The Legacy of Antiquity : New Perspectives in the Reception of the Classical World [1 ed.] 9781443867740, 9781443852494

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The Legacy of Antiquity

The Legacy of Antiquity: New Perspectives in the Reception of the Classical World

Edited by

Lenia Kouneni

The Legacy of Antiquity: New Perspectives in the Reception of the Classical World, Edited by Lenia Kouneni This book first published 2013 Cambridge Scholars Publishing 12 Back Chapman Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2XX, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2013 by Lenia Kouneni and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. .

ISBN (10): 1-4438-5249-X, ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-5249-4

“The art of the Greeks, of the Egyptians, of the great painters who lived in other times, is not an art of the past; perhaps it is more alive today than it ever was.” —Pablo Picasso, Two Statements by Picasso, 1923, in Picasso on Art: A Selection of Views, ed. Dore Ashton (London: 1972)

TABLE OF CONTENTS

List of Illustrations ..................................................................................... ix Foreword ................................................................................................... xv Acknowledgements .................................................................................. xvi Introduction ................................................................................................. 1 Lenia Kouneni Part I: Perceptions of Antiquity through the Ages Chapter One ................................................................................................. 8 The Crypta Neapolitana: Perception of a Roman Tunnel throughout History Stefano D'Ovidio Part II: Antiquity Seen through Medieval Eyes Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 30 “Artificioso vel incantato”: Aesthetic Appreciation, Superstition and Antiquity in Late Medieval Italy Lenia Kouneni Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 52 Constantine versus Barbarossa: Antique Law and Contemporary Politics in Pisa Henrike Haug Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 71 Nereids and Hippocamps: The Marine Thiasos on Late Antique and Medieval Byzantine Ivory and Bone Caskets Anthousa Papagiannaki

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Part III: Renaissance Approaches to Antiquity Chapter Five ............................................................................................ 106 The Metamorphosis of Orpheus in Italian Editions of Ovid's Metamorphoses, 1325-1570 Laura Rietveld Chapter Six .............................................................................................. 125 Jacopo Ripanda, Trajan’s Column and Artistic Fame in Renaissance Rome Kristin A. Arioli Part IV: British Attitudes to Greek and Roman Heritage Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 148 Images from the Peri Hypsous in the Art of Henry Fuseli Benoît Latour Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 161 Archaeology in Alma-Tadema’s Painting: The Influence of Pompeii Rosario Rovira-Guardiola Part V: Modernism and Antiquity Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 184 The Avant-garde Classicism of Giorgio de Chirico, 1911-1915 Silvia Loreti Chapter Ten ............................................................................................. 216 The Beauties: Repetition in Andy Warhol’s Paintings and Plato’s Ascent to Beauty Rachel Lane Hooper Chapter Eleven ........................................................................................ 227 Nike of Paionios: Panionios of Smyrna’s New Irredentist Victorious Symbol Spyridon Loumakis Contributors ............................................................................................. 270 Index ........................................................................................................ 274

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

1-1. Naples, Crypta Neapolitana: Western entrance. 1-2. Francisco Cassiano de Silva, Veduta della Grotta di Pozzuoli di fuori. From Domenico Antonio Parrino, Nuova Guida de’Forestieri, Napoli: 1700. 1-3. Naples, Crypta Neapolitana: Internal view, western section. 1-4. Naples, Crypta Neapolitana: Eastern entrance. 1-5. Naples, Crypta Neapolitana: Reinforcement works, eastern section. 1-6. Tabula Peutingeriana, detail that shows the Crypta Neapolitana. 1-7. Naples, Crypta Neapolitana: Madonnna and Child, 14th century. 1-8. Naples, Crypta Neapolitana: Chapel on the tunnel’s eastern entrance. 1-9. Naples, Crypta Neapolitana: Virgil the Magician, 15th century. 1-10. Joris Hoefnagel, Elegantissimus ad mare Tyrrhenum ex monte Pausilipo Neapolis montisque Vesuvii prospectus, 1578. 1-11. Gaspar van Wittel, Grotta di Pozzuoli, ca 1710. Naples, Museo Nazionale di San Martino. 1-12. Louis Ducros, Grotta di Pozzuoli, ca 1793. Lausanne, Musée Cantonal des Beaux-Arts. 1-13. Giacinto Gigante, Grotta di Pozzuoli, ca 1856. Naples, Museo Nazionale di San Martino. 2-1. Beatrizet, Engraving of the Dioscuri, Constantinian Colossal Group, after Greek 5th c. B.C. Prototypes, Reversed, 1546, for Lafréry’s Speculum. 2-2. Equestrian Statue of Marcus Aurelius, Bronze, c. 176 A.D. Rome, Piazza del Campidoglio. 2-3. Four Horses, Copper-gilt Monumental Horses from a Quadriga. Roman, 4th c. A.D.?. Venice, Façade of San Marco, now Museo Marciano. 3-1. Coin with the Head of Barbarossa, Berlin, Münzkabinett (SMB); a second coin (Munich, Staatliche Münzsammlung, in: Schramm, Percy Ernst, Die deutschen Kaiser und Könige in Bildern ihrer Zeit 7511190, edited by Florentine Mütherich (München: Prestel, 1983): 462, Fig. 15. 3-2. Architrave from San Silvestro, Main Portal, Pisa, in: Milone, Antonio, “Architrave con Storie di Costantino e Papa Silvestro,” in I Marmi di Lasinio. La collezione di sculture medievali e moderne nel Camposanto

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List of Illustrations

di Pisa, edited by Clara Baracchini (Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1993), 171, Fig. 16. 3-3. Architrave from San Giovanni, Main Portal, Campiglia Marittima, Author’s photograph. 3-4. Antique Hunting Sarcophagus, Rome, Palazzo dei Conservatori, in: Die Römischen Jagdsarkophage (Die antiken Sarkophagreliefs. Die Sarkophage mit Darstellungen aus dem Menschenleben 2), edited by Bernard Andreae (Berlin: Gebrüder Mann, 1989), Plate 95, Fig. 4. 3-5. Early Christian Sarcophagus, Pisa, Camposanto, in: DreskenWeiland, Jutta: Repertorium der christlich-antiken Sarkophage 2. Italien mit einem Nachtrag Rom und Ostia, Dalmatien (Museen der Welt, 1998). Rep. II,12. 3-6. Lateran Portico, Engravings after the Mosaics, in: Ciampini, Giovanni, De sacris aedificiis a Constantino magno constructis. Synopsis historica (Rome: Komarek, 1693), Plate 2. 3-7. Architrave from San Lorenzo, South Portal San Gottardo, Genova, in: Müller, Rebecca, Sic hostes Ianua frangit. Spolien und Trophäen im mittelalterlichen Genua (Weimar: VDG, 2002), Fig. 16. 4-1. Fragments from a casket found in Shurafa, Egypt, with marine creatures, bone, current location unknown. After F. Petrie and E. Mackay, Heliopolis, Kafr Ammar, Shurafa (London: British School of Archaeology in Egypt, 1915), pl. L, nos. 4-15. 4-2. A Nereid riding on a Hippocamp from the lock end panel of the Veroli casket, ivory, W: 10.1cm x H: 5.4cm. London, Victoria and Albert Museum. ©V&A Images/Victoria and Albert Museum, London. 4-3. A winged putto riding on a Hippocamp, detail from the back panel of a medieval casket, bone, W: 4.3cm x H: 4.9cm x Th.: 0.2cm. Paris, Musée du Moyen Aƣe. © Thierry Ollivier and RMN–Grand Palais. 4-4. Figures from the Marine Thiasos on the back of the lid and body panel of a medieval casket, bone, lid: W: 18cm x H: 4.3cm, body: W: 12cm x H: 3.5cm. Baltimore, The Walters Art Museum. © The Walters Art Museum, Baltimore. 4-5/6. A Triton and a sea lion, fragmentary plaques from a medieval casket, bone, W: 3.4cm x H: 6.1cm x Th.: 0.2cm and W: 3.5cm x H: 6.2cm x Th.: 0.2cm respectively. Liverpool, The Walker Art Gallery. © Courtesy National Museums Liverpool (The Walker Art Gallery). 5-1. Giovanni dei Bonsignori, Ovidio metamorphoseos vulgare (Venezia: Giovanni (Zoane) Rosso, 1497): LXXXIIIv. 5-2. Giovanni dei Bonsignori, Ovidio metamorphoseos vulgare (Venezia: Giovanni (Zoane) Rosso, 1497): LXXXVr.

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5-3. Giovanni dei Bonsignori, Ovidio metamorphoseos vulgare (Venezia: Giovanni (Zoane) Rosso, 1497): LXXXXIv. 5-4. Ludovico Dolce, Le Trasformationi (Venezia: Gabriele Giolito, 1553). 5-5. Ludovico Dolce, Le Trasformationi (Venezia: Gabriele Giolito, 1553). 5-6. Ludovico Dolce, Le Trasformationi (Venezia: Gabriele Giolito, 1553). 5-7. Giovanni Andrea dell’Anguillara, Le metamorfosi d’Ovidio (Venezia: Giovanni Griffio, 1561): 161r. 5-8. Giovanni Andrea dell’Anguillara, Le metamorfosi d’Ovidio (Venezia: Giovanni Griffio, 1561): 177r. 5-9. Niccolò degli Agostini, Tutti gli Libri de Ouidio Metamorphoseos (Venezia: Niccolò Zoppino, 1522): 120v. 5-10. Giovanni Andrea dell’Anguillara, Le Metamorfosi ridotte in ottava rima (Venezia: B. Giunti, 1584). 5-11. Giovanni Andrea dell’Anguillara, Le Metamorfosi ridotte in ottava rima (Venezia: B. Giunti, 1584). 6-1. Column of Trajan, Rome. 113 A.D. Author’s photograph. 6-2. Trajan Addressing His Troops, Column of Trajan, Rome. Author’s photograph. 6-3. Jacopo Ripanda. Trajan Addressing His Troops (from the Column of Trajan). c. 1500. Ms. 254 fol. 6v, Biblioteca dell’Istituto dell’Archeologia e Storia dell’Arte, Rome. Copyright/Image permission courtesy of the Biblioteca dell’Istituto dell’Archeologia e Storia dell’Arte, Rome. 6-4. Naval scene, Column of Trajan, Rome. Author’s photograph. 6-5. Jacopo Ripanda. Trajan Addressing His Troops (from the Column of Trajan). c. 1500. Ms. 254 fol. 14r, Biblioteca dell’Istituto dell’Archeologia e Storia dell’Arte, Rome. Copyright/Image permission courtesy of the Biblioteca dell’Istituto dell’Archeologia e Storia dell’Arte, Rome. 6-6. Palazzo dei Conservatori, Rome: the “Salone dei Conservatori”. Reconstruction of the fresco cycle by Jacopo Ripanda, c. 1500-1503. 6-7. Palazzo dei Conservatori, Rome: the “Sala delle Guerre Puniche”. Reconstruction of the fresco cycle by Jacopo Ripanda, c. 1500-1503. 6-8. Jacopo Ripanda. “Sala delle Guerre Puniche,” c. 1500-1503. Palazzo dei Conservatori, Rome. Author’s photograph. 6-9. Jacopo Ripanda. Naval Victory of the Egadi Islands (detail), from the “Sala delle Guerre Puniche,” c. 1500-1503. Palazzo dei Conservatori, Rome. Author’s photograph.

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List of Illustrations

6-10. Palazzo Santoro (now Doria-Pamphili), Rome: the Salone Grande. Reconstruction of the fresco cycle by Jacopo Ripanda, c. 1503-1505. 6-11. Palazzo dell’Episcopio (Bishop’s Palace), Ostia borgo. Author’s photograph. 6-12. Jacopo Ripanda. “Salone Riario,” Palazzo dell’Episcopio, Ostia borgo. c. 1511-1513. Author’s photograph. 6-13. Jacopo Ripanda. “Salone Riario,” Palazzo dell’Episcopio, Ostia borgo. c. 1511-1513. Author’s photograph. 6-14. Palazzo dell’Episcopio, Ostia borgo: the “Salone Riario”. Reconstruction of the fresco cycle by Jacopo Ripanda, c. 1511-1513. 6-15. Key to the “Salone Riario” fresco cycle diagram (Fig. 6-14). 6-16. Jacopo Ripanda. Hand-to-Hand Combat (scene 5). “Salone Riario,” Palazzo dell’Episcopio, Ostia borgo. 6-17. Battle of Tapae (Scene LXX), Column of Trajan, Rome. 6-18. Jacopo Ripanda. Roman Conquest of a Mountain Fortress (scene 6). “Salone Riario,” Palazzo dell’Episcopio, Ostia borgo. 6-19. Roman Conquest of a Mountain Fortress (Scene CXII), Column of Trajan, Rome. 6-20. Jacopo Ripanda. Trajan Returning to Italy (scene 10; after Scene LXXIX, Column of Trajan). “Salone Riario,” Palazzo dell’Episcopio, Ostia borgo. 6-21. Jacopo Ripanda. Frieze with Foliate Putto & Griffin. Palazzo dell’Episcopio, Ostia borgo. 7-1. Henry Fuseli, With Eëriboea’s help Hermes rescues Ares from the Aloeids, 1819-1822, pencil, pen and wash on paper, 31,8 x 40,6 cm, Munich, private collection. Courtesy of the owner. Photograph Engelbert Seehuber. 7-2. Henry Fuseli, pencil sketch of the Aloads, verso of Fig. 7-1. Courtesy of the owner. Photograph Engelbert Seehuber. 8-1. Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, An Exedra, 1869. Oil on wood, 38 x 59.8 cm. Frances Lehman Loeb Art Center (Gift of Mrs Avery Coonley), Poughkeepsie, NY. 8-2. CIL X 997, Inscription of the tomb of M. Porcius. 8-3a. Photograph of the Street of Tombs from the Collection of AlmaTadema. University of Birmingham. Portfolio 160, nº 12471-1915. 8-3b. Photograph of the Tomb of Mammia from the Collection of AlmaTadema. University of Birmingham. Portfolio 160, nº 12477-1915. 8-4. Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Sketch of the inside of the Theatrum tectum. University of Birmingham. Portfolio 149, E2823. 8-5. Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, A Vintage Festival, 1870. Oil on canvas, 77 x 177cm. Hamburger Kunsthalle, Hamburg.

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8-6. Photograph of a selection of amphorae and pots from the Collection of Alma-Tadema. University of Birmingham. Portfolio 138, E11676. 8-7. Sketch with graffiti on the wall from the Collection of Alma-Tadema. University of Birmingham. Portfolio 160, nº E2846. 9-1. Giorgio de Chirico, ET QUID AMABO NISI QUOD ÆNIGMA EST? (What Shall I Love If Not the Enigma), 1911. Oil on canvas, 72,5 x 55 cm. Private collection, Lugano. © SIAE. 9-2. Giorgio de Chirico, The Enigma of the Oracle, 1910. Oil on canvas, 42 x 61 cm. Private collection. © SIAE. 9-3. Giorgio de Chirico, The Enigma of an Autumn Afternoon, 1910. Oil on canvas, 45 x 60 cm. Private collection, Buenos Aires. © SIAE. 9-4. Emile Gilliéron, Archaeological Drawing of the South-Eastern Pediment of the Archaic Parthenon, in Theodor Wiegand, Die Archaische Poros – Architectur zur Akropolis von Athens (1904), pl. 1. © Gennadius Library, American School of Classical Studies, Athens. 9-5. Emile Gilliéron, Reproduction of the reconstructed Vaphio Cups, in Gilliéron and Son, Galvanoplastische Nachbildungen. Mykeneischer und Kretischer (Minoischer) Altertümer, Athens, 1904, figs. 1a and 1b. © Gennadius Library, American School of Classical Studies, Athens. 9-6. Anonymous, Black and white photograph of Sophia Schliemann wearing ‘The Treasure of Priam’, ca.1875. © Gennadius Library, American School of Classical Studies, Athens. 9-7. Ernst Ziller, Heinrich Schliemann’s Tomb in the First Cemetery, Athens, 1891. Author’s photograph. 9-8. Robert MacPherson, Ariadne, 1863, Black and white photograph. 9-9. Giorgio de Chirico, The Soothsayer’s Recompense, 1913. Oil on canvas, 135.6 x 180 cm. Philadelphia Museum of Art. © SIAE. 11-1. Nike of Paionios stands upon an eagle and descends to earth, holding her himation with her raised left hand and with the right one probably a palm branch. The left pin of her peplos has been unfastened, so that it reveals her breast. Museum of Olympia. Photo from Nikos Kaltsas, Olympia (Athens: Ekdotiki Athinon, 1997), ph. 105. 11-2. Front-page of daily political newspaper ȆĮIJȡȓȢ (no. 6756/12 October 1912). The Archive of Greek Parliament Library, Department of Microfiche. 11-3. Greek bronze Victory medal by engraver-médailleur Henry Nocq. On the obverse is depicted Nike of Paionios. On the reverse is depicted young Hercules struggling with Hera’s snakes and the inscription “ȂǼīǹȈ ȊȆǼȇ ȉȅȊ ȆȅȁǿȉǿȈȂȅȊ ȆȅȁǼȂȅȈ 1914-1918”, as well as the names of the various Allied and Associated nations. Photo from www.monarchmilitaria.co.uk/imagesM/greek.

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List of Illustrations

11-4. A small replica of Nike’s statue in plaster (1 m.), made by the famous Greek sculptor Michael Tombros (1889-1974), today in the Museum of Olympia. Photo from Elsi Spathari, Mind and body. The revival of the Olympic idea 19th-20th century (Athens: Hellenic Ministry of Culture, 1996), ph. 161. 11-5. Two of the imperforated stamps without gum of “Therissos Uprising” depicting Nike of Paionios. 1905. Photo by the author. 11-6. Nine values with perforation of very bad quality of private stamp issue from northern Epirus with the Greek inscription “ǾȆǼǿȇȅȈ” above Nike of Paionios. May-July 1914, December 1915-March 1916 or mid 1919-mid 1920. Photo by the author. 11-7a. Emblem of PANIONIOS Gymnastic Club with Nike of Paionios and the inscription “ȆǹȃǿȍȃǿȅȈ īȊȂȃǹȈȉǿȀȅȈ ȈȊȁȁȅīȅȈ – ȈȂȊȇȃǾ 1890”. Photo by the author. © “Panionios Gymnastic Club”. 11-7b. Shield of PANIONIOS Gymnastic Club with Nike of Paionios on a letter, dated on 12-2-1922 (almost half a year before the destruction of Smyrna), addressed to the best Panionios champion ever Demetrios Karambatis, concerning his participation in the 1924 Olympic Games in Paris. Archive of ‘Panionios’ G.S.S./Elias Misaelides. 11-7c. Shield of PANIONIOS Gymnastic Club without Nike of Paionios on a letter, dated on 24-11-1922 (a couple of months after the destruction of Smyrna), addressed again to Demetrios Karambatis, concerning his election as a member of the Board of Directors of Panionios Gymnastic Club in Athens. Archive of ‘Panionios’ G.S.S./Elias Misaelides. 11-7d. Reception of Réné Puaux in the headquarters of ‘Panionios’ in Smyrna, with president D. Dallas, honorary president Chrysostom of Smyrna, ex-president A. Arealis, honorary member general Tsounoukas and chief of Greek Red Cross Ȃ. Chrysoveloni. 13/2/1919. Photo from Nikolaos Lorentis, “ȅ ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ īȣȝȞĮıIJȚțȩȢ ȈȪȜȜȠȖȠȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ,” ȂȚțȡĮıȚĮIJȚțȐ ȋȡȠȞȚțȐ 3 (1940): 417. 11-8. Front page of the Statute of S.E.A.G.S. with its official shield. 1900. From the Library of the Greek Parliament. 11-9. Front-page of daily illustrated magazine Ǿ ȃȓțȘ (no. 3/ 2 May 1921). From the Library of The Hellenic Literary and Historical Archive.

FOREWORD

A few years ago, a group of academics and doctoral students came together to share their perspectives and research in the “Legacy of Antiquity” conference at the University of St Andrews (April 2006), organised by the editor. The two-and-a-half day conference was intended to bring together scholars who were working on various aspects of the revival, survival, influence and reception of antiquity in Western art and culture. The conference was sponsored by the Arts and Humanities Research Council, the Classical Association, and the School of Art History, University of St Andrews, and included papers that covered the Middle Ages to the modern period. This volume includes a selection of papers from the conference and seeks to present recent developments in the field of classical reception studies combining an interdisciplinary approach with new archival studies. As the gestation period of the project indicates, this is not a replica of the event but the fruit of much subsequent development; the essays have been extended, changed and revised taking into account new perspectives from recent scholarship. Recent years have seen an increase of interest in classicism and the reception and survival of antiquity. Classical Reception Studies is a rapidly developing field of research and teaching, and a growing number of new scholars investigate issues of reception of classical texts, ideas, performance, and material culture across different cultural contexts and in different media. This volume aims to add new perspectives in this growing field of scholarship. We hope that it will be equally appealing to archaeologists, classicists, historians and art historians and to students and teachers of classical themes, comparative cultural studies, and reception studies.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The completion of this volume would not have been possible without the help and support of many people. First and foremost, I would like to thank the contributors for their good nature and patience with my requests and delays; their dedication and enthusiasm have been instrumental in bringing this volume to fruition. I would also like to extend my gratitude to all the academic colleagues who attended the conference at St Andrews that first generated the idea for this book; their comments and feedback provided the basis for engaging debates and fruitful discussions. A wholehearted thank you goes to Dr Ruth Macrides, Dr Julian Luxford, Dr Charlotte de Mille, Dr Maria Halkias, Dr Margarita Lianou and Dr Konstantinos Zafeiris, who acted as moderators of the various panels and facilitated the smooth running of the conference. Special thanks go to Professor Elizabeth MacGrath for her keynote lecture that opened the conference and her continuous engagement with and support of all the contributors. The editor and authors are particularly grateful for the financial support of the Arts and Humanities Research Council, the Classical Association and the School of Art History, University of St Andrews. A number of libraries, archives, institutions in the U.K. and abroad assisted by providing access, expertise, images or funding to individual contributors for this volume. In particular, we would like to thank The Warburg Institute (London); Soprintendenza per i beni architettonici, paesaggistici, storici, artistici ed etnoantropologici (Naples); Biblioteca di Storia dell’arte Bruno Molajoli (Naples); IMT (Lucca); Frances Lehman Loeb Art Center; University of Birmingham Library, Department of Special Collections; Hamburger Kunsthalle, Hamburg; Manchester City Art Galleries; Victoria and Albert Museum; National Liverpool Museums; The Walters Art Gallery; and the Reunion des Musees Nationaux. Special thanks are due to the staff at Cambridge Scholars Publishing. I am particularly grateful to Amanda Millar for inviting me to publish this volume, to Carol Koulikoyrdi for her help, support and patience in dealing with the manuscript.

INTRODUCTION LENIA KOUNENI

“The past is everywhere… Relics, histories, memories suffuse human experience… Whether it is celebrated or rejected, attended to or ignored, the past is omnipresent.”1

The persistence of Greek and Roman antiquity in art and culture of Western Europe is hardly a new area of research. Art historians have studied the influence of antique on later art for a long time. As early as the late nineteenth century, Aby Warburg (1866-1929) engaged in an interdisciplinary pursuit of understanding the history and subsequent fates of the classical tradition. He regarded the recovery of ancient forms as a central factor within the history of European art and thought. Arguing that “every age has the renaissance of antiquity it deserves”,2 he set out to examine how non-classical artists used the reservoir of the classical past. Since Warburg’s work, the relationship between antiquity and later cultures has been submitted to more systematic readings. Some of these deal with the phenomenon of appropriation itself, while others examine the transmission and survival of form and ideas.3 In most cases these 1

David Lowenthal, The Past is a Foreign Country (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), xv. 2 Ernst H. Gombrich, Aby Warburg, An Intellectual Biography (London: Warburg Institute, University of London, 1970), 238. For a translation of Warburg’s collected works, see Aby Warburg, The Renewal of Pagan Antiquity, intr. Kurt W. Forster; trans. David Britt (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute for the History of Art and Humanities, 1999). 3 To name but a few, Erwin Panofsky, Renaissance and Renascences in Western Art (Stockholm: Almquist & Wiksell, 1960); Roberto Weiss, The Renaissance Discovery of Classical Antiquity (Oxford: Blackwell, 1969); Salvatore Settis, ed., Memoria del antico nell’ arte italiana (Turin: Einaudi, 1984-5); Robert Bolgar, ed., Classical Influences on European Culture, A.D. 500-1500 (London: Cambridge University Press, 1971) are indicative of the first case. Ruth Rubinstein and Phyllis Bober, Renaissance Artists and Antique Sculpture (London: Harvey Miller, 1985); Cornelius Vermeule, European Art and the Classical Past (Harvard:

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Introduction

works examined how antiquity shaped later times and followed a “source and influence” approach, focusing on how different artists used classical antiquity as a model of inspiration for their own works. However, over the last decades the discussion of the relationship between antiquity and postclassical culture has been enriched and has changed focus. The notion of reception has revolutionised the field of Classics and the relationship between past and present. The modern term of reception, which developed from the 1960s in literary criticism, goes beyond the traditional notion of “classicism” and shifts the emphasis away from the creator to the audience, and to his or her perception of art.4 Antique works are not seen as possessing one original meaning, but as having the ability to acquire new ones. Their meanings are not fixed, but fluid, according to who looks at them. The use of the words “legacy” and “reception” in the title of this volume may sound contradictory. According to the Oxford English Dictionary “legacy” is “anything handed down by an ancestor or predecessor”, and as such, has been linked to the more conservative approach of “the classical tradition”, which taken from the Latin verb tradere, is interpreted as something that has been handed down from one generation to the next. Thus, both terms, “legacy” and “the classical tradition”, have been associated with studies of the transmission and dissemination of classical culture through the ages, emphasising the influence of classical sources - literary, artistic or otherwise - on subsequent works. On the other hand, reception studies focus on the receiving society and aim to track down how non-classical people (and classical, in certain cases) responded to and adapted them. These terms, though, need not be contradictory. The recent Companion to the Classical Tradition includes a variety of contexts and insights for classical receptions, and it holds the notion of “the classical tradition” at

Harvard and Oxford University Press, 1964); Michael Greenhalgh, The Classical Tradition in Art (London: Duckworth, 1978); and Francis Haskell and Nicholas Penny, Taste and the Antique (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 1981) belong to the type of bibliography that examines the transmission and survival of forms and ideas. 4 For a discussion of the theory of reception, see Lorna Hardwick, Reception Studies (Oxford & New York: Oxford University Press, 2003); Lorna Hardwick and Christopher Stray, eds, A Companion to Classical Receptions (Malden & New York: Blackwell, 2008); and Charles Martindale, “Reception,” in A Companion to the Classical Tradition, ed. Craig W. Kallendorf (Malden, MA: Blackwell Pub., 2007), 297-311.

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its very core.5 Charles Martindale in his chapter on “Reception” defines it rather accurately as “a two-way process, backward as well as forward, in which the present and the past are in dialogue with each other”.6 The authors of this volume address various aspects of this continuous dialogue and the shift between tradition and reception. In doing so, they use a rich and diverse vocabulary that demonstrates the complexity of the relationship between ancient and modern contexts. The term “reception” appears alongside “the classical tradition”, the “legacy of antiquity”, and other relevant terms, such as “appropriation”, “adaptation”, “translation”, “perception”, “interpretation” and “influence”.7 The notion of “reuse”, either of materials or of forms and ideas, has also been an integral part of the discussion of the presence of antiquity in subsequent periods. This collection of essays explores the uses of the past from a wide range of perspectives. The papers are drawn from a spectrum of cultures and chronological periods; from medieval to modern times, from Italian to Byzantine, from French to British. The characters involved in each case study accessed the past through different means, employing varying combinations of texts, oral traditions, iconographic representations, and visible remains of the landscape. The material is divided into five major sections; perceptions of antiquity through the Ages, antiquity seen through medieval eyes, Renaissance approaches to antiquity, British attitudes to Greek and Roman heritage, and modernism and antiquity. The first part demonstrates the persistence of antiquity and reveals the long afterlife of antique monuments. Stefano D’Ovidio explores the rich and complex history of reception of the Crypta Neapolitana, an ancient Roman tunnel beneath the Posillipo hill on the west side of Naples. He traces literary references to the Crypta from the Middle Ages to the nineteenth century, discussing how the perception of this unusual monument changed throughout history according to contemporary political, social and aesthetic views. The next ten chapters trace instances of classical reception chronologically, from the Middle Ages to the modern period.

5

Craig W. Kallendorf, ed., A Companion to the Classical Tradition (Malden, MA: Blackwell Pub., 2007). 6 Martindale, “Reception,” 298. 7 For a rather stimulating paper considering the term “appropriation” as an active process, see Robert S. Nelson, “Appropriation,” in Critical Terms for Art History, eds. Robert S. Nelson and Richard Shiff (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003, 2nd ed.), 160-73.

4

Introduction

The second part, “Antiquity Seen through Medieval Eyes”, focuses on the uses and interpretation of the antique during the Middle Ages in Italy and Byzantium. The traditional view that antiquity was only rediscovered during the Renaissance has long been proven inaccurate and attention has shifted to the early discovery of antiquity back in the Middle Ages. Lenia Kouneni draws attention to late medieval Italian texts and their references to antiquity. Her paper explores the attitudes of late medieval Italian authors toward antique art, focusing on the supernatural powers ascribed to pagan remains and juxtaposing these attitudes with an increasing appreciation of the aesthetic values of ancient art. Presenting several cases of superstition and admiration of antique art, this paper aims to discuss the reasons behind these beliefs and to examine any difference in attitudes that occurred in the fourteenth century. Henrike Haug presents a case of appropriation of classical models in twelfth-century Italy. Starting from the architrave of the Pisan church of San Silvestro, which illustrates the story of Constantine and Sylvester, she discusses different modes of the perception of Constantine in the twelfth century and shows the complexity of dealing with the legacy of antiquity, both in terms of aesthetic appreciation and its historical and ideological use. The third paper of this section looks at the appreciation of antique artistic forms within the lay and clerical elites of the Byzantine Empire. Concentrating on the iconography of a number of late antique and medieval ivory and bone caskets, Anthousa Papagiannaki brings forward a selection of antique marine scenes depicted on these works and considers the role such artefacts play in our effort to understand how Byzantine society perceived antiquity and its legacy. The third section, “Renaissance Approaches to Antiquity”, considers the importance of antiquity in the Renaissance and presents new evidence of the complex relationship between the two cultures. In the first of the two case studies, Laura Rietveld offers new insight into the survival of pagan mythology. She focuses on the popular myth of Orpheus and explores the appearance of the mythical figure in the editions of one of the most frequently read ancient poems, Ovid’s Metamorphoses, produced in Italy between 1325 and 1570. She analyses how the figure of Orpheus changes and develops in these editions, both in terms of the texts and the woodcuts that accompany them. Kristin Arioli takes us to early sixteenthcentury Rome; her paper explores a significant moment in sixteenthcentury antiquarianism, Jacopo Ripanda’s record of Trajan’s column’s spiral reliefs, and the impact of this achievement on the artist’s success during the first two decades of the 1500s. The fourth part, “British Attitudes to Greek and Roman Heritage”, turns to the reception of classical culture in Britain during the late

The Legacy of Antiquity

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eighteenth and nineteenth century. Benoît Latour’s paper draws attention to the popularity of pseudo-Longinus’s treatise on aesthetics Peri Hypsous (On the Sublime) during the second half of the eighteenth and the early nineteenth centuries. He demonstrates that passages quoted in the Peri Hypsous as exemplars of the sublime appealed to British artists of the Neoclassical and Romantic period as particularly suitable subjects for history painting. He focuses his analysis on a series of Homeric illustrations by Henry Fuseli and discusses their relation to the Peri Hypsous. In a wider perspective this study raises questions apropos reassessing an imagery that has often been interpreted as determined by the political turmoil surrounding the French Revolution. In her paper Rosario Rovira-Guardiola approaches Victorian art through an examination of the impact of recent archaeological discoveries in Italy. She examines Alma-Tadema’s interest in the archaeology and material culture of ancient Rome, focusing on the artist’s use of Roman inscriptions from Pompeii in his paintings as evidence of his rather scientific interest in archaeology. Finally, the authors in the last part of this volume examine the history of European modernism by exploring the alliance between the avant-garde and the antique. The first paper by Silvia Loreti considers de Chirico’s original approach to ancient Greece and Rome and argues that the birth of prehistoric archaeology was an important factor to the artist’s reinterpretation of antiquity. Taking into account Apollinaire’s writings, Loreti proposes that de Chirico’s painting, imbued with a Nietzschian tension, urged the negotiations of classicism and primitivism that led the return of many modern artists to antiquity. The next paper focuses on Andy Warhol and presents an aspect of his work that has attracted little attention, the parallels to Plato’s philosophy. This is the theme that Rachel Hooper pursues by illustrating that Plato’s Symposium and in particular, his description of the ascent to Beauty is a theory that shares many similarities with the repeating forms in Andy Warhol's paintings. The last paper of this section discusses an instance in the afterlife of a famous fifthcentury B.C. sculpture, the Nike of Paionios. Spyridon Loumakis takes us on a journey through some of the semiological connotations acquired by the iconic statue in modern times and investigates a neglected facet of classical reception, the ties between antiquity, Nationalism and the history of sports in Greece. This collection of essays is a snapshot of a field in movement, illustrative of current directions and hopeful of producing new ones. The legacy of antiquity is omnipresent, and as multifaceted as suggested by the wide range of the papers. The authors hope that this volume will present new perspectives, deal with the ever elusive enigmas and open the way for

6

Introduction

future research and investigation to all those who seek to explore the constant fascination with the antique.

Works Cited Bolgar, Robert, ed. Classical Influences on European Culture, A.D. 5001500. London: Cambridge University Press, 1971. Gombrich, Ernst H. Aby Warburg, An Intellectual Biography. London: Warburg Institute, University of London, 1970. Greenhalgh, Michael. The Classical Tradition in Art. London: Duckworth, 1978. Hardwick, Lorna. Reception Studies. Oxford & New York: Oxford University Press, 2003. Hardwick, Lorna, and Christopher Stray, eds. A Companion to Classical Receptions. Malden & New York: Blackwell, 2008. Haskell Francis, and Nicholas Penny. Taste and the Antique. New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 1981. Kallendorf, Craig W., ed. A Companion to the Classical Tradition. Malden, MA: Blackwell Pub., 2007. Lowenthal, David. The Past is a Foreign Country. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985. Martindale, Charles. “Reception.” In A Companion to the Classical Tradition, edited by Craig W. Kallendorf, 297-311. Malden, MA: Blackwell Pub., 2007. Nelson, Robert S. “Appropriation.” In Critical Terms for Art History, edited by Robert S. Nelson and Richard Shiff, 160-173. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003, 2nd ed. Panofsky, Erwin. Renaissance and Renascences in Western Art. Stockholm: Almquist & Wiksell, 1960. Rubinstein, Ruth, and Phyllis Bober. Renaissance Artists and Antique Sculpture. London: Harvey Miller, 1985. Settis, Salvatore, ed. Memoria del antico nell’arte italiana. Turin: Einaudi, 1984-5. Vermeule, Cornelius. European Art and the Classical Past. Harvard: Harvard and Oxford University Press, 1964. Warburg, Aby. The Renewal of Pagan Antiquity. Introduction by Kurt W. Forster; translated by David Britt. Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute for the History of Art and Humanities, 1999. Weiss, Roberto. The Renaissance Discovery of Classical Antiquity. Oxford: Blackwell, 1969.

PART I: PERCEPTIONS OF ANTIQUITY THROUGH THE AGES

CHAPTER ONE THE CRYPTA NEAPOLITANA: PERCEPTION OF A ROMAN TUNNEL THROUGHOUT HISTORY STEFANO D'OVIDIO

In this paper I will examine how the perception of a single Roman monument has changed throughout history. The monument I will deal with is the Crypta Neapolitana, a 711 metres long tunnel excavated through the hill of Posillipo, on the west side of the Bay of Naples. The Crypta, also known as the “Grotta di Pozzuoli” or “di Posillipo”, was built by the Roman architect Cocceius during the early Augustan age in order to connect Naples with the coastal cities of Pozzuoli, Baiae and Cumae. It made an alternative route, faster and easier, for travellers to and from Naples, which would allow them to avoid the longer Via Antiniana, a difficult road running over the low range of hills west of the city. 1 The Crypta Neapolitana is one of the few underground tunnels of such dimensions surviving from the Roman age and it is notably the one that has remained in use the longest, since it served as a public road until 1885, when the present “Grotta Nuova” was opened.2 The tunnel’s impressive structure and gloomy appearance have struck the imagination of local inhabitants and foreign travellers ever since it was built. For almost twenty centuries visitors to Naples have recorded their impressions on the Crypta and conjectured about its origin and function. It is by analysing their 1

Werner Johannowsky, “Contributi alla topografia della Campania antica,” Rendiconti dell’Accademia di Archeologia, Lettere e Belle Arti di Napoli 27 (1952): 114-18, 133-35. See also: Martin Frederiksen, Campania, ed. with additions Nicholas Purcell (London: British School at Rome, 1984), 334. 2 On Roman tunnels see, Maria Stella Busana, Via per montes excisa. Strade in galleria e passaggi sotterranei nell’Italia romana (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 1997).

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perception of such an unusual monument, that we will be able to see how the attitude towards antiquity changed throughout history.

1. The Crypta’s Structure Although a large number of literary and visual sources make the Crypta Neapolitana one of the best documented Roman monuments in Naples, its original structure and present condition are almost unknown. The tunnel is entirely carved into the soft tufa rock of the hill. The main entrance (Fig. 1-1) was originally located on the western side, on the way from Pozzuoli. The entrance has preserved its original appearance, although the chaotic urban development of the last few decades has disfigured its magnificence, clearly visible in an eighteenth-century engraving by the Spanish engraver Francisco Cassiano de Silva (Fig. 1-2).3 The Crypta’s interior (Fig. 1-3) is only 4.5 metres wide and looks exactly as ancient authors used to present it: a dark and narrow passage beneath the mountain, which can barely allow two carts to travel in opposite directions. At about 100 metres from the western entrance, the tunnel’s height dramatically decreases from 16 to 5 metres and for the following 500 metres the road runs into the deep obscurity of the hill. Height re-increases more gradually at about 100 metres before the exit on the opposite side. Two ventilation shafts, or spiracula, brought some light into the cavern, but they were almost completely occluded over the centuries. The spiracula were first restored in 1455-56 by Alphonse I of Aragon, king of Naples, who also ordered the lowering of the floor at the tunnel’s eastern section to bring more light into the Crypta.4 As a result of this substantial alteration, a new monumental entrance was built at the eastern side of the Crypta on the way from Naples (Fig. 14). Alterations and the tricky geological conditions of the hill affected the stability of the tunnel and reinforcements became necessary in 1548 and several more times during the following centuries, as testified by the complex system of pointed arches and pillars still surviving (Fig. 1-5). Finally, in 1917 a rockslide blocked the tunnel, which has been inaccessible to the public ever since. A difficult restoration is now ongoing after decades of abandonment, but the full re-opening of the Crypta may still be a long time away. 3 Giancarlo Alisio, Napoli nel Seicento: le vedute di Francesco Cassiano de Silva (Naples: Electa, 1984). 4 Camillo Minieri Riccio, “Alcuni fatti di Alfonso I di Aragona,” Archivio Storico per le Province Napoletane 6 (1881): 249, 447. See also, Mario Capasso, Il sepolcro di Virgilio (Naples: Giannini, 1983), 43-46, 57-59.

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2. The Crypta Neapolitana in the Earliest Sources The Crypta Neapolitana was built to serve the Phlegraean Fields, a region which played a strategic role in Roman politics, economy and culture under Augustus and his successors. According to Martin Frederikssen, the tunnel, as well as other works patronised in the area by Octavian and his son-in-law Agrippa, “were designed to impress the beholder with the colossal power and awesome magnitudo animi of their creators”.5 This is the main reason why the Crypta is duly recorded in the pages of loyal writers of the period. The Greek geographer Strabo presented the tunnel as a spectacular alteration of natural environment. In the fifth book of his Geography, he wrote the Crypta was a work by Cocceius, the same architect who had also built the Crypta Cumana, a two branched tunnel connecting the Acropolis of Cumae with the Lake of Avernus and the sea.6 Strabo is not only a primary source for the Crypta’s history, but also the source of its first legendary interpretation. He referred to the Cimmerians, mythical inhabitants of the area that, according to Homer, used to live in artificial grottoes and underground tunnels.7 That was just a legend, Strabo says, but maybe Cocceius was inspired by such a story when he built the cryptas in both Cumae and Naples. This is the reason why, after the rediscovery of Strabo’s Geography in the fifteenth century, the Crypta was often believed the work of legendary Cimmerians. From the beginning, the Crypta’s disadvantages of dust and darkness are mentioned at least as often as its advantages. Seneca’s letter to Lucilius gives a vivid description of the discomfort of travelling through the tunnel: No place could be longer than that prison; nothing could be dimmer than those torches, which enabled us, not to see amid the darkness, but to see the darkness. But, even supposing that there was light in the place, the dust, which is an oppressive and disagreeable thing even in the open air, would destroy the light.8 5

Frederikssen, Campania, 319-58. Strabo, Geography (5, 4), Loeb Classical Library, ed. and trans. Horace Leonard Jones (Cambridge, Mass.; London: Harvard University Press; William Heinemann LTD, 1923), 445, 451. 7 Homer, Odyssey (11, 15); see, Nicola Biffi, L’Italia di Strabone. Testo traduzione e commento dei Libri V e VI della Geografia (Genoa: Università di Genova, 1988), 290, notes 427-30. 8 Lucius Annaeus Seneca, Ad Lucilium Epistulae Morales (LVII), trans. Richard M. Gummere (London: W. Heinemann-New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1917), 382-87. 6

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Travelling to Naples via mainland was even worse than taking the route of a rough sea. In Seneca’s Stoic opinion the Crypta was as disagreeable as the lavish life led by high-class Romans in the Phlegraean Fields.9 Despite Seneca’s bad impression, the Crypta remained a useful route for travellers to and from Naples and Pozzuoli during the following centuries, as is also attested by the Tabula Peutingeriana, a twelfth or thirteenth-century copy of a fourth century Roman road map.10 On the section of the map that illustrates the roads and towns of Campania is depicted the tunnel, tiny and schematic (Fig. 1-6). The Crypta is the only underground passage indicated in the Tabula, which clearly testifies to its importance within the local road system.

3. The Perception of the Crypta in Medieval Times In medieval times the impressive structure and dark appearance of the Crypta became something to wonder at. According to the Jewish traveller Benjamin of Tudela, who was in Naples around 1167, such an alteration of the natural environment had a military function.11 He knew from the so called Book of Josippon–a tenth century Jewish history written in Southern Italy12–that Romulus was so frightened by David’s army that he built defensive structures all over his kingdom. Benjamin, therefore, assumed the Crypta was part of the defensive system planned by the mythical founder of Rome to prevent an attack from the powerful king of Israel. If for the Jewish-cultured Benjamin the tunnel was evidence of Israel’s supremacy over ancient Rome, to the English diplomat and writer Gervase 9

Marcello Gigante, “Civiltà letteraria nei Campi Flegrei,” in Campi Flegrei, ed. Giancarlo Alisio (Naples: Franco Di Mauro Editore, 1995), 32-33. 10 Annalina and Mario Levi, Itineraria picta. Contributo allo studio della Tabula Peutingeriana (Rome: L’erma di Bretschneider, 1967), 17-23, 131-32; Luciano Bosio, La Tabula Peutingeriana, una descrizione pittorica del mondo antico (Rimini: Maggioli, ca 1983), 118-19; and Francesco Prontera, ed., Tabula Peutingeriana. Le antiche vie del mondo (Florence: Olschki, 2003). 11 Ezra H. Haddad, trans., Itinerary of R. Benjamin of Tudela, 1165-1173 (Baghdad: Eastern Press, 1945), 12. 12 There are no modern English translations of this book; see the Latin version, Jean Gagnier, trans., Josippon, sive Josephi Ben-Gorionis Historiae Judaicae Libri Sex (Oxford: Theatro Sheldoniano, 1706), 7. For the critical edition of the Hebrew text see, David Flusser, ed., SƝfer Yǀsipǀn (Jerusalem: The Bailik Institute, 197880); see also the article by Shulamit Sela in the Medieval Jewish Civilization. An Encyclopedia, ed. Norman Roth (New York and London: Routledge, 2003), 37780.

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of Tilbury the Crypta recalled the Latin poet Virgil. Gervase visited Naples in 1180. In the third book of his Otia Imperialia, written about 1215, he described Posillipo as “a mountain through which a tunnel has been excavated for such a length that someone standing at its mid-point can scarcely see either end.”13 In spite of such a darkness, Gervase noticed, the tunnel was a safe place: no harm could befall any traveller after Virgil had worked a wonder with his “arte mathematica”. Tales presenting Virgil as a wonder worker suddenly appeared in northern Europe during the second half of the twelfth century and Gervase’s book is one of the earliest and most detailed sources for this popular medieval legend about the Latin poet. In Naples and in the rest of Italy there is no evidence of such a legend until the fourteenth century and the only reason why Virgilian magic tales are set mainly in Naples is because Virgil’s most read biographers, Suetonius and Servius, stated that the poet spent a period of his life in a villa in Posillipo, where he was buried after his death in Brindisi in 19 AD.14 Foreign and cultured travellers to medieval Naples, such as Gervase and the German diplomat Conrad of Querfurt, who was in Naples in 1194, associated the Latin poet with the wonders they saw in the city: impregnable walls, talismans preventing Vesuvius’s eruptions and other natural disasters, the Roman Baths of Pozzuoli, located just outside of the Crypta’s western entrance and still visited for their healthy thermal waters throughout the Middle Ages. No one but Virgil, who was considered as an almost supernatural character, could have been able to work such mirabilia for the city where he lived and was buried. The Crypta’s association with Virgil played a role in the identification of the poet’s grave in a Roman columbarium, which stands just off the eastern entrance (Fig. 1-4).15 The quest for Virgil’s burial place in Naples was the subject of early Virgilian legends and it is clear from both Gervase and Conrad that no one on earth really knew where exactly it was located. 13

Gervase of Tilbury, Otia imperialia: Recreation for an Emperor, ed. and trans. S.E. Banks and J.W. Binns (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002), 586-87. 14 Jan M. Ziolkowsky and Michael C. J. Putnam, eds, The Virgilian Tradition. The First Fifteen Hundred Years (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2009), 825-1024, with reference to earlier bibliography. 15 On Virgil’s grave and its fortune in history see, John B. Trapp, “The Grave of Vergil,” The Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 47 (1984): 1-31; see also, Stefano D’Ovidio, “Boccaccio, Virgilio e la Madonna di Piedigrotta,” in Boccaccio Angioino. Materiali per la storia culturale di Napoli nel Trecento, ed. Giancarlo Alfano, Teresa D’Urso and Alessandra Perriccioli Saggese (Brussels: Peter Lang, 2012), 329-46.

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Neapolitans, Gervase wrote, did not even know where the precious relics were, and when an Englishman finally found them in a mountain that had no trace of excavation, they decided to secure them in a locked room inside the so-called Egg Castle built by the Norman kings in the twelfth century on a small island overlooking the city.16 It is only in a later Neapolitan source–the fourteenth-century Chronicle of Partenope–that the mountain where Virgil’s relics were finally found is associated with the hill of Posillipo and the original tomb of the poet located in the Roman columbarium, which stands on the Crypta’s eastern entrance.17 The Chronicle was written before 1350 and can be considered as the first example of local historiography. In order to reconstruct the ancient history of Naples the author refers to old tales about the city, including those ones about Virgil he knew from Gervase’s Otia Imperialia and other sources. But the chronicler went even further when he stated that Virgil was the creator of the Crypta. According to him, the Crypta allowed travellers to get easier access to the Baths of Pozzuoli, where there were also paintings illustrating the healing properties of the Baths, made by no one else but Virgil himself. The Crypta’s medieval association with Virgil, as well as its perception as a miraculous and almost religious place, is testified by two frescoes, recently rediscovered on the Crypta’s walls. The first one is a fourteenth century fresco portraying the Virgin and Child between St. John the Evangelist and another Saint, maybe St. John the Baptist (Fig. 1-7). The fresco is painted on a marble votive niche, which is now isolated on the southern wall of the tunnel as a result of the fifteenth century alterations to this side of the Crypta. The Virgin’s image had a devotional function and may have offered protection to travellers through the dark and scary way beneath the mountain.18 On the opposite side there is a chapel excavated through the rock (Fig. 1-8) and decorated with frescoes, few traces of which still survive. A tufa block is carved near the entrance and was maybe used as an altar. On another wall there is a niche with an early fifteenth century fresco portraying a long white-bearded man (Fig. 1-9). The latter has been considered as an image of either Christ or Saint Luke, but another possible 16

Gervase, Otia, 802-05. Samantha Kelly, ed., The Cronaca di Partenope: An Introduction to and Critical Edition of the First Vernacular History of Naples (c. 1350) (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2011), 195-97. 18 Stefano D’Ovidio, “La Madonna di Piedigrotta tra storia e leggenda,” Rendiconti dell’Accademia di Archeologia, Lettere e Belle Arti di Napoli 75 (2006-2007): 6574. 17

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identification that I would like to put forward is that of Virgil as a magician. The poet’s grave stands at few metres from here and his image in the chapel near the Crypta would have reminded the travellers that the tunnel was held as a work by Virgil himself. The Latin poet was normally portrayed as a young man, but in medieval iconography it is not unusual to find images of Virgil wearing a beard and long hair, as in a fourteenth century statue from his native town of Mantua, now in the Museum of Palazzo San Sebastiano. The chapel at the eastern entrance of the Crypta is attested by local sources before the fifteenth century and the Chronicle of Partenope says that it was dedicated to “Santa Maria dell’Itria”. A wider church with a hospital was built before 1207 on the shore not far from the Crypta’s eastern entrance. The chapel was dedicated to the Virgin Mary and named “in pede Cryptae” or “Piedigrotta”, i.e. at the Crypta’s foot.19 Petrarch, who was in Naples in 1341 and 1343, mentions both the church and the chapel in his 1358 Itinerary to the Holy Land.20 The church, he says, was a pilgrimage stop for sailors travelling along the Neapolitan shore and the chapel was very popular in Neapolitans’ devotion (“sacellum devotissimum”). Petrarch gives a vivid description of the Crypta. He still seems fascinated by the religious atmosphere one could breathe while travelling through the tunnel, which he described as “an extraordinary path that has nearly a sacred aspect (iter mirum et quasi religioni proximum)”. But Petrarch had developed a new perception of the Crypta and presented the tunnel as an evidence of Rome’s glorious past. The Crypta, he wrote, is mentioned by Seneca and it served as a road to connect the Phlegraean Fields to Naples. Medieval tales about Virgil no longer appealed to him and he argued that the tunnel was attributed to the poet because his tomb was nearby. “Nowhere had I read that Virgil was a sorcerer,” Petrarch answered to Robert of Anjou, king of Naples, when they visited the Crypta Neapolitana in 1341. “On the tunnel’s walls”, Robert replied, “one could discern the marks of edged tools.”21

19

Ibid, 52-54. Theodore J. Cachey, trans., Petrarch’s Guide to the Holy Land, Itinerary to the Sepulchre of Our Lord Jesus Christ (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame, 2002), 10.0-10.1. 21 Ibid. 20

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4. The Perception of the Crypta during the Early Modern Period In less than a century the perception of the Crypta was profoundly changed. According to the Italian humanist Biondo Flavio, one can only deal with the Crypta by investigating literary sources. In his 1455 Italia Illustrata, Posillipo was the area where Roman aristocracy had magnificent villas, as attested by Pliny, and the Crypta is presented as a dusty underground road from Pozzuoli to Naples, as attested by Seneca. Ancient authors do not mention the architect of the Crypta. His name is therefore unknown, Biondo stated with no reference to Virgil’s legend.22 After Biondo’s Italia Ilustrata, the real identity of the Crypta’s architect was an issue debated by Neapolitan humanists of the fifteenth century. In a letter from 1484 to Bernardo Michelozzi, Francesco Pucci, chief librarian of the king of Naples, wrote that they believed the Crypta was a work sponsored by Lucullus, a Roman general who lived in the first century BC. Pucci himself was of the same opinion before he could read in a recently re-discovered Greek book that the Crypta Neapolitana was built by an architect named Lucius Cocceius Acutus.23 The book was Strabo’s Geography, and from that moment onward the Crypta was praised by cultured authors as a work by the Roman architect Cocceius. It was only in the sixteenth century that the Crypta was finally approached for its significant architectural shape, rather than for its connections with literary sources. In his 1568 Descritione di tutta Italia, the Dominican friar Leandro Alberti shows a profound understanding of the tunnel’s structure and strategic function, which he had acquired through measurement and accurate description. He noticed that the Crypta can be divided into three different sections for a total length of 2000 Neapolitan feet, corresponding to nearly 670 metres and approximately correct.24 The tunnel’s function, he wrote, was to allow travellers to and from Pozzuoli to avoid the hill of Posillipo and reach Naples by following the coastline. Alberti’s book widely circulated and promoted the importance and fame of the Crypta abroad. But the Roman tunnel became famous in Europe especially after an engraving by the Dutch painter Joris Hoefnagel (Fig. 1-10), which was included in the popular Civitates Orbis Terrarum 22

Biondo Flavio, Italia Illustrata (Basel: Froben 1559), 416. Pucci’s letter is published by Tammaro De Marinis, La Biblioteca napoletana dei re d'Aragona, vol. 2 (Milan: Hoepli, 1947-52), 254-55. 24 Leandro Alberti, Descrittione di tutta Italia (Venice: Lodovico degli Avanzi, 1568), 181-82. 23

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in oes incisae et exusae, published from 1572.25 The Crypta is portrayed by Hoefnagel on the way from Pozzuoli. This is just an excuse to show a spectacular view of the Bay of Naples, unusually taken from the mainland, but it is remarkable that Hoffenagel’s first reproduction of the Crypta matched the description of earlier sources. The tunnel is presented as a public road excavated through a mountain on the way from Pozzuoli, which–Petrarch, Biondo and Alberti had already stated–was its main original access. Between the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries, the Crypta was the most popular tourist attraction in Naples and it was visited for its own sake and for its Virgilian associations, but for Neapolitans it remained a miraculous and religious place. From the fifteenth to the early twentieth century, the tunnel was the set of one of the most important Neapolitan folkloristic events, the Feast of Piedigrotta. The event took place in the Crypta on the night between the seventh and the eighth September to celebrate the foundation of the church “in pede Cryptae”. According to a legend, the church was built after an apparition of the Virgin seen by a monk travelling into the Crypta. The tale may have been inspired by the Virgin’s image located at the tunnel’s eastern entrance (Fig. 1-7), as attested by an illumination in a fifteenth-century book, which is the legend’s earliest source.26 In the middle of the Crypta a light burned in front of a chapel with another image of the Virgin and “even a puritan would worship that light in such darkness”, the English catholic Richard Lassels says. In his 1670 Voyage of Italy, the first English guide for the Grand Tour, Lassels described his emotions during a visit to the Crypta. He was a teacher of classical literature and his tour into the tunnel was a sort of an Arcadian dream. Maybe the Crypta was Polyphemus’s cavern, he thought, or maybe it was here that Jupiter was hidden from his devouring father Saturn.27 During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries the Crypta was described by famous writers and gentlemen from all over Europe: from the Goethes, both father and son, to Sir William Hamilton, to Voltaire, to the Abbè de saint Non. Their perception of such an unusual monument varies 25

Teresa Colletta, “Il «Theatrum Urbium» e l’opera di Joris Hoefnagel nel Mezzogiorno d’Italia (1577-1580),” Archivio Storico per le Province Napoletane 102 (1984): 45-102; see also Salvatore di Liello, “La fortuna dei Campi Flegrei nell’incisione Fiamminga da Hendrik van Cleve a Gilles Sadeler,” in Campi Flegrei, 167-69. 26 D’Ovidio, “La Madonna di Piedigrotta,” 76-84. 27 Richard Lassels, The Voyage of Italy or a Complete Journey through Italy. The Second Part (Paris: V. du Moutier, 1670), 289-92.

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as widely as the perception of Antiquity did during the Enlightenment and the Romantic age. Three paintings portraying the tunnel’s Neapolitan entrance give a visual example of different approaches towards the Crypta during that period. The optical precision in Gaspar van Wittel’s view (Fig. 1-11) reflects the painter’s interest in a neat and balanced representation of nature, which would result in some of the most beautiful views of archaeological sites and monuments of southern Italy. In sharp contrast with van Wittel’s classical interpretation, Louis Ducros’s pre-Romantic painting (Fig. 1-12) presents the tunnel in a sublime atmosphere, which reflects his emotional approach to nature. The Crypta’s traditional iconography still survives in a mid-nineteenth-century sketch by the Neapolitan painter Giacinto Gigante (Fig. 1-13), who is able to capture the monument’s austerity with vivid impressionism. Visual and literary sources on the Crypta Neapolitana offer a clear example of how the attitude towards antiquity has changed throughout history. Praised or criticised by ancient writers according to their different political and aesthetic opinions, in medieval times the tunnel became a magic and religious place. This was not simply based on folkloristic beliefs and superstitions. On the contrary, it depended on cultured authors and their peculiar interpretation of Virgil as possessing such supernatural powers that made him able to penetrate into the hidden secrets of nature.28 During the Renaissance, a new attitude towards antiquity developed and the Crypta was admired by humanists, such as Petrarch and Biondo for its connections with Latin literary sources. A modern interest in the tunnel’s original structure and function finally arose during the late Renaissance, when authors such as Leandro Alberti started to investigate the environment as a combination of human activities and natural conditions. Legendary tales and literary connections still survived during the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries, thanks to local folklore and foreign travellers. Their reports made the Roman tunnel one of the most popular spots in the Grand Tour of Italy and testify to the Crypta’s importance in Neapolitan history.

28 Giovanni Battista Bronzini, “Tradizione culturale e contesto sociale delle leggende Virgiliane nell’Italia meridionale,” Lares 49 (1983): 511-48.

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Works Cited Alberti, Leandro. Descrittione di tutta Italia. Venice: Lodovico degli Avanzi, 1568. Alisio, Giancarlo. Napoli nel Seicento: le vedute di Francesco Cassiano de Silva. Naples: Electa, 1984. Biffi, Nicola. L’Italia di Strabone. Testo traduzione e commento dei Libri V e VI della Geografia. Genoa: Università di Genova, 1988. Bronzini, Giovanni Battista. “Tradizione culturale e contesto sociale delle leggende Virgiliane nell’Italia meridionale.” Lares 49 (1983): 511-548. Bosio, Luciano. La Tabula Peutingeriana, una descrizione pittorica del mondo antico. Rimini: Maggioli, ca 1983. Busana, Maria Stella, ed. Via per montes excisa. Strade in galleria e passaggi sotterranei nell’Italia romana. Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 1997. Cachey, Theodore J., trans. Petrarch’s Guide to the Holy Land, Itinerary to the Sepulchre of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame, 2002. Capasso, Mario. Il sepolcro di Virgilio. Naples: Giannini, 1983. Colletta, Teresa. “Il «Theatrum Urbium» e l’opera di Joris Hoefnagel nel Mezzogiorno d’Italia (1577-1580).” Archivio Storico per le Province Napoletane 102 (1984): 45-102. De Marinis, Tammaro. La Biblioteca napoletana dei re d'Aragona, vol. 2. Milan: Hoepli, 1947-52. Di Liello, Salvatore. “La fortuna dei Campi Flegrei nell’incisione Fiamminga da Hendrik van Cleve a Gilles Sadeler.” In Campi Flegrei, edited by Giancarlo Alisio, 162-81. Naples: Franco Di Mauro Editore, 1995. D’Ovidio, Stefano. “Boccaccio, Virgilio e la Madonna di Piedigrotta.” In Boccaccio Angioino. Materiali per la storia culturale di Napoli nel Trecento, edited by Giancarlo Alfano, Teresa D’Urso and Alessandra Perriccioli Saggese, 329-346. Brussels: Peter Lang, 2012. —. “La Madonna di Piedigrotta tra storia e leggenda.” Rendiconti dell’Accademia di Archeologia, Lettere e Belle Arti di Napoli 75 (2006-2007): 47-91. Flavio, Biondo. Italia Illustrata. Basel: Froben, 1559. Flusser, David, ed. SƝfer Yǀsipǀn. Jerusalem: The Bailik Institute, 197880. Frederiksen, Martin. Campania. Edited with additions by Nicholas Purcell. London: British School at Rome, 1984.

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Gagnier, Jean, trans. Josippon, sive Josephi Ben-Gorionis Historiae Judaicae Libri Sex. Oxford: Theatro Sheldoniano, 1706. Gervase of Tilbury. Otia imperialia: Recreation for an Emperor. Edited and translated by S.E. Banks and J.W. Binns. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002. Gigante, Marcello. “Civiltà letteraria nei Campi Flegrei.” In Campi Flegrei, edited by Giancarlo Alisio, 8-33. Naples: Franco Di Mauro Editore, 1995. Haddad, Ezra H., trans. Itinerary of R. Benjamin of Tudela, 1165-1173. Baghdad: Eastern Press, 1945. Johannowsky, Werner. “Contributi alla topografia della Campania antica.” Rendiconti dell’Accademia di Archeologia, Lettere e Belle Arti di Napoli 27 (1952): 84-146. Kelly, Samantha, ed. The Cronaca di Partenope: An Introduction to and Critical Edition of the First Vernacular History of Naples (c. 1350). Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2011. Lassels, Richard. The Voyage of Italy or a Complete Journey through Italy. The Second Part. Paris: V. du Moutier, 1670. Levi, Annalina and Mario. Itineraria picta. Contributo allo studio della Tabula Peutingeriana. Rome: L’erma di Bretschneider, 1967. Minieri Riccio, Camillo. “Alcuni fatti di Alfonso I di Aragona.” Archivio Storico per le Province Napoletane 6 (1881): 1-36, 231-258, 411-461. Prontera, Francesco, ed. Tabula Peutingeriana. Le antiche vie del mondo. Florence: Olschki, 2003. Sela, Shulamit. “Josephus.” In Medieval Jewish Civilization. An Encyclopedia, edited by Norman Roth, 377-380. New York and London: Routledge, 2003. Seneca, Lucius Annaeus. Ad Lucilium Epistulae Morales (LVII). Translated by Richard M. Gummere. London: W. Heinemann-New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1917. Strabo. Geography. Loeb Classical Library. Edited and translated by Horace Leonard Jones. Cambridge, Mass.; London: Harvard University Press; William Heinemann LTD, 1923. Trapp, John B. “The Grave of Vergil.” The Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 47 (1984): 11-31. Ziolkowsky Jan M., and Michael C. J. Putnam, eds. The Virgilian Tradition. The First Fifteen Hundred Years. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2009.

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Fig. 1-1. Naples, Crypta Neapolitana: Western entrance.

The Crypta Neapolitana

21

Fig. 1-2. Francisco Cassiano de Silva, Veduta della Grotta di Pozzuoli di fuori. From Domenico Antonio Parrino, Nuova Guida de’Forestieri, Napoli: 1700.

Fig. 1-3. Naples, Crypta Neapolitana: Internal view, western section.

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Fig. 1-4. Naples, Crypta Neapolitana: Eastern entrance.

The Crypta Neapolitana Fig. 1-5. Naples, Crypta Neapolitana: Reinforcement works, eastern section.

Fig. 1-6. Tabula Peutingeriana, detail that shows the Crypta Neapolitana.

23

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Fig. 1-7. Naples, Crypta Neapolitana: Madonnna and Child, 14th century.

Fig. 1-8. Naples, Crypta Neapolitana: Chapel on the tunnel’s eastern entrance.

The Crypta Neapolitana

25

Fig. 1-9. Naples, Crypta Neapolitana: Virgil the Magician, 15th century.

Fig. 1-10. Joris Hoefnagel, Elegantissimus ad mare Tyrrhenum ex monte Pausilipo Neapolis montisque Vesuvii prospectus, 1578.

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Fig. 1-11. Gaspar van Wittel, Grotta di Pozzuoli, ca 1710. Naples, Museo Nazionale di San Martino.

Fig. 1-12. Louis Ducros, Grotta di Pozzuoli, ca 1793. Lausanne, Musée Cantonal des Beaux-Arts.

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Fig. 1-13. Giacinto Gigante, Grotta di Pozzuoli, ca 1856. Naples, Museo Nazionale di San Martino.

PART II: ANTIQUITY SEEN THROUGH MEDIEVAL EYES

CHAPTER TWO “ARTIFICIOSO VEL INCANTATO”: AESTHETIC APPRECIATION, SUPERSTITION AND ANTIQUITY IN LATE MEDIEVAL ITALY LENIA KOUNENI

Ancient monuments, ancient temples, figures of the gods and men, gravestones, sarcophagi stood before the eyes of medieval people as impressive evidence of ancient forms, all manifestations of their past. In Italy, ancient works were plentiful and formed part of the life and experience of its residents. Late medieval people did not ignore these monuments; they showed an interest in them, they thought about them and sometimes they were troubled by them. This chapter explores some of these attitudes toward antique artefacts by juxtaposing the appreciation of antique artefacts expressed by various writers of the period and beliefs in their magical properties. For many people in the fourteenth century, classical remains were often seen as objects of mystery, and sometimes, causes of anxiety. The persistence of fantastic stories, tales and legends can be traced in many writers. As contemporaries were unaware of the true origin of the various monuments of antiquity, they invented legends to supply the deficiency in their knowledge. The majority of these legends refer to monuments of Rome. The number of antiquities accumulated in this city was so great that knowledge of the true origin and purpose of every one of them would have required a far wider acquaintance with history than could be expected of a medieval audience. Even today, modern archaeology is not in a position to trace with certainty the functions and locations of all Roman monuments. Moreover, fables are always appealing to the human mind and were used extensively during the Middle Ages, often as a method of instruction.1 1

The existence and popularity of the Gesta Romanorum, a Latin collection of anecdotes and tales compiled around the end of the thirteenth century, is an indication of this attitude.

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Several fantastic narratives are advanced to explain the appearance of antique statues. In particular, some statues in Rome had become quite popular, featured in almost all accounts of the city and attracted numerous stories explaining their identities or features. One such was the monumental group of the so-called Dioscuri, the colossal statues of the mythical twins, Castor and Pollux, and their rearing horses (Fig. 2-1). The statues, then on the Quirinal Hill, were placed on a platform, which incorporated two late antique inscriptions “Opus Fidiae” and “Opus Praxiteles”, and were commonly known as “cavalli marmorei”. The colossal scale of these statues and their nakedness meant that they did not go unnoticed. One of the stories identified them as memorials to two philosophers, named Phidias and Praxiteles, who came to Rome in the time of the emperor Tiberius.2 According to this, the two “philosophers” were noticed by the emperor, who was impressed by their knowledge and kept them in his palace. These two men were going around naked and when the emperor questioned them on the reasons of this nakedness, they answered that it is because all things are naked and open to them. The sculptural group was a memorial to them by the emperor Tiberius, because they proved capable of reading his thoughts. The story derived from an urge to explain the nakedness of the statues, which was seen as a symbol of their wisdom.3 Another story similar in tone identifies them as mathematicians with the horses being symbolical of the quickness of their minds.4 Curious anecdotes were also related about the famous equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius, today outside the Capitoline Museums (Fig. 2-2). In the Middle Ages the statue stood in front of the papal palace at the Lateran and was thought to represent Constantine (“cavallum Constantini”). This identification was repeatedly refuted from the twelfth century onwards in favour of various heroes of the ancient Roman Republic. The author of the 2

“Mirabilia Urbis Romae,” in Codice Topografico Della Città Di Roma, ed. Roberto Valentini and Giuseppe Zucchetti (Rome: Tipografia del Senato, 1946), Vol III, 30-31. 3 It might also be that the raised hands of the statues suggested their identification as philosophers, since two other statues with hands outstretched towards each other found at Chalke, the main entryway to the imperial palace in Constantinople, were also thought to represent philosophers. Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai, ed. Averil Cameron and Judith Herrin (Leiden: Brill, 1984), 63. Sarah Bassett, The Urban Image of Late Antique Constantinople (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 187, no 101. 4 Magister Gregorius, The Marvels of Rome, trans. John Osborne (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1987), 26.

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Mirabilia identifies the statue with a warrior who saved Rome from the siege of a foreign king “during the time of consuls and senators” and who received this memorial as his reward.5 Master Gregory in the early thirteenth century devoted a long passage to this monument, providing us with more than one explanation of the identity of the statue. According to his testimony, the people of Rome still believed this statue to be of Constantine, while the pilgrims regarded it as a representation of Theodoric.6 However, the “cardinals and the clerks of the Roman curia” identified the rider with Marcus or Quintus Quirinus; the first version repeated the story of the Mirabilia, but named the hero as Marcus. The second explanation for the identity of the rider was that he was a Roman ruler, named Quintus Quirinus, who sacrificed himself by hurling his horse into a hazardous chasm that had opened in the ground at the Palace of Sallust.7 Pyramids and obelisks were usually connected with the burial places of mythological figures or emperors. The pyramid of Gaius Cestius, known as the Meta Remi, was thought to be the tomb of Remus, while the one known as the Meta Romuli that stood between Sant’ Angelo and the Vatican basilica was considered to be the tomb of Romulus, and the Vatican obelisk was associated with Julius Caesar. Legends were ascribed to all of them. It seems that pilgrims believed the Meta Romuli to be the grain heap of the Apostle Peter which was turned to stone when Nero confiscated it.8 The Vatican obelisk was identified as the place of St Peter’s martyrdom and because of that, pilgrims attempted to crawl through the narrow space between the obelisk and its base, believing that they could thus obtain remission of their sins.9 The legendary material found in medieval texts is indicative of the attitude towards pagan remains that persisted in the popular imagination. However, the approach of intellectuals toward them changed through the centuries. Whereas the author of the Mirabilia in 1143 accepts and transmits all the imaginary stories, Master Gregory in the early thirteenth century is more selective. Even if his account of the equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius is based on fantastic narratives, the fact that he gives several popular explanations of its identity indicates his scepticism. Moreover, Master Gregory is very critical of the stories regarding the Meta

5

“Mirabilia Urbis Romae,” 32-33. Magister Gregorius, The Marvels of Rome, 19. 7 Ibid, 20-22. 8 Ibid, 33. 9 Ibid, 35. 6

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Romuli and the Vatican obelisk. He dismisses them as “utterly worthless tales, typical of those told by pilgrims”.10 Ancient art often aroused suspicion. It had a supernatural perfection that only evil spirits could achieve. It was believed that pagan remains housed supernatural powers. This is not surprising. It is just one more instance of popular superstition in a society that believed in protective amulets and talismans. Magic, Christian or pagan, was part of everyday medieval life. It was “a crossing-point, where religion converged with science, popular beliefs intersected with those of the educated classes and the conventions of fiction met with the realities of daily life”.11 Magic existed in diverse forms, from simple charms to complex and subversive demonic magic.12 It was used to heal illnesses, to escape the banality and predictability of life, to explain the forces in nature which could not be understood. In the same way the perfection and realism of ancient art could not be easily understood as human creations and was considered magical. Gervase of Tilbury in the early thirteenth century considering the question of what constitutes a marvel in his preface to book III of his Otia Imperialia offers us a good insight into the medieval mind. He comments that the human mind is always keen to hear and lap up novelties and that people are usually fascinated by all that is new, rare or strange. He goes on to distinguish between miracles (“miracula”) and marvels (“mirabilia”): We call those things miracles which, being supernatural, we ascribe to divine power…while we call those things marvels which are beyond our comprehension, even though they are natural; in fact the inability to explain why a thing is so constitutes a marvel.13

Mirabilia is the word that medieval people used to describe antiquities and is indicative of their attitude toward them. Even though they knew that they were natural, they did not understand them and ignorance of their origins rendered them marvellous. Ristoro d’ Arezzo at the end of the thirteenth century gives a good example of this attitude. He reports that 10

Ibid, 33, 35. Richard Kieckhefer, Magic in the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 1-2. 12 Kieckhefer, Magic in the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989); and Valerie I. J. Flint, The Rise of Magic in Early Medieval Europe (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991). 13 Gervase of Tilbury, Otia Imperialia, ed. and trans. S.E. Banks and James W. Binns (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002), III. 11

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people, being unable to explain how Arretine vases were made, claimed that they were divine and that they had fallen from the sky.14 The magical powers of ancient artefacts were not always neutral. Statues and buildings could be the sites of bad magic or good. It was commonly believed that the pagan temple of the Pantheon in Rome housed devils and the medieval stories concur that it owed its existence to the forces of demons, which, prior to its conversion to a Christian church, tormented Christians who passed by.15 This notion belongs in a wider frame. The expulsion of demons and devils from pagan temples by converting them to Christian shrines was regarded as a symbol of victory of the true God over the false gods.16 The Pantheon is perhaps of special significance in this respect, since it was the first temple to be Christianised in Rome in 609.17 Individual statues also hold magical qualities. Master Gregory attributes his urge to visit again and again a statue of Venus to some magical spell that the statue put on him.18 Even he, who had the aesthetic sensitivity to praise its beauty, could not but assign to it magical powers. Another example is the equestrian statue of Mars in Florence. Giovanni Villani and Dante recount a variety of superstitious beliefs and practices that were attached to the statue. Dante in his Divine Comedy presented the statue as a malevolent image and held it responsible for Florence’s worst travails.19 Villani is more specific in his account of the statue. According to him, the popular view was that the statue had been consecrated under astrological signs and if it was treated disrespectfully, the city would suffer misfortunes. This fear was the reason that the statue was preserved after the conversion of Florence to the Christian religion and was set on the Ponte Vecchio, where it remained until 450, when the city was destroyed

14

“…diciano che quelli artifice fuoro divini e quelle vasa descesaro de cielo, non potendo sapere co’ quelle vasa fuoro fatte,” Ristoro d' Arezzo, La Composizione Del Mondo, ed. Alberto Morino (Parma: Fondazione Pietro Bembo, 1997), 315. 15 “Mirabilia Urbis Romae,” 34-35; Magister Gregorius, The Marvels of Rome, 29. 16 Flint, The Rise of Magic in Early Medieval Europe, 71-72. 17 Richard Krautheimer, Rome: Profile of a City, 312-1308 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980), 72. 18 Magister Gregorius, The Marvels of Rome, 26. 19 Dante, La Divina Commedia, ed. Natalino Sapegno (Milan & Naples: Riccardo Ricciardi, 1957), Inferno XIII: 143-150, Paradiso XVI: 145-48; the negative concept of Mars and his statue are discussed by Jeffrey T. Schnapp, The Transfiguration of History at the Center of Dante's Paradise (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986), 16-69.

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by Totila.20 This belief continued to be strong among the people of Florence and in 800 A.D. the statue was rediscovered and set up anew in the belief that the reconstruction of the city would not be possible without it.21 In 1215 the statue was linked to one of the most fateful episodes in Florentine history. The murder of Buondelmonte de Buondelmonti, which began the great enmity between the Guelfs and Ghibellines, is said to have taken place at its feet.22 The sinister aspect that some Florentines ascribed to the statue of Mars is in contrast to the view held by the citizens of Pavia and Rome regarding their equestrian statues. The malignant aspect of the statue of Mars in local eyes was obviously connected to the fact that it was believed to represent a pagan god. Florentine people were afraid of the consequences, if they destroyed the statue of the god of war and old patron of the city.23 On the other hand, some antiquities were credited with beneficial magical properties. The Cafaggio, the Roman baths in Florence, were said to have magic healing powers.24 The baths of Baia near Naples were also thought to cure any sort of illness.25 Some of the pagan statues turned out to fulfil a useful role by becoming talismans. According to popular belief, a series of statues called Salvatio civium once existed on the Capitoline. These statues, which were believed to represent the various tribes of the world, had bells which would ring if that nation rebelled against Rome.26 Similarly, the gates of 20

Giovanni Villani, Nuova Cronica, ed. Giuseppe Porta (Parma: Fondazione Pietro Bembo/Guanda, 1990), I:60. 21 Ibid, II:1, III:1. 22 Ibid, V:38; Dante, La Divina Commedia, Paradiso XVI:145-147. 23 A story very close to that of the statue of Mars refers to an antique statue in Constantinople. When a statue, which was thought to represent Fidalia, the wife of Byzas, the mythical founder of Byzantium and legendary opponent of Constantine, was removed from its location at a gate, the place was struck by an earthquake; Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai, 59-60. In both cases, the represented figure was associated with the mythical origins of the city and its removal was held responsible for various misfortunes. 24 “la quale acqua guariva certe malactie e etiandio i lebrosi, e gli atracti stendeva e li fediti sanava”, “Cronica Fiorentina,” in Testi Fiorentini Del Dugento E Dei Primi Del Trecento, ed. Alfredo Schiaffini (Florence: Sansoni, 1954), 83. 25 Gervase of Tilbury, Otia Imperialia, III:15; Arnold of Lübeck, “Chronica Slavorum,” in Monumenta Germaniae Historica, ed. Georg Heinrich Pertz and Johann Martin Lappenberg (Hannover: Hahn, 1869), 194-95. 26 “Mirabilia Urbis Romae,” 34. Master Gregory adds some further elements to the Mirabilia’s narration. He places the statues in a hall, which had on top an equestrian statue, which would aim its lance in the direction of the statue

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the city of Padua contained statues with magical properties. One of them, the one which was over the east gate, was a statue of a sailor, who pointed in the direction of Padua’s allies when they needed help.27 In the same category belongs the belief that a small model of the city of Naples in a narrow-necked bottle given to the city by Virgil preserved Naples from all hostile attacks. The city was captured by the Normans in 1139, because there was a crack in the glass of the bottle and thus it had lost its power, as we are informed by a letter of Conrad of Querfurt.28 In Milan a relief thought to represent Hercules preserved in the church of Sant’ Ambrogio was connected with the fate of this city. It was thought that as long as the image of Hercules remained upside down, the empire would last.29 representing the rebellious nation. The second addition made by Master Gregory is that this hall collapsed and the internal fire that was burning inside was extinguished on the night that Christ was born, fulfilling the prediction that the fire would last until a virgin gave birth; Magister Gregorius, The Marvels of Rome, 24. This version also appears in Alexander Neckam, De Naturis Rerum, ed. Thomas Wright (London: Longman, Roberts, and Green, 1895), II:clxxiv; see also Domenico Comparetti, Vergil in the Middle Ages, trans. Edward F. M. Benecke (London: Swan Sonnenschein, 1895), 296-300. 27 J. Keith Hyde, “Medieval Descriptions of Cities,” Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 48 (1965-1966): 331-32. The idea that ancient statuary had powers that could be associated with the fate of the city and especially during periods of hostility is also encountered in the Byzantine Empire. Photios in the ninth century in his Bibliotheca mentions that during the reign of the Emperor Constantius (353361 A.D.) three antique silver statues were dug up in Thrace and taken away. After a few days various nations invaded Thrace and the statues were interpreted as having a magical connection with the barbarian people. The act of unearthing them was held responsible for freeing them from their prison, and thus, enabling the corresponding barbarians to invade the empire; cited by Richard McGillivray Dawkins, “Antique Statues in Medieval Constantinople,” Folklore 35 (1924): 22627. During the reign of the Emperor Isaac Angelus the populace of Constantinople destroyed a statue believed to represent Athena which stood outside the Senate House on the Forum of Constantine, because her outstretched right arm was thought to beckon to the Crusaders; Nicetas Choniates, Historia, ed. Jan Van Dieten (Berlin: de Gruyter), 558; Romilly James Heald Jenkins, “The Bronze Athena at Byzantium,” Journal of Hellenic Studies 67 (1947): 31-33 identified this statue with the so-called “Promachos” of Pheidias; see also Bassett, The Urban Image of Late Antique Constantinople, 188-192, no 107. 28 Arnold of Lübeck, “Chronica Slavorum,” 194; see also Comparetti, Vergil in the Middle Ages, 258-59. 29 “…dum vultu in terra dimisso iaceret, not posset Italie imperium sublimari…,” Benzo d' Alessandria, Chronicon, ed. Joseph R. Berrigan, “Benzo D' Alessandria

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Apart from defending the city from possible invasions, some antique statues were supposed to protect the city from natural disasters. A bronze fly placed on one of the gates of Naples was thought to drive flies away from the city, while as long as a certain bronze horse remained unbroken, no horse in Naples could break its back.30 Both the fly and the horse were thought to be created by Virgil, who according to tradition had endowed many statues with miraculous powers.31 According to a legend, Virgil also confined every type of serpent under a statue near the Porta Nolana.32 Ancient statues were also thought to control the activity of volcanoes. Virgil was again credited with having put up at Naples a statue of a man with a bow stretched towards Vesuvius. The statue protected the city till one day a countryman loosed the threatening arrow and the volcano recommenced its eruption.33 According to another version, the statue was put up on Monte Vergine, it had a trumpet, which blew back the wind that brought the ashes of Vesuvius in the direction of Naples and “either perished from age or was destroyed in a spiteful act of jealousy”.34

and the Cities of Italy” (PhD diss., Tulane University, 1963), 226-27. The same notion is found in Fazio degli Uberti, “Il Dittamondo,” in Il Dittamondo E Le Rime, ed. Giuseppe Corsi (Bari: G. Laterza, 1952), III:4. 30 Arnold of Lübeck, “Chronica Slavorum,” 194; Giovanni Boccaccio, Esposizioni Sopra La Comedia Di Dante, ed. Giorgio Padoan, Tutte Le Opere Di Giovanni Boccaccio Vol 6 (Milan: Mondadori, 1965), Inferno I:71. 31 The same idea prevailed in Byzantium, where the place of Virgil was occupied by Apollonius of Tyana, who provided the city of Constantinople with many talismans, some of which are identical to the ones that Virgil is supposed to have made; see Ioannes Malalas, Chronographia, ed. Hans Thurn (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2000), 199-201; Dawkins, “Antique Statues in Medieval Constantinople,” 235-36; Comparetti, Vergil in the Middle Ages, 264-65; Comparetti believes that the idea of talismans had been stimulated in Southern Italy through the influence of the Byzantine dominion. 32 Gervase of Tilbury, Otia Imperialia, III:12; Conrad of Querfurt says that it was the Ferrean Gate under which Virgil banished the snakes, see Arnold of Lübeck, “Chronica Slavorum,” 196. In the Byzantine tradition the talisman against snakes was made by Apollonius of Tyana and was thought to be a bronze group of an eagle killing a snake in the Hippodrome of Constantinople; see Choniates, Historia, 651, and Bassett, The Urban Image of Late Antique Constantinople, 216, no 130. 33 Arnold of Lübeck, “Chronica Slavorum,” 196; see also Comparetti, Vergil in the Middle Ages, 68, 259. 34 Gervase of Tilbury, Otia Imperialia, III:14. The idea of a statue keeping a volcano in check is found as early as the fifth century in a Sicilian legend recorded by Olympiodorus of Thebes and mentioned by Photios in his Bibliotheca,

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All these powers were given to statues by good magic. There was a belief that it was possible by certain mechanical, astrological or mathematical contrivances to produce objects endowed with magical properties. Gervase of Tilbury in the early thirteenth century attributes Virgil’s achievements to an ars matematice, ars mechanica or a vis mathesis.35 A century later, Boccaccio in his description of the cose notabili of Virgil mentions that they were made con l’aiuto dell’astrologia.36 Psellos, an eleventh-century Byzantine writer, describes the rite through which a statue received talismanic powers (known as ıIJȠȚȤİȓȦıȚȢ). This could be achieved by inserting into the statue’s opening certain mineral and vegetable substances, vessels filled with sympathetic unguents, inscribed seals and so on.37 Ancient statues, apart from being connected with the fate of the cities, were also connected in some cases with the fate of individuals. Two sculpted busts in a niche on one of the gates of Naples were associated with the fortunes of those who entered the city. Whoever entered from the right-hand wall, where the laughing bust was placed, succeeded in all that he attempted, whereas whoever entered the city from the left-hand wall, where the distressed face was located, failed.38 Ancient statues were also thought to perform the task of guarding hidden treasures. A statue in the Campus Martius at Rome bearing on his forehead the inscription Percute hic (“Strike here”) was shown pointing at a place where pope Silvester II, known before his accession as the magician Gerbert, found the entrance to a subterranean vault filled with treasure.39

according to which a statue held back the fires of Etna; Photius, Bibliothèque, ed. René Henry (Paris: Société d'Édition Les belles lettres, 1977), cod. 80. 35 Gervase of Tilbury, Otia Imperialia, III:12-13. 36 Boccaccio, Esposizioni Sopra La Comedia Di Dante, Inferno I:71. 37 Michael Psellos, “Epistolai,” in Mesaionike Bibliotheke, ed. Konstantinos N. Sathas (Venice and Paris: Maisonneuve, 1872-1894), Vol V: Epist.187. 38 Boccaccio, Esposizioni Sopra La Comedia Di Dante, Inferno I:71; Gervase of Tilbury, Otia Imperialia, III; Comparetti, Vergil in the Middle Ages, 67, 260-61; Erica Tietze-Conrat, “Two Mysterious Busts at the Porta Nolana in Naples,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 16 (1953): 158-59. 39 Gesta Romanorum, trans. Charles Swan (London and New York: Routledge and Dutton, 1905), 234-235. Comparetti, Vergil in the Middle Ages, 306-307; Arturo Graf, Roma Nella Memoria E Nelle Immaginazioni Del Medio Evo (Turin: E. Loescher, 1882-1883), Vol I, 161-69. Petrarch narrates a similar story, but places the statue and the event in Naples; Francesco Petrarca, Rerum Memorandum Libri, ed. Giuseppe Billanovich (Florence: Sansoni, 1945), III:2.

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However, alongside these legendary stories and beliefs in magical properties went expressions of aesthetic appreciation for ancient art. Real praise of antique works of art comes with Master Gregory in the late twelfth century. His account is full of admiration for the beauty of antiquities. He praises the skill of the maker of the colossal head and hand, then outside the Lateran, and the excellent craftsmanship of the hair, as well as the skilful compositions of a statue of Venus and the Dioscuri, then on the Quirinal Hill.40 He comments on the beauty of an ancient statue of Pallas projecting above the highest vault of the temple of Pallas in Rome.41 He says that although the statue was disfigured by the loss of her head, spectators considered her a wonderful sight. His remark is of great value, because it reveals that his appreciation was shared by others. It seems thus that at the end of the twelfth century there were people who admired ancient statuary and who expressed their beliefs openly. This statement becomes even more interesting, if one considers the placement of the statue. It was still in its original location, on a pagan temple. Benzo d’ Alessandria in the early fourteenth century, although more restrained in his descriptions of antiquities than Master Gregory, praises a relief representing Hercules in the church of Sant’ Ambrogio in Milan for its gracefulness (“venuste formata”).42 He makes a similar comment on the equestrian statue of the so-called Regisol in Pavia: “such wonderful workmanship” (“quod mirifice commendebat artificem”).43 Giovanni Dondi in his letter of 1380 to Fra Guglielmo da Cremona speaks highly of antique works of art.44 However, he seems to praise the virtues of the ancient people who created them more than the art on its own terms. He admires these works mainly because of the characters they represent and less for their formal qualities. Nevertheless, he praises the “impressive workmanship” of the marble triumphal arches. It is for their aesthetic superiority that the antique sculptures of Rome are admired by Manuel Chrysoloras in the early fifteenth century. He comments on the beauty of the ancient edifices, and praises the superior artistic quality of antique sculptures found on streets, reliefs, or walls of houses. In his own words, they are “all of the best and most perfect art, that of Pheidias, or Lysippos

40

Magister Gregorius, The Marvels of Rome, 23, 26. Ibid, 27-28. 42 Benzo d' Alessandria, Chronicon, 226-27. 43 Ibid, 241. 44 The letter is published and translated in Neal Ward Gilbert, “A Letter of Giovanni Dondi Dall' Orologio to Fra' Guglielmo Centueri: A Fourteenth-Century Episode in the Quarrel of the Ancients and the Moderns,” Viator 8 (1977): 339-46. 41

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or Praxiteles”.45 Chrysoloras thus not only admires the artistic quality of the works, but also connects them with their creators. The idea that antique artefacts are equal or superior to nature is found in several writers. As early as the beginning of the twelfth century, Hildebert of Lavardin expressed his admiration for the art of Roman antiquity by saying that “nature could not create gods in that form in which men shaped admirable statues of gods”.46 Some years later, Master Gregory uses this comparison of art and nature more than once in his account of Rome. He admires the colossal head and hand outside the Lateran, as lacking nothing of the perfect beauty of a human head and hand. He even says that if one looks at the head intensely, it gives the impression that it is going to move or speak.47 He makes a similar comment on a statue of Venus by saying that she “seems more like a living creature than a statue”.48 Ancient statuary attracted similar comments from the sculptor mentioned by Giovanni Dondi in his letter to Fra Guglielmo da Cremona, who believed that ancient sculpture not only imitated nature but even surpassed it.49 Petrarch in his lively description of the statue of the Regisol in Pavia, given in a letter of 1365 to Giovanni Boccaccio, praises the life-likeness of the horse, which appeared to “fling itself at full gallop toward the summit of a hill”.50 A similar comment is made by Petrarch on the bronze horses on the church of San Marco in Venice (Fig. 3-3). On the tenth of August of 1364 Petrarch wrote a letter from Venice, praising the city and describing the festivities that took place in the Piazza S. Marco to celebrate the Venetians’ 45

“ʌȐȞIJĮ IJ߱Ȣ ܻȡȓıIJȘȢ țĮȓ IJİȜİȚȦIJȐIJȘȢ IJȑȤȞȘȢ, ĭİȚįȓȠȣ IJȚȞȩȢ, ‫ ݜ‬ȁȣıȓʌʌȠȣ, ‫ݜ‬ ȆȡĮȟȚIJȑȜȠȣȢ, ‫ ݜ‬IJࠛȞ ‫ݷ‬ȝȠȓȦȞ ‫ݏ‬ȡȖĮ,” Manuel Chrysoloras, “Epistolae,” in Patrologia Graeca, ed. Jacque-Paul Migne (Paris: Garnier, 1866), 28-29. 46 Hildebert de Lavardin, “Two Roman Elegies,” in The Oxford Book of Medieval Latin Verse, ed. Frederick J. E. Raby (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1959), 221. 47 Magister Gregorius, The Marvels of Rome, 23. 48 Ibid, 26. 49 Gilbert, “A Letter of Giovanni Dondi Dall' Orologio,” 345. 50 Francesco Petrarca, Le Senili, ed. Ugo Dotti and Elvira Nota (Rome: Archivio Guido Izzi, 1993), V:1; for a discussion of this letter, see Vittorio Rossi, “Il Petrarca a Pavia,” Bullettino della società pavese di storia patria 4 (1904): 367437. It is worth mentioning here an analogous account in an eleventh-century Byzantine poem of Christopher of Mitylene. One of his Carmina is devoted to a bronze horse in the Hippodrome of Constantinople, which he felt was almost alive: “This bronze horse that you see is alive, truly alive, forthwith it will even be snorting. And raising this foremost hoof, it will strike you with its foot, if you approach near”; Christophorus Mitylenaeus, Carmina Varia, ed. E. Kurtz, Die Gedichte Des Christophoros Mitylenaios (Leipzig: 1903), Poem 50.

“Artificioso vel incantato”

41

newly-won victory in Crete. On that occasion, Petrarch took part in these celebrations as an invited guest of the Doge, Lorenzo Celsi, and was, thus, seated next to him on the balcony above the main portal of the ducal church between the pairs of bronze horses. Petrarch there had the opportunity to observe the four bronze horses from very close. He then described them in his letter; “they stand as if alive, seeming to neigh from on high and to paw with their feet”.51 Apart from statues, the reliefs on the Roman arches were also praised for their realism. Master Gregory describing the reliefs on the arch of Augustus in Rome says that “if you look closely the battles seem very realistic”.52 Manuel Chrysoloras expressed the same opinion even more emphatically. He believed that the art of those representations equals and rivals nature so successfully that one seems to see a real man, horse, city, or army, sword or armour, and real people captured.53 From these various references to the realism of antique art, it becomes apparent that such praise was a topos among writers, who declared that antique works of art were so skilfully executed that they seemed to be alive. Authors may declare that a work is so realistic that they have forgotten that it is art and not real, or may refer to works as being so close to nature that they seemed capable of speech. Persons or animals depicted in relief were often said to be breathing or to be about to move. Some images were reputed to be so realistic in their beauty that they inspired love in the beholder, as in the case of Master Gregory who apparently fell in love with the beautiful statue of Venus that he saw on the Quirinal Hill and “was drawn back three times to look at it”.54 Jan Bialostocki argued that “Human art could never, until the Renaissance, have been considered as surpassing nature… Art may perhaps 51

“ex alto pene vivis adhinnientes, ac pedibus obstrepentes”, Petrarca, Le Senili, IV:3. For Petrarch’s Venetian sojourn, see Lino Lazzarini, “Francesco Petrarca E Il Primo Umanesimo a Venezia,” in Umanesimo Europeo E Umanesimo Veneziano, ed. Vittore Branca (Venice: Sansoni, 1963); and Fritz Saxl, “Petrarch in Venice,” in Lectures, ed. F. Saxl (London: Warburg Institute, 1957), Vol I, 139-49. 52 Magister Gregorius, The Marvels of Rome, 30. 53 “‫ ݤ‬Ȗİ ȝȒȞ IJȑȤȞȘ IJࠛȞ ȝȚȝȘȝȐIJȦȞ ܻȜȘșࠛȢ ‫݋‬ȡȓȗİȚ țĮȓ ܻȝȚȜȜߢIJĮȚ ʌȡȩȢ IJȒȞ IJࠛȞ ʌȡĮȖȝȐIJȦȞ ijȪıȚȞ,” Chrysoloras, “Epistolae,” 28-29. 54 Magister Gregorius, The Marvels of Rome, 26. A similar comment is found in Choniates, Historia, 652 on a statue of Helen; the author describes it as “the one who enslaved every spectator by her beauty” (“‫ ݘ‬ʌȐȞIJĮ șİĮIJ‫ޣ‬Ȟ IJࠜ țȐȜȜİȚ įȠȣȜĮȖȦȖȒıĮıĮ”). All these topoi are also found in Byzantine ekphraseis and in greater quantity; for a discussion, see Henry Maguire, “Truth and Convention in Byzantine Descriptions of Works of Art,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 28 (1974): 127-30.

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approach nature, but not surpass it…In supposing that an artist who creates a work of art is able to achieve a greater perfection than nature in her work has ever achieved, Alberti formulated a new idea of great importance.”55 It is true that in the majority of medieval accounts art is spoken of as imitating nature. However, Hildebert de Lavardin in the twelfth century and the sculptor quoted by Giovanni Dondi in the fourteenth century express the idea that ancient art surpasses nature. Even though the majority of medieval writers considered nature as a divine creation superior to human art, the notion that ancient art could be superior to nature is found in writers before Alberti. There are indications that artists in particular reacted positively to ancient art quite early. Ristoro d’ Arezzo’s late-thirteenth century account of Aretine pottery is interesting in this respect. According to his testimony, the experts (conoscitori) were so fascinated by the beauty of the vases that they “shouted to one another with the greatest delight and they got loud and nearly lost their senses and became quite silly”, while the artists and sculptors “preserved them like holy relics, marvelling that human nature could reach such a degree of fineness”.56 It is a vital observation; it proves not only that artists were interested in ancient pottery, but the fact that the vases were preserved like holy relics suggests also the emergence of a cult of antiquity. They were appreciated because of their fineness. When in the mid-fourteenth century a female statue with a dolphin at her feet thought to represent Venus was discovered in Siena, it attracted similar attention. “All the experts and those learned in art and sculpture ran to see this statue, made with such beautiful and marvellous artistic skill”.57 The statue’s initial reception by the Sienese cognoscenti shows that there was at least an elite taste for antique sculpture.58 One of the 55

Jan Bialostocki, “The Renaissance Concept of Nature and Antiquity,” in Studies in Western Art: Acts of the Twentieth International Congress of the History of Art, ed. Ida E. Rubin (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1963), Vol II, 23-24. 56 “ténelli en modo de cose sactuarie, maravelliandose che l’ umana natura potesse montare tanto alto in sutilità e ll’ artificio”, Ristoro d' Arezzo, La Composizione Del Mondo, 314-15. 57 Lorenzo Ghiberti, I Commentarii, ed. Julius von Schlosser, Lorenzo Ghibertis Denkwürdigkeiten (Berlin: J. Bard, 1912), I:63. 58 The later revulsion against the statue shows that this taste was still restricted, and not shared by the large majority of Sienese. In 1357 the statue was removed and destroyed after a defeat suffered by the Florentines was seen as a punishment of the Sienese for their idolatry; see Norberto Gramaccini, Mirabilia: das Nachleben der antiken Statuen vor der Renaissance (Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 1996), 20617 and Veronica Wiegartz, Antike Bildwerke im Urteil mittelalterlicher Zeitgenossen (Weimar: VDG, 2004), 195-201.

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leading Sienese artists showed a particular interest in the figure. According to Ghiberti, Ambrogio Lorenzetti made a drawing of it.59 Similarly positive were artists’ responses to the equestrian statue of the Regisol in Pavia. According to Petrarch, “The masters of sculpture and painting considered it as second to none”.60 Indicative of this interest also is the famous reference of Giovanni Dondi to a sculptor of his time, who was obsessed with ancient art: When some artists scrutinize the productions of that age carefully, they are struck with amazement. I knew a certain well-known worker in marble who was famous for his ability in that art among those whom Italy had at the time, especially in the creation of figures. I have heard this man tell many times about the statues and sculptures he had seen at Rome, with such admiration and veneration that he seemed in recalling it to be transported beyond himself from the wonder of the thing. For he used to say that sometimes, passing with his friends by a place where some images of this sort could be seen, he had held back, looking in astonishment at their artistry and, forgetting his company, had stood still so long that his companions had passed on five hundred steps and more. And when he would tell of the great excellence of these figures and praise their authors beyond measure, he used to add in the end (in his own words): “If only these images did not lack life, they would be better than living ones”, as if to say that nature had not only been imitated by the genius of such artists but even surpassed.61

Giovanni Dondi’s statement is a significant piece of literary evidence, especially if we combine it with Ghiberti’s testimony of Ambrogio’s drawing of Venus, that Italian artists were seriously engaged in the study of Roman antiquities. In most of the texts examined here there is the tendency to differentiate between the “ignorant” and the “learned”, between the “common men” and the “artists”, indicating the artists’ leading role in the appreciation of antique forms and motifs. The popular attitude was often based on the assumption that statues were animated. There was a belief in demons, which would find statues as their dwellings from which they would exercise their powers. The attitude of intellectuals seems to have differed. Although not entirely free from superstition, their attitudes were more rational. Villani’s comment on the statue of Mars in Florence is indicative of this change of attitudes towards antiquity. Although he reports the statue’s link to the murder of 59

Ghiberti, I Commentarii, I:63; George Rowley, Ambrogio Lorenzetti (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1958), Vol I, 94-95. 60 Petrarca, Le Senili, V:1. 61 Gilbert, “A Letter of Giovanni Dondi Dall' Orologio,” 344-45.

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Buondelmonti, he does not share the popular views on its powers. He accuses the first Christians who preserved the statue of being imperfect in their faith and condemns the notion of the Florentines in 800 A.D. that the city could not have been rebuilt without the presence of the statue. The belief that a stone had such a power seemed unreasonable to him and he dismissed the superstition that any change affecting the statue would lead to a change in the city’s fortunes.62 Boccaccio held the same opinion and provides us with interesting insights on the changing attitude towards the statue. When he tells of the loss of the statue in the flood of 1333, he notes that the statue was neither recovered nor looked for.63 It seems that Florentines in the fourteenth century did not have the same superstitious belief in the statue that they had some years earlier. As the tendency to see antiquities as mirabilia decreases, we encounter fables and tales of magic less frequently. Although the antique statues and buildings may not be consistently or correctly named, there is a shift from allegory and myth toward history. Antiquities slowly started to be appreciated for the historical information they provided and for their documentary value; attempts were made to understand the past through the evidence.64 Moreover, there is an attempt to distinguish idolatry from appreciation of antique art. Already in the eleventh century, Guilbert de Nogent expressed such a view: A statue can be praised for the harmony of its parts no matter what material it is made of. St Paul may call an idol unreal from the point of view of faith, and indeed nothing is more profane than an idol, but one can still admire the harmony of its limbs.65

This attitude appears again in the fourteenth century. Boccaccio justified the new attitude of his age to paganism. He asserted that the case was wholly different when the early church had to fight its way among the heathen. In his time, when the true religion was strengthened and paganism destroyed, it was possible to study paganism without fear.66 With this 62

Villani, Nuova Cronica, I:60, III:1. Boccaccio, Esposizioni Sopra La Comedia Di Dante, 627. 64 For a detailed analysis of this emerging scientific approach to antiquity, see Lenia Kouneni, “Antiquity through Medieval Eyes: the Appropriation of Antique Art in the Trecento” (PhD diss., University of St Andrews, 2009), 83-91. 65 Guilbert de Nogent, A Monk's Confession: The Memoirs of Guilbert of Nogent, trans. Paul J. Archambault (University Park, Pa: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1966), I:2. 66 Giovanni Boccaccio, Genealogie Deorum Gentilium, ed. Vittorio Zaccaria, Tutte Le Opere Di Giovanni Boccaccio Vols 7-8 (Milan: Mondadori, 1998), XV:9. 63

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argument he defended his own work and pronounced that Christianity and an interest in antiquity could coexist. In the late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries these arguments were put forward more bluntly. The comment of Manuel Chrysoloras at the beginning of the fifteenth century on these issues is indicative of the new attitude: “it is not disgraceful to look at the beauty of statues and paintings, but it rather demonstrates the noble nature of the admirer”.67 Cencio Rustici, a papal secretary and a pupil of Chrysoloras, in a letter to Francesco da Fiano in the early fifteenth century makes a similar statement: “it is not contrary to our religion if we contemplate a statue of Venus or of Hercules made with the greatest skill and admire the almost divine art of the ancient sculptors”.68 Italians of the late Middle Ages responded in various ways to ancient works of art. While it is easy to find sources that reflect the belief that demons inhabited statues and pagan ruins, there are also many authors who show a genuine interest in antiquities and praise the aesthetic qualities of Roman works of art. Master Gregory’s comment on a statue of Venus as “artificioso vel incantato” shows that an ancient work could be admired for its craftsmanship while at the same time credited with magical properties. There was no single attitude toward the remnants of antiquity, but perceptions and reflections, which were as varied as the ancient artefacts themselves. Antiquities could be modified, demolished or restored, as need demanded. Cities and citizens took pride in their ancestry and pointed to their monuments as proof.69 Even when their attributions and interpretations were inaccurate, they knew that the ruins that surrounded them were proud relics of the Roman past, often linked to famous men. These monuments were not just “rediscovered” during the 67

“țĮȓ IJĮ IJࠛȞ ܻȖĮȜȝȐIJȦȞ țĮȚ ȗȦȖȡĮijȚࠛȞ țȐȜȜȘ Ƞ‫ރ‬ț Į‫ݧ‬ıȤȡȩȞ șİߢıșĮȚ, ȝȐȜȜȠȞ įȑ țĮȚ İ‫ރ‬ȖȑȞİȚȐȞ IJȚȞĮ IJ߱Ȣ șĮȣȝĮȗȠȪıȘȢ IJĮࠎIJĮ įȚĮȞȠȓĮȢ ‫ބ‬ʌȠijĮȓȞİȚ,” Chrysoloras, “Epistolae,” 58. 68 I quote the translation from Poggio Bracciolini, Two Renaissance Book Hunters: The Letters of Poggius Bracciolini to Nicolaus De Niccolis, ed. Phyllis Walter Goodhart Gordan (New York: Columbia University Press, 1974), 189-90. For the original text, see Cencio Rustici in Ludwig Bertalot, “Cincius Romanus Und Seine Briefe,” Quellen und Forshungen aus italienischen Archiven und Bibliotheken 21 (1929-1930): 222-25; see also Massimo Miglio, “Roma Dopo Avignone. La Rinascita Politica Dell'antico,” in Memoria Dell' Antico Nell'arte Italiana, ed. Salvatore Settis (Turin: Einaudi, 1984), Vol I: L’ Uso dei classici, 88-91. 69 On the role of ancient monuments in fashioning civic identities, see Kouneni, “Antiquity through Medieval Eyes,” 112-29.

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fifteenth-century Renaissance; they had a long and interesting life during the Middle Ages.

Works Cited Arnold of Lübeck. “Chronica Slavorum.” In Monumenta Germaniae Historica, edited by Georg Heinrich Pertz and Johann Martin Lappenberg, 101-250. Hannover: Hahn, 1869. Bassett, Sarah. The Urban Image of Late Antique Constantinople. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004. Benzo d' Alessandria. Chronicon. Edited by Joseph R. Berrigan, “Benzo D' Alessandria and the Cities of Italy.” PhD diss., Tulane University, 1963. Bertalot, Ludwig. “Cincius Romanus Und Seine Briefe.” Quellen und Forshungen aus italienischen Archiven und Bibliotheken 21 (19291930): 209-255. Bialostocki, Jan. “The Renaissance Concept of Nature and Antiquity.” In Studies in Western Art: Acts of the Twentieth International Congress of the History of Art, edited by Ida E. Rubin, Vol II, 19-30. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1963. Boccaccio, Giovanni. Esposizioni Sopra La Comedia Di Dante. Edited by Giorgio Padoan. Tutte Le Opere Di Giovanni Boccaccio. Milan: Mondadori, 1965. —. Genealogie Deorum Gentilium. Edited by Vittorio Zaccaria. Tutte Le Opere Di Giovanni Boccaccio. Milan: Mondadori, 1998. Bracciolini, Poggio. Two Renaissance Book Hunters: The Letters of Poggius Bracciolini to Nicolaus De Niccolis. Edited by Phyllis Walter Goodhart Gordan. New York: Columbia University Press, 1974. Choniates, Nicetas. Historia. Edited by Jan Van Dieten. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1975. Chrysoloras, Manuel. “Epistolae.” In Patrologia Graeca, edited by Jacque-Paul Migne, 24-60. Paris: Garnier, 1866. Comparetti, Domenico. Vergil in the Middle Ages. Translated by Edward F. M. Benecke. London: Swan Sonnenschein, 1895. “Cronica Fiorentina.” In Testi Fiorentini Del Dugento E Dei Primi Del Trecento, edited by Alfredo Schiaffini, 82-150. Florence: Sansoni, 1954. Dante. La Divina Commedia. Edited by Natalino Sapegno. Milan and Naples: Riccardo Ricciardi, 1957. Dawkins, Richard McGillivray, “Antique Statues in Medieval Constantinople.” Folklore 35 (1924): 209-248.

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Fazio degli Uberti. "Il Dittamondo." In Il Dittamondo E Le Rime, edited by Giuseppe Corsi. Bari: G. Laterza, 1952. Flint, Valerie I. J. The Rise of Magic in Early Medieval Europe. Oxford: Clarendon, 1991. Gervase of Tilbury. Otia Imperialia. Edited and translated by S. E. Banks and James W. Binns. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002. Gesta Romanorum. Translated by Charles Swan. London and New York: Routledge and Dutton, 1905. Ghiberti, Lorenzo. I Commentarii. Edited by Julius von Schlosser. Lorenzo Ghibertis Denkwürdigkeiten. Berlin: J. Bard, 1912. Gilbert, Neal Ward. “A Letter of Giovanni Dondi Dall' Orologio to Fra' Guglielmo Centueri: A Fourteenth-Century Episode in the Quarrel of the Ancients and the Moderns.” Viator 8 (1977): 299-346. Graf, Arturo. Roma Nella Memoria E Nelle Immaginazioni Del Medio Evo. Turin: E. Loescher, 1882-1883. Gramaccini, Norberto. Mirabilia: das Nachleben der antiken Statuen vor der Renaissance. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 1996. Guilbert de Nogent. A Monk's Confession: The Memoirs of Guilbert of Nogent. Translated by Paul G. Archambault. University Park, Pa: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1996. Hildebert de Lavardin. “Two Roman Elegies.” In The Oxford Book of Medieval Latin Verse, edited by Frederick J. E. Raby, 220-222. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1959. Hyde, J. Keith. “Medieval Descriptions of Cities.” Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 48 (1965-1966): 308-340. Jenkins, Romilly James Heald. “The Bronze Athena at Byzantium.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 67 (1947): 31-33. Kieckhefer, Richard. Magic in the Middle Ages. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. Kouneni, Lenia, “Antiquity through Medieval Eyes: the Appropriation of Antique Art in the Trecento.” PhD diss., University of St Andrews, 2009. Krautheimer, Richard. Rome: Profile of a City, 312-1308. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980. Lazzarini, Lino. “Francesco Petrarca E Il Primo Umanesimo a Venezia.” In Umanesimo Europeo E Umanesimo Veneziano, edited by Vittore Branca, 63-92. Venice: Sansoni, 1963. Magister Gregorius. The Marvels of Rome. Translated by John Osborne. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1987. Maguire, Henry. “Truth and Convention in Byzantine Descriptions of Works of Art.” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 28 (1974): 111-140.

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Malalas, Ioannes. Chronographia. Edited by Hans Thurn. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2000. Miglio, Massimo. “Roma Dopo Avignone. La Rinascita Politica Dell'antico.” In Memoria Dell' Antico Nell'arte Italiana, edited by Salvatore Settis, Vol I: L’ uso dei classici, 73-111. Turin: Einaudi, 1984. “Mirabilia Urbis Romae.” In Codice Topografico Della Città Di Roma, edited by Roberto Valentini and Giuseppe Zucchetti, 17-65. Rome: Tipografia del Senato, 1946. Mitylenaeus, Christophorus. Carmina Varia. Edited by E. Kurtz, Die Gedichte Des Christophoros Mitylenaios. Leipzig: 1903. Neckam, Alexander. De Naturis Rerum. Edited by Thomas Wright. London: Longman, Roberts, and Green, 1895. Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai. Edited and traslated by Averil Cameron and Judith Herrin. Leiden: Brill, 1984. Petrarca, Francesco. Le Senili. Edited by Ugo Dotti and Elvira Nota. Rome: Archivio Guido Izzi, 1993. —. Rerum Memorandum Libri. Edited by Giuseppe Billanovich. Florence: Sansoni, 1945. Photius. Bibliothèque. edited by R. Henry Paris: Société d'Édition Les belles lettres, 1977. Psellos, Michael. “Epistolai.” In Mesaionike Bibliotheke, edited by Konstantinos N. Sathas. Venice and Paris: Maisonneuve, 1872-1894. Ristoro d' Arezzo. La Composizione Del Mondo. Edited by Alberto Morino. Parma: Fondazione Pietro Bembo, 1997. Rossi, Vittorio. “Il Petrarca a Pavia.” Bullettino della società pavese di storia patria 4 (1904): 367-437. Rowley, George. Ambrogio Lorenzetti. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1958. Saxl, Fritz. “Petrarch in Venice.” In Lectures, edited by Fritz Saxl, Vol I, 139-149. London: Warburg Institute, 1957. Schnapp, Jeffrey T. The Transfiguration of History at the Center of Dante's Paradise. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986. Tietze-Conrat, Erica. “Two Mysterious Busts at the Porta Nolana in Naples.” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 16 (1953): 158-159. Villani, Giovanni. Nuova Cronica. Edited by Giuseppe Porta. Parma: Fondazione Pietro Bembo/Guanda, 1990. Wiegartz, Veronica. Antike Bildwerke im Urteil mittelalterlicher Zeitgenossen. Weimar: VDG, 2004.

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Fig. 2-1. Beatrizet, Engravving of the Dioscuri, Constaantinian Colosssal Group, um. After Greek 55th c. B.C. Prototypes, Reverseed, 1546, for Laafréry’s Speculu

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o Marcus Aureelius, Bronze, c . 176 A.D. Rom me, Piazza Fig. 2-2. Equuestrian Statue of del Campidogglio.

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Fig. 2-3. Foour Horses, Copper-guilt C Monumental M Hoorses from a Quadriga. Roman, 4th c. A.D.?. Venicee, Façade of San n Marco, now M Museo Marciano o.

CHAPTER THREE CONSTANTINE VERSUS BARBAROSSA: ANTIQUE LAW AND CONTEMPORARY POLITICS IN PISA HENRIKE HAUG

The importance of antiquity in twelfth-century Italy is, with or without the idea of a “Renaissance of the twelfth century”, by now a commonplace.1 Therefore, this article will not discuss whether there was a distinct perception of antiquity in the twelfth century, since the legacy of antiquity was everywhere. Rather, it aims to distinguish between different qualities in the perception of the classical heritage and it will discuss the different reasons for the appropriation of classical models in the twelfth century in Italy. At the centre of this discussion stands the figure of the fourth-century Roman Emperor, Constantine, whose memory played an important role in political life from the 1150s onward.2 The most striking point of this figure of Constantine is its instrumentalisation by the different political parties within the struggle for dominion in northern Italy–by the papacy, the Italian city-states, as well as the Holy Roman Emperor himself.

The Imperial Perspective That Frederick I Barbarossa used this famous forerunner as role model is not surprising. Constantine, as the first Christian Emperor, was regarded 1

Charles Homer Haskins, The Renaissance of the 12th Century (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1929); Robert L. Benson and Giles Constable, eds. Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982). 2 Chiara Frugoni, “L'antichità: dai 'Mirabilia' a la propaganda politica,” in Memoria dell'antico nell'arte italiana, ed. Salvatore Settis (Turin: Einaudi, 1984), 5-72.

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as the paradigmatic exemplum of the ancient Roman Empire3 and, together with Charlemagne,4 formed part of the typical canon of an imperial lineage. Barbarossa included Constantine in his idea of the renovatio imperii – his attempt to re-establish the universal authority of antique imperial power and to insert himself into the continuity of this revived Empire.5 To convey this political message to his audience, he also used one of the most powerful strategies of communication: within this process of appropriation and instrumentalisation of Constantine, Frederick rests his argumentation not solely on mental images and literary allusions, but also on real depictions of his predecessor. And within the field of images, he chose the image that provided the widest range of publicity: the coin (Fig. 3-1). Upon Barbarossa’s coronation as Holy Roman Emperor in 1155, a coin was minted with the emperor’s head depicted in profile.6 To Barbarossa's contemporaries it must have been immediately obvious that this technique of representation was revolutionary even though it used an old formula: it was a copy of an antique solidus, a Roman coin dating from the era of 3

Wolfram Herwig, “Constantin als Vorbild für den Herrscher des hochmittelalterlichen Reiches,” Mitteilungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung 68 (1960): 227. 4 There was also a strong Charlemagne cult, culminating in his canonization in 1165; Michael McGrade, “O rex mundi triumphator. Hohenstaufen Politics in a Sequence for Saint Charlemagne,” Early Music History 17 (1998): 183-19; Ludwig Vones, “Heiligsprechung und Tradition. Die Kanonisation Karls des Großen 1165, die Aachener Karlsvita und der Pseudo-Turpin,” in Jakobus und Karl der Große. Von Einhards Karlsvita zum Pseudo-Turpin, ed. Klaus Herbers (Tübingen: Narr, 2003), 89-106; Jürgen Petersohn, “Saint-Denis-WestminsterAachen. Die Karls-Translatio von 1165 und ihre Vorbilder,” Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 31 (1975): 420-54. 5 When Barbarossa convened a council at Pavia in 1160, he reminded the gathered bishops that this right is based on the example of Constantine, Theodosius, Justinian, Charlemagne and Otto the Great: “Quamvis noverim officio ac dignitate imperii penes nos esse potestatem congregandorum conciliorum, presertim in tantis ecclesie periculis – hoc enim et Constantinus et Theodosius necnon Iustinianus seu recentioris Karolus Magnus et Otto imperators fecisse memorantur – auctoritatem tamen diffiniendi huius maximi et summi negotii vestre prudentie vestreque potestati committo.” Bischof Otto von Freising und Rahewin, Die Taten Friedrichs oder richtiger Cronica (Ausgewählte Quellen zur deutschen Geschichte des Mittelalters. Freiherr vom Stein – Gedächtnisausgabe 17), ed. Franz-Josef Schmale (Berlin: Deutscher Verlag der Wissenschaften, 1965), 660-62. 6 Herman Fillitz, “Ein 'Solidus' Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossas,” in Festschrift für Peter Bloch zum 11. Juli 1990, ed. Hartmut Krohm and Christian Theuerkauff (Mainz am Rhein: Von Zabern, 1990), 41-43.

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Constantine. By replacing the medieval crown with an antique diadem, the medieval artist created the decisive key to understanding the intended allusion to the antique model. The comparison between this “new” Constantinian coin type with the conventional types of his predecessorsfor example, a coin of Henry IV-underlines the visual transformation of rulership. Traditionally, the older medieval emperors wore a crown and a beard.7 This changing iconography must allude to something significant within medieval political structures, otherwise it would not have been comprehensible, on the part of medieval viewers, why Barbarossa preferred an antique model to the formal solutions introduced by his more recent predecessors. The citing of such an antique coin has two levels of meaning. The first refers to the way that all medieval coins with the image or name of the ruler signify a common authority; namely, that the very minting of a coin is a sign of royal prerogative. However, the more sophisticated meaning alludes to Barbarossa as heir to the Roman Empire itself and allows us to understand his portrait as a specific political statement. The intention of the coin is to merge the figure, and therefore the authority, of Barbarossa with that of a Roman emperor, probably Constantine, transferring to the medieval ruler all the powers and rights of the ancient sovereign, and blurring the distinction between the two. This understanding of imperial status is evidenced in the political programme of Barbarossa since 1152. The new king and future Emperor was anxious to restore the Empire to the position it occupied under Charlemagne and Otto the Great in the ninth and tenth century and he attempted to enforce his imperial rights in Italy. Due to the Investiture Controversy, the most significant conflict between European secular and religious powers around 1100, the position of the German king had weakened considerably. The controversy, undercutting imperial power, resulted in nearly fifty years of civil war in Germany, the triumph of the great dukes and abbots, and the disintegration of the German Empire. A similar dissolution of political power occurred in Italy with one crucial difference. Not only had the Italian nobility fi lled in the power vacuum caused by the absence of a central authority, but more importantly, independent Italian communes began to emerge around 1080 and many

7

Percy Ernst Schramm, Die deutschen Kaiser und Könige in Bildern ihrer Zeit (751-1190) (Munich: Prestel, 1983), 426.

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became an important power in Northern Central Italy by appropriating imperial rights and prerogatives.8 The conflict between the Empire and the city-states demanded not only a costly military campaign, but above all, a new definition and formulation of the imperial rights to substantiate Barbarossa’s claims and give them a certain legitimacy. To obtain legal transparency, Barbarossa exploited the newly developing jurisprudence based on the corpus iuris, the antique Roman law preserved through its codification under the Byzantine Emperor Justinian.9 Barbarossa used the diet of Roncaglia in 1158 during his second Italian expedition in order to present his new program to the public.10 He wanted the communes to recognise his supremacy by recognising the regalia, the legal imperial rights, and he employed for this purpose loyal Bolognese jurists to formulate his imperial claims in the terminology and theoretical discourse of Roman law.11 The statement of the diet is summed up in a programmatic speech of the archbishop of Milan: “What the Emperor pleases to order has the power of law, because the people had granted to the Emperor his imperium and power. Everything, which the emperor decides is law.”12 This statement was not a formulation invented by the archbishop or by one of the legal advisers of Barbarossa, but a verbatim transcription of the corpus 8

Claudia Zey, “Italische Städte im Investiturstreit,” in Canossa 1077. Erschütterung der Welt ed. Christoph Stiegemann and Matthias Wemhoff (Munich: Hirmer Verlag, 2006), 243-50; David R. Carr, “Frederick Barbarossa and the Lombard League. Imperial Regalia, Prescriptive Rights, and the Northern Italian Cities,” Quidditas 10 (1989): 29-49. 9 Heinrich Appelt, “Friedrich Barbarossa und die italienischen Kommunen,” Mitteilungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung 72 (1964): 311; Johannes Fried, Die Entstehung des Juristenstandes im 12. Jahrhundert. Zur sozialen Stellung und politischen Bedeutung gelehrter Juristen in Bologna und Modena (Köln/Wien: Böhlau, 1974); Helmut G. Walther, “Die Anfänge des Rechtsstudiums und die kommunale Welt Italiens im Hochmittelalter,” in Schulen und Studium im sozialen Wandel des hohen und späten Mittelalters, ed. Johannes Fried (Siegmaringen: Thorbecke, 1986), 121-68. 10 Bischof Otto von Freising, Taten, 520-30. 11 H. Koeppler, “Frederick Barbarossa and the Schools of Bologna,” The English Historical Review, no. 216, 54 (1939): 577-607; Heinrich Appelt, “Friedrich Barbarossa und das römische Recht,” Römische Historische Mitteilungen 5 (1961/62): 18-34. 12 “Quod principi placuit, legis habet vigorem, cum populus ei et in eum omne suum imperium et potestatem concesserit. Quodcumque enim imperator per epistolam constituerit vel cognoscens dereverit vel edicto preceperit, legem esse constat”. Bischof Otto von Freising, Taten, 518.

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iuris and therefore, a direct transfer of ancient political thought into a twelfth-century context.

The Communal Perspective The diet of Roncaglia was of immense importance for the communes, and it is therefore not surprising to find a description of these events incorporated into the Annales Pisani, the Pisan twelfth-century city chronicle.13 This description is bound together with various other documents of high political value and constitutes the first fourteen pages of the codex before the actual historiographical chronicle of events. Its context and its exposed position make it likely that the historiographer had compiled these documents not for private curiosity, but for a public political programme.14 Within the scope of this examination of the role of Constantine in the political life of the twelfth century, the fact that the compiler of this corpus of communal documents had in this place also included a description of the baptism of Constantine, demonstrates the central importance of the first Christian Emperor.15 The chronicler based his account on the Vita San Silvestri, the story of the life of this holy Pope, and the same text is the contemporary source of the representational programme of a sculpted architrave located in Pisa that dates to the 1180's.16

13 Bernardo Maragonis, “Annales Pisani anno 1004-1175,” in Annales aevi Suevici (Monumenta Germaniae historica Scriptores 19), ed. Karl Pertz (Hannover: Hahn, 1866), 236-266; Marc von der Höh, Erinnerungskultur und frühe Kommune. Formen und Funktionen des Umgangs mit der Vergangenheit im hochmittelalterlichen Pisa (1050-1150) (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2006). 14 Frank Schweppenstette, Die Politik der Erinnerung. Studien zur Stadtgeschichtsschreibung Genuas im 12. Jahrhundert (Frankfurt/Main: Peter Lang, 2003), 107. 15 The depiction of the life of Saint Sylvester is to be found on fol. 2 r to fol. 4 r. Georg Waitz, “Beschreibung von Handschriften, welche in den Jahren 1839-42 näher untersucht worden sind,” Archiv der Gesellschaft für ältere deutsche Geschichtskunde 11 (1851-58): 320-21: “Auf den ersten 13 Blättern enthält sie nicht sowohl eine Chronik, als mehrere unter sich wenig in Verbindung stehende Absätze, zum Theil in einer sehr italisierten Sprache…". 16 Frugoni, “L'antichità,” 59; Antonio Milone, “Architrave con Storie di Costantino e Papa Silvestro,” in I Marmi di Lasinio. La collezione di sculture medievali e moderne nel Camposanto di Pisa, ed. Clara Baracchini (Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1993), 171-72. Devis Valenti, “L’iconografia di Costantino nell’arte medioevale italiana,” in Niš and Byzantium. Symposium V: 1700.

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The architrave originally decorated the Church of San Silvestro and is today in the Museo Nazionale San Matteo. It shows, in eleven scenes, the life of Constantine (Fig. 3-2). The story starts in the upper register on the left side with the Emperor Constantine, who, having fallen ill with leprosy as a punishment for his persecution of the Christians, is about to follow the suggestion of his pagan healers. They had advised him to take a bath in the blood of 3000 innocent children. But being moved by the supplications of the mothers, he chose to die himself rather than to let the children suffer. For deciding not to slaughter the children, God sent two messengers to Constantine in his dream. They advised him to ask Sylvester, the persecuted bishop of Rome, who was then hiding in the mountains, for help. Constantine sent his messengers to the place where Sylvester was hiding, who, upon seeing Constantine’s men, believed his martyrdom had come and followed the imperial messengers to face Constantine. The second register starts on the left with Constantine, who had revealed his dream to Sylvester, who, by showing the double icon of Saints Peter and Paul, convinced the Emperor that his nocturnal advisers had been nothing else but apostles sent by God. Consequently, Constantine converted and recovered from leprosy through the healing powers of baptism. His mother Helena, however, upon hearing about the conversion, and being of the Jewish faith herself, demands a debate between Sylvester and twelve Rabbis to show the superiority of her religion. Sylvester easily defeated eleven of them in debate, when the last, Zambri, unveiled the power of his God by killing a bull through whispering one of his secret names into the bull’s ear. When Sylvester commanded the bull in the name of Christ to rise and live, which it immediately proceeded to do, all the Jews present converted. The last episode depicts Sylvester binding a dragon who was terrorising Rome. In the late twelfth century, when this architrave was carved, the influence of antiquity on the sculptural production of Pisa was immense. Antique remains were used either as spolia-reused material incorporated into newly built churches–or served as source of pictorial inspiration to contemporary sculptors. Above all, the free standing sarcophagi in the area around the cathedral were extremely influential on artistic output. A good example of the interaction between antique sarcophagi and the sculptural production of twelfth-century Pisa is the architrave of the parish church of Campiglia Marittima, the pieve di San Giovanni in the Pisan contado (Fig.

Anniversary of the Proclamation of Constantine as Emperor, 306-2006, Atti del convegno, Niš 2-5 giugno 2006, ed. Miša Rakocija (Niš: 2007), 339.

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3-3).17 There, both types of influence from antique material can be seen: under a seemingly reused antique piece hangs an architrave from the same period as the one at San Silvestro. The comparison with an antique sarcophagus with hunting scenes clearly reveals the model used by the twelfth-century artist (Fig. 3-4). To underline the wide range of this influence it is noteworthy that the sculptor did not even try to convert the pagan motif into a Christian story, but instead left the hunting scene as it was to ornament the entrance into a church.18 A second detail is noteworthy: the Campiglia Marittima relief, as well as its antique model, show the structure of a standard pagan sarcophagus by imitating the way most surviving examples develop the story in one register. Nevertheless, the architrave of San Silvestro uses two registers, one on top of the other, for the story of Constantine. One may argue, that it is the length of the story that demands the unusual design, but it is also rather unusual to depict the story of Constantine in such detail.19 The tworegister configuration is nearly exclusively found in the ornamental organisation of early Christian sarcophagi that date from the time of Constantine onwards, 20 as one can see on a fourth-century sarcophagus from Pisa that depicts old testament scenes of Daniel in the lion’s den and the crossing of the Red Sea (Fig. 3-5). It is very tempting to assume that the Pisan artist consciously chose a fourth-century model to represent the 17

Riccardo Belcari, “Maestri costruttori e scultori nella Maremma pisana del XII secolo,” in Arte cristiana no. 832, 94 (2006): 1-14. 18 The same is to be seen on the portal of St-Ursin at Bourges, around 1100. Here, the model is clearly identified as the sarcophagus reused for the tomb of the Holy Ludrus in the abbey-church of Déols, Richard Hamann-Mac Lean, “Antikenstudium in der Kunst des Mittelalters," Marburger Jahrbuch für Kunstwissenschaft 15 (1949/50): 175. 19 Only the Roman cycle in the Sylvester-Chapel of SS. Quattro Coronati dated in 1246 shows the same detailed account; Hanspeter Lanz, Die romanischen Wandmalereien von San Silvestro in Tivoli. Ein römisches Apsisprogramm der Zeit Innozenz III (Bern: Peter Lang, 1983),103-122; Jörg Träger, Der reitende Papst. Ein Beitrag zur Ikonographie des Papsttums (Munich: Schnell & Steiner, 1970). 20 "In questo periodo […] si diffonde una tipologia di sarcofagi a cassa decorati a fregio continuo, che in una fase leggermente più avanzata si sdoppia su due registi, con scene dell’Antico e del Nuovo Testamento, che ruotano, comunque, attorno alla figura salvifica del Cristo.” Marina Sapelli, “La produzione dei sarcophagi in età costantiniana (312/313- circa 340),” in Costantino il Grande. La civiltà antica al bivio tra Occidente e Oriente, ed. Angela Donati and Giovanni Gentili (Cinisello Balsamo, Milan: Silvana Editoriale, 2005), 168. Only a few sarcophagi have two friezes on top of each other without a tondo in the middle; see Guntram Koch, Frühchristliche Sarkophage (Munich: Beck, 2000), 44.

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fourth-century story of Sylvester and Constantine. This would assume that the artist possessed the eye of a connoisseur and was acutely sensitive to the chronology of antique representation, which, unfortunately, is highly improbable. Veronika Wiegartz has recently pointed out that the medieval audience was quite capable of identifying an antique work of art as antique.21 However, our own arrangement of these works according to certain art historical periods was hardly relevant to this audience. Therefore, it remains enigmatic why there exists such a perfect harmony of content and historical form in Pisa. The question still remains however: Why is the literary story of Constantine and Sylvester incorporated into a collection of political documents?

The Papal Perspective This article began with the claim that the historical memory of Constantine was also used for the political propaganda of the papacy in Rome. There, in the 1190’s, the newly built portico of the Lateran palace, the papal residence, was adorned with a mosaic cycle that is now lost.22 However, the little we know about the programme is preserved by two different fonts issued before the destruction of the portico in 1731.23 The number of the scenes that once formed the entire decoration is unknown, but they did include illustrations of the life of Saint Sylvester (Fig. 3-6).24 Familiar scenes are included, such as the baptism of Constantine 21

Veronika Wiegartz, Antike Bildwerke im Urteil mittelalterlicher Zeitgenossen (Weimar: VDG, 2004), 291-293. 22 Stephan Waetzoldt, Die Kopien des 17. Jahrhunderts nach Mosaiken und Wandmalereien in Rom (Vienna: Schroll, 1964); Ingo Herklotz, “Der mittelalterliche Fassadenportikus der Lateransbasilika und seine Mosaiken. Kunst und Propaganda am Ende des 12. Jahrhunderts,” Römisches Jahrbuch der Bibliotheca Hertziana 25 (1989): 25-96. 23 The content of six mosaics is bequeathed by coloured copies in the Barb. lat. 4423, fol 14- 19 in the Vatican Library; the second source for the appearance is the engraving used as an illustration to Giovanni Ciampini, De sacris aedificiis a Constantino magno constructis. Synopsis historica (Rome: Komarek, 1693), Plate 2. Here eight of the original mosaics are depicted; Herklotz, “Fassadenportikus,” 48. The entire cycle originally consisted probably of more than twenty mosaics; Herklotz, “Fassadenportikus,” 53. 24 Ciampini starts with the Donation of Constantine followed by his baptism. He than interjects the beheading of Saint John, followed by one of Sylvester’s miracles, the binding of the dragon (second and third register). Ciampini maybe just ignored the original chronology while copying, but it is probable that the

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and the Dragon being bound by Sylvester. However, the third depiction is novel: Constantine handing over a scroll of paper to the enthroned Sylvester. 25 The Emperor stands before the Pope with slightly bent knees– a representation normally used to depict a donation to a patron or a Saint– which is precisely the content of the mosaic. It depicts the donation of Constantine, recorded in the so-called Constitutum Constantini, or Donation of Constantine, a forged document probably from the ninth century. Its precise purpose is not entirely clear, but it was certainly a defence of papal interests, perhaps against the claims of either the Byzantine Emperor or Charlemagne’s Frankish kingdom, the latter of which had assumed the former imperial dignity in the West. Purportedly issued by the Roman Emperor Constantine, the Donation granted Pope Sylvester and his successors, as heirs of the former imperial palace, the Lateran, dominion over the city of Rome, Italy, and the entire Western Roman Empire, while Constantine would retain imperial authority in the east with Constantinople as his imperial capital. The text claims that the Donation was Constantine's reward to Sylvester for instructing him in the Christian faith, baptising him, and miraculously curing him of leprosy. This document was used by medieval popes to bolster their claims for territorial and secular power in Italy. The first pictorial adaptation of the support is this mosaic programme at the Lateran26 and it included a recorded inscription: “The King gives in written form his rights to Sylvester”.27 Together with the denigrating depiction of the Emperor, this inscription rendered the mosaic a powerful instrument of political propaganda against the claims of Barbarossa. The historical background gives us a better understanding for the mosaic’s narrative intention. In 1174 Frederick made his fifth expedition to Italy and, in response, the pro-papal Lombard League was formed to oppose him. The imperial campaign was a complete failure and Frederick suffered a heavy defeat at Legnano in 1176. He had no choice other than to sue for peace negotiations with both Alexander III mosaics in original merged the historical logic, because the same sequence is recorded by the drawings of the Barberini Codex. 25 In the Codex Barberini version; in Ciampini’s version, the scroll has become a panel. 26 As Ciampini, De sacris, 12 describes it: "In III. magnum Constantinum habes, qui B[eato] Sylvestro pont[ifici] opt[imo] max[imo] jura largissimè indulget, et ad Pontificiam dignitatem, decusque afferendum insignia, necnon latè patentem possessionem per totam Italiam, aliasque Provincias libere elargitur. […]", quoted in Herklotz, “Fassadenportikus,” 62. 27 “Rex in scriptura Sylvestro dat sua jura”, Ciampini, De sacris, 12.

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and the Lombard League. In the Peace of Venice, 1177, Frederick and Alexander III were reconciled. The Emperor acknowledged the Pope's sovereignty over the Papal States, and in return Alexander acknowledged the Emperor's overlordship of the Imperial Church. The Lombard cities, however, continued to fight until 1183, when, in the Convention of Constance, Frederick conceded their right to freely elect town magistrates. Therefore, the mosaics were created in a moment of papal triumph over the Emperor, which provides the key to understanding why the description of the baptism of Constantine is included in the Annales Pisani.28 It was inserted right above the account of the diet of Roncaglia from 1158, so the compilation offers the reader a visual account of both positions of the question as to whether the political claims of Barbarossa were legitimate or not. Furthermore, it must be taken into account that the compiler of the Annales Pisani copied all the stories of Barbarossa’s deeds from the official imperial chronicle of Otto of Freising. It is Otto of Freising who was one of the first and only historians to correct the historical relationship between Sylvester and Constantine by recording in his Chronica: “According to Roman tradition Constantine was baptised in the church of Saint John (this is the baptistery near the Lateran). However the information around the leprosy and his conversion according to the Life of Saint Sylvester are evidently unreliable, since the Historia tripartita reports the emperor to have received this rite near Nicomedia out of the hands of Eusebius.”29 Otto, as imperial biographer, was interested in publishing the “true” story, because it supported the imperial argument; and just as understandable, the compiler of the Pisan documents preferred the opposing version with its political usability for the Communes. Therefore, it can be presumed that the architrave of San Silvestro contains a political meaning as well, since it was created at the same time

28

According to Herklotz the meaning of the mosaics is very vast, but in our context, the anti-imperial meaning is decisive; Herklotz, “Fassadenportikus,” 82. 29 “Ab hoc iuxta Romanorum tradicionem in ecclesia quae Sancti Iohannes dicitur baptizatur. Haec autem conversionis eius causa fuit. Proinde ea, quae in beati Silvestri Vitae de lepra et conversione eius leguntur, aprocrifa videntur. Refert tamen Tripertita hystoria eum in Nicomedia circa finem vitae baptizatum esse.” Ottonis Episcopi Frisingensis, Chronica sive de duabus Civitatibus (Monumenta Germanicae historica Scriptores germanicarum in usum scholarum 45), ed. Adolf Hofmeister (Hannover: Hahn, 1912), Book IV, Chapter 1, 185.

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as the Pisan Annales and it is highly improbable to think that they had nothing to do with each other.30

Conclusion By discussing different modes of the perception of Constantine in the twelfth century this article has aimed to distinguish different ways of dealing with this antique legacy. The first mode may be termed “aesthetic appreciation”, the integration of the old models into contemporary artistic production. Two ways can be distinguished in this mode: the first uses the antique work as a Musterbuch, a book of patterns, in order to exploit it, as we have seen in the architrave of San Silvestro. There, the shape of the figures, the folds of the garments and the whole structure were based on antique models, which were then transformed to illustrate a Christian story. However, in the second way, the impact of antiquity can grow to such a level that the Christian background is no longer recognisable. This is the case in the architrave of Campiglia Marittima, with its purely aesthetic use of the antique model without a clearly distinguishable Christian message. The second mode is the historical use of antiquity. This is indicated by searching for a historical exemplum, which can be used as a “test case” in the present. By forging the Constitutum Constantini, the popes decided to attach their own political aims to an antique figure. In my opinion, the legal acquisition of the codex of Roman law by Barbarossa also belongs in this field of “historical use”, because Barbarossa willingly chose to base his policy on this antique source. The third mode is the ideological citation of antiquity by using an antique form; be it the minting of a coin or the literal citation of an antique legal text pointing towards a surplus connotation. To distinguish between a purely aesthetic appreciation and an ideological citation is not always easy, as can be seen in a representative example from the cathedral of Genoa. The portal of Saint John, dating from the 1140s, is adorned by an antique reused architrave, but the Portal of Saint Gotthard, belonging to the same church, from the 1160s copies the antique model in a contemporary work (Fig. 3-7).31 Obviously, the 30

In a privilege for the bishop of Pisa, Urban II made practical use of the Constitutum Constantini in 1091, an evidence for its political usability in Pisa. Frank Zinkeisen, “The Donation of Constantine as Applied by the Roman Church,” The English Historical Review 9 (1894): 628. 31 Rebecca Müller, Sic hostes Ianua frangit. Spolien und Trophäen im mittelalterlichen Genua (Weimar: VDG, 2002), 14-18.

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sculptors in the middle of the twelfth century were absolutely capable of conceiving and executing work at a very high level of quality. The curious thing about it is that they not only copied the architrave, but inserted a gap, in order to make it appear as if it were a reused piece of ancient sculpture.

Works Cited Appelt, Heinrich. “Friedrich Barbarossa und das römische Recht.” Römische Historische Mitteilungen 5 (1961/62): 18-34. —. “Friedrich Barbarossa und die italienischen Kommunen.” Mitteilungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung 72 (1964): 311325. Belcari, Riccardo. “Maestri costruttori e scultori nella Maremma pisana del XII secolo.” Arte cristiana no. 832, 94 (2006): 1-14. Benson, Robert L., and Giles Constable, eds. Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982. Bischof Otto von Freising und Rahewin. Die Taten Friedrichs oder richtiger Cronica (Ausgewählte Quellen zur deutschen Geschichte des Mittelalters. Freiherr vom Stein – Gedächtnisausgabe 17). Edited by Franz-Josef Schmale. Berlin: Deutscher Verlag der Wissenschaften, 1965. Carr, David R. “Frederick Barbarossa and the Lombard League. Imperial Regalia, Prescriptive Rights, and the Northern Italian Cities,” Quidditas 10 (1989): 29-49. Ciampini, Giovanni. De sacris aedificiis a Constantino magno constructis. Synopsis historica. Rome: Komarek, 1693. Fillitz, Herman. “Ein 'Solidus' Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossas.” In Festschrift für Peter Bloch zum 11. Juli 1990, edited by Hartmut Krohm and Christian Theuerkauff, 41-43. Mainz am Rhein: Von Zabern, 1990. Fried, Johannes. Die Entstehung des Juristenstandes im 12. Jahrhundert. Zur sozialen Stellung und politischen Bedeutung gelehrter Juristen in Bologna und Modena. Köln/Vienna: Böhlau, 1974. Frugoni, Chiara. “L'antichità: dai 'Mirabilia' a la propaganda politica.” In Memoria dell'antico nell'arte italiana, edited by Salvatore Settis, 5-72. Turin: Einaudi, 1984. Hamann-Mac Lean, Richard. “Antikenstudium in der Kunst des Mittelalters.” Marburger Jahrbuch für Kunstwissenschaft 15 (1949/50): 157-250. Haskins, Charles Homer. The Renaissance of the 12th Century. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1929.

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Herklotz, Ingo. “Der mittelalterliche Fassadenportikus der Lateransbasilika und seine Mosaiken. Kunst und Propaganda am Ende des 12. Jahrhunderts.” Römisches Jahrbuch der Bibliotheca Hertziana 25 (1989): 25-96. Herwig, Wolfram. “Constantin als Vorbild für den Herrscher des hochmittelalterlichen Reiches.” Mitteilungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung 68 (1960): 226-243. Koch, Guntram. Frühchristliche Sarkophage. Munich: Beck, 2000. Koeppler, H. “Frederick Barbarossa and the Schools of Bologna.” The English Historical Review no. 216, 54 (1939): 577-607. Lanz, Hanspeter. Die romanischen Wandmalereien von San Silvestro in Tivoli. Ein römisches Apsisprogramm der Zeit Innozenz III. Bern: Peter Lang, 1983. Maragonis, Bernardo. “Annales Pisani anno 1004-1175.” In Annales aevi Suevici (Monumenta Germaniae historica Scriptores 19), edited by Karl Pertz, 236-266. Hannover: Hahn, 1866. McGrade, Michael. “O rex mundi triumphator. Hohenstaufen Politics in a Sequence for Saint Charlemagne.” Early Music History 17 (1998): 183-219. Milone, Antonio. “Architrave con Storie di Costantino e Papa Silvestro.” In I Marmi di Lasinio. La collezione di sculture medievali e moderne nel Camposanto di Pisa, edited by Clara Baracchini, 169-172. Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1993. Müller, Rebecca. Sic hostes Ianua frangit. Spolien und Trophäen im mittelalterlichen Genua. Weimar: VDG, 2002. Ottonis Episcopi Frisingensis. Chronica sive de duabus Civitatibus (Monumenta Germanicae historica Scriptores germanicarum in usum scholarum 45). Edited by Adolf Hofmeister. Hannover: Hahn, 1912. Petersohn, Jürgen. “Saint-Denis-Westminster-Aachen. Die KarlsTranslatio von 1165 und ihre Vorbilder.” Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 31 (1975): 420-454. Sapelli, Marina. “La produzione dei sarcophagi in età costantiniana (312/313- circa 340).” In Costantino il Grande. La civiltà antica al bivio tra Occidente e Oriente (Rimini, Castel Sismondo 13 marzo–4 settembre 2005), edited by Angela Donati and Giovanni Gentili, 166173. Cinisello Balsamo, Milan: Silvana Editoriale, 2005. Schramm, Percy Ernst. Die deutschen Kaiser und Könige in Bildern ihrer Zeit (751-1190). Munich: Prestel, 1983. Schweppenstette, Frank. Die Politik der Erinnerung. Studien zur Stadtgeschichtsschreibung Genuas im 12. Jahrhundert. Frankfurt/Main: Peter Lang, 2003.

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Träger, Jörg. Der reitende Papst. Ein Beitrag zur Ikonographie des Papsttums. Munich: Schnell & Steiner, 1970. Valenti, Devis, “L’iconografia di Costantino nell’arte medioevale italiana.” In Niš and Byzantium. Symposium V: 1700. Anniversary of the Proclamation of Constantine as Emperor, 306-2006”, Atti del convegno, Niš 2-5 giugno 2006, edited by Miša Rakocija, 331-355. Niš: 2007. von der Höh, Marc. Erinnerungskultur und frühe Kommune. Formen und Funktionen des Umgangs mit der Vergangenheit im hochmittelalterlichen Pisa (1050-1150). Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2006. Vones, Ludwig. “Heiligsprechung und Tradition. Die Kanonisation Karls des Großen 1165, die Aachener Karlsvita und der Pseudo-Turpin.” In Jakobus und Karl der Große. Von Einhards Karlsvita zum PseudoTurpin, edited by Klaus Herbers, 89-106. Tübingen: Narr, 2003. Waetzoldt, Stephan. Die Kopien des 17. Jahrhunderts nach Mosaiken und Wandmalereien in Rom. Vienna: Schroll, 1964. Waitz, Georg. “Beschreibung von Handschriften, welche in den Jahren 1839-42 näher untersucht worden sind.” Archiv der Gesellschaft für ältere deutsche Geschichtskunde 11 (1851-58): 248-514. Walther, Helmut G. “Die Anfänge des Rechtsstudiums und die kommunale Welt Italiens im Hochmittelalter.” In Schulen und Studium im sozialen Wandel des hohen und späten Mittelalters, edited by Johannes Fried, 121-168. Siegmaringen: Thorbecke, 1986. Wiegartz, Veronika. Antike Bildwerke im Urteil mittelalterlicher Zeitgenossen. Weimar: VDG, 2004. Zey, Claudia. “Italische Städte im Investiturstreit.” In Canossa 1077. Erschütterung der Welt, edited by Christoph Stiegemann and Matthias Wemhoff, 243-250. Munich: Hirmer Verlag, 2006. Zinkeisen, Frank. “The Donation of Constantine as Applied by the Roman Church.” The English Historical Review 9 (1894): 625-632.

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H of Barbarrossa, Berlin, Münzkabinett (SMB); a Fig. 3-1. Cooin with the Head mmlung, in: Schhramm, Percy Ernst, Die second coin ((Munich, Staatliche Münzsam deutschen Kaaiser und Königge in Bildern ih hrer Zeit 751-11190, edited by Florentine Mütherich (M München: Presteel, 1983): 462, Fig. F 15.

Fig. 3-2. Arcchitrave from San S Silvestro, Main M Portal, Piisa, in: Milone, Antonio, “Architrave ccon Storie di Costantino e Pap pa Silvestro,” inn I Marmi di Lasinio. L La collezione di sculture mediievali e modern ne nel Campossanto di Pisa, edited by 1 Clara Baracchhini (Florence: Studio per Edizzioni Scelte, 19993), 171, Fig. 16.

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Fig. 3-3. Architrave from San Giovanni, Main Portal, Campiglia Marittima, Author’s photograph.

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S Rome, R Palazzo ddei Conservato ori, in: Die Fig. 3-4. Antiique Hunting Sarcophagus, Römischen Ja Jagdsarkophagee (Die antiken Sarkophagrelieefs. Die Sarkophage mit Darstellungenn aus dem Meenschenleben 2), edited by B Bernard Andreaae (Berlin: Gebrüder Maann, 1989), Platee 95, Fig. 4.

S Piisa, Camposantto, in: Dresken n-Weiland, Fig. 3-5. Earrly Christian Sarcophagus, Jutta: Reperrtorium der chhristlich-antikeen Sarkophagee 2. Italien mit m einem Nachtrag Rom m und Ostia, Daalmatien (Museeen der Welt, 19998). Rep.II,12 2.

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Fig. 3-6. Lateran Portico, Engravings after the Mosaics, in: Ciampini, Giovanni, De sacris aedificiis a Constantino magno constructis. Synopsis historica (Rome: Komarek, 1693), Plate 2.

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Fig. 3-7. Architrave from San Lorenzo, South Portal San Gottardo, Genova, in: Müller, Rebecca, Sic hostes Ianua frangit. Spolien und Trophäen im mittelalterlichen Genua (Weimar: VDG, 2002), Fig. 16.

CHAPTER FOUR NEREIDS AND HIPPOCAMPS: THE MARINE THIASOS ON LATE ANTIQUE AND MEDIEVAL BYZANTINE IVORY AND BONE CASKETS* ANTHOUSA PAPAGIANNAKI

The appreciation of antique-looking artistic forms never lost its significance for the elites of both late antique and medieval Byzantium, even when the original meaning and context of those compositions increasingly came to be lost. A number of artistic media continued to present images from the Greco-Roman past, and in the pages that follow I will discuss one particular category of these media, artefacts made of ivory and/or bone, datable to both Late Antiquity (300-642) and the medieval period. As far as the late antique material is concerned, in their majority they are serially produced plaques and appliqués, most of which are now loose and without provenance, but which were once attached to household furnishing items such as wooden boxes.1 The medieval material comprises * This is a revised version of my paper entitled “Nereids and Hippocamps: The Echo of Skopas’ Marine Group on Medieval Byzantine Ivory and Bone Caskets” presented at “The Legacy of Antiquity. Perceptions of the Classics throughout History” conference held at St. Andrews University in 2006. I am grateful to David Gwynn for his generous advice and helpful comments on the first draft of this paper. All dates in the text are A.D. unless stated otherwise. All the dimensions given in the illustrations refer to those of the actual plaques of the caskets. 1 The term plaque refers to a flat surface, square or rectangular, probably cut from animal bones such as those on shoulder-blades, ribs or the pelvis. An appliqué is a convex surface cut either from long cylindrical or half-cylindrical animal bones, cut lengthwise from tubular bones. Appliqué ornaments were carved in low or high relief and they were meant to stand out from the backing surface, on which they were attached with pegs, mortises, or glue, see ElĪbieta Rodziewicz, Bone and Ivory Carvings from Alexandria: French excavations 1992-2004 (Cairo: Institut

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caskets datable between the ninth and twelfth centuries, known in scholarship as the “rosette caskets”.2 The latter are wooden boxes decorated with ivory and/or bone plaques, serially produced, ornamented with non-religious antique-looking figures, strips of rosettes, and other motifs. None of these artefacts can be interpreted from external documentary evidence, but both groups of artefacts were probably precious possessions. The majority of the early material was most likely produced in Alexandria where workshops have been excavated in the city, while the medieval material was in all likelihood manufactured in

français d'archéologie orientale, 2007), 52-53. In their majority, they have been acquired from art dealers, or sales of private collections, see Lila Marangou, Bone Carvings from Egypt. I. Graeco-Roman period (Tübingen: Ernst Wasmuth Publishers, 1976), 24, particularly note 77. Some of them come from specific archaeological contexts excavated at the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century, but very few of those have been well published. Notable exceptions are the results from the recent excavation in the Palatine east on the Palatine Hill in Rome and the French excavations in Alexandria, where modern archaeological practices have broadened our understanding of the ivory and bone carving industry in general. For the Palatine Hill see Archer St. Clair, Carving as Craft. The Palatine East Discoveries and the Greco –Roman Carving Tradition (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 2003); and for Alexandria see Rodziewicz, Bone and Ivory Carvings from Alexandria. 2 For the late antique material see in general Marangou, Bone Carvings from Egypt; Aikaterini Loverdou – Tsigarida, ȅıIJȑȚȞĮ ʌȜĮțȓįȚĮ. ǻȚĮțȩıȝȘıȘ ȟȪȜȚȞȦȞ țȚȕȦIJȚįȓȦȞ Įʌȩ IJȘ ȤȡȚıIJȚĮȞȚțȒ ǹȓȖȣʌIJȠ (Athens: Tameio Archaiologikon Poron kai Apallotrioseon, 2000). For the medieval ivory and bone caskets see in general Adolph Goldschmidt and Kurt Weitzmann, Die byzantinischen Elfenbeiskulpturen des X. – XIII. Jahrhunderts, I, Kästen (Berlin: Deutscher Verlag für Kunstwissenschaft, 1930, 1979), 12-13; Kurt Weitzmann, Catalogue of the Byzantine and Early Medieval Antiquities in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection. Vol. 3, Ivories and Steatites (Washington DC: The Dumbarton Oaks Centre for Byzantine Studies, 1972), 54; Anthony Cutler, “On Byzantine Boxes,” Journal of the Walters Art Gallery 42/3 (1984/1985): 32-47; ibid., The Hand of the Master. Craftsmanship, Ivory, and Society in Byzantium (9th – 11th Centuries) (New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1994), 185-225; ibid., “Mistaken Antiquity: Thoughts on Some Recent Commentary on the Rosette Caskets,” in AETOȈ, Studies in Honour of Cyril Mango, presented to him on April 14, 1998, ed. Ihor Sevþenko et al. (Stuttgart: B. G. Teubner, 1998), 46-54; ibid., “Ehemals Wien: The Pula Casket and the Interpretation of Multiples in Byzantine Bone and Ivory Carving,” Römische Historische Mitteilungen 41 (1999): 117-28; more recently see Anthousa Papagiannaki, “The Production of Middle Byzantine Ivory, Bone, and Wooden Caskets with Secular Decoration” (PhD diss., University of Oxford, 2006).

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Constantinople, the capital of the Byzantine Empire, although no workshop has yet been found in the city by archaeologists.3 One category of images from the Greco-Roman past preserved on late antique and medieval Byzantine secular ivory and bone objects comprises figures from the theme of the marine Thiasos. The term “marine Thiasos” usually refers to a group or a band similar to the Dionysiac Thiasos, but instead of Dionysus the group attends to a marine god, for example Poseidon, who may or may not be depicted. The theme includes compositions such as Tritons, Nereids (that is sea nymphs thought to be daughters of the sea god Nereus and the sea nymph Doris), dolphin riders, and sea monsters.4 My choice of this rather loose definition of the marine Thiasos is based on a now lost Hellenistic sculptural group by the Parian sculptor and architect Skopas (active c. 370-330 B.C.).5 This group comprised Poseidon, Thetis, Achilles, Nereids, Tritons, and various seamonsters, a description of which survives in Pliny’s Natural History (X.36.4.26): But most highly esteemed is his composition in the shrine built by Gn. Domitius in the Flaminian Circus. There is Neptune himself, and with him are Thetis and Achilles. There are Nereids riding on dolphins and mighty fish or on sea-horses, and also Tritons, “Phorcus band”, swordfish and a host of other sea creatures, all by the hand of the one man, a magnificent achievement even if it had occupied his whole career.6 3

For Alexandria see ElĪbieta Rodziewicz, “Archaeological Evidence of Bone and Ivory Carvings in Alexandria,” in Commerce et artisanat dans l’Alexandrie hellénistique et Romaine: Actes du Colloque d’ Athènes organise par le CNRS le laboratoire de céramologie de Lyon et L’ École française d’ Athènes 11-12 decémbre 1998, ed. Jean – Yves Empereur (Athens: École française d’ Athènes, 1998), 135-58; eadem., “On Alexandrian School of Ivory Carving in Late Antiquity,” Bulletin d’ Societé Archéologique d’ Alexandrie 47 (2003): 49-67; eadem., Bone and Ivory Carvings from Alexandria. As far as Constantinople is concerned, see Cutler, “Ehemals Wien,” 76. 4 Steven Lattimore, The Marine Thiasos in Greek Sculpture (Los Angeles: University of California 1976), 1; Judith Barringer, Divine Escorts. Nereids in Archaic and Classical Greek Art (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1995), 141. 5 For Skopas of Paros see Andrew Stewart, Skopas of Paros (Park Ridge: Noyes Press, 1977) and ibid., Greek Sculpture. An Exploration, vols.1 and 2 (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1990), 182-85. 6 David Eichholz, trans., Pliny Natural History (London and Cambridge, Mass: Heinemann and Harvard University Press, 1912), 21: “Sed in maxima dignatione delubro Cn. Dopmitii in circo Flaminio Neptunus ipse et Thetis atque Achilles, nereides supra delphinos et cete aut hippocampos sedentes, item Tritones

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The marine group by Skopas appears to have depicted the progress of the mythological hero Achilles to the Isles of the Blessed after his death at Troy, accompanied by his mother Thetis, who was a Nereid, and her relatives and companions from the sea.7 This sculptural group not only demonstrates the crystallization of this subject matter from the Hellenistic period onwards, but because of the interest it stimulated in the marine Thiasos in general, it may have also influenced representations and perceptions of marine groups in the art of the Romans and subsequent periods.8 Indeed, in Imperial Rome the marine Thiasos was a popular motif found on mosaic decorations in public and private baths, houses, tombs, and on numerous marble sarcophagi.9 chorusque Phorci et pistrices ac multa alia marina, omnia eiusdem manu, praeclarum opus, etiam si totius vitae fuisset”. See also Jerome Pollitt, The Art of Ancient Greece: Sources and Documents (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 95. Originally this work stood in an unknown location in the Greek East, but was transported to Rome by Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus, a lieutenant of Mark Anthony and governor of Bithynia ca. 40-36 B.C. Upon his return from the East, he set it up in the delubrum in the Temple of Neptune that stood in the Circus Flaminius, the remains of which have been recovered underneath the church of San Salvatore in Campo. It is unfortunate that this work of art has not been preserved, but it has been suggested that perhaps the Triton Grimani currently in the Staatliche Museen in Berlin, might have been part of the original marine group, see Stewart, Skopas of Paros, 100-01, pl. 43a-d and ibid., Greek Sculpture, 183, 318. Lattimore, on the other hand, believes that this Triton was a copy of the original, see Lattimore, Marine Thiasos, 58. 7 Margarete Bieber, The Sculpture of the Hellenistic Age (New York: Columbia University Press, 1955), 25. 8 For the influence Skopas’s sculptural group may have exerted on later representations of the theme in art see Lattimore, Marine Thiasos, 19, note 3. On the subject of Roman copies of Greek works of art see Margarete Bieber, Ancient Copies: Contributions to the History of Greek and Roman Art (New York: New York University Press, 1977); Elizabeth Bartman, Ancient Sculptural Copies in Miniature (Leiden: Brill, 1992); Peter Stewart, Statues in Roman Society. Representation and Response (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 231-49. I thank Susan Walker for these references. See also Christopher Hallett, “Emulation versus Replication: Redefining Roman Copying,” Journal of Roman Archaeology 18.2 (2005): 419-35. For the impact of plundered Greek art on Rome and its civic environment in general see Jerome Pollitt, “The Impact of Greek Art on Rome,” Transactions of the American Philological Association 108 (1978): 155-74 with references. 9 For the marine Thiasos on mosaics see Katherine Dunbabin, “Baiarum Grata Voluptas: Pleasures and Dangers of the Baths,” Papers of the British School at Rome 57 (1989): 22-30, eadem., Mosaics of the Greek and Roman World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 313; Luz Neira Jiménez,

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In earlier periods, Nereids and sea creatures in general had a long association with the journey of mortals to the scary underworld of the dead.10 In the Roman period, particularly from the second century AD onwards, a radical change occurs when these frightening figures are transformed into cheerful and playful characters, while the Roman artists demonstrated their creativity by taking sea-monsters, such as sea-leopards and sea-bulls, to a higher degree of fantasy.11 This innovation is further seen with Nereids appearing half-naked frolicking with sea-monsters, and flirting with Tritons. Even though they remain essential in the iconography of the story of Thetis and Achilles, particularly his arming and the mourning of his death, they also become part of other narratives, such as the wedding of Poseidon to Amphitrite; the Rape of Europa; and the birth of Aphrodite (Venus marine).12 In addition, marine subjects also exist outside of mythical narratives, where they are stereotyped motifs and function as space fillers. This is evident in mosaic pavements of the third and fourth centuries, when, it has been argued, a change in the personal tastes and interests of patrons resulted in the decline of mosaics inspired by mythology.13 The presence of mythology in the private sphere of “Mosaicos romanos con nereidas y tritones. Su relación con el ambiente arquitectónico en el Norte de Africa y en Hispania,” in L’Africa romana. Atti del X convegno di studio Oristano, 11-13 dicembre 1992, ed. Attilio Mastino et al. (Sassari: Editrice Archivio Fotografico Sardo, 1994), 1259-1278; on sarcophagi see Paul Zanker and Björn Christian Ewald, Mit Mythen leben. Die Bildwert der römischen Sarkophage (Munich: Hirmer Verlag, 2004), 117-34 and 341-47 with references to older scholarship. 10 Barringer, Divine Escorts; Susanne Muth, “Gegenwelt als Glückswelt – Glückswelt als Gegenwelt? Die Welt der Nereiden, Tritonen und Seemonster in der römischen Kunst,” in Gegenwelten zu den Kulturen Griechenlands und Roms in der Antike, ed. Tonio Hölscher (Munich and Leipsig: K. G. Saur, 2000), 46769. 11 Katharine Shepard, The Fish-tailed Monster in Greek and Etruscan Art (New York: George Banta Publishing Company, 1940), 78. 12 Nereids and other sea creatures were included in the poem of the Greek bucolic poet Moschus (fl. 150 BC) on the myth of Europa, the earliest surviving literary description of the marine Thiasos, see John Edmonds, The Greek Bucolic Poets (London: Heinemann, 1912), II.115-124. For the different narratives of the marine Thiasos in general see Marangou, Bone Carvings from Egypt, 43. 13 For marine subjects as stereotyped motifs with reference to mosaics see Katherine Dunbabin, The Mosaics of Roman North Africa. Studies in Iconography and Patronage (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978), 43- 44. See also Marangou, Bone Carvings from Egypt, 43; Loverdou – Tsigarida, ȅıIJȑȚȞĮ ʌȜĮțȓįȚĮ, 85. Nereids also appear to be part of the Dionysiac Thiasos. Here, only images of the marine deities, Nereids included, attributed to the marine Thiasos will be discussed.

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Roman art, and particularly the domus, has been interpreted as the result of the paideia of the patrons, who in this way demonstrated their learning.14 However, Paul Zanker and Björn Ewald in their work on sarcophagi have argued in favour of a “cult of emotions” instead of a “cult of learning” for the mythological decoration of sarcophagi, with particular reference to the images of the marine and Dionysiac Thiasoi. They suggested that the playfulness of the compositions evokes the delights of the flesh and beauty, and that even in the tomb scenes they are a call for enjoying life to the full, thus offering consolation to the bereaved.15 This is the background against which the marine Thiasos in Late Antiquity was set. In this paper, by considering the late antique and medieval ivory and bone plaques, appliqués and caskets, I will examine first how the marine Thiasos evolves from Late Antiquity into the medieval period, and secondly I will try to ascertain the significance of this motif, if any, for both late antique and medieval Byzantine audiences. During Late Antiquity the marine Thiasos continued to be a popular decorative motif. It appears on metalwork, particularly silver; glass; textiles; architectural sculpture, especially column capitals; as well as on mosaic floors.16 To these, we should add the elements from the 14 For an overview of questions and approaches regarding personal taste and Roman rhetorical education in the field of Roman domestic architecture and decoration see Elaine Gazda, “Domestic Art and the Instability of Cultural Meaning: Roman Art in the Private Sphere Revisited,” in Roman Art in the Private Sphere. New Perspectives and Décor of the Domus, Villa, and Insula, ed. Elaine K. Gazda (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2010, second edition), xviixviii. 15 Zanker and Ewald, Mit Mythen leben, 128. 16 For the marine Thiasos on silver see for example the fourth-century so-called Proiecta casket in the British Museum, London (inv. no. 66.12-29.1), see Kathleen Shelton, The Esquiline Treasure (London: British Museum Publications, 1981). On the Proiecta casket the marine Thiasos is associated with the toilet of Venus. Further examples in silver are on the contemporary so-called Great Dish from the Mildenhall Treasure also in the British Museum, London (inv. no. 1946.10-7.1), see John Brailsford, The Mildenhall Treasure: a Handbook (London: Trustees of the British Museum, 1955), no. 1; a dish from the Traprain Law Treasure showing a Nereid riding a sea-tigress currently in Edinburgh, see Alexander Curle, The Treasure of Traprain. A Scottish Hoard of Roman Silver Plate (Glasgow: Maclehose Jackson, 1923), 36-39, Pl. xvii; and a flask datable to the seventh century currently in the State Hermitage Museum in Saint Petersburg (inv. no. Ȧ256), see John Kent and Kenneth Painter, Wealth of the Roman World. Gold and Silver AD 300-700 (London: British Museum Publications Limited, 1977), no.161 with references. On jewellery an interesting example is on a gold bracelet from the fifth-century Hoxne Treasure currently in the British Museum, London, see

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iconography of the marine Thiasos that have been preserved on both ivory and bone artefacts, though in most cases the depicted figures can only be identified as marine deities by their attributes. Generally speaking, these iconographic elements include Nereids, Tritons, and mythical sea creatures. Nereids appear in a variety of types.17 They are commonly depicted as young naked female figures, sometimes richly ornamented with jewellery, either in half-reclining attitudes or swimming, with a mantle billowing over their heads, and surrounded by or riding sea creatures.18 The latter include mainly hippocamps, a half-horse half-fish creature originally depicted harnessed to Neptune’s chariot as seen on numerous late antique floor mosaics, as well as fishtailed leopards (pardalokampoi), although other creatures such as fishtailed bulls (icthyotauroi), and in at least one case what might be a fishtailed camel Catherine Johns, The Hoxne Late Roman Treasure. Gold Jewellery and Silver Plate (London: The British Museum Press, 2010), 36-40, no.12, figs. 3.24 and 3.26. An example of members of the marine Thiasos on glass is on a fourth- or fifth-century glass cup in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, see Kurt Weitzmann, The Age of Spirituality, Late Antique and Early Christian Art, Third to Seventh Century (New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1979), no.152. There is a plethora of textiles decorated with the marine Thiasos, selectively see Gerhart Egger, Frühchristliche und koptische Kunst, Ausstellung in der Akademie der bildenden Künste, Wien 11. März bis 3. Mai 1964 (Vienna: Bundesministerium für Unterricht, 1964), 199, no. 613 and Eunice Maguire – Dauterman, The Rich Life and the Dance. Weavings from Roman, Byzantine, and Islamic Egypt (Krannert Art Museum & Kinkead Pavillion: University of Illinois at Urbana – Champaign, 1999), 151, no. C9 and 158, no. C16. For the narrative of the marine Thiasos and the Birth of Aphrodite on textiles see Loretta del Francia, “Un tessuto copto con nascita di Afrodite,” in Alessandria e il Mondo Ellenistico – Romano. Studi in Onore di Achille Adriani, ed. Nicola Bonacasa et al (Rome: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider, 1984), 209-21; for sculptural architecture see Egger, Frühchristliche und koptische Kunst, 21, nos.49 and 50; for mosaics see Dunbabin, The Mosaics of Roman North Africa and Neira Jiménez, “Mosaicos romanos con nereidas y tritons,” 1259-1278. For mosaics with the marine Thiasos in baths see Dunbabin, “Baiarum Grata Voluptas,” 25-26, especially note 136, as well as Zanker and Ewald, Mit Mythen leben, 129-32. 17 For a study of Nereids in classical art see Barringer, Divine Escorts. 18 For a typology of Nereids on late antique ivory and bone carvings see Josef Strzygowski, Koptische Kunst, Catalogue général des antiquités égyptienes du Musée du Caire (Vienna: Imprimerie Adolf Holzhausen, 1904), 189- 191, nos. 7108-11; Andreas Xyngopoulos, “ਝȜİȟĮȞįȡȚȞȐ ӓıIJȑȚȞĮ ਕȞȐȖȜȣijĮ IJȠ૨ ਥȞ ਝșȒȞĮȚȢ ਫșȞȚțȠ૨ ਝȡȤĮȚȠȜȠȖȚțȠ૨ ȂȠȣıİȓȠȣ,” Archaiologike Ephemeris (1915): 138-142; Marangou, Bone Carvings from Egypt, 42; Loverdou–Tsigarida, ȅıIJȑȚȞĮ ʌȜĮțȓįȚĮ, 153-55.

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(ichyokamelos), are not unknown.19 The riding Nereids may have originally derived from the story of the arming of Achilles in Homer’s Iliad.20 Tritons, young mermen with the upper body of a male and a fish tail, are the sea messengers and are usually found on these artefacts escorting reclining or swimming Nereids, and rarely on their own.21 Their attributes include carrying a basket with fruits or flowers, which they appear to offer to the Nereids accompanying them, a motif known from Roman art and probably referring to the erotic element clearly visible between Nereids and Tritons on earlier imagery.22 On ivory, figures from the marine Thiasos can be seen on at least one comb, said to be from Egypt and datable to the fifth or sixth century, currently in the Benaki Museum in Athens.23 The comb is well preserved, with the large widely spaced teeth in excellent condition, and some of the fine, closely packed ones broken. One side of the central section of the comb depicts a Triton swimming, his face turned towards a naked Nereid with a billowing mantle who appears to be riding on his back, with her legs on his side. He seems to be supporting the weight of the Nereid with his hands, and his touch probably underlines the eroticism usually implied in such scenes. On the other side, a Nereid is swimming in the sea and behind her is a Triton. The condition of the comb is perhaps an indication that it was little used, and may have been a grave good in a burial. Nevertheless, it is important that this comb is an object of everyday life, with the large teeth used for untangling the hair and the fine ones for 19 The ancient writers used the name Hippocamp to designate the true sea horse that inhabits the Mediterranean, but it is in Menander that the word means a seamonster (see Shepard, Fish-tailed Monster, 25). For hippocamps harnessed onto Neptune’s chariot see for example the mosaic pavement from La Chebba, Tunisia, depicting Neptune and the Seasons, Dunbabin, The Mosaics of Roman North Africa, Pl. XXXVII, no.98. The creation of a variety of mythical creatures for the Nereids to ride demonstrates not only the creativity and playfulness of the artists, but also the popularity of the marine Thiasos. As a result, amongst the mythical creatures on the late antique bone appliqués we find a fishtailed wolf on a fragmentary bone plaque in the Benaki Museum in Athens (inv. no. 18981), see Loverdou–Tsigarida, ȅıIJȑȚȞĮ ʌȜĮțȓįȚĮ, no. 319, pl.85, and a creature that appears to be a fishtailed camel can be seen on a fragmentary bone appliqué in Cairo (inv.no. 7111), see Strzykowski, Koptische Kunst, 190-191, no. 7111, fig. 247. 20 Iliad, Book XIX, 364-424. See also Barringer, Divine Escorts, 147. 21 Loverdo –Tsigarida, ȅıIJȑȚȞĮ ʌȜĮțȓįȚĮ, 182. 22 Muth, “Gegenwelt als Glückswelt,” 468-69. 23 Inv. no. 10286. See Wolfgang Volbach, Elfenbeinarbeiten der spätantike und des frühen Mittelalters (Mainz am Rhein: Verlag Philipp von Zabern, 1976), 68, no.88c, pl. 49.

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making the hair clean and shiny.24 Perhaps the most famous Nereids on ivory are those on one of the Egyptian appliqués currently decorating the ambo of the Holy Roman Emperor Henry II (972-1024) in the Aachen Cathedral in Germany, datable to the seventh- or eighth century.25 This appliqué depicts a procession of marine creatures. On the lower part, a naked Nereid with a billowing mantle rides on a Centauro-triton surrounded by fish and putti, while on the upper part the large figure of a second naked Nereid rides another Centauro-triton, equally surrounded by fish and putti. The ambo is not the original context of this appliqué, rather together with five more ivory appliqués it is reused as spolia on the ambo.26 The Nereid appliqué is curved, which means that originally it was probably attached on a wooden surface, perhaps a furnishing of sorts, and thus it could belong to the domestic sphere of daily life. It is striking that the marine Thiasos, or at least figures that can be attributed to that group, has been preserved on a much larger number of bone plaques and appliqués, a disproportion that probably has to do with the fragility and high price of ivory, as well as the environmental conditions of Egypt (saline soil and humidity).27 The subject appears on trapezoidal and oblong appliqués, serially produced and made clearly for attachment on wooden boxes.28 The latter were probably treasured commodities, since bone emulates the more expensive material of ivory, 24

The daily use of these objects is further confirmed by recent entomological research, which showed that the fine teeth from the combs were also used to remove lice from the scalp, see Ricardo Palma, “Ancient Head Lice on a Wooden Comb from Antinoë, Egypt,” Journal of Egyptian Archaeology 77 (1991): 194. 25 Volbach, Elfenbeinarbeiten, 60, no. 75, pl. 43. The dimensions of the appliqué given by Volbach are H: 25.4cm x W: 11cm. 26 Two of the other appliqués are decorated with Bacchus, one with Isis, and two depict helmeted warriors in armour, one on foot and the other on horseback. For the ivory carvings on the ambo of Henry II see Henri Stern, “Quelques oeuvres sculptées en bois, os et ivoire de style omeyyade,” Ars Orientalis 1 (1954): 128-30; ibid., “The Ivories on the ambo of the Cathedral of Aix-la- Chapelle,” The Connoisseur 153 (1963) no. 617: 166-71; Karen Mathews, “Expressing Political Legitimacy and Cultural Identity through the Use of Spolia on the Ambo of Henry II,” Medieval Encounters 5.2 (1999): 156-83 with references. 27 Rodziewicz, Bone and Ivory Carvings from Alexandria, 50-51. For the price of ivory see Siegfrid Lauffer ed., Diokletians Preisedikt (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1971), 148-149 and Anthony Cutler, The Craft of Ivory. Source, Techniques, and Uses in the Mediterranean World: A.D. 200 – 1400 (Washington D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 1985), 25 and ibid., “Ehemals Wien,” 29. 28 Marangou, Bone Carvings from Egypt, 44; Rodziewicz, Bone and Ivory Carvings from Alexandria, 19-20.

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which was popular with the wealthy elites, and thus the possession of objects similar to those owned by the elites was a way for the less fortunate to confirm their social standing.29 These boxes were objects of daily life, and as such they fulfilled certain practical functions, for example providing storage. A fragmentary wooden casket with bone appliqués depicting domestic scenes in the Archaeological Museum in Cairo, known in scholarship as the ‘wedding casket’, provides evidence of potential uses for these artefacts, since on its panels we see a jewellery box, and perhaps a box used to hold scrolls, and they may have also held toiletries, such as perfumes.30 At the same time, the boxes also fulfilled social functions since it is possible that they may have been offered as gifts, as well as served as burial goods for their owners. As was mentioned earlier, the marine Thiasos was part of the cycle of the birth of Aphrodite. The goddess was associated with the domestic sphere and generally considered as the protector of marriage, since her statuettes are mentioned in dowry documents amongst equipment intended for use by the bride.31 As a result, it has been suggested that some of the late antique bone caskets decorated with marine subjects may have

29 Cutler, Craft of Ivory, 1–19; ibid., “Prolegomena to the Craft of Ivory Carving in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages,” in Artistes, Artisans et Production Artistique au Moyen Age. Colloque International Centre National de la Recherché Scientifique, Université de Rennes II, Haute – Bretagne, 2 –6 mai 1983, ed. Xavier Barral I Altet, (Paris: Picard, 1997), 456–57. Inexpensive bone was an acceptable substitute for ivory and not easily distinguishable from ivory after it was processed, particularly after polishing. The result was a flourishing industry, which catered for a large clientele of a varied income. For luxury materials and their imitation on cheaper materials see also Henry Maguire, “The Good Life,” in Interpreting Late Antiquity. Essays on the Postclassical World, ed. Glen W. Bowersock et al. (London: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2001), 23857. 30 On the two preserved appliqués on the lid panel of the so-called “wedding casket” in Cairo we see on the first a female figure, presumably the mistress of the house, opening a box held by a second female, probably a servant, and removing jewellery while holding a mirror in her left hand, and on the second the same lady holding a scroll, with a female servant behind her holding a box in a pyramidal shape. For this object see Strzykowski, Koptische Kunst, nos. 7060-7063; Helmut Buschhausen, Die spätrömischen Metallscrinia und frühchristlichen Reliquiäre, I. Katalog (Vienna: Wiener byzantinistische Studien, 9, 1971), 217-19; Loverdou – Tsigarida, ȅıIJȑȚȞĮ ʌȜĮțȓįȚĮ, 251-252, nos. 16 – 20, pl. 5. 31 Fabienne Burkhalter, “Les statuettes en bronze d’Aphrodite en Égypte romaine d’ après les documents papyrologiques,” Revue Archéologique 1990, fasc. 1: 5160.

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functioned as wedding gifts.32 This interpretation is largely, if not solely, based upon the iconography of a single object: the embossed silver and partially gilt so-called Proiecta casket from the fourth century now in the British Museum in London, an artefact which, unlike the late antique serially produced boxes, was specially commissioned.33 Bathing and toilet scenes decorate the surface of the artefact in the repoussé technique, and it is inscribed “Secunde et Proiecta vivatis in Christo” (Secundus and Proiecta, live in Christ). The lower body of the casket depicts servants carrying accoutrements of the toilet, while centrally on the front panel sits their lady pinning her hair in front of a mirror held by her maid. This movement is mirrored by the figure of Venus on the lid of the casket, before whom a Centauro-triton holds up a mirror. Kathleen Shelton suggested that both the inscription and the decoration are marriage centred, while Jas Elsner has preferred to interpret the iconography as the process through which Proiecta becomes the Venus of Secundus, namely adornment, bathing and beautification.34 Regardless of the interpretation of the preserved images on the Proiecta casket, its impact on the analysis of this type of iconography on the late antique boxes cannot be disputed, even though the goddess Aphrodite can be identified with certainty on very few examples.35 However, in the case of the serially produced appliqués and boxes, decoration does not necessarily dictate function. Some of those boxes were also used as burial goods, since in addition to the potential marital overtones mentioned above, the marine Thiasos has also been associated with the afterlife, a feature shared with the Dionysiac Thiasos.36 In late antique burials featuring bone artefacts as grave goods, 32

Marangou, Bone Carvings from Egypt, 41-42, 44. This artefact was part of the so-called Esquiline Treasure found in the remains of a Roman house on the Esquiline Hill in Rome in 1793. The Esquiline Treasure originally comprised more than sixty artefacts, the majority of which are currently housed in the British Museum in London, see Ormonde Dalton, Catalogue of the Early Christian Antiquities in the British Museum (London: Trustees of the British Museum, 1901), 61-77; and Shelton, Esquiline Treasure. The casket is made in the form of two truncated rectangular pyramidal shapes joined at their bases, a shape also found in the production of contemporary bone caskets, as seen for example in the so-called “wedding casket” in Cairo. 34 Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, 31; JaĞ Elsner, “Visualising Women in Late Antique Rome: the Projecta Casket,” in Through a Glass Brightly: Studies in Byzantine and Medieval Art and Archaeology presented to David Buckton, ed. Chris Entwhistle (Oxford: Oxbow, 2003), 30-31. 35 Loverdou–Tsigarida, ȅıIJȑȚȞĮ ʌȜĮțȓįȚĮ, 84, 92. 36 Dionysus and his myths were associated with salvation, rebirth, and the afterlife in general, and thus Dionysiac imagery was a recurring theme on burial artefacts 33

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the marine Thiasos was probably a common theme, though very few examples come from specific archaeological contexts.37 A case in point could be the fragments of what originally may have been an oblong box, probably with a wooden core, found in a grave in Shurafa, Egypt (Fig. 41).38 Amongst the fragments are two bone plaques joined into one piece depicting what appears to be a Centauro-triton holding a seashell in front of him and a naked female figure adorned with jewellery and with a billowing mantle flying over her head riding the Centauro-triton, while smaller pieces preserve parts of hippocamps. The placement of bone carvings in graves is not unusual, since numerous artefacts, usually loose bone plaques once attached to wooden caskets, have been recovered from cemeteries all over Egypt.39 The number of appliqués either recovered from burial grounds or thought to have come from burial sites has propelled Loverdou – Tsigarida to argue in favour of an industry specialising in bone boxes commissioned for funerary purposes.40 No

during Late Antiquity either as a decorative motif on sarcophagi or on objects of daily use. For Dionysus within a funerary context see Glen Bowersock, Hellenism in Late Antiquity: Thomas Spencer Jerome Lectures (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1990), 41-53; Robert Turcan, The Cults of the Roman Empire (Oxford: Blackwell, 1996), 312-15; Thelma Thomas, Late Antique Egyptian Funerary Sculpture. Images for This World and the Next (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), 55; László Török, After the Pharaohs. Treasures from Coptic Art from Egyptian Collections, Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest, 18 March – 18 May 2005 (Budapest: Szépmúvészeti Múzeum, 2005), 57 and 99, to mention a few. The myths of Dionysus were popular on the sarcophagi of the second and third centuries; see for example Karl Lehman and Erling Olsen, Dionysiac Sarcophagi in Baltimore (New York and Baltimore: The Institute of Fine Arts New York University and The Trustees of the Walters Art Gallery, 1942) and Friedrich Matz, Die dionysischen Sarkophage (Berlin: Gebr. Mann Verlag, 1968), 46-48, nos. 69-73. 37 The majority of the bone carvings recovered from burial sites depict figures from the Dionysiac Thiasos, though Nilotic scenes, as well as domestic imagery, feature as well amongst the finds. Here it should be noted that many surviving carvings with Nereids do not necessarily refer to the marine thiasos, but form part of the Dionysiac Thiasos. At the same time, the best part of the late antique bone carvings were purchased from dealers in Cairo and Alexandria, and do not have a provenance, see Marangou, Bone Carvings from Egypt, 24. For carvings with specific archaeological contexts see Strzykowski, Koptische Kunst. 38 Flinders Petrie and Ernest Mackay, Heliopolis, Kafr Ammar and Shurafa (London: British School of Archaeology in Egypt, 1915), 43, pl. L, nos. 4-15. 39 Loverdou–Tsigarida, ȅıIJȑȚȞĮ ʌȜĮțȓįȚĮ, 64. 40 Loverdou–Tsigarida, ȅıIJȑȚȞĮ ʌȜĮțȓįȚĮ, 85.

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artefacts can be classified as having a distinct funerary character, but at least in Egypt it was customary to deposit luxury objects with the dead.41 As far as the medieval ivory and bone caskets are concerned, the marine Thiasos cannot be identified either easily or with certainty. These objects not only lack inscriptions, but they also lack a coherent narrative in their decoration. At the same time, the serially produced character of the imagery does not help, since during their copying some of the images often had part of their iconography either altered or omitted. As a result, and similarly to the late antique material, we can identify members of the marine Thiasos only on the basis of their attributes. Interestingly enough, one would expect that in the medieval period it would be difficult to find the traditional mythological attributes for these figures seen on the earlier material, but hippocamps and Tritons persist in this period as well. Consequently, a partial identification of elements that could refer to a medieval perception of the subject of the marine Thiasos may be achieved. The following categories of marine imagery can be seen: three types of Nereids; sea monsters; one type of Triton; the Rape of Europa; and a putto riding on a pair of dolphins harnessed together like a chariot. The latter was not originally associated with the marine Thiasos, but in Late Antiquity became part of this aquatic repertory. The images above can be found on thirteen complete medieval caskets and parts thereof.42

41

Françoise Dunand, “Pratiques et croyances funéraires,” in Life on the Fringe. Living in the Southern Egyptian Deserts during the Roman and Early-Byzantine Periods. Proceedings of a Colloquium Held on the Occasion of the 25th Anniversary of the Netherlands Institute for Archaeology and Arabic Studies in Cairo 9-12 December 1996, ed. Olaf Kaper (Leiden: Research School CNWS, School of Asian, African, and Amerindian Studies, 1998), 128-32 and Rodziewicz, Bone and Ivory Carvings from Alexandria, 14. 42 The Rape of Europa was part of the marine Thiasos narrative in Late Antiquity (see above), but in the medieval period its association with the marine repertory is not clear. For example, on the medieval Byzantine ivory and bone caskets the Rape of Europa can be seen on the ivory lid and back panel of the Veroli Casket in the Victoria and Albert Museum in London (inv. no. 216-1865) and on a loose panel of the same material currently housed in the same museum (541-1910), but on none of them the figures of Europa and the Bull are accompanied by creatures of the marine Thiasos. Thus, here the theme is mentioned only for reasons of consistency and will not be discussed further. For the Veroli casket see John Beckwith, The Veroli Casket (London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1962) and Paul Williamson, Medieval Ivory Carvings. Early Christian to Romanesque (London: V&A Publishing, 2010), no. 15, and for the loose ivory panel see Williamson, Medieval Ivory Carvings, no. 16.

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The first type of Nereid seen on the medieval ivory and bone caskets depicts a fleshy putto-like reclining figure holding an oar draped in fabric and riding on a hippocamp. This image can be seen on five caskets and one loose ivory panel.43 A well-known representation is on the lock end ivory panel of the so-called Veroli casket, datable to the tenth century and now in the Victoria and Albert Museum in London (Fig. 4-2).44 The second type of Nereid is found on a bone plaque on the back panel of a casket in the Musée Nationale du Moyen–Age in Paris (Cluny Museum), probably contemporary to the Veroli casket. It depicts what appears to be a naked winged figure riding on a hippocamp, a “Nereid” of sorts, but not reclining, and making a gesture of speech (fig. 4-3).45 The third type refers to the image of a Nereid riding on a hippocamp without reclining on the creature. Here the hippocamp has been harnessed like a real horse, while the “Nereid” is a naked putto, which we may therefore call a “Nereid”. This image is visible on the back panel of a bone casket in the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore, datable to the end of the tenth century (Fig. 4-4).46 A Triton, seen on two artefacts, is of particular interest (Fig. 4-5).47 This Triton is a bearded merman, whose lower body splits into a double43

These are: a bone casket in the State Hermitage Museum in Saint Petersburg (inv. no. Nr. 59); a bone casket in the Musee du Louvre in Paris (inv. no. OA 7503); a bone casket in the Archaeological Museum in Pola (inv. no. S. 14. Vitr.21, Nr.4); the ivory and bone Veroli casket, and a bone casket in the Walters Art Gallery in Baltimore (inv. no. 71298). The loose ivory panel is in the Musee du Louvre, Paris (inv. no. OA 11329). For these objects see Goldschmidt and Weitzmann, Elfenbeiskulpturen, nos.48, 26, 28, 21, 40 and 24 respectively. More recently, for the casket and the panel in the Louvre see Danielle Gaborit–Chopin, Ivoires médiévaux V–XV siècle (Paris: Réunion des Musées Nationaux, 2003), nos. 26 and 20 respectively; for the casket in Pola see Cutler, “Ehemals Wien,” 117-28; for the Veroli casket see note 42 above; and for the casket in Baltimore see Richard Randall, Masterpieces of Ivory from the Walters Art Gallery (New York and Baltimore: Hudson Hills Press and The Walters Art Gallery, 1985), no.200. 44 For the Veroli casket see Beckwith, The Veroli Casket; Erika Simon, “Nonnos und das Elfenbeikästchen aus Verol,” JDAI 79 (1964): 279-336; Helen Evans and William Wixom, eds., The Glory of Byzantium. Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era A.D. 843-1261 (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1997), no. 153; Williamson, Medieval Ivory Carvings, no.15. 45 Inv. no. Cl 13075, see Goldschmidt and Weitzmann, Elfenbeiskulpturen, no. 41. 46 Inv. no. 71298, see Goldschmidt and Weitzmann, Elfenbeiskulpturen, no. 40 and more recently see Randall, Masterpieces, no. 200. 47 This Triton can be seen on a now loose bone plaque in the Liverpool Museums (inv. no. M.8032), and on a complete casket currently in the Museo Civico in Bologna (inv. no. Palagi Nr.276). See Goldschmidt and Weitzmann Elfenbeiskulpturen, nos. 30 and 31 and Margaret Gibson, The Liverpool Ivories.

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ended tail, only one end of which has been preserved and has a dragon-like head at its tip.48 The double-tailed Triton first made his appearance in Greek art in the Hellenistic period, though the dragon-like head at the tip of the tail appears to be a rather new element, and may have been a Byzantine invention.49 The same tail end can be seen on the twisted tails of two dolphins on the back panel of the casket in Baltimore mentioned above, an image which will be discussed later (Fig. 4-4). One more seamonster that appears on the medieval caskets is another composite creature, though more classical in appearance than the Triton just discussed: a sea lion looking directly forward towards the viewer, and seen on two medieval artefacts (Fig. 4-6).50 This creature is only partially depicted; the front part depicts the head of a lion with a rich mane and a front left paw rendered in remarkable detail, while the remaining part is scaly occupying the remaining surface on the plaque, with the tail not visible. One more motif from the aquatic repertory of the marine Thiasos involves a putto riding a single dolphin, a well-known marine subject seen on a bone plaque on the lid of a casket in the Museo Nationale del Bargello in Florence.51 On this casket, however, the image demonstrates a medieval twist: the putto is winged and the dolphin, the tail of which is long and twisted, is harnessed. Finally, the image completing the figures of the marine Thiasos that can be found on the medieval caskets is the Late Antique and Medieval Ivory and Bone Carving in Liverpool Museum and the Walker Art Gallery (London: HMSO, 1994), no. 21g and Ivanka Nikolajeviü, Gli avori e le steatite medievali dei musei civici di Bologna (Bologna: Grafis, 1991), 73-76 respectively. 48 The other end of the tail is missing. 49 Shepard, Fish-tailed Monster, 72. For the question of innovation in Byzantine art see Eunice Maguire and Henry Maguire, Other Icons. Art and Power in Byzantine Secular Culture (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2006), 5-28. 50 Sea lions together with other composite creatures were introduced in the marine Thiasos in the Hellenistic period see Shepard Fish-tailed Monster, 78. This sealion can be seen on two artefacts, a loose bone plaque currently in the Liverpool Museums (inv. no. M.8033), which probably originated from the same casket as the Liverpool Triton plaque, and the bone casket in Bologna, for which see note 46 above. For the sea lion in Liverpool see Goldschmidt and Weitzmann, Elfenbeiskulpturen, no. 30 and Gibson, Liverpool Ivories, no. 21h. 51 Inv. no. Legato Carrand 1987. For the casket in Florence see Goldschmidt and Weitzmann, Elfenbeiskulpturen, no. 33. For the plaque with the winged putto driving a dolphin see also Henry Maguire, “Epigrams, Art and the “Macedonian Renaissance”,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 48 (1994): 108.

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depiction of the putto riding on two dolphins harnessed together like a chariot on the casket in Baltimore (Fig. 4-4). As noted earlier, the twisted tails of those two dolphins end in dragon-like heads, turning the dolphins into composite creatures in what appears to be a medieval device. Putti riding on single dolphins were part of the marine Thiasos representations, particularly on mosaic pavements. However, charioteers driving dolphins harnessed to a small chariot and putti riding on harnessed dolphins or other fish were adopted and included in the marine repertory since before Late Antiquity, despite their unconventional character. These motifs were used in baths, both public and private, and Katherine Dunbabin has suggested that these representations present elements of parody of the races taking place in circuses.52 At this point, we should turn our attention to the meaning and audience of the marine Thiasos as seen on the late antique and medieval ivory and bone carvings. The marine Thiasos was certainly a popular motif, and as we have already seen in Late Antiquity its popularity has been interpreted either as an expression of marital bliss, or as a subject appropriate to accompany the dead. At the same time, Late Antiquity is a period of changes, and with Christianity establishing itself as a new religion the survival of mythological representations in this new hostile environment has been traditionally explained as the result of the paideia of the elites, who continued to commission such images in order to decorate their

52 The best examples of marine charioteers are found on the mosaic decoration of Roman villas in North Africa, such as a mosaic pavement from the Frigitarium of the Great Baths at Thina in Tunisia, currently located at the Sfax Archaeological Museum (inv. no.: Inv. Tun. 18, C, 4), datable to the third century, and a second mosaic in the Sousse Archaeological Museum (inv. no.: inv. Sousse 57.124), datable to the early fourth century. The former depicts pairs of dolphins harnessed to small chariots driven by men dressed as charioteers. According to Dunbabin “their poses are taken from the standard patterns of circus scenes showing races in progress: one looks over his shoulder at his pursuer; the next bends over his steeds encouraging them; the third has had a crash, and is falling out of his chariot with one of his dolphins upside down, the other raring at its tail; the fourth is whipping his dolphins to catch up,” see Dunbabin, Mosaics of Roman North Africa, 105- 6. The last charioteer is the best preserved image of the four. I am grateful to Samira Arous, Curator of the Sfax Archaeological Museum for allowing me to study this mosaic at first hand during my visit in Sfax. For its proposed chronology see Jean Thirion, “Un ensemble thermal avec mosaiques á Thina (Tunisie),” Mélanges d’Archéologie et d’Histoire de l’École Française de Rome 69 (1957): 224. The Sousse mosaic depicts four nude winged putti with scarfs in the factions’ colours driving pairs of fish of different species.

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domestic spaces.53 However, I believe that the argument of Zanker and Ewald on the “cult of emotions” on sarcophagi, where they read the marine Thiasos as an evocation of the playfulness and richness of life, could offer a further alternative in interpreting this iconographic subject in this period beyond marriage, death, and paideia.54 The ivory and bone carvings reflect a wider appreciation of this aquatic repertory, an appreciation stemming from the decoration of baths, both public and private, where the marine Thiasos was the standard ornament.55 Within this environment, the marine Thiasos evokes the pleasures of life, the richness of the sea and the beauty of its creatures, and is associated with luxury and enjoyment. It is possible that the same sentiments were aroused when viewing these characters and their antics on other artistic media within a domestic context. After all, sometimes a mythical creature is just a mythical creature. In the constantly changing, and on occasion volatile, circumstances of Late Antiquity, this could mean that the marine Thiasos on skeletal materials may have occupied a relatively neutral ground, and was an acceptable decorative element in a domestic context regardless of religious beliefs. The interpretation of the marine Thiasos in the medieval period is more complex. The lack of a coherent narrative in the decoration of the medieval caskets, the fragmentary character of the marine scenes and the putto-like appearance of the figures are in part a result of the serially produced character of these artefacts. Even the gender of the depicted figures is often doubtful because of their putto-like appearance.56 For example, it is far from certain that the Nereid on the Veroli casket is female (Fig. 4-2). However, this does in turn raise the question of how the Byzantines understood such imagery and why the Christian Byzantines employed this specific iconography. The answer to these questions is complicated and still open to debate. A number of scholars have suggested that in the tenth century the medieval Byzantine Empire had re-discovered 53

Ruth Leader – Newby in her study of domestic silver following in the steps of Peter Brown defined paideia as “both the educational training and the concept of culture shared by individuals who had participated in this training”, see Ruth Leader – Newby, Silver and Society in Late Antiquity. Functions and Meanings of Silver Plate in the Fourth to Seventh Centuries (Aldershot: Ashgate 2004), 159. For Peter Brown’s work on paideia see Peter Brown, Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity: Towards a Christian Empire (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1992). 54 Zanker and Ewald, Mit Mythen leben, 117-34 and 341-47. 55 For the decoration of baths see Dunbabin, “Baiarum Grata Voluptas,” 6-32. 56 Cutler, “On Byzantine Boxes,” 44.

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Graeco-Roman art and was experiencing a cultural Renaissance that began in the final years of Iconoclasm in the early ninth century, and which reached its peak during the reign of the Macedonian Dynasty (867-963), hence the name “Macedonian Renaissance”.57 The depiction of the marine Thiasos on the caskets may reflect this Renaissance. Other scholars have suggested that the use of such images was superficial and intended to be farcical, and have questioned whether the medieval images really copy earlier works of art.58 It has also been debated just how far the spread of Christianity actually changed Byzantine everyday life, including the development of the arts.59 The truth probably lies somewhere in between these various alternatives. The archaic appearance of the figures on the caskets cannot be denied, but describing them in terms of an artistic revival is a modern perception. After all, if inspiration was needed then the urban setting of Constantinople was decorated with memorabilia of the past visible to everyone, and the works of art chosen for the decoration of the city were of pagan character, mainly of divinities, although whether those outside the well-educated elite could identify them is far from certain.60 Nevertheless, at least one ancient bronze statue that once stood in the Hippodrome of the city was of a hippocamp, which, however, as Nicetas 57 Kurt Weitzmann, Greek Mythology in Byzantine Art (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1951); ibid., “The Character and Intellectual Origins of the Macedonian Renaissance,” in Studies in Classical and Byzantine Manuscript Illumination, ed. Herbert L. Kessler (Chicago and London: Chicago University Press, 1971), 176-23; ibid., “The Classical Mode in the Period of the Macedonian Emperors: Continuity or Revival?” in Byzantina kai Metabyzantina I, The “Past” in Medieval and Modern Greek Culture, ed. Spyros Vryonis Jr. (Malibu, Ca: Undena Publications, 1978),71-85. Reprinted as Study X in Classical Heritage in Byzantine and Near Eastern Art (London: Variorum Reprints, 1981). 58 Ioli Kalavrezou – Maxeiner, “The Cup of San Marco and the “Classical” in Byzantium,” in Studien zur mittelalterllichen Kunst 800-1250: Festschrift für Florentine Mütherich zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. Katharine Bierbrauer et al. (Munich: Prestel, 1985), 167-74; John Lowden, The Octateuchs: A Study in Byzantine Manuscript Illumination (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1992), 105-20; Maguire, “Epigrams,” 105-115; Paul Magdalino, “The Distance of the Past in Early Medieval Byzantium (seventh to tenth centuries),” Ideologie e Pratiche del Reimpiego nell’ Arto Medioevo 46 (1999): 115-46. 59 Cyril Mango and Marlia Mundell Mango, “Cameos in Byzantium,” in Cameos in Context. The Benjamin Zucker Lectures, 1990, ed. Martin Henig et al. (Oxford and Houlton: W. S. Maney and Son Ltd, 1993), 58. 60 Cyril Mango, “Antique Statuary and the Byzantine Beholder,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 17 (1963): 55-75.

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Choniates informs us, was melted down by the Crusaders after the sack of the city in 1204.61 Furthermore, scenes related to the marine Thiasos may have decorated the Palace of Marina, a fifth century construction converted in the tenth century into a bath attached to the Imperial Palace. Its decoration is known to us from a poem by Leo Choirosphaktes, a diplomat and writer (d. after 919), though he does not mention whether the aquatic images were on wall or floor mosaics.62 Moreover, we know that the tenthcentury Byzantine elite appreciated works of art of an earlier date. This is attested not only from written sources but also from a number of artefacts. For example, from the De Ceremoniis, a tenth-century work describing Byzantine court ceremonial and attributed to the emperor Constantine VII Porphyrogennetos (913-959), we learn that late antique silver plates, probably dating from the fourth to the seventh centuries were displayed on certain dates in the Great Palace.63 Antique Roman cameos and intaglios were used as Byzantine personal jewellery.64 At the same time, late 61

Jan Van Dieten, ed., Nicetae Choniatae Historia (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1975), 651: 20-21:“țĮȓ IJȩȞ ੄ʌʌȠȞ IJȩȞ ȃİȚȜ૶ȠȞ, ਥȢ Ƞ੝ȡĮ૙ȠȞ ਱țĮȞșȦȝȑȞȠȞ ȜİʌȓıȚ IJȐ ੕ʌȚıșİȞ IJȠ૨ ıȫȝĮIJȠȢ ȜȒȖȠȞIJĮ”. Interestingly enough, Sarah Bassett in her discussion of the statues in the Constantinopolitan Hippodrome does not mention this statue at all, see Sarah Bassett, The Urban Image of Late Antique Constantinople (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004). 62 Cyril Mango, “The Palace of Marina, the Poet Palladas and the Bath of Leo VI,” in ǼȣijȡȩıȣȞȠȞ. ǹijȚȑȡȦȝĮ ıIJȠȞ ȂĮȞȩȜȘ ȋĮIJȗȘįȐțȘ (Athens: Tameio Archaiologikon Poron kai Apallotrioseon, 1991), 321-30; see also Paul Magdalino, “The Bath of Leo the Wise,” in Maistor. Classical, Byzantine and Renaissance Studies for Robert Browning, ed. Ann Moffatt (Canberra: Australian Association for Byzantine Studies, 1984), 225-40 and ibid. “The Bath of Leo the Wise and the “Macedonian Renaissance” Revisited: Topography, Iconography, Ceremonial, Ideology,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 42 (1988): 97-18. 63 Johan Reiske, ed. and trans., De Cerimoniis Aulae Byzantinae (Bonn: Impensis ed. Weberi, 1829-1830), 587.11-12; Anthony Cutler, “The Memory Palace of Constantine Porphyrogenitus,” in Memory and Oblivion. Proceedings of the XXIXth International Congress of the History of Art Held in Amsterdam, 1-7 September 1996, ed. Wessel Reinink et al. (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 1999), 696-97. 64 For example see a gold ring with amethyst intaglio probably depicting members of the marine Thiasos now in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection at Washington D.C. (acc. no. 53.12.1). The ring is said to have been found in Constantinople and is datable to the ninth and tenth centuries, Marvin Ross, Catalogue of the Byzantine and Early Medieval Antiquities in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection. Volume 2. Jewelry, Enamels and the Art of the Migration Period (Washington D. C.: The Dumbarton Oaks Centre for Byzantine Studies Trustees for Harvard University,

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antique hard stone vessels were mounted on medieval metalwork.65 Antique artefacts from the minor arts were thus available as motifs and models for later Byzantine art, as is evident from a tenth-century glass cup with mythological figures, currently in the Treasury of San Marco in Venice, for which it has been argued that it drew its decoration from antique gems.66 However, the availability of earlier artefacts in medieval Byzantium only partially explains the figures from the marine Thiasos on some of the medieval ivory and bone caskets. A further explanation should be sought in our reading of the depicted scenes. It has been suggested that the images on the medieval caskets are expressions of staged performances, rather than depictions of ancient myths.67 The appearance of the Nereids, naked, pot-bellied and in clown-like body stances, point more towards farce rather than an exact reproduction of antique imagery. From literary sources we know that despite a seventh-century ban on mimic acts, performers continued their antics not only in the Hippodrome, but also in other private functions, especially in the court.68 From Late Antiquity onwards mimic plays relied on mythology for inspiration.69 Therefore, it would only be natural first for mimes to perform in antique disguises, and secondly for the ivory and bone craftsmen to depict them as antique looking figures. The putto-like Nereids on the images discussed here can be understood in the same way. Seen in this light, the gesture of speech 1965), no.112, Plate LX; Mango and Mundell Mango “Cameos in Byzantium,” 5762. 65 For example see nos. 10, 11, 15, 16 and 17 in David Buckton, ed., The Treasury of San Marco Venice (Milan: Olivetti, 1984). 66 Anthony Cutler, “The Mythological Bowl in the Treasury of San Marco at Venice,” in Near Eastern Numismatics, Iconography, Epigraphy and History: Studies in Honour of George C. Miles, ed. Dickran Kouymjian, (Beirut: American University of Beirut, 1974), 235-54. Reprinted as Study IX in Imagery and Ideology in Byzantine Art (London: Variorum Reprints, 1992). 67 Herbert Hunger, Das Reich der neuen Mitte (Graz, Vienna, Cologne: Verlag Styria, 1985), 206-08; Cutler, “On Byzantine Boxes,”42-46; Henry Maguire, “Other Icons: The Classical Nude in Byzantine Bone and Ivory Carvings,” Journal of the Walters Art Museum 62 (2004): 9-20. 68 Franz Tinnefeld, “Zum Profanen Mimos in Byzanz nach den Verdikt des Trullanums (691),” Byzantina 6 (1974): 323-39; Cyril Mango, “Daily Life in Byzantium,” Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik 31 (1981): 341-44. 69 Blake Leyerle, Theatrical Shows and Ascetic Lives. John Chrysostom’s Attack on Spiritual Marriage (Berkeley, London: University of California Press, 2001), 20-31; Ruth Webb, Demons and Dancers. Performance in Late Antiquity (Cambridge Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2008).

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made by the Paris Nereid (Fig. 4-3) could be theatrical, possibly referring to a play.70 Still, this interpretation does not explain the merman with the dragon headed tail, or the dolphins with the twisted tails ending in dragon shaped heads, which may very well be medieval inventions. These figures require a different reading. The Maguires have argued that in Byzantium composite artistic forms like these were criticized and condemned by the clergy due to an official ideology discouraging innovation of any kind. Therefore, fantastical creatures such as these can be attributed to “the simple pleasure of breaking the formal rules of the church” and to beliefs that they embodied a source of supernatural power.71 However, the documentary evidence that the Maguires based their theory upon, i.e. lives of saints and court rhetoric, was available only to a restricted audience, and does not necessarily explain the images or their appeal to a wider audience. These images are much more than a reaction to the ideology of the Church. Given that these composite creatures have been preserved mainly on bone, rather than ivory, a material more appropriate for the elites, it would perhaps be more instructive to look at them, as well as the rest of the marine Thiasos imagery, from a different angle, combining materials and object functionality.72 The artefacts made from ivory and/or bone presented in this paper are primarily domestic objects used in daily life. They formed part of one’s household setting in the same way as mosaic pavements and frescoes, and were used to decorate portable domestic items, on free standing boxes, as 70 For the possibility of theatrical elements of late antiquity surviving in the medieval period see also Massimo Bernabó, “Un repertorio di figure comiche del teatro antico dale miniature dei salteri bizantini a illustrazioni marginali,” Zograf 30 (2004/2005): 21-32. 71 Maguire and Maguire, Other Icons, 28. 72 The Maguires mention that they “have found the inventions at all levels of production, from pottery to ivory carving”, see note 70 above. The artefacts they used in their argument include a casket in the Dumbarton Oaks collection and the Walters Art casket also mentioned in this paper, as well as the casket in Cluny. The Dumbarton Oaks casket is made of bone with the exception of one small plaque underneath the lock, which is made of ivory. This plaque depicts a snake with a dragon-shaped head, making the creature a composite, and to my knowledge this is a unique image among the medieval Byzantine ivory and bone caskets. Other composite creatures on this casket are carved on bone. As far as the other two examples are concerned, the Walters Art casket is made of bone apart from the main panel on the lid. The composite creature is carved on the back panel of the casket, which is made of bone. The casket in Cluny is made entirely of bone. In my opinion, one example on ivory, which also appears to be a unicum, does not make “invention” a widespread cultural phenomenon in the production of ivory artefacts.

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ornaments on furnishings, or as toilet tools. Their function was not just utilitarian but also to be seen, and they were probably displayed in some form. For example, it is not purely for financial reasons that the lid of the casket in the Walters Art Gallery is made of ivory while the main body of the artefact is made of bone. The casket, displayed on a stand or table or even held in the hands of a viewer/admirer was probably primarily observed from above. Again, paideia has been used to explain the decoration of such caskets with mythological scenes, because objects with that type of iconography could be valued and deciphered primarily by the elite for whom paideia was the factor distinguishing them from those on a socially lower scale, although as Anthony Cutler has observed the relative role of the patron’s taste cannot be assessed.73 Be that as it may, the images discussed here do not copy exact antique models. Rather they present a “simulation” of antiquity by being antique-looking, even when they appear to be a new invention.74 As a result, paideia on its own does not explain the popularity of these themes on cheaper materials accessible to a much wider audience, particularly one that was not necessarily privy to the traditional educational system of the elites. The marine Thiasos on bone carvings is such a case. The majority of both late antique and medieval evidence for the marine Thiasos has been preserved on bone. But this does not exclude the existence of representations of the marine Thiasos on ivory, which may in turn have been copied on bone as seen for example on the lock end of the Veroli casket where the Nereid carved on ivory has been copied on bone.75 Bone, on the other hand, was readily available to carvers, and it emulates ivory to such an extent that when polished and gilded it may have been difficult to distinguish between the two.76 Still, the majority of the bone carvings with the marine Thiasos were serially produced, pointing towards a high demand not only for this iconography, but also for the objects the images ornamented. If bone imitated ivory, then the resulting piece was a copy, which in turn indicated an understanding of particular aesthetic values rather than a participation in paideia. At the same time, the possession of such objects was probably a representation of wealth, and if that was the case then this underlines the desire of people to own

73

Leader – Newby, Silver and Society, 159. On the culture of the patrons of ivory artefacts in general see Cutler, Hand of the Master, 239-46. 74 For the idea of the “simulation” of antiquity see for example the case of Roman copying of classicising statuary in Hallett, “Emulation versus Replication,” 419-35. 75 See note 42 above. 76 Cutler, Craft of Ivory, 50.

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commodities found in the households of the elites, even if they had never seen the “real thing” themselves.77 To conclude, the marine Thiasos on late antique and medieval ivory and bone carvings has raised a series of questions on different levels regarding what can be perceived as the legacy of antiquity. In terms of iconography, the late antique material continues to preserve elements found in the earlier Roman tradition, while in the medieval period we see a departure from traditional models, despite the persistence of hippocamps and Tritons. The material of both periods has been interpreted in a number of ways, and even though scholarly opinion is divided, perhaps the combination of iconography, materials, and the functions of the objects the marine Thiasos decorated can offer new directions in scholarly research. As objects of display they speak not only of their owner’s taste, but also of the culture to which they belonged. During both Late Antiquity and the medieval period, the inhabitants of the Byzantine Empire understood these images in very different terms to our own, in terms of mimes, contemporary allusions and simulated antiquity. As the medieval ivory and bone caskets demonstrate particularly well, the different ways in which the Byzantines perceived antiquity can only be fully understood if we try to approach antiquity in their terms rather than our own.

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Rodziewicz, ElĪbieta. Bone and Ivory Carvings from Alexandria: French Excavations 1992-2004. Cairo: Institut français d'archéologie orientale, 2007. —. “On Alexandrian School of Ivory Carving in Late Antiquity.” Bulletin d’ Societé Archéologique d’ Alexandrie 47 (2003): 49-67. —. “Archaeological Evidence of Bone and Ivory Carvings in Alexandria.” In Commerce et artisanat dans l’Alexandrie hellénistique et Romaine: Actes du Colloque d’ Athènes organise par le CNRS le laboratoire de céramologie de Lyon et L’ École française d’ Athènes 11-12 decémbre 1998, edited by Jean – Yves Empereur, 135-58. Athens: École française d’ Athènes, 1998. Ross, Marvin C. Catalogue of the Byzantine and Early Medieval Antiquities in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection. Volume 2. Jewelry, Enamels and the Art of the Migration Period. Washington D. C.: The Dumbarton Oaks Centre for Byzantine Studies Trustees for Harvard University, 1965. Shelton, Kathleen. The Esquiline Treasure. London: British Museum Publications, 1981. Shepard, Katharine. The Fish-tailed Monster in Greek and Etruscan Art. New York: George Banta Publishing Company, 1940. Simon, Erika. “Nonnos und das Elfenbeikästchen aus Veroli.” JDAI 79 (1964): 279-336. St. Clair, Archer. Carving as Craft. The Palatine East Discoveries and the Greco–Roman Carving Tradition. Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 2003. Stern, Henri. “The Ivories on the ambo of the Cathedral of Aix-laChapelle.” The Connoisseur 153 (1963), no. 617: 166-71. —. “Quelques oeuvres sculptées en bois, os et ivoire de style omeyyade.” Ars Orientalis 1(1954): 119-31. Stewart, Andrew F. Greek Sculpture. An Exploration, vols.1 and 2. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1990. —. Skopas of Paros. Park Ridge: Noyes Press, 1977. Stewart, Peter. Statues in Roman Society. Representation and Response. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003. Strzykowski, Josef. Koptische Kunst, Catalogue général des antiquités égyptienes du Musée du Caire. Vienna: Imprimerie Adolf Holzhausen, 1904. Thirion, Jean M. “Un ensemble thermal avec mosaiques á Thina (Tunisie).” Mélanges d’Archéologie et d’Histoire de l’École Française de Rome 69 (1957): 207- 245.

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Thomas, Thelma. Late Antique Egyptian Funerary Sculpture. Images for This World and the Next. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000. Tinnefeld, Franz H. “Zum Profanen Mimos in Byzanz nach den Verdikt des Trullanums (691).” Byzantina 6 (1974): 32-39. Török, László. After the Pharaohs. Treasures from Coptic Art from Egyptian Collections, Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest, 18 March – 18 May 2005. Budapest: Szépmúvészeti Múzeum, 2005. Turcan, Robert. The Cults of the Roman Empire. Oxford: Blackwell, 1996. Volbach, Wolfgang F. Elfenbeinarbeiten der spätantike und des frühen Mittelalters. Mainz am Rhein: Verlag Philipp von Zabern, 1976. Webb, Ruth. Demons and Dancers. Performance in Late Antiquity. Cambridge Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2008. Weitzmann, Kurt, ed. The Age of Spirituality, Late Antique and Early Christian Art, Third to Seventh Century. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1979. —. “The Classical Mode in the Period of the Macedonian Emperors: Continuity or Revival?” In Byzantina kai Metabyzantina I, The “Past” in Medieval and Modern Greek Culture, edited by Spyros Vryonis Jr., 71-85. Malibu, Ca: Undena Publications, 1978. Reprinted as Study X in Classical Heritage in Byzantine and Near Eastern Art. London: Variorum Reprints, 1981. —. Catalogue of the Byzantine and Early Medieval Antiquities in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection. Vol. 3, Ivories and Steatites. Washington DC: The Dumbarton Oaks Centre for Byzantine Studies, 1972. —. “The Character and Intellectual Origins of the Macedonian Renaissance.” In Studies in Classical and Byzantine Manuscript Illumination, edited by Herbert L. Kessler, 176-223. Chicago and London: Chicago University Press, 1971. —. Greek Mythology in Byzantine Art. Studies in Manuscript Illumination 4. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1951. Williamson, Paul. Medieval Ivory Carvings. Early Christian to Romanesque. London: V&A Publishing, 2010. Xyngopoulos, Andreas. “ਝȜİȟĮȞįȡȚȞȐ ӓıIJȑȚȞĮ ਕȞȐȖȜȣijĮ IJȠ૨ ਥȞ ਝșȒȞĮȚȢ ਫșȞȚțȠ૨ ਝȡȤĮȚȠȜȠȖȚțȠ૨ ȂȠȣıİȓȠȣ.” Archaiologike Ephemeris (1915): 138- 45. Zanker, Paul – Ewald, Björn Ch. Mit Mythen leben. Die Bildwert der römischen Sarkophage. Munich: Hirmer Verlag, 2004.

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Fig. 4-1. Fragments from a casket found in Shurafa, Egypt, with marine creatures, bone, current location unknown. After F. Petrie and E. Mackay, Heliopolis, Kafr Ammar, Shurafa (London: British School of Archaeology in Egypt, 1915), pl. L, nos. 4-15.

Fig. 4-2. A Nereid riding on a Hippocamp from the lock end panel of the Veroli casket, ivory, W: 10.1cm x H: 5.4cm. London, Victoria and Albert Museum. ©V&A Images/Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

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Fig. 4-3. A winged putto riding on a Hippocamp, detail from the back panel of a medieval casket, bone, W: 4.3cm x H: 4.9cm x Th.: 0.2cm. Paris, Musée du Moyen Aƣe. © Thierry Ollivier and RMN–Grand Palais.

Fig. 4-4. Figures from the Marine Thiasos on the back of the lid and body panel of a medieval casket, bone, lid: W: 18cm x H: 4.3cm, body: W: 12cm x H: 3.5cm. Baltimore, The Walters Art Museum. © The Walters Art Museum, Baltimore.

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Figs. 4-5/6. A Triton and a sea lion, fragmentary plaques from a medieval casket, bone, W: 3.4cm x H: 6.1cm x Th.: 0.2cm and W: 3.5cm x H: 6.2cm x Th.: 0.2cm respectively. Liverpool, The Walker Art Gallery. © Courtesy National Museums Liverpool (The Walker Art Gallery).

PART III: RENAISSANCE APPROACHES TO ANTIQUITY

CHAPTER FIVE THE METAMORPHOSIS OF ORPHEUS IN ITALIAN EDITIONS OF OVID'S METAMORPHOSES, 1325-1570 LAURA RIETVELD

Orpheus is a very versatile figure: he has many different sides. He is an excellent poet, who can enchant nature with his music. He is a lover, but also a loser, because he looks back at Eurydice coming from hell. He is the first homosexual and because of this he is killed in a cruel way. Medieval and Renaissance writers had difficulties in combining all these different aspects of Orpheus: how is it possible, for example, that this excellent poet turned to homosexuality? Do writers have to admire his powers or condemn his behaviour? They cannot agree on this point. There is always a conflict between his positive and his negative image. Another conflict is formed by Orpheus’s position as a pagan mythological figure. Because the pagan gods and mythological figures described by Ovid did not fit in a Christian perspective, writers and artists had to find ways to reconcile both worlds. This is a major problem in the Middle Ages, that continues to exist in the Renaissance. In this article I will discuss these conflicting images of Orpheus in greater detail. I will present a diachronic analysis of the various editions of Ovid’s Metamorphoses and of the way Orpheus’s positive or negative sides are emphasised in these editions.1 I will not only focus on the texts themselves, but will also look into the woodcuts that accompanied them in 1

The editions of Ovid’s Metamorphoses are discussed elaborately in: Bodo Guthmüller, Ovidio metamorphoseos vulgare. Formen und Funktionen der Volkssprachlichen Wiedergabe klassischer Dichtung in der italienischen Renaissance (Boppard am Rhein: Harald Boldt Verlag, 1981); Max D. Henkel, “Illustrierte Ausgaben von Ovids Metamorphosen im XV., XVI. und XVII. Jahrhundert,” Vorträge der Bibliothek Warburg 6 (1926-1927): 58-144.

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order to study the differences and similarities in the way Orpheus is portrayed.

Medieval Allegory In the twelfth century, scholars began to write commentaries on the Metamorphoses. As we know from Jean Seznec’s famous study on the survival of the pagan gods, there were three ways in which writers from late Antiquity and the Middle Ages tried to reconcile mythological gods and demigods with Christian religion:2 - by way of a historical (or euhemeristical) explanation: the gods were actually real men, who did great deeds and who were considered to be gods after their death; - by way of a physical explanation: the gods were considered to be planets; - by way of an allegorical or moral explanation: the myths of the gods were explained as allegories containing moral lessons to Christian men. This medieval tradition of commentaries on Ovid was brought to Italy in 1322-23 by Giovanni Del Virgilio, a schoolmaster from Bologna, who based his Latin Allegorie librorum Ovidii Metamorphoseos prosaice ac metrice compilate on earlier medieval comments.3 In his introduction Del Virgilio states that he wants to reduce every myth to its moral lesson. Half a century later, in 1375-77, Giovanni dei Bonsignori translated Del Virgilio’s commentary into Italian, and thus introduced his allegorical interpretation of myth to Italian literature.4 In the editions of Del Virgilio and Bonsignori we find some influential alterations to the myth of Orpheus with respect to Ovid’s text: they adopted the character of Aristaeus from the French Ovide moralisé (end thirteenth- early fourteenth century). This shepherd who pursued Eurydice was originally described in Virgil’s Georgics and not by Ovid. Furthermore, Del Virgilio and Bonsignori replaced Charon, the ferryman,

2

Jean Seznec, The Survival of the Pagan Gods. The Mythological Tradition and Its Place in Renaissance Humanism and Art (Princeton University Press, 1995), 3121. 3 Del Virgilio’s paraphrase of the Ovidian myths is only available in manuscripts, e.g.: Roma, Biblioteca Casanatense, cod. 1369. The allegorical comment has been published by: Fausto Ghisalberti, “Giovanni del Virgilio espositore delle Metamorfosi,” Giornale dantesco 34, NS 4 (1931): 89-93. 4 Giovanni Bonsignori da Città di Castello, Ovidio Metamorphoseos Vulgare, ed. Erminia Ardissino, (Bologna: Commissione per i Testi di Lingua, 2001).

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by the three-headed dog Cerberus. This change had already taken place in the twelfth century commentary of Arnulph of Orleans. While Ovid’s text was only summarised briefly, the so-called allegories, which end every section of the Orpheus myth, form substantial additions to the text. Orpheus is portrayed in a very positive way: he was a wise and eloquent man that lost his profound judgement (Eurydice). The devil (i.e. the snake that killed Eurydice) led Orpheus astray from the good way. But after his death Orpheus was reunited with Eurydice, and thus the spirit found the mind again. In a historical explanation of Orpheus’s death Bonsignori calls him a philosopher who liked to play music, but who was made drunk by women and in the end drowned in the river. From a moral point of view we should see Orpheus as a man of good reputation. When Orpheus is dead and his limbs are scattered around, a snake tries to eat his head, but is stopped by Apollo. According to Bonsignori, this means that a good reputation always prevails over envious people. Even Orpheus’s homosexuality is turned into something positive: Del Virgilio and Bonsignori praise him for his manly behaviour. At the end of the fifteenth century, printers started to publish Latin editions of Ovid, as well as translations. The Latin editions show that there was a need for original texts that could be studied by humanists. They were mostly printed with the grammatical comments of Raffaele Regio (Raphael Regius).5 On the other hand there was also a need for Italian translations. The general public who were interested in mythological heroes, but also artists who wanted to depict them, were in need of mythological treatises in order to find out more information. The first Italian translation of the Metamorphoses printed in 1497 was not a brand new translation nor the older literal translation of Arrigo Simintendi,6 but simply Bonsignori’s allegorical commentary, which was already more than a hundred years old.7 Thus, although humanists were returning to the classical texts themselves, at the same time six editions of Bonsignori’s medieval commentary were printed.

5

Raphaeli Regii in Metamorphosin Ovidii enarrationes (Venice, 1493). Besides the allegorical translation of Bonsignori, there was also a literal translation by Arrigo Simintendi. Since this translation lost its importance after the invention of printing, I will not discuss it in this article. 7 Giovanni dei Bonsignori, Ovidio metamorphoseos vulgare (Venice: Giovanni (Zoane) Rosso, 1497). 6

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Humanistic Influences Absorbed by Medieval Allegories When twenty-five years later, in 1522, a new translation in verse was published by Niccolò degli Agostini, the allegories of Bonsignori were added to the text again.8 Bodo Guthmüller has shown that the translation itself is also a combination of Bonsignori’s text, Angelo Poliziano’s Fabula di Orfeo and the anonymous Historia de Orpheo. The second of these sources, the Fabula di Orfeo (ca. 1475-80), is considered to be the first secular play written in Italian. Poliziano wrote his play for the cultural élite of Mantua and Florence. For the first time in the history of Orpheus in Italian literature Poliziano turned to the classical texts of Virgil and Ovid themselves. Poliziano did not provide his play with explicit allegorical explanations, but, according to Mario Martelli, it is likely that we have to interpret it in the cultural context of Medici Florence as an allegory of man’s search for a higher good.9 Looking back at the worldly goods (i.e. Eurydice), man fails and even lowers himself to homosexuality, and in the end he dies a terrible death. Agostini’s third source, the Historia de Orpheo, is a so-called cantare; a narrative form of poetry, which used to be recited in public in a marketsquare, but from the end of the fifteenth century was mostly written down.10 Although the cantare was strictly based on Poliziano’s Fabula, its message was altered: the anonymous author stressed the love-story of Orpheus and Eurydice and concluded his text with a moral lesson: men should not love other men, but stick to women. Agostini however, ignores these negative connotations of the Orpheus myth by combining these sources with the more positive allegories of Bonsignori. In this way Poliziano’s humanistic play, which contained many allusions to classical texts, is absorbed by Bonsignori’s text and allegories. Thus, from 1322 until 1522 Orpheus was interpreted again and again in the same allegorical way in editions of the Metamorphoses; with positive connotations.

8

Niccolò degli Agostini, Tutti gli Libri de Ouidio Metamorphoseos (Venice: Niccolò Zoppino, 1522). 9 Mario Martelli, “La Fabula d’Orfeo,” in Angelo Poliziano. Storia e metastoria, ed. Mario Martelli (Lecce: Conte, 1995). 10 The 1567 edition of the cantare of Orpheus and Eurydice has been published in: Erhard Lommatzsch, Beiträge zur älteren italienischen Volksdichtung: Untersuchungen und Texte, III (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1950).

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Literal Translations At the same time, however, we witness another development towards a more literal translation of the classical texts. Lorenzo Spirito Gualtieri (1519) and Ludovico Dolce (1553) made relatively literal translations of Ovid’s Metamorphoses without allegories.11 Because of the literality of the translation Aristaeus and Cerberus have disappeared in Dolce’s text. Of Spirito’s translation only the last part is left, in which Orpheus’s death is described, but he probably left out Aristaeus and Cerberus as well.12 While Spirito’s translation remained fairly neutral, Dolce is very negative about Orpheus: because of his negligence Orpheus looked back at Eurydice and lost her for the second time. But above all, Dolce condemns Orpheus’s homosexuality: a man that despises women, from whom all good things derive, deserves the worst punishment. Giovanni Andrea dell’Anguillara is much more positive about Orpheus. In 1561 he presents a free translation of the Metamorphoses, again without allegorical comments.13 According to Anguillara, Orpheus did not want to fall in love with other women after Eurydice’s death, because he wanted to keep his promise to her. As a homosexual Orpheus could keep his promise to Eurydice, and at the same time elevate his soul to a higher level. According to platonic philosophy this higher level could be attained by love. The differences between Dolce’s and Anguillara’s translations demonstrate clearly that people judged Orpheus in very different ways. On one hand, he was a famous mythological musician, who suffered a tragic loss. But on the other hand, he had looked back at Eurydice coming from hell, which could be interpreted allegorically as a return to wordly pleasures, and he had turned to homosexuality. Thus, interpretations of the Orpheus myth alternate between praising and condemnation. Although these literal translations do not offer allegorical explanations in the text, they had to be interpreted allegorically by the reader. This 11

Lorenzo Spirito Gualtieri, Ouidio metamorphoseos vulgare (Perugia, 1519); Ludovico Dolce, Le Trasformationi (Venice: Gabriele Giolito, 1553). 12 Guthmüller supposes that Spirito only translated the last five books of the Metamorphoses, because no trace remains of the first ten books either in manuscript or in print (Guthmüller, Ovidio metamorphoseos vulgare, 146). I find it very unlikely that Spirito began his translation in the middle of the story of Orpheus, and therefore I assume that the first part of the manuscript was lost (and, as a consequence, was not printed either). 13 Giovanni Andrea dell’Anguillara, Le metamorfosi d’Ovidio (Venice: Giovanni Griffio, 1561).

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becomes clear from the dedications in the beginning of both Spirito’s and Dolce’s translations. Underneath the myths the reader could find a philosophical truth.

Counter-Reformation and Allegory Although the first editions of Dolce and Anguillara were published without allegorical explanations, these explanations were added in later editions. These additions were probably caused by the CounterReformation and the Council of Trent, which was held from 1545 until 1563. Though the Council had placed Christianising editions of Ovid’s Metamorphoses on the Index of forbidden books, there was still an enormous need to reconcile pagan antiquity with Christian religion.14 Moral allegory was thus seen as a good compromise to be able to use classical mythology. In this way, ancient literature and mythology, in which even most clerics were educated, could still be read and used. Dolce (or his editor) only inserted a brief allegory in the sixth edition (1561) that emphasises his negative attitude towards Orpheus. Orpheus represents the state of mind that loses reason and turns back to follow despicable earthly things. Apparently the publishers of Anguillara were in a hurry to add an allegorical interpretation to the text. In the 1563 edition Gioseppe Horologgi, who wrote the allegory, almost literally copied his text from Boccaccio’s mythological treatise, the Genealogie deorum gentilium (ca. 1350). Orpheus is a prudent man, who symbolises eloquence that has civilised humankind. Horologgi is very positive in his judgement of Orpheus, but he also copies Boccaccio’s extraordinary explanation of Orpheus’s death: women killed him as a punishment for having exposed the shameful secret of their menstruation. This strange explanation replaces Ovid’s original reason for Orpheus’s death, his homosexuality, which apparently affected his positive image. Thus, after the Council of Trent the new literal translations that probably were already interpreted allegorically by the reader, were again 14

Although the Index speaks of allegorical commentaries (“In Ovidii Metamorphoseos libros commentaria sive enarrationes allegoricae vel tropologicae”), it is assumed that the Pope did not want to prohibit allegorical commentaries in general, but only Christianising allegories; see Malcolm Bull, The Mirror of the Gods. Classical Mythology in Renaissance Art (London: Penguin/Allen Lane, 2005), 18; Bodo Guthmüller, “Concezioni del mito antico intorno al 1500,” in Mito, poesia, arte. Saggi sulla tradizione ovidiana nel Rinascimento, ed. Bodo Guthmüller (Rome: Bulzoni editore, 1997), 51.

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supplied with explicit allegorical explanations that were based on sources from the fourteenth century and earlier.

From Text to Image: the Woodcuts If we study the images in the printed editions of the Metamorphoses, we notice that these too keep going back to earlier examples. The first edition of Ovid with woodcuts was the 1497 edition of Bonsignori, where the myth of Orpheus is illustrated with three images.15 In the first woodcut we see the wedding of Orpheus and Eurydice (to the left), Eurydice’s death (caused by a snake), and in the back Orpheus is playing to Charon (Fig. 5-1). The woodcut probably was not based on Bonsignori’s text, but on an earlier manuscript illustration from the Ovidius moralizatus, which shows more or less the same scenes.16 I disagree with the thesis proposed by Gerlinde Huber-Rebenich that the woodcuts in this edition were based on Bonsignori’s text itself, because Aristaeus and Cerberus, who were present in Bonsignori’s translation, are absent.17 In the second woodcut Orpheus is playing his lira da braccio in front of a group of animals. Although this scene is hardly mentioned by Ovid, it had become a topos in the Orpheus iconography (Fig. 5-2). This was mainly due to the fourteenth-century mythological and iconographical treatise De deorum imaginibus libellus, that had an enormous influence on artists and in which the scene of Orpheus and the animals figured prominently. The third woodcut represents Orpheus’s death, a scene that takes up a large part of Bonsignori’s description of the myth (as it did in the Latin text) (Fig. 5-3). The woodcut could thus be inspired directly by the translation itself, but it seems more likely that it was inspired by a representation of the same scene by Andrea Mantegna. Mantegna, who 15 Giovanni dei Bonsignori, Ovidio metamorphoseos vulgare, LXXXIIIv, LXXXVr and LXXXXIv. 16 Anonymous, The Wedding of Orpheus and Eurydice, Eurydice’s Death, Orpheus in Hades, in Ovidius moralizatus, Flemish manuscript, fifteenth century (Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale, Richelieu MS. Français 137, fol. 132v). Pointedly in this manuscript illustration Eurydice is pursued by Aristaeus, as opposed to the woodcut. Charon is missing, too. This might indicate that the wood-engraver based his work on a Latin text as well. 17 Gerlinde Huber-Rebenich, “Die Holzschnitte zum Ovidio Metamorphoseos vulgare in ihrem Textbezug,” in Die Rezeption der Metamorphosen des Ovid in der Neuzeit: der antike Mythos in Text und Bild, ed. Hermann Walter and HansJürgen Horn (Berlin: Gebr. Mann, 1995), 48-57.

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had depicted the death of Orpheus in the Camera degli Sposi in Mantua, probably also made a drawing or an engraving of the same subject which was copied in other drawings and engravings.18 These three illustrations were recycled in most editions of the Metamorphoses: Bonsignori’s translation was printed six times and each time the woodcuts from the 1497 edition were copied or imitated with slight differences. Moreover, they were also used for other editions of the Metamorphoses, like the Latin editions by Raffaele Regio (beginning from 1505). All texts–Latin and popular adaptations–kept going back to the same images, that depended on classical and medieval sources. In the same way, in the texts themselves new interpretations and new literal translations kept going back to medieval allegorical comments. Thus, similar pictures were designed by Giovanni Antonio Rusconi for the editions of Ludovico Dolce’s Trasformationi. Although they show many stylistic differences, from a thematical point of view the images are much alike. The only remarkable difference is that Orpheus is not represented seated on the ground, but playing his lira while standing (Figs. 5-4-6).19 Although the woodcuts in the first edition of Anguillara’s Metamorphoses (that were probably influenced by pictures of the French artist Bernard Salomon) do not show the same clear resemblance to earlier woodcuts, they do not change the image of Orpheus either:20 he is again displayed as a musician (maybe with less emphasis on his power over nature, since we do not see many animals), and he is murdered in the end (Figs. 5-7, 5-8). On the whole we could say that whatever changes are made in the text, be it a positive or a negative approach to Orpheus or the addition of allegorical comments, these changes did not affect the woodcuts. In most editions three scenes are shown, that form a neutral depiction of the text. 18

Anonymous (attributed to Marco Zoppo), The Death of Orpheus, drawing in the so-called Sketchbook of Mantegna (London: British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings, no. 1920-2-14-1, 21r); Anonymous artist from Ferrara, The Death of Orpheus, engraving, 1470-80 (Hamburg: Kunsthalle, Graphische Sammlung). The same motif was copied in a famous drawing by Albrecht Dürer (Hamburg, Kunsthalle). The scene of Orpheus’s death was depicted in the manuscript of the Ovidius moralizatus mentioned above as well. However, in the manuscript illustration the Maenads are using stones instead of sticks to kill Orpheus. 19 The order of the illustrations has also changed: the woodcut depicting Orpheus playing the lira comes first. 20 The woodcuts of the French artist Salomon were published in an Italian edition: Gabriele Symeoni, La vita et Metamorfoseo d’Ovidio figurato et abbreviato in forma d’epigrammi (Lyon, 1559).

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The woodcuts do not change the image of Orpheus in a fundamental way: they nearly always show him getting married and losing Eurydice, playing to the animals and being killed by the Maenads.

Positive and Negative Changes There are however two exceptions. A new scene was introduced in the edition of Agostini of 1522 (Fig. 5-9). Although most woodcuts in this edition are thematically similar to the ones from the 1497 edition, Orpheus is presented on his journey to hell, and not on his wedding day. He is playing his lira da braccio or violin in front of Pluto and Proserpina, while Eurydice is standing next to them. This scene is described in a similar way by Agostini in his translation and may have been made especially for this edition.21 In the second woodcut Orpheus is playing to the animals again. We would expect a third woodcut representing his murder, but this is missing. The fact that the murder scene is missing, and that Orpheus is represented playing to Pluto and to the animals, maybe indicates a more positive inclination towards Orpheus and the power of music. A negative interpretation of Orpheus can be found in the 1584 edition of Anguillara.22 Instead of woodcuts this book is illustrated with copper engravings, made by Giacomo Franco (1550-1620).23 Every book begins with one engraving, in which several myths are shown in a landscape. This type of composition is completely new. Remarkably, both the wedding of Orpheus and Eurydice and his musical power over the animals are missing, although this last aspect was emphasised by Horologgi’s allegories that were added to the translation. Instead, in the engraving in book ten Orpheus looks back at Eurydice, who is dragged back into hell by some infernal inhabitants (Fig. 5-10). In book eleven Orpheus is killed by women (Fig. 5-11). Does this mean that the artist chose to show only the negative sides of Orpheus? The replacement

21 This scene clearly influenced Giulio Romano’s depiction of Orpheus in the Sala delle Metamorfosi in the Palazzo Te in Mantua (1527-29). Guthmüller has already demonstrated that Romano used Agostini’s edition for the Sala dei Giganti in the same palace (Bodo Guthmüller, “Iconografia e iconologia della Sala dei Giganti di Giulio Romano,” in Mito, poesia, arte, 291-307). 22 Giovanni Andrea dell’Anguillara, Le Metamorfosi ridotte in ottava rima (Venice: B. Giunti, 1584). 23 Cf. Gerlinde Huber-Rebenich, Sabine Lütkemeyer and Hermann Walter, Ikonografisches Repertorium zu den Metamorphosen des Ovid. Die Textbegleitende Druckgraphik (Berlin: Gebr. Mann, 2004).

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of the positive scene of Orpheus and the animals with his mistake of turning around could indicate this.

Conclusion We can conclude that the Italian translations of the Metamorphoses neither show a constant image, nor a uniform development in the interpretation of Orpheus. Texts and woodcuts show separate developments, but they both keep turning back to prior examples. We have seen that Orpheus is displayed in a positive way in Bonsignori’s manuscript from 1325. This positive allegorical commentary on the Orpheus myth was printed and reprinted several times at the end of the fifteenth and the start of the sixteenth century. Elements from Bonsignori’s text were also used in later editions of Agostini, but in 1553 Dolce presented a very different negative view of Orpheus. Afterwards, other editions with a more positive view of Orpheus appeared again. These differing views of Orpheus depend partly on the conflict between the admiration for ancient texts and the repugnance to pagan gods.24 On the other hand, which side authors choose (positive or negative) depends on their own preferences, but also on the allegorical comment that is available to them and that they often copy in their new edition. The woodcuts hardly show any significant changes in the depiction of Orpheus, until the 1584 edition of Anguillara, which emphasises only the negative sides of Orpheus. Therefore, in the end the development of Orpheus demonstrates some kind of a metamorphosis, both in the texts and in the woodcuts. But as opposed to what is achieved through the various metamorphoses in Ovid’s book, Orpheus’s metamorphosis or development through the various text editions does not lead from chaos to order, but chaos remains.

24

Luba Freedman, The Revival of the Olympian Gods in Renaissance Art (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003) elaborates on the Renaissance problem of artists who on the one hand loved the classical examples, but on the other hand were appalled by paganism.

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Works Cited Anguillara, Giovanni Andrea dell’. Le Metamorfosi ridotte in ottava rima. Venice: B. Giunti, 1584. Anonymous. The Wedding of Orpheus and Eurydice, Eurydice’s Death, Orpheus in Hades. In Ovidius moralizatus, Flemish manuscript, fifteenth century. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale, Richelieu MS. Français 137, fol. 132v. Bonsignori da Città di Castello, Giovanni. Ovidio Metamorphoseos Vulgare. Edited by Erminia Ardissino. Bologna: Commissione per i Testi di Lingua, 2001. Bull, Malcolm. The Mirror of the Gods. Classical Mythology in Renaissance Art. London: Penguin/Allen Lane, 2005. Degli Agostini, Niccolò. Tutti gli Libri de Ouidio Metamorphoseos. Venice: Niccolò Zoppino, 1522. Dei Bonsignori, Giovanni. Ovidio metamorphoseos vulgare. Venice: Giovanni (Zoane) Rosso, 1497. Dell’Anguillara, Giovanni Andrea. Le metamorfosi d’Ovidio. Venice: Giovanni Griffio, 1561. Dolce, Ludovico. Le Trasformationi. Venice: Gabriele Giolito, 1553. Freedman, Luba. The Revival of the Olympian Gods in Renaissance Art. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Ghisalberti, Fausto. “Giovanni del Virgilio espositore delle Metamorfosi.” Giornale dantesco 34, NS 4 (1931): 89-93. Guthmüller, Bodo. Ovidio metamorphoseos vulgare. Formen und Funktionen der Volkssprachlichen Wiedergabe klassischer Dichtung in der italienischen Renaissance. Boppard am Rhein: Harald Boldt Verlag, 1981. —. “Concezioni del mito antico intorno al 1500.” In Mito, poesia, arte. Saggi sulla tradizione ovidiana nel Rinascimento, edited by Bodo Guthmüller. Rome: Bulzoni editore, 1997. —. “Iconografia e iconologia della Sala dei Giganti di Giulio Romano.” In Mito, poesia, arte, 291-307. Henkel, Max D. “Illustrierte Ausgaben von Ovids Metamorphosen im XV., XVI. und XVII. Jahrhundert.” Vorträge der Bibliothek Warburg 6 (1926-1927): 58-144. Huber-Rebenich, Gerlinde. “Die Holzschnitte zum Ovidio Metamorphoseos vulgare in ihrem Textbezug.” In Die Rezeption der Metamorphosen des Ovid in der Neuzeit: der antike Mythos in Text und Bild, edited by Hermann Walter and Hans-Jürgen Horn. Berlin: Gebr. Mann, 1995: 48-57.

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Huber-Rebenich, Gerlinde, Sabine Lütkemeyer and Hermann Walter. Ikonografisches Repertorium zu den Metamorphosen des Ovid. Die Textbegleitende Druckgraphik. Berlin: Gebr. Mann, 2004. Lommatzsch, Erhard. Beiträge zur älteren italienischen Volksdichtung: Untersuchungen und Texte, III. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1950. Martelli, Mario. “La Fabula d’Orfeo.” In Angelo Poliziano. Storia e metastoria, edited by Mario Martelli. Lecce: Conte, 1995. Raphaeli Regii in Metamorphosin Ovidii enarrationes. Venice, 1493. Seznec, Jean. The Survival of the Pagan Gods. The Mythological Tradition and Its Place in Renaissance Humanism and Art. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995. Spirito Gualtieri, Lorenzo. Ouidio metamorphoseos vulgare. Perugia, 1519. Symeoni, Gabriele. La vita et Metamorfoseo d’Ovidio figurato et abbreviato in forma d’epigrammi. Lyon, 1559.

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m os vulgare (Ven nezia: Fig. 5-1. Giovvanni dei Bonsiignori, Ovidio metamorphoseo Giovanni (Zooane) Rosso, 14497): LXXXIIIv v.

Fig. 5-2. Gioovanni dei Boonsignori, Ovid dio metamorphooseos vulgare (Venezia: Giovanni (Zooane) Rosso, 14497): LXXXVr.

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Fig. 5-3. Gioovanni dei Boonsignori, Ovid dio metamorphooseos vulgare (Venezia: Giovanni (Zooane) Rosso, 14497): LXXXXIv v.

Fig. 5-4. Ludoovico Dolce, Lee Trasformation ni (Venezia: Gaabriele Giolito, 1553).

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ni (Venezia: Gaabriele Giolito, 1553). Fig. 5-5. Ludoovico Dolce, Lee Trasformation

ni (Venezia: Gaabriele Giolito, 1553). Fig. 5-6. Ludoovico Dolce, Lee Trasformation

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Fig. 5-7. Gioovanni Andrea dell’Anguillarra, Le metamorrfosi d’Ovidio (Venezia: Giovanni Griffio, 1561): 1611r.

Fig. 5-8. Gioovanni Andrea dell’Anguillarra, Le metamorrfosi d’Ovidio (Venezia: Giovanni Griffio, 1561): 1777r.

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A Tutti gli Libri de O uidio Metam morphoseos Fig. 5-9. Niccolò degli Agostini, (Venezia: Nicccolò Zoppino, 1522): 120v.

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Fig. 5-10. Gioovanni Andrea dell’Anguillaraa, Le Metamorffosi ridotte in ottava rima (Venezia: B. Giunti, 1584).

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Fig. 5-11. Gioovanni Andrea dell’Anguillaraa, Le Metamorffosi ridotte in ottava rima (Venezia: B. Giunti, 1584).

CHAPTER SIX JACOPO RIPANDA, TRAJAN’S COLUMN AND ARTISTIC FAME IN RENAISSANCE ROME KRISTIN A. ARIOLI

Trajan’s Column, erected at the base of Quirinale Hill at the northwestern end of the emperor’s new forum and dedicated in 113 A.D., was an unending source of visual, thematic and historical inspiration for Renaissance artists (Fig. 6-1). The column, which commemorates the emperor’s two victorious military campaigns against the Dacians in what is modern-day Romania, grew in importance during the second half of the fifteenth century and into the sixteenth, as Rome began to flourish once again under the aegis of the strengthening papacy and princely cardinal courts. The column, great physical and symbolic monument of ancient Rome and its imperial greatness, was especially valuable to Renaissance popes, intellectuals, and artists who sought out authentic models to validate and express a renewed papacy imperial and triumphant. The appeal of the column as an artistic source that could express these ideas was in line with other recent artistic-antiquarian-archaeological explorations of authentic ancient sources.1 Nonetheless, despite the column’s overall visibility, the upper half of the column’s relief bands remained frustratingly inaccessible to admirers and artists alike, who could only observe the monument from the ground. At approximately thirty meters in height, details from only the first four or 1

Important Imperial artistic sources included the Arch of Titus (A.D. 82), the Arch of Constantine (A.D. 315), and especially the Domus aurea (Golden House) of Emperor Nero (A.D. 64-68). The exploration of the Domus aurea is the best example of Renaissance artistic-archaeological activity; the site was discovered and explored by artists and antiquarians from the 1480s onward, and its decorations inspired grotteschi-style ornaments preferred in late Quattrocento and Cinquecento Roman art and architecture.

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five bands were clearly legible to viewers, thus the majority of the column’s twenty-three bands tantalizingly denied close scrutiny.2 Around the year 1500, however, Jacopo Ripanda, a moderately successful painter with strong antiquarian interests and archaeological impulses, achieved immediate fame and praise by faithfully recording episodes from the entire length of the column’s carved, spiralling surface (Figs 6-2-5). The reward was substantial, as Ripanda became the sole owner of a coveted but inaccessible body of authentic imagery and iconography of the ancient, imperial past so valued by Renaissance humanists, patrons and artists alike.3 These images are preserved in Manuscript #254 at the Biblioteca dell’Istituto Archeologica e della Storia dell’Arte, Rome. An ingenious but risky feat, Ripanda’s actions were heralded in humanistic social circles and contemporary literary sources: In Rome in our day Jacopo of Bologna flourishes, recording in full the whole length of Trajan’s Column: with great wonder, and risking much danger to himself, he ascended through a system devised from his own ingenuity.

So states the influential curial humanist Raffaele Maffei Volaterrano in Book 21 of his thirty-eight volume encyclopedia, the Commentariorum urbanorum.4 Maffei’s brief account of Jacopo Ripanda–“da Bologna”– written by 1504 and published by the Roman Academy in 1506, gives testimony to what was, at the time, an artistic achievement of the highest 2 Viewers could legibly view approximately the first five meters of the spiral frieze. The frieze commences approximately five meters from ground level, the base of the monument being five meters in height. The total height of the monument is approximately 35 meters. 3 Jacopo Ripanda, from Bologna, is documented working in Rome from c. 1498 to 1516. The career and works of Ripanda have been little studied outside Italian academia. The only major study of Ripanda’s work is by Vincenzio Farinella, Archeologia e pittura a Roma tra quattrocento e cinquecento. Il caso di Jacopo Ripanda (Turin: Giulio Einaudi, 1992). Other important studies include Sybille Ebert-Schifferer, “Nuove acquisizioni sulla personalità artistica di Jacopo Ripanda,” in Bologna e L’Umanesimo 1490-1510, ed. Marzia Faietti and Conrad Oberhuber (Bologna: Nuova Alfa Editoriale, 1988), 237-45, and Marzia Faietti, “Jacopo Ripanda e il suo collaboratore (il maestro di Oxford) in alcuni cantieri romani del primo Cinquecento,” Richerche di Storia dell’Arte 34 (1988): 55-72. 4 Raffaello Maffei, Commentariorum rerum urbanarum libri XXXVIII (Rome, 1506). Maffei, a participant in early archaeological investigations of ancient and Early Christian monuments in Rome, likely knew Ripanda personally, through their antiquarian-archaeological interests and formally through the Accademia Romana (see below).

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rank. Indeed, if we consider Maffei’s comments within the larger context of his discussion of outstanding Italian art and artists of the age, the exceptional nature of Ripanda’s accomplishment comes into sharp relief. He highlights only fourteen artists–eight painters and six sculptors–all of whom, with the exception of Giotto, Pisanello and Donatello, were at the height of their careers during the last two decades of the Quattrocento.5 Melozzo da Forlì, Perugino, and Antonio del Pollaiuolo are singled out for work executed during the reigns of Popes Sixtus IV (1471-1484) and Innocent VIII (1484-1492). Ripanda, with his ground-breaking study of Trajan’s Column, is the fourth painter in Maffei’s list, coming after Andrea Mantegna, whose work at the Belvedere of Pope Innocent VIII now lost–is highlighted, and before Leonardo da Vinci and his Last Supper experiment. Rounding out the list of artists is Michelangelo Buonarotti, whose emerging success is demonstrated by Maffei with his early career Drunken Bacchus, St. Peter’s Pietà, and David.6 It is worth pointing out that Maffei’s list is just as interesting for whom he has not included. The discussion is distinctively un-Florentine. Rather, he shows a more worldly assessment of the visual arts at the threshold of the High Renaissance from a Roman perch, where Rome is a centre where outstanding artists from all reaches of Italy venture to learn from antiquity and practise their art for enlightened (that is, humanistic) patrons of the Church. Conspicuously absent from his list are Domenico Ghirlandaio and Botticelli, two Florentines who were active in Rome during the late Quattrocento, as well as Pinturicchio, a high-profile artist in the city from at least 1481, when he participated in the decoration of the Sistine Chapel alongside the two aforementioned artists, and especially during the reign of Pope Alexander VI in the 1490s. Pinturicchio’s omission seems more curious, considering that his investigation and translation of antiquarian motifs, based on archaeological exploration, were most in demand by Roman patrons interested in visually demonstrating their neo-imperial ambition. While Maffei’s text offers much insight into the artistic climate of Rome at the dawn of the Cinquecento, unfortunately a full exploration of his comments in a broader context cannot be dealt with here. This includes a larger discussion of contemporary taste, selectivity, artistic “genealogy” 5

In addition to the ten artists noted above, Maffei also referenced paintings by Giovanni Bellini (misidentified as Gentile Bellini) and Ercole de’ Roberti, three noted medallists, and the scholarship of Piero della Francesca. 6 Mantegna worked in Rome c1488-1490; Leonardo completed the Last Supper in 1498; Michelangelo’s works date from 1497 (Drunken Bacchus), 1499 (Pietà), and 1504 (David)–the first two his first major commissions, and his first in Rome.

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and lineage. However, several significant points regarding Ripanda’s status among his predecessors and his contemporaries emerge from Maffei’s comments: first, with the inclusion of Ripanda in this exclusive shortlist, the artist was counted among the most outstanding and innovative artists of the period; second, among the fourteen artists mentioned– chronologically ranging from Giotto to Michelangelo–Ripanda’s achievement is the only one that is strictly archaeological in nature, thus highlighting the importance of the active recovery of Rome’s ancient past as an elevated, worthy artistic pursuit; third, Ripanda’s archaeological endeavour, generally speaking not the only one of its kind, was seen as of the highest quality and as the most important antiquarian-archaeological study undertaken to date; and finally, the artistic popularity and success of Jacopo Ripanda in early sixteenth-century Rome was intimately connected to and hinged on his archaeological “excavation” of Trajan’s Column and the resulting knowledge of the monument’s artistic details that he alone held. Prior to 1500 and the episode of the column, Ripanda had experienced moderate artistic success as a member of Pinturicchio’s Roman workshop. This collaboration between the two painters most likely began in 1492, when Ripanda left a more provincial Orvieto for Rome at Pinturicchio’s request. In Rome Ripanda joined Pinturicchio’s bottega at work on that master’s most prestigious commission, the decoration of the Vatican Palace apartments of the newly elected pope, Alexander VI Borgia.7 Ripanda also worked as Pinturicchio’s assistant on other prominent Roman projects, such as the decoration of the Palace of Cardinal Domenico della Rovere and in the Basso-della Rovere Chapel in the church of Santa Maria del Popolo, and actively participated in the intellectual milieu of Pomponio Leto’s Accademia Romana.8 During this time, the artist perfected a style of painting that directly correlated to his study of Roman antiquities, a style Hellmut Wohl refers to as the “Ornate Classical Style”.9 He paid particular attention to monuments such as the Arch of Constantine, the grotesques in the recently discovered Golden 7

Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia was elected pope on 11 August, 1492. Pinturicchio, who met Ripanda in 1492 when both painters were working at the Orvieto Cathedral, had recently been awarded the commission to create a suite of five rooms on the piano nobile of the Palazzo Papale in the Vatican complex. On the Borgia project, see Sabine Poeschel, Alexander Maximus: das Bildprogramm des Appartamento Borgia im Vatikan (Weimar: VDG, 1999). 8 Also called the Accademia Pomponiana. 9 Hellmut Wohl, The Aesthetics of Italian Renaissance Art: a Reconsideration of Style (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999).

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House of Nero, and sculptural relief fragments–particularly ornamental–to be found around town and in the households of several close artist and Academy friends–for example, the antiquities collection of his friend, the sculptor Andrea Bregno.10 Work attributed to Ripanda from this period reflects his archaeological approach to painting. Nonetheless, at the close of the Quattrocento Ripanda had yet to secure an independent commission from a major patron in Rome. This would all change with the ambitious and successful Column project. Undertaken sometime between 1499 and 1500, as best described by fellow Academician Maffei, the artist’s risky and sensational feat created the sort of buzz necessary to draw the attention of a small but extremely influential group of patrons: popes and cardinals who were particularly attracted to a strict antiquarian artistic aesthetic in vogue during the first decade of the sixteenth century, as well as to the rhetorical and political appeal of imagery found on some of ancient Rome’s most important Imperial monuments. Now in the spotlight and armed with his singular understanding and perspective of the Column’s imagery, Ripanda was in a unique position to cater to these patrons, and garnered a series of high profile, large-scale commissions undertaken in and around Rome during the first two decades of the sixteenth century. The most significant of these are a suite of rooms featuring the History of the Roman Republic at the Palazzo dei Conservatori (Conservators’ Palace) on the Capitoline Hill, circa 1501-1503 and 1507-1509; the Life of Julius Caesar and of Trajan fresco cycle in the Sala Grande11 of the Palazzo Santoro–now Palazzo Doria-Pamphili–from 1505-1507; and the Trajanic fresco cycle for the Salone Riario at the Palazzo dell’Episcopio (the Bishop’s Palace) at the Roman port town of Ostia, from 1511-1513. Each project was conceived to express a patron’s desire to frame and legitimise power and prestige through visual and narrative connection with the glory of ancient Rome. While all three projects are linked via the use of imagery the artist adapted from Trajan’s Column, the application of Trajanic imagery and themes vary between projects. And in each case, use of the column’s iconography 10

Bregno was the leading marble sculptor in Rome during the period c. 14801505. Bregno, Pinturicchio, and Ripanda had a shared patronage base, including members of the Della Rovere family and Cardinal Raffaele Riario. For a discussion of Bregno’s career and antiquarian activity, see Claudio Crescentini, “Roma, Sisto IV Della Rovere e il "gran compositore" Andrea Bregno: Antiche cristiane memorie marmoree,” in I Della Rovere nell'Italia delle corti. Atti del convegno di Urbania 1999, IV, Arte della maiolica, ed. Feliciano Paoli et al. (Urbino: Quattro Venti, 2002), 7-25. 11 This room is now known as the Sala Aldobrandini.

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was supplemented by ancient literary sources, such as those by Suetonius, Livy and Dio Cassius, in an attempt to reconstruct an authentic representation of the past.

The Palazzo dei Conservatori Frescoes The first commission to take advantage of Ripanda’s unique and closeheld knowledge was a suite of four rooms at the Palazzo dei Conservatori on the Capitoline Hill. Originally commissioned jointly by Pope Alexander VI and the civic government of Rome in celebration of the Jubilee Year of 1500, the frescoes depicted scenes from the history of the Roman Republic. The first phase of the commission was carried out between 1501 and 1503, with two rooms completed at the time of Alexander’s death in August of that year: the Salone dei Conservatori and the Sala dei Capitani. Both destroyed in 1595 by a renovation undertaken by the Cavaliere d’Arpino, the best understood of these two rooms, the Salone dei Conservatori, can be reconstructed from several sixteenthcentury descriptions that detail seven scenes depicting the mythology and earliest history of ancient Rome (Fig. 6-6).12 After a five-year hiatus following the death of Alexander, Ripanda’s work at the palace continued under the renewed patronage of Julius II and his cousin, Cardinal Raffaele Riario, between 1507 and 1511. Two rooms were completed during this period, the Sala delle Guerre Puniche and the Sala della Lupa. The fresco cycles of both rooms celebrate the greatness of early and Republican Rome as a way to stress the continuation, or at least the renewal, of the glories of the Roman Empire during the time of the Renaissance popes. The grandest and most complete of two is the Sala delle Guerre Puniche, representing important episodes from the first and second Punic Wars against the Carthaginians (fig. 6-7).13 From these scenes we can see how Ripanda drew from his intimate knowledge of Trajan’s Column in a way that made use of selected details in order to imbue the cycle with a sense of historical accuracy without co-opting the column’s narrative or themes (Fig. 6-8). In particular, Ripanda utilized the column’s extensive naval scenes to construct the details of the largest of 12 Sybille Ebert-Schifferer, “Ripandas kapitolinischer Freskenzyklus und die Selbstdarstellung der Konservatoren um 1500,” Römisches Jahrbuch für Kunstgeschichte 23-24 (1988): 75-218. 13 The fresco cycle depicts various episodes from the Punic Wars, including: Hannibal Entering Italy; the Victory of the Egadi Islands (Battle of Aegates); the Triumph of Gaius Duilius & the Victory of Milazzo; and the Peace Negotiations Between Gaius Lutatius Catulus & Hamilar and the Carthaginians.

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the room’s scenes, the Battle of Aegates (Fig. 6-9). The use of such verifiable details in Ripanda’s reconstruction legitimized the artist’s imagining of the historical episode, heightening the connection between past and present. The fresco cycle of the smaller Sala della Lupa contained similarly “authentic” reconstructions of Republican episodes via Ripanda’s use of the column’s imagery in visualizing non-Trajanic Roman scenes.14 The stemmi of Julius II and Raffaele Riario appear alongside that of the civic government in the frieze of the smaller second room, the Sala della Lupa, conceived to house the ancient bronze statue of the She-Wolf of Rome. The patronage of this room held special significance for the pope and cardinal, whose uncle, pope Sixtus IV, had donated the statue to the city in celebration of the Jubilee Year 1475.

The Trajanic Fresco Cycle of the Salone Grande in the Palace of Cardinal Fazio Santoro The second commission garnered from Ripanda’s newfound knowledge and fame was the decoration of the Salone Grande in the Palace of Cardinal Fazio Santoro, a loyal cardinal of Julius II between 1505 and 1507 (Fig. 6-10).15 Now lost save for a few weathered decorative fragments, the monumental cycle was famous in its day, as noted by the humanist Francesco Albertini in his popular guidebook to the art of ancient and modern Rome, the Opusculum de Mirabilibus Novae et Veteris Urbis Romae (1510),16 and in fact was so admired by Julius II that in 1508 he bought the palace for his nephew, Francesco Maria della Rovere, Duke of Urbino and general of the papal armies. The cycle can be reconstructed from both Albertini’s account and a late sixteenth-century anonymous description which describes the Life of Julius Caesar and the Life of Trajan illustrated in 34 scenes, each combining imagery from Trajan’s Column with passages from Suetonius and Dio Cassius.17 The 14

The Sala della Lupa originally included seven scenes emphasizing the origins of Rome: the She-wolf with Romulus & Remus; the building of Rome; the Rape of the Sabine Women; the Battle of the Romans & Sabines; the Orazi & Curiazi; the War of King Tullus Hostilius; and the revenge of the death of Lucrezia. 15 Vincenzio Farinella, “Jacopo Ripanda a Palazzo Santoro. Un ciclo di storia romana e le sue fonti classiche,” Storia Classici e Orientali 36 (1986): 209-37. 16 Albertini, a Florentine humanist and priest, was a member of the Roman Curia and chaplain to Cardinal Santoro. The Opusculum was first published in Rome, 1510. 17 Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Cod. Barb. lat 2016.

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scenes were executed in monochromatic grisaille on two unequal registers: the seventeen scenes of the life of Caesar occupied the narrow upper register, while those of the Life of Trajan were emphasized in the broad register at near eye-level below. These scenes directly simulated both the narrative and material nature of the spiral frieze, providing a horizontal, condensed, and literal translation of Trajan’s Column. The cycle was intended to congratulate and flatter Pope Julius through parallel associations with his namesake Julius Caesar and, more importantly, Trajan, his model for imperialistic and militant behaviour.

The Trajanic Fresco Cycle of the Salone Riario in the Palazzo dell’Episcopio, Ostia The third and final project based on Ripanda’s knowledge of the column was for Cardinal Raffaele Riario at the Bishop’s Palace at Ostia borgo, the medieval walled village adjacent to the ruined ancient port town of Rome (Fig. 6-11).18 Ripanda, leading a team of artists including Baldassarre Peruzzi, Cesare da Sesto and Domenico Beccafumi, decorated the rooms of the palace’s piano nobile between 1511 and 1513, the grandest of these being the Salone Riario (Figs 6-12, 6-13). Here Ripanda devised a cycle of fifteen scenes executed in grisaille and framed within an elaborate simulated antique architectural framework and frieze ornamentation (in colour). With the loss of the first four episodes, today only eleven scenes remain – many severely damaged (Figs 6-14, 6-15). Each scene faithfully corresponds to a scene from Trajan’s Column, save the final scene of the emperor’s funeral (Figs 6-16-19). Unlike that at Palazzo Santoro, this cycle is neither a literal nor linear translation of the column’s narrative. Instead, Ripanda crafts a new, contemporary narrative of Trajan-as-Julius by using the column’s episodes selectively and out-oforder to construct a familial and politically-savvy programme to recast the emperor’s two Dacian campaigns as Pope Julius’s two military campaigns in Bologna and the Papal States (1506-1507 and 1510-1512). Thus the cycle’s focus is not on the straightforward retelling of Trajan’s two Dacian campaigns, but on the specific challenges of Julius’ two campaigns into 18 Cardinal Riario was also attached to the Palazzo dei Conservatori project, and employed Ripanda for his other important projects at the Palazzo S. Giorgio (now Palazzo della Cancelleria) and the Villa Riario, Rome, and his hunting lodge at Bagnaia (now Villa Lante). Riario, Bishop of Ostia and Camerlengo (Papal Chamberlain), was also Pope Julius’s cousin. Riario was left in charge of Rome as Papal Legate while the pope was away during the 1511-1513 military campaign in northern Italy.

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the Romagna through the succinctly-edited reassembly of historical and symbolic Trajanic imagery. These frescoes were in keeping with the Cardinal’s antiquarian tastes: quoting directly from the Column of Trajan, Ripanda used the metaphor and imagery of the emperor’s two Dacian wars to stand in for Julius’s two efforts against the French occupiers of Northern Italy – the “new barbarians” – and the traitorous Bentivoglio family of Bologna (Fig. 6-20). The fresco cycle also functioned as a posthumous memorial to the pope’s political achievements and enduring legacy, the final scene depicting the funeral of Emperor Trajan, painted in the months immediately following Julius’s death.19 While the cycle of the Salone Riario re-imagines and contemporises Trajan’s Column, the ornamental decoration of the entire palace figuratively recreates the column’s location, the Forum of Trajan in the centre of Rome. This sense of ancient imperial place is provided by the frieze decoration in the palace’s secondary rooms (Fig. 6-21). A repeated pairing of a griffin and winged putto among the various stemmi and imprese of Riario, Julius, and the city of Rome, directly translates from frieze decorations found at the emperor’s forum, as can be seen in one such fragment now located in the Vatican Museums. Ripanda’s cycle thus transforms Trajan’s Column physically, narratively, and symbolically in the Salone Riario. The column, its imagery, and Trajan’s distant actions are immediate and relevant; the frescoes are a propagandistic promotion of Julius’s military supremacy that confirmed and heralded his imperial power, and as a posthumous monument celebrating the “warrior pope’s” life and legacy. From his successful archaeological “excavation” of Trajan’s Column Ripanda was able to build a high-profile career based exclusively on his singular, intimate knowledge of the monument’s spiralling frieze. This enterprise allowed Ripanda to quickly rise beyond what most likely would have remained a rather secure but obscure position as a competent but unremarkable artist within the Pinturicchio workshop. Nonetheless, despite his success, the artist’s fame was not to last. Because Ripanda’s work was in large part closely defined by his archaeological relationship with Trajan’s Column, the novelty of his work was limited in time, place, and scope to a select group of patrons closely aligned with antiquarian practices at the turn of the sixteenth century. In fact, in less than a decade after Raffaele Maffei singled out the most impressive of Ripanda’s 19

The pope died on February 21, 1513, before the Ostia fresco cycle was complete.

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archaeological studies – that of recording the Column – Ripanda’s meticulously precise, refined antiquarian painting style was rapidly eclipsed by the new Classical style ushered in by Michelangelo and exemplified by Raphael, what we today define as the Roman High Renaissance. Indeed, by 1509 both of these masters were well entrenched in the execution of the Sistine Ceiling and the stanze of Pope Julius II (now known as the “Raphael Stanze”). Not insignificantly, Raphael, newly charged with the stanze commission, was hard at work erasing, literally, the traces of several of the most prominent artists of the preceding generation who had, only a year earlier, set about frescoing the Julian rooms – namely Perugino, his early teacher, Luca Signorelli, Sodoma and Ripanda. By the time Giorgio Vasari, champion of Raphael and especially Michelangelo, was writing his revised edition of the Lives of the Artists, the bulk of Ripanda’s works were assigned to Baldassarre Peruzzi, the young artist who assisted Ripanda with the Trajanic fresco cycle at Ostia for Cardinal Riario.20 In fact, Vasari wholly attributed this cycle to Peruzzi, while incorrectly locating the frescoes at the Ostian Rocca of Julius II.21 These mistakes are not insignificant: in Vasari’s retrospective account, Peruzzi would successfully make the transition between the “early” (antiquarian) and “high” (classical) style of the Roman Renaissance through his association with Raphael. While Peruzzi worked simultaneously with Ripanda at Ostia and Raphael at the Villa Chigi in Rome during the early 1510s, he would later align almost exclusively with Raphael as his follower and close friend. Based on this association, it is likely that Vasari saw Julius, Raphael’s greatest patron and builder of the Ostia’s castle, as the de-facto patron of the Ostia frescoes. Ripanda, on the other hand, is not mentioned in either edition of his Lives. By 1513 20

Giorgio Vasari, “The Life of Baldassare Peruzzi,” Le Vite de' più eccellenti pittori, scultori, e architettori da Cimabue insino a' tempi nostri, ed. Gaetano Milanesi (Florence: G. C. Sansoni, 1878-85). 21 Ibid. The passage translates: “Having thus begun to be in good repute, (Peruzzi) was summoned to Ostia, where he painted most beautiful scenes in chiaroscuro in some apartments of the great tower of the fortress; in particular, a hand-to-hand battle after the manner in which the ancient Romans used to fight, and beside this a company of soldiers delivering an assault on a fortress, wherein the attackers, covered by their shields, are seen making a beautiful and spirited onslaught and planting their ladders against the walls, while the men within are hurling them back with the utmost fury. In this scene, also, he painted many antique instruments of war, and likewise various kinds of arms; with many other scenes in another hall, which are held to be among the best works that he ever made…” Giorgio Vasari, Le Vite de' più eccellenti pittori, scultori, e architettori da Cimabue insino a' tempi nostri, trans. Gaston du C. De Vere (London: Macmillan and Co, 1912-15), vol. 5, 62.

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Ripanda’s archaeological style suddenly appeared retardataire next to a more modern, fashionable, monumental Classical style championed by Raphael and Michelangelo. His fame spent, Ripanda would see his fortunes take a dramatic turn for the worse, falling out of the historical and literary record altogether by 1516, today still forgotten and neglected.

Works Cited Crescentini, Claudio. “Roma, Sisto IV Della Rovere e il "gran compositore" Andrea Bregno: Antiche cristiane memorie marmoree.” In I Della Rovere nell'Italia delle corti. Atti del convegno di Urbania 1999, IV, Arte della maiolica, edited by Feliciano Paoli, John E. Law, Sabine Eiche, Bonita Cleri, 7-25. Urbino: Quattro Venti, 2002. Ebert-Schifferer, Sybille. “Nuove acquisizioni sulla personalità artistica di Jacopo Ripanda.” In Bologna e L’Umanesimo 1490-1510, edited by Marzia Faietti and Conrad Oberhuber, 237-245. Bologna: Nuova Alfa Editoriale, 1988. —. “Ripandas kapitolinischer Freskenzyklus und die Selbstdarstellung der Konservatoren um 1500.” Römisches Jahrbuch für Kunstgeschichte 23-24 (1988): 75-218. Faietti, Marzia. “Jacopo Ripanda e il suo collaboratore (il maestro di Oxford) in alcuni cantieri romani del primo Cinquecento.” Richerche di Storia dell’Arte 34 (1988): 55-72. Farinella, Vincenzio. Archeologia e pittura a Roma tra quattrocento e cinquecento. Il caso di Jacopo Ripanda. Turin: Giulio Einaudi, 1992. —. “Jacopo Ripanda a Palazzo Santoro. Un ciclo di storia romana e le sue fonti classiche.” Storia Classici e Orientali 36 (1986): 209-237. Maffei, Raffaello. Commentariorum rerum urbanarum libri XXXVIII. Rome, 1506. Poeschel, Sabine. Alexander Maximus: das Bildprogramm des Appartamento Borgia im Vatikan. Weimar: VDG, 1999. Vasari, Giorgio. Le Vite de' più eccellenti pittori, scultori, e architettori da Cimabue insino a' tempi nostri. Edited by Gaetano Milanesi. Florence: G. C. Sansoni, 1878-85. —. Le Vite de' più eccellenti pittori, scultori, e architettori da Cimabue insino a' tempi nostri. Translated by Gaston du C. De Vere. London: Macmillan and Co, 1912-15. Wohl, Hellmut. The Aesthetics of Italian Renaissance Art: a Reconsideration of Style. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999.

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Fig. 6-1. Column of Trajan, Rome. 113 A.D. Author’s photograph.

Fig. 6-2. Trajan Addressing His Troops, Column of Trajan, Rome. Author’s photograph.

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Fig. 6-3. Jacopo Ripanda. Trajan Addressing His Troops (from the Column of Trajan). c. 1500. Ms. 254 fol. 6v, Biblioteca dell’Istituto dell’Archeologia e Storia dell’Arte, Rome. Copyright/Image permission courtesy of the Biblioteca dell’Istituto dell’Archeologia e Storia dell’Arte, Rome.

Fig. 6-4. Naval scene, Column of Trajan, Rome. Author’s photograph.

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Fig. 6-5. Jacopo Ripanda. Trajan Addressing His Troops (from the Column of Trajan). c. 1500. Ms. 254 fol. 14r, Biblioteca dell’Istituto dell’Archeologia e Storia dell’Arte, Rome. Copyright/Image permission courtesy of the Biblioteca dell’Istituto dell’Archeologia e Storia dell’Arte, Rome.

Fig. 6-6. Palazzo dei Conservatori, Rome: the “Salone dei Conservatori”. Reconstruction of the fresco cycle by Jacopo Ripanda, c. 1500-1503.

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Fig. 6-7. Palazzo dei Conservatori, Rome: the “Sala delle Guerre Puniche”. Reconstruction of the fresco cycle by Jacopo Ripanda, c. 1500-1503.

Fig. 6-8. Jacopo Ripanda. “Sala delle Guerre Puniche,” c. 1500-1503. Palazzo dei Conservatori, Rome. Author’s photograph.

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Fig. 6-9. Jacopo Ripanda. Naval Victory of the Egadi Islands (detail), from the “Sala delle Guerre Puniche,” c. 1500-1503. Palazzo dei Conservatori, Rome. Author’s photograph.

Fig. 6-10. Palazzo Santoro (now Doria-Pamphili), Rome: the Salone Grande. Reconstruction of the fresco cycle by Jacopo Ripanda, c. 1503-1505.

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Fig. 6-11. Palazzo dell’Episcopio (Bishop’s Palace), Ostia borgo. Author’s photograph.

Fig. 6-12. Jacopo Ripanda. “Salone Riario,” Palazzo dell’Episcopio, Ostia borgo. c. 1511-1513. Author’s photograph.

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Fig. 6-13. Jacopo Ripanda. “Salone Riario,” Palazzo dell’Episcopio, Ostia borgo. c. 1511-1513. Author’s photograph.

Fig. 6-14. Palazzo dell’Episcopio, Ostia borgo: the “Salone Reconstruction of the fresco cycle by Jacopo Ripanda, c. 1511-1513.

Riario”.

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Fig. 6-15. Key to the “Salone Riario” fresco cycle diagram (Fig. 6-14).

Fig. 6-16. Jacopo Ripanda. Hand-to-Hand Combat (scene 5). “Salone Riario,” Palazzo dell’Episcopio, Ostia borgo.

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Fig. 6-17. Battle of Tapae (Scene LXX), Column of Trajan, Rome.

Fig. 6-18. Jacopo Ripanda. Roman Conquest of a Mountain Fortress (scene 6). “Salone Riario,” Palazzo dell’Episcopio, Ostia borgo.

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Fig. 6-19. Roman Conquest of a Mountain Fortress (Scene CXII), Column of Trajan, Rome.

Fig. 6-20. Jacopo Ripanda. Trajan Returning to Italy (scene 10; after Scene LXXIX, Column of Trajan). “Salone Riario,” Palazzo dell’Episcopio, Ostia borgo.

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Fig. 6-21. Jacopo Ripanda. Frieze with Foliate Putto & Griffin. Palazzo dell’Episcopio, Ostia borgo.

PART IV: BRITISH ATTITUDES TO GREEK AND ROMAN HERITAGE

CHAPTER SEVEN IMAGES FROM THE PERI HYPSOUS IN THE ART OF HENRY FUSELI BENOÎT LATOUR

From the eighteenth to the nineteenth century, various British theoreticians of art borrowed and derived ideas from the pseudoLonginus’s Peri Hypsous (Ȇİȡȓ ǶȥȠȣȢ, first century A.D.). Consequently, writers on the history of art who have paid attention to the antique treatise have mainly regarded it as a dynamic force of aesthetic speculations going on at that time.1 Yet it seems no one to date ever seriously remarked upon the possibility of an “extra-theoretical” connection between the Peri Hypsous and British painting of the extended eighteenth century; a connection that would have developed owing to the pseudo-Longinus’s systematic and distinctive use of literary excerpts to support his demonstration. Largely taken from Homer, but also from a set of classical authors and—in one single and famous instance—from the Book of Genesis (1:3), passages quoted in the Peri Hypsous as exemplars of sublimity might in fact have appealed to artists of the British Neoclassical and Romantic period as particularly suitable subjects for history painting. The treatise had already reached the height of its popularity some three decades before the Royal Academy of Arts was founded in 1768 as a means to promote history painting, which traditionally involved the depiction of episodes found either in the Scriptures or classical literature. It is thus legitimate to suppose that several British practitioners, under the 1

One needs only turn to the authors Elder Olson refers to in the introduction to Longinus: “On the Sublime”, an English translation by Benedict Einarson, and Sir Joshua Reynolds: “Discourses on Art” (Chicago: Packard and Company, 1945), viii, namely Thomas R. Henn, Longinus and English Criticism (Cambridge: The University Press, 1934) and Samuel H. Monk, The Sublime, A Study of Critical Theories in XVIIIth-Century England (Ann Arbor, Michigan: The University of Michigan Press, 1960).

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pressure to revive the “higher excellences” of art, contemplated choosing their subjects from among the repertory of pseudo-longinian quotations.2 While such an approach entails the ascription of a totally fabricated programmatic value to the Peri Hypsous, it could nonetheless have appeared justifiable in an age that had just seen published a work like the Comte de Caylus’s prescriptive catalogue of Tableaux tirés de l’Iliade, de l’Odyssée d’Homère et de l’Énéide de Virgile; avec des observations générales sur le costume (Paris, 1757), whose aim was to supply contemporary artists with a series of befitting Homeric subjects. As the German literature scholar Marilyn Klein Torbruegge suggested a few decades ago, and although any thorough investigation of this issue lies, strictly speaking, beyond the scope of this paper, the theory of art which Henry Fuseli expounded from 1801 at the Royal Academy proceeds largely from precepts enunciated in the Peri Hypsous, which he absorbed as a youth in Zurich under the tutorship of Johann Jakob Bodmer and Johann Jakob Breitinger.3 Besides, of all the theoreticians of art in Britain who publicly referred to “Longinus”, Fuseli gives him the most overt praise in the first of his Lectures on Painting when he pronounces him to be “the universal voice of genuine criticism”.4 In view of such considerations and on the basis of pictorial evidence, it is proposed here 2

See Monk, The Sublime, 24; Sir Joshua Reynolds, Discourses on Art, ed. Robert R. Wark, 3rd edition (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1997), 67. Throughout this paper, for simplicity, passages presented as sublime in the Peri Hypsous, be they merely evoked by the ancient author, will be referred to as pseudo-longinian quotations. British artists of the second half of the eighteenth century would generally have had access to William Smith’s English version of the treatise, Dionysius Longinus on the Sublime (London, 1739); see Monk, The Sublime, 10. 3 Marilyn Klein Torbruegge, “Bodmer and Füssli: ‘Das Wunderbare’ and the Sublime” (Ph.D. diss., University of Wisconsin, 1968). Fuseli’s three first public addresses to his peers were published as Lectures on painting delivered at the Royal Academy, March 1801 (London: J. Johnson, 1801); the whole of his twelve Lectures were edited by John Knowles in The Life and Writings of Henry Fuseli, Esq., M.A., R.A., vols. 2 and 3 (London: Henry Colburn and Richard Bentley, 1831). 4 John Knowles, ed., The Life and Writings of Henry Fuseli (1831; reprint, with a new introduction by David H. Weinglass, New York; London; Nendeln, Liechtenstein: Kraus International Publications, 1982), 2: 53. Most eighteenthcentury scholars held Cassius Longinus to be the author of the Peri Hypsous, but this attribution had been refuted in the early nineteenth century; see, among others, Donald Andrew Russell’s introduction to his own edition of “Longinus” On the sublime (1964; reprint, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982), xxii-xxx.

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that Fuseli figures prominently among artists likely to have been allured into granting a programmatic value to the Peri Hypsous. Since he is generally recognized as one of the most erudite Royal Academy lecturers of his time, we are to expect that his handling of the matter will be anything but naïve, and will bear witness to a critical reflection upon how his own practice consorts with the pseudo-Longinus’s proposals. To my knowledge, Torbruegge’s idea of linking Fuseli’s theoretical statements to the Peri Hypsous has not drawn further development in the literature on the artist. On the other hand, since her interests lay more with Fuseli’s theory and writings than with his artwork, she rests content, as regards the latter, with somewhat briefly assessing as pertaining to the “longinian sublime” several of his paintings and a few of his drawings. Among the works she thus mentions are a series of five “Homer illustrations” said to be “of the greatest sublimity in accordance with Longinus”: The Fight of the Giants against Olympus; Ajax the Lesser Defying the Gods on the Rock of Gyrae; Odysseus on the Raft Receives the Sacred Veil from the Goddess Leucothea; Blinded Polyphemus Checks the Sheep as They Leave the Cave and Odysseus Addressing the Shade of Ajax in Tartarus.5 While this list constitutes in itself a definite hint at the possibility of pseudo-longinian quotations directly informing Fuseli’s pictorial invention, Torbruegge does not follow up on the issue. Torbruegge’s list of sublime Homeric subjects in Fuseli’s œuvre leads one to note that the artist’s pencil rendition of the gigantomachia—an episode which is nowhere to be found in Homer—and the large painting he devoted to the Locrian Ajax’s fatal defiance (Od. 4.499 ff.) are only loosely evocative of Homeric passages respectively quoted in chapters 8 and 9 of the Peri Hypsous: lines 315-317 of the eleventh Book of the Odyssey, recounting the Aloads’ rebellion against the gods, and lines 645647 of the seventeenth Book of the Iliad, where the Salaminian Ajax, battling in mist and darkness, defyingly asks Zeus for a noble death in the light of day. Of the three remaining subjects, Odysseus on the Raft and Blinded Polyphemus could both very well be related to a commentary from chapter 9, where the pseudo-Longinus, having remarked that Homer “does not in the Odyssey maintain so high a pitch as in those poems of Ilium”, adds: “In saying this I have not forgotten the tempests in the

5

Torbruegge, “Bodmer and Füssli”, 196. Works cited are respectively nos. 404, 875, 1193, 1194 and 1253 of Gert Schiff, Johann Heinrich Füssli, 1741-1825: Text und Oeuvrekatalog, 2 vols. (Zürich: Verlag Berichthaus; Munich: Prestel-Verlag, 1973).

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Odyssey and the story of the Cyclops and the like.”6 However, the general nature of these references makes it difficult to try and assess whether they might have conditioned Fuseli’s choice of subjects. In the case of a work like Blinded Polyphemus, another notable problem to be dealt with is that the story of Ulysses and the Cyclops had long been enjoying a rich pictorial tradition at the period under study, and this alone suffices to stamp with ambiguity any supposed relationship between the painting and the pseudo-Longinus’s observations. On the contrary, Odysseus Addressing the Shade of Ajax is most certainly an infrequent subject in any of the plastic arts. Dated 1804 and exhibited at the Academy in 1812, it is illustrative of a famous sequence from the Homeric nekyia (Od. 11.543 ff.), where Ulysses has come across the ghost of his former companion, who will not even deign to answer his pleas for reconciliation. There is reason to believe that Fuseli’s choice of that particular subject stems from the pseudo-Longinus’s statement, again in chapter 9 of the treatise, that: Sublimity is the echo of a great soul. Hence also a bare idea, by itself and without a spoken word, sometimes excites admiration just because of the greatness of soul implied. Thus the silence of Ajax in the Underworld is great and more sublime than words.7

In this respect, it needs to be observed that the aforementioned praise of “Longinus”, in the artist’s first Lecture, specifically relates to the ancient author’s appreciation of Ajax’s silence. In this allocution, Fuseli discusses Timanthes’s Immolation of Iphigenia, then recalls how Sir Joshua Reynolds has previously decried the Cythnian’s expedient of covering Agamemnon’s face with a mantle, and how Étienne Maurice Falconet, of the French Académie des Beaux-Arts, has called it “as ridiculous as a poet would be, who in a pathetic situation … should say, that the sentiments of his hero are so far above whatever can be said on the occasion, that he shall say nothing.”8 To which Fuseli answers: And has not Homer … acted upon a similar principle? Has he not, when Ulysses addresses Ajax in Hades, in the most pathetic and conciliatory 6 W. Rhys Roberts, trans. and ed., Longinus On the Sublime (1899; 2nd ed. 1907; reprint, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1935), 67. 7 Ibid., 61. 8 Knowles, Life and Writings, 2: 45 ff. Reynolds, Discourses, 53. Étienne Maurice Falconet, Oeuvres, (Lausanne: Société typographique, 1781), 5: 62 ff. For descriptions of Timanthe’s Immolation of Iphigenia, see Plin. nat. 35.73; Cic. or. 22.74; Quint. inst. 2.13,13.

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Such explicit reference is indeed telling of Fuseli’s attachment to the Peri Hypsous, but it is worth noting here that references to the silence of Ajax as an example of sublimity had become quite commonplace in the eighteenth century.10 Yet, although numerous writers had been inspired to follow the pseudo-Longinus in drawing attention to this precise incident in Homer, Odysseus Addressing the Shade of Ajax is to my knowledge the sole pictorial rendition of it, and the uniqueness of the painting as regards its subject points to Fuseli’s intimate preoccupation with the plastic transposition of pseudo-longinian quotations.11 It should also be taken into account that Francis Isaac Du Roveray, who commissioned seventeen compositions from Fuseli in 1802-1803 to illustrate an edition of Homer, is actually the one who asked him to depict, among other episodes “which I am sure you will find to your liking, … Ulysses in the shades, when the shade of Ajax turns indignant from him”.12 There is nevertheless no reason 9

Knowles, Life and Writings, 2: 53-54, italics mine. A little further in the same text (57) follows the second and last explicit reference to the author of the Peri Hypsous in Fuseli’s Lectures, this time to condemn Gérard Lairesse’s Sacrifice of Polyxena, in which the Frenchman has “perhaps incurred … the charge of what Longinus calls parenthyrsos, in the ill-timed application of supreme pathos, to an inadequate call.” 10 Cf. Monk, The Sublime, 15. 11 Pausanias (10.31,1-2), describing the Nekyia painting of Polygnotus from the Lesche of the Cnidians, mentions Ajax among a group of four figures, while Ajax is identified “ǹǿǹȈ” on a krater by the Nekyia painter, and is perhaps depicted in at least two other antique representations, but not in the act of turning away from Ulysses. See LIMC, s.v. “Aias I – XXVII. Ajax aux Enfers”. 12 Of the thirty engravings illustrating Du Roveray’s new edition of Alexander Pope’s Homer (London, 1805-1806), prints of which were later bought by Joseph Johnson to illustrate William Cowper’s version (London, 1810), seventeen were made after Fuseli’s designs. While Schiff identified but six of the original works, David H. Weinglass has located three others, among them Odysseus Addressing the Shade of Ajax, now part of the Richard L. Feigen collection in New York; cf. Gert Schiff and Paola Viotto, L’Opera completa di Füssli (Milan: Rizzoli Editore, 1977), nos. 197-213, and David H. Weinglass, Prints and Engraved Illustrations By and After Heny Fuseli : A Catalogue Raisonné (Hants, England: Scolar Press; Brookfield, Vermont: Ashgate Pub. Co., 1994), nos. 239, 240 and 243. Du

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why his patron’s influence should preclude in the least Fuseli’s taking a very personal interest in painting the two heroes’ Underworld encounter, especially since epistolary evidence testifies to the artist’s strong will in debates over the intended series of illustrations. Since the pseudo-Longinus’s acceptance of Homer as the “paragon of sublimity” and as the “source” of “innumerable tributary streams” finds a profound echo in Fuseli, this paper’s purpose has demanded that the artist’s Homeric compositions be primarily taken into account.13 In the present state of research, they amount to some forty drawings and twenty paintings, out of which none actually coincides as directly as Odysseus Addressing the Shade of Ajax with any given pseudo-longinian quotation. Nevertheless, I believe that a drawing from the very end of Fuseli’s career is indicative of the artist’s prolonged interest in examining the programmatic potential of the Peri Hypsous. With Eëriboea’s help Hermes rescues Ares from the Aloeids (Figs. 7-1 and 7-2), dated 1819-1822, is Fuseli’s last recorded effort at rendering a Homeric subject. It is derived from lines 385 ff. of the fifth Book of the Iliad, where Aphrodite, whom Diomedes has just wounded, gets consolation from Dione’s narration of how other gods have also suffered at the hands of mortal men, and notably Ares, when Otus and mighty Ephialtes, the sons of Aloeus, bound him in cruel bonds, and in a brazen jar he lay bound for thirteen months; and then would Ares, insatiate of war, have perished, had not the stepmother of the sons of Aloeus, the beauteous Eëriboea, brought tidings unto Hermes; and he stole forth Ares, that was now sore distressed, for his grievous bonds were overpowering him.14

Fuseli here chose to depict the deliverance of Ares, making advantageous use of the verses’ vagueness by having Eëriboea intervene and somehow neutralize Otus and Ephialtes, while Hermes steals away with their prisoner. Roveray’s letter to Fuseli is dated June 30, 1803; see Gerald E. Bentley, Jr., Review of The Collected English Letters of Henry Fuseli, by David H. Weinglass, Blake/An Illustrated Quarterly 18, no. 4 (spring 1985), 233. See also David H. Weinglass, ed., The Collected English Letters of Henry Fuseli (New York; London; Nendeln, Liechtenstein: Kraus International Publications, 1982), 260, and Gerald E. Bentley, Jr., “F.I. Du Roveray, Illustrated-Book Publisher 1798-1806: III”, Biographical Society of Australia and New Zealand Bulletin 12, no. 3 (May 1990), 142-44. 13 Roberts, On the Sublime, 81. Torbruegge, “Bodmer and Füssli”, 96. 14 Homer, The Iliad, trans. A.T. Murray, Loeb Classical Library (1924), 223.

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The moment illustrated, regardless of the artist’s highly personal appropriation of the text, is, as in the case of Odysseus Addressing the Shade of Ajax, extremely uncommon throughout the history of art, from Antiquity down to modern times. We actually know of only one single ancient representation which indisputably relates to the Aloads: a redfigure crater from the middle of the fifth century B.C., on which Otus and Ephialtes are shown attacking a deer, while Artemis seems about to shoot an arrow at them.15 The scene, however, is alien to the Homeric text, and belongs to another version of the myth, according to which the Aloads, otherwise invincible, were led to kill one another on the island of Naxos by the sole cunning of Artemis and Apollo.16 Yet, two Etruscan representations from the end of the fourth century B.C. might be related to the deliverance of Ares. The first is part of the frieze decoration of a Praenestine cist in the collection of the Berlin Staatliche Museen, and shows Ares kneeling over a jar that could be the one in which he was imprisoned according to the Iliad.17 The second is a scarab in the collection of the British Museum, carved with an image of Hermes leaning over a vase out of which a bearded head emerges; even though such engraved representations are usually associated with depictions of the Psychopomp escorting the soul of a recently deceased, the vase could here refer, again, to the Iliad’s brazen jar.18 As for modern renderings of the scene, John Flaxman is apparently the only artist to have preceded Fuseli in illustrating the story of Ares and the Aloads. Otus & Ephialtes Holding Mars Captive is part of a series of Homeric illustrations Flaxman produced in 1793, to be engraved and published in the same year, bound in a single portfolio.19 It proceeds from the same verses as Fuseli’s own composition, but depicts a different moment—that is, an undefined moment of the wargod’s confinement. It has been suggested that Flaxman’s designs for Homer must have attracted Fuseli’s serious interest, and the two artists’ 15

See LIMC, 1, 2: 431, no. 1. Apollod. bibl. 1.7,4. See also Hyg. fab. 18. 17 See LIMC, 2, 2: 380, no. 11. 18 See LIMC, s.v. “Hermès – VIII. Images sans légendes, légendes sans images”. See also Adolf Furtwängler, Die antiken Gemmen, Geschichte der Steinschneidekunst im klassischen Altertum, vol. 2 (1900; reprint, Amsterdam: A.M. Hakkert, 1964-1965), no. 32, and Henry Beauchamp Walters, Catalogue of the Engraved Gems and Cameos, Greek, Etruscan and Roman, in the British Museum (London: British Museum, 1926), no. 765. 19 See David Irwin, John Flaxman, 1755-1826: Sculptor, Illustrator, Designer (London: Studio Vista, 1979), 68 ff. The illustration is plate 11 of Flaxman, The Iliad of Homer (London: Longman, Hurst. Rees & Orme, 1805). 16

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rendering of the same passage in the Iliad, at some twenty-five years’ distance, cannot be regarded as coincidence. However, an investigation of the relationship between these two drawings would merely lead one to conclude on Fuseli’s likely disapproval of the moment Flaxman chose to depict, as well as of his reliance on Pope’s translation.20 Fuseli’s drawing is here of interest insofar as the very first Homeric verses quoted in the Peri Hypsous as exemplars of sublimity also relate to the myth of the Aloads. The pseudo-Longinus, however, does not concern himself with the detention and rescue of Ares as reported in the Iliad, but rather with lines 315-317 of the eleventh Book of the Odyssey, constitutive of the second and last evocation of the Aloads in the entirety of the Homeric poems. These verses tell of the twin brothers’ rebellion against the gods, and are quoted, incidentally, so as to distinguish the sublime from the pathetic, for, says the pseudo-Longinus: … there are many examples of the sublime which are independent of passion, such as the daring words of Homer with regard to the Aloadae, to take one out of numberless instances, Yea, Ossa in fury they strove to upheave on Olympus on high, With forest-clad Pelion above, that thence they might step to the sky. And so of the words which follow with still greater force:— Ay, and the deed had they done.21

The sublimity of the passage clearly lies in the ideas therein expressed: ideas of overwhelming power, of vastness and of violent natural upheavals. Yet, it is also to be recognised as sublime by virtue of what Nicolas Boileau, in the preface to his very influential version of the Peri Hypsous, calls “un tour extraordinaire d’expression”, which in poetry will cause a given image to strike the mind suddenly and with maximum impact.22 This turn of expression here rests, as the pseudo-Longinus suggests, on the remark: “and the deed had they done”. By those few words Homer, after having set forth the two brothers’ extravagant ambition, tells us in the same breath that neither did they pile up the mountains nor assault the heavens, but would have been capable of it. The abrupt transitions thus worked transport the imagination in perhaps a more 20 Cf. Peter Tomory, The Poetical Circle: Fuseli and the British… (Florence: Centro Di, 1979), 96. For Fuseli’s condemnation of Pope’s Homer, see Knowles, Life and Writings, 1: 81. 21 Roberts, On the Sublime, 59. 22 Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux, Traité du sublime, ou Du merveilleux dans le discours, traduit du grec de Longin, in Oeuvres complètes, ed. Françoise Escal (Paris: Gallimard, 1966), 338; cf. Monk, The Sublime, 30-32.

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violent way than could have been obtained by presenting the deeds as facts. From this point of view, then, the Odyssey verses describing the Aloads’ plot gain in sublimity because they impose on the reader’s imagination a sequence of events which are simultaneously declared never to have taken place. Even though the extrapolation of textual sources is commonplace in Fuseli’s practice, and even though the literary subjects he paints will sometimes happen to be fabrications of his own, he certainly would have been adverse to the depiction of events which, according to both Homer and the pseudo-Longinus, never occurred. Lines 315-317 of the eleventh Book of the Odyssey elude pictorial invention, and signal a gap between Fuseli’s pursuit of sublimity in painting and the pseudo-Longinus’s discourse-specific approach of the sublime. Plastic representations of the Aloads being so scarce, it can hardly be doubted that Fuseli, both familiar with the Peri Hypsous and well versed in Homer, did pay a serious thought to the pseudo-longinian quotation from the Odyssey upon opting to depict instead the Iliadic fragment of the myth. Consequently the drawing, as the locus of a critical reflection, will unavoidably have for a negative subject the pictorial impracticability of the Odyssey verses. The work thus testifies to Fuseli’s belated reconsideration of his capacity, as an artist and an “epic painter”, to confirm the textual selections of the foremost ancient authority on the sublime.23 While the limits set to painting and poetry are indeed an important issue in Fuseli’s aesthetics, the true significance of the above might rather be said to reside in the fact that he still would have preoccupied himself, when some eighty years of age, in the second decade of the nineteenth century, with thus paralleling his invention of a subject to a pseudolonginian quotation. As already mentioned, Fuseli’s Homeric corpus offered itself as the first to be perused in the search of subjects coinciding with—and possibly conditioned by—quotations in the Peri Hypsous. However, several other works of his also illustrate passages that are cited in the treatise, while some classical iconographic themes which appear to have been favourites among British history painters of the long eighteenth century closely relate to the pseudo-longinian compendium of sublime texts. It is my belief that further investigation in those matters might well open new perspectives on the enduring popularity of the Peri Hypsous with artists of the period, and induce the reconsideration of an imagery 23

In his third Lecture, Fuseli devises for history painting his own tripartite hierarchy of genres, with the “epic or sublime” at the pinnacle; Knowles, Life and Writings, 2: 156-57.

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that has often been interpreted as determined by the political turmoil surrounding the French Revolution.24

Works Cited Bentley, Gerald Eades, Jr. “F.I. Du Roveray, Illustrated-Book Publisher 1798-1806: III.” Biographical Society of Australia and New Zealand Bulletin 12, no. 3 (1990): 97-146. —. Review of The Collected English Letters of Henry Fuseli, by David H. Weinglass. Blake/An Illustrated Quarterly 18, no. 4 (spring 1985): 231-234. Bindman, David. The Shadow of the Guillotine: Britain and the French Revolution. London: British Museum Publications, 1989. Boileau-Despréaux, Nicolas. Œuvres complètes. Edited by Françoise Escal. Paris: Gallimard, 1966. Falconet, Étienne Maurice. Œuvres. Lausanne: Société typographique, 1781. Furtwängler, Adolf. Die antiken Gemmen, Geschichte der Steinschneidekunst im klassischen Altertum. 1900; repr., Amsterdam: A.M. Hakkert, 19641965. Henn, Thomas R. Longinus and English Criticism. Cambridge: The University Press, 1934. Homer. The Iliad. Translated by A.T. Murray. Loeb Classical Library. London: W. Heinemann; New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1924. Irwin, David. John Flaxman, 1755-1826: Sculptor, Illustrator, Designer. London: Studio Vista, 1979. Knowles, John. The Life and Writings of Henry Fuseli. 3 vols. 1831; repr., with a new introduction by David H. Weinglass, New York; London; Nendeln, Liechtenstein: Kraus International Publications, 1982. Lexicon iconographicum mythologiae classicae (LIMC). 18 vols. Zurich : Artemis Verlag, 1981-1999. Monk, Samuel H. The Sublime, A Study of Critical Theories in XVIIIthCentury England. Ann Arbor, Michigan: The University of Michigan Press, 1960. Olson, Elder. Introduction to Longinus: “On the Sublime”, an English translation by Benedict Einarson, and Sir Joshua Reynolds: “Discourses on Art”, vii-xxi. Chicago: Packard and Company, 1945.

24 See, among other works, David Bindman, The Shadow of the Guillotine: Britain and the French Revolution (London: British Museum Publications, 1989).

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Reynolds, Sir Joshua. Discourses on Art. Edited by Robert R. Wark. 3rd edition. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1997. Roberts, W. Rhys, trans. and ed. Longinus On the Sublime, 1899; 2nd ed. 1907; repr., Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1935. Russell, Donald Andrew, trans. and ed. “Longinus” On the sublime. 1964; repr., Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982. Schiff, Gert. Johann Heinrich Füssli, 1741-1825: Text und Oeuvrekatalog. 2 vols. Zürich: Verlag Berichthaus; Munich: Prestel-Verlag, 1973. Schiff, Gert, and Paola Viotto. L’Opera completa di Füssli. Milan: Rizzoli Editore, 1977. Tomory Peter. The Poetical Circle: Fuseli and the British: Henry Fuseli and James Barry, William Blake, John Brown, John Flaxman, James Jefferys, John Hamilton Mortimer, George Romney, Alexander Runciman. Florence: Centro Di, 1979. Torbruegge, Marilyn Klein. “Bodmer and Füssli: ‘Das Wunderbare’ and the Sublime.” Ph.D. diss., University of Wisconsin, 1968. Walters, Henry Beauchamp. Catalogue of the Engraved Gems and Cameos, Greek, Etruscan and Roman, in the British Museum. London: British Museum, 1926. Weinglass, David H., ed. The Collected English Letters of Henry Fuseli. New York; London; Nendeln, Liechtenstein: Kraus International Publications, 1982. —. Prints and Engraved Illustrations By and After Henry Fuseli: A Catalogue Raisonné. Hants, England: Scolar Press; Brookfield, Vermont: Ashgate, 1994.

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Fig. 7-1. Henry Fuseli, With Eëriboea’s help Hermes rescues Ares from the Aloeids, 1819-1822, pencil, pen and wash on paper, 31,8 x 40,6 cm, Munich, private collection. Courtesy of the owner. Photograph Engelbert Seehuber.

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Fig. 7-2. Henry Fuseli, pencil sketch of the Aloads, verso of Fig. 7-1. Courtesy of the owner. Photograph Engelbert Seehuber.

CHAPTER EIGHT ARCHAEOLOGY IN ALMA-TADEMA’S PAINTING: THE INFLUENCE OF POMPEII ROSARIO ROVIRA-GUARDIOLA

The discovery of the Roman city of Pompeii in 1749 opened the gate to a new period in the reception of Rome. The city had been buried under a layer of volcanic ash following the eruption of Vesuvius in 79 AD. The circumstances of the destruction of Pompeii and other cities of the area like Herculaneum and Stabia, allowed wood and other organic material that rarely survive, to be preserved. The speed of the destruction meant that some of the inhabitants of the cities were unable to flee, which allowed a vast number of objects like jewellery and other metallic objects to survive. Daily life objects such as tables, chairs and beds that were almost unknown at the time could now be seen in detail, along with the bodies of the citizens of these cities who had not been able to escape. The visitors of Pompeii and the other cities of the Neapolitan Bay had the opportunity to see the ancient Romans face to face, creating a stir similar to the one caused by the discovery of the intact body of a Roman girl in Renaissance Rome in 1585.1 All this new corpus of Roman remains allowed direct contact not with Rome as a political or cultural entity, but with the “real” Rome, with its citizens and its daily life. It also made it possible to recreate the Roman 1

Leonard Barkan, Unearthing the Past. Archaeology and Aesthetics in the Making of Renaissance Culture (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999), 57-58. For a different interpretation on the fascination for corpses in Pompeii see: Estelle Lazer, Resurrecting Pompeii (London: Routledge, 2009), who argues that the fascination arises through the literary and artistic works. See also Meilee D. Bridges, “Necromantic pathos in Bulwer-Lytton,” in Pompeii in the Public Imagination from its Discovery to Today, ed. Shelley Hales and Joanna Paul, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 90-104.

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luxury associated with decadence. The spectator was allowed to take the role of the subject; to identify himself with the object of study in a way that had not been possible before. Nothing similar was possible in Rome, where the ruins of the ancient city lay underneath the modern city and fewer objects had been recovered. Pompeii became a stop in the Grand Tour routes around Italy and the impact of the city is easily understood in the testimonies of illustrious visitors, such as Madame de Staël and François-René de Chateaubriand. Both stressed the fact that Pompeii offered them the opportunity to meet the ancient Romans face to face and to understand their private life.2 Artists who also visited the sites did not remain impassive in front of the evidence. The site influenced European art and while the eighteenth century representations of Rome were mainly based on history and mythology, Pompeii allowed the creation of new Roman scenes related to daily life. Artists became a sort of amateur archaeologists; they visited the Roman remains and were made aware of recent discoveries. On many occasions they even befriended the archaeologists, as was the case for Jean-AugusteDominique Ingres.3 Both Théodore Chassériau and Lawrence AlmaTadema acknowledged the influence that the visit to Pompeii had in the way they understood art, shaping both their themes and technique.4 French painters started to incorporate Pompeian scenes in their art during the mid nineteenth century. British artists followed their influence and the Pompeian themes appear during the 1860’s. Pompeii was gradually introduced in painting and transformed according to the national background; in France and England Pompeii was the means to represent 2

Madame de Staël, Corinne ou l’Italie (Paris: Gallimard, 1985; orig. ed. 1807), 300; François-René de Chateaubriand, Voyage en Italie (Genève: Librairie Droz, 1968; orig. ed. 1848), 119-22; Eugenia Querci, “Nostalgia dell’Antico. AlmaTadema e l’arte neopompeiana in Italia,” in Alma-Tadema e la Nostalgia dell’Antico, ed. Eugenia Querci and Stefano De Caro, (Milan: Electa, 2007), 2039. 3 Pascale Picard-Cajan, ed., Ingres et l’Antique; l’Illusion Grecque (Arles: Actes Sud, 2006); Pier Giovanni Guzzo, ed., Tales from an Eruption (Milan: Electa, 2003), 192-99; Richard Hingley, Roman Officers and English Gentlemen: the Imperial Origins of Roman Archaeology (London: Routledge, 2000); Michael Liversidge and Catharine Edwards, eds., Imagining Rome. British Artists and Rome in the Nineteenth Century (London: Merrell Holberton, 1996); George P. Landow, “Victorianized Romans: Images of Rome in Victorian Painting,” Browning Institute Studies 12 (1984): 29-51. 4 Léonce Bénédite, Théodore Chassériau. Sa Vie et son Ouvre (Paris: Les Éditions Braun, 1931), 135-38.

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Roman daily life scenes that, especially in Victorian Britain can be interpreted as a representation of the contemporary society. In Italy, Pompeii is used with a charged political meaning, related to the recent unification of the country.5 Nevertheless we should bear in mind not only the influence of French artists on British painting, but also of literature with a Pompeian topic, such as Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s The Last Days of Pompeii.6 The Pompeian influence would eventually dry out in British painting at the end of the nineteenth century, but it still left an influence in the courtship scenes. Romans were no longer seen as an extinct Empire but one that could be recreated and as Alma-Tadema said, their feelings were the same as their Victorian contemporaries. On first glance the Roman daily life that was a regular theme in AlmaTadema’s painting strikes us as a gentle vision of the past. Historic scenes are combined with courtship or family genre scenes that do not differ much from the topics used by other painters of Victorian life. What sets Alma-Tadema’s painting apart is a richer scenario, which benefits from the interest of the artist in the Roman material culture. Nevertheless, a profound study of his sources makes it difficult to prove that his interest in Roman and Greek subjects was intended to reflect the link between Britain and Rome present in other areas of Victorian British culture, and in my opinion they represent a general interest in the past. As previously said, Alma-Tadema thought that Romans were no different from his contemporaries; they were made of flesh and bone and shared the same 5

Luna Figurelli, “Italian Classical Revival and the “Southern Question,” in Pompeii in the Public Imagination from its Discovery to Today, ed. Shelley Hales and Joanna Paul (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 90-104; Elizabeth Prettejohn, “Recreating Rome in Victorian Painting: From History to Genre,” in Liversidge, Imagining Rome, 54-69; Rosemary Julia Barrow, The Use of Classical Art and Literature by Victorian Painters, 1860-1912 (New York & Ontario: Edwin Mellen Press, 2007), 34. 6 Bulwer-Lytton’s The Last Days of Pompeii had an great influence in the literature and painting of the nineteenth century and it was considered nearly as a scientific work: “the atrium, triclinium, peristyle, impluvium, and other features which he describes with so much detail in The Last Days of Pompeii have been reproduced with as much fidelity as was consistent with present-day convenience and the English climate”, Frederick Dolman, “Illustrated Interviews: No. LXVIII. Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, R.A,” The Strand Magazine 108 (1899): 602-14. Cf. an article on Pompeii, Austen Henry Layard, “Pompeii,” The Quarterly Review 115 (1864): 312-48. Elizabeth Prettejohn claims that historical French painting, especially Gérôme, and British novels with Roman subjects, have influenced the development of Roman genre paintings in Britain; Prettejohn, “Recreating Rome,” 54-69.

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passions.7 His interest in archaeology was obviously noticed in his life and either praised or despised, but its passion should never obscure the fact that he was an artist and not a historian and, as we will see, he used Roman artefacts to enhance the realism and not as mere archaeological representations. In the winter of 1863 Alma-Tadema travelled to Italy during his first honeymoon, looking for the Christian churches that could help him in his paintings depicting particular episodes in the history of the Franks, but instead he found Pompeii.8 The visit to the famous buried Roman city caused a profound impression in him that would last for the rest of his life. Shortly after his visit to Pompeii Alma-Tadema started painting Roman themes inspired from what he had seen in the Italian city. He was probably also encouraged by the first agreement he had with the art-dealer Ernest Gambart in 1864 who had asked Alma-Tadema that at least half of the twenty-four paintings ordered had to be of “antique period”.9 It is not difficult to imagine how fortunate the artist must have felt in being commissioned a reasonable amount of paintings in his new found interest, even if his interest in archaeology would later create problems with Gambart who would suggest Alma-Tadema paint modern subjects, as paintings with such precise archaeological details were difficult to sell. Gambart would later change his mind again and ask Alma-Tadema to go back to his “Classical subjects”; nevertheless Alma-Tadema would gradually include less and less archaeological details. I would suggest that Alma-Tadema’s choice of new topics was probably triggered by a combination of both his personal interest and a search for artistic

7

The words of Alma-Tadema saying the Romans were the same as the British were repeated in several articles with biographical notes: Lawrence Alma-Tadema, “My Reminiscences,” The Strand Magazine 37 (1909): 292 or in Strand Magazine of December 1899 where he says: “But, after all, there is not such a great difference between the ancient and the moderns as we are apt to suppose. This is the truth that I have always endeavoured to express in my pictures that the old Romans were human flesh and blood, like ourselves, moved by much the same passions and emotions”. Also Ebers in his biography of Alma-Tadema underlines that some of the scenes depicted by him could have happened in modern times: Georg Moritz Ebers, Lorenz Alma Tadema, his Life and Works (New York: W. S. Gottsberger, 1886), 69. 8 Ebers, Lorenz Alma Tadema, 25. 9 Marrion Harry Spielmann, “Alma-Tadema, R. A. A Sketch,” Magazine of Art (Jan 1897): 46-47; Alma-Tadema, “Reminiscences,” 290. Barrow attributes the change in topic exclusively to the contract with Gambart: Barrow, Use of Classical Art, 30.

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recognition and success; two sides of artistic creation that, as AlmaTadema himself said, are not easy to combine.10 Nevertheless ancient history themes were not new in his paintings. In 1858 he had painted The Death of the First-born / the Unfavourable Oracle, considered by Sylvia Gosse as the first Egyptian subject painted by Alma-Tadema.11 Also from this period may date The Dying Cleopatra, a topic that can be considered both an Egyptian, as well as a Roman subject and a popular subject in painting.12 This early use of ancient history themes might be attributed to his own interest in archaeology that, as we have seen, took him to Pompeii, but also to the influence of his master Louis de Taeye, who was also professor of archaeology in the Royal Academy of Antwerp.13 His first Roman paintings are heirs of what Alma-Tadema saw in Italy and they still represent Roman life from a historical point of view, as he had done in his previous Merovingian paintings. When he moved to England in 1872, he progressively adopted other subjects, common daily life scenes that allowed him to use the Pompeian artefacts in, mainly, courtship scenes that were more suitable to Victorian taste. Evidence of his travels to Italy are to be found in his collection of photographs and sketches where it is easy to find pottery, inscriptions and other objects that the artist would later use in his paintings. This collection, along with his updated archaeological library, show an erudite interest in Roman archaeology from which his paintings benefit and which separates

10 Frederick Dolman, “Illustrated Interviews: No. LXVIII. Sir Lawrence AlmaTadema, R.A,” The Strand Magazine 108 (1899): 604-05. 11 When asked why he had chosen the Egyptians as topic he replied that he had to start where ancient history begins: Ebers, Lorenz Alma Tadema, 70; Edmund William Gosse, “Lawrence Alma-Tadema,” in Illustrated Biographies of Modern Artists, ed. François Guillaume Dumas (London & Paris: Baschet, 1882), 78. Raven considers that the influence for some of the elements of this painting, such as the hairstyles and costumes, is to be found in Sir John Garner Wilkinson, The Manners and Customs of the Ancient Egyptians (London: J. Murray, 1837); Maarten J. Raven, “Alma Tadema als amateur-egyptoloog,” Bulletin van het Rijksmuseum 28 (1980): 103-17 and 146-48 (English summary); Vern Grosvenor Swanson, The Biography and Catalogue Raisonné of the Paintings of Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema (London: Garton & Co, 1990), 125-26. 12 Swanson, Biography, cat. 39 and 40. On a recent approach to the figure of Cleopatra: Margaret M. Miles, ed, Cleopatra. A Sphinx Revisited (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011). 13 Alma-Tadema, “Reminiscences,” 287.

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him from other painters of his period.14 This use of architectonic settings and inclusion of ancient sculpture, as well as Pompeian painting, made him famous, but less attention has been paid to other elements, such as the use of inscriptions and pottery in his paintings which show his more scientific interest in archaeology. One of the finest examples of Alma Tadema’s knowledge of Roman archaeology is An Exedra (1869) (Fig. 8-1). The painting combines an archaeological inspired setting with a scene that can be easily translated into a contemporary scene. An Exedra shows a group of wealthy Romans seated in the monumental tomb of Mammia, a famous priestess of Pompeii. The tomb of Mammia was built in the form of scholae; an architectonic structure that was very popular during the Augustan period and an architectural setting that will be used throughout all the career of Alma-Tadema. It will provide the ideal Classical setting for his later courtship scenes. The advantages of scholae are obvious as they create an ample space for placing people, while at the same time allow the display of a vast quantity of marble; a material that automatically places the scene in the Classical period.15 During the Roman period this kind of monument was used, not only as a way to commemorate the dead, but also as an amenity for the citizens who could walk along and sit beside the funerary monuments.16 Here the painter represents his characters in a traditional Roman activity, not that different from his contemporary Victorians, who also used their cemeteries as parks where they could walk around on Sundays. Alma-Tadema represented the monument precisely, including its original inscription at the back of the seat. The full text of the inscription is the following, but only the word decurionum is clearly visible in the painting: M[am]miae P(ublii) f(iliae) sacerdoti publicae locus sepultur(ae) datus decurionum decreto17 14

Alma Tadema’s collection of photographs and sketches are now in the library of the University of Birmingham: The Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema Collection [microform]. Photographs and correspondence of the famous Victorian painter, University of Birmingham Library, (Leiden: IDC, 1998). For his library see the sale catalogue: Well-known and interesting collection of antique furniture and objects d’art formed by the late Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, O.M., R.A.: including valuable pictures and the archaeological library, Hampton & Sons, Sale Catalogue 16 June 1913. 15 Alma-Tadema on marble: Dolman, “Illustrated Interviews,” 604-05. 16 Paul Zanker, Pompeii. Public and Private Life (London: Harvard University Press, 1998), 122-24. 17 CIL X 958 = 2348.

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There is another inscription on the painting, on the left side of the funerary monument that reads (Fig. 8-2): M(arci) Porci / M(arci) f(ili) ex dec(urionum) / decret(o) in / frontem / ped(es) XXV / in agrum / ped(es) XXV 18

This is the inscription belonging to the tomb of M. Porcius and it is also shown in its original position.19 Both tombs were just outside the Herculaneum Gate of Pompeii in the street of tombs that lead to the Villa of the Mysteries, a prominent position within the city. This and the fact that the soil for the tombs was donated by decree of the town councillors, show the importance of both Porcius and Mammia in Pompeian society. Mammia was a public priestess who paid for a temple dedicated to the genius of the colony of Pompeii, while M. Porcius was a duumvir who paid for an altar in the Temple of Apollo and for the Amphitheatre.20 Despite the popularity of the monument (since its discovery on the 25 of June 1763), and the street of tombs (Fig. 8-3),21 it is probable that it was 18

CIL X 997. On the inscription and the tomb of M. Porcius: Valentin Kockel, Die Grabbauten vor dem Herkulaner Tor in Pompeji (Mainz am Rhein: P. v. Zabern, 1983), 53; Giuseppe Fiorelli, ed., Pompeianarum Antiqvitatvm Historia (Naples: 1861-64) (= PAH), vol. I, 235 = I 2, 116, nr. 28 (21. 9 1769); CIL X 997; Heinrich Nissen, Pompeianische Studien zur Städtekunde des Altertums (Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1877), 395; August Mau, Pompeji in Leben und Kunst (Leipzig: W. Engelmann, 1908), 198 and 429; Eugenio La Rocca, Mariette De Vos and Arnold De Vos, Guida Archeologica di Pompei (Milan: Mondadori, 1976), 330. 20 Alison E. Cooley and Melvin G. L. Cooley, Pompeii, a Sourcebook (London: Routledge, 2004), 20-21 (about M. Porcius), 96-97 (about Mammia). 21 PAH I, i, 152 (25. 6. 1763) = I, 2, 113, nr. 10; Sir William Hamilton, “Account of the discoveries at Pompeii,” Archaeologia 4 (1777): 160-75; Jean Claude Richard Abbé de Saint-Non, Voyage pittoresque où déscription des royaume de Naples et de Sicile (Paris: de l'imprimerie de Clousie, 1781-86), tav. 81; Giovanni Battista Piranesi and Francesco Piranesi, Antiquités de la Grande Grèce, aujourd'hui Royaume de Naples. Vol. 1, 2. Antiquités de Pompeia (Paris, 1837), fig. 4; Johann Joachim Wincklemann, Nachrichten von den neuesten herculanischen Entdekungen. An Herrn Heinrich Fueßly aus Zürich (Dresden, 1764), 259 f.; Joseph Jérôme de Lalande, Voyage d’un Français en Italie, fait en 1765-66 (Venice, 1769), VII, 112; Johann Wolfgang Goethe, Italienische Reise, 13 March 1787; Helmut Holtzhauer, Das Goethe-Museum in Weimar (Berlin &Weimar: Aufbau-Verlag, 1969), 348. Bernhard Neutsch, “Pompeiana in Weimar,” in Neue Forschungen in Pompeji, eds. B. Andreae and H. Kyrieleis (Recklinghausen 1975), 319; Aubin Louis Millin, Description des tombeaux qui ont été découverts à Pompeï dans l'année 1812 (Naples, 1813), 4 Anm. 4; Mario 19

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during his trip to Pompeii one century later that the monument attracted Alma-Tadema’s attention, as several photographs of the place are kept in his collection.22 The photographs show general views of the street of tombs not dissimilar from modern postcards, but also featuring groups of people dressed in Roman costumes. These photographs were probably bought during his later trips to Pompeii as at the time of his first trip to Pompeii in 1863, the city was just starting to be a photographic destination.23 How the two inscriptions found their way into An Exedra is difficult to guess. There is no evidence that Alma-Tadema copied them in situ as he did with other inscriptions, like the one on the floor of the teatro tectum (Fig. 8-4); they do not appear in any of the sketches of Alma-Tadema that have been preserved. It is possible that he used as his source one of the books on Pompeii that had already been published, like Giuseppe Fiorelli’s Descrizione di Pompei, where there is a special interest in the inscriptions of the houses of Pompeii and in fact both inscriptions are transcribed. He had this book in his library, as well as another important reference work on the ancient city, François Mazois’ Les ruines de Pompeii. Unfortunately, we do not know when Alma-Tadema acquired the books; there is no record of a date in the books themselves apart from his book plate and hence it is not possible to progress further in finding his exact sources. The use of authentic Roman inscriptions in paintings became an original element of Alma-Tadema´s work since his first Roman painting, Gallo-Roman women (1865). They are used to provide a Roman setting to the paintings, as happens in In the time of Constantine (1878), where the fragment of inscription clearly dates the scene during the reign of the emperor Constantine (272-337 AD). Similarly, in An audience with Agrippa (1875) the inscription identifies the main character in the painting with Agrippa, the second in command of the emperor Augustus (reigned 27 BC – 14AD). Inscriptions appear in his paintings not only on marble, but also on other surfaces as in Spring (1894), where he uses an inscription Torelli, “ Monumenti funerari romani con fregio dorico,” Dialoghi di Archeologia 2 (1968): 34. For imitations of the monument: Kockel, Grabbauten, 58. 22 Photographic collection of Alma-Tadema. University of Birmingham. Portfolio 160, nº 12471 and 12472, general views of the Street of Tombs of the Porta Herculanum where the tomb of Mammia can be seen on the left. Portfolio 161, nº 12477-12479 where some “classical scenes” are represented on the scholae. 23 Roberto Cassanelli, “Images of Pompeii: from Engraving to Photography,” in Houses and Monuments of Pompeii. The Works of Fausto and Felice Niccolini (Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum, 2002), 48-51.

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on bronze.24 His sketches show Alma-Tadema would copy the inscriptions in situ, during his trips to Pompeii. There, in the teatro tectum he copied the inscription that recorded that C. Quinctius and M. Porcius built the theatre (Fig. 8-4); the latter being the same M. Porcius of the second inscription in An Exedra.25 There is still another element worth mentioning in An Exedra, the slave seated on the street. Written on his clothes appears the name of one of the most important Pompeian families, the Holconii. The family built numerous buildings in Pompeii and held some of the most important offices of administration in the city.26 The Holconii appear again in another painting of Alma-Tadema, A Vintage Festival (1870) where the name is inscribed on the floor (Fig. 8-5). It is possible that Alma-Tadema got the idea from the teatro tectum in Pompeii that I mentioned before (Fig. 8-4). He drew a sketch in which he carefully wrote the inscription on the margin, and despite the fact that the sketch is not dated, the similarities between the two images may allow us to interpret the sketch as the inspiration for A Vintage Festival.27 The inscription he copied in the teatro tectum was: M. Holconius M. F. Verus II vir pro ludis28

This was not the original inscription of the theatre, but a wrong reconstruction as the correct name on the inscriptions was Oculatius, not Holconius. The inscription, carved in bronze letters on the pavement of the theatre, had originally been discovered in November of 1793, but on the 24 For the use of inscriptions in Alma Tadema’s painting: Francisca FeraudiGruénais, “L.A.T: L(awrence) A(lma) T(adema) und die Transformation antiker Inschriften Oder: Wie funktioniert(e) “Antike-Rezeption?,” in Imagines: the Reception of Antiquity in Performing and Visual Arts, Logroño, 22-24 October 2007, ed. Pepa Castillo et al. (Logroño: Universidad de la Rioja, 2008), 491-514. 25 Collection of the University of Birmingham, E2822. The inscription is: CIL X, 844. 26 The Holconii paid for the modifications of the Large Theatre of Pompeii in the Augustan period (CIL X, 833 and 834) and M. Holconius Rufus who was duumvir, quinquennial and military tribune and priest of Augustus (CIL X, 838 D 840), was honoured in the same theatre: Cooley and Cooley, Pompeii, 66, 129-30, 160, 172; John H. D’Arms, “Pompeii and Rome in the Augustan Age and Beyond: the Eminence of the Gens Holconia,” in Studia Pompeiana et Classica in Honor of Wilhelmina F. Jashemski. I Pompeiana, ed. Robert. I. Curtis (New York: A.D. Caratzas, 1988-89), 51-74. 27 For a different date of the sketch: Swanson, Biography. 28 CIL X, 845.

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25th May 1815 some soldiers from the Austrian troops stole the letters. Fortunately, they were returned soon after the incident took place, but replaced in the wrong order and never changed again. The fact that AlmaTadema copied the inscription “wrongly” and used this reading in A Vintage Festival may indicate that he had not yet read the guide to Pompeii written by Fiorelli, where he explains the incident.29 The fact that Alma-Tadema did not follow Fiorelli’s reading on this occasion might cast a shadow of doubt on the use of the books as a source for the inscriptions on An Exedra. Nevertheless we should not dismiss the possibility that he deliberately did not follow Fiorelli’s reading of the inscription, because this erroneous reading allowed him to establish a link between An Exedra and A Vintage Festival. The first one would present the family Holconia in one of his outings around the city of Pompeii, while A Vintage Festival would give the opportunity to have a glimpse of one of their social activities at home. On the right end of A Vintage Festival two of the participants are carrying two amphorae, a common container of pottery that Alma-Tadema would use again in Wine and gossip. The amphora with the sharp-pointed handles is a Rhodian amphora, while the one with wavy walls came from an unknown area of the Eastern Mediterranean and was probably inspired by one of the objects that appear in one of the photographs in his photographic collection (Fig. 8-6).30 On the wall of the Rhodian amphora we can see a painted inscription, a titulus pictus. This type of inscription was common in amphorae and worked in a similar way as modern labels where the names of the trader or the producer of the product are written on it. This titulus pictus is probably CIL IV, 2660 with the same text as the one in the painting, Popidio / Naeati. It was originally placed on an idria with two handles, not an amphora, found on the 24th of July of 1766, in the Temple of Isis, not far from the teatro tectum.31 This amphora and the same titulus pictus appear also in Wine and gossip (1869) that depicts a scene inside a tabernae, a popular location for painters interested in Pompeian subjects.32 In Wine and gossip Alma-Tadema represented what 29

Umberto Pappalardo, La descrizione di Pompei per Giuseppe Fiorelli (1875) (Naples: Massa Editore, 2001), 353; Cooley and Cooley, Pompeii, 202-03. 30 Collection of the University of Birmingham, E11676-1915. 31 CIL IV, 2660: Popidio / Naeati (with a inscription written in Greek on the other side of the amphora). Fiorelli read the second line of the inscription as Naeali. Fiorelli, Pompeianarvm, 192-93. 32 A similar topic appears in Enrico Salfi’s Amphora seller at Pompeii (1883). T. Rocco, “Pompeii’s Fame in Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-century Art,” in Guzzo, Tales from an Eruption, 192-99.

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is probably a Tripolitan amphora next to the Rhodian one; the effect is quite similar to the combination in A Vintage Festival, using two pieces of pottery with distinctive features, pointed handles and wavy walls and consequently more aesthetic values.33 Nevertheless the Tripolitan amphora depicted here bears a titulus, CIL IV, 2644: Hercvlanenses / Nonio[---. The amphora was kept in the Museum of Naples at the time of the publication of CIL, in 1871, and it may have been there that Alma-Tadema saw it. Unfortunately, neither in CIL, nor in the previous publications of the object is it said what type of amphora it was.34 The same titulus will appear later in another painting, Autumn, but here in a different amphora type, a Dressel 2/4 clearly identified because of its bifid handles.35 Alma-Tadema plays with the archaeological evidence, using real tituli picti but not in the original location. He also disregarded the fact that an amphora full of wine weighs around 50 kilograms and it is almost impossible to carry, as the two characters of A Vintage Festival do. In fact, in ancient representations of loading of ships these amphorae are clearly shown being carried by two people. Alma-Tadema’s attitude has been considered as an irreverent use of archaeology, but it can also be attributed to the process of creation of the paintings and not to a lack of respect or misinformation.36 Georg Moritz Ebers had noticed that the same objects appeared in several paintings, objects and photographs that Alma-Tadema had collected and would then use for his paintings. And in fact that it is a common practice within the art world, to use the same objects again and again. Artists often seek inspiration within the walls of their studios and houses, where they keep objects that they have collected during their lives.37 And Alma-Tadema’s house was an endless source of inspiration. 33

A similar type to the amphora that appears in Wine and gossip can be seen in Daniele Manacorda, “Anfore spagnole à Pompei,” L’instrumentum domesticum di Ercolano e Pompei nella prima età imperiale, (Rome: L'Erma di Bretschneider, 1977), 121-34, tav. LXIX, 47. 34 The amphora and its titulus was also described by Winckelmann and Gerhard: Johann Joachim Winckelmann, Winckelmann’s Werke herausgegeben von C. L. Fernow (Dresden & Berlin: Walther, 1808-1820), 71; Eduard Gerhard and Theodor Panofka, Neapels antike Bildwerke (Stuttgart; Tübingen: J. G. Cotta, 1828), 436. 35 Manacorda, Anfore, 121-134; David. P. S. Peacock and David F. Williams, Amphorae and the Roman Economy: an Introductory Guide (London & New York: Longman, 1991), 105-106. 36 Prettejohn, “Recreating Rome,” 168. 37 For a different interpretation on the use of the objects in several paintings: Prettejohn, “Recreating Rome,” 169-70.

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To understand the level of knowledge that Alma-Tadema had in the recent discoveries of Roman material culture we have to bear in mind that in the nineteenth century painted inscriptions on amphorae had just started to be studied. They were not even a popular subject as they were considered of scant importance and they were called minutiae epigraphicae. In fact, it was not until after the publication of the volumes IV by August Mau (collecting the evidence from Pompeii) and especially number XV by Heinrich Dressel (with the evidence from Rome) of the Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum that the modern studies of this kind of evidence started. It was not until the 1950’s that their potential as evidence of the economic development of the Roman Empire was fully appreciated.38 The interest of Alma-Tadema in tituli picti is confirmed by the presence in his archaeological library of a copy of the article “Un grande deposito di anfore rinvenuto nel nuovo quartiere del Castro Pretorio” written by Heinrich Dressel and published in the Bollettino della comissione archeologica comunale di Roma in 1879.39 The article is a specialised work on the amphorae found in the Castro Pretorio in Rome and it would not have easily attracted the attention of anyone who did not have a real interest in the subject. During this so-called Pompeian period, Alma-Tadema also showed interest in another of the most typical of Pompeian discoveries, the wall inscriptions. The streets of the city were covered with red painted inscriptions that were mainly political propaganda (Fig. 8-7). These inscriptions have attracted the attention of scholars who have seen them as the best evidence to study the society and the daily life of a Roman city, as they also were for Alma-Tadema. He used them in A flower shop as the perfect setting for a street-scene. The fact that the topic of the painting may have been interpreted during the Victorian era as a prostitute and her client eliminated any interest of art historians in fully appreciating the archaeological elements of the painting.40 The political inscription or programmata that appears in A flower shop depicts the name M. Epidius Sabinus and was originally placed on the walls of the taberna of Praedicinius.41 Two sketches link the painting with what Alma-Tadema 38

Peacock and Williams, Amphorae, 2-3. The article is now in the library of the University of Birmingham but there is no indication on how this offprint arrived in Alma-Tadema’s library. 40 Prettejohn, “Recreating Rome,” 132-133. 41 Several inscriptions related to M. Epidius Sabinus have been found in Pompeii: CIL IV, 791; 768; 7605; 7579; 1059. Cf. Catherine Chiavia, Programmata. Manifesti elettorali nella colonia romana di Pompei (Turin: S. Zamorani, 2002), 287-88. 39

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saw in Pompeii as he drew some sketches of the inscriptions found on the walls of the city that are still kept in the Collection of the University of Birmingham. He used one of the sketches as the main wall inscription represented in A flower shop, behind the main character. Alma-Tadema claimed later in life that he knew everything in Pompeii and his sketches and paintings are evidence that he covered an extensive area of what had been excavated in the city at the time; what is now called regiones VI, VII and VIII, the street of tombs and the amphitheatre.42 The first Roman paintings of Alma-Tadema also give a depiction of the Pompeian society, through inclusion of public monuments, such as the tomb of Mammia, and its benefactors, such as M. Porcius and the Holconii. This knowledge of Pompeii puts him on a different level to his contemporaries, even those who were considered among his influences, such as Jean-Leon Gérôme and even The Last Days of Pompeii from which he borrowed a scene for Glauco and Nydia (1867) or from other contemporary artists as Poynter. 43 They all use Pompeii as an inspiration to create rather general Roman settings, while Alma-Tadema uses the same archaeological evidence to depict the “real” city. Alma-Tadema managed, with the inclusion of Roman inscriptions and coarse pottery to recreate Classical life in great detail. The use of a Latin inscription immediately sets the painting in the Roman period and adds an element of erudition that strengthens the position of the artist as a representative for the Ancient world and his ability to depict it. His library and his photographic collection show indeed his interest in being up to date with the latest research. He became a member of the Society for the Promotion of Hellenic Studies in 1911 and kept volumes of journals like Notizie degli Scavi; not the kind of reading you might expect to find in the library of a mere aficionado. Nevertheless, we must not be misled by his interest as he, as an artist, had the freedom to transform and reinterpret the archaeological evidence when necessary for the benefit of a stronger artistic effect. Although he later abandoned these faithful representations of Pompeii, his admiration for the city and its influence can be still seen at the end of his career in his letters to the Neapolitan painters with whom he shared love for the Roman city. 42

A map of the Pompeii Alma-Tadema could visit is in: Augustin-Joseph Du Pays, Itinéraire descriptif, historique et artistique de l’Italie et de la Sicile (Paris: Hachette, 1865), vol. 2, 370-71. 43 C. Franklin Sayre, “Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema’s A Roman Amateur,” Yale University Art Gallery Bulletin (June 1973): 12-17; Mario Amaya, “The Roman World of Alma-Tadema,” Apollo 76 (1962): 773. Edward Strahan, Gérôme (New York: Samuel L. Hall, 1881): View in a Greek Dwelling and The Death of Caesar.

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Works Cited Alma-Tadema, Lawrence. “My Reminiscences.” The Strand Magazine 37 (1909): 290-294. Amaya, Mario. “The Roman World of Alma-Tadema.” Apollo 76 (1962): 771-778. Barkan, Leonard. Unearthing the Past. Archaeology and Aesthetics in the Making of Renaissance Culture. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999. Barrow, Rosemary Julia. The Use of Classical Art and Literature by Victorian Painters, 1860-1912. New York & Ontario: Edwin Mellen Press, 2007. Bénédite, Léonce. Théodore Chassériau. Sa Vie et son Ouvre. Paris: Les Éditions Braun, 1931. Bridges, Meilee D. “Necromantic pathos in Bulwer-Lytton.” In Pompeii in the Public Imagination from its Discovery to Today, edited by Shelley Hales and Joanna Paul, 90-104. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. Cassanelli, Roberto. “Images of Pompeii: from Engraving to Photography.” In Houses and Monuments of Pompeii. The Works of Fausto and Felice Niccolini, 48-51. Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum, 2002. Chateaubriand, François-René de. Voyage en Italie. Genève: Librairie Droz, 1968. Chiavia, Catherine. Programmata. Manifesti elettorali nella colonia romana di Pompei. Turin: S. Zamorani, 2002. CIL = Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum Cooley, Alison E., and Melvin G. L. Cooley. Pompeii, a sourcebook. London: Routledge, 2004. D’Arms, John H. “Pompeii and Rome in the Augustan Age and Beyond: the Eminence of the Gens Holconia.” In Studia Pompeiana et Classica in Honor of Wilhelmina F. Jashemski. I Pompeiana, edited by Robert I. Curtis, 51-74. New York: A.D. Caratzas, 1988-89. Du Pays, Augustin-Joseph. Itinéraire descriptif, historique et artistique de l’Italie et de la Sicile. Paris: Hachette, 1865. Dolman, Frederick. “Illustrated Interviews: No. LXVIII. Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, R.A..” The Strand Magazine 108 (1899): 602-614. Ebers, Georg Moritz. Lorenz Alma Tadema, his Life and Works. New York: W. S. Gottsberger, 1886. Feraudi-Gruénais, Francisca. “L.A.T: L(awrence) A(lma) T(adema) und die Transformation antiker Inschriften Oder: Wie funktioniert(e)

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“Antike-Rezeption?.” In Imagines: the Reception of Antiquity in Performing and Visual Arts, Logroño, 22-24 October 2007, edited by Pepa Castillo, Marta Garcia Morcillo and Silke Knippschild, 491-514. Logroño: Universidad de la Rioja, 2008. Figurelli, Luna. “Italian Classical Revival and the “Southern Question”.” In Pompeii in the Public Imagination from its Discovery to Today, edited by Shelley Hales and Joanna Paul, 90-104. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. Fiorelli, Giuseppe, ed. Pompeianarum Antiqvitatvm Historia. Naples, 1860-64. Gerhard, Eduard, and Theodor Panofka. Neapels antike Bildwerke. Stuttgart; Tübingen: J. G. Cotta, 1828. Gosse, Edmund William. “Lawrence Alma-Tadema.” In Illustrated Biographies of Modern Artists, edited by François Guillaume. London & Paris: Baschet, 1882. Guzzo, Pier Giovanni, ed. Tales from an Eruption. Milan: Electa, 2003. Hamilton, Sir William. “Account of the discoveries at Pompeii.” Archaeologia 4 (1777): 160-175. Hingley, Richard. Roman Officers and English Gentlemen: the Imperial Origins of Roman Archaeology. London: Routledge, 2000. Holtzhauer, Helmut. Das Goethe-Museum in Weimar. Berlin &Weimar: Aufbau-Verlag, 1969. Kockel, Valentin. Die Grabbauten vor dem Herkulaner Tor in Pompeji. Mainz am Rhein: P. v. Zabern, 1983. Lalande, Joseph Jérôme de. Voyage d’un Français en Italie, fait en 176566. Venice, 1769. Landow, George P. “Victorianized Romans: Images of Rome in Victorian painting.” Browning Institute Studies 12 (1984): 29-51. La Rocca, Eugenio, Mariette De Vos and Arnold De Vos. Guida Archeologica di Pompei. Milan: Mondadori, 1976. Layard, Austen Henry. “Pompeii.” The Quarterly Review 115 (1864): 312348. Lazer, Estelle. Resurrecting Pompeii. London: Routledge, 2009. Liversidge, Michael, and Catharine Edwards, eds. Imagining Rome. British Artists and Rome in the Nineteenth Century. London: Merrell Holberton, 1996. Manacorda, Daniele. “Anfore spagnole à Pompei.” In L’instrumentum domesticum di Ercolano e Pompei nella prima età imperiale, 121-134. Rome: L'Erma di Bretschneider, 1977. Mau, August. Pompeji in Leben und Kunst. Leipzig: W. Engelmann, 1908.

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Miles, Margaret M. ed. Cleopatra. A Sphinx Revisited. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011. Millin, Aubin Louis, Description des tombeaux qui ont été découverts à Pompeï dans l'année 1812. Naples, 1813. Neutsch, Bernhard. “Pompeiana in Weimar.” In Neue Forschungen in Pompeji, edited by. B. Andreae and H. Kyrieleis, 317-330. Recklinghausen, 1975. Nissen, Heinrich. Pompeianische Studien zur Städtekunde des Altertums. Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1877. Pappalardo, Umberto. La descrizione di Pompei per Giuseppe Fiorelli (1875). Naples: Massa Editore, 2001. Peacock, David. P. S. and David F. Williams. Amphorae and the Roman Economy: an Introductory Guide. London & New York: Longman, 1991. Picard-Cajan, Pascale, ed. Ingres et l’Antique; l’Illusion Grecque. Arles: Actes Sud, 2006. Piranesi, Giovanni Battista, and Francesco Piranesi. Antiquités de la Grande Grèce, aujourd'hui Royaume de Naples. Vol. 1, 2. Antiquités de Pompeia. Paris, 1837. Prettejohn, Elizabeth. “Recreating Rome in Victorian Painting: From History to Genre.” In Liversidge, Imagining Rome, 54-69. Querci, Eugenia. “Nostalgia dell’Antico. Alma-Tadema e l’arte neopompeiana in Italia.” In Alma-Tadema e la Nostalgia dell’Antico, edited by Eugenia Querci and Stefano De Caro, 20-39. Milan: Electa, 2007. Raven, Maarten J. “Alma Tadema als amateur-egyptoloog.” Bulletin van het Rijksmuseum 28 (1980): 103-117. Saint-Non, Jean Claude Richard Abbé de. Voyage pittoresque où déscription des royaume de Naples et de Sicile. Paris: de l'imprimerie de Clousie, 1781-86. Sayre, C. Franklin. “Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema’s A Roman Amateur.” Yale University Art Gallery Bulletin (June 1973): 12-17. The Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema Collection [microform]. Photographs and Correspondence of the Famous Victorian Painter, University of Birmingham Library. Leiden: IDC, 1998. Spielmann, M. H. “Alma-Tadema, R. A. A Sketch.” Magazine of Art (Jan 1897): 46-47. Staël, Madame de. Corinne ou l’Italie. Paris: Gallimard, 1985. Strahan, Edward. Gérôme. New York: Samuel L. Hall, 1881. Swanson, Vern Grosvenor. The Biography and Catalogue Raisonné of the Paintings of Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema. London: Garton & Co, 1990.

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Torelli, Mario. “ Monumenti funerari romani con fregio dorico.” Dialoghi di Archeologia 2 (1968): 32-54. Well-known and interesting collection of antique furniture and objects d’art formed by the late Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, O.M., R.A.: including valuable pictures and the archaeological library, Hampton & Sons, Sale Catalogue 16 June 1913. Winckelmann, Johann Joachim. Nachrichten von den neuesten herculanischen Entdekungen. An Herrn Heinrich Fueßly aus Zürich. Dresden, 1764. —. Winckelmann’s Werke herausgegeben von C. L. Fernow. Dresden & Berlin: Walther, 1808-1820. Zanker, Paul. Pompeii. Public and Private Life. London: Harvard University Press, 1998.

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Fig. 8-1. Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, An Exedra, 1869. Oil on wood, 38 x 59.8 cm. Frances Lehman Loeb Art Center (Gift of Mrs Avery Coonley), Poughkeepsie, NY.

Fig. 8-2. CIL X 997, Inscription of the tomb of M. Porcius.

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Fig. 8-3a. Photograph of the Street of Tombs from the Collection of Alma-Tadema. University of Birmingham. Portfolio 160, nº 12471-1915.

Fig. 8-3b. Photograph of the Tomb of Mammia from the Collection of AlmaTadema. University of Birmingham. Portfolio 160, nº 12477-1915.

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Lawrence Almaa-Tadema, Skettch of the insidee of the Theatru um tectum. Fig. 8-4. Sir L University off Birmingham. Portfolio P 149, E2823. E

Fig. 8-5. Sir L Lawrence Almaa-Tadema, A Vintage V Festival,l, 1870. Oil on canvas, c 77 x 177cm. Ham mburger Kunsthhalle, Hamburg g.

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Fig. 8-6. Photograph of a selection of amphorae and pots from the Collection of Alma-Tadema. University of Birmingham. Portfolio 138, E11676.

Fig. 8-7. Sketch with graffiti on the wall from the Collection of Alma-Tadema. University of Birmingham. Portfolio 160, nº E2846.

PART V: MODERNISM AND ANTIQUITY

CHAPTER NINE THE AVANT-GARDE CLASSICISM OF GIORGIO DE CHIRICO, 1911-1915 SILVIA LORETI

De Chirico has awoken the statues from their ancient sleep. —André Salmon, 1945.1

Avant-Garde and Classicist Repeatedly refuted by the artist and seemingly confirmed by his longrunning dispute with the Surrealists, Giorgio de Chirico’s avant-garde status remains ambiguous, if not utterly problematic. Are we to believe, as he claimed, that he fell unwillingly prey to the avant-garde’s distortive appropriation of his work – that he was a “Parisian despite himself”, as the title of a book has it?2 Should he be considered a traitor to the modernist cause, as the Surrealists believed?3 Or was the change of direction in his work at the end of the 1910s simply the result of a mind that had lost

*

The author is grateful to the editor and Dr Natalia Vogeikoff-Brogan (Archivist, Gennadius Library, The American School of Classical Studies at Athens) for their assistance and to IMT School of Advance Studies Lucca for supporting the cost of image reproduction. 1 André Salmon, L’Air de la Butte – mémoires (Paris: Arcadia, 2004), 142. 2 Andrea del Guercio, Parisien malgré lui. De Chirico 1911-1915 (Paris: Maeght, 1997). 3 For the stylistic influence on de Chirico of Picasso, Matisse and Henri Rousseau: William Rubin, “De Chirico and Modernism,” in De Chirico, ed. William Rubin (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1982), 61-70; Michael R. Taylor, ed., Giorgio de Chirico and the Myth of Ariadne, exh. cat., Philadelphia Museum of Art (London: Merrel Publisher, 2003), 32-39.

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lucidity, as authoritative art historians have argued?4 Despite the split of de Chirico’s oeuvre into an early, Metaphysical period (1910-1919) and a later, “return to order” phase (post-1919), recent exhibitions have highlighted the presence of consistent themes and preoccupations throughout the artist’s career.5 More than his large, but stylistically inhomogeneous visual production, the artist’s equally vast written output was consistently developed through the years, with later, published writings reflecting back on earlier handwritten notes, and often clarifying their meaning. Because of its explanatory function, this corpus of writings allows better understanding of the relationship between classical and avant-garde tendencies within de Chirico’s work.6 Relating the artist’s intention in the creation of his works to their context of reception, the writings give back to de Chirico an active role in his interaction with the avant-garde in the years of his rise to prominence. This essay considers the handwritten notes that de Chirico produced at the time of his first and closer contact with the Parisian avant-garde as a strategy of negotiation between the artist’s independent visual aesthetics and specifically modernist preoccupations, in particular the supposed “affinity” of modern and prehistoric art. This line of enquiry does not only explain why, in a few years, de Chirico was able to find a place for his classicizing works within the Parisian avant-garde; it also offers insight into the reasons why the Surrealists, despite their misappropriations, fell under the spell of de Chirico’s nostalgic imagery and credited him as the creator of that “modern mythology” that they wished to revive.7

A Classicist among Modern “Primitives”: de Chirico’s Introduction into the Parisian Avant-Garde De Chirico physically entered the modern art world in the fall of 1912, when he exhibited three of his canvases at that year’s Paris Salon 4

Rubin, De Chirico, 72. James Thrall Soby, Giorgio de Chirico (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 1955), 162. 5 Michael R. Taylor, “Between Modernism and Mythology: Giorgio de Chirico and the Ariadne Series,” in Giorgio de Chirico and the Myth of Ariadne, 16. Giorgio de Chirico. La fabrique des rêves, exh. cat., Musée d’art moderne de la Ville de Paris (Paris: Paris Musées, 2009). 6 As highlighted by Paolo Baldacci, “Le Classicisme chez Giorgio de Chirico. Théorie et méthode,” Cahiers du musée national d’art moderne Centre Georges Pompidou 11 (1983): 18-31. 7 André Breton, “Giorgio de Chirico” (1920), reprinted in André Breton, Les Pas perdus (Paris: Gallimard, 1969), 89-90.

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d’Automne.8 Birthplace to Fauvism, the Salon d’Automne was one of the founding institutions of the avant-garde.9 Together with the Salon des Indépendants, the event had been created earlier in the century to showcase, annually, independent artists. The declared intention of its organisers was to demonstrated that, as the art historian Elie Faure poignantly put it in his introductory presentation, “what is revolutionary today is classic by tomorrow”.10 In de Chirico’s case, however, the opposite seemed to be true, for the paintings that he exhibited in 1912 presented a markedly classical iconography, carried literary titles and did not manifest the influence of the latest pictorial trends (Figs 9-1, 2, 3). Italian by nationality, Greek by birth and German by education, the young de Chirico had been in Paris for little longer than a year prior to the Salon d’Automne of 1912. Forced by his frail health to refrain from painting during his first months in France, he exhibited works that he had painted earlier whilst in Italy.11 For this reason, de Chirico himself remained surprised that the Salon d’Automne committee accepted his paintings: From the reproductions I had seen, and from what was on display in the galleries of trendy dealers, I had immediately realized that what I was doing was absolutely different from what was in fashion in Paris at the time. Among others, that was a good reason why my paintings were likely to be rejected.12

Little is known of what de Chirico saw during his first year in Paris.13 Prior to the 1912 Automne he seems to have painted only a few canvases 8 Their titles are listed in the catalogue of the 1912 Salon d’Atomne (nos 368-70): L’Enigme de l’oracle (1910); L’Enigme d’un après-midi d’automne (1910); Portrait de l’artiste par lui même (1908). For the dates of the paintings, see the relative entries in Maurizio Fagiolo dell’Arco, L’opera completa di de Chirico, 1908-1924 (Milan: Rizzoli, 1984), nos 10, 14, 15. 9 André Salmon, “Les Fauves,” in André Salmon, La jeune peinture française (Paris: Societé, 1912), 15. 10 Elie Faure, “Avant-propos,” in Catalogue des œuvres [...] au Salon d’automne (Paris, 1904), 19. 11 Although the self-portrait is dated 1908 on its frame, James Thrall Soby discovered that the date was superimposed over an underlying 1911. Therefore, this canvas too had been painted by de Chirico in Italy: Soby, Giorgio de Chirico, 36. Gerd Roos, Giorgio de Chirico e Alberto Savinio. Ricordi e documenti: Monaco, Milano, Firenze (Bologna: Bora, 1999), 352-410. 12 Giorgio de Chirico, Memorie della mia vita (Rome: Astrolabio, 1945), 96. 13 Gerd Roos, “The Birth and First Steps of Metaphysical Art in Milan and Florence between 1908 and 1911,” in De Chirico, Max Ernst, Magritte, Balthus.

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based on drawings brought from Italy.14 During this period, he concentrated instead on writing poetry and theoretical notes. Begun before the artist’s move to Paris, some of these texts were later carefully rewritten and given titles, possibly showing the artist’s intention to publish them.15 They were later collected sporadically by the Surrealists and are now divided into three separate sets.16 Uno sguardo nell’invisibile, exh. cat. Florence, Palazzo Strozzi, eds. Paolo Baldacci and Gerd Roos (Florence: Mandragora 2010), 38-39. 14 Paolo Baldacci, De Chirico, 1888-1919. La Metafisica, (Milan: Rizzoli, 1997), 121-23. 15 A letter that de Chirico sent from Florence to his German friend, Fritz Gartz, shows that the notes comprised ideas that had already appeared in the painter’s visual and literary vocabulary as early as 1909-1910: Giorgio De Chirico, Letter to Fritz Gartz (Florence, January 1910), in Roos, Giorgio de Chirico e Alberto Savinio, 299. 16 Two groups of de Chirico’s Parisian manuscripts are known to scholars: the Manuscripts Eluard-Picasso and the Manuscripts Jean Paulhan. They present a number of theoretical texts of which some were left at the stage of notes, while others, like “Le Sentiment de la préhistoire”, were finished and dated. Paul and Gala Eluard visited de Chirico in Rome in 1923 and acquired paintings and drawings by the artist. It was probably at this time that Eluard also acquired some of the painter’s notes: Paolo Baldacci, Betraying the Muse. De Chirico and the Surrealists, exh. cat. (New York: Paolo Baldacci Gallery, 1994), 31 and 220. In 1937, Eluard gave the notes that he had assembled as a gift to Picasso: Hélène Seckel-Klein, Picasso collectionneur, exh. cat., Kunsthalle der HypoKulturstiftung, Munich (Paris: Réunion des musées nationaux, 1998), 97-110. This set of notes is now preserved in the archives of the Musée Picasso, Paris and are known as the Manuscripts Picasso-Eluard. For convenience, they will appear in the following footnotes as MP-E. For an analysis of the texts and drawings of the MPE, see Maurizio Fagiolo dell’Arco, “Giorgio de Chirico à Paris 1911-1914. Autres enquêtes sur la métaphysique et autres énigmes,” Cahiers du Musées national d’art moderne 13 (1984): 51-59; Marie-Laure Bernadac, “Le Carnet de Chirico au Musée Picasso,” Cahiers du Musées national d’art moderne 13 (1984): 44-73. The MP-E and the Manuscripts Jean Paulhan (thereafter MJP) were first published in English translation by James Thrall Soby, Giorgio De Chirico, 244-54. A selection of the notes in the original French appeared in Jean Clair, ed., De Chirico, exh. cat., Musée national d’art moderne (Paris: Centre Georges Pompidou, 1983), 247-55. Another portion of the writings owned by André Breton remains inaccessible to this day: Maurizio Fagiolo dell’Arco, “Note ai testi,” in Giorgio de Chirico, Il meccanismo del pensiero. Critica, polemica, autobiografia, ed. Maurizio Fagiolo dell’Arco (Turin: G. Einaudi, 1985), 437. More recently, Giovanni Lista has selected the theoretical notes produced in Paris between the autumn of 1911 and the early months of 1913 and has ordered the theoretical notes according to their

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Together with the paintings of the period 1910-1918, the notes form de Chirico’s distinctive aesthetic, called Metaphysics. However, the notes should also be thought as an important document of de Chirico’s developing relationship with the Parisian avant-garde and of his efforts to translate his original but seemingly old-fashioned pictorial vocabulary into the language of modern art. As the artist admitted, during the months when he began to draft them, he was spending time learning about Paris’s modern art scene, visiting “trendy” galleries and reading avant-garde magazines. Therefore, his later claim that, when he decided to exhibit at the Salon d’Automne, he had no idea of “what was in fashion in Paris at the time” should be regarded with suspicion.17 Arrived in Paris in July 1911, the young de Chirico was part of the city’s expatriate community of cosmopolitan artists and intellectuals.18 He and his brother Andrea (later known as Alberto Savinio) moved in the same circle as the composer Michel Dimitri Calvocoressi and the Ballets Russes impresario Serge Diaghilev, both of whom were interested in modern painting and had ties with the Salon d’Automne.19 De Chirico likely visited the Salon d’Automne of 1911 and the Indépendants of 1912 and certainly knew of Cubism, the new movement that began to attract the interest of the press precisely between the Automne of 1911 and the 1912 Indépendants.20 In fact, his worries concerning the actuality of his style were more than realistic; only a month after he succeeded in being accepted in the Salon, Albert Gleizes and Jean Metzinger publicly claimed: “Right now Cubism is synonymous with painting”.21

internal logic: Giorgio de Chirico, L’Art métaphysique, ed. Giovanni Lista (Paris: L’Echoppe, 1994). 17 See note 12 above. 18 Baldacci, De Chirico, 113-14. 19 The Salon d’Automne was the event that prompted Diaghilev’s first artistic activity in Paris, when he organised a selection of Russian paintings for the exhibition’s second edition. De Chirico was indirectly helped by Calvocoressi to gain admittance to the annual exhibition via the painter Pierre Laprade, one of the members of the jury: De Chirico, Memorie, 97. 20 David Cottington, Cubism in the Shadow of the War. The Avant-Garde and Politics in Paris, 1905-1914, (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 1998), 41-2 and 169-79; Christopher Green, Art in France, 1900-1940 (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 2000), 20-22. It was on the occasion of the 1912 Salon d’Automne that Albert Gleizes and Jean Metzinger published Du Cubisme, considered to be the manifesto of Cubism: Cottington, Cubism in the Shadow of the War, 144 and note 1, 224. 21 Albert Gleizes and Jean Metzinger, Du Cubisme (Paris: Figuière, 1912), 10.

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Pablo Picasso, one of the first avant-garde artists whom de Chirico later reported to have met, never participated in the activities of the socalled Salon Cubists. However, members of the movement and art critics recognised him as an inspiration. At the Indépendants of 1912, for instance, Juan Gris exhibited a portrait of his friend entitled Homage to Picasso. In the specialised press, in particular, Picasso was hailed as the hero of Cubism by his poet friends, the avant-garde critics André Salmon and Guillaume Apollinaire. In 1912, Salmon published Young French Painting. The core essay of the book was built as an “anecdotal history of Cubism” that emphasised Picasso’s role in the birth of the movement.22 In the 1920s, in polemic with the Surrealists, de Chirico claimed to have been discovered by Picasso and Apollinaire at the 1913 Indépendants.23 This would not have been possible, as Picasso did not visit the Salon that year.24 In fact, the first member of the avant-garde whom de Chirico met, and doubtless on his own initiative, as he would admit in the memoirs written in Italian after the war, was Apollinaire.25 Throughout 1912, Apollinaire, who had been championing Picasso since the painter’s beginnings in Paris in 1905, published a series of articles on Cubism in the newly launched avant-garde journal, Les Soirées de Paris, the journal that he directed and to which de Chirico would subscribe in November 1913.26 In the first issue of his journal, Apollinaire celebrated Picasso as the most lucid living painter.27 In the third, published in April 1912, the poet spoke of Nietzsche, Ariadne and “metaphysical forms”.28 It is at this point, prior to the Salon d’Automne of 1912, that de

22

André Salmon, “Histoire anédoctique du cubisme”, in André Salmon, La Jeune peinture française, 41-61. 23 Angelo Bardi (alias Giorgio de Chirico), “La vie de Giorgio de Chirico,” Sélection 8 (December 1929), 23. 24 John Richardson, A Life of Picasso, vol. 2, 1907-1917. The Painter of Modern Life (London: Jonathan Cape, 1997), 276-78. 25 De Chirico, Memorie, 98. 26 From the subscription record book of the Soirées de Paris (Bibliothèque nationale de France), we know that de Chirico subscribed to the journal in November 1913. 27 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Du Sujet dans la peinture moderne,” Les Soirées de Paris 1 (February 1912): 4: “Picasso studies an object like a surgeon dissects a corpse”. 28 Guillaume Apollinaire, “La Peinture nouvelle – Notes d’art,” Les Soirées de Paris 3 (April 1912): 89-91.

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Chirico and Apollinaire’s imageries start to converge.29 From the correspondence of de Chirico with Apollinaire and from the earliest review of the painter that the poet authored after de Chirico’s personal show in his studio in October 1913, it appears that the two only met a year after de Chirico’s first exhibition in Paris.30 It is, however, more probable that de Chirico’s personal encounter with Apollinaire happened in Spring 1913. At this point de Chirico began to rewrite some of his handwritten notes, probably with the aim of showing them to Apollinaire and members of the avant-garde, and perhaps for publication in Les Soirées de Paris. He entitled part of his notes “Meditations of a Painter – What Future Art Could Be Like”, clearly emulating, as it has been noted, the subheading of Apollinaire’s Cubist Painters – Aesthetic Meditations.31 Apollinaire’s book was published in March 1913. The poet too seems to have been influenced by de Chirico prior to the publication of his book: the painter had already used the title Meditation for the few paintings he had produced during his first winter in Paris.32 Furthermore, in reprinting an article that had first appeared in Les Soirées de Paris, Apollinaire eliminated his initial judgment on the Gothic rather than Latin character of Cubism. This was possibly due to his knowledge of de Chirico’s counter view that Cubism was in fact not Gothic but Romanic.33 De Chirico’s polemic with Apollinaire can be found in another passage of the painter’s Parisian notes entitled “Second Part – The Sense of Prehistory”, which de Chirico rewrote with the addition of an introduction

29

On the circular influence between the two de Chirico brothers and Apollinaire between 1912-13 and 1914: Willard Bohn, “Apollinaire and de Chirico: The Making of the Mannequins,” Comparative Literature 27, 2 (Spring, 1975): 153-65. Willard Bohn, Apollinaire and the Faceless Man. The Creation and Evolution of a Modern Motif (London and Toronto: Associated University Presses, 1991), 10031. 30 Guillaume Apollinaire, L’Intransigeant, October 30, 1913. Guillaume Apollinaire, Correspondance avec les artistes 1903-1918, eds. Laurence Campa and Peter Read (Paris: Gallimard, 2009). 31 Giorgio de Chirico, “Méditations d’un peintre. Que pourrait être la peinture de l’avenir,” (MJP) in de Chirico, Il meccanismo del pensiero, 31-33. 32 The Morning Meditation and The Autumn Meditation. Baldacci, De Chirico, 1117. 33 This was first noted by Lista in de Chirico, L’Art métaphysique, 23. See also Baldacci, De Chirico, 151 and 163.

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on June 15, 1913 in order “to make myself forgiven by the most profound souls and in order to make them perhaps understand what I want”.34 Regardless of the actual date of their first meeting, the emergence of the Nietzsche-inspired Ariadne theme in the work of both Apollinaire and de Chirico in Spring 1912, prior to the painter’s first Paris exhibition that same year, suggests that de Chirico began to read and be influenced by Apollinaire’s writings well before their actual encounter. It is likely that, as he recounted in his memoirs, de Chirico tried to meet Apollinaire after his exhibition at the 1912 Salon d’Automne, when his ambition led him to seek the protection of avant-garde artists and intellectuals. De Chirico was certainly aware of Apollinaire and Picasso’s roles within the Parisian avant-garde at the time of the 1912 Automne Salon. Two months after his arrival in Paris, Apollinaire was arrested for the theft of some Iberian sculptures from the Louvre, the so-called “affair of the statuettes”, in which both him and Picasso were involved.35 The connection between the mischief and the disappearance of the Mona Lisa in July 1911 had caused national scandal and Apollinaire was to spend much of his remaining existence trying to redeem his reputation.36 In the early months of 1913, eager to gain the approval of Apollinaire and of his muse Picasso, de Chirico took up a studio in Montparnasse, meters away from Picasso’s home and close to Apollinaire’s flat on Boulevard Saint Germain, suggesting the artist’s eagerness to be part of the cosmopolitan group of artists revolving around the Spanish painter and the Polish poetry.37 The success of de Chirico’s classicising work among the Parisian avant-garde should then be rethought as the result of a strategy of promotion directed towards a Cubist-oriented avant-garde, rather than, 34

Giorgio de Chirico, “Deuxième partie – Le Sentiment de la préhistoire,” MP-E, Musée Picasso Archives, 3590-98, fol. 21. 35 Paris-Journal, Le Matin, L’Intransigeant, September 10-13, 1911. Silvia Loreti, “The Affair of the Statuettes Re-Examined: Picasso and Apollinaire’s Role in the Theft of the Louvre Iberian Heads,” in Art & Crime. Exploring The Dark Side of the Art World, ed. Noah Charney (Santa Barbara, Calif.: Praeger, 2009), 52-64. 36 Peter Read, Picasso et Apollinaire. Les métamorphoses de la mémoire 19051973 (Paris: Jean-Michel Place, 1995), 71. 37 De Chirico, who lived in the VIII arrondisement, took up a studio in Montparnasse in 1913, first in Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, where the Cubist dealer Wilhelm Udhe had his gallery. Then, after his first solo exhibition in Rue Campagne-Première in October 1913, Picasso moved from 242 Boulevard Raspail, just opposite Rue Campagne-Première, to 5 bis Rue Scholcher, a street at right angles to Boulevard Raspail, in August 1913. The headquarters of the journal Les Soirées de Paris were also on Boulevard Raspail at number 278. Apollinaire moved into a flat at 202 Boulevard Saint-Germain in January 1913.

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as the artist himself always insisted, of the unexpected curiosity that his paintings provoked among a modern art audience otherwise hostile to classical subjects and literary titles.38 The notes that de Chirico began to draft in 1911 and re-elaborated just prior to his first meeting with Apollinaire are part of this strategy, which consisted in adjusting the meaning of an original style mixing Mediterranean classicism and its German re-elaboration to the concerns of new interlocutors.39 Besides championing Picasso and Cubism, Apollinaire and Salmon were strong defendants of non-Western art. Apollinaire, in particular, relentlessly defended its aesthetic status in a series of articles published in major journals since 1909.40 Only a few weeks before the opening of the 1912 Salon d’Automne, the poet wrote an extensive article on the aesthetic value of certain African and Oceanic objects.41 Arguing for their right to be appreciated as works of art in their own right, Apollinaire, in defiance of his recent legal misadventure, called for the creation of a museum similar yet alternative to the Louvre and entirely dedicated to non-Western art. Both Apollinaire and Salmon assimilated the importance of nonWestern artefacts to that of avant-garde painting by reason of their shared concern for expressive forms. In Young French Painting, Salmon celebrated Picasso’s Demoiselles d’Avignon –which was only known to a few in 1912 – for “presenting the world as an appearance alternative to how we learnt to see it”.42 Salmon related Picasso’s painting to Nietzsche’s idea, derived from Schopenhauer, that reality is itself a form of representation and called Les Demoiselles d’Avignon a “philosophical brothel” in which the female characters are “masks almost entirely delivered of all humanity … naked problems, white marks of a black canvas”.43

38 See, for instance, Guillaume Apollinaire, “Du sujet dans la Peinture moderne,” Les Soirées de Paris 1 (1912), 1-4; republished in Apollinaire, Les Peintres cubistes-Méditations esthétiques (Paris: Figuière, 1913). 39 Baldacci, “Le Classicisme chez Giorgio de Chirico,” 18-31. Roos, Giorgio de Chirico e Alberto Savinio, 352-410. 40 Francine Ndiaye, “Guillaume Apollinaire, Paul Guillaume et l’art ‘nègre’: defense et illustration,” in Apollinaire critique d’art, exh. cat., Paris, Pavillion des Arts (Paris: Gallimard, 1993), 228. 41 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Exoticisme et ethnographie,” Paris-Journal, September 12, 1912. 42 Salmon, La jeune peinture française, 43. 43 Ibid., 44-45.

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The Enigma paintings that de Chirico presented at the Salon d’Automne of 1912, featuring headless ancient statues derived from the paintings of Arnold Böcklin and resonating with the riddle-driven philosophy of Nietzsche, shared similar concerns, unmasking the uncanny effects of the modern nostalgia for the supposed familiarity of the classics. De Chirico promptly stressed this element in a passage of his notes in which he spoke of what he would later call “the solitude of the signs” – the gap between the physical appearance of things and their spectral, or Metaphysical aspect.44 In the Parisian notes, he spoke, in proper modernist fashion, against art based on sensation and in favour of the “revelation” of truth in painting through composition: A painting reveals itself to us without us seeing or even thinking anything. It is also possible that it is revealed to us by the view of something, but in this case the painting will not be a faithful reproduction of the thing that determined this revelation. It will only resemble it vaguely […] as something immobile in which there was never any hazard.45

In “Second Part-The Sense of Prehistory”, de Chirico invoked what he called the “eternal foundations” of painting. Describing the Enigma of the Oracle, he said: Like the man who passes from the light of the day into the shade of a temple and, at first, is not able to see the whitening statue [of the god] but then, little by little, its form is revealed to him always more pure; thus, is the sense of the primitive artist born again within me. The first [artist] who carved a god; the first who wanted to create a god. Then I wonder whether the idea to imagine a god who resembles humanity, as the Greeks did in art, may not be an eternal way to discover continuously fresh sources of new sensations.46

This passage shows how the present-tense logic behind de Chirico’s approach to classical antiquity – derived from his Greek childhood and Nietzsche’s vision of the ancient past as a working method – could easily be transferred to the classical equivalent of modernist primitivism. This is 44

Giorgio de Chirico, “Sull’arte metafisica,” Valori Plastici 4-5 (1919): 15. For an interpretation of “the solitude of the signs” in terms of Saussurian linguistics: Willard Bohn, “Giorgio de Chirico and the Solitude of the Sign,” Gazette des beaux-arts 117 (April 1991): 170-87. 45 Giorgio de Chirico, “Impressionisme et sensationisme,” ME-P, Musée Picasso Archives, 3590-97. 46 De Chirico, “Le Sentiment de la préhistoire,” fol. 22.

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what de Chirico set out to do by writing “The Sense of Prehistory” and by choosing the themes of Ariadne first and the mannequin later as the trademark characters of his avant-garde experience. Cleverly constructed, rather than impulsively generated, de Chirico’s theoretical and pictorial themes that deal with the “primitive” side of classicism were nonetheless deeply felt by the artist. Rooted as they were in the painter’s formative experience in Greece, they owe their initial inspiration to de Chirico’s contact with the archaeology of Greek prehistory and Nietzsche’s writings on the persistent relevance of ancient Greece for modern culture.

De Chirico’s Formative Years and the Prehistory of Classicism De Chirico was the Greek-born child of Italian parents whose families had lived in the eastern Mediterranean for generations.47 His father, Evaristo, had arrived in Greece at an unknown date to build part of the first Greek railroad. He based his firm in Volos, Thessaly, where Giorgio was born in 1888. Eleven years later the family moved to Athens, following the start of Crete’s independence war (1897) and the increasing hostilities between Greece and the Ottoman Empire over Macedonia. In the capital of the new kingdom ruled by a Bavarian household, Giorgio and his brother received the best available cosmopolitan education. To prepare his exam entry to the Athens Academy Fine Arts (the Politechneion), Giorgio took private drawing lessons from Emile Gilliéron (1850-1924),48 the much sought-after Swiss drawing master to the Greek Royal Family. He is now better remembered for his work as illustrator of archaeological discoveries at a time when the discipline was acquiring increasing prominence and photography was still unsuitable to convey close-up details. In his memoirs, de Chirico remembered Gilliéron’s double role as drawing master and illustrator of archaeological finds, noting that his teacher “specialized in painting the Acropolis and the ruins of ancient temples and monuments”.49 Precisely at the time when Gilliéron was teaching de Chirico, the Swiss master indeed illustrated an 47

Baldacci, De Chirico, 10-11. De Chirico, Memorie, 47; Giovanna dalla Chiesa, “Verso i luoghi della formazione. Atene: scenario dell’anima – Monaco: strumento della Bildung,” in De Chirico nel centenario della nascita, ex. cat., Venice, Museo Correr (Milan: Mondadori, 1988), 56. 49 De Chirico, Memorie, 47. 48

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archaeological report on the latest excavations on the Acropolis.50 His colourful watercolours of the archaic Acropolis showed the vivid preclassical foundations of a site that had come to be considered the very symbol of Classical Greece and of classical civilisation as a whole (Fig. 94).51 Gilliéron’s relevance in history is due, in particular, to his and his son’s, Emile (1885-1939), work as restorers (and sometimes forgers) of the early archaeology of the Greek Bronze Age (3000–1050 B.C.).52 The Gilliérons had worked with the legendary merchant-turned-archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann (1822-1890) and Christos Tsountas as illustrators of the treasures excavated at Mycenae and Vaphio (Fig. 9-5). Father and son ran a profitable business in the fashionable district of Kolonaki, where they made electrum reproductions of metal finds that were then sold to major archaeological museums across Europe and America.53 It was in this shop that de Chirico took his drawing lessons. During his apprenticeship with Gilliéron senior, the draftsman was busy assisting the British archaeologist Arthur Evans (1851-1941) on the reconstructions of the frescoes found in the mythical palace of Knossos in Crete, which Gilliéron often liberally recreated from a few fragments. Through Gilliéron, de Chirico acquired first hand knowledge of the Minoan world, which was to have a lasting impact on his future imagery. In Paris, under the influence of both Nietzsche and Apollinaire, de Chirico revived the figure of the mythical Cretan princess Ariadne in a series of paintings, the so-called Meditations (1912-1913), which succeeded his Italian-imported Enigmas. From the Meditations, with their backgrounds 50 Theodor Wiegand, Die archaische Poros – Architektur der Acropolis zu Athens (Cassel & Leipzig: Fisher & Co., 1904); Matthew Gale, “The Enigma of Fatality: the Work of Giorgio de Chirico, 1909-1924”, (PhD diss., Courtauld Institute of Art, University of London, 1992), 35 and note 62, 348. 51 For the impact of the nineteenth-century excavations of the Acropolis on the imagery of the Parthenon: Mary Beard, The Parthenon (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), 83-116. 52 John K. Papadopoulos, “Inventing the Minoans: Archaeology, Modernity and the Quest for European Identity,” Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 18, 1 (June 2005): 99; Cathy Gere, Knossos and the Prophets of Modernism (Chicago & London: The University of Chicago Press, 2009), 111-12, 121-22; Séan Hemingway, “Historic Images of the Greek Bronze Age,” Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, May 2011, posted May 17, 2011, http://www.metmuseum.org/about-the-museum/now-at-the-met/Features/2011/ Historic-Images-of-the-Greek-Bronze-Age. 53 In 1906, the year when the Metropolitan Museum in New York first acquired some of these artefacts, the Gilliérons published a catalogue of their copies.

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of tholos-like towers, to the following series of the mannequins (19141915), the central motifs of de Chirico’s work in the years of his closest contact with the international avant-garde can at least in part be linked to the discoveries of Schliemann and Evans. Interestingly, however, many of the visual sources of de Chirico’s early Metaphysical vocabulary are to be found in the post-, rather than preclassical tradition.54 This can be explained in that conflation of past and present that underlines Nietzsche’s vision of time, as well as in the subjectivism of modernist approaches to the past and the foreign that characterise the liberal methods of Minoan archaeology as embodied by Gilliéron. De Chirico remembered that his lessons with Gilliéron consisted in copying “a lot of prints”.55 We do not know if these prints were those through which Gilliéron’s reconstructions of archaeological finds were reproduced as illustrations to recent excavations. However, de Chirico’s later creation of unified scenes out of a multitude of images belonging to various moments of the classical tradition acquires new meaning in relation to his master’s practice of liberally restoring archaeological fragments in order to create consistent images of the pre-classical past. This practice led to the re-enchantment of the historical aspects of ancient myth on the part of many modernists artists – in countertendency to the more rationalist approach of anthropologists – and explains de Chirico’s highly selection of specific segments of the classical tradition in order to construct a mythology of the self. De Chirico’s approach to myth underlines the modernist logic of “affinity” between the modern and the “primitive” as well as the prehistoric, in which the past and foreign are accommodated to the expectations of the “here” and “now”. The idea of “prophecy” that de Chirico evoked in “The Sense of Prehistory” and that returns in his pictorial practice through the figures of the oracle and the soothsayer has been recently analysed by Cathy Gere as typical of modernism’s projective impulse. She has shown how Schliemann, Nietzsche and Evans approached the foundations of Western civilisation in terms of personal 54

For the derivation of de Chirico’s Ariadnes from Roman copies of Hellenistic “originals”, and their later reproductions: Taylor, Giorgio de Chirico and the Myth of Ariadne, 22-24 and 69-70. Possible models for de Chirico’s towers have been detected in various Italian monuments from the Roman tomb of Caecilia Metella, to the Risorgimento Antonelli Tower in Turin: Joseph C. Sloane, “Giorgio de Chirico and Italy,” Art Quarterly 21 (1958): 10; Baldacci, De Chirico, 75, 124, 170. 55 De Chirico, Memorie, 47.

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desires and collective fantasies.56 In particular, she has highlighted that Schliemann should be considered the father of a prophetic approach to the archaeology of the Greek Bronze Age, since he was not only the first to give historical reality to myth, but also mystified his own public persona by re-enacting the mythical dimension of the Homeric poems within his life. In an immensely popular autobiography, the archaeologist advertised his discovery of the site of Troy as the fulfilment of a childhood call. The iconic photograph of his Greek wife Sophia wearing jewels from the Treasure of Troy in the guise of a modern Helen served as a document to the truth of his claim (Fig. 9-6). Like Schliemann, de Chirico transfigured his own life through myth.57 This process of “automythography”, increasingly present in the artist’s writings from 1919 (probably in conjunction with his growing knowledge of psychoanalysis),58 is already evident in early works such as The Departure of the Argonauts, 1909, which relates the de Chirico brothers’ birth in Thessaly and their peripatetic youth to the myth of the Golden Fleece.59 In his self-introduction in the Parisian notes de Chirico presented himself and his work in the Romantic terms of predestination, fatality and isolation that characterise Schliemann’s as well as Nietzsche’s memoirs.60 It is likely that de Chirico read Schliemann’s autobiography during his apprenticeship with Gilliéron. The archaeologist should be considered as a primary early influence on the artist, prior to his encounter with the painting of Arnold Böcklin in Munich in 1906 and his reading of Nietzsche in Italy in 1909. Schliemann had been dead for almost ten years 56

Gere, Knossos and the Prophets of Modernism. On de Chirico’s “construction of a myth of the self”: Fagiolo, “De Chirico in Paris,” 11-34; Christopher Green, “Classicisms of Transcience and of Transcendence. Maillol, Picasso and de Chirico,” in On Classic Ground, ed. Elizabeth Cowling and Jennifer Mundy (London: Tate Gallery, 1990), 277-78. 58 On “Metafisica” and psychoanalysis, see Jean Clair, “L’Inquiétante étrangeté,” in Jean Clair, Les Réalismes, 1919-1939, exh. cat., Musée nationale d’art moderne Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris and Staatliche Kunsthalle Berlin (Paris: Centre Georges Pompidou, 1981), 26-35. On de Chirico’s knowledge of Freud, Gale, “The Enigma of Fatality,” Appendix F, 444-49. 59 For de Chirico’s and Savinio’s association with the Argonautes, see Bardi, ”La vie de Giorgio de Chirico,” 20; Paolo Baldacci, “‘Zu zwei hatten wir einen einzigen Gedanken’. Die Concordia Discors der Dioskuren,” in Der kühle Blick: Realismus der Zwanzigerjahre in Europa und Amerika, ed. Wieland Schmied (Munich & New York: Prestel, 2001), 45-49. 60 Cf. the MJP with Schliemann’s and Nietzsche’s presentations of their “mission”. For an in-depth analysis of the latter, see Gere, Knossos and the Prophets of Modernism, 28-29. 57

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by the time the de Chiricos moved to Athens. However, Giorgio’s education in the city took place within a context that celebrated the amateur Germanborn archaeologist as a Greek hero; his endeavours in favour of the new Kingdom (as opposed to the Ottoman Empire), together with his immense wealth and his international fame ensured Schliemann immense popularity in both Greece and Germany, outside as much as within academic circles.61 It is no coincidence that de Chirico later remembered him as the man who “listened to the song of prehistoric Greece as no one before”.62 In early 1900s Athens, the visual memory of Schliemann’s mythic enterprise was kept alive by a number of monuments, and he became “almost as much of a tourist attraction … as the Parthenon itself”.63 Many of Athens’s newest and most grandiose monuments had a link with Schliemann and they informed de Chirico’s early visual vocabulary. In an early autobiography published in French under a pseudonym, de Chirico wrote of himself in Athens: “He entered little by little the domain of culture and, at the same time, the landscape of Athens (this wonderful city) strongly contributed to bend his spirit towards that romantic, enigmatic and dark side that was the real living force of Greek classicism”.64 The Fine Art Academy (the Politechneion) where Giorgio was to study had been the first institutional home of Schliemann’s collection of Mycenaean finds, before they were transferred to the nearby National Archaeological Museum.65 The rest of the collection remained at the archaeologist’s private residence, a grand neoclassical palace paradoxically named “Iliou Melatron” (“Little Cottage of Troy”) that had been designed by the trendy architect Ernst Ziller as an eclectic mix of ancient and 61 A large number of newspaper clippings related to the archaeologist’s activity between 1873 and 1890 were collected by Schliemann himself during his lifetime and are now kept in the Gennadius Library, American School of Athens, Heinrich Schliemann and Family Papers, boxes H 1,2,3,4. I am grateful to Ms. Maria Voltera for granting me access to the archives and for her kind assistance during my research. See also, Henri Duchene, The Golden Treasures of Troy. The Dream of Heinrich Schliemann (London: New Horizons, 1996), 66-92. 62 Giorgio de Chirico, “Gustave Courbet” (1924), in de Chirico, Il meccanismo del pensiero, 247. 63 David Traill, Schliemann of Troy. Treasure and Deceit (London: St. Martin’s Press, 1997), 216. 64 Bardi, “Le vie de Giorgio de Chirico,” 21. 65 While Schliemann bequeathed his Trojan finds to the Berlin Museum of Prehistory (where they were looted by the Soviets at the end of World War II), his Mycenaean finds entered the newly built National Archaeological Museum of Athens as the bequest of his wife Sophia: Gennadius Library, Heinrich Schliemann and Family Papers, box I 1.

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Renaissance elements. Schliemann’s self-designed neoclassical tomb was a much-imitated monument in Athens First Cemetery (Fig. 9-7). The composition of The Enigma of the Oracle reproduces the neoclassical model of Schliemann’s temple tomb, while referring to the Greek prehistory unearthed by the archaeologist via the reference to the oracle and the ancient-clad headless statue of Ulysses, the forerunner of all pioneers.66 De Chirico emphasised the prehistoric element of the painting when he explained it to the circle of Apollinaire in “The Sense of Prehistory”: In a ruined temple the crippled statue of a God spoke a mysterious language […]. Thinking of the temples dedicated to the sea gods, built along the sacred coasts of Greece and Asia Minor, I have often imagined soothsayers tending to the voice of the waves receding from that ancient land. I have thought of them head and body wrapped in a chlamys, waiting for the mysterious revealing oracle.67

The eclecticism to be found in de Chirico’s Metaphysical canvases – in which modern, classical and prehistoric references mix together with no geographical specificity – has its origins, arguably, in early twentiethcentury Athens, before it underwent further influences in Munich, Florence, Rome or Paris.68 Both the prehistoric and the modern – as well as the “primitive” and the “classical” – were present in the fasttransforming Greece where de Chirico grew up. It is telling, in this respect, that the poem with which de Chirico celebrated his 1911 arrival in Paris via Turin – the “Song of the Railway Station” – can equally refer to the tiny and yellow railway station built by his father in Volos, as to the toylike Gare de Lyon.69 66 For the derivation of de Chirico’s headless statues from Arnold Böcklin’s Ulysses and Calypso (1883): Giorgio de Chirico, ME-P, in de Chirico, Il meccanismo del pensiero, 17. 67 Ibid., 21 and 22. 68 Wieland Schmied tried to overcome this contradiction by insisting on the Bavarian character of de Chirico’s scenes, both on the grounds of the painter’s aesthetic and philosophical formation in Historicist Munich (1906-1908), and on those of the city’s neoclassical renovation under the Wittelsbachs: Wieland Schmid, “Geografisches Schicksal? De Chirico und die geistige Heimat der metaphysischer Kunst,” in Schmied, Der kühle Blick, 81-93. For the influence of the urban landscapes of Florence and Rome on the development of the Metaphysical imagery: Baldacci, De Chirico, 74-76. 69 Giorgio de Chirico, “Le Chant de la gare” (MJP, 1912), in de Chirico, Il meccanismo del pensiero, 33.

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Through his writings, de Chirico managed to negotiate the modernist classicism of his visual vocabulary, informed by his upbringing in Schliemann’s Greece and the modernist primitivism of the Parisian avantgarde, through an emphasis on their shared urge to discover and reconstruct unity beyond the fragmentary nature of memory. That in his Parisian notes he referred persistently to both Greek prehistory and Nietzsche shows that de Chirico never betrayed his own personal vision. Rather, he cleverly reframed it to make it compatible with the interests and concerns of the Parisian avant-garde.

“The Sense of Prehistory”: De Chirico in Paris and the Primitivisation of Classicism It was under the influence of Nietzsche first and of the primitivist milieu of the Parisian avant-garde that de Chirico recast his visual references to post-Schliemann Greece. As with Salmon’s views on Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, intellectuals in Paris had found in Nietzsche a positive answer to a broader critique of Positivism. De Chirico himself had begun to read Nietzsche in Italy in 1909, the year following the posthumous publication of Ecce Homo, Nietzsche’s intellectual autobiography.70 Reading Nietzsche allowed de Chirico to re-elaborate his early visual influences under the rubrics of the “enigma” and “revelation” that characterise the philosopher’s thought. De Chirico also most certainly read The Birth of Tragedy (1872-1886), whose ultimate edition presented the iconic photograph of Nietzsche on which de Chirico based his own 1911 self-portrait.71 The following passage from the Parisian notes bears witness 70

On the basis of de Chirico’s letters to a friend in Munich, we know that it was in 1909 that he began to read Nietzsche, and it is likely that his readings were prompted, precisely, by the publication of Ecce Homo: Baldacci, De Chirico, n. 26, 84. Gerd Roos has established a chronology of the works of Nietzsche read by the young de Chirico on the basis of his pictorial themes, confirming that, before moving to Paris, he had read Nietzsche’s Ecce Homo, Human All Too Human, Daybreak and Thus Spoke Zarathustra in French translation prior to his move to Paris: Roos, Giorgio de Chirico and Alberto Savinio, 283-91, 316-20. 71 Baldacci, De Chirico, note 26, 84; Soby, Giorgio de Chirico, 27-28. The photographic portrait of Nietzsche by Gustav Schulze (1882) had been made famous by a series of lithographs by Karl Bauer (1902) who lived in Munich. Note that, in the lithographs, the portrait is orientated left. The photograph illustrated the 1886 German edition of The Birth of Tragedy: Friedrich Nietzsche, Die Geburt der Tragödie oder Griechentum und Pessimismus, mit der Vorrede ‘Versuch einer Selbstkritik’ (Leipzig, 1886).

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to de Chirico’s knowledge and understanding of Nietzsche’s book on Greek art: “[To think] of all Greeks as full of optimism for life has always been the big mistake of thinkers and scholars”.72 Following his reading of Nietzsche, the painter became interested in comparative anthropology.73 On the back of the concert programme that de Chirico sent to a friend in Munich in the first part of 1911, while he was still in Florence, the artist jotted down a series of names, probably as a reminder of “things to read”.74 Surrounding the name of the French philologist Salomon Reinach, we find those of other nineteenth-century intellectuals under the title “Comparative Mythology”.75 The centrality of Salomon’s name among those on de Chirico’s list can be explained by the fact that his recently published 1909 Orpheus – soon to become an international bestseller – revolutionised the study of ancient Mediterranean religions by proposing that their shared traits derived from “spontaneous similitudes” across unrelated cultures. The principle of “spontaneous similitudes” characterised not only Salomon’s thought, but the vast majority of early 1900s French scholarly attitudes towards the relationship between ancient Greece and neighbouring civilisations. The principle is easily detectable in de Chirico’s eclectic imagery from its inception, for example in the mixing of classical, Symbolist and Renaissance references in a painting like The Enigma of an Autumn Afternoon. In Paris, de Chirico reinforced this approach through the figure of Ariadne. Familiar with the character through Evans’s excavations, Nietzsche’s late writings, Apollinaire’s art theory and perhaps even his poetry, de Chirico had physically encountered Ariadne through her many statuesque appearances in Rome and Paris. One of these was a Hellenistic marble in the Vatican Museums.76 The marble was believed, until the 72

De Chirico, Il meccanismo del pensiero, 11. For the anthropological import of Nietzsche’s philosophy: Christian Emden, Nietzsche on Language, Consciousness and the Body (Urbana & Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2005). 74 Roos, Giorgio de Chirico e Alberto Savinio, 372. 75 Baldacci, De Chirico, 89-90. 76 Primaticcio’s bronze copy of the Vatican Ariadne was commissioned by Francis I for his castle at Fontainebleau. The latter was moved to the Tuileries Palace at the end of the French Revolution. Between 1870 and 1877 it was placed in the Galerie Denon inside the Louvre. In 1912, it was placed at the entrance of the Galerie Mollien – then used to display plaster casts of the Parthenon – following a refurbishment of the department of Graeco-Roman antiquities: Claudia Marie Wolf, Die schlafende Ariadne im Vatikan. Eine hellenistischer Statuentypus und seine Rezeption (Hamburg: Verlag Dr Kovac, 2002), 278. Another inspiration to de Chirico could have been the marble copy of the Fontainebleau bronze in the 73

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eighteenth century, to represent the dying Cleopatra, and was referred to as the Egyptian queen until the end of the nineteenth.77 A photograph from this period shows the niche where it still lies in the Pio-Clementine Museum decorated as the banks of the Nile (Fig. 9-8). The century-old identification of Ariadne with Cleopatra, as well as the display of Minoan artefacts within the Departement des antiquités orientales of the Louvre, reinforced the idea of the “spontaneous similitudes” across the prehistoric populations of the eastern Mediterranean. In one of the Meditation paintings, de Chirico conflated references to Africa (the palm trees), memories of his Greek childhood (the train), Nietzsche’s “Roman arch” and the front of a modern city’s station (Fig. 9-9). Tellingly, the painting is entitled The Soothsayer’s Recompense (1913), a direct reference to Nietzsche’s “soothsayer god(s)”, Dionysus/Apollo/ Zarathustra, and the theme of the prophecy that connects to both modernist classicism and modernist primitivism.78 De Chirico’s pictorial move from the figures of the oracle and Ariadne to that of the mannequin further reveals his absorption of this logic in understanding Africa as culturally contiguous to pre-Hellenic Greece. De Chirico began to elaborate the figure of the mannequin in 1914 under the influence of his brother and Apollinaire’s music and poetry. The mannequins owe much also to de Chirico’s exposure to the African art collections of Apollinaire and the dealer Paul Guillaume, as well as to ideas circulating within the primitivist Parisian avant-garde.79 Characterised gardens at Versailles, which de Chirico visited in 1911: Taylor, Giorgio de Chirico and the Myth of Ariadne, 6. It is possible that de Chirico had seen the Vatican Ariadne during his visit to Rome in 1909. 77 Francis Haskell and Nicholas Penny, Taste and the Antique. The Lure of Classical Sculpture, 1500-1900 (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 1981), 184-87; Carlo Pietrangeli, The Vatican Museums: Five Century of History (Rome: Quasar, 1993), 202-03. 78 Nietzsche applied this adjective to Apollo in The Birth of Tragedy: Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy Out of the Spirit of Music (1878), trans. Shaun Whiteside (London: Penguin, 1993), 16. Later, Nietzsche repeatedly referred to Zarathustra as both Dionysus and the “soothsaying god”: Friedrich Nietzsche, “Thus Spoke Zarathustra. A Book for All and None (1883-1885),” in The Portable Nietzsche, ed. and trans. Walter Kaufmann (London: Penguin, 1976). A similar passage was inserted at the end of the 1886 introduction to The Birth of Tragedy. 79 For the influence of African sculpture according to the logic of “modernist primitivism” on de Chirico’s mannequins: Silvia Loreti, “The ‘Primitive Faces’ of Giorgio de Chirico’s Mannequins,” Immediations. The Research Journal of The Courtauld Institute of Art 3 (Spring 2007): 39-55.

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by both classical and modern attributes, de Chirico’s early mannequins share the timeless logic of modernist classicism and primitivism: the conjunction of a primeval aspect and modern aesthetics. The lack of historical identity in the figure of the mannequin was later stressed by de Chirico in relation to his painting The Two Sisters: “The papier-maché skull in the hairdresser’s window, cut out in the sharp heroism of prehistory”.80 The impact of de Chirico’s classicism on the avant-garde took place at the same time as broader changes in taste were happening at more institutional levels. The climax of Apollinaire’s critical activity in favour of the “exotic” arts corresponded to new acquisitions of prehistoric and archaic pieces by the Louvre, as well as to the reorganization of its collections in ways that enlarged the chronology and the aesthetic expectations attached to classicism to include the archaic period.81 It was under the influence of the primitivist circle of Apollinaire and Picasso that de Chirico found the opportunity to express “the dark side of classicism”. He thus turned the newly excavated pre-Hellenic past that had been shaped as an extension of the Enlightenment idealisation of the classical world into a proper modernist playground of fantasies in which the classical, the modern, the prehistoric, and the “primitive” could freely mix. The transformation of de Chirico’s imagery during the time of his close contact with the Parisian avant-garde suggests that, following the principles of “spontaneous similitudes” and prophecy that characterise the reorientation of classicism at the time, he was able to assimilate his work into the interests of the avant-garde while retaining the original elements of his personal formation. His early Parisian notes, then, should be interpreted as an attempt to present his work as appropriately modernist – both contemporary and intemporal – and able to appease avant-garde taste. In modernist fashion, de Chirico aimed to make his classicism a classic of modernity. His pursuit proved successful: thanks to the “notes strategy”, his paintings left a legacy that not only deeply informed the next avant-garde generation, but also the very meaning of classicism in modernist art. The alignment of 80

Giorgio de Chirico, “Zeusi l’esploratore,” Valori plastici 1 (1918): 10. Coincidentially, the painting was first exhibited by André Salmon in a 1916 exhibition that was also the first in which Picasso’s Demoiselles d’Avignon featured: L’Art moderne en France, exh. cat., Salon d’Antin, 1916. 81 The most significant acquisition in this respect was perhaps that of La Dame d’Auxerre’ in 1909: Héron de Villefosse and Etienne Michon, Musée du Louvre, Département des Antiquités grecques et romaines, acquisitions de l’année 18971914 (Paris, 1915), 3098.

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de Chirico’s Metaphysical imagery and theory to international modernism during the artist’s Parisian years is telling of his skilful negotiation between an original post-Nietzschean classicism and avant-garde culture. It solves the dichotomy of the “classical” and avant-garde within de Chirico’s production of the period, and discloses the inherent ambiguities of modernist classicism as a phenomenon fluctuating between the reassuring familiarity of the European tradition, the uncanny exoticism of its prehistory and modernity.

Works Cited Apollinaire, Guillaume. Les Peintres cubistes-Méditations esthétiques. Paris: Figuière, 1913. —. Correspondance avec les artistes 1903-1918. Edited by Laurence Campa and Peter Read. Paris: Gallimard, 2009. —. “Du Sujet dans la peinture moderne.” Les Soirées de Paris 1 (February 1912): 1-4. —. “La Peinture nouvelle – Notes d’art.” Les Soirées de Paris 3 (April 1912): 89-92. —. “Exoticisme et ethnographie.” Paris-Journal, September 12, 1912. Baldacci, Paolo. “Le Classicisme chez Giorgio de Chirico. Théorie et méthode.” Cahiers du musée national d’art moderne Centre Georges Pompidou 11 (1983): 19-31. —. Betraying the Muse. De Chirico and the Surrealists, exh. cat. New York: Paolo Baldacci Gallery, 1994. —. De Chirico, 1888-1919. La Metafisica. Milan: Rizzoli, 1997. —. “’Zu zwei hatten wir einen einzigen Gedanken’. Die Concordia Discors der Dioskuren.” In Der kühle Blick: Realismus der Zwanzigerjahre in Europa und Amerika, edited by Wieland Schmied. Munich & New York: Prestel, 2001. Paolo Baldacci and Gerd Roos, eds. De Chirico, Max Ernst, Magritte, Balthus. Uno sguardo nell’invisibile, exh. cat. Florence, Palazzo Strozzi. Florence: Mandragora, 2010. Bardi, Angelo (alias Giorgio de Chirico). “La vie de Giorgio de Chirico.” Sélection 8 (December 1929): 20-26. Beard, Mary. The Parthenon. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002. Bernadac, Marie-Laure. “Le Carnet de Chirico au Musée Picasso.” Cahiers du Musées national d’art moderne 13 (1984): 44-73. Bohn, Willard. “Apollinaire and de Chirico: The Making of the Mannequins.” Comparative Literature 27/2 (Spring, 1975): 153-65.

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—. Apollinaire and the Faceless Man. The Creation and Evolution of a Modern Motif. London & Toronto: Associated University Presses, 1991. —. “Giorgio de Chirico and the Solitude of the Sign.” Gazette des beauxarts 117, (April 1991): 169-87. Breton, André. “Giorgio de Chirico” (Littérature 1, January 1920), reprinted in André Breton. Les Pas perdus. Paris: Gallimard, 1969. Clair, Jean. “L’Inquiétante étrangeté.” In Les Réalismes, 1919-1939, exh. cat., Musée nationale d’art moderne Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris and Staatliche Kunsthalle Berlin, edited by Jean Clair. Paris: Centre Georges Pompidou,1981. —. ed. De Chirico, exh. cat., Musée national d’art moderne. Paris: Centre Georges Pompidou, 1983. Cottington, David. Cubism in the Shadow of the War. The Avant-Garde and Politics in Paris, 1905-1914. New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 1998. dalla Chiesa, Giovanna. “Verso i luoghi della formazione. Atene: scenario dell’anima – Monaco: strumento della Bildung.” in De Chirico nel centenario della nascita, ex. cat., Venice, Museo Correr, 50-58. Milan: Mondadori, 1988. de Chirico, Giorgio. “Zeusi l’esploratore.” Valori plastici 1 (1918). —. “Sull’arte metafisica.” Valori Plastici 4-5 (1919). —. Il meccanismo del pensiero. Critica, polemica, autobiografia. Edited by Maurizio Fagiolo dell’Arco. Turin: G. Einaudi, 1985. —. L’Art métaphysique. Edited by Giovanni Lista. Paris: L’Echoppe, 1994. —. Memorie della mia vita. Rome: Astrolabio, 1945. Giorgio de Chirico. La fabrique des rêves, exh. cat., Musée d’art moderne de la Ville de Paris. Paris: Paris Musées, 2009. de Villefosse, Héron, and Etienne Michon. Musée du Louvre, Département des Antiquités grecques et romaines, acquisitions de l’année 18971914. Paris, 1915. del Guercio, Andrea. Parisien malgré lui. De Chirico 1911-1915. Paris: Maeght, 1997. Duchene, Henri. The Golden Treasures of Troy. The Dream of Heinrich Schliemann. London: New Horizons, 1996. Emden, Christian. Nietzsche on Language, Consciousness and the Body. Urbana & Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2005. Fagiolo dell’Arco, Maurizio. L’opera completa di de Chirico, 1908-1924. Milan: Rizzoli, 1984.

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—. “Giorgio de Chirico à Paris 1911-1914. Autres enquêtes sur la métaphysique et autres énigmes.” Cahiers du Musées national d’art moderne 13 (1984): 47-73. —. “De Chirico in Paris 1911-1915.” in De Chirico: Essays. Edited by William Rubin, 11-34. New York: The Museum of Modern Art,1982. Faure, Elie. “Avant-propos.” In Catalogue des œuvres [...] au Salon d’automne. Paris, 1904. Gale, Matthew. “The Enigma of Fatality: the Work of Giorgio de Chirico, 1909-1924.” PhD. thesis, Courtauld Institute of Art, University of London, 1992. Gere, Cathy. Knossos and the Prophets of Modernism. Chicago & London: The University of Chicago Press, 2009. Gleizes, Alber and Jean Metzinger. Du Cubisme. Paris: Figuière, 1912. Green, Christopher. “Classicisms of Transcience and of Transcendence. Maillol, Picasso and de Chirico.” In On Classic Ground, edited by Elizabeth Cowling and Jennifer, 267-82. Mundy. London: Tate Gallery, 1990. —. Art in France, 1900-1940. New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 2000. Haskell, Francis, and Nicholas Penny. Taste and the Antique. The Lure of Classical Sculpture, 1500-1900. New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 1981. Hemingway, Séan. “Historic Images of the Greek Bronze Age.” Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, May 2011, posted May 17, 2011 http://www.metmuseum.org/about-the-museum/now-at-the-met/ Features/2011/Historic-Images-of-the-Greek-Bronze-Age. Loreti, Silvia. “The ‘Primitive Faces’ of Giorgio de Chirico’s Mannequins.” Immediations. The Research Journal of The Courtauld Institute of Art 3 (Spring 2007): 39-55. —. “The Affair of the Statuettes Re-Examined: Picasso and Apollinaire’s Role in the Theft of the Louvre Iberian Heads.” In Art & Crime. Exploring The Dark Side of the Art World, edited by Noah Charney, 52-64. Santa Barbara, Calif.: Praeger, 2009). Ndiaye, Francine. “Guillaume Apollinaire, Paul Guillaume et l’art ‘nègre’: defense et illustration.” In Apollinaire critique d’art, exh. cat., Paris, Pavillion des Arts. Paris: Gallimard, 1993. Nietzsche, Friedrich. The Birth of Tragedy Out of the Spirit of Music (1878). Translated by Shaun Whiteside. London: Penguin, 1993. —. “Thus Spoke Zarathustra. A Book for All and None (1883-1885).” In The Portable Nietzsche, edited and translated by Walter Kaufmann. London: Penguin, 1976.

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Papadopoulos, John K. “Inventing the Minoans: Archaeology, Modernity and the Quest for European Identity.” Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 18, 1 (June 2005): 87-149. Pietrangeli, Carlo. The Vatican Museums: Five Century of History. Rome: Quasar, 1993. Read, Peter. Picasso et Apollinaire. Les métamorphoses de la mémoire 1905-1973. Paris: Jean-Michel Place, 1995. Richardson, John. A Life of Picasso, Vol. 2: 1907-1917. The Painter of Modern Life. London: Jonathan Cape, 1997. Roos, Gerd. Giorgio de Chirico e Alberto Savinio. Ricordi e documenti: Monaco, Milano, Firenze. Bologna: Bora, 1999. —. “The Birth and First Steps of Metaphysical Art in Milan and Florence between 1908 and 1911.” In De Chirico, Max Ernst, Magritte, Balthus. Uno sguardo nell’invisibile, exh. cat. Florence, Palazzo Strozzi, edited by Paolo Baldacci and Gerd Roos, 29-48. Florence: Mandragora, 2010. Rubin, William, ed. De Chirico, exh. cat. New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 1982. Salmon, André. La jeune peinture française. Paris: Societé, 1912. —. L’Air de la Butte – mémoires. Paris: Arcadia, 2004. Schmied, Wieland, ed. Der kühle Blick: Realismus der Zwanzigerjahre in Europa und Amerika. Munich & New York: Prestel, 2001. —. “Geografisches Schicksal? De Chirico und die geistige Heimat der metaphysischer Kunst.” In idem, ed., Der kühle Blick, 81-93. Seckel-Klein, Hélène, Picasso collectionneur, exh. cat., Kunsthalle der Hypo-Kulturstiftung, Munich. Paris: Réunion des musées nationaux, 1998. Sloane, Joseph C. “Giorgio de Chirico and Italy.” Art Quarterly 21 (1958): 3-22. Soby, James Thrall. Giorgio de Chirico. New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 1955. Taylor, Michael R., ed. Giorgio de Chirico and the Myth of Ariadne, exh. cat., Philadelphia Museum of Art. London: Merrel Publisher, 2003. Traill, David, Schliemann of Troy. Treasure and Deceit. London: St. Martin’s Press, 1997. Wiegand, Theodor. Die archaische Poros – Architektur der Acropolis zu Athens. Cassel & Leipzig: Fisher & Co., 1904. Wolf, Claudia Marie. Die schlafende Ariadne im Vatikan. Eine hellenistischer Statuentypus und seine Rezeption. Hamburg: Verlag Dr Kovac, 2002.

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Fig. 9-1. Giorgio de Chirico, ET QUID AMABO NISI QUOD ÆNIGMA EST? (What Shall I Love If Not the Enigma), 1911. Oil on canvas, 72,5 x 55 cm. Private collection, Lugano. © SIAE.

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Fig. 9-2. Giorgio de Chirico, The Enigma of the Oracle, 1910. Oil on canvas, 42 X 61 cm. Private collection. © SIAE.

Fig. 9-3. Giorgio de Chirico, The Enigma of an Autumn Afternoon, 1910. Oil on canvas, 45 X 60 cm. Private collection, Buenos Aires. © SIAE.

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D of thee South-Eastern n Pediment Fig. 9-4. Emiile Gilliéron, Arrchaeological Drawing of the Archaic Parthenonn, in Theodor Wiegand, Diie Archaische Poros – Architectur zzur Akropolis von Athens (1904), ( pl. 1. © Gennadiuss Library, American Schhool of Classicaal Studies, Atheens.

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Fig. 9-5. Emile Gilliéron, Reproduction of the reconstructed Vaphio Cups, in Gilliéron and Son, Galvanoplastische Nachbildungen. Mykeneischer und Kretischer (Minoischer) Altertümer, Athens, 1904, figs. 1a and 1b. © Gennadius Library, American School of Classical Studies, Athens.

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Fig. 9-6. Anonymous, Black and white photograph of Sophia Schliemann wearing ‘The Treasure of Priam’, ca.1875. © Gennadius Library, American School of Classical Studies, Athens.

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Fig. 9-7. Ernst Ziller, Heinrich Schliemann’s Tomb in the First Cemetery, Athens, 1891. Author’s photograph.

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63, Black and w hite photograph h.. Fig. 9-8. Robert MacPhersonn, Ariadne, 186

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Fig. 9-9. Giorrgio de Chiricoo, The Soothsayyer’s Recompennse, 1913. Oil on o canvas, 135.6 x 180 ccm. Philadelphia Museum of Art. A © SIAE.

CHAPTER TEN THE BEAUTIES: REPETITION IN ANDY WARHOL’S PAINTINGS AND PLATO’S ASCENT TO BEAUTY RACHEL LANE HOOPER

The multiplication of Marilyn Monroe's face across Andy Warhol's approximately seven-feet-tall and ten-feet-wide painting Marilyn Diptych (1962) floods one's field of vision with her wavy coif, drooping eyelids, and half smile.1 The same close-up of her face is painted in colour on the left and printed in black-and-white on the right into a unifying grid that extends to the top, left, and right edges of the joined canvases. The canvas that is left blank across the bottom acts almost like a screen on which one can mentally project further repetitions of Marilyn's face extending downwards. Indeed, given the scale of the work, one can imagine the portraits repeating into infinity beyond one's peripheral vision when one stands in front of the artwork at the Tate Modern in London. Warhol often repeated photography-based images on a single canvas in his paintings of the early 1960s. The strategy was easily facilitated by the artist's silkscreening technique, which allowed him to make multiple prints

* I am grateful to Charles W. Haxthausen, Ondine Chavoya, Marc Simpson, David Carrier, John Stomberg, Charles Taliaferro, Jessica Fripp, Susannah Maurer, Lane Koster, Liza Statton, Jason Vrooman, Jonathan Leach, and especially Lenia Kouneni and my fellow presenters at the University of St. Andrews Symposium “The Legacy of Antiquity.” Thank you also to the Williams College Graduate Program in the History of Art and Many Mini Houston for supporting my research, as well as Professor Graham Bader and the Rice University Department of Art History for their support and encouragement. 1 I will refer to Marilyn Monroe in this article by her first name because that is the name by which she is primarily known and also what she is called in the painting's title.

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from a single screen.2 The cylindrical forms of the artist’s 200 Campbell Soup Cans (1962), for example, are also arranged within a grid. In this case, the grid of cans refers to literal stacks of cans on supermarket shelves. Warhol was included in an exhibition in 1962 at Sidney Janis Gallery called the “The New Realists,” and his work at this time seems to have been seen according to these terms of realism, literalism, and deadpan observations.3 However, something else is at work in the repetitions in Marilyn Diptych. It does not look like a stack of magazine covers or a physical arrangement of photos. Warhol’s grid of repeating Marilyns suggests a more formal arrangement that aligns the artist more with his minimalist contemporaries, who were using grids and serial forms to evoke an ideal, geometric precision.4 For example, Agnes Martin explored the dichotomy between the clarity of a Cartesian grid and unique imperfections that occur with any drawing of the intersecting lines in works such as The Peach (1964). In this painting, Martin shows a simple, even grid drawn by hand with a pen. The ink is heavier in some parts and fades in others, and the lines that form the rows and columns either fall short or move slightly beyond the outside edge. As in Martin's The Peach, the composition of Marilyn Diptych is outlined by a hand-drawn grid. The pencil lines that outline the composition of Marilyn's portraits are somewhat jagged, but they represent a uniform system. Amidst the overwhelming number of faces in Marilyn Diptych, there is no single face to latch on to as a focal point. Rosalind Krauss has noted that the compositional effect of showing one thing after another is to obliterate any centre to the composition and thus any hierarchy of forms or idea of teleology. She draws a distinction between minimalism and the “thematic implications” of content laden pop art.5 However, a work like Marilyn Diptych does have structural implications that can be amplified by the content. Although there is no focus to the composition of Marilyn Diptych, there is a sense that one's mind is being focused on a single idea. The 2

For more on repetition in pop art, Roland Barthes, “That Old Thing, Art . . .,” in Pop Art: The Critical Dialogue, ed. Carol Anne Mahsun (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1989), 233-40. 3 Gerard Malanga, “The New Realism,” in Chic Death (Cambridge: Pym-Randall, 1971), 52-57. 4 Briony Fer briefly notes this connection in The Infinite Line: Re-making Art after Modernism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004), 74. 5 Rosalind E. Krauss, “The Double Negative: A New Syntax for Sculpture,” in Passages in Modern Sculpture (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1998), 250.

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whole experience of the artwork feels like more than the sum of its parts. Marilyn's repeating faces evoke an idea beyond what we can see—an ideal image of her visage.6 The notion that by observing serial examples one can come to an understanding of a perfect form dates back to an ancient source that it is quite unusual to evoke in connection with Warhol—the philosopher Plato.7 Although Warhol and Plato are separated by vast differences in time and culture, Plato's description in the Symposium of the ascent to Beauty is a fascinating theory to apply to Marilyn Diptych. Not only does Plato articulate how one can move from perception to an understanding of an ideal, but he also shares with Warhol an understanding of beauty as a sort of disembodied, asexual perfection that relates to but is distinct from all things that could be said to be beautiful. In his book The Philosophy of Andy Warhol (from A to B and Back Again), Warhol writes: I always hear myself saying, “She's a beauty!” or “He's a beauty!” or “What a beauty!” but I never know what I'm talking about. I honestly don't know what beauty is, not to speak of what “a” beauty is. . . For a year once, it was in all the magazines that my next movie was going to be The Beauties. The publicity for it was great, but then I could never decide who should be in it. If everybody's not a beauty, then nobody is, so I didn't want to imply that the kids in The Beauties were beauties but the kids in my other movies weren't so I had to back out on the basis of the title. It was all wrong.8

Warhol's distinction between beauty and “a” beauty in terms of recognising examples of beauty has some provocative intersections with what Plato describes in his ascent to Beauty. Yet, Warhol's ideas about beauty or the aesthetic of his paintings are not often characterised as 6

For more on Warhol's paradoxical relation to the ideal, Jean Baudrillard, “Andy Warhol: Snobbish Machine,” in Impossible Presence: Surface and Screen in the Photogenic Era, ed. Terry Smith (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), 183-92. 7 Umberto Eco has also noted the connection between a modern interest in seriality and the Ancient Greek theory of art and definition as techne or ars, “Interpreting Serials,” in The Limits of Interpretation (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994), 83-100. Also Jennifer Burns discusses Plato's distinction between surface and essence and how these have framed the way that critics look at Warhol's art in her dissertation “Shallow Subjects: Andy Warhol and the Painted Surface” (PhD diss., The City University of New York, 1997). 8 Andy Warhol, The Philosophy of Andy Warhol (From A to B and Back Again) (San Diego: Harcourt, 1977), 61-62.

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Platonic. In a 1963 interview, Warhol claims that he has been referred to as a “Platonist,” but this comment made almost in passing seems to be the only evidence of an admitted connection.9 Marilyn Diptych has been interpreted in many different ways, which reflect the varied understandings of Warhol’s work in general. Jennifer Doyle sees Marilyn Monroe as a flamboyant drag queen;10 Bradford Collins observes a dichotomy between Warhol’s insecure self-image and Marilyn’s fictitious, ideal beauty;11 Thomas Crow finds an acknowledgment of Marilyn’s very tragic suicide peeking through the cracks of Warhol’s cynical take on the media’s exploitation of that event;12 Jean Baudrillard sees it as an empty fetish;13 and Hal Foster thinks that the compulsive repetition of Marilyn’s face was a way for Warhol to come to terms with the trauma of her death.14 One commonality amongst these historians and critics is that they tend to analyze the painting according to its social function or Warhol’s psychology and identity. Instead, a Platonic take on Marilyn Diptych prompts us to consider the formal logic built into the composition as the frame through which to consider related concepts. In his theory of forms, Plato describes a transcendent ideal by looking at a sequence of related objects or persons, specifically beautiful men, in his dialogue the Symposium. In this discourse on the nature of love, Plato explains his theory of forms in what philosophers call “the ascent to Beauty.” Plato says: 9

Gerard Malanga, “Andy Warhol: Interviewed by Gerard Malanga,” in I'll Be Your Mirror: The Selected Andy Warhol Interviews, ed. Kenneth Goldsmith (New York: Carroll and Graf Publishers, 2004), 52. Originally published in Kulchur 16 (Winter 1964-65). 10 Jennifer Doyle analyses the Marilyn series according to drag and queer grammars in “Tricks of the Trade: Pop Art/Pop Sex,” in Pop Out: Queer Warhol, ed. with Jonathan Flatley and José Esteban Muñoz (Durham: Duke University Press, 1996), 191-209. 11 Bradford R. Collins in his article “The Metaphysical Nosejob: The Remaking of Warhola, 1960-1968” claims that these portraits of women were a means for Warhol to displace his insecurities about his own lack of beauty by transforming “ideal beauty into a fiction that could no longer harm him,” Arts Magazine (February 1988), 53. 12 Thomas Crow, “Saturday Disasters: Trace and Reference in Early Warhol,” Art in America 75 (May 1987): 128-36. 13 Baudrillard, “Warhol,” 183-92. 14 Hal Foster, “Death in America,” in Who is Andy Warhol?, ed. Colin McCabe with Mark Francis and Peter Wollen (London: British Film Institute and the Andy Warhol Museum, 1997), 117-30. Originally published in October 75 (Winter 1996): 36-59.

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If we look at Marilyn Diptych as a set of beautiful faces in the Platonic sense, first considering one face then two, and from two faces to all faces, and so on and so forth, then the repetition of Marilyn’s face in the diptych might be considered as a set of “rising stairs,” leading us to the perfect ideal of her beautiful face. In observing each image on the canvas in turn, we gradually meld all of the faces, average them together in our mind, and mentally erase the imperfections seen in the individual printings. The process of looking past the imperfections in what one sees to an ideal version of the image that lies beyond it can perhaps best be understood if one considers the inherent glitches or variations that occur in screenprinting. Marilyn Diptych began in Warhol's New York studio, the Factory, as an unstretched canvas with a series of black screenprints printed from a screen that was manufactured from a photograph of Marilyn’s face.16 On the left panel, the original underprints are now mostly hidden under layers of bright paint. But they occasionally show through, for example along Marilyn’s hairline on the upper left hand corner. The original black prints on the left panel were used as an outline for the artist to follow as he hand-painted the orange, yellow, pink, and blue patches of colour for her clothing, hair, lips, and eyes. A second black screenprint was subsequently aligned with the grid and printed over the colour paint to provide the visible outline of Marilyn’s face. On the right panel, there is a single set of black screenprints. They blur, smudge, and gradually fade as they get closer to the right edge of the canvas. The pattern of blurring and fading across the rows on the right panel can read like a narrative sequence. In an interview with Warhol, writer David Bourdon told the artist: The two paintings of Marilyn Monroe, hung side by side in your show at the Stable Gallery, were two of the most moving modern paintings I have seen. . . The black-and-white painting was the more tragic. In the central area, the silkscreens had been printed with great care, and the portraits had 15

Plato, Symposium, trans. Alexander Nehamas and Paul Woodruff (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1989), 59. 16 All of the following information about Warhol’s technique comes from Gerard Malanga, “Working with Warhol,” Artes 3 (1996), 112-20.

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the crispness and reality of a newsreel, or one of Marilyn’s own movies. But around the edges, especially on the right, the black lost intensity, becoming almost gray, so that the portraits seemed to fade away to some ethereal place.17

Bourdon associates the fading with Marilyn’s suicide. A similar sense of melancholy is the reason why the two panels came together in the first place. The collector Emily Tremaine, who bought the work, suggested that Warhol put the colour and black-and-white panels together for her in order to create what she called a “moving statement” about Marilyn Monroe.18 The imagined disappearance of Marilyn's face as if in consecutive frames of film fading to white was achieved through a calculated manipulation of the screenprinting process. The first image at the far left of each row was printed with the standard pressure of the squeegee across the screen but with an excessive amount of black ink. The blurring on the second and third images was then made by pressing down hard on the squeegee and by not removing ink from the screen between printings. Because the screen was not cleaned and the ink was not replenished, less ink was able to get through the screen for the printing of the third image. For the fourth and fifth images, there is barely enough ink to register a face. It seems that the screen was cleaned between rows, and the entire process was repeated for each row. If the gradual reduction of printed ink is read as the fading of a static close-up, then there is a imaginative function to this material reference to film, for one must imagine the distinct images on the canvas flipping past in order to perceive the passage of time in one's mind. Warhol was avidly interested in affecting our perception of time, as his films such as the 8hour long Sleep (1963) evidence. The photo-booth strip is another way that Warhol shows temporal sequence in many of his photographs and paintings. As we look at the progression of images taken in a photo booth in his photographs of Holly Solomon (1965), for example, we connect them together in our mind and fill in the gaps to picture the motion of the subject. 17

Bourdon also evokes Pliny in calling it “the anticipation of forgetting something before it is gone,” in the interview with Warhol. To which the artist replied, “Can you talk like that about my soup cans?,” “Warhol Interviews Bourdon,” in I’ll Be Your Mirror: The Selected Andy Warhol Interviews, 1962-1987, ed. Kenneth Goldsmith (New York: Carroll and Graff, 2004), 9-10. Originally an unpublished manuscript from the Andy Warhol Archives, Pittsburgh dated 1962-63. 18 George Frei and Neil Printz, The Andy Warhol Catalogue Raisonne, vol. 1 (New York: Phaidon, 2001), 262.

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The black-and-white screenprints on the right panel of the diptych may also be read as a set of horizontal, photo-booth-like images, or they may even relate more directly to Warhol’s series of screen tests. In his screen tests, subjects were asked to sit for about 5 minutes, while Warhol recorded them with his 16mm camera.19 Because the subject barely moved, the projected film blurs the distinction between movie and portrait, between time and timelessness. As with the screen tests, any perception of time or any narrative sequence in the right panel is subtle at best because the images can be read not only from left to right, but also from top to bottom, while Marilyn Monroe maintains a static pose. The idea of an unmoving, eternal image of the beautiful Marilyn Monroe set to play in the imagination of those who look at Marilyn Diptych brings many different narratives about the creation of an ideal together, such as Warhol's repetitious screenprinting, Plato's moving from one thing to another in his ascent to beauty, and the nature of Marilyn Monroe herself. “Marilyn Monroe” in a certain sense was just a character created by Norma Jean Mortensen to embody a certain ideal of beauty, sexuality, and womanhood.20 Mortensen carefully controlled her image and Marilyn Monroe, in the end, became more image than person. In Marilyn Diptych, the historical details of Marilyn Monroe’s physical existence have been erased by Andy Warhol in his cropping of the original source photograph for his screenprint. The series of increasingly narrow crop marks on the photograph tightens our focus on Marilyn’s features and detaches the image from any specific cultural reference. Had Warhol left the crop marks below her shoulders, the painting would have had an entirely different set of meanings because the dress that she is wearing in the photograph was quite famous by 1962. Marilyn wore the dress ten years earlier when she was in the Miss America Pageant Parade. She accepted the role of Grand Marshall in the parade in order to publicise her film Monkey Business, and her stunt was ultimately successful because of her low-cut dress and the scandal it created. The infamous dress's fame reached its apex when Playboy Magazine released its inaugural issue with Marilyn on the cover atop a convertible in the pageant parade. (She was more notoriously featured within as their first nude centrefold.) 19 Callie Angel, Andy Warhol Screen Tests: The Films of Andy Warhol Catalogue Raisonne (New York: H.N. Abrams, 2006). 20 I will refer to the person behind Marilyn Monroe as Norma Jean Mortensen in order to draw a distinction between the person and the celebrity image. For more on the popular mythology that the true self is the private self in regards to Marilyn Monroe and Andy Warhol, Cecile Whiting, “Andy Warhol: The Public Star and the Private Self,” Oxford Art Journal 10, no. 2 (1987): 58-75.

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By closing off the image to present only a clear focus on her face, Warhol brings our attention to her façade and the augmented features by which Norma Jean Mortenson was able to make herself beautiful. Warhol shows us that Mortenson did not embody beauty. Instead, she indicated it by making reference to an ideal perfection outside of herself and completely apart from the limitations of her body, her biography, and even her pictures. Richard Hamilton, the British father of Pop Art, unmasked the coy intentions of Mortensen in My Marilyn (1965).21 In this painting, Hamilton references the fact that Mortenson insisted on seeing proofs of any photo session before they went to print, in order for her to personally choose which images could be reprinted, a level of image control that was innovative at the time. Hamilton reproduces a contact sheet on which Mortensen had made Xs over the pictures that she deemed unprintable, with one in the middle marked good and enlarged in the bottom right hand corner. As in My Marilyn, Marilyn Diptych acknowledges how Mortenson cultivated an ideal image of herself in Marilyn Monroe. On the left panel, the bright, warm hues of the hair and lipstick pop forward, while the blue of the eyeshadow and dress vibrates in contrast with the orange background. The use of make-up and styling to evoke beauty is thereby emphasized. It is a “trademark” beauty.22 The half-closed eyes, full lips, and coiffure of platinum blonde hair signify the unique, ideal Marilyn Monroe. These features might be called, in a Platonic sense, the beautiful customs through which Marilyn evoked beauty. Her painted face in the diptych may seem too garish to be beautiful.23 However, for Warhol, the use of brightly coloured paint as make-up to indicate beauty is a recurring idea that he began in the ’60s and continued to develop for the next 20 years or so, including other images from the Marilyn Flavors series (1962) and later portraits from the 1970s and 80s. The artist even made a diptych of Marilyn Monroe's Lips in late 1962. The lips amplify many of the themes that also run through Marilyn Diptych — 21

Richard Martin, “Mediating Marilyn: Richard Hamilton's My Marilyn,” in Elvis + Marilyn: 2 x Immortal (Boston: The Institute, 1994), 101-16. 22 Marilyn Monroe invented a signature pose for herself – eyelids half-closed, and lips slightly pouting. 23 Warhol said of the colors that he chose, “As for whether it’s symbolical to paint Monroe in such violent colors: it’s beauty, and she’s beautiful and if something’s beautiful, it’s pretty colors, that’s all,” Gretchen Berg, “Andy Warhol: My True Story,” in I’ll Be Your Mirror: The Selected Andy Warhol Interviews, 1962-1987, ed. Kenneth Goldsmith (New York: Carroll and Graff, 2004), 88. Originally published in The East Village Other, November 1, 1966.

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the detachment of the body from the characteristics that make it beautiful, and the disjuncture of make-up from beauty itself as we understand that the lips are meant to be beautiful even if they are too garish and graphic to actually embody beauty in and of themselves. As with the lips, structured repetition in Marilyn Diptych is of key importance to how the beautiful is able to transcend the physical and how the real is severed from the ideal. For Warhol, this may have been just what it is to be beautiful. Although he was probably unaware of his affinity to the ancient Greeks, his factory in the early 1960's echoed the rituals of a symposium, an intoxicated party where ideas and desires were freely expressed. Indeed, this was the context in which Warhol made Marilyn Diptych, in which a classical understanding of seriality can lead us to an ideal image of Marilyn Monroe and possibly Warhol’s understanding of just what it is to be beautiful. Perhaps the affinity between Plato and Warhol is evidence of the legacy of antiquity even in New York in the early 1960s.

Works Cited Angel, Callie. Andy Warhol Screen Tests: The Films of Andy Warhol Catalogue Raisonne, New York: H.N. Abrams, 2006. Roland Barthes. “That Old Thing, Art . . .” In Pop Art: The Critical Dialogue, ed. Carol Anne Mahsun, Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1989. Bauldrillard, Jean. “Andy Warhol: Snobbish Machine.” In Impossible Presence: Surface and Screen in the Photogenic Era, edited by Terry Smith. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001. Berg, Gretchen. “Andy Warhol: My True Story.” In I’ll Be Your Mirror: The Selected Andy Warhol Interviews, 1962-1987, edited by Kenneth Goldsmith. New York: Carroll & Graff, 2004. Bourdon, David. Warhol. New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1989. —. “Warhol Interviews Bourdon.” In I’ll Be Your Mirror: The Selected Andy Warhol Interviews, 1962-1987, edited by Kenneth Goldsmith. New York: Carroll & Graff, 2004. Burns, Jennifer. “Shallow Subjects: Andy Warhol and the Painted Surface.” PhD diss., The City University of New York, 1997. Carrier, David. “Warhol and Cindy Sherman: The Self-Portrait in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.” Source XVII, vol. 1, (Fall 1998): 36-40. Collins, Bradford. “The Metaphysical Nosejob: The Remaking of Warhola, 1960-1968.” Arts Magazine (February 1988): 47-55. Crow, Thomas. “Saturday Disasters: Trace and Reference in Early Warhol.” Art in America 75 (May 1987), 128-36.

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Danto, Arthur. "The Philosopher as Andy Warhol." Chap. 3 in Philosophizing Art: Selected Essays. Berkley: University of California Press, 1999. Doyle, Jennifer. “Tricks of the Trade: Pop Art/Pop Sex.” In Pop Out: Queer Warhol, edited by Jennifer Doyle, Jonathan Flatley, and José Esteban Muñoz. Durham: Duke University Press, 1996. Dyer, Richard. “Monroe and Sexuality.” Chap. 1 in Heavenly Bodies: Film Stars and Society. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1986. Eco, Umberto. The Limits of Interpretation, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994. Fer, Briony. The Infinite Line: Re-making Art after Modernism. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004. Foster, Hal. “Death in America.” In Who is Andy Warhol?, edited by Colin MacCabe with Mark Francis and Peter Wollen. London: British Film Institute and The Andy Warhol Museum, 1997. Frei, George and Neil Printz. The Andy Warhol Catalogue Raisonne. New York: Phaidon, 2002. Haxthausen, Charles W. “The Work of Art in the Age of its (Al)Chemical Transmutibility: Rethinking Painting and Photography after Polke,” in Sigmar Polke: The Three Lies of Painting. Stuttgart: Hatje/Cantz, 1997. Jones, Caroline, “Andy Warhol’s Factory, ‘Commonism’ and the Business Art Business.” Chap. 4 in Machine in the Studio: Constructing the Post-War American Artist. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1996. Kidder, Clark, ed. Marilyn Monroe: Cover to Cover. New York: Krause Publications, 1999. Koestenbaum, Wayne. Andy Warhol. New York: Penguin, 2001. Krauss, Rosalind E. Passages in Modern Sculpture. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1998. Kuspit, Donald. “Art is Dead: Long Live Aesthetic Management.” New Art Examiner, vol. 26, no. 7 (April 1999): 29-33. Malanga, Gerard. “Working with Warhol.” Artes, vol. 3 (1996): 112-20. —. “A Conversation with Andy Warhol.” In I’ll Be Your Mirror: The Selected Andy Warhol Interviews, 1962-1987, edited by Kenneth Goldsmith. New York: Carroll & Graff, 2004. —. “Andy Warhol: Interviewed by Gerard Malanga.” In I’ll Be Your Mirror: The Selected Andy Warhol Interviews, 1962-1987, edited by Kenneth Goldsmith. New York: Carroll & Graff, 2004. —. “The New Realism.” In Chic Death (Cambridge: Pym-Randall, 1971), 52-57.

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Monroe, Marilyn. My Story. New York: Stein and Day, 2000. Plato. Symposium. Translated by Alexander Nehamas and Paul Woodruff. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1989. Tremaine, Emily. “Emily Tremaine: Her Own Thoughts.” In The Tremaine Collection: 20th Century Masters: The Spirit of Modernism, exh. cat. Hartford, CT: Wadsworth Atheneum, 1984. Victor, Adam. The Marilyn Encyclopedia. Woodstock: Overlook Press, 1999. Warhol, Andy. The Philosophy of Andy Warhol (From A to B and Back Again). San Diego: Harcourt, Inc., 1977. Warhol, Andy, and Pat Hackett. Popism: The Warhol 60s. New York: Harper and Row, 1983. Whiting, Cécile. A Taste for Pop: Pop Art, Gender, and Consumer Culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. —. “Andy Warhol, the Public Star, and the Private Self.” Oxford Art Journal, vol.10, issue 2, (1987): 58-75. Wollen, Peter. “Andy Warhol: Renaissance Man.” In Who is Andy Warhol?, edited by Colin MacCabe with Mark Francis and Peter Wollen. London: British Film Institute and The Andy Warhol Museum, 1997.

CHAPTER ELEVEN NIKE OF PAIONIOS: PANIONIOS OF SMYRNA’S NEW IRREDENTIST VICTORIOUS SYMBOL1 SPYRIDON LOUMAKIS

Introduction: at the End of the First World War Nike of Paionios is a very famous statue, almost 2 meters high, made of white Parian marble, which originally stood on a triangular pedestal 8,81 meters high, in the south-east corner of the temple of Jupiter in the sanctuary of ancient Olympia in Peloponnesus (Fig. 11-1). According to the inscription on Nike’s pedestal, it was a votive of Messenians and 1

I would like to express my deep gratitude to all those who gave me their advice, knowledge and experience, each one in his field and specialty. I feel great pleasure mentioning Mr. Zapheirakopoulos, Mr. Kampourakis, Mr. Mylonadis and Mr. Papaeliou, keen stamp-collectors and experienced members of the Greek Philatelic Association (E.F.E.), for the passion with which they helped and guided me. I am grateful to Mr. Perdikis for helping me with his vast experience in most difficult issues of philatelism, as well as Mr. Bondikoulis, Director of the Sports Museum in Athens, with his deep knowledge of sports history. I should not forget the gentle employees in the libraries of the Numismatic Museum, the War Museum, the Centre of Asia Minor Studies, the Hellenic Literary and Historical Archive, as well as the National Library, the Gennadeios Library and the Archives of the Greek Parliament, the Hellenic Olympic Committee and the Hestia of New Smyrna. Also, I cannot imagine having this paper properly completed without the sharp comments and severe remarks of my dearest friends Dr. Ioannis Touratsoglou and Ms. Christina Katsiadakis, as well without the improvement of the photographs by my dear friend and excellent photographer Ms. Mina Manta. Finally, Dr. Helen Gardika-Katsiadakis was the person who provided me with her aid in many ways and with material whenever available in the first version of this paper. Without her help, I would have been truly unable to prepare the first and most important version; whatever errors remain in this final and much shorter version are my own.

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Naupaktians to the god Jupiter for their victory in battle (c. 450-410 BC).2 In the ancient Greek world the winners of a battle used to dedicate onetenth of the spoils taken from the enemy to the gods. Usually, the one tenth of the vast gains from ransom was converted into a magnificent artwork.3 Twenty four centuries after its erection and some three and a half decades from its unearthing by the Deutsches Archäologisches Institut,4 the daily political newspaper ȆĮIJȡȓȢ appeared at the outbreak of the First Balkan War (1912-1913) with a full front-page picture of Nike of Paionios, at the bottom of which the word “ȃȓțȘ” was written, connecting the statue of Nike with the victorious (victory = Nike in Greek) march of the Greek army in Macedonia after its victories against the Turkish army in Elassona and Serbia (Fig. 11- 2).5 In October 1920 the Government of Eleftherios Venizelos published in its Official Gazette the law about the issuing of the Greek version of the First World War medal, choosing Nike of Paionios (Fig. 11-3).6 At the Paris Peace Conference in 1919 the Allies Commission had accepted French Field Marshal Foch’s proposal that a bronze medal be awarded to all soldiers of the allied forces who had served or had been wounded at the front during the First World War (1914-1918). According to Foch’s 2 Wilhelm Dittenberger, Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum (Leipzig: S. Hirzelium, 1915), vol. I, no. 80; Wilhelm Dittenberger and Karl Purgold, Die Inschriften von Olympia, volume V of Olympia. Die Ergebnisse der von dem deutschen Reich veranstalteten Ausgrabung, ed. Ernst Curtius, Friedrich Adler and Wilhelm Dörpfeld (Berlin: A. Asher & Co, 1896), no. 259. 3 See more recently Michael Scott, Delphi and Olympia: the Spatial Politics of Panhellenism in the Archaic and Classical Periods (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), with previous bibliography. 4 For the findings during the 1875 season see for example ǹȣȖȒ 4055/23-12-1875; ȂȑȜȜȠȞ 4312/23-12-1875; ȆȡȦȚȞȩȢ ȀȒȡȣȟ 1905/27-12-1875; ǼijȘȝİȡȓȢ (ǻ. ȀȠȡȠȝȘȜȐȢ) 355/21-12-1875, 357/23-12-1875, 359/25-12-1875, 360/26-12-1875, 365/31-12-1875; ǹȜȒșİȚĮ 2537/22-12-1875, 2541/30-12-1875, 2542/31-12-1875; ǹȚȫȞ 3197/1-1-1876, 3202/20-1-1876, 3203/23-1-1876; ȆĮȜȚȖȖİȞİıȓĮ 3384/30-121875; ȈIJȠȐ 320/23-12-1875; 322/25-12-1875, 328/31-12-1875. For the 1879 season see for example ǼijȘȝİȡȓȢ 299/26-10-1879; ǹȜȒșİȚĮ 3525/27-10-1879; ȆĮȜȚȖȖİȞİıȓĮ 4571/27-10-1879. 5 ȆĮIJȡȓȢ 6756/12-10-1912. 6 Polyxeni Bouya, “Splendid Field of Victory: Medals,” in Nike-Victoria on Coins and Medals (Athens: Hellenic Ministry of Culture – Numismatic Museum, 2004), 29; Georgios Stratoudakis, ǼȜȜȘȞȚțȐ ȂİIJȐȜȜȚĮ (Athens: G. Stratoudakis, 2001), 54-55, no. 114; Prince Dimitri Romanoff, The Orders, Medals and History of Greece (Copenhagen: Rungsted Kynst, 1987), 140-41; George J. Beldecos, Hellenic Orders, Decorations and Medals (Athens: Hellenic Army General Staff, 1991), 96.

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instructions, each allied country should depict on the obverse of the medal, known as the Victory Medal, its own version of a standing, full-faced Victory.7 To understand the Zeitgeist within which Nike of Paionios was chosen, we must take a close look at the official three-day celebration of ȃȚțȘIJȒȡȚĮ on the 13th, 14th and 15th September 1920 (after the signing of the Sevres Treaty). The celebration involved a procession from Zappeion to Panathinaïkon Stadium of clergymen, holy-relics, historical symbols, flags of military units, tropaea of war and wounded soldiers, in the presence of the royal family, the Greek Prime Minister Eleftherios Venizelos, high civic, ecclesiastical and military officers, more than 2,000 mayors of the Greek kingdom etc.8 Interesting is the fact that on 15 September 1920 the Venizelist newspaper ȆĮIJȡȓȢ represented Ƞn its frontpage Venizelos as a “Liberator Olympic Winner”, the Panathinaïkon Stadium as “Olympia” and the triumphal celebration as “the most glorious Olympiad”.9 The connection of Olympia-inspired vocabulary with military

7

Alexander J. Laslo, The Interallied Victory Medals of World War I (Albuquerque, New Mexico: Dorado Publishing, 19922). The Greek version of the Victory medal was struck in France and was designed by the well-known engraver-médailleur and second winner in the 1900 Exposition Universelle de Paris, Henry Nocq. The reverse bore the inscription “ȂǼīǹȈ ȊȆǼȇ ȉȅȊ ȆȅȁǿȉǿȈȂȅȊ ȆȅȁǼȂȅȈ 1914-1918”. The issuing of the medal was ratified in 1920 by the state law no. 2481/1920 based on an earlier proposal by Venizelos’s government (Official Gazette 242/A/1920) “Ȇİȡȓ ȚįȡȪıİȦȢ ǻȚĮıȣȝȝĮȤȚțȠȪ ǹȞĮȝȞȘıIJȚțȠȪ ȂİIJĮȜȜȓȠȣ țĮȜȠȣȝȑȞȠȣ ȂǼȉǹȁȁǿȅȊ ȃǿȀǾȈ”, which stated (article 2) that the obverse would depict Nike of Paionios 8 ȆĮIJȡȓȢ 250/14-9-1920, 3; 251/15-9-1920, 1; ȃȑĮ ǼȜȜȐȢ 2290/14-9-1920, 4; 2291/15-9-1920, 1; 2292/16-9-1920, 1. 9 In a series of front-page articles the ardent Venizelist newspaper ȅȚ ȀĮȚȡȠȓ called the celebration “ਥȠȡIJȒ IJોȢ ȃȓțȘȢ ਥȞ IJ૶ ȈIJĮįȓ૳” and Prime Minister Venizelos ıIJİijĮȞȘijȩȡȠ ȆȡȦIJĮșȜȘIJȒ, and stretched these celebrations to surpass in solemnity and magnitude even the 1906 Interim Olympiad in Athens which were held in the same Stadium (ȅȚ ȀĮȚȡȠȓ 13-9-1920, 1; 14-9-1920, 1; 15-9-1920, 1). Many nonAthenian newspapers devoted articles concerning this major event, e.g. in Smyrna (ȀȩıȝȠȢ 744/15-9-1920, 2; 748/18-9-1920, 1 with big articles for the Panhellenic “ਥȠȡIJȒ IJોȢ ȃȓțȘȢ” that saw Venizelos as “IJȩȞ ȃȚțȘIJȒȞ IJોȢ ȆĮȞİȜȜȘȞȓȠȣ ȃȓțȘȢ” and awarded him “IJȩȞ ıIJȑijĮȞȠȞ IJȠ૨ ૃȅȜȣȝʌȚȠȞȓțȠȣ ਥȞ ȆĮȞİȜȜȘȞȓ૳ ıȣȞĮȖİȡȝ૶”), in Patras (ȃİȠȜȩȖȠȢ ȆĮIJȡȫȞ 254/13-9-1920, 1; 256/15-9-1920, 1-2; 257/16-91920, 2; 258/17-9-1920, 1), in Thessaloniki (ȂĮțİįȠȞȓĮ 3089/12-9-1920, 2; 3090/13-9-1920, 3; 3091/14-9-1920, 2; 3092/15-9-1920, 2; 3093/16-9-1920, 12), in Trikkala (ĬȐȡȡȠȢ 3113/11-9-1920, 1; 3117/15-9-1920, 2; 3118/16-9-1920, 1; 3119/17-9-1920, 2 mentioning more than 100,000 spectators for the “ਥȠȡIJĮȓ įȚȐ IJȒȞ ȃȓțȘȞ”) and elsewhere.

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triumph and Greek irredentist aspirations is more than clear in this example. Similarly, in 1919 Venizelos commissioned the famous Greek sculptor Michael Tombros (1889-1974) to create a small replica of Nike of Paionios in plaster (1 m.), today in the Museum of Olympia, later to be cast in bronze and presented as a gift to the Allied Commander in Chief in European Turkey, General d’Espérey (1856-1942), an old acquaintance of his (Fig. 11-4).10 Venizelos obviously welcomed this proposal,11 as these kinds of visits and gifts were part of Greek propaganda to support its territorial claims as an operative ally on the side of the winners of the First World War.12 Actually, Venizelos had been connected with Paionios’s Nike some fourteen years earlier, during the Therissos Uprising in Crete. In early September 1905 the Official Gazette of the Revolutionary Assembly of Therissos in Crete published the establishment of a postal service and the issue of stamps, depicting in the centre Nike of Paionios, on the base of which the word DzȞȦıȚȢ (Union) was written (Fig. 11-5). The personal correspondence of Venizelos, leader of the “Therissos Uprising”, has revealed his personal interference in every step of the issuing procedure, from the proposal until the necessary promotion and careful circulation of the stamps. In his letter dated 17-6-1905 to Klearchos Markantonakis, Venizelos expressed his positive opinion on the proposal of an unknown “friend” about the issuing of stamps. Furthermore, in a series of letters from 11 to 24-8-1905 he ordered the issuing of nine different values, and in a letter dated 1-9-1905 he 10

Dimitris Paulopoulos, “O ȖȜȪʌIJȘȢ ȂȚȤȐȜȘȢ ȉȩȝʌȡȠȢ” (Ph.D. diss., Athens University, 1996), 80-81. See also Elsi Spathari, Mind and Body. The Revival of the Olympic Idea 19th-20th century (Athens: Hellenic Ministry of Culture, 1989), 148-49, no. 165; Stelios Lydakis, ȅȚ DzȜȜȘȞİȢ ȖȜȪʌIJİȢ ıIJȠȞ 20o ĮȚȫȞĮ: Ǿ ȞİȠİȜȜȘȞȚțȒ ȖȜȣʌIJȚțȒ (Athens: Melissa, 1981), 470-72. On the 10th of November 1919 d’Espérey had expressed to the Commissioner of the Greek Government in Constantinople his desire to visit Athens and Olympia after the return of Venizelos from the Paris Peace Conference (Diomidis’s telegram to Venizelos. Athens 2411-1919, in Eleftherios Venizelos Archive. Historical Archive of Benakis Museum, file 025/fol. 70). According to a local newspaper d’Espérey did visit Olympia, as well other historical sites, related to the Greek War of Independence, such as Mesollogi and Hagia Lavra (ȉȠ ĭȦȢ 330/27-11-1919, 1, 332/29-11-1919, 1, 334/2-12-1919, 1). 11 Venizelos’s telegram to Kanellopoulos. Paris (?) 13/26-11-1919, in Eleftherios Venizelos Archive. Historical Archive of Benakis Museum, file 024/fol. 133. 12 Dimitris Kitsikis, Propagande et pressions en politique internationale. La Grèce et ses revendications à la Conférence de la Paix (1919-1920) (Paris: Presses Universitaire de France, 1963), 293-324.

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announced the use of 1% of the tirage for publishing reasons, while he foresaw the over-value of the stamps among stamp-collectors and philatelists. In addition, in a letter dated 5-9-1905, among other things, he proposed a limited numbered issuing of stamps in order to be easily overvalued, whereas in a letter six days later, the production of forged postal shields in order to give a much greater impression of an existing postal transaction among the provinces of western Crete.13 At the Paris Peace Conference Venizelos stated Greek territorial claims, one of which was Northern Epirus, present-day Southern Albania, inhabited by both Muslims and Orthodox Christians, Albanian-speaking and Greek-speaking populations alike. The political condition was already by the end of the Balkan Wars unstable and quite perplexed due to the balance of power among the conflicting interests of the Great Powers, their allies and the locals. The situation was further exacerbated due to the outbreak of the Great War and the future of the region was far from being clear.14 In this area, two undated private stamp issues were circulated with the Greek inscription ǾȆǼǿȇȅȈ and the Nike of Paionios (Fig. 11-6).15 13

Manolis Mylonakis, “ȉȠ țȓȞȘȝĮ IJȠȣ ĬȑȡȚıȠȣ. 10 ȂĮȡIJȓȠȣ-11 ȃȠİȝȕȡȓȠȣ 1905. ȉĮ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȩıȘȝĮ, IJȠ ʌȡĮȖȝĮIJȚțȩ țĮȚ IJȠ įȒșİȞ IJĮȤȣįȡȠȝİȓȠ IJȠȣ ȣʌȩ IJȠ ijȦȢ IJȦȞ İʌȚıIJȠȜȫȞ IJȠȣ ǺİȞȚȗȑȜȠȣ,” ĭȚȜȠIJȑȜİȚĮ 632 (May-June 2005): 155-64; id., “ȉȠ țȓȞȘȝĮ IJȠȣ ĬȑȡȚıȠȣ. 10 ȂĮȡIJȓȠȣ-11 ȃȠİȝȕȡȓȠȣ 1905. ȉĮ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȩıȘȝĮ, IJȠ ʌȡĮȖȝĮIJȚțȩ țĮȚ IJȠ įȒșİȞ IJĮȤȣįȡȠȝİȓȠ IJȠȣ ȣʌȩ IJȠ ijȦȢ IJȦȞ İʌȚıIJȠȜȫȞ IJȠȣ ǺİȞȚȗȑȜȠȣ,” ĭȚȜȠIJȑȜİȚĮ 633 (July-August 2005): 239-45; id., “ȉȠ țȓȞȘȝĮ IJȠȣ ĬȑȡȚıȠȣ. 10 ȂĮȡIJȓȠȣ-11 ȃȠİȝȕȡȓȠȣ 1905. ȉĮ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȩıȘȝĮ, IJȠ ʌȡĮȖȝĮIJȚțȩ țĮȚ IJȠ įȒșİȞ IJĮȤȣįȡȠȝİȓȠ IJȠȣ ȣʌȩ IJȠ ijȦȢ IJȦȞ İʌȚıIJȠȜȫȞ IJȠȣ ǺİȞȚȗȑȜȠȣ,” ĭȚȜȠIJȑȜİȚĮ 634 (September-October 2005): 278-81; id, “ȉȠ țȓȞȘȝĮ IJȠȣ ĬȑȡȚıȠȣ. 10 ȂĮȡIJȓȠȣ11 ȃȠİȝȕȡȓȠȣ 1905. ȉĮ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȩıȘȝĮ, IJȠ ʌȡĮȖȝĮIJȚțȩ țĮȚ IJȠ įȒșİȞ IJĮȤȣįȡȠȝİȓȠ IJȠȣ ȣʌȩ IJȠ ijȦȢ IJȦȞ İʌȚıIJȠȜȫȞ IJȠȣ ǺİȞȚȗȑȜȠȣ,” ĭȚȜȠIJȑȜİȚĮ 635 (NovemberDecember 2005): 350-58. 14 Eleftheria K. Manta, “Ǿ ĮʌȠȤȫȡȘıȘ IJȠȣ İȜȜȘȞȚțȠȪ ıIJȡĮIJȠȪ Įʌȩ IJȘ ǺȩȡİȚĮ dzʌİȚȡȠ țĮȚ ȠȚ ʌȡȠİIJȠȚȝĮıȓİȢ ȖȚĮ IJȠȞ ĮȖȫȞĮ,” in 1914. Ǿ ĮȣIJȠȞȠȝȓĮ IJȘȢ ǺȠȡİȓȠȣ ǾʌİȓȡȠȣ, ed. Artemios Psaromelingos and Vasiliki Lazou (Athens: Ch. K. Teggopoulos SA, 2011), 33-88; Kostas Chatziantoniou, “ȀȠȡȣIJıȐ: Ǿ ȝĮIJĮȚȦșİȓıĮ ĮʌİȜİȣșȑȡȦıȘ (19191-1920),” ǺȠȡİȚȠȘʌİȚȡȦIJȚțȐ 1 (2010): 11-16, 18; Georgios V. Leontaritis, H EȜȜȐįĮ ıIJȠȞ ȆȡȫIJȠ ȆĮȖțȩıȝȚȠ ȆȩȜİȝȠ 1917-1918, trans. Vasilis Oikonomides (Athens: National Bank of Greece Cultural Foundation, 2000), 38190; Vasilis Kondis, ǼȜȜȘȞȚıȝȩȢ IJȘȢ ǺȠȡİȓȠȣ ǾʌİȓȡȠȣ țĮȚ İȜȜȘȞȠĮȜȕĮȞȚțȑȢ ıȤȑıİȚȢ, 2 volumes (Athens: Public Benefit Foundation A. S. Onasis, 1995). 15 KĮIJȐȜȠȖȠȢ ǺȜĮıIJȩȢ 2005. ǼȜȜȘȞȚțȑȢ ȆİȡȚȠȤȑȢ, vol. 3: īȡĮȝȝĮIJȩıȘȝĮ țĮȚ IJĮȤȣįȡȠȝȚțȒ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮ (Athens: Vlastos, 2004), 117-19; Dimitris I. Giannoudis, “ȆȜĮıIJȐ İȜȜȘȞȚțȐ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȩıȘȝĮ,” ĭȚȜȠIJİȜȚțȒ ȁȑıȕȠȢ 203 (2002): 211; each issue consisted of 9 values, the first one with perforation of very bad quality and the second one without perforation.

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We can date this issue either in the period between the Protocol of Corfu (May 1914) and the outbreak of the First World War (July 1914), when Greek newspapers were filled with triumphal exaltations and pompous expressions regarding the North Epirote Question,16 or shortly after the dissolution of the Regional Government of Argyrokastro and the occupation of northern Epirus by the Greek army (after 24.10.1914), when once more articles in contemporary Greek newspapers (Athenian and local ones alike) revealed a climate of reinvigorated nationalism and irredentist aspirations,17 or in December 1915-March 1916 when 16 deputies from North Epirus (10 from Argyrokastro and 6 from Korytsa district) were accepted in the Greek Parliament by the government of Skouloudis and a Royal Decree officially promulgated the union of the region with the 16 Pouli Kokkori, “ȆȦȢ İȓįİ Ƞ IJȪʌȠȢ IJȘȢ İʌȠȤȒȢ IJȠ ȕȠȡİȚȠȘʌİȚȡȦIJȚțȩ ȗȒIJȘȝĮ,” in 1914. Ǿ ĮȣIJȠȞȠȝȓĮ IJȘȢ ǺȠȡİȓȠȣ ǾʌİȓȡȠȣ, ed. Artemios Psaromelingos and Vasiliki Lazou (Athens: Ch. K. Teggopoulos SA, 2011), 115-16. Zervopoulos already in 1940-1941 had published in the Greek philatelic magazine ĭȚȜȠIJȑȜİȚĮ the act for the issuing of stamps by the postal office of Cheimara in 1914, lying outside the Autonomous Republic of Northern Epirus. He had accepted its authenticity and had concluded that the stamps actually might have been issued in Corfu. (Athanasios Zervopoulos, “ȈȣȝȕȠȜȒ İȚȢ IJȘȞ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮȞ IJȦȞ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȠıȒȝȦȞ IJȘȢ ǺȠȡİȓȠȣ ǾʌİȓȡȠȣ,” ĭȚȜȠIJȑȜİȚĮ 188-89 (1940): 85-86; id. “ȈȣȝȕȠȜȒ İȚȢ IJȘȞ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮȞ IJȦȞ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȠıȒȝȦȞ IJȘȢ ǺȠȡİȓȠȣ ǾʌİȓȡȠȣ,” ĭȚȜȠIJȑȜİȚĮ 190-91 (1940): 99-100; id. “ȈȣȝȕȠȜȒ İȚȢ IJȘȞ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮȞ IJȦȞ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȠıȒȝȦȞ IJȘȢ ǺȠȡİȓȠȣ ǾʌİȓȡȠȣ,” ĭȚȜȠIJȑȜİȚĮ 192-93 (1941): 5-7). 17 Kokkori, “O IJȪʌȠȢ IJȘȢ İʌȠȤȒȢ,” 90-114. Dating the issuing of the stamps during the Regional Government of Argyrokastro is not a likely possibility since the Autonomous North Epirote Greeks used as their emblem a two-headed eagle in the middle of the white-blue national Greek flag in shields, flags, honorary medals, diplomas, documents and stamps. See Hermes 2002, 406-11; Manta, “Ǿ ĮʌȠȤȫȡȘıȘ IJȠȣ İȜȜȘȞȚțȠȪ ıIJȡĮIJȠȪ,” 43, 47, 49, 53, 63, 71; Georgios A. Drinos, ȋȡȠȞȚțȐ IJȠȣ ȕȠȡİȚȠȘʌİȚȡȦIJȚțȠȪ ĮȖȫȞȠȢ 1914 (Athens: Filekpaideftiki Etaireia, 1966), 19, 121, 148, 176, 178-79. So, practically there is no evidence or logical reason why the Regional Government should have changed its very own emblem. On the contrary, in the official declaration of the dissolution of the Regional Government, dated on the 24th of October 1914, signed by Georgakis Zografos and addressed to the North Epirotes after the arrival of the Greek army, it is stated to the Greek soldiers: “Finally you are entering yet worthy brothers of those who on the battlefields and the places of Victory had enlarged and polished the star of the Hellenism’s glory” (Drinos, ȋȡȠȞȚțȐ, 177, my italics). Perhaps this change of political status in northern Epirus demanded a similar change in its emblems and as a consequence the replacement of the two-headed eagle with Nike of Paionios, heralding the victory of the Greek army and the fulfillment, albeit very temporarily, of the Greek claims on the territory.

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Greek kingdom,18 or more likely in the period from mid 1919 until mid 1920,19 a turning point in the Northern Epirus question, when Greece attempted to annexe this territory in a more solid base.20 Indeed, on 16/297-1919 Venizelos and Italian Foreign Minister Tittoni signed an agreement in Paris, according to which Italy agreed to support the Greek claims in northern Epirus.21 This kind of diplomatic victory might have caused the private issuing of these stamps and the use of Paionios’s famous, winged Victory. Similarly, this so-called Venizelos-Tittoni Agreement became the front page in Greek newspapers, bringing joy and relief to the Orthodox Greeks in Korytsa and frustration to Muslim Albanians and Albanists.22

‘Panionios’ Gymnastic Club of Smyrna In 1919 Paionios’s Nike was used on the shields of ‘Panionios’ (Fig. 11-7a-7c),23 a musical-athletic association founded in 1898 by the union of a musical association, called “Orpheus” (founded in 1890), and an athletic association, called “Gymnasion” of Smyrna (founded in 1894 by ex18

Eleftheria K. Manta, “Ǿ ȕȩȡİȚĮ dzʌİȚȡȠȢ țĮIJȐ IJȠȞ Įǯ ȆĮȖțȩıȝȚȠ ȆȩȜİȝȠ. Ǿ İȜȜȘȞȚțȒ įȚȠȓțȘıȘ (ȅțIJ. 1914-ȃȠȑȝ. 1916),” in 1914. Ǿ ĮȣIJȠȞȠȝȓĮ IJȘȢ ǺȠȡİȓȠȣ ǾʌİȓȡȠȣ, ed. Artemios Psaromelingos and Vasiliki Lazou (Athens: Ch. K. Teggopoulos SA, 2011), 154. 19 In no way after the end of spring 1920, since (i) on 15/28 May 1920 the Treaty of Kapestitsa against a Greek-governed Korytsa was signed, inflicting a heavy blow to Greek aspirations for union and bringing fear and lamentation to the North Epirote Greeks, (ii) on early August 1920 the recognition of a fully independent Albanian State was promulgated, and (iii) on November 1920 the pro-Entente Venizelos’s electoral defeat was the final blow to any hope for help and support from the British or the French government. See Manta, “Ǿ ȕȩȡİȚĮ dzʌİȚȡȠȢ,” 17476, 178-92; Chatziantoniou, “ȀȠȡȣIJıȐ,” 16-18; and especially Vasilis Kondis, “The Albanian Question at the Bof 1920 and the Greek-Albanian Protocol of Kapestitsa (May 28th 1920),” Balkan Studies 20 (1979): 393-427. 20 In a personal communication with the author, Mr. Perdikis, a Greek stamp dealer and expert in the postal history of northern Epirus, pointed out this dating. 21 Manta, “Ǿ ȕȩȡİȚĮ dzʌİȚȡȠȢ,” 166-72. 22 Chatziantoniou, “ȀȠȡȣIJıȐ,” 11-13. 23 According to the 16th article of the club’s regulation in September 1906 its shield is described without this symbol, see ȀĮȞȠȞȚıȝȩȢ ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȣ īȣȝȞĮıIJȚțȠȪ ȈȣȜȜȩȖȠȣ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ ȚįȡȣșȑȞIJȠȢ IJȦ 1890, Smyrna 1906, 25; Kiriaki Mamoni and Lida Istikopoulou, ȈȦȝĮIJİȚĮțȒ ȅȡȖȐȞȦıȘ IJȠȣ ǼȜȜȘȞȚıȝȠȪ ıIJȘ ȂȚțȡȐ ǹıȓĮ (18611922) (Athens: Estia, 2006), 166, note 300; Christos Solomonidis and Nikos Lorentis, ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ īȣȝȞĮıIJȚțȩȢ ȈȪȜȜȠȖȠȢ (Athens: Philiki Etaireia, 1967), 45. It seems that Nike served after a certain point as the unofficial, yet the most popular emblem of this leading Smyrnean club

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members of “Orpheus”) that organized hiking excursions, lectures, dancing nights, poetical and artistic competitions and exhibitions and preserved a musical department with two orchestras and choir from 1891 to 1904.24 The use of this symbol is most probably dated to early 1919, when Nike appears for the first time on securely dated diplomas and photos of the gymnastic club (Fig. 11-7d),25 just a few months after the Armistice of Moudros was signed (17/30-10-1918) between the Ottoman Empire and the Allied army and soon after Greek warships arrived at the port of Smyrna. Two prominent Smyrnean eyewitnesses, Ioannis Sykoutris and Michael Rodas, record the gathering of large numbers of Orthodox Greek Smyrniotes, the clergy, members of the community council and demogerontes at the Greek Orthodox cathedral of Smyrna on May 1st, 1919, waiting with great joy and superlative enthusiasm for the arrival of metropolitan Chrysostomos and Elias Mavroudis, captain of the Greek squadron of warships anchored off Smyrna.26 Six months before (5 November 1918) the first British warship had entered the port of Smyrna and a few days later the Greek destroyer “Leo”.27 Mavroudis read in public Venizelos’s patriotic letter to the Smyrniotes, while the excited metropolitan Chrysostomos stated “From this day on … we form an

24 Mamoni and Istikopoulou, ȈȦȝĮIJİȚĮțȒ ȅȡȖȐȞȦıȘ, 123; Solomonidis and Lorentis, ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ, 29, 32; Paulos N. Manitakis, 100 ȋȡȩȞȚĮ ȃİȠİȜȜȘȞȚțȠȪ ǹșȜȘIJȚıȝȠȪ, 1830-1930 (Athens: Topographikos Organismos, 1962), 87; Christos Solomonidis, ȉȘȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ. ȈȣȞȠȚțȓİȢ-ǻȡȩȝȠȚ-ȆİȡȓʌĮIJȠȚ-ǹʌȩțȡȚİȢ-ȁȑıȤİȢ-ȋȠȡȠȓȆȐıȤĮ-ǹșȜȘIJȚıȝȩȢ-ǽȦȖȡȐijȠȚ-ȆȡȠıțȠʌȚıȝȩȢ-īȜȦııȐȡȚȠ-ț.Į. (Athens: A. N. Maurides, 1957), 185, 188-89, 195; Nikos Lorentis, “ȅ ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ īȣȝȞĮıIJȚțȩȢ ȈȪȜȜȠȖȠȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ,” ȂȚțȡĮıȚĮIJȚțȐ ȋȡȠȞȚțȐ 3 (1940): 410-19; Panagiotis Fardoulis, ǼȝʌȠȡȚțȩȢ ȅįȘȖȩȢ IJȘȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ țĮȚ IJȦȞ ȆİȡȚȤȫȡȦȞ (Smyrna: Amaltheia, 1901), 87-88. 25 Aris Michaelides, “H ȃȓțȘ IJȠȣ ȆĮ(Ȟ)ȚȦȞȓȠȣ,” ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ ȀȩıȝȠȢ 69 (2010): 12. See also (a) an honorary degree, issued on the 17th of November 1919, whose top right corner is decorated with Nike of Paionios (Petros Linardos, Ǿ ȈȝȪȡȞȘ IJȠȣ ȆĮȞȚȦȞȓȠȣ – ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ IJȘȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ (Athens: Oi Philoi ton Technon Neas Smyrnes, 1998), photo on page 162) and (b) a photo of the 1919 Panionios’s Board of Directors with a large-scale Nike of Paionios in the background (Solomonidis and Lorentis, ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ, 223). 26 On Rodas’s account see Michael Rodas, Ǿ ǼȜȜȐįĮ ıIJȘ ȂȚțȡȐȞ ǹıȓĮ (19181922) (Athens: Kleisiounis, 1950), 60-61; on Sykoutris’s account see Dionysios Alikaniotes, ǿȦȐȞȞȘȢ ȈȣțȠȣIJȡȒȢ: Ǿ ȗȦȒ IJȠȣ 1901-1937 (Athens: Kaktos, 2008), 84-86. See also Christos Angelomatis, ȋȡȠȞȚțȩȞ ȝİȖȐȜȘȢ IJȡĮȖȦįȓĮȢ (ȉȠ ȑʌȠȢ IJȘȢ ȂȚțȡȐȢ ǹıȓĮȢ) (Athens: Estia, 1940), 33-35. 27 Angelomatis, ȋȡȠȞȚțȩȞ, 33, 36, 39.

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integral part of our single, glorious, immortal fatherland Hellas…Long live the Nation”.28 This change on Panionios’s symbols is connected with Smyrna’s truly ethnocentric athletic character, which is clearly reflected in the participation of a Smyrnean club among the founding members of the irredentist Athens-based S.E.A.G.S. (Hellenic Federation of Athletic and Gymnastic Clubs) on January 1897.29 Very soon, in 1901 the Smyrnean clubs inscribed in S.E.A.G.S. became two,30 while in 1910 the inscribed members from Smyrna’s wider zone of influence reached a climax (with clubs from Melantia, Bournoba, Mytilene, Magnesia, Adramyttion, Kydonies, Sokia etc.) and a number of athletic (school and junior), 28

See Rodas, Ǿ ǼȜȜȐįĮ, 61; Alikaniotes, ȈȣțȠȣIJȡȒȢ, 86: “ૅǹʌȩ IJોȢ ıȒȝİȡȠȞ... ਕʌȠIJİȜȠ૨ȝİȞ ਕȞĮʌȩıʌĮıIJȠȞ IJȝȒȝĮ IJોȢ ਱ȞȦȝȑȞȘȢ, IJોȢ ਥȞįȩȟȠȣ, IJોȢ ਕșĮȞȐIJȠȣ ȝİȖȐȜȘȢ ȝĮȢ ʌĮIJȡȓįȠȢ ૽ǼȜȜȐįȠȢ...ǽȒIJȦ IJȩ ૓ǼșȞȠȢ”. 29 Christina Koulouri, ǹșȜȘIJȚıȝȩȢ țĮȚ ȩȥİȚȢ IJȘȢ ĮıIJȚțȒȢ țȠȚȞȠȞȚțȩIJȘIJĮȢ. īȣȝȞĮıIJȚțȐ țĮȚ ĮșȜȘIJȚțȐ ıȦȝĮIJİȓĮ 1870-1922. Historical Archive of Greek Youth 32 (Athens: Hellenic National Research Foundation, 1997), 170-71. It is no coincidence that S.E.A.G.S.’s symbol was Nike of Paionios, too (Fig. 11-8). The founding member and first president of S.E.A.G.S. was Athens University professor Spyridon Lambros, who was also vice-president of the notorious ǼșȞȚțȒ ǼIJĮȚȡİȓĮ (National Society) which exalted the nationalist feelings of University students, supported aggressive actions in Macedonia and Crete in 1896-1897 and finally provoked the catastrophic Greek-Ottoman War of 1897, only a few weeks after the foundation of S.E.A.G.S. See Giannis Gianoulopoulos, «Ǿ İȣȖİȞȒȢ ȝĮȢ IJȪijȜȦıȚȢ...». ǼȟȦIJİȡȚțȒ ʌȠȜȚIJȚțȒ țĮȚ «İșȞȚțȐ șȑȝĮIJĮ» Įʌȩ IJȘȞ ȒIJIJĮ IJȠȣ 1897 ȑȦȢ IJȘ ȂȚțȡĮıȚĮIJȚțȒ ȀĮIJĮıIJȡȠijȒ (Athens: Vivliorama, 20034), 40-41, 151-56; Efi Gazi, “ȈȣȝȕȠȜȚțȩȢ ȜȩȖȠȢ țĮȚ ʌȠȜȚIJȚțȒ ʌȡĮțIJȚțȒ țĮIJȐ IJȘȞ ʌİȡȓȠįȠ IJȠȣ ʌȠȜȑȝȠȣ IJȠȣ 1897: ıȪȖțȜȚıȘ, ĮʌȩțȜȚıȘ, ıȪȖțȡȠȣıȘ,” in ȅ ʌȩȜİȝȠȢ IJȠȣ 1897: įȚȒȝİȡȠ ȝİ IJȘȞ İȣțĮȚȡȓĮ IJȦȞ 100 ȤȡȩȞȦȞ, 4 țĮȚ 5 ǻİțİȝȕȡȓȠȣ 1997, ed. Maria Stefanopoulou (Athens: The Moraitis School, 1999), 106-09, 112-13. In the speech Lambros delivered in front of the representatives of gymnastic clubs on the 12th of January 1897 at the Literary Association “Parnassos” of Athens during the founding congress of S.E.A.G.S., he stated that “we will prepare the body and the soul [of the Greek youth], … which rushes upon great, national competitions, concerning not running or discus throwing but fatherland itself, and deposits its wreaths on the heroon of all unified free Hellenes, upon which it will be inscribed ǼȁȁǹȈ ǼȃǿȀǹ (Greece won)” (Spyridon Lambros, “ȆȡȠıijȫȞȘıȚȢ IJ૵Ȟ ਕȞIJȚʌȡȠıȫʌȦȞ IJ૵Ȟ ૽ǼȜȜȘȞȚț૵Ȟ īȣȝȞĮıIJȚț૵Ȟ ȈȣȜȜȩȖȦȞ ਥȞ IJ૶ ȆĮȞİȜȜȘȞȓ૳ īȣȝȞĮıIJȚț૶ ȈȣȞİįȡȓ૳,” in idem, ȁȩȖȠȚ țĮȚ ȐȡșȡĮ (Athens: P. Sakellarios, 1902), 254-55; newspaper ǼȝʌȡȩȢ 63/13-1-1897, 2). On S.E.A.G.S.’s irredentist “policy” and on the interaction between nationalism and sports in Greece a monograph will soon follow by the author of this paper. 30 Panagiotis S. Savvides, ǹșȜȘIJȚțȩȞ ȁİȪțȦȝĮ. DzțIJĮțIJȠȞ ʌĮȡȐȡIJȘȝĮ IJȘȢ ĮșȜȘIJȚțȒȢ țĮȚ ʌȠįȘȜĮIJȚțȒȢ İʌȚșİȦȡȒıİȦȢ IJȘȢ ǹȞĮIJȠȜȒȢ (Athens: Estia, 1901), 12.

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nautical and football games were put under the auspices of the Hellenic Federation.31 Panionios’s athletes had unofficially participated in the First “Soteria” (ȈȦIJȒȡȚĮ) held at Athens in 1899 in honour of the safety of King George I of the Hellenes.32 Smyrnean athletes participated officially for the first time in the 1904 Panhellenic gymnastic/athletic games held at Athens. S.E.A.G.S. prepared a solemn ceremony to welcome them as representatives of the ‘enslaved fatherland’, while the newspapers ǹțȡȩʌȠȜȚȢ and ǼȝʌȡȩȢ dedicated long articles concerning the Smyrnean teams that arrived for the games, whose members were greeted with joy by the Athenians on the streets of the capital.33 ȃȑȠȞ DZıIJȣ wrote that ‘With the arrival and the participation of both these Smyrnean associations [e.g. ‘Panionios’ and ‘Apollo’] the Panhellenic Games will have an extremely great interest, making the brothers of the enslaved [homeland] and the free brothers…compete with each other’.34 The newspaper ȅȚ ȀĮȚȡȠȓ narrated the story of a certain spectator, an elder teacher from the ‘outer Hellenism’, who burst into tears at the mere sight of the competing young athletes from the free and the enslaved Hellas, and who pointed out that thanks to the games they were closely connected with free Hellas and that all of Hellenism could gather in Athens to see the Panhellenion celebrating.35 Actually, the Ottoman city-ports, especially Smyrna, became the parexcellence areas where an intense irredentist climate was cultivated in the late 1890s. Smyrna by the time Nike became Panionios’s emblem was already a major place of Greek Orthodox settlement, a true focal point of 31

Angelos. S. Konstantinou, ȈȪȞįİıȝȠȢ IJȦȞ ǼȜȜȘȞȚțȫȞ ǹșȜȘIJȚțȫȞ țĮȚ īȣȝȞĮıIJȚțȫȞ ȈȦȝĮIJİȓȦȞ, ǾȝİȡȠȜȩȖȚȠȞ 1910 (Athens: Estia 1910), 17-18, 114-15, 153, 175, 181, 183, 185, 188. 32 ǿoannis Ǽ. Chrysaphis, ȅȚ ıȪȖȤȡȠȞȠȚ ǻȚİșȞİȓȢ ȅȜȣȝʌȚĮțȠȓ ǹȖȫȞİȢ. ȈȣȝȕȠȜȒ İȚȢ IJȘȞ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮȞ IJȘȢ ȃİȦIJȑȡĮȢ ǹȖȦȞȚıIJȚțȒȢ, Library of the Olympic Games Commission 3 (Athens: G. S. Sergiades, 1930), 467-74; Manitakis, 100 ȋȡȩȞȚĮ, 90-93; Solomonidis and Lorentis, ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ, 124; Solomonidis, ȉȘȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ, 202. These games celebrated with great solemnity the unsuccessful attempt against King George I’s life, and Greeks honoured their king in a truly national athletic event. 33 ǹțȡȩʌȠȜȚȢ 7959/1-5-1904, 2; 7960/2-5-1904, 2; 7962/4-5-1904, 1-2; 7970/12-51904, 2; ǼȝʌȡȩȢ 2703/3-5-1904, 3; 2704/4-5-1904, 4; 2705/5-5-1904, 1-2; 2707/75-1904, 1-2. 34 ȃȑȠȞ DZıIJȣ 864/3-5-1904, 1-2: “Ȃȑ IJȒȞ ਙijȚȟȚȞ țĮȓ ıȣȝȝİIJȠȤȒȞ IJ૵Ȟ įȪȠ IJȠȪIJȦȞ IJોȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ ıȦȝĮIJİȓȦȞ Ƞੂ ȆĮȞİȜȜȒȞȚȠȚ ਕȖ૵ȞİȢ șȐ ਩ȤȠȣȞ ȝȑȖĮ ਥȟȩȤȦȢ ਥȞįȚĮijȑȡȠȞ, șȑIJȠȞIJİȢ ਕȞIJȚʌȐȜȠȣȢ...IJȠȪȢ ਥȞ IJૌ įȠȪȜૉ ʌȡȩȢ IJȠȪȢ ਥȜİȣșȑȡȠȣȢ ਕįİȜijȠȪȢ.” See also ȅȚ ȀĮȚȡȠȓ 5326/3-5-1904, 4 for a similar article. 35 ȅȚ ȀĮȚȡȠȓ 5330/7-5-1904, 1.

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Greek culture and a great centre of ‘Unredeemed’ Hellenism in the eastern Mediterranean.36 Smyrna was one of the most important seats of the Greek consulate in the Ottoman Empire within a sophisticated consular system, responsible for launching the irredentist policy of the Greek state,37 while S.E.A.G.S. had also established a local committee in Smyrna.38 This Greek-centred attitude, led by certain Smyrnean social groups (see below) was reinforced by the romantic allure of the Greek Struggle for Macedonia (1904-1908) and mostly by the prestigious triumphs of the Greek army in 36 Similarly, “Panionios” was indisputably the major athletic club in Ottoman Asia Minor and a focal point of athletic activity for Greek Orthodox populations. From 1902 until 1914 more than 200 teachers from other Greek Orthodox communities of Ottoman Asia Minor were trained in special summer seminars of the School of Trainers in Smyrna, organised by “Panionios”, directed by “Panionios”’s famous trainer Sophocles Magnis, and under the auspices of the Church authorities in Ionia. “Panionios” covered the journey and accommodation expenses of the teachers (and from 1908 of the students, too) who participated in these seminars. For this major ethnic-athletic work was funded officially by the metropolitan of Smyrna, Chrysostomos, and regularly from 1903 to 1914 by the Greek state (Solomonidis and Lorentis, ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ, 50-51; Solomonidis, ȉȘȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ, 196). In addition, Panionian Games were celebrated 19 times in Smyrna, initially by “Gymnasion” in 1896 and later by “Panionios” from 1898 onwards (19 times in total). Since 1899 they were regulated by rules strictly defined and officially recorded (24 March 1899) and later sanctioned by S.E.A.G.S. (Solomonidis and Lorentis, ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ, 58; Manitakis, 100 ȋȡȩȞȚĮ, 89). In the 6th Panionian Games (1902) athletes participated for the first time from Constantinople, Samos and Alexandria and in the 8th Panionian Games (1904) from Athens, Piraeus, Patras and Cyprus, while a delegation of S.E.A.G.S. and the Hellenic Olympic Committee (henceforth H.O.C.) oversaw the athletes’ performances (including leading members such as the militant nationalist professor Spyridon Lampros). On the celebration of the 10th Panionian Games (1906) various consuls and viceconsuls of the multinational Smyrnean society attended, while in the 11th Panionian Games (1907) 148 athletes and 30,000 spectators attended, and S.E.A.G.S. was represented by its vice-president and its general secretary and even the H.O.C. instituted a prize for the winning club of the games. In the 13th Panionian Games (1909) 17 athletic clubs participated (from Smyrna, Kydonies, Magnesia, Sokia, Mytilene, Adramyttion, Athens, Piraeus and Constantinople) and the vice-president of S.E.A.G.S., Vasileios Antonopoulos, was appointed president of the umpires (Konstantinou, ǾȝİȡȠȜȩȖȚȠȞ 1910, 130; Koulouri, ǹșȜȘIJȚıȝȩȢ, 127128, note 158; Solomonidis and Lorentis, ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ, 58-110; Manitakis, 100 ȋȡȩȞȚĮ, 122-23, 131-32, 145-46, 158-59, 206-09, 225-26, 256-60, 327; Solomonidis, ȉȘȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ, 198-99). 37 Paschalis M. Kitromilides, “Greek Irredentism in Asia Minor and Cyprus,” Middle Eastern Studies 26 (1990): 7-9. 38 Konstantinou, ǾȝİȡȠȜȩȖȚȠȞ 1910, 23.

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the Balkan Wars (1912-1913). Besides, larger parts of the Greek Orthodox communities in the Ottoman Empire gradually turned their hopes to the Greek kingdom because of the dying empire after the end of the First World War in 1918.39 Nike of Paionios was most probably the visual culmination of a long process towards national self-understanding of the Smyrnean Greek Orthodox community, which was partly trying to break with past attitudes and values of the millet of Rum and create a new collective sense of national identity. However, the community was still divided between the Elders Council and the Central Committee. The former was a traditional scheme of community administration within the Ottoman context, abiding by the laws of the Ottoman state and supported by the general regulations of the patriarchate. The latter was the development of new social groups with independent mechanisms of representation, as the middle and upper bourgeois groups of such a wealthy port.40 After the Greek-Ottoman War of 1897 the political context in the Ottoman Empire encouraged the claims of the Elders Council, dominated by the Ottomanists, over the hegemony of the community’s administrative and religious affairs. As a consequence, the non-Ottoman bourgeois groups tried to apply other criteria of eligibility to the administration of the community, such as charities and voluntary associations.41 Among the members of these groups were lawyers, doctors, bank employees, teachers, journalists, owners of insurance companies or big commercial firms, brokers, merchant dealers etc. These skilled professionals one year later formed the Board of Directors of a new gymnastic club, called “Panionios”.42 This dynamic change in the athletic 39 Charis Exertzoglou, ȅȚ «ȤĮȝȑȞİȢ ʌĮIJȡȓįİȢ» ʌȑȡĮ Įʌȩ IJȘ ȞȠıIJĮȜȖȓĮ. ȂȓĮ țȠȚȞȦȞȚțȒ-ʌȠȜȚIJȚıȝȚțȒ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮ IJȦȞ ȇȦȝȚȫȞ IJȘȢ ȠșȦȝĮȞȚțȒȢ ĮȣIJȠțȡĮIJȠȡȓĮȢ (ȝȑıĮ 19Ƞȣ–ĮȡȤȑȢ 20Ƞȣ ĮȚȫȞĮ) (Athens: Nefeli, 2010), 22-23; Ioannis Zelepos, Die Ethnisierung griechischer Identität 1870-1912. Staat und private Akteure vor dem Hintergrund der ‘Megali Idea’, Südosteuropäische Arbeiten 113 (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2002), 235-51. 40 See in general the outstanding analysis in Vangelis Kechriotes, “The Greeks of Izmir at the End of the Empire. A non-Muslim Ottoman Community between Autonomy and Patriotism” (Ph.D. diss., Leiden University, 2005). 41 Kechriotes, “The Greeks of Izmir,” 282-85; Kitromilides, “Greek Irredentism,” 7-9, 10-11. 42 e.g. A. Athenogenis (lawyer and member of various clubs and charity foundations, fighter in the 1897 War and the Balkan Wars), D. Dallas, (bank employee, athletic journalist and the soul of the Greek-centred attitude of Panionios), T. Jovanof (doctor), St. Pittakis (irredentist poet, philologist, director of the Library and the Archaeological Museum of the Evangelic School of Smyrna), M. Seïzanes (irredentist journalist, member of various clubs, fighter in

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activity of Smyrna was probably a way for these non-Ottomanist bourgeois groups to reaffirm their place inside the post-1897 community and express their irredentist Greece-centred policy.43 Even when in the post-1908 period and the opening of the Ottoman Parliament some Smyrnean Greeks shifted their expectations to Istanbul, “Panionios” Gymnastic Club insisted on participating in the Panhellenic

the 1881 War), P. Markopoulos (doctor with patriotic activity), St. Sperantzas (musician, doctor, author), S. Raptopoulos (broker), K. Ch. Apostolou (merchant dealer), Ant. Arealis (doctor), M. Isegonis (doctor, member of the Board of Directors of various charity and educational foundations), N. Makrypodaros (merchant), Th. Yperides (journalist, author, editor of liberal newspapers), A. Photiades (poet), Th. Iatrou (doctor), A. Chamoudopoulos (lawyer), I. Leon (lawyer) etc. The data are taken from Solomonidis, ȉȘȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ and Chrestos Theodorides’s 4-volume book ǻȚĮțȡȚșȑȞIJİȢ IJȠȣ ȟİȡȡȚȗȦȝȑȞȠȣ ǼȜȜȘȞȚıȝȠȪ Ȃ. ǹıȓĮȢ-ȆȩȞIJȠȣ-ǹȞ. ĬȡȐțȘȢ-ȀȦȞıIJĮȞIJȚȞȠȣʌȩȜİȦȢ (Athens, 1975-1980) and from the 1901 and the 1909-1910 Smyrnean ǼȜȜȘȞȚțȩȢ ǼȝʌȠȡȚțȩȢ ȅįȘȖȩȢ. 43 This is attested by the regular participation of “Panionios” in Panhellenic Games (usually held in Panathinaïkon Stadium in Athens before the Greek royal family), the organisation of Panionian Games under the auspices of Athens-based H.O.C. and S.E.A.G.S., its subscription to Athens-based S.E.A.G.S. (“Gymnasion” was actually among the founding members of S.E.A.G.S.), its systematic correspondence with the H.O.C., its official financial support in 1909-1911 by the Greek government, the inscription of Miltiades Negrepontis and Michael Stellakis (members of the H.O.C.) as well of Alexander Rhagabes (president of S.E.A.G.S.) as honorary members of “Panionios”, the musical performances of its orchestra and choir in Athens (Koulouri, ǹșȜȘIJȚıȝȩȢ, 143; Solomonidis and Lorentis, ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ, 32; Solomonidis, ȉȘȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ, 188-89, 195; Konstantinou, ǾȝİȡȠȜȩȖȚȠȞ 1910, 23), and the organization of football games against Athenian or Piraean football teams in the velodrome of Phaliron, in the presence of Greek Prime Minister Eleftherios Venizelos in 1911 (see articles on ǼȝʌȡȩȢ 5194/10-41911 to 5196/12-4-1911 and ȅȚ ȀĮȚȡȠȓ 101/12-4-1911 and 102/13-4-1911). In addition, in 1904 at the First Panhellenic Conference for Education in Athens in the presence of King George I, “੒ ਥȞ ȈȝȪȡȞૉ ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ ȈȪȜȜȠȖȠȢ” was represented by I. Diamantopoulos, owner of a private educational foundation in Smyrna. “Panionios” was honoured in this conference for its services with a medal, an honorary diploma and a money prize (ǹȚ ǹșȒȞĮȚ 164/31-3-1904, 2; 165/1-41904, 1-2; Solomonidis and Lorentis, ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ, 54; Solomonidis, ȉȘȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ, 197). It is also significant that “Panionios” kept regular correspondence with the Athens-based Association of Asia Minor Greeks “Anatolia” (see for example “Panionios” epistles on 10-11-1908 and 17-9-1910, addressed to “Anatolia”, in the Library of Hestia of New Smyrna, The Archive of ǹȞĮIJȠȜȒ ǽ209 and ǽ237 respectively).

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Games in mother Hellas.44 Besides, the Greek Struggle for Macedonia (1904-1908) had reinforced the status of Athens as centre of Hellenism, monopolising the national question, and the ethnos was identified more and more with national consciousness (ethnic nationalism), in contrast to the Joachimist ethnarchism where ethnos was identified with the Orthodox flock (see below).45 Similarly, the Philharmonic Society of Smyrna, which was founded in 1893 by skilled professionals and merchants of the middle bourgeois class (one of the founding members, K. Pachynakis, was an irredentist member of the Central Committee, arrested in 1914 by the Ottoman authorities), was inscribed in S.E.A.G.S. (it maintained a gym after its re-establishment in 1896), and corresponded with the Athensbased Association of Asia Minor Greeks “Anatolia” and later with the H.O.C.46 In short, what we need to remember is that “Panionios” was a leading institution within the cultural efflorescence of Greek voluntary associations in the Ottoman empire. In the early 1920s it had almost 500 members, a total number much higher than those of both the leading Athenian Gymnastic Clubs “Panhellenios” and “Ethnikos”.47 In an environment of multinational ethno-religious fluidity these kinds of associations employed a solid national vocabulary (use of key-concepts such as ethnos, national language, national duty, national identity etc), as did the leading members of “Panionios” Gymnastic Club. Thus, “Nike of Paionios” symbolically reflected the extraordinary energy and spectacular state of progress of the so-called “Unredeemed” Hellenism in Smyrna, seen also in a long series of foundations of libraries, museums and private schools, in the creation of more than thirty associations and brotherhoods between 1860 and 1922 concerning education, culture and charity, religious foundations, music and dramatic associations and elitist clubs, in a unique production and circulation of books, newspapers and journals, in the courses in Greek language, history, geography and theology offered at Greek private schools, in the political power of various non-Muslim social groups, and even in the official establishment of Greek Orthodox feast days.48 44

Kechriotes, “The Greeks of Izmir,” 285; Manitakis, 100 ȋȡȩȞȚĮ, 218 (1908), 251 (1909), 264 and 269 (1910), 280 (1911), 292 (1912), 322 (1914). 45 Zelepos, Die Ethnisierung, 205-07. 46 Mamoni and Istikopoulou, ȈȦȝĮIJİȚĮțȒ ȅȡȖȐȞȦıȘ, 122; Fardoulis, ǼȝʌȠȡȚțȩȢ ȅįȘȖȩȢ, 88. 47 ǼȜȜȘȞȚțȩȢ ȅįȘȖȩȢ, ȚįȚȠțIJȘıȓĮ İIJĮȚȡİȓĮȢ ȀȣȡȚȑȡȘȢ-īȚĮȞȞȩʌȠȣȜȠȢ & ȈȓĮ, Athens: ‘GEO’, 1920, 31-32. 48 Basma Zerouali, "Le creuset des arts et des plaisirs," in Smyrne, la ville oubliée?: Mémoires d'un grand port ottoman, 1830-1930, ed. Marie-Carmen

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In other words, the impressive winged Victory in Olympia was used as an emblem for the victorious fulfillment of major irredentist goals, at the zenith of long-lasting visionary nationalist aspirations, with which some parts of the Greek community of Smyrna were deply imbued.49 Similarly, Athletic Club “Ares” of Thessaloniki, a pro-Venizelist club, founded after the liberation of the city by the Greek army in the First Balkan War, chose the war-god Mars (“Ares” in Greek) to become the emblem of the club, a symbol irrelevant to sport activities in the first place.50 Similarly, the proroyalist Gymnastic Club “Hercules” (founded in 1908 initially as “Macedonian Gymnastic Club” and renamed in 1910 to “Ottoman Hellenic Gymnastic Club Hercules”) used the demi-god Hercules on its

Smyrnelis (Paris: Autrement, 2006), 138-56; Mamoni and Istikopoulou, ȈȦȝĮIJİȚĮțȒ ȅȡȖȐȞȦıȘ, 74-108, 120-37; Hervé Georgelin, La fin de Smyrne: du cosmopolitisme aux nationalisms (Paris: CNRS éditions, 2005), 82-95, 102-06, 136, 154-56; Giorgos Giannakopoulos, “ȅ İȜȜȘȞȚțȩȢ IJȪʌȠȢ ıIJȘ ȈȝȪȡȞȘ,” ǿıIJȠȡȚțȐ 148 (2002): 38-43. For the establishment of the feast day of Saint Polycarpos of Smyrna on the 23rd of February as a public holiday for the Greek Orthodox community of Smyrna in 1911 by the metropolitan Chrysostomos, see Paschalis M. Kitromilides et al., ȈȝȪȡȞȘ: H ȝȘIJȡȩʌȠȜȘ IJȠȣ ȝȚțȡĮıȚĮIJȚțȠȪ İȜȜȘȞȚıȝȠȪ (Athens: Ephesos, 2001), 118. 49 The irredentist concept of Greek nationalism is reflected in the most telling way in a homily of Chrysostomos of Smyrna, addressed to the newly-appointed (by the anti-Venizelist government) general-in-chief in Asia Minor Anastasios Papoulas (November 1920 – May 1922), where the Smyrnean metropolitan stated: “I greet you as the headquarters of a single glorious army, of a single most glorious Greece […] For all us who believe in Christ and in Greece and for all those who wholeheartedly belong in it, it exists as one nation, one people, one army, one flag, one crew of the Orthodox Church of Christ, one faith, one essence of Greek Christian consciousness…” (Georgios Mylonas, “ȅ ǼșȞȠȝȐȡIJȣȢ ȋȡȣıȩıIJȠȝȠȢ ȂȘIJȡȠʌȠȜȓIJȘȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ. DzțIJĮțIJȘ ȈȣȞİįȡȓĮ IJȘȢ 14ȘȢ ǻİțİȝȕȡȓȠȣ 1982 ȖȚĮ IJȘ ıȣȝʌȜȒȡȦıȘ 60 ȤȡȩȞȦȞ Įʌȩ IJȘ ȝȚțȡĮıȚĮIJȚțȒ țĮIJĮıIJȡȠijȒ,” ȆȡĮțIJȚțȐ IJȘȢ ǹțĮįȘȝȓĮȢ ǹșȘȞȫȞ 57 (1982): 21). It is interesting to note that both Anastasios Papoulas and metropolitan Chrysostomos, as well as Venizelist general Leonidas Paraskevopoulos (general-in-chief in Asia Minor before A. Papoulas), general Panagiotis Tsounoukas (head of the Greek Red Cross in Asia Minor), Perikles Mazarakis (president of the Patriotic Relief Foundation in Asia Minor) and colonel Nikolaos Plasteras (commander of the 5/42 Regiment of Evzonoi) were all honorary members of Panionios Gymnastic Club (Solomonidis and Lorentis, ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ, 224). 50 Anestis Stefanidis, Eugenia Dragoumi and Demetris Kyritsis, ǹșȜȘIJȚțȩȢ ȈȪȜȜȠȖȠȢ DZȡȘȢ 1914-2004 (Thessaloniki: Centre of History-Municipality of Thessaloniki, 2004), 15-20.

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shield only after the liberation of Thessaloniki.51 In addition, ȀİȞIJȡȚțȒ ȂȚțȡĮıȚĮIJȚțȒ DzȞȦıȚȢ (Central Asia Minor Union), which was founded in early 1919 at Constantinople after the defeat of the Ottoman empire in the First World War, and which aimed at promoting the claims of the Greek populations in central Anatolia, used on its shield the famous Statue of Liberty in New York,52 in order to declare in a visually symbolic way the liberation and the redemption of the Greek Orthodox population from the “Ottoman yoke”. Quite telling for the use of Nike of Paionios as such a visual symbol of national redemption through military victory is the use of the same female winged figure on the front-page of the illustrated magazine Ǿ ȃȓțȘ on 2 May 1921 (Fig. 11-9), an ardent royalist newspaper which published exclusive news from the front in Asia Minor. According to Hervé Georgelin the Greek kingdom became the “national centre” and focal point of Hellenism, playing the most prominent role in national affairs.53 The very same ideology lies behind the letter 51

Nikolaos K. Christodoulou, ȅ īȣȝȞĮıIJȚțȩȢ ȈȪȜȜȠȖȠȢ ĬİııĮȜȠȞȓțȘȢ ‘ȅ ǾȡĮțȜȒȢ’ țĮȚ Ș İȟȑȜȚȟȚȢ IJȠȣ ĮșȜȘIJȚıȝȠȪ İȞ ĬİııĮȜȠȞȓțȘ (Thessaloniki: Hercules, 1927), 78. A quite telling parallel comes from the Cretan State. From 1898 onwards and until the official union of the island with “mother Hellas” in 1913, Cretan municipalities and local communities depicted on their official shields images and themes inspired by ancient Greek heritage (e.g. Jupiter, Athena, Apollo, Neptune, Asclepius, Demeter, Dionysus), local myths (e.g. Europe, Minoas, Kydon), some Christian and Byzantine themes, as well as local historical events, to reaffirm local Cretan as well as Greek Orthodox self-consciousness (Panagiotis Eliakis, “ȅįȠȚʌȠȡȚțȩ ıIJȠ ȤȡȩȞȠ ȝȑıĮ Įʌȩ IJȚȢ ıijȡĮȖȓįİȢ IJȦȞ įȒȝȦȞ IJȠȣ IJȩʌȠȣ ȝĮȢ,” ǼȞ ȋĮȞȓȠȚȢ 4 (2010): 59-67). 52 Mamoni and Istikopoulou, ȈȦȝĮIJİȚĮțȒ ȅȡȖȐȞȦıȘ, 381-82. 53 Georgelin, La fin de Smyrne, 95; Zelepos, Ethnisierung, 185. The significantly close Athens-Smyrna relations are reflected in the relations of athletic voluntary associations of both cities, as attested on many occasions (see footnote 43). In the 1904 Panionian Games eight members of Ethnikos participated, who were welcomed with great joy by the Smyrnean Greeks as representatives of the gymnastic and athletic activity of the Greek capital ‘ਥȞ IJૌ ૽ǼȜȜȘȞȚțȠIJȐIJૉ ʌȡȦIJİȣȠȪıૉ IJોȢ ૅǿȦȞȓĮȢ’, and the prizes were awarded in the famous Smyrnean Club of Hunting by the Greek consular authorities. In the 1907 Panionian Games athletic clubs participated from Athens, Piraeus and Patras. (ǹȚ ǹșȒȞĮȚ 207/13-51904, 2; 208/14-5-1904, 3; 217/23-5-1904, 2; 191/1-5-1907, 2; ǼıIJȓĮ 3686/13-51904, 3; Konstantinou, ǾȝİȡȠȜȩȖȚȠȞ 1910, 130; Solomonidis and Lorentis, ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ, 58-110; Manitakis, 100 ȋȡȩȞȚĮ, 122-23, 131-32, 145-46, 158-59, 20609, 225-26, 256-60, 327). In 1908 Panionios’s football team played in the velodrome of Faliron against a mixed team of Panhellenios, Ethnikos and Peiraïkos Syndesmos, in the presence of Crown Prince Constantine and his family, as well as in front of the Athenian and Piraean society, whose presence was an opportunity-

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addressed by “Panionios” Gymnastic Club to Greek sports clubs, inviting them to participate in the first Panionian Games of post-World-War-I Smyrna in 18-3-1919, where in a climate of superlative joy it is written: “Panionios Gymnastic Club, which continued its holy, most Greek work under the shadow of slavery and Turkish tyranny, decided, while greeting today the graciously rising sun of Panhellenic freedom, to proceed to the celebration of its 19th Panionian Games, most gloriously as can be, in the metropolis of the most Greek Ionia which is destined to become one of the most beautiful diamonds of Hellas”.54 Similarly, the very important Athens-based Association of Asia Minor Greeks “Anatolia” (ǹȞĮIJȠȜȒ,

according to the newspaper ǹȚ ǹșȒȞĮȚ-to encourage their enslaved homoethneis (ǹȚ ǹșȒȞĮȚ 135/1-3-1908, 4; 136/2-3-1908, 4; 137/3-3-1908, 4). In the First PanHellenic Conference for Education held at Athens in 1904, “Panionios” Gymnastic Club participated as a member of the Smyrnean delegation, the most numerous one, on which see ǹȚ ǹșȒȞĮȚ 164/31-3-1904; Ioannis Papakostas, ǻȚȐ IJȠȞ ıȪȞįİıȝȠ IJȠȣ ĮʌĮȞIJĮȤȠȪ ǼȜȜȘȞȚıȝȠȪ. ȂİȓȗȦȞ ǼȜȜȘȞȚıȝȩȢ țĮȚ İȜȜȘȞȚțȐ ȖȡȐȝȝĮIJĮ ıIJȚȢ ĮʌĮȡȤȑȢ IJȠȣ İȚțȠıIJȠȪ ĮȚȫȞĮ: DZȖȞȦıIJİȢ İțșȑıİȚȢ ʌȡȠȢ IJȠȞ ȈȍǺ ȖȚĮ IJȠ ǹ' İțʌĮȚįİȣIJȚțȩ ıȣȞȑįȡȚȠ IJȠȣ 1904 (Athens: Association for the Dissemination of Useful Books, 2010), 194-97. On May 1904 the Touring Club of Athens organized an excursion in Smyrna and Ephesos of more than a hundred people, who attended the Panionian Games, and when they entered the stadium the Greek national anthem was played by the local philharmonic (ǹȚ ǹșȒȞĮȚ 202/8-5-1904, 2; 213/195-1904, 3; ǼıIJȓĮ 3682/9-5-1904, 2; 3688/15-5-1904, 3; 3691/18-5-1906, 3). The irredentist Athenian newspaper ǹȚ ǹșȒȞĮȚ interpreted as “national activity” the organization of Panionian Games, the re-organization of the Hellenic Club of Smyrna and the celebration of the name day of King George I of the Hellenes on 24 April in the church of St. George by the metropolitan of Smyrna (ǹȚ ǹșȒȞĮȚ 187/27-4-1907, 2). Panionios’s twentieth anniversary was celebrated in 1910 in the presence of the Greek sub-consul in Smyrna with a true Panhellenic character, since congratulatory letters were sent by Athenian, Piraean, Patraic, Constantinopolitan, Alexandrian and nearby Kydoniatean gymnastic clubs, as well the Athens-based Akademaïkon Gymnasterion, S.E.A.G.S., “Anatolia”, “Laic Center”, Association for the Dissemination of Useful Books and the Greek Association of Literature in Constantinople (Ǿ ȃȓțȘ 10-11/September-October 1910, 145-46). 54 Solomonidis and Lorentis, ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ, 98-100; Manitakis, 100 ȋȡȩȞȚĮ, 339: «૽ȅ ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ īȣȝȞĮıIJȚțȩȢ ȈȪȜȜȠȖȠȢ, ਥȞ IJૌ ıțȚઽ IJોȢ įȠȣȜİȓĮȢ țĮȓ IJોȢ ijȡȚțȫįȠȣȢ ȉȠȣȡțȚțોȢ IJȣȡĮȞȞȓĮȢ, ਕʌIJȠȒIJȦȢ ıȣȞİȤȓıĮȢ IJȩ ੂİȡȩȞ țĮȓ ਦȜȜȘȞȠʌȡİʌȑȢ ਩ȡȖȠȞ IJȠȣ, ਕʌİijȐıȚıİȞ, ȤĮȚȡİIJ૵Ȟ ıȒȝİȡȠȞ IJȩȞ ȝİȖĮȜȠʌȡİʌ૵Ȣ ਕȞĮIJȑȜȜȠȞIJĮ ਸ਼ȜȚȠȞ IJોȢ ʌĮȞİȜȜȘȞȓȠȣ ਥȜİȣșİȡȓĮȢ, ੖ʌȦȢ ʌȡȠȕો İੁȢ IJȒȞ ੖ıȠȞ ਩ȞİıIJȚ ʌĮȞȘȖȣȡȚțȦIJȐIJȘȞ IJȑȜİıȚȞ IJ૵Ȟ ǿĬ’ ȆĮȞȚȦȞȓȦȞ ਕȖȫȞȦȞ IJȠȣ, ਥȞ IJૌ ȂȘIJȡȠʌȩȜİȚ IJોȢ ਦȜȜȘȞȚțȦIJȐIJȘȢ ૃǿȦȞȓĮȢ, IJૌ ʌȡȠȦȡȚıȝȑȞȘ Ȟ’ ਕʌȠIJİȜȑıȘ ਪȞĮ IJ૵Ȟ ੪ȡĮȚȠIJȑȡȦȞ IJોȢ ȂİȖȐȜȘȢ ૽ǼȜȜȐįȠȢ ਕįĮȝȐȞIJȦȞ».

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founded in 1891), with which “Panionios” had regular correspondence, recognised the Greek capital as its national centre.55 The original idea for the use of Paionios’s Nike as the “Panionios” (unofficial) emblem in 1919 cannot be easily attributed to someone among its many high-status members from the flourishing society of cosmopolitan Smyrna. Nevertheless, it is tempting to credit this idea either to Demetrios Dallas or to Chrysostomos Kalafatis, metropolitan of Smyrna, two leading members of “Panionios”. Demetrios Dallas was a very active citizen in Smyrna, responsible for the introduction of gymnastics as a compulsory lesson in schools of Asia Minor, member of the editorial committee of the philological magazine of a very popular Charitable Brotherhood in Smyrna, the General Overseer of the Greek Body of Scouts in Smyrna, and the leading personality who transferred to Athens the Gymnastic Club of “Panionios” after the deportation of the Greek population of Smyrna.56 On the other hand, Chrysostomos Kalafatis, the very popular metropolitan of Smyrna, was honorary president of “Panionios” Gymnastic Club and a great supporter of gymnastic education in Smyrna generally.57 According to Paschalis Kitromilides, the great Smyrnean metropolitan was a key figure in the opposition against patriarch Joachim III of Constantinople, as part of a bitter struggle between the patriarchal ethnarchic tradition and the secularized values of ethnic nationalism (ethnophyletism). He was part of a group of young dynamic and capable prelates who abandoned the tradition of patriarch-ethnarches as protector of the entire Christian people under the theocratic administration of the Ottoman sultanate, and instead he embraced nationalism which proposed a new approach to the management of the collective destiny of Greek-speaking Orthodox people, the “Unredeemed” Hellenism. Thus, Chrysostomos Kalafatis and other anti-Joachimist prelates supported actively the ambitions of the Greek

55 Maria Sideri, “ȅȚ ıȪȜȜȠȖȠȚ ȦȢ ijȠȡİȓȢ IJȘȢ İȜȜȘȞȚțȒȢ İșȞȚțȚıIJȚțȒȢ ȚįİȠȜȠȖȓĮȢ ıIJĮ IJȑȜȘ IJȠȣ 19Ƞȣ țĮȚ IJȚȢ ĮȡȤȑȢ IJȠȣ 20Ƞȣ ĮȚȫȞĮ. ȉȠ ʌĮȡȐįİȚȖȝĮ IJȠȣ ȈȣȜȜȩȖȠȣ ȂȚțȡĮıȚĮIJȫȞ "Ǿ ǹȞĮIJȠȜȒ" țĮȚ Ș ıȣȖțȡȩIJȘıȘ IJȘȢ İȜȜȘȞȚțȒȢ İșȞȚțȒȢ IJĮȣIJȩIJȘIJĮȢ ıIJȚȢ țȠȚȞȩIJȘIJİȢ IJȘȢ ȂȚțȡȐȢ ǹıȓĮȢ,” (Ph.D. diss., Department of Social Anthropology and History, Aegean University, Mytilene, 2003). 56 Mamoni and Istikopoulou, ȈȦȝĮIJİȚĮțȒ ȅȡȖȐȞȦıȘ, 85, 123, 124, 131-32; Christos Solomonidis, ȅ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ ȋȡȣıȩıIJȠȝȠȢ. 2 volumes (Athens: ǼșȞȚțȒ ȂȞȘȝȠıȪȞȘ, 1971), 131. 57 Solomonidis, ȅ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ ȋȡȣıȩıIJȠȝȠȢ, 114-119; Spyridon Lomverdos, ȅ ȝȘIJȡȠʌȠȜȓIJȘȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ ȋȡȣıȩıIJȠȝȠȢ (Athens: P. D. Sakellarios., 1929), 142-43.

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state, which was seen as the pole of attraction for the “national redemption” of the Asia Minor Greeks.58 Kalafatis was clever enough to understand that sports clubs, physical exercises, athletic events and gymnastic performances were very effective ways to express ideas of national regeneration and redemption and ethnophyletic superiority. Besides, he had already experienced as metropolitan of Ottoman Drama (1902-1907, 1908-1909) the rise of nationalisms in the northern Balkans, and had seen from close hand the national service carried out by voluntary associations in forging Greek consciousness and self-identity and in defending Hellenism.59 This phenomenon is attested in Thessaloniki,60 Xanthi,61 Serres,62 Kavala,63 58

Paschalis M. Kitromilides, “The Ecumenical Patriarchate and the “National Centre”,” in An Orthodox Commonwealth. Symbolic Legacies and Cultural Encounters in Southeastern Europe (Vermont: Ashgate Variorum Reprints, 2007), 12-15; Paschalis M. Kitromilides, “ȉȠ IJȑȜȠȢ IJȘȢ İșȞĮȡȤȚțȒȢ ʌĮȡȐįȠıȘȢ. ȂĮȡIJȣȡȓİȢ Įʌȩ ĮȞȑțįȠIJİȢ İʌȚıIJȠȜȑȢ IJȠȣ ȋȡȣıȠıIJȩȝȠȣ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ ʌȡȠȢ IJȠȞ ǴȦȞĮ ǻȡĮȖȠȪȝȘ,” in ǹȝȘIJȩȢ ıIJȘ ȝȞȒȝȘ ĭȫIJȘ ǹʌȠıIJȠȜȩʌȠȣȜȠȣ (Athens: Centre for Asia Minor Studies, 1981), 505-06. The metropolitan Chrysostomos of Smyrna had become the symbol of the irredentist Orthodox community, always preoccupied with the union of Smyrna with the independent Greek state (Georgelin, La fin de Smyrne, 215-16). On January 1919 he sent a referendum of the Greek community of Smyrna to the Great Powers at the Versailles Peace Conference, signed by local demogerontia, the Central Committee, many educational foundations and institutions requesting the union with “mother Hellas”, see Alexis Alexandris, ȉȠ ĮȡȤİȓȠȞ IJȠȣ ǼșȞȠȝȐȡIJȣȡȠȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ ȋȡȣıȠıIJȩȝȠȣ ȩʌȦȢ įȚİıȫșȘ Įʌȩ IJȠȞ ȝȘIJȡȠʌȠȜȓIJȘ ǹȣıIJȡȓĮȢ ȋȡȣıȩıIJȠȝȠ ȉıȓIJİȡ (Athens: National Bank of Greece Cultural Foundation, 2000), vol. 2, epistle 5. In an epistle of his the metropolitan joyfully greeted the arrival of the Greek army at Smyrna on the 1st May 1919, exalting the victory and the triumph of Greek civilization and its cultural heritage, and most of all the fulfillment of what was interpreted by him as the union with “mother Hellas” (Alexandris, ȉȠ ĮȡȤİȓȠȞ ȋȡȣıȠıIJȩȝȠȣ, vol. 2, epistle 12). Finally, Chrysostomos proceeded in the declaration of union, signed by the High Commissioner admiral Elias Mavroudis, local demogerontes, the Central Committee and prominent members of the Smyrnean Orthodox Greek community, many of whom were members of “Panionios” (Alexandris, ȉȠ ĮȡȤİȓȠȞ ȋȡȣıȠıIJȩȝȠȣ, vol. 2, epistle 14). 59 Ioannis Athanasiadis, “ĭȚȜİțʌĮȚįİȣIJȚțȠȓ ıȪȜȜȠȖȠȚ țĮȚ ĮįİȜijȩIJȘIJİȢ ıIJȠȣȢ țĮȗȐįİȢ ǻȡȐȝĮȢ, ǽȓȤȞȘȢ țĮȚ ȃİȣȡȠțȠʌȓȠȣ (1870-1913),” in Ǿ ǻȡȐȝĮ țĮȚ Ș ʌİȡȚȠȤȒ IJȘȢ. IıIJȠȡȓĮ țĮȚ ȆȠȜȚIJȚıȝȩȢ. ȆȡĮțIJȚțȐ Ǻǯ İʌȚıIJȘȝȠȞȚțȒȢ ıȣȞȐȞIJȘıȘȢ, ǻȡȐȝĮ 18-22 ȂĮǸȠȣ 1994, Historical Archive of Municipal Company for Social, Cultural and Tourist Development, Publications Series 3, ed. George Velenis and Vasilis Atsalos (Drama: Municipality of Drama, 1998), 585. 60 ǹȚ ǹșȒȞĮȚ 194/30-4-1904, 4; 242/17-6-1905, 1; Meropi Anastasiadou, ĬİııĮȜȠȞȓțȘ 1830-1922. ȂȓĮ ȝȘIJȡȩʌȠȜȘ IJȘȞ İʌȠȤȒ IJȦȞ ȠșȦȝĮȞȚțȫȞ

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ȝİIJĮȡȡȣșȝȓıİȦȞ, trans. Vasilis Patsogiannis (Athens: Estia, 2008), 515-16; ǹpostolos Papadopoulos, “ȅ ĮșȜȘIJȚıȝȩȢ ıIJȘ ĬİııĮȜȠȞȓțȘ țĮIJȐ IJȘȞ ʌİȡȓȠįȠ 1875-1920,” ĬİııĮȜȠȞȚțȑȦȞ ȆȩȜȚȢ 15 (2004): 18; Christodoulou, “ȅ ǾȡĮțȜȒȢ”; Vasilis Tsokopoulos, “La formation de la vie sportive à Thessalonique (première moitié du XXe s.),” Études balkaniques 11 (2004): 10-13; Ǿ ȃȓțȘ 5-6/May-June 1910, 85-86; 9/September 1910, 163; ȃȑĮ ǹȜȒșİȚĮ 876/10-4-1912, 3. 61 Thomas P. Exarchou, ȄȐȞșȘ 1861-1911. ȈIJȠȚȤİȓĮ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮȢ (Xanthi: Cultural and Development Centre of Thrace, 2005), 155-88; Kiriaki Mamoni, ȈȪȜȜȠȖȠȚ ĬȡȐțȘȢ țĮȚ ǹȞĮIJȠȜȚțȒȢ ȇȦȝȣȜȓĮȢ, 1861-1922: ȚıIJȠȡȓĮ țĮȚ įȡȐıȘ (Thessaloniki: Institute for Balkan Studies, 1995), 83-85; ǹșȜȘIJȚțȒ ǼȕįȠȝȐȢ 14/9-10-1928, 3-4. 62 Nikolaos Chrestides, “ǵȝȚȜȠȢ “ȅȡijȑĮȢ” ȈİȡȡȫȞ 1905-2005,” in ǵȝȚȜȠȢ ‘ȅȡijȑĮ’ ȈİȡȡȫȞ. ǼțĮIJȩ ȤȡȩȞȚĮ Įʌȩ IJȘȞ ȓįȡȣıȒ IJȠȣ, 1905-2005. ǹijȚȑȡȦȝĮ ıIJȘ ȞİȩIJİȡȘ IJȠʌȚțȒ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮ, ed. Petros K. Samsaris (Serres: Municipal Company for Cultural and Social Development, 2005), 9-11, 19; Panagiotis Kechayias and Stephanos Anastasiou, “ȅ ȂĮțİįȠȞȚțȩȢ ĮȖȫȞ țĮȚ Ș įȡȐıȘ IJȠȣ ‘ȅȡijȑȦȢ’ (ȤȡȠȞȚțȩ),” ȈİȡȡĮȧțȐ ǹȞȐȜİțIJĮ 1 (1992): 18-86; Georgios Kaftantzes, ȅȡijȑĮȢ ȈİȡȡȫȞ 1905-1911. ǿıIJȠȡȚțȒ ǹȞĮįȡȠȝȒ (Thessaloniki: Orpheus Club of Serres, 1991), 40-46, 49-56, 58, 67; Giorgos Angeioplastes, “Ȃİ IJȘȞ İȣțĮȚȡȓĮ IJȦȞ 100 ȤȡȩȞȦȞ Įʌȩ IJȘȞ ȓįȡȣıȘ IJȠȣ ‘ȅȡijȑĮ’ ȈİȡȡȫȞ. Ǿ ȝȠȣıȚțȒ ʌȠȣ ȤȐșȘțİ. ȅȚ ȝĮȞIJȠȜȚȞȐIJİȢ IJȘȢ ʌȩȜȘȢ IJȦȞ ȈİȡȡȫȞ țĮIJȐ IJȠȞ 20Ƞ ĮȚȫȞĮ (ȈȣȞȠʌIJȚțȩ ǿıIJȠȡȚțȩ ȈȘȝİȓȦȝĮ),” ǻȡȠȝȠȜȩȖȚȠ 7 (2005): 42-43; Anastasia Vakalou, “ȅ ȩȝȚȜȠȢ ‘ȅȡijȑĮȢ’ țĮȚ IJȠ șȑĮIJȡȠ,” in ǵȝȚȜȠȢ ‘ȅȡijȑĮȢ’ ȈİȡȡȫȞ. ǼțĮIJȩ ȤȡȩȞȚĮ Įʌȩ IJȘȞ ȓįȡȣıȒ IJȠȣ, 1905-2005. ǹijȚȑȡȦȝĮ ıIJȘ ȞİȩIJİȡȘ IJȠʌȚțȒ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮ, ed. Petros. K. Samsaris (Serres: Municipal Company for Cultural and Social Development, 2005), 30-31; Georgios ȃ. Apsilides, “ȉȠ ȠȚțȠIJȡȠijİȓȠ IJȠȣ ȠȝȓȜȠȣ ‘ȅȡijȑĮ’ ȈİȡȡȫȞ,” in ǵȝȚȜȠȢ ‘ȅȡijȑĮȢ’ ȈİȡȡȫȞ. ǼțĮIJȩ ȤȡȩȞȚĮ Įʌȩ IJȘȞ ȓįȡȣıȒ IJȠȣ, 1905-2005. ǹijȚȑȡȦȝĮ ıIJȘ ȞİȩIJİȡȘ IJȠʌȚțȒ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮ, ed. Petros K. Samsaris (Serres: Municipal Company for Cultural and Social Development, 2005), 48-57; Georgios ȃ. Apsilides, “ȋȡȘȝĮIJȠįȩIJȘıȘ țĮȚ İʌȚșİȫȡȘıȘ ǼȜȜȘȞȚțȫȞ ıȤȠȜİȓȦȞ ıIJȘȞ ʌİȡȚȠȤȒ IJȦȞ ȈİȡȡȫȞ ıIJȚȢ ĮȡȤȑȢ IJȠȣ 20Ƞȣ ĮȚȫȞĮ,” ȈȓȡȚȢ 6 (2002): 88-94, 112 and note 78; Konstantinos Chiolos, “ȉȘȞ 1Ș ǹȣȖȠȪıIJȠȣ 1905 ȚįȡȪșȘțİ Ƞ ȈȪȜȜȠȖȠȢ ‘ȅȡijİȪȢ’ IJȦȞ ȈİȡȡȫȞ, IJȠ ȠʌȜȠıIJȐıȚȠ țĮȚ IJȠ ijȣIJȫȡȚȠ IJȦȞ ȂĮțİįȠȞȠȝȐȤȦȞ,” in ǵȝȚȜȠȢ ‘ȅȡijȑĮȢ’ ȈİȡȡȫȞ. ǼțĮIJȩ ȤȡȩȞȚĮ Įʌȩ IJȘȞ ȓįȡȣıȒ IJȠȣ, 1905-2005. ǹijȚȑȡȦȝĮ ıIJȘ ȞİȩIJİȡȘ IJȠʌȚțȒ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮ, ed. Petros K. Samsaris (Serres: Municipal Company for Cultural and Social Development, 2005), 41-43; Nikolaos Keramtsopoulos, “Ǿ țĮȜȜȚIJİȤȞȚțȒ țĮȚ ʌȠȜȚIJȚıIJȚțȒ ȗȦȒ IJȦȞ ȈİȡȡȫȞ IJȑȜȠȢ IJȠȣ 19Ƞȣ ĮȡȤȑȢ IJȠȣ 20Ƞȣ ĮȚȫȞĮ,” in ǵȝȚȜȠȢ ‘ȅȡijȑĮȢ’ ȈİȡȡȫȞ. ǼțĮIJȩ ȤȡȩȞȚĮ Įʌȩ IJȘȞ ȓįȡȣıȒ IJȠȣ, 1905-2005. ǹijȚȑȡȦȝĮ ıIJȘ ȞİȩIJİȡȘ IJȠʌȚțȒ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮ, ed. Petros K. Samsaris (Serres: Municipal Company for Cultural and Social Development, 2005), 87. 63 Konstantinou, ǾȝİȡȠȜȩȖȚȠȞ 1910, 7; Aimilia Stefanidou, “Ǿ ʌȩȜȘ-ȜȚȝȐȞȚ IJȘȢ ȀĮȕȐȜĮȢ țĮIJȐ IJȘȞ ʌİȡȓȠįȠ IJȘȢ ȉȠȣȡțȠțȡĮIJȓĮȢ” (Ph.D. diss., Department of Architects, Polytechnic School of Thessaloniki, Thessaloniki, 1991), 214-34; Kyriakos Lykourinos, “Ǿ ȀĮȕȐȜĮ IJȘȢ ȅșȦȝĮȞȚțȒȢ ʌİȡȚȩįȠȣ (IJȑȜȘ 14Ƞȣ ĮȚ.-1912). Ǿ ʌĮȜȚȐ ʌȩȜȘ – ıȣȞȠȚțȓĮ IJȘȢ ȆĮȞĮȖȓĮȢ,” in H ʌĮȜȚȐ ʌȩȜȘ IJȘȢ ȀĮȕȐȜĮȢ (7ȠȢ ĮȚ. ʌ.ȋ. – 20ȠȢ ĮȚ.). ȅ ȤȫȡȠȢ, ȠȚ ȐȞșȡȦʌȠȚ, IJĮ IJİțȝȒȡȚĮ IJȘȢ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮȢ, ed. Vasilis Kyrillides

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Florina,64 Edessa,65 Naousa,66 Kozani,67 Monasteri,68 Philippoupolis69 and elsewhere. In all these cities during the first decade of the twentieth century voluntary associations appeared with ancient names (e.g. “Orpheus”) which founded philharmonics, choirs and mandolinata, participated in para-military operations during the Greek Struggle for Macedonia (1903-1908), owned gyms, forged physical education, held literary and theatrical competitions, gave patriotic lectures and organized excursions in the Macedonian countryside which very often turned into nationalist parades. Furthermore, Chrysostomos Kalafatis had attended the Interim Olympic Games of Athens in 1906,70 where he must have been impressed by the symbolic gesture of the British king to applaud the entrance of Greek athletes from Ottoman Macedonia in the Panathinaïkon Stadium and the participation of athletes from Alexandria, Constantinople and and Eleni Garantoude (Kavala: Cultural Association ‘Panagia tou Kastrou’, 2005), 160-61; Panagiotis Patsides and Mauroudis Patsides, Ǿ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮ IJȠȣ ʌȠįȠıijĮȓȡȠȣ IJȠȣ ‘ǹ.ȅ. ȀĮȕȐȜĮ’. ǹʌȩ IJȠ 1965-2007 (Kavala: P. & M. Patsides, 2010), 31-32, 34. 64 Mellios, Lazaros. ȅ ȂĮțİįȠȞȚțȩȢ ǹȖȫȞĮȢ țĮȚ Ș ıȣȝȕȠȜȒ IJȘȢ ĭȜȫȡȚȞĮȢ (Florina: Municipality of Florina, 1985), 56-57, 72-73. 65 Konstantinos Stalides, “ȂĮȡIJȣȡȓİȢ ȖȚĮ IJȘȞ İțįȡȠȝȒ – įȚĮįȒȜȦıȘ ıIJȘȞ DzįİııĮ IJȠ ȑIJȠȢ 1895,” ǼįİııĮȧțȐ ȋȡȠȞȚțȐ 10 (1976): 4-12; Efstathios I. Stougiannakis, DzįİııĮ Ș ȝĮțİįȠȞȚțȒ İȞ IJȘ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮ (Thessaloniki: E. Stougiannakis, 1932), 258-59. 66 Emmanuel S. Valsamides, ȃȐȠȣıĮ 1892-1906 (Naousa: Society for Macedonian Studies, 2010), 297-303. 67 Lazaros A. Papaioannou, “ȅ ȂĮțİįȠȞȚțȩȢ ǹȖȫȞĮȢ ıIJȘȞ İʌĮȡȤȓĮ ȀȠȗȐȞȘȢ,” in ȅ ȂĮțİįȠȞȚțȩȢ ǹȖȫȞĮȢ. ȈȣȝʌȩıȚȠ ĬİııĮȜȠȞȓțȘ-ĭȜȫȡȚȞĮ-ȀĮıIJȠȡȚȐ-DzįİııĮ, 28 ȅțIJȦȕȡȓȠȣ-2 ȃȠİȝȕȡȓȠȣ 1984, Institute for Balkan Studies 211 (Thessaloniki: Museum for the Macedonian Struggle, 1987), 373, 378; Mellios, ȅ ȂĮțİįȠȞȚțȩȢ ǹȖȫȞĮȢ, 56; Lazaros A. Papaioannou, ȅ ȂĮțİįȠȞȚțȩȢ ǹȖȫȞĮȢ ıIJȠȣȢ țĮȗȐįİȢ ȀȠȗȐȞȘȢ țĮȚ ȈİȡȕȓȦȞ (Thessaloniki: Association of Letters and Arts of Kozani Prefecture, 1984), 13-14, 33-34, 38-39; Panagiotis N. Liouphis, ǿıIJȠȡȓĮ IJȘȢ ȀȠȗȐȞȘȢ (Athens: I. Vartsos 1924), 129, 133, 136. 68 Antonis M. Koltsidas, ǿıIJȠȡȓĮ IJȠȣ ȂȠȞĮıIJȘȡȓȠȣ IJȘȢ ȆİȜĮȖȠȞȓĮȢ țĮȚ IJȦȞ ʌİȡȚȤȫȡȦȞ IJȠȣ. Ǿ İșȞȚțȒ țĮȚ țȠȚȞȦȞȚțȒ įȚȐıIJĮıȘ IJȠȣ ǼȜȜȘȞȚıȝȠȪ IJȠȣ ȂȠȞĮıIJȘȡȚȠȪ țĮȚ IJȘȢ İȣȡȪIJİȡȘȢ ʌİȡȚȠȤȒȢ. ȈȣȝȕȠȜȒ ıIJȘȞ ǿıIJȠȡȓĮ IJȠȣ ǺȩȡİȚȠȣ ǼȜȜȘȞȚıȝȠȪ (Thessaloniki: Kyriakidis, 2003), 560-65. 69 ȅȚ ȀĮȚȡȠȓ 4432/6-4-1901, 1; Spyridon G. Ploumides, ǼșȞȠIJȚțȒ ıȣȝȕȓȦıȘ ıIJĮ ǺĮȜțȐȞȚĮ. DzȜȜȘȞİȢ țĮȚ ǺȠȪȜȖĮȡȠȚ ıIJȘ ĭȚȜȚʌʌȠȪʌȠȜȘ 1878-1914 (Athens: Patakis 2006), 163-64, 213, 215-16, 263-64, 288, 293, 298, 300-01, 314; Mamoni, ȈȪȜȜȠȖȠȚ ĬȡȐțȘȢ, 112-13. 70 ChrysostomȠs’s epistle to patriarch of Constantinople, Drama 27-4-1906, in Alexandris, ȉȠ ĮȡȤİȓȠȞ ȋȡȣıȠıIJȩȝȠȣ, vol. 1, epistle 51.

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Smyrna.71 That is why the nationalist and energetic prelate of Drama did play a significant part in the sport education of Hellenism. In the early 1900s he founded a central gymnastic hall for almost 3000 students and awarded the best athletic performances. He also founded other gyms and hiking clubs at Doxato in Drama, Alistrati and Proti in Serres,72 whereas in Smyrna he founded a swimming school for students and actively supported the other three major Smyrnean athletic clubs, “Apollo”, “Pelops” and “Hermes”, as well the “Musical School of Smyrna”.73 Thus, in his speech of enthronement as metropolitan of Smyrna in 1910 Chrysostomos Kalafatis proclaimed the need for the promotion of natural life, gymnastics and gyms.74 He, therefore, demanded that the members of “Panionios” Gymnastic Club reorganise the club in a more efficient way and to broaden their appeal to all the young people of Smyrna, he donated a large area–circa 105.000 m2–belonging to the church in Smyrna for the construction of “Panionios” own stadium (7,000 seats, truck, gym, football field, locker rooms and offices), consecrated the stadium in 1911, and always attended the Panionian Games and personally awarded medals to the winners.75 So, after having been violently removed from his seat on the 20th of August 1914 by the authorities due to his nationalist activity and vehement criticism against the Young Turks’ 71

Alexander Ȁitroeff, Wrestling with the Ancients. Modern Greek Identity and the Olympics (New York: Athens Printing Company, 2004), 68-69. 72 Athanasiadis, “ĭȚȜİțʌĮȚįİȣIJȚțȠȓ ıȪȜȜȠȖȠȚ,” 586-87, 589-90, 594-95. 73 Mamoni and Istikopoulou, ȈȦȝĮIJİȚĮțȒ ȅȡȖȐȞȦıȘ, 122; Solomonidis, ȅ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ ȋȡȣıȩıIJȠȝȠȢ, 167, 172. The metropolitan of Holy Mountain, Ierissos and Arnaia in Chalkidiki (in central Macedonia) Socrates Staurides played a similar role at the beginning of the twentieth century as patron of culture, musical, theatrical and athletic performances. He was responsible for the establishment of a number of cultural and athletic clubs, among them the famous ȂȠȣıȚțȠȖȣȝȞĮıIJȚțȩȢ ȈȪȜȜȠȖȠȢ ǹʌȩȜȜȦȞ ǹȡȞĮȓĮȢ (Musical and Gymnastic Club Apollo of Arnaia) around 1912-1913 (ǹȞIJȓȜĮȜȠȚ IJȘȢ ǹȡȞĮȓĮȢ 8/1976). Furthermore, the Football and Gymnastic Association Olympia of Prince Island in the Sea of Marmara was founded in 1908 under the auspices of Metropolitan Germanos of Chalcedon, on which see Kiriaki Mamoni and Lida Istikopoulou, ȈȪȜȜȠȖȠȚ ȀȦȞıIJĮȞIJȚȞȠȣʌȩȜİȦȢ (1861-1922) (Athens: Association for the Dissemination of Useful Books, 2009), 328. Similarly, the Gymnastic Club “Hercules” in Thessaloniki was supported by the metropolitan of Thessaloniki Joachim Sgouros (Christodoulou, “ȅ ǾȡĮțȜȒȢ”, 31). 74 Alexandris, ȉȠ ĮȡȤİȓȠȞ ȋȡȣıȠıIJȩȝȠȣ, vol. 2, 314; Christos Soldatos, H EțʌĮȚįİȣIJȚțȒ țĮȚ ʌȞİȣȝĮIJȚțȒ țȓȞȘıȘ IJȠȣ ǼȜȜȘȞȚıȝȠȪ IJȘȢ Ȃ. ǹıȓĮȢ (1800-1922), 2nd volume: ȠȡȖȐȞȦıȘ țĮȚ ȜİȚIJȠȣȡȖȓĮ IJȦȞ ıȤȠȜİȓȦȞ (Athens: Gregory 1989), 238. 75 Solomonidis, ȅ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ ȋȡȣıȩıIJȠȝȠȢ, 168-72; Kosmas Politis, ȋȡȣıȩıIJȠȝȠȢ o ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ (Athens: Patris, 1934), 186-88.

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regime, he victoriously returned to his seat as a result of the Armistice of Moudros (17/30-10-1918).76 The triumphal comeback of the free Greek Orthodox authority in Smyrna was probably expressed in visual terms by the employment of Nike of Paionios as emblem of the most important athletic association in the whole of Anatolia, and even in the whole of “Unredeemed” Hellenism. To sum up, gymnastic clubs, such as “Panionios”, were disciplined institutions, with hierarchical relations and a well-organised public appearance, determined by flags, badges, shields, uniforms, anthems and emblems. And as such, many a Greek gymnastic club selected for their emblem the famous Discus-thrower or gods and heroes, famous for their strength, labors and hunting skills, such as Hercules, Hermes, Mars, Achilles and Iphitos, intending to manifest among their numerous members or among other voluntary associations (syllogoi) and local societies the sense of Modern Greek superiority, but also national continuity and irredentist aspirations that permeated every aspect of neoHellenic society.77 This paper chose Nike of Paionios because it was used as both military and athletic symbol, a connotation that all other aforementioned athletic emblems, inspired by Greek Antiquity, totally lacked. Probably, it is not mere coincidence that “Panionios” Gymnastic Club, the par-excellence irredentist athletic association in the so-called “outer Hellenism”, chose Nike of Paionios as its emblem in 1919, to herald to the Orthodox Greeks of Asia Minor the coming of “national redemption” through military victory, almost twenty four centuries after she heralded the victory of Messenians and Naupaktians in Olympia.

76 For an overview of his earlier life and bibliography see his synoptic biography in the first volume of Alexandris, ȉȠ ĮȡȤİȓȠȞ ȋȡȣıȠıIJȩȝȠȣ. 77 Christina Koulouri, “Athleticism and Antiquity: Symbols and Revivals in Nineteenth-century Greece,” The International Journal of the History of Sport 15 (December 1998): 147-48; Koulouri, ǹșȜȘIJȚıȝȩȢ, 67, 110, 163-64, 184, 192, 20506; Christina Koulouri, “Voluntary Associations and New Forms of Sociality: Greek Sports Clubs at the Turn of the Nineteenth century,” in Greek Society in the Making 1863-1913. Realities, Symbols and Visions, ed. Philip Carabott, Centre for Hellenic Studies, King’s College London, Publications 3 (Aldershot, HampshireBrookfield, Vermont: Ashgate Variorum, 1997), 146-48.

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Lydakis, Stelios. ȅȚ DzȜȜȘȞİȢ ȖȜȪʌIJİȢ ıIJȠȞ 20o ĮȚȫȞĮ: Ǿ ȞİȠİȜȜȘȞȚțȒ ȖȜȣʌIJȚțȒ. Athens: Melissa, 1981. Lykourinos, Kyriakos. “Ǿ ȀĮȕȐȜĮ IJȘȢ ȅșȦȝĮȞȚțȒȢ ʌİȡȚȩįȠȣ (IJȑȜȘ 14Ƞȣ ĮȚ.-1912). Ǿ ʌĮȜȚȐ ʌȩȜȘ – ıȣȞȠȚțȓĮ IJȘȢ ȆĮȞĮȖȓĮȢ.” In H ʌĮȜȚȐ ʌȩȜȘ IJȘȢ ȀĮȕȐȜĮȢ (7ȠȢ ĮȚ. ʌ.ȋ. – 20ȠȢ ĮȚ.). ȅ ȤȫȡȠȢ, ȠȚ ȐȞșȡȦʌȠȚ, IJĮ IJİțȝȒȡȚĮ IJȘȢ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮȢ, edited by Vasilis Kyrillides and Eleni Garantoude, volume I, 50-231. Kavala: Cultural Association “Panagia tou Kastrou”, 2005. Mamoni, Kiriaki. ȈȪȜȜȠȖȠȚ ĬȡȐțȘȢ țĮȚ ǹȞĮIJȠȜȚțȒȢ ȇȦȝȣȜȓĮȢ, 1861-1922: ȚıIJȠȡȓĮ țĮȚ įȡȐıȘ. Thessaloniki: Institute for Balkan Studies, 1995. Mamoni, Kiriaki, and Lida Istikopoulou. ȈȦȝĮIJİȚĮțȒ ȅȡȖȐȞȦıȘ IJȠȣ ǼȜȜȘȞȚıȝȠȪ ıIJȘ ȂȚțȡȐ ǹıȓĮ (1861-1922). Athens: Estia, 2006. —. ȈȪȜȜȠȖȠȚ ȀȦȞıIJĮȞIJȚȞȠȣʌȩȜİȦȢ (1861-1922). Athens: Association for the Dissemination of Useful Books, 2009. Manitakis, Paulos N. 100 ȋȡȩȞȚĮ ȃİȠİȜȜȘȞȚțȠȪ ǹșȜȘIJȚıȝȠȪ, 1830-1930. Athens: Topographikos Organismos, 1962. Manta, Eleftheria K. “Ǿ ĮʌȠȤȫȡȘıȘ IJȠȣ İȜȜȘȞȚțȠȪ ıIJȡĮIJȠȪ Įʌȩ IJȘ ǺȩȡİȚĮ dzʌİȚȡȠ țĮȚ ȠȚ ʌȡȠİIJȠȚȝĮıȓİȢ ȖȚĮ IJȠȞ ĮȖȫȞĮ.” In 1914. Ǿ ĮȣIJȠȞȠȝȓĮ IJȘȢ ǺȠȡİȓȠȣ ǾʌİȓȡȠȣ, edited by Artemios Psaromelingos and Vasiliki Lazou, 33-88. Athens: Ch. K. Teggopoulos SA, 2011. —. “Ǿ ȕȩȡİȚĮ dzʌİȚȡȠȢ țĮIJȐ IJȠȞ Įǯ ȆĮȖțȩıȝȚȠ ȆȩȜİȝȠ. Ǿ İȜȜȘȞȚțȒ įȚȠȓțȘıȘ (ȅțIJ. 1914-ȃȠȑȝ. 1916).” In 1914. Ǿ ĮȣIJȠȞȠȝȓĮ IJȘȢ ǺȠȡİȓȠȣ ǾʌİȓȡȠȣ, edited by Artemios Psaromelingos and Vasiliki Lazou, 14992. Athens: Ch. K. Teggopoulos SA, 2011. Mellios, Lazaros. ȅ ȂĮțİįȠȞȚțȩȢ ǹȖȫȞĮȢ țĮȚ Ș ıȣȝȕȠȜȒ IJȘȢ ĭȜȫȡȚȞĮȢ. Florina: Municipality of Florina, 1985. Michaelides, Aris. “H ȃȓțȘ IJȠȣ ȆĮ(Ȟ)ȚȦȞȓȠȣ.” ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ ȀȩıȝȠȢ 69 (2010): 12. Mylonakis, Manolis. “ȉȠ țȓȞȘȝĮ IJȠȣ ĬȑȡȚıȠȣ. 10 ȂĮȡIJȓȠȣ-11 ȃȠİȝȕȡȓȠȣ 1905. ȉĮ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȩıȘȝĮ, IJȠ ʌȡĮȖȝĮIJȚțȩ țĮȚ IJȠ įȒșİȞ IJĮȤȣįȡȠȝİȓȠ IJȠȣ ȣʌȩ IJȠ ijȦȢ IJȦȞ İʌȚıIJȠȜȫȞ IJȠȣ ǺİȞȚȗȑȜȠȣ.” ĭȚȜȠIJȑȜİȚĮ 632 (May-June 2005): 155-64. —. “ȉȠ țȓȞȘȝĮ IJȠȣ ĬȑȡȚıȠȣ. 10 ȂĮȡIJȓȠȣ-11 ȃȠİȝȕȡȓȠȣ 1905. ȉĮ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȩıȘȝĮ, IJȠ ʌȡĮȖȝĮIJȚțȩ țĮȚ IJȠ įȒșİȞ IJĮȤȣįȡȠȝİȓȠ IJȠȣ ȣʌȩ IJȠ ijȦȢ IJȦȞ İʌȚıIJȠȜȫȞ IJȠȣ ǺİȞȚȗȑȜȠȣ.” ĭȚȜȠIJȑȜİȚĮ 633 (July-August 2005): 239-45. —. “ȉȠ țȓȞȘȝĮ IJȠȣ ĬȑȡȚıȠȣ. 10 ȂĮȡIJȓȠȣ-11 ȃȠİȝȕȡȓȠȣ 1905. ȉĮ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȩıȘȝĮ, IJȠ ʌȡĮȖȝĮIJȚțȩ țĮȚ IJȠ įȒșİȞ IJĮȤȣįȡȠȝİȓȠ IJȠȣ ȣʌȩ IJȠ ijȦȢ IJȦȞ İʌȚıIJȠȜȫȞ IJȠȣ ǺİȞȚȗȑȜȠȣ.” ĭȚȜȠIJȑȜİȚĮ 634 (SeptemberOctober 2005): 278-81.

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—. “ȉȠ țȓȞȘȝĮ IJȠȣ ĬȑȡȚıȠȣ. 10 ȂĮȡIJȓȠȣ-11 ȃȠİȝȕȡȓȠȣ 1905. ȉĮ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȩıȘȝĮ, IJȠ ʌȡĮȖȝĮIJȚțȩ țĮȚ IJȠ įȒșİȞ IJĮȤȣįȡȠȝİȓȠ IJȠȣ ȣʌȩ IJȠ ijȦȢ IJȦȞ İʌȚıIJȠȜȫȞ IJȠȣ ǺİȞȚȗȑȜȠȣ.” ĭȚȜȠIJȑȜİȚĮ 635 (NovemberDecember 2005): 350-58. Mylonas, Georgios. “ȅ ǼșȞȠȝȐȡIJȣȢ ȋȡȣıȩıIJȠȝȠȢ ȂȘIJȡȠʌȠȜȓIJȘȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ. DzțIJĮțIJȘ ȈȣȞİįȡȓĮ IJȘȢ 14ȘȢ ǻİțİȝȕȡȓȠȣ 1982 ȖȚĮ IJȘ ıȣȝʌȜȒȡȦıȘ 60 ȤȡȩȞȦȞ Įʌȩ IJȘ ȝȚțȡĮıȚĮIJȚțȒ țĮIJĮıIJȡȠijȒ.” ȆȡĮțIJȚțȐ IJȘȢ ǹțĮįȘȝȓĮȢ ǹșȘȞȫȞ 57 (1982): 5-28. Papadopoulos, ǹpostolos. “ȅ ĮșȜȘIJȚıȝȩȢ ıIJȘ ĬİııĮȜȠȞȓțȘ țĮIJȐ IJȘȞ ʌİȡȓȠįȠ 1875-1920.” ĬİııĮȜȠȞȚțȑȦȞ ȆȩȜȚȢ 15 (2004): 16-23. Papaioannou, Lazaros A. ȅ ȂĮțİįȠȞȚțȩȢ ǹȖȫȞĮȢ ıIJȠȣȢ țĮȗȐįİȢ ȀȠȗȐȞȘȢ țĮȚ ȈİȡȕȓȦȞ. Thessaloniki: Association of Letters and Arts of Kozani Prefecture, 1984. —. “ȅ ȂĮțİįȠȞȚțȩȢ ǹȖȫȞĮȢ ıIJȘȞ İʌĮȡȤȓĮ ȀȠȗȐȞȘȢ.” In ȅ ȂĮțİįȠȞȚțȩȢ ǹȖȫȞĮȢ. ȈȣȝʌȩıȚȠ ĬİııĮȜȠȞȓțȘ-ĭȜȫȡȚȞĮ-ȀĮıIJȠȡȚȐ-DzįİııĮ, 28 ȅțIJȦȕȡȓȠȣ-2 ȃȠİȝȕȡȓȠȣ 1984. Institute for Balkan Studies 211, 37180. Thessaloniki: Museum for the Macedonian Struggle, 1987. Papakostas, Ioannis. ǻȚȐ IJȠȞ ıȪȞįİıȝȠ IJȠȣ ĮʌĮȞIJĮȤȠȪ ǼȜȜȘȞȚıȝȠȪ. ȂİȓȗȦȞ ǼȜȜȘȞȚıȝȩȢ țĮȚ İȜȜȘȞȚțȐ ȖȡȐȝȝĮIJĮ ıIJȚȢ ĮʌĮȡȤȑȢ IJȠȣ İȚțȠıIJȠȪ ĮȚȫȞĮ: DZȖȞȦıIJİȢ İțșȑıİȚȢ ʌȡȠȢ IJȠȞ ȈȍǺ ȖȚĮ IJȠ ǹ' İțʌĮȚįİȣIJȚțȩ ıȣȞȑįȡȚȠ IJȠȣ 1904. Athens: Association for the Dissemination of Useful Books, 2010. Patsides, Panagiotis, and Mauroudis Patsides. Ǿ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮ IJȠȣ ʌȠįȠıijĮȓȡȠȣ IJȠȣ “ǹ.ȅ. ȀĮȕȐȜĮ”. ǹʌȩ IJȠ 1965-2007. Kavala: P. & M. Patsides, 2010. Paulopoulos, Dimitris. “O ȖȜȪʌIJȘȢ ȂȚȤȐȜȘȢ ȉȩȝʌȡȠȢ.” Ph.D. diss., Athens University, 1996. Ploumides, Spyridon G. ǼșȞȠIJȚțȒ ıȣȝȕȓȦıȘ ıIJĮ ǺĮȜțȐȞȚĮ. DzȜȜȘȞİȢ țĮȚ ǺȠȪȜȖĮȡȠȚ ıIJȘ ĭȚȜȚʌʌȠȪʌȠȜȘ 1878-1914. Athens: Patakis 2006. Politis, Kosmas. ȋȡȣıȩıIJȠȝȠȢ o ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ. Athens: Patris, 1934. Rodas, Michael. Ǿ ǼȜȜȐįĮ ıIJȘ ȂȚțȡȐȞ ǹıȓĮ (1918-1922). Athens: Kleisiounis, 1950. Romanoff, Dimitri (Prince). The Orders, Medals and History of Greece. Copenhagen: Rungsted Kynst, 1987. Savvides, Panagiotis S. ǹșȜȘIJȚțȩȞ ȁİȪțȦȝĮ. DzțIJĮțIJȠȞ ʌĮȡȐȡIJȘȝĮ IJȘȢ ĮșȜȘIJȚțȒȢ țĮȚ ʌȠįȘȜĮIJȚțȒȢ İʌȚșİȦȡȒıİȦȢ IJȘȢ ǹȞĮIJȠȜȒȢ. Athens: Estia, 1901. Scott, Michael. Delphi and Olympia: the Spatial Politics of Panhellenism in the Archaic and Classical Periods. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010.

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Sideri, Maria. “ȅȚ ıȪȜȜȠȖȠȚ ȦȢ ijȠȡİȓȢ IJȘȢ İȜȜȘȞȚțȒȢ İșȞȚțȚıIJȚțȒȢ ȚįİȠȜȠȖȓĮȢ ıIJĮ IJȑȜȘ IJȠȣ 19Ƞȣ țĮȚ IJȚȢ ĮȡȤȑȢ IJȠȣ 20Ƞȣ ĮȚȫȞĮ. ȉȠ ʌĮȡȐįİȚȖȝĮ IJȠȣ ȈȣȜȜȩȖȠȣ ȂȚțȡĮıȚĮIJȫȞ "Ǿ ǹȞĮIJȠȜȒ" țĮȚ Ș ıȣȖțȡȩIJȘıȘ IJȘȢ İȜȜȘȞȚțȒȢ İșȞȚțȒȢ IJĮȣIJȩIJȘIJĮȢ ıIJȚȢ țȠȚȞȩIJȘIJİȢ IJȘȢ ȂȚțȡȐȢ ǹıȓĮȢ.” Ph.D. diss., Department of Social Anthropology and History, Aegean University, Mytilene, 2003. Soldatos, Christos. H EțʌĮȚįİȣIJȚțȒ țĮȚ ʌȞİȣȝĮIJȚțȒ țȓȞȘıȘ IJȠȣ ǼȜȜȘȞȚıȝȠȪ IJȘȢ Ȃ. ǹıȓĮȢ (1800-1922), 2nd volume: ȠȡȖȐȞȦıȘ țĮȚ ȜİȚIJȠȣȡȖȓĮ IJȦȞ ıȤȠȜİȓȦȞ. Athens: Gregory 1989. Solomonidis, Christos. ȉȘȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ. ȈȣȞȠȚțȓİȢ-ǻȡȩȝȠȚ-ȆİȡȓʌĮIJȠȚǹʌȩțȡȚİȢ-ȁȑıȤİȢ-ȋȠȡȠȓ-ȆȐıȤĮ-ǹșȜȘIJȚıȝȩȢ-ǽȦȖȡȐijȠȚ-ȆȡȠıțȠʌȚıȝȩȢīȜȦııȐȡȚȠ-ț.Į. Athens: A. N. Maurides, 1957. Solomonidis, Christos, and Nikos Lorentis. ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ īȣȝȞĮıIJȚțȩȢ ȈȪȜȜȠȖȠȢ. Athens: Philiki Etaireia, 1967. Solomonidis, Christos. ȅ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ ȋȡȣıȩıIJȠȝȠȢ. 2 volumes. Athens: ǼșȞȚțȒ ȂȞȘȝȠıȪȞȘ, 1971. Spathari, Elsi. Mind and Body. The Revival of the Olympic Idea 19th-20th century. Athens: Hellenic Ministry of Culture, 1989. Stalides, Konstantinos. “ȂĮȡIJȣȡȓİȢ ȖȚĮ IJȘȞ İțįȡȠȝȒ – įȚĮįȒȜȦıȘ ıIJȘȞ DzįİııĮ IJȠ ȑIJȠȢ 1895.” ǼįİııĮȧțȐ ȋȡȠȞȚțȐ 10 (1976): 4-12. Stefanidis, Anestis, Eugenia Dragoumi and Demetris Kyritsis. ǹșȜȘIJȚțȩȢ ȈȪȜȜȠȖȠȢ DZȡȘȢ 1914-2004. Thessaloniki: Centre of HistoryMunicipality of Thessaloniki, 2004. Stefanidou, Aimilia. “Ǿ ʌȩȜȘ-ȜȚȝȐȞȚ IJȘȢ ȀĮȕȐȜĮȢ țĮIJȐ IJȘȞ ʌİȡȓȠįȠ IJȘȢ ȉȠȣȡțȠțȡĮIJȓĮȢ. ” Ph.D. diss., Department of Architects, Polytechnic School of Thessaloniki, Thessaloniki, 1991. Stougiannakis, Efstathios I. DzįİııĮ Ș ȝĮțİįȠȞȚțȒ İȞ IJȘ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮ. Thessaloniki: E. Stougiannakis, 1932. Stratoudakis, Georgios. ǼȜȜȘȞȚțȐ ȂİIJȐȜȜȚĮ. Athens: G. Stratoudakis, 2001. Tsokopoulos, Vasilis. “La formation de la vie sportive à Thessalonique (première moitié du XXe s.).” Études balkaniques 11 (2004): 127-44. Vakalou, Anastasia. “ȅ ȩȝȚȜȠȢ “ȅȡijȑĮȢ” țĮȚ IJȠ șȑĮIJȡȠ.” In ǵȝȚȜȠȢ “ȅȡijȑĮȢ” ȈİȡȡȫȞ. ǼțĮIJȩ ȤȡȩȞȚĮ Įʌȩ IJȘȞ ȓįȡȣıȒ IJȠȣ, 1905-2005. ǹijȚȑȡȦȝĮ ıIJȘ ȞİȩIJİȡȘ IJȠʌȚțȒ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮ. edited by Petros. K. Samsaris, 29-34. Serres: Municipal Company for Cultural and Social Development, 2005. Valsamides, Emmanuel S. ȃȐȠȣıĮ 1892-1906. Naousa: Society for Macedonian Studies, 2010.

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Zelepos, Ioannis. Die Ethnisierung griechischer Identität 1870-1912. Staat und private Akteure vor dem Hintergrund der “Megali Idea”, Südosteuropäische Arbeiten 113. Munich: Oldenbourg, 2002. Zerouali, Basma. "Le creuset des arts et des plaisirs." In Smyrne, la ville oubliée?: Mémoires d'un grand port ottoman, 1830-1930, edited by Marie-Carmen Smyrnelis, 138-56. Paris: Autrement, 2006. Zervopoulos, Athanasios. “ȈȣȝȕȠȜȒ İȚȢ IJȘȞ ȚıIJȠȡȓĮȞ IJȦȞ ȖȡĮȝȝĮIJȠıȒȝȦȞ IJȘȢ ǺȠȡİȓȠȣ ǾʌİȓȡȠȣ.” ĭȚȜȠIJȑȜİȚĮ 188-89 (1940): 85-86; ĭȚȜȠIJȑȜİȚĮ 190-91 (1940): 99-100; and ĭȚȜȠIJȑȜİȚĮ 192-93 (1941): 5-7.

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Fig. 11-1. Nike of Paionios stands upon an eagle and descends to earth, holding her himation with her raised left hand and with the right one probably a palm branch. The left pin of her peplos has been unfastened, so that it reveals her breast. Museum of Olympia. Photo from Nikos Kaltsas, Olympia (Athens: Ekdotiki Athinon, 1997), ph. 105.

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Fig. 11-2. Front-page of daily political newspaper ȆĮIJȡȓȢ (no. 6756/12 October 1912). The Archive of Greek Parliament Library, Department of Microfiche.

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Fig. 11-3. Greek bronze Victory medal by engraver-médailleur Henry Nocq. On the obverse is depicted Nike of Paionios. On the reverse is depicted young Hercules struggling with Hera’s snakes and the inscription “ȂǼīǹȈ ȊȆǼȇ ȉȅȊ ȆȅȁǿȉǿȈȂȅȊ ȆȅȁǼȂȅȈ 1914-1918”, as well as the names of the various Allied and Associated nations. Photo from www.monarchmilitaria.co.uk/imagesM/greek

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Fig. 11-4. A small replica of Nike’s statue in plaster (1 m.), made by the famous Greek sculptor Michael Tombros (1889-1974), today in the Museum of Olympia. Photo from Elsi Spathari, Mind and body. The revival of the Olympic idea 19th-20th century (Athens: Hellenic Ministry of Culture, 1996), ph. 161.

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Fig. 11-5. Two of the imperforated stamps without gum of “Therissos Uprising” depicting Nike of Paionios. 1905. Photo by the author.

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Fig. 11-6. Nine values with perforation of very bad quality of private stamp issue from northern Epirus with the Greek inscription “ǾȆǼǿȇȅȈ” above Nike of Paionios. May-July 1914, December 1915-March 1916 or mid 1919-mid 1920. Photo by the author.

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Fig. 11-7a. Emblem of PANIONIOS Gymnastic Club with Nike of Paionios and the inscription “ȆǹȃǿȍȃǿȅȈ īȊȂȃǹȈȉǿȀȅȈ ȈȊȁȁȅīȅȈ – ȈȂȊȇȃǾ 1890”. Photo by the author. © “Panionios Gymnastic Club”.

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Fig. 11-7b. Shield of PANIONIOS Gymnastic Club with Nike of Paionios on a letter, dated 12-2-1922 (almost half a year before the destruction of Smyrna), addressed to the best Panionios champion ever, Demetrios Karambatis, concerning his participation in the 1924 Olympic Games in Paris. Archive of “Panionios” G.S.S./Elias Misaelides.

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Fig. 11-7c. Shield of PANIONIOS Gymnastic Club without Nike of Paionios on a letter, dated 24-11-1922 (a couple of months after the destruction of Smyrna), addressed again to Demetrios Karambatis, concerning his election as a member of the Board of Directors of Panionios Gymnastic Club in Athens. Archive of “Panionios” G.S.S./Elias Misaelides.

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Fig. 11-7d. Reception of Réné Puaux in the headquarters of “Panionios” in Smyrna, with president D. Dallas, honorary president Chrysostom of Smyrna, expresident A. Arealis, honorary member general Tsounoukas and chief of Greek Red Cross Ȃ. Chrysoveloni. 13/2/1919. Photo from Nikolaos Lorentis, “ȅ ȆĮȞȚȫȞȚȠȢ īȣȝȞĮıIJȚțȩȢ ȈȪȜȜȠȖȠȢ ȈȝȪȡȞȘȢ,” ȂȚțȡĮıȚĮIJȚțȐ ȋȡȠȞȚțȐ 3 (1940): 417.

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Fig. 11-8. Front page of the Statute of S.E.A.G.S. with its official shield. 1900. From the Library of the Greek Parliament.

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Fig. 11-9. Front-page of daily illustrated magazine Ǿ ȃȓțȘ (no. 3/ 2 May 1921). From the Library of The Hellenic Literary and Historical Archive.

CONTRIBUTORS

Kristin A. Arioli is a Lecturer of Renaissance Art at the Department of Art History at the College of Charleston where she teaches undergraduate courses on the Italian Renaissance and is a frequent programme director of the department’s summer Rome study abroad programme. She has also lectured at the University of Missouri-Kansas City, and was a longtime researcher in the curatorial department of the Getty Research Institute. She earned her B.A. from Cornell University, and an M.A. in Art History from the University of Southern California. Her primary research interests include patronage in Renaissance Rome and the impact of papal and cardinal courts on visual culture between the 1480s and 1520s. She is currently completing her Ph.D. thesis on the artistic patronage of Cardinal Raffaele Riario. Dr. Stefano D’Ovidio completed his M.A. in Humanities at the University of Naples Federico II and received his PhD in Art History from the same institution in 2004. He won a Study Abroad Scholarship in 2005 and enrolled at The Warburg Institute, where he was also awarded with the Frances A. Yates short-term Fellowhip for the academic year 2006-2007. He has taught Medieval Art History at the Universities of Naples Federico II and Seconda Università degli Studi. He currently works on educational programmes for the American Institute of Foreign Studies and the Council on International Educational Exchange at the Istituto Universitario Orientale, where he teaches courses on the Art and Architecture of Naples. His main research focus is on late medieval art, with special regard to the Italian sculpture of the 12th-15th centuries. Other areas of interest include: the perception of antiquity during the Middle Ages, the role of images in liturgy and devotion and the Italian artistic literature of the 16th-18th centuries. He has published articles in periodicals and books by multiple authors and presented papers at conferences and seminars both in Italy and abroad. Dr. Henrike Haug works currently as a Research Assistant at the Institut für Kunstwissenschaft and Historische Urbanistik/Fachgebiet Kunstgeschichte at the Technische Universität of Berlin. She completed her M.A. in Art History at the Freie Universität in Berlin with a thesis on Gothic Sculpture

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and the Tomb of Simone Saltarelli (+1342) in Pisa and her PhD at the Kunsthistorisches Institut in Florenz (MPI) and the Humboldt Universität zu Berlin. In her doctoral thesis she analyses the Annales Ianuneses, a twelfth Century chronicle of Genoa, focussing on the development of a historical sense of the past in the Italian city communes. Main focus is on the role of historical texts within the political discourses of the Italian citystates and its visualisation by the use of monuments (like inscriptions, spolia or wall painting) in urban space. Her current research focuses on North European Goldsmiths and their role in and contribution to the Scientific Revolution. Her teaching includes courses in Medieval and Early Modern art history ranging from material analysis to the political contextualisation of works of art. Rachel Hooper is a Ph.D. student in art history at Rice University in Houston, Texas. She has an MA in art history from Williams College, Massachusetts, where she wrote her thesis on Andy Warhol and Plato’s ascent to beauty. As a graduate student fellow with Rice’s Humanities Research Center, she is currently researching the visual language of contemporary human trafficking, historical slavery, and Kara Walker’s silhouettes. Hooper assisted with Kara Walker’s 2007 survey and other projects as a visual arts curatorial fellow at the Walker Art Center (20062007) before she became associate curator and Cynthia Woods Mitchell Fellow at Blaffer Art Museum, University of Houston (2007-2011). She regularly writes art criticism, has edited books on Andy Coolquitt (University of Texas Press, 2012) and Josephine Meckseper (JRP Ringier, 2009), and has contributed to catalogues such as Plot for a Biennial: Sharjah Biennial 10 (Sharjah Art Foundation, 2011) and Brave New Worlds (Walker Art Center, 2007). Dr. Lenia Kouneni is a Teaching Fellow in the School of Art History at the University of St Andrews, where she teaches courses on aspects of classicism in western art and Byzantine art. She has a BA Hons (Archaeology and Art History) from the University of Athens, Greece. She completed her MLitt in Art History at the University of St Andrews and received her PhD from the same institution in 2009. She has taught at the University of St Andrews and the University of Dundee; she was a Neil Macgregor scholar at the National Gallery, London and has participated in a number of archaeological excavations in Greece. Her primary research concern is the notion of ‘influence’ and artistic contacts between different cultures. Her doctoral thesis ‘Antiquity through Medieval Eyes: The Appropriation of Antique Art in the Trecento’ deals with the perception

272

Contributors

and reception of Greek and Roman antiquity in fourteenth-century Italy. She is also interested in Italo-Byzantine artistic contacts and has published two articles on the influence of Byzantine iconographic types of the Virgin and Child in Italian painting. Benoît Latour received his MA in Art History from the Université de Montréal in 2004. He is subsequently undertaking doctoral studies in Art History at that same institution, where he has also joined in various research projects over the years. His studies and research activities have mainly dealt with the ways in which the western classical tradition has been carried over and inflected in English history painting of the long eighteenth century. He has been working for several years as a translator and copy editor in Canada. Dr. Silvia Loreti is Research Fellow at IMT Lucca, Italy. She obtained her PhD from The Courtauld Institute of Art in 2009 and worked as Postdoctoral Research Associate at the Centre for the Study of Surrealism and its Legacies (University of Manchester, University of Essex, Tate). She has taught in the Department of Art History and Visual Culture of the University of Manchester and at the Courtauld. Her PhD, 'Avant-Garde Classicism', supervised by Professor Christopher Green, studied the ways in which early avant-garde culture appropriated the classical tradition by making it compelling again for modernity. Her research has focused, in particular, on the works of Picasso and de Chirico of the 1910s and 1920s. She has published on both artists and on avant-garde notions of classicism in English and French. Her essay, 'Modern Representation Awakened by Antiquity. Picasso, de Chirico and the Classical Vision' is included in the catalogue of the Getty Villa and Musée Picasso Antibes exhibition Modern Antiquity: Picasso, de Chirico, Léger, Picabia and the New Classicism (ed. by Jens Daehner and Christopher Green, Getty, Los Angeles, 2011 and Hazan, Paris, 2012). Spyridon Loumakis has an M.A. in Byzantine Archaeology from the University of Athens. He is now working on Roman Religions and early Christianity during the Roman period. He has been granted the Concordia University Partial Tuition Fees Scholarship for International Students, the “Alexander S. Onassis Public Benefit Foundation” Scholarship and the “A. G. Leventis Foundation” Scholarship to pursue his M.A. in History and Philosophy of Religion at Concordia University in Montreal, Quebec, Canada. He is also interested in various aspects of Late Antiquity and

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Byzantine History, as well in Nationalism and the History of Sports in Greece (late 19th-early 20th c.). Dr. Anthousa Papagiannaki is an Honorary Research Associate at the Centre of Byzantine, Ottoman and Modern Greek Studies, University of Birmingham. She has a BA Hons (Archaeology and Art History) from the University of Crete, Greece. She completed her M.Phil in Byzantine Art and Archaeology at the University of Oxford, and received her PhD from the same institution in 2006. Her research focuses mainly on the study of material culture and daily life in Byzantium with an interdisciplinary approach that makes use of written, artistic and archaeological evidence. Her interests include the display of material culture within museum environments. Dr. Laura Rietveld has been a researcher at the University of Amsterdam. She has written a dissertation on the legacy of Orpheus in Italian literature, art and music between 1300 and 1607 (Il trionfo di Orfeo. La fortuna di Orfeo in Italia da Dante a Monteverdi, Amsterdam 2007). Currently she is working as a project manager at an educational publishing house in Groningen, The Netherlands. Dr. Charo Rovira is currently working at the Institute of Classical Studies (London). She was a doctoral fellow in the Spanish school of History and Archaeology of Rome and obtained her PhD from the University of Barcelona in 2004. She has published several articles on the organisation of trade during the Roman Empire through the epigraphic evidence. She is a member of the research group CEIPAC that excavates at the Monte testaccio in Rome. She has been project curator at the British Museum where she is collaborating on a research project on Hadrian’s Villa. Her current main line of research is the reception of archaeological sites in nineteenth century art and literature.

INDEX

Abbé de saint Non, 16 Académie des Beaux-Arts, 151 Agostini, Niccolò degli, 109, 114, 115 Alberti, Leandro (friar), 42 Descrittione di tutta Italia, 15, 16, 17 Albertini, Francesco Opusculum de Mirabilibus Novae et Veteris Urbis Romae, 131 and n. 16 Alexandria, 72 and n. 1 allegory, 107–12, 115 Alma-Tadema, Lawrence, 161–81 (figs. 178–81) amphorae, depictions of, 170– 71; An Exedra, 166–68, 169, 170; inscriptions in paintings, 166–73; in Strand Magazine, 164 n. 7; journals, 173; use of scholae, 166 Alphonse I of Aragon (king of Naples), 9 Anguillara, Giovanni Andrea dell’, 110, 111, 113, 114, 115 Annales Pisani, 56, 61 appliqués, 71 and n. 1, 76, 78 n. 19, 79, 80 and n. 30, 81, 82 bone and ivory, 80 n. 29, 81–82, 92 Apollinaire, Guillaume, 5, 189–92, 195, 199, 201, 202, 203 Cubist Painters – Aesthetic Meditations, 190 Apollonius of Tyana, 37 n. 31 and n. 32 archaeology, 5, 161–81, 194–95 Minoan, 195–96

Arnulph of Orleans, 108 avant-garde classicism in Paris, 184–215 Balkan Wars, 238 (First, 241) Ballets Russes, 188 Barbarossa (Frederick I, Holy Roman Emperor), 52–55, 66 (fig.) Convention of Constance (1183), 61; defeat at Legnano (1176), 60–61; Diet of Roncaglia (1158), 55–56; opposed by Lombard League, 60–61; Peace of Venice (1177), 61; support of Archbishop of Milan 55 Beccafumi, Domenico (artist), 132 Benjamin of Tudela (traveller), 11 Bible and biblical figures beheading of St John, 59 n. 24; Daniel in lion’s den, 58; Genesis 1:3, 148; King David, 11; Red Sea crossing, 58; St Paul, 44, 57; St Peter, 32, 57 Boccaccio, Giovanni, 38, 40, 44–45 Genealogie deorum gentilium, 111 Böcklin, Arnold, 193, 197 Bonsignore, Giovanni dei, 107, 108, 109, 112, 113, 115 Book of Josippon, 11 Botticelli, 127 Bourdon, David (writer), 220–21 and n. 17 Bregno, Andrea (sculptor), 129 and n. 10

The Legacy of Antiquity Bulwer-Lytton, Edward The Last Days of Pompeii, 163 and n. 6, 173 Calvocoressi, Michel Dimitri, 188 and n. 19 Camera degli Sposi, 113 and n. 18 cantare (narrative poems), 109 Cardinals Domenico della Rovere, 128; Fazio Santoro, 131; Raffaele Riario, 129 n. 10, 130, 131, 132 and n. 18, 133, 134 Charlemagne, 53 and n. 5, 54, 60 Chassériau, Théodore (artist), 162 Chateaubriand, François-René de, 162 Choirosphaktes, Leo (diplomat and writer), 89 Choniates, Nicetas Historia, 41 n. 54, 88–89 Christopher of Mitylene Carmina, 40 n. 50 Chronicle of Partenope, 13, 14 Chrysoloras, Manuel, 39–40, 41, 45 Ciampini, Giovanni, 59 n. 24, 60 n. 26, 69 (fig.) Cimmerians, 10 Cocceius (architect), 8, 10, 15 Comte de Caylus Tableaux tirés de l’Iliade, 149 Conrad of Querfurt (diplomat), 12, 36, 37 n. 32 Constantine see heritage, classical Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, 172 Council of Trent, 111–12 Counter-Reformation, 111–12 Cowper, William, 152 n. 12 Crypta Neapolitana (Naples), 3, 8– 27 see also Virgil allegedly built by Virgil, 13, 14, 15; Feast of Piedigrotta, 16; figs., 20-27; frescoes in, 13– 14; paintings of, 17; structure, 9, 15, 17

275

Cubism, 188 and n. 20, 189, 191, 192 da Forli, Melozzo (artist), 127 d’Alessandria, Benzo, 39 Dallas, Demetrios, 244 Dante Divine Comedy, 34 d’Arezzo, Ristoro, 33–34, 42 da Sesto, Cesare (artist), 132 da Vinci, Leonardo Last Supper, 127 De Ceremoniis, 89 de Chirico, Giorgio, 5, 184–215 Ariadne motif, 189, 191, 201– 02; education, 194, 198; family, 194 (brother, 188); mannequin motif, 202–03; manuscripts, 187 n. 16; reading of Nietzsche, 200– 01 and n. 70 De deorum imaginibus libellus, 112 del Pollaiuolo, Antonio (artist), 127 Del Virgilio, Giovanni Allegorie librorum Ovidii Metamorphoseos prosaic ac metrice compilate, 107–08 de Staël, Madame, 162 de Silva, Francisco Cassiano, 9 de Taeye, Louis, 165 Diaghilev, Serge, 188 and n. 19 Dio Cassius, 130, 131 Dolce, Ludovico, 110–11, 115 Trasformationi, 113 Donatello, 127 Dondi, Giovanni, 43 letter to Fra Guglielmo da Cremona, 39, 40, 42 Dressel, Heinrich ‘Un grande deposito di anfore rinvenuto nel nuovo quartiere del Castro Pretorio’, 172 Ducros, Louis (artist), 17 Dürer, Albrecht, 113 n. 18

276 Du Roveray, Francis Isaac, 152 and n. 12 Ebers, Georg Moritz, 171 Eco, Umberto, 218 n. 7 Egypt, 82–83 ekphrasis, 41 n. 54 Espérey, General, 230 Evans, Arthur, 195, 196–97, 201 Falconet, Étienne Maurice, 151 Faure, Elie (art historian), 186 Fauvism, 186 Fiorelli, Giuseppe Descrizione di Pompei, 168 First Balkan War, 228 First World War (Great War), 228, 230, 231, 232, 237, 242 Flavio, Biondo Italia Illustrata, 15, 16, 17 Flaxman, John (artist), 154–55 Foch, Field Marshal, 228–29 Franco, Giacomo (artist), 114 French Revolution, 5, 157, 201 n. 76 Fuseli, Henry, 5, 148–160 (figs. 159–60) Lectures on Painting, 149, 151, 152 n. 9, 156 n. 23 Gambart, Ernest (dealer), 164 Gartz, Fritz, 187 n. 15 German Empire, disintegration of, 54–55 Gérôme, Jean-Leon, 173 Gervase of Tilbury Otia Imperialia, 11–13, 33, 38 Gesta Romanorum, 30 n. 1 Ghiberti, Lorenzo, 42, 43 Ghirlandaio, Domenico, 127 Gigante, Giacinto (artist), 17 Gilliéron, Emile, 194–95, 197 (figs. 210–11) Giotto, 127, 128

Index Gleizes, Albert, 188 and n. 20 gods, demi-gods, heroes and representations, 242 n. 51, 249 see also Homer Achilles, 73, 74, 75, 78; Agamemnon, 151; Ajax, 150, 151–52 and n. 11, 153, 154; Aloeids (Aloads), 153, 154, 155–56; Amphitrite, 75; Apollo, 154, 202 and n. 78; Artemis, 154; Athena, 36 n. 27 (Pallas, 39); Charon, 107–08, 112; Dionysus, 73, 81 n. 36, 202 and n. 78 (Bacchus, 79 n. 26); Dioscuri (Castor and Pollux), 31–32 and n. 2, 39, 49 (fig.); Europa, 75 and n. 12, 83 and n. 42; Hera, 260 (caption); Hercules, 241–42, 260 (caption); Hermes, 153, 154; Isis, 79 n. 26, 170; Jupiter, 16, 227, 228 (Zeus, 150); Leucothea, 150; Mars, 35, 43–44, 241 (Ares, 153, 154, 155, 241); Neptune, 73, 74 n. 6, 77, 78 n. 19 (Poseidon, 73, 75); Nereids, 73, 74, 75 and n. 12, 77, 78– 79, 82 n. 37, 83, 84, 87, 90– 91, 92, 101 (fig.); Nereus, 73; Nike, 227–69 (figs. 258– 69); Odysseus (Ulysses), 150, 151–52, 153, 154, 199; Orpheus, 4, 106–24 (and Eurydice, 107–08, 109, 110, 112, 114; woodcuts of, 112– 14 (figs. 118–24)); Pluto, 114; Saturn, 16; Thetis, 73, 74, 75; Tritons, 73, 75, 77, 78, 83, 84–85, 103 (fig.); Venus, 34–35, 39, 40, 41, 42–43 and n. 58, 45, 81 (Aphrodite, 75, 80–81, 153); Zarathustra, 202 and n. 78 Goethes, the, 16

The Legacy of Antiquity Grand Tour, the, 16, 17 Greek Orthodoxy, 234, 237, 240, 242, 244, 249 Greek-Ottoman War, 238 Gris, Juan, 189 Guelfs and Ghibellines, 35 Guilbert de Nogent, 44 Guillaume, Paul (dealer), 202 Guthmüller, Bodo, 109, 110 n. 12 Hamilton, Richard My Marilyn, 223 Hamilton, Sir William, 16 Henry II (Holy Roman Emperor), 79 Henry IV, 54 heritage, classical Greek, 4–5, 194–203 (sports and sports clubs, 5, 227–69) Roman, 4–5, 8–27, 161, 162 Agrippa, 168; Augustus, 8, 10, 166, 168; Constantine, 31–32, 35 n. 23, 52–59, 168 (and mother Helena, 57; and Pope Sylvester, 4, 56–62; Arch of, 125 n. 1, 128; Donation of, 59 n. 24, 60–61); Constantine VII Porphyrogennetos, 89; Gnaius Domitius Ahenobarbus, 74 n. 6; Julius Caesar, 32, 131, 132; Justinian, 53 n. 5, 55; Marcus Aurelius, 31, 32, 50 (fig.); Mark Anthony, 74 n. 6 (Cleopatra, 202); Nero, 32 (Golden House, 125 n. 1, 128– 29); Otto the Great, 53 n. 5, 54; Pantheon, 34; Pompeii, 5, 161–

277

81 (books about, 168, 170; photography of, 168; prominent families of, 169; street of tombs, 167; Vesuvius, 12, 37, 161); Remus, 32; Romulus, 11, 32; Theodoric, 32; Theodosius, 53 n. 5; Tiberius, 31; Titus (Arch of), 125 n. 1; Trajan, 131, 132 (Column, 125–26, 128–29, 130, 131, 132, 133 (figs, 136– 38, 144, 145); Forum of, 133) Hildebert of Lavardin, 40, 42 hippocamps and fishtailed creatures, 77–78 and n. 19, 82, 83, 84, 88– 89, 101 (fig.), 102 (fig.) Historia de Orpheo, 109 Hoefnagel, Joris (artist) in Civitates Orbis Terrarum in oes incisae et exusae, 15– 16 Homer, 10, 148, 149, 150, 153, 197 see also gods, demi-gods, heroes and representations Iliad, 78, 150, 153, 154–55, 156; Odyssey, 150, 151–52, 155–56; Polyphemus the Cyclops, 16, 150–51 homosexuality, 106, 108, 109, 110, 111 Horologgi, Gioseppe, 111, 114 Huber-Rebenich, Gerlinde, 112 Index of forbidden books, 111 and n. 14 Ingres, Jean-Auguste-Dominique, 162 Italy communes, 54–56, 61; unification of, 163

278 Investiture Controversy (c. 1100), 54 Joachim III, Patriarch of Constantinople, 244 Johnson, Joseph, 152 n. 12 Kalafatis, Metropolitan Chrysostomos, 235, 241 n. 49, 244–49 King George I of the Hellenes, 236 and n. 32, 239 n. 43, 242 n. 53 Lairesse, Gérard Sacrifice of Polyxena, 152 n. 9 Lampros, Spyridon, 237 n. 36 Laprade, Pierre (artist), 188 n. 19 Lassels, Richard Voyage of Italy, 16 legends, fables and the fantastic, 30–36 ‘marvels’ and ‘miracles’, 33, 44 Les Soirées de Paris (journal), 189, 190, 191 n. 37 Leto, Pomponio, 128 Lista, Giovanni, 187–88 n. 16 Livy, 130 Lorenzetti, Ambrogio (artist), 43 Lucullus (general), 15 Maffei, Raffaelo Commentariorum urbanorum, 126–28 and n. 3, 129, 133 Magnis, Sophocles (trainer), 237 n. 36 Mantegna, Andrea, 112–13, 127 marine Thiasos, 73–93, 102 (fig.) Dionysiac Thiasos, 73, 76, 81, 82 n. 37 Master Gregory The Marvels of Rome, 32–33, 34, 35–36 n. 26, 39, 40, 41, 45 Mau, August, 172 Menander, 78 n. 19 Metzinger, Jean, 188 and n. 20

Index Michelangelo, 128, 134, 135 David, 127; Drunken Bacchus, 127; Pietà, 127 mimic plays, 90–91 Mirabilia Urbis Romae, 31–32 Mona Lisa, disappearance of, 191 Monroe, Marilyn, 216–24 see Warhol, Andy as Norma Jean Mortensen, 222–23; in Monkey Business, 222; in Playboy, 222 Moschus (poet), 75 n. 12 museums, galleries and studios Archaeological Museum (Cairo), 80; Benaki Museum, 78; Berlin Museum of Prehistory, 198 n. 65; Berlin Staatliche Museen, 154; British Museum, 81, 154; Capitoline, 31; Liverpool Museums, 85 n. 50; Louvre, 191, 192, 201 n. 76, 202, 203; Musée Nationale du Moyen-Age (Cluny Museum), 84, 91 n. 72; Musée Picasso, 187 n. 16; Museo Nationale del Bargello (Florence), 85; Museo Nazionale San Matteo, 57; Museum of Naples, 171; Museum of Olympia, 230; National Archaeological Museum (Greece), 198 and n. 65; Palazzo San Sebastiano, 14; Pio-Clementine Museum, 202; Sfax Archaeological Museum, 86 n. 52; Sidney Janis Gallery, 217; Sousse Archaeological Museum, 86 n. 52; Stable Gallery, 220; Tate Modern, 216; The Factory, 220, 224; Vatican Museums, 133, 201;

The Legacy of Antiquity Victoria and Albert, 83 n. 42, 84; Walters Art Museum (Baltimore), 84, 85, 86, 91 n. 72, 92 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 189, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 196–97, 200–01, 202 Ecce Homo, 200; portraits of, 200 n. 71; The Birth of Tragedy, 200–01 Nocq, Henry (engraver), 229 n. 7 Olympia, 230 n. 10 Otto of Freising Chronica, 61 Ovid Metamorphoses, 4, 106–24 Ovide moralise, 107 Ovidius moralizatus, 112 and n. 16, 113 n.18 paideia, 92 definition of, 87 n. 53 Panhellenic Games, 236, 240 Papal States, 60-61, 132 see also Popes ȆĮIJȡȓȢ (newspaper), 228, 229 (Greek newspapers, 236) Paris Peace Conference, 228, 230 n. 10, 231 Pausanias, 152 n. 11 Peruzzi, Baldassarre (artist), 132, 134 Petrarch, 43 Itinerary to the Holy Land, 14, 16, 17 letters: from Venice, 40–41; to Boccaccio, 40 Photius Bibliotheca, 36 n. 27, 37–38 n. 34 Picasso, Pablo, 189, 191, 192, 203 Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, 192, 200

279

Pinturicchio (artist), 127, 128 Pisanello, 127 plaques, 71 and n. 1, 76, 82, 85, 91 n. 72 Plato, 218–20, 222, 224 (platonism, 110, 218–19, 223) Symposium, 5, 218, 219–20 Pliny, 15, 221 n. 17 Natural History, 73 Poliziano, Angelo Fabula di Orfeo, 109 Pompeii see heritage, classical Pop Art, 223 Pope, Alexander, 152 n. 12, 155 Popes, 125 see also Papal States Alexander III, 60–61; Alexander VI, 127, 128 and n. 7; Innocent VIII, 127; Julius II, 130, 131, 132–33, 134; Silvester II, 38, 56–57, 58–60; Sixtus IV, 127, 131; Urban II, 62 n. 30 postage stamps, 230–33 primitivism, 5, 193, 199, 200, 202, 203 Psellos (writer), 38 pseudo-Longinus Peri Hypsous (On the Sublime), 5, 148–60 (authorship of, 149 n. 4) psychoanalysis, 197 Pucci, Francesco (librarian) letter to Bernardo Michelozzi, 15 Punic Wars (scenes from), 130–31 and n. 13 Raphael, 134, 135 Regio, Raffaele, 108, 113 Reinach, Salomon Orpheus, 201 Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 151 Ripanda, Jacopo (artist), 4, 125–46 (figs. 138–44, 145, 146) Robert of Anjou (king of Naples), 14

280

Index

rosette caskets, 72–73, 76 Proiecta casket, 81 and n. 33 Royal Academy, 149, 150 (Antwerp, 165) Rusconi, Giovanni Antonio, 113 Rustici, Cencio letter to Francesco da Fiano, 45

Tabula Peutingeriana (map), 11 Timanthes Immolation of Iphigenia, 151 Tombros, Michael (sculptor), 230, 261 (caption) Tremaine, Emily (collector), 221 Tsountas, Christos, 195

Salmon, André, 184, 200 Young French Painting, 189, 192 Salomon, Bernard (artist), 113 Salon d’Automne, 185–86, 188 and nn. 19 and 20, 191, 192, 193 Salon des Indépendants, 186, 188, 189 Schliemann, Heinrich, 195–96, 196–97, 197–98, 199, 200 (figs, 212–13) Schopenhauer, Artur, 192 Seneca, 10–11, 14, 15 Simintendi, Arrigo, 108 and n. 6 Sistine Ceiling, 134 Skopas (sculptor and architect), 73– 74 Smyrna, 233–49 Solomon, Holly, 221 Spirito Gualtieri, Lorenzo, 110–11 and n. 12 Statue of Liberty, 242 Strabo Geography, 10, 15 Suetonius, 130, 131 Surrealists, 184, 185, 187, 189

van Wittel, Gaspar (artist), 17 Vasari, Giorgio Lives of the Artists, 134 Venizelos, Eleftherios, 228, 229, 230–31 and n. 10, 233, 239 n. 43 Villani, Giovanni, 34–35, 43–44 Virgil see also Crypta Neapolitana as benefactor, 36; as legendary wonder-worker, 12, 14, 17, 37, 38; biographers of, 12; burial and relics of, 12–13, 14; Georgics, 107; portrayals of, 14; writings, 109 Virgin, the, 14, 16 and Child, 13 Voltaire, 16 Warburg, Aby, 1 Warhol, Andy, 5, 216–26 see Monroe, Marilyn films, 221; photo-booth strips, 221; screen tests, 222 Ziller, Ernst, 198–99 (fig. 213)