The Vienna School of Art History: Empire and the Politics of Scholarship, 1847–1918 9780271062600

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The Vienna School of Art History

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The V i e n n a S c h o o l of A r t H i s t o r y Empire and the Politics of Scholarship, 1847–1918

M at t h e w R a mp l e y

T h e Pennsy l v ania Sta te U n ivers ity P re s s U ni v er si t y Pa rk, Pen n s ylva n ia

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Rampley, Matthew, author. The Vienna School of art history : empire and the politics of scholarship, 1847–1918 / Matthew Rampley. p.  cm Summary: “Analyzes the emergence and development of art history as a discipline in Austria-​Hungary. Focuses on the ways in which ideas about art and its history became intertwined with political and social identity, and on the cultural politics that shaped the final years of the Habsburg Empire”—​Provided by publisher. Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 978-0-271-06158-0 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Art—Austria—​Historiography. 2. Art historians—​Austria. 3. Art—​Political aspects—Austria—History—19th century. 4. Art—​Political aspects—Austria—History—20th century. 5. Art and society—Austria—History—19th century. 6. Art and society—Austria—History—20th century. 7. Austria—​Politics and government—1867–1918. I. Title. N390.A9R36 2013 707.2’2—​dc23 2013018991 Copyright © 2013 The Pennsylvania State University All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America Published by The Pennsylvania State University Press, University Park, PA 16802-1003 The Pennsylvania State University Press is a member of the Association of American University Presses. It is the policy of The Pennsylvania State University Press to use acid-free paper. Publications on uncoated stock satisfy the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences— Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Material, ansi z39.48–1992. This book is printed on paper that contains 30% post-consumer waste.

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contents

List of Illustrations  |  vii Acknowledgments | ix

Introduction | 1 1

Founding a Discipline: Liberalism and the Idea of Scientific Method  |  8 2

Questions of Method: From Positivism to the History of Spirit  |  31 3

Beyond Vienna: The Growth of Art History Across the Habsburg Monarchy  |  52 4

An Art History of Austria-​Hungary? Patriotism and the Construction of National Historiography  |  74 5

Baroque Art and Architecture: A Contested Legacy  |  96 6

Vernacular Cultures and National Identities: The Politics of Folk Art  |  116 7

Readings of Modern Art: Historicism, Impressionism, Expressionism  |  141 8

Between East and West  |  166 9

Saving the Past: Conservation and the Cult of Monuments  |  186 Epilogue: Continuity and Rupture After 1918  |  212 Notes | 217 Bibliography | 243 Index | 271

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illustrations

1. Sculptural frieze of Pharaoh pursuing Moses across the Red Sea, from a sarcophagus in

Sázavou, Bohemia, 1719–22. Photo: Jiří Matějiček. | 105

the Church of St. Francis, Split, 5th century

8. Ödön Lechner and Gyula Pártos, front

c.e., from Rudolf von Eitelberger, “Die mit-

façade of the Museum of Applied

telalterlichen Kunstdenkmale Dalmatiens

Arts, Budapest, 1896. Photo: Rebecca

in Arbe, Zara, Traù, Spalato und Ragusa,”

Houze. | 125

Jahrbuch der k.k. Central-Commission zur Erforschung und Erhaltung der Baudenkmale 5 (1861): plate 18. | 23 2. Onofrio di Giordano della Cava, The Rector’s

9. Ödön Lechner, interior courtyard of the Museum of Applied Arts, Budapest, 1896. Photo: author. | 126 10. Stanisław Witkiewicz, Villa Koliba,

Palace, Dubrovnik, 1463, engraving, from

Zakopane, 1892–94. Photo: Marta

Rudolf von Eitelberger, “Die mittelalterli-

Filipová. | 128

chen Kunstdenkmale Dalmatiens in Arbe,

11. William Lossow and Hermann Viehweger,

Zara, Traù, Spalato und Ragusa,” Jahrbuch

Dresden Heating and Electricity Works,

der k.k. Central-Commission zur Erforschung

1901, from Die Architektur des xx. Jahrhun-

und Erhaltung der Baudenkmale 5 (1861):

derts: Zeitschrift für moderne Baukunst 25

plate 19. | 24 3. Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife, from the Vienna

(1903). | 160 12. Hugo Lederer, Bismarck monument, Ham-

Genesis manuscript (Vienna, Österreichi-

burg, 1906. Photo: Janet Hartl. | 162

sche Nationalbibliothek, cod. theol. gr. 31),

13. Reinhold Begas, Bismarck monument, Ber-

6th century c.e., fol. 16r. | 47 4. Richard Moser, The Powder Gate,

lin, 1901. Anonymous photograph. | 163 14. Ivan Meštrović, Račić family mauso-

Prague, 1911, watercolor on paper. Photo:

leum, Cavtat, 1923, postcard. Photo:

Dorotheum. | 64

author. | 164

5. Iconostasis from the Greek-Catholic Church of the Holy Spirit, Rohatyn, Ukraine, 1647–50, engraving by Karl von Siegel, from Die österreichisch-​ungarische Monar-

15. Theophil Hansen, Museum of Military History, Vienna, 1848–56. Anonymous photograph, 1860–90. | 168 16. The courtyard of the Wawel Castle before

chie in Wort und Bild (the Kronprinzenwerk),

the 1905 restoration. Photo: Institute of

14:743. | 90

Art History, Jagiellonian University of

6. Kilián Dientzenhofer, the Church of St. Nicholas, Malá Strana, Prague, 1737–51, from Cornelius Gurlitt, Geschichte des Barockstiles und des Rococo in Deutschland, 275, fig. 85. | 103 7. Jan Blažej Santini Aichel, the Church

Cracow. | 197 17. The courtyard of the Wawel Castle after the 1905 restoration. Photo: author. | 198 18. The west gate (Riesentor) of St. Stephen’s Cathedral, Vienna, 1230–45. Photo: David Monniaux. | 207

of St. John of Nepomuk, Žďár nad

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acknowledgments

The intellectual debts of this book are many. My initial interest in the Vienna School arose out of conversation with Richard Woodfield and Paul Crowther. The book itself has benefited enormously from discussion and debates with numerous colleagues and friends, including Georg Vasold, Paul Stirton, Juliet Kinchin, Iain Boyd Whyte, Jan Bakoš, Jiří Vybíral, Hans Aurenhammer, Rebecca Houze, Chris Wood, Rachel Rossner, Pieter Judson, Arnold Bartetzky, Margaret Olin, Diana Reynolds, Stefan Muthesius, Milena Bartlová, Hubert Locher, Damjan Prelovšek, Artur Rosenauer, Robert Born, Wojciech Bałus, Enikő Roka, Andreas Lehne, Joanna Wołanska, Michael Falser, Magdalena Kunińska, Tim Kirk, Malcolm Gee, and Jill Steward. Thanks are also due to Julia Jabłońska and Catherine Cook. Essential parts of the research undertaken here were supported by the British Academy, the European Science Foundation, Teesside University, and the University of Birmingham, and their support needs to be acknowledged. I would also like to thank the staff of the

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Pennsylvania State University Press, in particular Eleanor Goodman, for her support for the project, and Keith Monley, for his apparently inexhaustible patience in editing my original manuscript. Above all, however, this project is indebted to Marta, who encouraged me to see the subject in a new light. Earlier versions of parts of this book have been published elsewhere. Chapter 1 was published as “The Idea of a Scientific Discipline: Rudolf von Eitelberger and the Emergence of Art History in Vienna, 1847–1885,” Art History 34.1 (2011): 54–79. Parts of chapter 4 appeared previously as “For the Love of the Fatherland: Patriotic Art History and the Kronprinzenwerk in Austria-​Hungary,” Centropa 9.3 (2009): 160–75, while parts of chapter 8 were taken from “Art History and the Politics of Empire: Rethinking the Vienna School,” Art Bulletin 91.4 (2009): 447–63. I wish to thank the Association of Art Historians, Wiley-Blackwell, Dora Wiebenson, and the College Art Association for permission to republish material.

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Introduction This book is a study of the practice of art history in Vienna and Austria-​Hungary between 1847, when Rudolf von Eitelberger was appointed the first dozent (junior lecturer) in the subject, and 1918, the year the Habsburg Empire collapsed. It traces the emergence of art history, the establishment of norms of scholarly inquiry, and the involvement of art historians in wider debates over the cultural and political identity of the monarchy. It is the product of an extended period of reflection on art history in Habsburg central Europe. One of my first published articles was on Alois Riegl,1 with whom I had first become acquainted as a graduate teaching assistant at the University of St. Andrews in the early 1990s, when he formed part of a course in historiography that I taught. Since that time the scholarly landscape on the Vienna School of art history has undergone enormous transformations; twenty years ago the literature on the subject was modest, and that available in English was even more limited.2 Access to primary sources was a significant problem. Aside from a few reeditions in the 1960s and 1970s, the writings by the major representatives of the Vienna School were out of print and difficult to obtain.3 This was doubly the case with editions in English, which consisted of Riegl’s “Late Roman or Oriental?” (a critical essay on Josef Strzygowski’s Orient

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oder Rom), Late Roman Art Industry (a questionable translation of Riegl’s Die spätrömische Kunstindustrie), and an edition of Max Dvořák’s History of Art as the History of Ideas. The situation has since changed dramatically; a turning point, perhaps, was marked by the publication in 1992 of Margaret Olin’s monograph on Riegl, Forms of Representation in Alois Riegl’s Theory of Art, and of an English translation of Riegl’s Stilfragen (Problems of Style). The importance of Riegl was confirmed the following year, when Margaret Iversen’s monograph on him appeared. The translation of Stilfragen was the first of a number of important English editions of works by Riegl and other Viennese art historians, and new translations continue to appear.4 This has paralleled renewed efforts in Austria to publish new critical editions of work by Vienna School scholars.5 The advent of online digital libraries and archives, providing access to historic primary texts, has increased still further the availability of primary materials.6 The renewed publication of works associated with the Vienna School has been accompanied by an exponential increase in the volume of scholarly research on the subject. At the time of writing, the library of the Zentralinstitut für Kunstgeschichte in Munich, which has arguably the most extensive holdings, listed

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sixty-seven items on Riegl alone published since 2000, in languages as diverse as Croatian, German, French, Italian, Slovak, and English. Despite the appearance of such a volume of commentary and analysis, the literature on the Vienna School remains curiously partial and incomplete. It is partial inasmuch as by far the greatest degree of critical attention has been devoted to Alois Riegl, with other figures, not least the “founder” of the Vienna School, Rudolf von Eitelberger, languishing in relative obscurity.7 In many respects this situation is easily explicable; given his contributions to scholarship on textiles, ornament, the applied arts of late antiquity, monument protection policy and theory, folk art, Baroque art and architecture, together with his methodological innovations, Riegl was by far the most consistently original art historian working in Vienna between the mid–nineteenth and mid–twentieth centuries. At the same time, however, the heightened interest in Riegl—which can at times come close to a fetishism of the author figure—produces a restricted vision of the discursive dynamics of Viennese art history. A prominent example of this phenomenon can be seen in the treatment of Franz Wickhoff and Alois Riegl’s conflict with Josef Strzygowski over the origins of early medieval art. This dispute has largely been viewed in terms of the political differences between the individuals concerned, but this view underplays the fact that they were reprising a decades-long debate over European identity and the place of Austria-​Hungary in Europe, a debate that continued long after the personal antagonism between these authors had been forgotten.8 This book therefore gives less prominence to Riegl than usual in accounts of the

Vienna School. My intention is not so much to rehabilitate neglected art historians, such as Moriz Thausing, Albert Ilg, or even Franz Wickhoff (who is usually only discussed in relation to the dispute with Strzygowski or his part in the furor raised by Klimt’s Philosophy frieze), as to shift the focus away from exposition of the conceptions of individual authors and toward larger-scale themes that preoccupied art historians in Austria-​Hungary.9 In many respects, therefore, this book diverges from the approaches that have characterized most accounts of the Vienna School. It examines the novel ideas and methods explored by individual art historians, but it is concerned less with method per se than with the situational logic and the ideological and institutional factors that shaped art-historical practices in Austria-​ Hungary from the 1840s until its demise, in 1918. It is thus primarily a political and social history of the discipline, rather than an account of its intellectual evolution, and stands apart from interpretations by commentators such as Michael Podro, who have located the Vienna School in a discursive tradition preoccupied with the philosophical legacy of Kant and Hegel.10 Riegl has loomed large in such readings, starting with Stilfragen, which made a decisive break with the legacy and influence of Gottfried Semper. Within this framework, the other significant component of Riegl’s thought was his notion of the Kunstwollen (variously translated as “art drive,” “artistic volition,” or “will to art”), and ever since Erwin Panofsky’s essay on the topic in 1920, commentators have wrestled with the philosophical meaning and scope of the term.11 A similar preoccupation has been visible in the reception of Riegl’s intervention into monument conservation and protection;

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his famous article on the cult of monuments has been the object of interest primarily due to its attempt to posit a theory of historicity, including an evolutionary typology of treatments of history.12 This has in turn been taken up and revisited in the light of contemporary concerns with time and with the experience of time in the Viennese fin de siècle.13 The originality of Riegl’s thinking is not in question, but such accounts tend to diminish other factors; the essay on the cult of monuments was one of many articles Riegl wrote on monument protection, the predominant themes of which were not the theoretical issues mentioned above but rather the role that monument protection and conservation had to play in the cultural politics of contemporary Austria-​Hungary. It has to be seen alongside his critique of the nationalistic ideas of heritage expounded by the German art historian Georg Dehio and the restoration projects undertaken in, for example, Cracow or Split to “restore” the artistic and architectural heritage of Polish Galicia or Dalmatia in line with local nationalist and religious visions of the past.14 Riegl’s meditation on the cult of monuments was only one of many other contemporary publications on the same topic, in a state that had long sanctioned historicism as an official visual style but that tentatively supported Secessionism and progressive artistic currents as part of its program of cultural modernization.15 Much writing by Vienna School art historians thus revolved less around questions of methodology and more around ones of aesthetic, historical, and political value. Viewing art history in Austria-​Hungary in this light allows the role of other authors to come into consideration. In comparison with Riegl, figures such as Eitelberger, Thausing,

and Ilg, for example, were not pioneers of art-historical method, but they played an equally important role in laying out the parameters of inquiry and in intervening into wider public debates about artistic tradition and the cultural heritage of Austria-​ Hungary. The same applies to Max Dvořák, who, although one of the most prominent and influential art historians working in Habsburg Vienna, has attracted a surprisingly small body of commentary, having been dismissed by one observer as responsible for a genre of art-historical writing that “verged on the popular, the sensational and the grandiose.”16 At the heart of these deliberations lies the fundamental methodological question of how one should write a history of the Vienna School. As Michael Podro has asked, “What kind of commentary are we to construct upon a literature . . . if we no longer believe in its theories?”17 One approach has been to identify specific conceptual and theoretical issues with a contemporary resonance and reread them in relation to the interests of the present. Hence, the fact that Riegl had written extensively on the applied arts, for example, led some commentators in the 1990s to mention him when constructing the genealogy of the emerging field of visual studies.18 However, a number of alternative paradigms that also diminish the focus on the individual author present themselves. One of the most important is institutional inquiry, first explored by Heinrich Dilly.19 Combining elements of Foucauldian discourse analysis with concrete historical research into specific institutions, Dilly has examined the institutional framework that shaped the emergence of art history as a discipline. Although interest in the author figure has persisted, Dilly’s model has been

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taken up by a number of important studies, including Lyne Therrien’s analysis of French art history, Hubert Locher’s study of art history in Germany, and Donald Preziosi’s work on the interlinking of art history and the exhibitionary and museological complex of the modern European state.20 This book adopts a broadly similar approach, viewing the emergence of art history in Austria-​Hungary in the context of the institutions where it was taught and where research was undertaken. These included, primarily, the University of Vienna and the Museum for Art and Industry in Vienna, where many art historians, most notably Riegl, started out on their scholarly careers. It also considers the role of other institutions. These include the imperial-royal Central Commission for the Investigation and Conservation of Architectural Monuments (k.k. Central-Commission zur Erforschung und Erhaltung der Baudenkmale), the Ministry of Culture and Education, and other museums and societies that formed the institutional matrix that sustained the development of art history as a professional discipline. While central to the investigation, analysis of the institutional setting of art history is nevertheless limited in scope without an equal degree of attention to the wider political, ideological, and social context of the Habsburg Empire in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Although some works have begun to explore this dimension, it remains surprisingly understudied except in outline.21 Viewing the Vienna School in the light of its social and political background raises the obvious question of how that background should be constructed. One of the most influential accounts of the culture of the later Habsburg

Empire has been that of Carl Schorske, who attributes the extraordinary flowering of late nineteenth-century Viennese intellectual, artistic, and cultural life to the failure of liberalism. Accordingly, Schorske has interpreted Secessionist culture as a form of Oedipal revolt against the material, economic, and intellectual values of the mid- to late 1800s. On this reading the failure of the liberal bourgeoisie to shape the political direction of the Austrian state in any substantial way resulted in either an aesthetic withdrawal from public life or its counterpart, the rise of the right-wing nationalism, populism, and anti-Semitism of Karl Lueger’s Christian Social Party.22 Fritz Ringer’s account of Germany during the same period provides a compelling parallel, in which the political disenfranchisement of the bourgeoisie under the authoritarian regime of the Wilhelminian Reich resulted in a retreat into scholarly learning and culture (Bildung) as a compensatory gesture, accompanied by an aestheticized distancing from social and political life.23 Schorske has offered a persuasive thesis that could in principle also be applied to the Vienna School; Eitelberger, the liberal “father” of Viennese art history, who played a central role in the formation of key imperial cultural institutions in the 1860s and 1870s and whose historicist orientations epitomized the artistic and aesthetic values of those decades, was followed by the generation of Wickhoff and Riegl, whose work was much more sympathetic to contemporary art. Moreover Lueger’s art-historical equivalent could be found in the figure of Strzygowski, whose strident ressentiment toward the Viennese scholarly establishment drew from the same ideological and political well as Lueger’s Christian Socialism.

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This story of generational and ideological conflict is suggestive, but it presents a partial account. As Pieter Judson has recently emphasized, German liberal culture proved surprisingly resilient, and while the rise of the mass politics of the right and the left clearly challenged its position, it survived as an ideological position till the collapse of the Empire in 1918.24 Moreover, Schorske masks important continuities in political, social, and cultural life. The art historians Eitelberger and his successors, for example, were all united in their loyalties to the Habsburg state; his pupil Albert Ilg explicitly declared his allegiance to the monarchy and berated those of his contemporaries who lacked a sense of Austrian patriotism, while Riegl and Dvořák were highly critical of the nationalist ideologies—German as well as Slav—of the decades preceding the outbreak of the First World War.25 In addition, the putative political alienation of the fin de siècle generation posited by Schorske has to be tempered by the fact that the government gave considerable support to Secessionism. As Jeroen Bastiaan van Heerde has demonstrated, state sponsorship for Klimt and other artists was generous precisely because of the international character of their work, which presented an image of Austria-​Hungary as a progressive cosmopolitan state.26 The greatest limitation of Schorske’s study, however, and of the publications that emerged in its wake, is its excessive focus on Vienna. Thus, even if his interpretation is accepted, it arguably applies only to a small cultural elite based in the metropolis; its value for an understanding of the complex cultural dynamics of the wider monarchy is restricted. A similar criticism can be made of research into the historiography of art. Few studies of the Vienna

School have paid attention to its place in the wider context of central Europe. Where comparisons have been made, they have mostly been made with art historians in Germany. It is of course undeniable that art historians in Vienna belonged to a larger German-language scholarly community that encompassed Germany and Switzerland, but they were also situated within the multilingual context of the Empire. Specifically, art historians had to contend with the gradual decline of German as the lingua franca of art-historical scholarship and with the rise of scholarly communities writing in Czech, Polish, Croatian, and Hungarian, many of whom studied in Vienna but then later came to challenge its intellectual hegemony. This challenge saw its most extreme form in the bitter exchanges in Prague between Czech and German Bohemian art historians, in which academic appointments and entire institutions were assimilated to wider political disputes, but it occurred elsewhere too. This study sets art-historical writing against this background, considering how Vienna-based art historians responded to the increasingly fractured intellectual and cultural life of the late Habsburg Empire. In this context, the work of art historians in languages other than German remains woefully underinvestigated, and when it has been investigated, the research has largely been undertaken by scholars writing their own national histories of the discipline in Czech, Polish, or Croatian, which, for linguistic reasons, have hardly reached wider international audiences.27 While not presenting a detailed global account of art history across Austria-​Hungary, this study nevertheless explores this broader context and analyzes its implications for an understanding of the practices of Vienna-based art historians.

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Foregrounding the larger political and cultural contexts of Austria-​Hungary invites the obvious question regarding this book’s methodological and conceptual framework, especially given the limitations of Schorske. One of the most important recent developments in Habsburg studies has been the application of postcolonial theory to the analysis of the relations between Vienna and the “peripheries” of the Empire and between the Empire’s differing minorities.28 This has proved enormously productive in the interpretation of the Empire’s intercultural dynamics and of the way that a variety of cultural practices and discourses, including art history, sustained the quasi-colonial and imperial attitudes of the Viennese intelligentsia as well as its political class. As one of the great European powers, Austria-​Hungary could be compared with France or Britain in its treatment of its subjects. Although it had no overseas colonies, many of its minorities struggled to achieve recognition of their national aspirations; thus, while the revolutionaries of 1848 had much in common with their liberal counterparts elsewhere in Europe, many were also driven by a nationalist agenda that sought greater political and cultural recognition. The most dramatic expression of this impulse was the failed Hungarian Revolution, which embraced the cause of Magyar self-determination and, ultimately, independence.29 Conversely, for many in Vienna the image of the various minorities of the Empire, especially those in the eastern and southern extremities of Galicia, Bukovina, Dalmatia, and Bosnia, differed little from the image those in London or Paris held of the colonial subjects in Africa or India. The popular travelogue of 1876 From Semi-Asia: The Land and People of Eastern

Europe, by the novelist and journalist Karl Franzos, encapsulated the beliefs of many Viennese about the picturesque but “backward” cultures and inhabitants of the eastern “fringes” of the Empire.30 For their part, members of many of the minority cultures— including Franzos (1848–1904) himself, born to Jewish parents in the “peripheral” eastern province of Bukovina—exhibited a complex array of attitudes and identities, ranging from mimicry of Vienna and imperial rule to ambivalence and even clear opposition. These attitudes can also be seen in the writings of art historians of the various minority cultures. Some openly identified with the legitimizing ideology of the Habsburg Empire, while some were strongly committed to an oppositional stance and used art history as an instrument for resisting “Austrian” (or “Hungarian”) cultural dominance. Still others remained attached to the notion of a distinctive identity—and to the “rediscovery” or invention of a separate national artistic tradition—while nevertheless holding on to the Empire as providing the best political settlement possible. Recent work in this area has identified the extent to which many actors saw no contradiction between the promotion of a distinctive national identity, on the one hand, and loyalty to the emperor, on the other, whom they saw as the protector of their rights against the putative predations of other minorities.31 Parallels with the other European empires are suggestive, but Austria-​Hungary was nevertheless different. Although its peripheral regions functioned as semicolonial territories—the only proper colony was Bosnia, which came under Austrian administration in 1878—the analogy with other European states has to be treated with caution. As Andrea Komlosy has argued, the

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relation of center and periphery was multilayered.32 After the Compromise (Ausgleich) of 1867, in which Hungary was granted near-autonomy except in military and foreign affairs, the monarchy had two political centers: Vienna and Budapest. Moreover, while Vienna may have been an economic, cultural, and political center, Budapest, and indeed Hungary, were economic peripheries. In contrast, Bohemia, which was a political “periphery,” was economically and educationally one of the most advanced crown lands of the Empire. Galicia had, after 1868, substantial local political autonomy, and although economically tied to Vienna in certain respects, it also enjoyed a substantial degree of local control over its economic resources, in particular oil.33 There was also no single dominant national group; German language and culture occupied a hegemonic position, but the monarchy continuously resisted German nationalism. Austro-­German liberals dominated the government and the legislative program during the 1860s and the 1870s, but thereafter the government, under Count Eduard Taaffe, ruled by means of support from the so-called Iron Ring, a coalition of Czechs, Poles, and conservative Austro-Germans. While the Empire did not recognize national groups as collective bodies, this did not amount to official systematic discrimination against individuals of particular linguistic or ethnic backgrounds, even if

many individual Germans regarded the Slavs or the Romanians as culturally inferior.34 Patterns of cultural, economic, and political influence and dominance were also not uniform, and the three did not necessarily always coincide. Although the Italians were economically privileged, Italian nationalism, dominant in Trieste, was elsewhere suppressed, like all other nationalist movements. In Dalmatia Italians formed the cultural elite, but the monarchy saw itself as protecting the other inhabitants of the region from Italian domination. The Hungarian administration, nervous about the fact that Magyars were a minority in the Hungarian lands, sought to “Magyarize” its other minorities, with increasing vigor after 1867, but among the Vienna elite there was no shortage of criticism of this policy. It was counterproductive, it was argued, since it fueled grievances and oppositional identification on the part of the minorities. Such considerations highlight the caution that needs to be exercised when applying a postcolonial framework tout court to the analysis of culture in the later Habsburg Monarchy, but they also point to the complex patterns of belonging, identity, and difference shaping the matrix within which the discipline of art history emerged. This book is an attempt to trace the development of art-historical thought as it was played out against such political and sociocultural factors.

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1 Founding a Discipline: Liberalism and the Idea of Scientific Method I was the first one, here in Vienna, to have pioneered art criticism on the basis of scientific study. As a dozent in art history I was the first to give lectures to an audience of more than two hundred men from all kinds of backgrounds on the aesthetics of fine art, in other words, a science that had not yet been included in any compendium and that had no prerequisites other than the study of sources, for which I had no precursors in the literature. —rudolf von eitelberger

The establishment of the Vienna School of art history followed the confluence of a number of social, cultural, and political factors. The most important of these were the emergence of civil society in early nineteenth-century Vienna and the rise of liberalism as a political and social ideology. These were the necessary preconditions for the formation of a bourgeois intelligentsia that embraced liberal concepts of knowledge and professional identity. It is generally recognized that what distinguished the modern discipline of art history from antiquarianism was the idea of professionalism and scientific inquiry in the

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humanities, but this was, in turn, intimately connected to wider societal shifts. Crucial groundwork for the modern conception of science was also laid by the reforms of Maria Theresa and Josef II in the mid–eighteenth century, although these only bore full fruit a century later.1 Specifically, they limited the powers of the Catholic Church and advanced those of the state, paving the way for a decoupling of education and the church. This was not completed until 1869, but it introduced secular ideals into educational institutions, which became increasingly aligned with the anticlerical stance of liberalism.

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The more direct factors enabling the formation of the Vienna School were related to the aftermath of the revolutionary uprisings of 1848 and the growing rivalry between Austria and Prussia for the political, economic, and cultural leadership of central Europe in the mid–nineteenth century. Although authoritarian rule characterized the 1850s, Austrian intellectual life was not static during the period.2 The government in Vienna recognized the need for reform in many areas, including higher education. Indeed, universities and other educational and cultural institutions came to be seen as vital instruments in the furtherance of state political and economic objectives: universities could play a significant role in shaping the intellectual interests of the middle classes while also ensuring that Prussia did not leave the Empire behind scientifically. In this regard an important development during the mid-1800s was the transformation of a number of ecclesiastical and private establishments, such as schools, galleries, museums, and universities, into state-sponsored institutions that were aligned with wider governmental policy objectives. The key individual in the formation of Viennese art history was Rudolf von Eitelberger (1817–1885), a dynamic figure who laid down the parameters of art-historical research and whose most notable achievement was the founding of the Museum for Art and Industry in 1864. As Eitelberger proudly claimed, he almost single-handedly introduced art criticism to Vienna and turned art into a topic of public discourse. However, he was also fortunate to have embarked on his career at precisely the moment when a sympathetic environment had been created and when his aspirations corresponded to the interests of the state. But before examining

Eitelberger, it is instructive to examine the earlier background, the prehistory, as it were, of the formation of art-historical scholarship in Vienna.

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Vienna Art History and Criticism in the Vormärz In the decades before 1848, artistic and intellectual life in Vienna was restricted by the absolutist rule that accompanied the restoration of the ancien régime following the convulsions of the Napoleonic Wars. The so-called Biedermeier culture that followed the Congress of Vienna has become a byword for bourgeois parochialism, conservatism, and complacency. In part it was rooted in the self-interested outlook of a middle class keen to maintain its material well-being, but it was also a product of wide-reaching and close censorship, including heavy regulation of the arts.3 In Metternich’s Vienna this was particularly notable. Contemporaries visiting Vienna from elsewhere in Germany remarked on the lack of a bourgeois public sphere; the few musical and literary salons that existed were set up in close emulation of the aristocracy, which had a disproportionate influence on cultural life.4 The dominant artistic institution was the Academy of Fine Arts, which governed not only the professional training of artists but also exhibitions across the entire Austrian Empire and regulated policies regarding historic monuments. From 1812 until 1848 its director (Kurator) was Metternich, who ensured that its activities and policies were closely aligned with the objectives of the government.5 Acceptance of the continuing normative value of classicism framed any debate concerning the arts, thus stifling

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wider discussion of artistic practice.6 Art criticism as a genre hardly existed. The only periodical to treat the subject, the Wiener Moden-Zeitung und Zeitschrift für Kunst, schöne Literatur und Theater (Vienna journal of fashion and newspaper for art, belles lettres, and theater), which began publication in 1816, included reports on notable events related to the visual arts but contained few genuine examples of art criticism. In its first year the journal reviewed an exhibition of work by academicians, but this was a noteworthy exception, both because it displayed a remarkable willingness to criticize the work on display and also because its independent voice was not repeated in subsequent issues.7 Indeed, coverage of the visual arts in subsequent issues of the journal was limited to brief notices advertising exhibitions, either by the academy or by private individuals wishing to display works they had recently acquired. The Austrian art world in 1848 was limited in other ways too. There were no public art institutions or museums comparable to the National Gallery in London or the Altes Museum in Berlin; instead, the major galleries, such as the Belvedere and the Albertina, founded on the collection of Albert, Duke of Saxe-Teschen, were private institutions with restricted access and collecting policies driven by their owners’ interests. The Albertina, for example, had been opened to the public following the duke’s death in 1822, but it remained a Habsburg family possession, bequeathed to them in the duke’s will. While open to scholars and society notables, it could hardly be regarded as a public art institution.8 These collections reflected the personal preferences of their royal and aristocratic founders, but such preferences were not

arbitrary and uninformed; already in the 1780s the Belvedere collection had been reorganized by its curator, the Swiss engraver Christian von Mechel (1737–1817), as a properly art-historical collection, “so that the arrangement as whole, together with its parts, might be instructive and, as far as is possible, a visible history of art.”9 This organization has subsequently come to be regarded as an important early step in the evolution of modern museological practice.10 Nevertheless, the primary audience was not some notional art public but a much more limited audience; the success of von Mechel’s reorganization of the Belvedere was gauged not by the extent to which it garnered wider public approval but rather by the response of the empress Maria Theresa. While the artistic culture of Vienna in the Vormärz period may have been subject to strict political control and was embedded in the conservative social structure of the time, it was not as static as is commonly assumed. During the 1820s and 1830s notions of civic society took root and were linked to the rise in Vienna of liberalism as a middle-class social and political ideology. On the one hand, liberalism is often equated with adherence to laissez-faire ideals of free trade derived from Britain, yet, on the other, it is also associated with beliefs in the attainment of personal and broader social progress through intellectual and cultural improvement (Bildung).11 Consequently, as Robin Okey has emphasized, academics, particularly historians, enjoyed a notable prominence, with the Neue Freie Presse, the leading liberal newspaper, later calling for an opening-up of the upper house to “the nobility of the intellectual bourgeoisie, the nobility of bourgeois labour, the nobility of science and art.”12

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Middle-class liberals also played a crucial role in the formation of private associations and societies (Vereine) that sought to achieve economic, social, and cultural advancement without reliance on the patronage of the state. Such organizations—referred to by Metternich as the “German plague”—made a significant contribution to the cultural development of Vienna and the formation of a public for the arts.13 The best-known, such as the Vienna Society of Friends of Music (Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Wien), founded in 1812, helped establish forms of civic cultural patronage, although it should be noted that Vienna was somewhat belated in relation to the visual arts, for the Austrian Art Society in Vienna (Österreichischer Kunst-­Verein in Wien) was not founded until 1858. Despite the high level of state control of and intervention into cultural life, the climate gradually changed during the 1820s and 1830s, and a bourgeois art world slowly came into being. A significant index of this shift could be seen in the activities of Joseph Daniel Böhm (1794–1865). Director of the Academy of Engraving at the Imperial and Royal Central Mint from 1837 onward, Böhm is widely credited with having played a crucial role in the prehistory of the Vienna School, particularly with creating an environment that prompted the young Rudolf von Eitelberger to take an interest in the visual arts.14 Originally trained as a sculptor, Böhm became a proficient medalist, but his most important contribution in this context was in his role as an art collector and a teacher; he had begun collecting art in the 1820s and had, most notably—and in contrast to contemporary practices, in which personal taste was perhaps the most important criterion— sought to build up a representative collection

that reflected the wider historical development of art. This was in keeping with his didactic intentions, for in his own home he delivered private lectures based on the works in his possession; regular attendees formed something of a “Böhm Circle,” a group of individuals including the artist Albert Camesina (1806–1881), the archaeologist Eduard von Sacken (1825–1883), the historian Imre Henszlmann (1813–1888), Eitelberger’s contemporary Gustav Heider (1819–1897), who would later become an important figure in conservation in Vienna, and the art dealer Dominik Artaria (1775–1842). Böhm did not leave any substantial texts that would indicate his beliefs and ideas; the informal nature of the gatherings precluded any extended presentations, and he was not disposed to writing at length. However, the catalogue of the auction of his collection after his death provides an indication of its logic and scope.15 It included some 2,610 items, ranging from Egyptian, Greek, and Roman gems to Chinese and Japanese bronzes and old-master paintings and drawings. Among the latter were paintings by Bassano, Dürer, Canaletto, Murillo, and Schongauer; drawings by Rembrandt (of which 41 were listed in the catalogue), Raphael, and Rubens; and a large collection of prints, of which works by Dürer (including 23 engravings and 64 woodcuts) and Rembrandt (222 items) composed a significant proportion. Further information on Böhm can also be gleaned from accounts by Eitelberger and Henszlmann published after his death.16 Their narratives were intended as celebrations of Böhm’s memory—Henszlmann’s was published the year after his mentor’s death— rather than as critical studies, but they agree on a number of issues, in particular those aspects of Böhm’s thinking that were of

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significance for the later development of art history in Vienna. First, it appears that Böhm criticized the almost total lack of regard for the history of art in the teaching at the Academy of Fine Arts. Classical models were used for education, and the academy had (and still possesses) an extensive collection of old-master paintings and sculpture, but there was little sense of their belonging within any kind of historical context or having any pedagogical function. Although Böhm’s own understanding of art, judging from Henszlmann’s account, lacked conceptual sophistication, he nevertheless stressed the need for a knowledge of the history of art as the fundamental basis of artistic practice and teaching. Indeed, he criticized much contemporary art precisely due to its amnesiac disregard of history. A friend of the Nazarene painter Johann Friedrich Overbeck, Böhm was critical of the loss of religious sentiment in contemporary art, since he believed religion to be the indispensable basis of all art and, according to Henszlmann, claimed that “if one is not a strict Catholic, one can neither understand nor practice art.”17 Böhm also promoted medieval art. This was linked to his commitment to Catholicism, and it would have an enormous impact on Eitelberger, for whom the Middle Ages was a central topic; his most substantial writings were his topographical surveys of medieval architecture.18 Indeed, his willingness to challenge existing aesthetic orthodoxy, although partly driven by conservative religious attitudes, laid the foundation for a central aspect of art-historical scholarship in Vienna: the suspension of existing aesthetic norms in the name of the comprehensive study of art history. In this regard it is notable that, according to Henszlmann, he also spoke highly of Rembrandt

(an attitude borne out by the large number of Rembrandts listed in the auction catalogue), who, in the 1830s and 1840s, had fallen into oblivion. For Böhm it was axiomatic that the historical understanding of art had to proceed inductively on the basis of direct contact with artworks; this empiricism was connected to a strong emphasis on the need to understand the role of material in shaping artistic expression and form. Böhm died before Semper’s magnum opus, Der Stil in den technischen und tektonischen Künsten (Style in the technical and tectonic arts), was published, but his stress on the importance of materials laid the basis for the later positive reception of Semperian ideas by others, which played a prominent role in Vienna for much of the nineteenth century.19 Böhm’s emphasis on direct contact with artworks was to characterize Viennese art history and condition its practitioners until the 1930s; most of the major representatives of the Vienna School were, at some point in their careers, museum professionals. Eitelberger combined the post of university professor with that of director of the Museum for Art and Industry; Franz Wickhoff was curator of textiles at the museum, as was Alois Riegl; and others, including Julius Schlosser, Albert Ilg, Moriz Thausing, and, later, Hans Tietze, spent substantial portions of their careers in the museums of Vienna.20 Böhm’s activity was limited, but it represented an important innovation within the emerging civil society of Vienna. As Eitelberger noted, the only institutions in Vienna where art was studied were the mint, the imperial painting collection in the Belvedere, and the Academy of Fine Arts.21 Each of these was dominated by artists who, with the exception of Böhm, had a purely

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instrumental attitude toward the collections. Tied to the court, they were moreover not public institutions. Böhm’s circle, in contrast, contained the seeds of a bourgeois art world that embraced a wider audience; indeed, in 1846, together with Dominik Artaria and Eitelberger, Böhm staged the first public art-historical exhibition in Vienna.22 The year 1846 was significant also for the publication of a polemical tract by the painter Ferdinand Georg Waldmüller (1793–1865) attacking the teaching system of the academy.23 A member of the academy, Waldmüller called for greater attention to observation of nature—the source of “truth, the highest, most elevated law” of art—and laid down the precepts for a teaching method that, he claimed, could transform a novice into an accomplished painter within a year.24 At the heart of his proposal was a rejection of classical norms: “the lifeless imitation of antiquity can never summon forth any artistic life,” and hence “the study of the human body can and must only start and end with nature. Any type of imitation, whether based on copybooks, the antique, or paintings, is completely inadequate, indeed in most cases even has a negative influence.”25 It is indicative of the extent to which the Viennese public sphere had opened up by the mid-1840s that Waldmüller felt able to criticize publicly an imperial cultural institution. An equally important sign of how circumstances were changing was the fact that Waldmüller’s criticisms were followed by a further attack, namely, Eitelberger’s pamphlet Ueber den Unterricht an Kunst-­Akademien (On teaching in art academies), published in 1847.26 The academies were, he argued, a symptom of artistic decline, and “no serious art lover would claim that the academies should be maintained under any

circumstances.”27 Their continued existence was testimony only to the absence of any viable alternative, not to their service of any positive function. Although Eitelberger, like Waldmüller, was critical of the academy, he was no ally of the painter; the next year he published a second pamphlet, Die Reform des Kunstunterrichtes und Professor Waldmüllers Lehrmethode (The reform of art education and Professor Waldmüller’s teaching method), which was equally dismissive of the painter’s ideas. The basic flaw in Waldmüller’s argument, Eitelberger maintained, was the assumption that personal experience alone was sufficient. “Scientific education suffers as a result. . . . In starting out from just his own experiences, rather than comparing them with those of others . . . he falls into the trap of many parents who teach their children only what they know.”28 Consequently, Waldmüller’s recommendations lacked any scientific (wissenschaftlich) basis, constituting instead an “artistic barbarism that, as in life, begins when [art] is stripped of its scientific grounding, that divine fruit of Christian humanistic Bildung.”29 For Eitelberger, Waldmüller’s proposals would turn the artist into a slavish copyist of nature, devoid of any ideas or creative imagination. Painters emerging from Waldmüller’s system would be proficient only at mechanically acquired skills, immersed in a materialism that was “distant from the ulterior purposes of art.”30 The influence of Böhm was apparent too, in that Eitelberger rebutted Waldmüller’s attitude toward classical models; far from encouraging the dead hand of the copyist, he argued, study of the antique provided the “lever that would awaken the powers of the mind.”31 These critical pamphlets were the first of a number of prominent public interventions

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by the young Eitelberger in the later 1840s. Born in the Moravian town of Olmütz (Olomouc) to a military family—his father was an officer in the Austrian army—Eitelberger had first studied law at the Jesuit university there (it was closed down in 1855) and then philosophy and classical philology at the University of Vienna, where he worked as an assistant to Franz Ficker, professor of classical literature and author of a large-scale work on aesthetics that was heavily indebted to the thought of Alexander von Baumgarten.32 Eitelberger’s interest in the visual arts thus stemmed from his formal education as well as his involvement in the circle around Böhm. In 1847 he was permitted to deliver lectures on art and aesthetics at the university and, two years later, the Polytechnic Institute in Vienna, as a private dozent. The position of dozent was insecure; it had no salary attached to it, and hence Eitelberger supplemented his income with journalism; this culminated in his appointment as editor of the Wiener Zeitung from September 1848 to the end of the year. Eitelberger’s intellectual development thus ran parallel to his emergence as a public figure, and during the revolutionary ferment of that year he took advantage of his position to make a number of public pronouncements on the arts and education. Even before taking up editorship of the newspaper, Eitelberger had contributed a programmatic article on art criticism, in which, following the lead of Böhm, he stressed the need for criticism to be based on disinterested aesthetic judgment and in addition bemoaned his contemporaries’ inability to understand the wider cultural context of artworks.33 The Wiener Zeitung had previously included reports and occasional discussion of the arts not dissimilar

to the reports in the Wiener Moden-­Zeitung of thirty years earlier. With his polemical responses to Waldmüller and the academy, as well as his attacks on other art critics, he significantly expanded the range of art criticism as a genre of discourse.34 Eitelberger also authored a number of editorials that made explicit his commitment to liberal politics. The paper was an official organ of the state, and although the loosening of imperial authority in Vienna had allowed for new freedoms, Eitelberger’s promotion of views that were at odds with the political orthodoxy of the court was still provocative. These included a proclamation that “the time of privilege is over,” coupled with a demand for the separation of state and church (Entkirchlichung) and for equal rights for all national groups.35 At the same time, however, Eitelberger was hostile to republicanism and all kinds of “radicalism,” which he saw as the “greatest friends” of “absolutist Russia,” which had invaded Hungary in September 1848 to assist in the suppression of the revolution there.36 Nevertheless, his call for equal rights ran dangerously close to the nationalist politics that had fueled the Hungarian bid for independence; indeed, he had explicitly called for recognition of the national aspirations of the different groups of the Empire: “Austria is not a compact land or a unified people of one mind that pursues the same interests everywhere. The Ruthene and the Pole, the Czech and German farmer, are at this time inspired not merely by the same love of freedom but also by the same jealous desire to maintain their nationality.”37 Eitelberger also published an extended article in the Wiener Zeitung on the university in Vienna.38 During the revolutionary upheaval in March of 1848, the students of the university—as part of the Academic

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Legion—had been at the forefront of the challenge to the regime. As Eitelberger noted, “the position adopted by the university in the March days belongs to one of the most dazzling epochs of Austrian history . . . old Austria fell, and the new era, with its hopes and wishes, its enthusiasm and passion, broke in all the more forcefully, the more that even the gentlest stirrings of the spirit of freedom were suppressed.”39 Eitelberger upheld the virtues of an inquiring and critical youth, which he contrasted with the old educational system, marked by what he termed a Jesuitical belief in authority. Regarding the latter, he stated unambiguously that “clerical as well as state Jesuitism fears the spirit of criticism . . . the spirit of open inquiry.”40

Thun (1811–1880), a conservative Catholic politician from one of the most powerful aristocratic families in Bohemia (he had served as governor of Bohemia for a year prior to his appointment as minister), introduced a series of reforms that were intended to overcome the moribund state of the educational institutions of the Empire. Although the University of Vienna, founded in 1365, was one of the leading universities in the German-speaking world (together with the University of Prague, founded in 1348), successive Habsburg rulers had been suspicious of scientific scholarship and had hindered its development. Various proposals to found an academy of sciences had repeatedly been rejected until, finally, Emperor Franz agreed to the establishment of the Imperial-Royal Academy of Sciences (Kaiserlich-königliche Akademie der Wissenschaften) in April 1847.41 This reluctance to promote learning and scholarship stood in contrast to the atmosphere in Prussia, for example, where an academy had been in existence since 1700. Thus, although Austria was still politically preeminent in the 1830s and 1840s (its fragility in 1848 and 1849 notwithstanding), Prussian universities, such as the Humboldt University in Berlin, had played a leading role in the pioneering of research in the natural sciences as well as in the humanities, bringing into sharp relief the antiquated nature of the institutions in Austria. Adhering to a system that had been introduced by Joseph II, teaching operated according to a prescribed curriculum, in which government laid down the parameters of study.42 Professors and lecturers were not permitted to use their own materials, and all students of theology, law, and medicine were required to pursue a two-year philosophical propaedeutic that covered psychology, logic,

The Aftermath of 1848: University Reform and the “Birth” of the Vienna School Eitelberger’s public declaration of his liberal commitments rendered him potentially vulnerable to retaliatory measures by the imperial government restored after the failure of the revolution. However, in contrast to liberal contemporaries such as Gottfried Semper, who fled to London in 1849, or the philosopher Friedrich Vischer, who withdrew into a kind of inner emigration, Eitelberger not only was spared any official retribution but also gained from the aftermath of the revolution, particularly from the educational reforms introduced by Count Leo Thun, minister of education from 1849 onward. Eitelberger was also the beneficiary of the personal support of Thun, whose reform of university education provided him with the institutional base on which his career developed.

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metaphysics, and ethics. This did not signify, however, a heightened respect for philosophy as a discipline; alongside the other humanities, it was regarded as a merely preparatory subject of study.43 The intention of such regimentation, a legacy of the centralization policies of the emperor, had been to ensure that the products of the universities would be compliant, loyal subjects. The revolution indicated that this objective had not been met. Thun’s reforms aimed to reverse this situation with a thoroughgoing modernization of education at all levels. The first proposals had been drawn up Franz Exner, a Prague-based professor of philosophy who, until his death, in 1852, was also a ministerial advisor.44 Exner’s plans, which were partly implemented by Thun, included the introduction of freedom for academic staff in their teaching (so-called Lehrfreiheit) and a change in the status of philosophy and the arts, such that they were raised to full disciplines.45 Other reforms were introduced after Exner’s death. The old medieval corporate character of the universities was dismantled, and they were turned into formal state institutions. At the same time, they were granted a considerable degree of autonomy, but with limits; the state restricted any activities that might be deemed politically subversive. The impact of the reforms soon became visible. Chairs were created in new disciplines in the humanities, and new research and teaching departments were established; at the University of Vienna these included the Institutes of Physiology (1849) and Physics (1851), the Departments of Historical Philology (1850) and Geography (1853), and the Institute for Austrian Historical Research (1854). These transformations were in many respects commensurate with liberal

educational politics. However, while Exner had been responsible for the initial proposals for reform, Thun’s priority was, ironically, not to introduce a liberal-inspired concept of university education but rather to lay the foundations of a conservative intellectual resurgence that could challenge liberalism. In this respect his ideas were shaped by Karl Jarcke (1801–1851), a Catholic convert from Danzig who, in his journalistic activities as editor of the Berliner politisches Wochenblatt (Berlin political weekly), had attained prominence as a conservative Catholic commentator. He was invited to Austria by Metternich in 1832 to work in the State Chancellery and throughout the 1830s continued to agitate for conservative Catholic reform, culminating in the founding in 1838 of the Historisch-politische Blätter für ein katholisches Deutschland (Historical political sheets for a Catholic Germany), a journal that continued publication until the 1920s.46 A crucial document in this context is a much cited memorandum sent by Jarcke to Thun in August 1849 that outlined the principles of a Catholic-inspired reform of the universities.47 Expressing his hope that “cleverer minds will no longer blindly believe what they read in the [Pester] Lloyd or the Allgemeine Zeitung, will learn to dismiss the gossip of the coffeehouses, and will begin to grasp that positive science and committed study are necessary for one to be able to make one’s own judgments,” Jarcke called for increased investment in education and a lifting of the barrier preventing employment of Germans in Austrian universities.48 This was accompanied, however, by a call for setting aside traditional anticlerical attitudes (the fear of “crypto-Catholicism”) and fostering “clerical and politically conservative tendencies” by universities.49

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This outlook was closely aligned with that of Thun, who sought to ensure that his Catholic vision of university reform would be sustained by close involvement in the appointment of new staff. It is therefore all the more striking that Thun not only consented to the appointment of Eitelberger but also actively supported it. Eitelberger’s call in the Wiener Zeitung for the separation of church and state stood in complete opposition to Thun’s conservative stance, and while he desisted from making any more provocative public political pronouncements after 1848, Eitelberger made no secret of his liberal views in personal exchanges with Thun. As Hans Lentze has suggested, there was a personal relation between the two that outweighed their political differences and afforded Eitelberger a frankness that was rare at the time.50 Eitelberger had first come to the attention of Thun with his pamphlets on teaching at the academy and Waldmüller’s proposals, and one of Thun’s earliest achievements on taking up his post was reform of the academy, which included introduction of the formal teaching of the history of art, for which Eitelberger was employed.51 It was thanks to Thun’s support that Eitelberger was eventually appointed associate professor (Ausserordentlicher Professor) at the University of Vienna in 1852. This was not a straightforward process, however. Thun had first nominated Eitelberger in 1851, but the emperor had rejected the nomination. Eitelberger may have appeared problematic because of his foray into the politics of 1848. Hence it was only when Thun persisted, nominating him again in the following year, that the emperor relented and agreed to the appointment. Politically, Eitelberger proved to be anything but problematic; his subsequent published

writings indicate a strong patriotism and loyalty to the Habsburg dynasty, and he became particularly committed to the project of design reform in the service of the state. When he first took up his chair, in 1852, Eitelberger belonged to the Philosophy Faculty, but he was moved two years later to the newly created Institute for Austrian Historical Research, which formed the institutional base for the teaching of art history in the university for nearly two decades. It was not until 1874 that a separate Institute of Art History was established. The Institute for Austrian Historical Research provides a clear illustration of Thun’s vision of university education; in his letter to Franz Joseph I requesting permission and the funds to establish the institute, Thun outlined the basic objectives.52 On the one hand, it would address the lack of qualified historians; history teaching in universities, Thun argued, was only possible thanks to the employment of scholars from abroad, and he cited the difficulty in filling the vacant chair at the University of Graz. The institute would thus provide a cadre of historians trained in the latest methods of scholarly inquiry. On the other hand, a major motivation for its foundation was to foster “in-depth study of the history of the fatherland, driven by patriotism, loyalty, love, and devotion to the ruling house,” and to prevent “younger talents . . . from being diverted from the true goal of historical research due to the influence of national movements.”53 The new institute was thus organized around the study of history as a patriotic enterprise, involving the construction of narratives that would legitimize Habsburg rule. By the mid–nineteenth century this had become imperative. Not only had Bohemian German authors such as Anton Springer written critical accounts

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of the recent history of Austria, but emerging nationalist historiographies had challenged official versions of the history of the monarchy.54 Of these the most prominent was that by the Czech writer and politician František Palacký (1798–1876), whose highly influential Geschichte von Boehmen (History of Bohemia), the first volume of which appeared in 1836, laid the foundations for myths of national identity and history among the Czech-speaking Bohemians, central to which was the idea of centuries-long oppression at the hands of Habsburg rulers.55

produce its own idealist philosophers or educationalists, but this broad humanistic vision was nevertheless also influential in Austria.57 The humanistic model came to be challenged in the first third of the century, however, partly due to the impact of growing industrialization and partly due to the formation of new ideologies of inquiry. There was increasing recognition of the need to provide technical and utilitarian education that met the demands of the emerging industrial economy. Such provision began first in the northern German states, specifically Prussia, but it also occurred in Austria. In late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century Austria, military academies—of engineering and surgery, for example—provided most practical education, but as early as 1810 medical education at the University of Vienna was reformed, with the inclusion of clinical training, and veterinary science also emerged as a distinctive field.58 New, practically oriented secondary schools (Real-Schulen) were established, and in 1815 the Polytechnic Institute (now the Vienna University of Technology) was set up with the express purpose of teaching new practical subjects. Advances in the natural sciences, with the development of experimental methods, also served to redefine the meaning of Wissenschaft in the humanities, uncoupling it from its association with speculative philosophy and shifting it toward ideas of empirical method and disciplinary specialization. This development had a significant impact on the traditional humanities; it first became visible in the fields of classics and history. From the 1820s and 1830s onward historians based in Berlin, such as Georg Niebuhr (1776–1831) and Leopold Ranke (1795– 1886), led a decisive step away from the

The Idea of Scientific Inquiry The patriotic conception of history and of the Institute for Austrian Historical Research would profoundly shape the course of art history in Vienna, but the early development of the discipline was equally informed by ideas of scholarship and science (Wissenschaft) that had emerged in the first half of the nineteenth century. Notions of scientific method were crucial values, but conceptions of science and “scholarliness” (Wissenschaftlichkeit) underwent important shifts in the 1820s and 1830s. Wissenschaft connoted rigorous and systematic study, but in the early nineteenth century it was linked to humanistic ideas of learning and erudition: the aspiration for philosophical self-cultivation (Bildung) and a universal striving for human self-fulfillment. This conception of Wissenschaft was underpinned by the speculative and Romantic philosophies of writers such as Johann Fichte (1762–1814).56 Its most visible manifestation was the University of Berlin, founded in 1810, which was strongly marked by the educational philosophy of Wilhelm von Humboldt (1767–1835). Vienna did not

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philosophical historiography formed by idealism, and propounded instead an inductive philological approach—the historical-critical method—based on the study of primary written sources. Diplomatic history, with its heavy dependence on historic documents, rose to prominence as a field of research, and paleography, concerned not only with deciphering ancient texts but also with establishing their authenticity, became a crucial tool of inquiry.59 These methodological shifts had a significant impact on the practice of history across Europe. They informed, for example, the establishment of the École des Chartes, which, set up in Paris in 1829 with the express purpose of training archivists, served as the model for the Institute for Austrian Historical Research. The institute’s first director was Albert Jäger (1801–1891), author of a number of works on Tyrolean history, but his successor, the Prussian paleographer Theodor von Sickel (1826–1908), who served as director from 1869, played the decisive role in determining its character. Sickel had studied at the École des Chartes in the early 1850s and specialized in medieval diplomatic archives and documents. In addition to working on Austrian medieval sources, he also contributed to and eventually co-edited the Monumenta Germaniae Historica, a large-scale project concerned with the publication of primary sources of German history.60 The embrace of philology and empirical method was first observable in historical scholarship but later came to shape art history. The key question was what wissenschaftlich meant in the context of the study of art. The philosopher Karl Friedrich Bachmann had been the first to put forward the idea of a science of art (Kunstwissenschaft),

which he published in a general outline in 1811. Bachmann understood Kunstwissenschaft to be synonymous with aesthetics. Kunstwissenschaft, which he saw as interchangeable with Kunstlehre (art theory), was concerned with “the principles and highest laws of all arts.” Its properly scientific basis was “development of the idea of art and the beautiful.”61 Emerging from the idealism of the early 1800s, Kunstwissenschaft was thus, for Bachmann, philosophical reflection on art. Similarly, Franz Nüßlein, in his Lehrbuch der Kunstwissenschaft (Manual of art science) of 1819, conceived of Kunstwissenschaft as “examining and deciphering the essence of art and beauty in itself.”62 This intertwining of philosophical speculation and art history reached its zenith in Hegel’s lectures on aesthetics delivered at the University of Berlin in the 1820s, but even while Hegel was delivering his lectures, others were reshaping the meaning of “scientific” study of art in line with the wider developments in the humanities.63 Some authors, such as Carl Schnaase (1798–1875) and Heinrich Hotho (1802– 1873), both students of Hegel, continued to write speculative universal accounts of art into the 1830s and early 1840s.64 Others, however, such as Karl Friedrich Rumohr (1785–1843) and Gustav Waagen (1794–1868), director of the Altes Museum in Berlin, pioneered the historical-critical method. In his Italienische Forschungen (Italian inquiries) of the late 1820s Rumohr made extensive use of written sources in order to critique Vasari’s Lives, highlighting, in opposition to the Italian author, the continuities between medieval and Renaissance art.65 Waagen’s study of the van Eyck brothers of 1822 adopted a similar philological approach. Praising writers such as

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Vasari and Karel van Mander for their use of primary sources (even if on some points they had since been corrected), he criticized a “second class” of authors, such as Joachim von Sandrart (1606–1688) and Rumohr’s teacher, the painter and art historian Johann Dominicus Fiorillo (1748–1821), for their reliance on secondary sources and lack of firsthand knowledge of the paintings, which led to “imprecision and error.” Fiorillo in particular, he argued, was “forced to borrow his judgments from others.”66 This methodological turn is often dismissed as a straightforward embrace of positivism, which was undoubtedly a significant factor, although it was French authors such as Hippolyte Taine who were the most pronounced exponents of the positivist paradigm.67 Idealist and speculative histories were not simply replaced, however, by positivist, purely contingent facts.68 Historians such as Niebuhr, Ranke, and Gustav Droysen (1808–1884) were equally concerned with the teleological coherence of the historical process; the difference lay in the mechanisms they identified as underlying the unity of history. A similar observation can be made of Rumohr. On the one hand, he was a sharp critic of Hegel, singling out “this little word ‘Idea,’ the meaning of which, tottering between the sensuous and the spiritual, provides the opportunity for all kinds of wild assertion.”69 On the other, he recognized the necessity of maintaining an explanatory conceptual framework. Beginning with the claim that “research into sources leads, as every expert knows, to the singular,” he concluded that “the results of my research likewise were a series of uprooted events for which I could provide no external coherence. . . . against my wishes and initial purpose I was thus prompted to reach into the domain of

theory.”70 In a similar vein Waagen criticized Fiorillo because the latter’s observations were “laid out alongside each other in isolation and not sufficiently worked up into a whole.”71 Despite such qualifications, the privileging of primary artistic and textual sources, together with the emphasis on precision and authenticity, constituted a significant epistemological break, introducing an empirically driven conception of art history, in which new ideas of scholarship became normative.72 They laid down the basic parameters within which Eitelberger worked when establishing art history as a discipline in Vienna and which became central to the formation of the Vienna School.73 An indication of this can be found in Eitelberger’s comment to Thun that “little more regarding the individual arts can be achieved with the general judgments from the domain of aesthetics. This kind of aesthetics answers the demands neither of scholarship nor of art.”74 The influential position of Waagen and Rumohr highlights the fact that Vienna was a belated entrant into the field of art history. A number of German universities had already accommodated the discipline; Fiorillo had been appointed associate professor of philosophy at the University of Göttingen in 1799 (full professor in 1813), in which capacity he had delivered lectures on the history of art, and in Königsberg Ernst Hagen (1797–1880), who had already held the chair of German language and literature since 1825, was appointed associate professor of art history at the university in 1830 (full professor the following year).75 Hagen lectured widely on art history and was central to the development of the artistic culture of the city, where he was responsible for the city art collection and also for founding

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the city’s art association in 1831.76 Hegel’s lectures on aesthetics, which coincided with the construction of Karl Friedrich Schinkel’s Altes Museum, promoted the status of Berlin as a leading center of critical discourse on the arts, as did the publications not only of Waagen and Rumohr but also, slightly later, of Franz Kugler (1808–58), professor of art history at the Academy of Arts.77 Berlin’s prominence was strengthened in 1844, when Waagen, already director of the Gemäldegalerie in Berlin, was appointed associate professor in modern art history at the university, the first academic post in a German-speaking territory specifically dedicated to art history. Austria was still politically preeminent in the 1840s and 1850s, but the importance of universities and intellectual life in Prussia, and Berlin in particular, presented a challenge to the assumed cultural hegemony of Vienna, and thus the creation of Eitelberger’s position was a step, albeit minor, in a wider project of addressing this challenge from Austria’s powerful regional competitor. In this respect Thun’s university reforms targeted not only internal problems; they also had an international dimension, and the institutionalization of art history played a small role in the larger-scale interstate rivalry between Austria and Prussia.78

private hands, and the architectural monuments of the Empire were poorly documented. Given that Eitelberger’s position was set up with a view to the construction of patriotic art-historical narratives, it was imperative that the primary subject matter should be identified. Eitelberger made significant inroads against this deficiency with his work on the systematic documentation of artistic monuments across the monarchy. A number of surveys of works of art and architecture across the Empire had already been published in the early nineteenth century. The Archiv für Geographie, Historie, Staats- und Kriegskunst (Archive for geography, history, diplomacy, and the art of war), a journal published between 1810 and 1830 and edited by the historian Joseph Hormayr (1781/82–1848), contained numerous articles on “Artistic Miscellanies” that discussed individual artworks and historic buildings of note as well as important art collections.79 Various other antiquarian accounts were also published. In 1831, for example, Franz Tschischka (1786–1847), director of the Vienna city magistracy, had published a history of St. Stephen’s Cathedral and later, in 1836, a survey of art and historic architecture across the Empire.80 Likewise, Joseph von Scheiger (1801–1886), director of the postal service in Graz, had written a survey of historic monuments, Über Burgen und Schlösser im Lande Österreich unter der Enns (Fortresses and castles in the land of Austria below the Enns), in 1837. Few of these surveys could be regarded as systematic or scholarly undertakings. Tschischka’s survey has the merit of comprehensiveness; although a disproportionate amount of space is devoted to Vienna, it covers all imperial territories, from the Adriatic littoral of southern Dalmatia to Milan, Prague, and

Founding the Vienna School When Eitelberger took up his position as dozent in 1847, the academic infrastructure for the study of art in Vienna was scattered and underdeveloped, and the field of study was poorly defined. The nascent discipline was handicapped by the inaccessibility of artworks and the lack of a clearly delimited domain of objects. Art collections were in

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Czernowitz, on the eastern periphery. It also mentions not only the main urban centers but also smaller towns and villages with objects deemed worthy of attention. On the other hand, it was written more as a guide for the interested traveler than as a work of scholarship. The descriptions are often minimal; many structures are simply referred to as “ruins,” to which the author frequently attaches subjective aesthetic judgments (the castle ruins of Baranyavár in Hungary are “picturesque,” the castle in Duino characterized in terms of its “enchanting vista”).81 Attempts are made to measure the dimensions of some buildings, but Tschischka is not consistent, and precise attributions are also lacking. Imperial collections in Vienna are listed in some depth, but elsewhere the same level of detail is not provided; the Dominican church in Friesach (in Carinthia), for example, is described as possessing merely some “good old paintings.”82 Eitelberger attempted to remedy the shortcomings of Tschischka’s and other surveys with a much more detailed topographical study. In this he was engaged in an undertaking that came to be central to the emerging definition of “scientific” art history across Europe and, crucially, also served ideological agendas linked to larger state imperatives. In France, for example, medieval architecture came to be seen as a central part of national cultural identity, and the documentation of the most significant monuments was also an important part of the project of nineteenth-century nation building, in which the state took a direct interest. In 1830 François Guizot, minister of education, had proposed the creation of the post of inspector general of monuments, whose first postholder, Ludovic Vitet, was appointed the following year. The primary task of the position was to “undertake the

critical description of all the buildings in the kingdom that merit the attention of the archaeologist, the artist, or the historian, on account of their date, their architectural character, or the events they witnessed.”83 In the context of the newly installed rule of Louis-Philippe, such documentation aided the legitimization of the regime by promoting the idea of a continuity with the past. It was on this model that Eitelberger wrote a number of art-topographical texts. The first was a report on the early medieval architecture in Hungary, following two trips taken there in 1854 and 1855.84 With the exception of a few publications in Hungarian, most notably by Imre Henszlmann, Hungary lay completely outside the orbit of art history; it was, Eitelberger noted, terra incognita.85 Given that in Austria a “striving for deeper and scientific knowledge of architectural monuments and the artistic forms of the Middle Ages” was recent, Eitelberger’s primary aim was to correct the historical record. “There must be few countries either where the monuments are as completely unknown as in Hungary or where there are so many misconceptions regarding their date of origin and the style in which they are built.”86 Focusing on a small number of sites, including Martinsberg (now Pannonhalma, in northern Hungary), Nagy-Károly (now Carei, in northern Transylvania), Weszprim (Veszprém, near lake Balaton), and Fünfkirchen (Pécs), Eitelberger carefully recorded the dimensions of the buildings, with elevation and ground-plan drawings, attempted stylistic characterizations, and also listed inscriptions and other documents that would shed light on their history. Eitelberger’s second topographical study was a more substantial work, a survey of the “medieval artistic monuments of Dalmatia,” based on a tour of the crown land

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fig. 1  Sculptural frieze of Pharaoh pursuing Moses across the Red Sea, from a sarcophagus in the Church of St. Francis, Split, 5th century c.e., from Rudolf von Eitelberger, “Die mittel­ alterlichen Kunstdenkmale Dalmatiens in Arbe, Zara, Traù, Spalato und Ragusa,” Jahrbuch der k.k. Central-Commission zur Erforschung und Erhaltung der Baudenkmale 5 (1861): plate 18.

he undertook in 1859.87 Documenting the medieval art and architecture of the region, he focused on the major urban centers of the Dalmatian coast, including Arbe (Rab), Nona (Nin), Zara (Zadar, the Dalmatian capital), Traù (Trogir), Spalato (Split) (fig. 1), and Ragusa (Dubrovnik) (fig. 2).88 The choice of Dalmatia was significant. In 1797 dominion over the region passed from Venice to the Habsburg Empire, where, after a brief interlude of Napoleonic control, it remained, under Austrian rule, until 1918. The Dalmatian coast was known best for its widespread Venetian cultural and social inheritance, but until 1878, when Austria-​Hungary took over the administration of Bosnia-Herzegovina, it was a border province. Although historically a part of the medieval Kingdom of Croatia, it had become separate from the rest of Croatia in the late Middle Ages, when the latter had been absorbed by the Hungarian crown. Although all Croatian territories had become part of the Habsburg Empire, this division was maintained; Dalmatia was a province of Austria, while inland Croatia (Slavonia) remained part of Hungary.

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Dalmatia presented a complex array of political issues. In the eighteenth century it concerned Venetians that Dalmatia could not be entirely secured against the intrusion of Ottoman and Balkan cultural and political influence.89 In the 1830s and 1840s Dalmatia had produced the first South Slavic nationalist ideology, the Illyrian movement sponsored by the Croatian journalist and politician Ljudevit Gaj (1809–1872). Illyrianism as a movement had lost its momentum by the late 1840s, and the Habsburg Ban, or governor, of Croatia, Josip Jelačić (1801–1859), had been a loyal supporter of the emperor during the Hungarian Revolution, but South Slav nationalism remained a source of anxiety. Although it was ostensibly a purely art-historical study, Eitelberger’s survey was also politically motivated. Focusing on sites with strong Italian (Venetian) and Roman ties, Eitelberger sought to anchor the regional identity of Dalmatia in Western European traditions: As with all lands, so too in Dalmatia the development of art should not be assessed on the

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fig. 2  Onofrio di Giordano della Cava, The Rector’s Palace, Dubrovnik, 1463, engraving, from Rudolf von Eitelberger, “Die mittelalterlichen Kunstdenkmale Dalmatiens in Arbe, Zara, Traù, Spalato und Ragusa,” Jahrbuch der k.k. Central-Commission zur Erforschung und Erhaltung der Baudenkmale 5 (1861): plate 19.

basis of petty local points of view, but from the

the basis of national sympathies or antipathies,

standpoint that views art as part of that great

but only on the basis of those principles that

civilization whose laws govern humanity. The

serve inquiry into the truth.90

directions and impulses of art always proceeded from those sites that were the centers of great civilization. The position and influence that national art has had on art cannot be assessed on

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Eitelberger’s political commitments became all the clearer in the second, expanded edition of his study in 1884. The

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twenty-five or so years since his original visit had witnessed the rise of Slav nationalism in the Balkans. As Eitelberger noted, “the idea that all Slavs, not only in the Balkan Peninsula but in the entire Austrian monarchy, could follow the spiritual and political leadership of the Russians was already preoccupying statesmen in the time of the emperor Franz.”91 Yet at that time it seemed a distant prospect. Now, however, the situation had changed dramatically. Eitelberger himself observed that in the intervening two decades since his first visit the question of cultural identity and allegiance had become a major political issue, involving numerous internal as well as external factors. As he put it: “if it is the case that nowadays the land is so politically agitated, this is due not merely to influential personalities or to the system of government in Vienna but to political necessities and a historical process that is unfolding before our eyes in the whole of eastern Europe and in particular on the Balkan Peninsula. . . . thus it can be no surprise that now Dalmatia resembles a sea in turmoil, whereas in 1859 Dalmatia presented the image of a quiet and peaceful land.”92 This situation framed Eitelberger’s entire discussion, which, ostensibly a record of medieval monuments, intervened in contemporary debates concerning the governance and the social and cultural identity of Dalmatia. He argued for the need to introduce economic, social, and educational policies that would incline the population to accept Austrian rule more readily and counter the appeal of Serbia and Montenegro.93 He supported the Habsburg administration of Ottoman Bosnia-­Herzegovina on the grounds that it provided Dalmatia with an economic hinterland, thereby improving the general state of the province. The internal tensions

of Austria-​Hungary were also in evidence, for he blamed the Hungarian policy of Magyarization for alienating the Croats.94 He contrasted this with the “enlightened” policy of the Austrian half of the Empire, which desisted from enforced Germanization, and he congratulated Habsburg rule for granting freedom of religious worship and of language use. Though sympathetic to the aspirations of minorities—Eitelberger also stressed the crucial role played by the Austrian administration in protecting the Croat and Serb inhabitants from domination by local Italian elites—he always exercised his sympathy within the framework of promoting loyalty to the Empire. His introduction to the second edition is sharply critical of pan-Slavism and of the growing cultural influence of Russia, pointing out the discrepancy, for example, between the ideology of pan-Slavism and the reality in which Poles oppressed Ruthenians, Croats and Serbs maintained hostile attitudes toward one another, and Russia oppressed its minorities, compelling Latvians, Lithuanians, and Poles, for example, to speak Russian.95 His apparently unbiased documentation of medieval monuments, outwardly impeccable in its scholarship, was thus conceived as an intervention into the politics of cultural and social identity. In 1858 Eitelberger also co-edited a larger-scale two-volume survey of the medieval monuments across Austria-​Hungary with Gustav Heider and the Vienna-based architect and teacher Joseph Hieser.96 It is not a comprehensive study, but it nonetheless examines an impressive range of examples from across the Empire and reveals a commitment to be as inclusive as possible in the selection of material. In their foreword Eitelberger and his collaborators emphasize

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that its purpose is not to dwell on already well-known monuments but rather to highlight those that had been neglected. Hence, the first volume includes chapters on, for example, Romanesque churches in Hungary, Gothic monstrances in Sedlitz (Sedlice, in Bohemia), the cathedral of Parenzo (in Istria), and the Church of St. Barbara in Kuttenberg (Kutná Hora), while topics featured in the second volume include the Church of St. Ambrose in Milan, the Benedictine abbey in Trebitsch (Třebíč, in Moravia), and the cathedrals of Prague and of Gurk (in Carinthia). Eitelberger and Heider wrote the greater number of the chapters, but the volume contains texts by other contributors too, including the antiquarian Eduard von Sacken, the Cologne-based pastor and historian of ecclesiastical art Franz Bock (1823–1899), and the first Czech professor of archaeology and the history of art at the University of Prague, Jan Vocel (1803–1871). The project was intended for a wider readership; as the editors noted, “The project is oriented not toward scholars but rather toward the art-loving public and artists. For this reason the explanatory text does not draw on recent research and archaeological analyses, but rather on the precise description of monuments.”97 Yet it is rigorous when describing its objects and can be read as an attempt to popularize models of scientific inquiry. Taken together with Eitelberger’s reports on Hungary and Dalmatia, it is evidence of his concern to establish the parameters of the scientific study of architectural monuments through close attention to primary sources, recording them in detail. All three publications also illustrate how mindful he was of the political implications of his position; as an imperial employee he sought to encompass the art of Austria-​Hungary as

a whole, and this involved engaging openly with some of the wider issues of contemporary political life.

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Art History as Philology The second, less politically charged project in which Eitelberger played a major part was the publication of historical textual sources. If knowledge of the range and type of architectural monuments was incomplete or even in some cases nonexistent, the situation regarding historical textual sources was similarly deficient. For many better-known texts there were no modern editions, while other potentially significant writings had fallen into oblivion. Eitelberger therefore initiated a series of primary historic texts (Quellenschriften [Source texts]), published between 1871 and 1882, which were translated into German with a substantial critical editorial apparatus.98 The first two volumes, published in 1871, were Cennino Cennini’s Il libro dell’arte and Lodovico Dolce’s Aretino, but the series, in addition to treatises on art, also embraced other types of sources; subsequent volumes included the letters of Dürer, Condivi’s Life of Michelangelo, essays on the theory of art by Alberti, and a volume of miscellaneous sources on Byzantine art.99 Although Eitelberger initiated the project, it was a large-scale collaborative enterprise; his student Albert Ilg (1847–1896) played a significant role in the organization of the series, and many other younger scholars were also involved, including Moriz Thausing (1838–1884), Hubert Janitschek (1846– 1893), who would later teach at Strasbourg and Leipzig, and Hans Semper (1845–1920), the son of Gottfried Semper. The series followed the model of the Monumenta

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Germaniae Historica, the first volumes of which had been published in 1826. This enterprise clearly reflected the continuing influence of the archival and documentary approach that was so central to the Institute for Austrian Historical Research, and the philological conception of inquiry continued even after art history had become institutionally autonomous. Other precedents included an English translation of Cennini that had been published in 1844 as well as an anthology of medieval and Renaissance texts.100 In France a larger-scale project, the Archives de l’art français, had commenced publication in 1851 and by 1866 comprised fourteen volumes.101 However, neither of these was as systematic as the Quellenschriften, which involved the editing of entire works using the latest methods of textual criticism. The first series, overseen by Eitelberger, extended to eighteen volumes, the last being an edition of Leonardo’s Trattato, published in 1882. Eitelberger died in 1885, but Albert Ilg began a new series, leading to the appearance of a further fifteen volumes. Of these the most notable were the two edited by Julius von Schlosser, whose Quellenbuch zur Kunstgeschichte des abendländischen Mittelalters (Sourcebook on the history of medieval art in the West), first published in 1896 as the seventh in the new series, remains an acknowledged classic of its type. Due to the dominant role played by Riegl’s methodological innovations in accounts of Viennese art history, Schlosser’s work on documentary sources has tended to be marginalized. Yet it remained a major component of Vienna School historiography; Hans Tietze, in his large-scale analysis of the discipline, Die Methode der Kunstgeschichte (The method of art history), published in 1913, asserted that the analysis of textual

sources was central to the discipline, and Julius von Schlosser continued publishing anthologies and critical editions of historical sources until late in his career.102 The importance given to textual sources would later become an object of contention and was singled out by a later holder of the art-history chair in Vienna, Josef Strzygowski. Appointed in 1909, Strzygowski has become notorious for his strident reactionary anti-Semitic views, but he also engaged in methodological polemic and in particular attacked the “philological” approach of his Vienna colleagues. Such an approach ensured the dependency of art history on history, he argued, and prevented it from attaining disciplinary autonomy. The most extended presentation of this critique appeared in his book of 1922 on “the crisis in the humanities,” in which he argued for the primacy of research into material objects (what he termed Sachforschung), beginning with basic physical description.103 As Strzygowski stated, the real objects of art history, its “factual material,” were images and artifacts: “the written source can never achieve the value of or replace the fact of the monument or even the work of art as an essential source for the specialist.”104 Published after the First World War, Strzygowski’s book falls outside the historical boundaries of this account, but as a response to Viennese art-historical traditions that reached back to the 1850s, it indicates how deeply rooted they had become. Ironically, given his criticisms of the philological orientation in art history, Strzygowski shared with other Viennese art historians a positivist epistemology. Notwithstanding the increasingly speculative nature of his thoughts about artistic transfer and migration, he remained committed to the notion that art

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history should begin with the empirical work of art, the first stage of analysis comprising precise scientific description.105 In this sense Strzygowski was less opposed to the Vienna tradition than he supposed, for he was the heir to the positivist topographical tradition introduced by Eitelberger some seventy years earlier.

archaeologist at the Universities of Göttingen and Munich and thereafter moved first to Berlin and then, in 1863, to Vienna, where he became lecturer in art history at the academy the following year. In 1867 he was appointed associate professor of architectural history at the Vienna Polytechnic, and became a full professor there in 1882.108 In 1866 he founded the Zeitschrift für bildende Kunst, which he edited until his death, in 1897. Lützow’s specialty was prints, but he wrote on a wide range of subjects, including design, Viennese architecture and art galleries, and Raphael.109 Falke established a close working relationship with Eitelberger, and they were both involved in what was probably the most significant development in Vienna in the 1860s: the founding of the Museum for Art and Industry in 1864. The museum was modeled on the South Kensington Museum in London, and its objectives were the same, namely, to enhance the quality and hence economic competitiveness of Austrian design.110 Eitelberger’s museum became a prototype for similar museums elsewhere in Germany and Austria-​Hungary. The first museum of applied art in Germany was founded in Berlin only three years later, in 1867, and was followed by others in Leipzig (1868), Hamburg and Nuremberg (1869), and Dresden (1876).111 In Austria-​ Hungary the Museum for Art and Industry was followed by the Museum of Applied Arts, founded in Budapest in 1872, and, one year later, by the Moravian Design Museum, which was set up in the industrial city of Brünn (Brno). Eitelberger was instrumental in the establishment of the latter, and it had close links to its counterpart in Vienna. As with the Museum for Art and Industry in the imperial capital, the museum in Brünn

The Expansion of Art History: The 1860s and the 1870s By the early 1870s Vienna was rapidly overcoming its art-historical “deficit” relative to Berlin. Following the reforms of Thun, Vienna was also successful in attracting notable scholars from Germany. Of these the most important were Jakob von Falke (1825–1897) and Karl von Lützow (1832–1897). Falke, a native of Ratzeburg, in northern Germany, had studied history and classical philology at the Universities of Göttingen and Erlangen. Afterward, he spent a short period in the early 1850s as the personal tutor to the noble family of Solms-Braunfels, initially based in Düsseldorf but then moving to Vienna in 1852. After a further two years as a personal tutor in Vienna, he was appointed curator at the German National Museum in Nuremberg in 1855. He returned to Vienna in 1858, at first serving as the librarian of the art collection of Prince Lichtenstein, but quickly became a major authority on design and the applied arts.106 In addition to numerous articles on the subject, he also published a series of fundamental studies on dress history, taste, the applied arts, and interior design.107 Lützow followed Falke. Born in Göttingen but raised in Schwerin, in northern Germany, Lützow had trained as a classical

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was founded in response to specific concerns relating to design and industrial performance. Eitelberger served as the first director of the Museum for Art and Industry, and Falke succeeded him in 1884. The initial impetus for its foundation had been design reform, for Eitelberger had been concerned about the poor state of Austrian design, but it quickly became a center of art-historical research, and its collections served as a vital research resource. Franz Wickhoff was appointed curator of textiles in 1879, but more than any other it was Riegl, who succeeded him in 1886, who directed his work toward the museum collections and established the museum’s importance as a site of art-historical research. The 1860s also witnessed marked institutional diversification, with an increase in the range of professional opportunities and sites for production of art-historical discourse. The most notable were the imperial-royal Central Commission for the Investigation and Conservation of Architectural Monuments, which was established in 1850, the Design School of the Museum for Art and Industry, set up in 1868, and the Vienna Polytechnic. The Albertina also played an important role. It had been open to visitors on a restricted basis since the 1820s, but it was essentially a private institution, its directors subservient to its founder, Albert, Duke of Saxe-Teschen, and then his son Archduke Charles. In 1868, however, Eitelberger arranged for the appointment of his student Moriz Thausing as librarian and then, in 1876, as director. Thausing was the first trained art historian to direct the Albertina, which he transformed from a private gallery into a public art institution.112 The Albertina sponsored significant research into its collections, undertaken most notably by Thausing and Wickhoff.

The expanding range of institutions paralleled a growing number of qualified art historians. Eitelberger had studied philosophy and classical philology, whereas Lützow and Falke had studied archaeology. Such a pattern was common for art historians of their generation, in Austria as in Germany. Anton Springer (1825–1891), for example, whose Handbook of Art History was one of the most widely read books on art history for much of the nineteenth century and who was the first professor of art history at the Universities of Bonn (1859), Strasbourg (1872), and Leipzig (1873), had trained as a historian and had begun his career teaching history at the University of Prague. Thausing was only thirteen years younger than Falke, but he represented a younger generation of trained art historians. Other notable representatives of this shift included Alfred Woltmann (1841–1880), occupant of the first chair in art history in Prague from 1874. A native of Berlin, Woltmann had in 1863 completed a doctorate at the University of Breslau on the early career of Holbein the Younger.113 Hans Semper (1845–1920), in 1895 the first chair of art history at the University of Innsbruck, had in 1869 completed a doctorate in Vienna on medieval Tuscan sculpture, and Albert Ilg, one of the first curators at the Kunsthistorisches Museum on its opening in 1891, had in 1872 completed his doctorate under Eitelberger on the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili.114

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Conclusion The first thirty years of the formation of art history in Vienna are frequently overlooked. The better-known achievements of Riegl, Wickhoff, and their contemporaries at the

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end of the nineteenth century have generally eclipsed the activities of their teachers and predecessors. Ignoring this crucial early stage leads, however, to a partial picture. Commentators on art historians of Riegl’s generation have tended to emphasize the relation between art history and the social and cultural crisis of the fading years of the Habsburg state.115 However, the social and political preconditions for the emergence of art history were already in place in the 1830s and 1840s and resulted both from deliberate governmental reform policies and from processes of social change, in particular the rise in Vienna of a secular middle-class public sphere and bourgeois liberal ideas of progress and science, which had taken root in the first third of the nineteenth century. The leading signifier of these shifts was Rudolf von Eitelberger. Eitelberger was not a remarkable theoretical or conceptual innovator, but he played a crucial role in introducing to the study of art the liberal

paradigm of scientific research with agreed protocols of analysis, argumentation, and demonstration, and in the emergence of a sense of scholarly community and professional identity. This paralleled developments elsewhere across Europe and was linked not only to state imperatives and objectives but also to the cultural and intellectual commitments of the liberal bourgeoisie of the mid– nineteenth century. In subsequent decades the wider social, political, and ideological situation changed, and the definitions and objectives of art-historical inquiry shifted. Indeed, it was not until the 1890s that major methodological and conceptual innovations occurred in Vienna. These are subject of the next chapter. Nevertheless, in relation to the longue durée of art history, the early decades of the Vienna School, spanning the period from the 1850s to the 1870s, were central to the establishment of practices that formed the basis of art-historical inquiry long into the following century.

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2 Questions of Method: From Positivism to the History of Spirit It may be that the widespread specialization of the natural sciences is necessary and fruitful. In the human sciences, however, it eventually becomes sterile, unless it is expanded by an understanding of general problems of the spirit. —max dvořák

In September 1873 the Museum for Art and Industry in Vienna hosted the first international congress of art history. Organized by Eitelberger, Lützow, and Thausing, it took place under the auspices of the Vienna World’s Fair, which lasted from May to November of the same year. It was a small-scale event—with only sixty-four participants—but the congress was nevertheless of considerable historical significance. It was the first attempt to gather together the leading international art historians of the day across Europe, with participants from Germany, Spain, England, Finland, Russia, and Italy, and it was an important marker of the emergence of art history as a distinct self-conscious profession.1 The conference also confirmed scholarly recognition of Vienna and of Eitelberger in particular.

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Also significant was Moriz Thausing’s inaugural professorial lecture the following month. Thausing remains the least discussed of the Viennese art historians; as Artur Rosenauer has pointed out, he was already marginalized in the history of the Vienna School in Julius von Schlosser’s account of 1938.2 In part this was due to his alienation from the social life of Vienna; a growing mental illness led him to become involved in increasingly antagonistic disputes with the Viennese social and political elite, including Julius von Newald, mayor of the city from 1878 to 1882.3 This marginalization stands in inverse proportion, however, to the significance of his contribution to the development of art-historical method in Vienna. Thausing’s teacher Eitelberger, through his numerous interventions into public

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debates on art education, design policy, and the redevelopment of the Vienna Ring­ strasse, had ensured that art historians achieved public prominence. He had not, however, explicitly articulated any particular approach to art-historical inquiry.4 Instead it was Thausing, the newly appointed associate professor, who would formulate a distinctive “Viennese” answer to the question of art-historical method. Not only did his published work lay the conceptual ground of a revitalized scientific art-​historical method, but in addition, through his work as a teacher, he instilled in his students, most notably Franz Wickhoff, an understanding of the discipline that lasted into the first decade of the twentieth century. A native of Bohemia (he was the son of an official in the palace of Tschischkowitz— now Čížkovice), Thausing had begun studies in German and history at Prague in the mid-1850s, then transferred to the Institute for Austrian Historical Research in Vienna in 1858. Coming into contact with Eitelberger, he gradually developed an interest in the visual arts, becoming the librarian of the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna in 1862, then moving to the Albertina two years later, eventually becoming its director in 1876. In 1873 he was awarded a chair in art history at the university. The subject of Thausing’s inaugural lecture was “the position of art history as a science.”5 At its heart was an analysis of the relation of art history to the cognate fields of classical archaeology, aesthetics, and history. Thausing saw it as an extension of archaeology, as a precursor to aesthetics, and as a necessary supplement to history. Thus, art history was archaeology’s “younger sister” and, “in terms of its object, merely a continuation of it. [Art history] share[d] the

twofold nature of [archaeology’s] sources, its methods, and its ultimate goals.”6 Yet despite such similarities—and in the 1870s archaeological and art-historical research were frequently conflated—Thausing also noted the significant differences; the object domain of art history was practically “limitless. The supply of monuments [was] overwhelming,” which necessitated the use of a wider array of methods than that used by archaeologists “if the coherence of the discipline [was] not to be threatened by one-sidedness.”7 Thausing did not dwell at length on the connection between these two disciplines, for his attention was mostly drawn to the relation with aesthetics and history; his comments on the difference between art history and aesthetics are perhaps the best-known aspect of his lecture. In particular, he emphatically ruled out the idea that aesthetic judgments had any role to play in art-historical analysis. No individual author was singled out, but his criticism of the tendency to impose normative aesthetic standards on artworks and to judge their historical importance and value in relation to such norms can clearly be seen as targeted at Winckelmann and his legacy. In contrast, Thausing argued that “art history has nothing to do with deduction or with speculation in general; what it aims to bring to light are not aesthetic judgments but historical facts, which can then serve as the material for inductive research. . . . The question whether a painting is beautiful is art-historically completely unjustifiable, and a question such as whether what Raphael or Michelangelo, Rembrandt or Rubens, achieved was the more perfect is an art-historical absurdity.”8 The stress on art-historical “facts” and on the inappropriateness of considerations of aesthetic value when formulating

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art-historical judgments (“The best art history I can imagine is one where the word ‘beautiful’ never appears”) clearly expressed Thausing’s alignment with the idea of art history as a “positive” science. He made only two overt approving references to Rumohr, but it has been suggested that his entire approach was intensely indebted to the older scholar.9 This would confirm the continuing importance of the historical-critical method pioneered in Berlin for Viennese art history, but in his emphasis on maintaining disciplinary boundaries and differences, it is possible too that Thausing was concerned with combating the influence of the philosopher Robert Zimmermann, professor of philosophy at the University of Vienna since 1861. Zimmermann (1824–1898) was one of the most prominent aestheticians in Vienna in the second half of the nineteenth century; known primarily for his adherence to the intellectual legacy of Johann Herbart (1776–1841), Zimmermann’s most substantial achievement was his History of Aesthetics as a Philosophical Science, the first synoptic history of aesthetics, which adopted a rigorously empirical approach to aesthetic inquiry.10 Although not a particularly original thinker, he exercised no small influence on others; the Viennese musicologist Eduard Hanslick, for example, revised later editions of his widely read On the Musically Beautiful in Music on the suggestion of Zimmermann, stripping it of any hint of speculative thought.11 In addition, Zimmermann was a highly prolific author of literary, musical, and artistic criticism, publishing studies of topics such as history painting and of individual artists, such as Jacques-Louis David, the German-Danish painter Asmus Carstens (1754–1798), and the Viennese painter Carl Rahl (1812–1865).12

Thausing contested the pertinence of aesthetic judgments, viewing art history instead as a part of cultural history; in this context he viewed artworks as historical sources, which could be seen as documents of the history of culture. Moreover, he argued, “just as documents speak to us in words, so [artistic] monuments speak to us in visible forms. . . . art history, inasmuch as it lays out before us clear images of bygone cultural eras, is already a powerful aid in understanding and assessing the past.”13 In itself this was an unremarkable statement; the idea that art history was a necessary and valuable component of cultural history had already been a commonplace in the work of earlier authors such as Carl Schnaase, Franz Kugler, and Wilhelm Lübke. What was distinctive about Thausing’s approach, however, was his statement about artworks as artifacts. Art-historical analysis, he claimed, requires a trained eye, not merely in terms of visual discernment but also because artworks deploy a visual language that has to be learned. This assertion betrayed Thausing’s earlier interest in language and training in philology. His first substantial publication had been in linguistics, but its significance should not be misread; he had introduced the idea of a language of art primarily to emphasize the difference between historical forms of visual representation and those of the present.14 He argued that the history of art was a document of the history of visual perception and, in particular, that vision had evolved from its primitive origins. “Primitive people and children register very incomplete visual impressions. The human eye as well as the hand was originally untrained, and it required millennia of slow practice for art to develop to its present responsiveness.”15 Informed by

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the evolutionary thought of the nineteenth century, Thausing cited the example of the development of color terms. In ancient texts such as the Bible or the Sanskrit epic Rigveda or the Old Persian Avesta, the dearth of references to the color blue is striking; this could only be explained, he argued, by a “partial color blindness that could only be the result of the lack of sufficient means of distinction.”16 Likewise, Thausing argued that the limited number of vowels in the earliest languages signified the “defective development of hearing.”17 The prejudices behind these explanations need not occupy a great deal of critical attention. More important was the fact that Thausing recognized that art history should employ a method that matched the historical-critical treatment of textual sources, namely, a form of scientific visual analysis. This involved the cultivation of an impartial art-historical eye that stood in contrast to that of the artist, “because its exclusive goal is recognition of the object without being restricted by any preconceived formal intuitions.”18 This shift from a primarily philological notion of scholarly method to one focused on visual analysis—“the introduction of a precise scientific treatment of visual sources”—was a decisive contribution to Viennese art history.19 One can only speculate about what form Thausing thought this art-historical vision might take; his idea of the image as a document of the history of seeing introduced a notion that would later recur in the writings of Alois Riegl (and Heinrich Wölfflin), but he did not pursue the theme in any other writings. Nor did his references to the visual language of art lead to the exposition of a more detailed theoretical position. However, between his initial delivery of the lecture and

its publication ten years later, he encountered the work of Giovanni Morelli, and the latter proved to have a decisive influence on Thausing’s thinking. Indeed, Thausing concluded the published version of his lecture with a quotation from his “highly esteemed friend and art connoisseur Ivan Lermolieff [Morelli’s pseudonym].”20 Giovanni Morelli’s first major text, Die Werke italienischer Meister in den Galerien von München, Dresden und Berlin (The works of Italian masters in the galleries of Munich, Dresden, and Berlin), was published in 1880, although he had published numerous essays on art throughout the 1870s. In this work he employed his “experimental method,” which relied on the “acute observation of those forms of the human body that are particular to a master.”21 As is well known, this “acute observation” focused on apparently incidental details, such as the depiction of ears, hands, or feet, since it was there that the hand of the artist, least constrained by traditions and conventions, would reveal his identity.22 With this approach Morelli overturned the traditional notion of connoisseurship as, at best, a purely aesthetically driven enterprise or, at worst, an exercise in dilettantism. His method displayed no interest in passing qualitative aesthetic judgments on the works and artists in question and instead sought comparisons with the natural sciences. Consequently, he argued, “Just as the botanist must be familiar with his plants, and the zoologist with his plants . . . so that he can tell a young lion apart from a domestic cat at first glance, or a fig from a squash,”23 so the art historian had to have a schooled eye. Morelli was also critical of art historians who were dependent on textual sources and secondhand accounts of art, rather than

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directly engaged with artworks. Thausing reviewed Morelli’s book favorably in 1880.24 He expressed skepticism toward the author’s initial claims to be a Russian; the depth of his intimacy with Italian art suggested that Ivan Lermolieff had an entirely different origin, although Thausing was still not entirely sure about Lermolieff’s identity. By 1884, however, when the review was republished in his collection of essays Wiener Kunstbriefe (Viennese letters on art), the entire volume was dedicated to Morelli, “my dear friend and brother in Raphael,” and he was open in his admiration of the Italian author.25 Thausing cited Morelli in an acerbic essay on the retirement of Julius Hübner, director of the Gemäldegalerie in Dresden, whose views on the authorship of the so-called Dresden Madonna in the gallery’s collection had been dismissed in the celebrated “Holbein Dispute” of the early 1870s.26 Thausing also applied Morelli’s method when deciding on the attribution of a portrait of a young man (Antonius Brocardus) in the Eszterhazy Gallery (now the Museum of Fine Arts in Budapest) to Giorgione.27 In other respects, however, Morelli’s ideas had little material impact on his writings. Thausing’s most substantial work was a monograph on Albrecht Dürer that, when first published in 1876, exemplified the critical method pioneered by Rumohr.28 It was republished in a revised edition in 1884, but this displayed little evidence of Morellian ideas and was still oriented primarily toward the critical analysis of written sources. Likewise, in a late essay (1883) on Leonardo’s Last Supper, he accounted for Leonardo’s compositional innovations in terms of the literary sources shaping treatment of the subject; in particular, Thausing argued that Leonardo’s originality lay in his willingness to depart from a

compositional tradition whose program was first laid out in a Byzantine text, the so-called Painter’s Manual, that had been discovered in Mount Athos only some forty years previously.29 That the Manual turned out to have been a late eighteenth-century work by a monk named Dionysius of Phourna is less significant for present purposes—although it does undercut the argument—than the fact that Thausing continued to write a philological art history some time after he had argued for the central role of visual analysis.30 Despite his erratic approach in incorporating Morelli’s ideas into his own work, Thausing can nevertheless be credited with introducing the Italian’s methods to Vienna, but it was his student Franz Wickhoff who applied them most consistently. In histories of the Vienna School Wickhoff is generally associated with two particular episodes: his intervention in defense of Klimt’s Philosophy frieze, executed in 1900 for the Great Hall of the University of Vienna, and his dispute with Josef Strzygowski over the origins of early Christian art. These were significant episodes, but his career and activity were much more wide-ranging and included the propagation of Morellian methods. One of the few Vienna School art historians to be born in the “core” Austrian crown lands (he grew up in Steyr, in Upper Austria), Wickhoff studied art history under Eitelberger and Thausing, completing a doctoral thesis on Dürer under Thausing in 1880, and was employed as curator of textiles at the Museum for Art and Industry from 1879 until 1885, when he took up an appointment as associate professor at the university, where he was promoted to full professor in 1891.31 As Max Dvořák noted, Wickhoff was drawn to Morelli because his approach

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appeared to provide an “objective” and scientific method that allayed the common view that art history was primarily a field for “windbags and dilettantes.”32 The influence of Thausing and Morelli, in particular their positivism and devaluation of aesthetic judgments, is discernible in Wickhoff’s earlier writings, such as his article on the frescoes of St. Catherine’s Chapel in the Basilica of San Clemente in Rome.33 The central concerns of this article are the frescoes’ authorship and the date of their execution. Wickhoff argues that they had been completed by Masolino between 1446 and 1450 (although they are now dated to 1428). What is notable about this article is not the historical claim Wickhoff advances but rather the grounds on which he makes it. Specifically, he takes issue with the traditional dating, derived by comparing them with Masaccio’s frescoes of 1424 painted in the Brancacci Chapel in Florence. Thausing himself had written on the chapel and saw the San Clemente frescoes as the earlier works, due to their apparently archaic style.34 Wickhoff argues that relying on style alone as a method of dating could lead to false conclusions, and he brings to bear documentary evidence that challenges such dating. The stylistic novelty of the Brancacci Chapel is evidence, Wickhoff argues, not that it is a later work but that its author was of a younger generation: Masaccio was born in 1401, whereas Masolino was born in 1383. The San Clemente frescoes thus reflected the archaic approach of their author, on which he continued to rely even though younger artists had introduced formal and compositional innovations. In this article Wickhoff is clearly relying on the historical-critical approach. In subsequent writings, however, he throws himself wholeheartedly into the Morellian

techniques championed by Thausing. His first major publication of this type was a catalogue of the Italian drawings in the collection of the Albertina.35 Wickhoff conceived it explicitly as a memorial to Thausing, with whom he had exchanged correspondence on the project on the day Thausing died; as Wickhoff comments, “From then on I viewed my involvement with the Albertina drawings as a duty I owed to the memory of the revered man.”36 The method he adopted from Morelli reflected a broader value system.37 In particular, drawings, with their informality and preparatory nature, were favored as the medium in which the identity of the artist would be most clearly revealed, and Wickhoff paid particular attention to drawings in numerous other essays.38 The Albertina catalogue can also be seen as a preliminary to the much larger project of cataloguing the drawings held in collections across Austria, which Wickhoff initiated, although it was only completed after his death.39 In the lengthy introduction to the first part of the catalogue, Wickhoff makes clear its purpose: not only the systematic ordering of the Albertina collection but also the correction of misattribution and careful distinction between originals and copies. The reasons for such misattributions in the past are also clear: insufficient comparative material (i.e., insufficient knowledge of the history of art) and a tendency to allow judgments to be swayed by aesthetic preferences. Wickhoff took up this latter theme in an essay on an eighteenth-century wax female bust in the Wicar Museum (now the Palais des Beaux Arts) in Lille.40 As he notes, “Value judgments interfere more often with the correct chronological ordering of artworks than we think. We cannot settle on dating a

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particularly significant or beautiful artwork to a period not generally judged to be classic. How collectors have plagued the public with their Raphaels, because they could not bring themselves to attribute the best Italian images in their collection to someone other than the greatest Italian painter.”41 Hence, he argues, the wax bust, whose artistic qualities were widely admired, had been variously ascribed to Raphael, Leonardo, or to the wax modeler Orsino Benintendi because it was inconceivable for most that it could have been the product of any other era. Instead, he suggests, it had far more in common with the work of Bernini or Pietro da Cortona (1596–1669), and hence he dated it to the late seventeenth century. As with the example of the Masolino frescoes in San Clemente, it is the methodological argument that is of more interest for the present discussion—specifically, distinction between art-historical judgment and aesthetic value. Wickhoff’s best-known work is the edition of the Vienna Genesis manuscript he copublished in 1895 with Wilhelm von Hartel, which contains his famous essay on late Roman and early Christian art.42 His analysis of the narrative structures of Roman art (which I discuss in detail later) represents a significant methodological innovation and change in intellectual orientation. But from the mid-1890s until his death, in 1909, most of his writings continued a path of inquiry that could be traced back to the dual heritage of Thausing and Eitelberger. The Vienna Genesis text is thus exceptional, for in his other writings he maintains a recurring preoccupation with Morellian issues of authorship and with the revision of attributions by means of scrupulously constructed visual analyses coupled with reference to textual sources. Examples include attribution

of a series of female half-portraits held in collections across England, France, Germany, and Italy to Jean Clouet, father of François.43 Another essay, on Botticelli’s Primavera, is concerned with the intellectual sources of the painting and traces them back to the Mythologies of the late fifth-century writer Fulgentius, which had become popular among humanist circles in Quattrocento Florence. Wickhoff bases his argument on the close correspondences between Primavera and a particular episode in Fulgentius’s text.44 These essays typify his approach to art history, which remained strongly wedded to Vienna School traditions of “positive” scientific scholarship.

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Questions of Style and the Art Drive The traditions of “positive” scientific art history remained central aspects of Viennese art history until 1918. They shaped the earliest studies by Riegl too, such as his Habilitation thesis, an analysis of medieval calendar illustrations, in which he relied on Morellian attention to detail as a method of dating specific images.45 In 1893, however, Riegl undertook a decisive move away from the positivism of previous decades with his Stilfragen (Questions of style). An analysis of the evolution of the decorative acanthus motif from its inception in Egyptian art until its development in Islamic ornamentation, the book was the culmination of a series of publications he had devoted to Near Eastern art,46 specifically textiles and carpets, which reflected his employment since 1887 as assistant curator and then director of the textiles department at the Museum for Art and Industry.

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There is little in these earlier publications that anticipates the substantial methodological innovations that Riegl introduces in Questions of Style. For example, in an extended essay on carpets in the imperial collections—published in 1892, that is, only one year earlier—Riegl criticizes some of the working assumptions guiding existing research on Islamic art, namely, the tendency to ignore its connections with other cultures, but the essay does not articulate a specific alternative frame of analysis.47 At the heart of Questions of Style is the attempt to trace the aesthetic development of the acanthus motif as internally driven; the book’s innovative nature lies in its explicit effort to counter the influence of the materialism of Gottfried Semper (1803–1879) and in its identification of the causal origin of the motif’s evolution, the “creative artistic idea.”48 Semper had been prominent in Vienna since the 1860s, when his ideas on museum organization and exhibitionary practice had influenced Eitelberger’s plans for the Museum for Art and Industry.49 His influence culminated in the selection of his plans for the buildings of the Kunsthistorisches Museum and the Museum of Natural History—although they were not completed until some twelve years after his death. However, it was the ideas Semper had expounded in his multivolume Style with which Riegl engaged. Riegl’s critique of Semper is well known, but it is worth rehearsing once more. Semper had emphasized the importance of materials and techniques as determinants of style.50 Although he had identified these as only some of several factors shaping the history of art, a cruder Semperian materialism had become widespread, exponents including the classical archaeologist Alexander Conze (1831–1914), the first chair of archaeology in

Vienna, in the 1870s.51 Riegl first criticized this materialist understanding in his 1891 study on ancient Oriental carpets, when discussing the question why, even though Ottoman and Persian carpets had circulated in Europe for hundreds of years, they were not imitated in Europe (except in the former Ottoman territories in southeastern Europe).52 Ruling out material and technical explanations—including a lack of necessary raw materials—Riegl offers a social and economic explanation. Specifically, he identifies the antagonism between the system used to produce Ottoman and Persian carpets and the mass production in Europe: “If even our own handicraft industry, in other words, so-called arts and crafts (Kunstgewerbe), is no longer able to hold its own against the superior force of the factory system based on mass production, then how much less could be expected of the most primitive of commercial systems, domestic labor, by which the overwhelming part of Oriental carpets are still produced today.”53 This introduced a concern that Riegl would fully develop in his study of folk art in 1894,54 but it played little role in Questions of Style. Instead, in the latter he focused on the issue of formal evolution and the key role played by the “creative artistic idea.” This inverted the materialistic approach of Semperian analysis and saw artistic change as the consequence of shifting aesthetic impulses rather than as the outcome of developments in technique or other extrinsic factors. It was a precursor to the more famous idea of the Kunstwollen (art drive), which Riegl articulated in its most explicit and expansive form in Late Roman Art Industry and The Group Portraiture of Holland. Indeed, he first used the term Kunstwollen in Questions of Style; commenting on Semperian readings of prehistoric cave

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paintings, he argued, “For sure the technical moment plays . . . a role, but by no means the leading role ascribed to it by the followers of the technical and material theory of origins. The impulse did not come from the technique but rather from a specific art drive (Kunstwollen). There was a wish to create an image of nature in dead material, and the necessary technique for this was then invented.”55 The aesthetic basis of this concept is clear from Riegl’s amplification of the art drive as “that something in humans that leads us to find pleasure in beautiful form.”56 From its initial function of foregrounding aesthetic over material origins, Riegl developed the art drive into a more complex idea linked to theories of the history of perception. Of prior importance, however, is consideration of the nature and grounds for the methodological innovation of Questions of Style. It is often assumed that Riegl’s adoption of a quasi-aesthetic concept owed much to the influence of Robert Zimmermann, whose lectures Riegl attended as a student.57 However, Riegl may also have been responding to internal difficulties in the positivism espoused by his teachers Thausing and Wickhoff in their deployment of Morellian ideas. Richard Wollheim has highlighted an important weakness that resulted from Morelli’s focus on details, particularly the tendency to atomize the stylistic and compositional features of works of art. As noted earlier, Morelli (and Thausing in his wake) had drawn an analogy between art and language, and his identification of the individual items in a work of art—hands, ears, noses, and so forth—was a documentation of the visual lexicon of individual artists. However, as Wollheim argues, Morelli had “little conception of what a language is over and above a mere set of words: a language turns out

to be identical with its lexical items. In the analysis of individual styles no reference is made . . . to rules of combination or of significance: he had nothing to say about how the individual items in a particular painter’s style may be concatenated into complexes, or how a meaning may be assigned to such complexes. There is, in other words . . . no explicit recognition of either syntax or semantics.”58 This problem was apparent too in Morelli’s analysis of works of art, which atomized them into individual items, with no sense of their relation to each other or of their place within the artwork as a totality. Morelli’s writings thus exhibited a basic weakness of positivistic scholarship that had already been acknowledged by Rumohr, namely, the lack of a comprehensive vision, resulting from the focus on the singular.59 This is evident too in Thausing’s study of Dürer, which, although exhaustively detailed, is driven by the contingent events of Dürer’s biography rather than by any other underlying methodological logic. Riegl identified the difficulties of this method and countered with his own vision of art history in a 1902 review of the work of Cornelius Gurlitt, noting it was the purpose of analysis “immediately to subsume every work of art . . . under a more general [category],” linking “artistic phenomena by highlighting features that are common to them.”60 However, it is possible that Questions of Style, published ten years earlier, was already motivated by the attempt to move beyond the inductive approach so fundamental to art history hitherto. As Riegl notes in the preface, “That which has hitherto been kept separate and divided should be brought together and considered from a unified viewpoint,” and this stood in opposition to the atomized vision associated with positivism.61

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In his early writings Riegl had explored a number of alternative methods, including social and economic theory. In Folk Art, Domestic Labor, and House Industry, published the year after Questions of Style, he placed the history of folk art in a historical schema derived from national economy.62 However, it was the concept of the “creative artistic idea” (later, the art drive) that would prove to be the more productive for his work. It is notable too that he explicitly ruled out iconographic analysis, describing it as “one-sided” and “cultivated for its own sake,” incomplete without recognition of the “sensuous appearance of the work of art as form and color on a plane or in space.”63 This statement has to be seen in its historical context; in contrast to the neo-Kantian theory developed by Panofsky in the 1920s and 1930s, iconography in the late nineteenth century still consisted primarily of the documentation of conventional visual symbols.64 Riegl’s critique was consequently a further attempt to distance himself from the historical-critical method of his teachers. The meaning of the art drive has been a subject of considerable debate. Differences of opinion were evident as soon as Riegl’s legacy was first considered, in the 1920s, when both Panofsky and Hans Sedlmayr attempted to interpret the concept. Panofsky sought to distance the idea from any notion of artistic intention; the latter implied volition, he argued, whereas Kunstwollen bore the character of an involuntary impulse.65 Hence, “we can only talk of a ‘wish’ when there is no unified impulse which makes a particular result inevitable, that is, no conflicting aims potentially alive in the subject between which he must choose.”66 For Sedlmayr, in contrast, “art drive” denoted a collective, supra-individual will that reinscribed at the

level of the social the intentionality associated with the individual artist.67 Numerous interpretations of the concept have since been offered, from Margaret Iversen’s and Wolfgang Kemp’s interpretations of Riegl in the light of Kant, Schopenhauer, and Nietzsche to Paul Crowther’s reading of Kunstwollen in relation to the Lacanian concept of sinthome.68 The differences between such readings foreground not simply Riegl’s failure to provide a succinct account of what the term implied—leaving room for widely divergent interpretations—but also the art drive’s basic contradiction. This contradiction in turn reflects the fact that the concept was arguably also a response to a much wider discussion about the humanities, namely, the so-called Methodenstreit (dispute over method). The dispute first emerged in the 1870s and originated in the debate between the Viennese economic theorist Carl Menger (1840–1921) and Gustav Schmoller (1838–1917), the most prominent representative of the so-called “historical school” of political economy in Berlin. At its heart lay the question of the role of empirical historical accounts within economic theory. For Schmoller they were different aspects of the same enterprise, while for Menger history and theory were two distinct fields. As Menger argued, “the task of the theorist of political and social phenomena is not to make us aware of concrete phenomena and developments, but rather the ‘forms of appearance’ (Erscheinungsformen) and the laws of the human phenomena in question.”69 For Menger the goal of proper Wissenschaft was thus to formulate laws that would provide it with a predictive power. This initial debate about method and value in economics soon spilled over into other fields

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of scholarship and in particular informed debates about the “scientific” status of the humanities, since it was widely accepted that the humanities and the natural sciences were fundamentally opposed. For the historian Gustav Droysen, author of the widely influential Outline of the Principles of History, it was clear that only the physical and biological sciences were concerned with “laws” of behavior.70 Likewise, a philosophical distinction had been drawn by neo-Kantian thinkers, such as Wilhelm Windelband, between the “nomothetic” character of the natural sciences and the “idiographic” basis of history and the humanities, the so-called sciences of experience (Erfahrungswissenschaften).71 The idea of such a distinction was confirmed by historians’ insistence on the importance of the individual in history. In his posthumously published Reflections on World History Jakob Burckhardt had written of the individual, “who to us seems huge, who exerts a magical influence over peoples and for centuries, far beyond the mere boundaries of tradition.”72 For Burckhardt such an individual was “irreplaceable” and “unique”; without the individual the world would be incomplete. On the one hand, such an individual was a representative of the “spirit,” an explicitly Hegelian formulation, and for Burckhardt it was the function of great artists, poets, and philosophers “to make visible the inner content of the time and the world in ideal form.”73 On the other hand, such individuals were not merely the materialization of wider historical processes; rather, they also shaped the course of history. Burckhardt contrasted Christopher Columbus, who was historically inessential—the Americas would eventually have been “discovered” by someone else had he not existed—with figures such as Aeschylus, Pheidias, and Plato. “If Raphael had died

in the cradle, the Transfiguration would have remained unpainted.”74 The relevance of this debate to art history was all too apparent, especially with the rise of the artistic monograph as a genre in the 1860s. Significant early examples included Herman Grimm’s biographies of Michelangelo and Raphael, Alfred Woltmann’s biography of Hans Holbein the Younger, Carl Justi’s monumental study of Winckelmann, and Thausing’s monograph on Dürer.75 The genealogy of these works could be traced back to Waagen’s study of the van Eycks, and although meticulously thorough in their treatment of sources, they were shaped by a methodology that had been established in the 1820s. By the final decades of the nineteenth century, however, the positivistic focus on historical and art-historical “facts” was no longer deemed a sufficient guarantor of scientific method. The question, therefore, was the extent to which art history could pass beyond this traditional concern with the singular in order to exhibit the nomothetic character of the natural sciences. A number of possibilities were explored. The cultural historian Karl Lamprecht (1856–1915) attempted to construct a model of history based on the history of mentalities.76 Although Lamprecht’s method was conceptually underdetermined and the German historical profession shunned him, his work is of considerable significance for art history due to the influence he exercised on Aby Warburg.77 Later, and more famously, Max Weber formulated the conception of the “ideal type” as a heuristic device that could combine the singularity of historical phenomena with recognition of the typical, lawlike patterns within history.78 Riegl’s notion of the art drive was arguably a similar attempt to address this

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problem. Although he did not describe it in such terms, he was clearly preoccupied with this general topic; as Lorenz Dittmann has stated, “Riegl conceived art history and theory expressly and exclusively as a theory of laws.”79 Hence, in the Historische Grammatik der bildenden Künste (Historical grammar of the visual arts), which remained unpublished during his life, Riegl asserted that “all modern science is based on the conviction of the ubiquity of the law of causality, of the impossibility of miracles. Every phenomenon is the necessary effect of some cause. It is this cause that science seeks.”80 A central preoccupation for Riegl (as for other art historians of his generation) was thus the relation between the singular and the general. In an important essay of 1898, on “art history and universal history,” Riegl examines the relation between the two, but in terms of the evolution of art-historical inquiry: “Researchers of the generation before ours understood every art-historical phenomenon as a singular item produced by particular causes. . . . Their efforts were entirely devoted to knowing as much as possible about this individual phenomenon from all sides and as precisely as possible.”81 The philological and historical-critical approach of this generation had been superseded, he argues, by the focus on “general features” as expounded by the younger generation of art historians, the so-called “moderns.”82 Riegl recognized the value of both kinds of approaches, but his essay makes clear that he viewed the latter as the crucial methodological innovation. He reiterates this viewpoint in his review of Gurlitt, in which he outlines the development of the discipline. Art history, he argues, began with Winckelmann: “what made Winckelmann the first art historian was his marked ambition to determine

and bring to the fore what was common to all the antique works of art that were available to him and that he investigated.”83 Yet while art-historical inquiry should aim “to subsume every work of art under a more general notion, the concept of style,” Riegl added that the purpose of such inquiry was to make it possible “to enjoy the specific, the particular, the unfamiliar.”84 This dual concern with individual as well as taxonomic ordering explains a range of tensions in Riegl’s formulation and in his employment of the concept of the art drive. He was clear in stating not only that the individual artwork should be subsumed under a wider stylistic category (or type of art drive) but also that parallels could be drawn between the art drive and other cultural practices:

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If we consider not only the arts but also any one of the other great fields of human culture—the state, religion, science—we come to the conclusion that in these fields too we are everywhere concerned with the relation between individual and collective unities. If we trace the direction of the volition that particular peoples have developed at particular times, then it will be unerringly shown that at base this direction is completely identical with the art drive of a particular people at the same time.85

This was broad speculation that continued a line of thinking he had articulated in the incomplete manuscript of The Historical Grammar of the Visual Arts.86 At the same time, however, Riegl also appeared to privilege an older positivistic method. In his review of Gurlitt, he outlines the “economy of research moments,” distinguishing between the older, synthetic (inductive) art history and the newer, analytic (deductive) art history; while the latter would appear to

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be closest to his own approach, with general style or period concepts as the starting point, Riegl regards the inductive approach as the “slower, more secure, and more strictly scientific” path.87 Moreover, analytic art history, he argues, satisfies an entirely unscientific purpose, namely, the “desires of those educated laypersons who wish to see their need for unity in art-historical contemplation fulfilled,” “laypersons” denoting artists, in contrast to art historians.88 Riegl seemed undecided about the status of the art drive and its correlate, style. On the one hand, he treated it as a purely heuristic device, arguing that “as a mere concept [style] has no objective perceptual reality.”89 On the other, he stated unequivocally that “the art drive is the only thing we can be certain is a given.”90 This apparent inconsistency reflected the function of the concept, which was to provide art history with a properly “scientific” method. In particular, Riegl attempted to employ it as a way of mediating between the hermeneutic orientation of traditional art history, with its focus on artistic intention and on artists as individual agents of art-historical development, and the nomothetic approach of the natural sciences. This explains the unusual coining of the term Kunstwollen, which, sometimes translated as “artistic volition,” foregrounds human agency as the basis of the taxonomic ordering of styles. In Late Roman Art Industry he treats the art drive as a synthetic concept that defined the character of late antique art and differentiated it from that of classical Rome. Specifically, it could be located in the “leveling-out of ground and individual figure” and mass composition (a “preliminary stage of the modern conception of the collective character of apparently individual forms”)

such that the “rhythm of classical sculpture was one of contrasts (contrapposto, triangular composition),” whereas late Roman art, “an anti-individual form of artistic creation,” emphasized sameness and erased difference.91 Riegl saw parallels with other contemporaneous cultural practices, including the writings of Saint Augustine. Thus, he concludes, “the ‘art drive’ of antiquity, and in particular of its concluding phase, was ultimately identical with the other principal forms of expression of human volition during the same period.”92 At the same time, however, the centrality of volition to the concept undermined its role as the basis of such a synthetic art history, inasmuch as it became tangled up with ideas of subjective intention. A clear example of this can be found in Riegl’s comments on Rembrandt in his study of the Dutch group portrait, where he argues that the artist sought to contest the predominant art drive of Dutch seventeenth-century culture in order to assert his own.93 To write of Rembrandt’s challenging existing norms was unexceptional, but to couch it in terms of the concept of the art drive highlighted the tensions implicit in the term; an idea originally coined as a heuristic tool of “nomothetic” analysis had been transformed into the ground of subjective willpower. With the theory of the art drive Riegl appears to have reached a position completely antithetical to that of his teacher Thausing. Where Thausing sought to maintain a strict boundary between art-historical inquiry and aesthetic judgment, Riegl saw the aesthetic concepts of creative artistic thought and the art drive as providing the necessary methodological framework for a scientific art history. In other ways, however, he continued his predecessor’s basic belief

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in the need to suspend value judgments; as Riegl noted, “a very important assumption of all scientific research is . . . that every individual artwork deserves scholarly attention and analysis without regard for whether it pleases the viewing subject.”94 Hence, Riegl was concerned with the analysis of the historical evolution of aesthetic experience, an approach that was distinct from the exercise of aesthetic judgments, and he was critical of the tendency among art historians to conflate the two. As he observed: “It was regarded as ‘scientific’ to avoid any kind of ‘aesthetics’ and to limit oneself to the supposedly purely factual, i.e., to the specification of time and place of origin of individual monuments. However, it was impossible to avoid placing individual monuments into some kind of relation to each other, as well as to operate constantly with value judgments (good, bad, mediocre). Practical aesthetics was thereby being pursued, although this was denied for the sake of putative scientificity.”95

art historians can be seen as a further indication of the concern to engage with “scientific” methods.96 Although Riegl moved away from this approach after Questions of Style, it continued to be important for Vienna School art historians, its most forceful advocate being Max Dvořák. In his Habilitation thesis on the van Eyck brothers, Dvořák makes one of the most explicit and extensive arguments for the necessity of what he terms the “genetic” method of art history.97 The question he is trying to address is the origin of the painting of Jan and Hubert van Eyck. Taking issue with the myth of the brothers as a semidivine creative intervention into the history of art, a myth first promulgated in Karel van Mander’s Schilder-Boeck, Dvořák argues that it is possible to trace the evolutionary steps in the development of painting that led to their work. In other words, their painting is less an inexplicable irruption in the history of art and more the outcome of a logical sequence of shifts and changes from the fourteenth century. The details of his argument are of less importance here than the statements of principle with which he prefaces his study. In the introductory chapter he provides an exposition of method: “Just as scholasticism taught us to create logical chains of thoughts, so modern science taught us to turn facts into developmental sequences, which would be compelling in terms of real and assumed causal connections. Under the influence of methods of exact research, we have gradually learnt— consciously or unconsciously—never to view a fact as an isolated phenomenon, but rather always as an element in a sequence of identical or similar facts.”98 Further, he claims, “every historical formation is a member of a specific historical developmental chain and

The Legacy of Questions of Style Analysis of Questions of Style has tended to focus on Riegl’s reversal of Semperian materialism. However, of equal significance was his embrace of an evolutionary model of art-historical chronology. In place of the cyclical model of stylistic development inherited from Winckelmann, he posited a theory of linear evolution, tracing the gradual emergence of the acanthus motif in ancient Egyptian art and its slow transformation into the arabesque of Islamic art. Evolutionary theory exercised a wide influence on art history in the late nineteenth century; it played an important role in the thinking of Aby Warburg, for example, and its adoption by

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is determined by the previous formations in the same medium. . . . If it is to be more than the history of artists, the genuine and crucial substrate of the history of art is the development of formal problems of representation.”99 Reference to the evolution of formal problems highlights the continuing influence of Riegl, and Dvořák later reiterated this emphasis on formal analysis when reviewing a monograph on Giotto by the Basel-based art historian Friedrich Rintelen. Specifically, he bemoaned the fact that art historians tended to avoid engaging directly with works of art, burying themselves in a plethora of extrinsic details instead of addressing “the most important thing of all . . . that which makes art art.”100 Riegl and Dvořák came to abandon the genetic method, as did Wickhoff, and Dvořák also moved away from formal analysis. The grounds for this shift lay in their common interest in art-historical boundaries and ruptures and in the notion of uneven development. One of the first examples was Wickhoff’s interpretation of the Vienna Genesis manuscript, in which he examined the ways that the narrative structure and visual lexicon of classical art were appropriated and reconfigured in order to meet the demands of early Christianity.101 It was, however, in Late Roman Art Industry that Riegl addressed this theme at greatest length. His rehabilitation of late Roman and early Christian art rests on the claim that while its continuity with the past is clear, it constitutes a new phase in the history of art. In other words, to regard it simply in terms of its relation to the classical tradition involves misleading aesthetic comparisons with classical Roman and Greek art, when it in fact reflects a shift in the structure of the art drive underpinning artistic production. In the introduction to his

book Riegl insists on the central role of “continual development,” but his actual approach contradicts this, for he divides the history of art into distinct periods, creating the possibility of historical interruptions and discontinuities.102 This changed orientation is linked to his abandonment of the empirical method of Questions of Style, in which he had traced the individual steps in the chain of formal evolution, and to his adoption instead of a concern for deeper principles and structures in the history of art. Some ten years after Dvořák published his Habilitation on the van Eyck brothers, he explicitly broke with his positivistic attachment to evolutionary models. As Norbert Schmitz has noted, the first signs can be seen in the manuscripts of his lectures of 1914/15 on landscape painting and on “idealism and realism in the art of the modern era,”103 in which Dvořák states that “new times bring new themes and . . . a different point of view.”104 Perhaps the most significant outcome of this “different point of view” was Dvořák’s 1918 book on Gothic sculpture and painting, where the author claims that they were shaped by the polarities of idealism and naturalism.105 Here he argues that medieval and Romanesque art was no longer the next stage in the developmental sequence of art; it could not be interpreted as “drawing from classical tradition, attempting and looking for new naturalistic, practical, and technical solutions; rather, it was a discrete phase of a spiritual and idealistic period in art that laid down new artistic values and foundations for the development of humanity.”106 Dvořák stresses discontinuity as well as nonlinear transhistorical correspondence between the Middle Ages and the present. Like Riegl, in his adoption of the art drive, so Dvořák, in his later writings, sought increasingly to

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identify the deeper intellectual and spiritual foundations of art—his famous notion of art history as the history of ideas (Geistesgeschichte)—although his work never had the theoretical rigor of his teacher Riegl. Comparison of the two authors reveals a remarkable parallelism, in which attention to certain subjects (late Roman and early medieval art) compelled a reassessment of method and conceptions of art-historical time. For both authors the evolutionary approach was inadequate as a means of conceptualizing the transition from classical to medieval European art.

by other Vienna art historians. The most notable of these were Wickhoff’s Vienna Genesis and Julius von Schlosser’s study of wax portraiture. Wickhoff’s critical edition of the Genesis, an early sixth-century biblical codex in the imperial library, is usually discussed in the context of his ideological dispute with Strzygowski over the origins of early medieval art. It is of interest here, however, as an attempt to introduce a method of art-historical periodization on the basis of narrative structures.108 Wickhoff’s text was written to accompany the plates reproducing the Genesis manuscript, but rather than offer a detailed commentary on the codex, the text offered a much broader account of the development of Roman art and the artistic genealogy of the illustrations. It is unprecedented in Wickhoff’s oeuvre; his subsequent writings revert to the connoisseurial concerns of his earlier work. In this respect it is an anomaly. The text shares some of the preoccupations of Questions of Style, and Wickhoff makes several approving references to the earlier work. Wickhoff, like Riegl, is concerned with the question of cultural borrowing in late antiquity. Riegl had analyzed the transformation of the Egyptian acanthus motif into the arabesque, with a heavy emphasis on the classical origins of Islamic art. Wickhoff analyzes the emergence of the Vienna Genesis illustrations out of the confluence of Roman illusionism and the narrative demands of Christianity. As Wickhoff notes, “An enduring art tendency does not spring from one source alone, but we may compare it to a stream; many tributaries must feed it until it runs strong and full.”109 Early Christian art was the product of just such a merging of differing cultures.

Beyond Formal Method Questions of Style marked a watershed in Vienna School practice, replacing the positivism of the earlier generation of art historians with aesthetic and formal analysis. In certain respects, however, its significance should not be overstated. Dvořák’s van Eyck study was based on positivistic assumptions—as evidenced by the author’s use of Morellian connoisseurial analysis of motifs—that owed more to Thausing than to Riegl. Indeed, before 1918 the most sympathetic readers of Riegl were arguably not art historians but the art critics Wilhelm Worringer and Hermann Bahr. Worringer’s doctoral dissertation, Abstraction and Empathy, employed Riegl’s ideas as the basis of a speculative historical aesthetics of abstraction, while Bahr’s book Expressionism contained a paean to Riegl as a leading interpreter of the age.107 Despite such caveats, Questions of Style did open up the field of art history to new methodological possibilities and arguably created a space for a number of what might be termed art-historical “experiments”

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fig. 3  Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife, from the Vienna Genesis manuscript (Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, cod. theol. gr. 31), 6th century c.e., fol. 16r.

The analysis is based on the identification of a typology of pictorial narrative modes: the continuous, the complementary, and the isolating. The Vienna Genesis illustrations are, he argues, structured around a continuous visual narrative, in which a sequence of successive events is depicted in a single continuous representation (fig. 3): “as the text flows on the heroes of the narrative accompany it in a continuous series of related circumstances passing, smoothly and unbroken, one into another, just as during a river voyage the landscape of the banks seems

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to glide before our eyes.”110 This mode had arisen in Roman art—Wickhoff cites Trajan’s column as the most striking example—and was also what gave early Christian art its alien effect, for the modern viewer was the product of a culture in which the “isolating” mode was dominant. The latter, in which narratives are broken into individual episodes, had also been a characteristic of Greek art, which accounted for the ease with which modern viewers could read it. Of the three modes he identifies, the earliest of all was the complementary mode, which Wickhoff

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associates with the art of the ancient Near East and preclassical Greece, where “in order to bring out the totality of the event in question we are shown its preparatory stages as if by a retrogression from the main point.”111 Wickhoff’s argument is that the apparent stylistic continuity of Greek and Roman art masks a more fundamental shift in narrative structure, which endows Roman art with its distinctive identity and also marks the historical change that produced early Christian art. The adoption of the continuous method, Wickhoff argues, was due to its ability to provide biblical narratives with particularly vivid illustrations. As Christianity spread across the Mediterranean, the biblical narratives that sprang from the aniconic Jewish culture of the Near East entered the iconophilic societies of the western Mediterranean, creating the need for new kinds of imagery. As Wickhoff describes it, early Christian art was thus “the filling in of a poetic framework from which the imagery that once informed it had faded away, with a fresh imaginative content drawn from another cycle of forms.”112 Of the various different options available, early Christian artists adopted the continuous method that had already been developed in Rome, because it was particularly suited to this task. As Wickhoff notes with reference to Trajan’s column: “The method of constant repetition, though to the reflective faculty it may seem to break up artistic unity, excites the imagination of the spectator . . . following his hero through so many dangers and finally seeing him gain the great end of his labours, the subjugation of Dacia.”113 Furthermore,

it possible to crowd battle and victory together

Extreme naturalness of movement is here combined with an ideal treatment of time. This makes

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into a narrow space. In the midst of the fray, which runs its course at one end of the design, the Emperor is thundering against his enemies, while the other end is occupied by a peaceful scene in which Roma welcomes the hero and Victory crowns him. The spectator who has assimilated this work knows that a new sphere has been opened to art . . . no other kind of narrative could approach it in vitality and force.114

Wickhoff’s approach is anomalous in relation both to the rest of his oeuvre—none of his subsequent publications pursue the idea of narrative representation—and also to the work of the Vienna School in general. Few of his students responded to or developed the model of analysis he pioneered, and as Ulrich Rehm has noted, those scholars who subsequently drew on this model have occupied a largely marginal position.115 This lack of engagement is evident too in the work of his critic Josef Strzygowski, whose attempt at a detailed rebuttal of Wickhoff focuses on issues of style, paying little attention to the central role of narrative composition in the latter’s argument.116 In this regard Wickhoff’s Vienna Genesis has much in common with another methodological experiment, Julius von Schlosser’s “Geschichte der Porträtbildnerei in Wachs” (History of portraiture in wax), of 1910, which likewise met with little response from contemporary scholars, even though methodologically it is arguably one of the boldest texts produced by a Vienna art historian.117 Schlosser’s study is concerned with a practice that created substantial interpretative challenges. With their extreme verism, wax portraits appeared to have altered little since the earliest documented example of their use in funerary rituals in classical

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antiquity. Ceroplasty was consequently resistant to formal stylistic analysis, and instead Schlosser focuses on its historic uses, as private devotional and memorial images, funerary effigies, votive images, portraiture for private secular use, and medical illustrations. He notes that from the Renaissance onward wax portraiture was increasingly marginalized, and his explanation for this draws on the larger methodological framework underpinning the study. Specifically, he argues that one could trace the roots of ceroplasty back to a primitive belief in the magic of images (Schlosser writes of both Bildzauber and Bildmagie), in which the distinction between image and referent collapsed and the image was held to be alive.118 The portrait was thus seen as a form of living presence due to the lingering effect of ancient and primitive ideas of representation. Such “magic” also explained the potency of funerary effigies, since the deceased was in some sense still among the living; the Roman practice of keeping effigies of ancestors in private houses was based on the assumption that through the portraits they still exercised a presence. It was this association, Schlosser argues, that led Renaissance artists to distance themselves from the naturalism of wax portraiture, most especially because the attention to individual detail (often based on the use of the death mask) stood diametrically opposed to the classicizing idealism of the sixteenth century. And yet Schlosser stresses the operations of a basic transcultural and transhistorical drive: “At bottom it is always the same notion appearing uniformly across the most disparate parts of the world and across all the ages, sometimes with the naiveté of earliest beginnings . . . sometimes in a sophisticated culture, such as the French rococo.”119

Schlosser describes this impulse as driven by a Kunstwollen, consciously employing Riegl’s term, but the most prominent methodological underpinning is supplied by the psychologist Heinrich Gomperz’s essay “On Some of the Psychological Conditions of Naturalistic Art,” which examines “de-formation”: “a grand historical process which turned those things being represented, depicted and symbolized into nothing more than agents performing a representation, depiction or symbolization.”120 For Schlosser the wax portrait was the atavistic reflex of a prior stage of cultural and psychological development where such a splitting between symbol and symbolic referent had not yet occurred. His argument is markedly similar to the ideas of Aby Warburg. In his essay “The Art of Portraiture and the Florentine Bourgeoisie” Warburg examines the practice of hanging boti, life-size votive representations, in the churches of Florence.121 For Warburg this practice evidenced the survival of a primitive naturalism that conflated sign and signifier, and could trace its roots back to beliefs in sympathetic magic.122 Schlosser cites Warburg’s essay, although he takes as a historical example the display of votive figures in the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie in Mantua, in place of those in Florence. The conceptual framework is similar, however, and in both cases was shaped by the growing body of ethnographic theories of “primitive” culture and mentality of the turn of the century.123 The essay on wax portraiture illustrates the growing interest of art historians in ideas from the emerging discipline of anthropology, but it can also be explained by reference to another set of concepts that were central to Schlosser’s work. In one of his final essays, “The History of Language and the History

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of Style in Fine Art,” he explores the role of style and language in the history of art.124 The title might suggest that he seeks to draw parallels between the two, but instead Schlosser distinguishes sharply between them; the history of style is concerned with “the spiritual dialogue of heroes, from peak to peak, above the everyday noise in the valleys below.”125 According to this idea, which is heavily dependent on the philosophy of Benedetto Croce, the subject matter of the history of style is “the inner (not outer) history of ‘insular’ creative ‘monads,’ ” artistic geniuses, in contrast to the history of language, which uses the abstract “pseudo-concepts” of sociology and the natural sciences.126 As Georges Didi-Huberman has noted, Schlosser was driven by a “philosophical commitment to singularities.”127 Schlosser thus stood completely at odds with Riegl, for where the latter used the art drive as a means of constructing a grammar of artistic forms, Schlosser privileged the individual artist or artwork. Hence, he argued, “abstraction violated the individual, the true subject of history.”128 In his well-known history of the Vienna School he explicitly distances himself from Riegl’s methods (while still admiring his achievements), stating that “what Riegl’s brilliant thought has achieved belongs in a quite different sphere from pure and genuine art history.”129 This excursion into Schlosser’s writings in the 1930s casts light on his motivations in the study of wax portraiture, for his conception of art history produced a hard opposition between isolated works of genius and the “everyday” derivative works of art. With this notion “true” art was lifted out of the flow of history and made the subject of a transhistorical aesthetic discourse. In contrast, the analysis of historical types,

art history as the history of language, was implicitly concerned with nonart practices. Schlosser’s own work, including the study of wax portraiture, can be seen as shaped by this latter view, even though it was only expressed in retrospect at the end of his career, for with the exception of an incomplete monograph on Ghiberti, nearly all of his writings are concerned with “nonart” (as Schlosser would define it), from wax portraiture to historical source texts, coins, musical instruments, and the history of collecting.130 In many respects he was continuing a tradition introduced by Eitelberger, who had devoted much of his scholarly effort to the publication of texts and the analysis of artistic institutions rather than the in-depth discussion of specific artists and artworks. Schlosser’s practice was, of course, underpinned by a different set of theoretical concerns, yet he represented a recurring aspect of Vienna School scholarship that is often overlooked in the tendency to focus on the aesthetic theories of Riegl and their aftermath.

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Conclusion This chapter has examined the period between 1873, when Moriz Thausing delivered his inaugural professorial lecture, and 1918, when Max Dvořák published his book on Gothic painting and sculpture. During these years art history in Vienna underwent significant methodological change. With his emphasis on the primacy of art-historical facts and his distinction between aesthetic and art-historical judgments, Thausing was perhaps the first to outline explicitly the basic principles of positivistic art history that had dominated practice until then. Yet

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if Thausing’s lecture was the first considered statement of positivistic method, the intellectual tradition he represented would be challenged twenty years later by Riegl’s Questions of Style, which represented a methodological caesura. It introduced a type of formal analysis that went far beyond the positivism of Morellian connoisseurship and anchored the history of art in the most advanced psychological and cultural theories of the period. Riegl’s work paralleled innovations elsewhere in German-language art history.131 Already in 1886 Heinrich Wölfflin had attempted to analyze architecture with concepts drawn from the empathy theory of Robert Vischer, while Aby Warburg’s doctoral study of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus and Primavera, published the same year as Questions of Style, was an explicit exercise in the application of psychological aesthetics to art-historical analysis.132 Other scholars undertook similar projects, including the Leipzig-based August Schmarsow, who attempted to establish a psychologically grounded theory of spatial experience as a tool of architectural history.133 There have been various interpretations of the significance of this shift. The turn away from positivism can be seen as a sign of the broader late nineteenth-century epistemological crisis of confidence in positive science, and this was visible too in Riegl’s embrace of what Margaret Iversen has termed the “aesthetics of disintegration.”134 Undoubtedly the crisis of Viennese modernity marked his

thought. However, Riegl’s writings arguably also attempted to resolve weaknesses that were internal to the positivistic tradition he inherited. It is also important to acknowledge that in other respects considerable continuity characterized the period in question; this can be overlooked if attention is riveted to the conceptual innovations ushered in by Riegl. It was not until 1914 that Dvořák departed decisively from the legacy of Thausing. Moreover, for all their methodological novelty, Questions of Style and Late Roman Art Industry, together with Wickhoff’s Vienna Genesis book, were chapters in a much longer-term debate about cultural exchange and identity in late antiquity, which took on particular importance in the late Habsburg Empire due to the parallels with the present. Thausing’s insistence on the suspension of aesthetic preference was continued in the work of Riegl, Wickhoff, Dvořák, and, ironically, Strzygowski on traditionally marginalized artistic practices and periods, from early Christian art to Mannerism and the Baroque. Framing the approach to those and other subjects was the wider political, cultural, and social context of Austria-​Hungary, which gave Viennese art history its specific qualities. Subsequent chapters examine these issues in greater depth, but first, the next chapter examines the emergence and development of art history elsewhere across the Empire, in centers such as Prague, Budapest, Cracow, and Zagreb.

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3 Beyond Vienna: The Growth of Art History Across the Habsburg Monarchy In terms of scholarship the Vienna School stands now at the forefront of progressive scientific endeavors, and Max Dvořák occupies a leading position in this cultural work, as the main follower of his deceased teachers Wickhoff and Riegl. —vincenc kramář

The final quarter century of the nineteenth century witnessed a considerable diversification of art-historical practices and institutions in Austria-​Hungary. The universities and museums of Vienna had been the intellectual center of the monarchy until the 1870s, but in this decade their place began to be challenged by the growth of other institutions within the Empire, where new positions were created and opportunities provided for ambitious scholars and researchers who did not wish to be wholly dependent on Vienna. Indeed, the 1870s and 1880s were crucial decades in which art-historical discourses in languages other than German first achieved a rigorous footing. As the capital of the Empire, Vienna continued to play a powerful role in influencing the shape

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of the discipline, but this role was no longer dominant; in some cases art historians in other centers of the Empire, such as Prague, Budapest, and Cracow, took little cognizance of contemporaneous ideas and practices in the capital, and in some instances their own discipline developed in marked opposition to the influence of Vienna. This chapter analyzes some of the key changes that occurred during this period, examining the broader expansion of the institutions of art history across the Empire, before considering in closer detail two particular case studies: the founding of the chair of art history at the University of Cracow and the creation of separate German and Czech universities (and art-history departments) in Prague.

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Universities in Austria-​Hungary The University of Vienna, situated in the capital of the Empire, was the most prestigious and influential institution of higher learning and research in central Europe. Founded in 1365, it benefited from its proximity to the centers of political and social power, and its professors were frequently employed as official and unofficial advisors in government and royal circles. During the 1850s and 1860s the university underwent substantial change, driven by Thun’s reforms. Although dominant in the city, the university was not the only institution of higher education in the capital; in 1815 an imperial-royal Polytechnic Institute (k.k. Polytechnisches Institut) had been set up. Its initial aim was to ensure that the demands for practical and utilitarian skills and knowledge created by the processes of rapid modernization would be met. Its focus was thus distinct from that of the university, which embraced a tradition of humanistic, legal, and philosophical education. However, because it trained architects, the polytechnic also taught courses in architectural history; in 1867 Karl Lützow was appointed to the position of associate professor there, having founded the Zeitschrift für bildende Kunst the year before. Although histories of the Vienna School focus on the authors associated with the University of Vienna and the Museum for Art and Industry, the polytechnic was also an important institution, and a number of influential writers and thinkers were based there. These included the architectural historian Josef Neuwirth (1855–1934), the urban theorist Camillo Sitte (1843–1903), and, considerably later, in 1933, Hans Sedlmayr, who completed his Habilitation there (by then renamed the Technische

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Hochschule, or Technical Academy), where he was briefly employed until taking up a position at the university in 1936. Despite its prestige, the University of Vienna was not the oldest such institution in the Empire. That distinction was held by the University of Prague, founded in 1347 by the Holy Roman emperor Charles IV. Until the 1880s it was a German-language institution, in keeping with the fact that Prague was, until the mid–nineteenth century, a predominantly German city. Located in a political “periphery” of the Empire, the University of Prague lacked the status of its counterpart in Vienna, but as an ancient establishment in a city that had played a central part in the earlier history of the Holy Roman Empire, it was still an important historical institution where many ambitious academics would start their careers. Franz Exner, mentioned earlier, was professor of philosophy at Prague from 1831 until his death, in 1853; other prominent academics there included the philosopher Bernard Bolzano, who was chair of philosophy for a year, in 1818, before being removed for subversion, and August Schleicher (1821–1868), one of the founders of comparative historical linguistics, who was professor of classical philology from 1850 to 1857. Later, Ernst Mach would be chair of physics from 1867 to 1895, and Albert Einstein, professor of physics from 1911 until he took up an appointment in Berlin in 1914. It is indicative of the relative status of Vienna and Prague Universities, however, that the trajectory of most scholars’ careers led from Prague to Vienna and not the reverse. This pattern continued until the dissolution of the Empire and beyond; when Max Dvořák was invited to take up the chair of art history in Prague after 1918, he turned the offer down,

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preferring to remain in Vienna, despite the many difficulties he had encountered as a Czech in the capital. Alongside its university, Prague also boasted the polytechnic, established in 1806 as part of the university but autonomous from 1815. In the first half of the nineteenth century the fact that the university and the polytechnic in Prague were German-language institutions was not questioned. However, the changing demographic situation in the Bohemian capital, in which the Germans became a dwindling minority, coupled with the rise of a Czech bourgeoisie conscious of its linguistic and cultural difference and lacking any specifically “Czech” institutions of higher education, meant that both the university and the polytechnic became the focus of increasingly acrimonious exchanges over their “national,” that is, linguistic, affiliation.1 It was the polytechnic that first gave in to the pressures that resulted from such conflict, and in 1869 it was divided into separate German and Czech sections, the latter moving to separate premises in 1874.2 The first demands for teaching in Czech at the university had been voiced in 1848, and these became increasingly forceful until a separate Czech-language university was created in 1882. Prague University was also the location of the second chair in art history in the monarchy. The professor of archaeology Jan Vocel, appointed in 1851, had written extensively on the medieval art and architecture of Bohemia.3 However, in 1874, with the creation of a chair, art history was formally recognized as a distinct discipline in Prague. Its first holder was Alfred Woltmann, a German who had studied in Berlin and had, before taking up his post in Prague, taught art history at the polytechnic in Karlsruhe. Woltmann’s appointment was

the source of a bitter interethnic dispute between Czechs and Germans (examined more closely later in this chapter). However, he was followed by a sequence of scholars, including Hubert Janitschek, Alwin Schultz (1838–1909), Josef Neuwirth, and Karl Swoboda (1889–1977), who formed a distinct, although under-researched, tradition of German-language art history. Local concerns were often prominent; the ethnicity of the art of Bohemia came to the fore as a topic of frequent controversy, but Prague-based art historians maintained close contacts with colleagues in Vienna, and the careers of Neuwirth and Swoboda spanned both Vienna and Prague.4 The creation of separate universities in Prague provided the institutional framework for the development of art history in Czech; its exponents enjoyed a complex relation to Vienna. On the one hand, the desire to promote a specifically Czech scholarly tradition, with a focus on Czech art, led to a defensive attitude toward academic publications by German authors on the art of Bohemia and Moravia. On the other, some of the most prominent Czech art historians writing in the early twentieth century had studied in Vienna and were thus deeply immersed in Vienna School traditions. A key figure in this regard was Max Dvořák, a Czech from Roudnice, in northwestern Bohemia, whose career was entirely based in Vienna. Dvořák, who was appointed associate professor in Vienna in 1905, taught a generation of Czech scholars, including Eugen Dostál (1889–1943), Vojtěch Birnbaum (1877–1943), Antonín Matějček (1889–1950), Zdeněk Wirth (1878–1961), and Vincenc Kramář (1877– 1960), who would all subsequently form the core of the art-historical establishment of the new state of Czechoslovakia in 1918, but

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his position was ambiguous. He encountered difficulties gaining acceptance in Vienna, but the fact that he wrote almost exclusively in German and showed little interest in Czech art earned him a certain degree of suspicion also in nationalist circles in Prague.5 Alongside Prague, the other medieval university in the Empire was the Jagiellonian University of Cracow, founded in 1364. It had been established under the old Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, and in contrast to Prague, which was culturally dependent on Vienna or on universities in Germany, the university in Cracow operated with little regard to the imperial capital. Cracow had only become part of Austria-​ Hungary in 1846—after the third partition of Poland, in 1795, the city had been an independent city-state—and therefore the university could look back to a long tradition of intellectual autonomy. Cracow had been the political and cultural heart of medieval Poland, and although Warsaw became the capital in 1595, Cracow had maintained its cultural preeminence even if during the period examined in this book it was a political and economic backwater. This preeminence had become all the more marked after the partitions, when the Polish territories occupied by Russia and Prussia were subject to stringent control and oppressive rule; the comparatively liberal regime in Austrian Galicia had enabled Cracow to flourish as a center of nineteenth-century Polish intellectual and cultural life. Developments in Vienna occasionally impinged on the University of Cracow, but scholars there looked primarily either to Polish intellectual circles in neighboring former Polish territories or to wider intellectual currents across Europe, including France and Britain. The question of how to regain independence was a major

preoccupation, and historians were also intensely concerned with establishing the reasons for Poland’s catastrophic decline in the eighteenth century. Apart from a brief period (1801–9) of Germanization, the Jagiellonian University was a Polish-language institution; when the chair of art history was set up there in 1882, it was the monarchy’s fourth in the field after Vienna, Budapest, and Prague.6 Its first occupant was Marian Sokołowski (1839–1911), a historian with wide-ranging interests in European art from classical antiquity to his own times. Sokołowski held the chair until 1910, the year before his death, when he was succeeded by his student Jerzy Mycielski (1856–1928). Details of Sokołowski’s early career are uncertain; although it is claimed that he briefly studied in Vienna, there is little clear evidence for this. Instead, his formative years were mostly spent elsewhere; having been born in Russian-ruled Poland, he received his school education in Warsaw and then appears to have studied history at Heidelberg and Berlin Universities in the late 1850s and to have spent four years in Paris, from 1863 to 1867, before moving to Vienna in 1868 and then Cracow in 1873.7 The Jagiellonian University was the preeminent Polish institution of higher education, but it was not the only one, even in Habsburg Galicia. In Lemberg (Lwów), the capital of the Habsburg crown land, Francis II had founded a university in 1817, based on an earlier institution, a Jesuit college, which could trace its roots back to the seventeenth century. Lemberg was the largest city in Galicia and, in contrast to Cracow, underwent considerable economic and social development in the final quarter of the nineteenth century. It was a vibrant cultural and intellectual center in its own right,

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and in 1893 a department of art history was established at the university, its first occupant being Jan Bołoz Antoniewicz (1858– 1922).8 Born in Buczacz (Buchach), in eastern Galicia, Bołoz Antoniewicz had studied in Cracow but, like Sokołowski, had been educated abroad, in Breslau and Munich. Like the older scholar too, Bołoz Antoniewicz was not a trained art historian but had instead studied literature and aesthetics; his doctorate, which he completed at the Jagiellonian University, had been on Friedrich Schiller.9 In contrast to Prague, therefore, art history in Polish Galicia developed with little reference to Vienna and suffered no bitter conflict comparable to that between Czech and German scholars.10 A different situation held in Croatia. The University of Zagreb had been founded in 1669 by the Habsburg ruler Leopold II. Like many other educational institutions in the Austrian Empire (including Eitelberger’s alma mater, the University of Olmütz), Zagreb University had been a Jesuit establishment until the 1770s, when, following the dissolution of the order, it was closed down. Croatia consequently lacked any institution of higher education and research. In the early 1860s proposals for an academy of sciences had fallen foul of the Vienna authorities; the first draft of the statutes had set forth as the primary role of the academy the promotion of South Slavic national identity, and official disapproval led to the withdrawal of any references of this kind.11 Nevertheless, the pressures from a growing middle class led to the founding of the Yugoslav Academy of Science and Art (Jugoslavenska Akademija Znanosti i Umjetnosti) in 1867.12 In 1874, as a result of the campaigns of the nationalist Croat politician Bishop Josip Strossmayer, Zagreb University was

reestablished. Strossmayer was also personally involved in the appointment, in 1878, of the first professor of art history at the university, Izidor Kršnjavi (1845–1927), a native of the eastern Croatian town of Našice, near Osijek. Kršnjavi’s appointment occurred at a moment when increasing interest was being devoted to the visual arts as an index of Croatian national identity. His contemporary, the archaeologist Frane Bulić (1846–1934), produced a number of studies of architectural monuments of Croatia. Trained initially as a priest in Zadar and then as an archaeologist in Vienna, Bulić’s first work was a study of monuments in the region around the Dalmatian town of Knin, published in 1888.13 Bulić also conducted a study of Diocletian’s palace in Split, but his importance lay in his contribution to the study of the early medieval Croatian kingdom. In particular, he discovered and excavated a number of monuments and inscriptions that helped provide a secure outline of Croatian medieval history. The medieval kingdom, which lasted some two centuries, from the early tenth century until its union with Hungary in 1102, became an important point of reference for nationalistically inclined Croat historians. As the one moment when Croatia had led an independent political existence, it gained a disproportionate significance for many historians, archaeologists, and art historians. The work of Bulić was no exception to this pattern, for Knin had been a onetime capital of the medieval kingdom. Although Kršnjavi’s appointment was motivated by similar nationalist sentiment, he generally stood apart from such politically driven inquiry. This detachment was a reflection of the fact that his university education had taken place in Vienna, where he had trained as a painter at the Academy of Fine Arts and had

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studied art history at the university. Having studied with Rudolf von Eitelberger and Karl von Lützow, he enjoyed a close personal relationship with both and remained intellectually and culturally oriented toward the Austrian capital.14 Although a strongly patriotic Croat, he also regarded Vienna as a model to be emulated, undoubtedly due to his admiration for his teacher Eitelberger. His first published essay, which appeared in 1870, regarded the public buildings being erected on the Viennese Ringstrasse, as well as Eitelberger’s historicist program in design reform, as models for the project of enhancing the visual arts in Croatia.15 Kršnjavi also wrote a number of articles on South Slavic “house industry,” or folk art, for the Museum for Art and Industry.16 During the 1870s and 1880s growing attention was devoted to the question of national style, and “house industry” came to play a prominent role in debates on the subject, but Kršnjavi avoided the nationalistic discourses on folk art that came to predominate discussion in the final quarter of the nineteenth century. Indeed, his interests in folk art and ornament overlapped with those of the young Riegl, whom he knew from visits to the museum. Although engaged in questions concerning Croatian art, Kršnjavi’s outlook contrasted with that of many of his contemporaries, including his earlier sponsor Strossmayer, reflecting the complex relation between Zagreb and the imperial capital.17 This was evident not only in his approach to folk art (examined in a later chapter) but also in his attitude toward modern art. The sympathies voiced in his survey of contemporary art in Croatia differed markedly from the views of other prominent intellectuals, such as the musicologist Franjo Kuhač, who, amid his broader suspicion of modern art,

singled out Secessionism as an alien import introducing disorder and unwelcome foreign influences to Croatia.18 In the Compromise of 1867 inland Croatia, including Zagreb, was confirmed as part of Hungary and thus came under the administration of the government in Budapest rather than the imperial capital. However, intellectuals, and art historians in particular, were not oriented toward Budapest cultural and scholarly currents. This was largely a reflection of the fact that Budapest lacked an educational and cultural infrastructure comparable with that in Vienna. The Péter Pázmány University in Budapest had been founded in 1635, but it was not until 1872 that the department of art history was established. The first chair was Imre Henszlmann, who had grown up in Kassa (now Košice) and was originally trained as a doctor in Pest, Padua, and Vienna. Henszlmann had been part of the circle around Joseph Daniel Böhm in Vienna in the 1830s and 1840s, which experience had led him to develop an interest in the visual arts. He was committed to questions of Hungarian artistic tradition. In the 1840s he had edited the short-lived German-language journal Vierteljahrsschrift aus und für Ungarn, the main aim of which was to promote Hungarian national culture to domestic and foreign readers, and he was involved in the regime of Kossuth, as a result of which he was briefly imprisoned in the aftermath of the Hungarian Revolution; afterward he moved to Paris.19 Under the authoritarian Austrian regime of the 1850s, intellectual life in Hungary was subject to strict control. Hence, when the imperial-royal Central Commission for the Investigation and Conservation of Architectural Monuments (k.k. Central-Commission zur Erforschung und Erhaltung der

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Baudenkmale) was brought into existence in 1850, it maintained a strong centralized control over activity in Hungary. The curators and correspondents there were chosen on account of their political loyalties, and not on the basis of their subject expertise. Henszlmann had published a number of works on archaeology and monument protection in the 1840s, including a study of the medieval churches of his hometown, Kassa, often regarded as the first art-historical monograph in Hungarian.20 Despite this and other publications,21 he was completely overlooked. Instead, positions went to members of the local gentry or clerics, such as Ignaz Fabry, the bishop of Košice, or Michael Fogarasy, the bishop of Großwardein (now Oradea), who were deemed more politically reliable.22 The one exception to this pattern was Arnold Stummer (more commonly known as Arnold Ipolyi), a priest (and later bishop of Banská Bystrica, now in Slovakia) who combined his clerical duties with a career as a noted scholar. Following the suspension of absolutist rule and the introduction of constitutional government in 1861, the political climate thawed; the year before the formal change in regime, the Central Commission had handed over responsibility for monument protection to the Hungarian Academy of Sciences (established in 1825), which, until the establishment of the department of art history in the university, was the main sponsor of art-historical scholarship.23 Although Budapest was, after 1867, a co-capital of the monarchy, its intellectual life was much more closely bound up with questions of Hungarian national identity. The program of national self-assertion that had underpinned the liberal aspirations of the revolutionaries of 1848 was thus revisited and after 1867 was

linked to a program of Magyarization of the minorities of the Hungarian kingdom. Initially driven by liberal notions of universal equal citizenship, with the assumption that Magyarization would enable minorities better to integrate into Hungarian society, this policy would later be linked to an aggressive nationalism that also included anti-Semitic ideological elements.24 A national orientation was a central feature of art history in Hungary from the 1840s onward. As Ernő Marosi has noted, although Henszlmann was an associate of Eitelberger, his political outlook was markedly different.25 The latter was, despite his involvement in the revolutionary politics of 1848, a loyal Habsburg subject and strong supporter of the notion of Austro-Hungarian identity. In contrast, Henszlmann and other Hungarian archaeologists and art historians (the two disciplines were not as clearly demarcated as in Vienna) focused their research and publication on the architectural monuments of Hungary and the definition of the Hungarian national style.26 Although Ipolyi had been nominated to the Central Commission for his apparent loyalty to the Habsburg dynasty, his most significant works were likewise devoted to Hungarian art and architecture.27 Yet while national sentiment was a marked feature of art-historical scholarship in Hungary, the situation was not entirely uniform. Gyula Pasteiner (1846– 1924), Henszlmann’s successor as chair of art history at the University of Budapest and, along with Henszlmann and Ipolyi, seen as one of the founders of art historiography in Hungary, disputed the idea of specifically “Hungarian” art and design, pointing, for example, to the remarkable parallels between Hungarian applied arts and those to be found elsewhere across Europe.28

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Beyond the emergence of art history in Czech, Polish, Croatian, and Hungarian institutions, the discipline also blossomed in the other, German-speaking universities of the Empire. After Vienna, Prague, and Cracow, a further university chair in the discipline was created at the University of Graz. Its occupant was Josef Strzygowski, appointed in 1892. Little in his early publications on the Italian Renaissance indicated the political direction his work would subsequently follow; Wickhoff critiqued them, but on account of their methodological flaws and factual errors rather than the political differences that would be prominent later. In 1895 an additional German-language chair in art history was created at the University of Innsbruck; the first postholder was Hans Semper, the son of Gottfried and a scholar of the Italian Renaissance and of art in the Tyrol.29 Strzygowski is usually singled out for the notoriety of his later anti-Semitic and racist views, but in many respects he was indicative of a wider shift in art-historical scholarship in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, in which the discipline came to be deployed in support of nationalist political goals. His work was an extreme instance of this development, but it was not an isolated case. One of the reasons for the nationalization of the discipline lay in the failures of liberalism to subject its own assumptions to critical scrutiny. Eitelberger and his contemporaries had held to a notion of learning and scholarship that saw “scientific” inquiry as a tool of objective knowledge. This idea came increasingly under pressure as its ideological bases became clearer. It was an implicit assumption of liberal ideology that scholarship and science were German. Francis II had adopted German as the official language

of the Empire, and it was promoted as the language of scholarly research precisely because it was seen as standing above questions of national difference. As Pieter Judson has argued, “many German liberals believed that their Germanness lay primarily in their adherence to an ideal liberal culture, and that this identity was open to people who spoke any language. . . . If German was privileged to be the language of the bureaucracy, the military, and educational institutions, there were objective justifications for this privilege. Was not German the most internationally recognized and culturally advanced language of those in use in the monarchy?”30 A striking instance of this attitude can be seen in the founding of the University of Czernowitz in 1875. The city was the capital of the crown land of Bukovina, on the eastern fringes of the Empire. Part of the Empire since 1774, Bukovina was ethnically a highly mixed territory, its population consisting of Romanian, Jewish, German, and Ukrainian inhabitants. With a mostly agricultural economy, it was poor and underdeveloped, and many Austrians saw it as a quintessential semibarbaric “eastern” periphery.31 Czernowitz, where the German (and German-speaking Jewish) population was mostly concentrated, had been consciously developed as a way of modernizing the crown land as a whole; this included providing the city with a range of cultural institutions, such as the theater (opened in 1905) and the university.32 The common thread of these initiatives was their explicitly Austro-German character; the theater, for example, whose full name was the German Municipal Theater of Czernowitz, was built by the Viennese firm of Fellner and Helmer, which had built theaters across the Empire, including the Stadttheater

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in Vienna, and until 1922 a monument to Friedrich Schiller stood in front of it. Likewise, the Franz Joseph University was intended to bring the benefits of German science and scholarship to an otherwise backward and underdeveloped region. As the Academic Senate noted twenty-five years after the university’s founding: alongside the Faculty of Theology, “the two secular faculties were concerned to make every endeavor to build up German science and to provide intellectual support for the vestiges of Germany in the far East and to supply the non-German with the cultural riches of a great nation.”33 Non-Germans did not view the benefits of German culture and science in the same way. Indeed, they came to see Wissenschaft not as providing access to a prestigious, universally applicable culture and body of knowledge but as partial, either biased or simply neglectful of the cultural and scholarly aspirations of the other peoples of the Empire. This perception was no doubt strengthened by the fact that, as Judson notes, German liberalism also developed an increasingly nationalistic rhetoric in the final decades of the nineteenth century. Moreover, in Habsburg central Europe population movements during that period led to a disenfranchised urban proletariat that was, as Eve Blau has suggested, doubly alienated “as members of a social underclass and an alien nationality from the established urban middle classes who controlled local business, the bureaucracy, and the professions, and who constituted the Empire’s privileged ‘nations with history.’ ”34 With increasing industrialization, the influx of (non-German) rural populations into German-dominated cities occurred at such a rate as to preclude the possibility of assimilation (one counterexample being

the assimilation of the German population of Budapest as it became an overwhelmingly Magyar city); the difficulties of social and professional advancement, which had previously been linked to issues of class conflict or the restrictive nature of many professions, came to be seen in terms of ethnic difference. The concentration of cultural and intellectual capital among the German liberal bourgeoisie thus frequently led to the demand for “non-German” alternatives that would redress the perceived “bias” of German academic discourses. It was this demand that led to the foundation of new universities (and other cultural and educational institutions) and also to the formulation of defensive responses.

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Prague: A German and Czech City For most of its history Prague had been a predominantly German city. Although it had been the seat of the medieval Bohemian kingdom, its mercantile classes had been mostly German (or Jewish), and its connection to German political life had been cemented by its having twice been the capital of the Holy Roman Empire, first under the Charles IV, who was Holy Roman emperor from 1346 to 1378, and then under Rudolf II, the Habsburg emperor, from 1583 until his death in 1612.35 In the early nineteenth century, when crucial institutions of the visual arts were first established, German was still the lingua franca of artistic and intellectual life. The crucial early organization was the Society of Patriotic Friends of the Arts (Gesellschaft patriotischer Kunstfreunde), founded in 1796 as a private association for the promotion of artistic activity. In the same year the society also established a gallery

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(which later became the National Gallery), and in 1799 the Prague Academy of Fine Arts was founded. The society was initially an aristocratic organization, conceived as an association of patrons and sponsors rather than artists; “patriotic” was not ethnically, but instead geographically, defined, reflecting a form of regional (Bohemian) patriotism (Landespatriotismus).36 A similar motivation lay behind the founding of the Patriotic Museum in Bohemia (Vlastenecké muzeum v Čechách). Its models were the regional museums of Austrian Silesia in Troppau (now Opava), founded in 1814, and of Moravia in Brno, founded in 1817, although its collections were much more extensive. One of its founders, František Palacký, was a noted advocate of Czech culture, but the museum claimed to be for all inhabitants of Bohemia. Its journal, first published in 1825, initially appeared in both German and Czech editions, although the Czech version, the Časopis českého musea (Journal of the Bohemian Museum) was far more successful, attracting a much larger readership, and became a central organ of Czech intellectual life and remained so throughout the nineteenth century. The Society of Patriotic Friends of the Arts, its gallery, and the academy continued to function for much of the first half of the nineteenth century as instruments of the Habsburg order, in which German culture was dominant. Prominent members included Franz Thun, brother of Count Leo Thun, the reforming minister of education, and Christian Ruben, the Munich-based painter, who was director of the Prague Academy of Fine Arts from 1841 until 1852, when he took up the directorship of the academy in Vienna. Rubens brought with him to the Prague academy a number of other artists from

Munich, including Max Haushofer, Engelbert Seibertz, and the architect Bernhard Grueber. Thun and Ruben considerably enlivened the Prague art world, but they exerted a monopolistic control over appointments; Ruben in particular replaced or sidelined prominent Prague-based artists—such as Václav Mánes (1793–1858) and his nephew Josef Mánes (1820–1871), František Horčička (1776– 1856), and Josef Navrátil (1798–1865)— with his own appointees from Munich. This monopoly was challenged as early as 1849 with the formation of an alternative society of artists, the Society of Fine Artists for Bohemia (Verein bildender Künstler für Böhmen), one of its key aims being “to seek to lay out new paths for the dissemination of fine art, with special regard for the Slavic provinces.”37 Although some of the leading members of the new society were subject to politically motivated repression under the absolutist regime of the 1850s—artists teaching at the academy whose work was deemed suspect were removed from their positions— the older institutions began to lose their ability to control cultural and artistic life in the second half of the century.38 This reflected stirrings that had begun earlier: though Palacký in 1836 had first published his groundbreaking history of the Czechs in German, in 1848 the German original was translated into Czech.39 Moreover, in 1830 he had already established the Matice česká (Czech Foundation), a society for the promotion of literature in Czech, which published both contemporary and historic Czech authors and also reference works, such as dictionaries. The hegemony of German culture thus came to be increasingly challenged, with growing polarization of Czechs and Germans. This happened both in the arena

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of national politics and at a local level, in smaller towns and cities across Bohemia (although less so in Moravia).40 Art historians were caught up in this process. Agitation for a separate Czech university in Prague eventually bore fruit in 1882, and although it was not until 1911 that a Czech-language department of art history was created, a number of Czech art historians were employed in the university’s history or archaeology departments. Prague University was also the site of a notorious episode in November 1876, when Alfred Woltmann, recently appointed to the chair of art history, delivered a lecture to the Concordia artists’ society. Woltmann was a dynamic representative of the new art-historical profession; employed at the polytechnic in Karlsruhe before moving to Prague, he had made his reputation on the basis of his study of Hans Holbein the Younger and had been a participant in the “Holbein Dispute” in Dresden in 1871.41 He was also, however, a patriotic German; he had written on the architectural history of Berlin, and his choice of Holbein was significant. Like Dürer, Holbein had been taken up in Germany as an emblem of the achievements of German art. Woltmann’s explicitly pro-German sentiments were explosive in Prague, however. His lecture on “German art in Prague” touched on a sensitive topic, seemingly designed to provoke his audience, which was composed of Czechs and Germans.42 The basic question he addressed was the nature of the German contribution to the artistic and architectural heritage of Prague; to the question, What is German about Prague? his answer was an emphatic “virtually everything.” As Woltmann declared, the local artistic culture was German; Germany was the source of all

external influences, either directly or, as in the case of the Gothic, indirectly, as mediator of influences from elsewhere in Europe. “Germany was the cultural source for the entire Slavic population of Bohemia.”43 It is not necessary to explore the details of Woltmann’s claims in depth; suffice it to say that he stressed the dominant role of the bishopric of Regensburg and the German mercantile classes in Prague and the fact that German was the language of the legal code and had been for many years that of the Bohemian court. Even Charles IV, who for Czech patriots had been a historical founding figure of Czech national consciousness, was, in Woltmann’s formulation, responsible for introducing German architectural practices to Bohemia. German saturation of local culture had continued to the present, he argued. Most provocatively, Woltmann maintained that the Czech national theater, a centerpiece of Czech cultural nationalism, which in 1877 was nearing completion, was also German in character. “The fact that the master [Josef Zítek] who produced it was himself no German plays no part in the matter. His training owed nothing to his narrow-minded ethnic origin, and his vision owed nothing to the barren East. He completed his education in Vienna and executed his first work in a German town: the museum in Weimar.”44 Woltmann’s polemical tone was calculated to raise a controversy, because he saw his lecture as part of a larger campaign to preserve the German character of the city. As he concluded, “We who feel German in Prague must be clear that it is not merely a matter of intervening politically for Germandom; rather, it is a duty to uphold the connection to German intellectual life in all respects.”45 The Czech response was predictably hostile. During his lecture at the Academy

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of Fine Arts on the last day of November, he was booed and clods of earth were thrown at him; later, Czech students and other inhabitants of the city demonstrated, which led to clashes with the police and German students and to the arrest of fourteen Czech students.46 Woltmann’s lecture also provoked a response by Czech art historians, who produced a range of claims, some consisting of little more than unsubstantiated sweeping assertions, concerning the distinctive nature of Czech art and architecture. As Jindřich Vybíral has noted, such responses drew on a number of strategies, ranging from criticisms of Woltmann’s undoubted nationalistic bias to regression into primal fantasies about the Czech past that were no less aggressively nationalist than Woltmann’s own position. The architect and architectural historian Antonín Baum (1830–1886) raged against the “sea of unsuccessful research and shameful judgments” in Woltmann’s assertions, while the art historian Karel Mádl (1859–1932) critiqued the fact that German cultural dominance had isolated the Czechs from the progressive currents of French art.47 In part due to the hostile campaign against him, Woltmann left Prague in 1878 to take up an appointment at Strasbourg University. Meanwhile, Czech commentators were no less hostile toward his colleague Bernhard Grueber (1807–1882), professor of architecture at the polytechnic in Prague, who was the author of a multivolume history of medieval Bohemian art and architecture.48 In a rare instance of European colonial critique, Josef Kalousek (1838–1915), for instance, a dozent at the University of Prague, accused Grueber of a high-handed treatment of Czech culture comparable to the English attitude toward India.49 Grueber was a graduate of the Munich Academy of Fine Art, where,

ironically, many Czech, Polish, and Hungarian artists had received their training, and his writings were tinged with nationalist sentiments, but it was not so much the details of his work that were attacked as the fact that he was a German, which, in the eyes of his detractors, disqualified him from passing any judgments on art in Bohemia. Grueber had been a member of the Academy of Fine Arts in Prague, but by the 1870s this had become a decisively Czech institution, and so he was expelled in 1874 for his pro-German attitudes.50 In the ongoing disputes about the national affiliation of Bohemian art and architecture, both Czech and German scholars descended into petty caviling. In his final work, The Elements of Artistic Activity, Grueber asserted that “one can only speak of culture and orderly conditions where Germans have lived from time immemorial or where German settlers and laws have subsequently spread,” but what was most notable about the situation of art history in Prague in the late nineteenth century was the ways in which allegedly “objective” scientific methods were deployed to advance political causes.51 Kalousek and others rightly criticized Grueber for his complete neglect of historical sources in Czech, but they also expended considerable energy pointlessly attempting to locate historic documents that would “prove” the ethnic origin of important medieval architects such as Benedikt Ried (1454–1534, also known as Benedikt of Laun), the builder of significant parts of Prague Castle, and Matyáš Rejsek (1450–1506), who had built the so-called Powder Gate in Prague (fig. 4). For Grueber, Ried was a German architect, while for Czech commentators, including Mádl, “Beneš of Louny” was a Czech, and his work embodied typically Czech artistic qualities.52

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fig. 4  Richard Moser, The Powder Gate, Prague, 1911, watercolor on paper.

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Such disputes over ethnic origins were not uncommon; a parallel case was the debate over the identity of Veit Stoss (1447–1533), maker of the famous altarpiece of the Church of St. Mary in Cracow. In the early nineteenth century the antiquarian Ambroży Grabowski, who is credited with the Stoss attribution, saw it as axiomatic that the artist “Wit Stwosz” was Polish.53 In the early twentieth century German art historians, notably, Max Lossnitzer, disputed this.54 At a time of growing anti-Polish sentiment in Germany, the issue waxed contentious, complicated by the fact that some Polish authors concurred with Lossnitzer’s conclusions.55 Nevertheless, as Stefan Muthesius has noted, Stoss remained a politically divisive subject, with authors continuing to lay claim to his Polish identity, undeterred by evidence to the contrary.56 Likewise, some Hungarian art historians, eager to include Albrecht Dürer within the Magyar artistic heritage, seized on the discovery of documentation indicating that his father had moved to Nuremberg from Hungary.57 Thausing expressed skepticism toward the claim, but this could not be compared with the bitterness of the exchanges between Czech and German writers in Bohemia.58 Czech-German antipathies could also spill over into Vienna. Max Dvořák, having grown up near Prague and initially studied there, moved to the University of Vienna in 1895, where he completed a doctorate in 1897 at the Institute for Austrian Historical Research and then, four years later, completed his doctorate with Franz Wickhoff on medieval manuscript illuminations in Bohemia. The thesis was the last and only substantial piece of research Dvořák published on Bohemian art, and he subsequently turned to a wide range of topics, from the van Eyck brothers

to early Christian art, Renaissance painting, Gothic art, Mannerism, and issues in conservation. Significantly, he also wrote almost exclusively in German, and his writing was completely devoid of the ressentiment that characterized the work of so many of his fellow Czechs. However, even Dvořák became entangled in the politics of ethnic conflict. In 1904 he completed his Habilitation in Vienna on Jan and Hubert van Eyck;59 when Riegl died, in 1905, Dvořák was appointed associate professor (ausserordentlicher Professor) in his place. The appointment caused an uproar; nationalist German students demonstrated in the university, and it prompted vicious criticism in nationalist newspapers for several months. Commentators were first of all outraged by the simple fact that he was a Czech teaching at what they deemed the most prestigious German university. It was an inversion of the natural order of things. As one critic asserted: “until now it was the case that in Austria German scholarship always took the lead, that the other nations and nationalities took sustenance from it, lived from it, and not the other way around.”60 For some his nationality alone disqualified him from eligibility to teach in Vienna, but it also led to a sequence of personal attacks.61 He was a “nobody,” it was claimed, who had written nothing of significance. Critics also questioned his mastery of German and identified stylistic infelicities that suggested a lack of linguistic competence.62 He was also accused of being a Czech nationalist. Not only was there adverse newspaper comment, but Parliament offered a motion objecting to the appointment.63 Considerable venom was also directed at Wickhoff; under the headline “ ‘German’ Professors as Traitors to Germandom,” the Deutsche Volkszeitung, a leading

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German nationalist newspaper based in Reichenberg (now Liberec), in northern Bohemia, concluded: “After Alois Riegl, Dvořák; after the loyal German from Linz, a Czech from Raudnitz; after a true scholar who had to fight step by step against envy and disfavor, a ‘schoolboy’ princeling and a lucky young beggar; after the king, a gardener. Yet Herr Hofrat Wickhoff wanted it.”64 Others accused Wickhoff of political maneuvering to ensure that Dvořák, sarcastically dismissed as “our second ‘Winckelmann,’ ” would be appointed.65 Dvořák had his defenders. The unnamed editorial writer of the Fremden-Blatt, a daily newspaper close to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, poured scorn on the nationalist hostility of students and academics to Dvořák through the account of a fictional English visitor to Vienna who, after reminding the students of the role of German professors in English universities—he specifically mentioned Max Müller, professor both of modern European languages and comparative theology in Oxford—concluded that “the scientific impulse at this famous university seems to be severely inhibited by national quarrels and the persecution of individual persons.”66 Hermann Bahr was similarly dismissive of the complaints against Dvořák as a non-German.67 Nevertheless, attempts were made to remove Dvořák, but they were unsuccessful, and he remained at the university. On the death of Wickhoff, in 1909, the chair was awarded to Josef Strzygowski, but in recognition of his work a second chair was created for Dvořák. This dual appointment proved to be a disaster; Dvořák was loyal to the legacy of his teachers Riegl and Wickhoff and inherited their antagonistic relation to Strzygowski. As a result the Institute of Art History was split into two, a separate

institute being created to accommodate Dvořák, and the situation was not resolved until Strzygowski’s retirement in 1933.

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Art History in Galicia: Positivism and the Invention of Polish Art The rise of art history in Galicia in some ways paralleled that in Bohemia; both involved the discovery or invention of national artistic traditions, and Cracow, like Prague, was the historic capital of a state that had been absorbed by the Habsburg Empire. Indeed, the memories of Polish statehood were more recent than those of the Czechs; Poland had been an independent political entity until 1795, when, after the third partition between Austria, Prussia, and Russia, it ceased to exist, and Napoleon’s creation of the Duchy of Warsaw in 1807 had held out the promise of the restoration of a separate Polish state. Such memories had also fueled major insurrections in 1830 and 1863, in Russian-occupied Poland and, in 1848, against Prussian rule. In 1846 there was also a brief uprising in Cracow, which had until then been semi-independent, but the failure of the uprising led to its absorption into the rest of Austrian-held Galicia. Important differences, however, distinguished Cracow from Prague. In contrast to Bohemia, Galicia had no significant German-speaking population. Josef Strzygowski grew up in the town of Bielsko-​Biała, some fifty miles southwest of Cracow, but he was an exception. There was thus no conflict between Poles and Germans over “ownership” of Galician cultural heritage. Galicia was, nevertheless, culturally diverse, with a significant Jewish population and, in the eastern half of the crown land, a large

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number of Ruthenian, or Ukrainian, inhabitants. In this respect Lemberg, the administrative capital of Austrian Galicia, was a Polish island. Moreover, whereas the Czechs had regarded themselves as occupying a subaltern position within Bohemia, struggling to attain cultural and political recognition against German hegemony, it was the Poles who occupied the dominant position in Galicia and toward the end of the nineteenth century increasingly had to contend with Ukrainian demands for recognition. The cultural and political dynamic in Galicia was thus quite distinct from that in Bohemia, and the crown land also benefited from considerable regional administrative and political autonomy. The University of Cracow was the first Slavic institution in central Europe to establish a chair in art history, but in both Cracow and Lemberg an institutional infrastructure already existed.68 In 1815 the Jagiellonian University established the Cracow Scientific Society (Towarzysztwo Naukowe Krakowskie), which in 1848 set up a separate section for art and archaeology. The society, which published a journal, the Rocznik Towarzysztwa Naukowego Krakowskiego (Cracow Scientific Society yearbook), from 1817 onward, provided an early and important institutional basis for the development of art history, as did the School of Fine Arts, created in 1850, which was initially housed in the Faculty of Philosophy and Literature of the university. In common with developments elsewhere in Europe, the founding of the scholarly society reflected the growth of a bourgeois intelligentsia, and the staging of the first historical and art-historical exhibitions reflected the emergence of the public’s cultural awareness; in 1854 the School of Fine Arts held the first exhibition in Cracow

of old-master paintings, although it was staged, characteristically for the art world at the time, not by a professional art historian or archaeologist but by the patriotic poet Lucjan Siemieński (1807–1877). Shortly after, in 1858, the Scientific Society staged its own first public art exhibition, of Polish antiquities. In the 1860s and 1870s the institutionalization of art history in Cracow accelerated; the first chair in archaeology at the university was created in 1866. The holder, Józef Łepkowski (1826–1894), would play a significant role as an art historian in the city; in 1876, when the Czartoryski Museum opened, he was appointed its director. In 1872 the Scientific Society was replaced by the newly established Academy of Arts and Sciences (Akademia Umiejętności), which, in the following year, created a separate Art-Historical Commission, which began publication of a journal, Sprawozdania Komisji Historii Sztuki (Reports of the Art-Historical Commission), the first Polish journal of art history.69 Two years later, in 1878, the National Museum was opened in Cracow, directed by Władysław Łuszczkiewicz (1828–1900), a history painter who taught Jan Matejko and was also president of the Art-Historical Commission.70 Hence, by the time the chair of art history was founded in 1882, Cracow already had a complex institutional field in which art-historical and archaeological research was published. A similar situation obtained in Lemberg, and the development of the institutional framework in the city followed a path similar to that in Cracow. The most important early cultural and artistic institution in Lemberg was the so-called Ossolineum, its formal title being the Ossoliński Scientific Foundation.

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The Ossolineum was founded in 1817 by Józef Maksymilian Ossoliński (1748–1829), a local aristocrat who had amassed a large collection of artistic and historical objects. The Ossolineum also had a major library, which, until 1939, formed one of the most significant research libraries of Poland.71 In 1827 another cultural institution with aristocratic origins was established in Lemberg: the Lubomirski Museum, which was based on the collections of the art collector and patron Henryk Lubomirski (1777–1850). A third private research institution, the Baworowski Library, was founded in 1857 by Viktor Baworowski (1826–1894), who, like Lubomirski and Ossoliński, was an aristocratic patron of the arts and sciences. These aristocratic foundations were followed in 1866 by the establishment of the Society of the Friends of the Fine Arts (Towarzysztwo Przyjaciół Sztuk Pięknych) and, later, the Society for Archaeology (1881) and the Society for History (1886), each of which published its own academic journal. The Art-Historical Commission also established a separate section in Lemberg in 1892. Finally, a number of museums arose in the city. The first, in 1874, was the Museum of Design, followed by the historical museum of the city in 1891 and later, in 1908, the National Museum. A crucial issue for the Polish intelligentsia in the nineteenth century, and for art historians in particular, was how to respond to the loss of national independence and the consequent threat to national cultural identity. In Bohemia ideologies of national identity were constructed on cultural opposition to Austro-Germans and, politically, on the myth of Habsburg suppression since the Thirty Years’ War. In Galicia (and the former Polish territories) the situation was less

straightforward. Polish identity was formed within a more complex matrix (including relations with the Catholic Church, Prussia, Russia, the Ruthenians, and the Ottoman Empire), and in addition, whereas Czech narratives of national history relied on an unambiguous myth of victimhood, Polish historians disagreed about the reasons the Polish state had been so easily dismantled by its neighbors in the eighteenth century. Exercising a powerful influence was a strain of martyrological thought in which an introverted notion of national identity was coupled with vilification of the three occupying powers, but an influential group of conservative historians based at the University of Cracow argued, controversially, that Poland had been the author of its own downfall. In particular, the historians, nicknamed the Stańczyks after a famous jester in the sixteenth-century Polish court, blamed Poland’s chaotic political system, in which the factional interests of the aristocracy (szlachta) paralyzed the administration and government of the state and made it impossible for successive monarchs to act decisively in response to the external political environment of the time.72 Moreover, the failures of successive insurrections since the third partition clearly suggested that Polish independence would not be regained in the near future, prompting a reassessment of Poland’s relation to its neighbors and the most realistic strategy to adopt for its future.73 The Stańczyks were thus highly critical, for example, of proposals in Galicia to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the failed insurrection of 1830 against Russian rule, arguing that it would create unnecessary controversy at a time when a policy of compromise and loyalty to the Austrian authorities had secured considerable rights.74

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Art-historical accounts of the visual arts in nineteenth-century Poland have given much attention to expressions of romantic nationalism, such as the history paintings of Jan Matejko (1838–1893) and the symbolist works of Stanisław Wyspiański (1869–1907).75 Particular emphasis has also been laid on the “discovery” of folk art in the 1880s; peasants and their culture became foci of national identity, gaining visibility in public commemorations and in political life.76 The most conspicuous sign of this shift in the visual arts was the invention of the Zakopane style by the designer and architect Stanisław Witkiewicz (1851–1915), based on the vernacular architecture of the highlands in southern Galicia.77 However, the formation of Polish art-historical thinking was shaped by other currents, most notably the rise of liberalism and the impact of its engagement with positivism. Polish liberal thought had much in common with liberalism elsewhere; its most prominent representative, the economist and sociologist Józef Supiński (1804–1893), was deeply immersed in the work of key positivist thinkers such as Auguste Comte, John Stuart Mill, and Herbert Spencer. Like liberals elsewhere, including Austria, Supiński combined a belief in free-market economics with a positivist commitment to empiricism and the ideology of progress.78 His thinking also had a political dimension; like other liberals (and for that matter Galician conservatives), Supiński was critical of the various Polish uprisings, believing instead that independence would be attained as a consequence of social and historical evolution. His concern therefore was that Poland should embrace the most advanced European industrial, economic, social, and intellectual practices and ideas as a means to

achieve wider political progress.79 In addition, while Supiński was intensely patriotic and believed in the maintenance of traditions and the national culture, the Poles themselves defined their identity not on the basis of ethnicity but on a set of social and cultural attitudes assimilated from others, just as Austrian liberals based their identity in part on assimilated German culture. As David Crowley has noted, Polish identity “had an elective character. To be a Pole, though sometimes demanding pyrotechnic displays of patriotism, was contingent on individual will and lay outside strictly ethnic definition.”80 This was the ideological background for the development of art history in Cracow, and Marian Sokołowski, its first professor, exemplified the convergence of the liberal political and epistemological visions. A comparison of his work with that of art historians in Prague is instructive, for in contrast to his Czech peers, who emphasized difference from the surrounding, German culture, Sokołowski emphasized the identity of Poland as a cosmopolitan artistic, cultural, and political center. Although he was on good personal terms with a number of artists working in Cracow, his teaching gave little prominence to the topic; instead, he taught courses on topics such as Leonardo (1883/84), Dürer and Holbein (1888/89), Giotto (1891/92), fifteenth- and sixteenth-century German woodcuts and engraving (1891/92), Titian (1894/95), Raphael (1901/2), Morelli and his methods (1902/3), and Michelangelo (1907/8).81 His published research indicated a similarly broad range of interests, including classical Greek and Roman art, the Renaissance in Italy, Byzantine and Russian art.82 Polish art was not a major part of the curriculum, although he published a number of texts on

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the subject; the Renaissance and the Baroque were prominent among these, reflecting the symbolic importance these periods had in Polish historical memory.83 For up to the reign of Jan III Sobieski (1674–1696) Poland had been a major European political and cultural center, and the architectural legacy of this era was visible throughout Poland, not least in Cracow itself. In this sense, the period of the late fifteenth to seventeenth centuries served a purpose for Polish historians and art historians equivalent to that of the reign of Charles IV for their Czech counterparts. Sokołowski’s most significant contribution in this context was his involvement in the organization of a large-scale exhibition in 1883, at the recently founded National Museum in Cracow, commemorating Sobieski’s reign.84 It was a patriotic celebration of the historical importance of Poland, prompted by the bicentenary of Sobieski’s famous intervention as “savior” of Vienna from the Ottoman Empire in 1683, but Sokołowski’s work could not be regarded as nationalistic. In a reflective essay on the exhibition published the following year, he acknowledged the importance of recent research on the impact of German culture on Poland and stressed, above all, the importance of Italy for the Polish Renaissance: “Without addressing what bound us to the Italians in the sixteenth century we cannot gain an accurate picture of the character of our culture and the importance of the nodes that connected us to the West and, above all, with our neighbors.”85 The importance of the Renaissance (and the Baroque) had already been signaled in 1882, when Sokołowski curated an exhibition of old masters at the National Gallery in Cracow.86 Based on works in private aristocratic collections, and including works

by artists ranging from Bellini to Angelika Kauffmann and the Franco-Polish painter Jean-Pierre Norblin de La Gourdaine (1745– 1830), the exhibition was dominated by sixteenth- and seventeenth-century figures. Patriotic pride still played an important role, but this lay in the fact that it was possible to put together such a rich exhibition from collections on Polish soil. As Sokołowski noted in his catalogue: “One can claim without exaggeration that with a selection of works of such artistic value, the gallery would be able to compete for first place with the noisy private collections of the great capital cities, and that if it was exhibited in Paris, Vienna, or Rome, it would be without doubt famous across Europe. The spectacle prompts us to raise our heads with a certain sense of national pride. It demonstrates that the ties that always bound us closely to the West bind us to everything that forms the basis of the flower of culture and civilization.”87 This concern to demonstrate parity with other European countries appeared in many of Sokołowski’s writings; in an essay on the sixteenth-century palace of Gołuchów (in Prussian Poland), for example, he concluded that “this castle, with its Franco-Polish character, under Prussian rule, subject to the oppression and all-crushing pride of the Germans, attests to the fact that we have a way of getting by without them and that we have enough resources to stand on our own and to take up a position of equality among other nations.”88 Sokołowski’s publications seldom deviated from a broadly positivistic approach. While he freely passed qualitative judgments on works of art, the judgments were underpinned by close attention to the physical description and documentation of objects.89 The choice of artifacts for the exhibition on

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Jan III Sobieski, in which works of art were displayed alongside copious historic sources (such as printed documents and manuscripts), also reflected the influence of philological concerns—Sokołowski had studied in Berlin—and it has led some commentators to point to the influence of Viennese historiography, in particular Eitelberger.90 Sokołowski certainly spent time in Vienna and appears to have attended the latter’s lectures; he was also familiar with Eitelberger’s work and wrote a highly complimentary obituary of him.91 His positivism, however, had many other sources, including the Polish intelligentsia of the 1870s and 1880s, with whose overriding ideology and politics it resonated. Until his death, in 1911, Sokołowski remained central to the Cracow art world; he succeeded Łuszczkiewicz as president of the Art-Historical Commission in 1892 and became the director of the Czartoryski Museum in 1893.92 With such prominent positions, his work shaped the thinking of a large number of younger scholars, including his successor to the chair in the university, Jerzy Mycielski. Mycielski’s principal focus was on Polish art; he and Bołoz Antoniewicz co-organized an exhibition of modern Polish art at the Lemberg Regional Universal Exhibition in 1894, which he followed with the first large-scale study of Polish painting: One Hundred Years of the History of Painting in Poland, 1760–1860.93 This politically loaded subject could easily have functioned as a prompt for a nationalistic rehabilitation of Polish art. However, Mycielski’s sympathies were with the Stańczyks and conservatives of Galicia; throughout the 1880s he was editor of the journal Przegląd Polski (Polish review), which had conservative leanings, and these were reflected in his treatment of recent Polish history. While regarding

the partition as a disaster—he also saw the insurrection of 1830 and its aftermath as a “cataclysm”94—he avoided romantic mythologies of the past. Like Sokołowski, Mycielski readily acknowledged the importance of overseas artists working in Poland. Indeed, the search for the “essential” national artistic and architectural style, which was a preoccupation for many contemporaries in Galicia, as well as elsewhere in the monarchy (not least Prague), was conspicuously absent in his writings. There were, however, limits. Although Mycielski’s history formally ends with the 1860s, it is concerned with constructing a genealogy of contemporary art and bemoans the absence of any successors equal to Artur Grottger (1837–1867) and the recently deceased Matejko, whom the author regarded the most accomplished Polish artists of the nineteenth century.95 For some, the passing of Matejko represented an important watershed moment, after which Polish artists could leave behind them his anachronistic and nationalistic immersion in the past glories of Poland and instead embrace contemporary art elsewhere across Europe.96 Critics of Matejko included the designer and architect Stanisław Witkiewicz, best known for his invention of the Zakopane architectural style. Mycielski, however, was rather more sympathetic to Matejko, defending the painter from Witkiewicz’s criticisms even while acknowledging the force of some of them:

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Stanisław Witkiewicz has demonstrated—in the chapter on the Cracow School in his strident volume Our Art and Criticism, which is extreme and occasionally unfair but in its main outlines brilliantly apt—that the Matejko School did not have any conditions of vitality in itself. Although

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the author of this essay, a highly eminent land-

world’s incipient disaffection with the figurative tradition he represented, coupled with its embrace of the modern, a larger political shift was at work; artists sought to move past his parochial celebration of Polish history, in order to participate in international currents in the artistic capitals of Europe. As was the case in Vienna and Prague, art historians in Cracow and Lemberg were drawn into wider debates over the cultural politics of national identity. In contrast to Prague, however, this was not a matter of interethnic conflict or rival claims to exclusive ownership of a shared artistic and architectural heritage. Rather, the focus of difference was provided by divergent interpretations of the causes of the present situation and the role art should play in the social, cultural, and political regeneration of Poland.

scape painter at the height of his broad poetic talents, considers Skarga’s Sermon to be the only “great” picture by Matejko and speaks unfairly about many powerful paintings by the master, he provides an altogether convincing account of what the school was and had to be, arguing, namely, that “its departure point is always the illustration of some texts or others, archaeology, a restraining of youth in seclusion from living nature, from contemporary life. . . . ” And while history painting survived but became obsolete across the whole of Europe in 1870, and while the cult of nature pervaded artistic activity across the whole world so that art became, if it is not an exaggeration, wrecked in this naturalist current, the School [of Fine Arts] was not able to produce any students capable of illustrating historical scenes even close to the way Matejko painted; either they had to wither away or change their style or, with time, move on to other fields.97

In other words, Matejko represented the culmination of a tradition that no subsequent artist had been capable of continuing, and it was this circumstance, rather than any inherent flaws in his work, that accounted for the lack of followers. The cult of Matejko continued nevertheless; a high point was reached in 1904, when the artist’s house was opened as a memorial.98 More generally, however, Mycielski’s defense had a limited impact. Anna Brzyski has noted in particular that the painter’s reputation suffered a notable turn of fortune when French critics spurned his monumental canvas The Battle of Grunwald of 1878.99 By the time his house was opened, his artistic legacy had already been overhauled by the modernism of the Young Poland (Młoda Polska) artists and writers in the city. Although Matejko’s declining prestige could be seen as the result of the art

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Conclusion This chapter has examined the emergence of art history outside of Vienna. The imperial capital remained an important site of art-historical scholarship, but by the 1890s it had ceased to function as the main disciplinary center of Austria-​Hungary, and this mirrored the wider political situation, in which local elites came to demand, and exercised, greater local autonomy. In important respects the growth of the discipline in Austria-​Hungary after 1870 was similar to that in Germany, consisting of an increase in the number of university institutions as well as a professionalization in areas that had hitherto been the preserve of local societies and amateur (aristocratic) collectors. The expansion of art history, however, brought with it a diversity of interests and conflict of

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ideological positions that had no equivalent in Germany or any other state. The example of Prague reveals the extremes of such conflict, in which a Czech-language literature on art emerged in explicit opposition to scholarship written in German, with a concomitant rejection of Viennese art history as “German.” While the emergence of “scientific” art history elsewhere in the Empire was not so driven in its negative attitude toward the imperial capital, it nevertheless served to further the demand for recognition in Austria-​ Hungary and in Europe as a whole. Yet if one can speak of antagonism between “center” and “periphery” as one of the impulses behind the growth of art history in languages other than German, the complex internal dynamics of each location made the situation considerably more complex, particularly in terms of the relation to Vienna. As the example of Max Dvořák demonstrates, it was not inevitable that all Czech-speaking art historians from Bohemia would become nationalist writers. Indeed, a significant number of Czech scholars followed Dvořák’s example, studying in Vienna, assimilating many of the Vienna School’s values and ideas, and then, after 1918, exporting them back to

the new Czechoslovak Republic. In Croatia, Izidor Kršnjavi played a similar role as an intellectual intermediary between Vienna and Zagreb; yet while he saw his task as the patriotic advancement of Croatian intellectual life, he eventually came into conflict with his earlier patron, Bishop Strossmayer, on account of their differing visions of what that entailed. Kršnjavi, schooled in the secular and liberal outlook of Vienna, came into conflict with Strossmayer’s explicitly Slavic and clerical view of Croat identity. Likewise, Gyula Pasteiner in Budapest distanced himself from nationalist attitudes that sought to isolate Hungarian national artistic character from that of the surrounding cultures. In many cases, therefore, the apparent conflict between the imperial center and its “peripheries” was played out within the peripheries themselves. In this respect, while the “recovery” of national artistic traditions was an important part of the development of art history across Austria-​Hungary, it was by no means a univocal process. This reflected the considerable ambiguities that surrounded the formation of national identities themselves, and nowhere were such ambiguities as prominent as in the imperial capital.

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4 An Art History of Austria-​Hungary? Patriotism and the Construction of National Historiography Magyar, Czech, and Polish youth know their national heroes from an early age . . . but in Vienna it is regarded almost as treachery to stress that Ottakar of Bohemia was defeated by a Habsburg. —rudolf von eitelberger

The Austrian authorities fostered the study of art history in Vienna in the mid–nineteenth century in the context of the wider educational reforms of the state. As with the Institute for Austrian Historical Research, it was hoped that this would ensure that the energies of the intelligentsia would be channeled into projects aligned with the political and ideological priorities of the monarchy. Indeed, as Jan Bakoš has argued, the very notion of “scientific” art history was ideologically charged; its espousal by Viennese art historians was a coded means of claiming that they stood above the fray of local political disputes, and in this way they could claim a position akin to that of the dynasty itself: aloof from local, nationally driven interests, with an impartial overview of the whole.1 The ideological context of Habsburg Vienna was distinctive. Across Europe the

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visual arts played a significant role in the formation of nation-states in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Specific artistic and architectural styles were promoted as representatives of national identities, while artists provided powerful visual depictions of historical or semimythic events and figures that functioned as lieux de mémoire and helped cement a sense of a national history.2 They were assisted in this endeavor by the large number of public art museums founded in the early decades of the 1800s.3 Art-historical scholarship was an integral part of this process; as Dirk de Meyer has argued, “modern art history and nationalism came of age side by side.”4 The sense of a common national identity could be made visible in, for example, artistic traditions mapped out by reference to the artistic monuments of the past. Such visualization of

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nationhood was also evident in the division of art into national “schools,” a practice that was established at an early stage in the history of the discipline, in which art was read as the visible expression of national character.5 In Germany Johann Dominikus Fiorillo had in 1820 written one of the first histories of German art, and he was followed in 1862 by Gustav Waagen.6 These coincided with the rise of German national sentiment in the wake of the Napoleonic Wars, but the sense of a German national artistic tradition was given extra impetus after the creation of the Reich in 1871. Numerous histories of German art were written in subsequent decades by leading scholars in the field, including Willhelm von Bode, Hubert Janitschek, Karl von Lützow, Jakob von Falke, and Georg Dehio.7 Journalistic publications, such as the magazine Im neuen Reich, supported this enterprise; first appearing in 1871, the magazine contained numerous nationalistic articles on the visual arts. In addition, populist publications such as Herman Riegel’s History of the Resurgence of German Art at the End of the 18th and Beginning of the 19th Centuries gave further impetus to nationalistic visions of art.8 The constituent groups of Austria-​ Hungary conformed to this pattern; the previous chapter noted the extent to which the development of art history outside of Vienna accompanied a growing preoccupation with the construction of national historiographies. The one exception to this process was Austria-​Hungary as a whole, and Eitelberger’s statement indicates that he was all too aware of the absence of anything that might be termed an Austro-Hungarian historical consciousness. Indeed, the Institute for Austrian Historical Research and the Museum

for Art and Industry in Vienna may have promoted the interests of the Empire, but the Viennese art historians employed by them made little attempt to write unitary historical accounts of the art of Austria-​Hungary. Instead, authors such as Riegl, Wickhoff, Dvořák, and Schlosser generally explored subjects, including Mannerism, Italian Baroque, late antiquity, and folk art, that they used to make oblique and coded references to the Habsburg state, but they and their contemporaries produced very little that could be regarded as contributing to a “national” history of the art of Austria-​Hungary.9 The reasons for this scarcity were complex but were undoubtedly linked to the difficulties in defining “Austrian” and “Austro-Hungarian.” The scarcity of material did not, however, constitute a total lack, and this chapter examines those efforts that were made to articulate ideas of Austro-Hungarian art history, starting with the challenges presented by the very concept of a national history of Austro-Hungarian art, as well as the strategies adopted by various writers.

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A National Art History? The history of the Habsburg Empire differed from those of Britain, France, Italy, and Germany, in which narratives of unification were linked to efforts to forge national character. It comprised territories that had been acquired through a combination of dynastic inheritance, marriage, political opportunism, and military conquest, but these events could not be encompassed by the kind of teleological history that was applied to other European states. In contrast to its neighbors, Austria-​Hungary could claim neither to be effecting the unification of a single people

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previously dispersed to separate states (as in the case of Prussia) nor to be bringing a modernizing unity to a hitherto culturally heterogeneous population (as in France). This was especially so given that much of its territory had been acquired in recent times; Bosnia became an administrative region in 1878 (although it was not formally annexed until 1908), Dalmatia had been awarded in the aftermath of the Napoleonic Wars, Galicia had been acquired only in 1772 as a result of the first partition of Poland, and most of Hungary and inland Croatia had been gained by conquest in the eighteenth century, following the failure of the Ottoman attempt to capture Vienna in 1683. It was therefore difficult to speak of an Austrian or, after 1867, Austro-Hungarian nation. A number of strategies were adopted to address this situation. In the first half of the nineteenth century national identity was framed in dynastic terms, and the history of the Empire was the history of Habsburg achievements. Images of the past were strictly controlled; as Werner Telesko has stressed, history painters, for example, were restricted to a narrow range of permissible subjects.10 These were generally limited to the achievements of illustrious Habsburg representatives of the past, the most prominent being Rudolf of Habsburg, with topics ranging from his early successful conflict with the bishopric of Basel to his victory over the Bohemian Přemyslid king Ottokar II in 1278.11 This historiographical vision was also promoted in popular publications; Anton Ziegler’s numerous popular illustrated histories of Austria and the ruling dynasty published in the 1830s and 1840s played an important role in disseminating images of officially accepted narratives of the Habsburgs to wider audiences and promoted

the idea of the Austrian rulers as leading actors on the historical stage.12 This celebration of dynastic history represented a continuation of the absolutism of the eighteenth century, in which the emperor was cast as the father of his people or, in the case of Maria Theresa, the mother of the land.13 After 1848, however, it became an increasingly untenable vision. Amid the revolutionary sentiments expressed in that year, journals such as Die Grenzboten and even the Wiener Zeitung had gone so far as to put the existence of Austria itself in doubt.14 The most extreme instance had been a pamphlet, Delenda Austria, published in 1849, which, as the title suggests, advocated the breakup of the state “as a necessity of our times,” since Austria was, it argued, held together solely by despotic force that prevented the free development of its constituent peoples.15 In response to such views, supporters of the status quo had stressed the idea of an “imperial consciousness” (kaiserliches Bewusstsein) as the distinctive basis of Austrian national identity. The principal proponent of this idea was the jurist Johannes Perthaler (1816–1862), but Eitelberger had put forward a similar notion.16 However, even after the reestablishment of Habsburg authority, the growth of distinct national movements across the monarchy made support of the imperial ethos a problematic position, and alternative narratives were created to legitimize the continued existence of the state. One solution was to ignore or minimize the importance of the Slavic, Magyar, and Romanian territories of the monarchy and focus on the core regions of Vienna, Lower and Upper Austria, Styria, Salzburg, Carinthia, and the Tyrol, the regions that would later form the postwar Austrian state. This

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was a central operative principle for many Vienna School art historians, from Eitelberger onward, and it was framed by the historic role of Austria as the leading state of the Holy Roman Empire and by the role of the Habsburg dynasty as emperors until the dissolution of the Empire at the hands of Napoleon. Thus, Eitelberger may have studied “peripheral” crown lands such as Dalmatia and Hungary, but the bulk of his attention was devoted to the artistic culture and institutions of the Austrian heartland, in particular Vienna. His outline of Austrian art in the wake of the Exposition universelle of 1867 provides an exemplary illustration of this emphasis. Essentially an analysis of the growth of the institutions of art and design over the previous decades, its focus is almost entirely on Vienna, particular attention being devoted to the Albertina, the Central Commission for the Investigation and Conservation of Architectural Monuments, the Academy of Fine Arts, and the Museum for Art and Industry.17 He makes brief mention of the art academies in Prague and Cracow and devotes a separate chapter to societies and museums of design across the Empire (including Vienna), but the greater part of the discussion focuses on towns and cities with large German populations, such as Brünn, where the recently opened design museum had close ties to the Museum for Art and Industry in Vienna, or Reichenberg (now Liberec), in northern Bohemia, where a design museum opened in 1875. A similar outlook pervades the writings of later authors, such as the art critic Lajos Hevesi’s 1903 publication Austrian Art in the Nineteenth Century. Part of a planned series on modern art across Europe that included a separate volume on Hungary, it consists

of two volumes covering the period before and after 1848.18 The focus is again almost entirely on Vienna. In the first volume the only non-Vienna-based artist mentioned is Josef Mánes, a Czech painter of sentimental landscapes and images of peasants, who is discussed in a single paragraph. Hevesi acknowledges Mánes’s achievement as a “guardian of Czecho-Slavic culture” (the first overtly Czech artistic association in Prague was named after him), but Hevesi’s judgment that the painter’s “nationalist orientation rendered him highly folkloric [volksthümlich]” makes it clear that Hevesi regarded him as merely a representative of a parochial vernacular culture.19 A similar attitude can be found in the second volume, covering the years up to 1900; Hevesi allots some space to recent Czech and Polish artists, such as Emil Orlik, Alfons Mucha, Jože Uprka, and Jacek Malczewski, but they are treated as codas to the main Vienna-centric narrative.20 Hevesi was a noted supporter of the Secession, but his attention is entirely devoted to Austro-German Secessionist artists and architects in Vienna, despite the fact that significant numbers of artists and designers from across the Empire (particularly Poles of the Sztuka artistic group in Cracow) participated in Secessionist exhibitions and that Secessionist ideas and practices were widely adopted across Austria-​Hungary.21 The focus on Vienna as the locus of Austrian identity was often also coupled with the conservative myth of “old Vienna,” that is, Vienna before 1848. This persisted into the twentieth century. Hence in 1909 the design critic Ludwig Abels published Alt-Wien: Die Geschichte seiner Kunst (Old Vienna: The history of its art), which celebrated the art of “Vienna’s Time of Greatness” (the eighteenth century) and “Uncle Biedermeier.”22

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Only two years earlier the conservative social theorist Werner Sombart had stated that Vienna was “the symbol of what we must look to maintain, to win back. . . . We regain our strength from Vienna whenever we become filled with disgust at the development of modern humanity.”23 According to this approach, Austria was seen as predominantly or entirely German but also as distinct from Germany; as a strategy, it created numerous difficulties. As Jacques Le Rider has noted, many intellectuals in turn-of-the-century Vienna were racked by a sense of Austrian inferiority to Germany.24 The key question, therefore, was how to distinguish an Austro-German identity from a German identity, particularly at a time when the German population in Bohemia was increasingly drawn to ideologies of pan-Germanism and had a declining affinity to Austria. Due to the nature of its territorial expansion in the previous two centuries, the monarchy had massive political interests in central and southeastern Europe, and an important narrative of political and cultural identity was shaped by the notion of its civilizing mission in the “backward” cultures of the Balkans (particularly Bosnia), but many authors preferred instead to frame its cultural identity in relation to western and southern Europe.25 Thus, in his study of “the place of Salzburg in art history,” Riegl describes the city as a “gateway for cross-cultural influences,” a point where Italian and Germanic cultures in particular interacted.26 This notion of Austria as occupying a midpoint between northern and southern Europe— its Catholic identity playing a crucial role in this respect—became a recurrent motif in the writings of other art historians too.27 One of the most prominent figures in this context was Albert Ilg.28 A native of Vienna

who studied German and then art history, Ilg was an important collaborator with Eitelberger in the editing of the Quellenschriften while also working at the Museum for Art and Industry and at the Design School of the museum as a dozent, until he was appointed curator of the imperial collections in the Court Museum in 1876.29 His most substantial scholarly work was a monograph on Johann Fischer von Erlach the Elder, but he was a prolific author of shorter essays and was also art critic for the newspaper Die Presse and editor of a series of polemical pamphlets, Against the Grain, a number of which he also authored.30 The series was the public face of what one commentator has referred to as the “Ilg Circle,” a group of writers that included the journalist Adam Müller-Guttenbrunn (1852–1923), the satirist Gustav Schwarzkopf (1853–1939), and the theater critic, poet, and essayist Edmund Wengraf (1860–1933), who was also editor of the Arbeiterzeitung in the 1890s.31 Ilg was an outspoken supporter of the Habsburg regime and of its imperial ideology, and it is notable that he was one of the very few Viennese art historians of Jewish origin.32 He was a Catholic convert, and his overt expressions of loyalty to the dynasty and Austria exemplified one of the typical choices of Viennese Jews in the second third of the nineteenth century, namely, assimilation over cultural and social differentiation. Hence, in his pamphlet Just Not Austrian! he berated his contemporaries for their lack of patriotism and for what he saw as a reluctance, verging on embarrassment, to admit that they were Austrian. His pamphlet The Sense of History, originally based on a lecture delivered to the Viennese Society of Antiquities, criticized historical societies and institutions for their neglect of popular

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education, leading to, he argued, indifference to or ignorance of Austrian history among the Viennese public. This was not merely a polemic against the general level of knowledge in the public at large, for a sense of history was, Ilg argued, “the most secure basis of patriotism and proud self-confidence of the bourgeois citizen.”33 Ilg was not immune to the myth of “old Vienna”; under the imprint of the Viennese Society of Antiquities he edited an illustrated volume, Old Vienna in Image and Word, which celebrated the capital as it was presumed once to have been before the modernization of the city center inaugurated with the building of the Ringstrasse in the 1850s.34 He conceived his study of Fischer von Erlach the Elder as a patriotic undertaking.35 For Ilg, Fischer von Erlach, whom he described as “the greatest architect of our fatherland,” was the embodiment of Catholic Austria.36 He merited this tribute particularly because of his last great project, the Karlskirche, described by Ilg as “the most sublime work of our master,” which in the late nineteenth century helped differentiate Austria from a militantly Lutheran Prussia, particular after the anti-Catholic campaign of the Kulturkampf in the Wilhelmine Reich.37 Ilg made no secret of his Catholicism, although it was a matter less of faith than of aesthetic sympathy: “Insofar as it is not possible to be a man of morality, character, and poetry without religion, I am satisfied only by Catholicism . . . this comes less from its dogmas than from its sublime poetry, its ability to exert magic on one’s mood, and— in keeping with my own artistic nature—its power over the senses.”38 Ilg reiterated the emphasis on the Catholicism of Austria in other works too. In Kunstgeschichtliche Charakterbilder aus Österreich-Ungarn

(Art-historical portraits from Austria-​ Hungary), an edited volume he published in 1893, he contributed a chapter that celebrated Baroque art and architecture as the visible signifiers of the victory of Catholicism over Bohemian Protestants at the Battle of the White Mountain of 1620, for “Baroque art, coming from Italy, with its pomp and splendor, its sensuousness and joyfulness, played a determining role in affecting the mood and senses of the people and was a contrast to the hostility to art, the bleakness and desolation of the evangelical liturgy.”39 Although it was increasingly challenged by other conceptions, dynastic loyalty continued to play a significant role in art criticism and history. Hevesi opened the second volume of his history of modern art in Austria with a celebration of the role of the emperor Franz Joseph in impressing upon the arts a distinctive Austrian style. Through his patronage of Heinrich von Ferstel’s Votive Church (1856–79) and the parish church in Altlerchenfeld (1848–1861), the emperor had “raised Austrian arts to monumental greatness.”40 Amid the growing regional nationalisms (including German) across the monarchy, loyalty to the ruling dynasty was still a powerful force. Hevesi’s comments echo much more expansive praise of the emperor in an article he published in 1898, the jubilee year of Franz Joseph’s reign. Here he states, “As in all areas of public and private life, so in that of the arts too Emperor Franz Joseph I created modern Austria.”41 In this gushing piece of praise he declares the emperor to be the foremost friend and patron of the arts and to have inaugurated a glorious era of Viennese art when he brought Hans Makart to the capital in 1869: “The artistic period during which he has ruled has seen the greatest changes. The fifty years we can look

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back on today contain an entire art history, an organic development that took everything there was and repeatedly reshaped it.”42 As a great supporter of the arts, Franz Joseph could be compared, Hevesi argues, with earlier Habsburg emperors such as Rudolf II and Maximilian I, or Louis XIV of France, and in some respects even outstripped them. For such a progressive writer, whose famous words adorned Olbrich’s Secession building completed the same year, to have praised the emperor in so forthright a manner testifies to the power of the monarchy as a symbol of Austrian identity. As Daniel Unowsky has argued, the figure of the emperor commanded loyalty throughout his reign and from most groups across the Empire; indeed, the appeal of Franz Joseph lay precisely in the fact that he transcended local ethnic, cultural, and linguistic differences.43 Hevesi’s reading of the emperor as an agent of change and innovation—where others saw him as a symbol of stability and continuity with the old—was unorthodox, but it was by no means the only example of imperial loyalism to be expressed by the cultural and artistic intelligentsia. In 1896 the Museum for Art and Industry staged a lavish exhibition on the Congress of Vienna of 1815. Comprising nearly two thousand items, the exhibition included historical documents relating to the congress, images and material artifacts that evoked the period, as well as numerous portraits of prominent personalities, ranging from the major political figures to the members of the minor aristocracy in Vienna during the time of the congress. While acknowledging the disaffection that the outcome of the congress prompted in certain quarters, the exhibition made its purpose clear: celebration of the ancien régime and an era when the Habsburg dynasty stood

at the heart of German and European politics. It also evoked memories of “old Vienna.” As the catalogue notes,

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It was a great, wonderful time for our city. At that time all the peoples of Austria gravitated toward Vienna. Just as in the time of Karl VI and Maria Theresa, the nobility came streaming here, and not only the German nobility but also the Bohemian and the Hungarian nobles. Vienna exercised an appeal it never enjoyed either before or since. After the wars of liberation the population quickly grew. Czechs, Hungarians, Italians, and even Greeks and many from southern Germany settled in Vienna; commerce, industry, and trade increased. Even the city itself received a new appearance.44

Although the exhibition had an ostensibly conservative subject, it was, as Riegl noted in a lengthy review, innovative in museological terms, for it attempted to present a cultural history of the congressional era by displaying artworks, historical documents, furniture, and other examples of “industrial art,” and a wide array of nonart artifacts.45 As such, it was consonant with the concept of the period room that had only recently been introduced by Wilhelm von Bode in Berlin, but more imaginative in its interpretation of what that might mean.46 In 1898, the jubilee year of Franz Joseph’s reign, the museum published a further volume on the congress, considerably more extensive and lavish than the catalogue.47 Containing essays by, among others, Hevesi, Riegl, the music historian Wilhelm von Weckbecker, and the historian of theater Hugo Wittmann, it offered a cultural history of Austria in the first quarter of the nineteenth century.48 Conscious, perhaps, of the politically sensitive theme—requests for material from France for the 1896

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exhibition had been refused, significantly reducing its scope—Riegl’s contribution, for example, avoids all reference to political contexts and focuses instead on the development of the idea of the interior as an aesthetic whole. Nevertheless, his involvement in the publication, together with that of other leading scholars in Vienna, can be seen as signaling allegiance to the cultural and sociopolitical order embodied in the monarchy. Yet for all that professions of loyalty to the Habsburg dynasty continued to be prominent features of art-historical writing in the late nineteenth century, criticisms were also voiced. No less a figure than Ilg expressed his frustrations in private, particularly about the social conservatism of Vienna. Complaining about his superior in the imperial collections, Count Trauttmansdorff-Weinsberg, he noted: “My boss has no feeling for people. He only knows officials. That recalls well the Josephine era, which otherwise had so many fine and good things. The state consists of so many living machines who receive the oil necessary for them to keep running, and if everything works, then that is what is wanted. Spirit, feeling, ideas—what is the point of that with machines?”49 Ilg’s private criticisms, prompted by the fact that he was, as a mere bourgeois professional servant of the state, often ignored by his aristocratic patrons, illustrate the social and political disenfranchisement felt by many intellectuals in the late Habsburg Empire. Nevertheless, in public he remained a fiercely devoted advocate of imperial Austria-​Hungary, concluding his Art-Historical Portraits from Austria-​Hungary, for example, with the declaration that “the ‘House’ of Austria . . . not only announces how very much everything reached a climax in the dynasty from time immemorial, it also characterizes the

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intimate bond of family that has always united, and always will unite, the throne and the people.”50 His private comments, however, indicate the tensions that have been taken by subsequent commentators as marking the particular character of Viennese modernity.

Austria-​Hungary in Word and Image There were numerous publications on Austrian and Viennese art, but few made explicit reference to Austria-​Hungary in their titles. Those that did included the annual volume Die Kunst in Österreich-Ungarn (Art in Austria-​Hungary), which appeared from 1885 onward and accompanied the weekly journal Allgemeine Kunstchronik (General art chronicle), edited by the historian Wilhelm Lauser (1836–1902). These were not scholarly publications, however, nor were they, strictly speaking, concerned with the history of art; their scope was much broader, engaging with contemporary art and culture in general. Indeed, only two attempts were made to offer art-historical accounts of Austria-​Hungary as a whole: Ilg’s edited volume Art-Historical Portraits from Austria-​Hungary and the multivolume work The Austro-Hungarian Monarchy in Word and Image, initiated by Crown Prince Rudolf. Ilg’s volume, which concludes with an expression of “grateful enthusiasm for our art-loving emperor and king Franz Joseph I,” is an overt statement of loyalty to the crown.51 It seeks to demonstrate “the great significance of developments in the field of art and the cultural life of our fatherland and, in this context, the outstanding place of Austria-​Hungary in the history of the spiritual life of the entire world.”52 The

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contributors, including Josef Strzygowski and the Prague-based architectural historian Josef Neuwirth, make a conscious attempt to recognize the scope of artistic activity outside of Vienna and the Austrian “heartlands.” Consequently, alongside analyses of landmarks such as St. Stephen’s Cathedral in Vienna and of artists such as the fifteenth-century Tyrolean sculptor and painter Michael Pacher, it includes outlines of historical developments in, for example, Bohemia, Galicia, and Hungary. Strzygowski is usually seen as the more problematic of these two authors, but Neuwirth was also a controversial figure; his major work, a history of religious art in Bohemia until the end of the reign of the Přemyslid dynasty, is marked by its strongly pro-German orientation.53 Like Woltmann, Neuwirth portrayed Bohemia as a German cultural dependency, a depiction that drew predictable criticism from Czech art historians.54 Yet his contribution to Ilg’s volume is considerably less inflammatory. His discussion of the Cathedral of St. Vitus in Prague, for example, avoids Woltmann’s contentious nationalistic claims of twenty years earlier.55 Instead, he sees the cathedral as an example of the importation of French Gothic, and the emperor Charles IV not as German but as the more neutral Luxembourgeois. Alongside celebration of the achievements of the Habsburg emperors Maximilian, Rudolf, and Ferdinand, Neuwirth also wrote an extended discussion of the Hungarian king Matthias Corvinus as a patron of the arts.56 The final chapter of Ilg’s volume on art and architecture in the nineteenth century is equally wide-ranging.57 Its author, the Galician Jew Alfred Nossig (1864–1943), was hardly a qualified art historian. Trained in medicine at the University of Lemberg

and based in Cracow, he eventually came to be better known as a promoter of Zionism and ultimately as one of the members of the Judenrat of the Warsaw Ghetto.58 In his early career, however, he was a strong supporter of Jewish assimilation, and it may be that this prompted Ilg to invite him to contribute the chapter, for his assimilationist beliefs were indicative of a broader loyalty to the Habsburg dynasty and clearly paralleled Ilg’s own personal position. Nossig’s chapter is a model of inclusivity, for while singling out Viennese artists such as Hans Makart, August von Pettenkoffen, and the young Klimt for praise (he particularly admires the festive character of Makart’s paintings, his rich and lavish palette and his pursuit of the idea of the decorative Gesamtkunstwerk), he gives equal attention to Polish artists, such as the recently deceased Jan Matejko and Artur Grottger, and to Czech figures, such as the sculptor Josef Myslbek (1848–1922), best known for his statue of Saint Wenceslas on Václav Square in Prague, and the history painter Václav Brožík (1851–1901). These were potentially provocative choices. Makart, although a sensationally successful artist, had caused a scandal in 1867 with his painting The Plague in Florence and later, in 1878, with his Entry of Charles V into Antwerp, paintings that Nossig specifically mentions.59 Matejko, Myslbek, and Brožík were leading artists in Galicia and Bohemia (although Brožík lived mostly in Paris), but they were strongly identified with the promotion of specifically national artistic themes. Matejko, for example, painted celebrated figures and events associated with a heroic vision of Poland’s history, such as the victory over the Teutonic Knights in the Battle of Grunwald of 1410, while Brožík

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depicted legendary figures from the history of Bohemia, such as Ottakar II and Jan Hus, who had symbolized Czech resistance against foreign domination. Yet by including such artists, Nossig in one sense neatly sidesteps one of the most contentious issues in the increasingly fragmented art world of the later Habsburg Empire, for he presents them as examples of the larger unfolding narrative of artistic progress across Austria-​Hungary that was due to the enlightened patronage of Franz Joseph, the “benevolent, wise, and active protector” of the arts.60 Ilg’s volume makes no claim to comprehensiveness; as the title indicates, it aims to showcase individual works as outstanding representatives of the state’s artistic development. Nevertheless it covers a range of works that few other contemporaneous publications match. A much more ambitious project, however, is the multivolume encyclopedia The Austro-Hungarian Monarchy in Word and Image, usually referred to as the Kronprinzenwerk in recognition of Crown Prince Rudolf’s role. This is not primarily a work of art history; its scope is far larger, and architecture and the visual arts are merely one element with a much wider work. However, on account of its sheer scale, the various entries on art, design, architecture, and crafts constitute one of the most extensive descriptions of the visual culture of the Empire. The Kronprinzenwerk, pursuing a different strategy to answer the question of Austrian identity, emphasizes the Empire’s cultural, ethnic, and linguistic diversity. Far from construing diversity as a weakness and source of instability, this narrative sees it as a strength, since it means that the monarchy has at its disposal an array of cultures and traditions on which to draw. As Joseph Helfert, one of

the founders of the Institute for Austrian Historical Research and also president of the Central Commission from 1863 to 1910, noted, “greater Austria is a necessity of providence, not only in the balance of power in Europe, not only as the grounds for ties and conciliation between western and eastern European culture, Northern and Southern customs, Roman-German and Greco-Slavic elements, but just as much in the interest, for the health and welfare of each individual one of the different elements out of which in the course of time the entire mighty organism grew.”61 In this idealized image, therefore, Austria-​Hungary played a crucial mediating role in Europe as a whole and brought together its individual cultures into a harmonious whole that was to the greater benefit of all. One of the earliest expressions of this ideology is a three-volume ethnographic survey of the monarchy published in 1857 by Karl Czoernig (1804–1889), director of the Administrative Statistics Office.62 The project is concerned with mapping out different linguistic groups and documenting historical patterns of migration and colonization. However, with the memories of 1848 still fairly fresh, it is also politically motivated and uses statistical data to contest the various emergent nationalisms. Accordingly, the survey carefully analyzes each region of the monarchy in terms of the ethnic and linguistic origin of its inhabitants and also provides a detailed historical overview of settlement and migration patterns. It reaches two basic conclusions: first that each territory of the monarchy is culturally and linguistically heterogeneous and, second, that this situation is centuries old. It is consequently implicit in this account that no individual group can claim exclusive rights to a particular

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region or land and that any disentangling of individual ethnic and linguistic groups is utterly unfeasible. Czoernig is also highly critical of the impact of local nationalisms. He notes, for example, the counterproductive effects of Magyar nationalism in the 1840s, in that it alienated the Romanian minority in Hungarian-administered Transylvania, leading to ethnic conflict. This same legitimizing discourse underlies the Kronprinzenwerk. Crown Prince Rudolf formed the idea of producing a comprehensive account of the Empire in the mid-1880s, and apart from wider political calculations, he was also motivated by an engagement with contemporary scientific and scholarly endeavors—a number of leading academic figures, including the economist Carl Menger, had served as his personal advisors—and with the cultural politics of the Empire. Rudolf was restricted in the kind of public pronouncements he was permitted to make, and so the project was an acceptable means for him to become involved in debates over the identity of the Empire. The original plan was to compose an ethnographic study of the peoples of the Empire and to demonstrate “that the monarchy is no product of chance, but of necessity. The diversity of its raw material no weakness (Switzerland).”63 The study thereby reprises certain themes in Czoernig’s earlier survey, but this time the emphasis is no longer on the practical impossibilities of creating separate territories for individual ethnic and linguistic groups, but on the positive benefits that would derive from such diversity. As such, the Kronprinzenwerk represents one of the most ambitious attempts to provide a narrative for the Empire on the basis of the idea of “unity in diversity.” In private Rudolf was vehement in his negative attitudes

toward nationalism, but the introduction to the first volume, which Rudolf himself wrote, makes no reference to interethnic conflict. He alludes to the politics of nationalism, however, insisting on the “objective” and “scientific” nature of the project, “far from immature theories and partisan passions.”64 In general, however, he focuses on promoting a positive image of harmony and interdependence: “Through growing insight into the virtues and characteristics of the different ethnic groups and their mutual material dependence it will strengthen the feeling of solidarity that is to bind together all the people of our fatherland.”65 Such an enterprise was intended to ensure that all the peoples of the monarchy would be accorded their due scientific recognition. In this, Rudolf’s comments echo a further multivolume survey of Austria-​Hungary, Friedrich Umlauft’s popular Die Länder Österreich-Ungarns (The Lands of Austria-​Hungary), published in 1879. As the prospectus for this project states, “our fatherland offers . . . such a plenitude of charming landscapes and fascinating ethnographic qualities . . . that none of the crown lands of Austria-​Hungary should be regarded as unworthy of a loving, detailed depiction.” The Kronprinzenwerk is much larger in scope. Comprising twenty-four substantial volumes organized by territory—the largest volume, on Galicia, is 890 pages in length— it draws on contributions from 432 authors. The project was divided into two parts, covering Hungary and Austrian Cisleithania. Coordination of the volumes on Hungary was the responsibility of the poet and novelist Maurus (Mór) Jókai (1825–1904), while the dramatist and poet Joseph Ritter von Weilen (1828–1889), president of the writers’ association Concordia, oversaw the volumes on the Austrian half of the

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monarchy. Rudolf’s choice of members of the editorial board, which also included Count Johann Wilczek (1837–1922) and Nikolaus Dumba (1830–1900), reflected the impact of liberal and progressive bourgeois thought on the project. Although Wilczek was of aristocratic birth, he had enlisted as a volunteer in the Austro-Prussian War of 1866 and was a noted sponsor both of scientific projects— including the Austro-Hungarian North Pole Expedition of 1872–74—and of the arts, having founded the Society of Viennese Art Lovers (Gesellschaft der Wiener Kunstfreunde) in 1875. Dumba, an industrialist of Greek origin, was an important patron of the arts, later noted for his support for Gustav Klimt in particular.66 The first volume of the Kronprinzenwerk appeared in 1887, and the last two, on Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Hungarian Croatia and Slavonia, were published in 1902. It has recently become the object of considerable critical attention, a particular focus being its ethnographic function and the politics of representation.67 Of greater interest for the present discussion, however, is the fact that each volume includes essays, often extensive, on music, literature, architecture, and the visual arts. As with the wider project, these were intended to promote mutual understanding of the diverse cultures of the monarchy, but background social and political tensions surfaced, conflicting with this aim. The volumes on the Austrian lands are scrupulous in ensuring that each crown land is the subject of an individual study, giving the impression of parity between the different crown lands. The volumes on Hungary, however, follow a different pattern and reflect the centralizing politics of the Budapest government and the nationalist outlook of the editorial panel. In these volumes

Hungary is treated as a unitary state, and the leitmotif of unity in diversity is subordinated to a narrative of Magyar history and culture, in which the non-Magyar inhabitants of the kingdom are placed in a marginal position. In his introduction to the first Hungarian volume Rudolf reminds the reader that the inhabitants of Hungary include Slavs, Rumanians, Germans, Armenians, and Gypsies, and promises that “we want to learn about all these peoples, about where they live, their customs, habits, and dress, both now and in the past, their history, their development, their cultural progress.”68 Little concession is made to this vision in the main text, however, which focuses on historical events that could be construed as forerunners of the terms of the 1867 Compromise.69 Even in the volumes devoted to the Austrian half of the monarchy, the treatment is not uniform. The volume on Vienna, for example, contains a detailed history of the city’s architecture by four separate authors, with two additional articles on the history of painting and sculpture by Ilg and Lützow and a separate entry on design by Falke.70 The volume on Bukovina, in contrast, contains one article on all of the visual arts.71 Likewise, the volume devoted to Bosnia and Herzegovina includes a single short article of twenty-two pages on architecture, whereas the contributions on architecture, design, and the visual arts of Bohemia amount to some 270 pages involving six authors.72 There is a logic to these differences, and it concerns the differing status of the lands of the monarchy. Vienna and Bohemia were historical Habsburg lands; Bukovina and Bosnia were geographically and culturally peripheral and were regarded as backward regions. The article on the art of Bukovina was written by the architect Karl Romstorfer,

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director of the State School of Design (Staats-Gewerbeschule) in the capital, Czernowitz. Romstorfer was the author of numerous works on the art and architecture of Bukovina, and the School of Design, founded in 1873, was part of the conscious effort by the Austrian central authorities to modernize the crown land, which had become part of the Austrian Empire only in 1775.73 As with the Franz Joseph University, founded two years later, the school was the instrument of a policy of imperial cultural colonialism, and a comparable attitude is evident in Romstorfer’s article, which begins,

the territory of modern Bukovina. Yet he sees all its achievements as belonging to the past; his account is dominated by artistic and architectural monuments from the period of the fourteenth to the sixteenth centuries, and the positive assessment of medieval and Renaissance art and architecture stands in contrast with his assessment of the present. By the eighteenth century, he argues, “all artistic life in Bukovina had stagnated,” and this situation was only altered with the transition to Austrian rule and the development of Czernowitz.75 It was the incoming Habsburg administration, with its demand for new kinds of public institutions and buildings, coupled with the financial support of the monarchy, that provided a new impulse to artistic activity. Romstorfer’s attitude is permeated by the prevailing views of the region as a marginal semicivilized zone dependent on Habsburg cultural patronage. In this his attitude echoes other contributions to the volume, such as those of Raimund Kaindl on the Hutsuls, the Ukrainian-speaking inhabitants of the rural highland regions.76 Kaindl was a prolific author of ethnographic studies of local culture and history, and he was a recognized authority on Bukovina.77 Like Romstorfer, however, he displayed a markedly imperial attitude, combining an interest in the picturesque aspects of the folk culture with the conviction that the Germans in East Central Europe had a mission to act as the bearers of high culture.78 Cultural hierarchies are evident in other volumes too, such as that on Dalmatia, which contains an article on the arts by Alois Hauser (1841–1896), conservator of monuments in the crown land.79 Echoing Eitelberger’s earlier survey of the region, Hauser’s discussion focuses heavily on the Roman,

The cultural development of Bukovina, lying on the boundary between the Orient and the Occident, remains, on account of the numerous wars in early times, backward. Just as the region was dependent on the Orient in politics, commerce, but above all in religion, so too, in terms of its artistic history, it did not form a self-sufficient whole, but rather part of a large area that stretched out, on the one side, from Byzantium across the Balkans and Greece and, on the other, across Asia Minor, Armenia, and Georgia as far as the Caucasus and later, following the spread of Christianity, northward across the Danube to southern Russia.74

Located at the threshold of East and West, Bukovina was thus semi-Asiatic, and in this respect Romstorfer reiterates widespread orientalist stereotypes of the region. He acknowledges that important artistic monuments in Bukovina, from the remnants of Roman settlements to the medieval fortress and convent of Suceava, the monastery in Putna, and the region’s numerous wooden churches. He also recognizes the importance of the medieval principalities of Moldavia and Wallachia, which roughly coincided with

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medieval, and Renaissance monuments of historic cities such as Zara (Zadar) and Ragusa (Dubrovnik). In part this stemmed from his own professional interests, but it also confirmed a common stereotype that contrasted present-day Dalmatia, socially and economically underdeveloped, and its more illustrious past. This historical difference is mapped onto the ethnic difference between the contemporary Croat and Serb population of the Adriatic coast and its Italian cultural heritage. Hauser recognizes important local thirteenth-century architects such as Nicolo (Nikola) Tvrdoj and Andrija Buvina, but in general his account emphasizes the identity of Dalmatia as a cultural dependency of Italy, beginning with Diocletian’s palace in Split and culminating in monuments such as the Venetian-inspired Rector’s Palace in Dubrovnik. He thus reiterates an increasingly common image of the region among middle-class Viennese. By the 1890s Dalmatia had emerged as a tourist destination in which visits to classical ruins and Venetian architectural monuments could be combined with picturesque encounters with local inhabitants, who had become the subjects of an exoticizing tourist gaze. This even produced a minor subgenre of literature, namely, travelogues of journeys to Dalmatia, of which perhaps the best known was that by Hermann Bahr.80 The depiction of Bukovina and Dalmatia suggests that, despite its goals, the Kronprinzenwerk ultimately reveals the cultural and social inequalities between, in particular, the Austro-Germans and the Slavic and Romanian inhabitants of the fringes of the monarchy. The volumes on these two crown lands replicate widely held notions of the “peripheries.” The volumes on Galicia or Bohemia raise a slightly different set of issues.

Geographically Galicia was, like, Bukovina or Dalmatia, a border zone. However, while eastern Galicia had a linguistic and ethnic mix similar to that of Bukovina, onto which it abutted, western Galicia included Cracow, the artistic and cultural importance of which was undisputed. The general recognition of the Poles as a “historical” people ensured that Galicia was depicted very differently too. Moreover, in contrast to Bukovina, where the apparatus of scholarship was a colonial export established as a result of imperial policy in Vienna, Cracow was a self-contained center of academic life. A high proportion of the contributors to the Bukovina volume were of German or Austro-German origin, whereas all of the contributing authors to the volume on Galicia were Polish or Ukrainian. It contains three chapters on architecture and the visual arts by Władysław Łuszczkiewicz, the journalist and historian Władysław Łoziński (1843–1914), and Marian Sokołowski. A further chapter, on Galician crafts, was written by Włodzimierz Dzieduszycki (1825–1899). Dzieduszycki was an aristocrat and an important patron of the arts and sciences in Lemberg. His sponsorship of local culture included the founding, in 1855, of an ethnographic and geological museum in Lemberg that bore his name, and he also cofounded the Museum of Industrial Arts in the city in 1874.81 He was politically active, both in the Galician Parliament (Sejm Galicyjski) and the Upper House in Vienna; he had supported the Polish rebellions in Russia in 1861, but in Austria-​Hungary he was considerably less enthusiastic about national politics. In this he typified the attitudes of many of his class, who, having secured considerable political autonomy in 1867, viewed Polish nationalism with suspicion and linked their

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own interests to maintenance of the status quo. In contrast, as noted in the previous chapter, Łuszczkiewicz had come to prominence as the author of patriotic history paintings and as a teacher at the School of Fine Arts in Cracow. Łoziński was a journalist and newspaper editor as well as a novelist and the author of works on Polish history, and he had also been closely involved in the Ossolineum in Lemberg. Sokołowski’s career has been outlined earlier, but his attitude toward national politics merits consideration again, for he avoided narrowly nationalistic conceptions of art despite his patriotic sentiments. Thus, while he wrote on Polish art, his interests ranged over the entire territory of European art; this was partly driven by a sense of the inferiority of Polish art, but it was also driven by his commitment to a “scientific” art history that eschewed chauvinistic and narrow nationalistic judgments.82 This approach is evident in his article on painting and sculpture for the Galicia volume, an essay that opens with the frank admission that in both Cracow and Lemberg “the population was, until the end of the Middle Ages, predominantly German. . . . Consequently both the painting and the sculpture had a predominantly German character.”83 Sokołowski’s admission introduces a central theme in his account of the art of Galicia, namely, its hybrid character resulting from the complex cultural exchanges between Poland, Germany—in particular Nuremberg—Italy, and Flanders. Hence, prominent artists working in Galicia include Hans von Kulmbach, Hans Dürer, and, best known of all, Veit Stoss (ca. 1450–1533). From the fifteenth century onward historical sources mention increasing numbers of artists with Polish names, suggesting the

growth of a local artistic infrastructure, yet he argues that in the later 1500s the influence of Italian artists took the upper hand—and that of German artists receded—as the impact of the Renaissance became visible. It was this amalgam of Italian Renaissance and Polish Gothic traditions that provided the basis of the distinctive character of the art of Cracow, and he contrasts this with the Baroque period, which he sees as based on the superficial importation of alien artistic forms.84 Sokołowski dwells at length on the Renaissance; his emphasis on the appropriation of foreign influences sustains the notion of Cracow as a major international artistic center and enhances the image of the Polish kings as significant European patrons. This emphasis on Renaissance Poland as a cosmopolitan crossroads can be detected in his analysis of Polish art in the nineteenth century too. He provides a narrative whose starting premise is that of national rebirth after the catastrophic political dismemberment of Poland in the eighteenth century; the first significant figure of this renaissance is the painter Piotr Michałowski (1800– 1855). His aim is to construct a canon of Polish artists, and many of the artists he cites, such as Artur Grottger, Jan Matejko, Julian Fałat (1853–1929), and Jacek Malczewski (1855–1929), have become central figures in the history of Polish art of the period. Sokołowski also wants to demonstrate the parity of Polish art with contemporary French and German art, yet he consciously distances himself from any broader nationalist program, in particular the dream of reconstituting the defunct Polish kingdom. As he states,

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In the first half of the nineteenth century this ideal was all that people dreamed of, and they

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A n A rt H i st o ry o f Au st r i a - H u n g ary? lived solely from the urge to make it reality. It was the time of the greatest poets the Polish nation has ever produced: Mickiewicz, Słowacki, Krasiński, names that summed up the entire life and spirit of the nation in the first half of our century. This situation and this mood applied both to Galicia under Austrian rule and to the other parts of old Poland connected to the neighboring empires. It required, on the one hand, many delusions and terrible experiences and, on the other, a transition from dreaming about and striving for unattainable ideals to an acceptance of reality, before these insubstantial

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as Magdalena Kunińska has suggested, he was driven not so much by an interest in the intrinsic merits of Ruthenian art per se as by a concern to cement the lines of demarcation between “European” Polish civilization and “eastern” Ruthenian culture.88 Hence, his contribution to the Kronprinzenwerk was heavily oriented toward Cracow, with Ruthenian art (fig. 5) occupying only a marginal place. Extending to only two and a half pages, his comments foreground the exotic and strange nature of this descendant of the Byzantine tradition:

forms took on a concrete shape, and the tangible arts, in other words, painting and sculpture, took

It has to be admitted that at first sight these

the place of poetry among the creative powers of

paintings strike the Westerner, from an aesthetic

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point of view, with their alien and even unpleasant character. But if one immerses oneself more

There is a brutal acceptance of Realpolitik in this summary, and it reveals Sokołowski’s allegiance to the politics of positivism, for Sokołowski the positivist turns his empirical method to the discussion of contemporary politics, in which he argues that the political aspirations of Polish nationalists were based on a denial of reality. He uses the visual arts and poetry as epistemological metaphors; poetry was unable to grasp material reality, he claims, and the rebirth of Polish art coincided with the end of the era of poetry.86 Sokołowski’s account reflected the preoccupations of the Polish intelligentsia with the political future of Poland, but its treatment of eastern Galicia threw up another issue: the relation of the Poles to the Ruthenians. Sokołowski gave critical attention—albeit unsystematic—to Ruthenian art and architecture in a number of other articles.87 As such, he helped open up a field of research that culminated in the exhibition of Ruthenian artifacts at the Polish-Ruthenian Archaeological Exhibition in Lemberg in 1885. Yet

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deeply in this foreign artistic world, one not only encounters the occasional expressions of human feelings, albeit different from the way we Westerners express them, but also discovers that they even have elevated scientific and iconographic value as examples of ancient traditions the people have sometimes reshaped, using their creative force, to correspond to their own feelings. Among the iconostases we often encounter works that belong to the domain of true art.89

With the reference to “we Westerners” Sokołowski clearly positions himself as a Pole in opposition to the Ruthenians, and while accepting that some works have genuine artistic quality, the terms of his commentary only serve to further the exoticization of Ruthenian art as an alien artistic world that requires effort on the part of the viewer to discern its human qualities. There are parallels between Sokołowski’s contribution and that by Łuszczkiewicz on architecture.90 Both authors give the greater part of their attention to Cracow,

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fig. 5  Iconostasis from the Greek-Catholic Church of the Holy Spirit, Rohatyn, Ukraine, 1647–50, engraving by Karl von Siegel, from Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild (the Kronprinzenwerk), 14:743.

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and both acknowledge the formative role of Italian artists and architects. However, they also diverge in important ways. Łuszczkiewicz gives considerable space to Lemberg, whereas the city is almost invisible in Sokołowski’s contribution. More significantly, Łuszczkiewicz’s treatment of the Ruthenians differs notably. Sokołowski highlights confessional difference as a marker of cultural distinctiveness, whereas Łuszczkiewicz encompasses Poles and Ruthenians in a larger narrative of Slavic identity. The architecture of Galicia, he argues, was shaped by its connections to the rest of Poland and to Ukraine, and common Slavic roots were decisive. This orientation is clear from the outset, where he starts with discussion of wooden architecture, for it is a “peculiarity of the Slavic tribes” to build in wood; “the Galician villager is at root a fine carpenter, and the technical terminology of his craft, both Polish and Ruthenian, is handed down from earliest times.”91 Łuszczkiewicz stops short of wider speculation regarding Slavic cultural and artistic identity, but his article nevertheless strikes a tone markedly different from that of Sokołowski. He mentions Poles and Ruthenians together elsewhere too; wooden building transcended confessional divides, he argues, for it was employed in the construction of “Latin” (i.e., Polish) as well as “Greek-Catholic” (i.e., Ruthenian) churches. Ethnic and cultural difference are thus minimized. Echoes of wider debates on cultural politics come to the fore too in Dzieduszycki’s article on arts and crafts.92 This had become a highly politicized subject. It played a prominent role in debates concerning economic and social policy in the Empire, as Georg Vasold has recently highlighted. In addition,

even as the Galicia volume was being prepared, Stanisław Witkiewicz was proselytizing on behalf of the Zakopane style—a folk pastiche derived from the vernacular art of the Tatras region—as an authentic expression of Polish national identity.93 Dzieduszycki’s article is also marked by such sentiments. On the one hand, he stresses the ethnically diverse nature of Galicia; due to its geographical location at the crossroads of East and West, North and South, its population included Poles and Ruthenians as well as Swedes, Mongols, Cossacks, Germans, Turks, Jews, Lithuanians, Tatars, and Hutsuls. On the other hand, he reiterated Witkiewicz’s idea of peasant and folk art as central to Polish identity: “the ancient house industry of Galicia has become intimately interwoven with our customs and our national life . . . if I may put it this way, one has to have grown up on the soil of our homeland to recognize and describe all its nuances.”94

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Bohemia Between Czechs and Germans The articles on the visual arts in the volume on Galicia display an array of ideological positions, ranging from positivism to romantic nationalism and pan-Slavism. For all that the Kronprinzenwerk was meant to promote loyalty to the Habsburg cosmopolitan idea, it provided the occasion for the rehearsal of other established or emerging political positions. A similar phenomenon can be observed in the two volumes on Bohemia, which provide the most detailed and exhaustive analysis of the visual arts of any of the crown lands. As indicated in the previous chapter, the artistic and architectural legacy of Bohemia had become the focus of a

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bitterly contested debate between Czech and German-Bohemian scholars. Alfred Woltmann’s notorious lecture on Prague had been delivered only twenty years earlier, but when the Kronprinzenwerk volumes on Bohemia were published, in 1896, the differences between German and Czech art historians epitomized in the Woltmann episode were still very present. The contributors were a deliberate mix of Czechs and Germans, including the art historians Karel Chytil (1857–1934) and Josef Neuwirth, the Catholic cleric Ferdinand Lehner (1837–1914), the architect Victor Barvitius (1838–1902), and the historian August Sedláček (1843–1926). Neuwirth was the author of chapters on medieval architecture, painting, and sculpture.95 Neuwirth also wrote chapters in Ilg’s volume on Austria-​Hungary, but in contrast to his contributions there, his texts in the Kronprinzenwerk adopted a distinctively nationalist approach. Although acknowledging that Gothic as a style had originated in France, he was quick to stress the extent to which it was a specifically German variant of Gothic that became predominant in Bohemia, and as such his work served as one of the forerunners of the doctrine of German Gothic expounded later by Heinrich Wölfflin’s student Kurt Gerstenberg (1886–1968).96 An important aspect of Neuwirth’s analysis is his interpretation of the role of Charles IV. Czech historians tended to view his reign as a high point in the history of Czech art and culture. For Neuwirth, in contrast, Charles IV was responsible for introducing German architectural ideas and practices: “on his many travels in Germany Charles had become acquainted with its most significant creations, which were still being built, and he personally summoned

Peter Parler from Schwäbisch Gmünd . . . to undertake the construction of the cathedral of Prague.”97 The presence of Parler (1330–1399) was, for Neuwirth, crucial to the dissemination of German architecture in Prague and more widely across Bohemia. For Neuwirth the crucial consideration is the fact that Charles was Holy Roman emperor and thus a German ruler, which ensured the intertwining of the histories of Bohemia and Germany. Consequently, German cultural dominance persisted long after Charles’s death: “even in the blossoming of artistic activity following the Hussite Wars the influence of Germany was prevalent.”98 He acknowledges that “there must obviously have existed autonomous guilds of stonemasons and builders in the larger mostly Czech towns, whose members were for the most part, if not exclusively, of Slavic origin.”99 Indeed, he even goes as far as to propose that Czech architects had devised a distinctively “Slavic” architectural style, but this was clearly inferior, he argues. In reference to the architectural projects initiated by Ladislaus II of Bohemia and Hungary (1456–1516), he notes, for example, that “whether these masters . . . were really adequate to all artistic demands is doubtful, given the fact that in 1476 the king asked the council of Eger to send him Erhart, the town’s master builder, to undertake building projects.”100 This dependence on German craftsmanship was evident elsewhere too, he argued, as in the king’s requisition of his royal seal from Nuremberg goldsmiths, including the grandfather of Albrecht Dürer. Neuwirth’s account is not necessarily mistaken in its depiction of the cultural exchanges between Bohemia and the rest of the Holy Roman Empire, but the contrast he draws between “German” and “Slavic” architects promotes the sense

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of division between the two and, with his frequent reference to Slavs rather than Czechs, promulgates racial visions of ethnic and cultural difference. Unlike Neuwirth’s text, those by Chytil sidestep controversial matters.101 Chytil was a Czech nationalist, as were many of his generation, and his first writings, from the late 1870s and 1880s, had been concerned with demonstrating the autonomy of Czech art and appropriating notable artists and architects, including Peter Parler, for its cause.102 Thus, not only did Chytil emphasize that Parler’s works in Bohemia owed more to French than to German Gothic, but he also cast doubt on the assumption that Parler was himself of German origin.103 The tone of his contributions to the Kronprinzenwerk, however, appears to be conciliatory. Hence, his article on Renaissance, Baroque, and Rococo painting, for instance, displays little of the concern with racial origins characteristic of Neuwirth’s discussion. He replaces the politically charged term “German” with others. Thus, he acknowledges Dürer’s influence in Bohemia but frames it in terms of a “Franconian” school of painting deriving from Nuremberg. Likewise, he ascribes significance to Lukas Cranach as the progenitor of a specific Saxon school rather than as a carrier of a more general German cultural influence.104 Such apparently minor differences were politically significant. Chytil’s avoidance of reference to Germany was of course correct inasmuch as it was free of the anachronisms sustaining Neuwirth’s nationalist position; Saxony was a real political and cultural entity in the sixteenth century, and the concept of Germany was notoriously ambiguous and problematic. But his choice of terminology had important ideological connotations, for

Chytil was trying to counter the nationalist narrative of art history without addressing it head-on. Comparison of the treatments of Charles IV by Chytil and Neuwirth well illustrates the politicization of art-historical discourse. In his chapter on the applied arts Chytil emphasizes the importance of Charles as a patron, but where Neuwirth stresses Charles’s role in introducing German culture, Chytil emphasizes the cosmopolitan culture of Prague—the imperial court employed Greeks, Silesians, Bavarians, Moravians, and Austrians—stemming from the emperor’s travels throughout Europe.105 Chytil avoids the nationalist preoccupations of Neuwirth, but without lapsing into the defensiveness characteristic of many of his other writings; given the sentiment of his own early writings, this represents a marked shift and signifies a conscious effort to adhere to the official aim of the Kronprinzenwerk as whole. A similar approach is evident in Viktor Barvitius’s chapter on modern painting and sculpture.106 Barvitius sees the period since the end of the eighteenth century as one of artistic rebirth in Bohemia following an era of decline and stagnation. Such a narrative could easily have been ensnared by the mythology of national awakening that was definitive of Czech historiography of the period, but Barvitius steers clear of reference to the ethnicity of the artists he discusses. Indeed, he is notably evenhanded in his negotiation of a politically difficult terrain. Josef Mánes (1821–1871), for example, an emblem of Czech national artistic awakening, is accorded only a fairly minor role—in keeping, perhaps, with his modest artistic talents—while Barvitius consciously gives equal space to other artists of both Czech and German origin. Some, such as Christian Ruben (1805–1875), were

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seen as embodying the artistic and cultural hegemony of the Vienna academy in Bohemia, while others, such as František Tkadlík (1786–1840), who had taught Mánes, were strongly associated with the Czech national awakening. By including both, Barvitius turns what could have been a nationalistic narrative into a celebration of the diversity of recent artistic activity in Bohemia. It is a sign of Barvitius’s loyalty to the Habsburg ideology that the most prominent figure in his account is not even an artist, but rather Count Franz von Thun. Barvitius gives Franz, governor of Bohemia from 1889 to 1896 and brother of former education minister Leo von Thun, a large share of the credit for the state of the arts in the late nineteenth century because of his enlightened cultural policy. In this regard Barvitius also mentions the positive role of other cultural associations and institutions too, such as the aristocratic Society of Patriotic Friends of the Arts. It is in keeping with the general tenor of Barvitius’s account that he should praise an organization that interpreted “patriotic” with reference to geographic and social space rather than ethnically aligned national sentiment.

this conflict, tackling the challenge of constructing a national history of art that might promote a sense of shared Austro-Hungarian identity and thereby underpin the legitimacy of the existing sociopolitical order. Various solutions were explored, from narrowly conceived equations of “Austrian” with “Viennese” to those that were explicitly tied to dynastic loyalty and the defining role of the Habsburg rulers, as espoused by Eitelberger, Ilg, and Hevesi. These differing concepts coexisted for much of the second half of the nineteenth century, but by the 1880s the preferred narrative of the imperial government was that of cosmopolitanism, because it both acted as a counterweight to the numerous nationalisms and also provided a framework within which the emperor could claim to stand aloof from partisan causes. The Kronprinzenwerk shows the difficulties that attended this project. In spite of the objectives set out by Crown Prince Rudolf, many of the contributions reveal differences between Rudolf’s vision and the perceptions (and self-perceptions) of many of its authors. It thus replicated the ideological tensions in the wider cultural and ethnic politics of the Empire. Written for a nonspecialist audience, it has tended to be invisible in discussions of historiography in late nineteenth-century Austria-​Hungary. It is of inestimable value, however, in revealing the ways in which ideas of art and art history were framed by broader social, political, and ideological differences. The tensions evident in the differing approaches adopted by its authors also illustrate why, in contrast to France, Germany, or Britain, Austria-​Hungary did not produce a national history of art as a coherent narrative. It was an impossible task; the diverse social, cultural, and political histories precluded any unifying grand

Conclusion From the mid–nineteenth century onward, the problem of defining Austro-Hungarian social, political, and cultural identity was increasingly fraught with difficulties. Nationalist ideologues promoted ethnic and linguistic definitions that the state struggled to counter. The Habsburg dynasty continued to act as a focus for many, but the promotion of other narratives shows that this alone was insufficient. Art historians were drawn into

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narrative—other than that of fragmentation. In addition, the art history of the monarchy, as a contested terrain, almost always required identification with one of the several incommensurable political positions that underpinned the competing cultural narratives of the period. These conflicts were evident in the failed attempt to construct a synthetic image of Austria-​Hungary, but they were reiterated in debates over an array of other topics, from modern art to the legacy of the late Roman Empire, which were the coded

forms in which the various views of the artistic, cultural, and political identity of the monarchy competed. Vienna School authors such as Riegl, Wickhoff, and Dvořák would play a central role in the (ultimately unsuccessful) attempt to uphold cosmopolitan conceptions of Austro-Hungarian identity. The next chapter analyzes the construction of competing narratives in greater detail, looking in depth at writing about Baroque art and architecture.

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5 Baroque Art and Architecture: A Contested Legacy Thus we stand before a drama of enormous disturbance where, drawing on a colorful mixture of the old and the new, artists no less than philosophers, literary authors, scholars, and politicians search in different directions for new sources of support and goals. —max dvořák

In 1880 a short pamphlet was published in Vienna with the title Die Zukunft des Barockstiles (The future of the Baroque style). Its author, “Bernini the Younger,” sought to rehabilitate the Baroque from its detractors as well as from its recent imitators, who had introduced a debased neo-Baroque style in design and the applied arts. The pamphlet also argued for the decisive role of the Baroque as the architectural style of the future. “Bernini the Younger” was none other than Albert Ilg, and the pamphlet provided a notable instance of his frequent interventions into debates in the wider public sphere. In this case the intervention was aimed at the critical response to the Ringstrasse, but as in his many other writings, Ilg’s ultimate concern was with the cultural and political identity of Austria.

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The Future of the Baroque Style can thus be placed alongside his other essays, discussed earlier, in which he aimed to articulate a specifically Austrian sense of identity. Despite its broader political motivation, The Future of the Baroque Style is nevertheless a serious attempt to interpret the meaning and significance of the Baroque, and this chapter is concerned with the ways in which Ilg and other art historians in Austria-​Hungary understood Baroque art and architecture. While it examines purely historiographical debates, its primary aim is to consider the responses to the Baroque within the context of the cultural politics of the late Habsburg Empire, in which the Baroque took on a renewed importance both as a visible symbol of imperial identity and as a historical precursor to the present.

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The Baroque as the Future? Ilg’s pamphlet was a contribution to a number of debates. The first concerned the most appropriate architectural style for the present. The roots of this lay in an essay by Heinrich Hübsch, In welchem Style sollen wir bauen? (In what style should we build?), which first appeared in 1828. Hübsch’s original concern had been with what he perceived to be the moribund state of contemporary architecture and, in particular, “the belief that formal beauty in architecture is an absolute that can remain unaltered at all times and in all circumstances, and that the antique style alone represents its perfect ideal.”1 Written in the wake of the large-scale neoclassical remodeling of Berlin by Karl Friedrich Schinkel, Hübsch’s publication was meant as a provocation to Greek Revivalism, and the tone he adopted, feigning disbelief, for example, that contemporary architects could still hold to classical tenets, made no small contribution to this objective. Arguing for architecture to adapt to local climactic conditions and to make use of local materials, Hübsch proselytized in favor of the revival of Romanesque (the so-called Rundbogenstil), which he later employed in his own designs for buildings such as the art gallery in Karlsruhe (1836–46) and the gate to the botanical gardens in that city (1853–57).2 In turning away from the putatively timeless precepts of classicism, Hübsch came to play a central role in the introduction of historicism in architecture. Although initially concerned with the contemporaneity of past architectural languages, his emphasis on locality and geography perhaps ensured that the debate about style evolved into one concerning the relation between style

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and national identity.3 After the unification of Germany in 1871 this debate took on a particularly nationalistic tone, with particular attention paid to Neo-Renaissance architecture as the ideal expression of the German nation. Wilhelm Lübke’s Geschichte der deutschen Renaissance (History of the German Renaissance), first published in 1872, is a notable index of this development, most especially because it contrasts with his earlier work Grundriss der Kunstgeschichte (Outline of art history), which, although dedicating a chapter to “Nordic art of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries,” makes no reference to notions of German national character. Published only six years after the military conflict between Prussia and Austria-​ Hungary, History of the German Renaissance displays a striking hostility toward the Habsburg regime. Thus, Lübke declares, Germany “was not torn apart because of the Reformation, as is claimed, but because of the stupid rigidity of the Habsburgs, who set themselves against the most profound needs of the heart of the nation and abased themselves by becoming the henchmen of the Roman hierarchy and as a consequence stifled the religious movement in the Austrian lands with bloody, violent measures.”4 In contrast, he argues, wherever Reformation ideals had been allowed to flourish, there had been a rebirth of German culture. This also distinguished the Renaissance in Germany from that of Italy, where there had arisen a “frivolous attitude” accompanied with an “unbelievable lasciviousness,” as a consequence of which “the humanistic movement that had begun with so much enthusiasm declined into a pest-ridden swamp.”5 Lübke’s nationalistic reading of the Renaissance can be linked to the

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Kulturkampf, the state-sponsored assault on Catholicism launched by Bismarck, and it found echoes elsewhere. As the architect Hubert Stier declared to the Society of German Architects at its annual conference of 1884: “The German Renaissance succeeded incontestably in providing all its works with a distinctive feature that made it possible to distinguish them from the achievements of other peoples of the same period. In short, it gave them a common national artistic character.”6 Ilg’s pamphlet on the Baroque singles out Lübke for criticism and thus illustrates the continuing tensions between Austria-​ Hungary and Germany. Anxious to dispute Lübke’s appropriation of the Renaissance for the cause of German nationalism, Ilg notes that there were two Renaissances; the one was Northern, bourgeois, and civic; the other, Southern and aristocratic. The latter, he argues, had retained an element of Italian refinement that had been beyond the capacities of the architecture of northern Germany.7 Ilg’s aim is not simply to provide a corrective to Lübke’s account, however, but also to engage with the debate over architectural style in relation to the question of Austrian identity. In this context he is intervening in a debate over architecture that had raged since the 1850s, prompted by the construction of the Ringstrasse, and in which Vienna School representatives had played a leading role. Eitelberger had campaigned as early as 1855 for the demolition of the old city fortifications, and when the emperor issued the decree to that effect, Eitelberger was a member of the commission that oversaw the competition for the rebuilding on the land cleared when the military structures were removed.8 Once building had commenced,

Eitelberger became involved again, publishing a pamphlet, co-authored with the architect Heinrich von Ferstel, that decried the speculators who had erected poor-quality rental tenement blocks in the wake of the resulting construction boom. In opposition, Eitelberger and Ferstel resurrected the idea of Renaissance urbanism, with its prosperous burghers and artisans, as the model for new building.9 Such architecture, they argued, would also underpin the bourgeois family as the linchpin of moral and social order. Their recommendation was met with sharp criticism from one of the most successful Viennese architects, Ferdinand Fellner, who accused Eitelberger of promoting a “dilettantish project” full of “aesthetic and architectural sophistries.”10 Ilg is less concerned with the issues of moral and social order that had preoccupied Eitelberger than with the question of which architectural style might best articulate a specifically Austrian political identity. Accordingly, in place of the Renaissance revivalism of prominent buildings such as the Palais Hansen, built in 1873 to accommodate visitors to the Vienna World’s Fair, or August von Sicardsburg and Eduard van der Nüll’s recently completed opera house, he champions the Baroque. In 1880 the Baroque was still a little-explored field. Jakob Burckhardt had discussed it briefly in his Cicerone, but in a dismissive tone, noting, famously, that “Baroque architecture speaks the same language as the Renaissance, but a wild dialect.”11 Likewise Jakob von Falke had discussed it at length in his History of Modern Taste, but again in mostly negative terms. He had noted, for example, that “while the Renaissance steered taste away from the confusion of the fifteenth century and into one single course, taste fell apart once more

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in the Baroque era.”12 Ironically, there had been a Baroque and Rococo revival in design and interior furnishing since the 1840s, but, Ilg notes, the poor quality of the products had prompted negative attitudes, for they represented “the clearest opposite of everything that might be termed ‘style,’ ” and were “miles away from the true nature of those styles.”13 Ilg seeks to rehabilitate the Baroque, and it is notable that the argument he puts forward relies on the now well-established Vienna School insistence on the suspension of aesthetic judgment: “What use are these classifications of ‘good’ and ‘bad,’ like grades handed out in school, for the value of individual phenomena in the historical development of human culture? . . . In this regard there are merely events, for what happened took place simply because that was what had to be, so there can be no question of making qualitative distinctions.”14 Yet this argument concerns more than mere art-historical method or aesthetic judgment, for it is intended to underpin Ilg’s central point concerning the Baroque’s political resonance: he unapologetically celebrates the Baroque as the visual language of the ancien régime. The French Revolution may have introduced neoclassicism, but this was a brief interruption of the “natural” situation, he claims, which was restored after 1815. Ilg had openly declared his Habsburg loyalties in other publications, and this alone ensured his interest in the Baroque, but he also champions it here as a universal style, for “no other style encompasses all the arts, techniques, and forms of handiwork with the same universality.”15 This indicated the suitability of the Baroque as the basis for the Gesamtkunstwerk, for, he argues, it was “equipped for

everything,” including “buildings of state, the bourgeois house, the theater with all its facilities, as well as the villa and its park, proud prelates’ foundations, and the idyllic hermitage.”16 However, Ilg interprets the universality of the Baroque in a political sense, for he highlights the difference between Baroque and “every other style of recent times,” which was a “limited, merely national, stylistic type.”17 In contrast, the Baroque was supranational, and this made it singularly appropriate for the present, given that “the intimate contact between all races and peoples, the easy traffic and exchange in intellectual life, would not tolerate fetters that kept them apart.”18 As a “universal style” it had been able to “merge individual peoples” and was thus the clearest expression of the legitimizing cosmopolitan narrative of the Empire. Moreover, even though France had laid claim to the Baroque as a national style, it was Austria, Ilg maintains, that had the strongest affinities to it. Vienna was full of Baroque architecture that could serve as a model for contemporary architects: “The cold classicism of Schinkel and Bötticher would have been impossible here; the different character of the people demanded a warmer sense of life, more diversion, more lively ornament, greater refinement, color, and suppleness.”19 Ilg links this clear definition of Austrian character—with a heightened sense of its difference from that of Prussian Germany—to the growth of Austria as a distinct political entity after 1683, in particular its evolution during the eighteenth century from a patchwork of Habsburg territories (or “lands entangled in the hollow concept of the Holy Roman Empire of the German nation”) to a modern European state.20 For Ilg, therefore, the Baroque provided a visual identity for Austria on account of

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its historical associations and because, as a universal style, it reflected the cosmopolitanism of the Empire. It was thus a nonnational national language, and in advancing this conception Ilg was reiterating a point that Falke had made a decade earlier in relation to the concept of a national “house industry” (domestically based handicraft production). Specifically, Falke had contrasted European states such as France, England, and Austria with Hungary, Russia, and those in Scandinavia. The great nations of Europe, he argued, the “modern cultural states” (moderne Culturstaaten), had no “national” house industry; it was only folk culture that could properly be called “national.”21 It was possible to talk of a national style, he admitted, but this was “national” only in the sense of “historical-political entities” and had to be seen as completely independent of ethnographic notions of nation.22 Falke and, implicitly, Ilg were thus bringing to bear the opposition between Kulturstaat, or the state defined politically and culturally, and Nationalstaat, or the state as the expression of a single “nation,” which became so important to the definition of Austria-​Hungary in the later nineteenth century. Ilg’s pamphlet did not remain unanswered; Camillo Sitte wrote a short piece of gushing praise for his ideas, while August Köstlin, editor of the General Building Journal, dedicated an editorial, “The New Vienna,” to repudiating Ilg’s arguments.23 Dismissing the “bacillus of national Baroque,” Köstlin declares emphatically that “the spirit of our age lies far from that of the Baroque era, and only temporary confusions in the popular mind favor a conflation of artistic tastes, or favor, for a brief moment, the most Baroque ideas.”24 “The Baroque should not be

banned, he argues, “but it has no exclusive justification, and it is certainly not a national style. Ultimately, the style of building resulting from the nineteenth century will be another one, a new one, and despite the paroxysms of nationalism, it will be no national style. It will emerge out of the massive expansions in building that have been made possible by the new building material of the nineteenth century: iron.”25 Similarly, Falke, despite revising his own earlier judgments about the Baroque (he now declared that it “possessed great and original artists”), regretted that “Baroque has become the solution in contemporary artistic life . . . has become a banner to which one party has rallied.”26 This opposition did little to dampen Ilg’s spirit, and his campaign was successful to the extent that he gained the support of the ruling dynasty, in particular Archduke Franz Ferdinand, and was even included in Julius Berger’s 1891 ceiling painting of the Patrons of the Arts of the House of Habsburg in the Kunsthistorisches Museum.27 Ilg’s espousal of the Baroque in opposition to neoclassicism and Renaissance revivalism was soon overtaken by events, however. Only one year after his death, in 1896, the construction of Olbrich’s Secession Building on Karlsplatz ensured that the terms of debate would shift radically away from the question of the most appropriate historical style to the conflict between historicism and the modern. Nevertheless, his pamphlet illustrates the resonance of the Baroque period in the late nineteenth century, in which aesthetic questions of style took on political and ideological significance. This affected not only debates about contemporary architectural practice but also interpretations of the cultural heritage from the past.

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Contestations of Cultural Heritage: The Baroque in Bohemia

secondary status. Likening it to the “blooming and wilting of a flower,” Wölfflin wrote: “Just as the flower cannot remain in bloom forever, since the moment of wilting arrives inexorably, so the Renaissance could not be the same forever; it wilted, it lost its form, and this circumstance we call the Baroque.”32 Wölfflin’s book became foundational for the discipline, but for the purposes of this discussion it was of less significance than a work published the following year, Cornelius Gurlitt’s History of the Baroque Styles and of the Rococo in Germany (Geschichte des Barockstiles und des Rococo in Deutschland). This was the third part of a multivolume work by Gurlitt (1850–1938) on European Baroque architecture that covered Italy (Geschichte des Barockstiles in Italien), Belgium, the Netherlands, France, and England (Geschichte des Barockstiles, des Rococo, und des Klassicismus in Belgien, Holland, Frankreich, England). Trained as an architect, studying first with Wilhelm Lübke and Friedrich Vischer at the Stuttgart Polytechnic, then with Anton Springer at the University of Leipzig, Gurlitt was working as an assistant at the Design Museum in Dresden when the first volumes were published. A semi-autodidact—he did not receive any formal art-historical education, much less a higher degree—Gurlitt was not a particularly original thinker. Nevertheless, he gained critical attention on account of the sheer scale of his work. Hence, while arguing that Gurlitt’s project was flawed due to his immersion in positivistic facts and to his lack of any overarching conceptual framework, Riegl still recognized that it opened up important new areas.33 Gurlitt would not usually feature in a study of art history in Austria-​Hungary

When Ilg’s pamphlet appeared, Baroque art and architecture were not yet considered serious topics of research. During the following decade this situation altered with the publication of a number of works on the subject. In 1888 Heinrich Wölfflin published his Renaissance und Barock and in it attempted, for the first time, to provide a systematic formal definition of what had until then been understood mostly as a period of decline following the achievements of the High Renaissance.28 Wölfflin’s characterization of the Baroque as, for example, “painterly” and “spatial,” in contrast to the “linear” and “planar” nature of Renaissance art, introduced a set of distinctions that would come to be fundamental both for the wider art-historical understanding of late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century art and also for Wölfflin’s own system, articulated in its most complete form in the Principles of Art History, which he completed three decades later.29 Acknowledging that for wider audiences “baroque” still bore strong negative connotations (“in common parlance it is still used to denote something absurd and monstrous”), Wölfflin sought to demonstrate its historical necessity as a consequence of a “blunting” of the senses.30 “The forms of the Renaissance lost their charm; all too visible, they no longer made an impact, the tired sense of form demanded something that would make a stronger impression. Architecture provided this strengthening, and thus became baroque.”31 Yet while he sought to rehabilitate the Baroque as an organic and logical successor to the Renaissance, Wölfflin’s rhetoric made clear it was still of

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except for his discussion of Baroque architecture in Bohemia, which brought him into conflict with Czech-speaking art historians in Prague. Bohemian Czechs looked on the Baroque with some ambivalence; they associated it with the Habsburg political dominance that had followed the defeat of Bohemian Protestants at the Battle of the White Mountain in 1620.34 The event had become one of the founding myths of modern Czech history, fueling a sense of grievance at Austro-​German rule and cultural hegemony that played a foundational role in the formation of modern Czech identity.35 This fed into popular judgments about Baroque architecture; as the popular Czech-language publication Rieger’s Scientific Dictionary declared in 1866, “after the Battle of the White Mountain, [the Czech nation], physically and morally defeated, so lost its national awareness, wit, and capacities that it placed nearly all building activity in the hands of Italians and other foreigners. . . . At that time the first, strict Renaissance was over; this style became gradually corrupt and hollow until it declined into the so-called Rococo. . . . Such lack of taste was consequently piled on that the ground plan of every building, even of all its parts, became coiled up to an extreme degree, so that it was not possible to glimpse a single straight line.”36 For many Czechs, therefore, the Baroque was associated with their loss of sovereignty, yet at the same time, they could look back on the period from the mid–sixteenth century, when Rudolf II moved his court to Prague, to the late 1600s as an era when the Bohemian capital sat at the center of European cultural life.37 As a result, more positive attitudes toward the Baroque were also expressed, particularly in the final decades of the nineteenth century. Czechs even felt a certain degree

of pride in the late Baroque achievements of Prague-born figures such as the architect Kilián Dientzenhoffer (1689–1751) or the painter Václav Vavřinec Reiner (1689–1743).38 Any ambivalence about the meaning of the Baroque was dispelled, however, in the responses to the provocations of Gurlitt, who, like Woltmann before him, seemed intent on confrontation. Quite apart from the provocative decision to regard Bohemia as a part of Germany, Gurlitt was aggressively nationalistic and hostile toward the Czechs. Until the Battle of the White Mountain, he argued, the Czechs, “a people devoid of art,” had been “lords of the land. Bohemia [had] ceased to be counted in the workings of Europe’s artistic development.”39 Gurlitt gave considerable attention to Kilián Dientzenhofer (fig. 6), but this was because the latter’s father was originally from southern Bavaria. The architect was thus appropriated as a national German emblem. Moreover, in his enthusiasm, Gurlitt credited him with the work of others, in particular, that of Jan Blažej Santini Aichel (1677–1723).40 Gurlitt’s ultimate point was to demonstrate that German architects had risen above their Italian antecedents and asserted their innate German national character. For the Dientzenhofers were “German masters, and the attempt to assimilate the Prague architects to the Czech people is unjustified. In the last quarter of the seventeenth century in Prague too, the German spirit began to become dominant. It displaced the Italians, who had built for the Czechs. There is as little Slavic art in Bohemia, as there is in Poland.”41 In 1890 Gurlitt addressed the nationality issue even more explicitly in an article on “Baroque architecture in Bohemia” published in the journal of the Society for the History of the Germans in Bohemia.42 The

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fig. 6  Kilián Dientzenhofer, the Church of St. Nicholas, Malá Strana, Prague, 1737–51, from Cornelius Gurlitt, Geschichte des Barockstiles und des Rococo in Deutschland, 275, fig. 85.

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society and its journal, which first appeared in 1862, were powerful signs of the growing anxiety among the German minority in Prague over the erosion of their traditional position in the local social and political hierarchy, and the society aimed to maximize the sense of Bohemia and its culture as integral parts of Germany and German culture. Thus, as Gurlitt notoriously wrote,

This claim reprised once more the disputes of the 1870s and 1880s, when individual architects and artists had been appropriated as either Germans or Czechs, based on dubious readings of putative sources that could “demonstrate” their ethnic or linguistic affiliation. Given the Bavarian origins of the family, Kilián Dientzenhofer was always going to be a subject in dispute, and other art historians instead took up Santini as a representative figure of Czech Baroque culture. A third-generation immigrant to Bohemia—his grandfather Antonin Aichel had come to Prague in the 1630s—Santini was a powerful symbol of the rich cultural exchanges between Prague and Italy. His work exemplified the cosmopolitan cultural heritage of Bohemia and provided a counterweight to the view of Bohemia either as a German cultural colony or simply as an integral part of Germany. However, Santini’s work, in particular his pilgrimage church of St. John of Nepomuk in Žďár nad Sázavou (fig. 7) (1719), was also seen as pioneering a specifically Czech architectural style, the so-called Gothic Baroque. This idea was advanced in its most complete form by Zdeněk Wirth in his doctoral thesis, completed in 1908, while Wirth was still a curator at the Design Museum in Prague, and published the following year.45 Wirth argued that the Baroque Gothic, a late form of Baroque architecture, represented a Czech interpretation of Gothic comparable to the slightly later revival of Gothic in England. Wirth had been a student of Max Dvořák’s and consequently gained the attention of the Vienna art-historical establishment—his thesis was reviewed by Hans Tietze in the Kunstgeschichtliche Anzeigen—but he was not the first to have suggested a connection between the Gothic and the Baroque.46

one morning when I walked up to the Hradschin [the Prague Castle district] . . . I heard the voice of the stones. There many buildings spoke to me in the beloved and well-known language of a foreign people. It was the language with which Michelangelo once forged his fiery soul into sonnets. The full rich tones of Italian rang up from Prague. However, German tones rustled in my ear more strongly. They were mixed with the voices that rang over from the masses of rocks from the Cathedral of St. Vitus. I heard from them the news of how German art had done its best to decorate the lovely town on the Moldau, and the lament of how Germany would be thanked by foreign peoples. I listened carefully so that I would not miss any language amid the jumble of voices. However, I did not hear a third language in the dialogue of the stones of Prague.43

Like Woltmann’s account, Gurlitt’s provoked a defensive reaction from Czech scholars. Karel Mádl, who had already been involved in the disputes that arose in reaction to Woltmann, complained about the “annexation of our ancient artists ad maiorem Germaniae gloriam.” Indeed, Mádl not only bemoaned the German appropriation of Prague but also boldly insisted that Kilián Dientzenhofer had been Czech, pointing toward historical sources that suggested that his mother tongue was Czech, not German.44

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fig. 7  Jan Blažej Santini Aichel, the Church of St. John of Nepomuk, Žďár nad Sázavou, Bohemia, 1719–22.

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Karel Chytil had briefly discussed the late seventeenth-century “return to Gothic forms” in his contribution on Renaissance and Baroque architecture to the Bohemia volume of the Kronprinzenwerk.47 The idea of an inner connection between the two had also been advanced by Josef Strzygowski in Genesis of the Baroque in Raphael and Correggio (Das Werden des Barock bei Raphael und Correggio). In this book Strzygowski had argued for the deeper unity of Baroque and Gothic: “Alongside old Byzantium, Gothic and Baroque are the vehicles of new ideas of form in Christian art,” and moreover, “what we term ‘Renaissance’ was an intermediary stage between the Gothic and the Baroque, and the idyllic tranquillity in the works of the marmorari of the second half of the Quattrocento [Donatello, Quercia, and Pisano] was the calm before the storm, not a conclusion.”48 Strzygowski’s book had little impact on other art historians in Vienna, but the idea of an affinity between Gothic and Baroque art and architecture was nevertheless taken up by others, including Riegl. In a series of lectures on Baroque art in Rome, delivered between 1894 and 1901, Riegl explored the idea of the Baroque as a point of convergence between the subjectively driven Kunstwollen of northern Europe, of which Gothic was the preeminent expression, and the naturalistic Kunstwollen of the classical Mediterranean. Published posthumously in 1908, Riegl’s lectures found a sympathetic reader in Wirth, who, as Alena Janatková has pointed out, directly cited Riegl’s assertion regarding “the inner affinity of Gothic and the Baroque style” in his own treatment of the two.49 In a separate essay published at the time he was delivering his lectures, Riegl placed the Baroque in a wider historical schema

in which it represented a moment within the larger art-historical oscillation between naturalistic and idealistic artistic periods: “until now, naturalistic periods have every time, with mathematical regularity, been replaced by so-called idealistic ones, in which the distinctive feature of art in opposition to nature, which we are accustomed, depending on personal conviction, to call stylization, beautification, or the reworking of nature . . . comes to the fore, determining and governing the artwork.”50 This notion, whereby Riegl viewed late Roman art, the Baroque, and Dutch group portraiture as moments in a cyclical history of art, would find extraordinary resonance among Czech art historians, the best-known example being Max Dvořák. However, an equally important author in this context is Vojtěch Birnbaum, a student of Dvořák’s and professor of art history at the Czech-language University of Prague from 1921 until his death in 1934, whose article on “the baroque principle in the history of architecture” (Barokní princip v dějinách architektury) reprised the same theme. For Birnbaum the baroque was a recurring aesthetic principle throughout the history of art, for “the end toward which every artistic development heads, as if it were its ultimate goal, is the total dominance of illusion over reality, the complete replacement of factual reality with that of the artwork.”51 Published in 1924, Birmbaum’s essay lies outside the chronological limits of this study, but it is an indicator of the continuing resonance of the Baroque in Czech art-historical circles. More was at issue, however, than a dispute over the identity and role of one specific architect, in the case of Santini, or the structure of art-historical cycles. For if Ilg had seen Vienna as the quintessential Baroque city and Baroque as the

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quintessentially Austrian style, a number of Czech architectural historians highlighted Baroque Prague as a powerful vehicle of Bohemian and Czech identity. Indeed, the status of Prague’s Baroque heritage became a subject of considerable debate from the late nineteenth century onward, particularly as the popularity of Neo-Renaissance historicism began to wane.52 The parallels between Vienna and Prague could be seen in the rise in the 1890s of the cult of “old Prague” (stará Praha), which was included as a theme in the Czechoslavic Ethnographic Exhibition held in the city in 1895. Staged only two years after the exhibition of “old Vienna” at the 1893 World’s Fair in Chicago,53 this included a reconstruction of a market square from the old center of Prague based on seventeenthand eighteenth-century engravings and textual sources. With buildings that dated back to the fourteenth century, including a church, an apothecary, and a tavern, the exhibit aimed to present the city as it would have been during the reign of Rudolf II, although the desire for historical accuracy was compromised by the fact that the façade of one house was painted with frescoes based on drawings by the contemporary Czech artist Mikoláš Aleš.54 The emergence of Baroque Prague as a Czech national lieu de mémoire led to the founding in 1900 of the Club for Old Prague (Klub za starou Prahu), a society concerned with the preservation of the city’s heritage, which, from 1910 onward, also published its own journal, Za starou Prahu (For old Prague). Leading members of the club included Chytil, who had first intervened in debates about Prague’s historic identity in 1895 with an article on its Baroque architecture.55 Concerned with the legacy of the seventeenth century for the present, Chytil

highlighted the distinctive identity of the city that set it apart from German cities, for “Prague Baroque, and Prague in general, came close to being Italian in nature, which distinguished it from the monotony of northern towns.”56 Chytil’s interest was more than historical, however, and in this regard resembled Ilg’s, for he saw Baroque as a model for contemporary building: “The styles of previous centuries have provided the present with an inexhaustible reservoir of forms with which we have striven to build for the whole of our century. As everything was being worked through, we naturally came to the Baroque and to the phrase ‘Baroque, Prague Baroque, modern Baroque.’ Alongside this we also hear voices saying, ‘Let’s not just be satisfied with imitating it; let’s make it our concern as soon as possible that individual ensembles, groups, and regulations, with which this period of building in Prague gained recognition for its outstanding character, will be preserved, at least in part, for the future.’ ”57 Chytil’s essay was published at a time when the historic center of Prague was undergoing extensive rebuilding and modernization, which, by 1900, had included the demolition of a large number of its older historical buildings. From the turn of the century onward, however, with increasing resistance to such developments, in which the Club for Old Prague took a prominent role, the city council required new building projects to maintain the historical character of the areas being redeveloped.58 Nevertheless, the meaning of the legacy of the Baroque townscape continued to attract considerable debate, even after the formation of the independent Czechoslovak state in 1918, when nationalism came to be linked with anticlerical attitudes, leading to the destruction of a

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number of religious monuments and buildings of the Baroque era, including Jiří Bendl’s Marian column, originally erected in the Old Town Square in 1650.59

Riegl’s thinking. Even though the Baroque had enjoyed a considerable growth of interest—not least thanks to the work of Gurlitt—Riegl was concerned to address the fact that it was still widely seen as a period of decline. He thus sought to revalue its achievements, for he recognized that it could still prompt negative reactions in modern viewers: “The extraordinary in ancient and Renaissance art seizes us, but in the Baroque we are appalled by it, and we perceive it as disturbing or as a troublesome confusion; for example, a figure that is bent into a contorted position while praying prompts us to ask—‘why these movements?’ They appear unjustified, and so we do not understand them.”61 Indeed, for all the difficulties the contemporary spectator experienced in understanding the Baroque, it was, he argues, intimately connected to modern art: “In order to understand modern art, one has to understand the pioneering role that Michelangelo and Correggio had in its development. . . . What separates the modern artistic view from the antique began with Michelangelo and Correggio in a definitely self-conscious phase.”62 As with many of his contemporaries, the term “modern” denoted the entire period from early Mannerism to the present, and Riegl’s reference to these two artists as pioneers of the Baroque highlights the fact that when he was delivering his lectures, the concept of Mannerism had not entered the art-historical lexicon (only with the pioneering essays of Walter Friedländer in the 1920s would it come to play a significant role).63 Riegl interprets the Baroque as a site of conflict between the two opposing artistic impulses of Northern and Italian art. This accounted for its complexity; on the one hand, it maintained the emphasis of Italian Renaissance art on “objective” narrative

Baroque Modernity: Riegl and Dvořák The writings of Ilg, Chytil, and others highlighted the resonance of the Baroque in the late nineteenth century. Debates over its meaning were deeply rooted in visions of Austrian or Czech social, cultural, and political identity, which looked back to the period as standing at the origin of present circumstances. It was against this background that Riegl examined the deeper continuities of the period with the present by identifying the conceptual and aesthetic threads that bound Baroque and modern art. While stressing the connections between the two, Riegl nevertheless recognized that there were limitations to what a Baroque revival might achieve. In a lecture delivered at the Museum for Art and Industry in 1897 on the decorative arts, for example, he drew attention to the fact that the principles of decorative art stood completely at odds with the conceptual and aesthetic basis of Baroque painting, which, with its paradoxical combination of painterly and naturalistic qualities, was inimical to the idealizing requirements of decorative form.60 His text, published in book form, Die Entstehung der Barockkunst in Rom (The Origins of Baroque Art in Rome), bears the hallmarks of his original lecture notes. The analysis is uneven, the text is broken by notable lacunae and discontinuities, and the argument peters out toward the end. Despite such shortcomings, it remains an important document of

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representation, but on the other, it was also an art of inner subjective emotion. As Riegl notes, “emotions are Michelangelo’s Baroque innovation.”64 Yet while Michelangelo may have been associated with this revolution, it was still Northern in its origins, for “Germanic art . . . places the main emphasis on the impulses of the soul . . . the psychological element is strongest in Germanic Kunstwollen from the start.”65 In contrast, he claims, Italian Renaissance art had perpetuated the classical idea of agency: “In antiquity things were fundamentally isolated, and human actions were represented as the expressions of will rather than expressions of sentiment. The will is typically isolating as it is always egoistic: it strives to maintain the individuality of any form.”66 Riegl would provide the most extensive exposition of this idea of modern subjectivity in The Group Portraiture of Holland, where he coined the concept of “attentiveness” (Aufmerksamkeit) to describe a particular subjective attitude in which the individual joins himself to the world, “not in order to subjugate it, unite with it in pure pleasure, or recoil from it in displeasure, but in pure selfless interest in it.”67 This quasi-Kantian formulation, in which “attentiveness” seems reminiscent of Kant’s description of aesthetic disinterestedness, betrays the influence of the Viennese aesthetician Robert Zimmermann, but Riegl deploys it as a historical concept, not as a tool of purely theoretical analysis. Specifically, he uses it to account for the peculiarities in Dutch group-portrait paintings, which exhibited a notable lack of narrative and oriented the attention of the subjects toward the spectator rather than each other. Roman Baroque art resulted from the collision of these two differing artistic impulses,

and the artist who embodied the tension between them was Michelangelo. For Riegl, Michelangelo’s tomb of Giuliano de’ Medici in San Lorenzo in Florence illustrates this phenomenon at its clearest, since the figure by Giuliano, though symbolizing the vita activa, seems strangely lacking in resolve, which for Riegl signifies the conflict between will and feeling. This recognition of inner depth is evident, too, he argues, in architecture, particularly in the architectural façade. The façade, by definition, declares its status as an illusion masking an indeterminate interior space. As Riegl notes, the façade lets slip that there is something behind: “Classical architecture was closed in on itself and did not have façades or any intention of recording something invisible.”68 Michelangelo represented the inception of a process that would culminate in Rembrandt, for “Rembrandt’s apostles are atmospheric, and the huge limbs and energetic expressions of will in Michelangelo’s figures are the opposite!”69 The conflict between will and inner subjectivity had been resolved, and in a separate essay on Jakob Ruisdael, Riegl suggests that the latter’s landscapes continued this process of subjectification, reaching a “hypersubjective attitude.”70 For Riegl this emphasis on interiority was accompanied, paradoxically, by the rise of Baroque naturalism and the emergence of the modern scientific outlook. This parallel development stemmed from their common grounding in the dominance of “viewing from a distance” (Fernsicht), in which the subject viewed the external world as if from the position of the detached observer.71 The concept of detachment, in turn, tied Riegl’s account to his wider theories regarding the relation between the Kunstwollen and the history of perception, and hence the rise

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of Baroque art mirrored not only shifting aesthetic choices but also the evolution of modes of visual attention. There were structural connections to other artistic phenomena too, including the Baroque cult of ruins. As Riegl notes: “We now know that a law of causality pervades all of creation. Every coming-to-be determines a decaying, every life demands a death, every movement occurs at the expense of others. An endless, restless struggle for existence. . . . Instead of rest, peace, and harmony, endless struggle, destruction.”72 In his famous essay “The Modern Cult of Monuments,” Riegl explores this idea further, arguing that the fascination with historical monuments and ruins as indices of the passing of time (their age value) was a peculiarly modern historical sentiment that could be traced back to Baroque precursors. The motif of the ruin was a recurring theme in early twentieth-century theories of contemporary culture. For example, in “Die Ruine,” an essay from 1907, Georg Simmel interpreted the ruin as the quintessential symbol of the modern era.73 The ruin was an objectification of the constant tension between nature and culture, in which the necessity of the decay of the artifices of culture was spelled out in its most visible and graphic form. The transformation of the architectural work into a ruin “grows into a cosmic tragedy, where every ruin, in our sensibility, is forced into the shadow of melancholy; for now decay has the appearance of nature’s revenge for the violation that the spirit has done in shaping her in its own image.”74 Many other authors of the period likewise saw in the Baroque an antecedent of their own predicament. Hugo von Hofmannsthal shared the same fascination with the Baroque, as exemplified by his

intense interest in Calderón, and it was also taken up by Hermann Bahr, whose Expressionism looked back longingly to the Baroque era as a successful fusion of opposites, the “era that heaped together all the longings, heavenly desires, and spiritual power of one and a half millennia but was itself just the promise of even more powerful syntheses and brought calm to the realm of turbulent movement, where . . . becoming plunges back into being, and time collided with eternity.”75 Riegl was not the only Vienna art historian to see an intimate and necessary connection between Baroque art and the present, for the idea was articulated in its most extended form by his student Max Dvořák. For Dvořák interpretation of the Baroque was implicated in the larger set of concerns over the contemporaneity of art history that informed his approach to research. He states this explicitly in his article “on the most pressing methodological demands on training for art-historical research”: “The extension of art-historical research into ever more areas is a matter of the greatest necessity . . . for there is no art that might not in the future become an important factor, even if in the past its influence was of limited historical significance.”76 For Dvořák history was a palimpsest, and this image shaped his own work, in which his scholarly attention to Baroque art evolved in parallel with an interest in contemporary art. This was evident in his reading of a number of artists. He saw the putative optical, painterly qualities of Tintoretto, for example, as a precursor to modernism (which he initially identified with Impressionism). In lectures on Baroque art from 1905/6 Dvořák constructed a genealogy of modernism in which Tintoretto constituted “the point of origin of the development that led to Velázquez,

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Rembrandt, and the art of our times,” a history he then traced further back to Titian.77 Dvořák referred explicitly to Titian’s “impressionism,” adding that the Venetian painter’s works were “gallery pictures in our sense of the word, in which the artist could let himself be led by an artistic idea and by the problems he was concerned with.”78 Thus, in addition to his role as a stylistic ancestor to modernity, Titian also prefigured the autonomy of modern art. This argument was clearly indebted to Riegl, but it was also informed by the aesthetic theories of Konrad Fiedler and Adolf von Hildebrand, who viewed the focus on opticality as essential to modernism.79 By the turn of the century it had become a commonplace: the Secessionist exhibition of 1903, The Development of Impressionism in Painting and Sculpture (Entwicklung des Impressionismus in Malerei und Plastik), included not only the work of French artists of the previous decades but also Rubens, Velázquez, Vermeer, and Tintoretto.80 Ten years after his Baroque lectures Dvořák radically reinterpreted the meaning of Tintoretto. He now replaced the putatively optical concerns of Impressionism with an emphasis on subjective inwardness, or enhanced spirituality. In a lecture of 1914 he argued that the painter’s work, “more than imitation . . . is an intensification of the magical interplay between spectator and the object, and this is the characteristic of the ultimate style of Tintoretto: a heightening of the means of painterly expression to a level of visionary expression, both superhuman and supernatural, together with compositions that equally offer a visionary representation of supernatural events.”81 He reiterated this view several times; for example, in a separate lecture on Tintoretto he argued that the painter’s work was marked

by a preponderance of “the emotional and the irrational.”82 Dvořák also refined his earlier impressionistic genealogy for Tintoretto’s work, for “the entire legacy of realistic depiction, formal solutions, and colorific effect that art adopted from its earlier development now receives a new meaning; it is no longer a self-supporting content but rather the effect of a higher spirituality and the expression of immaterial events. . . . In this, Tintoretto was close to Rembrandt, with whom he shared the conception and employment of dark and light . . . for Titian [it was] an element of impressionistic coloration; but for Tintoretto it became a means for expressing poetic fantasy and for granting the representation greater spiritual depth—as later was the case with Rembrandt.”83 Dvořák thus singled out Tintoretto as the Italian artist whose work had the greatest affinities with the art of the North. This rereading of Tintoretto represented a significant shift in Dvořák’s work; the history of art was now marked by “the eternal struggle between material and spirit,”84 which escalated Riegl’s earlier thesis of the oscillation between naturalistic and idealistic art. Dvořák set up a series of binary oppositions—idealism versus realism, Christian versus classical, Mannerist/ Baroque (the distinction was not yet clearly articulated) versus Renaissance—in which he gave this idea greater art-historical specificity. Impressionism did not entirely disappear from his interests, for he interpreted the catacomb paintings of Rome as examples of ancient impressionism, but he now saw them as “depicting things not as they objectively reveal themselves to experience but as they appear to subjective perception when transformed into immaterial impressions.”85 In other words, impressionism now signified

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a withdrawal from material objectivity into the world of the inner spirit. Indeed, Dvořák argued that understanding the works of Tintoretto was dependent on learning “to view the development of art not from the perspective of the imitation of nature and of formal problems but in terms of the deepening of the purely spiritual.”86 The turn to the spiritual became increasingly dominant in Dvořák’s later work. It informed his interpretation of Dürer’s Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (1498), for example, which, for Dvořák, demonstrated the specifically German nature of such spirituality, in contrast to the art of Italy, which offered no insight into the subjective life of its subjects.87 In particular, Dürer’s print exhibited the “impulse to view the world as a problem of the inner life and to see art as a means of engaging with God and the Devil, with this world and the next, with oneself and whatever motivates others in general.”88 Dvořák interpreted Michelangelo in similar light. Seeing him as the expression of a new “individualizing idealism,” he argued that in Michelangelo “the equation of art with empirical science . . . was replaced by the elevation of art to the domain of pure creativity.”89 Dvořák’s intellectual development paralleled other contemporary currents in thinking. He was clearly indebted to Riegl, and his early interest in opticality as the thread binding Tintoretto to the present indicated the impact of Machian positivism. His subsequent “turn” to the spiritual has been compared with contemporaneous trends in the visual arts, in particular the theosophic abstraction of painters such as Kandinsky and, more broadly, Expressionism.90 His sympathy with the latter is well attested; one of his final works was an essay on

Kokoschka.91 Dvořák himself freely admitted the intimate connection between contemporary art practice and art-historical judgment; in the lectures of 1915/16 that formed the basis of his book on Gothic painting and sculpture, he suggested that the dominance of classical art in nineteenth-century art-history writing reflected the hegemony of naturalistic values in artistic practice of the time.92 It was this too, he argued, that had led to the denigration of Mannerist and Baroque art. At the conclusion of his essay on El Greco and Mannerism he argued that the eclipse of the Cretan painter was due to the subsequent rise of values hostile to those embodied in his work: “Few words are needed to describe how, inevitably, El Greco fell ever more into oblivion during the following two centuries dominated by the natural sciences, mathematical thinking, belief in causality, technical progress, and the mechanization of culture, forming a culture of the eye and the brain but definitely not one of the heart.”93 Dvořák’s interpretation of the past through the filter of the present reflected his immersion in the modernist art of contemporary Vienna. Indeed, El Greco became the object of considerable interest among modernist critics in Vienna and elsewhere. As Eric Storm has noted, although the Bonn-based art historian Carl Justi (1832– 1912) in 1897 still regarded El Greco’s later work as exemplifying “pathological debasement” and “artistic degeneration,” the painter underwent a remarkable change in critical fortune in the subsequent decade, with Julius Meier-Graefe in particular adopting him as a precursor of modern art.94 It is notable in this context as well that Dvořák’s fellow Czechs shared his interest in El Greco. Specifically, the first issue of the Prague avant-garde periodical Art Monthly (Umělecký měsíčník)

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featured numerous reproductions of the painter’s works and a number of articles on him, including an extended review by the Expressionist artist Emil Filla of an El Greco exhibition in Munich.95 As Filla noted, the “rediscovery” of El Greco was significant not merely because it updated the historical record but because it reflected the deep affinity between his work and that of contemporary painters, and Filla identified a range of formal similarities between El Greco and Edvard Munch, whose work had had an enormous impact on Czech modernism since its first exhibition in Prague, in 1905. It is in the context of such interest in the work of El Greco on the part of modernist artists and critics in central Europe that Dvořák’s writings on him and on post-Renaissance art more generally should be interpreted. Dvořák was concerned with art-historical issues, particularly with contesting the traditional historiographical dominance of the Renaissance. As early as his Habilitation on the van Eyck brothers he had declared: “There are anomalies in historiography that are hard to understand. Among these are the cult of the Renaissance and the overestimation of it as an epoch that divides the history of human civilization into two.”96 More was at stake, however, than the issue of historiographical imbalance, for his observation was an intervention into the cultural politics of his own era, and this aspect of his work would become increasingly prominent. Hence, in his essay on El Greco he argued that the neglect of the spiritual in art reflected not only the dominance of classical aesthetics but also the emergence of materialistic values, and he thereby introduced a criticism of modernity that was widespread among idealist cultural and social commentators in the early twentieth century.

In his lectures on the history of Italian art delivered in 1915/16 Dvořák noted that while current society stood “at a loss in the face of what might happen now and in the future,” history could function as a source of encouragement to the present; “in such periods of political depression one can find solace in historical considerations and perhaps even summon up courage and strength for the future.”97 There were important parallels between the past and the present, and these remarks took on a particular pertinence given that their implicit referent was the First World War. Dvořák sought to hold on to the ideal of the autonomy of art, pointing toward the significant artistic production during the Thirty Years’ War, a time of massive political violence and material deprivation: “in general, the intensity of intellectual and spiritual life is not dependent on material preconditions.”98 Dvořák’s essay on El Greco contains the most explicit use of history as an allegory of the present and as an instrument for a critique of the present. The painter’s antinaturalism was the sign of a broader shift that, “like the current movement against capitalism, went against the worldliness of the church and against the materialism that at that time seized the whole of religious life.”99 El Greco’s painting was the artistic response to a profound cultural crisis, “an apparent chaos, as our age appears to us to be chaotic.”100 In his analysis of the attempts to reestablish some kind of cultural meaning in the wake of the Reformation, Dvořák could equally well have been talking about his own times:

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Following the collapse of a worldwide edifice, such as the worldview of the late Middle Ages, the Renaissance, or the Reformation, ruins

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necessarily emerge. . . . Thus we stand before a

“spiritual culture.” Having already welcomed the war as the occasion for a cultural clearing and for weeding out the dead and decaying, Dvořák declared at the conclusion that “liberal individualistic materialism was faced with a socio-ethical imperative, scientific positivism with a philosophical and historical idealism, and whoever examines this more closely could not doubt which of these two worlds was destined to victory from the very beginning.”103 When Dvořák’s collected essays were published posthumously in 1929, this essay, though included, was subjected to considerable revision; for obvious reasons, all reference to the war was omitted, and the essay concluded with a discussion of Goethe.104 What is striking about the essay, as the culmination of a specific intellectual trajectory within Dvořák’s career, is that it displays growing affinities with the conservative German cultural criticism that saw the conflict with the liberal democracies as a clash of spiritual over materialistic values. Such reactionary modernism, which came to maturity during the postwar conservative revolution in Germany in the writings of authors such as Oswald Spengler, Ernst Jünger, and Werner Sombart, explicitly cast a “spiritual” German community (Gemeinschaft) in opposition to the technological societies of other advanced states, decrying too the “Americanization” of European culture.105 One has to exercise caution when tracing commonalities between Dvořák’s statements and this radicalized romantic politics; he clearly did not share the wider political commitments of these authors. Moreover, his utterances reflect the wider liberal attitudes of the time, for, as Pieter Judson has noted, the liberal intelligentsia in Austria

drama of enormous disturbance where, drawing on a colorful mixture of the old and the new, artists no less than philosophers, literary authors, scholars, and politicians search in different directions for new sources of support and goals. Artists, for example, do this by resorting to aesthetic virtuosity or new formal abstractions, which they imaginatively work up into academic doctrines and theories . . . the range of subject matter increases in all directions, in relation to their need to gain attention and stress . . . the originality and individuality of their stance toward the world around them.101

This excerpt offers only a coded reference to the present, but the essay culminates in a direct assertion of the link between the crisis at the heart of El Greco’s painting and the contemporary situation: “Today this materialistic culture is faced with its termination. I am thinking here less of an external collapse, which would be a mere outward symptom, than of an internal one, which has been evident for a generation in all areas of intellectual life . . . in that conspiracy of events which seems to be directing the secret law of human fate in the direction of a new spiritual and antimaterialistic age.”102 For Dvořák the present was an era of crisis, whose resolution he saw in a deepened inner subjectivity. Despite the apparent dominance of material values, he was convinced that his own times would lead to the ultimate victory of the spiritual, a victory in which the First World War would play no small part. This idea was not mentioned in his essay on El Greco, but in a pamphlet on Goya’s Disasters of War published in 1916, Dvořák referred to the war in exactly the same terms as his wider diagnosis of modern culture. Indeed, he viewed it as a deeper conflict of

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adopted an increasingly nationalistic rhetoric in the final decade of the nineteenth century.106 In part this was in order to compete with the growing dominance of the Christian Socialists, but it was also a function of the polarization of political and cultural allegiances. Although Dvořák had himself been a victim of this development when appointed professor extraordinarius in 1905, he came to identify with an outlook strongly tinged with German nationalist sentiment. Indeed, not even Riegl, the forceful exponent of a cosmopolitan art history, was immune. His reading of Baroque saw it as the expression of a “northern” Kunstwollen that he increasingly equated with a specifically German subjectivity.

identity. Comparison of the writings of authors such as Ilg, Riegl, Gurlitt, Birnbaum, Wirth, and Dvořák reveals varying interpretations of the meaning of the Baroque; for Ilg the Baroque evoked the past glories of the Habsburg Empire and as a supranational cultural phenomenon also corresponded to the cosmopolitan narratives of imperial identity. For Gurlitt, Birnbaum, and Wirth, in contrast, Baroque art became the focus of a struggle over a narrower question of national legacies, which ultimately fitted neither Czech nor German assertions to “ownership.” For Riegl and Dvořák the significance of the Baroque lay in its role as a precursor to the present. Nevertheless, as this chapter has demonstrated, for all the individual differences, in each case the stakes of the debate were higher than mere differences of opinion over the meaning of the past, for the Baroque was intimately linked to ideas about modernity and the present. As such, it provides a powerful means for measuring art historians’ engagement with the wider social and cultural politics of Austria-​Hungary. It is not the only such means, however, for equally powerful is folk art, which, in the late nineteenth century, became a central subject of historiographical debate (as well as artistic practice).

Conclusion In the forty-four years between the publication of Albert Ilg’s Zukunft des Barockstiles in 1880 and the appearance of Vojtěch Birnbaum’s essay “Barokní princip v dějinách architektury” in 1924, Baroque art and architecture became increasingly central to art-historical discourse. Having initially been a marginal phenomenon regarded as a symptom of artistic decline, the Baroque came to feature prominently in definitions of cultural

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6 Vernacular Cultures and National Identities: The Politics of Folk Art The subject of discussion is a neglected art. Although popular costume has gained attention across the world and has even occasionally already been treated by scientific analyses, that which stands alongside it in the form of folk art, which is in every respect its equal, has, until very recent times, been deprived of attention. Only the latest world’s fairs have brought it to light and drawn our gaze toward it. —jakob von falke

Falke’s comments, published in 1878, were an early contribution to what was one of the most important developments in the art world of late nineteenth-century Austria-​ Hungary: the rise of a critical interest in folk art. The discovery of folk art was, of course, a Europe-wide phenomenon, linked to the emergence of ethnology as a field of scholarly endeavor as well as to the growth of attention to primitive art. All three were, in turn, a reflection both of processes of modernization, in which urbanization fundamentally altered earlier customs and social practices, and of the colonial experience,

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which provided Europeans with extensive contact with radically different cultures. The valorization of folk culture underpinned the search for the roots of national identity and tradition; in the field of music it prompted the systematic documentation of “traditional” songs as well as their incorporation into “high” musical compositions, while in the visual arts, and particularly architecture and design, it found expression in the retrieval or, in many cases, the invention of “authentic” national vernacular styles. This facet of European cultural history has been exhaustively analyzed, and it is

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not the purpose of this chapter to reiterate such well-established scholarship.1 However, while broader European patterns have been discussed in detail, particularly those of the great imperial powers of France, Britain, and Germany, many aspects of the folkloric renaissance in Austria-​Hungary remained unexplored. The championing of folk art by late nineteenth-century architects, designers, and artists in the Habsburg Empire has been widely documented. Much of the renewal of creative energies in the visual arts of central Europe was driven by the appropriation of folk art and vernacular cultures. The intellectual background to this phenomenon, however, and in particular the rise of ethnography in Austria-​Hungary, has been considerably less well explored.2 In addition, while the championing of folk and vernacular culture by Czechs, Hungarians, Poles, and so forth has been discussed at length, the attitudes of Vienna-based intellectuals remain largely unexamined, as does the invention and evolution of the term “folk art” and the debates that prompted it. For example, discussion of folk art not only circulated around questions of its value but also involved speculation over its origins and its relation to forms of “high art.” This chapter analyzes the emergence of the concept of folk art in Austria-​Hungary and maps out its reception in Vienna as well as other intellectual and cultural centers of the Empire.

House Industry: Folk Art Before “Folk Art” Although the text by Jakob von Falke cited at the opening of this chapter refers to folk art, it is devoted to the topic of “house industry” (Hausindustrie). Before the 1890s the term

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“folk art” (Volkskunst) was used infrequently, primarily because the folk-art movement itself gained momentum only during the final decade of the century, indicating a significant shift in the way that vernacular culture was conceptualized. Hausindustrie spawned Volkskunst. Although Hausindustrie came to be conflated with folk art, the term was first employed as part of the lexicon of economics or national economy. It entered the German language in the 1840s as a calque from the English “domestic system” (in opposition to “factory system”) and denoted a mode of organized labor.3 It could include workshop-based production, but it was mostly home-based paid handicraft labor that produced in small-scale batches. According to one definition “house industry” denoted “that form of production . . . in which rural dwellers produce in their own homes household objects for personal use and clothing and articles for sale, which would otherwise be objects produced by an industrial concern. Family members assist in this, and paid workers are the exception.”4 Playing a prominent role in Austrian and German economists’ thinking until 1918, this system of “household manufacture” (häusliche Manufaktur) was seen as an intermediate form of production between the factory and handicraft, and this structure was then fitted into a developmental taxonomy of economic history. House industry was seen as constituting a transitional stage from handicraft, which had emerged in the fourteenth century with the trend toward “bringing excess production in the familial home or in the workshop to larger markets through the medium of trade.”5 Marx saw it as a vital first step in industrialization, for the latter had taken hold not in the urban guild trades

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but in low-skill “rural secondary occupations” such as spinning and weaving and other activities such as glass manufacture or ironwork, which became the locus of the first shift toward larger-scale manufacture.6 For many commentators, therefore, house industry represented an early modern form of production. As one authority noted, “factory production must be regarded as the highest form of industrial concern, and with the ongoing economic and technical development of the land, it will inevitably become more and more extensive . . . whenever [house industry] enters into competition with factory production, its demise is inevitable.”7 A similar outlook was evident in the report by Wilhelm Exner, director of the Vienna Academy of Soil Culture (Wiener Hochschule für Bodenkultur), following the Exhibition of Forestry and the Rural Economy held in Vienna in 1890.8 The report contained separate essays by various contributors, including one on each of the crown lands in Austria (Hungary was not included), outlining the state of house industry in each. The reports on the “inner Austrian lands”—in other words, Styria, Carinthia, Carniola, Lower and Upper Austria, and the Tyrol—noted that owing to processes of industrialization and modernization, house industry was fast disappearing or had already disappeared. In most cases, house industry only existed where it “[was] able to resist factory production, [where] the work still [had] to be done essentially by hand with simple tools and equipment, or where factory-based industry [could not] substantially reduce production costs.”9 For all the confidence of this judgment in the inevitability of historical change, this historicist attitude was confounded by the basic fact that although factory production had indeed displaced the older cottage industries

in many parts of Austria-​Hungary (as well as Germany), they were still widespread in many others. In Germany they were visible in the textile industry of Silesia, for example, while in Austria-​Hungary the persistence of house industry was particularly marked in the so-called peripheral crown lands, such as Galicia and Bukovina,10 which had widespread rural poverty and economies still largely based on agricultural subsistence. The association of house industry with these regions reinforced the notion of it as a fossil from the past that underpinned the large economic disparities between the eastern and western regions of the Empire. While in 1911 the per capita income in Lower Austria was 850 crowns and in Bohemia 761 crowns, in Galicia it was 316 and in Bukovina even lower, at a mere 310 crowns.11 The uneven economic development of the Empire—the oil boom in Galicia did little to alter this situation—confirmed for many the wider cultural stereotypes examined in previous chapters, which created hierarchies between the different ethnic populations.12 However, the historicizing attitude that saw the persistence of house industry as an indicator of interrupted development represented a partial view, inasmuch as house industry had gained a new lease on life during the nineteenth century. Due to the rising costs of urban factory-based production, many entrepreneurs had come to use casual rural labor, particularly in textile manufacture, as an alternative. The same efficiencies of scale of the factory were not possible, but entrepreneurs benefited by displacing all the economic risks onto the workforce while eliminating the capital outlay required to start and operate a plant. A major subject of debate from the 1870s onward was consequently the role of house

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industry in the future development of the Empire. It was seen as problematic for a number of reasons. First, although arising out of the rural economy, it produced a population that was detached from the agricultural economy and wholly dependent on secondary occupations. In addition, house industry involved an interaction between merchants and artisan labor (often described in terms of the relation between head and body) that produced a class of workers who were open to exploitation by unscrupulous entrepreneurs acting as commissioning agents in what was termed the “putting-out system” (Verlagssystem).13 Economists such as Karl Bücher (1847– 1930), professor of statistics at the University of Basel and, from 1892, Leipzig, were highly critical of the system that displaced all the risks of production from the entrepreneur onto the producer. This was recognized in Austria-​Hungary too. In the late 1880s, Adolf Braun (1862–1929), a prominent journalist and member of the Austrian Social Democratic Party, published an economic and statistical survey arguing that house industry was responsible for widespread rural impoverishment.14 Other authors reached similar conclusions about the negative impact of the system. Eugen Schwiedland (1863–1936), for example, an economist at the Technical School (technische Hochschule) in Vienna, acknowledged that house industry could sometimes bring employment to economically depressed areas, but he also recognized that in many cases the craftsman was not a “free worker.”15 More generally he noted “the dependency of the producers on the commissioning agent, for whom they are never autonomous entrepreneurs; rather, they rely on him to distribute their products. A consequence is that socially and

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economically the agent flourishes, while the situation of the master craftsman who is commissioned deteriorates.”16 There were other, related concerns. In Austria, following passage of the Trade Ordinance of 1859, the traditional structures of guild-based apprenticeship in the towns had been dissolved in favor of a liberalization of the labor market. This presented the problem of how to maintain standards and ensure viable industries; the solution was to set up design schools to take the place of the more traditional forms of training.17 Rudolf von Eitelberger played a leading role in the formation of this system; in 1868, four years after the Museum for Art and Industry was opened in Vienna, a linked School of Design was also established.18 Its purpose was “to supply the factories with draftsmen and model makers, who are almost entirely lacking in the country, artists who combine a sense of beauty with complete training in design in one inventive mind, and thereby bring about a creative upturn in our factories.”19 The school was modeled on the National Art Training School in London and provided a pattern that was replicated across the Empire. A Design School was founded in Prague in 1885, with aims broadly similar to those of the school in Vienna, and further schools were founded in Zagreb in 1882, linked to the Museum for Art and Industry, in Ljubljana in 1888, and in Split in 1907.20 These schools stood at the apex of a hierarchy of training establishments, and one of their functions was to prepare teachers qualified to teach at the more than two hundred technical schools (Fachschulen) scattered across the monarchy. The schools of design were mostly situated in the major urban centers and thus were oriented toward the demands of a bourgeois market. The

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technical schools, in contrast, were located in the smaller towns and villages, and it was clear that they occupied a lower position in the hierarchy. Their function was, Eitelberger noted, “to build up the standing of the worker,” but they were “not concerned with the training of artists. . . . nothing [was] more dangerous for the technical training of a worker than for the school to raise his artistic aspirations, which [could] then not be satisfied later in life.”21 During the 1870s the number of such schools greatly increased as part of a concerted effort to improve the skills of designers; mostly they were situated near existing industries, which they were meant to help grow and consolidate. They included, for example, schools of woodcarving, marble working, carpentry, drawing, lathing, modeling, clay making, embroidery, and lace making. When he wrote about house industry in 1878, therefore, Falke was examining a subject that would become the focus of increasing academic and wider sociopolitical interest in both Germany and Austria-​Hungary. In the latter, the question of the welfare of a specific social class was compounded by issues of geography and cultural identity, on account of the uneven economic development of the Empire. A key area of debate was the long-term viability of house industry as a mode of manufacture and, in addition, how to respond to its demise in many regions due to its inability to compete with factory production. On the one hand, the decline of house industry, given its many flaws, was seen as a necessary and desirable step forward; on the other hand, some authors noted with some regret that industrial modernization had led to a certain cultural homogeneity and loss of local identities. Exner’s report of 1890 noted, for example, that strong traditions of

locally produced picturesque folk costume had given way to mass-produced clothing: “homemade clothing is only used for work wear during the week; for Sundays goods purchased from the factory are increasingly preferred.”22 The decline of house industry in Moravia was linked to the loss of ethnic identity—in particular, that of the Slavs— which was contrasted with the situation in Dalmatia or Croatia: “in no area of activity does contemporary Vlach house industry have such a specifically national character as does the house industry of the South Slavs.”23 Designs employed decorative forms that could be found across the Empire; nothing could be identified as displaying a specifically Moravian character. These comments indicate the extent to which economic debates had, by the last decade of the century, transformed into discussions about ethnic identity. A shift in the referent of the term “house industry” played a significant role in this transformation. For national economists it continued to function as a term of economic analysis, but in the eyes of many observers it had ceased to denote a system of production and instead denoted a reified conception of its products, which increasingly came to be viewed as synonymous with rural design or folk art. At the time that Falke was writing, however, this was only beginning to take place, and it is notable that, along with other Vienna School representatives, he sought to resist this attempt to appropriate questions concerning house industry to the politics of ethnic identity. Falke’s main objective was to highlight the positive role of house industry as a source for contemporary design. In an age that had “plundered the artistic styles of the past to exhaustion” and that was “saturated with the

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constant imitation and repetition of familiar forms and ornaments,” house industry, or folk art, provided something quite distinct. Specifically, this “unknown source” offered a “rich plenitude of original forms, all preserved for centuries by practical needs . . . a treasury of ornaments.”24 This shaping by practical exigency made it particularly apt for current designers, Falke argued; the Roman jewelers Castellani, for example, had rediscovered the ancient art of filigree, which, although forgotten by guild jewelers in the towns, had been preserved in the folk art of the villages.25 Based at the Museum for Art and Industry, Falke was concerned with the role of house industry in the wider project of design reform initiated by Rudolf von Eitelberger, which linked him closely to the imperial cultural politics of Eitelberger’s initiatives; as Diana Reynolds has pointed out, the Fachschulen were part of a more sustained imperial strategy to counter the pull of regional and local cultures.26 They played an important role in disseminating norms that sustained the aesthetic hegemony of “official” taste and practice. In this the Museum for Art and Industry in Vienna was a significant agent; its original objective of displaying the “best” examples of international design and applied art—either contemporary or historical—was linked to the wider promotion of the artistic and cultural vision of the Empire and the dynasty as a whole. This approach was evident in Falke’s treatment of the relation between national identity and house industry. In his essay on house industry Falke opens with a statement that appears to be an unambiguous assertion of nationalist sentiment: “Under ‘national house industry’ we conceive all those objects that are created by

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the common people for the use of the common people.”27 The idea of the nation here is conflated with that of the common people (Volk), in apparent anticipation of the later espousal of the common people as the heart of national identity. Falke also appears to have discarded the concept of house industry current in national economy, paving the way for the simple equation of house industry with folk art. Indeed, he explicitly excludes from consideration traditional crafts, such as the clocks of the Black Forest or the wood carvings of Berchtesgarden, because they were produced for the market, the products of “a factory that has been transplanted into the village and into private houses.”28 Yet this apparently nationalistic impression is corrected by a closer reading of his conception of Volk. In particular, Falke refers to vernacular traditions “that are specific to certain peoples, certain provinces, regions, areas, villages, and that, just like folk costume, serve or could serve as signs of difference.”29 The absence of reference to towns and cities in this list reveals the assumption behind this account, namely, that Volk denotes the rural population. Indeed, Falke makes a concerted effort to dissociate notions of the Volk from any connotations of national politics: We therefore understand the designation “national” only in terms of the vernacular [volksthümlich], with its origins in the common people, and we are thereby not setting the great nations, not the modern cultural states, against each other, not the industries of France and England . . . nor do we have in mind the political meaning of the word, with which it has tended to be associated in Austria. One may conceive or employ the term in another, broader sense, without intending to evoke “historical political entities.”30

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Instead, Falke provides an alternative definition of “national” that contrasts house industry with the industrialized culture industry (Culturindustrie). House industry persisted through time in opposition to fashion, he argues, and represented the forces of permanence in opposition to those of change, the eternally new, precisely because it was the production of the people of the countryside, which had not been penetrated by modern civilization. This insistence on a distinction between the political concept of “nation,” on the one hand, and the geographic concept of “nation,” referring to local, and presumably static, vernacular cultures, on the other, is of crucial significance in Falke’s attempt to address the growing tendency to nationalize culture. His explicit avoidance of the idea of the Kulturnation is telling here, for the term played a growing role in the formation of ideas about national identity in the newly created German Reich, and the response in Austrian political discourse was to create the concept of the political state.31 Falke discusses the national house industry of other European states and also acknowledges that in Austria it is the “national” house industry of the Slavs of Bohemia, Dalmatia, Galicia, and Slavonia that is preeminent, for “whatever the German crown lands or German regions once possessed has now almost entirely vanished.”32 Yet he emphasizes their status as localized cultural communities, in contrast to the national cultures of Britain, France, or Germany. Falke attempted to negotiate the complex terrain of the increasingly nationally coded cultural politics of the 1870s with tact and diplomacy. Eitelberger was rather less nuanced in his response. In a lecture on “the question of house industry” delivered

in 1880 he addressed the issue much more directly. Berating the nationalist appropriation of house industry in Austria-​Hungary, he accuses this “predominantly political, hypermodern, and national movement” of treating house industry as “a weapon against the modern Austrian bourgeoisie.”33 This movement had led to a loss of national tolerance, he argues: “To view house industry as an object of struggle against the bourgeois class is not only unjustified, it is harmful.” Eitelberger’s point is ambiguous in that, like Falke, he uses the term “national” in two ways. On the one hand, it denotes vernacular identity; on the other hand, it has an explicitly political connotation, which explains his initially puzzling assertion that “house industry cannot be robbed of its national character.” This formulation assumes a fundamental division between the concerns of the rural population, who endowed house industry with its vernacular identity, and the political project of nation building, fostered by the urban intelligentsia, and underlies Eitelberger’s claim that “any attempts to use primary school to denude house industry of its national character, and to use primary school as the lever of a national movement, will be unsuccessful.”34 This applied particularly to the Poles and the Magyars, he argues, “who think of nothing but political plans for the future,” for “the language of house industry is the language of the common people.”35 Eitelberger was thus critical of the nationalistic appropriation of house industry but, crucially, consented to the recoding of it in ethnic rather than social and economic terms. Like Falke, he saw different ethnic groups as having distinct styles. Despite the dangers of this reconceptualization, Eitelberger remained committed to supporting house

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industry, in part as a means of supporting the ailing rural economies of the Empire. This put him in opposition to Bücher and other national economists, yet as Georg Vasold has suggested, Eitelberger’s liberal social and political instincts were also at play, for his support for house industry was also connected to its dissociation from the proletarianized workforce of urban factories.36 It seemed to Eitelberger “quite wrong to use money and monetary value as the sole measure in judgments regarding national well-being.”37 This was, he argued, a “bleak conception of the life of people.” Instead, national well-being also included familial happiness and the pleasure in artistic creativity. These had been destroyed by the incursion of mass production, and he consequently viewed state support for house industry as a moral task. As a result, he argued, the primary issue for the rural economy was “aligning the gigantic growth in the power of capital and the machine with the artistic challenges of the present and the moral basis of society in the state and the family.”38

From House Industry to Folk Art: National Ideologies Eitelberger’s moral vision of house industry reflected the impact of the English Arts and Crafts movement on thinking in Austria; his image of a rural economy founded on nonalienated labor was fully concordant with the ideas of William Morris and was, arguably, equally unfeasible. Moreover, although the term “house industry” had originated in considerations of the national economy and continued to be useful there until the end of the First World War, Falke and

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Eitelberger introduced important semantic shifts in the concept. In particular, a binary opposition between rural house industry and factory-based manufacturing replaced the notion of house industry as an intermediate stage between domestic work and full-scale mass production. House industry consequently became indistinguishable from folk art. Although Eitelberger and Falke were critical of the nationalist reading of folk art, the terms in which they themselves discussed the subject indicated agreement with their opponents over its role as a signifier of cultural difference. Moreover, despite the interventions of Eitelberger and Falke, the equation of cultural difference with national difference gained momentum in the monarchy throughout the 1880s. This had parallels across Europe. In Britain William Thoms founded the Folklore Society in 1878, which from that year onward published a journal, the Folklore Record.39 The scope of the society was ostensibly global; the first issue of the journal was dedicated to Japanese folk tales. However, significant interest was paid to British folk traditions. In France a similar growth of interest in folk culture occurred at the same time; the folklorist Paul Sébillot began publishing a series of collections of folk tales and oral literature in the 1880s, with a similar combination of French and international subjects.40 Such folklorism coincided with other developments in the visual arts; it was moreover only seven years after the publication of Sébillot’s collection of tales from Brittany that Gauguin completed his famous allegory of Breton folk culture, Vision After the Sermon (1888). A product of modernity, the rising interest in folk art and culture provided an answer to disenchantment with the present

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and displayed many of the traits associated with primitivism, such as the search for authenticity and nonalienated existence.41 Many of the tropes mobilized in discussion of so-called primitive art in Africa or the Pacific reappeared in accounts of folk art; in her introduction to the Studio volume dedicated to the “peasant art in Austria and Hungary,” Amelia S. Levetus noted that “school work, beautifully executed as it is, loses in comparison with the naive charm expressed in the spontaneous designs and quaintness of thought shown in the work of the unschooled daughters of the soil, who, with hands coarsened by field labour eight months in the year, employed themselves during the long winter months in creating some object of love and fancy. For in the peasant woman, in a still higher degree than in the peasant man, an inborn feeling for art exists.”42 Hence, folk art was not only feminized but was embedded within myths of innate creativity that bore remarkable similarity to those observed in “primitive” art beyond Europe. The folk-art movement in central Europe had specific traits, however, that distinguished it from the primitivism of artists such as Gauguin or the exoticism of British, French, and German historians writing on Islamic or Indian art. For the latter projected the search for authenticity onto an exotic and/or primitive other, which served as a foil to the modern European subject; operating with the binary divide of modern/primitive, primitivism and exoticism were universal in their aspirations, reading non-Western art as the product of general human psychology and expressing the drama of the common human condition. In contrast, the folk-art movement in Habsburg central Europe was narrower in scope, concerned with

tracing the roots of specific communities in the search for national renewal.43 Indeed, in Hungary the “exotic” became a source of self-identification; the “eastern” origins of the Magyars were emphasized as a key signifier of national identity and difference (particularly from Austro-Germans). The most monumental expression of this was the Museum of Applied Arts, designed by Ödön Lechner and Gyula Pártos, opened in Budapest in 1896 (fig. 8), which deployed a range of orientalizing motifs, such as the scalloped arches and tentlike glass canopy of the inner courtyard (fig. 9), inspired by displays of Indian art Lechner had seen in the South Kensington Museum, or the Zsolnay decorative tiles on the external façade, modeled on Iznik tile designs of Ottoman Turkey.44 More generally, the folk-art movement played an important role in giving visible form to the emerging ideologies in the mid to late nineteenth century, subsequently mythologized as the period of “national awakening,” which occurred across Europe from Finland and Scandinavia to the Balkans. In each case, the folk-art movement saw the peasant culture of the surrounding countryside as having preserved historic traditions and practices that could serve as the locus of authentic national identity.45 In Polish Galicia the “discovery” of folk art was intimately linked to the changing significance of the figure of the peasant in political discourse.46 As Keeley Stauter-Halstead has argued, after the emancipation of the serfs of Galicia in 1848 came the gradual rise of a rural public sphere, in which peasant politics shifted focus from the immediate vicinity of the village to the larger theater of the region and nation. Hence, villagers “had developed a greater awareness of their contribution to political life and a rudimentary

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fig. 8  Ödön Lechner and Gyula Pártos, front façade of the Museum of Applied Arts, Budapest, 1896.

understanding of the significance a united Polish ‘nation’ might have for them.”47 This process was supported by the development of a peasant press; in 1875 the cleric and Catholic politician Stanisław Stojałowski began publishing two newspapers, the Wreath (Wieniec) and the Bee (Pszczółka), specifically aimed at a rural readership. In addition, increasing numbers of peasant celebrations were staged through the 1890s, and in 1895 the Peasant Party was formed.48 Conversely, social and cultural elites sought to gain the

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support of the peasantry for their own political causes, and this encouraged an increasing focus on peasant culture as the embodiment of national identity. The folk-art movement in Galicia was intimately bound up with the wider politics of Polish nationalism. This intimate connection is evident, for example, in the campaign by Stanisław Witkiewicz, one of the leading figures of the Polish folk-art movement, against the Craft School of Wood Industry in Zakopane, in the Tatra mountains of

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fig. 9  Ödön Lechner, interior courtyard of the Museum of Applied Arts, Budapest, 1896.

southern Galicia. The school was set up in the spa town in 1881 as a means of providing skills and employment for local boys and was followed in 1883 by the establishment of a school of lace making. In part these were driven by the ideology of “organic work” that was associated with the positivist movement among the Polish intelligentsia; in other words, the schools were to contribute to the eventual goal of Polish autonomy by facilitating the gradual and progressive industrial and economic advancement of the Tatra villagers. They also formed part of the wider network of craft schools sponsored by the government in Vienna, however;

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and as David Crowley has outlined, Witkiewicz objected in particular to the aesthetic norms maintained by the Zakopane Craft School.49 Criticizing the promotion of Tyrolean-style designs by the first director, František Neužil (1845–1899), a Czech who had studied in Vienna, Witkiewicz argued that the school had become “the seed-bed for Tyrolean-Viennese taste, a German poison exhausting the skills of the Górale [highland] peasants.”50 In its place, he urged the adoption of the local artistic vernacular of the highlanders in the mountain region around the town, leading a campaign against the school that resulted in the departure of

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Neužil and the installation in 1896 of a new director, Edgar Kováts (1845–1912), a Pole originally from Bukovina, who was more sympathetic to these aims. A similar criticism was voiced by Włodzimierz Dzieduszycki, founder of the Museum of Industrial Arts in Lemberg. Dzieduszycki focused on the craft schools’ disrespect for local culture. “First of all,” he argued, “one has to respect traditions, the customs of the people. . . . two crucial elements in our house industry have to be kept separate: the purely technical element of design and industry, and the ethnographic, the national, the folkloric, the peasant element.”51 It was this latter that was in danger of being lost, he argued, due to processes of modernization and the state’s imposition of a centralized education system. This lay behind his defensive assertion that “house industry only needs protection from being distracted by foreign influences.”52 Witkiewicz achieved prominence as creator of the Zakopane style in the 1890s, drawing on wooden vernacular architecture in an ambitious search for a national style.53 He was the author of numerous texts in which he espoused the style, as well as the designer of a series of notable buildings, such as the Villa Koliba (fig. 10), completed in 1894, the Villa Zofiówka (1896), and the Villa Konstantynówka (1900), all of which exemplified the particular adoption of peasant motifs he advocated as part of his program for Polish cultural renewal.54 He was not the first to have attempted such a project; the revival of folk art in Poland is often attributed to the late Romantic poet Cyprian Norwid, whose epic poem Promethidion of 1851 called for a return to the nonalienated labor of the peasantry. Others, including the art historian and journalist Franciszek Martynowski (1848–1896), had already identified

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vernacular wooden architecture as a source of national artistic renewal in the 1880s, while in Lemberg a separate folk-art-revival movement appropriated designs from Ruthenian peasant culture.55 In the 1870s and 1880s a number of architects and art historians had looked to the neo-Gothic, culminating in the idea of the “Vistula Gothic style” as the basis of a national Polish architecture, and until the outbreak of the First World War this proved highly influential for ecclesiastical building projects.56 Nevertheless, the work of Witkiewicz and his associates achieved the greatest impact; manifest not only in the buildings constructed in Zakopane for bourgeois clients, it was readily commodified by the fashion industry, with Zakopane-style garments and accessories sold in major cities, including Warsaw. This provides an indication of the economic context of Witkiewicz’s project, which is often eclipsed by the focus on issues of national identity and aesthetics. The village of Zakopane was first “discovered” in the 1870s by Tytus Chałubinski, a professor of surgery in Warsaw, who had been drawn to the region on account of the climate and its health effects and had been one of the founders of the Tatras Society in 1873. Another founder was the painter Walery Eljasz-Radzikowski, who had already published a number of books on the Tatras, including a guide and a volume of brief sketches of towns and villages in the region, in which he described the highland cottages in some detail.57 This marked the beginning of the evolution of Zakopane from a small, inconspicuous village to a significant health resort and, later, tourist destination. When Witkiewicz first came to Zakopane for health reasons in 1890, it was already an established resort, and the “authentic” culture

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fig. 10  Stanisław Witkiewicz, Villa Koliba, Zakopane, 1892–94.

he believed he had found there was fast becoming the picturesque object of a tourist’s gaze. This somewhat complicates the often-reiterated account of the discovery of an “authentic” vernacular culture that served as a counter to Viennese cultural hegemony. Moreover, the imperial authorities were quick to recognize the economic benefits of the developing tourist industry to economically backward regions. An instructive

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instance can be found in eastern Galicia, in the town of Kołomyja, which grew in importance with the “discovery” of the Hutsuls, the Ukrainian-speaking highlanders of the eastern Carpathians. The Tatras Society had staged an ethnographic exhibition on the Hutsuls in Kołomyja in 1879, which was then visited by the emperor Franz Joseph on his tour of Galicia the following year.58 Kołomyja and Zakopane were different; the

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Hutsuls were not ethnic Poles, and they were exhibited partly in an attempt to evoke memories of the multicultural past of the Polish Commonwealth. Nevertheless, imperial patronage helped eastern Galicia to become a significant tourist destination, where it was possible to stay in Hutsul houses and buy Hutsul wares in shops run by Hutsul traders. The commercialization of folk culture and its integration into the growing tourist industry fueled skepticism among critics of the rediscovery of folk art, although such commercial concerns were not unique to Polish Galicia. As Manuel Schramm has convincingly demonstrated, “folk art” in Germany was likewise reinvented as a marketing concept in the early 1900s in order to resuscitate the ailing toy industry in the Erzgebirge in Saxony.59

Critical Voices The folk-art movement has been extensively documented and has become part of the mainstream history of central European modernism. Considerably less well analyzed, however, have been the critical responses to the phenomenon, particularly from Vienna School art historians. The only critic who has been the subject of any extensive commentary is Adolf Loos; his notorious essay “Ornament and Crime” [Ornament und Verbrechen (1908)] was as much an invective against the folk-art movement as a criticism of the ornamentation of Secessionism.60 However, numerous critiques were driven by considerations other than Loos’s modernist posturing, not least that of countering the politics attending the folk-art movement. Hence, not only did Eitelberger and Falke intervene in debates surrounding the

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viability of house industry as an economic structure, they also addressed some of the questions concerning the relation between house industry/folk art and national identity. One important debate addressed the question of the origins of folk art. Exponents of the folk-art movement emphasized its primal origins, its status as the expression of local, regional, and national aboriginal cultures, which thereby guaranteed its authenticity as the locus of national identity. In contrast, Falke proposed that much folk art was merely a simplified version of high art. Thus, he asserted, the “numerous peasant vessels in different regions of Italy continue, naturally in a coarse manner, but with an unmistakable reminiscence of their noble origins, the once famous majolica productions of the Renaissance period,” and in a parallel fashion, “peasant costumes preserve and continue the earlier fashions of polite society.”61 A similar argument was expounded some twenty years later in a much more polemical fashion by Riegl in relation to Coptic art. Having begun his professional career as curator in the Museum for Art and Industry, many of his early writings were devoted to its collections of Near Eastern textiles. His Questions of Style was the culmination of a number of publications on the ornamental art and design of the ancient and Islamic Near East, which had been the subject of his first major publication: a catalogue of the Egyptian textiles in the museum’s collection.62 His interest coincided with a growing number of discoveries, from 1880 onward, of ancient textiles in Egypt from the late antique and early Christian periods, which also generated a number of publications.63 A key topic for debate was how to define and categorize Coptic art; early pioneers in the field such as the French Egyptologist Albert

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Gayet (1856–1916) and the Strasbourg-based archaeologist Robert Forrer (1866–1947) emphasized its character as a distinctly local kind of folk art.64 Riegl, in contrast, emphasized its place within a cross-cultural circuit, its status as an amalgam of motifs from the high arts of Persia, Rome, and Byzantium. This view amounted to a denial of the specificity of Coptic art and an insistence on its dependence on the larger imperial cultures of the region. In an article on Coptic art published in 1893, the same year as Questions of Style, Riegl addresses this issue directly: “We can be justified in concluding,” he notes, that “one cannot speak here of a completely and fundamentally new art.”65 Moreover, the syncretism of Coptic art was, he states, not even the creative appropriation of several artistic languages; rather, it was the result of an attempt by Egyptians to hold on to older artistic traditions in the face of the victorious spread of classical Greek art:

therefore could not be regarded as the authentic creative expression of a local cultural or ethnic identity; it indicated, instead, the conservative nature of Egyptian society and, more importantly, of folk culture everywhere. Its significance for Riegl lay in its role as a gauge of the fate of “East Roman art” once it was transplanted to Egypt and then subsequently evolved into Islamic or “Saracenic” art. This apparently purely art-historical debate had much wider implications, for Riegl was countering claims regarding both the authenticity of folk art as cultural expression and also the intrinsic connection between vernacular culture and ethnicity. He was not the first, however, to open up to critical scrutiny the question of the origins of folk art. Some ten years earlier the Croatian art historian Izidor Kršnjavi had addressed this topic in relation to the house industry of the southern Slavs. In the 1870s interest in the folk art of the Croats and the Serbs had grown markedly, beginning with the publication of a volume of textile patterns by the entrepreneur Felix Laÿ and the textile historian Friedrich Fischbach.67 This lavishly illustrated work, which showcased Laÿ’s personal collection and was comparable in its aims (although not its scope) to Owen Jones’s Grammar of Ornament, published only three years earlier, proved enormously successful, and items of Croatian and Serbian folk art were later acquired by the South Kensington Museum, the Germanic National Museum in Nuremberg, and the Museum for Art and Industry in Vienna.68 This volume was the prelude to a large-scale exhibition of folk art staged in Zagreb in 1878, which Kršnjavi viewed sympathetically. A student of Eitelberger’s, he concurred with his teacher in supporting the attempts to revive house industry,

Egyptian art resisted the all-powerful storm of Hellenism far more stubbornly than any other art of the ancient Orient. In the Ptolemaic period, while Greek life and culture may have ruled in the towns, in the open countryside, in contrast, the population lived with their old religious ideas and traditional artistic symbols and mythology. . . . Yet eventually Hellenism was the stronger element; in time it penetrated even the lower social classes. . . . However, the temples and colossi built by the ancients to last forever still stood upright. . . . This is the reason for the occasional reminiscence of ancient Egyptian art in works of the imperial Roman age. There are, however, no grounds to see in them anything other than mere antiquarian reminiscence.66

Although produced by the rural population of pre-Islamic Egypt, Coptic art

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highlighting the superior aesthetic qualities of its products in contrast to those of the factory. Kršnjavi became a crucial figure in Croat intellectual life in the final third of the nineteenth century, yet his support for Croatian house industry and folk art did not translate into a nationalist interpretation of their meaning. In a lecture delivered at the Vienna Museum for Art and Industry in 1881 he specifically ruled out the idea of an affinity between textile patterns and national cultures: “When Slavic house industry was, so to say, discovered, there was a tendency to conceive it as the completely original and exclusive property of the Slavic tribes. When similar motifs were encountered on a large scale in the ornament of Scandinavia, Romania, and the Transylvanian Germans, there was a temptation to underplay the specificities of Slavic house industry.”69 Kršnjavi did not completely rule out the idea that Slavic textiles had distinctive visual languages, but he was emphatic that traces remained from “the primeval heritage, the shared motifs of all ancient vernacular industries.” Moreover, in addition to this Indo-European legacy, there were, Kršnjavi added, the influences of Byzantium and Turkey, for “Slavic house industry owes many a time-honored technique and healthy artistic motif to the mediating role of the archenemy.”70 Kršnjavi returned to this topic ten years later in an article on the origin of South Slavic ornament motifs published in 1891.71 He again stressed the common features in the textiles of a wide range of cultures but this time traced their origins back to the ancient Near East, specifically Sassanid Persia and the Byzantine Empire. This argument he had borrowed directly from Riegl, and it reflected the close intellectual relation

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between the two in the early 1890s, for two years previously Riegl had stressed that the apparent affinities of Slavic house industry with “Oriental” textiles were due to their common roots in the ancient world.72 In an essay of 1892 Riegl put forward a similar argument regarding Ruthenian textiles.73 The Ruthenians were spread across a number of territories, including northeastern Hungary, Bukovina, and eastern Galicia, and were perhaps the last major minority within the Empire to articulate the concept of a common ethnic and cultural identity. Riegl placed nominalist emphasis on the nonidentity of the various groups, with a particular accent given to the difference between the northern Ruthenes of Podolia (centered on Lemberg) and the southern Ruthenes and Hutsuls (located in Bukovina). In addition, he foregrounded the multiple origins of “Ruthenian” textiles, emphasizing too the international cultural exchange that occurred in these now peripheral zones. As Riegl noted, “Today it has to be freely admitted that the region does not give the impression that the royal road of culture passed from west to east through it. It is hemmed in to the north and the east by the Russian border, whose Chinese Wall excludes virtually all traffic, especially intellectual and artistic. In fact at one time, however, this area had one of the most important routes linking east and west.”74 Riegl’s essays in many respects anticipated his arguments in Questions of Style, which likewise highlighted the transnational evolution and adaptation of ornamental motifs from ancient Egypt up to the Islamic art of the eighth century. The details were varied, but the basic outlook was the same. Riegl was the most explicit critic of the attempt to ally folk art and national style, and this

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was a function, partly, of his position as an employee of an imperial cultural institution. However, as the example of Kršnjavi suggests, one cannot describe the debate in terms of imperial (cosmopolitan) center versus nationalized periphery. In Hungary too, where the government after 1867 pursued an active policy of Magyarization and where the renewed interest in the folk arts was quickly enmeshed with Hungarian nationalist politics, there were dissenting voices. Gyula Pasteiner disputed the notion of a national art, and he was joined in this view by others, such as Károly Pulszky, a curator at the Museum of Applied Arts in Budapest, and the archaeologist József Hampel. Hampel stressed the diversity of visual forms in Hungary, arguing, “we cannot speak of art, of a Hungarian style, in terms of the entire people, of Magyardom. One cannot put forward something as a general Hungarian pattern that is fashionable in just a few communities.”75 In Bohemia too, voices were raised against the folk-art movement, specifically by advocates of modernism. In 1913 the artist and critic Karel Čapek published a critical article on “the question of national art” in the Prague avant-garde journal Free Directions (Volné směry).76 Čapek was dismissive of the notion of national art, and his comments on folk art are of particular relevance for the present discussion. Far from constituting an autonomous creative activity, it was, he argued, mostly derived from high art. Moreover, “[Czech] folk art is not anywhere near as old and original as is universally believed—largely it is the popularly assimilated style of the eighteenth century that had the most impact on the soul of the people.”77 His skeptical attitude extended to criticism of the painters Josef Mánes and Mikuláš Aleš (1852–1913), who, with images drawn from

Czech folk legends and myths, had played an important role in the formation of the Czech art world in the late nineteenth century. In contrast to nationalist proselytizers who saw their work as embodying Czech national identity, Čapek argued that it owed more to wider European artistic traditions, including, provocatively, German Romanticism and the historicism that was practiced across the Continent.78 Riegl’s criticisms found their most extended form in the volume he published in 1894, Volkskunst, Hausfleiss und Hausindustrie (Folk art, domestic labor, and home industry). At the heart of his book is the theory of economic development of national economy, and here he concurs with the idea that house industry represents an intermediate stage between domestic labor (Hausfleiss) and mass production. In contrast to his Vienna colleagues, however, Riegl notes that the decline of folk art during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, though in certain respects regrettable, was “a quite essential and decisive progressive step in the development of art and, with it, human culture.”79 Linking folk art to notions of social and economic progress raised the prickly issue of how to interpret the persistence of folk art in the “eastern” parts of the Empire, as he terms them; these are not precisely defined, but Riegl clearly has in mind areas such as Galicia, Transylvania, Bukovina, and the Balkans. Within his historicist schema, the folk art of the “East” had been superseded; its only role now was to be able “to provide something in passing to fashion.”80 This reference to fashion betrays a skeptical attitude on Riegl’s part toward the folk-art movement; in an earlier essay he had already pointedly criticized the contemporary modishness of Balkan folk art among the Viennese, which

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was driven, he argued, by a “need to flee from the world . . . from the nerve-draining confusion of the town dweller’s professional life.”81 The growing taste for folk art was thus a form of modern escapism, a consequence of modern urbanization. This criticism of Vienna fashion might equally have applied to the rapidity with which the Zakopane style was adopted in the towns and cities of Galicia and Polish territories further afield. Riegl articulated further criticisms too. Folk art reflected the conservatism of rural cultures, which remain isolated from the main currents of civilization. His attitude toward this is clear from his comments on ancient Egypt, which declined because “in the course of time it had lost the ability to establish productive contacts and connections with foreign peoples.”82 It cut itself off from the “sap that kept it constantly fresh and rejuvenated,” in contrast with ancient Rome. As a multiethnic and multicultural polity Rome produced a “universal” art, “the antithesis of folk art,” an art that stood in contrast to the introverted, local art of Egypt.83 Ostensibly an account of the distant past, Riegl’s outline was meant to have contemporary resonance, for he also made a direct reference to the cultural politics of the present; folk art was associated primarily with the Slavs, and for good reason, since the Slavs, and in particular those of the Balkans, were a people without history. They led an “ahistorical existence like the Scythians,” in contrast to the Germans, “the bearers of culture.”84 A key question revolved around the meaning of the concept of “people,” which, despite the efforts of figures such as Falke, was becoming synonymous with that of nation. In 1895 Riegl became involved in the debate in an article published in the first volume of the journal of the newly founded

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Association of Austrian Folklore. Opening the article with the unambiguous assertion that “the ‘people’ studied by the Association of Austrian Folklore is not the people in the political sense,” he added: “it is neither the third estate of the feudal era nor the fourth class of modern society. Nor is it the people in the strictly ethnographic sense of all members of one and the same tribe.”85 Instead, according to Riegl, the “people” was defined by its place within the rural economy. They were the inhabitants of the villages and hamlets of the countryside, whose lifestyle was responsible for the fact that they were the bearers of tradition. For, Riegl argued, “all the great questions that preoccupy the present leave this people cold, and they only belatedly, or never, become aware of the tasks and achievements that leave us town dwellers holding our breath. . . . The technical inventions turning the world upside down, the journalism that dominates literature, the artistic creativity that makes convulsive efforts to express itself—none of this happens due to or even for this ‘people,’ but only for the bearers of modern urban culture.”86 Although he denied that the “people” constituted a specific class, Riegl’s essay in fact implied precisely that, namely, that the “people,” the creators of folk art, were to be defined in social, rather than ethnic, terms. Such a view also informed the sharp distinction he drew between urban and rural cultures, with the implication that it was the specific material conditions of the agricultural and urban economies that underlay the difference between the two. Moreover, there had always been a difference between the two, he claimed, but it was only in recent times, as the distinction between the city and the country had become more marked, that

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educated town dwellers had exhibited anything other than a purely material, pragmatic interest in the inhabitants of the countryside. This assertion was, of course, debatable. Modernization had led to an influx of rural populations into the cities, eroding the difference, while improving travel and communications networks had reduced the distance between the two. Hitherto inaccessible parts of the Empire, including, for example, the mountain village of Zakopane, had now become tourist destinations for curious city dwellers. Nevertheless, he was right to outline the extent to which rural culture had become the object of a sentimental gaze on the part of bourgeois city dwellers, who treated it as an exotic import from the countryside.

the wider political arena. As Stefan Muthesius has noted, however, his criticisms of the folk-art revival had little impact; in the decade leading up to the First World War the folk-art movement continually gained momentum, and while Loos in his espousal of a functionalist modernism dismissed folk culture (as well as many parts of Austria-​ Hungary) as a relic of the Dark Ages, folk art became an important resource for many other modernisms in central Europe.87 Riegl published his last writings on folk art in 1895 and then subsequently addressed more explicitly art-historical and archaeological topics.88 One important reason was no doubt, as Georg Vasold has suggested, that the folk-art debate did not fit into the parameters of art-historical scholarship. In order to assert his professional identity Riegl consequently turned to more identifiably art-historical topics.89 However, Riegl’s turn to other topics had a wider significance, for it marked an important shift in the conceptual framing of folk art. Specifically, Riegl and his predecessors attempted to treat it as an art-historical topic. Clearly, this also involved stretching the boundaries of traditional conceptions of art history; nevertheless, Riegl, Eitelberger, Falke, and Kršnjavi tried to locate folk art within the wider circuit of international art. Increasingly, however, art history was displaced by ethnography. The year 1895 was an important milepost in this shift, for at the same time that Riegl was publishing his last writings on folk art, the Czechoslavic Ethnographic Exhibition was staged in Prague. Mounted as a pageant of Czech and Slovak culture, the exhibition celebrated not only the achievements of Slavic “high culture,” with sections on music, literature, and the visual arts, for example, but also foregrounded the diverse character of Czech

Ethnography Riegl was initially concerned with the question of the economic viability of house industry, and his answer stood in clear opposition to that of his predecessor Eitelberger, for he saw it as having no role in the forward development of the Empire. In addition, however, he took aim at many of the basic ideological tenets of the folk-art movement. Dismissing it as the product of a misdirected romantic bourgeois attitude, he also contested the association of folk art with national identity, stressing instead its multiple origins. Alongside proselytizers of modernism such as Adolf Loos, he emerged as one of the most forceful critics of folk art, although, in contrast to Loos, Riegl’s criticisms were prompted by his allegiance to the legitimizing discourses of Austria-​Hungary and his commentary on folk art was a coded polemic against nationalist ideologies in

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and Slovak folk culture.90 A centerpiece was a large-scale village that featured a range of buildings meant to exemplify regional architectural styles and building types, such as the blacksmith shop, the tavern, and the church, all populated by life-size mannequins and, in some cases, village men and women, who demonstrated traditional rural skills. This was not the first such exhibition; in 1867 the Austrian submission to the Exposition universelle in Paris had included an “Austrian Village,” complete with a beer hall selling lager of the Dreher brewery and, among others, a “typical” Viennese bakery, a Hungarian tavern (csarda), and a Tyrolean hut. The following World’s Fair, held in Vienna in 1873, had also included a village that showcased rural dwellings from different parts of the Empire, with a more markedly ethnographic accent. Each building had included occupants from its place of origin, which enabled Viennese exhibitors at the fair to have firsthand encounters with, for example, Croat or Romanian peasants.91 In 1894 the Universal Regional Exhibition held in Lemberg had also made extensive reference to Polish folk art and culture, although its ostensible objective was to promote commerce and industry. The Prague Exhibition of 1895 was much larger in scale, however, and although it was not exclusively devoted to folk art, it was distinctive in that all the exhibits were ethnographically coded as representatives of Czech and Slovak culture and ethnic identity. Indeed, the principal narrative of the exhibition was the demonstration of autochthonous folk and high cultural traditions that owed nothing to other surrounding cultures; in Bohemia and Moravia this meant that of the Germans, while for the Slovak exhibits it meant Magyar culture. A leading role in the organization of the

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exhibition had been taken by the architect and designer Dušan Jurkovič (1868–1947), who was in many respects a counterpart to Witkiewicz. Of Slovak origin, he had studied under Camillo Sitte in Vienna in the 1880s and had eventually moved to Brno in 1899, where he developed an architectural language that combined traditional Moravian vernacular motifs and materials with contemporary construction techniques. It is a sign of the shifting discursive framework for folk art that one of Riegl’s final articles on folk culture appeared in the first issue of the journal of the Austrian Ethnographic Society. The 1890s witnessed not only a number of lavish popular public exhibitions of folk art and culture (in addition to the Lemberg and Prague events, the Millennial Exhibition of 1896 in Budapest also gave a prominent role to traditional arts and crafts) but also the birth of ethnography as an established field of study. Indeed, the Prague Exhibition was the culmination of a process that had begun in 1891 with the founding of the Czechoslavic Ethnographic Society, which began publishing its journal the Czech People (Český lid) the following year, with articles on, for example, folk songs, village cuisine, dances, archaeological excavations, and folk costume.92 Even before the emergence of ethnography as a scholarly discipline, folk culture and the peasant had become subjects of romantic, sentimentalized literary and artistic portraits.93 In the latter half of the nineteenth century such images became increasingly nationalized; the notion of the peasant in general (and the distinction between urban and rural cultures) gave way to a specific concern with the Polish, Hungarian, or Czech peasant in contrast to peasants of other ethnicities. Hence, pioneers of ethnography in

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Poland such as Oskar Kolberg (1814–1890) and Jan Karłowicz (1836–1903) dedicated themselves to documenting the particular characteristics of Polish folk culture and its regional variations. The most ambitious project was Kolberg’s thirty-volume enterprise The People (Lud), published between 1871 and 1890, each volume devoted to a specific region.94 Its ideological underpinning was clear in its geographical scope, since it embraced all the territories of the former Polish Commonwealth, including Lithuania and Belarus, despite their small populations of Polish speakers. A parallel enterprise occupied the Ruthenians of Galicia and Bukovina, anxious to advance their political and social standing and in particular concerned to counter the hegemonic role of the Poles in Galicia. In both cases ethnography was instrumentalized as a medium of national cultural self-assertion; in Galicia the writer and poet Ivan Franko (1856–1916) and in Bukovina the journalist Grigorij Kupczanko (1849–1902) each played an important role in the emergence of Ruthenian/Ukrainian ethnography.95 Neither was a trained ethnographer, although Franko enjoyed good relations with ethnographers in Vienna, including Michael Haberlandt, but their prolific writings on the culture of the Ukrainians made a significant contribution to the formation of a specifically Ruthenian identity. In the final decades of the nineteenth century such ethnographic inquiry achieved a firmer institutional and academic basis. Although a chair in ethnography was not set up at the University of Lemberg until 1910, an ethnographic journal, the Vistula (Wisła), began publication in Warsaw in 1887, and the founding of the Polish Ethnographic Society in Lemberg, together with

the release of the first volume of its journal, the People (Lud), followed eight years later.96 The Shevchenko Society, named after the Ukrainian poet Taras Shevchenko (1814–1861), was set up in Lemberg in 1873 and commenced publication of the Ethnographic Journal (Etnografičnyj Zbirnik) in 1895. The same year also saw the publication of the first volume of the Journal of Austrian Ethnography (Zeitschrift für österreichische Volkskunde) by the Austrian Ethnography Society, founded in 1894, as well as the founding of the Ethnographic Museum in Vienna by Michael Haberlandt. The ethnographic coding of folk art and culture and the appropriation of folk culture in the service of national agendas would seem to have sounded the death knell for the attempts by Riegl and his Vienna School colleagues to assert a counternarrative of transnational artistic and cultural exchange. However, many of the debates about national artistic canons reappeared within ethnographic analyses of folk art. In this regard, while the formation of ethnography in Austria-​Hungary was decisively shaped by the nationalist politics of the different minorities of the Empire, there were dissenting voices, the critical responses to the Czechoslavic Ethnographic Exhibition in Prague, among others. German nationalist commentators, for example, railed against the exhibition’s exclusionary focus on Slavic cultures, which, despite reassurances to the contrary, fed nationalist anxieties about German marginalization in Bohemia.97 More significantly, others who were sympathetic to the overall project nevertheless criticized its attempt to interpret varying types of vernacular peasant architecture as specifically “Slavic.” Haberlandt, for example, was struck by the degree of similarity between the

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Czech folk architecture of Bohemia, Moravia, and Silesia and that of their German neighbors; for Haberlandt, the exhibition’s complete disregard of such affinities had to be designated a “serious scientific flaw.”98 Other observers reached similar conclusions. Rudolf Meringer, professor of linguistics at the University of Graz, noted, “There is no primordial Slavic house, no Czechoslavic house. There is just the well-known Franconian house, from top to bottom, with its furnishings; much has been lost, but there is as good as nothing that could be found only in the Czech house. I no longer believe in the Slavic house.”99 Despite the tone of his comment, Meringer was not trying to argue that the Slavic house was derivative, as if he were asserting its dependence on Franconian, and hence German, originals. Rather, he concluded that both Czech and German building types could be traced back to a common central European ancestor that predated the formation of separate national cultures. Analysis of peasant housing thus demonstrated precisely the opposite of the aims of the exhibition organizers, namely, the extensive cultural borrowings between the differing linguistic communities of central Europe. This was a restatement, of course, of the argument Izidor Kršnjavi had made in relation to the origin of textiles a decade earlier, although there is no evidence that Meringer was directly borrowing his ideas from the Croatian scholar. Of those commentators cited, Haberlandt (1860–1940) was undoubtedly the most significant for the establishment of ethnography in Vienna. Trained as an Indologist, he worked at the ethnographic section of the Natural History Museum from 1885 onward and set up the Ethnography Society in

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1894.100 Haberlandt conceived ethnography explicitly as a political project, describing it as a “service for the fatherland”; thus, because of the specific political context of Austria-​ Hungary, he saw the new discipline, in contrast to the emerging ethnographic profession in Galicia or Bukovina, for example, as promoting the cosmopolitan legitimizing narrative of the Empire.101 In this regard Haberlandt was looking back to the precedent of Czoernig’s Ethnography of the 1850s or the Kronprinzenwerk, an avowedly ethnographic enterprise that was being published at the same time that Haberlandt was setting up the museum and the society. The most explicit programmatic statement of the ideological orientation of Austrian ethnography can be found in Haberlandt’s introduction to the first volume of the Zeitschrift für österreichische Volkskunde: “We are not concerned with nationalities,” he declares, adding that “due to Austria’s colorful ethnographic composition it is self-evident that the study of peoples should be comparative in approach.” Moreover, the approach he espoused was not solely driven by the contingencies of the demographic makeup of Austria; he argued that it had scientific justification. Comparative study revealed the widespread reliance on similar artifacts, ideas, and customs that “went beyond national borders, forcing us to acknowledge a deeper principle of development than that of nationality.”102 This emphasis on the ethnically diverse nature of Austria-​Hungary and on the role of transnational exchange became a defining feature of German-language ethnography in Austria and also distinguished it from ethnography in Germany, which was much more closely aligned with the project of creating a single national German Volk.103

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This difference can be gauged by comparison of Czoernig and Haberlandt with Wilhelm Riehl (1823–1897), generally acknowledged as the founder of ethnography in Germany. In his essay “Die Volkskunde als Wissenschaft” (Ethnography as a science), published in 1859, Riehl asserted unequivocally: “ethnography is unthinkable as a science if the idea of the nation does not form the center of its scattered investigations.”104 For Riehl the primary function of ethnography was to legitimate the idea of the nation, to promote the imagined community of the people, and this was in keeping with his wider notion that “the more clearly a nation gains consciousness of itself, the higher it . . . achieves historical recognition.”105 This process picked up speed with the unification of Germany in 1871 and highlighted the differing political contexts that informed the growth of ethnography in Austria and Germany. Haberlandt was considerably more sympathetic to the folk-art movement than Riegl; he contributed to the celebratory Studio volume on Austrian “peasant art” and compiled a separate monograph on Austrian folk art that was similarly emphatic about the importance of the topic.106 At the same time, he distanced himself from its more enthusiastic champions, those authors “whose enthusiasm was greater than their critical sense, and who hugely exaggerated its nature and its antiquity, and who often introduced an element of mystery into their speculations, which is, of course, quite senseless.”107 In both publications Haberlandt entered into a detailed discussion of the formal characteristics of folk-art artifacts, drawing repeatedly on the work of Riegl (in particular the latter’s Late Roman Art Industry), but it is indicative of Haberlandt’s distinctive disciplinary approach to his subject that he moved beyond Riegl’s reliance on

formal criteria alone, addressing the social and cultural functions of folk art. Haberlandt saw folk art as reflecting national differences, but he also stressed its multiple origins, including motifs from distant Indo-European sources, the Christian churches, Roman art (and the influences of Near Eastern cultures in the late Roman Empire), as well as the effect of Europe-wide cultural migration. Despite the presence of sources and traditions that reached back to antiquity, folk art was, he argued, a comparatively recent phenomenon: “Folk art as such can hardly be traced back beyond the Renaissance; it was only then that folk art embarked on a separate path, once it distanced itself from the art of the courts and the towns. No documents from before this epoch have been preserved, because they coincide with the rest of art production.”108 In much of Austria it emerged still later, he argued; only after the Thirty Years’ War was it possible to identify folk art as a distinctive phenomenon, and the predominance of Baroque and Rococo motifs suggested an even more recent point of origin. Haberlandt was clearly anxious to dismiss the notion of folk art as having preserved a timeless ancestral heritage; instead, he saw it as enmeshed within historical processes and thereby subject to evolution, albeit slower than that of urban culture and society. He also dismissed the myths of the innate creativity of the rural populace, myths concocted by those “seduced by the treasures of museums into believing in the illusion of a totally artistic folk culture.”109 Instead, folk art was limited in scope and linked to specific social events, such as courtship, weddings, and Sunday worship. Haberlandt held to the traditional developmental schema of national economy and, like his contemporary Riegl and others before him, saw folk art as the product of

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economic underdevelopment. However, he explicitly refused to assign folk art to a specific stage within that development, for while objects produced for personal use by the domestic labor of villagers provided the most obvious source of folk-art objects, the products of home industry could also be counted as examples of folk art, as could the objects manufactured by professional artisans. Discussing an ideologically charged topic, Haberlandt hence sought to change the basis of the debate, not by polemically dismissing folk art, but rather by implicitly critiquing some of the assumptions concerning its antiquity, origins, and function that underpinned its nationalistic appropriation. At the conclusion of his contribution to the Studio volume on peasant art, he considered the significance of folk art in the present: “let us affirm our belief that peasant art neither admits of direct imitation nor, with its fund of original ornament, is to be regarded as an exhausted field. No, the spirit underlying it is the spirit that should animate us in our work and inspire a sincere and earnest devotion to even the smallest labor of our hands; our art should be as deeply rooted in our lives as peasant art in the lives of the people.”110 Folk art thus continued to be of value, not as a source of motifs that could be recycled or appropriated by contemporary artists, designers, and architects, but as a signifier and reminder of everyday social life, and with this assertion Haberlandt was implicitly passing judgment on the alienated art of the present.

Conclusion Folk art was a central preoccupation for art historians in the Habsburg state for over fifty years. Like many other themes that were prominent in the attention of Vienna

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School art history, it provided an arena in which wider cultural-political positions were rehearsed and came into conflict with each other. Debates over the origins of folk art, its relation to the high artistic forms, and its economic and social viability were thus politically charged. It became the focus of dispute between the cultural elites of the imperial center and those of the various regions who saw in folk art the means of asserting distinctive national cultural identities. Yet as with many of the other topics examined, the model of the opposition of center and periphery fails to reflect the criticism that leading authors in Zagreb, Prague, and Budapest, such as Kršnjavi, Čapek, and Pasteiner, leveled with equal vigor at nationalist claims made on behalf of folk art. Their positions on the question reveal the complex lines of affiliation and political identification that operated right up to the demise of Austria-​Hungary. The folk-art movement reached its climax in the decades immediately preceding the First World War. After 1918 it ceased to be seen as such an important artistic resource for the present, and many artists and designers explicitly rejected it. Others, however, continued to practice various kinds of vernacular modernism, but the focus of modernist practice moved elsewhere; with the creation of the independent successor states, folk art was seen in many quarters as parochial and backward looking and unsuited to the states’ claims to modernity. At the same time, however, folk art did not entirely disappear from the historiographical horizon; it endured, often with the same fierce political investment. The most notorious instance was, of course, the Nazi adoption of völkisch ideology as a crucial component of the definition of German national identity, but elsewhere across central Europe

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too, in Hungary, Bulgaria, and Romania, for example, folk culture continued to be used as a signifier of national difference. One of the most notable purveyors of national folk culture was Coriolan Petranu (1893–1945), a Romanian student of Strzygowski’s who during the interwar period turned the study of the vernacular Romanian architecture of Transylvania into a shrill campaign against

Hungarian cultural domination.111 The fact that folk art could still fuel such passions indicates its continuing importance as a gauge of views about the present. Both folk art and Baroque art served as means for talking about the contemporary situation in more or less coded ways, but art historians also wrote directly about the art and culture of the present.

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7 Readings of Modern Art: Historicism, Impressionism, Expressionism Dvořák talked about El Greco but was referring to Kokoschka. —otto kurz

The engagement of art historians in Austria-​ Hungary with folk art or Baroque art and architecture was a coded intervention into the cultural politics of the present. This common feature in art-historical writing of the period was in evidence elsewhere too. For example, it is generally recognized that Aby Warburg’s interest in the Renaissance recovery of Dionysian antiquity was partly driven by his concern with contemporary anti-Semitism.1 Likewise, as Fred Schwartz has argued, Heinrich Wölfflin focused on style as the central historiographical concept precisely because it stood in opposition to modern “fashion,” which, with its rapidly shifting forms, remained resistant to analysis.2 At the same time, however, art historians in Vienna and across Austria-​Hungary engaged in a much more direct manner with the art of the present. This had been a characteristic feature since the 1840s, when Eitelberger launched his criticisms of the academy and of Waldmüller. Hans Sedlmayr’s

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famous postwar invective against modern art and modern culture, Loss of the Center, may have reflected a deeply conservative strain in Austrian culture, but it stood at odds with the attitude of many, if not most, Viennese art historians, who were not only actively involved in debates concerning contemporary art but also frequently supported current developments in the visual arts.3 The most prominent example of this involvement is the so-called Klimt Affair of 1900, in which Franz Wickhoff publicly defended Gustav Klimt’s mural for the University of Vienna against his detractors.4 However, the interest in contemporary art was much wider, ranging from Eitelberger’s early interventions to the theoretical analyses of modernism by Riegl and Wickhoff, to Strzygowski’s writings on Otto Wagner, Max Liebermann, and Arnold Böcklin. Contemporary art was a recurrent topic of interest for art historians, but the seventy years between Eitelberger’s essays on art education and the

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collapse of the Habsburg Empire in 1918 saw the rise and fall of historicism and its displacement by modernism. The meaning and forms of contemporary art thus underwent radical transformation, yet as Moritz Csáky has stressed, both historicism and modernism were responses to processes of modernization.5 The stylistic pluralism and eclecticism of the middle and late nineteenth century were aesthetic reflexes of the social differentiation and fragmentation of modernity: “In both its content as well as its method, historicism created the preconditions for the modernist conception of life, for which the fragmentation of consciousness and the experience that, as Nietzsche put it, ‘life no longer resides in the whole,’ had become an inner conviction.”6 From Eitelberger onward, therefore, Viennese art historians were concerned to interpret the meaning of modernity and modernization, striving to articulate their relation to the past as seen through the prism of art. It was not only the meaning of art that was at stake, however, but the broader shape and meaning of history itself.

Vienna art world, such as the painters Johann Peter Krafft (1780–1856) and Friedrich Gauermann (1807–1862), the sculptor Joseph Daniel Böhm, and the architects Eduard van der Nüll (1812–1868) and August von Sicardsburg (1813–1868), designers of the Vienna Opera House, he also wrote numerous articles on the recent history of art in Vienna. These included a short survey, “The Artistic Development of Contemporary Vienna,” a history of nineteenth-century sculpture, an analysis of Austrian art and architecture of the early 1870s, and the politics of German Renaissance revivalism.7 Eitelberger was less concerned with individual artists and artworks than with the role of institutions; as he asserted in one of his few statements of method, it was necessary “to consider the social, political, and national factors,” and with this he meant in particular the way in which these factors could advance artistic life or bring it to a halt, for “many branches of art, especially architecture and sculpture, are dependent on commissions and contracts that are subject to social and political conditions.”8 Eitelberger’s writings constitute an important document of the cultural politics of Austria-​Hungary of the 1870s, and they also provide a clear index of the liberal ideology underpinning his approach to the arts, in particular with regard to the role of the state as a patron of the arts and the relation between art and national identity. Eitelberger’s various texts are informed by a consistent Whiggish historical vision that emphasized the rebirth of art since 1848 and the ascent of Franz Joseph to the imperial throne. This formed part of a schematic history of modern art (by which Eitelberger meant art since the mid–eighteenth century) according to which the reign of Franz Joseph

Eitelberger: Historicism and the Glory of Franz Joseph Eitelberger is best known for his ideas of design reform that led to the establishment of the Museum for Art and Industry. An influential voice, he informed the emerging economic policy of the Austrian government, which saw the reform of design education as an important engine of domestic economic growth. He also wrote widely on recent and contemporary art and architecture. Alongside extensive accounts of prominent individuals in the contemporary

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had followed a period of stagnation, which had itself followed an era of Baroque splendor. Eitelberger valued the latter as the time when Vienna had been the cosmopolitan cultural center of Europe. Artists of all nationalities had been drawn to the city, which consequently had “enjoyed the most intimate connections with the artistic life of all Europe.”9 This was a recurrent theme in his essays, and he highlighted the Baroque era on a number of occasions as “the time when magnificent palaces, churches, abbeys, and gardens were created in the grand style.”10 It was a time of enlightened aristocratic and imperial patronage, he argued, and as a consequence he also valued those contemporary artists whose work was most evocative of the Baroque past, including Hans Makart.11 Eitelberger’s valorization of the Baroque was much like his student Albert Ilg’s in the latter’s essay on “the future of the Baroque style,” and like Ilg’s, it was undoubtedly motivated by a certain nostalgia for the grandeur of the past. However, whereas Ilg saw his own time as an era of decline, Eitelberger valued the present as an era of remarkable creative rebirth. The counterpoint to the Baroque was, he argued, the dull reaction of the Metternich era, which, in addition to its political stifling of artistic creativity, had brought to an extreme certain cultural and social features that had first appeared under the Enlightenment of Joseph II. Criticizing the “mediocrity” of the Josephine era, Eitelberger bemoaned what he termed its bureaucratization of art. This had two facets. First, excessive state control of artistic life had reduced the status of artists to that of civil servants; artistic ambition was limited to the hope of occupying an elevated position in the “bureaucratic hierarchy” of the Vienna academy.12 Second, neoclassicism, the first

artistic expression of rationalist ideology, was closely linked to the “utilitarian system of the state,” and together the two destroyed “any type of free use of space in architecture . . . the insipidness of that period is the opposite of the exuberance of the Baroque.”13 Such utilitarianism gained further impetus, he argued, due to the hardship caused by the French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars, “a general impoverishment that ruled out any large-scale commissions; its consequences were economizing on the part of the state and bureaucratic paternalism.”14 Such unfavorable policies were exacerbated by the political regime that emerged during the Napoleonic Wars, which, under the baleful influence of Metternich, continued until 1848. The absolutist police state “neither could nor wanted to do anything for art.”15 The isolation of Austria from Germany cut Vienna off from the international circuit of artistic activity, with a concomitant deadening of its art as well as the wider cultural and intellectual life.16 Hence, “before 1848 Austrian architecture was wholly worn down either by the commercial concerns of the building trade or the bureaucratic concerns of the building functionary. As an art, architecture was empty and fading away.”17 There were, for example, no significant ecclesiastical building projects in Vienna, in contrast to Germany, where work started once more on Cologne Cathedral in the 1820s. “Everywhere the principle of utility dominated,” Eitelberger stated, and he cited the case of an unnamed secretary of the Vienna academy whose proposal to erect a bronze monumental statue was declined due to the possibility that “the people might melt down the bronze for cannons in the event of a revolution.”18 It is indicative of the shifting political climate in Austria that only thirty years after

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the events of 1848 Eitelberger was able to voice such critical opinions with regard to the previous regime. Although he had realigned his overt political commitments in the 1850s, after his brief period as editor of the Wiener Zeitung, Eitelberger had retained his liberal ideological outlook, which was evident in the importance he attached to 1848 as a major turning point in artistic and cultural life. The “insipid period” of Biedermeier Vienna (although Eitelberger did not use the term “Biedermeier”) was “followed by the stormy era of 1848 and the transformation of the old absolutist Habsburg monarchy into a modern constitutional one. Public life came to the fore and completely transformed its physiognomy. Architecture and sculpture were raised up to achieve monumental creations, architecture in particular in a truly brilliant manner.”19 The earlier restrictions on traffic between Austria and the German states were also lifted, enabling cultural exchange, a crucial development inasmuch as “artists’ freedom of movement and a plurality of artworks constitute a significant factor in progress in the domain of art.”20 Eitelberger clearly saw that while the more ambitious goals of the liberal revolutionaries of 1848 had not been attained, there had been a beneficial shift for the arts. He was careful, however, to couch this in terms of praise for the emperor Franz Joseph and the constitutional monarchy the latter inaugurated; indeed, Eitelberger even saw the 1850s, commonly viewed as years of postrevolutionary reaction, as part of the reawakening of cultural life. In fact, while the loosening of control over the arts was undeniable, the increased building activity in Vienna in the second half of the century had less to do with a shift in regime than with urban expansion and official anxiety

over the possibility that the Austrian capital was falling behind Paris and Berlin in the competition to remain the leading city of continental Europe. Nevertheless, Eitelberger could accommodate the large-scale changes in the fabric of the city and the increase in the number and scale of architectural commissions within his wider political, cultural, and artistic vision. Eitelberger’s political commitments were prominent in his comments on the issue of national identity. As noted earlier, one of the reasons he singled out the Baroque as a high point in the recent artistic history of Vienna was that the city, as well as Austria in general, during this period played a leading role in European cultural life. Its cosmopolitanism was ensured by the constant flow of artists from across Europe to undertake commissions in the capital. This flow also occurred within the Empire, with talented artists and architects from the “peripheries” coming to study and work in Vienna; later these often circulated back through the Empire, thereby disseminating Viennese ideas around central Europe. Eitelberger saw this as happening in his own time too, citing figures such as the Hungarian architect Miklós Ybl (1814–1891) and the Czech architect Jan Machytka (1844– 1887), both of whom had studied in Vienna, as examples of the cultural exchange between the imperial center and its peripheries. Ybl played a leading role in the development of Budapest after 1848, taking responsibility for the opera house and numerous other prominent public buildings, while Machytka designed, among other buildings, the School of Applied Arts in Prague. Eitelberger’s endorsement of Viennese cosmopolitanism accompanied a sharp hostility toward the growth of nationalism elsewhere in the Empire:

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R e a d i n g s o f M o d e r n A rt In intellectual terms Vienna and Austria would never have become what they did if Vienna had not constantly been spiritually enriched by the outstanding artists and scholars of different nations from time immemorial. Vienna’s spiritual life must not be reduced to the shibboleth of particularism and nationalism, as is now happening in Pest, Zagreb, and Cracow. It is highly regrettable when there is talk among artists and scholars . . . of “foreigners.” Should not Prince Eugen, [Baron] Laudon, and [Karl von] Schönhals be regarded as good Austrians? . . . Weren’t the German and Dutch noble families who took up their permanent residence here bearers of the idea of the Austrian state? Austria is a landlocked continental state, which by its very nature has to take in related elements from the neighboring lands if it is not to go to ground.21

This unequivocal assertion of the value of migrants to the well-being of Austria was closely aligned to the Habsburg political narrative of the later nineteenth century. Eitelberger’s promotion of the regime went far beyond the mere obligatory profession of loyalty to the emperor, and it is notable that he marked off Austrian Cisleithania from the more narrowly nationally focused regime of Hungary. In his lecture on contemporary Austrian art delivered on the occasion of the opening of Heinrich von Ferstel’s Museum for Art and Industry building in 1871, Eitelberger reiterated his criticism of nationalism: “the times are past when educated peoples and individuals could believe it possible to cut themselves off from their neighbors and neighboring peoples. Least of all is this possible in the domain of art and the art industry, especially in Austria. Today the artist belongs to the world as much as he does to a nation, and the industrialist always has to bear in mind the global

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market and the demands of educated taste across the world.”22 It was thus all the more regrettable, he argued, that the artistic and cultural world of Vienna had done little to counter the appeal of nationalist sentiment. In the Academy of Fine Arts, for example, there was a striking lack of history painting precisely at a time when “Magyar, Polish, and Czecho-Slavic painters so eagerly cultivate their national history and when the first two of these nationalities never miss an opportunity to strengthen the national feeling of the people with history paintings.”23 However, Eitelberger also unintentionally revealed the tensions produced in the encounter of this imperialist vision with the tenets of German liberalism, for he frequently cast German art and architecture as the bearer of this cosmopolitan and universalist mission. That he did so was not due to his espousal of German nationalist sentiment but rather to his adherence to the commonly held view that German, as the leading language of culture and learning in the Empire, had a transnational significance. This accounts for the occasionally contradictory tone of his pronouncements, for he argued both that Austrian art was an extension of the art of Germany and also that it transcended such a merely national identity. For “it would be wrong . . . to equate Vienna with Munich, Düsseldorf, Dresden, or Berlin and the other artistic cities of the German Empire. It cannot be said that the art of Vienna is specifically German, but equally, it cannot be said that it is not German. Austro-German artistic life has a particular stamp, and if one were to formulate it in terms of the question of nationality, one would have to say that Viennese artistic life is specifically Austrian but with a predominantly German character.”24

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Eitelberger was clearly attempting to negotiate the complex and politically sensitive issue of the relation of Austria and Germany; Austrian distinctiveness was set alongside its fundamental interdependence with the latter. It was in keeping with this vision that he regarded the isolation of Austria from Germany in the Metternich period so critically; its architecture had become provincial and formulaic, and this had affected other cities across the Empire.25 Hence, architecture in Prague had flourished, he argued, when Bohemia had been an integral part of the Holy Roman Empire and when the king of Bohemia and the Holy Roman emperor were one and the same person. This unambiguous identification of Prague as German was a clear challenge to Czech nationalist attitudes, for it was precisely the “Germanness” of Prague that had been at the heart of the controversy provoked by Alfred Woltmann’s lecture of 1876. But Eitelberger shared few of Woltmann’s political views. Writing in the late 1870s on the Renaissance revivalism in German architecture that followed the creation of the Wilhelmine Reich, he stated: “History is not there to flatter national vanities or to hide under a bushel the light that lit and still lights other nations.”26 Likewise, in a biographical sketch of the architect Friedrich Schmidt (1825–1891) written in 1879, he hopefully declared that “the days of German chauvinism are over, and we shall have to judge the significance of the German Renaissance style in artistic and architectural terms and not those of its Germanness.”27 Eitelberger’s artistic preferences were not governed by a consistent aesthetic outlook; he praised neo-Gothic structures, such as the Vienna Rathaus by Friedrich Schmidt and Heinrich von Ferstel’s Votive Church, but

also wrote an extended defense of van der Nüll and von Sicardsburg’s much-criticized Neo-Renaissance Vienna Opera House.28 Moreover, for all his emphasis on the leading role of German culture, he acknowledged the achievements of others, such as the Czech architects Josef Hlávka (1831–1908)—who supervised the building of the Vienna Opera House—and Josef Zítek, architect of the Prague National Theater. Eitelberger was profoundly aware, however, of the ideological implications of artistic endeavors (although he did not discuss them in such terms), and he was particularly attentive to the role of the state, in both its direct interventions into artistic activity and also the indirect impact of its broader policies. In this he established basic features that remained constant in Vienna School writing on both the history of art generally and contemporary art in particular. As such, he combined his identity as an art historian with that of a social and cultural critic. In this his closest successor was Albert Ilg, who combined his work on the Quellenschriften with his editorship of the polemical pamphlets Against the Grain.

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Wickhoff: Impressionism, Secessionism, and the Klimt Controversy As a leading advocate of historicism, Eitelberger viewed art history not only as a field of scholarly study in its own right but also, instrumentally, as an essential part of artistic and architectural training. This view was already evident in his criticisms in the 1840s of the lack of art-historical education in the Academy of Fine Arts and was also the guiding rationale behind his arguments for the establishment of the Museum for Art and

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Industry, according to which the availability of historical precedents was the key to design reform. By the 1890s, however, his historicist outlook was overtaken by developments in artistic practice. The latter had prompted critics to devise new, theoretically informed frameworks that might enable them to analyze the significance of contemporary art. In this regard the year 1893 was a watershed, for it was the year of publication not only of Riegl’s Stilfragen but also of Adolf von Hildebrand’s widely influential Das Problem der Form in der bildenden Kunst.29 Both authors replaced the idea of the normative role of historical styles with a focus on autonomous aesthetic and formal development. In Germany this conceptual reorientation would eventually lead to Julius Meier-Graefe’s History of the Development of Modern Art, the first systematic attempt to map out the history of modern art, which Meier-​Graefe described as an essay on the formation of a new aesthetics.30 In Vienna it was Franz Wickhoff who directly engaged with the implications of the modernist overturning of traditional artistic norms. Even before his involvement in the Klimt controversy of 1900, Wickhoff had addressed the topic of contemporary art in the edition of the Vienna Genesis manuscript he co-edited with Wilhelm von Hartel, director of the royal court library.31 Wickhoff’s analysis of late Roman art (which I have already discussed in terms of its methodological innovations) was supposed to provide a broader artistic context for an understanding of the manuscript. Yet it made extensive reference to later European art, modern art in particular. Wickhoff was profoundly affected by what he saw as the strong parallels between the epochal changes that occurred with the emergence of early Christian art

and the artistic revolution taking place in the 1890s. Above all, he was struck by the affinities between Roman and modern (by which he meant post-Renaissance) art; the illusionism of Roman art, he argued, “puts us in mind more of modern works—the Venetians, the Flemings, the Spaniards, and the modern French—than of the baroque products of the Hellenistic period which come closer in point of time. . . . Not only is there a resemblance . . . to pictures by Rubens, Hals, and Velázquez, but the style is actually the same and the same means of expression are employed in both cases.”32 In other words, although Eitelberger’s concern with the normative role of the history of art had become an obsolete position, Wickhoff’s analysis was still profoundly imbued with the sense of correspondences between the present and the past, often between the most disparate artistic phenomena. A central aim of Wickhoff’s analysis of the Genesis manuscript is to overturn the traditional view that had seen Roman art, and late Roman art in particular, as a decline from the heights of classical Greek art. Instead, he argues, it had emerged out of completely different origins, namely, the verism of Etruscan art, and had to be understood on its own terms. However, he supports his contention not by adducing historical evidence but by making an extraordinary analogy with Japanese art. For the latter, he notes, had achieved astonishing aesthetic effects and had devised novel solutions to the problem of illusionism, totally independent of Western art, and had moreover come to play a decisive role in recent European art: “The growth of modern painting during the last thirty years cannot be understood without taking Japanese influence into account. The ‘Plein Air’ method and ‘Impressionism’ owe as much to the traditions

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of Eastern Asia as to fresh invention.”33 There is no suggestion here of some deeper connection, yet the point of this comparison is clear. Contemporary art had progressed due to its positive engagement with an otherwise alien art; so, likewise, contemporary art historians should suspend normative aesthetic judgments with regard to late Roman art. Wickhoff develops this set of considerations further. Not only was Japan the source of important innovations in recent art practice, he argues, it also cast new light on historical understanding: “In the school of the Japanese we may learn to understand better than we have hitherto done some of the older phases of European art. We notice with surprise that as early as the second century a.d., the Japanese principle of ornament, consisting in illusionist imitations of plants and flowers freely grouped, had been discovered by the Romans and elaborated by them to a monumental art.”34 This insight highlighted the importance of the judgment of the art historian, for “this change in the principle of art is not universally recognized simply because a real appreciation of its highest forms presupposes in the observer the kind of artistic sense that results only from training, or, at any rate, long practice.”35 It thus required the professional specialism of the art historian to interpret late Roman, Japanese, or even contemporary art, and Wickhoff amplifies this statement by pointing out the shortfalls of popular understandings of art:

deficiencies, and the interest lies in a compari-

Again, the great majority of the public (the learned public included, and perhaps that more particularly) will turn away from works of which the subjects can neither form a topic for discussion nor be adequately described in words; they are naturally more attracted to those periods of culture when poetry and art supply each other’s

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son of their treatment of the same material by different methods. . . . This proceeding becomes meaningless as soon as art, whether painting or sculpture, rises to the point of development where it rejects with disdain all sources of extraneous interest, such as religion or poetry, and, sufficient to itself, becomes in its last stage an art only for artists, which scarcely heeds the applause of the multitude.36

It was only when one had learned to “penetrate to the real essence of art,” he argues, that one could properly understand such phenomena. Wickhoff was addressing a number of issues with this argument. First, it seems clear that he was distancing himself from the philological tradition of Vienna School scholarship; certain kinds of art could not be analyzed by reference to textual sources and instead should be understood by reference to their intrinsic aesthetic and formal characteristics alone. Second, although he was outwardly concerned with the interpretation of late Roman art, Wickhoff’s reference to autonomous art makes it clear that he had in mind contemporary art above all and that his thinking was shaped by a sense of profound affinities between late Roman art and art of the 1890s. In 1897, two years after publication of the Genesis, Wickhoff examined contemporary art directly in a cycle of lectures on “modern painting” delivered at the Museum for Art and Industry. The full text of the lectures has not been preserved, but a sufficiently extensive portion was subsequently published to give a good indication of his account.37 The first lecture provides a genealogy of modern painting. Wickhoff is keen to identify its broader intellectual and cultural context, specifically “the emergence of scientific analysis”

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and “technical marvels.”38 This conceptual underpinning had already been active in the previous century with the growth of Enlightenment thinking, and its impact had been most visible in the establishment of the scholarly study of art history and the rise of history painting, “a purely scientific genre of painting that arose out of extrinsic grounds, those of erudition.”39 Winckelmann’s History of Ancient Art, which Wickhoff saw as a symptom, was also a significant cause in its own right: “the book and its contents gave rise to such enthusiasm that the false conclusion was reached . . . that there was nothing left for modern art but to imitate ancient art.”40 This was evident in the neoclassical painting by Jacques-Louis David or Asmus Jacob Carstens, he argues, but it was also a factor in the medievalism of artists such as the Nazarenes. Wickhoff also observes this influence in the proliferation of art museums and the wave of historicism, which ranged from the novels of Walter Scott to the new concern in the theater and the opera with the historical accuracy of costumes. The desire for precision, a general hallmark of the scientific attitude, which was evident in a wide array of examples, from the ethnographic pretensions of orientalist painting to the concern with technically precise drawing, also lay behind naturalism. Hence, Wickhoff notes, “One can probably say that today there is more drawing ‘after nature’ in the drawing school of a small town than, say, during the entire fifteenth century in Florence and Venice.”41 Wickhoff thus outlines the emergence of a specifically modern attitude and points toward its implications for recent art. Such an attitude, moreover, implied more than mere concern with accurate naturalistic depiction, for it also impelled an increased attention to

analyzing the techniques of painting itself, in particular the means whereby painting could achieve specific optical effects. Placing Manet at the origin of this development, Wickhoff interprets Impressionism and plein air painting as aiming primarily at “reproducing the effect of light on specific objects with complete precision.”42 Parallel with this movement, however, the invention of photographic reproduction had challenged assumptions about the mimetic function of art, as a consequence of which painting now sought purely “artistic effect”: “We are no longer to be presented with objects because they are interesting in and for themselves and because they give rise to certain associations of ideas. Now painting has become psychologically more refined, and that which used to be specific to music and lyric, namely, the reproduction of ambience, has now become the proper object of modern painting.”43 This narrative, with its emphasis on the importance of Manet and its highlighting of the process whereby “painting was itself viewed as an object for investigation,” would become widespread in contemporary accounts of modernism. As Margaret Olin has stated, the idea of ambience (Stimmung—often also translated as “mood” or “atmosphere”) appeared often in late nineteenth-century art criticism, and it was also central to Riegl’s reading of modern art.44 The latter’s essay “Die Stimmung als Inhalt der modernen Kunst” (Ambience as the content of modern art), published only two years after Wickhoff’s lectures, may well have been informed by the older scholar’s thinking, although Riegl developed this basic idea more fully.45 The Berlin-based art historian and critic Richard Hamann put forward a similar interpretation in a wide-ranging book on Impressionism published in 1907,

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in which he linked modern painting to psychologism and the work of Ernst Mach but also saw it as depicting states of perception, as Wickhoff saw it as depicting “ambience.”46 Wickhoff’s second lecture focuses more specifically on the aesthetic reorientation effected by recent artistic practice, and his argument centers on three interrelated claims. The first is that earlier strictures on artistic subjects had been lifted. In an analysis replete with echoes of Hegel’s theory of Romantic art, Wickhoff thus argues that “today there are no more objects that painting would find too slight or poor and that it would not be able to turn into images of ambience.” This assimilation of the commonplace by art was part of a broader process of aestheticization, for “everywhere the arts have opened up the aesthetic connections between events, and modern painting has opened up to us the entire breadth of the world.”47 The indifference regarding subject matter is linked to Wickhoff’s second claim, namely, that modern art invoked a suspension of aesthetic norms; from Velázquez onward painters had replaced the concern for beauty with a striving for purely painterly effects. This was an important assertion; Wickhoff had already made it in relation to the value attached to Roman art, and his claim anticipated a similar argument he put forward in his later, better-known lecture in defense of Klimt. It was tied to the insistence on the suspension of aesthetic judgment that his teacher Thausing had advanced so forcefully. Wickhoff also highlights what he considers the backwardness of German culture in this regard. One can assume that by “German” Wickhoff means both German and Austrian, and he argues that the continued and outmoded absorption in historicism (“which

represents a long superseded era for all other peoples”) “made it difficult to become artistically immersed in modern production.”48 As with his reading of Impressionism, this was a familiar complaint; Meier-Graefe saw the popularity of Arnold Böcklin as evidence of Germany’s retarded artistic culture in comparison with that of France.49 The third claim Wickhoff puts forward in his lecture is concerned with the modern leveling of traditional hierarchies; this applied particularly to the domain of architecture. Expressing disdain for the Ringstrasse, Wickhoff emphasizes instead the impact of “railway station concourses, large bridges, huge iron constructions.” This impact was borne out by the experience of Rotterdam, he argues, for

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over the whole of Rotterdam runs an elevated railway on pillars, so that in parts the train drives past the roofs of houses. Between the pillars swoop mighty arches, at times over the houses, at others spanning the streets, such that there is heavy railway traffic above the city. The effect is not unaesthetic; the smoke in the middle of the city, the numerous vistas through the heavy architectural masses, the surge of life passing through the city on the pillars—all of that gives the city a peculiar charm we cannot find in other cities.50

This paean to the industrial metropolis is striking not only in terms of Wickhoff’s divergence from his teacher Eitelberger but also in relation to recent debates over urban space; Camillo Sitte’s widely read work on urban planning had promoted an entirely different aesthetic that was closer to that espoused by Eitelberger (whose student he had been).51 Instead, Wickhoff consciously dismantles the opposition between

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architecture and engineering in an embrace of urban modernity squarely at odds with Sitte’s vision of the picturesque. The industrial aesthetic for which Wickhoff creates space suggests a radically alternative value system. Wickhoff, however, does not amplify these comments, and in his third lecture he turns to a different subject: education. This was a recurrent Vienna School preoccupation that could be traced back to Eitelberger, and here Wickhoff lapses back into rather more conventional thinking. Concerned that the most common response to modern art is incomprehension, he argues that this is due to the fact that Gymnasium education no longer includes drawing and thus deprives the educated middle classes of the opportunity to engage with art.52 Although incomplete, the lectures are an important and generally overlooked document of Wickhoff’s intellectual development; they reveal an engagement with modernity that was unusual among art historians, who, as Meier-Graefe complained, often seemed wholly unable to rise the challenge of modern art.53 Central to Wickhoff’s approach were the arguments, first, that modern art, for all its correspondences with earlier artistic practices, required a suspension of historic norms and, second, that it was the reflex of a shift toward the cultivation of a subjective inwardness. Wickhoff’s lectures, as well as his comments on modern art in the Vienna Genesis edition, have tended to be overshadowed in subsequent accounts by his involvement in the so-called Klimt Affair. A significant episode in the career of Klimt himself, it has been exhaustively discussed in literature on Klimt elsewhere, but a few salient aspects are pertinent here.54 Klimt was commissioned, along with Franz Matsch, to devise a

scheme of decoration for the ceilings of the Aula, the Great Hall, of the main building of the University of Vienna, completed by Heinrich von Ferstel in 1884. The decorations were meant to comprise allegories of the university and its four faculties: Theology, Philosophy, Medicine, and Jurisprudence. Matsch was to undertake the centerpiece, representing the university, as well as that for the Faculty of Theology, while Klimt was to execute the other three. The “affair” took off when Klimt displayed Philosophy at the Secession exhibition in March 1900. On the one hand, it received a positive response in many quarters; the art critic Richard Muther, for example, noting that Klimt had “surpassed himself,” poured gushing praise on the work.55 On the other, it was the target of wide-scale opprobrium in the press.56 Wickhoff’s involvement was prompted by a petition against the painting signed by eighty-seven professors of the university, including, among others, the rector Wilhelm Neumann and the philosopher Friedrich Jodl, which was submitted to Wilhelm von Hartel, the minister of culture, asking him to cancel the commission. This was followed up by a press interview in which Jodl declaimed, “We are not campaigning . . . against artistic freedom but rather against artistic ugliness.”57 In response, Wickhoff sent a critical telegram to Neumann and also delivered a lecture at the Philosophy Faculty on the subject “What is ugly?” in which he mounted a defense of the painting. The original text has not survived, but a summary was published in the Wiener Fremdenblatt shortly afterward.58 In it Wickhoff addresses a number of issues, including the biological origins of the sense of beauty, but at the heart of his discussion is the crisis prompted by the rediscovery of the antique in the eighteenth

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century. Until then, he argues, art had been part of an unquestioned evolution underpinned by shared religious and ethical ideals. The rise of antiquarianism, in contrast, had caused a division between those seeking to advance artistic production and those “second-rate minds” that held to the normative value of classical antiquity. Such attitudes were linked to a belief in stylistic purity, Wickhoff notes, intending to undercut the criticisms that Klimt’s Philosophy did not suit the Neo-Renaissance style of the university building where it would eventually be installed. Yet “the era of so-called stylistic purity has been overcome, and all those who are sensitive to art are in agreement that just as in old times, the finest building decorations are always the most proficient works artists have created out of the sensibilities of their own time. It is atavistic to attack an artwork because it does not comply with the style of a bygone era.”59 The political stakes were high; the Deutsches Volksblatt, one of the leading German nationalist newspapers, accused Wickhoff of “Jewish shamelessness” by attempting to impose this “poison” on the population, but von Hartel, who had co-edited the Vienna Genesis with Wickhoff, rejected the petition. Philosophy was exhibited in Paris at the Exhibition universelle later the same year, where it was awarded the Grand Prix. Klimt also went on to complete the other two paintings. This became a rallying point for the Secession; von Hartel was praised for his stance, Ludwig Hevesi noting that “the business of modern art is safe in his hands,” but the criticisms continued.60 Not only were Medicine and Jurisprudence deemed “ugly,” they were also accused of being immoral, and Klimt was described as a pornographer.61 Eventually, in 1905, the ministry withdrew

its support; in disgust, Klimt, with the help of the industrialist August Lederer, repaid the advance he had received. The Klimt Affair is often taken as an illustration of the opposition between an embattled modernist Secession and a conservative, antimodern establishment. The hostility to Klimt’s paintings seemed to bear out Wickhoff’s comments about the backward nature of taste in Vienna, and from 1901 onward von Hartel appeared to draw back from his original support for the artist. As Jeroen van Heerde has demonstrated, however, the situation was more complex than a straight opposition of modernity and tradition.62 Despite the growing public criticisms, the Ministry of Culture continued in its recognition of the artistic quality of the paintings; Philosophy was, despite the controversy, sent to Paris as an official Austrian submission. Further episodes indicate that the state remained supportive. In October 1903 the Secession asked the Ministry of Culture for permission to display Klimt’s paintings in the Klimt Exhibition of November and December of that year. Initially, von Hartel was advised to turn the request down, but the grounds for tendering such advice are revealing of official attitudes. Karl von Wiener, an advisor in the ministry, noted in an internal memorandum to von Hartel that “there is no doubt Klimt’s three large ceiling paintings, aside from a few eccentricities, are valuable artistic achievements of the highest quality. It has to be doubted, however, whether the understanding of the public is advanced enough even to be able to comprehend such creations without prejudice.”63 It was not a question, therefore, of aesthetic evaluation but rather the more difficult issue of public opinion. In November 1903, for example, the Art Commission of the

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ministry was invited to view Klimt’s three paintings at the Secession building, together with Matsch’s Theology. The minutes of the commission’s meeting immediately afterward indicate a positive reaction to Klimt’s paintings; Matsch’s much more conservative work was criticized.64 By this time, however, the critical voices in the press were no longer concerned merely with Klimt but also focused on the policies of the ministry itself. Its reluctance either to cancel the commission or to speak out explicitly in support of the works was a sign not so much of reservations about the quality of Klimt’s work as of the difficult situation it found itself in, for it sought to avoid being drawn further into the controversy in the name of the putative impartiality that was the hallmark of official attitudes. Support for Klimt had come to be a political liability, and he fell victim to the higher priority of maintaining internal political equilibrium. Moreover, by 1905 Wickhoff had become involved in another controversy, namely, that over the appointment of Max Dvořák; nationalist commentators in the press were as hostile to Wickhoff for his “betrayal” of German scholarship as they were to Dvořák himself. Yet despite its eventual decision in the case of the university paintings, the Austrian state continued to support Klimt in other ways. The so-called Kunstschau of the Klimt Group of 1908, staged as part of the diamond jubilee celebrations for the emperor Franz Joseph, was extensively subsidized by the Ministry of Education; not only did it secure the exhibition grounds for Klimt, it also provided a subsidy of 46,000 crowns and, when the exhibition ran a substantial deficit, provided a further 8,000 crowns financial support. Consideration of the broader political framework of the Klimt Affair and its

aftermath casts a new light on Wickhoff’s participation, for it can now be seen that his support for modern art was in keeping with wider official cultural policies and objectives. The issue of nationalities policy has to be taken into account, for the Secession received financial support from the government not only because it provided an external image of Austria as a culturally advanced state but also because its membership was drawn from across the Empire. Some 40 percent of the artists exhibiting with the Secession were Czechs or Poles, such as the painters Jacek Malczewski (1854–1929) and Vojtěch Preissig (1873–1944) and the architects Jan Kotěra (1871–1923) and Osvald Polívka (1859–1931).65 The Secession thus acted as a counterweight to the nationalistic attitudes of many of the territories outside of Vienna and provided an image of artistic uniformity and coherence. The theme of modern art thus befitted the wider concerns of the monarchy. The engagement of Wickhoff with modernism also demonstrates the continuing preoccupation of Vienna School art historians with debates over art history and its relation to aesthetics, and the place of art history within cultural and social policy. In supporting Klimt’s paintings so publicly, Wickhoff also gained prominence as a spokesman for modernism, which made him a target for nationalistic commentators in the increasingly febrile political atmosphere of early twentieth-century Vienna.

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Ambience, Subjectivity, and the Modern in Art Wickhoff was heir to the tradition established by Eitelberger of the art historian as a public intellectual who became actively

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involved in often politically contentious cultural politics. Neither Riegl nor Dvořák became so entangled in the public controversies prompted by the reception of modernism, and they seldom wrote about it directly, but as their treatment of Baroque art and architecture indicates, modernist aesthetics deeply informed their historiographical vision. In addition, both wrote directly on the topic of contemporary art. Riegl published two short essays on modern art, both in 1899. The first, “Die Stimmung als Inhalt der modernen Kunst” (Ambience as the content of modern art), is an analysis of the aesthetics of modernism, while the second, “Das Moderne in der Kunst” (The modern in art), is a response to a lecture of the same title by Julius Lessing (1843–1908), director of the Berlin Design Museum.66 Riegl’s “Ambience as the Content of Modern Art” is clearly influenced by Wickhoff’s reading, and it focuses too on the formative role of the modern scientific attitude. It draws different conclusions, however. Riegl compares the natural scientific attitude with aesthetic judgment. Viewing an Alpine landscape, for example, seeing it as an ordered whole, is comparable to the scientific apprehension of order and meaning that is produced by the application of the law of causality. On the one hand, the rise of the modern scientific worldview had replaced belief in divine or supernatural agency with belief in purely mechanical causes and effects. On the other, the apparent chaos of conflicting intentionless forces could also be grasped by means of the concept of natural causation and thus brought under the notion of a higher lawfulness. As Riegl notes, “We term this intimation of the order and lawfulness above the chaos, of the harmony beyond dissonance, of the rest beyond

movement, ambience.”67 Scientific understanding thus had an aesthetic function, and Riegl ties this to particular examples of modern art, such as the work of Max Liebermann, or Impressionism in general. Liebermann’s inclusion of an array of apparently inconsequential details should be seen as symptomatic of an intention to “give expression to the causal law penetrating and connecting the things of nature.”68 It involved doing away with the strict hierarchies that eliminate contingent elements, thereby interrupting the ubiquity of causal relations. Riegl puts forward a similar idea in “The Modern in Art.” Specifically, he asserts that the scientific understanding of events as bound to larger abstract causal processes— replacing the premodern belief in personal (divine or semidivine) agency—paralleled the artistic tendency to abstract from the individual object and to view it in terms of the larger nexus of which it was part:

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We are no longer interested in natural phenomena for their own sake; instead, we are interested in their place within a larger context, a whole chain of causes and effects that we can view from a distance, as it were. This distanced (fernsichtig) response to models from nature now governs modern art. This has made its mark most strikingly in the oppressive power of painting, for this art, which is based purely on vision, is the only one capable of presenting things and their causal relation to their surroundings.69

Use of the term fernsichtig was a notable departure from Wickhoff’s approach, which, although making reference to the subjective psychology of modernism, remained largely empirical in its observations. In contrast, Riegl’s essay introduces the theoretical model of vision that he would articulate at much

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greater length in his studies of the Dutch group portrait or late Roman and Baroque art. The notion of causal connection would play a central role in The Group Portraiture of Holland, for the distinguishing feature of Dutch art was the increased attention to the intersubjective relation between persons, whereas Italian art depicted the atomized agency of individuals within the historia of the painting. “Ambience,” as described in the essays on modern art, was an early formulation of the concept of “attentiveness” (Aufmerksamkeit), which would be central to his study of the Dutch group portrait, and conversely, Riegl’s study of Dutch art provided a historical genealogy of the modern, for the attentiveness of seventeenth-century Holland was a prefiguration of the ambience of modern art. As Jonathan Crary has suggested, Riegl’s emphasis on the depiction of intersubjective relations in Dutch group portraiture was a utopian gesture toward a communal identity that stood implicitly in opposition to “modern forms of interiority, absorption, and psychic isolation.”70 Indeed, his model of mutual interdependence had clear political connotations in terms of the wider narratives of social and cultural identity promoted by the Habsburg state. As with so many other art-historical topics, the theme of modern art and its genealogy was thus politically charged.

Expressionism and would themselves also inform Expressionist art and architectural practice. While he was writing the essays on modern art, Riegl was also preparing the manuscript for the posthumously published Historical Grammar of the Fine Arts. This is his most sustained exercise in speculative thinking, and it rehearses many of the ideas that underpin his subsequent major works on late Roman and Dutch art. The book manuscript moves beyond the merely positivist artistic preoccupation with opticality and subjective perception, positing a metaphysics of artistic creation according to which art is to be conceived as in creative competition with nature. This competition underlay three phases in the history of art. In the first, which culminated in classical Greek and Roman art, art sought to improve on nature through the embrace of the perfection of beauty. In the second, art sought to transcend nature through the transfiguring powers of spiritual beauty, and this was evident in Byzantine and Islamic art, culminating in Gothic art in medieval Europe. In the third, art highlighted the transience of the natural world (under the influence of the physical sciences) and was characterized by its embrace of movement and “transitory nature.”71 It is hardly necessary to dwell on the problematic nature of such a sweeping periodization. Riegl makes a number of more specific claims, however, that do merit further attention. First, whereas his better-known writings are associated with the rigorous suspension of normative value judgments, Historical Grammar is full of qualitative evaluations. Thus, for example, he describes the arts of Greece and Rome, as well as that of the High Renaissance, as manifestations of decline.72 Second, he makes a number of remarkable critical

Modern Art as the Search for Inner Spirit The writings studied so far show the impact of Impressionism on Wickhoff and Riegl. The latter, however, also explored concepts that would show the growing importance of

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comments, unparalleled in his other writings, on the state of modern art. These include a critique of its social status, for “art has become the privilege of only a few social strata—namely, the cultivated elite,” and he contrasts this with earlier art, which was rooted in popular culture.73 The alienation of modern art was linked to the fact that art had lost its social significance and any normative framework governing artistic practice. “Today’s artist,” he adds, “is a distinguished gentleman churning out pieces to satisfy the dilettantish predilections of other grand and wealthy men.”74 Art had become the object of a merely “aesthetic appreciation,” accessible only to those with appropriate education, and in a striking comment on the purpose and significance of his own profession, he asserts that the fact “that art-historical knowledge is judged imperative for understanding modern artworks . . . proves yet again how alienated the modern visual arts have grown from the wider masses.”75 Moreover, Riegl argues, art’s failure to address the “inner emptiness” of the “larger mass of humanity” meant that it had been supplanted by music as the principal form of spiritual sustenance. Riegl does not amplify this final comment, perhaps because the book remains unfinished, but the theme of spiritual hunger recurs several times in the manuscript. He argues, for example, that although the work of the High Renaissance, culminating in Raphael, exhibited extraordinary physical and aesthetic perfection, “the cry resounded for a deeper understanding of man’s relation to matter.”76 Claiming that this cry originated in northern European art, Riegl thereby introduces an association between German art and the concern for inner subjectivity that would later become such a central topos of art-historical writing.

Historical Grammar of the Visual Arts thus puts forward the outlines of a different conception of modern art, in which spiritual depth and artistic alienation supplanted opticality; these would find resonance later in the work of Max Dvořák, with its affinities to Expressionist culture. Indeed, as Edwin Lachnit has indicated, Riegl also explored a further theme that would be central to Expressionist art criticism: the crystalline.77 The crystal had functioned as an important symbol of the “geometry of nature” or the “spiritual in the material” for Romantic thinkers such as Friedrich Schlegel and Friedrich Schelling, and Riegl drew on this strand of thinking.78 Specifically, he interpreted the crystal as the symbol of natural growth, and as such it provided the primeval basis of creative action: “Once man feels the urge to create some decorative or conceptually meaningful work from dead matter, he naturally employs the same laws by which nature shapes dead matter: the laws of crystallinity. Because the crystalline motif obeys natural laws most perfectly, it is the only intrinsically appropriate and justifiable motif for human artistic creation.”79 The origins of art lay, therefore, in the geometric forms of the crystal, and to support this claim Riegl pointed to the prevalence of geometric design in the earliest Egyptian art, including, most notably, the pyramid.80 In classical Greek and Roman art crystalline motifs stood in balance with organic forms that were expressive of individuality. For, Riegl noted, the dissolution of individuality that was common in late Roman sculpture represented a resurgence of the crystalline, which functioned as a figure of the revival of the spiritual, for “the spiritual cannot be grasped individually.”81 Riegl’s comments on the crystalline were taken up and developed further by Wilhelm

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Worringer, whose analysis of crystalline abstraction would become a key theoretical text of Expressionist art history.82 Worringer’s book provided an important bridge between Riegl and Dvořák, for while Dvořák distanced himself from Worringer’s tendency to refer to racialized notions of ethnicity, he nonetheless, as Hans Aurenhammer has suggested, took up Worringer’s contrast between the geometric and the organic.83 Dvořák’s account of Gothic art makes only indirect reference to the art and culture of the present. In 1902, however, he directly addressed the topic in an article on the recent history of Czech art, “Von Mánes zu Švabinský.”84 Described by his student Vincenc Kramář as “the most important work to have ever been written about the arts in Bohemia,” it was a portrait of the two artists named in the title, Josef Mánes (1820–1871) and Max Švabinský (1873–1962).85 The choice of these two artists was calculated. Mánes was an iconic artist in Prague, and Švabinský was a leading Czech artist working at the turn of the century. Dvořák took them as representatives of Czech art since the 1840s, and the essay was written as a means of gauging the extent to which it had participated in the “general development of art.”86 Noting that “whoever denies the achievements of foreigners is a fool,” Dvořák stood in opposition to many Czech art historians, who sought to hold on to the idea of the autonomous evolution and unique characteristics of Czech art.87 Yet even Dvořák was unable to sidestep the Czech-German rivalry affecting the cultural politics of Bohemia, for he admitted that his article was motivated by the desire to rebut the comments of an unnamed history of German art—presumably Gurlitt’s work on the Baroque—which had termed the Czechs

“a people without art.” A study of two significant Prague artists thus ended up becoming a defensive celebration of Czech art, tinged by the nationalist politics that so often colored the historiography of art. Dvořák’s second text on modern art, his foreword to an edition of Oskar Kokoschka’s graphic cycle The Concert, is, although considerably shorter, a more significant piece of writing.88 In particular, it encapsulates the varying images of modern art that had underpinned the responses of Wickhoff and Riegl, in that Dvořák counterposes Kokoschka’s cycle of ten images of Kamilla Swoboda, the wife of Dvořák’s student Karl Swoboda, at a musical concert with Monet’s series of haystacks painted between 1888 and 1893. These two sets of works represent for Dvořák the two directions of modern art. Monet’s paintings were the culmination of the modern fetish for rationality, he argues, which was evident not only in the culture of the natural sciences but also in the artistic naturalism that had led to a “intensification of the methods of artistic observation and reproduction of nature to the most extreme boundaries of the painterly immortalization of a finite sensory experience.”89 In contrast, the portraits by Kokoschka displayed a profounder engagement with the “inner soul” of Kamilla Swoboda, treating her external features as contingent accessories. Dvořák makes clear which of these two he regards in a more positive light, for the trajectory represented by Monet had, he argues, diverted art from its true path: “art thereby became soulless, for the more the artist was drawn into the imitation of nature, the further he strayed from the primal source of art.”90 In contrast, the Expressionism of Kokoschka constituted a retrieval of art’s real nature. In these terms Dvořák ties his

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understanding of modern art into his larger historiographical vision, and his account of the Austrian artist clearly echoes comments from his essay on El Greco, in which he portrays the Greek painter as constituting the “high point of a general artistic movement, the goal of which consisted in replacing the materialism of the Renaissance with a spiritual orientation.”91 This emphasis on the spiritual was thus used not only as a value that informed judgments about the past but also as a means of gauging the present. It also raises further awkward questions about the political commitments of Vienna School authors when considered in relation to later developments. Dvořák was following the precedent of Riegl and Wickhoff in pointing to correspondences and parallels between contemporary art and the history of art; Riegl had, however, suggested it was not yet possible to place modern art in a broader periodization of the history of art, due to a lack of historical distance.92 Dvořák cast such caution aside, viewing modern art in epochal terms that enabled him to draw far-reaching conclusions about the historical significance of the art of the present. He thereby introduced a discourse that found its closest counterparts in the work of his antithesis, Josef Strzygowski or, later, Hans Sedlmayr, who both replaced close attention to historical detail with wide-ranging transhistorical speculation on the history of art. Indeed, with its attacks on the materialist godlessness of the previous two centuries, Sedlmayr’s Loss of the Center was in important respects continuing the critique of modernity that Dvořák had outlined in his historical works as well as his essay on Kokoschka. The engagement with modern art by Vienna School authors is often regarded as

a sign of their commitment to progressive aesthetic and social attitudes, yet quite apart from the fact that Wickhoff’s support for Klimt was attuned to the legitimizing narrative of the Habsburg dynasty, modern art was a topic of equal interest to both Strzygowski and Sedlmayr, though the latter’s work falls outside of the historical period examined in this book.

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Reactionary Modernism: Josef Strzygowski’s Reading of the Art of the Present Strzygowski first came to prominence in 1901 with the publication of Orient oder Rom? a study of the origins of European Christian art, which was notable for its sarcastic and dismissive attack on Wickhoff. It is, however, his rather less well-known study of 1907, Die bildende Kunst der Gegenwart (Fine art of the present), that is of relevance here. If it is familiar to contemporary audiences at all, it is on account of Strzygowski’s anti-Semitic remarks about Max Liebermann. Highlighting Liebermann’s apparent disregard for content and his emphasis on aesthetic imagination—an interpretation that hardly differed from Wickhoff’s reading— Strzygowski argues that “race lies behind this notion,” adding that “in general the Orientals have considerable fantasy.”93 These and other comments (Strzygowski also notes that “Liebermann still has the penetrating understanding of his race”)94 reflect Strzygowski’s own politics but are also indicative of a wider hostility toward Impressionism among conservative German art historians. Most notoriously, the Heidelberg art historian Henry Thode delivered a series of lectures in 1905 that attacked Impressionism for being both

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un-German and inartistic, implying too that it was driven by the commercial interests of an elite Berlin clique.95 It was precisely those aspects of Impressionism that Wickhoff had foregrounded as indicating its modernity— in particular, its disregard for the “object”— that were the subject of Thode’s greatest censure.96 As a counter to the influence of Liebermann specifically and Impressionism in general, Thode promoted the mythological paintings of Arnold Böcklin, an enthusiasm he shared with Strzygowski, whose admiration for the Swiss painter extended to the recommendation that the German government should subsidize the distribution of free prints of his works to every household in the Reich.97 Strzygowski’s promotion of Böcklin suggests he had aesthetic preferences that were fairly common in conservative circles, but it is necessary to qualify this observation, for the painter was equally admired by Aby Warburg, in all other respects Strzygowski’s ideological antithesis.98 Moreover, alongside his enthusiasm for Böcklin, Strzygowski is also complimentary about Klimt, praising the “monumental and powerful impact” of the Beethoven frieze.”99 His comments on architecture and design also reveal some surprising judgments. On the one hand, as Jindřich Vybíral has argued, Strzygowski’s book is deeply flawed, with inconsistent arguments that make sweeping claims with little evidence to support them.100 On the other hand, it was the first book by a Viennese art historian to deal at length with the topic of modern art and architecture, and on that account alone deserves attention. Strzygowski opens his discussion of this topic with an acknowledgment of the changed demands of modernity on the kinds of structures to be built; railway stations, hotels, postal buildings, factories,

stock exchanges, banks—all made new demands that had not necessarily been met in the present. Indeed, the present labored under the continued influence of historicist values, which he deemed totally inadequate: “when faced with these new tasks as they unfold, is it not remarkable that our monumental building is basically still stuck in its old skin? That we still build with Greek columns and gables, and with Renaissance or Baroque façades? . . . Wouldn’t it be time to begin putting the general principles of artistic construction into the foreground and to put the usual regurgitation of traditional styles into the background?”101 Strzygowski’s attack on historicism was outdated by 1907 and is perhaps better understood if approached in the context of his wider critique of the influence of classical culture, but it also has to be seen alongside his valorization of certain types of recent construction. He is critical of historicism and academicism but also dismisses American skyscrapers as “tasteless.” They suffered from a “crass lack of sensitivity for any harmony,” and he dismisses commercial buildings in London that had reduced architecture to a mere “advertising hoarding,” referring to them as “poster façades” designed for “people who wish to forget themselves and transform themselves into pure work machines.”102 His book is not, however, a simple polemic against modern architecture; he praises a number of contemporary commercial buildings in Leipzig and Hannover, for example, and endorses William Lossow and Hermann Viehweger’s power station in Dresden of 1901 (fig. 11) as a “genuinely modern building,” as “something highly modern achieved in an artistic way.”103 He does not specify what “modern” means, other than being synonymous with

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fig. 11  William Lossow and Hermann Viehweger, Dresden Heating and Electricity Works, 1901, from Die Architektur des xx. Jahrhunderts: Zeitschrift für moderne Baukunst 25 (1903).

“contemporary”—but it is clearly employed in this context as a term of praise, and Strzygowski also writes positively about Otto Wagner and Henry van de Velde. Indeed, his critique of historicism, coupled with his

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conception of modern architecture, which emphasized its aesthetic qualities, suggests an affinity to the values of Wagner, whose essay The Metropolis, published only four years after Strzygowski’s book, criticizes

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the picturesque urban aesthetics of Camillo Sitte in the name of architectural “realism.”104 Describing Wagner as “one of the most able architects,” Strzygowski singles out his Schönbrunn station of the Vienna Stadtbahn for particular praise: it “has only taken from the old what suits the modern context.”105 In his concluding comments on Wagner he adds: “As an artist of space Wagner is hardly surpassed; it is to be regretted that he has not received any commission to complete a monumental structure in the great style. He would find it difficult to achieve something that satisfied many, yet his creation would be pioneering in its effect. The direction he has taken contains the necessary seeds for the development of modern architecture.”106 Paradoxically, therefore, given his otherwise antagonistic relation to Riegl and Wickhoff, Strzygowski shared his Viennese colleagues’ positive interest in contemporary architecture. Moreover, although hostile to Impressionism and other currents in current painting, he was supportive of a number of modern sculptors. He praised, for example, Hugo Lederer’s 1906 monument to Bismarck in Hamburg (fig. 12) on account of the sculptor’s ability to define a language of monumentality and commemoration appropriate to the modern age, and he contrasted it with the 1901 Bismarck monument by Reinhold Begas (fig. 13) in front of the Reichstag. As with his enthusiasm for Böcklin, so here too Strzygowski found himself in the company of Aby Warburg, who was a forceful advocate for Lederer’s Bismarck monument.107 Such shared attitudes on the part of thinkers who were otherwise deeply divided politically reveals the complex nature of the ideological terrain of art historians’ debates over modern art. Otherwise progressively

minded intellectuals could display surprisingly conservative tastes, whereas politically reactionary figures such as Strzygowski could be supportive of self-consciously modernist artistic and architectural projects. A further striking instance of Strzygowski’s interest in modern art was his support for the Croatian sculptor Ivan Meštrović. In the years immediately preceding the First World War Meštrović attained considerable fame as the artistic embodiment of South Slav national identity. He had already exhibited with the Vienna Secession in 1905, and at the 1911 International Art Exhibition in Rome Meštrović, although a Croat from Split and hence a subject of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, exhibited his work in the pavilion of the Kingdom of Serbia. After the First World War he was adopted by the new Kingdom of the Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes and charged with providing a monumental visual expression of the new South Slav identity. This he did, producing a large number of striking public monuments, such as the 1929 statue of Gegory of Nin in Split and the earlier mausoleum for the Račić family (fig. 14) in the Dalmatian town of Cavtat, near Dubrovnik, about which Strzygowski also wrote in glowing terms.108 Strzygowski had developed an interest in the art and culture of the southern Slavs early in his career. Thanks to his publication of a number of medieval Serbian works, including a historically important twelfth-century manuscript in Munich, he became a celebrated figure in Serbian intellectual circles and would later serve as an artistic advisor to the Serbian royal family.109 His interest in Meštrović, however, was part of a much wider renegotiation of the geography of art, in which he sought to displace what he argued were the Occidental

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fig. 12  Hugo Lederer, Bismarck monument, Hamburg, 1906.

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fig. 13  Reinhold Begas, Bismarck monument, Berlin, 1901. Anonymous photograph.

horizons of the art-historical profession. This was evident too in his interpretation of contemporary art. One of his boldest works was an extended study of the medieval architecture of Armenia,110 which, he claimed, had provided the original prototypes for the Christian architecture of the European Middle Ages, but in Fine Art of the Present he rehearsed a similar idea in relation to contemporary architecture. Specifically, he argued that it was driven by three basic aesthetic modes: the antique, the Gothic, and the Oriental. The engineering-driven architecture of the industrial age was a reactivation of the spirit of the Gothic, while

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Secessionist architecture, with its attention to decorative façades, was a remobilization of aesthetic impulses from the “East.”111 Strzygowski recognized the importance of direct borrowing from “Oriental” sources, particularly with regard to the appropriation of Indian and Japanese art in the late nineteenth century, but he also saw Secessionist art as the product of the resurgence of a much deeper-seated aesthetic drive, a view that led him to make comparisons between contemporary European architects and Seljuk architecture in Konya, in central Anatolia. Such comments were typical of the speculative nature of much of Strzygowski’s

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of imperial authority over the art world, a defect that he compares with rejection of the “sweet yoke of dependence” by the women’s movement.112 Yet while his own nationalist attitudes are well documented, his position differed from that of conservatives such as Henry Thode. His espousal of the “East” (examined in greater depth in the following chapter), his positive assessment of Meštrović, and his criticisms of the inadequacies of historicist responses to modernity suggest that he should rather be regarded as an early representative of what Jeffrey Herf has called “reactionary modernism.”113 Deeply conservative, racist, and, judging from his passing comments on the women’s movement, sexist, Strzygowski was not hostile to the modern age; rather, he was concerned with trying to construct, no matter how poorly, an alternative image of modernity. fig. 14  Ivan Meštrović, Račić family mausoleum, Cavtat, 1923, postcard.

Conclusion writing, and while their weaknesses are all too apparent, they were not that distant from some of the speculations of Riegl in Historical Grammar of the Fine Arts. Subsequent art-historical judgment has been rather kinder to Riegl in this regard, although this is not to argue for the need to rehabilitate Strzygowski as an interpreter of modern art. For all his approving comments on individual artists and architects, Strzygowski concludes Fine Art of the Present with grave reservations about the direction of contemporary art. Despite their notable achievements, the artists of the Secession were, he argues, still inferior to Böcklin, whom he regards as the only current artist worthy of comparison with the old masters. His volume culminates in a more general complaint about modernity, bemoaning the lack

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More than any other subject, perhaps, responses to modern art served to define contemporary identities in turn-​of-​the-​century Austria-​Hungary. It is therefore no surprise that Viennese art historians, for whom broader issues of cultural, social, and political identity were ever present, should have turned repeatedly to the topic, either directly or through allegorical means that set out the correspondences between the past and the present. Mapping out the treatment of contemporary art by Vienna School authors from Eitelberger to Strzygowski reveals a constantly shifting terrain. Not only does it reveal the conceptual evolution of art history, it also displays art historians’ attempts to come to terms with the rapidly changing art world, in particular the emergence of

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modernism and, more broadly, the meaning of the experience of modernity. Eitelberger equated modernity with the emergence of a liberal social and cultural order allied to the shift to a constitutional monarchy, which created an environment that was conducive to an informed engagement with artistic tradition. For Wickhoff and Riegl modernity was marked by the rise of the natural scientific attitude that led to the suspension of traditional aesthetic norms and an increased foregrounding of pure optical experience in art. In his later writings, however, Riegl, and then Dvořák in his wake, saw modernity as leading to an alienating emptiness that could only be overcome by a return to an inner spirituality, an attitude that would eventually recur in Sedlmayr’s attack on the modern era. Strzygowski’s position was less clear, and he certainly failed to articulate an unambiguous account, but alongside his call for the creation of a new mythology—embodied in Böcklin—he recognized that the historicist return to tradition was untenable given the demands of the present. Reviewing the range of positions adopted by Vienna School authors highlights the complex politics involved in the art-historical engagement with modernism, which could be used to support liberal political agendas as well as progressive and reactionary critiques of the cultural establishment. Behind all these different accounts lay the ambivalent attitudes of the state, which supported

modern art, and the Secession in particular, on account of the positive image of the monarchy it could provide, but only for as long as it enjoyed wide public acceptance. At times Vienna School authors aligned themselves with official attitudes and at others stood at odds with them. As with so many other topics in the historiography of art, “modern art” functioned as a kind of floating signifier that could be deployed to sustain a range of political and ideological commitments, yet these were often unexpected and contradictory. Strzygowski’s enthusiasm for Böcklin was shared by Aby Warburg, while Riegl’s diagnosis of the “hunger” for spiritual sustenance was a precursor of the conservative critique articulated by Sedlmayr some forty years later. Dvořák, the recipient of so much racist hostility from German nationalists, ended up endorsing a view of the “spiritual” qualities of German culture that would not have looked out of place in the writings of Strzygowski. Given the frequently overlapping judgments of the various authors in question, therefore, it would be misleading to map their differences onto a simple opposition between progressive and conservative cultural attitudes. What such contradictory opinions reveal is that the experience of modernity and modern art stretched to the limit art historians’ ability to interpret its meaning and to find an adequate conceptual framework that could govern any interpretation.

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8 Between East and West All art by modern cultured peoples stems directly from Greece, which spread in all directions . . . all art has a single origin. —franz wickhoff

One of the key ways in which Austria-​ Hungary defined itself was in terms of its relation to the “East.” Since Edward Said’s analysis of orientalism in nineteenth- and early twentieth-century France and Britain, it has become a commonplace that the projected Oriental Other played a formative role in modern European conceptions of identity.1 Said’s particular focus was on attitudes toward the Arabic Middle East among the French and British political, social, and cultural elite, and it is only relatively recently that his analysis has been broadened to encompass other European states, including imperial Germany.2 This chapter considers the role of orientalizing attitudes in the Habsburg Monarchy, the one major European state that has not been subject to the kind of analysis first developed by Said. There has been no shortage of studies of orientalism in the work of Austrian authors ranging from Strzygowski to Hugo von Hofmannsthal, but as Robert

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Lemon has recently argued, Austria has generally been subsumed under Germany in such approaches, revealing an attitude that “maintains the longstanding quasi-colonial territorial claim of German Germanistik over Austrian and Austro-Hungarian literature and culture.”3 The Habsburg state was a distinctive case, however. The orientalizing outlook prevalent in the other major European states was rooted in their role as colonial powers. In contrast, Austria-​Hungary had no colonial possessions until 1908, when it annexed the Ottoman territory of Bosnia-Herzegovina, which it had already been administering since 1878. While the political and social elite may have been motivated at times by colonial fantasies, these were not sustained by the same matrix of power-knowledge that characterized images of the “East” in its neighbors. In addition, the idea of the “Orient” had a more complex range of meanings that were the product of

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the monarchy’s specific history. Because of the long history of Austrian contact (and conflict) with the Ottoman Empire, the term “Orient” bore powerful associations with Islamic culture, but it also had connotations that were particular to the Habsburg experience. Specifically, after the failed Ottoman siege of Vienna in 1683, the Austrian Empire rapidly expanded its territories southward and eastward and came to encompass a population of considerable confessional and linguistic diversity. A prominent element in this encounter with cultural difference was the Eastern Orthodox Church; not only did Austria come to encompass large numbers of Serbs and Romanians within its borders, but also, after the Congress of Berlin in 1878, it had to contend with independent Serbian and Romanian states, as well as the significant Serb population of Bosnia. “Orient” thus signified not only the Islamic Middle East but also the Orthodox eastern fringes of the Empire at a time when, as Larry Wolff has pointed out, the very idea of “eastern” Europe was created as an instrument of political, social, and cultural division.4 The history of the complex political entanglements of Austria-​Hungary in east central Europe and the Balkan Peninsula has been exhaustively examined, and it is not the aim of this discussion to rehearse the issues again.5 The point here is merely to stress that the difference between Catholicism and Orthodoxy functioned as a cultural and political boundary. As the great-power rivalry with Russia over influence in the Balkans became increasingly fraught during the second half of the nineteenth century, confessional affiliation gained political significance. It is against this background that the meaning of the “East” in Austria-​Hungary has to be interpreted.

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Orientalism and the Byzantine Revival On 8 May 1856 Kaiser Franz Joseph laid the final stone of the Museum of Military History in the Arsenal in Vienna (fig. 15). Opened in 1869, it was designed by the Danish architect Theophil Hansen, who would go on to enjoy a successful career in the capital, designing a number of signature buildings on the Ringstrasse, including the concert hall of the Vienna Musikverein (1870), the Academy of Fine Arts (1876), and the Parliament Building (1883).6 The museum was the first purpose-built museum building in Vienna, constructed to glorify “the honor of arms, military glory, and the unity of Austria” and to provide “a visible support for the throne of all Austria.”7 Hansen had studied with Karl Friedrich Schinkel and had designed a number of neoclassical buildings in Athens in the previous two decades, but for the museum he opted for an eclectic neo-Byzantine structure, with Gothic elements, references to the medieval Arsenal of Venice, Moorish ornamental details, and prominent neo-Romanesque round arches on the façade of the central section.8 Hansen’s building belongs in the context of the wider Byzantine revival that took place across Europe in the first half of the nineteenth century. Initially the object of an exoticizing, antiquarian gaze, Byzantine architecture came to be adopted and championed as a vital language for the present.9 Most famously, John Ruskin sought to rehabilitate Byzantine culture, in a pointed rebuttal of Gibbon’s negative views of Byzantium as a phenomenon of decay and decadence.10 In Prussia, neo-Byzantine architecture became the object of royal attention when Friedrich Wilhelm IV, after traveling to

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fig. 15  Theophil Hansen, Museum of Military History, Vienna, 1848–56. Anonymous photograph, 1860–90.

Ravenna and Venice, attempted to introduce the style to his kingdom. In addition to designing his own neo-Byzantine projects, such as the Friedenskirche in Potsdam (1843–48) and the Church of the Redeemer in Sacrow (near Potsdam, 1841–43), the Prussian monarch sponsored the architect Wilhelm Salzenberg to document the architecture and mosaics of Hagia Sophia in Istanbul.11 In Austria neo-Byzantine architecture frequently was indistinguishable from the eclectic constructs of Moorish revivalism and was particularly visible as the language of the large numbers of synagogues that were built across the Empire in the second

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half of the nineteenth century. The largest example was the Dohány Street Synagogue in Budapest, built by the Viennese architect Ludwig Förster between 1854 and 1859, but there were numerous others, including the Leopoldstadt synagogue in Vienna (1858), also by Förster, the synagogue in Czernowitz (1873–78), by the Polish architect Julian Zachariewicz, and Vojtěch Ullman’s so-called Spanish Synagogue in Prague (1868). As Ákos Moravánszky has argued, the neo-Byzantine style was widely adopted because it provided a “new way of seeing the world liberated from the constraints of a normative aestheticism.”12 Yet its significance was deeper, for as the frequency of its use for

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synagogues might suggest, it had other connotations. In particular, with the admixture of an eclectic range of Moorish decorative details, Byzantine-revival architecture soon came to function as a generalized signifier of the Orient. This much was apparent from Förster’s comments on the Leopoldstadt synagogue, in which he explained his choice of visual language as being of the Oriental people—the Arabs—who were closest to the Jews.13 The Byzantine revival in architecture was accompanied by a broader growth of interest in the art and culture of Byzantium, which began to emerge as a distinctive field of scientific study. In the earlier nineteenth century it had figured in histories of art—both Goethe and the Cologne-based art collector and historian Sulpiz Boisserée (1783–1854) had recognized its importance—but it was often used as a critical foil to the subsequent achievements of Italian artists.14 The locus classicus for this treatment was Hegel’s lectures on aesthetics, which concluded that in Byzantine art there was “very little creative room for autonomous artistic production; the art of painting and mosaics descended often into mere handiwork and thereby became ever more lifeless and lacking in spirit.”15 This reflected a wider negative attitude; in Philosophy of History Hegel viewed the Byzantine Empire as “a disgusting picture of imbecility,” and as Robert Nelson has argued, the influence of Hegel ensured that in much subsequent art-historical literature Byzantine art would be seen as marginal to the mainstream of European art.16 The Byzantine revival challenged such views, but it comprised more than mere antiquarian interest or retrieval, for it became a vehicle of self-definition for divers polities. In Germany, for example, it served

to articulate emerging notions of national identity; Friedrich Wilhelm’s enthusiasm was due in part to the affinity he perceived with the theocratic emperors of Constantinople.17 In Austria the image of the Byzantine Empire was likewise ideologically laden but did not gain universal acceptance. As with so many other issues, the tensions and conflicts that attended it were visible in the writings of Vienna School art historians. A key issue was definition of Byzantine architecture and how it could be distinguished from other architectural forms. Architects tended to be fairly undiscriminating, combining an eclectic range of architectural and decorative motifs, such as richly ornamental mosaic interiors, patterned brickwork, circular windows and semicircular arches, and domed roofs. The work of Hansen was driven by his personal interest in Byzantine culture, but the eclectic nature of many other revivalist buildings led to a confusing combination of signifiers and, more crucially, a blurring of cultural distinctions. The differences between Byzantine, Moorish, and Romanesque were no longer clear-cut, causing consternation for many. It is in the light of this concern that one can interpret a series of essays Eitelberger wrote on Byzantine and Romanesque architecture in the 1850s,18 which were published in the bulletin of the Central Commission for the Investigation and Conservation of Architectural Monuments. Eitelberger’s ostensible subject was the differentiation between Byzantine and Romanesque, which, he argued, were often conflated. “Among the confusions that frequently appear in archaeological reports in Austria, none is as important as the confusion of Byzantine with Romanesque.”19 Why Eitelberger saw the need to distinguish

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between them as so important becomes apparent in his subsequent comments, in which he embarks on an extraordinary comparison of the two. Byzantine architecture represented a “decline in artistic spirit, explicable by the general decline in culture,” whereas Romanesque architecture constituted the beginning of a new era.20 Byzantine architecture had its face constantly turned to the past; Romanesque architecture, in contrast, was oriented toward the future. More was at stake, however, than this mere historical difference. On the one hand, Eitelberger reads the difference as symptomatic of the deeper opposition between the emergent Germanic peoples and the decaying culture of the Mediterranean: “The regeneration of architecture started in the North, where classical traditions and Byzantine forms did not obstruct its path and where the basis of a distinct poetic and artistic worldview developed in the architecture and poetry of the German and Romanesque tribes.”21 On the other, he considers the difference emblematic of the axis between East and West, for “Byzantine points toward the Orient, Romanesque toward the West.”22 Moreover, Eitelberger expresses concern that the description of Romanesque buildings in “Hungary, Bohemia, Carinthia, and Lower Austria” as Byzantine suggests that the architecture of the Empire is of Oriental origin, whereas it is, he argues, part of Western Europe.23 Much depended, therefore, on being able to distinguish between the two architectural languages, and Eitelberger’s comments reveal an anxiety over the larger issues raised by the appellation “Byzantine” for the cultural identity of Austria-​Hungary. He expresses similar concerns in his longer survey of the medieval architecture of Dalmatia. On the one hand, Eitelberger attempts to maintain

an evenhanded account commensurate with the wider Habsburg self-image; he notes, for example, the advantages of using German as the language of administration, since it did not give preferential treatment to any of the minorities of Dalmatia.24 He also emphasizes that the Dalmatian littoral, in contrast to the landlocked regions of the Balkans, was always shaped by cultural influences from the north and the west (of which Rome, Venice, and Hungary were foremost), but he also acknowledges the importance of the Byzantine heritage of, for example, Zadar, which had briefly been capital of a Byzantine province. On the other hand, aside from Zadar, the sites he examines in depth, such as Šibenik or Dubrovnik, were overwhelmingly the product of the classical Roman past. His analysis consequently focuses on Roman monuments, such as Diocletian’s palace at Split and the Venetian Rector’s Palace in Dubrovnik. In contrast, he mostly passes over the Byzantine legacy in silence or minimizes it. “There is no trace,” Eitelberger notes with regard to Dubrovnik, “of Byzantine-Oriental buildings. The names of Monte Sergio and of the saints hardly recall the Orient and the Oriental church. The extant examples of so-called Byzantine painting in the Franciscan and Dominican churches either have their origins in Ancona, Apulia, or Naples or are painted by local artists trained in the Italian school of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.”25 This minimizing of “Oriental” cultural connections was motivated by political concerns related to the present, in particular the interplay of politics and confessional affiliation. The Orthodox Church was, he argues, an instrument of Russian foreign policy and had therefore to be countered, for “the connection between the Greek Church and

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Russian diplomacy in the Orient is a matter of notoriety, and its centuries-old hostility toward the Catholic Church has only increased in recent times.”26 Eitelberger here intervenes directly into practical politics, with his recommendations on how Russian ambitions and the ideological appeal of Russia could be resisted. The responsibility for the latter lay, he argues, with the Catholic Church and the government in Vienna, which had been largely unsympathetic to the cultural aspirations of the Orthodox Slav population. “For where else should the Greek population turn than St. Petersburg if they receive no hearing in Vienna for their wishes and needs, encountering a government that has declared war on all non-Catholic faiths? . . . It is moreover undeniable that the great successes of Russian policy in the Orient have had a huge magical effect on the Greek-Slavic population. . . . While all peoples of the Orient would doubtless enthusiastically follow the banner of the Greek-Russian Church . . . all people of the West protest against the political program that Rome has currently adopted.”27 Eitelberger’s criticism of the Catholic Church’s policy toward other confessions echoes a wider anticlerical attitude common among Austrian liberals, and he argues that while the church could rectify the inflammatory activities of its clergy by admitting its own past errors, the improbability of this happening meant that the only realistic way of countering the appeal of Russia to the Orthodox inhabitants of Dalmatia was direct intervention by the state. This would entail the equalization of faiths, so that the state might “become involved in the religious conscience of its peoples, leading it through police measures, ordinances, and state legislation.”28

Eitelberger’s prescription is significant for a number of reasons. First, by outlining the role of the state as an honest broker between minorities he is advocating a stance that paralleled Austrian policy toward Bosnia and that, as Robin Okey has suggested, mirrored the attitudes of other European imperial states toward colonial possessions with multiethnic populations.29 His foray into the cultural politics of Dalmatia thus draws on wider imperial and colonial discourses common among the metropolitan elite of the European powers. The sense of division between (Austrian) Catholic and (Russian-Greek) Orthodox domains is fortified by his frequent conflation of “Greek Orthodox” and “Oriental,” leading to a concomitant binary opposition of East and West.

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Josef Strzygowski, Byzantium, and the Art of the “East” Eitelberger’s dismissive comments appeared only eight years before the publication, in 1884, of the first volume of the Byzantinische Zeitschrift, a journal devoted to the history, literature, philosophy, linguistics, and art of the Byzantine Empire. Founded by Karl Krumbacher (1856–1909), a classical philologist, it signaled the establishment of Byzantium as the subject of a separate field of research. Indeed, in 1897 Krumbacher would go on to occupy the first chair of Byzantine studies in Germany, in Munich. As Krumbacher notes in his introduction to the journal’s first volume, Byzantine studies was a new area of scholarship intended to counter the traditional understanding of postclassical Greece only in relation to the classical world. “Most [scholars] did not go beyond the classical and Alexandrian epochs.

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Later periods were left for private study. . . . It occurred to no one to study the entire late Greek, Byzantine, and modern Greek period, from around the fifth century a.d. up to the present, as an independent, indispensable element in the history of humanity.”30 The criticism here of the failings of classical scholars hitherto is unambiguous, but Krumbacher is careful not to use the journal as a platform for engaging in polemics. As he notes, the establishment of Byzantine studies “is not some secession driven by personal motivations but rather the necessary consequence of a fermentation that has been at work for a considerable time. Byzantine studies is not the result of an unhealthy fragmentation; rather, it is a new organism, a fusion of previously fragmented and consequently often atrophied elements.”31 He thus sees the emergence of this new field as an extension, development, and enhancement of existing fields of knowledge rather than as a challenge to scholarly orthodoxies. Krumbacher is concerned with the general historiographical position of Byzantine culture, but for the present discussion the most significant contribution in the volume is an article by Josef Strzygowski on Byzantine art.32 Strzygowski continues Krumbacher’s approach, outlining the considerable lacunae in the scholarship on Byzantine art and architecture, but he also makes much bolder claims. His principal thesis is that Byzantine art, far from being marginal, had been central to the history of European art. Two streams of artistic production had emerged out of the ancient world, he argues. These were early Christian art and Byzantine art. The former had been an artistic dead end (“after the fourth century it vegetated impotently both in Italy and the Orient, where it found an outlier in Coptic art”),33 whereas the latter

had proved to be the vital bridge between the ancient and medieval artistic worlds. Constantinople may have been founded by a western Roman emperor, but its significance lay in its role as a melting pot of the artistic traditions of the Hellenistic worlds, Syria, and Asia Minor. Using the example of acanthus decorations on the columnar capitals in Byzantine architecture, Strzygowski argues that they evolved autonomously, an account that was deliberately at odds with the traditional emphasis on the importance of Ravenna in the history of postclassical art. Published a year before Questions of Style, Strzygowski’s article espouses a radically different vision from Riegl’s. The latter had identified a single artistic tradition that had arisen in ancient Egypt and reached its peak in classical Greece, but Strzygowski in contrast posits two distinct lines of development. Moreover, he expands this idea into a wider attack on the presumed cultural hegemony of the classical world (at the expense of the nonclassical cultures of the Near East). In subsequent decades he amplified and extended this position, although in his later writings it gradually degenerated into a simplistic conflict between “East” and “West.” Byzantium played a central role in his attempt to contest traditional geographies of art. Asserting, for example, that Constantine founded Constantinople not in order to establish a new Rome in the East but instead to escape from Rome, Strzygowski argued: “the Orient gradually started to gain such predominance over the West that Rome began to lie outside of the sphere of development of the world at that time. The region where the Near East (together with its neighbor Egypt) meets the Balkans, and where the northern boundaries of the empire are as distant as those to the East . . . this region was a

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natural crucible.”34 Rome thus became a mere province in a circuit of artistic production that was centered on western Asia. Strzygowski developed his argument at its fullest in two books published around the turn of the century: Orient or Rome (Orient oder Rom, 1901) and Asia Minor: A New Region for Art History (Kleinasien: Ein Neuland der Kunstgeschichte, 1903). Orient or Rome is the better-known text on account of its caustic attack on Wickhoff’s outline of the evolution of early Christian art in his Vienna Genesis edition.35 Whereas Wickhoff places the Genesis manuscript in the context of Roman illusionism and the “continuous” narrative mode, Strzygowski sees both these distinguishing features—which he does not dispute—as indicative of its dependence on Greek and late Hellenistic models. Attacking “Wickhoff’s monster of Roman imperial art,” his aim is to provincialize Roman art, for “if we speak of an imperial Roman art, then we should understand with this term the final phase of Hellenistic art, whereby Rome is nothing but one of many centers.”36 Strzygowski is not, however, a champion of Hellenism against Rome, for the kind of Greek origins he has in mind are the “Eastern” practices that would ultimately come to underpin Byzantine art. On this account, Hellenism had always been a thin veneer, and with the demise of the classical world this fragile overlay of classical culture began to fall apart. Thus Strzygowski takes issue with Wickhoff’s view that the now famous encaustic funeral portraits of Al Fayum in Sinai showed the influence of Roman portraiture in Egypt. Rather, he states, they were the product of a local tradition. For “is it conceivable that what was, in Wickhoff’s view, a national Roman art was able to find its way into Egypt on

such a broad basis? I believe that an artistic current so deserving of admiration even in its everyday achievements could not have been introduced from outside and overnight; it must have been native to Egypt.”37 The reference to the idea of a “national” Roman art raises a further point of dispute. It is unlikely that Wickhoff’s idea of late Roman art as a coherent artistic phenomenon was intended to denote a unitary national style, for his politics would have excluded such a notion. Nevertheless, this is how Strzygowski reads him:

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It is decisive that [Wickhoff’s work includes] the features of the continuous narrative mode and the technique whereby painting seeks to hold on to the passing moment and the gentlest of subjective moods. It would be impossible for the inventor of one of these to be the creator of the other at the same time. Their genesis in one and same individual culture is ruled out. Rather, their contemporaneous emergence is based on a colorless mass culture . . . in which inartistic depiction and virtuoso technique can be found alongside each other.38

Late Roman art was thus not simply a product of influences from the East, it was also incoherent, a sign of cultural decline. This judgment was a coded comment about the present. Strzygowski’s denial of Roman art as a national style was a rejection of the idea of another unitary imperial style, that of the Habsburg Empire, and it is notable that the introduction to Orient or Rome contains a paean to the German kaiser Wilhelm and no mention of Franz Joseph. Strzygowski develops his thesis more fully in Asia Minor: A New Region for Art History, where he argues for the persistence of preclassical cultures, especially in the

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hinterland of Asia Minor, which had become increasingly more influential on the cities of the coast, from where they then filtered into Byzantine art. His boldest claim concerns the origin of the Christian basilica, which, he argues, had no meaningful prototypes in Rome and had instead to be traced back to models in central Anatolia. He also posits an artistic circuit that completely circumvented the old classical centers and in which Marseille, Milan, and Ravenna played important roles as mediators between Syria and western Europe. For “given that Greeks from the region around Smyrna had founded Massalia, the connection with Asia Minor was established, avoiding Rome and Athens. It was constantly sustained by the Etruscans, who were located between Rome and northern Italy and whose artistic links to the Orient are clear.”39 Although the idea of the Oriental origins of the Etruscans was a well-established trope, it was based on little evidence, and Strzygowski’s wider thesis was pure speculation, based on a highly partial selection of evidence. Contemporaries were alert to the flaws in his argument and the assumptions that underlay it; as the Princeton art historian Allan Marquand noted as early as 1910, while “Italy had been saturated from time immemorial with oriental and with classic influences . . . an absolute antithesis between Rome on the one hand and the Orient on the other is an unfortunate one.”40 For Marquand, Strzygowski’s opposition between “East” (which always remained ill defined) and “West” misrepresented the nature of cultural transfer. Wickhoff’s cause was taken up by Riegl.41 Riegl was most immediately prompted by Strzygowski’s anti-Semitic tract Hellas in der Orients Umarmung (Hellas in the embrace

of the East), but it presented a wider critique of the thesis of Oriental origins as well as a defense of the position outlined by Wickhoff and by Riegl himself in Late Roman Art Industry. Riegl picked apart Strzygowski’s claims ruthlessly, pointing out their empirical flaws as well as the wider methodological weaknesses, but subsequent accounts of the dispute have focused less on the substance and details of Strzygowski’s claims than on the ideological conflict between the scholars.42 In particular, the fact that Strzygowski’s argument was laced with reactionary political rhetoric has ensured his subsequent marginalization except as a negative foil to Riegl and Wickhoff. As a result, his criticisms of his Vienna colleagues, as well as his wider polemic against the Eurocentrism of the art-historical establishment, have been ignored. A crucial element of the debate revolved around the source material used by the respective authors to underpin their arguments. Wickhoff’s analysis of the Vienna Genesis set the manuscript firmly in the context of Rome, and the points of historical comparison were consequently with artifacts and images that were produced or still to be found in the capital. In this respect Strzygowski was the more inventive and imaginative author, for he worked with a completely different geography of the Roman Empire that included Asia Minor, Palmyra, and Coptic Egypt.43 Riegl’s Late Roman Art Industry was closer to Strzygowski in this regard. As a study of archaeological finds unearthed in Austria-​Hungary, territories on the periphery of the Roman Empire, this was perhaps inevitable, and Riegl acknowledged the influence of Jewish culture, specifically the stricture on figurative representations, on the development of early Christian art.44

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Nevertheless, most of the corroborating evidence Riegl drew on was also from Rome and Italy. Both parties recognized that the stakes were high. The dispute over the genealogy of postclassical art, which Riegl regarded as “the most important and most trenchant [problem] in the entire history of mankind to date,” was ultimately a debate over the roots of European identity, in which “East” and “West” played central ideological and political roles.45 For Strzygowski the argument was part of his larger project of reorienting the spatial horizons of cultural inquiry. This had been a central preoccupation for him throughout the 1890s, even before he came into direct conflict with Wickhoff and Riegl. Aside from his polemical article on Byzantine art, he wrote a number of works on the art of marginal “Eastern” cultures. One of the earliest examples was his publication in 1891 of the tenth-century Armenian Echmiadzin Gospel, the first of a series of books and articles on Armenian art that culminated in his large-scale study of 1918 on the architecture of Armenia.46 Despite the problematic status of many of his individual judgments, Strzygowski played a crucial role in opening up new territories of art-historical research; as one present-day commentator has noted, his “competence in early Christian, Byzantine, Coptic, pre-Islamic Syrian, and Armenian art was formidable even by today’s standards. . . . [E]verything Strzygowski wrote on Islamic art is worth reading.”47 When he was appointed to the chair of art history in Vienna in 1909, Strzygowski attempted to give his vision an institutional footing by reorganizing the physical layout of the Institute of Art History and its library in order to give equal space to eastern Europe, western Asia, and western

Europe.48 Later, following his retirement, he founded the Society for Comparative Artistic Research (Gesellschaft für vergleichende Kunstforschung) in 1934. Due to his acrimonious exchanges with Riegl and Wickhoff and, later, Max Dvořák and Julius von Schlosser, Strzygowski’s institute remained a recurrent source of antagonism within the art-historical world. Yet as Thomas da Costa Kaufmann has suggested, he was not merely contesting the traditional artistic canon, he was also attempting to shift the paradigm of art-historical research from the predominantly diachronic approach of Riegl and his colleagues (Questions of Style was the preeminent example) to a synchronic one based on the geography of art.49 After the publication of Orient or Rome Strzygowski became increasingly shrill, in a large number of polemical pamphlets and books that often merely restated his basic position in increasingly strident tones. A typical example was his short booklet Die bildende Kunst des Ostens (The art of the East) of 1916. The title foregrounds the central issue in Strzygowski’s writings, namely, the meaning of “East.” In general, the term bore connotations of the Arabic and Jewish Middle East, and Strzygowski’s use of it was at times consistent with this connotation, though he often used “Oriental” as a synonym for “Jewish.” Yet he also gave it a distinctive set of meanings. Already in Orient oder Rom it was clear that the “Orient” encompassed the art of pre-Islamic Syria, Jordan, and Anatolia, and this was a significant point of difference with Riegl, who had been especially concerned, in, for example, Questions of Style, with the genetic relation between Greek and Islamic decorative motifs. In later writings Strzygowski came increasingly to equate the “East” with the culture

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of Iran, bypassing the Semitic cultures and focusing instead on the Indo-Aryan cultures. As such, his work, drawing on long traditions of nationalistic theories of Indo-Germanic origins and concluding with his final publication, Das indogermanische Ahnenerbe des deutschen Volkes und die Kunstgeschichte der Zukunft (The Indo-Germanic ancestral inheritance of the German people and the art history of the future), anticipated the Nazi-sponsored researches into Aryan racial origins of the 1930s. In The Art of the East such ideas were already well advanced, for he saw a close affinity between the Aryan East and the Germanic North, for which he coined the term “Nordic East.” Yet Strzygowski did not see this connection as based on a blood tie—a common trope in reactionary circles— but rather on shared nomadic cultural origins. Although separated by some two thousand years, early Iranian art and Germanic art were, he argued, both the products of an era of migration, and in this regard Strzygowski displayed a romantic attachment to the culture of the steppes. As authors since Said have emphasized, the “Orient” functioned as a foil to “the West,” and in German-language scholarship this was expressed in the politically charged opposition between the Abendland (literally, “land of the evening”), associated with Christian Europe, and the implicitly Islamic Morgenland (literally, “land of the morning”). The idea of the Abendland had first been used by Luther, and it had been employed in Romantic ideas of Europe, but in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries it was increasingly appropriated by conservative thinkers, most prominently, perhaps, in Oswald Spengler’s Decline of the West.50 Strzygowski, however, created a

different artistic geography that was based on the opposition between the cultures of the South (i.e., the urbanized classical civilizations of the Mediterranean littoral) and those of the Northeast, and in this regard it is notable that he critiqued the excessive scholarly attention to the Balkans as a zone of cultural transfer at the expense of the southern Russian steppes.51 Strzygowski also had a larger political vision for the global role of German culture: “Germans are not to get trapped in the dangerous waters of the enslaving Oriental desire for power but are to steer clearly toward rescuing the world from this madness, which has destroyed the flower of mankind for thousands of years; then Eurasia, and with it a planetary culture, will rise again.”52 In certain respects this comment perverted the older liberal assumption about the leading role of German scholarship and culture and also drew on contemporary German nationalist rhetoric, but with his idea of the Nordic East and his championing of Byzantine, Syrian, Armenian, and Serbian art, Strzygowski did not fit into these ready-made political categories. Given his political extremism and anti-​ Semitism, it is easy to dismiss Strzygowski’s work. Contemporaries such as Allan Marquand and Bernard Berenson were openly hostile—Berenson famously termed him the “Attila of art history.”53 For all that he created new areas of research and thereby tried to reshape the map of art history, his political commitments devalued his project. Yet he exercised an immense influence in the interwar period. As Eva Frodl-Kraft has argued, in the interwar period it was Strzygowski and his students who, if only by virtue of their immense productivity, defined Viennese art history for external audiences.54

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Strzygowski also enjoyed considerable success with audiences overseas, including Britain and the United States, as well as elsewhere in Europe, being offered professorships in universities as diverse as Tartu, in the newly established Estonian state, and Lwów, formerly Lemberg, in Poland.55 His influence on British art history has also only belatedly been acknowledged; Adrian Stokes, for example, based a considerable part of his study of the Quattrocento on Strzygowski’s ideas, and the Austrian was also a formative influence on the Byzantinist David Talbot Rice, who openly admired his writings in a number of popular texts on art.56 The range of material covered by Strzygowski and his students is staggering; between 1909 and 1932, when he retired, nearly ninety students graduated under his tutelage (this compares with thirteen under Thausing and fifty-one under Riegl and Wickhoff combined), producing dissertations on themes as diverse as Arnold Böcklin, murals in Turkestan, Iranian decorative art, domestic architecture in seventeenth-century Sweden, Polish Romanesque architecture, and the sculpture of Gandhara.57 Graduates of Strzygowski’s institute would become prominent members of the art-historical profession across central Europe, such as the Slovene Vojslav Molè (1886–1973), who would play an important role at the University of Cracow; Stella Kramrisch (1896–1993); Emmy Wellesz (1889–1987); Virgil Vătăşianu (1902–1993), a leading art historian in Romania; Otto Demus (1902– 1990); and Fritz Novotny (1903–1983). A number of his students disseminated his ideas elsewhere across Europe. Perhaps the best known was Ernst Diez (1878–1961), author of a number of studies of Islamic and Asian art, who was also the first professor

of art history in the post-Ottoman Turkish state.58 Coriolan Petranu (1893–1945), who completed his Habilitation with Strzygowski in 1921, was appointed professor of art history at the University of Cluj, in the newly Romanianized province of Transylvania; consciously seeking to establish a Strzygowski school, Petranu aggressively promoted the cause of Romanian vernacular architecture in opposition to the traditional hegemony of Hungarian culture, which opposition brought him into an acrimonious exchange with Béla Bartók.59 Many scholars outside of the major political, cultural, and academic centers felt empowered by the example of Strzygowski to challenge the dominant art-historical values and to advance alternative artistic practices and traditions. In this regard he was, as Ernő Marosi has suggested, an important formative influence on the development of a number of national historiographies.60 Although Strzygowski embraced the discourse of Nordic racism, “Nordic” did not equate with “German,” for it also seemed to include the Slavic cultures as well. As he noted in his study of ancient Slavic art of 1929, dedicated to Ivan Meštrović, “What I am today doing for the Slavs I did yesterday for the Germans, the Anglo-Saxons, the Norwegians, and the Finns”; the study’s central argument concerned the autonomy of medieval Slavic art, in opposition to the widely held assumption that it was mostly a product of Byzantine influences.61 Strzygowski was thus received positively across much of central and eastern Europe, but this was not universal. In 1916 the Czech art historian Vojtěch Birnbaum, who had studied in Vienna with Max Dvořák and completed a thesis on early Christian architecture, published a study of the architecture

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of Ravenna in which he explicitly rebutted Strzygowski. His analysis of the origin of the architectural typologies of late Roman and Byzantine Ravenna directly addressed the latter’s work, since it was concerned with the alleged Eastern sources of early medieval art. Was it possible, Birnbaum asked, that Rome, having ceased to be the imperial residence in the fourth century, also relinquished its role as the leading artistic center? And that this role was taken over, first by Ravenna, then later by Constantinople? And that Ravenna’s most famous monuments, in particular the Church of San Vitale, represented a borrowing from the East?62 His answer was an emphatic no. The formal elements in San Vitale and other structures pointed to by Strzygowski to underpin his argument in fact predated the Eastern examples he cited as their sources. Birnbaum was one of a generation of Czech scholars who were fiercely loyal to the legacy of Dvořák and, by extension, to the work of Riegl and Wickhoff. His stress on the Western origins of early medieval European art unambiguously indicated his allegiance to Riegl’s and Wickhoff’s notion of continuous artistic evolution. In the Czech context, however, others who sought, like Strzygowski, to assert an alternative genealogy contested this vision. As with the debate between Riegl and Strzygowski, the stakes were higher than mere scholarly repute. In 1919 the Prague-based historian Jaroslav Nebeský and the journalist Florian Zapletal criticized Birnbaum’s Ravenna study in the journal Umělecký list (Artistic gazette). They accompanied this with a wider-ranging attack on the influence of Riegl and Wickhoff, which Birnbaum, together with fellow Dvořák students Zdeněk Wirth and Antonín Matějček, had helped introduce to Prague.63 Zapletal

and Nebeský accused Birnbaum of introducing “German” methods and ideas, and sought instead to give greater prominence to the influence of Eastern, Slavic cultures. This was a crucial topic of debate in the immediate postwar era, when Czechoslovakia was seeking to define its geopolitical location.64 In many respects this episode constitutes merely a footnote to the history of the Vienna School, but it demonstrates that the preoccupation with the question of Eastern or Western identity that had so preoccupied Strzygowski, Riegl, and others before 1918 continued to be import for art historians in central Europe for decades afterward.

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Orientalizing Attitudes? Strzygowski’s significance can be measured in terms not only of the new areas of research he opened up—no matter how problematically—but also of the criticisms he made of the wider cultural assumptions underpinning the work of Riegl and Wickhoff. For although his attacks were couched in an extreme language that drew on politically charged rhetoric, he identified problematic issues and attitudes that were implicit in the work of his Vienna School rivals. A prominent example can be found Riegl’s approach to folk art. His criticisms of the folk-art movement of the final decades of the nineteenth century have already been noted, but they have all the more relevance given that folk art was associated with the Slavic and Romanian populations of the eastern and southern fringes of the Empire. Riegl had grown up in Galicia, in the town of Stanisławów (now Ivano-Frankivsk), where his father was an official in the imperial tobacco industry, and he had attended

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local schools, where he learned the Polish language and Polish history.65 He thus had a personal familiarity with the eastern fringes of the Empire, but when writing about its vernacular cultures, he displayed an imperial metropolitan attitude. Austria-​Hungary was a “watchtower at the gates of the Orient,” he claimed, and it consequently had a duty to collect and preserve examples of folk culture from the East, particularly because it was a fossilized relic of a stage of cultural development that had been superseded elsewhere.66 For Riegl the Slavic peoples of the eastern and southern territories of Austria-​Hungary were without history; in contrast to the Germans, “the bearers of culture,” they led an “ahistorical existence.”67 Such statements can be compared with the colonial attitudes of authorities on Islamic and Indian art in Britain or France who, in spite of their dedication to their subject, remained convinced of its inferiority in relation to classical Greek and Roman art. It is now a commonplace that the apparatus of ethnography and the study of vernacular, non-Western cultures were intimately connected to the wider project of European colonialism.68 Although Riegl was not concerned with the folk art of colonies in the strict sense of the term, his comments made it clear that he was dealing with cultures he regarded as backward. A clear illustration of this can be found in his account of a trip he made in 1891 to Bukovina while curator at the Museum for Art and Industry.69 As noted earlier, Bukovina was seen as semi-Asiatic, on the boundaries of Austria-​ Hungary and the East. It was precisely because of this perception that the Austrian authorities had invested in the culture and infrastructure of its capital, Czernowitz, as a means of modernizing the crown land.70

Riegl’s account was of a trip to the house of a peasant woman in a village near Czernowitz in order to see her locally renowned collection of shirts and rugs. This was one of many such trips he undertook as part of his curatorial responsibilities to add to the museum’s collections, but it is the only one he wrote about. According to Riegl, he and his guide first attempted to buy some of the items in her collection, but she refused. They then asked her if they could borrow a shirt, a request she also turned down, even after being offered a hundred-guilder note as surety. On the one hand, Riegl admired her indifference to the usual forms of financial persuasion, but on the other, he saw it as evidence of how little the capitalist economy had penetrated the region. He was sympathetic to his subject but was also convinced of her backwardness; his ambivalence is captured in his concluding comments on the episode: “As I left the hut, I stopped being angry at the perverse stubbornness of the peasant woman and instead paid tribute to her in full admiration. I confess that at that time I gained a most illuminating insight into the creativity and customs of people in the ‘golden age.’ ”71 This encounter is staged in terms of the difference between the modern metropolitan scholar and the inhabitant of the backward periphery, and one can compare it with countless similar episodes involving transactions between ethnographers and other “experts” and representatives of local cultures, often in colonial or semicolonial situations. It is an example of the type of interaction that has prompted the application of postcolonial frameworks to the interpretation of the relation of the Vienna-based cultural and educational elite to the outlying areas of the Empire.72 Bukovina was not, of course,

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a colony in a sense comparable to that of the African or Asian territories of France or Britain. Nevertheless, colonial and imperial attitudes were widespread; the cultures of the eastern crown lands were the subjects of an apparatus of ethnographic study comparable to that operative elsewhere in Europe. Riegl’s description of Austria-​Hungary as a watchtower drew on a long-established trope regarding the role of Austria as a bulwark against the East and specifically against the Ottoman Empire. As the relation between Austria and its southeastern neighbor changed, however, with the latter increasingly perceived as politically weak, military surveillance gave way to the scientific gaze, and this became particularly important in relation to perceptions of Bosnia. In 1879, Joseph Helfert, president of the Central Commission for the Investigation and Conservation of Artistic and Historic Monuments, published an account of Bosnia that illustrated this changing political and cultural dynamic.73 Although it was nominally still an Ottoman province, Bosnia had come under Habsburg administration the previous year, and Helfert’s book, which provided an overview of the recent history of the region, was meant to legitimize that occupation, drawing attention to the cruel and harsh rule of the Ottoman Empire. What was also notable was that Helfert depicted the inhabitants of Bosnia as noble savages (“their bodily appearance is one of the most noble . . . their language . . . although somewhat adulterated with Turkish expressions, one of the most melodious of the Slavic race”).74 Their backwardness was a consequence of Ottoman neglect, and the Habsburg occupation of a “strip of land exposed to a system of arbitrary tyranny” was a duty fulfilled on behalf of educated Europe,

a service, argued Helfert, a “civilizing and moralizing mission.”75 In a lecture on “the world-historical significance of the Vienna victory of 1683,” delivered on the bicentenary of the lifting of the Ottoman siege of the city, Helfert reiterated this outlook, asserting that “the Turk is as alien to European civilization as he was 500 years ago.”76 Helfert argued for the establishment of a museum that would preserve and display Bosnian culture, and nine years later, in 1888, the Bosnian-Herzegovina Regional Museum opened in Sarajevo. The museum was in fact the result of a local initiative rather than the urgings of Helfert, but as Maximilian Hartmuth has recently argued, it clearly illustrated the colonial and semicolonial outlook that prevailed.77 Although ambitious and talented Bosnians traveled to Vienna to gain an advanced education, locals were only employed by the museum as low-status volunteers or auxiliaries. The museum included displays of Bosnian Muslim culture, which suggested that the museum was interested in how locals were adapting traditional cultural practices to meet the needs of the modern age, but, as Hartmuth suggests, the display “was informed more by the fascination of foreigners with the ‘exotic’ traditions over which they were given the mandate to preside.”78 The apparent recognition of Bosnian Islamic traditions was thus a kind of “supervised cultural empowerment” predicated on the acceptance of the “traditional” character of Bosnia society. By the 1890s the Austrian authorities were striving to promote Bosnia as a picturesque, exotic tourist destination, giving rise to a number of travel journals by both Austrians and foreigners celebrating this Oriental region.79 The most spectacular example of this state-sponsored promotion of Bosnia

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was the Exposition universelle of 1900 in Paris, where a separate Bosnian pavilion was erected, its design based on a pastiche of elements meant to evoke the architectural traditions of the land, with large-scale interior murals by Alfons Mucha illustrating its history.80 By 1900 the fears of Ottoman conquest were a distant memory, yet on occasion the historic conflict between the Habsburg and Ottoman Empires could continue to exert a powerful effect on the collective memory. In September 1883 a Türkenwoche staged to celebrate the bicentenary of the end of the siege of Vienna was, as Maureen Healey has argued, used to articulate more contemporary fears of Austrian Germandom.81 This time it was no longer the Ottoman Turks who were laying siege to Vienna, but the Slavs of the Empire, and these paranoid fantasies were fueled by bickering over separate Polish celebrations in Cracow commemorating the role of Jan Sobieski III as the “savior” of Vienna. Recollection of the historic “Ottoman Menace” gave rise to other neuroses about the present, but in general, by the final quarter of the nineteenth century, Ottoman and Islamic culture had become the object of an orientalizing gaze. Military and diplomatic confrontation had given way to scholarly curiosity and pragmatic engagement. An important marker of this shift had been the 1873 Weltausstellung, which was notable for the involvement not only of the Ottoman Empire but also of Persia and had led to the purchase of a significant quantity of carpets and textiles, which had formed the core of the collections of the short-lived Museum of the Orient (later the Austrian Museum of Trade). The rise of interest in Islamic culture in Vienna was comparable to that elsewhere

in Europe, and the institution where Riegl began his career, Eitelberger’s Museum for Art and Industry, played an important role in advancing the scientific study of the visual cultures of the Middle East, not least through the efforts of Riegl himself. Yet although Riegl contested prejudices against Islamic and Ottoman culture of the kind expressed by Helfert, certain orientalizing tropes are nevertheless visible in his writing. In a little-known article of 1890, “Die Beziehungen der orientalischen Teppichfabrication zu dem europäischen Abendlande” (The relation of Oriental carpet manufacture to the European West), Riegl addresses the singular phenomenon that “Oriental” carpets, though popular in Europe since at least the Renaissance, had never been produced in European workshops. He contrasts the inferior nature of European carpets with those of the Islamic world, a difference he attributes to the eagerness of European manufacturers to use new, chemically produced dyes rather than the natural materials Islamic carpet makers had continued to use. He also focuses, however, on the social, economic, and cultural differences between the cultures, and his choice of the term Abendland to denote western Europe is telling in this context, for he draws a stark boundary between the social organization and structure of the two different regions of Europe and the “Orient.” The former had always been more urbanized, with more intense cultivation of the land in settled communities, which had led to the rise of large-scale industries; in contrast, the latter was populated by “Kurdish and Turkmenic nomads, whose migratory lifestyle [did] not allow for any permanent agriculture but afford[ed], alongside animal husbandry, plenty of time for traditional carpet production, primarily for personal use.”82 Alongside

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this romantic image of the nomadic “Orient,” Riegl points to the institution of slavery in the Islamic world (blind, of course, to its existence in many European societies), which was vital to the economy and mode of production of carpets, and also indicts autocratic Ottoman rule, which, he claims, had led to stagnation in the economic development of Islamic societies. The continued production of high-quality carpets by the Slavic populations of the Balkans he ascribes to the lingering influence of the Ottoman Empire. Although recognizing the artistic quality of “Oriental” carpets, Riegl’s account relies on stereotypes of Islamic societies founded on a binary opposition between the Islamic East and the European (implicitly Christian) West. In this essay, and his slightly later study of folk art and house industry, he does at least analyze artistic production in its social and economic context, even if the terms of the analysis may strike the present-day reader as problematic. In Questions of Style, by contrast, he offers no such connections to wider Islamic society and culture and, in rejecting the utilitarian materialism of Gottfried Semper and his followers, subjects textiles and carpets instead to the aestheticizing interpretative framework that has so often been critiqued in other instances of the treatment of Islamic and Middle Eastern cultures by European scholars. Tapestries and carpets from the Islamic world were, after all, objets d’art par excellence for collectors, and his stylistic analysis did little to challenge such aesthetic appropriation.83 Orientalist attitudes inform Riegl’s Questions of Style in other ways too. This is particularly evident in his comments on the arabesque. Acknowledging that the arabesque constituted a particularly original adaptation of motifs inherited from Greek

and Roman art, he nevertheless holds to a clear cultural hierarchy that ranks the former more highly than the art of Islam:

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The goal, of providing the work with decorative forms that corresponded to the external factors governing its origin and function, but which also stood in harmony with its inner being, of achieving a structural distinction between its material ground and decorative ornament, or a balance between frame and in-fill, a goal which was already a notion in the ornament of the ancient Orient, was achieved for the first and only time by the Greeks. It seems that this distinguishes the entire artistic development of the Mediterranean peoples from the vast cultural world of East Asia at a fundamental level.84

He thus conceives of the art of the postclassical world, and in particular Islamic ornament, as a kind of postscript to that of the Greek. Riegl’s reputation as a critic of normative art history, especially his advocacy of the art-historical value of noncanonical artistic practices and periods, does not fit easily with such statements. This is not to single out Riegl for censure; this contradiction was common among writers on Islamic, Indian, or other non-Western art at the time, for their championing of its aesthetic value was undercut by a frequent lapse into Eurocentric hierarchies.85 Riegl’s views are thus representative of wider assumptions of the time, and they were shared by a number of his Vienna colleagues. A striking example can be found in Wickhoff’s essay on the wall paintings of the bathhouse complex of the eighth-century palace Qusayr ‘Amra in northern Jordan, discovered by the Czech archaeologist and explorer Alois Musil (1868–1944) in 1898. Wickhoff’s essay was part of a larger

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publication on the complex, for which Riegl had been instrumental in gaining funds, although the latter died before it was completed.86 The bathhouse has occupied an important place in the historiography of Islamic art primarily because of the striking subject matter of the paintings: scenes of hunting, nude female dancers, and six non-Muslim rulers placed in a position of obeisance. It has raised important questions about the formative influences on Islamic art, for in place of the canonical decorative ornamentation most usually associated with the art of the Islamic Middle East, the viewer faces a range of figurative depictions that appear to lean heavily on classical precursors. Oleg Grabar has suggested that the frescoes would be best understood as a symbolic appropriation of Byzantine art, intended to signify the self-assertion of the new culture, thematically linked with the representation of the rulers of Ethiopia, Byzantium, Visigothic Spain, and Persia paying homage to the aristocratic occupant of the palace.87 However, what is of greater interest for the present discussion is the fact that Wickhoff stressed the continuity with the classical world and also how he described the nature of that connection. He identified three artistic traditions emerging out of classical art—Romanesque, Byzantine, and Islamic—and interpreted the frescoes of Qusayr ‘Amra as visible evidence of the uninterrupted evolution of classical art in the Middle East. Indeed, he linked the images here, and the history they allowed one to construct, with the developmental sequence of motifs outlined in Riegl’s Questions of Style, which also stressed the derivation of Islamic forms from classical models, albeit in the domain of ornament rather than figurative representation.

That there existed an intimate connection between the art of early Islam and that of the classical world is not in question; through their contact with the Byzantine Empire and the Hellenized Near East the Arabs were presented with a rich visual lexicon that they appropriated and adapted to serve the new requirements of their own culture. However, what deserves note is how Wickhoff interpreted the relationship, namely, as one of dependence. As Wickhoff wrote,

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There are two types of art, an art of artworks and an art of documents. The first leads us to periods where, by constantly expanding the range of problems prompted by the return to the observation of nature, each work of art makes a contribution to the evolution of art. In contrast, what I wish to term the art of documents merely illustrates the engagement with problems that have already been solved; it leads us to periods that use forms belonging to developments that have already reached their conclusion. They may be taken up again and disseminated, but the renewed study of nature is no longer felt necessary. . . . The paintings of the palace of ‘Amra are such a derivative art.88

Riegl had also interpreted the paintings as indicating the long reach of classical art; in his submission on behalf of Musil’s publication to the Academy of Sciences he had described them as rare examples of figurative representations of the late Roman art of the East,89 yet it is the tone of Wickhoff’s comments that is striking here, clearly relegating the ‘Amra friezes to the status of “documents.” Another notable example of Wickhoff’s Hellenocentric outlook is an eccentric article he published in 1898, “Über die historische Einheit der gesamten Kunstentwicklung”

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(On the historical unity of the entire development of art).90 In this essay he examines the recent convergence of European and Japanese art, in particular what he regards as the striking similarities between Constable and Gainsborough, on the one hand, and Hokusai and Hiroshige, on the other. This could only be explained, he argues, by positing a common source for the art of Europe and that of Japan and China. As an example of such shared origins he points to the curious parallel development of the meander in Chinese and classical Greek vase decoration. The explanation, for Wickhoff, had to lie in a Greek origin for the Chinese meander patterns, for he regards them as “ornaments, borrowed from an alien culture, none of which can count as genuinely Chinese; they are purely Greek ornament, which only give the impression of being Chinese through the novel way in which they have combined.”91 The impact of Greek art on central Asia in the Hellenistic period and after, in the wake of Alexander the Great’s incursions, has been well documented subsequently, and for Wickhoff’s contemporaries Greco-Buddhist art and the cultural and other traffic between China and the classical Mediterranean world were topics of no small interest. However, Wickhoff proposes a much earlier point of contact through the export of Attic black-and-red-figure vases of the sixth and fifth centuries b.c.e.: “I would not be surprised if, when China is completely opened up, shards of black-figure vases were found here as in Italy. It is the art of Attica that advanced victoriously into China and provided this distant people with its style.”92 He then expands his claims to identify the formative role of Greek art not only in the meander but also in the practice of illusionism. The European modernist borrowing of

Japanese artistic motifs could thus be understood as the “closing of a circle,” in which Western art was merely returning to its own roots, via a detour through China and Japan. Eccentric and overly speculative, the details of the claims contained in Wickhoff’s observation of cross-cultural artistic and cultural dissemination are once again perhaps less important than the manner in which he advances them, emphasizing the role of Greece as the point of origin. Referring to the Greeks as “a people predestined for art,” he sees Asia as a passive recipient, producing derivative forms that were borrowed from Western sources.93 The unity of global art was thus guaranteed by the originary function of Hellenic culture. This article might be deemed an anomaly in Wickhoff’s oeuvre: he certainly did not engage in such wide-ranging speculation in any of his other writings, and in his lectures on modern painting he made it clear that Japanese art represented an entirely separate tradition. Nevertheless, his essay here, as well as his comments on Qusayr ‘Amra, displays a clearly orientalizing character, one that features in writings of his Viennese colleagues too.

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Conclusion During the nineteenth century, as its eastern and southeastern territories became increasingly meaningful to its political identity, the Habsburg Empire tried to position itself as a mediator between eastern and western Europe, and between Europe and the Islamic Middle East. In addition, it sought to base its internal political coherence on the multiethnic constitution of its population, creating the myth of unity through diversity. This

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unique set of factors shaped the political and ideological resonance of scholarly engagement with the “Orient,” which could denote Islamic territories as well as those parts of Europe where Orthodoxy was the leading denomination. Although Vienna School authors aligned themselves explicitly with the official cosmopolitan image of Austria-​Hungary, this alignment had its limits. Prominent public buildings may have been erected in neo-Byzantine and neo-Moorish styles to exemplify the cultural, confessional, and ethnic diversity of the monarchy, but art historians such as Eitelberger, Riegl, and Wickhoff could not help falling into an imperial mind-set that privileged Austro-German and classical cultures. Hence, for Eitelberger, Byzantine culture had been a historical dead end, and its heritage was doubly problematic because it was being exploited as a vehicle of Russian diplomacy and great-power politics. The question of the “Orient” was thus framed not only by the matrix of imperial discourses that shaped French, German, and British Oriental scholarship but also by concerns over great-powers rivalry in the Balkans, particularly that between Austria-​Hungary and tsarist Russia. For all their attempts to engage seriously with the diverse cultures of the Empire and further afield, Vienna School authors frequently lapsed into an Occidental ideology; thus, both Riegl and Wickhoff held to the normative role of the classical tradition, relegating the vernacular cultures of eastern and southeastern Europe as well as the Islamic world to the status of historical fossils or derivative “documents” that merely recycled the forms of Greek and Roman art. It is thus ironic that the politically reactionary Strzygowski was the art historian

to point out the blind spots of Viennese scholarship and to champion an alternative geography of Eurasian art. This revelation first emerged out of the debates over the role of Byzantine and Islamic art, which ultimately raised difficult questions about the identity of Austria-​Hungary. Nowhere was it more apparent than in the disputes over the decline of Roman imperial art and the rise of early Christian art. For Riegl and Wickhoff a continuity of artistic traditions secured the place of Christian Europe in the classical tradition, and both authors emphasized the identity of Islamic art too as an outgrowth of Hellenistic art, whereas Strzygowski tried to completely change the horizons governing his colleagues’ understanding. It would of course be absurd to regard Strzygowski as a postcolonial critic avant la lettre; his politics as well as his methods made him deeply unattractive even in his own time, and this is doubly the case now. Nevertheless, he identified a constitutive weakness in the attitudes of his Vienna colleagues. His alternative geography of art emphasized affinities and lines of descent that went completely against the grain of art-historical opinion and, crucially, turned Europe into a province within a much larger global artistic territory. It is a sign of the transnational discursive networks operative in central Europe in the early twentieth century that while Strzygowski was disowned in Vienna and in certain respects assigned to historical oblivion, outside of Austria he continued to be a major figure whose example was seen as empowering by art historians in the process of constructing art-historical narratives that did justice to local and regional artistic practices. Those stories have hardly begun to be told.

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9 Saving the Past: Conservation and the Cult of Monuments National sentiment, when serving as the basis on which monuments are valued, has nothing to do with historical or critical thinking. —alois riegl

In 1903 Alois Riegl published Der moderne Denkmalkultus: Sein Wesen, seine Entstehung (later translated as “The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Essence and Its Origin”). Probably his best-known work on the subject, it was one of a series of texts he wrote on the preservation and conservation of monuments between 1902, the year he was appointed editor of the journal of the Austrian Central Commission for the Investigation and Conservation of Artistic and Historic Monuments (k.k. Zentralkommission für Erforschung und Erhaltung der Kunst- und Historischen Denkmale), and 1905, the year of his death.1 With its complex presentation of the differing meanings of monuments and the emergence of the modern conception of the monument—its semantic shift from an object or structure celebrating past greatness to a historic object or structure valued merely on account of its age—Riegl’s essay constituted his most sophisticated analysis of the theme and

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offered perhaps the most intellectually ambitious account of monument protection and its tasks by any author before 1918. It is entirely understandable, therefore, that Riegl’s essay should have been the focus of considerable research.2 There is a danger, however, that such intense focus might obscure the wider context to which the essay belongs. Riegl was continuing a tradition of thinking about monuments in Austria that stretched back for nearly a century and continued after his death. Max Dvořák, for instance, attained no small degree of prominence as conservator general after Riegl’s death, playing an important role in popularizing debates over monument conservation that had hitherto been the domain of specialists.3 Riegl’s essay also needs to be considered in the context of the work of the Central Commission; this chapter therefore considers the larger institutional and political setting governing discussion of conservation and monument protection

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in Austria-​Hungary and considers too the writings of other authors on the subject.

The Genesis of the Central Commission The statute creating the Central Commission was signed by the emperor Franz Joseph on the last day of 1850. Most immediately it owed its existence to the repeated efforts by the historian Eduard Melly (1814–54) to persuade the government to set up an official body that would oversee the preservation of historic monuments and works of art. Its purpose was to establish a proper legal and administrative framework governing the treatment of Austria’s cultural heritage and, crucially, to ensure greater care for its architectural and artistic monuments. Melly’s campaign aimed to create institutional governance in Austria comparable to that in France and Prussia, yet the establishment of the Central Commission was the culmination of a century of growing governmental involvement in the regulation of historic artifacts and works of art. The first documented official intervention was a decree of 1745 by the empress Maria Theresa into the affairs of Lombardy, then still a Habsburg possession, which stated, “No painter, sculptor, or architect, whether a teacher and academician or not . . . may destroy, improve (i.e., rework), or retouch old and modern paintings and sculptures without their having been viewed and examined by the academy.”4 Further grounds for this decree were not given, but it was part of the Austrian state’s project of safeguarding objects of historic value, including documents; in August 1749, for example, a decree was issued restricting the export of manuscripts and

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mandating the establishment, in September of the same year, of the official state archives.5 Such measures reflected the rise of eighteenth-century antiquarianism, but they were also informed by calculated self-interest; artworks, documents, and historic buildings could play a significant role as evidence in advancing (or rebutting) political and legal arguments. The possession of a centralized archive (such as the state numismatic collection set up in 1774 by the emperor Karl VI, since coins could have the same evidentiary function as written documents) ensured that the Austrian state had appropriate historic resources at its disposal in any dispute. This is clear from Maria Theresa’s decree regarding archivalia, which ruled out the export of materials to “foreign powers” without official permission. Walter Frodl’s study of the early history of monument protection in Austria cites other examples that support this reading, including a regulation passed in Galicia in 1802 that, due to the “frequent diplomatic or historic value” of building ruins and castles, forbade their demolition.6 State intervention increased in scope and pace in the wake of Joseph II’s anticlerical ordinances of the 1780s, which resulted in the dissolution of numerous monasteries and their possessions. In addition, the Napoleonic Wars, specifically Napoleon’s plunder of Venice in 1797, prompted the adoption of policies designed to prevent the export of artworks, such that by 1818 a decree for the whole Empire had been issued banning the export of artworks without the permission of the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna, the official “artistic authority” responsible for all matters concerning the arts. The establishment of the Central Commission was a logical continuation of these

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earlier policies, and in many ways it was introduced to address the shortcomings of the framework that had come into being over the previous century. Although the academy had been given responsibility for overseeing the preservation of historical monuments and artifacts, it was not equipped for the task. It did not offer training in restoration, and its role was primarily reactive; it responded to applications to export or restore specific artworks on an ad hoc basis. When Melly initiated his campaign, he was motivated by the desire to approach the task in a more systematic manner. He had studied philosophy at the University of Vienna, earned a doctorate for work on the coin collection of the Ossolineum in Lemberg, established a reputation as a scholar of medieval seals, and was a pioneering figure in the development of the specialized field of sphragistics.7 Melly had first tried to advance his cause in the 1830s by lobbying influential members of the nobility, but these efforts had been unsuccessful; he returned to the topic some fifteen years later, first of all with a short book on St. Stephen’s Cathedral in Vienna, published in 1850, in which he explicitly called for state intervention to ensure the conservation of national monuments and to promote knowledge of them.8 The same year he also wrote to Alexander Bach, minister of the interior, stressing the necessity of “setting up an institution for overseeing, preserving, and researching the historic monuments of the Empire.”9 This time he met with more success; in the post-1848 era, governments were much more alert to the political and ideological uses of heritage as an instrument of legitimation. Recent events had made the imperial government keen to employ measures that might counter any subversive views

regarding Habsburg political legitimacy, and Melly’s description of such an institution as a national political imperative—he compared it to the Commission of Historic Monuments (Commission des monuments historiques) in France—ensured that he would achieve more than simply a sympathetic readership. Accordingly, Melly’s proposal was supported, and the new institution he called for came into existence at the end of the same year. Placed under the auspices of the Ministry for Trade, Industry, and Public Works, it was given the title of the imperial-royal Central Commission for the Investigation and Conservation of Architectural Monuments (k.k. Central-Commission zur Erforschung und Erhaltung der Baudenkmale).

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The Scholarly Study of Monuments In keeping with Melly’s original diagnosis, a crucial aspect of the work of the Central Commission was promotion of research into the artistic and built heritage of Austria. To this end it sponsored two publications, the Jahrbuch (yearbook), the first volume of which appeared in 1856, containing longer scholarly articles on historic monuments and works of art, and the Mittheilungen, a monthly bulletin that contained shorter articles and reports on commission activity and publications of relevance. The Jahrbuch ceased publication after only five issues, but the Mittheilungen continued until the commission itself ceased to exist. It should come as no surprise, given that a key objective of the commission was to bring rigor to the documentation of the monuments of the Empire, that its first director was not a historian or an art historian but a statistician, Karl Czoernig, who had been head

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of the Viennese Administrative Statistics Office since 1841. Czoernig would later achieve prominence as the author of Ethnography of the Austrian Monarchy (discussed previously), but it was due to his work as an administrator that he was appointed. In addition, as a former member of the Frankfurt National Assembly, he had enjoyed political contacts with Ludwig von Bruck (1798–1860), a fellow delegate and one of the cofounders of the Austrian Lloyd shipping and insurance company, who had been ennobled by the emperor and had ministerial oversight of the commission. One of the first indices of the emphasis on bringing rigor to the documentation of monuments was the introduction of a standard form to be used when cataloguing. Published in the first volume of the Jahrbuch, the form listed eleven categories of information that had to be provided. These included the date of construction and name of the builder; the dates of any modifications; original purpose, materials, and style of the building; the building’s current use and the name of its current owner; the dimensions of the building; comments on its historical or architectural value; relevant historical sources, including visual depictions or textual references; the current condition of the building.10 Ultimately, the form was not used as had been envisaged, but it nevertheless clearly communicated the commission’s objective, which was to replace the disparate private enthusiasms of previous writers with a more systematic approach. This application of a “scientific” method to the documentation of historic buildings was itself a monument to the positivism of the mid–nineteenth century and was comparable to the parallel project initiated by Eitelberger of producing reliable editions of important

historical texts. Eitelberger himself had played little part in the original formation of the Central Commission, but he became a member in 1853 and was one of the most prominent contributors to the early volumes of both the Jahrbuch and the Mittheilungen. He opened the very first issue of the Mittheilungen with a programmatic article on “the task of the study of antiquities in Austria,” whose first sentence asserts: “The monuments of the Austrian imperial state are an essential part of its wealth, an articulate witness of its greatness.” Eitelberger follows this rhetorical declaration of loyalty to the state with a more sober assessment of the work of the commission, for many of the historical buildings and artworks of the Empire were threatened “by vandalism and the urge to destroy, stemming from ignorance or malice.”11 The commission was consequently faced, he argues, with the basic task of recording architectural and artistic monuments before they were destroyed, in the hope that the mere act of recording them would produce wider public interest and hence increase the likelihood of their being preserved. Describing the existing state of objects and buildings was thus the first matter of business. Yet Eitelberger emphasizes the need for scientific description, which should be undertaken by qualified experts, for “only he who knows scholarship and its current state can see what he is to describe. Things that the layperson does not even notice and that do not even exist for him are of great value for the expert.”12 Consequently, such descriptions should be couched in “the scholarly language of art,” and Eitelberger cites the work of Franz Kugler and the archaeologist Karl Ottfried Müller as models.13 The choice of these two authors is significant, for it

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indicates the continuing importance of the Humboldt University in Berlin in shaping conceptions of scholarly inquiry in midcentury Vienna. Kugler had been professor of art history there since 1835, and Müller had studied classics in Berlin under Barthold Georg Niebuhr and had then brought the latter’s philological approach to Göttingen, where he had been professor of classical philology from 1823 to his death in 1840. Eitelberger’s brief article was therefore also an assertion on behalf of the scientific standards embraced by nascent art-historical profession. Just as the appointment of Eitelberger himself, first as dozent and then as professor of art history, introduced a certain expertise to his field, so too the commission was to introduce a culture of expertise to the field of monument protection. Eitelberger contributed a number of short articles on architecture to subsequent issues of the Mittheilungen. In the third volume he wrote a short discussion of the significance of monuments, which took up themes from his opening essay of 1856. The preservation of monuments was vital, he argued, since they constituted the basis of collective memory: “Especially for the great mass, the real people, monuments are, alongside poetry, the authentic bearers of historical recollection. . . . It is no accident that the most spiritual and greatest peoples were and are those who are best endowed with monuments. Whoever has experienced the magic that binds together antiquity, legends, and history . . . easily recognizes the historical significance of monuments.”14 Alongside these shorter articles in the Mittheilungen, Eitelberger also wrote significant longer studies in the Jahrbuch. In the volume of 1856, for example, he compiled his report on early medieval architecture in Hungary (discussed

in the first chapter), which was based on a survey he had been commissioned to undertake during in 1854 and 1855.15 This was an early instance of Central Commission– sponsored fieldwork, and Eitelberger was commissioned in 1856 to undertake a similar trip to Dalmatia, resulting in the report that was then republished as a separate volume in his collected writings. Although such publications in the 1850s laid down the parameters for systematic research into Austria-​Hungary’s monumental heritage (which was now expanded to comprise artworks as well as buildings), it was another thirty years before the commission turned to the idea of a comprehensive register of monuments, this time under the guiding hand of Joseph Helfert, president of the renamed Central Commission for the Investigation and Conservation of Artistic and Historic Monuments (k.k. Central-Commission für Erforschung und Erhaltung von Kunst- und Historischen Denkmalen) from 1863 to 1910. Accordingly, in January 1889 the first volume of the Österreichische Kunst-Topographie (Art topography of Austria), dedicated to Carinthia, appeared in print.16 It included no great detail on individual sites or artifacts, but it adopted a recognizable format that would become typical for the genre: entries on sites organized alphabetically and accompanied with bibliographic references. Although intended as the first of a series of topographies of each of the crown lands, a lack of funds precluded further volumes. Consequently, the first successful major art-topographical project in Austria-​ Hungary was not published by the Central Commission; rather, it was a series more narrowly focused on Bohemia, sponsored by the Archaeological Commission of the

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Academy of Sciences, Literature, and Art in Prague. Overseen by the architect Josef Hlávka—who was also president of the archaeological section—the first volume was dedicated to the central Bohemian town of Kolin,17 and subsequent volumes continued to be published until the end of the war in 1918. With volumes edited by the leading Czech historians and art historians of the period, such as Karel Mádl, Zdeněk Wirth, Bohumil Matějka, and Anton Podlaha, and published in Czech and German editions, it was in one sense an exemplary demonstration of the way in which academic scholarship could transcend the linguistic and ethnic boundaries that had come to dominate academic discourse. Yet it also revealed the limitations to such projects; conceived as a purely Bohemian enterprise, it made no reference to the Central Commission at all. In his foreword to the first volume Hlávka presented it as entirely due to the initiative of the academy.18 After its aborted earlier attempt at a systematic topographic survey of Austria-​ Hungary in 1889, the commission returned to the project anew with the publication in 1907 of the first volume, on Krems, of Österreichische Kunsttopographie (Austrian art topography).19 Work on the project had already begun in 1904 and was initially overseen by Riegl, with Hans Tietze and Ernst Diez undertaking the fieldwork of producing an initial inventory for Krems, but following Riegl’s death, Max Dvořák was given responsibility both for turning the data into a publishable volume and for ensuring the appearance of subsequent volumes.20 This was on an altogether different scale from any of the earlier ventures; each individual volume was a considerable publication in its own right—the Krems topography alone

comprised some six hundred pages—and by the outbreak of the war fourteen volumes had already appeared. As Dvořák notes in his introduction to the first volume, it differed from those earlier projects in conceptual terms too. Although he acknowledges that they all had merit, they had adopted no standard definition of what an “artistic monument” might be, the result being considerable inconsistency in the criteria for inclusion.21 Hence, he notes, some restricted their scope to examination of architectural monuments; some included natural features as well as historical structures. Furthermore, they shared no common criteria of relevance: “there are art topographies that publish a colorful mishmash of realia, as understood in the old antiquarianism, and investigations from all fields of historical scholarship, which are in keeping neither with modern scientific method, based on specialized research, nor with the proper mission of art topography.”22 Dvořák therefore defined the scope of his project much more precisely—although no less problematically. Taking a lead from Riegl, who stipulated that an artistic monument had to be at least sixty years old,23 he declares that the subject of topography should be limited to those man-made objects, artworks, and buildings that were art-historically relevant. This meant a strict drawing of boundaries and an exclusion of items and issues that were the competence of other fields of scholarship. “For it would be dilettantish and unjustified to want to publish all prehistoric and archaeological materials in an art topography, as research into and publication of these is the main task of independent branches of historical scholarship.”24 On the other hand, he admits that items such as coins, seals, inscriptions, and so forth might have a place in the genre, but only

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inasmuch as they provided documentary evidence in support of art-historical understanding and not as objects of study in their own right. For, he argues, they belonged properly to auxiliary disciplines such as numismatics, sphragistics, or epigraphy. Dvořák expresses here a clear concern for disciplinary autonomy, and this comes across too in his reservations about the earlier history of topographical literature, which had lacked scholarly rigor. It hardly needs stating that his restrictive criteria of inclusion, ruling out objects of little art-historical significance, was question begging, since it assumed that “significance” was already settled. This assumption is doubly striking in that he subsequently implies that a properly conducted art topography could place existing value hierarchies under scrutiny:

Krems volume. Yet the expression of sensitivity to the relation between local and “general” histories of art can be seen as marking the beginnings of a conception of art history as a more fractured field, in which questions of value and historical order become less certain. These would only become defining preoccupations for Dvořák in the writings of his final years, but even here one can find the intimation of a view that stands at odds with his otherwise uncompromising conception of art topography. Indeed, Dvořák acknowledges a potential criticism, namely, that “for some periods, especially those where the older tradition leaves us in the lurch, so little research has been done into the general course of the history of art that it would be difficult to determine correctly the course and significance of local developments.”26 His response, that “the development as a whole consists of the sum of territorial phenomena,” hardly resolves this problem, since it does not indicate the criteria whereby the “apparently hopelessly entangled chaos” of small details might be disentangled. By the time Dvořák’s first volume was published, the stakes of art topography had also changed. For the generation of Eitelberger, Melly, and Heider, the main priority had been to map out a still-unknown field, in the hope that increased awareness alone might effect a change in public attitudes. By 1907 it was apparent that topographical inventories could potentially challenge value hierarchies and the construction of art-historical narratives. There were also growing political and legal ramifications. Until its dissolution in 1918, the Austro-Hungarian state had no comprehensive legal regulations covering the treatments of its artistic and built heritage. Nevertheless, the Central Commission’s numerous interventions into issues of

The conditio sine qua non for the execution of this program is . . . that the art-historical examination of individual monuments will have been sufficient to encourage one to make judgments about their significance for the general history of art and, in particular, for that of the region being inventoried. Hitherto determination of the art-historical value of individual objects was deemed adequate less on the basis of research into local history than on the basis of general knowledge and value judgments, which meant that monuments of lesser significance were frequently overestimated, while others, which were the high point of the art of the region being inventoried, with a more than local significance, were dismissed with general slogans.25

At this stage Dvořák was still committed to the idea of art history as the study of genetic sequences. His Habilitation on the van Eyck brothers had exemplified this idea, and he restated this belief in the introduction to the

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monument protection at a local level ran into important political questions concerning the power of the state to limit the rights of local individuals, groups, and administrations. As the political life of the Empire became increasingly fractious in the decades leading up to 1918, most particularly in terms of the relation between Vienna and the regional centers elsewhere, so the commission, as an imperial institution, was increasingly drawn directly into disputes with wider political ramifications.

“promoting respect for the monuments and buildings of Cracow among its inhabitants.”28 Publishing an annual journal, the Rocznik Krakowski (Cracow annual) from 1898 onward, the society played an important role in the development of monument conservation and restoration in Galicia. Four years later the Club for Old Prague was founded with a parallel set of aims, while in Hungary a National Monuments Commission (Műemlékek országos bizottsága) had already been established in 1881 under the auspices of the Ministry for Religion and Public Education. Finally, 1903 saw the founding of the Society for the Protection and Maintenance of the Artistic Monuments of Vienna and Lower Austria, which sponsored a series of polemical publications on issues concerning monument protection.29 These associations all played an important role regionally and locally; the commission deserves particular attention, however, because it was the only organization to encompass the whole of the Empire. When set up, it was charged not only with sponsoring research into the stock of historical artistic and architectural monuments but also, as its title indicates, with ensuring their preservation. The statutes published in the first volume of the Jahrbuch made clear that the commission was responsible for safeguarding historic monuments from destruction, in many cases through educational programs at a local level. Conversely, they decreed that “in cases of new building work, the laying of railways, the regulation of public highways, and so forth, care should be taken to preserve monuments. Consequently, in projects where the survival of a monument is in question, the commission should be asked for an assessment.”30 The commission, however, had no legal right to

The Central Commission and the Empire The establishment of the commission was prompted by the demand for active state intervention into the care and protection of monuments. The commission did not exercise a monopoly in this field, however, for with the growth of a sense of civil society in Austria, private associations came to occupy a significant place in the landscape of heritage conservation and research. In 1853 the Vienna Antiquities Society (Alterthums-Verein zu Wien) was founded and began publishing its own regular archaeological and historical reports on the architecture of Vienna.27 The society would come to play an influential role in debates over conservation, most particularly as these came to relate not only to individual objects and structures but also to wider issues of urban renewal and preservation. Parallel organizations were founded elsewhere across the Empire. In Cracow the Cracow Society of Friends of History and Monuments (Towarzystwo miłośników historyi i zabytków Krakowa) was established in 1896 with the mission of undertaking research into the history of Cracow as well as

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prevent projects from going ahead, especially in the case of private property; the statutes openly recognized that the commission’s success would rely on persuading property owners to desist from their plans or the local authorities that were empowered to intervene. Nevertheless, the requirement that it be consulted provided a formal framework whereby it could exert its influence and sway opinion, and it was by such means that it was hoped it would achieve its goals. The commission was given numerous responsibilities, but it had few powers to meet them. In order to carry out its tasks, it was supported by an Empire-wide organizational structure, starting with a conservator for each crown land. It was the conservator who was in effect responsible both for promoting research into their crown land and also for protecting monuments under threat, and since this was clearly beyond the abilities of a single individual, additional conservators were appointed as well as correspondents to assist them.31 The early selection of conservators was a politically sensitive issue in the reactionary period of the 1850s, and individuals were frequently appointed less for their expertise in the field than for their presumed political loyalty. Hence, the conservators for Vienna and Lower Austria included Albert Camesina and Eduard von Sacken, while Joseph von Scheiger was appointed conservator for Styria, and Jan Vocel was one of the conservators for Bohemia.32 Many conservators were either members of the clergy or industrialists. This was particularly noticeable in Bohemia, Hungary, and Transylvania; in Bohemia, for example, of the fourteen conservators named in the Jahrbuch of 1856 only two, Vocel and the builder František Schmoranz, could remotely be regarded as competent figures. Others included Franz

Slawik, director of a mine in Gedein (Kdyně), near Plzeń; Vojtěch Ruziczka, owner of an unspecified factory in Jungbunzlau (Mladá Boleslav); Joseph Ackermann, canon of the cathedral of Leitmeritz (Litoměřice); and Antonín Marek, the deacon of Libuň. A similar situation held for Hungary, where conservators included Ignaz Fabry, the bishop of Kaschau (Košice); Michael Fogarassay, the bishop of Grosswardein (Oradea); and Ludwig von Bitnitz, the canon of the cathedral of Steinamanger (Szombathely). The makeup of the correspondents was comparable, for they were mostly drawn from local priests and doctors. This list of names suggests that for all the much-vaunted mission of the commission to bring professionalism to the treatment of monuments, it remained in many respects amateurish, stymied by the concern of the central authorities to ensure that the local representatives of this imperial institution were politically reliable. On the other hand, given that ecclesiastical buildings often represented the bulk of the most significant historic structures, the choice of church members to perform the commission’s activities was perhaps logical. Furthermore, in many localities the clergy were the backbone of the intelligentsia, and there was no alternative class of educated bureaucrats. An examination of the contributors to the volumes of the Jahrbuch and the Mittheilungen reveals too that, although in German, these publications did not represent only the narrow interests and views of Vienna-based scholars. Their pages contain contributions by authors from across the Empire, and as the numbers of professional art historians and conservationists in regional centers grew during the last three decades of the nineteenth century, so too did the diversity of the contributors.

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Hence, the pages of the Mittheilungen are populated by articles contributed by authors as diverse as Frane Bulić, Włodzimierz Dzieduszycki, Imre Henszlmann, and Ivan Kukuljević Sakcinski, alongside the more familiar names of Eitelberger, von Sacken, and Helfert.33 From the later nineteenth century onward, however, the commission came into growing conflict with the administrations at a local level, as its mission to preserve historic monuments stood at odds with increasingly confident regional authorities that sought to advance alternative agendas. A number of examples illustrate the kinds of difficulties encountered, such as the problem of rural vernacular architecture. The landscape of much of Galicia and Bukovina (as well as northern Hungary and Transylvania) was populated with wooden architecture, including churches. As village communities sought to modernize, however, these wooden structures were deemed to be an impractical anachronism (they easily burnt down and needed constant renewal), and many were demolished to make way for buildings in “modern” materials, primarily brick and stone. Yet the churches in particular were often important historic structures that provided large regions of the Empire with a distinctive architectural heritage. Consequently, their demolition began to concern the Central Commission, and reports and articles appeared in the pages of the Mittheilungen on both the importance of the wooden churches and also the practical conservation challenges (and solutions) they faced.34 This issue even came to preoccupy Archduke Franz Ferdinand, who became the royal protector of the Central Commission in 1910. Recent publication of materials from the archive of the crown prince’s military

chancellery has revealed the extent of his involvement in the work of the commission in general and this subject in particular.35 The crown prince issued numerous instructions that the churches and synagogues be preserved, and the archives contain his expressions of frustration too over the lack of a legal framework for enforcement of these edicts. His interventions and those of the commission often proved fruitless; a particularly embarrassing instance was the intervention on behalf of the eighteenth-century Greek-Catholic church in the village of Wólka Rosnowska, which was demolished, it later emerged, with the connivance of the local conservator, Aleksander Czołowski. It would be tempting to view the conflict over the fate of the churches as a straightforward opposition between a high-handed Central Commission, on the one hand, determined to impose its own metropolitan views, and local authorities, on the other hand, equally resolved to assert a degree of autonomy. Such a polarity undoubtedly played some role, but this episode occurred at a time when advocates of the folk-revival movement had valorized traditional wooden architecture as emblematic of national and regional identities. As discussed earlier, in the 1890s and the 1900s architects such as Dušan Jurkovič and Stanisław Witkiewicz devised hybrid architectural styles that drew on motifs from traditional wooden folk architecture. In this instance such figures shared with the Central Commission an interest in preserving these historic buildings, albeit for different reasons. What was striking was that many local communities were more interested in the practical benefits, including, as Theodor Brückler points out, the profit that could be made from selling the wood after demolition.

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In other examples, however, issues of monument conservation were more directly linked to larger political and ideological debates. A prominent case was the debate over the treatment of the Wawel Castle in Cracow. Following the Third Partition of Poland, in 1795, the Austrian authorities had taken the castle over and used it as a fortress and a barracks, a move that had led to substantial building and remodeling of the historic structures. In 1905, however, after lengthy negotiations, and as a gesture of loosening central political control, the state handed the castle back to the Galician authorities. This was greeted as a momentous event. The site was resonant with historical significance; the cathedral was where the Polish kings had traditionally been crowned (it also contained many royal tombs), and the castle had been the royal palace from the mid–eleventh century until 1596, when it was moved to Warsaw. The castle was in poor condition, however, having suffered years of neglect. The Austrian military had maintained the historical fabric of the buildings, but repairs had been largely utilitarian, with no attempt made to ensure that they were in keeping with the historic style of the buildings. The most contentious example was the arcaded main courtyard of the castle; by the early nineteenth century the columns of the arcades were in poor condition, and they had been replaced with utilitarian square pilasters (fig. 16). The handover of 1905 was followed by a campaign to renovate the site. The Polish architect Zygmunt Hendel (1862–1929) put forward a plan to restore the many ornamental architectural details that had been damaged through the centuries. He also proposed to re-create the roof with colored tiles, as it had been in the sixteenth century, to replace

the external windows with larger ones that were closer in appearance to those originally installed, to provide the tower with a new roof that would promote its identity as a Renaissance building, and to open up the arches of the main courtyard, replacing the square pilasters with columns.36 The Central Commission quickly became involved, and a debate took place over the merits of the proposals. Most critical was Max Dvořák. In a report published in 1908, he objected to the proposals, which, he argued, amounted to a falsification of the building.37 Although they might be based on historical sources, restorations of the kind proposed by Hendel nevertheless remained modern interventions, and as such they had to be dismissed: “The historicizing renovations of the Wawel may be incomparably truer to the original condition . . . but . . . a falsification is not any more valuable for having been done skillfully and with expert knowledge. And today we see all historicizing renovations and additions as falsifications, falsifications that cannot replace what has been lost but rather devalue what has been preserved, just as false painters of ancestors devalue an ancestral gallery, or modern interpolations an ancient document.”38 Dvořák was emphatic; while some of the additions made by the military could be removed, restoring the castle to how it was imagined it had been in the late sixteenth century was out of the question; the most that should be done was to conserve the castle and ensure that existing damage was rectified. The restoration project was considered at a sitting of the Central Commission in 1909; Dvořák reiterated his criticisms, but this time they were answered by Stanisław Tomkowicz (1850–1933), a prominent figure in the social and political elite of Cracow and one of the commission’s conservators for

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fig. 16  The courtyard of the Wawel Castle before the 1905 restoration.

Galicia.39 Tomkowicz stressed the identity of the castle as a “symbol of earlier national glory, a summary of Polish history.” For this reason “there was a desire in the land for the monument to make an uplifting, marvelous impression and not to remain a ruin. For the Poles regard it as a living monument that should celebrate its rebirth and should be used once more for practical purposes.”40 Eventually a compromise was reached; the commission agreed to the opening-up of the arcades, and because the columns did not have the same load-bearing capacities as the wall they were replacing, structural work on the roof had to be undertaken as well to ensure it did not collapse (fig. 17). The other proposed alterations were not

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approved. Dvořák opposed even this compromise, but evidently his view did not prevail, and the Wawel was remodeled, the courtyard acquiring its present form. The terms of the disagreement are worth examining. Dvořák was hostile to any kind of restoration; instead, the priority had to be to preserve the building in its existing state. While it might be necessary to undertake repairs in order to maintain the building, they should remain visible as modern repairs and not be executed in a historicizing style to “improve” or remodel the appearance of the castle. As such, this represented an important shift in conservation thinking, but he was also missing the point, for more was at stake than a mere difference of opinion over

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fig. 17  The courtyard of the Wawel Castle after the 1905 restoration.

the appropriate approach to conservation. Dvořák regarded the Wawel as a fossilized historic monument, whereas Hendel, Tomkowicz, and others in Cracow saw it as a part of living Polish history. During the nineteenth century the Wawel had increasingly come to be sacralized as a Polish lieu de mémoire, which, with the loss of Polish political sovereignty, took on a compensatory function in the imaginary of Polish patriots. It had consequently become the site of a cult—the poet Stanisław Wyspiański, for example, had dedicated a poem to “the acropolis” of Cracow—and it was this that legitimized the proposed remodeling of the castle.41

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This attitude reflected too a growing tendency to appropriate historic buildings and monuments in the service of patriotic and national causes. Although he did not say so openly, Dvořák may have been motivated by opposition to nationalistic politics to reject the Wawel renovation. The justifications articulated by Tomkowicz at the Central Commission laid the basis for a recurrent pattern in the Polish treatment of monuments; when Poland regained independence after the First World War, numerous buildings were remodeled to emphasize their links to the Polish past, while others, associated with the former occupying powers,

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were demolished.42 The differences between Dvořák and Tomkowicz thus had a political resonance that has to be set against the backdrop of a growing “nationalization” of heritage. This was not the only instance of such conflict. Notable as well was Riegl’s criticism of Georg Dehio (1850–1932), professor of art history at the German University of Strasbourg, which he formulated in an article of 1905 on “new currents in monument protection.”43 Riegl focused on a lecture Dehio had given in Strasbourg the same year; in many respects the two were in agreement, especially in terms of their shared advocacy of preservation over restoration as the primary aim of monument conservation. Dehio, however, also argued forcefully for the importance of monument protection as a patriotic national enterprise.44 Famously, he stated: “We do not conserve a monument because we find it beautiful, but because it is a part of our national existence. The protection of monuments does not mean the search for pleasure, but rather the exercise of piety. Aesthetic and even art-historical judgments are unstable, but here we have an unchangeable indicator of value.”45 It was this assertion in particular that drew criticism from Riegl, who observed,

monuments because they were the creative work

The same pride in national achievements can be heard in such utterances as the French definition of the “national monuments” that make up the gloire of the French nation . . . we experience it immediately as egotistical in relation to the members of another nation. At that point we term it vaingloriousness and not piety. Moreover, have we not been moved countless times by the sight of a monument, without having the slightest knowledge of its national origin? And have we found any less pleasure in other

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of a foreigner, such as an Italian?46

Riegl sought to challenge such “egotistic nationalism” in the name of a universal humanity and ultimately a generalized altruism that even involved the erasure of the perceiving subject. This he saw effected in the encounter with natural monuments, which transcended the historical and the merely human. Riegl was trying to construct a theoretical argument, and he suggested that historical monuments should be treated as if they were things of nature. However, it is the ideological and political dimension that is of relevance here, for Riegl had a more pressing target in his sights, namely, the nationalization of monument discourse of the kind that Dvořák would oppose only three years later. The wider cultural politics of the late Habsburg Empire, and the conflict between the competing narratives of imperial and national identities, had spilled out onto the territory of monument-protection policy, and Riegl, Dvořák, and others were caught up in its midst. The same year he articulated his emphatic criticism of the Wawel project, Dvořák also published a short polemic against proposals to renovate the castle in Prague. Like the Wawel, the castle and the cathedral of St. Vitus on the castle hill overlooking the city had become a focus of nationalist Czech sentiment. Commissioned by the emperor Charles IV in 1344, work had continued slowly until 1419, when the outbreak of the Hussite Wars across Bohemia had brought it to a halt.47 The unfinished cathedral was later subjected to Baroque modifications in the 1720s, but it was not until the 1840s that a campaign was initiated to complete this architectural showpiece of Prague.48 Initial

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work focused on clearing away the Baroque additions, but in the 1870s a concerted attempt was made to bring the building to completion, with the architect Josef Mocker (1835–1899) overseeing the implementation of a neo-Gothic design for the unfinished west portal and the original plan for a three-aisled nave.49 The renovation of the cathedral was well under way by the time Dvořák had become professionally active, so he was presented with a fait accompli. However, in 1907 the Archaeological Commission of the Bohemian Academy of Sciences put forward a plan to renovate the oldest part of the royal palace immediately adjacent to the cathedral. Dvořák’s response was as critical as his comments on the Wawel. It was with no small dismay that he reported the plans, which he described in the following acerbic tone:

Privately Dvořák had been no less critical. In correspondence with the Prague-based historian Jaroslav Goll he singled out Josef Hlávka, president of the Archaeological Commission, who had led the renovation proposals. Dismissing the latter’s proposal as “nonsense,” he had also dismissed Hlávka’s complaints about the “hostility” of Vienna and his claim that “the Central Commission does not appreciate the artistic value of the castle, a monument unique in the whole world.”51 The terms of the dispute echo those regarding the Wawel, in which Dvořák, adhering strictly to principles of preservation, set himself against a locally sponsored project of modification and renovation that was proposed in the name of a patriotic appropriation of heritage. A similar example of Dvořák’s combative approach can be found in his Katechismus der Denkmalpflege (Catechism of monument of protection), published in 1916, in which he singled out another prominent architectural project in Prague, the Gothicizing renovation of the Powder Tower by Josef Mocker in the 1880s (see fig. 4) and the building of the adjacent Municipal House by Osvald Polívka and Antonín Balšánek in 1912 as examples of the “false addiction to beautification.”52 The former was regarded as a historic landmark of the city, whereas the latter had been built as a cultural and social center for the Czech-speaking bourgeois of the city.53 A major statement of Czech self-confidence, the Municipal House was the outcome of collaboration with leading Prague-based artists of the early twentieth century, such as the sculptor Josef Myslbek, Alfons Mucha, Ladislav Šaloun (sculptor of a large monument to Jan Hus on the Old Town Square), and the symbolist painter Jan Preisler. Dvořák was unambiguous, however,

Not only are offending humble utilitarian additions to be removed, which one might welcome if done with tact; in addition, the sgraffiti are to be renovated because they “would otherwise disappear,” as if it were an advantage if they had already been renovated, i.e., destroyed, a hundred years earlier. The pinnacles are also to be altered because otherwise “they might completely fall to pieces in the foreseeable future” and “one might no longer know what they looked like,” as if, even if this were true, it were not possible to secure them and prevent their decay and preserve their old form for all time by taking casts of them. The gallery that skirts around the entire façade is to be opened up and expanded, “as it once was,” because—and I do not know why—the “new branch of architecture” demands its rights and because there are still people whose hearts and tastes are closer to the banalities of modern pseudo-Gothic than the old monument.50

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in his criticism of the cumulative effect of the restoration of the Powder Tower and the construction of the Municipal House next to it. Regarding the tower he wrote: “Even though it was damaged and mutilated in the course of time, the tower was, before the restoration, a monument of rare power that achieved an uncommon effect due to its unaffected originality, its pristine forms, and its appearance as a whole, which in time had taken on a noble character and which, coupled with the neighboring buildings it dominated, constituted a wonderful overall image.”54 In contrast, he argued, the renovated Powder Tower had lost its dominant position and “today looks like an annex, executed in historicizing forms, of the building that has been erected so impiously next to it.”55 For Dvořák the examples of the Powder Tower, the castle in Prague, and the Wawel revealed an ignorance of the complex history of important monuments and a willingness to make wholesale changes to buildings in order that they might fit into a preferred vision of history. In nationalist circles in Prague or Cracow this was seen as Viennese antagonism toward the cultural aspirations of local minorities. Dvořák’s frequently rigid adherence to the principle of conservation thus brought him into political dispute; loyal to the cosmopolitan ideology of the Habsburg regime, he maintained a distance from the nationalistic attitudes even of his fellow Czechs in Prague.56

Commission in 1903 brought a long-overdue rigor and sophistication to the commission’s work. As Max Dvořák stated, the commission was a “regressive authority . . . for if in theory its civil servants could be dismissed, in fact this happened only very exceptionally, and hence its main supporters were enthusiasts for antiquities and artists whose time was long past, even if this was not so according to the regulations.”57 This reading of the commission as a dilettantish organization is a partial account, and also notable are the debates in the area of monument protection that the key Vienna School representatives did not address. Hence, while Riegl, Dvořák, and others achieved prominence as advocates of conservation over restoration, the Central Commission dealt with other issues that lay outside of this narrowly framed debate. An inquiry staged by the commission on the conservation of artistic objects in October 1904, for example, dealt with questions regarding the conservation of textiles, including the impact of museum display and light on textiles, how to reconcile the conflicting demands of exhibitions and conservation, how to prevent insect infestation, and the role of reproductions.58 These questions, which involved practical as well as theoretical and ethical considerations, found little attention in the writings of Riegl and his followers, who mostly concerned themselves with the built heritage. Where Riegl’s work did represent a departure from existing practice, however, was in the way he reframed consideration of the aims and purpose of monument protection. In the 1890s Joseph Helfert, then president of the commission, proposed a law governing the treatment of monuments, and thereafter a number of publications appeared to inform

Monument Protection: Theory and Policy A central part of the narrative of the Vienna School is the belief that Riegl’s appointment as general conservator of the Central

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the debates regarding this topic, including one by Helfert and another by Matthäus Much (1832–1909), a conservator of the commission with a particular interest in prehistoric archaeology. Both Helfert and Much were concerned to compare the Austrian situation with the legal frameworks in other European states.59 In certain respects they were forerunners of Riegl, but both authors limited themselves to the positivistic documentation of other states’ provisions in order to provide comparative material for considering the kinds of measures and policies that should be pursued. Riegl, in contrast, attempted a more fundamental analysis of the question, starting with examination of the meaning and purpose of monuments, as a preamble to the legal measures he was to propose. His famous essay on the cult of monuments was a part of this analysis. A number of commentators have considered Riegl’s arguments in detail, and it is not necessary to reiterate their careful exposition here.60 A few salient points are nevertheless worth highlighting. In his essay on the cult of monuments Riegl attempts to refine the differing extensions of the term “monument,” distinguishing between “intentional monuments” (i.e., those erected to commemorate specific individuals or events) and “unintentional monuments” (i.e., those to which particular historic or art-historical significance has been assigned over and above their original purpose).61 It is the latter with which Riegl is mostly concerned. In addition, he analyzes the different values ascribed to monuments, producing a sometimes ambiguous typology (memorial value, use value, newness value, present-day value, artistic value) in which particular prominence is taken up by the concepts of historical value and age value.62

Historical value was a product of the modern era, he argues, having first emerged during the Renaissance, when the relics of classical antiquity were appreciated for their artistic and historical significance. This was also intimately linked to a modern historical consciousness and a conception of history as a developmental process; the historical value of monuments was derived from the recognition of their place in a historical sequence, and the concept of historical value reached its culmination in the nineteenth century with the rise of scientific disciplines devoted to its study, including, most notably, art history. For Riegl, sensitivity to historical value was nevertheless not fully “modern,” since it assumed that the value of monuments resided in their place in a putatively “objective” order, namely, the developmental history of art, and art historians had learned to be wary of such appeals to timeless normative frameworks.63 It was hence only with the rise of “age value” that a fully modern approach to monuments had been achieved, specifically “the desire to transcend an objective physical and psychic perception in favor of a subjective experience.”64 This “subjective experience” consisted in the valorization of those signs of decay that indicated the antiquity of the monument, a sentimental appreciation of monuments as symbols of human mortality. As an illustration of the difference between the subjective experience and the objective perception, Riegl distinguishes between the Baroque cult of ruins, which always fixed on classical ruins as the symbols of the pathos of the passing of Roman grandeur, and the modern cult of ruins, which focused on “traces of age . . . as testimony to natural laws inevitably governing all artefacts.”65 With this conceptual schema Riegl is clearly distancing himself from older notions

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of the monument, including those of his predecessor Eitelberger, who saw its principal value in its ability to offer visible evidence of the history of the (Austrian) state. In contrast, and even before his critique of Dehio, Riegl is formulating a theory that stands at odds with such patriotic visions. Furthermore, Riegl’s essay highlights the numerous conflicting meanings and values that could accrue to a single monument, further complicating any attempt to produce a univocal theory of monuments. Riegl recognizes that while age value represents “a more advanced form of the cult of historical value,” it is nevertheless also dependent on it, inasmuch as the ability to recognize a monument qua monument relies on the ability to locate it historically, and this “presupposes a basic art-historical orientation.”66 Nevertheless, he still argues for the priority of age over historical value for two reasons. First, age value “rises above differences of religious persuasion and transcends differences in education and in understanding art.”67 It consequently has universal validity. Second, in relation to the conservation of monuments, age value “is the only viable strategy. Permanent preservation is not possible because natural forces are ultimately more powerful than all the wit of man, and man is himself destined to inevitable decay.”68 In a further text written as a preamble to his draft law, Riegl formulates a simplified version of this argument, expressing the unambiguous view that priority should be given to “age value” and that this should inform monument-protection policy.69 The justification for this ranking is that the sense of age value transcends national feeling and is instead rooted in an altruistic sense of a common humanity: “While the feeling

of pride of an Austrian, or of a Bohemian, a Styrian, a Carinthian, etc., or of a German, a Czech, a Pole, etc., regarding the monuments of the state or of a land or of a nationality always rests on isolation from others, whether foreigners or inhabitants of another crown land or members of another nationality, the feeling of age value is based on a sense of belonging to the entire world.”70 Age value appeals to a universal sensibility that is the property of every subject, and this appeal can be put down to its “ambient effect.” The inclusion of the term “ambience” recalls Riegl’s essay of 1899 on modern art and ambience and highlights the structural connections between his theory of age value as a modern phenomenon and his wider theory of modern art. In a revised version of this text published two years later, Riegl reiterates the central role of age value and ambience even more emphatically.71 Indeed, he criticizes Helfert for having concentrated on historical value at the expense of age value. Singling out monuments for their historical value presumes that the latter is an objectively determinable quality, whereas it is mutable with time, potentially putting into question the status of buildings and artifacts as monuments. In contrast, “age value” and its correlate, “ambience value,” are constants that transcend any particular moment; “ambience value depends neither on a historic date nor on the pleasure in form and color, but stems purely from the consciousness that we have something ‘old’ before us.”72 It is for this reason too that Riegl defines a monument as any object or building at least sixty years of age, a universal rule that has the added advantage of avoiding “arbitrary evaluation based on historical interests.”73 Riegl also sought to revise the administrative organization of monument protection.

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He argued that it should no longer be left to unpaid volunteers appointed to honorary positions but rather should involve the creation of a cadre of professional conservation specialists; at the time of writing, Riegl was the only paid conservator in the commission. He promoted age value as the guiding principle in part because it ensured that monument protection addressed the interests of the wider population and not just those of professional historians and art historians. It was of course a utopian belief that was contradicted by the reality of the situation; as the examples of the Wawel and Prague Castle and cathedral demonstrate, there were large parts of the monarchy where historical monuments were deemed important precisely because of their function as visual indicators of national and regional identity or, in the case of ecclesiastical buildings, as symbols of the timeless, continuous traditions of the church. There were also limits to how far Riegl himself embraced this apparently democratic view. In his article of 1905 he advocates the introduction of a system of monument listing. Responsibility for the protection of unlisted monuments should pass to the regional administration of each crown land, while listed monuments, “which, through their historical significance or their artistic qualities, are particularly appealing to modern taste and gain such attention that one should attempt to preserve them unaltered at all costs,” should pass into the care of the central Ministry of Culture and Education.74 This conclusion merits closer examination for two reasons: First, it contradicts Riegl’s other comments about the advantages of age value, since the determining criteria for listing has to do with art-historical preferences and historical judgments, precisely the labile

and “arbitrary” basis that he had sought to avoid. Second, Riegl is introducing a hierarchy into the identification of monuments (some clearly more valuable than others) and also their administration (only the central authorities entrusted with the care of the most important monuments). Riegl’s proposal ran the risk of institutionalizing the opposition between “Vienna” and regional authorities, producing tensions that the later disputes over the Wawel or Prague Castle threw into sharp relief. His suggestion also reveals that despite his contention that the concern for historical value had been superseded by the universal appeal of age value, he still relied on presumptions about professional competence (as well as deep-seated prejudices about the relation between the imperial center and its peripheries). The various contradictions and conflicts produced by debates over monument protection were most visible in the examples involving Max Dvořák discussed earlier, but Riegl dealt with equally prominent and intractable cases. The most famous was the debate over the proposed restoration of the west portal of St. Stephen’s Cathedral in Vienna, but equally instructive were the issues raised by the fresco paintings of the Holy Cross chapel in the Wawel cathedral.75 The frescoes had a complicated history; first painted in the fifteenth century, they had then been repainted shortly afterward, in the late 1400s. In 1870 they had been “restored” by the painter Izydor Jabloński (1835–1905), a professor at the Cracow Academy of Fine Arts, whose intervention Riegl regarded as largely deleterious, since the subtleties of the originals had been completely obscured. Subsequently another professor of the academy, Juliusz Makarewicz (1854–1936), was commissioned to restore the frescoes

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once more.76 The question for Riegl was the scope of such restoration. On the one hand, the priority given to age value indicated that the Jabloński additions should be removed in order to reveal the original, faded, and fragmentary paintings. On the other, this apparently simple solution threatened to violate the significance the chapel had acquired for Poles as a locus of national identity, thus creating a conflict of value. As Riegl noted: “the gaps and the discolorations can become, as signs of age, the source of a high degree of aesthetic pleasure. But . . . the visitors to the chapel are not just modern people, having only feelings for ambience, they are also pious Polish Catholics, who would like to see this monument of their great ecclesiastical past as having a power and grandeur befitting its external national and religious worth.”77 As Riegl noted, this requirement that the chapel act as a symbol of the past was ill served by a restoration that would expose the decayed state of much of the fresco painting. His solution was to attempt to reconcile these conflicting demands by removing the additions by Jabloński, some of which were already peeling away, and then making new additions only to those areas that were so damaged as to make the fifteenth-century paintings unrecognizable. This would, Riegl argued, satisfy the conservators’ requirement for minimal alteration to the original decoration while also going some way toward meeting the pious and patriotic desire for an unblemished visual symbol of national history. In this instance Riegl attempted a sensitive compromise, as he usually did in his professional activity in monument conservation. There were, however, exceptions. In 1903 he addressed the plan put forward

by the mayor of Split to renovate Diocletian’s Roman palace. Although the basic structure of the palace had remained intact, a substantial amount of building had taken place during the Middle Ages, such that the original spaces were filled in with houses and other buildings, with other spaces converted to other uses, including, most notably, the conversion of the original mausoleum of Diocletian into a cathedral. The plan was to clear away a substantial space around the cathedral, so that it could be seen in its entirety. In his report on the proposals Riegl expressed grave reservations.78 The jumble of medieval houses that had grown up within the precincts of the old palace possessed just as much age value as the classical monuments, and Riegl was sensitive to the multiple layers of historical meaning that had accrued to the site. His judgments were inconsistent, however. He condoned the demolition of some houses within the site because they had “as good as no art-historical value”; their age value was perhaps “undeniable,” but it was also “very modest.”79 In other words, age value was dependent on considerations of art-historical significance after all, despite his concerns elsewhere to distinguish between the two. In general, however, Riegl made few concessions to local initiatives, as did his successor Dvořák, who a few years later reported on the planned restoration of the main doors to the cathedral.80 The richly carved Romanesque sculptures by Andrija Buvina were in poor condition, but with a tone reminiscent of his approach to the restoration of the Wawel, Dvořák dismissed renovation out of hand, except for some very minor details. The most celebrated conservation dispute in which Riegl became involved was that surrounding the Cathedral of St. Stephen in

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Vienna. The building had been the focus of considerable antiquarian interest throughout the nineteenth century and had been subject to continual minor restoration interventions, but this focus became increasingly intense in the final decades, and in 1880 the Vienna Cathedral Building Society was founded with a view to maintaining and restoring the fabric and the contents of the church.81 A particular focus of interest was the western entrance, the so-called Riesentor (giant portal, fig. 18). This richly decorated doorway was the only visible remnant of the original Romanesque structure, which had been rebuilt, after catastrophic fires in the mid–thirteenth century, as a Gothic cathedral. The society proposed to restore the Romanesque entrance by widening the Gothic outer portal, a renovation that would, it was hoped, also reveal missing elements of the original Romanesque architecture. The plan was devised by the architect Friedrich Schmidt, designer of the Vienna Rathaus, who, as one commentator has noted, “virtually monopolized the restoration of historic buildings in the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy.”82 Despite the authority that went with Schmidt’s involvement, it was resisted by Vienna School art historians. In 1882 and 1883 Moriz Thausing published two articles in the Neue Freie Presse that were sharply critical of the proposals. In the first, “Phylloxera Renovatrix,” he imagined himself walking through the streets of Vienna at night, reading the justification for the proposal in the pages of the newsletter of the society, only to be interrupted by the cathedral bell complaining: “What do I need a cathedral builder or a cathedral building society for? My cathedral was built and completed long ago. . . . I do not wish to be rebuilt yet again; I have had enough of it. If you want to build, you

have plenty of space in Wiener Neustadt.”83 Thausing’s article offered no formal argument; it merely stated opposition to the idea. But it articulated a critical attitude toward restoration that he would repeat in an article of the following year and that would become a distinguishing feature of Vienna School interventions into the debate.84 Due to opposition from a variety of quarters, the plan was dropped, but in 1902 it was taken up again. Its leading advocate was Wilhelm Anton Neumann (1837–1919), professor in Old Testament and Oriental languages at the University of Vienna and also, from 1899 to 1901, its rector. Thausing was no longer alive, but his successor Franz Wickhoff was equally critical of the plan, even though it was approved by the Central Commission. Complaining that “one can hardly conceive how reasonable men could come up with this idea,” Wickhoff published a short article in the Neue Freie Presse in which he commented that the proposal was like “depriving your good old grandfather of the cap with which he covered his bald pate and having him wear a wig with the blond curly locks he once had as a boy.”85 Wickhoff proposed instead funding systematic research and publication into the cathedral, on the model of contemporary practice in France, in the hope that the results alone would suffice as an argument against any remodeling of the kind proposed. Neumann’s involvement gave the disagreement an added dimension, for he had been a leading opponent of the Klimt friezes for the university, and hence the conflict with both Wickhoff and the Vienna Secession had a prior history. Members of the Secession also opposed the plan, lobbying the Ministry of Religion and Education, to which the commission now reported, to refuse support for the project and, as a way of increasing the

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fig. 18  The west gate (Riesentor) of St. Stephen’s Cathedral, Vienna, 1230–45.

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stakes, publishing their text in the pages of Ver Sacrum. With plentiful quotations from Ruskin, the “great art prophet,” the journal pointed to the paradox that “just those people and circles who reject modern art are so keen to deprive us of the old with their restorations and adaptations.”86 For all its stylistic conflict with the original Romanesque portal, the journal argued, the Gothic addition was nevertheless authentic, in contrast to a neo-Romanesque renovation, which would be completely false. Riegl added to the criticism with a lengthy and carefully worded article in the Neue Freie Presse that, although reaching conclusions similar to those of Wickhoff and the Secession artists, couched his argument in more diplomatic terms.87 He recognized that both the desire to remove the Gothic outer portal and the wish to preserve it were modern attitudes and that in this sense the dispute was not between progressive and conservative viewpoints. Yet while acknowledging that each position held some validity, he still pointed out important flaws in the working assumptions of the Schmidt proposals. Much revolved around the status of the Gothic outer portal, which, according to Schmidt, had merely been intended as a stopgap to cover over fire damage and prevent the building from falling down. On this view the stylistic difference between the inner and outer portals had been a necessary evil, yet, as Riegl pointed out, such contradictions were more the norm than the exception in medieval architecture. However, the rationale for “correcting” the copresence of the two disparate styles reflected a peculiarly modern set of values. As Riegl noted, “It was not until the era of the Italian Baroque that such artistic intolerance arose, and we contemporaries, who claim to want to preserve

the old as faithfully as possible, have the least grounds for being more papal than the pope and inserting quite modern concepts of stylistic purity into the naïve medieval outlook.”88 Moreover, he argued, there were insufficient historic records to guarantee that any reconstruction would be totally accurate. As a result the project should be postponed, and further research should instead be undertaken so that the advocates of any proposal would be better able to justify their position. Riegl’s proposal was in effect a sophisticated way of postponing the project indefinitely, for he held open the possibility of eventual restoration of the portal while at the same time putting off making any decision either way. It was, perhaps, the only viable means of dealing with a dispute in which the opposing views had become increasingly polarized (the petition published in Ver Sacrum had referred to the proposal as an act of barbarism). His positive role earned him great credit; as Margaret Olin has suggested, it may well have been instrumental in the decision the following year to appoint him general conservator of the Central Commission, the first holder of this post.89 Riegl’s experience may also have motivated his subsequent espousal of age value as the least partisan approach to monument evaluation.

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Max Dvořák and Monument Protection After Riegl Riegl’s early death, in 1905, limited his impact on monument-protection policy. Max Dvořák succeeded him as general conservator and held the post until 1921. It was in this role that he launched Austrian Art Topography, perhaps the most lasting

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monument to his work in this field. Dvořák was highly indebted to his predecessor in his approach yet showed little of the finesse and diplomacy with which Riegl addressed cases such as that of St. Stephen’s Cathedral.90 As the example of his response to the Wawel proposals indicates, he dogmatically insisted on the priority of age value (as defined by Riegl) but eschewed Riegl’s interest in reaching some form of compromise between competing claims. The most graphic illustration of the difference between the two authors is Dvořák’s Catechism of Monument Protection. It consists of two parts; the first is a text of “principles, duties, and advice,” and the second is a sequence of 140 photographs of historic buildings that were meant to exemplify good practice as well as damage and poor restoration projects. Written for a popular readership, the book lacks the subtlety of Riegl’s nuanced analysis; it proclaims in emphatic terms the principles of monument care, condemning in an equally unambiguous manner the “ignorance and cultural backwardness” that underpinned many poor restoration projects and bemoaning the involvement of dilettantes and amateurs.91 As one recent commentator has observed, in Dvořák’s text the protection of monuments is turned into a dogmatic article of faith.92 The simplistic tone of his text can be explained in part by the purpose of the book and also by the fact that Franz Ferdinand, as president of the Central Commission, became involved in editing it.93 Yet it was in keeping with the approach Dvořák adopted elsewhere, which was considerably less accommodating than that of his teacher Riegl. Although heavily influenced by his predecessor, Dvořák also modified his views. Riegl had suggested that age value

superseded historical or art-historical value. Although his reasoning was driven by political calculations, it also represented an extension of his inclination, evident in his other art-historical writings, to separate questions of art-historical value from ones of aesthetics and artistic preference. In each case his goal was to ensure, as far as possible, that decisions about individual artworks or monuments would not be made on the basis of the passing values of the present. Dvořák, however, collapsed Riegl’s distinction between age value and art-historical value: in his introduction to the first volume of the Austrian Art Topography it was already clear that only objects of “art-historical relevance” should be included. This criterion excluded numerous objects that under Riegl’s definition may well have been considered, and also made art-historical judgment central to decisions about monuments. In later writings Dvořák developed this approach further. In an essay on “the cult of monuments and artistic development” published in 1910, he explicitly criticizes Riegl; monuments are valued not only on account of their age value but for a wide range of other reasons, including national pride and, crucially, their artistic value. As he states, “It seems to me that Riegl went too far when he tried to exclude love for one’s homeland from our relations to old monuments. It is not just artistic value that moves thousands to seek a monument from the nation’s past; in recent times . . . even in our relations to historic art, patriotic relations have come powerfully to the fore.”94 Moreover, where Riegl had seen the cult of monuments as a modern phenomenon that had only become fully developed in recent times, Dvořák argued for the presence of a cult of monuments since classical antiquity. Only on this basis could one

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explain the copying of Greek sculptures by Roman artists. Riegl would have regarded this practice as a precursor to the modern cult of monuments, for it was tied to the notion of canonical works of art that were part of an objective historical tradition. However, these diverging interpretations also indicated a deeper difference between the two authors, for Dvořák argued that, instead of age value, it was ultimately an appreciation of artistic value that underlay the cult of monuments: “Our relation to ancient monuments assumes much less a scientific or literary background than an artistic disposition and training, conscious or unconscious participation in the general artistic life and sensibility of our time.”95 In important respects, therefore, Dvořák overturned a central aspect of Vienna School thinking, inasmuch as he collapsed the carefully crafted distinction between aesthetic and art-historical judgment, which Riegl had expressed in its most articulate theoretical form. As Sandro Scarrocchia has argued, however, this was concordant with Dvořák’s overall intellectual development.96 In his early writings Dvořák had espoused a broadly positivistic outlook that was tied to his endorsement of the “genetic” approach to art history. Increasingly, however, his art-historical judgments became inseparable from his aesthetic engagement with contemporary art. This carried into his responses to the First World War. Dvořák saw the war as an occasion of civilizational collapse, but he also greeted it as an opportunity for cultural and moral renewal. Espousing a discourse that was more often articulated by nationalist German commentators, the war would, Dvořák had argued, create a kind of clearing, a transvaluation of values that would result in the emergence of a deep (implicitly German) subjectivity. Indeed, during the

war Dvořák came to espouse reactionary patriotic attitudes that were also in evidence in his approach toward monument care and protection. Jonathan Blower has outlined the extent of Dvořák’s promotion of an ideologically charged campaign to defend Austria’s treatment of monuments in Italy during the war while decrying wartime damage caused by the Russian and Italian armies.97 For example, he contributed to a postwar Austro-German publication that sought to exculpate the Austrian and German armies of any willful damage to valuable historical buildings in the territories but highlighted the “barbaric” destruction of Austrian and German monuments by the armies of their former enemies.98 Such bias can be compared too with the shrill tone of an open letter to Italian art historians published in 1919, in which he denounced their involvement in attempts by the Italian government to requisition artistic treasures from Austria as part of its “reward” for having defeated Austria militarily.99 Although the participation of the Italian art historians was hardly the proudest episode in the history of their profession, Dvořák’s letter was equally problematic and, as Blower points out, would hardly have convinced the Entente Powers to look on Austrian complaints sympathetically. Ironically, it was Karl Kraus in Vienna who articulated the sharpest criticism of Dvořák, satirizing Dvořák’s and the commission’s hypocritical attitudes when allocating responsibility for war damage. That caused by Austrian armies was explained as accidental; that by its enemies, as deliberate or a result of ignorance and indifference—and as Kraus pointed out, the commission seemed to be more concerned with the protection of artistic monuments than with the loss of human life.100

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Conclusion Riegl’s essay on the cult of monuments has generally been seen in the light of debates over the meaning of historical time and collective memory. As this chapter has demonstrated, it also has to be to interpreted in the context of the work of the Central Commission and in particular the increasing political significance that was attached to monument protection and conservation in the late Habsburg Monarchy. As such, the essay was part of a much wider set of interventions that Riegl undertook, particularly following his appointment as chief conservator of the commission, to address the sometimes intractable problems presented by prominent historical monuments due to the competing agendas of various interested parties. Riegl, as well as Wickhoff, sought to defuse some of the issues by appealing to the ability of further research and scholarship to decide the matter in an impartial and objective manner. As such, he was promoting the interests of the professional art-historical community and drawing on one of the central purposes behind the original establishment of the commission. Yet as Eitelberger’s essay on Byzantine and Romanesque architecture indicates, scholarship was often anything but impartial, in keeping with the agenda of the Commission itself, which had been set up not merely to further the “scientific” documentation of the artistic and architectural heritage of the monarchy but also to

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exploit the political and diplomatic value of monuments. It was in the work of Max Dvořák that the political stakes of monument protection became most visible; Dvořák was an uncompromising proponent of principles of conservation that frequently brought him into open conflict with regional administrative and cultural elites, including those in his native Bohemia. Indeed, in Catechism of Monument Protection Dvořák seems to have openly sought conflict, criticizing projects, such as the Municipal House in Prague, that had great local political and social significance. Catechism was published during the First World War, and although Dvořák did not make any reference to war damage (the manuscript was finalized before the war broke out), the monograph can be seen alongside his other writings, such as his defense of Austrian military actions or his wider speculation on the clash of civilizations in his essay on Goya, as part of his attempt to align art history with patriotic support for the state. Austria-​Hungary ceased to exist after 1918, yet Dvořák remained loyal to Austria. Although offered a position in Prague, he chose to remain in Vienna, where he died in 1921. Indeed, one of his most high-profile public interventions on behalf of Austria was prompted by the aftermath of the war and the dispute over the ownership of the artistic and cultural collections of the now defunct Austro-Hungarian Monarchy.

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Epilogue: Continuity and Rupture After 1918 Today, as at all times, the future belongs to youth. Without looking back very much, it will have to build anew. That is its entitlement and also its obligation. It will have to reorient itself in many ways, in scholarship too, for it will hardly have escaped the notice of the attentive observer that scholarship is also undergoing a crisis. —max dvořák

In 1917 the eminent Italian art historian Adolfo Venturi contributed to a volume entitled Monumental Dalmatia.1 The book was a survey of the architectural remains from antiquity onward of the eastern Adriatic coastline, with contributions on the history, art, and culture of Dalmatia by Venturi, the journalist and novelist Pompeo Molmenti, and the ancient historian Ettore Pais. In art-historical terms the work was of little significance; it provided no new insights and uncovered no new material. Instead, it was meant as a piece of pure propaganda. The central thrust of all the contributions was an emphasis on the essentially Italian character of the culture of Dalmatia. As Pais stated, the widespread idea that Dalmatia was not Italian was “false and utterly mistaken. . . . Dalmatia is and always has been Italian.”2

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It is, of course, well known that Italy, and more specifically Venice, exerted a massive cultural influence on the Dalmatian coast; indeed, Dalmatia having been a Venetian territory from 1420 until 1797, this was hardly unexpected. However, Monumental Dalmatia was claiming something more radical: the complete absence of any cultural heritage that could be meaningfully described as Slavic. Instead, it argued for a fundamental continuity between the present and the ancient Roman world, which the irruptions of the “numerous peoples and barbaric hordes” from Hungary, Croatia, and Bosnia had failed to interrupt. Indeed, for Venturi himself, the reassertion of Venetian rule after 1420 saved Dalmatia from a wretched history hitherto dominated by “lawlessness, . . . invasions, . . . piracy and martyrdom.”3

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The date of publication of this work, 1917, provides the clue to what motivated it; as the price for its entry into the 1914–18 war on the side of Britain and France, Italy had demanded a number of the territories of the Habsburg Empire, including Dalmatia. Monumental Dalmatia was an attempt to legitimize such a demand by shoring up the notion that the region’s culture was to be considered a peripheral part of Italian culture. That it was published in English makes this all the more transparent, since it was addressed to overseas policy makers who would need to be convinced of the correctness of the Italian claim. Italians did, of course, constitute a small portion of the population, but the majority of the inhabitants were either Croats or Serbs. Venturi was undeterred by this demographic statistic, for he argued that this numerical advantage did not outweigh the qualitative superiority of the Italians: “if we give due weight to the intellectual, moral and social value of the Italian element we shall find the actual importance of the apparently inferior Italian percentage raised to its highest coefficient,” for the Italians form the “old guard of civilization.”4 Venturi’s article can be seen as paralleling Max Dvořák’s support for the ideological justifications for the war, and it exemplified the ways in which art historians were drawn into military conflict. When the war ended, in November 1918, this involvement in political and military affairs continued. The breakup of Austria-​Hungary presented numerous political and legal issues, but of particular concern for the present were the disputes over ownership of the artistic and cultural heritage of the former Habsburg state. It was by no means self-evident that the new Austrian Republic should inherit these Habsburg possessions, and the

successor states of Hungary, Yugoslavia, and Czechoslovakia all laid claim to various works of art and historical documents, as did Italy, as a victorious power, parts of which (Lombardy, Venice, and the southern Tyrol) had once been Austrian territories.5 A commission was eventually established to adjudicate between the rival claims, with advice from lawyers, historians, and art historians. A leading role on the Austrian side was taken by Hans Tietze, who effectively reduced to a minimum the losses suffered by the new state, and ensured that the collections maintained, for the most part, their integrity. Tietze published a short booklet outlining the Austrian position, but the volume was notable for its inclusion of an open letter by Dvořák addressed to Italian art historians.6 The letter contained a blistering criticism of their betrayal of the discipline and above all their lack of gratitude to their Austrian colleagues who had played a leading role in pioneering research into Italian art: “It is no exaggeration if I claim that you have learned a great deal from us, not only in terms of scientific results but also in the entire organization of art-historical work. As scholars you were not only our comrades but also our students, and now you have set off hand grenades that are intended to blow apart the doors of our museums and libraries.” The conflict with Italy and the successor states brought to a head the political loyalties of scholars. For many Vienna School authors this was an unproblematic issue, and they reconciled themselves to being citizens of the now diminished Austrian Republic, even if, like Strzygowski, they were committed to a pan-German political vision. Dvořák presented a more complex case. Having been the recipient of a vicious campaign of German nationalist agitation in 1905, when he was first appointed associate professor,

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it might be expected that he would have opted to become a citizen of the new Czechoslovakia. Indeed, he was offered a position in the Czech University of Prague but declined the offer. As Otto Benesch has noted, Dvořák remained a loyal Habsburg subject and was deeply affected by the collapse of the Habsburg Empire.7 As a result, he stayed in Vienna. Dvořák was undoubtedly the most prominent student of Riegl and Wickhoff, who had been so involved in the political and ideological imperatives of the Vienna School, and his death, in 1921, brought to a close what is generally referred to as the First Vienna School. The school had been a product of the Habsburg Empire, and the establishment of a new political settlement after the war in certain respects removed what had been a key raison d’être. The year 1921 was thus a kind of caesura, but like other moments in Austrian history, it was not an absolute break. Josef Strzygowski remained a major figure on the art-historical landscape for a further two decades, and although Julius von Schlosser was only eight years younger than Riegl, he lived on until 1938. Schlosser was, however, a marginal figure; his editions of critical texts were acknowledged classics, but none of his writings achieved the status of those of Riegl, Wickhoff, or Dvořák, and it is only recently that his essays, such as that on wax portraiture, have come to critical attention. Against such a sense of an ending, one can nevertheless also talk of continuity. Only two years after Dvořák’s death, Riegl’s Questions of Style was republished, and two years after that, Dvořák’s Habilitation on the van Eycks appeared as the first of a series of volumes that included both previously published essays and books as well as his lectures on Italian Renaissance art. In 1925

too, the young Hans Sedlmayr published his first theoretical essay, “Gestaltetes Sehen” (Structured seeing), which was the result of an engagement with Riegl’s conceptual methods and can be seen as the beginning of what has since come to be regarded as the Second Vienna School. As a consequence, Riegl’s Late Roman Art Industry was republished in 1927, to be followed by The Group Portraiture of Holland in 1931. There were important differences, however. Sedlmayr was interested in questions of formal analysis, and the ideological and political concerns of Riegl disappeared, since they were so enmeshed in the circumstances of another time. Yet as Hans Belting has suggested, Sedlmayr’s interest in medieval architecture and the art of the Holy Roman Empire can be seen as a kind of surrogate for the lost unity of Austria-​Hungary, and the latter’s Loss of the Center was driven by a similar nostalgia for the world that had disappeared while he was a young man.8 Moreover, Loss of the Center had certain echoes from Max Dvořák’s critique of modernity and crisis in the essays and lectures he published during or just after the war. For the English-speaking world the most visible face of the Vienna School after 1918 was Ernst Gombrich, who had completed his doctorate on Giulio Romano in 1934 under von Schlosser.9 However, it was arguably Strzygowski and Dvořák who proved to be the most influential authors. The significance of the former has already been outlined; he helped redraw the art-historical map and was seen by many as legitimizing a wide range of national historiographies, even though these were frequently linked to problematic political commitments. Students of Max Dvořák such as Otto Benesch, Leo Planiscig, and Johannes Wilde helped

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popularize the idea of art history as a kind of broad intellectual history, yet like Strzygowski, Dvořák was also crucial to the establishment and development of art history across central Europe. His Czech students Zdeněk Wirth, Eugen Dostal, Vincenc Kramář, and Antonín Matějček came to occupy central positions in the art-historical apparatus of the new Czechoslovak Republic and promulgated a vision of art-historical method throughout the twentieth century that was a product of the prewar years in Vienna. Other students, such as the Slovenes Izidor Cankar (1886–1958) and France Stelè (1886–1972), Polish-born Szczęsny Dettloff (1878–1961), and the Croatian art historian Ljubo Karaman (1886–1971), ensured continuation of Dvořák’s ideas and methods in Ljubljana, Cracow, Poznań, and Split long after the collapse of Austria-​Hungary. Examination of these figures forms part of another story to which this study can only allude, and indeed the history of Vienna School art history after 1918 would require a separate volume that addressed not only its theoretical innovations but also its involvement in some of the darkest moments of the history of the twentieth century.

In considering the legacy of the Vienna School, however, it is important to consider not only what it meant for scholars in the 1920s and 1930s but also what it means for us. In spite of the resurgence of interest in the concepts and methods of authors such as Riegl and Wickhoff, this book is based on the notion that the lasting value of study of the Vienna School lies in the light it can cast on the understanding of the situational logic of art history. It reveals the ways in which the development of art-historical discourses was produced, but also constrained, by a range of political, economic, and social factors. The final century of Habsburg rule has been the object of endless fascination. The struggle, and failure, to maintain a cosmopolitan feudal state constitutes one of the dramas of modern European history. Inasmuch as many of the issues that struggle raised, having to do with the relation between local, regional, national, and transnational identities, are still unresolved, the fall of Austria-​Hungary, for all its historical distance, remains an object lesson for the present. Analysis of the Vienna School is thus concerned with a small part of that larger historical narrative.

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notes

introduction 1. Rampley, “Spectatorship and the Historicity.” 2. The main publications in English included Pächt, “Art Historians and Art Critics—vi”; Zerner, “Alois Riegl”; Iversen, “Style as Structure”; Schwarzer, “Cosmopolitan Difference”; Podro, “Alois Riegl,” in Critical Historians of Art, 71–96; and Gombrich, Sense of Order. 3. Important editions in the 1960s and 1970s included Riegl’s Historische Grammatik; Entstehung der Barockkunst; Volkskunst, Hausfleiss und Hausindustrie; and Altorientalische Teppiche. 4. The principal beneficiary has been Riegl. Translations include Riegl’s Group Portraiture of Holland, Historical Grammar of the Visual Arts, and Origins of Baroque Art in Rome. Others include Schlosser’s “History of Portraiture in Wax.” 5. See, for example, Max Dvořák, Kunstgeschichte als Geistesgeschichte: Studien zur abendländischen Kunstentwicklung (Mittenwald: Mäander Kunstverlag, 1979); Julius von Schlosser, Tote Blicke: Geschichte der Porträtbildnerei in Wachs; Ein Versuch, ed. Thomas Medicus (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1993); Alois Riegl, Kunstwerk oder Denkmal? Alois Riegls Schriften zur Denkmalpflege, ed. Ernst Bacher (Vienna: Böhlau, 1995); Alois Riegl, Gesammelte Aufsätze, ed. Karl M. Swoboda (Berlin: Gebr. Mann Verlag, 1995); Alois Riegl, Das holländische Gruppenporträt, ed. Artur Rosenauer (Vienna: Wiener Universitätsverlag, 1997); Max Dvořák, Das Rätsel der Kunst der Brüder van Eyck, ed. Artur Rosenauer (Vienna: Wiener Universitätsverlag, 1999); Alois Riegl, Spätrömische Kunstindustrie (Berlin: Gebr. Mann Verlag, 2000); Max Dvořák, Geschichte der italienischen Kunst im Zeitalter der Renaissance: Akademische Vorlesungen (Vienna: Wiener Universitätsverlag, 2004); Erika Tietze-Conrat, Die Frau in der Kunstwissenschaft: Texte 1906–1958, ed. Almut Krapf-Weller (Vienna: Schlebrügge Editor, 2007); and Hans Tietze, Lebendige Kunstwissenschaft: Texte 1910–1954, ed. Almut Krapf-Weller (Vienna: Schlebrügge Editor, 2007).

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6. See, for example, http://www​.archive​.org or the University of Heidelberg’s Quellen zur Geschichte der Kunstgeschichte (Sources in the history of art history), available at http://​ www​.ub​.uni​-heidelberg​.de/​helios/​fachinfo/​ www/​kunst/​digilit/​gkg​.html (accessed 2 September 2010). 7. The limited literature on Eitelberger includes Borodajkewycz, “Aus der Frühzeit der Wiener Schule”; Dobslaw, Wiener “Quellenschriften”; and Rampley, “Idea of a Scientific Discipline.” Moriz Thausing has been the object of even less attention. See Rosenauer, “Moritz Thausing.” 8. A recent example of this view is Elsner, “Birth of Late Antiquity.” See too Kite, “ ‘South Opposed to East and North.’ ” 9. Holly, “Spirits and Ghosts,” provides a full and clear outline of the Klimt controversy and Wickhoff’s part in it. 10. Podro, “Alois Riegl,” in Critical Historians of Art. See too Kurt Badt’s extended theoretical analysis of Riegl in Raumphantasien und Raumillusionen. 11. The literature on the Kunstwollen is considerable. Some of the most notable examples are Panofsky, “Concept of Artistic Volition”; Sedlmayr, “Quintessence of Riegl’s Thought”; Crowther, “More than Ornament”; Reichenberger, Riegls “Kunstwollen”; Rampley, “Zwischen nomologischer und hermeneutischer Kunstwissenschaft”; and Elsner, “From Empirical Evidence to the Big Picture.” 12. Riegl, “Modern Cult of Monuments.” 13. See Gubser, Time’s Visible Surface. 14. These issues have been explored by Michael Falser in “Zum 100. Todesjahr von Alois Riegl” and “Denkmalpflege zwischen europäischem Gedächtnis und nationaler Erinnerung.” 15. The nature of Habsburg state support for modern art has been analyzed in Van Heerde, Staat und Kunst. 16. Christopher Wood, introduction to Vienna School Reader, 30. On Dvořák, see Schwarzer, “Cosmopolitan Difference”; Aurenhammer, “Max Dvořák, Tintoretto und die Moderne”; and Rampley, “Max Dvořák.” See too Österreichische Zeitschrift für Kunst und

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Denkmalpflege 28.3 (1974), a special issue devoted to Dvořák. 17. Podro, “Art History and the Concept of Art,” 209. 18. This was noticeably the case in the much-cited “Visual Culture Questionnaire” in October 77 (1996). 19. Dilly, Kunstgeschichte als Institution. 20. Therrien, L’histoire de l’art en France; Locher, Kunstgeschichte als historische Theorie; Preziosi, “That Obscure Object of Desire.” 21. Exceptions are, for example, Olin, “Alois Riegl,” and Rampley, “Art History and the Politics of Empire.” 22. See Schorske, Fin-de-Siècle Vienna. See too B. Hamann, Hitler’s Vienna. 23. Ringer, Decline of the German Mandarins. 24. Judson, “Rethinking the Liberal Legacy.” See too Janik, “Vienna 1900 Revisited.” 25. See, for example, Ilg, Nur nicht österreichisch! (1884), which is the first volume of the series of polemical pamphlets Ilg published under the title Gegen den Strom. 26. See Van Heerde, Staat und Kunst. 27. See, for example, Małkiewicz, Z dziejów polskiej historii sztuki, and Chadraba, Kapitoly z českého dějepisu umění. 28. See, for example, Feichtinger, Prutsch, and Csáky, Habsburg Postcolonial, and Wingfield, Creating the Other. 29. On the Hungarian Revolution of 1848, see Deák, Lawful Revolution. See too Freifeld, Nationalism and the Crowd. 30. Franzos, Aus Halb-Asien. On attitudes toward the East in eastern European travel writing, see Bracewell, “Limits of Europe.” 31. On this incongruous allegiance, see Unowsky, Pomp and Politics of Patriotism. 32. Komlosy, “Innere Peripherien.” 33. See A. Frank, Oil Empire. 34. Judson, “L’Autriche-Hongrie, était-elle un empire?”

3. For a summary of the social roots of Biedermeier culture, see Daviau, “Biedermeier.” 4. See Bruckmüller and Mittenzwei, “Geselligkeit und kulturelle Bedürfnisse.” 5. On the history of the academy and, in particular, Metternich’s directorship, see W. Wagner, Geschichte der Akademie, 55–118. 6. For a brief outline of this context, see Lachnit, Die Wiener Schule der Kunstgeschichte, 11–34. 7. Hebenstreit, “Kunstwerke, öffentlich ausgestellt.” Hebenstreit’s essay makes acerbic comments about a number of paintings, including Josef Abel’s Orestes Returning in Disguise to Mycenae to Avenge the Death of His Father— which it accuses of having “stiff and contrived figures, legs that are too long, torsos that are too short, [of being] in general devoid of great style”—and Abel’s Rest on the Flight to Egypt, which it concludes is of “minimal value.” It is equally cutting about Albert Höcker’s portrait of Karl von Schwarzenberg, noting, “It is not possible to praise . . . the portrait on display here.” 8. On the history of the Albertina, see Dossi, Albertina. 9. Mechel, Verzeichniss der Gemälde, xi; translation by the author, as are all further translations unless otherwise indicated. 10. See Meijers, Kunst als Natur. 11. See Judson, Exclusive Revolutionaries. 12. Cited in Okey, Habsburg Monarchy, 205. 13. Metternich, cited in Helperstorfer, “Entwicklung des Vereinswesens,” 321. 14. Julius von Schlosser’s history of the Vienna School devotes considerable attention to Böhm. See Schlosser, “Vienna School,” 1–3. 15. Posonyi, Versteigerung der Kunst-Sammlung. 16. See Henszlmann, “Daniel Joseph Böhm,” and Eitelberger, “Josef Daniel Böhm.” 17. Böhm, cited in Henszlmann, “Daniel Joseph Böhm,” 125. 18. See Eitelberger, “Bericht über einen archäologischen Ausflug” and “Die mittelalterlichen Kunstdenkmale Dalmatiens.” 19. On the impact of Semper in Vienna, see Franz and Nierhaus, Gottfried Semper und Wien. 20. Moriz Thausing was the head curator of the Albertina from 1868 to 1873, when he was appointed as Eitelberger’s successor. Albert Ilg was a curator in the imperial collections from 1871 and, from 1884, director of the collection of weapons and art-industrial objects, overseeing its transition to the newly opened Kunsthistorisches Museum in 1896.

chapter 1 1. See Engelbrecht, Von der frühen Aufklärung bis zum Vormärz. 2. On the political and historical background, see Evans, “From Confederation to Compromise: The Austrian Experiment, 1849–1867,” in Austria, Hungary, and the Habsburgs, 266–92, and Okey, “Eventful Transition, 1849–1867,” in Habsburg Monarchy, 157–90.

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Julius Schlosser was director of sculpture and applied arts at the Kunsthistorisches Museum from 1901 to 1905. Hans Tietze was an official in the Ministry for Museums and Monument Protection from 1909 to 1925. 21. Eitelberger, “Josef Daniel Böhm.” 22. Ibid., 209. No other sources testify to this. 23. Waldmüller published his proposals in a pamphlet, Das Bedürfniß eines zweckmäßigeren Unterrichts in der Malerei und plastischen Kunst, angedeutet nach eigenen Erfahrungen. 24. Ibid., 4. 25. Ibid., 8 and 16. 26. This text was heavily reworked by Eitelberger for inclusion in the later edition of his collected writings. 27. Eitelberger, Ueber den Unterricht an Kunst-​Akademien, in Gesammelte kunsthistorische Schriften, vol. 2, Oesterreichische Kunst-Institute und kunstgewerbliche Zeitfragen (Vienna: Wilhelm Braumüller, 1879), 23. 28. Eitelberger, Reform des Kunstunterrichtes, 3. 29. Ibid., 4. 30. Ibid., 7–8. 31. Ibid., 8. 32. See Ficker, Aesthetik. 33. Eitelberger, “Ein Wort über Kunstkritik.” 34. On the history of art criticism in the Wiener Zeitung, see Friedman, “Anfänge der Kunstkritik.” 35. Eitelberger, Wiener Zeitung, 13 October 1848, 720. 36. Ibid., 16 October 1848, 728. 37. Ibid., 18 October 1848, 736. 38. See Eitelberger, “Wien: Die Universität,” published in three parts in the Wiener Zeitung, Abend-Beilage between 26 September and 4 October 1848. 39. Eitelberger, “Wien: Die Universität i.” On the role of the university and, in particular, the Academic Legion, see Maisel, Alma Mater auf den Barrikaden. 40. Eitelberger, “Wien: Die Universität ii,” 670. 41. On the early history of the Austrian Academy of Sciences, see Richard Meister, Geschichte der Akademie der Wissenschaften. 42. As Trevor Blanning states, universities under Joseph “were no longer universitates but were more like primary schools for adults, with strict state control, prescribed text books, learning by rote, frequent examinations, shorter periods of study and an academic staff employed to teach and not to engage in anything as pointless as research.” Blanning, Joseph II, 70.

43. For a brief outline of the university system before 1848, see Lentze, Universitätsreform, 19–24. 44. Exner was the founding member of an important liberal intellectual dynasty whose fortunes have been taken as a microcosm of the wider history of the Austrian intelligentsia. His career—and that of his children—is examined in Coen, Vienna in the Age of Uncertainty. His proposal, “Entwurf der Grundzüge des Unterrichtswesens in Oesterreich,” originally published in the Wiener Zeitung in 1848, has been republished in Engelbrecht, Von 1848 bis zum Ende der Monarchie, 517–20. 45. On the reforms, see Lentze, Universitätsreform. See too Engelbrecht, Von 1848 bis zum Ende der Monarchie, 221–34. 46. The journal was then renamed the Gelbe Hefte, which continued publication until 1941. On the journal, see Weiß, “Katholischer Konservatismus am Scheideweg.” 47. This memorandum is published as “Memorandum Jarckes über die Aufgaben eines Unterrichtsministers in Österreich” in Ogris, Universitätsreform, 29–37. 48. Ibid., 31. 49. Ibid., 35. 50. Lentze, Universitätsreform, 251. 51. On the reforms to the academy, see W. Wagner, Geschichte der Akademie, 121–38. 52. The letter, dated 14 September 1853, is published in full in Lhotsky, Geschichte des Instituts für österreichische Geschichtsforschung, 25–27. 53. Ibid., 26. 54. Although better known as an art historian, Springer, a native of Prague, had written a number of critical histories of the revolutionary period in Austria, which had gained the disfavor of the authorities and ensured that Springer spent most of his career in Germany. See A. Springer, Geschichte des Revolutionszeitalters and Oestreich nach der Revolution. On Springer’s political involvement, see Rößler, Poetik der Kunstgeschichte. 55. Palacký’s text was later published in Czech as Dějiny národa českého v Čechách a v Moravě, explicitly excluding the German inhabitants of the two lands, except as the hegemonic group that resisted the Czech project of national self-determination. 56. See Zantwijk, “Wege des Bildungsbegriffs von Fichte zu Hegel.”

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57. On the changing meanings of the term Wissenschaft, see Daum, “Wissenschaft and Knowledge.” 58. Rumpler, Eine Chance für Mitteleuropa, 114. 59. For a critical overview of German historiography, see George Iggers, German Conception of History. 60. Sickel edited volumes of medieval diplomatic sources and also published Monumenta graphica medii aevi ex archivis et bibliothecis imperii Austriaci and Acta regum et imperatorum Karolinorum digesta et enarrata. 61. C. F. Bachmann, Kunstwissenschaft, 2. 62. Nüßlein, Lehrbuch der Kunstwissenschaft, 5. 63. The text of Hegel’s lectures (in contrast to the Aesthetics, based on Heinrich Hotho’s notes) has been published as Philosophie der Kunst: Vorlesung von 1826. 64. See, for example, Schnaase, Niederländische Briefe, and Hotho, Geschichte der deutschen und niederländischen Malerei. 65. Rumohr, Italienische Forschungen. 66. Waagen, Ueber Hubert und Johann van Eyck, 24. As Regine Prange has also observed, Waagen saw in the verisimilitude of the van Eycks’ painting a counterpart of his own practice: “Jan van Eyck appears as the alter ego of the philologist scholar of art.” Prange, Geburt der Kunstgeschichte, 129. 67. Taine, Philosophie de l’art. 68. Jaeger, “Geschichtsphilosophie, Hermeneutik, und Kontingenz.” 69. Rumohr, Italienische Forschungen, 13. The critical exchange between Rumohr and Hegel is outlined in Podro, Critical Historians of Art, 27–30. 70. Rumohr, Italienische Forschungen, 4. 71. Waagen, Ueber Hubert und Johann van Eyck, 23. 72. On the place of Waagen in the history of art history, see too Pöggeler, “Kennerschaft versus Philosophie.” 73. On the place of empiricism in the Vienna School, see Seiler, “Empiristische Motive.” 74. Eitelberger to Thun, 24 June 1851, summarized in Borodajkewycz, “Aus der Frühzeit der Wiener Schule,” 330. 75. Fiorillo was the author of Geschichte der zeichnenden Künste. On Fiorillo, see Kosegarten, Johann Dominicus Fiorillo. Hagen was the author of Beschreibung der Domkirche zu Königsberg und der in ihr enthaltenen Kunstwerke and of Künstlergeschichten, based on imaginary autobiographical texts by Ghiberti, Leonardo, and Saint Catherine of Siena.

76. See Fork, “Ernst August Hagen.” 77. Kugler was the author of Handbuch der Kunstgeschichte. On Kugler, see Karlholm, Art of Illusion. 78. The history of the institutionalization of the discipline has been outlined by Brocke, “Wege aus der Krise.” 79. The volume of 1820, for example, includes a report on the Johanneum in Graz, “Die Ruinen von Tempelstein in Mähren” (The ruins of Tempelstein [now Templštejn— Dolní Heřmanice] in Moravia), a history of glass painting, excerpts from a manuscript entitled “Alte oesterreichische Chronika bis aufs 1389” (Old Austrian chronicles up to 1389) and from a historical list of mayors and judges of Laibach from 1295 to 1580, and commentaries on Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld’s painting The Turning of the Water into Wine, the Franzens Museum in Brünn, and the former Benedictine abbey in Teschen. 80. Tschischka, St. Stephansdom in Wien and Kunst und Alterthum in dem österreichischen Kaiserstaate. 81. See Tschischka, Kunst und Alterthum in dem österreichischen Kaiserstaate, 291 and 178. 82. Ibid., 174. 83. Vitet, cited in Therrien, L’histoire de l’art en France, 59. 84. Eitelberger, “Bericht über einen archäologischen Ausflug.” 85. Henszlmann was the author of a work on Gothic architecture, Kassa városának ó német stylű templomai (The churches in the city of Košice built in the old German style). Published in 1846, it might be regarded as the first work of art history in Hungarian. 86. Eitelberger, “Bericht über einen archäologischen Ausflug,” 92. 87. Eitelberger, “Die mittelalterlichen Kunstdenkmale Dalmatiens.” A second edition was published as volume 4 of Eitelberger’s Gesammelte kunsthistorische Schriften in 1884. 88. In the second edition he also included Sebenico (Šibenik). 89. On Dalmatia under Venetian rule, see Wolff, Venice and the Slavs. 90. Eitelberger, “Die mittelalterlichen Kunstdenkmale Dalmatiens,” 141. 91. Eitelberger, Die mittelalterlichen Kunstdenkmale Dalmatiens (1884 ed.), 16. 92. Ibid., 3. 93. Ibid., 25. 94. “It is accepted that in the years 1848 and 1849 the national intolerance of the Magyars

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contributed to the revolt of the Croats. Today a Magyarization of the Croats is out of the question because Slav national consciousness has increased everywhere and the Magyar tribe is in a decisive minority in comparison with the Slavs in the whole domain of the crown of St. Stephen.” Ibid., 11. 95. Ibid., 10. 96. Eitelberger, Heider, and Hieser, Mittelalterliche Kunstdenkmale des österreichischen Kaiserstaates. 97. Ibid., 1:ii. 98. This project has been the object of a recent study, Dobslaw, Wiener “Quellenschriften.” 99. Ilg, Buch von der Kunst; Eitelberger, Aretino; Thausing, Dürers Briefe, Tagebücher und Reime; Eitelberger, Leben des Michelangelo Buonarroti; Unger, Quellen der byzantinischen Kunst. 100. Cennini, Treatise on Painting; Merrifield, Original Treatises. 101. Chennevières et al., Archives de l’art français. 102. The best-known outcome of this activity was Schlosser’s collection Die Kunstliteratur (The literature of art), which expanded the range of his earlier collections to encompass the modern era. 103. Strzygowski, Krisis der Geisteswissenschaften. Strzygowski states: “Undertaking disciplinary work [Facharbeit] means starting not with accounts of things but rather with the things themselves, once they have been critically assessed” (61). 104. Ibid., 72. 105. Strzygowski’s Krisis der Geisteswissenschaften provides the most extensive exposition of Strzygowski’s idea of method, but similar precepts are outlined in Strzygowski, “Grundsätzliches und Tatsächliches,” in Jahn, Kunstwissenschaft der Gegenwart, 157–81. 106. See Folnesics, “Jakob von Falke.” 107. Falke, Deutsche Trachten- und Modenwelt. Subsequent books included Geschichte der modernen Geschmacks and Die Kunst im Hause: Geschichtliche und kritisch-ästhetische Studien über die Decoration und Ausstattung der Wohnung. The latter was translated into English as Art in the House: Historical, Critical, and Aesthetical Studies on the Decoration and Furnishing of the Dwelling. 108. For a brief biographical outline, see Fork, “Karl von Lützow.” 109. See Lützow, Geschichte des deutschen Kupferstiches und Holzschnittes, vol. 4 of Dohme et al., Geschichte der deutschen Kunst.

Lützow also edited the first two volumes of the Die vervielfältigende Kunst der Gegenwart (The reproductive arts of the present), in 1887 and 1891. On the early history of the museum, see Noever, Kunst und Industrie. See too Rampley, “Design Reform in the Habsburg Empire.” On the history of the design museums in Germany, see Mundt, Die deutschen Kunstgewerbemuseen im 19. Jahrhundert. Thausing also published the first outline of its history and collections. See Thausing, “La Collection Albertina à Vienne.” Woltmann, “De Johannis Holbenii.” H. Semper, “Übersicht der Geschichte toskanischer Skulptur”; Ilg, “Über den kunsthistorischen Werth der Hypnerotomachia Poliphili.” See, for example, Iversen, Alois Riegl.

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110. 111. 112. 113. 114. 115.

chapter 2 1. A number of authors have emphasized the importance of the congress as a milestone in the history of the discipline. See, for example, Dilly, Kunstgeschichte als Institution, 170, and Dobslaw, Wiener “Quellenschriften,” 70–73. The proceedings of the congress, together with a list of participants, were published in the Mitteilungen des k.k. Österreichischen Museums für Kunst und Industrie, including the formal papers presented at the gathering and a stenographic transcription of the ensuing discussions. See Mitteilungen des k.k. Österreichischen Museums für Kunst und Industrie, 4.97 (October 1873): 445–70; 4.98 (November 1873): 481–504; 4.99 (December 1873): 512–25; and 5.100 (January 1874): 9–16 (and supplement, 17–22). 2. Rosenauer, “Moriz Thausing und die Wiener Schule der Kunstgeschichte.” 3. Olin, “Cult of Monuments,” 190. See, for example, Moriz Thausing’s articles “Phyloxera Renovatrix” and “Ein offener Brief an den Bürgermeister der Reichshauptstadt und Residenzstadt Wien,” in Thausing, Wiener Kunstbriefe, 161–71 and 386–97. 4. Eitelberger co-authored, with Heinrich von Ferstel, a pamphlet that laid out a program for the urban development of Vienna, decrying in particular the construction of rented tenement blocks driven by speculative capital and arguing instead for the introduction of single-family dwellings along the lines of the English cottage. See Eitelberger and Ferstel,

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Das bürgerliche Wohnhaus. On Eitelberger’s involvement in debates over the Ringstrasse, see Carl Schorske, “The Ringstrasse, Its Critics, and the Birth of Urban Modernism,” in Fin-de-Siècle Vienna, 24–115. 5. Moriz Thausing, “Die Stellung der Kunstgeschichte als Wissenschaft,” first published in Österreichische Rundschau in 1883 and then in Thausing, Wiener Kunstbriefe, 1–20. The published version, which includes reference to the death of Carl Schnaase in 1875, is a revision of the original lecture, which has not survived. 6. Thausing, “Stellung der Kunstgeschichte,” in Wiener Kunstbriefe, 2. 7. Ibid. 8. Ibid., 5. 9. See Kroupa, “Three Returns to Rumohr.” 10. Zimmermann, Geschichte der Aesthetik. 11. On the relation of Zimmermann to Hanslick and to art history, see Williams, “Das Eine im Wandel.” 12. A selection of Zimmermann’s essays on artistic and art-historical topics is published in Zimmermann, Studien und Kritiken. 13. Thausing, “Stellung der Kunstgeschichte,” in Wiener Kunstbriefe, 9. 14. See Thausing, Das natürliche Lautsystem der menschlichen Sprache. 15. Thausing, “Stellung der Kunstgeschichte,” in Wiener Kunstbriefe, 15. 16. Ibid., 16. 17. Ibid., 17. 18. Ibid., 18. 19. Wickhoff, “Hermann Dollmayr,” in Abhandlungen, Vorträge und Anzeigen, 229. 20. Thausing, “Stellung der Kunstgeschichte,” in Wiener Kunstbriefe, 19. 21. Morelli, Werke italienischer Meister, 2. 22. On Morelli’s method, see Wollheim, “Giovanni Morelli and the Origins of Scientific Connoisseurship,” and Ginzburg, “Morelli, Freud, and Sherlock Holmes.” 23. Morelli, Kunstkritische Studien über italienische Malerei, 7. 24. Moriz Thausing, “Ivan Lermoliew,” in Wiener Kunstbriefe, 183–90. 25. The relationship of Thausing to Morelli is described in Gianni Carlo Sciolla, “Il metodo morelliano e la ‘scuola di Vienna’: 1880–1915,” in Argomenti viennesi, 43–72. 26. Moriz Thausing, “Ein neuer Galerie-Director,” in Wiener Kunstbriefe, 332–39. The dispute was over the authorship of two nearly identical Madonnas in Dresden and the Schlossmuseum in Darmstadt; the eventual

conclusion reached was subsequently seen as a victory of detached scholarly connoisseurial judgment over aesthetic dilettantism. On the dispute, see Bätschmann, “Holbein-Streit.” 27. Moriz Thausing, “Giorgione, Broccardo und Aretino,” in Wiener Kunstbriefe, 313–20. 28. Thausing, Albrecht Dürer. 29. Moriz Thausing, “Lionardos Abendmahl,” in Wiener Kunstbriefe, 203–25. 30. On the discovery and history of the Painter’s Manual, see Belting, Likeness and Presence, 17–19. 31. Part of Wickhoff’s doctoral thesis was published as “Dürers Studium nach der Antike: Ein Beitrag zu seinem ersten venezianischen Aufenthalte.” 32. Max Dvořák, “Franz Wickhoff,” in Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Kunstgeschichte, 304. 33. Wickhoff, “Fresken der Katharinenkapelle.” 34. Thausing, “Masaccio und Masolino.” On Thausing’s article, see Elkins, Our Beautiful, Dry, and Distant Texts, 211–14. 35. Wickhoff, “Die italienischen Handzeichnungen der Albertina,” parts 1 and 2. 36. Wickhoff, “Die italienischen Handzeichnungen der Albertina, i. Theil,” ccvi. He continues: “and it seems to me precisely now that it is the right time to remember the manifold stimuli he provided, while people who owe him their literary existence seek out his minor flaws and sneer at them in florid tones, with no understanding of his positive virtues.” 37. See Edgar Wind, “Critique of Connoisseurship,” in Art and Anarchy, 30–46. 38. See, for example, Franz Wickhoff, “Marcantons Eintritt in den Kreis römischer Künstler” (1899), in Abhandlungen, Vorträge und Anzeigen, 120–47; “Über einige italienische Zeichnungen im British Museum” (1899), in ibid., 148–70; “Über die Anordnung von Raffaels Handzeichnungen” (1902), in ibid., 314–33. 39. Wickhoff et al., Beschreibendes Verzeichnis der illuminierten Handschriften in Österreich. 40. Wickhoff, “Die Wachsbüste in Lille” (1901), in Abhandlungen, Vorträge und Anzeigen, 250–63. 41. Ibid., 250. 42. Wickhoff and Hartel, Die Wiener Genesis. Wickhoff’s essay is “Der Stil der Genesisbilder und seine Entwicklung.” An English translation of Wickhoff’s text was published, without the manuscript illustrations, as Roman Art, and a German edition was subsequently published as Römische Kunst.

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43. Franz Wickhoff, “Die Bilder weiblicher Halbfiguren aus der Zeit und Umgebung Franz I von Frankreich,” in Abhandlungen, Vorträge und Anzeigen, 176–228. 44. Franz Wickhoff, “Die Hochzeitsbilder Botticellis,” in Abhandlungen, Vorträge und Anzeigen, 415–32. 45. On Riegl’s study, see Olin, Forms of Representation, 1–16. Riegl’s Habilitation was published as “Mittelalterliche Kalendarillustration.” 46. The most substantial of these are Die ägyptischen Textilfunde im K. K. Österreich. Museum and Altorientalische Teppiche. 47. Riegl notes:

Zur Geschichte der Anfänge griechischer Kunst. Riegl enrolled at the University of Vienna after Conze had already left for Berlin, but Conze had taught Wickhoff. 52. Alois Riegl, “Der Knüpfteppich im Abendlande,” in Altorientalische Teppiche, 172–214. 53. Ibid., 205. 54. Riegl, Volkskunst, Hausfleiss und Hausindustrie. 55. Riegl, Stilfragen, 20. 56. Ibid., 32. 57. See, for example, William Johnston, “The Vienna School of Art History,” in Austrian Mind, 151–55, and Efal, “Reality as the Cause of Art.” 58. Wollheim, “Giovanni Morelli and the Origins of Scientific Connoisseurship,” 200–201. 59. See Rumohr, Italienische Forschungen, 4. 60. Alois Riegl, “Eine neue Kunstgeschichte,” in Gesammelte Aufsätze, 42. 61. Riegl, Stilfragen, xvii. Riegl’s concerns in this regard are outlined in Busse, Kunst und Wissenschaft, 43ff. 62. On Riegl’s essay, see Muthesius, “Alois Riegl.” 63. Alois Riegl, “Naturwerk und Kunstwerk i,” in Gesammelte Aufsätze, 61. 64. The French art historian Eugène Müntz undertook the first attempt to establish iconography as a scientific art-historical method. Having already completed his volume Études iconographiques et archéologiques sur le Moyen Âge and the larger-scale Histoire de l’art pendant la Renaissance, which also made use of iconographic research, Müntz delivered to the International Congress in Art History of 1898 a paper titled “La nécessité des études iconographiques” (The necessity of iconographical research). This led in 1902 to the founding of the International Society for Iconographic Study. See Schmidt, Aby M. Warburg und die Ikonologie. 65. Panofsky, “Concept of Artistic Volition.” 66. Ibid., 21. 67. As Sedlmayr noted, “ ‘The facts of human culture reveal the sway of a supra-individual spirit to an extraordinary degree.’ Behind them there stands a supra-individual will that the individual person encounters as a normative force. What is being talked about here is an objective will, or even specifically an objective collective will, and this refers to a force that is rightly conceived of by the individual as an objective power. Clearly this is precisely what Riegl means.” Sedlmayr, “Quintessence of Riegl’s Thought,” 16.

In general it has to be acknowledged in advance that at present in the case of Oriental carpets, where a written inscription is not available to assist the process of dating, a determination of their time and place that would completely satisfy the demands of scholarship is mostly not possible. There are numerous reasons for this. First is the conservatism of all Oriental cultural life and the wide spatial and historical uniformity of its expressions in all areas, including art, which makes it impossible even now to set up a sound developmental chronology for even the most widely disseminated forms of Oriental art. Second is the method that virtually all researchers have pursued up to the present, whereby Oriental decorative carpets are regarded as a self-contained field with only minimal points of contact with wider artistic development (points that are regarded more as a coincidence than a necessity), which is linked to the tendency that has become predominant over the past decades of deriving the basic forms of ornamentation from technical and material origins.

Riegl, “Ältere orientalische Teppiche,” 277. 48. Riegl, Stilfragen, 24. 49. Semper’s manuscript on “the ideal museum” has recently been published: The Ideal Museum: Gottfried Semper’s Practical Art in Metals. On Semper’s influence in Vienna, see Franz and Nierhaus, Gottfried Semper und Wien. 50. Semper, Stil in den technischen und tektonischen Künsten, recently translated as Style in the Technical and Tectonic Arts. 51. Although he spent most of his career in Berlin and was a leading figure in the excavation of Pergamon, Conze authored two important books during his period in Vienna: Über die Bedeutung der klassischen Archäologie and

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68. Iversen, Alois Riegl; Kemp, “Alois Riegl”; Crowther, “More than Ornament.” 69. Menger, Irrthümer des Historismus, 27. See too Menger, Untersuchungen über die Methode der Socialwissenschaften. 70. Droysen, Outline of the Principles of History. 71. Wilhelm Windelband, “Geschichte und Naturwissenschaft” (1894), in Präludien, 2:136–60. 72. Jacob Burckhardt, “Das Individuelle und das Allgemeine,” in Gesammelte Werke, 4:152. 73. Ibid., 155. 74. Ibid., 156. 75. Grimm, Leben Michelangelo’s; Grimm, Das Leben Raphaels von Urbino; Woltmann, Holbein und seine Zeit; Justi, Winckelmann. 76. Lamprecht, Deutsche Geschichte. On Lamprecht, see Chickering, Karl Lamprecht. 77. See Gombrich, Aby Warburg, 30–37. 78. See Max Weber, “Die Objektivität sozialwissenschaftlicher und sozialpolitischer Erkenntnis” (1904), in Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Wissenschaftslehre, 166. 79. Dittmann, Stil—Symbol—Struktur, 44. 80. Riegl, Historische Grammatik, 209. This passage does not appear in the English translation, which is based on a slightly different text. 81. Alois Riegl, “Kunstgeschichte und Universalgeschichte,” in Gesammelte Aufsätze, 6. 82. Ibid. 83. Riegl, “Eine neue Kunstgeschichte,” 42. 84. Ibid. 85. Riegl, “Naturwerk und Kunstwerk i,” 60. 86. The book published in 1966 is based on a manuscript written in 1897–98 and a set of lecture notes from 1899. 87. Riegl, “Eine neue Kunstgeschichte,” 44. 88. Ibid., 45. 89. Ibid., 42. 90. Riegl, “Naturwerk und Kunstwerk i,” 57. 91. Riegl, Spätrömische Kunstindustrie (1927), 391–92. 92. Ibid., 401. 93. Riegl, Group Portraiture of Holland, 290. 94. Riegl, “Eine neue Kunstgeschichte,” 43. 95. Riegl, “Naturwerk und Kunstwerk i,” 51. 96. On Warburg’s interest in evolutionary theory, see Gombrich, “Aby Warburg und der Evolutionismus des 19. Jahrhunderts.” 97. Dvořák, “Rätsel der Brüder van Eyck.” 98. Ibid., 12–13. 99. Ibid., 14. 100. Max Dvořák, “Friedrich Rintelen: Giotto und die Giotto-Apokryphen,” in Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Kunstgeschichte, 346.

101. As Mike Gubser has noted, Wickhoff’s approach was influenced by early writings by Riegl on medieval calendar illustrations, in which Riegl analyzed the inheritance of classical astrological imagery as well as its transformation due to changing notions of time. Gubser, Time’s Visible Surface, 25ff. 102. Riegl, Spätrömische Kunstindustrie (1927), 10. 103. Schmitz, Kunst und Wissenschaft im Zeichen der Moderne, 277. 104. Dvořák, cited in ibid., 277. 105. Max Dvořák, Idealismus und Naturalismus in der gotischen Skulptur und Malerei. 106. Max Dvořák, “Idealismus und Naturalismus,” 52. 107. Worringer, Abstraction and Empathy; Bahr, Expressionism. 108. The only recent commentator to have attended to this aspect of Wickhoff’s work in depth is Mike Gubser (Time’s Visible Surface, 115–32). 109. Wickhoff, Roman Art, 116. 110. Ibid., 8. 111. Ibid., 14. 112. Ibid., 3. 113. Ibid., 111–12. 114. Ibid., 112–13. 115. Rehm, “Wieviel Zeit haben die Bilder?” 116. Josef Strzygowski, “Die Entwicklung der Kunst in den ersten drei Jahrhunderten n. Chr.,” in Orient oder Rom, 1–10. 117. Schlosser, “History of Portraiture in Wax.” 118. Ibid., 176. 119. Ibid., 263. 120. Gomperz, “On Some of the Psychological Conditions of Naturalistic Art,” 10. Schlosser refers to the Kunstwollen in “History of Portraiture in Wax,” 248. 121. Aby Warburg, “The Art of Portraiture and the Florentine Bourgeoisie,” in Renewal of Pagan Antiquity, 435–50. 122. On Warburg, see Hofmann, Syamken, and Warnke, Menschenrechte des Auges. 123. One of the most influential was Edward Tylor’s, expounded in his Primitive Culture. This was translated into German as Die Anfänge der Kultur in 1873. 124. Schlosser, “ ‘Stilgeschichte’ und ‘Sprachgeschichte’ der bildenden Kunst.” 125. Ibid., 19. 126. Ibid., 13. 127. Didi-Huberman, “Viscosities and Survivals,” 158. 128. Schlosser, “ ‘Stilgeschichte’ und ‘Sprachgeschichte’ der bildenden Kunst,” 24.

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129. Schlosser, “Alois Riegl,” 43. This a translation of the section of Schlosser’s history of the Vienna School devoted to Riegl. 130. Schlosser’s editions of historical texts have already been discussed. See, however, Schlosser, Beschreibung der altgriechischen Münzen, vol. 1, and Kunst- und Wunderkammern der Spätrenaissance. 131. This shift in German art history is examined in Frank and Adler, German Art History and Scientific Thought. 132. Wölfflin, “Prolegomena to a Psychology of Architecture”; Aby Warburg, “Sandro Botticelli’s Birth of Venus and Spring,” in Renewal of Pagan Antiquity, 89–156. 133. See Schmarsow, Grundbegriffe der Kunstwissenschaft. 134. Iversen, Alois Riegl, 33–47.

of Lemberg is provided in Prokopovych, Habsburg Lemberg. See, in particular, chap. 2, “Writing the City: Bureaucrats, Historians, Technicians, and Nationals” (63–132). 9. Bołoz Antoniewicz, “Ueber die Entstehung des Schiller’schen Demetrius.” 10. On the relation of Polish art history in Galicia to the Vienna School, see Małkiewicz, “Kunstgeschichte im ehemaligen Galizien.” 11. See Gross, Anfänge des modernen Kroatien. 12. See Ivo Goldstein, “1790–1918: Development of the Middle Class,” in Croatia: A History, 54–107. 13. Bulić, Hrvatski spomenici u kninskoj okolici. 14. Kršnjavi’s career and work, especially in relation to the Vienna School, is examined in depth in Jirsák, Izidor Kršnjavi und die Wiener Schule der Kunstgeschichte. See too Ivančević, “Die Wiener Schule der Kunstgeschichte und Zagreb.” 15. Kršnjavi, “Nješto ob umjetnostih.” 16. See Kršnjavi, “Die slavische Hausindustrie” and “Über den Ursprung der südslavischen Ornamentmotive.” 17. On the relation between Kršnjavi and Strossmayer, see Damjanović, “Bishop Juraj Strossmayer.” 18. See Kršnjavi, “Pogled na razvoj hrvatske umjetnosti,” and Kuhač, Anarkija u hrvatskoj k[n]jiževnosti i umjetnosti. A Croat nationalist, Kuhač (1834–1911) specialized in collecting folk songs; among his more notable claims was that Franz Joseph Haydn was originally Croatian. See Hadow, Croatian Composer. 19. On Henszlmann, see Becher, “Imre Henszlmann,” and József Sisa, “Vienna e le origini della storiografia dell’arte e della tutela dei monumenti in Ungheria,” in Pozzetto, La scuola viennese di storia dell’arte, 163–68. 20. Henszlmann, Kassa városának ó német stylű templomai. 21. One such publication was Párhuzam az ó- és újkori művészeti nézetek és nevelések közt, különös tekintettel a művészeti fejlődésre Magyarországban. 22. See Végh, “Arnold Ipolyi.” The full list of the conservators and correspondents was published in the Jahrbuch der k.k. Central-Commission zur Erforschung und Erhaltung der Baudenkmale, 1 (1856): 38–42. 23. See Szentesi, “Anfänge der institutionellen Denkmalpflege in Ungarn,” and Bardoly and Lővei, “First Steps for Listing Monuments in Hungary.”

chapter 3 1. On the history of Prague University in the nineteenth century, see Lemberg, Universitäten in nationaler Konkurrenz. 2. An account of the founding of the Czech Technical University in Prague can be found in Velflik, Dějiny technického učení v Praze. 3. See, for example, by Vocel, Ueber böhmische Alterthümer, Miniatury české 16. Stoleti, and Welislaw’s Bilderbibel. 4. Swoboda, who studied in Vienna, was the last professor at the German university, which was closed down in 1945, when he moved to the University of Vienna. Neuwirth was professor at Prague from 1894 to 1899, when he took up a position of chair at the Advanced Technical School (Technische Hochschule) in Vienna. 5. Dvořák devoted few publications to the topic of Czech art. They included his Habilitation thesis, “Die Illuminatoren des Johann von Neumarkt,” on medieval Bohemian manuscript illumination, and the essay “Von Mánes zu Švabinský,” on late nineteenth-century Czech art. 6. On the founding of the chair, see Małkiewicz, Historia sztuki na Uniwersytecie Jagiellońskim, 34–44. 7. Sokołowski’s career is outlined in Lech Kalinowski, “Marian Sokołowski,” in Stulecie katedry historii sztuki Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego. 8. On the development of art history in Lemberg, see Małkiewicz, “Dzieje historii sztuki w Polsce.” An outline of the intellectual climate

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24. On the rise of nationalism and anti-Semitism in Hungary, see Lukacs, “Politics and Powers,” in Budapest 1900, 108–36. 25. Marosi, Ungarische Kunstgeschichte. 26. Marosi has discussed this “ideologization” of Hungarian art history in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries in “Die vorbildliche Rolle der Wiener Schule.” 27. Notable works by Ipolyi include A középkori emlékszerű épitészet Magyarországon, A középkori szobrászat Magyarországon, and Magyar műtörténelmi tanulmányai. 28. See Pasteiner, “A nemzeti elem a régi hazai művészetben.” 29. Publications by Hans Semper include Donatello, seine Zeit und Schule and Michael und Friedrich Pache. 30. Judson, Exclusive Revolutionaries, 58–59. 31. On the cultural history of Czernowitz, see H. Braun, Czernowitz: Die Geschichte einer untergegangenen Kulturmetropole. On the image of Czernowitz in the Empire, see Corbea-Hoisie, “Czernowitz: Der imaginierte ‘Westen im Osten.’ ” 32. A German-speaking press was also founded, including newspapers such as the Czernowitzer allgemeine Zeitung (founded in 1904) and the Czernowitzer Tagblatt (1903–14). 33. Academic Senate, “Vorwort,” in Die K. K. Franz-​Josephs-Universität in Czernowitz. On the founding of the university, see Walter Höflechner, “Bemerkungen zur Universität Czernowitz.” 34. Eve Blau, “The City as Protagonist: Architecture and the Cultures of Central Europe,” in Blau and Platzer, Shaping the Great City, 14. 35. For an outline history of Prague, see Demetz, Prague in Black and Gold. On the reign of Charles IV, and especially Prague as an artistic and culture center, see the exhibition catalogue Boehm and Fajt, Prague: The Crown of Bohemia. On Prague in the era of Rudolf II and on art more widely in central Europe of the period, see Kaufmann, Court, Cloister, and City. 36. On the founding and development of the society, see Hojda and Prahl, “Die Prager Künstlerbewegung 1830–1856,” in Kunstverein nebo / oder Künstlerverein, 47–81. 37. Statute § 3 of the Verein bildender Künstler für Böhmen, 30 November 1848, reprinted in Hojda and Prahl, Kunstverein nebo / oder Künstlerverein, 154. 38. The process of cultural self-assertion of the Czechs is outlined in Sayer, Coasts of

Bohemia. The response of German inhabitants of Prague to the challenge to their hegemonic status is discussed in Cohen, Politics of Ethnic Survival. See too Spector, Prague Territories. 39. Palacký, Geschichte von Böhmen: Groesstentheils nach Urkunden und Handschriften, published in Czech as Dějiny národa českého w Čechách a v Moravě. 40. The Germanization and Czechification of Bohemia has been examined in detail in King, Budweisers into Czechs and Germans; Wingfield, Flag Wars and Stone Saints; and Judson, Guardians of the Nation. 41. Woltmann, Holbein und seine Zeit. 42. Woltmann, Deutsche Kunst in Prag. 43. Ibid., 9. 44. Ibid., 34. Zítek (1832–1909) was a professor at the Prague Polytechnic. He was the architect of the first Czech National Theater, which burned down in 1881. He also designed the Rudolfinum in Prague. A brief outline of his work can be found in Ksandr, Josef Zítek: Architekt, pedagog a památkář. 45. Woltmann, Deutsche Kunst in Prag, 34. 46. The details and relevant historical sources are outlined in Vybíral, “What Is ‘Czech’ in Art in Bohemia?” 47. Baum, “Jak píší historii českého umění,” 241, and Mádl, Výbor z kritických projevů a drobných spisů, 114, both cited in Vybíral, “What Is ‘Czech’ in Art in Bohemia?” 4. 48. Grueber, Kunst des Mittelalters in Böhmen. 49. Kalousek, “O historii výtvarného umění v Čechách.” 50. Holland, “Grueber, Bernhard.” 51. Grueber, Elemente der Kunstthätigkeit, 232. 52. See Grueber, “Laun, Benedikt,” and Mádl, “Matyáš Rejsek a Beneš z Loun.” For an outline of Czech art history in this period, see Filipová, “Construction of National Identity.” See too Bischoff, “Benedikt Ried.” 53. See Grabowski, Ogrojec-płaskorzeźba, 21–26. 54. Lossnitzer, Frühwerke des Veit Stoss. 55. See Szydłowski, Wit Stwosz w świetle naukowych i pseudo-naukowych badań. 56. Muthesius, Art, Architecture, and Design in Poland, 11. 57. See, for example, Haan, Dürer Albert családi nevéről. 58. Moriz Thausing, “War Dürers Vater ein Magyare?” in Wiener Kunstbriefe, 89–98. 59. Dvořák, “Rätsel der Brüder van Eyck.” 60. “Universitätssorgen,” Neues Wiener Journal, 19 August 1905, 1.

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61. I am grateful to Georg Vasold for giving me access to the collection of materials in the archive of the Institute of Art History in Vienna. 62. See “Das Deutsch des Herrn Professors Dvorak,” Wiener Deutsches Tagblatt, 21 December 1905, 4. 63. “Anfrage des Abgeordneten Rudolf Berger und Genossen an Seine Exzellenz den Herrn Ministerpräsidenten und Seine Exzellenz den Herrn Leiter des Ministeriums für Kultur und Unterricht in Sachen der Ernennung eines Tschechen als Professor des Kunstgeschichte an der deutschen Universität zu Wien,” in Haus der Abgeordneten, 351. Sitzung der xvii. Session am 2 Oktober 1905, col. 31742-5. 64. Deutsche Volkszeitung, 25 July 1905, 1. 65. “Zur Ernennung Dworschaks an der Universität Wien,” Altdeutsches Tagblatt, 3 November 1905, 2. 66. “Wien, 26. Oktober,” Fremden-Blatt, 27 October 1905, 1. 67. As Bahr stated: “Dvořák is no German. But I think this is like when priests demand that a teacher be a pious believer. Let scholarship be free, but then let nationality be treated just like one’s confession. Dvořák’s scholarly achievement is to have discovered the forgotten School of Avignon . . . do we really believe . . . that the German national understanding would have brought together the historical sources in a different way?” Bahr, “26 Oktober,” 13. 68. An account of the emerging art world of Galicia can be found in Małkiewicz, Z dziejów polskiej historii sztuki, 16–33. See too Molè, “Entwicklung und Bedeutung der Kunstgeschichte.” 69. On the history of the commission, see Lech Kalinowski, “Dzieje i dorobek naukowy Komisji Historii Sztuki Akademii Umiejętności i Polskiej Akademii Umiejętności 1873–1952 oraz powstanie Katedry Historii Sztuki Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego 1882,” in Labuda, Dzieje historii sztuki w Polsce, 22–57. 70. Łuszczkiewicz was the author of numerous texts on architectural history and conservation, including Sukiennice krakowskie: Dzieje gmachu i jego obecnej przebudowy, a study of the cloth hall that housed the museum he directed. On the founding of the National Museum, see Dabrowski, “ ‘Medicis for the Fatherland’?” 71. On the history of the Ossolineum, see Zdrada, “Zur Stellung und die Rolle des Ossolineum.”

72. For a critical account of the partitions of Poland and the responsibility of the nobility, see Lukowski, Partitions of Poland. 73. On the debates over Poland’s place in Europe, see Jedlicki, Suburb of Europe. 74. Unowsky, “Celebrating Two Emperors and a Revolution.” 75. See, for example, Clegg, Art, Design, and Architecture in Central Europe, and Cavanaugh, Outside Looking In. 76. On the role of the peasant, see Stauter-Halsted, “Rural Myth and the Modern Nation,” and Stauter-Halsted, The Nation in the Village. 77. See, for example, Crowley, National Style and Nation-State. 78. Supiński was the author of a number of important works, including Szkoła polska gospodarstwa społecznego (1862) and “Listy treści społecznej” (1872). 79. For an outline of Supiński’s thought, see Janowski, Polish Liberal Thought Before 1918, 113–46. 80. Crowley, National Style and Nation-State, 3. 81. See Kalinowski, “Marian Sokołowski,” in Stulecie katedry historii sztuki Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego, 25. 82. See the essays collected in Sokołowski, Studya i szkice z dziejów sztuki i cywilizacyi. 83. Sokołowski, Studya do historyi rzeźby w Polsce. 84. See National Museum, Cracow, Katalog wystawy zabytków z czasów Króla Jana III i jego wieku. 85. Sokołowski, O wpływach włoskich na sztukę odrodzenia u nas, 4. 86. Sokołowski, Wystawa obrazów dawnych mistrzów. 87. Ibid., 2. 88. Sokołowski, “Gołuchów,” in Studya i szkice z dziejów sztuki i cywilizacyi, 371. 89. See, for example, Sokołowski’s close description of the Palazzo Colonna in Rome in “Wielka rezydencya i wielki ród: Palazzo Colonna w Rzymie” [A great residence and a great lineage: The Palazzo Colonna in Rome], in Studya i szkice z dziejów sztuki i cywilizacyi, 239–325. 90. See, for example, Małkiewicz, “Kunstgeschichte in Polen.” 91. Sokołowski, “Rudolf Eitelberger von Edelberg.” 92. Kalinowski, “Marian Sokołowski,” in Stulecie katedry historii sztuki Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego, 29.

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93. Mycielski, Sto lat dziejów malarstwa w Polsce 1760–1860. 94. Ibid., 135. 95. On Grottger, see Bołoz Antoniewicz’s monograph Grottger. 96. See Brzyski, “Between the Nation and the World.” 97. Mycielski, Sto lat dziejów malarstwa w Polsce 1760–1860, 704–5. The essay to which Mycielski is responding is Witkiewicz, “Szkoła krakowska,” in Sztuka i krytyka u nas 1884–1898, 322–34. The passage cited by Mycielski is on 327. 98. On the artist’s house as a memorial, see Pieńkos, Dom sztuki. 99. Brzyski, “Between the Nation and the World.”

9. As Margaret Olin has noted, the late Roman Empire in particular functioned as a kind of allegory of the contemporary situation. See Olin, “Alois Riegl.” 10. Telesko, Geschichtsraum Österreich. 11. Examples include Anton Petter’s King Przemysl Ottokar’s Son Wenzel Asks Rudolf of Habsburg for the Body of His Father, Fallen in the Battle of Dürnkrut of 1278 (1826) and Ferdinand Olivier’s Rudolph of Habsburg and the Priest (1816), a subject that was also painted by Josef von Führich in 1870 and was the subject of a small bronze sculpture by Wilhelm Seib in 1882. 12. See, for example, Ziegler’s Galerie aus der österreichischen Vaterlandsgeschichte and Vaterländische Bilderchronik. 13. See Telesko, Geschichtsraum Österreich, 79–104. 14. See, for example, Kuranda, “Das österreichisch-kaiserliche Bewußtsein.” As Kuranda, states (69), “The imperial Austrian consciousness is the same bureaucratic and diplomatic fiction that disappeared into thin air . . . in other words, it is the servility of the old times.” 15. Vogel, Delenda Austria. On the debates in the wake of the revolution, see Krasa-Florian, Allegorie der Austria, 68–74. 16. Perthaler, “Des Oesterreichers richtiger Standpunkt”; Perthaler, “Zur Orientierung”; Perthaler, “Österreichs Weltstellung”; Eitelberger, “Was hat die Kunst von den Bewegungen der Gegenwart zu hoffen oder fürchten?” 17. Eitelberger, Kunstbewegung in Oesterreich. 18. Hevesi, Oesterreichische Kunst im 19. Jahrhundert. 19. Ibid., 88. On the Mánes Society, see Krzysztofowicz-Kozakowska, “Sztuka— Wiener Secession—Mánes.” 20. Hevesi, Oesterreichische Kunst im 19. Jahrhundert, 2:308–14. 21. Hevesi’s numerous reviews of Secessionist exhibitions are collected in Hevesi, Acht Jahre Sezession. On Hevesi, see Sarmany Parsons, “Art Criticism of Ludwig Hevesi.” 22. See too Fajkmajer, Skizzen aus Alt-Wien. On the myth of “old Vienna,” see Kos and Rapp, Alt-Wien: Die Stadt die niemals war. 23. Werner Sombart, “Wien” (1907), cited in Kos and Rapp, Alt-Wien: Die Stadt die niemals war, 202. 24. Le Rider, Modernity and Crises of Identity, 11–29. 25. On the civilizing mission of Austria, see Okey, Taming Balkan Nationalism.

chapter 4 1. See Bakoš, “From Universalism to Nationalism.” 2. See, for example, Gordon Bowe, Art and the National Dream, and Facos and Hirsh, Art, Culture, and National Identity in Fin-de-Siècle Europe. 3. As Donald Preziosi states, “The museum presented documentary evidence of a state-sanctioned evolutionary history outlining in a bold and materially palpable (and aesthetically sensible) manner just how we, as citizens of a brave new world, were what the past was aiming at all along.” Preziosi, “Brain of the Earth’s Body,” 76. 4. De Meyer, “Writing Architectural History,” 79. 5. On national character in art, see Locher, “Stilgeschichte und die Frage der ‘nationalen Konstante.’ ” 6. Fiorillo, Geschichte der zeichnenden Künste in Deutschland und den Vereinigten Niederlanden; Waagen, Handbuch der deutschen und niederländischen Malerschulen. 7. See, for example, Dohme et al., Geschichte der deutschen Kunst; Gurlitt, Deutsche Kunst des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts; and Dehio, Handbuch der deutschen Kunstdenkmäler. 8. Alfred Dove, Konrad Reichard, and Wilhelm Lang, eds., Im neuen Reich: Wochenschrift für das Leben des deutschen Volkes in Staat, Wissenschaft und Kunst; Riegel, Geschichte des Wiederauflebens der deutschen Kunst zu Ende des 18. und Anfang des 19. Jahrhunderts. Another example is Fritz Reber’s Geschichte der neueren deutschen Kunst.

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26. Alois Riegl, “Salzburgs Stellung in der Kunstgeschichte,” in Gesammelte Aufsätze, 111–32. This notion is examined in Gubser, Time’s Visible Surface, 260. 27. As Andreas Gottsmann has demonstrated, the Catholic Church continued to be a significant actor in Austria-​Hungary until the war and also became entangled in the ethnic conflicts of the later monarchy. See Gottsmann, Rom und die nationalen Katholizismen in der Donaumonarchie. 28. See, for example, Hevesi et al., Pflege der Kunst in Oesterreich 1848–1898. 29. On Ilg, including the circumstances of his move to the imperial collections, see E. Springer, “Biographische Skizze zu Albert Ilg.” 30. In the series (titled in German Gegen den Strom) Ilg was author of Nur nicht österreichisch! Unsere Künstler und die Gesellschaft, Moderne Kunstliebhaberei, Das schwarze Kameel, and Der historische Sinn. 31. The idea of an “Ilg Circle” has been put forward by Peter Stachel in “ ‘Vollkommen passende Gefässe’ und ‘Gefässe fremder Form.’ ” Other volumes in the series include Adam Müller-Guttenbrunn’s Wien war eine Theaterstadt, Gustav Schwarzkopf’s “Consequenter” Realismus: Bühne und Publicum, and Edmund Wengraf’s Grössenwahn. 32. The other well-known member of this select group was Sir Ernst Gombrich. In general, the art-historical profession in Vienna did not conform to Steven Beller’s characterization of Viennese culture. See Beller, Vienna and the Jews. 33. Ilg, Der historische Sinn, 31. 34. Ilg, Alt-Wien in Bild und Wort. 35. Ilg, Die Fischer von Erlach. 36. Ibid, vii. 37. Ibid., 615. 38. Albert Ilg to Countess Hohenlohe-​ Schillingsfürst, 29 September 1888, cited in Alphons Lhotsky, “Albert Ilg, 1847–1896,” in Aufsätze und Vorträge, 4:287. 39. Albert Ilg, “Die Barocke,” in Kunstgeschichtliche Charakterbilder aus Österreich-Ungarn, 262. 40. Hevesi, Oesterreichische Kunst im 19. Jahrhundert, 2:116. 41. Hevesi, Altkunst—Neukunst, 1. 42. Ibid., 1–2. 43. See, for example, Unowsky, Pomp and Politics of Patriotism, and Cole and Unowsky, Limits of Loyalty.

44. Eduard Leisching, “Die Kunst und Cultur zur Zeit des Wiener Congresses,” in Museum for Art and Industry, Vienna, Katalog der Wiener-Congress-Ausstellung, 15. Leisching (1858–1938) would eventually become director of the museum in 1909. His younger brother Julius (1865–1933) was director of the Moravian Museum of Design in Brno from 1893 to 1921. 45. Riegl, “Die Wiener Congress-Ausstellung.” 46. On the idea of the period room, see Joachi­ mides, Museumsreformbewegung in Deutschland. See too Baker, “Bode and Museum Display.” 47. Leisching, Wiener Congress. 48. See Ludwig [Lajos] Hevesi, “Die Wiener Gesellschaft zur Zeit des Congresses,” in ibid., 57–72; Wilhelm von Weckbecker, “Die Musik zur Zeit des Congresses,” in ibid., 275–87; Hugo Wittmann, “Wiener Theater zur Zeit des Congresses,” in ibid., 247–72. Riegl’s essay “Möbel und Innendekoration des Empire” was republished in Riegl, Gesammelte Aufsätze, 11–25. 49. Albert Ilg to Countess Maria zu Hohenlohe-​ Schillingsfürst, 17 April 1888, cited in Alphons Lhotsky, “Albert Ilg,” in Aufsätze und Vorträge, 4:285. 50. Ilg, Kunstgeschichtliche Charakterbilder aus Österreich-Ungarn, 401. 51. Ibid., 406. 52. Ibid., vi. 53. Neuwirth, Geschichte der christlichen Kunst in Böhmen bis zum Aussterben der Přemysliden. 54. Responses to Neuwirth are outlined in Filipová, “Construction of National Identity.” 55. Josef Neuwirth, “St. Stephan in Wien und St. Veit in Prag,” in Ilg, Kunstgeschichtliche Charakterbilder aus Österreich-Ungarn, 93–109. Woltmann, Deutsche Kunst in Prag. 56. Josef Neuwirth, “Die Kunstblüte Ungarns unter Mathias Corvinus,” in Ilg, Kunstgeschichtliche Charakterbilder aus Österreich-​ Ungarn, 129–40. 57. Alfred Nossig, “Das neunzehnte Jahrhundert,” in Ilg, Kunstgeschichtliche Charakterbilder aus Österreich-Ungarn, 327–99. 58. See Mendelssohn, “From Assimilation to Zionism in Lvov.” 59. On Makart, see S. Fellner, Störenfriede. 60. Nossig, “Das neunzehnte Jahrhundert,” 361. 61. Helfert, cited in Olin, Forms of Representation, 18. 62. Czoernig, Ethnographie der österreichischen Monarchie.

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63. Crown Prince Rudolf, Nachlass, Kt. 15 (24 December 1883), Vienna, State and Court Archive, cited in B. Hamann, Kronprinz Rudolf, 234. 64. Crown Prince Rudolf, “Einleitung,” in Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild, 1:6. 65. Ibid., 5–6. 66. Riedl-Riedenstein, “Nikolaus von Dumba.” 67. See Szász, “Das ‘Kronprinzenwerk’ und dessen Konzeption”; Heiszler, “Ungarischer (magyarischer) Nationalismus im ‘Kronprinzenwerk’ ”; Zintzen, “Das Kronprinzenwerk Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild”; Zintzen, “Enzyklopädische Utopie”; and Zintzen, “Das Weibsbild da draußen.” 68. Rudolf, “Einleitung,” 5. 69. Heiszler, “Ungarischer (magyarischer) Nationalismus im ‘Kronprinzenwerk,’ ” 72. 70. See Alois Hauser, Karl Lind, Georg Niemann, and Karl von Lützow, “Wiens architektonische Entwicklung,” in Rudolf, Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild, 3:51–91; Albert Ilg and Karl von Lützow, “Malerei und Plastik in Wien,” in ibid., 205–63; and Jakob von Falke, “Die Wiener Kunstindustrie,” in ibid., 263–77. 71. Karl Romstorfer, “Die bildende Kunst,” in Rudolf, Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild, vol. 15, Bukowina, 409–59. 72. Johann Kellner, “Die Baukunst,” in Rudolf, Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild, vol. 24, Bosnien und Hercegovina, 413–35; Johann Neuwirth, Karel Chytil, Ferdinand Lehner, August Sedláček, Victor Barvitius, and Josef Mockers, “Die bildende Kunst,” in Rudolf, Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild, vol. 13, pt. 2, Böhmen, 193–460. 73. See Romstorfer, Entwicklungsgeschichte der k.k. Staats-Gewerbeschule in Czernowitz, 1873–1898. 74. Romstorfer, “Die bildende Kunst,” 409. 75. Ibid., 454. 76. Raimund Kaindl, “Die Huzulen” and “Die Polen,” in Rudolf, Die österreichischungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild, vol. 15, Bukowina, 271–82 and 306–14. 77. See, for example, Kaindl, Geschichte der Stadt Czernowitz und ihrer Umgegend; Kaindl, Geschichte der Bukowina; and his essays collected in Kleine Studien, which include studies

of magical beliefs, the figure of the Jew, and the impact of the Huns. 78. Kaindl came to articulate this view in increasingly strident terms, most notably in Die Deutschen in Osteuropa. 79. Alois Hauser, “Architektur, Plastik und Malerei,” in Rudolf, Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild, vol. 10, Dalmatien, 253–94. 80. Bahr, Dalmatinische Reise. 81. See Brzęk, Muzeum im. Dzieduszyckich we Lwowie. 82. Muthesius, Art, Architecture, and Design in Poland, 3–4. 83. Marian Sokołowski, “Malerei und Plastik,” in Rudolf, Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild, vol. 14, Galizien, 720. 84. As Sokołowski notes: “in spite of the Polish names that are bound up with [the Baroque], its nature and content are far less Cracovian and Polish than the painting of the first half of the sixteenth century.” Ibid., 746. 85. Ibid., 752–53. 86. Ibid., 758. 87. Sokołowski, “Sztuka cerkiewna na Rusi i na Bukowinie,” “Malarstwo ruskie,” and “Badania archeologiczne na Rusi Galicyjskiej.” 88. Kunińska, Wykład historii sztuki na podstawie historii cywilizacji. 89. Sokołowski, “Malerei und Plastik,” 751. 90. Władysław Łuszczkiewicz, “Die Architektur,” in Rudolf, Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild, vol. 14, Galizien, 665–719. 91. Ibid., 666. 92. Włodzimierz Dzieduszycki, “Hausindustrie,” in Rudolf, Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild, vol. 14, Galizien, 523–38. 93. Vasold, Alois Riegl und die Kunstgeschichte. See Stanisław Witkiewicz, “Styl Zakopiański,” in Sztuka i krytyka u nas 1884–1898, 619–67. The Zakopane style is explored in depth by David Crowley in National Style and Nation-State. See too Crowley, “Finding Poland in the Margins.” 94. Dzieduszycki, “Hausindustrie,” 538. 95. Josef Neuwirth, “Gothische Architektur” and “Malerei und Plastik im Mittelalter,” in Rudolf, Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild, vol. 13, pt. 2, Böhmen, 206–82 and 347–64. 96. Gerstenberg, Deutsche Sondergotik. 97. Neuwirth. “Gothische Architektur,” 230. 98. Ibid., 264.

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99. Ibid. 100. Ibid., 266. 101. Karl [Karel] Chytil, “Architektur der Renaissance- und Neuzeit,” in Rudolf, Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild, vol. 13, pt. 2, Böhmen, 282–318; Chytil, “Malerei und Plastik der Renaissance, der Barock- und Rococozeit,” in ibid., 364–85; and Chytil, “Die Kunstindustrie,” in ibid., 432–60. 102. Chytil, “Obrazy karlštejnské z Belvedere vídeňském,” and Chytil, Petr Parléř a mistři gmündští. For a brief outline of Chytil and his work, see Josef Krása, “Karel Chytil,” in Chadraba, Kapitoly z českého dějepisu umění, 1:172–78. 103. Chytil, Petr Parléř a mistři gmündští, 34–35. 104. Chytil, “Malerei und Plastik der Renaissance, der Barock- und Rococozeit,” 365. 105. Chytil, “Die Kunstindustrie,” 438. 106. Victor Barvitius, “Malerei und Plastik der Neuzeit,” in Rudolf, Die österreichisch-​ ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild, vol. 13, pt. 2, Böhmen, 385–432.

11. Burckhardt, Der Cicerone, 348. 12. Falke, Geschichte des modernen Geschmacks, 146. 13. Ilg, Zukunft des Barockstiles, 15. 14. Ibid., 16. 15. Ibid., 17. 16. Ibid. 17. Ibid., 34. 18. Ibid. 19. Ibid., 7. 20. Ibid., 41. 21. Falke, “Die nationale Hausindustrie,” 287–88. See Muthesius, “ ‘An der Spitze des Geschmacks.’ ” 22. “As understood here, ‘national house industry’ can be completely independent of questions of ‘nationality,’ and in fact it is.” Falke, “Die nationale Hausindustrie,” 288. 23. Sitte, “Offenes Schreiben an Dr. Ilg.” Köstlin, “Das neue Wien.” 24. Köstlin, “Das neue Wien,” 2. 25. Ibid. It should be noted that while proclaiming the importance of new materials, Köstlin also advocates a return to the Renaissance as the basis of architectural progress. 26. Jacob von Falke, “Wesen und Grenzen des Barockstils,” in Geschichte des Geschmacks im Mittelalter, 213–14. 27. See Stachel, “ ‘Vollkommen passende Gefässe’ und ‘Gefässe fremder Form,’ ” 286. 28. On Wölfflin and the Baroque, see Holly, “Wölfflin and the Imagining of the Baroque.” 29. Wölfflin, Kunstgeschichtliche Grundbegriffe. 30. Wölfflin, Renaissance und Barock, 10. 31. Ibid., 58. 32. Ibid., 59. 33. Riegl noted, “The book certainly contains an inestimable quantity of factual data, dates, and names, but whoever is looking for a clear definition of the Baroque style or a continuous developmental thread will be disappointed.” Riegl, Entstehung der Barockkunst in Rom, 13. 34. De Meyer, “Writing Architectural History.” 35. On historiography and the formation of Czech identity in the nineteenth century, see Sayer, Coasts of Bohemia. On the development of Czech historiography, see Kutnar and Marek, Přehledné dějiny českého a slovenského dějepictví. 36. František L. Rieger, “Čechy V: Dějiny výtvarných umění,” in Slovnik naučný, 2:442. 37. On the contradictory images of Prague of this period, see Pešek, “Prague, Wrocław, and Vienna.”

chapter 5 1. Hübsch, In welchem Style sollen wir bauen, 1. 2. On Hübsch, see Schirmer, Brockhoff, and Schnuchel, Heinrich Hübsch, 1795–1863. See too Bergdoll, “Archaeology vs. History.” 3. On the more general development of historicism, see Fillitz and Telesko, Traum vom Glück. On historicism in central Europe, see Ákos Moravánsky, “Antiquarian and Individualist Historicism,” in Competing Visions, 63–103. 4. Lübke, Geschichte der deutschen Renaissance, 5–6. 5. Ibid., 8. 6. Stier, “Deutsche Renaissance als nationaler Stil,” 427. 7. Ilg, Zukunft des Barockstiles, 9. 8. On Eitelberger’s involvement in the Ring­ strasse, see Podbrecky, “Rudolf von Eitelberger und die Ringstrasse,” and Reiterer, “Rückwärts in die Zukunft.” 9. See Eitelberger and Ferstel, Das bürgerliche Wohnhaus. On the development of the Ringstrasse, see Carl Schorske, “The Ringstrasse, Its Critics, and the Birth of Urban Modernism,” in Fin-de-Siècle Vienna, 24–115. 10. Fellner, Wie soll Wien bauen? 4, cited in Reiterer, “Rückwärts in die Zukunft,” 174.

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38. See, for example, the entry “Barokový sloh” [The Baroque style], in Otto et al., Ottův slovnik naučný, 3:345–48. 39. Gurlitt, Geschichte des Barockstiles und des Rococo in Deutschland, 2–3. 40. See de Meyer, “Writing Architectural History,” 84–85. De Meyer points out that there was a systemic tendency to downplay the importance of Santini or even deny his existence. In 1915 Martin Wackernagel, for example, suggested that Santini was the pseudonym of a German architect, Johann Auchel. 41. Gurlitt, Geschichte des Barockstiles und des Rococo in Deutschland, 204. On the Dientzenhofers, see Kaufmann, Court, Cloister, and City, 348–52. 42. Gurlitt, “Barockarchitektur in Böhmen.” 43. Ibid., 16. 44. Mádl, “Ku dvoustoleté paměti narození K. I. Dientzenhofra,” 523. 45. Wirth, “Barokní gotika.” 46. Tietze, “Neue Literatur über deutsche und österreichische Barock-Architektur.” 47. Karl [Karel] Chytil, “Architektur der Renaissance- und Neuzeit,” in Rudolf, Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild, vol. 13, pt. 2, Böhmen, 312. 48. Strzygowski, Das Werden des Barock, 79. 49. Janatková, Barockrezeption zwischen Historismus und Moderne, 79. 50. Alois Riegl, “Kunstgeschichte und Universalgeschichte,” in Gesammelte Aufsätze, 8. 51. Birnbaum, “Barokní princip v dějinách architektury,” 32. 52. This decline in popularity is outlined in Janatková, Barockrezeption zwischen Historismus und Moderne, 30–37. Janatková includes an invaluable range of excerpts from contemporary sources. See too Vybíral, “Hledání národního stylu,” in Česká architektura na Prahu moderní doby, 141–60. 53. On the exhibition of “old Vienna” at the Chicago Fair of 1893, see Ulrike Felber, Elke Krasny, and Christian Rapp, “Der Zauber Alt-Wiens,” in Smart Exports, 80–91. 54. A detailed description of the exhibit and the planning process is given in Jan Herain and Zikmund Winter, “Stará Praha,” in Kafka, Národopisná výstava českoslovanská, 396– 408. On the cult of old Prague, see Elizabeth Clegg, “The ‘Cult of Old Prague’: Retrospectivism and Mysticism,” in Art, Design, and Architecture in Central Europe, 160–62. 55. Chytil, “O stavební činnosti v Praze v době baroka.” 56. Ibid., 73.

57. Ibid., 75. 58. Janatková, Barockrezeption zwischen Historismus und Moderne, 37ff. 59. See Paces, Prague Panoramas. 60. Riegl, “Barockdecoration und die moderne Kunst.” 61. Riegl, Origins of Baroque Art, 94. 62. Ibid., 130. 63. Friedländer, Mannerism and Anti-Mannerism in Italian Painting. 64. Riegl, Origins of Baroque Art, 108. 65. Ibid., 94. 66. Ibid., 130. 67. Riegl, Group Portraiture of Holland, 75. 68. Riegl, Origins of Baroque Art, 137. 69. Ibid., 119. 70. Alois Riegl, “Jakob von Ruysdael,” in Gesammelte Aufsätze, 132. 71. Alois Riegl, “Die Stimmung als Inhalt der modernen Kunst,” in Gesammelte Aufsätze, 27–37. 72. Ibid., 28. 73. On the place of Simmel’s essay in scholarship on the Baroque, see Turner, “Ruine und Fragment.” 74. Simmel, “The Ruin,” 262. 75. Bahr, Expressionismus, 131. On Hofmannsthal, see Pape, “Ordnung und Geld-Chaos.” 76. Dvořák, “Über die dringendsten methodischen Erfordernisse,” 935. 77. Max Dvořák, “Barockkunst” (1905/6), cited in Aurenhammer, “Max Dvorák, Tintoretto und die Moderne,” 15. 78. Cited in ibid., 16. 79. See, for example, Fiedler, On Judging Works of Visual Art, and Hildebrand, “Problem of Form in the Fine Arts.” 80. See Vienna Secession, Entwicklung des Impressionismus in Malerei und Plastik: Xvi. Ausstellung der Vereinigung bildender Künstler Österreichs. 81. Cited in Aurenhammer, “Max Dvorák, Tintoretto und die Moderne,” 24. 82. Max Dvořák, “Tintoretto,” in Geschichte der italienischen Kunst, 2:155. 83. Ibid., 148. 84. Max Dvořák, “Über Greco und den Manierismus,” in Kunstgeschichte als Geistesgeschichte, 276. 85. Max Dvořák, “Katakombenmalereien: Die Anfänge der christlichen Kunst,” in Kunstgeschichte als Geistesgeschichte, 16. 86. Dvořák, “Tintoretto,” 164. 87. Max Dvořák, “Dürers Apokalypse,” in Kunstgeschichte als Geistesgeschichte, 191–202. 88. Ibid., 202.

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89. Max Dvořák, “Michelangelo,” in Geschichte der italienischen Kunst, 2:10 and 11. 90. See Norbert Schmitz, “Max Dvořák—Das Spirituelle in der Kunstgeschichte,” in Kunst und Wissenschaft im Zeichen der Moderne, 255–324. 91. Dvořák, “Vorwort,” in Wingler and Welz, Oskar Kokoschka. 92. Max Dvořák, “Idealismus und Naturalismus in der gotischen Malerei und Skulptur” (lecture, winter semester 1915/16, University of Vienna), 2. The typescript is in the archive of the Institute of Art History of the University of Vienna. 93. Dvořák, “Über Greco und den Manierismus,” 275. 94. Storm, “Julius Meier-Graefe, El Greco, and the Rise of Modern Art,” and Carl Justi, “Die Anfänge des Grecos” (1897), in Miscellaneen aus drei Jahrhunderten spanischen Kunstlebens, 2:199–218. 95. See Borovička, “El Greco: Dojmy ze Španělska,” and Filla, “Domenico Theotocopuli, El Greco.” 96. Dvořák, Rätsel der Brüder van Eyck, 145. 97. Dvořák, Geschichte der Italienischen Kunst, 1:4. 98. Ibid. 99. Dvořák, “Über Greco und den Manierismus,” 269. 100. Ibid., 270. 101. Ibid. 102. Ibid., 275–76. 103. Dvořák, Eine illustrierte Kriegschronik vor hundert Jahren, 12. 104. Ibid., 42–49. 105. On reactionary modernism, see Herf, Reactionary Modernism. 106. Judson, “Rethinking the Liberal Legacy.”

Hausindustrie und die historische Schule der Nationalökonomie, 105–31. 4. W. Exner, Die Hausindustrie Oesterreichs, vii. 5. Schmoller, Grundriß der allgemeinen Volkswirtschaftslehre, 1:481. 6. Karl Marx, “Forms Which Precede Capitalist Production,” in Grundrisse, 471–78. 7. Schwarz, “Betriebsformen der modernen Grossindustrie,” 627. 8. W. Exner, Die Hausindustrie Oesterreichs. 9. Hans Kornauth, “Tirol,” in ibid., 60–61. 10. On the Silesian textile industry, see Herbert Kisch, “The Textile Industries in Silesia and the Rhineland: A Comparative Study in Industrialization,” in Kriedte, Medick, and Schlumböhm, Industrialization Before Industrialization, 178–200. 11. Good, Economic Rise of the Habsburg Empire, 150. 12. On the oil boom in Galicia, see A. Frank, Oil Empire. 13. “In essence, two different social classes interact with each other; the artisans are the body and the merchants are its head.” Gustav Schmoller, “Die geschichtliche Entwicklung der Unternehmung, iii–v,” 1059, translated in Kriedte, Medick, and Schlumböhm, Industrialization Before Industrialization, 3. On the place of house industry in wider processes of economic development, see Kriedte, Medick, and Schlumböhm, Industrialization Before Industrialization. 14. A. Braun, Zur Statistik der Hausindustrie. 15. Schwiedland, Kleingewerbe und Hausindustrie in Österreich, 106. 16. Ibid., 85. 17. See Schorske, Fin-de-Siècle Vienna, 67. 18. On the history of the school, see Fliedl, Kunst und Lehre am Beginn der Moderne. 19. Rudolf von Eitelberger, “Die Gründung der Kunstgewerbeschule des Österreichischen Museums,” in Gesammelte kunsthistorische Schriften, 2:121. 20. On the history of the Prague school, see Pavla Pečinková, “Chapters from the History of the Academy, 1885–1946,” in Pachmanová and Pražanová, Vysoká škola uměleckoprůmyslová v Praze 1885–2005, 16–61. 21. Rudolf von Eitelberger, “Kunstgewerbliche Fachschulen,” in Gesammelte kunsthistorische Schriften, 3:37. 22. Johann Murnik, “Krain,” in W. Exner, Die Hausindustrie Oesterreichs, 23. 23. Franz Rosmaël, “Oestliches Mähren,” in W. Exner, Die Hausindustrie Oesterreichs, 97.

chapter 6 1. See, for example, Connelly, Sleep of Reason; Hiller, Myth of Primitivism; and Coombes, Reinventing Africa. On folk art, see Gordon Bowe, Art and the National Dream, and Crowley, “Uses of Peasant Design in Austria-​ Hungary.” On folk music, see Gelbart, Invention of Folk Music and Art Music. The development of folklore as a field of study is outlined in Bendix, In Search of Authenticity. 2. A notable exception is Stagl and Rupp-​ Eisenreich, Kulturwissenschaften im Vielvölkerstaat. 3. Early examples of the use of Hausindustrie are cited by Peter Kriedte, “Hausindustrie: Bemerkungen zu einem gewerbegeschichtlichen Begriff,” in Lenger, Handwerk,

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24. Falke, “Die nationale Hausindustrie,” 296–97. 25. The Castellani were best known for their retrieval of techniques of ancient jewelers. See Soros and Walker, Castellani and Italian Archaeological Jewelry. 26. Reynolds, “Die österreichische Synthese.” 27. Falke, “Die nationale Hausindustrie,” 287. 28. Ibid., 289. 29. Ibid., 287. 30. Ibid., 288. 31. On the idea of the Kulturnation, see Bruch, Hübinger, and Graf, “Einleitung: Kulturbegriff, Kulturkritik und Kulturwissenschaften um 1900,” in Kultur und Kulturwissenschaften um 1900, 9–24, and Rüdiger vom Bruch, “Kulturnation: Sinndeutung von oben?” in ibid., 63–102. 32. Falke, “Die nationale Hausindustrie,” 316–17. 33. Rudolf von Eitelberger, “Zur Frage der Hausindustrie,” in Gesammelte kunsthistorische Schriften, 3:175. 34. Ibid., 176. 35. Ibid., 177. 36. Vasold, Alois Riegl und die Kunstgeschichte, 100. 37. Eitelberger, “Zur Frage der Hausindustrie,” 187. 38. Ibid., 181. 39. In 1883 the journal was renamed the Folklore Journal. The term “folklore” was coined by Thoms in 1846. See William Thoms, “Folklore,” Athenaeum 983 (29 August 1846): 886. 40. Sébillot, Les littératures populaires de toutes les nations. The first volume was dedicated to Brittany. 41. On the relation between the folk-art movement and European primitivism, see Korff, “Volkskunst und Primitivismus.” 42. Amelia S. Levetus, “Austria: Introduction,” in Holme, Peasant Art in Austria and Hungary, 3. 43. See Deneke, “Volkskunst und nationale Identität 1870–1914,” and Sinkó, “Entstehung des Begriffs der Volkskunst.” 44. On the museum, see Houze, “Hungarian Nationalism, Gottfried Semper, and the Budapest Museum of Applied Art.” On the Zsolnay factory, see Gerelyes, “Seeking the East in the West.” 45. Hofer, “Historisierung des Ästhetischen.” 46. See Manouellian, “Invented Traditions.” 47. Stauter-Halsted, The Nation in the Village, 17. 48. On peasant celebrations, see Struve, “Peasants and Patriotic Celebration in Habsburg Galicia.”

49. Crowley, “Uses of Peasant Design in Austria-​ Hungary,” 22. 50. Stanisław Witkiewicz, Na przełęczy (1891), cited in ibid., 24. 51. Włodzimierz Dzieduszycki, “Galizien,” in W. Exner, Die Hausindustrie Oesterreichs, 153. 52. Ibid., 155. 53. For an outline of the Zakopane style, see Crowley, National Style and Nation-State, 15–27. 54. See Stanisław Witkiewicz, “Styl Zakopiański,” in Sztuka i krytyka u nas 1884–1898; Witkiewicz, Zeszyty o stylu Zakopiańskim, i; and Witkiewicz, Zeszyty o stylu Zakopiańskim, ii. 55. See Barucka, “Redefining Polishness,” and Szczerski, “Sources of Modernity.” 56. See Omilanowska, “Searching for a National Style in Polish Architecture.” 57. Eljasz-Radzikowski, Illustrowany przewodnik do Tatr, Pienin i Szczawnic (1870) and Szkice z podróży w Tatry (1874). On the highland hut (chata góralska), see Szkice z podróży w Tatry, 49ff. Eljasz-Radzikowski was less than complimentary about the village cottages, complaining that “the small windows and low doors are not to our taste, and we used to knock our heads against the doorframe, being used to the tall doors of the towns” (50). 58. Dabrowski, “ ‘Discovering’ the Galician Borderlands.” 59. Schramm, “Invention and Uses of Folk Art in Germany.” 60. On Loos, see Stewart, Fashioning Vienna. 61. Falke, “Die nationale Hausindustrie,” 291. 62. Riegl, Die ägyptischen Textilfunde. 63. The early development of the historiographic literature on Coptic art is sketched out in T. Thomas, “Coptic and Byzantine Textiles found in Egypt.” 64. See Gayet, Les monuments coptes du Musée de Boulaq, and Forrer, Römische und byzantinische Seiden-Textilien. 65. Riegl, “Koptische Kunst,” 118. 66. Ibid., 120. 67. Laÿ and Fischbach, Südslawische Ornamente. 68. On Laÿ and Fischbach’s work, see Jirsák, Izidor Kršnjavi und die Wiener Schule der Kunstgeschichte, 95. 69. Kršnjavi, “Die slavische Hausindustrie,” 136. 70. Ibid., 59. 71. Kršnjavi, “Über den Ursprung der südslavischen Ornamentmotive.” 72. Riegl, “Textile Hausindustrie in Oesterreich,” 415. See Olin, “Art History and Ideology,” 157.

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73. Riegl, “Ruthenische Teppiche.” 74. Ibid., 112–13. 75. Hampel, cited in Sinkó, “Entstehung des Begriffs der Volkskunst,” 232. See too Sinkó, “Die sogennante ungarische Ornamentik.” 76. Capek, “Otázka národního umění,” 160. 77. Ibid., 161. 78. Ibid. See too Filipová, “Construction of National Identity.” 79. Ibid., 32. 80. Ibid., 72. 81. Riegl, “Das Volksmässige und die Gegenwart,” 5. 82. Riegl, Volkskunst, Hausfleiss und Hausindustrie, 36. 83. Ibid., 38. 84. Ibid., 41. 85. Riegl, “Das Volksmässige und die Gegenwart,” 4. 86. Ibid. 87. Muthesius, “Alois Riegl.” 88. Riegl, “Das Volksmässige und die Gegenwart” and “Kunsthandwerk und kunstgewerbliche Massenproduktion.” 89. Vasold, Alois Riegl und die Kunstgeschichte, 135–38. 90. On the exhibition, see Filipová, “Peasants on Display.” 91. On the 1873 fair and the village, see Rampley, “Peasants in Vienna.” 92. Český lid: Sborník věnovaný studiu lidu českého v Čechách, na Moravě ve Slezsku a na Slovensku. 93. See Stauter-Halsted, The Nation in the Village, 97–114. 94. Kolberg, Lud: Jego zwyczaje, sposób życia, mowa, podania, przysłowia, obrzędy, gusła, zabawy, pieśni, muzyka i tańce. 95. On Kupczanko, see Hryaban, “Grigorij Kupczanko.” 96. On the Polish Ethnographic Society, see Lud: Organ Polskiego Towarzystwa Ludoznawczego 79 (1995), a special issue on the centennial of the Polish Ethnographic Society and the journal Lud. See too the essays collected in Beitl, Ethnographie ohne Grenzen. 97. Concluding its dismissive account of the exhibition, which it interpreted as a politically motivated anti-German undertaking, the nationalist daily Reichenberger Zeitung commented that “no German concerned with national honor” would wish to have anything to do with it. Reichenberger Zeitung, 18 May 1895, 1. 98. Haberlandt, “Die Ausstellung in Prag ii,” 3. 99. Meringer, “Die čechisch-slavische ethnographische Ausstellung in Prag.”

100. The early career of Haberlandt is outlined in Feest, “Haberlandtiana.” 101. Haberlandt, “Zum Beginn!” 1. 102. Ibid. 103. See Stachel, “Harmonisierung national-​ politischer Gegensätze.” See too Fuchs, “Rasse,” “Volk,” “Geschlecht,” and Pusman, “Wissenschaften vom Menschen.” 104. Wilhelm Riehl, “Die Volkskunde als Wissenschaft,” in Culturstudien aus drei Jahrhunderten, 216. 105. Ibid. 106. Haberlandt, Österreichische Volkskunst, and Haberlandt, “Austrian Peasant Art,” in Holme, Peasant Art in Austria and Hungary, 15–30. 107. Haberlandt, Österreichische Volkskunst, 1. 108. Ibid., 12. 109. Ibid., 3. 110. Haberlandt, “Austrian Peasant Art,” 30. 111. On Petranu, see Rampley, “Art History, Racism, and Nationalism.”

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chapter 7 1. See, for example, Schoell-Glass, Aby Warburg and Anti-Semitism. 2. Schwartz, “Cathedrals and Shoes.” 3. Sedlmayr, Art in Crisis. 4. See, for example, Holly, “Spirits and Ghosts”; Lachnit, Die Wiener Schule der Kunstgeschichte; Simpson, “Viennese Art, Ugliness, and the Vienna School of Art History.” 5. Moritz Csáky, “Geschichtlichkeit und Stilpluralität: Die sozialen und intellektuellen Voraussetzungen des Historismus,” in Fillitz and Telesko, Traum vom Glück, 27–32. 6. Ibid., 31. 7. Rudolf von Eitelberger, “Die Kunstentwicklung des heutigen Wien” (1877), in Gesammelte kunsthistorische Schriften, 1:1–36; “Die Plastik Wiens in diesem Jahrhundert” (1876), in ibid., 1:104–57; “Die Kunstbestrebungen Österreichs zur Zeit der Eröffnung des neuen Museums-Gebäudes” (1871), in ibid., 2:171–203; “Die deutsche Renaissance und die Kunstbewegungen der Gegenwart” (1876), in ibid., 2:370–404. 8. Eitelberger, “Die Kunstentwicklung des heutigen Wien,” 2. 9. Ibid., 8. 10. Eitelberger, “Die Plastik Wiens,” 104. 11. See Eitelberger’s lecture on Makart delivered two weeks after the painter’s death, Hanns Makart: Vortrag, gehalten am 16. Oktober 1884.

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Notes to Pages 1 43–15 4

12. Eitelberger, “Die Plastik Wiens,” 112. 13. Eitelberger, “Die Kunstentwicklung des heutigen Wien,” 9. 14. Eitelberger, “Die Plastik Wiens,” 106. 15. Eitelberger, “Die Kunstentwicklung des heutigen Wien,” 25. 16. Eitelberger, “Die Plastik Wiens,” 120. 17. Rudolf von Eitelberger, “Eduard van der Nüll und August von Siccardsburg” in Gesammelte kunsthistorische Schriften, 1:232. 18. Ibid., 234. 19. Eitelberger, “Die Kunstentwicklung des heutigen Wien,” 25. 20. Eitelberger, “Die Plastik Wiens,” 141. 21. Ibid. 22. Eitelberger, “Die Kunstbestrebungen Österreichs,” 77. 23. Eitelberger, “Die Kunstentwicklung des heutigen Wien,” 28. 24. Ibid., 30. 25. Eitelberger, “Eduard van der Nüll und August von Siccardsburg,” 233. 26. Eitelberger, “Die deutsche Renaissance und die Kunstbewegungen der Gegenwart,” 402. 27. Rudolf von Eitelberger, “Friedrich Schmidt,” in Gesammelte kunsthistorische Schriften, 1:399. 28. Eitelberger, “Eduard van der Nüll und August von Siccardsburg.” 29. Hildebrand, “Problem of Form in the Fine Arts.” 30. Meier-Graefe, Entwickelungsgeschichte der modernen Kunst. On Meier-Graefe, see Robert Jensen, “Der Fall Meier-Graefe,” in Marketing Modernism in Fin-de-Siècle Europe, 235–63; Berman, “Invention of History”; and Manheim, “Julius Meier-Graefe.” 31. Wickhoff and Hartel, Die Wiener Genesis. 32. Wickhoff, Roman Art, 18. 33. Ibid., 55. 34. Ibid., 56. 35. Ibid., 57. 36. Ibid., 58. 37. Franz Wickhoff, “Über moderne Malerei,” in Abhandlungen, Vorträge und Anzeigen, 21–65. 38. Ibid., 21 and 22. 39. Ibid., 22. 40. Ibid., 23. 41. Ibid., 27–28. 42. Ibid., 31. 43. Ibid., 33. 44. Olin, Forms of Representation, 122–27. 45. Alois Riegl, “Die Stimmung als Inhalt der modernen Kunst,” in Gesammelte Aufsätze, 28–39.

46. R. Hamann, Impressionismus in Leben und Kunst. See especially chapter 5, “Die Philosophie des Impressionismus und das impressionistische Denken” (111–48). 47. Wickhoff, “Über moderne Malerei,” 40. 48. Ibid., 49. 49. Meier-Graefe, Der Fall Böcklin und die Lehre von den Einheiten. 50. Wickhoff, “Über moderne Malerei,” 53. 51. Sitte, Birth of Modern City Planning. 52. Wickhoff, “Über moderne Malerei,” 55–65. 53. Meier-Graefe noted: “Where are the scholars of art? . . . [How] curious it is that our brother scholars, so few of whom are truly called to their profession, always refuse to acknowledge the great events of history.” Meier-Graefe, Manet und sein Kreis, 131, translated by Robert Jensen in Marketing Modernism in Fin-de-Siècle Europe, 237. 54. See, for example, Vergo, Art in Vienna, 49ff.; Carl Schorske, “Gustav Klimt: Painting and the Crisis of the Liberal Ego,” in Fin-de-Siècle Vienna, 208–78; Guth, “ ‘That Is Not a Sign of the Times.’ ” 55. Muther, Studien und Kritiken, 1:57. 56. The various criticisms were collected by Hermann Bahr in Gegen Klimt, reprinted in Bahr, Rede über Klimt / Gegen Klimt. 57. Friedrich Jodl, in Neue Freie Presse, 28 March 1900, cited in Bahr, Rede über Klimt / Gegen Klimt, 51. 58. Reprinted in Bahr, Rede über Klimt / Gegen Klimt, 60–64. 59. Franz Wickhoff, “Was ist schön?” cited in ibid., 63. 60. Ludwig [Lajos] Hevesi, “Klimts ‘Philosophie’ ” (28 March 1900), in Acht Jahre Sezession, 245. See too the other texts by Hevesi on the Klimt Affair in Acht Jahre Sezession: “Für Klimt,” 245–50; “Die Bilderstürmer von Wien,” 250–54; and “Der Protest gegen Klimts ‘Philosophie,’ ” 261–64. 61. Vergo, Art in Vienna, 60. 62. Van Heerde, Staat und Kunst. 63. Karl von Wiener, memorandum of 6 October 1903 to Minister von Hartel, quoted in ibid., 109. 64. Ibid., 107. 65. On the relation between the Vienna Secession and artists’ groups in Bohemia and Galicia, see Brzyski, “Unsere Polen,” and Brzyski, “Vienna Secession, Hagenbund, Sztuka, and Mánes.” 66. Alois Riegl, “Die Stimmung als Inhalt der modernen Kunst,” in Gesammelte Aufsätze,

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27–37, and Riegl, “Das Moderne in der Kunst.” The lecture by Lessing was published as Das Moderne in der Kunst: Vortrag, gehalten in der Volkswirtschaftlichen Gesellschaft zu Berlin. 67. Riegl, “Die Stimmung als Inhalt der modernen Kunst,” 28. 68. Ibid., 34. 69. Riegl, “Das Moderne in der Kunst,” 10. 70. Crary, Suspensions of Perception, 51. 71. Riegl, Historical Grammar, 95. 72. Ibid, 61 and 82. 73. Ibid., 98–99. 74. Ibid., 99. 75. Ibid., 182. 76. Ibid., 84. 77. Lachnit, Die Wiener Schule der Kunstgeschichte, 60–66. 78. On the crystalline, see Prange, “The Crystalline.” 79. Riegl, Historical Grammar, 124. 80. As Riegl noted, this thinking diverged from that in his Problems of Style, in which he located the origins of art in a primeval impulse to adorn surfaces, which he saw exemplified in the facial tattoos of New Zealand Maoris. 81. Riegl, Historical Grammar, 382. 82. Worringer, Abstraction and Empathy. 83. Aurenhammer, “Max Dvořák and the History of Medieval Art.” On Worringer’s Abstraction and Empathy, see Waite, “Worringer’s Abstraction and Empathy. 84. Dvořák, “Von Mánes zu Švabinský.” 85. Kramář made this rather exaggerated claim in “Concerning Method in the Historical Study of Modern Art,” 206. 86. Dvořák, “Von Mánes zu Švabinský,” 30. 87. Ibid., 44. 88. Dvořák, “Vorwort,” in Wingler and Welz, Oskar Kokoschka, 40–42. 89. Ibid., 41. 90. Ibid. 91. Dvořák, Kunstgeschichte als Geistesgeschichte, 75. 92. Riegl, Historical Grammar, 100. 93. Ibid., 270. 94. Ibid., 273. 95. Thode, Böcklin und Thoma. On the critical fortunes of Liebermann in Germany, see Deshmukh, Forster-Hahn, and Gaehtgens, Max Liebermann and International Modernism. 96. It should be noted that Thode, incensed by a critical review of his work by Wickhoff in Kunstgeschichtliche Anzeigen, accused the

Austrian art historian of having mounted a campaign of persecution against him. Details are outlined in Lachnit, Die Wiener Schule der Kunstgeschichte, 47–52. 97. Strzygowski, Die bildende Kunst der Gegenwart, 221. 98. On Warburg and Böcklin, see Scaffi, “Warburg and Böcklin: Myths in Word and Image.” 99. Strzygowski, Die bildende Kunst der Gegenwart, 240. 100. Vybíral, “Vienna School of Art History.” 101. Strzygowski, Die bildende Kunst der Gegenwart, 2. 102. Ibid., 12. 103. Ibid., 14. 104. O. Wagner, Die Grossstadt. On Wagner’s pamphlet, see Sarnitz, “Realism Versus Verniedlichung.” 105. Strzygowski, Die bildende Kunst der Gegenwart, 15. 106. Ibid., 15–16. 107. See Russell, Between Tradition and Modernity. 108. Strzygowski, Ivan Meštrović. 109. Strzygowski, Miniaturen des serbischen Psalters. 110. Strzygowski, Baukunst der Armenier und Europa. 111. Strzygowski, Die bildende Kunst der Gegenwart, 75ff. 112. Ibid., 274. 113. Herf, Reactionary Modernism.

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chapter 8 1. Said, Orientalism: Western Conceptions of the Orient. 2. See, for example, Kontje, German Orientalisms; Polaschegg, Der andere Orientalismus; and Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire. 3. Lemon, Imperial Messages, 5. 4. Wolff, Inventing Eastern Europe. 5. See, for example, Okey, Habsburg Monarchy; Cornwall, Last Years of Austria-​Hungary; and Glenny, The Balkans, 1804–1999. 6. On Hansen’s work in Vienna, see Wagner-Rieger and Reissberger, Theophil von Hansen. 7. Franz Anton Thun, notes on the museum decoration, 16 July 1854, in the museum archive, cited in Eva Klingenstein, “Zur Problematik eines k.k. Nationaldenkmals: Die Entstehungsgeschichte des nach-1848er Ausstattungsprogramms in den Prunkräumen des

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Arsenal-​Zeughauses,” in Filitz and Telesko, Traum vom Glück, 53. Eitelberger’s Museum for Art and Industry had opened in 1864, but it was initially located in the court ballrooms, before moving into Heinrich von Ferstel’s building in 1871. 8. On the history of the building, see Alice Strobl, Das K.K. Waffenmuseum im Arsenal. 9. On the Byzantine revival, see Bullen, Byzantium Rediscovered. 10. Ruskin, Stones of Venice. 11. Salzenberg, Alt-christliche Baudenkmale von Constantinopel von v. bis xii. Jahrhundert. 12. Moravánszky, Competing Visions, 93. 13. Förster, “Das israelitische Bethaus,” 14. 14. See Gombrich, “Values of the Byzantine Tradition.” 15. Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik, 110. 16. Hegel, Philosophy of History, 340. Nelson, “Living on the Byzantine Borders of Western Art.” 17. See Barclay, Frederick William IV and the Prussian Monarchy. 18. Eitelberger, “Zur Orientirung auf dem Gebiete der Baukunst und ihrer Terminologie, i: Byzantinisch und romanisch”; “Zur Orientirung auf dem Gebiete der Baukunst und ihrer Terminologie, ii: Die byzantinischen Bauformen”; “Zur Orientirung auf dem Gebiete der Baukunst und ihrer Terminologie, iii: Der romanische Baustyl im Verhältnis zu anderen Baustylen des Mittelalters.” 19. Eitelberger, “Zur Orientirung auf dem Gebiete der Baukunst und ihrer Terminologie, i,” 49. 20. Eitelberger, “Zur Orientirung auf dem Gebiete der Baukunst und ihrer Terminologie, ii,” 73. 21. Ibid., 77. 22. Eitelberger, “Zur Orientirung auf dem Gebiete der Baukunst und ihrer Terminologie, i,” 50. 23. Ibid., 51. 24. As Eitelberger notes, the use of German “presents no threat at all to the existence of these two nationalities; indeed, it even gives the Slavs a guarantee against the intrusion of the Italian language . . . a kind of hostage binding Dalmatia to the center of the monarchy.” Eitelberger, Gesammelte kunsthistorische Schriften, 4:24. 25. Ibid., 314. 26. Ibid., 30. 27. Ibid., 30–31. 28. Ibid., 31.

29. Okey, Taming Balkan Nationalism. 30. Krumbacher, “Vorwort,” 1, 2. 31. Ibid., 3. 32. Strzygowski, “Die byzantinische Kunst.” 33. Ibid., 66. 34. Strzygowski, “Ursprung und Sieg der altbyzantinischen Kunst.” 35. Josef Strzygowski, “Die Entwicklung der Kunst in den ersten drei Jahrhunderten nach Christi,” in Orient oder Rom, 1–10. 36. Ibid., 8. 37. Ibid., 7. 38. Ibid., 8. 39. Strzygowski, Kleinasien: Ein Neuland der Kunstgeschichte, 208–9. 40. Marquand, “Strzygowski and His Theory of Early Christian Art,” 365. 41. Riegl, “Late Roman or Oriental?” 42. See, for example, Olin, “Art History and Ideology,” and Elsner, “Birth of Late Antiquity.” 43. Elsner, “Birth of Late Antiquity,” 371. 44. Riegl noted: “Augustine’s reticence with regard to the figurative arts gains deeper significance when we recall that the development of the subsequent centuries was not favorable for the figurative arts. The Semitic Orient abolished them permanently, the Greek Orient threatened them with iconoclasm for at least a century, and even in the West the great groundbreaking achievements were, until the twelfth century, accomplished not in sculpture or painting but in architecture (and the applied arts)” (Riegl, Spätrömische Kunstindustrie [1927], 397). 45. Riegl, “Late Roman or Oriental?” 173. 46. Strzygowski, Etschmiadzin-Evangeliar; Strzygowski, Baukunst der Armenier und Europa. On Strzygowski’s history of Armenian art, see Maranci, Medieval Armenian Architecture. 47. Hillenbrand, “Creswell and Contemporary European Scholarship,” 27. 48. Details are provided in Strzygowski, Josef Strzygowski—Festschrift. 49. Kaufmann, Toward a Geography of Art, 68ff. 50. Spengler, Untergang des Abendlandes. On the concept of the Abendland, see Pöpping, Abendland. 51. Strzygowski, Die bildende Kunst des Ostens, 4. 52. Ibid., 76. 53. “This Attila of art history seems to have had in the last thirty years of his life the same bitter hatred of all that Mediterranean civilization implies which inspired the Hunnish barbarian whom his Christian contemporaries called ‘the scourge of God.’ . . . with Professor

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Strzygowski racialism began to preach its anti-humanistic gospel long before the word ‘Nazism’ was as much as imagined.” Berenson, Aesthetics and History, 25–26. 54. Frodl-Kraft, “Eine Aporie und der Versuch ihrer Deutung.” 55. For the information on Tartu I am grateful to Krista Kodres. Regarding Lemberg, see Małkiewicz, Z dziejów polskiej historii sztuki, 45. 56. On Stokes and Strzygowski, see Kite, “ ‘South Opposed to East and North.’ ” Rice, Birth of Western Painting, and Rice, Background of Art. 57. The full list of Vienna School graduates and their dissertation topics is included in Pozzetto, La scuola viennese di storia dell’arte, 259–93. 58. Diez was author of Die Kunst der islamischen Völker and Die Kunst Indiens. On Diez’s time in Turkey, see Dogramaci, “Kunstgeschichte in Istanbul.” 59. Petranu was author of Bisericile de lemn din judeþul Arad / Les églises de bois du départament d’Arad and Monumentele artistice ale judeţului Bihor / The Wooden Churches in the County of Bihor. Petranu was critical of what he regarded as Bartók’s appropriation of Romanian folk music. See Petranu, “M. Béla Bartók et la musique roumaine,” and Bartók, “Answer to the Petranu Attack.” 60. Marosi, “Josef Strzygowski als Entwerfer von nationalen Kunstgeschichten.” 61. Strzygowski, Die altslavische Kunst, xi. 62. Birnbaum, Ravennská architektura, 5. 63. See Zapletal, “Západ nebo východ?” and Nebeský, “Západ nebo východ.” This debate is outlined in Filipová, “Construction of National Identity,” 231–40. See too Filipová, “Czechoslovakia and Czech Art History.” 64. Zapletal’s most lasting legacy was a collection of photographs documenting the wooden churches of the Carpathian region, which he toured in the 1920s, a collection subsequently published as Holzkirchen in den Karpaten. 65. I am grateful to Georg Vasold for showing me Riegl’s school certificate from this period. 66. Riegl, Volkskunst, Hausfleiss und Hausindustrie, 76. 67. Ibid., 41. 68. See, for example, Stocking, Victorian Anthropology. 69. Riegl, Volkskunst, Hausfleiss und Hausindustrie, 52–53. 70. On the image of Czernowitz, see Corbea-Hoisie, “Czernowitz: Der imaginierte ‘Westen im Osten.’ ”

71. Riegl, Volkskunst, Hausfleiss und Hausindus­ trie, 53. 72. See, for example, Feichtinger, Prutsch, and Csáky, Habsburg Postcolonial. 73. Helfert, Bosnisches. 74. Ibid., 16. 75. Ibid., 157. 76. Helfert, Die weltgeschichtliche Bedeutung des Wiener Sieges von 1683, 29, cited in Healey, “1883 Vienna in the Turkish Mirror,” 112. 77. Hartmuth, “Habsburg Landesmuseum in Sarajevo.” 78. Ibid., 199. 79. See, for example, Robert Munro, Rambles and Studies in Bosnia-Herzegovina and Dalmatia: With an Account of the Proceedings of the Congress of Archaeologists and Anthropologists Held at Sarejevo, August 1894 (Edinburgh: Blackwood, 1895); Henri Moser, An Oriental Holiday: Bosnia and Herzegovina; A Handbook for the Tourist (London: International Sleeping Car and European Express Trains, 1895); Heinrich Renner, Durch Bosnien und die Hercegovina kreuz und quer: Wanderungen (Berlin: Geographische Verlagshandlung D. Reimer, 1896); and Maude Holbach, Bosnia and Herzegovina: Some Wayside Wanderings (London: J. Lane, 1909). 80. On the Bosnian pavilion, see Weidinger, “Alfons Mucha und der Pavillon.” 81. Healey, “1883 Vienna in the Turkish Mirror.” 82. Riegl, “Beziehungen der orientalischen Teppichfabrication,” 237. 83. The formation of Islamic art was put in a broader cultural and social context only in 1910, when Ernst Herzfeld (1879–1948) identified two factors responsible for its distinctiveness: the adaptation of traditional artistic forms to the liturgical practices of Islam, and the transcultural migration of craftsmen across the newly established Islamic polities, leading to the fusion of previously disparate local traditions. See Herzfeld, “Genesis der islamischen Kunst.” On the work of Herzfeld, see Gunter and Hauser, Ernst Herzfeld and the Development of Near Eastern Studies. 84. Riegl, Problems of Style, 105. 85. Comparable examples in Britain included the historians of Indian art and architecture James Fergusson and George Birdwood. See Guha-Thakurta, “Tales of the Barhut Stupa.” See too Colin Cunningham, “James Fergusson’s History of Indian Architecture.” Fergusson’s key work was History of Indian and Far Eastern Architecture. Birdwood was the author

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86.

87.

88. 89.

90. 91. 92.

93.

Notes to Pages 18 3– 193 of The Arts of India, the guide to the south Asian collection of the South Kensington Museum. Wickhoff, “Der Stil der Malereien.” An account of the publication and of Riegl’s involvement can be found in Garth Fowden, “Musil’s Fairy-Tale Castle,” in Qusayr ‘Amra, 1–30. Riegl’s report on the materials submitted by Musil is cited at length by David Müller in his foreword to Musil, Kusejr ‘Amra, 1:ii–iii. “The significance of the fresco does not lie in its artistic merit. . . . What matters is that it indicates one of the aims of representations in early Islamic times, that of illustrating the new culture’s awareness of and sense of belonging to the family of traditional rulers on earth.” Grabar, Formation of Islamic Art, 46. Wickhoff, “Der Stil der Malereien,” 203. Riegl, “Gutachten über den kunsthistorischen Wert der Fresken von Kasr ‘Amra und den von einer sachgemäßen Aufnahme und Publikaten derselben zu gewärtigenden wissenschaftlichen Gewinn,” 10 March 1901, cited in David Müller, “Vorwort,” in Musil, Kusejr ‘Amra, ii–iii. Franz Wickhoff, “Über die historische Einheit der gesamten Kunstentwicklung,” in Abhandlungen, Vorträge und Aufsätze, 81–91. Ibid., 87. Ibid., 89. Wickhoff cites extensively from the work of the Sinologist Friedrich Hirth, in particular the latter’s Ueber fremde Einflüsse in der chinesischen Kunst. On the debates about the origins of Gandharan art, see Mitter, Much Maligned Monsters, and Guha-Thakurta, Monuments, Objects, Histories. On the impact of Alexander’s conquests, see Boardman, Diffusion of Classical Art in Antiquity. Wickhoff, “Über die historische Einheit der gesamten Kunstentwicklung,” 89.

chapter 9 1. The key texts are gathered in Riegl, Kunstwerk oder Denkmal? 2. See, for example, Olin, “Cult of Monuments,” and Falser, “Cultural-Political Construction.” 3. The key work in this regard is Dvořák’s Katechismus der Denkmalpflege. Dvořák’s complete writings on monument protection have recently been published in Dvořák, Schriften zur Denkmalpflege.

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4. Decree of Empress Maria Theresa, cited in Frodl, Idee und Verwirklichung, 24. 5. The text of the decree is reproduced in ibid., 181. 6. Galician decree of 20 August 1802, cited in ibid., 40. 7. Key publications by Melly include Beiträge zur Siegelkunde des Mittelalters and Vaterländische Urkunden. 8. Melly, Das Westportal des Domes zu Wien. 9. Eduard Melly to Alexander Bach, 11 April 1850, cited in Frodl, Idee und Verwirklichung, 61. 10. The table was printed on page 33 of the 1856 volume of the Jahrbuch der k.k. CentralCommission. 11. Eitelberger, “Aufgabe der Alterthumskunde in Österreich,” 1. 12. Ibid., 2. 13. Eitelberger was referring to Franz Kugler’s Handbuch der Kunstgeschichte and to Müller’s Handbuch der Archäologie der Kunst. 14. Eitelberger, “Kunst und Alterthum in ihrem Wechselverkehr,” 1. 15. Eitelberger, “Bericht über einen archäologischen Ausflug.” 16. The eventual volume was published as Österreichische Kunst-Topographie: Herzogthum Kärnten. 17. Mádl, Topographie der historischen und Kunst-Denkmale im Königreiche Böhmen, vol. 1, Der politische Bezirk Kolin. 18. Josef Hlávka, “Prolog zur Topographie der historischen und Kunst-Denkmale im Königreiche Böhmen,” in ibid. 19. Dvořák, Österreichische Kunsttopographie, vol. 1, Die Denkmale des politischen Bezirks Krems in Niederösterreich. 20. A brief history of the project is provided in the foreword to the volume by Joseph Alexander von Helfert, Österreichische Kunsttopographie, vol. 5, Die Denkmale des politischen Bezirkes Horn (Vienna: Anton Schroll, 1907), ix–xi. 21. Dvořák, “Einleitung,” in Österreichische Kunsttopographie, 1:xix. 22. Ibid. 23. Alois Riegl, “Das Denkmalschutzgesetz,” in Kunstwerk oder Denkmal? 203–15. 24. Dvořák, “Einleitung,” in Österreichische Kunsttopographie, 1:xix. 25. Ibid., xx. 26. Ibid., xxi. 27. The first volume of the Berichte und Mittheilungen des Alterthums-Vereines zu Wien

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was published in 1856. The prehistory of the association together with its statutes was published in the first volume, i–ix. 28. Statutes of the society, § 1b. The statutes, originally published in the journal Czas, are available online at tmhzk​.krakow​.pl/​dane/​ statut1896​.pdf (accessed 10 February 2012). 29. See, for example, Zur Rettung Alt-Wiens, Heimatschutz, Die Zukunft des Karlsplatzes: Eine Anregung, and Ein Denkmalschutzgesetz für Österreich. 30. “Grundzüge einer Instruction für die Central-​ Commission zur Erforschung und Erhaltung der Baudenkmale,” § 15, in Jahrbuch der k.k. Central-Commission 1 (1856): 7. 31. The statutes include detailed descriptions of the responsibilities of the conservator. See Jahrbuch der k.k. Central-Commission 1 (1856): 17–26. 32. The first conservator for Upper Austria was the novelist Adalbert Stifter, an appointment that seems curious at first glance, except for the fact that he had previously been involved in a restoration project. See Olin, “Cult of Monuments,” 180–82. 33. Frane Bulić (1846–1934) was a leading Croat archaeologist and historian of medieval Croatian art. Dzieduszycki (1825–1899) was a leading noble in Galicia who played a key role in the promotion of local ethnographic and scientific research. He founded the Dzieduszycki Museum in Lemberg in 1855 (based on the model of the regional Landesmuseum) and cofounded the Museum of Industrial Art in the city two decades later, in 1874. Henszlmann (1813–1888) was one of the first Hungarian archaeologists and historians of medieval art. Kukuljević Sakcinski (1816–1889) was one of the first Croatian art historians and archaeologists, author of a dictionary of South Slav artists—Slovnik umjetnikah jugoslavenskih. In 1909 the commission published a complete index of all the articles in both journals. See Register zum Jahrbuch 1856–1861 und zu den Mitteilungen der k.k. Zentral-Kommission für Kunst- und historische Denkmale. 34. See Finkel, “Gefährdete Holzkirchen in Ost-​ Galizien,” and Švimberský, “Anleitung zur Imprägnierung wurmstichigen Holzes.” See too the anonymous report “Ostgalizische Holzkirchen.” 35. Brückler, Thronfolger Franz Ferdinand als Denkmalpfleger. 36. The full details are outlined in Dettloff, Fabiański, and Fischinger, Zamek Królewski na Wawelu.

37. Dvořák, “Restaurierungsfragen ii: Das Königsschloss am Wawel.” 38. Ibid., col. 108. 39. K.k. Zentral-Kommission, “Die Restaurierung des königlichen Schlosses auf dem Wawel in Krakau.” The article contains photographs of restoration work as well as Hendel’s model. 40. Tomkowicz, cited in ibid., col. 273. 41. See Majewski, Wawel: Its History and Conservation. 42. See Bartetzky, “History Revised.” See too Dettloff, Odbudowa i restauracja zabytków architektury. 43. Alois Riegl, “Neue Strömungen in der Denkmalpflege,” in Kunstwerk oder Denkmal? 218–33. 44. Georg Dehio, “Denkmalschutz und Denkmalpflege,” in Kunsthistorische Aufsätze, 261–82. 45. Ibid., 268. 46. Riegl, “Neue Strömungen in der Denkmalpflege,” 221. 47. On the history of the cathedral, see E. Bachmann, “Peter Parler und die Prager Dombauhütte,” 99–105, and Klotz, Geschichte der deutschen Kunst, 1:386–87. 48. See Petrasová, “L’idée de la cathédrale de Prague.” 49. See Petrasová, “Josef Mocker.” 50. Dvořák, “Restaurierungsfragen i,” col. 8. 51. Hlávka, cited in Dvořák, Listy o životě a umění, 163 (Max Dvořák to Jaroslav Goll, 31 July 1907). 52. Dvořák, Katechismus der Denkmalpflege, figs. 66 and 67. 53. On the Municipal House, see Svatašová and Ledvinka, Město a jeho dům. 54. Dvořák, Katechismus der Denkmalpflege, commentary on fig. 66, “Der Pulverturm in Prag in seiner alten Gestalt und Umgebung” (The Powder Tower in Prague in its old form and setting). 55. Ibid., commentary on fig. 67, “Der Pulverturm in Prag nach der Restaurierung und in seiner heutigen Umgebung” (The Powder Tower in Prague after the restoration and in its current setting). 56. In the decades after his death Dvořák was nevertheless an influential figure in monument protection in Czechoslovakia through the work of Czechs who had studied with him in Vienna and disseminated his ideas (and those of Riegl). See Rokyta, “Max Dvořák und seine Schule in den böhmischen Ländern,” and Hlobil, “Reception and First Criticism of Alois Riegl.”

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Notes to Pages 201 –21 4

57. Dvořák, “Denkmalpflege in Österreich,” 133. Dvořák’s assertion has recently been approvingly restated by Eva Maria Höhle in “Zur Genese des ‘Denkmalkultus.’ ” 58. K.k. Zentral-Kommission, Auszug aus dem stenographischen Protokoll. 59. See Helfert, Denkmalpflege, and Much, Vorschläge von Regierungsmaßregeln zum Schutze von Alterthümern. 60. See, for example, Horat, “Alois Riegl: Der moderne Denkmalkultus,” and Wyss, “Jenseits des Kunstwollens.” 61. Riegl, “Modern Cult of Monuments,” 21–22. 62. Ibid., 39ff. 63. Ibid., 28. 64. Ibid., 29. 65. Ibid., 31. 66. Ibid., 34 and 35. 67. Ibid., 33. 68. Ibid., 37. 69. Riegl, “Das Denkmalschutzgesetz,” in Kunstwerk oder Denkmal? 100–120. 70. Ibid., 103–4. 71. Riegl, “Das Denkmalschutzgesetz,” in Kunstwerk oder Denkmal? 203–15. 72. Ibid., 209. 73. Ibid., 210. 74. Ibid., 214. 75. Alois Riegl, “Die Restaurierung der Wandmalereien in der Heiligkreuzkapelle des Domes auf dem Wawel zu Krakau,” in Kunstwerk oder Denkmal? 183–200. 76. See Riegl’s outline of the history in ibid, 187–93. 77. Ibid., 197–98. 78. Alois Riegl, “Bericht über eine im Auftrage des Präsidiums der k.k. Zentral-Kommission zur Wahrung der Interessen der mittelalterlichen und neuzeitlichen Denkmale innerhalb des ehemaligen Diokletianischen Palastes zu Spalato durchgeführte Untersuchung,” in Kunstwerk oder Denkmal? 173–82. 79. Ibid., 179. 80. Dvořák, “Restaurierung des Buvinatores am Dome in Spalato.” 81. The history of the cathedral and the restoration projects is recounted in Tietze, Geschichte und Beschreibung des St. Stephansdomes in Wien, 1–81. See too Dahm, Das Riesentor. 82. Sisa, “Neo-Gothic Architecture,” 180. 83. Moriz Thausing, “Phylloxera Renovatrix,” in Wiener Kunstbriefe, 166. 84. Moriz Thausing, “Das Riesenthor des St. Stephansdomes, wie es ist und wie es war,” in Wiener Kunstbriefe, 172–82. Thausing’s article was a highly positive review of Paul

Müller’s Riesenthor des St. Stephansdomes zu Wien. 85. Wickhoff, “Zur Restaurierung der Stephanskirche.” 86. See Ver Sacrum 5 (1902): 53. 87. Alois Riegl, “Das Riesenthor zu St. Stephan,” in Kunstwerk oder Denkmal? 145–56. 88. Ibid., 154. 89. Olin, “Cult of Monuments,” 190. 90. On Dvořák’s relation to Riegl, see Hajós, “Riegls Gedankengut,” and Scarrocchia, “Dvořák and the Trend in Monument Care.” 91. Dvořák, Katechismus der Denkmalpflege, 14. 92. Roller, “Stimmungswert im spätmodernen Denkmalkultus.” 93. On the relation between Dvořák and Franz Ferdinand, see Blower, “Max Dvořák, Franz Ferdinand, and the Katechismus der Denkmalpflege.” 94. Dvořák, “Denkmalkultus und künstlerische Entwicklung.” 95. Ibid., col. 16. 96. Scarrocchia, “Dvořák and the Trend in Monument Care.” 97. Blower, “Max Dvořák and Austrian Denkmalpflege at War.” 98. Max Dvořák, “Einrichtungen des Kunstschutzes in Österreich,” in Clemen, Kunstschutz im Kriege, 2:1–10. 99. Dvořák, “Ein Brief an die italienischen Fachgenossen.” 100. This is outlined in Blower, “Max Dvořák and Austrian Denkmalpflege at War.”

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epilogue 1. Venturi, Pais, and Molmenti, Monumental Dalmatia. 2. Ibid., 39. 3. Adolfo Venturi, “Art in Dalmatia,” in ibid., 23. 4. Ibid., 24–25. 5. This process is outlined in Alfons Lhotsky, “Die Verteidigung der Wiener Sammlungen Kultur- und naturhistorischer Denkmäler durch die Erste Republik,” in Aufsätze und Vorträge, 4:164–211. 6. Tietze, Entführung von Wiener Kunstwerken nach Italien. Dvořák’s letter is titled “Ein Brief an die italienischen Fachgenossen.” 7. Benesch, “Max Dvořák (1874–1921).” 8. Belting, Germans and Their Art. 9. Ernst Gombrich, “Zum Werke Giulio Romanos,” Jahrbuch der kunsthistorischen Sammlungen in Wien 8 (1934): 79–104, 9 (1935): 121–50.

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Index

Abels, Ludwig, 77 Abendland, 176, 181 Academy of Arts and Sciences, Cracow (Akademia Umiejętności), 67 Academy of Fine Arts, Prague, 61, 63 Academy of Fine Arts, Vienna, 9, 12, 145, 146, 187–88 acanthus motif, 37–38, 44, 172 Ackermann, Joseph, 194 aesthetics, 50–51 and the Baroque, 99, 108 Böhm, 12, 14 Eitelberger, 20 Hegel, 19, 169 and late Roman art, 148 and modern art, 147, 153, 154 and monument protection, 199 Morelli, 34 Riegl, 39, 43–44 Strzygowski, 158, 159, 160, 163 Thausing, 32–33 Wickhoff, 36–37, 150–51 Zimmermann, 33 age value, 202–4, 205, 209 Albertina, 10, 29 catalogue, 36 Aleš, Mikoláš, 107, 132 ambience (Stimmung), 149–50, 154–55, 203 analytic (deductive) art history, 42–43 anticlericalism, 107–8, 171, 187 antiquarianism, 8, 152, 187, 191 anti-​Semitism, 4, 58, 141 Strzygowski’s, 27, 59, 158, 174, 176 Antoniewicz, Bołoz, 71 arabesque, the, 182 Archaeological Commission of the Academy of Sciences, Literature, and Art, Prague, 190–91, 200 archaeology, and art history, 29, 32 architecture. See also monuments Baroque, 96–115 Byzantine revival, 167–70 Eitelberger, 146, 190; surveys, 21–25 and folk art, 116 modern, 159–63; urban planning, 150–51; vernacular, 91, 127, 136–37, 140, 195 Armenia, 163, 175 art drive (Kunstwollen), 37–44, 49, 106, 109–10 The Art of the East (Die bildende Kunst des Ostens) (Strzygowski), 175–76 art topography, Dvořák on, 191–92 Artaria, Dominik, 11 Art-​Historical Commission, Cracow, 67, 71 section in Lemberg, 68

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art-​historical judgments, 33, 37, 50, 112, 199, 209–10 artistic value, 209–10 arts and crafts, 91 English Arts and Crafts movement, 123 Asia Minor: A New Region for Art History (Kleinasien: Ein Neuland der Kunstgeschichte) (Strzygowski), 173–74 Association of Austrian Folklore, 133 attentiveness (Aufmerksamkeit), 109, 155 Aurenhammer, Hans, 157 Austria identity, 98–100 per capita incomes, 118 Austria-​Hungary, 5, 6–7, 75–81, 137, 185, 201. See also Habsburg Empire and the East, 179, 180 and the First World War, 213 Kronprinzenwerk, 81–91, 94–95 Austrian Art Society in Vienna (Österreichischer Kunst-​Verein in Wien), 11 Austrian Art Topography (Österreichische Kunsttopographie), 190–91, 208–9 Austrian Ethnography Society, 136 The Austro-​Hungarian Monarchy in Word and Image (Kronprinzenwerk), 83, 84–87, 89, 91–95, 106, 137 Bach, Alexander, 188 Bachmann, Karl Friedrich, 19 Bahr, Hermann, 46, 66, 87, 110 Bakoš, Jan, 74 Balkans, 167, 176 Balšánek, Antonín, 200 Baroque, 70, 79, 96–115, 143 Bartók, Béla, 177 Barvitius, Victor, 92, 93–94 Battle of the White Mountain, 102 Baum, Antonín, 63 Baworowski, Viktor, 68 Baworowski Library, 68 Begas, Reinhold, 161 Belting, Hans, 214 Belvedere collection, 10 Benedikt of Laun (Ried), 63 Benesch, Otto, 214 Berenson, Bernard, 176 Berger, Julius, Patrons of the Arts of the House of Habsburg, 100 Berlin, 21 “Bernini the Younger,” 96 Biedermeier culture, 9 Die bildende Kunst der Gegenwart (Fine Art of the Present) (Strzygowski), 158, 163, 164

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index

Die bildende Kunst des Ostens (The Art of the East) (Strzygowski), 175–76 Bildung, 4, 10, 13, 18 Birnbaum, Vojtěch , 54, 106, 177–78 Bitnitz, Ludwig von, 194 Blau, Eve, 60 Blower, Jonathan, 210 Bołoz Antoniewicz, Jan, 56 Böcklin, Arnold, 150, 159, 164 Bohemia, 7, 101–8, 118, 132, 157, 194 art-​topographical project, 190–91 Kronprinzenwerk, 91–94 Böhm, Joseph Daniel, 11–13, 14, 57, 142 Boisserée, Sulpiz, 169 Bolzano, Bernard, 53 Bosnia, 6, 76, 166, 167, 171, 180–81 Bosnian-​Herzegovina Regional Museum, 180 Braun, Adolf, 119 Brožík, Václav, 82–83 Brückler, Theodor, 195 Brünn, 77 Brzyski, Anna, 72 Bücher, Karl, 119 Budapest, 7, 57–58, 60, 144 Bukovina, 59, 85–86, 118, 136, 179–80, 195 Bulić, Frane, 56, 195 Burckhardt, Jakob, 41, 98 Buvina, Andrija, 205 Byzantine art and architecture, 171–78, 183, 185 Byzantine revival, 167–70 influence of, 89, 131, 155 Byzantinische Zeitschrift, 171

early history of, 187–88 Hungary, 57–58 Riegl, 2–3, 186 study of monuments, 188–93 theory and policy, 201–8 contemporary art, 141–42, 164–65 and the Baroque, 108, 110–12 Böhm, 12 Dvořák, 157–58 Eitelberger, 142–46 Kršnjavi, 57 Mycielski, 71 Riegl, 153–56, 203 Strzygowski, 157–58 Wickhoff, 146–53 Conze, Alexander, 38 Coptic art, 129–30 Correggio, 108 cosmopolitanism Austria-​Hungary, 5, 83, 94–95, 137, 185, 201 and the Baroque, 99–100, 115 Bohemia, 104 Prague, 93 Vienna, 143, 144–45 costume, folk, 120 Cracow, 55, 66–67, 88 Cracow Society of Friends of History and Monuments (Towarzystwo miłośników historyi i zabytków Krakowa), 193 Craft School of Wood Industry, Zakopane, 125–27 Cranach, Lukas, 93 Crary, Jonathan, 155 Croatia, 56–57, 76, 120, 130–31 Croce, Benedetto, 50 Crowley, David, 69, 126 Crowther, Paul, 40 the crystalline, 156–57 cult of monuments, 3, 110, 186, 202, 209–10, 211 Czartoryski Museum, 67 Czech Foundation (Matice česká), 61 Czech identity and the Baroque, 102, 107 Bohemia, 91–94, 157 Czech culture, 132, 134–35, 136–37 and monuments, 199–201 Prague, 54, 60–66, 104, 146 Czechoslavic Ethnographic Exhibition, 107, 134–35, 136 Czechoslavic Ethnographic Society, 135 Czechoslovakia, 54, 178 Czernowitz, 86, 179 Czoernig, Karl, 83–84, 137, 138, 188–89

Camesina, Albert, 11, 194 Cankar, Izidor, 215 Čapek, Karel, 132 carpets, 37–38, 181–82 Carstens, Asmus, 33 Catechism of Monument Protection (Katechismus der Denkmalpflege) (Dvořák), 200–201, 209, 211 Cathedral of St. Vitus, 104 Catholicism Böhm, 12 church and state, 8, 14 Ilg, 78–79 and Orthodoxy, 167, 171 and university reform, 16–17 Central Commission, 57–58, 187–88, 190, 192–200, 206 and Riegl, 201–2, 204, 208 Chałubinski, Tytus, 127 Charles IV, 60, 62, 92, 93, 199–200 Chinese art, 184 Chytil, Karel, 92, 93, 106, 107 Club for Old Prague (Klub za starou Prahu), 107, 193 colonial attitudes, 6–7, 86, 116, 171, 179–80 Congress of Vienna exhibition, 80 conservation Central Commission, 187, 188, 193–201 Dvořák, 208–10

00i-282_Rampley_cloth_4p.indb 272

Dalmatia, 7, 76, 86–87, 120, 170–71 Eitelberger’s studies, 22–25, 190 Monumental Dalmatia, 212–13 David, Jacques-​Louis, 33 de Meyer, Dirk, 74 deductive (analytic) art history, 42–43 de-​formation, 49

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i n d ex Dehio, Georg, 3, 199 Delenda Austria, 76 Demus, Otto, 177 design design schools, 119–20 and folk art, 116, 120–21 Dettloff, Szczęsny , 215 Deutsches Volksblatt, 152 Didi-​Huberman, Georges, 50 Dientzenhoffer, Kilián, 102, 104 Diez, Ernst, 177, 191 Dilly, Heinrich, 3–4 Diocletian’s palace, Split, 205 Dittmann, Lorenz, 41 Dohány Street Synagogue, Budapest, 168 Dostál, Eugen, 54, 215 Dresden power station, 159 Droysen, Gustav, 20, 41 Dubrovnik, 170 Dumba, Nikolaus, 85 Dürer, Albrecht, 112 Dürer, Hans, 88 Dvořák, Max and Baroque modernity, 110–15 career, 53, 54–55 cyclical history of art, 106 and the Habsburg Empire, 213–14 influence of, 3, 178, 214, 215 legacy of Riegl’s Questions of Style, 44–46 legacy of Thausing, 51 on modern art, 156, 157–58 and monument protection, 191–92, 196–202, 205, 208–11 and nationalist ideologies, 5, 65–66 and Wickhoff, 35–36, 153 Dzieduszycki, Włodzimierz, 87, 91, 127, 195 early Christian art, 45, 46–48, 172, 174 École des Chartes, 19 economics economic theory, 38, 132 and house industry, 117–18 Egyptian art, 129–30, 156, 173 Einstein, Albert, 53 Eitelberger, Rudolf von on aesthetics, 20 and the Central Commission, 189–90 historicism, 142–46 house industry, 119–20, 121, 122–23, 129, 134 impact of Böhm, 12 influence of, 2, 9, 30, 50, 57, 71 life and career, 1, 14, 17, 27 monuments: Byzantine and Romanesque, 169–71, 211; protection, 98–99; surveys, 21–25 and the Museum for Art and Industry, 28–29 patriotism, 5, 75–77, 203 public interventions, 3, 13–15, 31–32 publication of historical textual sources, 26–27 scientific method, 22, 59

00i-282_Rampley_cloth_4p.indb 273

273 El Greco, 112–14, 158 Eljasz-​Radzikowski, Walery, 127 empiricism, 19–20 Die Entstehung der Barockkunst in Rom (The Origins of Baroque Art in Rome) (Riegl), 108 Erzgebirge, 129 Ethnographic Museum, Vienna, 136 Ethnographic Society, 137 ethnography, 134–39, 179–80 Etruscans, 174 evolutionary theory, 44–45 exhibitions on the Congress of Vienna, 80 Cracow, 67, 70 Czechoslavic Ethnographic Exhibition, 107, 134–35, 136 Exhibition of Forestry and the Rural Economy, 118 Exposition universelle, Paris 1867, 135 Exposition universelle, Paris 1900, 152, 181 of folk art, Zagreb, 130 on the Hutsuls, 128 International Art Exhibition, Rome 1911, 161 Klimt Exhibition, 152 Millennial Exhibition, Budapest 1896, 135 Prague Exhibition, 1895, 135 Secession exhibitions, 111, 151 Universal Regional Exhibition, Lemberg, 1885, 89 Universal Regional Exhibition, Lemberg, 1894, 71, 135 Weltausstellung (World’s Fair), 1873, 181 Exner, Franz, 16, 53 Exner, Wilhelm, 118, 120 Exposition universelle, Paris 1867, 135 Exposition universelle, Paris 1900, 152, 181 Expressionism, 112, 155–57 Expressionism (Bahr), 46, 110 Fałat, Julian, 88 Fabry, Ignaz, 194 Fachschulen (technical schools), 119–20, 121 Falke, Jakob von, 28–29 Baroque, 98–99 folk art, 123, 134 house industry, 100, 120–22, 129 Kronprinzenwerk , 85 Fellner, Ferdinand, 98 fernsichtig, 154 Ferstel, Heinrich von, 79, 98, 146, 151 Ficker, Franz, 14 Fiedler, Konrad, 111 Filla, Emil, 113 Fine Art of the Present (Die bildende Kunst der Gegenwart) (Strzygowski), 158, 163, 164 Fiorillo, Johann Dominicus, 20 First World War, 210, 213 Fischbach, Friedrich, 130 Fischer von Erlach, Johann the Elder, 78, 79 Fogarassay, Michael, 194 folk art (Volkskunst), 40, 57, 69, 116–17, 123–40, 178–79 house industry, 100, 117–23

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274

index

Folklore Society, 123 folklorism, 123, 133 Forrer, Robert, 130 Förster, Ludwig, 168 Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (Dürer), 112 France, 22, 27, 123, 199 Francis II, 55, 59 Franko, Ivan, 136 Franz Ferdinand, Archduke, 100, 195, 209 Franz Joseph I, 79–80, 83, 128, 142–43, 153, 167, 187 Franz Joseph University, Czernowitz 59, 86 Franzos, Karl, From Semi-​Asia: The Land and People of Eastern Europe, 6 Friedrich Wilhelm IV, 167–68, 169 Frodl-​Kraft, Eva, 176 The Future of the Baroque Style (Die Zukunft des Barockstiles) (Ilg), 96–100

Grueber, Bernhard, 61, 63 Guizot, François, 22 Gurlitt, Cornelius, 101–2 Riegl’s review of, 39, 42

Galicia, 7, 66–72, 76 folk art, 124–26, 128 house industry, 118 Kronprinzenwerk, 87–91 monument protection, 193, 195 Ruthenians, 136 Gauermann, Friedrich, 142 Gauguin, Paul, 123 Gayet, Albert, 129–30 Geistesgeschichte, 46 genetic method, 44–45 German culture Bohemia, 91–94, 136–37, 157 Dvořák, 165 Eitelberger, 145–46, 170 language, 7, 59 liberalism, 5 Lübke, 97–98 Prague, 54, 60–66, 102–4 Riegl, 156, 179 Strzygowski, 176 Wickhoff, 150 Germany, 4, 75, 137–38 folk art, 129 museums, 28 Gerstenberg, Kurt, 92 Gesamtkunstwerk, 99 Geschichte der deutschen Renaissance (History of the German Renaissance) (Lübke), 97–98 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 169 Goll, Jaroslav, 200 Gombrich, Ernst, 214 Gomperz, Heinrich, 49 Gothic Baroque, 104–6 Goya, Dvořák’s essay, 114, 211 Grabar, Oleg, 183 Grabowski, Ambroży, 65 Greek art, 47–48, 130, 156, 183–84 Grottger, Artur, 71, 82, 88 The Group Portraiture of Holland (Riegl), 109, 155, 214

00i-282_Rampley_cloth_4p.indb 274

Haberlandt, Michael, 136–39 Habsburg Empire art historians’ views on, 6 Eitelberger’s views on, 144–45 and the First World War, 213 and house industry, 119 identity, 73, 75–81, 94–95, 96, 184–85; Kronprinzenwerk, 83–94; monument protection, 199, 201, 211 and orientalism, 166–67, 184–85 Hagen, Ernst, 20–21 Hagia Sophia, Istanbul, 168 Hamann, Richard, 149 Hampel, József, 132 Hansen,Theophil, 167, 169 Hanslick, Eduard, 33 Hartmuth, Maximilian, 180 Haushofer, Max, 61 Hausindustrie (house industry), 57, 100, 117–23, 130–31, 132 Healey, Maureen, 181 Heerde, Jeroen Bastiaan van, 5, 152 Hegel, 19, 21, 169 Heider, Gustav, 11, 25–26 Helfert, Joseph, 83, 180, 195, 201–2, 203 Hellenism, 173, 183–84 Hendel, Zygmunt, 196, 198 Henszlmann, Imre, 11–12, 21, 57–58, 195 Herbart, Johann, 33 Herf, Jeffrey, 164 Hevesi, Lajos (Ludwig), 77, 79–80, 152 Hieser, Joseph, 25–26 high art, 117, 132 and music, 116 Hildebrand, Adolf von, 111, 147 Historical Grammar of the Visual Arts (Historische Grammatik der bildenden Künste) (Riegl), 42, 155–56, 164 historical value, 202–4, 205, 209 historicism, 97, 142–47, 149, 159–60 History of Ancient Art (Winckelmann), 149 History of the Development of Modern Art (Meier-​ Graefe), 147 Hlávka, Josef, 146, 200 Hofmannsthal, Hugo von, 110 Holbein Dispute, 35, 62 Holy Cross chapel, Wawel cathedral, fresco paintings, 204–5 Horčička, František, 61 Hotho, Heinrich, 19 house industry (Hausindustrie), 57, 100, 117–23, 130–31, 132 Hübner, Julius, 35 Hübsch, Heinrich, 97

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i n d ex humanistic model, 18 Humboldt, Wilhelm von, 18 Hungarian Academy of Sciences, 58 Hungary, 7, 57–58, 76 folk art, 124, 132 Kronprinzenwerk , 85 medieval architecture, 22, 190 monument protection, 193, 194, 195 Hutsuls, 128–29 iconography, 40 idealism, 45, 111–12 identity and the Baroque, 96, 97, 98, 102, 107 European, 116, 175 Habsburg Empire, 73, 75–81, 94–95, 96, 184–85; Kronprinzenwerk, 83–94 identity, national, 6–7, 17–18 criticism of association of folk art with, 129–34 Dalmatia, 23–25 Eitelberger, 144–46, 170 and ethnography, 134–39 and folk art, 69, 116, 120–29, 195 France, 22 Galicia, 68–69 and institutions, 56–59 and monument protection, 197–205 nation states, 74–75 Ilg, Albert Austria-​Hungary, 3, 5, 78–79, 81–83, 85 and the Baroque, 96–100, 143 influence of Eitelberger, 29, 146 historical textual sources, 26–27 illusionism, 147–48, 173, 184 Illyrianism, 23 imperial consciousness (kaiserliches Bewusstsein), 76 Imperial-​Royal Academy of Sciences (Kaiserlich-​ königliche Akademie der Wissenschaften), 15 Impressionism, 147–48, 149–50, 154, 158–59 Dvořák on precursors to, 110–12 incomes, per capita, 118 Indo-​Germanic inheritance, 176 inductive (synthetic) art history, 42–43 Institute for Austrian Historical Research, Vienna, 17, 19, 27 Institute of Art History, Vienna, 17, 66, 175 International Art Exhibition, Rome 1911, 161 Ipolyi, Arnold (Stummer), 58 Islamic art, 38, 44, 46, 129–30, 175, 183 Islamic culture, 167, 181–83 Bosnia, 180 and the Habsburg Empire, 184–85 Italy, 7 and Dalmatia, 212–13 Iversen, Margaret, 1, 40, 51 Jabloński, Izydor, 204–5 Jäger, Albert, 19

00i-282_Rampley_cloth_4p.indb 275

275 Jagiellonian University, Cracow, 55, 67 Jahrbuch (yearbook), 188–90, 193, 194 Jan III Sobieski, 70 Janitschek, Hubert, 26, 54 Japanese art, 147–48, 184 Jarcke, Karl, 16 Jodl, Friedrich, 151 Jókai, Maurus (Mór), 84 Jones, Owen, 130 Joseph II, 8, 143, 187 Judson, Pieter, 5, 59, 113 Jurkovič, Dušan, 195 Justi, Carl, 112 Kaindl, Raimund, 86 kaiserliches Bewusstsein (imperial consciousness), 76 Kalousek, Josef, 63 Kant, Immanuel, 109 Karłowicz, Jan, 136 Karaman, Ljubo, 215 Kassa, 54 Katechismus der Denkmalpflege (Catechism of Monument Protection) (Dvořák), 200–201, 209, 211 Kaufmann, Thomas da Costa, 175 Kemp, Wolfgang, 40 Klimt, Gustav, 5, 82, 151–53, 159 Klimt Affair, 141, 151–52 Klimt Exhibition, 152 Klub za starou Prahu (Club for Old Prague), 107, 193 Knin, 56 Kołomyja, 128 Kokoschka, Oskar, The Concert, 157 Kolberg, Oskar, 136 Komlosy, Andrea, 6–7 Köstlin, August, 100 Kotěra, Jan, 153 Kováts, Edgar, 127 Krafft, Johann Peter, 142 Kramář, Vincenc, 54, 215 Kramrisch, Stella, 177 Kraus, Karl, 210 Krems, 191 Kronprinzenwerk (The Austro-​Hungarian Monarchy in Word and Image), 83, 84–87, 89, 91–95, 106, 137 Kršnjavi, Izidor, 56, 57, 73, 130–31, 134, 137 Krumbacher, Karl, 171–72 Kugler, Franz, 21, 189–90 Kuhač, Franjo, 57 Kulmbach, Hans von, 88 Kulturkampf, 98 Kulturnation, 122 Kulturstaat, 100 Kunińska, Magdalena, 89 Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, 38 Kunstwissenschaft, 19 Kunstwollen (art drive), 37–44, 49, 106, 109–10 Kupczanko, Grigorij, 136

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276

index

Ladislaus II, 92 Lamprecht, Karl, 41 language Schlosser, 49–50 of scholarship, 5, 59, 73 Thausing, 33–34, 39 Late Roman Art Industry (Riegl), 43, 45, 174, 214 Lauser, Wilhelm, 81 Laÿ, Felix, 130 Le Rider, Jacques, 78 Lechner, Ödön, 124 Lederer, August, 152 Lederer, Hugo, 161 Lehner, Ferdinand, 92 Lemberg (Lwów), 55–56, 67–68, 127 Lemon, Robert, 166 Lentze, Hans, 17 Leonardo da Vinci, Last Supper, 35 Leopoldstadt synagogue, Vienna, 168, 169 Łepkowski, Józef, 67 Lermolieff, Ivan (Giovanni Morelli), 34–37, 39 Lessing, Julius, 154 Levetus, Amelia S., 124 liberalism, 8, 10–11 of Eitelberger, 14–15, 16–17, 30, 142, 144 German, 145 and nationalism, 59–60, 114–15 Liberec (Reichenberg), 77 Liebermann, Max, 154, 158–59 Ljubljana, 119 Locher, Hubert, 4 Loos, Adolf, 129, 134 Loss of the Center (Sedlmayr), 141, 158, 214 Lossnitzer, Max, 65 Lossow, William, 159 Łoziński, Władysław,  87, 88 Lübke, Wilhelm, 97–98, 101 Lubomirski, Henryk, 68 Lubomirski Museum, 68 Łuszczkiewicz,, Władysław, 67, 87, 88, 89–91 Luther, Martin, 176 Lützow, Karl von, 28, 31, 53, 57, 85 Lwów (Lemberg), 55–56, 67–68, 127

Marquand, Allan, 174, 176 Martynowski, Franciszek, 127 Marx, Karl, 117–18 Matejko, Jan, 67, 69, 71–72, 82, 88 materialism, 38–39, 113–14 Matice česká (Czech Foundation), 61 Matějček, Antonín, 54, 178, 215 Matějka, Bohumil, 191 Matsch, Franz, 151, 153 medieval art and Böhm, 12 Eitelberger’s surveys of monuments, 22–23, 25–26, 170 origins, 2, 45–46, 163, 177–78 Meier-​Graefe, Julius, 112, 147, 150 Melly, Eduard, 187, 188 Menger, Carl, 40, 84 Meringer, Rudolf, 137 Meštrović, Ivan, 161, 164, 177 Methodenstreit, 40 Metternich, 9, 16, 143, 146 Michelangelo, 108–9, 112 Millennial Exhibition, Budapest 1896, 135 Ministry of Culture, 152–53 Mittheilungen, 188–90, 194–95 Mocker, Josef, 200 modern art, 141–42, 164–65 and the Baroque, 108, 110–12 Böhm, 12 Dvořák, 157–58 Eitelberger, 142–46 Kršnjavi, 57 Mycielski, 71 Riegl, 154–56, 203 Strzygowski, 157–58 Wickhoff, 146–53 Der moderne Denkmalkultus: Sein Wesen, seine Entstehung (“The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Essence and Its Origin”) (Riegl), 186 modernism, 110–11, 113, 141–42, 153–54, 158–65 modernity, 142, 151–52, 165 Baroque, 108–15 Dvořák, 157–58 and folk art, 123–24 Molè, Vojslav, 177 Molmenti, Pompeo, 212 Monet, Claude, 157 monographs, 41 Monumenta Germaniae Historica, 19, 26–27 Monumental Dalmatia, 212–13 monuments Baroque cult of ruins, 110 to Bismarck, 161 Bukovina, 86 Bulić’s studies in Croatia, 56 Dalmatia, 86–87 Eitelberger’s surveys, 22–25 modern conception, 186 study of, 188–93

Mach, Ernst, 53, 150 Machytka, Jan, 144 Mádl, Karel, 63, 104, 191 Magyarization, 7, 25, 58, 132 Magyars, 6, 84, 85, 122, 124 Makarewicz, Juliusz, 204–5 Makart, Hans, 79, 82, 143 Malczewski, Jacek, 77, 88, 153 Mánes, Josef, 61, 77, 93, 132, 157 Mánes, Václav, 61 Manet, Édouard, 149 Mannerism, 112 Marek, Antonín, 194 Maria Theresa, empress, 8, 10, 76, 187 Marosi, Ernő, 58, 177

00i-282_Rampley_cloth_4p.indb 276

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i n d ex monuments, conservation Central Commission, 187, 188, 193–201 Dvořák, 208–10 early history of, 187–88 Hungary, 57–58 Riegl, 2–3, 186 study of, 188–93 theory and policy, 201–8 Moorish revivalism, 168–69 Moravánszky, Ákos, 168 Moravia, 120 Moravian Design Museum, Brünn (Brno), 28 Morelli, Giovanni, 34–37, 39 Morgenland, 176 Morris, William, 123 Much, Matthäus, 201–2 Mucha, Alfons, 77, 181, 200 Müller, Karl Ottfried, 189–90 Müller, Max, 66 Müller-​Guttenbrunn, Adam, 78 Munch, Edvard, 113 Municipal House, Prague, 200–201 Museum for Art and Industry, Vienna, 4, 28–29, 121, 146–47, 181 Design School, 119 exhibition on the Congress of Vienna, 80 international congress on art history, 31 textiles department, 35, 37 Museum of Applied Arts, Budapest, 28, 124 Museum of Military History, Vienna, 167 Museum of Natural History, Vienna, 38 music, 116 Musil, Alois, 182 Muther, Richard, 151 Muthesius, Stefan, 65, 134 Mycielski, Jerzy, 55, 71 Myslbek, Josef, 82, 200 Napoleonic Wars, 143, 187 narrative modes, 47–48 national identity, 6–7, 17–18 and the Baroque, 96, 97, 98, 102, 107 Dalmatia, 23–25 Eitelberger, 144–46, 170 and folk art, 69, 116, 120–29, 195; criticism of association, 129–34; ethnography, 134–39 France, 22 Galicia, 68–69 Habsburg Empire, 73, 75–81, 94–95, 96, 184–85; Kronprinzenwerk, 83–94 and institutions, 56–59 and monument protection, 197–205 nation states, 74–75 National Monuments Commission, Hungary (Műemlékek országos bizottsága), 193 National Museum, Cracow, 67, 70 nationalism. See also patriotism Eitelberger, 144–45 emergent nationalisms, 83–84

00i-282_Rampley_cloth_4p.indb 277

277 and heritage, 3 Indo-​Germanic inheritance, 176 and liberalism, 59–60 Lübke, 97–98 Magyarization, 25, 58 and monuments, 199 Polish, 125–27 Slav, 23, 25 Nationalstaat, 100 naturalism, 45, 49, 109, 111, 149, 157 Navrátil, Josef, 61 Nebeský, Jaroslav, 178 Nelson, Robert, 169 neoclassicism, 143 Neue Freie Presse, 10, 206, 208 Neumann, Anton, 206 Neumann, Wilhelm, 151 Neuwirth, Josef, 53, 54, 82, 92–93 Neužil, František, 126–27 Newald, Julius von, 31 Niebuhr, Barthold Georg, 18–19, 190 Nordic East, 176, 177 Norwid, Cyprian, 127 Nossig, Alfred, 82–83 Novotny, Fritz, 177 Nüßlein, Franz, 19 Okey, Robin, 10, 171 Olin, Margaret, 1, 149, 208 Orient or Rome (Orient oder Rom) (Strzygowski), 158, 173, 175 orientalism, 166–67, 178–84 and the Byzantium Revival, 167–71 Strzygowski, 172–77 The Origins of Baroque Art in Rome (Die Entstehung der Barockkunst in Rom) (Riegl), 108 Orlik, Emil, 77 Orthodox Church, 167, 170–71 Ossoliński, Józef Maksymilian, 68 Ossoliński Scientific Foundation (Ossolineum), 67–68 Österreichische Kunsttopographie (Austrian Art Topography), 190–91, 208–9 Ottoman Empire, 167, 180, 181 Pais, Ettore, 212 Palacký, František, 18, 61 Panofsky, Erwin, 2, 40 Parler, Peter, 92, 93 Pártos, Gyula, 124 Pasteiner, Gyula, 58, 73, 132 Patriotic Museum in Bohemia (Vlastenecké muzeum v Čechách), 61 patriotism, 17–18, 78–79, 88, 211. See also nationalism and cosmopolitanism, 70 geographical definition, 61, 94 and monument protection, 198–99, 203, 205, 209–10 peasant culture, 124–29, 135–39 rural cultures, 133–34

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278

index

The People (Lud) (Kolberg), 136 “people” (Volk), 121, 133, 137 peripheries, 6–7, 73, 87, 139, 144 Perthaler, Johannes, 76 Péter Pázmány University, Budapest, 57 Petranu, Coriolan, 140, 177 Pettenkoffen, August von, 82 philology, 19, 26–28 Philosophy (Klimt), 151–52 Philosophy of History (Hegel), 169 photography, 149 pictorial narrative modes, 47–48 Planiscig, Leo, 214 plein air, 147–48, 149 Podlaha, Anton, 191 Podro, Michael, 2, 3 Poland, 55, 66–72, 88–91 national identity, 197–99, 204–5 Polish nationalism, 122, 125–27 Polish Ethnographic Society, 136 Polish language, 55 Polívka, Osvald, 153, 200 Polytechnic Institute, Vienna, 18, 53 positivism, 20, 27–28, 42–43, 69, 70–71, 89 documentation of monuments, 189 move away from, 37, 39, 45, 46, 51 Thausing, 50–51 postcolonial theory. See colonial attitudes Powder Tower (Gate), Prague, 63, 200–201 Prague, 60–66, 102–4, 107, 146, 199–201 Design School, 119 Prague Exhibition, 1895, 135 Prague University, 15, 53–55, 62 Preisler, Jan, 200 Preissig, Vojtìch, 153 preservation, of monuments. See protection, monument Preziosi, Donald, 4 primitive art, 116, 124 and culture, 49 Das Problem der Form in der bildenden Kunst (Hildebrand), 147 protection, monument Central Commission, 187, 188, 193–201 Dvořák, 208–10 early history of, 187–88 Hungary, 57–58 Riegl, 2–3, 186 study of monuments, 188–93 theory and policy, 201–8 Prussia, 167–68 Pulszky, Károly, 132

Račić family mausoleum, 161 Rahl, Carl, 33 Ranke, Leopold, 18–19 Ravenna, 178 Rehm, Ulrich, 48 Reichenberg (Liberec), 77 Reiner, Václav Vavřinec , 102 Rejsek, Matyáš, 63 Rembrandt, 12, 109, 111 Renaissance, 70, 88, 97–98, 101, 106, 109 restoration, of monuments, 196–201, 204–8, 209. See also protection, monument Reynolds, Diana, 121 Rice, David Talbot, 177 Ried, Benedikt (of Laun), 63 Riegel, Herman, 75 Riegl, Alois and the art drive (Kunstwollen), 37–44 and Baroque, 101, 106, 108–10 Congress of Vienna exhibition, 80, 81 critical of nationalist ideologies, 5 death, 65 East and West, 172, 174–75, 178–83 folk-​art movement, 129–34 and identity, 78 influence of, 1–3, 44–46, 50–51, 147, 178 and Kršnjavi, 57 modern art, 149, 154–56, 158 modernism, 141–42 monument protection, 186, 191, 199, 201–11 Museum for Art and Industry, 29 posthumous republications of works, 214 Riehl, Wilhelm, 138 Riesentor (west portal), St. Stephen’s Cathedral, Vienna, 204, 205–8 Ringer, Fritz, 4 Ringstrasse, Vienna, 32, 79, 96, 98, 150, 167 Roman art, 43, 45, 46–48, 133, 147, 156, 173 Romanesque, 45, 169–70, 183 Romania, 167, 177 Romstorfer, Karl, 85–86 Rosenauer, Artur, 31 Rotterdam, 150 Ruben, Christian, 61, 93–94 Rudolf, Crown Prince, 81, 83, 84, 94 Rudolf II, 60 Rudolf of Habsburg, 76 ruins, cult of, 110, 202 Ruisdael, Jakob, 109 Rumohr, Karl Friedrich, 19, 20, 21, 33, 35, 39 rural cultures, 133–34 peasant culture, 124–29, 135–39 Ruskin, John, 167, 208 Ruthenians, 89–91, 127, 131, 136 Ruziczka, Vojtěch , 194

Questions of Style (Stilfragen) (Riegl), 37–39, 51, 129, 131, 175, 182 legacy of, 44–46 posthumous republication, 214 Qusayr ‘Amra, 182–83

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Said, Edward, 166–67, 176 Sakcinski, Ivan Kukuljević, 195

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i n d ex Šaloun, Ladislav, 200 Salzburg, 78 Salzenberg, Wilhelm, 168 San Clemente frescoes, 36 Sandrart, Joachim von, 20 Santini Aichel, Jan Blažej, 102, 104 Saxony, 93 Scheiger, Joseph von, 21, 194 Schelling, Friedrich, 156 Schinkel, Karl Friedrich, 97 Schlegel, Friedrich, 156 Schleicher, August, 53 Schlosser, Julius von, 27, 31, 48–50, 214 Schmarsow, August, 51 Schmidt, Friedrich, 146, 206, 208 Schmitz, Norbert, 45 Schmoller, Gustav, 40 Schmoranz, František, 194 Schnaase, Carl, 19 School of Fine Arts, Cracow, 67 Schorske, Carl, 4–5 Schramm, Manuel, 129 Schultz, Alwin, 54 Schwarzkopf, Gustav, 78 Schwiedland, Eugen, 119 scientific method, 18–21, 41–44 documentation of monuments, 189 Eitelberger, 13, 22, 26, 30 and politics, 63, 74, 84 Riegl and scientific attitude, 154, 165 Sokołowski, 88 Thausing, 32–34 Wickhoff, 35–36, 37, 148–49, 165 Scientific Society, Cracow (Towarzysztwo Naukowe Krakowskie), 67 Scott, Walter, 149 sculpture, modern, 161 Sébillot, Paul, 123 Secession Building, Vienna, 100 Secessionism, 4, 5, 77, 163, 164 Secession exhibitions, 111, 151 Vienna Secession, 152–53, 206, 208 Sedláček, August, 92 Sedlmayr, Hans, 40, 53, 141, 158, 214 Seibertz, Engelbert, 61 Semper, Gottfried, 15, 38, 182 Semper, Hans, 26, 29, 59 Serbia, 130–31, 161, 167 Shevchenko, Taras, 136 Shevchenko Society, 136 Šibenik, 170 Sickel, Theodor von, 19 Siemieński, Lucjan, 67 Silesia, 118 Simmel, Georg, 110 Sitte, Camillo, 53, 100, 150–51, 161 Slavic identity, 91, 92–93 and folk art, 133

00i-282_Rampley_cloth_4p.indb 279

279 and house industry, 57, 120, 122, 130–31 Monumental Dalmatia, 212 nationalism, 23, 25 Slavic culture, 134–35, 136–37, 177, 178–79 Slawik, Franz, 194 social status, and modern art, 156 societies (Vereine), 11 Society for Comparative Artistic Research (Gesellschaft für vergleichende Kunstforschung), 175 Society for the Protection and Maintenance of the Artistic Monuments of Vienna and Lower Austria, 193 Society of Fine Artists for Bohemia (Verein bildender Künstler für Böhmen), 61 Society of Patriotic Friends of the Arts (Gesellschaft patriotischer Kunstfreunde), 60–61, 94 Sokołowski, Marian, 55, 69–71, 87, 88–91 Sombart, Werner, 78 the spiritual, and art, 113, 114, 156–58 Split, 119 Springer, Anton, 17–18, 29, 101 St. John of Nepomuk in Žïár nad Sázavou (church), 104 St. Stephen’s Cathedral, Vienna, west portal (Riesentor), 204, 205–8 Stańczyks, 68 State School of Design (Staats-​Gewerbeschule), Czernowitz, 86 Stauter-​Halstead, Keeley, 124 Stelè, France, 215 Stier, Hubert, 98 Stilfragen (Questions of Style) (Riegl), 37–39, 51, 129, 131, 175, 182 legacy of, 44–46 posthumous republication, 214 Stimmung (ambience), 149–50, 154–55, 203 Stojałowski, Stanisław, 125 Stokes, Adrian, 177 Storm, Eric, 112 Stoss, Veit, 65, 88 Strossmayer, Josip, 56, 57, 73 Strzygowski, Josef, 27–28, 51, 66, 82, 213 and Baroque, 106 dispute with Wickhoff, 2, 35, 48 East and West, 171–78 influence of, 214 modernism, 158–64 nationalism, 4, 59 Stummer, Arnold (Ipolyi), 58 style, concept of, 42, 43, 50 subjectivity, 114, 154–55, 156 Supiński, Józef, 69 Švabinský, Max, 157 Swoboda, Kamilla, 157 Swoboda, Karl, 54 synthetic (inductive) art history, 42–43 Taaffe, Eduard, 7 Tatras Society, 127, 128 technical schools (Fachschulen), 119–20, 121

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280

index

Telesko, Werner, 76 textiles, 129, 130–31 carpets, 37–38, 181–82 conservation, 201–2 Thausing, Moriz, 26, 29, 39, 43, 50–51, 65, 206 influence of, 3, 31–35 Theology (Matsch), 153 Therrien, Lyne, 4 Thode, Henry, 158–59, 164 Thoms, William, 123 Thun, Franz von, 61, 94 Thun, Leo von, 15–17 Tietze, Hans, 27, 191, 213 Tintoretto, 110–12 Titian, 111 Tomkowicz, Stanisław, 196–97, 198–99 tourism, 128–29, 180–81 Trade Ordinance, 1859, 119 Transylvania, 140, 194, 195 Trauttmansdorff-​Weinsberg, Count, 81 Trieste, 7 Tschischka, Franz, 21–22 Türkenwoche, 1883, 181

Viehweger, Hermann, 159 Vienna, and Austrian identity, 77–78, 79, 143 Vienna Antiquities Society (Alterthums-​Verein zu Wien), 193 Vienna Genesis, 37, 45, 46–48, 147, 151 and Strzygowski, 173, 174 Vienna Opera House, 146 Vienna Secession, 152–53, 206, 208. See also Secessionism Vienna Society of Friends of Music (Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Wien), 11 Villa Koliba, 127 Villa Konstantynówka, 127 Villa Zofiówka, 127 Vischer, Friedrich, 15, 101 Vischer, Robert, 51 Vistula Gothic style, 127 visual perception, 33–34 Vitet, Ludovic, 22 Vocel, Jan, 54, 194 Volk (“people”), 121, 133, 137 Volkskunst (folk art), 40, 57, 69, 116–17, 123–40, 178–79 house industry, 100, 117–23 Volkskunst, Hausfleiss und Hausindustrie (Folk art, domestic labor, and home industry) (Riegl), 132–33 von Hartel, Wilhelm, 37, 147, 151 von Mechel, Christian, 10 von Sacken, Eduard, 11, 194, 195 von Sicardsburg, August, 98, 142, 146 Vormärz, 9–15 Vybíral, Jindřich, 63, 159

Ullman, Vojtìch, 168 Umlauft, Friedrich, Die Länder Österreich-​Ungarns (The Lands of Austria-​Hungary), 84 Polish-​Ruthenian Archaeological Exhibition, Lemberg, 1885, 89 Universal Regional Exhibition, Lemberg, 1894, 71, 135 universities in Austria-​Hungary, 53–60 university reform, 15–18 University of Berlin, 18 University of Czernowitz, 59 University of Graz, 59 University of Prague, 15, 53–55, 62 University of Vienna, 15, 16, 17, 18, 53, 141, 151–52 University of Zagreb, 56 Unowsky, Daniel, 80 Uprka, Jože, 77 urbanization, 133–34 urban planning, 150–51 van de Velde, Henry, 160 van der Nüll, Eduard, 98, 142, 146 van Eyck brothers Dvořák’s Habilitation thesis, 44, 46, 65, 113, 192, 214 Waagen’s study, 19, 41 van Mander, Karel, 20, 44 Vasari, Giorgio, Lives, 19–20 Vasold, Georg, 91, 123, 134 Vătăşianu, Virgil, 177 Venturi, Adolfo, 212–13 Ver Sacrum, 208 Vereine (societies), 11 vernacular cultures, 116–17, 123–29, 130. See also folk art (Volkskunst)

00i-282_Rampley_cloth_4p.indb 280

Waagen, Gustav, 19, 21 Wagner, Otto, 160–61 Waldmüller, Ferdinand Georg, 13 Warburg, Aby, 41, 44, 49, 51, 141, 159, 161 Warsaw, 55 Wawel Castle, Cracow, 196–98 Wawel cathedral, fresco paintings, 204–5 Weber, Max, 41 Weckbecker, Wilhelm von, 80 Weilen, Joseph Ritter von, 84 Wellesz, Emmy, 177 Weltausstellung (World’s Fair) Vienna, 1873, 135, 181 Wengraf, Edmund, 78 Wickhoff, Franz, 29, 32, 35–37, 39 and the appointment of Dvořák, 65–66 East and West, 182–84 Klimt Affair, 141 legacy of, 178 modernism, 141–42, 147–53 monument protection, 206, 208, 211 and Strzygowski, 2, 59, 158–59, 173, 174 Vienna Genesis, 45, 46–48, 173, 174 Wiener, Karl von, 152 Wiener Moden-​Zeitung und Zeitschrift für Kunst, schöne Literatur und Theater, 10

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i n d ex Wiener Zeitung, 14, 17, 76 Wilczek, Johann, 85 Wilde, Johannes, 214 Winckelmann, Johann Joachim, 32, 42, 149 Wirth, Zdeněk, 54, 104, 106, 178, 191, 215 Wissenschaft, 18, 40, 60 wissenschaftlich, 13, 19 Wissenschaftlichkeit, 18 Witkiewicz, Stanisław, 69, 71–72, 125–28, 195 Wittmann, Hugo, 80 Wolff, Larry, 167 Wölfflin, Heinrich, 51, 101, 141 Wólka Rosnowska, 195 Wollheim, Richard, 39 Woltmann, Alfred, 29, 54, 62–63, 146 World War I, 210, 213 World’s Fair, Vienna (Weltausstellung), 1873, 135, 181 Worringer, Wilhelm, 46, 156–57

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281 Wyspiański, Stanisław, 69, 198 Ybl, Miklós, 144 Yugoslav Academy of Science and Art (Jugoslavenska Akademija Znanosti i Umjetnosti), 56 Zachariewicz, Julian, 168 Zadar, 170 Zagreb, 119 Zagreb University, 56 Zakopane (village), 127–28 Zakopane style, 69, 91, 127, 133 Zapletal, Florian, 178 Zimmermann, Robert, 33, 39, 109 Zítek, Josef, 146 Die Zukunft des Barockstiles (The Future of the Baroque Style) (Ilg), 96–100

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