeology of Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls (Grand Rapids, MI : William B. Eerdmans, 2002), 196–7; Shlezinger-Katsman, Oxford Handbook of Jewish Daily Life, 378. 91. Ex. 28:40–3; Joseph. AJ 3.7.1–4=151–8; Joan Taylor, “Imaging Judean Priestly Dress: The Berne Josephus and Judea Capta Coinage,” in Dressing Judeans and Christians, 200–4. 92. Ex. 28:1–29:46. 93. Lev. 16:4. 94. Taylor, Dressing Judeans and Christians, 200–4. 95. Taylor suggests that images of male figures with breeches on the Roman Judea Capta (Type 2) coins are Roman representations of Jewish priests, see Ibid, 207–11. For how the role of breeches in the construction of male status among the ancient Israelites, see Deborah Rooke, “Breeches of the Covenant: Gender, Garments, and the Priesthood,” in Embroidered Garments: Priests and Gender in Ancient Israel, ed. D. Rooke (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2009), 9–37. 96. The Dura Europos frescoes also show the influence of Persian fashion, see Alfred Rubens, A History of Jewish Costume (London: Valentine, Mitchell, 1967), 11. 97. Douglas Edwards, “The Social, Religious, and Political Aspects of Costume in Josephus,” in The World of Roman Costume, 156–7; Swartz, “The Semiotics of Priestly Vestments in Ancient Judaism,” in Sacrifice in Religious Experience, ed. A.I. Baumgarten (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 57–80. 98. Mary Harlow, “Clothes Maketh the Man: Power Dressing and Elite Masculinity in the Later Roman Empire,” in Gender in the Early Medieval World: East and West, 300–900, eds L. Brubaker and J.M.H. Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 44–69. 99. E.g. Mt. 5:41 and 23:5; Mk 15:17; Lk 23:11; Jn 19:23; Acts 12.8; Coon, Sacred Fictions, 56. 100. Dyan Elliott, “Dressing and Undressing the Clergy: Rites of Ordination and Degradation,” in E. Jane Burns (ed.), Medieval Fabrications: Dress, Textiles, Clothwork, and Other Cultural Imaginings, ed. E.J. Burns (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004) 57–8. 101. Bartholeyns, Vêtements Antiques. 102. Gal. 3:27; Rom. 13:14; Maier, “Kleidung II (Bedeutung),” Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum 21 (2004): 41 and 45; Robin Darling Young, “The Influence of Evagrius of Pontus,” in To Train His Soul in Books: Syriac Asceticism in Early Christianity, eds R.D. Young and M. Blanchard (Washington, DC : Catholic University of America Press, 2011), 157–75. For biblical clothing metaphors in the Syriac tradition, see “Metaphors as a Means

NOTES

103.

104. 105. 106. 107. 108.

109.

110. 111.

112.

113. 114. 115. 116. 117. 118.

119. 120. 121. 122. 123. 124.

185

of Theological Expression in Syriac Tradition,” in Typus, Symbol, Allegorie bei den östlichen Vätern und ihren Parallelen im Mittelalter, ed. M.Schmidt (Regensburg: F. Pustet, 1982), 11–38. For clothing imagery and baptismal ritual, see Carly Daniel Hughes, “Putting on the Perfect Man: Clothing and Soteriology in the Gospel of Philip,” in Dressing Judeans and Christians, 215–31. For further discussion see Daniel-Hughes, The Salvation of the Flesh in Tertullian of Carthage: Dressing for the Resurrection (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011) and Stephen Davis, “Fashioning a Divine Body: Coptic Christology and Ritualized Dress,” Harvard Theological Review 98 (2005): 335–62. Maier, “Kleidung II ,” 5–6. Ibid, 184. Ibid, 184–5; T.C. Brennan, “Tertullian’s De Pallio and Roman Dress in North Africa,” in Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture, 257–70. Ibid, 189–94. Pach. Praec. 81; Andrew Crislip, From Monastery to Hospital: Christian Monasticism and the Transformation of Health Care in Late Antiquity (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2005), 61. For references to hair-shirts in ascetic literature, see Rebecca Kraweic, “ ‘Garments of Salvation’: Representations of Monastic Clothing in Late Antiquity,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 17 (2009): 125–50. Maier, “Kleidung II ,” 49; Crislip, From Monastery to Hospital, 60. For a comparison of Evagrius and Cassian on monastic clothing, see William Harmless, Desert Christians: Introduction to the Literature of Early Monasticism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), Table 12.3. Hagiographies likewise suggest that monastic and clerical clothing could have divine properties; see an example from the Life of Shenoute in Kraweic, “ ‘Garments of Salvation,’ ” 136. For clerical clothing in hagiographies, see Coon, Sacred Fictions, 69. Henry Maguire, “Garments Pleasing to God: the Significance of Domestic Textiles in the early Byzantine Period,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 44 (1990): 215–44. 1 Cor. 11:2–16; 1 Tim. 2:8–10; 1 Pet. 3:3–6; Batten, “Neither Gold nor Braided Hair.” Kristi Upson-Saia, Early Christian Dress: Gender, Virtue, and Authority (New York: Routledge, 2011), 33–58. Aideen Hartney, “Dedicated Followers of Fashion: John Chrysostom on Female Dress,” in Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World, 243–58. See Daniel-Hughes, The Salvation of the Flesh, 63–91. Hartney, Women’s Dress in the Ancient World, 248–9. For a discussion of Roman antiadornment rhetoric, see Maria Wyke, “Woman in the Mirror: The Rhetoric of Adornment in the Roman World,” in Women in Ancient Societies: an Illusion of Night, eds L. Archer, S. Fischler, and M. Wyke (New York: Routledge, 1994), 134–51; Batten, “ ‘Neither Gold nor Braided Hair’ ”; Daniel-Hughes, The Salvation of the Flesh, 83–91. Batten, “ ‘Neither Gold nor Braided Hair’ ”; Daniel-Hughes, The Salvation of the Flesh, 83–91. Clothing changes feature in sources about ascetic men as well, see Coon, Sacred Fictions, 66–70 and Kraweic, “Garments of Salvation.” E.g. Jer. Ep. 38.4, Ep. 128.2 =LCL 262 (ed. Wright), 164–5 and 468–9; V. Mel. 31; Kraweic, “Garments of Salvation,” 137. Coon, Sacred Fictions, 38–9; Upson-Saia, Early Christian Dress, 71–2. For discussions of hagiographies of “cross-dressing saints,” see Upson-Saia, Early Christian Dress, 84–103. Upson-Saia, Early Christian Dress, 73. David Hunter, “Clerical Celibacy and the Veiling of Virgins,” in The Limits of Ancient Christianity: Essays on Late Antique Thought and Culture in Honor of R.A. Markus, eds

186

125. 126. 127. 128. 129. 130. 131. 132. 133. 134.

135. 136.

NOTES

W.E. Klingshirn and M. Vessey (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1999), 139– 52; Upson-Saia, Early Christian Dress, 53. Bartholeyns, Vêtements Antiques, 128. Canons 22 and 23. Coon, Sacred Fictions, 61. Elliott, Medieval Fabrications. Coon, Sacred Fictions, 62. Herbert Norris, Church Vestments: Their Origin and Development (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1950), 180–1. Norris, Church Vestments, 9. Ibid, 61–2. Adam Serfass, “Unravelling the Pallium Dispute between Gregory the Great and John of Ravenna,” in Dressing Judeans and Christians, 83. The prophet Elijah’s gift of his cloak to Elisha also figured into the symbolism (2 Kg 2:13– 18), see Serfass, Dressing Judeans and Christians, 80, and had already informed monastic stories of succession, see Kraweic, “Garments of Salvation,” 136. Jer. In Ezech. 43.14 and 44.19; Norris, Church Vestments, 17. Coon, Sacred Fictions, 38.

5 Gender and Sexuality 1. 2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

Lawrence Langner, The Importance of Wearing Clothes (London: Constable Books, 1959), 51. The various ways of draping the toga in the imperial period could be seen as an exception to this general trend, but the pattern of drapery folds created by the toga was always visually quite distinct from the various ways in which women draped their palla. See further, Kelly Olson, “Toga and Pallium. Status, Sexuality, Identity,” in Sex in Antiquity. Exploring Gender and Sexuality in the Ancient World, eds M. Masterson, Nancy Sorkin Rabinowitz, and James Robson (London: Routledge, 2015), 422–48. The term “peplos” is therefore more common and important in modern historical literature than it is in ancient sources. See Mireille Lee, “The Ancient Greek Peplos and the ‘Dorian Question,’ ” in Ancient Art and Its Historiography, eds A.A. Donohue and M.D. Fullerton (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 118–47. Cf. Fanny Dolansky, “Togam virile sumere: Coming of Age in the Roman World,” in Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture, eds Jonathan Edmondson and Alison Keith (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008), 47–70. For the significance of the adult toga see Glenys Davies, “What made the Roman toga virilis?” in The Clothed Body in the Ancient World, eds Liza Cleland et al. (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2005), 121–30. For girls wearing the toga see Judith Sebesta, “Symbolism in the Costume of the Roman Woman,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds Judith Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1994), 46–7; for illustrations in Roman art see Hans R. Goette, Studien zu römischen Togadarstellungen (Mainz: von Zabern, 1990), 80– 2,158–9, list N. See, for example, the complex innuendo made by Cicero about Mark Antony in Philippics 2.44: as soon as he assumed the toga virilis Antony made it a toga muliebris (the dress of a whore) until he was made an “honest woman” by Curio and swapped his whore’s toga for the matron’s stola. Sue Blundell, “Clutching at Clothes,” in Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World, ed. Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, 143–70; Mary Harlow, “Dressed Women on the Streets of the Ancient City: what to wear,” in Women and the Roman City in the Latin West, eds Emily Hemelrijk and Greg Woolf (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2013), 225–42.

NOTES

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8. See further Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, Aphrodite’s Tortoise, 94–110. 9. Sappho fr. 67. 10. Male attitudes to women’s adornment are explored by Maria Wyke, “Woman in the Mirror: the Rhetoric of Adornment in the RomanWorld,” in Women in Ancient Societies: An Illusion of the Night, eds Léonie J. Archer, Susan Fischler, and Maria Wyke (London: MacMillan, 1994), 134–51. 11. For Pandora see Judith Lynn Sebesta, “Visions of Gleaming Textiles and a Clay Core: Textiles, Greek Women and Pandora,” in Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World, 125–42. For the pomegranate motif in jewelry see Dyffri Williams and Jack Ogden, Greek Gold: Jewellery of the Classical World (London: British Museum Press, 1995). 12. See examples in Paul Roberts, Mummy Portraits from Roman Egypt (London: British Museum Press, 2008). 13. See Françoise Frontisi-Ducroux and François Lissarrague, “From Ambiguity to Ambivalence: A Dionysiac Excursion Through the ‘Anakreontic’ Vases,” in David M. Halperin, John J. Winkler, and Froma Zeitlin (eds), Before Sexuality. The Construction of the Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 211–56. 14. Cicero de haruspicum responsis (on the replies of the haruspices), 43–4; see Julia Heskel, “Cicero as Evidence for Attitudes to Dress in the Late Republic,” in The World of Roman Costume, 139–40. Cf. Plutarch Life of Caesar, 9–10. 15. Aristophanes, Women at the Thesmophoria 138, 253; Frogs 46. 16. Plutarch, Life of Antony 26. 17. The range of meaning of the Latin terms effeminatus and mollis is not identical to the sense of the modern terms effeminate or camp. Such characteristics were typical of the cinaedus, who was seen as a man whose sexuality was improper, but who was not “homosexual” in the modern sense: see Craig A. Williams, Roman Homosexuality. Ideologies of Masculinity in Classical Antiquity (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), esp. 142–3. For effeminate dress as the target of political invective see Anthony Corbeill, Controlling Laughter. Political Humor in the late Roman Republic (Princeton University Press, Princeton, 1996), 159–65 and 194–5. 18. Antony Corbeill, Nature Embodied. Gesture in Ancient Rome (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004), 133–7; see also Antony Corbeill, “Dining Deviants in Roman Political Invective,” in Roman Sexualities, eds Judith P. Hallett and Marilyn B. Skinner (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), 118–23. 19. Suetonius, Caligula 25. 20. Lynn E. Roller, “The Ideology of the Eunuch Priest,” in Gender and the Body in the Ancient Mediterranean, ed. Maria Wyke (Oxford: Blackwell, 1998), 118–35. See Chapter 4 in this volume. 21. See Llewellyn-Jones, Aphrodite’s Tortoise, 2003. On Spartan women Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, “Veiling the Spartan Woman,” in Dress and Identity, ed. M. Harlow (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2012), 19–38. 22. The much-quoted anecdote cited by Valerius Maximus (6.3.10) about C. Sulpicius Gallus, the consul of 166 BC , who allegedly divorced his wife for leaving the house with her head uncovered, should not be taken at face value, but may suggest that this was still seen as the ideal at the beginning of the imperial period. 23. Plutarch Moralia 142C 31. 24. C. Chafiq and F. Khosrokhavar, Femmes sous le voile. Face à la loi islamique (Paris: Editions du Félin 1995), 145–55. 25. See in particular Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, Aphrodite’s Tortoise. 26. Lawrence Langner, The Importance of Wearing Clothes, 76. 27. Hans van Wees, “Greeks Bearing Arms: the State, the Leisure Class, and the Display of Wealth in Archaic Greece,” in Archaic Greece: New Approaches and New Evidence, eds N. Fisher and H. van Wees, (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 1998), 347.

188

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28. See further discussion in James Robson, Sex and Sexuality in Classical Athens (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2013), 116–44. 29. Transparent clothing as worn by matrons is mentioned (as a bad thing, to be avoided) by Seneca the Elder, Controversiae (Debates) 2.5.7 and 7.2.4, and by Seneca the Younger in de consolatione ad Helviam 16.4; the same author also refers to see-through togas (in the context of Maecenas’ dress style) in Epistles 114.21. Propertius (4.2.23) and Horace (Satire 1.2.141–2) both suggest it was a style of dress worn by women of low repute, although the elegiac poets in general appreciated its sensual qualities. See Kelly Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, Self-presentation and Society (London and New York: Routledge, 2008), 14. 30. See especially J-P.Thuillier, “La nudité athlétique”, Nikephoros 1, (1988): 29–48. 31. Plut. Cato 20.8. 32. Christopher H. Hallett, The Roman Nude. Heroic Portrait Statuary 200 BC–AD 300 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), for the female portrait statues see 190 and 221–2. 33. See generally, Aileen Ribeiro, Dress and Morality (London: Batsford, 1986). 34. See Llewellyn-Jones, Aphrodite’s Tortoise, 2003. 35. Alison Lurie, The Language of Clothes (London: Heinemann, 1981), 212. See further, Faegheh Shirazi, The Veil Unveiled. The Hijab in Modern Culture (Tallahassee: University Press of Florida, 2001), 56–7. 36. John Carl Flügel, The Psychology of Clothes (London: Hogarth, 1930). For a further discussion of his theory of the shifting erogenous zone in the context of Greek art and dress see Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, “Sexy Athena: The dress and erotic representation of a virgin war-goddess,” in Athena in the Classical World, eds S. Deacy and A. Villing (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 233–57 and Aphrodite’s Tortoise, 283–98. 37. Jacques Lacan, Ecrits: A selection (trans. A. Sheridan), (London: Tavistock Publications, 1977), 314. 38. For dress and the korai see Mary Stieber, The Poetics of Appearance in the Attic Korai (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2005). 39. The possibilities were explored especially by Hellenistic sculptors. A good example of drapery used to tease by partially covering the statue is the Aphrodite Kallipygos, who hold a large drape behind her, covering one buttock, while turning round to look over her shoulder at the other one. 40. This is implied by the criticism expressed by Cicero (against Verres 5.137) of Verres’ behavior in front of his son, who was still wearing the toga praetexta: the purple band on the toga should have acted as a protection against obscenity and sexual behavior. For further discussion see Heskel, “Cicero as Evidence,” 135; Kelly Olson, “The Appearance of the Young Roman Girl,” in Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture, eds Jonathan Edmondson and Alison Keith, 141–2; see also Sebesta “Symbolism in the Costume of the Roman Woman,” 46–8. 41. For descriptions and interpretations of the symbolism of the Roman bride’s dress see Karen K. Hersch, The Roman Wedding. Ritual and Meaning in Antiquity (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 69–114; Laetitia La Follette, “The Costume of the Roman Bride,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds Judith Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante, 54–64; Olson, Dress of the Roman Woman, 21–5; Sebesta, “Symbolism,” 48, and Judith Lynn Sebesta, “Women’s Costume and Civic Morality in Augustan Rome,” in Gender and the Body in the Ancient Mediterranean, ed. M. Wyke, 110–11. 42. See Andrew Dalby, “Levels of Concealment: The Dress of Hetairai and Pornai in Greek Texts,” in Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World, ed. Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, 111–24. 43. Martial, 2.39, 6.64.4, 10.52; Juvenal, 2.68–70. 44. Cf. Jessica Dixon, “Dressing the adulteress,” in Greek and Roman Textiles and Dress, eds Mary Harlow and Marie-Louise Nosch (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2014), 298–305.

NOTES

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45. Horace, Satires 1.2. 95–104. 46. Tacitus Annals 13. 45.

6 Status 1. 2.

3. 4. 5.

6. 7. 8.

9.

10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

Liza Cleland, G. Davies, and L. Llewellyn-Jones, Greek and Roman Dress from A–Z (London and New York: Routledge, 2007), 179. A. Batten, “Clothing and Adornment,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 40 (2010): 148; Maria Parani, “Defining Personal Space: Dress and Accessories in Late Antiquity,” in Objects in Context, Objects in Use: Material Spatiality in Late Antiquity, eds L. Lavan, E. Swift, and T. Putzeys (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 497–529. On clothing in late Antiquity see Parani, “Defining Personal Space.” Cleland et al., Greek and Roman Dress, 181. Homer, Odyssey 19.241–2; Iliad 13.685; Hans Van Wees, “Clothes, Class and Gender in Homer,” in Body Language in the Greek and Roman Worlds, ed. Douglas Cairns (Swansea: The Classical Press of Wales, 2005), 2. Homer, Iliad 2.42–5, 8.221; Odyssey 3.467. Hans Van Wees, “Clothes, Class and Gender in Homer,” in Body Language in the Greek and Roman Worlds, 2, 22. Ibid., 9. On the form of the peplos, see now M. Lee, “Constru(ct)ing Gender in the Feminine Greek Peplos,” in The Clothed Body in the Ancient World, eds Liza Cleland, M. Harlow, and L. Llewellyn-Jones (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2005), 55–64; and “The Peplos and the ‘Dorian Question,’ ” in Ancient Art and its Historiography, eds A.A. Donohue and M. Fullerton (Cambridge, UK : Cambridge University Press, 2003), 118–47. White: Iliad, 3.141; saffron: Iliad, 19.1; purple: Iliad, 24.796; black: Homeric Hymn 2.182– 3; decorated: Iliad, 3.125–28, 6.289, 6.294; multi-colored: Iliad, 5.735, Odyssey, 18.293. There is some scholarly debate as to whether such patterning was embroidered, see E. Abrahams, Greek Dress (London: Murray, 1908), 38, 89, 100, 102–3; or woven in: A.J.B. Wace, “Weaving or Embroidery?” AJA 48 (1948): 51–5; see most recently Kerstin DroßKrüpe and Annette Paetz gen. Schieck, “Unravelling the Tangled Threads of Ancient Embroidery: a compilation of written sources and archaeologically preserved textiles,” in Greek and Roman Textiles and Dress, An Interdisciplinary Anthology, eds M. Harlow and M.-L. Nosch (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2014), 207–35. See also Elizabeth J.W. Barber, Prehistoric Textiles: The Development of Cloth in the Neolithic and Bronze Ages (Princeton, NJ : Princeton University Press, 1991), 372–83. Odyssey, 18.292–4. Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, Aphrodite’s Tortoise: the Veiled Woman of Ancient Greece (Swansea, Wales: The Classical Press of Wales, 2003), 136. Amphipoloi; Ibid., 126. Ibid., 138. Iliad 18.401; Odyssey 18.297–8; Hesiod Opera. 74–5; van Wees, “Clothes, Class and Gender,” 12. Odyssey, 15.106–8; Iliad 6.293–5, in chests 2.339; van Wees, “Clothes, Class and Gender,” 13–14. Thucydides, 1.6.3–5; Heracleides Pontus; Müller, FGH ii. 200. H. Mills, “Greek Clothing Regulations: Sacred and Profane,” ZPE 55 (1984), 265 n. 39. Llewellyn-Jones, Aphrodite’s Tortoise, 138–9. A.G. Geddes, “Rags and Riches: the Costume of Athenian Men in the Fifth Century,” CQ 37.2 (1987): 307–31. Ar. Thesm. 136ff, Ach. 117–21; Plato Hipp. Ma. 294a, 291a. M. Miller, Athens and Persia in the Fifth Century BC A Study in Cultural Receptivity (Cambridge, UK : Cambridge University Press, 1997), 155.

190

NOTES

22. Ibid., 180. 23. Beth Cohen, “Ethnic Identity in Democratic Athens and the Visual Vocabulary of Male Costume,” in Ancient Perceptions of Greek Ethnicity, ed. Irad Malkin (Washington, DC : Center for Hellenic Studies, 2001), 251. 24. Ps-Xenophon, Ath. Pol. 2.8. 25. Miller, Athens and Persia, 176; and M. Miller, “The Ependytes in Classical Athens,” Hesperia 58.3 (1989), 313–29. 26. Miller, Athens and Persia, 179. The garment may have been also known as the chito ¯niskos. 27. Cohen, “Ethnic Identity,” 247. 28. Geddes, “Rags and Riches,” 314–15. 29. Cf. Ar. Wasps 474–6, Plato Prot. 342; Demos. 54.34; Geddes, “Rags and Riches,” 309. See also Chapter 9 in this volume. 30. See Dem. 48.55. See also Dem. 59.35, 46; Xen. Mem. 3.11.15. 31. Lee, “Constru(ct)ing Gender,” 56. 32. Ibid., 56. See here for problems in identifying different types of garments, chronological changes in Greek women’s dress, and caveats of the ancient evidence. 33. Cf. Aristoph. Lys. 229, Th. 734, Clouds 149ff; Miller, Athens and Persia, 154. 34. Ibid., 158–9, 160–61, 168, 176, 177–9. 35. Ibid., 179; see L. Cleland, “The Semiosis of Description: Some Reflections on Fabric and Colour in the Brauron Inventories,” in The Clothed Body, 91–3. 36. Cleland et al., Greek and Roman Dress, 36. 37. Llewellyn-Jones, Aphrodite’s Tortoise,” 139. 38. Plut. Solon, 21.4; 20.4. 39. L. Kurke, “The Politics of ἁβϱοσύνη in Archaic Greece,” Classical Antiquity 11 (1992), 93–6. 40. Mills, “Greek Clothing Regulations,” 264. Thus for example, at Pergamon, the worshipper had to wear white clothing, but could not have a ring, belt, any gold, shoes, or braided hair (see here 258, with references). 41. Homer, Odyssey 6.25–30, 57–65. 42. Cf. Homer, Odyssey, 13.434–5; van Wees, “Clothes, Class and Gender,” 13; S. Milanezi, “On Rhakos in Aristophanic Theatre,” in The Clothed Body, 75. 43. S. Lewis, The Athenian Woman: An Iconographic Handbook (London and New York: Routledge, 2002), 79; J. Reilly, “Many Brides: ‘Mistress and Maid’ on Athenian Lekythoi,” Hesperia 58 (1989), 411–44; see Chapter 9 in this volume. 44. See Xen. Hel. 5.4.4–6 where the slaves of the “courtesans” are veiled as well; LlewellynJones, Aphrodite’s Tortoise, 142–3. See also Chapter 5 in this volume. 45. Ath. Pol. 1.10. 46. On Etruscan clothing, see L. Bonfante-Warren, “Roman Costumes: a Glossary and Some Etruscan Derivations,” ANRW 1.4 (1973): 584–614; L. Bonfante, Etruscan Dress, 2nd ed. (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003). 47. Diod. Sic. 5.40. 48. Bonfante, Etruscan Dress, 89 and 90–2. 49. Cleland et al., Greek and Roman Dress, 62; Bonfante, Etruscan Dress, 13. 50. Bonfante, Etruscan Dress, 11, 14, 16; Cleland et al., Greek and Roman Dress, 62. 51. Bonfante, Etruscan Dress, 59. Cf. Crat. Fr. 131. 52. Bonfante, Etruscan Dress, 90. 53. See Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman; and Kelly Olson, “Masculinity, Appearance, and Sexuality: Dandies in Roman Antiquity,” The Journal of the History of Sexuality 23.2 (2014): 182–205. 54. Ovid, Ars 1.505–24; on ancient wool, see Barber, Prehistoric Textiles, 20–30; R.J. Forbes, Studies in Ancient Technology, vol. IV , 2nd ed. (Leiden: Brill), 2–26. 55. On silk togas see Pliny, Nat. 11.78; Juv. 2.78; on gausapa: Pliny, Nat. 8.193.

NOTES

191

56. Hero Granger-Taylor, “The Emperor’s Clothes: the Fold-Lines,” Bulletin of the Cleveland Museum of Art 74.3 (1987): 117. See also Hero Granger-Taylor, “A Fragmentary Roman Cloak Probably of the 1st c. CE and Off Cuts from Other Semi-Circular Cloaks,” Archaeological Textiles Newsletter 46 (2008): 7–8. 57. For evidence of dyed textiles in archaeology, see Lise Bender Jørgensen, “Clavi and NonClavi: Definitions of Various Bands on Roman Textiles,” in Purpureae Vestes III: Textiles y tintes en la ciudad Antigua, eds C. Alfaro et al. (Valencia: Univ. of València: 2010), 75–81; Ulla Mannering, “Roman Garments from Mons Claudianus,” in Archéologie des textiles des origins au Ve siècle. Actes du colloque de Lattes, octobre 1999, eds D. Cardon and M. Feugere (Monogr. Instrumentum 14, Montagnac: Monique Mergoil, 2000), 283–90; G.W. Taylor, “Detection and Identification of Dyes on Pre-Hadrianic Textiles from Vindolanda,” Textile History 2 (1983): 115–24. 58. The color purple as a symbol of status and rank in antiquity has been admirably and thoroughly treated in English by M. Reinhold, History of Purple as a Status Symbol in Antiquity (Brussels: Coll. Latomus 116, 1970). For more recent work see: L. Bessone, “La porpora a Roma,” in La Porpora: realtà e immaginario di un colore simbolico, ed. O. Longo (Venice: Instituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 1998), 149–202; and J. Napoli, “Ars purpuraire et législation a l’époque Romaine,” in Purpureae Vestes: Actas del I Symposium Internacional sobre Textiles y Tintes del Mediterráneo en época romana, eds Carmen Alfaro, J.P. Wild, and B. Costa (Valencia: University of Valencia, 2004), 123–36. 59. There is a solid bibliography on purple dyeing in Antiquity: e.g., Bessone, “La Porpora”; J. Bridgeman, “Purple Dye in Late Antiquity and Byzantium,” in The Royal Purple and the Biblical Blue: Argaman and Tekhelet, ed. E. Spanier (Jerusalem: Keter Publishing House, 1987), 159–65; Cardon et al., “Who Could Wear True Purple”; O. Longo, “La zoologia delle porpore nell’antichità Greco-Romana,” in La Porpora: realtà e immaginario di un colore simbolico, ed. O. Longo (Venice: Instituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 1998), 79–90. 60. Pliny Nat. 21.45–7. 61. Mark Bradley, Colour and Meaning in Ancient Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 199. 62. On puniceus, see J. André, Étude sur les termes de couleur dans la langue latine (Paris: Librairie C. Klincksieck, 1949), 88–90. 63. Pliny Nat. 9.140–1. 64. Alexandra Croom, Running the Roman Home (Stroud: The History Press, 2011), 108; Mark Bradley, “It All Comes Out In The Wash: Looking Harder at the Roman Fullonica,” JRA 15 (2002): 29. 65. Cf. Cic. Att. 2.3.1; Pers. 1.15–16; Mart. 14.145; on care of white clothing see Bradley, “It All Comes Out In The Wash.” 66. On its color see Mart. 5.79, 2.46; as costume for the Saturnalia see Stat. Silv. 4.9; Mart. 6.24.1–2; T. J. Leary, Martial Book XIV: The Apophoreta (London: Duckworth, 1996), 3, 51, 205. 67. On the pallium see Olson 2014b, with references. 68. Croom 2011, 110; Granger-Taylor 1987, 122. 69. On clothes-chests see for example Cat. 25; John Peter Wild “Tunic No. 4219: an Archaeological and Historical Perspective,” Riggisberger Berichte 2 91994): 29. On clothespresses, see now Flohr 2013, 145–8, 162–3, with references. 70. Croom, Running the Roman Home, 102; Bradley, “It All Comes Out In The Wash,” 36; see ibid., 31–2 on urine as both cleansing and polluting. 71. See now M. Flohr, The World of the Fullo: Work, Economy, and Society in Roman Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 117–18. 72. Bradley, “It All Comes Out In The Wash,” 36. Recent excavations in Barcelona suggest Roman fulleries used lavender and possibly other perfumes in the rinsing process: see J. Juan-

192

73. 74.

75. 76. 77. 78.

79. 80.

81. 82. 83. 84.

85. 86. 87.

88. 89.

90.

91. 92.

93. 94.

95. 96.

NOTES

Tresseras, “El uso de plantas para el lavado y teñido de tejidos en época romana. Análisis de residuos de la fullonica y la tinctoria de Barcino,” Complutum 11 (2000): 245–52. Bradley, “It All Comes Out In The Wash,” 29. Epid. 230–235. See Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 11–12, with references. On female clothing, see for example Alexandra T. Croom, Roman Clothing and Fashion (Stroud: Tempus, 2000/2002), 75–118; Kelly Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman: Self-presentation and Society (London and New York: Routledge, 2008); B. Scholtz, Untersuchungen zur Tracht der römischen Matrona (Köln: Böhlau, 1992). Ars 3.169–192. See Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 11–12, with references. Petr. Satyr. 131. Cf. e.g., Pl. Most. 289; Suetonius, Julius Caesar, 43. Cic. Hars. 44; see also Var. L. 7.53; on yellow as a female color, see Judith L. Sebesta, “Tunica Ralla, Tunica Spissa: the Colors and Textiles of Roman Costume,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds J.L. Sebesta and L. Bonfante (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1994), 65–76. Prop. 4.2.23. On transparency see Pliny Nat. 11.76; Mary Harlow, “Clothes Maketh the Man: Power Dressing and Elite Masculinity in the Later Roman World,” in Gender in the Early Medieval World: East and West, 300–900, eds L. Brubaker and J.M.H. Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 212. On the palla, see Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 33–6, with references. E.g., Sen. Con. 2.7.6. Val. Max. 5.2.1; Croom, Roman Clothing, 89. On the stola, see Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 27–33; Scholz, Untersuchungen zur Tracht, 13–93; Judith Sebesta, “Women’s Costume and Feminine Civic Morality in Augustan Rome,” Gender and History 9.3 (1997): 531, 535–7. Pliny Nat. 37.197–200. See Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 80–95. On sumptuary legislation in Roman Antiquity, see M. Dauster, “Roman Republican Sumptuary Legislation,” Studies in Latin Literature and Roman History 11 (2003): 65–93; E. Zandam (2011), Fighting Hydra-Like Luxury: Sumptuary Legislation in the Roman Republic. (London: Bristol Classical Press, 2011), esp. 1–71. Zanda, Fighting Hydra-Like Luxury, 18–24, 52, 55–8, 128. On legislation against the use of purple in Roman Antiquity, see Bessone, “La porpora,” 157–67, 181, 187, 190; Napoli, “Ars purpuraire,” Reinhold, History of Purple, 39–41, 45– 6, 49–50, 58, 63, 65–68. Cf. on controlling purple: Suet. Calig. 35; Nero 32; on silk: ne vestis serica viros foedaret; Tac. Ann. 2.33. Legislation on male clothing: D. Dalla, Ubi Venus mutatur: Omosessualita e diritto nel mondo Romano (Milan: A. Giuffrè, 1987), 18–23. Suet. Calig. 52. Livy 34.1–8; P. Culham, “The Lex Oppia,” Latomus 41.4 (1982): 793; E. Hemelrijk, “Women’s Demonstrations in Republican Rome,” in Sexual Asymmetry: Studies in Ancient Society, eds J. Blok and P. Mason (Amsterdam: J.C. Gieben, 1987), 220–1; contra E. Zanda, Fighting Hydra-Like Luxury, 114–17. See also Chapter 9 in this volume. J. V. Emberley, The Cultural Politics of Fur (Montreal: McGill-Queens University Press, 1997), 45. On slave clothing, see Keith R. Bradley, Slavery and Society at Rome (Cambridge, UK : Cambridge University Press, 1994), 95–9, with references; and Michele George, “Slave Disguise in Ancient Rome,” Slavery & Abolition 23 (2002): 41–54. Bradley, Slavery and Society, 95–9; Pl. Am. 343. Cf. Diod. Sicl. 34/35.2.38; Apul. Met. 9.12.

NOTES

97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111. 112. 113. 114. 115. 116.

193

Pl. As. 497; Cic. Pis. 67. See Bradley, Slavery and Society, 87–8. CIL 6.8956; CIL 6. 33426. Pl. Truc. 270–4, St. 745, Mil. 989. Short tunics, togas: Pl. Rud. 549; Mart. 4.66; threadbare clothes: Mart. 2.46; riddled with holes: Mart. 2.43; shabby cloaks: Mart. 2.43; broken shoes: Mart. 12.29. Hor. Epp. 1.1.95–96. On the subucula, see Kelly Olson, “Roman Underwear Revisited,” Classical World 96.2 (2003): 209. Var. Cato vel de liberis educandis [19] (Non. 155L); Mart. 4.66. Croom, Roman Clothing, 80; shorter tunics used less cloth. Pliny Nat. 33.152 and 35.48; Juv. 6.589. See Kelly Olson, “Insignia Lugentium: Female Mourning Garments in Roman Antiquity,” American Journal of Ancient History 3–4 (2004–5): 110–15. Prasinus: André, Étude sur les termes, 192; cerasinus: ibid., 118. Galbinus and effeminacy: Mart. 3.82.26; Juv. 2.97. Russus: Petr. Satyr. 27; André, Étude sur les termes, 83–4; venetus: ibid., 181–2 and Juv. 3.170. Sebesta, “Tunica ralla,” 70–1. Harlow, “Clothes Maketh the Man,” 51, 54; short leggings were associated with men of lower status: Parani, “Defining Personal Space,” 518. Parani, “Defining Personal Space,” 500. Parani, “Defining Personal Space,” 514–15, 517. SHA Comm. 8.8; Dio 72.17.2. Parani, “Defining Personal Space,” 515–17. Parani, “Defining Personal Space,” 520. Adornment as disrespect for God’s handiwork, indicator of an un-Christian worldliness and vanity: Jerome, Ep. 107.5; elaborate calcei and socci: Jerome Epp. 38.4, 54.7, 79.7; elaborate hairstyles: Epp. 130.7, 130.18; and slaves dressed in finery to augment the status of the mistress: Epp. 54.13, 130.18. See also Chapters 4 and 9 in this volume.

7 Ethnicity 1.

2. 3.

4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines ethnicity as the “Status in respect of membership of a group regarded as ultimately of common descent, or having a common national or cultural tradition; ethnic character.” Cf. Alison Lurie, The Language of Clothes (London: Bloomsbury, 1992); Roland Barthes, The Language of Fashion (Oxford/NY : Berg, 2006) esp. “Language and Clothing,” 21–32. See Ursula Rothe, “Chapter 35: Ethnicity in the Roman North-West,” in Blackwell Companion to Ethnicity in the Ancient Mediterranean, ed. Jeremy McInerney (Malden, MA and Oxford: Blackwell, 2014), 497–513. Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, Rome’s Cultural Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 41. Xenophon, Anabasis 5.4.13; Memorabilia 2.7.5; Aristophanes, Birds 946; Euripides, Andromache 592–604. Thomas F. Scanlon, Eros and Greek Athletics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 108–9. Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, “Veiling the Spartan woman,” in Dress and Identity, ed. Mary Harlow (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2012), 17–35. François Hartog, The Mirror of Herodotus: The Representation of the Other in the Writing of History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988). Wulf Raeck, Zum Barbarenbild in der Kunst Athens im 6. und 5. Jh. v. Chr (Bonn: Habelt, 1981).

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10. Alireza Shapour Shahbazi, “New Aspects of Persepolitan Studies,” Gymnasium 85 (1978): 498–9; Willem Vogelsang, The Rise and Organisation of the Achaemenid Empire: The Eastern Iranian Evidence (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 174; Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, King and Court in Ancient Persia (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2013), 62. 11. Margarita Gleba, “You are what you wear: Scythian costume as identity,” in Dressing the Past, eds Margarita Gleba, Cherine Munkholt, and Marie-Louise Nosch (Oxford: Oxbow, 2008), 13–28. 12. See, for example, Margarita Gleba, “You are what you wear: Scythian costume as identity,” in Dressing the Past, 15, Figure 2.1. 13. Margarita Gleba, “You are what you wear: Scythian costume as identity,” in Dressing the Past, 22. 14. Iain Ferris, Enemies of Rome: Barbarians Through Roman Eyes (Stroud: The History Press, 2003). 15. Tacitus, Annals 11.24. Trans. J. Jackson. 16. See, for example, Larissa Bonfante, Etruscan Dress (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003), 48–51 and textiles finds from Verucchio: Annemarie Stauffer and Lise Raeder-Knudsen, “Kleidung als Botschaft: Die Mäntel aus den vorrömischen Fürstengräbern von Verucchio,” in Die Macht der Toga. Dresscode im römischen Weltreich, eds Michael Tellenbach, Regine Schulz and Alfried Wieczorek (Regensburg: Schnell und Steiner, 2013), 69–71; Friedrich Wilhelm von Hase, “Zur Kleidung im frühen Etrurien,” in Die Macht der Toga, 72–9. 17. Servius, In Aeneadem 1.282; Aulus Gellius, Noctes Atticae 6.12; Livy 8.13; Pliny, Naturalis Historia 34.23. 18. Virgil, Aeneid 1.282. 19. Cf. Tertullian De pallio, esp. 5.1–5.2; Juvenal 3.171. 20. See most recently Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, Rome’s Cultural Revolution. 21. Cf. Ovid, Ars Amatoria 1.31–32; Festus 112.26L; Martial 1.35.8–9; 10.5.1; Birgit Scholz, Untersuchungen zur Tracht der römischen matrona (Cologne: Böhlau, 1992); Kelly Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman (London: Routledge, 2008), 31–3; Alexandra Croom, Roman Clothing and Fashion (Stroud/Charleston: Tempus, 2002), 76. See also Chapter 8 this volume. 22. Ursula Rothe, “Dress in the middle Danube provinces: the garments, their origins and their distribution,” Jahreshefte des Österreichischen Archäologischen Instituts 81 (2012): 137–231: 175 figure 23. 23. Cicero, In Verrem 2.4.54–55; 2.5.31; 2.5. See chapter 9 in this volume. 24. SHA Septimius Severus 1.7. 25. Fanny Dolansky, “Togam virilem sumere: Coming of Age in the Roman World,” in Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture, eds Jonathan Edmondson and Alison Keith (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008), 47–70 for a thorough discussion of the ceremony and its significance. 26. Suetonius, Claudius 15.2. 27. Ubian area: Ursula Rothe, Dress and Cultural Identity in the Rhine-Moselle Region of the Roman Empire (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2009), cat. no. U20, U55; Mediomatricorum: Yasmine Freigang, “Die Grabmäler der gallo-römischen Kultur im Moselland. Studien zur Selbstdarstellung einer Gesellschaft,” Jahrbuch des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums 44, no. 1 (1997): 277–440: cat. no. Med 167, 173, 189, 192, 198. 28. Ursula Rothe, Dress and Cultural Identity in the Rhine-Moselle Region, 131–2 and plate XII ; Jacques Mersch, La Colonne d’Igel. Das Denkmal von Igel (Luxembourg: Les Imprimeries Centrales, 1985). 29. Ursula Rothe, Dress and Cultural Identity in the Rhine-Moselle Region 49–53. 30. E.g. Bernard Goldman, “Graeco-Roman dress in Syro-Mesopotamia,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds Judith Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1994), 163–81: 172 Figures 10.10 and 10.11.

NOTES

195

31. Ursula Rothe, “Dress in the middle Danube provinces: the garments, their origins and their distribution,” 158–71. 32. Eduard Freiherr von Sacken, Das Grabfeld von Hallstatt in Oberösterreich und dessen Alterthümer (Vienna: Wilhelm Braumüller, 1868), 58–67 and plates 2–3. 33. See Ursula Rothe, “Dress in the middle Danube provinces: the garments, their origins and their distribution,” 178–9 for a more detailed discussion of the origins of this ensemble. 34. Ursula Rothe, “Dress in the middle Danube provinces: the garments, their origins and their distribution,” for this and what follows below. ˇechy a podunajské provincie 35. For ethnic groupings in northern Pannonia see Vladimír Sakaˇr, “C Rímské Ríše. Bohemia and the Danubian provinces of the Roman Empire,” Sborník Národního muzea vv Praze, ˇrada A 45 (1991): 1–66; Magdolna Kiss, “Zum Problem der barbarischen Ansiedlungen in Pannonien,” Specimina Nova 9 (1993): 185–200; Dénes Gabler, “Die Siedlungen der Urbevölkerung Unterpannoniens in der frührömischen Zeit,” in Kelten, Germanen, Römer im Mitteldonaugebiet vom Ausklang der La Tene-Zivilisation bis zum 2.Jh., eds Jaroslav Tejral, Karol Pieta, and Ján Rajtár (Brno-Nitra: Archäologisches Institut der Akademie der Wissenschaften, Tschechische Republik, 1995), 63–81; Jenö Fitz, “Zur vorrömischen Geschichte der späteren Pannonien,” Alba Regia 27 (1998): 7–9. 36. See, for example, Maya Nadig, Die verborgene Kultur der Frau: Ethnopsychoanalytische Gespräche mit Bäuerinnen in Mexiko. Subjektivität und Gesellschaft im Alltag von OtomiFrauen (Frankfurt: Fischer, 1986); Deborah James, “‘I Dress in This Fashion’: Transformations in Sotho Dress and Women’s Lives in a Sekhukhuneland Village, South Africa,” in Clothing and Difference: Embodied Identities in Colonial and Post-Colonial Africa, ed. Hildi Hendrickson (Durham, NC , and London: Duke University Press, 1996), 34–65; Emma Tarlo, Clothing Matters: Dress and Identity in India (Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1996). 37. E.g. CIL III 10481; AE 1969/70, 493; 1986, 0598; 1999, 1251; 2003, 1416, 1418–1423. For a similar continuation in religious structures see Peter Scherrer, “Die Ausprägung lokaler Identität in den Städten in Noricum und Pannonien. Eine Fallstudie anhand der CivitasKulte,” in Lokale Identitäten in Randgebieten des Römischen Reiches, ed. Andreas SchmidtColinet (Vienna: Phoibos, 2004), 175–87. 38. In the second century AD Pannonia was home to four legionary camps and a whole string of auxiliary camps along its Danube frontier, most of them foreign units originally recruited elsewhere: Krzysztof Królczyk, Veteranen in den Donauprovinzen des Römischen Reiches (1.–3. Jahrhundert) (Poznan: Wydawnictwo Poznan ´skie, 2009); Barnabás Lo ˝rincz, “Westliche Hilfstruppen im Pannonischen Heer,” Annales Universitatis Scientiarum Budapestinensis, Sectio Historica 26 (1993): 75–86; Barnabás Lo ˝rincz, Die römischen Hilfstruppen in Pannonien während der Prinzipatszeit. 1. Die Inschriften (Vienna: Forschungsgesellschaft Wiener Stadtarchäologie, 2001). The epigraphy also shows, however, a large number of merchants from especially the eastern provinces in Pannonia in the second and third centuries: Radislav Hošek, “Die Orientalen in Pannonien,” Anodos 1 (2001): 103–7; Zoltan Kadar, Die kleinasiatisch-syrischen Kulte zur Römerzeit in Ungarn (EPRO 2) (Leiden: Brill, 1962); Lajos Balla, “Les Syriens et le culte de luppiter Dolichenus dans la région du Danube,” Acta classica Universitatis scientiarum Debreceniensis 12 (1976): 61–8; Lajos Balla, “Syriens de Commagène en Pannonie orientale (à propos d’une inscription d’Intercisa),” Acta classica Universitatis scientiarum Debreceniensis 16 (1980): 69–71; Jenö Fitz, Les Syriens à Intercisa (Brussels: Latomus, 1972); Heikki Solin, “Juden und Syrer in der römischen Welt,” Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II , 29.2 (1983): 587–789. 39. Ursula Rothe, “Chapter 35: Ethnicity in the Roman Empire,” in Blackwell Companion to Ethnicity in the Ancient Mediterranean, 497–513. 40. Ubi Erat Lupa no. 16485; Landesmuseum Mainz Inv. No. S 146; CIL 13, 07067; AE 1995, 01170.

196

NOTES

41. E.g. Bordeaux: Espérandieu 2, 1123, 1124, 1128, 1194; Bourges: Espérandieu 2, 1449; SaintAmbroix-sur-Arnon: Espérandieu 9, 6993–7002, 7016, 7017; Lyon: Espérandieu 3, 1783; Langres: Espérandieu 4, 3280, 3483; Amiens: Espérandieu 5, 3945–49; Burgundy: Espérandieu 3, 1907, 1938 (Autun), 2122 (Meursault); Bourgogne: Espérandieu 4, 2787, 2803, 2804, 2834 (Sens), 3457, 3470, 3502, 3509 (Dijon). Germany: Espérandieu 9, 9663 (Nijmegen); Brigitta Galsterer and Hartmut Galsterer, Die römischen Steininschriften aus Köln (Cologne: Römisch-Germanisches Museum, 1975), no. 331 (Cologne); Espérandieu 8, 6288 (Bonn); Britain: Examples in John Peter Wild, “The clothing of Britannia, Gallia Belgica and Germania Inferior,” Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II .12.3 (1985): 362–423, 388 n. 98. 42. See, for example, Lothar Wierschowski, Die regionale Mobilität in Gallien nach den Inschriften des 1. bis 3. Jahrhunderts n. Chr. (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1995). 43. Ursula Rothe, “The ‘Third Way’: Treveran women’s dress and the ‘Gallic Ensemble’,” AJA 116(2) (2012): 235–52. 44. Andreas Schmidt-Colinet, “Palmyrenische Grabkunst als Ausdruck lokaler Identität(en): Fallbeispiele,” in Lokale Identitäten in Randgebieten des Römischen Reiches, ed. Andreas Schmidt-Colinet (Vienna: Phoibos, 2004), 189–98. 45. E.g. Bernard Goldman, “Graeco-Roman dress in Syro-Mesopotamia,” in The World of Roman Costume, 172 Figures 10.10 and 10.11. 46. Andreas Schmidt-Colinet, Annemarie Stauffer and Khaled al-As’ad, Die Textilien aus Palmyra. Neue und alte Funde (Mainz: P. von Zabern, 2000); Annemarie Stauffer, “Kleidung in Palmyra. Neue Fragen an alte Funde,” in Zeitreisen. Syrien—Palmyra—Rom. Festschrift für Andreas Schmidt-Colinet zum 65. Geburtstag, eds Beatrix Bastl, Verena Gassner, and Ulrike Muss (Vienna: Phoibos, 2010), 209–18; Annemarie Stauffer, “Dressing the dead in Palmyra in the second and third centuries AD ,” in Dressing the Dead in Classical Antiquity, eds Maureen Carroll and John Peter Wild (Stroud: Amberley, 2012), 89–98. 47. Annemarie Stauffer, “Dressing the dead in Palmyra in the second and third centuries AD ,” in Dressing the Dead in Classical Antiquity, 91 Table 1. 48. Annemarie Stauffer, “Dressing the dead in Palmyra in the second and third centuries AD ,” in Dressing the Dead in Classical Antiquity, 90. Cf. Bernard Goldman, “Graeco-Roman dress in Syro-Mesopotamia,” in The World of Roman Costume, 165. 49. Annemarie Stauffer, “Dressing the dead in Palmyra in the second and third centuries AD ,” in Dressing the Dead in Classical Antiquity. 50. Malcolm A.R. Colledge, The Art of Palmyra (Boulder: Westview Press, 1976), plate 44. 51. Malcolm A.R. Colledge, The Art of Palmyra, plate 41. 52. Inv. No. 02.29.1. 53. Frank Lepper and Sheppard Frere, Trajan’s Column (Gloucester: Sutton, 1988), plates LXXX and LXXXI section 289. 54. Bernard Goldman, “Graeco-Roman dress in Syro-Mesopotamia,” in The World of Roman Costume, 173–4; Annemarie Stauffer, “Dressing the dead in Palmyra in the second and third centuries AD ,” in Dressing the Dead in Classical Antiquity, 91–3. 55. Andreas Schmidt-Colinet, Annemarie Stauffer and Khaled al-As’ad, Die Textilien aus Palmyra. Neue und alte Funde, 46–7; Annemarie Stauffer, “Dressing the dead in Palmyra in the second and third centuries AD ,” in Dressing the Dead in Classical Antiquity, 90. 56. Bernard Goldman, “Graeco-Roman dress in Syro-Mesopotamia,” in The World of Roman Costume, 167; Annemarie Stauffer, “Dressing the dead in Palmyra in the second and third centuries AD ,” in Dressing the Dead in Classical Antiquity, 93 Figures 4 and 95.

8 Visual Representations 1.

For extensive studies on the kouros motif see G.M.A. Richter, Kourai: Archaic Youths. A Study of the Development of the Greek Kouros from the Late Seventh to the Early Fifth Century BC (London: Phaidon Press, 1960) and B.S. Ridgway, The Archaic Style in Greek

NOTES

2. 3.

4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

11. 12. 13.

14. 15.

16.

17. 18. 19.

20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

197

Sculpture (Princeton: University of Michigan Press, 1993). For more recent research see K. Karakasi, Archaic Korai (Los Angeles: Paul Getty Museum, 2003). Thuc. 1.6.3–5; See Chapters 3 and 9 this volume; A.G. Geddes, “Rags and Riches: the Costume of Athenian Men in the Fifth Century,” Classical Quarterly 37.2 (1987): 307. E.B. Harrison, “The Dress of the Archaic Greek Korai,” in New Perspectives in Early Greek Art, ed. D. Buitron-Oliver (Washington: National Gallery of Art, 1991), figs. 14–16; A.A. Donahue, “Interpreting Women in Archaic and Classical Greek Sculpture,” in A Companion to Women in the Ancient World, eds S.L. James and S. Dillon (London: Wiley & Blackwell, 2012), 174, fig. 12.3. Dillon 2010: 65; Lee 2010: 182. E.B. Harrison, “The Dress of the Archaic Greek Korai,” 227. E.B. Harrison, “The Dress of the Archaic Greek Korai,” figs.1–2. E.B. Harrison, “The Dress of the Archaic Greek Korai,” fig. 17. G.M.A. Richter, Korai: Archaic Greek Maidens. A Study of the Development of the Kore Type in Greek Sculpture (London: Phaidon Press. 1968), 39ff. Figs. 139–46. M. Lee, “Constru(ct)ing Gender in the Feminine Greek Peplos,” in The Clothed Body in the Ancient World, eds L. Cleland et al. (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2005), 55–64. M. Lee, “Dress and Adornment in Archaic and Classical Greece,” in A Companion to Women in the Ancient World, eds S.L. James and S. Dillon (London: Wiley & Blackwell, 2012), 182. M. Lee, “Constru(ct)ing Gender in the Feminine Greek Peplos,” 59–61. Anne Hollander, Seeing through Clothes (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1975 (1995)), 2ff. Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, “A women’s view? Dress, eroticism, and the ideal female body in Athenian art,” in Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World, ed. L. Llewellyn-Jones (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002), 177ff. S. Lewis, S. The Athenian Woman: An Iconographic Handbook (London & New York: Routledge, 2002). Karen Stears, “Dead Women’s Society. Constructing female gender in Classical Athenian funerary sculpture,” in Time, Tradition and Society in Greek Archaeology. Bridging the “Great Divide”, ed. N. Spivey (London & New York: Routledge, 2013), 119ff. Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, Aphrodite’s Tortoise: the Veiled Woman of Ancient Greece (Swansea, Wales: Classical Press of Wales, 2003); ibid. “Veiling the Spartan woman,” in Dress and Identity, ed. M. Harlow (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2012), 17–35. For discussions of veiling in this volume see Chapters 3, 4, 5, 6, 9. Lee, “Dress and Adornment in Archaic and Classical Greece,” 189. Larissa Bonfante, “Nudity as a Costume in Classical Art,” American Journal of Archaeology 93 (1989): 558; C. Havelock, The Aphrodite of Knidos and her Successors: A Historical Review of the Female Nude in Greek Art (Ann Arbor: Michigan University Press, 1995). A.G. Geddes, “Rags and Riches.” Larissa Bonfante, “Nudity as a Costume in Classical Art,” 543. See further Chapters 3 and 5 in this volume. Sue Blundell, Women in Ancient Greece (London: British Museum Press, 1995), 93. Larissa Bonfante, “Nudity as a Costume in Classical Art,” 544. See also Chapter 3 in this volume. C. Havelock, The Aphrodite of Knidos and her Successors. S. Lewis, The Athenian Woman, 101ff. S. Lewis, The Athenian Woman, 98–111, 142–9. See also Chapters 3 and 5 this volume. Max Hollein, V. Brinkmann, O. Primavesi (eds,), Circumlitio. The Polychromy of Antique and Medieval Sculpture (München: Hirmer, 2010). 2.11m high: The National Archaeological Museum in Athens.

198

NOTES

29. Vinzenz Brinkmann, Ulrike Koch-Brinkmann, and Heinrich Piening, “The Funerary Monument of Phrasikleia,” in Circumlitio. The Polychromy of Antique and Medieval Sculpture, eds M. Hollein, V. Brinkmann, O. Primavesi (München: Hirmer, 2010). 30. Inscriptiones Grecae I:3, 1261. 31. Lee, “Dress and Adornment in Archaic and Classical Greece,” 187. 32. Sheila Dillon, “Hellenistic Tanagra Figurines,” in A Companion to Women in the Ancient World, eds S.L. James and S. Dillon, 231–3. 33. Hans R. Goette, Studien zu römischen Togadarstellungen (Mainz: von Zabern, 1990), 4ff. 34. Lillian Wilson, The Roman Toga (Baltimore: John Hopkins Press, 1924) and The Clothing of the Ancient Romans (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1938); Hans R. Goette, Studien zu römischen Togadarstellungen; Glenys Davies, “What made the Roman toga virilis?” in The Clothed Body in the Ancient World, eds L. Cleland et al. (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2005), 121ff; Alexandra Croom, Roman Clothing and Fashion (Stroud/Charleston: Tempus, 2000 (2nd ed. 2010)), 44–50. 35. Paul Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1990), 162ff; Glenys Davies, “What made the Roman toga virilis?” 127. On the toga see also Chapters 3, 5, 6, 7, 9. 36. Shelley Stone, “The Toga: From National Costume to Ceremonial Costume,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds J. Sebesta and L. Bonfante (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1994 (2nd ed. 2001)); Caroline Vout, “The myth of the toga: Understanding the history of Roman dress,” Greece & Rome 43, (1996): 204–20; Glenys Davies, “What made the Roman toga virilis?” 37. Michele George, “A Roman funerary monument with a mother and a daughter,” in Childhood, Class and Kin in the Roman World, ed. S. Dixon (London: Routledge, 2001), 183–6. 38. On the clothes of lower status individuals see Chapter 6 in this volume. 39. Alexandra Croom, Roman Clothing and Fashion, 53–60. On cloaks see also Chapters 3, 5 and 6 this volume. 40. Lena Larsson Lovén, “Coniugal concordia: Marriage and Marital Ideals on Roman Funerary Monuments,” in Ancient Marriage in Myth and Reality, eds L. Larsson Lovén and A. Strömberg. (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2010); for the wedding dress see L. La Follette, “The Costume of the Roman Bride,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds J. Sebesta and L. Bonfante (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1994 (2nd ed. 2001)), 54–64; Karen Hersch, The Roman Wedding. Ritual and Meaning in Antiquity (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010), chapter 2. 41. Michele George, “A Roman funerary monument with a mother and a daughter,” 178. 42. Ibid, 180; Mary Harlow, “Dressing to please themselves: Clothing choices of Roman women,” in Dress and Identity, ed. M. Harlow (Oxford: BAR Int. Ser. 2356. 2012), 40. 43. Jane Fejfer, Roman Portraits in Context (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2008). 44. Kelly Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman. Self-presentation and Society (London: Routledge, 2008). 45. Glenys Davies, “What made the Roman toga virilis?” 121ff. 46. Alexandra Croom, Roman Clothing and Fashion, fig. 10. 47. S. Stone, “The Toga: From National Costume to Ceremonial Costume”; Mary Harlow, “Clothes Maketh the Man: Power Dressing and Elite Masculinity in the Later Roman World,” in Gender in the Early Medieval World: East and West, 300–900, eds L. Brubaker and J.M.H. Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University. Press, 2004), 44–69; Alexandra Croom, Roman Clothing and Fashion. 48. B. Scholz, B. Untersuchungen zur Tracht der römischen matrona (Cologne: Böhlau, 1992), 83, 104. 49. Mary Harlow, “Female Dress, Third–Sixth Century: The Message in the Media?” Antique Tardive 12 (2004): 205; Mary Harlow, “Dressing to please themselves,” 41. 50. Larissa Bonfante, “Nudity as a Costume in Classical Art”; Liza Cleland, M. Harlow, and L. Llewellyn-Jones (eds), The Clothed Body in the Ancient World (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2005).

NOTES

199

51. Diane Kleiner, “The Great Friezes of the Ara Pacis Augustae. Greek Sources, Roman derivatives, and Augustan social policy,” Mélanges de l’école française de Rome 90 (1978): 753–85; Paul Zanker, The Power of Images. 52. Paul Zanker, The Power of Images; Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, Rome’s Cultural Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). 53. For more details see B.F. Rose, “Princes and Barbarians on the Ara Pacis,” AJA 94 (1990): 453–67.

9 Literary Representations 1. 2. 3.

4. 5. 6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11. 12. 13.

14. 15. 16.

17.

Theocritus, Idyll 15. 34–38. I thank Graham Shipley for his translation (adapted from Anna Rist, The Poems of Theocritus. Chapel Hill: University of Carolina Press, 1978). Idyll 15. 18–20, 29, 33. Maria Wyke, “Woman in the mirror: the rhetoric of adornment in the Roman world,” in Women in Ancient Societies, eds Léonie Archer et al. (London: Routledge, 1994), 134–51. See also Chapter 5 in this volume. Cf. Claire Hughes, Dressed in Fiction (London: Berg, 2006), 2. Anne Buck, “Clothes in fact and fiction 1825–1865,” Costume 17 (1983): 89–90. On embroidery in Antiquity see: A.J.B. Wace, “Weaving or embroidery,” AJA 52 (1948): 51–5; Kerstin Droß-Krüpe and Annette Paetz gen. Schieck, “Unravelling the threads of ancient embroidery: a compilation of written sources and archaeologically preserved textiles,” in Greek and Roman Textiles and Dress, eds Mary Harlow and Marie-Louise Nosch (Oxford: Oxbow 2014), 207–35. Cf. Lisa Cleland et al. Greek and Roman Dress from A–Z (London: Routledge, 2007) s.v. ampechone, sagum. On the problems of visualizing textiles and garments from terminology see John Peter and Felicity Wild, “Berenike and textile trade on the Indian Ocean,” in Textile Trade and Distribution in Antiquity, ed. Kerstin Droß-Krüpe (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2014), 94–6. For the metaphorical and conceptual use of dress terminology see John Scheid and Jesper Svenbro, The Craft of Zeus. Myths of Weaving and Fabric (Cambridge, MA : Harvard University Press, 1996); and papers in Giovani Fanfani et al. (eds) Spinning the Fates and the Song of the Loom (Oxford: Oxbow, 2016). Vergil, Aeneid 1.282. See Shelley Stone, “The toga: from national to ceremonial costume,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds Judith Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1994), 38n.1 for references. The three translations consulted here were: Anna Rist, The Poems of Theocritus Theocritus (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1978); Robert Wells, The Idylls of Theocritus (Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1988); J.M. Edmonds The Greek Bucolic Poets (London & New York: Heinemann, 1923). See Chapter 7 in this volume. See further, Chapter 5 in this volume. Theophrastus, Characters, eds and trans. Jeffrey Rusten and I.C. Cunningham (Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge MA .: Harvard University Press, 2002): Boorishness, 4; Penny-pinching, 10; Squalor, 19; Chiseling, 30 Verr.5.13.31; 5.33.86; cf 4.86–-87. Verr. 4.54, 40. Pro C Rabiro Postumo 25–27. See Julia Heskel, “Cicero as evidence to attitudes to dress,” in The World of Roman Costume, 135. On bi-lingualism and code-switching see Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, Rome’s Cultural Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 63–4. Suetonius, Augustus 40.5.

200

NOTES

18. Suetonius, Gaius 52, cf. also 11, 19.2, 53 on Caligula’s proclivity for dressing up. Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 19.30 on Caligula wearing woman’s stola. 19. Suetonius, Nero 51. 20. See particularly SHA Macrinus 1.4–5; Gordianus 21; Elagabalus, 23; Gallienus 16. Mary Harlow, “Dress in the Historia Augusta: the role of dress in historical narrative,” in The Clothed Body in the Ancient World, eds L. Cleland et al. (Oxford: Oxbow. 2005), 143–53. Jean-Pierre Callu, L’habit et l’ordre sociale: le témoignage de l’Histoire Auguste, Antiquité Tardive 12 (2004): 187–94; Agnès Molinier-Arbo, “Imperium in virtute esse non in decore”: Le discours sur le costume dans l’Histoire Auguste,” in Costume et Société dans l’Antiquité et le haut Moyen Age, eds Francois Chausson and Hervé Inglebert (Paris: editions Picard, 2003), 67–84. 21. Iliad 3. 139–44, 173–80 in Douglas Cairns, “The meaning of the veil in ancient Greek culture,” in Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World, ed. L.J. Llewellyn-Jones (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2002), 74; Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, Aphrodite’s Tortoise: The Veiled Women of Ancient Greece (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2003), 155. 22. See Douglas Cairns, “Clothed in Shamelessness, Shrouded in Grief. The Role of ‘Garment’ Metaphors in Ancient Greek Concepts of Emotion,” in Spinning the Fates; ibid. “Vêtu d’Impudeur et envelope de Chagrin. Le role des metaphors de ’l’habillement’ dans les concepts d’emotion en Grèce ancienne,” in Vêtements Antiques: S’habiller, se déshabiller dans les mondes anciens, edited by Florence Gherchanoc and Valérie Huet (Arles: editions errance, 2012), 175–88. 23. Odyssey, 20 351. Cf. Cairns, “Clothed in Shamelessness.” 24. Odyssey, 15. 123–127. 25. Herodotus, 5.87–88. 26. Mireille Lee, “ ‘Evil wealth of raiment’: Deadly peploi in Greek Tragedy” Classical Journal 99.3 (2004): 253–79. 27. Judith Fletcher, “The curse as a garment in Greek tragedy” and Emmanuela Bakola, “Textile symbolism and the ‘wealth of the earth’: creation, production and destruction in the ‘tapestry scene’ of Aeschylus’ Oresteia (Ag. 905–78),” in Spinning Fates, eds G. Fanfani et al. (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2016). 28. J. Mansfield, The Robe of Athene and the Panathenaic Peplos (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985); Cecilie Brøns, Gods and Garments: Textiles in Greek Sanctuaries in the 7th–1st centuries BC (University of Copenhagen, PhD thesis, 2015). 29. Quintilian Instituto Oratoria 11.3.137–149. 30. Sinus: the folds in the front of the toga; balteus: rolled or gathered material that passed from right armpit to left shoulder; umbo U-shaped fold of cloth at the front of the toga, created by adjusting gathering of material, by pulling up any excess lacinia (front edge) might drag on the ground. 31. Quintilian Instituto Oratoria 11.3.137–149. Cf. Glenys Davies, “Togate statues and petrified orators,” in Form and Function in Roman Oratory, eds D. Berry and Andrew Erskine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 51–72. 32. Quintilian Instituto Oratoria 11.3.118, 131. 33. Suetonius. Gaius 35.3. 34. Cf. Shelley Stone, “The toga: from national to ceremonial costume,” 17; Caroline Vout, “The myth of the toga: understanding the history of Roman Dress,” Greece and Rome 43.2 (1996): 204–20; Peter Stewart, The Social History of Roman Art (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 96. 35. Suetonius, Augustus 40; on Tertullian see Chapter 4 in this volume; Carly Daniel Hughes, The Salvation of the Flesh in Tertullian of Carthage: Dressing for the Resurrection (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011); on the toga in satire see Michele George, “The ‘dark side’ of the toga,” in Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture, eds Jonathan Edmondson and Alison Keith (Toronto: Toronto University Press, 2008), 94–112.

NOTES

201

36. George, “The ‘dark side’ of the toga,” 96–7; Salutatio: Martial, Ep. 1. 108, 10.74, 10.82, 11.24, 12.18. 5; 12.29(26); Juv. 3. 126.30; on other client duties see: Martial 2.57; 2.74; 3.46; Juv. Sat. 7.141–4. 37. Martial, 9.49. 38. Martial, 7.33, 4.34, 9.49, 57; 12.36; Juvenal, 3.149. 39. Martial, 4. 34, 5.22, 6.50, 12.18.5, 12.36.2, 14.135. Cf. Juvenal, 1.119–34; 3.126–30. 40. Aristophanes, Lysistrata 42–48. 41. For the extensive use of textile language and metaphor in Lysistrata see Jennifer Swalec, “Weaving for the people not a peplos, but a chlaina: woolworking, peace, and nuptial sex in Aristophanes’ Lysistrata,” in Spinning the Fates, edited by Fanfani et al. 42. Sappho is the notable exception here cf. Sappho 94. 43. Kelly Olson, “Matrona and Whore: The Clothing of Roman Woman in Antiquity,” Fashion Theory 6.4 (2002): 387–420. 44. Thucydides 1.6.3–4. 45. Aristophanes, Wasps, 1121–1165, Ed. with translation and notes by Alan H. Sommerstein (Warminster: Aris and Phillips, 1983.) 46. Plutarch Alcibiades 16.1. 47. On the lex Oppia see P. Culham, “The Lex Oppia,” in Latomus (1982): 786–93; Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, Rome’s Cultural Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 333–5. 48. For a similar idea of class, fashion and the “trickle-down effect” see Michael Carter on Georg Simmel’s Philosophie der Mode (1905) in Fashion Classics from Carlyle to Barthes (Oxford: Berg, 2003), 69. 49. See Chapter 6 in this volume on the relationship between status and dress. 50. Leslie Shumka, “Designing Women: The Representation of Women’s Toiletries on Funerary Monuments in Roman Italy,” in Roman Dress, eds Jonathan Edmondson and Alison Keith, 172–91. Kelly Olson, “Matrona and whore: the clothing of Roman women in Antiquity,” Fashion Theory 6.4 (2002): 387–420. 51. On Ars Amatoria 3 see Roy Gibson, Ovid: Ars Amatoria Book 3. Translation and commentary. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 52. Ars Am. 3. 174–89. 53. See Mary Harlow, “Dressing to please themselves: clothing choices for Roman women,” in Dress and Identity ed. M. Harlow (Oxford: Oxbow, 2012), 41–2; the literature on dyes is Antiquity is too large to include here, but see Dominque Cardon, Natural Dyes (London: Archetype Publications, 2007). 54. See Chapter 4 in this volume. 55. Tert. De cultu feminarum 1.8.2; on Tertullian see Carly Daniel Hughes, The Salvation of the Flesh in Tertullian of Carthage (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011); Mary Harlow, “The impossible art of dressing to please: Jerome and the rhetoric of dress,” in Objects in Context, Objects in Use: Material Spatiality in Late Antiquity, eds L. Lavan, E. Swift, and T. Putzeys (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 531–49. For the material culture of cultus see Shumka, “Designing women.” 56. Jerome, Ep. 130.18. 57. See Shumka, “Designing women”; for late Antiquity see Kurt Weitzmann (ed.), Age of Spirituality: Late Antique and Early Christian Art, Third to Seventh Century: catalog of the exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, November 1977–February 1978 (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1979).

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Eva Andersson Strand is Associate Professor of Textile Archaeology at the University of Copenhgen. Her publications cover from Viking Age Scandinavia: Tools for Textile Production – from Birka and Hedeby. (2003) to the Aegean and Eastern Mediterranean Bronze Age: Tools, Textiles and Contexts. Investigating Textile Production in the Aegean and Eastern Mediterranean Bronze Age (2015 with M.-L. Nosch). She currently manages a research program on experimental archaeology in combination with new computer applications and works on the topic Traditional Textile Craft, an Intangible Culture Heritages? Carly Daniel-Hughes is Associate Professor of Religion at Concordia University in Montréal. Her publications include Dressing Judeans and Christians in Antiquity (edited with Kristi Upson-Saia and Alicia Batten, Ashgate 2014) and The Salvation of the Flesh in Tertullian of Carthage: Dressing for the Resurrection (Palgrave 2011). Currently she is writing on grief, loss, and responses to violence in the Roman Empire. Glenys Davies is about to retire from a senior lectureship at the University of Edinburgh, where she has taught Classical art and archaeology since 1979. She has several published articles on Roman dress, gender and body language, but has also written on other aspects of Roman art (especially funerary art) and on eighteenth-century collecting of antiquities. She has a book in preparation on gender and body language in Roman art, and intends to continue researching in retirement. Kerstin Droß-Krüpe is currently working as an academic assistant at a PostDoc level at Kassel University. She studied Classical Archaeology, Ancient History and Business Administration at Philipps-University Marburg. From 2006 to 2013 she was an academic assistant at the Department of Ancient History at Philipps-University Marburg. She gained her PhD with a thesis about textile production in Roman Egypt, which was published as Wolle – Weber – Wirtschaft: Die Textilproduktion der römischen Kaiserzeit im Spiegel der papyrologischen Überlieferung (2011). Her main research interests are ancient economic history, ancient textiles studies, and the reception of antiquity. Mary Harlow is a senior lecturer in Ancient History at the University of Leicester. Her research interests range from dress in the Roman period, to the study of age and ageing in Antiquity. From 2011 to 2013 she was a Guest Professor at the Centre for Textile Research at the University of Copenhagen. Her published work includes the Cultural History of Childhood and the Family (Bloomsbury 2010, with Ray Laurence) and Greek and Roman Dress, An Interdisciplinary Anthology (Oxbow Books 2014, with Marie-Louise Nosch). Lena Larsson Lovén is Assistant Professor in Classical Archaeology & Ancient History at the Department of Historical Studies, University of Gothenburg, Sweden. Her main research focus lies with studies on dress and textiles, iconography, gender studies and aspects of 227

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socio-economic history in the Roman world. She is founder of the network ARACHNE and has edited several volumes from ARACHNE conferences. She has published on aspects of Roman textile production, dress studies, funerary iconography and women’s work identities. Some recent publications include “Roman art: what can it tell us about dress and textiles” in Greek and Roman Dress and Textiles. An Interdisciplinary Anthology (eds. M. Harlow and M-L. Nosch 2014) and “Women, Trade and production in Urban Centres of Roman Italy” in Urban Traders and Craftsmen in the Roman World (eds. M. Flohr & A. Wilson 2016). Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones is Professor of Ancient History at Cardiff University. He specializes in the history and culture of ancient Iran, Greek socio-cultural history, and in the reception of antiquity in popular culture. He is author of Aphrodite’s Tortoise: the Veiled Woman of Ancient Greece, Ctesias’ History of Persia: Tales of the Orient, and King and Court in Ancient Persia. He has edited volumes on Hellenistic history, gender identity, and dress history. Forthcoming works include The Culture of Animals in Antiquity and Through Esther’s Eyes: an iconographic commentary on the Book of Esther in its Persian Context. He is the Series Editor of Edinburgh Studies in Ancient Persia for Edinburgh University Press and Co-Series Editor of Screening Antiquity, also for EUP. Born in South Wales and educated in Hull and Cardiff, Lloyd travels extensively throughout the Middle East, especially Iran, often leading cultural tours, and has acted as historical consultant for major Hollywood movies and for television documentaries. Ulla Mannering is an archaeologist employed as a senior researcher at the National Museum of Denmark, Ancient Cultures of Denmark and the Mediterranean. She is specialized in North European textiles and cloth cultures (2011). Her many publications include an anthology about European textile production (Gleba and Mannering 2012), but she has also worked with Roman textiles in Egypt (2000), and the study of costume in iconography. She is currently working with the unique Danish textile and skin collections dated to the Bronze and Early Iron Ages. Kelly Olson is an associate professor in the Department of Classical Studies at the University of Western Ontario. She is the author of several articles and book chapters on female clothing in Roman antiquity, published in Mouseion, The American Journal of Ancient History, Fashion Theory, Classical World, and The Journal of the History of Sexuality. Her book Dress and the Roman Woman: Self-Presentation and Society was published by Routledge in 2008. She is at present working on a monograph entitled Masculinity and Dress in Roman Antiquity (forthcoming, Routledge 2017). Ursula Rothe is Baron Thyssen Lecturer in Classical Studies at The Open University. Her previous positions include a Leverhulme Trust fellowship at the University of Edinburgh working on dress in the Roman Danube provinces and serving as Project Manager of the DressID EU project on Roman textiles. She has published widely on Roman dress and cultural theory, including Dress and Cultural Identity in the Rhine-Moselle Region of the Roman Empire (2009). Her present research focuses on the role of the toga in Roman history.

INDEX

adulteresses 88 Aelian 163 Agrippina the Younger 103 Alicbiades 164 Amazons 59–60 (fig. 3.10), 92, 97, 98 (fig. 5.8) 123 amulets (see also bulla) 60, 66, 90 anakalypteria 67, 98, 100 Anakreontic vases 90 anaxyrides 59 Andanian law 71–2, 75 Anthinos 102 anthrax 20 apex 76 Aphrodisias 41 Aphrodite 94 Apollo 57 (fig. 3.8) apoptygma 52 apprentice(s) 42, 45 Apuleius, Metamorphoses, 7, 72 Ara Pacis Augustae 66 (fig. 3.14), 73 (fig. 4.1), 152 archaeology (of textiles) 6 experimental archaeology 9–10, 168 n. 32 Aristophanes 47, 162–3 birds 38 Lysistrata 120, 162 wasps 163 Arkteia 73 armor 59, 64, 142 army (see also military) 44 Artemis Brauronia 52, 74 asceticism 83, 117 association (see collegium/collegia) Athena 74, 138, 160 Athens 2, 6, 37–9, 136, 140–1 athletes 61, 64, 68, 96 Atratus 68 attic tombstones 90 Augustus 54, 59, 60, 96 Auxerre, Lady of, 136–7 babies 65 baldness 59

barbarian dress 6, 59, 68, 126, 152 Barthes, Roland, 1 bathing (clothes for) 68, 96 beauty manuals 49 belt (see also cingulum, zona) 53, 63, 64, 67 bride’s 100 tied loosely 92 ‘bikinis’ 61, 64, 65 (fig. 3.13) Birrus 62 black 51, 72 bleaching 61 body, Chapter 3 passim body language 9, 56, 63, 161 body mapping 99, 100 (fig. 5.9) body shape 49 modification of 59–60 bracae (braccae, bracati) 58, 60 Brauron, Temple of Artemis 52, 74 breastband 53, 59, 64 bridal dress (see also weddings) 67 (fig. 3.15), 90, 98, 101 (fig. 5.10) bulla 66 (fig. 3.14), 74, 147, 152–3 Caligula 92, 159, 161 Campestre 64 Capite velato 63, 76 caps 64 Caracallus 62 cavalry dress 60 cenatoria 113 chaîne opératoire 3, 8, 13 charioteers 65 children 3, 4, 8, 42, 65–7, 100 chito¯n 3, 4, 48, 51–2, 56–7, 73, 87, 90, 91, 94, 99, 107, 109, 111, 120, 132, 136–8, 141, 157, 160, 162 chito¯n exomis 120 chito¯n cheiridotos 109 chito¯niskos 52, 110, 111 chlamys 63, 66, 105, 132 Christianity, Christian dress 6, 80–5, 117–18, 165–6 Cicero 91, 158 cingulum 100 229

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INDEX

citizenship 120 clavus (clavi) 4, 7, 132 Cleopatra 92 clerical dress 83–5 cloaks (see also himation, lacerna, laena, mantle, paludamentum, sagum, wrap) 1, 5, 9, 48, 55, 61–2, 111, 105, 156, 163 clothing as offerings/dedications 74–5 reconstructions 9–10, 168 n. 32 repair 8 restrictions/prohibitions 73–5 second-hand 8 transparent (see-through) 6, 8, 52, 94–5 (fig. 5.5), 98, 139–40 coan silk 53 coats 59 collegium/collegia 41, 44 color (see also dyes and dyeing; purple) 6–7, 31–2, 87, 88, 106, 112–13, 114, 117, 144–6, 165 polychromy 6–7; 152, 167 n. 13–14 concealment 92–5, 99, 103 consumption 105 cotton 17 courtesans 8, 101–2 cross-dressing 74, 90–2, 98 cucullus 62 cultus 157, 161, 165

ethnicity 1, 10; Chapter 7 passim 152 etruscan dress 54, 111–12 exomis 38, 111, 147

Dacians 123 dalmatic 9, 83, 117 dedications/offerings 74–5 Diazone 102 Didymoi 7 Dionysus 50, 73, 92 distaff 22 distribution Chapter 2 passim drapery, draped clothing 9–10 manipulation of, 10, 88–90, 93–4, 103, 161 wet-look drapery 94, 95 (fig. 5.5), 99 dyes and dyeing 6–7, 32–4, 44

hair 59, 68, 72, 75, 77 False hair (see also wigs) 59 traders of 59 headdress 93, 128–9 health 60–1, 68 helmet 65, 92 hemp 14, 17 ‘Herculaneum woman’, large 100 (fig. 5.9) small 56 (fig. 3.7) Herakles/Hercules 72, 91–2 Herodotus 121, 160 hetairai 101–2 (fig. 5.11), 111 himation 38, 51–2, 56–7, 61, 64, 74, 88, 89 (fig. 5.1), 90, 94, 107–8 (fig. 6.2), 111, 119, 120, 124, 132, 136, 141, 157 Historia Augusta 68, 159 Homer/Homeric period 37–8, 40, 47, 49, 52, 53, 61, 105–7, 159 hoods 65 Horace 102 hygiene 60–1

Edict of Maximum Prices 9, 168 n. 31 effeminacy 68, 88, 90–2, 117, 164 embroidery 31, 156 emporion/emporium 47 ependyt¯es 59, 108, 110, 118 Erechtheion 139–40 ergasitinai 74 eroticism 11, 95–100

fasciae 60, 65 fashion 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 49, 133, 156, 163–4 felt, felting 20, 62 feminalia 58 figure-hugging clothes 50–1 (fig. 3.2), 98, 99 flamen/flaminica Dialis, dress of 76–7. flammeum 68 flax (see linen) flock-weaver 38 footwear 63, 164 fuller/fulling/fulleries 5, 34, 40, 43 galerus 76 galli (priests of Cybele) 78, 92 Gallic dress 126, 131–2 Gaul and Gauls 62, 63, 123, 126, 131–2 gender 7, 38, Chapter 5 passim 97, 142, 157, 162 Germans 123 gesture 58, 63, 88, 90, 92 gift(s) 38, 74 gladiators 64–5 goat hair 19 gold thread 90 gynaecea 46

INDEX

Igel monument 41 (fig. 2.2), 126 infula 72, 75 Isis, dress of cult members 79 (fig. 4.6) Isthmia 40 Jerome 165–6 jewelry 49, 67, 75, 90, 92, 99, 114, 133, 138, 164, 166 Jewish priestly dress 79–80 (fig. 4.7) Julius Caesar 92 juvenal 162, 201 nn. 36, 39, 89 kalasiris 71 kandys 59, 109 kaunakes 163–4 knee breeches 58, 63 kouros/kore/korai 99, 135–6, 144 krokos/krokotoi 67, 73, 74, 91–2, 102 laborers (agricultural) 58, 65 lacerna, laena 62, 76 laundry 61, 114 leather 62 (fig. 3.11), 64 leg coverings/leggings (see also bracae/ feminalia/trousers) 6, 59, 62, 117, 152 Lex Oppia 116, 164 linen 7, 14–16, 52, 61, 88, 107 – as ritual clothing 71–2 livy 164–5 loincloth (see also underwear) 53, 54, 58, 61, 63, 64, 65, 96 long sleeves 6, 62, 92 loom weights 2, 39–40 looms 3, 25 horizontal ground loom 26 two-beam 26–7 warp weighted 26–7 luxury 7, 107, 111, 164 mantle (see also himation, cloak, pallium, palla, wrap) 1, 156, 159 marriage (see also weddings) 67, 100 martial 59, 162, 201 nn. 36–9 matronae (Roman matrons) 54, 68, 88, 100–1 Memphis methodology 10–11 miletos military/army dress 46, 48, 62 modesty 53, 56, 61, 81–2, 93, 97, 103, 159, 164–5

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monastic dress 81 Mons Claudianus 8, 33 (figs. 1.22, 1.23) morality/moral discourse 6, 7, 49, 68, 93–4, 95, Chapter 9 passim mosaics 2 mourning 51, 68, 72, 88 mummy portraits (Romano-Egyptian) 7, 90, Fig 8.12 mystery cults 72–3 Nero 103 nettle fibers 14, 17 (fig. 1.5) Nodus Herculaneus 67–8, 100 Noricum 128–31 nudity 49, 63–4, 68, 95–7, 142–4 odour 114 oikos 38 old age 68 Olynthos 39–40 Ostia 43 Ovid 49, 59 padding 59 paenula 62, 68, 83, 148, 159 palla 51, 54, 56–7, 58, 62, 68, 87, 88, 90, 92–3, 114, 118, 125, 148–51, 152, 156 pallium 51, 63, 87, 88, 94, 113, 119, 156, 158 as Christian dress 81, 83 Palmyra, dress in, 47, 126, 132–4 paludamentum 62 Pandora 49–50 (fig. 3.1), 90 Pannonia 128–31 pants 152 papyri 9, 41–6, 48 parasols 90 Parthenon frieze 57 (fig. 3.8), 64 (fig. 3.12), 74, 140 patterns (created by weaving) 31–2 pawnbrokers 8, 9 pearls 90 Penelope 38, 106 peplos 3, 52–3 (fig. 3.4), 56, 88, 94, 106, 109, 120, 136–40, 156, 159–60 of Athena 74 Periplus Maris Erythraei 47 Perizoma 64 Persia, Persian dress 59, 60 (fig. 3.10), 68, 90, 109, 121–3 petasos 63, 66 pharos 52, 89 (fig. 5.2), 94, 106, 111

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Plautus 7, 102 Plutarch, 93, 96, 164 political invective (Roman) 91, 92 pollution 94 pomegranate motifs 67, 90 Pompeii 42–3 poor, clothing of 117 Poppaea Sabina 103 pornai 59, 102 priests/priestesses, dress of 75–6 prostitutes, prostitution (see also courtesan, hetairai, pornai) 59, 88, 95, 99, 101–3, 142, 144 purple 6, 9, 32, 47, 75, 88, 90, 111, 112–13, 158, 164 Purpurarii 48 Quintilian 58, 60, 68, 161 religious/ritual dress Chapter 4 passim Ricinium 68 sagum 62, 132 sailors 65 sandals 63, 68 sappho 90 see-through garments (see clothing, transparent) Saittai 41 Scythian dress 121–23, 152 sexuality Chapter 5 passim 94, 97, 100–3 sheep (see wool) shoes 59, 63, 72 (thick-soled or raised) 59 (indoor) 92 silk 10–11, 20, 47, 61, 88, 90, 92, 114, 165 slaves 38, 42, 54, 65, 87, 107, 111, 117 sleeves/sleeved tunics 5, 6, 59, 62, 159 socci 92 social control 7, 98 socks 63 Sparta, Spartan dress 107–8, 163 Spartan women’s dress 120–1 spinning 8, 21–5, 39–40 spindle whorls 2, 23–4 sprang 29 status, Chapter 6 passim 7, 55 Of textile workers 8 stockings 63 stola 54–5, 56–7, 61, 68, 77, 88, 90, 94, 103, 118, 124, 148–50, 152 subligaculum (see also underwear) 96

INDEX

Suetonius 59, 60, 158–9 sumptuary legislation 75, 110–11, 116–17 swaddling 65–6 symposium 64, 95, 101 synthesis (see also cenatoria) 63, 113, 159 tablet weaving 29 Tacitus 103 tapestry weaving 29–30 taqueté 31–2 Tebenna 54 terminology (textile) 8–9, 13, 156 tertullian 72, 81–2, 161, 165 textiles textile production 8 textile tools (see also looms, loom weights and spindle whorls) 1, 14 textile preservation 13–14 textile professions 42 theatrical performers 99, 101 Theocritus 155 Theophrastus 158 Thucydides 163 toga 5, 53–4, 58, 61, 63, 65, 66, 88, 94, 102, 112, 119, 123–7, 146–7, 151–2, 156, 157, 158, 161–2, 200 n.30 and adultery 102 toga praetexta 66, 74, 76, 88, 100, 124, 147 toga pulla 68, 72 toga virilis 66 (fig. 3.14), 74, 88, 124, 147 worn by girls 67, 88 trabea 105 trade, traders Chapter 2 passim transparent clothing 52 (fig. 3.3), 58, 93, 98, 102, 139–40 tribo¯n 163 trousers (see also anaxyrides, knee breeches, feminalia, braccae, leggings) 29, 59, 60, 126, 132 tunic, 1, 4, 9, 53, 54, 55, 61, 63, 64–5, 87, 113, 120, 125, 157, 158, 159, 161 overtunic/undertunic/multiple tunics 60, 61, 62, 128 sleeved 6, 62, 92, 117, 123, 126, 132 tunica pulla 158 tunica recta 67 tunica talaris 158 unbelted 65 turban 133 underwear 53, 61, 64, 97

INDEX

veils, veiling 57, 63, 66, 67, 73, 89 (fig 5.2), 92–4, 100–1, 103, 107, 141, 159 venus 94, 96 (fig. 5.6), 97 (fig. 5.7), 99 vestal Virgins 77 vestiarii 48 vestis militaris 46 vindolanda tablets 42, 63 vittae 100 virtue 8, 38, 40 weaver(s) 8–9, 20, 42–6 weaving (see also looms, warp, weft) 3, 4–5, 8, 25, 27–9 woven-to-shape, 3. wedding clothing 67, 100–1, 144–5, 148 white (leukos, candidus, albus) 32, 49, 51, 52, 61, 66, 88, 113 for ritual clothing 72, 75

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widows 68 wigs 59, 82, 166 women and textiles 9, 37–8 and appearance 162–3 fashion 163–4 wool 7, 18–20, 38, 40–2, 54, 61, 62, 63, 88, 107, 165 wool-workers 20 workshops 37, 43 wrap 1 wreaths 72–3 Xenophon, Oeconomicus 38 Zenon of Caunos 40 zona/zo¯n¯e 67, 100

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