Spoliation As Translation: Medieval Worlds of the Eastern Mediterranean 9788021099234, 8021099232

Citation preview

introduction

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Exchanges and Interactions in the Arts of Medieval Europe, Byzantium, and the Mediterranean Seminarium Kondakovianum, Series Nova Université de Lausanne • Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic • Masaryk

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CONVIVIUM SUPPLEMENTUM  2 021/2 Exchanges and Interactions in the Arts of Medieval Europe, Byzantium, and the Mediterranean Seminarium Kondakovianum, Series Nova Journal of the Department of Art History of the University of Lausanne, of the Department of Art History of the Masaryk University, and of the Institute of Art History of the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic This supplementary issue was carried out within the frame of the research program “Retracing Connections: Byzantine Storyworlds in Greek, Arabic, Georgian, and Old Slavonic (c. 950 – c. 1100)” (Riksbankens Jubileumsfond, m19-0430:1).

Editor-in-chief / Ivan Foletti Executive editors / Ruben Campini, Jana Černocká, Klára Doležalová, Zuzana Frantová, Natália Gachallová, Veronika Hermanová, Katarína Kravčíková, Sarah Melker, Annalisa Moraschi, Sabina Rosenbergová, Pavla Tichá, Johanna Zacharias Typesetting / Berta K. Skalíková Layout design / Monika Kučerová Cover design / Petr M. Vronský, Anna Kelblová Publisher / Masarykova univerzita, Žerotínovo nám. 9, 601 77 Brno, IČO 00216224 Editorial Office / Seminář dějin umění, Filozofická fakulta Masarykovy univerzity, Arna Nováka 1, 602 00 Brno Print / Tiskárna Didot, spol s r.o., Trnkova 119, 628 00 Brno E-mail / [email protected] www.earlymedievalstudies.com/convivium.html © Ústav dějin umění AV ČR , v. v. i. 2021 © Filozofická fakulta Masarykovy univerzity 2021 © Faculté des Lettres, Université de Lausanne 2021 Published / September 2021 Reg. No. MK ČR E 21592 ISSN 2336-3452 (print) ISSN 2336-808X (online) ISBN 978-80-210-9923-4 Convivium is listed in the databases SCOPUS, ERIH, “Riviste   di classe A” indexed by ANVUR, and in the Emerging Sources Citation Index (ESCI) of the Web of Science.

committees Editors — Michele Bacci ( Université de Fribourg), Klára Benešovská (Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic ),  Ivan Foletti (Masaryk University, Brno), Herbert L. Kessler ( Johns Hopkins University, Masaryk University, Brno),  Serena Romano ( Université de Lausanne), Elisabetta Scirocco (Bibliotheca Hertziana, Max-Planck-Institut für Kunstgeschichte), Emeritus — Hans Belting (Staatliche Hochschule für Gestaltung in Karlsruhe) Editor - in - chief — Ivan Foletti Associate editors — Nathan Dennis (University of San Francisco), Stefanie Lenk (University of Bern), Adrien Palladino (Masaryk University, Brno) Executive editors — Ruben Campini, Jana Černocká, Klára Doležalová, Zuzana Frantová, Natália Gachallová, Veronika Hermanová, Katarína Kravčíková, Sarah Melker, Annalisa Moraschi, Sabina Rosenbergová, Pavla Tichá, Johanna Zacharias Advisory board — Xavier Barral i Altet ( Université de Rennes, Università di Venezia Ca’ Foscari), Nicolas Bock ( Université de Lausanne), Valentina Cantone ( Università di Padova), Jaś Elsner (University of Oxford), Clario Di Fabio ( Università di Genova), Finbarr Barry Flood (New York University), Ondřej Jakubec ( Masaryk University, Brno), Alexei Lidov (Moscow State University), Assaf Pinkus ( Tel Aviv University), Stefano Riccioni (Università di Venezia Ca’ Foscari), Jiří Roháček ( Institute of Art History, Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic), Erik Thunø (Rutgers Unive­rsity), Alicia Walker ( Bryn Mawr College)

Spoliation as Translation

Medieval Worlds in the Eastern Mediterranean edited by Ivana Jevtić & Ingela Nilsson with the collaboration of Zuzana Frantová

contents

SPOLIATION AS TRANSLATION. MEDIEVAL WORLDS IN THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN introduction 10

Ivana Jevtić & Ingela Nilsson Towards an Empathetic Approach to Material and Literary Spolia

articles 20

Ingela Nilsson Imitation as Spoliation, Reception as Translation. The Art of Transforming Things in Byzantium

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Karen Rose Mathews Speaking Antiquity. Ancient Spolia as a Visual Koine in the Medieval Mediterranean (12th to 15 th Century)

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C. Ceyhun Arslan Spolia and Textual Reincarnations. A Reassessment of the Hagia Sophia’s History

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Armin F. Bergmeier Antiquarian Displays of Spolia and Roman Identity. San Marco, Merbaka, and the Seljuk Caravanserais

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Margaret Mullett Spoiling the Hellenes: Intertextuality, Appropriation, Embedment. The Case of the Christos Paschon

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Baukje van den Berg Eustathios’ Homeric Commentaries. Translating Homer and Spoliating Ancient Traditions

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Ivana Jevtić Reuse and Remodeling in the Late Byzantine World. The Church of Bogorodica Ljeviška in Prizren

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Suzan Yalman Translating Spolia. A Recent Discovery of Fragments from the Walls of Seljuk Konya and Their Afterlives



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Emelie Hallenberg Translating and Spoliating the Byzantines. The Receptions and Remodelings of a Komnenian Novel in Early Modern France

afterword 194

Olof Heilo



Postscript: The Meaning of Ruins

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photographic credits

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introduction

Towards an Empathetic Approach to Material and Literary Spolia Ivana Jevtić & Ingela Nilsson

Arriving at the courtyard of the Balıklı Kilise (Monastery of the Zoodochos Pege) in Istanbul, most visitors promptly enter the church or the chapel with its famous holy spring without paying attention to the pavement [Fig. 1]1. But a curious visitor who looks around and takes in the environment will observe something intriguing under their feet: the entire church courtyard is paved with tombstones of various sizes and belonging to different periods [Fig. 2]. Some are inscribed with long epitaphs in Karamanlı Turkish (Turkish written in Greek letters), others have reliefs featuring religious symbols or sketchy representations alluding to the professions of the deceased [Figs 3–5]. Placed tightly side 1

On this church and its spring, see Raymond Janin, La géographie ecclésiastique de l’Empire byzantin, Part 1: Le siège de Constantinople et le patriarcat œcuménique, vol. 3: Les églises et les monastères, Paris 1969, pp. 223–232; AliceMary Talbot, “Holy Springs and Pools in Byzantine Constantinople”, in Istanbul and Water, Paul Magdalino, Nina Ergin eds, Leuven 2015, pp. 160–167. About the gravestones, see Antonis Tsakalos, “Identities: Imprints of Covering Slabs from Baloukli Cemetery and the Exhibition of the Byzantine and Christian Museum”, in Identities: Balouki and the Romioi Greeks in Constantinople 19th Century, catalogue of the exhibition (Byzantine and Christian Museum, Athens, January 10 – April 27, 2014), Tassos Triandafyllou ed., Athens 2014, pp. 42–45.

1 / View of the courtyard, the Balıklı Kilise in Istanbul, 19th century 2 / Reused gravestones, the courtyard of the Balıklı Kilise in Istanbul, 19th century

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by side, though in different positions and with no apparent logic, the tombstones are gathered in a surprising assemblage where they all seem to fit. Taken out of their original settings – the nearby cemetery areas – these tombstones were reemployed like spolia in the courtyard of the Balıklı Kilise. Visitors who are used to spot reused pieces on the walls, here walk over a strange museum-like collection of spolia that lead them to the church. How did these tombstones come to be reused in such a manner? Why were they translated into a new language, offering another story? Moreover, what do they do to the visitor who now walks across them? This collage of lives, of those whose names and prayers are still readable on the stone surfaces, do not only strike a visual and historical cord but they also provoke empathy – a miscellaneous concept and less often acknowledged component of artistic creation and reception2. The articles gathered in this special issue of Convivium offer a variety of perspectives by historians of art, architecture and literature, exploring the relations between spoliation and translation, with a particular focus on the interconnections and similarities between material/artistic and textual/literary cultures. Building on current research in spolia and translation studies, they all respond to an increasing interest in and popularity of these two topics in recent scholarship. Considering its long history, the term spolia may need some clarifications. The original Latin word spolia (sing. spolium) appeared in the context of ancient Roman warfare where it signified the spoils of war, but it evolved to designate building materials and artworks brought from conquered provinces and exhibited in official triumphs3. This later meaning is broadened in modern conceptualizations of spolia in archaeology, architectural/art history where spolia designate artifacts “incorporated into setting culturally or chronologically different from that of (their) creation”4. In the past twenty years or so, spolia grew into a bourgeoning field of studies that expands the understanding of reuse, recycling, remodeling, repurposing and similar processes. From the original negative connotation, spolia as well as spoliation thus became tools to contextualize these wide-spread and ancient practices in material and textual cultures5.

introduction

That is the case with this volume, seeking to uncover the broader artistic and cultural implications behind the phenomena of reuse in conjunction with translation. The aim is to foster a better understanding of the medieval worlds in the Eastern Mediterranean whose history was marked by constant cross-cultural encounters and interactions. In this perspective, empathy – as a recurring motif – may offer a starting-point for further investigation of these topics. The role played by empathy has been touched upon in the case of literature and especially translation, but it is still a stranger in spolia studies6. Defined by the Oxford Learner’s Dictionary as “the ability to understand another person’s feelings, experience”7, empathy may seem far removed from the study of material relocation. However, the reuse of an ancient object – changing the context, adapting the form or translating the meaning of a block of stone, a fragment or a motif – can hardly be achieved without some involvement of empathy on the part of the agent. The empathetic perspective brings those practices closer to human experiences, so that they can tell us more about the agency of artefacts or texts, 2

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About the definition of empathy, the history of the notion and its multiple facets, see Marie-Lise Brunel, Cynthia Martiny, “Les conceptions de l’empathie avant, pendant et après Rogers”, Carriérologie, ix/3 (2004), pp. 473–500; Pierre Louis Patoine, Corps / Texte : Pour une théorie de la lecture emphatique, Lyon 2015. Inge Uytterhoeven, “Spolia, -iorum, n.: From Spoils of War to Reused Building Materials: The History of a Latin Term”, in Spolia Reincarnated: Afterlives of Objects, Materials, and Spaces in Anatolia from Antiquity to the Ottoman Era, Ivana Jevtić, Suzan Yalman eds, Istanbul 2018, pp. 25–50. Dale Kinney, “The Concept of Spolia”, in A Companion to Medieval Art: Romanesque and Gothic in Northern Europe, Conrad Rudolph ed., Oxford 2006, p. 233. The research in this field increased with multiple studies made by different authors but it also spread both geographically and chronologically. For the most comprehensive status of spolia, see Reuse Value: Spolia and Appropriation in Art and Architecture from Constantine to Sherrie Levine, Richard Brilliant, Dale Kinney eds, Farnham 2011; Spolia Reincarnated (n. 3). Françoise Wuilmart, “Le traducteur littéraire : un marieur empathique de cultures”, Meta Translator’s Journal, xxxi/1 (1990), pp. 236 –242. For a more recent perspective, see Mark Polizzotti, Sympathy for the Traitor: A Translation Manifesto, Cambridge, ma. 2018. “Empathy”, in Oxford Learner’s Dictionaries (https://www.oxfordlearnersdictionaries.com/definition/english/empathy; retrieved 2021-08-25).

3 / Inscriptions on the gravestones, the courtyard of the Balıklı Kilise in Istanbul, 19th century 4 / Relief on the gravestone, the courtyard of the Balıklı Kilise in Istanbul, 19th century 5 / Relief detail, gravestone in the courtyard of the Balıklı Kilise in Istanbul, 19th century

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about how they produced their impact on cultures and people. So let us take a closer look at what exactly empathy would mean in this context and how one can distinguish it behind various artistic and literary forms created through reuse and translation. Funerary monuments, inscriptions and images are powerful markers of culture and memory, and yet many of them have a long history of reuse, relocation and repurposing. The courtyard of the Balıklı Kilise gathers mostly nineteenth-century tombstones belonging to Christian communities of Istanbul, but, if we go back in time, the Roman sarcophagi went through the most diverse recycling in the medieval world across the entire Mediterranean, representing a very effective way to preserve and reshape antiquity. Sarcophagi slabs embellished the cathedrals of Italian city republics. They were reemployed as altar pieces or lintels in Byzantine churches, decorated the city gates of Constantinople and Nicaea, were transformed into fountains and inspired features in Byzantine iconography. They also adorned the mosques in Seljuk Anatolia and featured in the city walls like those of Konya, where some of them were even repaired in the thirteenth century. Several authors in this volume interpret the reuse of Roman sarcophagi panels, a practice that offers a clear point of intersection between Christians and Muslims in the medieval period. But can we understand the mentality of people who reused ancient sarcophagi, or trace the entire process of their transformation and translation into new contexts? For instance, how did an artist/craftsman come up with the idea of reusing such a slab? Did the piece seduce him, challenge him, catch his interest in one way or another? What about the patron who approved of such an intervention? Was it a random choice where the practice was the result of a need to use the stone, ignoring the significance of the piece and what it represented? The majority of evidence seem to point in the opposite direction: as objects of aesthetic appreciation and means to connect with wise men of the past, reused Roman sarcophagi resonated with ancient times, history and memory in the medieval world, as much as the tombstones from the Balıklı Kilise courtyard do today. This brings us back to empathy, the emotions that arise from it, and how they can represent an angle for spolia studies, material as well as literary. Even though the term empathy entered modern vocabulary in the early twentieth century, it has its roots in the ancient idea of sympathy. Eighteenth-century philosophical theories on sympathy in particular paved the way for our modern understanding of empathy as “an emotional state resulting from observing or imagining the state of others in order to share it”8. For the Scottish writer and philosopher Henry Home (1696–1782), for instance, the ideas that produce speech and memory can generate an ideal presence, almost as powerful as a real presence. This ideal presence can in turn provoke emotions that are coming from a sensation of presence9. If we follow this line of thought, spolia in all of their forms materialize the past, which gains more presence, visibility and readability when its remnants/fragments (antiqus) are staged in new contexts (modernus)10. The past becomes like a presence one can relate to and engage with, it affects the viewers, provokes their reactions and emotions, feeds their imagination. Literary spolia in the form of citations, allusions and topoi function in much the same manner, perhaps even more strongly affecting the emotions of the audience by their forceful restaging of the past and immediate effect on the imagination of readers or listeners. Most of the spolia we study are artefacts or textual fragments that have distinctive features and attributes, something recognizable that made them evocative/expressive for their users/viewers. Authors in this volume tackle the question of what in or about the piece could trigger its spoliation or, indeed, translation. Was it the material, the state, the shape or the ornamentation of the piece? Was it the style, the language or the rhetorical

form of a textual snippet? Was it the imagery and what it was supposed to represent? Or were the choice of location and how the fragment would be displayed significant factors of the selection? Some authors argue that the reason for reuse was the potential of a fragment to refer to and be associated with something or someone – that is, the symbolical/ referential potential of spolia. In a combination of their formal characteristics – iconography or inscriptions, material and medium – reused elements were carriers of communication in which affective components played a role together with visual and cognitive aspects11. It is by stimulating empathy that spolia can create and carry their own narratives across time and space, illustrating the interdependence of people, material culture and artistic imagination12. The phenomena of reuse thus offer a lot of ground to explore further this entanglement of objects and people, its role in the construction of identities and memory where empathy has an obvious place13. Susana Calvo Capilla’s convincing analysis of the reasons behind the reuse of Roman sarcophagi in the palace of Madinat Al-Zahra in Spain illustrates this point14. She shows how the sarcophagi were placed in spaces designed for teaching, nurturing of the arts, practice of science and preservation of knowledge. In this specific context, they lost their value of funerary monuments and the original meanings of their sculptural reliefs were transformed. Capilla argues that the scenes of philosophers and Muses surrounded by books and the mythological stories of Heracles on the sarcophagi panels now served as inspiration, maybe even a form of protection for those who were using the spaces for learning. The ancient sarcophagi became allegories for the “science of the Ancients”, their reuse was a deliberate action designed to exalt ancient and Hispanic heritage in the legitimation for the Cordoban caliphate in the tenth century. We can go one step further and assume that translating meanings of the classical sarcophagi in spaces devoted to learning and knowledge also depended on empathy. One can imagine the caliph and other members of the elites studying, surrounded by images representing the wise men of antiquity, and how their emphatic response (mimetic reaction) to such spolia was actively shaping their sense of owing and claiming that past (via la communauté des lettrés)15. As a parallel, it is easy to envision how the use of ancient texts in education and, as a result, in the production of new texts functioned in the rhetorical and literary sphere, spilling over into practices of rulership and legal proceedings16.

introduction

8 Patoine, Corps / Texte (n. 2), pp. 75–102. 9 Ibidem, pp. 75–76. 10 Bente Kiilerich, “Antiqus et modernus: Spolia in Medieval Art – Western, Byzantine and Islamic”, in Medioevo:

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il tempo degli antichi, Atti del Convegno internazionale di studi (Parma, 24–28 settembre 2003), Arturo Carlo Quintavalle ed., Milan 2006, pp. 135–145. About the artefacts and the question of their meanings, see Erwin Panofsky, Meaning in the Visual Arts, New York 1955, pp. 1–25. The interdependence of people and material culture they produce is not a novelty for recent scholarship where archaeology, anthropology or sociology highlight how things (monumental, portable) act in the world, produce meanings and relationships. See, among others, Bruno Latour, Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory, Oxford 2005; Material Culture and Social Identities in the Ancient World, Shelley Hales, Tamar Hodos eds, Cambridge 2010; Ian Hodder, Entangled: An Archaeology of the Relationships between Humans and Things, Malden, ma 2012. Ibidem, pp. 88–112. About memory see Amy Papalexandrou, “Memory Tattered and Torn: Spolia in the Heartland of Byzantine Hellenism”, in Archaeologies of Memory, Ruth M. Van Dyke, Susan E. Alcock eds, Malden, ma 2003, pp. 56–80. Susana Calvo Capilla, “The Reuse of Classical Antiquity in the Palace of Madinat Al-Zahra, and its Role in the Construction of Caliphal Legitimacy”, Muqarnas, xxxi (2014), pp. 1–33. I am grateful to Muradiye Öztaşkın who in the Bizantolog Reading Group meeting (May 2020) advised me to read Capilla’s article and to think about emotions and spoliation (Ivana Jevtić). About emphatic response in aesthetic experience and visual arts, see David Freedberg, Vittorio Gallese, “Motion, Emotion and Empathy in Esthetic Experience”, Trends in Cognitive Sciences, xi/5 (2007), pp. 197–203. For the latter, see Milan Vukašinović, “The Power of Learned References: Subatomic Interpretations of Epirot Bishops”, in Learning, Performance and Power in Pre-Modern Eurasia, Niels Gaul, Foteini Spingou, Curie Virág eds, forthcoming, employing metaphors drawn from particle physics to describe Byzantine reference practices.

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Together with the admiration of antiquity and the pride of being its custodian, spoliation could also reflect nostalgia for past glories. A wistful affection for the past probably lays behind many revivals of antiquity, assuring its memory and sense of continuity. Why was the Church of the Panaghia Gorgoepikoos, the Little Metropolis in Athens built almost entirely out of second-hand materials? Its patchwork exterior, made of carefully arranged classical Greek but also Byzantine sculptural reliefs, presented the viewer with a collection or collage that must have made quite an impression. If one accepts the dating of the church to the twelfth century, it is tempting to assume that such a display of spolia in the Little Metropolis reminded the Byzantines of the once glorious past of the city17. That nostalgic attitude would coincide with the contemporary literary interest in recycling and transforming ancient Greek texts, emotionally expressed in a poem by Michael Choniates: “A desire for Athens, once so famous, / wrote this as if playing with shadows, / and cooling the fire of my longing”18. As he was writing this, Michael was the archbishop of the ancient city, but he could no longer see the Athens he knew from ancient texts – only the ruins and the stories remained. A comparable longing for a better past is to be found in the person of Theodore Metochites, who wrote nostalgic essays about a more glorious past of authors, philosophers and politicians, but also restored the Chora Church and transformed it into a “living collection” through the reuse of older material and visual elements19. The reuse of ancient artefacts was not only about admiring their beauty or appreciating their antiquarian value – spolia could also be bestowed with effective power and apotropaic qualities. Roman reliefs on the city gates of Byzantine Nicaea or on the walls of Seljuk Konya could avert evil and the enemies. Their imagery and decorative patterns, nourishing associations with myths, could inspire wonder and generate a sense of protection, although outside of these contexts of reuse, the same reliefs with their images of pagan gods and heroes could be abandoned or rejected20. Finally, at the opposite end, negative emotions and hatred could cause rupture and stimulate the desire to destroy the past, as exemplified in various attempts at religious and political annihilations and condemnations. Consider, for example, the practice of damnatio memoriae and various expressions of iconoclasm21. Reuse has multiple facets. Translation is not necessarily a channel, but rather a prisma, “a matter of an endlessly varying proliferation and change”22. Spolia fascinate because they materialize various means and levels of engagement with the past, sometimes of an ambivalent nature. Defended or claimed, contested or revived, imitated or appropriated, translated or alluded to, collected/restored or spoliated – the past offered endless possibilities of rewriting, representing and retelling. Moreover, as shown in this volume, spolia lend themselves to different readings. Objects, artefacts, buildings and texts were and are constantly subject to reworkings through which they are interpreted and translated. When we take a closer look at their composition and fabric, we see that many times the old was seamlessly combined with the new. Old stories gain new significance in new contexts, just as old objects gain new meaning in new settings. Spolia are often elements/fragments that have been lifted from a larger ensemble and original setting. In other words, they may be seen as details, and yet they offer significant points, laden with connotations that may offer a key to interpretation23. They are thus comparable to accents – emphasis – that articulate and add a certain tone to the whole composition – the polyphonic quality of textual and material spolia. If spolia aesthetic emerges as a visual and literary koine of the medieval world, its language served to tell, convince and move the viewers in particular ways; in this way, the use of spolia was indeed connected to empathy and emotions.

Reuse and translation represent two key processes that materialize cultural dialogues and exchanges across time and space. They are particularly valuable for art history that seeks to understand art made in the past and contextualize our present-day relation to it. At the same time, we are both destroyers and beneficiaries of what has been passed to us, and most of what has come down to us results from a long history of use. Today we dispose of new technological tools to reveal and explore those layers of reuse and translation. The growing number of databases and digitized manuscript collections open new possibilities for textual and narratological studies, while various advanced techniques for analyzing, recording, imaging and reconstructing artefacts and architecture reveal many more episodes of their lives. The Sinai Palimpsests Project is one example of how innovative multispectral technology produces extraordinary results in the study of the palimpsests collection at the Monastery of St Catherine: it has shown how many different texts and languages were written on recycled parchments where they substituted earlier works, including classical texts24. In a similar manner, all culture – material and textual – can be seen as palimpsestic, in the sense that it is grafted on previous generations of artistic expression: everything is spoliated and everything is translated. Through this lens, art, architecture and literature become more colorful and human, they foster a new way of understanding and transmitting the past, challenging the dominant historical narratives and forcing them to become more inclusive and more multilayered25.

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17 The dating to the twelfth century has been refuted by Bente Kiilerich, who argues for a later date, probably

after 1436. See Bente Kiilerich, “Making Sense of the Spolia in the Little Metropolis in Athens”, Arte medievale,

iv (2005), pp. 95–114; also, “Antiqus et modernus” (n. 10), pp. 141–142.

18 Michael Choniates, Verses on Athens 1–3, in Μιχαὴλ Ἀκομινάτου τοῦ χωνιάτου τὰ σωζόμενα, vol. 2, Spyri-

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don P. Lampros ed., Athens 1879–1880, repr. Groningen 1968, pp. 397–398. On this poem, see Christopher Livanos, “Michael Choniates, Poet of Love and Knowledge”, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, xxx/2 (2006), pp. 103–114; on this poem in the context of 12th-century literature, see Ingela Nilsson, “Komnenian Literature”, in Byzantine Culture, Dean Sakel ed., Ankara 2014, pp. 121–131, sp. p. 126. On Michael Choniates in Athens, see Anthony Kaldellis, The Christian Parthenon: Classicism and Pilgrimage in Byzantine Athens, Cambridge, ma 2009, pp. 145–165. Nicholas Melvani, “Late, Middle, and Early Byzantine Sculpture in Palaiologan Constantinople”, in Spolia Reincarnated (n. 3), pp. 149–169. For Metochites’ expression of nostalgia for antiquity, see his so-called Miscellania, edited and translated by Karin Hult and published in the series Studia Graeca et Latina Gothoburgensia; on his literary style, grafted on ancient rhetoric, see Karin Hult,“Theodore Metochites as a literary critic”, in Interaction and Isolation in Late Byzantine Culture, Jan Olof Rosenqvist ed., Stockholm 2004, pp. 44–56. About commonalities in the Byzantine, Italian, South-Slavonic and Ottoman perceptions of antiquity by focusing on textual, visual and material evidence for the reception, recovery, and reworking of the past in the first half of the fifteenth century, see Ida Toth, “Late Medieval Antiquarian Culture and the Poetics of Reuse: Three Case Studies”, in Proceedings of the International Workshop on Late Byzantine Cities (Bahçeşehir University, 20–23 August 2019), Aslıhan Akışık, Suna Çağaptay eds, Istanbul, forthcoming. Livia Bevilacqua, “Spolia on City Gates in the Thirteenth Century: Byzantium and Italy”, in Spolia Reincarnated (n. 3), pp. 173–194; Persis Berlekamp,“Symmetry, Sympathy, and Sensation: Talismanic Efficacy and Slippery Iconographies in Early Thirteenth-Century Iraq, Syria, and Anatolia”, Representations, cxxxiii/1 (2016), pp. 59–109; Suzan Yalman, “Repairing the Antique: Legibility and Reading Seljuk Spolia in Konya”, in Spolia Reincarnated (n. 3), pp. 211–233. Dale Kinney, “Spolia, Damnatio and Renovatio Memoriae”, Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome, xlii (1997), pp. 119–122. Matthew Reynolds, “Prismatic Agon, Prismatic Harmony: Translation, Literature, Language”, in Prismatic Translation, Matthew Reynolds ed., Cambridge 2019, pp. 21–47, sp. p. 24. About the detail and its role in aesthetic and art historical discourses, see Daniel Arrase, Le détail : Pour une histoire rapprochée de la peinture, Paris 1992. Available at http://sinaipalimpsests.org; retrieved 2021-08-25. Most articles in this collection were presented at a workshop that took place in Istanbul in December 2019, organized in collaboration between The Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul and Koç University Research Center for Anatolian Civilizations (anamed). We are grateful to the participants for the fruitful discussions that inspired the present volume and to the organizing institutions for their financial support. The production of this volume has been undertaken within the frame of the research programme Retracing Connections (https:// retracingconnections.org; retrieved 2021-08-25), financed by Riksbankens Jubileumsfond (m19-0430:1). We also wish to thank Zuzana Frantová and the Convivium for their valuable editorial support.

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articles introduction

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Abstract – Imitation as Spoliation, Reception as Translation. The Art of Transforming Things in Byzantium – This article revisits the issue of creative recycling in Byzantine literature by examining two concepts as possible alternatives to terms such as imitation, adaptation and reception, namely spoliation and translation. The term spoliation is here used for describing transformation on a formal and technical level (for instance for methods that establish textual relations, such as citation and paraphrasis), while the term translation is used to describe transfer or translocation on the cultural-ideological level (often referred to as appropriation). It is suggested that the two concepts can be combined in order to cover both literary techniques and socio-cultural meaning in discussions of Byzantine texts, and perhaps especially for those that cross cultural and linguistic boundaries. With a point of departure in Julia Kristeva's concept of intertextuality, the links between material culture and texts are underlined and brought to the fore in a discussion of meaning, referentiality and agency. Keywords – adaptation, Byzantine literature, creativity, imitation, reception, recycling, translation

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Ingela Nilsson Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul / Uppsala University [email protected]

Imitation as Spoliation, Reception as Translation The Art of Transforming Things in Byzantium Ingela Nilsson

Discussions of the use and function of imitation and reception have come to mark the field of not only Byzantine philology, but also Medieval and Renaissance Studies at large. Imitation and emulation are defined as basic features of Byzantine literature, to the extent that modern readers often turn to these texts not in search of something new, but of something old – pieces of ancient Greek or Patristic literature hiding in the folds of the Byzantine quilt. Attitudes have certainly changed over the last couple of decades and many scholars now approach Byzantine literature from more varied angles, informed by literary criticism and modern reception studies.

My contention in this essay is that any kind of artistic action, at any given time in history, is based on recycling, and that Byzantium in this respect is no different from other cultures; as Bob Dylan puts it, “most everything is a knockoff of something else”1. Dylan stated this in an interview in 2017, answering a question about recycling in music, but widening the perspective to include other arts. He continued: “You could have some monstrous vision, or a perplexing idea that you can’t quite get down, can’t handle 1

Bob Dylan, Q&A with Bill Flanagan, 2017 (https://www. bobdylan.com/news/qa-with-bill-flanagan/; retrieved 2020-11-03).

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the theme. But then you’ll see a newspaper clipping or a billboard sign, or a paragraph from an old Dickens novel, or you’ll hear some line from another song, or something you might overhear somebody say just might be something in your mind that you didn’t know you remembered. That will give you the point of approach and specific details. It’s like you’re sleepwalking, not searching or seeking; things are transmitted to you. It’s as if you were looking at something far off and now you’re standing in the middle of it. Once you get the idea, everything you see, read, taste or smell becomes an allusion to it. It’s the art of transforming things. You don’t really serve art, art serves you and it’s only an expression of life anyway; it’s not real life. It’s tricky, you have to have the right touch and integrity or you could end up with something stupid. Michelangelo’s statue of David is not the real David. Some people never get this and they’re left outside in the dark. Try to create something original, you’re in for a surprise”.

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Three important facets of artistic creation are here brought up by Dylan: the potentially unconscious aspect of imitation and recycling; the complex working of allusions; and the tricky relation between art and reality2. All three are rarely brought into the picture when discussing Byzantine literature and I, therefore, find Dylan’s words to be an excellent point of departure for the present discussion, in which I wish to examine two concepts that could offer useful alternatives to terms such as imitation, adaptation and reception. In spite of all good intentions of reception studies, there is a tendency to put too much focus on the source or so-called origin rather than on the reception end of things, at least in the case of reception of classical literature. In his brilliant study of the European Renaissance, Peter Burke noted that bricolage is a useful metaphor for understanding the process of reception, because it brings out the creative aspect of recycling material that once belonged to someone else3. In an attempt to focus on such transforming processes as creative actions with their own agency, I here suggest that an expanded use of the concepts of spoliation and translation could be fruitful. I will use the term spoliation for describing transformation on a formal and technical level, for instance for methods that establish textual relations such as citation and paraphrasis. The term translation, on the other hand (translatio/

metaphrasis), will be used to describe transfer or translocation on the cultural-ideological level, what is sometimes referred to as appropriation4. I suggest that the two might be combined in order to cover both literary techniques and socio-cultural meaning in discussions of Byzantine texts, and perhaps especially for those that cross cultural and linguistic boundaries. Imitation and recycling as spoliation Philologists with literary interests have often turned to Julia Kristeva and Gérard Genette in their attempt to entangle textual relations by applying the concepts of intertextuality and transtextuality. I remain critical of the way in which classical philology tends to use Kristeva’s concept of intertextuality, limiting it to textual relations and ignoring her emphasis on the social function of culture5. It is true that Kristeva describes textual relations as “a mosaic of quotations”, as in the famous citation stating this, and adding that “any text is the absorption and transformation of another”6. But according to the same notion, any text is always connected not only to other texts, but to society at large. This has two important implications: first, ancient and medieval literature is not more “intertextual” than modern literature; second, intertextuality implies much more than one author imitating or depending on another. Intertextuality in the Kristevan sense represents a network of relations that characterize not only literature but also, for instance, architecture and urban space. This opens up for interesting connections between art history, archaeology and literary studies, as well as scholarly opportunities to work more broadly across material evidence and representations. If we take ConstantinopleIstanbul as an example, we see how artistic and cultural expression interact and overlap across time and medium: not only do we have the Byzantine architecture that reuses, sometimes very literally, ancient and Late Antique elements, but we also have the Ottoman transformation of Byzantine structures, and the modern reception of both Byzantine and Ottoman culture. All these expressions carry crucial links to a past, the significance

of which constantly changes in the new context – just as in literature. Recycling of past elements can thus function as a joint language, translated across times and cultures7. This is where I find the concept of spoliation interesting and potentially useful, because it offers a bridge between material and literary culture, while also carrying socio-cultural significance. Such a connection between material and literary procedures was noted in the Greco-Roman rhetorical tradition. In the eleventh century, Michael Psellos offered an example of the medieval awareness of such processes of rhetorical recycling as a kind of spoliation. In his treatise On the Different Styles of Certain Writings, giving advice from an experienced rhetorician to students or junior colleagues, Psellos described the process of writing as the construction of a solid building8. He starts by bringing up two ancient Greek novels, the ones by Achilles Tatius and Heliodorus (the books of Leukippe and Charikleia, as Psellos calls them), along with the post-classical, Second Sophistic authors Philostratus and Lucian – examples of late and light literature of an entertaining, though stylistically pleasing character: “Those who read the book of Leukippe and that of Charikleia, and any other book of delight and charming graces, such as the writings of Philostratos of Lemnos and whatever Lucian produced in a spirit of indolent playfulness, seem to me as if they had set out to build a house, but before raising and positioning walls and columns, laying the foundations, and completing the roof, they already wish to adorn the house with paintings, mosaics, and all other decoration. To the majority of people, those who work in this way seem rather successful. Indeed, as it seems to me, some of them have even tried their hands on writing minor texts; these are turgid in diction and, from the very first line, immediately thunder and leap with intensity; but then they quickly fade away, just like a flash of lightning”9.

Psellos goes on to argue that for longer discourses, you need to be more careful, and not try to add the decorations before building a solid structure: “The correct handling of discourse is a matter of variation […]. If someone, however, might wish to become a perfect competitor in flawless rhetoric, then he must occupy himself first with the beehive and only then go to the flowers”10. Psellos

too used to do this fluttering around among the Second Sophistic flowers, he says, but then he chose a different path and began using more solid building material, consisting of the classical authors: first of all Demosthenes, Isocrates, Aristeides and Thucydides, but also “Plato’s dialogues, all of Plutarch, whatever has been found of Lysias, and our own theologian Gregory, whom I consider the ultimate summit of excellence in seriousness as well as charming Graces”11. Psellos then describes in detail what you may gain from each author. His final paragraph sums up the whole idea of successful imitation: “After I had obtained enough from these men, I needed to add also charming grace to discursive grandeur. It is then that I collected for my complete equipment also books like those of Charikleia and Leukippe and any other similar book. And if indeed I might also say something about myself: I am inferior to the stylistic For a recent discussion from the perspective of art history, see Bente Kiilerich,“From Antique Mimesis to Contemporary Hyperrealism”, in Mimetofobia, Michele Di Monte, Benjamin Paul, Silvia Pedone eds, Bergamo 2020 (=Elephant&Castle xxiv/2 [2020]), pp. 4–20. 3 Peter Burke, The European Renaissance: Centres and Peripheries, Oxford 1998, pp. 5–9 on reception, sp. p. 7 on bricolage. 4 Cf. ibidem, p. 5 on reception as “an active process of assimilation and transformation, as opposed to a simple spread of classical […] ideas”. See also ibidem, pp. 9, 13 (on accomodation, assimilation and syncretism). On the term metaphrasis in Byzantium, see Daria Resh, “Toward a Byzantine Definition of Metaphrasis”, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies, lv (2015), pp. 754–787; Stavroula Constantinou,“Metaphrasis: Mapping Premodern Writing”, in Metaphrasis: A Byzantine Concept of Rewriting and Its Hagiographical Products, Stavroula Constantinou, Christian Høgel, Andria Andreou eds, Leiden 2021, pp. 3–60. 5 Ingela Nilsson, “The Same Story but Another: A Reappraisal of Literary Imitation in Byzantium”, in Imitatio–Aemulatio– Variatio, Elizabeth Schiffer, Andreas Rhoby eds, Vienna 2010, pp. 195–208, sp. pp. 201–202. The critical discussion in Don Fowler, “On the Shoulders of Giants: Intertextuality and Classical Studies”, Materiali e discussioni per l’analisi dei testi classici, xxxix (1997), pp. 13–34, is still relevant; more recently, William Irwin,“Against Intertextuality”, Philosophy and Literature, xxviii/2 (2004), pp. 227–242. 6 Julia Kristeva, Desire in Language: A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Art, New York 1980, p. 66. 7 Cf. the “Mediterranean koine”described by Karen Matthews in her contribution to this volume, but also the transfer of a Roman ideology described by Armin Bergmeier in his article. 8 Translation and introduction in Michael Psellos on Literature and Art: A Byzantine Perspective on Aesthetics, Charles Barber, Stratis Papaioannou eds, Notre Dame 2017, pp. 99–107. On this text by Psellos, see also the contributions by Emelie Hallenberg and Baukje van den Berg in this volume. 9 Michael Psellos on Literature (n. 8), p. 104. 10 Ibidem, p. 105. 11 Ibidem, p. 106. 2

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virtue and power of all of these authors. My discourse, however, is varied and adorned by all of them and their individual contributions blend into a single form. I am one from many; yet if someone reads my books, many from one might appear”12.

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To draw from previous authors in the right order, building a solid composition with heavy models as the foundation and lighter decorations as a finishing touch, is a suitable image for the construction of most ancient and Byzantine texts. At the same time, it reflects rather perfectly Genette’s idea of literature as inherently palimpsestuous – consisting of layers of texts grafted upon each other – and it is tempting to think that the French critic would have been very pleased with Psellos’ way of describing transtextual relations as “many becoming one”13. This also means that Genette’s definitions of different types of transtextual relations are suitable for describing the technicalities of the kind of textual spoliation that Psellos describes in his treatise: they rely not only on citations or allusions, but on all kinds of stylistic devices ranging from those individual texts, authors and genres. The five types of transtextual relationships that Genette defines and discusses in his seminal study Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree cover them all: intertextual relations are created by e.g. quotations and allusions; paratextual relations are established with titles or prefaces; metatextual relations are established by means of commentary or criticism; architextual relations are created by genre or type of discourse; and the hypertextual relation crucially unites a hypertext with its underlying hypotext14. Their great advantage is that they help us distinguish between different kinds of textual relations, from the large generic links to the more intimate hypertextual connections. What interests me in the context of this essay are the similarities to the use of material spolia and the question of meaning and agency. In the case of Byzantine and medieval literature, the use of ancient literature has often been seen as an end in itself, lending the new work a certain status, while the specific meaning of the transtextual relations has been left out of the discussion. Even if Byzantine texts have, in some cases, been important sources for recovering ancient pieces of texts,

the question should be what they mean when they are placed in that specific place – why a citation from Homer here and not one from Lucian? Why a tragic tone there instead of a comic15? And yet, in some cases they do not seem to signify anything, simply being used as suitable building blocks – so what does that mean? Again, there are interesting parallels to the discussion of agency and meaning in material culture and the use of spolia. In the case of both literature and architecture in Byzantium, the insertion of ancient (pagan) building blocks has often been interpreted in terms of the relation between pagan and Christian culture. A pagan citation can be subtly revised in order to better fit the Christian context or a building block can be inscribed with a cross16. But what about the numerous cases where no such intervention has been performed – the cases where no apparent Christianization process has been undertaken? In some cases we can assume the use of suitable building blocks mentioned above: a piece of text or stone of the right size that does not function in a referential manner, does not point in the direction of its origin17. Perhaps such cases could be seen as unconscious or unintentional – the result of “sleepwalking”, as Dylan might put it18. In others, the spoliation is so overwhelming that it seems impossible not to imagine a message or intention. On the material side, the spoliated elements of the Little Metropolis church in Athens are so carefully put together that intention must be part of our scholarly discussion19. On the textual side, the Christos Paschon offers the Passion of Christ in the words of primarily Euripides: an elaborate cento – a true bricolage – whose construction is clearly not random20. In both cases, the ancient and Byzantine building blocks have been pieced together as to create a new whole, so the distinct parts are not necessarily referential in the sense that they point at their original context, but the bricolage technique is in itself a marker of some kind; perhaps the individual pieces do not carry meaning, but the technique certainly does. Other kinds of recycling seem even more complex, such as the Medusa heads in the Basilica Cistern in Istanbul: should they be seen as purposeful or random? Are they placed sideways or

upside-down as an apotropaic action or simply because this was the height that was needed for the structure to be solid [Figs 1–2]? Importantly, they would have been below the surface of water in the cistern, so what we see was not seen by contemporary visitors – what kind of implications does that have for our interpretation of their

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12 Michael Psellos on Literature (n. 8), p. 107. 13 Cf. Burke, The European Renaissance (n. 3), p. 7 on Robert Bur-

ton’s Anatomy of Melancholy (1621), stating that omne meum, nihil meum (“’tis all mine and none mine”), cited by Burke as an example of an early awareness of reception strategies. 14 Gérard Genette, Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree, transl. by Channah Newman, Claude Doubinsky, Lincoln, ne 1997. For Genette’s concept of transtextuality applied to Byzantine literature, see Ingela Nilsson, Erotic Pathos, Rhetorical Pleasure: Narrative Technique and Mimesis in Eumathios Makrembolites’ Hysmine & Hysminias, Uppsala 2001; and Nilsson, “The Same Story but Another” (n. 5). For an elaborate discussion of rewriting in Byzantium based on Genette’s terminology, see now Constantinou, “Metaphrasis” (n. 4), pp. 10–18 and 18–47. 15 For a rather early attempt at dealing with this problem, see Nilsson, Erotic Pathos (n. 14), pp. 261–286; there are now

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several more recent studies aiming at understanding the use of ancient literature, such as Valeria F. Lovato, “Tzetzes the noogastōr: Aristophanic variations on the conundrums of a ‘professional writer’”, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, xlv/1 (2021), forthcoming. On the latter, see e.g. Henry Maguire, Rhetoric, Nature and Magic in Byzantine Art, Aldershot 1998, pp. 169–172, sp. p. 172, discussed in the contribution by Bergmeier. See also Helen Saradi, “The Use of Ancient Spolia in Byzantine Monuments”, International Journal of the Classical Tradition, iii/4 (1997), pp. 395–423; and Ludovico V. Geymonat,“The Syntax of Spolia in Byzantine Thessalonike”,Approaches to Byzantine Architecture and its Decoration: Studies in Honor of Slobodan Ćurčić, Mark J. Johnson, Amy Papalexandriou, Robert Ousterhout eds, Farnham/Surrey 2012, pp. 47–65. For the case of architecture, cf. Michael Greenhalgh, Marble Past, Monumental Present: Building with Antiquities in the Mediaeval Mediterranean, Boston 2009, p. 6; cited and partly refuted by Bergmeier in this volume. Cf. William Irwin, “What is an Allusion”, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, lix/3 (2001), pp. 287–297, on the role of intention in allusion, sp. pp. 294–296 on “accidental associations”. See [Fig. 1] on p. 129 in Baukje van den Berg’s article in this volume. See e.g. Bente Kiilerich, “Making Sense of the Spolia in the Little Metropolis in Athens”, Arte Medievale, iv/2 (2005), pp. 95–114, along with the more detailed discussion by Bergmeier in this volume. See the contribution by Margaret Mullett in this volume.

1 –2/ Spoliated Medusa heads in the Basilica Cistern, Istanbul

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3 / Spoliated capital in Rüstem Paşa Han, Galata, Istanbul

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function21? And what about building blocks with inscriptions placed upside-down or inscriptions that cannot be seen – convenient or significant? Pieces of ancient texts so seamlessly integrated in Byzantine texts that it seems unlikely that even a contemporary listener would have noted them, beyond a general sense of familiarity – what do we make of those? When the use of an object turns it into something else, how much of its origin does it still carry? Is a citation always a citation, or sometimes simply a convenient chunk of text? Is textual borrowing always referential? Is the capital placed upside-down and used as a kind of fountain in the Rüstem Paşa Han a spolium or perhaps something else [Fig. 3]? For Kristeva, this would be a non-question, because, as noted above, “any text is constructed as a mosaic of quotations”, and all creation is intertextual by necessity, not by choice22. Genette would probably see it differently, since literature to him is palimpsestuous but still determined by

authorial and creative choices made throughout generations of writers23. It is worth noting that to philologists working with ancient and medieval texts, Genette’s metaphor is more than just a metaphor, since we are dealing with both actual palimpsests and with constant multiple layers of texts within the texts. In a similar manner, Kristeva’s mosaic simile is also relevant for us on both literal and figurative levels: philologists, perhaps also some art historians, tend to look at the details, instead of a taking a step back and interpreting the whole picture. The problem with focusing on tiny details instead of trying to grasp the big picture is that not all recycling, as I have tried to show by the examples above, can be seen as deliberate. Every single piece of a text or a building does not signify; certainly not in a culture where recycling is a crucial part of practical rhetoric and architecture. In fact, as Dylan reminds us, this is probably how creativity works in any context.

Spoliated storyworlds Textual transformation or spoliation does not concern only blocks of text or literary style; in order to create believable storyworlds, authors also need to recycle narrative elements such as motifs, settings and characters24. The two can be combined, so that the recycling of narrative elements is coupled with allusions to, or a general tone reminiscent of, the original story; such is the case in the Byzantine twelfth-century novels, drawing heavily on their ancient Greek models as regards, for example, both names, characterization, episodes and plots25. Textual and narrative elements can also differ significantly, so that the setting and the characters remain more or less the 21 On apotropaic functions of spolia, see Bergmeier in this

volume. For a recent study of the Basilica Cistern (not taking into consideration their specific function as discussed here), see Anaïs Lamesa, Ferudun Özgümüş, “La citerne Basilique et l’approvisionnement en eau de Constantinople (actuelle Istanbul, Turquie) à l’époque tardo-antique : des ruptures économiques et constructives avec l’époque romaine”, Ressources et construction : la transmission des savoirs

sur les chantiers, François Blary, Jean-Pierre Gély eds, Paris 2020, pp. 75–91. On spolia in the cisterns of Constantinople, see Kerim Altuğ, “Reconsidering the Use of Spolia in Byzantine Constantinople”, Di Bizanzio dirai ciò che è passato, ciò che passa e che sarà. Scritti in onore de Alessandra Giuglia, Silvia Pedone, Andrea Paribeni eds, Rome 2018, pp. 3–16, sp. p. 7 on the Basilica Cistern. 22 Kristeva, Desire in Language (n. 6), p. 66. For a useful revaluation of Kristeva’s concept, see Prayer Elmo Raj,“Text/Texts: Interrogating Julia Kristeva’s Concept of Intertextuality”, Ars Artium, iii (2015), pp. 77–80. 23 Genette, Palimpsests (n. 14). 24 I here use the term “storyworld” in its most basic and metaphorical sense: the literary world in which characters and their actions are set within one or several works. By David Herman defined as “mental models”, storyworld is close to and partly intersects with the concepts of “possible worlds” and “worldedness”; see David Herman, Basic Elements of Narrative, Chichester 2009, pp. 105–136; Marie-Laure Ryan, “Possible Worlds in Recent Literary Theory”, Style, xxvi/4 (1992), pp. 528–553; Eric Hayot, “On Literary Worlds”, Modern Language Quarterly, lxxii/2 (2011), pp. 129–160. 25 For a narratological comparison of a Komnenian with an ancient novel, see Nilsson, Erotic Pathos (n. 14); for a recent overview of the Komnenian novel, see Ingela Nilsson, “Romantic Love in Rhetorical Guise: The Byzantine Revival of the Twelfth Century”, in Fictional Storytelling in the Eastern Mediterranean and Beyond, Carolina Cupane, Bettina Krönung eds, Leiden/Boston 2016, pp. 39–66.

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same, but the style and discourse are different; post-classical rewritings of ancient stories often function in this way, from the Byzantine Achilleid (14th century) to Pat Barker’s The Silence of the Girls (2019). In spite of Homeric characters being sustained by Homeric allusions in both of these works, the new discourse (in both cases to some extent novelistic) decidedly affect the storyworlds in which the action takes place26. Here I would like to bring up some cases of narrative spoliation drawn from medieval and Byzantine texts, paying special attention to diachronic and cross-cultural recycling. First, the French Partonopeu de Blois (1200 ca), an anonymously transmitted medieval romance that tells the story of a young man (Partonopeu) falling in love with a woman who turns out to be the empress of Byzantium (Mélior)27. The romance builds, for some key passages, on the Greco-Roman Cupid and Psyche myth, possibly in the form that has survived in Apuleius’s Metamorphoses or The Golden Ass28. What happens with the original story in the medieval French romance is primarily a question of gender reversal. In the ancient myth, Psyche is not supposed to look at Cupid and disclose his identity, but she cannot resist the temptation and lights up a lamp to look at him. In Partonopeu de Blois, it is the young hero who is visited at night by a woman who forbids him to look at her. He does not seem to mind too much himself, but he is convinced by his mother to find out who this woman really is, so one night he breaks the agreement and this leads to their separation. What we have here is the kind of recycling that subverts the original, but which still contains recognizable shapes: a learned reader might recognize the story and enjoy the subversion. On a technical and textual level, the subverted use of the motif reminds of material spolia inserted in an awkward position, like the Medusa heads in the Basilica Cistern or an inscription placed upside-down – a potentially, but not necessarily referential spoliation. To a not-so-learned reader, the subversion of gender roles might be entertaining or interesting regardless of its literary background in Apuleius. The difference in perception lies in the recognition (or not) of The Golden Ass as a hypotext.

Another kind of spoliation appears in the Greek romance tradition, and I would like to offer an example from the Greek version of the originally French romance Floire et Blanchefleur, Florios and Platzia Flora (1400 ca)29. There is a whole series of Greek adaptations from Western sourcetexts among the so-called Palaiologan romances. It is a fairly motley group of stories: Greek versions of the originally Latin Apollonius of Tyre and the French Pierre et la belle Maguelonne, but also the War of Troy (a Greek translation of the French Roman de Troie by Benoit de Sainte-Maure), The Old Knight (a fragment of the Arthurian Le vieux chevalier) and Boccaccio’s Teseida30. This indicates a rather intense exchange of different kinds of narratives, and we can most probably assume there were many more stories moving across linguistic and cultural boundaries. Important to us here is the way in which the Western stories are transformed into Byzantine versions by means of textual spoliation of the Greek-Byzantine tradition. Stavroula Constantinou has noted how the author of Florios and adaptor of the Western source text (not the French version but a Tuscan intermediary), has relied on the Greek-Byzantine paraenetic tradition and friendship discourse, in order to enhance elements already present in the story and accordingly make the Greek version even more palatable to the local taste31. In addition, it is well known that the adaptors of the Western romances used the Greek-Byzantine romance tradition when transforming the foreign texts, inserting certain motifs, modeling characters in particular manners or using various topoi32. This is, of course, how acculturated translation usually functions – it is a way of making foreign stories feel familiar to the audience by relying on a known genre; indeed, this is what Pat Barker does when she turns the female perspective of the Iliad into a novel. In relation to this phenomenon of appropriated forms, Romina Luzi has recently made an observation that is of particular interest here: the Byzantine adaptations sometimes use very similar or close to identical verses, so that they seem to refer not only to the established romance tradition, but also to each other33. For example, Florios – the hero of Florios and Platzia Flora – is once described in the following manner: “Courageous, a wild man,

like a puffed-up dragon, / like the wild-eyed sea […]”34. In another Byzantine adaptation, more or less contemporary, Imperios and Margarona, which goes back to the French Pierre et la belle Maguelonne, an almost identical simile appears: “like the wild-eyed sea and like a puffed-up dragon and like a starved elephant”35. As noted by Luzi, this creates a close textual relation between the two adaptations, a relation that goes well beyond the architextual relationship of romance. Similar techniques can be observed in all translations and adaptations of stories into new languages in the Middle Ages, and well beyond36. While such similarities used to be seen as a lack of skill or imagination, they point rather at the audience’s need for recognition and, above all, a great awareness of the processes of transfer from one language to another. If we employ the spoliation terminology, the recycling creates a sort of symmetry between different parts of a generic system by reusing the same or very similar elements. The symmetry underlines similarities in order to create unity (like in the Little Metropolis church of Athens), but the building blocks, textual or material, are in most cases probably not referential. However, it cannot be excluded that they are, so that a reader of one Byzantine adaptation recognizes some verses as originating in another. With this we have already entered the tricky field of translation. Reception as translation Initially, I defined the difference between spoliation and translation in terms of technical versus cultural-ideological levels. Such a clear distinction, in view of what has been said so far, is impossible to uphold, since socio-cultural significance most often is intrinsically linked with the technicalities of a text, an image or a building. Accordingly, we have already touched upon the issue of cultural and ideological meaning above, in the discussion of spoliation, but I believe that translation can take us even further in that direction. Translation is a term that in the modern sense usually indicates a direct transfer of a text from one language to another, even though recent scholarship in translation studies is moving away from

such ideas37. The premodern situation was quite different: briefly, for centuries translation was 26 On the Achilleid, see Renata Lavagnini, “Tales of the Trojan

War: Achilles and Paris in Medieval Greek Literature”,in Fictional Storytelling (n. 25), pp. 234–259; Adam Goldwyn, Ingela Nilsson, “Troy in Byzantine Romances: Homeric Reception in Digenis Akritis, the Tale of Achilles and the Tale of Troy”, in Reading the Late Byzantine Romance: A Handbook, Adam Goldwyn, Ingela Nilsson eds, Cambridge 2019, pp. 188–210. To my knowledge, Pat Barker’s rewriting of the Iliad has not yet been subject to any academic study, but a fruitful approach would be that of Catherine Slater,“Location, Location, Translation: Mapping Voice in Translated Storyworlds”, A Journal of Narrative Studies, iii (2011), pp. 93–116. 27 Le roman de Partonopeu de Blois : édition, traduction et introduction de la redaction A (Paris, Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, 2986) et de la Continuation du récit d’après les manuscrits de Berne (Burgerbibliothek, 113) et de Tours (Bibliothèque municipal, 939), Olivier Collet, Pierre-Maris Joris eds and transl., Paris 2005. In the following, I rely on two recent studies: Carolina Cupane, “Intercultural Encounters in the Late Byzantine Vernacular Romance”, in Reading the Late Byzantine Romance (n. 26), pp. 40 –68; Ellen Söderblom Saarela, Her Story in Partonopeu de Blois: Rereading Byzantine Relations, Linköping 2019. 28 Ibidem, pp. 30–32 with references. 29 Text and Italian translation in Carolina Cupane, Romanzi cavallereschi bizantini: Callimaco e Crissoroe, Beltrandro e Crisanza, Storia di Achille, Florio e Plaziaflore, Storia di Apollonio di Tiro, Favola consolatoria sulla Cattiva e la Buona Sorte, Turin 1992, pp. 464–565. 30 Kostas Yavis, “The Adaptations of Western Sources by Byzantine Vernacular Romances”, in Fictional Storytelling (n. 25), pp. 127–155; see also various contributions in Reading the Late Byzantine Romance (n. 26). 31 Stavroula Constantinou, “Retelling the Tale: The Byzantine Rewriting of Floire and Blancheflor”, in Hybridität und Spiel. Der europäische Liebes- und Abenteuerroman von der Antike zur Frühen Neuzeit, Jutta Eming, Martin Baisch eds, Berlin 2013, pp. 227–242. 32 See various contributions in Reading the Late Byzantine Romance (n. 26); for brief summaries of the plots of all Byzantine romances, including the adaptations, see Roderick Beaton, The Medieval Greek Romance, London/New York 1996 [2]. 33 Romina Luzi,“Le Florios dans la tradition romanesque byzantine des xive et xve siècles”, in Itinéraires de Floire et Blancheflor du xiie au xvie siècle: mise en livre, diffusion et réception, Sofia Lodén, Vanessa Obry, Anne Réach-Ngô eds (= Cahiers de Recherches Médiévales et Humanistes, xxxix/2 [2019]), pp. 265–284. 34 Ibidem, p. 274–275, citing Florios and Platzia Flora 649–650: εὔτολμος, ἄνδρας ἄγριος, ὡς δράκος φουσκομένος / ὡς θάλασσα ἀγριόφθαλμος […] (my translation). 35 Ibidem, p. 275, citing Imperios and Margarona 144: ὡς θάλασσα ἀγριόφθαλμος καὶ ὡς δράκως φουσκωμένος καὶ ὡς λέφας ἀφαγόπιος (my translation). On Imperios and Margarona, see also Romina Luzi, “The Acculturation of the French Romance Pierre de Provence et la belle Maguelonne in the Byzantine Imperios and Margarona”, in Reading the Late Byzantine Romance (n. 26), pp. 101–124. 36 On similar procedures analyzed in light of the skopos theory, see Hallenberg in this volume. See also Constantinou, “Metaphrasis” (n. 4). 37 See e.g. Karen Emmerich, Literary Translation and the Making of Originals, New York 2017; Prismatic Translation, Matthew Reynolds ed., Oxford 2019.

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seen as a kind of cultural transfer – to turn a story shares method and aim with his primary Byzor a text into a comprehensible and aesthetical- antine sources: to recycle and rewrite previous ly pleasing version intended for a new audience works in order to make ancient stories available in a different time or place. A famous case in point and comprehensible. Similar translation activities is the Alexander Romance, which reached every were more and more common at the end of the corner of Europe in the Middle Ages – always Byzantine period, simply because the language with a new kind of Alexander in a new kind of had changed and texts were increasingly more setting; in the Swedish version (15th century) he difficult to understand. Works such as Anna is placed among birches and elks as if he always Komnene’s Alexiad were translated into the verbelonged there. While we would call the Swed- nacular, along with other histories of the middle ish Konung Alexander a version of the Alexander Byzantine period45. This process is, of course, quite Romance, the person who composed it called different from other kinds of reception of ancient it a translation38. The same goes for new versions literature, since the translator established what within the same language, such as the famous Genette would call a hypertextual relationship – metaphrasis project of Symeon Metaphrastes one hypotext, one hypertext. But as we can see in (now seen as a workshop rather than one person), the case of Hermoniakos, the textual relations are who undertook to transfer old hagiographical often a lot messier and there is no straightforward texts into updated versions in the tenth century39. hypertextual link between two texts. Looking at such translation in detail, it is clear Now, would translation be a useful way of that not only the style and linguistic register has describing the overall Byzantine reception of both been changed, but also quite a bit of narrative ancient, Byzantine and foreign literature? Let us detail. And this is still within one language and return briefly to Partonopeu de Blois and the way one Christian culture. in which it transforms ancient motifs, such as the Another interesting case that involves both myth of Psyche and Cupid, into medieval romance ancient models and Byzantine rewritings is the so- discourse. I discussed that in terms of spoliation, called Metaphrasis of the Iliad, composed by a cer- but of course it could also be seen as translation tain Constantine Hermoniakos in the fourteenth – as a way of making an ancient myth comprehencentury40. Since compiling and rewriting even- sible or relevant to a new audience. In fact, the tually fell into disgrace, especially with 19th- and narrator of the romance refers, in the introduction, 20th-century philologists, Hermoniakos was ac- to his work as a potentially problematic book becused of writing “possibly the worst poem ever cause it is an old tale not written in Latin: written in the Greek language”41. His reputation “Il se trouvera bien des clercs pour me croire insensé d’écrire was somewhat improved when his use of sources une histoire ancienne autrement qu’en latin et pour m’accuser au bout du compte de perdre mon temps. Ceux qui ne font was investigated and he was found to be “better rien le perdent davantage que moi. […] En revanche, tous acquainted with the great works of Greek literaprendront plaisir au divertissement que je leur offrirai ; ils ture than is usually assumed”42. This change in en tireront toujours des exemples de la plus grande valeur”46. status, implying that the use of the right sources can render a despised work at least some prestige, This sounds like a defense against potential criindicates the way in which the reception of classi- tique, underlining the value of the book as the cal literature was once the only redeeming aspect pleasure of the story. This might be seen as a topos, of Byzantine literature43. or rather as a subversion of the trope of the manBut Hermoniakos does much more than to uscrit trouvé that became increasingly popular in translate the story of the Iliad into an un updat- the seventeenth century. In either case, it indicates ed Byzantine version; he does so by using more the work’s place in a longer tradition of transmisrecent Byzantine versions of the Iliad, produced sion and translation in not only the literary but in the twelfth century by John Tztezes and Con- also the socio-cultural sense. stantine Manasses: the Allegories and the verse That tradition is usually seen as the Westchronicle Synopsis Chronike44. Hermoniakos thus ern Latin-French tradition, but Ellen Söderblom

Saarela argues that we need to look beyond that language sphere in order to understand Partonopeu de Blois. She reads it in relation to both the Latin and French background and the contemporary Byzantine context, arguing that the twelfth-century novels written in Constantinople and the contemporary Alexiad of Anna Komnene might have influenced this particular French romance47. This is not an entirely new idea: since Partonopeu de Blois stages a partly Byzantine storyworld, in which the hero is seduced by the daughter of the Byzantine emperor, Mélior, scholars have for long discussed the possibility of a Byzantine connection48. What Söderblom Saarela does, though, and which has not been done before, is that she tries to show that there might be textual connections between the French and the Greek works under analysis. And, perhaps more importantly, she brings in an historical work, arguing that literary imagery depends as much on ‘history’ as on fiction. We are again reminded of Dylan’s comments on artistic inspiration: “art serves you and it’s only an expression of life anyway”. At the same time, Söderblom Saarela’s aim is not to prove that there were translation activities from Greek into French; rather, she wants to demonstrate how the image of women in Partonopeu de Blois might have been influenced by the idea of Byzantine women as they were perceived in the West – as strong, learned, able, but also intimidating women, very different from the traditional heroine of chivalric romance. In that way, her analysis is intertextual in the Kristevan sense: social rather than textual, even though the textual analysis is the basis of her investigation. Again, could this kind of cross-cultural and cross-linguistic transfer usefully be referred to as translation? It certainly requires a new way of understanding translation, and a useful alternative was recently offered by Matthew Reynolds, suggesting that translation should be seen not as a “channel” between two languages, but as a “prism”, “opening up the plural signifying potential of the source text and spreading it into multiple versions, each continuous with the source though different from it, and related to the other versions though different from all of them too”49.

Such a definition reminds of the early modern translatio studii et imperii, referring to processes of transferring learning and knowledge, power and prestige, both geographically and chronologically, but also to the modern concept of sociology of translation50. Objects, texts and stories can be translated, but immaterial objects (if we may speak of such a thing) are much more difficult to analyze than material ones. Links between stories that have not been preserved in more or less direct translations or adaptations are more or less impossible to prove, even if they in some ways are as clear as material evidence. This is a field in great need of methodological improvement and an important step was recently taken by Carolina Cupane. Cupane describes “a kind of reservoir of shared motifs freely circulating through time and space” in the Middle Ages, and she calls this reservoir 38 Konung Alexander: en medeltids dikt: från latinet vänd i svenska

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40 41 42 43

44 45

46 47 48

49 50

rim omkring år 1380 / efter den enda kända handskriften av G. E. Klemming, Stockholm 1855–1862. The note on the translation is placed in the epilogue, vv. 10572–73: “Hona loot til swenske wända / aff latine oc swa til rima” (“had her [the book] translated into rhymed Swedish from Latin”, my translation). Christian Høgel,“Symeon Metaphrastes and the Metaphrastic Movement”, in The Ashgate Research Companion to Byzantine Hagiography, ii, Stephanos Efthymiadis ed., Farnham 2014, pp. 161–180; also Resh,“Toward a Byzantine Definition of Metaphrasis” (n. 4) with further references. See Metaphrasis (n. 4). La guerre de Troie, Emile Legrand ed., Paris 1890. Robert Browning, “Homer in Byzantium”, Viator, vi (1975), pp. 15–34, sp. pp. 30–31. Elizabeth Jeffreys,“Constantine Hermoniakos and Byzantine Education”, Dodone, iv (1975), pp. 81–109, sp. p. 81. See Robert Browning, “The Byzantines and Homer”, in Homer’s Ancient Readers: The Hermeneutics of Greek Epic’s Earliest Exegetes, Robert Lamberton, John J. Keaney eds, Princeton, nj 1992, pp. 138–148, sp. p. 145, revising his previous statement in view of Jeffrey’s analysis. Jeffreys, “Constantine Hermoniakos” (n. 42). See e.g. John Davis, “The History Metaphrased: Changing Readership in the Fourteenth Century”,  in Niketas Choniates: A Historian and a Writer, Alicia Simpson, Stephanos Efthymiadis, Geneva 2009, pp. 145–163. Partonopeu de Blois 77–79, in Collet/Joris, Le roman de Partonopeu de Blois (n. 27), pp. 74–75. Söderblom Saarela, Her Story in Partonopeu de Blois (n. 27). E.g. Carole Bercovici-Huard, “Partonopeus de Blois et la couleur byzantine”, Images et signes de l’Orient dans l’Occident medieval, Aix-en-Provence 1982, pp. 115–129. Reynolds, Prismatic Translation (n. 37), p. 3; see also pp. 21–47 for a more detailed analysis of how this works. Olof Heilo, Ingela Nilsson, “Constantinople as Crossroad: Some introductory remarks”, in Constantinople as Center and Crossroad, Olof Heilo, Ingela Nilsson eds, Istanbul 2019, pp. 9–19, sp. pp. 14–16.

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“a common narrative koine”. She describes the process as follows: “Both motifs and texts were usually reshaped according to local tastes and expectations, but they maintained their basic features, thus remaining recognizable to the receivers and to us now as well. But, whereas the texts, translated and adapted, were consigned to writing – which makes their itinerary from East to West (or, less frequently West to East) easier to reconstruct – narrative motifs were most often carried through the lively voice of numerous unknown senders. Spread through underground, twisty paths, they flew back and forth, merged with other themes and were inserted in new narrative contexts. As with folk tales, literary motifs, too, can move easily over time and space, handed down orally, without leaving any traces of the intermediate stages. That is the reason why they are difficult to detect and are very often overlooked or at least underestimated”51.

It might be mentioned here that Cupane sees the relation between Partonopeu de Blois and the Greek tradition in a reverse perspective: in contrast to Söderblom Saarela, cited above, she argues that the story of Partonopeu moved to the east, influencing some of the Late Byzantine romances. That difference in interpretation demonstrates, however, quite nicely her point of a “common narrative koine” – we are left with the traces of narrative connections and can only interpret them as best we can. In some cases, there are textual spolia that can be used to support an analysis; in others, the motifs, settings and characters have to speak for themselves52. Spoliation as translation

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Regardless of which term we use for the processes of rewriting literature – reception, spoliation, translation – one issue recurs: the question of agency, or intentional vs unintentional intertextual relations. As noted above, when we speak of intertextuality in loose terms, we tend to avoid this issue; on the other hand, when we offer a hard-core philological analysis of sources, we tend to overemphasize it. And yet, there is plenty of textual material that is clearly recycled out of convenience rather than specific functions, just like in the case of spolia. Perhaps this is where a distinction between spoliation (in the more technical sense) and

translation (in a more socio-cultural sense) could be useful: spoliation can be significant (citations and allusions often are), but it can also be random, in the sense that we need a certain piece in a certain place for the sake of construction; but translation must in all cases presume agency, a meaning behind the translocation of a story or a story element. Let us compare once more to the situation in material culture and the upside-down capital recycled as a fountain [Fig. 3]. In its current position as a fountain it fills a new function. It was dislocated at some point in time, but it was not inserted into a new structure, only put to a different use. According to the terminology suggested here, it is accordingly a translation rather than a spolium. But it does not seem to be referential: it does not refer back to its original place or function in an ancient or medieval building. The reshaping “according to local tastes and expectations”, as Cupane puts it53, reflects the need to localize stories which are, in many aspects, joint or even global. It is a need to make them relevant in spite of their translocation, which is why familiar elements and techniques are always used in the process. In this transformation, meaningful elements are added – as in the case of Florios and Platzia Flora, when the story is turned into a more palatable Byzantine romance by means of the Greek-Byzantine tradition. At the same time, some elements are left without being properly transformed, like the names of Florios and Platzia Flora – “speaking names” in their original context, but not in medieval Greek. In the polyglot environment in which the adaptation was probably made, the names may have made sense also to a primarily Greek-speaking audience, but they remain a kind of spolium taken over from the source text and not entirely translated into the new context54. Spoliated or translated names are, in fact, a significant part of cultural transfer in general, and I should like to close this essay with a curious case of translation in the form of a building

4 / The temple of Belisar, Forsmark, Sweden, 1794

51 Cupane, “Intercultural Encounters” (n. 27), p. 41. 52 Cf. the “Mediterranean koine”described by Matthews in this

volume.

53 Cupane, “Intercultural Encounters” (n. 27), p. 41. 54 The transfer/translation or names and characters is a feature

that deserves further attention; for a fruitful approach, see Slater, “Location, Location, Translation” (n. 26).

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5 / The temple of Belisar, Forsmark, Sweden, 1794 6 / The obelisk of Belisar, Forsmark, Sweden, 1794

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that goes under the name Belisärs grotta (the grotto of Belisarius) or Belisars tempel (the temple of Belisar), placed in the park of a mansion in Forsmark, a small village close to the coast of Uppland, Sweden55. The building is a curiosity in itself: in the form of a small Greek-style temple, but wooden and with walls and columns covered with pine bark, it sits in a grove at the far end of an English park [Figs 4–5]. Next to it there is a small obelisk with an inscription, saying that this is the resting place of the exiled “Belisär” [Fig. 6]56. The information sign tells the visitor that the temple was built in 1794, the obelisk raised in 1795, and that Belisarius was an East Roman general, protagonist of a novel by French writer Marmontel. For the average modern visitor, the strange building and its story probably remains a mystery, even with that kind of information available, but this

is a highly interesting case of a materialized narrative – a translation, as it were, of a spoliated early Byzantine tale. This is not the place to investigate the details of the temple of Belisarius, but the brief version can be described as follows. Jean-François Marmontel (1723–1799), historian and writer, published his political novel Bélisaire in 1767. It raised 55 The village goes back to the local iron production that started

in the seventeenth century and was run by a series of wealthy families until 1890. In the second half of the eighteenth century, the estate was owned by Samuel af Ugglas who took a personal interest in developing an English park suitable to the “new mansion”. On the mansion, see Alf Nordström, Bergsmän och brukspatroner, Stockholm 1987, pp. 52–65. 56 The inscription reads: “Belisär, landsflygtig finner här ett lugn, en koja, en graf. Wandringsman! Hvila här en stund och Du skall gå hädan dygdigare” (“Belisarius, exiled, here finds peace, a shelter, a tomb. Wanderer! Rest here for a while and you shall move on more virtous”, my translation).

quite a controversy, but was highly appreciated by, among others, the Swedish crown prince Gustav (1746–1792), later king Gustav iii, who was spending time in Paris in the 1760s and was well acquainted with Marmontel. The novel became a huge success in Sweden and was translated into Swedish in 1768, influencing a whole generation of writers and leaving traces of the Belisarius legend in both literature and art57. The temple in Forsmark is only one of those traces, and the place was greatly appreciated by travelers of the early 1800s. It is said that the inner walls of the temple had paintings describing the story of Belisarius and that a copy of the novel was placed on a table inside58. The building was, in a way, a temple of Bélisaire rather than of Belisarius, which was perhaps also the original idea. For most visitors of the early 1800s, the reference was clear – they had read the novel and knew the story, including its political connotations and the connections between the owner of the mansion and the royal family. They recognized the classical shape of the building and appreciated the contrast with its familiar setting (“a gloomy forest”) and building material (“simple bark”)59. The transfer of a Mediterranean tradition had thus taken place on both material and representational levels, traveling and changing for centuries. The medieval legend of Belisarius as a blind beggar, an adaptation and continuation of the Early Byzantine narrative, had been spoliated by Marmontel and turned into a political novel, translated into numerous languages and numerous forms of art, resulting in new forms. If this is not the art of transforming things, I do not know what is. 57 Åke Dintler, Oloph Odenius, “En resa i uppländsk bruks-

bygd 1816. Färdberättelse av Carl Georg Rogberg med inledning och kommentar”, in Uppland. Årsbok för medlemmarna i Upplands fornminnesförening 1955, Stockholm 1955, pp. 17–34, sp. pp. 20–21. 58 Ibidem, p. 28. 59 I norrlandsstäder och lapplandsbygd år 1800. Johan Erik Forsströms dagbok, Stockholm 1917, pp. 148–149. An appropriate term for this material adaptation would be ‘ecotype’, appropriated by the Swedish folklorist Carl Wilhelm von Sydow from botany in order the described the development of folktales adapted to the local soil; Burke suggests it would be useful also for architecture, of which Belisar’s temple would be a case in point. See Burke, “The European Renaissance” (n. 3), p. 8.

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summary Imitace jako spoliace, recepce jako překlad Umění transformace věcí v Byzanci

Článek znovuotevírá otázku kreativní recyklace v byzantské literatuře a zkoumá pojmy spoliace a překlad jako možné alternativy k pojmům, jako jsou imitace, adaptace nebo recepce. Termín spoliace zde popisuje transformaci na formální a technické úrovni (například metody vytvářející textové vztahy, jako citace a parafráze), zatímco termín překlad je zde užit pro popis transferu nebo translokace na kulturně-ideologické úrovni (často nazýván také apropriace). Autorka se domnívá, že tyto dva koncepty mohou být ve výzkumu byzantských textů kombinovány, jelikož pokrývají jak literární techniky, tak sociokulturní význam, obzvláště pokud se jedná o texty, které překračují kulturní a jazykové hranice. Autorka zdůrazňuje vazby mezi texty a materiální kulturou, které jsou zásadní pro pochopení významu, referenčnosti a dějovosti, přičemž výchozím bodem je zde koncept intertextuality zavedený Julií Kristevou. Architektonická terminologie v byzantských pojednáních o rétorické a literární výstavbě (Michael Psellos) je proto chápána ve vztahu k funkci materiálních spolií, významu citací versus stavebních bloků a možnosti ne-referenční recyklace. V následující části článku diskuze přechází k recyklaci narativních prvků

jako součásti překladatelských strategií, přičemž příklady jsou čerpány především z francouzského díla Partonopeu de Blois (ca 1200), byzantského díla Florios a Platzia Flora (ca 1400) a Metaphrasis Íliady od Konstantina Hermoniaka (14. století). Článek se také zabývá metodologickými obtížemi spojenými s analýzou narativních prvků postrádajících textové podklady, a to na základě tzv. „společné narativní koiné“ (Carolina Cupane). Článek autorka uzavírá opětovným důrazem na blízké spojení mezi materiálními a textovými praktikami, což ilustruje na příkladu Belisariova chrámu ve švédském Forsmarku. Tato dřevěná budova byla postavena v roce 1794, aby připomínala příběh Belisaria, známého v té době ve Švédsku z románu Bélisaire (1767) Jeana-Françoise Marmontela. Autorka tvrdí, že transfer středomořské tradice proběhl jak na materiální, tak na reprezentační úrovni a že procesy s ním spojené se dají chápat ve světle spoliace a překladu. Marmontel použil středověkou legendu o slepém žebrákovi Belisariovi, která sama byla adaptací a pokračováním původně byzantského vyprávění, a přetvořil ji na politický román přeložený do mnoha jazyků i uměleckých forem, včetně dřevěného chrámu na zahradě švédského statku v 18. století.

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Abstract – Speaking Antiquity. Ancient Spolia as a Visual Koine in the Medieval Mediterranean (12th to 15 th Century) Remnants of antiquity were omnipresent in the medieval Mediterranean, where they served to evoke great empires and civilizations. A shared, particularly widespread practice was the integration of ancient architectural spolia into public structures. In the places considered here – Italian cities and the Byzantine and Mamluk Empires – the ancient past had specific meanings for medieval patrons and publics by expressing visually political and cultural identities. This essay begins by analyzing site-specific understandings of the past, made visual through the use of local antiquities as architectural decoration. In contrast to these particularized significations, ancient spolia, specifically Roman remnants,

could be universalized not only to represent a shared visual culture but also to constitute a common koine. The essay goes on to treat the formation and implications of a visual koine on the basis of Roman remnants and the new visual system it forged through the cultural processes of mixing, aggregating, and reassignment. Keywords – ancient Egypt, ancient Greece, ancient Rome, hybridity, material culture, medieval Mediterranean, reuse, spolia, visual koine Karen Rose Mathews University of Miami [email protected]

Speaking Antiquity Ancient Spolia as a Visual Koine in the Medieval Mediterranean (12th to 15th Century) Karen Rose Mathews

Ancient spolia as a pan-Mediterranean phenomenon Remnants of antiquity were a powerful presence in the medieval Mediterranean, where the vestiges of the past served as evocative reminders of great empires and civilizations. Their presence and subsequent reuse across the sea served as a visual confirmation of the conceptualization of the Mediterranean as an ecological, economic, and cultural unit in the medieval period1. The circulation of people, goods, technologies, and ideas provided the impetus for but also was the product of a shared visual culture characterized by common practices, materials, motifs, and styles2. A shared practice 1

For general studies that highlight the interconnectivity of the Mediterranean, see Peregrine Horden, Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History, Oxford 2000; David Abulafia, The Great Sea: A Human History of the

Mediterranean, New York 2011; Cyprian Broodbank, The Making of the Middle Sea: A History of the Mediterranean from the Beginning to the Emergence of the Classical World, Oxford 2013; A Companion to Mediterranean History, Peregrine Horden, Sharon Kinoshita eds, Chichester 2014. See Cecily Hillsdale, “Visual Culture”, in A Companion to Mediterranean History, Peregrine Horden, Sharon Kinoshita eds, Chichester 2014, pp. 296–313, for a discussion of Mediterranean visual culture. 2 For the unifying nature of this circulation, see Eva Hoffman, “Pathways of Portability: Islamic and Christian Interchange from the Tenth to the Twelfth Century”, Art History, xxiv/1 (2001), pp. 17–50; Mariam Rosser-Owen, “The Oliphant: A Call for a Shift in Perspective”, in Romanesque and the Mediterranean: Points of Contact across the Latin, Greek and Islamic Worlds c. 1000 to c. 1250, Rosa Maria Bacile, John McNeill eds, Leeds 2015, pp. 15–58. Hillsdale, “Visual Culture” (n. 1), p. 307; and Miguel J. Versluys, “Roman Visual Material Culture as Globalising Koine”, in Globalisation and the Roman World: World History, Connectivity, and Material Culture, Martin Pitts, Miguel J. Versluys eds, Cambridge 2014, pp. 141–174, sp. pp. 156, 164, address the reciprocal relationship between circulation and a hybrid, international visual culture in the Mediterranean.

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of particular ubiquity was the integration of ancient spolia, or reused architectural elements, into public structures. The use of spoils from the ancient past constituted a shared visual language among cultures across the sea that appropriated antiquity to highlight the power, longevity, or legitimacy of a medieval ruler, dynasty, or empire. In the locales addressed here – Italian cities and the Byzantine and Mamluk Empires – the ancient past had specific meanings and significations for medieval audiences and patrons that expressed visually a political and cultural identity. The first part of this essay will address these site-specific understandings of the past visualized through the use of local antiquities as architectural decoration. Each city or empire used the same visual vocabulary of objects and materials taken from the ancient past but, as the spolia were redeployed in new settings, a translation of meaning occurred, altering their understanding for new audiences and functions. In contrast to these particularized significations, ancient spolia and specifically the remnants of the Roman past could be universalized to represent not only a shared visual culture but constitute a common koine3. In this new, hybrid language, reused Roman materials lost their local significations and gained new meanings and functions within a larger, pan-Mediterranean context. Forged through cultural contact and mixing, the koine brought together mutually intelligible forms, materials, and styles that united cultures across the sea in a shared appreciation of Roman antiquity. The second part of this essay treats the formation and implications of a visual koine based on remnants of a Roman past and the new visual system it forged through the cultural processes of mixing, reallocation, and aggregation4. Mamluk use of pharaonic spolia, 13th to 14th century

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1 / Pharaonic red granite columns in prayer hall, Mosque of al-Maridani in Cairo, 1340

In the Mamluk period, numerous architectural structures featured pharaonic spolia prominently displayed on the exterior and interior of buildings. Columns from ancient temples were the most ubiquitous spoils, as their size and beautiful granite material made them excellent supports for

hypostyle mosques. As such, a considerable number of Mamluk buildings feature appropriated ancient Egyptian columns. The funerary complex of the Sultan Qalawun, built in 1284–1285, employs six red granite columns to support the prayer hall of the complex’s madrasa, while four even larger granite columns form the centerpiece of the mausoleum constructed for the ruler5. Qalawun’s son, al-Nasir Muhammad, continued the tradition of reusing ancient supports in Cairo, as seen in his mosque at the Citadel. Here the pharaonic granite columns hold pride of place in the most important part of the mosque, the area immediately flanking the mihrab within the prayer hall6. This arrangement was imitated in the mosque created by al-Nasir Muhammad’s son-in law, Altunbugha al-Maridani, and it is likely that he received the columns from the stockpile of the sultan [Fig. 1]7. What makes these columns recognizable as ancient Egyptian spoils is the material (red or gray granite) and decorative elements that indicate their former function. On some columns, a semicircular loop can be seen at the top of the shaft. This motif was particular to an ancient palmiform column, used most often in the Old Kingdom, Ptolemaic, and Roman periods8. In their ancient placement, this loop is always arranged to be as visible as possible and this pattern of display is perpetuated in Mamluk buildings where it faces the middle of the prayer hall. Reused columns were not the only kind of ancient Egyptian spolia employed in Mamluk architecture. There was a great interest in employing ancient blocks of stone of red, green, or gray granite as thresholds and lintels of doorways9. Their placement ensured high visibility, as people would look at and walk under or over them on a regular basis. Some of these stones are undecorated, but a majority of them feature hieroglyphs that are displayed in full view, either facing up or out as a person enters the building10. Highly visible inscribed stones can be seen in various Mamluk buildings, like the Khanqah of Baybars al-Jashankir and the Madrasa of the Amir Mithqal [Fig. 2]. In some cases, the ancient stones are part of an ornamented façade but in Mithqal’s madrasa, for example, the inscribed lintel is the decorative focus of the entire entrance portal11.

The motives for the reuse of ancient building materials in Mamluk monuments have generally been divided into two categories: practical and symbolic12. On the practical side, these incised stones and monolithic columns from ancient Egyptian buildings were simply beautiful, of high quality, and readily available. It thus made sense to exploit this almost unlimited supply of ancient materials13. This pragmatic approach explains the often haphazard use of stone in buildings such as city gates, where large numbers of blocks were needed and there was no consistent interest 3

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Katharina Meinecke, “Circulating Images: Late Antiquity’s Cross-Cultural Visual Koiné”, in A Globalised Visual Culture? Towards a Geography of Late Antique Art, Fabio Guidetti, Katharina Meinecke eds, Oxford 2020, pp. 321–339, sp. pp. 323–324; Hillsdale, “Visual Culture” (n. 1), pp. 306–307. Paul Kerswill, “Koineization and Accommodation”, in The Handbook of Language Variation and Change, J. K. Chambers, Peter Trudgill et al. eds, Malden, ma 2002, pp. 669–702, sp. p. 672. Matreen Mohamed Ali, Sayed Magdi, “The Influence of Spolia on Islamic Architecture”, in Islamic Heritage Architecture, Carlos Brebbia, Arturo Martínez Boquera eds, Southampton 2017, pp. 56–65, sp. p. 65. Viktoria Meinecke-Berg, “Spolien in der mittelalterlichen Architektur von Kairo”, in Ägypten: Dauer und Wandel, Mainz 1985, pp. 131–142, sp. p. 137; Ali/Magdi, “The Influence of Spolia” (n. 5), pp. 59, 63. For the origin of these columns, see Nasser Rabbat, The Citadel of Cairo: A New Interpretation of Royal Mamluk Architecture, Leiden 1995, p. 249. Meinecke-Berg,“Spolien”(n. 6), p. 133; Okasha El Daly, Egyptology: The Missing Millennium, London 2005, p. 42; Iman Abdulfattah, “Theft, Plunder and Loot: An Examination of the Rich Diversity of Reuse in the Complex of Qalawun in Cairo”, Mamluk Studies Review, xx (2017), pp. 93–132, p. 94. For palmiform columns in general, see J. Peter Phillips, The Columns of Egypt, Manchester 2002, pp. 16–18; Abdulfattah, “Theft, Plunder and Loot” (n. 7), p. 108. The loop formed part of the collar binding that represented the tucked-in end of the rope that bound palm fronds to the shaft. Abdulfattah, “Theft, Plunder and Loot” (n. 7), p. 95. The Mosque of Khayrbak, Khanqah of Baybars al-Jashankir, Madrasa of Amir Mithqal, Caravanserai of Qausun, and the Khanqah of Faraj ibn Barquq all possess thresholds with hieroglyphs at the main entrance of the structure. Of the seven structures with reused inscribed blocks, three buildings possess stones with the inscriptions turned up and three with the inscriptions turned out. See Vanessa Davies, “Observations on Antiquities in Later Contexts”,  in A Cosmopolitan City: Muslims, Christians, and Jews in Old Cairo, Tasha Vorderstrasse, Tanya Treptow eds, Chicago 2015, pp. 85– 91, sp. pp. 86– 87; Abdulfattah, “Theft, Plunder and Loot” (n. 7), p. 95. Klaus P. Kuhlmann, “Zur Provenienz der Türschwelle”, in Restaurierung der Madrasa des Amirs Sabiq ad-Din Mitqal al-Ānuki und die Sanierung des Darb Qirmiz in Kairo, Michael Meinecke ed., Mainz 1980, p. 52, addresses the threshold of Amir Mithqal’s mosque. Meinecke-Berg, “Spolien” (n. 6), pp. 141–142. Ali/Magdi, “The Influence of Spolia” (n. 5), p. 63; Davies, “Observations”(n. 10), p. 88; Abdulfattah, “Theft, Plunder and Loot” (n. 7), pp. 111–112.

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demonstrated in using the material for its beauty or its carving. As an argument for a more symbolic understanding of this appropriation, most pharaonic sites were not in the immediate vicinity of Cairo; the closest one was Heliopolis, ten kilometers to the north of the city, and extracting stone from other sites required the transportation of materials along the Nile. In addition, there does not appear to have been any systematic exploitation of the granite and porphyry quarries in Upper Egypt in the medieval period. These quarries existed but lay abandoned for centuries. As such, we can surmise that the interest in decorative stone lay as much in its history as in its appearance. It was preferable to use the finished material from earlier monuments than quarry stones afresh. Many of the stones used for lintels and thresholds at doorways were inscribed with hieroglyphs and their reuse may be closely linked to the display of this writing14. Hieroglyphs were believed to be magical and possess protective powers15. The belief in their apotropaic qualities continued until

the late nineteenth century, with inscribed pharaonic stones employed as thresholds in religious buildings as well as secular, domestic structures. It was believed that these stones were lucky as they contained powerful magic that could ward off evil. There was also a sense that one was trampling on idolatry when crossing over or walking on an inscribed threshold to enter a structure. In this reuse of pharaonic stones, the ancient spirits were subjugated symbolically and their protection was assured simultaneously, representing an affirmation and a rejection of ancient culture at the same time16. Mamluk reuse of pharaonic materials might have been associated with beliefs concerning the magical qualities of inscribed stones; as so many buildings in Cairo possess pharaonic thresholds, it was certainly an accepted practice. The great effort expended on transporting columns and other building materials from distant sites would also indicate that the Mamluks prized the quality and beauty of the materials they borrowed from ancient structures17. The pharaonic past in the

2 / Limestone threshold of main entrance, Khanqah of Baybars al-Jashankir in Cairo, 1310

Middle Ages was considered by some to be a foreign one, constituting a rupture from the medieval past, and this attitude might have had some resonance with the Mamluks. Their very foreignness in Egypt encouraged them to associate themselves with ancient rulers and pharaonic culture. The Mamluks might have seen themselves as the last in a long line of illustrious foreign rulers in Egypt, the proud successors to a powerful empire that constructed impressive, enduring monuments18. It appears, then, that these pharaonic appropriations had overwhelmingly positive associations for Mamluk builders. They were ancient and beautiful, carved with great detail and high-quality workmanship. They originated from a culture that was held in high esteem for its longevity, the strength of its rulers, its wisdom, and the spectacular nature of its artistic creations. The Mamluks, then, consciously created a pharaonic aesthetic that allowed the empire’s rulers and elite to identify themselves closely with their ancient predecessors, who employed architectural structures to advertise the stability and grandeur of their kingdom.

14 The use of ancient inscriptions in medieval buildings united

15

16

17 18

cultures across the sea. For such reuse in the eastern Mediterranean, see Anna Sitz, “Beyond Spolia: A New Approach to Old Inscriptions in Late Antique Anatolia”, American Journal of Archaeology, cxxiii/4 (2019), pp. 643–674; Georgios Pallis, “The Second Life of Inscriptions in Late Antique and Byzantine Asia Minor: Some Remarks on the Reuse of Inscribed Material”, Gephyra, xviii (2019), pp. 59–76. Italian examples are addressed by Robert Coates-Stephens, “Epigraphy as Spolia: The Reuse of Inscriptions in Early Medieval Buildings”, Papers of the British School at Rome, lxx (2002), pp. 275–296, and Karen Rose Mathews, Conflict, Commerce, and an Aesthetic of Appropriation in the Italian Maritime Cities, 1000–1150, Leiden 2018, pp. 135–138. See also Susan Stewart, The Ruins Lesson: Meaning and Material in Western Culture, Chicago 2020, pp. 57–58, for the recontextualization of inscribed obelisks in ancient Rome. Doris Behrens-Abouseif, “Between Quarry and Magic: The Selective Approach to Spolia in the Islamic Monuments of Egypt”, in Dalmatia and the Mediterranean: Portable Archaeology and the Poetics of Influence, Alina Payne ed., Leiden 2014, pp. 402–425, sp. pp. 408–409; Michael Greenhalgh, Marble Past, Monument Present: Building with Antiquities in the Mediaeval Mediterranean, Leiden 2009, p. 464; Meinecke-Berg, “Spolien” (n. 6), p. 139. Davies, “Observations” (n. 10), pp. 87– 89. This mentality is quite similar to the one that informed the reception of the Little Metropolis in Athens, to be addressed in the discussion of Byzantine architecture. Abdulfattah, “Theft, Plunder and Loot” (n. 7), p. 112; Davies, “Observations” (n. 10), pp. 88–90. Davies, “Observations” (n. 10), pp. 88, 90.

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The use of ancient spolia in the western Mediterranean, 12th to 14th century 3 / Atrium with elite burials, Cathedral of Salerno, 12th–14th century 4 / Ancient marble sarcophagi reused as medieval burial monuments, Camposanto in Pisa, 13th–14th century

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For much of western Europe, and Italy in particular, ancient Rome provided an aspirational model of political might and cultural achievement, fostering the reuse of ancient building materials and portable objects in medieval contexts. In the eleventh and twelfth centuries, burial in an ancient Roman sarcophagus concretized a visual connection to the ancient past but remained the privilege of only the highest levels of society – popes, emperors, and kings. By the late Middle Ages, however, the practice had been democratized to such a degree that the political and ecclesiastical elite could have their remains memorialized in a Roman spoil. The medieval reuse of ancient sarcophagi extended across the Italian Peninsula but was especially prevalent in maritime cities where access to these ancient monuments was facilitated by Mediterranean commerce. In southern Italy, the Norman rulers established a tradition of burial in ancient Roman tomb monuments, one that continued for centuries19. The atrium of the Cathedral of Salerno served as the burial place for family members of the Normans but it also housed tombs of the city’s illustrious citizens and ecclesiastical officials [Fig. 3]. The atrium was constructed in the twelfth century but became the primary space for the display of funerary monuments in Salerno from the thirteenth century onwards. There are more than twenty-five ancient sarcophagi in the atrium, but only a few can be connected to specific individuals or families20. In many cases, the ancient stone tomb was given a medieval lid where the family’s name and crest or an identifying inscription were placed. These lids came to be separated from their tombs over the centuries, destroyed in some cases so that the ancient Roman vessels could be used by other elite families; sarcophagi then were often subject to multiple acts of appropriation in their long life spans and the name on the tomb today only indicates who occupied it last. Pisa was a city whose romanitas was central to its civic identity and its reuse of ancient sarcophagi far outstripped that other Italian cities21. Burial in Roman sarcophagi began in the eleventh

century when elite members of society – the Marchioness Beatrice and the cathedral’s architect, Buschetto – were interred in marble tombs in the cathedral precinct. Burials of prominent citizens soon ringed the cathedral in the Middle Ages but by the thirteenth century complaints arose that the tombs encumbered the space around the church and diminished the beauty and decorum of the structure22. The Archbishop of Pisa, Federico Visconti, undertook an initiative in 1277 to address this problem through the construction of a monumental cemetery next to the cathedral: the Camposanto23. No mere atrium or porch, the Camposanto was a massive, freestanding, rectangular cloister with broad corridors to accommodate tomb monuments [Fig. 4]. The Camposanto now houses about one hundred sarcophagi, twothirds of which were already in the cemetery by the early modern period24. Like the Salernitan elite, the individuals and families reusing these tombs added distinctive identifying features that included personalized lids, heraldry, and inscribed family names. The patronage base for these reused tombs included secular and ecclesiastical elites but what makes the Camposanto’s collection of sarcophagi remarkable, however, is the number of tombs associated with the wealthy middle class25. The Pisan monumental cemetery was thus defined as a democratic burial space that brought together people from various social strata who all had the means to be buried in prestigious ancient tomb monuments. Genoa’s medieval reuse of ancient sarcophagi diverged markedly from the examples described above in the fundamental change in the burial monument’s function. Previously serving as tombs around the cathedral, the life history of these ancient sarcophagi in Genoa became more complex in the thirteenth century when they were incorporated into the façade and towers of the cathedral [Fig. 5]26. In this second reuse, tombs were 19 See Maurizio Paoletti,“Sicilia e Campania costiera: I sarcofagi

nelle chiese cattedrali durante l’età normanna, angioina e aragonese”, in Colloquio sul reimpiego dei sarcofagi romani nel medioevo, Bernard Andreae, Salvatore Settis eds, Marburg

20

21

22

23

24

25 26

1984, pp. 229–244, for a general overview of reused sarcophagi in southern Italy. See also Antonio Milone, “Memoria dell’antico nella Costa d’Amalfi”, in Le culture artistiche del medioevo in Costa d’Amalfi, Antonio Braca, Antonio Milone eds, Amalfi 2003, pp. 315–349, sp. pp. 337–342, and Silvia Tomei, “Sarcofago di Ruggero i”, in Rilavorazione dell’antico nel medioevo, Mario D’Onofrio ed., Rome 2003, pp. 69–73, for this phenomenon as well. For the reuse of ancient sarcophagi in Salerno, see, most recently, Angela Palmentieri, “Il reimpiego dei sarcophagi romani”, in Opulenta Salernum: Una città tra mito e storia, Giovanni di Domenico, Maria Galante, Angela Pontrandolfo eds, Rome 2020, pp. 125–138; Maddalena Vaccaro, “Sepolture e tradizioni funerarie”, Hortus artium medievalium, xxv/2 (2019), pp. 563–572; I sarcofagi romani del Duomo di Salerno: Dal riuso all’archeologia, Antonio Braca ed., Milan 2016; idem, Il Duomo di Salerno: Architettura e culture artistiche del Medioevo e dell’età moderna, Salerno 2003, pp. 102–109; Paoletti, “Sicilia e Campania costiera” (n. 19), pp. 236–240. For Pisan romanitas in general, see Giuseppe Scalia, “‘Romanitas’ pisana tra xi e xii secolo: Le iscrizioni romane del Duomo e la statua del console Rodolfo”, Studi medievali. Third series, xiii/2 (1972), pp. 791–843; Marc von der Höh, Erinnerungskultur und frühe Kommune: Formen und Funktionen des Umgangs mit der Vergangenheit im hochmittelalterlichen Pisa (1050–1150), Berlin 2006; Mathews, Conflict, Commerce (n. 14). Karen Rose Mathews, “Recycling for Eternity: The Reuse of Ancient Sarcophagi by the Pisan Merchant Elite in the 12th to 14th Century”, in Memorializing the Middle Classes in Medieval and Renaissance Europe, Anne Leader ed., Kalamazoo 2018, pp. 25–48, sp. pp. 25–27; Janet Huskinson, Roman Strigillated Sarcophagi: Art and Social History, Oxford 2015, p. 257. For the Camposanto in general, see Mauro Ronzani, Un’idea trecentesca di cimitero: La costruzione e l’uso del Camposanto nella Pisa del secolo xiv, Pisa 2005. For the Camposanto as a civic monument as well as a religious one, see Mathews, “Recycling for Eternity”(n. 22), p. 28; and Janet Huskinson, “Habent sua fata: Writing Life Histories of Roman Sarcophagi”, in Life, Death and Representation: Some New Work on Roman Sarcophagi, Jás Elsner, Janet Huskinson eds, Berlin 2010, pp. 55– 82, sp. p. 63. Carlo Lasinio was responsible for bringing a number of Roman objects into the Camposanto in the early nineteenth century, turning the cemetery into a museum. See Huskinson, Roman Strigillated Sarcophagi (n. 22), p. 271, and Claudio Casini and Fulvia Donati, “Il Camposanto come galleria”, in Il Camposanto di Pisa, Clara Baracchini, Enrico Castelnuovo eds, Turin 1996, pp. 147–164. Mathews, “Recycling for Eternity” (n. 22), pp. 31–32, 42; Huskinson, “Habent sua fata” (n. 23), p. 63. See in general Lucia Faedo, “Conoscenza dell’antico e reimpiego dei sarcofagi in Liguria”, in Colloquio sul reimpiego (n. 19), pp. 133–140; Karen Rose Mathews, “Decorating with Things: Spolia as Material Culture in the Italian Maritime Republics, 1100–1300”, bfo-Journal, i (2015), pp. 4–13, sp. pp. 8–10 (http://bauforschungonline.ch/sites/default/files/ publikationen/mathews.pdf; retrieved 2021-08-25); Lucia Faedo,“Entries 80– 85, 205–06, 209–15”,in La Cattedrale di San Lorenzo a Genova = The Cathedral of St. Lawrence in Genoa, Anna Rosa Calderoni Masetti, Gerhard Wolf eds, 2 vols, Modena 2012, pp. 1: 202, 205–207, 238–243. Colette Dufour Bozzo, Sarcofagi romani a Genova, Genoa 1967, pp. 31–43, provides a catalogue of the sarcophagi on the cathedral.

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5 / Roman marble sarcophagi inserted into façade, Genoa Cathedral, 13th century

transformed from functional objects into decorative sculpture. The sarcophagi are placed on the façade and towers in a seemingly random fashion; some are upside down or displayed in pieces27. What seems to have been central to this display is that the visual references to antiquity were readily recognizable, differentiated from the regular stone courses through their relief decoration. In establishing their rule in southern Italy, the Normans devised a concept of romanitas that was multifaceted and politically motivated. They wished to compare their rule to that of ancient Rome and allude to their connections to the pope and papal Rome through the use of ancient spolia in their architectural and funerary monuments. The association with an ancient past and the glory of the Roman Empire conferred legitimacy on rulers who were considered interlopers and political opportunists28. For their part, the urban elite of Salerno may have wished to align themselves with the rulers of their city, imitating a taste for tomb monuments that came from the highest level of society. They could also use these prestigious ancient tombs to display family pride, wealth, and status. Salerno was an ancient Roman city of some importance and vestiges of the ancient past remained visible in the medieval city and its environs. Salerno’s elite could forge connections to local rulers and the city’s ancient past simultaneously through the reuse of Roman tombs. The wealthy Pisans buried in ancient sarcophagi in the Camposanto had similar motivations to their counterparts in southern Italy. Pisa, too, was an ancient Roman city with its own impressive set of Roman structures29. As was the case in Salerno, Pisan citizens associated the medieval city’s political identity with that of ancient Rome. The medieval city was a steadfast supporter of the emperor and the imperial faction, loyal to the political figure who embodied the empire of the ancient Romans and their Holy Roman successors. The city’s government was based on that of ancient Rome and its legal code used Roman law as its foundation. Cultural manifestations of romanitas abounded as well in both textual and visual sources. Medieval texts likened the Duomo to an ancient temple, lauded Pisa as a second Rome or Roma altera, and compared the Pisans to Roman

citizens30. The Pisans displayed pride in their Roman heritage in the extensive use of Roman spolia on the city’s cathedral. The tombs in the Camposanto, then, were personal statements of a collective Pisan identity that had ancient Rome as its cultural touchstone. But like the Salernitan sarcophagi, ancient burial monuments advertised the wealth of particular families and the prestige that accompanied the possession of an ornate tomb in the precincts of the Camposanto31. These monuments visualized individual status and civic pride in a continuum of romanitas that connected Pisa with Rome as the capital of a great Mediterranean empire. Genoa was not an ancient city of any import and the ancient sarcophagi on the cathedral exterior were likely acquired in the Middle Ages from a number of Mediterranean locales32. The reused sarcophagi on Genoa’s Cathedral address the ancient past and contemporary concerns and identity in a distinctive manner. No longer associated with individuals or families as tombs, these antiquities could proclaim corporate and civic ideals in their display on a monumental public structure. Genoa’s undistinguished Roman past could be redefined, bolstered, and glorified through the reuse of these vestiges of Roman history33. The acquisition of ancient sarcophagi thus provided Genoa with a fictive but authoritative Roman pedigree. These ancient tombs could also visualize a civic identity related to competition with economic and political rivals, particularly the city of Pisa34. In the early Middle Ages, Pisa had the upper hand in this rivalry, but 27 Huskinson, Roman Strigillated Sarcophagi (n. 22), pp. 261–262. 28 Mathews, Conflict, Commerce (n. 14), pp. 43–44, 47, 71. 29 Marinella Pasquinucci,“Pisa romana”, in Pisa e il Mediterraneo:

30 31

32

33 34

Uomini, merci, idee dagli etruschi ai Medici, Marco Tangheroni ed., Milan 2003, pp. 81– 85. Von der Höh, Erinnerungskultur (n. 21), pp. 399–412; Mathews, Conflict, Commerce (n. 14), pp. 142–145. For information about the Pisan elite buried in ancient sarcophagi in the Camposanto, see Mathews, “Recycling for Eternity” (n. 22), pp. 29–36. Lucia Faedo,“Riflettendo sui contesti: Il contributo dell’archeologia alla conoscenza di San Lorenzo e delle sue vicende”, in La Cattedrale di San Lorenzo (n. 26), pp. 1, 33–40, sp. p. 38; Dufour Bozzo, Sarcofagi romani (n. 26), p. 11. Mathews, “Decorating with Things” (n. 26), p. 11. See Mathews, Conflict, Commerce (n. 14), pp. 178–192, for a discussion of this competition with Pisa in the eleventh and twelfth centuries.

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by the thirteenth century Genoa had outpaced the Tuscan city in Mediterranean commerce. The display of sarcophagi might reference a triumphant Genoa that had eclipsed Pisa, competing not only with Pisan international trade but also with its much vaunted romanitas, both central components of a Pisan civic consciousness in the Middle Ages. Thus, in their appropriation of an ancient past, these two Italian cities and great rivals took different conceptual positions; the Genoese strove to fabricate a Roman past where none existed while the Pisans sought to validate their longstanding connection to ancient Rome, highlighting continuity between ancient and medieval urban centers. Byzantine use of ancient spolia, 13th to 15th century

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In the Byzantine Empire, as opposed to western Europe, the heritage of antiquity was received with some ambivalence and a prime visual example of this attitude is the Little Metropolis in Athens [Fig. 6]. Dated between the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries, its location in Athens had significant ramifications for its creation and reception35. The builders of the structure could avail themselves of the rich selection of building materials at hand in the most important city of ancient Greece. Medieval Athens, like Salerno and Pisa, was filled with vestiges of antiquity, with structures from both ancient Greece and Rome defining the cityscape as still extant structures and ruins. All the exterior marble on this structure is believed to be repurposed from ancient buildings; unadorned marble blocks comprise the lower walls up the window line and above are approximately ninety carved marble plaques ornamented with figural, animal, and geometric decoration36. The appearance of the building from afar is homogeneous, a glowing white structure that seemingly emulated the nearby Parthenon. But up close the church presents an encrusted, textured, and dense sculptural ensemble, pieced together like an elaborate puzzle for viewers to ponder. The spoliate decoration consists of ancient Greek, Roman, and Byzantine reliefs intermingled across the upper walls. The iconography is diverse,

combining geometric and floral patterns with representations of humans and animals. The figures that have drawn the most attention are the nudes that appear on the main façade and side walls of the structure. Their presence would seem highly incongruous on a Christian building but several scholars have noted the addition of crosses next to the nude figures to sanctify, purify, and even protect these reliefs37. This structure perfectly evokes Byzantine attitudes towards classical antiquity that vacillated between admiration and antagonism. The structure is cloaked in ancient spoils but problematic reliefs like the nude figure required a rigorous interpretatio christiana to make them acceptable for the ornamentation of a religious structure38. In spite of their problematic nature, the figural reliefs, including the nudes, could be considered the most appropriate evocations of antiquity because they were the most recognizable manifestations of ancient visual culture. Their subject matter made them noticeable, announcing their origin and potentially encouraging viewers to stop and ponder their placement on a church. In a more positive understanding of the ancient past, the spoliate ensemble on the Little Metropolis accumulated history and displayed visual evocations of high points in Greek civilization39. As such, it visualized a local past noteworthy for its greatness but also for its continuity. Such a cumulative layering of past glory, which even included the Romans, was of particular significance in the thirteenth century in the wake of the Latin conquest of the Byzantine Empire in 1204. After Athens surrendered to the foreign invaders in 1205, the city never returned to Byzantine rule. The spolia on the Little Metropolis could evince a sense of civic pride and a connection to past greatness at a time when Athens was under foreign rule. In a recent reinterpretation of the church, Bente Kiilerich has argued that the structure does not date to the thirteenth century but rather to the late fifteenth century40. If this is the case, then the spoliate decoration could address another, even more formidable, foreign invader – the Ottoman Turks. The significance of the spolia on the exterior of the Little Metropolis, then, remained surprisingly consistent over time. The reused building

elements from a local past spoke to foreign occupiers (Latin Christians or Ottoman Turks) and local inhabitants alike, presenting a message of inclusion and a connection to the past for the Athenians while distinguishing the subject peoples from the conquerors. These remnants of past civilizations evoked a sense of pride, comfort, and nostalgia in some of the most challenging periods in the history of this once great city. In Greece as well, the Church of the Dormition at Merbaka continued Byzantine trends in spolia use, though the building was the product of a hybrid society [Fig. 7]. The church was built by the new Latin Archbishop of Corinth, William of Moerbeke, soon after he took office in 1287. Moerbeke’s structure has been characterized as a building that combines old and new, eastern and western architectural elements, in an eclectic and innovative fashion, reflecting the multicultural environment of the Peloponnese

6 / Ancient marble spolia on exterior, Little Metropolis in Athens, 13th–15th century 7 / Greek marble funerary stele on exterior, Church of the Dormition of the Virgin in Merbaka, 13th century

35 The most extensive analysis of this structure had been con-

36

37 38

39

40

ducted by Bente Kiilerich, “Making Sense of the Spolia in the Little Metropolis in Athens”, Arte medievale, iv (2005), pp.  95–114, and Henry Maguire, “The Cage of Crosses: Ancient and Medieval Sculptures on the ‘Little Metropolis’ in Athens”, in Henry Maguire, Rhetoric, Nature and Magic in Byzantine Art, Aldershot 1998, pp. 169–172; see also Anthony Kaldellis, The Christian Parthenon: Classicism and Pilgrimage in Byzantine Athens, Cambridge 2009, pp. 212–214; Amy Papalexandrou, “Memory Tattered and Torn: Spolia in the Heartland of Byzantine Hellenism”, in Archaeologies of Memory, Ruth Van Dyke, Susan Alcock eds, Oxford 2003, pp. 56–80, sp. p. 58; Helen Saradi,“The Use of Ancient Spolia in Byzantine Monuments: The Archaeological and Literary Evidence”, International Journal of the Classical Tradition, iii/4 (1997), pp. 395–423, sp. pp. 406–409. For a recent reassessment of the church’s dating, see Kiilerich, “Making Sense”, (see above) pp. 107–111. Ibidem, pp. 95–98, provides a comprehensive overview of the various spoliate elements on the exterior of the Little Metropolis. Maguire, “The Cage of Crosses” (n. 35), pp. 170–172. Amy Papalexandrou,“The Architectural Layering of History in the Medieval Morea: Monuments, Memory, and Fragments of the Past”, in Viewing the Morea: Land and People in the Late Medieval Peloponnese, Sharon Gerstel ed., Washington, d.c. 2013, pp. 23–54, sp. p. 28; Ine Jacobs, “Production to Destruction? Pagan and Mythological Statuary in Asia Minor”, American Journal of Archaeology, cxiv/2 (2010), pp. 267–303, p. 280; Georgios Deligiannakis,“Christian Attitudes Towards Pagan Statuary”, Byzantion, lxxviii (2008), pp. 142–158, sp. p. 152. Papalexandrou, “Memory Tattered” (n. 35), p. 74; Elizabeth Jeffreys, “We Need to Talk about Byzantium: Or, Byzantium, Its Reception of the Classical World as Discussed in Current Scholarship, and Should Classicists Pay Attention?”, Classical Receptions Journal, vi/1 (2014), pp. 158–174, sp. p. 163. Kiilerich, “Making Sense” (n. 35), pp. 107–111.

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in the wake of the Latin conquest of the Byzantine Empire41. The Church of the Dormition displays a number of ancient spoliate elements. The building stands on an elevated platform similar to those that supported ancient temples. Like the Little Metropolis, the lower walls are faced with reused dressed stone from a nearby ancient site (in this case, Argos); the upper walls are fashioned of alternating brick and stone, conforming to norms of Byzantine architecture. Ancient reliefs and inscriptions are strategically located on the church’s exterior while the interior is ornamented with spoliate columns. Two inscriptions, one in Latin and the other in Greek, are located near doors; the Latin text prominently features the word “imperator” that could be easily read by those conversant in Latin42. A Greek inscription also adorns a doorway and together these two epigraphs visualize the linguistic complexity of medieval Greece while pointing to the dual ancient heritage of the area that encompassed both ancient Greece and Rome. Funerary reliefs adorn the upper walls as well43. The two remaining reliefs represent standing robed figures but, unlike the Little Metropolis, no effort was made to Christianize or purify these vestiges of the pagan past. On the contrary, the ancient stones punctuate the façade in prominent locations and add variety to the brick and stone surfaces44. In its extensive use of ancient spolia, the Church of the Dormition at Merbaka works within a spoliate style that characterized a number of buildings from this period created by foreign and Greek patrons alike. The juxtaposition of Latin and Greek texts might be understood as an acknowledgment of the cultural mixing that already existed in this area since antiquity. Guy Sanders has argued that the combination of Greek and Roman spolia and western and eastern architectural styles alluded to the union of the Greek and Latin Churches that would have had such profound religious repercussions for the inhabitants of the Peloponnese at this time45. The spolia have also been likened to literary quotations, manifesting Moerbeke’s antiquarian interests and scholarly work translating Greek texts into Latin46. The ancient remains contributed to the beauty and variety of the building’s decoration while conferring authority upon its

patron through these visual and textual references to a classical past that encompassed both ancient Greek and Roman culture. The evocations of antiquity in these two structures created in the Greek world highlighted continuity with the Greek and Roman past, creating a collective ancient culture that did not necessarily distinguish between the two. It is not clear the degree to which medieval audiences would have been able to differentiate these cultural products anyway, with the exception of reused inscriptions that announced their origin through the languages used. The use of a spolia aesthetic also signaled belonging for foreign patrons in Greek lands. The Archbishop of Corinth, William of Moerbeke, displayed his knowledge of contemporary building trends in the Peloponnese in his use of standard Byzantine architectural forms and rich, encrusted spolia decoration that emphasized admiration for and inclusion into the local visual culture in an area that was under foreign control for much of the thirteenth century47. In understanding the use of spolia in Greek lands, one needs to specify what antiquity is being referenced. In general, Byzantine builders and patrons intermingled ancient Greek and Roman spolia. Indeed, in very few cases were Greek antiquities reused specifically; the overwhelming majority of ancient spolia was Roman. This may have been determined by a Byzantine self-image that defined the inhabitants of the empire as heirs to ancient Rome. They were Romaioi, Romans not Greeks, and their use of Roman spolia demonstrated this continuity with a glorious past48. By contrast, the relationship with Greek antiquity appears to be defined by rupture, separated from the Byzantine present by the Roman period and carrying ideological baggage that mitigated against the wholesale adoption of its visual culture. It has been argued that Hellenism was only revived as a result of the European conquest of the empire in the thirteenth century, recuperated to distinguish the local inhabitants from the conquerors by emphasizing their unique, Greek past, not the shared cultural debt to ancient Rome49. Within this shared interest in antiquity across the Mediterranean, understandings of spolia could be particularized in specific settings. Local

antiquities provided powerful touchstones to ancient dynasties, highlighting commonalities and continuity between past and present. For the Mamluks, ancient Egypt was an important cultural referent. This was a powerful culture responsible for the creation of great and enduring monuments, famed for its stability and longevity. The Mamluks, foreigners from Central Asia and the Caucasus whose very political system was predicated upon volatility and instability, could gain legitimacy through their association with the ancient pharaohs. These foreign rulers could be incorporated into Egyptian history and make connections with the people they governed through this shared heritage. From a medieval perspective, ancient Egypt was a land of marvels, magic, and knowledge, and these qualities could be evoked in visual terms through the pharaonic remains displayed so prominently in Mamluk architectural structures. In medieval Greece, Greek and Roman antiquities could serve similar legitimating purposes for locals and foreigners alike. As a unit, GrecoRoman antiquity manifested continuity and an association with two great empires. In the contentious region of the Peloponnese, such a connection to the past mattered to foreign rulers who aimed to establish themselves and to local powers who wished to challenge the claim of these interlopers. The understanding of a unified Greco-Roman past could also reference the conciliation between Greek inhabitants and Latin conquerors that eventually did occur in the region. It might also refer to contemporary events like the potential unification of the Orthodox and Latin Churches, institutions that had been at odds for centuries. In times of strife, however, the two cultures became uncoupled and Greek populations asserted their Hellenic identity untainted by Roman influence. When faced with the Latin conquest of the Peloponnese, local peoples and their rulers turned to the Greek heritage that distinguished them from the outsiders who controlled their lands. Though the inhabitants of the Byzantine Empire generally thought of themselves as Romans, at particular places and times (i.e. the Greek mainland in the thirteenth century) it was essential to highlight the association with a local past and not the general, shared

Roman identity that united the Byzantines’ extensive and culturally diverse empire. In Italy, ancient Rome was the default cultural touchstone. Since this was the dominant ancient culture, medieval polities competed with one another to display the superiority of their particular brand of romanitas. Pisa manifested a connection to ancient Rome in its extraordinary display of ancient Roman spolia on civic monuments throughout the city, its laws and form of government, and its allegiance to the Holy Roman Emperor, the successor to ancient Roman rulers. In Norman-controlled territories, romanitas referred to the glory of ancient emperors but also to contemporary Rome and the preponderant role the pope played in Roman politics, often in opposition to the emperor championed by Pisa. For Genoa, a city without its own significant Roman past, romanitas needed to be fabricated through the creation of a fictive genealogy bolstered by the antiquities displayed on the city’s duomo. As these cities competed with one another on the 41 For a general discussion of this structure, see the article by

42

43

44 45 46

47

48

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Guy Sanders, “William of Moerbeke’s Church at Merbaka: The Use of Ancient Spolia to Make Personal and Political Statements”, Hesperia, lxxxiv (2015), pp. 583–626. The ancient spoils on this church are complemented by contemporary foreign reused objects – in this case ceramic bowls known as bacini; this combination of spolia is a topic I am addressing in a larger monograph. Sanders, “William of Moerbeke’s Church” (n. 41), pp. 599, 601–604; Papalexandrou,“The Architectural Layering”(n. 38), p. 33. Originally there were three but only two remain in situ; the third relief is now in Copenhagen. For the reliefs, see Sanders, “William of Moerbeke’s Church”(n. 41), p. 604; Papalexandrou, “The Architectural Layering” (n. 38), p. 31. Papalexandrou, “Memories Tattered” (n. 35), pp. 61–62. Sanders,“William of Moerbeke’s Church”(n. 41), pp. 612–616. Papalexandrou, “The Architectural Layering” (n. 38), p. 31; Andrea Mattiello, “Visual Antiquarianism in Mystras”, Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen Institutes in Florenz, lx/1 (2018), pp. 9–32, sp. p. 15. Gill Page, Being Byzantine: Greek Identity before the Ottomans, Cambridge 2008, pp. 6, 177, 181; Mattiello, “Visual Antiquarianism”(n. 46), pp. 10–11, 30; Charalambos Bouras,“The Impact of Frankish Architecture on Thirteenth-Century Byzantine Architecture”,in The Crusades from the Perspective of Byzantium and the Muslim World, Angeliki Laiou, Roy Mottahedeh eds, Washington, d.c. 2001, pp. 247–262, sp. p. 261. See, in general, Anthony Kaldellis, Romanland: Ethnicity and Empire in Byzantium, Cambridge, ma 2019, for his discussion of the Romanness of Byzantium. See also Jeffreys,“We Need to Talk” (n. 39), p. 168; Page, Being Byzantine (n. 47), pp. 1, 9, 44, 51; Mattiello, “Visual Antiquarianism” (n. 46), p. 30. Papalexandrou, “The Architectural Layering” (n. 38), pp. 48, 53; Page, Being Byzantine (n. 47), p. 65.

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peninsula and in the Mediterranean at large, they instrumentalized the Roman past to support their exclusive claim as successors to this great empire. In all these cultures a translation of meaning occurred as ancient spoils were recuperated and repurposed. Their insertion in a new context resulted in an emptying of some signification countered by the intensification of other symbolism and meaning. In this process of translation, then, the understanding of ancient spolia changed to suit their new contexts. The Mamluks highlighted the power and longevity of ancient Egyptian civilization while downplaying polytheistic religious beliefs and the extensive use of three-dimensional imagery that could be construed as idols. In the Byzantine Empire, the definition of what antiquity was shifted over time, vacillating between the Roman and Greek past or merging them into one monolithic culture. In western Europe, references to Rome could mean many different things – the great ancient empire, the seat of the papacy, and an important urban center whose possession was hotly contested. In this fluid understanding of the past, a loose translation as it were, one of these significations could be foregrounded while the others were ignored to make site-specific statements about a relationship to antiquity. The pan-Mediterranean significance of ancient columns

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The Roman Empire encompassed the entirety of the Mediterranean and the physical remains of this great empire covered all the lands surrounding the sea. Ancient Roman building materials circulated widely through trade networks as the prestige associated with luxury marbles remained high. Even by the later Middle Ages, it was still possible to collect large quantities of columns that could be used as structural or decorative elements on public buildings. This taste, then, for ancient Roman marble united the cultures across the sea as they reused beautiful building materials in a way that demonstrated their aesthetic effects and quality and a common cultural heritage as successors to this great ancient empire50. As remnants of the past universally appreciated across the Mediterranean, the reuse of ancient columns

created a visual koine that connected cultures through a shared artistic vocabulary. In what might be termed a normative usage of Roman building materials, ancient structures displayed columns, capitals, and bases serving the same structural function as they did in antiquity. Medieval builders prized rare colored marbles and monolithic shafts but in the absence of homogeneous building materials they created varied and eclectic combinations of columns and capitals in structures across the Mediterranean51. The popularity of basilica-style churches and hypostyle mosques necessitated a large number of internal structural supports. Locales like Rome where colonnaded or arcaded basilicas enjoyed widespread popularity employed spoliate columns and capitals in the building of new churches and the renovation of older ones. Old Saint Peter’s, for example, was the Roman church most celebrated for its spoliate colonnade before its destruction to make way for the new Renaissance basilica52. In the Byzantine Empire, just about every church built in Constantinople in the Palaeologan period used ancient and Late Antique supports53. Though newly cut stone would have been readily available in the imperial capital and throughout much of the empire, there was a conscious archaism in religious structures that paid homage to the Romans as political and cultural models while highlighting the continuity of the Roman Empire from antiquity to the fourteenth century. In regional centers like Mystras, a similar aesthetic defined ecclesiastical architecture in the period after the Latin conquest. Byzantine territories that remained independent of Latin rule visualized the connection to ancient Rome through spoliate colonnades. The Church of Hagios Demetrios in Mystras displays what Mattiello has called “a visual antiquarianism” in its use of spolia, featuring columns and capitals that were likely procured from the nearby ruins of ancient Sparta [Fig. 8]54. The connection to the past conferred legitimacy on the Byzantine rulers of the despotate in a contested area divided between Greek and Frankish rule. Evocations of antiquity were used by both groups to claim superiority over rivals and consolidate territorial claims.

In Mamluk Cairo, the continued popularity of the multi-column or hypostyle mosque required large numbers of supports; grandiose, prestigious structures like the Citadel Mosque of al-Nasir Muhammad, the Mosque of al-Maridani, and the Mosque of al-Mu’ayyad Sheikh reuse dozens of ancient shafts in their prayer halls55. Variety is the operative word in these sculptural ensembles, with different types of Roman columns interspersed with ancient Egyptian supports. Capitals and bases are mixed without any adherence to the classical orders. Figural capitals and even ones inscribed with crosses adorn mosque structures in Cairo, apparently requiring no reworking for inclusion into a Muslim religious structure56. Other uses for ancient columns, capitals, and bases were more practical with less symbolic force. Reused presumably because they were conveniently close at hand, this spoliate material enhanced 50 For some classic works on ancient spolia, see Hans Peter

L’Orange, Armin von Gerkan, Der spätantike Bildschmuck des Konstantinbogens, Berlin 1939; Friedrich W. Deichmann, “Säule und Ordnung in der frühchristlichen Architektur”, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung, lv (1940), pp. 114–130; Dale Kinney, “Rape or Restitution of the Past? Interpreting Spolia”, in The Art of Interpreting, Susan Scott ed., University Park 1995, pp. 52–67; Beat Brenk, “Spolia from Constantine to Charlemagne: Aesthetics Versus Ideology”, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, xli (1987), pp. 103–109. See also Greenhalgh, Marble Past (n. 15), pp. 169–232, for his discussion of the medieval “marble hit parade”. 51 Philipp Niewöhner, “Varietas, Spolia, and the End of Antiquity in East and West”, in Spolia Reincarnated: Afterlives of Objects, Materials, and Spaces in Anatolia from Antiquity to the Ottoman Era, Ivana Jevtić, Suzan Yalman eds, Istanbul 2018, pp. 237–257; Maria Fabricius Hansen, The Spolia Churches of Rome: Recycling Antiquity in the Middle Ages, Aarhus 2015, pp. 74–78. 52 Hansen, Spolia Churches of Rome (n. 51), pp. 61–63; Dale Kinney, “Spolia”, in St. Peter’s in the Vatican, William Tronzo ed., Cambridge 2005, pp. 16–47, sp. pp. 36–40. 53 Nicholas Melvani, “Late, Middle, and Early Byzantine Sculpture in Palaiologan Constantinople”, in Spolia Reincarnated (n. 51), pp. 149–169, sp. p. 163. 54 Mattiello, “Visual Antiquarianism” (n. 46), pp. 12–15. 55 For the Citadel Mosque, see Greenhalgh, Marble Past (n. 15), p. 463; Bernard O’Kane, The Mosques of Egypt, Cairo 2016, p. 91. Doris Behrens-Abouseif, Cairo of the Mamluks: A History of the Architecture and Its Culture, London 2007, pp. 183, 244, discusses the mosques of al-Maridani and al-Mu’ayyad Sheikh, and Karen Rose Mathews, “Borrowing or Stealing? The Use of Spolia in the Mosque Complex of al-Mu’ayyad Sheikh”, arce Bulletin, clxxx (2001), pp. 25–27, p. 25, refers to the reused ancient columns in the prayer hall of al-Mu’ayyad Sheikh’s mosque. 56 Marianne Barrucand, “Les chapiteaux de remploi de la mosquée al-Azhar et l’émergence d’un type de chapiteau médiéval en Égypte”, Annales islamologiques, xxxvi (2002), pp. 37–75, sp. p. 42.

8 / Reused ancient marble columns as interior supports, Hagios Demetrios in Mystras, 13th century

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the aesthetic appeal of a structure while demonstrating a high level of creativity in developing new functions for old marble57. Ancient columns were used for inlaid pavements, a tradition that dates back to the Roman period. Roundels created from slicing column shafts formed an essential decorative and organizational element in medieval marble floors, ornamenting structures across the Mediterranean. The most sought-after columns were those of red and green porphyry and massive rotae of these stones can be seen in the churches of Rome; the pavement of Santa Maria in Cosmedin displays a particularly impressive set of porphyry roundels [Fig. 9]58. Entire column shafts were also inserted into city walls, gates, and fortresses. In this manifestation, the shafts were functional

and beautiful; they prevented sapping by shoring up strategic towers and articulated the courses of stone with their color and distinctive round shape59. This type of reuse had a long pedigree in the eastern Mediterranean and a number of buildings in Turkey, Syria, Egypt, and Greece display columns reused in this fashion. This distinctive use of column shafts also appears in castles and fortifications built by western powers with a presence in the eastern part of the Mediterranean. The walls created by the Venetians in Chania, Crete use this technique; it is also seen in their fortress on the island of Paros [Fig. 10]60. These types of walls were not common in western Europe but they were readily adopted as part of a Mediterranean fortification vernacular by the Italian maritime republics

and military orders who established colonies and outposts across the sea.

9 / Marble pavement with porphyry rotae, Santa Maria in Cosmedin in Rome, 12th century

57 Meinecke, “Circulating Images” (n. 3), 328. 58 See in general Paloma Pajares-Ayuela, Cosmatesque Orna-

10 / Marble column shafts inserted into walls, Venetian Fortress, Parikia on Paros, 1260

ment: Flat Polychrome Geometric Patterns in Architecture, trans. Maria Fleming Alvarez, New York 2001, and Peter Claussen, “Marmi antichi nel medioevo romano: L’arte dei Cosmati”, in Marmi antichi, Gabriele Borghini ed., Rome 2004, pp. 65–79, for a discussion of medieval pavements in Rome. See also Hansen, Spolia Churches (n. 51), p. 67; Greenhalgh, Marble Past (n. 15), pp. 189–190; and Dale Kinney, “Roman Architectural Spolia”, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society, cxlv/2 (2001), pp. 138–150, sp. p. 142. 59 See in general the article by Michael Greenhalgh, “Spolia in Fortifications: Turkey, Syria, and North Africa”, in Ideologie e pratiche del reimpiego nell’alto medioevo, Spoleto 1999, pp. 785–932, and Jon M. Frey, Spolia in Fortifications and the Common Builder in Late Antiquity, Leiden 2016, pp. 113, 116–117, 120–124. 60 Saradi, “The Use of Ancient Spolia” (n. 35), p. 406.

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The extensive, even excessive, use of columns in structures around the Mediterranean is one last example of a collective appreciation of the Roman past. These columns could be functional, as seen in the supports of the Citadel Mosque of al-Nasir Muhammad in Cairo, or completely decorative as was the case with the façade of the Basilica of San Marco in Venice [Fig. 11]61. Functional or otherwise, these column compendia shared an ostentation that had a long Mediterranean pedigree. In the Roman Empire, theater backdrops often displayed exotic colored marble shafts, and earlier medieval buildings like Old Saint Peter’s, the Great Mosques of Córdoba and Kairouan, and the Mosque of al-Azhar in Cairo feature column displays notable for the quality, rarity, and sheer number of supports used [Fig. 12]62. The fact that the columns employed in these normative and creative ways were the product of multiple time periods and places, added to the richness of their signification63. They visualized the unified nature of the Mediterranean under Roman control and by extension the interconnectedness of medieval territories across the sea. They also had a double provenance – they originated in ancient Rome but were also connected to the medieval Mediterranean locales from which they were procured through purchase or plunder – Italy, North Africa, Spain, the Levant, and the Byzantine Empire. Though the territories around the Mediterranean were no longer unified politically, they were still connected economically and culturally. These eclectic, beautiful, and precious colonnades provided an evocation of antiquity that all could appreciate and share. As elements of a Mediterranean visual koine, they reconstituted antiquity but transcended political and religious boundaries through a common architectural vocabulary and aesthetic. The practice of reusing ancient Roman columns and the stance towards antiquity that it represented, manifested a shared appreciation of Roman architecture and one of its essential structural components. The ubiquity of reused column shafts in medieval Mediterranean architecture epitomized a visual koine shared by various cultures who came into contact through proximity to the sea. In these use cases, references to ancient

Rome were universalized, detached from a specific context that would have assigned a localized understanding of these spoils. Liberated from that system of signification, the ancient columns could accrue new, more global meanings in their concerted and varied use in myriad places and structures64. This koine consisted of a common repertoire of materials, styles, and forms that were hybridized so that they no longer belonged to one culture65. Its creation was based on cultural contact and mixing but its new hybrid forms furthered cultural interaction as they circulated and were reincorporated into local visual systems. A dialectical relationship, then, existed between the local and the pan-Mediterranean as the movement of objects across the sea resulted in new visual syntheses and significations for ancient materials. Such a shared visual language across the medieval Mediterranean is not surprising give the establishment of similar koines in antiquity66. Ancient Roman visual culture itself was the result of what has been called an “aggregative cultural praxis”, one that readily assimilated cultural references from various regions within its extensive territories67. Thus, the koineization of ancient Roman spolia had as its foundation materials from a visual culture that was already hybrid and eclectic in nature. Conclusion A visual koine, then, connected people across the sea through a shared appreciation of ancient Roman building materials and forged associations to a powerful empire that controlled what the Romans called mare nostrum. As people traveled around the Mediterranean, they could recognize mutually comprehensible visual signs in the instances of reuse they viewed on civic and religious structures in the course of their journeys. Roman antiquity connected cultures and provided the raw materials for the creation and circulation of innovative and eclectic visual forms among peoples who shared an admiration for an ancient Roman past. As the visual examples addressed here indicate, however, an understanding of antiquity in the Mediterranean was not monolithic. The attraction

of evocations of an ancient past resided in their multiple layers and openness to new meanings and interpretations. Ancient spolia could be used to address local concerns, inventing connections to antiquity to enhance political legitimacy and highlight continuity. Disparate ancient cultures could be elided to visualize the sheer accumulation of antiquity in places like Greece, but disentangled when external political threats made it paramount to distinguish local inhabitants from foreign invaders. Ancient culture in the Mediterranean also worked in a holistic sense, breaking down barriers between medieval territories and forging a pan-Mediterranean visual koine that connected people across the sea to the past but also to one another. In Mediterranean cultural studies, there is a certain tension between the general and the specific, as scholars assess what is unique about a site, culture, or practice in a particular locale while acknowledging its place within a common Mediterranean mentality or worldview. This essay demonstrates that in the realm of visual culture vestiges of the ancient past could work simultaneously in both of these modes. The connectivity of the Mediterranean ensured knowledge of neighbors and enemies alike; artistic production and practices thus developed in a dialogue between peoples across the sea that were defined by but also constituted a common visual language.

11 / Ancient marble and porphyry columns on west façade, San Marco in Venice, 13th century 12 / Reused marble columns in interior prayer hall, Great Mosque in Córdoba, 8th–10th century

61 For Venice, see Simonetta Minguzzi, “Aspetti della decorazio-

ne marmorea e architettonica della basilica di San Marco”,in Marmi della basilica di San Marco: Capitelli, plutei, rivestimenti, arredi, Irene Favaretto et al. eds, Milan 2000, pp. 29–121, esp. pp. 96–107; Greenhalgh, Marble Past (n. 15), pp. 421–439. 62 Kinney, “Roman Architectural Spolia” (n. 58), pp. 143, 149; eadem, “The Discourse of Columns”, in Rome across Time and Space: Cultural Transmission and the Exchange of Ideas c. 500–1400, Claudia Bolgia, Rosamond McKitterick, John Osborne eds, Cambridge 2011, pp. 182–199, sp. pp. 191–193; Mathews, Conflict, Commerce (n. 14), pp. 8–9, 57–58. 63 Ibidem, pp. 15, 57, 153. 64 Meinecke, “Circulating Images” (n. 3), p. 334; Kerswill, “Koineization and Accommodation” (n. 4), p. 673; Versluys, “Roman Visual Material Culture” (n. 2), p. 158. 65 Marian Feldman, “Luxurious Forms: Redefining a Mediterranean ‘International Style’, 1400–1200 bce”, Art Bulletin, lxxxiv/1 (2002), pp. 6–29, pp. 7, 17–18; Versluys, “Roman Visual Material Culture” (n. 2), p. 154. 66 See Meinecke, “Circulating Images” (n. 3); Feldman, “Luxurious Forms” (n. 65); and Versluys, “Roman Visual Material Culture” (n. 2). 67 Ibidem, pp. 153–154, 163.

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In other circumstances, such commonality gave way to a unique and highly specific understanding of the past, developed to emphasize difference and distinction. Contemporary Mediterranean studies can be enriched by the acknowledgment that these two modes of interpreting the past existed and functioned in tandem, demonstrating the continued power of antiquity in the medieval world.

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summary Antickou řečí Antická spolia jako vizuální koiné ve středověkém Středomoří (12.–15. století)

Antické dědictví bylo ve středověkém Středomoří silně přítomné a sloužilo jako připomínka velkých říší a civilizací. Všeobecně rožšířenou praxí byla integrace antických spolií nebo opětovné použití starších architektonických prvků do nově vznikajících veřejných staveb. Článek se zabývá dvěma rozličnými, ale vzájemně se doplňujícími přístupy k „recyklaci“ antické mi­nu­losti. V lokalitách, které autorka zkoumá – v italských městech, Byzantské a Mamlúcké říši – mohla mít antická minulost pro středověké publikum a mecenáše specifický význam a vizuálně přispívat k vyjádření jejich politické a kulturní identity. Opětovné užití kamene ze staveb faraónského Egypta v mamlúcké architektuře bylo pojítkem mezi touto novou, „cizí“ dynastií a moudrostí, pompou a dlouhověkostí starověké civilizace. V západní Evropě odkazovaly pozůstatky římské kultury na velkou starověkou říši a její hlavní město Řím jako papežské sídlo a důležité strategické a symbolické místo středověkého Středomoří. Podobně si také Byzantská říše

nárokovala sdílené dědictví řecké a římské antiky. Středověcí stavitelé a patroni se odkazovali k jedné nebo oběma z těchto kultur v závislosti na tom, jaký aspekt antické minulosti chtěli ve své umělecké produkci zdůraznit. Kromě toho bylo možné antická spolia použít nejen k reprezentaci sdílené vizuální kultury, ale i k tvorbě společné koiné. Formování vizuální koiné založené na římských spoliích a nový vizuální systém utvářený kulturními procesy míšení, relokace a agregace vedly ke sjednocení různých kultur napříč Středomořím. Oblíbenost spolií demonstruje široké užití antických sloupů normativními i kreativními způsoby – jako podpěr, dlažeb a dekorativních prvků na stěnách. Spoliace mohla vizualizovat také kulturní, politické a ekonomické vztahy mezi jednotlivými oblastmi. Autorka se však domnívá, že poukazují především na sdílený obdiv k antické minulosti. Středomoří ve středověku tedy mluvilo antickou řečí: společným a obecně srozumitelným vizuálním jazykem založeným na pozůstatcích římské minulosti.

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Abstract – Spolia and Textual Reincarnations. A Reassessment of the Hagia Sophia’s History – A study of literary representations of buildings leads to intersections of comparative literature and art history. This article uses two concepts from spolia studies, “reincarnation” and “afterlife” to argue that the forms that a building adopts in literature can be considered textual reincarnations. It analyzes, as a case study, descriptions of the Hagia Sophia in Constantinople/Istanbul in literary works from authors such as Paul the Silentiary (d. 575–580), Taşlıcalı Yahya Bey (d. 1582), and Edmondo de Amicis (1846–1908). The history seen through the Hagia Sophia’s textual reincarnations constitutes an alternative to its mainstream history, which has often considered its conversions to a mosque and a museum as the sole turning points. Although they may have no overt connections to the building’s original architectural structure, textual reincarnations of a building can still provide crucial insights into its reception in everchanging contexts. Keywords – afterlife, appropriation, Hagia Sophia, monument, reincarnation, spolia, translation studies, world literature C. Ceyhun Arslan Koç University, Istanbul 60 [email protected]

Spolia and Textual Reincarnations A Reassessment of the Hagia Sophia’s History* C. Ceyhun Arslan

This article examines how spolia studies can generate new bridges between the disciplines of art history and comparative literature. It argues that critics can use a key term in spolia studies, “reincarnation”, and consider the diverse forms that a building adopts in literature as that building’s “textual reincarnations”. While the Latin word spolia initially meant war trophies, during the Renaissance period it started to also refer to artifacts and building materials that are reused in new cultural and historical contexts. Scholars such as Salvatore Settis and Maria Fabricius Hansen, as my article will demonstrate, have forged bridges between the disciplines of literature and

art history, as their work draws analogies between spolia and citations or spolia and translations. While acknowledging the need to establish such *

This work received support from Marie Skłodowska-Curie Actions (Grant No. 795465) under the Horizon 2020 Framework of the European Commission. It was initially presented in 2019 at the “Currents and Currency: Cultural Circulations in the Mediterranean and Beyond”workshop at the Koç University Suna & İnan Kıraç Research Center for Mediterranean Civilizations (akmed), Turkey. I would like to thank Jason Rodriguez Vivrette, who was the respondent for this paper, the other workshop participants, and this article’s anonymous reviewers for their helpful feedback. I am also deeply grateful to Senem Acar, Engin Akyürek, Çağıl Bekik, Chloe Bordewich, Lauren Nicole Davis, Ivana Jevtić, Sooyong Kim, KOH Choon Hwee, Sina Mater, Ingela Nilsson, and Kamil Yeşiltaş for their support. 

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analogies, I here attempt a new approach and examine how recent scholarship in spolia studies can generate fresh insights on textual representations of buildings. This article provides, as a case study, a close reading of various literary works from different languages and time periods on the Hagia Sophia in Constantinople/Istanbul. Terms that have recently gained traction in spolia studies – “appropriation”, “afterlife”, and “reincarnation”– can generate new avenues of research for literary critics who examine textual representations of architectural works from other cultures and earlier time periods. The study of spolia has changed the way in which buildings are analyzed, as it has helped art and architectural historians to rethink the relationship between the building’s original structure and its later, modified versions. Scholars now consider these later versions as part of what Annabel J. Wharton called a building’s “biography” rather than as the results of the degradation of the building’s original structure: “If a building behaves like a body, it also demands to be engaged as a surviving witness of various pasts. Once it is recognized that a building has a life, architectural historians may be less likely to focus their scholarly attention exclusively on a structure’s origins and more likely to treat its full biography”1.

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This article proposes that the textual reincarnations of a building constitute an integral part of that building’s biography. The first section of this article will provide definitions of the terms spolia, afterlife, and reincarnation in art history scholarship and discuss various ways in which critics can employ these concepts for comparative literature. The second section analyzes textual representations of Hagia Sophia as a case study, since different political entities with diverse ideological visions have wanted to lay a claim on the building. Sometimes the Hagia Sophia is described as a wonder of nature that can undergo no spoliation; at other times, it is described as a person who defends Islam. It can also be reincarnated as a monument that gives information about earlier cultures and time periods. Each reincarnation can be studied as a new afterlife and avatar of the Hagia Sophia – a new reception of the building in a new context – to

reassess our understanding of the Hagia Sophia’s biography. Such a reassessment can help art historians to move beyond the current historiography that often studies the church, mosque, and museum phases of the building separately. Spolia studies: bridging the disciplines of comparative literature and art history In Latin, the term spolia means something taken by force as booty2. In a more modern sense, the term refers to artifacts that are “incorporated into a setting culturally or chronologically different from that of [their] creation”3. There is a wide range of spolia, and the presence of spolia does not necessarily signify victory and imperial domination because architects and builders can use pieces from other works of architecture simply for practical purposes, especially when resources are scarce4. Writing on the history of Anatolian churches that were converted into mosques, Tuğba Tanyeri-Erdemir argues that the reuse of entire buildings can constitute an extreme case of spoliation5. Maria Fabricius Hansen also notes that “we find complete buildings converted to new purposes. This is both the most radical and sustainable strategy of spoliation”6. In the introduction to Spolia Reincarnated: Afterlives of Objects, Materials, and Spaces in Anatolia from Antiquity to the Ottoman Era, Ivana Jevtić notes that the title “reflects its vision, inspired by two interconnected notions: reincarnation and afterlives. To be reincarnated means to appear and live again but in a different body, while afterlife signifies a form of new life”7. I propose that these concepts, afterlife and reincarnation, can shed a new light upon representations of buildings in literary works. Further below, Jevtić indicates that essays in the volume: “conceptualize the renewed use of material things, buildings, and spaces as a form of new life, assuring them a unique existence and preserving them from oblivion – as if the ‘spirit of things’ (their soul) continues to live despite alterations in their physical properties or changes in their original function or location”8.

Therefore, the essays in Spolia Reincarnated examine diverse reincarnations of spolia and provide various interpretations of these reincarnations.

Afterlife is also a crucial concept in key works of translation studies and world literature. For example, Walter Benjamin’s “The Task of the Translator”, one of the most prominent works in translation studies, describes translation as a part of a text’s afterlife: “Just as the manifestations of life are intimately connected with the phenomenon of life without being of importance to it, a translation issues from the original – not so much from its life as from its afterlife”9.

Afterlife also becomes a key term in the field of world literature, which studies the reception of literary works in myriad historical and cultural contexts. Drawing upon Benjamin’s description of translation, David Damrosch makes the following remark: “[W]orks of world literature take on a new life as they move into the world at large, and to understand this new life we need to look closely at the ways the work becomes reframed in its translations and in its new cultural contexts”10.

Numerous critics, such as Vilashini Cooppan, Darrah Lustig, and Patricia Novillo-Corvalán, have used the concept of afterlife to refer to the reception of literary works in new contexts11. The use of the concept of afterlife in both art history and comparative literature is a methodological tool that helps scholars to rethink the relationship between the original artwork and its later reincarnations as spolia or as translations. Many scholars have already explored intersections between the disciplines of art history and comparative literature by drawing analogies between spolia in architecture and intertextual references in texts. For example, Salvatore Settis compares citations to spolia12, while Akiko Sumi suggests that “Shawqī’s reuse of the rhyme-words [in his poem] from al-Buḥturī’s [poem] Sīniyyah can be comparable with spolia in architecture”13. Maria Fabricius Hansen notes that the literal meaning of the term translatio, the Latin term for translation, is to carry something from one place to another. Therefore, the act of incorporating spolia into a work of architecture can be seen as a form of translation14. Providing new perspectives on intertextual phenomena is not the only way in which spolia studies can contribute to the discipline of

comparative literature; they can also shed new light on textual representations of buildings. Art historians such as Richard Brilliant have 1

2

3

4

5

6

7 8 9

10 11

12

13

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Annabel J. Wharton, “The Tribune Tower: Spolia as Despoliation”, in Reuse Value: Spolia and Appropriation in Art and Architecture from Constantine to Sherrie Levine, Richard Brilliant, Dale Kinney eds, Surrey 2011, pp. 179–197, sp. p. 195. Inge Uytterhoeven, “Spolia, –iorum, n.: From Spoils of War to Reused Building Materials: The History of a Latin Term”, in Spolia Reincarnated: Afterlives of Objects, Materials, and Spaces in Anatolia from Antiquity to the Ottoman Era, Ivana Jevtić, Suzan Yalman eds, Istanbul 2018, pp. 25–50, sp. p. 26. Dale Kinney, “The Concept of Spolia”, in A Companion to Medieval Art: Romanesque and Gothic in Northern Europe, Conrad Rudolph ed., Malden, ma 2006, pp. 233–252, sp. p. 233. Robert G. Ousterhout, “Ethnic Identity and Cultural Appropriation in Early Ottoman Architecture”, Muqarnas, xii (1995), pp. 48–62, sp. pp. 54–55. Tuğba Tanyeri-Erdemir, “Remains of the Day: Converted Anatolian Churches”, in Spolia Reincarnated (n. 2), pp. 71–93, sp. p. 71. Maria Fabricius Hansen, The Eloquence of Appropriation: Prolegomena to an Understanding of Spolia in Early Christian Rome, Rome 2003, p. 24. Ivana Jevtić,“Introduction”,in Spolia Reincarnated (n. 2), pp. 3–21, sp. p. 5. Ibidem, p. 5. Walter Benjamin, “The Task of the Translator”, in Illuminations, Hannah Arendt ed. and Harry Zohn trans., New York 2007, pp. 69–82, sp. p. 71. Benjamin uses the term Überleben in the source text, and some critics have noted that afterlife is not the correct translation of the term Überleben. Still, many important works of comparative literature that drew upon Benjamin’s essay have used the term “afterlife”. David Damrosch, What is World Literature?, Princeton 2003, p. 24. Patricia Novillo-Corvalán, “Joyce’s and Borges’s Afterlives of Shakespeare”, Comparative Literature, lx/3 (2008), pp. 207–227; Darrah Lustig, “The Task of the Survivor in Ruth Klüger’s ‘weiter leben’ (1992) and ‘Still Alive’ (2001)”, Studia austriaca, xxi (2013), pp. 29–50; Vilashini Cooppan, “The Ethics of World Literature: Reading Others, Reading Otherwise”, in Teaching World Literature, David Damrosch ed., New York 2009, pp. 34–43, sp. p. 41.  Cited in Kinney, “The Concept of Spolia” (n. 3), p. 244. Salvatore Settis, “Continuità, distanza, conoscenza. Tre usi dell’antico”, in Memoria dell’antico nell’arte italiana, vol. 3, Dalla tradizione all’archeologia, Salvatore Settis ed., Turin 1986, pp. 373–486, sp. p. 384. Akiko Sumi, “Poetry and Architecture: A Double Imitation in the Sīniyyah of Aḥmad Shawqī”, Journal of Arabic Literature, xxxix/1 (2008), pp. 72–122, sp. pp. 92–93. Hansen, The Eloquence of Appropriation (n. 6), p. 178. Paolo Liverani cautions critics not to take the analogy between citations and spolia too far. He notes that while citations raise the authority of the quoted text, spolia, especially as war trophies, often imply a degradation of the building from which it was taken. Furthermore, while one may create an exact replica of the text, one cannot do the same for a building. Paolo Liverani, “Reading Spolia in Late Antiquity and Contemporary Perception”, in Reuse Value (n. 1), pp. 33–51, sp. p. 42. Still, as long as scholars keep in mind these important caveats, an analogy between spolia and citations or other intertextual phenomena can still prove useful, as such an analogy generates important transdisciplinary dialogues.

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considered spolia as a subset of appropriation15. Likewise, writers can use or appropriate buildings from earlier times and/or other cultures as they forge their textual compositions. When buildings are appropriated in literature and described in ways that serve particular ideological purposes, they do not have to be described as a construction. Reincarnation as a concept suggests that buildings can take bodies or forms that are significantly different from their original architectural structure16. Spolia studies can be particularly helpful for scholars of art history and comparative literature, since spolia “stand as tangible representations or remains of the ‘Other’, whether in the realm of politics, culture, religion, ethnicity, etc.”17. Despite some recent works by critics such as David Spurr and Anne M. Myers18, the scholarship that describes how literary works represent objects, works of art, or buildings from earlier periods and other cultures remains quite scarce. Spolia studies can make critics more attuned to diverse narrative strategies that authors use when they describe a building, since they may describe that building not as a piece of architecture but instead as something else. Such strategies can de-emphasize the spoliation, and sometimes violence, that resulted in the conversion and reuse of these buildings for new purposes. As a Byzantinist “accustomed to […] dealing with all the challenges that come with a messy afterlife”19, Robert Ousterhout observes that “[the Hagia Sophia] has accrued meanings that have nothing to do with its physical form and quite possibly very little to do with its history – and even less to do with religion”20. The next section will examine the Hagia Sophia’s “meanings that have nothing to do with its physical form”. It will ultimately demonstrate that literary critics and art historians can use textual reincarnation as a heuristic concept for reassessing such meanings as important constituents of a building’s history. The many afterlives of the Hagia Sophia

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The collection of materials and the incorporation of spolia into the Hagia Sophia has reinforced the status of the building as the symbol of imperial grandeur. Emperor Justinian i (r. 527–565), who built the Hagia Sophia between 532 and 537,

ordered the compilation of materials and spolia for the construction of the building; these have been extensively documented by Claudia Barsanti and Alessandra Guiglia21. Sultan Mehmed ii (r. 1444–1446 and r. 1451–1481), who conquered Istanbul and converted the Hagia Sophia into a mosque in 1453, amassed relics and mementos, such as a prayer carpet of Prophet Muhammad, for the mosque and also did not even cover some of the Hagia Sophia’s figural imagery22. As noted by scholars such as Tanyeri-Erdemir, the Hagia Sophia itself became a spolium when it was used for different purposes in new cultural settings23. It was converted into a mosque in 1453, became a museum in 1934 with a decree from Mustafa Kemal Atatürk (1881–1938), founder of the Republic of Turkey, and was again re-established as a mosque in 2020 with a decree from Recep Tayyip Erdoğan (b. 1954), who is currently the president of Turkey. However, as this study will show, textual reincarnations of the Hagia Sophia in world literature do not always correspond neatly with its actual reincarnations as a spolium in history. For example, the reincarnation of the Hagia Sophia as a monument occurred in literature much earlier than its establishment as a museum (1934). In the following sections, diverse textual reincarnations of the Hagia Sophia will provide insights into how people have perceived and experienced the Hagia Sophia. Afterlife i: The reincarnation of the Hagia Sophia as a sea Bissera V. Pentcheva highlights that marbles have been associated with water throughout Late Antiquity and that many writers, such as Paul the Silentiary (d. 575–580), have attributed maritime qualities to the Hagia Sophia. Pentcheva also notes that the Greek word for marble,“marmaron, echoes the verb, ‘to quiver,’ marmairō, and the word for glitter, marmarygma”24. She thus concludes, “The perceptual merging of marble and gold produced by shimmer and translucence asserts the power of a unifying aesthetic of the glittering sea inside Hagia Sophia”25. Fabio Barry notes that “over more than a millennium, observer after observer would report that the combined undulations of

the closely fitted slabs suggested that the entire floor was a ‘frozen sea’” in diverse descriptions of the Hagia Sophia26. For example, Paul the Silentiary compares the ambo with “an island [that] rises amid the waves of the sea”27. Later, he describes how one experiences the Hagia Sophia in the evening with the following words:

16 Just as one needs to keep in mind important caveats when

But one would see silver ships lifting up their trade cargo of luminosity; suspended, they sail the illuminated air as if the sea trembles neither before the north wind nor when Boötes constellation goes down late28.

These lines describe candles as “silver ships” that sail “the illuminated air”, blurring the distinction between the sky and the sea. The sea does not tremble, hence reinforcing a sense of stability. The building is described both as a natural landscape and as a supernatural milieu that defies the laws of nature, with ships sailing in the air. The following lines, which describe the marble columns as “solidly assembled” meadows, further substantiate the sense of stability that characterizes the Hagia Sophia:

17 18

19

20 21

22

Who will sing gaping with the thundering mouths of Homer, the marble meadows solidly assembled along the walls or the open plains of the hauntingly high naos [Figs 1–2] 29?

With its “hauntingly high” naos, the Hagia Sophia evokes a sense of wonder, and people sing “gaping with the thundering mouths of Homer”. The phrases “marble meadows” and “plains of the hauntingly high naos” emphasize both the high level of craftsmanship inside the Hagia Sophia and its evocation of nature. Procopius (d. ca 565) similarly describes the interior of Hagia Sophia as a meadow whose “flowers [are] in full bloom”30. Shortly after its completion, the Hagia Sophia is thus reincarnated in literature as a natural landscape in the works of Paul the Silentiary and Procopius. 15 Richard Brilliant, “Authenticity and Alienation”, in Reuse

Value (n. 1), pp. 166–177, sp. p. 168.

23 24 25 26

27

28

29

30

establishing an analogy between citations and spolia, one needs to also remain cautious about establishing an analogy between reincarnations of a building as a spolium and textual reincarnations of the same building. For example, a building almost always functions as a building even when it is reused for a new purpose. However, in literature, a building may be reincarnated as something other than a building, such as a body of water. Furthermore, a building can have multiple afterlives in literature during the same time period, as it can be described as a person in some writings and as a natural landscape in others. Yet, as we shall see, when buildings are reincarnated as a spolium, they often serve one official purpose only. At the same time, as long as one keeps in mind these important distinctions, establishing an analogy between the reincarnations of buildings as spolia and the different forms in which buildings adopt in texts – their textual reincarnations – can reveal crucial insights. Jevtić, “Introduction” (n. 7), p. 11. See David Spurr, Architecture and Modern Literature, Ann Arbor 2012; and Anne M. Myers, Literature and Architecture in Early Modern England, Baltimore 2013. Unlike these critics who focus more on the engagement of writers with spatial dynamics of architectural works, this article pays attention to textual representations that describe buildings in diverse and often non-architectural forms, such as a natural wonder. Robert G. Ousterhout, “From Hagia Sophia to Ayasofya: Architecture and the Persistence of Memory”, Annual of Istanbul Studies, ii (2013), pp. 91–98, sp. p. 92.  Ibidem, p. 97. Claudia Barsanti, Alessandra Guiglia,“Spolia in Constantinople’s Hagia Sophia from the Age of Justinian to the Ottoman Period: The Phenomenon of Multilayered Reuse”, in Spolia Reincarnated (n. 2), pp. 97–123. Gülru Necipoğlu, “The Life of an Imperial Monument: Hagia Sophia after Byzantium”, in Hagia Sophia from the Age of Justinian to the Present, Robert Mark, Ahmet Ş. Çakmak eds, New York 1992, pp. 195–225, sp. p. 204. Tanyeri-Erdemir, “Remains of the Day” (n. 5), p. 71. Bissera V. Pentcheva, Hagia Sophia: Sound, Space, and Spirit in Byzantium, University Park, pa 2017, p. 127. Ibidem, p. 131. Fabio Barry, “Walking on Water: Cosmic Floors in Antiquity and the Middle Ages”, The Art Bulletin, lxxxix/4 (2007), pp. 627–656, sp. p. 627. Cited in Pentcheva, Hagia Sophia (n. 24), p. 132, Pentcheva’s translation. Paul the Silentiary, Descriptio S. Sophiae et ambonis, v. 224. Cited in Pentcheva, Hagia Sophia (n. 24), p. 167, Pentcheva’s translation. Paul the Silentiary, Descriptio S. Sophiae et ambonis, vv. 851–854. Cyril Mango translates these lines in the following manner: “One may also see ships of silver bearing a luminous freight; suspended, they sail through the bright air instead of the sea, fearing neither the south wind nor late-setting Boôtes”. Cyril Mango, The Art of the Byzantine Empire 312–1453, Toronto 1986, p. 90. Cited in Pentcheva, Hagia Sophia (n. 24), p. 121, Pentcheva's translation. Paul the Silentiary, Descriptio S. Sophiae et ambonis, vv. 617–620. Cyril Mango translates these lines in the following manner: “Yet who, even in the thundering strains of Homer, shall sing the marble meadows gathered upon the mighty walls and spreading pavement of the lofty church?” Mango, The Art of the Byzantine Empire (n. 28), p. 85. Procopius, Buildings, H. B. Dewing ed. and trans., Cambridge 1971, p. 27; for the Greek original, see Procopius, Buildings, p. 26 or i. 1. 59.

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1 / North gallery and marble columns, Hagia Sophia, Istanbul, 532–537 2 / Central nave and marble columns, Hagia Sophia, Istanbul, 532–537

A work from an early modern Ottoman poet, Tacizade Cafer Çelebi (d. 1515), also attributes maritime qualities to marbles of the Hagia Sophia:

Marbles of its floor are purer than a pure mirror.

It [the Hagia Sophia] is equal to the

The waves in the marbles of this floor

rest of the world in amplitude

Render its yard a sea with surging waves

Its lofty dome embraces the skies.

[derya-yı mevvac] [Figs 3–6] 31.

Its arch and columns are colorful in places Some of them are green marble and 66

Its columns are the center of poles in the sky

some of them are porphyry.

31 Tâcî-zâde Cafer Çelebi, Heves-nâme (İnceleme-Tenkitli Metin),

Necati Sungur ed., Ankara 2006, pp. 177–178. All translations from Arabic and Turkish are mine.

3 / Dome, Hagia Sophia, Istanbul, 532–537

4 / South gallery and arches, Hagia Sophia, Istanbul, 532–537

5 / West gallery, Hagia Sophia, Istanbul, 532–537

6 / Column capital, Hagia Sophia, Istanbul, 532–537

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In Tacizade Cafer Çelebi’s work, the Hagia Sophia is portrayed both as a natural landscape and as a supernatural milieu, as its dome covers the entire sky. Many segments of the Hagia Sophia are compared with diverse elements of nature: the yard, for example, is like a sea with surging waves. There are significant similarities between the associations of Paul the Silentiary and Tacizade Cafer Çelebi. Even after the Hagia Sophia had been turned into a mosque, Tacizade Cafer Çelebi perceives the building in ways that resonate with Paul the Silentiary’s description32. Likewise, Taşlıcalı Yahya Bey (d. 1582) makes the following remark in his description of the Hagia Sophia: When looking at its waves of marble, One is immediately plunged into a sea of wonder 33.

The description of the Hagia Sophia as a sea may be dismissed as a motif that provides no information about the building. Nevertheless, this description reveals how Paul the Silentiary, Tacizade Cafer Çelebi, and Taşlıcalı Yahya Bey experienced and imagined the building. The description of the Hagia Sophia as a sea may substantiate the view among readers that the Hagia Sophia has not been and will not be spoliated, since it is not just a regular building. Instead, these authors reinforce the impression that the Hagia Sophia is a wonder of nature that has supernatural characteristics. This description tallies well with the vision of their political rulers, who had high imperialist ambitions. Afterlife ii: The reincarnation of the Hagia Sophia as a person

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Gülru Necipoğlu notes that “[t]he [Hagia Sophia] mosque that had been Ottomanized by Mehmed ii […] took a much longer time to Islamize”34. Here, Necipoğlu writes about the discrepancy between the text Mehmed ii commissioned for the Hagia Sophia and later versions of this text. While the text that Mehmed ii commissioned put emphasis on the imperialistic ambitions of Ottomans, later versions of the text put more emphasis on the Islamic character of the Hagia Sophia. These later versions also expressed resentment about the

imperialist policies of Mehmed ii, who shunned the earlier egalitarian ethos that characterized Ottomans when they were a frontier principality. Although Necipoğlu makes this remark to describe the imperialist vision of Mehmed ii and those who criticized this vision, her words also capture a shift in the reception of the Hagia Sophia in Ottoman Turkish writings. Early modern works often described the grandeur of the Hagia Sophia as a way to highlight the grandeur of the Ottoman Empire and rarely, if ever, overtly depicted the Hagia Sophia as a battleground between Christians and Muslims or the West and Islam. Late Ottoman and Republican works placed more importance on the Islamic character of the Hagia Sophia as a warning to their audiences against looming Christian or secular threats35. This shift in representations of the Hagia Sophia also corresponds to the increasing interest in the building among Islamist intellectuals36. Furthermore, starting in the nineteenth century, writers and philhellenic organizations throughout the West have called for the conversion of the Hagia Sophia into a church37. Partly as a reaction against growing Western imperialism, Ottoman sultans in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries put a stronger emphasis than earlier sultans on their role as the caliph of all Muslims and projected the Hagia Sophia as the key symbol of the Islamic caliphate38, a vision that shapes debates on the Hagia Sophia even today39. This vision established the Hagia Sophia an important symbol for different Muslim communities of various ethnic and linguistic backgrounds. An Arabic poem by Aḥmad Shawqī (1868–1932) is a case in point that reveals anxieties about the future of the Hagia Sophia and ultimately the Islamic world. The beginning of the poem associates the Hagia Sophia with verdant gardens, as if the building were an eternal and unchanging paradise. In this respect, Shawqī’s work resonates with earlier works that associated the Hagia Sophia with nature. Unlike these examples, however, the poem’s ending provides a bleak panorama for its readers: If they [Greeks] render it a church again, That would be a dark day for humankind.

The kid in the cradle would become old And the dead in their resting places would be disturbed40.

Shawqī’s poem expresses a deep anxiety, since it suggests that Greeks may take over the Hagia Sophia Mosque, which may then be reused as a church. When Taşlıcalı Yahya Bey (d. 1582) notes that the “world flows like water to the feet of [the Hagia Sophia]”41, he reinforces the impression that the Hagia Sophia, and hence the Ottoman Empire, stands at the center of the world. However, Shawqī gives the impression that Muslims are confronting the threat of marginalization and even annihilation. Perhaps as a reaction against this deep anxiety, various writers from the nineteenth century to the present day have described the Hagia Sophia as an indefatigable fortress that fights against this threat. For example, in his poem on the Hagia Sophia, İsmail Safa (1867–1901) notes that atheism 32 Bissera Pentcheva compares descriptions of marble, gold,

33

34 35

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and glass in literary works from the Byzantine Empire and the Abbasid Empire. She concludes: “Marble, gold, and glass display glittering, translucent, and reflective surfaces whose changing appearance attracted both Greek and Arabic eyes. While in each tradition the enchantment is read politically as the powerful authority of the ruler, the two cultures differ in the depth and willingness to view glitter metaphysically”. Bissera V. Pentcheva, “The Power Of Glittering Materiality: Mirror Reflections Between Poetry And Architecture in Greek and Arabic Medieval Culture”, in Istanbul and Water, Paul Magdalino, Nina Ergin eds, Leuven 2015, pp. 241–274, sp. p. 268. While both Greek and Arabic texts associate marble with the wonders of nature, the Qur’an and the Islamic exegetic tradition have emphasized that one should not be taken with the sense of wonder that these materials evoke because this sense is a mere illusion. Although this article puts an emphasis on similarities between Byzantine and Ottoman texts to undermine the tendency to study the mosque and church phases of the Hagia Sophia separately, it is also important to keep in mind that Ottoman and Byzantine writers could have different metaphysical conceptualizations of marble and other luxurious materials. Kâzım Yoldaş, Taşlıcalı Yahyâ Bey Şâh u Gedâ (İnceleme-Metin), ma thesis, (İnönü Üniversitesi, supervisor: Hasan Kavruk), Malatya 1993, p. 138. Necipoğlu, “The Life of an Imperial” (n. 22), p. 202. Here, I do not mean that early modern Ottoman writers did not consider the Hagia Sophia as Islamic. In fact, these authors considered it as one of the most magnificent buildings of the Islamic world and compared it with the Kaaba or Masjid al-Aqsa. At the same time, in late Ottoman or Republican works, the Hagia Sophia is often portrayed as openly confessing that it is Muslim and as participating in the fight against foreign enemies. There is no particular consensus on what the term Islamist

37 38 39

40 41

means in scholarly circles; however, I use this term to refer to intellectuals who believed that political and social norms in the community should conform to their vision of Islam. Ousterhout, “From Hagia Sophia” (n. 19), p. 95. Necipoğlu, “The Life of an Imperial” (n. 22), pp. 220–221. After the Hagia Sophia was again converted to a mosque in 2020, some Islamist groups also called for the restoration of the caliphate, which was abolished in 1924. For current debates regarding the caliphate since the conversion of the Hagia Sophia into a mosque in 2020, see Tarek Masoud, Aytuğ Şaşmaz, “Istanbul’s Hagia Sophia is a Mosque Again. Do Turkish Citizens Want Erdoğan to Restore the Caliphate?”, Washington Post, July 24, 2020 (https://www. washingtonpost.com/politics/2020/07/24/istanbuls-hagiasophia-is-mosque-again-do-turkish-citizens-want-erdoganrestore-caliphate/; retrieved 2021-08-24). Aḥmad Shawqī, Al-Shawqiyyāt, Beirut 2015, 4 vols, 2, p. 25. Yoldaş, Taşlıcalı Yahyâ Bey (n. 33), p. 136.

7 / Apse and windows, Hagia Sophia, Istanbul, 532–537 8 / South gallery, Hagia Sophia, Istanbul, 532–537

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and infidelity are defeated under the dome of the Hagia Sophia and later writes: The windows of this glorious building shout out; Each corner, each point is full of deep secrets. The stones of its columns preach sermons About the possibility of eternity in the world (dünyada beka) [Figs 7–8] 42.

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In these lines, the description of the Hagia Sophia reminds readers that the kind of anxiety that Shawqī expressed is unnecessary: the Hagia Sophia, and hence Ottomans and Muslims, will not be annihilated. Furthermore, the building is not a distant object of observation; it is personified as a subject who speaks and preaches religious sermons. Ceren Katipoğlu and Çağla Caner-Yüksel argue that the Hagia Sophia’s conversion into a museum in 1934 “can be read as a milestone in a larger scale project” that “comprised the basic principles of the new Republic grounded on ‘modernization’ and ‘secularization’”. This project also “brought together humanist ideals with a special emphasis on the ‘respect and praise of science and arts’”43. The second half of the twentieth century witnessed a significant rise in Islamist discourses that were reactions against the early Republican project. According to İlker Aytürk, this cultural transformation occurred due to various sociopolitical factors, such as “demographic change, anti-Kemalist sentiments, and electoral behavior in Cold War Turkey”44. Therefore, Islamist intellectuals have produced a rich corpus of works on the Hagia Sophia especially after the 1950s, laying the groundwork for its conversion to a mosque in 2020. In works by Islamist writers, the Hagia Sophia is often depicted as the spokesperson of the Muslim community. The Hagia Sophia carries traces of different cultures and can be viewed as a building with a culturally ambiguous identity. To negate this sense of ambiguity, the building needs to confess where it stands in what Islamists consider as the battle between Islam and the West. M. İnanç Özekmekçi notes that many Islamist writers during the Republican period have emphasized

that the Hagia Sophia had an Islamic essence even when it was a church or a museum. Therefore, these writers resorted to the personification of the Hagia Sophia (Ayasofya’yı kişileştirme)45. For example, an article in the Diriliş journal described the Hagia Sophia as a “secret Muslim” when it was under Byzantine control, then openly declared that it was a Muslim during the Ottoman period. The Hagia Sophia could tell the world that the East surpassed the West in terms of religion, and it was, like the Virgin Mary, a virgin pregnant with a new religious movement, Islam, when it was a church46. The same article also pointed out that before it became a museum and hence adopted “the mantle of death”, the Hagia Sophia was a mosque who was “alive, lively and integrated into the believer community, engaged with trade, and had a face that exuded health”47. Osman Yüksel Serdengeçti (1917–1983) commented in 1952 that when the Hagia Sophia is used as a mosque again, it will take revenge on those who rendered it naked, coming alive again after it was killed48. Necip Fazıl Kısakürek (1905–1983) indicated in 1965 that once the building turns into a mosque, all the “meanings” that were lost will achieve liberation, “like innocent people who were subjected to chains”49. For Kısakürek, the movement that ultimately converted the Hagia Sophia into a museum and turned it into a victim started in 1836, when the Ottoman Empire initiated a set of Westernization reforms50. Afterlife iii: The reincarnation of the Hagia Sophia as a monument According to Robert S. Nelson, with the rise of photography and printing press that enabled the widespread circulation of its image, the Hagia Sophia transformed “from an interior space, experienced by the faithful, to a monument, objectified, abstracted, seen from afar, and thus able to be appreciated by modern secular audiences”51. The Hagia Sophia started to appear more frequently in international press and on various postcards during this period, and it became routine for European ambassadors to visit the Hagia Sophia starting in the eighteenth century52. As Edhem Eldem puts it, the nineteenth century witnessed

the “monumentalization”(abideleşme) of the Hagia Sophia, as it was assumed to reveal information about past civilizations53. Interestingly, the Hagia Sophia experienced a similar transformation in world literature during the same period54. The following words from the famous travelogue of Edmondo de Amicis (1846–1908), Constantinople (1877–1878), bolster Nelson’s observation that the Hagia Sophia was transformed into a monument through political and technological changes that rendered it a distant object of observation: “We had purposely supplemented him [the Greek dragoman] by the old Turkish cavas [a consulate officer] with the hope – and we were not disappointed – that their two accounts might bring vividly before us the struggle between the two religions, histories, and nations, the legends and explanations of one magnifying the Church, those of the other the Mosque, in such a manner as to make us see St. Sophia as she should be seen; that is to say, with one eye Christian and the other Turkish”55.

These words put a particular emphasis on sight and notes that there is a proper way of seeing the Hagia Sophia – with one eye Christian and the other Turkish. The Hagia Sophia becomes akin to a museum that provides de Amicis knowledge about other cultures. He wishes to see the Hagia Sophia in such a way that he witnesses “the struggle between two religions, histories, and nations”. In these lines, the Hagia Sophia turns into a monument that one needs to see from a distance rather than a wonder in which one can experience spiritual transcendence. In regards to changing attitudes toward the ancient past in the nineteenth-century Egypt, Elliott Colla indicates a shift in “focus from the consideration of time in the abstract to the consideration of specific historical periods arranged in a developmental sequence”56. In other words, while ancient ruins in earlier literary works often led people to contemplate time itself, ruins and artifacts eventually become tools that generated new knowledge about past civilizations in nineteenth-century Arabic writings. In a similar vein, many descriptions of the Hagia Sophia during the same period inform readers about “specific historical periods arranged in a developmental sequence”, in particular, a list of political rulers who modified the structure of

the Hagia Sophia and of important landmarks in the history of the Hagia Sophia. Many Ottoman literary journals and newspapers featured photos of the Hagia Sophia, ultimately contributing to the monumentalization of the building. The Şehbal journal included photos of the Hagia Sophia under the heading “Nefayis-i Mimariyyeden Bir Bina-yı Mukaddes ve Muazzam” [A Holy and Magnificent Building from Architectural 42 İsmail Safa, “Ayasofya”, Servet-i Fünun, xlvii/1201 (1914), p. 72. 43 Ceren Katipoğlu, Çağla Caner-Yüksel, “Hagia Sophia ‘Mu-

seum’: A Humanist Project of the Turkish Republic”, in Constructing Cultural İdentity, Representing Social Power, Cânâ Bilsel, Kim Esmark, Niyazi Kızılyürek, Ólafur Rastrick eds, Pisa 2010, pp. 205–225, sp. p. 214. The decision to convert the Hagia Sophia into a museum is also sometimes interpreted as a diplomatic maneuver that allowed Turkey to regain military control of the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles in 1936. See Fatih Altaylı, “Ayasofya ve Montreux”, Habertürk, July 25, 2020 (https://www. haberturk.com/yazarlar/fatih-altayli-1001/2754798-ayasofya-vemontreux; retrived 2021-08-24). 44 İlker Aytürk, “Nationalism and Islam in Cold War Turkey, 1944–69”, Middle East Studies, l/5 (2014), pp. 693–719, sp. p. 712. 45 M. İnanç Özekmekçi, “Türk Sağında Ayasofya İmgesi”, in Türk Sağı: Mitler, Fetişler, Düşman İmgeleri, İnci Özkan Kerestecioğlu, Güven Gürkan Öztan eds, Istanbul 2014, pp. 283–306, sp. p. 291. Early modern works such as Taşlıcalı Yahya Bey’s poem also used personification in their descriptions of the Hagia Sophia. At the same time, these works usually personified architectural elements of the Hagia Sophia, such as its arches and columns, rather than the Hagia Sophia itself. The building rarely, if ever, speaks in these works. In contrast, later writings personify the entire Hagia Sophia and sometimes make the Hagia Sophia itself speak. 46 “Ayasofya’nın Anlamı”, Diriliş, ii/1 (1966), pp. 29–31, sp. pp. 29–30. 47 Ibidem, p. 29. 48 Osman Yüksel Serdengeçti, “Ayasofya”, Serdengeçti, vi/17 (1952), p. 3. 49 Necip Fazıl Kısakürek, Hitâbeler, Istanbul 1994, p. 165. 50 Ibidem, p. 158. Although many historians identify the declaration of Tanzimat Decree in 1839 as the starting point of the empire’s Westernization movement, Kısakürek suggested that this movement had been threatening the Turkish spirit since 1836. 51 Robert S. Nelson, Hagia Sophia, 1850–1950: Holy Wisdom Modern Monument, Chicago 2004, p. xviii. 52 Edhem Eldem,“Kilise, Cami, Abide, Müze, Simge”,Toplumsal Tarih, ccliv (2015), pp. 76–85, sp. p. 85. 53 Ibidem, p. 76. 54 This monumentalization of the building is also tied to the rise of the discourse of antiquities and archaeology during the same period. As Zeynep Çelik has demonstrated, late Ottoman intellectuals considered the construction of museums and the collection of antiquities as important markers of civilization and modernity. See Zeynep Çelik, About Antiquities: Politics of Archaeology in the Ottoman Empire, Austin 2016. 55 Edmondo de Amicis, Constantinople, Maria Hornor Lansdale trans., Philadelphia 1896, 2 vols, 1, pp. 249–250; idem, Costantinopoli, Milan 1883, p. 238. 56 Elliott Colla, Conflicted Antiquities: Egyptology, Egyptomania, Egyptian Modernity, Durham, nc 2007, p. 124.

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9 / Photos of the Hagia Sophia from the Şehbal journal, 1909

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Wonders] [Fig. 9]57. Furthermore, just a few pages above, the same journal featured photos of the Alhambra in Spain, which are listed under the heading in French “Les débris d’une civilisation disparue” [The Debris of a Civilization that Disappeared] and in Turkish, “Bir Medeniyet-i Münkarizenin Enkazından” [From the Debris of a Civilization that Disappeared]58. These photos of the Alhambra served a dual function. First, they suggested that buildings like the Alhambra and the Hagia Sophia are symbols of a civilization, which is a term that attained popularity during the nineteenth century. Second, they demo­­nstrated that all buildings, including the Hagia Sophia, can fall into ruins and that the anxiety felt among Muslims that the Hagia Sophia may become Christian was valid. Likewise, an article in the Servet-i Fünun journal listed the different By­zantine emperors who restored the Hagia Sophia after each natural disaster. The article then discussed the conversion of the building into a mosque when Sultan Mehmed ii conquered Istanbul and provided exact measurements, such as the height of the Hagia Sophia and the height of its dome. It also gave a list of the Ottoman sultans who ordered some restorations. The article included several photos of the Hagia Sophia that display both the interior and exterior of the mosque [Fig. 10]59. The addition of a footnote in the description of the Hagia Sophia in a nineteenth-century edition of the seventeenth-century Ottoman travelogue Seyahatname by Evliya Çelebi (1611–ca 1682) reveals further insights into the monumentalization of the building. Evliya Çelebi, like early modern Ottoman poets such as Tacizade Cafer Çelebi, described the Hagia Sophia as a wonder of nature. For example, he compared the dome of the Hagia Sophia with the dome of the sky, noting that the world has never seen a dome greater than that of the Hagia Sophia60. Nevertheless, a footnote in a nineteenth-century edition reveals a stark distinction between the reincarnation of the Hagia Sophia as a wonder in Evliya Çelebi’s work and as a monument in the nineteenth century. The footnote starts with the following paragraph: “The Hagia Sophia was initially constructed from wood in 325 by the Great Constantine, who was the

first among Roman emperors who converted to Christianity. It was not constructed for the sake of a great Christian saint. It was named as Hagia Sophia, as the term ‘Hagia Sophia’ means ‘divine wisdom’. The building was expanded by the skill of Constans. But in 404 during the reign of Arcadius, a part of it was burned and then it was rebuilt in 415; however, it completely burned in 532 between the thirteenth and twentieth days of January”61.

The footnote continues with a discussion of Justinian i, who built the current building of the Hagia Sophia, and the numerous Ottoman sultans, such as Sultan Bayezid ii (r. 1481–1512), Sultan Murad iii (r. 1574–1595), and Sultan Murad iv (r. 1623–1640), who made further modifications to the building. This paragraph situates the Hagia Sophia within a temporal sequence of historical events. Historical accuracy is prioritized; for example, the author emphasized that the building burned “between the thirteenth and twentieth days of January”. These lines do not convey a sense of the transcendental experience that one can feel inside the Hagia Sophia; rather, they describe the succession of rulers who changed the Hagia Sophia, as the building came to be (re)used as a point of departure for producing a history of world civilizations. Concluding remarks Similarities between the descriptions of the Hagia Sophia by Paul the Silentiary and by Tacizade Cafer Çelebi reveal the need for more scholarship that studies the Byzantine and Ottoman phases of the building together. Furthermore, the reincarnations of the Hagia Sophia as a mosque or as a museum in history do not neatly correspond with its diverse reincarnations in literature. In the history of world literature, the reincarnation of the Hagia Sophia as a Muslim person occurred well after it had been turned into a mosque in 1453, just as it became monumentalized well before it

10 / Photos of the Hagia Sophia from the Servet-i Fünun journal, 1914

57 “Nefayis-i Mimariyyeden Bir Bina-yı Mukaddes ve Muaz-

zam”, Şehbal, i/11 (1909), pp. 217–218.

58 “Bir Bedia-i Şark”, Şehbal, i/11 (1909), pp. 214–215. 59 “Ayasofya”, Servet-i Fünun, xlvii/1201 (1914), p. 73. 60 Evliya Çelebi, Seyahatname, vol. 1, Ahmed Cevdet ed., Istan-

bul ah 1314, p. 124. For the ekphrasis of the Hagia Sophia in Seyahatname, see Nilay Kaya, “Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâme’sinde Ayasofya Camii ve Ekfrastik Yaklaşım”, Milli Folklor, xxviii/110 (2016), pp. 114–120. 61 Evliya Çelebi, Seyahatname (n. 60), pp. 125–126.

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became a museum in 1934. This history constitutes an alternative to the mainstream history of the Hagia Sophia, which has usually considered its official conversions to a mosque and a museum as the sole turning points, which resulted in scholars studying its Byzantine, Ottoman, and Turkish periods separately. The recent 2020 decree that reclassified the Hagia Sophia as a mosque is strongly tied to a late Ottoman literary tradition that, concurrent with the rise of Islamism and Western imperialism, started to portray the Hagia Sophia as a Muslim person. Furthermore, early Ottoman writings depicted the Hagia Sophia in ways that evoked its Byzantine heritage, while late Ottoman and modern Turkish writings often did not. Key political transformations caused the Hagia Sophia to be reused as a mosque both in 1453 and in 2020; however, the building’s textual reincarnations reveal that the same political reuse of a building does not give rise to the same reception of it. The defining points in a building’s biography do not have to be only the moments in which it was reused for a new purpose due to various political reasons. A new textual reincarnation of the building can mark the beginning of an important phase in that building’s biography. Therefore, textual reincarnations of a building can be studied in conjunction with its reincarnations as a spolium to generate a more complex biography of the building. Art historians do not have to use textual sources solely as supplements that reinforce their understanding of a building’s history; these sources can help them to reassess its history as well.

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summary Spolia a textové reinkarnace Přehodnocení dějin chrámu Hagia Sofia

Autor textu se zamýšlí nad studiem spolií jako mostem mezi disciplínou komparativní literatury a dějinami umění. Na rozdíl od dřívějších vědeckých prací, které hledaly analogie mezi citacemi a spolii nebo překlady a spolii, autor hledá průsečíky mezi dvěma zmíněnými disciplínami skrze literární popisy staveb. Užívá přitom dva koncepty relevantní pro studium spolií – reinkarnace a posmrtný život – aby ukázal, že formy, kterých stavba nabývá v  literárních popisech, mohou být považovány za její textové reinkarnace. Tato úvaha se zakládá na metodách komparativní literatury, která používá termín posmrtný život pro překlady a recepci textů v nových souvislostech. Článek demonstruje, že textové reinkarnace stavby mohou poskytnout klíčový vhled do její recepce v nových kontextech, a to navzdory tomu, že nemají přímou souvislost s její původní architektonickou strukturou. Jako případovou studii si autor vybral popisy chrámu Hagia Sofia v Konstantinopoli/Istanbulu v literárních dílech Paula Silentiaria († 575–580), Taşlıcalı Yahya Bey († 1582) a Edmonda de Amicis (1846–1908). Autor článku ilustruje, že Hagia Sophia je v literárních

textech různých kultur a historických období reinkarnována do podoby moře, člověka i monumentu a že všechny tyto reinkarnace souvisejí s důležitými dějinnými zlomy, jako je například západní imperialismus, vzestup islámu nebo rozšíření fotografie a knihtisku. Autor se také domnívá, že historici umění nemusí používat literární zdroje jenom jako doplňující materiál pro lepší pochopení dějin stavby, ale také jako zdroj informací pro přehodnocení samotných dějin stavby. V dějinách světové literatury je Hagia Sophia popisována jako postava muslima až dlouho poté, co byla v roce 1453 plně přestavěna na mešitu, zatímco jako monument je líčena ještě před tím, než se stala muzeem v roce 1934. Tato historie představuje alternativu k mainstreamovým interpretacím dějin chrámu Hagia Sophia, které obvykle považují její opětovné užití jako mešity nebo muzea za jediné zlomové body. Důsledkem toho je, že byzantské, otomanské a turecké období bývají studovány odděleně. Pro komplexní porozumění dějin chrámu Hagia Sophia však mohou být její textové reinkarnace zkoumány také v souvislosti s jejími reinkarnacemi jako spolia.

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Abstract – Antiquarian Displays of Spolia and Roman Identity. San Marco, Merbaka, and the Seljuk Caravanserais – In the thirteenth century, spolia on façades in Venice, the Seljuk lands, and the Argolid drew on the Roman past of the Eastern Mediterranean to express a cultural identity rooted in romanitas. In order to understand this visual idiom, it is important to take seriously the self-identification of the Byzantines as Romans and to study these examples of spolia display in conjunction with each other. By doing so, this article problematizes three widely cited scholarly theories for explaining the use of spolia: single protagonist decisions, triumphalism, and apotropaia. When studied as part of a larger phenomenon, it becomes clear that Roman cultural identity was built on the perception of a shared past that was not parsed along ethnic or national lines. Finally, the publicly displayed spolia show that the concept of Roman identity was not an elite project in Byzantium but was accessible and even addressed to a non-elite public. Keywords – apotropaia, identity, koine, romanitas, Seljuks, spolia, Trabzon, trophies, Venice, William of Moerbeke

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Armin F. Bergmeier Leipzig University [email protected]

Antiquarian Displays of Spolia and Roman Identity San Marco, Merbaka, and the Seljuk Caravanserais Armin F. Bergmeier

The reuse of older building material happens all the time. It is a long-established system to save costs and prevent waste. Michael Greenhalgh has argued that as much as 95% of all spolia use might have occurred for pragmatic, non-ideological reasons1. This number appears to be somewhat inflated, but regardless of the exact percentage, the relatively small number of cases where spolia were used for ideological reasons has produced the lion share of academic interest. Given that reused material culture always establishes a link between the past and the present, ideological interpretations have considered the role of memory, historical awareness, and political legitimization as motivation. Other possible reasons include aesthetic appreciation, the personal motivations of

patrons and artisans, cultural appropriation, trade, and triumphalism, as well as magic, exorcism, and apotropaism2. Antiquarian artifacts and Roman identity This article focuses on monuments from the thirteenth-century, all of which reused sculpture in a manner that leaves little doubt about their ideological nature. These examples of spolia 1

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Michael Greenhalgh, Marble Past, Monumental Present: Building with Antiquities in the Mediaeval Mediterranean, Boston 2009, p. 6. For an overview, see Arnold Esch, “Spolien: Zur Wiederverwendung antiker Baustücke und Skulpturen im mittelalterlichen Italien”, Archiv für Kulturgeschichte li/1 (1969), pp. 1–64, sp. pp. 42–55.

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use are clearly not driven by any pragmatic considerations; the builders ensured that the pieces communicated their relocated nature and their foreignness to the actual structure through, as Scott Redford has written, a “delight in displaying”3. Mounted onto the outer fabric of a building, the artifacts act as a visual addition to the structure, put on display in order to be noticed, read, and understood. I argue here that this particular mode of reusing artifacts from the past is tied to identity formation. As Paul Magdalino has noted with regard to perceptions of the past in the twelfth century, “the past was the first place to look for meaning, reassurance, identity, and legitimacy”4. In order to assess which notions of the past were communicated by the use of certain identity markers, it is necessary to identify with which notions of identity and of the past these markers were associated. Modern denominations can help make historical connections clear, but they can also obfuscate them. This article deals with what is often addressed as Byzantine cultural legacy. However, it is commonly accepted that the Byzantines called themselves Romans (Ῥωμαῖοι) and were called Romans by their neighbors, for example the Rum-Seljuks (i.e. the Roman Seljuks).

The Romans therefore lived in the Roman Empire. This self-identification hinged mostly on their sovereign, an emperor in the uninterrupted line of Roman Emperors since Augustus5. It is somewhat less often acknowledged that the term Byzantium presented a useful tool for Western historians in the Enlightenment and the nineteenth century to sever the ties of the Eastern Empire with its Roman identity and its Roman past6. But in so doing, the West made Roman heritage available for the linear narration of Western history that moved without detours from the ancient Greeks and Romans to Constantine, Charlemagne, and the medieval rulers of France and Germany. For the purpose of this article, it is important to note that Byzantine heritage and the Byzantine past that were evoked through the use of spolia were not geared towards the relatively short and sometimes unsuccessful history of the Byzantine Empire between the seventh and the twelfth centuries. Rather, this visual evocation referred to the long and universal Roman history and heritage that was alive and well in the form of the medieval Empire of the Romans, with its capital in Constantinople7. Identity is neither static nor universal in any large group and over long periods of time. Towards

the end of the Roman Empire in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, links with the Hellenic past had been emphasized. But “when the Byzantines reflected on their past, they saw themselves as the direct successors of the Roman Empire” during most periods8. It has become clear that the Eastern Roman Empire was not in fact a medieval nation state of Greek or Hellenic ethnicity, but rather a multiethnic empire in which the Greek language did not act as an identity marker9. Thus, medieval Roman identity was a fluid construct that was based on the perception of a political and cultural continuity with the past. Ethnicity, language, and race do not seem to have played a role as identity markers. This assumption is supported by the material culture discussed below. The examples from the material culture also challenge notions of Roman identity as an elitist project. Within the confines of the Eastern Roman Empire, we encounter a recognizable form of reuse, the ostentatious display of spolia on buildings from the ninth century onwards. Some of the bestknown early examples for display spolia on city walls and on church façades include the Church of the Virgin of Skripou in Boeotia, the Boukoleon palace walls in Constantinople [Fig. 1], and the Southern Gate of the İç Kale at Ankara [Fig. 2], all

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4

5

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Scott Redford, “Rum Seljuk Emir Mübarizeddin Ertokuş and His Madrasa: Reading Identity Through Architectural Patronage”, in Identity and the Other in Byzantium: Papers from the Fourth International Sevgi Gönül Byzantine Studies Symposium, Koray Durak, Ivana Jevtić eds, Istanbul 2019, pp. 225–244, sp. p. 235. Paul Magdalino, “Introduction”, in idem, The Perception of the Past in Twelfth-Century Europe, London 1992, pp. ix–xvi, sp. p. xi. See for example Claudia Rapp, “Hellenic Identity, Romanitas, and Christianity in Byzantium”, in Hellenisms: Culture, Identity, and Ethnicity From Antiquity to Modernity, Katerina Zacharias ed., Aldershot 2008, pp. 127–150; Matthew P. Canepa, The Two Eyes of the Earth: Art and Ritual of Kingship between Rome and Sasanian Iran, Berkeley 2009, p. 3; Ioannis Stouraitis, “Roman Identity in Byzantium: a Critical Approach”, Byzantinische Zeitschrift, cvii (2014), pp. 175–220; Anthony Kaldellis, Romanland: Ethnicity and Empire in Byzantium, Cambridge 2019; Koray Durak, Ivana Jevtić, “Identity and the Other in Byzantine Studies: An Introduction”, in Identity and the Other (n. 3), pp. 3–26, sp. pp. 5–8. Jean-Michel Spieser, “Art Byzantin et Influence : Pour l’histoire d’une Construction”, in Byzance et le monde extérieur. Contacts, relations, échanges, Michel Balard, Élisabeth Malamut, Jean-Michel Spieser eds, Paris 2005, pp. 271–288, sp. p. 276. On the use and effects of the term Byzantium for the construction of a linear history of art see, Armin F. Bergmeier, “Linien und Umwege: Byzanz, Nation und der Kanon der Kunstgeschichte im deutschsprachigen Raum”, 21: Inquiries Into Art, History, and the Visual, ii/2 (2021), pp. 73– 95. In what follows I will use the adjective Byzantine for established scholarly terms such as Byzantine art or Middle Byzantine period. I will refer to the Byzantine Empire as (Eastern) Roman Empire or using the modern neologism Byzantium, and to its inhabitants as (Byzantine) Romans. Rapp, “Hellenic Identity” (n. 5), p. 146. Stouraitis, “Roman Identity” (n. 5), pp. 199 and 206.

1 / John Foster Jr., Boukoleon façade, Istanbul, watercolor, 1811, inv. no. sd. 391 2 / Southern Gate, İç Kale, Ankara citadel, 9th century (?)

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dated to the ninth century10. This tradition of spolia use continued within the Eastern Roman Empire and its successor states in subsequent centuries. Famous later examples of display spolia include Constantinople’s Golden Gate (the spolia display has been tentatively dated to the tenth century) and İznik’s Istanbul and Lefke Gates (thirteenth century)11. For another famous example, the Gate of Persecution in the citadel of Ephesus, the date for the display of ancient spolia is still up for debate [Fig. 3]12. While some scholars have dated it as early as the Late Antique period, the nature and display of the ancient mythological reliefs seem to indicate the time around the thirteenth century or later13. This period is the focus of the present paper. Through a close analysis of the spolia of the Church of the Koimesis in Merbaka (modern Agia Triada) in the Argolid (1280s), San Marco in Venice (last third of the thirteenth century), and several of the caravanserais built by the Rum Seljuks of Anatolia in the first half of the thirteenth century (Zazadin Han, Zıvarık Han, Kadın Han, and Obruk Han), I argue that the conspicuous addition of spolia to a building was meant to communicate the presence of a Roman history and heritage. If we accept that Byzantine material culture was viewed by Romans and outsiders alike as an expression of a still-living Roman legacy, certain patterns of visual use of spolia suddenly become clear. Where once unconnected, random use of ancient objects across disconnected cultures offered little but bafflement or was viewed as the results of a unique historical event, now broader patterns of historical discourse appear. My claim for the importance of Roman identity to understanding certain visual arguments should thus not be read as a blanket truth, but instead as a lens through which we can re-examine visual evidence and practices that have long remained perplexing to modern scholars. Looking for meaning in spolia

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Thus far scholars have studied the large corpus of monuments with spolia put on display in the central and Eastern Mediterranean as isolated examples, unique and unconnected. Some scholars have attributed spolia to the individual agency of a patron, while others have explained spolia

as trophies, that is as a visualization of the triumphal victory over others, or as apotropaic devices warding off evil. Before moving on to monuments outside the purview of the Roman Emperor, it is worthwhile focusing on two well-known Eastern Roman monuments in order to flesh out the three narratives that have dominated scholarship on the spolia display on walls and façades. Scholarship on the Panagia Gorgoepikoos (Little Metropolis) in Athens and the North church of Hosios Loukas in Boeotia, dedicated to the Theotokos, offer case studies of all three of these modes of interpretation. In an attempt to find significance in visual patterns that do not provide meaning directly through iconography, inscriptions or written sources, scholars have frequently interpreted objects and images as the direct results of historical events or of the intervention of historically attested protagonists. This approach is in no way limited to spolia, but enjoys a wide popularity in art historical studies. While there are, of course, instances where such a hypothesis proves correct, such an approach also risks turning the objects of material culture into mere illustrations of historical research, mimicking it without adding any information of its own. The marble spolia covering the Little Metropolis from top to bottom have long been associated with Michael Choniates, the archbishop of Athens (1182–1204) who showed considerable antiquarian interest in the ancient ruins of Athens in the late twelfth century14. But the supposed link to Choniates’ interest in antiquity can no longer be accepted, as Bente Kiilerich convincingly re-dated the church to the late Byzantine or to the early Ottoman period. This dating is supported by the unusually high number of decorated spolia pieces used, something uncommon among the surviving monuments from the ninth through the thirteenth century, as well as by the fact that several of the spolia can be dated to the time of their alleged reuse15. Therefore, a connection to this single historical player and his biography can no longer be sustained. The church has also been viewed as a monumental example for the use of apotropaism, perhaps the most common interpretive mode when other reference points for meaning-making cannot be identified. When assessing the Little

Metropolis, Henry Maguire rightfully rejected attempts to search for a coherent iconographic program and hidden symbolism, but argued for the apotropaic qualities of the stones instead16. Noting that the ancient reliefs have been “neutralized” through the application of crosses, he termed the church a “cage of crosses”17. But apotropaic objects are commonly artifacts such as phylakteria, amulets, and metal objects that derive their protective powers from a source outside themselves18. Frequently, this protective source is a holy site or a church. Thus, churches and sanctuaries need protection the least; they protect others through their sacred status19. This article therefore proposes an 10 For the Panagia i Skripou, see for example Amy Papalexan-

drou, “Conversing Hellenism: The Multiple Voices of a Byzantine Monument in Greece”, Journal of Modern Greek Studies, xix/2 (2001), pp. 237–254. For the Boukoleon, see most recently Dominik Heher, “Der Palasthafen des Bukoleon”, in Die byzantinischen Häfen Konstantinopels, Falko Daim ed., Mainz 2016, pp. 67–88. For the citadel at Ankara, see Urs Peschlow, Ankara: die bauarchäologischen Hinterlassenschaften aus römischer und byzantinischer Zeit, Vienna 2015, pp. 139–186. Livia Bevilacqua has dated the İç Kale at Ankara to the Late Antique period in an article that appeared before Peschlow’s study, in which he dated the structure to the ninth century. Of course, the display of spolia might also have been added anytime during a later intervention. Walls, particularly fortification walls, are alas difficult to date. For an overview of Eastern Roman city gates see, Ine Jacobs, “Gates in Late Antiquity in the Eastern Mediterranean.”, Babesch, lxxxiv (2009), pp. 197–213. 11 On the Golden Gate, see Neslihan Asutay-Effenberger, Die Landmauer von Konstantinopel: Historisch-topographische und baugeschichtliche Untersuchungen, Berlin 2007, pp. 61–71, sp. p. 70. On İznik, see Livia Bevilacqua, “Spolia on City Gates in the Thirteenth Century: Byzantium and Italy”, in Spolia Reincarnated: Afterlives of Objects, Materials and Spaces in Anatolia from Antiquity to the Ottoman Era, Ivana Jevtić, Suzan Yalman eds, Istanbul 2018, pp. 173–194. 12 Livia Bevilaqua has favored a Late Antique date, but has also acknowledged the difficulty of assigning the date with certainty: Livia Bevilacqua, “Recycling Myths in Byzantine Art: Spolia on the Gate of Persecution in Ephesus”, in Revisitar o mito – Myths Revisited, Abel do Nacimento Pena et al. eds, Ribeirão 2015, pp. 331–341, sp. p. 335. Suna Çağaptay proposed the year 795 for the installation of the spolia pieces. See Suna Çağaptay,“Into the Sacred Space: Facing Ayasoluk and Its Gate of Persecutions”, in Architecture and Visual Culture in the Late Antique Mediterranean: Studies in Honor of Robert G. Ousterhout, Vasileios Marinis, Amy Papalexandrou, Jordan Pickett eds, Turnhout 2020, pp. 195–208. 13 The ancient mythological reliefs above the opening of the gate have been looted in the early nineteenth century and are now housed in Woburn Abbey in Bedford, uk. The reuse of pagan figurative spolia in the vicinity of gates has parallels in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, while their display on façades was extremely rare in the centuries before. The upper zones of the gate are likely to have been refurbished at some point after Late Antiquity. Finally, the arrangement of the horizontal bands of marble including architraves is

14

15 16

17 18

19

strikingly reminiscent of the portal at Zıvarık Han, erected during the Seljuk period and discussed below [Fig. 13]. For the older literature associating the Little Metropolis with Michael Choniates, see Bente Kiilerich, “Making Sense of the Spolia in the Little Metropolis in Athens”, Arte Medievale, iv/2 (2005), pp. 95–114, sp. pp. 105–107. On Michael Choniates and his antiquarian interests, see Andreas Rhoby, Reminiszenzen an antike Orte und Landschaften in der mittel- und spätbyzantinischen Literatur, Vienna 1999, pp. 24–72. On the motif of love in Michael’s poem on the disappearance of ancient Athens, see Christopher Livanos,“Michael Choniates, ‘Poet of Love and Knowledge’”, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, xxx /2 (2006), pp. 103–114. Kiilerich, “Making Sense” (n. 14), p. 95 and passim. Henry Maguire, “The Cage of Crosses: Ancient and Medieval Sculptures on the ‘Little Metropolis’ in Athens”, in idem, Rhetoric, Nature and Magic in Byzantine Art, Aldershot 1998, pp. 169–172. Ibidem, p. 172. See for example, Finbarr Barry Flood,“Image against Nature: Spolia as Apotropaia in Byzantium and the Dār al-Islām”, The Medieval History Journal, ix/1 (2006), pp. 143–166; Julia Gonnella, “Columns and Hieroglyphs: Magic Spolia in Medieval Islamic Architecture of Northern Syria”, Muqarnas, xxvii/1 (2010), pp. 103–120; Ivan Drpić, “The Enkolpion: Object, Agency, Self”, Gesta, lvii/2 (2018), pp. 197–224. On the origins of the concept of sacred spaces in Christianity, see Ann Marie Yasin, Saints and Church Spaces in the Late Antique Mediterranean: Architecture, Cult, and Community, Cambridge 2009, pp. 14–45; Carola Jäggi, “Heilige Räume. Architektur und Sakralität. Geschichte einer Zuschreibung“, in Kirchenbauten in der Gegenwart. Architektur zwischen Sakralität und sozialer Wirklichkeit, Angelika Nollert ed., Regensburg 2011, pp. 23–29; Armin F. Bergmeier, “Vom Kultbild zur Kirche: Veränderte Materialisierungsformen von Heiligkeit in der Spätantike“, in Erzeugung und Zerstörung von Sakralität zwischen Antike und Mittelalter, Armin F. Bergmeier, Katharina Palmberger, Joseph E. Sanzo eds, Munich 2016, pp. 63–80.

3 / Gate of Persecution, Ayasoluk, Ephesus, possibly 12th–14th centuries

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explanation for these spolia in se that does not rely on apotropaism, nor on direct contacts or unique historical causes; rather I will demonstrate that spolia in se was an iteration of a widespread visual idiom, an Eastern Mediterranean koiné. The pseudo-Arabic inscriptions in the walls of the eleventh or even twelfth-century Church of the Theotokos at Hosios Loukas constitute a case of spolia in re20. The purpose-made inscriptions are executed on marble stringcourses and brick patterns inserted into the outside façade. Those have likewise been interpreted using single-author and apotropaic approaches21. Another angle of interpretation has been to view the spolia in re in Hosios Loukas and spolia elsewhere as trophies of victory over other cultures or religions. This scholarly narrative builds on and expands upon the interpretatio Christiana, one of the most enduring themes in spolia research22. Carolyn Connor has argued that the katholikon of the monastery constitutes a victory monument23. Based solely on historical context, she argued for a possible connection of the presumed patron to the successful conquest of Crete in 961, combining the single author approach with a triumphalist reading of the monument. Alicia Walker supported this interpretation of “symbolic dominance” of Christianity over Islam and applied it to the inscriptions on the church of the Theotokos at Hosios Loukas24. More recently, she has adopted a similar reading to jewelry and metal objects bearing pseudo-Kufic script, arguing that they represented the “political, cultural, and even military supremacy” and “mastery” over Islam, and going as far as to conjecture that these fashionable objects visually anticipated future conquests of Islamic lands25. These objects, however, might be better understood as a visual koiné identifying its wearer as a member of a cross-cultural elite26. Pseudo-Arabic inscriptions on buildings (mostly executed in brick) were extremely popular in the Middle Byzantine period, which renders arguments around specific historical causes and direct contact as their source questionable. Moreover, the discussion of pseudo-Arabic script has mostly overlooked the fact that the practice of displaying horizontal bands of inscriptions on the walls of mosques and madrasas was, in

fact, a common aesthetic practice in Islamic lands27. Therefore, the Eastern Roman examples must be seen not as a new visual format, but rather as an appropriation and adaptation of this Islamic visual idiom, demonstrating a high regard for this aesthetic rather than any form of disdain, triumphalism or claims to superiority28. It is equally unlikely that pseudo-Kufic script was believed to have had apotropaic properties, although such a reading cannot be excluded for each and every beholder over the span of many centuries. Given the ubiquitous nature of (pseudo-) Arabic script on Islamic and Christian buildings, any argument that seeks to explain its presence as the result of a single-author decision must remain unconvincing. The following three case studies seek to further dismantle some beliefs about the significance of spolia that were manifestly put on display on walls and façades. By using the lens of the Eastern Roman Empire’s association with Roman cultural heritage, I aim at a revised understanding of this cultural practice. Church of the Dormition, Merbaka The Church of the Dormition of the Virgin stands in the small village of Merbaka in Morea (the Peloponnese) between the cities of Argos and Nafplio [Figs 4–5]. It is predominantly known for the use of ceramic bowls in its façade and for the ancient reused reliefs and inscriptions that have aroused the interest of scholars since Cyriacus of Ancona visited the site in March of 1448. As Guy Sanders has very convincingly shown, the church can be dated to the last quarter of the thirteenth century, specifically to the years when William of Moerbeke was archbishop of Corinth (1278–1285). He was a cleric and a humanist scholar who translated Aristotle and other ancient Greek authors into Latin29. Merbaka, the ancient name of the village, likely derives its name from Moerbeke and ties the village and the church to the archbishop and scholar. Through an analysis of the ceramic bowls, often mounted on the walls of Byzantine churches, Sanders has pushed Megaw’s stylistic typology for the Byzantine churches forward by a century30. Many of the churches that Megaw assigned to the latter half of the twelfth century,

therefore, need to be re-dated to the second half of the thirteenth century31. The church itself rests on a pediment of hewn stone. The lower part of the walls rising above 20 On the concept of spolia in re as the reuse of formal traits and

principles, see Richard Brillant, “I piedistalli del giardino di Boboli: spolia in se, spolia in re”, Prospettiva, xxxi (1982), pp. 2–17. 21 Carolyn L. Connor, “Hosios Loukas as a Victory Church”, Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, xxxiii/3 (2005), pp. 293–308; Alicia Walker, “Pseudo-Arabic ‘Inscriptions’ and the Pilgrim’s Path at Hosios Loukas”, in Viewing Inscriptions in the Late Antique and Medieval World, Anthony Eastmond ed., Cambridge 2015, pp. 99–123, sp. pp. 107–109. Silvia Pedone and Valentina Cantone have voiced reservations regarding apotropaic interpretations of pseudo-Kufic script. See Valentina Cantone, Silvia Pendone, “The Pseudo-Kufic Ornament and the Problem of Cross-Cultural Relationships between Byzantium and Islam”, Opuscula Historiae Artium, lxii (2013), pp. 120–136, sp. p. 122. 22 On the concept of interpretatio Christiana, see Esch, “Spolien”(n. 2), pp. 46–50, sp. pp. 63f. For a critique of the interpretatio Christiana, see Dale Kinney, “The Concept of Spolia”, in A companion to Medieval art: Romanesque and Gothic in Northern Europe, Conrad Rudolph ed., Hoboken 2019, pp. 331–56, sp. pp. 337f. 23 Connor, “Hosios Loukas” (n. 21), p. 307. 24 Walker, “Pseudo-Arabic ‘Inscriptions’” (n. 21). 25 Alicia Walker, “Courtly Objects, Courtly Identities: Middle Byzantine Luxury Arts and the Material Culture of Elite Leisure”, in Identity and the Other (n. 3), pp. 295–312, sp. pp. 302–304. 26 Oleg Grabar,“The Shared Culture of Objects”, in idem, Islamic Visual Culture, 1100–1800, volume ii, Constructing the Study of Islamic Art, Hampshire 2006, pp. 51– 67; Katharina Meinecke, “Circulating Images: Late Antiquity’s Cross-cultural Visual Koiné”, in A Globalised Visual Culture? Towards a Geography of Late Antique Art, Katharina Meinecke, Fabio Guidetti eds, Oxford 2020, pp. 321–339, sp. p. 323. 27 By the early tenth century, bands with inscriptions had become a standard feature of Islamic architecture. Some early examples include the wooden epigraphic frieze from Cairo’s Ibn Tulun Mosque (879 ce), the Mosque of the Three Doors at Kairouan (866 ce), and especially the horizontal inscription in the Fatimid Mosque Al-Azhar (972 ce). On the latter two examples see Yasser Tabbaa, The Transformation of Islamic Art during the Sunni Revival, London 2001, pp. 53–72, esp. fig. 18a; Jonathan M. Bloom, Arts of the City Victorious: Islamic Art and Architecture in Fatimid North Africa and Egypt, New Haven 2007, p. 29. 28 For a similar view see Robert Hillenbrand, “The Classical Heritage in Islamic Art: The Case of Medieval Architecture”, The Scottish Journal of Religious Studies, vii (1986), pp. 123–40, sp. p. 126. 29 See for example, Fabio Acerbi, Gudrun Vuillemin-Diem, La transmission du savoir grec en Occident. Guillaume de Moerbeke, le Laur. Plut. 87.25 (Thémistius, in De an.) et la bibliothèque de Boniface viii, Leuven 2019. 30 Guy Sanders, “William of Moerbeke’s Church at Merbaka: The Use of Ancient Spolia to Make Personal and Political Statements”, Hesperia, lxxxiv/3 (2015), pp. 583–626, sp. pp. 590–593. 31 Cf. H. Megaw, “The Chronology of Some Middle-Byzantine Churches”, Annual of the British School at Athens, xxxii (1932), pp. 90–130.

4 / Relief with three figures, Church of the Dormition of the Virgin, Merbaka, Ag. Triada/Nafplio, 1278–1285 5 / Latin inscription, Church of the Dormition of the Virgin, Merbaka, Ag. Triada/Nafplio, 1278–1285

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the pediment mainly consists of large, reused blocks of stone from ancient sites in the vicinity32. Above this lower zone, the masonry displays typically Middle Byzantine cloisonné interrupted by ornamental brick bands. The windows are surrounded by typically Middle Byzantine brick decorations, and the bell tower is a later addition. The plan is an inscribed cross covered by a high octagonal dome. Two inscriptions have been set into the fabric of the church, flanking the south and the north door, one in Latin, the other one in Greek, along with three reliefs, two funeral stelae, and a Hellenistic hero or funeral relief, which is now at the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek33. The Latin inscription on the south wall can be dated to the middle of the first century bce34. It conspicuously mentions an imperator, namely Quintus Caecilius Metellus, a commander of the Roman Republic35. The Greek inscription, however, mentions local sculptors from Argos, Xenophilos and Straton of Argos, active in the Hellenistic period36. The choice of this marble slab on the side of the north door might have been motivated by the name Xenophilos, which literally means someone who is friendly to foreigners. Sanders has argued that William of Moerbeke arranged the spolia on its wall as a response to and in support of the Council of Lyon, which called for a crusade against the Saracens and discussed differences between the western and the eastern Church. He asks if the Islamic pottery might have been read as a call against the Muslims, a suggestion that remains unconvincing, given the many cases of Byzantine churches from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries with Islamic pottery. Most importantly, however, Sanders sees the funerary relief showing three people on the south wall as a visualization of the filioque clause that was debated at the Council at Lyon37. The West had added the word filioque (and the son) to the Nicene creed, suggesting that both God-father and the Son created the Holy Ghost, whereas the Orthodox Church believed that both were created by the Father. A relationship to this ecclesiastical decision is, however, difficult to link to the relief because it merely depicts three people of equal stature. Nothing indicates the subordination of one of them to the other two, in which case it could

be read as an image of Father and Son creating the Holy Ghost. While other churches in Venice and in the Eastern Mediterranean often preferred objects from the Late Antique and Byzantine periods, Merbaka shows a predilection for the classical period. This selection might well be attributed to its patron. Similarly, the choice of inscriptions containing a reference to a Roman emperor and the word φιλόξενος (philoxenos) likely reflects the concerns of a Western foreigner interested in the connection between the Latin and the Greek past of the Roman Empire. What is more relevant for the question of why the church uses spolia in the way it does, however, is that the patron consciously deployed a tradition of using spolia that was common in the Greek-speaking East; thus it should not be linked to his personal biography alone. Moerbeke’s decision to place ancient artifacts on the walls of his church are probably not idiosyncratic manifestations of his personal choices. Instead, they are emblematic of a koiné, a visual language available to him, through which some of his personal tastes may still be discerned today. Indeed, nothing about this church’s architecture or its decoration deviates from what was typical of Byzantine church building at the time. Many churches with inscribed cross plans (cross-in-square plans), octagonal domes, spolia reliefs, and ceramic bowls on the façades have survived from the late twelfth and thirteenth century. And numerous churches in the Peloponnese show a similar treatment of spolia, often paired with ceramics mounted in the walls, for instance in the church of the Dormition at Gastouni, Agios Theodoros at Vamvaka (Mani), the church at Keria (Mani), and Agii Theodorii in Athens [Fig. 6]. In even closer proximity to the church built by William of Moerbeke are the church of the Dormition at Chonika and the Ayia Moni at Aria. Both appear to have been built around the time that William of Moerbeke built his church38. This places Merbaka in a much larger framework of architectural expression, one that was available to the Western bishop. The fact that William of Moerbeke consciously inscribed his church into this tradition seems to indicate a deliberate choice. The visual language

that he translated and adapted to his personal interests is likely to have communicated the common Roman identity in the Eastern Mediterranean. This shared identity that was negotiated and displayed through the reuse of artifacts from the past was shared by all inhabitants of regions formerly held by the Roman Empire in Antiquity and in the Middle Ages39. Significantly, Moerbeke chose objects gesturing towards the classical period, when East and West shared a common identity as members of the Roman Empire. Outside of the agency of Western rulers, this integration of the West through a deployment of classical pieces played a minor role in the Eastern Mediterranean, as will be demonstrated for Venice and the Seljuk Lands, both covering regions that were formerly part of the Eastern Roman Empire. San Marco, Venice The term spolia derives from the Latin spolium, which signified movable objects taken by force, often spoils of war put on display. In the early modern period, the term has been adapted to signify reused objects from Antiquity, thereby losing its association with violent seizure40. In some cases, however, the ancient meaning of the word as a trophy (of war) overlaps with the

6 / Church of Saint John at Keria, Mani, 13th century (?)

32 Sanders, “William of Moerbeke’s Church” (n. 30), pp. 598f. 33 Copenhagen, Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, Inv. 1594. 34 Sanders, “William of Moerbeke’s Church” (n. 30), p. 602. 35 q(uinto) caecilio c(ai) f(ilio) metello

Imperatori italici Qvei argeis negotia(ntur)

36 ΧΕΝΟΦΙΛΟΣ ΚΑΙ ΣΤΡΑΤΩΝ ΑΡΓΕΙΟΙ ΕΠΟΙΗΣΑΝ

37 Sanders, “William of Moerbeke’s Church” (n. 30), p. 605. 38 It remains unclear if the date of 1149 mentioned in an inscrip-

tion on the western façade of the church at Aria refers to the present church or to its predecessor. The inscription was installed in its current position in the upper right-hand corner of the western façade at a later date. Damages on its corners clearly show that the relief has been reused and mounted on the façade along with other spolia pieces (Sanders,“William of Moerbeke’s Church”[n. 30], pp. 617–622). For an opposing view cf. Christina Pinatsi, “Some Remarks on the Sculpted Decoration and the Templon of the Katholikon of Hagia Moni in Areia, Nauplion”, Deltion, xxxix (2018), pp. 179–194. 39 There are also several examples in Southern Italy: among them the cathedrals of Benevento and Troia and the Church of St Maria in Anglona. 40 Dale Kinney, “The Paradigm of Spolia”, in Mittelalterliche Mythenrezeption: Paradigmen und Paradigmenwechsel, Ulrich Rehm ed., Vienna 2018, pp. 173–192; Kinney, “The Concept of Spolia” (n. 22), pp. 331–332.

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7 / Porta di Sant’ Alipio, San Marco, Venice, 1260s

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medieval reuse of artifacts, for example when the Pisans put spoils of war on the façades and walls of their city41. But while there is ample evidence for the Pisan interpretation of these spoils, similar evidence is missing for other places such as Venice, a city whose visual culture has frequently – but incorrectly – been interpreted as the result of triumphally displayed plunder. The Church of San Marco was erected around 1080, but the noticeable spolia façades were added roughly two centuries later [Fig. 7]. While the interior decoration is striking with respect to the reuse of imported columns and capitals and the manufacture of pseudo-spolia, the façade is a veritable explosion of reused or seemingly reused elements42. Bente Kiilerich’s description of the Little Metropolis appears to be equally valid for San Marco in that it is an “almost exhibitionistic display of images”43. The north façade seems to postdate the main façade in the West and was likely finished towards the end of the thirteenth century44. The carpet-like arrangement of reliefs on the southern façade has earned that wall the name of “trophy wall”. Since Demus coined that

phrase, however, Henry Maguire has pointed out that many of these reliefs have been newly produced in Venice45. The same can be said of other works, such as the frieze over the Porta di Sant’Alipio and several of the sculptural works on the northern façade and inside the ducal chapel46. Thus far, scholars have been unable to adequately explain this practice, one which has induced disapproving comments in the past. It has been predominantly viewed as the result of loot and spoils of war47. Demus described it as “the haphazard agglomeration of reliefs” and the north façade as an “almost meaningless, if rhythmical, agglomeration of single reliefs”48. The way the spolia were arranged on the walls – in a seemingly erratic way without a clear system – has been pointed to as proof for this reading. Patricia Fortini Brown summarized the thirteenth-century use of spolia under the title “Stolen Past”. She equally believes that the Venetian builders depended on the vagaries of looted material, using it such as it arrived by ship after 120449. But scholars have ignored the inconvenient fact that the ships that might have returned in

xi e xii secolo: le iscrizioni romane del duomo e la statua del console Rodolfo”, Studi medievali, ser. 3, xiii (1972), pp. 791– 843; Marc von der Höh, “Trophäen und Gefangene: Nicht-schriftliche Erinnerungsmedien im hochmittelalterlichen Pisa”, in Stadt zwischen Erinnerungsbewahrung und Gedächtnisverlust, conference proceedings Esslingen am Neckar 2010, Joachim J. Halbekann, Ellen Widder, Sabine von Heusinger eds, Ostfildern 2015, pp. 147–174; Giovanna Tedeschi Grisanti, “Il reimpiego di marmi antichi a Pisa nell’xi secolo”, in Niveo de marmore: l’uso artistico del marmo di Carrara dall’xi al xv secolo, Enrico Castelnuovo ed., Genoa 1992, pp. 76–78; Henrike Haug,“Beute: Pisa, Genua und die Königin von Mallorca”, in Bild-Ding-Kunst, Gerhard Wolf, Kathrin Müller eds, Berlin/ Munich 2015, pp. 15–26; Karen R. Mathews, Conflict, Commerce, and an Aesthetic of Appropriation in the Italian Maritime Cities, 1000–1150, Leiden/Boston 2018, pp. 110 –155; Anna Rosa Calderoni Masetti, “Prede belliche dai paesi dell’Islam nelle fonti pisane dell’xi e xii secolo”, in Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen Institutes in Florenz, lxi (2019), pp. 146–167. Ulrich Rehm,“Herkules und der Löwe des Heiligen Markus. Der mittelalterliche transfer paganer Antike an die Fassade von San Marco in Venedig”, in Philopátion: Spaziergang im kaiserlichen Garten; Beiträge zu Byzanz und seinen Nachbarn, Neslihan Asutay-Effenberger, Falko Daim eds, Mainz 2012, pp. 165–182. Kiilerich, “Making Sense” (n. 14), p. 104. Rudolf Dellermann, Karin Uetz, La facciata nord di San Marco a Venezia: storia e restauri, Verona 2018, p. 95. Henry Maguire, “Venetian Art as a Mirror of Venetian Attitudes to Byzantium in Decline,” in 55th Anniversary of the Istanbul University, International Byzantine and Ottoman Symposium, Sümer Atasoy ed., Istanbul 2004, pp. 281–294.

41 Giuseppe Scalia, “‘Romanitas’ pisana tra

42

43 44 45

46 See Armin F. Bergmeier, “The Production of Ex Novo Spolia

and the Creation of History in Thirteenth-century Venice“, Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen Instituts in Florenz, lxii/2 (2020), pp. 126–157. 47 Otto Demus remarked about the reliefs on the south façade that “most of them remained what they had been when they were shipped to Venice: spoils to be used for enriching the walls of the state church”. (Otto Demus, The Church of San Marco in Venice: History, Architecture, Sculpture, Washington, d.c. 1960, p. 111). Erich Hubala noted the difficulty of finding meaning in the “symbols” (Erich Hubala, Reclams Kunstführer Italien, Stuttgart 1974, p. 692). Marilyn Perry’s article “Saint Mark’s Trophies: Legend, Superstition, and Archaeology in Renaissance Venice” was extremely influential in this regard (Marilyn Perry, “Saint Mark’s Trophies: Legend, Superstition, and Archaeology in Renaissance Venice”, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, xl (1977), pp. 27–49). Anthony Cutler wrote: “In Venice, as in Byzantium, the parade of booty was a potent vehicle of political triumphalism” (Anthony Cutler, “From Loot to Scholarship: Changing Modes in the Italian Response to Byzantine Artifacts, ca. 1200–1750”, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, xlxi [1995], pp. 237–267, sp. p. 238). See also Eva Sibylle Rösch, Gerhard Rösch, Venedig im Spätmittelalter: 1200–1500, Freiburg 1991, pp. 47–49; Thomas E. A. Dale, “Cultural Hybridity in Medieval Venice: Reinventing the East at San Marco after the Fourth Crusade”, in San Marco, Byzantium, and the Myths of Venice, Henry Maguire, Robert S. Nelson eds, Washington, d.c. 2010, pp. 151–191, sp. p. 152; Mathews, Conflict, Commerce (n. 41), e.g. pp. 80, 85, 89. 48 Otto Demus, The Church of San Marco (n. 47), pp. 111 and 113. 49 Patricia Fortini Brown, Venice & Antiquity: The Venetian Sense of the Past, New Haven 1996, pp. 15–29.

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1204 or 1205 as a result of looting in the course attempt to read the walls of San Marco as the of the capture of Constantinople arrived roughly triumphal display of loot and trophies ignores sixty years before the decoration of the façades. the presence of a large number of buildings in Sixty years is a considerable amount of time the Eastern Mediterranean that share San Marco’s during which the Venetians would have had am- approach to the display of spolia – albeit usually ple opportunity to create a coherent scheme for in reduced quantities. Within this context, the the arrangement of the reused and newly-made aesthetic choices made for San Marco become less pieces. The long time between the conquest of unique and idiosyncratic; rather they show that Constantinople and the design of the façades of San Marco engaged in a broader discourse, one San Marco, as well as the absence of contempo- that was concerned with the heritage and survival rary written sources confirming such a reading, of Roman ideals and a Roman identity. By using renders the triumphalist interpretation obsolete. this koiné, a widely understood visual idiom, VenAnd the fact that several of the apparent spolia ice linked itself to the Roman identity epitomized were newly made clearly precludes their identifi- by Byzantium, the Eastern Roman Empire. cation as spoils of war. Furthermore, John Barker A strikingly similar approach to Venice can has argued that Byzantine and Venetian culture be seen in the architecture of the Grand Komwere virtually free from the permanent display nenoi in Trabzon. The Hagia Sophia of Trabof triumphalist spolia. In the written sources, zon, erected under Manuel i Grand Komnenos Barker has noted only one known instance of (r. 1238–1263), shows a predilection for displaying Byzantine trophy display. After the conquest of spolia in a seemingly random fashion [Fig. 8]. The the cities Tarsos and Mopsuestia from the Arabs frieze running along the width of the main portal in 965, Nikephoros Phokas had their city gates pretends to be made up of reused pieces, but its installed on the walls of Constantinople, one at stylistic and iconographic contiguity is reministhe Akropolis (near the northeastern tip of the cent of the frieze of the Porta di Sant’Alipio in Golden Horn) and one on the Golden Gate in the Venice, discussed above. At Trabzon, Christian southwest of the city50. iconography as well as Seljuk ornaments were While trophy-spolia are not documented in fused into a synthesis, as Antony Eastmond has the written sources, the byzantine Romans did, of shown53. But the muqarnas and other ornaments course, gather booty after successful campaigns, frequently found in the context of Seljuk buildas did the Venetians. Some scholars have pointed ings should not be mistaken for signs of victory54. to Byzantine sources that document the temporary Through comparisons, Eastmond has shown that exhibition of spoils of war. In order to prove that the Hagia Sophia in Trabzon draws from a range Hosios Loukas was a “victory church”, Carolyn of ornaments that are widespread in Anatolia Connor cites a passage in Leo the Deacon’s history and the Caucasus. They can be found on Seljuk where the tenth century historian describes the buildings as well as Armenian and Georgian arrival of looted goods after Nikephoros Phokas’ ones, thereby undermining Tamara Talbot Rice’s successful Cretan campaign in 96151. However, the “simplistic political interpretation”55. These motifs passage merely describes the temporary display are not expressions of supremacy, but rather the of spoils of war, not their permanent installation result of “an enormous fluidity of people and in the city and on buildings52. ideas at all levels of society”56. Therefore, the analogy of the triumphal parade of booty with architectural spolia is a false Seljuk Anatolia one. The ornamentation of a church’s walls with newly carved bands bearing pseudo-Arabic In recent decades, apotropaic interpretations have script (Hosios Loukas) or the mounting of dec- increasingly been applied to artifacts that do not orative columns and reliefs (San Marco) are not yield information about their meaning via icothe same as the temporary exhibition of loot in nography or text. While a broad range of artifacts the Hippodrome after a successful battle. Any certainly possessed magical qualities, churches, as

50 John Barker, “Byzantium and the Display of War Trophies:

Between Antiquity and the Venetians”, in To Ellenikon. Studies in Honor of Speros Vryonis Jr., Joel Stevens Allen et al. eds, New Rochelle 1993, pp. 45–58. Similarly, see also Fabio Barry, “‘Disiecta Membra’: Ranieri Zeno, the Imitation of Constantinople, the ‘Spolia’ Style, and Justice at San Marco”, in San Marco, Byzantium, and the Myths of Venice, Henry Maguire, Robert S. Nelson eds, Washington, d.c. 2010, pp. 7–62, sp. pp. 21–27. The gates from Tarsos and Mopsuestia were installed at the northeastern corner of the walls, near the ancient acropolis and at the Golden Gate in the southwestern part of the city. On the gates see Ewald Kislinger, “Neorion und Prosphorion – die alten Häfen am Goldenen Horn. Mit einem Anhang über die Landeplätze (skalai) in diesem Umfeld bis 1204”, in Die byzantinischen Häfen Konstantinopels, Falko Daim ed., Mainz 2016, pp. 91–97, sp. pp. 94– 96. 51 Connor, “Hosios Loukas” (n. 21), p. 300. 52 Leo the Deacon, History ii.8 (The History of Leo the Deacon: Byzantine Military Expansion in the Tenth Century, Alice-Mary Talbot, Denis F. Sullivan eds, Washington, d.c. 2005, p. 81). 53 Antony Eastmond, Art and Identity in Thirteenth-Century Byzantium: Hagia Sophia and the Empire of Trebizond, Burlington 2004. 54 Cf. Tamara Talbot Rice, “Analysis of the Decorations in the Seljukid Style”, in The Church of Hagia Sophia at Trebizond, David Talbot Rice ed., Edinburgh 1968, pp. 55–82. 55 Eastmond, Art and Identity (n. 53), pp. 82f. 56 Ibidem, p. 91.

8 / South portal, Hagia Sophia of Trabzon, ca 1238–1263

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9 / Léon de Laborde, citadel walls of Konya (Voyage de l’Asie Mineure, Paris 1838, pl. lxiv)

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already noted, were not places that needed such magical protection. Apotropaic and talismanic objects derive their powers from perceived “sympathetic” connections with other things in the universe. And many of these objects have acquired their magical properties in the course of their lives through later layers of meaning, as for instance the ancient serpent column in Istanbul57. Other objects, predominantly metalworks, pilgrimage ampullae, and amulets were manufactured as talismans, and their apotropaic function can often be derived from the legible or illegible signs and inscriptions they bear58. But the spolia studied here lack any inscriptions or signs supporting apotropaic readings, and many are found on church walls, which are presumably protected by their sacred status and by God. Nonetheless, scholars have cited apotropaic notions in relation to the Panagia Gorgoepikoos (Little Metropolis) in Athens and Hosios Loukas among others; only rarely have scholars employed this trope for the spolia on the walls of San Marco59. The monuments studied in this last section are profane buildings, caravanserais and city walls that are not necessarily protected by a higher divinity. But in these cases as well, it is difficult to maintain the apotropaic readings that have sometimes been offered for the walls of Konya and other Seljuk buildings that employ Roman (ancient and Byzantine) spolia. In the course of the thirteenth century, the Seljuks of Anatolia built a close network of caravanserais (hans) along the major trade routes connecting Kayseri, Sivas, and Konya to the harbors in Antalya and Sinop. Many of these structures reused older building material, and some exhibited them in striking manner on inside and outside walls (e.g. Zazadin Han, Kadın Han, Obruk Han). Those three hans are all located along the Konya-Kayseri road. But not only profane buildings have been outfitted with Roman spolia. Some, such as the Karatay Medrese in Konya (1251–1252), display spolia in re, newly carved emulations of Byzantine architectural sculpture, in this case colonnettes and capitals. One particularly striking example in the small town of Atabey has recently been studied by Scott Redford. The madrasa was commissioned by Emir Mübarizeddin Ertokuş, a converted Christian. It uses a Byzantine architectural plan along

with actual spolia, such as carved iconostasis panels marking the edge of an iwan60. Unfortunately, the most famous Seljuk spolia on the citadel walls of Konya have not survived to this day [Fig. 9]61. The exact circumstances of its destruction in the nineteenth and early twentieth century are unknown. Fortunately, drawings and descriptions as well as a few preserved pieces survive in the museum in the İnce Minare Camii. The display included Islamic inscriptions along with Seljuk reliefs of flying angels, a headless ancient statue of Hercules, and many more reused pieces from the Byzantine period. Historical accounts regarding the art historical value of the walls of Konya are ambivalent. Helmuth von Moltke regarded them as evidence for the Seljuk’s barbaric taste, whereas Léon de Laborde considered the spolia walls to be on equal footing with the finest products of the Renaissance62. Modern scholarship has recognized the artistic and aesthetic value of the Seljuk products, particularly after Scott Redford drew attention to them in a seminal article on the Seljuks and the Antique63. In the absence of contemporary written sources documenting the perception of these monuments, the scholarly opinion has predominantly favored an apotropaic reading of the spolia placed on the walls64. But again, once we put the Seljuk monuments in a broader perspective it becomes obvious that they participated in a widespread aesthetic strategy that is not limited to Seljuk lands. Individual choices, triumphalist narratives or apotropaic considerations cannot sufficiently explain the spolia’s presence. The display of newly-made and original Roman spolia moved within an established tradition for expressing Roman identity through the use of artifacts from the past. Interestingly, many of the Seljuk examples precede the efforts of William of Moerbeke and the decoration of the walls of San Marco by several decades, raising the question of whether the Seljuk adoption of the Eastern Roman tradition acted as a catalyst for its widespread adoption. Zazadin Han is a striking example of the extensive use of spolia on all four façades [Fig. 10]. According to an inscription, the main building was finished in 1235–1236, the courtyard in 123765. It was erected by an emir of Sultan Alaêddin

Kaykubad i named Sadeddin (also spelled Saʿd al-Din) Köpek66. As the sultan’s architect, the emir 57 Andrew Griebeler, “The Serpent Column and the Talisman-

ic Ecologies of Byzantine Constantinople”, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, xliv/1 (2020), pp. 86–105. The bronze column was originally a reminder of the Greek victory over the Persians in 479 bce, but had lost that meaning when it arrived in Constantinople 800 years later. By the late fourteenth century ce, it had acquired its talismanic meaning. 58 Finbarr Barry Flood emphasizes that apotropaic objects are frequently made of bronze: see Flood, “Image against Nature” (n. 18), p. 154. On the concept of sympathy and the difference between apotropeia and talismans, see Griebeler, “The Serpent Column” (n. 57), pp. 90–94. André Grabar, Ampoules de Terre Sainte (Monza, Bobbio), Paris 1958, p. 64; Gary Vikan, “Byzantine Pilgrim’s Art”, in Heaven on Earth: Art and the Church in Byzantium, Linda Safran ed., Philadelphia 1998, pp. 229–266, sp. p. 235; Jeffrey Spier, “Medieval Byzantine Magical Amulets and their Tradition”, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, lvi (1993), pp. 25–62; Armin F. Bergmeier, “Behältnisse visueller Erfahrungen: die Pilgerampullen von Monza und Bobbio”, in Für Seelenheil und Lebensglück, Despoina Ariantzi, Falko Daim eds, Mainz 2018, pp. 343–355, sp. p. 343. 59 David M. Perry, “St George and Venice: The Rise of Imperial Culture”, in Matter of Faith: An Interdisciplinary Study of Relics and Relic Veneration in the Medieval Period, James Robinson, Anna Harnden eds, London 2014, pp. 15–22, sp. pp. 16–19. 60 Redford, “Rum Seljuk Emir” (n. 3). 61 See, for example, Arne Effenberger, Neslihan Asutay-Effenberger, “Viktorien und Engel in der seldschukischen Skulptur”, in Der Doppeladler: Byzanz und die Seldschuken in Anatolien vom späten 11. bis zum 13. Jahrhundert, Neslihan Asutay-Effenberger, Falko Daim eds, Mainz 2014, pp. 161–175. 62 Moltke wrote: “Eine hohe lange Mauer mit hunderten von Türmen umschließt nur ein ödes Feld mit einigen zerfallenen Ruinen; in dieser Mauer siehst du heidnische Altäre, christliche Grabsteine, griechische und persischen Inschriften, Heiligenbilder und genuesische Kreuze, den römischen Adler und den arabischen Löwen ohne Rücksicht eingefügt, wie die Werkstücke eben zu einer Scharte oder Zinne passen, und eine große türkische Inschrift an jedem Turm sorgt dafür, dass niemand in Zweifel bleibe, wer die Barbaren waren, die dieses Werk vollbrachten”. (Helmuth von Moltke, Unter dem Halbmond: Erlebnisse in der alten Türkei 1835–1839, revised ed., Wiesbaden 2008, ch. 39, pp. 326f.) Laborde, however declared that the Seljuks possessed “un respect et un goût d’arrangement qui n’est comparable qu’aux dispositions élégantes adoptées en pleine Renaissance par l’Italie, sous l’impulsion d’un Raphaël et d’un Léon x”. (Léon de Laborde, Voyage de l’Asie Mineure, Paris 1838, pp. 116f.). 63 Scott Redford, “The Seljuqs of Rum and the Antique,” Muqarnas Online, x/1 (1992), pp. 148–156. 64 Ibidem; Richard McClary, “The Re-Use of Byzantine Spolia in Rūm Saljūq Architecture”, Bfo – Journal, i (2015), pp. 14–22. On the historiography of Seljuk spolia and its interpretation as apotropaia and victory trophies, see Suzan Yalman, “Repairing the Antique: Legibility and Reading Seljuk Spolia in Konya”, in Spolia Reincarnated (n. 11), pp. 211–233. 65 Kurt Erdmann, Das Anatolische Karavansaray des 13. Jahrhunderts, Istanbuler Forschungen 21, Berlin 1961, Vol. i, No. 28, pp. 102–107; Müberra Erdoğan, “Man Along the Trade Route”, in Along Ancient Trade Routes: Seljuk Caravanserais and Landscapes in Central Anatolia, Gül Asatekin, Georges Charlier eds, Maasland 1996, pp. 43–92, sp. p. 64. 66 In the interest of easy legibility, I use the modern Turkish spelling of the names.

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10 / Outside façade with spolia, Zazadin Han, 1235–1236 11 / View of Obruk Han, 1230–1250 12 / Reused sculpture, interior wall, Obruk Han, 1230–1250 13 / Portal, Zıvarık Han, Zıvarık, 13th century

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also built Kubadabad Palace on Beyşehir Lake for colonnettes, pilasters, and various smaller reliefs Alaêddin in 122867. He earned the name of dog – an overwhelming majority of the stones reused (köpek) after unsuccessfully trying to usurp the on the outside of Zazadin Han shows crosses. The throne. Seen from afar, the walls of this caravan- sheer number makes it virtually impossible to serai look like a unified smooth surface. From up imagine any Byzantine building or even a larger close, however, a surprising number of stones building complex with a sufficient amount of betrays their spoliate nature, and most of them stones with cross decorations. The blocks of stone show crosses. The caravanserai is located only must have been carefully selected and brought sixteen miles outside of Konya, and along with here from within a large geographical radius. Obruk Han, Zıvarık Han, and Kadın Han it uses Several other hans in the vicinity show a simian unusually high amount of spolia. lar interest in decorating walls with spolia. Obruk While the use of spolia might be taken to be Han (between 1230 and 1250) displays many older the result of the practical need for building ma- decorated building parts [Figs 11–12]68. Zıvarık terial, it quickly becomes obvious that the shal- Han (13th century) possesses a particularly orlow reliefs could have easily been erased in the nate entrance, which is somewhat reminiscent process of erecting the building. The display of of the Gate of Persecution at Ephesus, decoratthe spoliate nature is intentional and so is the se- ed with various pieces of cornices, reliefs, and lection of objects. Unlike the other caravanserais, coffered architectural elements [Fig. 13]69. Kadın which exhibit a variety of reused pieces – tomb- Han, located in the center of the eponymous town stones, cornices, columns, relief slabs, decorated of Kadınhanı (1223–1224), was built by a female

patron (kadın) [Figs 14–15]. The building inscription names her as Ruqiye Khatun who is likely identical with Devlet Khatun, one of Kaykhusraw i’s wives, who also founded the Hatuniye Mescidi in Konya70. The han displays a wide array of spolia on all four sides, such as ancient altars, tombstones with and without figurative decorations, inscriptions, and relief slabs, variously decorated with lozenges, crosses, and geometrical 67 Das Anatolische Karavansaray (n. 65), p. 107. On Sadeddin

Köpek, see Sara Nur Yıldız, “The Rise and Fall of a Tyrant in Seljuq Anatolia: Sa‘d al-Din Köpek’s Reign of Terror, 1237–1238”, in Ferdowsi, the Mongols and the History of Iran: Art Literature and Culture from Early Islam to Qajar Persia, Robert Hillenbrand, Andrew C. S. Peacock, Firuza Abdullaeva eds, London/New York 2013, pp. 92–101. On patronage in the Seljuk Sultanate see Howard Crane, “Notes on Saldjuq Architectural Patronage in Thirteenth Century Anatolia”, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient, xxxvi/1 (1993), pp. 1–57. 68 Das Anatolische Karavansaray (n. 65), No. 52, pp. 169–174. 69 Ibidem, No. 34, pp. 126–130. 70 Crane, “Notes on Saldjuq” (n. 67), No. 85, pp. 48f.

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14 / Portal, Kadın Han, Kadınhanı, 1223–1224 15 / Reused funerary reliefs, outside façade, Kadın Han, Kadınhanı, 1223–1224

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ornaments71. Many of the original spolia and building blocks have been preserved, while the wall surface around them has been refurbished. The entrance of this caravanserai is very ornate with symmetrically arranged pieces of an ornamented cornice and Byzantine relief slabs crowned by an inscription. The variety and distribution of this han’s spolia is particularly reminiscent of San Marco in Venice and the Church of the Dormition at Merbaka. There can be little doubt about the reasons for the reuse in the Seljuk examples. On the walls of the caravanserais discussed above but also the walls of Konya, the spolia have intentionally been put on view. There is no evidence for any kind of apotropaic qualities associated with the stones, and crosses are unlikely to be apotropaic signs in a predominantly Islamic context. It is equally unlikely that the objects have been put on display in order to visualize the victory and superiority of Islam over Christianity and paganism. Surely, alienating Christian merchants at caravanserais, whose sole purpose was to house and protect them as they traveled along the trade routes, would have been deeply counterproductive and unthinkable. Trade between the Seljuks and their Western trading partners flourished. This is epitomized by an important treaty between Jacopo Tiepolo, the Venetian Podestà of Constantinople and Sultan Alaêddin Kaykubad from March 122072. While in the case of Venice and of William of Moerbeke the investment in a common Roman past and identity might not seem surprising, the Seljuk adoption of Roman cultural heritage deserves some explanation. Rustam Shukurov has shown that the social boundaries between orthodox Christians and Muslims were, in fact, very fluid. Several of the Rum-Seljuk sultans had Greek wives or mothers who were identified in the sources as Roman by origin (rumiya li-asl)73. Shukurov points out that those women were allowed to practice their Christian religion freely and that for this reason the sources record the presence of churches, chapels, and priests at the Seljuk courts and in the cities of Seljuk Anatolia74. Some of these churches already existed and continued to be used after the Seljuk conquest; for some of the buildings,

however, there is even evidence that they were newly erected. Roman canon law further records that marriages between Muslims and Christian women were common even outside of the royal elite and that the children from these marriages were often baptized according to Orthodox practices. Shukurov writes that “the preservation of Christian identity by Greek brides in non-Christian environments was normal practice in the vast region comprising Anatolia and Western Iran”75. Even Seljuk princes would sometimes be baptized despite their Muslim belief, as for example was the case with İzzedin Keykâvus ii76. The result was an identity that was not exclusively bound by Muslim or Seljuk cultural markers. We might recognize a similar understanding of cultural identity in the Seljuk buildings that are decorated with Roman stones. The buildings display the Roman cultural heritage thus as a part of the common identity of Rum-Seljuk society. Conclusion Through an investigation of the practice of displaying spolia, this article has meditated on two important aspects of identity in the Eastern Mediterranean. First, I have demonstrated the need to take seriously the self-identification of historical people. The medieval Romans frequently stated that they understood themselves to be Romans. Without claiming to know what being Roman meant for particular individuals, the article has substantiated and re-articulated this well-documented declaration of Roman identity through the use of material culture, one previously based largely on textual evidence. Second, I have argued for the importance of studying these examples of medieval material culture in connection with each other. The case studies presented here – the Church of the Dormition at Merbaka, San Marco in Venice, and the Seljuk caravanserais – have all been examined in isolation in the past, possibly because they are often believed to belong to distinct cultural identities. This has resulted in scholars proposing various motivations for the instances of spolia display: predominantly as the results from decisions by individual protagonists, as victory trophies, and as apotropaia.

When studied in conjunction with each other, the shared visual idiom employed by these monuments emerges, strongly reflecting shared antiquarian tastes and an interest in using the past to construct cultural identity. The people of the Eastern Mediterranean had long expressed their antiquarian interests through the collection and display of Roman artifacts, predominantly from the Late Antique and Byzantine periods77. These spolia established a link between the Roman past and the present, providing a palpable expression of a common cultural identity (romanitas). Given the pervasive nature of this aesthetic (koiné) over many centuries and vast geographies, we must assume that this message could be understood by contemporary beholders. The images build arguments through their visual logic, which obviated the need for explanatory inscriptions in any of the surviving examples in an era before the invention of national print languages78. And while medieval textual sources, which naturally originated in elite circles, might lead us to think that Roman cultural heritage was an elitist project in the Eastern Roman Empire79, the visual culture that filled the urban fabric of local communities counters this assumption. These visual markers provided rallying points for cultural identification outside of elite circles. 71 Das Anatolische Karavansaray (n. 65), No. 10, pp. 49–51. 72 The treaty was famously authorized using a chrysobul, which

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74 75 76 77

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had previously been the prerogative of the Eastern Roman Emperor. On the treaty see Michael E. Martin, “The Venetian-Seljuk Treaty of 1220”, The English Historical Review, xcv (1980), pp. 321–330. Rustam Shukurov,“Harem Christianity: The Byzantine Identity of Seljuk Princes”, in The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in the Medieval Middle East, Andrew C. S. Peacock, Sara Nur Yıldız eds, London 2015, pp. 115–150. Ibidem, pp. 121–124. Ibidem, p. 124. Eastmond, Art and Identity (n. 53), p. 127. On the pre-eminence of the period of Late Antiquity for medieval Roman culture see András Németh, The Excerpta Constantiniana and the Byzantine Appropriation of the Past, Cambridge 2018, pp. 165–177; Rapp, “Hellenic Identity” (n. 5), p. 132; Cyril Mango, “Byzantinism and Romantic Hellenism”, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institute, xxviii (1965), pp. 29–43, esp. p. 33. On the invention of print languages during the era of modern nationalism see Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism, London 2016 (first edition 1983), pp. 37–46. Stouraitis, “Roman Identity” (n. 5), p. 204; Walker, “Courtly Objects” (n. 25), p. 310.

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Finally, the study has provided further evidence for recent textual studies on Roman identity, showing that this kind of identity was not parsed along national or ethnic boundaries. This is evidenced by the fact that the practice of displaying Roman spolia was not restricted to the areas under the sovereignty of the Emperor of the Romans, but extended to neighboring political entities. While we today might not think that all of those neighbors shared this common Roman history, identity, and ancestry, the material culture challenges such assumptions. With reference to textual sources, Ioannis Stouraitis and others have noted that Roman identity was not constructed using ethnicity, language, and race as identity markers80. Paul Veyne has similarly pointed to identity concepts in Late Antique Roman Syria, which did not revolve around national or ethnic concepts81. The newly established Empire of Trabzon, Venetian ecclesiastical and private architecture, churches in Southern Italy and in Frankish Morea, as well as architectural structures in Seljuk Anatolia all employed the display of material fragments from the past in order to position themselves within a cultural and historical framework founded on the idea and heritage of the Roman Empire. Thus, medieval Roman identity was not earmarked for an ethnically defined group. It was a fluid construct that was predominantly based on the perception of a widely shared political and cultural continuity with the past. 80 Stouraitis, “Roman Identity” (n. 5), p. 199. Cf. Gill Page, Being

Byzantine: Greek Identity Before the Ottomans, Cambridge 2008, pp. 11–21. 81 Paul Veyne, Palmyra: Requiem für eine Stadt, Munich 2015, pp. 86–87.

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summary Starožitné vystavování spolií a římská identita San Marco, Merbaka a seldžucké karavansaraje

Autor článku se zabývá užitím spolií v Argolidě, Benátkách a na seldžuckém území ve třináctém století, konkrétně v kostele Zesnutí Panny Marie v Merbace, v katedrále San Marco v Benátkách a v seldžuckých karavanserajích v Anatolii. Ve všech třech lokalitách se nachází spolia, prostřednictvím kterých tyto stavby navazují na římskou minulost východního Středomoří a vyjadřují tak kulturní identitu zakořeněnou v ideálu romanitas. Autor se domnívá, že v těchto případech nemůže být praxe zdobení stěn a fasád výběrem zdánlivě nesourodých recyklovaných artefaktů vysvětlena pouze nutností nebo pragmatickými důvody. Naopak, poukazuje spíše na touhu vystavovat opětovně použité artefakty na odiv. Tato estetika je v Byzanci doložena již od devátého století, v následujících staletích se rozšiřuje i do dalších míst a postupně vytváří vizuální idiom (koiné). Autor usuzuje, že pro pochopení tohoto společného

vizuálního jazyka je důležité brát v potaz sebeurčení Byzantinců jako Římanů. Je také nutné zkoumat jednotlivé případy užití spolií ve vzájemných souvislostech, nikoliv jako izolované jevy. Autor tím problematizuje tři z nejcitovanějších vědeckých teorií, které vysvětlují doposud enigmatické užití spolií: z rozhodnutí jednotlivců, spoliace s možnou triumfální interpretací, a spolia s apotropaickou funkcí. Nahlížíme-li na spoliaci jako na součást širšího fenoménu, je jasné, že římská kulturní identita stavěla právě na vnímání sdílené římské minulosti. Ta nebyla rozdrobena etnickými a národnostními otázkami, a byla tudíž dostupná i politickým subjektům, které nebyly v područí římského císaře. Spoliované artefakty jsou proto důležitým zdrojem pro pochopení konceptu římské identity, která nebyla vyhrazena byzantským elitám, ale byla přístupná širokým vrstvám, a dokonce i územím sousedícím s Byzancí.

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Abstract – Spoiling the Hellenes: Intertextuality, Appropriation, Embedment. The Case of the Christos Paschon – The twelfth-century tragedic trilogy Christos Paschon offers a good case study of the use of ancient elements as spolia. The paper investigates the implications of the processes of removal and embedment for the four main Euripidean source texts and the twelfth-century trilogy. The study looks at the processes through the concepts of cento, appropriation, identity, spolia, and, finally, translation. It concludes that the appropriation of ancient texts, prominently displayed in a later work, allowed reevaluation of those texts and affirmation of the Hellenic and orthodox identities of the Byzantine audience and author. Keywords – appropriation, cento, Euripides, identity, intertextuality, spoliation, tragedy, translation

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Margaret Mullett University of Edinburgh [email protected]

Spoiling the Hellenes: Intertextuality, Appropriation, Embedment The Case of the Christos Paschon Margaret Mullett

Spolia studies are gaining voice1. They strike a contemporary chord which resonates with other contemporary notes like space, mobility, and the global Middle Ages2. Recent publications point us in the direction of permeability, of repurposing, of, perhaps, translation3. Two edited volumes dealing with the early modern period look at the way things4 circulate and bring with them concepts: embroidery, weaponry, coffee, costume albums in one5 come with coastal exchanges, portability and hybridity in the other6. They exemplify Karen Mathews’s view: “the Mediterranean was a liquid frontier that emphasised

Spolia Reincarnated: Afterlives of Objects, Materials and Spaces in Anatolia from Antiquity to the Ottoman Era, 10th International anamed Annual Symposium (Istanbul, December 2015), Ivana Jevtić, Suzan Yalman eds, Istanbul 2018. 2 See for example current projects at Uppsala and Newcastle (space), Vienna (mobility), Oxford, and Birmingham (global Middle Ages). 3 E.g. Finbarr B. Flood, Objects of Translation: Material Culture and Medieval “Hindu-Muslim” Encounter, Princeton 2009. 4 Another contemporary note: cf. The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, Arjun Appadurai ed., Cambridge 1986; Alfred Gell, Art and Agency; An Anthropological Theory, Oxford 1998. 5 The Mobility of People and Things in the Early Modern Mediterranean, Elizabeth A. Fraser ed., Abingdon 2020. 6 Dalmatia and the Mediterranean: Portable Archaeology and the Poetics of Influence, Alina Payne ed., Leiden 2014.

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the mutability of cultures and the kaleidoscopic saw inept and mindless plagiarism we are now and ever-changing nature of interaction between ready to see imaginative varietas and subtle interpeoples”7. One paper in each of these volumes textuality that uses the reconfiguration of redundeals with a textile spolium. Avinoam Shalem’s dant, archaic, decontextualised cliched expressions piece on the chasuble of Thomas Becket deals to send a pointed, contemporary, critical message”. with a vestment in Fermo regarded as a relic be- But two debates in another volume are pertinent cause it was believed to have belonged to Thomas to texts and give thought. Michael Greenhalgh, Becket; it has been argued for some time that it convinced that most spolia are pragmatic rather was previously a royal Andalusian canopy or tent than ideological, demands documentation before of around 11008. We cannot say how the textile identifying ideology13. The problem here is that was removed from its first context and embedded “documentation” only goes so far: meaning in texts in a new one; we merely see its repurposed self is often not transparent and may be more difficult in a place of honor. Ashley Dimmig’s chapter in to read than objects or images. Liverani questions the other book deals with the Ottoman war-tents the equivalence of literary spolia with their marble captured at the siege of Vienna in 1683 by the or silken counterparts; for him they copy rathPolish king Jan iii Sobieski and their role in Polish er than delete. Violence is an essential part for self-esteem, to the extent that they needed to be him of spoliation or appropriation14. The problem invented when they did not exist9. We see the new here is that he has not taken into account the wide context only in triumphalist terms and the old territory and potential of intertextuality, which context in terms of spoliation. Between the two we should proceed to consider. essays, through a single kind of object, the full range of spoliations can be seen, from the softest Intertextuality to the hardest. This allows Byzantinists to think about the portability of tents10 and to envisage That range in Byzantium includes at the macrofragments of tents in the cathedral treasuries of level the quintessential Byzantine literary pracEurope and in royal graves. If tents can be so eas- tice of mimesis, long ago highlighted by Herbert ily captured, so readily repurposed, we may yet Hunger and the subject of a conference ten years have the physical examples we have long missed ago15. Byzantine intertextuality16 can also include in Byzantium. And we may have another chapter paraphrase and metaphrasis (up or down)17 of in the history of spolia. classical or biblical stories, as popularised for imI propose instead to look here at a case of verbal ported imperial women in the twelfth century18 or appropriation (horizontal and vertical over time as written as biblical epics by Juvencus and Sedulius, well as space) and recontextualization of a work of Arator, Cyprianus Gallus, Avitus, and verse hagio­ literary art. We shall see this not so much through graphy by an imperial woman in Late Antiquity19. reuse like material objects, but through the fictive Parody is a third mode which is thought always continuity which comes with quotation, a case of to engage seriously with its source-text, whether Richard Brilliant’s spolia in re rather than in se11. critically or sympathetically20. But before that I want to consider whether it is But it is at the micro-level that most scholars possible to treat texts or textual fragments as spolia, have seen literary spoliation, at the level of quotaand whether they undergo the same processes of tion or citation and its redeployment21. Hunger’s spoliation, appropriation, embedment as material generalisation about the mixing and massing of objects either portable or violently seizable. Paul biblical and classical quotations in letters does not Magdalino clearly thinks it is possible and indeed hold22: Theophylact of Ochrid in his letter-collecnecessary, “a landmark in cultural history”12. He tion does not always mix his classical and biblisees a parallel between the way in which literary cal quotations or mass the classical ones, placing imitation and borrowing has been reevaluated in them in significant positions at the beginning or the past forty years and the way in which the reuse end of a letter. All quotations are omitted from of spolia has been interrogated: “where once we business letters and from letters of high emotional

content23. Classical quotations raise the mood, addressed to his inner circle24; biblical quotations depress it, and are addressed to clerical colleagues and subordinates25. Both issues are important, the what and the how, because they correspond to the processes of spoliation: selection and embedment – what is taken and where it goes. These processes, of detachment and arrangement, are also to be found in another popular kind of text of the Middle Byzantine period, the anthology or florilegium; here the culture of spolia meets the culture of sylloge26. Collections of laws, proverbs, military taktika, ceremonies, saints’ lives (in various sizes), gnomai, sayings, services, hymns, sermons, were lovingly put together, or compiled to order and arranged in centuries or fifties, by topic or calendar or ascetic career advancement27. Typologies of florilegia have been determined28, though they have until fairly recently been neglected: “there is nothing in those texts” was a common reaction to major lives’ work thought to be lacking in originality, often correctly when compilers hid behind their compilation. But the two biggest literary successes of the eleventh century were works of this kind; the Metaphrastic Menologion and the Synagoge of Paul of Evergetis29. The former was a work of systematisation of saints’ lives as well as of metaphrasis; the latter a progressive paterikon proceeding in four books of fifty excerpts to take the aspiring ascetic from renunciation of the world to monastic leadership and the heights of theology. The texts used include the Menologion but also monastic classics such as (in order of popularity) the Apophthegmata patrum, Ephrem the Syrian, Isaiah of Skete, Mark the monk, Maximos confessor, Palladios, the Karen Rose Mathews, Conflict, Commerce, and an Aesthetic of Appropriation in the Italian Maritime Cities, 1000–1150, Leiden 2018. 8 Avinoam Shalem, “Architecture for the Body: Some Reflections on the Mobility of Textiles and the Fate of the So-Called Chasuble of Saint Thomas Becket in the Cathedral of Fermo in Italy”, in Dalmatia (n. 6), pp. 246 –267. 9 Ashley Dimmig, “Substitutes and Souvenirs: Reliving Polish Victory in ‘Turkish’ Tents”, in The Mobility (n. 5), pp. 70–90. 10 E.g. Margaret Mullett,“Tents in Space, Space in Tents”,in From the Human Body to the Universe: Spatialities of Byzantine Culture, Myrto Veikou, Ingela Nilsson eds, Leiden, forthcoming. 11 Richard Brilliant, “I piedistalli del giardino di Boboli: spolia in se, spolia in re”, Prospettiva, xxxi (1982), pp. 2–17. 12 Paul Magdalino, “Epilogue: A Meditation on the Culture of Spolia”, in Spolia Reincarnated (n. 1), pp. 341–347, sp. p. 341. 7

13 Michael Greenhalgh, “Spolia: A Definition in Ruins”, in Reuse

Value: Spolia and Appropriation in Art and Architecture from Constantine to Sherrie Levine, Richard Brilliant, Dale Kinney eds, Farnham 2011, pp. 75–95. 14 Paolo Liverani, “Reading Spolia in Late Antiquity and Contemporary Perception”, in Reuse Value (n. 13), pp. 33–51, sp. pp. 41–48. 15 Herbert Hunger,“On the Imitation (mimhcic) of Antiquity in Byzantine Literature”, dop, xxiii–xxiv (1969–1970), pp. 15–38; Imitatio-Aemulatio -Variatio, Akten des internationalen wissenschaftlichen Symposions zur byzantinischen Sprache und Literatur (Wien, 22–25 Oktober 2008), Andreas Rhoby, Elisabeth Schiffer eds, Vienna 2009. 16 See Ingela Nilsson, “The Same Story but Another: A Reappraisal of Literary Imitation in Byzantium”, in Imitatio (n. 15), pp. 195–208; eadem, Erotic Pathos, Rhetorical Pleasure; Narrative Technique and Mimesis in Eumathios Makrembolites’ Hysmine and Hysminias, Uppsala 2001, sp. pp. 261–286; eadem, Raconter Byzance; La littérature au xiie siècle, Paris 2014, sp. pp. 72–74. 17 Metaphrasis: Redactions and Audiences in Middle Byzantine Hagiography, Christian Høgel ed., Oslo 1996; Metaphrasis: A Byzantine Concept of Rewriting and Its Hagiographical Products, Stavroula Constantinou, Christian Høgel eds, Leiden 2020; Metaphrasis in Byzantine Literature, Anne P. Alwis, Martin Hinterberger, Elisabeth Schiffer eds, Turnhout 2021. 18 Jacobi Monachi Epistulae, Elizabeth Jeffreys, Michael Jeffreys eds, Turnhout 2009, p. xxv. 19 Michael Roberts, Biblical Epic and Rhetorical Paraphrase in Late Antiquity, Liverpool 1985; for Eudokia’s verse passion of St Cyprian, Peter van Deun, “The Poetical Writings of the Empress Eudocia; an Evaluation”, in Early Christian Poetry: A Collection of Essays, Jan den Boeft, Antonius Hilhorst eds, Leiden 1993, pp. 273–282. See also Alan Cameron, “The Empress and the Poet”, ycs, xxvii (1982) pp. 217–289. 20 Margaret A. Rose, Parody: Ancient, Modern, and Post-Modern, Cambridge 1993, pp. 45–47; Charis Messis, Ingela Nilsson, “Parody in Byzantium”, in A Golden Age of Laughter? Satire in the Middle Byzantine Period, Przemyslaw Marciniak, Ingela Nilsson eds, Leiden 2021. 21 See Baukje van den Berg, “Eustathios’ Homeric Commentaries. Translating Homer and Spoliating Ancient Traditions” in this volume; and Antony R. Littlewood, “A Statistical Survey of the Incidence of Repeated Quotations in Selected Byzantine Letter-Writing”, in Gonimos: Neoplatonic and Byzantine Studies presented to Leendert G. Westerink at 75, Leendert G. Westerink, John M. Duffy, John Peradotto eds, Buffalo, ny 1988, pp. 137–154. 22 Hunger, “On the Imitation” (n. 15), p. 30. 23 Theophylacti Achridensis Epistolae, Paul Gautier ed., Thessaloniki 1986. 24 E.g. g76 to Mermentoulos, in Theophylacti Achridensis (n. 23), pp. 403–405: Herodotos, Odyssey, Aristophanes, Iliad, Oppian. 25 E.g. g87 to the bishop of Triaditsa, in Theophylacti Achridensis (n. 23), pp. 457–459: psalms, gospels, epistles. 26 Jas Elsner, “From the Culture of Spolia to the Cult of Relics: The Arch of Constantine and the Genesis of Late Antique Forms”, Papers of British School of Rome, lxviii (2000), pp.149–184; Paolo Odorico, “La cultura della sylloge”, Byzantinische Zeitschrift, lxxxiii (1990), pp. 1–21. 27 Catherine Holmes, “Byzantine Political Culture and Compilation Literature in the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries: Some Preliminary Inquiries”, dop, lxiv (2011) pp. 55– 80. 28 Jean Richard, “Florilèges grecs”, Dictionnaire de Spiritualité, v (1964), pp. 502–503. 29 Metaphrastic Menologion: pg 114–116; Synagoge, Makarios of Corinth, Nikodemos Hagiorites eds, Venice 1783, 7th ed. in 4 vols, Athens 1983.

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dialogues of Gregory the Great, Isaac the Syrian, Diadochos of Photike, the Pandects of Antiochos and the Life of Synkletike30. While some work recently has hinged on mimesis, metaphrasis and on quotations from classical and biblical works in Byzantine literature, the particular case of the cento in the Byzantine world has hardly been considered. Cento

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The classic cento of Late Antiquity produced works entirely composed of lines or half-lines from ancient authors: Homer, Virgil, the tragedians31. The theorist of the form was Ausonius in a prefatory letter to his Cento nuptialis32, and there were between the late second century and the early sixth Latin and Greek poetic centones, Homeric and Virgilian, on biblical and mythological topics, turning out epics, tragedy, epithalamia, all playing with genre, occasionally flirting with parody33. It is often thought that the form was not practiced in the Middle Byzantine period, but there is a fair amount of cento in prose. For example, the letters of Theophylact to episcopal correspondents weave quotations from the Psalms into one another with very little original text. In letter 63, possibly to the bishop of Pelagonia, the conclusion, evoking (metaphorical) bad weather ahead, quotes Matthew 7, i Corinthians, Matthew 7 again, Philippians 3, Psalm 123 and ii Corinthians in a continuous five-line, 56-word sequence, concluding with a formulaic prayer34. Letter 87 to the bishop of Triaditsa, a moment of high accusation of insubordinate calumny against Theophylact, spreads the quotations a little thinner but still navigates ii Corinthians, Psalm 27, ii Thessalonians, Psalm 122, Psalm 120, Luke 6, Psalm 17, i Peter, Ephesians 2, Matthew 18, and Romans 12 (some more than once) in a letter of 47 lines. Here he starts in his own words but ends with the scriptural authority of Romans35. The 43 letters of James of Kokkinobaphos to the Sebastokratorissa Eirene carry this technique further36. They are a tissue of quotations from Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nazianzus, Gregory of Nyssa, John Chrysostom, Evagrius Ponticus, pseudo-Procopius of Gaza, the anonymous author of the Catena trium patrum and Nicetas of Heraclea.

The editors, Elizabeth and Michael Jeffreys, hold that the letters of Basil and Gregory of Nazianzus are used as Theophylact uses his classical quotations, for “epistolary niceties”, Gregory of Nyssa on the Song of Songs for advice on meditation, pseudo-Procopius on Job to provide consolation in calamities, Gregory of Nazianzus, John Chrysostom and Gregory of Nyssa for doctrinal discussion. Secular quotations and scriptural references are used only when already embedded in the source text37. This layering of embedment is deepened by James’s practice of self-quotation as in letter 37 where every word apart from the first line is used elsewhere in the correspondence. The length of passages varies from a one- or two-word phrase to 12 or more lines. And original text by James is minimal: of the first five letters only the first gets anywhere close to 20% (12/119), the next drops to 12% (928/219) and letters 3–5 quickly dip to low single figures: 3% (21/700), 5% (24/490), 6% (39/680). These are often forms of address like ἡ βασιλεία σου, or practical phrases like τὰ γράμματα, while connectives like καί, τε, διότι. Σὺ δὲ, διὰ τοῦτο, διὸ καὶ κατασκοπῶ move things along. The Jeffreys conjecture that James was not very confident in his use of Greek, and therefore had recourse to patristic authors, but Theophylact’s usage suggests that there could have been a more literary aim for James as well. And in its combination of letter and cento James’s work conforms also to another favorite phenomenon of the twelfth century, the hybrid. The Life of Cyril Phileotes is another hybrid, this time of a saint’s life combined with a progressive ascetic anthology like that of Paul of Evergetis38. Almost every chapter of the text has a florilegium section; elsewhere there are quotations, but they are scattered and mostly confined to the Bible39. Compared to contemporary florilegia, the passages are very short; there are no edifying little stories or way-of-life episodes but there are quotations from monastic theology, dealing with virtues and vices and also techniques like fasting, prayer, labor, chains. It is close to Richard’s monastic florilegium but also his sacro-profane model, and it is not a strict ladder. There are major areas of subject matter in common with the Synagoge and like that text a small number of authors is used enthusiastically: Maximus Confessor

reigns supreme followed by John Climacus with the Cappadocians, John Chrysostom, Nilus and Thalassius, Evagrius and Dorotheus of Gaza; six of Paul’s top twelve are also high on Nicholas’s list. It is also interesting who is allowed to voice this material in a Life rich in direct speech. Sometimes the narrator Nicholas allows himself to, but in the dialogues only Cyril is allowed to be the mouthpiece, except twice, at key points in the saint’s career; at chapter 29 when Cyril progresses to a new status as master, the abbot of a monastery where he was staying speaks a cento on excess, and chapter 54 when Cyril is dying and Nicholas speaks to him with florilegium material, indicating his succession to the authority of his master40. So we see cento well embedded in the twelfth century with authors manipulating the material with a range of sophistication. Cento can be described as a literary form of spolia in that lines are rearranged to create a new work of art, even though the original work (in many cases) remains. Whether this original work is elevated in stature, as Brilliant believes is normal with in re spoliation, or, as Welchman suggests, it suffers a diminution, needs to be determined41. To test these suggestions, I want to look in detail at another twelfth-century text, this time one in verse, through which we may see how the processes of centonics and spoliation allow us to explore, among other things, the relation between Orthodoxy and Hellenism in elite identity. The text The Christos Paschon is the only surviving Byzantine tragedy, or, better, trilogy, comprising 30+2602 iambic lines in twenty-five manuscripts from the middle of the thirteenth century on42. Three plays present Passion, Burial, and Resurrection. It is regarded as anonymous, although the manuscript tradition ascribes it to Gregory of Nazianzus43. Hunger and Wolfram Hörandner convincingly resited it in the twelfth century44 and authorship has been variously ascribed to Constantine Manasses, John Tzetzes, and Theodore Prodromus45. It is a tissue of lines and half-lines from four plays of Euripides: Medea, Hippolytus, Rhesus, and Bacchae plus rather fewer from Hecuba, Orestes, Phoenissae, and

Troades; there are some quotations from Prometheus Bound and the Agamemnon46. But the vast majority of the quoted text (1078 of 1304 lines) is drawn from the four plays and almost a majority of the whole text (1293 of 2531 lines, omitting hypothesis and prayers) is spoken by the Theotokos, its protagonist. It has been studied by Byzantinists trying to prove the existence or otherwise of a Byzantine 30 John Wortley,“The Genre and Sources of the Synagoge”, in The

31

32

33

34 35 36 37 38

39

40 41

42

43 44

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Theotokos Evergetis and Eleventh-Century Monasticism, Papers from the Third Belfast Byzantine Colloquium, (Belfast, 1–4 May 1992), Margaret Mullett, Anthony Kirby eds, Belfast 1994, pp. 306–324. Theodor Verweyen, Gunther Witting, “The Cento: A Form of Intertextuality from Montage to Parody”, in Intertextuality, Heinrich F. Plett ed., Berlin/New York 1991, pp. 165–178. Ausonius, prefatory ep. to Axius Paulus, Virgil Recomposed: The Mythological and Secular Centos in Antiquity, Scott McGill ed. and trans., Oxford 2005, pp. 1–3. See Mark D. Usher, Homeric Stitchings; the Homeric Centos of the Empress Eudocia, Lanham, md 1998; Virgil Recomposed (n. 32). Theophylacti Achridensis (n. 23), pp. 357–359. Ibidem, pp. 457–459. Jacobi Monachi (n. 18). Ibidem, p. xliii. Nicholas Kataskepenos, Bios kai politeia kai thaumaton diegesis. La vie de saint Cyrille le Philéote, moine byzantin (†1110), Étienne Sargologos ed. and trans., Brussels 1964. See Margaret Mullett, “Food for the Spirit and a Light for the Road: Reading the Bible in the Life of Cyril Phileotes by Nicholas Kataskepenos”, in Literacy, Education and Manuscript Transmission in Byzantium and Beyond, Judith Waring, Catherine Holmes eds, Leiden 2002, pp. 139–164. Ch. 29.3, in Kataskepenos, Bios kai politeia (n. 38), pp. 128–129; ch. 54.5, ibidem, p. 259. Brilliant, “I piedistalli” (n. 11); John C. Welchman, “Introduction. Global Nets: Appropriation and Postmodernity”,in idem, Art after Appropriation. Essays on Art in the 1990s, Abingdon 2003, pp. 1–64. “Christos Paschon”, in Christus Patiens. Tragoedia quae inscribi solet christos paschon Gregorio Nazianzeno falso attributa, Johann G. Brambs ed., Leipzig 1885; La passion du Christ: tragédie. Grégoire de Nazianze. Introd., texte critique, traduction, notes et index, André Tuilier ed., Paris 1969. All attribute the work to Gregory: La passion (n. 42), pp. 75–116. Herbert Hunger, Die byzantinische Literatur der Komnenenzeit, Vienna 1968; Wolfram Hörandner, “Lexikalische Beobachtungen zum Christos Paschon”, in Studien zur byzantinischen Lexikographie, Erich Trapp, Johannes Diethart, Georgios Fatouros, Astrid Steiner, Wolfram Hörandner eds, Vienna 1988, pp. 183–202. Respectively Konstantin Horna, “Der Verfasser der Christus patiens”, Hermes, lxiv (1929), pp. 429–431; Johann F. Dübner, Christus patiens, Ezechieli et christianorum poetarum reliquiae dramaticae, Paris 1846, pp. iv–v; Isidorus Hilberg, “Kann Theodoros Prodromos der Verfasser des Χριστός Πάσχων sein?”, Wiener Studien, viii (1886), pp. 282–314. Identified in both Brambs’s and Tuilier’s editions; also quoted are Alcestis, Andromache, Helen, Iphigenia at Aulis and Among the Taurians, Phoenissae, and Lycophron’s Alexandra, as well as biblical and apocryphal texts.

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drama47, by Margaret Alexiou on the Virgin’s Lament48, by Elizabeth Bolman on the Galaktotrophousa49, and technical aspects of it have been considered50, but wider issues of reception, appropriation and identity have only very recently begun to be considered51. Classicists have been more concerned to use the text to understand the manuscript tradition of Bacchae than to see it as a work in its own right, but that has also changed52. And most scholars, whether students of classics, Byzantine studies or of drama, have been very uneasy with the combination of sacred drama with what was by the twelfth century secular text. There is a sense that no one is quite sure what to do with it. Medea, Hippolytus, Rhesus, Bacchae

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If we look at the use of the four main source texts in the Paschon, it can be seen as thoughtful. The quotations are not random or mechanical53, nor is there a straightforward transfer of text from character to character, a point made by Karla Pollmann54; there is flexibility in who voices the lines. It does not smack of parody, nor is this a juvenile school exercise. The author has thought carefully about his source plays, has identified speeches with the strongest emotional punch and has reminded his audience of them and their relevance to the ultimate drama of the Passion. If we look at the use of Medea, the first (Crucifixion) play begins with Med. 1 and ends at 1130–1133 with the last lines of Medea 1415–1418 minus the closing formula. The first speech of the Theotokos starts strongly with use of the Nurse’s speech and the exchange between Theotokos and chorus before the first messenger arrives draws on the chorus telling Jason of his sons’ death. Other speeches heavily dependent on Medea are the first messenger, the Virgin’s curse, and the dialogue between Christ and the Theotokos including Christ’s last words at 1038. Much of the source-play goes unused (300 lines out of 1419 are used): our author chooses moments of high emotion or horror or dramatic tension: Medea’s farewell to the children (1069–1080), the death of Jason’s wife (1156–1194), Medea weeping once the die is cast and she cannot go back on her actions (1005). In the second (Burial)

play, the Medea takes a back seat though it appears in the early dialogue between Joseph and John the Theologian and in the Threnos. In the third (Resurrection) play, use of powerful emotional passages (Medea’s gift to the bride, exchanges between Medea and Jason) compensates for sparing use of the text as a whole. So i is rich in Medea, ii and iii not so, but the prayer to the Theotokos ends with a reference to Medea, the last reused lines in the trilogy. As a reading of Medea the Christos Paschon emphasizes not the witch or the monster or the xene, but the weeping mother, bereft of any family support as she makes up her mind to sacrifice a child. It shows a strong woman outraged by betrayal: and a Theotokos who has absorbed the torments of Medea (and, we shall see, of Agave and Phaedra) as she voices her. Hippolytus offers rich and varied opportunities to the author of the Christos Paschon, but the profile of appropriation is similar to that of Medea: the first play is the richest and thereafter use declines, though it is strong in the prayer to the Virgin at the end. In the first play “emotional moments” are mirrored: shock at news, horror, realization of a woman’s precarious position, or the death of a loved one, the grieving of a parent, pleas for forgiveness, the lament of creation. Several of these passages amass three or more loci from Hippolytus. In the second play actions are mirrored: taking down or taking up the body, holding the beloved in one’s arms, ordering burial, ordering entombment, evoking the mourning of a community, saying farewell, and (rather less successfully) the discovery of a suicide by hanging, and messenger tropes. In the third play what comes through is more a typology: the Theotokos as (briefly) Aphrodite and (more consistently) Artemis, Christ as sharing the merits and the Magdalen the loving impatience of Hippolytus. This can be seen also in i where the Virgin on Christ echoes Artemis on Hippolytus, and where the Virgin’s virginity echoes that of Hippolytus, but it is much more visible in the final play and the last prayer, to the Virgin. The tragic premature death through machination of a chaste hero and the stately divinity of mother or patron are underlined in this way. Unlike in many modern receptions Phaedra and her torments are hardly considered, though her quick

intelligence in foreseeing her downfall is a model for the Theotokos’s growing understanding of what unfolds before her eyes. The Rhesus, unlike Medea and Hippolytus, appears both late and sparsely, and then builds to richer treatment in the second play, particularly from ii 1715 on, as the entombment is completed and John, Joseph and the Theotokos talk of dispersal. From now Rhesus and Bacchae predominate in the trilogy, and switching between one and the other can indicate exits/entrances. From 1813 to 1855 we see night drawing on, and from then to 1995 in the third play the wakening of the women. So far the main contribution has been atmospheric: suspicion, danger, caution, mission on the one hand, and the interplay of night and day, wakefulness and sleepiness on the other. In iii there is more emphasis both on the comic potential of blundering about in the dark, and also on Rhesus as long-awaited savior bringing his army from Thessaly like Christ from Hades. Throughout, but particularly in ii, the parallel between mourning mothers, Muse and Theotokos, is drawn. The author of the Paschon uses the atmosphere of mistrust to create a world of threat but also focuses on the natural descriptions of darkness and light to create stunningly lovely evocations of the women fighting off sleep as the weekend’s events demand wakefulness at night and enforced rest during the day. The comic potential of the blundering about in the dark is fully utilized in the Pilate subplot but the arrival of a long-awaited savior, teamed with the presence of the Muse, the only innocent mother allowed to grie­ve in all four source plays, offers a more spiritual Byzantine reading. Of our four source-plays Bacchae is least used, and again it builds from a late and sparse beginning to a richer mixture at the second half of i and in ii. The generally thinner, but less superficial, use of this source-text actually enables a more powerful message as the horror of the story of Bacchae is applied to the passion. The first play focuses heavily on the parallelism between Pentheus and Christ, while the second play broadens to the wider cast: the Theotokos and her women as Agave and the maenads, and as Cadmus in lament; Joseph as Agave the carpenter and as Cadmus the exile. The third play as well as comparisons

of women on the loose, at the tomb and on the mountain as maenads, and threats in the subplot reflecting Dionysus and Pentheus deals more with religious aspects of the plays: the escape of Christ from the tomb and the bacchantes from prison, Christ’s conquest of Hades and the ravaging of Dionysus’s foes, affirmations of faith to Christ and to Dionysus. In contrast to modern readings the Paschon considers the nature of religious experience, faith and defiance, and above all the horror of violent death. Painting and polyphony… I have recently suggested55 that the use of source texts in the Christos Paschon can be seen as painting: pointilliste [Fig. 1] or broad brush [Fig. 2]. Other examples of pointillism are i 218–234 with one full line but many smaller units from Medea, Hippolytus and Bacchae in the first messenger’s speech, and i 267–288 at the beginning of the Virgin’s curse. Other broad-brush examples are at ii 1469–1490 in the entombment and ii 1870–1892 where all four texts in longer units express the dialogue between Virgin and fourth messenger. Sometimes bare canvas in the painting is caused by accommodations not just of gender, number or tense, but more significant ones: sometimes the reader is expected 47 Przemyslaw Marciniak, Greek Drama in Byzantine Times, Ka-

towice 2004, pp. 89–95.

48 Margaret Alexiou, “The Lament of the Virgin in Byz­an­­tine Lit-

49

50

51

52

53 54 55

erature and Modern Greek Folksong”, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, i (1975), pp. 111–140, sp. pp. 122–124. Elizabeth Bolman quoted it at the Theotokos conference, (Oxford, August 2006) in a paper which will form part of a book on the middle and late Byzantine Galaktotrophousa. Růžena Dostálová, “Die byzantinische Theorie des Dra­mas und die Tragödie Christos Paschon”, Jahrbuch der österreichischen Byzantinistik, xxxii/3 (1982), pp. 73–82 offers rather more. Rachel Bryant Davies, “The Figure of Mary Mother of God in Christus patiens: Fragmentary Tragic Myth and Passion Narrative in a Byzantine Appropriation of Euripidean Tragedy”, Journal of Hellenistic Studies, cxxxvii (2017), pp. 1–25. Marigo Alexopoulou, “Christus patiens and the Reception of Euripides’ Bacchae in Byzantium”, in Dialogues with the Past, i. Classical Reception. Theory and Practice, Anastasia Bakogianni ed., London 2013, pp. 123–137; Bryant Davies, “The Figure” (n. 51). Bryant Davies, ibidem, takes the same line. Karla Pollmann, “Jesus Christus und Dionysos”, Jahrbuch der österreichischen Byzantinistik, xlvii (1997), pp. 87–106. For fuller analysis see Margaret Mullett, “Painting and Polyphony: the Christos Paschon as Commentary”, in Byzantine Commentaries on Ancient Greek Texts, 12th–15th c., Baukje van den Berg, Divna Manolova, Przemyslaw Marciniak eds, forthcoming.

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1 / Painting: pointillism, Christos Paschon, i, 1095–1130, ed. Brambs, pp. 90–91, marked up by author. Yellow represents Medea, orange Hippolytus, pink Rhesus, green Bacchae 2 / Painting: broad brush, Christos Paschon, i, 271–306, ed. Brambs, pp. 44–45, marked up by author. Yellow represents Medea, orange Hippolytus, pink Rhesus

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to remember the original formulation, as when θυμός is replaced by λύπη, βούλημα by ἐλπίς. The pointilliste effect is increased by the way two lines can be combined into one, sometimes one spread out into two, or one into three e.g. 1010 to 1036, 1037, 1038. Sometimes very few words over several lines point out the source-passage in a way that only the keenest ear could have detected. Sometimes paraphrase rather than textual mimesis is found (373); sometimes the same quotation appears at the beginning and end of an argument (i 109, 129) as a frame; sometimes a shift in source-text indicates stagecraft. Doubling can be informative: using both Medea and Jason on parenting in the Theotokos’s voice says something about the text’s view of her as a mother. Comparisons are important, but contrasts are also; we are asked to read how different the Theotokos is from Medea as well as their similarities. Alternatively, the use of the source-texts can be seen as polyphony: play i starts with Medea, Hippolytus enters at 50, Rhesus at 87, Bacchae at 161. We then see [Fig. 3] at ii 1275–1305 Joseph, the Theotokos and John in the Deposition voice each

play in turn. At times of the greatest emotion polyphony is richest: at 848 when the Theotokos realizes that Christ is dead, Agave’s realization that she has killed her child is interwoven with Hippolytus seeing his stepmother dead, and Artemis realizing that Hippolytus is close to death. At 1020–1085 Medea, Rhesus, and Bacchae combine to evoke a bloody sight. In ii, the moment of deposition has all four texts conveying the shock of Medea’s outrageous response to the messenger, Agave on Dionysus in messenger 2, Artemis telling Theseus to take Hippolytus inside and a wake-up call for Hector from Rhesos. At 1340 the sixth lament passage uses the Muse’s lament and Cadmus’s lament over Pentheus. Later it combines all four with the moment of Hippolytus’s death, the introduction to the Muse’s lament, Cadmus bringing Pentheus’s body into the palace and Jason prevented from burying or mourning his boys. In iii which is predominantly Rhesus Christ shocks with his one-word line, chairete, at 2097, and the Theotokos responds as Rhesus does to Hector on his first appearance, the chorus to Dionysus acclaiming his power, and the horrible death of Jason’s bride.

3 / Polyphony, Christos Paschon, ii, 1275–1305, ed. Brambs, pp. 100–101, marked up by author. Yellow represents Medea, orange Hippolytus, pink Rhesus, green Bacchae

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Contributing both to painting and polyphony are the parts of the source-texts that are chosen, the passages of highest emotion or horror56. Passages of high density of usage are in Medea the nurse’s opening, Medea’s speech as suppliant to Aegeus, parts of the women of Corinth, the paidagogos and Medea at 1002–18 awaiting the messenger, and Jason and Medea at the killing of the children and the aftermath. In Hippolytus, his questioning of his father about the death of his stepmother, his farewell to his friends and home, in Rhesus Hector and the Chorus, Hector blaming the guards are densest. In Bacchae Cadmus’s speeches and the confrontation between Pentheus and Dionysus, as well as everything from Agave’s entrance at 1202, are very dense. … and spolia

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Can we, as well as painting and polyphony, see the use of the source-texts in terms of spolia; the violent sparagmos of familiar plays and the rearrangement of the dismembered parts like pieces of antique sculpture in the walls of a Byzantine building? First, we should be certain that it is a cento; some scholars insist that it is (anything other than a tragedy anyway), but we may ask how it compares to the late antique examples. For one thing it is a great deal longer. The Vergilian centones range from 11 lines (De panificio) to 461 (Hosidius Geta’s Medea); the Homeric cento of Eudokia is longer at 2,344 but is nothing to the ambition of our text which interweaves in polyphony four main texts with added touches of others57. On the other hand, it does not conform always to accepted principles of cento-composition. Ausonius envisaged every line as taken from the source-text though each could be divided into two and recombined. Appropriation of more than two successive lines and of less than half a line were equally frowned upon. In Christos Paschon complete lines quoted exactly are fewer than one might imagine, as are direct importation of half-lines. Chunks of up to five or six lines are common, sometimes starting fully followed by strategically placed odd words, sometimes starting with fragments and working up to a fuller quotation. It has similar difficulties of cento poetics to skirt (accommodation,

verse adaptation, the demands of the destination genre) and it inspires in modern readers similar lines of investigation (Is cento always parodic? To which the answer is no, but it can be. Is it necessarily intentional? To which the answer is yes at a micro level, but the reader remains key). Like its Late Antique forebears it plays with genre. Even though it uses tragedy for tragedy, while Vergil served the muses of tragedy and epithalamium as well as mock-epic and epic, the play has been seen as a free-standing Virgin’s lament58 and it has well developed paratexts of hypothesis and prayer. Mark Usher points out that cento is not a generic term but an écriture59; Scott McGill, while not refuting this point, takes the view that “no matter how lofty its generic pretensions, a cento is always… a cento”60. And I think, though exhaustive comparison with the other verse centos would be useful, that the Christos Paschon should be viewed in this light. But is it a spolium? First we need to determine whether centos are in general spolia. McGill clearly thinks so. Discussing Ausonius’s theoretical letter he says: “Like monuments comprised of spolia, the building blocks of centos have their origin in another structura and acquire discrete artistic life”61. We have yet to return to Liverani’s contention that the reuse of spolia should not be compared to the literary process of citation. He points out a salient difference: “whereas spolia are materially wrested from a pre-existing context, thereby damaging or even destroying it, the citation replicates an expression considered to be authoritative”62. And he suggests that the original is not impoverished, but on the contrary is “raised to classic status and enriched with new resonan­ces”63. Even spolia in re cannot be certainly compared to citations: there is no quotation mark to delimit its scope. So citation is not possible in the figurative arts. And in general, he argues, there is no coincidence between what we today think of as a citation and any ancient concept (here Joseph Pucci would agree64). I would suggest though that there is a very different relationship between hypotext and hypertext in a cento: we are dealing with known material, whether Homer, Virgil or Euripides, and in its partial rearrangement in a new work of art. The same processes are there in spolia whether material or verbal;

the stage of removal or selection and the stage of assemblage, arrangement, collage or embedment. And there may also be another process, not clearly time-related like those two, but in both, the creation of an argument, the meaning of the new work. I am also not convinced that the issue of damage or destruction, the violence that so many, like Mathews65, have seen as intrinsic to spoliation, rules out the duplicated text of a cento as spolium. McGill says that “no literary form engages the work of a particular poet as openly, persuasively and exclusively as the centos do”66. But Welchman’s contention is that “there is always a violence implied in appropriation, and the violence of the cut is always accompanied by the aggravated wound of separation”67. It is true that violence can lie in changing the original meaning of the source-text; it is just that it occurs in the second process in cento not the first. The first process is one of memory, the negotium memoriae; it is the second stage, when an audience hears a familiar phrase turned to very different effect, that some kind of violence or at least “the frisson that centos as reconstituted poetry of an eminent author are designed to elicit”68 occurs. So is this cento a spolium? Is the process one of appropriation, “a very slippery term”69, or of spoliation? Dale Kinney argues that spoliation is a form of appropriation, a forcible form, appropriation plus violence70. Is there violence in the Theotokos’s voicing of Medea, Agave, Phaedra? And is it assemblage or collage? Is it marmoreal or (as the etymology of the term suggests, and, as we began our discussion) textile? Kinney sees appropriation as legitimate, neutral and a subset of reuse71. To Robert Nelson it is personal, active, subjective, motivated72. Brilliant sees it as creating an uncertain connection between past and present, “the shadow of things once and still admired”73. Mathews develops the idea of an aesthetic of appropriation: multivalent, mutable, culturally inclusive74. Rachel Bryant Davies does not explicitly discuss her use of the term but her reading of our text is of a ludic, open-ended process in which the intrinsic openness of cento allows the clash of form and subject to flirt with and then resist a closed reading75. What I would add is that the counterpoint of four main source-texts allows

both the quadrupling and deepening of emotion and also the play-off of different models and meanings in which “sometimes the object resists”76. I see the use of blocks of a source-text [Fig. 4], sometimes concentrated [Fig. 5], sometimes established over hundreds of lines, tactfully, subtly, interspersed by tracts of text which appear to be the product not of ancient but of Byzantine tragedy as very like the incorporation of blocks into a building like the little Metropolis in Athens [Fig. 6]. The gaps between the sections of cento may have served an aural purpose (even the miniature centos of Late Antiquity McGill describes as relentless77) to allow the audience to regroup and listen afresh. And whatever the skill involved in incorporating ancient blocks into a new building the skill on the page and in the memory was extraordinary. But on the page it looks like slabs of siren and gryphon embedded in a structure of pastiche. And to imagine the text without Euripidean passages is to see the little Metropolis without siren or gryphon. 56 See Margaret Mullett, “Tragic Emotions? The Christos Pas-

57

58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72

73 74 75 76 77

chon”, in Emotions through Time: From Antiquity to Byzantium, Douglas Cairns, Martin Hinterberger, Aglae Pizzone, Matteo Zaccarini eds, forthcoming. It is worth noting that the period also saw the Threnos at Nerezi (1164). Texts of De panificio and Hosidius Geta in Virgil Recomposed (n. 32), pp. 131–132, pp. 119–131; Eudocia Augusta, Homerocentones, Mark D. Usher ed., Leipzig 1999. Alexiou, “The Lament“ (n. 48). Usher, Homeric Stitchings (n. 33), p. 2, quoting Verweyen/ Witting, “The Cento” (n. 31), p. 172. Virgil Recomposed (n. 32), p. 8. Ibidem, p. 19. Liverani, “Reading Spolia” (n. 14), p. 41. Ibidem, p. 42. Joseph Pucci, The Full-Knowing Reader: Allusion and the Power of the Reader in the Western Literary Tradition, New Haven 1998. Mathews, Conflict, Commerce (n. 7), pp. 4–5. Virgil Recomposed (n. 32), p. 23. Welchman, Art after Appropriation (n. 41), p. 24. Virgil Recomposed (n. 32), p. xvi. Greenhalgh, “Spolia” (n. 13), p. 90. Dale Kinney, “Introduction”, in Reuse Value (n. 13), pp. 1–12, sp. p. 7. Ibidem, p. 8. Robert S. Nelson, “Appropriation”, in Critical Terms for Art History, Robert S. Nelson, Richard Shiff eds, Chicago 1996, pp. 160–173, sp. p. 162. Richard Brilliant, “Authenticity and Alienation”, in Reuse Value (n. 13), pp. 167–177, sp. p. 168. Mathews, Conflict, Commerce (n. 7), p. 19. Bryant Davies, “The Figure” (n. 51). Kinney, “Introduction” (n. 70), p. 9. Virgil Recomposed (n. 32), p. 27.

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Euripides and the trilogy 4 / Blocks of spolia: Two blocks of Medea, preceded and followed by two blocks of Hippolytus, Christos Paschon, i, 860–901, ed. Brambs, pp. 78–79, marked up by author. Yellow represents Medea, orange Hippolytus

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Criticism of the text is often of the author’s choice to weave the complex web of intertext that we have seen, but seldom of the imperfection of the text as a cento: the small proportion of lines from Euripides used, the contravention of Ausonian rules78. What we can see is the rich impact of the intertext in terms of emotion and gore. It shocks, it horrifies, it illuminates, it demands reflection. We see a steely, determined Theotokos who is also Artemis, the Muse and all the grieving parents (Kreon, Theseus, Cadmus, Agave, the Muse), an ambitious and danger-courting Magdalen, compared to Dolon, Odysseus and Diomedes, a Christ who is the shapeshifting Dionysus in his incarnation, the long-awaited savior Rhesus who will not remain dead, Hippolytus the ascetic hero, and Pentheus, the inert damaged hero in deposition and entombment. John the Theologian is the confident Hector; Joseph of Arimathea, who grows spiritually over the second play, plays nurse. It is equally important to ask what the trilogy tells us about the Byzantine reception of Euripides.

The popularity of Euripides in Byzantium, both in the school syllabus and in intellectual life, is well known79. Katarzcyna Warsawa has established that where Euripides appears in the Katomyomachia, it is to heighten emotional pitch, especially of grief, and the same goes for the Christos Paschon80. But we have also been able to see distinctively Byzantine readings of familiar plays, not a matter of an allegorical reading, but readings arrived at through dramatic adaptation, through reenvisaging the dramatic truth and potential of the plays. We see a different Medea from the witch, the feminist, the monster of European reception, a Bacchae which focuses on horror rather than liberation or civil disobedience, a Hippolytus who is the protagonist of his own play, a truly Byzantine hero of the wars against porneia, and a Rhesus of light and dark, sleep and wakefulness, with a Muse who is a mother and an expected savior. Together they offer commentary on Euripidean motherhood, portray a multifaceted Theotokos and reveal the pain of parental loss.

So it is a tragic trilogy, both Euripidean and Komnenian, and less of a unicum than it might appear. That literary world was already concerned with tragedy and its forms. And it was a highly performative culture81, which pervaded the streets and public places of Constantinople with performances in everyday life, on the street, in church, in the palace, the monastery and on the page, possibly realized in theatron or schoolroom. Homilies, hymns, processions, spectacles, legal proceedings, polemic dialogue assailed the author’s ears wherever he went. And on the page he was also exposed to performance. Rhetoric was basic to education, trained through the school exercises, the progymnasmata. These texts have been seen as enabling not only the characterization of women in the period but also the revival of the ancient novel82. Dramatic discourse is also foreshadowed in other texts of the period: stichomythia in Mouzalon’s poem on resignation from his see, direct speech in narrative texts, monologue and lament in a poem which deals with a Constantinopolitan ecclesiastical judge’s

hearing of a woman’s confession to murder and cannibalism in times of famine83. The revival of Lucianic satire84, and of dialogue form85, allude to ancient works; all fictionalize and dramatize that 78 Bryant Davies is a notable exception. 79 Also note Kurt Weitzmann, “Euripides scenes in Byzantine art”,

Hesperia, xvii/2 (1949), pp. 159–210.

80 Bizantyński epos dla średniozaawansowanych. Katomyomachia

81

82

83

84 85

Teodora Prodromosa jako tekst trzeciego stopnia (Byzantine Epic Poetry for Intermediate Students. The Katomyomachia by Theodore Prodromos as an Example of Genette’s ‘Literature in the Third Degree’), Katowice 2016. Margaret Mullett, “Contexts for the Christos Paschon”, in The Eloquence of Art: Essays in Honour of Henry Maguire, Andrea Olsen Lam, Rossitza Schroeder eds, Abingdon 2020, pp. 204–217. Jeffrey Beneker, Craig A. Gibson, The Rhetorical Exercises of Nikephoros Basilakes; Progymnasmata from Twelfth-Century Byzantium, Cambridge, ma 2016, pp. xxv–xxvi and xxxi. Mouzalon, Nicola Muzalone. Carme apologetico. Introduzione, testo critico, traduzione e note, Gioacchino Strano ed., Rome 2012; Ruth Macrides, “Poetic Justice in the Patriarchate: Murder and Cannibalism in the Provinces”, in Cupido legum, Ludwig Burgman, Marie Therese Fögen, Andreas Schminck eds, Frankfurt am Main 1985, pp. 137–168. A Golden Age (n. 20). Dialogues and Debates from Late Antiquity to Byzantium, Averil Cameron, Niels Gaul eds, Abingdon 2017.

5 / Blocks of spolia: Two blocks of Medea, a block of Hippolytus and a concentrated block of Bacchae, Christos Paschon, i, 1021–1052, ed. Brambs, pp. 86–87, marked up by author. Yellow represents Medea, orange Hippolytus, green Bacchae 6 / Spolia at the Little Metropolis, Athens

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fiction in dialogue. Theodore Prodromus’s War of the Cats and Mice combines cento with mock-epic, tragic form and parody86. This writing, for schoolroom, theatron or court, made the creation of something like our text possible. Identity

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So what does it mean that a trilogy dealing with the passion and resurrection of Christ should make so much use of pagan tragedy? That the Theotokos can voice a barbarian witch who killed her children, a principled woman overpowered by sexual passion who committed suicide, a mother overcome by religious ecstasy to the point of dismembering her son, and that she can be compared to a Muse, and the goddesses Artemis and Aphrodite? That Christ can be seen as a reincarnation of a Thessalian warrior, a prince of Troezen, a dismembered tyrant? If the textual borrowings in this piece are neither always superficial nor always literal, but most imply thoughtful and contextualized selection and arrangement, it means that we do need to answer this question. It is partly but not simply a matter of Byzantine philologists showing off to one another. What it is will depend on what we think of the place of ancient Greece in twelfth-century culture: do we believe that the dominant model is of the Michael Choniates patronage once proposed for the Little Metropolis in Athens: that looking around him as in his poem he saw the decay of classical civilization and salvaged what he could and arranged it proudly on his church87? On this basis the Christos Paschon flourishes its Euripidean spolia to bring them to the attention of the present day, the late twelfth century. But quite apart from the fortunes of that theory about the Little Metropolis88, it could not be seen as the dominant model. There are other possibilities: 1. A classical landscape, populated by figures from mythology, which made scholars feel at home and assert an identity as literati. Starting with letters in the tenth century classical figures move through a classical landscape in literature and art. We meet heroes, centaurs, sirens, graces, maenads, harpies, above all muses, as companions to the learned. They do not need to be

rescued, but they may rescue their writers89. On this basis the Christos Paschon would be an extreme case of the use of quotation and mimesis, of course a very extreme case. 2. A massing of classical mythological figures, including hybrids, in certain genres and on certain media (poetry, ivory), which tend to subvert the seriousness of their setting. Boys in baskets, erotes in the train of imperial women, signal lack of serious political intent. They may show deep understanding of the original objects or defy an overall reading, but they are designedly frivolous and act as a communication device between author/artist and consumer, all elite figures whether courtly or scholarly90. Consumption drives identity here; consumers can afford to know what they do and own what they do, and classical subject matter underlines this. On this basis neither Euripides nor the Easter story could sustain the kinds of readings we have seen; it is not the text we have explored. 3. Serious improvement through classical learning of a substandard literary form, in which snobbery demands that a Christian subject be made acceptable so that the identity of scholars as learned and elite be preserved91. This is a predominantly Late Antique, rather than Middle Byzantine, attitude: already Romanus was unwilling to spoil the Egyptians and warns against Hellenic learning; James of Kokkinobaphos warns the sebastokratorissa against the classical learning with which Manganeus Prodromus praises her92. It is at least as likely that the subject-matter of the Christos Paschon redeems the Euripidean material as vice versa. 4. Serious, or less than serious, revival of ancient (usually second sophistic) genres like the novel, Lucianic satire, and, I would suggest, drama. In this revival parody is seldom far away, a self-consciousness which screams identity. As Marcus Aurelius is hailed as a model of patronage in rhetoric of the period, so these genres offer enhancement to the literary spectrum available to literati93. Appropriation does not suggest understanding or valuation of the period; rather the setting travels with the plots. On this basis the Christos Paschon can be explained in terms of its classical building bricks but not its Christian structures. 5. Serious apotropaic use of the magical powers of ancient objects in secular art of the period94. Could

ancient religion serve in this way in mobilizing tragedy? Everything to do with Dionysus? No intellectual of the twelfth century would self-identify as believing in the efficacy of pagan religion, but he or she might welcome a reminder of the Otherness of the most familiar of educational textbooks. None of these models quite works for our text. Identity works by comparison and contrast, by identification and revulsion, by defining an ingroup and resisting the Other. Byzantine identity and the Other have been a concern of scholars for twenty years, at least since the Copenhagen congress of 1996 and the Sussex symposium of 199895. At that time we were particularly concerned with the Outsider, who may or may not be the Other, and about the individual and group as defined by senses and emotions. We were perhaps less questioning about what it meant to be Byzantine, happy with an old assumption that Orthodoxy, Romanitas and Hellenism in equal measures created a Byzantine identity accessible to all. Since then work has progressed on all three concepts, turning Orthodoxy into orthodoxies96, attacking the romantic conceptions of Hellenism97, and putting the Romanness of the Byzantine empire, Romanland98, center stage. A flurry of work on gender, religious polemic and ethnography99 advanced us. One way in which the Other has been viewed of late is in terms of spoliation and appropriation100. All of this can be seen in our case where major figures from antiquity, familiar to an audience by education both directly (reading Euripides) and indirectly (rhetorical exercises involving the characters), are brought into play on behalf of the doctrine of the resurrection. I suspect that we carry a lot of baggage not shared by the Byzantines. We see sacred drama as very different from classical tragedy, and do not distinguish between liturgical and non-liturgical drama; twelfth-century Byzantines would have seen liturgy as one thing and drama, whether with Christian or Dionysiac subject matter, as another. We are talking about a small elite group, metropolitan or urban, for whom ancient literature was a fundamental element of their education and a shared vocabulary of culture and belief (Magdalino reminds us that spolia were always the preserve of the cultural elite101). We glibly

assume that Orthodoxy, Hellenism and Romanitas form the bedrock of identity for far more than our small group of intellectuals, students, archontes, functionaries, and courtiers. Even if in recent years we have privileged the Roman over the other two elements, is it so very unlikely that in the reuse in transfer of cultural capital from one to the other of those two elements, Orthodoxy and Hellenism, should define the identity of a literary elite? 86 Theodore Prodromos, Katomyomachia. Der byzantinische

Katz-Mäuse-Krieg, Herbert Hunger ed., Graz 1968.

87 Manolis Chatzidakis, Athènes byzantines, Athens 1960, figs 33–51. 88 Bente Kiilerich, “Making Sense of the Spolia in the Little

Metropolis in Athens”, Arte medievale, iv (2005) pp. 95–114; Eunice Maguire, Henry Maguire, Other Icons: Art and Power in Byzantine Secular Culture, Princeton 2007, retain the twelfth-century date but not the interpretation. 89 Margaret Mullett, “The Classical Tradition in the Byzantine letter”, in Byzantium and the Classical Tradition, Papers of the Thirteenth Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Margaret Mullett, Roger Scott eds, Birmingham 1981; Anthony Kaldellis, Hellenism in Byzantium: The Transformation of Greek Identity and the Reception of the Classical Tradition, Cambridge 2008. 90 Anthony Cutler, “On Byzantine boxes”, Journal of the Walters Art Gallery, xlii/xliii (1984–1985), pp. 32–47. 91 Saint Basil on the Value of Greek Literature, Nigel G. Wilson ed., London 1975. 92 E.g. Romanus, poem 33 On Pentecost, 17.3–8, Paul Maas, C. A. Trypanis eds, Oxford 1963, p. 265; James of Kokkinobaphos, ep. 14.5, Jacobi Monachi (n. 18), p. 47. Manganeios Prodromos, poem 2.1–3, De Manganis, Silvio Bernardinello ed., Padova 1972, p. 32. 93 On revival of the novel see the work of Ingela Nilsson, on revival of Lucian, see Przemyslaw Marciniak. 94 See Maguire/Maguire, Other Icons (n. 89). 95 Byzantium: Identity, Image, Influence, Major Papers, xix International Congress of Byzantine Studies (University of Copenhagen, 18–24 August, 1996), Karsten Fledelius, Peter Schreiner eds, Copenhagen 1996; Strangers to Ourselves: the Byzantine Outsider, Papers from the Thirty-Second Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies (University of Sussex, March 1998), Dion C. Smythe ed., Aldershot 2000. See now Identity and the Other in Byzantium, Papers from the Fourth International Sevgi Gönül Byzantine Studies Symposium (Istanbul, 23–25 June 2016), Koray Durak, Ivana Jevtić eds, Istanbul 2019. 96 Byzantine Orthodoxies, Papers from the Thirty-Sixth Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies (University of Durham, 23–25 March 2002), Augustine Casiday, Andrew Louth eds, Abingdon 2006. 97 Kaldellis, Hellenism in Byzantium (n. 89). 98 Idem, The Byzantine Republic: People and Power in New Rome, Cambridge, ma 2015. 99 E.g. Emotions and Gender in Byzantine Culture. New Approaches to Byzantine History and Culture, Stavroula Constantinou, Mati Meyer eds, Cham 2019; Averil Cameron, Arguing it Out: Discussion in Twelfth-Century Byzantium, Budapest 2016; Anthony Kaldellis, Ethnography after Antiquity; Foreign Lands and Peoples in Byzantine Literature, Philadelphia 2013. 100 E.g. Scott Redford, “Rum Seljuk Emir Mübarizeddin Ertokuş and his Madrasa: Reading Identity Through Architectural Patronage”, in Identity and the Other (n. 95), pp. 225–243. 101 Magdalino, “Epilogue” (n. 12), p. 342.

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But we still need to ask what is the impact on transculturation, an act of cultural negotiathe spoliated texts. Ironically, the plays of Eurip- tion, a multi-directional exchange, a dynamic ides were less in danger of extinction than plays of activity which takes place between and within other authors, so the argument based on Michael cultural codes, forms and practices104. And the Choniates does not take us very far and has a wor- “translation turn” means that studies of material ryingly modern ring to it anyway. The valued, con- culture also emphasize the ability of translation firmative classical landscape for scholars worried to bridge the gap105. Lawrence Venuti asks harder about the Other within may play some part, as may questions106. If all translation fundamentally dogenre-revival, in this case of tragedy. We can rule mesticates the source text107, does this not take us out the use here of mythological figures to subvert, back to the violence of spolia, the frisson of cento? or of classical text to enhance. In all these cases Though our text in no way erased its source texts, spoliation elevates the stature of the spoliated text. the readings of Euripides we have detected in our But I think there is another angle to consider. All target text could amount to domestication. But these models use classical elements to reinforce the different strategies of reuse, whether paintByzantine identity, but they do so at a fairly super- erly or lapidary, foreignize or at least exoticize108 ficial level, wallpapering in Corinthian columns the source texts, and draw attention109 to the tarrather than building them. What I think we have get text, shouting “Look at me!”110. The Paschon seen is that the playwright was willing to engage coexisted with the source texts and the biblical at a deeper level, offering readings of the plays plot, and in its scholastic or theatral setting made which considered the nature of and threats to each in turn foreign and domestic, opened up motherhood, the dangers of religious ecstasy, the meaning and deepened emotion in a literary finality or lack of finality of death, the interplay of mediterraneanism. Through them it created or god and man, taking on the texts and their belief confirmed identity, claimed ingenuity, and ensystems in a much more serious way. And this is tertained its audience as it respected both story signaled through the essential ability of cento to and discourse. shock, McGill’s frisson of the strange102. We find ourselves asking not how safe was classical culture 102 Virgil Recomposed (n. 32), p. xvi. and knowledge of ancient religion in the view of 103 Even in Nelson’s multiple appropriations of the San Marco horses in “Appropriation” (n. 72), but see Mathews, Conflict, our author and his contemporaries, but how danCommerce (n. 7), p. 7. 104 E.g. Stephen Kelly, “Translating Cultures: Suggestions from gerous? I suspect that the tension between the the Middle English Prose Brut”, in Metaphrastes or Gained in danger of the Other and its occasional surprising Translation: Essays and Translations in Honour of Robert H. Jorsimilarities to the Self contributes enormously to dan, Margaret Mullett ed., Belfast 2004, pp. 91–102, sp. p. 95; for transculturation Fernando Ortiz, Cuban Counterpoint, the fascination of this text; and that for the author Tobacco and Sugar, Durham, nc 1995, pp. 102–103; with Flood, and audience to be horrified by, identify with, reObjects of Translation (n. 3), p. 9. ject the quandaries of tragic heroes and heroines by 105 Susan Bassnett, “The Translation Turn in Cultural Studies”, in Constructing Cultures: Essays on Literary Translation, Susan appropriation, assimilation, interrogation meant Bassnett, André Lefevere eds, Clevedon 1998, pp. 123–140; for them a reevaluation of the ancient Greek past Flood, Objects of Translation (n. 3), p. 9. 106 Lawrence Venuti, The Translator’s Invisibility: A History of Transand their own Byzantine identities. lation, Abingdon 2018.

*** We have reminded ourselves of some essential features of spolia and continuing issues of reuse through a single, largely vertical, case of appropriation or translation. If reuse, spoliation, appropriation are often thought of as a one-way process103, translation is seen as “inevitably intercultural”: 114

107 Ibidem, p. xii. 108 Ibidem, p. 160. For him a foreignized source text requires ethical

challenge to the target.

109 Norman Shapiro, “(Translation) should never call attention to

itself”, quoted in Venuti, The Translator’s Invisibility (n. 106), p. 1.

110 They were necessary because the reuse is not marked by con-

trast of meter, register or vocabulary from the surrounding pastiche material. Cf. the verbal and visual clues in Rachel Mairs, “‘Proclaiming it to Greeks and Nations, Along the Cows of the Chequer Board’: Readers and Viewers of Acrostich Inscriptions in Greek, Demotic and Latin”,The Classical Quarterly, lxvii (2017), pp. 1–19.

summary Christos Paschon a spoliace Helénů: intertextualita, apropriace, začlenění

Autorka článku se zabývá textem Christos Paschon, tragickou trilogií z dvanáctého století pojednávající o Ukřižování, Pohřbení a Zmrtvých­ vstání Krista, a zkoumá, zdali je možné na ni pohlížet ve smyslu spoliace. Jedná se o text, který je protkán verši a půlverši ze čtyř Eurípidových tragédií (Medea, Hippolytus, Rhesus a Bacchae) a v  menší míře také z  tragédií Hecuba, Orestes, Phoenissae a Troades. Tyto verše tvoří celkem asi polovinu celého textu (1304 z 2602 řádků), zatímco zbytek je Eurípidovskou koláží. Článek se zabývá vztahem spolií k intertextualitě, zejména k mimesis, metaphrasis a parodii v Byzanci před nástupem centonu. Součástí je také analýza byzantského prozaického centonu z dopisů Theofylakta z Ochridu a Jakuba z Kokkinobafu a určení textu Christos Paschon jako případové studie. Autorka identifikuje čtyři hlavní zdrojové texty (Medea, Hippolytus, Rhesus a Bacchae) ve všech hrách trilogie a jejich apropriaci analyzuje ve srovnání s malbou a polyfonií. Současně se domnívá, že stejně dobrou analogií jsou spolia, zejména na místech, kde jsou bloky textu vloženy na pozadí koláže, podobně jako sochané mramorové desky na fasádě kostela sv. Eleuthéria v Aténách. Autorka se domnívá, že tento jev souvisí s by-­ ­za­n­t­ským postojem ke klasické antice ve dvanáctém

století, přičemž uvažuje o šesti možnostech, jak jej vysvětlit: 1. Analyzuje Chatzidakesův argument, že patronem byl Michael Choniates, který usiloval o zachování děl antického sochařství; 2.  Všímá si, že od desátého století se objevuje tendence literátů obklopovat se mytologickými postavami v klasické krajině za účelem zlepšení svého postavení v rámci vzdělaných elit; 3. Zkoumá používání klasických postav, obzvláště erótů, na slonovinových krabičkách a dalších luxusních předmětech, jejichž smyslem bylo ilustrovat estetiku požitku a zábavy i absenci politické vážnosti; 4. Upozorňuje na pozdně antické doporučení využívat klasickou literaturu ke zušlechtění křesťanské literatury; 5. Všímá si tendence k oživení klasických žánrů, včetně románu a lukiánovské satiry ve dvanáctém století; 6. Ukazuje na používání klasických a profánních soch jako apotropaických prostředků. Druhá z těchto možností se zdá být nejvýstižnější pro eurípidovské cento v díle Christos Paschon, což autorku přivádí k otázce identity v byzantských textech. Nakonec autorka zkoumá analogii k překladu a dochází k závěru, že překlad je možný jak mezi obdobími, tak mezi prostory. Jde o obousměrný proces, který odhaluje zkoumaný text v novém světle a potvrzuje tím příslušnost autora i publika ke vzdělaným literátům.

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Abstract – Eustathios’ Homeric Commentaries. Translating Homer and Spoliating Ancient Traditions A combination of translation and spoliation defines the Homeric commentaries of Eustathios of Thessalonike. Eustathios’ rhetorical translation of Homer seeks to assist contemporary rhetors in attaining polymathy, oratorical excellence, and linguistic competence. The first part of this article argues that the display of erudition is a key component of the rhetorical aesthetics appreciated and advocated by Eustathios; the combination of eloquence and erudition is central to both his definition of Homer’s exemplarity and his reflections on authorship elsewhere. The second part explores how Eustathios’ commentaries help rhetors navigate the differences between Homer’s poetic language and the Atticizing Greek of Byzantine prose. The article’s third part draws a parallel between Eustathios’ use of ancient grammatical, rhetorical, and exegetical traditions in his translation of Homer and the use of ancient material as spolia in medieval architecture. Keywords – Atticizing Greek, authorship, Byzantine rhetoric, Eustathios of Thessalonike, Homeric exegesis, sound of language Baukje van den Berg Central European University [email protected]

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Eustathios’ Homeric Commentaries Translating Homer and Spoliating Ancient Traditions* Baukje van den Berg

At the end of a long letter, Michael Choniates (ca 1140–1220) playfully rebukes his addressee George Bardanes for not duly studying the poetry of Homer1. George should be able to recite Homer by heart, yet even with a book in hand *

I would like to thank Ivana Jevtić and Ingela Nilsson for inviting me to participate in the workshop that gave rise to this special issue. I am grateful to the workshop’s participants for feedback on an earlier version of the article and to

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Convivium’s anonymous reviewers for valuable suggestions. The article has also benefited from the comments of the audience at a workshop on spoliation organized at Uppsala University (October 2018), where I presented a first version. George Bardanes (second half of the twelfth century – ca 1240) studied with Choniates in Athens, served as his secretary during Choniates’ exile in Keos after the Latins had gained control of Athens in the aftermath of the Fourth Crusade, and was appointed bishop of Kerkyra in 1219. The letter in question is No. 111 in the edition by Foteini Kolovou, Michaelis Choniatae Epistulae, Berlin 2001. See ibidem, p. 116* for references to further bibliography on Bardanes. The section on Homer covers lines 254–278.

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refuses to engage with the poet’s work. In his rejection of Homer he is like Plato, who expelled the poet from his ideal state with only a few strips of wool for an “honorary” crown (Republic 3.398a). But rejecting Homer is a grave mistake, as argues the learned bishop of Athens. In fact, “all those who overflow with learning”(ἅπαντες οἱ ῥέοντες τοῖς λόγοις) draw from the poet: “just as Homer himself says that all rivers and all sources derive from the Ocean, so does all learning spring from Homer himself”2. What is more, as a great admirer of “more recent rhetoric” (νεωτέρα ῥητορική), George should be all the more interested in poetry, and especially in Homer as the greatest poet of all times and the founder of later poetic genres such as comedy and tragedy. Has he not heard of the sophist Polemon of Laodicea (ca 88–144), whose eloquence was so greatly admired by Herodes Atticus? Polemon used to say that “the works of the prose writers need to be brought out in armfuls, but the works of poets by wagon-loads”, if one wishes to hone one’s rhetorical skills3. Earlier parts of the letter suggest that George should use his rhetorical skills particularly to placate or scold the North wind, whom he blames for a bad harvest and his subsequent failure to deliver Choniates the amount of wheat flour that was his due4. Choniates’ letter ties in with the idea of Homeric poetry as a rhetorical paradigm that was widespread in ancient and Byzantine criticism5. More specifically, Choniates closely echoes his famous teacher Eustathios of Thessalonike (ca 1115–1195). In the proem to his Commentary on the Iliad, Eustathios uses the same image of the Ocean to portray Homer as a source of all learning, from which later generations of wise men drew what­ ever was useful for their own work6. For Eustathios, too, a significant part of Homer’s importance lies in his rhetorical excellence, which he analyses in his massive commentaries on the Iliad and the Odyssey7. These commentaries sought to cater to the needs of young rhetors like George by bridging the gap between the lives of students and the Homeric poems, which were written in a language and spoke of a world far removed from the Byzantine student’s lived experience8. While Eustathios’ rhetorical “translation” of Homeric poetry has been the subject of various recent studies9, this

article focuses on two aspects that have received less attention. The first section explores how Eustathios translates Homer’s authorship into terms that resonate with twelfth-century authorial practices, with a particular focus on the role of polymathy. The second section concentrates on language and asks how Eustathios translates Homer’s poetic Greek into terms relevant to rhetors writing in the highbrow Atticizing prose of the twelfth century. Eustathios’ reading of Homer draws from numerous ancient literary, grammatical, rhetorical, philosophical, and exegetical sources, and as such it lends itself to a comparison with material spoliation, as offered in the article’s third section10. Translating Homer Eustathios’ Homeric commentaries belong to a long tradition of commentaries on ancient authorities stretching from antiquity to the present. Recent scholarship has stressed the mutual dependence of commentaries and source texts: while commentators derive prestige from the authoritative status of the text they work on, they simultaneously sustain its canonical authority and contribute to its cultural survival by adapting it to the specific (educational) needs of their time11. Hence, when Eustathios emphasizes the great usefulness and importance of Homer in the prefaces to his commentaries, he argues for the relevance of his own work at the same time. That he is aware of these dynamics becomes clear in the prefatory letter to his Commentary on Dionysius Periegetes, where he expresses the hope that the good qualities of the source author will extend to the exegete12. On the other hand, Homer benefits from Eustathios’ efforts: his exegesis makes the Iliad and the Odyssey relevant for a contemporary audience by translating the poet’s cultural authority into terms germane to twelfth-century education and literary culture13. His project ties in with the tendency of ancient grammarians and commentators to “systematically transform and redefine cultural capital such as ‘the Iliad’ to encompass knowledge such as they and the tradition they are working in choose to define it”14. Eustathios’ commentaries show us what studying and knowing Homeric poetry involved in twelfth-century Byzantium: apart from

the story of the Trojan War, the linguistically and culturally competent student was expected to be familiar with the grammatical, rhetorical, and exegetical traditions connected with the poems as well as with a great deal of other ancient lore, whether literary, historical, mythological, or otherwise15. Eustathios sees his own encyclopaedic project paralleled in Homeric poetry. In the preface to the Commentary on the Iliad, he discusses Homer’s usefulness for all disciplines of learning. Grammarians, rhetoricians, astronomers, philosophers, poets, geographers, physicians, and even kings all drew on Homeric poetry16. Indeed, Eustathios Michael Choniates, Letters 111.256–259: “ὡς ἐξ Ὠκεανοῦ πάντας ποταμοὺς καὶ φρέατα πάντα φησὶν αὐτὸς Ὅμηρος, οὕτω καὶ ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ Ὁμήρου παντοδαποὶ λόγοι πηγάζουσιν”. The reference is to Hom. Il. 21.195–197. 3 Michael Choniates, Letters 111.271–276, quotation from 275–276: “δεῖ […] ἐκφέρειν ὤμοις μὲν τῶν λογογραφούντων, ἁμάξαις δὲ τῶν ποιητῶν”. The reference is to Philostratus, Lives of the Sophists 1.25 (539.12–26). 4 See Michael Choniates, Letters 111.23–241. 5 For ancient rhetorical criticism of Homer, see e.g. Richard Hunter, “The Rhetorical Criticism of Homer”, in Brill’s Companion to Ancient Greek Scholarship, vol. 2: Between Theory and Practice, Franco Montanari, Stephanos Matthaios, Antonios Rengakos eds, Leiden 2015, pp. 673–705, and the papers collected in Homère rhetorique: études de reception antique, Sandrine Dubel, Anne-Marie Favreau-Linder, Estelle Oudot eds, Turnhout 2018. The literature on Homer in Byzantium is extensive. For the twelfth century, see the seminal study by Agnes Basilikopoulou-Ioannidou, Ἡ ἀναγέννησις τῶν γραμμάτων κατὰ τὸν ib΄ αἰῶνα εἰς τὸ Βυζάντιον καὶ ὁ Ὅμηρος, Athens 1971–1972; most recently, see Maria Mavroudi, “Homer in Greece from the End of Antiquity 1: The Byzantine Reception of Homer and His Export to Other Cultures”, in The Cambridge Guide to Homer, Corinne O. Pache ed., with Casey Dué, Susan Lupack, Robert Lamberton, Cambridge 2020, pp. 444–472. 6 Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad (Eust. Il.) 1.9–11=1.1.8–10, ed. Marchinus van der Valk, Eustathii Archiepiscopi Thessalonicensis commentarii ad Homeri Iliadem pertinentes ad fidem codicis Laurentiani editi, 4 vols, Leiden 1971–1987. References to Eustathios’ commentaries give the page and line numbers of the editio princeps by Niccolò Maiorano (Rome, 1542–1549), which are included in modern editions, as well as the volume, page, and line numbers of the modern editions, which are followed in the Thesaurus linguae graecae. On the Ocean image, see Baukje van den Berg, “The Wise Homer and His Erudite Commentator: Eustathios’ Imagery in the Proem of the Parekbolai on the Iliad”,Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, xli/1 (2017), pp. 30 –44, sp. pp. 35–37, with further references. 7 Eustathios’ Commentary on the Odyssey (Eust. Od.) is available in the edition by Johann Stallbaum, Eustathii Archiepiscopi Thessalonicensis Commentarii ad Homeri Odysseam ad fidem exempli Romani editi, 2 vols, Leipzig 1825–1826; for a new edition of the first two books, see Eric Cullhed, Eustathios of Thessalonike: Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, vol. 1: On Rhapsodies a–b, Uppsala 2016. Van der Valk already discussed the rhetorical thrust of the commentaries in the prefaces to volumes 1 and 2 of his edition (n. 6). See further e.g. Gertrud Lindberg, Studies in Hermogenes and Eustathios: The Theory of Ideas and 2

Its Application in the Commentaries of Eustathios on the Epics of Homer, Lund 1977; René Nünlist, “Homer as a Blueprint for Speechwriters: Eustathius’ Commentaries and Rhetoric”, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies, lii (2012), pp. 493–509; the introductions to Eric Cullhed, Eustathios of Thessalonike: Parekbolai on Homer’s Odyssey 1–2, Proekdosis, PhD thesis, (Uppsala University, supervisors: Ingela Nilsson, Filippomaria Pontani), Uppsala 2014; and idem, Eustathios of Thessalonike, 2016 (see above); Van den Berg, Homer and Rhetoric in Byzantium: Eustathios of Thessalonike on the Composition of the Iliad, PhD thesis, (University of Amsterdam, supervisors: Irene J. F. de Jong, Emilie M. van Opstall), Amsterdam 2016; Emmanuel C. Bourbouhakis,“Byzantine Literary Criticism and the Classical Heritage”, in The Cambridge Intellectual History of Byzantium, Anthony Kaldellis, Niketas Siniossoglou eds, Cambridge 2017, pp. 113–128, sp. pp. 123–125. 8 Eustathios defines rhetors / prose writers as his target audience in the preface to the Commentary on the Iliad (2.27–30=1.3.12–15). 9 See esp. the studies listed in n. 7 above; see also Aglae Pizzone, “Lady Phantasia’s ‘Epic’ Scrolls and Fictional Creativity in Eustathios’ Commentaries on Homer”, Medioevo greco, xiv (2014), pp. 177–197. 10 For a discussion of Eustathios’ sources, see Van der Valk, Eustathii Archiepiscopi (n. 6), vol. 1, pp. xlvii– cxvii. 11 On these dynamics in ancient commentaries, see Glenn W. Most, “Preface”, in Commentaries = Kommentare, idem ed., Göttingen 1999, pp. vii–xv, sp. p. xi and xiv; Ineke Sluiter, “The Violent Scholiast: Power Issues in Ancient Commentaries”, in Writing Science: Medical and Mathematical Authorship in Ancient Greece, Markus Asper ed., Berlin 2013, pp. 191–213, sp. pp. 195–196. On commentaries as historically determined, see e.g. Christina Shuttleworth Kraus, “Introduction: Reading Commentaries / Commentaries as Reading”, in The Classical Commentary: Histories, Practices, Theory, Roy K. Gibson, Christina Shuttleworth Kraus eds, Leiden 2002, pp. 1–27, sp. pp. 6– 9; Sluiter, “Violent Scholiast” (see above), p. 194. For Byzantine commentaries, see the papers collected in Byzantine Commentaries on Ancient Greek Texts, 12th–15th Centuries, Baukje van den Berg, Divna Manolova, Przemysław Marciniak eds, Cambridge, forthcoming, with further bibliography. 12 Eustathios, Commentary on Dionysius Periegetes (Dion. Per.) 206.41–207.2, ed. K. Müller, Geographi Graeci minores, vol. 2, Paris 1861, pp. 201–407, with Cullhed, Eustathios of Thessalonike, 2016 (n. 7), p. 12*. 13 On the affinity between commentaries and translations as interpretations, see Ineke Sluiter, “Metatexts and the Principle of Charity”, in Metahistoriography: Theoretical and Methodological Aspects of the Historiography of Linguistics, Peter Schmitter, Marijke J. van der Wal eds, Münster 1998, pp. 11–27, sp. pp. 14–15. 14 Sluiter, “Violent Scholiast” (n. 11), p. 202. 15 Cf. Cullhed, Eustathios of Thessalonike, 2016 (n. 7), p. 4*: the commentaries contain “the diversified mass of knowledge required to qualify as logios in the textual life of middle Byzantium”. Anthony Kaldellis speaks of “an Encyclopedia Homerica in commentary form” (“Classical Scholarship in Twelfth-Century Byzantium”,in Medieval Greek Commentaries on the Nicomachean Ethics, Charles Barber, David Jenkins eds, Leiden 2009, pp. 1–43, sp. p. 36. 16 Eust. Il. 1.17–25=1.1.16–2.2, with discussion in Van den Berg, Homer and Rhetoric (n. 7), pp. 31–33. See also Cullhed, Eustathios of Thessalonike, 2016 (n. 7), pp. 11*–17*. For a similar portrait in Theodore Prodromos’ Sale of Poetical and Political Lives, see Eric Cullhed, “The Blind Bard and ‘i’: Homeric Biography and Authorial Personas in the Twelfth Century”,Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, xxxviii/1 (2014), pp. 49–67, sp. pp. 50–58.

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argues, one can find “all kinds of arts and knowl- yet it often has an element of erudition24. Letter 7, edge”(τεχνῶν ὅλως παντοίων καὶ ἐπιστημῶν) in for instance, is a gift to his patron Nikephoros the Iliad, ranging from military strategy to ethics, Komnenos on the occasion of the festival of the philosophy, and rhetoric17. He ascribes to Homer Calends. Eustathios stresses that he returns Komdidactic intentions similar to his own and projects nenos’ many benefactions with what he, a servant his own aim of expanding the knowledge of his of logos, has to offer: logoi, consisting of a combireaders on the poet. This attribution is in line with nation of eloquence and erudition. His learned the common tendency of commentators – both gift is a treatise on the origins of the festival, for Eustathios and his ancient predecessors – to pres- which he consulted numerous manuscripts and ent their pedagogical aims as a mere extension collected material from many different sources25. of a didacticism already inherent in the Iliad and In the preface to his Capture of Thessalonike, Eustathe Odyssey18. Throughout the commentaries, Eu- thios’ hints at a similar idea of authorship when stathios repeatedly points out that Homer includ- he argues that his personal involvement in the ed a wealth of varied information – for instance disaster makes it inappropriate for him to aim at on history, geography, and the natural world – to demonstrating polymathy and literary ambition expand the polymathy (πολυμάθεια) and broad- in his account of the events, which implies that en the experience (πολυπειρία) of his audience19. such a less ambitious text deviates from common Eustathios recognizes a similar combination of authorial practices26. learning and eloquence in other poets: the various Eustathios’ commentaries assist the aspiring digressions in Pindar’s odes are not a fault of style rhetor in becoming as erudite and eloquent as but demonstrate the poet’s erudition and skill Homer, Manuel, or Eustathios himself. They offer as a writer20. Dionysius Periegetes offers a wealth “useful material that gives valuable knowledge of useful knowledge in his Description of the Known to those who wish to write as well as, generalWorld, while its composition and style demon- ly, to understand”, as we read in the preface to strate important rhetorical qualities21. the otherwise lost or never completed commenEven if Eustathios’ presentation of the poets as tary on Pindar. The commentary on Dionysius wise and eloquent has ancient roots, his emphasis Periegetes offers “whatever helps towards other on the combination of erudition and eloquence knowledge, towards the required explanation [of resonates with ideas on authorship and excellent the text], towards rhetorical writing, and towards oratory expressed elsewhere in his oeuvre. In an accumulation of experience”27. In the preface to the funeral oration for Manuel I Komnenos, for the Commentary on the Iliad, Eustathios similarly instance, Eustathios praises the late emperor’s writes that he has collected useful material for oratory for its combination of pleasant style and the prose writer, which includes not only rhetorprofound philosophical content. What is more, ical methods and usable words (see below), but Manuel always offered his listeners something also narrative material and other miscellaneous “useful for learning”(χρηστομάθεια) – even some- information that writers might usefully weave one as erudite as Eustathios learned something into their work28. For Eustathios, this broad range new every time22. Eustathios’ prolific output tes- of learning is essential for being a good rhetor tifies to his own rhetorical virtuosity and broad because, he argues, it is polymathy that feeds the range of learning, and in various texts he refers to art of writing29. both as central to his profile as author and intellecThe encyclopedism of the commentaries is thus tual. In the Commentary on the Odyssey, for instance, directly connected with their predominantly rhehe presents his alter ego Odysseus as a civic phi- torical thrust. Drawing on ancient rhetorical and losopher who combines learning with eloquence literary critical theory, Eustathios analyses how and employs it for the common good in a blend of the poet composed his masterpieces by pointing philosophy and rhetoric that had gained new trac- to figures of speech and types of style, scrutiniztion with Michael Psellos a century earlier23. In Eu- ing the speeches of Homer’s heroes in rhetorical stathios’ letters, rhetoric receives much emphasis, terms, and exploring the rhetorical principles that

underlie the composition of the Iliad and the Odyssey. Displaying polymathy and imparting knowledge feature alongside more technical notions that Eustathios sees as governing the composition of the Homeric poems, including rhetorical principles such as “variation” (ποικιλία), “persuasiveness” (πιθανότης), and “clarity” (σαφήνεια)30. His project has much in common with other texts that translate the style and composition of ancient model authors into the terms of the rhetorical traditions that, even if ancient in origin, still governed Byzantine thinking about rhetoric and literature31. Psellos powerfully formulates the practical purpose of such readings in his On the Different Styles of Certain Writings, where he specifies the rhetorical qualities he drew from models such as Demosthenes, Thucydides, and Aelius Aristides32. The treatise can thus be read as a literary manifesto that grants us a perspective onto the stylistic principles governing Psellos’ own writings. The same goes for Eustathios’ Homeric commentaries: they analyse Homer as the prime model for the contemporary rhetor and in so doing, they provide the most extensive definition of rhetorical aesthetics and excellent oratory that the Byzantine period has to offer. For Eustathios, the display of erudition – whether or not with a didactic purpose – is a significant part of this aesthetics. Other aspects of Eustathios’ portrayal of Homer’s authorship likewise have much in common 17 Eust. Il. 1.29–30=1.2.6–7. See Van der Valk, Eustathii archiepis-

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copi (n. 6), vol. 2, p. xxvii for references to further passages where Eustathios expresses a similar idea. The idea that Homer was a source of all learning was widespread in antiquity: see e.g. Michael Hillgruber, Die pseudoplutarchische Schrift De Homero, vol. 1, Leipzig 1994, pp. 4–35, with further references. On this tendency in ancient commentators, see esp. Ineke Sluiter, “Commentaries and the Didactic Tradition”, in Commentaries = Kommentare, Glenn W. Most ed., Göttingen 1999, pp. 173–205, sp. pp. 173–174, 176–179; eadem, “The Violent Scholiast”(n. 11), pp. 193–194. For Eustathios, see Cullhed, Eustathios of Thessalonike, 2016 (n. 7), pp. 11*–13*. See e.g. Eust. Il. 350.46–351.1=1.549.19–21 and 949.5–6=3.521.9–11. For discussion and further examples, see Van den Berg, Homer and Rhetoric (n. 7), pp. 101–106. Eustathios’ emphasis on the πολυμάθεια and πολυπειρία of poet and audience has no direct parallel in the Homeric scholia vetera. Eustathios, Preface to the Commentary on Pindar (Eust. Pi.) 4.2 ed. Athanasios Kambylis, Eustathios von Thessalonike, Prooimion zum Pindarkommentar, Göttingen 1991. Eust. Dion. Per. 205.22–26, 213.26–215.5. See Eustathios, Funeral Oration for Manuel i Komnenos, 29–30,

ed. Emmanuel C. Bourbouhakis, Not Composed in a Chance Manner: The Epitaphios for Manuel i Komnenos by Eustathios of Thessalonike, Uppsala 2017; for a similar idea, see Oration 13, 225.58–64, 226.77–96, 227.29–33, ed. Peter Wirth, Eustathii Thessalonicensis opera minora, Berlin 2000. For further discussion, see Grammatiki A. Karla, “Das Rednerideal bei Eustathios von Thessalonike und seine rhetorische Tradition”, Byzantinische Zeitschrift, c/1 (2007), pp. 85–99, sp. pp. 92–93; Baukje van den Berg, “Homer and the Good Ruler in the ‘Age of Rhetoric’: Eustathios of Thessalonike on Excellent Oratory”, in Homer and the Good Ruler in Antiquity and Beyond, Jacqueline Klooster, Baukje van den Berg eds, Leiden 2018, pp. 219–238, sp. pp. 221–222, 226–227. 23 On Odysseus as civic philosopher, see Van den Berg, “The Wise Homer” (n. 6), pp. 33–35; eadem, Homer and Rhetoric (n. 7), pp. 26–27. On Eustathios as Odysseus, see also Aglae Pizzone, “Audiences and Emotions in Eustathios of Thessalonike’s Commentaries on Homer”, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, lxx (2016), pp. 225–244, sp. p. 241; Valeria F. Lovato, “Odysseus the Schedographer”, in Byzantine Commentaries (n. 11). For Odysseus in Eustathios’ commentaries, see also Valeria F. Lovato, La ricezione di Odisseo e di Omero presso Giovanni Tzetze e Eustazio di Tessalonica, PhD thesis, (Universities of Turin and Lausanne, supervisors: David Bouvier, Tommaso Braccini), Turin/Lausanne, pp. 16–171. On the reception of Psellos’ philosophy-with-rhetoric in the twelfth century, see Stratis Papaioannou, “Rhetoric and the Philosopher in Byzantium”, in The Many Faces of Byzantine Philosophy, Katerina Ierodiakonou, Börje Bydén eds, Athens 2012, pp. 171–198, sp. pp. 191–194; idem, Michael Psellos: Rhetoric and Authorship in Byzantium, Cambridge 2013, pp. 245–246. 24 For the emphasis on rhetoric without philosophy in Eustathios’ letters, see Papaioannou, Michael Psellos (n. 23), p. 245, n. 35. 25 Letter 7.42–67, ed. Foteini Kolovou, Die Briefe des Eustathios von Thessalonike, Munich 2006. The idea that logoi could serve as countergift for more material benefits is common in Middle Byzantine literature: see e.g. Floris Bernard,“Exchanging logoi for aloga: Cultural Capital and Material Capital in a Letter of Michael Psellos”, in Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, xxxv/2, pp. 134–148. 26 The relevant passage is 4.1–4 ed. Stilpon Kyriakidis, Eustazio di Tessalonica: La espugnazione di Tessalonica, Palermo 1961. 27 Eust. Pi. 38.4: χρήσιμα εἰς εἴδησιν εὔχρηστον τοῖς καὶ γράφειν καὶ ἄλλως δέ πως νοεῖν ἐθέλουσι; Dion. Per. 204.6–8: ὅσα συντελεῖν ἔχει πρός τε ἄλλην γνῶσιν, καὶ πρὸς ἀνάπτυξιν δέουσαν, καὶ πρὸς ῥητορείαν γραφῆς, καὶ πρὸς ἐμπειρίας συναγωγήν; cf. 204.14–15: the commentaries offer good material for the prose writer. On the aims of the commentary on Dionysius Periegetes, see Inmaculada Pérez Martín,“Geo­ graphy at School: Eustathios of Thessalonike’s Parekbolai on Dionysius Periegetes”, in Byzantine Commentaries (n. 11). 28 For Eustathios’ “table of contents”, see Cullhed, Eustathios of Thessalonike, 2016 (n. 7), p. 3*–4*; Van den Berg, Homer and Rhetoric (n. 7), pp. 44–53. 29 Eust. Od. 1914.55=2.266.15–16: θαυμαστέον τῆς εἰς πολυμαθείαν παραδόσεως, δι’ ἧς ἡ γραφικὴ τέχνη τρέφεται. 30 Van den Berg, Homer and Rhetoric (n. 7) studies Eustathios’ rhetorical analysis of Homer’s composition. 31 E.g. Photios’ Bibliotheca or various essays on the style of ancient authors by Michael Psellos and Theodore Metochites: cf. Bourbouhakis, “Byzantine Literary Criticism” (n. 7). 32 For Psellos’ treatise, see Stratis Papaioannou, “On the Different Styles of Certain Writings: A Rhetor’s Canon”, in Michael Psellos on Literature and Art: A Byzantine Perspective on Aesthetics, Charles Barber, Stratis Papaioannou eds, Notre Dame 2017, pp. 99–107.

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with contemporary authorial practices. Eustathios’ those cases where Eustathios perceives a tension Homer works in a climate as eager for display between the epic Greek of Homeric poetry and and as rife with competition and rivalries as the the Atticizing Greek of contemporary prose. His intellectual scene of twelfth-century Constanti- discussion opens a perspective onto the language nople. The commentaries show him constantly prose writers should use and demonstrates how on guard for potential detractors: repeatedly, Eu- the commentaries mediate between poetry and stathios points out how the poet strove to make prose. In the preface to the Commentary on the his composition as unambiguous and persuasive Iliad, Eustathios states that the work identifies as possible so as to leave no room for criticism33. words that are useful for prose writers as well Generally recognized as “a period of acute rhe- as “hard, harsh, and poetic ones” (σκληρὰς καὶ torical self-consciousness”34, the twelfth century τραχείας καὶ ποιητικάς), with the implication that offers many examples of authors reflecting on the latter are not useful for prose40. Throughout their craft and drawing attention to the rhetorical the commentaries, he draws attention to many choices governing their work35. Eustathios him- words or word forms whose marked poeticality self is certainly among them, as, for instance, the makes them inappropriate for prose: the epic form programmatic titles and prefaces of some of his ἐσσί in Iliad 1.178 (and elsewhere), for instance, is works illustrate36. He ascribes to Homer a simi- “not useful for prose writing”(εἰς λογογραφίαν οὐ lar tendency to foreground his authorial agency χρήσιμον), the Doric form αἰητός for ἀετός (“eaand reveal the rhetorical choices he made when gle”) in Iliad 18.410 is not “useful for prose writers” composing his poems. This tendency is epito- (λογογράφοις οὐκ εὔχρηστος), and ἐπενήνοθεν in mized in the Homeric gods, whom Eustathios Odyssey 8.365 is likewise among the poetic words interprets as allegories of the poet’s intellect and that “the rhetor should avoid in prose writing” rhetorical prowess. For instance, whenever the (ἐκφύγῃ δὲ ἂν [καὶ ταύτην τὴν λέξιν] ῥήτωρ ἐν gods deliberate on how they want the Trojan τῇ κατὰ λογάδην γραφῇ)41. Eustathios’ comments War to develop, Eustathios sees the poet at work, thus point to the limitations of Homer’s usefulweighing up possible narrative directions and ness for literary imitation: Homeric poetry cannot offering a glimpse into his poetic process37. In the always be translated into Byzantine prose. same vein, he repeatedly points out how Homer To establish the norms of correct and common deliberately creates opportunities to display his usage, Eustathios turns to ancient prose. He rerhetorical virtuosity and broad knowledge, how peatedly points out how the linguistic preferences he occasionally paraphrases his own words or of poets and prose authors diverge: prose authors, adds more detail than necessary to show off his for instance, do not use οἴω (“I think”, Iliad 13.153) inventiveness and skill, and how his literary am- but say οἴομαι42. The verb ἐπιμαίομαι (“to seek bition brings him to prefer more unusual ways after”, Iliad 17.430) is often used in poetry but not of expression over more common alternatives38. in prose. Eustathios therefore gives ἐπιζητέω and ἐφέπομαι as more common synonyms in order to Epic Poetry versus Atticizing Prose explain its meaning and offer the rhetor usable alternatives43. And even if the active ἀπέθηκεν Eustathios’ translation of Homer for the benefit (Iliad 16.254) is clear and appropriate, prose writers of the contemporary prose writer also addresses prefer the more Attic middle form ἀπέθετο44 – Eustyle and diction, which could serve as markers stathios’ readers, we may assume, should do the of erudition and linguistic virtuosity. The wealth same. Parallels in ancient prose, conversely, supof grammatical and linguistic material in the Ho- port the usability of certain Homeric words. In the meric commentaries remains largely unexplored, Commentary on the Odyssey, for instance, Eustathios and a comprehensive discussion of Eustathios’ points out that Homer’s word for the ribs of a ship approach towards the Homeric language lies (σταμίνες, Odyssey 5.252) also occurs in prose and beyond the scope of the present study39. Partic- cites Athenaeus as evidence (Deipnosophists 5.40, ularly interesting for my current purposes are 206f)45. Homer’s use of οἰκία (“house”) as the plural

of οἰκίον in Iliad 7.221 (rather than οἴκους as plural of οἶκος) has a parallel in the prose of Arrian (Indica 29.5; 29.16), which undoubtedly sanctions it for use by the Byzantine rhetor46. The difference between Homeric poetry and Byzantine prose is partly a matter of dialect. Homer was believed to have combined all dialects of ancient Greek in his poetry, with a particular preference for Ionic47. Eustathios therefore identifies Doric, Ionic, Attic, Aeolic, and koine forms throughout his commentaries48. Underlying his discussion of the usefulness of the Homeric language for prose writing is the idea that the preference of Homer (and other early poets) for the Ionic enduringly marked it as a distinctly poetic dialect, an idea also found elsewhere49. On the premise that Ionic is an early form of Attic (because the Ionians were colonists from Attica)50, Eustathios repeatedly contrasts Homer’s language with later developments in the Greek language in “later Attic writers” (οἱ ὕστερον Ἀττικοί), whose orthography and morphology is “more accurate” (ἀκριβέστερον)51, and therefore to be preferred by prose authors. They should generally avoid forms from dialects other than the Attic: Eustathios, for instance, points out that Doric pronouns such as τεΐν (= σοί, “you”) and ἐμίν (= ἐμοί, “me”) are “useless for prose” (ἀσυντελῆ λόγῳ πεζῷ), as is the Ionic form χρεώ (“to need”, Iliad 9.608 and elsewhere)52. 33 See e.g. Eust. Il. 1047.51–52=3.813.16–18; see Van den Berg,

34 35

36

37

Homer and Rhetoric (n. 7), 133–188 for further examples and discussion. Cf. Floris Bernard, “The Ethics of Authorship: Some Tensions in the 11th Century”, in The Author in Middle Byzantine Literature: Modes, Functions, and Identities, Aglae Pizzone ed., Berlin 2014, pp. 40–60, sp. p. 48 for similar anxieties in the eleventh century. Bourbouhakis, Epitaphios for Manuel (n. 22), 90*; see there p. 113* on the “epideictic habit” of twelfth-century rhetors. See e.g. Panagiotis Roilos, Amphoteroglossia: A Poetics of the Twelfth-Century Medieval Greek Novel, Cambridge, ma 2005, pp. 50–61 on self-referential discourse in the Komnenian novels. On the title of the oration for Manuel, see Bourbouhakis, Epitaphios for Manuel (n. 22), pp. 87*– 88*, 91*–93*. See also Epitaphios for Manuel 2, where Eustathios claims that his oration was (partly) motivated by peer rivalry and rhetorical ambition (with Bourbouhakis, Epitaphios for Manuel (n. 22), pp. 88*–89*, 97). For another example, see Panagiotis A. Agapitos, “Mischung der Gattungen und Überschreitung der Gesetze: Die Grabrede des Eusthatios von Thessalonike auf Nikolaos Hagiotheodorites”, Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik, xlviii (1998), pp. 119–146. See e.g. Eust. Il. 435.33–436.11=1.686.1–28; 1080.2–7=3.910.26–911.4. For discussion and further examples, see Cullhed, Eustathios

of Thessalonike, 2014 (n. 7), pp. 69*–72*; Baukje van den Berg, “Eustathios on Homer’s Narrative Art: The Homeric Gods and the Plot of the Iliad”, in Reading Eustathios of Thessalonike, Filippomaria Pontani, Vassilis Katsaros, Vassilis Sarris eds, Berlin 2017, pp. 129–148, sp. pp. 132–139; Van den Berg, Homer and Rhetoric (n. 7), pp. 223–239. 38 See e.g. Eust. Il. 864.12=3.258.7, Od. 1774.53–58=2.91.36–41, Il. 591.30–31=2.166.13–15. On Homer as self-conscious author, see Cullhed, Eustathios of Thessalonike, 2014 (n. 7), pp. 31*–33*. 39 But see e.g. Torsten Hedberg, Eustathios als Attizist, Uppsala 1935; Silvia Fenoglio, “Eustazio de Tessalonica e la lingua del suo tempo”, Medioevo greco, x (2010), pp. 25–59; eadem, Eustazio di Tessalonica, Commentari all’Odissea: glossario dei termini grammaticali, Alessandria 2012; Panagiotis A. Agapitos, “Literary Haute Cuisine and Its Dangers: Eustathios of Thessalonike on Schedography and Everyday Language”, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, lxix (2015), pp. 225–241. 40 Eust. Il. 2.30–31=1.3.15–16. 41 See Eust. Il. 76.23=1.121.14; 1151.1–2=4.206.12–13; Eust. Od. 1600.44–45=1.303.21–22. See also Van der Valk, Eustathii Archiepiscopi (n. 6), vol. 1, p. xcii. 42 Eust. Il. 925.57–58=3.455.27–28. 43 Eust. Il. 1114.4–5=4.77.21–78. 44 Eust. Il. 1056.43–45=3.839.6–9. 45 Eust. Od. 1533.30–33=1.212.42–44. 46 Eust. Il. 678.23–26=2.448.25–449.2. Sophists of the Second Sophistic were equally concerned with precedents in classical authors: Athenaeus (Deipnosophists 1.6, 4c) and Lucian (Symposium 40) mock the obsession of contemporary sophists with such linguistic minutiae. See Thomas A. Schmitz, “Sophistic Philotimia in Plutarch”,in The Lash of Ambition: Plutarch, Imperial Greek Literature and the Dynamics of Philotimia, Geert Roskam, Maarten De Pourcq, Luc van der Stockt eds, Leuven 2012, pp. 69–84, sp. p. 75. 47 See e.g. Pseudo-Plutarch, Life and Poetry of Homer 8–14, 28, 42, ed. Jan F. Kindstrand, [Plutarchi] De Homero, Leipzig 1990; Eust. Il. 223.35–36=1.340.16–18, 1363.60=4.949.12–13 (Homer uses different dialects), Il. 701.14–15=2.539.10–11, Od. 1382.27–28, ed. Cullhed (Homer prefers Ionic). For Eustathian (and ancient) ideas on Homer’s dialect, see Hedberg, Eustathios als Attizist (n. 39), pp. 7–14. Gregory of Corinth uses examples from Homeric poetry to illustrate the characteristics of all dialects in his On Dialects; in the introductory chapter, he refers to Homer as a representative of the Ionic dialect (10.1–3, ed. Gottfried H. Schäfer, Gregorii Corinthii et aliorum grammaticorum Graecorum libri de dialectis linguae Graecae, Leipzig 1811). Cf. Theodore Prodromos, Sale of Political and Poetical Lives 36.1–37.1, ed. Eric Cullhed, in Przemysław Marciniak, Taniec w roli Tersytesa, Katowice 2016, pp. 185–203. 48 Eustathios recognizes a similar mixture of dialects in Pindar and Dionysius Periegetes: see Eust. Pi. 8, Dion. Per. 214.5. 49 See e.g. Eust. Il. 1120.18=4.100.1–2. Cf. Hermogenes, On Types of Style 2.4.21–22, ed. Michel Patillon, Corpus Rhetoricum, vol. 4: Prolégomènes au de ideis; Hermogène: Les catégories stylistiques du discours (de ideis); Synopses des exposés sur les ideai, Paris 2012; John Tzetzes, scholion ad Carmina Iliaca 3.156, ed. Pietro L.M. Leone, Ioannis Tzetzae Carmina Iliaca, Catania 1995. 50 E.g. Strabo, Geography 8.1.2; Eust. Il. 8.38=1.14.10. See Hedberg, Eustathios als Attizist (n. 39), pp. 10–11 for further references. 51 See e.g. Eust. Il. 3.862.9–14=1064.1–4: Homer writes γινώσκειν and γίνεσθαι, yet the spelling with two gammas (γιγνώσκειν, γίγνεσθαι) in later Attic authors is the more accurate one. On the opposition of Homer and later Attic authors in Eustathios, see Hedberg, Eustathios als Attizist (n. 39), p. 10. 52 Eust. Il. 839.35–36=3.180.19–20 (on Iliad 11.201); 777.62= 2.816.7–8.

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Elsewhere, he explains that prose authors dislike were drawn up”,Iliad 14.30), Eustathios writes that the Ionic ἀκαχείατο (“they were grieving”) in Iliad “we [sc. rhetors] again avoid using it because it 12.179, yet “this is of no concern to the Ionicizing deliberately contains the conjunction ῥα to create Homer” (οὐδὲν Ὁμήρῳ μέλον ἰάζοντι)53. And while the harsh sound that poets like”64. And ἀάσθη Homer and others use πόρδαλις (“leopard”, Iliad in Odyssey 4.503 is too hard for prose but useful 21.573 and elsewhere), Attic authors use πάρδαλις54. for poetry – that is why Homer uses it again six That Byzantine prose authors should not use lines later in Odyssey 4.50965. Eustathios designates such poetic or non-Attic words does not mean they as harsh passages with hiatus or repeated r, k, t should not be familiar with them. Many of the or s-sounds, words that combine two aspirated “useless” words receive lengthy explanations in stops (φ/χ/θ), as well as the particles ῥα, τε, and which Eustathios elucidates their meaning with γε, either because of their sound or because they synonyms or details their etymology and morphol- disrupt the flow of a sentence66. ogy55. His statement that the poetic ἐσσί is not useEustathios’ comments on the sound of Homer’s ful for prose, for instance, is followed by a detailed diction tie in with his overall interest in aurality explanation of how the form was derived from ἐω in the commentaries – an interest that is only natthrough various modulations56. The poetic form ural for a practising orator and active participant ἔτετμε receives repeated grammatical discussions in the performative culture of twelfth-century that explain how it is derived from τέμω and was Constantinople. Emmanuel Bourbouhakis has formed in such a way as to fit into dactylic hex- recently argued for more attention to the orality ameter57. Such notes not only help readers under- of Byzantine oratory as a quality “intrinsic to the stand Homer’s text, but also serve to expand their rhetorical skeleton and sinews of a work, affectlinguistic knowledge to the entire spectrum of ing nearly every facet of its composition, from the Greek language58. Eustathios explicitly points diction to punctuation” rather than a function to this objective in his discussion of Iliad 20.436, of their recital only67. Eustathios’ commentaries where he urges readers to “notice here the form shed light on the mechanisms behind the aurality χειρότερος, not so as to imitate it in prose, but for of rhetorical composition by discussing rhythm as the sake of knowledge”. He goes on to explain that well as rhetorical devices that create sound effects χειρότερος (“lesser”) is the poetic equivalent of the (e.g. alliteration, assonance, and anaphora)68. His Attic comparative χείρων and mentions ῥηΐτερος discussion of the sound of words helps the rhetor (“easier”, e.g. Iliad 18.258) and πλειότερος (“fuller”, determine the exact words to choose for an aural e.g. Odyssey 11.359) as similarly poetic forms59. The effect69. Not only does he identify the words and commentaries thus consistently combine teaching sounds to be avoided by the prose writer, but correct Atticizing prose usage with assisting the he also points to situations where such harsh reader in acquiring the linguistic breadth that the acoustics can be used for special effect. The poet educated Byzantine was expected to possess60. often uses harsh sounds to reflect the meaning Other words do not befit prose because they are of the words, in line with the general idea that “hard”(σκληρός) and “harsh”(τραχύς) rather than there should exist an iconic relationship between “smooth” or “soft” (λεῖος)61. Eustathios’ discussion style and content70. Various onomatopoeic words throughout the commentaries demonstrates that in Homer are therefore as harsh as the sounds the issue lies with the acoustics of such words: they refer to. Of the different terms for “thunthey are hard to pronounce or unpleasant to hear62. der”, for instance, βροντή and βροντάω have an While poetry allows for such harsh-sounding onomatopoeic harshness in their pronunciation, words, they should largely be avoided in prose. whereas κτύπος and κτυπέω lack the r-sound The word ἐϋρρεῖος (“fair-flowing”) in Iliad 6.508, and are thus softer71. for instance, is very harsh and therefore not useful Eustathios similarly explains that Homer defor prose. The synonym ἐϋρρείτης (e.g. Iliad 6.34) scribes the sound of rivers or the sea with smoother is smoother, if still harsh63. Regarding the phrase or harsher words depending on their state. For exπολλὸν γάρ ῥ’ ἀπάνευθε (“far away [their ships] ample, when he narrates how the river Scamander

saved those of Achilles’ victims who were still alive when they fell into it in Iliad 21, he beautifies the verbal expression with various verbal parallelisms, “making the expression as smooth as the life-saving stream, as it were” (συγγαληνιᾶν οἷον τὸν λόγον τῷ σωστικῷ ῥεύματι)72. When Homer speaks of a rough river, however, he makes his style as rough as its streams. This happens, for instance, in Iliad 4, where he compares the din of battle with rivers roaring down the mountainside, referring to them with the harsh-sounding χείμαρροι (“in winter spate”, v. 452)73. Elsewhere, the “harshness” of the content is more metaphorical: themes such as battle, fear, and mourning are appropriately expressed with harsh sounds74. A harsher style can also reflect the mood of the speaker, as in the angry speech of Melanthius, who reviles Eumaeus and the beggar-Odysseus in Odyssey 1775, or in the anxious speech of Nestor in Iliad 23, when he advises his son in the agonistic context of the funeral games for Patroclus – no occasion for elaborate and smooth writing76. With these and numerous similar comments, Eustathios demonstrates how Homer wrote aural effects into his composition by choosing the most fitting diction in each context, an essential skill for any aspiring or practising rhetor. Yet, again, the gap between poetry and prose cannot always be bridged. Eustathios repeatedly points out how the poet uses harsh sounds just because he likes them better or for poetic effect. In many instances, Homer could have opted for a smoother formulation but prefer­ red the harsher alternative because that is what 53 Eust. Il. 898.62– 899.2=3.372.9–12. 54 Eust. Il. 1251.52–56=4.555.17–20. 55 Such explanations resemble the epimerisms of Byzantine gram-

marians: Cullhed, Eustathios of Thessalonike, 2016 (n. 7), p. 12*.

56 Eust. Il. 76.23–36=1.121.14–29. 57 Eust. Il. 474.12–20=1.749.14–25 (on Iliad 4.293);

648.21–23=2.334.20–335.3 (on Iliad 6.374); Od. 1412.39–41= 232.14–16 ed. Cullhed (on Odyssey 1.219). 58 Psellos’ poem on grammar (Poem 6) and Gregory of Corinth’s On Dialects similarly demonstrate that studying the Greek dialects was part of grammar education. For Psellos’ discussion of the dialects, see Raf van Rooy, “Teaching Greek Grammar in 11th-Century Constantinople: Michael Psellus on the Greek ‘Dialects’”, Byzantinische Zeitschrift, cix/1 (2016), pp. 207–222. 59 Eust. Il. 1215.34–38=4.431.24–432.4; quotation from 1215.34=4.431.24–25: Ὅρα δὲ ἐν τούτοις καὶ τὸ «χειρότερος» οὐ πρὸς ζῆλον τὸν ἐν πεζῷ λόγῳ, ἀλλὰ χάριν εἰδήσεως. 60 Webb interprets similar comments on dialect forms in

Moschopoulos’ scholia on Philostratus’ Imagines as prescriptive instructions for the formation of pseudo-dialect forms; they served to teach students to recognize the literary register of specific words. See Ruth Webb, “A Slavish Art? Language and Grammar in Late Byzantine Education and Society”, Dialogos, i (1994), pp. 81–103, sp. p. 92; eadem, “Greek Grammatical Glosses and Scholia: The Form and Function of a Late Byzantine Commentary”, in Medieval and Renaissance Scholarship, Nicholas Mann, Birger Munk Olsen eds, Leiden 1997, pp. 1–18, sp. p. 16. 61 Cf. p. 122. For the opposition of σκληρός/τραχύς vs. λεῖος, see esp. Eust. Il. 834.65–835.2=3.166.18–21; Od. 1545.26–27=1.230.22–23. 62 See e.g. Eust. Il. 852.55–57=3.222.17–19, 896.49–55=3.365.29–366.3, 1033.52–54=3.773.11–14. For a similar focus on smooth and rough language, see Dionysius of Halicarnassus, On Composition 12, 14–15, and passim; Alex Purves,“Rough Reading: Tangible Language in Dionysius’ Criticism of Homer”, in Experience, Narrative, and Criticism in Ancient Greece: Under the Spell of Stories, Jonas Grethlein, Luuk Huitink, Aldo Tagliabue eds, Oxford 2019, pp. 172–187. See also Psellos, On Literary Composition, in Barber/Papaioannou, Psellos on Literature and Art (n. 32), pp. 66–73. 63 Eust. Il. 658.60–61=2.376.9–11. 64 Eust. Il. 965.46–47=3.572.14–16: Τὸ δὲ «πολλὸν γάρ ῥ’ ἀπάνευθεν» ὀκνοῦμεν πάλιν εἰπεῖν, ὡς ἐπίτηδες ἔχει τὸν ρα σύνδεσμον διὰ τραχυφωνίαν φίλην τοῖς ποιηταῖς. 65 Eust. Od. 1507.18–19=1.179.17–19. 66 See e.g. Eust. Il. 1076.33–35=3.901.15–17 (hiatus); 139.27–29= 1.214.15–18 (r), 629.29–30=2.259.14–16 (k), 650.24–25= 2.344.6–7 (t), 896.49–55=3.365.29–366.3 (s); Od. 1775.3–5= 2.92.6–9 (aspirated stops); Il. 852.55–57=3.222.17–19 (τε), 910.63–64=3.409.24–26 (ῥα), 923.2–3=3.446.18–20 (γε). 67 Bourbouhakis, Epitaphios for Manuel (n. 22), p. 134*. On the acoustics of Byzantine oratory, see Wolfram Hörandner, Der Prosarhythmus in der rhetorischen Literatur der Byzantiner, Vienna 1981; Vessela Valiavitcharska, Rhetoric and Rhythm in Byzantium: The Sound of Persuasion, New York 2013. 68 See Bourbouhakis, Epitaphios for Manuel (n. 22), pp. 138*–145* for such devices in the funeral oration for Manuel. See also Andrew F. Stone, “Aurality in the Panegyrics of Eustathios of Thessaloniki”, in Theatron: Rhetorische Kultur in Spätantike und Mittelalter, Michael Grünbart ed., Berlin 2007, pp. 419–428. 69 Stone, “Aurality in the Panegyrics” (n. 68) discusses the aural effects of diction in Eustathios’ oratory. See sp. p. 425. 70 Eustathios expresses this idea as a general principle in e.g. Eust. Il. 145.31–32=1.223.30–31. For the same idea in the scholia vetera, see René Nünlist, The Ancient Critic at Work: Terms and Concepts of Literary Criticism in Greek Scholia, Cambridge 2009, pp. 215–217. 71 Eust. Il. 700.23–27=2.535.7–14; similarly, Eustathios repeatedly designates the verb γράφειν (“scrape”) as a harsh onomatopoeia, which has a smoother synonym in γλάφειν: Eust. Il. 852.8–10=3.219.10–15, 1119.61–1120.2=4.98.2–10; cf. Eust. Od. 1504.27–28=1.175.42–44. 72 Eust. Il. 1233.64=4.490.13–14 (on Iliad 21.238). 73 Eust. Il. 496.31–35=1.786.18–23 (drawing on scholion Il. bT 4.452–5). For other harsh-sounding bodies of water, see e.g. Eust. Il. 586.8–12=2.156.14–157.4 (amplifying scholion Il. T 5.599 and D 5.599), 1150.29–32=4.203.12–19, 1220.24–25=4.447.7–9, Od. 1540.6–7=1.223.12–15. 74 Battle: Eust. Il. 914.10–12=3.419.25–27, 1048.3–5=3.814.4–6; fear: Eust. Od. 1711.42–43=2.8.43–44; mourning: Eust. Il. 924.57–60=3.452.5–9. 75 Eust. Od. 1816.60–64=2.140.23–27; Eustathios here follows Hermogenes’ On Types of Style 1.7.5–12, where a harsh style (τραχύτης) is connected with reproach in particular. 76 Eust. Il. 1304.32–35=4.742.19–743.6.

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poets do. Poets, for instance, prefer the harsher forms βλαφθείς, στρεφθείς, and θρεφθείς over their smoother equivalents βλαβείς, στραφείς, and τραφείς, “because in their works well-timed harshness is more beautiful than simple smoothness of pronunciation”77. And Homer often inserts particles such as ῥα, τε, and γε for no other reason than to harshen his style, making his words more difficult to pronounce and to hear78. In his comments on Iliad 13.505, for instance, Eustathios explains that the poet could have written ἐπεί ἅλιον instead of ἐπεί ῥ’ ἅλιον, “yet he liked the hissing sound of the conjunctive ῥα better than a smooth pronunciation, because it is harsher and therefore more poetic”79. The result of such harshness is poetic grandeur and solemnity, termed ὄγκος, μεγαλοπρέπεια, and σεμνότης. In Iliad 17.600, for instance, the poet deliberately inserted the conjunction ῥα because of the grandeur of harsh sound, considering a smoother pronunciation simpler and therefore less poetic80. Indeed, Eustathios explains elsewhere, a harsh formulation can even exalt the simplest topics into something magnificent, and hence more befitting of poetry81. The marked poeticality of such harshness again signals that prose authors should be careful when following Homer’s example in these cases. Eustathios’ analysis closely follows Hermogenes’ On Types of Styles, where “harshness” (τραχύτης) and “solemnity” (σεμνότης) are subtypes of “grandeur” (μέγεθος). His discussion throughout the commentaries demonstrates that, even if these styles are appropriate for oratory, they characterize poetry more than prose. To create these grand effects, poets, unlike prose writers, are allowed to make pronouncing, hearing, and understanding their words just that little bit harder82. Spoliation and/as translation

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For his analysis of Homer, Eustathios draws on – spoliates – centuries-old grammatical, rhetorical, and exegetical traditions. He repeatedly refers to his commentaries as anthologies, selections, and collections of useful material from many different sources83. Afraid that his debt to his predecessors might lead to negative evaluations, he stresses

that the acts of selecting and collecting should be appreciated in and of themselves: not everyone can easily access or understand the sources from which he draws84. Moreover, anyone who will read the work will recognize his original contribution, as he argues in the preface to the Commentary on the Iliad85. Close study of the commentaries demonstrates that they substantially rework the reused ancient material while simultaneously adding original interpretations86: there is, for instance, no direct parallel in earlier sources for Eustathios’ discussion of words that are not useful for prose writers. Such comments are directly tied to the overall design of the works to assist contemporary rhetors in attaining polymathy, rhetorical excellence, and linguistic competence. The commentaries are thus better described not as “mere” anthologies of old material but as a mixture of old and new, as a new structure partly built with ancient spolia. Recent studies on material spolia have argued for a shift of emphasis: rather than concentrating on the afterlife of the ancient material, and on spolia independent of their new context, they advocate a focus on the new life of spolia, and on the new contexts of which they are a part87. A similar shift has led to a more productive discussion of Eustathios’ commentaries: rather than using them as treasure troves of ancient spolia whose original context has been lost, recent studies regard the reused material as contributing to Eustathios’ project and as germane to his reading of the ancient poets88. It is the very amalgamation, appropriation, and transformation of different traditions that make Eustathios’ commentaries rich records of contemporary thinking on literature, language, and learning. Eustathios appropriates ancient notions as tools for his analysis of ancient poetry. These notions belong to traditions that, notwithstanding their ancient roots, continued to shape the conceptual framework of Byzantine linguistic and literary education and scholarship. Eustathios’ reading of Homer, for instance, often uses terms and concepts from the rhetorical handbooks written by or attributed to Hermogenes, a direct result of the dominant position of the Hermogenic corpus in contemporary rhetoric89. His use of

Hermogenic theory is to some extent shaped by the rhetorical tradition in the intermediate centuries. We find an example in Eustathios’ consistent connection of the moral virtue of prudence and the rhetorical virtue of skilfulness, which goes back not only to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics but also to the commentary on Hermogenes’ On Types of Style by the tenth/eleventh-century rhetorician John Sikeliotes. Whereas Aristotle relates the ambiguous quality of cleverness (δεινότης) to the intellectual virtue of prudence (φρόνησις), Sikeliotes draws a parallel between rhetorical skilfulness (δεινότης) and moral prudence in a bid to wed rhetoric and philosophy90. Eustathios integrates this idea into his reading of Homer by seeing prudence, cleverness, and rhetorical skilfulness combined in the goddess Athena, whom he repeatedly interprets as the personification of the poet’s rhetorical prowess, an interpretation without parallel in earlier Homeric exegesis91. Eustathios is thus not the end of the tradition; rather, he actively shapes it: his interpretation of Athena demonstrates that he does not hesitate to take inherited material in new directions. A similar amalgamation of traditions governs the grammatical and linguistic material in the commentaries. Eustathios draws on various lexica, from the fifth- or sixth-century Hesychios to the tenth-century Souda and the twelfth-century Etymologicum Magnum, on scholia vetera on Homer and other ancient authors, on the treatises of ancient grammarians such as Herodian (second century), and on the works of their Byzantine commentators, such as George Choiroboskos in

84

85 86

87

88

89

77 Eust. Il. 939.57–60=3.495.5–9; quotation from 939.59– 60=

78 79

80 81

82

83

3.495.8–9: ὅτι κάλλιον παρ’ αὐτοῖς ἡ καίριος τραχυφωνία τῆς ἁπλῶς ἐν προφορᾷ λόγου λειότητος. See also p. 125 with n. 66. Eust. Il. 944.25–26=3.506.15–16: ἐφίλησεν ὑπὲρ τὴν λειοφωνίαν τὸν τοῦ ῥα συνδέσμου ῥοῖζον διὰ τὸ τραχύτερον καὶ οὕτω ποιητικώτερον. Eust. Il. 1120.10–12=4.99.13–15. Eust. Il. 1147.9–13=4.191.11–15. Eustathios partly draws on scholion bT Il. 18.346a; the reference to the harsh formulation of the passage is his own. Eustathios expresses a similar idea in the preface to his commentary on Dionysius Periegetes, where he explains that he has translated Dionysius’ poetic hardness into prose to make the lessons of The Description of the Known World easier to understand. See esp. Eust. Dion. Per. 207.2–17, with discussion in Pérez Martín, “Geography at School” (n. 27). See e.g. Eust. Il. 3.2–4=1.3.35–4.2, 3.34–41=1.4.34–5.8; Dion.

90

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Per. 207.17–20, 26–7; Pi. 38.4. See Van den Berg, “The Wise Homer”(n. 7), pp. 40–42 for discussion and further references. Eust. Il. 3.39–40=1.5.6–7; cf. Eust. Dion. Per. 205.40–206.1: the commentary makes studying Dionysius effortless by presenting all that the reader needs. On the ethical tensions surrounding the reuse of ancient texts and “geistiger Diebstahl”in Byzantium, see Michael Grünbart,“Zusammenstellen vs. Zusammenstehlen: Zum Traditionsverständnis in der byzantinischen Kultur”, in Imitatio – Aemulatio – Variatio, Andreas Rhoby, Elisabeth Schiffer eds, Vienna 2010, pp. 129–136, who also draws a parallel with material spoliation. Eust. Il. 3.40–41=1.5.7–8. On rewriting the ancient scholia in Eustathios’ Homeric commentaries, see Georgia Kolovou, “La réécriture des scholies homériques dans les Parekbolai sur l’Iliade d’Eustathe de Thessalonique”, in Remanier, métaphraser: fonctions et techniques de la réécriture dans le monde byzantin, Bernard Flusin, Smilja Marjanović-Dušanić eds, pp. 149–162, Belgrade 2011. See also Lara Pagani, “Eustathius’ Use of Ancient Scholarship in His Commentary on the Iliad: Some Remarks”,in Reading Eustathios of Thessalonike, Filippomaria Pontani, Vassilis Katsaros, Vassilis Sarris eds, Berlin 2017, pp. 79–110. On this shift, see e.g. Dale Kinney, “Introduction”, in Reuse Value: Spolia and Appropriation in Art and Architecture from Constantine to Sherrie Levine, Richard Brilliant, Dale Kinney eds, Farnham 2011, pp. 1–11, sp. p. 1. Kinney identifies the essay “Spolien. Zur Wiederverwendung antiker Baustücke und Skulpturen im mittelalterlichen Italien”by the historian Arnold Esch as the beginning of this shift [Archiv für Kulturgeschichte, lix (1969), pp. 1–64]. See also Arnold Esch, “On the Reuse of Antiquity: The Perspectives of the Archaeologist and of the Historian”, in Reuse Value, pp. 13–31. On developments in spolia studies, see also Dale Kinney, “The Concept of Spolia”, in A Companion to Medieval Art: Romanesque and Gothic in Northern Europe, Conrad Rudolph ed., Malden, ma 2006, pp. 233–252. In addition to the various studies mentioned throughout the article, see Valeria F. Lovato, “Tzetzes, Eustathius, and the ‘City-Sacker’ Epeius: Trends and Turning Points in the 12th-Century Reception of Homer”, in Trends and Turning Points: Constructing the Late Antique and Byzantine World, Matthew Kinloch, Alex MacFarlane eds, Leiden 2019, pp. 47–63. On Hermogenes in Eustathios’ Homeric commentaries, see e.g. Lindberg, Studies in Hermogenes and Eustathios (n. 7); Cullhed, Eustathios of Thessalonike, 2016 (n. 7), sp. pp. 17*–20*; Van den Berg, Homer and Rhetoric (n. 7), passim. On Hermogenes and his commentators in Byzantium, see Stratis Papaioannou, “Rhetoric and Rhetorical Theory”, in The Cambridge Intellectual History of Byzantium, Anthony Kaldellis, Niketas Siniossoglou eds, Cambridge 2017, pp. 101–112, with further references. See Nicomachean Ethics 6.12.9–13.1, 114a23–b4; John Sikeliotes, Commentary on Hermogenes’ On Types of Style 62.29–63.4, ed. Christian Walz, Rhetores Graeci, vol. 6, Stuttgart 1834, with Roilos, Amphoteroglossia (n. 35), pp. 144–145. On rhetoric and philosophy in Sikeliotes, see Papaioannou,“Rhetoric and the Philosopher” (n. 23), pp. 188–189; on Sikeliotes, see also Stratis Papaioannou,“Ioannes Sikeliotes (and Ioannes Geometres) Revisited, with an Appendix: Edition of Sikeliotes’ Scholia on Aelius Aristides”, in Traveaux et mémoires 23.1: Mélanges Bernard Flusin, André Binggeli, Vincent Déroche eds, with Michel Stavrou, Paris 2019, pp. 261–284. See Van den Berg, Homer and Rhetoric (n. 7), p. 233, for a more detailed discussion and further references. On Athena as Homer’s rhetorical prowess, see also Cullhed, Eustathios of Thessalonike, 2014 (n. 7), pp. 70*–71*; Van den Berg, “Eustathios on Homer’s Narrative Art” (n. 37), pp. 137–139.

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1 / Panagia Gorgoepikoos (Little Metropolis), Athens, possibly late 12th century

the eighth/ninth century92. Studying the interplay between these often overlapping traditions and teasing out the different layers of Eustathios’ rhetorical and grammatical thought will help us better understand the conceptual framework that governs his reading of the ancient poets. At the same time, it will allow us to appreciate the directions in which Eustathios takes the tradition in a bid to express his own ideas on language and literature. A medieval structure that incorporates a great deal of spoliated material is still a new building with a contemporary function – the Little Metropolis in Athens [Fig. 1], possibly built during Choniates’ time as bishop of the city, is but one illustrative example93. In the same way, Eustathios’ commentaries reuse much ancient material while still offering a new reading of Homeric poetry that translates Homer into terms relevant for the contemporary readership. *** When Michael Choniates tells our rhetor George to study Homer, he has more in mind than the Iliad and the Odyssey alone. Rather, George needs to read Homeric poetry along with the rhetorical, grammatical, and exegetical traditions that translate the poet’s usefulness into terms relevant to Byzantine literary and rhetorical culture. Eustathios has gathered together in his commentaries all that rhetors need to make their writings demonstrations of erudition, rhetorical virtuosity, and an excellent command of Atticizing Greek that, moreover, pleases the ears of their audiences. With Atticizing Greek being the linguistic register of highbrow literature and with rhetoric being “a fundamental medium for the circulation of ideas, the circulation of power, the performance 92 On lexica and grammatical treatises as Eustathios’ sourc-

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es, see Van der Valk, Eustathii Archiepiscopi (n. 6), vol. 1, pp. lxiv–lxviii, lxx–lxiv. 93 For a discussion of the spolia in the Little Metropolis, see e.g. Bente Kiilerich, “Making Sense of the Spolia in the Little Metropolis in Athens”, Arte medievale, iv/2 (2005), pp. 95–114 (where, however, a fifteenth-century date is proposed); Grünbart, “Zusammenstellen vs. Zusammenstehlen” (n. 84), p. 132, gives the same example. 94 Simon Goldhill, “Rhetoric and the Second Sophistic”, in The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Rhetoric, Erik Gunderson ed., Cambridge 2009, pp. 228–241, sp. p. 232, quoted in Papaioannou, “Rhetoric and Rhetorical Theory” (n. 89), p. 103.

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of the self in the public life of the empire”94, the significance of Eustathios’ project becomes clear. His ideas on language and literature – as well as those in other grammatical, rhetorical, and literary critical texts – stand in dialogue with the literary and rhetorical production of the time as essential components of twelfth-century literary and rhetorical culture. The ancient roots of such ideas make them no less relevant as expressions of contemporary rhetorical aesthetics, and as guidelines for aspiring or practising rhetors to assist them in their creative process. The words of the historian Arnold Esch therefore apply as much to Byzantine literary culture as to medieval material spoliation: “the Middle Ages always looked upon antiquities with a gaze that was at once admiring and also exploitative”; indeed, Esch continues,“in the reuse of the rich legacy of Antiquity, imagination knew no bounds”95. 95 Esch, “On the Reuse of Antiquity” (n. 87), p. 17.

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summary Eustathiovy komentáře k Homérovi Překlad Homéra a spoliace antických tradic

Autorka článku se zabývá kombinací překladu a spoliace, které jsou typické pro komentáře k Homérovi od Eustathia ze Soluně (12. století). Eustathius ve svých komentářích považuje Iliadu a Odysseu za vzorové řečnické kompozice a vykládá je pomocí řečnických pojmů jako příkladové texty. Komentáře tak mají sloužit soudobým řečníkům k dosažení všestranné vzdělanosti (polymatie), řečnické dokonalosti a jazykové kompetence. První část článku je věnována Eustathiově výkladu Homérova autorství ve světle soudobých autorských zvyklostí. Autorka přitom klade zvláštní důraz na roli polymatie. Domnívá se, že Eustathius připisuje Homérovi takovou kombinaci erudice a výřečnosti, která odpovídá jak Eustathiově širší představě o klíčových vlastnostech dobrého autora, tak i jeho vlastnímu spisovatelskému a intelektuálnímu profilu. Eustathiův Homér je navíc zasazen do soutěživých intelektuálních norem vlastních spíše Eustathiově době a jeho dychtivost vydávat na odiv svou řečnickou virtuozitu a erudici se rovná horlivosti řečníků ve dvanáctém století. Ve druhé části článku se autorka zaměřuje na jazyk a zkoumá, jakými způsoby Eustathius překládá Homérovu poetickou řečtinu do soudobého řečnického výraziva vysoce kultivované atticizující prózy dvanáctého století. Napříč komentáři Eustathius neustále zdůrazňuje, že některá slova

by neměla být byzantskými autory používána, jelikož jsou nápadně poetická, nepříjemná na poslech nebo těžká na vyslovení, případně protože patří mezi jiné starořecké dialekty, než je attický. Upozorňuje tak na omezení přínosu Homéra pro literární imitaci, zároveň ale nabízí nový pohled na jazyk, který by měli autoři soudobé prózy používat. Dílo rovněž názorně ukazuje, jak mohou komentáře sloužit jako prostředník mezi poezií a prózou. Eustathiovo čtení Homéra čerpá z mnoha antických literárních, gramatických, rétorických, filosofických a exegetických pramenů a jako takové se dá přirovnat k materiální spoliaci, čímž se zabývá třetí část článku. Nedávné studie věnované materiální spoliaci se zasazují se o to, aby se výzkum tolik nezaměřoval na druhý život antického materiálu či spolií nezávisle na jejich novém kontextu, ale zdůrazňují důležitost nového života spolií v jejich novém kontextu. Autorka soudí, že stejně tak jsme schopni lépe porozumět konceptuálnímu rámci Eustathiova literárního myšlení, když si uvědomíme, jak důležité je pro Eusthatia při čtení a komentování antických básníků prolínání různých tradic, a když vezmeme v potaz jednotlivé vrstvy Eustathiova rétorického a gramatického myšlení. To také umožňuje lépe ocenit, jak Eustathius usměrňuje různé tradice tak, aby vyjádřil své vlastní názory na jazyk a literaturu.

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Abstract – Reuse and Remodeling in the Late Byzantine World. The Church of Bogorodica Ljeviška in Prizren – This article responds to the recent popularity of spolia studies and the need for a more critical engagement with forms and ranges of reuse that we can interpret as spoliation. It highlights the key role that two artistic practices, reuse and remodeling, played in the renovation of Prizren’s cathedral – Church of Bogorodica Ljeviška (Mother of God of Ljeviška) – under the patronage of the Serbian king Milutin (r. 1282–1321). This article interprets the rebuilding, i.e. reuse, of the three-aisled Middle Byzantine basilica as spoliation the goal of which was not to display fragments of the old building as trophies but rather to preserve its remains like relics. In turn, the remodeling of the original basilica into a five-domed church (1306–1309), supported by the inscriptions and a new painting program (ca 1310–1313), represent an artistic rewriting of the building’s history. In light of Serbo-Byzantine rapprochement under King Milutin, this rewriting translates cultural meanings and political messages that complete the transformation of Prizren from a Byzantine episcopal seat and town into a significant center of the Serbian medieval state and church. Concepts of spolia and translation thus support a more holistic interpretation of the building and underline the potential renovations hold for the study of Late Byzantine monuments. Keywords – Bogorodica Ljeviška, King Milutin, Late Byzantine architecture and art, Prizren, renovation, spoliation, translation Ivana Jevtić Koç University, Istanbul [email protected] 132

Reuse and Remodeling in the Late Byzantine World The Church of Bogorodica Ljeviška in Prizren Ivana Jevtić

Renovations of buildings were a recurrent yet not a standardized practice in the Byzantine world. Such interventions were often site-specific, and each renovation had its own set of reasons1. Aged and damaged structures had to be repaired and reconstructed, but this apparent necessity was only one side of the story, and does not explain how and why many renovations were done. Renovation could bring the building to its former condition, but it could also modify it significantly. Justinianic Hagia Sophia in Constantinople is certainly the best-known renovation that was a bold recreation. Our knowledge about reconstructions

depends on the detailed technical examination of buildings and archaeological excavations that are not always available. Nonetheless, renovations and similar phenomena hold great potential for the study of Byzantine monuments and material culture. They reveal how old and new relate to 1

Paul Magdalino, “Modes of Reconstruction in Byzantine Constantinople”, in Reconstruire les villes : Modes, motifs et récits, Cécile Dogniez, Emmanuelle Capet, Maria Gorea et al. eds, Turnhout 2019, pp. 255–267. About the refoundation and renovation of older structures, Margaret Mullett, “Refounding Monasteries in Constantinople under the Komnenoi”, in Founders and Refounders of Byzantine Monasteries, eadem ed., Belfast 2007, pp. 366 –378.

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each other at a given moment of a building’s history and can delineate the dialogue that lies at the heart of both every creation and restoration2. As artistic practices, renovations involved selection and elimination but also adaptation, refitting and other remodeling processes that are often closely related to reuse. All of them allow us to critically assess different stages in the lives of buildings and better understand their multilayered fabric, meanings and history. The present paper aims to conceptualize the early fourteenth-century reconstruction of the Church of Bogorodica Ljeviška (Mother of God of Ljeviška) in Prizren, which exemplifies a salient intervention into an older structure and allows us to examine the key role that reuse and remodeling played in its renovation and redecoration3. The church dedicated to Bogorodica Ljeviška had several lives in the ever-changing political circumstances of the Metohija region. Originally an eleventh-century three-aisled basilica and cathedral of Prizren (Prisdriana) – a Byzantine episcopal seat and important commercial town – Ljeviška was reconstructed and redecorated once the city was integrated into the medieval Serbian state. Under the patronage of King Milutin (r. 1282 –1321), the church was rebuilt as a crossin-square structure with five domes (1306–1309) and received its painted decoration a few years later (ca 1310–1313)4. This renovation did not follow a predictable scenario in which the old structure was kept, its damaged parts were repaired and reconstructed, or the older structure was torn down and replaced with a new edifice. The process was much more complex: the preexisting basilica was transformed into an elongated crossin-square edifice with five domes, enveloped by lateral ambulatories and an exonarthex topped with an axial belfry [Fig. 1]. In such a rebuilding campaign, the new structure not only reused the core of the older basilica, but remodeled it, thus allowing the church to acquire a substantially different exterior appearance, interior space and painted program. In other words, the renovated building incorporated its predecessor in an almost organic way and grew out of it into something new. Comparable renovation practices existed in the Byzantine world, and, as this paper will

underline, these “buildings that change” structurally yet reuse their older phases demand closer study5. Buildings like Bogorodica Ljeviška can help conceptualize the role and agency of the Byzantine past and raise new questions about the cultural-ideological background of renovations. Bogorodica Ljeviška is a well-studied monument in the scholarship dedicated to both medieval Serbian and Late Byzantine architecture and arts6. This essay builds upon these significant contributions with a goal to go one step further and take an art historical vantage point on King Milutin’s renovation of the edifice. My aim is to interpret the rebuilding philosophy behind it by studying the elements that were reused, the ones that were remodeled and the purpose behind these choices. I view reuse and remodeling as transformative processes and approach them within the methodological/conceptual framework of spolia – older architectural or sculptural elements employed in new contexts –, and translation studies. By examining the structural changes to the building and the iconographic program of the contemporary frescoes, I argue that both concepts highlight how careful material and conceptual interweaving of reuse and remodeling makes Bogorodica Ljeviška a remarkable monument in the Late Byzantine context. My working hypothesis is that, on the one hand, the older Byzantine basilica on the site was reused like a spolium, not in the original sense of spoil of a war but rather in its extended meaning of souvenirs and relics7. On the other hand, the architectural remodeling and redecoration transformed Bogorodica Ljeviška into the most fashionable artistic forms of the early fourteenth century; they thus also represent an artistic rewriting of the building. In the light of Serbo-Byzantine 2

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About architectural transformations and conservation based on reuse, Christina Gonzalez-Longo, “Using Old Stuff and Thinking in a New Way: Material Culture, Conservation and Fashion in Architecture”, in The Cultural Role of Architecture: Contemporary and Historical Perspectives, Paul Emmons, Jane Lomholt, John Hendrix eds, London 2012, pp. 68–77. The building reflected like a mirror the tumultuous history of the region. It was turned into a mosque following the Ottoman conquest of Prizren in 1455 and adapted thereafter to its new function. The mosque became a church again when the city joined the Kingdom of Serbia in 1912 and later Yugoslavia. Damaged during the March 2004 riots, the

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building has been listed as a unesco World Heritage Site since 2006. Today it is fenced and out of use. These later layers of reuse and translation are beyond the scope of my paper examining an earlier history of the monument but they all deserve attention and demand proper studies. Slobodan Ćurčić, “Religious Settings of the Late Byzantine Sphere”, in Byzantium: Faith and Power 1261–1557, Helen C. Evans ed., New Haven 2004, pp. 70–71; Robert Ousterhout, Eastern Medieval Architecture: The Building Traditions of Byzantium and Neighboring Lands, Oxford 2019, pp. 653–656. Robert Ousterhout, Master Builders of Byzantium, Princeton 1999, pp. 86 –123. About buildings that “shapeshift from century to century”, Edward Hollis, The Secret Lives of Buildings: From the Ruins of the Parthenon to the Vegas Strip in Thirteen Stories, New York 2009. About the conception of time, how it affects buildings and the theory of building, Martin Trachtenberg, Building-in-Time: From Giotto to Alberti and Modern Oblivion, New Haven 2010. Slobodan Nenadović, Bogorodica Ljeviška njen postanak i njeno mesto u arhitekturi Milutinovog doba, Belgrade 1963 (with

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a resume in French pp. 264–277); Draga Panić, Gordana Babić, Bogorodica Ljeviška, Belgrade 1975 (with a resume in English pp. 105–114). My reading of the fourteenth-century renovation is based predominantly on the analysis made by Slobodan Ćurčić, “Renewed from the Very Foundations: The Question of the Genesis of the Bogorodica Ljeviška in Prizren”, in Archaeology in Architecture: Studies in Honor of Cecil L. Striker, Judson J. Emerick, Deborah Mauskopf Deliyannis eds, Mainz 2005, pp. 23–35. Aleksandra Davidov Temerinski’s recent monograph on Ljeviška and its English translation will be most helpful for those who cannot access the bibliography in Serbian language. Aleksandra Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin Ljeviška in Prizren, Belgrade 2017. Paolo Liverani made a distinction between spolia i, as trophies and spoils of wars, and spolia ii, as souvenirs or relics in a broad sense. Paolo Liverani, “Reading Spolia in Late Antiquity and Contemporary Perception”, in Reuse Value: Spolia and Appropriation in Art and Architecture, from Constantine to Sherrie Levine, Richard Brilliant, Dale Kinney eds, Farnham 2011, p. 45.

1 / Southern aerial view, Bogorodica Ljeviška, Prizren, 1306–1309

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rapprochement under King Milutin, this complex rewriting translates cultural meanings and political messages that complete the transformation of Prizren from a Byzantine episcopal seat and town into a significant center of the medieval Serbian state and church8. Considering these premises, spolia and translation shed new light on the Serbian response to the Byzantine past of the building and they offer a more holistic reading of this key episode in its medieval history. They also connect Bogorodica Ljeviška to broader developments in the Late Byzantine world and to current historiographical and theoretical trends in art historical scholarship, aspects that can enhance further studies of this extremely significant religious building. The beginning of the story: the Byzantine cathedral of Prizren 2 / Original ground plan of the Basilica of the Virgin Eleusa, Prizren

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Cathedrals were always central to the life of cities, and Prizren was no exception. Benefiting from its position at the crossroad of trading routes connecting the Adriatic coast with the interior of the Balkans, Prizren has always been a significant center. Established near the Roman Theranda, the town played an important role when, following the collapse of Tsar Samuil’s state in 1018, the Byzantines reconquered these territories. Πριζδρίανα was mentioned in the first charter that Emperor Basil ii (r. 976–1025) issued to the Ohrid Archbishopric in 1019 when the city was made an episcopal seat. It retained this ecclesiastical role by all those who subsequently controlled it, namely the Bulgarian and Serbian rulers. Prizren passed into Serbian hands in the thirteenth century and remained under their control until 1455, when it was taken by the Ottomans9. The story of the episcopal church of the Virgin Eleusa – later Ljeviška, seems to go back, at least, to the eleventh century. The later church did not erase the traces of its Middle Byzantine predecessor: the architectural plan of the original Byzantine cathedral could be detected like an earlier text can be distinguished in a palimpsest manuscript10. The extensive restoration and archaeological excavation of the actual building conducted by Slobodan Nenadović in the 1950s revealed

that Milutin’s church incorporated substantial parts of the old edifice that stood at the same site11. Preserved foundations and the remaining walls allowed Nenadović to conclude that the original church was a three-aisled basilica ending in the tripartite sanctuary on the east side [Fig. 2]. The building had a narthex and an exonarthex with three large entrance openings on the west side; both spaces were flanked by symmetrically positioned subsidiary rooms, projecting beyond the width of the main body of the church. Rows of four rectangular piers, supporting arches on two sides, separated the relatively large nave from the aisles. A wooden construction, enclosed under a double-pitched roof, most probably covered the nave. The narthex and the exonarthex, divided into three bays, were vaulted and the church had three entrances, one for each aisle. And, the wall paintings may have been included in the decoration of the original building12. Nenadović assigned this basilica to the eleventh century, though he did consider the possibility of an earlier dating13. Spoliated fragments of various sculptured pieces that he detected on the site may represent evidence of an older structure [Fig. 3]. Based on the preserved elements of the sculptural decoration, he presumed that an early Byzantine building could have preceded the Middle Byzantine basilica. Considering all these elements, Nenadović concluded that the original church of the Virgin Eleusa exemplified features typical 8

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11 12 13

On cultural transfers and translation, Maria Fabricius Hansen, Eloquence of Appropriation: Prolegomena to an Understanding of Spolia in Early Christian Rome, Rome 2003, pp. 117–165; Cultural Translation in Early Modern Europe, Peter Burke, Po-Chia Hsia eds, Cambridge 2007, pp. 1–4; Finbarr B. Flood, Objects of Translation: Material Culture and Medieval “Hindu-Muslim” Encounter, Princeton 2009, pp. 3–5; idem, “Appropriation as Inscription: Making History in the First Friday Mosque of Delhi”, in Reuse Value (n. 7), pp. 121–147. Nenadović, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 23–38; Panić/Babić, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 10–13; Slobodan Ćurčić, Architecture in the Balkans from Diocletian to Süleyman the Magnificent c. 300–1550, New Haven 2010, p. 644; Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), pp. 5–6. About the concept of architectural palimpsest, Palimpsests: Buildings, Sites, Time, Nadja Aksamija, Clark Maines, Phillip Wagoner eds, Turnhout 2017.  Nenadović, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 39–65; Ćurčić, “Renewed from the Very Foundations” (n. 6), p. 25. Panić/Babić, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 28–29; Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), pp. 19–20. Nenadović, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), p. 58; Ćurčić,“Renewed from the Very Foundations” (n. 6), p. 25.

3 / Spolium of the original sanctuary screen, Bogorodica Ljeviška, Prizren

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of provincial Middle Byzantine basilicas14. The fragments of three stone reliefs, which most likely came from the iconostasis, resemble the sculptural decoration from the eleventh-century Church of Saint Sophia in Ohrid. Finally, a coin of the Emperor Romanos i Lekapenos (r. 920–944), found in its foundations, suggests that the basilica was built after 920 but before 1019 when the charter of Basil ii mentioned it as the seat of the Prizren Bishopric15. From the Virgin Eleusa to Bogorodica Ljeviška: the thirteenth-century interlude

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Medieval Serbia took advantage of the fragmentation of the Byzantine Empire in the first half of the thirteenth century. Prizren then became a part of the Nemanjić state during the reign of Stefan Prvovenčani, the first-crowned King of Serbia (1196–1228, king from 1217). This political change was also reflected on the ecclesiastical level, as the episcopal seat of Prizren got attached to the Serbian autocephalous Church and the Žiča Arch­ bishopric (1220). These significant transfers of power required at least a partial reconstruction of the cathedral, which appears to have been considerably ruined by that time. During the third decade of the thirteenth century, the damaged walls of the central nave and the apses were rebuilt. The exterior walls of the side aisles were reconstructed and the side passages in the wall between the narthex and the naos were closed. It is possible that the crumbling wooden cover was replaced by a double-pitched roof across all three aisles of the basilica16. The restoration in the 1950s revealed remains of the thirteenth-century frescoes in the south aisle and the naos, clearly indicating that the repaired basilica was also decorated. Slavonic inscriptions confirm that those frescoes were done when Prizren was in Serbian hands and most likely during the reign of Stefan the First-Crowned17. Embedded in the early fourteenth-century painting program, this fragmentary earlier decoration appears in a palimpsestuous manner on the walls of the building [Fig. 4]. Closely resembling the remains of the frescoes at the Church of Saint Nicholas in Studenica (ca 1230s), the paintings from Ljeviška confirm the activity of an itinerant workshop active

4 / Fresco of the Virgin Eleusa and Christ “the Nourisher of Our Life”, south aisle, Bogorodica Ljeviška, Prizren, 13th century

in Serbian lands in that time, continuing a Late Komnenian pictorial style18. The church must ha­ve retained its original basilical form following its thirteenth-century restoration, but it acquired a new artistic and cultural layer with its fresco program whose style connects it to Studenica and other buildings attributed to this itinerant artistic workshop19. During this thirteenth-century interlude, the original Byzantine basilica began its first transformation and the Church of the Virgin Eleusa became Bogorodica Ljeviška. The early fourteenth-century renovation: a new cathedral within an older shell The early fourteenth-century rebuilding of Bogorodica Ljeviška falls in a period of dynamic political and cultural interactions between Serbia and the Byzantine Empire. Led by King Stefan Uroš ii Milutin (r. 1282–1321), Serbia expanded its territories southward into Byzantine lands, and emerged as a significant political and economic power in the Balkans. The relations between two polities stabilized in 1299 when the Emperor Andronikos ii offered his young daughter Simonis as a bride to King Milutin20. Under the sway of the same ruler, Prizren reached a high level of prosperity, reflected in its urban growth and above all in the rebuilding of its cathedral21. This renovation resulted in a drastic alteration of the building. In that process, the core of the old basilica – its original nave – was reused and transformed into a cross-in-square naos [Fig. 5]. In other words, Bogorodica Ljeviška kept the elongated plan from its eleventh and thirteenth-century predecessors on the site, but its basilical form was negated in the superstructure where the fivedomed cross-in-square scheme was implemented. This not-so-simple alteration required a series of adaptations that reveal the importance of reuse in the renovation. Slobodan Nenadović demonstrated, for instance, that the substantial parts of the arcades between the old nave and aisles and even several clerestory windows were incorporated into the fourteenth-century church. The original side aisles of the basilica were kept, and they became ambulatory spaces ending in separated vaulted chapels, without domes22. These and

5 / Ground plan of King Milutin’s Church of Bogorodica Ljeviška, Prizren

14 Nenadović, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 58–65; Davidov

Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), p. 18. About the typology and functions of basilicas in the Middle Byzantine period, see Michael Altripp, Die Basilika in Byzanz: Gestalt, Ausstattung und Funktion sowie das Verhältnis zur Kreuzkuppelkirche, Berlin/Boston 2013. 15 Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), p. 20. 16 Panić/Babić, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 29–30; Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), pp. 6–7. 17 Nenadović, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 237–240; Ćurčić, “Renewed from the Very Foundations” (n. 6), p. 29; Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), p. 21. 18 Panić/Babić, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 81–82; Sima Ćirković, Vojislav Korać, Gordana Babić, Studenica Monastery, Belgrade 1986, pp. 86–88; Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), p. 42; Milka Čanak-Medić, Branislav Todić, Studenica Monastery, Belgrade 2019, pp. 117–121. 19 Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), pp. 39–40. 20 John V. A. Fine, The Late Medieval Balkans: A Critical Survey from the Late Twelfth Century to the Ottoman Conquest, Ann Arbor 1987, pp. 222–223. About Milutin’s reign and the early Palaeologan period in Serbia, see Vlada Stanković, Kralj Milutin: (1282–1321), Belgrade 2012 (with a resume in English pp. 161–164); Serbia and Byzantium: Proceedings of the International Conference Held on 15 December 2008 at the University of Cologne, Mabi Angar, Claudia Sode eds, Frankfurt am Main / New York 2013. 21 Nenadović, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 15–18; Panić/Babić, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 14–17; Ćurčić, Architecture in the Balkans (n. 9), p. 644. 22 Nenadović, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 52–53; Ćurčić, “Renewed from the Very Foundations” (n. 6), p. 25.

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6 / Southern pillars of the nave, Bogorodica Ljeviška, Prizren 1306–1309

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other singularities in the arrangement of the interior space show that salvaging the old basilica played an extremely important role in the whole process. The renovation of older, i.e. Byzantine, buildings held significant artistic, cultural and ideological value for the Serbian rulers since the time of Stefan Nemanja23. King Milutin’s rebuilding of Prizren’s cathedral follows that tradition yet the way the older Byzantine structure was incorporated into the fourteenth-century building is stepping out from previous renovation practices and this requires an interpretation. If the old determined the shape of the new, then the reuse of the earlier building was essential to forge a material and symbolic relationship with the past it signified, a crucial point that the notion of spolia helps conceptualize. Recent scholarship on architectural reuse and repurposing has suggested that whole buildings could be reemployed like spolia when their site and material fabric were reused in later phases and new cultural contexts24. Expanding the notion of spolia from fragmented elements or building materials to monuments allows us to better understand the complex temporality of buildings. In that light, one can argue that the older Byzantine basilica was reused like a spolium in the renovation of Bogorodica Ljeviška. Its reuse does not follow the original sense of spolia, but rather the derivative meaning of souvenirs and relics25. Spolia were reminders of the past, yet they could represent its eradication as well as its recollection. In other words, they could reflect a critical attitude towards the preceding era, but they can also imply a continuity26. The shell of the earlier Bogorodica Ljeviška, i.e. the physical and symbolic connection with the Byzantine past of the site, was not erased in the renovation; rather, its considerable remains integrated and enclosed a new structure. This reuse lacked features that are usually associated with spoliation, such as violence, fragmentation or displacement; instead, the process was allusive and antiquarian in nature27. If the reuse went in the direction of retaining the old basilica in the new monumental edifice, then Bogorodica Ljeviška illustrates how spoliation could also represent a strategy of preservation, and the building could be a keeper of memory.

This approach brings a new understanding of how the patrons of Ljeviška experienced its Byzantine past: it was not negated nor was it necessary to make it visible by showing off its fragmentary pieces. The relation was more fundamental because that past was integrated into the new building, something its patrons and users knew very well. The comparison of this type of spoliation with the use of relics is evocative, relics need not be made visible, and their very presence suffices to convey their power28. A conspicuous reuse of the older basilica was not a reclusive phenomenon and was coordinated with the artistic process that followed it: the remodeling required by the implementation of the five-domed cross-inscribed model. That remodeling represented a departure and an innovative take on the old, but how was it done structurally? Master builders inserted two rows of four square piers in the old nave and put the central dome above four middle piers where two main vaults crossed29. The naos thus acquired two extremely narrow aisle-like spaces, squeezed between rows of old and new piers [Fig. 6]. Four small domes 23 Smilja Marjanović-Dušanić, Vladarska ideologija Nemanjića: Diplo-

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matička studija, Belgrade 1997; Ivan Stevović, “Istorijski izvor i istorijskoumetničko tumačenje: Bogorodičina Crkva u Toplici”, Zograf, xxxv (2011), pp. 73–92; Jelena Jovanović, “Founded, Re-Founded and Reendowed: Construction and Continuity in Late 12th Century Architectural Patronage in Serbia”, in Proceedings of 23rd International Congress of Byzantine Studies. Thematic Sessions of Free Communications: Belgrade, 22–27 August 2016, Dejan Dželebić et al. eds, Belgrade 2016, p. 750. Tuğba Tanyeri-Erdemir, “The Fate of Tanzimat-Era Churches in Anatolia after the Loss of their Congregations”, in Christian Art under Muslim Rule, Maximilian Hartmuth ed. with assistance of Ayşe Dilsiz and Alyson Wharton, Leiden 2016, pp. 219–235; eadem, “Remains of the Day: Converted Anatolian Churches”, in Spolia Reincarnated: Afterlives of Objects, Materials, And Spaces in Anatolia from Antiquity to the Ottoman Era, Ivana Jevtić, Suzan Yalman eds, Istanbul 2018, p. 71. Liverani, “Reading Spolia” (n. 7), p. 45; Ivana Jevtić, “Introduction”, in Spolia Reincarnated (n. 24), pp. 3–21. Hansen, Eloquence of Appropriation (n. 8), p. 261. For the display of spolia see the contribution of Armin F. Bergmeier in this volume. Hansen, Eloquence of Appropriation (n. 8), p. 7 sqq. For the discussion of allusion, see the article of Ingela Nilsson in this volume. About the idea that a historical building could be viewed as a sacred relic, see Robert Ousterhout, “Architecture as Relic and the Construction of Sanctity: The Stones of the Holy Sepulcher”, Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, lxii (2003), pp. 4–23. Nenadović, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 67–82; Panić/Babić, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 30–34; Cyril Mango, Byzantine Architecture, Milan 1978, p. 316.

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7 / View of the southeast dome, Bogorodica Ljeviška, Prizren, 1306–1309

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were placed above the corners of these aisle-like spaces of the naos [Fig. 7]. As Slobodan Ćurčić observed, such positioning of smaller domes was more closely related to Middle Byzantine, i.e. Komnenian, five-domed church schemes and differentiated the upper structure of Bogorodica Ljeviška from its contemporary models, such as the Virgin Paregoritissa in Arta (1284–1296) or the Holy Apostles in Thessaloniki (1310–1314)30. Whether or not the master builders of Ljeviška followed the Komnenian tradition, these peculiarities of the church superstructure certainly resulted from the effort to accommodate multidomed design to the remains of the older basilica and to bring them to a synthesis. This renovation strategy can explain the very peculiar architecture of Bogorodica Ljeviška. In the interior, the naos kept the proportions of the ground level and other features of the old basilica. However, in the elevation a new superstructure

replaced the earlier wooden roof cover and, looking up, the viewer would realize that the building was transformed into a cross-inscribed design. As a result, the interior of Ljeviška was neither centralized nor purely basilical. With the elongated naos packed with piers but topped with the domes, it was a hybrid-looking space whose patchwork character was the prime indicator of reuse [Fig. 6]. In this, as in other cases, the composite character of monuments unmistakably signaled the spoliation31. The final element of its renovation was a large, two-storied exonarthex with an axially placed belfry rising in its center. This tall belfry, with its powerful verticality, prominently marked the west façade and, together with the five domes above the building’s core, completed the modern outlook of Prizren’s cathedral [Fig. 8]32. Bogorodica Ljeviška was the very first fivedomed church in medieval Serbia and this raises

questions about the aesthetic, cultural and ideological values associated with the choice of this architectural model and the meanings it carried throughout the Byzantine and medieval worlds. In its history, Byzantine architecture employed two different five-domed church plans33. On the one hand, there was a Justinianic prototype based on a free Greek-cross plan, exemplified in the Holy Apostles of Constantinople and its equally famous medieval progeny, the Church of San Marco in Venice 34. There was, on the other hand, the Middle Byzantine type based on the cross-in-square plan, with cupolas rising over the crossing and the four compartments between the arms of the cross. This variant was developed since the Macedonian dynasty, starting with the no longer extant Nea Ekklesia in Constantinople (finished in 880), but it continued to evolve architecturally and liturgically during the Middle and Late Byzantine periods35.

Post-Iconoclastic five-domed churches, though structurally different, kept certain visual similarities with the glorious Justinianic predecessor

8 / Southeast view, Bogorodica Ljeviška, Prizren, 1306–1309

30 Ćurčić, “Renewed from the Very Foundations” (n. 6), p. 29. 31 About spolia and their composite aesthetic, Ivana Jevtić,

“Introduction” (n. 24), pp. 13–14.

32 Nenadović, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 70–71; Panić/Babić,

Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 34–35; Ćurčić, Architecture in the Balkans (n. 9), pp. 646–648. About the use of bells in Byzantium, see Bojan Miljković, “Semantra and Bells in Byzantium”, Zbornik radova Vizantološkog instituta, lv (2018), pp. 271–300. The addition of the bell-tower may have been linked to the custom of adorning churches in Serbian lands with bell-towers. Olivera Kandić, “Kule-zvonici uz srpske crkve od 12 do 14 veka”, Zbornik za likovnu umetnost Matice srpske, xiv (1978), pp. 3–75; Ćurčić, Architecture in the Balkans (n. 9), pp. 492–495, 500. I thank Nebojša Stanković for this keen comment. 33 Slobodan Ćurčić, “Evolution of the Middle Byzantine FiveDomed Church Type”, Byzantine Studies Conference Abstracts, i (1975), p. 31. 34 Tassos Papacostas, “The Medieval Progeny of the Holy Apostles: Trails of Architectural Imitation Across the Mediterranean”, in The Byzantine World, Paul Stephenson ed., Oxford 2010, pp. 386–402. 35 Ćurčić, “Evolution” (n. 33), pp. 31–32.

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whose cupolas stood as “five stars, welded together”36. The Constantinopolitan church of the Holy Apostles recently acquired a long-awaited comprehensive publication37. The development of the five-domed Middle and Late Byzantine churches also deserves fresh reconsiderations that would go beyond buildings’ individual typologies to investigate in more detail the artistic value of the multidomed edifices and their appearance in various cultural contexts38. Spread throughout the Byzantine Empire and beyond (e.g. Russia), multi-domed churches represented symbols at the level of architectural and aesthetic language and ideological meanings. Their characteristic profile, a star-like disposition of cupolas above the building and splendid exterior forms certainly evoked the paramount beauty, but also the might of Byzantium and the power of Orthodoxy. Therefore, acquiring a religious building with such a distinctive architectural shape must have represented a highly prestigious artistic and cultural trademark for Serbian lands. In Prizren, the former Byzantine territory and episcopal seat, this landmark defined its present political and ecclesiastical identity: as the second important city of Milutin’s expending state and a diocese of the Serbian Church. At the same time, its new monumental church recalled glorious Constantinopolitan protypes or resembled imperial foundations that were closer to Prizren but referenced models from the Byzantine capital. For instance, the five-domed church of Saint Panteleimon at Nerezi (1164): the foundation of Alexios Angelos-Komnenos nested at the outskirts of Skopje – one of the most important cities under Serbian rule in the fourteenth century39. Bogorodica Ljeviška does not have one single referent; rather, it references models from the past as well as contemporary five-domed churches that were embellishing Byzantine cities and centers of power40. In turn, the cathedral of Prizren differed from them conceptually and structurally, something its users would realize when inside the building. The dialogic relation between the fourteenth-century remodeling of Bogorodica Ljeviška and Byzantine architectural forms and decoration that fed into its renovation brings us to artistic practices that are encompassed in the notion of translation. If we can trace the sources and models

for many individual elements that compose the building, the way they are arranged and put together makes that church unique. By its very etymology, the word translation – translatio – means to transfer and carry something from one place to another. In its figurative sense, translation stands for the turning something from one language to another41. Translations, like spoliation, are transformative processes that bridge temporal, spatial, cultural, linguistic, and other discontinuities: both notions encompass the aspect of carrying across and negotiating boundaries42. This pertains to the renovation of Bogorodica Ljeviška where the five-domed church design was carried across the boundaries between Byzantine and Serbian lands and transferred from one political and cultural setting to another. In that process of moving across space and time, highlighted recently in the discussions around the architecture’s portability, the architectural forms and aesthetic idioms were translated from one sphere of meaning to another: they were reinvested with specific connotations and adapted to local context43. The multilayered referentially of Bogorodica Ljeviška can be better understood as the product of manifold translations that reflected the geopolitical position of Prizren, the interactions that its patrons and makers had with various Byzantine centers like Arta, Ohrid, Thessaloniki and even Constantinople44. Ultimately, the translation of the five-domed scheme gave the building an appropriate and timely form that artistically fitted the context of its renovation. The artistic processes behind the renovation of Bogorodica Ljeviška reveal that its five-domed plan was not taken mechanically or imported from Byzantium to the kingdom of Milutin. In correlation with the reuse of the older building, the master builders of Ljeviška reinterpreted Byzantine models and translated the multi-domed church type in the most meaningful way for the historical, political and institutional context of early fourteenth-century Prizren. A domed structure rising from the preexisting basilica signaled that there was no rupture between the old and new: the two were entangled like the different layers of a palimpsest. Interestingly, the same strategy was repeated in king Milutin’s renovation of the Church of Saint George in Staro Nagoričane (1313)

where an older Byzantine basilica also substantially determined the implementation of the new five-domed church and offered the synthesis of the longitudinal and central church plans45. Bogorodica Ljeviška is perceived as the edifice that opened a new chapter in Serbian medieval arts and architecture and inspired their further development. It is very significant that the reinterpretation of the five-domed church model began in Prizren with king Milutin: the son-inlaw of the emperor Andronikos ii and ruler who spurred a vast program of carefully designed and decorated buildings in Serbia, but also supported ecclesiastical construction in Thessaloniki, Mount Athos, Constantinople and Jerusalem46. This fashion of multi-domed churches culminated with the architectural pinnacle of the age of Milutin – Gračanica (ca 1315) – only to continue with the patronage of Milutin’s successors47. For these reasons, the historiography emphasizes how Bogorodica Ljeviška heralds artistic developments in Serbia that closely followed contemporary Byzantine trends and ideas48. Its renovation introduced artistic concepts that were novelties in Serbian lands and these communicated political and cultural shifts associated with the patronage of king Milutin and the renewal of the episcopal seat. In turn, this article underlines that these new components were weaving material and symbolic connections with the preexisting edifice: thus, they acknowledged the value of the old, i.e. Byzantine, traditions and sprang from these foundations rather than negating them. The renovation of the church – the rewriting of its history – reflected specific ideological and cultural stances as well as aesthetic choices of its new patrons49. The messages of this artistic rewriting were not limited to architecture, but were also condensed in the inscriptions and the painted program of the church. These two elements completed its renovation materially, semantically and symbolically. Rewriting the history: inscriptions and paintings Inscribing the building Monumental inscriptions, cut into special tiles made for the purpose and placed on the east

facade, underlined and exalted the grand context of this royal renovation. A long text in Church Slavonic stated in the first-person singular the role of the patron, King Milutin [Fig. 9]. At the same time, the inscription highlighted the extent of his lands, his dynastic lineage and his father-in-law, the Byzantine emperor Andronikos  ii. The contribution of the Bishop Damian (until 1307) is also mentioned in the first person singular, in the same inscription with the year 36 Procopius, De aed., i 4, 13. 37 The Holy Apostles: A Lost Monument, a Forgotten Project and the

Presentness of the Past, Margaret Mullet, Robert Ousterhout eds, Washington dc 2020. 38 About the iconic dome form in Byzantine architecture see Jelena Bogdanović, The Framing of Sacred Space: The Canopy and the Byzantine Church, Oxford 2017; eadem, “The Domed Canopy in Byzantine Church Design”, Sacred Architecture Journal, xxxvii (2020), pp. 11–15. 39 Nenadović, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 107–109; Mango, Byzantine Architecture (n. 29), p. 308; Ousterhout, Master builders (n. 5), p. 119; Ida Sinkević, The Church of Saint Panteleiomon at Nerezi: Architecture, Program, Patronage, Wiesbaden 2000. 40 The Church of the Virgin Paregoritissa at Arta exemplifies at its best the five-domed model in the Epirote context but differs considerably from Ljeviška in the disposition of the domes, their scale and overall proportions. Ćurčić, Architecture in the Balkans (n. 9), p. 645. 41 Hansen, Eloquence of Appropriation (n. 8), pp. 38–39. For an expanded use of the concepts of spoliation and translation in relation to Byzantine texts, see the contribution of Ingela Nilsson in this volume. For the analogies between the material and textual cultures, see also Margaret Mullett in this volume. 42 Hansen, Eloquence of Appropriation (n. 8), p. 178. 43 Dalmatia and the Mediterranean: Portable Archaeology and the Poetics of Influence, Alina Payne ed., Leyden, 2014, pp. 1–16. 44 About the artistic connections and architectural developments in these major and contemporaneous centers see Vojislav J. Djurić, “Thessalonique et la peinture serbe au Moyen Âge”, CyrMet, xv/xvi (1991/1992), pp. 25–35; Ćurčić, “Religious Settings” (n. 4), pp. 65–77; idem, Architecture in the Balkans (n. 9), pp. 533–543 (Constantinople), 549–558 (Thessaloniki), 562–570 (Arta), 571–575 (Ohrid). 45 Branislav Todić, Staro Nagoričino, Belgrade 1993, pp. 66–69. 46 Elisabeth Piltz, “King (kralj) Milutin and the Palaeologan Tradition”, Byzantinoslavica, lxix/1–2 (2011), pp. 173–188; Ousterhout, Eastern Medieval Architecture (n. 4), p. 655 sqq. 47 Nenadović, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 11–21; Slobodan Ćurčić, Gračanica: King Milutin’s Church and Its Place in Late Byzantine Architecture, University Park / London 1979; Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), p. 27–29. 48 Dragan Vojvodić,“Serbian Art from the Beginning of the 14th Century till the Fall of the Nemanjić State”, in Sacral Arts of the Serbian Lands in the Middle Ages, Dragan Vojvodić, Danica Popović eds, Belgrade 2016, pp. 271–281. 49 About translation as a rewriting of an original text, Lawrence Venuti, The Translator’s Invisibility: A History of Translation, London / New York 2004, pp. vii–viii. About the concept of rewriting in the Byzantine world, Remanier, métaphraser: fonctions et techniques de la réécriture dans le monde byzantin, Smilja Marjanović, Bernard Flusin eds, Belgrade 2011.

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9 / Dedicatory inscriptions, central apse, Bogorodica Ljeviška, Prizren 1306–1309

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1306–130750. Finally, the new bishop of Prizren – Sava (1307–1309) – added another line with his name above the royal inscription thus alluding to his own role in the renovation51. The mention of the “renewal”, as Slobodan Ćurčić argued, indicated that another church stood on the site before the construction of King Milutin’s building52. It also implied a spatial and symbolic connection between them. A trope “renewed from the foundations” as the inscription stated, echoed the Byzantine rhetoric and drew a parallel with the emperors who often made churches “anew” or “rebuilt from their foundations”53. But Bogorodica Ljeviška was not built from scratch rather it was substantially altered. One wonders whether the choice of this trope was only a matter of rhetoric. Its use may have also reflected the experience of the patrons who were fully aware that this renovation had brought a different form to the old edifice. As the impressive silhouette of the church, with five domes and a tall belfry, marked the cityscape of Prizren in a conspicuously new way, the inscriptions helped the viewer understand the continuity and the change. They highlighted the role of the devout royal patron, the contribution of the bishops who probably oversaw the works and confirmed the prestige this type of patronage offered to them. Clearly the dedicatory inscriptions were instrumental components of the renovation and rewriting of the building’s history. Besides their historical and epigraphic value, one should not overlook that these inscribed texts were also active components of the artistic translation initiated with the architectural changes to the building. Specially cut in tiles like the ornaments, prominently placed and carefully arranged on the eastern façade, legible and visually attractive, they fused with the decorative and beautifying aspect of the church exterior. Such ornate monumental inscriptions, a feature that Bogorodica Ljeviška shared with the cathedral of Ohrid (1313–1314), contributed to its modern outlook, suitable for a church of this ranking54. Builders also inscribed the edifice, not in words, but in the use of specific construction techniques, including a range and forms of decorative details. Their signature-like artisanal imprints on the

building’s fabric provide clues about the identity of working groups involved in the process55. As valuable as the historical evidence supplied by the inscriptions, these revealed that the renovation of Bogorodica Ljeviška was most probably entrusted to builders from Epiros. The “Epirote paradigm” can be read in many brick elements that embellish its facades, namely in the exterior brick inscriptions and various ceramoplastic ornaments which resemble monuments such as the Virgin Paregoritissa in Arta56. The prominent use of such features to decorate the walls of Ljeviška highlights Prizren’s role as a junction connecting the interior of the Balkans with territories stretching up to the Ionian and Adriatic littorals. These road and trade links can certainly explain why builders and artisans from those territories came to the city following the political weakening of the Despotate of Epiros57. Thanks to Epirote masters, Bogorodica Ljeviška expresses one of the key features of Late Byzantine architecture that connects the cathedral of Prizren with contemporary monuments from the Western Balkans and even Thessaloniki: the tendency for attractive and optically engaging facades, abundantly ornamented with brickwork58. The last piece in this network of craftsmanship is a long Slavonic inscription done in the fresco technique but this time inside the church and right next to the entrance, on the west wall of the exonarthex. The inscription gave the names of a protomaistor Nikola and a protomaistor Astrapa who were most probably responsible for the building and the painting of the church respectively59. The 50 “I, Stefan Uroš King in Christ God faithful king of Serbia

and Pomorje [the Adriatic Littoral], great grandson of Saint Simeon Nemanja and son-in-law of the Greek Emperor, Lord Andronikos Palaiologos, have renewed from the very foundations and I, the humble Bishop of Prizren Damjan, endeavored in the year 1306–07”. Cited as in Ćurčić,“Renewed from the Very Foundations” (n. 6), p. 23. About the inscriptions, Nenadović, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 24–30, 31–36 (about numerous inscriptions from later periods). The patronage of King Milutin is further confirmed by Danilo ii in his Life of King Milutin. Danilo ii, Životi kraljeva i arhiepiskopa srpskih, Lazar Mirković trans., Belgrade 1935, p. 104. 51 “Sava, through the mercy of God and the wish of the Holy Mother of God, the consecrated Bishop of Prizren”. Cited as in Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), pp. 11–13. 52 Ćurčić, “Renewed from the Very Foundations” (n. 6), p. 23; idem, Architecture in the Balkans (n. 9), p. 645. 53 Ousterhout, Master Builders of Byzantium (n. 5), p. 6; Andreas Rhoby,“The Structure of Inscriptional Dedicatory Epigrams in Byzantium”, in La poesia tardoantica e medievale. iv Convegno

internazionale di studi, Perugia, 15–17 novembre 2007, Clara Burini De Lorenzi, Myriam De Gaetano eds, Alessandria 2010, pp. 309–332, sp. p. 318. 54 Ćurčić, “Religious Settings” (n. 4), p. 70. About the display of Byzantine inscriptions and their perception, see Andreas Rhoby, “Text as Art? Byzantine Inscriptions and their Display”, in Writing Matters: Presenting and Perceiving Monumental Inscriptions in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, Irene Berti, Katharina Bolle, Fanny Opdenhoff, Fabian Stroth eds, Berlin/ Boston 2017, pp. 265–283. The embellishing of a building with brick inscriptions on the exterior but fresco inscription in the interior calls to mind comparisons with the contemporaneous parekklesion of the Virgin Pammakaristos monastery in Constantinople. Ivan Drpić, “The South Parekklesion of the Church of the Theotokos Pammakaristos (Fethiye Camii): Inscriptions”, in Materials for the Study of Late Antique and Medieval Greek and Latin Inscriptions in Istanbul. A Revised and Expanded Booklet, Ida Toth, Andreas Rhoby eds, Oxford /Vienna 2020, pp. 231–238. 55 Milutin’s church shows differences in the construction technique. For Ćurčić these represent the work of two different workshops rather than two different building phases. Ćurčić, “Renewed from the Very Foundations” (n. 6), pp. 26, 28–29. 56 Nenadović, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 82–90; Panić/Babić, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 36–39; Todić, Staro Nagoričane (n. 45), pp. 64–66; Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), pp. 29–30. For the Epirote architectural style, George Velenis, “Thirteenth Century Architecture in the Despotate of Epirus: the Origins of the School”, in Studenica i vizantijska umetnost oko 1200 godine, Vojislav Djurić ed., Belgrade 1988, pp. 279–284. About brick ornaments in the architecture of the age of Milutin, Jasmina Ćirić, “Brick by Brick: Texturality in the Architecture During the Age of Milutin”, in Cyrilus and Methodius: Byzantium and the World of Slavs, Thessaloniki 2015, pp. 206–214. 57 Slobodan Ćurčić, “The Role of Late Byzantine Thessaloniki in Church Architecture in the Balkans”, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, lvii (2003), pp. 83–84; Leonela Fundić, “Art and Political Ideology in the State of Epiros during the Reign of Theodore Doukas (r. 1215–1230)”, Byzantina Symmeikta, xxiii (2013), pp. 217–250. 58 George Velenis, “Building Techniques and External Decoration during the 14th century in Macedonia”, in L’Art de Thessalonique et des pays balkaniques et les courants spirituels au xive siècle, Dinko Davidov ed., Belgrade 1987, pp. 95–105; Ćurčić, Architecture in the Balkans (n. 9), pp. 545–576, 585–625, 636–682; Jasmina Ćirić,“The Art of Exterior Wall ‘Decoration’ in Late Byzantine Architecture”, in Actual Problems of Theory and History of Art: Collection of Articles, Proceedings of the First Annual Conference of young specialists in history and theory of art, Svetlana V. Maltseva et al. eds, St Petersburg 2011, pp. 69–78. 59 This inscription, discovered during the cleaning of the frescoes in 1950s, also mentions the privileges granted to the artisans and most probably represents a copy of a now lost legal document. Draga Panić, “O natpisu s imenima protomajstora u eksonarteksu Bogorodice Ljeviške”, Zograf, i (1956), pp. 21–23; Panić/Babić, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 22–27. Nenadović identified Nikola as the builder not only of Ljeviška, but also of Staro Nagoričino. Nenadović, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 178–80. Ćurčić, on the other hand, ascribed the design and initiation of the rebuilding to the “first mason” whose name remains unknown. He identified protomaistor Nikola with the “second builder” and the person responsible for the completion of the church by 1310. Ćurčić, “Renewed from the Very Foundations” (n. 6), p. 35; Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), pp. 13–14.

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recording of these two masters makes Bogorodi- because this image assured the connection with ca Ljeviška the only Serbian medieval church re- the original church dedication [Fig. 4]. In that light, vealing the names of its builder and painter. This the approach to paintings went hand in hand with feature may hint at their close collaboration, but the architectural reuse of the older building showit certainly underlined the significance of the ca- ing that the extended meaning of spoliation may thedral’s renovation and redecoration and its role also be valid for the discussion of the murals. in the life of the city. The inscription documented Indeed, key conceptual threads of the fresco the presence of two artisans, coming very likely decoration reflected the same artistic ideas as from important artistic centers and workshops the architectural renovation of the church. Finewhose activity in Prizren materializes the very ly tuned dialogic relations between antiquated mechanisms of cultural translation whose effects models and contemporary iconographic features were visible on and in the building60. If the inscrip- – past and present artistic traditions – but also betions publicized the role of prestigious Serbian tween Byzantine and local, i.e. Serbian elements, patrons and two key artists, then the artisanal mark the painted program of the church. Themes evidence woven into the building’s fabric show- expressing how the old prepared the way for the cased the contribution of highly skilled Byzantine new run throughout the whole painted program, masters: effective means to magnify the renovation but this article focuses only on two main groups of of Prizren’s cathedral, whose meanings would be images with these symbolic meanings. These were expressed in the painted program. placed on conspicuous spots in the exonarthex and narthex, in close proximity to the entrances The painted program: the symbolism leading into the church, a clear indicator that they of lineages and connected histories were meant to be visible. The painted program of the exonarthex exThe renovation significantly impacted the painted pressed the multilayered relation between the decoration of Bogorodica Ljeviška. The interior Old and the New Testaments and emphasized space was reshaped, and new wall surfaces re- their connections through the Virgin Mary to quired a carefully conceived pictorial program, whom the church was dedicated. This notion of completed from 1310 to 131361. This task was given lineage permeates two key Marian Old Testament to a workshop led by painters from Thessaloniki, compositions in the exonarthex. One features an Michael Astrapas and Eutychios, who would con- illustration of the poem The prophets foretold of You tinue working on other major foundations of King depicting the Old Testament prophets whose viMilutin62. As active components of the translation, sions Christian authors interpreted as the prefigthe paintings of Ljeviška concluded the message of urations of the Virgin Mary65. The other shows the whole intervention into the preexisting build- the Tree of Jesse representing the genealogical ing in their iconography and pictorial forms. The line of Christ’s bodily ancestors, starting from painters devised an ensemble in line with the Jesse but crowned with the Virgin Mary as its contemporary classicizing Palaeologan idiom and flower and Christ as its fruit66. Besides the Old iconography63. Yet there is a divergence from this Testament figures, Christ’s lineage in Ljeviška also idiom in the naos where the life-size depictions incorporated ancient authors, Plato and Plutarch, of standing figures followed thirteenth-century and a sibyl who had foretold the Christian truth67. monumental painting trends64. One wonders if Finally, two distinctive representations of winged this retrospective, i.e. conservative, turn was a way girls in elegant sleeveless dresses, with torches in for the artists to acknowledge the physical and their hands, greeted the beholder as the very first symbolic presence of the older basilica and its ear- images encountered when stepping inside the renlier paintings whose remains they preserved and ovated cathedral. They were placed opposite each integrated into the new ensemble. The choice to other, to the left and right of the arched entrance to keep, for instance, the fresco of the Virgin Eleusa the exonarthex. The one on the left lifted her torch and Christ “the Nourisher of our Life” is revealing high, glowing in a reddish flame with the face of

Christ Emmanuel [Fig. 10], while the one on the right lowered down her torch [Fig. 11]. The inscriptions “the Truth” and “the Shadow” reveal their identity as the personifications of the New and Old Testaments, whose imagery was built on the Christian idea that the Old Testament represented the announcement – “the shadow” – of teachings that the New Testament brought as the “truth”68. 60 About the circulation of people as key mechanism of cultural

translation see Dalmatia and the Mediterranean (n. 43), pp. 1–3.

61 Panić/Babić, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 47–93; Branislav

Todić, Serbian Medieval Painting: The Age of King Milutin, Belgrade 1999, pp. 311–317; Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), p. 43 sqq. 62 Todić, Serbian Medieval Painting (n. 61), pp. 230–233; idem, “Signatures des peintres Michel Astrapas et Eutychios. Fonction et Signification”, in Αφιέρωμα στη μνήμη του Σωτήρη Κίσσα, Thessaloniki 2001, pp. 643–662; Miodrag Marković, “The Painter Eutychios – Father of Michael Astrapas and Protomaster of the Frescoes in the Church of the Virgin Peribleptos in Ohrid”, Zbornik za likovne umetnosti, xxxviii (2010), pp. 9–33. 63 Panić/Babić, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 82–93. 64 Branislav Todić,“Protaton et la peinture serbe des premières décennies du xive siècle”, in L’Art de Thessalonique et des pays balkaniques et les courants spirituels au xive siècle, Dinko Davidov ed., Belgrade 1987, pp. 21–31; idem, Serbian Medieval Painting (n. 61), p. 23; Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), pp. 54, 74. 65 Panić/Babić, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 76–78; Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), pp. 68–70. It is the first representation of this theme in Serbia, which was developed in many contemporary churches like the Chora Church of Constantinople. Robert Ousterhout, “The Temporal Structuring in the Chora Parekklesion”, Gesta, xxxiv/1 (1995), pp. 69–71. 66 Panić/Babić, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 73–76; Vesna Milanović, “The Tree of Jesse in the Byzantine Mural Painting of the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries: A Contribution on the Research of the Theme”,Zograf, xx (1989), pp. 48–60; Todić, Serbian Medieval Painting (n. 61), p. 100; Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), p. 70. 67 Balša Djurić, “Plato, Plutarch and the Sibyl in the Fresco Decoration of the Episcopal Church of the Virgin Ljeviška in Prizren”, in Byzantine Narrative: Papers in Honor of Roger Scott, John Burke, Ursula Betka, Penelope Buckley eds, Sydney 2006, pp. 274–283; Ivana Jevtić, “Héritage artistique paléologue et l’art orthodoxe pendant l’époque ottomane : les portraits des sages grecques”, Cahiers balkaniques, il (2021), forthcoming. 68 Ivan Djordjević, “Stari i Novi Zavet na ulazu u Bogorodicu Ljevišku”, zlu, ix (1973), pp. 15–25. The Serbian archbishop Danilo ii developed in his writings poetic images around the theme of succession of the two Testaments. Idem, “Prozne i pesničke slike Danila ii i srpske freske prve polovine xiv veka”, in Arhiepiskop Danilo ii i njegovo doba, Vojislav Djurić ed., Belgrade 1991, pp. 483, 489; Panić/Babić, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 67–68, 73–74; Todić, Serbian Medieval Painting (n. 61), p. 159; Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), pp. 66–68. About biblical imagery and typology in Byzantium see Reinhart Cuelemans, Barbara Crostini, “Why the Bible in Byzantium Matters?”, in Receptions of the Bible in Byzantium: Texts, Manuscripts and their Readers, iidem eds, Uppsala 2021, pp. 1–37.

10 / Fresco of the Personification of the New Testament, exonarthex, Bogorodica Ljeviška, Prizren, 1310–1313

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11 / Fresco of the Personification of the Old Testament, exonarthex, Bogorodica Ljeviška, Prizren, 1310–1313 12 / Fresco portraits of king Milutin and Uroš, narthex, Bogorodica Ljeviška, Prizren, 1310–1313 13 / Fresco portraits of the Nemanjić family members, narthex, Bogorodica, Prizren, Ljeviška, 1310–1313

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Thus, these two personifications in dialogue with other Old Testament themes in the exonarthex conveyed the message of the New (Testament) as the renovation of the Old and emphasized their connected histories and the inclusive character of the New, notions resonating with the central artistic idea of the church renovation. Symbolic links between the old and the new were further developed in the painted program of the narthex hosting historical portraits of selected members of the Nemanjić dynasty. On the east wall, frontal figures over two-meters tall of King Milutin and most probably his father, King Uroš, flanked the entrance to the naos, both blessed by Christ depicted above the door [Fig. 12]69. Though a patron, King Milutin was not depicted carrying the model of the renovated church, a feature hinting at another purpose of this image. Painted on the red background, the portrait showed the ruler in the most representative stance, dressed in the Byzantine imperial costume – a dark sakkos decorated with a maniakis, peribrachia and cuffs – and magnified with a crown, scepter and loros. Together with the inscription placed next to it70, this impressive portrait exalted attributes of Milutin’s sovereign power and his proximity to the Byzantine emperor, rather than recording his act of renovation71. The dynastic predecessors of the king, i.e. the old generation, were facing Milutin on the west wall of the narthex [Fig. 13]. The founder of the dynasty, Saint Simeon Nemanja in monastic garments, was depicted above the door and flanked by the representations of his sons: on the one side, his youngest son Sava – the first Serbian archbishop – and on the other, his middle son Stefan the First-Crowned – the first Serbian king. The portrait of Milutin’s son Stefan, later known as Dečanski, considered at the time his heir to the throne, was depicted standing next to Stefan the First-Crowned72. In this ensemble, the holy founder of the dynasty acted as the mediator and spreading his arms widely, like the Virgin Mary Orans, addressed his prayers to Christ on the opposite wall73. Placed right above the door leading 69 The portrait of King Uroš has been seriously damaged but

the preserved inscription confirms his identity: “Great king of

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all Serbian and coastal lands, the grandson of Saint Simenon Nemanja and son of the First-Crowned King Stefan”.Cited as in Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), p. 58. The inscription reads as follows: “In Christ the God faithful, despot and of holy birth, and pious Stepan Uroš, king of all Serbian and coastal lands, great-grandson of Saint Simeon Nemanja, grandson of the First-Crowned King Stepan, son-in-law of the great Greek Emperor Palaiologos Kyr Andronikos and the endower of this holy place”. Cited as in Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), p. 59. Studies of Serbian royal portraits emphasize how the ceremonial appearance of King Milutin, dressed like the Byzantine emperor, exalted his family ties with Andronikos ii and the imperial court. It has also been suggested that these connections were not underlined only for the king’s personal prestige, but as a means of resolving far more serious questions of foreign and internal politics: namely the issue of the legitimacy and succession of his son to Serbian throne. Panić/Babić, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 58–59; Todić, Serbian Medieval Painting (n. 61), p. 48; Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), pp. 58–59. White curtains decorated with purple two-headed eagles, painted in the lower register of the narthex, emphasized the links with the Byzantine imperial court. Panić/Babić, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 60–61; Todić, Serbian Medieval Painting (n. 61), p. 48; Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), p. 60. This is confirmed by the inscription: “Saint Simeon Nemanja brings to the Lord all Serbian endowing lands”. Cited as in Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), p. 60.

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to the narthex, Saint Simeon Nemanja, like the Virgin Mary, acted as the portal: Christ’s blessings were bestowed on his descendants through his sanctity and intercession74. Although these historical portraits only occupy two walls, their monumental size makes them the focal points in the decoration of the narrow narthex and singles them out as the most remarkable element of the entire church program for several reasons. It is the first time that the members of the Nemanjić dynasty were represented in such an imposing way, with this multilayered iconographic language adding new nuances to the Serbian ideology via careful translation of Byzantine artistic models: it was an iconographic premiere that found its appropriate setting in the renovated Prizren cathedral75. Instead of depicting the line of the Nemanjićs in the horizontal row as in earlier Serbian churches, the painters grouped the selected portraits in a more idiosyncratic way: the images were placed emblematically on the west and east walls, thus facing each other76. This arrangement establishes a visual and symbolic dialogue across the narthex space between the founder of the dynasty with his sons on the west side with king Milutin and his father on the east. Although a century separates them, the members of the Nemanjić family were all, except for Saint Simeon Nemanja, shown in costumes from the time of King Milutin: an effective iconographic feature abolishing temporal distance between them. A pictorial counterpart to the brick inscription on the east façade, these portraits greeted the viewer before entering the transformed church naos. They elaborated the ideas of the dynastic lineage, emphasized the continuity and continuation in the Nemanjić rulership and care for Serbian lands in the imagery that linked in an innovative way the old and the new generations of Nemanjić kings. No wonder that these historical portraits were the stepping stone in the process that would lead to the most complex representation of dynastic genealogy in Milutin’s later foundations – the Nemanjić family tree77. The frescoes of the exonarthex highlighted the connected histories of the Old and New Testaments, while the ensemble in the narthex

celebrated past and present Nemanjićs rulers with a pictorial language that translated the most representational Byzantine portrait schemes of the time78. In both spatial units, the paintings foreground the entangled relation between old/ past and new/present, but they also connect them through the symbolic links whose ideological elements reflect the political and cultural context of Serbia under king Milutin. As pictorial comments echoing literary texts of the time, these paintings supported the rewriting of the building’s history and conveyed its main messages79. This article argues that the renovation of Bogorodica Ljeviška was a locus for these particular aesthetic choices whose iconography, like the building itself, underlined the foundational value of the old and explained its connections with the present. The contemporary renovation and redecoration of the Chora Church in Constantinople expressed similar artistic ideas of relations and lineages showing that the discourse with the past and its translations into modern artistic idioms, constituted one crucial aspect of Late Byzantine art and architecture80. The old and the new – reuse and remodeling: concluding remarks Artistic creation is an interconnected history of reuse and remodeling. Reuse, highlighted in the concept of spolia, reveals how attitudes towards the past were reflected in material, visual and textual cultures as well as points of convergence between them. The recent popularity of spolia in studies of art, architecture and material culture calls for a more critical engagement with this concept, forms and ranges of reuse that we can interpret as spoliation. Along these lines, this paper has touched upon a less visible and more allusive direction of spoliation and it approached reuse as an open-ended artistic process rather than a onetime phenomenon. By doing so, my intention was to stretch the notion of spolia from reused fragmentary pieces to the reuse of a building in toto, as well as to explore spoliation as a strategy of preservation. Reuse doesn’t happen in isolation; it is followed by remodeling and an array of similar

artistic practices that turn something into a new language which pertains to the notion of translation. The early fourteenth-century renovation of Bogorodica Ljeviška provides an excellent example to explore how a versatile interweaving of reuse and remodeling effects a building. This approach helps to interpret its architecture and painted decoration in a more holistic manner and to read the artistic logic behind the renovation of the church: to preserve the old but to innovate within it. The agency of King Milutin transformed the building from a three-aisles basilica into a fivedomed church, embellished with architectural decoration and wall paintings in line with the latest Palaeologan artistic trends. Thus, renewed Bogorodica Ljeviška preserved significant architectural layers and the memory of the preexisting building whose past merged with the present history and modern appearance of the cathedral81. In this artistic rewriting of the building’s history, the old and new were brought together although their synthesis produced the building of a composite character82. This was very visible in its complex, partly basilical and partly centralized, church interior. It was subtle in the way the preexisting compositions were integrated, or their style was reflected in the Palaeologan painting program. Most importantly, the repainting of Ljeviška visualized and concluded the dialogue between the old/past traditions and the new/present concerns with a message of their connections and lineages. Churches in the Byzantine world were often the product of several subsequent building and decoration phases ranging from micro-interventions to grand scale renovations83. The story of Bogorodica Ljeviška is comparable, for instance, to the early fifteenth-century rebuilding of the Metropolis of Mystra, the church of Saint Demetrius84. In both churches new architectural composition was introduced in combination with the reuse of earlier structures on the site, and it impacted the architecture as much as the painted decoration of each monument. The reasons and meanings of this change in the building model deserve more careful consideration, and Late Byzantine renovations can have important implications for the interpretation of architecture and art, as long as they are not approached only as mechanical

interventions or signs of economic insufficiencies and decline85. Spolia and translation can shed light on their philosophy and explain how renovations could have been perceived by the patrons and audiences. These concepts contextualize the creative role that reuse, and remodeling played in the development of architectural and artistic ideas and advance our understanding of artistic practices 74 Panić/Babić, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 61–64; Todić, Serbian

75

76

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78 79

80

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82 83 84

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Medieval Painting (n. 61), p. 49; Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), pp. 60–62. Comparisons can be made with the images in the exonarthex of the Chora Church in Constantinople. For instance, the Virgin, sometimes called the Blachernitissa, that is shown with widely stretched arms on the west wall while addressing her prayers to Christ on the east wall. Robert Ousterhout, The Art of the Kariye Camii, London 2002, pp. 104–106. Todić, Serbian Medieval Painting (n. 61), p. 49; Davidov Temerinski, Church of the Holy Virgin (n. 6), p. 64. About the portraits of king Milutin see the seminal study of Svetozar Radojčić, Portreti srpskih vladara u srednjem veku, Belgrade 1996, pp. 29–45. Dragan Vojvodić, “Slika svetovne i duhovne vlasti u srpskoj srednjevekovnoj umetnosti”, Zbornik za likovne umetnosti, xxxviii (2010), pp. 35–78. Slobodan Ćurčić, “The Nemanjić Family Tree in the Light of the Ancestral Cult in the Church of Joachim and Anna at Studenica”, Zbornik radova Vizantološkog instituta, iv/v (1973), pp. 191–195; Dragan Vojvodić, “From the Horizontal to the Vertical Genealogical Image of the Nemanjić Dynasty”, Zbornik radova Vizantološkog instituta, xliv (2007), pp. 295–313. Cecily J. Hilsdale, Byzantine Art and Diplomacy in an Age of Decline, Cambridge 2014, pp. 199–267. In the Life of King Milutin, Danilo ii underlined the royal descend of the king via carefully chosen poetic images such as the “the branch of good fruit” that stemmed from “the blessed root”. Danilo ii, Životi kraljeva (n. 50), p. 107; Ninoslava Radošević, “Danilo ii i vizantijska dvorska retorika”, in Arhiepiskop Danilo ii I njegovo doba, Vojislav Djurić ed., Belgrade 1991, p. 247. Ousterhout, Master Builders of Byzantium (n. 5), p. 94–97, 108; idem, The Art of the Kariye Camii (n. 74), p. 94–99, 124; idem,“Reading Diffucult Buildings: The Lessons of the Kariye Camii,” in The Kariye Camii Reconsidered, Holgar Klein, Robert Ousterhout, Brigitte Pitarakis eds, Istanbul 2011, pp. 97–101. For similar approach, Amy Papalexandrou, “The Architectural Layering of History in the Medieval Morea: Monuments, Memory, and Fragments of the Past”, in Viewing the Morea: Land and People in the Late Medieval Peloponnese, Sharon Gerstel ed., Washington dc 2013, pp. 23–54. About stylistic heterogeneity of Late Byzantine churches, Robert Ousterhout, “Reading Diffucult Buildings” (n. 80), pp. 95–105. Ousterhout, Master Builders of Byzantium (n. 5), p. 86. Ćurčić, Architecture in the Balkans (n. 9), pp. 586, 591; Ousterhout, Eastern Medieval Architecture (n. 4), pp. 639, 642–643; George Marinou, Hagios Dēmētrios, hē Mētropolē tou Mystra, Athens 2002. Ousterhout, Master Builders of Byzantium (n. 5), p. 91, 114: Ćurčić, “Religious Setting” (n. 4), p. 66. About new historiographic perspectives on the Palaeologan art, see Late Byzantium Reconsidered: the Arts of the Palaiologan Era in the Mediterranean, Maria Alessia Rossi, Andrea Mattiello eds, London 2019.

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and evolving significance of artistic idioms that were reused, translated and recreated86. The renovation of older, i.e. Byzantine, buildings held significant cultural and ideological value for the patronage of Nemanjić rulers. Loyal to this tradition, King Milutin commissioned several church renovations that, together with the cathedral of Prizren, reflected the complex relations of his state with Byzantium87. With its multi-domed silhouette and a belfry, Bogorodica Ljeviška changed the cityscape of this no longer Byzantine city. It signaled the intervention of Serbian patrons and mirrored their ambitions and aspirations: above all an acute sense of history and of their place within it. During the several years long renovation of the church, Prizren also became a short-lived artistic hub with the influx of masons and painters from important Byzantine centers, introducing Palaeologan architectural and painting idioms into the Serbian kingdom. Byzantine artistic traditions and models, past and contemporary, were recognizable, but creatively translated to respond to political and ecclesiastical realities at the time of political and cultural rapprochement of Serbia with the Byzantine Empire. As Prizren boasted its renovated cathedral, Serbia was consolidating its position and putting itself on an artistic footing with the Byzantine Empire, reflecting a precarious balance between continuity and appropriation in their complex cultural relations. The Late Byzantine world was connected in many ways, yet Bogorodica Ljeviška shows that this connectivity involved nuanced translations as well as spoliations whose conceptualization opens new directions for the study of this period. 86 Ivana Jevtić, “Palaeologan Culture of Reuse: Repairing, Redec-

orating and Embellishing Constantinople after 1261”, in Constantinople Through the Ages, Diederik Burgersdijk, Willemijn Waal, Fokke Gerritsen eds, Leiden/Boston, forthcoming. 87 Nenadović, Bogorodica Ljeviška (n. 6), pp. 18–19, 109–110.

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summary Znovupoužití a remodelace v pozdně byzantském světě Chrám Bohorodičky Ljevišské v Prizrenu Článek reaguje na v současné době populární studia spolií a potřebu kritičtějšího přístupu k formám a rozsahu recyklace artefaktů, kterou můžeme interpretovat jako spoliaci. Zabývá se Chrámem Bohorodičky Ljevišské v kosovském Prizrenu a především klíčovou rolí, kterou při obnově této stavby pod patronátem srbského krále Milutina (1282–1321) sehrálo opětovné využití materiálů a jejich remodelace. Za účelem lepšího pochopení stavební historie této budovy autorka zkoumá přestavbu původně trojlodní středobyzantské baziliky na pětilodní chrám právě z pohledu spoliace a translace. K renovaci chrámu přistupuje jako ke spoliaci, která neměla za cíl vystavovat fragmenty starší budovy jako trofeje, ale spíše je uchovat jako relikvie. V průběhu přestavby byly do renovované stavby začleněny určité architektonické prvky, které přímo odkazovaly na původní byzantskou baziliku. Pojem spoliace tedy vztahuje nejen k„recyklaci“ dílčích prvků, ale i budovy jako celku. Přestavba starší baziliky

na pětilodní chrám (1306–1309) včetně nápisů a nového programu malířské výzdoby (1310–1313) následně představuje umělecké přepisování dějin stavby. Ve světle stabilizace srbsko-byzantských vztahů za vlády krále Milutina reprezentuje tato komplexní přestavba kulturní a politické postoje, které přispívají k postupné proměně Prizreně z byzantského biskupského sídla na důležité duchovní i sekulární centrum středověkého Srbska. I další podobné případy z pozdně byzantského období nám připomínají, že bližší studium renovací může významnou měrou přispět ke studiu památek a jejich dějin. Umělecké postupy znovupoužití a remodelace poodhalují vztahy mezi „starým“ a „novým“ v určitém momentu dějin stavby a pomáhají nám pochopit kulturněideologické pozadí takových zásahů. Pozdně byzantský svět byl v mnoha ohledech propojen; toto propojení však zahrnovalo procesy translace a spoliace, které upozorňují na vratkou rovnováhu mezi kontinuitou a apropriací.

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Abstract – Translating Spolia. A Recent Discovery of Fragments from the Walls of Seljuk Konya and Their Afterlives – In the thirteenth-century city walls of Seljuk Konya, a prominent example of spolia – two reused sarcophagus panels once set into the northern walls – serves as a case study. By chance, the material evidence surfaced after publication of an article on the textual descriptions of this alto relievo in nineteenth-century European travel accounts, when a late-Ottoman photograph of the left panel came to light. After reviewing the visual and textual sources, this article discusses how pursuing the provenance led to the whereabouts of the remains today. The discovery of the actual sarcophagus fragments enables reassessment of the sources and inquiry into layers of translation and meaning. Although these works are now displayed as Roman artifacts illustrating the myth of Achilles on Scyros and are thereby stripped of their afterlife in the Konya walls, they compare with reused sarcophagi known from Ephesus or Nicaea. In the case of the Seljuk capital, how were the panels understood when embedded in the walls? Their conspicuous placement indicates a particular prominence given to them. While difficult to pin down given the paucity of sources and multicultural context of Anatolia, a number of semiotic readings are suggested for their reuse. Perhaps what contributed to their magnetism and resonance in the thirteenth century and beyond was their capacity for multivalent meanings and appeal to a diverse range of audiences. Keywords – Achilles on Scyros, ‘Ala’ al-Din Kayqubad, alto relievo, city walls, European travelers, Konya, reuse, Seljuk, spolia, translation Suzan Yalman Koç University, Istanbul 156 [email protected]

Translating Spolia A Recent Discovery of Fragments from the Walls of Seljuk Konya and Their Afterlives* Suzan Yalman

Outlining the problem In a recent article, I investigated the curious case of a reused figural relief, composed of two sarcophagus panels, prominently displayed in the thirteenth-century walls of Seljuk Konya. Although this spolia was mentioned by several nineteenth-century European travelers and even illustrated, what drew my attention was the suggestion that the relief had been repaired1. Unfortunately, however, since the walls are no longer standing and the object in question was nowhere to be found, the account could not be verified. As luck would have it, the article appeared in print and I chanced upon a late-Ottoman photograph of one of the panels. In this paper, I would like to share my discovery as well as my thoughts on the various translations the sarcophagus panels encountered during their many lives.

Konya, the ancient city of Iconium, the capital city of the Seljuk Sultanate of Anatolia (ca 1071–1308), *

1

Author’s note: I would like to thank Ingela Nilsson and Ivana Jevtić for giving me this opportunity to share my updated work. In the early stages of research, Inge Uytterhoeven kindly shared her thoughts on the Roman usage of clamps. For permissions and image rights from the Karaman Museum, I express my gratitude to Deputy Director İsmail Atcı and Research Associate Alpago Güzel. Special thanks go to Bihter Esener, who handled correspondence with museums and thereby helped to unlock one of the key mysteries in the discovery. For further support regarding the digital images, I am thankful to Deniz Genceolu at the Institut Français d’Études Anatoliennes (ifea), Gianluca Foschi at the Gertrude Bell Archive, and Scott Redford for directing me to Debbie Horner and Jonathon Vines at the British Library. See Suzan Yalman, “Repairing the Antique: Legibility and Reading Seljuk Spolia in Konya”, in Spolia Reincarnated: Afterlives of Objects, Materials, and Spaces in Anatolia from Antiquity to the Ottoman Era, Ivana Jevtić, Suzan Yalman eds, Istanbul 2018, pp. 211–233.

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1 / Gertrude Bell, photo of the general state of city walls, Konya, May 1905 2 / General view of the northern gate and walls, Konya (after de Laborde [n. 5], vol. 1, pl. 63a) 3 / Details of reliefs from north side of the city walls, Konya (after de Laborde [n. 5], vol. 1, pl. 63b)

was recognized for its remarkable city walls until the nineteenth century. Thirteenth-century textual sources relay that the walls were built by the “great” Sultan ‘Ala’ al-Din Kayqubad (r. 1220–1237) as his first order of business upon ascending to the throne2. Extant epigraphic fragments appear to corroborate such accounts3. Although travelers over the centuries marveled at these walls and noted them particularly for their decorative program, unfortunately, they no longer exist today. From the Crusaders to the Mongols, Qaramanids and Ottomans, the Konya walls were inflicted with many a blow and were continually restored throughout the ages. The last military encounter that impacted the walls was on 21 December 1832 when the Ottoman army confronted the forces of Muhammad Ali of Egypt4. Hereafter, the walls seemed to have experienced a slow but steady decline. In addition to damage from fires (especially the great fire of 1867), the walls became a quarry, with stones carted off to be reused in other buildings such as the Kapı Camii (1867) as well as new modern buildings such as the Ottoman Governor’s Palace in 1885–1886. Finally, when the remaining rubble core was found to be unsightly, the medieval vestiges were removed by the municipality in the name of modernization in the early twentieth century. The rare photograph of the walls taken by the British explorer and diplomat, Gertrude Bell (1868–1926), in May 1905 shows their neglected state before they were ultimately destroyed [Fig. 1]. The main problem for the researcher is how to make sense of the textual and material evidence without the actual walls. Visual evidence

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Given this state of affairs, the engravings depicting the Konya city walls as recorded by the French archaeologist and traveler Léon de Laborde (1807–1869) in his Voyage de l’Asie Mineure (1838) have become almost iconic. In the illustration showing the northern stretch of the walls and city gate, the scene is set with figures in oriental costume juxtaposed with the remains of classical statuary on the walls [Fig. 2]5. The colossal figure of a spoliated heroic nude missing a head and limbs contrasts with the turbaned garments of the locals.

In de Laborde’s engraving, the gaze of the intended European viewer is drawn to this mental image of the East. The disintegrating past towers over the present, under the neglect of the locals. Such depictions of decay, disinterest, and idleness are common Orientalist tropes6. Yet, de Laborde in fact comments on the “indifference” and states that it was “very excusable in their state of poverty”7. For Konya, he underlines “la misère” and indicates just how moved he was by the city’s ruinous state: “This city appears to have been stormed and sacked; its sight leaves the heart with a profound compassion”8. In fact, he was visiting the city soon after its occupation by Egyptian forces. De Laborde seems to have been taken by Konya and particularly its Seljuk past. He states: “[…] the Seljuks treated monuments of arts with a respect and taste for arrangement which can only be compared to the elegant arrangements adopted in the Renaissance by Italy, under the impetus of a Raphael and a Leo x” 9.

He decides to record several cityscapes and illustrates a number of reliefs from the northern walls in detail [Fig. 3]. Perhaps the inclusion of classical free-standing statuary might appear to be imaginary or romanticized and modern viewers might question the visual evidence provided by the traveler. Moreover, for those interested in Seljuk Konya, there might be the disbelief that such nude figures would be rather unorthodox for a medieval Sunni See Ibn Bībī (el-Ḥüseyn b. Muḥammed b. ʿAlī el-Caʿferī erRugedī), El-evāmirü’l-ʿalā’iyye fī’l-umūr’l-ʿalā’iyye, facsimile edition (hereafter facs. ed.), Adnan Sadık Erzi ed., Ankara 1956, fols 252–256; and idem, El Evamirü’l-Ala’iye fi’l-Umuri’lAla’iye (Selçukname), Mürsel Öztürk ed. and trans., 2 vols, Ankara 1996, vol. 1, pp. 271–274. For further reading on the walls, see Scott Redford, “The Seljuqs of Rum and the Antique”, Muqarnas, x (1993), pp. 148–157. 3 See Remzi Duran, Selçuklu Devri Konya Yapı Kitabeleri, Ankara 2001. 4 For the battle, see Salih Kış, “Kavalalı Mehmet Ali Paşa’nın Anadolu Harekâtı ve Konya Muharebesi”, Selçuk University Journal of Faculty of Letters, xxiii (2010), pp. 145–158. 5 Léon de Laborde, Voyage en Orient: Voyage de l’Asie Mineure, Paris 1838, vol. 1, pl. 63 (https://bibliotheque-numerique.inha. fr/idurl/1/16415; retrieved 2020-11-20). 6 See Edward Said, Orientalism, New York 1978; and Linda Nochlin, “The Imaginary Orient”, in The Politics of Vision: Essays on Nineteenth-Century Art and Society, eadem ed., New York 1989, pp. 33–59. 7 De Laborde, Voyage en Orient (n. 5), p. 57. 8 Ibidem, p. 116. 9 Ibidem, pp. 116–117. 2

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Muslim patron of the city walls. As one scholar put it, “Laborde’s views of 1838 are remarkably complete, especially in view of assertions two generations earlier that they were already (only in part?) fallen – so we have to wonder whether he somewhat improved what he saw”10. Since the walls exist no longer, how can we shed light on the Seljuk use of spolia in the Konya city walls? To verify if de Laborde’s vision was real or “improved”, we need to turn to the other types of evidence. This is not a simple story. I will need to review the evidence – both textual and material – before moving onto my discovery and its implications. Textual and material evidence

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In addition to the foundation inscriptions on display at the İnce Minareli Medrese Museum, written sources that mention the Konya city walls are namely thirteenth-century texts, as well as later travelers’ accounts. In his chronicle written half a century after the construction of the walls, Seljuk chronicler Ibn Bibi (active ca 1285) dedicates a chapter to the project, describing the process of Kayqubad’s patronage. Most notably, the author states that the walls were decorated with excerpts from the Quran, sayings of the Prophet Muhammad (hadith) as well as the great Persian epic Shahnama11. Perhaps not surprisingly, the inscriptions mentioned by Ibn Bibi are not found in de Laborde’s images. Similarly, while Ibn Bibi does mention decorative figurative sculpture (suggesting spolia), he does not go into any detail12. Therefore, we could say that de Laborde’s engravings and Ibn Bibi’s text intersect to some degree. However, starting with Ibn Saʿid (d. 1286) who visited the city in 1261, travelers begin to mention that the walls included statuary13. Given the concern with employing images in Islam, some Muslim travelers even mentioned their shock at the incorporation of such effigies14. The juxtaposition of Arabic text with such unorthodox display of free-standing nude statuary, might have been particularly disturbing. Today, in the absence of the Konya walls, in addition to checking the visual and textual sources against each other, it is also imperative to examine

the material evidence provided by the extant fragments in Konya museums. These artifacts in the Museum of Stone and Wood, housed in the historical İnce Minareli Medrese, are like pieces of a large jigsaw puzzle where most of the context is lost15. The stone reliefs with Arabic epigraphy provide fragments of names, titles, and dates of persons involved in the construction activity16. These include, most notably Sultan Kayqubad’s name and titles, as well as some of his high-ranking officials (amirs) at the time. There are also fragmentary inscription panels which corroborate Ibn Bibi’s comment on the incorporation of excerpts from the Quran and hadith17. Unfortunately, to date, no Shahnama text has been found. Besides fragments of inscriptions, figural reliefs are also exhibited, the most famous ones being two heraldic double-headed eagles and a pair of lifesize winged angels18. These reliefs are well known from the engravings of another French traveler and archeologist, Charles Texier (1802–1871), who recorded the angels above one of the city gates19. While the angels are reminiscent of Byzantine or Sasanian winged-victories displayed on public monuments, in these cases, the reliefs were purpose-carved by the Seljuks and not spoliated20. The general content of epigraphic and figural remains in the İnce Minareli Medrese thus follow the outlines of Ibn Bibi’s account. Yet, the question remains: What happened to the spolia on the Konya walls? If most of the cut stones were quarried for other buildings, what happened to the figural examples that were prominently displayed? European travelers and translating spolia Thankfully, there are a number of other European travelers from the nineteenth century who confirm de Laborde’s account. The English geologist William John Hamilton (1805–1867) who visited Koniyeh in 1837, described his experience in the following manner: “[…] we passed along a portion of the walls of the town; they are extremely interesting, and appear likewise to be Saracenic, being faced with large well-cut blocks of stone, and strengthened by square towers, some of them richly ornamented with cornices, arabesques, lions’ heads, and Arabic inscriptions. We entered the

town by a handsome gateway in one of them, which might be called the tower of Hercules, from a large colossal statue, the head of which is gone, fixed against the outer wall. The hero is represented resting on his club, on which is laid the lion’s skin. Above this statue is an alto-relievo, representing several figures in procession, apparently Byzantine, with an emperor or general seated on a throne at one end; above this are several large Arabic inscriptions”21.

Hamilton finds the walls “extremely interesting” and notes the composite nature of the walls to be “Saracenic” in character. He also explicitly mentions the Arabic inscriptions along with the ornamental fragments and lions’ heads (so far, this information overlaps with the material evidence from the Konya museums). Moreover, Hamilton is struck by the “handsome gateway” with the colossal statue of Hercules “resting on his club, on which is laid the lion’s skin”. In addition, behind this striking statue was a work in high relief (alto relievo) showing figures in procession, above which were several large Arabic inscriptions. This particular ensemble described by Hamil­ ton appears to line up with de Laborde’s image of the northern section of the walls. The heroic nude of Hercules with the missing head immediately draws the viewer’s attention. While we cannot specifically see the epigraphy in the engraving, the molding with a pointed arch is often used as a framing device for Seljuk foundation inscriptions. At the lowest part of the frame, we notice a difficult-to-see relief indicated by vertical lines and arches, which is the very schematic image of Hamilton’s alto relievo. De Laborde illustrated this captivating relief in further detail along with a variety of other figures from the walls on another plate in his work [Fig. 3]. Thus, while Hamilton gives a general sense of the scene, interpreted as a “procession” and “apparently Byzantine”, de Laborde’s illustration shows a mixture of nude figures and others draped in togas, pointing to a Roman past. Remarkably, other European travel accounts provide important comparanda for this scene with the stately figure seated at the far left and other attending figures. In my earlier article, I focused on two accounts in order to shed light on the decorative program of the northern city walls. In addition

to the colossal statue of Hercules, these authors marveled at the mentioned alto relievo. For this reason, I was also particularly drawn to this reused relief and more importantly, to the fact that the Seljuks deliberately combined spolia with Arabic epigraphy in a public monument22. In this paper, I would like to return to this aweinspiring work as a case of translating spolia23. As we can see from Hamilton and de Laborde, who illustrated it in detail, every traveler offered his interpretation of the alto relievo. How did they understand or translate the image in their minds? These were not the only instances when this object 10 Michael Greenhalgh, From the Romans to the Railways: The

Fate of Antiquities in Asia Minor, Leiden 2013, p. 376.

11 See Ibn Bībī, El-evāmirü’l-ʿalā’iyye (n. 2), fol. 254; and idem,

Selçukname (n. 2), vol. 1, p. 273. See also Alessio Bombaci, “Die Mauerinschriften von Konya”, in Forschungen zur Kunst Asiens: In Memoriam Kurt Erdmann, 9. September 1901 – 30. September 1964, Oktay Aslanapa, Rudolf Naumann eds, Istanbul 1969, pp. 67–73, sp. p. 69. 12 Ibn Bībī, El-evāmirü’l-ʿalā’iyye (n. 2), fol. 254; and idem, Selçukname (n. 2), vol. 1, p. 273. 13 See ‘Abī al-Ḥasan ‘Alī ibn Mūsá ibn Saʻīd al-Maghribī, Kitāb al-jughrāfīyā, Ismā’īl al-‘Arabī ed., Beirut 1970, p. 186; and Claude Cahen, “Ibn Sa’id sur l’Asie Mineure”, Tarih Araştırmaları Dergisi, vi (1968), pp. 41–50, sp. p. 44, n. 30. 14 Badr al-Dīn Muḥammad ibn Muḥammad Ghazzī (1499–1577) commented on the Konya walls while traveling from Syria to the Ottoman capital of Istanbul. Ekrem Kamil, “Hicrî onuncu-milâdî on altıncı-asırda yurdumuzu dolaşan Arab seyyahlarından Gazzi-Mekki Seyahatnamesi”, Tarih Semineri Dergisi / Travaux du Séminaire d’Histoire, iii (1937), pp. 28–29, sp. p. 28. 15 For the monument, see Yaşar Erdemir, İnce Minareli Medrese, Konya 2009. Some reliefs from the Konya walls are now in the Museum of Turkish and Islamic Art in Istanbul. See the catalog Türk ve İslâm Eserleri Müzesi, Istanbul 2002, pp. 116–117. 16 Duran, Selçuklu Devri (n. 3), pp. 15–21. 17 Ibidem, pp. 68–69. 18 For the double-headed eagles, for instance, see Suna Çağaptay, “On the Wings of the Double-Headed Eagle: Spolia in Re and Appropriation in Medieval Anatolia and Beyond”, in Spolia Reincarnated (n. 1), pp. 309–340, sp. pp. 323–328. 19 For the Bazaar Gate in Konya, see Charles Texier, Description de l’Asie Mineure, faite par ordre du gouvernement français de 1833 à 1837, et publiée par le Ministére de l’instruction publique, 3 vols, Paris 1839–1849, vol. 2, pl. 97. 20 As life-size figural imagery produced by the Seljuks, these works deserve closer consideration; however, since the present volume concerns spolia, they are not the focus of attention here. A comprehensive study of the textual and figural program of the city walls has yet to be published. 21 William J. Hamilton, Researches in Asia Minor, Pontus, and Armenia; Some Account of Their Antiquities and Geology, 2 vols, London 1842, vol. 2, pp. 196–197. I thank Fatma Elif Özsoy for drawing my attention to this account. 22 See Yalman, “Repairing the Antique” (n. 1), pp. 211–233. 23 For the concept of translation, see for instance Finbarr B. Flood, Objects of Translation: Material Culture and Medieval “Hindu-Muslim” Encounter, Princeton/Oxford 2009.

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experienced translation. What happened later to the walls and this relief? Do we have an understanding of an Ottoman translation? How can we shed further light on the different periods? How did the Seljuks perceive the iconography of this ancient sarcophagus? Its reuse in the walls would have required a translation to fit into its new Seljuk civic context. As will become evident as my paper unfolds, all these questions point to numerous translations at play in its many afterlives. The two Europeans that I mentioned before are important to briefly cite once again. The earliest amongst this cluster of travelers was the French entomologist, Guillaume-Antoine Olivier (1756–1814), who published his account in 1807. Above the headless statue of Hercules, he mentions that: “One notices an ancient bas-relief of ten figures of approximately two feet height, with three of the women and three of the men naked; the four [figures] in between dressed. Of the two at the ends, one represents a man sitting, to whom a woman offers a helmet. Each figure, save the last two, is framed and separated by a spiral column”24.

Olivier’s mention of the figures framed and separated by spiral columns points to the local Roman sarcophagus style in Asia Minor known after the celebrated example found at Sidamara. He reports ten figures, a fact that overlaps with de Laborde’s image. Even more important is the fact that they both see a female figure offering a helmet to the man sitting at the far left. Yet, curiously, the number of male and female or naked and dressed figures do not match up. These observations give us a sense of Olivier’s translation. A British diplomat and traveler who visited soon thereafter was John Macdonald Kinneir (1782–1830). He commented on the recycled nature of the Konya walls and also singled out the “beautiful alto relievo” on the “north side of town”, immediately below an inscription25:

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“A considerable part of the front of the gate of Ladik, on the north side of the town, is covered with a Turkish [sic] inscription; immediately below which, and fixed in the wall, is a beautiful alto-relievo, together with a colossal statue of Hercules. The style and execution of the former equaled, and perhaps surpassed, any thing I had witnessed in my travels; it is about nine feet in length, and contains ten figures, each about eighteen inches high. A Roman prince

is represented sitting in a chair, with his toga falling in easy drapery over his body, and in the act of receiving a ball, the symbol of the world, from another person, who is dressed in flowing robes and attended by three Roman soldiers. The remaining figures are standing, and some of them are much mutilated; but the Turks have supplied the deficiency by adding a few legs and arms, the bad taste and rude execution of which form a ludicrous contrast to the exquisite symmetry of the other parts of the piece. The statue of Hercules having lost its head and right arm, the Turks have also been industrious enough to replace part of the deficiency by a new arm, still more absurd than the legs on the relief”26.

Like other Europeans, Kinneir marvels at this reused Roman alto relievo and emphasizes how its “style and execution […] perhaps surpassed” anything he had encountered during his travels. While Kinneir’s description of the relief is vivid and mostly overlaps with de Laborde, there are three points to note regarding his translation. First is his erroneous reference to Turkish instead of Arabic for the inscriptions. Second is his interpretation of the helmet as a “ball” or “symbol of the world”, i.e. an orb. Third, and most important, Kinneir is the only author to remark on later interventions or repairs. Kinneir comments on how the figures were “much mutilated” and seems to be perturbed by the “bad taste” and “rude execution” of the repaired legs and arms of the figures, which presented “a ludicrous contrast to the exquisite symmetry” of the work in high relief. He similarly comments on the repaired arm of the colossal statue of Hercules as “absurd”. Without trying to understand when, why or by whom these modifications were made, he attributes them generically to the “Turks”. Unlike de Laborde, who recognized differences between past and present, as well as between the Seljuks and Turkish peasants, expressing an understanding of their plight, Kinneir’s words reflect a disdain for the local people. Another Frenchman writing about Konya a few decades later was Charles Texier. In his well-known work entitled Asie Mineure, published in 1862, Texier illustrated the Konya gate with the renowned angels mentioned above. Like his predecessor, he seems more knowledgeable about different kinds of Turks. Regarding the walls, he comments:

“That which distinguishes the Seljukids from the Osmanlis is that they did not profess, like the latter, the horror of representing human figures. All the fragments of ancient sculpture which have been discovered by them, have been carefully framed in the walls. In one of the southern towers, one finds a magnificent sarcophagus, which has won the admiration of more than one European traveler. The face is divided into eight compartments which form arcades and represent the episode of Achilles in Scyros”27.

Texier reflects on the different attitudes towards images between the Seljuks and Ottomans and notes that the Seljuks gathered and carefully displayed pieces of ancient sculpture. In his brief account, he informs the reader that the alto relievo was a “magnificent sarcophagus”, thereby indicating that it was a reused piece, i.e. spolia. Moreover, it “had won the admiration” of many European travelers (as we can also see from the number of accounts). Unlike others who describe the work in detail, however, Texier is brief, summarizing in a single sentence that the scenes represent Achilles on Scyros, a popularly depicted ancient Greek heroic myth. Texier was the only one among these travelers to recognize the classical scene, that is, the meaning of the sarcophagus at the time of its production. While this “original” program was important to identify, Texier does also comment on the careful reuse of such works by the Seljuks. Even though he does not address the meaning they might attribute to the reused sarcophagus, he points to their respect of the past. These different European accounts of Konya which include remarks on the northern section of the city walls are critical to compare with each other. Although they examine the same walls and decorative program, what they highlight is different. Of course, we need to remember that some of the mentioned elements were placed high up on the walls and may have been difficult to see from the ground. However, the so-called alto relievo consisting of spoliated panels from a sarcophagus provides an important case of how each author provides his own translation of the image. While some authors seem interested in the classical or Byzantine past, Kinneir comments on the “ludicrous”repairs, and Texier records the specific myth represented (Achilles on Scyros). So, what happened to this “magnificent” work?

Rediscovery and reassessment For years, I have wondered if the alto relievo might still be extant. However, apart from several lions on display in the garden of the Konya Archaeological Museum, there seemed to be no trace of the spolia recorded by de Laborde and others. In the summer of 2019, as I was searching for a suitable photograph for an article, I came across a late nineteenth-century album which said Souvenir de Constantinople on the cover, but contained images from Konya. The photographs included important monuments from the former Seljuk capital, each one identified with cursive captions in French: Le turbé Mevlana, Mosquée Aladin, Indjé-Minareh, Karadayi Medréssé, and so on28. Given my research interests, I was delighted to find such early photographs of Seljuk monuments. Then, as I was leafing through the rest of the album and came to folio 26, I paused in bewilderment. There was no cursive caption, but I immediately recognized the object. There was a profound sense disbelief as I stared at the sepia image, which showed a fine marble relief propped up with some stones on a humble ground covered with hay [Fig. 4]. Carved in high relief, the slab depicted five figures separated by spiral colonnettes and framed on the top by aedicula with acanthus scrolls. At the far left was a male figure wearing a toga seated in a scalloped niche. His face and legs were badly damaged. A graceful lady in flowing robes appeared immediately before him, presenting a Roman helmet. Of the remaining three male figures, the one in the center wore a Roman cuirass. I could not remove my eyes from the image. I realized that some of their legs were broken and then noticed metal clasps where some of the attached limbs were missing. This was an indication of ancient repairs. 24 Guillaume-Antoine Olivier, Voyage dans l’Empire Othoman,

l’Égypte et la Perse, 6 vols, Paris 1807, vol. 6, pp. 391–392.

25 John Macdonald Kinneir, Journey Through Asia Minor, Ar-

menia, and Koordistan, in the Years 1813 and 1814, London 1818, pp. 219–220. 26 Ibidem. 27 Charles Texier, Asie Mineure: description géographique, historique et archéologique des provinces et des villes de la Chersonnèse d’Asie, Paris 1862, p. 662 (https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/ bpt6k307742; retrieved 2020-11-20). 28 Album in the Pierre de Gigord Collection of Photographs of the Ottoman Empire and the Republic of Turkey, Series i., Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles [96.r.14 (a19)].

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4 /  Garabed K. Solakian, photo of a marble relief, album of the Pierre de Gigord Collection of Photographs of the Ottoman Empire and the Republic of Turkey, Series i., fol. 26r, ca 1890 (?) 164

5 / Detail of the alto relievo after de Laborde [Fig. 3]

In that serendipitous moment, I had chanced upon a photograph of the sarcophagus panel that I had been hoping to find for years. Thanks to the presence of metal clamps that provides crucial evidence, the photograph proves that the relief was indeed repaired as Kinneir suggested. At some point in the object’s history, it seems to have suffered damage and there must have been aesthetic concerns about its completion. The metal clamps indicate that pre-modern repairs had been made, however, the subsequently attached limbs appear to have been lost29. Although the act of completion might have been carried out in ancient times, due to the prominent location given to the object on the city walls, I have suggested that the legibility of the iconography would have been important for the Seljuks30. The album image also allows us to better assess the accuracy of de Laborde’s illustrations and to understand the visual translation at work. When we compare the two, naturally, one is a photograph and one is an illustration, therefore we cannot expect the same level of precision, however, overall the iconography is so close that I believe we can identify this particular relief as the one de Laborde depicted from the northern ensemble of the Konya city walls. This means that the object in question is a rare identifiable figural spolium from the Seljuk walls of Konya attributed to Sultan ‘Ala’ al-Din Kayqubad. Thus, going back to the questions at the very beginning of this paper: How much can we trust de Laborde as a historical source? How accurate are his renditions? Are they real or “improved”? Regarding the first question, I would argue that the identifiable nature of the image makes him generally reliable. We know de Laborde meant to record his observations for posterity. We can verify for instance that what was presented by the lady to the seated figure was indeed a helmet (and not an orb as Kinneir suggested). However, the second question concerning accuracy is a different matter. Since his illustrations of the walls are a rare record, the alto relievo provides an important case study as a comparison of the actual versus illustrated. While mostly mimetic, upon closer inspection and comparison, we do seem to encounter some artistic license.

In de Laborde’s illustration of the sarcophagus panel, the impression of the figures, their proportions to each other, their garments and poses are all comparable [Fig. 5]. Moreover, in terms of repair, it is important to underline that the figure on the far right missing the lower half of a leg is depicted as such. However, other problematic limbs in the photograph, as well as the broken lower left-hand corner of the relief, are fully illustrated. In addition, although faces appear to be worn or damaged in the photograph, de Laborde provides faces and facial expressions. One does wonder, did some of the damage occur in the decades that followed his visit, for instance while the relief was removed from the walls or do these indicate an aesthetic sense of completion on behalf of the artist? While overall “real”, some of the details may indeed have been “improved” as suspected31. I would refer to this as “de Laborde’s translation”. One also wonders if de Laborde made live drawings, relied on memory, depended on sketches or combined methods. For instance, while he depicted the spiral columns and Corinthian capitals, he only has a simple arcade above the heads of the figures. Yet, in the photograph we can see elaborate aedicular architecture with acanthus leaves behind the heads. Thus, the actual arches are not above the heads but at shoulder level. The simplicity here of de Laborde’s work gives the sense of a general impression. Did he not have had enough time to complete the details? Some travelers mention how they were concerned about drawing too much attention. These are some questions that remain. Whereabouts and state of the object today Following the eureka moment and comparison with de Laborde, I had to come to terms with reality. Where was the sarcophagus panel now? 29 For ancient repairs of sarcophagi and the use of clamps, see

e.g. J. J. Herrmann Jr., “Late Roman Sarcophagi in Central Italy Made from Scavenged Blocks”, in asmosia ix Proceedings, Anna Gutiérrez Garcia-M. et al. eds, Tarragona 2012, pp. 93–103; and idem et al., “Saw Cuts on Marble Sarcophagi: New York and Ostia”, in asmosia x Proceedings, Patrizio Pensabene, Eleonora Gasparini eds, Rome 2015, pp. 559–563. 30 See Yalman, “Repairing the Antique” (n. 1), pp. 226–231. 31 Greenhalgh, From the Romans to the Railways (n. 10), p. 376.

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Where, when and in which context was the photograph taken? The recording of this work by means of photography and its incorporation into the mentioned album indicates that some kind of importance was given to it despite the loss of context, i.e. that of the walls and along with it any meaning attributed to it previously by the Seljuks. Sitting there, with the hay on the ground, a makeshift curtain set up as a background, the stones used as a prop to stabilize it, the relief stands out in what looks like a storeroom (or a stable?) and becomes the object of the viewer’s gaze, a curiosity to record and look at. I was hopeful that if the relief survived until the late nineteenth century, when it was photographed with other renowned objects and monuments, it was likely that it still existed. I had visited the Konya Archaeological Museum several times and never saw it on display. Then, thankfully, going through the sources again, I came across another photograph in the 1964 edition of İbrahim Hakkı Konyalı’s (1896–1984) famous book on Konya. He had a photograph with the caption Sidamara tipinde bir Lahid parçası (“A sarcophagus fragment of the Sidamara type”), with no inventory number32. I thought it was curious that Konyalı, a scholar so knowledgeable about all things related to Konya, did not mention that the object came from the Konya walls. With its later history gone, the object seems to have been perceived according to its “original” form and function. Yet another kind of translation, this time on behalf of modern scholars. Perhaps even more intriguing, Mehmet Önder (1926–2004), the former Konya museums director (1954–1964), never mentioned the sarcophagus slab in his well-known work published in 1971, where he even includes lengthy quotes in the sections dedicated to the city walls from both Olivier and Texier that describe the object in detail33. It seems astonishing that he did not question if the alto relievo still existed. Evidently, the removal of the relief was a severing from its context, which led to the stripping away of centuries of history. Perhaps together with poor record keeping, the decontextualization led to a gap in information. The work lost its significance and became one of many fragmentary sarcophagi in museum storerooms.

Still, the presence of the photograph in Konya­ lı’s book gave me hope. At this stage, I solicited some help from my PhD student, Bihter Esener, and we sent an inquiry to the Konya Archaeological Museum asking for the inventory number and status of the object. They responded, saying that no such work existed in their collection. My heart sank. Maybe this was why even Önder did not know about it. In disbelief, we asked again about the fate of the relief. They stated that some objects in storage had been sent to other museums in the Konya province in earlier decades. This was a way to handle the overflow in Konya while also promoting smaller regional museums where such objects were put on display. Thanks to Esener’s perseverance, we found out, surely enough, that the relief had been deaccessioned from Konya and sent to such a museum. She emailed me a web link to the Karaman Museum and incredibly, there it was on the website34! Today, the relief is recognized as the complete panel from a Sidamara-type sarcophagus. According to information graciously shared by the Karaman Museum, the object (inv. no. 2179) arrived at the museum in 1979 as part of a donation from the Konya Archeological Museum with approval from the Ministry of Culture [Fig. 6]. Although I have not had a chance to see it in person given the ongoing pandemic, the museum photograph indicates, at first glance, that the relief has been cleaned in recent decades. During the process, the metal clamps were removed, following previous museological practices, where later interventions were thought to distract from the aesthetic and historical appreciation of the object. In other words, the protruding metal pieces were not deemed suitable for museum display. This preference for the perceived original period of production presents itself in a similar way to Kinneir, who had also objected to the aesthetics of repair. Presently, these sections of the object seem to be patched up. Most unfortunately, with the removal of the clamps, valuable information concerning when, how and by whom 32 İbrahim Hakkı Konyalı, Âbideleri ve Kitabeleri ile Konya Tarihi,

Konya 1964, p. 1165.

33 Mehmet Önder, Mevlanâ Şehri Konya, Ankara 1971, p. 66

(Texier) and p. 71 (Olivier).

34 https://www.kulturportali.gov.tr/turkiye/karaman/gezilece-

kyer/karaman-muzesi-1; retrieved 2019-08-06.

6 / Panel from a Sidamara-style sarcophagus, Karaman Museum, inv. no. 2179

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the repairs were carried out has all been lost. Al- he does not refer to the fact that they mention though the object had many lives, beginning with “Konieh” or Konya and even discuss the particular the Roman funerary context as a sarcophagus, its sarcophagus panels in question37! Seljuk-Ottoman era afterlives are gone with the The studies Sevmen points to help to unlock modern translation that subjected the object to some of the mysteries regarding the decades-long rigorous cleaning. gap in the knowledge. Evidently, more information was available at the turn of the twentieth century. Questions of provenance In his 1924 publication, the American art historian Charles Rufus Morey (1877–1955) has a short secWhile in the Karaman Museum, the relief was stu­ tion on “Konieh (Iconium)” where he mentions, d­ied as part of a master thesis on sarcophagi in “[l]ong side of large sarcophagus found in pieces the museum collection. The author of this cata- in the city wall; bluish marble”, and cites relevant log, Kılıçhan Sevmen, carefully addressed each literature38. He even reproduces photographs of the work and fragment, studying their formal vocab- sarcophagus published by the Polish-Austrian art ulary and iconography in order to establish their historian of the Vienna School, Josef Strzygowski placement in the typology of classical sarcophagi35. (1862–1941), and the French archaeologist Gustave Sevmen discusses the scene in the complete panel Mendel (1873–1938)39. Examining the long side of as the story of Achilles on Scyros and suggests, the sarcophagus from the “Konieh museum”, Mobased on stylistic grounds, that the remaining rey refers to the scene as “Thetis arming Achilles” pieces may have constituted the other long side in the caption to Strzygowski’s photograph and of the sarcophagus36. Although he does mention identifies each figure along with their garments Konya as the find spot, there is no mention of the and roles individually40. He goes on to describe the Konya walls. Sevmen cites notable classicists from other “[t]wo fragments of the same sarcophagus” the twentieth century, however, he appears to be as “Dioscuri and female figures”41. The story of the solely interested in taxonomy. For, remarkably, myth of Achilles on Scyros corroborates Texier’s

7 / Sarcophagus fragments from the city walls (after Mendel, “Le Musée de Konia” [n. 38], p. 225, figs 4–5) 8 / Fragment of a Sidamarastyle sarcophagus, Karaman Museum, inv. no. 2179

earlier observations. At the end, Morey provides critical information: “Strzygowski gives the provenance as Eski-Bedestan, while Mendel records the sarcophagus, in his catalogue of the Konieh museum (B. C. H. I. c.) as ‘trouvé en morceaux dans le mur d’enceinte de la ville’”42. Sure enough, thanks to Mendel, we can now say with certainty that the Karaman sarcophagus fragments are the very spolia that constituted the alto relievo so prominently on the Konya city walls [Figs 7–8].

38

39 40

35 See Kılıçhan Sevmen, “Karaman Müzesi Roma Lahitleri”,

ma thesis, (Selçuk University), Konya 2001.

36 There seems to be a confusion with the inventory numbers.

Museum documents say 2179 while in Sevmen’s catalogue, the number given is a-2180. See Sevmen, “Karaman Müzesi” (n. 35), chapter 4.1, cat. pp. 40–43, figs 8–13 (as plates at the end). For the remaining associated fragments with no inventory numbers, see figs 14–20. 37 See Charles R. Morey, Sardis, vol. v: Roman and Christian Sculpture, part i: The Sarcophagus of Claudia Antonia Sabina and the Asiatic Sarcophagi, Princeton 1924. Morey discusses “Konieh (Iconium)” and provides two images: pp. 33–34, figs 36–37. He also mentions “Konieh” for the “Sidamara technique” under “Asiatic Sarcophagi” on p. 55. The other author Sevmen cites is: Hans Wiegartz, Kleinasiatische Säulensarkophage: Untersuchungen zum Sarkophagtypus und zu den figürlichen Darstellungen, Berlin 1965. In this case, Sevmen provides the page number that mentions Konya but directs the reader to a different figure. In fact, Wiegartz discusses our

41

42

sarcophagus in question as “Konya a” and provides further detail in the appendix: pp. 162–163. Dmitrij V. Ainalov, Hellenistic Origins of Byzantine Art (Russian), St Petersburg 1900, p. 163, fig. 31; Josef Strzygowski, Orient oder Rom? Beiträge zur Geschichte der spätantiken und frühchristlichen Kunst, Leipzig 1901, p. 49, fig. 17; and Gustave Mendel, “Le Musée de Konia”, Bulletin de correspondance hellénique, xxvi (1902), pp. 209–246, sp. p. 225, no. 4, figs 4–5, all cited in Morey, The Sarcophagus of Claudia Antonia Sabina (n. 37), p. 33, figs 36–37. Strzygowski, Orient oder Rom? (n. 38), p. 49, fig. 17; and Mendel, “Le Musée de Konia” (n. 38). “(1) Achilles seated right, wearing chlamys clasped on right shoulder; (2) Thetis standing, facing left, wearing chiton and himation and holding Achilles’ helmet in her hands; (8) beardless standing figure in cuirass and paludamentum, holding spear (broken) in right hand; (4) beardless figure in chiton and chlamys clasped on right shoulder, moving right; (5) headless male figure moving right, in chiton and chlamys clasped on right shoulder”. Morey, The Sarcophagus of Claudia Antonia Sabina (n. 37), p. 33, fig. 36. “2. Broken to right and left. Dioscurus, with legs broken away from above the knee, wearing chlamys clasped on right shoulder, holding fragmentary protome of horse by bridle in right hand, and lifting left; female figure standing, dressed in chiton and himation. 3. Broken at upper left and lower right corners. Female figure standing, dressed as preceding; Dioscurus, as above, standing, legs broken below knee, holding with left hand the bridle of a fragmentary protome of a horse”. Morey, The Sarcophagus of Claudia Antonia Sabina (n. 37), pp. 33–34, fig. 37. Today, these panels are in a fragmentary state with no inventory numbers at the Karaman Museum. While some larger ones are on display, others remain in storage. See Sevmen, “Karaman Müzesi” (n. 35), see figs 14–20. Ibidem, p. 34.

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9 / Garabed K. Solakian, Le Palais du gouvernement, Konia, album of the Pierre de Gigord Collection of Photographs of the Ottoman Empire and the Republic of Turkey, Series i., fol. 1, ca 1890 (?)

Strzygowski and Mendel’s comments regarding the Eski-Bedesten and the museum lead us to questions regarding collection practices in Konya. Comments recorded by another American scholar, John Robert Sitlington Sterrett (1851–1914), help to shed light on the fate of the once awe-inspiring relief: “The Governor of the Vilayet of Koniah, Sahib Pasha, who studied in England and speaks English fluently, showed us kind attentions in more ways than one. He is collecting the most important antiquities of the district, as they come to light, for the Museum in Constantinople, and his collection is not without interest. Among other things may be mentioned a frieze in very high relief. Unfortunately we were unable to get photographs of the collection”43.

At the time of Sterrett’s visit to Konya in 1884, the Ottoman governor was Said Pasha (1831–1896), known as “the Englishman” (İngiliz) as he had received a degree in engineering from the University of Edinburgh and hence spoke fluent English. Sterrett is grateful for the hospitality shown by the governor. Most notably, he remarks on how Said Pasha was “collecting the most important antiquities in the district” for the “Museum in Constantinople”. This points to the growing awareness and new policies adopted by the Ottoman government in relation to antiquities44. Moreover, Sterrett states that the collection is “not without interest” and mentions “a frieze in very high relief” in particular. I believe it is highly probable that this may have been the alto relievo. What is not part of Sterrett’s commentary but what we know happened at around the same time in 1885–1886 was the building of a new Governor’s Palace in Konya under the supervision of Said Pasha using the cut stones from the city walls. In a paradoxical fashion, Said Pasha gathered the noteworthy “antiquities” from the walls into “his collection” on the one hand, while on the other, he used the more regular stones from the walls for the new “palace”. Intriguingly, the Pasha kept a journal and recorded his experiences in Konya, including the building of the new Governor’s Palace45. However, in a most troubling fashion, there is no reference to the walls in the journal46. One wonders, could it be that his absolute silence was because of his awareness that such practices might contradict the new regulations?

Said Pasha’s nod to the reuse of cut stones from the Konya walls to construct the Governor’s Palace seems to follow local building methods. When Hamilton visited Konya in 1837, the inner citadel was “fast crumbling to pieces; the stone facings of the walls have been removed, probably to build the Pacha’s konak”, while the outer circuit of city walls was “rapidly decaying”47. Following the disaster of the great fire of 1867, when much of the bazaar area was destroyed, the walls were used as a quarry to rebuild monuments such as the Kapı Camii48. As these examples indicate, the pillaging of the Konya walls seems to have happened throughout the nineteenth century. In the case of Said Pasha, the dismantling was done in the name of modernization. The new Governor’s Palace is thus emblematic of Ottoman (and Said Pasha’s) ambitions at the expense of the medieval past49. Perhaps it is not surprising then, that in the abovementioned nineteenth-century photograph album, in the very first folio, the image after Vue Générale de Konia was not surprisingly, Le Palais du gouvernement, Konia [Fig. 9]. This fact leads me to speculate if the photographs may have been a commission from Said Pasha and sent as a gift to Istanbul50. What happened after this point is not easy to tell. The fate of antiquities in Konya is part of a growing body of scholarship that takes us 43 John R. Sitlington Sterrett, Preliminary Report of an Archaeo-

44 45

46

47 48

49

50

logical Journey Made in Asia Minor During the Summer of 1884, Boston 1885, p. 16. See also Greenhalgh, From the Romans to the Railways (n. 10), p. 377, n. 54. See Hüseyin Muşmal, Osmanlı Devleti’nin Eski Eser Politikası: Konya Vilayet Örneği (1876–1914), Konya 2009. The Konya section of his journal has been edited and published recently. See Vali İngiliz Sait Paşa’nın Konya Günleri, Ali Işık ed., Konya/Istanbul 2018. The editor of Said Pasha’s Konya journal, Ali Işık, does not mince his words. See Ali Işık, “Sonuç”, in Vali İngiliz (n. 45), pp. 167–170. Hamilton, Researches in Asia Minor (n. 21), p. 205. See Hüseyin Muşmal,“1867 Konya Çarşısı Yangını ve Etkileri Üzerine Bir İnceleme Denemesi”, c.ü. Sosyal Bilimler Dergisi, xxxii/1 (2008), pp. 97–116. Greenhalgh rightly points that medieval walls were also torn down in Europe. See Greenhalgh, From the Romans to the Railways (n. 10), p. 374. The album contains the ex-libris of Artin Pasha (1830–1901) of the famous Armenian Dadian family, who was a secretary general of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs from 1876 until 1901.

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beyond the limits of the present paper51. This is intricately interwoven with the development of museums and the history of collections outside of Istanbul where Konya was a pioneering example52. While taking care to preserve notable antiquities, the alto relievo must have been extracted from the northern wall. Once removed from the rest of the thirteenth-century ensemble it was displayed with, the spolia from the Seljuk walls were simply categorized as “antiquity”. Their purpose no longer understood, this classification was an important translation in the afterlives of the objects. As indicated by Solakian’s photo with the hay, the relief was first gathered in a storage space, then it must have been transferred to the so-called “municipal museum” that Clément Huart (1854–1926), the French orientalist saw, before eventually being displayed in the Konya museum as cited by Strzygowski and Mendel at the turn of the century53. Further questions and layers of meaning

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In my previous work, I had highlighted Kinneir’s observation of repair and suggested that the legibility of the iconography on the northern city walls was important enough for the Seljuks to have repaired it54. Thanks to the Ottoman album photo and the actual objects coming to light, the fact that the sarcophagus fragments were repaired has been verified. Yet other questions remain. Most notably, why was such a prominent sculptural work in high relief incorporated into the walls? And how was it understood? First and foremost, it is important to recognize that in the medieval period, stones that were already cut and sized were practical to use as building material and, for this reason, reused architectural elements were commonly seen in the fabric of city walls, from Ayyubid Aleppo to Byzantine Constantinople55. The decoration of city walls with figural spolia was also common practice in Anatolia. Even the use of sarcophagi sections for decorating city walls is known from the contemporary examples in nearby geographies. In Ephesus, the Gate of Persecution originally depicted the myth of Achilles and Hector [Fig. 10]56. Also significant are the sarcophagi panels from the Constantinople Gate in Nicaea, one of which is also of the  Sidamara-type57.

These last examples suggest a Byzantine tradition, which raises a series of questions such as: When were the Konya walls constructed? When was the alto relievo inserted into the walls? Who conducted the repairs? Were these ancient, Byzantine, or Seljuk repairs? Without the walls, it may not be possible to answer these questions with certainty. Yet, as we know from cities such as Sinop, the Seljuks did not build city walls from new foundations, but were practical in their outlook – just like the Byzantines before them – and employed earlier foundations58. That said, even if Kayqubad was re-building the Konya city walls, the composition of the northern walls does not seem haphazard but points to an intentional juxtaposition of Arabic text and figural imagery. The sarcophagus panels were placed in a conspicuous location. This brings us to questions regarding the intended audience and iconography. Who was the audience? The arrangement of the epigraphic and decorative program outside the walls indicated that, except for selections that might be visible on the citadel, city dwellers would not notice them. They were intended to be seen by people approaching the city, i.e. visitors. Kayqubad’s reign coincided with the Latin occupation of Constantinople following the Fourth Crusade (1204). It was a time when the Eastern Roman Empire, i.e. Byzantium, was in exile, one of its offshoots being the Empire of Nicaea (1204–1261). The Latins were not seen as legitimate heirs to the Roman Empire and there was a perceived power vacuum in Constantinople. While in hindsight we now know that eventually the Nicaeans would “save” the city in 1261 and restore the Byzantine Empire, however, in the 1220s, when Konya was being reestablished, this was yet to come. With his imperial ambitions and conquests ranging from the Crimea, to Alanya and to eastern Anatolia, Kayqubad likely considered himself as a contender. Given such a political climate, the fact that the most elaborate composition on the Konya walls faced the direction of Nicaea indicated that Kayqubad’s claim for legitimacy went beyond the eyes of his own subjects. The competitive relationship with the Laskarids in Nicaea – who were also responsible for his father’s death – was likely to be first and foremost. Other international challengers

51 For an excellent collection of essays, see Scramble for the Past: A

Story of Archaeology in the Ottoman Empire, 1753–1914, Zainab Bahrani, Zeynep Çelik, Edhem Eldem eds, Istanbul 2011. Note the following articles in particular: Edhem Eldem, “From Blissful Indifference to Anguished Concern: Ottoman Perceptions of Antiquities, 1799–1869”, ibidem, pp. 281–329; Oya Pancaroğlu, “A Fin-de-Siècle Reconnaissance of Seljuk Anatolia: Friedrich Sarre and His Reise in Kleinasien”, ibidem, pp. 399–415; Wendy Shaw, “From Mausoleum to Museum: Resurrecting Antiquity for Ottoman Modernity”, ibidem, pp. 423–441; and Zeynep Çelik, “Defining Empire’s Patrimony: Late Ottoman Perceptions of Antiquities”, ibidem, pp. 443–477. 52 See Hüseyin Muşmal, “Anadolu’nun İlk Eski Eser (Arkeoloji) Müzesi: Konya Âsâr-i Atîka Müzesi’nin Kuruluşu”, International Periodical for History and Social Research, i (2009), pp. 121–142. 53 Clément Huart, Konia, la ville des derviches tourneurs, souvenirs d’un voyage en Asie Mineure, Paris 1897, p. 186 (https://gallica. bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k1172370n; retrieved 2020-11-20). For later developments following the establishment of the Turkish Republic in 1923, see Hüseyin Karaduman, “Belgelerle Konya Mevlânâ Müzesi’nin Kuruluşu”, Vakıflar Dergisi, xxix (2005), pp. 135–161; Mehmet Yusuf, Konya Âsarı Atika Müzesi Muhtasar Rehberi, Istanbul 1930; and Konya Müzesi Selçuklu Devri Taş ve Ahşap Eserler Seksiyonu Rehberi (İnceminare), Istanbul 1962.

54 Yalman, “Repairing the Antique” (n. 1), pp. 221–225. 55 See, for instance, Helen Saradi, “The Use of Ancient Spolia

in Byzantine Monuments: The Archaeological and Literary Evidence”, International Journal of the Classical Tradition, iii/4 (1997), pp. 395–423; Julia Gonnella, “Columns and Hieroglyphs: Magic Spolia in Medieval Islamic Architecture of Northern Syria”, Muqarnas, xxvii (2010), pp. 103–120. 56 See Livia Bevilacqua, “Recycling Myths in Byzantine Art: Spolia on the Gate of Persecution in Ephesus”, in Revisitar o Mito / Myths Revisited, Abel Nascimento Pena et al. eds, Húmus 2015, pp. 331–341; and more recently, Suna Çağaptay, “Into the Sacred Space: Facing Ayasoluk and Its Gate of Persecutions”, in Architecture and Visual Culture in the Late Antique and Medieval Mediterranean: Studies in Honor of Robert G. Ousterhout, Vasileios Marinis, Amy Papalexandrou, Jordan Pickett eds, Turnhout 2020, pp. 195–208. 57 See Livia Bevilacqua, “Displaying the Past in Byzantium: Figural Spolia on the City Gates of Nicaea (13th c.)”,in Actual Problems of Theory and History of Art: Collection of Articles, Proceedings of the Third Annual Conference of young specialists in history and theory of art (St Petersburg State University, Faculty of History, 31 October – 4 November 2012), Svetlana V. Maltseva, Ekaterina Yu. Stanyukovich-Denisova eds, Saint Petersburg 2013, pp. 145–150, sp. p. 146. 58 See Scott Redford, Legends of Authority: The 1215 Seljuk Inscriptions of Sinop Citadel, Turkey, Istanbul 2014.

10 / Gate of Persecution, Ephesus

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included the Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick ii reference to “Rome” would be obvious in the act Hohenstaufen (r. 1220–1250)59. of borrowing Roman-era sarcophagus panels. AlThe claims to Constantinople and Roman heri- though the figural imagery may seem shocking tage are crucial to understanding the messages on for a Muslim ruler, given the international context, the Konya walls, including the ensemble on the the bold imperial claims are understandable. north side of the city. Although as a Seljuk sultan, How was spolia understood by the audience? Kayqubad is often perceived as an orthodox Sunni In terms of their signification, objects such as the ruler, the fact that he depicted himself in a classi- reused lions would be relatively easier to identify. cizing bust framed by Arabic epigraphy in his lead In a Saussurian semiotic reading, the fact that these seals indicates that his self-fashioning may have sculptures signified a wild beast would be recogbeen more complicated60. The seals present simi- nizable63. For further meaning, we would need to lar issues to the walls in terms of understanding consider the “second-order semiological system” text and image. Arabic inscriptions perhaps of- suggested by Roland Barthes in his Mytho­logies, fered more straight-forward declarations of Perso- in which case the lion comes to signify kingship64. Islamic legitimation61. These would require a liter- With the medieval interest in heraldry, the royal ate viewer who could read Arabic and recognize lion would be more understandable to a broader the ruler’s name and titles. For those not familiar audience than epigraphy65. Yet, what about the with the script or language, an actual translation alto relievo? Since this scene involves ten figures, would be needed. However, even the illiterate or the reading of this “myth” is more complicated. those versed in other linguistic traditions would Focusing on the far left where the seated figure is still likely understand this as an official text. What presented with a helmet by a distinguished lady, about the visual language? For instance, the bust the scene might be perceived as an investiture on the seal or the figural reliefs on the Konya walls. scene. Identifying the figures as Achilles and his How were they understood? Today, for example, mother Thetis would require a viewer familiar emojis are used globally without the need for writ- with ancient Greek narratives. Was this possible ten explanation. How about sculpture or a spoliat- in thirteenth-century Konya? How many people ed relief panel? Unlike epigraphy, images have an would have known the story of the Trojan War and immediacy that makes them more readily grasped recognized the iconography? by a wider audience. However, as we have seen The cultural codes of the beholder are crucial in with European travelers who recorded the alto decoding such signs or myths. For instance, how relievo, the same image was translated in different would someone educated in the Perso-Islamic traways by these authors. dition interpret the image in high relief? Instead of What about spolia? Why were they so popu- the story of Troy, they might know the great Iranilar at the time? How do we make sense of them? an epic of the Shahnama. Would such a person then Returning to the alto relievo, the two reused sar- translate the visual language differently? As the cophagus panels were physically inserted into the Book of Kings, the messages of the Shahnama would walls in an example of material reuse. However, likely be similarly royal. Without the excerpts that they were part of an ensemble with other clas- Ibn Bibi mentions (which imply inscriptions), this sicizing spolia. These usages point to a deliber- may be a stretch, however, it is not implausible. For ate desire to quote ancient (particularly Roman) instance, an unexpected poetic reference from the motifs. Richard Brillant distinguishes between Konya walls may be found in the purpose-carved physical versus conceptual reuse as spolia in se Seljuk relief depicting a rhinoceros chasing an (material) and spolia in re (conceptual reuse)62. This elephant. As Julie Scott Meisami has convincingly conceptual spoliation went hand in hand with argued, the relief with these two unusual animals the novel artistic vocabulary that Kayqubad em- – not native to Anatolia – is not a variation of Seljuk ployed on his lead seal with the classicizing bust. imagination as suggested by Richard EttinghauSince Kayqubad fashioned himself as “Sultan of sen, but is a reference to Ghaznavid and Great Rum”(Rome), the antiquarianism, classicism, and Seljuk poetic sources that described such animal

combats66. If such a poetic sign could appear on the walls, then why not the renowned Shahnama? Part of the problem may be that as modern viewers we no longer recognize what was signified since our own cultural codes are so different. To complicate the matter further, one could add yet another layer, this time an esoteric one. Around this time, the Shahnama was interpreted as a hermeneutic text and the Seljuks of Rum (and curiously not those in Iran) started to adopt ancient Persian Shahnama names such as Kayqubad67. This was likely related to Shihab al-Din al-Suhrawardi (d. 1191), the Neoplatonist Sufi mystic known as al-maqtul (“the killed one”), who was executed for heresy by the orders of the famous Salah al-Din Ayyubi (r. 1174–1193), a.k.a. Saladin. Suhrawardi was recognized to bring together different ancient traditions, particularly Greek philosophy and an interest in Plato, with Zoroastrianism, the preIslamic Persian religion. Through the shared metaphor of light, the seemingly eclectic grouping of Arabic epigraphy, spolia, and purpose-carved Seljuk images were fused together with a mystical Islamic meaning. According to this illuminationist reading, the Shahnama kings became bearers of light. Is it then too far-fetched to consider a beholder who might translate the alto relievo in such a hermeneutic manner? This would infuse the scene with an added layer of divinely ordained kingship. The shift in meaning depending on the cultural codes of the audience is reminiscent of the pilgrimage site at the heart of Konya, at the top of the citadel mound. This was the chapel containing the burial of the Early Christian father St Amphilochius (d. after 394 ce) that became venerated by the Seljuks as the tomb of Plato or Aflatun68. A Russian pilgrim who later visited the shrine mentioned how Christians would pay homage to the Christian saint, while Muslims paid their respects to the ancient philosopher69. Even though the site was shared, the meaning given to the saint by visitors from two different communities was different. Similarly, perhaps the beholders of the sarcophagus panels shared an aesthetic appreciation as well as a general understanding of the past which may have required little translation. Considering the plural nature of society and low

levels of literacy, supplanting official Arabic text with visual material in this way would have been appealing. However, like the different saint venerated by separate communities, the particular perception of the relief likely varied. Whether Achilles, the Shahnama or esoteric signification, viewers attributed their own meaning. As with later European travelers, each beholder had their own translation. As with the alto relievo, certain objects seem to have the capacity for multivalent meanings. 59 For Kayqubad’s contemporary in Nicaea, Theodore Laskaris

(r. 1222–1258), see Dimiter Angelov, The Byzantine Hellene: The Life of Emperor Theodore Laskaris and Byzantium in the Thirteenth Century, Cambridge 2019. For the relations between Nicaea and Frederick ii, see Livia Bevilacqua,“Spolia on City Gates in the Thirteenth Century: Byzantium and Italy”, in Spolia Reincarnated (n. 1), pp. 173–194. For a comparison of Frederick ii and Kayqubad, see Suzan Yalman, “‘Ala al-Din Kayqubad Illuminated: A Rum Seljuq Sultan as Cosmic Ruler”, Muqarnas, xxix (2012), pp. 151–186. 60 Yalman, “‘Ala al-Din Kayqubad” (n. 59), pp. 155–156, figs 3–4. 61 The epigraphy on city walls or public monuments is what Irene Bierman describes as “public text”in relation to Fatimid architecture in Cairo. Irene Bierman, Writing Signs: The Fatimid Public Text, Berkeley / Los Angeles 1998, p. 1. For further discussion of Konya, see Scott Redford, “Words, Books, and Buildings in Seljuk Anatolia”, in Identity and Identity Formation in the Ottoman World: A Volume of Essays in Honor of Norman Itzkowitz, Baki Tezcan, Karl K. Barbir eds, Madison, wi 2007, pp. 7–16. 62 Richard Brilliant, “I piedestalli del giardino di Boboli: spolia in se, spolia in re”, Prospettiva, xxxi (1982), pp. 2–17, sp. p. 12. See also Paolo Liverani,“Reading Spolia in Late Antiquity and Contemporary Fashion”, in Reuse Value: Spolia and Appropriation in Art and Architecture, from Constantine to Sherrie Levine, Richard Brilliant, Dale Kinney eds, Farnham 2011, pp. 33–51, sp. pp. 46–48. 63 Ferdinand de Saussure, Course in General Linguistics, Charles Bally, Albert Sechehaye eds, Roy Harris trans., London 1986 [1916], pp. 65–78, 110–120. 64 Roland Barthes, “Myth Today”, in idem, Mythologies, Annette Lavers trans., New York 1984 [1957], pp. 107–160, sp. p. 113. 65 In addition to many lion sculptures from the Konya walls, not surprisingly, the reverse side of Kayqubad’s lead seal employed the figure of a lion. Yalman, “‘Ala al-Din Kayqubad” (n. 59), pp. 155–156, figs 3–4. 66 See Richard Ettinghausen, Studies in Muslim Iconography, vol.  i: The Unicorn, Washington, d.c. 1950. Anvarī writes, “your elephant and rhinoceros fight without enmity”. Awḥad al-Dīn Anvarī, Dīvān, T. M. Rażavī ed., 2 vols, Tehran 1994, as cited by Julie Scott Meisami,“Palaces and Paradise: Palace Description in Medieval Persian Poetry”, in Islamic Art and Literature, Oleg Grabar, Cynthia Robinson eds, Princeton 2001, pp. 21–53, sp. p. 36. 67 See Suzan Yalman, “From Plato to the Shāhnāma: Reflections on Saintly Veneration in Seljuk Konya”, in Sacred Spaces and Urban Networks, Suzan Yalman, A. Hilâl Uğurlu eds, Istanbul 2019, pp. 119–140. 68 Ibidem. 69 Itinéraires Russes en Orient, Mme B. de Khitrowo [Soiia Petrovna Khitrovo] ed. and trans., Geneva 1889, p. 256.

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That is what makes them appealing since they reach a range of audiences. These messages might be understood by the inhabitants of Konya, greater Anatolia, as well as foreign travelers, whatever their ethnic, linguistic or religious background. This kind of vision perhaps contributed to Kayqubad’s success. The figural spolia on the Konya walls are often thought to be unusual. There was a sense of disbelief on the part of European and Muslim viewers because the use of such imagery was not expected of Seljuks as Muslim Turks. This was also the case with de Laborde’s engravings of the Konya walls. Finding the actual sarcophagus panels, however, verifies Kayqubad’s diverse range of interests and audience. The sense of medieval “wonder”that he created on the walls was still “extremely interesting” and admired six centuries later. Furthermore, even in their absence today, they continue to puzzle modern scholars.

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summary Interpretace spolií Nedávný objev fragmentů výzdoby hradeb seldžuckého města Konya a jejich další život

V nedávno vydaném článku se autorka zabývala pozoruhodným případem znovupoužití figurálního vlysu složeného ze dvou sarkofágových desek, které byly vystaveny na stěnách hradeb seldžuckého města Konya ze třináctého století. Tato spolia jsou zmiňována evropskými cestovateli devatenáctého století jako dílo vytesané ve vysokém reliéfu (alto relievo). Pozornost autorky však přitáhlo především jejich tvrzení, že bylo opraveno Turky. To však nebylo možné ověřit, jelikož popisované předměty byly ztraceny. Poté, co zmíněný článek vyšel, autorka náhodou narazila na pozdně osmanskou fotografii jednoho z panelů. Cílem tohoto textu je proto o objevu informovat, stejně jako ozřejmit četné přesuny a (znovu) použití panelů sarkofágu v jejich dalších životech. V první části článku autorka přibližuje historický kontext. Konya (antické Iconium), hlavní město seldžuckého sultanátu v Anatolii (ca 1071–1308), bylo až do devatenáctého století známo svými pozoruhodnými hradbami. Písemné prameny ze třináctého století uvádějí, že byly postaveny na příkaz „velkého“ sultána ‘Ala’ al-Din Kayqubada (v. 1220–1237) hned po jeho nástupu na trůn. Hradby vzbuzovaly úžas mnoha cestovatelů zejména kvůli jejich dekorativnímu programu. Dnes však již bohužel neexistují a proto hlavním problémem soudobých badatelů zůstává, jak lze vizuální, písemné a materiální prameny interpretovat bez existence samotných hradeb. V další části se autorka zaměřuje na hlavní vizuální důkaz spoliace hradeb, který se nachází v díle Voyage de l’Asie Mineure (1838) francouzského archeologa a cestovatele Léona de Laborde (1807–1869). Na jedné ilustraci můžeme vidět

severní hradby města Konya s městskou bránu a rozsáhlou sochařskou výzdobou v  klasickém stylu. Použití těchto figurálních spolií však vyvolává mnohé dohady, protože bychom jej u seldžuckých Turků, tj. sunnitských muslimů, neočekávali. Autorka se proto snaží ověřit důvěryhodnost Labordeho ilustrací pomocí analýzy písemných i hmotných pramenů, přičemž se zaměřuje na výše zmíněné alto relievo. Ukazuje, jak různí autoři – konkrétně William John Hamilton (1805– 67), Guillaume-Antoine Olivier (1756–1814), John Macdonald Kinneir (1782–1830) a Charles Texier (1802–71) – nabízí své vlastní interpretace spolií ve městě Konya. V závěrečné části se autorka věnuje problematice provenience a dnešního umístění zmíněného alto relievo. Objev fragmentů tohoto sarkofágu totiž umožňuje porovnat dochované části s jejich ilustracemi a popisy, a tedy i přehodnotit cestovatelské záznamy, včetně spisu de Labordeho. Tyto předměty jsou dnes v muzeu vystaveny jako čistě římské artefakty zobrazující mýtus o Achillovi na ostrově Skyros bez jakékoliv zmínky o jejich dalších osudech, kdy byly po několik staletí vystaveny na hradbách města Konya. Je fascinující, že podobné případy znovupoužití sarkofágů na hradbách nebo branách nalézáme i v sousedních oblastech, jmenovitě v Efezu a Nikáji (dnešní İznik v Turecku). Nabízí se tedy otázka, jak byly panely chápány těmi, kdo je zasadili do hradeb seldžuckého hlavního města Konya? Autorka uzavírá článek myšlenkou, že to byla právě mnohoznačnost jejich významu a přitažlivost pro široké spektrum diváků, které vyvolávaly ohlas ještě ve třináctém století.

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Abstract – Translating and Spoliating the Byzantines. The Receptions and Remodelings of a Komnenian Novel in Early Modern France – The purpose of this article is to explore how and why the Byzantine twelfth-century novel Rhodanthe and Dosikles was translated into French in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. The aim is to show that episodes and elements that serve a particular purpose in an original context can be employed in an entirely different way – or not at all – under different circumstances. The questions posed are thus, first, what part the French translation-adaptions of the Byzantine novel played in contemporary society; second, which concrete changes the translators made in the original story, how and if they motivated these and in what ways they affect the end result. In order to theoretically approach these questions, two translation theories are being considered: the polysystem theory by Itamar Even-Zohar and the skopos theory by Hans J. Vermeer. The conclusions of the study are first and foremost that the target text must always be considered and judged in relation to its context: time, place, culture, politics etc. Another conclusion is that the act of translation has developed and changed over time, and most probably will continue to change in the future. Keywords – Byzantine literature, libertine literature, polysystem theory, skopos theory, spolia Emelie Hallenberg Uppsala University [email protected]

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Translating and Spoliating the Byzantines The Receptions and Remodelings of a Komnenian Novel in Early Modern France Emelie Hallenberg

The concept of translation is not as black-andwhite as it may seem. Transferring a text from one language to another does not merely involve translating it word by word; intentional or not, the translation will inevitably be colored by the translator’s own perspective. The reason why s/he decides to translate a text, at a particular time, in a particular place, may also play a part in the reception and afterlife of the text in the target culture. Moreover, translations may serve different purposes: conveying great literature, promoting your own work, or disguising controversial

opinions. In this sense, translation processes are rather similar to the use of spolia in architecture: each element needs to be analyzed in order to understand the whole, and the contextual aspects are crucial for any constructive analysis. My object of investigation could also be seen as a kind of literary spolia, transferred from the first centuries of our era to the Middle Byzantine period. The so-called Komnenian novels, written in Constantinople in the twelfth century, were written in emulation of ancient Greek models; based on the works of Achilles Tatius

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and Heliodorus, they presented the original adventures in a new form, most often in verse1. Thus, offering a kind of Byzantine adaptions, or indeed translations, of an earlier Greek tradition, the Komnenian novels also became part of the later reception of Greek novels in Western Europe from the sixteenth century onwards2. This is how they came to be read, imitated and translated in a very different context in eighteenth-century France. This “renaissance”of Byzantine novels has been discussed in a series of articles by Corinne Jouanno and Ingela Nilsson, showing how the Greek tradition was appreciated and remodeled for new purposes in the French context3. In the present essay, I wish to complement their studies by approaching the French adaptations from the perspective of comparatively modern translation theories of the twentieth century. I believe this approach will help us to better comprehend and analyze the translators’ choices and preferences. Effectively, I propose to demonstrate how different views on translation can bring about very different results: authors-translators include and exclude different elements according to their own approach. What is interesting to us as modern readers is not only the how, but also the why. My analysis will focus on one specific novel: Rhodanthe and Dosikles by Theodore Prodromos (1115–1166), often considered as one of the most important Komnenian novels and perhaps the first to have been written4. This novel was translated into French at several occasions, and I will here look at three such examples: an anonymously published translation, Les amours de Rhodante et Dosiclès, traduites du grec de Theodorus Prodromus (1746)5; an imitation by the French libertine author and playwright Pierre-François Godard de Beauchamps, Imitation d’un roman grec de Théodore Prodromus (1746)6; and a later translation by Auguste Trognon, Amours de Rhodanthe et Dosiclès, par Théodore Prodrome, traduction nouvelle (1823)7. I will concentrate primarily on Beauchamps’ imitation, because of its visible influences from contemporary society and the libertine affiliations of the author-translator. Libertine literature is often associated with erotic literature, but libertine authors of the eighteenth century produced a great variety of texts, even though these often displayed some common

features. According to Robert Darnton, libertinism was “a combination of freethinking and free living, which challenged religious doctrines as well as sexual mores”8. As we shall see, ideas and views typical for both the libertine movement and the Enlightenment era were expressed in Beauchamps’ imitation of Rhodanthe and Dosikles. Translation theory: polysystem and skopos Translation studies is a relatively modern discipline, although translations, of course, have existed for millennia9. Animated discussions and debates about how a translator ought to work emerged during the sixteenth century, a time when what was thought to be “errors” made by translators could lead to their death10. The question of how to translate the Greek classics has always stirred debates, and Anne Dacier’s approach in translating the Iliad (1699) caused quite a controversy, siding firmly with the moderns in the on-going war (Le querelle d’Homère) against the ancients11. At about the time of Dacier’s Iliad, groups of authors calling themselves libertines in England and belles infidèles in France, argued that preserving the poetic and aesthetic qualities of the language should be prioritized – even if that meant encroachments in the actual plot12. These ideas became influential, but not uncontradicted from those who advocated a more faithful approach. Against this historical background, it is clear that some circumstances affected how the French versions of Rhodanthe and Dosikles came about: First, the indisputably high status of Greek literature in Renaissance and early modern Europe, greatly influencing translations into various languages. Second, the Byzantine novel evidently not being as highly regarded and admired as the classics, making less faithful translations less controversial. Third, and perhaps most importantly, the new thoughts on translation serving as a perfect hotbed for attempting new manners of transferring texts into other languages. Two theoretical concepts are of particular relevance for an analysis of this situation. First, the polysystem theory developed by Itamar Even-Zohar. Even-Zohar argues that translations (interferences between languages) should be regarded as entities in themselves and that they will have

different impacts on the target culture/literature, depending on the status of the source culture/literature13. For instance, ancient Greek literature was praised in medieval Constantinople – it was central in the Byzantine polysystem and thus, its style and language were being imitated. However, the opposite may also occur, namely when the source literature reaches a higher status when being translated into the target language. We therefore need to consider the status and place of Byzantine literature in the polysystem of early modern France. Let us begin by taking a look at the latest translation, Trognon 1823, and a couple of striking sentences in the preface. The first describes Prodromos’ writing: “[…] si l’on trouve dans ses compositions les défauts des écrivains de son siècle, on ne peut nier qu’on y rencontre aussi parfois quelques vestiges des beaux temps de la littérature grecque”14. This suggests that Byzantine twelfth-century authors were not highly valued, although they could sometimes match the ancient Greek writers. Trognon continues by comparing the reading of Prodromos’ works to “[…] marcher dans un terrain en friche où parmi les ronces et les bruyères on apercoit éparses ça et là quelques pousses de ces abrisseaux précieux qui jadis en faisoient un jardin délicieux”15. This analogy is quite brutal, but revealing of how Trognon and his contemporaries regarded the Byzantine authors in comparison with the ancient Greeks. Trognon’s opinion corresponds with how the French philosopher and theologian Pierre Daniel Huet describes Rhodanthe and Dosikles in his Traité de l’origine des romans (1670): “Theodorus Prodromus ne luy est gueres préferable: il a pourtant un peu plus d’art, quoi qu’il en ait fort peu; il ne se tire d’affaire que par des machines, & il n’entend rien à faire garder à ses Acteurs la bienseance & l’uniformité de leurs characteres. La longue harangue de Bryaxis à son armée, & les plaintes ennuyeuses de Rhodanthé pour l’absence de son amant, sont des pieces de la plus froides & de la plus indiserte éloquence, dont jamais Déclamateur ait assassiné ses auditeurs”16. 

Here, Huet concedes that Prodromos is slightly preferable to Makrembolites (author of the

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On the Komnenian novel, see for example Roderick Beaton, The Medieval Greek Romance, London 1996 [2nd ed.]; more recently, Ingela Nilsson, “Romantic Love in Rhetorical Guise: The Byzantine Revival of the Twelfth Century”, in Fictional Storytelling in

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the Eastern Mediterranean and Beyond, Carolina Cupane, Bettina Krönung eds, Leiden/Boston 2016, pp. 39–66. The ancient Greek novels Aethiopika by Heliodorus and Daphnis and Chloe by Longus were translated into French by Jacques Amyot in the middle of the sixteenth century, at the period when the Greek novels were “re-launched” to a wider audience; see Gerald Sandy, Stephen Harrison, “Novels Ancient and Modern”, in The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel, Tim Whitmarsh ed., Cambridge 2008, pp. 299–320, sp. p. 301. See Corinne Jouanno, “Fortune d’un roman byzantin à l’époque moderne : étude sur les traductions françaises d’Hysmine et Hysminias de la renaissance au xviiie siècle”, Byzantion, lxxxiv (2014), pp. 203–234; Ingela Nilsson, “In Response to Charming Passions: Erotic Readings of a Byzantine Novel”, in Pangs of Love and Longing: Configurations of Desire in Premodern Literature, Anders Cullhed et al. eds, Cambridge 2013, pp. 176–202; eadem, “Du roman byzantin à la tragédie lyrique : Hysminé et Hysminias en français au xviiie siècle”, in Les romans grecs et latins et leurs réécritures modernes. Études sur la reception de l’ancien roman, du Moyen Âge à la fin du xixe siècle, Bernard Pouderon ed., Paris 2015, pp. 221–245; and eadem, “Les Amours d’Ismène & Isménias, ’roman très connu’ – The afterlife of a Byzantine novel in the 18th century France”, in The reception of Byzantium in European Culture since 1500, Przenyslaw Marciniak, Dion C. Smythe eds, Farnham Ashgate 2016, pp. 171–202. For a discussion on the dating of the novel, see Elizabeth Jeffreys, Four Byzantine Novels, Liverpool 2012, pp. 7–10. Cf. Ingela Nilsson, Raconter Byzance : la littérature au xiie siècle, Paris 2014, pp. 83–86. Anonymus, Les amours de Rhodante et Dosiclès, traduites du grec de Theodorus Prodromus, Paris 1797 [1st ed. 1746]. This novel was probably written by Marquis de Collande, see Jouanno, “Fortune d’un roman byzantine” (n. 3), p. 213; note, however, that the translation was published under Beauchamps’ name. Whether this was done on suggestion from the real translator, or on the publisher’s initiative is unknown to us; but since Beauchamps had made an imitation of the Byzantine novel Hysmine and Hysminias in 1729, it is not surprising that his name was chosen as an alias. Pierre-François Godard de Beauchamps, Imitation d’un roman grec de Théodore Prodromus, par M. de Beauchamps, s. l. 1746. Auguste Trognon, Amours de Rhodanthe et Dosiclès, par Théodore Prodrome, traduction nouvelle. Suivie de l’Eubéenne, par Dion Chrysostome, publiée par M. A. Trognon, Paris 1823. Robert Darnton, The Forbidden Best-Sellers of Pre-Revolutionary France, New York 1995, p. 90. On translation in the ancient world, see e.g. Rachel Mairs, “Hermēneis in the Documentary Record from Hellenistic and Roman Egypt: Interpreters, Translators and Mediators in a Bilingual Society”, Journal of Ancient History, vii/2 (2019), pp. 1–53. This is what happened to the English theologian and linguist William Tyndale, who was executed in 1536 for heresy brought on by his Bible translation; and the French humanist Etienne Dolet, accused of blasphemy in his translation of Plato, who was executed in 1546; see Jeremy Munday, Introducing Translation Studies: Theories and Applications, Abingdon 2008, p. 23. Julie Candler Hayes, “Of Meaning and Modernity: Anne Dacier and the Homer Debate”, in emf: Studies in Early Modern France. Volume 8: Strategic Rewriting, David Lee Rubin ed., Charlottesville 2002, pp. 173–195, sp. p. 173. Mary Helen McMurran, The Spread of Novels: Translation and Prose Fiction in the Eighteenth Century, Princeton 2009, p. 72. Itamar Even-Zohar, “Polysystem Theory”, Poetics Today, xi/1 (1990), pp. 9–26, sp. p. 18. Trognon, Amours (n. 7), p. xvi. Ibidem, pp. xvi–xviii. Pierre Daniel Huet, Traité de l’origine des romans, Paris 1771, p. 118.

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Byzantine novel Hysmine and Hysminias); however, his characters are uniform, and their long speeches and lamentations are extremely cold and unpleasant. So far, then, the translator’s view on Byzantine literature; however, the opinions of the reading public are more difficult to establish. The Byzantine novels had been translated into European languages (Hysmine and Hysminias into Italian and French in the sixteenth century and into Latin in 161717; Rhodanthe and Dosikles into Latin in 162518), which indicates an interest in them, and yet the judgments of Huet defies any appreciation of them. At the same time, as noted by Nilsson, the novel by Makrembolites was clearly appreciated in eighteenth-century France in the form of translations, adaptations and even an opera19. It is plausible to assume that its popularity paved the way for translations and adaptations of other pieces of Greek literature20. As a matter of fact, the word Byzantine, according to the Dictionnaire de l’Académie française21, has only been used as an adjective in the French language since the eighteenth century. That may seem to imply that French readers were quite oblivious of – or indeed uninterested in – how Byzantine literature differed from Greek literature. An indication of this is the title page of Trognon’s translation, reading “Collection des roman grecs: traduits en françois, avec des notes par mm. Courier, Larcher, et autres hellénistes”. It should, however, not be assumed that eighteenth-century readers were unaware of the existence of Byzantine literature, but rather that they were disinclined to divide the Greek literary history into separate periods; they might have felt as far from the Byzantine empire as from ancient Greece. The anonymous translator declared in his preface that “ces romanciers sont, au reste, d’un goût assez différent de nos modernes”22, confirming this imagined distance, not only in time and space, but also in taste, between the Greeks and modern authors. Beauchamps takes it one step further, claiming that he was employed to translate the novel by a “monsieur xxx”, but that he, after having read it, could just barely go on with the task because of its poor quality: 182

“Nul ordre, nul liaison dans les faits ; point de décence dans les mœurs, point de caractères, je ne voyois que descriptions

froides & allongées, que digressions aussi frequentes qu’inutile, qu’épisodes sans interêt & toujours mal amenés”23.

He evidently agrees with Huet about the bland characters and cold descriptions. After this criticism of the novel, he continues to explain how he has improved its contents: “[…] j’en ai arrangé les différentes parties le plus raisonnablement qu’il m’a été possible […]. Je n’ai respecté le fond des choses, qu’autant qu’il m’a paru ne point affoiblir l’interêt”24. Effectively, he has tried to change the novel according to prevailing norms in the French polysystem, and thereby place it in a more central position. In addition to the polysystem of Even-Zohar, I rely on the so-called skopos theory (σκοπός: object, purpose), first introduced by Hans J. Vermeer. Vermeer suggests that the purpose of the translation should always be the first priority: the translated text has to function in the intended context and for the intended readers, accomplishing the intended purpose: “Translation involves linguistic as well as cultural phenomena and processes and therefore is a cultural as well as linguistic procedure, and as language […] is part of a specific culture, translation is to be understood as a cultural phenomenon dealing with specific cultures: translation is a culture transcending process”25.

In the case of the texts under analysis here, these words are more than true; the source text had to transcend distance in time and space, differences in religion, politics, society, and, last but not least, language. Although it is, of course, difficult to determine the purpose of each of the French versions, we might get a clue by, once again, turning to the prefaces. Trognon summarizes the previous reception of the novel: “Huet l’a jugé avec une sévérité malheureusement trop juste ; nous ne chercherons pas à la défendre” – and continues: “Cependant le public qui ne le connoissoit que par la traduction tronquée et triviale de Godard de Beauchamps, pourra porter un jugement plus sûr d’après la traduction plus fidèle que nous en donnons aujourd’hui’”26.

Trognon’s intention with his translation is consequently to give the public a truer version of the novel (even if he does not regard it as great literature). Moving on to the preface of the anonymous translator, who was most probably the first among

these three to publish his translation, he appears to have a more positive attitude towards the novel: “[…] quoiqu’il soit inférieur au beau roman d’Héliodore, tant de fois traduit et en tant de langues différentes, il est cependant fort au-dessus de celui d’Ismène et Isménias”27. He then expresses a wish that, since Prodromos has not yet been published in French, he will at least be recognized and appreciated as a novelty: “Theodorus Prodromus n’avoit pas encore paru en notre langue. Je souhaite qu’il y ait du moins la grâce de la nouveauté”28. Regarding his purpose with the translation, it simply seems to be that he enjoys reading the novel: “[…] à peine leur trop grande fécondité d’imagination donne-t-elle au lecteur le tems de respirer ; mais si c’est-là un défaut dans les anciens, j’avoue que je le préférois aux longs compliment et à la métaphysique amoureuse dont nos modernes affadissent souvent leurs productions de ce genre”29.

Assuming that he has tried to make the novel more available and attractive to the public, we may note, for instance, that his translation is considerably shorter than the original, and 49 pages shorter than Trognon’s translation. In accordance with his declaration, he has suspended the “long praises”, and other lengthy passages from the original. Last but not least, we have Beauchamps, who, as mentioned earlier, was allegedly commissioned by an acquaintance to perform to the translation, since, at that point, a French version had not yet been published: “Vous ajoutâtes tout de suite, que ce roman n’ayant point encore paru en françois, il falloit que j’entreprise de le traduire”30. According to the preface, Beauchamps accomplished his task, and then forgot about it, until his commissioner wrote to him, saying that he had seen a new translation of the novel and assumed that it was Beauchamps’ version. This translation must have been the anonymous, which, as mentioned above, had been published under Beauchamps’ name. However, Beauchamps writes: “[…] elle me surprit d’autant plus, que j’étois sûr que je n’avois confié mon manuscrit à personne ; je fis chercher le livre dont vous me parliez, je reconnus bien-tôt que le nouveau traducteur avoit couru la même carrière ; mais que nous avions suivi des routes différentes”31.

Beauchamps’ comment about different ways, implying that there is no right or wrong way to

translate, is significant for the contemporary view on translation. To conclude, we are dealing with three different purposes here. First, to improve a previous translation; second, to launch a novel that has not yet been translated; third, to perform a commissioned task. These purposes are definitely visible in the different translations: Trognon’s translation is the most faithful, while Beauchamps’ imitation deviates the most from the original – possibly because he genuinely disliked the novel, but he may also have used his claimed aversion as a pretext to transform it into something else. Spoliating the old, building the new Julie Candler Hayes has noted how the integrity and authority of the translator were empowered in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, not only through personal contributions to the translated text, but also by establishing and developing their own language32. A story was not considered consolidated only because it was printed on paper – it was still open to new interpretations and experiments. Such reworking should not be seen as a critique of the author, but sometimes rather as a compliment. To some extent, this kind of translation is what the medieval Byzantine writers did with ancient Greek literature. Panagiotis Agapitos has observed how the Byzantine writers were methodically deconstructing and then 17 Jeffreys, Four Byzantine Novels (n. 4), p. 176. 18 Ibidem, p. 17. 19 Nilsson, “Du roman byzantin à la tragédie lyrique” and “Les

Amours” (n. 3).

20 Even as late as 1841, Prodromos is referred to as “écrivain

21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

grec du douxième siècle”; see Philippe Le Bas, “Fragments inédits de deux romans grecs”, Bibliothèque de l’École des chartes, ii (1841), pp. 409–424, sp. p. 409. https://www.dictionnaire-academie.fr/article/A9B2514; retrieved 2020-07-05. Anonymus, Les amours (n. 5), p. ii. Beauchamps, Imitation (n. 6), p. vi. Ibidem, p. vii. Hans J. Vermeer, “Is translation a linguistic or a cultural process?”, Ilha do Desterro, xxviii (1992), pp. 37–49, sp. p. 40. Trognon, Amours (n. 7), p. xvii. Anonymus, Les amours (n. 5), p. i. Ibidem. Ibidem, p. ii. Beauchamps, Imitation (n. 6), p. vi. Ibidem, pp. vii–viii. Julie Candler Hayes, Translation, Subjectivity & Culture in France and England, 1600–1800, Stanford 2009, p. 5.

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reconstructing their ancient models, in order to take advantage of the high status and authority that the Greek literature possessed, transferring it onto their own works33. As Byzantine historian and writer Michael Psellos (1018–1078) argues in his essay On the Different style of Certain Writings, one has to begin by reading the ancient writers, such as Demosthenes, Thucydides and Lysias, before moving on to the “[books] of delight and charming graces” (the novels Leukippe and Clitophon and Aethiopika)34. Psellos is not necessarily suggesting any hierarchy among different styles of literature, but is rather seeing the act of reading as, in his own words, building a house, where every part is equally important, although it has to be added in the right order. I would like to take the cue from Psellos and use his model of how literature is created as a way of structuring my own analysis of the French translations of the Byzantine Rhodanthe and Dosikles. Spoliation may be seen as a violent process, marked by forceful appropriation, but it can also be seen as an architectural attitude, adding each part of a building – or a story – in its proper place. I look at the different parts of the building/story from a narratological perspective, identifying the foundation as the presence of the narrator, the bricks as the novelistic motifs and the decorations as the visibility of the translator. Before moving on to the analysis, however, let me briefly summarize the story of Rhodanthe and Dosikles for readers who are not yet familiar with Prodromos’ novel. It all begins in medias res, when Rhodanthe and Dosikles are captured by pirates, led by Mistylos. The young lovers are thrown in the dungeons and Dosikles meets a co-prisoner, Kratandros, who relates his own tragic love story. Dosikles tells Kratandros how he and Rhodanthe had sailed to Rhodes, where they were received by a friend. At a dinner, Dosikles had told everybody how he had fallen in love with Rhodanthe in their hometown Abydos and how he had eloped with her. Meanwhile, an emissary from Mistylos’ enemy Bryaxes appears among the pirates and hands over a threatening letter. While waiting for a reply, he is treated to a magnificent dinner. Eventually, Bryaxes and Mistylos prepare themselves for

battle and Bryaxes makes a long speech in front of his soldiers. Mistylos loses the war, so Rhodanthe and Dosikles are put on separate ships to be taken to Bryaxes’ city. Rhodanthe is shipwrecked, but she is rescued by merchants who take her to Cyprus, where she is sold as a slave to Kratandros’ father Kraton. Rhodanthe relates her lamentable experiences to Kratandros’ sister Myrilla, who realizes that her brother is alive. Kraton decides to go and search for him. Bryaxes has decided to sacrifice Dosikles and Kratandros to the gods, but Kraton turns up and tries to stop the ritual. However, a thunderstorm occurs and a heavy rain puts out the pyre. Bryaxes releases Dosikles and Kratandros; they return to Cyprus, where they reunite with Rhodanthe. Myrilla, who has fallen in love with Dosikles, tries to poison Rhodanthe, but Dosikles manages to save her with a healing herb. In the meantime, their fathers, Straton and Lysippos, have travelled to the oracle in Delphi in order to find out where their children are. Having interpreted the oracle, they continue to Cyprus, where all are happily reunited. Finally, they return to Abydos, where Rhodanthe and Dosikles are married in the temple of Hermes. The two French translations analyzed here follow the original plot closely, but the imitation by Beauchamps adds some new episodes. For instance, at the very beginning of the novel, when Dosikles hears about Rhodanthe for the first time from a friend of his mother, this friend dares him to liberate Rhodanthe, while in the original he does it of his own volition. Another example appears later in the novel, when Rhodanthe and Dosikles are together on Cyprus and they send a slave back to Abydos to find out if their parents are still angry with them for eloping. Finally, at the very end of the novel, Dosikles arranges for his sister Nausiklea to marry Kratandros in a double wedding35. The foundation As noted above, the narratorial presence may be seen as the foundation of a story, offering the firm ground on which the rest of the plot is built. The Byzantine novel and its translations-adaptations are clearly different in this respect. In the Greek

version, the narrator is external, in the sense that celles de Rhodante”41. The visibility of the narratee he is not himself taking part in the story36. Nev- makes it clear that Dosikles is aware of his funcertheless, there are traces of him in several plac- tion as a narrator, and throughout the story he is es (‘self-referentials’), telling the reader that he is describing everything according to his own peraware of his function as a narrator, and perhaps spective. There are interesting similarities to the suggesting that the events are not objectively re- libertine novel here. A libertine novel was often lated. In the first example we see how the narrator written as memoirs narrated in the first person, is aware that he has digressed from the main story addressed as a letter to a friend42, and through line: “Such was the end of their life for these men the direct address to this friend, the purpose was / (for the body of the discourse must continue / to educate or guide the readers43. Occasionally, in although split asunder by a digression)”. (6.74–76: the imitation, Dosikles is offering comments to his τούτοις μὲν οὖν τοιοῦτο τοῦ βίου τέλος. / τοῦ γάρ narratee, about what has happened, or will happen λόγου τὸ σῶμα συνεχιστέον, / οἷον διχασθὲν τῇ later: “Je ne m’arrêterai point à vous faire la description παρεμπτώσει μέσον)37. de festin”44; “Hélas ! Aurai-je la force de vous le dire ?”45; In the second example, the narrator is remind- “Je me reproche d’être entré dans ces détails, j’aurais ing himself not to talk too much: “Why should I talk dû cacher les faiblesses de cette fille infortunée ; mais, at length and in detail? / It is sufficient to say suc- Philoxène, je ne les révèles qu’à vous”46. cinctly / that none of the maiden’s limbs could Moreover, the imitation takes off when function”. (8.457–59: τί μοι τὰ πολλὰ καὶ πρὸς Dosikles is twelve years old, which also correμέρος λέγειν; / ἁπλῶς γάρ εἰπεῖν καὶ συνεκτικῷ sponds with the libertine narrative of a young, λόγῳ, / ἐνεργὸν οὐδὲν τῶν μελῶν παρθένῳ) inexperienced man who goes out into the world to Practically all of these references to the nar- seek adventures, and who reminisces on them at rator have vanished in the French translations. an old age47. The mortar that holds the foundation Consider, for example, the last passage, which in together is undoubtedly Dosikles’ own experiTrognon’s translation reads: “Rhodanthe étoit restée ences – and he does not even try to hide the fact sans mouvement ; elle ne préferoit aucune parole, et ne 33 Panagiotis Agapitos, “From Persia to the Provence: Tales donnoit aucun signe de vie”38; and in the anonymous of love in Byzantium and beyond”, acme, lxiii (2010), version: “Rhodante n’eut pas plutôt pris ce funeste pp. 153–169, sp. p. 157. breuvage, qu’elle tomba comme morte, et dans une foi- 34 For a translation of this essay, see Michael Psellos on Literature and Art: A Byzantine Perspective on Aesthetics, Charles Barber, blesse qui ne lui laissoit pas le moindre mouvement”39. Stratis Papaioannou eds, Notre Dame 2017, pp. 99–107. See also the contribution by Nilsson in this volume, citing part In order to understand why these comments from of Psellos’ essay. the narrator have disappeared, it is necessary to 35 Beauchamps added the same feature in his translation of look at how they function in the original novel. the Byzantine novel Hysmine and Hysminias; see Nilsson, “Les Amours” (n. 3), p. 183. Contrary to what they suggest, the narrator does 36 Gerald Prince, Narratology: The Form and Functioning of not genuinely excuse himself for digressing or Narratology, Berlin 1982, p. 52. 37 Here and in the following, I cite the Greek text of Il Romanzo talking too long – they are rhetorical statements Bizantino del xii secolo. Teodoro Prodromo, Niceta Eugeniano, that draw the reader’s attention to the presence of Eustazio Macrembolites, Constantino Manasse, Fabrizio Conca the narrator. This presence or visibility, in turn, ed., Turin 1994, and the English translations of Jeffreys, Four Byzantine Novels (n. 4). underlines the process of narration involving the 38 Trognon, Amours (n. 7), pp. 134–135. author, the narrator and the narratee, each with 39 Anonymus, Les amours (n. 5), p. 91. 40 Irene J. F. De Jong, Narratology and the Classics, Oxford their own narrative agency. 2014, p. 19. A different kind of narrator appears in Beau- 41 Beauchamps, Imitation (n. 6), p. i. champ’s imitation, where the protagonist Dosikles 42 Élise Sultan, Les experiences imaginaires des romans libertins du xviiie siècle, Paris 2013, p. 103. acts as an internal narrator, taking part in his own 43 Susan Callens, Libertinage et apprentissage dans le roman du story40. He professes to give a faithful account xviiie siècle, Gent 2008, p. 86. to a certain Philoxene, with no precedent in the 44 Beauchamps, Imitation (n. 6), p. 45. 45 Ibidem, p. 55. Byzantine original: “Vous me pressez, ô Philoxene, 46 Ibidem, p. 75. de vous faire un fidéle récit de mes Aventures, & de 47 Callens, Libertinage (n. 43), p. 71.

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that he has chosen to suspend some passages, for instance when he describes Bryaxes’ address to his soldiers: “Il fit à ses troupes une longue harangue, pleine de lieux communs, d’une eloquence barbare; je ne vous en rapporterai que quelques traits”48, thus giving the (false) impression that he was present himself. A little later, Dosikles continues: “Quand il fut en présence de son ennemi, la hauteur & la force de ses vaisseaux le remplirent d’étonnement, les idées de victoire & de triomphe s’evanouirent dans ce cœur superbe, la crainte y prit la place de la confiance”49.

This statement suggests that Dosikles knows the feelings of the pirate. However, the appearance of the entire story being told from one single perspective, rather than shifting between Dosikles and an omniscient narrator, is maintained. Effectively, even when other characters (Kratandros and Rhodanthe, for instance) account for some of their own experiences, we must bear in mind that Dosikles is the one relating their accounts to the reader, which means that they may, or may not, be truthful and complete50. The first-person perspective does create a more personal address to the reader – partly because you get the impression that you are reading a private letter; partly because, at this time in France, you are presumably reading the book in solitude51. The first-person narration also contributes to a reality effect, offering one person’s memories which, as such, cannot be questioned or altered. Some of the events which Dosikles relates in Beauchamps’ imitation and which, at first glance, seem inconsistent with the Byzantine original, may in fact be read as passages that the Byzantine narrator has chosen to suspend. For, although he stands outside the actual story, he – as well as Dosikles – cannot be trusted to account for everything that happens or to stick to the truth at all times. The bricks

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The bricks of the novel are here understood as elements such as episodes and motifs that make up the story. Such narrative bricks can be amplified or suppressed, shuffled around and rearranged, changed and manipulated in endless variations. This is a basic aspect of rhetorical exercises, foundational for Greek and Byzantine education and

thus an important part of the twelfth-century literature52. As Mary Helen McMurran proposes, the rhetorical methods of brevitas and amplificatio were regularly used also by the eighteenth-century translators53. They would vivify the narrative by enhancing interesting characters and particularly emotional events; or condense it by omitting passages and descriptions54. In his imitation of Rhodanthe and Dosikles, Beauchamps has used amplificatio when adding a colorful (and rather anachronistic) description of the pirate king Bryaxes: “Ce prince, dont j’aurois dû plûtot vous tracer le caractère, étoit assez humain pour un roi barbare ; il avoit un fonds d’équiténaturelle qui perçoit quelquefois à travers les préjugés de l’éducation & du despotisme. Quand il suivoit les maximes d’une politique rigoreuse, il vouloit toujours mettre les apparences de la justice de son côté ; il n’étoit pas brave, quoiqu’il affectât de le paroître ; il eût été dangereux de lui laisser appercevoir qu’on ne le croyoit pas tel. Il parloit sans cesse de guerre, & ne le faisoit jamais que par ses généraux. Il formoit chaque hiver des projets magnifiques de campagne pour le printemps ; il faisoit partir ses équipages, il annonçoit le jour de son départ, mail il trouvoit toujours quelque prétexte pour rester ; & ne sortoit de son palais, que pour aller à la chasse. Au reste il aimoit le gens d’ésprit, & se piquoit lui-même d’en avoir ; on pouvoit sans crainte n’être pas de son avis dans les choses indifférentes : il railloit avec peu de finesse, mais il ne s’offensoit point d’un bon mot ou d’une répartie ingénieuse”55.

Jouanno interprets this description as an expression of Beauchamps’ interest in psychological analysis56, but it is also conceivable that it is an attempt to enhance the character Bryaxes, and thereby enhance the reader’s interest in him. The word interest is indeed significant here, since the explicit purpose of these translation methods was to elicit what was then called interest, and what McMurran describes as “sentiment or feeling to be produced by the narrative for the reader”57. Returning to Beauchamps’ preface, he mentions the word twice: “[…] je ne voyois que descriptions froides & allongées, que digressions aussi frequentes qu’inutiles, qu’épisodes sans interêt […]”58 ; “[…] je n’ai respecté le fond des choses, qu’autant qu’il me paru ne point affoiblir l’interêt […]”59. Evidently, the translator felt obliged towards the reader, rather than the writer, striving to satisfy the former, rather than being faithful to the latter.

In addition to amplificatio and brevitas, libertine author-translators would change the order of events, still with the aim of making the story more interesting60. In the Byzantine Rhodanthe and Dosikles, the couple’s first meeting takes place in a garden, a symbolic place for private meetings61. In the original, Dosikles describes the garden in some detail: “Looking at them you would say from their nature and not at random that vines of a certain sort should produce wine of a certain sort, for mothers display the features that are also found in their children. When I reached the middle of the vines (for the branches were everywhere intertwined in a dense canopy of leaves so that a bystander could see in only with difficulty), then I began my conversation with the maiden”. (“Ἰδὼν ἔφης ἄν εὐφυῶς οὐδ’ ἀσκόπως, ὡς τηλικαύτας ἀμπέλους τίκτειν ἔδει τὸν τηλικοῦτον οἶνον. αἱ γὰρ μητέρες τὰς ἐμφερεῖς φέρουσι μορφὰς τοῖς τέκνοις. Ὡς δὲ προῆλθον ἐς μέσας τὰς ἀμπέλους (συνηρεφεῖς δὴ παντάπασιν οἱ κλάδοι τῇ καταπύκνῳ συνοχῇ τῶν φυλλάδων, ὡς καὶ τὸν ἐγγὺς σφαλερῶς δεδορκέναι), τότε ξυνῆλθον ἐς λόγους τῇ παρθένῳ”.) (3.49–57)

In Trognon’s quite faithful translation: “Nous nous avançâmes sous un berceau de vignes dont les pampres touffus formoient un abri impénetrable, et présentoient à l’œil un tableau charmant. Comment des vignes aussi belles n’auroient-elles pas donné des fruits aussi délicieux ? Là je pus converser librement avec ma maîtresse […]”62.

The anonymous translator has skipped the description of the garden, although he preserves its significance as a shelter for the lovers: “[…] je la pris par la main, et nous allâmes nous promener dans les beaux jardin de cette maison. C’étoit la premier moment où nous nous trouvions en liberté […]”63. Beauchamps, by contrast, has moved the garden scene to an episode later in the story. In his imitation, the passage runs: “Je suivis Rhodante dans la chambre qu’on lui avoit préparée, j’eus avec elle un entretien de deux heures, c’étoit la premiere fois que je pouvois lui parler librement”64. Consequently, the garden’s importance, as the only place where the couple could speak at liberty, has been lost. However, as noted above, a garden scene occurs later in the imitation, when Kratandros’ sister

Myrilla declares her love for Dosikles: “Un jour, malgré toutes mes précautions, elle me surprit dans une allée du jardin, où je rêvois seul. Dosiclés, me dit-elle, je vous aime”65. Myrilla continues to lament her unrequited love with a speech that does not exist in the original novel, offering yet another example of amplificatio. Beauchamps has thus moved one brick of the story to a place more convenient for him, while still maintaining its original function as a symbolic and romantic place for free speech. In general, it is quite obvious that the typically Byzantine features consistently have been subject to the translators’ effort to abridge the story (brevitas). In the anonymous translation, the author-translator has excluded several rhetorical features; for instance, at the trial against Kratandros, a long oration against him is simply replaced with: “Mon accusateur plaida sa cause avec toute la tendresse paternelle, et conclut à ce que je fusse lapidé, pour expier par le même supplice le meurtre dont il me chargeoit”66.. He then summarizes the defense speech with: “Mon père prit ensuite ma défense; et, ayant ait un portrait de moi bien différent 48 Beauchamps, Imitation (n. 6), p. 40. 49 Ibidem, p. 51. 50 Cf. the first-person perspective of the hero-narrator Hysmi-

51

52

53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61

62 63 64 65 66

nias in Makrembolites’ Hysmine and Hysminias; see Ingela Nilsson, Erotic Pathos, Rhetorical Pleasure: Narrative Technique and Mimesis in Eumathios Makrembolites’ Hysmine and Hysminias, Uppsala 2001, pp. 145–154. Paul Young, Seducing the Eighteenth-Century French Reader: Reading, Writing and the Question of Pleasure, Aldershot 2008, p. 8. See Panagiotos Roilos, Amphoteroglossia, Cambridge 2005. On the use of progymnasmata as building blocks of the Byzantine novels, see Panagiotos Roilos, “Amphoteroglossia: The role of rhetoric in the medieval Greek learned novel”, in Der Roman im Byzanz der Komnenenzeit, Panagiotis A. Agapitos, Diether R. Reinsch eds, Frankfurt am Main 2000, pp. 109–126. McMurran, The Spread of Novels (n. 12), p. 75. Ibidem, p. 79. Beauchamps, Imitation (n. 6), p. 48. Jouanno, “Fortune d’un roman” (n. 3), p. 223. McMurran, The Spread of the Novel (n. 12), p. 82. Beauchamps, Imitation (n. 6), p. vi. Ibidem, p. vii. McMurran, The Spread of the Novel (n. 12), p. 77. Antony R. Littlewood, “Romantic Paradises: The Role of the Garden in the Byzantine Romance”, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, v (1979), pp. 105–114, sp. p. 109. Trognon, Amours (n. 7), p. 43. Anonymus, Les amour, (n. 5), p. 29. Beauchamps, Imitation (n. 6), p. 16. Ibidem, p. 74. Anonymus, Les amours (n. 5), p. 12.

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d’un voleur et d’un assassin, il proposa de me faire passer par l’épreuve de feu […]”67. Another example is when the barbarian Bryaxes addresses his troops at length before the great battle, which the anonymous translator reduces to: “[…] du haut de sa pouppe, il harangue ses soldats”68. In Prodromos’ novel, this speech should be considered as one of the key passages, as it involves both rhetoric and an element of war69. A final observation concerns the suppression of descriptions (ekphraseis), a significant element of the Byzantine novel and a popular progymnasma of the twelfth century70. Detailed descriptions of heroines, places and objects have been removed or abbreviated in the French adaptations, making it clear that these large bricks were dispensable and even undesirable in the French polysystem. The decorations As noted above, it is inevitable for a translator to leave traces of him/herself and of the time and society s/he or she lives in. Even if it is not visible for a contemporary audience, it certainly will be in the future, since the meaning of words and conceptions change continuously. The translation theorist Lawrence Venuti has discussed the ‘translator’s invisibility’, defining it as “[a translated text where] the absence of any linguistic or stylistic peculiarities makes it seem transparent, giving the appearance that it reflects the foreign writer’s personality or intention or the essential meaning of the foreign text – the appearance, in other words, that the translation is not in fact a translation, but the original 71“.

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The three French versions of Rhodanthe and Dosikles are full of signs that indicate the time period in which they were written – or, at least, that they were not written in the twelfth century. Using Venuti’s terminology, the translators are thus visible to the readers, leaving traces in the text – or ‘decorations’ on the building. In order to describe this, we may use the terminology of Gérard Genette. First, there is the infratitulaire, meaning the definition of the text that accompanies the title: “Imitation d’un roman grec”, “Traduites du grec” and “Traduction nouvelle”. As Genette puts it: “La détermination du statut générique

d’un texte n’est pas son affaire, mais celle du lecteur, du critique, du public”72; in brief, it is the reader who classifies the text, or rather, fills that classification with meaning. Furthermore, these kinds of denominations must, within the reader, evoke other texts of the same kind; for instance, if a text is defined as a translation, the reader will associate it with other translations that they have read before – they will expect a translation and judge it as a translation. The same goes for the word ‘imitation’ or any other sort of definition. Next, there is the issue of paratextuality, namely titles, footnotes, prefaces, and so on73. Looking at the original Byzantine novel, it is divided into nine books, each perhaps of suitable length for a recital74. The two French translations have preserved this division, but since the anonymous translator has excluded large amounts of text in some places, the books are of quite uneven length; for example, book 5 consists of only four pages. In Trognon’s translation, the text is of a simple style throughout the book, while the anonymous translator has used capitals, italics and headlines in the written correspondence between the barbarian kings: “le grand mistyle, au très-grand roi bryaxas, salut ”75. In Beauchamps’ imitation, too, there are initial letters, oracles and verses in italics and headlines for different parts of the story – “histoire de cratandre”76 – all of which signify the conceptual change in reading practices; from reciting out loud to reading silently, a point when the book as a physical object became much more important. During the eighteenth century, the level of literacy rose considerably in France, and more people had both the means to purchase and the time to read books77. As regards footnotes, the anonymous translation has none, while Trognon has added one, saying that he has had some difficulties in conveying an oracle with the same ambiguity as in the original text: “Il nous a été impossible de reproduire l’ambiguité de cet oracle qui alarme Straton. Le texte est si alteré qu’on n’en peut saisir le sens ; et le traducteur latin se tourmente vainement pour le faire apercevoir. D’ailleurs l’équivoque paroît ne dépendre que d’un point mal placé et d’une fausse prononciation ; on ne gagne pas beaucoup à comprendre de pareilles finesses”78.

This is a conspicuous example of the translator’s visibility, where he first explains how something is impossible to translate, then that it is not really worth the effort anyway. In Beauchamps’ imitation, there is one footnote towards the end of the book that reads: “M. Bernard Jussieu [a French eighteenth-century botanist], que j’ai consulté sur le nom de cette herbe, m’a dit qu’elle s’appelloit Pensaphylloides palustre rubrum”79. Here, Beauchamps does not refer to himself as the translator, but the fact that he mentions a person from his own time makes it a clear case of the translator’s visibi​lity. The third and last point to mention is Genette’s concept of metatextuality: “La relation qui unit un texte à un autre texte dont il parle, sans nécessairement le citer, à la limite sans le nommer”80. Since Prodromos based his novel on an ancient model, there are several, more or less obvious references to ancient literature, presupposing a certain knowledge in the audience. Beauchamps has used the same sort of metatextuality in his version, starting with an oracle about Rhodanthe and Dosikles, comparing them to Helen and Nireus (Nireus was one of Helena’s suitors in the Iliad): “Le beau Nirée enléve Héléne, Je les vois esclaves tous deux; Contre lui ta colere est vaine, Un jour tu combleras ses vœux”81. At another instance, there is a reference to the Greek herald Stentor (also from the Iliad): “Il entonne d’une voix Stentor, un hymne à l’honneur du soleil, & de Mistyle”82. Later in the story, Myrilla compares herself and Dosikles to Dido and Aeneas (whose tragic love story in the Aeneid ends with Dido taking her own life): “Plus infortunée, & moins coupable que Didon, Enée ne l’abandonna que pour obéir aux dieux”83. The last example is a reference to a fable, which is perhaps the most interesting: “[…] là-dessus il leur débita la fable du lion & du moucheron”84. For the contemporary reader, the fable by Jean de la Fontaine, published in 1668, may have been close at hand, but for a reader familiar with the ancient Greek novel, this points at an episode in Leucippe and Clitophon, important model for the Byzantine novels85. In this manner, the author-translators created complex relations to literature and myths known by their audience, at the same time making themselves active and visible in their adapted texts.

Can construction work ever be invisible? My aim here has been to show how translation and adaptations can be described as the process of constructing a building, using foundations, bricks and decorations drawn from literary traditions. Both the story and the text itself may be seen from this angle, as I have tried to show above. The most important conclusion is perhaps that a translation process always leaves visible marks – in some cases they are minor, but they are always there. The changes to the story are caused by the taste and preference of the new audience, forcing the author-translator to adapt his work for the cultural milieu (polysystem) and the target (skopos). Is it thus possible to equal translation to spoliation, in all instances, or only in cases – such as the present – when an original text has been liberally, almost brutally, transformed into something else? In my opinion, there is no simple answer, since literature is not fixed and unchanging, but continuously interpreted and re-interpreted, innately impossible to categorize, but always serving a purpose or expressing a thought. The study of reception is accordingly a demanding undertaking, forcing the scholar to take several periods and environments into account, noticing 67 Anonymus, Les amours (n. 5), p. 12. 68 Ibidem, p. 49. 69 See Anthony Kaldellis, “Historicism in Byzantine Thought

and Literature”, dop, lxi (2007), pp. 1–24, sp. p. 5.

70 Cf. e.g. the description of the heroine in Rhodanthe and Dosikles

71 72 73 74 75 76 77

78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85

1.42–60 with Trognon, p. 3, and Anonymus, p. 6; note also the garden description discussed above. Lawrence Venuti, The Translator’s Invisibility: A History of Translation, New York 1995, p. 1. Gérard Genette, Palimpsestes : la littérature au second degré, Paris 1982, p. 11. Ibidem, p. 9. Jeffreys, Four Byzantine Novels (n. 4), p. 14. Anonymus, Les amours (n. 5), p. 45. Beauchamps, Imitation (n. 6), p. 21. Thomas Dipiero, “Enlightenment Literature”, in The Cambridge Companion to the French Enlightenment, Daniel Brewer ed., Cambridge 2014, pp. 137–152, sp. p. 140. Trognon, Amours (n. 7), p. 144. Beauchamps, Imitation (n. 6), p. 80. Genette, Palimpsestes (n. 72), p. 10. Beauchamps, Imitation (n. 6), p. 2. Ibidem, p. 44. Ibidem, p. 75. Ibidem, p. 51. Achilles Tatius, Leucippe and Clitophon 2.22.

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not only the major building blocks, but also the smaller bricks and the sometimes almost invisible decorations. While these elements may remain recognizable to us as modern readers or viewers, the ideas and feelings they once were meant to evoke have in most cases been lost. Our task as scholars could maybe be described as deconstructing and reconstructing the blueprint until we get as close as possible to that once clearly visible aim.

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summary Překlad a spoliace Byzantinců Recepce a adaptace komnenovského románu v raně novověké Francii

Autorka článku zkoumá, jakými způsoby a z jakých důvodů byl do francouzštiny v osmnáctém a devatenáctém století překládán byzantský román Rhodanthe a Dosikles pocházející z dvanáctého století. Cílem je ukázat, v souladu s konceptem spoliace, že více či méně důležité epizody a prvky, které sloužily v původním kontextu specifickému účelu, mohou být za jiných okolností použity naprosto odlišným způsobem nebo úplně vynechány. Autorka navazuje na výzkum Ingely Nilsson a Corinne Jouanno zaměřený na renesanci byzantské literatury ve Francii osmnáctého století, její recepci a adaptaci dle soudobých společenských norem. Při interpretaci vzniku jednotlivých překladů díla však bere v potaz i moderní translatologické teorie, jmenovitě teorii polysystému, kterou zformuloval Itamar Even-Zohar, a teorii skoposu Hanse J. Vermeera. Teorie polysystému vysvětluje převod literatury mezi dvěma polysystémy, tedy ze zdrojového jazyka/kultury do cílového jazyka/kultury a popisuje odlišný status překladů/adaptací, který odpovídá statutu zdrojové literatury. Teorie skoposu zase tvrdí, že nejdůležitějšími faktory ovlivňujícími překladatelskou metodu i cílový text jsou předmět a účel překladu. Autorka v článku pokládá dvě hlavní otázky. Zaprvé, jakou roli hrály francouzské překlady/ adaptace tohoto byzantského románu v soudobé

společnosti, tj. jakým způsobem byly posuzovány a přijímány publikem a kritiky. Zadruhé, k jakým konkrétním změnám oproti původnímu příběhu během překladu došlo, jak a jestli překladatelé tyto změny zamýšleli a jakým způsobem změny ovlivnily výsledný efekt překladu. Hlavním závěrem článku je, že cílový text musí být vždy zkoumán a posuzován s ohledem na jeho kontext, tedy období, místo, politickou situaci apod. Bez znalosti poměrů totiž sice my, čtenáři, můžeme konkrétní text ocenit nebo naopak zatratit, avšak nikdy zcela nepochopíme vnímání originálu v době jeho vzniku, ani celý proces jeho překladu a následné distribuce tohoto textu. Tuto situaci můžeme srovnat se spoliací v architektuře, kde mohou být kusy materiálu sestaveny s určitým záměrem, avšak v jiném kontextu, době nebo společnosti se může stát, že tento záměr buď naprosto ztratí svůj význam, anebo je vnímán radikálně odlišným způsobem. Navíc, tak jako se samotný akt překládání v čase vyvíjel a měnil, bude se pravděpodobně proměňovat i v budoucnu. Hranice mezi překlady, imitacemi a adaptacemi jsou rozostřené a jejich důležitost také závisí na konkrétním přístupu. Pro badatele je například obvykle smysluplnější a zajímavější zkoumat spíše jak a proč text vznikl než posuzovat jeho výsledný obsah.

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afterword

afterword

Postscript: The Meaning of Ruins Olof Heilo

In an essay called “Fragments”, Umberto Eco imagines a future intergalactic civilization trying to piece together its historical knowledge of late twentieth-century Europe solely by means of a book called Great Hit Songs of Yesterday and Today. In the proceedings of an archaeological conference, a professor from what has become the only inhabitable region of Earth (the Arctic) offers his thoughts on a scrap of text, “[…] apparently from a propitiatory or fertility hymn to nature: ‘I’m singing in the rain, just singing in the rain, it’s a glorious feeling …’. It is easy to imagine this sung by a chorus of young girls: the delicate words evoke the image of maidens in white veils dancing at sowing times […]”1.

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Taking something out of context and misreading its original intentions may be a basic premise for comic relief, but it is less far off from serious scholarship than one might prefer to think: if scholars never felt the need or urge to understand and in effect translate something that is obscure or fragmentary into what is readable and meaningful, there would be no scholars, and where would scholarship be if scholars did not dare to make mistakes in this process? Of course it must be considered a philological virtue to strive for at least the ideal of accuracy, but rather than poking fun at his fictitious colleagues for their shortcomings in this concern, what Eco indicates is something else: a scholarly tendency to sometimes exaggerate the profoundness and significance of a material. As a colleague once expressed it, there is something paranoid about scholarship: the eye follows the lines of a text in the conviction that they are not merely there by chance or nature – that they conceal something profound, are trying to say something important, that they must mean something2. This volume has dealt not only with the reading of fragments, but also with the reading of the reading of fragments, and the reading of fragments of readings. Similar to Jorge Luis Borges famous essay on Averroës, in which the author tries

to understand how the medieval Arabic philosopher could have understood Aristotle despite not knowing what a theatre was3, this entails considerable challenges and requires a certain freedom of interpretation, but it is important to remember that the objective has not been to find out what and why as much as if and how spolia have meant and mean. It has been based on the premise that – whether scholars like it or not – the past is and has always been in a state of translation, which can be considered good or bad depending on where the observer is standing; and that, perhaps, it is this openness of meaning that ultimately separates the paranoid from the curious. The positivist who considers this to be post-modern nonsense might be advised to throw a glance in the opposite direction: rejection of ambiguity is, as most recently highlighted by the Islamologist Thomas Bauer, a late and distinctly modern phenomenon4. The pre-modern world was open to a multiplicity of meanings of the observable cosmos, used to a diversity of life, aware of the inherent pluralism of knowledge, accustomed to a fluidity of language and prone to code-switching. Bauer notes, for instance, that even the two main religious orders of the pre-modern Mediterranean, the Catholic Church and the Muslim Caliphate, were masters of ambiguity. Had they not, they would have been unable to navigate such a confusing sea of cultural variety and to accept how their own dogmas were continuously challenged by everyday realities. The word tolerance is often brought up in well-meaning interpretations of medieval pluralism, and ruthlessly destroyed by those who point to actual evidence for religious mindsets and policies5. But tolerance might itself be a too modern concept to use, as it presumes the existence of clear boundaries and an awareness of what might be tolerable and what might not, whereas a lack of knowledge, and an acknowledgment of the unknowable, seems to be far more decisive in pre-modern approaches. Unlike the paranoid reader, who assumes everything has a meaning, openness means accepting that things sometimes do not. Perhaps the question is rather whether the scholar can live with the knowledge of not knowing. It is at least to be hoped that the reader

who has patiently kept following the lines of this volume to the very end will stay tolerant to the fact that this final reflection in no way claims to offer a final conclusion. Violence I will make a somewhat heretical statement here: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam are all spoliated religions. They are centered on historical events when God is said to have spoken clearly to mankind, but in doing so, draw on a cumulative history that is often disruptive and incoherent. They build on each other, borrowing and translating the past of their own and each other in ways that make sense from the point where they stand; symbols, narratives and topographies of defeat and unfulfillment become recyclable building-blocks in the history of a meaningful future. “The stone that the builder refused has become the cornerstone”6: on such premises the fragment retains a potential significance, and its reuse and inclusion in the new contexts and realities of a constantly changing world further cumulates its capital of meaning. The result is simultaneously close- and openminded. On the one hand, it implies an acceptance of things that do not always make sense at the moment; on the other hand, it means believing in a long-term history where everything is meaningful and happens for a reason. The decisive difference here does not lie in dogma, but in the proximity of the apocalyptic horizon, a term that might deserve closer scrutiny. The word apocalypse has gained worldwide spread through Christian eschatological writings such as the Book of Revelation and is often used to describe visions of downfall and destruction, but the Greek word means unveiling and signifies a vision not merely of desolation, but of a world to be born out of it: “[…] and he showed me the holy city of Jerusalem, which came down from God through the heavens and carried the glory of God; its light was like that of precious stones, clear as jasper and crystal. It had a strong, high wall with twelve gates, and twelve angels upon them, and twelve names inscribed, the names of the tribes of Israel […] the wall had twelve foundation stones, and on them were the names of the twelve apostles of the Lamb […] all that is great and honorable of people will be brought inside. And never will

anything be brought inside that is profane, abominable or deceitful; only things that are written on the Scroll

afterword

of Life of the Lamb”7.

The vision of teleological totality symbolized by the New Jerusalem is psychotic8, but it cannot exist wholly in itself; it can only become fully meaningful in juxtaposition to the forces that it neurotically excludes. To banish any fear of it ever being undermined by the latter, the author assures us that it is being protected by walls that are both strong and high, and gates that are guarded by angels; at the same time, these walls and gates are built with the spolia from past and present constructions of historical meaning. The twelve tribes of Israel were dispersed, together with the First Temple, as Jerusalem was sacked in the days of the Old Covenant; the Twelve Apostles of the New Covenant are the representatives of a nascent Church that the Revelation itself shows to be scattered and persecuted. Mimicking and alluding to earlier biblical books, the Text is a mirror of the City, a likeness that is further emphasized by the concluding warning not to add to or omit anything from it9. While all that still carries significance from the earlier covenants is carefully assembled and assimilated in the New Jerusalem, nothing is to remain of its antagonist, the Great Babylon. That city will be annihilated and cast into the depths, a culmination point of the descriptions at which the apocalypticist most excels: those of violence. The Revelation is violent at the core, because beyond the forced unity of fragments, the truly meaningful world can only come about through Umberto Eco, Misreadings, transl. William Weaver, San Diego/ London/New York 1993, p. 21. 2 My special thanks, as so often, go to Charles Lock. 3 “I felt that Averroës, wanting to imagine what a drama is without ever having suspected what a theatre is, was no more absurd than I, wanting to imagine Averroës with no other sources than a few fragments from Renan, Lane and Asin Palacios”. Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths: Selected stories and other writings, transl. by James E. Irby, New York 2007, p. 155. 4 Thomas Bauer, Die Vereindeutigung der Welt: Über den Verlust an Mehrdeutigkeit und Vielfalt, Ditzingen 2019, pp. 17–40. 5 See, for instance, Dario Fernandez Morera, The Myth of the Andalusian Paradise: Muslims, Christians and Jews under Islamic Rule in Medieval Spain, New York 2016; and Candida Moss, The Myth of Persecution: How Early Christians invented a Story of Martyrdom, New York 2013. 6 Ps. 118:22. 7 Rev. 21:10–12, 14. 8 Cf. Carl Gustav Jung, Antwort an Hiob, München 2007, pp. 96–97. 9 Rev. 22:19.

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the smashing of the facts that seem to contradict it. The adversary in this concern is a truly terrifying one, at least from the viewpoint of a Christian apocalypticist in the early second century: it is the Roman Empire at the peak of its power, an all-encompassing unit that had destroyed Jerusalem, left the Temple in ruins and scattered its believers, while leaving behind visible monuments and written testimonies throughout the inhabited world to its own endless riches and power. What the Revelation envisions is not only a future in which the ruins have become whole again, but one in which everything which appears to be whole at the time of the author has been brought to a state of destruction beyond repair. Anxiety

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What might have induced feelings of triumph in the author of the Revelation was a cause of embarrassment to the author of the Confessions. Deploring the fall of Rome to the Visigoths in an imploding Empire, St Augustine could neither ask for the resurrection of the Great Babylon, nor hasten the coming of the New Jerusalem. Directing the attention of his flock to the promise of the divine future and away from the ruins of the Pagan past, he wrote for a community of Christians that tried to find themselves a way between the two. It is in this state of in-betweenness that we find the Late Antique beholder. The stylites are standing at the top of the empty pillars, but the emperors are still roaming about; idols have been smashed, but images are multiplying everywhere; the Truth has conquered, but it is the cause of endless debates. The world is neither in a post-apocalyptic nor antediluvian state, or maybe it is both; fragmented, because it abounds with testimonies to past attempts to establish paradigms of meaning which are contradicted by the ever-changing present, it is pervaded by various beliefs in a redeeming future. It is inherently pluralistic, which does not mean that it is tolerant; as Thomas Sizgorich has emphasized in his study of violence in Christianity and Islam in Late Antiquity, it shows a growing anxiety about borders and boundaries that will delineate communities from each other, tell the sheep from the goats and good from bad10.

Anxiety is an important term here, because it is something else than fear. We can fear something we know, something we have defined and delineated, something that is clearly different. Anxiety is born out of an uncertainty of where one ends and the other begins, of boundaries being muddled. Sartre spoke of the “mucous” (visqueux) as something that we are trying to grasp but instead turns back to grasp us and will not let go11. Not least due to the gendered twist, it is tempting to trace such feelings in the revulsion that both John Chrystostom and Ibn Hanbal express when they are faced with questions about the provenience of their own communities12. But anxiety does not have to imply a direct threat to the subject either: it can also be born out of a more Kierkegaardian situation where external phenomena appear to be indistinct and where the danger is merely implicit: misjudging their true nature may lead to perdition. What is good, what is bad? Something may look familiar, but a voice tells us that it is not what we think it is. Something may look alien, but we still perceive it to be akin to what we know. The term we often hear in English is uncanny; the German word that Freud took a particular pleasure in dissecting is unheimlich, which in English would be unhomely: it feels like something we would be safe at home with, and yet it does not. The term “uncanny valley” is used in modern robotics to describe reactions that humanoid robots evoke among humans when they are felt to be similar and yet different. Late Antique desert fathers regularly encountered evil in the form of demons who had taken on pleasant human apparitions. But what if the same uncertainty pertained to a real corporeal being, perhaps even a saint? We can find an illustrative example of this in the treasure-trove of liminal characters and situations that is the ninth-century Life of St Andrew the Fool. The protagonist lives in the main streets and squares of Constantinople and regularly upsets his environment by breaking norms and boundaries. One evening he gets into a brawl with a group of boisterous youths in a tavern and warns them that they will face a severe beating for messing with him. After the youths get arrested and flogged by city guards for a completely different offense later on the same night, they realise that he was telling the truth.

Some say that the prophetic gifts of the fool show that he is a holy man, whereas others insist that he is possessed by demons. They leave it at that, realizing that they are unable to find out his true nature: “Discussing this and other matters of concern to the young they went away13”. Is this tolerance? It could be, but it seems more adequate to say that in a situation where the tentatively good cannot be distinguished from the tentatively bad, the options for action are limited. One may recognize the pattern from one of the most famous Byzantine descriptions of ancient statuary, the eighth-century Parastaseis syntomoi chronikai, in which pagan monuments of the capital are assumed to be inhabited by demons that will force them to topple and kill spectators, or otherwise haunt inhabitants of the city who show too much of an interest in them or try to remove them14. The Parastaseis cases are by no means unique and offer a glimpse into a city where not only ancient monuments, but the whole context for understanding them, has been fragmented. Without going into the rabbit-hole of Byzantine Iconoclasm, it should be noted that a feeling of ambiguity and uncanniness lies at the core of the debate on Christian imagery as well: if icons are possessing powers beyond human reason, who can tell if these powers are holy or demonic15? Of course the Iconoclasts had a very clear answer to this, as did the Iconodules, which ensured a century of learned discussion on how Christian images should be read and understood. But in cases where no such guidance was at hand, and the re-translation of past meanings was too uncertain, the easiest way of coping with the anxieties of everyday life in the midst of fragments was to simply accept their ambiguity. In a sense, Islam was better equipped for the state of in-betweenness16. As far as images are concerned, its adherents usually had little reason to burn what they had no intention of worshipping; they never entered the uncanny valley of Byzantine Iconoclasm, though they did show, from the very onset, a strong suspicion towards Christian symbols. It is a pattern that was retained even after the Byzantine capital had fallen to the Ottomans: churches that were converted into mosques had their crosses effaced, whereas many of the

mosaics in Hagia Sophia remained visible into the early modern period17. As in Byzantine times, the ubiquitous fragments of the past became part of an everyday present where they often took on talismanic significance: the snake column in the Hippodrome was believed to protect the city from snakes, whereas the statue of Justinian I outside the Hagia Sophia was destroyed precisely because it was assumed to bring bad luck to the new rulers18. Now long ago, Cyril Mango wrote of the “mist of superstition” that had characterized the popular understanding of ancient monuments in Byzantium and the “deeply medieval” attitudes of its intellectuals19, but the question that should perhaps be raised at this point is: medieval and superstitious in contrast to what?

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10 Thomas Sizgorich, Violence and Belief in Late Antiquity: Militant

Devotion in Christianity and Islam, Philadelphia 2009, pp. 21–45.

11 Jean-Paul Sartre, L’être et le néant: Essau d’Ontologie phénomé-

nologique. Paris 1943, pp. 650–661.

12 Thomas Sizgorich, Violence and Belief (n. 10), pp. 241–55,

270–71.

13 The Life of St Andrew the Fool, Lennart Rydén ed., Uppsala

1995, p. 30, l. 260 –271.

14 Constantinople in the Early Eighth Century: the Parastaseis Syn-

tomoi Chronikai, Averil Cameron, Judith Herrin eds, Leiden 1984, p. 90. 15 Leslie Brubaker, John Haldon, Byzantium in the Iconoclast Era c. 680–850, Cambridge 2011, pp. 53–66, 785–86. It should perhaps be noted that the Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai (n. 14), p. 62 accuses the first emperor associated with Iconoclasm, Leo iii, of having destroyed pagan statuary as well. 16 As is the case in Christianity, the readiness to violent solutions increases with the proximity of the apocalyptic horizon: Umar, the companion of the prophet Muhammad and later Caliph known under the Messianic name al-Faruq (the distinguisher) for his love of clear judgments, is once said to have heard about a weird and uncanny youth in Medina who some people suspected of being the Dajjal or Antichrist. He asked permission from the Prophet to kill the youth, but the Prophet responded that it would make no sense, because if the youth were truly the Dajjal, it would not be possible to kill him anyway. See David Cook, Studies in Muslim Apocalyptics, Princeton 2002, p. 110. 17 Gulru Necipoğlu,“The Life of an Imperial Monument: Hagia Sophia after Byzantium”,in Hagia Sophia from the Age of Justinian, R. Mark, A. Ş. Cakmak eds, Cambridge 1992, pp. 195–225; see also Ciğdem Kafescioğlu, Constantinopolis/ Istanbul: Cultural Encounter, Imperial Vision, and the Construction of the Ottoman Capital, University Park 2010, sp. pp. 20, 60. 18 See most recently Elena N. Boeck, The Bronze Horseman of Justinian in Constantinople: the Cross-Cultural Biography of a Mediterranean Monument, Cambridge 2021; otherwise Julian Raby, “Mehmed the Conqueror and the Equestrian Statue of the Augustaion”,Illinois Classical Studies, xii/2 (1987), pp. 305–13. 19 Cyril Mango, “Antique Statuary & The Byzantine Beholder”, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, xvii (1963), pp. 53–75, p. 68. For a more recent study of this, see Helen Saradi-Mendelovici, “Perceptions and Literary Interpretations of Statues and the Image of Constantinople”, Byzantiaka, xx (2000), pp. 66–73.

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Disenchantment When, in Rome, the so-called Pasquino – the colloquial name for Hellenistic-style sculpture group from the Roman imperial era – began to lash out against the Renaissance popes in satirical epigrams, it might have followed in the footsteps of an ancient practice20; but it also took place in a world where ancient spolia were gradually being bereft of local or individual agency and placed in their proper historical context. Critical editions of texts cleansed ancient works from medieval accretion and scholia leftovers, and eventually modern archeology began to extract ancient artefacts from the layers of later sediments. It is worth drawing a parallel to Northern Europe, where the Reformation not only strived to bypass any medieval mediations of the Bible, but may have unwittingly created entirely new ways of appreciating the objects of art that they were dragging out of the churches21. Claiming Iconoclasm as the origin of the modern museum may sound blasphemous, but we are not talking about the physical destruction of objects as much as of their isolation from any context that might have induced ambiguity22. Modernity was born out of historical awareness, a rejection of the in-betweenness associated with what would become known as the Middle Ages; in some sense also out of a spatial re-orientation that bypassed the multi-layered and messy world of the Mediterranean23. The discovery of direct access – be it to Antiquity, the Scripture, or India – was vital to the development of science as we know it, but the price of facts was paid in meanings: the more complete knowledge became on nature and history, the more fragmented they had to appear in their own, inherent complexity. A chasm – the “Great Divide”, to speak with Bruno Latour – was opening up where another one had closed, this time between the human experience and the studied world. The ruins of the past were always present in this landscape: as a source of inspiration for future greatness, as a reminder of all human futility, as an object of critical studies and as a setting for shuddering-inducing art and literature. The Byzantines may never have collected ancient art in the way that became a practice in the West, but neither did they come up with the idea to adorn their gardens

with fake Roman ruins. Edward Gibbon, for his part, claimed that the idea to write the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire came to him one autumn evening when he was sitting among the ruins of the Forum Romanum and saw a group of monks celebrating a vesper in the former temple of Jupiter. The episode raises many questions. Did the creative impulse come from seeing the ruined state of ancient Rome and the ultimate folly of Christian fanaticism? Or is there an undertone of envy towards the monks in his description, for whom the ruins clearly were not dead and to which the ancient sites still did hold a significance that the historicity of critical Modernity refused him24? Like St Augustine, Gibbon deplores the fall of Rome, but as opposed to the Late Ancient church father, he has no hopes in the New Jerusalem. For Friedrich Schiller, the disenchantment came from Christianity itself: its finite, monistic worldview had left the world empty and tech­no­lo­gical, like clockwork: nature became ent­gö­ttert, bereft of its gods25. Friedrich Hegel, by contrast, picked up the Christian apocalyptic belief in an end of history, deplored the wrong turn that the world had taken in the Byzantine period and expressed his belief in a singularity from which history would be meaningful in all its complexity26. Irrespective of their models of historical explanation, both of them hinted at two extremes of the modern that would put frightening marks on the ensuing century: nihilism and totalitarianism. It is perhaps not entirely unfair to say that the rejection of in-betweenness had led precisely to the point which both the agents of the Renaissance and the Reformation had ultimately dreamt of reaching: to the all-encompassing paradigm of a universal empire, and to the all-annihilating ideology of an apocalyptic faith. The End. And perhaps a Beginning “But where is the ambiguity? It is over there, in a box”. Monty Python’s Flying Circus

Does the post-modern state constitute a return to Late Antiquity? At least, it is perhaps not a mere coincidence that the two terms gained prominence about the same time, in the wake of a growing disillusionment with the traditional paradigms of both Modernity and Antiquity. The post-modern

interest in fragments and ruins is well-known, as is its embracing of ambiguity and complexity. Consequently, it has been accused of cultural relativism and of encouraging anti-enlightenment, of not standing up for the open society. It is true that one inherent problem of openness is its tendency to tolerate intolerance; this was already criticized by Karl Popper. But as already stated, tolerance presumes a clear and unambiguous knowledge of what should be tolerated or not; in cases where we do not have clear knowledge or understanding, it is better to stick with the term openness in its most open sense of the word. In his defense of the open society, Karl Popper claims that the “Dark Ages”began with Constantine and Justinian, and skips over the entire ensuing thousand-year period on two pages in order to get from Plato to Hegel in one go. His intention seems to have been to first and foremost criticize certain historicist philosophers of his time who admired the Middle Ages as a role model for an integrated European culture, but he thereby effectively consigned the entire epoch to their closed reading and created a historicist narrative of his own for describing it27. We currently live in an age when the Middle Ages have become a rallying-point of historicist ideologies which are trying to pit closed and homogenous cultures, religions, and civilizations against each other; precisely because of this, it should be considered a far too important topic to be left without a fight for the ambiguity, fluidity, and uncertainty that dissipates its sources. How can we approach this state of mind, however, if its nature is that of the fragmented and

ambiguous? How do we read fragments of readings, how do we translate the ambiguous? Should we follow the examples of the Constantinopolitans who refrained from asking too many questions or inquiring too much into the true nature of the things, or are we too hopelessly modern to refrain from rattling the fragment and awakening the demon in it? Umberto Eco offered at least one advice in his own postmodern credo. In the Name of the Rose, the lost book of Aristotle that initiates a chain of murders inspired by the Book of Revelation is one about comedy and comic relief. Laughter is cognitively related to aggression and violence, but it is not necessarily absurd or nihilistic; it hints at the existence of a suppressed or unknown understanding that unexpectedly surfaces. Perhaps it is apocalyptic in the truest sense of the word, because it signifies the revelation of a knowledge hidden to our conscious self. Being able to laugh shows that we are not only able to understand, but also to understand when we do not understand – and that we are able to live with this ambiguity.

afterword

Olof Heilo The Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul [email protected] 1 / The “Pasquino"

20 Gareth Sears, Peter Keegan, Ray Laurence, Written Space in

the Latin West, 200 bc to ad 300, London 2013, pp. 65–77.

21 Bruno Latour, On the Modern Cult of the Factish Gods, Durham/

London 2010, pp. 91–92.

22 Amy Knight Powell, Depositions: Scenes from the Late Medieval

Church and the Modern Museum, New York 2012.

23 Lisa Jardine, Worldly Goods: A New History of the Renaissance,

London / New York 1996, p. 86.

24 Lionel Gossman, The Empire Unpossessed: An Essay on Gibbon’s

The Decline and Fall, Cambridge 1981. It is worth remembering that Gibbon briefly converted to Catholicism in his youth (ibidem, pp. 12–14). 25 Schiller,“Die Götter Griechenlands”, Der Teutsche Merkur, lxi (1788), pp. 250–260, p. 258. 26 Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Geschichte, Eduard Gans ed., Berlin 1848, pp. 411–414. 27 Karl Popper, The Open Society and Its Enemies, Abingdon 2002, pp. 274–277.

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photographic credits

Copyright rules K autorským právům In the matter of copyright, every author is responsible for the illustrations published. In general, Convivium follows § 31 of the law no. 121/2000 Coll. (Copyright Act), where paragraph 1 c explicitly states: “Copyright is not infringed by anybody who uses the work while teaching for illustration purposes or during scientific research, without seeking to achieve direct or indirect economic or commercial advantage and without exceeding the extent adequate to the given purpose; however, if possible, the name of the author, unless the work is an anonymous work, or the name of the person under whose name the work is being introduced in public and the title of the work and source, shall always be indicated.” Ve věci autorských práv ilustrací je každý autor odpovědný za publikované ilustrace. Obecně se ale Convivium řídí ust. § 31 zákona č. 121/2000 Sb. (autorský zákon), kde je v odst. 1, písm. c) výslovně řečeno: „Do práva autorského nezasahuje ten, kdo užije dílo při vyučování pro ilustrační účel nebo při vědeckém výzkumu, jejichž účelem není dosažení přímého nebo nepřímého hospodářského nebo obchodního prospěchu, a nepřesáhne rozsah odpovídající sledovanému účelu; vždy je však nutno uvést, je-li to možné, jméno autora, nejde-li o dílo anonymní, nebo jméno osoby, pod jejímž jménem se dílo uvádí na veřejnost, a dále název díla a pramen.“

I. JEVTIĆ & I. NILSSON – Figs 1–5, photo by David Hendrix.

and Archangel Gabriel on the Bema Arch, ays048, Byzantine

I. NILSSON – Figs 1–2, photo by David Hendrix; Fig. 3,

Monuments Photograph Archive, gabam, Koç University; Fig. 8,

photo by Mabi Angar; Fig. 4, photo by Gunnel Ekroth; Figs

photo by Tahsin Aydoğmuş, South Gallery, The Southwest

5–6, photo by author. K. R. MATHEWS – Figs 1–7, 11–12,

Exedra, ays161, Byzantine Monuments Photograph Archive,

photo by author; Fig. 8, photo by Irene Vassos; Fig. 9, photo

gabam, Koç University; Fig. 9, from “Nefayis-i Mimariyyeden

by Miguel Hermoso Cuesta; Fig. 10, photo by Olaf Tausch.

Bir Bina-yı Mukaddes ve Muazzam”, Şehbal, i/11 (1909), p. 217.

C. C. ARSLAN – Fig. 1, photo by Tahsin Aydoğmuş, View from

For the image, see Şehbal, i /11 (1957 sc 9), National Library

the North Gallery to the South, ays091, Byzantine Monuments

of Turkey, Ankara, Turkey; Fig. 10, from “Ayasofya”, Servet-i

Photograph Archive, gabam, Koç University; Fig. 2, photo by

Fünun, xlvii/1201 (1914), p. 73. For the image, see Servet-i Fünun,

Tahsin Aydoğmuş, View from the Central Nave to the South,

xlvii/1201 (1956 sb 501), National Library of Turkey, Ankara,

Dome, South Tympanum Wall, Pendentive and Seraphims,

Turkey. A. F. BERGMEIER – Fig. 1, Victoria and Albert Museum,

The Library Of Mahmud i , ays043, Byzantine Monuments

London; Figs 2–7, 9–15, photo by author; Fig. 8, photo by David

Photograph Archive, gabam , Koç University; Fig. 3, photo

Hendrix. M. MULLETT – Figs 1–5, marked up by the author;

by Tahsin Aydoğmuş, Dome, Calligraphy, North and South

Fig. 6, photo by Liz James. B. VAN DEN BERG – Fig. 1, photo

Tympanum Walls, Pendentive and Seraphims, ays035, Byzantine

by Jebulon, Wikimedia Commons. I. JEVTIĆ – Figs 1, 3–4, 6–13,

Monuments Photograph Archive, gabam, Koç University; Fig. 4,

Blago Fund; Figs 2, 5, after Slobodan Nenadović, Bogorodica

photo by Tahsin Aydoğmuş, South Gallery (from the West

Ljeviška njen postanak i njeno mesto u arhitekturi Milutinovog

Gallery), ays174, Byzantine Monuments Photograph Archive,

doba, Belgrade 1963, tabs iv – v, pp. 293–294. S. YALMAN

gabam, Koç University; Fig. 5, photo by Tahsin Aydoğmuş, The

– Fig. 1, photo d_096, Gertrude Bell Archive, Newcastle

West Gallery (from the South), ays153, Byzantine Monuments

University; Fig. 2, British Library Board (002043891 pl. 63a);

Photograph Archive, gabam, Koç University; Fig. 6, photo by

Fig. 3, British Library Board (002043891 pl. 63b); Figs 4–5, 9,

Tahsin Aydoğmuş, Detail of the Monogram from a Column

Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles (96.r .14 [a19]); Figs 6, 8,

Capital, ays250, Byzantine Monuments Photograph Archive,

Courtesy of Karaman Museum; Figs 7, from Gustave Mendel,

gabam, Koç University; Fig. 7, photo by Tahsin Aydoğmuş, Apse,

“Le Musée de Konia”, Bulletin de correspondance hellénique, xxvi

East Semi-Dome, Northeast and Southeast Exedrae, Calligraphy,

(1902), p. 225, figs 4–5; Fig. 10, photo by author. O. HEILO –

Apse Mosaics: Virgin and Child on the Apse Semi-Dome

Fig. 1, photo by Isuf Alla, with special thanks to Cenap Aydın.

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