Images of Shame: Infamy, Defamation and the Ethics of oeconomia 9783110312300, 9783110312270

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Images of Shame

Images of Shame

Infamy,

Defamation and the Ethics of oeconomia Edited by Carolin Behrmann

This publication was made possible through the support of the Kunsthistorisches Instituts in Florenz, Max-Planck-Institut

ISBN 978-3-11-031227-0 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-031230-0 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-038313-3 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress. Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2016 Walter De Gruyter GmbH Berlin/Boston Cover illustration: Ex-Lehman Brothers CEO Richard Fuld vor seiner Anhörung im US Kongress, Oktober 2008, Washington. © Reuters, Foto: Jonathan Ernst; Cavalieri incatenati, ca. 1280, Pallazzo del Broletto, Foto: Comune di Brescia. Typesetting: Petra Florath, Berlin Printing and binding: Beltz Bad Langensalza GmbH, Bad Langensalza Printed on acid-free paper Printed in Germany www.degruyter.com

Content / Inhalt

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Carolin Behrmann Figura Infamante Schandbilder und die Ethik der oeconomia

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Gherardo Ortalli Pittura Infamante Practices, Genres and Connections

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Matteo Ferrari Prime pitture d’infamia nei comuni italiani Immagini come documenti, immagini come fatti

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Karl Härter Images of Dishonoured Rebels and Infamous Revolts Political Crime, Shaming Punishments and Defamation in the Early Modern Pictorial Media

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Wolfgang Brückner Bild-Ehre, Bild-Schande, Bild-Ängste Einstige Kommunikationsweisen und heutige Diskursverkürzungen

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Giuliano Milani The Ban and the Bag How Defamatory Paintings Worked in Medieval Italy

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Thomas Ricklin “more cuiusdam Cioli et aliorum infamium” On Dante’s Refusal to Return Home and How He Became Florentine Again

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Felix Jäger Sovereign Infamy Grotesque Helmets, Masks of Shame and the Prehistory of Caricature

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David Freedberg From Defamation to Mutilation Gender Politics and Reason of State in Africa

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Hana Gründler „Ein Kampf mit der Sicht.“ Antlitz, Kunst und Erhabenes bei Emmanuel Levinas

239

Piyel Haldar From Dignity to Shame X-rays and Legal Persona

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Acknowledgements / Dank

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Index / Personenregister

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Picture Credits / Bildnachweise

Carolin Behrmann

Figura Infamante Schandbilder und die Ethik der oeconomia

Formen der öffentlichen Erniedrigung, die eine Person in unvorteilhafter Pose, beschämender Kleidung, enstellender Maskerade, mit verzerrten Gesichtszügen, oder einem beleidigenden Text vor aller Augen in eine abjekte Figur verwandeln, gehören zu den Schand- und Ehrenstrafen des vormodernen Strafrechts, die heute erstaunliche Aktualität besitzen. 1 Kontroverse Auseinandersetzungen über die Verletzung der Privatsphäre von Prominenten oder Politikern in den Printmedien, aber auch folgenschweres „Cybermobbing“ von Individuen oder Firmen in den Social Media, wie Instagram, Twitter oder Facebook, zeigen die sensibilisierte Wahrnehmung für jene Konjunktur der Infamisierung juristischer Personen über das Bild. 2 Als gezielt eingesetzte außergerichtliche „Bestrafung“ legen die rufschädigenden Methoden einerseits die Fragilität des Rechtssystems bloß, das andererseits zunehmend selbst dazu übergegangen ist sogenannte „shaming sanctions“ strafrechtlich zu verhängen.3 Den Schandstrafen der Vormoderne ähnlich, 1

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3

Vgl. Löbmann, Benno: Der kanonische Infamiebegriff in seiner geschichtlichen Entwicklung. Leipzig 1956. Allg. zum juristischen Begriff der Ehren- und Schandstrafe siehe Brückner, Wolfgang: Ehrenstrafen, in: Handwörterbuch zur deutschen Rechtsgeschichte (HRG), hg. von Adalbert Erler u. a. Berlin 1971, Vol. I, S. 851–853; Haberer, Günter: Schandstrafen, in: HRG, 1, Vol. IV. Berlin 1990, S. 1353–1355. Zum Persönlichkeitsschutz im Internet und Cybermobbing siehe Heckmann, Dirk: Concordisierung der Rechtsordnung, in: Fragile Stabilität - stabile Fragilität, hg. von Jansen, Stephan A. u.a. Dordrecht 2013, S. 152–157. So z.B. die Beiträge des Sammelbandes Media and Public Shaming: Drawing the Boundaries of Disclosure, hg. von Petley, Julian. London 2013; Goldman, Lauren M.: Trending now: The use of social media websites in public shaming punishments, in: American Criminal Law Review, 2014, Vol. 215, S. 415–451 und jüngst das Buch zum Internet-Shaming des britischen Journalisten Ronson, Jon: So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed, New York 2015. Einhergehend damit wurde auch der Abbildschutz auf

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werden in verschiedenen Ländern, wie z. B. Saudi Arabien, China oder den Vereinigten Staaten, kleinere oder größere kriminelle Vergehen oft mit der öffentlichen Bloßstellung der Delinquenten geahndet. Ironisch bemerkte der Blogger Xuecun jüngst in der New York Times an, dass unter der jetzigen politischen Führung, die Schandstrafe in China zu einer „Kunst“ herangereift sei. 4 Zwar wird seit 2010 zumindest auf die von der Justiz öffentlich veranstalteten „shame parades“ der Prostitution angeklagter Frauen verzichtet, doch hat seitdem die mediale Schändung als Strafform im Internet oder Fernsehen eher eine Konjunktur als einen Rückgang erlebt. So riskieren zum Beispiel säumige Bürger und Firmen der Millionenstadt Changsha, in der chinesischen Provinz Hunan, die den Behörden ihr Bußgeld nicht bezahlt haben, dass ihre Identitäten und Vergehen auf einem gigantischen Screen über dem Portal des Hauptbahnhofes präsentiert werden. Die als Abschreckung dienenden Schandbilder dieser „wall of shame“, die sich einer Ikonographie der Schwerkriminalität bedienen, stellen digitale Montagen aus polizeilichen Fahndungsfotos und persönlichen Daten wie Ausweisnummern der Schuldner dar.5 Auch in den USA sind die „shaming sanctions“ ein nicht seltenes Rechtsmittel, auf das die Richter alternativ zur Gefängnisstrafe zurückgreifen. So werden auf richterlichen Beschluss Menschen dazu verurteilt, sich für eine bestimmte Zeit mit einem beschrifteten Schild, auf dem das ihnen angelastete Delikt genannt wird, vor Supermärkten, öffentlichen Gebäuden, oder an stark befahrenen Straßen aufzustellen, eine Praxis, die den europäischen Prangertafeln aus dem 17. Jahrhundert gleichkommt. 6 Statt einer 60tägigen Gefängnisstrafe wurde beispielsweise im US-Bundesstaat Alabama eine Frau dazu verurteilt, mit zwei umgehängten Papptafeln, vier Tage vor der Walmart-Filiale zu stehen, in der sie gestohlen hatte. In großen Lettern ist „Ich bin eine Diebin. Ich

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s­ eine historischen Ursprünge untersucht, um die Grenzen des „Rechts am eigenen Bild“ auszuloten. Siehe besonders Steinhauer, Fabian: Das eigene Bild. Verfassungen der Bildrechtsdiskurse um 1900. Berlin 2013. „The Communist Party under Mr. Xi has made public shaming an exquisite Chinese art.“ So sei das Mediaoutlet CCTV zu einer zentralen Plattform dieser öffentlichen Schändungen geworden. Siehe den übers. Blogeintrag von Murong Xuecun: China’s Tradition of Public Shaming Thrives, New York Times vom 20.3.2015, http://www. nytimes.com/2015/03/21/opinion/murong-xuecun-chinas-tradition-of-publicshaming-thrives.html (2 4. 4. 2015). Vgl. die Meldung auf der BBC Website, vom 22. 1. 2015: http://www.bbc.com/ news/blogs-news-from-elsewhere-30932 415 (2 4. 3. 2015). Siehe die Beispiele in dem Kat. Schande, Folter, Hinrichtung. Rechtsprechung und Strafvollzug in Oberösterreich, hg. von Fellner, Fritz. Linz 2011. Das Bayerische Nationalmuseum bewahrt einige dieser Prangertafeln im Depot auf, z.B. Inv.: StR 158, 167, vgl. Lidman, Satu: Zum Spektakel und Abscheu: Schand- und Ehrenstrafen als Mittel öffentlicher Disziplinierung in München um 1600. Frankfurt am Main 2008, S. 190, Anm. 492.

Figura Infamante

1 | Verurteilte Ladendiebin vor einem Walmart, Mai 2007, Alabama, US.

habe bei Walmart gestohlen“ zu lesen (fig. 1). Die kommentierenden Schrifttafeln sprechen in der Ich-Form, bekennen die Schuld der sie tragenden Person und nicht selten wird auch der Richter namentlich erwähnt. Die Person „spricht“ somit über das Objekt die Sprache des Gesetzes und wird für alle deutlich sichtbar der äußeren Macht des Rechts unterworfen. In seiner Schrift „Person und menschliches Leben“ (2010) hat der Philosoph Roberto Esposito auf die Ursprünge des Personenrechts in der römischen Rechts­ tradition aufmerksam gemacht und auf die zentrale Bedeutung der Repräsentation verwiesen.7 Diese unterscheide die Menschen in juristisch anerkannte personae, die frei und unabhängig handelten und Besitz haben durften und diejenigen, die dem Bereich zwischen „Mensch und Nicht-Mensch, oder (…) zwischen

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Esposito, Roberto: Person und menschliches Leben. Berlin 2010.

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Mensch und Sache (res)“ zugeordnet wurden. 8 Auch nach der politischen Lehre von Thomas Hobbes bestünde die disjunktive Beziehung zwischen „natürlichen“ und „künstlichen“ Personen weiter, wobei die Bedeutung der Repräsentation gewachsen sei. Die natürlichen Personen repräsentieren sich über die eigenen Worte und Handlungen selbst. Die künstlichen Personen repräsentieren die Worte und Handlungen eines anderen Subjekts. So würde die Verbindung von physischem „Leib“ und der Maske ( persona) verschwinden. Die juristische Konstituierung einer Person sei lediglich deren Repräsentanzfunktion und könne somit auch auf nicht-menschliche Institutionen übertragen werden: „Daraus resultiert die Abspaltung vom biologischen Referenten, denn der Mechanismus der Repräsentation (…) fordert die materielle Abwesenheit des repräsentierten Subjekts, und er fordert (…) das logische Primat der künstlichen vor der natürlichen Person.“9 Somit würde das Subjekt Teil einer Maschine und in die gesichtslose Dimension des Objektes verdrängt. 10 Einer ethischen Argumentation folgend, hatte sich die Rechtsphilosophin Martha Nussbaum in ihrem Buch „Hiding from Humanity“ (2004) vehement gegen diese strafrechtliche Form öffentlicher Erniedrigungen ausgesprochen, die staatlich legitimiert und aufgrund der desolaten Situation der überfüllten Gefäng­ nisse zunehmend von US-amerikanischen Gerichten verhängt wurden.11 Gericht­ lich verordnete Schandstrafen würden von einem historischen Standpunkt aus immer mehr als bloß das singuläre Vergehen der Person berühren. Vielmehr bedeuten sie eine lange andauernde Erniedrigung, indem sie den sozialen Status und die rechtliche Identität des Verurteilten oft auf Lebenszeit degradieren. Aus diesem Grund müssten sie scharf von anderen Strafen getrennt werden: „Shame punishments, historically, are ways of marking a person, often for life, with a degraded identity (…). Guilt punishments make the statement, ‚You committed a bad act‘. Shame punishments make the statements ‚You are a defective type of person‘.“12 Dieses Stramaß führe Nussbaum zufolge zu einem definitiven Aus­ schluss von der Gesellschaft und würden gefährliche Allmachtsphantasien

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Esposito 2010 (wie Anm.7), S. 38. Esposito 2010 (wie Anm.7), S. 43. Esposito 2010 (wie Anm.7), S. 30. Nussbaum, Martha: Hiding from Humanity. Disgust, Shame, and the Law. Princeton 2004. Ausgang dieser Studie sind die Auseinandersetzungen mit den Thesen von Dan M. Kahan, der für das „shaming“ im Strafrecht plädiert und die Bedeutung von Emotionen (wie Ekel und Abscheu) als effektive Strafzumessungen hervorhebt, siehe z.B. Kahan, Dan M.: What do alternative sanctions mean, in: University of Chicago Law Review, 1996, Nr. 63, S. 591–653. 12 Nussbaum 2004 (wie Anm.11), S. 230.

Figura Infamante

2 | Ex-Lehman Brothers CEO Richard Fuld vor seiner Anhörung im US Kongress,

Oktober 2008, Washington.

nähren, die das Rechtssystem und dessen Erhaltungsbestrebungen und freiheits­ liebenden Respekt für die Gleichheit der Menschen radikal unterminieren. 13 Doch gerade aufgrund ihrer Expressivität und Ausdrucksmacht ziehen die Befürworter der „shaming sanctions“ diese den anderen, „unsichtbaren“ Strafen, wie Freiheitsentzug oder Bußgeld vor. 14 Besonders in speziellen Fällen, wie beispielsweise der Geldgier mächtiger geschäftsführender Vorstandsmitglieder (CEO), die sich an Unternehmen bereichern und exzessive Kompensationssummen einstreichen, würden jene außergerichtlichen sozialen Sanktionen eine effektivere Möglichkeit darstellen, ähnlichen Vergehen vorzubeugen, da sie auf eine Kontrolle des Verhaltens abzielen. 15 Doch die hier produzierten medialen Bilder, die nicht nur gedruckt sondern digital über das Internet verbreitet werden, haben

13 Nussbaum 2004 (wie Anm. 11), S. 16. 14 Nussbaum 2004 (wie Anm. 11), S. 176. Weitere Kritiker sind z.B. Markel, Dan: Are Shaming Punishments Beautifully Retributive?, in: Vanderbilt Law Review, 2001, 54, Nr. 6, S. 2158–22 42, Whitman, James Q.: What is wrong with inflicting shame sanctions?, in: Yale Law Journal, 1998, Nr. 107, S. 1089–1092. 15 Gopalan, Sandeep: Shame Sanctions and Excessive CEO Pay, in: Delaware Journal of Corporate Law 32.2007, Nr. 3, S. 758–797.

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eine lange und kaum vorhersehbare Halbwertszeit, die über die vom Strafmaß bemessene Zeit weit hinausgehen kann. Als Ende 2014, sieben Jahre nach dem verheerenden Zusammenbruch der amerikanischen Investmentbank Lehman Brothers deren ehemaliger CEO Richard Fuld seine Rückkehr in die Finanzwelt versuchte, war es kein aktuelles, sondern ein 2008 entstandenes „Schandbild“, das die Medien verbreiteten (fig. 2). 16 Die Worte „SHAME“ und „CAP(italistic) GREED“ prangen in großen Lettern auf zwei pinken Pappen, die hinter Fuld bei seiner Anhörung vor dem Kongress auf dem Capitol Hill von Aktivisten hochgehalten worden waren. Dieser fotografisch festgehaltene Moment, in dem das Porträt Fulds und die Worte „Schande“ und „Gier“ im Bild des Reuters-Fotografen Jonathan Ernst zusammenfielen, sollte das Image „Dick“ Fulds als „bad banker“ und „Gorilla von Wall Street“ weiterhin aufrechterhalten und die Vertrauens­ würdigkeit seines unternehmerischen Handelns negativieren. 17 Dieses eine Bei­ spiel von vielen zeigt, dass sich Machtbeziehungen ähnlich wie in der Vormo­ derne auch heute noch durch Bilder wie dieses konstitutieren, nämlich über ein gezieltes Hervorrufen der Scham und Praktiken der Beschämung. 18 Vor diesem Hintergrund rückt die Bedeutung und normierende Macht der Bilder für die Repräsentanzfunktion der juristischen persona in ein prekäres Licht. 19

16 So z.B. in den Wirtschaftsteilen der Onlineausgaben der Süddeutschen Zeitung, 7. 12. 2014, des Tagesanzeigers, 8.12.2014, des Guardians, 28. 5. 2015, der Times, 20. 5. 2015, oder der New York Times, 28. 5. 2015 (29. 7. 2015). 17 Hinter der Protestaktion auf dem Capitol Hill steht die pazifistische Bürgerrechtsbewegung „Code Pink“. Über weitere Schandbildformen im Falle Richard Fulds siehe auch den Artikel von Giuliano Milani in diesem Band. 18 Siehe hierzu die Studie von Neckel, Sieghard: Status und Scham. Zur symbolischen Reproduktion sozialer Ungleichheiten. Frankfurt am Main 1991. 19 Wo die persona (lat. Maske) im römischen Gebrauch allg. die Stellung des Menschen im Gesellschaftssystem beschreibt, wandelt sie sich im christlich-theologischen Kontext zu einem zentralen Begriff der Moralphilospophie. Der scholastische Theologe und Rechtsdenker Francisco de Suárez präzisiert den Begriff und unterscheidet zwischen „persona vera“ und „persona ficta“, die auf ein corpus mysticum verweist (Grundlage für den Begriff der Menschenrechte). Im heutigen Sinne ist die „ Person“ zu einem vielschichtigen Oberbegriff geworden, der in erster Linie einen Träger von Rechten und Pflichten bezeichnet und sich von dem Terminus des „Menschen“ abgrenzt. Zum Begriff der persona im Recht siehe Palm, Ulrich: Person im Ertragssteuerrecht. Tübingen 2013, S. 43–108 und 152–167.

Figura Infamante

1. Ethik der oeconomia Sowohl die gerichtlichen als auch die außergerichtlichen Formen der Schändung durch das Bild sind Thema des vorliegenden Bandes, dessen Beiträge verschiedene Aspekte dieses speziellen Bildgenres vereint. Waren die lange zurückliegenden ersten Auseinandersetzungen mit dem Thema der hier vertretenden Autoren Wolfgang Brückner (1966), Gherardo Ortalli (1979) oder David Freedberg (1989) noch an der Verbindung von Magie und der Fernwirksamkeit der Schandbilder interessiert, überwiegen nun die sozialen, politischen, ethischen und juridischen Aspekte, und eine kritische Distanznahme zu den Magiethesen der bisherigen Forschung. 20 David Freedberg widmet sich einem aktuellen Fall der Bildschändung des südafrikanischen Politikers Jacob Zuma, wobei Aspekte des Personenrechts ebenso wie Fragen der künstlerischen Freiheit berührt werden. 21 Im Hinblick auf die Aktualität von Schandbildern stellt sich auch die Frage, welche Bedeutung Bilder, die konkret auf die „Beschämung“ einer Person abzielen, um deren Zuverlässigkeit und Vertrauenswürdigkeit zu defamieren, für die ökono­ mische Logik bedeuten. Von der „Ethik der oeconomia“ zu sprechen, mag zunächst paradox erscheinen, da sich im heutigen Verständnis das ökonomische Handeln an einer ihm eigenen Handlungsrationalität und dem individuellen Gewinn zu orientieren scheint, während die Prinzipien der Ethik sich auf Handlungsmaximen jenseits aller Utilitätskriterien beziehen und die Maßstäbe des Sozialen definieren. Doch traditionellerweise muss die „Ökonomik“ im Fächerkanon tatsächlich zwischen der Ethik und der Politik, dem Individuum und dem Sozialen verortet werden. 22 Ihre Handlungsrationalität leitet sich von der Bedeutung der „Hauswirtschaft“ (oikonomía) ab, die im Römischen die Sorge um die häuslichen Angelegenheiten meint. Als Disziplin widmete sie sich Problemen der praktischen Lebensführung und materiellen Versorgung, aber auch den Sozialbeziehungen

20 Siehe die Beiträge von Wolfgang Brückner und Gherardo Ortalli in diesem Band. Brückner, Wolfgang: Bildnis und Brauch. Studien zur Bildfunktion der Effigies. Berlin 1966, S. 188–257, zu den Schandgemälden und Schmähbriefen siehe S. 205–227. Freedberg, David: The Power of Images. Studies in the History and Theory of Response. Chicago 1991, S. 2 46–282; Edgerton, Samuel Y.: Pictures and Punishment. Art and Criminal Prosecution during the Florentine Renaissance. Ithaca und London 1985, S. 65f. 21 Siehe den Beitrag von David Freedberg in diesem Band. 22 Zu der vielgestaltigen Oeconomia-Literatur siehe Burckhardt, Johannes: Wirtschaft und ‚Ökonomie‘ im Kontext der frühneuzeitlichen Hauslehre (16.–18. Jh.), in: Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe. Historisches Lexikon zur politisch-sozialen Sprache in Deutschland, hg. von Otto Brunner, Werner Conze, Reinhart Koselleck. Bd. 7, Stuttgart 1992, S. 550–594.

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der Mitglieder einer politischen Gemeinschaft. 23 Wie Thomas Duve anhand der vormodernen Schriften zur Ökonomik gezeigt hat, war das Soziale nicht dem Wirschaftlichen untergeordnet. Das „kluge Wirtschaften“ wurde dem „schändlichen Gewinnstreben“ gegenübergestellt, das den ausgleichenden Prinzipien der aristotelischen „iustitia distributiva“ entgegenwirke. Auch die vormoderne Wirtschaftsordnung orientierte sich am Sozialen und in den „Oeconomia“-Traktaten lassen sich ethische Momente der frühneuzeitlichen Fürsorge finden. 2 4 Auch hier lebte also die aristotelische Überzeugung fort, dass im wirtschaftlichen Handeln, dem Besitz und Erwerb, die soziale Ordnung, in der das sittlich gute Leben verwirklicht wird, zum absoluten Maßstab erhoben werden solle. Um die ethische Beurteilung ökonomischen Handelns visuell zu veranschaulichen, lassen sich bildhistorisch zahlreiche Beispiele anführen, die von speziellen abwertenden Attributen (Geldbeutel), Begleittexten oder Figuren (Tiere), bis hin zur negativ konnotierten Physiognomie reichen. Ein ästhetisches Mittel ist die Konfrontation von Profil und Frontalansicht, wie dies Meyer Schapiro in Darstellungen des 14. Jahrhunderts beobachtet hat. 25 Dämonische oder böse Figuren werden von der Seite gezeigt, damit sie im Gegensatz zu dem runden, geschlos­ senen und ebenmäßigen Gesicht Christi oder eines Heiligen, asymmetrisch und unvollständig wirken. In Giottos Paduaner Monumentalfresko erkennt Schapiro aber auch die interagierende Konfrontation zweier ungleicher Profile: hier nähert sich der geldgierige Judas mit gespitzten Lippen und hervorwölbenden Augenbrauen dem ausgeglichenen Profil Christi, was ebenso den Kontrast zwischen unterschiedlichen moralischen Qualitäten deutlich hervorhebt. Mit der ästhetischen Opposition der beiden unterschiedlichen Physiognomien, des zur Fratze verzerrten Judasgesichtes und des ideal gebildeten Antlitzes Christi, geht eine negative Bewertung des betrügerischen Geldbesitzes einher, der der ethisch reinen Besitzlosigkeit und Armut diametral entgegengesetzt ist.

23 Duve, Thomas: Der blinde Fleck der ‚Oeconomia‘? Wirtschaft und Soziales in der frühen Neuzeit, in: Wirtschaft und Wirtschaftstheorie in Rechtsgeschichte und Philosophie, hg. von Heinz Mohnhaupt und Jean-François Kervégan. Frankfurt am Main 2004, S. 29–61, hier 31. 2 4 Duve 2004 (wie Anm.23), S. 53–61. 25 Schapiro, Meyer: Frontal and profile as symbolic forms, in: ders.: Words and Pictures: On the Literal and the Symbolic in the Illustration of a Text. New York 1983, S. 45–46.

Figura Infamante

2. Rechtsgeschichte als Objetwissenschaft Bislang ist unterschätzt worden, dass im Hinblick auf die heutige Visualität der Schande, zusammen mit der ethischen Debatte über die Legitimität der Schandund Ehrensstrafen, eine Analyse der damit verbundenen Bilder, Medien und Objekte einhergehen muß, um deren repräsentative Dimension zu erklären. 26 Verschiedene Rechtshistoriker des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts wie Jacob Grimm, Karl von Amira oder Michel Foucault, die sich mit archäologischen Methoden auch der materiellen Seite des Rechts gewidmet haben, verwiesen auf das Bedingungsverhältnis von theoretischem und praktischem Wissen im Recht. 27 Bislang fehlen jedoch Untersuchungen, die jene bildliche Dimensionen der Degradierung systematisch analysieren. Ansatzweise lässt sich zumindest eine Erfassung von Objekten dieser Art in den Sammelmappen des Bildarchives Karl von Amiras aus den 1920er Jahren finden. Auch selbst zeichnend und aus verschiedenen Werken und Katalogen abpausend und aquarellierend, trug der Rechtsarchäologe Bildbeispiele von Schandmasken, Lastersteinen oder Prangergeräten aus zahlreichen Quellen zusammen, um ihre rechtshistorische Bedeutung zu erfassen. In dieser Systematik sind jedoch Überlegungen zur Gestalt und Wirkung dieser Objekte im zeitgenössischen visuellen Kontext kaum zu finden (fig. 3). 28 Auch liegen keine vertiefenden Studien zu den Techniken der Gerätschaften und Maskeraden

26 Schandstrafen zielen auf die soziale Verachtung, wohingegen Ehrenstrafen auch die juristische Ausgrenzung bezweckten, vgl. Lidman, Satu: Um Schande. Profil eines frühneuzeitlichen Strafsystems, in: Ehre und Recht. Ehrkonzepte und Ehrverteidigungen vom späten Mittelalter bis zur Moderne, hg. von Sylvia Kesper-Biermann, Ulrike Ludwig und Alexandra Ortmann. Magdeburg 2011, S. 197–216, hier 201. 27 Vgl. Renner, Kaspar: Archäologie des Rechts. Zur Geschichte einer vergessenen ­D isziplin zwischen Jacob Grimm, Karl von Amira und Michel Foucault, in: Literatur der Archäologie: Materialität und Rhetorik im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert, hg. von Jan Broch und Jörn Lang. Paderborn 2012, S. 75–105. 28 Die erwähnte Strafmaske ist hier in der Mappe 6: Strafmasken, Strafzangen, Schupfstühle 1, Blatt: Sämtliche Strafmasken im Baier. Nationalmuseum zu München, zu finden. Amiras privates Bildarchiv wird heute im Leopold-Wenger-Institut in Mün­ chen auf bewahrt. Die rechtsarchäologische Sammlung besteht aus ca. 1900 unterschiedlichen Bildträgern wie Handzeichnungen, Kupferstichen, Photographien, Radierungen, Postkarten, Aquarellen und Pausen. Hier gezeigt ist Mappe 5: Fiedeln, Block, Strafmantel, Schandanhänger, Halseisen, Pflock, Lastersteine, Strafmasken, Leibringe. Zu Amira vgl. Schmoeckel, Mathias: Karl von Amira und die Anfänge der Rechtsärchäologie. Die rechtsarchäologische Sammlung Karl von Amiras am Leo­pold-Wenger-Institut, in: Zeitschrift für Rechtsarchäologie und rechtliche Volks­ kunde 1997, Nr. 17, S. 67–81.

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3 | Darstellung verschiedener Schandgeräte, Sammlung Karl von Amira, Mappe 6,

München, Leopold Wenger Institut.

vor, die den rechtshistorischen Funktionszusammenhang erklären. 29 Etwas anders sieht die Forschungslage zu den unter dem Begriff des „Schandbildes“ gefassten Artefakte aus, derer sich einige Historiker und Kunsthistoriker im Laufe des 20. Jahrhunderts verschiedentlich angenommen haben.30 Der Grafiker und

29 Einige Aspekte werden verarbeitet in Amira, Karl von: Die germanischen Todesstrafen. Untersuchungen zur Rechts- und Religionsgeschichte. München 1922. Amira hinterließ 1930 eine Zettelsammlung, die er „kritisches Verzeichnis germanischer Monumente von rechtsarchäologischer Bedeutung“ nannte und das von Claus Freiherr von Schwerin unter dem Titel: Rechtsarchäologie. Gegenstände, Formen und Symbole germanischen Rechts, Berlin 1943 herausgegeben wurde, zu den Prangerstrafen siehe ebd. S. 16. 30 Siehe z. B. Schmidt, Günter: Libelli famosi: zur Bedeutung der Schmähschriften, Scheltbriefe, Schandgemälde und Pasquille in der deutschen Rechtsgeschichte. Dissertation, Universität Köln 1985; Schwerhoff, Gerd: Verordnete Schande? Spätmittelalterliche und Frühneuzeitliche Ehrenstrafen zwischen Rechtsakt und Sozialer Sanktion, in: Mit den Waffen der Justiz. Zur Kriminalitätsgeschichte des Spätmittelalters und der Frühen Neuzeit, hg. von Andreas Blauert, Gerd Schwerhoff. Frankfurt am Main 1993, S. 158–188; Meyer, Silke: An Iconography of Shame: German

Figura Infamante

Heraldiker Otto Hupp publizierte 1930 einige Quellen zu Scheltbriefen und Schandbildern, insbesondere Beispiele der „Wappenschelte“ aus dem 15. und 16. Jahrhundert.31 In seiner Sammlung wird deutlich, dass besonders Wirtschaftskriminalität auf diese Weise geahndet wurde. Über ehrverletzende, diffamierende bildliche Darstellungen, die auch als vertraglich vereinbarte Verzugsfolge galten, wurden säumige Schuldner bloßgestellt, wie dies aus zahlreichen von Hupp gefundenen Quellen aus dem 16. Jahrhundert hervorgeht.32 Im Mittelalter galten Schandbilder als legitime Selbsthilfe von Gläubigern gegen ihre Schuldner, die so außerprozessual zur Vertragstreue angehalten werden konnten.33 Aufgrund ihrer zeit- und fallbezogenen Spezifität, aber auch ihres infamisierenden Charakters, ist der Erhaltungsstatus dieser Medien als relativ gering einzustufen. Am umfassendsten zu den Schandbildern und Scheltbriefen der Vormoderne hat bislang der Historiker Michael Lentz recherchiert und hierbei 2004 einen umfangreichen Katalog für den deutschsprachigen Raum zwischen 1350 und 1600 erstellt.34 Die bereits 1979 von Gherardo Ortalli untersuchte Gruppe der italienischen pitture infamante waren im Gegensatz dazu Teil des offiziellen Strafvollzugs.35 Jüngst konnten diese Thesen von Matteo Ferrari und Giuliano Milani für den spätmittelalterlichen italienischen Raum exemplarisch vertieft und an spektakulären Beispielen konkretisiert werden.36 Eine beträcht-

31 32

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34

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36

Defamatory Pictures of the Early Modern Era, in: Profane Imagery in Marginal Arts of the Middle Ages, hg. von Elaine Bloc und Malcom Jones. Turnhout 2009, S. 263– 283. Hupp, Otto: Scheltbriefe und Schandbilder: Ein Rechtsbehelf aus dem 15. und 16. Jahrhundert. München 1930. So z.B.: „es pflegten sich … die schuldner ihren creditoren auf verschiedene art zu verbinden. dahin gehoeret die obligatio ad depraedationem oder ad pignorationem, da denn der glaeubiger im nichtzahlungsfall den schuldner pfaenden … konnte … sie verbanden sich zu beschimpfungen, schandgemaehlden, … zu wasser und brod.“ Quelle aus dem Jahre 1554, in: Hupp 1930 (wie Anm. 32), S. 41. Siehe auch den Eintrag ‚Schandgemälde‘, in: HRG (wie Anm.1), S. 1349. Hupp 1930 (wie Anm.32), S. 11. Sogar jüdische Bürger konnten dieses der Fehde ähnliche Mittel gegen ihre Schuldner einsetzen, siehe Straus, Raphael: Mittelalterliche Schandbilder jüdischer Gläubiger gegen ihre Schuldner, in: Zeitschrift für die Geschichte der Juden in Deutschland, 2/3.1931, S. 129–131. Lentz, Matthias: Konflikt, Ehre, Ordnung. Untersuchungen zu den Schmähbriefen und Schandbildern des späten Mittelalters und der frühen Neuzeit (ca. 1350 bis 1600). Mit einem illustrierten Katalog der Überlieferung. Hannover 2004, S. 161. Ortalli, Gherardo: Pingatur in Palatio. La Pittura Infamante nei secoli XIII­–XVI. Rom 1979. Siehe auch Edgerton, Samuel Y.: Pictures and Punishment. Art and Crimi­ nal Prosecution during the Florentine Renaissance. Ithaca 1985, S. 91–125. Vgl. die Beiträge von Matteo Ferrari und Giuliano Milani mit ausführlicher Biblio­ graphie in diesem Band.

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liche Menge von unterschiedlichen Objekten der Schand- und Ehrenstrafen, die auf die Degradierung der Identität einzelner Individuen abzielten, werden in zahlreichen europäischen Museen im Depot verwahrt. Meist tauchen diese in populärhistorischen Museen zum Thema Strafe und Folter wieder auf und werden dort effektvoll in Szene gesetzt.37 Bis auf wenige Ausnahmen gelangen diese praxisbezogenen Objekte des Strafrechts jedoch zur Ausstellung. Eine genaue Datierung ist selten möglich und ihr ästhetischer Wert wird als gering bemessen.38 So wird das Exemplar einer sogenannten „Strafmaske“ (fig. 4) aus dem Bayerischen Nationalmuseum allgemein in das 17. Jahrhundert geordnet, in dem Schand- und Ehrenstrafen eine weitreichendere Bedeutung erlangten.39 Das genaue Strafritual in dem die Maske verwendet wurde, oder gar die damit bestraften Individuen sind selten rekonstruierbar und die Ikonographie des Objekts wird oft mit der des Karnevals oder der Fastnacht verglichen. 40 Doch die visuelle Dimension des Objekts läßt Schlüsse auf das Bedeutungsfeld der Schändung zu, die der diskursiven abhanden gehen. Die aufklappbare Eisenmaske, die mit horizontalen Eisenriemen ein ganzes Haupt fest umschließen soll, setzt sich aus mehreren grob geschmiedeten Einzelstücken zusammen. 41 Zwischen zwei aufrechtstehende gestreifte Schellenzipfel, wurde ein Akanthusblatt wie ein Federbusch senkrecht 37 In zahlreichen europäischen Städten gehören das „Museo della tortura“ (wie in Volterra, San Gimignano) oder Kriminalmuseen (wie in Rothenburg ob der Tauber), genauso wie ehemalige Gefängnisse (z.B. der Tower of London) zu den meistbesuchten Touristenattraktionen. Oft werden die Objekte Wirkung heischend inszeniert und der rechtshistorische Kontext nur mangel- bis fehlerhaft erläutert. 38 Ausnahmen bilden z.B. die Spezialsammlung zur „Alten Gerichtsbarkeit“ im Germanischen Nationalmuseum in Nürnberg oder auch jüngst das von 2004 bis 2011 laufende Projekt am Landesmuseum in Linz zur Aufarbeitung der oberösterreichischen Strafrechtsaltertümer, deren Ergebnisse in der Ausst. „Schande, Folter, Hinrichtung“ im Linzer Schlossmuseum gezeigt wurden. Siehe den Ausst. Kat. hg. von Fellner 2011 (wie Anm.6), sowie der von Ute Streitt, Gernot Kocher und Elisabeth Schiller hg. gleichnamige Katalog (Untertitel: Forschungen zu Rechtsprechung und Strafvollzug in Oberösterreich). Linz 2011. 39 Siehe Schmid, Wilhelm M.: Altertümer des bürgerlichen und Strafrechts insbesondere Folter- und Strafwerkzeuge des Bayerischen Nationalmuseums. München 1908, Abb. 53. Zur Verwendung der Strafmaske vgl. Härter, Karl: Freiheitsentziehende Sanktionen in der Strafjustiz des frühneuzeitlichen Alten Reiches, in: Gefängnis und Gesellschaft. Zur (Vor-)Geschichte der strafenden Einsperrung, hg. von Ammerer, G. (u.a.). Leipzig 2003, S. 67–99, hier 68–70. 40 Vgl. Schild, Wolfgang: Alte Gerichtsbarkeit. Vom Gottesurteil bis zum Beginn der Modernen Rechtsprechung. München 1980, Abb. 52 4, 533–535. 41 Bayerisches Nationalmuseum, Inv.-Nr. StR 136. Vgl. Schmid, Wilhelm M.: Altertümer des bürgerlichen und Strafrechts insbesondere Folter- und Strafwerkzeuge des Bayerischen Nationalmuseums. München 1908, Strafmaske 136. Zu den grotesken Schandmasken siehe auch den Beitrag von Felix Jäger in diesem Band.

Figura Infamante

4 | Strafmaske, Eisen, 17. Jh.,

München, Bayerisches Nationalmuseum.

auf dem Scheitel der Maske platziert. Vor ihm legt sich eine flache Eisenvolute auf die Stirn hinunter. Dicht darunter folgt eine hochsitzende kreisrunde Brille unter der eine dreiblättrige phallusartige Nasenplatte festgemacht ist. Zwischen den breiten Lippen ragen eckige weit auseinanderstehende Zähne und es wölbt sich eine übertrieben lange Zunge heraus. Die rot bemalten Eselsohren vervollständigen die Ähnlichkeit zu Narrenattributen, die in dieser Zusammensetzung mit Elementen der Architektursprache, wie dem Akanthusblatt und der Volute, eine groteske Mischung zwischen Ernst und Spiel, dem Komischen und Erschrecken, dem Niedrigen und dem Erhabenen eingehen. Die Überlagerung des in der Maske noch gut zu erkennenden Gesichtes des Bestraften und der grob geformten Eisenkonstruktion, welche so die Physiognomie überformt, erweist sich als eine Form der mise en abyme. 42 Die Maske, die für einen Typus steht, enthält das Gesicht 42 Der Terminus mise en abyme stammt ursprünglich aus der Fachsprache der Heraldik, wo er sich auf das Wappenschild bezieht, in dem das Wappen selbst eingelassen ist. Dahinter steht die Vorstellung, daß dieses „in Vertiefung gesetzte“ Wappen das

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eines Individuums und macht es zu einem Objekt. 43 Die Strafmaske verhindert die Wiedererkennbarkeit der Person, die ein Porträt ermöglichen würde. Sie trennt zwischen dem Gesehenen und dem Ungesehenen und hebt die Gesichtszüge in einer anderen, lächerlichen und verzerrten Form hervor.

3. Figura und Defiguration Gewaltsame Angriffe auf und die Deformationen von Porträts, die Rechtssubjekte ( personae) vertreten, sind einem juridischen und nicht einem magischen Bildverständnis zuzuordnen. Um diesen grundlegenden Unterschied im Me­dium des Schandbildes zu verstehen, ist der von Erich Auerbach geprägte Begriff der „figura“ und sein Verständnis der Figuraldeutung aufschlußreich. 4 4 In seinem 1938 erschienenen gleichnamigen Essay, dessen Gedanken er in dem Auftaktkapi­ tel seiner späteren Studie „Mimesis“ (1946) weiterentwickelte, verfolgt Auerbach die terminologischen Ursprünge des Begriffes figura. 45 Vor allem durch Lukrez’ Gebrauch habe der Begriff eine Verallgemeinerung zur sinnlichen Erscheinung erfahren. 46 Die Begriffs- und Bedeutungsgeschichte reicht von physischen über rhetorische bis hin zu piktoralen Aspekten. Wo figura zwar mit dem griechischen Begriff des „Schemas“, also der Form verwandt ist, unterscheidet sie sich maßgeblich von ihnen. Die figura habe Substanz, sei ein Körper und kein Schatten.

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Gesamtbild des Wappenschildes in verkleinerter Form wiederholt. Hiervon ausgehend wurde dieser heraldische Prozeß in der Literatur und Kunst zur Metafiktion. Vgl. ausführlich Stoichita, Viktor: Das selbstbewußte Bild. Vom Ursprung der Metamalerei. München 1998. So Levinas, Emmanuel: Das Antlitz, in: ders.: Ethik und Unendliches. Gespräche mit Philippe Nemo. Wien 1996, S. 65. Vgl. auch die Studie von Weihe, Richard: Die Paradoxie der Maske: Geschichte einer Form. Paderborn 2004. Auerbach, Erich: Figura, in: Archivum Romanicum Jg. 22, 1938, S. 436–489, bzw. in: Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Romanischen Philologie, hg. von Fritz Schalk und Gustav Konrad. Bern und München 1967, S. 55–92. Siehe hierzu u.a. Brandt, Reinhardt: Reflexionen in Wort und Bild zu Auerbachs Konzept der Mimesis und Figura, in: Wahrnehmen Lesen Deuten. Auerbachs Lektüre der Moderne. Frankfurt am Main 1998, S. 176–196, hier 191. Müller, Achatz von: Vom Text zum Daumenkino der Wirklichkeit. Buch, Bild und Maschine als Figurationen des Wissens in der Renaissance, in: Figur und Figuration. Studien zu Wahr­ nehmung und Wissen, hg. von Gottfried Boehm, Gabriele Brandstetter, Achatz von Müller. München 2007, S. 337–356. Zur figuralen Begrifflichkeit des Bildes siehe den grundlegenden Aufsatz von ­P a­­nofs­k y, Erwin: Idea: Ein Beitrag zur Begriffsgeschichte der älteren Kunsttheorie. Leipzig und Berlin 192 4, S. 11f.

Figura Infamante

Die figurale Deutung stelle einen „Zusammenhang zwischen zwei Geschehnissen oder Personen her, in dem eines von ihnen nicht nur sich selbst sondern auch das andere bedeutet, das andere hingegen das eine einschließt oder erfüllt“. 47 In Bezug auf die Figuraldeutung unterscheidet Auerbach das Allegorische von dem Symbolischen. Die figura müsse als ein transformierender Prozess verstanden werden, der die Dialektik von Inklusion und Exklusion im kollektiven Gedächtnis verändern kann. Den Unterschied zwischen figura, Allegorie und Symbol definiert Auerbach wie folgt: „Es wohnt dem Symbol (…) eine notwendig magische Kraft inne, der figura nicht, diese hingegen muß stets geschichtlich sein, das Symbol aber nicht.“48 Die figurale Prophezeihung beziehe sich auf eine historische Interpretation, während das Symbol sich „auf unmittelbare Lebens- und ursprünglich wohl meist Naturdeutung bezieht“. Die Figuraldeutung sei somit ein Produkt der späten Kulturen, viel indirekter, komplexer und geschichtsbeladener als das Symbol oder der Mythos. Die figura sei „etwas Wirkliches, Geschichtliches, welches etwas anderes, ebenfalls Wirkliches und Geschichtliches darstellt und ankündigt“. 49 Dieser physische und historische Sinn des figura Begriffes, den Auerbach in seiner primären Bedeutung als „plastisches Gebilde“, physische Gestaltung, und dem Entwurf oder der Ornamentierung in der Töpferkunst definierte, kann wohl am stärksten über seine Aufhebung, die Defiguration, bestimmt werden.50 Der figura des Gesichtes, das Auerbach als „etwas Lebend-Bewegtes, Unvollendetes und Spielendes“51 bezeichnet, liegt eine Möglichkeitsform zugrunde. Werden die negativ konnotierten Darstellungen krimineller, böser oder abjekter Personen, die gegen die juridischen und ethischen Grundsätze einer Gesellschaft gehandelt haben, oder von ihnen ausgeschlossen werden, nicht als Bild oder Porträt, sondern als figura interpretiert, lassen sich deren transformierende Aspekte fassen. Sie verändern den sozialen und juristischen Status, den gesellschaftlichen Ruf und die ökonomische Glaubhaftigkeit im kollektiven Gedächtnis für eine lange Zeit. Solche Figuren oder Figurationen werden als „prozessual konstituierende Einheit, die sich in einer ständigen (defigurierenden) Veränderungsbewegung

47 Die Figuraldeutung habe das Alte Testament von einem begrenzten Narrativ der spezifischen Geschichte und Gesetze des israelischen Volkes in einen zugänglichen Text über Christus und die christliche Erlösung verwandelt. Auerbach 1938 (wie Anm. 45), S. 468. 48 Auerbach 1938 (wie Anm. 45), S. 80. 49 Auerbach 1967 (wie Anm. 45), S. 65. 50 Vgl. Brandstetter, Gabriele und Sibylle Peters: Einleitung, in: dies. (hg.): De Figura. Rhetorik – Bewegung – Gestalt. München 2002, S. 7–31. 51 Auerbach 1967 (wie Anm. 45), S. 55.

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befindet“, begreiflich.52 Sie sind verbunden mit Prozessen, die sich in ephemeren Ereignissen oder auch negativen Monumenten artikulieren, wie beispielsweise Schandsäulen, die an eine infame Person erinnern und mahnend ihre Verwerf­ lichkeit memorieren.53 Infamisierungen über Bilder, die den radikalen Statuswechsel eines Rechtssubjektes herbeiführen, lassen sich immer wieder in der Schändung von Porträtfotografien politischer Gegner beobachten. 1934, während der stalinistischen Diktatur, hatte der Künstler und Gründer des russischen Konstruktivismus Alex­ ander Rodtschenko das Gedenkalbum „10 Jahre Usbekistan“ entworfen und gestaltet. Es huldigte allen politischen Protagonisten des usbekischen Bolschewismus.54 Im Zuge der „Großen Säuberung“ Stalins im Jahre 1937 wurden jedoch alle Porträts der von Stalin verkündeten Regimegegner von Rodtschenko selbst übermalt, so auch das Abbild Isaak Selenskis (fig. 5). Da es illegal war, die Bilder denunzierter Staatsbeamter zu besitzen, machte er die Gesichter mit schwarzer Tinte unkenntlich. Selenskis Kopf ist so bis zum Kragenansatz übertüncht, und auch sein Name in der Bildunterschrift ist kaum mehr lesbar. Diese Auslöschung des ehemaligen Staatssekretärs im Bild geschah noch ein Jahr vor seinem Ausschluss aus der Partei. Selenski wurde gefangengenommen und in einem Schauprozeß als Leiter eines Systems von Konsumgenossenschaften angeklagt, große Mengen von Lebensmitteln mutwillig verdorben zu haben, um die Bevölkerung zu vergiften.55 Die Infamisierung des Porträts und das nachfolgende endgültige Todes­u rteil, das gegen Selenski ausgesprochen wurde, hängen hier in besonders

52 Siehe die Einführung von Onuki/Pekar in: Figuration – Defiguration. Beiträge zur transkulturellen Forschung, hg. von Atsuko Onuki und Thomas Pekar, München 2006. 53 Manzoni, Alessandro: Geschichte der Schandsäule, übers. von Burkhart Kroeber, Mainz 2012; Timmermann, Achim: Late gothic microarchitecture and topographies of criminal justice, in: Mikroarchitektur im Mittelalter, hg. von Christine Kratzke und Uwe Albrecht, Leipzig 2008, S. 297–313. Krüger, Klaus: Bildlicher Diskurs und symbolische Kommunikation. Zu einigen Fallbeispielen öffentlicher Bildpolitik im Trecento, in: Text und Kontext, hg. von Jan-Dirk Müller u.a., München 2007, S. 123–162. Erben, Dietrich: Die Pyramide Ludwigs XIV. in Rom: ein Schanddenkmal im Dienst diplomatischer Vorherrschaft, in: Römisches Jahrbuch der Bibliotheca Hertziana, 31.1996, S. 427–458. 54 Zehn Jahre Usbekistan. Moskau 1934. Das Album wurde von dem Sowjetischen Staatsverlag produziert, um ein Jahrzehnt sowjetischer Herrschaft in Usbekistan zu feiern. Rodtschenkos Exemplar befindet sich im Rodtschenko und Stepanowa Archiv, Moskau. Siehe auch Fleckner, Uwe: Aus dem Gedächtnis verbannt, in: Der Sturm der Bilder. Zerstörte und zerstörende Kunst von der Antike bis in die Gegenwart, hg. von Uwe Fleckner und Maike Steinkamp. Berlin 2011, S. 25. 55 Rogovin, Vadim Zakharovich: Stalin’s Terror of 1937–1938. Political Genocide in the USSR. Oak Park 2009, S. 84–85.

Figura Infamante

5 | Aleksander Rodtschenko, geschwärztes Porträt Isaak

Abramowitsch Selenskis, Fotografie, 1937.

dras­t ischer Weise zusammen. Im ausgelöschten Porträt wird nicht nur der be­­ schämende, „gesichts­lose“ Blick, dem sich das stalinistische Strafsystem als Machttechnik bedient, sichtbar.56 Das Schandbild wird zu einer Leere, einem Nicht-Ort, einer abwesenden Anwesenheit und zeigt die Grenzen des Sichtbaren auf. Die Ethik der sozialen Beziehungen und die Bedeutung der moralischen Normativität des Sozialen hat der Philosoph Emmanuel Levinas am Blick des Anderen beschrieben, der mit dem Beispiel Selenskis in Verbindung gebracht werden kann. In seiner Auseinandersetzung mit den figurativen „oblitérations noirs“ des Künstlers Sacha Sosno, die eine Auslöschung von Gesichtern durch schwarze 56 Foucault, Michel: Überwachen und Strafen. Frankfurt am Main 1994, S. 229.

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Balken oder materielle Leerstellen bedeuteten, hatte Levinas seine philosophischethischen Überlegungen des Blicks exemplifiziert. In ihrem Beitrag für diesen Band zeigt Hana Gründler, dass im ethischen Denken Levinas’ das „Antlitz“ paradigmatisch mit der Wirkung von Bildern der Gewalt und der Verantwortung des Betrachters in Verbindung zu bringen ist. Erst hinter der äußeren Erscheinung, die nur eine plastische und stumme Form sei, wird für den Philosophen das Antlitz sichtbar, das weder Phänomen, Bild noch Maske ist.57 Im Akt des Sehens wird der Andere seines Antlitzes beraubt und auf seine statische Form reduziert wodurch allererst die „absolute Alterität“ hervortritt. Das schändende Bild einer damnatio memoriae durchbricht den objektivierenden Umgang mit Bildern und stellt eine Irritation dar, die philosophisch gesehen zu einer Ethik aufruft.58

4. Indignitas personae: Überhöhung und Inversion Schandbilder sorgen für die Exklusion der Mitglieder einer Gemeinschaft, indem sie sie als „infame“ Personen kennzeichnen. Nicht nur die Verzerrung, Entstellung oder Auslöschung eines Porträts sind Techniken, die eine Person im Bild schänden können, sondern auch die unverhältnismäßige Überhöhung. So war es eine beschämende Kopf bedeckung, die Dante Alighieri von seiner lang ersehnten Heimkehr aus dem Exil abhielt: Bei seinem offiziellen Wiedereintritt in die Stadt sollte der Florentiner Dichter während des Strafrituals der oblatio eine aus dünnem Papier gefertigte Schandmitra auf seinem Haupt tragen, auf dem wahrscheinlich sein Name und das Vergehen, für das er verurteilt worden war, ge­ schrieben stand. Dante lehnte dies ab, da ein solch infamer Wiedereintritt in die Heimatstadt, seinen Ruf auf Lebenszeit ruiniert hätte, wie dies Thomas Ricklin in seinem Beitrag für diesen Band ausführlich erläutert.59 Die oft fragilen Grenzen zwischen Ehre und Schande lassen sich weniger definitorisch sondern deutlicher noch über die materielle Beschaffenheit und Gestalt der Objekte des Strafrechts bestimmen. Auf den ersten Blick aufwändig gestaltete Schandkronen, wie diese aus dem Bayerischen Nationalmuseum (fig. 6), erweisen sich bei genauerem Hinschauen als aus billigem Material gefertigt: die vier sich über der Kappe mit Ohrenlappen aus schwarzem Tuch erhebenden Bügel sind aus einfachem Stroh. In deren Mitte hängt eine Viehglocke, die bei der ge­­ringsten Bewegung läutet, und an der Kappe wurden Karten eines Karten­ spieles verarbeitet. Die Kombination der wackelnden Krone mit den zwei langen 57 Levinas 1996 (wie Anm. 43), S. 63–70. 58 Siehe den Artikel von Hana Gründler in diesem Band. 59 Vgl. hierzu den Aufsatz von Thomas Ricklin in diesem Band. Zur Schandmitra vgl. Maisel, Witold: Rechtsarchäologie Europas. Wien 1992, S. 150–151.

Figura Infamante

6 | Schandkrone, diverse Materialien, München, Bayerisches

Nationalmuseum. (Farbtafel 8)

Strohzöpfen macht dieses Objekt zu einer grotesken Maskerade, die auf das Glücksspiel und Vernügen verweist. 60 Mit dieser Maske wird der Delinquent als „König“ geschmückt und über die falsche Überhöhung vor aller Augen ernie­ drigt. In diesem Zerrspiegel von Ehre und Schande ist die Scham zu verorten. So bezeichnet Aristoteles in der Nikomachischen Ethik die Scham noch als „Furcht

60 Ein Dank an Karin Schnell und Dr. Sybe Wartena vom Bayerischen Nationalmu­ seum.

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vor der Schande“, die paradoxerweise gleichzeitig zu den Tugenden und den Las­ tern gehört. 61 Die mittelalterliche Ethik hatte die Scham zur negativen Kategorie der Schande (ignominis, infamis, indignitas) reduziert und mit körperlicher Gewalt und Entblößung gleichgesetzt. 62 In diesem Beispiel aus dem 17. Jahrhundert zeigt sich jedoch eine deutliche Verschiebung, welche die Scham durch die übertriebene „Ehrerweisung“ des durch das juridische Urteil als abjekt eingestuften Individuums hervorruft. Spiegelbildlich ist dieser Prozess der Inversion auch in Bildern des Herrschers und Gesetzgebers wiederzufinden. In seiner Auseinandersetzung mit dem Phänomen der gleichzeitigen Erniedrigung und Überhöhung eines Souveräns verweist Michel Foucault auf die Arbeit des Ethnologen Pierre Clastres. Dieser beschrieb Riten und Zeremonien, in denen einer Person gleichzeitig Macht verliehen und sodann der Lächerlichkeit preisgegeben wird. 63 Foucault schließt daraus, dass „wenn man die Macht ausdrücklich als abstoßend, gemein, ubuesk oder einfach lächerlich vorführt“ es darum gehe, eindeutig die „Unumgänglichkeit und Unvermeidbarkeit der Macht vorzuführen, die auch dann noch in aller Strenge und in einer äußerst zugespitzten gewaltsamen Rationalität funktioniert, selbst wenn sie in den Händen von jemandem liegt, der tatsächlich disqualifiziert wird.“64 Somit gehöre die Groteske auch zu den „entscheidenden Verfahren der willkürlichen Herrschaft.“65 Das Problem der Anerkennung des Lächerlichen, das die Unvermeidbarkeit der Macht symbolisiert, stellt sich konkret in den Groteskhelmen und -rüstungen der frühneuzeitlichen Souveräne, die zeitgenössischen Schandmasken in ihrer Gestalt sehr ähnlich sind, wie dies der Beitrag von Felix Jäger zeigt. 66 Foucault zufolge wird die Groteske, in der ein „Individuum oder ein Diskurs qua Statut Machteffekte entfaltet, die ihm auf­ grund ihrer inneren Beschaffenheit nicht zukommen dürfen,“ in der Figur Benito Mussolinis verkörpert, „der theatralisch gekleidet war und wie ein Clown, ein Hanswurst aussah“. 67 Diese hinter der Groteske verborgene juridische Setzung poli­t ischer Macht „qua Statut“ erhält im Schandbild des toten Diktators besondere Vehemenz. Zusammen mit seiner Geliebten Clara Petacci und anderen ihm 61 Aristoteles: Nikomachische Ethik, 4. Buch, 15. Kapitel. 62 Siehe die Einleitung von Katja Gvozdeva und Rudolf Velten (Hg.): Scham und Schamlosigkeit: Grenzverletzungen in Literatur und Kultur der Vormoderne. Berlin 2011, S. 1–26. 63 Clastres, Pierre: La Société contre l’État. Recherches d’anthropologie politique. Paris 1974. 64 Foucault, Michel: Die Anormalen. Vorlesungen am Collège de France (1974–1975), hg. von Michaela Ott. Frankfurt am Main 2003, S. 29. 65 Foucault 2003 (wie Anm. 64), S. 29. 66 Siehe den Aufsatz von Felix Jäger in diesem Band. 67 Foucault 2003 (wie Anm. 64), S. 29

Figura Infamante

7 | Aufgehängter Leichnam Mussolinis, April 1945, Piazzale Loreto, Mailand.

nahestehenden Faschisten wurde die Leiche Mussolinis auf der Piazzale Loreto, in der Nähe des Mailänder Hauptbahnhofes an den Füßen aufgehängt (fig. 7). 68 An dieser Stelle waren zuvor im August 1944 fünfzehn Partisanen im Auftrag des faschistischen Regimes erschossen und ihre Leichen der Öffentlichkeit präsentiert worden. Ähnlich wurde nun mit dem Körper des gestürzten Souveräns verfahren, der zuvor mit Gemüse beworfen, auf den gespuckt, uriniert und geschossen wurde. Das Gesicht des ehemaligen „Duce“ wurde durch schwere Schläge bis aufs Unkenntliche zerstört. Diese Angriffe der hasserfüllten Menge uferten dermaßen aus, dass die Körper an dem Metallgerüst einer Tankstelle kopfüber an Schlachterhaken aufgehängt wurden, um den wachsenden Blutdurst zurückzuhalten. 69 In dem so hergestellten Bild der gestürzten und im bildlichen Sinne „verkehrten“ Macht wurde eine visuelle Konstante der „pitture infamante“ sichtbar, die an den städtischen Mauern der italienischen Kommunen des Spätmittelalters die geächteten und vom Gesetz verfolgten Kriminellen kopfüber hängend repräsentierte.70 68 Luzzatto, Sergio: The Body of ‚Il Duce‘: Mussolini’s Corpse and the Fortunes of Italy. New York 2014, S. 68–71. 69 Luzzatto 2014 (wie Anm.69), S. 70. 70 Siehe auch Ortalli in diesem Band.

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In dieser hier angedeuteten zeitlichen und medialen Spannweite widmen sich die Beiträge des vorliegenden Bandes den „Schandbildern“ hauptsächlich von den Bildern und Figurationen her. Auch die begrifflichen Präzisierungen und kontroversen Auseinandersetzungen mit der bestehenden Forschungslage führen betont zurück zum bildlichen Phänomen, wobei die dahinterliegenden komplex­ eren Bedeutungszusammenhänge mitberücksichtigt werden. Erstmals liegt nun eine Textsammlung vor, die sowohl die historische als auch aktuelle Dimension der Bildschändung beleuchtet und den Ansatz für zukünftige Untersuchungen dieser negativen Repräsentationen bieten möchte.

Gherardo Ortalli

Pittura Infamante Practices, Genres and Connections

1. Single images and iconic systems in the practice of defamation It is many years since I first started to study pittura infamante and though I have returned to the subject frequently in the intervening period, it is perhaps time I drew some conclusions and attempted an organic recapitulation of what I think about it today, for all that my current convictions are really not very different from the ones I held all those years ago. I came to the subject through a group of papers incidentally collected in connection with other studies and they led to further research, which culminated in the publication of a book that came out in 1979. 1 At that time, the literature on the topic was confined to a couple of articles. There was Gino Masi’s old study, published in 1931, which focused specifically on the phenomenon in Florence2 , and there was Wolfgang Brückner’s wider ranging survey of 1963, which examined portraits in legal actions and the problem of magic in pitture infamanti. The former was almost forgotten and the latter had not encountered much success and remained almost unknown in Italy.3

1

2

3

Ortalli, Gherardo: Pingatur in palatio. La pittura infamante nei secoli XIII–XVI. Rome 1979; revised French edition: La peinture infamante du XIIIe au XVIe siècle. Paris 1994. My later publications on the subject include: Colpire la fama e garantire il credito tra legge e propaganda. Il ricorso all’immagine, in: La fiducia secondo i linguaggi del potere. Ed. by Paolo Prodi. Bologna 2007, pp. 325–357. Masi, Gino: La pittura infamante nella legislazione e nella vita del comune fioren­ tino, in: Studi di diritto commerciale in onore di Cesare Vivante. Rome 1931, vol. II, pp. 625–657. Brückner, Wolfgang: Das Bildnis in rechtlichen Zwangsmitteln. Zum Magieproblem der Schandgemälde, in: Festschrift für Harald Keller. Ed. by Hans Martin Freiherr

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Apart from these two articles, various other studies mentioned individual defamatory paintings, but the allusions were purely in passing, usually decontextualized and made no reference to any real complex of works connected by a set of shared characteristics. In short, the essential features of prevailing opinion in those days can be summed up as follows: pitture infamanti were images intended to pillory personalities implicated in political crimes, especially treason, or commercial offences such as bankruptcy. They were basically found in Tuscany, Florence in particular, and the earliest examples dated from the late thirteenth century. The artists engaged to paint them were often leading masters of the day (Botticelli, Andrea del Castagno, Andrea del Sarto). The vilified subject was usually depicted hanging head down. The descriptions of the genre were somewhat generalized and at the same time circumscribed. In point of fact, the distinctive features of these paintings should be seen in different terms, of which again I give a condensed account. The earliest examples of the genre do not come from Tuscany, but rather from Emilia. They date from around the mid-1200s. Their range of reference is extremely wide and covered a large number of crimes. They first occurred as a result of special circumstances, or rather from political cultures of a Guelphish or unsophisticated type. The image of the upside-down hanged man was standard only in the 1300s, when the genre had already developed its characteristic features, including its iconography, though from then on it was used more especially in response to political crimes (and secondarily to economic misdemeanours). The painters involved were usually of very limited ability and sometimes themselves members of the felonious underworld. The engagement of famous artists came much later, when the genre was already in decline and the paintings needed special expertise, if they were to achieve any impact. One other aspect is absolutely fundamental: In the second half of the thirteenth century the use of defamatory images began to entail recourse to a very specific genre, pittura infamante, which was defined by its own essential attributes, and these were certainly not confined to paintings, whose deliberate aim was to discredit and insult. In short, there have always been more or less important images commissioned by private individuals, but also by public authorities, with the specific intention of defaming and maligning someone. One celebrated example will suffice to make the point: the paintings that King Louis XI of France put on view in 1477 at Evreux, Pacy and Nonancourt in order to shame the Prince of Orange for his acts of insurrection and treason. The images were unquestionably calculated to give vicious offence, but it is not possible to go any further and von Erffa and Elisabeth Herget. Darmstadt 1963, pp. 111–129, reprinted in: Brückner, Wolfgang: Bildnis und Brauch. Studien zur Bildfunktion der Effigies. Berlin 1966, pp. 205–223.

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associate them with an organic corpus: a distinct genre that conforms to predetermined, shared patterns, above and beyond other self-evident similarities. That a separate genre did in fact exist, however, is clear from a number of definable historical contexts. Pittura infamante in the Italian city-state is one such case, and a very prominent one. We shall mention others 4 , but first let us see what really characterised pittura infamante in Italy in the period of the communes, in addition to its extrinsic features. Briefly, the first point is that it was part of an organic penal-punitive system, it was administrately subject to the formal decision of institutional bodies (judicial and political), it was carried out in ways that were governed by law or according to established custom and entailed serious legal consequences for anyone condemned to being depicted in such as way. It was handed down as a surrogatory (but certainly effective) punishment for offenders found guilty in their absence, and the images were displayed in appointed spots in particularly busy, central parts of cities, usually on the walls of government buildings in the main square. These distinctive features can all be summed up in terms of their public, official and secular nature: they were exhibited to the public in places that were easy to reach and fully visible by those, at whom the message was targeted; the punishment was officially enacted by a political or judicial body, exercising functions that were acknowledged as legitimate by the community; the secular figurative system in question was specific and quite independent of other figurative systems, especially the dominant one associated with the church. Even if these elements were missing, it was obviously still possible to paint and display a defamatory image of someone, but the action did not take place in the framework of the historically and clearly definable genre, which, and this is the last point to keep in mind, first made its appearance, as we mentioned earlier, in the 1200s and in effect disappeared in the late 1300s or early 1400s, though a few spiritless instances continued to occur until the 1500s and after. To focus on the background/foundations of the medium let us look at the well-known example of the paintings commissioned by the Florentines during the War of the Eight Saints in 1377, to pillory Rodolfo da Varano, Lord of Camerino, whose crime was to have broken faith with the Florentine cause and gone over to Pope Gregory XI’s side. Rodolfo was painted hanging upside down, with a mitre on his head, his arms spread wide in an obscene gesture, between a siren, a basilisk and a devil holding him in chains. Rodolfo da Varano replied in kind having the eight magistrates responsible for the conduct of the conflict depicted 4

In part, they were outlined by Wolfgang Brückner at the beginning of the conference on Images of Shame, Florence, March 27–28, 2012, Kunsthistorisches Institut in ­F lorenz, in his talk on Bild-Ehre, Bild-Schande, Bild-Ängste. Einstige Kommunika­ tionsweisen und heutige Diskursverkürzungen, published in this volume.

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on his lands “sub semisolio sedentes, veluti si quae egisset in os suum reciperent”, with the violent caption Io sono Ridolfo da Camerino, leale signore di terra, che caco in gola agli Otto della Guerra. (I am Ridolfo da Camerino, loyal lord of the lands, and I shit in the mouths of the Eight of the War.) Now, the format, the language and the use of image, to which Rodolfo resorted, are the same as those adopted by the city of Florence, but this painting remains a private action, an initiative taken without reference to any legal practice or organic penal system; it is, in fact, assimilable to the latter, but only as an external response. It was the specific and personal reaction of a single (albeit distinguished) individual to an official course of action taken by an institution. I believe, in studying not only the history of art, but more in general the history of culture and social structures that these differences are real and significant. It seems a somewhat trivial point to insist on, but perhaps it is not so very obvious. Indeed, I have the impression that scholars frequently ignore the distinguishing features of the different offensive uses of images and tend to lump figurations together in an undifferentiated complex. Times, places, procedures and purposes become secondary and the observer goes no further than making the simple connection of figure/insult, with the result that any picture intended to defame someone ends up indiscriminately in the same pot, the product being a soup, in which everything risks being assimilable to everything else. This approximative approach is even found in good quality research. I am thinking of pittura infamante and the persistence of the old view, in which it is tied closely to the Tuscan setting. In actual fact, the pages, which Samuel Y. Edgerton devotes to the subject, are very good; he confines himself to Florentine paintings, but provides his comments with a clear framework of understanding of what constitutes the general dimension of the phenomenon, not just in Florence and Tuscany.5 By contrast, there is still a surprising number of studies that continue to speak of defamatory images as the usual way in which the Florentine city-state acted against traitors, thus reducing an extraordinarily complex and widespread system to a single city and a single crime. 6 I am thinking, too, of how recently published works offer further examples of these approximations, when, 5 6

Edgerton, Samuel Y.: Pictures and Punishment. Art and Criminal Prosecution during the Florentine Renaissance. Ithaca-London 1985. For example: Schnitzler, Norbert: Anti-semitism, image desecration, and the problem of “Jewish execution”, in: History and images. Towards a new iconology. Ed. by Axel Bolvig and Philip G. Lindley. Turnhout 2003, pp. 371–372.

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one after another, they throw together unquestionably different practices, as if they were part of a homogeneous whole.7 Thus, pittura infamante in city-state Italy is assumed to partake of the same logic as the 1477 French panels mentioned earlier or as the Schmähbriefe and Schandbilder, which were in fact another important, but absolutely unassimilable genre of defamatory and vituperative images 8 . All of this leads to confusion and a disregard of specificities.

2. Pittura infamante, Schandbild, baff ling, executio in effigie. Specificities and relationships Italian pitture infamanti and Schandbilder, in fact, offer a good example of how two genres can be linked by unmistakeable relationships and, at the same, distinguished from each other by manifest differences. Admittedly, they share the basic nexus of image/insult and both have a specific role in legal history and judicial practice, but for the rest they really are miles apart, especially as far as the times and places of their use are concerned. As regards place, recourse to pitture infa­ manti was, as far as we know, specific to city-state Italy and originated, as we have pointed out earlier, chiefly in Guelphic popular circles. Private denunciatory letters, on the other hand, were very common in Germany, where the subject has been extensively studied and is well understood; but the practice is also documented (though without substantial reference to images) in Poland, Bohemia, Moravia and in the Netherlands, though there is room for more research into the phenomenon outside of Germany.9

7

8

9

Jones, Malcolm: The secret middle ages discovering the real medieval world. Stroud 2002; Mills, Robert: Suspended Animation. Pain, Pleasure and Punishment in Medieval Culture. London 2005. Fundamental Lentz, Michael: Konflikt, Ehre, Ordnung. Untersuchungen zu den Schmähbriefen und Schandbildern des späten Mittelalters und der frühen Neuzeit (ca. 1350 bis 1600). Hannover 2004. Formerly, Hupp, Otto: Scheltbriefe und Schandbilder. Ein Rechtsbehelf aus dem 15. und 16. Jahrhundert. Munich, Regensburg 1930. There are a few references in Lentz 2004 (as fn. 8), pp. 17, 161. Also in: Die Bekräftigung der Verträge durch Androhung des Schelmenscheltens im polnischen Recht des Mittelaters, in: Bulletin de la Société Polonaise pour l‘Avancement des Sciences 3 (1903), pp. 13–15 (abstract in German of the study by D¸abakowski, Przemysław: O utwierdzeniu umów pod groz¸a łajania w prawie polskiem s´ redniowiecznem. Lwów 1903); Rundstein, Szymon: Aechtungs- und Schmähungsklausel im polnischen Obligationenrechte des Mittelalters, in: Zeitschrift für vergleichende Rechtswissenschaft 17 (1905), pp. 23, 29; Kisch, Guido: Das Einlager im älteren Schuldrechte Mährens, in: Zeitschrift des Deutschen Vereines für die Geschichte Mährens und Schlesiens 15 (1911), pp. 401–403, 411–412.

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The heyday of pittura infamante, as we have said, occurred from about the mid-1200s to the end of the 1300s. As for defamatory letters, the earliest Schmähbrief I am able to present dates from about 1350. 10 They underwent an especially vigorous phase – the genre’s Blütezeit – in central and northern Germany in the fourth, fifth and sixth decades of the 1500s, and the practice managed, somewhat sporadically, to survive until the seventeenth century, despite the efforts of the authorities to bring it within the sphere of ordinary justice. As for images, the first documented instance of an insulting illustration accompanying a letter occurs around 1403 in the Märkische Chronik by Engelbert Wusterwitz and the oldest example to have survived to our own day is the one that Count John III of Nassau commissioned around 1420 as an insult to Duke John of ­Bavaria. 11 The chronological gap is not the only disparity of the two punitive practices. Although both were sanctioned by the law, they involved different judicial procedures: Pittura infamante was a direct expression of public power (either political or judicial), while the Schmähbrief was the result of a private action, legitimi­ sed by a contractual relationship that was recognised by the public authority. At another level, both cases reflect situations, where weakened state powers were seeking surrogate compensation for their operative impotence: In Italy the communes managed to strike a blow at the reputation of those, whose person or estate they were unable to lay hands on; in Germany, the punitive function was legitimately carried out by private individuals (mainly members of the minor nobility) and involved social action to offset the inability of the public authorities to give them satisfaction. Another common feature of these two procedures has been their effectiveness in achieving their purpose. The evidence is very convincing on this point. There is the testimony, for example, of a celebrated witness such as Enea Silvio Piccolomini, who recorded how the reputation of Duke William of Saxony was thoroughly ruined in 1452, when in the busiest spots in Vienna (where “the entire nobility of Germany” was gathered at the time) appeared defamatory images commissioned by a Bohemian nobleman, who had not received the remuneration due to him for his military services. 12 And the risk of being discredited by means

10 Vogt, Ernst: Ein Drohbrief aus dem 14. Jahrhundert, in: Archiv für Kulturgeschichte 12 (1916), pp. 229–230. 11 Ribbe, Wolfgang: Die Aufzeichnungen des Engelbert Wusterwitz. Überlieferung, Edition u. Interpretation einer spätmittealterlichen Quelle zur Geschichte der Mark Brandenburg. Berlin 1973, p. 86; above all, Lentz 2004 (as fn. 8), pp. 161, 174, 177–178. 12 Lentz, Michael: Defamatory Pictures and Letters in Late Medieval Germany. The Visualisation of Disorder and Infamy, in: Medieval History Journal 3 (2000), pp. 147– 148; Lentz 2004 (as fn. 8), n. 46, pp. 193–194.

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of a leaflet campaign (for ultimately that is what Schandbilder were) sufficed very often to persuade the person involved to honour the commitments he had made. For confirmation of the effectiveness of defamatory paintings displayed in Italian city-states it is crucial to be aware of the responses they prompted and – an even stronger signal – the fact that the good offices of ambassadors, cardinals, princes and even popes were defied to have them removed. 13 As regards the iconographic conventions of the two practices, some elements are shared and others differ. At the beginning, pittura infamante featured a variety of themes and sometimes (especially at the outset) even involved presenting an illustrated story of the events concerned. In time, however, the figure of the hanged man suspended by one, usually the left, foot from the gallows became the standard image, the only variation being in the figures that might appear beside him, as we have seen in the case of Rodolfo di Camerino. The Schandbild, by contrast, commonly depicted torture, quartering and various indignities aimed at the target individual and anything that symbolised him (especially his coat of arms); and in almost all cases his seal is seen being defiled by the excreta of a female animal (an ass, a bitch, a sow, but also an old woman) as it is pressed against her posterior (fig. 1). The symbolic meaning is obvious: The seal is what should have guaranteed the agreement that has not yet been honoured. The hangings that characterise Italian pitture infamanti also appear occasionally in the German genre, but the victims are rarely depicted head down. A much wider variety of iconographic images is employed with the defamatory letter genre, though here too they are subject to established and recurrent conventions. I think these examples will suffice to show how pittura infamante and Schandbild are both legitimate forms of offence and both operate by insulting the figure, but each set of conventions is well defined and neither can be mistaken for the other, nor indeed for other generic forms of injurious images. If I labour the point it is not in order to reiterate what I think is obvious, but rather because these specificities (which would seem to be trivial) do in fact struggle to be accepted for what they are. So one finds oneself reading that, though the “Italian pitture infamanti” are well documented, “what is less well known is the popularity of the genre elsewhere in Europe especially in the fifteenth century”. 14 It is a statement which is based on the mistaken supposition that pittura infamante is a generic iconographic motif and that it is therefore justified to seek little clumps of examples elsewhere in Europe, like the already mentioned action taken by Louis XI, without considering the difference (and it bears repeating yet again) between expressions of an organic system with well-codified connotations

13 Ortalli 1994 (as fn. 1), pp. 33–41 (pp. 71–91 in the Italian edition). 14 Mills 2005 (as fn. 7), p. 43.

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1 |

Schmähbrief der Brüder von Gladbeck gegen Friedrich von Niehausen und dessen Bürgen, coloured drawing, paper, 1526.
Marburg, Staatsarchiv.

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of insulting through images on the one hand, and a simple attack on someone’s respectability by depicting him in an ignominious fashion. In other words: the difference between a complex genre and a more or less self-contained or isolated action. Italian pittura infamante and the denigrating letter of central European tradition are not the only specific genres to use painted images to discredit someone and I should like now to mention a couple of other cases. First, the practice alluded to in the Chronicle (published for the first time in 1542) of the Englishman Edward Hall in his record of the great Battle of Flodden Field, fought in September 1513 between the Scottish forces of James IV and an English army led by Thomas Howard, the Earl of Surrey. The English commander is referring to a specific practice, when he declares that, if the enemy should fail to comply with the rules agreed for the conduct of the battle, “then he was content, that the Scottes shoulde Baffull hym”. The sixteenth century text then explains that the practice of baffull or baff ling involved creating a painting showing the individual, alleged to have broken his word, named and hung upside down; the painted image was then subjected to abusive comments, horn blasts, insults and noisy clamour “in the most depitefull maner they can”15 . There is no doubt that this was a practice designed to give offence and according to Hall, who declares that it “is a great reproche amonge the Scottes”16, evidently successfully so. It is not a simple, generic form of insult intended to affront and disconcert an adversary; the procedure involved is codified enough for the ritual to be described by the chronicler. I do not actually know about any more details but we are clearly a long way from both pittura infamante and Schandbild, though it was nevertheless associated with them in the soup pot we spoke of earlier, solely on the predictable and trivial grounds that an image of the individual under attack appears in all three cases – a somewhat meagre justification for positing a proper link. 17 Though the Scottish practice recorded by Edward Hall remains, as far as I know, little studied, quite the opposite is true of another formalised use of hostile image creation: In executio in effigie capital punishment is administered to an

15 Hall, Edward: Hall’s Chronicle. Containing the history of England, during the reign of Henry the Fourth, and the succeeding monarchs. London 1809, p. 559. Cf. Leslie, Michael: Baffling and degradation, in: The Spenser Encyclopedia. Ed. by A.C. Hamilton [et al.]. Toronto 1990, pp. 78–79. 16 Hall 1809 (as fn. 16), p. 559. 17 Nevertheless, this is the approach taken in Mills 2005 (as fn. 7), pp. 44–45. Then it is suggested that there is a close connection with Schandbilder in Jones 2002 (as fn. 7), pp. 86–87.

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absent individual using a straw dummy or a painted image. 18 In this case, the custom took root, in the sense of it being a formal instrument of justice as opposed to an occasional action, which was unconnected with any organic context, substantially in a post-medieval framework. Although it is not difficult to find the odd precedent as early as in the fifteenth century 19 , important examples do not occur until the sixteenth century, with, for example, the “execution” of an image of Luther in Rome in 1521; and then from the seventeenth century, especially in northern Europe, and particularly in France under Louis XIII, Louis XIV and Mazarin, it was used as punishment for the crime of lèse-majesté, but also for heresy and other minor offences. Thanks to research into its technical legal aspects we know exactly how, when and why executio was carried out. 20 It must however be said that documented examples of executio in effigie are widely spread in time and place and they often share very similar characteristics: more indeed than any other defamation by offensive image. But precisely because executio in effigie was used in so many different ways and for such a variety of misdeeds, we should be very cautious in dealing with shaming images. The entirely commendable search for precise profiles for the specific employment of figures to defame and condemn and the implicit refusal to stop at generic parallels carries with it a dangerous risk: that of the undue hardening of phenomena that are naturally fluid. So too restrictive a definition of characteristics and periods can hinder the appreciation of admissible precedents or of probable parallel phenomena or of variants compared with the main lines of expression of defamation by image. The question arose, for instance, in relation to procedures devised to punish already dead individuals by insulting images of them – or their corpses. As well as on various, though not very common other occasions, the practice was quite frequently applied by the Roman Inquisition in the sixteenth century, though there is no doubt that from a strictly legal point of view to burn a dead man at the stake cannot constitute a real executio. If the

18 See especially Brückner 1966 (as fn. 3), pp. 2 45–2 47; also Brückner, Wolfgang: Leichenbestrafung, in: Handwörterbuch zur deutschen Rechtsgeschichte. Berlin 1978, vol. II, pp. 1810-1814. For an intelligent summary see Freedberg, David: The Power of Images: Studies in the History and Theory of Response. Chicago 1989, pp. 257– 263. 19 A case in point: a picture of a thief who had mistakenly been allowed to escape by the authorities at Rijmenan (a part of the municipal area of Bonheiden in the province of Antwerp) was hanged in 1490. Applying strict legal logic, Brückner in Brückner 1966 (as fn. 3), p. 22 4 explains that the episode did not formally constitute a true executio in effigie. A much more pragmatic approach is taken by Freedberg 1989 (as fn. 17), p. 259. 20 Reference should again be made to Brückner 1966 (as fn. 3), despite the need to make adjustments at several points.

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accused had disappeared for good, it was no longer possible for the court of the Inquisition to prove its case and obtain a conviction or carry out a sentence, so instead they organised a “show for the people”. 21 But it is also true that the practice places a fine, almost non-existent line between legal forms of sanction and holding someone up to scorn, and there can be no doubt that actions of this kind used procedures that were not so very dissimilar from other means to reinforce the authority of justice and therefore the power of those, who held, or believed they should hold, it. 22 So, as we have highlighted the distinctive elements that characterise the various genres of defamation by image, we can now proceed to identify possible analogies between executio in effigie and other procedures such as the defilement of the bodies of dead criminals and heretics ordered by secular and ecclesiastical authorities, practices that were already being extensively discussed by experts in criminal law at the end of the sixteenth century. 23 In short, the need to make a clear distinction between the connotations of the different practices of figured denigration does not entail isolating them to the point of ignoring the close connections they may have with each other and with the general context of bringing disgrace and dishonour. 2 4 To do so would mean risking failure to understand them completely.

3. The defamatory image – and other factors – in the evolution of the system of insulting As well as the basic relationship between the various specific uses of defamatory images, which comes down (albeit through a wide variety of practices) to the nexus of insult/figure, there are other possible links to be uncovered within the individual genres. In many cases there is a fundamental connection between the figure and the written text. With the defamatory letters the interdependence is of paramount importance, and indeed it is the writing that plays the leading role. The period of the Scheltbrief was in fact considerably prior to that of the Schandbild. The writing comes first and clearly remains predominant, though in its maturest and most effective form the Scheltbrief combined verbal explanation of the alleged offence with fiercely symbolic images.

21 22 23 2 4

Freedberg 1989 (as fn. 17), p. 261. See the important considerations of Freedberg 1989 (as fn. 17), p. 260. Brückner 1966 (as fn. 3), pp. 232–2 44. Many cases of vilifying (often in informal ways) the enemy also in image are offered, for example, in Crouzet-Pavan, Élisabeth a. Verger, Jacques (ed.): La dérision au Moyen Âge. De la pratique sociale au rituel politique. Paris 2007.

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But the pittura infamante of the Italian city-states also featured a fundamental connection between written and figurative elements. Indeed, in this case too the writing tends to be more important than the visual image as regards the incrimination of the alleged offender and on some occasions it can be seen as preceding the painting, almost as if preparing for it. In Vercelli, for example, as early as 1242 the town’s statutes ordered that the name of anyone found guilty of treason should be painted in large letters on a specially whitewashed stretch of the town hall walls, together with the grounds for his conviction. It was only later that the figures of the culprits were depicted. And even when the genre of defamatory images had reached its most highly developed stage, each painting had to convey a clear message. We no longer need to give any credit to the mistaken notion (already corrected by Wolfgang Brückner fifty years ago) that the picture was intended to be a recognisable depiction of the felon, a sort of ‘Wanted’ notice to help with his capture. It is clear that this was not the case from the simple fact that in the period, when pittura infamante originated and developed, portrait painting had not yet evolved to the point, where it was particularly painstaking about conveying an accurate likeness of its subject. This would be enough in itself. But there are other, more technical reasons for discounting any expectation that a pittura infamante should be true to life. It was by no means a prerequisite that the painter commissioned should know the accused personally; and in addition, the artist was often given such a short deadline for delivery that the painted figures must have been very approximate and the verbal denunciation more important than visual accuracy. The writing identified the malefactor, whose guilt was illustrated in the painting. The caption would therefore have to be absolutely explicit and, so that it should stick easily in the memory, the condemnation started to be written in rhyme with a sing-song rhythm; it has also been shown that there are parallels between the defamatory rhymes and the satirical and burlesque poetry of the time. 25 Then, the fact that the message had to be received and understood by as many bystanding observers as possible leads to another important consideration, one that goes beyond the specific case of Italian pitture infamanti. An insulting image used with a punitive function presupposes a social context that is able to digest and learn from the lesson. In other words, propaganda disseminated in the form of images will have an effect and point only if there is an audience that the authorities feel the need to take into account, providing it with information and guiding it towards conclusions: In effect, there is an assumption on the part of those, who administer justice and maintain political-institutional equilibrium, that they cannot ignore or undervalue ‘public opinion’. It may be obvious, but it

25 Suitner, Franco: La poesia satirica e giocosa nell’età dei comuni. Padua 1983.

Pittura Infamante

explains how it was the urban culture of the mature Middle Ages that invented the practice. In other words, there would have been no reason for it to exist in a society such as that of the early Middle Ages, static, extensively ruralised, in many ways deaf and dumb. The evolution of the written component from a simple indication of the name of the miscreant and his crime, to an explanatory caption, to the image and then to a rhymed text or even a short poem leads us to another element that must not be overlooked: the development of a specific practice of shaming pictures over time into often differing forms (but of course the consideration is generally applicable). Though the basic characteristics of the genre remained the same, its procedures evolved, also in accordance with social changes. We can use a few exemplary references26 to give a brief account of some of the turning points. Leaving aside the phase, in which the written element developed on its own, the first stages of defamation by insulting image are characterised by a detailed narration of the incriminating event through pictures, as happened, for example, in 1243, when the crimes of Azzo del Frignano and the punishment he deserved were illustrated to the public in a series of pictures displayed in the main square in Bologna. In those cases in which the mounting required considerable effort, the political significance tended to predominate, with the defamatory element playing a part in it. On occasion, the message was actually ‘monumentalized’, especially when displayed inside buildings that were the seat and symbol of power. One instance is the striking cycle of paintings conserved in the Palazzo della Ragione in Mantua since around the mid-1200s and designed to vilify those, who had tried to deliver the castle at Marcaria to the enemy, and another in the Broletto in Brescia since 1279, when power was temporarily in the hands of the citizenry. Indeed, it was precisely these two cycles, above all thanks to the studies of Giuliano Milani and Matteo Ferrari, that have yielded the most important new information compared with what was known in the past; and incidentally, the paintings are a welcome diversion from the pitifully poor figurations that typify the genre. 27

26 The examples, here and above, come from my study of 1979. 27 I dealt with the Brescian case only in the French edition of my early work on pittura infamante, Ortalli 1994 (as fn. 1), pp. 22–23 and passim, fig. 1, 2. For more recent considerations of the two cycles see at least Milani, Giuliano: Prima del Buongoverno. Motivi politici e ideologia popolare nelle pitture del Broletto di Brescia, in: Studi Medievali, ser. 3, 49 (2008), pp. 19–86; Id.: Pittura infamante e damnatio memoriae. Note su Brescia e Mantova, in: Condannare all’oblio. Pratiche della damnatio memoriae nel Medioevo. Ed. by Isa Lori Sanfilippo a. Antonio Rigon. Rome 2010, pp. 179– 196; Id.: Avidité et trahison du bien commun. Une peinture infamante du XIII siècle, in: Annales 3 (2011), pp. 705–742; and Ferrari, Matteo: Grixopolo e i dipinti del Palazzo

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In the meantime, beside and in part in the wake of the great figurations, pittura infamante was approaching its most complete and typical form, with images that now shunned public buildings and came out into the open, into the squares, striking at individuals and using the vernacular rather than the more high-flown Latin preferred in the interiors of the powerful. The message was now simplified to the utmost in order to reach as big an audience as possible, and we can take as what so far is the earliest chronological reference, the provisions added to the statutes of the city of Parma in 1261. The genre achieved its highest expression from the first decades of the fourteenth century, with the striking of a perfect balance between caption and image, and with the definition of a clear and mandatory iconographic model that was able to convey the message immediately and explicitly: the accused hung upside down. This was the period of immense vitality and at the same time instability in the Italian city-state, constantly in search of an order that would only arrive with the end of communal administrations. In the meantime the original Guelphic popular matrix had gradually been superseded: The effectiveness of the defamatory procedure made it functional irrespective of political-ideological positions and – to make a chronological reference here too – we can mention the statutory measures concerning counterfeiters approved by Ghibelline Siena in 1305. Functional effectiveness was now considered more important than partisan connotations and we are now in the period of fullest maturity and of the great territorial expansion of the city-states in the centre-north of Italy. As the 1300s advanced, the practice began to fall into decay. The changed political and social situations brought into being with the demise of the communes made it more difficult to resort to practices that had originated in the volatile dialectic of city-state culture. The authorities, the signori, preferred more orderly and effective instruments than pitture infamanti, which had been a sort of storm attack. Gradually, things moved towards the positions adopted in Lodi and Milan in the last decade of the fourteenth century, in the time of Gian Galeazzo Visconti, when the old practice of defamation was forbidden and all existing defamatory images were ordered to be removed in the name of the honour and dignity of the community. But it was certainly not simply a question of paying homage to the triumphant culture of etiquette and fine manners (though that was a factor). Above all, it was a reflection of the new political and institutional dispensation of the signorie and princedoms, which brought with them new ways and instruments for imposing order. The troubled dialectic within the com-

della Ragione di Mantova, in: Opera Nomina Historiae 2–3 (2010), pp. 43–90; in general, reference should also be made to his academic thesis, Id.: La propaganda per immagini nei cicli pittorici dei palazzi comunali lombardi (1200–1337). Pisa 2011.

Pittura Infamante

2 | Andrea del Sarto, Drawing of a man hanging upside down,

1530, Florence, Uffizi, Gabinetto Disegni e Stampe.

munes had given way to a new stability, guaranteed by the figure and role of the prince. This was certainly not the end of pitture infamanti, but they became ever rarer and more hackneyed. Their heyday was over and when survivors of the old practice appeared within the new socio-political framework, they were increasingly weak and were resorted to only in special cases, when it was a question of sensational betrayals and personalities of high rank and prestige, itself further evidence that it was seen in exceptional circumstances rather than as a matter of course. Thus it is not so much a paradox as still further proof that application of

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3, 4 | Filippino Lippi (attrib.), Drawing

of a person designed to disgrace him, around 1480, recto, possibly associated with the paintings done by Botticelli after the Pazzi Plot, Paris, Musée du Louvre, Département des Arts gra­ phiques. (Farbtafel 5)

the old procedure was confined to extraordinary events, that it was only now that great artists were being commissioned to paint great wrongdoers: Andrea del Castagno in 1440 after the Battle of Anghiari, Botticelli following the Pazzi Plot in 1478, Andrea del Sarto at the time of Charles V’s great siege of Florence in 1530. Other later cases can be cited, but they already seem behind the times, even when they are directly in line with the practice of the past. Rather it is significant that – though the modest figurations displayed when pitture infamanti were at their height had entirely disappeared from the scene – the small amount of iconographic documentation that still survives refers to the early ‘monumental’ phase

Pittura Infamante

(Mantua and Brescia) and to this final phase involving great artists. The latter includes a small group of drawings by Andrea del Sarto (fig. 2), preparatory works for paintings of traitors done in 1530; they are always mentioned and almost systematically reproduced when the subject of defamatory paintings is broached. They constitute exceptional evidence, as does another drawing that has not so far received sufficient attention (see the illustration reproduced here). I am referring to a drawing in pen and ink with brown wash, formerly attributed to Andrea del Castagno and now ascribed to Filippino Lippi, dated around the years 1480–1485 and conserved at the Louvre (fig. 3 & 4). In the past it

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5 | Leonardo da Vinci, Study of the hanged

Bernardo Bandini Baroncelli, drawing, 1479, Bayonne, Musée Bonnat.

was “cut around its contours in silhouette and attached to a sheet”. 28 The words “Ecole Lombarde – Andrea della Pichia” appear at the bottom. It depicts a young man striking an anxious, highly expressive pose. In 1994 29 , the piece was

28 Cecchi, Alessandro: A new drawing by Filippino Lippi in the Louvre, in: The Burlington Magazine 136 (June 1994), p. 368. See also Ferrari, Matteo: Filippino Lippi. Figura maschile appesa per un piede, in Donato, Maria Monica a. Parenti, Daniele: Dal Giglio al David. Arte civica a Firenze fra Medioevo e Rinascimento. Florence 2013, pp. 192–193. 29 Cecchi (as fn. 29), pp. 368–370; also Id., in: Goldner, George R. [et al.] (ed.): The drawings of Filippino Lippi and his circle. New York 1997, nr. 98.

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described as a portrait of an actor or “a costume study for a theatrical event or festivity”, whereas, in fact, the correct interpretation had already been suggested in a Ph.D. dissertation back in 1988, where it was understood to be an image of a man hung upside down30, a reading that was then confirmed by Keith Christiansen, who sensibly linked the inspiration for the drawing to the work of Botticelli and the 1478 plotters.31 To dispel the misunderstanding the drawing had to be rotated by 180 degrees, and then it became clear that “the laces at the waist as well as the hair fall downwards rather than fly upwards”32 ; the strap tied around the ankle also shows that the figure is hung by the foot rather than pirouetting on his right foot.33 So the drawing depicts not the histrionic pose of an actor, but a disgraced traitor. If then the dating and the probable connection with the Pazzi plot are accepted, we can add that the subject must be one of the plotters, who had escaped, because the ones, who were captured, are depicted as hung by the neck. Following this line of analysis, we might even conclude that the subject was Bernardo Bandini dei Baroncelli, who had found asylum in Constantinople. Captured and brought back to Florence, he was executed in December 1479, memory of the event being kept alive by Leonardo da Vinci’s famous drawing, now in the Musée Bonnat in Bayonne, showing Bernardo hung by the neck, still in his oriental costume (fig. 5). It would of course be interesting to be able to establish a connection between the two drawings, but we must not pursue undemonstrable hypotheses by playing with history. There remains, however, the positive fact that we can now associate the drawing attributed to Filippino Lippi with the very small body of figurative evidence directly connected with the genre of pittura infamante. These are small tesserae that can be added to occurrences and issues that are apparently marginal to the great events of history, yet they help us, through the use of images in the various defamatory practices, to understand aspects that were far from secondary in the culture and society of the time. 34

30 Bambach Cappel, Carmen: The Tradition of Pouncing Drawings in the Italian Renaissance Workshop. Innovation and Derivation. New Haven 1988, fig. 165. 31 Christiansen, Keith: A hanged man by Filippino, in The Burlington Magazine 136 (October 1994), p. 706. 32 Christiansen 1994 (as fn. 29), p. 706; also Ferrari 2013 (as fn. 29), p. 192. 33 Christiansen 1994 (as fn. 29), p. 706. Curiously, the catalogue entry in the Département des Arts graphiques at the Louvre reproduces the drawing (Fonds des dessins et miniatures, inv. 10715) as if the old interpretation were still valid: upside down. 34 See also the new, fulling revised edition of Ortalli 1994 (as fn.1): Id. La pittura infamante. Secoli XIII–XVI. Rome 2015, pp. 101, 114–115.

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Prime pitture d’infamia nei comuni italiani Immagini come documenti, immagini come fatti

Nei comuni italiani, la pratica di dipingere ad infamia i personaggi giudicati colpevoli di particolari reati trova le sue origini e i primi sviluppi in un frangente di generale trasformazione degli assetti istituzionali. La maggiore intensità della dialettica interna, l’inserimento dei conflitti locali in scenari sovra-regionali, l’inclusione (mai pacifica) dei ceti popolari alla gestione diretta del potere portarono a una conseguente rimodulazione degli strumenti della comunicazione politica. Posti all’interno di un contesto in continua evoluzione e mutamento, i nuovi gruppi dirigenti si affidarono con sempre maggiore costanza alla comunicazione iconica, fino a quel momento solo saltuariamente impiegata come strumento di celebrazione della città e delle sue istituzioni. 1 Dalla metà del Duecento – con lievi slittamenti cronologici tra un centro e l’altro – nelle città comunali si costituì così “un sistema iconico pubblico, ufficiale e laico”2 , sovente caratterizza-

1

2

A titolo d’esempio, si ricordano i rilievi di Porta Romana a Milano (1171), precoci e isolati, sui quali Ferrari, Michele Camillo: Die Porta Romana in Mailand (1171), in: Literatur und Wandmalerei. Erscheinungsformen höfischer Kultur und ihre Träger im Mittelalter. A cura di Eckart Conrad Lutz [et al.]. Tübingen 2002, pp. 115–151, con bibliografia precedente, oppure le statue equestri dei podestà Oldrado da Tresseno (1233), sempre a Milano, e quella perduta di Nazaro Ghirardini a Reggio Emilia (1229); cfr. Marchesini, Attilio: Scheda 12 4, Monumento equestre al Podestà Nazaro Ghirardini di Lucca, in: Matilde e il tesoro dei Canossa tra castelli, monasteri e città. Catalogo della mostra. A cura di Arturo Calzona. Cinisello Balsamo 2008, pp. 558– 559. Ortalli, Gherardo: Pingatur in palatio. La pittura infamante nei secoli XIII–XVI. Roma 1979, p. 25.

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to dall’invenzione di soluzioni iconografiche originali e da utilizzi dell’immagine altrettanto innovativi.3 La committenza civica trovò allora nella pittura, e nella fattispecie nella pittura murale, un eccellente ausilio per dare risposta alle sue pressanti esigenze comunicative. Più durevole della parola orale e, pertanto, potenzialmente in grado di raggiungere un pubblico molto ampio, la pittura offrì un mezzo espres­ sivo di accesso più immediato rispetto alla scultura o ad altre tecniche, tanto per il pubblico, sicuramente più avvezzo ad una comunicazione per figure, quanto per la committenza: per disponibilità di materiali e maestranze 4 , per la maggiore economicità e rapidità di esecuzione, per la facilità di adattamento agli spazi disponibili e, forse, anche per le più larghe possibilità di sperimentare soluzioni iconografiche innovative e complesse. Inoltre, le pitture potevano essere facilmente modificate o rimosse, assecondando quindi il mutamento della situazione politica generale e degli orientamenti assunti dagli organismi di governo, rinnovati periodicamente. In effetti, documenti scritti e figurati ancora oggi testimoniano di quanto rapido e frequente fosse l’aggiornamento delle immagini presenti nelle sedi di governo e negli altri edifici civili a disposizione delle magistrature pubbliche (residenze di funzionari, sedi delle arti, ma anche porte civiche e mura), senza particolare distinzione tra figurazioni collocate in spazi interni o esterni. Sull’onda di urgenze contingenti, pitture diverse per epoca e soggetto si somma­ vano e sovrapponevano sulle pareti, spesso senza alcun ordine apparente: figurazioni di episodi storici convivevano con immagini narrative; immagini di santi con stemmi di magistrati e insegne funzionali all’organizzazione delle attività amministrative correnti; pitture atte a documentare i possedimenti del comune, con altre che ne attestavano la capacità coercitiva e la potestà giuridica.5 Gli edifici in cui si riunivano magistrature, uffici e consigli comunali hanno subito in genere profonde alterazioni, negli apparati decorativi e nelle strutture architettoniche, in virtù di una continuità d’uso da parte dei poteri pubblici che spesso non è ancora venuta meno. Malgrado ciò, i segni del rapido stratificarsi 3

4

5

Come illustra Donato, Maria Monica: “Cose morali, e anche appartenenti secondo e’ luoghi”. Per lo studio della pittura politica nel tardo medioevo toscano, in: Le forme della propaganda politica nel Due e nel Trecento. Atti del convegno internazionale, Trieste, 2–5 marzo 1993. A cura di Paolo Cammarosano. Roma 1994, pp. 491–517. Si ricorderà il vano tentativo dei Bolognesi di cercare in loco materiali e maestranze per il monumento per Bonifacio VIII; cfr. su questo punto Pini, Raffaella: La statua di Bonifacio VIII, Manno da Siena e gli orefici a Bologna, in: Le culture di Bonifacio VIII. Atti del convegno, Bologna, 13–15 dicembre 2004. Roma 2006, pp. 231–2 40. Per una rapida sintesi si veda Ferrari, Matteo e Milani, Giuliano: Prima di Firenze. Funzioni delle immagini nei Comuni dell’Italia settentrionale, in: Dal Giglio al David. Arte civica a Firenze fra Medioevo e Rinascimento. Catalogo della mostra. A cura di Maria Monica Donato e Daniela Parenti. Firenze 2013, pp. 67–71.

Prime pitture d’infamia nei comuni italiani

d’interventi decorativi in età medievale non sono del tutto svaniti. Lo testimoniano, per esempio, i dipinti che rivestirono, in almeno tre distinte campagne, la sala maggiore del Palazzo del Popolo di San Gimignano: l’ampio e articolato ciclo pittorico che rievocava la festosa accoglienza tributata a Carlo II d’Angiò nel suo passaggio verso Roma fu in parte ricoperto, a due anni dall’esecuzione, per documentare la sentenza arbitrale favorevole al comune emessa da Scolaio Ardinghelli, e ancora, nel 1317, per lasciare spazio alla Maestà di Lippo Memmi. 6 Gli interventi successivi si sovrapposero dunque alle più antiche immagini, ma in modo certamente non casuale. Per quanto ci è dato oggi intendere, si vollero infatti preservate quelle figurazioni che erano maggiormente funzionali al discorso politico promosso dalle autorità civili locali . Tale scopo era assolto, in particolare, dalle due scene che campeggiavano sulla parete di fondo della sala: in alto, l’atto di omaggio al sovrano angioino, concessionario di privilegi al comune, coronato da un fregio con gli stemmi dei potentati dell’epoca, tra i quali si schierava lo stesso San Giminiano; in basso, i notai rappresentati nell’atto di redigere il documento (di cui si forniva anche il testo) che riconosceva le ragioni del comune in una lunga controversia con la chiesa locale. Del resto, la conservazione dei due dipinti non era solo auspicabile, ma in qualche modo obbligata, dal momento che questi documentavano l’origine dei privilegi di cui l’autorità civica era stata insignita e conferivano legittimità alla sua posizione di supremazia in ambito urbano. Per ragioni affini, negli stessi anni, le autorità senesi avevano dato l’ordine di dipingere il castello di Giuncarico (1314) nella Sala del Mappamondo del Palazzo Pubblico, all’interno di quella serie di Castelli inaugurata e costantemente ampliata al fine non di celebrare i successi militari e diplomatici del comune, ma di documentare i fondamenti giuridici dell’espansione urbana nel contado.7 Poiché comprovava il legittimo esercizio di un diritto da parte dell’autorità comunale, la pittura doveva essere conservata, al pari degli atti pergamenacei che venivano rigorosamente custoditi negli archivi

6

7

Sulla decorazione della sala, in generale, si rimanda a Cambpell, C. Jean: The Game of Courting and the Art of the Commune of San Gimignano, 1290–1320. Princeton 1997, tenendo conto dell’interpretazione del ciclo angioino proposta da Savorelli, Alessandro: Contesti imprevedibili. Cavalieri di Francia a San Gimignano, in: L’arme segreta. Araldica e storia dell’arte nel Medioevo (secoli XIII–XV). Pisa, Firenze, 2 4–26 novembre 2011. A cura di Matteo Ferrari, Firenze 2015, pp. 47–61 . Su questi dipinti si veda anche Tibaldeschi, Carlo [et al.]: Popolo di Toscana, cavalieri di Francia. L’araldica del Palazzo Comunale di San Gimignano, in: Nobiltà 15, 82 (2008), pp. 25–74. Seidel, Max: “Castrum pingatur in palatio”, 1. Ricerche storiche e iconografiche sui castelli dipinti nel Palazzo Pubblico di Siena, in: Arte italiana del Medioevo e del Rinascimento. 2 voll. Venezia 2003, vol. 1, Pittura, pp. 161–192 (già in: Prospettiva 28 [1982], pp. 17–41), app. pp. 176–178.

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comunali. Per chiarire ogni dubbio sul destino della pittura, nel comandarne l’esecuzione, le stesse magistrature ingiunsero che “numquam possit talis pictura tolli, abradi, vel vituperari” 8 . Le pitture documentarie di San Gimignano e di Siena non costituivano però né una novità, né un caso isolato nel panorama della pittura ‘politica’ comunale dell’epoca. Tra Due e Trecento, a ogni latitudine, le autorità comunali avvertirono in modo tanto pressante l’esigenza di certificare le proprie prerogative giurisdizionali che, è stato osservato, una gran parte delle pitture di soggetto storico da loro commissionate assolevano in realtà a una “precisa funzione documentaria”9 . Se i comuni toscani raggiunsero vertici ineguagliati, per consapevolezza e duttilità, nell’uso dell’immagine ai fini della comunicazione politica, non si dovrà tuttavia dimenticare che molti dei temi ricorrenti nella loro “politica in figure”10 trovarono origine nelle città dell’Italia settentrionale, dove l’esperienza comunale era maturata con mezzo secolo d’anticipo. 11 Infatti, nella seconda metà del Duecento, nei centri dell’Italia settentrionale le magistrature civiche erano già più volte ricorse a rappresentazioni iconiche e a scritture esposte per dare pubblicità agli atti di maggiore rilevanza politica da loro emanati o alle concessioni e ai privilegi di cui erano beneficiarie. Queste figurazioni trovavano solitamente collocazione nei palazzi pubblici, sede delle attività di governo e già luogo di conservazione delle scritture amministrative ordinarie. 12 Anche in queste realtà, i dirigenti del comune dimostrarono innanzitutto un forte interesse all’ostentazione dei titoli di possesso vantati dall’amministrazione

  8 Seidel 2003 (come nota 7), p. 182.   9 Donato 1994 (come nota 3), p. 506. 10 Per utilizzare l’efficace formula coniata da Donato, Maria Monaco: Dal Comune rubato di Giotto al Comune sovrano di Ambrogio Lorenzetti (con una proposta per la “canzone” del Buon governo), in: Medioevo. Immagini e Ideologie. Atti del convegno internazionale di studi, Parma, 23–27 settembre 2002. A cura di Arturo Carlo Quintavalle. Milano 2005, pp. 489–509, a p. 492. Uno spaccato dell’arte civica fiorentina è ora offerto dai contributi e dalle schede riunite in Donato, Maria Monica e Parenti, Daniela (a cura di): Dal Giglio al David. Arte civica a Firenze fra Medioevo e Rinascimento. Catalogo della mostra, Firenze 2013. 11 Cfr. Ferrari, Matteo: La propaganda per immagini nei cicli pittorici dei palazzi comunali lombardi (1200–1337). Temi, funzioni, committenza. Tesi di dott., Scuola Normale Superiore. Pisa 2011. 12 A Como, le carte dell’amministrazione erano collocate nella torre inglobata nel Palazzo del Broletto, cfr. Ceruti, Antonio (a cura di): Liber statutorum consulum cumanorum, justicie et negotiatorum, in: HPM XVI, Leges municipales II, 1. Torino 1876, coll. 10–122, a col. 60, CXLVII, anno 1219, mentre a Brescia i registri erano riposti in una stanza ricavata sotto la scala d’accesso al piano nobile del Broletto, cfr. Odorici, Francesco (a cura di): Statuti bresciani del secolo XIII, in: HPM XVI, Leges municipales II, 2. Torino 1876, coll. 95–280, a col. 97.

Prime pitture d’infamia nei comuni italiani

1 |

Iscrizione relativa agli iura Pontis Casalecli, 1289, Bologna, Palazzo del Comune.

cittadina sul territorio, conseguiti tanto per mezzo delle armi, quanto al seguito di procedimenti giudiziari. Prima del 1283, in una stanza del Palazzo della Ragione di Padova fu realizzata un’iscrizione che ricordava l’avvenuta riconquista del castello ribelle di Angarano (1273), con il duplice obiettivo, almeno così crediamo, di celebrare il successo militare (exercitum) e di affermare le modalità di acquisizione del bene da parte pubblica, nonché i principi giuridici che ne regolavano il possesso (negocium). 13 Pochi anni più tardi, tra il 1287 e il 1289, all’interno del Palazzo comunale di Bologna furono incastonate tre iscrizioni, per attestare i diritti esercitati dal comune su vitali luoghi di attraversamento nel contado (fig. 1). Alle epigrafi doveva essere conferita grande solennità e impatto visivo. Sappiamo infatti che le lettere dell’iscrizione relativa agli “iura Pontis Casalecli” erano state ripassate in rosso, mentre a Maestro Cicogna era stato dato incarico di realizzare

13 “In palacio communis in quadam camara in qua scriptum est exercitum et negocium castri Angarani que est in capite dicti palacii”, segnalato da Bortolami, Sante: “Spaciosum, immo speciosum palacium”. Alle origini del Palazzo della Ragione di Padova, in: Il Palazzo della Ragione di Padova. La storia, l’architettura, il restauro. A cura di Ettore Vio. Padova 2008, pp. 39–73, a p. 51.

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“certas picturas” in sua prossimità. 14 Purtroppo non sappiamo se queste pitture fossero parte di un congegno figurativo unitario, posto a complemento dell’iscrizione documentaria. Così sarebbe stato, un po’ più tardi, per la pittura, perduta ma tramandata da una copia su pergamena, eseguita nel 1318 a Parma per attestare il riconoscimento al comune dei pozzi di sale di Salsomaggiore e Tabiano. 15 La relazione tra testo epigrafico e immagine avrebbe dovuto essere infine già pre­ sente nel monumento realizzato nel 1300 in onore di Bonifacio VIII sulla facciata del Palazzo Nuovo di Bologna; nella delibera che ordinava l’esecuzione della scultura in onore del pontefice, le autorità locali disponevano infatti che questa fosse anche corredata da un’iscrizione “cum licteris aureis”, recante il testo della sentenza con cui il pontefice aveva riconosciuto al comune il possesso dei castelli contesi di Bazano e Savignano, raffigurati da due modellini in rame “ad similitudinem et memoriam”. 16 Accanto alle figurazioni di castelli, un’altra tipologia di immagini dalla riconosciuta funzione documentaria, quelle comunemente definite come infamanti, trovò rapido sviluppo nel corso del secondo Duecento proprio partendo dall’ambito dei comuni dell’Italia settentrionale. 17 Queste figurazioni erano infatti funzionali a dare evidenza a un’altra prerogativa dell’autorità comunale: la sua capacità di perseguire e punire i criminali e, in particolare, i ribelli. 18 Ragionando sulle cronologie dei pochi documenti figurati conservati e dei molti noti solo da menzioni testuali, appare anzi evidente che, per i comuni set-

14 Sulle iscrizioni, dal 1914 murate all’esterno dell’edificio, rimandiamo a Breveglieri, Bruno: La scrittura epigrafica in età comunale. Il caso bolognese, in: Civiltà comunale. Libro, scrittura, documento. Atti del convegno, Genova, 8–11 novembre 1988. Genova 1989 (Atti della Società ligure di storia patria 29), pp. 387–432, a p. 411. Per il duplice intervento pittorico cfr. Filippini, Francesco, Zucchini, Guido (a cura di): Miniatori e pittori a Bologna. Documenti dei secoli XIII e XIV. Firenze 1947, pp. 51, 258. 15 Donato 1994 (come nota 3), pp. 504–506. 16 Il documento di allogazione della scultura è trascritto da Hubert, Hans W.: Der Palazzo Comunale von Bologna. Vom Palazzo della Biada zum Palatium Apostolicum. Köln [et al.] 1993, pp. 165–166. Alla serie aggiungeremo anche i castelli dei Da Fogliano presi dal Comune di Reggio Emilia, che al 1349 sappiamo essere “notati et scripti” nel palazzo cittadino: Gazata, Petrus: Chronicon regiense. La Cronaca di Pietro della Gazzata nella tradizione del codice Crispi. A cura di Laura Artioli [et al.]. Reggio Emilia 2000, p. 262. 17 Così già emergeva da Ortalli 1979 (come nota 2). Su queste pitture cfr. almeno anche Edgerton, Samuel Y.: Pictures and punishment. Art and criminal prosecution during the Florentine Renaissance. Ithaca 1985, pp. 59–125 e Freedberg, David: Il potere delle immagini. Il mondo delle figure; reazioni e emozioni del pubblico. Torino 1993 (ed. or. Chicago 1989), pp. 59–125; 368–382. 18 Ferrari e Milani 2013 (come nota 5), p. 68.

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tentrionali, l’affermazione della potestà giuridica ebbe, per così dire, la prece­ denza su quella territoriale, o fu comunque a questa compresente. Le pitture infamanti, nelle diverse sfaccettature che il “genere” assunse soprattutto nella fase più arcaica 19 , sembrano infatti comparire in perfetto sincronismo con le più antiche decorazioni pittoriche di cui è nota la realizzazione nei palazzi comunali. Ad eccezione di precoci menzioni di aulae o camerae pictae a inizi secolo – tanto sporadiche quanto generiche20 – è solo attorno alla metà del Duecento che si hanno notizie certe e consistenti resti materiali delle più antiche pitture eseguite negli edifici del comune. Gli elementi a nostra disposizione convergono allora a confermare come, a quest’altezza cronologica, l’iniziativa delle autorità municipali fosse già sostenuta da una forte esigenza documentaria e, allo stesso tempo, diffamatoria. La pittura che nel palazzo di Bologna ricordava la riconquista del castello di Roffeno e l’esecuzione capitale dei fomentatori della rivolta (1243) aveva sicuramente una funzione denigratoria, come perpetuazione del ricordo dell’esecuzione di un ribelle, ma anche documentaria, come attestazione di una legittima conquista territoriale nel contado da parte del comune e come affermazione dell’efficace esercizio, da parte pubblica, dell’autorità coercitiva nel perseguire i traditori. 21 Come per i suoi epigoni senesi, il valore probatorio dell’immagine è garantito dalle norme che furono poste alla sua tutela. A cinque anni dall’avvenimento, e dalla probabile esecuzione del dipinto, le magistrature di Popolo intervennero infatti a protezione di quest’ultimo, imponendone la conservazione e la manutenzione, e annullarono una precedente disposizione di rimozione (non conservata) emanata dalle autorità comunali. 22 Nel 1250, una nuova disposizione del comune (o si trattava forse solo di una ripresa di quella annullata in prece­ denza?) raccomandò nuovamente la rimozione della pittura, forse ad eccezione

19 Vedasi il contributo di Giuliano Milani in questo stesso volume. 20 A titolo d’esempio ricordiamo la “camera depicta pallatii comunis Brixiae”, cfr. Bettoni Cazzago, Francesco, Fè d’Ostiani, Luigi Francesco (a cura di): Liber potheris communis civitatis Brixiae, in: HPM XIX. Torino 1899, XLI, col. 113, 2 marzo 1218, e la “camera pincta comunis Pegami”, cfr. Mazzi, Angelo (a cura di): La convenzione monetaria del 1254 e il denaro imperiale di Bergamo nel secolo XIII. Bergamo 1882, p. 13, 5 febbraio 1222; cfr. Ferrari 2011 (come nota 11), pp. 25–27. 21 Sulla pittura bolognese si vedano anche le considerazioni di Giuliano Milani in questo stesso volume. 22 L’articolo, forse indice di un conflitto istituzionale tra popolo e comune, si trova in Gaudenzi, Augusto (a cura di): Statuti delle Società del Popolo di Bologna del sec. XIII. 2 voll. Roma 1896, vol. 2, Statuto generale Società delle Arti e delle armi, pp. 522–523.

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dell’immagine del castello, e la sua sostituzione con una più idonea decorazione a finti marmi (marmoreum). 23 I contrastanti interventi normativi evidenziano come la conservazione del Factum Roffeni non fosse imputabile a esigenze di decoro o di apprezzamento estetico, come avverrà più tardi a Siena, e neppure, come sarà poi a Todi per le immagini sacre nei palazzi municipali, a un riconoscimento del suo valore come “oggetto di pubblico interesse”. 2 4 Il dipinto bolognese doveva piuttosto il suo mantenimento ad una riconosciuta funzione di attestazione delle prerogative giudiziarie e territoriali dell’amministrazione cittadina. Altri documenti, questa volta figurati, dimostrano come, in anni di poco più tardi, tali preoccupazioni fossero state condivise dai dirigenti di altri comuni lombardi. Prima nel Palazzo della Ragione di Mantova e poi nel Broletto di Brescia furono realizzate due ampie figurazioni infamanti, le uniche di questo genere conservate per tutto il Duecento. A Mantova (fig. 2), l’esigenza di documentare la reazione delle autorità comunali al tentativo di consegna proditoria della roccaforte di Marcaria al fronte imperiale (1251) portò a un parziale rimaneggiamento dell’assetto decorativo dell’aula del palazzo, la cui dipintura era stata ultimata forse solo da pochi mesi. Con una scelta che crediamo dettata dalla volontà di preservare l’unità figurativa dell’ambiente, la pittura fu sovrapposta solamente al fregio a racemi vegetali che correva nella parte mediana della parete d’ingresso, risparmiando le immagini narrative poste nella parte alta della sala. 25 Più tardi, probabilmente attorno al 1280, un ben più vasto ciclo di carattere infamante fu

23 Cfr. Frati, Luigi: Statuti del comune di Bologna dell’anno 12 45 all’anno 1267. 3 voll. Bologna 1869–1877, vol. 2, p. 421, IX, CXXVII: “Statuimus quod pinture omnes detraitate et degolate que facte sunt et fuerunt in pallatio comunis Bononie de facto Rofeni ab inferiori parte castri Rofeni inferius tollantur et removeantur, et in eodem loco fieri marmoreum prout melius est ibi inferius eodem loco”. Cfr. anche Ricci, Corrado: La pittura romanica nell’Emilia e gli affreschi sulle arche di S. Giacomo, in: Atti e memorie della R. Deputazione di storia patria per le provincie di Romagna, s. 3, IV, 1–3 (1886), pp. 35–66, a pp. 52–53. 2 4 Per Siena si veda anche il documento edito da Milanesi, Gaetano (a cura di): Documenti per la storia dell’arte senese, vol. 1: Secoli XIII e XIV. Siena 1854, num. 30, pp. 180–181 (anno 1316), segnalato da Bacci, Michele: Artisti, corti, comuni, in: Arti e storia nel Medioevo. A cura di Enrico Castelnuovo e Giuseppe Sergi. 4 voll. Torino 2002–2004, vol. 1, Tempi Spazi Istituzioni, pp. 631–700, a p. 667, cui si rinvia a proposito della normativa tuderte a protezione dei dipinti sulle pubbliche fabbriche (1337). 25 Precauzione che verrà meno, qualche anno più tardi (entro il 1260), quando sulla parete opposta si aggiunsero alcune immagini sacre a complemento di una scena di Giudizio Finale; cfr. Ferrari, Matteo: Grixopolo e i dipinti del Palazzo della Ragione di Mantova, in: Opera, Nomina, Historiae. Giornale di cultura artistica 2–3 (2010). http://onh.giornale.sns.it (22.01.2015), pp. 43–90. Sul Tradimento di Marcaria, di

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2 | Il tradimento di Marcaria (particolare del giuramento dei traditori), 1251–1252,

Mantova, Palazzo della Ragione, parete d’ingresso.

realizzato anche sulle pareti della sala maggiore del palazzo comunale di Brescia, in uso dai tardi anni venti del Duecento ma che, fino ad allora, non era mai stato oggetto di interventi pittorici (fig. 3). La migliore conoscenza di queste ultime pitture, resa possibile dallo studio condotto in previsione del restauro poi realizzato nel 2012–2013 26, ci offre l’opportunità di chiarire alcune questioni ancora aperte sulla fase più arcaica del “ge­ nere” infamante, dal punto di vista della funzione di tali pitture e della loro esecuzione materiale. Collocate sulle pareti lunghe dell’antica sala del palazzo, nello

cui riparleremo più avanti, si rimanda all’intervento di Giuliano Milani in questo stesso volume. 26 Cfr. Marazzani, Sara: Procedimenti tecnici e processi d’interpretazione. Il caso della parete nord del sottotetto del Broletto di Brescia, in: Storia dell’arte? Percorsi tra Brescia e la Valle Camonica. A cura di Sara Marazzani. Capo di Ponte 2013, pp. 99–112. A Vincenzo Gheroldi, Sara Marazzani e Patrizia Scamoni va un sentito ringraziamento per aver generosamente condiviso e discusso con me scoperte e nuove interpretazioni relative alle pitture bresciane.

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3 |

Cavalieri incatenati (particolare), ca. 1280, Brescia, Palazzo del Broletto, sottotetto dell’ala meridionale, parete sud. (Farbtafel 2)

spazio compreso tra le finestre e la copertura lignea, le fasce con gli infamati bresciani si componevano di due sezioni indipendenti sulla parete settentrionale e procedevano senza soluzione di continuità su quella meridionale. In sella a cavalli dalle livree alternate rosse e nere, e legati gli uni agli altri da una catena, i perso­ naggi erano distribuiti su più registri sovrapposti (se ne contano due per gran parte del ciclo, ma diventano tre nella sezione orientale della parete nord). Li accompagnavano iscrizioni in gotica maiuscola, oggi molto lacunose. Quella posta direttamente sopra le loro teste ne riportava i nomi, consentendone l’identificazione al pari degli scudi con le insegne familiari che portavano appesi al collo; quella più in alto, di carattere didascalico, informava probabilmente sui tempi, sulle ragioni e sul significato dell’opera. 27 Per quanto lacunose le pitture consen-

27 Sul ciclo bresciano si vedano da ultimi Milani, Giuliano: Prima del Buongoverno. Motivi politici e ideologia popolare nelle pitture del Broletto di Brescia, in: Studi medievali, s. 3, 49, 1 (2008), pp. 19–85, e Ferrari, Matteo: I Cavalieri incatenati del Broletto di Brescia. Un esempio duecentesco di araldica familiare, in: Archives héraldiques suisses 2 (2008), pp. 181–212 e Ferrari 2011 (come nota 11), pp. 94–127.

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4 | Cavalieri incatenati (particolare del corteo che esce dalla porta urbica), ca. 1280,

Brescia, Palazzo del Broletto, sottotetto dell’ala meridionale, parete nord (ovest).

tono ancora di ricostruire l’identità di molti infamati e la natura della loro colpa, grazie ai frammenti di iscrizioni e ad alcuni elementi iconografici cui era data grande visibilità e, dunque, importanza. In particolare, la ripresa del motivo della borsa appesa al collo dell’infame – attributo stabile dell’avaro e, più in generale, di chi utilizza impropriamente la ricchezza, che già si era visto nella pittura di Mantova 28 – e la presenza, nella titolazione, delle parole “prodicio” e “contra patriam” ci assicurano che nel corteo erano ritratti altri traditori del comune. Siamo anche informati che costoro erano stati colpiti da un provvedimento di bando, cioè di allontanamento forzato dalla città: sulla parete settentrionale, il mesto corteo in cui questi sono costretti è infatti rappresentato nell’atto di uscire da una porta urbica (fig. 4). Si è pertanto creduto che il dipinto evocasse uno dei tanti episodi di esclusione che avevano segnato la storia del comune bresciano nel corso del Duecento. Tuttavia, l’identificazione dell’avvenimento rappresentato era ostacolata dal

28 Cfr. Milani, Giuliano: Avidité et trahison du bien commun. Une peinture infamante du 13ème siècle, in: Annales 3 (2011), pp. 705–739, a pp. 718–727.

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fatto che i personaggi raffigurati non fossero vissuti alla stessa epoca e fossero noti per il loro coinvolgimento in episodi diversi di scontro col comune29: Raimondo di Mosio fu tra gli eretici inviati in delegazione al Papa nel 1225; Giroldo da Torbiato si appropriò di feudi comunali nel 1241; Lanfranco e Graziadeo Gambara cercarono di cedere la città a Ezzelino da Romano nel 1258, e per questo furono banditi; e così via.30 Analizzando le caratteristiche compositive e contenutistiche delle iscrizioni e la distribuzione dei cavalieri all’interno del ciclo, Giuliano Milani ha infine compreso che la figurazione bresciana era slegata da un episodio specifico, ma costituiva piuttosto una sorta di versione in figure di liste di banditi compilate in momenti differenti, poi collazionate a formare una sorta di antologia dei nemici del comune, in una data che possiamo collocare attorno al 1280.31 Come dimostrano ancora i registri di banditi confezionati a Firenze alla metà del Trecento (il celebre Libro del chiodo e il suo antigrafo compilato una decina d’anni prima) o a Bologna tra il 1308 e il 1310 32 , non era inconsueto che singoli provvedimenti di bando o liste di banditi prodotte in epoche diverse fossero più tardi copiate e collazionate in volumi miscellanei, nei quali ogni sentenza era preceduta da un’apposita intestazione che la rendeva più facilmente identificabile. Così pure nel dipinto di Brescia si è potuta constatare la presenza di ripartizioni interne, che consentivano di isolare gruppi di personaggi passibili di essere stati coinvolti nel medesimo episodio di insubordinazione o, quanto meno, di essere stati colpiti da un comune provvedimento di bando.33 Tali operazioni di ‘censimento’ degli antichi avversari della parte al potere rispondevano chiaramente a

29 Così appariva già a Panazza, Gaetano: Affreschi medioevali nel Broletto di Brescia, in: Commentari dell’Ateneo di Brescia 147 (1946–1947), pp. 79–104 e poi a Andenna, Giancarlo: La storia contemporanea in età comunale. L’esecrazione degli avversari e l’esaltazione della signoria nel linguaggio figurativo. L’esempio bresciano, in: Il senso della storia nella cultura medioevale italiana (1100–1350). Atti del XIV convegno di studi, Pistoia, 14–17 maggio 1993. Pistoia 1995, pp. 345–359. 30 Cfr. Milani 2008 (come nota 27), pp. 38–44 e Ferrari 2008 (come nota 27), pp. 190– 212. 31 Cfr. Milani 2008 (come nota 27), pp. 33–38. 32 Cfr. Milani, Giuliano: L’esclusione dal Comune. Conflitti e bandi politici a Bologna e in altre città italiane tra XII e XIV secolo. Roma 2003, pp. 390–398. 33 Cfr. Milani, Giuliano: Iconografia e comunicazione simbolica in età comunale. Il caso dei cavalieri del Broletto, in: Brescia nella ricerca storica, artistica e letteraria degli ultimi quarant’anni. Atti del convegno di studio, Brescia, 1–2 ottobre 2010. A cura di Sergio Onger. Brescia 2013, pp. 137–150, e Milani, Giuliano: Pittura infamante e damnatio memoriae. Note su Brescia e Mantova, in: Condannare all’oblio. Pratiche della damnatio memoriae nel Medioevo. Atti del convegno, Ascoli Piceno, 27–29 novembre 2008. A cura di Isa Lori Sanfilippo e Antonio Rigon. Roma 2010, pp. 179–196.

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precise strategie politiche, dirette all’esclusione della fazione antagonista. A Firenze, la compilazione dei registri antologici dei banditi rientrava nell’opera di rafforzamento della legislazione antighibellina promossa dai tardi anni quaranta del Trecento e, in particolare, era funzionale a impedire l’accesso alle cariche pubbliche a quanti erano stati già condannati e banditi per ribellione e ai loro discendenti.34 A Brescia, l’ossessiva ripetizione dei nomi e degli stemmi di alcune fami­ glie permetteva di individuare i potenziali nemici del comune, forse autorizzando le magistrature a emanare nuove esclusioni nei confronti di figli e nipoti di personaggi già noti per aver ostacolato l’autorità di governo e la sua politica di rigo­ roso controllo del territorio e delle risorse comuni. L’analisi prosopografica condotta sui cavalieri ancora identificabili ha infatti confermato che tutti i personaggi ritratti nel Broletto si erano a vario titolo distinti, nel corso del Duecento, per essere stati coinvolti in episodi di aperto tradimento o, più generalmente, per essersi appropriati di beni spettanti alla comunità. 35 Il dipinto infamante era dunque parte integrante del progetto di affermazione dell’autorità cittadina sul contado promosso negli anni settanta-ottanta del Duecento dal governo guelfo e popolare di Brescia; non a caso, come già notava Giancarlo Andenna, il “Brisiensis […] populus” è nominato nell’iscrizione didascalica forse proprio in qualità di promotore dell’intervento pittorico.36 Il ciclo infamante, dunque, non celebrava una vittoria del comune sui suoi antagonisti, ma rappresentava in figure il contenuto di un documento ufficiale, in modo tale da intervenire sulla condizione giuridica delle persone effigiate e legittimare, più indirettamente, le eventuali azioni repressive promosse dal comune. In questo senso anche l’azione ammonitoria della pittura non doveva essere trascurabile. L’espressione “exemplum sumus”, che troviamo in apertura dell’iscrizione didascalica, ricorda infatti simili dichiarazioni d’intenti riscontrabili in alcune sentenze che ordinavano l’esecuzione di una pittura infamante a complemento di un provvedimento di bando. Ricorderemo almeno che un notaio falsario fu dipinto a Padova nel 1277 “in aliorum exemplum” mentre i Gherardini, ribelli banditi dal comune di Firenze nel 1302, dovevano essere dipinti “ita quod

34 Cfr. Klein, Francesca (a cura di): Il Libro del Chiodo. Riproduzione in fac-simile con edizione critica. Firenze 2004, con le osservazioni di Pincelli, Maria Agata: Le liste dei ghibellini banditi e confinati da Firenze nel 1268–69. Premessa all’edizione critica, in: Bullettino dell’Istituto storico Italiano per il Medio Evo 107 (2005), pp. 283– 483, a pp. 319–340, e di Campanelli, Maurizio: Quel che la filologia può dire alla storia. Vicende di manoscritti e testi antighibellini nella Firenze del Trecento, in: Bullettino dell’Istituto storico italiano per il Medioevo 105 (2003), pp. 87–250. 35 Cfr. ancora Milani 2008 (come nota 27), pp. 44–55. 36 Cfr. Andenna 1995 (come nota 29), p. 347 e pp. 352–354.

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perpetuo sint in exemplum” a tutti coloro che avessero ugualmente cercato di appropriarsi degli approvvigionamenti diretti alla città.37 La valenza esemplare del dipinto e, ancor più, la sua funzione documentaria avrebbero dovuto imporne la conservazione, al pari di tutte le altre pitture infamanti che, in quanto dirette a documentare una specifica sanzione e una condizione giuridica, erano logicamente destinate a essere preservate al pari dei relativi atti pergamenacei.38 Come per le già ricordate figurazioni dei castelli senesi, a Vercelli, nel 1242, si disponeva allora che non fossero rimossi i nomi degli infamati scritti “litteris grossis” sulle pareti del palazzo comunale, mentre a Firenze il dipinto infamante che ritraeva il Duca d’Atene e i suoi collaboratori (1344) fu preservato con tale cura da risultare ancora leggibile nel secondo Cinquecento.39 Pur in man­ canza di conferme documentarie, anche la committenza bresciana fu certo intenzionata a garantire la conservazione del ciclo infamante, come lascia intendere l’utilizzo della locuzione “pingitur ut duret” nell’iscrizione didascalica. Per quanto non fossero fin da subito destinate a una rapida cancellazione, è però evidente che le pitture bresciane furono presto celate da nuovi dipinti. Certo, la cancellazione delle pitture infamanti poteva essere conseguente a un cambiamento del quadro istituzionale, come si verificava più in generale per la maggio­ ranza delle immagini ‘politiche’ commissionate, in ogni tempo, da autorità di governo poi decadute. Il caso di Brescia sembra però almeno in parte diverso, dal momento che l’eliminazione dei Cavalieri incatenati avvenne a più riprese e, soprattutto, non fu completa. La spiegazione dell’apparente paradosso risiede, ancora una volta, nella natura di un’immagine realizzata, come gran parte delle figurazioni infamanti, per solennizzare e rinforzare il potere coercitivo di un provvedimento di bando. 40 Tale dispositivo, normalmente applicato in associazione a sentenze emanate in assenza dell’imputato, era per sua natura reversibile, poiché veniva normalmente cancellato nel momento in cui il colpevole si fosse presentato davanti agli organi di giustizia per scontare la pena prevista, o per

37 Rispettivamente Gloria, Andrea (a cura di): Statuti del comune di Padova dal secolo XII all’anno 1285. Padova 1873, p. 422, e Ortalli 1979 (come nota 2), p. 65 nota 89. 38 I nomi di quanti erano condannati a essere dipinti ad infamia erano annotati nei registri dei banditi. A titolo d’esempio, gli anziani padovani riconosciuti colpevoli di appropriazione o estorsione di denaro dovevano essere dipinti nel palazzo comunale con la borsa al collo e registrati “in libro falsariorum”: Cfr. Gloria 1873 (come nota 37), p. 139, art. 431. 39 Ne abbiamo parlato in Ferrari, Matteo: “Avaro, traditore”. Pittura d’infamia e tradizione figurativa del tradimento politico tra Lombardia e Toscana (1250–1350), in: Images and Words in Exile. Avignon and Italy in the First Half of the 14th Century. Atti del convegno internazionale, Firenze, Avignone, 7–11 aprile 2011. A cura di Elisa Brilli [et al.]. Firenze 2015, pp. 23–38. 40 Come ora chiarisce Giuliano Milani all’interno di questo stesso volume.

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pagare la sanzione pecuniaria stabilita. 41 Di conseguenza, le pitture collegate a tali provvedimenti perdevano la loro ragione d’essere nel momento in cui la pena era stata scontata o rimessa. A quel punto le immagini infamanti potevano, anzi dovevano essere rimosse. Della consequenzialità tra la decadenza del bando e la cancellazione delle pitture infamanti troviamo del resto diverse conferme, innanzitutto, nelle fonti documentarie e cronachistiche. Ad esempio, gli ordinamenta approvati a Bologna nel 1292 disponevano che fossero cancellate le pitture che ritraevano quanti erano stati condannati o multati in contumacia (“in absentes”) per ragioni fiscali, purché il tribunale competente avesse deliberato la cancellazione della condanna. 42 Un analogo trattamento era previsto per le persone che erano detenute nelle carceri comunali, qualunque fosse il reato commesso (“quacumque de causa”), alle quali era stata rimessa la pena detentiva. 43 E ancora, sempre a Bologna, si stabilì che fossero cancellati (“possint et debeant despingi”) tutti gli appartenenti alla fazione Geremea e alla parte della chiesa per cui era stata annullata la condanna e che, di conseguenza, dovevano essere reintegrati nella società di popolo. 4 4 Parimenti, a Padova, nel 1286 il podestà Barone dei Mangiatori ordinò che i ritratti infamanti dei notai fossero rimossi dal palazzo comunale e, contempo­ raneamente, dispose che i nomi di alcuni di essi – verosimilmente quelli per cui il provvedimento giudiziario era effettivamente decaduto – fossero rimossi anche dal registro dei banditi. 45 Si trattava evidentemente dei notai corrotti che, negli anni precedenti, erano stati dipinti “in palacio comunis cum bursa ad collum” in ottemperanza a una norma statutaria approvata nel 1265. 46 Tra i cancellati era forse anche il notaio Sacheto, che nel 1277 era stato condannato “pro falsario” per aver realizzato un documento falso; la condanna era stata emessa in assenza dell’imputato, al quale fu comminato il pagamento di una multa, la scrittura nel registro dei falsari e, per l’appunto, la dipintura nel palazzo comunale. 47

41 Sul bando si veda Milani 2003 (come nota 32). 42 Fasoli, Gina e Sella, Pietro (a cura di): Statuti di Bologna dell’anno 1288. Città del Vaticano 1937, vol. 1, p. 359, LXVIII. 43 Fasoli e Sella 1937 (come nota 42), p. 369, LXXII. 44 Fasoli e Sella 1937 (come nota 42), pp. 361–362, LXVIIII. 45 Bonardi, Antonio (a cura di): Annales Patavini – redazioni muratoriane A-C, in: RIS, VIII, 1. Città di Castello 1907, pp. 199–265, a pp. 230, 263. In questo caso, dunque, la rimozione delle pitture non è imputabile esclusivamente al decadimento del provvedimento di bando, ma anche ad altre cause che non ci è però dato conoscere. 46 Gloria 1873 (come nota 37), p. 26, art. 59; su questo punto si veda Milani 2011 (come nota 28), p. 718 nota 57. Nel 1274 la norma fu estesa anche agli Anziani riconosciuti colpevoli di corruzione o estorsione, cfr. Gloria 1873 (come nota 37), p. 139, art. 431. 47 Gloria 1873 (come nota 37), p. 422.

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5a | Il tradimento di Marcaria (particolare delle abrasioni sul

nome di un traditore), 1251–1252, Mantova, Palazzo della Ragione, parete d’ingresso.

In assenza di espliciti riferimenti documentari, nelle pitture di Mantova e di Brescia sono invece le evidenze materiali a rivelare, con non minore chiarezza, la consequenzialità tra la revoca del bando, in questi casi determinato dal raggiungimento di un accordo con la controparte politica, e la cancellazione del dipinto. In entrambi i casi l’intervento di rimozione fu sicuramente realizzato pochi anni dopo l’esecuzione delle pitture. Sull’intonaco del Tradimento di Marcaria sono infatti rilevabili tracce di scialbi e di abrasioni, compatibili con un intervento di oscuramento effettuato in antico (fig. 5a–b). Le iscrizioni con i nomi, essenziali per l’identificazione dei personaggi raffigurati e quindi per il funzionamento del congegno infamante, furono deliberatamente manomesse. Il nome di Ubaldinus

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5b | Il tradimento di Marcaria (particolare della scialbatura sul

nome di un traditore), 1251–1252, Mantova, Palazzo della Ragione, parete d’ingresso.

da Campitello fu obliterato da una fitta serie di incisioni e tracce di abrasioni e velature a calce si trovano su tutta la parte bassa del dipinto, in particolare sui nomi degli altri personaggi e sull’iscrizione didascalica. L’azione preludeva a una scialbatura generale della pittura – di cui ci pare di scorgere ancora qualche ri­ manenza –, che dovette essere realizzata entro la fine del sesto decennio del Duecento. 48 Nel 1259, infatti, il bando comminato ai traditori di Marcaria fu ritirato in

48 Ne abbiamo discusso in Ferrari 2010 (come nota 25), pp. 61–62.

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applicazione di una clausola apposta all’interno di un più ampio trattato in funzione anti-ezzeliniana, che fu ratificato, secondo le cronache, “Supra palatio novo Comunis Mantue”, cioè, con tutta probabilità, proprio nella sala del Palazzo della Ragione 49 Una puntuale ricostruzione del processo che portò alla cancellazione della pittura mantovana è però oggi solo in parte possibile, perché ostacolata dalle condizioni di osservazione del dipinto – comunque frammentario e parzialmente occultato da una pittura cinquecentesca – e dalla mancanza di un’approfondita analisi stratigrafica della parete.50 Tale indagine è stata invece condotta sulle pitture bresciane e ha così consentito di ricavare una ricca messe di informazioni rivelatesi di fondamentale importanza per il riconoscimento delle modalità ope­ rative del cantiere, tanto nella fase di esecuzione dei dipinti, quanto in quella della loro ‘rimozione’. I dati raccolti sembrano convergere in direzione di una cancellazione progressiva del ciclo infamante, forse eseguita in due fasi, e hanno rivelato l’esistenza di un antico intervento di rimodulazione di una parte della figurazione che si volle mantenere in vista, ma solo dopo averne mutato il significato. L’esame stratigrafico condotto sulla parete settentrionale – per intenderci, quella dove il corteo dei Cavalieri esce dalla porta urbica – ha innanzitutto isolato le tracce di una prima cancellatura, realizzata tramite la stesura, prima, di uno scialbo bianco e poi di uno strato d’intonaco dipinto d’azzurro, forse costituente lo sfondo di una figurazione non più riconoscibile (fig. 6). 51 Pensiamo che l’intervento possa risalire ai primi anni novanta del Duecento. In questo tratto della parete si trovava infatti un cavaliere con lo scudo caricato dello stemma dei Federici, fermi antagonisti del comune bresciano cui contendevano il controllo della Valle Camonica. La famiglia ghibellina era stata colpita da un bando nel 1288, revocato però tre anni più tardi, grazie alla sentenza arbitrale emessa da Matteo Visconti.52 In seguito all’accordo, la lista contenente i nomi dei Federici banditi fu depennata dagli statuti cittadini, dov’era stata ricopiata al momento dell’emanazione della

49 Pertz, Georg Heinrich (a cura di): Annales Mantuani annorum 1183–1299, in: MGH, Scriptores, XVIII. Hannover 1866, pp. 19–31, a p. 23, e D’Arco, Carlo (a cura di): Breve chronicon mantuanum ab anno MXCV ad annum MCCXCIX, in: Archivio storico italiano, n.s., 1, 2 (1855), pp. 25–58, a pp. 38–39. 50 Sullo strato cinquecentesco cfr. Calzona, Arturo: Grixopolus Parmensis al Palazzo della Ragione a Mantova e al Battistero di Parma, in: Quintavalle, Arturo Carlo: Battistero di Parma. Il cielo e la terra. Parma 1989, pp. 2 45–277, a pp. 255–256. 51 Cfr. Marazzani 2013 (come nota 26), pp. 108–110. 52 Sull’episodio e sulle sue ricadute politiche si veda ora Pagnoni, Fabrizio: Brescia viscontea (1337–1403). Organizzazione territoriale, identità cittadina e politiche di governo negli anni della prima dominazione milanese. Milano 2013, pp. 29–30.

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6 | Cavalieri incatenati (particolare di un cavaliere

Federici cancellato da scialbature e intonaci dipinti), ca. 1280, Brescia, Palazzo del Broletto, sottotetto dell’ala meridionale, parete nord (ovest).

prima sentenza assieme ad altri provvedimenti antighibellini.53 A questo punto, verosimilmente, anche la presenza di un loro familiare nel ciclo infamante del Broletto fu giudicata inopportuna e, pertanto, la figura fu rimossa assieme all’intera porzione della pittura in cui si trovava. È plausibile che altre parti del ciclo fossero state invece eliminate solo dopo la proclamazione della pacificazione generale del marzo del 1298, che consentì il rientro dei banditi e il loro pieno reintegro

53 Cfr. ASBs, ASC 1044/4 (già 1044 1/2), Satuta communis civitatis Brixie, c. 130r.

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7 | Cavalieri incatenati (particolare di un tratto del ciclo

infamante prima della rimozione dello strato con parti di un Giudizio Finale), ca. 1280, Brescia, Palazzo del Broletto, sottotetto dell’ala meridionale, parete sud.

nella vita politica cittadina. Sull’intera parete meridionale i Cavalieri furono allora prima coperti da uno scialbo, affinché fossero rapidamente tolti dalla vista, e quindi definitivamente sigillati dalla realizzazione di un nuovo intervento decorativo, di cui erano parte un Giudizio finale, un San Cristoforo e due Santi vescovi (fig. 7).54 54 Sui dipinti, rimossi negli anni quaranta del Novecento e ora conservati nel museo civico di Santa Giulia, rimandiamo alle schede di Teresa Benedetti in Bona Castellotti, Marco e Lucchesi Ragni, Elena (a cura di): Pinacoteca Tosio Martinengo. Catalogo delle opere. Dal Medioevo al Cinquecento. Venezia 2014 (con bibliografia indi-

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8 | Cavalieri incatenati (particolare dei cavalieri ridipinti nel 1298?), ca. 1280, Brescia,

Palazzo del Broletto, sottotetto dell’ala meridionale, parete nord (est).

Non tutto lo strato dei Cavalieri incatenati fu però cancellato. In effetti, una porzione della primitiva pittura fu preservata sulla parete opposta, proprio accanto all’immagine che rievocava la solenne cerimonia in cui le autorità locali e i cittadini avevano sottoscritto, tramite un giuramento, gli accordi di pace del 1298. Questa parte del ciclo fu però rimaneggiata e ampliata, chiaramente allo scopo di rispondere a mutate esigenze della committenza. In origine, infatti, i personaggi qui ritratti erano privi dei consueti tratti infamanti (la catena, la borsa, l’atteggiamento dolente), che furono aggiunti solo in un secondo momento, forse assieme a un terzo e più basso registro di cavalieri (fig. 8).55 Il momento e le ragioni che imposero tale trasformazione non sono evidenti, ma possiamo avanzare qualche ipotesi, partendo dalla constatazione che la ‘racconciatura’ non fosse stata imposta

cata). La porzione orientale della parete sud conserva anche tracce ormai indecifrabili di figurazioni realizzate a secco direttamente sul primo scialbo coprente; queste pitture appartengono forse a una prima fase del cantiere che, con l’avanzare del lavoro, mutò le proprie modalità operative per ragioni ignote. 55 La ridipintura è stata riconosciuta e descritta da Marazzani 2013 (come nota 26), pp. 105–106.

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da ragioni di gusto o di adeguamento dell’immagine alle clausole infamanti adottate nel resto del ciclo, ma dalla necessità di ritrarre nuovi banditi. Gli stemmi che i primi cavalieri portavano al petto furono infatti cancellati e la loro identità mutata attraverso l’inserimento di un nuovo scudo e dell’iscrizione con il nome. È allora possibile che la pittura fosse stata mutata per accogliere i responsabili della proditoria consegna della città agli estrinseci nel 1295. Per loro, sottrattisi alla giustizia ed esclusi dagli accordi di pace del 1298, era già stata richiesta la condanna capitale e una pittura infamante da eseguire nel luogo in cui si era consumato il tradimento.56 In effetti, l’intonaco su cui fu dipinta la scena di pacificazione fu steso in modo che la sua estremità destra collimasse (dal punto di vista fisico e cromatico) con l’inizio dei Cavalieri ‘aggiornati’ (fig. 9). Si intese così non solo preservare la leggibilità dell’immagine infamante, ma anche suggerire una continuità di lettura tra le due figurazioni, che identificavano gli opposti risvolti della stessa deliberazione. Tanto che fossero concepite come pannelli isolati, quanto come sezioni di cicli strutturati, le immagini infamanti – così come quelle dei castelli – potevano dunque essere ampliate, modificate, cancellate, allo stesso modo in cui nuovi nominativi potevano essere aggiunti o depennati dalle liste e dai registri. La soluzione adottata a Brescia fu certo favorita dalla natura composita del ciclo originario, dalle possibilità di intervento concesse dalla serialità delle figure e, probabilmente, dall’intenzione della committenza di restare fedele all’originario progetto dell’antologia di traditori del comune. Altrove le immagini si giustapponevano le une alle altre e, verosimilmente, si sovrapponevano quando le più antiche avevano esaurito la loro funzione ed erano state perciò già scialbate. Era pertanto necessario controllare periodicamente quali pitture dovessero essere cancellate e quali conservate, esattamente come accadeva per le liste dei banditi, ciclicamente verificate come prescritto dagli statuti. Così avveniva almeno dal 1305 a Siena, dove il podestà era tenuto a proporre in consiglio “che sia da fare de’ falsatori dipenti nel palazo et case del Comune di Siena, se esse dipenture sieno da spegnere o no”57. La controprova è fornita anche dagli accorgimenti adottati nel caso in cui ragioni diverse imponessero che le pitture fossero cancellate senza che la pena

56 Cfr. Maggi, Camillo: Chronica de rebus Brixie, Biblioteca Civica Queriniana di Brescia, ms. C.I.14, c. 270r. Ne abbiamo discusso in Ferrari, Matteo: “Pacem, non bellum voluit”. L’iconografia pubblica della signoria negli affreschi del Broletto, in: Berardo Maggi. Un principe della Chiesa al crepuscolo del Medioevo. Atti del convegno, Brescia, 27–28 febbraio 2009. A cura di Gabriele Archetti. Brescia 2012, pp. 281–314, a pp. 188–189. 57 Lisini, Alessandro (a cura di): Il Costituto del comune di Siena volgarizzato nel MCCCIX–MCCCX. Siena 1903, vol. 2, pp. 271–272, citato da Ortalli 1979 (come nota 2), p. 18 e nota 18 e, soprattutto, da Colucci, Silvia: Pittura «infamante» a Siena. Sui per-

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9 | Pace di Berardo Maggi (a sinistra) e Cavalieri ridipinti

(a destra) (particolare delle cornici (ca. 1298), Brescia, Palazzo del Broletto, sottotetto dell’ala meridionale, parete nord.

fosse stata scontata o rimessa. Gli esempi sono tardi, ma comunque significativi. Quando, con la riforma statutaria del 1351, Giovanni Visconti decise di far eliminare le immagini degli infamati dal Broletto Nuovo di Milano, prese anche provvedimenti affinché la memoria della pena non andasse perduta, ordinando che i nomi degli infamati dipinti “pro falsitate” fossero trascritti, assieme a quelli dei duti dipinti delle Stinche del palazzo Pubblico, in: Storia e restauri del Teatro dei Rinnovati di Siena. Dal Consiglio della Campana al Salone delle Commedie. A cura di Laura Vigni e Ettore Vio. Pisa 2010, pp. 140–154, a pp. 142–143.

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futuri condannati, su un apposito registro di pubblica consultazione.58 Ancor più curioso è poi quello che si verificò a Siena per la pittura realizzata nel 1458 sul Palazzo del Capitano di giustizia per i traditori che, due anni prima, avevano appoggiato il fallito colpo di stato di Antonio Petrucci. Nel momento in cui, poco più tardi, l’edificio fu venduto a un privato, l’immagine infamante fu naturalmente distrutta, ma una sua copia fu subito realizzata all’esterno del carcere comunale.59 Attestanti le capacità giurisdizionali del comune e spesso caricate di una valenza ideologica, diversamente da quanto si è spesso ritenuto 60, le pitture infamanti dovevano pertanto risultare meno effimere di tante altre figurazioni realizzate negli stessi palazzi comunali, almeno nelle intenzioni della committenza. E questo a dispetto di modalità operative che dovevano tendere a privilegiare la velocità di realizzazione della pittura e la sua immediatezza comunicativa, rispetto alle raffinatezze formali e materiali talvolta riscontrabili nelle figurazioni d’altro soggetto presenti negli stessi ambienti. 61 In assenza di provvedimenti specifici o di trasformazioni architettoniche importanti, le pitture d’infamia potevano dunque conservarsi a lungo. Mentre anche i Cavalieri bresciani ridipinti finirono infine sotto gli scialbi – tracce di una cancellazione integrale del dipinto sono emerse nel recente restauro anche in zone non coperte da nuove figurazioni (fig. 10) –, ancora negli anni settanta dell’Ottocento, nel descrivere il palazzo del Bargello di Firenze Georges Rohault de Fleury affermava di poter identificare

58 Lucioni, Alfredo: Rec. a Ortalli, Gherardo: Pingatur in palatio. La pittura infamante nei secoli XIII–XVI. Roma 1979, in: Aevum 56, 2 (1982), pp. 332–337, a p. 335. 59 Colucci 2010 (come nota 57), p. 148. 60 Più in generale, per tutta la pittura ‘politica’ si tende forse ad accentuare il presunto disinteresse della committenza per le componenti esecutive e materiali dell’immagine, a favore di un’immediatezza comunicativa priva di interessi estetici; cfr. Ortalli, Gherardo: Comunicare con le figure, in: Arti e storia nel Medioevo. A cura di Enrico Castelnuovo e Giuseppe Sergi. 4 voll. Torino 2002–2004, vol. 3, Del vedere. Pubblici, forme, funzioni culturali, pp. 477–518, a pp. 498–499. 61 Così si desume dall’ingiunzione al pittore Giovanni di dipingere “cras per totam diem”, cfr. Filippini, Zucchini 1947 (come nota 14), pp. 19, 86, o, più in generale, dal breve lasso temporale che intercorreva tra l’allogazione della pittura e la registrazione del pagamento ai pittori a lavoro concluso, anche nel caso in cui questi avessero dipinto numerose figure; cfr. Ortalli 1979 (come nota 2), p. 99. Il ciclo bresciano, cfr. Marazzani 2013 (come nota 26), pp. 106–107, fu eseguito per lunghe pontate, che consentirono la stesura di intonaci in grandi falde unitarie, e fu condotto da due maestranze che lavorarono contemporaneamente, suddividendosi i compiti; la pittura fu quindi condotta su un intonaco in fase avanzata di asciugatura richiamando con pressioni a cazzuola l’acqua di calce per agevolare l’adesione della pellicola pittorica, mentre le figure furono tratteggiate rapidamente a pennello per poi essere colorate e infine rifinite a secco.

Prime pitture d’infamia nei comuni italiani

10 | Cavalieri incatenati (particolare di un cavaliere coperto da

scialbo), ca. 1280, Brescia, Palazzo del Broletto, sottotetto dell’ala meridionale, parete sud (ovest).

alcune pitture infamanti realizzate sulla muratura della torre. Oltre al dipinto che ritraeva il Duca d’Atene – tutelato nel tempo perché assurto a emblema della lotta antitirannica fiorentina – egli vedeva ancora la pittura di un traditore appeso per un piede, e un’altra, risalente al 1308, col podestà Carlo Ternibili d’Amelia, fuggito dalla città trafugando il sigillo comunale. 62 Ma a questo punto altri fattori pesarono sulla conservazione di questi dipinti. E anche queste ultime immagini furono

62 Fleury, Georges Rohault de: Lettres sur la Toscane en 1400. Architecture civile et militaire. Paris 1874, vol. 1, pp. 374–375.

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cancellate, non da provvedimenti giudiziari ma dagli agenti atmosferici o dai restauri ottocenteschi. Altre pitture documentarie finivano così per essere attestate soltanto dai documenti scritti.

Karl Härter

Images of Dishonoured Rebels and Infamous Revolts Political Crime, Shaming Punishments and Defamation in the Early Modern Pictorial Media

1. Shame, Defamation and Punishment Since the emergence of the public criminal justice system and popular media in the 16th century, shame, punishment, and pictorial media have been closely intertwined. 1 The pre-modern criminal justice systems in early modern Europe incorporated customary shame practices into state-based punishment, punishing perpetrators with specific public shaming and dishonourable penalties (Schandund Ehrenstrafen), and intensified the use of shame as a means of public punishment. 2 At the same time, popular pictorial media such as illustrated broadsheets frequently displayed crimes and punishment, often depicting shaming and dishonouring rituals and practices.3

1

2

3

Nash, David a. Kilday, Anne-Marie: Cultures of shame. Exploring crime and morality in Britain 1600–1900. Basingstoke[et al.] 2010; Rowbotham, Judith [et al.] (ed.): Shame, blame and culpability. Crime and violence in the modern state. London [et al.] 2013; Sère, Bénédicte a. Wettlaufer, Jörg (ed.): Shame between punishment and penance. The social usages of shame in the Middle Ages and Early Modern Times. Firenze 2013. Muravyeva, Marianna: Vergüenza, vergogne, schande, skam and sram. Litigating for shame and dishonour in early modern Europe, in: Rowbotham [et al.] 2013 (as fn. 1), pp. 17–31; Bettoni, Antonella: “Fama”, shame punishment, and history of justice in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, in: Rowbotham [et al.] 2013 (as fn. 1), pp. 32–42; Bettoni, Antonella: Fama, shame punishment and metamorphoses in criminal justice (Fourteenth – Seventeenth centuries), in: forum historiae iuris (2010). http://www.forhistiur.de/zitat/1003bettoni.htm (last accessed: 10.12.2013). Peil, Dietmar: Strafe und Ritual. Zur Darstellung von Straftaten und Bestrafungen im illustrierten Flugblatt, in: Wahrnehmungsgeschichte und Wissensdiskurs im illustrierten Flugblatt der Frühen Neuzeit (1450–1700). Ed. by Wolfgang Harms a.

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In this regard, popular pictorial media occupied a similar function and effect to that of the libelli famosi, pittura infamante and Schandbilder: they displayed and disseminated specific images of shame and dishonour or shamed the affected offenders and their crimes. The interdependence between shame, punishment and pictorial media is particularly apparent when it comes to political crimes. While they constituted a noticeable topic of early modern popular media, their actual role in the penal process was rather minor. However, violent revolts, assassination attempts or the crimen laesae maiestatis were a different matter; they implied not only an assault on the ruler and state, but also affected and insulted the political and social order. 4 As a result, the authorities often responded with penalties involving dishonour and public humiliation. These kinds of punishment practices commonly made use of (or influenced) popular print to convey their message: to depict the assault as a crime, to defame the criminal and to expand the scope of the shame punishment to the broader public.5 In general, shame can be described as an emotion felt by an individual person in conjunction with having done something wrong (related to a code of conduct or conscience) and is expressed by certain gestures and feelings in individual acts or practices of self-disciplining. Since the Renaissance, art has expressed such

4

5

Alfred Messerli. Basel 2002, pp. 465–486; Rudolph, Harriet: Warhafftige Abcontrafactur? Die Evidenz des Verbrechens und die Effizienz der Strafjustiz in illustrierten Einblattdrucken (1550–1650), in: Evidentia. Reichweiten visueller Wahrnehmung in der Frühen Neuzeit. Ed. by Gabriele Wimböck [et al.]. Münster 2007, pp. 161–183; Schwerhoff, Gerd: Kriminalitätsgeschichte – Kriminalgeschichten. Verbrechen und Strafen im Medienverbund des 16. und 17. Jahrhunderts, in: Verbrechen im Blick. Perspektiven der neuzeitlichen Kriminalitätsgeschichte. Ed. by Rebekka Habermas a. Gerd Schwerhoff. Frankfurt am Main [et al.] 2009, pp. 295–322; Härter, Karl: Criminalbildergeschichten. Verbrechen, Justiz und Strafe in illustrierten Einblattdrucken der Frühen Neuzeit, in: Repräsentationen von Kriminalität und öffentlicher Sicherheit. Bilder, Vorstellungen und Diskurse vom 16. bis zum 20. Jahrhundert. Ed. by Karl Härter [et al.]. Frankfurt am Main 2010, pp. 25–88. Härter, Karl a. de Graaf, Beatrice (ed.): Vom Majestätsverbrechen zum Terrorismus. Politische Kriminalität, Recht, Justiz und Polizei zwischen Früher Neuzeit und 20. Jahrhundert. Frankfurt am Main 2012; De Benedictis, Angela a. Härter, Karl (ed.): Revolten und politische Verbrechen zwischen dem 12. und 19. Jahrhundert. Rechtliche Reaktionen und juristisch-politische Diskurse / Revolts and Political Crime from the 12th to the 19th Century. Legal Responses and Juridical-Political Discourses. Frankfurt am Main 2013. Härter, Karl: Early Modern Revolts as Political Crimes in the Popular Media of Illustrated Broadsheets, in: From Mutual Observation to Propaganda War. Premodern Revolts in their Transnational Representation. Ed. by Malte Griesse. Bielefeld 2014, pp. 309–350; Härter, Karl: Political crime in early modern Europe. Assassination, legal responses and popular print media, in: European Journal of Criminology 11 (2014), pp. 142–168.

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notions of shame – sometimes in relation to criminal justice. 6 Nevertheless, from the perspective of the social sciences, shame originates from wrongdoing or deviant behaviour infringing upon a normative order (ranging from customs and codes of honour, to religious, social and legal norms such as criminal law). In this regard, shame could also be the product of public ascription by a community or an institution, and, therefore, it can be characterised as a social and legal practice: shaming a wrongdoer who had infringed upon a normative order by means of specific sanctions. Thus, shaming, dishonourable punishment and the respective images communicated through illustrated popular media allow insights into the social meaning and the oeconomia of shame.7 From a historical perspective, shaming, as a social sanction, is closely linked to social communities, honour and reputation as well as to wrongdoing, crime and justice. This concerns customary shame sanctions and penalties dispensed by local communities, corporations, lower courts or the church as well as shame punishments and dishonouring rituals utilised by public, state-based courts. Many shaming sanctions and dishonouring rituals originated from religious and social sanctions handed down by the church or local communities to atone and discipline sinners or wrongdoers through public penance and public rituals. These public forms of humiliation exposed the offenders to the congregation or community and affected their social reputation ( fama) and honour. 8 Numerous lower and communal courts (such as Frevel- und Rügegerichte) inflicted customary shame sanctions (Schand- und Ehrenstrafen) and dishonouring penalties such as the stone of shame (Lasterstein), the fools cage (Narrenkäfig / Narrenhäusl), the dunking stool (Wippe), the riding backwards of an “unclean” or infamous animal (donkeys or pigs), the shrew’s fiddle (Halsgeige), or the procession of 6 7

8

Edgerton, Samuel Y: Pictures and punishment. Art and criminal prosecution during the Florentine Renaissance. Ithaca [et al.] 1985. Cf. Wettlaufer, Jörg: Schand- und Ehrenstrafen des Spätmittelalters und der Frühneuzeit – Erforschung der Strafformen und Strafzwecke anhand von DRW-Belegen, in: Das Deutsche Rechtswörterbuch. Perspektiven. Ed. by Andreas Deutsch. Heidelberg 2010, pp. 265–280, here: p. 266. Schwerhoff, Gerd: Verordnete Schande? Spätmittelalterliche und frühneuzeitliche Ehrenstrafen zwischen Rechtsakt und sozialer Sanktion, in: Mit den Waffen der Justiz. Zur Kriminalitätsgeschichte des Spätmittelalters und der Frühen Neuzeit. Ed. by Andreas Blauert a. Gerd Schwerhoff. Frankfurt am Main 1993, pp. 158–188; Lidman, Satu: Zum Spektakel und Abscheu. Schand- und Ehrenstrafen als Mittel öffentlicher Disziplinierung in München um 1600. Frankfurt am Main [et al.] 2008; Wettlaufer, Jörg a. Nishimura, Yasuhiro: The history of shaming punishments and public exposure in penal law in comparative perspective. Western Europe and East Asia, in: Sère a. Wettlaufer 2013 (as fn. 1), pp. 197–228; Ingram, Martin: Shame punishments, penance and charivari in Early Modern England, in: Sère a. Wettlaufer 2013 (as fn. 1), pp. 285–308.

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shame (schimpf licher Aufzug), often in combination with marks or objects of shame such as wearing a wreath, a hat, a badge of shame, etc.9 Criminal courts also utilised church sanctions and public penance (Kirchenbuße) as forms of shaming punishments (usually) in conjunction with sexual offences as well as for crimes and offences against morality (Sittlichkeitsdelikte). In this regard, sin and public penance remained crucial elements of the criminal justice system and were intended to punish criminal or deviant behaviour. Furthermore, the criminal justice system adopted the concepts of infamia facti and infamia iuris from canon law: certain types of crime and dishonourable punishment resulted in an ‘infamy of fact’, a permanent or temporary loss of honour, reputation and legal capacity, or courts could impose legal infamy – juridical ineligibility and incapacity – as a form of punishment. 10 Moreover, while public penalties such as forced/hard labour, the prison workhouse, the cart (Karrenstrafe), cleaning of public areas (while in chains) and public flagellation (Stäupung) were considered forms of shame intended to humiliate the delinquent individual, the main purpose of these punishments, however, lies elsewhere. 11 All in all, the early modern period church courts, lower/local courts and the criminal justice system utilised a great variety of shaming punishments that can be roughly divided into shame sanctions (Schandstrafen) and dishonourable penalties (Ehrenstrafen). 12 While the division of punishments were numerous, they

  9 For a comparative overview see: Wettlaufer, Jörg: Entehrung als Strafkonzept. Beschämende Strafen in Westeuropa und Ostasien. Zwischenbericht zu einem kulturvergleichenden Forschungsprojekt zum Spätmittelalter und der Frühen Neuzeit, in: Ehre und Recht. Ehrkonzepte, Ehrverletzungen und Ehrverteidigungen vom späten Mittelalter bis zur Moderne. Ed. by Sylvia Kesper-Biermann [et al.]. Magdeburg 2011, pp. 139–156; De Win, Paul: De schandstraffen in het wereldlijk strafrecht in de Zuidelijke Nederlanden van de middeleeuwen tot de Franse tijd bestudeerd in Europees perspectief. Brussel 1991. 10 Landau, Peter: Die Entstehung des kanonischen Infamiebegriffs von Gratian bis zur Glossa ordinaria. Köln [et al.] 1966; Bettoni 2010 (as fn. 2); Bettoni 2013 (as fn. 2); Masferrer Domingo, Aniceto: La pena de infamia en el Derecho histórico español. Contribución al estudio de la tradición penal europea en el marco del ius commune. Madrid 2001. 11 Cf. Lidman 2008 (as fn. 8); Härter, Karl: Policey und Strafjustiz in Kurmainz. Gesetzgebung, Normdurchsetzung und Sozialkontrolle im frühneuzeitlichen Territorialstaat. Frankfurt am Main 2005, pp. 621–639. 12 Brückner, Wolfgang: Ehrenstrafen, in: Handwörterbuch zur deutschen Rechtsgeschichte, Vol. 1. Ed. by Adalbert Erler [et al.]. Berlin 1971, pp. 851–853; Haberer, Günter: Schandstrafen, in: ibid., Vol. 4. Berlin 1990, pp. 1353–1355; Lidman 2008 (as fn. 8), pp. 116–126; Lidman, Satu: Um Schande. Profil eines frühneuzeitlichen Straf­ systems, in: Kesper-Biermann [et al.] 2011 (as fn. 9), pp. 197–216.

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all, nevertheless, had something in common: the public exposure of the wrongdoer to a community, shaming and humiliating him as a perpetrator and affecting his honour and social reputation. The initial aims of shame sanctions can be characterised as penitence, correction and “social disciplining”; shame and humiliation constituted a crucial part of penance (or punishment) and served as a sign of active repentance. However, the effect of shame punishment depended on various factors: the hierarchy of the sanctions/penalties related to different forms and grades of dishonouring, shaming and their being carried out in public; the wrongdoing, offences or crimes they reflect; the status, reputation and honour of the concerned; the social context; and the institutions which had imposed or executed the penalties. 13 Whereas shame sanctions imposed by local and lower courts were (in principle) considered as having a lesser- and non-permanent dishonouring effect, shame punishments – in the context of criminal justice – permanently dishonoured the delinquent (and often his family as well), therefore, meant that he was excluded by means of defamation: marking him with the stigma of infamia and disseminating the stigma, the defamatio. 14 Notably, shame punishment meted out by a criminal court resulted in serious damage to the social reputation and the economic subsistence of a perpetrator; as a result, he was, more or less, permanently excluded from a community and branded as infamous. Therefore, the public criminal justice system, which was based on inquisitorial procedure throughout continental Europe, could seriously shame a perpetrator in many ways: pre-trial detention during an inquisitorial trial was considered infamous and dishonourable because of the location (incarceration in the notorious “red” towers) as well as the close physical proximity to the executioner or other infamous detainees (Inquisiten and infame Leute such as vagrants, gypsies, or Jews). Judicial torture, not to mention most of the other penalties, seriously humiliated, dishonoured, and defamed the delinquents. Not least, the penal system can be described as a “spectacle of public punishment”, because it comprised symbolic and ritual practices as well as specific penalties that affected the honour and reputation of a perpetrator or aimed directly at the shaming, dishonouring, defaming, and stigmatising of a delinquent. In this respect, shaming a convicted individual and damaging his honour/reputation were the primary aims of criminal punishment: retaliation, deterrence, social and spatial exclusion,

13 Wettlaufer 2011 (as fn. 9), pp. 179–196, here: pp. 182–184; Schwerhoff 1993 (as fn. 8), pp. 182–188. 14 Bettoni, Antonella: Die Diffamation und die Wahrung des guten Namens in der Rechtslehre des ius commune, in: Kesper-Biermann [et al.] 2011 (as fn. 9), pp. 41–57, esp. pp. 43–44.

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and disciplining. 15 Shame punishment augmented the purposes of state-based punishment and enhanced the effect at a comparatively low cost. As a result, nearly all criminal justice systems in early modern Europe inflicted shame penalties as arbitrary extraordinary ( poena extraordinaria/abitraria) punishments to punish a variety of crimes. Moreover, shaming practices and dishonouring rituals were added to regular criminal penalties (ranging from banishment to corporal and capital punishment). 16 Banishment, expulsion, forced labour, corporal punishment or even imprisonment (in prison workhouses) often included shaming and dishonouring practices such as the pillory, caging, stocks, jougs (locked collars), whipping and flogging, marking and branding the body with a red hot iron, or cutting off parts of the body (finger, nose, ear). The humiliating and dishonouring effect of corporal and capital punishment was intensified by specific rituals and practices: the public procession, in which the often half-naked delinquent was transported on a wagon, sled or cart to the place of execution (and tortured along the way by the executioner with red hot irons); dragging and breaking the delinquents (even the corpses of suicide perpetrators); cutting off fingers, noses or ears and nailing them to the gallows pole; dishonourable hanging upside down by the feet or together with an animal (dogs); quartering and tearing out the guts; exposing corpses or parts of the body (dismembered limbs, decapitated heads) on wheels, gallows, or in cages in public places for months or years; burning the corpses and spreading the ashes or other types of unchristian burial. 17 The broad range of shaming punishments and dishonouring practices corresponded to the severity and the type of a crime as well as the different grades of shame, dishonour and infamy. Notably political crimes such as lèse-majesty (crimen laesae maiestatis), treason ( perduellio), conspiracy, revolt, and sedition (seditio) were punishable by means of shaming/dishonourable penalties and corresponding practices and rituals because they were perceived and conceptualised as serious threats to and infamous assaults on the ruler and the order. Hence, the punishment of political crimes included the extension of shaming to the social space of the delinquents

15 Van Dülmen, Richard: Theater des Schreckens. Gerichtspraxis und Strafrituale in der frühen Neuzeit. München 1988; Evans, Richard J.: Rituals of Retribution. Capital Punishment in Germany 1600–1987. Oxford 1996; Bastien, Pascal: L’ exécution publique à Paris au XVIIIe siècle. Une histoire des rituels judiciaires. Seyssel 2006. 16 On the penal practice cf. Lidman 2008 (as fn. 8), pp. 135–214; Härter 2005 (as fn. 11), pp. 621–639; Schwerhoff 1993 (as fn. 8); Wettlaufer 2011 (as fn. 9); Knott, Sebastian: Bei der Ehre gepackt! Die Ehrenstrafe in Bayern seit 1700. Regensburg 2006. 17 Nowosadtko, Jutta: Hinrichtungsrituale. Funktion und Logik öffentlicher Exekutionen in der Frühen Neuzeit, in: Kriminalität und Gesellschaft in Spätmittelalter und Neuzeit. Ed. by Sigrid Schmitt a. Michael Matheus. Stuttgart 2005, pp. 71–94.

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through practices such as the demolition (“razing”) of houses, the expulsion of relatives, the obliteration of the family name and the erection of a pillar of shame. Even without the physical presence of a perpetrator, it was possible to punish and execute him in effigy by nailing a plate with his name to the gallows pole or burning his portrait.18 While such punishments primarily belong to the symbolic and performative dimensions, they, nevertheless, did produce “real” effects: shaming and dishonouring the delinquent (and his family) and damaging his social reputation. Thus, the humiliating, shaming and dishonouring practices spatially, temporally and socially extended the (desired) effects and purposes of punishment – retaliation, deterrence, exclusion, prevention and disciplining – to the sphere of social reputation and social order. Harming the honour and reputation through shaming punishments could sustainably defame the delinquent and lead to his “social death”; such a situation, therefore, had a lasting impact on the social memory of the community. Shame and dishonour brought about by criminal punishment could even affect the honour/reputation of other people through public contact (physical or social) with convicted criminals, delinquents, corpses, executioners/hangmen as well as their equipment, pillories or gallows. Actors involved in and material objects associated with shame punishment were considered dishonest, infamous or ignominious (because of their relation to blood, animals and magic), and they could infect anyone with shame and infamy. In this regard, infamy and shame were considered an “immaterial infecting phenomenon” that could be transmitted via criminal justice and public punishment. Vice versa, the elements, symbols, rituals and images of public punishment were used to shame, dishonour and defame people. For that reason, scolding letters, pasquils, libelli famosi, pittura infamante and Schmäh-, Schand- and Scheltbriefe often used images and symbols of public punishment, depicting pillories, gallows, shameful hanging (upside down or with an animal), breaking at the wheel or exposed dismembered limbs to enhance the shaming and defaming effects. 19 The frontispiece of the dissertation Commentatio iuridica de pictura famosa, published in 1733 and 1748 (fig. 1), provides us with an exemplary impression of the iconic images used as pittura infamante and Schandgemälde: in addition to the devil taking the dead sinners and the licking of the anus of “unclean” animals,

18 Brückner, Wolfgang: Bildnis und Brauch. Studien zur Bildfunktion der Effigies. Berlin 1966. 19 Ortalli, Gherardo: La pittura infamante nei secoli XIII–XVI. Roma 1979; Edgerton 1985 (as fn. 6); Schmidt, Günter: Libelli famosi. Zur Bedeutung der Schmähschriften, Scheltbriefe, Schandgemälde und Pasquille in der deutschen Rechtsgeschichte. Köln 1985; Lentz, Matthias: Konflikt, Ehre, Ordnung. Untersuchungen zu den Schmähbriefen und Schandbildern des späten Mittelalters und der frühen Neuzeit (ca. 1350 bis 1600). Hannover 2004.

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1 |

Commentatio iuridica de pictura famosa (…), frontispiece and titlepage, 1748, Jena.

the images also depict the penalties of public flagellation, hanging at the gallows with the raven pecking at the head of the corpse, the erected wheel exposing limbs and head (and functioning as a pillory) as well as the decapitation (though the latter was considered the least dishonourable form of capital punishment). 20

2. Crime, Shaming Punishment and Dishonourable Penalties in Popular Media All in all, the development of the early modern criminal justice system was closely connected to shame and integrated a variety of shaming and dishonouring rituals and practices. They were used to augment the effect and purposes of public punishment and to reduce its costs. However, the effect of shame punishment depended to a large extent on the participation, perception and the public memory of the social community: shame and dishonour had to be disseminated not 20 Brunquell, Johann Salomo a. Voit von Berg, Christoph Ferdinand: Commentatio iuridica de pictura famosa et de specie iuris Germanici, pacto nimirum, quo maiores nostri, sub pictura famosa, Bey Strafe Schand-Gemähldes, sese obligarunt, editio novissima. Jena 1748 (first published 1733).

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only directly through the “spectacle of public punishment”, but also by means of images of punishment in art as well as print and popular media such as the illustrated broadsheets, i.e., the first early modern “mass media”. Illustrated broadsheets or broadsides, large-single printed sheets, often combining illustrations and text, emerged as a new type of mass media in the first half of the 16th century. In most cases, they were produced by professional “printing shops” and usually produced between 1000–2000 copies of a single sheet. Authors and engravers are often unknown and/or identical with the printer. Given their relatively low cost, they were widely distributed – sometimes even multilingual and in different countries – and reached a broader public. Most of them are single-sheet woodcuts or copperplate prints, illustrated with one to six larger pictures and have additional text and often bold headlines (with typical keywords and basic information), which gave them a “comic-strip” look. The often larger pictures played a prominent role: placed in the centre or upper portion of the sheet and using commonly known symbols and icons, the broadsheets told a very basic story that nearly everyone was able to comprehend regardless of reading proficiency (which was usually quite low). Attributes like “true” and “newspaper” gave them an objective and official appearance. In addition to the difficult problem of discerning the “real” author, the contents and messages were clearly influenced by the interests of the authorities, who could exercise control via censorship or directly commission a printing. Topics, images and appeal, however, were not only influenced by the authorities and/or the state, but also by commercial interests, public curiosity and the communicative interests of their consumers. 21 Crime and punishment ranked among the common topics of the broadsheets produced or distributed within the Holy Roman Empire between the last third of the 16th and the end of the 18th centuries; about 200 deal with serious acts of violence and capital punishment. More than sixty broadsheets depict violent political crimes such as revolt, assassination, regicide and conspiracy in six European countries and the Ottoman Empire. 22 The images and text focus on the violent act 21 Kunzle, David: The Early Comic Strip. Narrative Strips and Picture Stories in the European Broadsheet from c. 1450 to 1825. Berkeley [et al.] 1973; Schilling, Michael: Bildpublizistik der frühen Neuzeit. Aufgaben und Leistungen des illustrierten Flugblatts in Deutschland bis um 1700. Tübingen 1990; Harms, Wolfgang a. Schilling, Michael (ed.): Das illustrierte Flugblatt in der Kultur der Frühen Neuzeit. Wolfenbütteler Arbeitsgespräch 1997. Frankfurt am Main [et al.] 1998. 22 The main sources are: Harms, Wolfgang (ed.): Deutsche illustrierte Flugblätter des 16. und 17. Jahrhunderts, Vol. I–III, IV, VII. Tübingen 1985–1997; Paas, John Roger: The German political broadsheet 1600–1700, Vol. 1–9. Wiesbaden 1985–2007; Digitale Bibliothek Spezial. Deutsche Einblattholzschnitte. Berlin 2003 (CD-ROM), with 3400 woodcuts from: Geisberg, Max: The German single-leaf woodcut, 1500– 1550, Vol. 1–4. Ed. by Walter L. Strauss. New York 1974; Strauss, Walter L.: The German

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2 | Eigentliche verzeichnis der erschrecklichen und grewlichen Mortthat (…),

broadsheet, coloured woodcut, 27,8 × 36,2 cm, 1572, Magdeburg.

(the crime), the perpetrator (sometimes portrayed), and, above all, the public punishment: often emphasising shaming, dishonourable humiliating and degrading practices, rituals and elements. 23 Many of the broadsides dealing with ‘ordinary’ serious crimes such as murder depict the “typical” spectacle of punishment beginning with the public proces-

single-leaf woodcut, 1550–1600, Vol. 1–3. New York 1975; Alexander, Dorothy: The German single-leaf woodcut, 1600–1700, Vol. 1–2. New York 1977. 23 Peil 2002 (as fn. 3); Rudolph 2007 (as fn. 3); Schwerhoff 2009 (as fn. 3); Härter 2010 (as fn. 3); Wiltenburg, Joy: True Crime. The Origins of Modern Sensationalism, in: American Historical Review 109 (2004), pp. 1377–1404; Westphal, Jörn Robert: Die Darstellung von Unrecht in Flugblättern der Frühen Neuzeit. Mönchengladbach 2008, pp. 2 43–250; Chassaigne, Philippe: Popular Representations of Crime. The Crime Broadside – a Subculture of Violence in Victorian Britain?, in: Crime, Histoire & Sociétés / Crime, History & Societies 3 (1999), pp. 23–55.

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sion or parade and ending with the execution and subsequent exposition of the corpse. The telling example of the Eigentliche verzeichnis der erschrecklichen und grewlichen Mortthat / so sich zugetragen in der weitberümten stat halle in Sachssen / von einem mit Namen Christoff Windt published in Halle 1572 (fig. 2) contains five illustrations. While only the first actually depicts the crime, the other four sequences illustrate the punishment, beginning with the public proclamation of the verdict and the first stage of shaming. The judge reads the verdict while the delinquent is chained in jougs to the town hall and held by the executioner (recognisable by his “fancy” clothing). In this case, the image evokes the iconic image of the pillory and the “infamous touch” of the executioner. The third picture depicts the procession of the half-naked delinquent through the town on a wagon accompanied by officials and a priest; the delinquent is being “tortured” (actually punished) by the executioner with red hot pincers while his assistant cracks the whip. From their houses, the burghers witness the spectacle and humiliation of the delinquent (i.e., the next stage of shaming punishment). This is followed by the actual execution – the breaking on the wheel – again, witnessed by officials and perhaps several burghers representing the public. The final picture (actually two images) shows the mutilation and humiliation of the cricked and disfigured body/corpse being dragged by the horse of the executioner and later exposed on the erected wheel in an “unnatural” pose, thereby, completing the shaming and defamation of the delinquent. 2 4

3. Shaming, Dishonourable Punishment of Political Crimes in Illustrated Broadsheets The broadsides dealing with the punishment of political crimes follow, in principle, the same sequence using the same iconic images. However, the practices and rituals of shaming and dishonouring vary, in particular, according to the crime. Since the 16th century, political violence such as revolts and assassination, more and more, had become a public, performative and symbolic act of dissenting individuals or groups; they were regarded by the authorities as a fundamental assault on the ruler (or the state) to denounce or change a “tyrannical”, “despotic”, “unjust” or “illegitimate” political/religious order. Rebels and assassins used violence in a public setting to communicate a “message”, to emphasise and legitimise their motivation (for instance, as an act against tyranny and despotism), to arouse a public dispute or to instigate a revolt. In this regard, their acts threatened and 2 4 Windt, Christoff: Eigentliche verzeichnis der erschrecklichen und grewlichen Mortthat / so sich zugetragen in der weitberümten stat halle in Sachssen […]. Magde­ burg 1572.

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insulted the ruler and the political/religious order. 25 As a result, the authorities perceived and conceptualised protest, resistance, dissidence and political violence as serious crimes – such as lèse-majesty, treason, the breach/violation of peace, conspiracy/plot, or sedition – and responded by introducing greater differentiation and flexibility into the system of criminal law and punishment. Above all, the crime of lèse-majesty targeted the ruler; as a result, all activities aiming at the violation of his person, honour or rule could be classified as lèse-majesty (ranging from verbal insults and pamphlets to violent action, assassination and regicide). And because the sacred body of the ruler represented the divine and secular order, the concept of crimen laesae maiestatis could easily be expanded to the state and its officials. Likewise, lèse-majesty and treason included the breach of loyalty (Treuebruch), and could be extended to cover every conspiracy, rebellion or other dissident activity. 26 The legal differentiation of political crimes allowed greater flexibility when it came to the prosecution and punishment of different categories of perpetrators such as ringleaders, instigators, criminal association, conspiracies, followers, or supporters. Furthermore, the punishment was supposed to reflect the viciousness of the deed and/or insult: treason was not only punishable by death, but, additionally, the “oath-finger” was dismembered (mirroring the breach of the oath of fealty or loyalty). In the case of lèse-majesty, the courts often meted out quartering, followed by the exposure of the severed heads, arms and legs at crowded public places such as towers and streets, the burning of the corpses and dispersal of the ashes as well as the mutilating and shaming of the delinquent’s body. The punishment often included further dishonourable practices such as hanging upside down from the feet or from the arbor infelix, the razing of houses, flogging and banishment of relatives, the obliteration of the family name or the confiscation of property and real estate. All in all, the punishment of violent political crimes aimed at the elimination of the physical and social body of the political criminal, i.e., the annihilation of his honour, property, social reputation, family and supporters, and aimed at the defamation of the criminal and the crime. The intended shaming and defaming effect comprised the damnatio memoriae,

25 Von Friedeburg, Robert (ed.): Murder and monarchy. Regicide in European History, 1300–1800. Basingstoke [et al.] 2004; Härter a. de Graaf 2012 (as fn. 4); De Benedictis a. Härter 2013 (as fn. 4). 26 Schroeder, Friedrich-Christian: Der Schutz von Staat und Verfassung im Strafrecht. Eine systematische Darstellung, entwickelt aus Rechtsgeschichte und Rechtsvergleichung. München 1970; Sbriccoli, Mario: Crimen laesae maiestatis. Il problema del reato politico alle soglie della scienza penalistica moderna. Milano 1974; Ingraham, B. L.: Political crime in Europe. A comparative study of France, Germany, and England. Berkeley 1979.

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the “condemnation of memory” dating back to Roman law and constituted an essential part of the punishment of political crimes: the defamation and oblite­ ration of the perpetrator in order to erase him and his “dishonouring” insult of the ruler and the ruling order from public memory and history. 27 In this respect, the punishment of political criminals such as rebels and assassins followed a public ritual of shaming, dishonouring and defaming. These forms of punishment possessed a highly symbolic communicative function, disseminating retaliation, deterrence and general prevention as the main purposes of punishment as well as using shame and defamation to augment the authorities’ interpretation of the infamous assault and to attain a corresponding effect: the defamation and obliteration of the deed and the perpetrator should ensure that the assault (or crime) was not assigned with any politically just motives and should communicate and co-memorise the just legal responses of the authorities (or the state) who were able to re-establish the order that was threatened and insulted. Because political crimes often stimulated controversial public disputes, mauvais discours, pamphleting and popular print, the spectacle of public punishment and defamation of political crimes had to be communicated through official publications (court records, verdicts, treatises, etc.) and increasingly via the popular illustrated print that often focused on the public punishment and the dishonourable and defaming rituals. 28 An early telling example is the illustrated broadside Abriß der Rebellischen Baurn in Österreich (1597)29 (fig. 3) depicting the punishment of the peasant rebels who had revolted in Austria between 1595 and 1597 (the so-called second Austrian peasant uprising).30 The picture simultaneously visualises the revolt and the counterinsurgency (in the background) as well as several scenes of judicial punishment. The scene on the left-hand side in the background depicts two rebels being punished: the first is shown praying and repenting, awaiting “only” to be beheaded with the sword (the most honourable form of capital punishment), while another is shown impaled (conveying a more positive religious image of 27 Pesch, Andreas: De perduellione, crimine maiestatis et memoria damnata. Aachen 1995. 28 Härter, revolts 2014 (as fn. 5); Härter, assassination 2014 (as fn. 5). 29 Abriß der Rebellischen Baurn in Österreich unter der Ennß / im Viertl ob Wienner Waldt / und ob Manhartsperg / auf vorgehört Urtl und gehalten Recht / an denen orten wo sie sich Rottiert und zusamen versamblet haben / seindt gestrafft worden / In jetzt lauftenden 1597. Jahr, printed in: Knittler, Herbert [et al.] (ed.): Adel im Wandel. Politik, Kultur, Konfession, 1500–1700. Exhib. Cat. Wien 1990, p. 87. 30 On the history of peasants’ revolts in Austria and the legal responses cf. Schennach, Martin P.: “Plus valuerunt verbera quam verba“? Rechtliche Reaktionen auf Revolten in den österreichischen Ländern zwischen den Bauernkriegen von 1525 und 1626, in: De Benedictis a. Härter 2013 (as fn. 4), pp. 235–279.

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3 | Abriß der Rebellischen Baurn in Österreich (…), broadsheet, coloured woodcut,

28 × 37 cm, 1597, Freistadt, Mühlviertler Schlossmuseum. (Farbtafel 3)

punishment). In contrast, the other four scenes in the foreground, which dominate the picture, use the familiar iconic programme of dishonourable and defaming punishment (from left to right): disembowelment and quartering as well as the exposition of quartered arms at the gallows (erected in the background); the dismembering of the “oath-finger” and the right hand (the so-called Schwurhand) that are then nailed to the pillory (along with a few ears and noses); the severing of a delinquent’s nose while tied to a tree stump (evoking a pillory); and the hanging from a tree, the so-called arbor infelix, to which hands, ears and noses were also nailed (resembling the punishment in effigy). The images of humiliating punishment are intended to mirror or reflect the deed and create a visual interrelation between honour and shame. The infamous insult and crimen laesae maiestatis of both the ruler and ruling order is punishable by shame penalties and practices intended to stigmatise and dishonour the rebels as well as defame both them and the revolt: the “condemnation of memory”, the damnatio memoriae. This “message” is communicated not only through the actual punishment as a single event, but also through the longer lasting exposition (of corpses and body parts) at the gallows, pillories and the arbor infelix and – on a second

Images of Dishonoured Rebels and Infamous Revolts

level – through the popular media of the illustrated broadsheets as a means to disseminate and commemorate the shame punishment, defamation and condemnation of memory to a wider public for a, more or less, indefinite time. In this regard, the illustrated broadsides fulfilled the same communicative function as the so-called Schandsäule,31 the “pillar of shame” or “infamy monument”, for example, erected in 1616 in Aachen and Frankfurt (am Main) (fig. 4) as part of the legal responses to communal revolts and the punishment of the rebels. In both imperial cities, an imperial commission (acting on behalf of the emperor and the Imperial Aulic Court) held inquisitorial trials that ended with verdicts for the crime of lèse-majesty (comprising treason/perduellio) and the severe punishment of the ringleaders, their associates and relatives (in Aachen two ringleaders were executed and 77 associates/relatives banned; in Frankfurt seven ringleaders were executed and 31 associates/relatives banned).32 Both revolts evoked a strong echo in the contemporary popular media, and more than twenty illustrated broadsides were published; two of them dealing with the protestant uprising in Aachen (1611–1616) and about twenty treating the so-called Fettmilch-revolt in Frankfurt (1612–1616, named after the ringleader Vincenz Fettmilch). The majority of the illustrations focused on the punishment of the rebels, in particular, depicting the dishonouring, humiliating and defaming practices and rituals.

31 Graf, Klaus: Das leckt die Kuh nicht ab. “Zufällige Gedanken“ zu Schriftlichkeit und Erinnerungskultur der Strafgerichtsbarkeit, in: Kriminalitätsgeschichte. Beiträge zur Sozial- und Kulturgeschichte der Vormoderne. Ed. by Andreas Blauert a. Gerd Schwerhoff. Konstanz 2000, pp. 2 45–288, esp. pp. 266–269. 32 On the history of events, which I cannot outline in this context, cf. Blickle, Peter: Unruhen in der ständischen Gesellschaft, 1300 bis 1800. 3. ed. München 2012, pp. 41–45; Schilling, Heinz: Bürgerkämpfe in Aachen zu Beginn des 17. Jahrhunderts. Konflikte im Rahmen der alteuropäischen Stadtgesellschaft oder im Umkreis der frühbürgerlichen Revolution?, in: Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 1 (1974), pp. 175–231; Friedrichs, Christopher R.: German Town Revolts and the SeventeenthCentury Crisis, in: Renaissance and Modern Studies 26 (1982), pp. 27–51; Friedrichs, Christopher R.: Urban Conflicts and the Imperial Constitution in SeventeenthCentury Germany, in: The Journal of Modern History 58 (1986), Supplement: Politics and Society in the Holy Roman Empire, 1500–1806, pp. 98–123; Friedrichs, Christopher R.: Politics or Pogrom? The Fettmilch Uprising in German and Jewish History, in: Central European History 2 (1986), pp. 186–228; Meyn, Matthias: Die Reichsstadt Frankfurt vor dem Bürgeraufstand von 1612 bis 1614. Struktur und Krise. Frankfurt am Main 1980.

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The illustration of the broadside Eigentlicher Abriß des Rahthauses des H. Reichs und Cöniglichen Stul und Statt Aach, und der daselbst ahm 3. December A. 1616 volzogener Execution zweyer furnembster Radelsfuhrer des daselbst entstandenen Tumultes am 5. Julii A. 1611. Desgleichen einer Columna oder seul so Johan Kalckberner als den furnembsten Anfuher der rebellen zu ewiger schmach auffgerichtet worden deals with the punishment of the protestant rebels in Aachen and depicts the familiar “spectacle of public punishment” with the execution stage in the middle and the beheading of one of the ringleaders who is kneeling and praying, thus evoking the image of the “repentant sinner”.33 However, this is contrasted with two imposing pillars on the right- and left sides, both of them topped by the emblem of the empire/emperor (the imperial eagle). Whereas the left pillar shows the Justitia figure – conveying the just legal responses of the authorities to the crime of revolt – the one on the right side contains a picture showing the punishment of the fugitive rebel-leader, Johann Kalkberner: the executioner is quartering and dismembering the naked delinquent, the limbs are exposed at gallows and the decapitated head is impaled on the town hall. The Latin inscription34 beneath is repeated and explained in an additional sheet Kurtzer doch eigentlicher Bericht/ was gestalt die in des H. Reichs Statt und Küniglichen Stuel Aach Anno 1611 entstandenen Unruh und Auffruhr verschienenen Jahr 1616 den 3. Decembris ist abgestrafft worden. The text outlines the purposes of the shame pillar and the message of the inscription: the punishment in effigy („steinern Seul … in welcher ein Nackende Person/ obgedachten Kalckberner representierend eingehawen“ ) and the defamation of the infamous, traitorous „Rädelsführer und Anstiffter“ (ringleader and instigator) of the revolt who had insulted the emperor and condemned

33 Eigentlicher Abriß des Rahthauses des H. Reichs und Cöniglichen Stul und Statt Aach, und der daselbst ahm 3. December A. 1616 volzogener Execution zweyer furnembster Radelsfuhrer des daselbst entstandenen Tumultes am 5. Julii A. 1611. Desgleichen einer Columna oder seul so Johan Kalckberner als den furnembsten Anfuher der rebellen zu ewiger schmach auffgerichtet worden. Köln [1616], in: Paas 1986 (as fn. 22), Vol. 2, p. 64, http://www.aachener-geschichtsverein.de/file_download/6 (last accessed: 01.12.2013). 34 “Sic pereant / Qui hanc Rempublicam / Et Sedem Regalem / Spretis Sacrae Caesareae Maiestatis / edictis / Evertere moliuntur. Ad / damnandam memoriam / Ioannis Kalckberner / In ultimo tumultu Anno MDCXI / Hic excitato / Inter perduelles / Antesignani / Columna haec ex decreto / D(ominorum) Subdelegatorum Sac(rae) Caes(areae) Maiest(atis) / Erigi iussa / III. Nonas Decembris anno MDCXVI”, cit.: DI 32, Stadt Aachen, Nr. 106† (Helga Giersiepen). www.inschriften.net, urn:nbn:de:0238-di032d002k0010602 (last accessed: 01.12.2013). Cf. Aquisgranensis, Horatius: Aachen im Spiegel des neulateinischen Dichters Johann Gerhard Joseph von Asten (1765–1831). Ed. by Hermann Krüssel. Hildesheim [et al.] 2004. p. 23.

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4 | Eigentlicher Abriß des Rahthauses des H. Reichs und Cöniglichen Stul

und Statt Aach, und der daselbst ahm 3. December A. 1616 volzogener Execution (…), and Kurtzer doch eigentlicher Bericht (…), broadsheet, 1616, Aachen.

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imperial law („Dem Römischen Kaiser zu schimpff und spott/ Mit veracht desselben Edict und Gebott“ ). Together, the shame pillar and the illustrated broadsheet, which presumably was distributed both during and after the pillar’s erection, form a public shame memorial; an enduring reminder symbolising the punishment as a retaliation and act of shaming intended as a general deterrence as well as a defamation and damnatio memoria of the rebels and the revolt: “Ad damnandam memoriam Ioannis Kalkberner” […] “Verdambt sey Kalckberners memoria” […] “der rebellen zu ewiger schmach”. The various illustrated broadsheets dealing with the Fettmilch-revolt in Frankfurt (about 20 different issues printed in Frankfurt, Darmstadt, Augsburg and the Netherlands) follow the same basic patterns. They cover essential events and stages of the revolt, responses by the authorities, and, above all, the severe punishment in 1616.35 Most woodcuts depict nearly the same scenery: a large picture depicting the “spectacle of public punishment”, where the rebels and their ringleaders are punished in accordance with the familiar iconic rituals and symbols of humiliation and defamation. A telling example is the Kurtzer Abriß vnd Bericht der Keyserlichen Execution vnd Verfahrung mit den Aechtern/ vnd dero anhenger printed in 1616 by Johann Ludwig Schimmel in Frankfurt (fig. 5).36 In the middle of the illustration, the scaffold is set up and cordoned off by armed soldiers and railings with posts displaying the imperial eagle (marking the legal space of the empire). Moreover, the scaffold is surrounded by the burghers of Frankfurt as well as the city council and representatives of the guilds on the two platforms toward the centre of the background – altogether forming an “imperial public space” (Reichsöffentlichkeit). Whereas the re-entry of the Jewish community walking past the scaffold in the form of a procession (to the right of the image) represents the restitution of the legal and imperial order, the concurrent punishment conveys the humiliation and defamation of the rebels as treacherous political criminals. The executioner decapitates one of the delinquents and his recently severed finger can be seen in front of him. The dismembering of the finger – the Schwurfinger – clearly points to the political crime of lèse-majesty and treason. Toward the left side in the background, three gallows outside the city are depicted;

35 Cf. Würgler, Andreas: Revolts in Print. Media and Communication in Early Modern Urban Conflicts, in: Urban Elections and Decision-Making in Early Modern Europe, 1500–1800. Ed. by Rudolf Schlögl. Newcastle-upon-Tyne 2009, pp. 257–275; Würgler, Andreas: Rechtliche Reaktionen auf Revolten – Revolten als rechtliche Reaktionen? Herrschaft und Protest in den frühneuzeitlichen Medien, in: De Benedictis a. Härter 2013 (as fn. 4), pp. 147–172; Härter, revolts 2014 (as fn. 5). 36 Kurtzer Abriß vnd Bericht der Keyserlichen Execution vnd Verfahrung mit den Aechtern / vnd dero anhenger / sampt einführung der Jüdenschafft […]. Frankfurt am Main 1616, printed in: Paas 1986 (as fn. 22), Vol. 2, p. 50.

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5 | Kurtzer Abriß vnd Bericht der Keyserlichen Execution vnd Verfahrung mit den

Aechtern/ vnd dero anhenger (…), broadsheet, 1616, Frankfurt am Main.

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one with a corpse hung by the feet and another exposing parts of a quartered corpse (i.e., the familiar punitive practices to defame the treacherous rebels). Actually, four ringleaders were dismembered, decapitated, quartered and parts of their corpses were exposed at the gallows outside of the town. Furthermore, their heads were impaled and displayed at the gate tower on the river Rhine. The four decapitated heads and a super-sized imperial eagle are depicted in the background of the broadsheet. The defamation and infamatio are underscored by the total demolition of Fettmilch’s house (shown in the foreground) and the infamous shaving, flogging and banning of associates/relatives (depicted in the background). There we can also see the flogging and banning of other rebels. The symbolic implication, communicated and enhanced by the broadsheet, is quite obvious: the revolt is to be commemorated as an infamous political crime, and the main ringleaders – comprising their families, names and house – are shamed and defamed for the purpose of total social disintegration and exclusion – for eternal memory (“zum ewigen Gedächtnuß ”). All other broadsides dealing with the punishment of the rebels depict nearly the same scenery and make use of similar images and iconic elements of shame sanctions, humiliation and defamation. However, some illustrations show portraits of three or four of the ringleaders with their full name and profession, depicting them, more or less, as recognisable persons such as the Wahre und eigentliche Contrafactur der Kayserlichen Execution so den 28. Febr. Anno 1616 zu Franckfurt am Mayn an etlichen Aechtern und Handwercksgesellen volnzogen werden (fig. 6).37 The dominating portraits of the three delinquents, depicted as respectable burghers, are linked to the images of dishonourable punishment: the spectacle of public punishment in the middle, also including the flogging and banishment of relatives and other rebels; the hanging from and exposing at the gallows and the wheel with two figures dancing (upper left illustration); the tower with the impaled decapitated heads (lower left illustration); the shameful procession with the wagons (upper right illustration); and the demolition of Fettmilch’s house. As a result, these illustrated broadsheets were supposed to

37 Wahre und eigentliche Contrafactur der Kayserlichen Execution so den 28. Febr. Anno 1616 zu Franckfurt am Mayn an etlichen Aechtern und Handwercksgesellen volnzogen werden. Augsburg 1616, printed in: Paas 1986 (as fn. 22), Vol. 2, p. 57. Cf. also Franckhfortische Execution: Kurtze / doch aigentliche erzehlung / was massen / und mit welchen Ceremonien / etliche Franckhfortische Burger … daselbsten Im 1616, Jar/ den 9. Martzi am leben / theils aber auff andere Weeg gestrafft / und die Juden widerumb eingesetzt worden; Die vier Princibal Aechter. Vincentz Fettmilch Leckhküchler. Conradt Gerengroß Schreiner. Georg Ebaldt von Sachsenhausen. Conradt Schopp Schneider. Augsburg 1616, printed in: Paas 1986 (as fn. 22), Vol. 2, p. 54.

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6 | Wahre und eigentliche Contrafactur der Kayserlichen Execution (…), broadsheet,

1616, Augsburg.

amplify the permanent shaming of the delinquents, their families and their good names; thereby, punishment and shame were given a face, so to say, and fulfilled a function comparable to the pittura infamante and the Schandbilder, yet extending that image to the Reichsöffentlichkeit.38 To serve the purpose of permanent defamation and infamy, a “pillar of shame” was erected at the location where Fettmilch’s house once stood. Although, in this instance, not for the purpose of punishment in effigy, but rather to com38 On the Reichsöffentlichkeit in general cf. Arndt, Johannes a. Körber, Esther-Beate (ed.): Das Mediensystem im alten Reich der Frühen Neuzeit (1600–1750). Göttingen 2010.

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7 | Eigentliche Abcontrafactur/ der auffgerichteten Columnen vnd Säulen (…),

broadsheet, 1616, Frankfurt am Main.

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memorate the actual punishment of Vincenz Fettmilch and the other ringleaders. Again, this is covered by two more illustrated broadsheets printed in Frankfurt by Conrad Corthoy and by Johann Ludwig Schimmel. Corthoy’s (fig. 7) shows the Schandsäule in combination with the tower and the impaled heads and depicts some burghers reading the engraved message (in German and Latin): “Sempiternae Rebellionis memoriae”, and recapitulating the humiliating penalties (quartering, exposition of the limbs at gallows, the impaling of the head, the banishment of relatives and the razing of the house). Both broadsides state deterrence, defamation and eternal memorisation as the purposes of the shame punishment and the pillar: “zur ewigen Gedächtnuß der Rebellion und jedermann zur höchsten Warnung” – “zu ewiger gedechtnuß/ menniglichen zum abschewlichen Exempel/ und Vilen zur trewer Warnung”.39 The same patterns and images of dishonourable punishment, shame and defamation are discernible in illustrated broadsheets dealing with other political crimes, notably with regicide and assassination attempts. During the early modern period, more than thirty broadsides covered thirteen attempted or completed regicides and assassinations. 40 A telling example is the assassination of Henry IV and the punishment of his murder, Ravaillac, (covered in fourteen broadsides and were published in the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation or the Netherlands). 41 Ten of them depict Ravaillac’s punishment, with five of them focusing solely on the spectacle of suffering and the rituals of humiliation and defamation – as the following typical example demonstrates (fig. 8). 42 The illustration depicts the various stages of punishment and defamation: (in the centre) the torturing of the nearly naked body – notably of Ravaillacs “murderous hand” that were cut off – followed by the drawing, quartering and dragging of the body and limbs by horses (in the background of the picture), and ending with the burning of the corpse and the limbs – the final disintegrating and exclusion of Ravaillac, which

39 Eigentliche Abcontrafactur / der auffgerichteten Columnen vnd Säulen: so auff dem Platz Vincents Fettmilchs Kuchen Beckers geschleifften Behausung / zu ewiger gedechtnuß / menniglichen zum abschewlichen Exempel / und Vilen zur trewer Warnung / den 22. Augusti 1617 zu Franckfurt am Mayn ist aufgerichtet Worden. Frankfurt am Main 1617, printed in: Paas 1986 (as fn. 22), Vol. 2, p. 74. 40 Cf. in detail Malandain, Gilles [et al.]: Introduction. L’attentat politique, objet d’histoire, in: La Révolution Française 1 (2012). http://lrf.revues.org/363 (01.12.2013); Härter, assassination 2014 (as fn. 5). 41 Paas 1985 (as fn. 22), Vol. 1, pp. 2 44–254; Harms 1997 (as fn. 22), Vol. 2, pp. 160, 164– 165. 42 Newe Zeittung. Waß massen der Ubelthäter FRANCOIS ROVEII ein Frantzoß / … Augspurg 1610, printed in: Paas 1985 (as fn. 22), Vol. 1, p. 252. On the event in general cf. Cassan, Michel: La Grande Peur de 1610. Les Français et l’assassinat d’Henri IV. Seyssel 2010.

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8 | Newe Zeittung. Waß massen der Ubelthäter FRANCOIS ROVEII ein Frantzoß (…),

broadsheet, 1610, Augsburg.

was accompanied by the obliteration of his family name and the confiscation of his property. Thus, the image represents the typical dishonourable punishment of the political crime of lèse-majesty: the defamation and obliteration of the criminal and his insult of the king and ruling order; an image that influenced the iconography of assassination attempts until the second half of the 19th century. 43

43 Turrel, Denise: Les usages iconographiques de l’assassinat d’Henri IV au XIXe siècle, in: La Révolution Française 1 (2012). http://lrf.revues.org/408 (01.12.2013).

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4. Concluding Remarks: The Economy of Political Crimes, Shaming Punishments, and Pictorial Media Though political crimes accounted for only a very small portion of early modern criminal justice, and capital as well as dishonourable punishment declined over the course of the 18th century, 4 4 on the whole, dishonourable, shaming punishments and defamation constituted important elements of the legal responses to political crimes such as revolts and assassination attempts and, moreover, influenced their image in popular media. Violent political crimes and the shaming punishment of the perpetrators aroused the curiosity of the public and became an important topic of pictorial media that communicated particular images of the crimes and the legal responses. Notably, state-based criminal justice used shaming, dishonourable punishment to communicate the authoritarian interpretation of political crime and just legal responses on three different public stages: –

the local, direct spectacle of public punishment enhanced with shaming and defaming practices and rituals; – pillars of shame and shame materials used to perpetuate dishonoring punishment, shame and defamation; – and popular media that disseminated images of shame and punishment to a wider audience. Altogether, these three spaces constituted the economy of punishment, shame and popular media that followed different and partly ambiguous purposes disseminated in iconic images. First of all, the penalties mirrored the deed and were understood as a form of retaliation for the infamous insult against the ruler and the legitimate order by means of shaming and defamation, for instance, by dismembering the “oath-finger” or the Schwurhand and exposing them at gallows, wheels or shame pillars. By enhancing capital punishment with dishonouring and defaming practices and rituals, the authorities intended to amplify the main purposes of punishment: retaliation, deterrence and general prevention through

44 On the general developments of criminal justice cf. Schwerhoff, Gerd: Historische Kriminalitätsforschung. Frankfurt am Main a. New York 2011; Härter, Karl: Praxis, Formen, Zwecke und Intentionen des Strafens zwischen Aufklärung und Rheinbundreformen (1770–1815). Das Beispiel Kurmainz / Großherzogtum Frankfurt, in: Strafzweck und Strafform zwischen religiöser und weltlicher Wertevermittlung. Ed. by Reiner Schulze [et al.]. Münster 2008, pp. 213–231; Härter, Karl: Die Entwicklung des Strafrechts in Mitteleuropa, 1770–1848: Defensive Modernisierung, Kontinuitäten und Wandel der Rahmenbedingungen, in: Habermas a. Schwerhoff 2009 (as fn. 3), pp. 71–107.

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the stigmatisation of clearly recognisable ringleaders, which were physically and socially excluded from the (Christian) community and permanently defamed. Dishonourable punishment and shame extended the defamation to their families, relatives, followers and supporters and could affect their honour or social reputation. In this regard, punishment, shame and popular media should also promote social disciplining and social control: shame was used to enhance public punishment, in particular, with regards to political crime that threatened and insulted the political and social order. 45 From the viewpoint of the authorities, and when considering the aims and costs associated with state-based criminal justice, these measures all made sense. Moreover, on a second and third level, the authorities also intended to defame and obliterate the infamous assault, the perpetrator and his motivations: the permanent damnatio memoriae communicated through shame pillars, shame memorials and popular media. They disseminated shaming dishonourable punishment and defamation to a much broader public – in the case of some illustrated broadsheets even throughout Europe – to exclude the criminal and the crime from “social memory” and to commemorate just punishment and the re-establishment of the threatened and insulted order. According to this account, the shame pillars – and perhaps the illustrated broadsides as well – could also function as punishment in effigy, which (from the viewpoint of the authorities) was quite necessary when it came to political crimes such as the crimen laesae maiestatis. 46 Thus, the authorities used or influenced popular print (such as the illustrated broadsheets) to convey their interpretation of political crimes and the defamation of rebels, assassins and their infamous assault against the political and social order to which they responded with just legal means. In this regard, shaming punishment and defamation became an important, if not essential, element of the legal responses and the media strategy of the authorities. The broadsheets linked shaming dishonourable punishment with identifiable – and sometimes portrayed – perpetrators and, therefore, disseminated not only images of political crime and punishment, but also the defamation of concrete “individual” persons to a broader audience. In short, they extended the pittura infamante and the Schandbilder, which were limited with regards to quantity, space and recipients, to the level of a popular “mass media”, thus, constituting a specific oeconomia of shame, punishment, and media. Although the images of shaming punishment were clearly influenced by the interests of the authorities, shame and popular media yielded ambiguous media effects. Illustrated broadsheets were also influenced by the curiosity of a growing 45 For the discussion of shame and the purposes of punishment cf. Wettlaufer 2010 (as fn. 7), pp. 276–280. 46 Cf. Brückner 1966 (as fn. 18), pp. 292–310.

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public for sensational news, “attractive” images of shame and the commercial interests of the printers: broadsheets were to be sold in order to distribute a message. Thus, they were closely linked to commercial interests: the images of dishonourable, humiliating punishment, shame and defamation sold well and constituted a different economy of shame and punishment. 47 Furthermore, some illustrations and additional texts combined shaming punishment with Christian advisory and included an image of the repentant sinner. In this regard, the religious roots and elements of shaming and public penance were somehow preserved in the broadsheets; moreover, these conveyed how shame as a social sanction was created and worked within the framework of public punishment. Finally, pictorial media kept alive the public memory of the incident and dishonourable punishment and could evoke further public discourses on the interpretation of the assault as a serious political crime, on the one hand, and protest or resistance with justifiable motives, on the other. This could occur, in particular, if severe shaming punishment and defamation were perceived as excessive, cruel or inappropriate (even unjust): shame could arouse compassion or aversion against humiliating punishment that eliminated “valuable subjects” (nützliche Untertanen), who could be improved through shame and penance. 48 In this regard the images of shaming punishments in public pictorial media reflect the ambiguity of shame and the ambivalent interpretation of political crime, which, in general terms, can be described as the problem of opinion leadership – of Deutungsherrschaft and Sinndeutung. In the long run, however, early modern illustrated broadsheets coined and popularised iconic images of shame and defamation as a penal strategy of public punishment – notably concerning political crime (or dissidence) – and embedded them into public memory. Shame as a social sanction was transferred from the “real” practice in front of the community and the media of pittura infamante and Schandbilder to the images of pictorial mass media. Punishment, shame and defamation became an iconic topic of popular pictorial media that is still overwhelmingly present in modern mass media and the discourses on the use of shame in criminal justice and public punishment. 49

47 Cf. Schwerhoff 2009 (as fn. 3), pp. 309–317. 48 Cf. Wettlaufer 2011 (as fn. 9); Wettlaufer a. Nishimura 2013 (as fn. 8), pp. 219–225. 49 Pratt, John: The decline and renaissance of shame in modern penal systems, in: Comparative Histories of Crime. Ed. by Barry S. Godfrey [et al.]. Cullompton 2003, pp. 178–194; Nash, David: Re-evaluating shame in modern social historical contexts, in: Sère a. Wettlaufer 2013 (as fn. 1), pp. 329–346. In general on the legal history of law and images cf. Härter, Karl: Policey und Strafjustiz in Entenhausen. Wo steht die Bildergeschichte des öffentlichen Rechts im vormodernen Europa?, in: Rechtsgeschichte 19 (2011), pp. 114–129.

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Bild-Ehre, Bild-Schande, Bild-Ängste Einstige Kommunikationsweisen und heutige Diskursverkürzungen1

Theorien sind nachträgliche Erklärungsversuche. Sie implizieren zugleich das Weltverständnis ihrer Erfinder. Weltschau und Welt-Anschauung bestimmen daher unsere Ansichten historischer Bilder-Ehren, Bilder-Schmähungen und angeblicher Bilderängste. Der englische Kunsthistoriker Herbert Read hat dazu folgendes Bonmot für die Entstehung von Kunst in die Welt gesetzt: „Im Anfang war das Bild“. 2 Damit zitiert er indirekt den Beginn oder das Initium des Johannes-Evangeliums: „In principio erat Verbum, et Verbum erat apud Deum, et Deus erat Verbum“. Das Sprachspiel Reads suggeriert die kulturkritische Austauschbarkeit von Wort und Bild und damit eine Verschiebung der abendländischen Hierarchie der Sinne, wenn man zum Beispiel im Französischen an die Bedeutung von „les mots“ denkt. Dies legt zunächst die in unserer Wissenskultur allemal lateinische Bildungserinnerung nahe, nämlich „Verbum“ als das gesprochene und geschriebene Wort im Sinne der grammatischen Verfaßtheit unserer Sprache. Der griechische Urtext des Originalzitats enthält jedoch dafür den Begriff des „Logos“. Das aber heißt im Verständnis seiner hellenistischen Autoren zuvorderst und besonders in diesem Zusammenhang „Vernunft, Geist, Gedanke,

1

2

Erweitertes Vortragsmanuskript, gehalten im Rahmen der Tagung „Schandbilder. Infamie, Diffamierung und die Ethik der oeconomia“ am Kunsthistorischen Institut in Florenz. Eine ausführliche Diskussion des Themas siehe Brückner, Wolfgang: Bildnis und Brauch. Studien zur Bildfunktion der Effigies. Berlin 1966; ders.: Mannequins. Von Modepuppen, Tragegestellen, Scheinleibern, Schandbildern und Wachs­­­ figuren. In: Traumwelt der Puppen, Kat. v. Barbara Kraft. München 1991, S. 1–2 4. Zuletzt erschienen: ders.: Bilddenken. Mensch und Magie oder Mißverständnisse der Moderne. Münster u. Berlin 2013. Herbert Edward Read: Icon and Idea. The function of Art in the Development of Human Conciousness. London 1955 (dt. Bild und Idee, Köln 1961).

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Weltseele“, dem, jetzt wieder mit Read gesprochen, das Bildhafte angeblich vorausgeht. Bild ist für Read daher gar nicht das Oberste und Erste, sondern der evolutionistisch gedachte Frühzustand, also ein entwicklungsgeschichtlicher Nucleus, aus dem der eigentliche Verstand erst noch erwachsen muß. Die Hierarchie lautet mithin bei ihm weiter wie bis dato: prima le parole, dopo la musica oder hier l‘ immagine. Übrigens noch zu jenem Operntitel die Beobachtung, daß auf den Theaterzetteln des 18. und frühen 19. Jahrhunderts typischerweise der Librettist oben auf stand und nicht der als dienend verstandene Komponist, der darum nur nebenbei Erwähnung fand. Für Reads Anschauung der Welt oder Schau auf die Welt läßt sich für uns daraus lesen, daß er einerseits die calvinische Alleinstellung des Bilderverbots im Dekalog als eigenes 2. Gebot (anders als bei Katholiken und Lutheranern) internalisiert hat und andererseits aus der darwinschen Evolutionsidee eine entwicklungsgeschichtliche Abfolge vom unterstellt verstandesmäßig Einfachen zum angenommen vernunftmäßig Differenzierten mitdenkt. Daß Neurophysiologie und Kognitionsforschung heute ein generelles Bilddenken in unseren Köpfen postulieren, macht deutlich, wie weit in den Wissenschaften C. P. Snow’s „Two Cultures“ der Sciences und der Humaniora auseinander driften, denn nichts ist bloß ins Wort gebannt und dort gefangen, wie von allen Bilderfeinden durch die letzten Zweijahrtausende behauptet. In den Geistes- und Kulturwissenschaften haben Wortverdinglichung und Schriftfetischismus das Bilddenken gering geachtet oder gar ausgeblendet und zwar in der Nachfolge von vergangenen religiösen Überzeugungen und Kontroversen. Heute jedoch sind in den meisten Disziplinen die drei Sprachen der menschlichen Kommunikation bewußt: Wort, Bild, Gebärde (im weitesten Sinne) oder: die Sprache des Schriftlichen, die Sprache des Optischen und die Sprache des Performativen, im Deutschen leicht zu merken durch den Stabreim: Gerede, Gebilde, Gebaren. Um 1900 existierte neben den genannten Bildungsübereinkünften noch ein drittes Denkschema oder Theorie-Paradigma, das den Fremdheitserfahrungen des Kolonialismus entstammte und das wir heute einen ersten ethnological turn nennen dürfen, übrigens auch wiederum angelsächsischer Herkunft. Ich meine Edward B. Tylor’s und James G. Frazer’s Konstrukt vom „primitiven“ Menschen auf prälogischer Entwicklungsstufe, aus welcher Anschauung sich eine weltgeschichtliche Trias des Fortschreitens von Magie über Religion zur Wissenschaft vorstellen ließ. Schon vor den englischen Anthropologen und ihren weltweiten Feldbeobachtungen hatten die Altphilologen Texte und Realien der antiken Welt in ähnlicher Weise zu interpretieren begonnen, weil es da literarische Überlieferungen von geistigen Auseinandersetzungen um Phänomene magischer Praktiken und zauberischer Gewohnheiten gab, später gefolgt von kirchlichen Kontroversen und der fiktionalen Literatur der jüngsten Jahrhunderte.

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Deren sich ausweitender Fundus erhielt im ersten Drittel des 19. Jahrhunderts durch Jacob Grimms theoretische Weihe mythologischer Rekonstruktionen einen ganz neuen Impetus. Gegenwartszeugnisse seien Reste vorgeschichtlicher Überlieferungen, damit jüngste Quellen von ältestem Wissen. Für Italien und damit für die mitteleuropäische Kunstwissenschaft bildete dies ein verführerisches Theorem. Jacob Burckhardt machte den Anfang in seinem berühmten Werk „Die Kultur der Renaissance in Italien. Ein Versuch“ (1.  Auflage Basel 1860). Es gibt im 6., dem letzten „Abschnitt“ zu „Sitte und Reli­ gion“ ein Kapitel „Die Religion im täglichen Leben“, dem man als Motto voranstellen könnte, was sich dort zwischendurch als Parenthese findet: „In Italien aber kam auf dem Lande noch dies und jenes vor, worin sich ein bewußter Rest heidnischen Glaubens gar nicht verkennen ließ“.3 In diesem Umkreis heißt es dann: „Diejenigen Seiten des populären Katholizismus, wo er sich dem antiken, heidnischen Anrufen, Beschenken und Versöhnen der Götter anschließt, haben sich im Bewußtsein des Volkes auf das hartnäckigste festgesetzt“. 4 Dazu bot Burckhardt u.a. folgendes Beispiel: „Welche Begriffe machte sich das Volk von dem Werte bestimmter Madonnen als Nothelferinnen, was dachte sich jene Florentinerin, die ein Fäßchen von Wachs als ex voto nach der Annunziata stiftete, weil ihr Geliebter, ein Mönch, allmählich ein Fäßchen Wein bei ihr austrank, ohne daß der abwesende Gemahl es bemerkte“.5 Diese Erzählung wird also für ein realgeschichtliches Zeugnis ausgegeben, was doch, den Fazetien des Sacchetti entnommen, stereotypes literarisches Genre seit Boccaccio war, nämlich die Erfindung besonders skurriler Schwankmotive, hier aus dem gut bezeugten „Sitz im Leben“ der Geschichtengattung, nämlich innerbetrieblicher Theologenspott aus den Vorzimmern des Vatikans, wie von Poggio an Ort und Stelle notiert. Burckhardt handelt im 4. Kapitel jenes Schlußteils über die „Verflechtung von antikem und neuerem Aberglauben“. Mit der Benutzung des von der Aufklärung zum obszönen Schreckgespenst ausgerufenen Begriff des „Afterglaubens“, wie durch Kant formuliert, befinden wir uns im zentralen Kampfjargon gegen Religion und Kirchen, denn bei der theologisch genau umschriebenen superstitio handelt es sich zunächst um ein Phänomen der religiösen Bußpraxis und der innerkirchlichen Ketzermarkierung falschen Glaubens aus der Sicht des jeweils dogmatisierten Bekenntnisses. „Antiker (oder gar altorientalischer) Aberglaube“ müßte dann von antiker Religion geschieden werden können, meint aber seither bei uns alle nicht-europäischen Denk- und Verhaltensweisen, so daß wir inzwischen sowohl wissenssoziologisch, wie ideologiekritisch oder kon3 4 5

Burckhardt, Jacob: Die Kultur der Renaissance in Italien. Ein Versuch. Stuttgart 1958 (1. Aufl. Basel 1860), S. 455. Ibid., S. 454. Ibid., S. 454ff.

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struktivistisch von der ethnozentrischen Brille bisheriger Forschungen sprechen. Assyriologen und Ägyptologen gebrauchen daher in ihren Diskursen seit jüngster Zeit die Begriffe Religion und Magie möglichst selten oder nur mit kräftig artikuliertem Vorbehalt. 6 Das war um 1900 ganz anders, als jeder Gebildete seinen Jacob Burckhardt kannte, der übrigens 1884 einen Vortrag zu den Anathemen, den „Weihegeschenken der Alten“, hinterlassen hat, die er als Opfer definierte und für eine „Kunstsitte“ ausgab.7 Deshalb hört sich nach dem bisher Gesagten ein anderer Text von damals höchst verräterisch an. Ich zitiere Aby Warburg aus dem Jahre 1902: „In dem Weihegeschenke an heilige Bilder hatte die katholische Kirche, in weltdurchschauender Erkenntnis, den bekehrten Heiden eine legitime Entladungsform für den unausrottbaren religiösen Urtrieb belassen, dem Göttlichen in der faßbaren Form des menschlichen Abbildes sich in eigener Person oder im Abbilde annähern zu können. Die Florentiner, Nachkommen der heidnisch abergläubischen Etrusker, haben nun diesen Bildzauber in krassester Form gepflegt und bis ins 17. Jahrhundert kultiviert“. 8 Er tituliert die „so lange fortdauernde barbarische Sitte … der moderigen Schneiderpracht“ als „Panoptikum“ und „fetischistischen Wachsbildzauber“ jener „romanischen Heiden“. In jüngster Zeit ist Susann Waldmann dem Florentiner Phänomen näher nachgegangen und hat moderne sozialgeschichtliche Interpretationen erschlossen.9 Um 1630 befanden sich in der SS. Annunziata 600 lebensgroße boti. Es war der Zeitpunkt, da deren Blüte zu Ende ging und das dortige Votivwesen nicht mehr den damals modernen „Kriterien der Kunst“ unterlag. „Die hohe botiKunst existierte nur ein knappes Jahrhundert. Sie entwickelte sich in jenem Zeitraum, als die bürgerliche Gesellschaft begann, den sakralen Raum als eine repräsentative Öffentlichkeit zu erkennen; sie hatte ihre Blüte um 1500 und erlosch wieder, als die lebensgroße Porträtfigur in Wachs den repräsentativen Charakter nicht mehr erfüllen konnte. Der künstlerische Anspruch an die Wachsvotive ging mit dem sinkenden Interesse der ‚Nobilità‘ zurück, sich in Wachs abbilden zu lassen“. 10 Soweit die nüchtern sozialgeschichtliche Analyse.

  6 So z.B. Assmann, Jan u. Strohm, Harald (Hg.): Magie und Religion (= Lindauer Symposien für Religionsforschung 1). München 2010.   7 Burckhardt, Jacob: Kulturgeschichtliche Vorträge. Stuttgart 1959, S. 174–189.   8 Warburg, Aby: Bildniskunst und Florentinisches Bürgertum (1902). In: ders.: Gesammelte Schriften I. Leipzig 1932, S. 89–126 u. 340–352.   9 Waldmann, Susann: Die lebensgroße Wachsfigur (= Schriften aus dem Institut für Kunstgeschichte der Universität München 49). München 1990, hier das Kapitel „Die Wachsvotive der SS. Annunziata in Florenz.“, S. 20–43. 10 Ibid., S. 43.

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Ihr an die Seite stellen darf man Hugo van der Veldens Aufgreifen der heutigen volkskundlichen Weihegaben-Interpretation nach der kommunikationstheoretischen Analyse von Lenz Kriss-Rettenbeck als religiöse Anheimstellungsakte unter himmlische Patrone. 11 Der niederländische Kunsthistoriker beobachtet in seiner Monographie aus dem Jahre 2000 die Stiftungstätigkeit Karls des Kühnen an Goldschmiedearbeiten des späten 15. Jahrhunderts genauer, und er leistet damit methodisch etwas, das in den theoretisierenden Kulturwissenschaften und ihren schnell wechselnden „ethnological turns“ das Performanz-Paradigma genannt wird, nämlich im vorliegenden Falle den Gesamtprozeß religiöser Interaktionen damaliger praxis pietatis in der allerhöchsten Oberschicht im Wortsinne sichtbar zu machen. 12 Dadurch aber verflüchtigen sich an diesem Punkt heutige Schreibtischvorstellungen von magischem Denken und abergläubisch-zauberischem Umgang mit Gott und der Welt. Karl der Kühne hat nicht weniger als 19 Effigies seiner Person aus edelstem Material gestiftet, jede einzelne kostspieliger als jegliche damals hochaktuelle Tafelmalerei. Damit läßt sich die Behauptung des Engländers Craig Harbison von 1995 nicht mehr aufrechterhalten, daß die goldene Statuette Herzog Karls für St. Lambert in Lüttich eine Gabe konservativen, sozusagen mittelalterlichen Geschmacks gewesen sei angesichts der längst vollzogenen „Erfindung“ und flämischen Vollendung des modernen Tafelbildes und seiner berühmten Altäre. Van der Velden argumentiert umgekehrt. Jetzt erst habe das Patriziat in billigerer, weil bloß gemalter Manier die fürstlichen Stiftungen nachahmen können, z. B. die Aufwändigkeit der Stoffe, wie schon Huizinga bemerkt hat. Es handelt sich dabei um eine ständisch niederer anzusiedelnde Form von Patronatssuche oder eben Anheimstellung. Maler und Patrizier gehörten sozusagen ständisch zusammen, dem Fürsten aber entsprach unter den Kunsthandwerkern u. a. der Goldschmied. Jacob Grimm hatte 1835 in seiner „Mythologie“ über das „Gliederaufhängen“ der Weihegeschenke zur Genesung von Krankheiten formuliert: „Diese deutsche paganie berührt sich also mit dem zauber durch wachsbilder und mit heidnischen opfern, die zwischen dem was erfleht werden soll und dem geopferten gegenstand analogie beachten“. 13 Hier sind zugleich alle vier Komponenten für jeglichen wissenschaftlichen Magieverdacht der üblichen Art mit einbezogen. Dies läßt sich festmachen an den aufgeladenen Begriffen: heiliges Wachs, weihendes

11

Kriss-Rettenbeck, Lenz: Zur Phänomenologie des Votivbrauchtums. In: Bayer. Jb. f. Volkskunde 1952, S. 75–78. Ders.: Ex Voto. Zeichen, Bild und Abbild im christlichen Votivbrauchtum Zürich 1972. 12 Van der Velden, Hugo: The Donar’s Image. Gerard Loyet and the Votiv Portraits of Charles the Bold (= Burgundica 2). Turnhout 2000. 13 Grimm, Jacob: Deutsche Mythologie, Bd. II, 4. Aufl., hg. von E.H. Meyer, Berlin 1875/78, (Reprint Tübingen 1953, Graz 1968), hier Kapitel XXXVI. „Zauber“, S. 987.

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Opfer, realistische Bildhaftigkeit, uralter Volksgebrauch. Da fiel es dem Wiener Kunsthistoriker Julius von Schlosser 1910 nicht schwer, von der „Magie des Bildnisses“, von „Atavismen“, „superstiösen Gedankenreihen“ und dergleichen, um daraus weiter zu schließen und zu behaupten, „daß der Feind am sichersten durch Bildzauber zu treffen sei“, so daß er darum die Florentiner „Prangergemälde“ zur Kategorie der fernwirksamen Bildnisse zählen konnte. 14 Dem schloss sich später im Römischen Jahrbuch mein Frankfurter Lehrer Harald Keller an, wenn auch vorsichtiger interpretiert als nur eines der wirksam werdenden Momente des doch offenbar komplexeren Phänomens. 15 Ehe wir uns diesem nähern, noch kurz etwas zur Herkunft des hier als Theoriefetisch auftauchenden Begriffs „Bildzauber“ oder „Wachsbildzauber“. Den Ausdruck verwendeten zunächst – wenn auch ganz beiläufig – Historiker, jedoch in der eindeutigen Pluralprägung „Bilder-Zauber“: so Carl Meyer 1884 als Marginalstichwort in seinem „Aberglauben des Mittelalters“16, was 1897 Hermann Grauert im „Historischen Jahrbuch“ in einer Fußnote aufgriff. 17 In demselben Jahr aber schon markierte Meyers Leipziger „Konversationslexikon“ das Stichwort Bildzauber, wenn auch inhaltlich noch nicht anthropologisch ausgeweitet, wie in allen späteren Artikeln der diversen Konversationslexika, jenen Seismographen bildungsbürgerlichen Meinungswissens. 18 Der „Meyer“ benannte vorerst nur abergläubische Praktiken aus der Wende vom 13. zum 14. Jahrhundert. Über die Fachwörterbücher jedoch wurde Bildzauber schnell Allgemeingut in den fachwissenschaftlichen Diskursen. Im ethnologischen Gebrauchszusammenhang der Sachbeschreibungen und Sinndeutungen erlangte der Terminus und sein Interpretamentcharakter Standardformat, so daß in einer hochangesehenen Berliner Akademie-Edition des Jahres 1958 zu volkstümlichen Zaubertexten mit bildlichen Anweisungen u.a. folgendes ex cathedra formuliert werden konnte: „Aller Bildzauber beruht in seinen Uranfängen auf der primären und primitiven Überzeugung, daß das Bild als Doppelgänger des Dargestellten in vollem Umfang auch dessen Kräfte enthalte, so daß sich im Sympathiezauber eine unge14 Schlosser, Julius von: Geschichte der Porträtbildnerei in Wachs. Ein Versuch. In: Jahrbuch der kunsthistorischen Sammlungen, 29, 3 (1910/11), S. 171–258. Neudruck hg. v. Thomas Medicus mit umfangr. Nachwort: Tote Blicke. Geschichte der Porträtbildnerei in Wachs. Ein Versuch (= Acta humaniora). Berlin 1993. 15 Keller, Harald: Die Entstehung des Bildnisses am Ende des Hochmittelalters, in: Römisches Jahrbuch für Kunstgeschichte, 1939, 3, S. 227–356, zum „Bildzauber“ S. 284ff. 16 Meyer, Carl: Der Aberglaube des Mittelalters. Basel 1884, S. 261f. 17 Grauert, Hermann: Neue Dante-Forschungen, in: Historisches Jahrbuch, 1897, 18, S. 58–87, hier S. 72ff. und 87. 18 Meyers Konversations-Lexikon. Ein Nachschlagewerk des allgemeinen Wissens. 5., gänzlich neubearbeitete Auflage. Leipzig und Wien 1897.

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störte Wechselwirkung zwischen dem realen Gegenstand, dem Vorbilde, und seinem Abbild vollzieht“. 19 Gewisse ethnologische Theoretiker interessiert demnach die Frage, ob nach einer spekulativen Ontologie Abbilder der essentiellen Teilhabe am Abgebildeten fähig seien, nur insoweit, als dies brauchbar erscheint für die Frage nach der erkenntnistheoretisch verflachten Konstruktion vom primitiven Geistesvermögen, das in prälogischem Zustand dem Identifikationszwang von Abbild und Abgebildeten verfalle, auch ohne daß dabei sinnliche Illusionen eine große Rolle spielen, weil sozusagen „fotografisches“ Sehen oder eine vollendet veristische Kunst seltene historische Sonderentwicklungen darstellen. Der Bildzauber wird daher als eine Form der Analogiemagie verstanden und zu den menschlichen Urgedanken gezählt. Ihm liege – so sagt die ältere und inzwischen längst überholte Theorie – der feste Glaube zugrunde, daß das vornehmlich plastische Bild des Menschen qua Bild im Bewußtsein der Gelehrten wie der Gesamtbevölkerung magisch wirksam werden könne. Diese imaginierten Theorie-Vorstellungen sind auch in rechtsgeschichtliche Hypothesen eingegangen, so daß die sogenannte Bildnisstrafe hypothetische Erklärungen aus anthropologischen Evolutionsvorstellungen beziehen konnte. Ich darf hier kurz aus meinen bisherigen Studien unter dem Stichwort Bildnisstrafe das weite Feld kategorisieren und dabei nicht chronologisch vorgehen, sonst entstehen wiederum potentielle evolutionistische Entwicklungslinien. Ich möchte vielmehr von der Frühen Neuzeit ausgehen, woher, meiner Ansicht nach, das ausgebaute (und eben nicht nachhinkende oder mitgeschleppte) strafrechtliche Phänomen samt Fachbegriff executio in effigie herstammt. Die Bildnisstrafe ist keine Eigentümlichkeit des deutschen Rechts und läßt sich darum auch nur in europäischem Zusammenhang verstehen. Die gesetzlichen Formulierungen deutscher Kriminalordnungen lauten: Strafe am Bildnis im Unterschied zur Straffe am Cörper (1717), Leibesstrafe an seinem Bildnisse (1794), im Bildnis vollzogene Strafe (1809). Die lateinischen Entsprechungen der Jurisprudenz dieser Zeit heißen: poena imaginaria, poena repraesentativa oder executio in effigie (1677 und 1787) auch figurata executio (1758). Alle Begriffe bezeichnen die Scheinhinrichtung mit Hilfe eines Porträts des Delinquenten. Der heute geläufigste lateinische Terminus executio in effigie hat die Vorstellung einer festen Institution klassischen Alters aufkommen lassen. Diese neulateinische Bildung war jedoch, wie die Sache selbst, Antike und Mittelalter völlig unbekannt. Die französische und englische Entsprechungen in effigie leitet sich seit dem 16. Jahrhundert davon ab, und erst im 17. Jahrhundert folgten gesetzliche Fixierungen. 19 Spamer, Adolf: Romanusbüchlein. Hist.-philolog. Kommentar zu einem deutschen Zauberbuch. Aus seinem Nachlaß bearbeitet von Johanna Nickel (= Veröff. d. Instituts f. deutsche Volkskunde 17). Berlin 1958, S. 267.

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Es müssen daher zeitlich und räumlich klar geschieden werden: 1. Das altrömische Bildnisrecht und dessen strafrechtliche Möglichkeiten der Bildnisvernichtung und des Bildnisverbotes als gerichtlich erkannte Strafmaßnahmen gegen Staatsfeinde (hostes). 2. Der Denkmalssturz. Er setzt die rechtliche Bedeutung des römischen Kaiserbildes oder den modernen Denkmalbegriff der öffentlichen Großplastik voraus und erweist sich damit als ebenso zeitgebunden wie differenziert. 3. Die jahreszeitlichen Brauchspiele Mitteleuropas mit dem Verbrennen lebensgroßer Puppen oder deren Ertränken, Aufhängen etc. stammen aus spätmittelalterlicher Zeit. Sekundäre Politisierungen und späte konfessionelle Umbiegungen lassen keine urtümliche „Volksjustiz“ erkennen, sondern belegen jüngere Abhängigkeiten. 4. Sonderfälle von ,,abbildenden Strafen“, bildlicher Dokumentation von Hochgerichtskompetenzen, bildunterstützten Restitutionsförmlichkeiten und Sühnebrauch haben nichts mit der executio in effigie zu tun. In der Literatur bisweilen genannte Beispiele sind leicht durchschaubar und sollten m.A.n. ausgeklammert werden. 5. Vertragsmäßig zugestandene bildliche Ehrverletzungen als privatrechtliches Instrumentarium der öffentlichen Ehrenschelte. Sie stellt eine im spätmittelalterlichen Mitteleuropa auftauchende Form von Verpfändungen der ritterlichen Wappenehre gegen freizügige Gefangenschaft dar, welche in die Schmäh- und Scheltklauseln des vertragsmäßigen Obligationenrechts gedrungen ist. Dieser private Rechtsbehelf gegenüber Standespersonen gestattete seit dem 14. Jahrhundert bis zu den reichsgesetzlichen Verboten des 16. Jahrhunderts neben anderen Zwangsmitteln den damals wirksamen Versuch der Schuldeintreibung durch bisweilen sogar gedruckte Schandbriefe mit drastischen ehrenrührigen Schmähbildern auf die Standesehre des oder mehrerer Betroffenen, jedoch wichtig – nicht auf Leib und Leben. 6. Davon unterschieden sind in Oberitalien die pitture infamanti als bildlich unterstützte Achtspromulgationen vornehmlich des 13. bis 15. Jahrhunderts. Sie stellen als ehrverletzende öffentliche Schandfresken vornehmlich des entwichenen Hochverräters, also des Feindes der Res publica wie aber auch des flüchtigen Bankrotteurs ein Zwangsmittel im Vollstreckungsrecht dar, jedenfalls kein Strafmittel peinlicher Gerichtsbarkeit. Das sich mit der Rezeption des römischen Rechts wandelnde Schuldrecht bedurfte bald der Strafacht nicht mehr. Jedoch konnte das Schandbild in wenigen hochpolitischen Sonderfällen – dazu außerhalb der gesetzlichen Regelungen – zur formalen Vorstufe der am plastischen Bildnis demonstrativ vollzogenen Exekution werden. Andererseits lebte die bei den Kommunen erprobte bildliche Ehrloserklärung gegen die Kampfseiten wechselnden Condottieri bei den Söldnerheeren der Neuzeit wieder auf.

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7. Namensanschlag, Deserteursblech und gemaltes Brustbild am hohen Kriegsgalgen kennt das mitteleuropäische Militärstrafrecht vom 17. bis ins 19. Jahr­ ­hundert hinein, jedoch nicht als Ersatz für verwirkte Leibesstrafen des Fahnenflüchtigen, sondern als abschreckende und tilgbare Ehrenstrafe adeliger Herkunft, vergleichbar der Edictalcitation (anders hingegen der Steckbrief ). Ähnliche Zusammenhänge offenbaren: 8. Die Bestimmungen der scharfen Duellmandate seit dem späten 17. Jahrhunderts, die bei Todesfolge für den flüchtigen Überlebenden Bildnisanschlag am öffentlichen Schandpfahl (ALR 1794) vorsahen, in Sachsen auch bei unblutigem Ausgang für beide Duellanten Bildnisanschlag am Galgen (1712). 9. Die bildliche Unterstützung des Strafvollzugs an Leichen ist eine Erfindung der spanischen Inquisition seit 1481 für die Notwendigkeiten des auto da fé. Das war die feierliche Feststellungsveröffentlichung der jeweils Inquirierten, nämlich a) Nichtbetroffene, b) bußfertige und c) gnadenlose Ketzer. Der weltliche Arm verbrannte daraufhin neben den Verdammten der letzten Kategorie entsprechend gekennzeichnete Mannequins flüchtiger Verdächtiger, wie auch die Bilder verstorbener Angeklagter samt deren Gebeinen. Dies ist m.A.n. entwicklungsgeschichtlich eine der Hauptwurzeln der barocken executio in effigie. Zum einen herrscht das reine Abschreckungsmotiv vor, denn prozeßrechtlich vermochte mit solchen Akten nichts präjudiziert zu werden, zum anderen gehören Bildnis und Leiche so eng zusammen, daß der Sinn solcher Bilder nicht in magischer Vernichtungspraktik gesucht werden darf. Darüber hinaus ist auch die Leichenbestrafung eine Frucht der Ketzerverfolgungen bei allen Konfessionen. In Italien kommt ihr nicht selten die Bezeichnung executio in effigie zu, weil die Strafe in der Tat nur noch bildlich vollstreckbar blieb. Auf Sizilien heißt es darum im 17. Jahrhundert bei eindeutiger Bildnishinrichtung condonna in statua, auch in Frankreich im 16. Jahrhundert zunächst par figure, erst im 17. Jahrhundert par effigie. 10. Der vollinstitutionalisierte hochgerichtliche Strafvollzug in effigie bei Majestätsverbrechen setzt den durchgebildeten Inquisitionsprozeß in contumaciam, das heißt in Abwesenheit voraus. Daß er gesetzlich nur für das vom Gottesgnadentum verabsolutierte crimen laesae maiestatis vorgesehen war, wirft ein bezeichnendes Licht auf seine Herkunft und zeitliche Ausbildung, was mit dem terminologischen Befund korrespondiert. Während in Deutschland der Strafrechtscodex „Carolina“ noch keine Strafe am Bildnis kannte, verhängte zur gleichen Zeit das Parlament von Paris als oberstes Königsgericht in der 2. Hälfte des 16. Jahrhunderts gegen flüchtige Majestätsverbrecher öffentliche Scheinhinrichtungen, wenngleich sie auch hier erst im 17. Jahrhundert als kodifiziertes Recht greifbar werden und von da ab in alle mitteleuropäischen Strafrechtsgesetzgebungen eingedrungen sind, z. B.: Ordonnance pour les matières criminelles 1670,

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Dänisches und Norwegisches Gesetzbuch Christians V. 1683 und 1687, Brandenburgisches Duelledikt 1688, Sächsisches Duellmandat 1712, Brandenburgische Criminalordnung 1717, Preußisches Landrecht 1721, Theresiana 1768, Allgemeines Preußisches Landrecht 1794–1848, Badisches Landrecht 1809 etc. In der Praxis unterscheiden sich die Exekutionseffigies von Schandbildern nicht durch die plastische Gestaltung, sondern allein in der realistischen Handhabung tatsächlichen Strafvollzugs an öffentlicher Hinrichtungsstätte. Dies konnte sowohl mit Hilfe gemalter Bildnisse als auch vollplastischer Puppen geschehen. Die Niederlande kannten im 18. Jahrhundert neben gemalten Delinquentenbildnissen in der Art der für Kriegsgalgen verwendeten Plakate auch gemalte schändliche Darstellungen des gesamten Vorgangs (selbst leichterer Leibesstrafen oder mögliche Kumulationen) zum Anschlag am Rathaus. Außerhalb solch später bürgerlicher Sonderbildung und der allgemeiner Militärgerichtspraxis entwickelte sich die Großform der executio in effigie bei Scheinvollstreckungen von Majestäts- und Hochverratssentenzen. Hatten sich die spanischen Inquisitionsbehörden in Verfolgung von Blasphemie und Häresie noch mit andeutenden halblebensgroßen Pappmaché-Puppen auf Stangen, bei Massenabfertigungen sogar mit janusköpfigen Doppelfiguren begnügt, so baute man in Frankreich zu Ende des 16. Jahrhunderts ankleidbare strohgestopfte Mannequins mit realistischem Kopf (etwa des Admiral Coligny), woraus hundert Jahre später am dänischen Hofe – in unmittelbarer Übernahme aus Frankreich – veristische Wachseffigies von blutiger Lebendigkeit werden sollten (1661/63). Sie vermochten nicht allein die Hinzurichtenden in Kleidung, Physiognomie und Extremitäten naturgetreu nachzuahmen, sondern waren beweglich, mit Tiergedärm und Blut gefüllt, darum sogar vierteilbar und ausstellungsfähig wie Leichen nach der Exekution. Erst hier in rationalistischer Zeit begegnet das von modernen Theoretikern berufene Magie-Indiz des Verismus vollausgebildet im Substitut von duplizierender Abbildlichkeit. Mit diesem Endprodukt der Entwicklung war auch die allgemeine Anerkennung und Institutionalisierung erreicht, wie die gesetzlichen Festlegungen lehren. Bezeichnenderweise setzte zur gleichen Zeit die wissenschaftliche Diskussion der Jurisprudenz, aber auch der historischen Wissenschaften an den deutschen Universitäten ein und brachte eine Flut von Disputationen zum Thema Bildnisund Leichenstrafe hervor, die sich später dem verfahrensrechtlichen Kern der Institution zuwandte, nämlich dem Strafprozeß in contumaciam, das heißt bei Abwesenheit des Angeklagten. Erst mit dem Ende des auf dem Inquisitionsverfahren beruhenden Kontumazialprozeß wurde nach 1848 auch in Mitteleuropa die Bildnisstrafe abgeschafft. An bewegenden Motiven und zeitgeschichtlichen Hintergründen des sehr unterschiedlichen Bildnisgebrauchs historischer Strafvollzugspraktiken schälen

Bild-Ehre, Bild-Schande, Bild-Ängste

sich heraus: a) Eine zeitlose, aber darum keineswegs magische Komponente, nämlich die Aktivierung bildlicher und performativer, sprich spielmäßiger Ausdrucksmittel im Rechtsleben überhaupt. – b) Der ständisch geprägte Ehrbegriff des abendländischen Mittelalters. – c) Die Demonstration der gottbezogenen und majestätsgebundenen Staatsräson im europäischen Herrschaftsverständnis und dessen Repräsentanz in der Person des Monarchen zwischen der Reformation und den bürgerlichen Revolutionen. 11. Zu den Schandbildern hinzugezählt werden können noch bestimmte Formen der Karikatur seit der Erfindung des Buchdrucks und der damit verbundenen Entwicklung des illustrierten Flugblattes für die Meinungsmache, Konfessionspolemik, Parteipolitik. In jüngster Zeit haben die Mohamed-Karikaturen in einer dänischen Tageszeitung geradezu weltbewegende Folgen gehabt. Das Phänomen darf wegen ihrer Drastik dem „Bilderkampf der Reformation“ verglichen werden, als sich Luther selbst daran beteiligte und Lucas Cranach den Papst nicht nur als Antichristen schmähte, sondern sein Amtssymbol, die Tiara, bildlich als Abort für jedermann im Holzschnitt darstellte. Das gemahnt an die damals üblichen Schmähbriefe aufgrund von Schuldverschreibungen, von denen gerade die Rede war, und wo z. B. unter dem Schwanz einer Sau gesiegelt wurde. Derartige Fäkalien-Motive des 16. Jahrhunderts liefen in der wissenschaftlichen Forschung des 19. Jahrhunderts unter der euphemistischen Bezeichnung „Zeitalter des Grobianismus“. Doch das eignete schließlich noch dem 17. Jahrhundert in der hohen Literatur. Tiefenpsychologen sprechen gerne von der kindlichen Analphase des Humors und der Satire. Der große und überaus ernste schlesische Dichter Andreas Gryphius wußte für seine Commedia dell’arte „Horribilicribrifax Teutsch“ 1663 als zündendsten Lacher immer noch solche Bilder zu bemühen, indem er z. B. den bramarbasierenden Capitano brüllen läßt: „Ich will dein Maul unter ein Scheißhaus nageln“. – Wie weit libelli famosi, Pasquillen oder optische Karikaturen beim Schmähen und Schande Produzieren jeweils gehen dürfen, entscheidet der sogenannte Zeitgeist oder der unterschiedlich fortschreitende „Prozeß der Zivilisation“. So hat Norbert Elias die gesellschaftliche Bändigung von Gefühlswallungen und öffentlichen affektiven Verhaltens bis hin zum vornehmen Understatement bezeichnet. 20 Karikaturen an sich sind daher nur bedingt Schandbilder. 12. Wann werden Fotos zu Schandbildern? Die bewußte Verletzung der bei uns verfassungsmäßig geschützten Intimsphäre des einzelnen Bürgers, die im Zeitalter der gerichtsnotorischen Verhandlungen über Bildpublikationen in Pres20 Elias, Norbert: Über den Prozeß der Zivilisation. Soziogenetische und psychogenetische Untersuchungen. Bd. I. Wandlungen des Verhaltens in den weltlichen Oberschichten des Abendlandes. 2. Bd. Wandlungen der Gesellschaft. Entwurf zu einer Theorie der Zivilisation. Bern 1969 (Vorwort 1936).

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se und Internet bekannt sind, besteht für sogenannte VIPs (= very important persons) durch die Paparazzi, die berufsmäßigen Fotojäger der Journaille. Dabei gibt es ungeschriebene Gesetze wie in England, daß die Queen im öffentlichen Foto nicht ungezwungen in privaten Gemächern auftauchen darf und daß der öffentliche Hochzeitskuß von Royals auf dem Balkon des Buckingham-Palace nur für die Medien stattfindet, sozusagen für die Nation unter Aufsicht aus aller Welt. Es gibt also Bilder, die Schande machen könnten, weil es die geltende Etikette so will. Für die Möglichkeit des grundsätzlichen Wandels existiert in Deutschland ein treffliches Beispiel aus den zwanziger Jahren des vorigen Jahrhunderts. Monarchisten suchten der nach dem verlorenen Weltkrieg weithin ungeliebten Weimarer Republik von Anfang an immer wieder am Zeug zu flicken. So gab es bei deren Beginn sofort einen riesigen Presserummel um das Auftauchen eines privaten Fotos des Reichspräsidenten Ebert in Badehose statt in Badeanzug im Kreise von weiteren männlichen Badegästen während eines Kinderheimbesuchs an der Ostsee. Dies geschah im Jahre 1919 noch vor seiner Vereidigung als Reichspräsident. Der für nackt ausgegebene Ersatzkaiser desavouierte angeblich die Würde des höchsten Staatsamtes, so daß sich manche Zeitgenossen überhaupt nicht mehr einkriegten und bestimmte Kreise eine andauernde Schmutzkampagne mit Hilfe des leicht zu manipulierenden Fotos führten. Das Historikerurteil lautet: „Ebert in Badehose wurde das wirkungsvollste, weil pöbelhafteste Argument gegen die Republik“. 21 Wer später die Bundestags-Wahlkämpfe von Willy Brandt mit wachen Augen verfolgt hat, wird sich daran erinnern, daß es von dessen attraktiver Gestalt Fotos in Badehose gab, wie er gerade in ein Schwimmbecken hinuntersteigt. Es dürfte ihm noch mehr Frauenstimmen zugeführt haben, als er ohnehin schon erhielt, wie man weiß. Da war also etwas passiert innerhalb eines halben Jahrhunderts, nämlich sowohl die Akzeptanz von badenden Politikern in der Öffentlichkeit als auch die wertende Botschaft entsprechender Fotos: das eine Mal bildhaftes Zeichen sogenannter Unwürdigkeit, das andere Mal bildhaftes Versprechen eines Heros, so zur Zeit von Russlands Dauerherrscher Putin ständig in halbnackter Sportlerpose inszeniert. „Bild-Ehre, Bild-Schande, Bild-Ängste“ ist mein Vortrag überschrieben, „Bild-Schande“ lautet das Thema unseres Workshops. Darum darf ich die „BildEhre“ nur noch kurz streifen, damit wir uns vergewissern, wann und wo BildÄngste entwickelt worden sind, denn das müßte doch mit dem Vorhandensein von Bildnisdenkmälern aller Art in irgendeinem Zusammenhang stehen, von dessen Deutungsmöglichkeiten wir zu Beginn schon gehört haben. Wo es öffentliche Porträtbildnereien und allgemein zugängliche Porträtmalereien gab und

21 Roth, Joseph: Werke, Bd. I. Das journalistische Werk, 1915–1923. Köln 1989, S. 1056f.

Bild-Ehre, Bild-Schande, Bild-Ängste

gibt, müssten die eigentlichen Ängste über Bildmissbrauch ausgehen, denn wo wäre eine Person näher greif bar als in der veristischen Repräsentation. Horst Bredekamp hat daher 1993/95 von „Repräsentation und Bildmagie der Renaissance als Formproblem“ gehandelt. 22 Dort sucht er jeweils Hinweise auf ein verallgemeinerbares Verständnis der Zweikörperlehre des Mittelalters, die der Historiker Ernst Kantorowicz für das Herrschaftszeremoniell aus der Korporationstheorie abgeleitet hatte. Bredekamp setzt sich in seiner Einleitung von dem Bildzauberverdacht der bisherigen Literatur ab und beobachtet daher u. a. sehr genau Lorenzo de’Medicis „Wachseffigies“ nach dem Attentat der Pazzi, wie er im Unterschied zu „veristischem Votiv“ formuliert, nämlich den „zwei Körpern des Herrschers“. So konstruiert er bei Botticellis Schandgemälde „Die zwei Körper des Mörders“, während er in einem weiteren Falle nur von „Fresko als Zwangsmittel“ spricht, also von der adeligen Ehrenschändung. Wie weit allerdings die Zweikörpertheorie von Kantorowicz getrieben werden darf, steht auf einem anderen Blatt. 23 Bredekamp sprach zehn Jahre später, 2006, selbst vom „Mysterium der Repräsentation“, wiederum in Anlehnung an Kantorowicz über die Königswürde. 2 4 Bredekamp sieht damit ein zentrales Element vormodernen symbolischen Denkens charakterisiert gegenüber der aufkommenden naturwissenschaftlichen „Berechenbarkeit der Welt“. In seinen Schlußüberlegungen 1993/95 behauptet er über „Die Triebkraft der Formen“ überraschenderweise, „daß die Bildformen darüber entschieden, ob einem Kunstwerk eine repräsentative oder bildmagische Funktion zuwuchs“ und „daß sich diese Zuordnung je nach Situation zu ändern vermochte“, sozusagen ein Oszillieren zwischen zwei inneren Zuständen existierte. 25 Solche Wirkungen seien sogar heute noch in der Mediengesellschaft zu erfahren, nämlich „die bildmagische Aufhebung der Grenze zwischen Bild und Tat“, womit er den aktuellen Streit um die Wechselwirkung von TV-Bildern und jugendlicher Gewalt anspricht. Zugleich setzt er der theoretisch möglichen, und, wie ich finde, weiterhin notwendigen Abwehr der zauberischen Vorstellungen für den historischen Befund entgegen: „Wenn die historische Praxis der Schandbilder dazu 22 Bredekamp, Horst: Repräsentation und Bildmagie der Renaissance als Formproblem. Zwei Bildsphären der Frühen Neuzeit (= Themenband der Siemens-Stiftung 61). München 1995. Siehe zuletzt auch ders.: Theorie des Bildakts. Frankfurter Adorno-Vorlesungen 2007. Berlin 2010. 23 Hierzu Geschichtskörper. Zur Aktualität von Ernst H. Kantorowicz. Hrsg. von Ernst, Wolfgang und Cornelia Vismann. München 1998. 2 4 Visuelle Argumentationen. Die Mysterien der Repräsentation und die Berechenbarkeit der Welt. Hrsg. von Bredekamp, Horst u. Pablo Schneider. München 2006, S. 7–10. 25 Bredekamp 1995 (wie Anm. 22), S. 65f.

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tendierte, Repräsentation in Realpräsenz [hier sprich: Ergreifung des Delinquenten] übergehen zu lassen, so erscheinen die gegenwärtigen Hinweise von philosophischer und konstruktivistischer Seite, daß die Sicherheit, zwischen der Welt der bewegten Bilder [heute] und dem Leben zu unterscheiden, eine bloß eingebildete sei, als eine neue Variante der Versuche, die Grenze zwischen dem Visuellen und dem Haptischen aufzuheben“. 26 Das bedeutete eine „Kapitulation vor der Übermacht des Bildmediums“ [unserer Tage] und ließe auf Dauer unsere „hochtechnisierten Gesellschaften tiefer in Bildmagie verfallen als irgendeiner ihrer Vorläufer“. 27 Soweit gewiß nicht falsch, was den Umgang mit Bildern betrifft, aber nicht nötig, dabei ständig von Bildzauber zu sprechen, wo doch zumindest historisch nur unterschiedliche Funktionen gemeint sein können. Die Unterscheidung in „repräsentative“ = darstellende Bedeutungen und in „bildmagische“ = erzwingende Funktionen wird für mich erst plausibel, wenn man die durch Interpretamente belasteten bisherigen Begriffe endlich nicht mehr benutzt. Dazu gehört auch der nun auftauchende und hier mißverständliche theologische Begriff der Realpräsenz, den der Mediävist Peter Dinzelbacher en passant, das heißt ohne schlüssige Begründung, jüngst in die Hagiographie und Geschichte der Reliquienverehrung eingeführt hat. 28 Darum zum Schluß noch eine ketzerische Formulierung zu den BildnisÄngsten. Diese passen nicht zur breiten Masse der Bevölkerung, und zwar einst und jetzt nicht, sondern diese pflegen immer schon und immer noch bestimmte, nämlich monotheistische Theologien und traditionell auf Wissenschaftsgläubigkeit fixierte, angeblich aufgeklärte Anthropologen. Das sogenannte Bilderverbot des Dekalogs bezieht sich, wie die Alttestamentler längst wissen, allein auf die Idolatrie, nämlich auf in speziellem Ritus gemachte und geweihte altorientalische Götterstatuen der Großkönigreiche. Schon Echnatons politische Erfindung des Eingottglaubens zur Einigung seines Vielvölkerstaates war notwendigerweise verbunden mit dem Sturz der Stammesgötter und deren Idole. Moses, der Ägypter, hat dieses Gebot Israel vererbt. Spätere, für uns zum extremen historischen Ende vor allem Calvin, haben daraus auf Dauer ein allgemeines Bilderverbot der Menschendarstellung in Kult und Kultur gemacht. Für historisch denkende und arbeitende Geistes- und Kulturwissenschaftler gibt es auf ihren Forschungsfeldern des sich wandelnden gesellschaftlichen Lebens keine Erkenntnisinteressen des An-sich-Seienden, über das zu spekulie26 Ibid., S. 66. 27 Ibid., S. 67. 28 Dinzelbacher, Peter: Die „Realpräsenz“ der Heiligen in ihren Reliquiaren und Gräbern nach mittelalterlichen Quellen, in: Ders.: Heiligenverehrung in Geschichte und Gegenwart. Ostfildern 1990, S. 115–174.

Bild-Ehre, Bild-Schande, Bild-Ängste

ren zwar legitim ist, jedoch nicht für unsere Humaniora des Kontingenten. Ich weiß, solche Anschauungen heißen schnell purer Relativismus. Man wird diesen Schimpf als alter Mann ertragen dürfen, solange das nicht zu Bild-Schande in einem Karikaturenstreit führt. Hier in Florenz hätten vor über einem halben Jahrtausend Boccaccio, Poggio, Sacchetti und die anderen Spötter gewiß ihren Spaß daran gehabt.

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The Ban and the Bag How Defamatory Paintings Worked in Medieval Italy

1. Powerful pictures It is not by chance that the Italian artistic genre of the Middle Ages, pittura infa­ mante, refers to a concept, infamia, strictly connected to a change in status (specifically the loss of legal and social standing). 1 The term emphasizes the paintings’ capacity to modify the fama of punished citizens. In doing so Italian defamatory paintings of the Middle Ages not only served functions such as educating people or commemorating a historical episode2 , but were also able to change the reality they were representing, assuming that there is such a power of pictures. But how

1

2

To my knowledge, the expression pittura infamante, probably influenced by the German Schandmalerei, was already known in the nineteenth century and probably before. It was introduced in modern historical debates by law historians, especially Masi, Gino: La pittura infamante nella legislazione e nella vita del comune fiorentino (sec. XII–XVI), in: Studi di diritto commerciale in onore di Cesare Vivante, Vol. 2. Ed. by Alfredo Rocco [et al.]. Roma 1931, pp. 625–657, and then diffused, in English scholarship, by : Art and the Commune in the Time of Dante, in: Speculum 19 (1944), pp. 14–33 (republished in Wieruzowski, Helene: Politics and Culture in Medieval Spain and Italy. Rome 1971, pp. 475–502). Ortalli, Gherardo: La peinture infamante du XIIIe au XVIe siècle. Paris 1994 [= Roma 1979], p. 80: “Située dans les lieux les plus exposées aux regards, habituellement sur les murs extérieurs des édifices publiques les plus importants, au centre de la ville, cette peinture devait assumer, en premier lieu, une fonction infamante. D’autres fonctions venaient inévitablement s’y ajouter, en accord avec l’intérêts des ceux qui tenaient les rênes du pouvoir et veillaient à élaborer à façonner et à guider l’opinion publique : elle pouvait en particulier porter également atteinte au status juridique du condamné (souvent par contumace), en rappelant, en en certifiant ou en provoquant l’infamie”.

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did they manage to do so? To be more specific, two things remain unclear: what exactly the fama3 implied that these pictures were called to denigrate, and why people believed in their agency. Existing answers seem to depend on general scholarly judgments about social interactions rather than from specific historical evidence. It is very difficult, for example, to decide if defamatory paintings have something to do with forms of magic. Modern historians have denied the connection: Wolfgang Brückner has criticized the possible parallel between defamatory painting and magical practice and has instead connected it to a traditional way of punishing people through visual representation. In doing so, Brückner has properly enlarged the interpretation by adopting an ethnological perspective. 4 Taking this approach further, in his first and still unmatched book about the subject, Gherardo Ortalli not only denied the magical explanation, but also tried to distinguish the specificity of medieval pittura infamante in Italy by comparing it to other ways of punishing people through images, including the Roman executio in effigie and the German Scheltbriefe. In doing so, Ortalli managed to explain the form within the political and institutional context that had produced it.5 David Freedberg has since redefined some of Ortalli’s conclusions. Basing his argument on the same sources as Ortalli, Freedberg sought to move past single historical contexts, thus giving new meaning to the comparison between the medieval pittura infamante and other practices. Despite partially accepting Brückner’s criticisms of the magic explanation, Freedberg’s The Power of Images does find a connection between these pictures (as well as other images used for justice) and ones used in the context of the witchcraft, like the dolls involved in the envoûtements rituals. In Freedberg’s view, both kinds of images were effective because they were drew on the idea of a (socially perceived) similarity between the condemned person and the picture used to condemn him – a similarity that enabled the artist to substitute the former with the latter and, in this way, to act against someone, whether in a public and official sphere (as with justice) or in a private one (as with witchcraft). 6 3 4

5 6

Fenster, Thelma a. Smail, Daniel Lord (ed.): Fama. The Politics of Reputation in Medieval Europe. Ithaca a. London 2003. Keller, Harald: Die Entstehung des Bildnisses am Ende des Hochmittelalters, in: Römisches Jahrbuch für Kunstgeschichte, 3 (1939), pp. 227–365; Brückner, Wolfgang: Das Bildnis in rechtlichen Zwangsmitteln. Zum Magieproblem der Schandgemälde, in: Festschrift für Harald Keller. Ed. by Hans Martin Freiherr von Erffa a. Elisabeth Herget. Darmstadt 1963, pp. 111–129. Ortalli 1994 (as fn 2). Freedberg, David: The Power of Images. Studies in the History and Theory of Response. Chicago 1985. See especially chapter 10, “Infamy, Justice and Witchcraft. Explanation, Sympathy and Magic”, pp. 2 46–282.

The Ban and the Bag

Freedberg’s conclusions are not, in fact, incompatible with Ortalli’s.7 We can agree with the statement that in Italy in the Middle Ages, people would not have defined these paintings as magic; at the same time, however, we can accept that these paintings relied on a principle of substitution which was shared by some forms of magic. As Ortalli seems to remark (and Brückner actually says), people would have defined the pitture infamanti as pertinent to the sphere of the law. However, this does not resolve the matter, because, as Brückner points out, the application of the law (and not only in the Middle Ages) often included rituals. Therefore, the question we started with – namely, how did the pittura infamante work? – remains unsolved. It is still difficult to decide if its real power came from the blame declared by its viewers; from the formal legal act of the official court that had ordered it; from the mimetic quality of the images; or from the three. A recent article by Jean Wirth helps to recast this problem. Starting from a philosophical question (Is it possible for an image to be as performative as a verbal utterance?), Wirth reaches some useful conclusions. 8 Like Freedberg, he stresses the larger expressive and mimetic power images have in comparison to words: the power to substitute the things (and the persons) they represent. This explains why, for example, a medieval pittura infamante presenting an enemy hanging upside down can be an efficient means to dishonor and shame him. But, Wirth continues, generally images are more ambiguous than words, and thus a picture alone is not able to deliver entirely the message it carries – specifically, that it seeks to modify the fama of a person, a notion which is also hard to grasp, if not ambiguous. Thus while an image (because of its own substitutive power) can be a very useful ingredient in a performative utterance, to effectively change the legal status of the person it represents it often needs something to resolve its ambiguity (such as an inscription). Moreover, as with any performative act, a visual performance requires a receptive authority with the power to legitimate it.9 This last element brings us back to Ortalli’s pleas for the recognition of local contexts. 10 Now that Freedberg and Wirth have clarified the core logic on which defamatory painting is founded in a number of different cultures, it seems important to reexamine the medieval Italian sources in order to verify the exist  7 Ortalli has said he agrees with the theoretical point made by Freedberg in Ortalli, Gherardo: Colpire la fama e garantire il credito tra legge e propaganda. Il ricorso alle immagini, in: La fiducia secondo i linguaggi del potere. Ed. by Paolo Prodi. Bologna 2007, pp. 325–357.   8 Wirth, Jean: Performativité de l’image?, in: La performance des images. Ed. by Alain Dierkens [et al.]. Bruxelles 2010, pp. 125–135, here: p. 132. See also Wirth, Jean: Qu’est – ce qu’une image?. Genève 2013.   9 On this point, Wirth quotes Bourdieu, Pierre: Langage et pouvoir symbolique. Paris 2001. 10 Ortalli 2007 (as fn 7).

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ence and the local implementation of this logic. 11 To do so, I will deal with a very short period of time (the two or three decades after 1250) within a restricted local area (the cities around the Po Valley). Despite this constrained focus, I hope the questions I raise about this specific time and place will be useful from a broader perspective. The first question I ask is: Why at a certain point did some people decide to employ pictures in order to punish someone? In order to answer this question, I will focus on a single concept: the ban. From there I shift to a related question: How did those people make this strategy effective? In answering this question, I will linger on a slightly different word: by means of the bag.

2. The Ban To understand better the nature of the acts in which such paintings were involved, we need to identify the kinds of legal decisions that usually triggered the making of pitture infamanti in thirteenth-century Italian cities. If we interrogate the three oldest surviving records, we get an interesting variety of answers. Let’s start with the first: [Bologna, 1248] “On keeping the paintings in the Palace of Bologna city-commune We decree that the elders would do best to keep the painting that was once made in the Palace of Bologna city-commune about the occurrence of Roffeno, and not to destroy them. The decree to destroy these paintings should be revoked and canceled from the books of statutes of the city-commune”. 12

11

This paper is the result of a research done in collaboration with Matteo Ferrari, based on a new survey of the extant written and visual sources about defamatory painting in medieval Italy. We have decided to share the results of our work by dividing the arguments in this way: I will focus on the judicial premises of pittura infamante and on some fundamental iconographic choices, while Matteo Ferrari will focus on its material existence: the context in which it appears, some technical consequences of this context, and what accompanied such a painting. Even the two major findings of our research, namely the paintings of Mantua and Brescia, which were almost absent from the literature about defamatory painting until just some years ago, have been divided between us, as the two most precious gems of the same loot: I consider Mantua, Matteo Ferrari tackles Brescia. 12 Statuto generale delle Società delle Arti e delle Armi (12 48), in: Statuti delle Società del Popolo di Bologna. 2 voll. Ed. by Augusto Gaudenzi. Roma 1896, vol. 2, pp. 522– 523: “De picturis palatii communis Bononie manutenendis. Statuimus quod ançiani, modis quibus poterunt, dent operam ad manutenendum picturas olim factas in palactio communis Bononie pro facto Rofeni et ne destuantur; et quod statutum

The Ban and the Bag

This record stems from the oldest surviving book of civic statutes of the Popolo, the corporate union of guilds and neighborhood associations created in many cities to advance political claims in city-communes traditionally dominated by the noblemen. 13 As the document shows, the magistracy of the elders (anciani) guided the Popolo in deciding which political actions to conduct. This memorandum was written in 1248 about events that took place in 1243. In that year, Azzo Gualdradine (also known as Azzo da Roffeno), a member of the clan that used to rule over a mountain area nominally submitted to Bologna but politically allied to the rival city of Modena, killed two brothers – members of a rival noble clan – in an underhanded manner. The rulers of Bologna took advantage of this episode to mount a siege of Azzo’s castle in Roffeno, while he tried in vain to get help from Modena. 14 The local tension was connected to the broader war between Emperor Frederick II and his allies (including Modena) and the emperor’s enemies, led by the pope (a group that included Bologna). When the Bolognese won the siege, they captured Azzo and then, after having charged him of rebellion, confiscated his possessions and executed him, reaffirming in this way the power of the city over the part of the countryside Azzo used to control. As the document testifies, after the execution, a painting about the factum Rofeni (the occurrence of Roffeno) was established in the civic palace, and five years later, someone proposed that it be removed. The record we have, written in 1248, is a call to avoid this removal. We don’t know exactly what prompted this conflict, but we can suppose that the opponents of the painting were aristocratic groups that were politically close to Azzo or other rural lords. Moreover, we know from another source that in 1250 the painting was indeed destroyed but only to be replaced by a marble decoration about the same subject. 15 factum quod dicte picture destruantur, tollatur et canceletur de libris statutorum communis Bononie, non tamen cum rumore armorum”. 13 On the development of the Popolo in general see Koenig, John C.: The Popolo of Northern Italy, 1196–1274. A Political Analysis. Los Angeles 1980 (Italian edition: Il “Popolo” dell’Italia del Nord nel XIII secolo. Bologna 1986). On this movement in Bologna see Blanshei, Sarah Rubin: Politics and Justice in Late Medieval Bologna. Leiden a. Boston 2010, pp. 15–33. 14 Casini, Luigi: Il contado bolognese durante il periodo comunale (secoli XII–XV). Bologna 1991 [= Bologna 1909], pp. 222–223; 237; Foschi, Paola: La valle del Vergatello fra Due e Trecento, in: Quaderni del Circolo Culturale di Castel d’Aiano 7 (1992); Zagnoni, Renzo: La pieve di San Pietro di Roffeno nel Medioevo, in: Nuèter noialtri – Storia, tradizione e ambiente dell’alta valle del Reno bolognese e pistoiese 61 (2005), pp. 145–192, with full reference to the sources. 15 Frati, Luigi (ed.): Statuti del comune di Bologna dall’anno 12 45 all’anno 1267. 3 vols. Bologna 1869–1877, vol. 2, p. 421, IX, CXXVII: “De picturis pro facto rofeni in pallatio removendis. Statuimus quod pinture omnes detraitate et degolate que facte sunt et fuerunt in pallatio comunis Bononie de facto rofeni ab inferiori parte Castri

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We do not know, however, what kind of figures were painted on the palace wall; if they represented the siege, the victory, or the execution; or, consequently, in what measure we can define them as “defamatory.” In any case, as far as we can tell from the sources, this endangered painting had been a consequence of the capital sentence against Azzo, the enemy of the city, and it had been made in order to recall his failed rebellion and commemorate the victory of the city-commune. In 1251, only one year after the destruction of the Roffeno painting, something very similar happened 100 kilometers north from Bologna, in the citycommune of Mantua. This is where we find the second record. Here also, a local story of tensions between the city and a recalcitrant rural lord had been catalyzed by the war between the emperor and the pope. A group of armed men, including the local clan and some of Mantua’s aristocrats who opposed the commune’s rulers, occupied Marcaria, a castle whose position on the border with Cremona was of great strategic importance. They delivered the castle to Cremona, the longstanding rival of Mantua and, at the time, ally of the followers of Frederick II. As it had happened in Bologna, Mantua too took back the rebel castle and killed several of the occupants. Those who escaped were subsequently banned from the city. 16 As in the case of the factum Rofeni, we have a document, which refers to this event as the factum Marcharege (the occurrence of Marcaria). But this time there was a happier ending for the rebels. Eight years after the occupation, in 1259, a decree included in the city statutes prescribed that the men who had been banned for the rebellion could come back to the city and collect their former possessions: [Cremona, 1259] “[We decree] also that every one who was banned because of the occurrence of Marcaria, in that circumstance, and every one of their men, and [particularly] the men of Ubaldino and Mozolino de Campitello banned on the occasion of Marcaria or because of their lords, and Corrado de Calorosi and his nephews, sons of his brother, can harvest their yield. The fruits [of the land] should be given back to them and so should the men and the possessions they had when they left Mantua, with the exception of what has been destroyed or sold…. Every one of them, once he has signed the alliance, could send his wife and family and servants to collect his fruits and could stay on his proper-

rofeni inferius tollantur et removeantur, et in eodem loco fieri marmoreum prout melius est ibi inferius eodem loco.” 16 I analyzed this episode and the painting made to commemorate it in Milani, Giuliano: Avidité et trahison du bien commun. Une peinture infamante du XIIIe siècle, in: Annales 66 (2011), pp. 705–739, which includes reference to the sources.

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ty, and could and should live in the city and in the district of Mantua from next year onwards […].”17 We would never know that these banned people had been painted on the wall of the city palace if it weren’t for a fragment of painting still extant in the Palazzo della Ragione (fig. 1). However badly it is conserved, this fragment nevertheless contains some names which are the same that were written or alluded to in the record we just read: “Ubaldinus de Campe[dillo]”, “Moç[olinus]” and “Aldrigotus Calarosi” (figs. 2–3). By virtue of these fragments, we can conclude that in Mantua the defamatory painting was not, as in Bologna, the consequence of a death sentence, but that of a ban sentence – something entirely different. We will come back to that distinction after having briefly considered the third record. In 1261, three years after the readmission of the banished rebels in Mantua, in a long decree against corruption, the Podestà of Parma prescribed that any officer who sold a public office for some kind of personal advantage would be suspended from his charge for ten years, would pay a fine, and would be painted on the wall along with his name and the description of his crime: [Parma 1261] “Then he decreed and ordered that anyone who would act in favor of anybody else in any way against what has been foresaid [i.e., the laws against the corruption], completely or partially, should be painted in the palace of the commune at the commune’s expense, and his name, forename, and the nature of his crime be written with capital letters.”18

17 Navarrini, Roberto (ed.): Liber privilegiorum comunis Mantue. Mantova 1988, p. 218, no. 60: “[…] Item quod omnes banniti pro facto Marcharege et eius occasione et omnes eorum homines et homines Ubaldini et Mozolini de Campitello banniti pro Marcharegia vel occasione ipsorum suorum dominorum et Conradus de Calorosis et nepotes filii fratris, habeant fruges suas, restitutis eis omnibus et eorum hominibus et possessionibus, quas habebant tempore quo exiverunt de Mantua, exceptatis guastis ipsis factis et venditionibus, si quas fecerint, de quibus nulla fiat restitutio, et quod ipsi omnes possint, statim firmata societate, mittere uxores et familias et nuncios suos ad colligendum fruges suas et stare super possessionibus suis et possint et debeant habitare in civitate et districtu Mantue ab uno anno venturo proxime ultra […]”. 18 Ronchini, Amadio (ed.): Statuta communis Parmae digesta anno 1255. Parma 1855, p. 441: “Item statuit et ordinavit quod quicumque fecerit in aliquo contra praedicta vel aliquod contra praedictorum, in totum vel in partem, depingatur in palatio Communis per Commune et expensis Communis, et suscribatur litteris grossis nomen et praenomen et causa”.

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1 | Mantua, Palazzo della Ragione, counter-façade (detail).

2 | ALDRIGOTUS CAL[A] ROSI, Mantua, Palazzo della Ragione, counter-façade

(detail).

3 |

UBALDINUS DE CANPE[DILLO], Mantua, Palazzo della Ragione, counter-façade (detail).

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This record, which has long been considered the oldest evidence of the custom of defamatory painting, shows us a more familiar scene. Here the pittura infamante is part of a sanction for a specific crime, in this case the crime of corruption in recruiting functionaries. In this short period of less than twenty years, then, defamatory paintings were consequences of three different legal decisions: a public execution which the painting was called to perpetuate, a ban which the painting was intended to reinforce, and a law which the painting was enlisted to apply. A huge difference appears to separate the first case from the third. In the first, the painting simply commemorates or celebrates a legal act, which is independent of the painting – in this case, a capital punishment. In the third, the painting is part of the sanction, and contributes, along with the fine, the exclusion, and the written record, to the punishment itself. Here we should recall a distinction Ortalli traces at the beginning of his book, when he distinguishes paintings-as-consequences from paintings-as-causes with regard to infamia. 19 In terms of the first and third records cited here, we can say that even if both describe defamatory paintings, in the first the painting recalls the punishment, while in the third it produces it. The second record can help us to understand how it was possible to move from the first scenario to the third. In the second record, the painting is a result of a ban. I am arguing that, far more than has been recognized, the ban played a fundamental role in the emergence of the pittura infamante. For this reason, we need to first understand what, exactly, a ban was. Strictly speaking, a ban was not a sanction in the sense of a capital punishment or even the ten-year exclusion prescribed by the statutes of Parma. People could be banned even if there was no law, which threatened it as punishment for a specific crime. As a legal historian has pointed out: “Ban is not a sanction, rather it is a way of compelling someone to fulfill an obligation […]. It entails the exclusion of the subject from the community, fixed by the judicial body at the end of a trial (for that reason many think it is a sanction), and it will last until the obligation is fulfilled. The consequences of the situation for the subjects are clear: these can be summarized as a suspension of that protection through the means of law which is an established duty for the community court.”20 19 Ortalli 1993 (as fn. 2), p. 18. 20 Caprioli, Severino: Una città nello specchio delle sue norme. Perugia milleduecentosettantanove, in: Società e istituzioni dell’Italia comunale. L’esempio di Perugia (secoli XII–XIV). 2 vols. Perugia 1988, vol. 2, pp. 415–416: “Non è sanzione il bando, piuttosto mezzo di coazione all’adempimento di un’obbligazione […]. Consiste

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To put it more simply, a ban was an exclusion from the protection of law. Its aim was to threaten a citizen who had not obeyed an order, and to compel him to obey it. Being so general in nature, the ban had a very large scope of application. In criminal bans, for example, the order that had not been executed was the one to come before the tribunal to respond to a charge. After ignoring a summons, the disobedient citizens entered into the condition of ban from which they could not escape unless they agreed with the accuser and paid a fine. As long as they remained banned citizens, they were not protected by the court (nor, more generally, by the commune): they could not denounce anyone for aggression and – potentially – anyone could legally kill them. In debt bans, the judge responded to the petition of a creditor with the so-called preceptum de solvendo, which compelled a debtor to resolve his debt. The debtor who did not respond to the preceptum was banned, and would gain relief from the ban only after he came to a settlement with the creditor and paid a fine to the commune. 21 Despite these important differences (to which we will return), the crucial element of every ban was the absence of the subject. In a certain way, a ban was the negative mode of a sanction – a way to punish someone who was practically unpunishable because he was absent. This explains the role of the pictures. Following David Freedberg’s suggestion, 22 I think that the core idea of using a painting to punish someone can be connected to the formal absence at the heart of the ban. As we have seen, among the many special features a picture has, one is the power to substitute for the thing or person it represents23 . This substitution can happen for different reasons, but the need to employ an image becomes more urgent when the thing itself / the person is difficult to get hold. Using a painting to represent a capital execution may appear quite similar to using it to represent a ban. But there is in fact a strong distinction to be made: in the latter case, the painting is far more integral to the legal action being perform-

nell’esclusione del soggetto dalla comunità, disposta dall’organo giurisdizionale al termine di un procedimento (ciò inclina molti a ritenere che il bando sia una sanzione), e destinata a protrarsi fino a che l’obbligazione venga adempiuta. I caratteri della situazione creata nel soggetto con il provvedimento sono comprensibili: si riassumono nella sospensione di quella difesa coi mezzi del diritto, che è dovere statutario per l’organo della collettività”. 21 See Milani, Giuliano: Prime note su disciplina e pratica del bando a Bologna attorno alla metà del secolo XIII, in: Mélanges de l’Ecole française de Rome, Moyen Age Temps Modernes 109 (1997), pp. 501–523; and Idem: Crímenes y procesos políticos en las Comunas Italianas, in: Proceso inquisiciones, pruebas Homenaje a Mario Sbriccoli. Ed. by Emanuele Conte a. Marta Madero. Buenos Aires 2009, pp. 185–204. 22 See above, fn. 6. 23 On substitution, see also Bredekamp, Horst: Theorie des Bildakts. Berlin 2010.

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ed. Both events (the execution and the ban) need to be represented, but for different reasons. In the first case, the passing of time could obliterate the public remembrance of the execution; for this reason, the capital punishment, like any other important fact of a community’s history, deserves commemoration. The condition of banned citizen is something different, however. Despite its concrete effects, it is something that has been established in absentia; it is a unilateral legal decision taken by a power, which requires the consent of the condemned for its actual enactment. Compared to the execution, then, it is something fainter, more abstract, and both more difficult to conceptualize and to evoke. Representing it by a painting can help not only to make the decision more public than just recording it in a register (as is always prescribed), but also more present, concrete, ultimately “real”. Painting the portraits of banished citizens conveyed the idea of a conviction in absentia so well that after a while, the city councils started to threaten it in tandem with particularly strict bans. These stricter bans began to be so closely associated with certain conducts (such as political crimes like betrayal, forgery or corruption) that the paintings soon became one of the possible penal consequences not only of the ban but of the crime itself. In the most fruitful archive for the study of the pittura infamante, the State Archive of Bologna, it is possible to follow each step of this transition. In 1287, the defamatory painting is ordered in a particular ban sentence. 2 4 The next year (1288), a general regulation stipulates this measure along with the ban of the rebels. 25 In 1289, a document describes someone painted “because of the crime of forgery” – leading us to conclude that the painting was by then a consequence of this crime. 26 Sequentially, what had

2 4 Filippini, Francesco a. Zucchini, Guido: Miniatori e pittori a Bologna. Documenti dei secoli XIII e XIV. Firenze 1947, p. 2 43: “Perpetuo bannantur et in palatio comunis Bononie depingantur pro proditoribus et rebellibus comunis Bononie”. 25 Fasoli, Gina e Sella, Pietro (ed.): Statuti di Bologna dell’anno 1288. Città del Vaticano 1937, vol. 1, pp. 496–497, V, CXXXIIII: “providerunt, statuerunt, ordinaverunt et firmaverunt predicti sapientes in primis quod nullus de cetero civis vel forensis audeat vel presumat tractare seu tractatum aliquod innire cum aliquo vel aliquibus bannitis communi Bononie vel aliquibus nobilibus, magnatibus vel potentibus civitatis vel districtus […] et qui contrafecerit puniatur et condampnetur per potestatem Bononie […] si vero ad mandata domini potestatis non venerint, perpetuo baniantur, et in pallatio communis Bononie dipingantur pro proditoribus et rebebellibus communis Bononie, et eorum bona omnia in communi Bononie publicentur […]”. 26 Filippini a. Zucchini 1947 (as fn. 2 4), p. 51: “Predictus vicarius precipit et mandat vobis d. frati Iuliano de Gozadinis massario Comunis Bononie quatenus detis et solvatis Antonio Orlandi qui dicitur Cecogna pictori XXV solidos bononiorum pro duabus picturis quas fecit in palatio veteri de Guidone de Vizano quem depinxit duobus locis pro falsitatequam fecerat ut patet in actis contra eum latis et pronuntiatis”.

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begun as a way to recall and then to substitute a punishment changed into a punishment itself. It is interesting to note that for a long time, the three legal triggers of defamatory paintings that we have seen at the very beginning of the history of the defamatory painting continued to coexist. In the Bolognese archive, for instance, we find records of all three: paintings that celebrated capital sentences, 27 paintings made on the occasion of bans, 28 and those that fulfilled the sanctions provided for specific crimes. 29

3. The Bag Having established that bans were crucial in promoting the use of paintings in the judicial sphere of Italian city-communes, we can go one step further and investigate the means employed to make these judicial paintings effective. As touched on earlier, every ban was at the same time a threat of exclusion to disobedient citizens and a way to compel them to obey. That’s why in every ban two different elements were present, albeit in different doses: first, the promise of the reintegration of the banished (in the event that the order were satisfied), and second, what we can call the malediction, namely the bane or curse needed to make the threat effective (in the case that the citizen did not obey the order). In mildler bans such as debt bans, the promise of reintegration prevailed while the malediction was almost absent. In tougher bans, such as those against political 27 In a charter dated March 1301, edited in Filippini a. Zucchini 1947 (as fn. 2 4), pp. 75–76, and quoted by Ortalli 1993 (as fn 2), p. 45, no. 16, a painter is paid by the commune to make a defamatory painting of a Zanettus Cavallotti, whom we know from another source (State Archive of Bologna [henceforth ASBo], Comune, Curia del Podestà, Inquisitiones, b. 48 [1299–1300]) was executed in January 1300. 28 Among others, a record dated October 1300 (ASBo, Comune, Curia del Podestà, Corone ed Armi, b. 12, reg. 123, c. 44r) contains the order made by an officer of the Podestà to a painter to come to the City Palace in order to paint two banished men. This is also the case in the paintings done in February 1300 by the painter Amiratus condam Petri scudarii, Filippini a. Zucchini 1947 (as fn. 23), p. 6, quoted by Ortalli 1993 (as fn. 2), p. 104, no. 38, and p. 110, no. 18. The payroll shows that a single person was painted as many times as he was banned. Amiratus was paid for a number of paintings made on the occasion of several bans the commune declared against Nauclerius de Pavanensibus and his relatives. 29 This was the case of the notaries sanctioned in 1274 as “forgers and painted in the palace”, ASBo, Libri matricularum, b. 1, c. 2v., edited in Tamba, Giorgio a. Ferrara, Roberto (ed.): Liber sive matricula notariorum comunis Bononie. Roma 1980, pp. 507–508, and also of the officers painted for the same reason in 1283, quoted in Ortalli 1993 (as fn. 2), p. 64, and p. 92, no. 68.

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enemies or forgers, it was the opposite: the promise of reintegration was so reduced as to nearly disappear. Historical sources call the latter “perpetual bans” (banna perpetuales) because, unlike the others, they would not be relaxed even if the subject decided to obey the order of presenting himself to the court.30 Painting a perpetual ban was a way to strengthen and publicize the perpetual exclusion it was based on. This conclusion not only allows us to understand more deeply the connection we have already traced between the ban and the defamatory painting, but can also explain the kind of iconography we find in the oldest examples of these paintings. The oldest source of information for how a pittura infamante should be fashioned is a statute of Padua issued in 1264, three years after the record from Parma. It prescribes that people found guilty of corruption should be portrayed with a moneybag around their neck: [Padua 1264] “The Podestà must investigate any officials who have been charged by two reliable witnesses of having committed any graft during their term in charge. He must order that their names be written in the book of forgers and that they be painted in the public palace with moneybags hanging from their necks.”31 As recently discovered, the same iconography had already been used in Mantua as early as 1251 (figs. 4–5).32 This is particularly remarkable because both the crime and its context were very different. In Mantua, the accused were noblemen who had delivered a strategic castle to the city’s enemies; in Padua, thirteen years later, the accused were members of the Popolo, specifically notaries, who had committed corruption crimes. This surprising recurrence of the same iconography can be explained only if we consider that, in seeking effective ways to represent the idea of exclusion underlying all bans, the communes turned to a stock they knew well: the religious iconography sanctioned by the Church. 30 Milani, Giuliano: Banditi, Malesardi e Ribelli. L’evoluzione del nemico politico nell’Italia comunale (secoli XII–XIV), in: Quaderni fiorentini per la storia del pensiero giuridico moderno 38 (2009). Ed. by Pietro Costa, pp. 109–140. 31 Gloria, Andrea (ed.): Statuti del comune di Padova dal secolo XII all’anno 1285. Padova 1873, p. 26, IV, no. 59: “Teneatur potestas statuto aliquo non obstante per sacramentum consules et eorum notarios et alios officiales ordinarios et extraordinarios convictos per duos testes fide dignos qui aliquam trabutationem fecerint in posterum occasione sui officii contra statuti formam habere pro falsariis. Et eos scribi faciat in libro falsariorum et eos pingi faciat in palacio comunis cum bursa ad collum”. 32 Milani 2011 (as fn. 16); Ferrari, Matteo: La propaganda per immagini nei cicli pittorici dei palazzi comunali lombardi (1200–1337). Temi, funzioni, committenza. Ph.D., Scuola Normale Superiore, Pisa 2010/2011, relatore prof.ssa Maria Monica Donato.

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4 | Money bags hanging from the necks of an anonymous and Aldrigottus Calarosi,

Mantua, Palazzo della Ragione, counter-façade (detail).

5 | Money bag hanging from the neck of Moçolinus de Campedello, Mantua,

Palazzo della Ragione, counter-façade (detail). (Farbtafel 6)

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Over the long term, bishops had filled the power vacuum in the Italian cities since the eleventh century.33 In the decades we discuss here (1240–1260), however, the events we are dealing with ( factum Rofeni, factum Marcharege) were part of the campaign that the papacy was conducting against Frederick II and his allies. During this campaign, which turned into a genuine crusade, the interferences between the ideology of the Church and the ideology of the city-communes became more intense.34 The Church had long been familiar with the idea of malediction.35 Indeed, malediction was a key part of excommunication, which we might call the canonistic form of the ban because of its conceptual proximity to this instrument as we have defined it.36 In specific formulas of maledictions we often find references to figures who had been cursed in the Bible. Since the inception of excommunication, documents express the hope that the excommunicated (or the cursed more generally), will join in hell Cain, Anania, Sapphira, or others who had been cursed by God or a saint.37 Few of those characters had a strong visual presence, traditionally. This can partly be explained because of the structural problem in painting hell as inhabited by individuals: identifying them could be intended as a form of impertinence, a way of flouting the mystery of the inscrutable will of God.38 One of the few human beings whose place in the other world was taken for granted was the rich man from the parable of Lazarus. In some early Last Judgments he is the only recognizable damned soul, often coupled with his counterpart, Lazarus, who has been welcomed into Abraham’s Bosom.39 While Lazarus has long been identified 33 Tabacco Giovanni: The Struggle for Power in Medieval Italy: Structures of Political Rule. Cambridge 1989, pp. 321–344. 34 Jones, Philip: The Italian City-States. From Commune to Signoria. Oxford 1997, pp. 428–429. 35 Little, Lester K.: Benedictine Maledictions. Liturgical Coursing in Romanesque France. Ithaca a. London 1996. 36 Vodola, Elisabeth: Excommunication in the Middle Ages. Berkeley 1986. 37 The literature on this subject is extensive. One starting point was Martin, Henry: The Judas Iscariot Curse, in: American Journal of Philology 37 (1916), pp. 434–451. For a recent overview of the state of the art see Feniello, Amedeo a. Martin, JeanMarie: Clausole di anatema e di maledizione nei documenti (Italia Meridionale e Sicilia, Sardegna, X–XII secolo), in: Mélanges de l’École Française de Rome. Moyen Âge 123 (2011), pp. 105–127. 38 For a number of exceptions to this rule see Morgan, Alison: Dante and the Medieval Other World. Cambridge 1990. 39 Mâle, Emile: The Gothic Image. Religious Art in France of the Thirteenth Century. New York 1958 [= Paris 1913], pp. 2ff. interpreted Abraham’s bosom as a “hieroglyphic” of paradise. An important example of the Last Judgment, including Lazarus and the rich men, is the mosaic in Santa Maria Assunta cathedral in Torcello. On this mosaic

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6 | Judas kiss, romanesque capitell in the cathedral of Pamplona, Museo de Navarra.

with the symbol for paradise, 40 his rich antagonist has not, to my knowledge, seriously been regarded as a “hieroglyphic” (according to Emile Mâle’s definition) of hell. It is interesting to reflect on how this possibly crucial role can explain the success in Romanesque Art of the iconography of the so-called punishment of greed, namely a man with a moneybag around his neck, tortured by devils. 41 see among others: Baschet, Jerôme: Les justices de l’au-delà. Les représentations de l’enfer en France et en Italie, XIIe –XV e siècle. Rome 1993.  40 Baschet, Jerôme: Le sein du Père. Abraham et la paternité dans l’Occident medieval. Paris 2000, criticizes the interpretation advanced by Emile Mâle as reductive. 41 This picture has been studied by Baumann, Priscilla: The deadliest sin. Warnings against Avarice and Usury on Romanesque Capitals in Auvergne, in: Church History 59 (1990), pp. 7–18; Heyman, Avital: That Old Pride of the Men of the Auvergne: Laity and Church in Auvergnat Romanesque Sculpture. London 2005; Heyman, Avital: Virtuous and Iniquitous Nobles in Romanesque Auvergne, in: Iconographica 4 (2005), pp. 22–45; Leclercq-Marx, Jacqueline: Le rapport au gain illicite dans la sculpture romane. Entre réalités socio-économiques, contacts de culture et réseaux

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7 | Simon Magus trempled by Simon Peter, Chartres,

Notre-Dame, south portal.

While a rich tradition of research has interpreted it as blame for a specific vice, Greed, 42 I suggest that the core of its meaning is a metonymy of hell itself. Setting aside the question of the genealogical order in which the various embodiments of this figure can be read, the spread of the “bad rich” does explain why, from the twelfth century on, some of the most distinguished cursed men of the sacred history are occasionally represented with a bag hanging from their neck: namely Judas (who carried the bag of the apostles) and Simon Magus (who had tried to buy with his money the power of distributing the Holy Spirit) (figs. 6–7). 43

métaphoriques, in: Cahiers de civilisation médiévale 50 (2007), pp. 43–63. A more extensive account on the research can be found in Milani 2011 (as fn. 16). 42 Little, Lester K.: Pride Goes before Avarice. Social Change and the Vices in Latin Christendom, in: The American Historical Review 76 (1971), pp. 16–49. 43 A Romanesque capital with a representation of Juda’s Kiss, with Juda carrying a moneybag around his neck, can be seen in the Museum of Navarra in Pamplona. The

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I conclude that the reason the moneybag around the neck was used in the first pittura infamante was its clear connection with the idea of damnation. It was the closest thing to a visual malediction, a symbol, better a “hieroglyphic” for exclusion. But at the same time, because of the large success this iconography had had in the context of religious art, the city-communes could now use it to suggest to the paintings’ planners and their viewers certain useful associations. In evoking Judas, the moneybag could help define the ones who had delivered a castle belonging to the commune to the enemies. In Mantua this was made explicit not only through the image of the bag, but also in the accompanying inscription. This inscription defined the tree under which the banned citizens planned the betrayal of the castle as Ullmus mali consilii, the “elm of the bad council”, a name that recalls the Mons malii consilii where Jesus Christ was betrayed. 4 4 In defining those who had delivered a castle as Judases betraying the person of Jesus Christ, the Commune presented itself as an authority whose possessions were sacred and protected. The association with Simon Magus could help define the subjects most often represented in later defamatory paintings: the corrupted officials the sources refer to variously as baracterii, falsarii, trabutatores, and so on. Simon Magus was the eponymous villain the church had chosen in its battle against Simony, the crime of buying and selling church offices. 45 Simon was the example of someone who tried to buy goods whose value was incalculable, and had been cursed for this reason. 46 The implicit allusion to him was used to define the corrupted notaries and officials of Padua not only as tricksters but also as sinners and heretics destined to be burned in hell. Obviously the similarities between Judas and Simon that kept them together in hell were not accidental. They had something important in common: both embodied economic incompetence, which was the late-medieval way to describe

Simon Magus trampled by St. Peter, in the exterior south portal (Embrasure L) of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame in Chartres, also carries a bag around the neck. 44 Milani 2011 (as fn. 16). 45 On the fight against simony in the eleventh century see Tellenbach, Gerd: The Church in Western Europe from the Tenth to the Early Twelfth Century. Cambridge 1993, pp. 80ff. 46 To my knowledge, the first mediaeval picture of a man with a moneybag hanging from his neck, that is related to Simon Magus, can be found in the double illustration (St. Peter trembling before Simon Magus and Nikephoros trembling before John the Grammarian) in the Chludov Psalter, thr f. 51v, Moscow, Historical Museum, ms. 129 D. On this picture see Milani, Giuliano: Il secondo Simone. Le fonti letterarie e visuali di un’illustrazione del Salterio Chludov (Bisanzio, secolo IX), in: Ricerca come incontro. Archeologi, paleografi e storici per Paolo Delogu. Ed. by Giulia Barone [et al.]. Roma 2013, pp. 83–102.

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someone who did not care about the common good. 47 Economic incompetence was typical of the wild men unaware of the difference between the sacred goods whose value was not computable and goods which could be exchanged. 48 In this respect, the symbol of the bag implied that the Commune was a new manifestation of the institution serving the interest of the community and protecting the common good. 49

4. On the essential logic of defamatory paintings The Brooklyn painter Geoffrey Raymond has painted portraits of controversial bankers and Wall Street executives and displays them on the street, inviting passersby to add their comments on the margins. A particularly famous piece of this series is The Annotated Fuld, completed in September 2008 during the time Lehmann Brothers filed for bankruptcy. It shows the face of Lehmann Brothers CEO Richard “Dick” Fuld that is surrounded by scribblings and comments written by fired bank employees but also pedestrians in Manhattan. Among the different types of utterances/commentaries you find insults (“You are a coward”), denigrating definitions (“Bloodsucker”, “A symbol of arrogance and greed”), ironical apostrophes (“Nice trade Dick!”), and forms of maledictions (“See you at the soup kitchen!!!”) (fig. 8). Not only do these comments recall some of the concepts (bankruptcy, greed, malediction) from the early history of medieval pittura infamante: Raymond’s entire artistic operation might be considered as a key to understanding the essential logic of defamatory painting. Judging from people’s responses to Raymond’s invitation, the picture of a hated person, reviled for disrespecting the values and rules of a community, helps to satisfy a quest for revenge otherwise destined to be frustrated. It binds together people who share a mistrust of someone, helping to

47 Todeschini, Giacomo: Come Giuda. La gente comune e i giochi dell’economia all’inizio dell’età moderna. Bologna 2011. 48 Todeschini, Giacomo: Visibilmente Crudeli. Malviventi, persone sospette e gente qualunque dal Medioevo all’età moderna. Bologna 2007. 49 Capitani, Ovidio: Il “De peccato usure” di Remigio de’ Girolami, in: Studi medievali 6 (1965), pp. 537–662; id.: Art. Usura, in: Enciclopedia Dantesca 5 (1976), pp. 852– 853, then in id.: Cupidigia, avarizia, Bonum Comune in Dante Alighieri e Remigio de’Girolami, in: Scientia veritatis. Festschrift für Hubert Mordek. Ed. by Otto Münsch a. Thomas Zotz. München 2004, pp. 351–364; id.: Ideologia del bene comune e contese cittadine nelle valutazioni di Dante, in: Il Bene Comune. Forme di governo e gerarchie sociali nel Basso Medioevo. Spoleto 2012, pp. 1–14.

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8 | Geoffrey Raymond, portrait of Dick Fuld, annotated by

passersby and employees in front of the Lehman Brothers building during the collapse in 2008.

build what has been recently defined as an “emotional community.”50 What seems to me most important is how institutions can politically capitalize on these emotions shared by a group. By showing its members the adversary, the defamatory picture of a person threatening the integrity of a community can reinforce a group’s identity while simultaneously defining the battle or mission the group is called to engage in.

50 Rosenwein, Barbara H.: Emotional Communities in the Early Middle Age. Ithaca a. London 2007.

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Studies of pittura infamante in the city-communes of medieval Italy reveal the conditions which make this possible. Through the genesis of the pitture infamanti we can identify the elements necessary to turn images of shame into useful political instruments. I would like to insist on two of them, which I will continue to classify as ban and bag. As for the ban, I think it allows us to glimpse the innovative potential of defamatory painting to help create new institutions. A ban is not a specifically medieval instrument; it is simply the medieval legal practice of a social group turning into an institution. As Mary Douglas pointed out in her inspiring “How Institutions Think,” when “latent” groups face the threat of withdrawal by mem­ bers acting as free riders, they can either try to retain those members by giving them something special (privileges, resources, and so on) or (and this happens when resources are scarce or marginal) they can try to control the threat of secession by insisting on the boundaries of the group (creating stiff conditions of entry and excluding those who exit from enjoying the benefits of the members).51 This exclusion is exactly what a ban is. It being an action performed against someone who is absent, any picture capable of conveying blame or prompting anger can be very helpful in making the punishment (exclusion) present, visible, understandable, and real. In terms of helping founding new institutions, then, defamatory painting is – technically – revolutionary. But to raise blame successfully against someone is neither a simple nor a neutral operation. There is a need to define the object of blame, andhow to blame it. Here comes the bag. In a less clear passage in the same work, Douglas says that in creating institutions people have to choose “a formula that founds its rightness in reason or in nature,”52 invoking a general classification system. In Italian cities of the Middle Ages, the bag as attribute in defamatory paintings was chosen to recall the general idea that the world was divided into two categories of people: the spirituales, or men who understood the value of the public good and sanctity of sacred items; and the carnales or crudeles, who were unaware of this distinction and destined to hell.53 Through the image of the bag, the banned betrayer was visually defined as a man who disrespected the public good because he was unaware of what makes it different from the rest of exchangeable supplies. This visual invention can be considered an attempt of reinforcing the borders of a group composed by good men who were conscious of such a difference, to make a clear distinction of the inside and outside of the community. If this attempt was successful it was because the definition it was based on was legible, clear, and shared. And it was transparent because it was taken from 51 Douglas, Mary: How Institutions Think. New York 1987, pp. 38–40. 52 Douglas 1987 (as fn. 51), p. 45. 53 Todeschini 2011 (as fn. 47).

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traditional stock. In this need to be comprehensible lies the conservative aspect of defamatory painting as a political instrument. I hope this duality – the simultaneously revolutionary and conservative aspects of defamatory painting – can be employed as well in other times and places. It would be interesting to reflect on how, caught between the need to create new institutions and the need to make them accepted, the images of shame stake their own reputation.

Thomas Ricklin

“more cuiusdam Cioli et aliorum infamium” On Dante’s Refusal to Return Home and How He Became Florentine Again

Probably after May 19th 1315 Dante Alighieri, who had been condemned to death and permanent exile from his hometown in 1302, wrote a letter to a Florentine friend, 1 explaining that he had no intention of accepting the offer to return to Florence: “Non est hec via redeundi ad patriam” (Ep. XII, 8). Despite its shortness, this writing contains precise information about the conditions under which it would have been possible for Dante to return to his hometown, showing a juridical culture relatively unknown to 21 st-century readers. Nevertheless, it is only imputable to these rules and opportunities, that Dante, more than 100 years after being sentenced to death in Florence, was honoured by an unpreserved painting in the city’s Cathedral. This paper specifies certain aspects of the circumstances responsible for the fact that Domenico di Michelino’s remake of this picture, that was commissioned in 1465, 2 is the oldest preserved image of Dante in a Florentine public building (fig. 1).

1

2

See Alighieri, Dante: Dantis Alagherii Epistolae. The Letters of Dante. Ed. and trans. by Paget Toynbee. Oxford 1920, pp. 158–159, Ep. IX. For the Latin version see the edition Alighieri, Dante: Opere minori, vol. 2. Ed. by Arsenio Frugoni and Giorgio Brugnoli. Milan and Naples 1979, Ep. XII. A new commented edition has been pub­ lished recently, cf. Alighieri, Dante: Epistole, Ecloge, Questio de situ et forma aque et terre. Ed. by Manlio Pastore Stocchi. Rome and Padua 2012. Cf. Altrocchi, Rudolph: Michelino’s Dante, in: Speculum 6 (1931), pp. 15–59.

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1 | Domenico di Michelino, Dante, fresco, 1465, Florence, Santa Maria del Fiore.

1. A letter to a friend in Florence After expressing his close ties to his unknown Florentine acquaintance, Dante illustrates in the third sentence of the letter what he has been told by various friends concerning his possible return to Florence. Shortly before, there had been an ordinamento proposing a pardon for political offenders under certain conditions. According to this decree, Dante could receive a pardon and therefore be allowed to return immediately with the “condition that I pay a certain sum of money, and submit to the stigma of oblation” (Ep. XII, 3). As Dante had already endured “well-nigh fifteen years in exile” (Ep. XII, 5), as Michele Barbi has shown, this decree probably refers to the one of 19th May 1315, allowing the opportunity for all persons living in exile to return to Florence.3 Such periodical ‘amnesties’ had become habitual in Florence, not least because they brought revenues to the

3

Cf. Barbi, Michele: Problemi di critica dantesca. Prima serie 1893/1918. Florence 1975, pp. 53–56.

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City Treasury. 4 Dante himself had been involved in an adoption of a corresponding provisio, when pleading for the oblation of Neri di Gherardino Diodati in the Council of the Hundred.5 However, return was offered for just one banished individual. It was recorded in roundabout juridical Latin: “The banished and convicted person to his own request and whenever he likes […] will be received in one of the prisons of the City of Florence, and that he afterwards – due to his own urging and pleading on the day and the hour he prefers – will be taken out, removed, released […] and then without wearing a mitre on his head or elsewhere […] will be led from the said prison up to the Church of John the Baptist and there in concern to honour and praise the almighty, the blessed Virgin and John the Baptist he will be offered by someone of the Podestà troop […] of the city of Florence […] at the church to the almighty and to John the Baptist and by means of this presentation (oblatio) will be taken out, detached, freed and acquitted […] and he shall be also considered to be taken out, detached, freed as well as being completely acquitted […].”6 With the stigma of oblation (nota oblationis) allowing a return to Florence, Dante is precisely referring to this ritual of the banished’s reintegration into the community. It makes little sense to characterize this rite, which usually provided that the ‘pardoned’ had to wear a mitre on which his name and probably also his crime (as it is stated for Mantua) was written, 7 as grotesque and degrading. 8 The oblatio was an integrative part of the system of penalties and clemency of the city of Florence at least since 1281.9 The liturgical centre of this rite was the Battistero of San Giovanni, where on each Holy Saturday all children born in that year were baptized. In the 1330s, there were approximately five or six thousand boys and girls

4 5 6 7

8 9

Cf. Gualtieri, Piero: Il comune di Firenze tra Due e Trecento. Partecipazione politica e assetto istituzionale. Florence 2009, pp. 58–59. Cf. Piattoli, Renato (ed.): Codice Diplomatico Dantesco. Florence 1940 (below abbreviated as CDD), no. 88. My translation of the document is based on Zenatti, Oddone: Dante e Firenze. Prose antiche con note illustrative ed appendice. Florence 1902, pp. 509–510, fn. 1. Cf. Alighieri 1920 (as fn. 1), p. 155, fn. 4, and Edgerton, Samuel Y.: Pictures and Punishment. Art and Criminal Prosecution during the Florentine Renaissance. Ithaca and London 1985, p. 65. Thus Pastore Stocchi in Alighieri 2012 (as fn. 1), ad locum. Cf. Davidsohn, Robert: Geschichte von Florenz, vol. 2: Guelfen und Ghibellinen, p. 2: Die Guelfenherrschaft und der Sieg des Volkes. Berlin 1908, pp. 183–184.

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baptized at each event. 10 According to St. Thomas Aquinas, they thereby were bestowed with spiritualis generatio, relieved of all their sins and also original sin. 11 The scholastic theologians indeed categorically rejected the possibility of another, second baptism, yet the rite of oblatio nevertheless seems to relate to the idea of being completely absolved of blame a second time. Dante could have also imagined a second move to the source of his first sacrament, as the famous verses at the beginning of Par. XXV prove: he expresses his hope in receiving the crown of poets in sul fonte (Par. XXV, 8f.) of his baptism in Florence. 12 However, he decisively rejects oblation in his letter to a friend, and names four reasons for his refusal, clearly indicated by the double anaphora “Hocne […]? hoc […]? Absit a viro […]! Absit a viro […]!” (Ep. XII, 5–7). First, he simply claims that his “innocence [is] manifest to the entire world” (Ep. XII, 5). In other letters lost to time, which he “scrisse più volte, non solamente a particulari cittadini e del reggimento ma al popolo”13 , according to Leonardo Bruni, Dante defends his innocence with detail in regard to the processes by which he has had been legally prosecuted. 14 This strategy of self-defense is not further pursued in the letter to a friend, instead Dante emphasizes his achievements. He stresses his “sweat and toil of unremitting study”, qualifies himself as a “familiar of philosophy” and as a “preacher of justice” (Ep. XII, 6f.). It is hard to imagine what he could have meant with these phrases in the second half of 1315, if not the engagement and verve, that he had in composing the Inferno and probably already for the Purgatorio. 15 It is out of question that both cantiche are conceived in a way that allows the author to present himself both as phylosophie domesticus and predicans iustitiam. Dante probably found the courage for his unprecedented self-portrayal of the Ep. XII by concluding the Inferno. Nevertheless, he does not mention the cantica in Ep. XII. In contrast to Dante’s actual social status, this self-characterization does not mention the ignominy and accusation of being an infamous or common

10 Cf. Davidsohn, Robert: Geschichte von Florenz, vol. 1: Aeltere Geschichte. Berlin 1896, pp. 717–718, and id.: Geschichte von Florenz, vol. 4: Die Frühzeit der Florentiner Kultur, p. 3: Kirchliches und Geistiges Leben, Kunst, Öffentliches und Häusliches Dasein. Berlin 1927, p. 60. 11 Cf. Aquinas, Thomas: Summa contra Gentiles. Ed. by Ceslai Pera. Turin 1961, IV, lix. 12 See also Villa, Claudia: Corona, mitria, alloro e capello. Per Par. XXV, in: Studi danteschi 70 (2005), pp. 119–137. 13 Cf. Bruni, Leonardo: Vite di Dante e del Petrarca, in: id.: Opere letterarie e politiche. Ed. by Paolo Viti. Turin 1996, p. 546. 14 See also Milani, Giuliano: Appunti per una riconsiderazione del bando di Dante, in: Bollettino di italianistica 8 (2011), pp. 42–70. 15 For the dating of both cantiche see Alighieri, Dante: Inferno. Ed. by Saverio Bellomo. Turin 2013, p.  xlii .

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criminal that in his opinion he was unjustly accused of. As being a “familiar of philosophy”, he has nothing in common with “Ciolo and other infamous” (Ep. XII, 6). Being a “preacher of justice”, it is out of question to undergo the “stigma of oblation” and to pay a fine to the people who wronged him (Ep. XII, 7). With double exclamation absit a viro, he neither questions the existence of infamies, nor the fact that there are people who can redeem themselves of the damages of suffered injustice. However, he states that he himself – in contrast to a certain Ciolo – does not belong with such people. There is a great temptation to identify the mentioned Ciolo with Ciolo degli Abati, who was particularly excluded from the renewed confirmation of the banishment of September 2 nd 1311, the so called Riforma di Baldo d’Aguglione, explicitly affecting Dante and his sons. 16 Even if the identification suggested by Del Lungo17 might not be correct, it is clear that (in Dante’s opinion) the quidam Ciolus was a the miserable counterpart to himself. For his own person however, Dante demands fama and honor, needed to be taken into account for further proposals providing his return. He expresses this condition without ambiguity. The oblation was not an appropriate way to return into his patria: “If some other can be found, in the first place by yourself and thereafter by others, which does not derogate from the fame and honour of Dante, that will I tread with non lagging steps” (Ep. XII, 8). Dante’s demand of presenting himself to the people of Florence as noninglorius and non-ignominiosus (Ep. XII, 9) was never met and he never returned to Florence. Yet, this does not imply that he would have avoided dishonour and ignominy by not accepting the oblation in Florence.

2. Dante’s condemnation and the memory of his infamy Dante was sentenced again, October 15 th 1315. 18 Since he made no use of the possibility to show up at court, he was once more condemned to death on November 6th of the same year with other “rebelles comunis et populi Florentie”. While the October judgment only determined that the sentenced persons needed to be brought to the place of execution, where their heads should be “separated from their shoulders”, 19 the sentence of November went a step further. In order that the convicted would not be able to gloat about his contumacia (meaning the failure to

16 Cf. CDD, no. 106, p. 141. 17 Cf. Del Lungo, Isidoro: Dell’esilio di Dante. Firenze 1881, p. 137, fn. 1. Cf. also Della Torre, Arnaldo: L’Epistola all’ “amico fiorentino”, in: Bullettino della società dantesca italiana 12 (1905), pp. 121–174, here: pp. 162–172. 18 Cf. CDD, no. 114, and also no. 183. 19 CDD, no. 114, p. 154.

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appear in court on purpose) a licentia was issued that, whoever offended the life and property of the condemned would remain unpunished. 20 Del Lungo had already commented on this judgment, saying that Dante should be mentioned in the “canone de’maledetti dalla partia”. 21 Recent research has confirmed that the reiterated sentences concerning Dante and other White Guelphs had little to do with legal treatment of possible offences. Rather, the iterative trials against Dante and his companions reflect a political culture, intentionally keeping the memories of the defeated and banished political opponents alive. 22 Accordingly, the first judgment against Dante of January, 27 th in 1302 already contained the amendment, along with the fine of 5.000 small Florins and two years of exile outside the province of Tuscany: “[…] thereby the lasting memory of the above mentioned would have been ensured, the names will be written on the statues of the Popolo; And as embezzlers and counterfeiters they could not anymore hold any office in Florence […].”23 A second sentence was issued on the 10th of March 1302, after the defeated party failed to stop their attacks. Condemned in absence for barattaria, i.e. the people found guilty for the misappropriation of public funding and positions as well as unjustified expropriation and illegal enrichment, the penalty now read death by fire. 2 4 In this judgment, the purpose to enter the names of the convicted on the statutes of the Popolo for eternal memory was dropped. The two condemnations from 1302 nevertheless became a significant record of the ruling Guelph’s political memory. They were conserved solely because the Parte Guelfa produced two transcriptions of the sentences between 1348 and 1358–50 years after the judgments had been given. 25 As a consequence of Dante’s refusal to take the oblation and present himself as inglorious and ignominious to the Florentines, his fama and his honor were not 20 21 22 23

CDD, no. 115, p. 156. Cf. Del Lungo 1881 (as fn. 17), p. 17. Cf. Gualtieri 2009 (as fn. 4), pp. 54–78. CDD, no. 90, p. 107, and Campanelli, Maurizio: Le sentenze contro i Bianchi fiorentini del 1302. Edizione critica, in: Bullettino dell’Istituto storico italiano per il medio evo 108 (2006), pp. 187–377, p. 228. 2 4 CDD, no. 91, p. 109 and Campanelli 2006 (as fn. 23), p. 225. 25 Cf. Campanelli, Maurizio: Quel che la filologia può dire alla storia. Vicende di manoscritti e testi antighibellini nella Firenze del Trecento, in: Bullettino dell’istituto storico italiano per il medioevo 105 (2003), pp. 89–2 47, and Mazzoni, Vieri: Accusare e proscrivere. Il nemico politico. Legislazione antighibellina e persecuzione giudiziaria a Firenze (1347–1378). Pisa 2010, pp. 33–45.

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unimpaired in Florence. In fact the reverse is true. When Dante failed to take the rite of rehabilitation upon him, he remained present his entire life and far beyond exclusively as rebel and enemy to Florence. The canon of the rebels and enemies, aiming to prevent the descendants of the old Ghibellines and Bianchis from exalted positions was obviously not aimed at Dante directly. However, it might have had a more lasting effect on him compared to other ostracized Florentines. Dante focused his energy on the creation of a poema, inflicting such wounds through his nib, “that the scars will be eternally visible, because the infamy could never be erased, but will last as long as this book (i.e. the Commedia) will last in the memory of the people”, as Bevenuto da Imola phrased it. 26 Bevenuto remarks on this in his commentary of Inf. XXXII, 73–123, where Dante describes his encounter with Bocca degli Abato, who did not want to reveal his name. While maltreated by Dante, Bocca gave a yelp, whereupon another called his name so that Dante finally knew he was dealing with the malvaggio traditor of Montaperti, promising him: “[…] a la tua onta / io porterò di te vere novelle” (Inf. XXXII, 110f.). 27 It is known that the Commedia supplied the audience with news about a number of personalities belonging to Dante’s own time. As Bevenuto’s comment proves, many of these characterizations were of such a nature that a contemporary reader had to perceive them as an infamizing act. Dante might have avoided treating only his political opponents in such a way, yet, therefore, the shame of his hometown, whose name “per lo ’nferno […] si spande” (Inf. XXVI, 3), only increases. The man who originally had been found guilty for his decisions as representative of the White Guelphs, became as poeta active in a way that confirms the negative image of his person, which the Florentine administration cultivated from January 1302. With his Commedia, Dante confronted the Florentines guarding the city and their Guelph identity with the problem that he countered the canon of those cursed by the city with his no less effective poema concerning the memoria long beyond his death.

26 Da Imola, Benvenuto: Comentum super Dantis Comoediam. Ed. by Jacobo Ph. Lacaita. 5 vols. Florence 1887, vol. 2, p. 506. 27 For further details see Stazzone, Alessandra: Alla tua onta io porterò di te vere novelle. Dérison et infamie dans le chant XXXII de l’Enfer, in: Filigrana 7 (2002–2003), pp. 9–32, as well as id.: La renommée dans la Divine Comédie. Enjeux et configurations narratives. Ph.D., Grenoble III, Grenoble 2004, and also Steinberg, Justin: Dante and the Laws of Infamy, in: PMLA 126 (2011), pp. 1118–1126.

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3. How Dante became Florentine again The Commedia left no trace in official Florentine documents during the time of its first publication. It is unknown how and when the poema came to Dante’s native town. Unlike certain Bolognese colleagues since 1317, Florentine notaries never entered single terze rime of the Inferno and the Purgatorio into blank spaces in their documents, in order to protect the legal content from further additions. 28 The initial explicit reference to Dante’s work “dicitur Comedia et de infernalibus inter cetera multa tractat”29 , however, originates from the pen of a man who has been banished as Ghibelline from Florence in 1304. Francesco da Barberino probably entered this comment mid-1314 into his Documenti d’amore,30 right after he returns to Florence. 31 It is unknown whether he took Dante’s Inferno with him. The Inferno and the Purgatorio had already been distributed to a certain extent at this time. In the terze rime of Simone Martini’s Maestà in the Palazzo Pubblico in Siena from 1315, for instance, there are verbal references to both of the first cantiche of the Commedia.32 The Paradiso and the complete Commedia circulated for the first time after Dante had passed away in Ravenna in September 1321.33 Iacopo Alighieri already provided Guido da Polenta I, the family’s benefactor from Ravenna, with his Divisione of his father’s work in spring of 1322. He and his older brother Pietro therefore might have carried the Commedia with them when leaving Ravenna returning to Florence around September 1322. A document from January 1323 and confirms the presence of Pietro in Florence.34 According to a decree of October 1325, Dante’s sons were no longer to be treated as banished persons, although 28 Cf. Alighieri, Dante: La Commedia secondo l’antica vulgata. Ed. by Giorgio Petrocchi. 4 vols. Florence 1994, vol. 1: Introduzione, pp. 60–61. For an analysis of this phenomenon see Steinberg, Justin: Accounting for Dante. Urban Readers and Writers in Late Medieval Italy. Notre Dame 2007. 29 Da Barberino, Francesco: I Documenti d’Amore. Ed. by Marco Albertazzi. 2 vols. Lavis 2008, vol. 2: Glossae, IV, iii, pp. 371–372. 30 See Egidi, Francesco: L’argomento barberiniano per la datazione della Divina Commedia, in: Studi romanzi 19 (1927), pp. 135–162; Fenzi, Enrico: Ancora a proposito dell’argomento barberiniano (una possibile eco del “Purgatorio” nei “Documenti d’amore” di Francesco da Barberino), in: Tenzone 6 (2005), pp. 97–119, and Indizio, Giuseppe: L’argomento barberiniano. “Dossier” di un’attribuzione, in: Studi danteschi 72 (2007), pp. 283–297. 31 Cf. Pasquini, Emilio: Francesco da Barberino, in: Dizionario biografico degli italiani 49 (1997), pp. 686–691. 32 See Brugnoli, Furio: Le terzine della Maestà di Simone Martini e la prima diffusione della Commedia, in: Medioevo romanzo 12 (1987), pp. 135–154. 33 Cf. Casadei, Alberto: Dante oltre la Commedia. Bologna 2013, pp. 45–77. 34 Cf. CDD, no. 138.

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they had been implicated in the conviction of their father.35 It is unknown why Iacopo and Pietro could have resided in Florence before this date. Della Torre argues that, after the death of their father, both sons benefited from the fact of never having been particularly named in the sentences against their father. Thus, according to a contemporary legal interpretation, their banishment became irrelevant. If this interpretation is correct, then the “reformatio generalis in favorem condempnatorum et exbannitorum Comunis Florentie”36 from October 1325 stated that the implied legal conception itself did not provide legal security, but rather, the acquittal must be reconfirmed through a decree in the case of Iacopo. Perhaps the uncertain legal status also explains the remaining unclarity of when (and where) Iacopo exactly devised his Chiose all’Inferno37. As Saverio Bellomo noticed, the abstract allegorism of Iacopo’s Chiose could also be interpreted as an attempt to cover the repeated attacks of Florentine personalities, in which the Inferno is not lacking.38 The first caso, to which the Commedia has given reason in Florence, however, does not concern any citizen, but rather the suicide victims of Inf. XIII. One can find a relevant “Espositione sopra questo caso di frate Accorso Bonfantini” in a manuscript of the so-called Ottimo.39 This espositione was interpreted several times as a remnant of a public, dominical explanation of the Comedia by Bonfantini in the Cathedral of Florence, whereby it is constantly claimed that one can find the corresponding note in the Historia litteraria f lorentina by Lorenzo Mehus of 1769. 40 The relevant espositione indeed attracted the attention of the great Scholar, 41 but one searches in vain for indi-

35 Cf. Della Torre, Arnaldo: Un documento poco noto sul ribandimento di Iacopo di Dante, in: Archivio storico italaliano 32 (1904), pp. 289–331. 36 Della Torre 1904 (as fn. 35), p. 291. 37 Cf. Alighieri, Jacopo: Chiose all’”Inferno”. Ed. by Saverio Bellomo. Padua 1990, p. 13, and Malato, Enrico and Mazzucchi, Andrea (ed.): Censimento dei commenti danteschi, vol. 1: I commenti di tradizione manoscritta (fino al 1480). Rome 2011, pp. 316– 327. 38 Cf. Alighieri 1990 (as fn. 37), pp. 13–14. 39 Malato and Mazzucchi 2011 (as fn. 37), p. 190. 40 A recent version of this argument, armed with plenty of footnotes, can be found at Corrado, Massimiliano: L’”espositione” dantesca di frate Accursio Bonfantini, in: Leggere Dante oggi. I testi, l’esegesi. Ed. by Enrico Malato and Andrea Mazzucchi. Rome 2012, pp. 237–264. 41 Cf. Mehus, Lorenzo: Historia litteraria florentina. Florence 1769, reprint, Munich 1968, p. CLXXXII: „Aetate [Dantis] quoque par erat Accursus de Bonfantinis e Minorum Familia Monachus, qui Dantis Comoediam exposuit. Bonfantini autem expositionem adlegat anonymus ille, qui super Dantis Comoediam circiter an. 1334 italice scribebat, ut supra dixi.“ See also pp. CXXXVII, CCCXXXIV and CCCXXXX.

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cations at his as well as at Batines’ works, 42 that this could be a testimonial of a public commentary of the Commedia by Accursio Bonfantini. Even though it has wandered like a ghost through literature since Niccolò Papini brought it into the world in 1933, 43 Bonfantini never held a public lecture on Dante’s poem. However, he acted from 1326 to 1329 as papal inquisitor of Tuscany. From 1332–1334 he is testified as an inquisitor of Siena. His espositione of Inf. XIII might thus be indeed a reassuring response to the question of a doubting reader concerning the orthodoxy of Dante, as Bellomo supposes. 4 4 Dante’s vernacular work was clearly inconvenient to the Roman Provincial Chapter of the Dominicans that was held in Florence in September 1355. It prohibited the friars, “ut fratres nostri ordinis theologie studio plus intendant” to possess or to study “poetic books or booklets, written by someone called Dante”. 45 In civil life, controlled by Civil Law, there were no known prohibitions of the Commedia – not even in Florence. In 1338 Giovanni Villani’s book “qui dicitur liber Dantis Alligherii” was stolen and when he discovered the stolen exemplar at a bookseller in Florence, he was able to make the case and find witnesses to confirm the true ownership. 46 Also the Commedia, which oldest preserved manuscript has been originated in Florence between October 1330 and January 1331, 47 has been intensively copied in the city in the meantime. 48 From then the Commedia made Dante indispensable in Florence as an author. In as much he was not leading a life of his own beyond the codices of his poema, he has yet to become a prominent public figure.

42 Cf. De Batines, Colomb: Bibliografia dantesca ossia catalogo delle edizioni, traduzioni, codici manoscritti e comenti della Divina Commedia e delle opere minori di Dante. 2 vols. Prato 1845–1846, vol. 2, p. 297, and vol. 1, pp. 592; 594, fn.1 and 62 4. 43 Cf. Papini, Nicolaus: Minoritae conventuales lectores, in: Miscellanea francescana di storia, di lettere, di arti 33 (1933), pp. 381–385. In the posthumously published edition Papini added a “puto” to the predication, which refers to Mehus, telling that Bonfantini would have been the first to comment the Commedia in public. Later on, that “puto” has been deliberately ignored. 44 So Bellomo, Saverio: Dizionario dei commentatori danteschi. L’esegesi della Commedia da Iacopo Alighieri a Nidobeato. Florence 2004, p. 190. 45 Kaeppeli, Thomas and Dondaine, Antoine (ed.): Acta capitulorum provincialium provinciae romanae (12 43–1344). Rome 1941, p. 286. For further details see Corrado 2012 (as fn. 40), pp. 2 40–2 41. 46 Cf. Azzetta, Luca (ed.): Ordinamenti, provvisioni e riformagioni del comune di Firenze volgarizzati da Andrea Lancia (1355–1357). Venice 2001, p. 18. 47 Cf. Alighieri 1994 (as fn. 28), pp. 76–78. 48 Cf. Boschi Rotiroti, Marisa: Codicologia trecentesca della Commedia. Entro e oltre l’antica vulgata. Rome 2004, pp. 77–93.

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4. The formation of a new public Dante in Florence The first Florentine commentaries show how difficult it was for Dante to step out of the terze rime of his poema in his former hometown. Around 1334, the socalled Ottimo commento49 emerged in Florence, whose anonymous author insinuated that he has known Dante personally.50 There are indeed extremely informed annotations scattered throughout the whole commentary concerning Dante.51 The commentator also proceeds “che una delle cause motive di questa opera [scil. of the Commedia] fu per avere fama nelli successori”.52 Nonetheless nowhere did he bring together all his knowledge about the poet in one actual Vita of Dante. It is impossible to know if Andrea Lancia prefixed a concise portrayal of Dante to his commentary, accrued between 1341 and 1344, since the first sheets of the mostly-autographical manuscript of his commentary have been lost.53 Yet this seems to be unlikely. The notary, who was quite successful in the municipal administration, knew the Vita nuova, the Convivio and the Ep. XIII54 and he used the Ottimo, but there is obviously much less biographical material to find concerning Dante than in his Florentine predecessor. In the Nuova cronica of Gio­ vanni Villani, a friend of Lancia who fell victim to the Black Death in 1348, Dante however gets his own chapter, thus stepping out of his Commedia in Florence for the first time. Under the heading, Chi fue il poeta Dante Allighieri di Firenze, Villani reports on the last years of Dante in Ravenna. There he was buried “a grande onore in abito di poeta e di grande filosafo”.55 Without mentioning the twofold death sentence, the French Karl of Valois, who came to Florence in 1301, is held responsible for Dante’s banishment. Karl has chased away the parte bianca and thereby also the Guelph Dante, who had been one of the most important men of government at these times. A short overview concerning the works of the “sommo poeta e filosafo, e rettorico perfetto” follows. Here Villani emphasizes that three letters of Dante including a letter “al reggimento di Firenze dogliendosi del suo esilio sanza colpa” were praised by experts. He characterizes the Commedia as a poetic

49 Cf. Bellomo 2004 (as fn. 44), p. 355. 50 Cf. L’ottimo commento della Divina Commedia. Testo inedito d’un contemporaneo di Dante. Ed. by Alessandro Torri. 3 vols. Pisa 1827–1829, vol. 1, pp. 144 and 255. 51 Cf. e.g. the notes on Inf. X, L’ottimo commento 1827–1829 (as fn. 50), vol. 1, pp. 177–178. 52 L’ottimo commento 1827–1829 (as fn. 50), vol. 3, p. 403. 53 Cf. Lancia, Andrea: Chiose alla Commedia. Ed. by Lucca Azzetta. Rome 2012, p. 88. 54 Cf. Lancia 2012 (as fn. 53), pp. 19–28 as well as ad indicem. 55 Villani, Giovanni: Nuova cronica. Ed. by Giuseppe Porta. 3 vols. Parma 1990–1991, vol. 2, X, cxxxvi, pp. 335–338.

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work “con grandi e sottili questioni morali, naturali, strolaghe, filosofiche, e teologhe”. In this work, Dante took pleasure in the manner of poets and, probably more than suitable, in clamouring, but was perhaps induced to do so by his exile. At the end of this short portrayal – its first version might probably be dated earlier than 133356 – he described Dante as pretentious, awkward and presumptuous. Dante, presented as a laico, did not understand “a guisa di filosafo mal grazioso” to speak with laici according to the chronicler. However, due to other virtues, as well as because of his knowledge and his importance as citizen, it is appropriate to accord him “perpetua memoria in questa nostra cronica”. Particularly due to his writings, the chronicler concluded, we ennoble him to “vero testimonio e onorabile fama a la nostra citta”. It is unknown whether Villani knew about Dante’s letter to a friend. It could be possible, especially because he presents Dante as philosophus and seems to take up his self-description as phylosophie domesticus (Ep. XII, 6). First and foremost, he attests onorabile fama to him, whereby he took into account his homecoming within the framework of the Nuova cronica in a way that did not affect his fame and honour (Ep. XII, 8). Also in legal terms, there is nothing to say against the presentation of Dante’s fama by Giovanni Villani, because – according to the author of the Nuova cronica – Dante as a Guelph was not sent into exile by his fellow citizens, but by Karl of Valois, who in the meantime had passed away. In contrast, in his first literary monument to Dante, the strategy of Giovanni Boccaccio was not to talk about the exile at all. One can find this in the Amorosa visione, written in Florence between 1342 and 1345, wherein he described a mural in which Dante is depicted as a poet laureate.57 Boccaccio probably already knew of Dante’s letter to a friend at that time, as the only preserved manuscript witness of Ep. XII is in his Zibaldone Laurenziano (Plut. XXIX,8) in a fascicle from 1340 or 1341.58 Yet not a word is said about Dante’s banishment. Instead, he applauds his

56 Cf. Ragone, Franca: Giovanni Villani e i suoi continuatori. La scrittura delle cronache a Firenze nel Trecento. Rome 1998, pp. 121–128. The first version of the Dantechapter also mentions De vulgari eloquentia and the Convivio, both not appearing in the last version, probably because Dante did not finish them, as Villani remarks in his first compilation. 57 Cf. Boccaccio, Giovanni: Amorosa visione. Ed. by Vittore Branca. Milan 1974, (A) V, 70–VI, 36. See also Ricklin, Thomas: Dantes Campi Elisi. Von den glücklichen Feldern des Epitextes, in: Para/Textuelle Verhandlungen zwischen Dichtung und Philosophie in der Frühen Neuzeit. Ed. by Bernhard Huss [et al.]. Berlin a. New York 2011, pp. 337–358, here: pp. 340–343. 58 Cf. Zamponi, Stefano [et al.]: Stratigrafia dello Zibaldone ed della Miscellanea Laurenziani, in: Gli Zibaldoni di Boccaccio. Memoria, scrittura, riscrittura. Ed. by Michelangelo Picone and Claude Cazalé Bérard. Florence 1998, pp. 181–258, here: p. 239.

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fama, calling him the gloria of the ungrateful Florentines.59 The image of Dante in the Amorosa visione is owed to the coronation of Petrarch, as Vittore Branca has already shown, and especially to an account of poetic fantasy to create literary murals, explicitly amounting to those Giotto has painted. 60 In July 1343, the Florentines brought an abrupt end to the tyranny of Walter VI of Brienne, Duke of Athens, 61 and Boccaccio raises a monument to Dante Ali­ ghier fiorentino in his Amorosa visione, which shows no explicit time references. A good ten years afterwards, he presents a completely different Dante in De origine, vita, studiis et moribus viri clarissimi Dantis Aligerii f lorentini, poete illustris, et de operibus compositis ab eodem. This approximately 20.000-word text faces Florence with an image of Dante in which he suffered “ingiusta e furiosa dannazione, perpetuo sbandimento, alienazione de’ paterni beni” by his city. 62 Recently the importance of his text has been stressed in regard to the genesis of biographical literature. 63 There has been less attention concerning the circumstance that Boccaccio’s Vita di Dante stages the narration of Dante’s life as an invective against the city of Florence. Even though the biographical details, such as the mention of Dante’s refusal to oblation (163) or the claim that Dante became a Ghibelline as a result of being expelled from Florence by the Guelphs (170), were not encouraged to repatriate the poet unobtrusively. Yet Boccaccio demands even more from the ingrata patria (92), illustrating without mercy that in view of the destiny afforded to Dante, there was nothing on which they themselves could pride (92–109). Contrarily, he claims to speak out of giusta indegnazione (92) and out of embarrassment of Florence for what they did to their poet (99). Boccaccio knew of the letter of Petrarch from the 2nd of June 1349, as the first lines of the Vita di Dante show, wherein Petrarch charged the Florentines for the assassination of his friend Mainardo Accursio on their territory, promising eterna infamia to them if they would not immediately avenge the violent death of their citizen. 64

59 Cf. Boccaccio 1974 (as fn. 57), (A) VI, 13–15. 60 Cf. Boccaccio 1974 (as fn. 57), (A) IV, 14–18. 61 Cf. Sestan, Ernesto: Brienne, Gualtieri di, in: Dizionario biografico degli italiani 14 (1972), pp. 233–2 49. 62 Boccaccio, Giovanni: Vite di Dante. Ed. by Pier Giorgio Ricci. Milan 1974, 1 a red., 5. Below the paragraph numbers in the text refer to this edition. 63 Cf. Bartuschat, Johannes: Les ”vies“ de Dante, Pétrarque et Boccace en Italie (XIVe – XVe siècles). Contribution à l’histoire du genre biographique. Ravenna 2007, pp. 44–77; and Houston, Jason M.: Building a Monument to Dante. Boccaccio as Dantista. Toronto 2010, pp. 52–91. See also Ricklin, Thomas: Giovanni Boccaccio e la lingua della Commedia. Le grandi linee di un problema imbarazzante, in: Freiburger Zeitschrift für Philosophie und Theologie 59 (2012), pp. 426–446. 64 Petrarca: Rerum familiarium VIII–XI. Trans. by André Longpré. Notes by Ugo Dotti. Paris 2003, VIII, 10, 30.

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However, Boccaccio refrains from threatening his fellow citizens with such consequences: he maintains that the city thus far only donated a marmorea statua (69) by banishing him, whereas he now is placing the literary monument against, which he erects for Dante in his own name (8). In his Vita di Dante Boccaccio transfers the ignominy of Dante’s banishment to the city of Florence. If Florence and its citizens would not have had expelled him, rather treated him with courtesy, he would have been “in terra divenuto uno iddio” (83). This was absolutely certain for Boccaccio. Despite this courageous transfer of Dante’s infamy to the city of Florence, Boccaccio did not fall from favour with the political establishment. He was entrusted with various political offices and missions in the years following his publication of the Dante Vita. Possibly the unusual literary form of the Vita ensured that Boccaccio’s defilement would not be recognized in all its consequences. However, it is more likely that few of the Florentine politicians delved into the Dante Vita, originally designed as an introduction to Boccaccio’s ‘complete edition’ of Dante’s works. Consequently, only persons having access to a manuscript of considerable size could read them. Boccaccio’s first autograph of this edition – the Codex Toledo, Bibl. Capitular, Cod. 104, 6 – had 266 folios, enclosing subsequently to Boccaccio’s Vita di Dante, the Vita nova, the Commedia with Boccaccio’s Argomenti of the three cantiche and the fifteen canzoni distese of Dante. 65 The number of readers of the first Vita version therefore was likely to have been limited in the 1350s and 1360s, and probably only a few Florentines enjoyed the way Boccaccio credited Florence with infamy. Working out a second version of the Vita in the 1360s, Boccaccio anyway removed the anti-Florentine passages and eliminated its rhetorical highlight namely paragraphs 94–110. While a whole set of restatements in the second version of the Vita di Dante can be traced back to discussions with Petrarch, 66 there are no indications that he would have persuaded Boccaccio to moderate the antiFlorentine tone of the pasquil.

5. Back in Florence: Dante on the Walls No later than in the second half of the 1350s, Boccaccio (as well as some benevolent readers of the Vita di Dante) could have become aware that the first version of this text had turned out to be a very vehement attack. Around 1357 Nardo da Cione painted a big Inferno, inspired by Dante’s first cantica, onto the eastern sidewall 65 Cf. Boschi Rotiroti 2004 (as fn. 48), no. 269. 66 For the influence of Petrarch on the second version of the Vita see Paolazzi, Carlo: Petrarca, Boccaccio e il “Trattatello in laude di Dante”, in: Studi danteschi 55 (1983), pp. 165–2 49.

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of the Strozzi Chapel in Santa Maria Novella. 67 Like no other painter before, he availed himself of Dante’s text for this 110 square meter fresco, as Henrik Engel emphasizes. 68 It is also evident, however, that the chapel’s fresco, which was consecrated to St. Thomas Aquinas, nowhere declares its source of inspiration. None of the fresco’s many inscriptions mentiony the Commedia or even Dante himself. None of the numerous figures of the inferno representy Dante or another identifiable Florentine. 69 The fresco does not directly refer to Dante’s text. Only someone who is thoroughly familiar with the whole scene of Dante’s Inferno and who has a clear idea of its topography is able to establish a relationship between Dante’s first cantica and its idiosyncratic implementation in the fresco. It is unknown if any person before Lorenzo Ghiberti had seen that Nardo followed Dante’s Inferno.70 Furthermore, we do not know who is ultimately in charge of the fact that Nardo’s fresco is not designating its source of inspiration. Since the order to design the chapel was given by the Strozzi family, but financiers like the Strozzi had been put into hell by Dante and the fresco was realized in the church of the Dominicans, who prohibited the lecture of Dante’s poem,71 it is possible, that the Strozzis and the Dominicans prevented Nardo to name or to put Dante in the limelight. This, however, Antonio Pucci, a friend of Boccaccio, did do in his Centiloquio, a rhymed remake of Villani’s Nuova cronica, which ended in 1373. In the canto lv Pucci is chronologically abreast of Vallini’s Dante chapter, 72 which is faithfully arranged in verses by him.73 But he then falls asleep, touched by the just portrayed burial of Dante in Ravenna. He sees a setting in his dream, bearing nothing in common with Villani’s chronical. He sees seven women weeping bitterly, all of them having been married to Dante and from each he received a dowry. All in a row, each brings forward her complaint and soon it becomes evident that these are personifications of the seven liberal arts, who are mourning the death of their sweetheart. Afterwards another female figure appears, introducing the other ladies to the dreamer and reports that the seven females have crowned Dante with the laurel wreath. Last but not least, even 67 For general information see Offner, Richard: A critical and historical Corpus of Florentine painting. The fourteenth century, IV, 2, Nardo da Cione. New York 1960, pp. 47–60. 68 Cf. Engel, Henrik: Dantes Inferno. Zur Geschichte der Höllenvermessung und des Höllentrichtermotivs. Munich and Berlin 2006, p. 73. 69 Cf. Pitts, Frances L.: Nardo da Cione and the Strozzi Chapel Frescoes. Iconographic Problems in the Mid-Trecento Florentine Painting. Berkeley 1982, p. 42. 70 Cf. Ghiberti, Lorenzo: I commentarii. Ed. by Lorenzo Bartoli. Florence 1998, p. 87. 71 See above in the text at fn. 45. 72 See above in the text at fn. 55. 73 The canto is published in Solerti, Angelo: Le vite di Dante, Petrarca e Boccaccio scritte fino al secolo decimosesto. Milan 1904, pp. 5–7.

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theology appears to comfort the weeping persons: “Dante non è morto; / e per noi viverà ancor lungamente, / benché ricerver ce ne paja torto” (126–128). The dreamer now wants a closer look at the women, but he gets slapped in the face by one of them and drowns in tears. He awakens, whereupon he adheres to Villani again for the rest of the canto. Pucci’s dream of Dante goes beyond the scope of its original. Nevertheless it is an easy matter to grasp the material, which he used to create this dream. The seven liberal arts were present, painted on the facade of the episcopal palace in Florence 74 and possibly this mural inspired Pietro Alighieri to his nuova visone, which describes the mourning about Dante by the seven liberal arts.75 In the years 1366–1367 Antonio Bonaiuti also portrayed the seven artes liberales in the great Triumph of St. Thomas Aquinas in the chapter hall of Santa Maria Novella.76 Florence provided a series of public works of art which enabled visions like Pucci’s Dante dream. Yet Pucci not only used the ekphrastic possibility of poetry to celebrate the skills of Dante in an appropriate way, his possibly most famous poem proves that he has utilized the same stylistic device in bringing Dante back to Florence in an efficient and unobtrusive manner: “Questi che veste di color sanguigno, / Posto seguente alle merite sante, / Dipinse Giotto in figura di Dante, / Che di parole fe’ sì bell’ordigno.”7 7 A clarifying article by Ernst H. Gombrich certifies that these verses cannot possibly refer to this famous painting, circling through humanistic literature since Filippo Vallini’s initial mentioning of it, around the end of the 14th century 78 up to its rediscovery in the Chapel of St. Magdalene at the Palazzo del Podestà in 1839.79 Nonetheless, Gombrich also interprets Pucci’s verses as the description of a painted work of Giotto at the Palazzo del Podestà. According to him, the verses can be traced back to the Comune rubato, mentioned for the first

74 Cf. Davidsohn 1927 (as fn. 10), p. 122, as well as Davidsohn, Robert: Forschungen zur Geschichte von Florenz. 4 vols. Berlin 1896–1908, vol. 4, p. 509. 75 Cf. De Robertis, Domenico: Un codice di rime dantesche ora ricostituito, in: Studi danteschi 36 (1959), pp. 137–205, here: pp. 196–205. See also Ginori Conti, Piero: Vita ed opere di Pietro di Dante Alighieri. Florence 1939, pp. 121–122, and Beccari, Antonio: Le rime di Maestro Antonio da Ferrara, lxxvii . Ed. by Laura Belluci. Bologna 1972. 76 Cf. Offner, Richard and Steinweg, Klara: A critical and historical Corpus of Florentine painting. The fourteenth century, IV, 6, Andrea Bonaiuti. New York 1979, pp. 17–43. 77 Ferri, Ferrucio: La poesia popolare in Antonio Pucci. Bologna 1909, pp. 203–204. 78 See Villani, Filippo: De origine civitatis Florentie et de eiusdem famosis civibus. Ed. by Giuliano Tanturli. Padua 1997, A-A 1 , xlvii , 12. 79 Cf. Gombrich, Ernst H.: Giotto’s Portrait of Dante?, in: The Burlington Magazine 121 (1979), pp. 471–483.

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time by Ghiberti. 80 Because this painting no longer exists, Gombrich’s argument cannot be verified. Apart from that, even Gombrich admits to have “no shadow of proof for this suggestion”. 81 Moreover, it is incomprehensible why his indication, that one cannot depict a “condemned traitor” like Dante right next to the altar of the Palazzo del Podestà, 82 should not apply to each painting in the building, whose function has not been to illustrate the infamy of the portrayed person. 83 Given the impossibility to find a suitable painting of Pucci’s poem, it is advisable to take the verses for what they are: a rhymed ekphrasis. It does not matter whether the verses are describing a painting which has never existed, or if they take a painting as an initial point on which, with virtual certainty, no such certified Dante was ever portrayed. As his friend Boccaccio was imagining a painted Dante in the manner of Giotto in the Amorosa visione, which Pucci knew, 84 Pucci described a painting of Dante by Giotto. 85 Using this literary device, he brings Dante back to Florence through the medium, used by the city to present the infamy of their enemies through images of shame on the public building facades. The fact that the Dante painting by Giotto was consequently established as a popular motive in Florentine Dante literature proves how successful Pucci’s invention had been, to show a picture from the hand of Giotto which attests to the sublime fama of Dante in Florence. At the same time Franco Sachetti, a close friend of Boccaccio and Pucci, initiates a similar crafty repatriation. In two of his novels a Dante figure appears, taking action against people in Florence even before his exile, deforming the verses of his Commedia. 86 Due to this striking anachronism, the Commedia became a work that was always known and at home in Florence. In a similar unproblematic way, the libro Dantis was presented, due to the petition in August 1373, leading to a commissioning of Boccaccio to comment on the Commedia. On the occasion of their request, the instigators limited themselves to the note that el Dante promoted even not Latin speaking persons both an escape from their vices and an acquisition of virtues, not to mention their eloquence. 87 When starting his public 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87

Cf. Ghiberti 1998 (as fn. 70), p. 84. Gombrich 1979 (as fn. 79), p. 479. Gombrich 1979 (as fn. 79), p. 475. Cf. Ortalli, Gherardo: Pingatur in palatio. La pittura infamante nei secoli XIII–XVI. Rome 1979, pp. 43–46. Cf. Quaglio, Antonio E.: Antonio Pucci primo lettore-copista-interprete di Giovanni Boccaccio, in: Filologia e critica 1 (1976), pp. 15–79, here: p. 29. Cf. fn. 57. Cf. Sacchetti, Franco: Il trecentonovelle. Ed. by Davide Puccini. Turin 2008, cxiv and cxv. For the text of the petition see Guerri, Domenico: Il commento del Boccaccio a Dante. Bari 1926, pp. 205–209.

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explanation of the Commedia in the church of Santo Stefano della Badia at the end of the year, Boccaccio just gave a brief remark of the political turbulence from the beginning of the century in the Accessus of the Esposizioni. He no longer spoke of Dante’s exile, once being the reason to build a literary monument of shame. This time, he simply stated that Dante had to “[…] partire di Firenze”. 88 Through Boccaccio’s public explanation of the Commedia, Dante returned into the city’s public sphere, which had once imposed the death penalty upon him. Finally, in December 1396, it was decided to create „unam eninentem, magnificam et honorabilem sepulturam“ for Accursio, Dante, Petrarca, Zanobi da Strada and Boccaccio at the Cathedral of Florence, without the requisite that the bones of the honoured need to lay therein. 89 The People’s Council adopted the proposal by 153 votes in favour and 51 against, the Council of the Podestà by 145 votes in favour and 15 against. However, the monument was left unrealized, which should have given fame and honour to Florence. Whether one imagined five figurative portrayals of the five honoured is not known. Even before the first Dante image found its way into the Cathedral of Florence, probably between 1413 and 1430,90 an unknown miniaturist had drawn a facial profile of Dante into the upper right corner of the opening page of the Commedia manuscript at the Vienna, Austrian National Library, ms. 2600 (fig. 2).91 This inconspicuous, washed pen drawing thus became the starting point of the iconographic tradition of Dante’s well-known profile.

88 Boccaccio, Giovanni: Esposizioni sopra la Comedia di Dante, Ed. by Giorgio Padoan. Milan 1965, Accessus, 33. 89 The relevant decree is published in De Lungo 1881 (as fn. 17), pp. 170–175. 90 Cf. Altrocchi 1931 (as fn. 2), pp. 15–16. 91 Cf. Ciardi Dupré Dal Poggetto, Maria Grazia: Continuità e innovazione nei ritratti di Dante, Petrarca e Boccaccio nei codici miniati coevi o di poco posteriori, in: Immaginare l’autore. Il ritratto del letterato nella cultura umanistica. Ed. by Giovanna Lazzi and Paolo Viti. Firenze 2000, pp. 63–70.

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2 | Dante portrait in Divina Commedia, Vienna, Österreichische Staatsbibliothek,

MS. 2600, fol. 1r.

159

1 |  Farbtafel

2 |  Farbtafel

3 |  Farbtafel

4 |  Farbtafel

5, 6 |  Farbtafel

7 |  Farbtafel

8 |  Farbtafel

Felix Jäger

Sovereign Infamy Grotesque Helmets, Masks of Shame and the Prehistory of Caricature*

Ever since the psychological exploration of caricature in the writings of Ernst Gombrich and Ernst Kris, images of infamy and the penal practice of executio in effigie have been considered the predecessors of charged portraiture. 1 They are said to signal a transitional phase from a fetishistic handling as in envoûtement to the abstract notion of representation evolving in the early modern period. Caricature, they argue, preserves the inherent power of derision that is, however, no longer directed at the portrayed himself, but instead deflected to the public viewing the portray. Images of shame serve as a negative backdrop to the critical potential of caricature, which is believed to seal the aggressive drive of shaming within the aesthetic sphere. 2 In a similar vein, Werner Hofmann argued that caricature designates a shift to a modern mindset mirroring the Renaissance ideals of humanism and beauty. Drawing on the notion of an increasing rationalization of culture, the medieval cosmos of deformity is said to represent an innocent play of

*



1

2

A version of this paper was presented at the session on “caricature before caricatura” at the AAH Annual Conference 2015 in Norwich. I am grateful to the chairs Katarzyna Murawska-Muthesius and Stefan Trinks for their valuable comments and advice. Cf. Kris, Ernst: Zur Psychologie der Karikatur, in: Imago 20 (1934), pp. 450–466, here: pp. 457–458; Gombrich, Ernst a. Kris, Ernst: The Principles of Caricature, in: Kris, Ernst: Psychoanalytic Explorations in Art. London 1953 [=1938], pp. 189–203, here: pp. 192–194; Gombrich, Ernst a. Kris, Ernst: Caricature. Harmondsworth 1940, p. 9; Gombrich, Ernst: The Cartoonist’s Armoury, in: id.: Meditations on a Hobby Horse and Other Essays on the Theory of Art. London 1963, pp. 127–142, here: pp. 134–135. Cf. Gombrich a. Kris 1953 (as fn. 1), pp. 201–203; Gombrich a. Kris 1940 (as fn. 1), pp. 15; 26–27.

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forms, while caricature sets out to delineate a counter-world of the sensual, abnormal and subversive in protest against the reign of reason and order.3 Reevaluating the juxtapositions suggested by Gombrich, Kris and Hofmann, I will argue for a broader approach to the prehistory of caricature that takes into account the iconology of shame in so-called all’eroica or ‘vernacular’ armor. These highly elaborate objects display a sense of ambivalence that escapes the binary configu­ rations of magical and symbolical use, political and aesthetic culture, lifelikeness and deformation as well as order and subversion. The politics of self-shaming operating in these suits will allow for a closer look at the interrelation of power, body and legal status in the 16th century. While the pittura infamante usually acts on the delinquent either by the lifelikeness of the image or heraldic attributes identifying the person portrayed, it is masks of infamy that most closely anticipate the formal criteria of caricature. 4 Simultaneously maintaining the visibility of the wearer and aiming at a derisive distortion by overdrawing characteristic features or assimilating them to the physiognomy of animals, they suggest a transformation of the criminal that does not refer to a mimetic ideal of art. In contrast to defamatory painting, the visual disfigurement is not mediated by a representational doubling supposed to bridge the absence of the delinquent, but applied directly to the latter’s body. These masks are, therefore, inconsistent with explanations of the working of shame imagery based on the dualism of person and portrait. Neither the magical potency of resemblance, as in James George Frazer’s ‘law of similarity’, nor a purely con-

3

4

Cf. Hofmann, Werner: Die Karikatur – Eine Gegenkunst, in: Bild als Waffe. Mittel und Motive der Karikatur in fünf Jahrhunderten. Exhib. cat. Ed. by Gerhard Langemeyer et al. 2 nd edition. München 1985, pp. 355–383, here: pp. 357–360; 365–367; 371–373; revised and abridged version of Hofmann, Werner: Die Karikatur. Von Leonardo bis Picasso. Hamburg 2007 [=1956]. Hofmann explicitly refers to Ernst Gombrich as a key influence on his approach: Cf. ibid., pp. 27–28. For Hofmann’s critical reading of Gombrich’s theory of caricature cf. Hofmann, Werner: Ernst Gombrichs ‘gestörte Form’, in: id.: Die Gespaltene Moderne. Aufsätze zur Kunst. München 2004, pp. 91–101, here: pp. 98–99. Essential for both images of infamy and executio in effigie cf. Brückner, Wolfgang: Bildnis und Brauch. Studien zur Bildfunktion der Effigies. Berlin 1966; Ortalli, Gherardo: “…pingatur in Palatio...“ La Pittura Infamante nei Secoli XIII–XVI. Roma 1979; Edgerton, Samuel Y.: Pictures and Punishment. Art and Criminal Prosecution during the Florentine Renaissance. Ithaca 1985, pp. 91–125; Freedberg, David: The Power of Images. Studies in the History and Theory of Response. Chicago 1991, pp. 2 46–282. Surprisingly, none of these seminal works includes masks of infamy, which figure almost exclusively in ethnographic research or legal history.

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ventional use of effigies irrelevant of iconography seem to be at stake.5 Exposed to the public in a dishonoring showcase, in fact, the wearer assumes an ambiguous status that renders him into an embodiment of his own social persona. The identity of sign and object, thus, precludes the assumption of a necessary link between the apprehension of deformation and the ethos of mimesis, invented, as argued by Hofmann, in the Renaissance. 6 These objects are not acting in protest against the Humanist ideal of proportion. On the contrary, while adhering to a general scheme of derisive formulae, they are at odds with the general history of style, created for particular offenses or persons and, as a result, notoriously hard to date. Although the early history of these masks is largely unexplored, the record of preserved objects suggests a significant increase in use and production since the 16th century. Administered by authorities of summary jurisdiction (Niedergerichtsbarkeit) against minor offences such as gossiping, lying or insulting, they aimed at the public humiliation of a member of the local community. Showcased in public places such as market squares or in the pillory, the penalty required the offender to wear the mask for one or more days, sometimes bearing a sign stating his crime. The iconography of the masks usually aimed at an ironic mirroring of the committed offence similar to the principle of contrapasso in Dante’s Inferno: Donkey-like ears, for example, may refer to eavesdropping, glasses to voyeurism and curiosity, long tongues sticking out to gossiping and lying.7 According to the

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For the ‘law of similarity’ in sympathetic magic cf. Frazer, James George: The Golden Bough. A Study in Magic and Religion, vol. 1. New York 1940, pp. 11–37. For an overview of the debate on conventional symbolism versus likeness, that is, in particular, with regard to legally formalized versus magical image use in pitture infamante cf. Freedberg 1991 (as fn. 4), pp. 263–282. Cf. Hofmann 1985 (as fn. 3), esp. pp. 359–360. A comprehensive study of masks of infamy as a category of objects in its own right is a major research desideratum. For a general overview of the place of these masks in the context of defamatory punishment (Ehrenstrafen) and public humiliation in the Holy Roman Empire cf. Schild, Wolfgang: Die Geschichte der Gerichtsbarkeit. Vom Gottesurteil bis zum Beginn der modernen Rechtsprechung. Hamburg 2003, pp. 212–216; Hinckeldey, Christoph (ed.): Justiz in Alter Zeit. Rothenburg 1984, pp. 335–368, esp. pp. 340–341; Schwerhoff, Gerd: Verordnete Schande? Spätmittelalterliche und Frühneuzeitliche Ehrenstrafen zwischen Rechtsakt und sozialer Sanktion, in: Mit den Waffen der Justiz. Zur Kriminalitätsgeschichte des Spätmittelalters und der Frühen Neuzeit. Ed. by Andreas Blauert a. Gerd Schwerhoff. Frankfurt am Main 1993, pp. 158–188; Frohne, Bianca: Narren, Tiere und ‘grewliche Figuren’. Zur Inszenierung komischer Körperlichkeit im Kontext von Bloßstellung, Spott und Schande vom 13. bis zum 16. Jahrhundert, in: Glaubensstreit und Gelächter. Reformation und Lachkultur im Mittelalter und in der Frühen Neuzeit. Ed. by Christoph Auffarth a. Sonja Kerth. Berlin 2008, pp. 19–54, here: pp. 41–43.

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vocabulary of Roman law, masks of shame procure the punishment of diminutio capitis in offences against communal morality. The resulting infamia entailed both a diminishment of the delinquent’s legal status and a temporary exclusion from the community. 8 Surprisingly, these masks find an uncanny analogy in a group of parade helmets produced during the 16th century in leading workshops of armor-makers such as those of the Helmschmids in Augsburg, the Seusenhofers in Innsbruck or the Negroli in Milan. Unsuitable for military purposes, these helmets were part of garnitures commissioned by the most powerful rulers of the time to be used at ceremonial occasions such as tournaments, triumphal entries and state receptions or shown off as items of representation in princely collections. Unlike portraiture, they provided for a prosthetic enhancement of the wearer’s body that seems to account for an emphatically personal notion of rule. However, in contrast to so-called all’antica or alla romana armor, the objects of this group do not picture an ideal athletic body as in the humanist notion of mens sana in corpore sano. Rather, the wearer is covered by an intricate play of intertwining forms, vines, reptiles, fantastic monsters and leaf masks that defy any specific iconographic attribution. Contrary to the misleading epithet of all’eroica, these armors do not invoke the mythological heroes of antiquity, but display a highly ambivalent iconography rendering the wearer into a composite being.9 In the most enigmatic designs, the helmets of these armors push the deformation to such an extreme as to recall the imagery of masks of infamy. While this observation may be coincidental, the appraisal of ‘vernacular’ features in all’eroica helmets, suggested by Donald LaRocca, indicates a visual idiosyncrasy that moderates the gap between court and popular culture. 10 Assuming that these spheres of cultural practice are not a priori disconnected, but, in fact, constantly at interplay, I will argue that the similarities between masks of shame and all’eroica helmets point to a common symbolical matrix implied in the political setting of the 16th century. By highlighting exemplary objects I will try to outline a common iconology of defama8

For the role and terminology of shame (infamia) in Roman and Canon Law cf. Ed­gerton 1985 (as fn. 4), pp. 60–66; Lidman, Satu: Zum Spektakel und Abscheu. Schand- und Ehrenstrafen als Mittel Öffentlicher Disziplinierung in München um 1600. Frankfurt am Main 2008, pp. 99–105. 9 For the terminology of all’antica, alla romana and all’eroica cf. Pyhrr, Stuart W. a. Godoy, José-A.: Introduction, in: Heroic Armor of the Italian Renaissance. Filippo Negroli and his Contemporaries. Ed. by Stuart W. Pyhrr a. José-A. Godoy. Exhib. cat. New York 1998, pp. 1–2 4, here: p. 2. 10 Cf. LaRocca, Donald J.: Monsters, Heroes, and Fools. A Survey of Embossed Armor in Germany and Austria, ca. 1475-ca. 1575, in: A Farewell to Arms. Studies on the History of Arms and Armour. Ed. by Gert Groenendijk et al. Delft 2004, pp. 34–55, here: pp. 40–41.

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1 | Kolman Helmschmid (attrib.), Close helmet with mask

visor, steel and gold, Augsburg, ca. 1515, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art.

tion that applies as much to the public humiliation of a criminal as to the representation of sovereign power. As one of the most prestigious representatives of his profession the Augsburg based Kolman Helmschmid (1470/1471–1532) worked under close supervision of the Habsburg court and garnered commissions from the most illustrious princes of his time. Apart from Maximilian I and Charles V he manufactured armors for Albert of Mainz, Frederick III of Saxony and Federico II Gonzaga of Mantua. According to the records of the Habsburgs, he collaborated with Albrecht Dürer on a lost parade garniture around 1516 and repeatedly travelled to Spain. At the Madrid court he got into close contact with Italian Mannerism and adopted a sculptural approach to armor as well as an artistic freedom that fed into increasingly ambitious creations. 11 Manufactured by Helmschmid around 1515, a close

11

For a biographical overview cf. Gamber, Ortwin: Kolman Helmschmid, Ferdinand I. und das Thun’sche Skizzenbuch, in: Jahrbuch der Kunsthistorischen Sammlungen in Wien 71 (1975), pp. 9–38.

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2 | Freydal fol. 203, tempera and watercolor on pen drawing, gold and silver

highlights, ca. 1512–1515, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Kunstkammer.

helmet with mask visor 12 (fig. 1), preserved in New York, stands out as one of his most puzzling works. Traditionally associated with Frederick III of Saxony (1463–1525)13 , whose support of Martin Luther against both the Papacy and the Emperor only a few years later attests to his outstanding political self-confidence, the helmet invokes a grotesquely overdrawn physiognomy that is at odds with the ideal renderings of contemporary portraiture. Fully enclosing the head and 12 New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Acc. No. 04.3.286a. 13 Cf. Kienbusch, Carl Otto v. a. Grancsay, Stephen V.: The Bashford Dean Collection of Arms and Armor in The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Portland 1934, p. 75.

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3 | Close helmet with mask visor, steel, Augsburg (?), ca. 1530, New York,

Metropolitan Museum of Art.

the neck of the wearer, the helmet consists of a skull, an integral bevor as well as an embossed visor, all attached to a double pivot on both sides of the skull. The skull and the bevor are decorated with ornamental etchings showing vines and gilded candelabra arranged in matching ribbons. A comb alluding to wattles crowns the helmet. The visor is embossed as a bearded male face with narrow eye-slits for the wearer at the top, drilled eye-holes with etched lashes, brows and wrinkles, a prominently protruding hooked nose and a slightly opened mouth with a twirled moustache. The facial expression invokes neither stoicism, as might be expected by a humanist agenda, nor terror as in apotropaic imagery. Paradoxically, instead, it seems to portray either fear, disgust or bewilderment. 14 Referring to the illustrated tournament book Freydal, commissioned by Maximilian I as part of his fictive autobiographical cycle, LaRocca argues that this 14 For a detailed description cf. Kienbusch a. Grancsay 1934 (as fn. 13), pp. 70–77. The helmet was ‘restored’ by Jean-Baptiste Carrand (1792–1871) or Louis Carrand (1821– 1888) and used as part of a pastiche armor comprised of various authentic and fake fragments. For this cf. Pyhrr, Stuart W.: Armor for America. The Duc de Dino Collection, in: Metropolitan Museum Journal 47 (2012), pp. 183–230, here: pp. 217–219.

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type of mask visor may refer to a stereotypical iconography of Turks used in masquerades (Türkenmummerei) and echoing contemporary political conflicts (fig. 2). The prominent nose of the visor, accordingly, is said to blend in with bird masks worn in these events as means of ethnic derision. 15 In related objects, such as another helmet 16 from Augsburg in New York (fig. 3), the visor itself is modeled as a rooster’s head jotting out awkwardly from the front. In contrast to these compositions, which draw on a simple juxtaposition of wearer and mask, however, the physiognomic approach of Helmschmid’s work seems to appeal to an ethnographic, psychological or moral reading. While the wattles still allude to the rooster literally, the nose has assimilated the beak as a formal principle, thus, implying the physiognomic discourse of the 16th century. In his treatise De Sculptura (1504) the Italian humanist Pomponio Gaurico (1481/1482–1530) had argued that the features of a person may be recreated by consideration of their moral qualities. 17 Reevaluating the pseudo-Aristotelian correlation of human and animal physiognomy, Giambattista della Porta (1535–1615) in his Physiognomonia (1586) interpreted the rooster-like nose as a sign of luxuria and voluptuousness. Unlike the imperial eagle-nose, which denotes magnanimity, the rooster is characterized as an embodiment of the libidinous Jupiter and closely associated with Silenus and the satyrs. 18 In more general terms, the demonic deformation of the body anticipated the condition of the damned: The late medieval theologian and mystic Denis the Carthusian (1402–1471) argued that the sight of disfigurement

15 Cf. Leitner, Quirin v.: Freydal des Kaisers Maximilian I. Turniere und Mummereien. Wien 1880–1882, pl. 92; 203; LaRocca 2004 (as fn. 10), pp. 47–50. For the adoption of oriental imagery in European court culture cf. Schnitzer, Claudia: Zwischen Kampf und Spiel. Orientrezeption im höfischen Fest, in: Im Lichte des Halbmonds. Das Abendland und der Türkische Orient. Exhib. cat. Ed. by Alfred Brückner. Leipzig 1995, pp. 227–234. In general for the iconology of masquerades at the court of Maximilian I cf. Schnitzer, Claudia: Höfische Maskeraden. Funktion und Ausstattung von Verkleidungsdivertissements an Deutschen Höfen der Frühen Neuzeit. Tübingen 1999, pp. 81–111. 16 New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Acc. No. 29.150.3a. 17 Cf. Gaurico, Pomponio: De Sculptura. Ed. by Paolo Cutolo. Napoli 1999, III, p. 170: “Physiognomonica […] est certa quaedam observatio, qua ex iis quae corpori insunt signis, animorum etiam qualitates denotamus. […] Id autem quoniam ἀντίστροφον est commutationemque patitur, erit quidem sculptori quam maxime necessarium. Nanque vel ex viventium corporibus effigies imitabimur […] vel mortuorum praesentias ex notissimis eorum moribus imaginabimur”. 18 Cf. Della Porta, Giovan Battista: De Humana Physiognomonia Libri Sex. Ed. by Alfonso Paolella. Napoli 2011, II, pp. 146–149: “Qui nasum concavum habent ante frontem rotundum et supereminentem rotundum, luxuriosi sunt et ad gallos referuntur. […] Fingunt Poetae Iovem aquilae forma Ganimedem rapuisse: sub tali figmento id fortasse innuentes. […] Tali naso Satyri et Sileni ab antiquis effigiati sunt”.

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inspired pain in the viewer and was part of the economy of punishment administered in hell. 19 In line with this expectation, contemporary depictions of the passion use distorted faces with poignant noses to designate the evil of the crowd mocking Jesus. 20 The extreme ambivalence of a grotesque rendering of the ruler, even if mediated by the role play of a masquerade, accordingly, contrasts sharply with the mimetic or humanist notion of representation centered on an ethics of virtue. On the contrary, the imagery seems to invert the scheme, so as to undermine the ruler’s claim to a higher degree of morality. Indeed, Helmschmid’s helmet displays features common to carnivalesque masquerade, costumes of fools as well as masks of shame. 21 One such mask 22 (fig. 4), preserved in Rothenburg, imitates a jester’s cap as a means of visualizing an offender’s moral delinquency. Similar to the helmet’s design, the skull of the mask is fully enclosing and topped with a ridged comb alluding to wattles, however, combined with spirally twisted horns, a plume holder as well as shells that are supposed to draw the attention of the public. Fashioned as an ornamental openwork, the hinged visor allows for the identification of the wearer. In contrast to the helmet, the nose remains understated, while both objects share the twirled beard that may allude to a Turkish stereotype. 23 Tellingly, a closely related object (fig. 5), more finely wrought, but most likely used for shaming as well, was put up for auction as a jester’s or youth’s mask helmet at Sotheby’s in 1983. 2 4 This confusion, as I suggest, is by no means coincidental, but lies at the heart of the visual rhetoric at stake. Hovering between the spheres of court and popular culture, the

19 Dionysius Cartusianus: De Quatuor Hominis Novissimis, in: Opera Omnia, vol. 41. Tournai 1912, pp. 491–594, here: p. 553: “Insuper, tanta est deformitas damnatorum, quod mutuus adspectus auget in eis dolorem magis quam praestet solatium. Suis quoque clamoribus, ululatibus ac horribilibus apparatibus augent in miseriam mutuam.” 20 For the meaning of deformation in late medieval depictions of the passion cf. Dittmeyer, Daria: Gewalt und Heil. Bildliche Inszenierungen von Passion und Martyrium im späten Mittelalter. Köln et al. 2014, pp. 61–66. For the assimilation of the iconography of demons into the discourse on physiognomy cf. Arasse, Daniel: Le Portrait du Diable. Paris 2010, esp. pp. 87–94. 21 For the role of fools in carnival processions cf. Sieber, Friedrich: Volk und volkstümliche Motivik im Festwerk des Barocks. Berlin 1960. For the use of masks of roosters cf. esp. ibid., p. 99. 22 Kriminalmuseum, Rothenburg o.d.Tauber. 23 The object originates from Upper Austria and is dated tentatively to the 17 th or 18th century. Thanks to Sandra Sauter, Kriminalmuseum, Rothenburg o.d.Tauber. 2 4 The author of the catalogue entry refers to Seusenhofer’s Ram’s Horn Helmet discussed below and argues for a later reworking of the object into a jester’s helmet: Cf. Sotheby Parke Bernet and Co.: The Hever Castle Collection, vol. 1, Arms and Armour. Sale cat. of 5 May 1983. London 1983, art. 32, pp. 2 4–25.

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4 | Mask of shame, steel, Old Austria (?), 17 th–18th century (?),

Rothenburg ob der Tauber, Kriminalmuseum.

iconography of exception and otherness, embodied in these objects, relays the utmost extremes of social order, thus bending the hierarchical top back to its opposite. Even more striking, the so-called Horned Helmet or Ram’s Horn Helmet 25 (fig. 6), manufactured by the Innsbruck based workshop of Konrad Seusenhofer (1450/1460–1517) and given as a present to Henry VIII by Maximilian I in 1514, seemed to counteract the conventional image of the English king so forcefully that only a few decades after the latter’s death it was believed to have belonged to the king’s court jester Will Sommers (died 1560). 26 Seusenhofer, who had been 25 Leeds, Royal Armouries, Inv. IV.22. 26 The helmet is first mentioned as having belonged to a fool in the journal of an anonymous student from the University of Altdorf in 1638. The first reference to Will Sommers dates to the inventory of the Tower from 1660. For this cf. Blair, Claude:

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5 | Mask of shame (formerly jester’s or youth’s masque

helmet), steel, 16th century (?). (Farbtafel 4)

6 | Konrad Seusenhofer, so-called Horned Helmet or

Ram’s Horn Helmet, steel, formerly silvered, Innsbruck, ca. 1511–1514, Leeds, Royal Armouries.

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appointed court armorer of Maximilian I in 1504, is considered one of the most innovative craftsmen of his time and credited with the advancement of costume armor imitating the pleated clothing of the German Landsknechte. 27 The Emperor himself seems to have had an active role in the determination of artistic questions relating both to shape and decoration, as his memorials suggest. 28 Given the humanist education of the princes and the political weight of the occasion, the idiosyncrasy of the object, poised between terror and irony, is all the more mysterious. 29 Originally part of a costume garniture now lost, the helmet is constructed as a fully enclosing armet with a plain skull, hinged cheekpieces, a grotesque mask visor and curled ram’s horns protruding from the temples. The cheeks are engraved with dragonheads and circular ornaments with rosettes on a hatched ground. Holes and sunken bands at the back of the skull indicate additional metal applications or textiles. Unlike Helmschmid’s design, the visor is modeled as a mask in the full sense, without separate eye-slits for vision derived from functional armor. The openworked eyes, accentuated by engraved contours, lashes and wrinkles, squint suspiciously, while riveted brass spectacles seem to indicate the loss of sight. The crooked, knobby nose sits above a fiendishly grinning mouth, formed by a horizontal line of crossing slits. Variously described as a jester’s or demon’s face as well as a caricature of the Emperor himself, the helmet displays a psychological subtlety that has been puzzling viewers ever since.30 Considering the uniqueness of the ensemble, Alan Borg and Ortwin Gamber believed that both the horns and the spectacles must have been added at a later date, so as to affirm the assumption of the object having belonged to Will

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29

30

The Emperor Maximilian’s Gift of Armour to King Henry VIII and the Silvered and Engraved Armour at the Tower of London, in: Archaeologia 99 (1965), pp. 1–52. For a biographical overview cf. Boeheim, Wendelin: Die Waffenschmiede Seusenhofer, ihre Werke und ihre Beziehungen zu Habsburgischen und anderen Regenten, in: Jahrbuch der Kunsthistorischen Sammlungen des Allerhöchsten Kaiserhauses 20 (1899), pp. 283–320, here: pp. 290–306. Cf. Boeheim 1899 (as fn. 27), pp. 291; 320. The Gedenkbücher were used as notebooks and are partly handwritten by the Emperor himself: Cf. Gottlieb, Theodor: Büchersammlung Kaiser Maximilians I. Mit einer Einleitung über Älteren Bücherbesitz im Hause Habsburg = Die Ambraser Handschriften, vol. 1. Leipzig 1968 (=1900), pp. 54–65. The helmet may have been part of a mutual gift-giving, articulating the alliance of the Habsburg with the Tudors against France: Cf. Heal, Felicity: The Power of Gifts. Gift-Exchange in Early Modern England. Oxford 2014, p. 152. For the identification of the mask with Maximilian I cf. Blair 1965 (as fn. 26), p. 17; Blair, Claude: Comments on Dr. Borg’s ‘Horned Helmet’, in: The Journal of the Arms & Armour Society 8 (1974), pp. 138–185, here: pp. 180–181.

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7 | Alexander the Great,

tetradrachm of Lysimachus, silver, ca. 305BC–281BC, London, British Museum.

Sommers.31 However, there is neither material nor written evidence of that hypothesis. Rather, it seems to have been the ambivalence of the object itself that called for both an iconographic and ideological clarification in line with the common notion of representation in the 16th century.32 In contrast to all’antica armors, which aim at a genealogical distinction of the wearer by showing heraldic attributes, monograms or mottos, the Horned Helmet denies any such identification.33 What is more, the unusual renderings of the physiognomy as well as the choice of accessories seem to calculate with the alienation of the viewer. The ram’s horns, in particular, invite various conflicting interpretations. Since Alexander the Great’s impersonation of the Egyptian Sun god Amun-Ra, ram’s horns had been assigned heroic meaning and were attached to helmets as awards of bravery in Roman

31 Cf. Borg, Alan: The Ram’s Horn Helmet, in: The Journal of the Arms & Armour Society 8 (1974), pp. 127–137; Gamber, Ortwin: A Funerary Effigy, Grotesque Helmets and the Seusenhofer Workshop, in: Apollo 127 (1988), pp. 105–107, here: p. 106. 32 For this cf. Borg 1974 (as fn. 31), p. 134: “Viewed objectively, it becomes practically inconceivable that such a gift could ever have been made. […] In its present form, the iconography of the helmet relates to sexual and racial characteristics which were considered undesirable in the sixteenth century, and definitely not suitable for a king.” For a detailed criticism of Borg’s thesis cf. Blair 1974 (as fn. 30). 33 For the genealogical meaning of clothing in the High Renaissance cf. Jones, Ann Rosalin a. Stallybrass, Peter: Renaissance Clothing and the Materials of Memory. Cambridge 2000.

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times.34 Yet, both Alexander’s horns as depicted on coins (fig. 7) and the Roman cornicula are fashioned with a single curl around the ear, while Seusenhofer’s helmet sits above the ears and coils twice. Furthermore, in the classical presentation, the aggressive drive of horns contrasts sharply with the stoic demeanor of the portrayed, so as to express the taming of the furor of war with reason. The Horned Helmet’s viciously grinning grimace forbids any such dialectical reasoning. The positive connotations of the attribute contrast sharply with the iconography of dishonor, used to designate pagan deities, demons as well as Otto­ mans and Jews. As such, they are commonly found, for example, in pamphlets during the Reformation period.35 Associated with the imagery of cuckoldry since at least the 18th century, the Ram’s Horn Helmet, in particular, has been understood to translate the saying of ‘putting horns on someone’.36 Since horns are frequently used as components in heraldic devices or tournament costumes, depicted, for example, in the Freydal, LaRocca argues that they humorously appeal to the folly of love common to chivalric romance.37 Analogous to the heroic connotation, however, in these instances horns seem to work either as signifiers of heraldic meaning or tokens of a condition already overcome by chivalric virtues. Seusenhofer’s design produces the opposite effect: Enhanced by the comic appeal of the object, the wearer paradoxically enacts his own dishonor, dismantling both his political and social status.

34 Cf. Mellinkoff, Ruth: The Horned Moses in Medieval Art and Thought. Berkeley 1970, pp. 3–4. For the tradition of horned helmets and horned headdresses in northern Europe cf. ibid., pp. 37–57. 35 In general for the ambiguity of the attribute cf. Mellinkoff 1970 (as fn. 34), pp. 121–137. For the association with Saracens cf. Strickland, Debra Higgs: Saracens, Demons, & Jews. Making Monsters in Medieval Art. Princeton 2003, pp. 169–170. 36 Cf. with examples Blair 1965 (as fn. 26), p. 19. For the imagery of horns used in verbal, gestural and symbolical defaming of cuckolds cf. Gowing, Laura: Domestic Dangers. Women, Words, and Sex in Early Modern England. Oxford 1996, pp. 95–96; 102. Closely related to the iconography of fools, horns were used in informal charivari aimed at the humiliation of a scolded husband: Cf. Underdown, David: The Taming of the Scold. The Enforcement of Patriarchal Authority in Early Modern England, in: Order and Disorder in Early Modern England. Ed. by Anthony Fletcher a. John Stevenson. Cambridge 1985, pp. 116–136. In general for the significance of cuckoldry anxiety to the construction of manhood in the early modern period cf. Breitenberg, Mark: Anxious Masculinity in Early Modern England. Cambridge 1996, esp. pp. 2–3. For a psychoanalytical account of the paradoxical horn symbolism cf. Bonaparte, Marie: Über die Symbolik der Kopftrophäen, in: Imago 14 (1928), pp. 100–141. 37 Cf. Leitner 1880–1882 (as fn. 15), pl. 10; 13; 46; 73; 77; 105; 114; 118; 145; 169; 216; LaRocca 2004 (as fn. 10), pp. 50–51. For a criticism of heraldic meaning in the helmet cf. Borg 1974 (as fn. 31), pp. 133–134.

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8 | Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen (attrib.), Laughing fool, oil

on panel, ca. 1500, Wellesley, MA, Davis Museum at Wellesley College.

Similarly puzzling, the brass spectacles seem to derive from the iconography of folly, used as attributes, for example, in portraits of jesters, painted by the Dutch artist Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen (ca. 1470–1533) around 1500 (fig. 8).38 38 For a historical contextualisation of the spectacles cf. Grossmann, Theobald: Eine erhaltene Nietbrille am Groteskhelm Heinrich VIII (1511), in: Klinische Monatsblätter für Augenheilkunde 129, 4 (1956), pp. 559–561.

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The glasses ironically hint at a loss of sight, voyeurism and a failing sense of reality.39 In this way, a bespectacled mask with coiling horns and opened mouth features on an allegorical panel, engraved after a drawing of Léonard Thiry (1490– 1550) from around 1550 (fig. 9). 40 The print is part of a set of prints dedicated to the ancient deities and shows Saturn devouring his children in the lower register. The mask is put into an ornamental setting directly above the protagonist, so as to visually comment on the latter by means of visual analogy. The inscription below indicates a dialectical reading of the scene: Quid prodest Saturne pater deglubere natos (“Of what avail is it, father Saturn, to flay your children”). Equipped with the insignia of agriculture and civilization, Saturn figures both as the ideal king of the Golden Age and the god of melancholy, whose wisdom and justice turn into folly when consuming his own offspring to prevent his downfall. The drive to tyranny, implied in the political reading of melancholy, characterizes as much the psychological disposition of the sovereign as the precarious state of rule in general. 41 In this sense, the Horned Helmet pictures a king on the brink of madness, whose fear of losing power is deflected to his subjects as an image of terror. 42 While both the ram’s horns and the spectacles yield highly complex and ambivalent iconographies, Seusenhofer’s design bears particularly close similarities with a mask of shame 43 , preserved in Berlin (fig. 10). Taking up features of the jester’s type, discussed above, while adding derisive physiognomy, this exceptionally rich object shares central characteristics with the Ram’s Horn Helmet of Henry VIII. The openworked mask displays oversized ears with shell-earrings, glasses above a wide, knobby nose and a slightly opened mouth, fashioned with 39 For the negative symbolism of glasses cf. Mann, Heinz Herbert: Augenglas und Perspektiv. Studien zur Ikonographie zweier Bildmotive. Berlin 1992, pp. 87–120. 40 Cf. LaRocca 2004 (as fn. 10), p. 55, fn. 53. 41 For the antithetical connotations of Saturn cf. Klibansky, Raymond, Panofsky, Erwin a. Saxl, Fritz: Saturn and Melancholy. Studies in the History of Natural Philosophy, Religion and Art. London 1964, pp. 133–135; 2 41–254; Benjamin, Walter: Ursprung des deutschen Trauerspiels, in: Gesammelte Schriften, vol. I, 1. Ed. by Rolf Tiedemann a. Hermann Schweppenhäuser. Frankfurt am Main 1991, pp. 203–430, here: pp. 323–329. For the melancholy of the prince as a topos in German baroque drama cf. ibid., pp. 320–323; 332–334. 42 Similarly, a bespectacled mask features in the stucco decoration of the Sala dell’Oroscopo in Andrea Palladio’s Palazzo Barbaran da Porto in Vicenza. Designed by the workshop of Lorenzo and Agostino Rubini in the 1570s, the mask frames the ceiling frescoes with celestial allegories, among them Saturn holding a globe. In contrast to Thiry’s engraving, however, the horns do not emanate upward from the forehead, but reappear as a formal echo in the volutes at the sides of the face spiraling backwards. Cf. Beltramini, Guido (ed.): Il Palazzo di Montano Barbarano. Centro Internazionale di Studi di Architettura Andrea Palladio. Vicenza 2010, pp. 40–43. 43 Berlin, Deutsches Historisches Museum, Inv. K 58/1.

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9 | René Boyvin or Pierre Milan (attrib.) after Léonard Thiry, Saturn, engraving,

ca. 1540–1560, London, Victoria and Albert Museum.

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10 | Mask of shame, iron, Germany (?), 17 th century (?), Berlin,

Deutsches Historisches Museum.

tubular lips, two rows of pointy teeth and a furrowed tongue, sticking out. On the forehead, an embossed miniature face is attached, uncannily reduplicating the composition of the mask, but intensifying the aggressive tenor. The redoubled mask, in fact, evokes apotropaic imagery such as the head of Medusa or leaf masks placed variously on helmets in the 16th century. Two ram’s horns, fixed to oblong mounts, curl back from behind the miniature mask and down to the ears. 4 4 Even if not in stylistic terms, it is the same formulae of dishonor as well as the same 44 According to the object database of the Deutsches Historisches Museum, the mask may originate from Germany and dates to the 18th century. The dating, however, should be taken with caution. Cf. Inv. K 58/1, URL: http://www.dhm.de/datenbank/dhm.php?seite=5&fld_0=AK100079 (26 march 2015).

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double-edged ambience of fear and humor at work in both this object and Seusenhofer’s infamous helmet design. The iconographic similarities between grotesque helmets and masks of shame do not, however, point to an innocent play of forms, as Werner Hofmann suggested, nor to a bawdy humor common among courtiers of the time. Rather, it is the conflicting connotations of fama in the political culture of the 16th century that invests these objects with intense social meaning. Ranging from notions of authority and public opinion to personal glory, vanity and rumor, fama acquired a structurally ambiguous semantics that fed into the negotiation of the individual and the social sphere. 45 In consonance with the status of existimatio, defined by Callistratus in the Digest of Justinian, it characterizes “a position of unimpaired standing, which is established by law and custom and under the authority of the laws may be reduced or removed by our delict.”46 In this juridical reading, fama denotes the legal persona of an individual, whose credit determines the outcome of a case in civil courts. 47 According to Michel Foucault, the status of ‘good repute’, embodied in a person’s fama, pertains to the accusatory procedure of penal practice, which does not aim at justice in the common sense, but at the settling of a dispute in favor of the stronger opponent. 48 The inquisitorial procedure, adopted first by the Holy Roman Empire in the Constitutio Criminalis Bambergensis of 1507, then in the Constitutio Criminalis Carolina of 1532, in contrast, aims at the reconstruction of truth via testimony and observation, thus, introducing a tech-

45 For a comprehensive overview of the conflicting connotations of fama cf. Hardie, Philip: Rumour and Renown. Representations of ‘Fama’ in Western Literature. Cambridge 2012, pp. 1–48. 46 Watson, Alan (ed.): The Digest of Justinian, vol. 4. Transl. by Alan Watson. Philadelphia 1998, L.XIII.5.1, p. 444 / Mommsen, Theodor a. Krüger, Paul (eds.): Digesta Iustiniani Augusti, vol. 2. Berlin 1870, p. 930: “Existimatio est dignitatis inlaesae status, legibus ac moribus comprobatus, qui ex delicto nostro auctoritate legum aut minuitur aut consumitur.” Used largely synonymously with existimatio, fama is referred to ex negativo as the condition diminished by infamia in Dig. III.II. 47 In general for the reception and transformation of fama and infamia in the legal literature of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance cf. Migliorini, Francesco: Fama e Infamia. Problemi della Società Medievale nel Pensiero Giuridico nei Secoli XII e XIII. Catania 1985; Fenster, Thelma a. Smail, Daniel (eds.): Fama. The Politics of Talk and Reputation in Medieval Europe. Ithaca 2003. In particular, for the procedural implications of fama cf. Théry, Julien: Fama. L’Opinion Publique comme Preuve Judiciaire. Aperçu sur la Révolution Médiévale de l’Inquisitoire (XIIe-XIVe Siècles), in: La Preuve en Justice, de l’Antiquité à nos Jours. Ed. by Bruno Lemesle. Rennes 2003, pp. 119–147. 48 Cf. Foucault, Michel: Truth and Juridical Forms, in: Power = Essential Works of Foucault, vol. 3, 1954–1984. Ed. by James D. Faubion. Transl. by Robert Hurley et al. New York 2000, pp. 1–89, here: pp. 32–39.

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nology of power at odds with the feudal tradition. What is more, the new procedure implied a disciplinary control of the individual, combining the administration of law with an inquiry into the soul. 49 Poised between these two conflicting formations of juridical knowledge, masks of shame, assigned in offences against morality, inflicted punishment by diminishing a delinquent’s fama ( privatio vel commaculatio famae), however, not as much to settle a dispute, as to govern the behavior of both the criminal and the viewing public. The temporary or complete loss of social reputation by infamia de facto, eventually, resulted in the exclusion from the community setting the offender apart from the norms of the group. In ethnological terms, he was rendered taboo, moving ambiguously between the spheres of the sacred and the demoniac.50 In view of the dynamic nature of fama, the objects discussed above both mirror and shape the wearer’s social and legal status. It is, therefore, symptomatic that Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679), even if much later, uses the metaphors of masks and visors to distinguish between a natural and an artificial, that is, legal person. Referring to the role-play of actors, Hobbes writes in his Leviathan (1651): “persona in Latin signifies the disguise, or outward appearance of a man, counterfeited on the stage; and sometimes more particularly that part of it, which disguiseth the face, as a mask or vizard [visor] […] So that […] to personate, is to act, or represent himself, or another”51 . Originally understood as the right to wear a mask during communal ceremonies, impersonation denotes a legal framework that defines the status of the individual within a social context. Masks and visors, invoked by Hobbes, thus, serve as visual operators capable of both investing and divesting an individual of personhood.52 With the increasing centralization of power and personalization of rule in the course of the 16th century, this doubling of the individ49 For the assimilation of wrong and sin cf. Foucault 2000 (as fn. 48), pp. 48–49. 50 The symbolic inversion of the delinquent’s fama, thus, reiterates a rite of separation resulting in a liminal status. For the use of liminalization in punitive law cf. Cohen, Esther: The Crossroads of Justice. Law and Culture in Late Medieval France. Leiden 1993, pp. 77–83. In general for the conceptualization of liminality as a medium of social conflicts cf. Turner, Victor: From Ritual to Theatre. The Human Seriousness of Play. New York 1982. 51 Hobbes, Thomas: Leviathan. Ed. by J. C. A. Gaskin. Oxford 1998, XVI, 3, pp. 106– 107. 52 For the genealogy of personhood cf. Mauss, Marcel: Une Catégorie de l’Esprit Humain. La Notion de Personne, celle de “Moi”, in: The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland 68 (1938), pp. 263–281, here: pp. 274– 277. For the visual implications of the notion of impersonation in Hobbes cf. Därmann, Iris: Die Maske des Staates. Zum Begriff der Person und zur Theorie des Bildes in Thomas Hobbes Leviathan, in: Die Machbarkeit der Welt. Wie der Mensch sich selbst als Subjekt der Geschichte entdeckt. Ed. by Mihran Dabag a. Kristin Platt. München 2006, pp. 72–92.

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ual in his persona resulted in the use of effigies in funeral ceremonies of kings as well as in the penal practice of executio in effigie. While the ruler’s exalted fama or maiestas required a visual representation beyond the death of the natural body, the violation of that honor in the crimen laesae maiestatis called for visual compensation by means of puppets, if the perpetrator was absent.53 This procedure, however, did not so much aim at the vengeance of the sovereign on the convict’s body, than at the public staging of that vengeance. Relaying conflicting notions of law, person and morality, it is this political economy of visibility that is at stake both in armor and masks of shame. Reproducing the fama of the wearer that is inherent to the latter’s moral integrity grotesque helmets, however, do not showcase the virtuous composure of an ideal Christian prince, but seem to aim at the opposite impression. Conforming to the iconography of shame, the ruler adopts the exceptional status of a criminal, thus, positioning himself at odds with the moral norms of the community. In this calculated subversion of conventional representation, in fact, he rebels against the constraints imposed on him by the moral regime implied in inquisitorial knowledge. Set beyond the community, the ruler is relieved of both his moral and legal obligations, so as to invest himself with the sovereign power to act super ius et contra ius. From the top of the social hierarchy, in other words, he poses the principle of force against the inquiry into the morally right. In contrast to all’antica armor, that links the classical body to the Aristotelian canon of virtues, the defamatory style thus transforms the wearer into a visually ambiguous shape shifter, empowered to act as if ex nihilo.54 With the erosion of 53 For the use of effigies in funeral ceremonies as visualization of the double nature of the sovereign cf. Kantorowicz, Ernst H.: The King’s Two Bodies. A Study in Mediaeval Political Theology. Princeton 1957, pp. 419–436. For an overview of the legal meaning of maiestas cf. Willoweit, Dietmar: Art. Maiestas, in: Handwörterbuch zur Deutschen Rechtsgeschichte, vol. 3. Berlin 1984, cols. 173–176. In general for the crimen laesae maiestatis cf. Sbriccoli, Mario: Crimen Laesae Maiestatis. Il Problema del Reato Politico alle Soglie della Scienza Penalistica Moderna. Milano 1974. For the place of the executio in effigie within the legal discourse on the lèse-majesté cf. Brückner 1966 (as fn. 4), pp. 251–253; 292–312; Freedberg 1991 (as fn. 4), pp. 259–260. 54 In general for the increasing separation of law and power from the Middle Ages to Machiavelli and Bodin cf. Pennington, Kenneth: The Prince and the Law, 1200– 1600. Sovereignty and Rights in the Western Legal Tradition. Berkeley 1993. Interestingly, the active role of Maximilian I in artistic concerns reinforced a claim to sovereignty corresponding to the emphatic notion of a God-like artist. The objects produced, thus, both mirrored and substantiated the Emperor’s creative power. For the identification of ruler and artist cf. Warnke, Martin: Könige als Künstler, in: 30-jähriges Stiftungsjubiläum und Verleihung des Gerda Henkel Preises 2006. Ed. by Gerda Henkel Stiftung. Münster 2007, pp. 43–77. For Maximilian I cf. ibid., pp. 49–50. For the analogies between legal and art-theoretical thought cf. Kantoro-

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the ruler’s fama, therefore, these objects seem to mirror a reversal in political thought that found most prominent expression in the writings of Niccolò Machiavelli (1469–1527). According to his Il Principe from 1513, the prince is famously no longer expected to adhere to a set of ethical precepts based on Aristotelian theory, but to act as a strategist of power, who will follow moral claims only insofar as they serve the purposes of rule. Based on his concept of realism, Machiavelli advises the ruler “to learn how not to be good, and to use this knowledge or not to use it according to necessity.”55 Evaluating the political use of the ruler’s reputation, he argues for the merits of cruelty and fear as means to maintain power, even to the degree of damaging his fama: “A prince must not worry about the infamy of being considered cruel when it is a matter of keeping his subjects united and loyal.”56 Reassembling truths and lies according to his craft, the prince is encouraged “to be a great pretender and dissembler.”57 More useful, than to act on virtues, he explains, it is to appear to act on them, so as to be able to change to the opposite, if the situation requires it.58 Finally, referring to mythological allegory, Machiavelli elaborates on the ambiguous status of the ruler, who is expected to make use of both animal and human qualities: “There are two modes of fighting: one in accordance with the laws, the other with force. The first is proper to man,

55

56

57 58

wicz, Ernst H.: The Sovereignty of the Artist. A Note on Legal Maxims and Renaissance Theories of Art, in: De Artibus Opuscula XL. Essays in Honor of Erwin Pa­nofsky. Ed. by Millard Meiss. New York 1961, pp. 267–279. What is more, just as the ruler’s translegal power implied a pseudo-criminal status beyond the community, so could the artist, who had committed a crime, hope to be dispensed from his punishment: Cf. Bredekamp, Horst: Der Künstler als Verbrecher. Ein Element der frühmodernen Rechts- und Staatstheorie. München 2008, pp. 18–21. Machiavelli, Niccolò: The Prince. Ed. a. transl. by Peter Bondanella. Oxford 2005, XV, p. 53 / Il Principe, in: Tutte Le Opere. Ed. by Mario Martelli. Firenze 1971, pp. 255–298, here: p. 280. Machiavelli 2005 (as fn. 55), XVII, p. 57 / Machiavelli 1971 (as fn. 55), XVII, p. 282: “Debbe […] uno principe non si curare della infamia di crudele, per tenere li sudditi suoi uniti e in fede”. Infamy, in fact, serves as the categorical background to Machiavelli’s discussion of the prince’s qualities and is referenced repeatedly in chapters XV to XVII. Machiavelli 2005 (as fn. 55), XVIII, p. 61 / Machiavelli 1971 (as fn. 55), XVIII, p. 283. Machiavelli 2005 (as fn. 55), XVIII, p. 61 / Machiavelli 1971 (as fn. 55), XVIII, p. 284: “A uno principe, adunque, non è necessario avere in fatto tutte le soprascritte qualità, ma è bene necessario parere di averle. Anzi ardirò di dire questo, che, avendole e osservandole sempre, sono dannose; e parendo di averle, sono utili; come parere pietoso, fedele, umano, intero, religioso, ed essere; ma stare in modo edificato con l’animo, che, bisognando non essere, tu possa e sappi mutare el contrario. […] E però bisogna che egli abbia uno animo disposto a volgersi secondo ch’e’ venti della fortuna e le variazioni delle cose li comandano, e […] non partirsi dal bene, potendo, ma sapere intrare nel male, necessitato.”

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the second to beasts. But because the first, in many cases, is not sufficient, it becomes necessary to have recourse to the second”59 . In visual analogy to the zoomorphism of all’eroica or grotesque armor, the prince is portrayed as assembler of his own fama, avoiding the inquiry of his subjects, using force and truth at will, so as to nourish a psychology of terror supposed to keep his subjects in constant awe. 60 Machiavelli’s appeal to fear as a medium of rule points both to the immoral basis of power in force and the working of the irrational as veil of that force in representation. In his essay The Criminal-God (1938), Edgar Wind endeavored to explore the structural ambiguity of rule, inherent to exaltation and punishment, by equating the status of the sovereign with the criminal. Referring to the Babylonian ritual of sacrificing a convict as a substitute to the king, examined by James George Frazer, Wind ascribes the potency of that procedure to their shared position “apart from the rules of the group.”61 “The equation of king and criminal”, he writes, “becomes intelligible if Superior Power is understood as a force which is neutral to the distinction between good and evil and thus qualifies the bearer as taboo.”62 This sacrificial dimension of punishment, he holds, is particularly explicit in masks of shame that “retain as an ingredient the old pagan terror which the wearer of the mask inspires.”63 Laughter, in this case, did not work as the medium of a counter-culture, so as to designate the triumph of the people over fear, emanating from the authorities, “violence, prohibitions, limitations […] the oppression and guilt related to all that was consecrated and forbidden”64 , as ­M ikhail Bakhtin contends. 65 Nor did the comic, provoked by masks of shame and grotesque helmets, inspire a public sphere, collective reflection or criticism, attributed to caricature. It did not signal a subversion of the social hierarchy, but, 59 Machiavelli 2005 (as fn. 55), XVIII, p. 60 / Machiavelli 1971 (as fn. 55), XVIII, p. 283. 60 Notably, Machiavelli equates the fear instilled by the ruler with the tremendum emanating from God: Cf. Machiavelli, Niccolò: Discorsi sopra la Prima Deca di Tito Livio, in: Tutte Le Opere. Ed. by Mario Martelli. Firenze 1971, pp. 72–254, here: I, 11, p. 94: “Perchè, dove manca il timore di Dio, conviene o che quell regno rovini, o che sia sostenuto dal timore d’uno principe che sopperisca a’ difetti della religione.” 61 Wind, Edgar: The Criminal-God, in: Journal of the Warburg Institute 1 (1938), pp. 2 43–2 45, here: p. 2 43. 62 Wind 1938 (as fn. 61), p. 2 43. 63 Wind 1938 (as fn. 61), p. 2 43. The extraordinary relevance of the criminal-god-paradigm for the political, legal and visual culture of the 16th century has been highlighted recently by Carolin Behrmann’s research: Cf. Behrmann, Carolin: Tyrann und Märtyrer. Bild und Ideengeschichte des Rechts um 1600. Berlin 2015, pp. 9–36. 64 Bakhtin, Mikhail: Rabelais and his World. Transl. by Helene Iswolsky. Bloomington 1984, p. 90. 65 For the nature and context of laughter in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance cf. Bakhtin 1984 (as fn. 64), pp. 59–101, esp. pp. 90–94.

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in fact, precipitated its political transformation. Far from imparting a feeling of superiority, as Freud and Kris argued, it figures as a fundamentally political gesture displacing the object of ridicule to a sphere beyond the community. 66 In contrast to Gombrich and Kris, who argued for a shift from image magic to representation embodied in caricature, the visual economy of derision examined in this paper seems to undermine any such binary configuration. The imagery of deformation is as much part of the political iconography of the ruler as it is symptomatic of a painstakingly modern political thought. The aggressive drive, said to be curtailed within the aesthetic sphere in caricature, in grotesque armor does not aim at the portrayed, as in images of infamy, but is instead bent back from that sphere at the public as an image of terror, thus revealing the entanglement of representation and image magic. 67 Provoked to extreme reactions such as surprise, shock, fear and amusement, the viewer is paralyzed in awe, his laughter expressing not superiority, but powerlessness. 68 Preserving this fundamentally doubleedged character, caricature is part of a visual history of deformation that exerts the power to both exalt and condemn its object, all the more if the one may not be told apart from the other.

66 Cf. Freud, Sigmund: Der Witz und seine Beziehung zum Unbewussten = Gesammelte Werke, vol. 6. Ed. by Anna Freud. London 1948 [=1905], pp. 160–177; 204– 205; 228–229; Kris 1934 (as fn. 1), pp. 458–459; Kris, Ernst: Ego Development and the Comic, in: The International Journal of Psycho-Analysis 19 (1938), pp. 77–90, here: pp. 81–83. Freud and Kris based their account of the comic on Bergson’s analysis of laughter as a geste social: Cf. Bergson, Henri: Le Rire. Essai sur la Signification du Comique. 6th edition. Paris 1991 [=1900], pp. 4–7; 14–16; 102–103; 134–136. However, in contrast to Bergson, masks of shame and grotesque helmets indicate less a communal mechanism or the enforcement of a legal order, but a political ritual deline­ating the confines of the community. 67 For this cf. Bredekamp, Horst: Repräsentation und Bildmagie der Renaissance als Formproblem. München 1995, pp. 7–8; 28–29; 65–67. 68 For the late medieval discourse on perception, demonic possession and perturbatio cf. Klemm, Tanja: Bildphysiologie. Wahrnehmung und Körper in Mittelalter und Renaissance. Berlin 2013, pp. 2 47–270.

David Freedberg

From Defamation to Mutilation Reason of State and Gender Politics in South Africa

Gherardo Ortalli’s La Pittura Infamante of 19791 was of much wider relevance to the modern history of the relationship between politics, imagemaking, and the defamation and mutilation of images than its explicit chronological range might suggest. It inspired large portions of my articulation of the broader political and psychological functions of images in The Power of Images of 1979. 2 In this essay I will discuss the relevance of the topic for the broader sociology of images, and allow it to go beyond its usual European orbit. Although Ortalli himself was aware of its applicability to other periods, he explicitly abstained from drawing any broader conclusions, in favor of a strictly historical analysis of the medieval phenomena. He dealt largely with a specific legal use of images, often by the authorities themselves, intended not only to defame the persons they represented, but actually to punish the images, especially when the traitors or criminals they showed were absent. Ortalli’s immagini infamanti were thus more of a top-down than a bottomup phenomenon, whereas this essay may seem to be about the opposite – the even more familiar phenomenon of an image intended to defame from the bottom up by the people themselves, and that is eventually punished and executed, so to speak. But in the end this may be misleading too. It turns out, as we shall see, that such cases were often orchestrated from the top, and that the eventual destruction of the image was in many ways intended to save the reputation of the person represented rather than to destroy it.

1 2

Ortalli, Gherardo: La Pittura Infamante nei Secoli XIII–Xvi. Rome: Jouvence, 1979. Freedberg, David: The Power of Images: Studies in the History and Theory of Response. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989.

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Although Ortalli was very clear that his book was about a legal practice that was both juridically and penally normative, 3 for the rest his definition applies very much to the particular case I will present. He showed that the aim of the medieval and early Renaissance defamatory image was to strike the human subject in his individual dignity and honor by displaying his image to the derision and disdain of the community. In it he was deprived of the necessary attributes of his social status, and sometimes even of those even more elementary attributes that are particular to every human being (such as the parts of the body, for example). Ortalli noted that “to strike at an individual via his image meant using a symbol for a concrete purpose, following a method that was especially congenial for a still largely illiterate context, and one that was – precisely for this reason – all the more attentive to figurative representation, capable of conveying a rich series of messages and information”. 4 Moreover, in a society in which the image offered a particular good vehicle for news, information and persuasion – just as ours has become perhaps more than ever before – the defamatory image had a particularly strong effect. All this offers a remarkable parallel to the South African case I will describe. It offers a striking example of how a single image may stand at the center of a complex array of political, political, legal and aesthetic issues, culminating in iconoclasm. Many similar examples of images that begin as defamatory – or are construed as defamatory – and end in being destroyed, whether spontaneously and illegally, or by design and legally, can be found elsewhere as well. The context of this case contains a personal trajectory. I had returned to South Africa for the longest period since I’d left as a young political exile in 1966. Since then I had only gone to the funerals of my parents in the early 1980s. The country had totally changed. Although the socio-economic fault-line was as strong as ever – if not stronger – and fell, as it always had, along the major racial divisions, the moral and ethical situation had been transformed. For the most part, people seem to have genuinely changed their views from the old apartheid days. No doubt there were also pragmatic motives for such change, especially amongst the minority white population (3 million vs 30 million) but even so it was clear that people, on both sides, had worked hard to overcome, or even submerge, the old racial prejudices.

3 4

Ortalli 1979 (as fn 1), pp. 7 and 13. “colpire l’individuo attraverso la sua immagine significava utilizzare il simbolo per giungere ad un fine concreto, seguendo una via molto congeniale ad un ambiente nel complesso ancora largamente illetterato ed analfabeta ma (in parte proprio per ciò) assai attento alla rappresentazione figurata, in grado di cogliere in essa un ricca serie di messaggi ed informazione…”. Ortalli 1979 (as fn 1), p. 25.

From Defamation to Mutilation

When I left South Africa, the main opposition party, the African National Congress (ANC), had gone underground, and its military wing, the Umkhonto we Sizwe, the Spear of the People, operated largely from outside. The South African Communist Party, which largely supported the ANC, and still more radically revolutionary groups like the Pan African Congress (PAC), also remained deep underground. Even people like myself who were not involved in any dangerously subversive activity were suspected of somehow being Communist operatives in the struggle against apartheid. Censorship was tight; one could publish nothing against the government, and when they weren’t directly banned, texts were widely censored and mutilated by cutting or blotting – both in newspapers and books. On the other hand, despite many restrictions on them, the visual arts played a significant role in the resistance to apartheid.5 It is hard to entirely suppress the will to representation, indeed the will to make art, especially in the context of the expression of opposition to perceived or real repression. Hence the relative abundance of strongly political imagery, even in the worst days of censorship of the apartheid era. In a society still with a large proportion of illiteracy, pictures served their traditional functions. Poster art was quite widely available, in the townships and more generally underground. But satirical images were rare, and even mild pornography was strictly banned. The Immorality Acts of 1927 and 1957 (“Sexual Offences Act”), which criminalized sexual association between the races, was rigidly enforced. Whites lived in fear of blacks, of miscegenation, and particularly of the supposedly rampant sexuality long associated with the black Other. When I returned to South Africa in 2012, all this had changed – or so it seemed. The ANC was in power; Umkhonto we Sizwe was legitimized. Mandela was elevated to near-sainthood, the reputation of Bram Fischer, the Afrikaner leader of the Communist Party of South Africa was freed of its stain and rendered heroic. My friend Raymond Suttner, who had been sentenced to twelve years in prison simply for distributing pro-ANC pamphlets, was now writing a book on the imagery of the struggle and of Mandela himself. Howard Smith, a former schoolmate, was running the finances of the Cape Province Communist Party. There were some alarming signs, of course: I remember a chilling conversation with Suttner about another hero of the struggle against apartheid, Ben Turok, who was an ANC member of parliament, and had voted against the proposed Secrecy of Information Act, and was about to be disciplined for not voting with the party. I lamented this breach of democratic right; Suttner sternly said to me

5

See, for example, Newbury, Darren and Albie Sachs: Defiant Images : Photography and Apartheid South Africa. Pretoria, South Africa 2009; Williamson, Sue: Resistance Art in South Africa. New York 1990; Peffer, John: Art and the End of Apartheid. Minneapolis 2009.

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“you can’t be a member of a Parliamentary caucus and vote against the party. Being a member of the caucus is like being in the army. Making a revolution is not a game.” The old puritanism, so to speak, was back. Even so, art flourished in the new South Africa – and by this I mean not only the much-acclaimed work of William Kentridge, son of one of Mandela’s lawyers, Sidney Kentridge, but also the myriad lesser figures who produced more radical art. But what now of political art, of politically focused art? Of course there was much of this too. John Peffer had written a fine book called Art and the End of Apartheid, which set out both the achievements and the setbacks to art in the years largely between 1976 and 1994. 6 In it he described several instances of the slippage between censorship and iconoclasm, both before 1994 and in the wake of the first free elections in South African history in that year.7 Later, an allegedly pornographic work, Mark Hipper’s show about children’s sexuality in Grahamstown in 1998 entitled Viscera, had been the target of censorship efforts, to little avail. Deputy Home Affairs minister Lindiwe Sisulu, daughter of revolutionary hero Walter Sisulu, had wanted to ban it on the grounds of child pornography. Already in that year, the CEO of the Film and Publications Board, Nana Makuala, made it clear that Sisulu could advise but not impose decisions. Even in this earlier case, the close link between politics and pornography – or allegations of pornography – remained clear. Perhaps it is everywhere so. During my return in 2012, I was the guest of the Stellenbosch Institute for Advanced Study, beautifully located at the center of the Cape’s prosperous wine country. I grew to know Aryan Kaganof who, along with his wife Nicola Deane, had long been the target of potential censorship for their bluntly sexual works, and had for some time had a blog on similar works that were targeted for their alleged pornography. At this point Kaganof was also making films about the struggles in the townships, and distributing cellphones to the people, so as to enable them to make their own films about what was happening: about riots against the police, about necklacing, about tensions between supporters of President Jacob Zuma and his rebellious follower, the firebrand youth leader Julius Malema, who was soon to be expelled from the ANC. The National Gallery of South Africa had gone from being a very traditional place to one that showed advanced art, art often inflected by the history of racism in South Africa. At the Stellenbosch Institute I agreed to give a seminar on my old topic of censorship and iconoclasm, given the history of such phenomena in the country, both before and after apartheid.

6 7

Peffer 2009, (as fn 5). Ibid., pp. 219–2 40 (in Peffer’s chapter on censorship and iconoclasm).

From Defamation to Mutilation

At the end of the seminar on May 3rd, 2012 a group of students and professors at the University asked me to give a similar lecture at the University to the body of their students, for a reason that I would not have anticipated. The Town Council of Stellenbosch, the Art School and a number of organi­ zations had decided that it would be a good idea to show art in the streets of the town. For the most part, the works weren’t explicitly political at all: on the contrary – they were traditional and relatively subjectless abstract or figurative large sculptures. Some were quite mediocre. Within a few days, a number of these seemingly innocuous works were attacked. A month or so before my talk, for example, three students had tried to push over Angus Taylor’s Grounded I and Grounded II before they were stopped. What troubled the people who’d heard my first lecture was the fact that many of the Stellenbosch students – who one thought had grown more liberal, in accord with the general liberalization of their racial views – had come out in support of the attacks on the public works of art. And they did so for reasons that I had not yet encountered previously in my studies of iconoclasm. They argued that the art was invading public space, that the public had not been asked permission to have works of art put up the streets – and that, in any case, the proper place for works of art was in a museum. This seemed to me to be sufficient reason – and sufficient context – to agree to talk to the students and their teachers about the history of resistance to images, from censorship through to iconoclasm. I had gone to Cape Town to meet Sue Williamson, who had long been engaged in the artistic struggle against apartheid. There we happened to run into Brett Murray, a well-known protest artist who had produced many ironic, sarcastic and satirical works about the South African situation over the previous two and a half decades. When I met him on May 4th, 2012, the first waves of an intense artistic and political controversy were just beginning to break. Murray had just painted a portrait of President Zuma, based on Viktor Ivanov’s iconic image of Lenin. It showed the president gazing prophetically to the future, stretching his arm out towards the viewer, and poised to move forward. Painted in a restricted palette of red, black and yellow, it was, by any reckoning a strong image. At first glance it seemed authoritative and leaderly enough for the President of South Africa. But then one saw that his trousers were unzipped, and that his penis hung out from his open fly (fig. 1). A week later, on May 10th, the painting was put on display in Johannesburg in an exhibition at the Goodman Gallery entitled Hail to the Thief II (following an earlier 2010 exhibition at the Goodman Gallery entitled Hail to the Thief ). This was a clear reference to the widespread perception of corruption in the government and at the highest levels of the ANC. As in the case of almost all the pitture infamanti described by Ortalli, the work immediately attracted attention. News of it spread widely, and its reproduction was ensured by the use of the social media and of cellphones.

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1 | Brett Murray, The Spear, acrylic on canvas, 185 × 140 cm, 2012,

Johannesburg, Goodman Gallery. (Farbtafel 1)

The fact that people take pictures of pictures with their cellphones even before they actually look at them, that is, even before they devote any significant degree of attention to them is a phenomenon of our new post-digital world. Preoccupation with disseminating an image now precedes attentive visual interest in it. The German term “handy” is an appropriate one for this prosthetic extension of he eye.

From Defamation to Mutilation

2 | Zapiro, Go for it, Boss!, Sunday Times,

9 September 2008.

As for Murray’s picture itself, every South African viewer would immediately have grasped its satirical intent in its blatant allusion to the President’s exuberant sexuality. Painted just before Zuma’s marriage to his sixth wife, the work surely referred to his well-known history of polygamy, seduction and alleged rape. At his 2006 trial for raping the young HIV-positive daughter of an old ANC comrade, Zuma insisted that the sex was consensual and that by showering after sex he had minimised the risk of contracting HIV. In response, the cartoonist Zapiro drew several cartoons in 2008 showing Zuma with a shower growing out of his head that roused ire in official ANC circles (fig. 2). Already in 2011 a lawsuit, precisely for defamation, had been taken by the ANC against his 2008 cartoons showing the Rape of Lady Justice, which Zuma had declared to be degrading and offensive to his dignity. Now, hearing of the threats to censor Murray’s painting, Zapiro produced a cartoon based on The Spear, this time with a shower in place of the penis (fig. 3). But it was the painting itself that aroused the fiercest controversy. Here was a picture in which efforts to censorship on grounds of reason of state conveniently coincided with efforts to censor what could be – and was – regarded as pornographic. It is not surprising that some of the proponents of this image should have cited Mapplethorpe’s famous Man in a Polyester Suit of 1980 in its defense. But that work too had been the subject of a famous lawsuit and effort at suppression during the American “culture wars” of the 1980s and 1990s. 8 The fact that   8 The literature is now vast. For an overview, see, for example, Bolton, Richard: Culture Wars: Documents from the Recent Controversies in the Arts, 1 st ed. New York 1992; Freedberg, David: “Censorship Revisited,” in: Res 21 (1992).

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3 | Zapiro, Painting of Jacob Zuma with his genitals

exposed creates an uproar, Sunday Times, 20 May 2012.

the photograph also showed a black man with a super-sized organ was less of an issue then than it now became. Rarely had politics and pornography coincided quite so firmly. But here too the precedents are not hard to find, as, for example, in the late twelfth-century reliefs revealing the sexuals organs allegedly of Federigo Barbarossa and Beatrice of Burgundy on the Porta Romana and the Porta Tosa in Milan.9 But here in South Africa the relationship between pornography and reason of state took on a yet further dimension. Things moved swiftly. No one could have doubted the satirical intention of Murray’s painting. As every South African knew, its title alluded to the military wing of the ANC, Umkhonto we Sizwe (“Spear of the Nation”). It was bound to be incendiary, and was immediately perceived as such. The next week, on May 17 th, the Goodman Gallery received a letter on behalf of the ANC demanding that The Spear be taken down, and threatening a lawsuit if not. On May 18, the General Council of the ANC, along with Zuma and several of his children, sought an injunction to have the picture removed from display at the Goodman Gallery and from the website of City Press. While politicians, political spokespersons and ministers both of government and religion insisted that art should not be allowed to insult people with impunity, most artists – of all colors – felt that the ANC’s action went too far. Two days later, on May 19, the Goodman Gallery announced that it could not “give up its   9 Even though Ortalli 1979, pp. 67 – 70 was prudently non-committal about their identification and use – pornographic insult or apotropaia? Of course they could have been both.

From Defamation to Mutilation

right to decide” what art will hang on its walls. “For this reason”, they said, they were “opposing the application brought by the ANC and President Zuma for the removal of the art work”. 10 The basis of ANC lawsuit was that it violated the dignity of the President and his office, as well as of the government, the ANC, and all Africans. Zuma’s own affidavit claimed that it impugned his dignity “in the eyes of all who see it”. He said that “he felt personally offended and violated” and that it showed him as “ a philanderer, a womaniser and one with no respect”. 11 On May 21st , the Film and Publications board sent five classifiers to the show at the Goodman Gallery, and the National Prosecuting Authority announced a case of crimen injuriae against Murray. The Minister of Public Works declared that the picture was sadistic, an insult not only to the President but to millions of South Africans. Other cabinet ministers joined in on the attack. The leader of one of South African’s largest Baptist churches said that the artist deserved to be stoned to death. Murray had insulted the entire nation. He did not understand, it was said, the culture of the majority of South Africans. 12 Matters threatened to become dangerous. The ANC’s call to ban City Press was eerily reminiscent of the old days of the white apartheid regime, in which the banning of people and press formed a regular element of repression and censorship. The Minister of Education called for a boycott of City Press. Piles of the newspaper were burned, recalling the bookburnings that so often accompanied censorship in the past, from the Reformation to the Nazi period and after. Such events have frequently been a violent and visually spectacular prelude to iconoclasm. To many South Africans, and certainly to ordinary visitors to the country (who can hardly have failed to note the controversy), the reaction of the ANC seemed excessive. One might have thought, if one were not well-acquainted with the sensibilities at stake, that the ANC and its supporters in this matter could have ignored the picture entirely, and allowed it to enjoy its temporary satirical notoriety, before letting it sink into the typical oblivion of second-rate works of art (as one might have claimed it was). Or its target (and his allies) could have made some coolly dismissive remark, like Canadian premier Stephen Harper’s aides who, when confronted with a picture of their boss showing him in a nude pose with a dog at his feet, simply said that that he was really a cat man. Of course

10 Smith, David: Zuma Sues Art Gallery over ‘Offensive’ Portrait: Explicit Image Violates His Dignity, Says President; Painting’s Supporters Hail ‘Democracy at Work’,” in: The Guardian, 22 May, 2012. 11 Ibid. 12 May, Jackie and Andrea Nagel: “‘Ban the Spear, Stone Its Maker’,” in: The Times (South Africa), 22 May, 2012.

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the wags wondered why Zuma and his allies didn’t just say that the size of his organ might be construed as a compliment. But the dignity of the president was impaired. Freedom of artistic expression was at stake. The usual inconsistencies emerged: on the one hand, the politicians said it was hardly worth calling a work of art; on the other, by the very act of attempting to censor it, they acknowledged its power, even in the case of yet another derivative work such as this. The Minister of Justice opined that “if that is called a work of art, it is an insult not only to the President but to any human being”. 13 It might indeed have been more sensible for Zuma and the ANC simply to have ignored it, thus showing just how little so derivative a work counted. On the other hand, perhaps its effectiveness was precisely predicated on its derivativeness, and on its recall of historical examples. Indeed, the ANC might well have made something of the way in which Murray, by appropriation, had exploited earlier images in the struggle against apartheid against the very protagonists and inheritors of that struggle. But the image of Zuma stood at one of the most dramatic – though not perhaps unprecedented – intersections of aesthetic and political issues that I know of, certainly in modern times. Let us examine the context more closely. There were two critical political issues at stake. It was not just a matter of lèse majesté or even personal insult. Surely Zuma was above being so sensitive to the implicit satire – for it clearly was political satire – of this work. On the other hand, it is true that political figures, however powerful, often turn out to be much more sensitive than most of us would expect to the forms of misrepresentation on which satire depends. But this was not the point. It would have been a rather naïve reaction to the work under the current circumstances. What was at stake was much less obvious, but no less politically critical – indeed much more so. While freedom of expression was widely regarded as one of the great achievements of the new South African constitution, of which all South Africans were immensely proud, The Spear was being put on exhibition in the very weeks preceding the election for the new leader of the ANC – and therefore for the person who would ipso facto become the next president of South Africa. Zuma’s election to this position was already at risk. He’d disgraced himself in the eyes of many (but not all) for his sexual behavior, as well as for the graver allegations of rape recently dismissed in South African Court. He and his government were seen to be ever more corrupt (that the very title of the Goodman Gallery’s exhibition was Hail to the Thief II). Malema was constantly threatening Zuma and his allies for not having been radical enough, for living in the lap of luxury while the poor were starving, and so on; the economy was facing a major downtown.

13 Editorial, “Art Attack,” in: Cape Times (South Africa), 21 May, 2012.

From Defamation to Mutilation

4 | Women protesting assault on president Zuma’s dignity, Foto: Lisa Dewberry.

More than ever the ANC needed to shore up Zuma’s position. The emergence of so allegedly insulting an art work thus provided an almost ideal opportunity to drum up support for him. But how? An obvious pretext emerged within days. At this point, it was not so much pornography but gender politics that became elided with reason of state. Although the public emphasis was on the assault on the President’s dignity (which many claimed, implicitly or explicitly, should trump freedom of expression), what better way to gain support for Zuma than to insert this case into the whole history of racist prejudices about black male sexuality? A picture such as this, it was claimed, was clearly predicated on the age-old clichés about the sexuality of blacks – not just about the superior sexual prowess of black men, but also about their sexuality as indices of their primitive and barbaric status, of their separation from the restraints demanded by culture. Such prejudices were of course ingrained in the history of Africa. The case was set underway, and so were the protests. These were well orchestrated and often large. In this way, the controversy went beyond a satire on the President’s well-known sexual behavior and an alleged affront to his official and personal dignity. The picture was turned into a colonialist, racist defamation of all black people – “a violation of the black body by racist South Africans over the

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centuries,” added the Minister of Education. 14 Thousands appeared before the courts with posters to this effect. Brett Murray, once a fierce critic of the apartheid regime, was demonized as a racist. It was said that no white man would ever be portrayed that way. Freedom of expression, newly-enshrined in South Africa’s constitution, had to give way to respect for the president (even though the constitution provides for no guarantee of his dignity), or for black culture (where the nude male organ was always covered, and where respect for one’s parents excluded such pornographic forms of representation, and so on). What was remarkable was the fact that large numbers of women protested against the picture as well (fig. 6), in favor, in other words, of the lawsuit – although a number of black women to whom I spoke felt that the satire was entirely merited, and that it was high time that the President’s behavior be exposed for what it was: fundamentally sexist and disrespectful of women. But their voices were lost in the commotion, and in the ways in which the picture was instrumentalized by the ANC. Its lawsuit became “a matter of great national importance”, as one of the judges on the case herself declared – just as the ministers of religion and politics had already anticipated when they turned the insult to Zuma into an insult to an entire nation. 15 Once more a painting stood for a vast political and sexual issue. Indeed, when I told Howard Smith, for example, of my dismay at the way in which the picture was being used for political purposes, at how the efforts to censor it seemed at odds with the new constitution, he grew angry. When I suggested that what to me seemed an all too justifiable satire of Zuma’s behavior surely did not constitute an insult to an entire race (though I suppose he could have said that it used a terrible cliché to make that insult), he dismissed my proposal as either racist itself, or as somehow buying into the whole ancient prejudice of kaffir sexuality, or simply being insensitive to the racial divide which the picture threatened to open up again. On 21 May, the columnist Gillian Schutte wrote that “The point is that this is not the president’s penis. It is the grotesquely huge Black male ‘dick-ness’ that resides somewhere in the deep collective consciousness of the White psyche – a primal and savage ‘dick-ness’ that was entrenched about 500 years ago as a White supremacist plot to control the world of women and racism. … [it suggests that] this, is the essential ‘nature’ of the Black man, because, although in a suit, the unzipped dick confirms his failure to gain access to ‘cul-

14 Merten, Marianne: “Cosatu Says ‘Yes’ to Call to Boycott Spear ‘Purveyors’,” in: The Star (South Africa), 26 May, 2012. 15 England, Andrew: “Painting of Zuma Defaced as Anger Rises; South Africa,” in: Financial Times, 23 May, 2012.

From Defamation to Mutilation

5, 6 | Barend la Grange defacing Murrays The Spear at the Goodman

Gallery, Johannesburg, 23 May 2012, Iman Rappetti/Enews via AP.

ture’”. 16 Many old friends wrote to me to this effect. Cabinet members and then many others referred to the well-known case of Saartjie Baartman, the Hottentot woman who was exhibited in London and Paris at the beginning of the nineteenth century for her steatopygia, 17 and suggested that Zuma was being treated in the same way.

16 Schutte, Gillian: “The President’s Penis,” 21 May, 2012, see the website of The South African Civil Society Information Service: http://sacsis.org.za/s/story.php?s=1302 (last accessed: 2 4 April 2015). 17 For a recent guide to the now-large bibliography, see Crais, Clifton C. and Pamela Scully: Sara Baartman and the Hottentot Venus: A Ghost Story and a Biography. Princeton 2009.

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7 | Louie Mabokela defacing Murrays The Spear at the Goodman Gallery, 23 May 2012,

film-still of e-tv, News Channel.

I was put in my place. My sense that the uproar about the picture had been stirred up simply as a pre-election ploy was called seriously into question. I began to have doubts whether I too was not just falling into some white bourgeois set of assumptions, oblivious to the deep insult offered by a work that drew on such ancient prejudices. But it seemed hard not to acknowledge the ways in which a picture was being exploited for blunt political purposes. I called Suttner’s wife Nomboniso Gasa, who had been Chair of the South African Gender Commission before being fired by Zuma and his henchmen for being corrupt herself; and she affirmed precisely what had worried me from the outset. Despite all the pride in the new national Constitution, this was precisely the time when Zuma and the ANC were attempting to reinstitute the old tribal courts. It was a move that effectively called into question the authority of the new Constitution, and the notion of equal rights for all citizens of a united and multiracial South Africa. In other words, it called into question the authority of the very national courts intended to execute the Constitution. The matter was of concern to many, not least because it would be detrimental to the status of women. The tribal courts would enact ancient laws that regarded women as chattels of their husbands, reenact old dowry systems, and render women more subject to male decisionmaking in the domestic and property spheres – at least. So it was here too, very precisely, that reason of state trumped sexual politics, that the reclamation of gender rights clashed with a radical commitment to

From Defamation to Mutilation

8 | Woodcut of Erasmus in a censored copy of Sebastian

Münster’s Cosmographia universalis (Basel: Heinrich Petri 1550), Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional, p. 130.

autochthonous political claims – claims that were paradoxically predicated on the rejection of the very racist views on which the preceding society depended. The irony was supreme, the paradox damaging, at least to the rights of women. But speaking with people like Nomboniso reassured me that the need to repair old racist insults should not be and need not be by way of a self-serving interpretations of the ways in which a clearly satirical picture encapsulated ancient sexual slanders. But of course the court case – and the protests – continued. The old sexual clichés about race were exploited to reinforce them. ANC Secretary-General Gwede Mantashe told supporters outside the court that the fight would have to be won in the streets. 18

18 Grootes, Stephen: “Spear Rhetoric Puts ‘Us’ and ‘Them’ Back in the Picture,” in: Business Day (South Africa), 1 June, 2012.

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On May 22 nd, 2012, the day after Gillian Schutte’s piece appeared, I gave my lecture to the Stellenbosch University students. It was entitled “Iconoclasms Past and Present”. The auditorium was packed. My aim was to speak, as requested, about the backgrounds to the recent attacks on public art in the streets of Stellenbosch. But as my timeline will have made clear, between the invitation and the event, the whole Zuma episode had exploded. By then I had the strong feeling that there was a danger, as indeed so often in the past, that efforts at censorship could erupt into iconoclasm. The matter of freedom of expression had receded ever more into the background as the point was made, ever more heatedly, that if art was insulting, it should not be tolerated. In fact, as I’d long ago written in The Power of Images, censorship, in its efforts to mutilate, erase, or destroy offensive images, was often actually tantamount to iconoclasm. 19 At the very moment I sat down, a student jumped up, waving her cellphone saying that just as I was speaking Brett Murray’s painting had been attacked and mutilated. It had been a quiet morning at the Gallery when a white man in an elegant black suit entered the Goodman Gallery in Johannesburg, calmly took out a paintbrush and a small pot of red paint, and put a giant cross, first over Zuma’s penis and another over his face (figs. 5–6). A staff member asked him what he was doing. It all seemed to happen in slow, even dignified and deliberate motion. As a certain air of puzzlement rather than agitation settled over the scene, a much younger black man came in, and before anyone could react, was daubing heavy black paint over the picture (fig. 7). Whereas the white man was not manhandled – a fact noted swiftly enough – security guards moved in, handcuffed the black man, and whipped him upside down –much rougher treatment than had just been meted out to the white assailant, who was then arrested as well. Both were let out on bail soon enough. Barend La Grange, a 58 year-old Afrikaner, stated that it was important that a white man show resistance to the racism implied by the picture, while Louie Mabokela, a young taxi-driver from Limpopo said that he came from an artistic family and had simply wanted to see the picture. 20 At that point, many of the opponents of the picture jumped on the convenient bandwagon of declaring that something so pornographic could not possibly constitute art, and that the work thus merited its fate – the second oldest iconoclastic cry of all. The first, of course, is embodied both in the Second Commandment of the Jewish and Christian religions, and in the Islamic Hadith – namely that one 19 Freedberg, David: The Power of Images: Studies in the History and Theory of Response. Chicago 1989. 20 Maphumulo, Solly: “Strangers Who Ruined Portrait; 2 Men, Red Paint, Black Paint... And Zuma Vanishes,” in: The Star (South Africa), 2 4 May, 2012.

From Defamation to Mutilation

should not have images at all. Imagemaking is the basic prerogative of God. Mere humans should not make them at all – in the Jewish and Christian case because they are idolatrous (any figurative image risks being worshipped, especially dangerous if the God is a jealous one), in the Islamic case because only God is capable of investing images (including human beings, poorer images of himself ) with life and liveliness. Such positions are not just theological. They encapsulate in the most profound of ways the ultimate basis for the fear of images: that they are somehow alive, that they contain within them a force, a form of vitality, that transcends their pure materiality. From the earliest times on, one of the fundamental iconoclastic motivations is to make as clear as possible that something that seems lively or, indeed, a living representative of what is shown in an image, is nothing more than a form on a piece of wood or stone. One destroys it – or erases its eyes, or removes its limbs – to show that it is powerless, that it cannot see or move or affect us in any of the ways that sight or movement imply. The notion that images are nothing more than pieces of wood and stone was a consistent anti-image argument during the great periods of Byzantine iconoclasm in the 7 th and 8th centuries, and recurred with great vehemence during the Protestant revolution – particularly in its Calvinist form – during the Reformation of the 16th and 17 th centuries. But another version of the perception that images are somehow alive, despite the fact of representation, had manifested itself even earlier on. The notion of the presence of the represented in the representation itself is one of the oldest of all. The ancient Romans held it as a matter of political doctrine that where the image of the Emperor was, there too was the Emperor. You had to respect the image of the Emperor as if the Emperor himself were actually present. It is almost as if the opponents of Brett Murray’s picture clung to this ancient doctrine, at the same as somehow believing that a merely satirical representation was in fact a breathing and pornographic one. Such suspicions about the status of images also underlay medieval concerns about grotesques and other forms of imagery regarded as inappropriate; but it was during the Protestant Reformation and the Catholic Counter-Reformation that they reached fever-pitch, and that censorship and iconoclasm merged most often. For example, both official and amateur censors often crossed out the eyes or whole face of Erasmus (fig. 8), the wisest of religious thinkers during the sixteenth century, on the grounds that he was either too Protestant or too Catholic (in fact, despite his insistence on reform and change within the official church, he never went over to the other side). The Index of Prohibited Books was set up. It banned unapproved literature or recommended censorship. Bookburnings followed. Images too were banned. Throughout Europe attacks were launched on images because they were deemed either idolatrous, or too licentious, or both. (Already in the eighth century, Pope Gregory the Great had the best classical

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9 | Brett Murray, The Spear (defaced), acrylic on canvas,

185 × 140 cm, 2012, Johannesburg, Goodman Gallery.

statues thrown into the Tiber, either because they were the idolatrous gods of pagan antiquity, or because they were too licentious – usually nude statues of female gods, of course). The censors of those times would have approved of the various South African calls for a boycott – if not the destruction – of potentially insulting images, as well of the calls for a boycott of the City Press. The parallels with past cases of censorship, and the censorship that leads directly to iconoclasm, could not be more striking. And as so often in earlier episodes, iconoclasm reflects – or masks – major cultural divides. The varieties of iconoclasm are many, the motives disparate, but all in one way or another related to the fear of the body in the image, the body that somehow lurks in representation. This lies at the basis of the political fear of

From Defamation to Mutilation

images as well as the sexual one (the image is not just invested with life, but with carnality – especially but not only in the case of images of women). In the French Revolution the images of the old order were torn down. They showed the once vivid but now dead tokens of the monarchy; the same for the destruction of the statues of the Tsars during the Russian Revolution. The power of the rulers went along with their images. At the far end of that revolution, the overturning of the communist regimes in Eastern Europe in 1989 was accompanied everywhere by the overturning of the images of Stalin and Lenin; the same for the statues of Mao in China. In fact, the modern instances can easily be multiplied, from the pulling down of the statues of the Shah of Iran in 1979 to those of Saddam Hussein in Iraq in 2003. Two years earlier the great Buddhas of Bamiyan, statues that in the eyes of the Taliban were idolatrous representatives of another religion, had been blown up. 21 Then there are what seem to be purely pathological assaults on images such as those on Rembrandt’s Nightwatch in Amsterdam in 1975, the great Rembrandts in Kassel in 1977, and the 1982 attack on Barnett Newman’s Who’s Afraid of Red Yellow and Blue IV. 22 In the latter case, however, it does seem as if the title alone may have provoked the iconoclast to show that he was precisely not afraid (indeed he attacked the picture with the very bar used to keep visitors at a distance, as if to demonstrate that no one, least of all he, need to be afraid of a mere painting – and that that if one hit it, it wouldn’t strike back). In all of this motives are never really clear – as little as in the case of the mutilation of The Spear. Often the motive is to draw attention to oneself or to a political cause. Here the political may well overlap with the pathological, as well as the sexual. When Mary Richardson attacked Velazquez’s Rokeby Venus in 1914 she declared that her aim was to draw attention to Mrs. Pankhurst and her suffragist cause; many years later she said that she did not like the way male viewers

21 Some of the Mullahs offered the argument that the images were idolatrous; others acknowledged that they had been blown up for the sake of publicizing the Taliban cause. In the case of the attacks by the Islamic State (ISIS) on the great early sculptures in Nimrud, Mosul and elsewhere in late 2014 and early 2015, one finds the same conflation of motivations and pretexts. The attacks, recorded on video, are accompanied by commentaries saying that the idolatrous monuments of the past must come down; but at the same time it is clear that the element of publicity for the Islamic State cause plays a possibly even more significant role. ISIS has shown itself to be all too aware of the propagandistic use of images of terror and destruction. Their videos of the destruction of ancient art are calculated – even staged – to to offer the maximum of visual and emotional effect. These are issues I raise in a forthcoming survey of recent iconoclasm in the Middle East entitled “Iconoclasm in the Age of Digitization”. 22 For all these examples, see Freedberg, David: Iconoclasts and Their Motives, Gerson Lecture. Maarssen Montclair, N.J. 1985.

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“gaped at it all day long”. 23 This entanglement of motives for an attack on an image may well also have prevailed in the case of The Spear – but perhaps even more complicatedly so. Every powerful image rouses deep emotions. It does so not just because of what or whom it symbolizes, but because of the degree to which it involves the viewer’s body and feelings. It draws tears easily. The fact that the ANC’s lawyer burst into tears on the first day of the hearing against the picture was surely not only attributable to the judicial tensions of the day or the legal complexities of the case. In the case of The Spear of Africa, just as so often in the past, there was a conflation – not just a convergence – of censorship and iconoclasm. But there was a further conflation, too: of the effort to mutilate or destroy the image and execution of the body represented on the image, as in the case of the immagini infamanti. When one couldn’t find the traitor, or one wanted to publicly defame his image, one actually executed his representation, as in the case of the images that were hung and decapitated outside the Bargello in Florence for several centuries, or the famous six drawings of the traitorous capitani of 1530 by Andrea del Sarto. The ways in which the defamatory images of Zuma were attacked also raised an age-old question about iconoclasm itself, that of the degree to which such attacks are spontaneous or organized. At first sight the attacks in the Goodman Gallery seemed spontaneous. “It was spontaneous on both their parts. They both just happened to be here at the same time”, said Mabokela’s lawyer. 2 4 In a useful inversion of the usual presuppositions, the white man said he did it out of shame for the nation’s history of racism; the black man said he did it because it wasn’t really art at all. But how true were these expressed motivations? Indeed, it all seemed too good to be true. As we now know, very often the motives, both personal and collective, of iconoclasts is to draw attention to themselves, or to the work itself, by attacking it. It is often, as I wrote in Iconoclasts and their Motives, a desire for publicity – and in this case, if not a desire for publicity for the perpetrator, then surely a desire to publicize the ANC, the case for Zuma and so on – all by way of emphasizing that in South Africa this was, after all, a racist image. We may well be inclined to think that the fact that these two attacks occurred more or less simultaneously was not coincidental. One of the most commented upon aspects of the attack was the fact that the TV cameras were on throughout, and showed the whole episode happening as if in slow motion. For what seemed like an age, no one seemed to interfere with these aggressive acts at all. The racial

23 Ibid., p. 15. 2 4 Mapumulo 2012 (as fn 20).

From Defamation to Mutilation

implications of the attack on this image were immediately obvious. And the TV cameras that kept rolling made very clear the different treatments of black and white. The issue of whether an assault on an image (or group of images) is spontaneous or organized, or whether the individuals who seem to be solely motivated by hostility to the image are in fact set up to attack it, is as old as iconoclasm itself. When Protestant rioters stormed into Antwerp cathedral on the night of August 21, 1566, the fury and destruction seem to be a spontaneous outburst of popular anger against images. For years historians debated whether the fury was indeed spontaneous or not; but it is now generally agreed that the apparent spontaneity of the attacks was orchestrated and planned by astute political figures who knew how to mobilize popular support on their side. 25 After all, the basic fears and emotions images so often arouse are easily aligned, as I’ve tried to suggest, with political motives. In 2003 I wrote an article for the Wall Street Journal about the toppling of the statue of Saddam Hussein in Firdos Square in Baghdad. 26 In it I jumped to a conclusion that will not surprise readers. I wrote about the event in terms of popular hostility towards the symbol of a hated ruler. I described the ways in which even a mute image of wood and stone (as the Reformation iconoclasts always referred to images of art) could be insulted as if it were a living body, as if the hated leader were somehow inherent in it; and that by destroying it one somehow destroyed the leader himself. Then I discovered that the whole event had been orchestrated by the US Marines. I had failed to learn from my own study of older episodes of hostility to images that such episodes are not always the product of spontaneous outbursts of rage. So too in the case of The Spear. In this instance, however, the picture was attacked not because it showed a hated leader, but because it supposedly insulted him and the whole nation he represented, indeed the whole race of blacks. In any event, whether the attacks were spontaneous or organized, the entire brouhaha had substantial benefits for a leader who was losing political traction. No wonder that the actions of the iconoclasts should here too have met with considerable approval. One can debate at length the degree to which freedom of expression should give way to respect for human dignity; whether presidential dignity is more or less fragile than ordinary human dignity; at what point a justified satire on the 25 Freedberg, David: Iconoclasm and Painting in the Revolt of the Netherlands 1566– 1609. New York and London, 1988. 26 Freedberg, David: “Damnatio Memoriae: Why Mobs Pull Down Statues,” in: The Wall Street Journal, 16 April, 2003.

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president’s sexual history turns into the perpetuation of ancient racist and colonial prejudices; whether the best way to overcome such prejudice is to acknowledge how little sense it has in the modern world, and therefore to ignore it; whether a work of art should be suppressed in the interests of managing a certain degree of social unrest; whether City News editor Ferial Haffajee was justified in the light of the interests of public safety and the fear that the work (however unjustifiably) fed into ancient prejudices that still festered, in suppressing a work that she had for some time supported. What is clear is that the fate of The Spear forms part of a long history of fear and antipathy to images, and testifies to an acknowledgement of their powers. The age-old emotions it stirred up mobilized thousands of people. But in a reversal of the old view that an assault on an image is an assault on the person it represents, the metaphorical attack on Zuma (in the form of a painting) led to an attack on the painting itself. For a while the Goodman gallery closed its doors, but the lawsuit proceeded. On almost the first day, when the ANC’s advocate burst into tears as he set out the ANC case. It was as if to give the impression that the racial dimension not only of the picture, but also the pressures of having a White and Indian judge preside, were too much for him). At around this stage, the Committee of Young Communists announced that the defacing of the portrait was people’s justice, and that the attackers should be awarded the Order of Ikhamanga, usually assigned to excellence in the arts, journalism and sport, for bravery. Slowly both City Press and the Gallery gave way. The editor of the paper Ferial Haffajee apologized to one of Zuma’s daughters, and removed the picture from the paper’s website. On May 28th, 2012, the day I left South Africa, Haffajee wrote “The Spear is down. Out of care and as an olive branch to play a small role in helping turn around a tough moment, I have decided to take down the image.” The power of images could hardly have been more clearly manifest. “When we published an art review which featured The Spear as one image, I could not have anticipated that it would snowball into a moment of such absolute rage and pain,” Haffajee acknowledged. 27 One can debate at length whether Haffajee, in suppressing a work that she had for some time supported, was actually justified in her argument about the interests of public safety and about the ways in which the work (however unjustifiably) fed into ancient prejudices that still festered. But at least she acknowledged that “of course, the image is coming down from fear too…The atmosphere 27 Haffajee’s original apology is no longer available on the City Press website, but is quoted in several sources, such as Waal, Mandy de: “City Press Buckles to ANC Demands--and Threats,” in: Daily Maverick (South Africa), 29 May, 2012.

From Defamation to Mutilation

is like a tinderbox: City Press copies went up in flames on Saturday. I don’t want any more newspapers burnt in anger. My colleague has been removed from a huge trade union congress and prevented form reporting”. And so on. The Secretary-General of the ANC and the owner of the Gallery met to announce that the ANC would withdraw its case if the Gallery agreed not to display The Spear any longer. A press conference was held on May 30, at which the Goodman Gallery and the ANC announced a deal that would include the removal of the painting from the gallery’s website as well. The ANC case against the Gallery and the call for a boycott of City Press was dropped. The Gallery denied that it had agreed to remove the image. Also on May 30, The Film and Publications Board rejected all jurisdictional arguments and age-rated the picture to 16+. The defamation case against Zapiro sputtered on for a few more months. On October 17, damages were reduced from the initial claim of R5million to R100,000; on October 24, five days before the trial in the Johannesburg High Court was to begin, all charges were dropped. The only requirement was that his cartoon should be accompanied by an advisory warning. An appeal is under way. “The row has been good for business at the gallery” noted The Guardian. 28 How much the value of the work rises, even in its damaged state, remains to be seen. I was disappointed. I had my old South African feeling: surely there was more muscle to the resistance than this. The picture is not seeable anymore in its earlier state. When I was asked to write an article on the destruction of the painting in the leading – liberal – South African art journal, I was not allowed to publish the original version of the picture. The kind of resistance embodied in the picture collapsed – a huge disappointment to many of us. Murray has been consigned to relative oblivion, either – despite his history of protest – as a racist, or as plagiarist, rather than an appropriator of an old image for satirical purposes. In the light of modern critical standards this seems a harsh conclusion. Politics have won out over the art. Indeed when I told another old schoolmate of mine, now resident in the US, about the case, he was impatient. It was unimportant, he averred, in comparison with the much larger political issues facing South Africa today – but how wrong he was! This was a picture that had mobilized the masses in protest against it, that had mobilized the ordinary intelligentsia in its favor on the grounds of freedom of

28 Smith, David: “Jacob Zuma Goes to Court over Painting Depicting His Genitals,” in: The Guardian, 21 May, 2012.

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expression and the new South African Constitution (of which everyone was so proud), that mobilized the sophisticated intelligentsia against it again. It showed that the mere picture of something could be felt as offensive, that the president, like the Emperor, or even Christ himself, was somehow present in his picture, and therefore liable to personal insult, just as in the old cases of damnatio memo­ riae and the immagini infamanti, so often used as a stand-in for the absent criminal or traitor. The ANC rightly realized that the picture had to be taken down from the web because otherwise it would be reproduced ad infinitum. And it demonstrated, quite contrary to what Ortalli had written in that silent period between the two great reproductive revolutions – the flourishing of photography and the arrival of the digital revolution in the media – that the very fact of the possibility of instant reproduction had made the aura of images all the more frightening to the masses, and all the more exploitable and capable of instrumentalization by the elite, at the expense of the very people whose cause was recognized by the work. Such are the many lessons – or rather, just some – of the remarkable case of The Spear of Africa.

Hana Gründler

„Ein Kampf mit der Sicht“ Antlitz, Kunst und Erhabenes bei Emmanuel Levinas

Der litauisch-französische Philosoph Emmanuel Levinas war trotz der Vielfalt der Themen und der faszinierenden Breite und Tiefe seines Schaffens, das vom Alltäglichen bis zu den Grenzerfahrungen der Existenz rangierte, zeit seines Lebens bemüht, der Überzeugung Ausdruck zu verleihen, dass die Ethik und nicht die Metaphysik die erste Philosophie sei. 1 Dieses absolute Primat des Ethischen, das Betonen der ethischen Verantwortung, die jeder von uns gegenüber dem Leid des Anderen hat, stellt den unhintergehbaren Kern seines Philosophierens dar. 2 Die Kunst hingegen, scheint in seinem Werk eher ein Schattendasein zu führen, und wenn sie doch zur Sprache gebracht wird, dann, so der geläufige Tenor, in ihrer ganzen Negativität und vor allem als etwas, das dem Ethischen entgegengesetzt sei. In Levinas‘ Schriften finden sich in der Tat viele Passagen, in denen der Philosoph eine kritische, zum Teil gezielt polemische Position an den Tag legt, wenn er sich zu Fragen des Schönen, der (plastischen) Form oder der bildnerischen Repräsentation äussert.3 Wenn im Folgenden dennoch der Versuch 1

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In einem Gespräch mit Philippe Nemo betont Levinas ausdrücklich: „Die Erste Philosophie ist eine Ethik.“ Levinas, Emmanuel: Ethik und Unendliches. Gespräche mit Philippe Nemo. Wien 1986, S. 59. Im Folgenden zitiert als EU. Wer hauptsächlich deontologische oder utilitaristische Ansätze der Ethik vertritt, wird Schwierigkeiten haben, Levinas‘ Position, die primär auf der Untersuchung der Relation des Von-Angesicht-zu-Angesicht beruht, als Ethik zu definieren. So etwa in seiner frühen Schrift Die Wirklichkeit und ihr Schatten. Vgl. hierzu Levinas, Emmanuel: La réalité et son ombre, in: Les temps modernes 38 (1948/1949), S. 771–789; Levinas, Emmanuel: Die Wirklichkeit und ihr Schatten, in: Die Unvorhersehbarkeiten der Geschichte. Hg. von Alwin Letzkus. Freiburg und München 2006, S. 105–12 4. Die seit der Antike immer wieder problematisierte Interdependenz des Schönen und des Guten sowie – aus epistemologischer Perspektive – des Wahren stellt Levinas in Die Wirklichkeit und ihr Schatten radikal in Frage. Vielmehr

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unternommen wird, über die Stellung der Kunst, des Sehens oder des Erhabenen in Levinas’ Œuvre nachzudenken, dann deshalb, weil sich bei aufmerksamer Lektüre vielzählige Spuren offenbaren, die zeigen, dass diese Bereiche trotz ihrer augenscheinlichen Liminalität bedeutsame Aspekte seines Denkens berühren. 4 Levinas und die Kunst oder Levinas und die Ästhetik zu denken, bedeutet dabei in erster Instanz, das Verhältnis von Ethik und Ästhetik zu problematisieren. Dass dieses Verhältnis keineswegs als eines der Symmetrie gedacht werden muss, wird im Verlauf dieses Aufsatzes zur Sprache gebracht werden. Die Frage, inwiefern Ethik und Ästhetik Eins sind – ein berühmtes, wenngleich nur schwer greif bares Diktum Ludwig Wittgensteins5 – würde Levinas wohl negativ beantworten. Dennoch scheint es lohnenswert, über dieses Verhältnis als Dissym-

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wird die Kunst als dem Bereich des Nicht-Wahren zugehörig beschrieben. Zum Verhältnis von Kunst und Wahrheit vgl. den grundlegenden Aufsatz von De Vries, Hent: Levinas über Kunst und Wahrheit, in: Vernunft im Zeichen des Fremden. Zur Philosophie von Bernhard Waldenfels. Hg. von Matthias Fischer [u.a.]. Frankfurt am Main 2001, S. 99–129. Hier bringt De Vries auch das schwierige Verhältnis von Ethik und Ästhetik zur Sprache. Dies soll nicht dazu führen, aus den häufig inkohärenten und zum Teil durchaus voreingenommenen Äusserungen Levinas‘ eine konsistente ästhetische Theorie erschaffen zu wollen. Allerdings soll auch der entgegengesetzte Weg vermieden werden, diese Bereiche zu blinden Flecken seiner Philosophie werden zu lassen. Es erstaunt kaum, dass in den meisten Einführungen zu Levinas das ästhetische Denken nicht berücksichtigt wird. Insbesondere im französischen und angelsächsischen Raum gibt es jedoch wichtige Studien, die sich mit der Kunst, der Figuration oder dem Verhältnis von Ethik und Ästhetik beschäftigt haben. Dabei wurde meist da­r auf verwiesen, dass die Forschung diesen Aspekten seines Schaffens bis dato zu wenig Bedeutung beigemessen hat. Vgl. hierzu die grundlegenden Schriften von Françoise Armengaud sowie die vorzüglichen Aufsätze von Gerald L. Bruns und Philippe Crignon, ferner auch die Einführung in Levinas’ ‚Bildtheorie’ von Pascal Delhom. Es ist erstaunlich, dass die Rezeption von Levinas’ Werk recht länderspezifisch anmutet. So verweisen die genannten Autoren nur in seltenen Fällen aufeinander. Vgl. Armengaud, Françoise: Faire ou ne pas faire d‘images. Emmanuel Levinas et l’art de l’oblitération, in: Noesis 3 (2000), La métaphysique d’Emmanuel Levinas, ohne Seitenangabe; De Vries 2001 (wie Anm. 3); Crignon, Philippe: Figuration. Emmanuel Levinas and the Image, in: Yale French Studies 104 (2004), Encounter with Emmanuel Levinas, S. 100–125; Bruns, Gerald L.: The Concepts of Art and Poetry in Emmanuel Levinas’s Writings, in: The Cambridge Companion to Levinas. Hg. von Simon Critchley und Robert Bernasconi. Cambridge 2004, S. 206– 233; Gritz, David: Emmanuel Levinas face au beau. Paris und Tel Aviv 2004; Delhom, Pascal: Emmanuel Levinas, in: Bildtheorien aus Frankreich. Hg. von Kathrin Busch. München 2011, S. 205–218; Cohen-Levinas, Danièlle (Hg.): Le souci de l’art chez Emmanuel Levinas. Paris 2011. Wittgenstein, Ludwig: Tractatus logico-philosophicus (TLP) = Werkausgabe Bd. 1. Frankfurt am Main 2008 (=1984), 6. 421, S. 83: „Ethik und Ästhetik sind Eins.“

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metrie nachzudenken, um herauszufinden, wo es trotz aller Differenz Berührungspunkte gibt, wo die Kunst und das Ästhetische vielleicht ungewohnte Einsichten und Brüche ermöglichen: 6 Brüche im Alltäglichen, die die Alterität und nicht die Totalität sichtbar werden lassen und somit nach Levinas mit dem Ethischen in Verbindung stehen. Das Fremdwerden des Alltäglichen, das Fremdwerden des immer schon Gewußten, dessen, nach dem wir gegriffen und das wir somit glauben, begriffen zu haben, ist ein zentraler Aspekt von Levinas‘ Philosophieren. Der Andere, l’autrui, verstanden als das andere Individuum, der andere Mensch, der sich uns in der ursprünglichen Erfahrung des von Angesicht-zuAngesicht offenbart, kann niemals vollständig verstanden werden, er entzieht sich uns immer. Nähe bedeutet paradoxerweise Fähigkeit zur Trennung, Fähigkeit zur Akzeptanz der Andersheit, die sich nicht in Gemeinsamkeit auflösen lässt. Wenn wir Levinas darin folgen, dass das Ethische nur in der Trennung geschehen kann, in einer Trennung, die durch eine irreduzible Alterität immer schon gegeben ist, dann werden wir auch erkennen, dass unser Bezug zum Anderen kein feststehender, sondern ein bewegender, mitnehmender und somit auch verunsichernder ist.7 Das Ethische, das von Levinas intendiert wird, ist dabei nicht gleichzusetzen mit einer normativen Moral, die sich in allgemeingültigen Gesetzen und abstrakten zu befolgenden Regeln offenbart. In diesem Sinne ist auch Derrida zu interpretieren, der in seinem grundlegenden, selbst fünfzig Jahre nach seinem Erscheinen noch immer innovativen Aufsatz Violence et Métaphysique. Essai sur la pensée de Emmanuel Levinas geschrieben hat, dass es sich bei Levinas um eine Ethik ohne moralische Regeln, um eine Ethik der Ethik handle. 8 Nach Levinas werden wir uns als Individuum im unmittelbaren Bezug zum Anderen seiner absoluten Fragilität gewahr. Einer Fragilität, die sich im Antlitz

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Hent De Vries betont in seinem grundlegenden Aufsatz zu Recht, man könne „doch behaupten, daß die Ethik dort, wo sie ihre herausragende Stellung erlangt, nichtsdestoweniger der formalen Schematik der Ästhetik nachgebildet bleibt. Genau in diesem Sinn ähneln Ethik und Ästhetik einander in ihrer eigentlichen Struktur. Eine ist die jeweilig extremste – entgegengesetzte – Möglichkeit der anderen; die eine schließt die andere zugleich aus und setzt sie voraus.“ (Hervorh. De Vries). De Vries 2001 (wie Anm. 3), S. 112. Zum dérangement vgl. Waldenfels, Bernhard: Levinas and the face of the other, in: The Cambridge Companion to Levinas. Hg. von Simon Critchley und Robert Bernasconi. Cambridge 2004, S. 63–81, hier S. 63. Eine vorzügliche Einführung in das Denken von Emmanuel Levinas bietet der Cambridge Companion to Levinas. Hg. von Simon Critchley und Robert Bernasconi. Cambridge 2004. Derrida, Jacques: Gewalt und Metaphysik. Essay über das Denken Emmanuel Levinas’, in: ders.: Die Schrift und die Differenz. Frankfurt am Main 1976, S. 121–235, hier S. 169.

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des Anderen als Schutzlosigkeit manifestiert, der wir uns nicht entziehen können. Diese Schutzlosigkeit ist für Levinas der Beginn des Ethischen. 9 Es ist der Beginn des Ethischen insofern, als dass wir uns als Individuum unserer ganzen Verantwortung bewusst werden; einer Verantwortung, in der wir eben nicht in einem letztlich neutralisierenden „wir“ oder in einer Moralgemeinschaft aufgehen können. 10 Die Frage, inwiefern diese ersten Überlegungen mit den in diesem Sammelband verfolgten Fragestellungen zusammenhängen, ist weder einfach zu beantworten, noch ist sie unmittelbar ersichtlich. Denn auf den folgenden Seiten wird es nicht um Schandbilder gehen. Vielmehr wird das Thema ex negativo berührt, wobei Aspekte zur Sprache gebracht werden, die parallel zu den im Buch verhandelten laufen. Von primärer Bedeutung wird dabei das Verhältnis von Ethik und Sehen sein. In diesem Zusammenhang gilt es herauszuarbeiten, inwiefern Levinas‘ Gedanken zur Repräsentation, zur Kunst, zum Antlitz oder zum Von-Angesicht-zu Angesicht, trotz oder gerade wegen ihrer Radikalität fruchtbar gemacht werden können. Dabei muss vorneweg betont werden, dass uns seine kritische Haltung gegenüber der Kunst, die in Aufsätzen wie Die Wirklichkeit und ihr Schatten teilweise äusserst reduktionistisch ist, nur am Rande beschäftigen wird. Vielmehr wird die dieser Haltung zugrundeliegende Kritik an der Repräsentation und der Totalität von Interesse sein. Eine Aussage aus dem Essay Bilderverbot und Menschenrechte ist in diesem Zusammenhang erhellend: „Ich für meinen

  9 „Zunächst gibt es da die eigentliche Geradheit des Antlitzes. Seine gerade, schutzlose Darbietung. Die Haut des Gesichtes ist die, die am meisten nackt, am meisten entblößt bleibt. […] Im Antlitz gibt es eine wesentliche Armut […]. Das Antlitz ist exponiert, bedroht, als würde es uns zu einem Akt der Gewalt einladen. Zugleich ist das Antlitz das, was uns verbietet zu töten“ Levinas 1986 (wie Anm. 1), EU, S. 64–65. Vgl. hierzu die Überlegungen von Stegmaier, Werner: Emmanuel Levinas. Zur Einführung. Hamburg 2009, S. 10–12. 10 „Könnte man Verantwortung delegieren, so wäre sie nicht Verantwortung. Der Einzige, dem sie zufällt – darin besteht Ethik.“ Levinas, Emmanuel: Antlitz und erste Gewalt. Ein Gespräch mit Hans-Joachim Lenger über Phänomenologie und Ethik, in: Lévinas’ Ethik im Kontext. Hg. von Christian Kupke. Berlin 2005, S. 11–2 4, hier S. 19. Ferner auch Levinas Aussagen in Ethik und Unendliches. Levinas 1986 (wie Anm. 1), EU, S. 73. Allerdings ist es wichtig zu verstehen, dass es auch für Levinas eines Staates bedarf, der die Verwirklichung der Freiheit und der Verantwortung für den anderen ermöglicht. In Zeiten der Verfolgung bleibt die Gerechtigkeit nur noch innerlich und ist somit nicht mehr sichtbar und effektiv praktikabel. Was fehlt ist die Objektivität der Gerechtigkeit. Zur Frage der Verantwortung vgl. Delhom, Pascal und Hirsch, Alfred: Vorwort, in: Levinas, Emmanuel: Verletzlichkeit und Frieden. Schriften über die Politik und das Politische. Hg. und mit einem Vorwort von Pascal Delhom und Alfred Hirsch. Zürich und Berlin 2007, S. 7–70, insbesondere S. 29–35. Ferner Stegmaier 2009 (wie Anm. 9), S. 65 sowie S. 92.

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Teil möchte fragen, ob hinter dem […] Mißtrauen bezüglich der Repräsentationen und Bilder der Wesenheit nicht eine gewisse Vorherrschaft der Repräsentation gegenüber anderen möglichen Formen des Denkens angeprangert wird.“11 Die Frage, die daraus folgt, ist, ob Levinas‘ Kritik am totalisierenden Sehen und Denken, das zugleich ein alles neutralisierendes ist, in produktivem Sinne genutzt werden kann. Es wird darum gehen, einen Schritt zurückzutreten, um die verschiedenen Modalitäten des Sehens, und somit auch des Sprechens über das Antlitz und über Bilder des Schreckens, ausloten zu können. Vor dem Hintergrund eines Levinas’schen Denkens gilt es, darüber zu reflektieren, welcher Art unser Umgang mit dem Anderen und mit dem Bild des Anderen ist, insbesondere dann, wenn es sich um ein Bild des Schreckens und der Gewalt handelt: Bilder, die gezeigt, aber auch solche, die, um mit Peter Geimer zu sprechen, nicht gezeigt werden. 12 Im Kontext dieses Bandes soll also unter anderem zur Diskussion gestellt werden, inwiefern der analytisch-distanzierte Blick, die abgeklärte Bildanalyse, die in ihrem Sezieren, Beschreiben und Synthetisieren zweifelsohne von fundamentaler Bedeutung für einen aufmerksamen und rationalen Umgang mit dem Gegebenen ist, nicht zugleich stets ein Gewahrwerden für die Möglichkeit des Scheiterns von Sprache gegenüber etwas, das sich dem Sagbaren entzieht, in sich tragen sollte? Damit, und dies muss mit der gebührenden Klarheit gesagt werden, soll gerade nicht der Weg eingeschlagen werden, Bilder des Schreckens und der Gewalt unter dem häufig allzu leicht ins Spiel gebrachten Deckmantel des Undarstellbaren und des Nichtsagbaren verschwinden zu lassen, um mögliche ethische Probleme zu vermeiden. Die von Georges Didi-Huberman intensiv und engagiert geführte Diskussion um die Bilder malgré tout, aber auch Susan Sontags Überlegungen in Das Leiden anderer betrachten, sollten uns dafür sensibilisiert haben, dass Wegschauen oder Nicht-sehen-wollen keine Optionen sind, und dass die Komplexität der Bilder sowie unseres Umgangs mit ihnen nicht dadurch eliminiert werden können, dass man sich auf ein wie auch immer geartetes Bilderverbot zurückzieht.13 So durchdacht und gerechtfertigt diese Position in einigen Fällen auch sein mag – wie etwa diejenige von Claude Lanzmann in seinem berühmten

11

Levinas, Emmanuel: Bilderverbot und „Menschenrechte“, in: Emmanuel Levinas: Verletzlichkeit und Frieden. Schriften über die Politik und das Politische. Hg und mit einem Vorwort von Pascal Delhom und Alfred Hirsch. Zürich und Berlin 2007, S. 115–123. Im Folgenden zitiert als Bilderverbot. 12 Vgl. hierzu Geimer, Peter: Fotos, die man nicht zeigt. Probleme mit Schockbildern, in: Fotografische Leidenschaften. Hg. von Katharina Sykora. Marburg 2006, S. 2 45– 260. 13 Didi-Huberman, Georges: Images malgré tout. Paris 2003, sowie Sontag, Susan: Das Leiden anderer betrachten. München 2003.

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Film Shoah, die in letzter Instanz die Möglichkeit der visuellen Dokumentation und Repräsentation der unermesslichen Gräuel der Shoa negiert – sie sollte dennoch in Frage gestellt werden, wenn man Sehen (und somit das Sehen von Bildern) nicht nur als eine Form von objektivierender, missbrauchender Inbesitznahme der (dargestellten) Subjekte verstehen will, sondern als eine Tätigkeit, die immer auch mit einem Ethos, mit einer Haltung gegenüber der Welt einhergeht. 14 In diesem delikaten Zusammenhang von Bildern der Gewalt und Sprache, von Undarstellbarem und Nichtsagbaren, scheint ein Verweis auf den letzten Satz des Tractatus logico-philosophicus sinnvoll zu sein: der häufig beschworene Satz, dass man worüber man nicht sprechen kann, schweigen muss, birgt gerade keine Dimension des irrationalen Verstummens in sich, sondern vielmehr ein klares Bewusstsein für die Schwierigkeit, Ethisches zu sagen, und für unsere Verantwortung, darüber nachzudenken. 15 Es ist das Bewusstsein, dass unsere logischdiskursive Sprache an ihre Grenzen stossen muss, und zugleich das unhintergehbare Bedürfnis, mit der Sprache gegen die Grenzen der Sprache – und in unserem Kontext vielleicht auch mit den Bildern gegen die Grenzen der Bilder – anzurennen. 16 14 In den scharfen Angriffen auf Didi-Hubermans Text Images malgré tout, in dem er vier Fotografien, die von Mitgliedern des Sonderkommandos in Birkenau im August 1944 aufgenommen worden waren, im wahrsten Sinne des Wortes zur Sprache bringt, aber auch in Didi-Hubermans eigener, zu Recht kritischen Thematisierung, taucht die Dimension des Undarstellbaren und Unsagbaren immer wieder auf. Vgl. Didi-Huberman 2003, (wie Anm. 13). 15 Wittgenstein 2008 (wie Anm. 5), TLP 8, S. 85. „Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, darüber muß man schweigen.“ 16 Es kann an dieser Stelle nicht geleistet werden, auf die vielzähligen zum Teil gegenläufigen Interpretationen dieses berühmten letzten Satzes von Wittgensteins Tractatus einzugehen. Es sei lediglich darauf hingewiesen, dass Wittgenstein selbst die eigentliche Absicht des Tractatus im Begleitbrief zum Manuskript des Tractatus, den Wittgenstein an Ludwig von Ficker, den Herausgeber der Zeitschrift „Der Brenner“ sandte, als eine klar ethische definierte. „In Wirklichkeit ist er (der Text) ihnen nicht fremd, denn der Sinn des Buches ist ein Ethischer. Ich wollte einmal in das Vorwort einen Satz geben, der nun tatsächlich nicht darin steht, den ich Ihnen aber jetzt schreibe, weil er Ihnen vielleicht ein Schlüssel sein wird: Ich wollte nämlich schreiben, mein Werk bestehe aus zwei Teilen: aus dem, der hier vorliegt, und aus alledem, was ich nicht geschrieben habe. Und gerade dieser zweite Teil ist der Wichtige. Es wird nämlich das Ethische gleichsam von Innen her begrenzt; und ich bin überzeugt, dass es streng, NUR so zu begrenzen ist. Kurz, ich glaube: Alles das, was viele heute schwafeln, habe ich in meinem Buch festgelegt, indem ich darüber schweige.“ Wittgenstein an v. Ficker Oktober oder November 1919, in: Wittgenstein, Ludwig: Briefe: Briefwechsel mit B. Russell, G. E. Moore, J. M. Keynes, F. P. Ramsey, W. Eccles, P. Engelmann u. L. von Ficker. Hg. von Brian Mc Guinness und Georg H. von Wright. Frankfurt am Main 1980, S. 96 –97.

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Der in Levinas frühem Hauptwerk Totalität und Unendlichkeit. Versuch über die Exteriorität geäusserte Gedanke, dass „die Ethik eine Optik“ sei, „ein Sehen, […] ohne die dem Sehen eigenen Vermögen der synoptischen und totalisierenden Objektivation“ stellt hierbei das Leitmotiv der Überlegungen dar, auf das immer wieder zurückgekehrt werden soll. 17 Wie sich zeigen wird, gilt es bei dem Aufspüren dieser Relation von Ethik und Sehen darum, die verschiedenen, von Levinas thematisierten Modalitäten des Sehens, seine Möglichkeiten und Grenzen herauszukristallisieren. Denn das Motiv der Gewalt des Blickes, der den anderen in einem Akt der Aneignung zum Gegenstand (der Erkenntnis) werden lässt, zieht sich durch Levinas‘ gesamte Schriften. Diese skeptische Auffassung des Sehens – und damit eng verwoben die Betonung, das menschliche Antlitz gehöre eigentlich in den Bereich des Unsichtbaren, und sei stets mit dem reziproken Sprechen und eben nicht mit dem vereinnahmenden Sehen verwoben – hat viele Interpreten dazu verführt, dem Sehen jegliche Relevanz in Levinas Philosophie abzuerkennen. 18 Es steht ausser Frage, dass Levinas kein Vertreter des abendländischen Okularzentrismus war: er monierte die vielfältigen Gefahren, die mit einem Sehen aus der Distanz einhergehen, das es ermöglicht, sich ausserhalb des Geschehens zu positionieren. Genau diese Form des „synoptischen“ Sehens, also des überblickenden Sehens, wurde von ihm scharf kritisiert. „Soweit der Zugang zu den Seienden auf dem Sehen beruht, beherrscht es die Seienden, übt über sie eine Macht aus. Das Ding ist gegeben, bietet sich mir dar.“19 Daraus allerdings ableiten zu wollen, dass der kontinuierliche Rekurs auf ein eng mit dem Sehen verwobenes Vokabular zweitrangig ist, oder schlicht in den Bereich des Metaphorischen gehört, greift meines Erachtens zu kurz. Denn selbst wenn Levinas die Optik als ein „bildloses Sehen“ definiert, sie ist und bleibt eine Ethik. 20 Und in der Tat: Im Kapitel Antlitz und Ethik in Totalität und Unendlichkeit scheint Levinas zu implizieren, dass die Epiphanie des Antlitzes, sein Erscheinen, eine visuelle Erfahrung jenseits der Alltäglichkeit und der reduktiven Aneignung des Visuellen

17 Levinas, Emmanuel: Totalität und Unendlichkeit. Versuch über die Exteriorität. Freiburg und München 2008 (1987), S. 23. Im Folgenden abgekürzt als TU. 18 So etwa Simon Critchley, der schreibt: „Although Levinas‘s choice of terminology suggests otherwise, the face-to-face relation with the other is not a relation of perception or vision, but is always linguistic. The face is not something I see, it is something I speak to.” Critchley, Simon: Introduction, in: The Cambridge Companion to Levinas. Hg. von Simon Critchley und Robert Bernasconi. Cambridge 2004, S. 12. 19 Levinas 2008, (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 277. Und weiter ebd., S. 279: „Das Wort unterscheidet sich vom Sehen. Gewiß kann in der Erkenntnis oder Anschauung das geschaute Objekt eine Handlung auslösen, eine Handlung allerdings, die sich das ‚Gesehene‘ in gewisser Weise aneignet, es einer Welt dadurch integriert, daß sie ihm einen Sinn verleiht und es am Ende konstituiert.“ 20 Levinas 2008, (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 23.

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sei, ein Einbruch des Unendlichen in die Totalität, ein Einbruch des Unbegreiflichen. 21 Das Antlitz – und das ist grundlegend – wird dabei nicht in eine statische Form gepresst, die als Ganze erfasst werden kann. Es entzieht sich in seiner Epiphanie dem Zugriff, der es reduziert. Zugleich formuliert Levinas das Paradoxon, dass sich diese neue Dimension des Antlitzes „in [seiner] sinnlichen Erscheinung“ manifestiert und letztere im Ausdruck zerreisst. 22 Um was für ein Sehen, handelt es sich also? Eine Intuition ist, dass bei Levinas dem Sehen, das absieht, dem Absehen, das nicht totalisiert, sondern den Anderen in seiner Einzigartigkeit und Fragilität belässt, eine wichtige Rolle zukommt. Dieses Absehen – dies sei sofort einführend betont – darf keineswegs mit dem Wegsehen verwechselt werden. Es ist vielmehr ein Anders-Sehen: Ein Anders-Sehen, das zugleich eine Form von ethischer Haltung impliziert, wenn wir so wollen, von einem ethischen Sehen des Partikulären und der Alterität, das dem anderen gerecht wird, das die Geradheit – la droiture – des Antlitzes des uns gegenüberstehenden Individuums in seiner ganzen unendlichen Andersheit sieht, ohne es auf ein Gesehenes zu reduzieren, und ihm somit Recht tut. 23 Um die oben genannten Aspekte kohärent einordnen zu können, ist es in einem ersten Schritt unumgänglich kurz einige Grundzüge von Levinas’ Philosophie zu erörtern. Das Problem der Repräsentation und der Intention, das Levinas aufgrund seiner intensiven Auseinandersetzung mit Edmund Husserls transzendentaler Phänomenologie immer wieder problematisierte, bildet den Anfang. Gemäss Levinas war es Husserls größter Verdienst, die Philosophie von der Konstruktion zur Identifikation, Beobachtung und Beschreibung der Phänomene gebracht zu haben. 2 4 Dabei ging es in der phänomenologischen Reduktion darum, die mannigfaltigen Formen der Intentionalität, also der Ausrichtung des Subjekts auf ein Objekt, zu beschreiben. Dennoch kritisiert Levinas Husserl dafür, immer noch ein Primat des intentionalen, repräsentierenden Bewusstseins zu postulieren. 25 Besonders schwerwiegend ist nach Levinas, dass die Repräsen21 Vgl. hierzu Waldenfels 2004 (wie in Anm. 7), S. 72: “With regard to the speech of the face I could further ask if we do not need a broader concept of appeal, of Anspruch which includes the gaze, the Anblick, referring to a kind of seeing which transcends what is seen.” 22 Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 283. 23 Vgl. hierzu Emmanuel Levinas‘ Aufsatz Bilderverbot und „Menschenrechte“. Levinas 2007 (wie Anm. 11), Bilderverbot, S. 115–123, insb. S. 119. 2 4 Zu Levinas und Husserl siehe etwa Süsske, Rudolf: Abschied von der Intentionalität. Bemerkungen zum Verhältnis von Lévinas zur Phänomenologie Husserls, in: Lévinas’ Ethik im Kontext. Hg. von Christian Kupke. Berlin 2005, S. 93–118. Ferner Stegmaier 2009 (wie Anm. 9), S. 38–47. 25 Critchley 2004 (wie Anm. 18), S. 20.

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tation als „Intentionalität immer ‚etwas‘ anvisiert: ein Ziel, einen Zweck, ein Endliches, einen Abschluss.“26 Das Subjekt habe über die Repräsentation weiterhin einen objektivierenden Umgang mit der Welt, einen Zugriff auf die Welt, der schlussendlich über eine Einverleibung des Objekts in das Subjekt stattfinde. 27 Auch der Andere wird in so einem Akt der Aneignung zum Objekt, das klassifiziert und kategorisiert werden kann und letztlich nur noch ein Fall unter Fällen ist. Der andere wird zu einem Objekt für das Bewusstsein, für mich, für meine Erkenntnis: „Was die Erkenntnis betrifft: Sie ist von ihrem Wesen her eine Beziehung zu dem, dem man gleicht und den man umschließt, dessen Andersheit man aufhebt, das immanent wird, weil es meinem Maß und meinem Maßstab entspricht.“28 Diese Tendenz zur Aneignung, zur Auslöschung der Differenz versteht Levinas – man könnte sagen mit Friedrich Nietzsche und dem Wittgenstein des Blauen Buches – als wesentliches Problem der Geschichte der westlichen Philosophie (allen voran der Ontologie), 29 in der aufgrund des Strebens nach Allgemeinheit und Universalität das Partikuläre und Irreduzible eliminiert wird.30 „Diese Geschichte kann als Versuch einer universellen Synthese interpretiert werden, als Reduzierung aller Erfahrung, alles Sinnvollen auf eine Totalität, in der das Bewusstsein die Welt umfaßt, außerhalb seiner selbst nicht übrig läßt und auf diese Weise absolutes Denken wird.“31 Dieses absolute und somit autonome Denken, das sich selbst genügt und in sich ruht, birgt, wie Werner Stegmaier gezeigt hat, auch die Tendenz zur Neutralisierung des Anderen und des Fremden in sich, das uns beunruhigt.32 Autonomie und Totalität sind insofern verbunden, als dass es darum geht, ein in sich geschlossenes Ganzes, ein System zu erschaffen, unter dem alles zusammengefasst werden kann, ein theoretisch Allgemeines, das eine Vielzahl von Gefahren in sich birgt. Ebenso wie Hannah Arendt hat auch Levinas betont, dass das philosophische Denken mit seinem Privilegieren der Totalität nicht unschuldig war an den

26 27 28 29

Levinas 2007 (wie Anm. 11), Bilderverbot, S. 119. Levinas 2007 (wie Anm. 11), Bilderverbot, S. 117. Levinas 1986 (wie Anm. 1), EU, S. 46. „Die Philosophie, die vom Sein her bestimmt wird, ist Unterdrückung des Pluralismus.“ Levinas 2008, (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 320. Vgl. hierzu Critchley 2004 (wie Anm. 18), S. 16: „For Levinas, the ontological event that defines and dominates the philosophical tradition from Parmenides to Heidegger consists in suppressing or reducing all forms of otherness by transmuting it into the same. In ontology, the other is assimilated to the same like so much food and drink […].” 30 Wittgenstein, Ludwig: Das Blaue Buch (= Werkausgabe, Bd. 5). Frankfurt am Main 2008 (= 1984). 31 Levinas 1986 (wie Anm. 1), EU, S. 57. 32 Stegmaier 2009 (wie Anm. 9), S. 93.

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Totalitarismen des 20. Jahrhunderts.33 Die Präferenz, ja geradezu diese Versessenheit auf eine Rationalität und somit Neutralität des Denkens kann, so Levinas, zur moralischen Gleichgültigkeit führen. In dem Augenblick, in dem man stets vom Allgemeinen ausgeht, von einer alles vereinheitlichenden, objektiven Vernunft, die allgemeingültige Normen, Gesetze und Werte postuliert, verliert der andere sein Antlitz; seine Andersheit und Einzigartigkeit, die für Levinas die Basis allen Ethischen ist, wird unwesentlich.34 Dieser Punkt wird auch in dem 1984 verfassten Aufsatz Bilderverbot und Menschenrechte thematisiert, der für die hier verfolgte Argumentation zentral ist. Levinas verknüpft in diesem Text das Nachdenken über das jüdische Bilderverbot – von dem er übrigens sofort betont, dass es sich nicht auf wissenschaftliche Bilder bezieht – mit dem Nachdenken über die „Vorherrschaft der Repräsentation gegenüber anderen möglichen Formen des Denkens“.35 Ausgangspunkt der Überlegungen ist die Annahme, dass die in der griechischen Tradition so dominante Idee des objektivierenden Sehens, das zugleich mit dem universalisierenden Denken einhergeht, das Partikuläre eliminiert. Es handelt sich um ein Sehen, das prinzipiell Zugriff ist, ein Sehen, in dem uns die Dinge gegeben sind.36 Sehen – und das ist grundlegend – ist Machtausübung. In dem Augenblick, in dem der Andere im Akt der Wahrnehmung seines Antlitzes beraubt wird (dévisager), wird er auf eine plastische und statische Form reduziert und verliert somit seine Einmaligkeit. Die Kritik Levinas‘ läuft darauf hinaus, dass diese Form von Repräsentation und von Denken, in der stets alles auf „einen Zweck, ein Endliches, einen Abschluss“ hin orientiert ist,37 und in diesem Sinne auf ein objektives Wissen von etwas, der existenziellen und phänomenalen Komplexität des Von-Angesichtzu-Angesicht nicht gerecht wird, und insofern unethisch ist, als dass es die unhintergehbare Einzigartigkeit des Menschen nicht respektiere. Was nicht respektiert werde, sei die irreduzible Alterität jedes Menschen, der eben kein Objekt der Erkenntnis sei, sondern sich dem Erkennen und dem System prinzipiell entziehe.38 Ebenso wie in Totalität und Unendlichkeit setzt Levinas dabei auch in diesem Text Ethik und Gerechtigkeit gleich, 39 und denkt beide vom Antlitz aus. Das 33 Arendt, Hannah: Elemente und Ursprünge totaler Herrschaft. Antisemitismus, Imperialismus, totale Herrschaft. München und. Zürich 2008 (= 1986). 34 Vgl. hierzu etwa Delhom und Hirsch 2007 (wie Anm.10), S. 32. 35 Levinas 2007 (wie Anm. 11), Bilderverbot, S. 116. 36 Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 273 u. S. 277. 37 Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 119. 38 Wyschogrod, Edith: Language and alterity in the thought of Emmanuel Levinas, in: The Cambridge Companion to Levinas. Hg. von Simon Critchley und Robert Bernasconi. Cambridge 2004, S. 188–205, hier: S. 190. Ferner Crignon 2004 (wie Anm. 4). 39 Vgl. hierzu in einem Interview Levinas, Emmanuel: The Paradox of Morality. An Interview with Emmanuel Levinas. Conducted by Tamra Wright [u.a.], in: The Pro-

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­ ntlitz des Anderen zeigt sich uns in seiner Geradheit und ist somit mit der A Gerechtigkeit verbunden, die „jeder Assoziation im Namen einer abstrakten und gemeinsamen „Menschheit“ vorausgeht. 40 Das Menschenrecht, „absolut und ursprünglich“, ist vor aller möglichen normativen Moral und jenseits der Erkenntnis anzusiedeln. „All diese Seiten, die auf etwas Sinnvolles hinweisen, das der Repräsenta­ tion, in der jedoch die transzendentale Philosophie den Ursprung ihres Denkens setzte, vorangeht, haben uns erlaubt, hinter den schon plastischen Formen, in denen sich das Angesicht nur noch präsentiert, re-präsentiert, in denen es nur noch als ein Bild erscheint und in denen, in diesem Bild, das Angesicht sich als etwas enthüllt – all diese Seiten haben es uns erlaubt, die […] Rufe zu hören, die das Subjekt zu einer Verantwortung für den jeweils anderen wachrufen, ausgehend von einer Geradheit, die Ausgesetztsein vor dem Tod ist.“41

vocation of Levinas. Rethinking the Other. Hg. von Robert Bernasconi und David Wood. New York 1988, S. 168–180, hier: S. 171: „In Totality and Infinity I used the word ‘justice’ for ethics, for the relationship between two people. I spoke of ‘justice’ although now ‘justice’ is for me something which is a calculation, which is knowledge, and which supposes politics; it is inseparable from the political. It is something which I distinguish from ethics, which is primary. However, in Totality and Infinity, the word ‘ethical’ and the word ‘just’ are the same word […].” Zur Relation von Gerechtigkeit und Antlitz siehe Waldenfels 2004 (wie Anm. 7), S. 70. 40 Levinas 2007 (wie Anm. 11), Bilderverbot, S. 120. 41 Levinas 2007 (wie Anm. 11), Bilderverbot, S. 123. Jenseits der Problematik von Bild und Antlitz wirft dieser Punkt die Frage nach dem Verhältnis von Ethik, Recht und Politik auf. Es ist an dieser Stelle nicht möglich, diesen Aspekt näher zu analysieren, aber so viel sei gesagt: Levinas hat keinen Apolitismus vertreten. Gerade in seinen späteren Schriften hat er immer wieder über diese Zusammenhänge nachgedacht. An der Basis seines Nachdenkens über Politik steht, ähnlich wie bei Jacques Derrida, die Überzeugung, dass das Recht und der Staat prinzipiell von der Beziehung unter Einzelnen aus gedacht werden müssen. Es ist der – wie Levinas einmal ironisch sagte – utopische Versuch, gegen eine totalisierende Politik eine ethische Struktur zu finden, die darunter angelegt ist, im von Angesicht-zu-Angesicht, die mit der Verantwortung eines jeden Einzelnen verwoben ist. Sieht man von der Verantwortung des Einzelnen für den Einzelnen ab, wird der andere Mensch zum Objekt, zu einem gesichtslosen Gesicht in der Masse und das muss eine gerechte Gesellschaft verhindern können. Levinas 1986 (wie Anm. 1), EU, S. 63: „Die Politik muß in der Tat immer von der Ethik aus kontrollierbar und kritisierbar bleiben.“ Zur Bedeutung der Politik und des Politischen im Denken Levinas’ siehe die Einführung von Pascal Delhom und Alfred Hirsch. Delhom/Hirsch 2007 (wie Anm. 10), S. 7–70. Zum Verhältnis von Levinas und Derrida siehe u.a. Critchley, Simon: The Ethics of Deconstruc-

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Was Levinas in Bilderverbot und Menschenrechte kritisch in Frage stellt, ist sowohl die Möglichkeit einer in sich geschlossenen, vollendeten Repräsentation (des Antlitzes), als auch diejenige eines Denkens, das ein Denken der Totalität, des Systems und der Endlichkeit ist. Folgen wir Levinas’ Ausführungen, dann entzieht sich das Antlitz sowohl dem Sehen, als auch der Darstellung, weil es stets einen Überschuss in sich trägt, weil es als lebendiges Antlitz den definierenden Zugriff verneint und Unendliches präsentiert. 42 Doch wie ist das komplexe Phänomen des Antlitzes genau zu verstehen?43 Wie wird es von Levinas beschrieben? Vorgreifend muss betont werden, dass es in Levinas‘ Begrifflichkeit immer wieder zu Verschiebungen gekommen ist, und das Antlitz mal als Phänomen, mal als Epiphanie und in späteren Schriften als Enigma bezeichnet wird. Für die hier vorgenommenen Überlegungen sind insbesondere zwei Punkte relevant: Erstens das Verhältnis von Antlitz, Wahrnehmung und Repräsentation und zweitens die Relation von Antlitz, Epiphanie und Unendlichem. Levinas Annahme, dass das Antlitz weder ein Phänomen sei, noch in den Bereich des Sichtbaren gehört, ist kontraintuitiv. Wie ist es möglich, dass dasjenige, was wie kein anderes unserem Blick ausgesetzt ist, kein sichtbares Phänomen sein soll? Levinas würde wohl antworten: Auch wenn das Antlitz des Anderen phänomenologisch gesehen vom physischen Antlitz ausgeht, ist es insofern kein sichtbares Phänomen, als dass es „keine Repräsentation ist, weder ein Gegebenes unserer Erkenntnis, noch ein Ding, das sich mir enthüllt.“4 4 Wie wir bereits gesehen haben, kritisiert Levinas die Vorstellung, das Antlitz in der Repräsentation objektivieren zu können und es somit zu einem Gegenstand werden zu lassen, der Teil einer Totalität ist. Zugleich wird der andere in diesem neutralisierenden Zugriff auch seiner Alterität entkleidet. Sieht man von der Verantwortung des Einzelnen für den Einzelnen ab, einer Verantwortung, die sich uns gerade im Von-Angesicht-zu-Angesicht manifestiert, wird der andere Mensch zum Objekt:

tion. Derrida and Levinas. Oxford und Cambridge, USA 1992. Ferner Stegmaier 2009 (wie Anm. 9), S. 16. 42 Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 286. 43 Der Begriff des Antlitzes ist grundlegend für die Philosophie von Levinas und wird in der Literatur ausgiebig diskutiert. Es kann an dieser Stelle nicht geleistet werden, eine ausführliche Bibliographie zu diesem Konzept zu liefern. Verwiesen sei lediglich auf folgende, für die hiesige Argumentation zentrale Aufsätze: Waldenfels 2004 (wie Anm. 7), S. 63 –81; ferner Armengaud 2000 (wie Anm. 4); Crignon 2004 (wie Anm. 4); Wyschogrod 2004 (wie Anm. 38). 44 “The face is similar in that it is not at all a representation, it is not a given of knowledge, nor is it a thing which comes to hand. It is an irreducible means of access, and it is in ethical terms that it can be spoken of.” (Übersetzung H.G.), Levinas und Wright 1988 (wie Anm. 39), S. 169.

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statt seines lebendigen Antlitzes wird nunmehr nur noch seine gesichtslose Gestalt wahrgenommen. „Wenn Sie eine Nase, eine Stirn, ein Kinn sehen und sie beschreiben können, dann wenden Sie sich dem Anderen wie einem Objekt zu.“45 Problematisiert wird an dieser Stelle ein intentionales Sehen, das für Levinas stets ein zielgerichtetes und instrumentalisierendes ist. Das Antlitz des Anderen hingegen, das kein Ding ist und sich in seiner Verletzlichkeit und Nacktheit darbietet, sollte dazu führen, dass wir für einen Augen-Blick, in dem Moment, in dem wir in die Augen des anderen Menschen blicken, von unserem verallgemeinernden und da begreifenden auch übergreifenden Zugriff zurückschrecken. 46 Wir erkennen, dass der andere in seiner Alterität nicht auf ein Bild oder auf Begriffe reduzierbar ist, und erkennen zugleich, dass er sich somit nicht im Bereich des Verstehbaren, im Sinne des logisch-diskursiv Kategorisierbaren bewegt: 47 „Verstehen, das ist: sich auf das Besondere beziehen, vermittels der Erkenntnis, die immer Erkenntnis des Allgemeinen ist.“ Die ethische Wirkung der nicht-synthetisierbaren Erfahrung des von Angesicht-zu-Angesicht besteht hingegen darin, dass ich „in dem ich in die wehrlosen, absolut des Schutzes beraubten Augen“ des anderen sehe, „innehalte“ in meinem objektivierenden Zugriff auf ihn und wahrhaft „aufrichtig“ werde. Denn das Antlitz besitzt eine „eigentliche Geradheit“, eine „gerade, schutzlose Darbietung.“48 Das Antlitz des Anderen, das in seiner ganzen Komplexität und Nicht-Greif barkeit, und somit auch NichtBegreif barkeit vor uns steht, beinhaltet sowohl Nähe als auch notwendige Distanz, Fremdheit, ja gar Widerstand. 49 Und genau dies ist nach Levinas der Ort des Ethischen. Es ist deswegen der Ort des Ethischen, weil wir uns hier der Differenz 45 Levinas 1986 (wie Anm. 1), EU, S. 64. 46 „In dem ethischen Widerstand präsentiert sich das Unendliche als Antlitz; der ethische Widerstand lähmt meine Vermögen und erhebt sich in seiner Nacktheit und seiner Not hart und absolut vom Grunde der wehrlosen Augen.“ Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 286. Vgl. hierzu Crignon 2004 (wie Anm. 4); ferner Armengaud 2000 (wie Anm. 4). 47 „Das Verhältnis zwischen mir und dem Anderen ist kein Wissen, kein Erkennen des Anderen.“ Levinas u. Lenger 2005 (wie Anm. 10), S. 18. Oder an anderer Stelle: „Was die Erkenntnis betrifft: Sie ist von ihrem Wesen her eine Beziehung zu dem, dem man gleicht und das man umschließt, dessen Andersheit man aufhebt, das immanent wird, weil es meinem Maß und meinem Maßstab entspricht.“ Levinas 1986 (wie Anm. 1), EU, S. 46. Vgl. hierzu etwa den Aufsatz von Wyschogrod 2004 (wie Anm. 38). 48 Levinas 1986 (wie Anm. 1), EU, S. 64. 49 Zum Widerstand, der vom menschlichen Antlitz ausgeht vgl. etwa die Passagen in Totalität und Unendlichkeit: „Der Widerstand, hart und unüberwindbar, leuchtet im Antlitz des Anderen, in der vollständigen Blöße seiner Augen ohne Verteidigung, in der Blöße der absoluten Offenheit des Transzendenten. Hier liegt nicht eine Beziehung mit einem sehr großen Widerstand vor, sondern mit etwas absolut Anderem:

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gewahr werden: dieses Antlitz, das uns überrascht, kann, wenn wir uns tatsächlich darauf einlassen, eben nicht fixiert werden, sondern bleibt in seiner Andersheit stets anderes. „Die Fremdheit des Anderen, der Umstand, dass er nicht auf mich, meine Gedanken und meinen Besitz zurückgeführt werden kann, vollzieht sich nur als Infragestellung meiner Spontaneität, als Ethik.“ 50 Ethisches Bewusstsein besteht also primär im Anerkennen der intrinsischen Dissymmetrie.51 Diese Erfahrung des Anderen, die durch das Fremde alles feste und gesicherte Denken oszillieren lässt, wird ferner dadurch verstärkt, dass das Antlitz als Epiphanie keine feste, geschlossene Form besitzt und somit das Gegenteil sowohl eines Gegenstandes als auch von Totalität ist.52 Das Antlitz eröffnet die Transzendenz, die sich jeglicher Totalisierung entzieht. „Das Antlitz entzieht sich dem Besitz, meinen Vermögen. In seiner Epiphanie, […] wandelt sich das Sinnliche, das eben noch fassbar war, in vollständigen Widerstand gegen den Zugriff.“53 Da das Denken, so Levinas, in der Intentionalität Adäquation an das Objekt bleibt, ist das Antlitz niemals in Modalitäten der Intentionalität zu erfassen. Das Antlitz kann man zwar „als ein Porträt oder als eine Plastik ansehen“, aber dadurch wird es seiner Antlitzhaftigkeit beraubt. „Dévisager: das bedeutet jemanden anzusehen, aber gerade in dem Sinne wegzuschieben.“54 Diese Schwierigkeit, das Antlitz in einer Form darzustellen, die zugleich statisch und im negativen Sinne abgeschlossen und vollendet ist, bringt Levinas in seinen Schriften immer wieder zur Sprache: „Aber der Unterschied zwischen der Nacktheit des Antlitzes, das sich mir zuwendet, und der Enthüllung der Sache, die durch ihre Form erleuchtet wird, trennt nicht bloß zwei Modi der Erkenntnis. Die Beziehung zum Antlitz ist nicht Gegenstandserkenntnis, das Antlitz ist keine Form.“ (Hervorh. H. G.)55 Für Levinas verhüllt die Form, sie ist eine Fläche, sie bietet eine Fassade dar, die die Tiefe überdeckt, und somit die ethisch notwendige Nacktheit verdeckt. Es ist die statische Form des Bildes, insbesondere des Porträts, die zu einer negativen Dimension der ‚Gesichtslosigkeit‘ führt, die es um jeden Preis zu vermeiden gilt. In Bilderverbot und Menschenrechte zum Beispiel,

50 51

52 53 54 55

der Widerstand dessen, was keinen Widerstand leistet – der ethische Widerstand.“ Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 17),TU, S. 286. Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 51. Das Konzept der Dissymmetrie ist zentral für das Levinas’sche Denken: “The idea of dissymmetry / “dissymétrie” seems very important to me; it is, perhaps, the most important way of conceiving of the relationship between self and other which does not place them on the same level.“In: Levinas und Wright 1988 (wie Anm. 39), S. 179. Crignon 2004 (wie Anm. 4). Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 283. Levinas u. Lenger 2005 (wie in Anm. 10), S. 17. Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 102.

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versteht Levinas das Bild sowohl als Repräsentation, als auch als Bildwerk, das mit dem Götzenbild gleichgesetzt wird: „Im Bild hat nun das Denken Zugang zum Angesicht des jeweils anderen, das auf seine plastischen Formen reduziert ist, seien sie auch exaltiert und faszinierend […]. Seien sie auch ein Kunstwerk! […] Lebloses Götzenbild […], das Leblose, das dem Angesicht ähnelt, das sich ‚porträtieren‘ läßt, das in ‚Kopien‘, in ‚Exemplare‘ eingeht.“56 So polemisch diese Auffassung des Bildes als Idol ist, so wichtig ist es, die damit zusammenhängenden Aspekte der Endlichkeit und der Abgeschlossenheit herauszugreifen, die Levinas mehrmals zur Sprache bringt: sei es in Bezug auf das Sehen, das, wie wir gesehen haben, als etwas definiert wird, das die Alterität des Gegenstandes reduziert, alles zum Inhalt werden lässt, in diesem vereinnahmenden Akt alles assimiliert und somit „Zufriedenheit im Endlichen [ist], ohne sich um das Unendliche zu kümmern“,57 sei es in Bezug auf die (schöne) Kunst, die das Angesicht in eine ganzheitliche plastische Form zu pressen versucht und dieses als Endliches erstarren lässt. Auch im Aufsatz Die Wirklichkeit und ihr Schatten, der sicherlich als Levinas‘ schärfste Kritik an der Kunst gelesen werden muss, werden ähnliche Punkte verhandelt.58 Es sollen hier nur die für die Argumentation zentralen Punkte zusammengefasst werden: 1) Levinas kritisiert in diesem Text die romantisch-idealistische Ästhetik, die die Kunst „zum Organon der Philosophie“ werden ließ und sie als einen sinnlichen Ausdruck des Metaphysischen verstand. 2) Die Kunst präsentiert sich stets als vollendet, in sich abgeschlossen. 3) Kunst ist niemals mit der Wahrheit in Verbindung zu bringen, sie liegt in der Dunkelheit der Nicht-Wahrheit, womit Levinas, eine für das 20. Jahrhundert ungewöhnliche Position einnimmt. 4) Das Kunstwerk als Seinsschatten ist analog einer Statue erstarrt, ist in der Unbeweglichkeit festgeschrieben und somit Idol. 5) Die Kritik am Schönen, das letztlich mit einer Form der Indifferenz und der Verantwortungslosigkeit verbunden ist, und daraus folgend 6) die Annahme, dass das Schöne niemals im Bereich des Ethischen anzusiedeln sei. „Es gibt etwas boshaftes und egoistisches

56 Levinas 2007 (wie Anm. 11), Bilderverbot, S. 116. 57 Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 274. 58 Vgl. hierzu Levinas 1948/1949 (wie Anm. 3), und für die deutsche Ausgabe Levinas 2006 (wie Anm. 3). Zu Die Wirklichkeit und ihr Schatten vgl. etwa den Aufsatz von Calin, Rodolphe: La non-transcendance de l’image, in: Le souci de l’art chez Emmanuel Levinas. Hg. von Danielle Cohen-Levinas. Paris 2011, S. 31–50.

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und feiges im künstlerischen Genuss des Schönen.“59 Die kritische, zum Teil gar polemische Position, die Levinas in diesem Text einnimmt, könnte durch eine Vielzahl von Gegenargumenten dekonstruiert werden. 60 Inwiefern kann nun aber eine derart radikale Position produktiv für die Kunstwissenschaft, und insbesondere für unseren Umgang mit Bildern des Schreckens und der Gewalt genutzt werden? Die bisherigen Überlegungen haben sicherlich die Notwendigkeit gezeigt, zwischen verschiedenen Formen des Sehens zu differenzieren, den Akt des Sehens auch als ein Mittel der Machtausübung zu verstehen, und ihn deswegen gezielt in Frage zu stellen. 61 Levinas’ Kritik des Sehens sensibilisiert also zugleich für seine Gefahren, derer man sich im alltäglichen und auch theoretischabstrakten Zugriff – einem Zugriff der auch im negativen Sinne mit dem Wissen verknüpft sein kann –, nicht mehr gewahr wird. Neben dieser Infragestellung des Sehens, ist in dieser radikalen Kritik der Repräsentation ex negativo auch eine weitere positive Dimension des Ästhetischen zu finden, die mit dem stetigen Ausloten der Grenzen der Darstellbarkeit zusammenhängt: Levinas versucht kontinuierlich das Paradoxon zu formulieren, dass die absolute Alterität, die nicht gesehen und auch nicht enthalten werden kann, doch zu mir gelangt. Das Antlitz „ist gegenwärtig in seiner Weigerung, enthalten zu sein. In diesem Sinn kann es nicht begriffen, d.h. umfasst werden.“62 Levinas verknüpft diesen Aspekt des Nicht-Umfasst-Werden-Könnens mit der Idee der Unendlichkeit: „Die Idee des Unendlichen, das unendlich mehr, das im Weniger enthalten ist, ereignet sich konkret in der Gestalt einer Beziehung mit dem Anderen.“63 Wie Simon Critchley es so knapp und präzise formuliert hat, interessiert Levinas, dass das menschliche Subjekt eine Idee des Unendlichen hat, und dass diese Idee per definitionem ein Gedanke ist, der mehr beinhaltet als gedacht werden kann. 64 „Die Idee des Unendlichen geht über meine Vermögen

59 Levinas 1948/1949 (wie Anm. 3), S. 142: „Il y a quelque chose de méchant et d‘égoiste et de l’che dans la jouissance artistique du beau.“ (Übersetzung H.G.). 60 So könnte man etwa mit Theodor W. Adornos Ästhetischer Theorie argumentieren, dass die Kunst selbstverständlich einen Wahrheitsgehalt besitzt, da es zwei komplementäre Gestalten der Wahrheit gibt und in Bezug auf die mehr als reduzierte Vorstellung von Porträt könnte man gerade aus kunsthistorischer Perspektive eine ganze Reihe an Gegenpositionen auffahren. 61 Zum Motiv der Gewalt des Blicks siehe auch Sartre, Jean-Paul: Das Sein und das Nichts. Versuch einer phänomenologischen Ontologie. Hg. von Traugott König. Reinbek bei Hamburg 2000, Dritter Teil, Kapitel 1. 4, „Der Blick“, S. 457–538. Ferner die grundlegende Studie von Silverman, Kaja: The threshold of the visible world. New York 1996, insbesondere die Kapitel „The Gaze“ und „The Look“, S. 125–194. 62 Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 277. 63 Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 280. 64 Critchley 2004 (wie Anm. 18), S. 14.

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hinaus.“65 Es ist nun genau im Antlitz des Anderen, wo wir das Unendliche als solches erfahren, denn jeder Andere ist mehr, als wir zu enthalten vermögen. Gegen die Totalität „impliziert die Idee des Unendlichen ein Denken des Ungleichen.“ Der andere sprengt sozusagen den Rahmen der Totalität und durch ihn bricht das Unendliche in unsere Routine ein, und zwar als Inadäquation – und somit als Gegenteil der Adäquation, die im repräsentierenden Denken vorhanden ist. „Während das Phänomen bereits Bild ist, Manifestation, die gefangen ist in ihrer plastischen und stummen Form, ist die Epiphanie des Antlitzes lebendig. Sein Leben besteht darin, die Form aufzulösen, in der sich jedes Seiende, sobald es in die Immanenz eintritt, d. h. sobald es sich als Thema darstellt, bereits ver­ birgt.“66 Die notwendige Auflösung der Form zeigt, weshalb für Levinas die Idee einer vollendeten und statischen Darstellung, wie sie seines Erachtens im klassischen Porträt zu finden ist, problematisch ist und weshalb er, wie oben angedeutet, einer Ästhetik des Schönen prinzipiell skeptisch gegenübersteht. Dies sowie Levinas’ Thematisierung der Inadäquation, der Unendlichkeit und letztlich auch der Nicht-Repräsentierbarkeit, die sich in all seinen Schriften finden lässt, wirft folgende Fragen auf: 1) ob, und wenn ja, welche Rolle könnte dem Erhabenen und der Ästhetik des Erhabenen in seinem Denken zukommen? 67 2) Inwiefern bezog sich Levinas dabei sowohl auf die Kantische Idee des Schönen – wobei er die von Kant wertneutral beschriebenen Charakteristika des Schönen negativ umdeutet –, als auch auf das Kantische Erhabene? Lassen sie uns für eine Beantwortung dieser Fragen kurz einige Grundideen Kants zusammenfassen. Wie wohlbekannt ist, beginnt Kant seine Analytik des Erhabenen mit einer Absetzung vom Gefühl des Schönen. 68 Das Schöne der Natur und der Kunst wird von ihm als das wohl Proportionierte (formal Zweckmässige), gleichsam für unsere Erkenntnisvermögen bestimmte – da das harmonische Zusammenspiel von Einbildungskraft und Verstand anregende und somit Lust auslösende – definiert. Das Schöne ist in seiner Form immer begrenzt, überschaubar und von den Vermögen unmittelbar in seiner Ganzheit zu erfassen. Das Erhabene ist nun gemäß Kant all diesen Aspekten diametral entgegengesetzt. Es führt nicht jenes harmonische Zusam-

65 Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 280. 66 Levinas, Emmanuel: Die Spur des Anderen, in: ders.: Die Spur des Anderen. Untersuchungen zur Phänomenologie und Sozialphilosophie. Hg. von Wolfgang Krewani. Freiburg 1983, S. 209–235, hier: S. 221. 67 Insbesondere Bruns 2004 (wie Anm. 4) und Armengaud 2000 (wie Anm. 4), haben in ihren Aufsätzen darauf hingewiesen, dass sich in Levinas’ ästhetischen Überlegungen Einflüsse fänden, die auf das Engste mit dem Erhabenen verbunden seien. Allerdings gehen beide nicht tiefgreifender auf die Bedeutung des Erhabenen ein. 68 Kant, Immanuel: Kritik der Urteilskraft. Frankfurt am Main 2005.

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menstimmen der Urteilskräfte mit sich wie das Schöne, sondern basiert auf einer seltsamen Affektbewegung von Lust und Unlust, von wechselweiser Abstossung und Anziehung. Das Unendliche und Formlose, das konstitutiv für die Idee des Erhabenen ist, kann, wie Kant betont hat, dabei sinnlich nicht adäquat dargestellt werden. Die Einbildungskraft ist überfordert und es gelingt ihr nicht mehr, das „Zu viel“ zu synthetisieren, vielmehr kann sie es nur noch andeuten. Gleichzeitig wird durch diese Unmöglichkeit, das Unendliche zu veranschaulichen, die Vernunft in Gang gesetzt, die das Unendliche zu denken vermag. Das Schöne – und das ist wichtig – ist dabei immer verbunden mit dem, was gekannt ist oder gekannt werden kann, wohingegen das Erhabene die Suche nach dem Unbekannten und nach dem ist, was sich der Darstellung entzieht. Wenn man nun bedenkt, dass das Schöne von Levinas als etwas definiert wird, das eine geschlossene Form, eine Fassade besitzt, die ganzheitlich wahrgenommen werden kann, und von seinem Wesen her Indifferenz ist, und er zugleich erstens immer wieder darauf verweist, dass „das Seiende, das sich im Antlitz präsentiert, aus einer Dimension der Erhabenheit“ komme 69 , und zweitens darauf beharrt, dass sich das Antlitz jeglicher Repräsentation entzieht, mutet die Annahme, dass wir es hier mit einer Ästhetik – oder vielleicht sollten wir besser sagen einer Ethik? – des Erhabenen zu tun haben, nicht verwunderlich an. Im Bereich der Kunst ist die Frage nach der Erhabenheit insbesondere in Zusammenhang mit der Materialität und der Obliteration von Bedeutung. Eine Ästhetik der Materialität, die, wie gezeigt werden soll, auch mit einer Ästhetik des Erhabenen verbunden ist, wird von Levinas im Kapitel Der Exotismus seines Buches vom Sein zum Seienden entwickelt.70 In diesem in deutscher Kriegsgefangenschaft entstandenen Text thematisiert Levinas mehrere Grenzerfahrungen, wie etwa die Schlaflosigkeit, die Erschöpfung und eben auch die Kunsterfahrung. Der zentrale Begriff, den Levinas in Bezug zur Kunst einführt, ist derjenige des Exotismus, hier im etymologischen Sinne verstanden als das Fremde, das Auswärtige.71 Der Exotismus der Kunst – und dies ist zentral – führt zu einer Veränderung der Wahrnehmung, die im Gegensatz zur Wahrnehmung von Gebrauchsoder Erkenntnisgegenständen steht. Die Kunst, und Levinas dachte in diesem spezifischen Fall wohl an die abstrakte Malerei, setzt uns der Alterität aus. „Die Bewegung der Kunst besteht darin, die Wahrnehmung zu verlassen, um die Empfindung wieder herzustellen. Sie besteht darin, die Qualität von jenem Verweis auf den Gegenstand abzulösen.“72 Statt sich also, wie weiter oben beschrie69 Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 276 und S. 311. 70 Levinas, Emmanuel: Vom Sein zum Seienden. Freiburg 2008 (=1997), Kapitel 3.1, „Der Exotismus”, S. 62–69. 71 Vgl. hierzu etwa den Aufsatz von Bruns 2004 (wie Anm. 4). 72 Levinas 2008, (wie Anm. 70), Vom Sein zum Seienden, S. 63.

„Ein Kampf mit der Sicht“

ben worden ist, in der objektivierenden Wahrnehmung auf etwas zu richten, sich den Gegenstand einzuverleiben und die Welt als Synthesen der Gegenstände zu begreifen, haben die „Sinne […] einen Sinn, der nicht im Vorhinein als Vergegenständlichung bestimmt ist.“ 73 Genau diesen Punkt macht nun Levinas stark: „Die Weise, wie in der Kunst die sinnlichen Qualitäten, die den Gegenstand konstituieren, gleichzeitig zu keinem Gegenstand führen und an sich sind, ist das Geschehen der Empfindung.“74 Im dritten Teil von Totalität und Unendlichkeit, nämlich Antlitz und Exteriorität, denkt Levinas ebenfalls über die Relevanz der Empfindung nach, wobei er betont, dass es verschiedene Formen der sinnlichen Erfahrung gibt. Die Prädominanz der Intentionalität, die die Idee der Empfindung in Misskredit gebracht habe, führte gemäß Levinas auch dazu, Sinnlichkeit stets als Moment der Vergegenständlichung und somit Objektivierung verstehen zu wollen. Die Empfindung hingegen ist für ihn gerade nicht von der Vergegenständlichung, sondern vom Genuss her bestimmt. Der Genuss wird hierbei verstanden als etwas, das der „Herausbildung des Bewusstseins, der Kristallisation von ich und Nicht-Ich in Subjekt und Objekt vorausgeht.“ 75 Und genau an dieser Stelle setzt Levinas’ positive Einschätzung des Ästhetischen, aber auch der Kunst an, ein Nachdenken über Kunst, in dem das Kunstwerk eben keine Repräsentation im oben genannten Sinne ist, sondern eng mit dem Empfinden, der Materialisierung und in letzter Instanz mit der Obliteration verbunden ist. Bevor dieser Aspekt näher ausgeführt werden kann, gilt es noch einmal kurz zum Exotismuskapitel zurückzukehren: Während die Alterität meist absorbiert und dadurch zu einem Alter Ego würde, sei es gerade die moderne Kunst, die, so Livinas, den Exotismus, und somit die Alterität und Fremdheit bewahren wolle. Sie tue dies, indem sie die Grenzen der Repräsentation sprenge. Der zugrundeliegende Gedanke ist, dass in der Kunsterfahrung unsere Beziehung zu den Gegenständen nicht mehr eine des Erkennens und des Sichtbarmachens ist. Die ‚exotische‘ Kunst stellt die Möglichkeit einer in-sich-geschlossenen Repräsentation ebenso in Frage wie die Sichtbarkeit.76 Die Malerei ist für Levinas aus diesem Grund „ein Kampf mit der Sicht“ und dieser Kampf problematisiert in der Visualisierung die Möglichkeit eines neutralen und objektivierenden, eines kategorisierenden Sehens, das die Gegenstände verallgemeinert.7 7 Und gerade deswegen kann Levinas, ähnlich wie vom Antlitz, wenngleich auf einer anderen Ebene

73 74 75 76 77

Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 269. Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 70), Vom Sein zum Seienden, S. 64. Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 17), TU, S. 268. Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 70), Vom Sein zum Seienden, S. 66–69. Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 70), Vom Sein zum Seienden, S. 67.

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schreiben: „Das Besondere tritt hervor in seiner Nacktheit zu sein.“ 78 Die formlose Materialität ist so Levinas auch Demut, Nacktheit und Hässlichkeit. Sie ist nicht das materielle Objekt, das für den Gebrauch bestimmt „und Teil einer Umgebung“ und dadurch auch mit einer (schönen) Form bekleidet ist, „die uns seine Nacktheit verbirgt.“ 79 Dem Besonderen wird somit wieder eine unabhängige Existenz verschafft, in der letztlich auch die Frage nach dem Fragment und der Unvollendetheit von Bedeutung wird, denn diese Form der Repräsentation kontrastiert radikal mit einer in sich-geschlossenen Vollendetheit. Die Kunst bewegt sich in diesem Sinne im vorgegenständlichen Bereich des Il y a, des es gibt, aus dem sich das Subjekt als Seiendes zu befreien hat. Diesem Il y a, das Levinas mit der Dunkelheit der Nacht, dem absoluten Schrecken und der vollkommenen Neutralität assoziiert, setzt sich das Subjekt aus und bricht zugleich aus ihm aus. 80 In diesem Sinne können zwischen der Alterität der Kunst und der Alterität des Antlitzes durchaus Parallelen gezogen werden: beides sind erschütternde Erfahrungen, in denen sich das Subjekt der Andersheit durch ein radikales Sich-Aussetzen gewahr wird. Inwiefern dies auch mit einer Ästhetik des Erhabenen zusammenhängt, muss abschließend noch genauer untersucht werden. Dabei gilt es Levinas’ Thematisierung der Obliteration näher unter die Lupe zu nehmen. 81 Obliteration bedeutet so viel wie Auslöschung, Überstreichung, Abstempelung. Ausgehend von einer kurzen Auseinandersetzung mit dem fotografischen und malerischen Werk des französischen Künstlers Sosno, begann Levinas in den frühen 1980er Jahren über die Frage der Obliteration in der Kunst nachzudenken. Durch die Obliteration, die die Vorstellung einer in sich geschlossenen, vollendeten, glatten Form in Frage stellt, konnte er auf die Bedeutung des Unvollendeten eingehen, und das Problem der Darstellbarkeit des Nicht-Darstellbaren, in seinem Fall also insbesondere des Antlitzes neu denken. Leitender Gedanke war hierbei, dass die Obliteration einerseits die Statik der gegebenen Repräsentationen durchbricht und dadurch dem Unvollendeten Einlass gewährt, und auf der anderen Seite somit die Verletzlichkeit und das Leiden des Anderen andeutet. Eine Kunst der Obliteration bricht ähnlich wie eine der Materialität und wie das Antlitz des Anderen in das Sein ein und stellt die Harmonie der Schönheit in Frage. „Eine Kunst der Obliteration, ja, das wäre eine Kunst, die die Ein-

78 Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 70), Vom Sein zum Seienden, S. 68. 79 Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 70), Vom Sein zum Seienden, S. 68. 80 Levinas 2008 (wie Anm. 70), Vom Sein zum Seienden, S. 72. Vgl. hierzu etwa Bruns 2004 (wie Anm. 4). 81 Levinas, Emmanuel: De l’Oblitération. Entretien avec Françoise Armengaud à propos de l’œuvre de Sosno. Paris 1990. Zur Obliteration im Denken von Emmanuel Levinas vgl. Armengaud 2000 (wie Anm. 4). Und am Rande auch Delhom 2011 (wie Anm. 4) .

„Ein Kampf mit der Sicht“

fachheit und die leichte Unbeschwertheit des Schönen anprangert, und an die Abnutzungen des Seins erinnert, die Neuanfänge von denen es übersät ist und die sichtbaren oder versteckten Fehler, in seiner Beharrlichkeit zu sein, zu erscheinen und sich zu zeigen.“ 82 Diese Kunst der Obliteration, die eine des Unvollendeten, da Unvollendbaren ist, würde uns durch das Aufzeigen des Scheiterns, aber auch das Überdecken des Schmerzes, auf unsere Verantwortung zurückverweisen. Sie würde trotz oder gerade wegen des Absehens eine ethische Form des Sehens ermöglichen. Denn in dem Moment, in dem es einen Balken, eine Überzeichnung, eine Auslöschung gibt, ist die – natürlich stets vermeintliche – Transparenz der ungebrochenen Repräsentation eliminiert. Die Obliteration stellt die Zeitlichkeit und die Unmöglichkeit, das Antlitz des Anderen in eine abgeschlossene und unverletzte Form zu gießen, nicht nur in Frage, sondern visualisiert diese zugleich. Statt eines Drangs zur übermässigen Visualisierung, findet man in der Obliteration den Versuch des Entziehens. Das Absehen impliziert gemäss Levinas eine Möglichkeit der Nähe, die im häufig objektivierenden Hinsehen nicht gegeben ist. Die mit dem Fragment verbundene Obliteration wird dabei bewusst der Idee der Totalität gegenübergestellt. Sie durchbricht die Totalität und Immanenz und ermöglicht somit ähnlich wie im Antlitz das Aufleuchten des Ethischen. Man erkennt hier eine Gewalt der Kunst, die in absolutem Gegensatz zu einer Ästhetik des Schönen und der Indifferenz steht, die Levinas anderweitig dezidiert kritisiert hatte. Zugleich finden wir hier aber auch die Bedeutung des Unvollendeten wieder, das mit der Unmöglichkeit zur Vollendung zusammenhängt und uns somit zur Ästhetik des Erhabenen führt. Levinas schreibt: „Das Werk ist niemals vollendet. Und das Werk ist deswegen niemals vollendet, weil die Wirklichkeit immer verfehlt ist, in diesem Sinne, abgestempelt.“ 83 Diese Unvollendetheit wird nun ethisch besetzt, denn sie beinhaltet das Bewusstsein für die Unmöglichkeit, das lebendige und einzigartige Antlitz in einer perfekten Form darstellen zu wollen. Die Unmöglichkeit, das Antlitz als vollendetes darzustellen, hängt nicht zuletzt damit zusammen, dass es stets mit dem Unendlichen verbunden ist, das prinzipiell ein Überschuss ist, und das sich, wie wir schon gehört haben, aufgrund seiner Inadäquatheit und Übergrösse jeglicher Repräsentation entzieht. Auch Levi-

82 Levinas 1990 (wie Anm. 81), S. 12: „L’art d’oblitération, oui, ce serait un art qui dénonce les facilités ou l’insouciance légère du beau et rappelle les usures de l’être, les ‘reprises’ dont il est couvert et les ratures, visibles ou cachées, dans son obstination à être, à paraître et à se montrer.“ (Übersetzung H.G.). 83 Levinas 1990 (wie Anm. 81), S. 18: „L’œuvre n’est jamais achevée. Et l’œuvre n’est jamais achevée parce que la réalité est toujours ratée, en ce sense, oblitéré.“ (Übersetzung H.G.).

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nas‘ Überlegungen zur Materialität, die sich einer Ästhetik des Schönen entziehen und stets den Kampf mit der Sicht und die Schwierigkeit der Vollendetheit in sich bergen, sind mit dieser Ästhetik des Erhabenen verbunden. Das Erhabene – und das ist von Levinas stark gemacht worden – fordert uns immer wieder zu einem Kampf mit der Sicht heraus. Es dient dazu, die Grenzen der Repräsentation und das Sehen an sich, und dadurch auch die Illusion eines objektivierenden Zugriff auf die Welt und auf den Anderen in Frage zu stellen. Die vorausgegangenen Überlegungen haben gezeigt, weshalb und in welcher Form Levinas die Ethik als eine Optik, als eine Lehre der Sichtbarkeit versteht, die gerade nicht auf einem synoptischen und totalisierendes Sehen beruht. Das Verhältnis von Ethik und Sehen basiert auf einem Sehen des Partikulären und Irreduziblen, einem Sehen, das, wie in der Obliteration, auch des Absehens fähig ist. Dieses Sehen ist mit Verantwortung verbunden, Verantwortung für den anderen, der sich uns in seiner ganzen Nacktheit und Verletzlichkeit zeigt. Levinas sprach auch in Bezug zu Fotografien der Gewalt von der Verantwortung, die wir als Betrachter im Erblicken der Spuren und Brüche, der Ausgeliefertheit der Existenz übernehmen müssen. 84 „Der Zugang zum Antlitz liegt nicht in der Art reiner und einfacher Wahrnehmung, der Intentionalität, die in Richtung der Gleichsetzung geht. Positiv können wir sagen, dass von dem Moment an, in dem der Andere mich anblickt, ich für ihn verantwortlich bin.“ 85 Bilder der Gewalt, in denen die absolute Alterität des Anderen zu Tage tritt, in denen zugleich die Verletzlichkeit und die Erhabenheit des Antlitzes des anderen Menschen ersichtlich wird, brechen in unseren objektivierenden und kategorisierenden Umgang mit Bildern ein, und stellen somit eine Irritation dar. Eine Irritation, die ethisch ist, wenn wir Levinas darin folgen, dass das Ethische stets Andersheit, Schmerz und Verunsicherung für uns ist. Levinas‘ Idee der Ethik als Optik – und als erste Philosophie – reicht sicherlich nicht aus, um die vielfältigen Herausforderungen von Bildern des Schreckens bewältigen und noch weniger, die vielfältigen ethischen Probleme lösen zu können. Aber die Stärke von Levinas’ Position besteht darin, uns an die Natur der ethischen Anforderungen zu erinnern, daran, dass die alltägliche Erfahrung des von Angesicht zu Angesicht der Ursprung jeglicher Ethik ist, und dass der Umgang mit der Sichtbarkeit und ihren Grenzbereichen, eine Herausforderung und zugleich eine Verantwortung darstellt.

84 Levinas 1990 (wie Anm. 81), S. 18. 85 Levinas 1986 (wie Anm. 1), EU, S. 73.

Piyel Haldar

From Dignity to Shame X-rays and Legal Persona1

It is by no means certain that dignity is an appropriate term to pin upon modern secular legal personality. The term belies a metaphysical model adopted and formulated by the great apparatuses of the medieval confessional powers of Church and State. Any attempt to salvage dignity in order to relieve Western subjectivity of its burdens of shame runs the risk of falling back on non-secular and transcendental motifs. Ridding ourselves of the halo of perpetuity, however, is not coterminous with adopting shame as the condition of our existence. Indeed, dignity cannot be thought of except in its relationship to shame. Dignity and shame need not be analysed according to its synchronic relationship. Indeed one of the suggestions in this chapter is that the two terms are diachronically related. The dignified persona, arising from the cultic rites of Imperial Rome, becomes the persona subjected to a shameful denuding through modern technological processes. The latter is an avatar of the former. In this sense, modern existence is no more than the latest point on a genealogical trajectory inaugurated upon the beliefs of a perpetual element. This chapter simply sketches the barest outline in

1

School of Law, Birkbeck College, University of London. An early draft of this paper was prepared for the workshop on ‘Infamy, Defamation and the Ethics of ‘Oeconomia’ held in Florence, Italy November 16–18th 2012 and has been published in Law and Humanities, 2013, 7, no.2, pp. 129–150. With thanks to Carolin Behrmann, Costas Douzinas, Anton Schütz, and the onymous Illan Wall. I am grateful to Valérie Hayaert for providing a translation of her work on Pierre Coustau’s Le Pegme. Her work has allowed me to contemplate the image as somewhat related to the idea of a theatrical prop, scaffold or pegma. I owe particular thanks, even more so than usual, to Peter Goodrich for his advice on texts, images and how to cut away some of the historical ‘sauts et gambades.’ Time has prevented me from incorporating all his ideas as fully as I would have liked.

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order to chart the movement from one to another and the changes in technology that are at stake in this diachronic descent. It is not the purpose of this chapter to suggest any other model of civic existence. Such a project falls outside the remit I have set myself. The point is, however, that to think of the subject as anything other than a docile object capable of being tossed around by bio-political technology, capable of being subjected to degradation means having to represent ourselves as existing apart from this transcendentally endowed genealogy. The argument that has to be made is that dignity and shame are historically and fatally linked. Moreover, such a link demands that attention be paid to the problem of representation, since any attempt to re-think the parameters of identity, and to re-fresh the conditions of our lived existence under the law, has to take into account the staging of persona on the civic scene. The existence of the legal subject is entirely dependent on its representation. Social, political or civic status ceases to have any standing unless it is channelled into being through the technology of the image. At a basic level, this means simply that legal subjectivity is to be distinguished from any natural or biological notion of ‘being’. On a further level, however, if there is no concept of the legal person without it being mediated through some form of technological apparatus, then the very format of that representational medium needs to be taken into account more seriously in order to gauge how legal subjectivity undergoes historical transformation. New paradigms of subjectivity emerge depending upon which means of representation, which forms of technological mediation, are assimilated by, and used in, the juridical field. Any genealogical analysis of legal personhood would thus need to account for the differing technological forms that mediate this relationship since the very choice of representative media has different effects. What is required, in other words, is the expansion of the theory that the legal subject is no more than a mask. Under rights granted by the Roman lex imaginum, the medium of the imago, those wax impressions of dead ancestors, established for the living the attribute of legal personality. Personality was no more than mimesis. Without the wax impress of one’s ancestors, there could be no articulation of personality or civic status. That much has been noted by numerous scholars, legal and otherwise. Connal Parsley, to provide a notable example, stresses more incisively than most that the ‘dispositif ’ of the mask, the representational medium through which the legal subject is expressed, is to be regarded as a strictly technological process. 2 The mask captures and so orients the living being towards its prescribed fate. This being so, it seems incumbent to take the chang2

Parsley, Connal: The Mask and Agamben. The Transitional Juridical Technics of Legal Relation, in: Law, Text, Culture (2010) 14, no. 1, pp. 12–39. See also, Parsley, Connal: The Animal Protagonist. Representing ‘the Animal’ in Law and Cinema, in:

From Dignity to Shame

ing nature of these processes more seriously. The imago, painted portraits, microscopic detritus, DNA, digitised images, to name but a few examples of forensic imaging, all need to be assessed as differing media that each situate the subject in correspondingly differing positions. At the risk of over-prolonging this introduction, it is prudent to justify the choice of x-rays and to provide a signal as to what might be at stake in tracing the transition of legal persona. First, the claim made here that it was the use of x-rays that provided a more revolutionary change in the forensic and trial process than photography. The invention of photography in the nineteenth century is generally considered to have affected a sea change in evidential reasoning and in the courts relationship to technology. Along with other developments in new mechanical forms of technical reproduction, photography was able to communicate its referent directly. Previous forms of image based representation (the imago, paintings, sketches etc.), mediated as they were by symbolic conventions of depiction and so forth, entailed a hermeneutic process; to see a face via its representation was to decipher and interpret it. Photography, at least in theory, presented an idea in a flash and attempted to free itself from hermeneutic practices. Perhaps because of its seeming similarity to the photograph, the x-ray remains an under stressed area of critical analysis and slots almost invisibly into a history of representing life. Nevertheless, of all the evidential forms of proof that emerged as a result of the nineteenth century discoveries and inventions, the x-ray provided a new paradigm according to which the legal subject could be calibrated.3 Its use in the bio-political field – the disciplined passage of bodies through security checks, the control and management of security data – is predicated on the emergence of this paradigm. Photography, while direct, or because of its directness, performs, recycles and rehashes sensory vision; it concerns itself with the apprehension of surfaces and only hints at what lies behind the surface. X-rays, however, cut to the bone and into the interior matter of physical life itself. The interior becomes the surface. More than the photograph, the x-ray is able to reveal the structure and relative opacity of what the eye does not otherwise apprehend. It functions as a more efficient dispositif. As a result, many of the newer forms of technology are built on the penetrative model provided by the x-ray.

3

Otomo, Yoriko and Ed Mussawir (eds.): Law and the Question of the Animal. New York 2013, pp. 10–33. On the “x-ray mania” see for example Lisa Cartwright: Screening the Body. Tracing Medicine’s Visual Culture. Minneapolis/London 1995, pp. 107ff; Bernd Stiegler: Philologie des Auges. Die photographische Entdeckung der Welt im 19. Jahrhundert, Munich 2001; Barron H. Lerner: The Perils of “X-Ray Vision”: How Radiographic Images have historically influenced perception, in: Perspectives in Biology and Medicine 35, no. 3, 1992, pp. 382–397.

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However, in order to understand more fully the paradigmatic change offered by the x-ray, as well as in order to assess its repercussions in the field of biopolitics, the question of representational media has to be placed in context. What is important to bear in mind, and what will form the basis of the first part of the analysis that follows is that the x-ray links the representation of life to death and to the image of death. The forensics of legal life maintains a structural connection to an extra-existential domain. Death and life are necessarily represented simultaneously. In the case of the Roman imago, it was the spirit of dead ancestors that spoke through the wax mask in order to endow the living heir with its status as civic persona. In this sense, the imago ought to be regarded as a technological division between those who are absent and those still living. Similarly, the medium of the x-ray provides a screen, a division between the life of a person (or, indeed, an object) and its otherwise non-visible skeletal structure of what makes the person a mortal entity. Put slightly differently, both imago and x-ray represent the life of a subject in a state of absolute difference to itself. What matters, is that this technological division between death and life provides the links between the otherwise different media of x-ray and imago. In other words, a genealogy of another sort subsequently emerges in which different forms of visual technology not only represent and depict the legal life of the subject. In doing so, they also, as a matter of necessity, mediate a relationship between the life of the legal subject and the phantasm of death. What was true of the imago is also true of modern forensics that relies on technology in order to adduce identity. All evidence is proof of legal subjectivity or some aspect thereof; status, intention, consent, consensus etc. And, any medium attempting to represent life, it can be argued, marks this division between death and life, between shadow and light, between spirit and form, between what has been and what presents itself in the here and now (particularly since representation is always of something that once was present but now absent). From the Roman imago to digitalized tools of forensics used in current trials as evidence, the representation of identity and personhood emerges through this relationship between life and death. What changes, however, is the concept of personality, which undergoes modification depending on which representative medium divides between the two worlds. Media are effective portals, channelling energy, directing traffic from one world to another. But, the direction of this traffic will vary depending on the process of representation and depending upon which medium is at stake. While both media (imagines and xrays) present life together in its relationship to death, it is obvious that the category of person that emerges through the imago, represented through a funeral mask, does not carry the same form of legal existence as the one who emerges through the x-ray. What will be claimed in the analysis that follows is that the nineteenth century revolution in forensic technology – or at least technologies that might be forensically enabled – affects a complete volte face in the historical

From Dignity to Shame

conceptualization of the legal persona. Through the x-ray, death no longer speaks through the legal subject, no longer constitutes a persona, and no longer defines the subject as a matter of genealogy. The x-ray, it will be claimed, subjects our relationship to death to a new regime of autonomy. What is at stake in analysing the vicissitudes of the forensic image is the demise of law’s jurisdiction. In this sense, and at the risk of complicating the argument, a further claim needs to be foreshadowed. The representation of legal subjectivity and its varying connection to death depends, historically, upon theatrical modes of presentation and spectatorship that help establish and maintain the vitality of the Law. 4 An analysis of the forensic use and display of x-rays marks a sudden transformation in this theatricalization of legal life. Following a general conceptual argument made by those such as Peter Goodrich, Cornelia Vismann and others, this transformation might be characterised as part of the general deterioration of the function of law and its relation to social justice.5 More profoundly than other forms of technological representation, the x-ray marks a shift towards a non-theatrical mode of mediating between life and death and towards a more positivist idea of an image without spirit. The x-ray transfers the forensic presentation of legal personhood from theatre to screen, from image to record, from imitation to reference, dignity to shame, from faceless mask to faceless bone, from aura to radiation, from genealogy to autonomy. It is as if, the penetration into the body’s interior subjects its spirit to lethal doses of radium and this in turn affects modern legality. A paradox can be noted at the outset: Law demands greater certainty in deciding evidential questions and so frames everything within its ocular jurisdiction. Newer technology affords law more certitude. Nevertheless, in doing so, law simultaneously suffers a loss of jurisdiction.

1. Imago Let us start by examining more fully the relationship between the representation of life and death via the Roman imago. The auratic economy of the image is founded in the grand ceremonial of the Roman funeral, the pompa funebris. The field of radiation that exceeds the physical body, the beard of luminosity that escapes the frame, or, more simply, the spirit that exceeds the flesh, suitably

4

5

On the relationship of the category persona to theatre see for example, Goodrich, Peter: The Theatre of Emblems: On the Optical Apparatus and the Investiture of Persons, in: Law, Culture and the Humanities (2012) 8, no. 1, pp. 47–67. Goodrich, Peter: Screening Law, in: Law and Literature (2009) 21, no. 1, pp. 1–23. Vismann, Cornelia: Rejouer les crimes. Theater vs. Video, in: Cardozo Studies in Law & Literature (1999) 11, no. 2, pp. 161–177.

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emerges from the obitus, the interment of the corpse and from the procession of rites that surround it. So that, as well as the burial of the corpse, the funeral pomp also served to record the res gestae, the life and office and deeds, of the deceased. Its function was to honour the dead and to confer upon them an un-diminishable dignity. While the topic of the imago has been variously treated by anthropologists and legal scholars, returning to the classical sources that document the various funeral arrangements is instructive in so far as they help emphasise in stronger terms that which tends to be glossed over; namely, that the idea of the legal person is firmly linked to the theatricality of these ceremonial events. In and of itself, the imago might not theatrical. It is however a prop, which allows a performance to take place, allows the spirit to be animated and to be communicated as living memory. Start with Cicero who describes, in general terms, the obsequies that choreographed the procession of the body from the deceased’s house through the streets and into the forum: A collection of dignitaries accompanied the dead body through the streets, presided over by the designator, (the dominus funeris) and a number of guardian lictors dressed in black. 6 It was fronted by a troupe of musicians, (cornicines and siticines playing ‘mournful strains’ of funereal music).7 Following them come the hired praeficae, mourning women, lamenting the funeral song (naenia or lessus). Suetonius further details that these hired wailers were followed by players and buffoons (scurrae, histriones), of whom the main character was the chief mime artist, the archimimus who represented the character of the deceased imitating his words and actions. 8 Polybius, in his Customs of Rome, stresses the role of these mime artists: “before the corpse persons walked wearing waxen masks (imagines), representing the ancestors of the deceased, and clothed in the official dresses of those whom they represented.”9 The role of these masked persons, the archimimes, or more technically persona, cannot be underestimated here but they were one of a group of potential players who represented, through mimicry, not just the deceased whose burial was taking place, but, significantly, other deceased members of the same family. It is here in the theatre and among the attendant actors that we find political, historical and genealogical channels of dignity. The imago, at least in its classical

6 7 8 9

Marcus Aurelius Cicero: De Legibus, transl. by Clinton Walker Keyes. New York 1951, 2. 4. See Cicero 1951 (as fn. 5), I 2.23. For further details of the procession, see Suetonius: Life of Vespasian, in: Lives of the Caesars, transl. by John C. Rolfe. New York 1997, 8:19. Polybius: The Histories, Vol. 5, transl. by W.R. Patton. New York 1992, 6.53. See also Pliny: Natural History, Vol. IX, transl. by H. Rackham. New York 1952, 35:2.

From Dignity to Shame

formulation conferred upon the subject its social status, its nobilitas and so too its dignity. They were worn by actors on behalf of members of noble, senatorial, families under rights granted by the ius imagines. Such rights were derived from the standing of individuals among the patricians, their place in the curia or senate, and the realization of their political/social ambition. And what was transmitted into the public sphere, was also transmitted into home. As suited a culture whose deities clung to the pillars and walls of the domus, the wax impresses of their ancestors when not used in funeral processions, were displayed in the atrium of the family home. The point being, that the right under the ius imagines was a family right; inheritable by the living and handed down in turn to their own descendants, theoretically in perpetuity. The image of the past, of the deceased, is thus the image that constitutes the present. The image is every bit of me as it was of my fathers. As Polybius continues: “By this means, by this constant renewal of the good report of brave men, the celebrity of those who performed noble deeds is rendered immortal, while at the same time the fame of those who did good service to their country becomes known to the people and a heritage for future generations.”10 Polybius, in terms stronger than the others, stresses the mimetic order that was vital to the proceedings. The imago itself, the actual wax artefact through which the actor spoke ( per-sonare; to sound through) was based on the moulded impression and thus the likeness of the deceased’s face. As the terms, imago or archimimus, suggest, the ritual belonged to the order of imitation (imitari). What was at stake in this founding order of images was the corrective order of resemblance, a setting straight of the records of life (commentarii), a ritual that through the impress of the face and replication of deeds stuffed dignity into, and ennobled, the departed body. 11 In this sense social visibility was, and has historically since

10 Polybius 1992, 6.54 (as fn. 8). 11 On the idea that imitation corrects the original, see Nancy, Jean-Luc: Le Regard du Portrait, Paris 2000. As well as conferring dignity, the following anecdote illustrates that the ‘corrective formula’ of the pompa funebris could also be used to strip it away: “There could not easily be a more ennobling spectacle for a young man who aspires to fame and virtue. For who would not be inspired by the sight of the images of men renowned for their excellence, all together and as if alive and breathing? What spectacle could be more glorious than this?” See Suetonius 1997, 8.19 (as fn. 7). Interestingly, Suetonius describes the funeral procession of Vespasian. Everything hinged on the performance of the mime. It was an occasion not simply to venerate but also to chastise and diminish the memoriae. Thus; “he [Vespasian] could not be rid of his former ill-repute for covetousness. The Alexandrians persisted in calling him Cybiosactes, the surname of one of their kings who was scandalously stingy. Even at his funeral, Favor, a leading actor of mimes, who wore his mask and, according to the usual custom, imitated the actions and words of the deceased during his

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been, reproduced in terms of a mimetic likeness to the subject’s exteriority. As much as possible, those charged with the task of wearing the imago were made to resemble the dead: “This image is a mask reproducing with remarkable fidelity both the features and complexion of the deceased…[worn by]…men who seem to them to bear the closest resemblance to the original in stature and carriage. These representatives wear togas, with a purple border if the deceased was a consul or praetor, whole purple if he was a censor, and embroidered with gold if he had celebrated a triumph or achieved anything similar.”12 That the history of representing the legal subject and of constituting the juristic category of persona in Western law begins with death masks has been well recorded and commented upon by legal theorists interested in the concept of legal personality. However, it seems that two points that emerge from classical literature, need stressing. First, the imago was the person (just as in entomology the imago refers to fully constituted maturity, the last stage of an insect’s metamorphosis, so too in legal anthropology the imago refers to the fully fledged subject). The person, the living person left behind after the death of his noble ancestors, was nothing more and nothing less than the mask of them. He was no more than an imago, and therefore a simulacrum. The imago was the full extent of being; the ens realissimum, rationis and legis moulded together. Its contemporary formula is most famously put by Jean Luc Nancy in Le Regard de la Portrait arguing that portraiture is necessary for the subject to be. 13 The social reality of the subject, the event of the subject, its animation can only be conjured through frozen portraiture and solidified wax. The second point that needs remembering is the theatrical function of the funeral and the relationship between the persona and death. The image might not be theatrical. It is, rather, a device or a prop. It is possible, without doing untold violence to the theory of imagines, to borrow from the work of the sixteenth century legal humanist Pierre Coustau who, like a number of other renaissance legal humanists was given to the favourite otium of creating visual emblems. Coustau’s work, as highlighted by Valérie Hayaert, elaborates on the idea of the emblematic image as a device, a prop, or, according to his own Greek

lifetime, having asked procurators in a loud voice how much his funeral procession would cost, and hearing the reply ‘Ten million sesterces,’ cried out: ‘Give me a hundred thousand and fling me even into the Tiber.’” Suetonius 1997, 8.20 (as fn. 7). 12 Polybius 1992, 6:53 (as fn. 8). 13 Nancy 2000 (as fn. 10).

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terminology, pegma. 14 The pegma, a relatively little used term, refers to the idea of stage machinery that allows the spectator to view the point at which energy, the enigma of a message, is transferred to the audience. The imago then, whether through its ceremonial use, or whether on domestic display (the pegma can also mean domestic furniture), provides a prop so that a spectacle can be maintained in order to transmit the precedence of animus over the materiality of a living body. It is often claimed that the theatrical formulation of law – that is, law that transmits itself visibly through theatre – is essential to the conservation of law, to its symbolic order and its founding reference. 15 The “theatrical makes visible and accessible what [would otherwise be] obscure […] Law and theatre was all about conjuring the illusions, the phantasmata, of earlier deeds or transactions”16 The theatre of the pompa funebris held a similar conserving function. The imago, as medium of representation, channelled a spirit from a beyond, transmitted an inheritable sense through generations, and conserved the dignity of past ancestors. It is precisely because the persona spoke on behalf of the absent, earlier spiritual ancestry, that dignity was constituted and preserved as a matter of genealogy. What the imago mediated was an energy projected from death into life, from the sacred and symbolic realm of spiritual ancestry and primary causes into public life and the living law. It was a mouth-piece through which the ‘real’ could be articulated ( per-sonare) in order to commune with those whose personhood it had created and left behind. The image cannot be said to capture the spirit. Neither can it be said that the wax image, unlike the x-ray, captures death. It is more accurate to state that the image allowed for the spirit to capture the living subject. As a theatrical prop, it allowed for an outside voice to communicate with, and to be sent to ( pompa), a set of spectators. In turn, as with all theatre, the imago relies on a model of spectatorship. What was staged needed to be viewed and this idea of visual spectacle can be traced in the context of the theatre of legal trials itself.

2. The legal trial as theatre The mediation of the subject through representation occurs as a dominant feature of the trial. Photographs, video recordings, x-rays are all implicated in the management and trafficking of personality. They all provide a division between spirit and body, absence and presence. In this sense they retain links to the idea of the 14 Valérie Hayaert: Mens Emblematica Et Humanisme Juridique: Le Cas Du ‘Pegma Cum Narrationibus Philosophicis’ de Pierre Coustau (1555). Genève 2008. 15 Vismann 1999 (as fn. 4). 16 Goodrich 2009, pp. 4–5 (as fn. 4).

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imago as that which reveals the subject. Yet differences arise. The effect of the imago arises through heavy ritual. What is transmitted (namely the dignity of personhood) is transmitted through sacred rites. What changes within the context of the legal trial is a slow process by which the theatrical ceremony of the trial declines. The forensic apprehension of visual representations of personality shifts due to a change in the perceived purpose of the trial and a change in the perceived purpose of presenting evidence. Part of what needs to be addressed before turning to the x-ray itself is the manner in which legal vision as a general capacity of perception and apprehension changes the requirements for technological evidence. It needs stressing that historically the trial cannot be regarded as an empirical model of fact finding in the way that post Benthamite evidence scholarship presupposes. On the contrary, the trial was fundamentally a theatrical ritual and, as such, its categorical links to the pompa funebris must surely be pertinent. Up until the growth of industrialized means of reproduction in the mid nineteenth century, the courts had relied upon the centrality of human observation and the subsequent oral communication of those observed facts. What the eyewitness saw, what s/he perceived was to be transmitted to the court orally within the ritual parameters of the adversarial system. Indeed, the adversarial theatre of law, the attendant invocations of majesty and dignity, depended upon the viva-voce performance of one who has seen and witnessed the event. As Cornelia Vismann puts it: “The verbal [representation] of the deed takes on the function of a script for the actor […]. The law’s demand for verbal representation therefore inaugurates the ‘theatre of justice’.”17 In these terms the function of the trial was less investigatory than a dramatization of what has violated, and fallen away from the instituted legal order (hence the word ‘case’ from casus – fall). A range of dramaturgical and architectonic devices was put into operation in order to convert the ordinary into the non-ordinary, the voice into speech, quotidian into the special. While it is more or less accurate to state that verbal testimony and witness re-enactment was grounded in observation, the notion of evidential vision cannot be equated with what scientists (would later) term biological vision systems. To begin with, the witness was already a legally constituted persona, a mask through which the past (as a violating event) is made to speak. To be sure, the eyewitness embodied a specific epistemological practice that both cohered and mediated between seeing and knowing and transmitting. The signifier, in other words, was the signified. Nevertheless, the legal tribunal did not simply listen to a witness, but saw that witnesses deliver a performance. What mattered was the performance, the event, the sensation of the piece and the apprehension of what

17 Vismann 1999, p. 12 4 (as fn. 4).

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was to be revealed. Vision, in this sense held more in common with sacramental and spiritual vision, and the trial – per Agamben – was conceived of as a correlate of liturgical practice. What the spectator saw was a spectacle that put out the honour and dignity of the law. The legal theatre like any other theatre was a place of visible action. The whole defence of the oral tradition of the adversarial is built on the idea that the witness surrenders himself to the visual spectacle of the trial. As Hale notes, the preference for testimony to be delivered orally is in fact a preference that lends itself to the witness being seen: “many times the very manner of a witness’s delivering his testimony will give a probable indication whether he speaks truly or falsly.”18 The subject observed and judged and in so doing established its own existence in relation to the spectacle of which he was a part. According to these terms, the theatrical function of law was a requirement of truth and justice rather than knowledge and comprehension; of majesty and spiritual dignity rather than positive facticity. Revelation was a matter of drama, of raising the curtains, and its aesthetic form gave law its transcendent Reason. The trial impressed and imposed itself upon the group of spectators. It brought the spirit of law to life, projecting it for all to share. It marked the point at which the unknown transferred to the known. It is no surprise, then, that tight controls on what could and could not be seen in court, as well as on which aspects of the court could or could not be transmitted outward. The management of the eye was in fact a rigorously constituted regime that placed the range of inner vision above that of the physical capacity of sight. 19 To better see what remains hidden from the court, to better appreciate what is projected from an outside, the biological eye had to surrender to the primacy of the spiritual eye. It had to cut out so much specular noise. The inner eye, so it would have been considered, had greater range to be open to what had no being. Whether to the oneiric, shadowy, world that spoke through the witness, or to the truth that the law wished to reveal, both were, in fact, the same. Crucially, then, the act of being spectator must be understood as requiring more than empirical observation. Recall, that when seeing the ceremonial imago one saw more than sheer matter and more than the fact of a wax mask. One saw, in other words, more than what was empirically visible. More than this, however, watching the trial, or indeed watching the ceremony of the Roman funeral, was an act of partaking. To watch was to be alert, to stay awake, to keep guard. Specta18 Hale, Matthew: History of the Common Law of England. Chicago 1975, p. 255. 19 Goodrich, Peter: The Foolosophy of Justice and the Enigma of Law, in: Yale Journal of Law & the Humanities (2013) 2 4, no. 1, pp. 141–177. See also Goodrich, Peter: Visiocracy. On the Futures of the Finger Post, in: Critical Inquiry (2013) 39, no. 3, pp. 498–531.

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torship meant participation in the trial itself. It was an act that meant being inserted into the script itself, of inhabiting the law as living book, in order to be part of the trial. As Legendre argues, in more general terms, seeing meant inscribing oneself in the visual backdrop. Inhabiting the mise-en-scene was tantamount to inhabiting and dwelling in in the world. 20 Everything becomes part of this theatre; actors and so-called observers live within the image that they see and in which they recognise themselves. That the spectators were an active part of the mise-en-scene did not contradict the function of what was analogous to the liturgical function. The appropriate behaviour during the spectacle of the trial was not necessarily one of silent reverence. Solemnity meant being part of the whole. Its proper expression was one of affirmation, of responding to the revelatory function, of being caught up in the ceremony. Sitting up, sitting down, talking, and actively exercising judgement were all gestural symptoms of what was required of legal theatre. It seems contrary to what we come to expect of western ceremonies, yet, this active form of vision as dynamic inscription served to emphasise the difference between empirical observation and what was otherwise required of the spectator. Liturgy might have required formal silence. The legal drama, however, was an encounter between what was revealed and the revelation of identity. The spectator, if he can be called that with any accuracy, found meaning through this encounter. Existence, as a social truth, was illuminated, identity was mirrored. Catching sight of the majesty of law meant being transported by it. It required a response, and that response was action.

3. The worsening of sight It might be possible to chart an earlier move from the performance of law as theatre of truth and justice to the idea of the tribunal as a more pragmatic form of empirical observation of fact. The Lockean revolution (which according to Barbara Shapiro was based on a legal culture of fact) 21 and the influence of scientific modernism upon law had its most direct effect on legal procedure and forensic and on the laws of evidence. 22 Whatever the exact influence – philosophy, natural sciences, historical and social contingencies – legal vision began a slow re-categorization around the sixteenth century. Rather than dramatize an event or a

20 Legendre, Pierre: The Dogmatic Value of Aesthetics,in: Parallax (2008) 14, no. 4, pp. 10–17. 21 Shapiro, Barbara: Culture of Fact. England 1550–1720. New York 2000. 22 Gilbert, Sir Jeffrey: The Law of Evidence. Dublin 1754.

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crime, the trial (even the adversarial trial) began to fulfil a more epistemological and investigatory function. Concomitantly, evidential vision would come to be based on what scientists would later call biological vision systems. According to this scheme of things, the delivery of testimony could be considered no longer in terms of theatrical performance. Take, as a symptom, the oath. Despite its persistence, and despite having been adapted to suit an array of contingencies, the oath has ceased to be a decisive prophylactic. 23 Once conceived in these terms, cut from the bonds of divine certitude offered by the oath, the witness became a fallible communicator. Knowledge became subject to standards of moral certainty, open to doubt, undermined by the vagaries and ‘destinerrancies’ of human endeavour. The sense of human frailty was exacerbated by technology. What became clear, as scientific technologies progressed, was that orality grounded in so-called human visual systems was contingent on memory and subjective opinion. The witness is predominantly an eyewitness; she or he is a pair of eyeballs with limited peripheral vision attached to retinas that only comprehend so much detail. The human witness could only then transmit and testify to a modicum of what it sees when faced with an event that springs a surprise in the normal course of happenings. We know, following Kittler, that from mid to the end of the nineteenth century a whole range of ­technical facilities for recording, processing and storing information replaced the idea  of the metaphysical notion of language that constituted discourse networks 1800. 2 4 The primacy of speech was to be subverted by devices, in particular image based technologies, that would slowly detach the signifier from the signified. The cultural and scientific uses of analogue recording devices set into motion a range of legal/judicial inquiries not only into the reliability of such technologies but also the probative value of their information. Indeed lawyers recognised the ability of machines to surpass and supplant the limited capacity of the human witness. Law joined in the cultural embrace of new media, perhaps lagging behind a little. What law seemed to find in technological processes was a method and methodology that could transmit the perception of facts in an objective and rational manner. Analogue machinery could replace, or at the very least run parallel with ‘human observation’.

23 See Giorgio Agamben’s discussion of Paolo Prodi’s theory of the oath as a sacrament of power in The Sacrament of Language, Cambridge 2011. 2 4 Kittler, Friedrich: Discourse Networks, 1800. Chris Cullens and Michael Meeter (translators). Stanford 1992.

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4. The mechanical agency of x-rays Photography might be regarded as one such instance in the pursuit of mechanical objectivity. But in a sense the photograph not only replicated the visible, it replicated human visibility too. The camera, in its mechanical set up, was comparable to the biologically schematised idea of human vision systems. The camera is ‘ours’ since it too operates by focusing light onto a light sensitive medium and receptors (film, retina and so forth). Both eye (cornea) and camera (lens) transduce and refract that light. One might add, in the semiotic terms alluded to earlier, that the photograph did not/does not sufficiently detach the signifier from the signified. X-rays however did more than photography, since what they provided the court was a vision model for looking into what is humanly impossible to do. Entirely consistent with the nineteenth century cultural interest in the detective – the one who uncovered, lifted the lid off things – the x-ray enabled vision to pierce into the inside of a closed box, to reveal the secret behind locked doors, to determine the secret of life beneath the fleshy folds of the surface. Things that weren’t meant for human understanding could be made visible, stored and deciphered, examined and cross-examined. While the x-ray image can be scrutinized, while it can be subjected to the exactitude of scientific measurements and to examination and cross-examination, the human bones themselves remain hidden, resolutely out of sight. At the heart of the whole process is the radical unknowability of something that hasn’t been seen by the human interpreter. Here exists another crucial difference between photography and radiography. The photograph (at least in the nineteenth century) relied on the presence of human observation and on the role of a creative or technical human photographer. No such human was necessary for an x-ray. Indeed, the courts are not even interested in the role of the technical radiologist. 25 It is the clinical process that matters, the idea that nothing has gone wrong in the course of taking the image. Of all the nineteenth century inventions made available for forensics, the x-ray was the one device that completely transplanted the human witness to an event. The x-ray was, and remains, completely acheiropoietic. It replaced the witness with a process. If one wants to challenge an x-ray one challenges the hospital process, not the mendacious capacity of a radiographer. Or, to put it differently, the expert who takes the x-ray is not the same as the expert who testifies in court. The role of the court appointed expert in relation to x-rays can be analysed in further detail. Both Kittler and Ginzburg point to the idea that the nineteenth

25 Golan, Tal: The Emergence of the Silent Witness: The Legal and Medical Reception of X-rays in the USA, in: Social Studies of Science (2004) 34 , pp. 469–499.

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century saw a new paradigm emerging based on visualised details that were unfakeable and unconsciously produced. 26 That is true of photographs. One can place a photograph under a magnifying glass and scrupulously analyse these details that a human eye cannot see. One can build a narrative from what no human could have intended. The photograph, in other words, demands from a forensic expert, some kind of interpretation in order to direct and manipulate its meaning. The x-ray on the other hand requires attention be directed away from anything interpretive that might subvert the whole image, an obstinate punctum, the free flow of random signification. The punctum, of course is that aspect of the photograph, that personal and emotive detail that sets off a human personal and lachrymal relationship and potentially subverts rational explanation. The punctum creates the subject as affective. The x-ray aims at mechanical objectivity by minimising the need for human professional interpretation. That is not to say that the x-ray was/is an unambiguous image. It is an abstraction and as such necessarily refers to trained judgement and the use of experts. It requires a collective sight, a shared vision of professionals in order to tell us what we were seeing. The x-ray, in other words requires explanation rather than interpretation. It is already a reported result and as such is punctilious. Furthermore, it eradicates the sort of emotional appeal that accompanies the photograph; it attempts to dissolve the realm of the lachrymal. It translates the punctum into wound, into precise chips in the calcified structure of things. It is in this sense that even the evidential paradigm, famously brought to our attention by Carlo Ginzburg, is subject to a caveat. For Ginzburg, the art historian, the detective and the psychoanalyst solve their own problems by reference to the minutiae of detail. These unconscious traces left on a painting, at a scene of crime, or revealed on the analysts couch, offer the relevant professional the proper clues in unravelling identity and the like. Professional vision operates under the conditions of connoisseurship, initially proposed by Giovanni Morelli. The x-ray however situates itself as a hyper-positional apparatus. It now takes over the role of connoisseurship, in order to negate all the systemic flaws inherent to professional, and thus human, vision. For Ginzburg, the success of the evidential paradigm rests on the ability of the human connoisseur to step back and analyse only the bare detail. This is exactly what the x-ray does without any effort to suspend aesthetic judgement and without resorting to the type of speculation that Ginzburg sees as the underside of the evidential paradigm.

26 Ginzburg, Carlo: Clues, Roots of an Evidential Paradigm in: Clues Myths and the Historical Method, transl. by John and Anne C. Tedeschi. Baltimore 1992, pp. 96–12 4; Kittler, Friedrich A.: Gramophone, Film, Typewriter, transl. by Geoff WinthropYoung and Michael Wutz. Stanford 1997.

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1 | Hans Holbein the Younger, Hans of Antwerp, before conservation,

oil and tempera on oak, 61 × 46,8 cm, London, Royal Collection.

Consider the case of Holbein’s portrait of the steel merchant (figs. 1 and 2). Recent x-rays expose with certainty what the connoisseur might only speculate about. The x-ray exposes more than the eye or the photograph, namely the technique of layers, traces of method, flicks of paint that are particular and, indeed, singular, to Holbein. Piercing the top layer of paint thus reveals an under drawing on a cracked board that in turn lies beneath an interleaf of charcoal reinforced

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2 | Hans Holbein the Younger, Hans of Antwerp, after conservation,

oil and tempera on oak, 61 × 46,8 cm, London, Royal Collection. (Farbtafel 7)

using a liquid medium, followed by an otherwise invisible crumbling process. It reveals too remnant layers of brush strokes over which Holbein painted the portrait. The x-ray eradicates the human and all which human agency entails. It uncovers and negates the surface as an area of seduction. It eradicates the personal relationship between viewer and artefact and constitutes knowledge as pure objectivity.

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5. Death and the x-ray So, as well as changing the paradigm for fact finding, the x-ray also changed the paradigm for seeing itself. That is to say, it changed Cartesian methodology and turned metaphysics on its head. Rather than eradicate doubt in favour of the clear and lucid, the x-ray could and can only operate on the premise of shadows and on varying degrees of opacity. The vital principle of life was no longer a solid substance subjected to broad daylight in order to be seen. It was no longer the clarity of coming out of the cave. It was no longer the material that was visible once the shadows had been dispelled. It was the very shadow itself. As one near contemporary put it: “The vital principle is an entity of a ghostly kind; and although daylight has dissipated it, and positive Biology is no longer vexed with its visitations, it nevertheless reappears in another shape in the shadow region of mystery which surrounds biological and all other questions.”27 It ought now to be possible to return to the ideas expressed earlier and to now identify the x-ray as a volte face transformation of what was instituted by the Roman depictions of persona via the technology of the imago. In terms of the mediation of subjective life, the x-ray situates itself, like the Roman wax impress of the imago in terms of the relationship between the penumbral and the visible. As mentioned earlier, however, and what needs to be stressed is that the purpose of the imago was not to capture the spirit of the departed. Rather the imago channelled animus into the domain of life in order to capture and endow the subject with the spiritual qualities necessary for civic life. So, the direction of this spiritual traffic reverses once technology begins to pierce into flesh so as to capture the essence of life and provide an image of death. From its very inception in the late nineteenth century, the x-ray placed itself within a history of representing the essence of life in the shadow of death, mediating between the two worlds of spirit and fact. When Anna Bertha Roetingen was shown the experimental radiograph of the skeleton of her hand taken by her husband, Wilhelm Roetingen, she reportedly exaggerated; ‘I have seen my own death’ (fig. 3). Of course, it is implicit in the anecdote that she was very much alive at the time and that her skeletal hand was the image of what simply lay behind her then animated flesh and living nervature. Nevertheless, the expression perfectly captures an inherent and perhaps not altogether unsurprising ambiguity in x-rays

27 Lewes, George Henry: The History of Philosophy from Thales to Compte. London 1867.

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3 | Left hand of Anna Röntgen,

first medical x-ray by Wilhelm Röntgen, 1895.

of skeletons. Phantasms of both life and death fuse in a single image. The skeleton that supports life and the skeleton as signifier of death emerge indistinguishable from each other in a single format. Death and the very structure of life coincide in a single representation. Like the imago, the x-ray posits a relationship between the living law and death. The imago, however, while a death mask, was a representation of spirit and of the continuing life of personae. Nothing about the imago represented death itself. Indeed the question ‘what does death look like?’ is not one that is known in the history of western representation until theologians of the fourteenth century began to ask the loaded question as to the decomposition of Christ’s body during the three days between Christ’s death and resurrection. Even then the question was not strictly a bio-physical question of decay, but an investigation into the whereabouts of Christ’s spirit in relation to the body. Death remained a matter of dignity, sacrosanct and un-amenable to proof. 28 28 It is beyond the scope of this paper to expand upon this theme. Its treatment is to be found in the works of Balthasar, Hans Urs von: Scandal of the Incarnation. Irenaeus against the Heresies. San Francisco 1990. Also pertinent is his Theo-Drama: Theological Dramatic Theory. San Francisco 1989.

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4 | Rembrandt, The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp, 1632, oil on canvas,

216,5 × 169,5 cm, The Hague, Mauritshuis.

The most obvious antecedents into the forensic examination of death occur within the field of legal medicine and, in particular, in the professional representations of anatomical dissections. Prior to being the technical and pedagogic processes we now know, dissections were a performance, a ritual act. They were ‘acts,’ in other words, that revered and mystified. The most prominent dissections were staged as public or semi-public performances in specially constructed theatres (or in amphitheatres such as in Padua, or Uppsala). 29

29 As Kemp and Wallace note: “Dissection of the human body – always a fraught business in any society – was for much of its history not primarily a technical process conducted for teaching, research or autopsies. Nor were dissections most commonly undertaken in the privacy of dissecting rooms in medical institutions. Rather, the opening up of a body was a ritual act, a performance staged for particular audiences within carefully monitored frameworks of legal and religious regulation. The most prominent dissections were staged as public or semi-public performances in specially constructed theatres.” Kemp, Martin and Marina Wallace: Spectacular Bodies. The Art and Science of the Human Body from Leonardo to Now. Berkeley 2000), p. 23.

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5 | William Hogarth, The reward of cruelty, 1751, etching and engraving, 32 × 38 cm,

London, British Museum.

Compare the two depictions of anatomy lesions by Rembrandt (fig. 4) and Hogarth (fig. 5). Rembrandt’s Anatomy lesson of Dr Nicolaes Tulp is quite obviously the more sombre piece. The occupants of this anatomical staging are positioned beneath the equivalent of a proscenium arch. Yet, in strict terms, this is not a depiction of a dissection. Rather, the event is carefully regulated and managed as a consecrated showing, an ostensorium, so that the role performed by Dr Tulp was

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simply to demonstrate. Nowhere is Dr Tulp portrayed in the act of conducting a dissection. Indeed, since the act of cutting up was considered too menial a task, the dissection itself was conducted elsewhere than in the painting. Consider, too, that the corpse, so we are told, belongs/belonged to Aris Kindt, an armed robber hanged earlier that day. The Church forbade the dissection of ordinary citizens since it invaded soul. It was however permitted to dissect criminals in an act that seemed to be the physical equivalent of damnatio memoriae. Nevertheless, the body retains a modicum of dignity missing from the Hogarth depiction. The face remains under the shadow of death, umbra mortis. Even for criminals, the sanctity of death is preserved even if to a lesser extent than non-criminals. While retaining the features of heavily managed theatre, even these staged events were already marching some way towards de-conceptualizing the dignity of the dead. A hundred and twenty years after Rembrandt’s painting, Hogarth’s depiction of anatomy in The Reward of Cruelty (the final engraving of four stages of cruelty based on the fictional life of Tom Nero) completely erases any dignity from the cadaver. Death is no longer hidden in the shadows, preserved in dignified mystification as interior to the body. Here, instead, is a spectacle in which death is pulled out of the body, exposed into the exterior. Entrails dangle from out of the surgical incision and subject to the harsh glare of daylight, left to be eaten by dogs. It is a visceral fate that awaits not just the criminal (Tom Nero), but all of humanity. Let us return to the x-ray. The x-ray might not always evidence biological death. Unlike imagines or dissections, the subject need not be dead. More often they are alive (of course radiographs are not always of human bodies but of physical objects too). The point, however, is that in exposing the structure of life and things radiography re-casts and re-mediates our relationship to death. Anna Roetingen’s exclamation that she had seen her own death expressed a point that was re-articulated in a range of pamphlets at the end of the nineteenth century. In them, death was reconceptualised as a future possibility, or a future foreseen. What speaks through the x-ray representation, in other words, is not the past, not that which has ceased and deceased, but that which will be. We are subject, therefore to a different regime of time. Nathan Moore posits this sense in more governmental and managerial terms: “It is desirable for a body to be now where it will be in the future.”30 The image, in other words, renders bodies inert, in active and neutral. A death that can be fantasised as already having taken place is a more efficient technique of management economy.

30 Moore, Nathan: Diagramming Control, in: Peg Rawes (ed.): Relational Architectural Ecologies: Architecture, Nature and Subjectivity. Abingdon 2013, pp. 56–70.

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6. Shame and the x-ray In terms of the general argument being pursued, the x-ray, more than the photograph, signals a departure from the theatrical representation of death. While, like the imago, it participates in the overall depiction of life in its relationship to death, the crucial difference is this. The imago projected a life force from a sacred realm into the world of the living, into its public spaces and forums. The x-ray, on the other hand, turns the relationship between life and death volte face and mediates the traffic in the opposite direction. Here, life intrudes upon death, objectifies it and turns it into a bio-political entity. This is a new model of projection that might be imposed upon the mediated relationship between life and death. Nothing here speaks from the realm of death, no spirit communicates through the medium of technology in order to confirm social existence. Rather, radiography, as a process on a par with detection, penetrates from life into the interior, phantasmatic, realms of the real. In so doing, radiography established a forensic model, which managed to penetrate behind the persona only to reveal an image that could belong, as easily, to anybody. Such is the paradox inherent within x-rays of humans (and other, more precise, forms of technology that have since developed): The bones that are screened are unique; they might betray a set of traumata particular to the body or object that has been radiographed. Yet, the images of such structures could equally belong to any body since the dignity of facial features and the theatricality of gestures is stripped away, all performance is lost. The imago was based on the mimicry of the deceased, on the impressions of features, and, it was grounded in the order of imitation (that creative order that even allows the artist to perfect the original face by making a copy, by embellishing it and ennobling it). The x-ray simply belongs to the order of reference. It is what distinguishes between the creative aesthetic and ethical portraiture that embellishes its subject and the mere evidential and forensic forms of civic identification to which x-rays belong and, indeed, properly inaugurated. That much is obvious since there is no popular cult of hanging the x-ray image on the walls of our atria, above the fireplace. What is displayed is only screened and no longer emerges from a frame or from beneath a proscenium arch. Remember that the imago functioned in a living theatre (albeit one that centred on death) into which personality was borne. The x-ray de-theatricalizes absence and depends upon the inquisitive empirical perception of the court staring not at a spectacle but at a screen; not at a performance that reveals the truth but at a flat sheet of transparent acetate (the x-ray is the first technology to introduce the screen into the court room). Without the mask, or, indeed, the masquerade, the x-ray disguises the idea that the subject may have been caused, may have been the product of genealogy. When death appears on acetate as a future possibility (rather than as that which

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mimetically serves as a link to our ancestry) the relationship to the past and to the transmission of spiritual dignity and honour dissipates. Unlike the imago, which linked the status and identity of living persons to the status and identity of their ancestors, a radiographic representation of death mediates the idea of complete autonomy. What is borne from this de-theatricalised representation is a subject without foundation, without any sense of filiation.31 More than photography, it references in a manner better suited to commodity producing culture, a model of humanity that is more easily governable and highly substitutable. We are no longer ‘meat parcels’ as Brecht puts it, 32 but rather meat parcels stripped of flesh. There is simply the image of the body, as it will look after de-composition, anonymous and unspecified. The x-ray takes the shadow and unties it from the body in order to screen an examinable and cross-examinable object. And, as one poet and photographer, a near contemporary of Roentgen asked; “Who can bear such scrutinization?”33

7. Conclusion Historicising the x-ray, revealing its antecedents in the presentation of the legal subject and its relationship to death, allows us to pin point the precise nature of x-rays as a new forensic paradigm in relinquishing dignity of spirit from the modern legal subject. The x-ray image takes its place alongside a history of technological media without which subjectivity cannot be maintained. Like the wax imago it is a dispositif. However, the crux of the argument presented here is that it is insufficient to treat the legal subject as persona without taking into account the specific mechanics of the media through which it is presented. To suggest that all representations of the subject function similarly would risk denying how subjectivity has been transformed from spiritual norm to bare fact. Other forms of mediating the subject, therefore, cannot be ruled out in seeking to understand how new paradigms of legal subjectivity emerge and are created. One of the things that the x-ray did was to pave the way for an auto escalation in other forms of technologies. The model of forensic penetration offered by the x-ray became an acceptable norm in measuring probative weight. In so doing it allowed for newer

31 See Schütz, Anton: Sons of the Writ, Sons of Wrath; Pierre Legendre’s Critique of Rational Law Giving, in: Peter Goodrich and David Carlson (eds): Law and the Postmodern Mind. Essays in Psychoanalysis and Jurisprudence. Ann Arbor 1998, pp. 193–222. 32 Schütz 1998 (as fn. 33), p. 215. 33 Emily Culverhouse cited in Kevles, Bettyan: Naked to the Bone, Medical Imaging in the twentieth Century. New Brunswick 1998, p. 28.

From Dignity to Shame

scanning technologies to be used in evidence. The bio-political effects are clear. The increasing number of new forms of forensic technologies better enables law, and its outsourced agencies, to penetrate into the interiority of life with far more efficiency than the x-ray. However, the move away from juridical theatre to mere administrative function, is predicated on the inheritance of the imago. Both the x-ray and the imago are twin sides of the same coin. They both rely upon a structural relationship to death. While technology allows us to examine this relationship in more nuanced terms, it does not allow for any escape from what we might term a dominant genealogy of persona. This link between the functionalism of x-rays and more the theatrical formulations of persona is precisely what those artists who practice outside the concerns of the law have been able to identify. Placing his discovery beneath the sign of cancellations and chiasmata, the ‘x-ray’ was Wilhelm Roetingen’s preferred name for a new kind of, hitherto unknown, ray of such short wavelengths that emanated from an unknown source. It was unsurprising therefore that it was initially associated with theological and spiritual aura. Even among the scientists, a sort of cult emerged with Marie Curie being dubbed “Our Lady of Radium” by Israel Zangwill. Its connection to practices that undo its scientific uses has been well recorded. Edvard Munch, fascinated by the blue-green aura emitted by the machines, incorporated x-ray images into his portraits. While clearly dangerous, and with the knowledge of hindsight, foolhardy, Munch’s experiments might be considered an attempt to salvage from their forensic use, a more classical function to the radiographic representation of life in which, the modern spirit was allowed to scream through the harsh habits and habitat of modern Europe. Curiously, a further indication of the potential that this auratically endowed image has to cancel the evidential reasoning process arises when we consider that the x-ray, even in legal procedure, returns the image to something related to the classical status of images. That is to say, in eradicating as much possibility of interpretation as possible (and with it the possibility to err) and in demanding only explanation, the x-ray communicates in a manner far more abruptly, far more immediately than other images that require words. Where other forms of representation, such as the photograph, require the slow and gradual process of a Cartesian eradication of doubt, the x-ray requires only someone to say: “this is what you are looking at.” It is a manner of theatricality requiring professional performers. What is missing, or what diminishes in importance, is the active model of involved spectatorship. No jury or counsel could contradict the explanation by claiming a difference of perspective. This immediacy of images was central to the iconophiles and apologists. Similarly, what do we really see when we look at the acetate but stains? What is an x-ray but patches of light relative to the opacity of physical structure? We do not see a picture of the actual bones. We do not see the

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actual wound, as one might see on an actual skeleton. We do not see cancerous cells as one might do at an autopsy. Rather, what is shown to us is an imprint of light that requires a leap of faith for us to accept that they are what no-one has in fact seen. Nevertheless, if this is a theatre of devices, it is a poor form of it and one in which the subject is more firmly tethered to the conditions of shame.

Acknowledgements / Dank

Der vorliegende Band ist aus einer Serie von Workshops hervorgegangen, die die Aktualität und Bildgeschichte von Schandbildern thematisierten. Sie fanden am Kunsthistorischen Institut in Florenz, Max-Planck-Institut unter dem gleichnamigen Titel „Images of Shame. Infamy, Defamation and the Ethics of oeconomia“ im Jahre 2012 statt. Im Grenzbereich von Bild, Recht und Ökonomie wurden unterschiedliche Bildformen diskutiert, die Rechtssubjekte infamisieren oder diffamieren. An erster Stelle ist Alessandro Nova, Direktor des Kunsthistorischen Instituts in Florenz, zu danken, der die Veranstaltungen und die Publikation des Buches ermöglicht und gefördert hat. Allen Teilnehmern und Autoren ist aufrichtiger Dank für ihre intensive Auseinandersetzung mit dem Thema geschuldet, die darin resultierte, bestehende Thesen und neue Erkenntnisse und Forschungen zu Bildern der Schande erstmals in einer gemeinsamen Publikation zu vereinen. Dem De Gruyter Verlag, und hier besonders Verena Bestle, ist nicht nur für die Geduld, aber auch die zuverlässige Koordination und Herstellung des Buches zu danken. Dank Petra Floraths prägnanter typographischer Gestaltung, die sich mit großem Feingefühl an den Inhalten orientiert, ist das Zusammenspiel von Bild und Text überzeugend gelungen. Felix Jäger sind Teile des Lektorats und die Organisation von Abbildungen zu verdanken, denen er sich zuverlässig und mit außerordentlicher Präzision gewidmet hat.

Index / Personenregister

Abati, Ciolo degli 145 Accursio, Mainardo 153,158 Alexander the Great 181f. Alighieri, Dante  2 4, 141–168, 171 Alighieri, Pietro 148, 156 Amira, Karl von 15f. Amun-Ra 181 Andenna, Giancarlo 61 Aquinas, Thomas 144, 155f. Ardinghelli, Scolaio 51 Arendt, Hannah 225f. Aristoteles 25, 189f. Auerbach, Erich 20f. Baartman, Saartjie 205 Bakhtin, Mikhail 191 Boccaccio 105, 117, 152–54, 157 Bandini dei Baroncelli, Bernardo 47 Beatrice of Burgundy 200 Bonfantini, Accorso 149f. Boniface VIII, pope 54 Botticelli, Sandro 30, 44, 115 Boyvin, René 185 Brandt, Willy 114 Bredekamp, Horst 115, 128, 190 Brückner, Wolfgang 12, 29, 40, 120f., 170, 189 Burckhardt, Jacob 105f. Calarosi, Aldrigottus 12 4, 126, 132 Calarosi, Corrado de 12 4 Callistratus 187

Campitello, Mozolino 12 4, 132 Campitello, Ubaldino 65, 12 4–26 Carthusian, Denis the 176 Castagno, Andrea del 30, 44f. Charles d’Anjou 51 Charles of Valois 151f. Charles the Bold 107 Charles V 44, 173 Cicero 2 44 Cione, Nardo da 154f. Clastres, Pierre 26 Coligny, Gaspard de 112 Corthoy, Conrad 97 Coustau, Pierre 2 46f. Cranach, Lucas 113 Curie, Marie 263 Didi-Huberman, Georges 221 Dinzelbacher, Peter 116 Diodati, Neri di Gherardino 143 Douglas, Mary 139 Duke of Athens (Walter of Brienne) 62, 73, 153 Dürer, Albrecht 173 Ebert, Friedrich 114 Edgerton, Samuel Y. 13, 17, 32, 54, 77, 81, 143, 170, 172 Elias, Norbert 113 Erasmus of Rotterdam 207, 210 Ernst, Jonathan 12 Esposito, Roberto 9

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Index / Personenregister Federico II Gonzaga 173 Federigo Barbarossa 200 Fettmilch, Vincenz 89–94 Foucault, Michel 15, 23, 26, 187f. Frazer, James G. 104, 170, 191 Frederick II 12 4, 125 Frederick II of Saxony 173 Freedberg, David 12f., 38, 54, 120f., 128, 170, 189 Freud, Sigmund 192 Frignano, Azzo 41 Fuld, Richard 11, 12, 137–38 Gambara, Lanfranco e Graziaeda 60 Gasa, Nomboniso 206 Gaurico, Pomponio 176 Ghiberti, Lorenzo 155, 157 Ginzburg, Carlo 253 Giotto di Bondone 14, 52, 153, 156f. Gladbeck (brothers) 36 Gombrich, Ernst H. 156f., 169f., 192 Grange, Barend la 205, 208 Gregory the Great 210 Gregory XI, pope 31 Grimm, Jacob 15, 105, 107 Guido da Polenta I 148 Hall, Edward 37 Hans of Antwerp 254 Helmschmid (family) 172 Helmschmid, Kolman 173, 176f., 180 Henry IV 97 Henry VIII 178, 180, 184 Hobbes, Thomas 10, 188 Hofmann, Werner 169, 170f., 187 Hogarth, William 259f. Holbein, Hans 254 Howard, Thomas 37 Hupp, Otto 17 Hussein, Saddam 211, 213 Husserl, Edmund 22 4 Ivanov, Viktor 197 James IV 37 Kaganof, Aryan 196 Kant, Immanuel 234 Kantorowicz, Ernst 115 Keller, Harald 108 Kentridge, Sidney 196 Kentridge, William 196

Kris, Ernst 169, 170, 192 Lancia, Andrea 151 Lanzmann, Claude 221 Lenin, Vladimir 197, 211 Lentz, Michael 33 Levinas, Emmanuel 23f., 217–38 Lippi, Filippino 44f., 47 Louis XI 30 Louis XIII 38 Louis XIV 38 Luther, Martin 174 Mabokela, Louie 206, 208, 212 Macchiavelli, Niccolò 190f. Maggi, Berardo 71 Magiatori, Baron of 63 Magus, Simon 135–36 Mandela, Nelson 195 Mao Zedong 211 Mapplethorpe, Robert 199 Martini, Simone 148 Masi, Gino 29 Maximilian I 173, 175, 178, 180 Mazarin, Jules 38 Mehus, Lorenzo 149 Memmi, Lippo 51 Meyer, Carl 108 Michelino, Domenico di 141f. Mohammed 113 Morelli, Giovanni 253 Mosio, Raimondo di 60 Munch, Evard 263 Münster, Sebastian 207 Murray, Brett 197–216 Mussolini, Benito 26–27 Nancy, Jean Luc 2 46 Negroli (family) 172 Niehausen, Friedrich von 36 Nietzsche, Friedrich 225 Nussbaum, Martha 10 Oostsanen, Jacob Cornelisz van 183 Ortalli, Gherardo 12, 17, 120f., 193f., 197, 216 Pazzi, family/plot 45–47, 115 Petacci, Clara 26 Petrarca 153, 158 Petrucci, Antonio 71 Piccolomini, Enea Silvio 34

Index / Personenregister Polybius 2 44f. Porta, Giambattista della 176 Pucci, Antonio 155–57 Putin, Vladimir 114 Ravaillac, Francois 97f. Raymond, Geoffrey 137 Read, Herbert 103f. Rembrandt 211, 258f. Richardson, Mary 211 Rodtschenko, Aleksander 22 Roentgen, Anna Bertha 256, 260 Roentgen, Wilhelm 256 Roffeno, Azzo da (Gualdrine) 123 Rohault de Fleury, Georges 72 Sachetti, Franco 157 Sarto, Andrea del 30, 43–45, 212 Schapiro, Meyer 14 Schimmel, Johann Ludwig 92, 97 Schlosser, Julius von 108 Selenski, Isaak 22 Seusenhofer (family) 172 Seusenhofer, Konrad 178, 179, 184, 187 Sha of Iran 211 Snow, C.P. 104 Sommers, Will 178, 180f. Sontag, Susan 221 Sosno, Sacha 23, 236

Stalin, Josef 22, 211 Strada, Zanobi da 158 Strozzi (family) 155 Suetonius 2 44 Suttner, Raymond 195 Taylor, Angus 197 Thiry, Léonard 184, 185 Torbiato, Giroldo da 60 Tylor, Edward B. 104 Vallini, Filippo 156 Varano, Rodolfo da (Camerino) 31, 35 Velazquez, Diego 211 Villani, Giovanni 150–52, 155f. Vinci, Leonardo da 46f. Visconti, Gian Galeazzo 42 Visconti, Giovanni 71 Vismann, Cornelia 115, 2 43, 2 46, 2 48 Warburg, Aby M. 106 William of Saxony 34 Williamson, Sue 197 Wind, Edgar 191 Wirth, Jean 121 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 218, 225 Xuecun, Murong 8 Zapiro (Jonathan Shapiro) 199f., 215 Zuma, Jacob 12, 196–216

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Picture Credits / Bildnachweise

Carolin Behrmann Fig. 1: Fig. 2: Fig. 3,6: Fig. 4: Fig. 5:

Fig. 6:

© Associated Press, Foto: D. Hyatt © Reuters, Foto: J. Ernst © Bayerisches Nationalmuseum München, Foto: B. Krack Archiv der Autorin Der Sturm der Bilder. Zerstörte und zerstörende Kunst von der Antike bis in die Gegenwart, hg. von Uwe Fleckner und Maike Steinkamp. Berlin 2011, S. 27, Abb. 9 Wikicommons, Foto: R. Pistone

Gherardo Ortalli Fig. 1:

Fig. 2: Fig. 3–4:

Fig. 5:

Lentz, Matthias: Konflikt, Ehre, Ordnung. Untersuchungen zu den Schmähbriefen und Schandbildern des späten Mittelalters und der Frühen Neuzeit (ca. 1350 bis 1600). Hannover 2004, Cat. No. 86 Chiarini, Marco (ed.): Andrea del Sarto, 1486–1530. Dipinti e Disegni a Firenze. Exhib. cat. Milano 1986, Cat. No. 99, p. 32 4 Donato, Maria Monica a. Parenti, Daniela (eds.): Dal Giglio al David. Arte Civica a Firenze fra Medioevo e Rinascimento. Exhib. cat. Firenze 2013, Cat. No. 39, p. 193. Zöllner, Frank: Leonardo da Vinci 1452–1519. Sämtliche Gemälde und Zeichnungen. Köln 2007, p. 331, fig. 128

Matteo Ferrari Fig. 1, 2, 5a, 5b, 6, 10: Photographs by Matteo Ferrari Fig. 3, 4, 9: Comune di Brescia, Servizio edifici monumentali Fig. 7, 8: Archivio fotografico dei Civici Musei di Brescia

Picture Credits / Bildnachweise

Karl Härter Fig. 1, 2: Fig. 3: Fig. 4–8:

Max-Planck-Institut für europäische Rechtsgeschichte, Frankfurt am Main Knittler, Herbert (ed.): Adel im Wandel. Politik, Kultur, Konfession, 1500– 1700, Exhib. Cat. Wien 1990, p. 87 Paas, John Roger: The German political broadsheet 1600–1700, vols. 1 & 2. Wiesbaden 1985

Giuliano Milani Fig. 1: Fig. 2–5: Fig. 6: Fig. 7: Fig. 8:

Cinelli, Aldo et.al. (ed.): Matilde, Mantova e i Palazzi del Borgo. I ritrovati affreschi del Palazzo della Ragione e del Palazzetto dell’Abate. Mantova 1995 Photographs by Matteo Ferrari © A. Ortega, 2001–12 © B. Gasté, 2006 Courtesy of G. Raymond

Thomas Ricklin Fig. 1:

Fig. 2:

Donato, Maria Monica a. Parenti, Daniela (eds.): Dal Giglio al David. Arte Civica a Firenze fra Medioevo e Rinascimento. Exhib. cat. Firenze 2013, Cat. No. 66, p. 253 Ciardi Dupré Dal Poggetto, Maria Grazia: Continuità e innovazione nei ritratti di Dante, Petrarca e Boccaccio nei codici miniati coevi o di poco posteriori, in: Immaginare l’autore. Il ritratto del letterato nella cultura umanistica. Ed. by Giovanna Lazzi a. Paolo Viti. Firenze 2000, pp. 63–70, tav. 20

Felix Jäger Fig. 1: Fig. 2: Fig. 3: Fig. 4: Fig. 5: Fig. 6: Fig. 7: Fig. 8: Fig. 9: Fig. 10:

New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, URL: www.metmuseum.org Wien, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Kunstkammer New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, URL: www.metmuseum.org Rothenburg o.d. Tauber, Kriminalmuseum Sotheby Parke Bernet and Co.: The Hever Castle Collection, vol. 1, Arms and Armour. Sale cat. of 5 May 1983. London 1983, art. 32, p. 25 © Leeds, Royal Armouries © London, Trustees of the British Museum Wellesley, MA, Davis Museum at Wellesley College © London, Victoria and Albert Museum Berlin, Deutsches Historisches Museum, Foto: S. Ahlers

David Freedberg Fig. 1: Fig. 2: Fig. 3:

Courtesy of B. Murray and Goodman Gallery All rights reserved 2012–15 Zapiro, printed/used with permission from www. zapiro.com All rights reserved 2012–15 Zapiro, printed/used with permission from www. zapiro.com

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Picture Credits / Bildnachweise Fig. 4: Fig. 5: Fig. 6: Fig. 7: Fig. 8: Fig. 9:

Photo: Lisa Dewberry Iman Rappetti/ image courtesy eNCA South Africa/ Enews via AP Iman Rappetti/ image courtesy eNCA South Africa/ Enews via AP e-tv, http://news.iafrica.com/sa/795807.html (last accessed: 27 July 2015) Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional Courtesy B. Murray and Goodman Gallery

Piyel Haldar Fig. 1–2: Fig. 3: Fig. 4: Fig. 5:

Wilson, Derek: Hans Holbein: Portrait of an unknown man, London 2006, p. 278 Wikicommons, access. no. CC-BY 4.0 RKDimages, No. 3048 Wikicommons, access. no. YCBA/lido-TMS-62706