Underneath the Colosseum

I've always really liked the Colosseum (70-80 CE, shown on left) and its history: Vespasian! Nero the Loser! Gladiators! The bastardization of Greek architectural orders! But even apart from art history, I personally have a soft spot for the Colosseum because of my own experience in Rome: several years ago I got to see Paul McCartney play a (free) concert outside the arena. It was awesome to see the Colosseum "rocking out" in florescent lights, serving as a backdrop to Beatles music.

Since I am featuring a giveaway for two subscriptions to Smithsonian magazine this week, I thought it would be fitting to write a post inspired by a Smithsonian article. I immediately turned to an article about the Colosseum in a Smithsonian issue from earlier this year ("Secrets of the Colosseum" by Tom Mueller, January 2011). This article contains some interesting, lesser-known facts about the Colosseum. For example, did you know that during the Renaissance Pope Sixtus V tried to turn the Colosseum ruins into a wool factory? Luckily, that project was abandoned after Sixtus V died in 1590. Phew!

The bulk of the Smithsonian article focuses on the hypogeum, the area beneath the arena floor of the Colosseum (see below). This area provided a network of service rooms and tunnels for performers, athletes, animals, and equipment. Currently, there has been a lot of hype created about the hypogeum (ha ha!). This area and the third floor of the Colosseum were just recently opened to the public last fall, following a $1.4 million restoration project. From what I understand, the hypogeum will probably be open through October of this year.

I've always thought that the hypogeum was particularly interesting, especially since I once heard that the hypogeum has its own unique ecological niche. For centuries, plants have rooted among these underground ruins. These plants are located quite far beneath the regular ground level and probably experience a unique range of external temperatures, sunlight, and rainfall. With such unusual conditions, one can suspect why botanists have been interested in these plants for such a long time. "As early as 1643, naturalists began compiling detailed catalogs of the flora, listing 337 different species."¹ Multiple surveys have taken place since then; in 2003 it was recorded that the combined lists contain 683 species.

I especially liked how the Smithsonian article discussed how the hypogeum allowed Colosseum spectacles to maintain an element of surprise and suspense. For example, animals that were held in the hypogeum would enter the arena on a wooden ramp at the top of a lift. "Eyewitnesses describe how animals appeared suddenly from below, as if by magic, sometimes apparently launched high into the air."² The hunter in the arena would never be sure of where the next animal(s) would appear.

I can't help but think of Suzanne Collins's The Hunger Games books after reading more about the surprise tactics used in Colosseum events. Although I had made connections between the Hunger Games and the Colosseum before (in both instances contestants are supposed to fight to the death), I hadn't considered more parallels. The arenas for the Hunger Games were designed to continually introduce new surprises to the contestants. I even recall at least one instance (I think it was in Catching Fire) in which Katniss is lifted into the arena in a glass cylinder, suggesting that she was held in an underground space similar to the hypogeum.

Anyhow, I wonder how much Collins researched the Colosseum while writing her books. Has anyone else read The Hunger Games series? Can you think of more parallels between the Colosseum and the Hunger Games? What are your favorite things about the Colosseum?

1 Tom Mueller, "Secrets of the Colosseum," in Smithsonian 41, no. 9 (January 2011): 29. Article found online at: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/history-archaeology/Secrets-of-the-Colosseum.html#ixzz1U87oTpui (accessed 4 August 2011).

2 Ibid., 34.

Image credits: Colosseum image by Diliff via Wikipedia. Hypogeum image by Briséis via Wikipedia.

Altar of Pergamon and Baroque Scholarship

I'm in the middle of reading The Origins of the Baroque Art in Rome by Alois Riegl. This recent publication is a really exciting and influential textbook in its own right, since it is the first time that Riegl's essays on Baroque art have been translated into English. I plan on writing a full review of the book very soon, but I just wanted to write something that I found particularly interesting.

As an introduction to Riegl's discussion of Baroque art, this book is prefaced with three essays. These essays largely deal with historiography in regards to Baroque scholarship. It's pretty fascinating stuff. I was particularly interested in the discussion about the excavation of the Altar of Pergamon in the late 19th century. Fragments of the altar started to arrive in Berlin in 1879 (which, incidentally, was the same year that prehistoric cave paintings were first discovered. But that's a topic for another day. My point: 1879 was a big year for art history.)

The Altar of Pergamon is from the Greek Hellenistic period (c. 175-150 BCE). It was excavated in the late 19th century by Carl Humann, a German road construction engineer. The continuous frieze depicts the Gigantomachy ("Battle of the Giants") with extremely high relief figures, dramatic emotional expressions, lots of diagonal compositions, and light/dark contrasts (see detail on left). Baroque scholars (such as myself) eat this kind of stuff up, since the stylistic characteristics are very similar to those of the Baroque period. I think that even the placement of the frieze near the steps (as opposed to being placed above the columns, which is the traditional location for an Ionic frieze) ties into the Baroque characteristics of viewer participation and involvement.

So, how did the arrival of the Altar of Pergamon in Berlin change scholarship on Baroque art? Before this point, the Baroque period had been viewed with some disdain by art historians and scholars. In fact, in the 18th century Winckelmann used the word "baroque" as an abusive term (and unsurprisingly, Winckelmann also disliked Hellenistic art!). But the unquestionable quality of the Pergamon frieze caused 19th century scholars to reassess their previous negative interpretations of not only Hellenistic art, but Baroque art as well. In fact, the Hellenistic period began to be known by scholars as the "ancient Baroque."²

Consequently, because of the Altar of Pergamon's influence, German art historians began to write about Baroque art. Heinirch Wölfflin wrote his seminal book Renaissance and Baroque in 1888, less than a decade after the Pergamon altar began to arrive in Berlin. Wölfflin even wrote in the preface "that he had intended to include an evaluation of the 'ancient Baroque' but that his 'little book' did not afford enough scope for this project, and he promised to return to it at a later date."² Unfortunately, Wölfflin never returned to write about the "ancient Baroque," though other scholars (such as Arnold von Salis) did. Now, I think that Baroque scholars take the connection between the Hellenistic and Baroque period for granted. But Baroque scholarship is quite indebted to the Altar of Pergamon. Without the arrival of the altar in Berlin, perhaps "baroque" would still be a demeaning term in art history.

1 Alina Payne, "Beyond Kunstwollen: Alois Riegl and the Baroque" in The Origins of Baroque Art in Rome by Andrew Hopkins and Arnold Witte, eds. (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2010), 8.

2 Ibid.

*Image for Pergamon altar photograph © Raimond Spekking (via Wikimedia Commons) CC-BY-SA-3.0

Snakes in Ancient Art Hiss-tory

Each of my classes this quarter has its own distinct personality. My ancient art students are especially curious, and I love the questions that they raise in class. And for some reason, a lot of our recent topics have meandered (or perhaps slithered?) toward a discussion of snakes. I suppose this shouldn't be surprising, since snakes held symbolic significance in a lot of ancient cultures. Here are some of the works that we have been discussing at length (and some topics that we'll be discussing in the next few weeks):

I can't even express how much I love the Minoan Snake Goddess (shown left, c. 1700-1550 BCE, image courtesy Flickr via Xosé Castro). This was one of the first statues that I loved as an AP art history student in high school. A few weeks ago, my students and I discussed how the snake could have held multiple symbolic associations for the Minoans. Snakes are associated with rejuvenation in many ancient Mediterranean cultures, since snakes can rejuvenate themselves by shedding their skin. Snakes are also associated with resurrection, since they can move both above and beneath the ground.

Last week, when discussing Hellenistic art, a student asked why Alkyoneos (depicted in part of the Gigantomachy frieze at the Altar of Zeus, Pergamon, c. 175-150 BCE) was entwined with a snake. (We were also looking at another Hellenistic sculpture, the Laocoön (1st century BC), and the student noticed a visual similarity between the writhing snakes.) I had never paid attention to the Alkyoneos snake before, but discovered that the snake helps the viewer to identify that Alkyoneos is battling with the Olympian goddess Athena. The snake aids Athena in her victory, similar to how serpents aid the Olympian gods (specifically Athena, according to some accounts) in the killing of Laocoön, the Trojan priest.

Athena was often identified with snakes (I joked with my students that she might have been a Parselmouth). Not only was the snake associated with wisdom (which was one of Athena's attributes), but snake also served as the symbol for Erectheus, the mythical king of Athens. As the patron goddess of Athens, it makes sense that Athena would also be associated Erectheus (and Athens) through the snake symbol. Athena was depicted with a snake in the monumental "Athena Parthenos" statue by Phidias (original dated 438 BC, see reconstruction from Royal Ontario Museum here).

In about a week, I'll be talking about snakes with my ancient art students again, this time in connection with the Etruscans. Scholar Kristen Lee Hostetler recently explored how snake imagery is found in depictions of Etruscan demons (such as the wall painting of the demon Tuchulcha, Tomba dell'Orco II, Tarquinia, last quarter of the 4th century BC; shown left). It appears that snakes (specifically the extremely poisonous adder) were feared by the Etruscans. Hostetler points out that the distinct adder markings are noticeable in the demon imagery¹. In addition, some of these Etruscan demons have blue flesh (as seen in the "Tomb of the Blue Demons" in Tarquinia, late 5th - early 4th century BC), which is reminiscent to the skin discoloration caused by an adder snakebite.²

Earlier in the quarter, my students and I have discussed the significance of the enraged uraeus snake in Egyptian pharaonic imagery (as can be seen in the funerary mask of King Tutankhamun, c. 1327 BCE). The snake is a reference to the Wadjet, the cobra goddess of Lower Egypt. According to mythology, the pharaoh sat at coronation to receive his crown from this goddess.³ The cobra was one of the earliest of Egyptian royal insignia.

Do you have a favorite work of art which includes snake imagery? It's interesting that snakes have obviously fascinated (and intimidated) the human race for so many centuries. I can think of many other examples, even extending outside the realm of ancient art. Biblical images of Eve with snakes have been popular in Christian art for centuries. Snakes can also appear in conjunction with the Virgin; my favorite Baroque example is Caravaggio's Madonna with the Serpent (1606 CE).

1 Kristin Lee Hostetler, "Serpent Iconography," in Etruscan Studies 10, no. 16 (2007): 203.

2 Ibid., 206.

3 Nancy Luomala, "Matrilineal Reinterpretation of some Egyptian Sacred Cows," in Feminism and Art History: Questioning the Litany by Norma Broude and Mary D. Garrard, eds. (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1982), 27.

The Laocoön: Bandinelli vs. Michelangelo

I guess the Renaissance artist Baccio Bandinelli has been on my mind lately. I realized that somehow I managed to bring up Bandinelli in each of my classes this past week - including my ancient art class!

To be fair to myself, I better say that I didn't stray too far on a tangent with my ancient art students. I was discussing the classical statue Laocoön (1st century BC) with these students and happened to mention Bandinelli's Laocoön (1520, shown left). It is not surprising that Renaissance artists (and patrons) were interested in copying the Laocoön sculpture, because the classical sculpture was unearthed in 1506. Bandinelli's sculpture was commissioned by Cardinal Giulio dei Medici and originally intended as a gift for Francis I, the King of France. It appears that Cardinal Giulio dei Medici (who later became Pope Clement VII) liked the sculpture too well to part with it, since it eventually ended up in the courtyard of the Palazzo Medici.

Anyhow, I especially think Bandinelli's sculpture is interesting because the central figure has an extended arm above his head. When the original, classical Laocoön was discovered, the figure's right arm was missing. Bandinelli believed that the arm was extended, and other artists (such as Sansovino) ended up following this same idea for their copies. Michelangelo, in contrast, felt that the originally arm probably appeared bent. Bandinelli and Michelangelo were life-long rivals, and this difference in opinion is just one example of the opposition and tension between these artists. (I should say, though, I think Bandinelli felt the rivalry more than Michelangelo, although letters to Michelangelo (see here and here) indicate that he was keenly aware (curious?) of what Bandinelli was doing.)

Anyhow, Bandinelli's proposal for the Laocoön arm came to be generally accepted. I think this general acceptance came about because Bandinelli ended up creating a wax cast of the arm for the original sculpture. Additionally, he received the prestigious commission to make the aforementioned sculpture for Guilio Cardinal de Medici. No doubt Bandinelli relished the fact that he received these invitations instead of Michelangelo.

To add insult to injury, Michelangelo had been present the day that the Laocoön was unearthed in Rome. No doubt Michelangelo felt a certain affinity and connection with the classical sculpture. Scholars have even noted that Michelangelo's figure of Christ in the Last Judgment (Sistine Chapel, 1537-1541, shown right)) was inspired by the classical Laocoön (and note that Christ's raised arm is bent!).¹ Perhaps Michelangelo felt like he was getting "the last Word" with Bandinelli by including that visual reference in his fresco?

Either way, Michelangelo finally got validation in the 20th century (ha - as if Michelangelo needs more validation in the art world!). In 1906 a bent arm was discovered in Rome, and in the 1950s it was generally accepted that this was the arm which had broken off of the Laocoön composition. The current restoration of the classical statue shows a bent arm. So it looks like Michelangelo was right all along.

Do you know any more stories about the rivalry between Michelangelo and Bandinelli? Vasari records that Bandinelli tore a cartoon by Michelangelo into small pieces (you can see Aristotile da San Gallo's copy of the cartoon, which depicted the Battle of Cascina, here). I know that the topic of rivalry and Bandinelli's jealously are of interest to many scholars. If you know of any other stories - do share!

*Some readers may remember that I touched on this Laocoön topic last year. If you're interested for a little more information (and some links), see here.

1 Michael P. Kemling, "Michaelangelo's 'Last Judgment': The Influence of 'Lacoon and His Sons,'" (University of Georgia, 2003, available online here). For the discussion of the figure of Christ specifically, see Chapter 2.

Diana of Ephesus: Keeping Abreast with Iconography

Some of my long-time readers will remember my previous post on Saint Lucy, whose iconography (or visual symbol) is a pair of eyeballs. I remember being struck by how St. Lucy's iconography was so unusual (and kinda grotesque, in my opinion). Some comments on that previous post mentioned another unusual example of hagiographic iconography: Saint Agatha carries her breasts on a platter (see an example by Zurbaran here). Today, though, I remembered another female figure associated with kinda bizarre iconography: Diana of Ephesus. Although Diana (or "Artemis" to the ancient Greeks) isn't a Catholic saint like Lucy and Agatha (she's a fertility goddess from classical mythology), I would have to say that her iconography might be the most unusual of all. Take a look:

Artemis of Ephesus, 1st century CE Roman copy (Museum of Efes, Turkey)

Lady of Ephesus, 1st century CE (Ephesus Archaeological Museum)

With breasts aplenty, it's easy to tell that Diana of Ephesus was an ancient goddess of fertility, but her iconography might be little more complex than one would suppose! In 1979 a scholar name Gerard Seiterle pointed out that none of the supposed breasts of Diana/Artemis figurines have nipples. Seiterle argued that instead of breasts, Diana is laden will bull testes.¹ This is an interesting argument for two reasons: 1) the bull was symbol of fertility in ancient times and 2) the altar at Ephesus would have been large enough to sacrifice a bull. Although Seiterle's argument is not accepted by all scholars (I personally don't feel quite convinced), it does add an interesting element to the discussion of Diana's iconography, don't you think?²

Even if early depictions of Diana do not include nipples on her breasts, I noticed that later depictions do include nipples:

Diana of Ephesus, detail from The Discovery of the Child Erichtonius by Peter Paul Rubens, c. 1615

Fountain of Diana of Ephesus, Villa d'Este, 16th century

Diana of Ephesus was a very popular goddess in ancient times (in fact, some readers may be interested to know that worship of Diana is mentioned in the Bible (see Acts 19:28 and Acts 19:35). Additionally, Diana's temple at Ephesus was one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. I get the sense, though, that she wasn't as popular (and more specifically, her traditional iconography wasn't as popular) in more recent artistic periods like the Renaissance (although some examples from later periods exist, as I've shown above).³ Perhaps Diana of Ephesus' multi-breasted appearance was too far from the Renaissance standards of idealization?

If you can put forward a more unusual type of iconography than Diana of Ephesus, speak up!

1 See Gerard Seiterle, "Artemis: die Grosse Göttin von Ephesos" Antike Welt 10 (1979): 3-16. Seiterle is also mentioned (although his name is misspelled) in Vicki Goldberg, "In Search of Diana of Ephesus" in New York Times 21 August 1994 (citation available online here). I also found some scholars discussing Seiterle's argument on this WikiTalk.

2 Wikipedia mentions here that Seiterle's argument was "accepted in the 1980s by Walter Burkert and Brita Alroth, among others, criticised and rejected by Robert Fleischer, but widely popularized." For an argument against Seiterle, see Fleischer, "Neues zur kleinasiatischen Kultstatue" Archäologischer Anzeiger 98 1983:81-93; Bammer 1990:153.

3 It's interesting to note that a Renaissance humanist scholar might have been interested in Diana of Ephesus, though. It's possible that Andrea Odoni is holding a statuette of Diana of Ephesus in his portrait (painted by Lorenzo Lotti, 1527). See portrait and discussion here.

The "Sumptuous" Arts in Greece

The quarter is over. Over the past few days I've reflected on what lectures I enjoyed teaching to my ancient art students. I think that my favorite lecture was based on Kenneth Lapatin's essay, "The Fate of Plate and Other Precious Metals: Toward a Historiography of Ancient Greek Minor (?) Arts"¹.

The reason why Lapatin includes a question mark after the word "minor" is important: his whole essay revolves around the argument that the Greeks valued the so-called "minor arts" much more than they are valued today. For Lapatin, the "sumptuous" artistic materials like ivory, gold, silver and gemstone were the artistic mediums that the Greeks most prized. In other words, the Greek marble, bronze and (painted) pottery (all of which are placed at the heart of Western art history) weren't as valued by the ancient Greeks.

To prove his point, Lapatin gives one especially interesting example. He writes that "in the middle of the sixth century BC, the inhabitants of Phocaea decided to abandon their city rather than submit to the Medes. Herodotus reports, 'They loaded onto their ships their children, women, and household property, and above all the images of the gods from the sanctuaries and other dedications, everything, in fact, except bronzes, stoneworks, and paintings, and they sailed to Chios.'"² Now I realize that there may have been some practical reasons why the Greeks didn't load their ships with stonework (it is heavy, after all!), but isn't it interesting that the art we value today is precisely the art that the Greeks chose to abandon?

In some ways, this news shouldn't come as a surprise to art historians. We have known for a long time that the main purpose of the Parthenon was to house Phidias' chryselephantine cult statue of Athena (see above left for a reconstruction of an original of c. 438 BC). The cult statue was the most valued thing by the Greeks, not the building which housed the statue. This is very ironic, because today much more emphasis is placed on the architecture and exterior sculpture of the Parthenon. In fact, it's interesting that one ancient Greek writer, Pausanias, only mentions the two pediments and cult statue when he described the Parthenon. He ignored the metopes and frieze completely, which suggests that they weren't very important.³

So, why do we value painting, architecture, and sculpture above the "minor" materials and objects created by the Greeks? Lapatin traces this ideology back to Vasari's writings of the 16th century (see a 1566-68 self-portrait of Vasari on right). Vasari's Lives focused on the achievements of three artistic types: painters, sculptors, and architects. As a result, painting, sculpture, and architecture became "the canonical triad" in art history.⁴ In some ways, it's not surprising that Vasari promoted these types of art: after all, he was a painter and architect himself. Although the effect of Vasari's "triad" was not immediate (gems were still were considered part of the arts for a long time afterward), Vasari's writings took part in "the displacement and demotion of items fashioned from sumptuous materials from the lofty position they held in ancient art and culture (as well as in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance)."⁵

Lapatin's argument is fascinating. He also delves into interesting discussions of how Winckelmann affected our modern perception of Greek sculpture, particularly in terms of what we value today (i.e. unpainted white marble). It's great stuff. I recommend that everyone should get their hands on a copy of this article. Unfortunately, his essay is found in a book that currently is out of print. But I promise that your efforts in securing a copy of this essay will be well worth the effort!


1 Kenneth Lapatin, "The Fate of Plate and Other Precious Metals: Toward a Historiography of Ancient Greek Minor (?) Arts," in Ancient Art and its Historiography by A. A. Donohue, ed. (Cambridge: 2003): 69-91.


2 Ibid., 71.

3 Colin Cunningham, "The Parthenon Marbles," in Academies, Museums and Canons of Art by Gill Perry and Colin Cunningham, eds. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999), 53-54. Part of the citation is available online here.


4 Lapatin, 74. It should be noted that Vasari did discuss and laud the importance of gold work and glyptic in the first edition of his Lives (1550). However, the 1568 revision of the text demoted the sumptuous arts and elevated painting instead.


4 Ibid.

My Week in Assorted Thoughts

This week I've been thinking about several random art historical facts and ideas. Several of you might have seen some of these links on my Twitter feed, but I wanted to flesh out a few ideas here:

• Norman Rockwell included a portrait of Grandma Moses in his painting Christmas Homecoming (1948, see right). You can see Moses on the left side of a painting, wearing an old-fashioned dress. The two artists were friends who lived relatively close to each other at one time. (In fact, you can read parts of a story about Norman Rockwell at Grandma Moses' surprise 88th birthday party here.)
• I really don't know that much about Grandma Moses. She never was discussed in any of my art history classes, but I didn't focus on American art from the 20th century. But could she have been excluded from courses and textbooks because she is a folk artist? Out of curiosity, have any Americanists studied Grandma Moses' work in an academic setting?
• I was surprised to learn that Johann Winckelmann, one of the early scholars of art history, was murdered in 1768. He was fifty years old. What if Winckelmann had lived a full life? I wonder if he would have retracted any of his ideas about unpainted classical sculpture, "good taste," or how Greek art has "noble simplicity."¹ (For example, scholars in the early 19th century were able to document the traces of paint on certain Greek statues after their excavation. If Winckelmann had lived longer, would he have learned this news and changed his ideas about white marble and beauty?) Maybe it's a stretch, but I like to think about how the Western canon might have been different if Winckelmann had not been murdered.
• I've been reading about the Laocoön statue lately, partially because I want to know more about the theory that Michelangelo created the Laocoön (which is a rather far-fetched idea, in my opinion). I've also enjoyed looking at this annotated chronology of the statue: this piece has a pretty rich history!
• A comment from a student also led to me to look at a pre-20th century restoration of the Laocoön statue. This restoration depicts the arm of the priest as being fully-extended. (The restored arm (now lost) was the work of Renaissance artist Bandio Baccinelli. For those interested, Vasari wrote a little bit about Bandio Baccinelli's work on the Laocoön here.) It appears that has been a lot of debate regarding how Laocoön originally appeared. As recently as 1989, one scholar argued that the whole composition needs to be more compact and pyramidal in order to be historically accurate.²

How was your week? Were your art historical thoughts as assorted as mine?

1 Johann Joachim Winckelmann, "Reflections on the Imitation of Greek Works in Painting and Sculpture," in The Art of Art History: A Critical Anthology by Donald Preziosi, ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 31-39. For an interesting critique on Winckelmann's theories, see also Kenneth Lapatin, "The Fate of Plate and Other Precious Materials: Toward a Historiography of Greek Minor (?) Arts," from Ancient Art and its Historiography by A. A. Donohue, ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 69-91.

2 Seymor Howard, "Laocoon Rerestored," in American Journal of Archaeology 93, no. 3 (July 1989): 417-422.

The Un-Peplos Kore

Tonight I've been researching why the so-called "Peplos Kore" (c. 530 BCE, shown left) might not be wearing a peplos garment. (A "peplos" is a rectangle of cloth that is pinned at the shoulders and worn with a belt - it gives the effect that the woman is wearing a blouse. And "kore" means young woman; it is a name given to certain female statues made by the Greeks.)

This current "un-peplos" argument is based on recent reconstructions and studies of the figurine. Instead of a peplos, it is thought that the statue is wearing a long robe, cape, and an ependytes (an outer garment which is a metal-like sheath divided into regular, rectangular compartments).¹ The ependytes was an Eastern garment associated with divine power, and therefore suggests that this figurine would have represented some type of goddess, perhaps Artemis or Athena.

This argument has been solidified by the recent reconstructions of the Peplos Kore by German archaeologist Vincenz Brinkmann.² I suppose that now the problem is to try and ascertain which goddess could be depicted. The statue's missing right hand probably held some object to help ascertain her identity (like a bow for Artemis). Brinkmann favors the idea that the goddess is Artemis (although alternate theories have been presented by others).³ Anyhow, here are some possible ideas presented in reconstructions of the Peplos Kore:

Reconstruction of Peplos Kore (as Athena) by Vincenz Brinkmann, 2004

I really like the animals shown on this ependytes, but I can't tell what if a mythological narrative is depicted in the reconstruction. I kind of doubt it. But if anyone wants to have a guess at what might be depicted, you can click here to see better details of this reconstruction.

Reconstruction of Peplos Kore (as Artemis) by Vincenz Brinkmann, 2004

Reconstruction of Peplos Kore by Cambridge University; first painted in 1975, repainted in 1996

Although this last image is of an older reconstruction, I thought I would still include it. As mentioned here, this Cambridge reconstruction supports the idea that the statue represents someone who is offering a gift (which looks like an apple or pomegranate) to the gods (instead of actually representing a goddess, as argued by Brinkmann). She is shown as wearing a meniskos, an umbrella designed to protect the statue against the weather and bird droppings.

I don't know if we'll ever have a concrete idea of what this statue looked like in terms of color and the ependytes design. There just aren't enough paint samples for us to have a completely accurate reconstruction. Plus, it will be hard to know specific details unless we ever come across the kore's missing arm/hand. But it's fun to think of the how this sculpture might have appeared (and who actually was represented!).

1 Richard T. Neer, The Emergence of the Classical Style in Greek Sculpture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010), 119. Source available online here.

2 Ibid. You also can read an English review of Brinkmann's publication here (review by by Brunilde Sismondo Ridgway). Be sure to check out the penultimate paragraph and footnote #12 to find out more information about the Peplos Kore argument.

3 See Brunilde Sismondo Ridgway review (Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2004.08.07), footnote #12.

I Heart Pliny the Elder

I've been reading snippets of Pliny the Elder's Natural History over the past few days, and I can't help but think that the ancient Roman and I would have been friends. I definitely feel as curious about the world as Pliny the Elder, but hopefully I am a little more practical (i.e. I wouldn't risk my life to observe the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius).

There are two things that I like about Natural History. For one thing, I like Pliny's little anecdotes about artists (I'm sure my penchant for anecdotes is no surprise, gentle reader!). Even though some of the stories seem a little too legendary and far-fetched (Vasari would have loved some of these stories for his Vite), they are still quite fun. For example, Pliny devotes a whole section to stories about the Greek painter Apelles of Cos (you can read some of the stories here). One such story involves speculation that Apelles painted Alexander the Great's mistress Pancaste for Aphrodite Rising from the Foam ("Aphrodite Anadyomene," shown above in a Roman mural from Pompeii (House of the Marine Venus, 1st century AD) which is thought to have been based on Apelles' original work). ¹

I'm especially amused by this story about Apelles and a picture of a horse:

"There is, or at least there once existed, a picture of a horse by Apelles. It was painted for a competition in which he sought judgment not from men but from dumb animals. For, seeing that his rivals were getting the upper hand by devious means, he showed the pictures individually to some horses he had brought in, and they neighed only at Apelles' picture. As this frequently happened on subsequent occasions it proved to be a good test of the artist's skill." (Natural History XXXV:95).

The other thing I like about Pliny the Elder is his apparent passion and excitement for his subject matter. I love that he calls the pyramids "a pointless and absurd display of royal wealth." (Natural History XXXVI: 75) (Not that I agree with that statement, I just love his frank opinion.)

I also can relate to his awe regarding the Colossus of Rhodes (one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, original c. 292-284 BC, shown left through a wood engraving reconstruction by Sidney Barclay, c. 1875). I'm always interested in how a sculpture's scale compares to that of a human being, and Pliny seems to have that same interest: "No statue has commanded greater admiration than the Colossus of Rhodes made by Chares of Lindos, the pupil of Lysippus. It was about 105 feet high. Sixty-six years after its erection the Colossus was toppled by an earthquake, but even lying on the ground it is amazing. Few people can make their arms meet round its thumb, and the fingers alone are larger than most statues." (Natural History XXXIV:42). (On a side note, it was announced about two years ago that the Colossus of Rhodes was going to be rebuilt as a giant light sculpture. Does anyone know if progress has been made on that project?)

Who here has read Natural History? Any likes or dislikes? If you haven't had a chance to get to know Pliny the Elder and his thoughts on art, I'd highly recommend those few chapters from Natural History. Pliny the Elder is witty, opinionated, and just all-around interesting.

1 Pancaste could really be labeled as Alexander the Great's ex-mistress. Pliny records that the ruler commissioned Apelles to paint Pancaste, and then Apelles ended up in love with his subject. In turn, Alexander gave Pancaste to Apelles, which Pliny noted was indicative of Alexander's magnanimity. (Natural History XXXV:86-87).

Lion's Head Doorknockers

This past weekend, my family and I traveled to visit the Washington State Capitol Building. It's always fun for me to identify the different architectural features on such buildings, and particularly to think of Western/European counterparts which may have inspired such features. But as we approached the bronze doors of the capitol (c. 1923-28, see detail on left), I paused. Bronze doors are a common feature in Western architecture, but what about the lion's head doorknockers? What's their history? I could think of earlier lion's head knockers, such as the Ottonian ones on the Hildesheim Cathedral, but I wasn't sure if there might be an earlier example.

After doing a little research, I found a really charming article from 1918 that discusses the history of doorknockers. I was surprised to learn that the doorknocker has existed since ancient Greece.¹ At this time slaves were often assigned to answer doors, and they were chained to the door in order to prevent them from running away. The predecessor of doorknockers were short iron bars that attached to these chains, which were used as "rappers."

It appears that the lion's head design also existed for doorknockers in ancient Greece. In 1942 Sterling Dow mentioned some "heavy handsome lion's-head door knockers...which escaped the sack by Philip in 348 BC."²

So, what's the significance of lion's head doorknockers?  Did they symbolize anything, or were they just decorative? I haven't come across any speculation on the subject, but I think that there must have been some symbolism involved. Lions held symbolism in lots of ancient cultures, and often embodied power and strength. I have a theory that lion's head doorknockers were intended to serve the same symbolic function as the lion statues which decorated the gates of the Hittites (Hattusha Lion Gate, c. 1400 BCE, see above right) and the Mycenaeans (Lion Gate at Mycenae, c. 1250 BCE). In each case, these intimidating lions serve as guardian beasts for the city, as well as symbolize strength and power.  I think the same thing can be said for lion's head doorknockers, which rest on the doors (i.e. gates) as guardians of a building.

On a side note, though, it's interesting that not everyone today associates lion's head doorknockers with such ancient symbolism.  This fascinating study by Zachary McCune mentions a woman who selected a lion's head doorknocker for her home, but only because the same knocker was found on the door of the UK Prime Minister's house.  In this woman's case, it appears that she wanted her knocker (and her home) to have some connection and/or status with this association to the Prime Minister.

Do lion's head doorknockers have any particular meaning or symbolism for you? Can you think of an ornate doorknocker (of a lion's head or otherwise) that you particularly like?


1 "The Evolution of the Door-Knocker," The Art World 3, no. 5 (1918): v, vii-viii.


2 Sterling Dow, "Review: Excavations at Olynthus," The American Historical Review 47, no. 4 (July 1942): 824.

What if Sculptures Were Painted?

This week I have been reading Colin Cunningham's essay "The Parthenon Marbles" (a preview of which is available here). Cunningham spends much of this essay examining how the bringing of the Parthenon marbles (by Lord Elgin) to the British Museum has affected the Western canon of art. (When using the word "canon" I am referring to the artistic standard and aesthetic value that has been determined by Western culture over centuries.)  The bringing of original Greek statues to England was huge, especially in the 19th century, since many artists had only known Greek art through Roman copies.  After the marbles were brought to the British Museum in 1816, thousands of artists began to study these works for their aesthetic properties.

I was most intrigued by Cunningham's discussion of how classical sculpture continues to be left unpainted.  We know that Greek and Roman sculpture used to be painted, and many sculptures have left behind traces of paint (including sculptures on the Parthenon). Modern techniques have enabled exhibitions (such as this one and this one) to show reconstructions of how these sculptures appeared originally, such as this example of Augustus of Primaporta (right, original dated ca. 20 BC).

However when ancient sculptures were discovered, most of the paint had usually come off.  Obviously, people decided to leave the works unpainted.  On one hand, no one wanted to risk damaging the original works of art.  Plus, at the time no one knew how the paint originally appeared.  In time, though, the idea of unpainted sculpture began to be propagated by art historians as correct/beautiful/preferred, particularly Winckelmann (1717-1768), who declared that "color ought to have a minor part in the consideration of beauty."¹

So, what do you think of painted sculpture?  Does it weird you out? Cunningham points out, "If the idea of coloured sculpture seems strange to you, that shows the influence the western canon has had on all of us."² Personally, I like looking at painted reconstructions of ancient sculpture, because it reminds me how much the Western canon and my own artistic preferences have been constructed.  I'm sure that ancient Greeks and Romans would think it bizarre that later cultures left their sculptures white and unadorned.  And the funny thing is, we've continued to create unadored, unpainted sculptures for centuries, all in the name of classicism!

What if classical sculpture had still been painted when it was discovered?  That could have changed the face of the Western art - quite literally, in fact, if you think about painted faces!  Consider if Michelangelo's David had been painted. You can get an idea of what it might have looked like from this sculpture created after Michelangelo's David (left, by a German artist, displayed in Cologne as part of the Museum Ludwig collection).  Or what if Bernini's sculptures had been painted?  Or neoclassical sculptures, like Canova's Cupid and Psyche?

Art and art history could have been totally different than how they have turned out.  How do you feel about that?


1 John Hooper, "The Ancients: Now Available in Color," in The Guardian, 22 November 2004.  Available online here.

2 Colin Cunninghman, "The Parthenon Marbles," in Academies, Museums and Canons of Art, Gill Perry and Colin Cunningham, eds. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999), 70.

Venus Impudique and Pudica

So many prehistoric statuettes are nicknamed "Venus" (the most popular being the "Venus of Willendorf") that I've never given much thought to that title.  I guess that assumed that it was a cute reference to the fact that the statuettes were female. I recently learned, however, that the name "Venus" was first used as a tongue-in-cheek comment.  In 1864, the Marquis Paul de Vibraye wittily described a paleolithic ivory statuette of a female figure (shown right, c. 14,000 BC, from Laugerie-Basse, Vezerey in Dordogne) as a Venus impudique" ("immodest Venus").  Paul de Vibraye chose the title "Venus impudique" to suggest that the prehistoric statuette makes no attempt to hide her sexuality, in contrast to the popular convention of the "Venus pudica" (modest Venus), which shows the goddess of love attempting to conceal her breasts and pubic area.

There are many versions of the "Venus pudica," most notably the Venus de Medici (shown left, 1st century B.C. copy) and Praxiteles' Venus of Knidos (original of c.350-340 BC).  If you are interested, you can read more about the Venus pudica convention here, and see even more examples here.

It's interesting to think about how the nickname "Venus" has affected the perception of prehistoric statuettes like the Venus of Willendorf.  Christopher L. C. E. Whitcombe explains several ways that perception is altered in this short essay, and I wanted to mention two them here:

• The "Venus" title encourages people to compare prehistoric art to the artistic standards and ideals that were upheld in Greek, Roman, and Renaissance art.  Since these artistic ideals were (and are) so highly valued in Western society, the "Venus" statues are judged by their factors of being "different" from these ideals (instead of being examined on their own terms).
• The term "Venus" also calls for a comparison between prehistoric and Greek culture.  When such a comparison is made, the prehistoric art becomes more "primal" and sexually unrestrained, since the Greek art suggests self-awareness and "civilized" conventions of propriety.  Obviously, such a comparison is dangerous, since it suggests certain things about prehistoric life which cannot be proven. 

Can you think of more reasons why "Venus" is a problematic nickname to use?  Do you have a favorite "Venus" statuette?

A Herculean Emperor

This evening I was flipping through some textbooks on ancient art. I am currently developing curriculum for an introductory course on ancient art, and I am hoping to find a textbook which will enable me to teach the course through a case-study approach (similar to the other introductory course which is taught at my university). (That being said, if anyone has some textbook or curriculum recommendations, please let me know!)

Anyhow, while looking through one textbook, I came across an image of Emperor Commodus. The marble bust immediately caught my eye, since Commodus is represented as the god Hercules (c. AD 191-92, Capitoline Museum, shown right). I've seen Roman emperors to assume godlike characteristics (Augustus' youthful statue from Primaporta (original dated ca. 20 BC) can be interpreted as a propagandistic statement - Augustus liked to advertise that he was the son of a god, since his father Caesar had been made a god after his death.) However, I've never seen another Roman emperor assume the lion skin and bear club of Hercules in portraiture. Commodus even carries the apples of Hesperides in his hands, which is a reference to one of Hercules' most difficult labors.

Some sources list that Hercules was the particular patron of Commodus, while others go as far as to say that Commodus was thought to be a reincarnation of the god Hercules.¹ It seems like Emperor Commodus was quite the character; he even fought in the arena in order to display his herculean strength and physical prowess.

Cassius Dio's Roman History records that "a vast number of statues" were erected of Commodus dressed in Herculean garb. You can see an example of Commodus depicted as a young Hercules here. Cassius Dio also mentions that Commodus replaced Nero's head on the Colossus statue with his own head, and then added a bronze club and lion to the statue so it would look like Hercules.

Commodus was pretty invested in maintaining his Herculean image, perhaps even to his detriment, since he didn't seem to be a very good ruler. What about you? If you wanted to be depicted as a mythological god, who would you choose? I wouldn't mind being depicted as Artemis/Diana.

1 For mention of Hercules as Commodus' patron, see Marina Vaizey, Art: The Critic's Choice

2 Cassius Dio, Roman History (published in Vol. IX of the Loeb Classical Library edition, 1927), available online here. If you're interested in reading more about Commodus, I would suggest that you read the whole chapter located at the link.

3 Ibid. (New York: The Ivy Press Limited, 1999), 20.

Guest Post: Trouble for the "Victorious Youth"

Today I'm pleased to feature a guest post by Pamelia Brown. Pamelia writes for Associate Degree [dot] com, and has a written a couple of entries there that might be of particular interest to people who read this blog.

For today's post, Pamelia is writing about the Getty Museum's "Victorious Youth," a sculpture which has seen a lot of news coverage this past month:

Victorious Youth, 300-100 BCE, Getty Museum

For a work of art whose creator isn't identified, the Victorious Youth gets a lot of press.

The Greek bronze statue was discovered in international fishing waters by Italian fishermen in 1964. However, instead of revealing the discovery to the Italian government, or even returning it to Greece, the men who discovered it hid it and sold it, leading to the statue eventually being smuggled out of the country and sold at auction. J. Paul Getty, the billionaire oilman, made plans in 1972 to buy the statue despite protests from the Italian government. He died in 1976, and the Getty Museum bought the statue the next year, after the seller's Italian attorneys made assurances that the sale was legal. That was just the beginning of the trouble.

Earlier this month, an Italian judge ordered that the Victorious Youth be seized from the museum and returned to Italy. It's a follow-up to a 2007 agreement in which the Getty, acknowledging that many of its pieces were likely acquired illegally, announced it would return 40 of its pieces to the Italian government, though not the statue. It's not clear how effective the order could be enforced here, but it does open the door for further negotiations with the Getty Museum. While the museum did issue a statement saying the order was "flawed both procedurally and substantively," the following week saw the Getty announce a renewed partnership with Italy by working with Sicily on object conservation, and that decision also stemmed from the 2007 agreement.

I think it's a shame that a sculpture has been reduced to a prize being quarreled over by an angry government and a museum that's probably resorted to off-the-book practices to acquire art. It makes me wonder how many times we let art be swallowed by a different story. Perhaps some kind of share or trade could be worked out, where the statue spent part of its time in the Getty Villa in Malibu and the rest of the area in Italy. I know it's not a perfect solution, but it's surely better than courtroom showdowns.

This guest post is contributed by Pamelia Brown, who writes on the topics of associates degree. She welcomes your comments at her email Id pamelia.brown@gmail.com .

Bacchus/Dionysus in Classical Art

I was recently asked a question something like, "If you had to choose a favorite god or goddess from ancient Greek/Roman mythology, who would it be?" I quickly answered Bacchus (Dionysus), the god of wine. It's not because I'm into bacchanalian parties (I don't even drink!) or Dionysiac cults, but Bacchus just seems like he'd be a really entertaining friend. I bet that guy can be funny-on-command.

Anyhow, I started to think of all of the depictions of Bacchus/Dionysus in art. Since my speciality is in 17th century art, it's not surprising that I first thought of art created in the Renaissance/Baroque periods: Michelangelo's Bacchus (1497), Caravaggio's Bacchus (c. 1596), Caravaggio's Sick Bacchus (c. 1593), Velazquez' The Triumph of Bacchus (c. 1629; see detail above), and Titian's Bacchus and Ariadne (1520-22). While researching for this post, I also came across a fun depiction of a hefty Bacchus (1638-40) by Rubens. I think it might be my new favorite Bacchus painting, partially because the god's face and girth remind me of a physics teacher from my old high school.

But what about ancient art? What about depictions of Bacchus/Dionysus by the Greeks and Romans themselves? I had a hard time thinking of many examples, which is partially because it's outside my realm of expertise. I did think of three examples, though. Praxiteles' Hermes and the Infant Dionysus (marble copy after an original of 340 BC, shown right) would have been fun to see in its pre-damaged state, since Hermes was originally dangling a bunch of grapes to tease the infant god of the vine. I also thought of the Dionysiac Mystery Frieze (Villa of the Mysteries, Pompeii, Italy, ca. 60-50 BC) and figure from the Parthenon which might be Dionysus (ca. 438-432 BC). These depictions are are a little disappointing though, since they are both damaged. (P.S. Can anyone identify the head with the bulging eyeballs on the left of the Dionysiac wall? I can't figure it out.)

With only those few examples in mind, I began a quest to familiarize myself with depictions of Bacchus/Dionysus in classical art. I ended up finding a couple of fun examples that I thought I'd share:

Dionysus (2nd century AD; Roman copy after Hellenistic model, Louvre, Paris)

Dionysus (460 BCE; Louvre, Paris)
This is thought to be one of the earliest depictions of Dionysus as a young man (see here)

Exekias, Dionysus in a Ship, Sailing among Dolphins (Attic black-figure kylix; ca. 530 BC; Vulci)
I actually remember seeing this vase in a course on ancient Greek art. It's a good example of how early Christians picked up on the reclining figure of Dionysus and reused that imagery in the figure of Jonah (see bottom scene from the ceiling painting in the Catacomb of Saints Peter and Marcellinus, Rome, Italy, early 4th century)

Bacchus, (3rd century, Roman mosaic, El Jem Museum, Tunisia)

The Birth of Dionysus (ca. 405-385 BC, Greek, National Archeological Museum in Taranto, Italy)
According to mythology, Dionysus was born out of Zeus' thigh. I love this vase painting - check out Dionysus' cute lil' postnatal wreath!

There are a lot more depictions of Bacchus/Dionysus than the few I've shown here. Do you have a favorite depiction of the god of wine? If you had to pick a favorite god or goddess from classical mythology, who would it be?

Things Spotted by Students

One of the things I absolutely love about teaching is that students point out details in art that I have never noticed previously. Thanks to my students, I constantly find new discoveries in works of art that have long been familiar to me.

A couple of years ago, a student pointed out a detail in the Greek kouros statue from the Metropolian Museum of Art (ca. 600 BC, Archaic period, shown right). If you click on this image, you can see a small band that goes around the neck of this statue. I never, ever noticed that necklace until a student pointed it out.

So, what's the significance of the necklace? To be honest, I don't know. It reminds me of the torcs that was worn by ancient Gauls (see the Dying Gaul (ca. 230-220 BC)), but I don't know if there is a direct connection to the kouros. Really, I can hardly find any discussion on the kouros necklace, except for a few things like this short passage in an old archaeology journal: "The Metropolitan Kouros is the only example in sculpture with a neckband in relief, and is further unique in having it tied in front - examples in vase paintings always have the neckband tied in the back." ¹

If anyone knows of any information on this neckband, please let me know! I'm sure that my past student has long-forgotten that he pointed out that necklace to me, but it has piqued my curiosity for a long time.

Yesterday, a student pointed out another detail that I have never noticed before. The class was looking at a reproduction of Pontormo's Deposition (c. 1528, see left), and a student asked if we knew any information about the man who is on the right side of the painting (he is wearing a dark hat and staring out at the viewer). Until she said something, I never had even noticed that man before! In class I speculated that it might be a portrait of the artist, and I learned today that others have suggested the same thing (see similar speculations here and here). Some people think that the artist depicting himself as Joseph of Arimathea, and that makes sense to me.

I'm so glad that students point out new things to me. It's fun to continually observe and discover new things, even as a teacher. I guess that my eye is trained to look at specific things in Western masterpieces, and sometimes I overlook small details without realizing it. Thanks for giving me a fresh perspective, class. I like to learn and find new things, too.

1 Stephen B. Luce, "Archaeological News and Discussions," in Amerian Journal of Archaeology 48, no. 3 (1944): 283.

Intro to Architecture: Greek Capitals

Someone requested that I write a few introductory posts on architecture, and I am more than happy to comply! I thought that it would be fun to start with the architectural orders that were popular in ancient Greece. (I thought about waiting to write this post until I reached this same chronological point in my intro/survey posts, but I'm too excited to wait. So, sorry for the anachronism. Just pretend that the architectural posts are separate from the other survey posts.)

The three Greek architectural orders are called Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian. These orders are easily defined by a key characteristics, namely the capitals (decorative heads) at the tops of the columns. There are several other architectural features which define these three orders (and there also are variants within these orders, as you can see in the drawing on the right), but I don't want to overwhelm anyone. For now, we'll just focus on the capitals of these basic columns.

As you can see from the pictures above, the Doric capital essentially is split into two simple sections. In contrast, the Ionic capital is decorated with large volute scrolls and the ornate Corinthian capital is decorated with acanthus leaves and scrolls. If you want to see some other examples of these capitals (and some other awesome capitals in general), click here and here.

Throughout history, the Greek architectural style has been adopted and revived by many other cultures. The Romans quickly adopted the Greek architectural style (really, they borrowed tons of their artistic ideas from the Greeks), and the term "Classical style" can refer to either Greek or Roman art. However, Romans put a twist to Greek design by sometimes using a superimposed order on buildings which had more than one story - each of the successive stories are decorated with a different order (this is a deviation from the Greeks, who consistently would use one order throughout a whole building). For example, you can see a superimposed order on the outside of the Colosseum (Rome, 70-80 AD). The Doric order is on the bottom level, the Ionic is on the middle level, and the Corinthian is on the top:

You can also see another drawing of the Colosseum orders here
(Note: the fourth level of the Colosseum also is decorated with Corinthian capitals - but these capitals are atop pilasters instead of columns).

The Greek/Classical style has been revived many other times throughout history. Due to the excavation/discovery of Pompeii in 1748, Europeans became enamored with the Classical style once again - which led to the popular Neoclassical movement. Neoclassical architecture can be seen all over America and Europe. In America, the classical style is often used for civic buildings (which makes sense, because the Founding Fathers took part in this Neoclassical revival - they were influenced by the ideal of the Roman Republic). Here are a couple of Neoclassical examples:

William Wilkins (architect), Downing College, Cambridge (1807-21)

Note the large Ionic columns that decorate the porch

Thomas Jefferson, Monticello, Charlottesville, Virginia (1770-1806)
Jefferson used Doric columns for the porch of his home

Jacques-Germain Soufflot, the Panthéon (Ste.-Geneviève),
Paris, 1755-1792
See the large Corinthian columns?

So, where have you most recently seen some columns with Doric, Ionic, or Corinthian capitals? I most recently saw Corinthian columns on this iron pergola:

Pergola, Historic Pioneer Square, Seattle (first built 1909)