Artistic Responses to Travel in the Western Tradition 9781472481245, 9781351174084

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Artistic Responses to Travel in the Western Tradition

In an era when ease of travel is greater than ever, it is also easy to overlook the degree to which voyages of the body – and mind – have generated an outpouring of artistry and creativity throughout the ages. Exploration of new lands and sensations is a fundamental human experience. This volume in turn provides a stimulating and adventurous exploration of the theme of travel from an art-historical perspective. Topical regions are covered, ranging from the Grand Tour and colonialism to the travels of Hadrian in ancient times and Georgia O’Keeffe’s journey to the Andes; from Vasari’s Neoplatonic voyages to photographing nineteenth-century Japan. The scholars assembled consider both imaginary travel, as well as factual or embellished documentation of voyages. The essays are far-reaching spatially and temporally, but all relate to how art has documented the theme of travel in varying media across time and as illustrated and described by writers, artists, and illustrators. The scope of this volume is far-reaching, both chronologically and conceptually, thereby appropriately documenting the universality of the theme to human experience. Sarah J. Lippert is Associate Professor of Art History, University of MichiganFlint, USA.

Routledge Research in Art History

Routledge Research in Art History is our home for the latest scholarship in the field of art history. The series publishes research monographs and edited collections, covering areas including art history, theory, and visual culture. These high-level books focus on art and artists from around the world and from a multitude of time periods. By making these studies available to the worldwide academic community, the series aims to promote quality art history research. For a full list of titles in this series, please visit https://www.routledge.com/ Routledge-Research-in-Art-History/book-series/RRAH Expanding Nationalisms at World’s Fairs Identity, Diversity and Exchange, 1851–1915 Edited by David Raizman and Ethan Robey William Hunter and his Eighteenth-Century Cultural Worlds The Anatomist and the Fine Arts Helen McCormack The Agency of Things in Medieval and Early Modern Art Materials, Power and Manipulation Edited by Grażyna Jurkowlaniec, Ika Matyjaszkiewicz and Zuzanna Sarnecka National Identity and Nineteenth-Century Franco-Belgian Sculpture Jana Wijnsouw The Benin Plaques A 16th Century Imperial Monument Kathryn Wysocki Gunsch The Société des Trois in the Nineteenth Century The Translocal Artistic Union of Whistler, Fantin-Latour, and Legros Melissa Berry Raymond Jonson and the Spiritual in Modernist and Abstract Painting Herbert R. Hartel, Jr. Radical Marble Architecture and Innovation from Antiquity to the Present Edited by J. Nicholas Napoli and William Tronzo

Artistic Responses to Travel in the Western Tradition Edited by Sarah J. Lippert

First published 2018 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business  2018 selection and editorial matter, Sarah J. Lippert; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Sarah J. Lippert to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-1-4724-8124-5 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-351-17408-4 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by Swales & Willis Ltd, Exeter, Devon, UK

Contents

List of figures List of contributors Acknowledgements Introduction

vii xv xvi 1

SARAH J. LIPPERT

PART 1

Travel of great import: culture, class, and politics

7

  1 Dramatizing the encounter: the performative body in John Webber’s A Man of the Sandwich Islands, Dancing

9

MONICA ANKE HAHN

  2 The humor of circumstance: caricature and the foreign tour of the British middle class

29

ALICE J. WALKIEWICZ

  3 Tours of the Charleston Renaissance and the visual construction of southern charm: a comparison of local versus visiting artists

48

CHAD WESLEY AIRHART

PART 2

Travel on a smaller scale: voyages in the familiar

67

  4 Representing the “El” and the subway: urban travel as ordinary icon in New York City, 1900–30

69

ELSIE HEUNG

 5 The Palio of Siena: a journey through time ANNA PIPERATO

86

vi Contents   6 Quantified drift

108

STEPHEN CARTWRIGHT

PART 3

Imaginary travel and travel of the mind

127

  7 Itinerant Hadrian and imperial patronage belonging to all the world

129

GERALD A. HESS

  8 Giorgio Vasari’s planetary ceiling: a Neoplatonic voyage

156

LIANA DE GIROLAMI CHENEY

  9 Going back to the beginning of things: wishful travel and the ancient origins of the arts in France

170

SARAH J. LIPPERT

PART 4

Trail blazers: travel for the brave

189

10 No typical tourist: photographer Zaida Ben-Yusuf in Meiji, Japan

191

GILLIAN GREENHILL HANNUM

11 Beyond the European Grand Tour: the travels and related writings of Marguerite Thompson Zorach

212

EFRAM BURK

12 Women in high places: Georgia O’Keeffe and Julia Codesido in the Peruvian Andes

231

CAROLINE L. GILLASPIE

Conclusion

244

SARAH J. LIPPERT

Bibliography Index

246 257

Figures

Cover Caspar David Friedrich, Wanderer Above a Sea of Fog. c.1817. Oil on Canvas, 94.8 × 74.8 cm. Inc.:5161. On permanent loan from the Foundation for the Promotion of the Hamburg Art Collections. Photo: Elke Walford. Photographic credit: bpk Bildagentur/Kunsthalle Hamburg/Elke Walford/Art Resource, NYC.   1.1 John Webber, A Man of the Sandwich Islands, Dancing, 1784, engraving. Photographic credit: Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University. Licensing information: PD-ART/PD-old-100. 10   1.2 John Webber, A Man of the Sandwich Islands, in a Mask, 1784, engraving, published by Nical and Cadell, London, England. Photographic credit: Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University. Licensing information: PD-ART/PD-old-100. 12   1.3 John Webber, Four Views of a Man of the Sandwich Islands, 1780, pen, pencil, and wash. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Bishop Museum Library and Archives. Licensing information: PD-ART/PD-old-100. 15   1.4 Detail of Tavola XXI from Bernardino Genga’s Anatomy Improved and Illustrated, 1691, engraving. Photographic credit: Anonymous. Licensing information: PD-ART/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons. 16   1.5 Johann Heinrich Ramberg, Neptune raising Captn. Cook up to immortality, a genius crowning him with a wreath of oak, and Fame introducing him to History. In the front ground are the four quarters of the world presenting to Britannia their various stores. Printed for C. Cooke, 1790, London. Photographic credit: Reproduced by kind permission of the Syndics of Cambridge University Library. RCS.Case.a.107. Licensing information: PD-ART/PD-old-100. 17  1.6 Anonymous, John Rich as Harlequin, 1753, etching, published in Henry Saxe Wyndham, The Annals of Covent Garden Theatre from 1732–1897, volume 1 by Chatto and Windus, London, 1906, p. 6. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Victoria and Albert Museum, London. Licensing information: PD-ART/PD-old-100. 19

viii Figures   1.7 Sydney Parkinson, Portrait of a New Zealand Man, 1777, engraving, published in A Collection of Drawings made in the Countries visited by Captain Cook in his First Voyage, 1768–1771 (1769, 1773). Photographic credit: Courtesy of the British Library. Licensing information: Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.   1.8 John Webber, Waheiadooa, Chief of Oheitepeha, lying in State, 1788, aquatint and soft-ground etching. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Temple University. Licensing information: PD-ART/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.   2.1 Richard Doyle, Scene: Discovers Brown Sketching from The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson: Being the History of what they saw and did in Germany, Switzerland, and Italy (London: Bradbury & Evans, 1854), p. 59, engraving, dimensions not available. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Lenox Library, New York, and Google Books. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.   2.2 Richard Doyle, “They are on the Point of starting: Brown ‘will be ready in half a Minute; He has only to Bundle One or Two Things into a Bag,’” engraving from “The Pleasure Trips of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson up the Rhine,” published in Punch 19 (London: 1850), p. 196, dimensions not available. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Library of the University of California Davis and Google Books. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.   2.3 Richard Doyle, B. J. and R., Who Took Their Place on the Roof from The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson: Being the History of what they saw and did in Germany, Switzerland, and Italy (London: Bradbury & Evans, 1854), p. 5, engraving, dimensions not available. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Lenox Library, New York, and Google Books. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.  2.4 Gentle Subscriber! Did you ever see Two Strange Englishmen breakfasting at a Table d’hôte abroad, engraving, published in Punch 25 (London: 1853), p. 108, dimensions not available. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Library of the University of California Davis and Google Books. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.   2.5 Richard Doyle, They “Do” Cologne Cathedral from The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson: Being the History of what they saw and did in Germany, Switzerland, and Italy (London: Bradbury & Evans, 1854), p. 8, engraving, dimensions not available. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Lenox Library, New York, and Google Books. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

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Figures ix   2.6 Richard Doyle, Enlightened Behavior in a Foreign Church from The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson: Being the History of what they saw and did in Germany, Switzerland, and Italy (London: Bradbury & Evans, 1854), p. 55, engraving, dimensions not available. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Lenox Library, New York, and Google Books. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.   3.1 Alice Ravenel Huger Smith, The Brewton–Alston–Pringle House, built soon after 1765, reproduction of a drawing, 1914. Published in Alice Ravenel Huger Smith and Daniel Elliott Huger Smith, The Dwelling Houses of Charleston, South Carolina (Philadelphia and London: J.B. Lippincott, 1917), p. 95. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the University of Virginia, digitized by Google Books. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100.   3.2 Alfred Hutty, Fairfield: The Oldest House on Santee, undated, drawing. Published in Harriette Kershaw Leiding, Historic Houses of South Carolina (Philadelphia and London: J.B. Lippincott, 1921), p. 95. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the University of Michigan, digitized by Google Books. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100.   3.3 Childe Hassam, St. Michael’s Church, 1925, etching, 15⅛ × 12⅝ in., Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, NY, USA. Photographic credit and licensing information: Albright-Knox Art Gallery/Art Resource, NY.   3.4 Alice Ravenel Huger Smith, The Rector’s Kitchen and View of St. Michael’s, c.1910–15, watercolor on board. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Smithsonian Institute Research Information System. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.   3.5 Alfred Hutty, Magnolia Gardens, 1920, oil on canvas, 40 × 32 in., Gibbes Museum of Art, Charleston, South Carolina, USA. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Google Art Project via Wikimedia Commons. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-1923, public domain via Google Art Project.   4.1 John S. Johnston, Elevated Railroads in New York City: Looking north in the Bowery from Grand Street, c.1896, Library of Congress, Washington, DC, USA. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Library of Congress. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.   4.2 John Sloan, Six O’Clock, Winter, 1912, oil on canvas, 26⅛ × 32 in., The Phillips Collection, Washington, DC. Photographic credit: Pimbrils. Licensing Information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.   4.3 Edward Hopper, Night on the El Train, 1918, etching, 7½ × 8 in., Philadelphia Museum of Art, Philadelphia, PA, USA. Photographic credit: Unknown. Licensing information: Purchased with the Thomas Skelton Harrison Fund, 1962. Copyright unknown. Accessed at

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www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/58902. html?mulR=431370370|18 74 Reginald Marsh, Smokehounds, 1932, oil on canvas. The Corcoran Gallery of Art, Washington, DC. Photographic credit: Daderot. Licensing information: Public domain or CC0, via Wikimedia Commons. 78 Louis Lozowick, Allen Street (New York), 1929, lithograph. The National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC. Photographic credit: Sarah Lippert. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain. 79 John Sloan, The City from Greenwich Village, 1922, oil on canvas, 26 × 33.7 in., The National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC. Photographic credit: Jane023. Licensing information: PD-Art/ PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons. 80 Anna Piperato, Members of the Contrada della Lupa return to Via Vallerozzi from the Piazza del Campo after the first trial of the 2013 Palio, June 29, 2013, 2013, photograph, Siena, Italy. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the author (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the author. 87 Matheus Merian, Map of Siena, 1640, oil on canvas, 15 × 13 in. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Barry Lawrence Ruderman Antique Maps Inc. Licensing information: CC-PD-Mark, PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons. 89 Anna Piperato, Victory celebration of the Contrada Capitana dell’Onda in the Piazza del Campo, July 2, 2012. The Palazzo Pubblico watches majestically in the back left as the Palio banner (designed by Claudio Carli and housed in the Museo della Contrada Capitana dell’Onda) is held aloft by the contradaioli, whose flags wave in triumph, 2012, photograph, Siena, Italy. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the author (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the author. 90 Pinturicchio, San Bernardino Releases a Prisoner, 1473, tempera on panel, 29.8 × 22.4 in., Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria, Perugia, Italy. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Cristina Acidini. Licensing information: CC-PD-Mark; PD-Art (PD-old-100), public domain via Wikimedia Commons. 99 Flag bearer of the contrada della Pantera during a parade at the piazza del Campo, Siena, 2005, photograph. Photographic Credit: Courtesy of Jastrow (own work). Licensing information: PD-Self (author released work to the public domain for worldwide use), public domain via Wikimedia Commons. 100 Stephen Cartwright, Intersection, 1999, USGS maps, aluminum, acrylic, lights, speakers, soundtrack, 53.9 × 41.3 × 2.6 in. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Stephen Cartwright (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the artist. 109

Figures xi   6.2 Stephen Cartwright, Latitutde and Longitude Project (detail of Urbana, IL), 2013, dimensions variable, digital print. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Stephen Cartwright (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the artist. 111   6.3 Stephen Cartwright, Latitutde and Longitude Project (detail of time axis, Philadelphia, PA), 2013, dimensions variable, digital print. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Stephen Cartwright (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the artist. 113   6.4 Stephen Cartwright, Latitutde and Longitude Project, XY Plotter Image (Urbana, IL, 2009), 2013, dimensions variable, digital print. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Stephen Cartwright (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the artist. 119   6.5 Stephen Cartwright, Frequency (detail of Philadelphia, PA, and Richmond, VA), 2010, acrylic, wood, aluminum, lights, 126 × 48 × 48 in. (Philadelphia), 83.6 × 24 × 24 in. (Richmond). Photographic credit: Courtesy of Stephen Cartwright (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the artist. 120   6.6 Stephen Cartwright, Light (2003, 2004, 2006), 2007, aluminum, motors, mixed media, 114.2 × 287.4 × 35.4 in. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Stephen Cartwright (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the artist. 122   6.7 Stephen Cartwright, Mesh 1 and Mesh 2, 2010, acrylic, 23.6 in. × 82.7 in. × 82.7 in. (Mesh 1), 23.6 × 82.7 × 59 in. (Mesh 2). Photographic credit: Courtesy of Stephen Cartwright (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the artist. 124   6.8 Stephen Cartwright, Kinetic Mesh, 2012, brass, acrylic, aluminum, motors, electronics, 47.2 × 78.7 × 35.4 in. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Stephen Cartwright (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the artist. 125   7.1 P. Vasiliadis, Emperor Hadrianus, photograph, showing Hadrian as Imperator from Hierapytna, Crete, greater than life-size, marble, c.120–5 ce, Archaeological Museum, Istanbul, Turkey. Photographic credit: Courtesy of P. Vasiliadis (own work). Licensing information: CC BY-SA 3.0, public domain via Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/ index.php?curid=1437881. 130  7.2 ApostleKtenas, Adrianus Gate, Athens, Greece, photograph, 2015, showing Hadrian’s Gate, 131 ce, 59 feet high × 44.3 feet wide × 7.5 feet deep, pentelic marble, Athens, Greece. Photographic credit: Courtesy of ApostleKtenas (own work). Licensing information: ApostleKtenas (own work), CC BY-SA 4.0, public domain via Wikimedia Commons, https://commons. wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=51568151. 136

xii Figures   7.3 Sarah Lippert, Antinous, photograph, 2016, showing Antinous in the guise of an Egyptian pharaoh, Hadrian’s Villa, Tivoli, 130–8 ce, marble, 7.9’ high (with plinth), Musei Vaticani, Rome, Italy. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Sarah Lippert (own work). Licensing information: PD-Self, courtesy of Sarah Lippert. 137  7.4 Lalupa, Obelisk Pinciano, photograph, 2006, showing the Obelisk Pinciano now at the Villa Borghese, Rome, Italy, granite. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Lalupa (own work). Licensing information: GNU free documentation license, public domain via Wikimedia Commons, http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html or CC-BY-SA-3.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/. 140  7.5 Camelia.boban, Hadrian’s Villa near Tivoli, photograph, 2011, showing view of Antinoeion, Hadrian’s Villa, c.130–8 ce, Tivoli, Italy. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Camelia.boban (own work). Licensing information: CC BY-SA 3.0, public domain via Wikimedia Commons. PD-Self, courtesy of Camilia.boban, https://commons. wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18343837. 141  7.6 Jebulon, Reliefs of the Arch of Constantine, photograph, 2013, showing the Boar hunt tondo, Arch of Constantine, c.130–8 ce, marble, Rome, Italy, 7.9 feet diameter. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Jebulon (own work). Licensing information: CC0-1.0, public domain via Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia. org/w/index.php?curid=29533811. 143   7.7 Jastrow, the Canopus from the Prætorium, photograph, 2006, showing view of Canopus and Serapeum, Hadrian’s Villa, c.125–8 ce, Tivoli, Italy. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Jastrow (own work). Licensing information: PD-Self, courtesy of Jastrow, public domain via Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index. php?curid=1369120. 144   8.1 Giorgio Vasari, Ceiling with Planets, Chamber of Fortune, 1548, Casa Vasari, Arezzo. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Liana De Girolami Cheney (own work). Licensing information: PD-Self, courtesy of the author. 157   8.2 Liana Cheney, Reconstruction of Vasari’s Ceiling with Planets, Chamber of Fortune, 1548, Casa Vasari, Arezzo. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Liana De Girolami Cheney (own work). Licensing information: PD-Self, courtesy of the author. Map of reconstruction by numbers: 1. Envy; 2. Fortune; 3. Virtue; 4. Spring; 5. Summer; 6. Autumn; 7. Winter; 8. Mercury; 9. Mars; 10. Apollo; 11. Diana (Moon); 12. Saturn; 13. Jupiter; 14. Cupid; 15. Venus; 16. Vasari’s coat-of-arms. 158   8.3 Erhard Schön, Page from natal horoscope for Leonhard Reymann, Der astrologische Gedanke in der deutschen Vergangenheit, 1515, woodcut. Photographic credit: Michael Hurts. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons. 159

Figures xiii   8.4 Vincenzo Cartari, Astrological Calendar, in Imagine delli Dei de gl’Antichi, engraving (Padua: Pietro Paolo Tozzi, 1615). Photographic credit: Courtesy of Dornicke. Licensing information: MASP Catálogo Casa Fiat de Cultura [1], public domain via Wikimedia Commons.   9.1 Jean-Baptiste Regnault, Origin of Painting, 1786, Château du Versailles. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Coyau. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.   9.2 Etienne-Maurice Falconet, Pygmalion and Galatea, 1761, Walters Art Museum. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Walters Art Museum. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons License.   9.3 Louis-Jean-François Lagrenée, Pygmalion and Galatea, 1781, Detroit Institute of Arts. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the author. Licensing information: Detroit Institute of Arts. PD-Art/PD-old-100.   9.4 Louis-Jean-François Lagrenée, Apelles in love with Campaspe, 1772, Musée des beaux-arts de Cæn. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Josselin via the Athenaeum.org. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100.   9.5 Jacques-Louis David, Apelles painting Campaspe in the presence of Alexander, 1813–16, Palais des beaux-arts de Lille. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Baroo. Licensing information: CC-PD-Mark, PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons. 10.1 Cover, The Saturday Evening Post, 176:43 (Apr. 23, 1904). Collection of the author. Photograph by Jim Frank. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain. 10.2 Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera,” The Saturday Evening Post, 176:43 (Apr. 23, 1904), p. 6. Collection of the author. Photograph by Jim Frank. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain. 10.3 Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera,” The Saturday Evening Post, 176:43 (Apr. 23, 1904), p. 7. Collection of the author. Photograph by Jim Frank. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain. 10.4 Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “In Full Dress: Women of Japan,” Leslie’s Monthly Magazine, 59:4 (Feb. 1905), p. 417. Collection of the author. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain. 10.5 Zaida Ben-Yusuf, Ekai Kawaguchi 1866–1945, 1903, platinum print, 9½ in. × 7⅜ in., Philadelphia Museum of Art, Philadelphia, PA. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain.

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xiv Figures 11.1 Thomas Cook and Son, Cover of the Excursionist, 1892. Photographic credit: Google Book Project. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons. 11.2 Marguerite Thompson Zorach, Skiff in Waves, c.1913–14, oil on canvas, 25.7 × 32.2 in. Brooklyn Museum of Art, USA, gift of Mr. and Mrs. Tessim Zorach. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Brooklyn Museum of Art. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons. 11.3 Marguerite Thompson Zorach, Man among the Redwoods, 1912. Unknown location. Photographic credit: Mary Mark Ockerbloom. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons. 12.1 Julia Codesido, Native Huanca Women, 1931, oil on canvas, 106 × 116 cm, Musée national d’art moderne, Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris, France. Photographic credit and licensing information: © CNAC/MNAM/Dist. RMN-Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY. 12.2 Georgia O’Keeffe, Machu Pichu I, 1957, oil on canvas, 1⅛ × 8 in. The Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA. Photographic credit and licensing information: Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, Santa Fe/Art Resource, NY. 12.3 Georgia O’Keeffe, Peruvian Landscape, 1956/1957, watercolor on paper. 11¾ × 8¾ in. Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA. Photographic credit and licensing information: Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, Santa Fe/Art Resource, NY.

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Contributors

Editor and contributing author Sarah Jordan Lippert, Ph.D., Associate Professor of Art History, University of Michigan-Flint

Contributing authors Chad Wesley Airhart, Ph.D., Associate Professor of Art History, Carson-Newman College Efram L. Burk, Ph.D., Associate Professor of Art History, Curry College Stephen Cartwright, M.F.A., Associate Professor of Sculpture, University of Illinois Urbana-Champagne Liana de Girolami Cheney, Ph.D., Professor of Art History, Independent Scholar, Boston, MA Caroline I. Gillaspie, Pratt Institute, Brooklyn, New York, where she is a visiting instructor Monica Anke Hahn, Ph.D. Candidate in Art History, Temple University Gillian Greenhill Hannum, Ph.D., Professor of Art History, Manhattanville College Gerald A. Hess, Ph.D., Lecturer of Art History, University of Michigan-Flint Elsie Heung, Ph.D. Candidate in Art History, The Graduate Center, City University of New York Anna Piperato, Ph.D., Independent Scholar of Art History, Siena, Italy Alice J. Walkiewicz, Ph.D. Candidate, CUNY Graduate Center, Lecturer, Parsons School of Design at The New School, New York, NY

Acknowledgements

In a multi-authored project, there are many contributions that are worthy of acknowledgement. In particular, Dr. Lippert would like to thank her editor at Ashgate Publishing, Margaret Michniewicz, whose support of the former’s research, professionalism, and dedication to academic publishing of art historical scholarship was much appreciated. Dr. Lippert also extends her gratitude to the authors of the project for their commitment to the book’s quality and success. Additionally, Heather Workman, Pandora Wallace, Mary Kelly, and Jessica Balazovich assisted with collating key words and other front and back matter of the book’s content. Lastly, Dr. Lippert would like to thank Dr. Melissa Geiger, Associate Professor of Art History of East Stroudsburg University, for assistance with the project in its genesis, which included the following contributions: feedback on a conference proposal written by Dr. Lippert; assisting Dr. Lippert with administrative tasks in organising a conference on a related theme at the Norton Art Gallery (2011); and, conducting limited e-mail correspondence with prospective authors while Dr. Lippert prepared the book proposal.

Introduction Sarah J. Lippert

Knowing where artists have been, whom they have seen, and at what point in their lives they have experienced new places is often a fundamental consideration for art historians. Connoisseurs can frequently map new stylistic influences upon an artist to journeys of some kind that he or she has taken. Whether as a traveling exhibition, or as travel undertaken by an artist, patron, or critic, few sources of inspiration are as compelling as the experience of a new culture or landscape. Would Nicolas Poussin have become famous, had he not traveled to Rome? Would Caravaggio’s story have been as compelling, had he been able to return to Rome, instead of passing tragically while trying to get home? The impetus for this book is to look at how travel has impacted the trajectory of Western art. Being as expansive as the world is large, the topic is not explored in an exhaustive manner, or even through a comprehensive chronology. Rather, the goal is to highlight the variety of ways in which travel has impacted art and artists across the ages. Providing a sample of the ways in which travel is of relevance to the history of art, this book showcases numerous studies that highlight the power of travel in defining artistic practice. Instead of focusing on merely literal and geographical travel, here the reader will find travel of mental, spiritual, physical, and philosophical modes. Part 1 of the book’s thematic examination of travel, ‘Travel of great import: Culture, class, and politics,’ confronts the inescapable links between travel and culture, politics, and class. The import of travel necessarily is based upon the voyage itself, or the ‘what’ of the matter, whereas the ‘who’ draws attention to the identity of the traveler, and that of others confronted on the trip. In such confrontations, cultural, political, and economic differences and similarities often define the experience. Anyone who has done any travel, particularly to another country, has likely come to learn that a typical trip will be fraught with endless mishaps and surprises. Consequently, humor becomes necessary for basic survival. Indeed, the ability to laugh at oneself is probably the most important item to take with you. In Alice Walkiewicz’s research, it is the very cliché of the foreign traveler that is considered. Demonstrating that the ridiculousness of the modern traveler has been around for a while, this chapter digs into representations of travelers who undertook the traditional ‘Grand Tour,’ in hopes of achieving social status in class-conscious British society. Focusing on the issue of class in caricature, Walkiewicz’s chapter helps to point to a fact about travel that remains true today, which is that it has been largely accessible to the upper classes, with middle-class individuals and families clamoring to achieve the outwards signs of expendable income through travel by train or ship. At times embarrassing to the more elite traveler, English middle-class travelers became the object of many jokes in popular publications, such as

2  Sarah J. Lippert Punch or the London Charivari, but also helped to expand what it meant to be able to travel, and how important it was to class identity. Difference in identity could hardly be more important in the history of Western art than it was during the colonial period; hence, it was certainly necessary to include a chapter on colonial contexts in this collection. Monica Anke Hahn’s chapter, titled ‘Dramatizing the encounter: The performative body in John Webber’s A Man of the Sandwich Islands, Dancing,’ showcases the central importance of travel to many artists during this period. Demonstrating the nexus of issues brought forward by European representations of ‘the other,’ Hahn’s study focuses upon a full-length portrayal of a tattooed gentleman, who was captured during the era of Captain Cook’s expeditions. In this way, the chapter offers a quintessential examination of how travel opens up possibilities for new subjects to be portrayed and presented to the public, but also demonstrates how the documentary value is problematized by the fact that the representation is not a mirror of reality, but is rather a concoction that says as much about the maker’s culture as it does about the individual represented. Although the methodology is well known, Hahn offers original scholarship on an important figural depiction that has received little scholarly attention to date. In the case of Chad Airhart’s essay, the comings and goings of a port city are considered in the context of nineteenth- and early twentieth-century art. Here, we find a sophisticated refinement of the age-old notion of insider versus outsider. Based upon a culture of being ‘in-the-know’ about southern life, Charlestonian artists created works for different patrons: locals and tourists. They themselves were often put into one of these categories. By considering how Charleston was viewed by its residents and visitors, the author establishes that travelers to the city would have been presented with divergent views of place in art that was generated within the city. In art-historical scholarship, Airhart’s chapter is unique in considering how tourist towns struggled with conflicts between real and legendary identities, the latter often being propagated by ‘foreigners’ with little sense of the differences between Charleston as a placed where one lived, and Charleston as a place that one visited. In the second part, titled ‘Travel on a smaller scale: Voyages in the familiar,’ readers will learn about the importance of travel on a small scale, or within the parameters of the minute. A kind of travel that is often overlooked is that which is defined by technology. Scientific discoveries have, throughout history, dramatically altered the ways in which people live their lives (such as the invention of the train), the landscape and physical structure of our environment (including the creation of an automobile world), or the urban infrastructure of possibility created by subway systems. In this vein is the chapter by Elsie Heung, which chronicles portrayals of the ‘El’ train and the subway system in early twentieth-century New York City. Exploring the importance of this subject to the members of the Ashcan School, Heung shows readers the iconographic importance of technological advances in travel to urban life, while demonstrating that ‘advances’ do not necessarily correspond to welcome modifications in one’s environment. In Anna Piperato’s chapter, the reader is confronted with the complexities of ritualistic travel. Analyzing the experiences of Sienese inhabitants during the annual palio (horse race held in Siena’s piazza, in which riders represent individual neighborhoods), the author helps the reader to see how ambulation through a space, whether a street, neighborhood, or city, creates over time a lasting hallowed ground, which becomes sanctified through the awesomeness of the numbers and repetitions of people who

Introduction 3 have joined for the purpose of traveling together for an official or ceremonial event. For the Sienese, moving as a group with one’s neighbors, with whom one shares a national and more individualized identity, became an important component of the annual event, in part because of how many generations of friends and family had made the same trek, but also because the destination marked the auspicious centre of Sienese values, which was epitomized in the public square. The piazza represented democracy, through city hall, the common good, and the free-flowing fountain. In this way, the short but powerfully meaningful journey from home to the piazza and back again for the Sienese palio demonstrates that clichéd notion of the journey being more important than the destination. Stephen Cartwright’s study provides a unique consideration of the everyday travel that one undertakes in a typical day, week, month, or year. As a practicing sculptor who generates installation projects that visualize data from his routine movements, Cartwright shows the reader how one might experience one’s own quotidian movements as leaving a footprint upon the Earth. Through fastidious focus upon mapping his daily travels through GPS markers (using latitude and longitude), Cartwright’s work also demonstrates why the banal travel that we all do every day has become important from the perspective of surveillance societies in the digital age, even if, in his case, Cartwright is tracking himself. The third part, called ‘Imaginary travel and travel of the mind,’ offers several examples whereby flights of ideology opened up possibilities for travel through time, cultures, and ways of thinking. In Gerald Hess’s chapter, the reader finds a much more formal relevance of travel in the history of art and sovereignty. The politics of travel have long been known to rulers from across the ages, who have exploited the potential to increase their prestige and power by visiting the farthest-flung regions of their domains, or who have extended those regions through infiltration into unoccupied lands. Hess’s study demonstrates how the Emperor Hadrian of ancient Rome used travel to impress his authority upon his subjects, and to construct an exaggerated identity for himself and his subjects. At such a time, artworks were particularly important for preserving the lasting effects of imperial visits, as popular media did not yet hold the potential that they do today. As readers will hear, Hadrian’s travels and the accompanying cultural exposure that the cultural and political import of Hadrian’s movements across the ancient world formed a kind of education in foreign ways, for himself and his court, that were worthy of inclusion in a Roman lifestyle. Naturally, the typical conflicts between East and West were a part of this education, as the dominion of Roman rule over others often resulted in an uneasy confluence of traditions that inevitably tended to incur the mistrust of Roman leadership. Offering new interpretations of Hadrianic imagery and their relationship to his empirical travels, Hess’s contribution epitomizes why the study of travel is so important to the interpretation of monuments and works, and why both their location of display and regionally specific import rely upon travel for meaning. An entirely different kind of ideological travel is explored in Liana de Girolami Cheney’s investigation of the connections between Neoplatonism and the Casa Vasari decorations in Giorgio Vasari’s house in Arezzo. As a philosophical construct that has fascinated artists from antiquity to the nineteenth century, Neoplatonism offers

4  Sarah J. Lippert metaphysical notions of travel that are equally important to the history of art as those based upon geographical concepts. Since the Early Modern period, Neoplatonism has connected art to lofty spiritual goals, including the notion that one may escape the drudgeries of daily life through meditation upon beauty and the divine. This has provided many an artist with the opportunity to defend his/her art form as something that can forge links between the viewer and spiritual enlightenment, despite having to express those ideas in material form. The significance of wishful travel, being very unlike the gritty, requisite, and banal explored by other authors, is considered in my chapter on the origins of the arts in France, as perceived by artists and viewers in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. In this chapter I consider how tracking the inherited legacy of travel caused French society to revel in charting a cultural legacy that linked modern France as the blood descendent of ancient Greece. Having come to see the court of French Renaissance King Francis I as the beginning of the birth of beauty and civilization in France, French artists and historians looked to both the physical travel undertaken by Francis I to Italy, and the ideological travel initiated by his concerted importation of ancient traditions into France. Through such a genesis, French historians could then lay down for posterity a history of French culture that documented adoption of ancient values, customs, and tastes by subsequent artists, as well as monarchs and their subjects. Between the Renaissance and the modern era, it became increasingly desirable to cast France as the inheritor of ancient Greek culture especially. My chapter considers how artists contributed to this claim through the selection of specific narratives that, in the context of the neoclassical revival of the nineteenth century, came to represent French notions of national identity as much as they did mythological tales from Greece. At this point, the anthology authors consider the kinds of travel that necessitate bravery and personal commitment; these are featured in ‘Trail blazers: Travel for the brave.’ From colonialism to the defiance of gendered stereotypes, the travelers documented here epitomize why travel is both exhilarating and arduous. Essential to any traveler is, of course, the camera. It is almost impossible to imagine, if one has witnessed the floods of tourists snapping shots of the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, how travelers experienced the new before it became something to be captured through a mechanical device. Was the experience sweeter when it was transitory and limited to a mental picture? On the cusp of the transition between travel remembered and travel captured was the work of Zaida Ben-Yusuf, who was a female traveler who forwarded a new pictorial style of photography in her expeditions to East Asia and elsewhere. She showed her works at her gallery in New York City, in addition to international expositions, and Ben-Yusuf’s work, which is explored by Gillian Greenhill Hannum, provides an important lens through which we may contemplate the significance of this moment in history when the very kind of travel that people undertook was changing. A chapter by Efram Burk similarly highlights practices that are akin to those practiced today, albeit in a different medium. Considering the American artist Marguerite Thompson Zorach, Burk showcases how artist travelers employed popular presses to share their experiences. Whereas this would happen today on Twitter, or some other form of social media, Zorach kept her followers apprised of her experiences while traveling by writing essays that would be featured in publications such as the Fresno Morning Republican. The central role of travel in Zorach’s career is indicative of the traditional ways that travel presented ongoing adventures to describe in visual and literary forms. Popularized during the Grand Tours of the eighteenth and nineteenth

Introduction 5 centuries, Zorach’s openness as a female traveler at this time allowed her to share her travels throughout Europe and its art institutions in a manner that was highly desirable for American readers, who were even more limited than their European counterparts in having to navigate great expanses of land and sea in order to reach the hallowed destinations in the canon of art history. In the context of geographical travel, Caroline Gillaspie’s chapter, on the topic of Georgia O’Keeffe’s and Julie Codesido’s voyages to the Peruvian Andes, helps to demonstrate the significance of one place for many, rather than the effect of one person upon a place, and as such serves as our final chapter. Individuals are often touched by the same things in their ‘tourist’ activities, which likely accounts for the profit to be made in tourist souvenirs; however, in Gillaspie’s case, she shows that an artist may be equally touched by a certain location, at a specific time and place. O’Keeffe, being well-known for her portrayal of early twentieth-century New York City, has become known in the northeast for her dizzying scenes of urban life amongst sky-scrapers and other symbols of a modern metropolis. Her depictions of the southwest, however, reveal the importance of the region in shaping artistic direction and inspiration, especially in the context of inspiration through difference. This chapter epitomizes how the phenomenon of travel can be so important in inaugurating difference into an artist’s œuvre. Approaching the topic from metaphysical to practical, and from the minute to the expansive, the authors of this collection assist readers in understanding the importance of travel to the history of art. Offering an array of kinds of travel, and a bevy of varying types of traveler from across the world, the chapters herein demonstrate the significance of travel as a sociohistorical and methodological framework that may be applied to a seemingly endless number of travel instances. Though not comprehensive, the kinds of travel relevant to the history of art will continue to evolve, just as the modes of travel themselves are transformed, and remain transformative.

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Part 1

Travel of great import Culture, class, and politics

Q Taylor & Francis Taylor & Francis Group

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1 Dramatizing the encounter The performative body in John Webber’s A Man of the Sandwich Islands, Dancing Monica Anke Hahn

Within a few days of the return in 1780 of Captain James Cook’s (1728–79) ships to England from their circumnavigation of the globe, Captain James King and voyage artist John Webber (1751–93) appeared before King George III (1738–1820). Accompanying them was Lord Sandwich (1718–92), the First Lord of the Admiralty, for whom the Hawaiian Islands had been named by Captain Cook. Lord Sandwich later related the events of the meeting in a letter to Sir Joseph Banks, who was a member of the Royal Society and who had accompanied Cook on his first Pacific voyage, which he described this way: I attended Capt. King & Mr. Webber the painter to his Majesty Sunday last at Windsor, where we went thro’ an examination of the drawings, charts & which seemed to give great satisfaction; the drawings are very numerous being 200 in number and I think are exceedingly curious & well executed.1 Many of Webber’s drawings were translated by engravers into printed form and appeared in a separate folio of illustrations and maps that complemented the narratives of Cook’s three voyages (published in 1784). Twelve plates with Hawaiian subjects appeared in this volume, yet only one engraving represents a single, full-length figure (Figure 1.1). The prominence given to the lone person, and to his physical appearance, invites an investigation into the artist’s conceptions of the non-European body. This chapter will examine the complex relationship between the Anglo observer and the subject that it exposes. Although recent examinations of eighteenth-century theater have investigated the complicated power relationships that reveal themselves in stage productions, arthistorical studies have largely ignored the destabilizing implications of references to the stage and performance in contemporary visual culture. This chapter seeks to add to the postcolonial conversation around the representation of Native figures by offering considerations of the role of late eighteenth-century British theatrical culture. More than simply an ethnographic representation that documents the adornment and motion of the subject, the image of this dancing Hawaiian man also embodies the problematic aspects of the eighteenth-century colonial encounter; it addresses how the artist grappled with the challenge of representing the native in this context, using familiar vocabulary in an attempt to describe the novel and alien. I will argue that the elements of gesture, theatricality, and performance impel the viewer to read these images as something more than mere ethnographic documentation or visual subjugation of an exoticized “savage.” Rather, by ascribing a theatrical sense of pantomime

10  Monica Anke Hahn

Figure 1.1  John Webber, A Man of the Sandwich Islands, Dancing, 1784, engraving. Photographic Credit: Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University. Licensing information: PD-ART/PD-old-100.

and fancy to the alien subject, Webber’s images concede a measure of freedom and imagination to that subject, while hinting at a sense of ambivalence and doubt regarding the colonial enterprise itself. The engraving titled A Man of the Sandwich Islands, Dancing is the third of the plates that describe Hawaii in the published volumes that report on Cook’s voyages. The first two are scenes with multiple figures: An Offering Before Captain Cook and

Dramatizing the encounter 11 King of Owhyhee Bringing Presents to Captain Cook; both demonstrate the amicable way in which Cook and his men were received by the native Hawaiians. This third plate, then, is the first that describes a single person in a detailed manner. The man of the Sandwich Islands occupies the majority of the composition, being frozen in his dancing pose. He stands on his left foot while the right is raised in movement, shaking the percussive rows of dogs’ teeth tied around both bare legs below the knee. Around his neck is a choker of seaweed, and circling his waist is tied the malo, or loincloth. Extended in his right hand is the ’ulī’ulī, which is a decorative rattle, made from a gourd and ornamented with woven plant fibers and feathers. The man’s active movements are balanced by his left arm, whose elegantly flexed hand counters the weight of his torso, which leans forward with the shaking of the ’ulī’ulī, and the movement of his raised leg. Regular geometrically patterned tattoos appear on his thighs and on the full length of his arms, and his head is shaved on the sides, revealing a bare scalp on either side of a crest of thick dark hair. The man occupies the slightly rocky foreground of a deep landscape. Behind him, and to his right, stand a thatched hut and a banana tree surrounded by a stone wall, which continues behind the hut and runs across the picture plane, bisecting the composition. It separates the dancer from the far background, which consists of a stand of palm trees, other vegetation, and a distant mountain. Nearly half of the background composition is given over to a sky with billowing clouds, being darker at the right, and becoming increasingly light toward the left. Artists accompanied Captain Cook on all of his voyages, in order to document the topography, animals, plant life, and of course the people.2 This had been the stated mission for the voyage itself, and was also explicitly Webber’s charge. After the members of the Admiralty appointed Webber, they reported to Cook that: We have engaged Mr. John Webber [. . .] in order to make Drawings and Paintings of such places in the Countries you may touch at the course of said voyage as may be proper to give a more perfect idea thereof than can be formed by written descriptions only.3 An engraving of another Hawaiian native, A Man of the Sandwich Islands, in a Mask, appears a few pages after the dancing man in the 1784 publication, “the figure of which may be better conceived from the annexed print, than any written description” (Figure 1.2).4 There was a sense among British empiricists that written accounts alone of the “curious” sights were insufficient, and that only a visual account could evoke the subject’s true appearance. Throughout their accounts of the curiosities that they encountered on their three voyages in the Pacific, Cook and his men remarked on the bodies of the native people, and the unfamiliar ways in which they were adorned. Ship’s Surgeon David Samwell observed the following about Hawaiian tattoo practices: They are tattawed or marked in various parts; some have an arm entirely tattawed, others more frequently the Thighs and Legs, the Lines being continued from the upper part of the Thigh to the foot with various figures between them according to their fancy [. . .] Some few among them had one side of their faces tattawed, & we saw 2 or 3 who had the whole face marked.

12  Monica Anke Hahn

Figure 1.2  John Webber, A Man of the Sandwich Islands, in a Mask, 1784, engraving, published by Nical and Cadell, London, England. Photographic credit: Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University. Licensing information: PD-ART/PD-old-100.

Other adornments, such as hair treatment, were recorded as well. Samwell observed the following about Kahekili, who was the high chief of Maui: [he] is a middle aged man, [who] is rather of a mean appearance, [as] the hair on each side of his head is cut short and a ridge left on the upper part from the forehead to the occiput [is evident], this is a common custom among these people, but each side of his head where the hair was off was tattooed in lines forming half circles which I never saw any other person have.5 Some of these descriptions read not as dispassionate, empirical observation, of course. The written accounts often make prejudicial judgments about the aesthetic merits and morality of the Hawaiians’ bodily adornments. The first reference to Hawaiian tattoos

Dramatizing the encounter 13 came from Captain Cook himself, when he wrote that “Tattowing or staining the skin is practiced here, but not in a high degree, nor does it appear to be directed by any particular mode but rather by fancy.”6 Cook’s condescension toward Hawaiian body art is reflected by his use of the word “fancy” and its contemporary connotations of whimsy and caprice. Following Cook’s second voyage, naturalist Johann Reinhold Forster wrote at length about the bodies of the Polynesians in his Observations made during a Voyage round the World, in a section titled “On the Causes of the Difference in the Races of Men in the South Seas, their Origin and Migration.” In this section, Forster discusses “the organic part of man [. . .] the corporeal varieties, consisting in, 1st, colour; 2nd, size; 3d, form and habit; and 4th, peculiar defects or excesses, or modifications in certain parts of the human body.”7 Here, he describes not only the physiognomic characteristics of certain islanders, which supposedly gave them the appearance of “monkies,” but also the habits of bodily modification, such as ear stretching. Joseph Banks, who had accompanied Cook’s first voyage, had written about the Maori moko tattoos in the following way: “It has the effect of making them most enormously ugly, the old ones at least whose faces are intirely [sic] covered with it.”8 The Anglo observers of the unfamiliar adornments on the bodies of the Polynesians whom they encountered thus recorded them with not only their own prejudices in place, but with a scientific framework that could locate the adorned body below that of the European. Captain James King had also observed the dancing man whom John Webber had depicted. On Tuesday, February 2, 1779, he recorded this passage: We were this day much diverted, at the beach, by the buffooneries of one of the natives. [. . .] His style of dancing was entirely burlesque, and accompanied with strange grimaces, and pantomimical distortions of the face; which though at times inexpressibly ridiculous, yet, on the whole, was without much meaning, or expression. Mr. Webber thought it worth his while to make a drawing of this person, as exhibiting a tolerable specimen of the natives; the manner in which the maro is tied; the figure of the instrument, and of the ornaments round the legs, which, at other times, we also saw used by their dancers.9 Just as Cook had dismissed the Hawaiian tattooing style as being deficient in meaning, so did King conclude that this man’s dance lacked significance. Cook had similarly dismissed the ’ulī’ulī as unsophisticated, writing that, “it does not produce a melody exceeding that of a child’s rattle.”10 In the description of the masked man mentioned above, as well, King was unable to find meaning in this cultural display: We never saw these masks worn but twice, and both times by a number of people together in a canoe, who came up to the side of the ship, laughing and drolling, with an air of masquerading. Whether they may not likewise be used as a defense for the head against stones, for which they seem best designed, or in some of their public games, or merely intended for the purposes of mummery, we could never inform ourselves.11 The mark-making of the Hawaiians similarly lacked the significance of that of the English. King described the superiority of English writing while contemplating the painting of the Sandwich Islanders:

14  Monica Anke Hahn The business of painting belongs entirely to the women, and is called kipparee; and it is remarkable that they always gave the same name to our writing. The young women would often take the pen out of our hands, and shew us that they knew the use of it as well as we did; at the same time telling us that our pens were not so good as theirs. They looked upon a sheet of written paper as a piece of cloth striped after the fashion of our country; and it was not without the utmost difficulty that we could make them understand that ours had a meaning in them which theirs had not.12 Cook and King seem to find the expressions of the Hawaiians—musical, gestural, written—devoid of significance or meaning, especially when compared with those of their own. The lack of sophistication in the expression and technology of the indigenous inhabitants of the South Pacific was again placed firmly within the hierarchical framework of British colonialism. Michael Gaudio has written about technology and colonialism in his book Engraving the Savage: The New World and Techniques of Civilization, which is an important contribution to the scholarship. In it, he argues that contemporary engravings of late sixteenth-century Carolina Algonquians not only functioned as ethnographic records of primitive people, but that the very process of making these images reflected a desire to widen the cultural gap between the technologically advanced Europeans and the technologically poor “savages.” Not only did the indigenous people of Virginia lack the sophisticated technologies of the civilized Europeans, they would not have known what to do with them if they had. Gaudio cites Thomas Harriot, who authored the text that accompanied the engravings of the Algonquians; he listed the numerous instruments that the English showed to the Native Americans and noted that the latter “were so straunge unto them, and so farre exceeded their capacities to comprehend the reason and meanes how they should be made and done, that they thought they were rather the works of gods then of men.”13 We certainly might read the engravings that accompanied the narrative of Cook’s voyages using Gaudio’s valuable framework. In the case of the dancing man, the depiction of the tattoos is particularly interesting. A neat row of patterned markings extends from hip to knee along both thighs and forms scalloped lines around the arms, from shoulder to hand. In Webber’s drawing, from which engraver Charles Grignion worked, these same tattoos are visible. However, in the sketches from which Webber made his drawing, the figure is not tattooed (Figure 1.3). We see the man in three poses, none of which reveals any body marking at all. Certainly ethnographic artists at times would conflate characteristics of multiple “specimens” into one image, but Gaudio’s argument allows for additional consideration of the representation of bodily adornment here. As mentioned above, according to Captain Cook, the Hawaiians’ tattooing style lacked sophistication. What significance, then, might we attach to the engraving of these ordered, regular lines on the body of this man? If we extend Gaudio’s argument to this image, perhaps the reproduction of the tattoo in the technologically advanced medium of engraving allowed him to assert the superiority of the European over the deficient native. Here, the engraver marked the man’s body in a manner that was unavailable to him. Indeed, in many places, it becomes difficult to discern the representation of the tattoo from the artist’s burin marks that indicate shadows. Again, the European artist became able to adorn the Hawaiian body in a process unavailable to the native himself.

Dramatizing the encounter 15

Figure 1.3  John Webber, Four Views of a Man of the Sandwich Islands, 1780, pen, pencil, and wash. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Bishop Museum Library and Archives. Licensing information: PD-ART/PD-old-100.

In addition, the efficiency with which the artist could make an anatomical and ethnographic study in the field, and then conflate the results into an ideal, speaks not only to the superiority of Enlightenment technology, but to the intellect as well. David Samwell mentions in his diary of the voyage that the Resolution carried on board a copy of anatomist Bernardino Genga’s Anatomy Improved and Illustrated with regard to the uses thereof in designing [. . .] demonstrated and exemplified from the most celebrated Statues in Rome. This text, having been consulted by students at the Académie de France à Rome, first appeared in Italian in 1691 and was translated into English in 1723. The poses of Webber’s sketched dancers bear a strong resemblance to those figures in Plates XXI through XXIII (Figure 1.4). The flexed left hands, raised right hands, bent right legs, and the emphasis on the form turning in space, all seem to reference the anatomical text to which Webber had access on the voyage. The way in which Webber depicted his “specimen” through the scientific lens of these anatomical engravings further reveals the wide gap that was perceived to have existed between the intellectually advanced Europeans and the supposedly deficient natives, which the visitors wished to emphasize. Gaudio describes the complicated relationship between the engraved Roman letters in the De Bry prints and the tattoo marks on the bodies of the Algonquians. In an effort to “decode the savage,” the artist attempts to translate the alien, pre-literate marks into a civilized, European sign. This reflects the “transcendent authority of writing in the new world encounter,” according to Gaudio.14 Another print associated with Cook’s third voyage might also be read in this way. It appears as the frontispiece to Thomas Bankes’s A New and Authentic System of Universal Geography (c.1790). A massive volume, this popular text described all of the world’s continents and oceans,

16  Monica Anke Hahn

Figure 1.4  Detail of Tavola XXI from Bernardino Genga’s Anatomy Improved and Illustrated, 1691, engraving. Photographic credit: Anonymous. Licensing information: PD-ART/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

including the recent discoveries made by Cook in the Pacific. In fact, several prints from the folio volume of Cook and King’s Voyage to the Pacific (including A Man of the Sandwich Islands) were reproduced in each of the six editions of Bankes’s geography, published between 1787 and 1797.15 The frontispiece to the text shows Cook himself standing on a cloud, having been immortalized by Neptune and Triton. A Genius hovers over his head, preparing to crown him with an oak wreath, while Fame sounds the trumpet above (Figure 1.5). Cook looks toward the personification of History, who holds a quill poised over her book, ready to record Cook’s dictation, as he gestures in the direction of the distant harbor, where his two ships from the third voyage appear. Below the cloud, on the earth, representatives of the four corners of the earth offer their indigenous goods to a helmeted Brittania. Although others have already read the traditional iconography in this print as a glorification of British exploration and imperialism, an examination of the hierarchy of mark-making using Gaudio’s framework might be helpful as well.16

Figure 1.5  Johann Heinrich Ramberg, Neptune raising Captn. Cook up to immortality, a genius crowning him with a wreath of oak, and Fame introducing him to History. In the front ground are the four quarters of the world presenting to Britannia their various stores. Printed for C. Cooke, 1790, London. Photographic credit: Reproduced by kind permission of the Syndics of Cambridge University Library. RCS.Case.a.107. Licensing information: PD-ART/PD-old-100.

18  Monica Anke Hahn Here, the august words of Cook appear to have been privileged over all other communication that took place. The viewer knows that he is speaking, as History is prepared to record his every word in the great book before her. The other figures in the image—especially the Native figures at the lower left—gesture mutely, their embodied interaction indicating a level of communication that is meant to be inferior to that of the civilized spoken and written word. At the same time, however, perhaps the viewer may read some elements of the image in a way that reflects, as Gaudio suggests, “the incomplete nature of civility and savagery.”17 For instance, the implement wielded by Africa bears a striking, formal resemblance to attributes held by the other figures: History’s quill, Neptune’s trident, and Britannia’s staff with the cap of freedom. It is unclear what Africa holds—perhaps it is a bow or a spear, or an instrument that is capable of making a meaningful mark, as does the quill. Further, among the offerings laid at the base of Britannia’s throne are ones that were meant to reflect a more civilized, and less savage, impulse. In addition to what may be an ivory tusk (and sticks or other implements), there appears an ornamented urn with other objects, whose surfaces seem to have been worked in some way. Possibly the mark on the object in front of the urn, just below the hand of Africa, was carved or embossed by that hand, which is a mark that has the potential to carry meaning. Indeed, King seems to have been rather uneasy that the Hawaiians called English writing by the same name as their own mark-making; this perchance made others uncomfortable by the insufficient distinction between his civilized marks and theirs. Here, the primacy of the written word as the only meaningful mark may have been destabilized, the artist creating only a “fiction of his own civilized authority.”18 At this point, it is useful to return to A Man of the Sandwich Islands and expand on Gaudio’s thesis to introduce an additional way of reading this print. Gaudio primarily focuses on the sixteenth-century prints, but his valuable study does not examine those produced in the context of Cook’s Pacific expeditions two hundred years later, when the British Empire dramatically expanded its terrestrial and visual realm.19 I would argue that this print contains greater visual complexity than those complexities discussed in Gaudio’s book, primarily because of its emphasis on performance and theatricality. Not only is the print’s figure engaged in the performative act of dancing, but the artist also emphasizes this bodily display as one that assumes an audience. His large presence at the front of the picture plane, coupled with his eye contact with the viewer and somewhat mannered gestures, call to mind a theatrical performance. The theatrical connotations in the visual description of the dancing man are furthered by King’s written account, as he described the dance as a burlesque and compared his actions to pantomime. Though known since ancient and medieval times, this English dramatic form, which was similar to Commedia dell’Arte, became known as Pantomime in the eighteenth century and was immensely popular. It featured stock characters, such as Harlequin, who was a comic persona often engaged in improvisational, slapstick physical comedy. These characters functioned as stereotypical, stylized representations with whom audience members could identify, and whose actions usually had the intention of collapsing the distinctions between high and low culture. For example, among the standard plotlines in a pantomime was the ability of Harlequin to transform a character, even himself, into another character, or into a completely different person—such as a queen into a servant, or an old woman into a judge.20 Although most pantomime actors were anonymous, their identities subsumed by those of the stock characters, one of the early, famous pantomime actors was John

Dramatizing the encounter 19 Rich, whose performances were lauded by the public. A 1758 article referred to him as an “immortal pantomime poet,” and his likeness was published in an engraving (Figure 1.6). King and Webber would have been familiar with the conventions of the Harlequin character and the popular lexicon of this contemporary dramatic form. King’s use of the term “buffoonery” to describe the dancer’s feats can also be related to the theater, as can his description of the actions of the “drolling” and “masquerading” canoers, which seemed to King like “mummery.” In just one of many publications, a 1759 article on the history of theater refers to “the buffoonery of pantomime,” masks and mumming plays being commonplace in late eighteenthcentury entertainment.21 Indeed, after his return to London, John Webber became involved with one of the most popular pantomimes in the history of British theater. OMAI: Or, a Trip Round the World was a pantomime that opened in December 1785, having been deliberately designed to be a blockbuster; its subject was the Tahitian called Mai, whom Cook had brought back to London on his second voyage. Webber consulted on the play, even painting some of the scenery, and perhaps lent or sold some of his personal artifacts that he collected on his voyage. The Morning Post reported that

Figure 1.6  Anonymous, John Rich as Harlequin, 1753, etching, published in Henry Saxe Wyndham, The Annals of Covent Garden Theatre from 1732–1897, volume 1 by Chatto and Windus, London, 1906, p. 6. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Victoria and Albert Museum, London. Licensing information: PD-ART/PD-old-100.

20  Monica Anke Hahn Mr. Webber, who was with Capt. Cook in his last voyage, gave the information how to dress the characters in the new Pantomime of Omai; and it was from that Gentleman’s drawings, done on the spot, that many of the scenes are taken. The moon light one particularly, which was much admired, we are informed, was wholly painted by Mr. Webber. The Pantomime featured all the stock characters in addition to the lead character of Omai: Harlequin, the love interest, the Clown and the Villain. Londina, the daughter of Britannia, is to marry Omai, heir to Tahiti’s throne. Numerous rivals scheme to prevent the union of the lovers and their countries, and Omai and Londina embark on a journey that resembles Cook’s third voyage in an attempt to thwart their enemies. The play ends in Tahiti with the presentation of a British sword to Omai, who is hailed as an ally to Britain.22 One of the features of pantomime was satire; social conventions and hierarchies were often mocked in these farces by the stock plot being modified to address issues of the day. David Garrick, as one of the most famous English actors of the eighteenth century, had imagined Omai as a revival of the 1721 Arlequin Sauvage, which had been originally staged in Paris. In this earlier work, which also had an indigenous man as an out-of-place visitor to Europe, the Native-American “savage” lampoons Parisian customs and manners in an overt satire of “civilized” French society and culture. Although the script for Omai was not so overtly satirical—Garrick discarded his original plan to make Omai a revival of the earlier play—several scholars have read this play as a subtle critique that “challenges [. . .] Britain’s civilizing influence on the Pacific.”23 In light of the contemporary popularity of the pantomime in Britain at this time, and its tendency to satirize the social order, what does it mean, then, for King and Webber to invoke these dramaturgical tropes in reference to the dancing man? Like an anonymous actor on the stage, he performs his pantomime for the viewer. Though his individuality is subsumed by Webber, his actions and his pose are familiar. His body and gestures are stylized and also idealized. Perhaps we may see in this image the influence of eighteenth-century trends in philosophy regarding the Natural Human, the Noble Savage, or other pre-Romantic theories about morality and civilization, such as those proposed by Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–78). In fact, the popular Arlequin Sauvage made a great impression on Rousseau.24 In his famous 1758 letter to d’Alembert, Rousseau attributed the play’s success to an original and captivating view of nature, explained in this way: If the Arlequin sauvage is so well received by Audiences, is it thought that this is a result of their taste for the character’s sense and simplicity, or that a single one of them would want to resemble him? It is, all to the contrary, that this Play appeals to their turn of mind, which is to love and seek out new and singular ideas. Now there is nothing newer for them than what has to do with nature.25 In 1754, Rousseau had written that an emerging society (such as that in which the dancing man lives) exists in an ideal moment—“‘the golden mean’ between the ‘indolence of the original state of nature and the petulant activity of modern pride, [is] the best period the human race has ever known.’”26 Indeed, even Cook, in his journal description of New South Wales, took the natives of that place to be living in a kind of blissful innocence, writing that, “they are far more happier than we Europeans; being

Dramatizing the encounter 21 wholly unacquainted not only with the superfluous but the necessary conveniences so much sought after in Europe, they are happy in not knowing the use of them. They live in a Tranquility which is not disturb’d by the Inequality of Condition.”27 For Rousseau and other romantic primitivists, the goodness of man in the ideal state was at risk from the corruption of the civilized state. In Man of the Sandwich Islands, Dancing, the dancer’s dramatic, highlighted pose, the sublime scenery, and the moody sky with billowing clouds reflect a visual style that departs emphatically from the more scientific approach of Enlightenment naturalism (as compared, for example, with the image of a New Zealand native by William Hodges, who was the artist on Cook’s second voyage; Hodges eschews a background entirely and does not pose the figure dramatically). It is suggested here that Webber’s print becomes further complicated by these Romantic references (Figure 1.7). The dancer’s gesture and pose also reflect conventions of movement in eighteenthcentury European theater. Jonathan Barber, in his manual of oratory and acting (which was based on the eighteenth-century treatise by Gilbert Austin), described appropriate gestures, as well as very specific positions, for actors’ limbs and extremities during a performance:

Figure 1.7  Sydney Parkinson, Portrait of a New Zealand Man, 1777, engraving, published in A Collection of Drawings made in the Countries visited by Captain Cook in his First Voyage, 1768–1771 (1769, 1773). Photographic credit: Courtesy of the British Library. Licensing information: Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

22  Monica Anke Hahn To render a gesture magnificent the hand and arm must move through ample space, the arm must be detached from the side and extended to its limit, the action must be flowing and unrestrained, the preparations made by a graceful curve, and the retired arm must, on proper occasions, accompany and sustain the advanced one.28 For one arm to sustain the other, a 1797 elocution manual admonished that, “whenever you make use of the left, let it be only to accompany the other, and never lift it up so high as the right.”29 The mannered dancer’s pose bears strong similarities to the theatrical gestures described above, and even resembles one of the engravings that visually depicted the gestures described in Austin’s manual of oratory and acting. The connection between art and the eighteenth-century stage is a strong one. Indeed, actors were encouraged to study portrayals of figures in paintings and sculptures as lessons in posture and gesture. The London playwright Charles Gildon wrote that The studying [of] History-Painting would be very useful on the Occasion, because the Knowledge of the Figure and Lineaments of the Represented (and in the History-Pieces almost all, who are represented [on stage] are to be found) will teach the Actor to vary and change his Figure, which would make him not always the same, as I have said, in all Parts, but his very Countenance so chang’d, that they [the actors] would not only have other Thoughts themselves, but raise others in the Audience.30 The Genga text to which Webber had access on his voyage included, not only anatomical images, but also reproductions of famous ancient sculptures, seen from different angles. Again, however, it is significant that even here we may relate eighteenth-century theatrical conventions to evocations of the classical. Actors and singers often copied, while on stage, a particular gesture or attitude from a famous work of art.31 In 1753, the English actor Theophilus Cibber remarked of one of his contemporaries that Mr. Booth’s Attitudes were all picturesque.—He had a good Taste for Statuary and Painting, and where he could not come at original Pictures, he spared no Pains or Expence to get the best Drawings and Prints: These he frequently studied, and sometimes borrowed Attitudes from, which he so judiciously introduced, so finely executed, and fell into them with so easy a Transition, that these masterpieces of his Art seemed but the Effect of Nature.32 Roger Pickering in the following wrote contemporaneously: As to the politer Stages of the Classical ANTIENTS, I conceive their chief Power of pleasing lay in their Attitudes, and the management of their Limbs. They had the most finish’d Paintings and Statues, obvious to their Inspection; and by producing these Attitudes express’d by them, upon the Stage, could not fail to give great satisfaction to their noble and polite Audiences.33 Webber’s representation of the Dancing Man, in its evocation of performance, and the imitation by the Hawaiian of contemporary theatrical tropes again bring to mind for the viewer unsettling possibilities regarding the essential superiority of European art

Dramatizing the encounter 23 and manners. Especially as it was the pantomime mode that Webber, Cook and King invoked—based as it was on mimicry and impersonation—the dancing man becomes an agent of critique and potential transformation. Homi Bhabha has theorized that the imitation of the dress and habits of their colonizers by indigenous peoples can destabilize the colonial power structure. He writes: [Mimicry] is the process of the fixation of the colonial as a form of cross-classificatory, discriminatory knowledge within an interdictory discourse, and therefore necessarily raises the question of authorization of colonial representations; a question of authority that goes beyond the subject’s lack of priority (castration) to a historical crisis in the conceptuality of colonial man as an object of colonial power, as the subject of racial, cultural, national representation.34 Thus, even as King and Webber appear to dismiss the appearance and actions of this dancing man through their patronizing attitudes, which were justified by their belief in superior European technology and authority, his ability to adopt European styles and manners with such performative ease might speak to this “historical crisis,” as Bhabha mentions. The emphasis here on mimicry, or on the theater and pantomime, makes this an image that can be read, neither as a purely ethnographic description, nor simply as a colonialist representation of the exoticized savage. Thus, I would suggest that the theatrical conventions that appear in Webber’s Dancing Man afford the image an aesthetic framework that destabilizes both Cook and King’s notions of the insignificance of the Native Hawaiian performance. The theater-goer’s identification with the gestural and theatrical tropes enable a more complicated reading of the representations of South-Pacific Islanders encountered on the third voyage than has been offered previously. The engravings produced after the voyage proved very popular, and numerous editions of the account and the images were issued in the years following the initial volumes of 1784. As aforementioned, some images were also copied and included in popular geographical literature. Between 1788 and 1792, Webber published a set of 16 loose prints that were based on drawings that he made on the voyage, but that were different from those that had been published previously. The first edition of Views in the South Seas he published himself, and subsequent editions of the popular series were sold by John Boydell, who was one of the most successful publishers in England at the time.35 One of these images warrants a brief examination because of its relationship to the notions of performance and spectatorship, and to artistic production and audience reception. Waheiadooa, Chief of Oheitepeha, lying in State shows the funerary hut of the Tahitian chief, which Cook had observed in August 1777 (Figure 1.8). The shrouded body of Waheiadooa lies on a thatched-roofed bier, attended to by a priest, who lays offerings at the foot of the body. This is covered by another thatched canopy, which is bordered by a low green foreground, a large tree and bushes on the left, and by smaller, more distant trees, and a light-filled sky to the right. Cook had written about the funerary practices of the Tahitians, about which he confessed to understanding very little. He described a heiva (a dance gathering), which he witnessed on his first voyage, after a funeral that involved costumes and performance. He noted the following: “I know not the reason for their performing this ceremony, which they call Heiva, a name they give to most of their divertisements.”36

24  Monica Anke Hahn

Figure 1.8  John Webber, Waheiadooa, Chief of Oheitepeha, lying in State, 1788, aquatint and soft-ground etching. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Temple University. Licensing information: PD-ART/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

And, of another heiva, he wrote that, “There were likewise some men who acted a kind of a Farce but this was so short that we could gather nothing from it only that it shew’d that this People have a notion of Dramatick performances.”37 Cook admitted that Tahitian religion was a thing I have learned so little of that I hardly dare to touch upon it, and should have passed it over in silence, was it not my duty as well as inclination to insert in this Journal every and the least knowledge I may obtain of a People.38 Nevertheless, much of his description of ceremonies and celebrations of a religious nature seem to dismiss these performances as lacking in meaning, or as mere “divertissements.” Although Webber’s print does not depict a heiva, a priest is engaged in the ritual act of attending to the chief’s body. In Waheiadooa, again, quite literal references to the theater are evident. The “toopapoo,” being known as the traditional elevated bier upon which the body was laid, stands as though on a stage, separated spatially from the surrounding landscape by a rather large gap. One later description of the drawing on which the print is based refers to the “funerary stage.”39 The priest does not perform for the viewer, but instead is engrossed in his activities. He is unaware of being beheld by the observer as he goes about his “absorptive practice,” to use Michael Fried’s term from his book Absorption and Theatricality: Painting and Beholder in the Age of Diderot. Fried’s thesis that the relationship between painting and beholder is a

Dramatizing the encounter 25 paradoxical one is useful in considering the public reception of, and audience identification with, prints of Southern-Pacific subjects. Fried argues that eighteenth-century depictions of figures engaged in absorptive practices at once create a fiction that denies the presence of a viewer, while simultaneously enthralling the observer by suggesting that the scene rendered can provide access to “truth and conviction.”40 Webber’s ostensibly documentary representation of this event, then, might have established this same relationship between itself and the viewers of its many editions. Here again, the notion of insignificant performance is destabilized through the associations being drawn between the subject and viewer. It is helpful to return to the complicated role of mark-making and inscriptions at this juncture. Whereas the prints that appeared in Cook and King’s 1784 folio volume had been engraved after the drawings made by the various voyage artists, Webber made his prints in Views in the Pacific using the relatively new process of soft-ground etching. First practiced only a few decades earlier, this technique used a soft ground on a copper plate, over which a piece of paper was laid. The act of drawing on the paper caused the ground to be lifted from the plate, exposing it to the mordant. This allowed the marks made on the plate to be far more gestural than those incised with a burin. Sometimes also called chalk engraving, because of the prints’ similarities in appearance to chalk drawings or artists’ sketches, contemporary writers praised this new method for its versatility and expressiveness. The anonymous author of the early nineteenthcentury Treatises on the Fine Arts claimed that, “There are few or no methods of Engraving so successful as this in accomplishing the intended purpose. Many prints of this kind so closely resemble drawings in red chalk that they might be mistaken for their originals.”41 It is not insignificant that it is the same hand—Webber’s—that makes the marks on the plate, whose printed form the viewer sees as the finished product. When used to create original compositions, rather than for copying master drawings, as it so often was, soft-ground etching collapses the normally important distinction between artist and engraver. Usually, as Gaudio argues, the reproductive engraver’s lines find no comfortable niche; they “are condemned to be always approaching or growing more distant from one or the other of these idealized poles: neither author nor savage, neither hand nor machine, they are forever developing.”42 On the one hand, Webber’s direct, gestural marks on the plate echo those of the civilized pen, yet, on the other, perhaps they differ not so much from the “kipparee” painted marks that King observed in Hawaii and deemed to be without meaning. Again, as in A Man of the Sandwich Islands, the representation of the observed Native becomes complicated as the boundaries between civility and savagery remain unclear, even fluid. As descriptions of life and practices in the Pacific, Webber’s prints resist a hard separation between civilized and the savage. By affording his subjects some agency through the use of gestures and theatrical tropes familiar to his large audience, the distinction between observer and specimen collapses, complicating the normally expected power relationships in the imperialist project. Before his departure with Cook on his third Polynesian expedition, Webber wrote to his cousin about his commission by the Admiralty to serve as voyage artist. In this letter he wrote about his desire “to know, to sail and to see far away and unknown countries,” and that he hoped upon his return to “distinguish [himself] with images of novelties.”43 He clearly managed to accomplish his objective. The 1784 account of Cook’s voyages that Webber’s images accompanied was very successful, and he went on to become a Royal Academician by 1791.44 His role during and after this voyage of

26  Monica Anke Hahn exploration and discovery was to communicate meaning about the people and the lands to which he had traveled. It was necessary for him to do so using well-known, culturally specific visual tropes to represent that which was so alien to the audience at home. And yet, the representation of the Man of the Sandwich Islands, Dancing seems to go beyond the mere description of novelty, as has been argued. It reveals much about the role of artistic invention and cultural projection in Britain’s imperial encounter with the Pacific New World in the late eighteenth century. Although it appears to reflect some of the negative contemporary attitudes toward the exotic indigenous people of Polynesia, it at the same time contains visual references to a more ambivalent sentiment regarding contact with native peoples—on the one hand, the desire to civilize, and, on the other, the more Romantic concerns regarding the Natural Man. Certainly more than simply an ethnographic representation that documents the adornment practices of the subject, this engraving locates the body of the native Hawaiian within a European philosophical framework that speaks in a complicated way about status and power. Whether or not we go so far as to call this a Hawaiian Harlequin, who challenges the hierarchy of the English power structure, the work seems to reflect a kind of moral hesitancy about the colonialist civilizing impulse at this historical moment.

Notes 1 Quoted by Rüdiger Joppien and Bernard Smith, The Art of Captain Cook’s Voyages, vol. 3 (New Haven, CT: Paul Mellon Centre for Studies in British Art and Yale University Press, 1985), p. 158. 2 See Bronwen Douglas, “Art as Ethno-historical Text: Science, Representation and Indigenous Presence in Eighteenth and Nineteenth-century Oceanic Voyage Literature,” in Double Vision: Art Histories and Colonial Histories in the Pacific, eds. Nicholas Thomas and Diane Losche (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). 3 J.C. Beaglehole, The Journals of Captain James Cook on His Voyages of Discovery: The Voyage of the Resolution and Discovery, 1776–1780. Pt. 1–2 (Cambridge: Hakluyt Society at Cambridge University Press, 1967), p. 1507. 4 James King, James Cook, and Great Britain Admiralty, A Voyage to the Pacific Ocean. Undertaken, by the Command of His Majesty, for Making Discoveries in the Northern Hemisphere, to Determine the Position and Extent of the West Side of North America; Its Distance from Asia; and the Practicability of a Northern Passage to Europe. Performed Under the Direction of Captains Cook, Clerke, and Gore, in His Majesty’s Ships the Resolution and Discovery, in the Years 1776, 1777, 1778, 1779, and 1780, vol. 3 (London: W. & A. Strahan, for G. Nicol & T. Cadell, 1784), p. 139. 5 Quoted in Adrienne Kaeppler, “Hawaiian Tattoo: A Conjunction of Genealogy and Aesthetics,” in Marks of Civilization: Artistic Transformations of the Human Body, ed. Arnold Rubin (Los Angeles, CA: Museum of Cultural History, University of California, Los Angeles, 1988), pp. 158–9; Tattoo: Bodies, Art, and Exchange in the Pacific and the West, eds. Nicholas Thomas, Anna Cole, and Bronwen Douglas (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005). 6 Cook quoted in Kaeppler, in Rubin, Marks of Civilization, p. 158. 7 Johann Reinhold Forster, Observations made during a Voyage Round the World, eds. Nicholas Thomas and Harriet Guest (Honolulu, HI: University of Hawaii Press, 1778), pp. 172–90. 8 Thomas, Cole, and Douglas, Tattoo, p. 45. 9 King, Cook, and Admiralty, A Voyage to the Pacific Ocean, vol. 3, p. 27. 10 King, Cook, and Admiralty, A Voyage to the Pacific Ocean, vol. 2, p. 236. 11 King, Cook, and Admiralty, A Voyage to the Pacific Ocean, vol. 3, pp. 139–40. 12 King, Cook, and Admiralty, A Voyage to the Pacific Ocean, vol. 3, p. 149. Ki’i palapala literally means “image document.” Mary Kawena Pukui and Samuel H. Elbert, Hawaiian Dictionary (Honolulu, HI: University of Hawaii Press, 1986).

Dramatizing the encounter 27 13 Michael Gaudio, Engraving the Savage: The New World and Techniques of Civilization (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 2008), p. xix. 14 Gaudio, Engraving the Savage, p. 5. See also David Worrall, Harlequin Empire: Race,Ethnicity and the Drama of the Popular Enlightenment, The Enlightenment World (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2007). For additional reading on the colonialist savage or civilized views of Native populations, see also Edges of Empire: Orientalism and Visual Culture, eds. Jocelyn Hackforth-Jones and Mary Roberts, New Interventions in Art History (Malden, MA, and Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2005), and Ter Ellingson, The Myth of the Noble Savage (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2001). 15 Alan Frost, “Thomas Bankes’s ‘A New Royal Authentic and Complete System of Universal Geography,’” The La Trobe Journal 8 (Oct. 1971), p. 91; The full title of Bankes’s geography was A New and Authentic System of Universal Geography, Ancient and Modern: All the Late Important Discoveries Made by the English, and Other Celebrated Navigator of Various Nations, in the Different Hemispheres, from the Celebrated Columbus, the First Discoverer of America, to the Death of Our No Less Celebrated Contryman Captain Cook,&c. and Containing a Genuine History and Description Whole World, as Consisting of Empires, Kingdoms, States, Republics, Provinces, Continents, Islands, Oceans, &c. with the Various Countries, Cities, Towns, Promontories, Capes, Bays, Peninsulas, Isthmusses, Gulphs, Rivers, Harbours, Lakes, Mountains, Volcanos, Deserts, &c. Europe Asia, Africa, and America: Together with Their Respective Situations, Extent, Latitude, Longitude, Boundaries, Climate, Soil, Natural and Artificial Curiosities, Mines, Metals, Minerals, Trees, Shrubs, Fruits, Flowers, Herbs, and Vegetable Productions. With an Account of the Religion,Laws, Customs, Manners, Genius, Habits Amusements, and Ceremonies of the Respective Inhabitants: Their Arts, Sciences, Manufactures, Trade, Commerce, Military and Civil Governments, &c. Also Exact Descriptions of the Various Kinds of Beasts, Birds, Fishes, Amphibious Creatures, Reptiles, Infects, &c. Together with a Complete History of Every Empire, Kingdom, and State. Also an Account of the Most Remarkable Battles, Sieges, Sea-fights, and Various Revolutions That Have Taken Place in Different Parts of the World. The Whole Forming an Authentic and Entertaining Account Every Thing Worthy of Notice Throughout the Whole Face of Nature, Both by Land and Water. In Which Is Introduced, to Illustrate the Work, a Considerable Number of the Most Accurate Whole Sheet Maps, Forming a Complete Atlas. To Which Is Added a Complete Guide to Geography, Astronomy the Use of the Globes, Maps, &c. with an Account of the Rise, Progress, and Present State, of Navigation, Throughout the Known World. Likewise Containing Every Important, Interesting, and Valuable Discovery Throughout the Whole of Captain Cook’s Voyages Round the World. Together with Those of the Modern Circumnavigators, Particularly Byron, Carteret, Wallis, Clerke, Gore, King, Forrest, and Wilson. Also Containing a Particular Account of the Pelew Islands. And the Latest Accounts of the English Colony of Botany Bay: With a Particular Description of Port Jackson, Norfolk Island, &c. Where the Convicts Are Now Settled. The Whole Forming a Complete Collection of Voyages and Travels. By the Rev. Thomas Bankes, Vicar of Dixton, in Monmouthshire and Author of the Christian’s Family Bible. Edward Warren Blake, Esq. Alexander Cook, Esq. and Thomas Lloyd. Embellished with Near Two Hundred Beautiful Engravings, Consisting, of Views, Antiquities, Customs, Ceremonies, &c. Together with Whole Sheet Maps, Plans, Charts, &c. Executed in a Much Superior Stile Than Any Work of the Like Kind That Has Ever Appeared in This Kingdom. 16 The frontispiece iconography of the frontispiece as imperialist narrative is examined in Bernard Smith, Imagining the Pacific: In the Wake of the Cook Voyages (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992), pp. 234–5. 17 Gaudio, Engraving the Savage, p. 9. 18 Gaudio, Engraving the Savage, p. 43. 19 See Bernard Smith, Imagining the Pacific, for a discussion of the imperial and visual expansion of British subjects and subject matter. 20 See John O’Brien, “Pantomime,” in The Cambridge Companion to British Theatre, 1730–1830, Cambridge Companions to Literature, eds. Jane Moody and Daniel O’Quinn (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007); John O’Brien, Harlequin Britain:Pantomime and Entertainment, 1690–1760 (Baltimore, MD: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004); and David Worrall, Harlequin Empire.

28  Monica Anke Hahn 21 Bruce A. McConachie, Phillip B. Zarrilli, Gary Jay Williams, and Carol Fisher Sorgenfrei, Theatre Histories: An Introduction (Taylor & Francis, 2010), pp. 349–50; The London Magazine; or, Gentleman’s Monthly Intelligencer (London: printed by C. Ackers for J. Wilford, 1759), p. 139; The Centinel (London: printed by T. Trye, 1758), p. 64. 22 Quoted in Daniel O’Quinn, Staging Governance: Theatrical Imperialism in London, 1770–1800 (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005), p. 90. For more on the “Omai” pantomime and pantomime in general, see National Library of Australia, Cook & Omai: The Cult of the South Seas (Antipodes Books and Beyond, 2001); Worrall, Harlequin Empire. 23 See Christa Knellwolf in Australia, Cook & Omai. 24 Stelio Cro, “Classical Antiquity, America, and the Myth of the Noble Savage,” in The Classical Tradition and the Americas, eds. Wolfgang Haase and Meyer Reinhold (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1993), p. 413. 25 Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Alan Bloom, Letter to D’Alembert and Writings for the Theater (Lebanon, NH: Dartmouth, 2004), pp. 264–5. See also Rousseau’s [[AQ2]]Discourse on the Origin and Basis of Inequality Among Men, p. 1754. 26 Quoted in Maurice Cranston, The Noble Savage: Jean-Jacques Rousseau, 1754–1762 (London: Allen Lane/Penguin, 1991), p. 304. 27 National Library of Australia, “Cook’s Journal: Daily Entries, Aug., 4, 1769,” http://south seas.nla.gov.au/journals/cook/17690804.html 28 Quoted in Dene Barnett, The Art of Gesture: The Practices and Principles of 18th Century Acting, Reihe Siegen; Anglistische Abteilung Bd. 64 (Heidelberg, Germany: C. Winter, 1987), pp. 340–1. Emphasis is original to the manuscript. 29 Quoted in Barnett, The Art of Gesture, p. 342. Emphasis is original to the manuscript. 30 Quoted in Barnett, The Art of Gesture, p. 123. 31 The popular nineteenth-century tableau vivant tradition of staging figural groupings from famous paintings had its beginnings at this time. The Commedia dell’Arte actor Carlo Bertinazzi had, in 1760, included a recreation of Greuze’s painting The Village Betrothal in the ballet pantomime Les Noces d’Arlequin. See “living picture [tableau vivant],” in The Cambridge Guide to Theatre (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000). 32 Quoted in Barnett, The Art of Gesture, p. 127. 33 Quoted in Barnett, The Art of Gesture, p. 127. Emphasis is original to the manuscript. 34 Homi Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London and New York: Routledge, 2004), p. 129. Emphasis is original to the manuscript. 35 In the 1790s, John Boydell produced a famous edition of Shakespeare’s plays and a folio of prints by eminent painters and engravers that was reissued numerous times through the nineteenth century. 36 James Cook, “Captain Cook’s Journal During His First Voyage Round the World Made in H.M. Bark ‘Endeavour’ 1768–71” (Jul., 1769), The University of Adelaide Library, http:// ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/c/cook/james/c77j 37 National Library of Australia, “Cook’s Journal: Daily Entries, Aug. 4, 1769,” http://southseas. nla.gov.au/journals/cook/17690804.html 38 James Cook, “Captain Cook’s Journal During His First Voyage Round the World.” 39 See the print on the website of the Captain Cook Birthplace Museum, www.captcook-ne. co.uk/ccne/exhibits/11378/ 40 Michael Fried, Absorption and Theatricality: Painting and Beholder in the Age of Diderot (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1980), p. 104. 41 Treatises on the Fine Arts (London: Richard Griffin, undated), p. 826. 42 Gaudio, Engraving the Savage, p. 165. 43 Quoted in Smith, Imagining the Pacific, p. 196. 44 The initial publication of the account, produced in three volumes with an accompanying folio atlas, sold out of its first 2,000 copies in three days. See Joppien and Smith, The Art of Captain Cook’s Voyages, vol. 3, p. 169.

2 The humor of circumstance Caricature and the foreign tour of the British middle class Alice J. Walkiewicz

Travel was revolutionized in the early nineteenth century as innovation in steam made it faster, easier, and cheaper. In the subsequent years, as the means of transportation changed, the demographics of both national and international travel transformed alongside it. Foreign travel, which had previously been a privilege restricted to the aristocracy through the august tradition of the Grand Tour, was suddenly appropriated by a new, burgeoning middle class in the nineteenth century.1 This chapter will explore the changes in the experience of foreign travel that arose out of this shift in class dynamics in the nineteenth century, and will expand the discussion of this phenomenon by examining how this transformation was reflected in contemporary visual culture through caricature. Participation in the aristocratic Grand Tour of the eighteenth century, and the emerging international mass tourism of the nineteenth century were both largely a British phenomenon. Therefore, this examination will specifically focus upon the experience of the British foreign tourist travels on the European Continent. Images reflecting this sociocultural transformation of travel mores in the nineteenth century materialized around mid-century with caricatures of the British tourist. Repre­ sentations of Continental travel appeared in both the famed British comedic magazine Punch and Richard Doyle’s (1824–83) humorous picture-story, The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson (which Doyle, as a former illustrator for Punch, actually began within the pages of that publication in 1850 under the title of “The Pleasure Trips of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson”).2 Both Punch and The Foreign Tour were successful in their day, and each was recognized for being distinctly British in nature and was appreciated by contemporary audiences for its topicality. As a form of visual culture that was widely accessible, caricatures serve as a valuable resource for understanding nineteenth-century society. This study will closely examine the visual language used by the satirical publications of Punch and The Foreign Tour to address concerns about the rising middle classes in England at mid-century, through caricatures of the insular, haughty British bourgeoisie traveling through foreign countries. The magazine Punch was the most popular and frequently discussed periodical in the mid-nineteenth century. It was widely talked about within all social strata of British society, because of the relevance of its commentary to modern society. As described by a nineteenth-century contemporary of the magazine: Punch is an English periodical; you must be an Englishman to understand the allusions. The humor is essentially and almost exclusively English; it would never attain any great popularity in other English-speaking nations, in spite of its undoubted claim to be the first comic journal in the world.3

30  Alice J. Walkiewicz Founded in 1841, Punch’s readership quickly expanded beyond the middle-class audience for which it was originally intended, extending all the way up to the pinnacle of British society: Queen Victoria herself (1819–1901).4 Although its fame was not equal to the extent of the illustrious Punch, Doyle’s The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson did achieve popular success in its day (it was published in both England and the United States during the author’s lifetime). Doyle’s work was both fundamentally middle-class and characteristically British; contemporary audiences acknowledged and recognized that his work reflected common experiences from their own travels abroad.5 As the contemporaneous bio­ grapher Graham Everitt observed of the episodes of The Foreign Tour, “Graphically relating the experiences of the most ordinary class of continental tourists, they cannot fail to bring to the recollection even of the most commonplace traveler some of the experiences which may have actually happened to himself.”6 Clearly, Everitt (who actually began writing about Doyle’s life while the illustrator was still alive) recognized something familiar from the British tourist’s experience abroad in Doyle’s Foreign Tour. Thus, just as Punch was renowned for its topicality for modern British society, The Foreign Tour also spoke to a common British understanding. It is, therefore, not surprising that both of these sources should depict this new phenomenon of the middle-class traveler abroad, and, as both had comedic intentions, exploit contemporary stereotypes of this Continental tourist for their own humorous purposes. Published in 1851, Doyle’s “The Pleasure Trips of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson” appeared amid the anticipation of the very first international exhibition, held in London in 1851: the Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of all Nations (also known as The Great Exhibition). Likewise, Doyle’s book version of The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson was initially published the year before the first international exhibition in Paris (the Exposition universelle of 1855), which also signaled the beginning of Thomas Cook’s (1808–92) foreign tours and the birth of the modern tourist industry. In this period from 1850–5, between the first London and Paris international exhibitions, it is only natural that, in addition to Doyle’s Foreign Tours, many other images representing international travel should have appeared in the issues of a topical magazine such as Punch. Furthermore, given the shift in class dynamics in the nineteenth century, it is only fitting that such images of international travel should depict the newly emergent, middle-class tourist, who chose to demonstrate his newfound affluence through a trip to the Continent.

Democratizing the Grand Tour British travel abroad always held an educational purpose. In the eighteenth century, a trip to the Continent was seen as a necessity towards completing a young man’s secondary education once he had finished at university, so as to refine his manners and offer him real-world experience before he started his career. The British were also particularly attracted to the foreign tour, because, living on an island apart from the rest of Europe, they felt disconnected from the site that they associated with their own cultural history: the ancient city of Rome. In both the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, British secondary education more specifically meant a classical education.7 William Whewell, who was the Master of Trinity from 1841 to 1866, described the British conception of a quality education in the mid-nineteenth century, identifying that

The humor of circumstance 31 Those two great families of writers, the Greek and the Roman Classics, form the intellectual ancestors of all the cultivated minds of modern times; and we must be well acquainted with their language, their thoughts, their forms of composition, their beauties, in order that we may have our share in that inheritance by which men belong to the intellectual aristocracy of mankind.8 Whewell’s description of the education of a learned man is equally relevant to the eighteenth century of the Grand Tour as it was in his own time, for very little had changed since the sixteenth century in the British conception of the essential role of the Classics for a quality education. Thus, during a time when every well-educated person was trained in the Classics of Greece and Rome, the British could not help but be drawn to the site that they saw as the foundation of Western civilization. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, a dramatic increase was seen in the number of British tourists traveling to Continental Europe directly following the end of the Napoleonic wars in 1815. After years of exile from the Continent, the British were particularly motivated to travel abroad, because of an irresistible curiosity to uncover changes that the French Revolution and years of Napoleonic rule had wrought upon the Continent.9 Although this initial resurgence of interest in Continental travel was a result of Britain’s renewed peace with France, travel abroad continued to increase through the middle of the century as Britain’s prosperity grew. As a result of the Industrial Revolution, Europe was enjoying a growing affluence; the move from agriculture to manufacturing led to a new distribution of wealth. As the first nation to industrialize, Britain quickly experienced an important transformation of its social order, as an increase in wealth led to the rise of the middle class. The formation of such an intermediary class between the upper and lower strata of society was notably effortless in Britain. As the British historian Eric Hobsbawm has argued, England had already abandoned the old aristocratic order in exchange for an effectively capitalistic economy, by the eighteenth century. The early dissolution of the old regime of aristocratic social classifications therefore provided an opportunity for the formation of this new middle class, without necessitating an overthrow of the old aristocratic order. Furthermore, the relationship between the social classes in Britain was particularly fluid among the upper tiers of society in the nineteenth century, as class distinctions were not drawn solely based upon employment. England’s nobility was distinct from the traditional nobility of other European countries, for the British system was based upon the practice of primogeniture (which proclaimed that the eldest son should be the sole inheritor of the family property, forcing the younger sons to adopt “genteel” occupations). Therefore, because even gentlemen of noble birth could be employed, more of an interrelationship existed between the aristocracy and the upper portion of the middle class.10 As this new class surfaced in society, through the shift in production away from the landed aristocracy, the middle class gained both the desire and the means necessary to travel on the Continent. Although all of the industrializing nations in Europe enjoyed a growing prosperity as a result of the Industrial Revolution, Britain was by far the wealthiest nation in the world. Already leading in wealth in the eighteenth century because of success in trade, Britain’s industrialization only added to its affluence.11 Thus, as a consequence of their prosperity, the British, unlike the inhabitants of most other European countries, were in the unique position of being able to afford to travel abroad. As beneficiaries of

32  Alice J. Walkiewicz this newfound wealth coming out of industrialization, middle-class individuals were particularly inclined to take advantage of their new financial and social situation by adopting the venerated tradition of the Grand Tour, which had been established by their aristocratic predecessors in the previous century. Furthermore, advances in transportation through the construction of the railroad around this time made travel faster, more comfortable, more affordable, and, therefore, more appealing to this newly emerging bourgeoisie.12 This distinctively British development in foreign travel can be seen in the different types of guidebook that began to be produced in the nineteenth century, in response to the new market of middle-class travelers. The first guidebook published by Karl Baedeker, in 1839, focused exclusively upon the Rhine region around his own home country of Germany. Contrastingly, the guidebook initially published by his British counterpart, John Murray, in 1836 (A Hand-Book for Travellers on the Continent: Being a Guide through Holland, Belgium, Prussia and Northern Germany), tackled foreign nations upon the Continent rather than within his home country (only later, in 1849, did Murray begin to publish guides for England). This distinction between the type of guidebook being published in Germany and that in England is a reflection of the differing travel cultures within the two nations. Whereas the Germans were inclined to restrict their journeys to within their own home region of the Rhine (or, by the 1840s, the nearby, and culturally similar, Austria and Switzerland), the British were participating in international travel and trekking across Western Europe in search of the classical past, as predetermined by the aristocratic Grand Tour tradition going back to Elizabethan times. The distribution of wealth away from the landed aristocracy in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century created a significant new class of British merchants and professionals, who, for the first time, could afford to travel and were eager to follow the precedent set by their aristocratic predecessors.13 In an age when Britain dominated the world economy, the professions directly related to the new manufacturing society experienced the greatest growth and quickly became the core of this emerging middle class. However, stratification did also exist within the professions that prospered most from industrialization. Because of their genteel associations, certain professions were considered to be of a higher social standing, and thus could more easily be absorbed into the upper classes of British society; in particular, this was true for the vocations of merchants and bankers.14 Members of these occupations enjoyed a steady income and were typically wealthier than their industrialist brethren. Therefore, as a result of their new riches, members of these professions began to adopt the aristocratic lifestyle. As the historian Robert Gildea explains: Merchants and bankers regularly bought country estates, entered public life at the national as well as the municipal level, became pillars of the established Church, affected aristocratic swagger in the yeomanry or reserve, and recognized the social obligations of wealth by acting as patrons and philanthropists.15 The aristocratic pretension of these merchants and bankers is especially discernible through the purchasing of land, as landownership had always been a privilege and mark of the nobility in Britain. In their pursuit of the aristocratic lifestyle, after the merchants and bankers adopted the domestic practices of the landed aristocracy, they turned towards the international tradition of the Grand Tour.

The humor of circumstance 33 This new stratum of British society traveling upon the Continent can be seen in The Bureau of the Chief of the Douanes from an 1853 issue of Punch.16 In this scene, John Leech depicts ’Arry Belville, a British Continental tourist, who is in the process of being questioned by a French customs officer, presumably upon his entrance to that country.17 The French official makes a routine inquiry into ’Arry’s passport, his name, and, lastly, his occupation. ’Arry responds emphatically with a decided: “BANKER!” to this final question. Clearly, our friend ’Arry is a member of the newly emerging middle class that has adopted the aristocratic lifestyle, and his enthusiastic response to the French official’s mundane question implies a sense of pride in both his profession and the affluence that it has provided him. It is only because of this profession that he is able to travel abroad at all, and he appears to be fully aware of the significance of this foreign journey (which had previously been a privilege solely restricted to the aristocracy). He appears to have adopted the comportment of, one can only assume, the way that he might imagine that members of the upper class would carry themselves, as he stands before the hunched French official with an air of arrogant nonchalance.

The rise of the middle-class guidebook Along with this important shift in the population traveling to the Continent, the nineteenth century brought many other changes to the way in which foreign travel was conducted. Unlike their Grand Tour predecessors, this new class of foreign tourists did not possess a long-standing tradition of travel to follow. Many obstacles arose for these new travelers that the Grand Tourists had previously resolved through the practice of hiring guides. Now, although middle-class foreign travelers had typically followed the pre-established guidelines for a tour on the Continent, unlike their aristocratic predecessors, they typically did not hire the customary slew of specialists and guides to lead them through their journey. Relieved of this latter involvement, the middleclass tourist enjoyed much more independence upon his tour of the Continent than the young Grand Tourist of the previous generation, who was frequently accompanied by an entire entourage of retainers on his trip. The Grand Tourist’s party typically might include his “bear-leader” (or a tutor hired to serve as the young tourist’s educational guide as well as his guardian), his servants (including valets, lackeys, coachmen, and footmen), specialists (in the arts and sciences, as well as others, such as accountants), and sometimes even other Grand Tourists.18 However, with the institutionalization of guidebooks in the nineteenth century, the new middle-class tourist was relieved of this entourage. These guides, such as the classic Murray and Baedeker Handbooks, fulfilled the function of both the bear-leader as well as the hired guides of the Grand Tourist, while also providing the new Continental tourist with much more independence than had previously been enjoyed by his Grand Tour counterpart. The artist’s independence as a tourist was the guidebook’s primary objective, as Baedeker addressed in the preface to each of his guides. These books, he claims, are intended to “render the traveler as independent as possible from landlords, coachmen and guides, and thus enable him to more thoroughly enjoy and appreciate the objects of interest he meets with on his tour.”19 And, they succeeded in doing just that. However, although Baedeker was an indisputable giant in the world of guidebooks, it was only those of John Murray that became synonymous with English middle-class travel in the nineteenth century. Murray’s guidebooks, which he called Hand-Books, were “written by the British, for the British,” and specifically for the emergent British

34  Alice J. Walkiewicz middle class, whose members were newly undertaking the foreign tour.20 Murray was the first publisher to perceive the need for a new type of guidebook geared towards the increasing number of middle-class tourists.21 Thus, his guidebooks were purposely written with this latest breed of traveler in mind and included the practical information necessary for such individuals to embark upon the foreign tour by themselves, such as by addressing money and distance conversion tables, methods of transportation, and the important sites that one should visit. As the historian Lynne Withey identifies, “Murray’s genius lay in taking the uncertainty out of travel: he told his readers where to go, how to get there, and what to see.”22 These guidebooks provided British middle-class travelers with the information necessary to free them from the dependence endured by the Grand Tourist. Yet, the popularization of guidebooks among the middle class only fostered a new relationship of dependency in the life of foreign travelers. In the previous century, Grand Tourists had relied upon their “bear-leader” to guide them through their Continental journey, which was a relationship that is illustrated in an early eighteenth-century caricature by Pier Leone Ghezzi (1674–1755) of Dr. James Hay as a Bear-leader. In this image, Dr. Hay is shown taking his little bear-pupil by the hand and leading him through the campagnola. The representation can be compared with another “guiding” image from a century later, in Doyle’s The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson from 1855, in which the three protagonists “Do” Cologne Cathedral.23 Although these middle-class tourists are no longer following an appointed guide, they are nonetheless being led by the hand through their Continental tour. Not unlike the bear-pupils of Dr. Hay, Messrs Brown, Jones, and Robinson follow their guides with an open-mouthed expression of wonder and obedience upon their faces. Only now, instead of a “bear-leader,” these tourists are blindly following their guidebook.

Language barriers Although these new guidebooks, produced by enterprising publishers such as Murray and Baedeker, provided middle-class tourists with the practical information that was necessary for their journey abroad, the independence that these guidebooks afforded was not always to the traveler’s advantage. During the eighteenth century, many Grand Tourists hired local servants at each new stop on their journey, which was particularly helpful, because they were familiar with the customs and terrain of the area.24 Although similar information about local conventions and transportation could be available to middle-class tourists through their pocket guidebook, the guidebook could not assist travelers in one significant area: language. Beyond this failing of the guidebook, new middle-class tourists were already at a further disadvantage to their Grand Tour counterparts when it came to their knowledge of modern languages, for, unlike members of the upper class, they rarely could read or speak any language but English. Although members of the middle class began to receive an education comparable with that of the upper class in the mid-nineteenth century, they still obtained only relatively minor instruction in modern languages.25 The majority of a young person’s secondary education remained focused upon the study of the Classics. Despite suggestions that learning the modern languages of French and German would be more practical than the traditional Classical languages, secondary school headmasters insisted upon continuing to focus their curricula around the instruction of Greek and Latin, which connoted both prestige and status in British society. Consequently, instruction in modern languages

The humor of circumstance 35 continued to be subordinated to the Classics in the nineteenth century. Regardless of the fact that members of the upper-middle class began to receive a secondary education similar to that of people of aristocratic birth, they still remained at a disadvantage to their upper-class brethren in their linguistic knowledge. Although neither class (of typically young men) received significant instruction in modern languages through formal schooling, upper-class individuals typically did obtain French instruction at home (which was a privilege that may not have been available to members of the emergent middle class).26 Thus, the middle-class tourist had little-to-no knowledge of the local language, and, with no guide to serve as a translator, a language deficiency could result in serious consequences. The potential language barrier between the foreign tourist and the local populace is addressed in an episode of misunderstanding in Doyle’s The Foreign Tour. While in Verona, Brown decides to go out alone to sketch in the local countryside.27 On his way to find a place to draw, Brown is detained by an Austrian detective, who is suspicious of Brown’s sketching stool and consequently confiscates it.28 In the next scene, Brown is shown splayed out in the landscape, surrounded by his art supplies and sketches, as the Austrian army, under the impression that Brown is a spy documenting secrets, carefully approaches him from the rear (Figure 2.1).29 In the next panel, poor Brown is shown surrounded by the soldiers, who appear to be interrogating him.30 Unfortunately for Brown, he is by himself and does not speak the language. Unable to defend himself, he is arrested by the soldiers, who “see treason in his hat, which is of an illegal shape.”31 Brown, however, is eventually released from custody through an unlikely plot twist, in which the governor of Verona turns out to be Field Marshal Lieutenant Count Brown, a near relation of our unfortunate friend. Although most middle-class tourists had only a minimal understanding of modern foreign languages, not everyone ended up being arrested because of a lack of language ability.

Figure 2.1  Richard Doyle, Scene: Discovers Brown Sketching from The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson: Being the History of what they saw and did in Germany, Switzerland, and Italy (London: Bradbury & Evans, 1854), p. 59, engraving, dimensions not available. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Lenox Library, New York, and Google Books. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

36  Alice J. Walkiewicz However, British middle-class tourists who might have been stumbling through a different language (typically French) did become a common stereotype of the British traveler and a familiar theme in the pages of Punch, which repeatedly emphasized the middle-class Britons’ lack of knowledge of other languages. For example, our friend ’Arry Belville reappears in an 1855 issue of the magazine, showing off his “French skills” for his friend Dobbins in Boulogne, as he asks (in broken French) for a pot of “Bear’s Grease” (which is a type of pomade that was popular in England in the nineteenth century).32 Leech reveals ’Arry’s lack of skill in the language through phonetically emphasizing his mispronunciation in the scene’s caption. ’Arry stutters through the conversation as he tries to think of the correct word in French, reverting back to English as he becomes flustered. This scene is particularly humorous, not only because of “’Arry’s nonchalant physical demeanor as he stumbles through his inquiry for bear grease, but also because of the ‘Admiration of Dobbins, who doesn’t speak the language at all.’”33 Because of this common ignorance of modern languages, Dobbins is forced to rely upon the inept ’Arry to communicate with the local residents, while conducting his foreign tour. Similarly, in an image from an 1855 issue of Punch, Charles Keene depicts another pair of English gentlemen, once more searching for a popular British item while they are abroad: bitter beer (also known as pale ale).34 The two Britons stand outside a café as one of them attempts to decipher the shop sign, while the other wipes the sweat from his brow. This time, the illustrator not only provides the reader with a phonetic recitation of the first Briton’s pronunciation, but further emphasizes his misunderstanding of the language through his mistranslation of the café name, which he deciphers as “Flaming Corfy,” when it in fact translates to “Flemish Café.” Furthermore, the blatant sarcasm of the scene heading, “A Brilliant Translation,” only adds to the bite of an image that once again highlights the stereotype of the British traveler’s ineptitude in foreign languages.35 Lastly, in Leech’s Scene—A Café in Paris from 1851, the Briton’s poor pronunciation is once more emphasized as he calls out to the garçon for coffee in broken French.36 The gentleman is readily identified as an Englishman, and the garçon offers, in English, to bring him a copy of the London Times along with his cup of coffee. Baffled by the garçon’s deduction, the London gent assumes a pose that reflects at the same time aggression and astonishment, holding his cane aloft, with his chin thrust forward, his fist on his thigh and his right arm akimbo.37 Interestingly, in this scene, unlike the two that would appear in the pages of Punch four years later, Leech emphasizes the thickly accented pronunciation of the garçon in addition to that of the London gent. Perhaps this earlier image of an Englishman speaking poorly pronounced French not only reflects the stereotypical British failings in that language, but may also reveal the rise of “Anglophilia” in nineteenth-century Paris.38 Following the surge of British tourists flocking to the Continent, once peace was declared with France in 1815, many French proprietors began to cater to the tastes of the British—to both the delight and chagrin of some tourists. Not only French proprietors, but also those in other frequently visited countries sought to accommodate the British tourist’s prejudices, ineptitude in foreign languages, and stubborn preference for British goods.39 Perhaps the garçon’s offer of a specifically English newspaper (the London Times) reflects this new wave of French accommodation of the hordes of British tourists descending upon their establishments.

The humor of circumstance 37

Cultural insulation and nationalism As a matter of fact, the British were known for insulating themselves against foreign culture while traveling on the Continent. Typical early nineteenth-century British tourists would spend a great deal of time among their own countryfolk while traveling abroad and were notorious for criticizing anything simply because it was not British.40 However, this complaint against the nineteenth-century British traveler was not unique to that century. Their eighteenth-century aristocratic forerunners were also guilty of comparable actions. In particular, the Grand Tourists were known for traveling with an excessive amount of luggage, packed full of “the best from Britain,” as a type of cultural insulation against the foreignness of the Continent.41 This depiction of the over-packed Briton continued to be a relevant stereotype into the nineteenth century, as can be surmised from both of the Continental excursions of Messrs Brown, Jones, and Robinson created by Doyle. In both installments, Doyle often refers to the quantity of luggage that the gentlemen have packed for their foreign tours. For example, although the first appearance of these gentlemen abroad in The Pleasure Trips of Brown, Jones and Robinson (Up the Rhine) only included a total of twelve scenes, two of them concern the gentlemen’s packing for the trip. In the second panel of the installment (Figure 2.2), Brown is seen crouched on the floor of his bedroom frantically packing his belongings, while

Figure 2.2  Richard Doyle, “They are on the Point of starting: Brown ‘will be ready in half a Minute; He has only to Bundle One or Two Things into a Bag,’” engraving from “The Pleasure Trips of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson up the Rhine,” published in Punch 19 (London: 1850), p. 196, dimensions not available. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Library of the University of California Davis and Google Books. Licensing information: PD-Art/ PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

38  Alice J. Walkiewicz a wealth of objects is still splayed all around him. He claims that he “will be ready in half a minute; he has only to bundle one or two things into a bag,” which is obviously a gross understatement.42 Then, contrastingly, in a subsequent scene, Jones can be seen struggling to counteract this stereotype of the over-packed Englishman, as he attempts to cram as much as possible into a single bag through the force of his foot.43 Moreover, in his book version of The Foreign Tour, Doyle once more makes reference to the amount of luggage that the three gentlemen have brought with them. As the Messrs Brown, Jones, and Robinson prepare to board their boat to make their way up the Rhine, Doyle provides a jarring contrast between the practicality of Jones and one of his compatriots. Again, Jones has managed to restrict himself to only one easily manageable bag, whereas the rather dandyish Robinson declares that he cannot possibly survive their trip without nearly a dozen of his own.44 Then, later in their foreign journey, their luggage is alluded to once more as the three gentlemen travel through Austrian territory en route to Milan.45 Upon entering Austria, they are greeted by a customs officer. As he leads them to the customs house to conduct his business, the local townsfolk volunteer to assist the Englishmen with their baggage. The excessive luggage requires every available man from the town to carry Brown’s, Jones’s, and Robinson’s belongings to the customs house. Clearly, from the frequency with which their luggage is alluded to in the accounts of their foreign excursions, the stereotype of the Briton’s excessive baggage as a means of insulation from all things “foreign” continued to be relevant in the nineteenth century. This cumbersome traveling speaks to a level of arrogance among British tourists for which they were routinely criticized, while the act of over-packing (and the lack of concern about the imposition that they may place on others as well as the notion of distancing themselves from total cultural immersion) can be interpreted as an expression of perceived cultural superiority. The Victorian era marked a period of strong nationalism in England and was a time when the country sought to define what made the British different from (if not better than) the rest of Europe. As scholar Michèle Cohen explores in her essay “The Grand Tour. Language, National Identity, and Masculinity,” the lack of knowledge of the French language in England can be tied to a desire to identify what makes the British, amid late eighteenth-century fears that exposure to France and French culture was having a feminizing influence on British Grand Tourists.46 Such concerns about the uselessness and frivolousness of French behaviors (particularly those associated with a concern for fashion) can be seen in the many caricatures from the late eighteenth century that depict the “Macaronies” (a slang term for eighteenth-century dandies) after they have returned to the English countryside following their Grand Tour.47 This shift in British culture from valuing the French language to rejecting it, according to Cohen, is related to ideas of British nationalism and an attempt to reassert Britain’s masculinity (and thus its political potency): French seduction, therefore, like French politeness and the whole set of practices relating to the fashioning of the gentleman during his Grand Tour, is an insidious means to a political end: effeminating and subduing the English. The interesting point here is that the cure for the infection is not for the Englishman to abandon the practice of travel, but, as Foote puts it, to remember that they are Britons [. . .] While the manliness of Britishness is invoked to counteract the effeminacy associated with Frenchification, it is Britishness itself that constitutes the resistance to the infection of France.48

The humor of circumstance 39 There was, therefore, an attempt to protect British travelers from foreign influences beginning in the late eighteenth century. They were encouraged to “remember that they were Britons,” which in part resulted in the majority of Englishmen being unable to speak French by the mid-nineteenth century.49 Efforts to create a national identity by rallying around the English language can be seen in British tourists’ behavior on the Continent. They were known for exhibiting a sense of superiority in the foreign countries that they visited, such as by not bothering to learn the local manners and customs, or only superficially visiting the sites recommended by their guidebooks, without stopping to absorb them, and quite often restricting themselves to associating only with their fellow countrymen. The level of arrogance that nineteenth-century British travelers exhibited on the Continent could be linked to prevailing notions of British superiority, in which they viewed the Italians as a once great civilization in a current, unthreatening state of political decline, while associating the French with a hedonistic, unruly revolutionary populace (not to mention a long-time enemy, most recently confronted in the battles of the Napoleonic Wars).50 National superiority perhaps led British tourists to learn little about the countries that they visited, and they often vocally criticized anything deemed too “foreign.” The American novelist Washington Irving describes this sort of insulation that the British were known for in his Tales of a Traveler (written in 1824, when he was living in Europe): Those who have seen an English family carriage on the continent, must know the sensation it produces. It is an epitome of England; a little morsel of the old island rolling about the world—everything so compact, so snug, so finished and fitting [. . .] And then the dickeys loaded with well-dressed servants, beef-fed and bluff; looking down from their heights with contempt on all the world around; profoundly ignorant of the country and the people, and devoutly certain that everything not English must be wrong.51 Irving thus describes the same arrogance of the British tourist on the Continent in the 1820s that we see reflected in the caricatures of mid-century: they are insular and somewhat haughty. Their desire to separate themselves from “foreigners” can also be seen through another common characteristic of British travelers: a strong aversion to being crowded together with talkative strangers (of whom the French were perceived as the most tiresome). As Withey describes, the British had the impression that “the French liked to travel with their dogs (a habit that struck the British as bizarre), and they made matters worse by insisting on keeping the windows closed. The British, on the other hand, loved dogs but thought them better left at home, and believed in the therapeutic value of fresh air, no matter how cold.”52 Because of such behaviors exhibited by fellow travelers, the British therefore tried to avoid taking public transportation whenever financially feasible. This distaste for such crowded traveling accommodations can be seen in another scene from Doyle’s Foreign Tour (Figure 2.3), in which Brown, Jones, and Robinson have decided to take a seat among the luggage atop the omnibus in Germany, which is taking them from Cologne to Bonn. The three claim to have chosen to ride on the roof so as to “better command the view,” but perhaps the gentlemen may have had the ulterior motive of avoiding the crowded interior of the omnibus, in which

40  Alice J. Walkiewicz

Figure 2.3  Richard Doyle, B.J. and R., Who Took Their Place on the Roof from The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson: Being the History of what they saw and did in Germany, Switzerland, and Italy (London: Bradbury & Evans, 1854), p. 5, engraving, dimensions not available. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Lenox Library, New York, and Google Books. Licensing information: PD-Art/ PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

the passengers are so tightly cramped that they appear to be sitting on top of one another.53 Doyle takes advantage of this British distaste for confined traveling quarters (and foreign traveling compatriots) and further interjects an additional note of humor into the scene, as it dawns upon Brown and Jones that, although their scheme to ride atop the omnibus may have been an effective way of avoiding the crowd and providing a better view of the sights, they in fact may not fit beneath the approaching archway. Another scene that reflects a British aversion to crowding and communicating with strangers is Leech’s illustration Two Englishmen Breakfasting at a Table d’hôte Abroad, from an 1853 issue of Punch (Figure 2.4). In this scene, two gentlemen perform the customary morning ritual of eating breakfast and reading the newspaper, while at opposite ends of a long table. Unacquainted, the two gentlemen disengage from one another, giving off an air of haughtiness, as each gentleman casually turns his nose up at the other. Just as the British were known for insulating themselves from anything “foreign,” British tourists also shielded themselves from the unfamiliarity of Continental life by shying away from any unknown persons, be they fellow Englishmen or not.54 In addition to the insularity that was characteristically exhibited by the Englishman abroad, Leech’s Two Englishmen also exposes the gentleman seated at the far right end of the table as a member of the new Continental tourist, as next

The humor of circumstance 41

Figure 2.4  Gentle Subscriber! Did you ever see Two Strange Englishmen breakfasting at a Table d’hôte abroad, engraving, published in Punch 25 (London: 1853), p. 108, dimensions not available. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Library of the University of California Davis and Google Books. Licensing information: PD-Art/ PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

to his plate rests a “Guide to Paris,” which was emblematic of, and indispensable to, the British middle-class traveler. As previously discussed, the new middle-class tourist depended upon his guidebook to survive the foreign tour and relied upon it to instruct him in both what he should see during his journey, as well as how he should see it.

Disrespectfully touring Catholic churches One particularly popular type of attraction recommended to British travelers by such guidebooks comprised the ornamentally decorated Catholic churches on the Continent. The vogue for touring churches can be seen in Doyle’s Foreign Tour as Brown, Jones, and Robinson “Do” Cologne Cathedral (Figure 2.5). The three men stand inside the church, reading from their guidebook, heads raised and mouths agape in fascination, all the while unfazed by the fact that they appear to be standing right in the middle of a Catholic service. As odd as this may seem to a modern viewer, in fact, in the nineteenth century, the Catholic Mass itself became a popular tourist attraction for the British.55 Typically members of the Anglican Church of England, many of the new middle-class tourists had never before encountered Roman Catholicism. Therefore, they looked upon both the church and the faith as objects of curiosity, akin to remnants of antiquity rather than a living faith.

42  Alice J. Walkiewicz

Figure 2.5  Richard Doyle, They “Do” Cologne Cathedral from The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson: Being the History of what they saw and did in Germany, Switzerland, and Italy (London: Bradbury & Evans, 1854), p. 8, engraving, dimensions not available. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Lenox Library, New York, and Google Books. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

The British in the mid-nineteenth century were notoriously disrespectful in Catholic churches, so much so that Murray began to include an admonitory warning in his Hand-book for Travellers in France on “the causes which render the English so unpopular on the Continent,” addressing their inappropriate behavior during Catholic church services: Englishmen and Protestants, admitted into Roman Catholic churches, at times are often inconsiderate in talking loud, laughing, and stamping with their feet while the

The humor of circumstance 43 service is going on: a moment’s reflection should point out to them that they should regard the feelings of those around them who are engaged in their devotions.56 Not being practitioners of the faith themselves, British middle-class travelers routinely treated these churches like tourist attractions, rather than places of worship.57 This distasteful behavior is exhibited again in another church scene from The Foreign Tour, which reveals what Doyle sarcastically titled Enlightened Behavior in a Foreign Church (Figure 2.6). In this scene, tourists can be seen standing among the kneeling faithful, in varying degrees of disregard for the service being conducted around them. At the center of a group of tourists, a man talks loudly to his comrades, as one of them leans against a pillar, deep in a yawn. Additional sightseers are shown poking around the church interior, examining various art objects, weaving their way through the crowd of worshipers, and looking upon the parishioners kneeling at their feet with disgust. The British traveler abroad did not have a reputation for being a respectful or necessarily pleasant tourist. As a fellow Englishman, the noted diarist Francis Kilvert observed that, “Of all noxious animals, the most noxious is a tourist; and of all tourists, the most vulgar, ill-bred, offensive and loathsome is the British tourist.”58 Through such depictions in popular sources such as Punch and The Foreign Tour, we can better understand how contemporary British society viewed its new social classes, as they grew in prosperity and adopted the aristocratic tradition of the Grand Tour. Indeed, Doyle’s Foreign Tour was held to be one of his crowning achievements as an artist–author (along with his fairy tales), and his publication satirizing the British middle classes was alluded to both in his official obituary in The Times on December 12, 1883 and in a memorial poem published in Punch shortly thereafter.59

Figure 2.6  Richard Doyle, Enlightened Behavior in a Foreign Church from The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson: Being the History of what they saw and did in Germany, Switzerland, and Italy (London: Bradbury & Evans, 1854), p. 55, engraving, dimensions not available. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Lenox Library, New York, and Google Books. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

44  Alice J. Walkiewicz Undeniably, the travelers so frequently depicted in these mid-nineteenth-century caricatures of foreign travel are members of the flourishing middle class. Their behavior on the Continent generated stereotypes that were translated into popular print and were appreciated by contemporary audiences for their supposed accuracy and topicality. These caricatures were part of a much larger dialogue of poking fun at the “typical” English tourist, which had appeared as far back as the eighteenth century with caricatures mocking the bear-leaders and “Macaronies.” Unlike their eighteenth-century visual predecessors, however, the foreign tour of Punch and Messrs Brown, Jones, and Robinson was the experience of mid-nineteenth-century British culture and its burgeoning middle class. These images were humorous caricatures, not only created by the British for the British, but were representations about the middle class intended for the middle class. And it is through the humorous circumstances of the British middle-class tourist that their satire is best felt.

Notes 1 According to J. A. R. Pimlott, the first documented use of the term “Grand Tour” was in 1670. J.A.R. Pimlott, The Englishman’s Holiday: A Social History (New York: The Harvester Press, 1947), p. 68. 2 Punch was initially subtitled The London Charivari, in reference to the famous French satirical magazine, Le Charivari, which inspired the British version. By associating themselves with such a successful periodical, they its publishers hoped to give their publication an air of respectability, which would separate them from the other British comedic papers. Richard D. Altick, Punch: The Lively Youth of a British Institution, 1841–1851 (Columbus, OH: Ohio State University Press, 1997), p. 6. M. H. Spielmann, The History of “Punch” (New York: Greenwood Press, 1969), pp. 12–15. Also known as “Dicky” Doyle, Richard Doyle began regularly working for Punch in 1843. In 1849, Doyle designed what would eventually become the magazine’s masthead. Prior to this, a new cover illustration was created for each individual issue, but Doyle’s design for the 1849 issue was thought to be too good to dispose of after only one issue. Doyle’s career with Punch came to an end shortly after in 1850, following a disagreement with other staff members over a series of strongly antiCatholic pieces. A devout Catholic himself, Doyle found himself unable to tolerate it, once they started to attack Catholic doctrine and the Pope himself, and therefore resigned from his position. Graham Everitt, English Caricaturists and Graphic Humorists of the Nineteenth Century: How They Illustrated and interpreted their Time (1885; repr., Freeport, NY: Books for Libraries Press, 1972), pp. 381–91; Spielmann, The History of “Punch,” pp. 454–7. 3 Anonymous, quoted in Everitt, English Caricaturists, p. 389. 4 There is no evidence that Queen Victoria was a frequent reader of Punch; however, her familiarity with the magazine can be attested to by a letter written in January 1846 from Lord Beauvale to Lady Palmerston, in which he describes Her Majesty’s enjoyment of the periodical: “[The Queen] still sees Punch in spite of his misdeeds, for I found she had seen that caricature of ‘You’re not strong enough for the place, John,’ and She split her sides laughing at it, so I hope she will have been equally amused with ‘The Artful Dodger,’ which is charming.” Altick, Punch, p. 17. 5 A. E. Santaniello, introduction to The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson, by Richard Doyle (1855; repr., London: Bradbury & Evans, 1972), pp. ix–xi. 6 Everitt, English Caricaturists, p. 391. 7 A classical education was considered to be a distinguishing characteristic of both the gentleman and the scholar in England. Therefore, the majority of secondary education was focused around studying subjects related to the ancient world, including ancient geography and history, in addition to Latin and Greek. The more “modern” subjects, such as English, mathematics, and modern languages, were taught only as a supplement to the more fundamental classical studies. Anne Digby and Peter Searby, Children, School and Society in Nineteenth-Century England (New York: The Macmillian Press, 1981), p. 36.

The humor of circumstance 45 8 William Whewell, Of a Liberal Education in General, [. . .], 2nd ed. (1850), pp. 79–80, quoted in Digby and Searby, Children, School and Society, p. 36. 9 Lynne Withey, Grand Tours and Cook’s Tours: A History of Leisure Travel, 1750–1915 (London: Aurum Press, 1997), p. 58. 10 Eric Hobsbawm, “The Example of the English Middle Class,” in Bourgeoisie Society in Nineteenth-Century Europe, eds. Jürgen Kocka and Allan Mitchell (Providence, RI: Berg, 1993), pp. 127–8, 132; Robert Gildea, Barricades and Borders: Europe 1800–1914 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), p. 169. 11 Wythey, Grand Tours and Cook’s Tours, p. 62. 12 Maxine Feifer, Tourism in History: From Imperial Rome to the Present (New York: Stein and & Day, 1985), pp. 166–8; Jan Palmowski, “Travels with Baedeker: The Guidebook and the Middle Classes in Victorian and Edwardian England,” in Histories of Leisure, ed. Rudy Koshar (New York: Berg, 2002), p. 105; Pimlott, The Englishman’s Holiday 74, pp. 186–91; Withey, Grand Tours and Cook’s Tours, pp. 96–101. 13 As Britain was the only country wealthy enough to be able to afford this type of foreign travel, residents on the Continent assumed that every Briton whom they met was of the highest social class. However, that was not the case. Wythey, Grand Tours and Cook’s Tours, p. 95. Richard D. Altick, Victorian People and Ideas (New York: W. W. Norton, & Company, Inc., 1973), pp. 17–72; Peter Gay, “General Introduction,” in vol. 1 of The Bourgeois Experience: Victoria to Freud (New York: Oxford University Press, 1984), pp. 3–68; Hobsbawm, “The Example of the English Middle Class,” pp. 127–50. 14 Hobsbawm, “The Example of the English Middle Class,” p. 130; Roy Lewis and Angus Maude, The English Middle Classes (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1950), p. 52. 15 Gildea, Barricades and Borders, p. 166. 16 I am assuming that John Leech is the illustrator for “The Bureau of the Chief of the Douanes,” (given that there is not an illustrator’s monogram), since as Leech was the creator for the rest of the ’ ‘Arry Belville series. 17 Leech first appeared in the fourth issue of Punch in its inaugural year of 1841 and worked for the magazine for twenty-three years. He was a brilliant satirist and became the cornerstone of Punch’s illustrators. Upon his death in 1864, Shirley Brooks (a writer, and later editor, for Punch), asserted that, “the good ship had lost its ‘mainsail.’” Everitt, English Caricaturists, pp. 286, 285–93; Spielmann, The History of “Punch,” pp. 417–43. 18 Feifer, Tourism in History, pp. 100–14. 19 Karl Baedeker, preface to the 2nd edition of A Handbook for Travellers on the Rhine, from Holland to Switzerland, 2nd ed. (London: Williams and & Norgate, 1864), p. v. 20 Palmowski, “Travels with Baedeker,” p. 108. 21 There were guidebooks, such as Thomas Nugent’s The Grand Tour (first published in 1749), which that explained the route of the Grand Tourist. However, the guidebook format as we understand it today first appeared in Mariana Starke’s Travels on the Continent and Information and Directions for Travellers on the Continent of Europe at the beginning of the nineteenth century, and it was later adopted, adapted, and perfected by John Murray and Baedeker towards the mid-century. Nicholas Parsons, Worth the Detour: A History of the Guidebook (Gloucestershire: Sutton, 2007), pp. 180–91; Withey, Grand Tours and Cook’s Tours, p. 7. 22 Murray was particularly well known for not only telling tourists, not only what sites they should see, but also how those sites should be seen. For example, in his Hand-Book for Travellers on the Continent, Murray prescribes the route that visitors to Cologne should take: “In a large town like Cologne, where the objects of interest are spread over a wide space of ground, the following plan of the order in which the different objects may be seen in succession, without retracing one’s steps, may be useful to the stranger either walking or riding:—Begin with the Cathedral; close to it is the Museum; thence by the Jesuits’ Church (a gorgeous combination of Gothic and Italian architecture) to St. Ursula; (the architect may visit St. Cunibert’s;) from St. Ursula to St. Gereon; past the Roman Tower to the Apostles’ Chapel; to St. Peter’s; St. Mary’s in the Capitol; the Gurzenich, and the Rathhans, which completes the circuit.” He then specifies the best view at Cologne Cathedral for the traveler, recommending that, “It is well worth while to ascend the scaffold, both to view closely the details of the restorations, and to enjoy the view.” John Murray, A Hand-Book to Travellers on the Continent: Being a Guide through Holland, Belgium, Prussia, and Northern Germany,

46  Alice J. Walkiewicz and Along the Rhine, from Holland to Switzerland, 2nd ed. (London: John Murray, 1838), pp. 222–3. Palmowski, “Travels with Baedeker,” p. 111; Parsons, Worth the Detour, p. 183; Withey, Grand Tours and Cook’s Tours, p. 71. 23 See Pier Leone Ghezzi, Dr. James Hay as a Bear-Leader, c.1704–29, pen and ink, 14.3 × 9.6 in., British Museum, London. 24 Feifer, Tourism in History, p. 100. 25 There were seven “great” or “public” (being the equivalent of what Americans would think of as “private”) schools in the nineteenth century which that carried the highest reputation in England. However, these schools typically only accommodated members of the landed aristocracy and the upper middle class, which was categorized as “the uppermost sections of gentlemanly commerce and the professions.” Concerned with the distinction of social rank in the nineteenth century, the British believed that a man’s level of education should reflect his class. Digby and Searby, Children, School and Society, pp. 11–13; Altick, Victorian People and Ideas, pp. 238–68; Hobsbawm, “The Example of the English Middle Class,” pp. 134–42. 26 Michèle Cohen, “The Grand Tour. Language, National Identity and Masculinity,” Changing English 8:2 (2001), p. 133. 27 Brown is frequently seen sketching throughout The Foreign Tour, and under all manner of circumstance (at one point he even sketches on deck during a rain storm as the gentlemen travel up the Rhine). His drawing reflects the trend of amateur artistic production that was associated with the middle class of the nineteenth century. Ann Bermingham, Learning to Draw: Studies in the Cultural History of a Polite and Useful Art (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000), p. 130. 28 See Richard Doyle, Austrian Detective Stops Brown to Examine His Sketching Stool from The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson, 1855, engraving on wood and letterpress text. 29 As David Kunzle points out, this circumstance “conforms to an old tradition of artists being accused of spying because they have innocently sketched a military ‘secret.’” David Kunzle, The Nineteenth Century, vol. 2 of History of the Comic Strip (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 1990), p. 315. 30 See Richard Doyle, Not Being Familiar with the German, or Croatian Language, Brown is Helpless, Jones and Robinson, 1855, engraving on wood and letterpress text. 31 Richard Doyle, The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson (1855; repr., London: Bradbury & Evans, 1972), p. 80. 32 See John Leech, Our Friend Belleville Airs His French at Boulogne in Punch 28 (1855), wood engraving. 33 John Leech, “Our Friend Belville Airs His French at Boulogne,” Punch, 28 (1855), p. 15. 34 Keene joined the staff of Punch in 1851. Following Leech’s death in 1864, Keene took over that prominent man’s role as the social satirist for the magazine, and continued to work for Punch until his death in 1891. Spielmann, The History of “Punch,” pp. 477–90. 35 See Charles Keene, A Brilliant Translation in Punch 29 (1855), wood engraving, p. 133. 36 See John Leech, Scene—A Café in Paris, Punch 20 (1851), p. 90, wood engraving. 37 “Gent” is an abbreviation of the term “Gentleman” (which was used to describe men who did not have to work for a living). In contrast to “Gentleman,” the term “gent” held vulgar connotations and was associated with the pretentious airs adopted by social climbers and people of lower birth. 38 Withey, Grand Tours and Cook’s Tours, p. 68. 39 For example, in Florence, an English church and English newspapers were established to cater to the demands of British tourists. Withey, Grand Tours and Cook’s Tours, p. 88. 40 Palmowski, “Travels with Baedeker,” p. 196; Pimlott, The Englishman’s Holiday, pp. 193–4; Withey, Grand Tours and Cook’s Tours, pp. 92–4. 41 Feifer, Tourism in History, pp. 100–1. 42 Richard Doyle, “The Pleasure Trips of Brown, Jones and Robinson (Up the Rhine),” Punch 19 (1850), p. 196.

The humor of circumstance 47 43 See Richard Doyle, Jones “Is Not Going to Be Bothered with a Quantity of Luggage” from “The Pleasure Trips of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson,” Punch 19 (1850), wood engraving, p. 196. 44 See Richard Doyle, Jones’s Little All Is Contained in This Small Portmanteau in The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson (1855), wood engraving and letter press text. p. 18; and Richard Doyle, The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson (1855), p. 18. 45 See Richard Doyle, They Land Upon Austrian Territory En Route to Milan in The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones and Robinson (1855), wood engraving and letter press text, p. 64. 46 Cohen, “The Grand Tour,” pp. 133–9. 47 Cohen, “The Grand Tour,” p. 132; Feifer, Tourism in History, p. 133. 48 Cohen, “The Grand Tour,” p. 135. 49 Or, as Cohen also addresses, some Englishmen who were in fact proficient in French would actually pretend that they were not. For example, according to Queen Victoria, Prime Minister Melbourne affected ignorance of the language. Cohen, “The Grand Tour,” p. 139. 50 Withey, Grand Tours and Cook’s Tours, pp. 30, 79–87. Bernard Porter also discusses this notion of the British xenophobia and cultural arrogance at length in his article “‘Bureau and Barrack’: Early Victorian Attitudes Towards the Continent.” Bernard Porter, Victorian Studies 27:4 (Summer 1984), pp. 407–33. 51 Washington Irving, Tales of a Traveler: The Works of Washington Irving, rev. ed. 7 (New York: George P. Putnam, 1849), p. 308. 52 Withey, Grand Tours and Cook’s Tours, p. 66. 53 Doyle, The Foreign Tour, p. 11. 54 Pimlott, The Englishman’s Holiday, p. 104. 55 Koshar, Histories of Leisure, p. 112. 56 John Murray, preface to the 3rd ed. of Hand-Book for Travellers in France, 3rd ed. (London: John Murray, 1847), pp. xxxvii–xxxviii. 57 Withey, Grand Tours and Cook’s Tours, p. 94. 58 Kilvert’s Diary, 1870–1879, ed. William Plomer (Boston, MA: David R. Godine, 1986), p. 25. 59 Obituary of Richard Doyle, The Times (Dec. 12, 1883); Spielmann, The History of “Punch,” p. 458; Kunzle, The History of the Comic Strip, p. 314.

3 Tours of the Charleston Renaissance and the visual construction of southern charm A comparison of local versus visiting artists Chad Wesley Airhart

No matter what one thinks of the South, it is a place with a strong sense of place. And, this bond with a special locale is exemplified when artists unite and create images that promote a city as fascinating and distinct as Charleston. Both the native Charlestonian and the visiting artist, working roughly between the World Wars, played such a role. Embracing the historic ambience and desirable climate of South Carolina’s main seaport, the group helped to restore a thriving community and stimulate an active economy. As part of a larger cultural phenomenon—the Charleston Renaissance—the visual artists were joined with writers and musicians to reinvigorate the old American city with images that constructed a deep-rooted kind of southern charm.1 Many of the works were designed for the tourist who was enchanted by the allure of the antebellum hub and its visual idiosyncrasies. Other works were part of an individual tour and expressed the creative inspiration gained from serendipitous travel. The main themes were depictions of renovated architecture, plantations, local inhabitants, and the nearby marshlands and rivers. Although unanimous in their attraction to the city, the artists were divided by their homeward origin. For the local artist, intimate with the city’s anguished past and present hopes, the art reflected a conservative taste, romantic aura, illustration, and picturesque charm. For the visiting artist, who, much like the average tourist, saw Charleston as an individual, fresh experience, the work revealed formal and iconographical experimentation with a drive toward personal expression and isolated mood. This chapter will discuss the effects of Charlestonian social values and influence with regards to the native versus visitor and the ultimate consequences that these distinctions had for the purpose and aesthetics of the visual product. A comparison between local and visiting artists illuminates the impact that travel makes upon the attitudes and theories of creativity. Travelers imported a new kind of sensory excitement to the locale, and as such, the visiting artist disclosed the intense stimulation that occurs when encountering the new. Furthermore, the traveling artist experienced the site in relation to other places, and the difference in the particularities of Charleston heightened the unpredictable aspects of the artistic response. This revelatory experience was reinforced by modern art practices, which often strive to see the world afresh by making the process as much about the art as the subject. In contrast to the interpretation of a firsthand view, the native with a strong sense of place created expressions that re-perpetuated and refreshed the familiar. Charleston was home to a range of diverse and talented artists who rendered iconic views that broadened and expanded the visual persona of the city, reviving Charleston as a place to visit. In effect, the comparison between indigene and visitor exposes the play between repetitious memory and fleeting perception for both kinds of artist.

Tours of the Charleston Renaissance 49 The first step to appreciating the art of Charleston requires the viewer to realize the contrast between the socio-economical situation of Charleston and that of mainstream America. Though the central port of South Carolina celebrated some of the national postwar jubilance and prosperity of the 1920s, in general, the city was at best improving. Like the entire American South, Charleston still lay in the sad aftermath of the Civil War, human slavery, and Reconstruction, and was nearly destroyed in the terrible earthquake of 1886. The radical problems of southern urban industrialization held in check the northern optimism of a techno-machine-age utopia. The popular dance called “the Charleston” might have displayed a wonderful expression derived from African America, but racial tensions in the southern city were severe, and the freedom of a dancing flapper inspired by the 1922 musical Runnin’ Wild would not have relayed the same sentiment held by an African American in Charleston.2 Yet, a steady flow of northern capital and the nearby federal navy yards stimulated the economy, and local and visiting artists responded to the interest in the city with images of the elegant cityscape, the Lowcountry, and the native folk, especially people of African origin. Moreover, the indigenous artists cherished and even exonerated the past, despite the current derogatory associations of social inequity and class warfare. The artists showed a unique fearless reminiscence of history to preserve Charleston’s civic identity. It is important to see that, although the art was concerned with cultural heritage, it was just as much about social and economic betterment. Given the particular place and time, the art movement should be aligned with the same kind of cultural revolution and transformation ascribed to other southern regions during this period.3 A second point of context is to compare the art of Charleston within the history of American art. Overall, the group—especially the native Charlestonians—demonstrated a common drive toward cultural identity. But, unlike the Precisionists and their American identity in consumerism and popular culture, the Charleston circle grounded a regional identity in the nostalgic dreams of English gentility, leisure, and southern opulence. Another contrast came in the dissimilarity with the well-known regional art of Thomas Hart Benton (1889–1975) and Grant Wood (1891–1942), which took off in the 1930s and emphasized people and moral anecdotes in order to persuade Americans toward isolationism and national patriotism.4 The visual art of Charleston revealed a close relationship between the individual artist and a particular place, but without concern for a wider political or social sentiment. Perhaps, the agrarian ideal, as seen in the Fugitives’ manifesto I’ll Take My Stand (1930), assisted the feelings for southern rural culture, but no proof indicated a direct correspondence. In addition to the home-schooled approach to regionalism, the South Carolina movement, overall, expressed a love of nature. However, this nature worship was not about a new American art, such as in the works of Arthur Dove (1880–1946) and Georgia O’Keeffe (1887–1986), with nature as cosmic, essential, and universal. Nor was the Carolinian motivation analogous with Ansel Adams (1902–84) and his devotion to the vanishing wilderness and American frontier. The society of artists in Charleston was not affiliated with any European avant-garde of Paris or New York, although its members were aware of these new theories, and some artists shared singular sympathies, such as Anna Heyward Taylor (1879–1956) and her Fauve-esque works on paper (though she never admitted it). The avant-garde radicals were bent on overturning the strongholds of traditional aesthetic taste via a turn away from technology and order (Dada, surrealism, expressionism, abstraction), or a complete celebration of technology and new-age industry (synthetic cubism, purism, constructivism).5 The Charleston group,

50  Chad Wesley Airhart on the other hand, remained devoted to the promotion and preservation of the city and the landscape, and the style and formal concerns were largely retrospective. In the larger picture of mid-twentieth-century art, neo-academic, Impressionistic, and Realist portrayals of figures and conventional settings, for some scholars, made the southern work appear “backward-looking” or provincial.6 Whereas the European-based surges sprang from revolutionary spirits that wanted art to liberate the world, and in many ways sought to defy the past, the Charleston group was conservative and used images to resuscitate a living past of myth and legend. Many of the works sought to restore a highly selective image of “Old Charleston” and were often sold as souvenirs for the tourist or for those infatuated with history and southern charm. In the current acceptance of pluralist themes and styles, we can critique the art and artists as a collective means to construct the image of a golden age. And, apart from the myopia of civic identity, the movement displayed a complete and sincere devotion to place. The shared “content” of place revealed a unique push toward cultural preservation and assimilation, which represented a sincere effort to maintain American diversity.7 In the main, however much a part of American art that Charleston might have been, the typical survey of art history excludes a look at southern art and cultural identity, and, even in American art studies, the role of the visual arts in the postbellum south often goes overlooked, like an unwanted relative. Yet, the social impact of the visual arts emerged with the return of a thriving southern region, and, hence, a need exists to study the relation of art within the transformation of the pre-industrial city to the world of urban modernity. In the South, industrialization meant the influence of the North, and recognition of the importance of the visual arts for travel and tourism, as well as a comparison between native and visitor artists, is necessary to better understand the cultural landscape of the United States. In addition to Charleston, other southern meccas demonstrated a similar pattern of native versus outsider influence in the arts, such as New Orleans, Savannah, Nashville, Knoxville, Birmingham, and Richmond. But almost nothing is published on this subject. In the 1980s, the scholarship gained traction with exhibitions such as the touring Painting in the South and The South on Paper, and later, at the end of the century, Charleston received some attention, as seen in the insightful works of Martha Severens and her text on The Charleston Renaissance.8 But a need lingers to investigate all of the main cities of the South and the impact of art and travel on cultural transition. This chapter intends to help fill this gap, in part, with an account of Charlestonian art and the effects of travel and the tourist on artistic experience. Within the Charleston Renaissance, a clear distinction existed in the difference between a visiting and a local artist; this division is meant as a simple dialectic to gain a critical understanding of artists in this group, their depictions of place and time, and the unique kind of regional art produced during the renascence. The native or visitor comparison strives to locate and interpret, with sound visual and textual evidence, the conditions—both social and intuitive—that frame each artistic output. To begin, a comparison between the local Alice Ravenel Huger Smith (1876–1958) and the visiting Alfred Hutty (1877–1954) proved that the resident artist usually illustrated high-style architecture in a descriptive manner, and the visitor the vernacular side of Charleston in an expressive fashion. Fittingly, Smith was born into an elite Charlestonian family with strong ties to the old plantation system, and her art was bound to the mission of historic preservation. Other than a few short trips and several critiques from the itinerant artist and teacher Lovell Birge Harrison (1854–1929), Smith never left Charleston

Tours of the Charleston Renaissance 51 and was essentially self-taught. Hutty, who was a resident of Woodstock, New York, visited Charleston on a regular basis, beginning in the late 1910s and lasting until three years before his death. He was born in Grand Haven, Michigan, and arrived in Charleston with no preconception of the old-world tradition.9 After studying at the Art Students League with Harrison (who recommended that Hutty winter in Charleston), Hutty embarked on several practical jobs—such as a ten-year stint with Tiffany Glass Studios—and the Carolina Art Association’s invitation to teach in 1919 arose as a blessing for the artist. His repeated interest in the imagery of old Charleston reflected the regularity of his visits, though his artistic pursuits remained somewhat detached from the tendencies toward historic preservation, as his main homestead remained in Woodstock for the majority of his life. The roots of residence echoed the artistic context and formal manner of execution. In the precisely rendered The Pringle House (Figure 3.1), which is a drawing from the Pringle House portfolio (1914), Smith meant to illustrate an iconic residential structure.10 The house rests clearly on solid ground, is viewed from a formal distance, and rendered with pictorial and implied space. This work signified a perfect example of Charleston’s promotion of a visit as an illustrated trip to luxurious antebellum, while offering a taste of opulence and exclusion that harkened back to England’s Charles II. The book reinforced the family ties to place, as Smith’s father, Daniel Elliott Huger Smith, wrote the

Figure 3.1  Alice Ravenel Huger Smith, The Brewton–Alston–Pringle House, built soon after 1765, reproduction of a drawing, 1914. Published in Alice Ravenel Huger Smith and Daniel Elliott Huger Smith, The Dwelling Houses of Charleston, South Carolina (Philadelphia and London: J.B. Lippincott, 1917), p. 95. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the University of Virginia, digitized by Google Books. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100.

52  Chad Wesley Airhart manuscript that accompanied the drawings. Three years later, the two collaborated on a similar project to record Charleston titled The Dwelling Houses of Charleston, South Carolina (1917), which helped to inaugurate the campaign for historic preservation. In comparison, Hutty’s Cabbage Row (1928) represented a dilapidated building, with flaking stucco and windows in disrepair, and from a vantage point showing a tree penetrating the facade and fracturing the picture plane. This print illustrated the famous building where the hero Porgy from Taylor’s novel lived. In the text, the house, called Catfish Row, was described as a contemporary relic from the past, and “Over the entrance there still remained a massive grill of Italian wrought iron, and a battered capital of marble surmounted each of the lofty gate-posts.”11 Hutty preserved the lyrical quality of the rundown structure with his characteristic manual display of broken lines, smooth, controlled contours, and nervous, hasty scratches (Figure 3.2 shows another example of a dilapidated building known as Fairfield: The Oldest House on Santee). Whereas Smith’s illustrations visually persuaded the reader to restore antebellum in the context of literal narrative, Hutty’s expressed the age of time through rustic decay. His works were sold as separate prints at various shows, such as those given by the Charleston Etchers’ Club (founded in 1923), or his refurbished house—a studio at the historic 46 Tradd Street. Hutty’s use of line attracted important admirers, and most noteworthy was Duncan Phillips, who wrote an essay on the artist for the American Etchers in 1929, highlighting Hutty’s mastery of line and that he was “the most accomplished etcher of the specific character of trees in the history of the art.”12

Figure 3.2  Alfred Hutty, Fairfield: The Oldest House on Santee, undated, drawing. Published in Harriette Kershaw Leiding, Historic Houses of South Carolina (Philadelphia and London: J.B. Lippincott, 1921), p. 95. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the University of Michigan, digitized by Google Books. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100.

Tours of the Charleston Renaissance 53 Another comparison that exemplified the local-versus-visiting distinction of architectural imagery appeared in Elizabeth O’Neill Verner’s (1883–1979) Looking up Meeting Street (c.1928) and Childe Hassam’s (1859–1935) St. Michael’s, Charleston (1925). Verner—a native Charlestonian who studied with Thomas Anshutz (1851–1912) at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts—allied with fellow artists who were devoted to preserving the city’s southern charm with realistic illustrations. In her own words, she depicted the cityscape with “due respect for the architect who conceived it. I take no liberties with it. If it is a building I see no art in distorting it.”13 In her article “The Legend is Truer Than the Fact,” Stephanie Yuhl argued that the Charlestonian artists had created a “useable past” that served to reinforce the claim to social authority of Charleston’s elite. Verner, as a “coveted ‘insider’ Charleston,” joined the artistic movement in order to self-identify with the upper class and the restoration of the myth of “America’s most Historic City.”14 Unlike Smith, Verner was not born into Charleston’s inner circle, and her claim to illustrate the visual facts functioned in a similar manner to Smith’s work, which gave weight to Yuhl’s interpretation of Verner’s representational politics. Hence, she focused on visual facts and shied away from lyrical subjectivity. Verner’s works of important sites were exhibited and sold separately as works on paper, and certain prints were collected and presented in picture books, such as Prints and Impressions of Charleston (1939). She benefited from the steady flow of northern tourism, even during the Depression, and sent work to exhibitions all over the world.15 Hassam, on the other hand, was originally from Boston, lived and studied abroad, and resided in New York. By the time of his short visit to Charleston, he had earned considerable fame as a Francophile and importer of international Impressionism. With such a résumé, Hassam’s Charlestonian period revealed the formal and iconographical experiments of a well-established individual. The image of the city served as a point of departure, and the work sold primarily for its decorative and expressive qualities, not for its sense of place. However, although the contrast between the intentions of native and visitor artist revealed cultural and aesthetic distinctions, the audiences for each, in the end, were very similar. Although Charlestonian artists participated in a civic campaign to cultivate tourism, like their visitor counterparts, they exhibited most of the images as unique expressions from singular individuals. Such artists embraced the locale as a kind of intelligentsia and stayed away from magazine advertisements and billboards for popular culture. Incidentally, Charleston did not become a large-scale tourist attraction until after World War II.16 In Verner’s Looking up Meeting Street and Hassam’s St. Michael’s, Charleston (Figure 3.3, 1925), the sum of details and the vantage point of the viewer disclosed the discrepancy of agenda between the insider and outsider. Verner etched a multitude of information—lamps, ironwork, and street vendor, with the iconic spire of St. Michael’s in full view. Hassam, on the other hand, truncated the spire and reinforced the flatness of the picture plane, with massive columns commanding the space and the columns on the left serving as visual anchors, being virtually unrecognizable. Verner presented an uninterrupted view of the church from the vantage point of the South Carolina Society Hall’s portico, whereas Hassam’s drawing, although representing the same place, exhibited a concern for allover composition, with minimal details and features. In her book The Charleston Renaissance, Severens mentioned that

54  Chad Wesley Airhart [because she] knew Charleston so well, was appreciative of its history, and was active in preservation, Verner may have felt the burden of presenting a complete image. For her it was more than the physical fabric of the city that she was presenting: it was the city’s entire legacy.17 Whatever her motives—social, political, or personal—that determined the focus on particularity, Verner’s long, productive, and unwavering life-mission to preserve a special place has attracted an enormous amount of recognition. Verner, like her friend Smith, acted aggressively to create images that restored the charm and elegance of old Charleston, and this allegiance to place paralleled a wider movement in the American South. In Toward a New South, which was an essay written for the exhibition Painting in the South, Stewart categorized Smith, with many other southern artists, as bound to romantic nostalgia and “not prepared to come to grips

Figure 3.3  Childe Hassam, St. Michael’s Church, 1925, etching, 15⅛ × 12⅝ in., Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, NY, USA. Photographic credit and licensing information: Albright-Knox Art Gallery/Art Resource, NY.

Tours of the Charleston Renaissance 55 with the modern forces of industrialism, technology, and urbanism that threatened the region forever.”18 Charleston’s artists earned the romantic qualification. Looking backwards bore fruit; it inspired the impetus for preservation, being a cause that ultimately placed Charleston in the national spotlight. Charleston’s crusade countered the older tactic that sought to transform historic cities into museums. The Society for the Preservation of Old Dwellings—the first group dedicated to the effort—ushered in a new vision, with emphasis on the “relationship between preservation and tourism.” They believed that preservation must incorporate economic development through documentary and legal means, such as “local zoning, architectural surveys, and urban plans.”19 Faced with bridging the old and the new, Charlestonians realized the importance of business and expansion, while their city’s constituents fought against thoughtless demolition. In effect, the images made from champions such as Verner and Smith showed an entrepreneurial spirit that maintained a steady backbone of support to save the city’s antebellum character. The romantic sentiment—fashioned in conventional and illustrative pictures—was used as an effective means for civic redemption. The campaign to preserve the city with images for tourists involved mainly the native, but the allure of the city also attracted its share of outsiders. Again, the unobstructed versus obstructed view, and amount of information as created by local or visiting artists were consistent in the prints of St. Michael’s by Verner and Hutty, while Hutty disturbed the church with an asymmetrical, gnarled tree. One source suggested that the two artists worked at the same time, which heightened the competitive spirit, and that the artists were conscious of their relative connection to the city and its impact on their work.20 Charleston owned a history of distrust in newcomers, and the proximity of Hutty to the city’s inner circle showed the complexity of the visitor versus the native. Despite the resistance, Charlestonians relied on outsiders for financial support, and Hutty and his wife participated in the preservation movement with their renovation of an antebellum home. In The Charleston Renaissance Considered, Green and Hutchisson mentioned the cultural phenomena that usually deterred newcomers, and described the relative uniqueness of Hutty’s case, as he was “more successful in evading punishment. His only competition were women, and they would not deign to mention his crass merchandising.”21 The authors drew attention to Hutty’s practice of marketing images in various time-honored and restricted city locations, and to the use of northern publishers. The observation also underscored the gender politics of Charleston, with the association of art as a woman’s activity. Basically, Hutty exhibited complete independence in his salesmanship, which echoed his use of the city as subject for his own expressions and not for the social or political mobility of Charlestonians. The obvious distinction between newcomers, such as Hutty, and the local homegrown underscored a key issue of the Charleston resurgence: the necessity of the well-traveled and educated northerner to the viability of Charleston’s art scene. In addition to the wealthy northerners who bought estates, some to escape the harsh East-Coast winters, others for the purpose of hunting and outdoor recreation, the influence of the North affected the practice of art and art theory. Many northern tourists bought the images that inspired the capital investments in the city, and, of course, these purchases supported the careers of local and visiting artists. Furthermore, the attraction of the city introduced influential artists to the Charleston scene. The autochthonous Charlestonian knew that the city’s best interest lay in the promise of northern exposure, and one of the stars to affect the local constellation was Harrison. He, like Hutty, lived and worked around New York and the progressive Woodstock colony.

56  Chad Wesley Airhart There, Harrison helped to form the Art Students League, which called for a more personal curriculum, outdoor painting, and direct subject matter, in contrast to the academic standards of copying old masters, perspectival space, and figure drawing from models and plaster casts. Harrison was an accomplished painter practicing tonalism and, as a regular visitor to Charleston, symbolized the necessary conduit to the thriving art centers of the north. Of all of the outsider artists, Harrison was one of the most decorated, having been educated at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts in 1874 under the instruction of Thomas Eakins (1844–1916), and Harrison was one of the first American artists collected by the French government in the Salon de 1882 exhibition. In addition to encouraging Hutty to visit Charleston, Harrison’s main impact on the art scene was his relationship to Smith, who rented part of her estate to him and learned of his method of “memory sketches,” which was a Japanese technique used to examine and record a landscape in the mind.22 The method demanded that the artist digest and transform the subject’s essence into pictorial experience. Along with the procedure of plein air painting and the general attitude of Impressionism, the method strove to combine the fugitive effects of nature and the artist in an honest act of representing nature. In short, the theory combined the sense of place with lyrical symbolism. Two paintings of St. Michael’s, by Smith and Harrison, demonstrate the impact that the theory of “memory sketches” made on the indigene in comparison with the visitor. In The Rector’s Kitchen and View of St. Michael’s (Figure 3.4, c.1915), Smith painted the classic church, the main house, and the vernacular add-on servants house. The work illustrated the vernacular and classical (lower and upper class), while also showing the artist’s touch and talent. Forms interact and flow into one another, as seen in the complexity of organic free forms, geometric dormer windows, gables, chimneys, and the variety of shadows cast. The necessity for information with the details of specific features is evident, but the information is synthesized into rhythms of lights and darks that dance across the surface. The viewer witnesses the eye and temperament of an artist, along with social class and the memory of the plantation system. On the other hand, in St. Michael’s (1919), Harrison captured the simple essence of the church and its relation to the environment. It towers over adjacent buildings and streets with figures that are small in scale relative to its rising verticality. A large sky and gradual tonal shifts create a somber mood. The details of the spire and vegetation diminish, and the viewer loses the sense of tangible place. The church served to create a personal and aesthetic response and, as such, was not meant to be an illustration of the trip to Charleston. The famous church acted as point of departure for a subjective journey, and the actual site—like the title, St. Michael’s—served only as a nominal sign for reference. Another theme concerning regional architecture and the effects of birthright on artistic representation was expressed in the level of emotion projected into the work. In Fenwick Hall (1930) by Taylor, the artist sought to raise awareness of the historic abode. Born in upcountry Columbia, South Carolina, Taylor graduated from Radcliffe College in 1915, after studying with William Merritt Chase (1849–1916), and eventually resided in Charleston in the late 1920s. She depicted the antebellum estate with broad and painterly strokes, emphasizing the massive tree and the specific architectural components of porch and roof. Rendered in formulaic painterly patches, the representation of Fenwick Hall served more as a symbol of the past than as a carrier of personal meaning. Edward Hopper (1882–1967), who was an accomplished and famous painter, briefly visited the area. Born in Nyack, New York,

Tours of the Charleston Renaissance 57

Figure 3.4  Alice Ravenel Huger Smith, The Rector’s Kitchen and View of St. Michael’s, c.1910–15, watercolor on board. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Smithsonian Institute Research Information System. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Hopper studied at the New York Institute of Art and Design and later spent time with the great artist-teachers Merritt Chase and Robert Henri (1865–1929). He charged his Cabin, Charleston, S.C. (1929) with his signature lonely remoteness. The derelict dwelling seems to have eyes, with one window signaling a cautious gaze at the viewer. The work’s site specificity allowed Hopper a new subject, but not a new attitude or aesthetic sensibility. His purpose was not to promote; rather, Charleston was a retreat from his usual workplace. Perhaps Hopper’s conservative politics, combined with his genius to expose the issue of vanishing place, made Charleston a suitable place for the itinerant artist. In addition to the relation of regular versus irregular visitor and its effects on representation, Hopper’s work illuminated the importance of medium as a carrier of meaning. For Hopper, the watercolor served as a means to sketch quickly and to locate the expressive shapes and hues. He did not intend to stay, and intimacy

58  Chad Wesley Airhart with environment would have been unnecessary. For the urban promoter, prints and works on paper were more than preparatory sketches; prints provided an affordable and portable object for the itinerant traveler. In the case of a regular visitor, such as Hutty, who sold etchings and prints to tourists, the same subject, the dilapidated abode, was idealized and romanticized. In Old Landmark, Hutty’s use of black lines, crosshatching, and overt simplicity built an image of a vernacular Charleston as a place of harmony. The elegant broken lines and rustic treatment of rhythmic surfaces reinforced a nostalgic view of poverty as sincere, honest, and pious. Hopper’s Cabin, Charleston, S.C. testified to the truthful depiction of economic depression and angst in the USA of the late 1920s, and the accuracy of this expression indicated a reason for Hopper’s lasting fame and universal recognition. Compared with Hopper’s work, Hutty’s appeared to reaffirm a native Charlestonian love for nostalgia, which underlined Charleston’s social influence on the artist who worked yearly in the area. The difference in romantic (or optimistic) as opposed to pessimistic depictions of Charleston, perhaps, showed a sort of collective myopia of Charleston’s art, which was a trait—true or not—often associated with the American South. In the area of landscape views, the distinction between resident and visitor and the relative treatment of subject were harder to define, as every artist of the Charlestonian Renaissance embraced the Lowcountry landscape as a source of artistic freedom. Even when pictorial views were sold as charming prints for the tourist, or as reproductions in a text for the armchair traveler, the experience of the Lowcountry seems to have demanded a personal revelation through experimentation. Compared with views of the city with its historic charm, the landscape offered a different kind of romantic environment, with reminders of antebellum mansions and vast plantations. The planters and the African-American workers remained mostly in memory, except for scattered relics, such as derelict houses and large tracts of land. Although several plantations were bought and restored—many by northerners—much of the land was untouched, and the swampy rivers, indigenous trees, seashore, and hanging Spanish moss offered excellent motifs. In fact, the beautiful color of the Lowcountry demanded the medium of paint for its expression, and hence the ineptness of black and white prints meant that fewer landscapes were sold as souvenirs to tourists. Often, the secluded and polychromatic scenery compelled the use of the portable watercolor, with its transparency suited to the atmosphere of the humid marshlands. The visitor preferred oil paint, as the paintings sold as singular works, and the better-equipped visitor could afford the high cost of oil and canvas. Nonetheless, the most impressive landscapes were painted by the native Smith, who found her calling with a remarkable group of watercolors that combine artistic autonomy with a keen sense of place. If any work of the Charlestonian movement should be considered as a candidate for admittance to the long list of great American art, Smith’s landscapes unquestionably deserve this attention. With her numerous publications and involvement in the Gibbes Museum, the Charleston Etchers Club, and the preservation movement, her efforts demonstrated an absolute devotion to cultural heritage, and perhaps this steadfast mission was the reason why the aesthetic achievement of her landscapes seems to be overlooked. Whatever the case, her sense of place and mission were inseparable, and the portrayal of her environment proved to be a personal journey to see the world afresh. Smith experienced the same place differently; she transformed the image of Charleston as much as she was transformed by the place. In a word, she was a native with an explorer’s heart. Living all of her life in Charleston, Smith remained the

Tours of the Charleston Renaissance 59 most indigenous artist of the period. Her landscapes, especially her watercolors, teeter between a romantic, sentimental bond with the past and an experimental evocation of local scenery. She grew up in a historic family that yearned for the past, and, as such, her feelings for Charleston’s old glory were not a staged sentiment for the complacent viewer, but an outpouring of her being. Smith’s dual role of committed citizen and experimental artist formed from the mixture of a unique art education, theory, and particular place. Being connected to many of the well-traveled and well-read Charlestonian intelligentsia and a part of the agrarian plantation culture influenced her toward a method that incorporated realistic drawing and a Japanese aesthetic of nature worship, memory, medium attunement, bold color, and spatial compression. Her landscapes revealed a balance between the descriptive native artist and the innovative visitor. In her Ready for Harvest, which had been created as a watercolor for the series A Carolina Rice Plantation of the Fifties (c.1935) and accompanied the text on the lost art of rice agriculture, the viewer sees a particular step of the growing process with the central figure: an African-American woman.23 The almost faceless worker, reduced to essential clothes and demeanor, appears as a symbol in harmony with land and occupation. Yet, this was more than a patriarchal view of plantation culture. The painting reveals a unique experimentation with intense color, outdoor luminosity, and accidental organic shapes near the bottom of the picture, where Smith allowed the paint and water to blend and move freely. Moreover, the image was part of a series, made to give a spectrum of scenes from the vantage point of a particular individual. A similar reading of a rosy past, mixed with personal discovery, emerged in Plantation Church and Winter Vegetable Garden from the same publication. Although Smith’s images exceeded the limits of premeditated craft, as in the abstract Pineland and Grove of Oaks (other works from the Rice Plantation series), the watercolors were made as illustrations to accompany a text, being packaged and printed for the lover of southern traditions. Her role and success as a promoter of Charleston and visual historian anchored the occasion to fuse together memory and moment. In the context of early to mid-twentieth-century art, a story that privileged international abstraction over regional realism, the well-traveled visiting artists were more inclined to embrace the contemporary experiments and, hence, gain greater exposure. Harrison, who was a popular visitor and advocate of Charleston, unlike Smith, was not interested in visual rhetoric and social history. As a devotee of tonalism, he went to South Carolina for the mild climate; his Moonlight on Charleston Harbor (1909) could have been painted in virtually any coastal location. The painting expressed a subjective mood from subtle gradations, and the personal response to the seascape disclosed a free expression, wherein the actual place was merely a starting point. Similarly, Hutty’s landscapes followed an analogous model toward formalism, with an Impressionist attitude that placed special emphasis on the picture plane, color, and gestural applications as carriers of personal expression. In the energetic Yeamens Hall Oak (1940) and Avenue of Live Oaks (n.d.), he compressed the trees to the surface, mobilizing the shapes and interstices into an accelerated tempo of independent moments. In Hutty’s White Azaleas—Magnolia Gardens (1925), or Magnolia Gardens (Figure 3.5, 1920), the well-known plantation prompted a fleeting moment with Spanish moss as vertical swishes and the myriad of azalea leaves and flowers shaped from choppy dabs. Before Hutty began to visit Charleston—though he worked in stained glass at Tiffany Studios to support himself—he was first and foremost a painter. Perhaps, the many

60  Chad Wesley Airhart picturesque etchings and dry points served as a source of income to support a more personal drive toward free expression, which he found in the medium of oil and the theme of landscape. A comparison of landscapes by Harrison and Hutty with Smith’s plantation series showed how the theme of an independent work of art functioned differently from works in an illustrated text. A look at the relatively unknown William Posey Silva (1859–1948) demonstrates another example of Charleston’s charm being transformed into an independent aesthetic. Silva began painting late in his career and studied outdoor painting and Impressionism in Paris, his work having a dreamy, lyrical quality. In The Sun Dispels the Morning Fog (1927), Silva’s title suggested a private symbolism, and the loaded brush creates a rhythm of musical intervals forming vegetation, air, earth, and water. Although he finished his career in California, Silva was originally from Savannah, Georgia. His familiarity with moisture, atmosphere, and hazy environments proved to form a similar kinship with Smith’s evocative landscapes. Both southern artists mixed dreaminess with particularity. Furthermore, like Verner and Smith, he was a leading member of the Southern States Art League.

Figure 3.5  Alfred Hutty, Magnolia Gardens, 1920, oil on canvas, 40 × 32 in., Gibbes Museum of Art, Charleston, South Carolina, USA. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Google Art Project via Wikimedia Commons. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-1923, public domain via Google Art Project.

Tours of the Charleston Renaissance 61 The group, founded in part by Elizabeth Verner in 1921, was devoted to southern art appreciation, regional patronage, and local art education, and its members encouraged the artist to stay home in the South and create images with southern distinction. The kinds of image that the Southern States Art League extolled were images such as the iconic oak tree with hanging moss; a comparison of this theme in the hands of a native as opposed to a visitor revealed the impact of place and time. In A Carolina Vista (c.1925) by Eola Wills (1856–1952) and Road from Charleston to Savannah (1925) by Lilla Cabot Perry (1848–1933), the typical scene was rendered for two very different reasons. Willis, born in Georgia, studied with Merritt Chase at the Art Students League. She resided in Charleston and, along with the other natives, supported images that constructed the unique charm of her city. In A Carolina Vista, Willis displayed the important attributes of the southern oasis with a dominant oak tree, moss, and a path leading to the open countryside. The impressionistic use of surface compression and light effects, especially in the purple, flaccid moss, accentuated the old grandeur of the tree. On the other hand, Perry’s painting was part of a trip to the warmer climate in order to recuperate from a bout of diphtheria. At the time of her arrival in Charleston, she was widely known as a protégé of Claude Monet (1840–1926), having worked at his famous home in Giverny, France, which attracted a host of American artists. To render the archetypal scene, she chose a more limited color palette with less implied space and fewer details, which is most notable in the diminutive function of the hanging moss. Willis used the images to foster an appreciation of the southern landscape, whereas Perry’s work was part of a personal, private diary, with no cultural motivation whatsoever. So deep was the dream of a golden age that the Charlestonian artists considered the African American to be as harmonious as the classical mansion and tranquil Lowcountry. The romantic views of Charleston’s black population were a cultural construction; they were visual narratives that depicted an original society of righteous people working a fertile land. Despite the difficult life conditioned by limited education, unsanitary dwellings, and virtually no health care, both the resident and the visiting artist represented the African American as a segregated, quaint, and exotic branch of American culture. Whereas the Charlestonian projected a patriarchal relationship on black figures, the visitor made caricatures that clung to basic stereotypes. With few exceptions, such as the case of the African-American artist Edwin Harleston (1882–1931), almost no portrayals existed of African Americans in the role of mobile individuals unwilling to accept the restraints of past associations. The indigenous artist pictured the black race as essentially native to the Carolina soil, possessing the same autochthonous recognition as the white, landed gentry. The representations portrayed a perfect example of what Estill Pennington described as “the old Southern dichotomy of fantasy and fact. [. . .] Reality, in the guise of objective historical accounting of goods and people, collides with the extensively evolved, and very sentimental lens through which the South has viewed itself.”24 However, the tendency to show black culture as peaceful, agreeable, and simple was not only a southern phenomenon; it went back to the days after the Civil War when stereotypes of African Americans became mainstream for southerners and northerners alike. National interest proved that the stereotypical images were not exclusive to Charleston, or to the South for that matter. In fact, the Harlem Renaissance, which happened simultaneously with the advent of the Charleston movement, reacted against the oversimplification and patriarchal use of themes and figures with African descent. Within the body of a universal neglect of

62  Chad Wesley Airhart realism, the native Charlestonian handled the depictions differently than the visitor, and, again, the main differences were in the specific function and context of the image. The use of African Americans in Smith’s Ready for Harvest, which was one of the watercolors for A Carolina Rice Plantation of the Fifties (c.1935), revealed the patriarchal feelings for the old slave and plantation system. Smith reduced the woman to essential traits, with no individuality. The worker meshes with the landscape as an innocent embellishment swaying on the ground. In comparison, George Biddle (1885–1973) created, in his Fruit Market, Charleston (1930), a group of black people posed in a manner where each figure appears separately. Similar to figures in a Picasso work, each person seems detached, isolated, and fixed to the picture plane in motionless suspension, except for the woman holding a carrot at the upper left. The lack of expression and facial features in caricature disallowed an intimacy with the African Americans. They played a formal role for an artist with an eclectic sense. Biddle traveled extensively and studied in prestigious schools, such as the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. He saw the local inhabitant of Charleston as an exotic variant, despite his later connection to Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal and the push for social realism and regional art. The figure, for Biddle, served an inherently individual need, whereas, for Smith, the figure enhanced the myth-making of the preservationist movement. Smith’s African descendent was portrayed as being under the protection of the landowner, just as the image—part of a series on rice planting—preserved the agrarian tradition of “Old Charleston.” Smith’s Plantation Church also revealed the projected harmony of the subservient class in the acceptance of a Western form of Christianity. By comparison, Hutty’s Spiritual in the Lowcountry (c.1930) exposed the mixing of African music and customs with its more recent belief system. The native artist bestowed a traditional image of black religion, whereas the regular visitor celebrated the vernacular. Hutty’s scene takes place in a darkened forest under the protection of night and a canopy of dense foliage. The figures are reduced to simple shapes that gyrate and wiggle against one another, giving a visual equivalent to the unique and spontaneous syncopation of the religious ritual. Fittingly, Hutty was more involved in Charleston’s preservation than the outsider who visited rarely, and yet less than the Charlestonian from the upper, white elite. He portrayed an occurrence that the privileged Charlestonian would not have touched and yet, like the native Charlestonian, he denied the figures any hint of individuality. The unique form of gospel was central to the allure of the city; in about 1924, the Society for the Preservation of Spirituals—a group of former plantation owners—compiled and published the songs from the old slave class. The inner circle of Charleston’s elite strove to protect the traditional, pleasant image of the spirituals, and, as such, Hutty’s images were not part of the agenda. Smith illustrated the figures, in accordance with Charleston’s civic image-maker, as an organized social group walking toward a central church and traditional portico, authorized by the slave owner. Hutty’s figures addressed a stereotype of uncontrolled exotica, expressed in a lyrical and gestural manner. His images were collected by eager tourists seeking the strange assimilation of contrary cultural values, whereas the local artist sold to the tourist the reminders and dreams of old-time Dixie Land. The reduction of the black working class to elements—either as essentials to a planter’s landscape or as indispensable components in a picture—made the African American an integral part of the Charlestonian Renaissance. For either visitor or indigene, they served to make the place distinct, charming, and mysterious. The real social

Tours of the Charleston Renaissance 63 context, however, revealed a destabilized region, with the African American aggressively pursuing better social conditions. Already by 1919, Charleston’s chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People began to demand that African Americans be allowed to teach in public, rejecting a ban that showed the conflicts of Jim Crow segregation. Yet, in Taylor’s Harvesting Rice (c.1930), which was a print for the book This Our Land (itself published with support from the Agricultural Society of South Carolina), a quaint group of women perform an activity that was detached from the chaos of contemporary pressure. Similar to Hutty’s depiction of the spiritual, his At the Wedding (c.1930) supplied the market demand for the oddity of cultural integration, with a recently married couple of African Americans in formal attire and portrayed as orderly, and exuding propriety. Again, the native supported the goal of historic preservation with selective images, and the regular visitor gave a curbside view that helped to charm the tourist toward an old but diverse city. The theme of African Americans with unusual dialects adorning the city played a salient role for the cultural image desired by the opportunistic artist of Charleston. Indeed, no images of local color were more enduring for the city than women street vendors with fruit on their head or with baskets of flowers. To the amusement of the average tourist, the idiosyncrasies of language and custom were offered in Taylor’s Garden on he Head! (c.1925). In this print, the fruit on the women’s heads, the pineapple decorations on the gate of the Simmons-Edwards House, and the rareness of the Gullah parlance offered southern hospitality mixed with cultural originality. Taylor’s African Americans received the same visual details as the well-known gate decorations, framed by a tree trunk, limbs, and ironwork. The figures served as special accoutrements of the architecture and reconstructed the aura of a peaceful society. In contrast to this quiet view, in Hutty’s Jenkins’ Orphanage Band (1931), another Charleston street scene, the viewer encounters a vociferous performance of African-American ragtime. Hutty’s drypoint makes the brass sound and the loud boom of the base drum reverberate, with heavy intervals of dark areas between rhythms of bodies and instruments. In this case, the artist embraced the national phenomenon of jazz music, which was arguably America’s first original form of art. The Jenkins’s Orphanage Band, in fact, performed on Broadway in Uncle Tom’s Cabin (1913). The dramatic group in Hutty’s representation broadcast the importance of Charleston to a national audience and, with the figures in caricature, the trend to portray African Americans without reference to particular individuality. The elite Charlestonian seldom illustrated the band, probably as its members were loud and expressive and perceived as proud, which countered the image of the humble and obedient servant. In contrast to the visitor, the native explicated the icon with Charleston-centric criteria—the title, with its unusual Gullah mix of African and English languages, demonstrated the integration of past and present. No matter what the agenda of the artistic venture, the images of African Americans were often coupled with language and music, and the audial street beat expanded the range and appearance of cultural diversity. Charleston street life acted as consistent sustenance for the visual displays of the Charleston Renaissance. Yet, as members of the city—even if the elite saw them as second class—the street vendors and the reality of their lives became a complex situation for some artists. Such a case of realism affected Verner, at least in some degree. After many black and white etchings of African Americans in the context of architecture, Verner began, in the 1930s, to use the colorful pastel medium to represent women selling flowers, dominating the picture plane with minimal backgrounds.

64  Chad Wesley Airhart The women, for example, in February in Charleston (c.1940) display facial expressions, with a hint of personality and subjectivity. Although Verner’s pastels did not illustrate any kind of social mobility, they offered a direct emphasis on the faces and emotions of actual women. Between Verner and her subjects, a personal relationship existed; the proof came in the 1940s, when the number of street vendors increased to a level that disturbed the customers and owners of local businesses. After outcries to civic leaders, a threat to prohibit the women to sell their wares was issued, and Verner, at the request of the vendors, helped to restore their position. She used her political connections to sway officials, and the activity was allowed to continue. Either for a personal need—the images of the vendors were quite profitable—or to help the call for human freedom, or both, Verner championed the group socially and pictorially. The plight of the street vendors intersected with the efforts to fashion the charming persona of Charleston. For a short-term visitor, the reality of African Americans remained a detached story. The eclectic artist Jules Pascin (1885–1930) became enamored of the city’s unique street life, as seen in Sunday Morning in Charleston (1919). Unlike Verner, with her preservation tactics, Pascin, who was a good friend of Biddle, sought out Charleston as a place to rest and paint. His stop in the Lowcountry was part of a larger tour to find exotic subjects, and the mix of black culture nurtured his instincts toward non-Western themes. Later, he traveled to the Caribbean and, unlike the Charlestonian or the regular visitor, showed no concern for the city’s persona. Like Biddle, he participated in the trend to explore Charleston’s oddities. In his watercolor, four women appear in white, formal dress, perhaps getting ready for church. Other representations, such as the side of a building, background landscape, and a small dog, were made with lines that reveal a gestural abandonment. Linear divisions structure the moment for broad washes, and the simple lines and colors represent the essential features of the ladies, while they expose the idiosyncrasies of Pascin’s quick, spontaneous touch. The last artist to be discussed exposed the limited fantasy of southern charm and its frozen past on display for the modern traveler. Harleston was born in Charleston to a mother with a family history of free African Americans and a father who was the son of a white planter. The taboo of interracial relations, in addition to the prejudice against black people in general, prevented Harleston from being accepted by the local art movement. This categorical rejection revealed the staunch hegemony of the white elite, along with its members’ standards for a Charleston insider and acceptable outsider. Harleston deserved exposure. He was a talented artist, depicting the current situation of African Americans in the USA, while his biography represented the challenge for African Americans to gain mobility and successfully shed the limitations imposed by history. Yet, his realistic portrayals of African Americans never appeared as representations of the historic city; they did not conform to the quaint or exotic expectations that were held by the city’s promoters. In fact, his education and worldview contradicted theirs. He graduated valedictorian from Charleston’s most important African-American school, the Avery Institute, while later he went to Atlanta University, and eventually attended the prestigious Boston Museum of Fine Arts. At Atlanta, he studied with the famous W.E.B. Du Bois, who was the leader of the African-American movement that taught individuality and resistance against compliance, and especially Booker T. Washington’s theory of black compromise. Harleston was one of Du Bois’s outspoken students, and he later helped to form Charleston’s

Tours of the Charleston Renaissance 65 chapter of the NAACP. Although one of Charleston’s most educated artists, the story of a biracial Charlestonian did not fit well with the elite, nor with the prevailing fabrication of agreeable class division. Harleston was never admitted as an insider or regular outsider. Until the 1980s, the story of this black artist, struggling toward a counter-narrative against a city’s myopic image, was basically unknown. Harleston’s portrait of Aaron Douglas (1930) marked a historic event for the growing development of African Americans in pursuit of free expression and higher education. Shown in front of the murals commissioned by Fisk University in Nashville, Douglas represented a successful individual creating a work that symbolized the history and culture of African Americans. The image revealed Harleston’s academic handling of paint, using bold contrast to depict Douglas at work with a thoughtful disposition. The exclusion of Harleston from the Charleston-centric elite demonstrated what Susan Donaldson iterated as an example of the “contained-outsiders-who-make-the-insiders-insiders,”25 which was a notion that, in hindsight, appears to have been true. In order for a consistent and nostalgic view to prevail, Harleston’s work remained in shadow. The exclusion of Harleston showed the extent to which the Charlestonian was willing to go to construct the image and efficacy of southern charm. The native artists protected the iconic views against the reality of race and segregation, and the tourists from abroad supported these images wholeheartedly. The common prejudice against African-American artists was believed to have been necessary to maintain the image of historic Charleston. In conclusion, the Charleston art movement succeeded in preserving the image of a golden age, albeit an image that, in today’s view, we know is just that—an image. The Charlestonian artist lived in a microcosm of predictable experience, and, when contrasted to the traveling artists who added the outsider’s openness, the picture of Charleston expands into an immense macrocosm. A comparison of native with visitor reveals the porous nature of a city’s visual persona; it exhibits the complexity of travel as both a place and a trip. The traveling artist, in turn, gave a sensation to the movement that allowed the native to remain with an individual’s distinct image of Charleston and, in a way, shows the transparency of this mythical image. The reality that remains, however, is the history of the city, with its antebellum buildings and pleasant landscape, and, along with this story of a fabled past, another story emerges—a story of the need to travel to such a fabled past and open the story into the current of imagination.

Notes 1 Du Bose Heyward, Porgy (Sellanraa, Dunwoody, GA: Norman S. Berg, Publisher, by arrangement with Doubleday, 1925). Julia Peterkin, Scarlet Sister Mary (New York: Grosset and & Dunlap, 1923). George and Ira Gershwin’s folk opera Porgy and Bess, 1935. 2 Barbara L. Bellows, “At Peace with the Past: Charleston, 1900–1950,” in Mirror of Time: Elizabeth O’Neill Verner’s Charleston (Columbia, OH: McKissick Museums, The University of South Carolina, 1983). Idus Newby, Black Carolinians: A History of Blacks in South Carolina from 1895 to 1968 (Columbia, OH: University of South Carolina Press, 1973). 3 George Brown Tindall, The Emergence of a New South, 1913–1945 (Baton Rouge, LA: Louisiana State University Press, 1967). 4 Wayne Craven, American Art: History and Culture (London: Lawrence King., 2003). 5 Barbara Haskell, The American Century: Art and Culture, 1900–1950 (New York: W.W. Norton, 1999). Robert Hughes, The Shock of the New: The Hundred Year History of Modern Art—Its Rise, Its Dazzling Achievements, Its Fall (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1998).

66  Chad Wesley Airhart 6 James C. Kelly, The South on Paper: Line, Color and Light (Spartanburg, SC: Robert M. Hicklin, 1985), p. 11. H.L. Mencken, “The Sahara of the Bozart,” Prejudices, Second Series (1920). This is one of the most famous negative critiques on the art and culture of the American South. 7 Barbara Shissler Nosanow, More than Land or Sky: Art from Appalachia (Washington, D.C: National Museum of American Art, Smithsonian Institution Press, 1981), p. 11. Nosanow stated that all the artists shared a similar “common sentiment, feeling” or “content,” not a style or form. 8 Rick Stewart, “Toward a New South: The Regionalist Approach, 1900 to 1950,” in Painting in the South: 1564–1980 (Richmond, VA: The Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, 1983). Kelly, The South on Paper. Martha R. Severens, The Charleston Renaissance (Spartanburg, SC: Saraland Press, 1999). 9 Boyd Saunders and Ann McAden, Alfred Hutty and the Charleston Renaissance (Orangeburg, SC: Sandlapper, 1990). 10 Alice Ravenal Huger Smith and D. E. H. Smith, Twenty Drawings of the Pringle House on King Street, Charleston, S.C. (Charleston, SC: Lanneau’s Art Store, 1914). 11 Heyward, Porgy. 12 Duncan Phillips, Alfred Hutty (New York: The Crafton Collection, 1929), p. 2. 13 Severens, The Charleston Renaissance, p. 54. 14 Stephanie E. Yuhl, “The Legend is Truer Than the Fact: The Politics of Representation in the Career of Elizabeth O’Neill Verner,” in Renaissance in Charleston: Art and Life in the Carolina Low Country, 1900–1940, eds. James M. Hutchinson and Harlan Greene (Athens, GA: The University of Georgia Press, 2003), pp. 126, 128. 15 Marlo Pease Bussman, Born Charlestonian: The Story of Elizabeth O’Neill Verner (Columbia, SC: The State Printing Company, 1969). 16 Bellows, “At Peace with the Past.” Charleston. After World War II, the increase of in tourism mirrored the better economy in the USA. Also, the navy yards in Charleston gave the city a boost, as well as did the diligence of the citizens and their relentless drive to restore the city. 17 Severens, The Charleston Renaissance, p. 54. 18 Stewart, “Toward a New South,” p. 114. 19 Michael C. Scardaville, “Elizabeth O’Neill Verner: The Artist as Preservationist,” Mirror of Time: Elizabeth O’Neill Verner’s Charleston (Columbia, SC: McKissick Museums, The University of South Carolina, 1983). 20 Saunders and McAden, Alfred Hutty, p. 46. 21 James M. Hutchinson and Harlan Greene, Renaissance in Charleston: Art and Life in the Carolina Low Country, 1900–1940 (Athens, GA: The University of Georgia Press, 2003), p. 11. 22 Martha R. Severens, Alice Ravenal Huger Smith: An Artist, a Place and a Time (Charleston, SC: Carolina Art Association/Gibbes Museum of Art, 1993). 23 Alice Ravenal Huger Smith and Herbert Ravenal Sass, A Carolina Rice Plantation of the Fifties (New York: William Morrow, 1936). 24 Yuhl, “The Legend is Truer Than the Fact,” pp. 126–7. Quote from Estill Pennington’s Look Away: Reality and Sentiment in Southern Art (Spartanburg, SC: Peachtree, 1989). 25 Susan V. Donaldson, “Charleston’s Racial Politics of Historic Preservation: The Case of Edwin A. Harleston,” in Renaissance in Charleston, eds. Hutchinson and Greene, p. 188.

Part 2

Travel on a smaller scale Voyages in the familiar

Q Taylor & Francis Taylor & Francis Group

� http://taylorandfrancis.com

4 Representing the “El” and the subway Urban travel as ordinary icon in New York City, 1900–30 Elsie Heung

“Why not use the ‘L’?” asks the title of a 1930 painting by urban realist Reginald Marsh (1898–1954).1 This dreary depiction of subway travel features three passengers, each psychologically isolated from each other and detached from his or her surroundings. A woman in a blue coat stands next to the exit, reading a newspaper; a sleeping man sprawls on the seat, with a newspaper tucked under his lower back, serving as a makeshift cushion; and a woman in an acid-green coat perches primly on her seat, lost in her thoughts and gazing blankly ahead. Above the passengers a sign reads, “The subway is fast—certainly! But the Open Air Elevated gets you there quickly, too—and with more comfort. Why not use the ‘L’?” Through signage, Marsh bridges the gap between two forms of rapid transportation available in New York City at the time: the subway and the elevated train. Moreover, it synthesizes a range of themes that recur in the representation of these two modes of urban travel from about 1900 to 1930: spectatorship, daily-life dramas, transitory associations between people and places, diversity in the urban population, and the transformation and creation of social spaces in a modern city. In the nineteenth century, advances in technology made travel quicker and much more accessible. The boom in railroad building and the invention of steam-powered trains and ships granted greater mobility to people around the world, allowing travellers to visit far-flung places and to experience new sites and cultures. In reflecting upon these monumental developments in travel, one might easily overlook technological advances that impacted the quality of life, daily routine, and general sense of wellbeing of average city dwellers as they commuted through the city in the early twentieth century. Though mundane to most, transportation in the form of the elevated train and the subway captured the attention of artists who focused on the urban experience. As a subject, the elevated train (the “El”), and later the subway, appealed to artists throughout the first half of the twentieth century. Ashcan painter and member of “The Eight,” John Sloan (1871–1951) featured the El and its tracks in at least twelve paintings and prints between 1907 and 1928; his student and disciple, Marsh, also turned to the El and the subway in numerous works, beginning with his cartoons for the New York Daily News in the early 1920s; modernists Charles Sheeler (1883–1965), Max Weber (1881–1961), and Joseph Stella (1877–1946) celebrated the El and the subway in their inimitable styles, which suggest the ethos of the Machine Age; abstract expressionists Franz Kline (1910–62) and Mark Rothko (1903–70) focused their attention on elevated and subway stations in their early figurative work, which anticipated their signature abstractions in the 1950s.

70  Elsie Heung These artists transformed the drudgery of public transportation and everyday life into images testifying to the power of American technology and innovation, and highlighted the dynamic social spaces that contributed to the diversity of a quickly evolving modern metropolis. Although the interest in the speed, motion, and the physical structures of urban travel are important, particularly with respect to modernist artists, it is the social impact, as it relates to visual representation, that is addressed in this chapter. Under consideration are the representations of urban travel by artists associated with the Ashcan School and subsequent urban realists who chronicled the people, places, and activities in New York City during the early decades of the twentieth century. Analysis of their paintings, prints, and illustrations shows that the environs of the El and the subway operated as compelling sites for social encounters, paralleling the many modern experiences and spectacles emerging within the metropolis. In 1906, Henry James (1843–1916) described the El as an “endless electric coil” and as “the boa-constrictor [that] winds round the group of the Laocoön.”2 Two years earlier, New York City’s now iconic subway opened to great fanfare and celebration. Thus, not only was the El an eyesore to those like James, it was fast becoming obsolete by the 1900s. During the mid-nineteenth century, many New Yorkers viewed rapid transportation as a necessity for a city suffering from a quickly growing population, and it was thus considered a solution for a host of urban ills: traffic congestion, fire, crime, poverty, disease, and a decline in moral standards.3 Various proposals for elevated trains and subway systems appeared in illustrated magazines throughout the latter half of the nineteenth century, including trains that moved through pneumatic tubes, and elegant terraces traversing the length of Broadway. The decision to adopt an elevated system over a subway ultimately came down to cost and constraints in technology.4 An elevated railroad would be much less expensive and could be more quickly built. On December 7, 1867, civil engineer Charles T. Harvey (1829–1912) unveiled the first elevated line—an experimental, half-mile track in Greenwich. Attired in a smart black suit and top hat, he smoothly traversed the track on a cable-operated handcar, demonstrating the safety of his invention to the public.5 Construction began in earnest in 1871, when steam locomotives replaced Harvey’s train and when double tracks were installed (Figure 4.1).6 By the early 1880s, four train lines spanned from the Battery to Central Park and beyond and were operated by the Manhattan Elevated Railway Company; in 1902, electric trains replaced the steam engines, allowing for a faster, safer, and cleaner system. Although we no longer see much evidence of these massive elevated structures in Manhattan, in their day, they had an enormous impact on the city. At the most basic level, the system raised commuters above the street-level chaos, reduced travel time, and encouraged the northward expansion of the city; at the same time, the massive tracks became unavoidable structures that drastically transformed the cityscape. More provocatively, the El allowed New Yorkers to observe their city from a mobile, privileged perspective above street level. An 1880 article in the New York Times vividly recounts a series of scenes witnessed by commuters as they ride the Second Avenue line from Chatham Square to Harlem. Notably, the reporter describes the voyeuristic act of looking through apartment windows as the train passes by the city’s tenements: Look in through any of the windows, which are all open, and you see at this time of day, a supper table spread, and the family seated around it. You will generally see a bed in the same room, for there is no space to spare. It is only the story of

Representing the “El” and the subway 71

Figure 4.1  John S. Johnston, Elevated Railroads in New York City: Looking north in the Bowery from Grand Street, c.1896, Library of Congress, Washington, DC, USA. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Library of Congress. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

tenement-house life, too familiar to New Yorkers to interest them. Only the old story of life, to say nothing of death, among the working people. [. . .] These houses are not so bad when you have no more to do with them than look in at their windows.7 William Dean Howells (1837–1920), in his 1890 novel A Hazard of New Fortunes, similarly narrates such acts of voyeurism encouraged by travelling on the El. In one scene, protagonist Basil March and his wife Isabel appear, newly arrived in New York from Boston to commute around the city in search of an apartment, absorbing the city’s sites from an El train: At Third Avenue they took the Elevated, for which [Isabel] confessed an infatuation. She declared it the most ideal way of getting about in the world. [. . .] She [. . .] said that the night transit was even more interesting than the day, and that the fleeting intimacy you formed with people in second and third floor interiors, while all the usual street life went on underneath, had a domestic intensity mixed with perfect repose that was the last effect of good society with all its security and exclusiveness. [Basil] said it was better than the theatre of which it reminded him, to see those people through their windows. [. . .] What suggestion! What drama! What infinite interest!8 These two passages highlight the privileged gaze and mobility granted to members of the middle class who could afford to travel by the El.9 Moreover, they exemplify the

72  Elsie Heung wider interest in viewing the working class, the poor, and immigrants as aesthetic subjects at the turn of the century. Through popular papers, New York’s slums became a source of fascination for the middle class. Exposés, such as Jacob Riis’s (1849–1914) How the Other Half Lives (1890), appeared on the pages of newspapers, revealing the “exotic” lives of the poor to curious readers and offering them, in Riis’s words, “the beauty of looking into these places without actually being present there.”10 Photographs, human-interest stories, muckraking journalism, and exposés about immigrants and the working class must have fuelled the popularity of sightseeing bus tours and guidebooks, which included popular tourist attractions such as Central Park and Coney Island, as well as immigrant neighbourhoods. As chroniclers of urban life, the Ashcan artists wholeheartedly participated in this cyclic and simultaneous act of viewing and reviewing. The Ashcan School, which emerged in New York in the early twentieth century, is known for its gritty, realist depictions of the urban environment, its people, activities, and rebellion against American Impressionism and academic painting. Artists most popularly associated with this school include Robert Henri (1865–1929), George Luks (1867–1933), William Glackens (1870–1938), Everett Shinn (1876–1953), George Bellows (1882–1925), Sloan, and others. The Ashcan School was not held together by manifestos and shared styles, though the artists were friends and had a shared interest in representing the urban scene.11 Scholars Rebecca Zurier and Robert Snyder characterize these artists as “sightseers,” who walked around the city following similar itineraries recommended by guidebooks and bus tours, encountering people in public spaces and through windows, while “only rarely engaging them face to face.”12 It stands to reason that many of these artists would have been attracted to the El and its surroundings for the diversity of people and human activities it presented. The El, furthermore, enhanced the experience of seeing the city by providing an unprecedented visual perspective above street level and surreptitious access through apartment windows that were merely a few feet away from the tracks (see Sloan’s Six O’Clock, Winter, Figure 4.2). Although numerous images of stations, tracks, and interiors exist, there are no images of private, domestic life viewed specifically from the window of the El, to my knowledge. However, voyeurism as an urban pastime, as described by Howells and reporters, is very much insinuated in a number of key works by Ashcan artist Sloan. Night Windows, Hairdresser’s Window, and Three A.M. all reflect the artist’s preoccupation with windows—both as a theme in his works and as a conduit for voyeurism—which he documents in his diaries, saying that, “I am in the habit of watching every bit of human life I can see about my windows, but I do it so that I am not observed at it. I ‘peep’ through real interest, not being observed myself,” he writes, “I feel that it is no insult to the people you are watching to do so unseen, but that to do it openly and with great expression of amusement is an evidence of real vulgarity.”13 Sloan’s 1910 etching, Night Windows, succinctly illustrates this “habit.”14 Here, he depicts himself sketching on the roof of his apartment building in the Tenderloin District, while peering at his working-class neighbours in their homes: one woman hangs laundry from her open window, while another stands on her balcony tying up her hair. Though not directly related to the El, Night Windows hints at the types of scene that passengers may have observed from the train. It also thematically underscores the absence of privacy in a dense, urban environment such as New York. Looking into private spaces, whether from the El or from one’s own apartment, parallels public

Representing the “El” and the subway 73

Figure 4.2  John Sloan, Six O’Clock, Winter, 1912, oil on canvas, 26⅛ × 32 in., The Phillips Collection, Washington, DC. Photographic credit: Pimbrils. Licensing Information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

activities and becomes part of the urban visual ecosystem, such as window shopping, attending vaudeville plays, or going to a nickelodeon theatre, which are all subjects that appear in many Ashcan paintings. Everything, essentially, is on display in the modern metropolis. People engaged in private, everyday activities are viewed like objects in a shop window or as performers on a stage.15 The intersection between public and private, as mediated by the elevated train, has received attention from scholars. Sabine Haenni describes the interior of the train as a “liminal space,” in that it was at once a public space and one that sheltered its occupants from public spaces. Additionally, the El impacted social relations by bringing together people of different classes in a confined space, even though these encounters were fleeting and dependent on the speed of the train.16 This blurred distinction between public and private plays out in several ways. As exemplified by Howell’s protagonists, the El granted its passengers tantalizing opportunities for voyeurism, as if, like Sloan, they were viewing their neighbours from the privacy of their own homes, though with the added element of mobility as the provider of rapid escape from detection. At the same time, the “sheltering” aspect of the train’s interior served to generate an illusion of privacy in public space, as passengers were on view to fellow passengers, and to any apartment dweller who may have happened to glance through the train’s window as it passed by. The interplay between public and private, particularly as it relates to the question of voyeurism, is communicated in the various images depicting the interiors of train cars. In Edward Hopper’s (1882–1967) Night on the El Train (Figure 4.3, 1918), the

74  Elsie Heung viewer, who assumes the position of a passenger, comes upon an intimate scene of a man and a woman engaged in conversation in the corner of a seemingly empty train car; the woman’s back is turned towards us, hiding her face, while the man’s eyes gaze intently at her; the viewer remains unnoticed, permitting an uninterrupted, voyeuristic observation of the couple in their private communion. Marsh’s The El (c.1928) similarly situates the viewer in the position of passenger.17 Here, our gaze centres on the young woman in the foreground. While she is absorbed in her solitary activity of reading, our eyes are drawn to her bright red hat and matching fur coat. Meanwhile, the viewer is also on view, as the woman’s seatmate looks directly at us, creating a dynamic exchange of gazes that implicate both the viewer and the subject. Interestingly, but also characteristic of Marsh’s overall œuvre, the female figures in The El are emphasized through their brightly coloured attire and highlighting, which contrasts with the more dreary-looking male figures. The focus on female passengers in Marsh’s and Hopper’s works raises the important issue of women and public transportation. A comparison between The El and Night on the El Train, and Theresa

Figure 4.3  Edward Hopper, Night on the El Train, 1918, etching, 7½ × 8 in., Philadelphia Museum of Art, Philadelphia, PA, USA. Photographic credit: Unknown. Licensing information: Purchased with the Thomas Skelton Harrison Fund, 1962. Copyright unknown. Accessed at www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/58902. html?mulR=431370370|18

Representing the “El” and the subway 75 Bernstein’s In the Elevated (1916) discloses the tensions experienced by women in this relatively new public space produced by the El.18 In her memoir, The Journal, Bernstein (1890–2002) describes riding the elevated train along Columbus Avenue on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Inspired by one of her daily trips, the painting depicts the interior of the El, with Bernstein’s mother in the foreground and her father reading a newspaper.19 In the Elevated deflates both the palpable sexual tension in Hopper’s etching and the reduction of women into attractive fashion plates in Marsh’s painting. In fact, the middle-aged female figure in the foreground wears her rather old-fashioned, Victorian attire like a suit of armour, guarding herself from a sexually objectifying gaze—a compelling contrast with the fashionable and nubile figures in Marsh’s painting. Although women, since the turn of the century, were becoming much more independent and were taking on more public roles outside the domestic setting, the new mobility that they gained through public transportation raised important concerns about etiquette, as Haenni suggests. Since its inception, newspapers reported on the social encounters engendered by the El—encounters that sometimes negatively impacted women.20 Describing the crowds on the train, one incensed commuter wrote a letter to the editor of The New York Times lamenting that The simple truth is that the worst feature of this crushing is the effect it is having upon our public manners. All sense of decency seems to be lost in the mad endeavor to get on and off the trains [. . .] Delicate girls are thrown against railings, trodden upon, frightened, and hurt. The writer continues by calling this loss of civility “a disgrace and a shame to American manhood” and concluding, “Truly, if ever knights were needed to succor ladies in distress it is in New York City in this year of our Lord 1903.”21 In addition to this problem of lost civility, women in the public spaces created by the El, and later the subway, also risked sexual objectification. Haenni points out that early films, such as 2 a.m. in the Subway (American Mutoscope and Biograph, 1905), often represented female travellers in a “highly sexualized” manner, for instance, by baring their legs to the male gaze. Even more troubling is the connection made between female mobility and anxieties over white slavery, as portrayed in Traffic in Souls (George Loane Tucker, 1913) and Decoyed (American Mutoscope and Biograph, 1904), which cautioned women against getting off at the wrong stop and thus putting themselves at risk of being drawn into sex trafficking. Haenni concludes that, although urban mobility granted middle-class men the “thrill of moving through as yet unscripted space,” within the realm of visual representation, women were still limited in terms of how they could view and experience the city.22 Bernstein’s In the Elevated certainly seems to reflect these limitations, as it is the product of her own experience as a middle-class woman. Set during the day, the painting compellingly contrasts with Shinn’s similarly composed Sixth Avenue Elevated After Midnight (1899), which contains no female figures.23 After all, what decent, unaccompanied middle-class woman would travel in the El after midnight? Moreover, we know from her memoir that her painting came out of her trips along the Upper West Side; in other words, Bernstein avoided the less reputable neighbourhoods such as the Bowery or the Tenderloin District, as these were areas that were impacted by the El and attracted the artist’s male contemporaries in the Ashcan circle.

76  Elsie Heung In his essay “A Plea for the Picturesqueness of New York,” published in Camera Notes in 1900, critic Sadakichi Hartmann (1867–1944) observes that American photographers (and artists) have limited themselves to the tried and true subjects— portraits, studies of draped figures, landscapes, and the like, while neglecting the “sites and scenes of [one’s] own time.”24 Among the many urban sights and subjects Hartmann encourages artists to consider are the elevated station and the diverse crowds that populate its surroundings. “Almost any wide street with an elevated station is interesting at those times when the populace goes to or returns from work,” he writes. “Thousands and thousands climb up or down the stairs, reflecting in their varied appearance all the classes of society, all the different professions, the lights and shadows of a large city, and the joys and sorrows of its inhabitants.”25 Keeping Hartmann’s conception of picturesque urban sites in mind, one can begin to consider the El beyond its role as a tool for viewing the city from an elevated vantage point, and more as a subject to be viewed, or, in other words, it becomes a modern site that the critic acknowledges as a crucial aspect of the “complexion of [his] time,” and as worthy of notice as European “monuments of past glory.”26 The Ashcan artists, whether or not they were familiar with his essay, responded to his plea for art that addressed the ethos and character of their contemporary environment, and their various depictions of the El and its environs certainly reflect an awareness of doing something new, different, and dynamic.27 Artists such as Sloan, Shinn, Bellows, and, later, Marsh have each featured the spaces beneath the elevated tracks that bear witness to a now erased urban environment. These artists, through their images, exemplify the negative impact—both physical and social—of the tracks on the city’s streets, reflecting much of the criticism many had towards this form of transportation. Though the El succeeded in raising commuters above the chaos and traffic at street level, and reduced travel time for New Yorkers, it quickly became clear, by the turn of the century, that this system brought with it a host of problems. Not only was it overcrowded, it was noisy and polluted—for instance, spewing sparks and cinders on pedestrians and into windows of nearby buildings. In reality, the El was far from the light, elegant tracks depicted in nineteenth-century proposals.28 The massive tracks blocked sunlight from the streets, turning them into dark, damp tunnels. The formerly respectable Bowery, which now had the Third Avenue El running above it, transformed into the stomping grounds of prostitutes and sailors looking for sexual gratification, and attracted into its environs dubious bars, nightclubs, and other venues offering cheap thrills. Sloan’s 1911 painting Wet Night in the Bowery captures the dismal atmosphere created by the El, which looms threateningly above the street. Here, a buxom woman, who is perhaps a prostitute, stands in the foreground, replicating the pose of the cigarstore Indian down the street. The storefront windows illuminate both, bringing them into visual prominence and a shared, mute objectification. The diagonal thrust of the El draws the viewer’s eyes to the two sailors in the background, stumbling drunkenly about, perhaps about to approach the prostitute for her services. Here, the El functions as both a compositional device, directing the eye from the foreground to the vanishing point, and also a setting for a type of lower-class neighbourhood, replete with the various urban types that attracted Sloan and other urban realists. With the eye of an artist trained in newspaper illustration, Shinn likewise turned to the El for his subject matter. In his undated pastel and charcoal drawing Under the Elevated (c.1899), the elevated track becomes an imposing backdrop for the miserable group of working-class people huddled together in the filthy snow. Rickety and

Representing the “El” and the subway 77 overflowing horse-drawn carriages fill the space beneath the tracks, drawing a contrast between an antiquated form of transportation and machine technology and signalling the city’s transition from the old to the new. The signs on the buildings adjacent to the tracks, inscribed with the words “saloon” and “Smoke and Chew XXX,” testify to the seedy nature of this urban district, made all the more disagreeable by the El’s presence. The figures depicted here likely reside in this neighbourhood and are the most impacted by the presence of the El, and yet they cannot afford the luxury of riding the train that passes through their lives as a clanging reminder of their abject condition. Although the subject of working-class neighbourhoods and people frequently appears in Shinn’s early works, one must question whether he truly empathized with his subjects, or merely viewed them from a distance as examples of the picturesque poor. Evidence seems to suggest the latter. In describing his interest in the urban poor, the artist once stated that Their very suffering brings them together, and with shoulders that are habitually stooped and rounded from the burdens they are forced to bear, they collect in little knots—groups so eloquent in attitude that you can’t help but paint them, because they represent New York.29 Additionally, there is little to suggest that Shinn was politically committed, and that he meant for his works to have any social significance.30 This sense of aesthetic distance reveals itself in the stage-like composition of Under the Elevated. The El tracks and empty foreground serve, respectively, as backdrop and stage to the figures, who themselves are generalized urban types or characters in a play, rather than being true individuals. The concept of the stage is particularly apt in Shinn’s case, as it foretells the artist’s later preoccupation with the theme of theatrical performance—vaudeville, dancers, and musicians. At the same time, through his images of urban spectacle, Shinn catered to his middle-class audience’s taste for the “vicarious thrill” of viewing the exotic lives of the poor, without actually having to engage with them on a more direct or personal level.31 The fascination of artists with the El’s environs endured into the 1930s, when Marsh painted some of his most striking Bowery scenes capturing the pessimism of the Depression Era. In Smokehounds (Figure 4.4, 1934), he creates a dark, claustrophobic space bounded by dingy buildings, the El’s iron pillars, and the train tracks snaking overhead (for another example of the overhead presence of the tracks, see Louis Lozowick’s Allen Street [New York] of 1929, Figure 4.5). A cast of slovenly men create a dramatic tableau, recalling Peter Paul Rubens’s Descent from the Cross (1612–4).32 Bringing together his passion for contemporary urban life and New York’s lower classes, and his dedication to the Old Masters, Marsh transforms the figure of Christ and his disciples into drunkards in the Bowery. Although the train track and iron pillars appear incidental to the drama unfolding before the viewer, as with many images depicting the El’s environs, these structures provide a stage or frame for urban spectacles, reinforcing the idea that even everyday life in the city can possess entertainment value comparable to theatre and cinema. Although Sloan’s Wet Night on the Bowery and Marsh’s Smokehounds both paint a rather abject picture of the El’s surroundings, literally and figuratively, this by no means suggests that all representations of the subject describe dank, unredeeming spaces. Sloan, for instance, depicts a scene of joyous revelry taking place beneath the El in Election Night (1907), and a crowd of middle-class commuters in Six O’Clock, Winter (1912); Edward Laning, in Fourteenth Street (1931), creates a

78  Elsie Heung

Figure 4.4  Reginald Marsh, Smokehounds, 1932, oil on canvas. The Corcoran Gallery of Art, Washington, DC. Photographic credit: Daderot. Licensing information: Public domain or CC0, via Wikimedia Commons.

brightly coloured and orderly tableau of middle- and working-class figures congregating around an El station, erasing all evidence of the city’s dirt and grime.33 In 1922, Sloan completed one of his most iconic images of the elevated train: The City from Greenwich Village (Figure 4.6). This nocturnal cityscape sanitizes the El’s environs, transforming it into a romantic vision of nostalgia for a rapidly disappearing “Old New York,” and it has as its theme the transition from the old to the new. In describing the work, Sloan wrote that The spot on which the spectator stands is now an imaginary point since all the buildings as far as the turn of the elevated have been removed, and Sixth Avenue has been extended straight down to the business district. The picture makes a record of the beauty of the older city which is giving way to the chopped-out towers of the modern New York.34

Representing the “El” and the subway 79

Figure 4.5  Louis Lozowick, Allen Street (New York), 1929, lithograph. The National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC. Photographic credit: Sarah Lippert. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain.

From a bird’s-eye perspective, the artist shows a northbound train meandering along Sixth Avenue in Greenwich Village, where the artist lived and worked. In the distance looms modern New York, populated by skyscrapers, which “rises, like the Emerald City of Oz, as a place that is splendid and distant but ultimately attainable for those who get there,” as one writer aptly describes.35 The contrast between the old and the new is explicit in this work, reflecting Sloan’s longing for an older version of his beloved city. His depiction of the El as a darkened object on the verge of traveling off the canvas seems to anticipate the eventual demise of the Sixth Avenue line in 1938. Although artists continued to depict the El until its complete demise in 1955, by the 1920s, it was already considered a somewhat antiquated form of transportation that had long been replaced by the much more modern subway system.36 By the time that Sloan completed The City from Greenwich Village, the subway had already established its presence in the Village. In 1926, Sloan made two related etchings: Subway Stairs and Reading in the Subway.37 Both works feature fashionably attired young women, immodestly showing their legs to fellow commuters and to the viewer. In Subway Stairs, the woman, whose legs are revealed by a gust of wind as she descends the stairs, gazes directly at the viewer, in acknowledgement of a returned gaze staring at her legs. In Reading in the Subway, the viewer is situated as a passenger in the subway car, gazing across at a woman reading a book; although seemingly oblivious to everything around her, her right hand—perhaps deliberately—pulls up her dress hem, tantalizingly revealing her thigh to the viewer. Whereas The City from Greenwich Village, painted only four years earlier, provides nostalgic pause for an older New York, portraying the El as an emblem of that era, Sloan’s etchings bind together the modern subway with the youth and promiscuity of 1920s flapper culture.38 Opened on October 27, 1904, the subway was conceived as part of the City Beautiful Movement in New York, which connected the beautification of the city with social,

80  Elsie Heung

Figure 4.6  John Sloan, The City from Greenwich Village, 1922, oil on canvas, 26 × 33.7 in., The National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC. Photographic credit: Jane023. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

civic, and moral reform.39 On a practical level, the subway would help solve some of the traffic problems that continued to exist, even with the advent of the El; additionally, it would help to spread the city’s population northward, and into Brooklyn and the Bronx. As a City Beautiful project, the subway would, as stipulated in the New York City Rapid Transit Commission’s contract of 1900, “constitute a great public work,” with all of its public spaces “designed, constructed, and maintained with a view to the beauty of their appearance, as well as to their efficiency.”40 Despite these lofty ideals, the subway became a site for social ills and urban discontent, not unlike the El. As a subterranean system, however, it did not have the same physical impact on the surface of the city as its counterpart above ground, but nevertheless created its own culture of urban dissipation. Within a year of the subway’s inception, disillusionme had already begun to set in, and, by the 1920s, the subway “became the natural symbol of a city gone wrong.”41 A quick scan of the headlines in the New York Times since the subway’s opening reveals a slew of accidents, suicides, stories of incivility, and complaints of overcrowding. Writing for the Times in 1922, Benjamin de Casseres (1873–1945) describes the subway rush as a Darwinian struggle between the weak and the strong, with the weak emerging victorious at the end: The doors slide open in a sinister manner. The Paleozoic smash is on. We kick, we scratch, we laugh hysterically, we grasp the air—walk on it in fact; we swarm in as though we are taking an enemy dugout. The “preferential standees” gnash their teeth and glower at those who captured the seats.

Representing the “El” and the subway 81 It is here that the physical underdogs of both sexes show their inherent bad manners. They battle with the “fit” inch by inch. They butt. They rend. They upset the equilibrium of stoical business men. They survive, upsetting Darwin’s law as completely as old Doc Bryan.42 Though humorous and satirical, the writer illustrates the darker side of human behaviour that manifested in the environs of the subway. Indeed, such incivility led to a tragic end for one city worker, as reported in August 1923, when a subway guard was driven to suicide because “the rush hour crowds and the gibes directed at him were getting to be too much.”43 In spite of, or perhaps because of, the contrasting nature of the subway’s status as a civic symbol, it became a frequently depicted subject in both art and literature, where it occupied an ambiguous position as both a symbol of progress and achievement and a marker of urban discontent and alienation. Modernist artists, such as Max Weber (1881–1961) and Joseph Stella (1877–1946), approached the subway as a monument to speed and dynamism, which sanitized the transportation system by stripping away the disorder of everyday life, and re-envisioning it as an emblem of the Machine Age. By contrast, artists such as Sloan and Marsh continued to portray the subway much as they did the El—as a social site of urban encounters and experiences. Marsh had long been interested in the subway and its passengers. Hired by the New York Daily News in 1922, he did a series of cartoons titled Subway Sunbeams, which humorously captured the rather fraught experience of riding overcrowded trains, which was a real hazard and source of concern for New Yorkers in the 1920s.44 Newspapers frequently reported on accidents and tragedies: “DYING GIRL BLAMED CROWDS IN SUBWAY,” reads one headline in the New York Times: the girl had been hit by a train after surging crowds pushed her off the platform. Though comically portrayed, Marsh’s “Subway Sunbeams: Catching the Bronx Express,” published in the New York Daily News, March 7, 1923, captures a near tragedy on a crowded platform.45 Here, helpful strangers rescue a hapless commuter from falling onto the subway tracks. Meanwhile, the rest of the members of the crowd, absorbed in their newspapers or conflicts with other commuters, remain largely oblivious to the near tragedy occurring in the foreground. Marsh explicitly reveals the inattentiveness endemic among commuters coalescing in the public spaces created by the subway. Not only is the crowd largely oblivious to the man who is about to tumble off the platform, he himself is unaware and likely the victim of distraction, as suggested by the newspaper falling out of his hand. In Marsh’s subway images, inattentiveness is often represented as a recurring motif in the newspapers and tabloids. The New York Daily News, founded in 1919, was the first tabloid in the United States. Like the turn-of-the-century “Yellow Press” of William Randolph Hearst (1863–1951) and Joseph Pulitzer (1847–1911), the Daily News peddled sensationalism to the urban masses, reaching a circulation of more than one million shortly after its founding. This paper and its imitators were designed specifically for easy consumption, dishing out thrilling and entertaining stories that fed the mass’s insatiable appetite for sensationalism. As Tracy Fitzpatrick points out, their short stories could be easily read while commuters waited for their train, and could be quickly finished between stops.46 Thus, although subway trains and stations were confined spaces where the city’s diverse population came together, encouraging social encounters between people who may not otherwise meet in other contexts, the

82  Elsie Heung ubiquitous tabloid papers monopolized the attention of many commuters, making them oblivious to those around them. Marsh, like Sloan, was a quintessential observer of the city, who saw New York as a glorified theatre that staged the drama and spectacle of everyday life. Yet, those whom he observed were more riveted by the thrilling and often sexually illicit dramas proffered by the tabloids. These tabloids, which figure heavily in the majority of Marsh’s subway and El images, are nevertheless interesting in the context of urban spectatorship, as they too implicate their readers in the act of voyeurism, though of a variety mediated through the paper. For those commuters returning home on the El or the subway after a long, hard day at work, reading tabloid stories provided a titillating glimpse into the more interesting or glamorous lives of others, which might have been a welcome respite from their own mundane lives. More importantly, they offered readers easily consumed entertainment that was equal to all of the other popular distractions in the city. In fact, the headlines depicted in Marsh’s works are very telling of the type of lowbrow entertainment that captured the attention of New Yorkers riding the train.47 In Why Not Use the “L”?, the headline of a crumpled paper reads, “Does the Sex Urge Explain Judge [C]rater’s Strange [Disap]pearance,” which refers to the mysterious disappearance of Judge Joseph Force Crater in August 1930. This prompted a highly publicised and sensational nationwide investigation that revealed Crater’s extramarital affair with a showgirl, who had also disappeared around the same time.48 The motif of the newspaper is repeated on the left, where a woman stands, completely absorbed in reading; the tabloid serves to further highlight psychological isolation expressed, which is already apparent through Marsh’s compositional scheme, and evident in the simple fact that none of the figures interact with one another, though they share a confined space.49 Urban realist depictions of the El and subway, such as Marsh’s etching 2nd Avenue El (1930)50 and Why Not Use the “L”?, or earlier depictions by Sloan, Shinn, and Bernstein seem to reveal the drudgery and banality of everyday travel, not unlike what many people experience when they commute today. At the same time, these artists brought drama and a certain cloistered intensity to what a casual observer might consider mundane. The word “travel” evokes the idea of exploring new places and experiencing new thrills in unfamiliar, and often distant, locales. Though the act of commuting from place to place using public transportation can be defined as a form of travel, it lacks the romantic notions of exploration and exoticism usually attributed to more adventurous journeys. In the hands of these artists, the drudgery of public transportation and everyday life is transformed into scenes deserving of as much attention as any exotic and distant land. These artists, who took the urban environment as their subject, challenge the viewer to notice the drama, diversity, distractions, and detractions of human life played out in the social spaces both in and around the broad canvasses of the El and in the caged depths of the subway, “ordinary icons” of daily life.

Notes 1 See Reginald Marsh, Why Not Use the “L”?, 1930, oil on canvas, 36 × 48 in., Whitney Museum of American Art, New York City, NY, USA (see http://collection.whitney.org/ object/1560). 2 Henry James, “New York Revisited,” Harper’s Monthly Magazine, 112:720 (Mar. 1906), p. 603. 3 Charles Cheape points to the popularity of the connection between transit, health, and order among transit promoters and reformers. Calls for new systems of transportation were bolstered by fears that the city’s overcrowded and unsanitary conditions would result in

Representing the “El” and the subway 83 epidemic diseases. Moving the Masses: Urban Public Transit in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, 1880–1912 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980), pp. 27–8. See also Michael W. Brooks, Subway City: Riding the Trains, Reading New York (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1997), p. 10. Brooks describes the prospect of rapid transit in the nineteenth century as “a form of social deliverance” that had the potential to “restore civility, empty the slums, reclaim waste lands, and bring prosperity to all.” 4 According to estimates, it would have cost more than $1.5 million per mile to construct a subway. Cheape, Moving the Masses, p. 29. 5 This demonstration was captured in the following image: Charles Harvey Demonstrating his Cable-operated elevated Railway to Investors (Dec. 7, 1867; see http://collections.mcny.org/ Collection/[Charles-T.-Harvey,-first-experimental-elevated-railroad.]-2F3XC5IPE347.html). Photograph in the collection of the Museum of the City of New York. 6 Harvey’s company declared bankruptcy in 1871 and was reorganized as the New York Elevated Railway Company. In 1872, a second firm, Metropolitan Elevated Railroad Company, was incorporated and tasked with building the Sixth Avenue line. In 1875, the Rapid Transit Commission established the Manhattan Elevated Railroad Company, which, by the 1880s, controlled the lines built by the other two companies. Cheape, Moving the Masses, pp. 31–9. 7 “Fast Time Up in the Air,” New York Times (Sept. 20, 1880), p. 2. 8 William Dean Howells, A Hazard of New Fortunes (Garden City, NY: Dolphin Books, Doubleday, 1960), pp. 65–6. 9 Sunny Stalter observes that the El enhanced this fascination with viewing apartment dwellers to the “technological frame” that allowed images to “flow seamlessly one into another,” creating distance between the viewer and the subject, who is unaware of being viewed. An encounter with poverty at street level, however, proves less appealing to Basil and Isabel March. “Farewell to the El: Nostalgic Urban Visuality on the Third Avenue Elevated Train,” American Quarterly, 58:3 (Sept. 2006), p. 875. 10 Jacob Riis as quoted in Rebecca Zurier, Picturing the City: Urban Vision and the Ashcan School (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2006), p. 61. Riis, who is a photographer, muckraking journalist, and social reformer, is best known for How the other Half Lives, which was an article that first appeared in Scribner’s Magazine (1889) and was published as a book the following year (1890). The book documented the squalor of New York City’s slums and tenements, exposing the lives of immigrants and the poor to upper- and middleclass audiences. Notably, Riis’s essay is illustrated by his photographs, which powerfully documented the harsh conditions of these lower-class neighbourhoods and their inhabitants. 11 For the most recent and comprehensive scholarship on the Ashcan School, see Rebecca Zurier, Robert W. Snyder and Virginia M. Mecklenburg, Metropolitan Lives: The Ashcan Artists and Their New York (Washington, DC: National Museum of American Art, 1995); and Zurier, Picturing the City. 12 Robert W. Snyder and Rebecca Zurier, “Picturing the City,” in Metropolitan Lives, p. 87. 13 See the diary entry for July 6, 1911, in John Sloan’s New York Scene: From the Diaries, Notes, and Correspondence 1906–1913, ed. Bruce St. John (New York: Harper & Row, 1965). 14 John Sloan, Night Windows, 1910, etching, 5¼ × 17 in., Library of Congress, Washington, DC, USA (see www.loc.gov/pictures/item/2004669972/). 15 For a contextualization of Ashcan art in the context of shopping and commercial leisure, see Snyder and Zurier, Metropolitan Lives, pp. 146–71. 16 Sabine Haenni, The Immigrant Scene: Ethnic Amusements in New York, 1880–1920 (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 2008), p. 36. 17 See Reginald Marsh, The El, c.1928, oil on canvas, 30 × 40 in., Whitney Museum of American Art, New York City, NY, USA (see http://collection.whitney.org/object/1614). 18 Theresa Bernstein, In the Elevated, 1916, oil on canvas, 30 × 40 in., De Young, Fine Art Museums of San Francisco (see http://art.famsf.org/theresa-f-bernstein/elevated-20112). 19 Theresa Bernstein Meyerowitz, The Journal (New York: Cornwall Books, 1991), p. 61. 20 Haenni, The Immigrant Scene, p. 45. For discussions on the changing roles and activities of women in this period, see Dorothy Schneider and Carl J. Schneider, American Women in the Progressive Era, 1900–1920 (New York: Facts on File, 1993), and Jean V. Matthews, The Rise of the New Woman: The Women’s Movement in America, 1875–1930 (Chicago, IL: Ivan R. Dee, 2003).

84  Elsie Heung 21 “Brutality on the Elevated,” The New York Times (Jan. 18, 1903). For discussion on etiquette and rail travel at the turn of the century, see Amy G. Richter, Women, the Railroad, and the Rise of Public Domesticity (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2005). 22 Haenni, The Immigrant Scene, pp. 46–7. 23 Everett Shinn, Sixth Avenue El after Midnight, 1899, mixed media on paper, 8 × 121/6 in., private collection. 24 Sadakichi Hartmann, “A Plea for the Picturesqueness of New York” (1900), in The Valiant Knights of Daguerre, eds. Harry W. Lawton and George Knox (Berkeley, CA: Berkeley University Press, 1978), p. 56. 25 Hartmann, “A Plea for the Picturesqueness of New York,” p. 58. 26 Hartmann, “A Plea for the Picturesqueness of New York,” pp. 56–7. 27 See John Loughery, John Sloan: Painter and Rebel (New York: Henry Holt, 1995), pp. 99–101; Zurier, Picturing the City, pp. 102–3. 28 Dr. Rufus H. Gilbert’s Covered Atmospheric Railway, Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper (Mar. 18, 1871). 29 Shinn, quoted by Joseph Kwiat, in “Dreiser’s The ‘Genius’ and Everett Shinn, the ‘Ash-Can’ Painter,” Publications of the Modern Language Association of America, 67 (Mar. 1952), p. 23. 30 See Zurier, Picturing the City, p. 170. 31 Sylvia Yount, “Consuming Drama: Everett Shinn and the Spectacular City,” American Art, 4 (Autumn 1992): pp. 96–101. 32 See Reginald Marsh, Smokehounds, 1934, egg tempera on masonite, 35¾ × 27 in., Corcoran Gallery, Washington, DC, USA (see http://collection.corcoran.org/collection/work/smokehounds). Marsh was a great admirer of Rubens and the Old Masters, and must have been familiar with Rubens’s Descent from the Cross. In 1925, he and his wife travelled to Paris, where he extensively sketched and copied the masterpieces that he encountered. On returning to New York, he studied briefly with Kenneth Hayes Miller at the Art Students’ League and developed a lifelong friendship with his teacher. Miller encouraged Marsh to adapt his modern subjects to the forms and compositions of the Old Masters. 33 See John Sloan, 1907, oil on canvas, 26⅜ × 32¼ in., Memorial Art Gallery, University of Rochester, Rochester, NY, USA (see http://magart.rochester.edu/Obj707?sid=42433&=1116186); John Sloan, Six O’Clock, Winter, 1912, oil on canvas, 26⅛ × 32 in., Phillips Collection, Washington, DC, USA (see www.phillipscollection.org/research/american_art/artwork/Sloan-6OclockWinter+. htm); Edward Laning, Fourteenth Street, 1931, tempera on canvas, 30 × 40 in., Whitney Museum of American Art, New York City, NY, USA (see http://collection.whitney.org/object/2030). 34 John Sloan, Gist of Art (New York: American Artists Group, 1939), p. 267, illus. 35 Loughery, John Sloan, p. 261. 36 For discussions on the development of the subway and urban planning of this time, see Cheape, Moving the Masses, pp. 71–101; Brooks, Subway City, pp. 53–121; Benson Bobrick, Labyrinths of Iron: Subways in History, Myth, Art, Technology, and War (New York: Henry Holt, 1994), pp. 213–70; New York Transit Museum with Vivian Heller, The City Beneath Us: Building the New York Subways (New York: New York Transit Museum, 2004). 37 See John Sloan, Subway Stairs, 1926, etching, 4⅞ × 6⅞ in., Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City, NY, USA (see http://metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/ search/364906); John Sloan, Reading in the Subway, 1926, etching, 5 × 4 in., Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington, DC, USA (see http://collections.si.edu/search/results. htm?q=Subways&fq=name:%22Sloan%2C+John%22). 38 For a discussion on flapper culture and women in the 1920s, see Joshua Zeitz, Flapper: A Madcap Story of Sex, Style, Celebrity, and the Women Who Made America Modern (New York: Three Rivers Press, 2006). 39 The City Beautiful Movement, inspired by the World’s Columbian Fair in Chicago (1893), began in the 1890s and lasted through to early 1910, impacting the urban planning and architecture of many major American cities (such as Washington, DC, Chicago, Denver, Cleveland, Philadelphia, New York, and others). The central idea behind this movement is the belief that the beautification of the city through architecture (typically in the beaux-arts and neoclassical styles) and effective city planning would combat urban squalor and, in so doing, bring about social, civic, and moral reform. For discussion on the subway and the City Beautiful movement, see Brooks, Subway City, pp. 54–9.

Representing the “El” and the subway 85 40 New York City Rapid Transit Commission, Contract for Construction and Operation of Rapid Transit Railroad (New York, 1900), as quoted in Tracy Fitzpatrick, Art and the Subway: New York Underground (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2009), p. 27. 41 Brooks, Subway City, p. 4. 42 Benjamin De Casseres, “Darwin Defied In Our Subways,” The New York Times (Apr. 16, 1922), p. 52. 43 “Troubles of Subway Life Drive a Guard to Suicide,” The New York Times (Aug. 18, 1923), p. 1. 44 The problem of overcrowding appears to result from several factors, including population growth and inexpensive fares. Immigrants flocked to New York during this period, and many chose to settle in Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx, rather than the Lower East Side. The subway fare remained at an affordable 5 cents, allowing millions of poor New Yorkers to use the system. As a result of the low fare, however, the private companies that ran the subway lines made little income and were unable to adequately maintain their service standards. See Clifton Hood, “Subways, Transit Policies and Metropolitan Spatial Expansion,” in The Landscape of Modernity: New York City, 1900–1940, eds. David Ward and Oliver Zunz (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992), pp. 206–7; New York Transit Museum with Vivian Heller, The City Beneath Us, pp. 34–5. 45 See Reginald Marsh, “Subway Sunbeams: Catching the Bronx Express,” New York Daily News (Mar. 7, 1923), unpaginated (see www.aaa.si.edu/collections/container/viewer/Scrapbook-3Clippings-276706, frame 126, Reginald Marsh Papers, 1897-1955, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution). 46 Fitzpatrick, Art and the Subway, p. 88. 47 For further discussion on Marsh’s works in relation to leisure and popular entertainment, see Marilyn Cohen, Reginald Marsh’s New York: Paintings, Drawings, Prints and Photographs (New York: Whitney Museum of Art, 1983); Erika L. Doss, “Images of American Women in the 1930s: Reginald Marsh and ‘Paramount Picture,’” Woman’s Art Journal, 2 (Autumn 1983–Winter 1984): pp. 1–4; and Kathleen Spies, “‘Girls and Gags’: Sexual Display and Humor in Reginald Marsh’s Burlesque Images,” American Art, 2 (Summer 2004): pp. 32–57. 48 See Cohen, Reginald Marsh’s New York, p. 33. Cohen points out that the newspaper’s headline makes light mockery of the sleeping figure and his “obviously dormant sex urge.” She argues that the listlessness in many of Marsh’s male figures, contrasting with the vibrant women he depicts, resonated in the Depression Era, when “unemployed men often drifted into sexual malaise.” 49 Brooks observes that the juxtaposition of dull, passive characters and provocative tabloid headlines in Marsh’s subway imagery reveals the commuters’ “longing” for more exciting lives as they go about their daily grind. See Brooks, Subway City, pp. 164–5. 50 Reginald Marsh, 2nd Avenue El, 1930, etching, 6⅞ x 8{13/16} in., Metropolitan Museum of Art (see www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/366829).

5 The Palio of Siena A journey through time Anna Piperato

To travel to Siena in July or August is to be transported to another realm. The city swells with tourists and city dwellers who have returned for centuries to be a part of the elusive, intangible, yet strongly felt civic identity engendered by a horse race called the Palio. This is a Tuscan city of saints, art, fascinating architecture, and citizens who will happily admit to suffering from an acute sense of campanilismo, or excessive pride in their city. A city that was the “daughter of the road,” the Via Francigena, Siena’s power during its thirteenth- and fourteenth-century “Golden Age” matched, and in some ways exceeded, that of Florence. After more than 300 years of rivalry, Florence eventually prevailed, taking over the city in 1555. Yet, the Sienese spirit was not diminished; some might say it only grew stronger, for, after the fall of the Republic, Siena’s traditions and civic pride intensified. Certainly, the art and architecture produced were worthy of admiration, but it was the shared sense of participation in this ever-evolving but essentially unchanging tradition of the Palio and the seventeen citystates known as the contrade that set Siena apart, becoming living symbols of Siena’s past and future.1 Siena has frequently been overshadowed throughout history by her larger more powerful neighbor, Florence. Often bypassed by tourists today for those more grandiose sites of the Uffizi, the Boboli Gardens, and the Medici palaces, Siena is nevertheless a destination that can be savored by casual observer and scholar alike. What sets the city apart is the Palio. This horse race can be enjoyed purely as a colorful pageant culminating in a hair-raising, 90-second ride around the Piazza del Campo, or by delving into the oratories of the contrade and studying the drappelloni, or painted silk Palio banners, observing the richly detailed costumes, and noting the rivalries and alliances of the contrade.2 For the sensitive visitor during the four days of the festival, the history of this city comes alive and transforms one’s soul. “Palio è vita”—“Palio is life”—and what is life if not a combination of ritual and emotional experience, preserved in memory and documented through art? There is an abundance of literature on the Palio;3 however, studies continue because it is a phenomenon that elicits passion in both the Sienese and in foreigners (in other words, anyone not from Siena; even Florentines are intrigued, or rather, mystified). National Italian newspapers report on each year’s Palio, and other daily newspapers in Europe often cover the event (such as The Guardian or The Telegraph in the UK). Travel sections or magazines, such as the New Yorker or National Geographic Traveler seem to feature the Palio every few years, each giving a brief description of the race and then of the author’s personal experience, either in the Piazza del Campo or at a meal in a contrada.4 The Sienese themselves have analyzed their festival, but,

The Palio of Siena: a journey through time 87 for them, as contemporary Italian historian Simonetta Michelotti plainly states, “the Palio is and remains exclusively a question of emotions.”5 To this it can be added that it is a question of experience, which is why anthropologists, sociologists, and cultural historians have also been studying the event.6 Gerald Parsons has produced extensive research on the religious aspects of the Palio, concluding that the festival equates to a civil religion in the context of Robert Bellah’s 1967 definition. The “tenaciously distinctive character” of the Sienese has developed over the centuries,7 from the medieval and Renaissance civic religion into the contemporary civil religion and civic identity,

Figure 5.1  Anna Piperato, Members of the Contrada della Lupa return to Via Vallerozzi from the Piazza del Campo after the first trial of the 2013 Palio, June 29, 2013, 2013, photograph, Siena, Italy. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the author (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the author.

88  Anna Piperato based on Marian devotion, the contrade, and the Palio. What is often missing in such analyses of the Palio, however, is how art, religion, experience, and tradition all work together to contribute to the meaning of the festival. As it was for the Romans, with whom the Sienese have affinity,8 the organized ritual of spectacle is the climax of the year, a way to celebrate the city’s rich history and unique position in the world. The journey to the Campo on the day of the race is sacrosanct;9 members of each contrada gather outside their oratory (in most cases adjacent to the horse’s stall) and prepare for the long procession to the site of battle, the Campo. Geographically a short distance to traverse, history unfolds with the contrada members’ movements, each step carefully considered, all Sienese aware of each cobblestone, each building. The members of the Contrada della Lupa, for example, gather outside the sixteenth-century Oratory of Saint Roch at the bottom of their principal street, Via Vallerozzi (Figure 5.1). When the two alfieri (flag wavers) have thrown the Lupa flags up in a graceful arc, almost impossibly high, in a journey that allows all contradaioli to see the black, white, and orange surrounding the sigil of the she-wolf, no matter where they stand, the procession departs. Up the steep road of Vallerozzi, members in their beautiful costumes and weaponry protect the Palio horse, followed by the male and then the female members of the contrada. Children too young to participate in this militant procession remain in the contrada once Vallerozzi has cleared, walking by the fountain of the howling she-wolf before gathering in the Society of the Lupa, the contrada’s social headquarters, to watch the Palio on television. They will sit in the shadow of Fontenova, the Lupa’s most prominent landmark, as the older contrada members continue their journey. Past the Piazza Salimbeni, home to the world’s longest continuously operating bank, the Banca Monte dei Paschi di Siena,10 then past Piazza Tolomei, a reminder of noble familial rivalries in a bygone age.11 The procession then leads to the Governor’s Palace, where those in historic dress can rest for a short while before the final and most anxious part of the journey to the Campo begins. Coming out of the Governor’s Palace into the ghost of the Duomo’s unfinished nave,12 they pass the black and white cathedral in utter solemnity, before finally entering the Piazza del Campo through the Bocca del Casato and slowly marching one turn around the square, before nervously taking their seats (Figure 5.2).13 Those not part of the historic parade and who do not have seats in the bleachers set up around the Campo must enter a different way. From behind the great Palazzo Pubblico, all must brave the teeming hordes and enter from the Via Giovanni Dupré. After what seems like an eternity, one finally enters and is overwhelmed by the endless numbers of people already inside, the palaces smiling at you with their colorful banners hanging off balconies and windows, and the tower of the Palazzo Pubblico looming overhead, its beloved clock moving forward, while time feels as if it stands still (Figure 5.3). All contradaioli have their favorite routes to reach the Campo, and these routes become ritual during the Palio and feast days. The roads, through the ubiquity of both foreign and native travelers, have become hallowed ground and the way to a victory or defeat in the incomparable shell-shaped Piazza del Campo, in which, as Heywood describes, there can be found the history of the entire city.14 After the Palio, a voyage back to the contrada that is marked by victory can be the most joyful experience in one’s life, or it can be a solemn, silent, and painful procession after defeat. Cobbles that have been trodden over a thousand times before will be given a new meaning; stones even if some may have been replaced over the centuries, nonetheless form the

The Palio of Siena: a journey through time 89

Figure 5.2  Matheus Merian, Map of Siena, 1640, oil on canvas, 15 × 13 in. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Barry Lawrence Ruderman Antique Maps Inc. Licensing information: CC-PD-Mark, PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

same paths on which contradaioli of past generations have processed. Streets are thus “vital components of the kinetic part of the rituals,”15 holding the key to past, present, and future. It was in the aftermath of national unification (1861) that Siena began to truly focus on resurrecting its medieval past; this renovation was then heightened during the Fascist regime, thanks mostly to Fabio Bargagli Petrucci (1875–1930), who was a descendent of the “Magnificent” Pandolfo Petrucci (1452–1512), who also sought to glorify his city. Where Pandolfo looked to bring Siena into the modern (or Renaissance) age, Fabio looked to the romanticized fifteenth century, which historians and art historians refer to as the Renaissance, but, under the Fascist regime, it still belonged to the Italic Middle Ages. D. Medina Lasansky asserts that, during the urban renewal of the Fascist regime, Fiction was conflated with fact as a new subjectivity was established. Ultimately, by using urban space as a stage for defining and developing identity politics, expectations of the city were permanently altered. By the end of the regime, civic identity had become inextricably linked to its historic past.16

90  Anna Piperato

Figure 5.3  Anna Piperato, Victory celebration of the Contrada Capitana dell’Onda in the Piazza del Campo, July 2, 2012. The Palazzo Pubblico watches majestically in the back left as the Palio banner (designed by Claudio Carli and housed in the Museo della Contrada Capitana dell’Onda) is held aloft by the contradaioli, whose flags wave in triumph, 2012, photograph, Siena, Italy. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the author (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the author.

Even if it is true that many of the medieval façades that we see today in Siena were reworked under the Fascist regime for propagandistic purposes, the fact remains that Siena is a medieval city, preserved as a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1995, and its buildings reflect their inner character and traditions. A city’s legitimacy in the Renaissance, according to historians Philippa Jackson and Fabrizio Nevola, “depend[ed] in part on its image-making and self-presentation, whether through its permanent landmarks or its temporary celebrations.”17 Siena’s interrelationships between urbanity, art, and tradition have thus been crucial to its character for centuries. Although Lasansky claims that Fascist city planners subjected cities such as Siena to a “deliberate restaging of architecture,”18 the Sienese themselves have been laying out an iconographic cityscape, to be experienced on foot, since the fourteenth century, with the foundation of the Ufficio sopra all’Ornato, which instituted urban planning regulations, ranging from basic street cleaning to stripping façades of their unsightly wooden balconies and awnings (especially in the 1440s–80s along the Via Francigena).19 A standard of beauty was set, helping form the city we still see today, which is one with the most glorious public piazza in the form of the Campo, streets bustling with commerce, and palaces with pristine façades. Historic dress for the processions is meticulously worked by the women and men of the contrade, being worn almost exclusively by the men to reenact the glory days of Siena’s military might, the spirit of which is reflected on the walls of countless sites

The Palio of Siena: a journey through time 91 throughout the city. Although there have been changes to some of the Palio’s rules and renewal of the historic dress, among other things, the ritual and the meaning of the Palio have remained intact since the seventeenth century, having only been interrupted during the two World Wars. It is this sense of continuity, immortality, past and present, that makes the Palio a worthy subject of investigation, not only for anthropological and cultural reasons, but also for its intrinsic artistic value, seen in the legacy of Siena’s artistic past and in the present way that the contrade are organized. Non-Italian (and non-Sienese) artists and authors have reflected on their travels to Siena for centuries. English travel books abounded in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, with many mentions of Siena and its Palio; earlier references include accounts of those embarking on the Grand Tour, yet I do not know of a “classic” Grand Tour traveler who describes the Palio as well as do this selection of authors. Perhaps the most famous of these is nineteenth-century historian William Heywood, whose assessments remain valuable resources for the history of the splendid pageantry and significance of the Palio. He also relates his firsthand experience, and his description of the exhilarating arrival of the spectators on the day of the race in the last decade of the nineteenth century could very well have described the latest Palio: In the afternoon the whole population is afoot—men, women and children, old and young, rich and poor,—their numbers being augmented every minute by the vast crowd of country folk who are pouring into the city through all its nine gates.20 The Palio is in many ways a pilgrimage, both for Siena’s residents and for those who live outside her walls, or, basically, people intimately acquainted with the ritual as well as those visiting out of curiosity. William Wetmore Story spent the first part of his life practicing and writing about law in his native Massachusetts, before moving to Rome to become a rather successful sculptor and critic. He journeyed to Siena to witness its famed race, illustrating the events of July 2, 1857, in what is the first publication by an American on the Palio:21 From all the windows stream rich draperies of every fabric and colour. [. . .] All the World is “abroad to see” [. . .] The Piazza, which is in shape a vast shell, of which the hinge is the magnificent old Palazzo Pubblico, slopes upward, amphitheatrelike. [. . .] The centre is so densely crowded by the population of Siena and of the country around, that one might almost run across it on the closely packed heads. The pavement is strewn with yellow sand, and the corners of the diameter, where the Piazza slopes steeply down in front of the Palazzo, that occupies the lowest place, are padded with mattresses, to save from broken heads and limbs the riders, who are not infrequently flung from their horses with great violence at this dangerous turning.22 Story then describes the Piazza after the race has been won by the Contrada della Chiocciola, marveling at the range of emotions surveyed in this one public space: “Such a scene of excitement without evil consequences I never beheld, and no one could doubt the extraordinary excitability of the people after beholding it.”23 Story’s friend and later biographer,24 Henry James, was not as inspired by the Palio, which he remembers as

92  Anna Piperato [an] old and perhaps even a little faded cluster of impressions, but which smudges that special sojourn as with the big thumb-mark of a slightly soiled and decidedly ensanguined hand. For really, after all, the great loud gaudy romp or heated frolic, simulating ferocity if not achieving it, that is the annual pride of this town, was not intrinsically, to my-view, extraordinarily impressive.25 Olave M. Potter opposes this thought when she writes this of the Palio: It is not merely a pageant, though as a pageant it is superlative; it is the last flicker of the spirit of the Middle Ages. And for my part I love it, because the Sienese are still so mediaeval at heart. And that is why there is no city in Italy more fitted to be illumined by the torch of the Middle Ages than Siena.26 Aldous Huxley likewise chronicled his travels in a 1925 publication. For all of his pessimism directed towards the “pathetic [. . .] spectacle of inexperienced travellers” in the first half of the twentieth century,27 he finds the time to write about Siena without remarking on the almost “pathetic” reality, which is that he failed to grasp the full experience of the Palio. He did, however, find it striking enough to visit and then return to Siena (three times) during the days of the festival, classifying the flags and costumes of the contrade as High Art, and classical yet modern, entranced by the skill of the alfieri, who are the flag wavers of each Contrada. However, he disparages the city’s forced modernity by commenting on what he considers to be the obsessive weeding that takes place in the city streets and the Campo: “When you say of a town that the grass grows in its streets, you mean that it is utterly dead. Conversely, if there is no grass in its streets, it must be alive.”28 Given that all Sienese still today sing with great pride La Verbena,29 a paean to the “little grass” that has been sung throughout the city since at least the nineteenth century,30 it becomes clear that the weeding is not a “symbol of modernity,” but rather proof that, no matter who comes to Siena to rule over her (or to judge her), her spirit will always rise up through the cracks in the pavement, above oppressive forces. This is illustrated in numerous works of art and photography that feature Siena rising up out of the countryside, as a beacon of medieval magnificence, which is seen in the works of the Sienese masters and more contemporary foreign works, such as those of M.C. Escher (1898–1972) during his Italian phase of 1922–35; his Italian Countryside (1923) reminds the viewer of Bartolo di Fredi’s (c.1330–1410) cityscape in the background of his Adoration of the Magi (c.1385–88), or the reverent portrayals of the city held aloft in the hands of a saint, as seen in Sano di Pietro’s (1406–81) San Bernardino of the Palazzo Pubblico (c.1445) and Francesco Vanni’s (1563–1610) Saint Bartholomew and Blessed Ambrogio Sansedoni Offer the City of Siena to the Virgin (c.1585–87).31 The history of art brings many scholars to Siena. Having researched artistic representations of Saint Catherine of Siena (1347–80) for three years, but never having stayed in her city for more than two nights at a time, I secured a summer teaching position there in 2010. I knew that I would have the privilege of witnessing two Palio races, but I did not anticipate the impact that this summer would have on my life or my understanding of the Sienese.32 Although this chapter is primarily concerned with the microcosmic significance of travel through the topography of such a historically rich city as Siena, I would like to consider as well the importance of traveling through such topographies for the art historian.

The Palio of Siena: a journey through time 93 A few days after my arrival in Siena, I returned to my flat on the street of Pian d’Ovile and noticed that the wrought-iron gates next to my building were open. As all curious people should do, I went in and down some steps to what was clearly a former crypt, with black and white marble floors. “C’è nessuno—Is anyone there?” I called out. Someone was indeed there; it was an articulate young man who introduced me to this strange place with its framed silk banners. I was in the Victory Room of the Contrada della Lupa. This was the moment that my experience and perception of Siena were forever altered. No longer was this simply a city of magnificent architecture, art, and, of course, saints; I was introduced to a city where tradition and contemporary culture exist symbiotically, and where past and present collide in a pageant of living history; it is a city whose citizens actively celebrate their past, as they simultaneously contribute to its future.33 Siena has undergone many changes throughout its history, developing into a prosperous center of trade by virtue of its position along the Via Francigena in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, successfully staving off the Florentines in the miraculous 1260 victory of Montaperti (who wanted control of both the Via Francigena and Siena),34 embodying ideals of Republican Rome during its “Golden Age,” primarily under the Government of the Nine (1287–1355), then relinquishing its autonomy to the Medici dukes in 1555. Siena still manages to glorify its past as it moves (unsteadily) into the future. The nineteenth century saw popularity in a “Myth of the Republic,”35 coinciding with the period of Italian unification known as the Risorgimento and perpetuated to this day. This “myth” publicizes Siena’s self-reverence, holding its own medieval Golden Age following the victory at Montaperti above even the classical Greek and Roman cultures and, therefore, above that which Florence so idolized. Like many of Italy’s city states, Siena has had to adapt to a variety of “foreign” authorities,36 but it has been able to preserve its traditions; thus, the Sienese have continued to thrive. Although some would argue that the Sienese did not have complete control over the evolution of their festival, because it grew in importance after Siena lost its independence to Florence, the contrade and the Palio have been and will remain essential to Sienese identity. Passing through the Italian peninsula at any point in the year (but primarily during the summer months), an abundant selection of festivals awaits the eager tourist, such as the Palio dei Somari (donkey races) of Torrita di Siena in March, the palii of Legnano and Ferrara at the end of May, the calcio storico in Florence and the Joust of the Saracen in Arezzo in June, Medieval Monteriggioni in July, or, further north, the Palio of Asti at the end of the warm weather in September. Tuscany, being the cradle of the Renaissance, particularly benefits from these festivals: tourists come here to experience life as it once was, or might have been. The reader may know of other historic palii; horse races were popular in ancient Rome, where games were organized around Consualia (August 21) and Saturnalia (December 15), complete with rivalries from the different sections of the city.37 In the thirteenth century, palii were raced in Siena, Ferrara, and Asti, with all three cities claiming to have the oldest tradition. However, both Ferrara and Asti took centuries-long hiatuses from their palio races; only Siena can boast continuity in its festival, even though it has necessarily evolved over time.38 What most of these festivals have in common is that they pit one section of town against the others, most often called contrade, but also known as rioni, borghi, or quartieri. There have been studies on the contrade and what it means to be a contradaiolo or, specifically for Siena, because of its unique continuous history, the current

94  Anna Piperato role of the contrada in civic identity.39 The simplest definition of a contrada is that it is an area of the city with specific territorial demarcations, with a resident population, and its own set of statutes and elected officials. However, as happens whenever one attempts to define a social structure, more explanation is needed. The Sienese contrada cannot be likened to any other grouping of people in the world. Even within Italy, where other cities have contrade or rioni, their function and continuity do not share the same history as those of Siena, nor is belonging to one as intense a celebration of group participation as it is in Siena.40 Historically, Siena’s contrade served to protect the city; they were military groups made up of able-bodied citizens from separate geographical locations within the walled city.41 Soon, they came to include all people living within the same pocket of the town, and there were as many as sixty in the fourteenth century; after the Black Death of 1348, the number was reduced to forty-two. By the seventeenth century, just twenty-three remained, and, in 1729, six contrade were suppressed under the governess Violante Beatrice di Baviera, their territories remaining defined and unchanged since 1730.42 After the fall of the Sienese republic in 1555, the contrade no longer served their military purpose, but their importance as social entities grew. These seventeen contrade are now the participants in the biannual palio races, though for safety reasons only ten compete at a time. Their presence in the Piazza del Campo dates to the sixteenth century, when the caccia dei tori, or bull hunts, took place in the city (1499–1597).43 The participating contrade would prepare elaborate floats as part of a procession, announcing the presence of their members and exhibiting pride in their totem, which later served as protection against the raging bulls in the square, as seen in Vincenzo Rusici’s (1556–1632) c.1585 paintings commemorating the historical parade and the bull fight itself.44 This triumphal parade before the main event continued with the bufalate, or buffalo racing (1599–1650), which also took place in the Campo. The Palio was most certainly incorporated in the twelfth century, when the race run was exclusively a Palio alla lunga, or a long horse race that finished at the Duomo.45 The Palio alla tonda, or Palio in the round, was first documented in 1583, but was not established as a fixed tradition to be held annually until July 2, 1656. The “round” refers to the Piazza del Campo, and, since the early eighteenth century, races have been held biannually with few exceptions, with the occasional Palio Straordinario (or “extraordinary,” extra palio). It was not until 1802 that the August 16 Palio in the Campo became an annual event like the July 2 Palio, and the palio alla lunga continued periodically until 1874.46 The oldest surviving piece of documentation on the Palio dates to 1239, though it seems that palii were raced throughout the twelfth century, first in honor of Saint Boniface (to whom Siena’s cathedral was originally dedicated), and then to the Virgin and, in time, other saints as well.47 This 1239 document, as Sienese scholar Patrizia Turrini notes, shows that the race in honor of the Assumption of the Virgin (August 15, 1239) reflected a desire for the celebration of civic pride: Siena asserted its own importance by requiring subject communities to pay homage to the Madonna [. . .] a homage that in reality was an act of submission and loyalty to the Commune.48 We could make the same argument today—people still travel from far and wide to witness both the July and August palii; in doing so, they become a part of the religious

The Palio of Siena: a journey through time 95 celebrations that honor Siena’s patroness and pay homage to the great city of Siena. Although the Sienese may have a love–hate relationship with tourists during the days of their festival, the fact that this sacred tradition piques the interest of so many is a source of great civic pride, which visitors cannot help but admire. Today’s illustrious visitors include statesmen and celebrities,49 but the Grand Dukes of Tuscany would also come to partake in the excitement of the Palii, which remain the most elaborate in their territory.50 Popes, too, make the occasional appearance, and the “hero of two worlds,” Giuseppe Garibaldi (1807–82), made it a point to see the August Palio of 1867, moved forward one day to accommodate his arrival. Sociologist Lita Crociani-Windland has defined festivals as the following: a solution to the problem of how to change, without changing out of recognition. They inscribe and celebrate the constituting elements of a dynamic identity that can only have a sense of continuity if it constantly shifts and renegotiates these elements.51 This almost contradictory definition is precisely how we can look at the Palio. Implicit in its strength of tradition is the idea of immortality, which is generated by the continual celebration of Siena’s past, while commemorating those who came before; it is very much an event one lives in the moment; those who participate are thereby guaranteed a place in its future, and therefore in its indestructibility. The first time one sees family members or friends in their contrada colors is an emotional encounter; mothers weep with joy, fathers are puffed up with pride, and friends congratulate and shower the wearer with kisses. He has become living history. Siena is a place in which the contrade are the city, and the Palio is the most vivid expression of campanilismo, which is a tradition that eclipses all others in the peninsula. This is a city where a civic festival is not simply a celebration of culture, or a lucrative way to entice tourists to stay just one more day. The Sienese depend on tourism, yet the Palio is not for tourists; many would be happy if no outsiders were allowed in the Campo at all for the race.52 The Sienese have therefore had to come to terms with sharing their festival, while retaining their distinct civic identity. Crociani-Windland explains that The problem of identity is how to endure, that is, maintain enough continuity in relation to the continuous process of reconstitution demanded by the problems of existence without becoming so fixed and habitual as to be sclerotic. Festivals are, in this sense, constituted by problems, for which they are both expressions and solutions. However, the term solution denotes in this case not the elimination of problems, but ways of living with them.53 She concludes that, “a particular structure of identity based on a dynamic connectedness of land, body, memory and identity is both discernible in this festival culture and fundamental to it.”54 Siena is not alone in this festival culture, but the way in which the Sienese associate with it differs greatly from other Italian citizens’ relationships to their own annual events. We might even go so far as to relate how the Sienese feel about their festival to how the Romans felt about their Colosseum, considering what Bede wrote: “While stands the Colosseum, Rome shall stand; when falls the Colosseum, Rome shall fall; and when Rome falls—the world.”55 As long as the Palio is run, Siena will exist.

96  Anna Piperato As mentioned previously, many of the twentieth- and twenty-first-century Italian festivals are constructs of the Fascist regime (which was in power from 1922 to 1944), but this is an idea that most Italians do not recognize, even though some scholars, particularly Lasansky (herself building on the groundbreaking research of Stefano Cavazza), have demonstrated convincingly that this is the case.56 For example, Florence’s calcio storico, or soccer in costume, was resurrected in 1930, and the Joust of the Saracen in Arezzo in 1931.57 These festivals were advertised through the Fascist regime as further means of encouraging Italian pride, as well as a way to encourage Italians to travel their own peninsula to experience these historic traditions directly (which also institutionalized domestic and international tourism).58 With regard to Siena’s Palio, however, Lasansky fails to address that Italy’s Fascist era was but one of many instances in history where the Sienese have had to adapt to fit new times. She claims that Had the Palio in fact been allowed to evolve over the centuries, without the Fascist interruption, it would today most likely take the form, as is the case with festivals of many towns, of a truly modern activity, a car race around the Campo perhaps.59 Although Lasansky criticizes Dundes and Falassi (himself a member of the Contrada Sovrana dell’Istrice) for ignoring the role of Fascist historicism, she does not recognize the significance of the fierce pride the Sienese have in their festival as a motive for its more historic preservation. The idea of bringing cars into the Campo is pure anathema. However, Lasansky’s recognition of the Fascist conviction that the medieval and Renaissance periods were points in history to help unite the Italian people, being a country only united in 1861, deserves attention; the particular focus was on the medieval as “the period of Italic culture,” and the Fascist regime’s “racist dialogue of national superiority by emphasizing a period that was free from foreign domination” idealized the thirteenth through sixteenth centuries as a time of the creation of high art and culture.60 The Sienese recognized this well before the Fascist regime, even before unification, and celebrated Roman, medieval, and Renaissance history in the Corteo Storico, which is the historical parade before the caccia dei tori (bull fights), the bufalate (buffalo races), and then the Palio race. In 1599, for example, the Contrada della Lupa was awarded first prize for its float representing the gods Mars, Venus, and Saturn;61 in the nineteenth century, the focus of the Corteo shifted to the Renaissance. The Corteo Storico continued to evolve, including during and after the Fascist era. All contrade, for example, feature a Duce, or military leader (embodied by a tall, strong member of the contrada) as part of its comparsa (the group of men who represent the contrada in the Palio parade) in the Corteo Storico. Lasansky claims that the figure of the Duce is based on Benito Mussolini’s “new persona of DUX or leader,”62 and so his inclusion is a homage to the Fascist leader, but the Duce has been present at least since the nineteenth century, as a visit to any contrada museum will attest.63 During this visit, one will also see the drappelloni (Palio banners) designed between 1922 and 1939, bearing Fascist iconography, which includes the year of the Fascist regime in Roman numerals and the fascis, or a bundle of rods with an axe blade. Noting the slightly different name of a particular contrada further substantiates that the Sienese have embraced both their positive and negative history. The Giraffa was awarded the title of Imperiale in 1936 after this neighborhood’s victory of July 2, in honor of Italy’s new empire status with the

The Palio of Siena: a journey through time 97 conquest of Ethiopia, keeping the name to differentiate it from the other sixteen contrade. Reminders of former regimes are everywhere in Siena; the city itself continually represents its achievements and its defeats. Although Lasansky argues that one of the goals of the Fascist regime was to reinstate, revamp, or even invent new traditions in an effort to bring the Italian people together with a sense of a dignified, shared history, the Sienese have always been eager to exalt their illustrious past, which, it can be argued, reached its zenith in the Middle Ages rather than in the Renaissance. Siena’s fifteenth century was much different from that of Florence, recalling the splendor of the arts of the fourteenth century when artistic “advancements” were made in the neighboring rival city. The Fascist regime wished to conjure up feelings of pride particularly present in the interpretation of the word medioevo (Middle Ages), which was seen as truly Italic, rather than concentrate on the rinascimento (Renaissance or rebirth), which was arguably the most famous period in Italy’s history and which saw the rebirth, not only of ancient Roman republican ideals, but also Greek philosophy (leading to Renaissance humanism). Siena’s Palio provided the perfect stage for such a medieval celebration, and this focus on the glory days of the Republic of Siena continues today, not because they were refashioned under the Fascist regime, but because they suit the festival and the people of the twenty-first century. As Sienese-born scholar Aurora Savelli points out, this focus on the Early Modernism during the Fascist period found an audience for that cultural and political climate. The culture of the contrade was legitimized, aggrandized, and, above all, celebrated, not just in Siena, but throughout Italy, and it was made known to the world that, in a Tuscan hill town, something special was taking place.64 Changes continue to be made to the Palio, and the Corteo Storico in particular, so that the glory of Siena and her past is sustained, benefiting tourism, but also, more importantly, contributing to the enduring Sienese civic pride, which is weighted heavily on a sense of continuity. It can be argued that Siena has also used art to perpetuate its identity since the triumph of Montaperti through the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and specifically under the rule of the Nove (1287–1355) until the fall of the Republic in 1555.65 After Medici domination, however, art continued to be produced, never to honor those to whom the Sienese were subject, but to celebrate the city’s sovereignty. In one of Virgilio Grassi’s many charming essays on the histories of Siena, he concludes that the very few examples of Medici portrait busts, such as those of Ferdinand I (1549–1609), Cosimo II (1590–1621), and Gian Gastone (1671–1737), were made by specific Sienese families, and were not sanctioned by the will of the people, who would never provide individuals with such acclaim, even though these busts are small and easy to miss when exploring the city.66 The Medici were conscious of this, as Heywood eloquently describes, noting that [Cosimo I (1519–74), the first Grand Duke of Tuscany] was no fool. He realized that his new subjects had been vanquished by famine and not by the sword [. . .] that their love of freedom was as strong as ever, and that their loss of independence had only increased their hereditary hatred of Florence.67 Despite this, in tribute to the Grand Duke Ferdinand I’s arrival in Siena in 1604 (though whether the idea was forced upon the Sienese or truly a gesture of good will is debatable), an inscription was added to the northern entrance to the city (that is, from Florence), the Porta Camollia: “Cor magis tibi sena pandit,” or “Siena opens her

98  Anna Piperato heart to you more widely [than this door],” demonstrating Siena’s hospitality even in the wake of its loss of independence to “il ladrone mediceo,” “the huge Medici thief,” Cosimo I.68 Art historian Benjamin David adds valuable new interpretations of how the Sienese have perceived their artworks.69 Noting how a thirteenth-century Maestà by Guido da Siena (c. thirteenth century) was partially painted over, rather than replaced by a new altarpiece, he remarks that, “keeping the old painting and changing a part of it exemplifies a Sienese habit of perceiving a painting as an event extending through time.”70 Preserving the past is seminal to Sienese identity. Contemporary adjustments do not diminish a work’s or ritual’s meaning; rather, acknowledging the relationship between past and present both strengthens and augments feelings of civic pride. David suggests that viewing Early Modern Sienese art “as a continuous series of tendencies that coexist and collide and are added to and adapted as time goes on” exposes a “flexibility” that has continued from the fall of the Republic to the present day and is notably seen in the changes made in the Palio in the modern era.71 Such “active participation in the past”72 that David applies to fifteenth-century Sienese artists may also be applied to the contrade and the Palio today. There is a deliberate reflection on that which has come before and a conscious desire to contribute to the history of future generations. It is interesting to consider that, although the Golden Age of Sienese art continues to be revered by scholars and citizens of Siena alike, the historical dress is based mostly on fifteenth- and early sixteenth-century Italian and Sienese paintings and, at times, sculptures, rather than on fourteenth-century Sienese art (Figures 5.4 and 5.5). A simple explanation is that the pageantry in fifteenth-century paintings by artists such as Pinturicchio (1454–1513), Domenico di Bartolo (c.1400–47), or Sassetta (d.1450) is represented with far more detail than in an altarpiece by Duccio (c.1255/60–1318/19) or a fresco by Simone Martini (c.1280–1344). For the new monture for the Contrada della Chiocciola, for example, contemporary artist Pier Luigi Olla (b.1939) was given a span of time from which to draw inspiration and notes how he used details from a variety of paintings and sculptures to create the new clothing, including works from the 1440s by Domenico di Bartolo in the Pellegrinaio of Santa Maria della Scala, richly embroidered fabrics from Sassetta’s paintings, and even details from Andrea del Castagno’s (c.1423–57) Farinata degli Uberti (c.1450) and Donatello’s (1386–1466) Gattemelata (1447–53).73 The Contrada Sovrana dell’Istrice was home to the great Pinturicchio, whose works can be seen every year when the Istrice processes; the costumes for their alfieri (flag wavers) are taken directly from the artist’s San Bernardino Releases a Prisoner of c.1473. The illustrious artists of the proto-Renaissance, however, are often honored in the drappelloni (Palio banners) themselves, such as the August 16 Palii of 2003 and 2011, to commemorate Duccio, his rose window of the Duomo, and the 800th anniversary of the completion of his Maestà, respectively.74 Leaving debate of the artistic merit of these silk banners for another time, what is clear is that the object of all the contradaioli’s desire is also a symbol of pride for all of Siena, and similarly becomes a commentary on past and present artistic accomplishments. Parsons has dedicated much of his scholarship to investigating the relationship that the Sienese have to the Virgin Mary, and the role of civil religion in the city’s history and continuing traditions. He has argued that the rituals surrounding the Palio “collectively sustain a distinctive Sienese identity, and a corresponding set of values amounting to a specific and definable Sienese worldview.”75 Although not all Sienese today participate in the day-to-day contrada life, or are enamored of the Palio, it

The Palio of Siena: a journey through time 99

Figure 5.4  Pinturicchio, San Bernardino Releases a Prisoner, 1473, tempera on panel, 29.8 × 22.4 in., Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria, Perugia, Italy. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Cristina Acidini. Licensing information: CC-PD-Mark; PD-Art (PD-old-100), public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

remains a defining aspect of Sienese identity.76 Many will travel great distances to return to their native Siena just to experience the four days of the Palio;77 Siena has a pull on its citizens, and, for many, missing the Palio is to be separated from a part of oneself. For most Sienese, not even the celebrations for the Virgin Mary generate such a sense of longing or duty as do their own contrada and, of course, the possibility of a Palio victory and the chance to be reborn. Parallels may be drawn between the Palio and the panathenaic procession of ancient Greece, celebrated from 566 bce until the fourth century ce in honor of the goddess Athena (and other gods, such as Poseidon). As in the Acropolis in Athens, nature provided Siena with its civic ritual space. Rather than being on elevated ground, the natural meeting place in the valley of Siena’s three hills provided the perfect place for the Campo (which literally means field). Although it has been suggested that the topography of the Acropolis changed to accommodate the Panathenaia,78 Siena’s topography has remained, for the most part, unchanged since the annual Palio races first took place in the Piazza del Campo. The Palio was built around the existing urban environment, and, although some roads leading to the Campo may have changed over the centuries (not in their form but rather in the buildings lining them), the Campo, with its fan shape and multiple entrances, has remained the constant stage for this intimate horse race. Its centrality made it the perfect location for citywide activities, variations of which have been documented from 1261, with the elmora (wooden sword fighting

100  Anna Piperato

Figure 5.5  Flag bearer of the contrada della Pantera during a parade at the piazza del Campo, Siena, 2005, photograph. Photographic Credit: Courtesy of Jastrow (own work). Licensing information: PD-Self (author released work to the public domain for worldwide use), public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

between the Terzi, or thirds, of the city), to tournaments (such as those held in honor of Giangaleazzo Viconti in 1399 and of Grand Duke Ferdinand I in 1602) and buffalo racing (1599–1650), until finally the Palio dominated. This correlation between the Panathenaia and the Palio has been drawn by Jenifer Neils, who notes that all festivals rely on performance and communication, and Siena’s continued traditions can help scholars understand ancient rituals by witnessing such living history.79 She further notes that, prior to the final peplos ceremony in Athens, there were “tribal contests” between different “civic units,” which ultimately strengthened the loyalty of the citizens.80 Both the Panathenaia and the Palio are occasions of religious and civic celebration where the ritual of arriving at the Parthenon or the Campo is as much a part of the ceremony as the final offering or race itself. The final offering of the peplos, or the garment offered to Athena, is comparable to the Palio banner (which must feature the Virgin Mary, to whom the July 2 and August 16 races are dedicated), which is blessed and dedicated to the Madonna, even though it is housed in the contrada’s museum after the conclusion of the race; prayers are said to the Virgin before, during, and after the race (by practicing Catholics and atheists alike). The Panathenaia revered Athena above all as the patron deity of Athens, but other gods associated with the city were also celebrated, just as other saints (such as Catherine or Bernardino of Siena) are often honored alongside the Virgin, Siena’s principal patroness. In these two male-dominated societies,

The Palio of Siena: a journey through time 101 elaborate annual celebrations honor immaculate virgin female role models, one whose influence waned in Athens, whereas the other’s remains strong in Siena. Whether traveling from afar or just a few blocks, the object of desire for travelers to the Palio is the drappellone, or Palio banner, which is a hand-painted silk work of art that typically features the Virgin Mary prominently, along with the true heroes of the Palio —the horses—which are often present in works of the twentieth century.81 Indeed, when it appears that the Virgin has been overshadowed by some other figure, indignation appears in daily conversations, newspaper articles, and now on social media. The July 2, 2010 drappellone designed by the Lebanese artist Ali Hassoun (b.1964, who is a resident of Siena), for example, drew criticism because of the dominant nature of the figure of Saint George, which was meant to celebrate the 750th anniversary of the Battle of Montaperti; Hassoun’s design was condemned for its non-Sienese qualities. The armor-clad saint wears a turban, albeit in the black and white colors of Siena, and Arabic script surrounds the crown of the Virgin of Provenzano above.82 The following July’s Palio by Tullio Pericoli (b.1936) also fell under scrutiny (at least by the contradaioli) for presenting the Virgin, not as Queen of Heaven or patroness of Siena, but rather, as the president of the Contrada della Lupa described her, as a “fruttivendolo”—the Virgin greengrocer.83 Despite such judgments, no contrada would ever refuse a banner into its oratory or Hall of Victories. When, in 1967, a group of students from the city of Bologna stole the banner of the Extraordinary Palio of September 24 as a prank (it was not the subject matter that angered the Bolognesi, where the sciences were honored and Athena is shown in the center of the city of Siena), the triumphant Contrada Imperiale della Giraffa simply paraded around with a white banner and the artist Bruno Marzi’s sketch attached to it.84 This did not diminish the victorious contrada’s spirits; as the saying goes, basta un cencio bianco—a white rag will do—for the glory of victory eclipses everything else. The July 2013 Palio banner by Claudia Nerozzi, who is herself a member of the Contrada della Pantera, featured simple iconography and was, as such, embraced by the Sienese. A sultry bust of the Virgin of Provenzano hovers over the portraits of the horses that last won for each of the contrade that participated in the race. The drappellone-within-a-drappellone emphasized the significance of the banner to the contradaioli, though perhaps the most beautiful aspect of the painted silk was the reverse side, which was painted the color of the tufo, or the earth that lies around the Campo for the Palio; it further features hoofmarks to denote the trials and the race itself, just as the words In sempiterna saecula (in centuries eternal), referring to the end of the Te Deum (Maria Mater gratiae), are etched into the dirt on the left. Siena is most Sienese when there is la terra in piazza, blessed by the Virgin and filled with memories of Palii past. The idea of immortality is implicit in the terra in piazza, or the dirt that is reused every year around the Campo; one’s ancestors walked this earth, the contrada’s last victory occurred here, and future memories will be imprinted in each granule (hence the annual tradition of helping “set” the earth by walking over it with family and friends in yet another of Siena’s rituals). Sacred and profane come together in these simple, yet complicated, manners, with even the staunchest atheist singing the Te Deum with the utmost solemnity after the blessing of the horse by the contrada’s priest. It can be said with some degree of certainty, therefore, that Siena is a city shaped by the Palio. Its whole history can be found in the Piazza del Campo, where each year the glory of Montaperti is brought to life through the military splendor of the historical parades preceding the race, itself a contained declaration of war within the city walls,

102  Anna Piperato but here is a war that only the Sienese will win. Even that most beloved of citizens, Saint Catherine, encouraged her brothers and sisters to run the Palio, but with love in their hearts.85 This reverent tradition, with its ritual performance (which is art itself as it proceeds through the medieval streets to the ultimate stage, the Campo), brings all those works of art and architecture within the city to life. The figures imagined by Pinturicchio (1454–1513) and Bartolo di Fredi (1330–1410) take center stage, framed by the Palazzo Pubblico as the Virgin Mary looks down upon her city, where she is reflected in the Palio banner, and so all gaze upon her in a spiritual conversation in eternal esteem. But one cannot simply see all of this happening; one must experience the sights, the sounds, the emotion of this centuries-long tradition; it is a tradition that the Sienese live and breathe, and it leaves an indelible mark on the soul of the visitor.

Notes 1 Most English sources on the Palio refer to the race by its Italian name. In this chapter, the Sienese horse race will therefore be referred to as the Palio, capitalized; other horse races will be called a palio, or, in the plural, palii. Similarly, Siena’s city-states will be called by their Sienese name, the contrada (singular) and contrade (plural). Members of a contrada are referred to as contradaioli (plural), and the contrade will be referred to by their Sienese names, which are: Aquila (Eagle); Bruco (Caterpillar); Chiocciola (Snail); Civetta (Owl); Drago (Dragon); Giraffa (Giraffe); Istrice (Porcupine); Leocorno (Unicorn); Lupa (SheWolf); Nicchio (Shell); Oca (Goose); Onda (Wave); Panta (Panther); Selva (Forest); Tartuca (Turtle); Torre (Tower); Valdimontone (Ram). 2 To view the designs of the drappelloni, go to the site dedicated to the Palio hosted by the city of Siena: www.ilpalio.siena.it/5/Contrade 3 Two sources that are particularly helpful to English readers are Alan Dundes and Alessandro Falassi, La Terra in Piazza: An Interpretation of the Palio of Siena (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1975), and Alessandro Falassi, Giulio Catoni, and Pepi Merisio, Palio, trans. by Christopher Huw Evans and Elisabeth Mann Borgese (Siena: Monte dei Paschi di Siena, 1982–3). A popular source is Il Palio: La Festa della Città, eds. Alessandro Falassi and Luca Betti (Siena: Betti, 2010), which can be found in multiple languages in most bookstores in Siena. 4 One of the most comprehensive articles from an American perspective is Lis Harris’s “Annals of Intrigue: The Palio,” The New Yorker (Jun. 5, 1989), pp. 83–104. More recent articles include Diane M. Bolz, “Palio: Italy’s Mad Dash,” Smithsonian, 33:5 (2002), and Lorenzo Carcaterra, “Siena: Italy’s Very Own Magic Kingdom,” National Geographic Traveler, 20:6 (2003). 5 “Ma per i senesi, il Palio è e resta unicamente una questione di emozioni,” Simonetta Michelotti, “Palio, ovvero la tenzone delle emozioni,” Tuttitalia (1999), p. 17. Michelotti is also a member of the Contrada della Lupa. 6 Dundes and Falassi, La Terra in Piazza; Sydel Silverman, “On the Uses of History in Anthropology: The ‘Palio’ of Siena,” American Ethnologist, 6 (1979), and “The Palio of Siena: Game, Ritual, or Politics?” in Urban Life in the Renaissance, eds. Susan Zimmerman and Ronald F.E. Weissman (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press, 1989), pp. 224–39; Alice Pomponio Logan, “The Palio of Siena: Performance and Process,” Urban Anthropology, 7 (1978); Lita Crociani-Windland, Festivals, Affect and Identity: A Deleuzian Apprenticeship in Central Italian Communities (London: Anthem Press, 2011). 7 Gerald Parsons, Siena, Civil Religion and the Sienese (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), p. xvii. Also consult Parsons’s Perspectives on Civil Religion (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002). 8 During the medieval era, Siena’s foundation myth was promulgated, claiming that Aschius and Senius, the twin sons of Remus, had, like their father and Uncle Romulus before them, been abandoned and suckled by a she-wolf. When they were old enough, they fled the wrath of Romulus, one on a black and one on a white steed (hence Siena’s city colors and the proliferation of the she-wolf throughout the city), until they arrived at the convergence of three hills, which was a location then named after the stronger of the two brothers. This is interpreted by some as the first ever Sienese Palio.

The Palio of Siena: a journey through time 103 9 Before the final Palio race, there are six trials; the journey to and from the Campo is more direct than the one before the Palio, but it, too, is inviolable. 10 The current state of the Banca Monte dei Paschi di Siena, the world’s oldest operating bank (established 1472), is a cause of great concern for the Sienese, not only for the large number of jobs the bank has created, but also for the generous sums of money it has donated to the Palio and the contrade each year (as of 2013, these donations had stopped). See Jack Ewing and Gaia Pianigiani, “Patron of Siena Stumbles,” The New York Times, 22 (Feb. 2013), p. B1. 11 The Salimbeni and Tolomei family rivalry is one of the most acrid in the city’s history, culminating in the “Malamerenda,” of 1300, where the Salimbeni’s peace offering of a meal turned into a massacre of the visiting Tolomei, hence the nickname “the bad snack.” 12 Siena’s plans to construct the largest church in Christendom were halted with the advent of the Black Plague of 1348; with a drastic drop in population and discretionary funds, the plan was abandoned, and the existing cathedral was expanded. Today, the nave houses the Opera Works Museum. 13 In the map, the fan-like structure is the campo, and to the right is the Duomo of Siena. 14 William Heywood, Our Lady of August and the Palio of Siena (Siena: Enrico Torrini, 1899), p. 3. 15 Philippa Jackson and Fabrizio Nevola, “Introduction: Beyond the Palio: Urbanism and Ritual in Renaissance Siena,” in Beyond the Palio: Urbanism and Ritual in Renaissance Siena, eds. Philippa Jackson and Fabrizio Nevola (Oxford: Blackwell, 2006), p. 5. 16 D. Medina Lasansky, The Renaissance Perfected: Architecture, Spectacle, and Tourism in Fascist Italy (University Park, PA: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2004), p. xxviii. 17 Jackson and Nevola, “Introduction: Beyond the Palio,” p. 3. 18 Lasansky, The Renaissance Perfected, p. xxviii. 19 Fabrizio Nevola, “‘Per Ornato della Città’: Siena’s Strada Romana and Fifteenth-Century Urban Renewal,” The Art Bulletin, 82 (2000), pp. 26–50. 20 Heywood, Our Lady of August, p. 214. 21 William Wetmore Story, Un americano al Palio: An American at the Palio, ed. Piergiacomo Petrioli (Siena: Betti Editrice, 2000), reprinted and translated from the original publication by Story, Roba di Roma (London: Chapman & Hall, 1864), p. 7. According to Piergiacomo Petrioli in the introduction to this small volume, Story’s is the first account by an American author. Dundes and Falassi omit Story’s work in the bibliography of La Terra in Piazza, but do include G.B., “The Palio at Sienna,” The Galaxy, 2 (1866), as their oldest English source. 22 Story, An American at the Palio, pp. 19–21. 23 Story, An American at the Palio, p. 35. 24 Henry James, William Wetmore Story and His Friends, 2 vols. (Boston, MA: Houghton, Mifflin, 1903). 25 Henry James, “Siena Early and Late, II,” Italian Hours, 1909 (Project Gutenberg, 2004). www.gutenberg.org/files/6354/6354–h/6354–h.htm 26 Olave M. Potter, A Little Pilgrimage in Italy (Toronto: The Musson Book Company, 1911), p. 60. 27 Aldous Huxley, “Along the Road,” in Along the Road: Notes and Essays of a Tourist (New York: The Ecco Press, 1989), p. 11. 28 Huxley, “The Palio at Siena,” in Along the Road, p. 101. This weeding was indeed a part of the city’s beautification routine, and visitors to Siena today will remark on the cleanliness of the streets and walls, devoid of the litter and graffiti that so often plague cities today. 29 The words are simple yet symbolic: “Nella Piazza del Campo, ci nasce la verbena. Viva la nostra Siena! La più bella delle città.” The melody is used by all the contrade to sing to honor their totem, or to belittle their enemy’s. My translation: “In the Piazza del Campo, the little green grass grows. Long live our Siena! The most beautiful of all cities.” 30 I must thank Francesco Oliveto for his expertise with regards to the music of the contrade. For more on the songs of the Sienese, see Remigio de Cristofaro, Siena: I canti del popolo (Siena: Cantagalli, 1988). “La Verbena” is featured on p. 5 and, although the exact date of the lyrics is unknown, the melody can be traced to medieval Gregorian traditions. 31 For more on how Sienese artists have portrayed their city in art during the Renaissance, see Judith Steinhoff, “Reality and Ideality in Sienese Renaissance Cityscapes,” in Renaissance Siena: Art in Context, ed. A. Lawrence Jenkens (Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2005).

104  Anna Piperato 32 Anna Piperato, “Diario di un’americana,” Romolo & Remo: Periodico della Contrada della Lupa, 2 (2011). 33 Nowhere is this more evident than in the contrade, particularly the “machine” of the contrada, or the thousands of volunteer hours that go into ensuring a successful contradaiolo year. Although some might think being on one’s feet all day in a 100° kitchen is a chore, I found it a great privilege being able to participate actively in the Contrada della Lupa (literally with blood, sweat, and tears, as I cut myself while chopping tomatoes). The braccialetti, or streetlamps, were painted by a marvelous group of young women in the Lupa, and the linen shirts worn under the monture (historical costumes) were cut and sewn by hand by other members. The holes in the tights, searched for by a youthful set of eyes, were then repaired by the 83-year-old “matriarch” of this particular contrada. 34 It was after the victory at Montaperti on September 4, 1260 that the Sienese officially dedicated their city to the Virgin Mary, which was an act repeated when under siege in 1483, 1526, 1550, 1555, and 1944. For more information on this epic (and perhaps exaggerated) battle, see Titus Burckhardt, Siena: City of the Virgin (Bloomington, IN: World Wisdom, 2008), pp. 4–21; Montaperti: per i 750 anni dalla battaglia. Aspetti della guerra e della pace nel medioevo, ed. Mario Ascheri (Florence: Aska, 2010). 35 Alessandro Falassi, “Siena’s Festival,” in Palio, by Alessandro Falassi, Giulio Catoni, and Pepi Merisio, trans. Christopher Huw Evans and Elisabeth Mann Borgese (Siena: Monte dei Paschi di Siena, 1982–83), p. 68. 36 Including the swift turnover from Ghibelline (1260) to Guelph (1270) city, a botched alliance with Giangaleazzo Visconti at the turn of the fifteenth century, as well as internal strife between rival noble families, one of which, Pandolfo Petrucci “the Magnificent,” eventually established a signoria, or lordship, in 1497. With no clear leader of Siena after Petrucci’s death in 1512, the city was weakened, and the stage was set for the 1555 Florentine victory over the beleaguered Sienese. 37 Christian Roy, Traditional Festivals: A Multicultural Encyclopedia, vol. 1 of 2 (Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO, 2005), pp. 171–7. Note the consistency of summer and winter celebrations with the Christian liturgical calendar, which honors the Virgin on August 15 and the birth of Christ on December 25. 38 Documentation firmly places the Palio of Siena in the thirteenth century, though the tradition likely started in the twelfth century. When the foundation myth of Siena was promulgated in the Middle Ages, a myth of the first palio alla lunga also arose: as Aschius and Senius were escaping the wrath of their uncle Romulus, supposedly the founder of Rome, they fled Rome on white and black steeds; the end of this “race” was at the meeting of the three hills and the foundation of Siena. The Palio of Asti can be traced back to c.1275, but it was interrupted in the late nineteenth century and resumed in the twentieth century. That of Ferrara is documented from 1279, but ceased to be celebrated around 1600, resuming only in 1933. Other palii were run in the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries, in cities such as Florence, Prato, and Perugia, but, owing to the focus on the noble participants, festivals centering around the people prevailed, and the palii went out of fashion, whereas in Siena the focus shifted from the nobles to include the entire population. Maurizio Tuliani, “Il Palio alla lunga,” in Il Palio: La Festa della Città, eds. Alessandro Falassi and Luca Betti (Siena: Betti, 2010), pp. 16–17. 39 See Aurora Savelli, Siena: Il popolo e le contrade (XVI–XX secolo) (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 2008); Anna-Kathrin Warner, “Traditionen, lokaler Raum und Öffentlichkeit: Stadtteilgemeinschaften in Siena, Italien,” Zeitschrift für Ethnologie, 129 (2004), pp. 211–29; Arthur L. Figliola, “Space, Society and Self in Siena, Italy: A study of community, identity and social change in a small, southern European city” (PhD diss., University of Massachusetts Amherst, 2002). For a more light-hearted take on what it means to be a contradaiolo, see Robert Rodi’s Seven Seasons in Siena: My Quixotic Quest for Acceptance among Tuscany’s Proudest People (New York: Ballantine Books, 2011). 40 Just in Tuscany alone, we see eight contrade in both Torrita di Siena and Volterra, and four quartieri in both Florence and Arezzo. For more on Tuscan festivals, see Marco Ferri, Feste e tradizioni popolari della Toscana: Eventi, manifestazioni e ricorrenze del folclore, dalla Lunigiana alla Maremma, dalla valle del Bisenzio a quella d’Orcia (Rome: Newton Compton, 2006).

The Palio of Siena: a journey through time 105 41 For a more detailed history of how the contrade transformed from the military compagnie, consult Giovanni Mazzini, Innalzate gli stendardi vittoriosi! Dalle compagnie militari alle Contrade (Siena, XIII–XVI secolo) (Siena: Nuova Immagine, 2013). Descriptions of Siena’s fall after the Visconti in the fourteenth century can be found in William Caferro’s Mercenary Companies and the Decline of Siena (Baltimore, MD: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998). 42 Piero Torriti, Tutta Siena: Contrada per contrada (Florence: Bonecchi Edizioni “Il Turismo,” 2000), pp. 409–11. 43 Earlier games include the pugna (a game of fisticuffs), the elmora (fighting with wooden swords), the battaglia dei sassi (basically throwing rocks at each other), and the slightly less violent pallone, or a game similar to soccer. These games took place between the terzi, or thirds, of the city, with the Terzi of Camollia and San Martino joining forces against the Terzo di Città. See Dundes and Falassi, La Terra in Piazza, pp. 2–5. 44 The totem is most simply defined as the symbol of the contrada in animal form. Those contrade that do not have animal names, however—the Torre and the Selva—nonetheless have an animal representation (the elephant accompanies the tower, and the rhinoceros roams the forest). The members of the contrade take on the desirable characteristics of their totem. For example, the members of the Civetta extol their cunning, and the members of the Torre eulogize their strength. The Istrice uses its porcupine quills “only for defense,” whereas the members of the Leocorno use the unicorn’s magical horn for both harming and healing. 45 Patrizia Turrini, “Threads of History. Contrade and Palio in the Documentary Sources,” in The Palio and its Image: History, Culture and Representation of Siena’s Festival, eds. Maria A. Ceppari Ridolfi, Marco Ciampolini, and Patrizia Turrini, trans. Anthony Brierley, Christopher Huw Evans, Victor Palchetti Beard, Marta Thorp, and Christine Williams (Florence: Nardini, 2003), pp. 286–7. 46 The first Palio alla tonda held on August 16 was in 1689 (Turrini, “Threads of History,” pp. 286–7), and it subsequently took place sporadically throughout the eighteenth century. Other sources say the first Palio alla tonda on August 16 did not arise until 1709, but it finally became a fixed tradition sponsored by the Sienese city government, rather than an occasional event sponsored by the winner of the July 2 Palio, in 1802 (Dundes and Falassi, La Terra in Piazza, p. 8). There were almost always at least two Palii organized in any given year, usually on July 2 and August 15, yet even the race on the day of the Assumption was at times cancelled. In 1730, for example, the August Palio had been scheduled, but, owing to the theft of the Sacre Particole from San Francesco, the event was cancelled. The 341 consecrated wafers were eventually returned and remain in San Francesco in their miraculous uncorrupted state. See “Corpus Domini a Siena: Le Sacre Particole in Processione,” from June 20, 2011, www.ilcittadinoonline.it/news/138899/Corpus_Domini_a_Siena__le_Sacre_ Particole_in_processione.html 47 Annual palii alla lunga were run in honor of the Blessed Ambrogio Sansedoni (Mar. 30), Mary Magdalene (Jul. 22), and San Pietro Alessandrino (Nov. 26; William Heywood, Palio and Ponte: An Account of the Sports of Central Italy from the Age of Dante to the XXth Century (London: Methuen, 1904), p. 89. 48 Turrini, “Threads of History,” pp. 286–7. 49 Celebrities who have attended include Colin Firth at the July Palio of 2010. 50 These visits were often commemorated on canvas. Giuseppe Zocchi (c.1711–67) captured Grand Duke Ferdinand I of Lorraine (1708–65) when he visited for a Palio held in his honor on Apr. 3, 1739, and Francesco Nenci (1782–1850) recorded the historical parade preceding the Palio of August 1833 in honor of the nuptials of Leopold II of Lorraine (both paintings are in the collection of the Banca Monte dei Paschi di Siena). 51 Crociani-Windland, Festivals, Affect and Identity, p. 12. 52 “Per quanto riguarda la festa spero, anzi voglio che resti una cosa solo per i senesi o pochi ‘amici di Siena’ come te, che anche se vengono da lontano riescono ad amare e rispettare le nostre tradizioni. Il mio piú grande incubo è che per far entrare i soldi nella città possa essere sfruttato il Palio per far diventare Siena come Disneyland” (M.T., interview by Anna Piperato, August 18, 2013). This fear of Siena becoming a “Disneyland” is warranted (see Carcaterra, “Siena: Italy’s very own Magic Kingdom”). My translation as follows: “Concerning the festival, I hope, rather, I want it to remain something only for the Sienese or the few ‘friends of Siena’ like you, who, even if they come from far away, are able to love and respect our

106  Anna Piperato traditions. My biggest fear is that in order for the city to make money, the Palio could be exploited by making Siena turn into a Disneyland.” 53 Crociani-Windland, Festivals, Affect and Identity, pp. 6–7. 54 Crociani-Windland, Festivals, Affect and Identity, p. 7. 55 Maurice Hassett, “The Coliseum,” The Catholic Encyclopedia, vol. 4 (New York: Robert Appleton, 1908), www.newadvent.org/cathen/04101b.htm 56 Stefano Cavazza, “Il Palio e le tradizioni poplari senesi durante il fascismo,” in Fascismo e antifascismo nel Senese: Atti del Convegno, Siena, 10–11 dicembre 1993, ed. Alessandro Orlandini (Florence: Giunta, 1994). 57 Lasansky, The Renaissance Perfected, p. 145. 58 D. Medina Lasansky, “Tableau and Memory: The Fascist Revival of the Medieval/Renaissance Festival in Italy,” The European Legacy: Toward New Paradigms, 4 (1999), p. 37. 59 D. Medina Lasansky, “Tableau and Memory,” p. 44. 60 Lasansky, “Tableau and Memory,” p. 44. 61 Piero Misciattelli, The “Palio” of Siena (Rome: Società Editrice di “Novissima,” 1932), p. 72. 62 D. Medina Lasansky, “Political Allegories: Redesigning Siena’s Palio and Patron Saint during the Fascist Regime,” in Early Modern Visual Allegory: Embodying Meaning, eds. Cristelle Louise Baskins and Lisa Rosenthal (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), p. 113. 63 Giuseppe Cantelli, “A History of the Costumes of the Sienese Contrade,” in The Palio and its Image: History, Culture and Representation of Siena’s Festival, eds. Maria A. Ceppari Ridolfi, Marco Ciampolini, and Patrizia Turrini, trans. Anthony Brierley, Christopher Huw Evans, Victor Palchetti Beard, Marta Thorp, and Christine Williams (Florence: Nardini, 2003). Illustrations of the Duci of the Chiocciola from 1858, and the Lupa and the Nicchio from 1878 can be seen on pp. 170, 176, and 177, respectively. The current flag used almost exclusively by the Contrada della Lupa today was from Umberto Giunti’s 1928 design, falling within the Fascist renewal of the festival (David Rossi, ed., Monture: i costumi del corteo storico [Siena: Betti, 2002], p. 62; Colori al vento: simboli e ricami di seta [Siena: I Gemelli, 2004], p. 59). The lupaioli take pride in the fact that they have remained loyal to this design when other contrade continually rotate their flags, yet this is not due to any allegiance to Fascism (though Siena’s first Fascist podestà [magistrate] was Fabio Bargagli Petrucci, itself being a surname associated with the Lupa neighborhood; Guido Bargagli Petrucci was the Capitano of the Contrada della Lupa from 1948 to 1955); rather, it is a part of their history and tradition that they wish to preserve. 64 Aurora Savelli, Siena: Il popolo e le contrade (XVI–XX secolo) (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 2008), p. 285. 65 Two older sources that still paint a good picture of the history of Siena and its politics are Ferdinand Scheville, Siena: The History of a Mediaeval Commune (New York: Harper & Row, 1909; Harper Torchbooks, 1964), and Judith Hook, Siena: A City and its History (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1979). 66 Virgilio Grassi, Palio ed altro per “Il Telegrafo,” eds. Giuliano Catoni, Paolo and Roberto Leoncini (Siena: Tipografia Senese, Contrada del Leocorno, 1991), pp. 255–8. 67 Heywood, Palio and Ponte, p. 199. 68 Piero Torriti, Tutta Siena: Contrada per contrada (Florence: Bonecchi Edizioni “Il Turismo,” 2000), p. 284. 69 Referenced in the “Introduction” to Art as Politics in Late Medieval and Renaissance Siena, eds. Timothy B. Smith and Judith B. Steinhoff (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2012), p. 3. 70 Benjamin David, “Past and Present in Sienese Painting: 1350–1550,” RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics, 40 (2001), p. 91. 71 David, “Past and Present in Sienese Painting,” p. 97. 72 David, “Past and Present in Sienese Painting,” p. 100. 73 Contrada della Chiocciola and Pier Luigi Olla, Rinnovo dei costumi del Palio (Siena: Contrada della Chiocciola, 2000). 74 Painted by Andrea Rauch in 2003 (housed in the Bruco); embroidered by Francesco Carone in 2011 (in the Giraffa). 75 Parsons, Perspectives on Civil Religion, p. 178. 76 There are Sienese who are fiercely against the Palio, and it is clear that organizations such as PETA hold strong opinions on the treatment of the horses. Suffice it to say here that the

The Palio of Siena: a journey through time 107 contradaioli are passionately protective of their horses. Should the unthinkable happen, that a horse perish in the trials or the Palio, even a contrada’s rival will not mock their enemy’s loss (as seen in the tragic case of the death of the Chiocciola’s horse, Messi, before the Palio of July 2, 2011). 77 These contradaioli are always welcomed back with open arms. The “imposters” (in other words, those who frequent the contrada only during the days of the Palio) are disparagingly called the “quattrogiornisi,” or the “four-day people.” 78 Henrik Gerding, “The Erechtheion and the Panathenaic Procession,” American Journal of Archaeology, 110 (2006), pp. 389–91. 79 Jenifer Neils, “The Political Process in the Public Festival: The Panathenaic Festival of Athens,” in Greek and Roman Festivals: Content, Meaning, & Practice, eds. J. Rasmus Brandt and Jon W. Iddeng (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), p. 201. 80 Neils, “The Political Process in the Public Festival,” pp. 208–9. 81 For more on the history of the drappelloni, see Chapter 6 of Parsons’s Perspectives on Civil Religion, pp. 219–42; also, Alessandra Gianni, “Heraldry and Allegory in the ‘Drappellone,’” in The Palio and its Image: History, Culture and Representation of Siena’s Festival, eds. Maria A. Ceppari Ridolfi, Marco Ciampolini, and Patrizia Turrini, trans. Anthony Brierley, Christopher Huw Evans, Victor Palchetti Beard, Marta Thorp, and Christine Williams (Florence: Nardini, 2003), pp. 129–51. The origins of the pallium in other parts of Italy can be found in Elizabeth Tobey’s “The Palio Banner and the Visual Culture of Horse Racing in Renaissance Italy,” The International Journal of the History of Sport, 28 (2011). 82 The July 2 Palio is run in honor of the feast of the Visitation, but also for a Sienese miracle that occurred in the sixteenth century in the territory of the Provenzano family, where there is now a basilica commemorating a miraculous intervention of the Virgin to preserve a terracotta bust of herself (a Spanish soldier tried to destroy it and was duly punished). The Basilica of Santa Maria di Provenzano is second in importance only to the Duomo in Siena and houses this remarkable bust of the Virgin. The July 2 drappellone must feature the Virgin of Provenzano, and the August 16 one honors the Assumption of the Virgin. Extraordinary Palio races may present other figures and eliminate the Virgin altogether, such as the Palio Staordinario of Sept. 4, 2004, which features Saint George on the anniversary of Montaperti, or that of May 18, 1947, celebrating the 600th anniversary of the birth of Saint Catherine of Siena (both of these drappelloni are housed in the Civetta). The most recent Palio Staordinario was run for the millennium on Sept. 9, 2000, and features no traditional religious symbols, placing the Palazzo Pubblico in the highest spot with horses running in the Campo below, thereby offering a celebration of the continuity of Sienese tradition (and won by the Selva). 83 Andrea Viviani, president of the Contrada della Lupa, taken from a conversation after the blessing of the Palio banner with Anna Piperato, June 30, 2011. It is typical for the Sienese to discuss the artistic and iconographic merits (or lack thereof) of every Palio banner every year. 84 “La storia del ‘cencio,’” reproduced at ilpalio.org, www.ilpalio.org/drappelloni2.htm 85 “Orsù, figliuoli dolcissimi, correte questo palio; e fate che solo sia uno quello che l’abbia, cioè che ’l cuore vostro non sia diviso, ma sia una cosa col prossimo vostro per affetto d’amore.” (My translation: “Come now, sweetest sons, run this palio; [. . .] make so that there is only one that you have, that is that your heart is not divided, but that it is a thing with your neighbor [you share] with fondness of love.”) Letter 62, addressed to Sano di Maco “e agli altri figliuoli.” Catherine of Siena, Saint, Le Lettere, ed. D. Umberto Meattini (Milan: Edizioni Paoline, 1987), pp. 869–70.

6 Quantified drift Stephen Cartwright

I am an artist on the move, going out into the world as far and as often as I can. Although sometimes I do not have a plan, this is not aimless wandering. Every foray builds onto a database of known places. In my case, this is a literal database of the exact latitude, longitude, and elevation that I have been every hour for more than 15 years. This information makes up my Latitude and Longitude Project, which is the core of my practice. The database is vast—it grows by 24 entries a day, 8,760 entries a year. It has too much data to be understood by looking at a sea of digits on a spreadsheet, but the amassed information from this and other databases generates my sculpture. The data leads to works that are not subject to my memory or predispositions. Working with this information reveals the hidden topography of life. The works are landscape sculptures that exist somewhere between reality and fiction. Although I have completed several grand tours, travel at all scales yields significant information and inspiration for my work. Numerical data gathered on my excursions is the most concrete way to quantify the travel, but each trip also yields a plethora of ephemeral experiences that compound subconsciously over time and contribute to my work and worldview. Data from travel provides a framework for my memory and perception. I try to simply live life and not allow myself to consciously make decisions or movements to serve the data. However, I am compelled to see what is over the next hill or around the corner, in order to form a more accurate picture of the world. Geography dictates: I move quickly across the plains, linger in the mountains, and seek the edges of land. Moving into unknown spaces fills in blanks in the data record. My documentation process continues regardless of my location, so even brief outings and deviations from my routine enrich my data. My work is an interpolation of specific data, enigmatically translating the landscapes that inspired them. The study of my personal geography is more than just recording my place. Through the years, I have made work that explores various ways that I intersect with the world—from documenting bug splatters on the windshield of my car to methodically recording the healing of scabs. Recording data from my life provides concrete evidence to tell an objective story and reveals the differences between my perceptions and the facts.

Personal geography The direct precursor to my Latitude and Longitude Project was Intersection (Figure 6.1). The project recorded the location of everywhere I saw a woman who looked old enough to be my grandmother. Both of my grandmothers at this point

Quantified drift 109 were nearing the end of their life, and this made me think about their perceptions of life and the passage of time. They stored a vast catalog of people, places, and experiences in their fading memories. By the time I realized how little I knew of their early lives, much of that knowledge was irretrievable owing to the ravages of time. All of the elderly women I saw on the street must have also had experiences like those of my grandmothers, which are very different from my own. All I could do was observe these women at a single place in time, as anything more was pure speculation. As I went about my daily routine, I carried a little logbook with me, and every time I saw an elderly woman I would mark down the date, time, and location. I recorded their locations by writing down the street that they were on and the closest cross street. I used the logbook information to map out each encounter on a United States Geological Survey (USGS) map of the city of Philadelphia, which was mounted on a light box, with a pinhole representing each elderly woman sighting. With this system, the piece could be viewed with all of the standard map information or in a darkened room as a collection of points of light. After a few months of recording, patterns started to emerge. The dots on the map started accumulating in specific places, with the largest grouping along Broad Street in north Philadelphia. The information on the map was the specific location of these women, but I soon realized that it was a more accurate record of my own frequency in certain places. Not all of the elderly women in Philadelphia live on Broad Street, but those who did were well represented by the patterns of my life and movements in the city. I rode my bike up and down Broad Street several times per week. So, the objects of my observation, the elderly women, were random occurrences that marked my place in time. I was

Figure 6.1  Stephen Cartwright, Intersection, 1999, USGS maps, aluminum, acrylic, lights, speakers, soundtrack, 53.9 × 41.3 × 2.6 in. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Stephen Cartwright (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the artist.

110  Stephen Cartwright tracking my own geography, not that of others. In the same way that the old ladies were defined solely by their place at a specific time, my life could also be described by my geography. Three or four months into the project, I began to look for a less subjective marking trigger. There was always a judgment call on my part about whether or not to count a certain woman. How old was the woman whom I had just passed or caught a glimpse of on a bus? Was she old enough to count? Had I already seen her on another day and marked her on my map? Maybe she took that same bus every week, and it passed me on my own commute each time. Although I was still interested in the women’s conceptions of time and concerned about their well-being, the project was actually an investigation in self-tracking. With my love of maps and technology, the newly introduced consumer, handheld Global Positioning System (GPS) was an irresistible tool. I started my Latitude and Longitude Project in October of 1996. An hourly alarm on my watch reminds me to pull out my GPS and record my position. Hourly information from my GPS is transcribed onto log sheets denoting the latitude, longitude, and elevation for each hour. After 15 years, the logbook contains nearly 800 pages, totaling more than 130,000 entries. In effect, I consider each recorded place several times: I mark the location in my GPS, transcribe the entry onto my log sheets, and input the data from the log sheets into a spreadsheet program, which I use to analyze the data and make art. Making a recording on the hour inserts some objectivity into the system, with the added benefit of precisely linking a specific time with a specific place. It does not matter where I am. I could be a few feet out the door, on the other side of town, or in another country; when my watch beeps, I take a recording. This temporal framework for making the recording eliminates any spatial bias. The repetitive, meditative act of recording and observing the data paints a more exact picture of my life than the one that I perceive and remember. Now, points along the way are recorded with the same importance as final destinations. This makes for a much richer data set that, over time, accurately illustrates my life. So much of our lives is spent at in-between places, and they are usually lost to the passage of time. Life flows on constantly, and incremental changes pass unnoticed; it is from the aberrations that focal points form in my memory. Being involved with the project for this long, I now have a catalog of known places: my house, my studio, relatives’ houses, the grocery store, and so on. If I am at a regularly recorded location on the hour, I may refer back to my catalog instead of using the GPS to fix the position. This is partially a legacy of early GPS systems that attributed slightly different latitude and longitude readings to the same place. Once I had settled on a fixed position, by averaging several readings for a frequently visited place, I would continue to use the same latitude and longitude for subsequent instances. This took a bit of noise out of the system. I am most interested in documenting the location data for every hour of the day, so the project should be differentiated from pure endurance art. To acquire the data, I do not need to record my position with the GPS every hour if I am in the same place, or wake up every hour to take a reading. I take time every day to record into the logbook the day’s location information. This will include retrieving marks from the GPS, but also pulling from the catalog of known places. Regardless of where I am, when I hear my watch beep, I take a moment to consider my location.

Quantified drift 111

Maps The main outcomes of my Latitude and Longitude Project are maps created from the collected data (Figure 6.2). The most basic form of my mapping is simply drawing a line from one hour to the next in a three-dimensional drawing program. In this type of three-dimensional map, latitude and longitude are on the x and y planes, and elevation is illustrated on the z-axis. Tracing my movements in this way dictated working in a virtual space, which can be scaled to extremes more easily than any kind of physical map. On a paper map, it is impossible to render my position in a scale that would simultaneously show movements on a very local level (movements of several yards to city blocks) and on a larger scale (miles, states, or countries). Manipulating the zoom level can exhibit macro and micro scales within a single drawing. My maps depict my exact location at one hour with a straight line connecting it to the next, and so on. Of course, during any hour, many twists and turns deviating from that straight line may occur that are not recorded. But the project is more about the aggregate of the movements than the specific paths that I follow. Analysis can be flawed by our limitations in perception and biases. Little details are lost or afforded undue attention, but, over time, with enough data, a trend line that best fits the data can be discerned. The trend line helps to illustrate the big picture within varied minutiae and mountains of data. Nate Silver writes in The Signal and the Noise that, “The signal is the truth. The noise is what distracts us from the truth.”1 Although I am not attempting to predict anything about my future, he astutely observes the importance of being aware of our biases, and being open to what the data is showing us. Only then can we find the divergences and correlations in the data and “connect subjective and objective reality.”2

Figure 6.2  Stephen Cartwright, Latitutde and Longitude Project (detail of Urbana, IL), 2013, dimensions variable, digital print. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Stephen Cartwright (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the artist.

112  Stephen Cartwright Observing one of my maps reveals my personal, topographic, and cultural interests. Concentrating on the United States, the areas with the greatest density are in the MidAtlantic states and Midwest, where I have lived for the duration of the project. In that time, I have traveled for work, leisure, and to visit family. After 15 years of data, it is easy to make out some of the actual geography on my map of the country without any labels. The coasts are increasingly recognizable where my lines of travel give way to the blank space of the oceans. Also discernable are major cities along the seaboards. Art critic Jane Durrell writes that a print from the Latitude and Longitude Project shows “recurrent travels in a nervous cluster, while a series of long, graceful trajectories emanate from what would be the West Coast if this were an actual rather than a suggested map of the U.S.”3 In the west, the lines diminish in density, but it is possible to distinguish their different qualities. In the plains, lines are relatively straight, with long segments illustrating travel by car at freeway speeds. Those straight lines break up further west in the mountains, owing to my propensity to wander on twisting back roads and into the wilderness. Speed of travel has an effect on the length of line segment in the drawings. Some are made up of shorter segments, resulting from long-distance bicycle journeys averaging just 10–15 miles per hour. Since I started the Latitude and Longitude Project, I have traveled more than 25,000 miles by bicycle, through the United States, Europe, and Asia. These journeys are an attempt to comprehend what I see around me—but they also reinforce the vastness of the world and the inconsequentiality of a lone person amid the multitudes that exist, past, present, and future. My track through real and virtual space may be insignificant, but the compounded details of my trajectory reveal patterns and irregularities, and define a life.

Dimensions All the mapped visualizations that I have described so far, although built in threedimensional space, are limited to two-dimensional output. They do not diverge much from traditional flat mapmaking. Elevation is the simplest additional dimension to incorporate in my mapping projects. One of the best ways to view my changes in elevation is to rotate the map to, for example, have east/west on one axis and elevation on the other. Looking at my movements in the USA this way clearly shows the topography of the country. The Appalachian, Rocky, and Sierra mountains are all visible, rising above the seaboards and the plains. The quality of lines in this view recreates the landscape. As I gain elevation, the lines between hours are shorter, craggy, and unpredictable. The visually perceptible differences in the line segment qualities remind me of how our perceptions change as we travel by different means. Air travel is jarring, removing you from one landscape or reality and depositing you into another with no transition. When so many elements of the environment change so quickly, the differences can be overwhelming and incomprehensible. Traveling on foot or bicycle affords a pace where changes happen incrementally, and a different depth of information can be absorbed. The film director Werner Herzog (b.1942) writes the following about walking in particular: Humans are not made to sit at computer terminals or travel by aeroplane; destiny intended something different for us. For too long now we have been estranged from the essential, which is the nomadic life: traveling on foot. [. . .] The volume and depth and intensity of the world is something that only those on foot will ever experience.4

Quantified drift 113 My three-dimensional maps illustrate elevation in space but can also be reformatted to display my position relative to time (Figure 6.3). In this type of three-dimensional map, time increases along the z-axis instead of elevation. With this system, several hours spent at the same location become a straight vertical line. Add movement, and the line extends at an angle to the new location in x and y space, while moving up the z-axis. Plotting the data in this way creates a geographic timeline of my life and reveals information not discernable in the elevation views. It is now possible to temporally reconstruct my life, linking where with when. In a wide view, the ability to track moves on a global scale is possible. Zooming in reveals minute details of a routine, such as going back and forth to work five times a week and then wandering off the usual axis over weekends. It is also possible to determine speed of travel from looking at a latitude, longitude, and time plot. Vertical line segments depict time spent in a single place, and so lines that angle away from the vertical depict movement. The further a line angles away from the vertical, the faster the movement through space. My travel-based work defines who I am by where I have been. It also highlights the space and times in which I have not existed, turning huge swaths of space and time into unknown or speculative areas. Maps and renderings from the Latitude and Longitude Project are often titled Elsewhere, reflecting that unknown place. My use of the term “elsewhere” comes from a diagram I first encountered in Stephen Hawking’s (b.1942) book A Brief History of Time (1988).5 The diagram plots our position in space at the intersection of the x- and y-axes, and time on the z-axis. As we move through life, we move along the z-axis into the future—leaving the past trailing behind us, but always existing in the present. The diagram consists of two cones that meet point to point at the intersection of the axes (the present time), and flare out into

Figure 6.3  Stephen Cartwright, Latitutde and Longitude Project (detail of time axis, Philadelphia, PA), 2013, dimensions variable, digital print. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Stephen Cartwright (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the artist.

114  Stephen Cartwright space in the future and the past. The angle of their flare is determined by the speed of light. From our location at the center of the diagram, we see everything in the cones as if it is occurring in the present. What we see in the present actually occurred sometime within the space and time of the future cone. For example, we experience the light of a distant star that was emitted thousands of years ago. Or, we see the light reflected off the pages of this book that took a tiny fraction of an instant to travel to our eyes. If an event is far away, it will fall outside our future cone. For instance, a star may be experiencing a supernova in our present, but the light from that event will not reach us for thousands or millions of years, depending on how far the star is from us. The area outside the cones is called “elsewhere.” It is neither past nor present. Anything that happens there is impossible to know until light from it reaches our present. We are stuck in the present, but continuously moving toward the future and away from the past. The diagram essentially illustrates that there are limits in space–time to what we can know firsthand, but that, given enough time, the information may come to us. There are multitudes of events happening at your same position in time or space, but we are limited by what we can experience. I felt those “elsewhere” spaces perhaps most profoundly on my first long-distance bicycle journey across the USA (1997). I had anticipated seeing the entire country while I rode across, but it soon dawned on me that I was only seeing a tiny ribbon of the land, just a few miles wide, as I pedaled. There was always more out of sight and unknown to me. I remembered the “elsewhere” diagram and thought of the history of places that have not been experienced firsthand. It intrigued me to consider my “elsewhere,” or those events that were outside my realm of knowing. What happened at my present location in the future and the past? Or, conversely, what is happening in my present, but in space that I cannot experience? Considerations such as these keep me constantly engaged in the project. Knowing that there is always something happening somewhere else drives wanderlust—the need to get out there and see things. Keep in mind that, wherever you go, you will always be at the center of your own “elsewhere.” Every person can be nowhere else, but at the center of his or her own perception of space and time; some people pay no attention to this, but others are compelled to investigate their spatial and temporal surroundings.

Fellow wanderers When I started my Latitude and Longitude Project, I expected the hourly recording process to be a minor intervention in my routine. I was wrong. Although the recordings took only a few minutes out of the day, I was preoccupied with my location and the hourly schedule. After I started the project, I learned about Tehching Hsieh (b.1950) and his “time clock piece” (One Year Performance, 1980–1). Every hour for a year, Hsieh punched a time clock. This is routine in the extreme. The rules of the piece simply dictate that he will punch the time clock every hour. This requirement turns the work into a true feat of endurance. Hsieh highlights the arbitrary systems in which we operate, such as the division of the day into 24 hours. Although the systems may be based on some arcane knowledge, we follow them out of convention. Implicit, but not formally articulated, in Hsieh’s rules is the fact that he will never be able to move too far from the position of the clock. He is bound for a year to a small area of New York City near the clock. Adhering to a system like this makes a person constantly aware of his of her place in time.

Quantified drift 115 Artists working in prolonged performative models, such as Hsieh, open themselves to levels of awareness not possible in normal life. Adrian Hatfield writes of this type of practice: Duration nearly always involves the collapse of objective measure. Whether it is short or long in “clock time,” its passage will be marked by a sense of the warping of time, an opening of the regularity to other phenomena or inchoate orders. Duration will often be accompanied by the spatial senses of expansion, suspension or collapse or by reverential, chaotic or cosmic phenomena, as notions of temporal distinctions are undone.6 I assume Hsieh, like me, felt perceptions of time and space were altered drastically through work marking location. An hour is not just an hour any more. By introducing punctuated alerts into my consciousness, each hour now marks a specific experience. The hours may go by fast or slow, but they do not go by unmarked or unnoticed. These perceptual changes expand from the temporal to the spatial realm as well, especially when I am traveling under my own power, by foot or bicycle. By these means, there is a physical sense of the passage of the Earth beneath me. You simply see more, not in a sense of volume, but rather detail, when you move slowly and stay in contact with the ground. The examination of time and place continued in Hsieh’s Outside Piece, which was his next year-long performance (One Year Performance, 1981–2). For this project, he did not enter any structures (buildings, cars, planes, trains, tents, etc.), for an entire year. The project was recorded through photographs at irregular intervals, public viewings (where he would be at a certain place at a specific time), and maps. Hsieh’s maps document the rambling route that he walked during the course of the day. Each day, on a photocopied map of New York City, Hsieh would trace his route in red pen and record meals, sleeping places, and other information. The Outside Piece could be viewed as a year-long dérive, defined by Guy Debord as an event where One or more persons during a certain period drop their relations, their work and leisure activities, and all their other usual motives for movement and action, and let themselves be drawn by the attractions of the terrain and the encounters they find there.7 But his movements had purpose: they attended to the necessities of life—where to eat, where to sleep, and so on. Most people take these activities for granted every day, but Hsieh shows us how essential these activities really are, by introducing a challenge that makes them much more difficult to complete. Hsieh is quiet about his motivations and intentions in his work, but through his documentation he builds a rich diary of a life. Most diaries include emotional responses to, and interpretations of, daily events. Hsieh does not provide these, but careful observation of data can suggest them and much more. Viewers can speculate on the correlation of the varied data. The Latitude and Longitude Project functions in this way as well. I do not record any personal information in a diaristic sense, but the data paints a more complete picture than one might expect. By looking at a person’s place in time, we can reconstruct a sense of his or her life. Using that method, we can piece together the life and career of contemporary artist On

116  Stephen Cartwright Kawara (b.1933), even though he has cultivated a mysterious persona. His frequent, irregular movements, cryptic communications, and refusal to be photographed inhibit us from understanding him at first. As we piece together each painting and postcard, these indirect, enigmatic methods yield substantial information. In the Today (c.1966) series, Kawara paints the current date on a canvas. Viewers can discern his location, or at least make an educated guess about his whereabouts at the time of the painting, by looking at the language and format of the date. Its language may be a dead giveaway for some places, but it is less helpful in pinpointing his location if it is a widely used tongue. In these instances, a viewer might be able to narrow down the possibilities of the location by considering the sequence of the day and month in the written date. Conventions in some countries dictate a certain order to the information. The storage boxes that accompany each painting are lined with a newspaper from his location. This is a very specific location clue—but the boxes are not frequently exhibited with the paintings. Jonathan Watkins notes that awareness of the context is vital “for the projection of possible meanings in the work.”8 Kawara’s strict adherence to a predetermined system of rules is also common to Hsieh’s work. In the case of the Today paintings, all are completed on the day depicted in the painting. If they are not finished by midnight, they are destroyed. Each painting becomes a meditation—specific and predetermined. Contrary to Hsieh’s strict endurance works, there are no prescriptions as to the frequency of the creation of the Today paintings. Watkins explains that Kawara has painted over two thousand Date Paintings since he began the Today series on 4 January 1966. He calculates that he has spent more than three years actually in the process of making these canvases, deliberately, not incidentally marking the time involved. There are not only the artist’s journals recording the annual production of the Date Paintings, but also a 100 Years Calendar (1884 Days) with coloured dots indicating the days on which the Date Paintings were made.9 Kawara controls the information he releases, allowing him to be the author of his own narrative. Seemingly absurd, but yielding more specific information about Kawara’s location is his I Got Up series, having been maintained irregularly from 1968 to 1979. The project consists simply of postcards mailed to personal or art-world contacts. Each has the time Kawara awoke stamped on the back, preceded by the following words: “I got up at.” The text is rendered by a stamp, so there is little trace of the artist’s hand. The postcards also include the date and the address of the location where Kawara awoke. Further context is provided by the locally purchased postcard, with a typical tourist image, the postmark, and the stamp. The artist’s position in space and time is known, but this information is several days out of date by the time the addressee receives the card. Projects such as the I Got Up series further Kawara’s enigmatic profile; the tantalizingly specific information on the cards is tempered by the fact that the viewer is always a few steps behind the elusive artist. In a similar project, the I Am Still Alive series (c.1970), Kawara reports his where­ abouts most poetically. Here, no specific information is given to the viewer or recipient, except that the artist is still alive at the time of a telegram. This series, however, makes the most direct connection between Kawara and the recipient by using the fastest form of written technology available at the time. Yet the work remains ambiguous and anonymous. Why should the viewer or recipient care if Kawara is alive or what time he woke up? Receiving this information via these impersonal means creates a tenuous

Quantified drift 117 connection from one human to another across variable space and terrain and through time. This piece creates a connection with near temporal simultaneity, even if the sender and the viewer exist in different space, but this connection quickly fades into the past. Kawara is an ideal wanderer, anonymously existing anywhere in the world at any time. He seems to exist in a different realm than the rest of us. We are tied down to a single place and time, but there is the possibility of him existing anywhere at any time. Hsieh and Kawara fade in and out of existence, as if they are not bound to the same constraints of space and time. If Hsieh and Kawara seem to transcend physical limitations, Richard Long (b.1945) embraces them. He marks his intersection with the world in ways that can be seen as simultaneously concrete and immaterial. Like others before him, Long traces his walking routes onto maps. Some of his pieces have an intended route, differing from the incidental movements recorded by Hsieh and Kawara. But the planned routes become randomized by the intervention of the landscape. In one piece, the natural contours of the land disrupt the perfect circle of an intended route (A Hundred Mile Walk, 1971–2). Therein, Long attempts to walk a prescribed geometric figure, but it is impossible to physically complete it in the landscape. His perfectly circular path, definable by mathematical systems, is interrupted by winding along the shores of bodies of water, which are subjects of natural systems. Long sometimes leaves a more direct mark of his location. In another series of line pieces, the physical act of repeatedly walking a line results in an alteration of the ground (A Line Made by Walking, 1967). But still, the walking is almost a sacred act—each strike of the foot deepens the meditation. Long’s journeys are comparable to pilgrimages. In her book Wanderlust, Rebecca Solnit quotes Nancy Frey with the following, describing how pedestrians on pilgrimages “develop a changing sense of time, a heightening of the senses, and a new awareness of their bodies in the landscape.”10 Long is alert to the subtleties of moving through space throughout his oeuvre. For example, Long describes a journey of hundreds of miles by simply noting the wind direction at intervals (Wind Line, 1989).11 Reading Long’s pared-down text describing a walk creates an imaginary place or experience. Art historian Anne Seymour writes about one of Long’s pieces that It had a specific life cycle explicit in the traces of the journey which caused its existence and in the substance from which it was made. This idea of something made of almost nothing, containing both end and beginning simultaneously, as nearly as possible self-begotten, achieved with such simplicity and ease that it is both magic and mysterious, and in the making of which the artist appears to be simply the privileged transmitter, has been part of art since the beginning of time [. . .] If the sculpture is the residue of the walk, the path is the shadow of the body.12 Works such as Wind Line illustrate how data may take many forms, and in those various methods different experiences for the viewer can arise. In fact, the standard procedures used to describe the physical characteristics of a journey will most likely miss out on the subtler experiential elements. A pedestrian may not recall the exact length of a journey, but he or she will remember the feeling of drizzle on his or her face, or the gentle push of a tailwind. The trodden lines exist as an actual alteration of the world, but, as with Hsieh and Kawara, the idea and the documentation of the action may be the longest-lasting elements.

118  Stephen Cartwright There is a sense of anonymity to all of these practices, as well as my own, that allows us to exist as undefined entities within humanity, while recording and transmitting very specific autobiographical information. Whereas Hsieh and Kawara have a near metaphysical disconnection with the world, I keep my feet on the ground like Long. But, no matter the nature of our connection, all of the documentation we make marks our intersections with space and time.

Limitations of maps My general method for visualizing my place in time has been to make maps— computer prints of the interconnecting lines of my hourly recordings. Since their inception, maps have been a way to distill the infinite complexities of the world into a comprehensible format. As such, they necessarily omit details, so that no map can be truly accurate. Truly accurate maps are impossibly inconvenient, as in Jorge Luis Borges’s (1899–1986) one-to-one scale map, where, in order to achieve perfection in mapping, a fictional empire literally covers itself in a map.13 Maps need to omit details for readability and convenience. It is also necessary to reduce rich, multidimensional, real-world space to just two dimensions. With my usual map-rendering methods, I create a very accurate record of my movements. Much is gained by mapping with such precision, but some essential elements are lost. This may sound absurd, but, in a virtual three-dimensional space with no perspective, some information becomes obscured. Over the course of a year, I may repeat certain trips between two points hundreds of times—for example, the route between my house and work. In computer space, all of those trips line up perfectly, so that they essentially read as a single line or trip. There is something inconsistent about recording a life that moves point to point and then printing it raster by raster. With a recent piece, XY Plotter, I have been able to add some depth to a two-dimensional rendering. XY Plotter is capable of making long-exposure photographs of a light-emitting diode (LED), moving in a programmed routine. By documenting the moving LED, programmed to recreate my recorded movements, I get the sense that I am capturing the invisible history of my life (Figure 6.4). With the XY Plotter, unlike my earlier prints, it is possible to see the accumulation of my movements over a repeated track, or in a frequented area. Repeated excursions along the same track or between two points make a groove in space–time. Points where I spend a lot of time light up and become prominent, whereas others that I visit infrequently fade. The photographic images made on the plotter have a deep, dark, black background, suggesting infinity or “elsewhere.” The bright-colored LED light in the images burns my track into the undefined blackness of the background. At the focal points, the color is so bright from the length of time in that area that they become overexposed—the opposite of the unlit, unknown areas. This way of imaging highlights patterns and routines and suggests the probability and potential of my whereabouts at any given time, in much the same way that the positions of electrons are deduced through probability. It makes me wonder about all of the other human particles bouncing and zooming around space, each with their complicated and interlacing tracks.

Personal landscapes All of my work discussed so far has been about variations on traditional maps. Creating objects, as opposed to prints or maps, from my location information initially

Quantified drift 119

Figure 6.4  Stephen Cartwright, Latitutde and Longitude Project, XY Plotter Image (Urbana, IL, 2009), 2013, dimensions variable, digital print. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Stephen Cartwright (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the artist.

proved problematic. No physical materials seemed to be able to illustrate the differing scales that were compelling in the work. Imagine a wire that has been bent to depict my hourly movements. If it is made so that the details of my local movements are readable, sections where I travel away from home would become impossibly long and not hold their shape. Therefore, many of the sculpture and installation pieces derived from my maps and database encompass all of the information, but cause the object to become abstracted into fictional landscapes, surfaces, or objects. Viewers of the work can explore the pieces at multiple levels: formally, conceptually, interpersonally, and geographically. Through my sculpture, I attempt to view my transit through life from an abstracted perspective. Some landscapes can lend themselves to representation. Of particular relevance are hillsides that have been terraced for farming. These become hybrid landscapes where the elevation contours of maps have been essentially constructed into the landscape. These terraces, in some cases having been built over generations, codify the landscape. The once chaotic undulations of earth become comprehensible. It is difficult to make maps and representations of landscapes complete, as only through immersion do we fully know a space. But art can create near captivating experiences, by bringing depictions and abstractions into a controlled environment. A photograph of the mountains only gives us a single, specific view. It does not show the ground below our feet, or anything else outside the frame. It also leaves out other important elements of “being there”: the quality of light, the thinness of the air, or the ache in our legs from the climb. Traveling in the landscape has been a consistent inspiration for my work, like my 4,500-mile cycle journey across the USA (1997), or my 9,500-mile bike ride starting

120  Stephen Cartwright in Portugal and ending in Singapore (2003). Points along the routes were memorable, but, unfortunately, I have lived a more settled life for most of my hourly recording project. Out on the road, there is always something new to discover. There is a constant desire to see how the road will unfold ahead and what new topographies will be revealed. The flat landscape near my current home in Illinois is not very inspiring, and so the urge to wander in it is not so great. As I become more settled, I think more about the frequencies of my existence on a local scale. In 2009, for example, home, work, and the studio accounted for a total of 6,417 recordings out of 8,760 hours in the year (73 per cent of my time). With more and more complex data, I can now create models that represent my frequency within the cities where I have lived. In them, we see a few central hubs of activity, with dissipating frequency as I travel further from those hubs. The Frequency models look like miniature cityscapes (Figure 6.5). They are created by dividing the city into a two-dimensional grid and adding the total number of times that I have recorded myself in each square of the grid. The third dimension is a square column, its

Figure 6.5  Stephen Cartwright, Frequency (detail of Philadelphia, PA, and Richmond, VA), 2010, acrylic, wood, aluminum, lights, 126 × 48 × 48 in. (Philadelphia), 83.6 × 24 × 24 in. (Richmond). Photographic credit: Courtesy of Stephen Cartwright (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the artist.

Quantified drift 121 height determined by the number of times that I have documented myself in that grid square. The density in certain areas of the models forms an alternate cityscape, with towering columns that look like a bustling metropolis in the real geography of the suburbs. In other areas, my frequency map is more in line with the actual form of the city, like when I lived in the city center of Philadelphia, with its skyscrapers and lack of open space. The columns, made from transparent colored acrylic, render a futuristic, crystal city and heighten the notion of unreality. The viewer can see through the individual columns and get a sense that the dimensions and information are not yet fixed, as if the sculpture has not yet solidified into its final form. The longer I stay in a city, the richer and more complicated the virtual cityscape appears. The models capture some of the geographic and cultural constraints that define cities. Tracking a single person’s frequency over time can create a readable geographic representation of a city. In the Frequency series, it is easy to determine physical characteristics of habituated places and how the land is used. For example, with enough data points, the rivers running through Richmond, Virginia, and Philadelphia become visible. The project also shows how our major paths are now roads and freeways; these thoroughfares become visible as the data amasses. With more data points, the river crossings come into focus, and we can see how old and new routes overlap and interact. There are blank areas in these pieces—large areas of land that are virtually off limits owing to their uses: airports, farms, and industrial lands. We could get much of this information from existing maps, but these projects capture the actual use of a city by a person. Each person’s map would be different, illustrating his or her own lifestyle and habits. Such maps may have practical uses for urban planning, but in my case, they are more personal. The accumulating data reveals my sphere of experience, and it illustrates how my perceptions of time and space do not necessarily match reality. My sense of thousands of hours in the same place over time compresses, whereas single instances out of the routine expand in my consciousness. It is those expansions that I seek. These ideas veered my work away from recreations of landscapes and started to suggest alternate topographies.

Alternate topographies The Latitude and Longitude Project encompasses many different individual pieces, iterations, and variations. They increasingly include my location data paired with some other set of personally recorded information. I may be prompted to begin recording some data by a specific question or interest in that type of data, but in general, I start recording a data set with no preconceptions about what I will learn or what piece I will create with the information. It may take years of diligent recording in order to discern the patterns within the data. As my work continues, my data expands incrementally, with each new piece of information filtered through sculpture to form a more complete picture. As the number of different data sets grows, I am becoming more interested in correlations and causality between the diverse recorded activities, which illustrate the intricate systems and interconnections of life. For most of my Latitude and Longitude Project, I have also been documenting the local time of sunrise and sunset. Plotting this information with the date on the x-axis and the time of sunrise or sunset on the y-axis produces sine-like curves. They rise and fall in a cycle over the course of a year, with short days in the winter and long days in the summer. The curves in my plots, however, deviate from their regular oscillation

122  Stephen Cartwright because of my travels. As my position on the planet changes, so does the time at which I experience sunrise and sunset. My sculpture Light (Figure 6.6) depicts several years of this information in the form of chimes. Each of its three runs has 365 aluminum tubes cut to size, relative to the length of each day over the course of year—the shorter the day, the shorter the tube. A motorized striker sounds each tube in succession. The runs start with short tubes on January 1, lengthen as the year progresses to midsummer, and then become shorter again in winter. But, like the plots upon which they are based, the sculptures break away from a smooth curve whenever I travel away from home. The erratic nature of the chime set depicting 2003 is the result of a year of almost continuous travel, by bicycle and other means. The tubes in the 2004 set are relatively long and follow a smooth curve, reflecting a year spent settled in England at higher latitudes than my usual locations in the USA. The more I travel, the more cacophonous the noise from the ringing chimes. Translating light into sound creates a more tangible experience of the lengths of days. The shriller high notes of the winter chimes reflect the fleeting nature of the shortened winter days. The sculpture is a way to study my relationship with the natural world. The impetus to start recording the time of sunrise and sunset came to me while I was bicycling across the USA. For long stretches of the remote West, I would be away from major civilization for days at a time. I was camping and lacked access to electricity or artificial light. In those conditions, the natural rhythms of the planet become apparent. I would fall asleep at sunset and wake up at sunrise. As the journey progressed deeper

Figure 6.6  Stephen Cartwright, Light (2003, 2004, 2006), 2007, aluminum, motors, mixed media, 114.2 × 287.4 × 35.4 in. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Stephen Cartwright (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the artist.

Quantified drift 123 into summer, the days became longer; however, this was counterbalanced by my daily eastern progress. Every day I covered about 60 miles towards the rising sun—about one degree of longitude. That eastern travel essentially reduced the time between sunrise and sunset by four minutes every day. The more easterly progress that I made, the shorter the days became. It was only because I was away from modern conveniences that I became aware of my relationship with the rising and setting of the sun. Of course, I had always known that the length of daylight changed over the course of the year, but this was the first time that I had felt it so concretely. My activity through the years is visualized by my chimes. While I was stationary, the lengths of the chimes and the tones that they made when struck proceed incrementally, as life would in such a circumstance. Yet, leaving the comfort and routine of home fosters irregularity and unpredictability and promotes new experiences, heard vividly in the discordant tones of the chimes.

Datascapes Inspiration for me has often come from the landscape, but the relative lack of topographic variation at my home in Illinois has forced me to look to new sources of data. I maintain many databases: Scrabble scores, spending, weather, and all sorts of mileage. These can be used for me to look back and see if perceptions and recollections match reality. Compiling data from everyday life provides concrete evidence to tell an objective story. I mine my multiple data logs for inspiration. Of particular interest is mileage from cycling and running. These are experiences that must occur outside, through a person propelling himself or herself through the landscape. Changes in elevation, and exposure to the elements, affect how far and fast one can travel. However, recently I have only been running and cycling in flat areas, so that making a sculpture based on elevation changes would not work. I would have to look elsewhere in my data to create new pieces. From the data, I created a simple plot of my average bicycling mileage over the course of the year, with distance on the vertical axis, and the year unfolding along the horizontal axis. This initial plot quickly became a landscape in itself—the line rising and falling in irregular undulations through the course of the year. I quickly realized how many things affect my mileage. Seasonal weather altered my mileage, but my daily obligations were even more influential. As multiple years of this information were plotted together, the illusion of a mountain range came into focus, with multiple ridgelines overlapping and coming in and out of view. I spread these two-dimensional plotlines apart in virtual space, and built a surface between them. The surface is realized by connecting corresponding dates together with lines. From one direction, the contours of this virtual landscape depict mileage over the course of the years; from the other direction, it compares mileage on the same days, year to year. Creating virtual landscapes on screen is a good method to get a sense of how the data interacts and correlates, but physical experience of the data allows for a more expansive reading. In the case of my bicycling and running mileage (Mesh 1 and 2, Figure 6.7), I took my virtual models and built landscapes out of translucent colored plastic. The contours of the sculptures were rendered from a mesh of triangles. Each triangular plane in the sculptures is easy to see and reflects its inspiration from early digital, three-dimensional rendering. The density of the mesh in the physical version had to be simplified for construction, in contrast to the prevailing trend of digital imagery.

124  Stephen Cartwright

Figure 6.7  Stephen Cartwright, Mesh 1 and Mesh 2, 2010, acrylic, 23.6 in. × 82.7 in. × 82.7 in. (Mesh 1), 23.6 × 82.7 × 59 in. (Mesh 2). Photographic credit: Courtesy of Stephen Cartwright (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the artist.

Video games and animations use massive computer power to render increasingly finer meshes to make imagery as smooth and seamless as possible. In my work, diagrams become real objects. They are landscapes of my own invention that are driven by data, but they are fictional landscapes that exist simultaneously with real spaces. The rolling hills on my mesh landscapes do not depict where I live; they reflect how I live. The surface becomes varied, because the routine of modern life is fluid, flexible, and acted on by forces beyond our control. Mileage may be low at certain points, owing to atmospheric or topographic limitations, or, more likely, the requirements of everyday life. I created two surfaces in this Mesh series, one from bicycling mileage data and the other from running mileage. They both show the same influences of weather, landscape, and life, but they also impact each other. The two surfaces are complementary—areas of high cycling mileage on trips correspond to flat areas on the running landscape. They allude to places for which I long from my home in the Midwest. No real places are envisioned; they are just places of fantasy—the rolling sea or endless ridgelines.

Undulating territory With all of my previous work, the sculptures were static, but the data was dynamic and growing. My new kinetic sculptures are activated by data files that control their movement. By integrating motors and controllers, I can keep the work current or change its reference completely. The same piece can change form based on the data that is used as input or can cycle through more data than is reasonable to fit on a static piece.

Quantified drift 125

Figure 6.8  Stephen Cartwright, Kinetic Mesh, 2012, brass, acrylic, aluminum, motors, electronics, 47.2 × 78.7 × 35.4 in. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Stephen Cartwright (own work). Licensing information: Courtesy of the artist.

One of the pieces, Kinetic Mesh (Figure 6.8), is an articulating grid of brass, being 12 segments wide and 6 segments deep. Imagine multiple lines of a line graph pulled apart in space. The expanded lines create the skeleton of a landscape, and the interconnecting vertices fill out the topography. The gleaming brass meshwork in the piece creates a floating landscape above the visible mechanics, reflecting the idea that so much that appears beautiful and organic is built upon a foundation of structure and data. The piece moves in pulses, as each new input of data drives the deformable gridwork into an ever-changing landscape. A data set of virtually any size can be displayed on the sculpture by cycling through rows of data, creating a constantly refreshing, undulating surface. The piece can also be used to depict any topographical surface, be it a landscape or anything else. Kinetic Mesh can recreate existing topographies. More importantly, it can illustrate fictional spaces, depending on the input data. With this sculpture, I can visualize how any recorded aspect of my life relates to others. In their correlations, beautiful landscapes can emerge. The data scrolls across the surface and reminds us that we live in an undulating topography of information. Through visualization of undulating and varied self-recorded information, the underlying contours of my history become apparent.

Defining a life In recent years, there has been a rise in the number of “self-trackers.” Like me, many people collect data to gain a better understanding of themselves and apply what they learn to their health, well-being, or some other aspect of their life. Indeed, the motto of the Quantified Self group (which is a leading organization of self-trackers)

126  Stephen Cartwright is “self-knowledge through numbers.” As people become aware of themselves, they begin to understand that all things are more complicated and interconnected than they at first assume. This awareness makes it possible to initiate change or track progress. In my work and life, I try to simply exist, experience, and record. I do not go out of my way to fill blank areas on my maps—I go out of my way because I have never been somewhere before and want to make physical connections with natural and cultural geography. I immerse myself in my data, garnered from travel and everyday life, and appreciate it for its complexity and truth. The world is more complex than I can comprehend, but I attempt to gain some understanding through tentative forays over the surface. My works exists at the confluence of science and art, where hard data intersects with the intangible complexities of human experience. Unlike standard data visualization or landscape art, my work does not simply represent data or beautiful vistas; it creates something new. The landscape has always inspired artists; its multitude of rendered interpretations can deliver viewers to distant places of beauty or devastation. Their limitation is that they are always second-hand interpretations, and the facsimile is never as good as being somewhere. I live immersed in the coexisting natural landscape and my own virtual datascape.

Notes 1 Nate Silver, The Signal and the Noise: Why Most Predictions Fail—But Some Don’t (New York: Penguin, 2012), p. 17. 2 Silver, The Signal and the Noise, p. 14. 3 Jane Durrell, “Stephen Cartwright: Manifest Creative Research Gallery,” Sculpture Magazine (Dec. 2010), pp. 76–7. 4 Werner Herzog, Herzog on Herzog, ed. Paul Cronin (London: Faber & Faber, 2002), p. 280. 5 S.W. Hawking, A Brief History of Time: From the Big Bang to Black Holes (Toronto: Bantam, 1988), pp. 25–9. 6 Adrian Heathfield and Tehching Hsieh, Out of Now: The Lifeworks of Tehching Hsieh (London: Live Art Development Agency, 2009), pp. 25–9. 7 Guy–Ernest Debord, Situationist International Anthology, ed. Ken Knabb (Berkeley, CA: Bureau of Public Secrets, 1981), p. 53. 8 Jonathan Watkins, “Tribute,” in On Kawara: Tribute, ed. Jonathan Watkins and René Denizot (London: Phaidon, 2012), p. 78. 9 Watkins, “Tribute,” pp. 82–7. 10 Nancy Louise Frey, Pilgrim Stories: On and Off the Road to Santiago (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1998), quoted in Rebecca Solnit, Wanderlust (New York: Viking, 2000), p. 51. 11 Richard Long, Walking in Circles (New York: George Braziller, 1991), pp. 234–5. 12 Anne Seymour, “Walking in Circles,” in Walking in Circles, ed. Richard Long (London: Thames & Hudson, 1991), p. 25. 13 Jorge Luis Borges, Collected Fictions, trans. Andrew Hurley (New York: Viking, 1998), p. 325.

Part 3

Imaginary travel and travel of the mind

Q Taylor & Francis Taylor & Francis Group

� http://taylorandfrancis.com

7 Itinerant Hadrian and imperial patronage belonging to all the world Gerald A. Hess

The travels: a cosmopolitan man The breadth and intensity of the travels of Roman Emperor Hadrian (r. 117–38) brought about imperial patronage and favor influenced by Eastern traditions, culture, and individuals. Hadrian fervently explored the vast territories under Roman ascendancy. It is telling that, when Hadrian became emperor, he was not physically in Rome. As Dio puts it, “At the time that he was declared emperor, Hadrian was in Antioch, metropolis of Syria, of which he was governor.”1 This speaks to an essential aspect of Hadrian’s character as ruler: his ongoing desire to travel extensively throughout the provinces. Because the journey back from Syria was a long one, Hadrian would not set foot in Rome for nearly a year after becoming emperor.2 Indeed, his time in Rome would be relatively brief when compared with the itinerary of other emperors. Although it is true that lengthy campaigns against the Dacians had engaged his predecessor Trajan (r. 98–117), Hadrian is credited as the most perambulatory emperor by the author(s) of Historia Augusta, which states that, “Hardly any emperor ever traveled with such speed over so much territory.”3 This work examines some of Hadrian’s key voyages—those that were fundamentally important to the ambitions and tastes of the man himself, and at the core of our understanding of an imperial program often rooted in Eastern artistic and cultural paradigms. Hadrian’s history and his motivations for visiting personally selected locations in the Greek world and beyond are compelling. The sensations that he captured while exploring—and on return—were intrinsic to his ongoing patronage and personal wellbeing, and have come to shape his legacy. Hadrian’s travels and the accompanying cultural exposure changed the course of his life and how he perceived his principate. He nurtured the relationships and the explorations afforded him, and, as we shall see, he quite literally hunted for ways to bolster his role as prince of the world (Figure 7.1). Arguably, the most significant relationship Hadrian had, resulting from his travels, was that with the Greek youth Antinous. The innumerable images of Antinous set up throughout the Roman world were themselves both private and public reminders of his ties to the East and greater Hellenic traditions. Even before he became emperor, Hadrian had traveled extensively while serving Trajan, his predecessor, in his campaigns. During the first Dacian war (101–2 ce), Hadrian served with Trajan as quaestor principi. After having then been a prætor, he later became a legion commander and governor of Pannonia in the second Dacian war (105–6). He became consul for the first time in 108 ce and, on the way to the East, he visited his beloved Greece. During the Parthian war (114–7), he also journeyed to

130  Gerald A. Hess

Figure 7.1  P. Vasiliadis, Emperor Hadrianus, photograph, showing Hadrian as Imperator from Hierapytna, Crete, greater than life-size, marble, c.120–5 ce, Archaeological Museum, Istanbul, Turkey. Photographic credit: Courtesy of P. Vasiliadis (own work). Licensing information: CC BY-SA 3.0, public domain via Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index. php?curid=1437881.

Mesopotamia and Syria, where he became provincial governor of that province in 117. Upon arrival in Rome, after being named emperor, Hadrian did remain in the capital for some three years. The world, however, was waiting. He would set out on

Itinerant Hadrian and imperial patronage 131 the first of three major journeys undertaken during his principate.4 The first journey lasted nearly six years and set the stage for a life of travel. His career as the peripatetic, restless emperor was initiated. By the end of his life, Hadrian had spent about half of his entire reign outside Rome. By investigating the evidence, we see that from a very early point in Hadrian’s career he challenged himself to become more than the typical, successful Roman politician. The voyages became a means to generate artistic and intellectual outpourings. He was laying the foundations and developing interests to become a “cosmopolitan man” in every sense—belonging to the entire world, at home in all parts of the world, and having many spheres of interest. The eclectic and worldly character of this travel-prone emperor was ever growing and would manifest in so many of his acts and deeds. Sir Ronald Syme wrote, “The travels of the Caesars bring in most aspects of imperial history.”5 Some of the evidence for the travels comes from the ancient literary sources, which provide accounts of Hadrian’s activities and travels both in and away from Rome. Two sources in particular, including the Vita of Hadrian in the Historia Augusta and Dio’s Roman History, help us find order and a chronology for Hadrian’s trips throughout the empire.6 Of Hadrian, Dio said that, “he had seen many [subject cities], more, in fact, than any other emperor—and he assisted practically all of them.”7 A line from the Vita best epitomizes Hadrian’s motivations for traveling throughout the empire: “So fond was he of travel, that he wished to inform himself in person about all that he had read concerning parts of the world.”8 The extent and duration of the Itinera Principum merits attention. Having resided in Rome for two years after becoming emperor, Hadrian’s first trip began around 121 and led to the western part of the empire: Gaul, Germany or the Rhine, Britain and Spain, then east to Asia, Greece, and finally parts of Italy and back again to Rome around 125.9 The eastern part of this trip purposefully included Athens, Delphi, Bithynia, Mysia or Cyzicus, Pergamum, Smyrna, and Ephesos. After returning to Rome again in 127, Hadrian set out in 128 or 129 for a trip to Africa and then back again. The next major traveling expedition that Hadrian undertook at that time took him to Greece and then once more to Asia, Syria, Arabia, and Egypt in 130. He returned to Athens in 131 or 132, Pannonia in 133, and Rome in 133 or 134. His gifts of statues, temples, altars, and shrines were more than the customary political favors. Hadrian was heavily and personally involved. He is known to have given permission to build or rebuild those cities that won the honor of his continued and repeated physical presence and munificence.10 The East surely was important to Hadrian, especially the key Hellenic cities and, most importantly, Athens.11 These places are illustrative of larger themes and motives rooted in Hadrian’s desire to personally foster and preserve their integrity. Greece and its culture had won Hadrian’s heart and gained truly exceptional status.12 The philhellenic emperor’s travels were seemingly inspired by a desire to visit Greece. An examination of his relationship with Greece demonstrates its impact on his principate and patronage.

Love of Greece Not all of Hadrian’s actions were purely altruistic, but I argue that his travels to, and political support and benefactions for, the Greek provinces, which Rome controlled, were inseparable from the cultural atmosphere of second-century Greece. Culture and politics in that milieu went hand and hand, and the leading Greeks in the Athenian

132  Gerald A. Hess administration, as the heart of Greek civilization, were highly active in that cultural life.13 Many were members of one of the “most Greek” of all institutions, having been founded and fostered by Hadrian himself—the Panhellenion. This cultural and political entity was based in Athens and epitomized the purity of Greek civilization during Hadrian’s principate. Hadrian’s interest in Greece was not trivial. He was deeply interested in preserving what he saw as the greatness of Greece’s past historical and cultural achievements, merging them with Roman imperial objectives, which were his objectives. He was the new steward and protector of Greek culture, and his prodigious travels allowed for the intersection of his Roman world with the Greek world. A core feature of his principate was to preserve and secure Greek traditions for the world, which was tied to a reasoned and deliberate imperial program.14 Indeed, Hadrian drew upon Greek cultural history for his personal, political, and philosophical betterment. The unfolding Roman cultural history of the early second century was being constructed, nurtured, and driven by a philhellenic emperor. We learn from sources that Hadrian’s love of Greek culture flowered very early in his life. As early as age ten Hadrian “grew rather deeply devoted to Greek studies, to which his natural tastes inclined so much that some called him ‘Greekling.’”15 He was well educated in the Greek language and culture,16 and this education, and his desire to learn everything that he could about every place where he had studied, stayed with him his whole life and took him on many journeys throughout his empire.17 Under Hadrian, Athens was established as the center of the Greco-Roman world.18 Even before he was emperor, he held the archonship of Athens in 111–112 or 112–113.19 As emperor, Hadrian visited Athens on three separate occasions: 124/125, 128/129, and 131/132,20 and a study of its place in his imperial program is warranted. According to most accounts, Hadrian’s interest in Greece was sincere, but could be self-serving at times. By studying Athens, Hadrian’s philhellenic activities in the city, and his efforts in ensuring its success and growth, we get a broader sense of Hadrian’s idea for how Greece fit into the mold of his Roman empire and patronage, and vice versa. Hadrian wanted to contribute to the preservation of Greek traditions and would see Athens as the capital of Greece, which would in turn be the cultural capital of the empire—both morally and intellectually.21 Pausanias (c. second century ce) wrote of this that “Hadrian [was] a benefactor to all his subjects and especially to the city of the Athenians.”22 In Hadrian’s Athens, what it meant to be a genuine Hellene, through and through, was defined and governed by Hadrian’s Panhellenion. An education in all things Greek was one of the touchstones of Hadrian’s new organization, which he officially established and founded in 131/132.23 One of the functions of the Panhellenion was the administration of the imperial cult of “Hadrian Panhellenius,” which was based in the sanctuary of the Panhellenion.24 Associated with the Panhellenion and the cult were the festivals and games of the Panhellenia, the chief participants in which were the epheboi of Greece. The games, like those in the Athenian schools, were part of the training and development of the Athenian youth.25 Greek cultural education, known as paideia, or the education of a male youth to become a man in his true and ideal form, had been adopted for the cultured elite of Italy as well.26 Paideia can simply mean “culture”; education in Greek cultural history was a key element in securing a city’s—or a person’s—Greek ethnic identity, which was essential for the Panhellenion. This was part of the current of the Second Sophistic, which formed the Isocratean idea of Greekness in these terms.27 It is often argued that Hadrian’s personality was defined

Itinerant Hadrian and imperial patronage 133 chiefly by his love of Greek culture and civilization. And ironically, the Spanish-born Roman emperor’s Panhellenion demanded that member cities or peoples substantiate their worthiness by demonstrating a genuine link to the Hellenic genos, through direct descent from those groups that formed the original genetic pool of all Greeks.28 This raises the following question: is a true Greek born, made, or educated? What wins out: personally edifying passions, inquisitiveness, and acquisition of paideia, or bloodline? Furthermore, paideia was won and expressed by the use of literary rhetoric and, very importantly, through traditionally Greek athletic and religious activities. As part of the makeup of the members of the Panhellenion, the Second Sophistic insisted on the importance of paideia as being at the heart of one’s intellectual aptitude and status in second-century imperial Rome and Athens.29 In Hadrian’s case, it seems that cultural attainment and elements of Greekness were obtained through the force of his initiatives, meaning sheer will and his personal efforts to revive old Hellas. The Panhellenion served many purposes, both cultural and diplomatic. It was inaugurated by Hadrian himself on his third visit to Athens, at a time when Athenian culture and politics merged, and when more and more Greeks were becoming directly involved in Roman politics.30 Philostratus, in his Lives of the Sophists, reported on Polemo’s speech at the inauguration of the Panhellenion at the site of the new Olympieion, which was being consecrated and dedicated to Olympian Zeus: [Polemo] fixed his gaze, as was customary, on the thoughts that were forming in his mind, then flung himself into his speech, and delivered a long and admirable discourse from the base of the temple. As the premium of his speech he declared that his [Hadrian’s] initiative had not been without divine inspiration.31 Thus, Hadrian established the Panhellenion for very significant and specific reasons; it was a major mechanization to promulgate and grow his broader Panhellenic agenda. His personal touch indicates that he sincerely believed in the institution. Additionally, through the activities of the league, he would further the proliferation and practice of the imperial cult, all under the aegis of the Panhellenion. This in itself produced an added measure of imperial control over the subjugated peoples of the empire—free and/or independent or not. If the culture and politics of Athens were inseparable, and if Hadrian controlled “the culture of culture,” then he placed himself in a very advantageous position to indulge his personal actions and political agenda. Not surprisingly, the advancement of the imperial cult was one of the functions of the Panhellenion. The Panhellenion has been described as “a cultural and political entity defined by the extent and character of its membership and its known activities.”32 Hadrian determined that the seat of the Panhellenion would be in his beloved Athens.33 The membership of the Panhellenion comprised delegates from the five major Greek provinces: Achaia, Macedonia, Thrace, Crete and—Cyrene and Asia—the Aegean provinces.34 The individual members were called Panhellenes and included senior executives, the archons, and the council, called the synedrion. By definition, the league was diverse and would have fit nicely into Hadrian’s continuing attempts to move away from the more militaristic policies of Trajan to create a Pax Romana—as did Augustus—thus forming what Toynbee called “a vast brotherhood of peoples, each contributing their share to its common culture.”35 The Panhellenion at Athens functioned as a religious institution and was, in time, closely linked with Eleusis,36 which administered the cult of “Hadrian Panhellenius”

134  Gerald A. Hess and its accompanying sanctuary. It was also closely linked to the quadrennial festival called the Panhellenia.37 Hadrian did use the Panhellenion in a very practical sense as well: it brought to Athens delegates from around the eastern part of the empire and furnished the emperor with direct lines of communication with many cities. The imperial cult in Athens was of great importance and was vigorously supported by Hadrian,38 who enabled the cult, not just from an ideological standpoint, but also through his rebuilding of the Temple of Olympian Zeus—the Olympieion. This was one of many buildings and benefactions for Athens, being its largest temple, and its location meant it served as a prominent neighbor for the new Panhellenion. Hadrian did not tailor the Olympieion to Roman architectural conventions; rather, the style of the Olympieion, and the other Hadrianic buildings in Athens, blended architectural traditions, resulting in a uniquely and appropriately Greco-Roman architecture.39 The Olympieion in particular is exemplary of Hadrian’s aims in forming the Panhellenion and was vital to Hadrian’s masterful Greco-Oriental-Roman program.40 The Olympieion is of foremost importance.41 Intended to be the largest temple in Athens in the sixth century bce, as planned by Peisistratos (r. c.561–27 bce), it was then re-initiated in a second monumental order and partially completed in 174 bce for a second patron, Antiochus Epiphanes of Syria. The Olympieion was to be incorporated into the new quarter of the city, which Hadrian established and named “Hadrianopolis.”42 This Temple of the Olympian Zeus in Athens had a long history of architectural adaptation, and its completion under Hadrian was somewhat protracted. It might not have been until 124/125 that Hadrian formulated the plan for the temple’s completion, which was concurrent with the formulation of the Panhellenion. It was on his second journey to Athens, in 127/128, that he dedicated the temple and assumed the title “Olympius.”43 On his third journey to Athens, in 131/132, he consecrated the then mostly completed temple and inaugurated the Panhellenion.44 This temple would be the crowning achievement in Hadrian’s Panhellenic program, owing its completion to his patronage. Perhaps interest in this temple had also been fostered by Augustus. Suetonius’s (c. first century ce) account is ambiguous, but suggests that the temple was in fact brought to completion under Augustus: “Each of the allied kings who enjoyed Augustus’ friendship [. . .] clubbed together to provide funds for completing the Temple of Olympian Zeus at Athens.”45 But, the fact remains that the temple was brought to completion by Hadrian, and at the time would be one of the largest temples in the ancient world.46 Hadrian showed his typical political acuity in the way that he contextualized his own cult and statues in the temple with that of the chief god Zeus. For example, he dedicated a colossal chryselephantine statue of Zeus for the main sanctuary.47 It was a magnanimous and fitting gift for the home of the Panhellenic league; the chief deity of the Greeks was made monumental and manifest in this most important of temples.48 Hadrian’s own statues were part of the temple too. Both Dio and Pausanias tell us of the temple’s statues of the emperor. Pausanias’ account describes one of Hadrian that could have been indeed a colossus of Hadrian behind the temple, perhaps also of ivory and gold.49 This brings us back to the creation of the Panhellenion, to unify Greeks who fervently advocated and celebrated “Greekness” above all else. As we have seen, this Panhellenion was founded by the philhellenic Hadrian, who centered their activities and their philosophical and symbolic core at a temple dedicated to the chief Greek god Zeus. This temple of Olympian Zeus, the Olympieion, was clearly identifiable with the imperial cult and specifically with Hadrian titled Olympios. Through the

Itinerant Hadrian and imperial patronage 135 Panhellenion, including the cult and its related activities, Hadrian’s grip on the cultural soul of Athens tightened. The Panhellenion heightened his love of all things Greek, thus elevating his nobility. Beyond the excellent and elevated statue of Olympian Zeus, who was head of the pantheon and cosmos and ready model for many heads of state, including Hadrian, religious content, reverence, and respect had led Hadrian to model the rituals for the Panhellenion on the Eleusinian Mysteries. Augustus provided an important precursor in this regard, as in 21 bce he became an initiate;50 and yet, greater intensity and personal commitment are evident with Hadrian’s involvement with the cult; he chose to be initiated twice into the Eleusinian Mysteries, possibly because they were sacred to the Athenians.51 Not since Augustus’s time had any Roman emperor been initiated into the rites.52 But sources confirm that, “following the example of Hercules and Philip, [Hadrian] had himself initiated into the mysteries.”53 On his second visit to Athens, Hadrian was initiated into the highest grade at the mysteries.54 Hadrian’s devotion to, not only the arts and letters of Greece, and Athens in particular, but also his advancement and fulfillment of the Eleusinian religious rites over time, reveal his depth of commitment and desire to be Athenian. He immersed himself in every time-honored aspect of becoming a learned Greek or Athenian sophist,55 as well as in his benefactions,56 his creation of the ultra-Greek Panhellenion, and his utterly sincere devotion to ancient religious rites. Additionally, he brought back stability and the return of constitutional government to Athens,57 thereby contributing to a reform of government with new laws that were redrafted versions of the ancient laws of Draco and Solon.58 Hadrian not only followed Augustus in building benefactions and new laws that were more favorable, but also re-emphasized the imperial cult, which had been useful to Augustus.59 The imperial cult in Athens—and elsewhere—was an important tool for consolidating disparate parts of the empire.60 The cult, like the Panhellenion itself, in one measure connected the Greek world under a common cause. The 94 altars (surviving) of Hadrian in Athens, in concert with the Panhellenion’s administration of the cult, were signs of his efficacy of rule and evidence for his widespread worship in Athens. Besides the statues for Hadrian Olympios in the Olympieion, many altars were set up for, and dedicated in Athens to, Hadrian Olympios, hailed as “Savior and Founder.”61 Hadrian’s relationship with the ruling god of the Greek world and his temple would have been a powerful one. One scholar eloquently captured the nature of this relationship, saying that, “The dedication to Hadrian throughout the Greek world attests [to] the size and importance of the emperor cult and bears witness both to the effectiveness of Hadrian’s vigorous program of travel and his Panhellenic interests.”62 Hadrian immortalized himself in another fashion by linking himself with Athens’s own hero king: Theseus. An arch was erected close to the Olympieion and right on the line between old Athens and the new quarter—Hadrianopolis,63 which Hadrian established (Figure 7.2). At about 60 feet tall by 40 feet wide, the gate is part triumphal arch, part city gate.64 The arch physically and symbolically cemented Hadrian’s permanent influence on Athens, bearing an inscription on each side. Facing old Athens it reads: “This is Athens, Theseus’ city once,” and facing Hadrian’s new quarter it reads: “This is Hadrian’s, not Theseus’ city.”65 Thus, Hadrian surpassed Augustus in linking Athens to his own person. More than Augustus had accomplished in Athens, Hadrian became a necessary link and facilitator to Old Hellas. Indeed, Augustus came to be seen as a superhuman presence, often bearing gifts for and from

136  Gerald A. Hess

Figure 7.2  ApostleKtenas, Adrianus Gate, Athens, Greece, photograph, 2015, showing Hadrian’s Gate, 131 CE, 59 feet high × 44.3 feet wide × 7.5 feet deep, pentelic marble, Athens, Greece. Photographic credit: Courtesy of ApostleKtenas (own work). Licensing information: ApostleKtenas (own work), CC BY-SA 4.0, public domain via Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index. php?curid=51568151.

the gods, while solidifying the province of Achaia.66 Hadrian was more encompassing, as he intended to promote Athens as central to his world vision and vital in uniting the Greeks in the Mediterranean with Asia, serving his own elevated position. His travels to Greece were no doubt among the most important of his principate. Hadrian’s triumph of Athens as the “New Theseus” was part of making himself one with Theseus and Hercules, by paralleling their heroic deeds with the achievements that he accomplished with the Greek youth Antinous.67 He also adopted a Greek tradition that was central to the Panhellenion that he founded—the games and training of youth.

Personal encounters along the way: Antinous He set up statues, or rather sacred images, of him, practically all over the world.68 What Hadrian experienced on his journeys is no more significant than with whom he shared those experiences. It was in 123/124 that Hadrian is thought to have encountered in Bithynium—formerly Claudiopolis—the beautiful Greek youth Antinous (c.111–130).69 Antinous was called by sources on Hadrian his companion and “favorite.”70 Antinous was “by birth from Bithynium beyond the river Sangarius, and the Bithynians are by descent Arcadians of Mantinea.”71 Antinous was actually from an upland city near Bithynium called Mantinium, near the border of Bithynia and

Itinerant Hadrian and imperial patronage 137 Paphlagonia. The evidence involving Antinous ranges from art, architecture, numismatics, epigraphy, and literary documentation, to cult sites and cities named after him (Figure 7.3).72 Sources do mention Antinous, and, considering the scarcity of sources on Hadrian, any mention at all is significant. Early literary evidence for joint activity between Hadrian and Antinous comes in the late second century, or early third century, in the Egyptian poet Athenaeus’s account of a poem by another Alexandrian, Pancrates, who was an acquaintance of Hadrian while he was in Alexandria in 130. Athenaeus writes that For Hadrian when he was hunting in the Libyan desert near to Alexandria, had shot this lion. It was a huge beast, and had been ravaging the whole of Libya for a long while past, and had made many districts of that land uninhabitable.73 From a papyrus fragment from Oxyrhynchus, we have this fragment from Pancrates himself: The stricken beast grew ever fiercer and tore at the ground with his paws in his rage [. . .] he lunged at them both, lashing his haunches and sides with his tale [. . .] his eyes flashing dreadful fire, his ravening jaws foaming, his teeth gnashing, the hair bristling on his mighty head and shaggy neck [. . .] He charged against the god [Hadrian] and Antinous, like Typhoeus of old against Zeus the slayer of the giants.74 Antinous is mentioned again as being with Hadrian in Egypt in 130, but this time it was the occasion of Antinous’s mysterious death by either self-sacrifice or accident (both Dio and the Vita mention this event).75 In antiquity, Antinous’s death was

Figure 7.3  Sarah Lippert, Antinous, photograph, 2016, showing Antinous in the guise of an Egyptian pharaoh, Hadrian’s Villa, Tivoli, 130–8 ce, marble, 7.9 feet high (with plinth), Musei Vaticani, Rome, Italy. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Sarah Lippert (own work). Licensing information: PD-Self, courtesy of Sarah Lippert.

138  Gerald A. Hess shrouded in mystery, as it remains today. We do know that, on October 24, 130, near Hermopolis—city of Toth—Antinous’s life ended, just two days before the Egyptian festival of Osiris (god of the underworld).76 As we shall see, their relationship in both life and after Antinous’s death was complicated. Hadrian favored contemporary Greece for many reasons, not the least of which was the continuation of a classical Greek tradition that saw relationships between older men—erastes—and younger boys—eromenos—as being common, that is to say, just a part of life.77 “Greek love” was not, however, part of the cultural makeup of the more conservatively leaning Rome,78 in the same way that Hadrian’s indulgence in Greek mystery cults was not something in which he could openly participate without scrutiny in Rome.79 If Hadrian met Antinous in 123/124, at a time and age (13–14) about which a relationship could begin,80 then by 130 Antinous would have been in his late teens or perhaps 20 years old; after age 20 or so, their relationship would have become untenable.81 Perhaps the timing for a sacrifice was serendipitous, and at the same time tragic. Dio seems to have believed that Antinous’s death was no accident, and was “in truth, by being offered in sacrifice.”82 The worldly Hadrian knew Egypt. For Egyptians, to drown in the Nile like the god Osiris was to be reborn like Osiris, and a way to win divine honors for the dead.83 According to the Vita, at Antinous’s death, Hadrian “wept for him like a woman.”84 The chance for his companion to be reborn could have given him solace. It could also have been the voluntary last act of filial love and devotion, as the Vita suggests: “For some claim that he had devoted himself to death for Hadrian, and others, what both his beauty and Hadrian’s sensuality suggests.”85 Subsequent to his death, the apotheosis of Antinous was heralded as a star that crossed the sky carrying the soul of Antinous.86 The spot upon which Antinous died was consecrated, and the new city of Antinopolis was founded.87 Interestingly, Antinous was immediately deified.88 In fact, his deification skipped the usual Roman senate’s approval process.89 In essence, the new city grew up around the legend of Antinous and his temple or tomb. There he would be merged with Osiris, and elsewhere he would be merged with other gods such as Silvanus, Dionysus, Hermes, Pan, and the hero Adonis. The festival in his honor, the Antinoeia, was initiated, and the seeds were sewn for a cult of Antinous that would spread across the entire Roman world and would endure for centuries.90 Pausanias’s account of Antinous and his place of imperial favor, through art, and both in life and death, is telling: Antinous too was deified by them; his temple is the newest in Mantinea. He was a great favorite of the Emperor Hadrian. I never saw him in the flesh, but I have seen images and pictures of him. He has honors in other places also, and on the Nile is an Egyptian city named after Antinous. He has won worship in Mantineia for the following reason. Antinous was by birth from Bithynium beyond the river Sangarius, and the Bithynians are by descent Arcadians of Mantineia. For this reason the Emperor established his worship in Mantineia also; mystic rites are celebrated in his honor each year, and games every four years. There is a building in the gymnasium of Mantineia containing statues of Antinous, and remarkable for the stones with which it is adorned, and especially so for its pictures. Most of them are portraits of Antinous, who is made to look just like Dionysus. There is also a copy here of the painting in the Cerameicus which represented the engagement of the Athenians at Mantineia.91

Itinerant Hadrian and imperial patronage 139 Hadrian had apparently permitted or ordered the elevation of Antinous as a god. Soon after his death, Antinous was worshiped, as Pausanias tells us, at his hometown of Mantinea, but the cult spread. Not surprisingly, it was embraced in Athens.92 Recent discoveries at the estate of Hadrian’s confidant, the Athenian millionaire Herodes Atticus,93 have unearthed a colossal statue of Antinous.94 Thus, it appears that the cultured and influential elite helped to spread his cult in cities throughout the empire. The cult had cachet for adherents. Art bearing the likeness of Antinous became a valuable commodity, and a sign of one’s high standing, not to mention being a way to earn imperial favor. Valuable objects from the tombs of contemporary aristocrats, bearing the likeness of Antinous, speak to his prominence. The scholar Thorston Opper notes a recent find in the Republic of Georgia that has a provenance in the West.95 Its dislocation from its place of origin and subsequent discovery in such a distant tomb exhibit how “Hadrian’s private obsession turns into a cultural [and political] tool.”96 I began my discussion of Antinous by recounting the Pankrates poem about Hadrian and Antinous hunting in the Libyan Desert. We also learned of the ill-fated trip on the Nile in Egypt, where Antinous met his end. It is in Egypt where we come to fully appreciate Antinous’s importance to Hadrian, and his bearing on Hadrianic art and architecture, including the program at Tivoli.

Tivoli We know that the itinerant Hadrian traveled the world; he even went twice to Egypt. He would bring the world back with him, in a manner of speaking, to Rome and his estate at Tivoli. Tivoli was to be Hadrian’s refuge from Rome, and a reminder in its art and architecture of all of the places that he had seen and experienced in his travels. After Antinous’s death and Hadrian’s return to Rome, he spent a great deal of time at Tivoli, especially between 131 and his death in 138.97 Hadrian’s life experiences, in harmony with his travels, gave him motive and direction for the program at Tivoli. It was to be a microcosm of the world that he traveled and a reflection of his knowledge of history and tradition.98 The Vita says the following: [Hadrian’s villa at Tibur was] marvelously constructed, and he actually gave to parts of it the names of provinces and places of the greatest renown, calling them, for instance, Lyceum, Academia, Prytaneum, Canopus, Poecile and Tempe. And in order not to omit anything, he even made a Hades.99 The overall theme of the villa was eclectic. The intent, as MacDonald put it, “was to populate the villa with symbolic representations of society’s cultural foundations.”100 Egypt’s place in the makeup of Tivoli as surmised by scholars is the possible identification of a long pool, perhaps suggestive of a canal at Canopus in the Delta of Egypt, and the terminal fountain house, which was a concave nymphaeum recalling the Serapeum (or the precinct of the Egyptian god Sarapis), marked on the Severan marble plan of Rome.101 The crocodile in green stone, Cipollino or Carystian marble, found in the pool, is the one certain image originally belonging to Tivoli that evoked Egypt. This part of the villa could have been a substantial reminder of Egypt, as well as a testament to its lasting effect on the memory or conscience of the emperor with regard to Antinous. The images of Antinous found at Tivoli have been known to many

140  Gerald A. Hess scholars; at least ten images of Antinous have been uncovered at the villa. Several others associated with the villa, but whose exact location therein is not known, include Antinous in the guise of an Egyptian pharaoh.102 Most images of Antinous are posthumous and may well be dated after 134, when Hadrian returned from Egypt and the East, and could have added to the art and architectural program at Tivoli in earnest. In addition to the statues of Antinous, an authentic, traditional Egyptian monument with hieroglyphic inscription is the granite obelisk in Rome (Figure 7.4). This obelisk, rich in symbolism, is connected to Antinous’s divinity, and in this case is indicative of the resting place for the dead. This obelisk of Antinous—also known as the Barberini Obelisk—on the Pincian Hill in Rome, lay in fragments outside Porta Maggiore of Rome in the sixteenth century. It is now thought to have been transported to Rome from Antinopolis in Egypt in antiquity.103 Some wrongly claim that it was at some point on the Palatine Hill in Rome.104 As we shall see, Hamestad’s old theory that the

Figure 7.4  Lalupa, Obelisk Pinciano, photograph, 2006, showing the Obelisk Pinciano now at the Villa Borghese, Rome, Italy, granite. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Lalupa (own work). Licensing information: GNU free documentation license, public domain via Wikimedia Commons, www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl. html or CC-BY-SA-3.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/.

Itinerant Hadrian and imperial patronage 141 obelisk stood in the Canopus at Tivoli has proved to be prophetic of a new theory.105 Where it stood in Rome is one issue, and, until recently, scholars have agreed that it originally came from Antinopolis in Egypt. However, recent discoveries at Tivoli have not only changed this theory, but have altered scholarly opinion on how Antinous should be viewed in the broader context of Hadrian’s principate. Works of art portraying Antinous need to be reconsidered. Under the direction of archaeologist Zaccaria Mari, there have been ongoing excavations at Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli.106 The 1999 excavations led to the discovery of what the project is now calling the Antinoeion of Hadrian’s Villa (Figure 7.5).107 Its location on a stretch right before the great vestibule of the villa places the various structures of the Antinoeion in a very prominent and highly visible location. The discovery, published in 2007, has revealed the remains and foundations of huge structures with a large exedra, numerous architectural elements, and some sculptural fragments in the Egyptian style.108 A large part of their identification is based on the remains of a masonry foundation between the now-lost twin temples, which has been connected to the obelisk of Antinous in Rome on the Pincian Hill. The excavators argue that the Antinoeion is not simply a mausoleum, cenotaph, or a cult site, but rather that it is a true tomb for Hadrian’s favorite, Antinous.109 The inscriptions on the obelisk speak of the Antinous cult and have the sepulcher inscriptions regarding Antinous’s tomb. Reliefs on the sculptural fragments from the cellae of the temples are analogous to those on the obelisk,110 where Antinous appears as the God Antinous–Osiris. They have identified other sculptural fragments or plinths as once supporting two

Figure 7.5  Camelia.boban, Hadrian’s Villa near Tivoli, photograph, 2011, showing view of Antinoeion, Hadrian’s Villa, c.130–8 ce, Tivoli, Italy. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Camelia.boban (own work). Licensing information: CC BY-SA 3.0, public domain via Wikimedia Commons. PD-Self, courtesy of Camilia.boban, https:// commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18343837.

142  Gerald A. Hess Egyptianizing red granite telamonic statues, found in the town of Tivoli in the sixteenth century.111 Likewise, they also recognize the white marble Antinous–Osiris statue in the Vatican as having come from a temple’s cella in the Antinoeion at Tivoli.112 The layout of the remains indicates a funerary monument with a mausoleum, with the brick stamps of the structure dating to soon after 130, which is the date of Antinous’s death.113 Furthermore, the hieroglyphic inscriptions on the obelisk could indicate that it originally stood at Tivoli. One passage reads, “Antinous rests in this tomb situated inside the Garden property of the Emperor of Rome.”114 If, as now seems possible, the obelisk originally stood in the villa for all to see, and if the recent excavation of a large complex at Tivoli that could serve as a tomb and shrine are true, then Antinous could not have been merely a passing acquaintance in the emperor’s life. If not for Hadrian’s travels, Antinous would have been unknown to history. The evidence points to a person of central importance to the emperor. The Antinoeion put Antinous front and center. Hadrian’s kinship with his paramour was not utterly shunned in Rome either. To the contrary, it could have become part of his imperial propaganda.

The hunt for immortality In 315/316, the Senate of Rome erected an arch for the Emperor Constantine to celebrate his decennalia and to commemorate his victory over Maxentius at the Milvian Bridge.115 The are eight marble tondi (four pairs of two) above the lateral arches on the north and south sides, respectively (Figure 7.6). Scholars of the past 100 years agree that the tondi are of Hadrianic date.116 At the simplest level, the inclusion of the Antinous in the tondi of the lion, boar, and bear hunt, and departure scene, permits the dating of these reliefs to 123 at the earliest.117 Pictured in the tondi are images of Hadrian (later re-carved to resemble Constantine, Constantine Chloras, and/or Licinius and others) in scenes of hunting and sacrifice.118 The tondi are clearly recognizable as a unified set. Owing to uniform size (2.4 m diameter), consistent theme and likely sequencing, and compositional and stylistic similarities, the eight tondi are not only contemporary with each other, but support their prior use in a single, original monument for Hadrian.119 In the tondi, we have the emperor and Antinous engaged in the eastern and Macedonian-royal, and Greek– Roman elite’s virtuous hunt for all to see. Hadrian’s traveling adventures had come home for public consumption. However, the identity of Antinous in the tondi has been debated. Only Kahler has identified Antinous in all but one of the tondi—the sacrifice to Apollo.120 Meyer, Stuart Jones, Clairmont, Bulle, and Bonnono accent the boar hunt as containing a figure of Antinous, but with varying degrees of certainty.121 Meyer himself tentatively placed Antinous in the boar hunt and classified the type as “uncertain.”122 Reinach supports the presence of Antinous in the boar hunt, as well as in the departure tondo,123 of which only the latter is recognized by Boatwright as representing Antinous.124 Based upon the contextual evidence and comparisons with other known works displaying typical iconographical and stylistic characteristics, I identify Antinous in the departure and the boar hunt, with the lion and bear hunt being good possibilities for his inclusion, rather than what Myer might call “uncertain.” Albeit, Hadrian was on his journeys more than he was in Rome, but the question remains, why would he so ostentatiously display on his own monument—if

Itinerant Hadrian and imperial patronage 143

Figure 7.6  Jebulon, Reliefs of the Arch of Constantine, photograph, 2013, showing the Boar hunt tondo, Arch of Constantine, c.130–8 ce, marble, Rome, Italy, 7.9 feet diameter. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Jebulon (own work). Licensing information: CC0-1.0, public domain via Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=29533811.

in Rome—scenes of hunting and sacrifice, as well as part of the pastimes, training, and personal piety of the Greek and Roman elite, and yet, akin to the prerogatives of eastern rulers and oriental princes?

A foreign tradition The pharaohs of Egypt certainly used the hunt for their political and personal advantage. Hadrian knew Egypt all too well. We know of Hadrian’s visits to Egypt and his many travels in North Africa. Egypt had a lasting place in Hadrian’s memory, considering the prominence of the Canopus and Serapeum at his Tiber Villa (Figure 7.7). From the time of the burials of predynastic Egypt, to the Old Kingdom lifestyle of its nobility, many frequently engaged in the sport of desert hunting, bringing down everything from wild oxen to antelopes. There was a continuity of Egyptian noble hunting.125 The king of the Old Kingdom in Egypt, it could be argued, had a more cloistered existence compared with the dynamic pharaohs of the New Kingdom.

144  Gerald A. Hess It was in the New Kingdom where the hunt came to mean so much more than just a necessity of life. It became very symbolic for the wider propaganda of the Great House. A pharaoh of the New Kingdom was released unto the world, and all the world was to know his many great and supreme royal deeds. The king’s image in the New Kingdom was not one of total austerity and “immobility,” but rather that of an ever increasingly “approachable” king.126 That is not to say that the imperial pharaoh inherited nothing from his forbears.127 However, encoded in the makeup of the great king was his personal strength, both physical and intellectual, and intermingled with that was his great bravery in facing those forces that threatened the very life of his kingdom and the welfare of his own physical being. The golden age of the king as great hunter in Egypt came in the Eighteenth Dynasty (1552–1314 bce). Imagery of the king engaging wild beasts came to be highly symbolic, representing his actual or potential success on the battlefield. The chaotic forces of nature needed to be crushed, so that order could prevail, and the king would make himself the living embodiment of “Order.”128 Redford notes that the first great wealth of surviving literature, speaking to the manifestation of the so-called “sportsman king,” came during the reign of Thutmosis III.129 The king’s strength was directly related to what he did on the hunt.

Figure 7.7  Jastrow, the Canopus from the Prætorium, photograph, 2006, showing view of Canopus and Serapeum, Hadrian’s Villa, c.125–8 ce, Tivoli, Italy. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Jastrow (own work). Licensing information: PD-Self, courtesy of Jastrow, public domain via Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia. org/w/index.php?curid=1369120.

Itinerant Hadrian and imperial patronage 145 [This is] a compilation of the deeds of mighty valor that this Good God performed, viz. every successful deed of [personal] bravery [. . .] whenever he spent a little time in relaxation hunting in any foreign land, the number of animals he bagged would be more than that the entire army. He shot seven lions in the space of a moment, and bagged [. . .] twelve wild bulls in one hour.130 This compares quite closely to what Pliny said about Hadrian’s predecessor Trajan in his Panygericus: “Your only relaxation is to raze the forest, drive out wild beasts from their lairs [. . .] and present yourself to the deities.”131 We know of Hadrian’s appointment in, travels to, and knowledge of the Near East. It was there that the hunt, as in Egypt, took on hugely symbolic meaning for a ruler: By my outstretched arm and impetuous courage fifteen mighty lions from the mountains and the forest I seized with my hand, and fifty lion cubs I carried away, and, in the city of Calah and the palaces of my land, put them in cages, and I caused them to bring forth their cubs in abundance, Urmindinash I captured alive with my hands [and] herds of wild oxen, elephants and lions [. . .] gazelles, wolves, panthers [. . .] all the beasts of plain and mountain, I collected in my city of Calah, letting all the people of my land behold them.132 The Assyrian king Assurnasirpal II trumpeted this wondrous feat in the ninth century bce. Similar to the Egyptian “sporting king” of the New Kingdom, the Assyrian ruler made it known to all that, by his own hand and through his singular courage, the land was free from threats.133 The kingly function of the hunt in Assyria resided in the fact that the animals were themselves dangerous creatures that only the king—with the divine help of the gods—could slay. It was at once the dutiful act of the monarch, and the pious act of the chief servant of the gods, thus making what he had done sanctioned and legitimized by the gods. In Persia, the monarchical model of the upright ruler and exemplar of leadership and bravery was Cyrus the Great (559–29 bce). The historian Xenophon (430 bce) regaled him in Cyropaedia, writing about the upbringing and education of this/a perfect prince. An integral part of his education was the time that he spent in the paradeisoi fortifying his virtue.134 He was learning to become “ideal in every sense—a true warrior citizen.”135 The hunt was an education of the intellect, as much as it was an exercise of the body. The most critically important aspect of the hunt, however, was that it made a man into something better than he would have been without such experiences—this education process.

Greece Consideration of a broader context reveals that the actual act of hunting itself was part of the education and upbringing of the elite—cross-culturally—it seems.136 Greek education, or paideia, sought to develop each youth, and served the cultured elite of Italy.137 Previously, we saw that paideia can also simply mean culture in general and stand for appreciation of all things beautiful and perfect. At the core of this education

146  Gerald A. Hess was areté—excellence and virtue—and yet, ever-changing with whatever the concept was applied to. The Greek ideals of paideia thrived in Roman society well beyond the second century and may well have been important to Hadrian, who we now know favored Athens with three visits and many gifts, including the aforementioned Panhellenion. The hunting scenes on the Hadrianic tondi had no precedent on an imperial monument.138 Yet, Hadrian’s imagery and interests as pictured in the tondi persisted as being artistically unique for two centuries, and then were reused for Constantine. This persistence indicates that by the time of Constantine’s reign, the hunt was an accepted and valued part of imperial propaganda. This raises the obvious question of just how acceptable—or normal—this imagery was, for both Hadrian and his successors. Interestingly, Antinous is conspicuous in the iconography of these hunting scenes. Through his fellowship with Antinous, whether as teacher and pedagogue, or student–citizen and elite youth, the ephebe and their involvement in the hunt, Hadrian was projecting his own idea of perfection and excellence with the imagery on his tondi. Antinous, who was clearly important to Hadrian, was to be included in Hadrian’s public monument in an unprecedented way. Perhaps Antinous was to be as an ephebe. The ephebes were young men of training age. Was Hadrian using the hunt as a subject here, combining the upbringing of a Greek youth—and this youth Antinous—with the prerogatives of a monarch in the mold of so many great ones before him? Hadrian was perhaps using the hunt to enhance his own royal image via the “sport of kings”—and in the Greek sense with the king of kings: Alexander—and to equate himself, as Alexander did, with moral aptitude and promotion of the arete that was understood to develop from hunting.139 To the Macedonians, hunting was part of what it meant to be man. In addition, regardless of social standing, one’s worth among one’s peers was measured against one’s exploits and accomplishments in the chase.140 The social value of the Roman aristocrat and elite would feed on this idea, while simultaneously evoking Alexander for greater political objectives in a more Roman context.141 Alexander would later prove to be an extremely effective model upon which to base one’s rule. Among the keener of emperors, Augustus and Hadrian would closely follow Alexander’s democratic treatment of subjugated peoples. Alexander’s “freedom of the Greeks,” allowing them to be relatively independent, fostered a local body politic more accepting of ultimate authority under the Macedonian. This model was wisely followed by some later Romans.142 The question boils down to how the later emperors could most efficiently and powerfully convey imperium, virtue, piety, and peace, by drawing out the most widely accepted characteristics of their eastern imperial, princely predecessors. Like any other form of propaganda, the hunt served as a tool to convey a sharp public message— some used it to better effect than did others. Arrian of Bithynia, a Roman administrator, a friend of Hadrian’s, and author of a contemporary hunting treatise, advocated for men to start hunting just as they were leaving boyhood,143 and Plato called on the educational value of the hunt to instill a great sense of honor, and, when done properly, “men who hunt this way have their thoughts fixed on godlike manhood.”144 It was the attempt of mortal men to train the young men of the day to join in surpassing the heroics of antiquity. Antinous would have been at the perfect age for this,145 which makes us recall the Oxyrhynchus papyrus making the duo out to be “godlike [. . .] slayers of giants” in their famous hunts together. In considering the Hadrianic tondi and, for example, the Sacrifice to

Itinerant Hadrian and imperial patronage 147 Diana tondo, this one image reignites the heroic Calydonian boar hunt conducted by Meleager—aided by Theseus—to placate Artemis after the folly and hubris of King Oeneus, who had omitted proper offerings to the goddess of the hunt.146 Hadrian’s possible goal then was to involve Antinous in the hunt in a very public way. Once again, united in the tondi, they were erastos (singular, as Hadrian is the leader–lover) and eromenos (Antinous—the beloved and student). The philhellenic Hadrian was incorporating the hunt into the paideia, which was appropriate in the making of an ideal heroic prince, even in the mode of the Greek heroes themselves.147 As with the education of Achilles by the centaur Cheiron the wise, a hero could win virtue and honor through the chase.148 Hadrian’s hunting expeditions—all his travels for that matter—could have served to better himself as well as his pupil—education of man and youth to better their ideal forms. The tondi could have redefined the notion of arete and what it was to be an excellent and virtuous ruler. Hadrian found acceptable common ground for this insertion of a Greek youth into his monument for the eyes of all Rome to see. The common ground was the hunt, at least in the manner captured in the tondi. It was a way for him to bring home his clear devotion to Antinous in a complex iconographic scheme that touted more than just a meaningless jaunt in the wood. The noble hunt could be read in a variety of ways as a result. It was indeed a means to train the youth of the day for leadership roles of tomorrow, but it was also the real-life extraction of Antinous from his native Bithynia, when he was a boy, to train with Hadrian in the glorious hunts. This was very much the way that young Spartan boys were taken from their families to undergo their own trials preparing them for manhood and future battle: the agoge. Hadrian’s message and motivation in involving hunting imagery then are also somewhat different from the motivations of his predecessors, both in Rome, and in the royal societies of the East. His message relied on those traditions and used them to stand for both the typical leader as strongman and brave protector, and his role as the ideal, “kingly,” archetypal prince. The hunt could be made public through the justification that the emperor was also displaying Roman virtue in just as effective a manner as if he had really brought down a leader of an enemy state of Rome with a real spear, on a real battlefield. The inclusion of the boy Antinous was just one part of Hadrian’s wider Hellenic tendencies, wherein he very keenly praised all things Greek, but at the same time was sure to make public his Roman-ness and respect for Roman traditions. Thus, in the tondi, he very rightly—or righteously—made the appropriate sacrifices to the Roman gods, fulfilling his functions as chief priest of the state cult. Hadrian managed to balance all of these things in this one monument with great success. He was at the same time Roman and wordly—the peripatetic emperor.

Notes 1 Cassius Dio, Roman History, 69.2.1, trans. E. Cary and H. Baldwin Foster (New York: William Heinemann, 1914–27); hereafter Dio. Dio (163–235) was a Greek, originally from Bithynia who became a senator (beginning under Commodus), praetor, and was twice consul in the early third century. His 80-book history starts with the beginnings of Rome to 229. Parts of his history are preserved as original, whereas others are known only as epitomes. The eleventh-century monk Xiphilinus epitomized book 69, which deals with Hadrian. As a member of the imperial class, Dio certainly had biases and favored the institutional merits of the monarchy, versus the Republic. On Dio, see Fergus Millar, A Study of Cassius Dio (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1964).

148  Gerald A. Hess 2 Fergus Millar, The Roman Near East 31 B.C.–A.D. 337 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993), p. 105. 3 Historia Augusta: Hadrian, 13.5, David Magie, Ainsworth O’Brien-Moore, and Susan Helen Ballou, The Scriptores historiae Augustae (London: W. Heinemann, 1922); hereafter HA. For the wars, see Lino Rossi and J.M.C. Toynbee, Trajan’s Column and the Dacian Wars (Ithica, NY: Cornell University Press, 1971). 4 An early source for Hadrian’s travels is Julius Dürr, Die Riesen der Kaisers Hadrian (Vienna: C. Gerold’s Sohn, 1881). Dürr became the model for, and beginning to, the work of many subsequent scholars. The same could be said of Wilhelm Weber, Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der Kaiser Hadrianus (Leipzig, Germany: B.G. Teubner, 1907), and later, Helmut Halfmann, Die Itinera Principum. Geschichte und Typologie der Kaiserreisen im römischen Reich (Stuttgart, Germany: F. Steiner Verlag Wiesbaden, 1986). I have also relied upon Bernard Henderson, The Life and Principate of the Emperor Hadrian, A.D. 76–138 (London: Methuen, 1923); Herbert Bernario, A Commentary on the ‘Vita Hadiani’ in the Historia Augusta (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1980); and Ronald Syme, “Journeys of Hadrian,” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 73 (1988), pp. 159–70. The Historia Augusta also dates and orders the timeline in 10.1–11.2; 12.1–13.3; 13.6.14.6. 5 Syme, “Journeys,” p. 159. 6 Sources—although indispensable in many respects—are not exhaustive in chronicling Hadrian’s travels. The Historia Augusta, for instance, is selective at times, and does not provide completely satisfactory chronological details. 7 Dio, 69.5.3. 8 HA, 17.8. 9 Benario, A Commentary, pp. 148–9; Syme, “Journeys,” 160ff.; Henderson, The Life and Principate, 279ff. 10 S.R.F. Price, Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor, 6th ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), p. 69. 11 See the excellent work by Mary Boatwright, Hadrian and the Cities of the Roman Empire (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000). 12 For a fuller treatment of Hadrian’s activities throughout the eastern parts of the empire, see Gerald Hess, “The Hadrianic Tondi on the Arch of Constantine: New perspectives on the Eastern paradigms” (PhD diss., Pennsylvania State University, 2008). 13 A.J. Spawforth and Susan Walker, “The World of the Panhellenion, 1. Athens and Eleusis’d,” Journal of Roman Studies, 75 (1985), p. 78. 14 Jocelyn Toynbee, Review of Athens sous Hadrien, by Paul Graindor (Paris: Arno Press, 1934) in Gnomen, 12 Bd.1, H. 11 (Nov. 1936), p. 594. 15 HA, 1.5. 16 Dio, 69.3.1. 17 HA, 17.8. 18 This is not to say that the primacy of Greek cultural traditions as the fountainhead for Mediterranean civilization trumped the ultimate perception of Roman superiority. Rome, after all, had conquered the Hellenic world. And the extent to which Rome influenced Greece, particularly Athens, is of special interest when we consider Hadrian’s activities in the city. For Rome’s influence on Athens, see Christian Habicht, “Roman Citizens in Athens (228–31 bce),” in The Romanization of Athens. Proceedings of an International Conference held at Lincoln, Nebraska (Apr. 1996), eds. M.C. Hoff and S.I. Rotroff (Oakville, CT, 1997). On the complex process of “acculturation,” see Paul Veyne, “The Hellenization of Rome and the Question of Acculturation,” Diogenes, 106 (1979), pp. 1–27. 19 Boatwright, Cities, p. 144. 20 HA, 13.1, 13.6, 19.1, 19.3; Dio, 69.16.1; Pausanias, Description of Greece, I.3.2, I.18.6, trans. W.H.S. Jones (London and New York: W. Heinemann, 1918–1935); Boatwright, Cities, pp. 144–5; Anthony Birley, Hadrian the Restless Emperor (New York: Routledge, 1997), 175ff., 215ff., 259ff.; Syme, “Journeys,” pp. 159–70; Benario, A Commentary, pp. 148–9; P. Graindor, Athenes sous Hadrien (New York: Arno Press, 1973): pp. 1–58. 21 J.H. Oliver, “Roman Emperors and Athens,” fd, Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte, 30:4 (4th Qrt., 1981), p. 419. 22 Pausanias, I.3.2.

Itinerant Hadrian and imperial patronage 149 23 A.S. Benjamin, “The Altars to Hadrian’s Panhellenic Program,” Hesperia, 32:1 (Jan.–Mar. 1963), p. 57, believed that the actual idea for the Panhellenion may have been hatched in 125 ce, perhaps in connection with his first imperial visit to Athens. For the founding of the Panhellenion, see Boatwright, Cities, 2000, 147f.; Birley, Restless, p. 215; D. Willers, Hadrians Panhellenisches Programm, Archäologische Beiträologiscge Beiträge zur Neugestaltung Athens durch Hadrian (Basle, Switzerland: Vereinigung der Freunde antiker Kunst, 1990): esp. pp. 54–68; Syme, “Journeys,” 8; Jean Beaujeu, La religion romaine à l’apogée de l’empire. I La poltique religieuse des Antonins (96–192) (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1955), p. 178; Ilaria Romeo, “The Panhellenion and Ethnic Identity in Hadrianic Greece,” Classical Philology, 97:1 (Jan. 2002), 21ff.; Spawforth and Walker, “The World of the Panhellenion,” pp. 88–105; Graindor, Athenes, pp. 102–11. 24 The administration of the league could have been conducted in the complex of the Olympieion. See Willers, Hadrians Panhellenisches, pp. 26–7, 54. 25 Spawforth and Walker, “The World of the Panhellenion,” p. 82. 26 See W.W. Jaeger, Paideia: The Ideals of Greek Culture, 3 vols., trans. G. Highet (New York: Oxford University Press, 1939); B. Borg, ed., Paideia: The World of the Second Sophistic (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2004); Patrick Hogan, “A Terrible Passion and a Marvelous Love: Greco-Roman education and elite self-representation in the High Empire” (Ph.D. diss., University of Michigan, 2005). 27 Romeo, “The Panhellenion,” p. 21. 28 Romeo, “The Panhellenion,” p. 21f. This is a somewhat anachronistic, but a no less apt, parallel. 29 Romeo, “The Panhellenion,” p. 32. This also raises the question of the conflict within the Panhellenion, as to whether Eugenia or Euglottia wins out. See also, E.L. Bowie, “Greeks and Their Past in the Second Sophistic,” in Studies in Ancient Society, ed. M.I. Finly (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1974); Glenn Bowerstock, Greek Sophists in the Roman Empire (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969). 30 Spawforth and Walker, “The World of the Panhellenion,” p. 78. 31 Philostratus: The Lives of the Sophists, trans. Wilmer C. Wright (London: W. Heinemann, 1922) 1.25.3. Vitae Sopistratum, p. 533; M.W. Gleason, Making Men: Sophists and SelfPresentation in Ancient Rome (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), pp. 52–3. 32 Spawforth and Walker, “The World of the Panhellenion,” p. 79. Also of great use is J.H. Oliver, Marcus Aurelius: Aspects of Civic and Cultural Policy in the East (Hesperia Supplements: Journal of the American School of Archaeology in Athens 13; 1970). 33 Hadrian went through great pains to ensure this via explicit imperial decree and personally submitted proposals to the Roman senate. See Romeo, “The Panhellenion,” p. 22; Valerio Morotta, “Il Seanto ed il Panhellenion,” Ostraka, 4 (1995), pp. 157–67. Most of what we know about the specific aspects of the Panhellenion comes down to us in the form of epigraphic evidence: see Romeo, “The Panhellenion,” p. 21; Spawforth and Walker, “The World of the Panhellenion,” p. 79. 34 Within the major regions there were 33 member cities. 35 Toynbee, review of Athènes sous Hadrien, p. 596. 36 See Graindor, Athènes sous Hadrien, pp. 118–35. 37 Graindor, Athènes sous Hadrien, pp. 102–11. 38 Graindor, Athènes sous Hadrien, pp. 140–58. 39 See Donald Strong, “Late Hadrianic Architectural Ornament in Rome,” Papers of the British School at Rome, 21 (1953), pp. 118–51. 40 Hadrian was also responsible for other civic benefactions and major building projects in Athens, such as the so-called Library of Hadrian, the Pantheon of Athens, the colossal aqueduct, the Roman Agora, and the Gymnasium. For an extensive bibliography, see Boatwright, Cities, pp. 167–71, and Willers, Hadrians Panhellenisches. 41 See Willers, Hadrians Panhellenisches, especially pp. 26–54. 42 HA, 20.4. For the history of the building and the site, see William Dinsmoor and William Anderson, The Architecture of Ancient Greece: An Account of its Historic Development (London: Batsford, 1950), pp. 91, 280–1; Spawforth and Walker, “The World of the Panhellenion,” 93f.; Graindor, Athenes sous Hadrien, 218ff.; Boatwright, Cities, pp. 150–3; Birley, Restless, pp. 183–4.

150  Gerald A. Hess 43 HA, 13.6; Dio, 69.16.1; Willers, Hadrians Panhellenisches, 26ff.; Syme, “Journeys,” p. 163; Graindor, Athènes sous Hadrien, p. 218. 44 Syme, “Journeys,” p. 165. 45 Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars, Augustus, 60, trans. M. Grant, 3rd ed. (Middlesex: Penguin, 1989). 46 Benjamin, “The Altars,” p. 60, noted that the final touches were probably finished in 137 ce. For the measurements and detailed plans, see Willers, Hadrians Panhellenisches, pp. 27–9, 33–40, 107ff. (plates). 47 Pausanias, 1.18.6; Boatwright, Cities, p. 152. 48 Benjamin, “The Altars,” p. 59. 49 Pausanias, 1.18.6; Dio, 69.16.1; Spawforth and Walker, “The World of the Panhellenion,” p. 93. Other statues of Hadrian were given by the members in the Panhellenion; these are the so-called “colony statues” set up at the temple. Together with the bronze statues, these may have been statues personifying colonies of mainland Greece, Athens included. 50 Dio, 51.4.1; C. Karényi, Eleusis: Archetypal Image of Mother and Daughter, trans. R. Manheim (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1967), pp. 100–1; Beaujeu, La religion, pp. 126–7; P. Graindor, Athènes sous Auguste (Le Caire: Impr. Misr, 1927), 14ff. 51 Beaujeu, La religion, p. 165. 52 This is all the more fascinating considering that part of Augustus’ agenda at the start of the principate was to discredit Marc Antony by labeling him as Greek, or as being too “Greek.” But this was a century and a half before Hadrian’s principate. Paul Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus, trans. A. Shapiro (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1990), p. 261, believed that Augustus initially saw Athenians as morally wanting, but saw in them—and impressed upon them—the greatness of their own high culture, which lay in the religious piety of their ancestors. Zanker called such efforts to renew those timehonored religious rites of the Athenians’ ancestors as “moral rearmament.” 53 HA, 13.1. According to Graindor, Athènes sous Auguste, p. 119, this was probably on his first trip through Greece in 124 or 125 ce. 54 Dio, 69.11; Graindor, Athènes sous Auguste, p. 119. 55 For the evidence, see Beaujeu, La religion, pp. 165–70, and Graindor, Athènes sous Hadrien, pp. 118–35. 56 Such as new provisions for an ensured annual grain dole. See Simone Follet, Athènes au IIe et au IIIe siècle: Études chronologiques et prosopographiques (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1976), p. 115. Spawforth and Walker, “The World of the Panhellenion,” p. 90, attribute this, and connect it, to the establishment of the Panhellenion; also see Dio, 69.16.1–3. Other reforms having a positive economic impact on Athens revolved around the olive oil and fish industry. See Boatwright, Cities, pp. 91, 147; Birley, Restless, p. 177; Follet, Athènes, 116ff. 57 Oliver, “Roman Emperors,” p. 414. 58 Birley, Restless, 177f.; Oliver, “Roman Emperors,” pp. 412–23; Graindor, Athènes sous Hadrien, 73ff. 59 Benjamin, “The Altars,” p. 57; Beujeau, La religion, 126ff., Graindor, Athènes sous Hadrien, 170f. However, Augustus adhered to the conservative mindset of Rome and forbade open worship or naming himself god in the capital. But, in other parts of Italy, and especially in provinces such as Greece, such limitations were not necessary. 60 Benjamin, “The Altars,” p. 57. 61 Benjamin, “The Altars,” p. 57. 62 Benjamin, “The Altars,” p. 61. There are 270 surviving inscribed altars to Hadrian in the Greek world in total, 95 being from Athens, plus 154 inscribed statue bases, 47 from Athens. Most altars and bases carry the epithet Olympios and are inscribed with “savior, founder, and benefactor.” For more tabulations and significance of the imperial statues erected in Athens and throughout the Roman world, see J.M. Hojte, “Imperial Visits as Occasion for the Erection of Portrait Statues?” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, 133 (2000), pp. 221–35. 63 HA, p. 204. 64 See Willers, Hadrians Panhellenisches, pp. 72–85.

Itinerant Hadrian and imperial patronage 151 65 Inscriptiones Graecae II 5185 as noted in Willers, Hadrians Panhellenisches, 68–92ff. Two identical arches were erected in Eleusis and dedicated by the Panhellenes 50 years later. For Roman building in Eleusis, see George Mylonas, Eleusis and the Eleusinian Mysteries (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1961). 66 Oliver, Roman Emperors, p. 415. 67 Mary Boatwright, Hadrian and the City of Rome (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1987), p. 201. 68 Dio, 69.11.4. The dissemination of statues of Antinous in antiquity is beyond question. In fact, on a block of pentelic marble dated to the period of Hadrian, we have evidence of an order emanating from the imperial chancery to make cult statues of Antinous. Moreover, the inscription is proposed to have come from the hand of Hadrian himself. See J.H. Oliver, “Greek Inscriptions,” Hesperia: Journal of the American School of Archaeology at Athens, 10 (1941), p. 77. 69 Benario, A Commentary, p. 149; Syme, “Journeys,” p. 161; Halfmann, Die Itinera, p. 194; Birley, Restless, p. 158. 70 The term “favorite” is used in the Historia Augusta, Hadrian, 14.5. 71 Pausanias, 8.9.7. 72 For arguments against Antinous’s importance to Hadrian, see L. Friedlander, Roman Life and Manners under the Early Empire (New York: Barnes & Noble, 1982), p. 132. 73 Quoted by Henderson, The Life and Principate, p. 18. 74 A.S. Hunt, The Oxyrhynchus Papyri (London: Egypt Exploration Society, 1911), part 8, pp. 73–7, no. 1085. Also, see E.G. Turner, “Oxyrhynchus and its Papyri,” Greece & Rome, 21:63 (Oct. 1952), pp. 127–37. 75 Dio, 69.11; HA, 14.5.f 76 October 22 was the date of the Osiris festival. For the death see: Birley, Restless, p. 247; Graindor, Athènes sous Hadrien, p. 159; Royston Lambert, Beloved and God: The Story of Hadrian and Antinous (New York: Viking, 1984), p. 127. The myth behind the death of Osiris had made him into the model for human suffering. See Nicolas Grimal, A History of Ancient Egypt (New York: Wiley-Blackwell, 1994), 41ff. 77 See Lambert, Beloved and God, pp. 78–81. 78 Varying relationships between men and boys was a Greek rite of passage that was also practiced by Hadrian’s predecessor Trajan. Presumably, neither would have viewed these relationships as impinging upon their “manhood” in any way. See C.A. Williams, Roman Homosexuality: Ideologies of Masculinity in Classical Antiquity (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999). 79 The ability to release from any remaining inhibition in the Greek milieu is evident in the enticing possibility that Antinous was with Hadrian at Eleusis in 128 when Hadrian was initiated into the higher grade. Hadrianic coins from Eleusis label Hadrian as being “Reborn.” See also Graindor, Athènes sous Hadrien, p. 38; T.D. Barnes, “Emperors on the Move,” Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2 (1989), pp. 247–61. This is interesting given that later evidence at Eleusis honors Antinous, and the fact that Roman coinage is known to have significant allegorical meanings beyond the literal. See Graindor, Athènes sous Hadrien, p. 131. For Antinous coins, see Hugo Myer, Antinoos: Die archäologischen Denkmäler unter Einbeziehung des numismatischen und epigraphischen Materials sowie der literarischen Nachrichten: ein Beitrag zur Kunst-und Kulturgeschichte der hadrianischfrühantoninischen Zeit (Munich, Germany: W. Fink, 1991): pp. 135–43; J.M.C. Toynbee, “Greek Imperial Medallions,” Journal of Roman Studies, 34 (1934), pp. 65–73. 80 This is more likely than the two of them meeting in 117 on Hadrian’s first trip through the province, because Antinous would have been too young at the time, even in the Greek perception of acceptability. 81 The point made by Birley, Restless, 158ff. Traditionally, the cutoff age is late adolescence. The many extant images of Antinous speak for a young male between the ages of 15 and 20. For studies on Antinous sculptural depictions and portraits, see Hugo Myer, Antinoos: Die archaoläologischen Denkmäler; C.W. Clairmont, Die Bildnisse des Antinous: Ein Beitrag zur Portriitplastik unter Kaiser Hadrian (Rome: Swiss Institute of Rome, 1966). 82 Dio, 69.11.2. See also Beaujeu, La religion, pp. 243–4. 2

152  Gerald A. Hess 83 Siegfried Morenz, “Zur Vergöttlichung in Ägypten,” Zeitschrift für Agyptische Sprache, 84 (1959), pp. 132–43; Lambert, Beloved, p. 125. 84 HA, 14.5. This was obviously a slight. 85 HA, 14.6; Jean-Louis Voisin, “Apicata, Antinous et quelques autres. Notes d’épigraphie sur la mort volontaire à Rome,” Mélanges de l’Ecole française de Rome-antiquité, 99 (1987), pp. 257–80. Suicide seems more unlikely considering a well-known relief of Antinous was found at Lanuvium in Italy. In it, Antinous appears as the god Silvanus. Inaugurated in 136, the cult at Lanuvium for Antinous and Diana forbade suicide, and its adherents were forbidden to be properly laid to rest if they took their own lives. 86 Dio, 69.11.4. 87 See Myer, Antinoos: Die archäologischen Denkmäler, pp. 189–211, 215; Michael Zahrnt, “Antinoopolis in Ägypten,” ANRW, 2.10.1 (1988), pp. 669–706; H.I. Bell, “Antinoopolis: A Hadrianic Foundation in Egypt,” Journal of Roman Studies, 30 (1940): pp. 133–47; Boatwright, Hadrian and the City, pp. 245, 250–1. There were economic considerations at play as well. Antinopolis won imperial favor and all that came with it. See Birley, Restless, pp. 253–4. 88 HA, 14.7, tells us that Hadrian himself ordered the deification of Antinous. 89 Deification beyond the imperial circle was rare indeed. For the deification of emperors, see Arnaldo Momiglano, “How Emperors Became Gods,” The American Scholar, 55:2 (Spring 1986), pp. 181–93. For Antinous’s deification, see Caroline Vout, “Archaeology and History,” Journal of Roman Studies, 95 (2005), p. 82, esp. n. 11. 90 See Myer, Antinoos: Die archäologischen Denkmäler, pp. 189–211; E. Alfoldy-Rosenbaum, “Hadrian and Antinous on the Contorniates and in the Vita Hadriani,” in Historiae Augustae Colloquium Parisinum, ed. G. Bonamente and N. Duval (Macerata, Italy: Università degli studi di Macerata, 1991), pp. 11–18. See also Lambert, Beloved, 127, 177ff. 91 Pausanias, 8.9, pp. 7–8. 92 See Graindor, Athènes sous Hadrien, p. 140. 93 For a study of Herodes, see Jennifer Tobin, Herodes Attikos and the City of Athens: Patronage and Conflict under the Antonines (Amsterdam: Gieben, 1997). 94 Thorston Opper, Hadrian: Empire and Conflict (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008), p. 190. 95 Opper, Hadrian: Empire and Conflict, p. 191. 96 Opper, Hadrian: Empire and Conflict, p. 191. 97 James J. Pollitt, The Art of Rome, c. 753 BC–AD 337: Sources and Documents (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1983), p. 166. 98 William MacDonald and J. Pinto, Hadrian’s Villa and its Legacy (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1995), p. 139. For the villa, see Heinz Khäler, Hadrian und seine Villa bei Tivoli (Berlin: Gebr. Mann, 1950); Salvatore Arigemma, Villa Adriana (Rome: Istituto Poligrafico dello Stato, Libreria dello Stato, 1961); Joachim Raeder, Statuarische Austattung der Villa Hadriana bei Tivoli (Frankfurt am Main, Germany, and Bern, Switzerlan: Lang, 1983). 99 HA, 26.5. 100 MacDonald and Pinto, Hadrian’s Villa, p. 141. 101 See A New Topographical Dictionary of Ancient Rome, ed. Lawrence Richardson Jr. (Baltimore, MD, and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992), and the bibliography. MacDonald and Pinto, Hadrian’s Villa, pp. 108–11, interpret the Serapeum and Canopus as Triclinium and Canal, respectively, and say there is no absolute evidence linking them to Egypt, other than the accompanying Egyptianizing statues found in their areas. 102 See Myer, Antinoos: Die archäologischen Denkmäler, pp. 107–8. 103 See Alfred Grimm, D. Kessler, and H. Myer, Der Obelisk des Antinoos. Eine kommentierte Edition (Munich: W. Fink Verlag, 1994); Myer, Antinoos: Die archäologischen Denkmäler, pp. 175–8; Boatwright, Hadrian and the City, pp. 239–60, and n. 1 for added bibliography. 104 Filoppo Coarelli, “(Porticus) Addonaea Aedes Heliogaball, Aedes Iovis Ultoris. La tomba di Antinoo?” in “La tombe d’Antinous à Rome,” by J.C. Grenier and F. Coarelli, MEFRA, 98 (1986), pp. 23–253; Katja Lembke, “Wo stand der Obelisk des Antinoos,” Göttinger Miszellen. Beiträge zur ägyptologischen Diskussion, 148 (1995), pp. 109–12.

Itinerant Hadrian and imperial patronage 153 105 N. Hannestad, “Uber das Grabmal de Antinoos. Topographische und thematiche Studien im Conopus Gebiet der Villa Adriana,” AnalRom, 11 (1982), pp. 69–108. 106 For the villa, see MacDonald and J. Pinto, Hadrian’s Villa. 107 How dubious or not this theory is remains open. For the Antinoeion, see Z Zaccaria Mari and S. Sgalambro, “The Antinoeion of Hadrian’s Villa: Interpretation and Architectural Reconstruction,” American Journal of Archaeology, 111 (2007), pp. 83–104, and including the bibliography on their earlier reports. 108 Mari and S. Sgalambro, “The Antinoeion,” pp. 91, 98. They believe that most, if not all, of the known Antinous statues in the Egyptianizing style came from the area of Antinoeion. However, this can be disputed, and there is no scholarly consensus on this issue yet. 109 Mari and S. Sgalambro, “The Antinoeion,” pp. 91, 98; Clairmont, Die Bildnisse des Antinous, p. 17, also believed that Tivoli had become the main cult site. 110 Mari and S. Sgalambro, “The Antinoeion,” p. 91. 111 Mari and S. Sgalambro, “The Antinoeion,” p. 87. For the statues’ origins and their Renaissance history, see Brian Curran, The Egyptian Renaissance: The Afterlife of Ancient Egypt in Early Modern Italy (Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 2007), pp. 32–4, 202f. 112 Curran, The Egyptian Renaissance, p. 91, and n. 25. Clairmont, Die Bildnisse des Antinous, 16f., also placed said statues in the Egyptian style at Tivoli. 113 Mari and Sgalambro, “The Antinoeion,” p. 97. 114 Mari and Sgalambro, “The Antinoeion,” p. 99; Coarelli, “(Porticus) Addonaea Aedes Heliogaball,” pp. 225, 229; Boatwright, Hadrian and the City, 242ff. for the permutations and variations on the translations; Grimm et. al., Der Obelisk des Antinoos, pp. 61, 82. For more on the inscriptions and other viewpoints about the obelisk’s original location, see Brian Curran et al., Obelisk: A History (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2009), pp. 48–9, 306, n. 27, who argues that the obelisk was in fact originally from Antinopolis in Egypt. 115 (Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum 6.1139 = Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae 694); Richardson, A New Topographical Dictionary, p. 24. It has been argued that the arch is in fact a preexisting and modified monument from Hadrianic times; see Maria Letizia Conforto et al., Adriano e Constantino Le due fasi dell’arco nella valle del Colosseo (Milan, Italy: Electa, 2001). Recent scholarship has once again taken up the idea originally proposed by Arthur Frothingham that the arch was the result of a remodeled forerunner from the high imperial period. For the original argument, see Arthur L. Frothingham, “Who built the Arch of Constantine? Its History from Domitian to Constantine, Part I,” American Journal of Archaeology, 16 (1912), pp. 368–86; “Part II,” American Journal of Archaeology, 17 (1913), pp. 487–503; “Part III,” American Journal of Archaeology, 19 (1915), pp. 1–12; “Part IV,” American Journal of Archaeology, 19 (1915), pp. 367–84. Counterpoints to this view and an overall standard for any study of the arch are H.P L’Orange and A. von Gerkan, Der spatantike Bildschmuck des Konstantinsbogens, 2 vols. (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1939), especially pp. 4–33. The overwhelming consensus of scholars supports a Hadrianic date. See also, and more recently, Mark Wilson Jones, “Genesis and Mimesis: The Design of the Arch of Constantine in Rome,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 59:1 (Mar. 2000), pp. 50–77; Patrizio Pensabene and C. Panella, Arco di Constantino. Tra Archeologia e Archeometria (Rome: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider, 1999); M.T. Boatwright, Hadrian and the City, p. 90, with bibliography; J.M.C. Toynbee, The Hadrianic School: A Chapter in the History of Greek Art (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1934), for extensive early bibliography. 116 For further arguments, see Heinrich Bulle, “Ein Jagddenkmal des Kaisers Hadrian,” Jahrbuch des deutschen archäologschen Instituts, 34 (1919), pp. 144–72. 117  For biography on Antinous as well as his connection to Hadrian, see Lambert, Beloved and God. Bernario, A Commentary, pp. 148–49, postulated that Hadrian’s first trip to Bithynia was in 123. Syme, “Journeys,” p. 161, places him in Bithynia in winter 123 or 124. 118 As there is no direct evidence for identifying Antinous among the imperial retinue figured in the tondi, stylistic analysis is often used. For different opinions about the presence of Antinous, see H. Stuart Jones, “Notes on Roman Historical Sculptures,” Papers of the British School at Rome, 3:2 (1905), 232 ff.; Bulle, “Ein Jagddenkmal,” pp. 144–72;

154  Gerald A. Hess Anthony Bonnano, Portraits and Other Heads on Roman Historical Relief up to the Age of Septimius Severus (Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, 1976), pp. 96, 100; Boatwright, Hadrian and the City, 199 ff. 119 Boatwright, Hadrian and the City, pp. 190–1; Ernst Buschor, “Die Hadrianischen Jagdbilder,” RömMitt, 38/39 (1923–4), pp. 52–4, argues that there were two per side on a four-sided monument. 120 Heinz Kahler, Hadrian und seine Villa bei Tivoli (Berlin: Gebr. Mann, 1950), pp. 177ff.; Heinz Kahler, The Art of Rome and Her Empire (Crown Publishers, 1963), p. 154. 121 Myer, Antinoos: Die archaoläologischen Denkmäler, pp. 131–2, 218–21; H. Stuart Jones, “Notes on Roman Historical Sculptures,” Papers of the British School at Rome, 3:2 (1905), p. 233, following Arndt, saw the images as general types and not true portraits; Clairmont, Die Bildnisse des Antinous, pp. 56–7; Bulle, “Ein Jagddenkmal,” pp. 153–4; Bonnano, Portraits and Other Heads, pp. 96, 100. C. Vout, “Archaeology and History,” p. 88, following Dietrichson, very tentatively regards this figure as Antinous, based largely on the way that he turns his head back and looks down and to one direction. 122 Though he does entertain the possibility of the lion relating to the actual event heralded by Pankrates. Irmgard Maull, “Hadrian’s Jagddenkmal,” Jahrbuch des Österreichischen Archäologischen Institutes, 42 (1955), p. 59, also argues for it being a lion. 123 Salomon Reinach, “Les Têtes des médallions et l’arc de Constantine à Rome,” RA, 4:15 (1910), pp. 126–8. 124 Boatwright, Hadrian and the City, p. 199. 125 James Breasted, A History of Egypt from the Earliest Times to the Persian Conquest (New York: Scribner, 1909), p. 91. 126 James Breasted, Geschichte Aegyptens (Vienna: Phaidon, 1936), p. 351; Donald Redford, Akhenaten: The Heretic King (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984), p. 30. 127 Redford, Akhenaten, p. 30, stated that indeed the Middle Kingdom paved the way for the final evolution of the “strong man” king of the New Kingdom. 128 Amenhotep III, Perspective on his Reign, eds. David O’Connor and E. Cline (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1998), p. 13. 129 Redford, Akhenaten, p. 30. 130 Redford, Akhenaten, pp. 30–1. 131 Pliny the Younger, Letters and Panegyricus, 81.1, trans. Betty Radice (Cambridge: William Heinemann, 1969). 132 D.D. Luckenbill, Ancient Records of Assyria and Babylon (Chicago, IL: Greenwood Press, 1926), p. 189. 133 The question of transmittance of hunting as part of the royal prerogative of the king and also reflected in literature and art has been debated as moving from Egypt to the Near East, or vice versa. Most scholars seem to favor the former. See J.H. Wallis Budge, Assyrian Sculpture in the British Museum, Reign of Assurnasirpal (London: British Museum, 1914); Walter Wreszinski, Löwenjagd im Alten Aegypten (Liepzig: J.C. Hinrichs, 1932), pp. 1–27; B. Meissner, “Ägyptische und vorderasiatische jagddarstellung zu wagen,” Mitteilungen der Altorientallschen Gesellschaft, 8 (1934), pp. 1–14; J.H. Breasted, Assyrian Relief Sculpture and the Influence of Egyptian Art (London: J.C. Hinrichs, 1932); W.S. Smith, Interconnections in the Ancient Near East: A Study of the Relationships between the Arts of Egypt, the Aegean, and Western Asia (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1965), pp. 117–18; J.K. Anderson, Hunting in the Ancient World (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1985), pp. 1–10. 134 Xenophon, Cynegeticus, 1.4.5–11, trans. Rex Warner (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1972). 135 C.M.C. Green, “Did the Romans Hunt?” Classical Antiquity, 15:2 (Oct. 1996), pp. 222–60, 248. 136 Jacques Aymard, Essai sur les chasses romaines des origins à la fin-du-siècle des Antonins (Paris: E. de Boccard, 1951), p. 30. 137 See, in general, Jaeger, Paideia: The Ideals of Greek Culture; Paideia: The World of the Second Sophistic ed. Barbara Borg (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2004); Hogan, A Terrible Passion.

Itinerant Hadrian and imperial patronage 155 138 Steven Tuck, “The Origins of Roman Imperial Hunting Imagery: Domitian and the Redefinition of Virtus under the Principate,” Greece and Rome, 52:2 (2005), pp. 221–45, argues for an equestrian monument from the Sacellum of the Augustales at Misenum as the earliest extant image of the emperor as hunter. This argument is based in large part on equine disposition and mechanics; the context of such an image in the era of Domitianic failure—in many respects—versus the context of hunting images in the age of Hadrian is vastly different, and in my opinion Domitian, reviled by Rome in his time and there­ after, earning total disgrace and erasure, Damnatio Memoriae, surely held no validity for Hadrian or in the greater picture of imperial public art. 139 Tuck, “The Origins,” p. 245. Arete, or excellence and virtuous things (valor, courage, prowess, etc.) to put it very simplistically, can have all manner of nuances, and it depends to whom, or what, the word is being applied (of a slave, a horse, a woman or a warrior). 140 Anderson, Hunting in the Ancient World, p. 80. 141 For further reading, see Diana Spencer, The Roman Alexander: Reading a Cultural Myth (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2002). 142 Patricia Springborg, Western Republicanism and the Oriental Prince (Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1992), p. 89. 143 Arrian, Cynegeticus, 1.1. See Arrian’s Cynegeticus or the Book of the Chase, trans. D.B. Hall (Chicago, IL, NP, 1958); A.A. Phillipe and M. Willcook, Xenophon and Arrian on Hunting (Kynegetikos) (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1999). 144 Plato, Laws, 822d–24 (the quote is Anderson’s, p. 22). 145 Arrian, Arrian’s Cynegeticus or the Book of the Chase, 14.1, also wrote about the close bond that could be formed between men and young boys who hunt together. This is not very different from the youth of today who hunt with older boys, brothers, fathers, and friends. 146 See Homer, Illiad, 9.529–605, trans. Robert Fagels (New York: Penguin Classics, 1998); see Aymard, Essai sur les chasses romaines, p. 515, for the later use in the funerary sense on sarcophagi. For the representation of the Calydonian boar hunt in art, see S. Woodford and I. Krauskopf, Lexicon Iconographicum Mytho-logiae Classicae, 6, pp. 414–35. For mythological sarcophagi in general, see Toynbee, “Greek Imperial Medallions,” pp. 164–202; Anderson, Hunting in the Ancient World, 126ff. 147 See Aymard, Essai sur les chasses romaines, pp. 483–502. 148 See Aymard, Essai sur les chasses romaines, pp. 487–488; Jaeger, Paideia, III, 180ff.

8 Giorgio Vasari’s planetary ceiling A Neoplatonic voyage Liana De Girolami Cheney

We have an entire sky within us, our fiery strength and heavenly origin: Luna, which symbolize the continuous motion of soul and body, Mars, speed and Saturn slowness, the Sun God, Jupiter law, Mercury reason, and Venus humanity.1 (Excerpt from Marsilio Ficino’s Letter to Lorenzo the Magnificent)

In his art and writings, Giorgio Vasari (1511–74) appropriates visual and moral concepts from mythological, emblematic and philosophical manuals. To elucidate how Vasari manifests the appreciation of emblematic manuals in his art, we turn to the imagery of the Planets of 1548, on the ceiling of the Chamber of Fortune, in Vasari’s house at Arezzo, which visualizes a Neoplatonic voyage (Figures 8.1 and 8.2).2 In analyzing the Planets, constituting a visual segment of the ceiling decoration, three issues arise: how Vasari’s artistic symbolism is deeply rooted in the artistic conventions and mythological traditions of the sixteenth century; how these visual traditions, which reflect Renaissance Neoplatonic notions, are assimilated by Vasari and revealed in a secular decorative cycle for his house; and how Vasari creates a mythical journey for the artistic soul. In addressing the first question, this analysis begins with a visual history and depiction of Vasari’s first decorative cycle, his house in Arezzo, Casa Vasari. From 1542 to 1550, Vasari designed and painted the walls and ceiling of five rooms in his Aretine house: the Chambers of Fame, Apollo, Abraham and Fortune, and the Corridor of Ceres. The iconographical program for each room is complex, particularly Vasari’s study, known as the Chamber of Fortune. The ceiling of this study illustrates the most elaborate program of the Casa Vasari. In his autobiography, Vasari jocularly describes his paintings: I did [. . .] thirteen large pictures, containing the Gods of heaven, the four seasons, in the corners nudes, and regarding a large picture in the middle, containing life-size paintings of Virtue and Envy under her feet and gripping Fortune by the hair, while she beats both. A circumstance that gave great pleasure at the time is that in going round the room Fortune at one place seems above Envy and Virtue, and at another Virtue is above Envy and Fortune, as is often the case in reality.3

Giorgio Vasari’s planetary ceiling 157

Figure 8.1  Giorgio Vasari, Ceiling with Planets, Chamber of Fortune, 1548, Casa Vasari, Arezzo. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Liana De Girolami Cheney (own work). Licensing information: PD-Self, courtesy of the author.

The Chamber of Fortune is the only room in the house with a painted ceiling and walls. Its walls are visually divided, with an upper zone containing personifications of goodness and natural landscapes and a lower zone with classical stories. The ceiling consists of three themes depicted in recessed and projected areas. The projected area, or the palco, portrays the personifications of Fortune, Envy and Virtue. Encircling these figures in a recessed area are the personifications of the four seasons, depicted by the ages of man. Surrounding the seasons are the planets, appearing as images of eight planetary gods accompanied by their correlating astrological signs. Lastly, putti holding Vasari’s coat of arms are found in the corners of the ceiling.

158  Liana De Girolami Cheney

Figure 8.2  Liana Cheney, Reconstruction of Vasari’s Ceiling with Planets, Chamber of Fortune, 1548, Casa Vasari, Arezzo. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Liana De Girolami Cheney (own work). Licensing information: PD-Self, courtesy of the author. Map of reconstruction by numbers: 1. Envy; 2. Fortune; 3. Virtue; 4. Spring; 5. Summer; 6. Autumn; 7. Winter; 8. Mercury; 9. Mars; 10. Apollo; 11. Diana (Moon); 12. Saturn; 13. Jupiter; 14. Cupid; 15. Venus; 16. Vasari’s coat-of-arms.

By depicting the Planets with their connections to the astral gods and the zodiacal signs, Vasari combines the stylistic and iconographical traditions in Renaissance art and humanistic culture,4 such as Early Modern illuminated manuscripts depicting the planets as personifications and sometimes ruled by zodiacal signs (Figure 8.3).5 Other possible sources for Vasari’s composition are Matteo Palmieri (1406–75), Città di vita, an Italian manuscript of the fifteen century, with an illustrated poem of the soul’s journey

Giorgio Vasari’s planetary ceiling 159 toward earth and heaven (Biblioteca Laurenziana, Florence, Plut. 40.53, ff. viv–42r), and Cristoforo de Predis (1440–86), De Sphaera of 1460, in the Biblioteca Estense Universitaria in Modena (codex a.X2,14–Lat 209), being one of the most important illustrated astrological manuscripts of the Renaissance. Vasari’s style also reflects the artistic convention of decorative cycles for representing cosmological and astrological imagery in the Renaissance, such as Guliano d’Arrigo’s (Il Pesello; 1367–1446) Northern hemisphere of 1442–46, which is a ceiling fresco in the Old Sacristy of San Lorenzo in Florence, depicting the arrival of René d’Anjou in Florence. For his visual conceit (concetto) of the Planets, Vasari also recalls the well-known mythological and emblematic Renaissance manuals, such as Francesco Colonna’s Hypnerotomachia Poliphili (Venice, 1499), Andrea Alciato’s Emblematic (Lyons, Venice, 1531–59 several editions), Piero Valeriano’s Hieroglyphica (Basle, 1521),6

Figure 8.3  Erhard Schön, Page from natal horoscope for Leonhard Reymann, Der astrologische Gedanke in der deutschen Vergangenheit, 1515, woodcut. Photographic credit: Michael Hurts. Licensing information: PD-Art/ PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

160  Liana De Girolami Cheney Giovanni Boccaccio’s Geneologia de gli Dei (1360, printed in Venice, 1472), Giglio Gregorio Giraldi’s De deis gentium (Venice, 1548), Natale Conti’s Mythologiae (Venice, 1567) and Vincenzo Cartari’s Imagine delli Dei de gl’Antichi (Venice, 1556; Figure 8.4). These sources are compilations of medieval myths, hieroglyphs and numismatic sources. These manuals were widely known to Renaissance artists and literati, who appropriated their conceits and imagery directly from them without feeling any need to credit their sources.7 The historical tradition also provided him with an appreciation of classical art in decorative cycles. In addition, Vasari’s iconographical legacy, being embedded in ancient tradition, symbolically reveals the celestial planets’ implications on the power on one’s life, in accordance with the Renaissance notion of the microcosm being dependent upon the macrocosm. By depicting the planets or heavenly bodies on the ceiling, Vasari further alludes to the importance of their cosmic rhythmical function, orbiting the world in order to support life on Earth. According to Renaissance Neoplatonic philosophy, each planet has a distinct spirit, feature and role; thus, Vasari visualizes the planets affecting the psyche or soul of an individual, and, in particular, his own artistic soul. In the depiction of the Planets, Vasari focuses on the established tradition of the seven planets known to the sixteenth-century humanists, namely, Jupiter, Saturn,

Figure 8.4  Vincenzo Cartari, Astrological Calendar, in Imagine delli Dei de gl’Antichi, engraving (Padua: Pietro Paolo Tozzi, 1615). Photographic credit: Courtesy of Dornicke. Licensing information: MASP Catálogo Casa Fiat de Cultura [1], public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Giorgio Vasari’s planetary ceiling 161 Mercury, Mars, Venus, Diana (Moon) and Apollo (Sun), as seen in Renaissance manuscripts and later in Cartari’s Astrological Calendar in Imagini delli Dei de gl’Antichi.8 The planetary gods controlled, not only the twenty-four hours of the day and the seven days of the week, but also the twelve months of the year and the four seasons. Vasari followed this tradition in constructing the zodiacal portion of the ceiling. Traditionally, most astrological representations of the planets and signs of the zodiac were anthropomorphic or zoomorphic conceptions, as illustrated and documented in books of hours and astrological manuals.9 He assimilates the Renaissance conception of the celestial realm and the intervention of the stars and zodiacal signs in an individual’s life and, in particular, in his artistic representations on the ceiling of the Chamber of Fortune. Vasari’s appropriation of Renaissance Neoplatonic ideals addresses the second question of this chapter. In the cinquecento, humanists and artists viewed the universe as a compendium of images reflecting the metaphysical realm. This imagery conveys a Neoplatonic view of the meaning of an idea or conceit, which is eloquently explained by Marsilio Ficino in De vita coelitus comparanda.10 In this treatise, Ficino discusses the use and the magical potency of images by deliberating on the virtue of imagery, what power pertains to the figure in the sky and on Earth, which of the heavenly configurations are impressed on images by the ancients, and how the images are employed in antiquity.11 For instance, Ficino states that Rays can impress wonderful occult powers on images, as they do on other things. For they are not inanimate like rays of lamps; rather, they are living and sensate like eyes shining in living bodies. They bring wonderful gifts with them from celestial imagination and minds, as well as strength and power from the configuration and rapid movement of these bodies. They incite in the spirit, effectively and appropriately, a reproduction of the celestial rays.12 From his classic and emblematic studies, Vasari acquired knowledge of Renaissance Neoplatonism and its philosophical implications. For example, in the Planets, Vasari reveals the assimilation of Ficino’s cosmic Renaissance Neoplatonism in the uses of mythic sources for the depictions of natural phenomena as symbols of artistic life. Visually, in the Planets, particularly in the depiction of Apollo (Sun), Vasari reflects Ficino’s sentiment: Our soul, besides maintaining the particular powers of its members, promotes the common power of life all through us, but especially through the heart [which is the] source of the intimate fire of the soul. Similarly the World Soul flourishes everywhere, but especially through the sun, as it indiscriminately unfolds its common power of life.13 In his writings, Renaissance Neoplatonic philosopher Marsilio Ficino (1433–99) epitomizes the microcosm and macrocosm theory. His cosmological theory relies on the writings of classical philosophers, such as Pythagoras (c. sixth century bce), Empedocles (c. fifth century bce) and Aristotle (c. fourth century bce). Most of all, Ficino is influenced by Plato’s theory of the four elements—air, fire, earth and water— as astrological symbols in relationship to nature (Timaeus, 56–8). For example, Ficino writes that

162  Liana De Girolami Cheney Every spirit since it is naturally rather fiery, and light and volatile like air, is also like light, and therefore similar to colors and vocal airs and odors and movements of the soul. For that reason spirit can be moved quickly and formed through these things.14 As a result of this heavenly connection, the natural elements of air, fire, earth and water become associated with the planets and zodiacal signs; for example, air connects with the planet Jupiter, and the zodiacal signs of Gemini, Libra and Aquarius; fire connects with the planet Mars, and the zodiacal signs of Aries, Leo and Sagittarius; earth links with the planet Venus, and the zodiacal signs of Taurus, Virgo and Capricorn; and water joins with the planet of the Moon (Luna), and the zodiacal signs Cancer, Scorpio and Pisces. Thus, in explaining the elements of the spirit (soul) or psyche, Ficino relates the elements of nature to the elements of the spirit, as well as connecting the deities with the elements of nature and the spirit. For example, Apollo as Jupiter is the god of Light and is connected with the element of air. Ficino further elaborates on the natural and spiritual connection when he explains the following: You know well that the gross body is nourished by the four gross elements. Know then that the spiritual body is nourished by its own kind of four subtle elements: wine corresponds to earth; the aroma of wine takes the place of water; songs and musical melodies are air; and light stands for the element fire. Spirit is especially nourished by these four.15 In Vasari’s ceiling, there is no evidence of an astral chart to be seen, although the planetary gods, along with the seasons, are depicted with their respective zodiacal signs (except Venus, who shares one of her signs with her son Cupid, who is found in the adjacent compartment). Moreover, the zodiacal signs are not only related historically to the seasons and the ages of life, but also to the four natural elements: the qualities of the atmosphere and the winds; the humors and the temperaments of human beings; and the colors in nature.16 These interrelationships between the signs of the zodiac and the planetary gods complicate the phases of a given cycle of creation. Each cycle of creation is connected with and governed by a planetary god and one or more zodiacal signs. In addition, a zodiacal sign affects the particular mode, virtue and tendency of a ruling planet and its relationship to the other planets. As these planetary gods are anthropomorphized, Renaissance humanists and artists also believed that the tendency, behavior and character of the planetary gods influence the present and future condition of the individual. Vasari’s ceiling composition demonstrates his awareness of the sixteenth-century notion of the astrological placement of the stars (seven planetary gods with their zodiacal signs) and the generating forces of the spheres (seasons and humors of human beings), which is the third aspect of this chapter. Further, Vasari’s imagery captures a Neoplatonic world as reflected by Ficino’s comment on the planets: To the extent that the ruling heavens favor your beginnings and further life, you will pursue the promises of your birth; especially if Plato is correct and antiquity with him, in saying that when anyone is born they are given a certain daimeon, a life–guardian–destine by one’s very own star.17

Giorgio Vasari’s planetary ceiling 163 Ficino further explains: Always remember that through a given affect and pursuit of our mind through the very quality of our spirit we are easily and quickly exposed to those planets which signify the same affect, quality and pursuit. Hence, by withdrawal from human affairs we come under the influence of Saturn. We come under the influence of Jupiter by civic occupation [. . .] of Mars by anger and contests, of the Sun and of Mercury, by the pursuit of eloquence glory and skill [. . .] of Venus by music and festivity, of the Moon by a vegetable existence.18 In the depiction of the Planets, there is a general underlying philosophy that gives unity and meaning to the various astrological representations. However, Vasari’s philosophy comprises a set of personal convictions, rather than being the result of systematic thought. In the Chamber of Fortune, the imagery of the ceiling alludes to the celestial realm, and the imagery of the walls of the room refers to the natural realm. In the celestial realm, the manifestation of the planetary gods unfolds in a series of symbolic connections that are interdependent with the personifications in the palco and the imagery of the walls, in the chamber, or the natural realm. In the celestial realm, on the ceiling of the Chamber of Fortune, the astrological function of the planets is to reveal their power for granting benefits to Vasari. With the depiction of the Planets, Vasari also portrays a symbolic connection between the ceiling and the palco scene. The palco contains painted scenes of the personifications of Envy, Fortune and Virtue. The allusion of the palco scene is that, because of the positive emanation of the planets and their ability to bestow generous benefits, such as good fortune, the latter being reflected in the personification of Fortune, fortune is granted to the virtuous man Vasari, who is symbolically depicted in the personification of Virtue. But, more to the point is that the planets are granting good fortune to Vasari, as reflected in his accomplishments as a renowned artist. Evidence of this is that his stature is envied by his peers, as revealed in the depiction of the personification of Envy. In this imagery of the Planets, Vasari visually unveils Ficino’s view of the harmony of the spirit: Whoever imitates by devotion, study, life and habits celestial benefits, activities, or order, insofar as he is more like the heavens he will receive more abundant gifts. But people unnaturally dissimilar to the heavens and discordant are secretly miserable, though publicly my not appear unhappy.19 With Renaissance Neoplatonic allusions, Vasari creates this unified vision of the universe in his ceiling where God manifests His mediation of the celestial bodies and the personification of virtues.20 In each section of the ceiling, the heavenly bodies— constellations, zodiacal signs and planetary symbols—integrate with the meaning of divine intervention. These cosmological representations portray the control of the stars over Nature. The zodiacal signs and constellations allude to relationships in the universe and to cyclic and seasonal transformations—the wheel of life. The rotating movements of the heavenly bodies have the power to directly influence the course of events on Earth, including all human activities, from affairs of state to bodily health. As an individual, Vasari knows how to submit to the laws of Nature as well as to the laws of God.

164  Liana De Girolami Cheney For Vasari, then, these cosmological associations portray the planets’ control of Nature and Art. However, he emphasizes the difference between these two realms—the realm of nature and the realm of art. The realm of nature is one of realism with nature, whereas the realm of art is one of fantasy with nature; the realm of nature is actual, general and real, whereas the realm of art is artificial, selective and superior to nature. The artist experiences nature, but creates art, as in the depiction of the Planets for the ceiling of the Chamber of Fortune in the Casa Vasari at Arezzo, which reveals Vasari’s artistic sagacity. Consequently, in depicting the Planets, Vasari affirms the ancient and Renaissance conventions of the symbolism of orderliness, correctness and model behavior—Nature does not err, and Art reveals its victory (Natura potentior Ars).21 In the depiction of the Planets, Vasari further asserts the power of the creative mind or the artistic soul, which is guided by the trajectory of astral forces and divine inspiration. This section addresses the third part of the chapter. Vasari’s concept of creativity originates in God, whom he refers to as “Divine Architect of time and of nature” in the First Preface of the Vite:22 Now the material in which God worked to fashion the first man was a lump of clay, and this was not without reason; for the Divine Architect of time and of nature, being wholly perfect, wanted to show how to create by a process of removing from, and adding to, material that was imperfect in the same way that good sculptors and painters do when, by adding and taking away, they bring their rough models and sketches to the final perfection for which they are striving.23 Vasari’s view of God as the architect of the universe is based on the Bible of the Middle Ages and, in particular, on Saint Thomas Aquinas’s Summa Theologica (I.17, 1. ro.3), where he says, “God, Who is the first principle of things, may be compared to things created as the architect is to things designed (ut artifex ad artificiata).”24 For Vasari, God transmits divine inspiration to the artist through a furor poeticus (inspirational fire), which is manifested at first in a design (disegno). He states, “Many painters achieve in the first design (disegno) of their work, as though guided by a sort of inspirational fire (furor poeticus), something of the good and a certain measure of boldness; but afterwards, in finishing it, the boldness vanishes.”25 Vasari’s explanation of artistic creativity is based fundamentally on the Italian Renaissance tradition, which considers creativity to be a faculty present in all of human activity, as well as Ficino’s Neoplatonic explanation of inspiration or furor.26 He explains in his Orphic writings that there are four forms of inspiration or divine frenzy: divine, prophetic, amorous and poetic. For Ficino, Orpheus is an exceptional poet because he possesses these Platonic furors, and, in particular, one of these furors, furor poeticus or the frenzy of the poet,27 is an intellectual force, which is intuitive, creative and contemplative.28 In the Planets, Vasari visually equates the furor poeticus to what I refer to as furor artisticus (the inspiration of the artist), where the artist’s soul travels through the planets to the divine, in order to obtain this intellectual force, so as to create beauty. With a Neoplatonic emphasis, Vasari starts his vita by thanking God, La Divina Bontà, for having provided him with ingegno (Neoplatonic nous or mind) for the creation of artistry. This invocation for divine inspiration is addressed as well in Vasari’s opening remarks of the dedicatory letter of January 9, 1568 to Cosimo de Medici, Duke of Florence and Tuscany. Vasari writes the following: “Accept then, most Illustrious

Giorgio Vasari’s planetary ceiling 165 Excellency, this my book, or rather indeed your book, of the Vite of the craftsmen of design (disegno); and like the Almighty God, looking rather at my soul and at my good intentions than at my work, take from me with right good will not what I would wish and ought to give, but what I can.”29 And in the Preface to the Whole Work in the Vite, Vasari also praises God as “Almighty God, who created the great body of the world, Our Father, first artist and divine architect of Time and Nature.”30 For Vasari, the planets are created by God, Almighty, to protect and guide the individual in the natural realm. The artist, an individual composed of natural matter (body) and spiritual matter (soul or anima), connects with the divine through the soul; hence, the depiction of the Planets, in the ceiling of the Chamber of Fortune, which is Vasari’s studio. As he creates his images, he receives divine inspiration, and his soul is moved to depict these inventions. The soul of the artist (Vasari’s soul) functions at two levels: natural and metaphysical. At the natural level, the soul is instrumental in agitating the psychological makeup of the artist in understanding the natural expression of the human soul. At the metaphysical level, the soul moves or travels from the body or the natural vicissitudes of life (passions and emotions), toward the formation of notions (concetti) of goodness, beauty and love, a spiritual or celestial realm.31 The planets are too in motion, manifesting the natural and divine cosmological order. In the depiction of the Planets, Vasari aligns himself with Ficino’s theory of spiritus, “the power between the planetary daimons and the life of the individual.”32 The spiritus is manifested from the planets to the artistic image, meaning that an image depicting a planetary god or goddess contains all the inherent qualities of the deity, and thus the artist reveals in the painted image of the planet an archetype.33 Vasari’s Planets encapsulate a Ficinian psycho-poetic vision of divine manifestation. For Ficino, the soul is formed of three dimensions—material, cosmic and mystical—that he refers to as qualities of visions.34 The movement or journey through these qualities is “non other than the development of ever deepening powers of perceptions.”35 The soul’s first dimension is to travel between God and the body or the senses of the individual (material dimension); then to move through the intellect and understanding (cosmic dimension); and finally through the spirit and the realm of love (mystical dimension), reaching contemplation and a bond with God. This is a Christian journey of the soul to love God. As a Christian, Vasari’s quest is the same, and he visualizes this guidance metaphorically through the depiction of the Planets in the ceiling of his studio in his home. Ficino also visualizes seven cosmic steps for the ascension of the soul through the function and guidance of the planets, forming a metaphorical stepladder.36 In her book on Marsilio Ficino, Voss explains Ficino’s seven steps in relation to the seven planets. The Moon, Mercury and Venus reveal, for the soul journey, a material dimension or a “sensory level” of life; the Sun and Mars provide a “creative level” for the soul; Jupiter guides the soul to move onto a higher plateau, an “intellectual level,” thus culminating with Saturn, where the soul journey is complete and reaches the “contemplation level,” where the soul achieves spiritual love for being united with God.37 In On Obtaining Life from the Heavens, a commentary section on Plotinus’s writings, Ficino discusses how the soul (world–soul) through the stars (planets) radiates goodness (love) in life. In Chapter 19, Ficino further explains how the soul constructs an image of the seven planets in the cosmos. With a poetical visualization, he assigns colors to the planets in order to illuminate and irradiate the soul, Venus and the Moon

166  Liana De Girolami Cheney with the color green reflecting an earthy realm, while Jupiter with blue or lapis lazuli color and the Sun (Apollo) with gold colors manifest the celestial realm.38 He continues explaining the function of the planets and their interconnections providing gifts and guidance for the soul’s journey. Ficino associates the function of the planet with the elements of nature or classical elements (air, water, fire and earth), the states of these four elements (solid, liquid, gas and plasma), the sensible qualities of these four elements (hot, cold, wet and dry), and their seasonal connection (spring, summer, autumn and winter). These classical elements with their complex constructions become the attributes of the planets, which are illustrated in the zodiacal signs. For example, the Fire signs are Aries, Leo and Sagittarius, which correspond to the planets Mars, Apollo and Jupiter; the Earth signs are Taurus, Virgo and Capricorn, corresponding to the planets Venus, Mercury and Saturn; the Air signs are Gemini, Libra and Aquarius, which correspond to the planets Mercury, Venus and Saturn; and the Water signs are Cancer, Scorpio and Pisces, which are associated with the planets Moon (Diana), Mars and Jupiter. In this manner, Vasari, like Ficino, visualizes his understanding of the power of the stars and planets and of their control of the individual destiny. He invents and takes astral signs, for instance Mercury with Gemini and Virgo; Mars with Aries and Scorpio; Saturn with Capricorn and Aquarius; Jupiter with Sagittarius and Pisces. Uniquely, he adds to the planetary structure the mythological figure of Cupid, associating him with the astrological sign of Taurus in order to balance the formal composition of the ceiling. Furthermore, in On Obtaining Life from the Heavens, Ficino connects the divine favors transmitted through the planets to the individual. For example, Mercury and the Moon are messengers of the gods;39 Jupiter imparts joviality,40 Venus manifests love,41 and Saturn distributes endurance.42 In his ceiling, Vasari too associates the planets’ function of bestowing benefits, such as the natural richness of the earth as demonstrated by his successful career, and spiritual richness as his code for achieving moral virtues, which are essential for living well. The gifts of dimensions of human existence, such as Mercury promoting the virtue of liberality, Apollo of prudence, Cupid of honor, Saturn of patience, and Venus of felicity, refer to the ethical qualities to be emulated by a virtuous person (Vasari) in order to aspire to live a good, rich and happy life. Correspondingly, Vasari absorbs from Ficino’s Commentary on Plato’s “Symposium about Love” the ancient Greek philosopher’s definition of beauty “as the splendor of divine goodness present everywhere, personal beauty expresses an interior moral goodness,” as well as Ficino’s explanation of beauty as “a process of ascent from sensual cognition of only beauty to the apprehension of the immortal ideal of beauty itself.”43 By appropriating from Ficino the interconnection between love and beauty, Vasari also embraces Ficino’s notion of the essence of beauty that consists in proportion. This is the ancient doctrine of the symmetrical and pleasant relationship between individual parts. According to Vasari, the origin of beauty derives from order and proportion (la bellezza nasce da ordine e proporzione), and he relates the concept of beauty to goodness (bellezza e bontà).44 Vasari is obviously following Ficino. In the Symposium, Ficino discusses how many things are required to create a beautiful body, such as arrangement (meaning the distance between parts), proportion (meaning quantity) and aspect (meaning shape and color). He further analyzes how the proportioned parts have their natural position: “That the ears be in their place, and the eyes and nose, etc., and that the eyes be at equal distances near the nose [. . .] proportion

Giorgio Vasari’s planetary ceiling 167 of the parts [. . .] preserve the proper portion of the whole body.”45 In the process of creating beauty, Vasari visualizes through art an aesthetic voyage or a journey of the soul in order to find spiritual love and be able to contemplate the divine. Thus, Vasari’s aesthetics derives jointly from the classical conception of physical beauty and from the Neoplatonic notion of spiritual beauty. That is to say, for Vasari, the classical concept of beauty means a creation of a beautiful image from the combination of parts of the body commensurately and proportionately arranged as a whole, as represented, which are conceived in the mind–soul of the artist. In the visualization of the Planets, Vasari reveals the creative voyage of his mind–soul.

Notes 1 See Thomas Moore, The Planets Within: The Astrological Psychology of Marsilio Ficino (Hudson, NY: Lindsfarne Press, 1990), p. v. See Baccio Baldini (1436–87), The Planets and Their Children, manuscript of 1460 with engravings of the planets Mercury, Venus, Saturn, the Sun and the Moon who guides the activities of those born under their auspices, in the Museo Civico in Pavia (Inv. 1595–91). See also Georg Pencz (1500–50), Folge der Planeten, wood engravings originally published by the Italian editor Gabriele Giolito de Ferrari in 1533. In these engravings, the Planets are moving through time in a chariot, alluding to their celestial trajectory, temporary stance and mutable nature. By contrast, Vasari’s Planets are reclining and at rest, alluding to their permanence and their perpetual guidance and protection of his artistic and life voyage. 2 A drawing of the ceiling, at times attributed to Vasari’s assistant Cristoforo (Cristofano) Gherardi, Il Doceno (1508–56), is at the Gabinetto dei Disegni e Stampe, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence (Inv. N. 1617E). 3 See Giorgio Vasari, Le vite de’ più eccellenti pittori, scultori et architettori, l550 and l568, ed. Gaetano Milanesi (Florence, Italy: G.S. Sansoni, 1970–4), Vol. VII. All succeeding references to this text will be noted as Vasari–Milanesi. See also Leslie Thomson, ed., Fortune (Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 2000), pp. 31–43 and 81–7; Liana De Girolami Cheney, “Giorgio Vasari’s Paintings of the Casa Vasari Arezzo,” Explorations in Renaissance Culture (Spring 1985), pp. 53–73; Liana De Girolami Cheney, The Homes of Giorgio Vasari (London: Peter Lang, 2006), Chapter 5; and Liana De Girolami Cheney, Giorgio Vasari’s Teachers: Sacred and Profane Art (London: Peter Lang, 2007), Chapter 3. 4 See Simone Bartolini, Sole e Simboli (Sun and Symbols) (Florence, Italy: Polistampa, 2013), pp. 13–19. 5 See Solange de Mailly Nesle, Astrology: History, Symbols and Signs (Rochester, VT: Inner Traditions, 1981), p. 22, illustrations on p. 23. 6 He was Vasari’s teacher and mentor during his classical education, along with the Aretine humanist Giovanni Lappoli Pollastra (1465–1540). 7 Jean Seznec, The Survival of the Pagan Gods (New York: Harper & Row, 1961), pp. 296, 279–323; for a study of the manuals available in the cinquecento and for a specific account of the sources that Cartari drew upon in his book, in particular, see Pausanias’ Description of Greece (late second century); Lucius Apuleius’s Metamorphoses (The Golden Ass, third century); Ambrosius Theodosius Macrobius’s Saturnalia (a commentary on the Dream of Scipio and a Platonist compendium of the fifth century); and Martianus Capella’s On the Marriage of Philology and Mercury (a Neoplatonic allegorical text of the fifth century). Seznec also points out how Cartari is read and used by Roman classicist and poet Annibale Caro (1507–66) and Giorgio Vasari (Paris: Flammarion, l980, 2nd ed.), pp. 256–62. 8 For an emblematic and iconographical comparison between Cartari’s planetary imagery and Vasari’s deities, see Cheney, The Homes of Giorgio Vasari, pp. 122–9. 9 For example, see the Limbourg Brothers’ calendar pages in the Trés riches heures du Duc de Berry of 1410, and Albrecht Dürer’s Constellation Map of 1515. See Liana De Girolami Cheney, “Vasari and Naples: The Monteoliveto Order,” in Papers in Art History, Vol. V (Pennsylvania State University, 1994), pp. 48–126, for a discussion of Vasari’s assimilation of the astrological tradition in the paintings of the Monteoliveto Refectory of Naples, completed in 1545.

168  Liana De Girolami Cheney 10 Marsilio Ficino, Opera Omnia, 2 vols. (Basle, 1576, reprint Paris : Phénix Editions, 2000). 11 See E. Gombrich, Symbolic Images (London: Phaidon, 1972), p. 172, and André Chastel, Marsile Ficin et l’art (Geneva, Switzerland: Droz, 1996), pp. 81–9. 12 Quoted in Moore, The Planets, p. 123, from Ficino, De vita, Chapter 2. 13 Quoted in Moore, The Planets, p. 127, from Ficino, De vita, Chapter 2. 14 See Ficino, Opera, Chapter 11. Ficino also ranks the planets according to their degree of moisture; for example, Mercury is the moistest, followed by Venus. See Ficino, Opera, p. 54. 15 See Ficino Opera, Chapter 24. 16 See Jean Seznec, The Survival of the Pagan Gods (New York: Harper & Row, 1961), pp. 279–327, in particular, p. 47. 17 See Ficino, Opera, Chapter 23, and Moore, The Planets, p. 27. 18 In his essay “On the Harmony of the World, On the Nature of Man according to the Start and How to Attract Something from Some One Particular Start,” Ficino notes how “Man is born naked, defenseless, in need of everything, he obtains all these things for himself by his own industry.” See Carol V. Kaske and John R. Clark, Marsilio Ficino’s Three Books on Life (Tempe, AZ: Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1998), Chapter II, pp. 249, 253 and 255. 19 See Ficino, Opera, p. 566. 20 Fitting with Renaissance Neoplatonism, Vasari creates a theological and cosmological analogy between God the Creator (God the Maker or God the Architect) and himself—an artist who creates, invents and imitates because he is in enthos (a Greek word for “filled with God”). See Milton Nam, The Artist as Creator (Baltimore, MD: Penguin, 1956), passim. 21 The phrase alludes to the notion that Art is more powerful than Nature. See Horace’s Ars Poetica, ed. C. O. Brink (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971), passim. Titian employs the motto Natura potentior ars as his emblem. See Thomas Puttfarken, Titian and Tragic Painting (London: Yale University Press, 2005), p. 200, for a discussion on the origin of the motto. 22 See Rosanna Bettarini and Paola Barocchi on the 1550 and 1568 editions of Giorgio Vasari, Le vite de’ più eccellenti architetti, pittori, et scultori (Florence: Sansoni, 1971–86), vols. I–VI. All succeeding references to this text will be noted as Bettarini–Barocchi. The citation here from Preface One, II, p. 4. 23 My translation of the following: “Cosi, dunque, il primo modello onde uscì la prima immagine dell’uomo fu una massa di terra; e non senza cagione, perciò che il divino Architetto del tempo e della natura, come perfettissimo, volle mostrare nell’imperfezione della materia la via del levare e dell’aggiungere, nel medesimo modo che sogliono fare i buoni scultori e pittori, i quali, ne’ lor modelli, aggiungendo e levando riducono le imperfette bozze a quel fine e perfezione che vogliono.” See Bettarini–Barocchi, Preface One, II, p. 4. 24 Bible moralisé, Paris, c.1220–30, folio 1 verso, in BL Harley MS 1527, f.27. 25 Vasari–Milanesi, V, p. 260. 26 See Paul Oskar Kristeller, ed., The Letters of Marsilio Ficino, 3 vols. (New York: Ginko Press, 1985), I, p. 15; Chastel, Marsile Ficin, pp. 131–3; and Marsilio Ficino, Platonic Theology:Concerning the Immortality of the Soul (1474, VII, pp. 14–15), quoted by Erwin Panofsky, Studies in Iconology (New York: Harper & Row, 1962), p. 140, n. 36. 27 See Ficino, Platonic Theology (1474, VIII, p. 16), quoted by Panofsky in Panofsky, Studies in Iconology, p. 137, n. 22. See Marsilio Ficino, Commentary on Plato’s Symposium, trans. S.R. Jayne (Columbia, MO: University of Missouri, 1944); and Meditations on the Soul:Selected Letters of Marsilio Ficino, ed. Clement Salaman (Rochester, VT: Inner Tradition, 1996), pp. 64–75. Another probable source is Leon Battista Alberti’s treatise On Painting, where he describes painting as highest among the arts because “it contains a divine force.” See L.B. Alberti, On Painting, ed. and trans. R. Spencer (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1996), pp. 90–1; Rudolph and Margot Wittkower, Born under Saturn (New York: W.W. Norton, 1969), p. 15; and the “Introduction” to R. Klein, La forme et l’intelligible (Paris: Gallimard, 1970). 28 Ficino, Platonic Theology (1474, VII, pp. 14–15), quoted by Panofsky in Studies in Iconology, p. 140, n. 36. 29 See Bettarini–Barocchi, I, pp. 1–5.

Giorgio Vasari’s planetary ceiling 169 30 My translation of the following: “Altissimo Dio [che ha] fatto il grande corpo del mondo, Dio Padre primo artista e divino architetto del Tempio e della Natura.” See Bettarini–Barocchi, I, pp. 1–5. 31 Marsilio Ficino, ed. Angela Voss (Berkeley, CA: North Atlantic Books, 2006), pp. 15 and 76–8; the soul travels into the body. 32 See Moore, The Planets, p. 38; Paul Oskar Kristeller, The Philosophy of Marsilio Ficino, trans. Virginia Conant (Gloucester, MA: Peter Smith Press, 1964), p. 314. 33 See Moore, The Planets, p. 38, and Voss, Marilio Ficino, p. 111, On Obtaining Life from the Heavens. See also Kaske and Clark, Ficino, pp. 237–394, On Obtaining Life from the Heavens, Book 3, where, in a complex manner, Ficino unveils the connection of the planets with all aspects of the natural world, the condition of their substance and their construct; for example, Venus, the planet of love, is associated with earth, fixed star, elements of spring, whose zodiacal sign is Taurus and Libra. The planet can be hot and dry or wet and moist, according to her other planetary connections. 34 Voss, Marsilio Ficino, p. 13. 35 Voss, Marsilio Ficino, p. 13. 36 See Kaske and Clark, Ficino, pp. 236 and 237 for an image of Ficino’s cosmos, which is similar to Ptolemy’s celestial sphere. 37 Voss, Marsilio Ficino, p. 13. 38 Voss, Marsilio Ficino, pp. 145–6, and Kaske and Clark, Ficino, pp. 243–57. 39 Kaske and Clark, Ficino, p. 263. 40 Kaske and Clark, Ficino, p. 265. 41 Kaske and Clark, Ficino, p. 263. 42 Kaske and Clark, Ficino, p. 363. 43 See Jayne, Marsilio Ficino, p. 90. Ficino explains how Beauty is the splendor of the divine countenance, pp. 89–91; Vestra, “Love and Beauty in Ficino and Plotinus,” p. 185, and Liana De Girolami Cheney, Botticelli’s Neoplatonic Images (Potomac, MD: Scripta Humanistica, 1993), pp. 32–4. 44 See Vasari–Milanesi, VII, p. 710 and V, p. 386. 45 See Jayne, Marsilio Ficino, pp. 93–5.

9 Going back to the beginning of things Wishful travel and the ancient origins of the arts in France Sarah J. Lippert

Myths and legends have long defined the origins of the arts. These beginnings have been perplexing throughout the history of the Western tradition, as even today the first motives and means of artistic production amongst prehistoric peoples elude scholars. It is no wonder then that charting the invention of creative actions in the visual arts, for instance, has been a considerably intriguing task for historians and theorists of the arts since antiquity. In a blend of fact and fiction, the ancients attempted to account for such origins. Amongst others, tales of Greek painters Apelles (c. fourth century bce) and Zeuxis (c. fifth century bce) claimed the heights of achievement for heroes who would come to be upheld as archetypes of artistic production. The Roman poet Ovid (b.43 bce), in his Metamorphoses, and Renaissance theorists, such as Leon Battista Alberti (1404–72) and Giorgio Vasari (1511–74), even proposed supernatural foundations for the invention of the visual arts, borne out in the tribulations of narratives involving Orpheus, Pygmalion, Narcissus, and Perseus, whose fables allegorized the births of painting and sculpture. Although revived in the Renaissance, these stories, whether of supposedly real or merely fictional heroes, were exceptionally popular in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century France. There have a been a few select studies on individual characters embodying the origin of an art form, but the theme as a whole has not been fully explored, nor completely tied to the relevant historical context, despite the popularity of such imagery at this time. Through consideration of the impetus behind such works, it will become evident that specific objectives were driving this theme. The escalating frequency of these subjects may be logically tied to the rise of the discipline of aesthetic theory in the eighteenth century, when the nature and modes of artistic production were being codified. In order to theorize artistic practice, it was increasingly important to return to the beginning of things, so as to trace the proper course of artistic production for the future. In this chapter, I will consider how the preoccupation with the origin of the arts, and with their importation from antiquity, was prompted by the growing convergence of art and nationalistic identity in an era of Enlightenment and revolutionary change, when France was reconsidering and redefining its own origins as an inheritor of the classical tradition of antiquity, and as a leader in the arts and culture of Europe. Not coincidentally, when narratives regarding the birth of the arts escalated, many were preoccupied with the concern that it seemed that France could not compete either politically or artistically with the rest of the world. Indeed, politics and the arts were deemed to be codependent. For instance, prior to the rise of Jacques-Louis David (1748–1825) and his school, because of the growing popularity of the Rococo petit genre, which was much maligned by powerful critics such as Denis Diderot (1713–84),

Going back to the beginning of things 171 the perceived degeneration of history painting was identified as a cultural disaster.1 An anonymous critic of the Mémoires secrèts lamented this decline upon viewing the Salon of 1771: With the appearance of wealth we are destitute. In effect, if one subtracts from the present exhibition the portraits, the minor genre pictures which can bestow glory neither on the nation nor on the artist, and the pictures in the more grand manner which are not worth the effort required to look at them or are only mediocre or contain some excellent qualities overwhelmed by enormous failings, this superb collection, which dazzles at first sight, soon collapses into nothing.2 This critic identified the predominance of non-history paintings being exhibited by France’s official art institution, the Académie royale de peinture et sculpture, as shameful to the nation itself, underlining the considerable perceived interdependence between artistic achievement in history painting and national pride. That politics and the arts were linked was also elucidated when the early nineteenth-century French historian Cyprien Desmarais (c. nineteenth century) noted the following: “In the difference that is found between the state of our political institutions, our manners and our arts, forms therefore for us a combined civilization, which marches towards its own perfection and balances its elements.”3 Myths dealing with the origin of painting were, naturally, appealing to artists and theorists who were concerned with the status of the artist, because, the more illustrious the origins of his art were, the more prestigious the artist could become. Yet, the elevated beginnings of the arts could also be made to correlate to the new directions in France between 1750 and 1850, which were considered the foundational years of its ebb and flow towards becoming a civilized society. In examining some of these myths, we will see how they thematically related to the political and cultural ambitions of the day. One of the narratives that were resurrected from obscurity towards the end of the eighteenth century was that of a young Corinthian maiden, who fell in love with a man and fashioned the first “painting” when she traced his profile on a wall from his shadow.4 Even though some accounts describe her as “drawing” rather than painting the outline, because draftsmanship was considered, from the Renaissance onward, to be the foundation upon which all painting was built, drawing may be understood to represent painting. Her father, Butades, who was a potter, then made the first sculpture by building up the drawing into a relief using clay.5 This was not a well-known story, but its origins in the history of Greek art guaranteed its benefits as a revived fable. As Frances Muecke has noted, the story of Dibutades was reintroduced in France and Britain when the poem titled De arte graphica, by the French theorist CharlesAlphonse Dufresnoy (1611–68), appeared in 1668. Dibutades, however, did not rise to fame until after 1770, when we are told the following about her history:6 A Corinthian Maid also, taught by love, ventured to put her unskillfull hand to the first beginnings of art, drawing lines about the shadow of her Lover that was to go a great journey. Whereupon (as it was the custome of men to prosecute small beginnings with a steadfast study) her father Dibutades, a Potter by his trade, cut out the space comprised within the lines, and filling it with clay, he made a pattern and hardened it in the fire, proffering to Greece the first rudiments of picture and Statuary.7

172  Sarah J. Lippert Eric Darragon also observes that the story had a long history dating to antiquity, but was particularly revived with consistency beginning in the Renaissance through to the nineteenth century.8 Darragon points out that a curious connection lay between the popularity of the Dibutades story and linear designs in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. For instance, he cites the silhouette and craze for Greek-style vase design, as evidenced by such well-known phenomena as Wedgwood pottery, as at least a conceptual link that could have been made between the Dibutades story of tracing and these new media and styles.9 For our purposes, it is most important to note that the story had reemerged in the French art world, and that it centered on the principles of mimesis and love. Jean-Baptiste Regnault (1754–1829) treated the subject in his decorations for the Grand cabinet de la reine at Versailles in 1785, which was commissioned by Louis XVI (1638–1715).10 Regnault’s painting, called The Origin of Painting (Figure 9.1, 1786), was paired with a Pygmalion subject, which dealt with the ancient genesis of sculpture.11 Regnault’s Dibutades leans, with Michelangelesque torsion, to outline the shadow of her lover on a stone wall, while the young man faces the viewer. Anne-Louis Girodet-Trioson (1767–1824) also dealt with the topic in both his epic poem titled Le peintre and in an illustration of the Dibutades legend (now lost), which was recreated in an anonymous engraving by the same title (n.d.).12 The composition shows Dibutades’s lover seated in profile, casting a shadow upon the torch-lit room. A Cupid-like figure holds the torch, while his other hand supports the artist’s drawing

Figure 9.1  Jean-Baptiste Regnault, Origin of Painting, 1786, Château du Versailles. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Coyau. Licensing information: PD-Art/PDold-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Going back to the beginning of things 173 arm, acting as a maulstick. Even in the poem, Girodet positioned Cupid as the divine origin of artistic genius, which similarly guides Dibutades.13 The appropriateness of this myth to contemporary concerns is based upon the notion of imitation. For centuries, imitation had been a long-debated issue in aesthetic theory, and it continues to be debated in art schools today. In the nineteenth century, imitation, or mimesis, recalled a celebrated history of artistic instruction and practice made popular in the ancient accounts of artists such as Zeuxis and Apelles, who competed to imitate nature. As the natural world was considered most challenging to depict, artists who could master the recreation of nature in their works, whether in painting or sculpture, could boast that their works taught others about the world around them and presented nature’s most beautiful features to the eyes of the public, who were always hungry for diversions from the severity of everyday life. To the extent that we can analyze the feelings of a mythical character, in Dibutades’s case, her desire to imitate her lover’s appearance was borne out of romantic sentiment, which explains why Cupid, the son of Venus the goddess of love, appears as the source of her divine inspiration. Imitation, in principle, had become a hot-button issue for theorists, artists, and social commentators throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Following the rediscovery of Herculaneum and Pompeii (1738 and 1748), and Johann Winckelmann’s (1717–68) subsequent History of Ancient Art among the Greeks (1764), imitation of antiquity once again became en vogue, to the point of helping to popularize the notions of equality and democracy that were among the many ingredients in republican revolutionary fervor. The arts were a form of civilization, first needed to oppose the tyranny of Louis XIV, and then needed to reign in the terror of the Revolution. Interestingly, draftsmanship in particular played an important role in the process of civilizing the arts of the nation. Although its association with the tradition of disegno and the arts of an intellectual nature had been argued at least since the Renaissance, by the nineteenth century, French art historians clung with even greater might to the concept. For example, in his history of the Academy, L. Vitet writes in the mid nineteenth century that drawing contributed to the civilizing of the arts of France, which had been barbaric. Throughout the text, Vitet links improvements in the arts of drawing, whether as a pedagogical or theoretical issue in the history of the French Academy, with a civilizing force that advances both French art and culture.14 Drawing was considered a foundational practice in the development of artistic training, as it is in many programs of higher education today. But, its link to ideas and expressive authority drew even more attention in an institution such as the French Academy, as a barometer of the progressive development of the arts, from unenlightened to cultured. Draftsmanship, whether in imported or nascent forms, was founded upon the notion of imitating nature. During the height of Napoleon Bonaparte’s (1769–1821) popularity, imitation also played a key role in the formulation of national identity, as the routine importations of art treasures from Italy made their way to the museums of Paris, under the treatises struck between Napoleon and his defeated adversaries, including Pope Pius VI, such as the Treaty of Tolentino of 1797. Although from Rome, some of the most coveted artworks to be “rescued” from such supposedly barbaric regimes were the Greek Apollo Belvedere (c.350 bce) by Leochares, the Belvedere Torso (c. second century bce), and the Laocoön (c. first century ce; although all are now considered to be Roman copies of Greek originals).

174  Sarah J. Lippert Finally, in the years following the fall of Napoleon’s empire, and under the politicized rhetoric of the Bourbon Restoration, France once again called upon an imitation of antiquity to herald its final metamorphosis into a civilized nation. The arts were clearly linked to civilization, as Desmarais explained in 1823: “All the arts shine all of a sudden: they are seeking, they are consoling, they are surprised by this contrast: yesterday we were a barbarous people, today we are the most civilized nation on earth.”15 The arts, however, were not merely a barometer of cultural and social development; they even rose to cult-like status in France. At the height of revolutionary secularism, France’s new religion shifted to art, because it was representative of the fervor for a new and changing national identity and pride. One of the most evocative stories about the origin of the arts, which exposes France’s quest for a secular but sacred spiritual experience, is the myth of Narcissus, who as a young man fell in love with his own reflection, having been deceived by the image of his visage in a pool of water. For many artists in Christian Europe, God was considered the original artist, having created the world, such that the first illusionistic images were painted by nature herself in the form of reflections in water. In the Renaissance, the architect and theorist Alberti promoted the association of Narcissus with the birth of painting when he wrote the following in his treatise On Painting (1436): Consequently I used to tell my friends that the inventor of painting, according to the poets, was Narcissus, who was turned into a flower; for, as painting is the flower of all the arts, so the tale of Narcissus fits our purpose perfectly. What is painting but the act of embracing by means of art the surface of the pool?16 Thus, the reflection became the iconic image, or the first illusory deception in the history of images, and the initial method through which human beings beheld an insubstantial and elusive visual manifestation of human beauty. So the reflection, especially one that was cast in water, as it was in the Narcissus story, was the archetypal image and the first painting. Like Narcissus, French viewers were expected to marvel at the prodigious works on display at the Salon and worship at the feet of the godlike artists, who brought culture and salvation from barbarism to the French people. Alberti’s notion of the mirror as a metaphor for the artist was shared by others as well. Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519) similarly held this opinion, which had become a well-known Renaissance notion. For instance, Leonardo wrote that, “The painter’s mind should be like a mirror which transforms itself into the color of the thing it has as its object, and is filled with as many likenesses as there are things placed before it.”17 If the mirror or a reflection imitates nature, and the artist creates in the same manner as God, then it is no wonder that myths centered on mimesis, specifically from Greek antiquity, rose in number and popularity when the French people were increasingly desperate to redefine themselves as the cultural descendants of the Greeks, devotees of art, and guardians against the barbaric. Myths, such as that of Dibutades, which combined the three elements of love, mimesis, and Greek antiquity, epitomized France’s cultural and political supremacy. From a modern perspective, the inclination to imitate is often viewed negatively. Originality has, since the turn of the twentieth century, if not earlier, been the primary goal of most modern and ambitious artists. However, imitation of the Greeks was seen to be in keeping with the imitation that the Greeks themselves practiced of even older civilizations, such as the Assyrians. Greece was the

Going back to the beginning of things 175 perfect role model, because the Greeks themselves had achieved perfection in terms of taste. Even more usefully, the Greeks had set down rules that could be followed without alteration in order to recapture such perfection.18 The roots of France’s efforts to reincarnate a specifically Greek version of Western art and intellectual inquiry can be found in the treatise of 1695 chronicling the history of the French Academy for Louis XIV, titled Académie des sciences et des arts. Here, we find the notion of origins important, not just to France’s beginnings, but also those of Greece: “The name ACADEMY was in antiquity the name of a country house, situated close to Athens, according to Academus, who was highly regarded by the Greeks, and who owned the estate.”19 Artists were important to the preservation of history, Bullart argues, because a painting could capture just as easily the events of ancient Rome as could a contemporary writer such as Ovid: A famous painter possesses through study, as much as artifice, history, and the story is represented by the brush, as well as it is by the pen; and it is no less agreeable to see the Gigantomachia, depicted in the Palais de Mantoüe of the Roman Julius, as to see it described in the verses of Ovid.20 Even in the case of the Romans, their perfection, for one French academic art historian, was that, despite wanting to be “masters of the world,” they understood the importance of learning from and imitating others, to the point that they created ambitious monuments by imitating the Greeks and the Egyptians.21 In this way, imitation became a form of filial piety. By paying homage to a cultural predecessor, the French could establish themselves as a descendant—comparable to joining a family tree through adoption. The sense of responsibility in choosing the right ancestors was great; the potential for errant choices was curtailed typically by the astute and unassailable taste of the French monarch. Travel assured that the most esteemed predecessors impacted a given monarch by impressing upon him both the style and history from which it was appropriate to draw. Francis I (1494–1547) was the archetypal leader in this regard, as he most aggressively infiltrated the Italian Renaissance, both through military and cultural contact. Nevertheless, despite countless accolades for his leadership as a supporter of the Renaissance in France, even as illustrious a king as Francis I had detractors. In xenophobic fashion, Vitet observes that it was the influence of kings who borrowed from foreign cultures, including Flanders and Italy, who did the most damage and caused the most grief for artists in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, respectively.22 On the whole, however, importation was deemed a good thing. It was with great energy that the French of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries documented their importation of other cultures. Indeed, the notion of importation and exportation, even of individual people, was a central part of this phenomenon. Travel, in this sense, became the linchpin activity in the history of French art and culture. It was only through voyaging elsewhere and bringing back, through one’s own movement or later importation, that enlightenment could happen. Travel built the national library of France, which began as a private collection of Francis I, eventually becoming a public repository of documents dating back to antiquity. Similarly, travel was integral to the metaphorical gentrification of French art. The case of Francis I typifies this idea, as he was famous as much for getting artists to travel across the Alps from Italy to France as

176  Sarah J. Lippert he was for any of his political or military achievements. A section of the Lives of the Most Famous Architects offers an example of this glorification: Under the reign of this monarch, rightly named the father of arts and the fatherland, architecture, which had hitherto been treated in a dry and grotesque manner, shone with an elegance and beauty that was totally new [. . .] Great men of all types, attracted to France by the liberalities of this prince, taught us the true rules of architecture. The French spirit was pulled from a deep slumber: soon the architects abandoned the gothic formulae and revived the three orders of architecture. The ridiculous baubles and inept trimmings that were adopted in the barbaric centuries disappeared. We constructed the Fountain of Nymphs, called Innocents, and the Louvre rose up. The artists were under orders to create for this palace drawings of a superior magnificence compared with everything seen thus far [. . .] This essay of French genius was the era of the Renaissance and beautiful architecture amongst us.23 Unfortunately for the French people, Francis I could not reign indefinitely, and, although many illustrious leaders and patrons of the arts came and went, the role of travel remained at the forefront of their development. For example, in the Lives, we find that pilgrimages to the “motherland” became important in sustaining the impact of importation under Francis I: The academies were established in Paris and Rome, and there lived those who were sent to Italy, Egypt, Greece, Persia and in all the sites where the ancients left vestiges of their works [. . .] What more dignified contribution from a king can there be than to send young artists to study the masterpieces, where the time would seem to be spared to nourish their genius and elevate their ideas!24 Another myth from Greece that was wholly adopted in both French visual and literary media was that of Pygmalion. Although a mythic figure, Pygmalion’s story of an ancient Greek sculptor, who fashioned a statue of a woman that was so beautiful that he fell in love with it, fit these three criteria. According to Ovid, moved by Pygmalion’s piety, Venus transformed the statue into a real woman, and the love between artist and art object was consummated. Étiènne-Maurice Falconet’s (1716–91) Pygmalion at the feet of his statue which is enlivening (Figure 9.2, 1763)25 captured the subject in marble, which was so closely associated with antiquity, featuring a nude Galatea perfectly poised in the Greek contrapposto pose, looking down upon Pygmalion. The sculptor crouches in wonder below his statue, already enlivened, while Cupid, who appears to confirm the love union between art and spectator, peers around Galatea’s leg to witness his reaction. Another version is evident in Louis-Jean-François Lagrenée’s Pygmalion and Galatea (Figure 9.3, 1781).26 Lagrenée’s piece is compositionally similar to Falconet’s, showing Galatea looking down upon a reverential Pygmalion, with Cupid behind her. The perceived link between Pygmalion’s story and the origin of the arts is reflected in an earlier version of the subject that Lagrenée completed as part of a series relating to the theme of artistic inspiration for the Duc de Liancourt, which was shown at the Salon of 1773. Lagrenée’s earlier iteration, called La peinture: Apelle amoureux de la maîtresse d’Alexandre (Figure 9.4, 1772), displayed the counterpart to Pygmalion and Galatea by illustrating Apelles, who was a fourth-century Greek painter, “in love” with the mistress of Alexander the Great.27

Going back to the beginning of things 177

Figure 9.2  Etienne-Maurice Falconet, Pygmalion and Galatea, 1761, Walters Art Museum. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Walters Art Museum. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons License.

The story of Apelles had become phenomenally popular in France throughout the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Apelles was known for tolerating criticism and being able to navigate the pitfalls of official patronage.28 It is interesting to speculate that these were the same challenges faced by many painters in France, who were finding it difficult to withstand the rise of art criticism, and equally challenging to end up on the right side of France’s ever-changing governmental systems. Indeed, one of the most famous artists of the French Revolution, David, completed Apelles painting Campaspe in the presence of Alexander (Figure 9.5, 1813–16) at a time when the future of France must have seemed fairly dim for the iconic Republican hero, who had at one time led France’s academy of art out of royal patronage into the hands of the people, and then through the rise of Napoleon Bonaparte. One of the only scholars

178  Sarah J. Lippert

Figure 9.3  Louis-Jean-François Lagrenée, Pygmalion and Galatea, 1781, Detroit Institute of Arts. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the author. Licensing information: Detroit Institute of Arts. PD-Art/PD-old-100.

to study this work, Paul Spencer-Longhurst, notes that its genesis began when David was expelled from France by the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy and went to live in Brussels. Not being commissioned, the work, he says, clearly must have held great personal meaning for the artist, and found its relevance in a story from Pliny the Elder (23–79 ce) about the court artist of Alexander the Great (356–23 bce; Natural History, Book 35).29 David here, like most artists who treated the subject, would have associated himself with Apelles, as the story had long been known as an allegory for the origins of painting, especially regarding the relationships between patron and artist, and the love between an artist and nature.

Going back to the beginning of things 179

Figure 9.4  Louis-Jean-François Lagrenée, Apelles in love with Campaspe, 1772, Musée des beaux-arts de Cæn. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Josselin via the Athenaeum. org. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100.

But who are Alexander and Campaspe then, in this metaphorical work by David? Spencer-Longhurst suggests that Alexander is the beneficent Napoleon, and ascribes no role to the model. This is a reasonable theory, but, given that Napoleon had already fallen from power, and that David’s relationship with this illustrious patron was always lacking, in terms of consistent patronage and approval, other possibilities may exist. Perhaps the moment being captured reveals David as Apelles and his quest for the ideal that has halted his work on the painting. Like Apelles, David was realizing that an ideal democratic society, rekindled on the most admirable parts of Greek

180  Sarah J. Lippert politics and art, was an illicit and dangerous desire, just as it was for Apelles to secretly long for Alexander’s lover. In this way, Campaspe comes to signify the elusive beauty of a France borne out of Greek ideals. Alexander, for his part, rather than being the ideal patron, stands with intimidating physical presence behind Apelles, who slouches in seeming defeat, presumably having failed to capture Campaspe’s beauty and perfection. Such insecurity, in both Apelles and Campaspe, may have reflected David’s sense of defeat that none of the preceding forms of government since the ancien régime had succeeded in securing the ideal state. The hopefulness that this might be achieved in the future lies in the viewer’s familiarity with the story, wherein Alexander eventually gives up Campaspe to be united with Apelles. Yet another story about the role of art in shaping the ideal through love of nature was frequently represented in France in the story of the Greek painter Zeuxis, whose story highlighted the importance of competition in the quest for cultural supremacy. The many examples include François André Vincent (1746–1816), Angelica Kauffmann (1741–1807), and Nicolas-André Monsiau (1754–1837), all of whom depicted the famous Zeuxis choosing the best models for his painting of the perfect goddess of beauty from nature. To complete his task, he chose five models from the Greek town of Croton, refusing to believe that perfection could be found in any one model. The story became analogous to the quest for perfection and the desire to imitate only the best parts of nature in art. Many of these works proliferated during the

Figure 9.5  Jacques-Louis David, Apelles painting Campaspe in the presence of Alexander, 1813–16, Palais des beaux-arts de Lille. Photographic credit: Courtesy of Baroo. Licensing information: CC-PD-Mark, PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Going back to the beginning of things 181 height of France’s evolution from monarchy to republic to empire, when it was taking the best features thought to make up an ideal state from its ancient models in Greece and Rome, and competing on the world stage for political and cultural supremacy. Zeuxis was featured in a famous account from Pliny regarding the competitive streak among ancient Greek artists, thereby indelibly connecting the origin of the arts to artistic fame and rivalry. Zeuxis offered a stellar role model for competitive artistic production on a nationalistic scale, owing to his supposed involvement in one of the first public artistic competitions.30 According to Pliny, Zeuxis entered into a competition with one of his contemporaries named Parrhasius, so as to determine which was more accomplished. Both artists triumphed in completing paintings of flawless deception, the former creating an illusion of grapes that birds attempted to eat, and the latter tricking Zeuxis with a painted curtain.31 Like Zeuxis, Apelles was hailed as one of the greatest painters of the ancient world, because he surpassed his contemporaries with a depiction of Venus, which was made possible through the art–love relationship between the artist and his model. When Apelles fell in love with Alexander’s most beautiful mistress, his reverence for beauty was rewarded—Alexander gave Campaspe to Apelles. Michiaki Koshikawa, studying Pliny’s account of Apelles’s accomplishments, asserts that images of Diana or Venus later became emblematic of artistic rivalry, because Apelles had raised the bar so high.32 In his history of France, Desmarais also drew parallels between the fortunes of French art and the country’s place on the world stage. At every opportunity, it was shown that France’s preeminence in Europe was closely tied to its international and historical dominance in all of the arts; perhaps this is why French leaders were expected to be patrons of art, as much as they were expected to be patrons of war. The last myth under consideration is neither Greek, nor ancient, but it is equally a blend of fact and fiction, and no less important to France’s view of itself as an inheritor of the Greek tradition. Casting itself as a descendant (albeit perhaps once or twice removed), the greatest purveyor of the ancient tradition into France was a nearly mythical partnership between King Francis I and Leonardo. As Bullart explains: He [Leonardo] stunned the most great painters of Europe; who swore that the brush could not have gone further, and that they could not understand how the spirit and hand of a man had managed to that point. This painting was purchased for four million “escus” by Francis I, who installed it at Fontainebleau: he made the name of Leonardo so famous, the senate of Florence had to build a special spacious room in the public palace, ordered by decree that they would be ornamented by a painting by the hand of this great man.33 Leonardo’s visit to France was more than a wish fulfilled for the French monarch, who had been trying to woo Italian artists to France for some time, including Michelangelo. The fact that Leonardo acquiesced at the end of his life (reports say he would have been approximately 75 years old), allows French historians to cast this time in the artist’s career as a long-lost homecoming. Francis I offered Leonardo the privilege of staying in a royally appointed residence near the Château d’Amboise, where one will still find a monument to the artist’s stay in the form of a museum dedicated to Leonardo’s inventions and a recreation of the Last Supper. For Leonardo, the invitation from Francis I allowed him to explore his final artistic interests in the comfort of all that

182  Sarah J. Lippert an illustrious and powerful patron could offer. Also remarkable about Leonardo’s summons to France for later French historians was that Leonardo brought with him La Gioconde (or Mona Lisa, c.1503). She too found her natural place in the collection of Francis I at the Château de Fontainebleau.34 Reportedly dying in the arms of the French king, Leonardo’s romance with France was itself a tale of transformation and fated voyages. Fitting into the paradigm of Ovidian metamorphoses and star-crossed alliances, the artistic partnership between Francis I and Leonardo indeed cemented a transformation: that of France. Having successfully influenced the arts and culture of his own time and region, Leonardo’s sojourn in France might be seen as a pilgrimage; Leonardo, the evangelist of Renaissance principles, made France his final destination. For generations to follow, the personal union between Leonardo and Francis I would be cited in French history as the moment when French art came into its own, or, rather, was ushered into the Italian Renaissance. A transformation of artistic heritage, French art was now modern, having been wrested from the supposed jaws of barbaric native tradition. The passage of the baton from Leonardo to Francis I was certainly captured in many material and immaterial ways. With these “events” incorporated into histories of French arts and culture, the legend grew and became the foundation for how the French would think about their own national identity. Bullart, who carefully documented Leonardo’s fame in France, indirectly links Leonardo to France’s rivalry with Italy in the sixteenth century. Noting that Leonardo’s La Gioconde came to her rightful home in the collection of a king, Bullart observes that, in the wake of Leonardo’s growing international fame, the Florentine government sought to capitalize on his success by pitting Michelangelo (the Italian) against Leonardo. Although Leonardo is celebrated in the Italian tradition, his rightful home was, according to the French (and only the French), finally realized during his final years in France with Francis I.35 Leonardo’s emigration to France also reinforces the idea that France was the cultural descendant of Italy. Not surprisingly, in the Galerie of Francis I at Fontainebleau, one of the many frescoed panels depicts Francis I as a Roman leader. In this way, Francis I and Leonardo become the founding fathers of modern French art and culture. This marriage wrought of cultural legacy is still celebrated in France, its history having been cemented in oral and written histories for centuries, including by M.D., who notes that, “The beginnings of our empire in the fine arts can be traced in the lives of the celebrated architects who illustrated France since the time of Francis I to those who are honored here.”36 So, if trying to compete with a source of inspiration such as Italy, one also had to justify any differences between the respective hierarchies of the arts that might occur in the ensuing comparison. It was, in part, Francis’s own trip to Rome that inspired his importation of Italian art and culture to France. Having carried out campaigns along what is now Italy’s northern border, Francis became aware of the splendors of Roman art and architecture. Bullart recounts that it was in response to his Italian travels that the king hired the Italian artist Primaticcio (1504–70) to work at Fontainebleau. For example, Bullart reports that Primaticcio was hired to recreate the majesty of the Campidoglio in Rome, having been asked to recreate famous antique statues from the papal collections for Fontainebleau, and the king himself collected 124 bronze and marble statues during his trips to Italy, which were naturally imported back to France.37 Considering the increased interest in antiquity in Renaissance France similarly reveals a rather traditional element of travel. Souvenirs are popular, it would seem,

Going back to the beginning of things 183 even when they are not practical. The ultimate status symbol for the aristocracy was to go antiquing; collecting antiquities had been a popular pastime even in antiquity, of course. But, for the forebears of modern French culture, antiquing meant the collection of works from Greek, Roman, or Egyptian history, often while on military or diplomatic missions, and sometimes as spoils of war. Francis I famously bolstered the prestige of his collection of antiques at Fontainebleau, even going so far as to establish his own foundry so that reproductions of works owned by the papacy, for instance, could be created.38 One of the artists who entered into this myth of cultural importation was Primaticcio, who completed the stucco work in the Galerie of Francis I at Fontainebleau. For historians of French art, such contributions could not rest merely on artistic merit alone; rather, they had to be assimilated into the French tradition. For instance, we are told by Bullart that Primaticcio labored more for glory than wealth.39 In order to recreate the Vatican Belvedere in France, Primaticcio was paired with the architect Jacopo Barozzi da Vignola (1507–73), the latter’s expertise exploited by Francis I during his efforts to renovate his châteaux.40 Here, in the application of Italian style to French architecture, is where simple emulation became complicated. Although the traditions of Italy were certainly admired and emulated, they did not always fit those of France. This is lamented by the anonymous author of the treatise Vies des fameux architectes depuis la Renaissance (1787), noting that, although painting ruled in Italy, French sculpture and architecture were equally worthy of admiration. Describing the three arts of painting, sculpture, and architecture like sisters (the three Graces), M.D. makes the connection between art history and France’s history (and present) with the following statement of purpose: This history, which is the fruit of forty years of work, is principally destined to augment the modern glory of the nation; it is preceded by a lecture on the progress of architecture in France under different kings, with some reflections on this art.41 Increasingly throughout the eighteenth century, and especially in the wake of the French Revolution of 1789, it became an urgent concern to establish an indisputable cultural authority on the world stage. Desmarais describes France’s position in a hierarchy of cultural authority, saying that, “France has marched to this point at the head of the modern civilizations; we do not believe ourselves disposed to yield to this beautiful supremacy to anyone.”42 Further, Desmarais confirms that it is modern art that has finally reached its zenith of civilization: What is it that charms us in this marvelous modern paintbrush? It is what art cannot express, but shows us in its sublime insufficiency; it is what it tries to render in the finish of its airy and svelte lines, that seem like the end of mere matter and the beginning of intelligence; it is what we guess rather than what we see; it is thought [. . .] I will conclude therefore that the French nation is today essentially religious about the arts.43 The narrative of history was relayed in such a way that France’s triumphs over each of its challenges, from the ancien régime to the fall of Napoleon, correlated to the rise and fall of its arts, and to their ability to rescue the French people from certain barbarism.

184  Sarah J. Lippert Similarly touting the arts as the single most important source of civilization was an anonymous architectural historian at the end of the eighteenth century, who explained it this way: The arts were created to raise the dry air, of rudeness and hardness with which we create too ordinarily, and to show us in the full shock of its beauty. The virtue that the arts have polished, polished themselves the monuments. Can I not infer that we should measure our esteem for the arts by the degree of politeness that they create for our monuments? We will see in this lecture that architecture has more of a right than others, given that the nations are not civilized except in proportion to how they are perfected.44 The arts were called upon to prove that France was the new rightful inheritor of “civilization,” and, as the most revered ancient civilization was Greece, the origins of the arts in France needed to be traced back to the mythic beginnings of artistic production. All of these legends hinged on the notion of imitation, as French artists were expected to guide their viewers to better role models by first recreating the beauties that could bring about intellectual and spiritual recovery. France was imitating its ideal model. Zeuxis, Apelles, Dibutades, and Pygmalion, so obsessively portrayed as narratives about creating the ideal, show us that France was the artist, and Greece was the beauty to be copied. Comings and goings, whether physical or theoretical, between these two nations were on the whole viewed as a central part of the development of French art and the preservation of Greek tradition. And finally, Greece and these stories represented the artistic tradition for the French at this time, and therefore the love theme often iterated in these narratives is that between humankind and art.

Notes 1 Michael Fried, “Toward a Supreme Fiction: Genre and Beholder in the Art Criticism of Diderot and his Contemporaries,” New Literary History, 6:3 (1975), p. 544. 2 Quoted by Thomas Crow, Painters and Public Life in Eighteenth-Century Paris (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1985), p. 176. 3 My translation of the following: “De la différence qui se trouve entre l’état de nos institutions politiques, de nos mœurs et de nos arts, se forme donc pour nous une civilisation combinée, qui marchera vers sa perfection en nivelant ses éléments.” From Cyprien Desmarais, Tableau historique des progrès de la civilisation en France depuis l’origine de la monarchie jusqu’à nos jours (Paris: Masson, Fils Ainé, 1823), p. 410. 4 For the legacy of Dibutades in the modern era, see Alexandra Wettlaufer, “Dibutades and her Daughters: The Female Artist in Post-Revolutionary France,” Nineteenth-Century Studies, 18 (2004), pp. 9–38. 5 In Chapter 43, we learn about the role of Butades and his daughter: “On painting we have now said enough, and more than enough; but it will be only proper to append some accounts of the plastic art. Butades, a potter of Sicyon, was the first who invented, at Corinth, the art of modelling portraits in the earth which he used in his trade. It was through his daughter that he made the discovery; who, being deeply in love with a young man about to depart on a long journey, traced the profile of his face, as thrown upon the wall by the light of the lamp. Upon seeing this, her father filled in the outline, by compressing clay upon the surface, and so made a face in relief, which he then hardened by fire along with other articles of pottery.” Pliny the Elder, The Natural History, ed. John Bostock (London: Taylor & Francis, 1855), pp. 6283–4. 6 Frances Muecke, “‘Taught by Love:’ The Origin of Painting Again,” The Art Bulletin, 81:2 (Jun. 1999), pp. 297–8. The first known representation of the early modern period was

Going back to the beginning of things 185 Charles Perrault’s La peinture of 1668, followed by Joachim von Sandrart in 1675 and Simon Gribelin’s The Art of Painting in 1716. 7 Cited from Franciscus Junius in Muecke in Robert Rosenblum, “The Origin of Painting: A Problem in the Iconography of Romantic Classicism,” Art Bulletin, 19 (1957), p. 299. Originally published in De pictura veterum libers tres in 1637. 8 For a summary of the proliferation of the myth among art theorists, historians, and critics, see Eric Darragon, “Sur Dibutade et l’origine du dessin: La Version d’Esprit–Antoine Gibelin, 1772, et le problème du premier crayon,” Coloquio Artes, 52 (Mar. 1982), pp. 44 [42–9]. 9 Darragon, “Sur Dibutade,” p. 47. 10 Rosenblum, “The Origin of Painting,” p. 285. 11 Baron Jean-Baptiste Regnault, The Origin of Painting (L’origine de la peinture, ou Dibutade traçant le portrait de son berger), 1786, oil on canvas, 105 × 140 cm, Cabinet de la reine, Versailles, France. 12 Engraving after Anne-Louis Girodet-Trioson by N. Dupent, Dibutade, n.d. 13 Rosenblum, “The Origin of Painting,” p. 286. The author quotes a section of Girodet’s epic poem Le peintre, which is useful for our purposes as well. In the first song Girodet writes: “Oui, c’est lui [Cupid] qui, jadis, dans l’antique Argolide,/ D’une jeune beauté guida la main timide,/ Lorsque, d’un tendre amant, son doigt sûr et léger,/ Arrêta sur le mur le profil passager/ Qu’y dessinait sans art une ombre vacillante./” My translation: “Yes, it is him [Cupid] who, in the ancient Argolide,/ Of a young beauty guides the timid hand,/ Such that, a tender lover, with a sure and light finger,/ Captures on the wall the fleeting profile/ Who draws without art a wavering shadow./” The original text is found in Girodet’s Le peintre: poème en six chants, which was published in Œuvres posthumes de Girodet-Trioson, peintre d’histoire; suivies de sa correspondence; précédées d’une notice historique, et mises en order par P.A. Coupin. Tome premier (Paris: Jules Renouard, Libraire, 1829). 14 L. Vitet, L’Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture: étude historique (Paris: Michel LèvyFrères, 1861), pp. 22, 146. 15 Desmarais, Tableau historique, pp. 66–7. My translation of the following: “Tous les arts éclatant tout-à-coup: ils se cherchent, ils se consolent, ils s’étonnent de ce contraste: hier on était un peuple barbare, aujourd’hui on est la nation la plus civilisée de la terre.” 16 Leon Battista Alberti, On Painting, trans., Cecil Grayson, intro. and notes, Martin Kemp (Penguin Classics, 1991), p. 61. For an examination of the origin of painting and the reflection, see F. Frontisi-Ducroux and J-P. Vernant, Dans l’œil du miroir (Paris: Odile Jacob, 1997), pp. 200–42. 17 Quoted in Edward J. Olszewski, “Distortions, Shadows, and Conventions in SixteenthCentury Italian Art,” Artibus et Historiae, 6:11 (1985), f.n. 1. Also found in Leonardo on Painting, trans. Martin Kemp and Margaret Walker, intro. and ed. Martin Kemp (London and New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1989), p. 205. For in-depth studies of Leonardo’s paragonizing practices and theories, see Rona Goffen, Renaissance Rivals: Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphael, Titian (London and New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2002). See also Claire Farago, Leonardo da Vinci’s Paragone: A Critical Interpretation with a New Edition of the Text in the Codex Urbinas (Leiden, Netherlands, and New York: E.J. Brill, 1992). 18 M.D. (Antoine Dezallier D’Argenville), Vies des fameux architectes depuis la Renaissance,Tome premier (Paris: Librairie de la Bibliothèque du roi & de l’académie royale des inscriptions & belles-lettres, 1787), pp. xvii. 19 Isaac Bullart, “Préface,” Académie des sciences et des arts (Brussels: François Foppens, 1695), unpaginated. My translation of the following: “Ce nom ACADEMIE estoit anciennement celuy d’une Maison Champestre, située prés d’Athènes; ainsi dite d’Academus, homme très-considerable entre les Grecs, à qui elle appartenoit.” 20 Bullart, “Préface,” unpaginated. My translation of the following: “Un Peintre celebre a de l’étude aussi bien que de l’artifice: l’Histoire, & la Fable se representent par le pinceau, aussi bien que par la plume; & il n’est pas moins agreable de voir la Gygantomachie, depeinte dans le Palais de Mantoüe par Jule Romain, que de la voir décrite dans le Vers d’Ovide.” 21 M.D., Vies des fameux architectes, p. xix.

186  Sarah J. Lippert 2 Vitet, Académie, p. 37. 2 23 M.D., Vies des fameux architectes, pp. xlj–xliv. My translation of the following: “Sous le règne de ce monarque justement appelé le père des lettres de la patrie, l’Architecture auparavant traitée d’une manière sèche & grossière, brilla d’une élégance & d’une beauté toutes nouvelles [. . .] Les grands homme en tout genre, attirés en France par les libéralités de ce prince, nous enseignèrent les véritables règles de l’Architecture. L’esprit françois fut tiré d’un profond sommeil: bientôt les Architectes abandonnent les ordonnances gothiques & remettent en vigueur les trois ordres d’Architecture. Les ridicules colifichets & les découpures ineptes adoptés dans les siècles barbares, disparoissent. On construit la fontaine des Nymphes, dite Innocens, & le Louvre s’élève. Les artistes ont ordre de faire pour ce château des dessins d’une magnificence supérieure à tout ce qu’on a vu jusqu’alors. François & Italiens travaillent à l’envi [. . .] Cet essai du génie françois est l’époque de la renaissance de la belle Architecture parmi nous.” 24 M.D., Vies des fameux architectes, pp. xliv–xlivi. My translation of the following: “Des Académies furent établies à Paris & à Rome, & d’habiles gens envoyés en Italie, en Egypte, en Grèce, en Perse & dans tous les lieux où les anciens ont laissé des vestiges de leurs travaux [. . .] Quelle dépense plus digne d’un roi, que de mettre les jeunes artistes à portée d’étudier des chefs-d’œuvres que le temps semble n’avoir épargnés que pour nourrir leur génie & élever leurs idées!” 25 J.L. Carr, “Pygmalion and the Philosophes: The Animated Statue in Eighteenth-Century France,” Journal of the Warburg & Courtauld Institutes 23:3–4 (July–Dec. 1960), p. 247. According to Carr, the success of Falconet’s work was largely due to Diderot’s public support of the work. Falconet also wrote a treatise titled Réflexions sur sculpture (1761), which verifies, yet again, that the artists choosing to work on the Pygmalion subject were especially sensitive to aesthetic theory and the status of the arts. For an additional reading of Falconet’s Pygmalion, see Mary D. Sheriff, “Passionate Spectators: On Enthusiasm, Nymphomania, and the Imagined Tableau,” The Huntington Library Quarterly: Enthusiasm and Enlightenment in Europe, 1650–1850 60:1/2 (1997): pp. 63–5. Étiènne-Maurice Falconet, Pygmalion aux pieds de sa statue qui s’anime, 1763, marble, 83 cm tall, Musée du Louvre, Paris, France. 26 Louis-Jean-François Lagrenée, Pygmalion et Galatée, 1781, oil on canvas, 59.4 × 48.9 cm, Detroit Institute of the Arts, Detroit, MI. Lagrénée also completed a painting called Pygmalion (1777) in the Museum of Foreign Art at Sinebrychoff, Helsinki. 27 For a more detailed analysis of Lagrénée, see Antoine Schnapper, “Louis Lagrénée and the Theme of Pygmalion,” Bulletin of the Detroit Institute of Arts, 53:3–4 (1975), pp. 112–7. 28 John Gage, “A Locus Classicus of Colour Theory: The Fortunes of Apelles,” Journal of the Warburg & Courtauld Institutes, 44 (1981), p. 1. 29 Paul Spencer-Longhurst, “Apelles Painting Campaspe by Jacques-Louis David: Art, Politics, and Honour,” Apollo, 135:361 (Mar. 1992), p. 157. 30 For an analysis of the survival of the Apelles and Zeuxis stories into the Renaissance, and how the narrative was exploited by Vasari for competitive purposes, for example, see Michiaki Koshikawa, “Apelles’s Stories and the ‘Paragone’ Debate: A Re-Reading of the Frescoes in the Casa Vasari in Florence,” Artibus et Historiae, 22:43 (2001), pp. 17–18, 20. For more information on Vasari, Koshikawa cites Frederika H. Jacobs, “Vasari’s Vision of the History of Painting: Frescoes in the Casa Vasari, Florence,” Art Bulletin, 66 (Sept. 1984), pp. 399–416. 31 Pliny recounts the following tale about Zeuxis, which verifies that artists in antiquity were perceived to be in competition with each other: “There is a story, too, that at a later period, Zeuxis having painted a child carrying grapes, the birds came to peck at them; upon which, with a similar degree of candour, he expressed himself vexed with his work, and exclaimed— “I have surely painted the grapes better than the child, for if I had fully succeeded in the last, the birds would have been in fear of it.” Zeuxis executed some figures also in clay, the only works of art that were left behind at Ambracia, when Fulvius Nobilior transported the Muses from that city to Rome. There is at Rome a Helena by Zeuxis, in the Porticos of Philippus, and a Marsyas Bound, in the Temple of Concord there. Parrhasius of Ephesus also contributed greatly to the progress of painting, being the first to give symmetry to his figures, the first to give play and expression to the features, elegance to the hair, and gracefulness to the mouth: indeed, for contour, it is universally admitted by artists that he bore

Going back to the beginning of things 187 away the palm. This, in painting, is the very highest point of skill. To paint substantial bodies and the interior of objects is a great thing, no doubt, but at the same time it is a point in which many have excelled: but to make the extreme outline of the figure, to give the finishing touches to the painting in rounding off the contour, this is a point of success in the art which is but rarely attained. For the extreme outline, to be properly executed, requires to be nicely rounded, and so to terminate as to prove the existence of something more behind it, and thereby disclose that which it also serves to hide.” Pliny the Elder, The Natural History, p. 6252. For an account of Zeuxis from Quintilian, see Book 12, Chap. 10, Part 3 from the Institutes of Oratory. 32 Koshikawa, “Apelles’s Stories,” pp. 19–20. Pliny described the creation of a beautiful female figure by Apelles with the following account in Book 35, Chap. 36: “In fact, Apelles was a person of great amenity of manners, a circumstance which rendered him particularly agreeable to Alexander the Great, who would often come to his studio. He had forbidden himself, by public edict, as already stated, to be represented by any other artist. On one occasion, however, when the prince was in his studio, talking a great deal about painting without knowing anything about it, Apelles quietly begged that he would quit the subject, telling him that he would get laughed at by the boys who were there grinding the colours: so great was the influence which he rightfully possessed over a monarch, who was otherwise of an irascible temperament. And yet, irascible as he was, Alexander conferred upon him a very signal mark of the high estimation in which he held him; for having, in his admiration of her extraordinary beauty, engaged Apelles to paint Pancaste undraped, the most beloved of all his concubines, the artist while so engaged, fell in love with her; upon which, Alexander, perceiving this to be the case, made him a present of her, thus showing himself, though a great king in courage, a still greater one in self-command, this action redounding no less to his honour than any of his victories. For in thus conquering himself, not only did he sacrifice his passions in favour of the artist, but even his affections as well; uninfluenced, too, by the feelings which must have possessed his favourite in thus passing at once from the arms of a monarch to those of a painter. Some persons are of opinion that Pancaste was the model of Apelles in his painting of Venus Anadyomene.” Pliny the Elder, The Natural History, pp. 6258–9. 33 Bullart, Académie, p. 368. My translation of the following: “Il [Leonardo] a donné de l’estonnement aux plus grands Peintres de l’Europe; qui ont avoué que le Pinceau ne pouvoit aller plus avant, & que mesme ils ne comprenoient pas comment l’esprit & la main d’un homme avoient pû atteindre jusque-là. Ce Tableau fut acheté quatre mille escus par François I, qui le fit mettre à Fontaine-bleau: il rendit le nom de LEONARD si fameux, que le Senat de Florence ayant fait bâtir une Sale spatieuse dans le Palais public, ordonna par Decret qu’elle seroit ornée d’une Peinture de la main de ce grand homme.” 34 Bullart, Académie, p. 368. 35 Bullart, Académie, p. 368–9. 36 M.D., Vies des fameux architectes, pp. ix. My translation of the following: “Les commencemens de notre empire dans les beaux-arts seront tracés dans la Vie des célèbres Architectes qui ont illustré la France depuis le siècle de François Premier jusqu’à ceux qui honorent celui-ci.” 37 Bullart, Académie, p. 418. 38 Bullart, Académie, p. 401. 39 Bullart, Académie, p. 419. 40 Bullart, Académie, p. 420. 41 M.D., Vies des fameux architectes, pp. vii–viii. My translation of the following: “Cette histoire, qui est le fruit d’un travail de quarante ans, est principalement destinée à relever la gloire moderne de la nation; elle sera précédée d’un Discours sur les progrès de l’Architecture en France sous ses différens rois, avec quelques réflexions sur cet art.” 42 Desmarais, Tableau historique, p. viii. My translation of the following: “La France a marché jusqu’ici à la tête des civilisations modernes; nous ne la croyons pas disposé à céder à qui que ce soit cette belle suprématie.” 43 Desmarais, Tableau historique, pp. 406–7. My translation of the following: “Qu’est-ce donc qui nous charme dans cette merveille du pinceau moderne? C’est ce que l’art ne saurait exprimer, mais ce qu’il indique dans sa sublime insuffisance; c’est ce qu’il cherche à rendre

188  Sarah J. Lippert par le fini de ces lignes aëriennes et sveltes, qui semblent comme la fin de la matière et le commencement de l’intelligence; c’est ce qu’on devine plutôt que ce qu’on voit; c’est la pensée [. . .] Je conclurai donc que la nation française est aujourd’hui essentiellement religieuse dans les arts.” 44 M.D., Vies des fameux architectes, p. xiv. My translation of the following: “Les arts sont faits pour lui ôter cet air de sécheresse, de rudesse & de dureté avec lequel on la produit trop ordinairement, & pour nous la montrer dans tout l’éclat de de sa beauté. La vertu que les arts ont polie, polit elle-même les mœurs. Ne puis-je pas en inférer que nous devons mesurer notre estime pour les arts sur le degré de politesse qu’ils procurent à nos mœurs? On verra dans ce Discours que l’Architecture y a plus de droit que les autres, puisque les nations ne se sont civilisées qu’à proportion qu’elle s’est perfectionnée.”

Part 4

Trail blazers Travel for the brave

Q Taylor & Francis Taylor & Francis Group

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10 No typical tourist Photographer Zaida Ben-Yusuf in Meiji, Japan Gillian Greenhill Hannum

Almost from the moment of its public announcement in 1839, photography has been linked to travel. Early inventors such as William Henry Fox Talbot (1800–77) documented their excursions with the camera.1 In the 1840s, 50s and 60s, camera-carrying travelers took daguerreotypes, calotypes and collodion negatives in locales as diverse as Canada, Egypt and India. However, it was the invention of the gelatin dry plate in 1871 and, especially, George Eastman’s (1854–1932) Kodak camera in 1888 that led to the camera’s becoming an essential accessory for every tourist, including a young woman from England who made a reputation for herself in American photographic circles and whose articles on photography in the popular press were intended to capture the imaginations of her peers—especially the growing numbers of “Kodak girls,” to whom Eastman shrewdly pitched his products.2 That she turned her lens towards the East, to the Land of the Rising Sun, reflected Japan’s growing hold on the popular imagination of a certain class of “artistic” Westerners at the dawn of the twentieth century. Surprisingly, particularly given the wide circulation of her images of Japan in the American popular press, Zaida Ben-Yusuf3 is not included in Terry Bennett’s encyclopedic study of early photography in Japan.4 Indeed, she is notably absent from all of the referenced books on the topic—an omission that this chapter endeavors to correct.

Biographical background and beginning of photographic career Zaida Ben-Yusuf—the name alone conjures up an image of mystery and exoticism. And, indeed, much about Ben-Yusuf’s life remains a mystery. Described by author Marion Barton in 1898 as “a tall young woman who moves with easy Oriental grace and out of the depth of whose flashing dark eyes come ever and anon shooting and penetrating glances,” both Ben-Yusuf and her family background remain murky subjects.5 Barton reports that she was “Arabian and French by birth, English by education and American by choice,” though Esther Zeghdda Ben Youseph Nathan (Zaida’s given name) was actually born in the Hammersmith district of London on November 21, 1869.6 Her father was an Algerian who had come to England to study, and her mother, Anna Kind, was German. The couple separated shortly after the birth of their last child in 1877, and by 1891 Anna had emigrated to America, where she settled in Boston and worked as a milliner. Zaida followed in 1895 and settled in New York, also initially working as a milliner, the career to which she would return late in life.7 Part of the confusion about Ben-Yusuf’s biography stems from the fact that her father remarried after his divorce from her mother and, in 1891, had another daughter, who was also given the name Zaida.8

192  Gillian Greenhill Hannum Most photographic writers of her day point to the influence of British photographer, and director of Eastman Photographic Materials Company in London, George Davison, on Ben-Yusuf’s next choice of career, to which she turned her attention in 1896. Ben-Yusuf later told Richard Hines, Jr. the following: I took up the camera at first for amusement, but only for a short time, as I was about to go abroad. While away, strange to say, I did not have the “Kodak craze” at all, as I made no views on my trip; but I showed one or two of my very limited number of prints to Mr. George Davison, of London, and he at once advised me to go ahead and make more, as he considered what I had done indicated the spirit of the new school of photography. Shortly after my return from Europe I arranged my studio and started to work seriously.9 This lack of interest in making traditional “views” remained a hallmark of Ben-Yusuf’s travel photography throughout her career. The “new school of photography” to which she refers was pictorialism; this was a style of photography that emerged in the 1890s that rejected the sharp focus of traditional photography in favor of a softer focus and broad, impressionistic effects. Davison was a pioneer of the movement in Britain and had helped to found the Linked Ring Brotherhood, as a pictorialist alternative to the venerable Royal Photographic Society, in 1892. Indeed, Ben-Yusuf exhibited one photograph in the 1896 Fourth Photographic Salon of the Linked Ring, which was held at Dudley Gallery in London from September 24 to November 7. It seems to have been this exhibition that precipitated her return visit to London and her initial meeting with Davison.10 She continued to exhibit in the Linked Ring Salons for the next few years. Ben-Yusuf opened a professional portrait studio at 124 Fifth Avenue in New York City, not far from Union Square.11 In April of 1898, one of her photographs appeared in Camera Notes, being the publication of the Camera Club of New York then being edited by American pictorialist leader Alfred Stieglitz (1864–1946).12 Indeed, Ben-Yusuf had prints reproduced in several early numbers of Camera Notes.13 Stieglitz sufficiently admired her work to collect it and later to admit her to the Photo-Secession, which was the leading organization of pictorialists in the United States, though her work was not included in his initial Photo-Secession exhibit in 1902. By 1900, Ben-Yusuf was exhibiting internationally, including being represented in Frances Benjamin Johnston’s (1864–1952) exhibit of the work of American women photographers at the Paris World’s Fair that year, and the exhibition organized by Clarence White at the Newark Camera Club in Ohio, where her work hung beside that of Edward Steichen (1879–1973), Frank Eugene (1865–1936) and Robert Demachy (1859–1936).14 In 1901, Ben-Yusuf participated in the Glasgow International Exhibition. She also had a flourishing portrait business, with many well-heeled and influential sitters, such as Governor Theodore Roosevelt (1858–1919), authors William Dean Howells (1837–1920) and Edith Wharton (1862–1937) and political cartoonist Thomas Nast (1840–1902). Ben-Yusuf also began to publish articles in the popular press, including two on millinery in Ladies’ Home Journal and one on “The New Photography—What it has Done and is doing for Modern Portraiture” in Metropolitan Magazine.15 In this, she was following in the footsteps of other American female photographers, most notably Johnston, who used both their writing and photographic talents in popular

No typical tourist 193 publications of their day. Both Johnston and Ben-Yusuf developed close working relationships with the Curtis Publishing Company of Philadelphia, which put out the mass-circulated magazines Ladies’ Home Journal and The Saturday Evening Post. Also in 1901, Ben-Yusuf launched a series for the Post under the headline “Advanced Photography for Amateurs.” The series ran to six installments.17 Topics included portraiture, landscape photography, night photography and a discussion of photographic apparatus. Clearly, her articles were aimed at encouraging the growing popular pastime of amateur photography. These articles in the Post commenced in the very month that Johnston featured Ben-Yusuf among the “Foremost Women Photographers in America” in Curtis Publishing’s sister publication, Ladies’ Home Journal.18 16

Travel to East Asia during the Meiji period In 1903, Ben-Yusuf set out for Japan and China, later publishing a series of photographically illustrated articles about the region. Of this new venture she wrote the following: Before I left home on a recent journey I longed for the possibility of leaving cameras behind. I was tired of them. The very name spoiled the prospect of pleasures to come. Yet, no sooner had I actually started on my way than I became infected with the camera fever that seemed to possess everyone around me.19 It is fortunate that she was so “infected”; in consequence, a number of fine examples of her work from this time are extant. Both the writing and the illustrations included in her articles avoid the traditional “big picture” approach to travel writing and photo­ graphy. Instead, she focuses on the particular, providing an intimate view of Japanese society through the eyes and lens of a Western photographer. In the Meiji era (1868–1912), it was still relatively unusual for an unmarried Western woman to travel in Asia, and Ben-Yusuf, who was rather eccentric and bohemian in her dress, must have attracted a good bit of attention!20 Under the shoguns, Japan was closed to foreigners, and even for citizens, travel within the country was strictly regulated.21 During the Tokugawa period, beginning in 1603, a national road system was established, but the shoguns tightly controlled passage along the five national highways. Fees were charged by the feudal authorities as people passed through their districts. Pilgrimages to important Shinto sites, especially to Ise Shrine, had become popular in the Muromachi era (1338–1573), and even peasants sometimes made the journey, though the feudal authorities often tried to prevent them. Leisure and pleasure trips were generally discouraged for all but the most powerful members of the ruling elite.22 This changed following the 1854 treaty with the United States that resulted from Commodore Matthew Perry’s forced opening of Japan to trade with the West when he sailed his fleet into Tokyo Bay.23 Western tourism began slowly prior to the Meiji Restoration in 1868, as the number of foreign visitors arriving in the country was still limited.24 However, with imperial power restored, the ruling class “established a modern state that bore almost no formal resemblance to anything Japan had yet experienced.”25 The year 1869 was a significant one for several reasons: transcontinental rail travel across the United States became possible, and the Suez Canal opened. Both greatly increased American travelers’ access to Japan. The first access to regular trans-Pacific steamer travel from San Francisco to Hong Kong, with stops

194  Gillian Greenhill Hannum in Yokohama, Kobe and Nagasaki, had been introduced only two years earlier, in 1867, by the Pacific Mail Steamship Company. The trip took just over three weeks.26 From this point on, tourism flourished. Initially, foreigners required internal passports to go beyond the 25-mile perimeter of Japan’s five treaty ports (Yokohama, Kobe, Nagasaki, Hakodate, Niigata) and two open cities (Tokyo and Osaka); this requirement was lifted in 1899.27 Interestingly, unlike Europe and the United States, which left tourism largely to private enterprise, Japan’s government increasingly took the lead in acting as the country’s main travel agency; because the primary goal was attracting foreign currency, Japan geared tourism to “foreign” travelers and developed it according to European and American norms, with Western beds, wines and liquors, and ice for drinks in the summertime.28 Western influences abounded. In fact, the new imperial court urged Western dress for men in 1872 and for women in 1886.29 By the end of the nineteenth century, Western dress was widely being worn by many members of the Meiji court, and by diplomats and wealthy members of Japanese society, as it was equated with being modern. And, just as World’s Fairs and expositions fueled a taste for Japonisme among Americans and Europeans, so, too, the Japanese became increasingly fascinated with things Western.30 Despite this Westernization, Japan at the dawn of the twentieth century was an overwhelmingly male-dominated culture, resulting from the legacy of feudal samurai warrior society.31 Indeed, under the Tokugawa Shogunate (1603–1868), women had no legal standing. They could not own land, were restricted in their education, and were expected to be subservient to fathers, husbands and even sons.32 Nonetheless, female Western artists were drawn there by the desire to imbibe the Japanese aesthetic first hand, as painter and printmaker Helen Hyde (1868–1919) would during several sojourns in Japan, beginning in 1899. She was influenced to go there after having seen a large display of Japanese woodblock prints at the École des beaux-arts in Paris in 1891, the resulting prints created by fellow American Mary Cassatt (1844–1926), and by the groundbreaking work of Arthur Wesley Dow (1857–1922), whose art education text, Composition, a Series of Exercises Selected from a New System of Art Education (Boston: J.M. Bowles, 1899), introduced basic principles of Japanese design to American art students.33 This was the world into which the irrepressible Ben-Yusuf stepped in April of 1903, when she disembarked from her steamship in Yokohama. She made visits to Kobe and Nagasaki, and also traveled to Hong Kong, before renting a house for the summer in Kyoto.34 She returned to New York City in the fall.

“Japan Through My Camera” series in The Saturday Evening Post The first of her articles about this sojourn, “Japan Through My Camera,” appeared on April 23, 1904, in The Saturday Evening Post, a magazine in which she had previously published an article in June of 1901 (Figure 10.1).35 In the first installment in the Japan series, she describes her voyage and the sense of community that developed on the ship; she notes that, “every steamer carries its little coterie of foreign residents from the ports en route, who find this their frequent meeting place.”36 She observes that, in the Far East, “cabin boys”—often of Chinese background—replace the “chambermaids” known in Europe and the United States, even hooking up shoes and dresses.37

No typical tourist 195

Figure 10.1  Cover, The Saturday Evening Post, 176:43 (Apr. 23, 1904). Collection of the author. Photograph by Jim Frank. Licensing information: PD-Art/ PD-old-100, public domain.

In her writings, Ben-Yusuf shares anecdotes of the photographic pursuits of other Westerners in Japan at that time. For example, a “Mrs. W____, of the American Legation in Tokyo” specialized in taking street scenes, especially of traditional Japanese neighborhoods, without getting out of her carriage, having trained her driver to stop quickly when something caught her eye.38 “One of the daughters of Admiral S_____, United States Navy,” was “amusing herself [. . .] with a panorama camera.”39 Clearly, Ben-Yusuf mixed with the diplomatic set, including other Americans, as well as British, French and German nationals. A sense of what this community might have been like was captured by another American, Isabel Anderson (1876–1948), in her 1914 autobiographical book The Spell of Japan.40 The wife of an American ambassador to Japan, she describes in detail the social life within court circles, the festivals that she attended and her own travels through a country with which she fell in love on her first visit. Ben-Yusuf’s experiences were undoubtedly similar. The photographer’s initial introduction to Japan included many of the typical tourist experiences. She describes the curio shops full of fascinating items and the visitors’

196  Gillian Greenhill Hannum interest in seeing a geisha performance. She includes a photograph of an especially pretty fourteen-year-old geisha who was one of the most widely photographed of her day (Figure 10.2).41 This ancient art form fascinated Westerners with its exoticism and was among the most photographed subjects of the Meiji period. Ben-Yusuf’s geisha portraits fit the general trend. Her portraits depict young women in traditional dress and elaborate makeup dancing, playing music or serving tea. Pitching her articles to the growing number of camera-carrying American travelers, Ben-Yusuf let her readers know what they could expect to find in terms of photographic supplies should they come to Japan. Roll film, used in the popular Kodak cameras, was readily available, but plates utilized by more “serious” photographers might not be found in the dimensions preferred by Americans. She indicates that one could “get negatives developed and prints made quickly at very little cost.”42

Figure 10.2  Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera,” The Saturday Evening Post, 176:43 (Apr. 23, 1904), p. 6. Collection of the author. Photograph by Jim Frank. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain.

No typical tourist 197 Photography had arrived in Japan about a decade after its introduction in the West. Indeed, the oldest surviving photographs of Japan are daguerreotypes dating from 1853–4 that were taken by Commodore Perry’s official photographer, though a Nagasaki merchant is recorded as having imported a daguerreotype camera to the country in 1843.43 Nagasaki was Japan’s sole window to the outside world during the Tokugawa era; when the shoguns cut off trade, they allowed a small group of Dutch and Chinese merchants to continue to operate there, though under tight controls. The first daguerreotype made by a Japanese photographer dates from 1857.44 Only after restoration of imperial rule did photography begin to flourish as part of the overall modernization of the country.45 Yokohama, as the port of entry for most foreigners coming to Japan, was the center of photographic activity. By this time, the wet collodion process, which resulted in paper prints made from glass negatives, had supplanted the daguerreotype. Unlike the earlier process, which produced a unique positive image, the collodion process allowed for many prints to be produced from a single negative, encouraging mass production. As tourism increased, Western photographers such as Felix Beato (1834/35–c.1907) and Baron Raimund von Stillfried (1839–1911), and their Japanese counterparts such as Kusakabe Kimbei (1841–1934), Tamamura Kozaburo (1856–1923?) and Ogawa Isshin (1860–1929), engaged in producing images for mass consumption, both at home and abroad. In the 1870s, gelatin dry plates replaced the wet collodion process. This coincides with a period of increased growth of tourism in Japan, which lasted until about 1910, and a brisk market for souvenir photographs developed. Ben-Yusuf would have been very familiar with such images. Perhaps the most poetic passage in the photographer’s first article describes her ship’s movement from Kobe to Nagasaki: One is almost compelled into poetic mood as the steamers glide silently on their course through this waterway, for which the Japanese have no name, leaving behind them a widening trail of jade at midday, of copper and blue at sunset. All too soon, one arrives at Nagasaki, and the restful charm is dispelled, for there all is noisy activity.46 She goes on to discuss the restrictions that the Japanese government placed on tourists using their cameras, with severe penalties for anyone photographing fortifications in that country, and describes the process that she had to go through, and the many officials that she needed to visit, in order to gain permission to photograph a particular temple.47 Despite the Westernization that came with modernization, the Japanese continued to fear foreign domination, and the Meiji government also focused on developing the Japanese military. From Nagasaki, Ben-Yusuf’s ship crossed to Hong Kong, where the photographer found the heat almost unbearable. She also noted that A Chinaman will never allow himself to be included in the picture if he can avoid it. He either gets out of the way as quickly as possible, or, with primitive instinct, deliberately turns his back to you. Japanese are different, assuming a pose the moment a camera is pointed their way.48

198  Gillian Greenhill Hannum She expressed her pleasure when the steamer conveyed her back to Japan. The article contains much practical information for photographic enthusiasts traveling in the region, including numerous tips on how to deal with the extreme humidity. However, she also remarks on the “actinic quality of the light,” created by a clear atmosphere belonging to a country that burns little coal.49 Appreciation of the quality of light in Japan runs throughout Ben-Yusuf’s writing about the region.

Figure 10.3  Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera,” The Saturday Evening Post, 176:43 (Apr. 23, 1904), p. 7. Collection of the author. Photograph by Jim Frank. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain.

No typical tourist 199 Her first dispatch is illustrated by seven of her photographs—depicting a range of subjects, from a scene of a ship-board inspection of the Chinese staff, to the aforementioned geisha, a scene of a junk in the harbor, a street scene in Hong Kong, a shop interior, the steps and gate to a temple in Nagasaki, and an evocative scene of a Japanese garden in the moonlight, each with a caption about the lens or aperture used and other technical information (Figure 10.3). Ben-Yusuf concludes it with the following statement: Immediately on my return to Japan I began to search for the most charming native house available, my object being to live in native fashion and so learn the details in the daily home life of the better-class Japanese. What the house was like and about my work there I shall have to leave for another article.50 Readers of The Saturday Evening Post did not have long to wait. Ben-Yusuf’s next installment of “Japan Through My Camera” appeared the following week. She opens the piece describing how she converted a lavatory into a darkroom, and how her maid would stand by and fan her as she worked, partly to alleviate the humid heat and partly to keep swarms of mosquitoes at bay. Despite these discomforts, Ben-Yusuf clearly took to the Japanese lifestyle. She explained this to her readers: Such clean and exquisite simplicity as my house presented is difficult to realize, though one may imagine it. No one ever came in with shoes on, even my foreign friends taking that for granted because I lived in native fashion (excepting kimonos). There were fourteen rooms stretched bungalow style along one wall of the premises; of course, all were carpeted with Tatami.51 The house was a traditional wooden structure with verandas and shutters, the roof having the typical overhanging eaves. She goes on to describe the light: There was, to me, in these Japanese rooms a very interesting new condition of light to study, coming, as it does, from below, because the eaves extending beyond every veranda cut off so much illumination that the head of a person standing is entirely in shadow.52 Ben-Yusuf notes that the arrangement is perfect to illuminate people seated on the floor in typical Japanese fashion, and that for “photographic purposes, the light which comes through paper windows is perfectly charming.”53 This article is illustrated with photographs of her house, again providing technical details as to lenses used, exposure time and other relevant information. One image, of a little girl seated beside a lacquer chest (titled Susume—A Portrait), includes an observation about the creeping Westernization of Japan: Her two silver mirrors are such tiny round things that Japanese girls of to-day quite scorn to use them, and have, instead, the ugliest Western substitutes imaginable. One would expect that when they dropped the old ideas for furniture and decorating they would have sufficient ingenuity to adapt the new fashion to their own use with some touch of native grace; but no, they are content with the most hideous affairs.54

200  Gillian Greenhill Hannum This disdain for the “new” Japan runs throughout her writing about the region and is reflected in the subjects she chose to photograph. Here, Ben-Yusuf shared much in common with other Americans captured by the “Japanese fever,” such as New Englanders Charles Appleton Longfellow, William Sturgis Bigelow and Isabella Stewart Gardner.55 Interest in the traditional, and perhaps a fear of its passing, seems to have been Ben-Yusuf’s motivation and focus in taking pictures as well. In this regard, she was typical of Western photographers in Japan and, indeed, of commercial Japanese photographers creating souvenir photographs for the tourist trade, or the so-called Yokohama shashin.56 The tourist trade, in turn, was fueled by the increasing prevalence of exported Japanese goods in Western markets. Japanese ceramics, lacquerware, fans and screens were especially popular. Westerners saw in the Japanese a kind of pure spirituality and believed them to be more “‘naturally’ possessing an artistic sensibility.”57 As David Odo has noted the following: “Most western tourists bought photographs that answered certain expectations and fitted the sense of nostalgia that came over most of them when visiting this strange country that was civilized in a very different way from western countries.”58 Indeed, in his research into Japanese photographs of the late nineteenth century, Odo found relatively few that showed the rapid modernization of the country during the time in which they were taken. Rather, the majority of them emphasize traditional Japanese subjects such as geishas, sumo wrestlers, cherry blossoms, temples and the iconic Mount Fuji, all being subjects already popularized by ukiyo-e woodblock prints.59 In fact, many ukiyo-e artists turned to hand-coloring albumen prints, as the rise of the new medium led to the demise of the old. Tourists, points out Margarita Winkel, “came searching for the picturesque life that they encountered in prints, photographs and teacups, a life which by their very presence Westerners helped to destroy.”60 As Hight puts it, Westerners were fully aware of what was changing in Japan, and photographers gave them what they wanted—scenes of an evanescent Old Japan, aspects of which may have only existed in their customers’ imaginations. Westerners wanted to acquire records of social customs in feudal Japan, a kind of “salvage” documentation, before the country was irrevocably changed.61 Ben-Yusuf clearly admired the Japanese aesthetic, writing in this article about ikebana, or Japanese flower arranging, a subject to which she returned in a subsequent article. She notes, “The word ‘flower arrangement’ is somewhat misleading, for in reality very few flowers are used.”62 Her article reveals that she employed a local master to keep her house filled with such arrangements. Ben-Yusuf’s third installment of “Japan Through My Camera” describes the closing up of her little house in August, as she and her maid embarked on a trip north to visit Nikko, which was a tourist destination popular for its many temples. The Meiji Restoration, being intent on promoting tourism for both citizens and foreign guests, had constructed a national railway system throughout Japan, which greatly facilitated travel and served the artist well. She describes her journey as follows: After a day spent shopping at Yokohama we left for Nikko, the one hundred and twenty-five miles by rail taking eight hours, so that it was evening when we arrived and were whirled madly through the village in a string of rickshaws to the hotel, a very comfortable little place run by a native in foreign style.

No typical tourist 201 The locality is a favorite summer resort for foreigners—they even come from China and the Philippines—and a sort of Mecca to the Japanese. The district best known to us as Nikko has been called a city; in reality it is a village surrounding a group of beautiful temples.63 As in the previous installments, she offers tips for the photographer: Tickets are necessary for entrance to the temple grounds, and again another ticket, costing about three dollars for permission to take photographs during one week. I found that to go early in the morning was nicest. They are supposed to open the gates at eight o’clock, but one can get in earlier, as I remember being at work more than once by seven-thirty.64 She touchingly describes how excited her little maid, Sato San, was to visit Nikko—a pilgrimage of great meaning for Japanese nationals. The site, which dates back to the eighth century, is a mix of Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples. Later, it was chosen as the location for the mausoleum of the founder of the Tokugawa Shogunate.65 Ben-Yusuf captures the unique beauty of the place, as she describes the exquisitely sited gilded structures tucked into the slope of the mountain and harmonized perfectly with nature; “Placed against a magnificent background of tall trees which rise behind them in a green semicircle hundreds of feet high, one can imagine nothing more ideal.”66 Shunkichi Akimoto, writing several decades later in The Lure of Japan, put it this way: It is a mere commonplace to say of Nikko that the glories of nature blend harmoniously with those of art. So many features of Nikko deserve superlative adjectives that one fears the charge of hyperbole, and is somewhat consoled to think that he is not reputed as an artist of the pen or the brush, so impossible it is to paint Nikko with either.67 The site clearly had a profound impact on the photographer, who said in her article that she would never forget the silence and the pungent scent of moss-covered wood and stone. Illustrated with views of the architecture, tombs and scenery, Ben-Yusuf’s article concludes with detailed information about how she photographed this fabled site with her Kodak, on which she took many of the images illustrating the article, as well as with her 4 × 5 and her 8 × 10 view cameras.68 The final installment of “Japan through my Camera” appeared on August 6, 1904. It records a trip that Ben-Yusuf made to the island of Shikoku to see the shrine of Kompira. This extensive, mountainside Shinto complex, dedicated to sailors and seafaring, requires visitors to climb 785 stone steps to get to the main temple, and 1,368 steps to reach the uppermost shrine. Like Nikko, its early history is an amalgam of Shinto and Buddhist influences, and the site has long attracted pilgrims to the wooded slopes of Mount Zozu in Kotohira. Ben-Yusuf’s maid had suggested the journey, having lived in the region when she was young and having witnessed her mistress’s pleasure at visiting Nikko. As Ben-Yusuf writes, “It is as yet unspoiled by the presence of a railroad, and as our rickshaws trundled into the courtyard of the inn called Tora-ya there was an unmistakable atmosphere truly native in our surroundings.”69 It was the “traditional Japan” to which Ben-Yusuf was particularly drawn. Such pictures reflected the Western image of Japan before industrialization. According to David Odo,

202  Gillian Greenhill Hannum Many foreigners held the opinion that modernity was arriving too abruptly on the shores of the island empire. Civilized but “other,” ancient and inscrutable, yet modernizing and on the brink of irreversible change, Japan seemed to offer the western tourist the opportunity to collect images of a culture that would soon be changed forever.70 Eleanor Hight has suggested that such photographs “enabled Westerners to control how they pictured this newly discovered place.”71 Odo asserts that Japan, during this period, still offered an escape from modern industrial society, and that Westerners approached it with romantic preconceptions of a more idyllic traditional culture, which “held their interest as a contrast to their own cultural environments.”72 A contrast it proved to be! The photographer reveals that she kept her maid close by at all times, rather than sending her off to the usual servants’ quarters, in order to have her companionship and also her services as interpreter. Clearly, she enjoyed her company, noting that “she, like all her people, was never disturbed or unamiable.”73 However, the young woman also gave Ben-Yusuf a sense of security. There were no locks or latches on the sliding screens that divided the rooms, and servants regularly appeared unannounced, startling Ben-Yusuf by sliding open a door without warning. After the first time this happened, the photographer announced that anyone wanting to see her needed to enter through her maid’s room, thus ensuring her own privacy.74 In this article, illustrated with photographs of the architecture, the landscape and several pictures of those who waited upon her at the inn, Ben-Yusuf describes being served meals as she sat on the floor at a low table, her bowl being filled from a rice box. She also gives a detailed account of the steep walk up to the abbot’s house and temple buildings, and relates an incident in which a Japanese sailor on shore leave treated her and her maid in a rude and threatening fashion. Fortunately, a policeman came by, and the man left. The incident, in which the Japanese maid was berated for serving a foreigner, was, according to Ben-Yusuf, the only unpleasant incident she experienced during her months in Japan.75 As renowned travel writer Jan Morris notes in her introduction to Japan: Photographs, 1854–1905, it is not surprising that Americans were not enthusiastically received in late nineteenth and early twentieth-century Japan: Some terrible things happened during the first years of the Western association with Japan, when once Commodore Perry had, by the brute force of his American guns, opened it to the inspection and profitable exploitation of foreigners. Xenophobia came naturally to a people educated for centuries to think of everyone else as barbarians, and the early annals of the Western legations are lurid with threat and violence. Even much later in the century, when relations were more normal, foreign traders found the going hard and lady visitors were often subjected to embarrassing incidents at Yokohama.76 Despite the social and cultural challenges, Ben-Yusuf was not put off; all four of her articles on Japan for the The Saturday Evening Post include detailed technical information about the photographs that illustrate her narratives, giving tips to those who might follow in her footsteps to record the same scenery and architecture. Indeed, by the beginning of the twentieth century, “no really assiduous globe-trotter could omit from his itinerary a visit to the Japanese ports.”77

No typical tourist 203

Other articles by Ben-Yusuf about Japan Her next article about Japan, which appeared in February 1905 in Booklover’s Magazine, was rather different in tone. “A Kyoto Memory” begins poetically: Here at the other side of the world I strike my Japanese temple-gong softly/ with its padded mallet./ The sound lingers—and fades./ I touch it again, ever so gently, and there comes to me the faint echo of bronze voices in the still dawn of an October morning./ Listening, I shut my eyes, and these are the things I remember:// At night./ A deserted hotel up on a hill. In a rice field below frogs croak noisily; near the veranda-lamps huge spiders weave their webs and wait./ Hours pass./ Through the white cloud-like mist of my mosquito-net I can vaguely see the Japanese boy who brings tea and tells me that it is half-past four.78 These lines set the tone for an article that, figuratively speaking, is more “haiku” than “how to.” She goes on to describe the tolling of the bronze bells of Kyoto, issuing their call to morning prayers. “Slow, mysterious, never confusing with each other, they compel response.”79 Ben-Yusuf then describes people rushing to the Hongwanji temple, known today as Hongan-ji, and one of two temples in central Kyoto revered by rival sects of Jodo Shinshu Buddhism. At last, they emerge into the temple-yard: “Thousands are moving in steady stream towards the steps; at the foot they pause; some kneel; all ascend without their clogs.// In the darkness of the lofty temple figures kneel side by side on the soft floor; poorest poor and richer towns-folk huddled closely in one indiscriminate grayblue mass.”80 Ben-Yusuf, in these observations, describes the chanting—“N’Amida Büts’ [Namu Amida Butsu]”—the gong and the smell of incense. Then, prayers are over, and devotees en masse reclaim their wooden clogs on the temple’s veranda, bow and greet their friends, and head off into the sunshine. Her descriptive detail, which draws from senses other than the visual, transports the reader to Kyoto. She ends by reflecting that Gone are the mysteries and the silence of dawn. As a dream of ancient bells which ring beneath the sea are the magic voices of Kyoto—a memory, echoed only when I gently touch the rim of my bronze gong with its padded hammer.81 Interestingly, only three photographs illustrate this article, and none of the captions contains information about exposure time or aperture, which were otherwise standard elements in her earlier series. Ben-Yusuf published several other photographic essays that resulted from her sojourn in Japan. “Women of Japan” appeared in Leslie’s Monthly Magazine in February of 1905, being the same month that “A Kyoto Memory” appeared in Booklover’s Magazine.82 The piece for Leslie’s was essentially a picture piece, consisting of six full-page images of Japanese geisha with short captions (Figure 10.4). The model appears to be the geisha featured in the photographer’s initial installment of “Japan Through My Camera,” wearing the same kimono and hair ornaments and posed in front of the same screen with a traditional drum. These beautifully lit portraits show the application of makeup, the geisha in full dress, dancing, playing the drum and warming herself at a brazier. They underline the photographer’s skill as a portraitist as well as her interest in traditional Japanese culture.

204  Gillian Greenhill Hannum

Figure 10.4  Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “In Full Dress: Women of Japan,” Leslie’s Monthly Magazine, 59:4 (Feb. 1905), p. 417. Collection of the author. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain.

In fact, Ben-Yusuf also managed to make some portraits of influential figures, the type for which she had gained a reputation back in New York, during her time in Japan. Most noteworthy are those of Buddhist scholar Ekai Kawaguchi, taken in the Oriental Hotel in Kobe. Kawaguchi had returned to Japan in May of 1903 after six years abroad, during which he had spent time in Nepal and Tibet studying Tibetan Buddhist texts, which he felt were more trustworthy than Japanese and Chinese translations. Ben-Yusuf’s portraits of Kawaguchi show him kneeling on a mat, holding a folded fan in his right hand and prayer beads in his left (Figure 10.5).83 Here, her image reflects the Japanese interest in timelessness and tradition that was so fascinating to Westerners. However, in this case, there was something more in Ben-Yusuf’s portrait. As Frank Goodyear III has pointed out: There are elements in Ben-Yusuf’s portrait that suggest a modern sensibility—one that breaks with conventional representations of Japanese figures. In this close-up, she captures the individuality of her sitter, a rare feat for most western artists in Japan. The photograph of Kawaguchi is neither an ethnographic document nor a postcard portrait. Instead, through her use of light and composition, Ben-Yusuf has attempted to capture his dignity and purposefulness. While his achievements in Nepal and Tibet might have merited special attention, she has not sensationalized the thirty-seven-year-old scholar, but has presented him as a participant in a formal exchange.84

No typical tourist 205

Figure 10.5  Zaida Ben-Yusuf, Ekai Kawaguchi 1866–1945, 1903, platinum print, 9½ in. × 7⅜ in., Philadelphia Museum of Art, Philadelphia, PA. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain.

In January of 1906, Ben-Yusuf supplied twenty photographs to illustrate an article on “Japanese Houses” being published by Katharine Budd in Architectural Record.85 The previous November, the photographer had given a lecture on Japanese homes at the Pratt Institute, where her mother had recently become an instructor in millinery in the Department of Domestic Arts.86 “The Period of Daikan” was published in Architectural Record the following year.87 Daikan (meaning “great cold”) is one of the solar divisions of the Japanese year; it is a period of several weeks at the end of January and beginning of February. In this article, Ben-Yusuf discusses methods of heating and, in particular, the burning of charcoal:

206  Gillian Greenhill Hannum One can hardly consider charcoal adequate comfort in a severe climate, but it has its advantages as well as its picturesque quality. A bath or dressing room may be chilly. A beautiful brazier appropriate in elegance to the character of the room will be carried in, and in five minutes a warm, healthy atmosphere replaces the damp chill of Spring or Autumn. Many an evening I have worked in my dark-room in Japan while a brazier glowed companionably on the floor, its deep red light not the least bit hurtful to the sensitive photographic plates. Even in warmest weather the damp, draughty corridors and lofty rooms of the old disused palaces and temples make one wonder how the occupants managed to keep warm during the period of cold, and “greater cold” was a thought to cause impulsive shivers. But these things can be learned by patient questioning and an actual experience of the details. When November came I had my opportunity.88 Ben-Yusuf goes on to describe how she went about purchasing a brazier. Her first, one of the very cheapest, costing twelve cents, was of clay. Into it, she put a base of ash made from burning bags of rice straw. Unfortunately, in her zeal, she added too much charcoal to her hibachi and it cracked.89 It was then that she learned that these cheap, earthen braziers are generally used only by the very poor, who burned only two or three lumps of charcoal at a time, huddling over it to warm their hands.90 The photographer’s triumph came when one of her housemaids taught her to build “a precise, well-mannered Fuji with miniature logs of charcoal.”91 After a long search, several bronze hibachi were located in curio shops. Such objects, once the property of prosperous Japanese owners, were being replaced by kerosene stoves, much to Ben-Yusuf’s dismay. The photographer reports that she chose “a heavy bronze whose fine classic shape was a reminder of one used in an old monastery where I had been a recent visitor. If only it could speak! I wonder if it would be grateful for its rescue from a desecrating fate.”92 She illustrates her prize with a perfect “Fuji” inside and a member of her household staff kneeling beside it. Travel writer Jan Morris notes that it was the “modernists and visionaries of contemporary Western art” who were most stimulated by Japan.93 Morris felt that what attracted them was the “gentle balance and uncluttered forms of the Japanese style.”94 Everything conveyed a sense of timelessness and order. This sentiment seems to have been held by the photographer as well. In 1907, Ben-Yusuf published her final piece on Japan, “The Honorable Flowers of Japan,” in Century Magazine.95 In this article, she shares her passion for ikebana and discusses in detail how Hanaya San (Mr. Florist), who came twice a week to her home in order to adorn it appropriately with flowers, created arrangements for various locations in the home or for different occasions. Ben-Yusuf admitted that, “for all of my impression of things beautiful in Japan, the most vivid and the most appealing, the way by which one can reconstruct the vanishing flavor of days to be remembered, are these arrangements of flowers and foliage.”96 The article is illustrated with eleven images of arrangements, many displayed within the context of interiors, and one showing the florist and his assistant at work. Ben-Yusuf clearly paid close attention to the process involved and learned many of the principles that governed harmonious arranging. Her distaste for aspects of Western taste is again made plain when she writes that:

No typical tourist 207 Surely there is much that we might borrow from so reasonable and delicate an art, one which makes direct appeal to the esthetic sense, yet in nowise competes with the barbaric opulence which requires, perhaps, three thousand roses to decorate a single room, or assembles hundreds of violets into one quaint and formal bouquet.97 The photographer goes on to say that she does not believe that Japanese individuals inherently possess good taste; she feels that taste is a learned skill, and one that she fears is being lost in the face of modernization: I remember several distinct occasions when I saw paper flowers of the crudest coloring thrust heedlessly into jars, placed in important rooms, by persons who professed to be connoisseurs of art in many forms, and others who could be expected to know better. With one of these I ventured to discuss the matter, and he offered the astounding excuse that it was done to please some foreign visitors!98

Financial challenges ultimately end photographic career Thus ends Ben-Yusuf’s report on her sojourn in Japan. However, much about her movements during these years remains unclear, for she seems to have been in Europe in 1904, photographing Capri, her pictures of which were published by Photo Era in 1906, and back in America in 1905, supplying photos to American Art News and serving on the National Preliminary Jury for the Second American Photographic Salon.99 She closed her New York City studio in 1907 and seems to have spent much of this period abroad, as the New York Times of November 10, 1908 reported her arrival the previous day on the S.S. Vaderland, noting, “The artist–lecturer has traveled 35,000 miles.”100 The article’s author mentions that Ben-Yusuf visited more than 100 cities, and refers to Japan, suggesting a second trip to the Far East, but beyond that gives few details of her movements. It was in 1908 that another series of articles by Ben-Yusuf appeared in The Saturday Evening Post, this time focusing on life in England.101 Various sources place her in London between 1909 and 1911, where she briefly opened a studio in Chelsea. Here, as throughout her photographic career, she seems to have struggled financially, as indeed did many of her peers.102 This must have been about the time when Ben-Yusuf’s activities shifted away from photography. When critic Sadakichi Hartmann wrote about her in 1912, he noted the following: “Miss Zaida Ben-Yusuf, one of the early pictorialists [. . .] has given up the vanities of the photographic world for an unrestrained life in the South Sea Islands [. . .].”103 In fact, her whereabouts and activities at this time remain unclear. In September of 1914, with war breaking out in Europe, she is documented to have returned to New York from France.104 She seems to have had increasing financial difficulties. A letter to Stieglitz, for example, asked for help in selling her issues of his journal Camera Work.105 Additionally, her name appears on a list of debtors in the New York Times in May of 1916. She tried once again to restart her career in portrait photography, but, by the following year, she was advertising for an assistant with skill in sewing, suggesting a shift in course.106 On June 30, 1919, she filed for naturalization in the United States, listing her profession as photographer, but taking ten years off her age. She subsequently continued to travel, visiting Cuba and Jamaica in 1920 and 1921.107

208  Gillian Greenhill Hannum Did Ben-Yusuf’s insatiable appetite for travel lead to her financial challenges? She had been listed in the New York press as a debtor as early as 1902, even before her first trip to the Far East. Did her ongoing money problems cause her to give up photography as a profession, or did the shift in photographic tastes from soft-focus pictorialism to the harder-edged “straight photography” around the time of the First World War make her no longer relevant in the field?108 By 1924, she is documented as working in the fashion industry, and, in 1926, Ben-Yusuf, who had always been known for her eye-catching hats, and who, like her mother, had worked as a milliner when she first arrived in New York, appears again, wearing a new hat—that of style director for the spring fashion show of the Retail Millinery Association in New York City. By 1928, she was Fashion Editor for the Bulletin of the Retail Millinery Association of America and also served for several years as the organization’s director. Census records of 1930 indicate her marriage to textile designer Frederick Norris (n.d.), with the couple residing in Greenwich Village, but little is known of her personal life in her later years. Her photographic activity, having been most evident between 1897 and 1907, seems to have ended by this point. Ben-Yusuf, photographer, milliner and world traveler, died September 27, 1933, at the Methodist Episcopal Hospital in Brooklyn.109 To the end, she remained an enigma—no typical tourist—but rather one who deeply and sensitively experienced life in foreign lands and sought to share her insights and images with a broad American public, few of whose members would ever have a chance to visit London, let alone Kobe or Kyoto.

Notes 1 See, for instance, William Henry Fox Talbot, Sun Pictures of Scotland (London: 1845). 2 Marvin Heiferman, “Kodak Girl,” Smithsonian Institution Archives, http://siarchives. si.edu/blog/kodak-girl 3 Her name is also frequently spelled Ben-Yûsuf or, occasionally, Ben-Yúsuf or Ben-Yusef. Sometimes Zaïda has an umlaut, and on occasion the hyphenation of the name is omitted. 4 Terry Bennett, Photography in Japan, 1853–1912 (Rutland, VT: Tuttle, 2006). 5 Marion Barton, “In Woman’s Realm: A Remarkable Woman Photographer,” Illustrated American, 24:456 (Nov. 11, 1898), p. 377. 6 Barton, “In Woman’s Realm,” p. 377. 7 Barton, “In Woman’s Realm,” p. 377, and Frank H. Goodyear III, Zaida Ben-Yusuf: New York Portrait Photographer (London and New York: Merrell, 2008), pp. 17–19. 8 Goodyear, Zaida Ben-Yusuf, p. 19. 9 Richard Hines, Jr., “Women in Photography,” Wilson’s Photographic Magazine, 36 (Mar. 1899), p. 138. 10 Goodyear, Zaida Ben-Yusuf, p. 228. 11 “Pictorial Photographer,” New York Daily Tribune (Nov. 7, 1897), p. 4. By 1900, she had moved north to 578 Fifth Avenue. See Throw’s New York City Directories (New York: Throw Directory, Printing and Bookbinding, 1898, 1899 and 1900). 12 On page 93. 13 She also had images reproduced in halftone in the July 1898 issue (p. 7) and the July 1899 issue (p. 8). 14 See, for example, various exhibition listings in William I. Homer, Alfred Stieglitz and the Photo-Secession (Boston, MA: Little, Brown, 1983). 15 Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “The Making and Trimming of a Hat—First Lesson: Ribbon Trimming,” Ladies’ Home Journal, 15:8 (Jul. 1898), p. 17, “The Making and Trimming of a Hat— Second Lesson: Making a Straw Braid Hat,” Ladies’ Home Journal, 15:9 (Aug. 1898), p. 19, and “The New Photography—What it has done and is doing for Modern Portraiture,” Metropolitan Magazine, 16:3 (Sept. 1901), pp. 390–7.

No typical tourist 209 16 See, for example, Gillian Greenhill Hannum, “Frances Benjamin Johnston: Promoting Women Photographers in The Ladies’ Home Journal,” Nineteenth Century, 24:2 (Fall 2004), pp. 22–9. 17 Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “Advanced Photography for Amateurs,” The Saturday Evening Post, 174:21, 25, 28, 32, 36 and 40 (Nov. 1901 through Apr. 1902). 18 Ben-Yusuf, “Advanced Photography for Amateurs, No. I—Portraits,” The Saturday Evening Post, 174:21 (Nov. 23, 1901), pp. 4–5, and Frances Benjamin Johnston, “The Foremost Women Photographers in America, Sixth Article: Zaida Ben-Yusuf,” Ladies’ Home Journal, 18:12 (Nov. 1901), p. 13. 19 Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera,” The Saturday Evening Post, 176:43 (Apr. 23, 1904), p. 6. 20 Eleanor M. Hight, Capturing Japan in Nineteenth-Century New England Photography Collections (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2011), p. 8. 21 Margarita Winkel, Souvenirs from Japan: Japanese Photography at the Turn of the Century (London: Bamboo, 1991), p. 11. 22 David Leheny, The Rules of Play: National Identity and the Shaping of Japanese Leisure (Ithaca, NY, and London: Cornell University Press, 2003), p. 51. 23 Bayard Taylor, Japan in Our Day (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1892), pp. 18–19. 24 Leheny, The Rules of Play, p. 55. 25 Leheny, The Rules of Play, p. 43. 26 Sebastian Dobson, Anne Nishimura Morse and Frederic A. Sharf, Art and Artifice: Japanese Photographs of the Meiji Era (Boston, MA: Museum of Fine Arts, 2004), p. 7. 27 Dobson et al., Art and Artifice, p. 12. 28 Leheny, The Rules of Play, pp. 57–8, and Dobson et al., Art and Artifice, p. 13. 29 Winkel, Souvenirs from Japan, p. 14. 30 “Women of Meiji Japan and Western Fashion,” Edwardian Promenade, http://edwardian promenade.com/fashion/women-of-meiji-japan/ 31 Seth Friedman, “Women in Japanese Society: Their Changing Roles” (Dec. 1992), www2. gol.com/users/friedman/writings/p1.html 32 Friedman, “Women in Japanese Society.” 33 Tim Mason and Lynn Mason, Helen Hyde (Washington, DC, and London: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1991), p. 14. 34 National Portrait Gallery, “Zaida Ben-Yusuf: New York Portrait Photographer,” Chronology www.npg.si.edu/exhibit/zaida/chronology/index.html 35 Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “Celebrities Under the Camera,” The Saturday Evening Post, 173:48 (Jun. 1, 1901), pp. 13–14. 36 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Apr. 23, 1904), p. 6. 37 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Apr. 23, 1904), p. 6. 38 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Apr. 23, 1904), p. 6. 39 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Apr. 23, 1904), p. 6. 40 Isabel Anderson, The Spell of Japan (Boston, MA: The Page Company, 1914). 41 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Apr. 23, 1904), p. 6. 42 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Apr. 23, 1904), p. 6. 43 Hight, Capturing Japan, p. 52; there is a good deal of debate about the exact date when photography arrived in Japan; see also Japan: Photographs, 1854–1905, ed. Clark Worswick (New York: Pennwick, 1979), p. 137; Bennett, Photography in Japan, p. 16, and Winkel, Souvenirs from Japan, p. 21. 44 David Odo, Unknown Japan: Reconsidering 19th-century Photographs (Amsterdam: Rijksmuseum, 2008), p. 21. 45 “Early Photography of Japan—Japanese Tourist Photography,” Harvard College Library, http://hcl.harvard.edu/collections/epj/tourist_photography.cfm 46 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Apr. 23, 1904), p. 6. 47 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Apr. 23, 1904), p. 6. Fellow American photo­ grapher Arnold Genthe, who visited Japan a few years after Ben-Yusuf, noted similar restrictions; see Bennett, Photography in Japan, p. 276. 48 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Apr. 23, 1904), p. 7. 49 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Apr. 23, 1904), p. 7.

210  Gillian Greenhill Hannum 50 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Apr. 23, 1904), p. 7. 51 Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera,” The Saturday Evening Post, 176:44 (Apr. 30, 1904), p. 14. 52 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Apr. 30, 1904), p. 14. 53 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Apr. 30, 1904), p. 14. 54 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Apr. 30, 1904), p. 15. 55 “Early Photography of Japan–Japanese Tourist Photography,” Harvard College Library, http://hcl.harvard.edu/collections/epj/tourist_photography.cfm 56 “Early Photography of Japan—Introduction,” Harvard College Library, http://hcl.harvard. edu/collections/epj/index.cfm 57 Odo, Unknown Japan, p. 29. 58 Odo, Unknown Japan, p. v. 59 Odo, Unknown Japan, p. v, and Winkel, Souvenirs from Japan, pp. 7 and 36–8. 60 Winkel, Souvenirs from Japan, p. 19. 61 Hight, Capturing Japan, p. 107. 62 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Apr. 30, 1904), p. 15. 63 Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera,” The Saturday Evening Post, 176:49 (Jun. 4 1904), p. 6. 64 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Jun. 4, 1904), p. 6. 65 “Shrines and Temples of Nikko,” UNESCO World Heritage List, http://whc.unesco.org/en/ list/913 66 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan through my Camera” (Jun. 4, 1904), p. 6. 67 Shunkichi Akimoto, The Lure of Japan (Tokyo: The Hokuseido Press, 1934), p. 145. 68 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Jun. 4, 1904), pp. 6–7. 69 Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera,” The Saturday Evening Post, 177:6 (Aug. 6, 1904), p. 8. 70 Odo, Unknown Japan, p. 29. 71 Hight, Capturing Japan, p. 1. 72 Odo, Unknown Japan, p. 24. 73 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Aug. 6, 1904), p. 8. 74 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Aug. 6, 1904), p. 8. 75 Ben-Yusuf, “Japan Through My Camera” (Aug. 6, 1904), p. 8. 76 Worswick, Japan, Photographs, p. 7. Interestingly, Morris’s great-great-aunt Lucy lived in Japan in the 1880s. 77 Worswick, Japan, Photographs, p. 8. 78 Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “A Kyoto Memory,” Booklover’s Magazine, 5:2 (Feb. 1905), p. 182. 79 Ben-Yusuf, “A Kyoto Memory,” p. 182. 80 Ben-Yusuf, “A Kyoto Memory,” p. 183. 81 Ben-Yusuf, “A Kyoto Memory,” p. 185. 82 Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “Women of Japan,” Leslie’s Monthly Magazine, 59:4 (Feb. 1905), p. 417–22. 83 The Philadelphia Museum of Art’s website still dates this as c.1899, although Frank Goodyear III has firmly established the circumstances under which it was made. See Goodyear, Zaida Ben-Yusuf, p. 69. 84 Goodyear, Zaida Ben-Yusuf, p. 69. See also Ekai Kawaguchi, “The Latest News from Lhasa: a Narrative of Personal Adventure in Tibet,” Century Magazine, 67:1 (Jan. 1904), p. 185. 85 Katharine Budd, “Japanese Houses,” Architectural Record, 19:1 (Jan. 1906), pp. 2–26. 86 National Portrait Gallery, “Zaida Ben-Yusuf.” 87 Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “The Period of Daikan,” Architectural Record, 19:2 (Feb. 1906), pp. 145–50. 88 Ben-Yusuf, “The Period of Daikan,” p. 145. 89 A hibachi is a small, portable brazier that can be carried around a house to provide localized heat where needed. 90 Ben-Yusuf, “The Period of Daikan,” p. 147. 91 Ben-Yusuf, “The Period of Daikan,” p. 148. 92 Ben-Yusuf, “The Period of Daikan,” p. 150. 93 Worswick, Japan, Photographs, p. 8.

No typical tourist 211 94 Worswick, Japan, Photographs, p. 8. 95 Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “The Honorable Flowers of Japan,” Century Magazine, 73:5 (Mar. 1907), pp. 697–705. 96 Ben-Yusuf, “The Honorable Flowers of Japan,” p. 697. 97 Ben-Yusuf, “The Honorable Flowers of Japan,” p. 704. 98 Ben-Yusuf, “The Honorable Flowers of Japan,” p. 705. 99 Her photographs appear in the October 14 through November 25 issues of American Art News. See also Sixth Chicago Photographic Salon/Second American Photographic Salon of the Federation of Photographic Societies (Chicago, IL: Art Institute, 1906), n.p. 100 “Miss Ben Yusuf Returns,” New York Times (Nov. 10, 1908), p. 13. 101 See, for example, Zaida Ben-Yusuf, “The Cost of Living in London,” The Saturday Evening Post, 180:49 (Jun. 6, 1908), pp. 5–7. 102 Goodyear, Zaida Ben-Yusuf, pp. 37–8. 103 Sadakichi Hartmann, “A Few American Portraits,” Wilson’s Photographic Magazine, 49 (Oct. 1912), p. 456. 104 National Portrait Gallery, “Zaida Ben-Yusuf.” See also Goodyear, Zaida Ben-Yusuf, pp. 37–9. 105 Zaida Ben-Yusuf, letter to Alfred Stieglitz, Dec. 28, 1908, Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University, New Haven, CT. 106 Goodyear, Zaida Ben-Yusuf, p. 38. 107 National Portrait Gallery, “Zaida Ben-Yusuf.” 108 The new style, characterized by the work of Paul Strand (1890–1976), was seen as “modern” at a time when pictorialism was associated with the romanticism of the prewar era. 109 National Portrait Gallery. “Zaida Ben-Yusuf.”

11 Beyond the European Grand Tour The travels and related writings of Marguerite Thompson Zorach Efram Burk

An examination of the ways in which the extensive travels of the American artist Marguerite Thompson Zorach (1887–1967)1 fit into the broader context of the Grand Tour tradition is long overdue.2 Thompson’s role in American art is well established, as she distinguished herself as one of the leading modernists of her day: her early fauvist- and cubist-inspired oil paintings were shown at Ardsley Studios (1916), the Charles Daniel Gallery (1915–18), and Montross Gallery (1923), all in New York City. Her inclusion in the following New York City landmark exhibitions—the Armory Show (1913), the Forum Exhibition of Modern American Painters at the Anderson Gallery (1916), and the first exhibition of the Society of Independent Artists (1917), to mention just a few— demonstrates her involvement in the avant-garde outlets of her day. In 1912, she married William Zorach (1887–1966), the sculptor who, along with Robert Laurent (1890–1970), helped to popularize the method of direct carving in the United States during the first half of the twentieth century.3 In order to avoid confusion between the two Zorachs, I will refer to her using “Thompson,” her maiden name, which she used during the time that she embarked on such travels, and I will refer to her partner simply as “William.” Thompson’s travels coincided with the time that she studied in Paris, from 1908 to 1911, at, among other institutions, the Académie de la palette. During this period, she roamed extensively throughout Europe (and beyond), while sending home her observations, which were published in her hometown newspaper, The Fresno Morning Republican.4 Altogether, nearly 150 articles were published. Using Paris as her starting point, in a straightforward, vivid, first-person narrative, she described the people whom she encountered and evoked the sights and sounds in the incidents that befell her when covering the landmarks and museums in requisite Grand Tour sojourns to Florence, Venice, Rome, and Madrid, to name just a few stops. Not surprisingly, much of her attention focused on the City of Light and the pulse of its dynamic culture and artistic vitality. What started out in Europe eventually went on to include a whirlwind journey through the Middle East, Africa, and Asia, ultimately seeing Thompson circumnavigate the globe. Although travel has been the pastime of the wealthy since ancient Greek and Roman times, more recently, Thompson’s peregrinations can be seen as fitting into the legacy of the Grand Tour tradition, the significance of which has been outlined by Matt Gross, writing in the New York Times, who defined it in the following manner: Three hundred years ago, wealthy young Englishmen began taking a post-Oxford trek through France and Italy in search of art, culture, and the roots of Western civilization. With nearly unlimited funds, aristocratic connections and months (or years) to roam, they commissioned paintings, perfected their language skills and mingled with the upper crust of the Continent.5

Beyond the European Grand Tour 213 This was far more than a prerequisite educational “coming-of-age” journey, for, according to writer and historian E.P. Thompson, “ruling-class control in the 18th century was located primarily in a cultural hegemony, and only secondarily in an expression of economic or physical (military) power.”6 The period of Thompson’s travels came at a time of dramatic changes in the nature of the Grand Tour itself. What started off being limited to members of the British nobility in the seventeenth century, with an itinerary and a relatively fixed set of destination points (and published routes and guides to help the traveler), by the eighteenth century had spread to involve mainly upper-class European young men of means. During the 1800s, travel in general was made physically easier and more affordable than ever before, extending to a much larger middle-class audience that included Americans and women in greater numbers. Simply put, since the mid-to-late nineteenth century, published rail and steamship routes made tourism a veritably booming industry. All of this rendered the Grand Tour a far more democratic experience, such that what was once an obligatory custom of the upper crust was now made available to the bourgeois masses. Perhaps no figure was more associated with this new form of leisure-time travel, and some say even largely responsible for it, than Thomas Cook (1808–92),7 the father of a number of “package tour” deals, as well as of the “circular notes” that would later become better known by the American Express brand, “traveler’s cheques.” Cook’s first organized tour came in 1841, when he leased a train to take a group promoting temperance from Leicester to a rally in Loughborough, some twenty miles away.8 Cook eventually went on to create an empire offering transportation and accommodation that extended across the globe.9 What could be said about Thompson’s own Grand Tour is that it was drawn out over a period of nearly three years, during which she lived in Paris and studied art. Socially, Thompson was from a respectable, well-to-do family (her father being a Fresno lawyer), but her role in the art market, or what Rémy G. Saisselin has called “the cosmopolis,”10 was relatively limited, as she rarely purchased portable souvenirs or even works from veduta artists, which for so many of the wealthy elite comprised a vital part of the Grand Tour experience; an artist herself, she would make her own paintings of notable sites, or purchase an occasional postcard. She was far from a collector or cultural importer, à la Isabella Stewart Gardner (1840–1924),11 who was the American heiress who, in 1903, opened a museum in Boston to house a vast collection amassed from years traveling around the globe. Similarly, exclusive tours flaunting “conspicuous consumption” would have been beyond her means, such as those like the Collver Tours of Boston, whose owners touted, in their 1908 advertisement of an around-the-world trip, the “elimination [of] all the irritating ‘commonness’ of the usual traveling party.”12 In terms of her financial situation, Thompson was very thrifty: she roomed in the apartment of her aunt, the artist Harriet Adelaide Harris, who lived in the Latin Quarter, and used her newspaper earnings to fund her journeys throughout Europe, twenty-five of which were to Italy (focusing on Venice, Pisa, Florence, and Rome), which was considered an obligatory stop in the eighteenth century.13 Addressing the importance of Italy, the English man of letters Samuel Johnson wrote that, “a man who has not seen Italy, is always conscious of an inferiority, from not having seen what it is expected a man should see.”14 Thompson preferred Rome’s ancient inhabitants to contemporary Romans, remarking that “these filthy people [. . .] lived like animals in smelly hovels and dirty narrow streets!”15 In addition to such mainstay locales, Thompson proved to be adventurous and far-reaching in her choice of destination sites; for instance, two articles addressed Holland, concluding that,

214  Efram Burk as a nation, its charm “lies in its picturesqueness and fresh coloring.”16 Two others focused on Germany,17 where she was rather unimpressed by the passion play she saw in Oberammergau; one was on London,18 and was a trip so rapid that she regretfully called it a “flying glimpse”; eight were on Spain, where she found the travel schedules to be particularly relaxed and too laid-back for her tastes,19 and three were on Belgium,20 where the high point was perhaps when she attended the 1910 Exposition universelle et internationale (World’s Fair) in Brussels. Still another reported on the Adriatic Sea and the Greek isles, where she marveled at the sunny haze,21 and nearly a dozen of her articles were on additional sites in the Provence region that she visited during the summers when she stayed in France, calling it a “paradise of light and color.”22 Surely Thompson spoke for many when she expressed the feeling of being saturated in her museum-trotting Grand Tour experience in the following manner: After three months of solid sightseeing one begins to notice great similarity in museums and galleries, just so many old masters, just the same collection of antiques until your only memory of them is to say you’ve seen them. The cities and countries retain their individuality, it is true, but the constant kaleidoscope effect is tiring and the variety of it becomes monotonous.23 When she was not invested in seeing as many things as quickly as possible, but rather taking in as many of the European museums and historical sites as she could, Thompson trained much of her attention on the French capital, in which she lived for nearly three years. Thompson sought to capture the character and nature of the megalopolis, covering everything from public transportation24 (preferring the less congested, newer autobus over the Metropolitan); the ever-present concierge,25 equating her with the queen of Paris, who wields a broom as her scepter; and the latest products sold in French shops26 (many of which were, ironically, Thompson remarked, made in America); to outdoor vegetable markets,27 about which she concluded that France is badly in need of a Luther Burbank (the noted American botanist, horticulturalist and pioneer in agricultural science); not for her flowers—these are lovely—but for her fruits and vegetables. These are the same state they have been in for centuries, almost as they were when the savages first found them in the woods and discovered they were good to eat.28 But she covered artistic matters as well—for instance, her article on hot spots in the Latin Quarter29 (such as the barn-like Vitti studio); the Louvre30 (hailing it the “world’s greatest gallery” in the title); and the masterpieces in the Luxembourg Gallery.31 In her artworks of the time, such as Old Paris (c.1910), she seemed attracted to the prosaic scenes, recording the everyday life of the anonymous inhabitants of her arrondissement. Relying on hatching and cross-hatching, Thompson built up deep shadows in which can be discerned the silhouettes of pedestrians on the street. That the work is an etching points to an example of the involved, complex, technical medium to which she would have had access and in which she gained competence. In rounding out her own artistic education in Paris, Thompson followed the cadre of expatriate Americans (and countless other Europeans) who, over the preceding century, were also drawn to the then capital of the Western art world.32 Indeed, to

Beyond the European Grand Tour 215 emphasize the City of Light’s place in the Western world, theorist Walter Benjamin went so far as to call Paris “the capital of the nineteenth century.”33 In 1909, Thompson failed the entrance exam to the École des beaux-arts, largely because she had never drawn or painted from a live nude model. She went on to study under Jean-François Aubertin, who was an artist closely aligned with Puvis de Chavannes at the conservative Académie de la grande chaumière. In 1911, her last year in Paris, she started taking classes at the Académie de la palette, and it was there where she met her future husband, who was a more conservative painter; he turned towards more avant-garde tendencies after meeting Thompson. At the Académie de la palette, she studied under Jacques-Émile Blanche and John Duncan Fergusson. The Frenchman, Blanche, was a liberal academician and successful portraitist known for loose renderings of his friends Jean Cocteau, Virginia Woolf, and the Comte Robert de Montesquiou. Fergusson, as one of the “Scottish Colourists,” emphasized the use bold color, impasto brushwork, and elements of design.34 These artists had a strong impact on Thompson because they were interested in the effects of luminosity and bold color, allowing her to refine what were at that point her largely Fauvist tendencies. In fact, Fergusson headed a group that called itself the “Post-Impressionists,” which was a term that Thompson and William ultimately associated with their own approach.35 Thompson’s aunt was well connected in art circles and introduced her niece to the Steins. Thompson would have been among the parade of Americans who frequented 27 rue de Fleurus, discussed by, among others, James R. Mellow, who wrote: [The Stein’s residence] became a kind of oasis on the banks of the Seine. One could always get there the most recent news from home and the latest world on the heated Parisian art scene. Old friends brought new acquaintances; new arrivals came with letters of introduction from former visitors. Artists stationed in Paris for their indoctrination in the school of Paris regularly brought friends and colleagues from the States.36 William later recalled an evening at the Steins in his autobiography: A very young Picasso was there looking subdued and unhappy. Gertrude sat, heavy and masculine, in her big chair and talked. Alice B. Toklas drifted about, thin and exotic, dressed in harem costume of gaudy colors, waving a long cigarette holder. She was the very idea of a courtesan [. . .] To me it was an unreal world and very decadent.37 Thompson’s The Connoisseur (1910) shows the dapper Leo Stein, who was the noted collector, critic, and older brother to Gertrude Stein, sitting firmly in his chair with a confident air, his fixed pose in sharp contrast to the floor, which dramatically tilts forward. The vivid green armchair and Stein’s red-brown cane reveal Thompson’s fauvist leanings, and the decorative treatment of the carpet is reminiscent of French painter Henri Matisse (1869–1954) in particular. Thompson was struck by Matisse’s bold colors when one of her aunt’s friends took her to the 1908 Salon d’automne, which was an enormous exhibition featuring more than 2,000 works; those by Matisse made the greatest impression. She started employing such colors as early as 1908, such as in her oil painting Luxembourg Gardens, being named after one of her favorite haunts.

216  Efram Burk In addition to striking color, the composition reveals her reliance on heavily outlined forms and thick, textural impasto brushwork. The heavy outlines, although also used by Matisse, can be traced back to the works pioneered by Émile Bernard, Paul Gauguin, and Paul Sérusier when they were in Pont-Aven during the late 1880s. Thompson carried a notebook whenever she explored a region, chronicling in both drawings and written word the visual bouquets offered to her. Between thumbnail sketches of local sights and scenes, Thompson kept meticulous financial records—in Cordova, Spain, she marked down everything from art supplies to coffee and beer. At times, she would simply remark on the character of the people whom she encountered, such as the following on her visit to Germany: People so natural/ Dressed in white dresses and white clothes/ men wear much white/ many children barefooted (not in France!)/ dressed little boys so cute—/ sturdy little fellows—/ great number of fat boys (and girls)/ different class of people in/ German parks (working class)/ Women do not wear bloomers on/ bicycles— cycling all the rage—/ we wear bathing suits like men./ peasant women all wear/ large handkerchiefs (usually)/ on their heads.38 Thompson recounted the challenges that she often faced as an en plein air painter, which she referred to as “sketching expeditions.” She often felt as if she were a spectacle, either attracting the unwanted attention of men or, at times, not being taken seriously as an artist. She commented on both of these scenarios in an article about her trip to Belgium: The Flemish men go around and look at your picture a minute then come over and look you carefully up and down. If you are decidedly homely they decide you have a spider in the brain as the say here; if you are at all good looking in their eyes, they decide you are looking for a flirtation. Otherwise, why would a woman paint?39 But then there were always the urchins: Here, as in America, the worst nuisance on a sketching tour is the inevitable small boy. Such antics as he will go through with the hope of getting a place in the picture. One little fellow stood on his head until he was blue in the face trying to give me plenty time to paint him in.40 In Venice, Thompson wrote that the favorite and most offensive trick of the local children, having had generations of practice and training behind them, was for several of them to gather on a bridge, or in windows above, and amuse themselves by spitting on unfortunate artists below.41 It should be noted that on more than one occasion she complained about the beggars in Venice, who seemed to assail her wherever she went.42 In addition to the Grand Tour framework, Thompson was also working in the vein of earlier American travel writers. Between 1869 and 1871, the American journalist William Perry Fogg sent back dispatches from his voyage around the world that appeared in The Cleveland Leader. Scholars have been struck by the extent to which the French author Jules Verne took from Fogg’s trip in his seminal novel, Around the

Beyond the European Grand Tour 217 World in Eighty Days, which was published in 1873—not only down to the same travel route, but to the name of his leading character, Phileas Fogg. The itinerary of the American Fogg involved crossing the Atlantic from New York City, cutting through Europe, traveling the Suez Canal, navigating the Red Sea, then the Indian Ocean to Bombay, then eventually, from Hong Kong, crossing the Pacific to California; this turned out to be a passage that eventually would be similar to Thompson’s own excursion. Another historical precedent that Verne may have drawn from was the well-publicized circumnavigation voyage of George Francis Train in 1870, the first of four eventually carried out by this colorful eccentric.43 Closer to home, geographically for Thompson that is, it should be noted that the impressions of Mark Twain’s 1867 tour of Europe and the eastern Mediterranean appeared as dispatches in the Alta California, which was the San Francisco newspaper that sponsored his trip. These collected articles would later be published as The Innocents Abroad or the New Pilgrims’ Progress (1869); it was the best selling of Twain’s books throughout his lifetime. Some thirty years later, Twain succeeded this travelogue with another titled Following the Equator (1897), being the account of his 1895–6 around-the-world lecture tour, only on a lower latitude than Thompson’s. But, an even greater source of inspiration for Thompson may have been the journalist Elizabeth Jane Cochrane, who was better known by her pseudonym Nellie Bly.44 It was Bly, after all, then writing for the New York World, who, in 1889, embarked upon a furious challenge—to see if she could, in fact, as Jules Verne had posited in 1873, go Around the World in Eighty Days.45 Her editor, Joseph Pulitzer, suggested that she send progress reports along the way, which would read almost as letters when they appeared in the pages of the newspaper. A collection of her writings chronicling her experience was later published as Around the World in Seventy-Two Days and became a best seller when it appeared in 1890. According to the historian Joyce E. Chaplin, Bly was not just any woman, but a New Woman, a turn-of-the-century ideal of the female adult who, freed from misogynist nonsense, could think, work, and vote as any man’s equal. She could even travel independently. She did not need the clutter of trunks and hatboxes associated with a lady traveler, and—crucially—she could be confident that the rule of law would protect her.46 All the same could be said about Thompson as well. Bly left with the travel dress that she was wearing (ordered and made up for her that same day), including a sturdy overcoat and a small bag of toiletries. Her money (200 British pounds in banknotes, some gold coins, and a few US dollars) she carried in a bag tied around her neck. In France, she went out of her way to visit Verne in Amiens.47 Following a frenetic pace, Bly’s schedule was delayed occasionally on the Asian leg of her trip, causing her to arrive in San Francisco a few days late and in danger of missing her deadline. Sensing this, Pulitzer arranged for a private train to race her back home, this being the only passage with a companion. What made all of this even more dramatic was that, at the same time, another New York newspaper, The Cosmopolitan, had sent out its own reporter, Elizabeth Bisland, to accomplish the same feat, only she was traveling the opposite way around the globe.48 As it turned out, the New York World was proud to report that Bly broke the record by eight days, just beating Bisland in the process. A few months later, Train, in his third around-the-world trip, would

218  Efram Burk defeat the record, circumnavigating the globe in 67 days. By 1913, it stood at 36 days. In her book on the experience, Bly remarked that, “the world lost its roundness and seemed a long distance with no end.”49 Starting as early as 1869, Cook arranged for an exclusive party to go around the globe in 222 days, spearheaded by Cook himself. In the process, he cited as part of his qualifications his surname, “that of the great circumnavigator of the globe,” Captain James Cook (leaving out, not surprisingly, any reference to the latter’s violent death, which occurred at the hands of the Hawaiians in 1779, during Cook’s exploration of the Northern Pacific during his third voyage). By 1892, Cook (Thomas) had sent twenty groups around the globe—possibly 1,000 people in all.50 The facility with which all of this was possible led to Stangen, a German company, starting such trips in 1878. Eventually, other outfits had refined such services, so that, by the first decade of the twentieth century, the Hamburg–American steamship line cut the length down to 110 days. Eventually, the “package tours” for which Cook became so well known would extend the length and breadth of virtually the entire globe, as seen in a poster for Cook’s Excursionist and Home & Foreign Tourist Advertiser, with a modern incarnation of Mercury poised atop the world and ready to dart just about anywhere: St. Paul’s Cathedral (London), Notre Dame (Paris), the Pyramids (Egypt), the Forum (Rome), Jerusalem, Istanbul, a Nile steamer, Brooklyn Bridge (New York), the Taj Mahal (India)—all being destinations that Thompson had taken in herself (Figure 11.1). The possibilities of relatively rapid (and comfortable) circumnavigation came with three major events: the completion of the First Transcontinental Railroad in America (1869); the linking of the Indian railways across the subcontinent (1870); and the opening of the Suez Canal (1869).51 These feats made it possible to circumnavigate the globe by avoiding the two capes—the Cape of Good Hope of Africa and Cape Horn of South America—which became possibilities that were available to Ferdinand Magellan. Magellan was credited with commandeering the first expedition around the globe (it should be noted that Magellan perished during the voyage to the Philippines; rather, it was the Spanish navigator Juan Sebastián Elcano who took over command of the expedition after Magellan’s death and completed the trip). By the beginning of the twentieth century, travel throughout the world had become so routine that, in 1902, the Circumnavigators Club was started, with similar societal assumptions as initially associated with the Grand Tour itself—that it was an expected rite of passage for the plutocratic elite. In 1902, three Americans traveling across the Indian Ocean aboard the S.S. Barbarossa, who were strangers at the time, remarked on their good fortune at being able to circumnavigate the globe. Upon their return to New York City, these individuals, whose names were James H. Birch, Jr., John D. Morrison, and E. H. Patterson (referred to by other members as “The Three Immortals”),52 founded the Circumnavigators Club. Part of its duties involved philanthropy and good-will activities, some of which, early on, involved a dredging project in New Zealand, building a steel bridge over the Nile, and purveying a warship in Singapore. Easier travel changed the scope and extent of the Grand Tour, as it was no longer confined to Europe alone. Eventually, this select club would go on to include such figures as William Jennings Bryant, President William Howard Taft, Harry Houdini, and John Philip Sousa; the last, in 1931, would compose a march in the club’s honor.

Beyond the European Grand Tour 219

Figure 11.1  Thomas Cook and Son, Cover of the Excursionist, 1892. Photographic credit: Google Book Project. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

All of these expanding travel initiatives set the stage for what would become Thompson’s home stretch, or the period from the fall 1911 to the early summer of 1912 that would see her circumnavigating the globe. Thompson’s time in Paris came to an end in the autumn of 1911, when she accepted her aunt’s invitation to return to California via a six-month voyage through the Middle East and Asia. It would be a sort of return home trip for both of them: Harris had never returned to her native California since visiting Paris for the Exposition universelle of 1900. It is possible that this trip was orchestrated as a means of separating Thompson from William, the thought being that a lengthy voyage would end their burgeoning affair.

220  Efram Burk Thompson’s family objected to the idea of Thompson marrying, not only an artist, but a Jew, which may have been one of the reasons that William eventually changed his name from Finkelstein to Zorach.53 Nevertheless, Thompson’s artistic and journalistic activities proceeded unabated during this period, covering everything, including her stops in the Middle East, where she complained at what she deemed the unnecessary glitter and decoration found in many sites of the Holy Land, saying—“Like those who drape the little rock manger with silk and gilt in the Church of Bethlehem and seek to hide its homeliness under much pomp and display, people find it very hard to realize that the reality is a thing much more wonderful than anything they have made of it.”54 She also visited the following: the pyramids at Giza,55 about which she stated that, “the only novel thing about the pyramids is to ride a camel around them”—which she did; the Taj Mahal,56 whose beauty was especially striking (she remarked that it was “a cold, perfect, mechanical beauty”; the majesty of the Himalayan Mountains,57 from which she glimpsed a distant Mt. Everest; and Hong Kong;58 in addition, she reviewed a theatrical play in Shanghai.59 Thompson also witnessed the visit of Queen Mary to India for the 1911 Durbar.60 In a more light-hearted moment, a photograph in Penang in 1912 shows Thompson in a rickshaw (an entire article was devoted to her adventures—or misadventures—at the hands of her Penang rickshaw operators).61 Thompson continued to paint after leaving Europe. In a letter to William from India, Thompson wrote that her stylistic intentions in India involved works that were “perfectly flat, no planes, distance, perspective, or anything.”62 Her aunt extended their stay to three months to give her niece more time to paint. In the oil painting Street Scene, India (1911), an effect of compressed space is achieved. Although there are figures described in a shorthand manner walking along a dirt road, the surrounding greenery and mountains seem to delimit the view presented, rather than open up and expand it, for a patch of sky can only be seen in the central upper portion of the painting. In addition, the work features similar components to paintings that Thompson completed while in France. For instance, she relied on a fauvist-enlivened palette, and her forms (particularly trees and buildings) retained her typical cloisonné outline. While traveling in India, Thompson hired “servants,” as she called them, who were actually local Hindu boys, to carry around her painting materials, keep back the crowds, and try to explain to the police what Thompson was doing. Thompson was especially proud to have trained one of them, named Rathanlall, to do the following: Stretch canvas, clean palettes, arrange easels, knew just when to squeeze out paint; in fact, it finally got to the point that Rathanlall did everything for me except ply the brushes [. . .] I hated to leave him behind, not merely because I did not know how I would be able to paint without his assistance, but it seemed a pity that all his talents should be wasted after I left.63 While still in India, however, Thomson recounted to her readers the story, in her article on Jaipur, of how Rathanlall had saved her from an old leper, who, after terrorizing bystanders on the street, was intent on approaching Thompson and her painting set-up, by fending him off with a whip.64 But perhaps the most entertaining art-making episode occurred in Damascus, where she painted from the roof garden of a shop that was adjacent to the harem

Beyond the European Grand Tour 221

Figure 11.2  Marguerite Thompson Zorach, Skiff in Waves, c.1913–14, oil on canvas, 25.7 × 32.2 in. Brooklyn Museum of Art, USA, gift of Mr. and Mrs. Tessim Zorach. Photographic credit: Courtesy of the Brooklyn Museum of Art. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

kept by a Turkish storeowner. A crowd of merchants and camels huddled before the imposing city gates is captured in a work titled Market Outside the Gates of Damascus, Jerusalem, 1911. As Thompson indicated, she was soon visited by inhabitants of the harem: I set up my easel and commenced painting while chickens and babies crawled under my feet and long fingers pulled at my sleeves and voices asked innumerable questions in Arabic regardless of my inability to answer—which, by the way, was something beyond their comprehension. They brought out “pretty girl” postcards framed in gilded tin and begged me to paint the baby’s portrait thus. They undressed, bathed and dressed again unabashed by my presence and investigated and puzzled over my clothes even suggesting I take them off and let them try them on. All this time I was trying to paint the towers and turrets of the Gate of Damascus and the moving crowds of the fellaheens, camels and merchants in the Plaza below. Every minute the women grew more friendly, and more insistent in their demands upon my attention. I would shoo them off and subdue them into a silence alive with the unblinking gaze of a dozen pairs of black eyes from where they squatted around my easel but I was too much of a curiosity; they could not keep their hands off me nor refrain from talking to me.65

222  Efram Burk Thompson wrote of her similar reception traveling throughout the globe, either alone or with a few of her female friends (most of them art students whom she had met in Paris), all the while without any male companions. The novelty of this situation struck her particularly in Spain, when, commenting on a lunch at her hotel in Burgos, she noticed that When we entered the dining room the full force of our position struck us for the first time. We were the only women in the room! And we realized that wherever we went we would be practically the only women in the room. We had known the Spanish customs before coming to Spain; we knew that Spanish women were kept in almost Oriental seclusion, that they seldom went anywhere and never at any age or in any numbers would think of traveling without a man in the party, but we had not realized before what that meant. To the Spaniards we were strange creatures from another world, unhuman things to be regarded with curiosity mixed with a little awe and fear. They could not understand a girl who could look at a man and not blush or drop her eyes, who could tend to baggage and hotel proprietors and go from place to place alone, who could do easily and naturally the impossible. No wonder we were weird and fearsome creatures.66 While on a train to Madrid, she overheard a Spanish bridegroom, who was in the same compartment, say about Thompson and the three female traveling companions and artists, I’m afraid of them! [. . .] I frankly acknowledge it! They’re not human, and one’s just as dangerous as four! Why I wouldn’t be left alone in a compartment with an English girl for anything in the world. I’d be scared to death! It’s as much as one’s life is worth! I never saw anything like them; they ride horseback, run and jump as soon as they’re born. They’re exactly like men—they do anything they want to.67 Throughout her travels, Thompson was influential in breaking the traditional mold related to the roles of women in society, advocating for a greater sense of liberty and equality. She would later take a strong liking to Japan, for, among other things, it sought to address “the problems of the rights and welfare of women.”68 In addition, she would be highly impressed by the native women whom she met in the hills of Hindustan, remarking the following: The women dress the same as the men and seem to be on perfect equality with them all through. They smoke cigarettes as they stride about, wear no veils and enjoy the same freedom and do the same work as the men. In India a man can have as many wives as he can afford, but a woman—even a widow at six—can never even think of another husband. Here in the hills, sometimes a man has two or three wives who do his work for him, but that is rare; more often you see a woman with two or three husbands who are absolutely her property as if slaves and possessed of no rights she is bound to respect. But for the most part there is only one wife and one husband and things are divided pretty evenly between them.69 In addition to the welfare of women, Thompson often addressed what it felt like to be an American citizen during a period that has been characterized as the Gilded Age

Beyond the European Grand Tour 223 (or, roughly speaking, the period from the Civil War to the turn of the century).70 Perhaps her thoughts on the matter were best summarized in her article on Strasbourg Cathedral (December 18, 1910): It is the Past that delights us in Europe; the Present we have in America and a far greater Present than any in the Old World. Before Modern America, Modern Europe stands like a small schoolboy before the all-knowing teacher, but before the Past of Europe it is America who stands humble, and over-awed.71 Compared with Europe, Thompson saw America as a young nation, living in what she called the “Present” and unencumbered by the past. In terms of the visual arts, such an outlook solidified her position as a Postimpressionist—an avant-garde modernist willing to forgo tradition and forge fresh possibilities as an artist (see Figure 11.3 for an example of her depiction of American nature). She shared this view with William,

Figure 11.3  Marguerite Thompson Zorach, Man among the Redwoods, 1912. Unknown location. Photographic credit: Mary Mark Ockerbloom. Licensing information: PD-Art/PD-old-100, public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

224  Efram Burk who, in a letter to Thompson from July 1911, copied a lengthy passage from Nature by American poet, essayist, and lecturer, Ralph Waldo Emerson: Our age is retrospective. It builds the sepulchers of the fathers. It writes bio­ graphies, histories, and criticism. The foregoing generations behold God and nature face to face; we, through their eyes. Why should not we have a poetry and philosophy of insight and not of tradition, and a religion by revelation to us, and not the history of theirs? Embosomed for a season in nature, whose floods of life stream around and through us, and invite us by the powers they supply, to action proportioned to nature, why should we grope among the dry bones of the past, or put the living generations into masquerade out of its faded wardrobe? The sun shines to-day also. There is more wool and flax in the fields. There are new lands, new men, new thoughts. Let us demand our own works and laws and worship.72 Responding to Emerson, Thompson cautioned, I imagine that in all times & ages the majority of people have lived & will live in the past & not the present. I think they have always looked to the past for a confirmation of their thoughts & ideas. They seem to dread to throw it off lest they cannot stand alone.73 She added that, although she agreed in principle with Emerson, it was harder to “throw off the past & look at life with fresh eyes.”74 Yet in the same letter she went on to say that America has the great advantage of not being tied to the past as is the rest of the world—but she doesn`t seem to realize her advantage & tries since she has but little past of her own to hamper her, to acquire all the past of Europe & make it her own.75 Before leaving Europe for New York City in 1911, William, excited by Emerson’s call for greater social freedoms, wrote to Thompson, saying, I’m going back to America & show the people there that I’ve got something that’s going to do them lots of good. Also I’m going to let them know that they’re way behind the times. That they’ve got a wonderful opportunity to create an entirely new and individual art [. . .] That they’re a new country & why not have a fresh & new and American art.76 Thompson and her aunt made it back home to California during the summer of 1912. Although Thompson never set out to circumnavigate the globe, during a four-year period, in a piecemeal fashion, this is precisely what she did. This lengthy trip in no way deterred her from William, for the two had been corresponding from the point that she embarked upon the second leg of her tour—the two married in New York City on Christmas Day, 1912, a day after Thompson arrived to meet him. Interestingly, more than fifty of Thompson’s articles on the Asian leg of her travels were published in The Fresno Morning Republican from 1913 to 1915, a period after

Beyond the European Grand Tour 225 she had returned to the United States. The timing for the publication of these articles prompts a degree of inquiry regarding the newspaper and Thompson’s relationship to it. Historically, Drs. Chester Rowell and A.L. Hobbs introduced The Fresno Morning Republican to the then rough-and-tumble town of Fresno in 1877.78 It was intended to be a West Coast version of the Republican, which was a conservative, businessminded weekly started in Springfield, Massachusetts, in 1824 by the journalist Samuel Bowles II, and then later continued by his son, Samuel Bowles III, who in 1844 made the paper a daily. Generally speaking, the newspaper attacked graft, corruption, and slavery, supporting Abraham Lincoln and the formation of the Republican Party. In fact, Rowell and Hobbs saw The Fresno Morning Republican as a tool with which to strengthen the hold of the Republican Party in California as it sought to weigh in and support Theodore Roosevelt’s notion of a strong Republic over the concerns of Federalism, especially regarding state rights. One of the editors of The Fresno Morning Republican, hired by Rowell, was William Glass, whose perhaps greatest contribution to the paper may have been his desire to make it more cosmopolitan and worldly, particularly in its coverage of the arts, in terms of the stories it covered. This may account for the number of art-related articles from remote, far-flung destinations seen in the case of Thompson. In her case, it should be noted that, not only was she a journalist for the paper, but on more than a dozen occasions she was also featured in its Society pages, often with a photo and caption about her latest travels and artistic efforts, at times even mentioning that she met other expatriate Fresnans (including the artists Haig Patigian and Jesse Short). Thompson’s father’s standing as a lawyer may account for her own coverage in this section of the paper—there was no doubt that her parents would have liked to have seen her marry someone from genteel stock, as opposed to, as covered, a Jewish artist. Thompson’s time abroad was fundamentally an experimental period in her development. Direct and to the point, her artworks were fresh and insightful, just like her writing. In whichever medium she worked, it seemed that she tried to describe as economically and forcefully as possible whatever scene presented itself to her. Her sojourns had a major impact and influence upon her—a truly lasting effect—as seen in two photographs. The first has Thompson doing her best Isadora Duncan routine while at a family summer camping trip in the Sierra Mountains, shortly after her return to the West Coast in the summer of 1912—it must be noted that, in one of her articles, Thompson wrote about how excited she felt seeing Duncan perform at the Opéra de Paris in 1909, writing that, “It is the very spirit of poetry and music expressed in motion.”79 The other photograph is of Thompson in her Greenwich Village apartment, with batik wall hangings that she created, which were inspired by her trip to the Far East, in about 1913, just before her foray into cubist-inspired canvases, and, it should be added, these were made just before her apartment with William became a meeting place, or a salon really, for New York’s bohemian crowd. These gatherings regularly attracted such figures as Marsden Hartley, Max Weber and the writers Marianne Moore, Wallace Stevens, William Carlos Williams, and Edna St. Vincent Millay, among others. In fact, one of Thompson’s articles that appeared in The Fresno Morning Republican covered a 1914 artists’ ball in New York City, which she called “a pagan revel,” that included some of these figures.80 Indeed, Thompson’s decisive time abroad came during the “golden age”81 of leisure travel and the rise of the modern-day tourist, and yet this in no way dampened—if anything, it only helped to facilitate—her Grand Tour pilgrimage. 77

226  Efram Burk

Notes 1 Much of the published work on Marguerite Thompson Zorach pairs her with her husband William Zorach. For Marguerite alone, see (in alphabetical order): Efram L. Burk, “The Prints of Marguerite Zorach,” Woman’s Art Journal (Spring/Summer 2004), pp. 12–17; Hazel Clark, “The Textile Art of Marguerite Zorach,” Woman’s Art Journal (Spring/ Summer 1995), pp. 18–25; Elizabeth Thompson Colleary, “Marguerite Thompson Zorach: Some Newly Discovered Works, 1910–13,” Woman’s Art Journal (Spring/Summer 2002), pp. 24–8; Cynthia Fowler, “Early American Modernism and Craft Production: The Embroideries of Marguerite Zorach” (Ph.D. diss., University of Delaware, 2002); Katherine Kaplan, Marguerite Zorach: Cubism and Beyond (New York: Kraushaar Galleries, 1991); Valerie Ann Leeds, Marguerite Zorach: A Life in Art (New York: Gerald Peters Gallery, 2007); Jessica Nicoll, “To Be Modern, The Origins of Marguerite and William Zorach’s Creative Partnership, 1911–1922,” in exhibition cat., Marguerite and William Zorach: Harmonies and Contrasts (Portland, ME: Portland Museum of Art, 2001); Roberta K. Tarbell, “Early Paintings by Marguerite Thompson Zorach,” American Art Review, 1 (March–April 1974), pp. 43–57; Tarbell, “Life and Work,” in exhibition cat., Marguerite and William Zorach:Harmonies and Contrasts; Tarbell, Marguerite Zorach: The Early Years, 1908–1920 (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution, 1973). 2 For more on the Grand Tour tradition, see, in particular: Jeremy Black, The British Abroad:The Grand Tour in the Eighteenth Century (New York: St. Martins’ Press, 2003); James Buzzard, “The Grand Tour and After,” in The Cambridge Companion to Travel Writing, ed. Peter Hulme and Tim Youngs (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002); Christopher Hibbert, The Grand Tour (New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1969); Geoffrey Trease, The Grand Tour (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1991). 3 For more on the contribution of these figures to the direct method of carving tradition, see, in particular: Tom Armstrong, Wayne Craven, Norman Feder, Barbara Haskell, Rosalind F. Krauss, Daniel Robbins, and Marcia Tucker, Two-Hundred Years of American Sculpture (New York: David R. Godine, in association with the Whitney Museum of American Art, 1976), and William Innes Homer, Alfred Stieglitz and the American Avant-Garde (Boston, MA: New York Graphic Society, l977). 4 My book, Clever Fresno Girl, The Travel Writings of Marguerite Thompson Zorach, 1908–1915 (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press, 2008), focused on the nature and character of Thompson’s articles, rather than on how her travels fit into the tradition of the Grand Tour itself. Most of these articles can be found in a vertical file on the Zorachs at the Library of the Smithsonian American Art Museum/National Portrait Gallery (SAAM/NPG), Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC. The California History section of the Henry Madden Library at the California State University, Fresno, has a near-complete run of The Fresno Morning Republican on microfilm in its photomicrography services area, and most of the articles missing from the file at the SAAM/NPG can be found there. The Fresno Bee newspaper now owns the rights to the material in the Fresno Morning Republican from the period of Thompson’s press writings. 5 Matt Gross, “Lessons From the Frugal Grand Tour.” New York Times (Sept. 5, 2008). 6 E.P. Thompson, The Making of the English Working Class (Toronto: Penguin Books, 1991), p. 43. 7 On Cook’s impact on the Grand Tour see in particular: Jill Hamilton, Thomas Cook: The Holiday Maker (Stroud, UK: History Press, 2005); and Lynne Withey, Grand Tours and Cook’s Tours: A History of Leisure Travel, 1750–1915 (New York: William Morrow, 1997). 8 Perhaps one of Cook’s proudest moments came in 1851 when he arranged for more than 165,000 workers from Yorkshire and the Midlands to attend (via railways) the 1851 Great Exhibition in Hyde Park that featured Sir Joseph Paxton’s Crystal Palace. Cook’s final trains to the exhibition reportedly carried 3,000 children alone. Of the Great Exhibition, Cook believed it could exercise a “Harmonizing and ennobling influence on society.” He went on to put in writing, “Now is the time for the working classes, the upper and middle classes have the benefit of arrangements adapted to their circumstances, and the time for the millions has now arrived”; both quotations are from Cook’s own newspaper, The Excursionist and Exhibition Advertiser, July 21 and 19, 1851, respectively.

Beyond the European Grand Tour 227 9 In her Grand Tours and Cook’s Tours, Lynne Withey provides truly staggering figures regarding the extent of Cook’s enterprises: “By the time the company celebrated its fiftieth anniversary in 1891, the Cook agency offered more than 30,000 series of tickets covering 1.8 million miles of railroads, rivers, and oceans. During the previous year, the company had sold nearly 3.3 million tickets, a figure that would rise to about 6 million by 1900” (p. 166). 10 Rémy G. Saisselin, The Bourgeois and the Bibelot (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1984); Chapter six, “Cosmopolis, or the Snob’s Progress,” is devoted entirely to the idea of the cosmopolis. 11 For more on Gardner, see Douglas Shand-Tucci, The Art of Scandal: The Life and Times of Isabella Stewart Gardner (New York: Harper Collins, 1997). 12 Joyce E. Chaplin, Round About the Earth, Circumnavigation from Magellan to Orbit (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2012), p. 258. 13 For more on Italy in the Grand Tour, see in particular: Jeremy Black, Italy and the Grand Tour (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2003); Edward Chaney, The Evolution of the Grand Tour: Anglo-Italian Cultural Relations since the Renaissance (Abingdon: Routledge, 2000); and Rosemary Sweet, Cities of the Grand Tour: The British in Italy, c. 1690–1820 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). 14 James Boswell, Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D. (London: printed by Henry Baldwin for Charles Dilly, 1791), p. 208. 15 Thompson, “Prefers Descendants of Mighty Caesars in Pages of History, Rather than in Flesh,” Fresno Morning Republican (subsequently referred to as FMR; July 31, 1910). 16 Thompson, “Fresno Girl Writes of Holland for the Readers of the Republican,” FMR (Oct. 4, 1908). 17 Thompson, “Passion Play is Greatly Over Advertised and Commercialism Robs Performance of Charm Village Actors are Far from Peasant Type,” FMR (Oct. 2, 1910). 18 Thompson, “Marguerite Thompson Writes of Flying Glimpse Gained of London on Brief Visit,” FMR (Oct. 9, 1910). 19 Thompson. “Trains in Spain, Toy Affairs Never Hurry; Senors More Gorgeous than Famed Senoritas; Glimpse of Burgos from Balcony at Night,” FMR (Feb. 5, 1911). 20 Thompson, “Brussels’s Exposition Proves Boresome; Canada’s Show of Natural Opportunity Makes Great Hit with People of Europe,” FMR (Nov. 20, 1910). 21 Thompson, “Through Adriatic Sea and Isles of Greece to Egypt,” FMR (Dec. 3, 1911). 22 Thompson. “Avignon Seems Paradise of Light and Color; Palace of Rival Medieval Popes Towers City,” FMR (June 4, 1911). 23 Thompson, “Bruges, Quaint Little Old Town, is the Venice of the Northland,” FMR (Oct. 30, 1910). Thompson eventually came to consider the great museums that she visited as bastions of the Old Masters and generally called them “picture galleries.” In her article on the Prado (“The Prado Museum,” FMR, Apr. 30, 1911), she went a step further: “A picture gallery is always the most enormous place imaginable, an eye thrilling, neck-breaking, foot wearing waste [. . .] there are many [. . .] rooms of pictures that had no interest artistically or historically—the kind that had been admired in their own age and had either been loathed or ignored by all succeeding ages. There are few pictures and few artists that live beyond their contemporaries and with every hundred years that slips by, more and more fall back into obscurity and join the Society of Forgotten Artists. Only in the galleries one still finds their skeletons: for what once goes into a gallery seldom goes out.” 24 Thompson, “Writes About Street Car Service and Many Other Things,” FMR (Feb. 21, 1909). 25 Thompson, “La Concierge, Queen of Paris, Whose Scepter is Often a Broom!” FMR (Jan. 24, 1909). 26 Thompson, “French Shops Advertise American Hits,” FMR (Feb. 7, 1909). Thompson went on to comment on the novelty of American products, writing, “It’s a bit of a surprise to the traveler abroad when, after having looked over piles of cheap, shoddy materials such as she would scorn to buy, the shopkeeper brings out a treasured bit, explaining, ‘This is much more expensive, Madame, but it is made in America!’” 27 Thompson, “The Markets of Paris Present Interesting Sight to Visitor,” FMR (Apr. 18, 1909). 28 Thompson, “The Markets of Paris Present Interesting Sight to Visitor,” FMR (Apr. 18, 1909).

228  Efram Burk 29 Thompson, “Famous Latin Quarter of Paris Described by Clever Fresno Girl; It is the Spot in all the World where Genius most do Congregate and where the Democracy of Achievement has Freest Reign—Studio Church where Americans of all Denominations gather to Worship,” FMR (Dec. 20, 1908). 30 Thompson, “Fresno Girl in Paris Describes Louvre, World’s Greatest Gallery,” FMR (Jan. 17, 1909). 31 Thompson, “The Modern Artists of France, Luxembourg Gallery,” FMR (Mar. 21, 1909). 32 Upon her return to the United States in 1912, Thompson acknowledged that she was far from the only Californian woman to be studying in Paris, enthusiastically commenting, “You know, it is remarkable how many California girls are making their mark in Paris [. . .] There are at least 200 women from the Golden Gate studying, and many of them accomplished credible work.” Quote taken from article by Alma May Cook, “California Artist brings back many Canvas Gems from Fields in Foreign Lands,” Los Angeles Express (Oct. 12, 1912), p. 56. For more on the subject of American artists studying in Paris, treated in a broader context, see, in particular: Kathleen Adler, Erica E. Hirshler, Helen Barbara Weinberg, and David Park Curry, Americans in Paris, 1860–1900 (London: National Gallery, 2006), and David McCullough, The Greater Journey, Americans in Paris (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2012). 33 Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project, ed. Rolf Tiedemann, trans. Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin (New York: Belknap Press, 2002); Benjamin’s essay, “Paris, Capital of the Nineteenth Century,” appears as part of his larger work, The Arcades Project, published posthumously. 34 For more on the “Scottish Colourists,” see: Philip Long and Elizabeth Cumming, The Scottish Colourists 1900–1930 (Edinburgh: National Galleries of Scotland, 2006). 35 In her letters to William, Thompson described herself, and all other modern artists, as being “Post-Impressionists.” One letter, from June 4, 1911, contains an especially revealing passage on how Thompson thought that “Post-Impressionism” fit into her intentions as an artist. “All one can hope for I suppose is that one’s work can mean to others what one’s idea was to oneself. But for me, it seems that I am miles away from even that. Perhaps I always will be. To me Post-Impressionism is only the beginning of things and never the end of things.” This letter is part of an extensive body of personal correspondence between the two that, unless stated otherwise, is located at the Manuscript Division of the Library of Congress and the Archives of American Art, which is a division of the Smithsonian Institution, both in Washington, DC. 36 James R. Mellow, Charmed Circle Gertrude Stein and Company (New York: Henry Holt, 1974), p. 180. 37 William Zorach, Art Is My Life (Cleveland, OH: World Publishing, 1967), p. 24. 38 Notebook on the travels of Marguerite Thompson, Library of Congress, Manuscript Division, unpaginated. 39 Thompson, “Bruges with its Artist Life a Delightful Old World City,” FMR (Nov. 6, 1910). 40 Thompson, “Famous Latin Quarter of Paris Described by Clever Fresno Girl,” FMR (Dec. 20, 1908). 41 Thompson, “Many Odors Vie with Picturesque Scenes on the Canals of Chioggia,” FMR (Jan. 16, 1910). 42 Thompson, “Beggars in Venice a Pest to the American Traveler,” FMR (Oct. 3, 1909). In another instance, in Agra, while visiting the Taj Mahal, she noted that, “One small boy in rags ran after us for blocks, rubbing his tummy and shrieking with pain while real tears poured down his cheeks. When it finally dawned upon him that we were hopelessly stonyhearted, he stopped, took out a cigarette, puffed it in our faces and strutted off with a laugh.” Thompson, “Agra and the Taj Mahal,” FMR (Sept. 7, 1913). 43 Train’s 1870 voyage lasted 80 days; he was later prone to remark, “Verne stole my thunder, I’m Phileas Fogg.” William Butcher (translation and introduction), Around the World in Eighty Days (Oxford: Worlds Classics, 1995), Introduction. Among other things, Train was an author, entrepreneur, and, in 1872, an independent candidate to be the president of the United States. For more on Train, see: Allen Foster, Around the World with Citizen Train:The Sensational Adventures of the Real Phileas Fogg (Dublin: Merlin Publishing, 2002). 44 For more on Bly, see, in particular, Brooke Kroeger, Nellie Bly: Daredevil, Reporter, Feminist (New York: Crown Publishing, 1994).

Beyond the European Grand Tour 229 45 Not all these modern-day world travelers were interested in speed above all else—take, for instance, the second circumnavigation voyage by the Austrian explorer Ida Pfeiffer, a trek from 1851 to 1854 that lasted three years and included eighteen months in the Sunda Islands on the Malay Archipelago, where she was among the first to study the Bataks in Sumatra and the Malukus. Pfeiffer enjoyed immense popularity during her lifetime, as her books on her voyages and discoveries were translated into seven languages. For more on Pfeiffer, see her own A Lady’s Second Journey round the World (New York: Harper, 1856). 46 Chaplin, Round About the Earth, p. 246. 47 It should be noted that The World dubbed Bly a “a veritable feminine Phineas Fogg” (and, in the process, misspelled Fogg’s name throughout the tour). 48 For more on this exciting competition, see: Matthew Goodman, Eighty Days: Nellie Bly and Elizabeth Bisland’s History-Making Race Around the World (New York: Ballantine Books, 2013). 49 Nellie Bly, Around the World in Seventy-Two Days (New York: Pictorial Weeklies, 1890), p. 12. 50 The dramatic reductions in travel times between remote destinations prompted Cook, in one of his promotional brochures from 1898, to indicate, “Egypt has [. . .] become the favorite winter residence,” and declared it “no more than a winter suburb of London.” 51 Writing in The Excursionist, dated May 22, 1865, Cook described the time in which he lived as “the Age of Locomotion,” remarking that railroads “have unlocked the doors of districts hitherto barred against the masses of people.” He concluded that British men and women who didn’t travel were “as antiquated as dinosaurs.” 52 For this reference, see the following link from the Circumnavigators Club own website: http://circumnavigators.org/?page_id=45 (URL last accessed 2013), pp. 5–29. 53 Before settling on “Zorach” as their surname, William wrote in a letter sent from Cleveland in Jan. 1912 to Thompson, who was then in India, that he was tired of “Finkelstein.” In keeping with the craze for novelty during the modernist era, he said he wanted “to be tagged with something more new.” He urged Thompson to “look up some nice Hindu name for them.” On a related note, although born in 1889, William changed his year of birth to 1887 at the time of his marriage, so that Thompson, who was born in 1887, would not appear older than himself. 54 Thompson, “Illusions of the Holy Land,” FMR (Apr. 17, 1912). 55 Thompson, “Seeing Cairo and the Pyramids,” FMR (Jan. 28, 1912). 56 Thompson, “Agra and the Taj Mahal,” FMR (Sept. 7, 1913). 57 Thompson, “Hills of Hindustan,” FMR (Nov. 2, 1913). 58 Thompson, “Walks and Rides in Hong Kong,” FMR (Sept. 20, 1914). 59 Thompson, “New Pension and Chinese Play,” FMR (Oct. 11, 1914). 60 Thompson, “When the Queen Comes to Jaipur,” FMR (13 Apr. 13, 1913). 61 At first, Thompson vowed never to partake of a rickshaw ride; yet, she said, “But resolutions, someway, seem short-lived in the tropics.” Cited in Thompson, “Penang,” FMR (Mar. 29, 1914). The main difficulty, as she informed her audience in another article, was in her efforts to be photographed with her collies, because whenever they saw the camera, they ran away, leaving her alone in the two-wheeled cart. Thompson, “Rickshaw Rides in Penang,” FMR (June 14, 1914). 62 Letter, Marguerite Thompson (Los Angeles) to William Finkelstein [Zorach] (Cleveland; Oct. 22, 1912). 63 Thompson, “Sketching in Jaipur,” FMR (May 4, 1913). 64 This moment is described in the above article. 65 This incident is described in “Life in Jerusalem,” FMR (June 23, 1912). 66 Thompson, “Impressions of Spain,” FMR (Feb. 19, 1911). 67 Thompson, “Traveling in Castile,” FMR (Mar. 19, 1911). 68 Thompson, “First Impressions of Japan,” FMR (Feb. 21, 1915). 69 Thompson, “Hills of Hindustan,” FMR (Nov. 2, 1913). 70 The era was so named largely owing to the title of Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner’s immensely popular novel, The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today (Hartford, CT: American Publishing, 1873), in which a series of serious social problems are glossed over by a mere thin veneer of gold (gilding).

230  Efram Burk 71 Thompson, “Strasbourg Cathedral, Gothic Pile, Wonder of Present, Inspiration of Past; Noted Clock Parades Apostles,” FMR (Dec. 18, 1910). 72 Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Introduction,” Nature: Addresses/Lectures (1849), as quoted in letter, William Finkelstein [Zorach] (Avignon) to Marguerite Thompson (Paris; July 1911). 73 Emerson, “Introduction.” 74 Emerson, “Introduction.” 75 Emerson, “Introduction.” 76 Letter, William Finkelstein [Zorach] (Paris) to Marguerite Thompson (at sea; n.d., 1911). 77 During this period, her articles were sent to the newspaper from New York City. It should be noted that, after the last of Thompson’s articles appeared in The Fresno Morning Republican (Apr. 1915), she scarcely published anything else during the rest of her lifetime. This may be partly owing to the demands of raising her two children, Tessim, born in 1915, and Dahlov, born two years later. It has been posited that her care-giving role may have steered her artistic focus from painting to embroidered tapestries. 78 For more on the history of The Fresno Morning Republican, see: www.fresnorepublican. com/about_fre.html (last accessed Sept. 15, 2013). 79 Thompson, “Grand Opéra as Seen in Paris,” FMR (Feb. 28, 1909). 80 Thompson, “The Pagan Revel—New York Artists’ Ball,” FMR (Apr. 19, 1914). To the best of my knowledge, this was the only instance in which she wrote about the New York art scene for an audience in California. 81 For more on this, see Alexis Gregory, The Golden Age of Travel: 1880–1939 (New York: Rizzoli, 1991).

12 Women in high places Georgia O’Keeffe and Julia Codesido in the Peruvian Andes Caroline L. Gillaspie

In the spring of 1956, Georgia O’Keeffe (1888–1986) took a three-month trip to Peru, visiting both the coastal and mountainous regions of the country. Traveling with her friend, Bettie Pilkington, the two experienced the desert, lush vegetation, swift rivers, and towering mountains. O’Keeffe wrote in a letter to her friend and fellow artist Anita Pollitzer (1894–1975) that this trip was the kind that “one could only take in complete ignorance.”1 The traveling companions hiked, camped, drove along dirt roads on the edge of mountain cliffs, and even watched an entire hotel sink into a lake, making Peru, not only the most “foreign” place in which the artist had ever traveled, but also the most “terrifying.”2 In the year or so after this three-month journey, O’Keeffe produced just a few watercolors and oil paintings of the sights in Peru from her sketches and memory. O’Keeffe’s drawings, watercolors, and paintings of Peru, undertaken in the artist’s late career, will be discussed in the context of her oeuvre and reaction to the Peruvian landscape. This chapter will examine the life and works of O’Keeffe and the Peruvian painter Julia Codesido (1883–1979) in the context of a Pan-American movement toward modernism. I will argue that, despite their lives on different sides of the hemisphere, similarities can be found in the artistic ideas and goals of these two painters, which are engendered by the struggles that they faced as female artists, their approaches to depicting nature, and the importance of both travel and a sense of home in their work. Although this chapter does not seek to find a physical meeting or relationship between the two artists, it does seem possible that O’Keeffe and Codesido knew of one another. As will be discussed further, O’Keeffe and Codesido both met and developed relationships with a number of Mexican artists. O’Keeffe was friendly with Diego Rivera (1886–1957) and Frida Kahlo (1907–54), having met them in New York in the 1930s. Codesido met the Mexican muralists Rivera, David Alfaro Siqueiros (1896–1974), and José Clemente Orozco (1883–1949), as well as Rufino Tamayo (1899–1991), while visiting Mexico in 1931. The two were also in New York City at the same time in 1936, when Codesido showed her work at Delphic Studios. Considering O’Keeffe’s involvement in New York’s art world, and her personal relationship with urban photographer Alfred Stieglitz (1864–1946), she may have known about Codesido’s exhibition at this important gallery in New York City. Further, when O’Keeffe visited Peru, she collected a number of booklets on contemporary Latin American art and exhibitions happening in Peru.3 Whether the two artists actually met in either New York or Peru is unclear, but the course of both of their careers indicates their shared deep awareness of the changes and developments in contemporary art across the hemisphere.

232  Caroline L. Gillaspie Current scholarship on Codesido consists primarily of posthumously produced exhibition catalogues.4 Unfortunately, besides surveys of Latin American art, there are no extensive sources devoted to Codesido available in English. Three major Spanishlanguage exhibition catalogues provide a succinct biographical overview of Codesido’s life, beginning with her childhood. Her artwork is included, in order to illustrate chronological changes in her artistic career. Although these catalogues provide important factual details that are significant to her artwork, there is limited discussion about her relationships with other artists in Peru besides José Sabogal (1888–1956), who was the leader of the Peruvian indigenista group, of which Codesido was a part. Information is lacking regarding her relationship with the Mexican muralists, whom she met in the 1930s, and their influence on her subsequent work is left largely untreated. Unlike the limited and unspecific scholarly work devoted to Codesido, O’Keeffe scholarship is abundant. Most important for this chapter are works that deal with the issues of nature and a sense of place in O’Keeffe’s art, as well as the artist’s positions on gender and feminism. Richard Marshall’s Georgia O’Keeffe: Nature and Abstraction and Barbara Buhler Lynes’s Georgia O’Keeffe and New Mexico: A Sense of Place both explore the importance of O’Keeffe’s experiences with nature and her home in New Mexico. Sharyn Rohlfsen Udall’s Carr, O’Keeffe, Kahlo: Places of Their Own provides a useful model for a Pan-American juxtaposition of artists whose attachment to their homes and interest in local identities and traditions influenced their work. Finally, Lynes’s article “Georgia O’Keeffe and Feminism: A Problem of Position” discusses the important issue of O’Keeffe’s feminist beliefs, her disappointment with the common sexual, or gender-based, interpretations of her work, and her opposition to the use of “woman artist” to specify any artist who is not male. Unfortunately, besides O’Keeffe’s trip to Hawaii in the 1930s, the artist’s travels have not been extensively discussed.5 In 2009, the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum prepared an exhibition on O’Keeffe’s travels, but no publication was produced. These travels deserve further exploration as significant events in O’Keeffe’s late career as she explored foreign landscapes and was fascinated by the aerial perspective of clouds and rivers as seen from airplanes.

Georgia O’Keeffe In the mid-1950s, O’Keeffe lived full-time in New Mexico. Her husband, Stieglitz, died in 1946, after which she managed her career independently. Prior to the 1950s, O’Keeffe had traveled very little outside the continental United States. She had visited the Gaspé Peninsula in Canada in 1932, and was commissioned to do paintings for Dole in Hawaii in 1939, but the artist had never been south of the Rio Grande River or to Europe. In 1951, O’Keeffe spent two weeks in Mexico, which included visits to her acquaintance Kahlo, whom she had met, along with Kahlo’s husband, Rivera, in New York twenty years earlier. In 1953, O’Keeffe, who had been praised for being truly American and for having none of the European influence that came with academic training abroad, traveled to France, Germany, and Spain for the first time. In 1956 came her trip to Peru, followed by a journey around the world in 1959. All of these trips, situated within less than ten years of her century-long life, came after the loss of her husband and her permanent move to New Mexico. It seems that O’Keeffe experienced a profound sense of freedom beginning in this decade.6 She mourned the loss of her husband, yet it suited her to be able to travel to places that she had longed to see and to happily return to the solitude of her homes in New Mexico.7

Women in high places 233 O’Keeffe was also, for the first time, in charge of managing her own career. The artist gained and forcefully maintained control over where and how her works were exhibited. Her paintings were no longer subject to interpretations put forward by Stieglitz; landscapes and portraits of found natural objects inspired by her home in New Mexico became less about analogies for female sexuality and more about O’Keeffe’s unique observations of nature. After permanently moving to New Mexico, her work reached a new stage of abstraction and, literally, hit close to home with her paintings of her patio in Abiquiu. Her attentiveness and attachment to her home and its surrounding landscape, as well as the accuracy with which she translated colors and forms onto canvas, defined her unique vision of nature and, as scholars have argued, made her landscape paintings truly American.8 Previously, O’Keeffe had been the only female member of Stieglitz’s inner circle; her friend and former classmate Pollitzer secretly brought some of O’Keeffe’s drawings to Stieglitz’s Little Galleries of the Photo Secession, commonly referred to as 291. This led to the introduction of the two artists when Stieglitz exhibited some of these drawings without O’Keeffe’s permission, stating that he had finally found a woman artist whose work could actually be as good as any man’s. Subsequently, he became O’Keeffe’s representative, showing her work regularly at 291. From the beginning, Stieglitz interpreted O’Keeffe’s work in terms of feminine sexuality.9 He believed that, “Woman feels the World differently than Man feels it,” and argued that O’Keeffe’s sexual feelings manifested themselves in her paintings. O’Keeffe rejected this reading of her work, but the interpretation stuck. Even when O’Keeffe began painting magnified views of flowers, so that the viewer would be forced to see what the artist saw in nature, the interpretation that the flowers represented female genitalia persisted. Throughout their relationship, beginning in the 1910s, Stieglitz photographed O’Keeffe to juxtapose parts of her body with her paintings, which sustained the association of O’Keeffe’s abstract forms with the female body. A member of the National Woman’s Party, O’Keeffe did not support distinctions being made between artists and “women artists.” As Lynes argues, O’Keeffe believed that men determined the quality and interpretation of art, and therefore her classification as a woman artist and that of her work as woman’s art severely limited the importance of the meaning that she hoped to convey through her art.10 This argument can best be expressed in the artist’s own words: “When a woman singer sings, they do not expect that she sing exactly like a man. But if a woman painter paints differently from a man, they say, ‘Oh, that is woman.’ That has nothing to do with painting.”11 Even if O’Keeffe did not actively identify herself as a feminist, her dismissal of distinctions between artist and “woman artist,” or art and “woman’s art,” aligns her arguments with later feminist theory of the 1980s. This particular strain of feminism utilized the post-structuralist theory of “difference” as applicable to gender issues. Like O’Keeffe’s statements that reject distinctions between male and female art and artists, this feminist theory challenged socially constructed and inherently hierarchic binary oppositions of gender.12

Julia Codesido Like O’Keeffe, Codesido, who was a Peruvian indigenista painter, also rejected distinctions between male and female art. After her female colleague’s painting was described as “pleasant” and “female,” Codesido stated that, “In painting there is no female or male.

234  Caroline L. Gillaspie It either looks good or it looks bad.”13 Despite distinctions made at the time between male and female painting, Codesido’s work was well received, and she was highly respected within her milieu of Peruvian modernists.14 Her efforts within the indigenismo movement to distinguish a Peruvian national identity through depictions of the indigenous population superseded her label as a female artist. Codesido was one of three children of Bernardino Codesido Oyague and Matilda Estenós Carreño. In 1900, when Codesido was 17 years old, her father moved the family to Europe, where they lived until 1918. Between 1900 and 1918, Bernardino Codesido was appointed as the Peruvian consul in Liverpool and later in Bordeaux. Codesido began to develop her interest in art during her time in Europe and was encouraged by her father, who also had an interest in drawing and painting. Raised in a well-to-do family, Codesido was able to visit museums across Europe with her father. During this time, the young artist was exposed to expressionism and early cubism.15 Soon after her return to Lima in 1918, Codesido began studying with Daniel Hernandez Morillo (1856–1932) at the Escuela Nacional Superior Autónoma de Bellas Artes (National School of Fine Arts), where her training was based on the traditional academic model.16 However, Codesido quickly developed an interest in the ideas of Peruvian indigenista painter Sabogal, who responded to the need to develop a national art expressed by the younger generation of Peruvians. Sabogal and his followers sought to create a national Peruvian art that would reject the influences of Europe as colonizer, and instead emerge as relevant to the indigenous and mixed populations in the Andean region of Peru. Based in Cuzco, the capital of the Inca empire, indigenismo was a national art movement that turned away from the wealthy land-owning culture of Lima and the coastal region, and instead focused on the significance of indigenous culture (see Native Huanca Women of 1931, Figure 12.1). It sought to reclaim the indigenous Inca as a symbol through which a Peruvian national identity could be forged. Ironically, the group was made up of elite mestizo intellectuals, such as Codesido, whose work sought to incorporate Inca culture and aesthetics. The movement sought to merge the pre-Columbian culture of the Andean region with the developing modernist avant-garde.17 In this way, Peruvian artists could support the endurance of the indigenous population while forging a unique, national Peruvian art. Codesido’s work from the 1920s merged her academic training with the new ideas expressed by Sabogal. She frequently depicted Incas in daily-life scenarios surrounded by traditional folk objects. Desnudo reflects Codesido’s background in academic, representational painting, while demonstrating a transition toward the indigenista painting mode through looser brushwork and inclusion of local textiles and pottery.18 In 1931, Codesido was appointed a professor to the National School of Fine Arts and, in 1935, traveled to Mexico for the first time, where she exhibited at the Palace of Fine Arts. Consequently, she met and befriended the Mexican artists Rivera, Orozco, Siqueiros, and Tamayo (whose work she most admired). Siqueiros submitted a critique for the Palace of Fine Arts exhibition catalog, in which he commented on the similar goals of both Mexican and Peruvian painting to express the culture of the indigenous people. After the close of the exhibition, Orozco wrote to his gallery representative in New York, Alma Reed, that, “We have had the privilege of seeing the work of Julia Codesido, a true artist who contributes vitally to the continental art in America.”19 Codesido exhibited just a year later, in 1936, at Alma Reed’s gallery, called Delphic Studios. Codesido’s relationship with the Mexican artists is mentioned in biographical accounts, but not explored any further than their meeting and the muralists’ involvement

Women in high places 235

Figure 12.1  Julia Codesido, Native Huanca Women, 1931, oil on canvas, 106 × 116 cm, Musée national d’art moderne, Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris, France. Photographic credit and licensing information: © CNAC/MNAM/Dist. RMN-Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY.

with her 1935 exhibition. However, these new relationships may have been relevant to the changes that occurred in Codesido’s work after the mid-1930s, as will be discussed below. Although it is unclear how actively Codesido maintained contact with the muralists after the 1930s, her work became increasingly dark and the figures flatter, becoming reminiscent especially of Orozco’s style. Siqueiros’s landscapes often feature representations of the human body placed within or joined to the landscape. Alternatively, nature appears anthropomorphized, with the undulating landscape resembling the curves of a human figure. This use of indigenous bodies equated with the local landscape seems to reclaim for modern, nationalist purposes the colonial notion that native people represent the virgin landscape of the New World. Similar to some of Siqueiros’s landscapes, Codesido also began to place the native body within the Peruvian landscape. Throughout her career, she represented Incas completing traditional tasks of daily life. Later in her career, however, Codesido’s figures sometime seem to conform to the land, showing a connection between the native body and their native land. In India Echado, a female figure is depicted lying on her side against a mountain landscape with a lake and birds.

236  Caroline L. Gillaspie The white of her fingers is reflected in the snow-capped mountains and the wings of the birds, her hair flows into the earth below, and her bent knee is reminiscent of the mountain peaks. In the mid-1940s, Codesido’s work began to diverge from the orthodox Sabogalismo movement, focusing more on universal harmony with nature. She adopted the term “naïve” to describe her paintings, which took on a more abstract appearance. Her subject matter shifted away from portraits and Inca women, and instead focused on Inca chiefs, spiritual themes, human placement in nature, and the surrounding Andean landscape.

The native and the foreign Codesido almost always included the presence of humans in her landscapes, depicting Incas, their traditional folk objects, and scenes from their daily life. O’Keeffe, however, did not paint the people whom she encountered in Peru. Nevertheless, she was fascinated by them and accumulated many photographs and postcards of indigenous people. A list of objects from this trip that are held at the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum in Abiquiu, New Mexico, includes numerous photographs of a man on horseback. Postcards depicting women in “native dress,” ruins, sailboats, and llamas are abundant in this collection.20 Further, O’Keeffe brought back articles and booklets on Inca ruins, contemporary South-American history and art, and museum exhibitions. O’Keeffe may not have painted the people whom she encountered, or the animals and objects that surrounded them, but her interests included the history and daily lives of the indigenous population, which was the prime subject for Codesido’s oeuvre. Beginning in the mid-1940s, Codesido strove to simplify form in her “naïve” paintings. She moved away from representing only the importance of indigenous culture as an expression of national identity and unity, to instead expressing the harmony of humans and nature. Her paintings in this late-career phase focus more on the Peruvian landscape and the place of humans within this land. During this transition from the original ideas of Sabogal to her unique form of indigenismo, Codesido’s forms become more abstract, or, as she said, “simple.” Moving away from works such as Desnudo, Codesido began painting flatter forms and obscured views, often set in dark or mysterious landscapes, such as Las Tapadas, or The Covered, from 1945.21 Although the title still referred to the “covered” women who wear mantas, or blankets, the focus shifted away from the patterned clothes of the Incas to the shapes of the figures and buildings and their position in front of the dark Andes Mountains. Although she continued to depict indigenous people, Codesido represented her figures with simplified or even nonexistent features, resulting in images such as the featureless Jefes indios, or Indian Chiefs.22 The chiefs stand stiffly together, facing the viewer directly, each holding a staff in his right hand. Fifteen years later, in 1965, Codesido produced a depiction of the Andes in which she used similar colors for the mountains as for the chiefs in Jefes indios. The shape of the red mountain even mimics the shape of the chiefs’ cloaks, alluding to a relationship between the indigenous peoples and the natural land. In the 1940s, Codesido’s placement of humans and buildings in the landscape became more identifiable and specific to a location. In an earlier work, Fiesta en Huancahuari from 1931, Codesido painted the fabrics, tasks, and buildings in Indian life against an unspecific landscape, with little focus on depicting the location that was mentioned in the title.23 Iglesia serrana, or Mountain Church,24 illustrates a shift toward flatter forms with an emphasis on location. Whereas her earlier townscapes

Women in high places 237 focused on the details of the indigenous daily life, her later works move toward the placement of these lives in the specific location of the Peruvian Andes, culminating in works such as Picos nevados, or Snowy Peaks, from 1970. The daughter of a Peruvian consul, Codesido was privileged to have studied and traveled in Europe, and had the support of her parents as she continued to study art in Peru. Like the other artists and intellectuals of the Peruvian indigenista group, Codesido was from an elite family whose members resided in a colonial house that was purchased by the artist’s maternal grandparents in Lima. This home included an inner courtyard, landscaped with tropical plants and a central water fountain, which spouted from tiles imported from Seville. Sabogal had even painted a mural for the exterior wall facing the backyard.25 Codesido continued living in this home after the death of her parents until the 1940s, when she eventually sold the house. At this time, the mayor of Lima was ordering the renovation of the neighborhood in which the Codesido house was located. The artist therefore designed and built, with the help of Sabogal, a new house in Santa Maria, which is a province in the southern part of Lima. This new home, with its plain white walls, was intended as a home–workshop and included a rustic bench in thriving gardens as a place for reflection. From the windows, the artist could see the distant mountains, which placed her in the Andes, even while she remained in the cosmopolitan city of Lima.26 Like Codesido, O’Keeffe made her houses her own. Although she did not design and build her two homes in New Mexico, she did renovate them both entirely to make them functional for her needs. At both her house in Abiquiu and her Rancho del Burros at Ghost Ranch, she painted the interiors white, knocked down walls to make appropriate studio space, and replaced exterior walls with panes of glass so as to avoid obstructed views of the landscape. Her hacienda at Abiquiu, which she purchased in 1945, received an entire external makeover through a traditional coating of brown mud, applied by hand by local women.27 O’Keeffe believed that “a house should just be a shelter”28 and therefore filled her homes with only the most necessary and functional furniture. Besides the modest furnishings and their isolation, O’Keeffe enjoyed both a river valley and arid, rocky desert at her two houses.29 The importance of the landscape to her chosen places, and their subsequent renovations to enhance the experience of the landscape, is what made these houses home for O’Keeffe. Like Codesido, O’Keeffe was able to see the land that inspired her from her houses. The landscapes of Peru that O’Keeffe produced are naturally most similar to her New-Mexican landscapes, with a focus on the forms and unusual colors of the towering Andes Mountains (see as an example Machu Picchu I of 1957, Figure 12.2). Scholars have argued that, by the 1950s, O’Keeffe began to move away from her earlier work, in order to create something new.30 As she had begun painting highly abstract works by the 1950s, such as Patio with Black Door, the landscapes that she produced after Peru are certainly reminiscent of her earlier style. Three watercolors that O’Keeffe simply titled Peruvian Landscape (Figure 12.3) explore the folds and wrinkles of the mountains, similar to earlier depictions of the New-Mexican landscape. However, in this foreign environment, O’Keeffe discovered a new Peruvian color palette. Upon her return to the United States, she wrote to her friend Pollitzer, “Up there in the heights there was the most astonishingly beautiful colored earth I have ever seen. I hate to own up to it but the natural scenery is way beyond anything I know in this country.”31 In these three watercolors, O’Keeffe experiments with subtle changes in the purple, blue, and green of the mountains.

238  Caroline L. Gillaspie

Figure 12.2  Georgia O’Keeffe, Machu Pichu I, 1957, oil on canvas, 1⅛ × 8 in. The Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA. Photographic credit and licensing information: Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, Santa Fe/Art Resource, NY.

As mentioned previously, O’Keeffe’s possessions related to her trip included postcards with views of Machu Picchu, as well as an article on Inca ruins. Of Machu Picchu, O’Keeffe writes to Anita that The great ruin of Machu Picchu that the Spanish were never able to get to—or to find is in the most beautiful green sheer mountains—When you get up to the sundial—The most holy place—a river roars all around it so you always hear it what seems to be at least a mile below and a peak rises up above the big ruin, across the river—terraced so that I wouldn’t dream of trying to go up it—it is so sheer—the mts. were to me more wonderful than the ruin.32

Women in high places 239

Figure 12.3  Georgia O’Keeffe, Peruvian Landscape, 1956/1957, watercolor on paper. 11¾ × 8¾ in. Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA. Photographic credit and licensing information: Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, Santa Fe/Art Resource, NY.

The mountains around Machu Picchu certainly made an impression on O’Keeffe’s memory, as two of her oil paintings that resulted from her trip depict this location. Excluding the ruins of Machu Picchu, in Machu Picchu I, O’Keeffe instead paints a beam of sunlight hitting the mountains, the rising mist, and the mysterious colors that result from the morning light. Although she continued to admire the stonework of the Inca ruins, the atmospheric effects and the experience of standing before such a scene are what O’Keeffe wanted to express and share with the viewer.

240  Caroline L. Gillaspie Likewise, O’Keeffe’s three paintings of El Misti express the astonishing height of this volcano, which reaches more than 19,000 feet. Earlier in her trip, O’Keeffe was informed that the mountains at which she thought she was looking were actually just foothills: A mountain had become a foot hill.—There is something oddly unreal and dream like about it [. . .] it was desert of all colors—and sizes—little hills, big hills— mountains—all of sand—or bare rocks—mountains of rocks as we think of it— Remember in Peru it is a foot hill. To see real mountains you have to go over a 14,000 foot pass—and there they are miles and miles of them all over 20,000 feet.33 During the course of her trip, O’Keeffe and her traveling companion, Bettie Pilkington, spent five weeks at an altitude above 11,000 feet and went as high as 16,000 feet. O’Keeffe wrote to her sister Claudia, saying “[I] took an awful beating in Peru,” and “I would wake up and sit up in the night and say to myself—What is the matter with me? I haven’t a pain anywhere but I feel all wrong—I must be very tough.”34 Although O’Keeffe did not hike on El Misti, she did eventually paint the “watermelon”shaped volcano. In an interview in 1957, following her trip, O’Keeffe admitted the following: “I’ve been trying to paint things I remember [. . .] It is difficult—never have I thrown away so many canvases.”35 She did succeed in producing three representations of El Misti. From sketches and her memory, O’Keeffe was able to depict the “little hills,” “big hills,” and mountain, so high that the clouds obscured the peak. Although she worked a century later, O’Keeffe’s representation of El Misti volcano is reminiscent of depictions of mountain peaks in the Ecuadorean Andes by Frederic Edwin Church (1826–1900), such as Cayambe (1858, Boston Museum of Fine Arts) and The Heart of the Andes (1859, Metropolitan Museum of Art). Church and other artist–explorers of South America presented tropical views of the LatinAmerican landscape as an earthly Garden of Eden, while carefully documenting the diverse terrain. The Heart of the Andes was exhibited as a solo painting the year it was completed, debuting at the Tenth Street Studio Building in Manhattan. The painting, which was inspired by the landscape of Ecuador, was well received by the public at the exhibition, where visitors viewed the detailed five-by-ten-foot canvas with the aid of opera glasses.36 Although both Church and O’Keeffe depicted scenery close to home in the United States, their travels to South America are indicative of a more expansive, shared Pan-American experience of a quest for a national identity and art that would break from a European colonial past. Church’s travels to South America came at a moment when, under the Monroe Doctrine, Central and South America were considered a geographical continuation of the United States and therefore viewed as both mysterious tropics and territory for the taking. Explorers and artists visiting South America may have been taking possession of the landscape through scientific study and artistic representations. Yet, as Katherine Manthorne has described, the elevated viewpoint and lack of Claudian landscape formula in the foreground of Heart of the Andes create distance for the viewer, drawing attention to the ambiguous relationship between the United States and the lands to its south and possibly speaking to Church’s uncertainty regarding geographical expansion versus natural destruction.37 In her depictions of Misti, O’Keeffe presents her somewhat faded memory of the volcano’s peak, partially obscured by clouds. This sublime, South-American view

Women in high places 241 captures a moment in O’Keeffe’s trip when the artist struggled to find balance in her experience of the landscape: she was in awe of the mountains she encountered, yet, at the same time, felt physically “all wrong.” Late in her career, as she began painting the landscape without human presence, Codesido also depicted a mountain range whose peaks rise above the clouds in Montañas, from 1965–70. Unlike O’Keeffe and Church, however, Codesido’s perspective starts at cloud level, eliminating the base of the mountains from view. The artist placed herself at the same level as the peaks, indicating her preferred place in the Peruvian landscape. In her letters, O’Keeffe expresses the dangers and joys that she experienced during her trip and the necessity of doing dangerous things, because, “why go to Peru at all if you don’t do the good things?” O’Keeffe struggled to recreate the natural scenery from memory upon her return home, but allowed the viewer to experience these “good things” in the atmospheric effects and mysterious colors of the Peruvian Andes. O’Keeffe, as a foreigner, was in awe of the place, whereas Codesido, as a Peruvian, sought to position the culture and history of the indigenous Incas within their original landscape. Both artists, however, worked toward the creation of a national art. O’Keeffe translated her unique vision of the American landscape onto canvas, while also representing her interest in the Native-American populations, in paintings such as Kachina, which was a depiction of a Native-American “doll.” For her part, Codesido dwelled upon the harmony that existed between the Inca people and their landscape. Both, over the course of their long careers, continually simplified and flattened their forms, changing with the times, but mostly they remained dedicated to what they believed best represented their native lands. The importance of this native or homeland and the sense of place dictated the transitions in their careers. Codesido’s early travels abroad with her family exposed her to academic painting traditions, as well as emerging currents in European modernism, such as expressionism and cubism. Her later acquaintance with the Mexican muralists, who expressed similar goals to those of the Peruvian indigenistas, solidified her belief in the significance of depicting the indigenous culture of her homeland.38 Like Codesido, O’Keeffe’s travels in the 1950s exposed her to new, special places, which allowed her to reflect on the importance of her home in New Mexico. At a time when she was beginning to reconsider her earlier work, O’Keeffe’s various trips around the world refreshed her ideas; she found new colors for her palette in her paintings of Peru, and her many flights above land and clouds literally gave her a new perspective through which to see the world: a bird’s eye view.

Notes 1 Letter from Georgia O’Keeffe to Anita Pollitzer, Aug. 14, 1956, transcribed in Clive Giboire, ed. Lovingly, Georgia: The Complete Correspondence of Georgia O’Keeffe & Anita Pollitzer (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1990), pp. 310–13. 2 Letter from Georgia to Anita, August 14, 1956, pp. 310–13. 3 The archives of the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum hold ephemeral items collected by O’Keeffe during her visit to Peru, such as postcards, greeting cards, photographs, booklets, and leaflets. 4 Three important Spanish-language sources for Codesido are: Jorge Falcon, Julia Codesido (Lima: Instituto Sabogal de Arte, 1987); Eduardo Moll, Julia Codesido, 1883–1979 (Lima: Editorial Navarrette, 1990); Luis Eduardo Wuffarden, Julia Codesido (1883–1979): Muestra Antológica (Lima: Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, 2004).

242  Caroline L. Gillaspie 5 Notable publications regarding O’Keeffe in Hawai’i include Jennifer Saville, Georgia O’Keeffe: Paintings of Hawai’i (Honolulu, HI: Honolulu Academy of Arts, 1990), and Patricia Jennings and Maria Ausherman, Georgia O’Keeffe’s Hawai’i (Kihei, HI: Koa Books, 2011). 6 Stieglitz was known to be “demanding,” “possessive,” and “super-protective,” and struggled with O’Keeffe’s decision to spend summers in New Mexico, according to Ansel Adams; quoted in Jan Garden Castro, The Art & Life of Georgia O’Keeffe (New York: Crown, 1985), p. 122. After his death, O’Keeffe spent three years settling his estate before moving to New Mexico permanently in 1949. Charles Eldredge states that, after Stieglitz’s death, O’Keeffe was “free at last to leave Manhattan to settle in her beloved Southwest.” Charles C. Eldredge, Georgia O’Keeffe (New York: Henry N. Abrams, 1991), p. 11. For information on Stieglitz’s death and O’Keeffe’s distribution of her husband’s estate, see Castro, The Art & Life of Georgia O’Keeffe, pp. 122–7. 7 Eldredge argues that O’Keeffe traveled in the 1950s and spent more time in New Mexico because she did not have Stieglitz to “anchor” her in New York. O’Keeffe’s global travel in this decade was undertaken with a “new enthusiasm” and led to new inspiration. For a brief discussion of O’Keeffe’s travels, see Eldredge, Georgia O’Keeffe, pp. 16, 144. 8 Yvonne Scott, “Georgia O’Keeffe’s Landscapes: Modern and America,” in Richard D. Marshall, Georgia O’Keeffe: Nature and Abstraction (New York: Rizzoli, 2007), pp. 21–2. 9 For a discussion of gender-based and sexualized interpretations of O’Keeffe’s work and O’Keeffe’s stance on feminism and “women’s art,” see Barbara Buhler Lynes, “Georgia O’Keeffe and Feminism: A Problem of Position,” in Norma Broude and Mary D. Garrard, eds., The Expanding Discourse: Feminism and Art History (New York: HarperCollins, 1992), pp. 440, 443. 10 Lynes, in Broude and Garrard, The Expanding Discourse, p. 442. 11 Lynes in Broude and Garrard, The Expanding Discourse, p. 442. 12 Important publications of feminist theory from this time period include Griselda Pollock and Rozsika Parker, Old Mistresses: Women, Art and Ideology (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1981) and Norma Broude and Mary D. Garrard, Feminism and Art History:Questioning the Litany (New York: Harper & Row, 1982). Also see Norma Broude and Mary D. Garrard, “Introduction: The Expanding Discourse,” in Broude and Garrard, The Expanding Discourse, pp. 1–25. 13 Quoted in Moll, Julia Codesido, 1883–1979, p. 89. Translated from Spanish by the author. 14 Moll, Julia Codesido, 1883–1979, p. 89. 15 Wuffarden, Julia Codesido (1883–1979), p. 13. 16 Wuffarden, Julia Codesido (1883–1979), p. 13. 17 Deborah Poole, “Figueroa Aznar and the Cusco Indigenistas: Photography and Modernism in Early Twentieth-Century Peru,” Representations, 38 (Spring 1992), pp. 52–4, 56. Although this article revolves around the photography of Figueroa Aznar, Poole provides succinct background information about the Peruvian indigenistas. 18 See the image at “Julia Codesido,” by Pablo Guillén, at La Pintura Indigenista en el Perú, https://pablogui.blogspot.com/2015/09/la-pintura-indigenista-en-el-peru.html (accessed June 4, 2017). 19 Quoted in Moll, Julia Codesido, 1883–1979, p. 45. 20 Descriptions from the list of objects in “Peru Box,” Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, Santa Fe, New Mexico. 21 This image has previously been published as Mantas, and sometimes is referred to as Tapadas Limeñas. For the image, see Central Reserve Bank of Peru Museum, http://limacitykings. com/central-reserve-bank-peru-museum-bcrp/ (accessed June 4, 2017). 22 For the image, see Google Arts and Culture, www.google.com/culturalinstitute/beta/asset/ tres-jefes-indios-tres-ind%C3%ADgenas/ZAGMmhX9VLlGDw (accessed June 4, 2017). 23 Location unknown, private collection. 24 Location unknown, private collection. 25 Moll, Julia Codesido, 1883–1979, p. 39. 26 Moll, Julia Codesido, 1883–1979, p. 42. 27 Laurie Lisle, Portrait of an Artist: A Biography of Georgia O’Keeffe (London: William Heinemann, 1987), p. 245. 28 Lisle, Portrait of an Artist, p. 232.

Women in high places 243 29 Lisle, Portrait of an Artist, p. 244. 30 Castro, The Art & Life of Georgia O’Keeffe, p. 131. 31 Georgia O’Keeffe to Anita Pollitzer, August 14, 1956, transcribed in Giboire, Lovingly, Georgia, p. 312. 32 O’Keeffe to Pollitzer, p. 312. 33 O’Keeffe to Pollitzer, pp. 310–11. 34 Georgia O’Keeffe to Claudia O’Keeffe, Correspondence of Georgia O’Keeffe and Claudia O’Keeffe, Archives of American Art (Nov. 24, 1956). 35 “Where are they Now?” Newsweek (May 13, 1957), p. 28. 36 For further discussion of Church’s Heart of the Andes, its production, and exhibition, within the context of artists from the United States traveling to South America, see Katherine Emma Manthorne, Tropical Renaissance: North-American Artists Exploring Latin America, 1839–1879 (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1989), pp. 31–3. 37 Manthorne, Tropical Renaissance, pp. 5–7. 38 Codesido discusses her personal and professional connection with the Mexican muralists as well as the similarities in the artistic movements of both Mexico and Peru in her autobiographical chapter in Falcon, Julia Codesido, pp. 11–12. On this topic, see also Wuffarden, Julia Codesido (1883–1979), p. 16, who cites a statement by the Mexican artist David Alfaro Siqueiros: “Peruvian and Mexican painting go hand in hand” (translated by the author).

Conclusion Sarah J. Lippert

It makes sense to think of travel as transformative, which is why most of us endeavor to spend vacations and leisure time in places other than our own home. Perspectives, it is obvious, are easily and powerfully impacted by other cultures, climates, languages, traditions, political perspectives, and aesthetic experience. Despite its apparent importance to human experience, relatively little scholarly attention has been paid in the discipline of art history to the phenomenon of travel and its impact upon the arts, in terms of travel as a broad and cross-cultural theme. It was the goal of this anthology to consider the significance of travel to visual artists, their patrons, and their viewers, by providing a study of travel in its varied and rich impact upon artistic styles, subjects, iconography, and interpretation. Plenty of studies have documented the individual travels of artists, or the importance of new experiences through voyage, but usually from a fairly specific and isolated standpoint.1 This study is unique in that authors address the importance of different kinds of travel from across the ages. Valid but more focused, other studies typically concentrate on the importance of new kinds of travel to a certain country or place, such as towns surrounding Paris with the introduction of the railway system. Alternatively, they highlight the importance of travel on individuals, collectors, or scholars, which yields fruitful information about trends in travel and collecting.2 Naturally, the subject lends itself well to museum publications, as many an exhibition has been developed based upon the impact of a travel event in an artist’s or patron’s life.3 Herein, a broad approach to the importance of travel in the history of art has been offered. It is, frankly, the tip of the iceberg, in terms of the countless examples that still need to be explored. Also important in future scholarship will be the tremendous opportunity to evaluate the historic repercussions of twentieth- and twenty-first-century travel. Futuristic, fantastical travel aside, the real and measurable influences of modern forms of travel still need to be further considered by historians of contemporary art. For instance, monorails, hovercrafts, helicopters, commercial flight, electric streetcars, ocean liners, and many other forms of modern transportation will likely prove to have a lasting impact on specific and overarching patterns of movement in human communities. In an increasingly mobile global community, it is inevitable that scholars will need to reflect on these changes. Moreover, as the boundaries of countries and cultures become increasingly permeable, the study of isolated experiences of travel becomes decreasingly capable of reflecting the seminal importance of travel to the history of art and humankind.

Conclusion 245

Notes 1 Selected examples of more specific studies in art history include the following: Mary F. McVicker, Adela Breton: A Victorian Artist amid Mexico’s Ruins (Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, 2005). Laura Felleman Fattal and Carol Salus, Out of Context: American Artists Abroad (Westport, CT: Præger, 2004). Rebecca Hind, Sacred Journeys: Rituals, Routes and Pilgrimages to Spiritual Fulfillment (London: Carlton, 2009). Christine Skeeles Schloss, Travel, Trade, and Temptation: The Dutch Italianate Harbor Scene, 1640–1680 (Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press, 1982). Chloe Chard and Helen Langdon, Transports: Travel, Pleasure, and Imaginative Geography, 1600–1830 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1996). Travel in the Byzantine World: Papers from the Thirty–Fourth Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, ed. Ruth Macrides (Birmingham: University of Birmingham, 2002). Nineteenth–Century British Travelers in the New World, ed. Christine DeVine (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2013). 2 Such specific studies include topics such as the following: James L. Yarnall, “Adventures of a Young Antiquarian: John La Farge’s Wanderjahr in Europe, 1856–1857,” American Art Journal, 30:1/2 (1999), pp. 102–32. 3 Examples of such catalogues include the following: Anthony Devis, 1729–1816: A “Picturesque Traveller” (Preston: Harris Museum & Art Gallery, 1993). Nancy Noble and Nancy Stula, American Artists abroad and their Inspiration: Selections from the Lyman Allyn Art Museum (New London, CT: The Lyman Allyn Art Museum, 2004). Barbara Bloemink, Sarah Burns, Gail S. Davidson, Karal Ann Marling, Floramae McCarron–Cates, and Athena Preston, Frederic Church, Winslow Homer, and Thomas Moran: Tourism and the American Landscape (New York: Bulfinch Press, 2006). Reed Anderson, American Etchers Abroad 1880–1939 (Lawrence, KS: Spencer Museum of Art, 2004).

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Index

Anderson, Isabel 95 Anglophilia 36 Ashcan School 69–70, 72–3, 75–6 Baedeker, Karl 32–4 Beato, Felix 197 Benjamin, Walter 215 Bernstein, Theresa 75, 82 Bisland, Elizabeth 217 Bly, Nellie 217–18 Borges, Jorge Luis 118 Bowery, The 75–7 Bowles II, Samuel 225 caricature 1, 29, 34, 38–9, 44, 61–3 Casa Vasari 3, 156–8, 164 Chamber of Fortune 156–8, 161, 163–5 Charleston Renaissance 48, 50, 53, 55, 58, 62 Circumnavigators Club 218 collodion 191, 197 commute 69, 71, 75–7, 79 Cook, Captain James 2, 9–11, 13–14, 218 Cook, Thomas 30, 213 Cubism 49, 234, 241 cultural insulation 37 daguerreotype 191, 197 Daikan 205 Davison, George 192 Debord, Guy 115 Dow, Arthur Wesley 194 Doyle, Richard 29–30, 34–5, 37–8 Duncan, Isadora 225 Durrell, Jane 112 Eastman, George 191–2 elevated train 69–70, 73, 75, 78 Emerson, Ralph Waldo 224 Ficino, Marsilio 161–6 Fogg, Phileas 217

Fogg, William Perry 216 Francesco Colonna 159 Fresno Morning Republican 212, 224–5 Frey, Nancy Louise 117 geisha 196, 199, 200, 203 Gilded Age 222 Global Positioning System 110 God, architect 164–5 Grand Tour 4, 17, 29–34, 37–8, 43, 91, 108, 212–14, 216, 218, 225 guidebooks 33–4, 39, 41, 72 Harris, Harriet Adelaide 213, 219 Hartmann, Sadakichi 76, 207 Harvey, Charles T. 70 Hatfield, Adrian 115 Hawking, Stephen 113 Herzog, Werner 112 hibachi 206 Hongan-ji 203 Howells, William Dean 71–2, 192 Hsieh, Tehching 114–18 humanism 97 Hyde, Helen 194 ikebana 200, 206 Isshin, Ogawa 197 James, Henry 70 James, Henry [Siena] 91 Johnson, Samuel 213 Johnston, Frances Benjamin 192 Kawaguchi, Ekai 204 Kawara, On 115–18 Keene, Charles 36 Kimbei, Kusakabe 197 Kodak 191–2, 196, 201 Kompira 201 Kotohira 201 Kozaburo, Tamamura 197 Kyoto 203, 208

258 Index Ladies’ Home Journal 192–3 language barrier 34–5 Latin Quarter 213–14 latitude and longitude 3, 108, 110–15, 121 Leech, John 33, 36, 40 Linked Ring 192 Long, Richard 117 Luxembourg Gallery 214 macaroni 38, 44 Magellan, Ferdinand 218 Marsh, Reginald 69, 74–8, 81–2 Matisse, Henri 215–16 Meiji 193–4, 196–7, 200 Metropolitan Magazine 192 Mount Everest 220 Murray, John 32–4, 42 Musée du Louvre 4, 176, 214 Nagasaki 194, 197, 199 Neoplatonism 3–4, 161 New York City 69–71, 75, 80, 114–15, 192, 194, 207–8, 212, 217–18, 224–5, 231 Nikko 200–1

Riis, Jacob 72 Roosevelt, Theodore 192, 225 Salon d’automne 231 Saturday Evening Post 193, 194, 195, 196, 198, 199, 202, 207 Shinn, Everett 72, 75–7, 82 Shogun 193, 197 Sloan, John 69, 72–3, 76–82 Stieglitz, Alfred 192, 207, 231–3 Stillfried, Baron Raimund von 197 Stuart Gardner, Isabella 200, 213 subway 2, 69–71, 73, 75, 79–82 Taj Mahal 218, 220 Tokugawa 193, 194, 197, 201 Tokyo 193, 194 tourism 29, 50, 52–3, 95–7, 193–4, 197, 200, 213 tourist 50, 53, 55, 58, 62–3, 65, 72, 86, 93, 95, 116, 191, 195, 197, 200, 202, 208, 225 Train, George Francis 217 Twain, Mark 217

Perry, Commodore Matthew 193, 197, 202 Planets 156–67 Platonic furors 164 Pulitzer, Joseph 81, 217 Punch 2, 29–30, 33, 36–7, 40–1, 43 Pyramids 218, 220

Ukiyo-e 200

Queen Mary 220

Yokohama 194, 197, 200, 202

realms—natural, celestial 164 Renaissance 4, 87, 89, 90, 93, 96–7, 156, 158–64 Republican 225

zodiacal signs 158, 161–3 Zorach, Marguerite Thompson 4–5, 212 Zorach, William 212, 220

Valeriano, Pierio 159 Vasari, Giorgio 3, 156–67, 170 Verne, Jules 216–17 voyeurism 71–3, 82