Apollo, Dionysus and The Birth of Tragedy

‘The difficult relations between the two elements in tragedy may be symbolised by a fraternal union between the two deities: Dionysius speaks the language of Apollo, but Apollo, finally, the language of Dionysius; thereby the highest goal of tragedy and of art in general is reached.’

In Greek mythology Apollo is the god of light, a pastoral god and a god of prophecy. He is also, curiously, a musician god, the god of song and the lyre. Dionysus, on the other hand, is the god of wine, vegetation, of pleasures, and of civilisation in general. The deities may not receive their exact due in ‘The Birth of Tragedy’; what matters is not how scholarly Nietzsche’s representations of the gods’ respective characters are, but how he uses their names to account for the confrontation and reconciliation of different elements in the art of tragedy.

Nietzsche conceives art as expressing the spirit of a nation; it is not unfair, therefore, that he relates the origin of tragedy, which he considers a Greek affair, to Greek mythology, and to the balance in their thought between orgiastic and political instincts.

‘Placed between India and Rome, and tempted to choose one solution of the other, the Greeks managed a classically pure third mode of existence.’

Whether this makes any sense culturally or chronologically, India, and the Buddhist desire for Nirvana, are seen as representing the ecstatic resignation to the negation of space, time and individuality. Rome, at the other end of Nietzsche’s comparison, is used to designate rational, patriotic, military strength and ambition. The combination of these two elements in Greece is seen as a prophylactic, avoiding the dangers of the two extremes, whilst offering their benefits. A similar combination of disparate properties is used to describe the paradoxical nature of tragedy.

‘Myth shields us from music while at the same time giving music its maximum freedom.’

Universal, orgiastic, destructive music, as Nietzsche describes it, engages in a mutually advantageous relationship with the visual modelling of myth and the hero figure, who shields the spectator from what would otherwise have been an intolerable metaphysical burden. Nietzsche’s view of tragedy stems from the role of spectator, being inspired by his experience of the third act of Wagner’s ‘Tristan and Isolde’, and he uses this experience of duality to relate ‘the birth of tragedy.’

Apollo, Nietzsche identifies with the concept of dream reality as the inspiration for the verbal and plastic arts: poetry and writing, sculpture and the visual arts. The sculptor Phidias is said to have beheld ideal bodies in a dream, and he quotes Hans Sachs’ Die Meistersinger;

‘All poetry we ever read

Is but true dreams interpreted.’

The artist states the reality of illusion in the same way that a philosopher might treat the illusion of reality. Schopenhauer defined the mark of philosophic talent as the ability to view mankind and the world as being in essence nothing but a dream. Apollo is the Greek figure for this pre-Freudian, pre-Surrealist, ambiguity of the intertwining of dream and myth in life and art.

‘the god of light reigns also over the fair illusion of our inner world of fantasy.’

Sleep and dream serve a necessary function for the body in the same way that art and the imagination serve a need of the mind and of life in general, without necessarily claiming to be “life”, “truth” or “reality” itself. It may be “a reality”, but it does not claim to be the only reality, that would destroy the charm of “illusion”.

‘Apollo himself may be regarded as the marvellous divine image of the principium individuationis, whose looks and gestures radiate the full delight, wisdom, and beauty of “illusion”.’

Apollo presents the tranquil illusion that somehow the individual is not ephemeral, insignificant, pathetically doomed. Nietzsche quotes Schopenhauer’s The World As Will And Idea to provide himself with the phrase ‘principium individuationis’, the principle which sustains the individual in the face of reality. This in tragedy the most horrific events are transformed by beauty, ‘redemption through illusion’.

Schopenhauer has also described the shattering of the principium individuationis by the aw which seizes man when he is intoxicated by a sense of the unknown and unknowable. The individual forgets himself and his past through, for example, the use of narcotics or by the symbolic approach of spring with all its possibilities of growth and new experience. Dionysus represents the orgiastic and ecstatic reconciliation of man with man, and man with nature. All is united, or reunited, in universal harmony and ‘mystical Oneness’.

‘as though the veil of Maya had been torn apart and there remained only shreds floating before the  vision of mystical Oneness.’

According to Hindu philosophy Maya is illusion, not in the Apollonian sense, but in the philosophers’ sense that the material world can be regarded as unreal. However Nietzsche’s view of primordial spirituality also incorporates physicality. It is closer to the lecherous satyr than the Hindu ascetic. The satyr is man’s Dionysiac prototype: an enthusiastic reveller, a symbol of nature and sexual potency, also a prophet of wisdom and one who has knowledge of Dionysiac suffering. Dionysus as a child was dismembered by the Titans. There is some confusion or merging with the Cretan god, Zagreus, which one story ingeniously solves when it appears that the Titans were jealous of Dionysus/Zagreus, tore him to pieces and placed the remains in a cauldron. Zeus managed to rescue his still beating heart and recreate Dionysus, while Zagreus, as the remains, became an underworld divinity.

Dionysiac suffering, then, is the pains of individuation. Dionysus is destroyed and yet he is eternal and triumphs by being reborn in a new form.

‘We have here an indication that dismemberment – the truly Dionysiac suffering – was like a separation into air, water, earth, and fire, and that individuation should be regarded as the source of all suffering and rejected.’

The rebirth of Dionysus is a reuniting of the elements, and end to individuation; Dionysian art, beyond the particular visual sense, expresses itself fully in the most abstract of the arts, music. Whereas Apollonian art relies on existing forms and verbalisations of individual experiences, music is primordial, non-rational and metaphysical.

‘The cosmic symbolism of music resists any adequate treatment by language, for the simple reason that music, in referring to primordial contradiction and pain, symbolises a sphere which is both earlier than appearance and beyond it.’

Music is the art of Dionysus, but this is not to say, as Nietzsche seems to be saying above, that Dionysian tendencies do not find expression in, or relate to, the Apollonian arts.

Nietzsche regards folk song as one of the earliest of the arts, and that the music inspired the poetry to form folk song.

‘we must regard folk song as a musical mirror of the cosmos, as primordial melody casting about for an analogue and finding that analogue eventually in poetry.’

Melody is conceived as giving birth to poetry, that music generates images and words constructed on the emotions and rhythms it contains. However folk poetry was an inadequate vehicle for the power of music, and so a grander form, lyric poetry, superseded it. Lyric poetry is a manifestation of the will of music in images and ideas. It is dependent on the spirit of music in the same way that music is dependent on the universal world-will. Likewise tragedy arose out of the choric tradition, which was not a projection of the audience, or a dramatic body of people, but a dramatic illusion of the chthonic realm.

‘The satyr, as the Dionysiac chorist, dwells in a reality sanctioned by myth and ritual.’

The Dionysiac state suspends the everyday experience of the individual, in effect, annihilates the individual; but on the brink of destruction art reclaims him. This fundamental experience of good tragedy is absent from the work of Euripedes. The spirit of Aeschylus’ and Sophocles’ work has been replaced with the Socratic maxim, ‘Whatever is beautiful must also be sensible.’ The balance between Dionysiac and Apollonian elements is upset, and the result is inartistic naturalism containing none of the universality of the non-phenomenal world.

Schopenhauer, in The World As Will And Idea, defines the relation between music and image and concept in terms of universalia ante rem and universalia in re. In other words that music expresses the primordial things-in-themselves, as will without embodiment, while image and concept derive from perceptible phenomena of the real world. In accordance with Schopenhauer, Nietzsche interprets music as the immediate language of the will, but adds that it is music, therefore, that stimulates and gives heightened significance to the Apollonian spheres of image and concept.

‘Dionysiac art, then, affects the Apollonian talent in a twofold manner: first, music incites us to a symbolic intuition of the Dionysiac universality: second, it endows that symbolic image with supreme significance.’

Dionysiac art, in music, adds the non-rational experience of the universalia ante rem and elevates the plastic Apollonian art to the same level. Music gave birth to the tragic myth as the only sufficient expression of the original Oneness and the pains of individuation. Tragedy captures the Dionysiac spirit of destruction in a way that the accepted origins of art, Apollonian illusion and beauty, are not capable of accommodating. It is only through the infusion of the Dionysiac spirit that the images are able to transcend the particular and the phenomenal. The hero, being an ephemeral manifestation of the will, dies, while the will of life, as a whole, lives on.

‘Each single instance of such annihilation will clarify for us the abiding phenomenon of Dionysiac art, which expresses the omnipotent will behind individuation, eternal life continuing beyond all appearance and in spite of destruction.’

The plastic Apollonian arts are, unlike Dionysiac art, sympathetic to individual suffering; they deal in appearances, though they can, through idealisation, express what is eternal in natural beauty. But, essentially, nature is like Dionysiac art – there is an unchanging will behind constant superficial change. Nietzsche appears primarily as a disciple of Dionysus – In the Expeditions of an Untimely Man in the Twilight Of The Idols he describes the psychology of the artist as intoxicated with cruelty and destruction, as if influenced by the feeling of Spring or narcotics, with an overloaded and distended will. However it transpires that he thinks of both Dionysus and Apollo as intoxication, not as intoxication and dream, as in The Birth of Tragedy. In Section 10 he promises to deal with the two aspects of art but spends only two short sentences on Apollonian art and he devotes the rest of the section to Dionysian art. In the Twilight Of The Idols he seems only to pay lip service to the idea of Apollo, it is really Dionysus that interests him. But in The Birth of Tragedy this is less so; we are not left in any doubt as to which is the superior partner but they are partners and one relies upon the other. A purely Dionysian tragedy could not exist; its destructive consummation would cast the spectator into oblivion, never to return.

The art of tragedy relies on the continuous evolution of the Apollonian-Dionysiac duality, in the same way that they propagation of the human species depends on the duality of the sexes. Nietzsche may have his own distorted views on the inferiority of women, but he cannot deny their, nor Apollo’s, critical importance. He emphasises the split, both in origins and objectives, between the plastic Apollonian arts and the music of Dionysus. They can be in fierce opposition, but the highest goal of tragedy and art in general is achieved by their marriage. The primordial, universal Oneness and the suffering of individuation is expressed in beauty, and artistic illusion and concern for individual forms saves us from being subsumed.

‘let us sacrifice in the temple of both gods.’

Both gods are indispensable, yet they are conflicting, contradictory characters, tending to induce the follower to neglect the other god. Nietzsche betrays his own preference but however difficult it is to fuse the two, great art, in his view, can only be reached by their reconciliation and balanced union, be it symbolised by husband and wife, as at the beginning of The Birth Of Tragedy, or by brothers and partners. The tensions and frictions of difficult relations are ultimately harnessed to spark off tragedy, to overwhelm and rescue the spectator simultaneously.

 Copyright 1981 Ade Annabel

Historical Atmosphere in Painting 1790 – 1830 (with reference to the Nazarenes)

 

Ariosto room by Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld

‘The Death of the Chavalier Bayard’, painted by Benjamin West in 1772, illustrates what, for many people, constitutes a history painting. It commemorates an event in history such as, here, the death of a famous person or a battle. Another American painter, but this time working in England, was John Singleton Copley. His painting, ‘The Death of Major Peirson’, of 1783, extends the definition to include the painting of a contemporary event of historical significance. This is perhaps a slight misconception of history painting, but one that forms a significant volume of painting normally dealt with under the title of history.

Turner’s work throughout his lifetime showed an interest in dramatic, sometimes catastrophic, historical events. ‘The Decline of the Carthiginian Empire’ of 1817, though poorly received by the critics, and even by Ruskin, nevertheless serves to show that subject matter need not necessarily be taken from recent history. A lot of Turner’s architectural studies tended towards the medieval and Gothic rather than the contemporary as there was a general cultural appetite for historical style. Architecture in England had, for some time, plundered historical styles; one of the most celebrated examples was Horace Walpole’s ‘Strawberry Hill’, of 1748, which he built with the help of Bentley and Chute.

In France, at the end of the eighteenth century, David was championing the new style of neo-classicism. The French Revolution had given a fresh impulse to the painting of heroic subjects. The French Revolutionaries, of which David was an official artist, aspired to the idea of Roman grandeur. David’s ‘The Dead Marat’ of 1793 combines this classical ideal with an austere humanity. The neo-classicists felt that they were replacing the Rococo falsity and light-heartedness with classical truth and moral fervour. Ingres’ ‘Romulus victorious over Acron’, painted in 1812, displays something of this love of the classical. David’s ‘The Dead Marat’ however was a subject from contemporary history imbued with classical heroism and human feeling; some of the same human pathos can be seen in Delacroix’s painting in 1824 of a recent atrocity in the Greek Wars of Independence, called ‘The Massacre of Chios’.

In Germany the arts were influenced by similar sentiments about the past. The Grimm brothers were collecting old fairy tales. The poet Novalis, in 1999, in his ‘Die Christenheit oder Europa’ looked back to medieval times and wrote: “These were beautiful and glittering times when Europe was a Christian country…With what serenity did the people emerge from these beautiful assemblies in the mysterious churches, decorated with edifying pictures.”

This was at a time when Ferdinand Wallraf, in Cologne, and the brothers Sulpiz and Melchior Boisserée began their collections of early German and Netherlandish paintings which now form the bases of the galleries at Cologne and Munich respectively. The Boisserée brothers, who had sponsored the completion of Cologne cathedral, exhibited their collection publicly at Heidelberg in 1810. Their friend Goethe had published his ‘Von deutscher baukunst’ earlier in 1772 with its emotional praise of Strasbourg’s medieval cathedral increasing the interest in aesthetic history.

This kind of revelation of the past is probably closer to the spirit of historical atmosphere in painting. In that sense ‘Strawberry Hill’ may be more relevant than much of the painting of the period; in that this building is obviously devoid of historical events but, rather, utilises an historical style and sentiment to create an historical atmosphere. Some of the paintings already mentioned utilise historical style and sentiment but, to clarify the subject, it may be helpful to study a group of German painters who take Old Testament stories and classical Italian poetry for much of their subject matter.

The anonymously published ‘Herzensergiessungen eines kunstliebenden klosterbruders’ of 1797 was one of the more direct influences upon the new German painters of this time. It demanded a reappraisal of early masters and the establishment of a specifically Christian art. He cited Dürer and Raphael as examples to follow. In fact the author was not a ‘klosterbruder’ but Wilhelm Heinrich Wackenroder, an art lover and intellectual who was familiar with the latest compositions of Haydn and Mozart rather than living the sheltered life of a monastery.

Friedrich Johann Overbeck and Franz Pforr had already formulated their opinions in revolt to the accepted academic traditions, but the impact of ‘Herzensergiessungen eines kunstliebenden klosterbruders’ in its attack on rationalistic art criticism confirmed their preference of ‘Kunstgefühl’, as opposed to the ‘Kunstverstand’ of Winckelmann and Mengs’ classicism. In fact Goethe became associated with Weimar classicism but the breadth of his interests and influence led some people to believe that he had written ‘Herzensergiessungen eines kunstliebenden klosterbruders’. Goethe must have been perplexed to receive a letter from Bury in 1798 saying, “I am to give you all thanks in the name of many artists for your ‘Klosterbruder’…How singular you are in your judgements on art, where is there another man who combines so many conceptions like you?”

The artists to give thanks, such as Pforr, showed their interest in historical and medieval themes in works like ‘Emperor Henry II’s Dream’ of 1808. Overbeck’s portrait of Pforr in 1810 shows him in a Gothic interior with a Gothic background.

With other art students of the Vienna circle, Ludwig Vogel, Johann Konrad Hottinger, Joseph Wintergerst and Joseph Sutter, Overbeck and Pforr founded the Order or Brotherhood of St. Luke. It was on the anniversary of their first meeting, 10^th July 1809, that they solemnly vowed to form a group to revitalise the enfeebled art of painting. They chose the name of St Luke the evangelist because, according to legend, he had been a painter, and had also been the patron saint of the medieval artists’ guilds.

Encouraged by Eberhard Wӓchter and by the examples of older German painters like Schick and Tischbein, the brotherhood decided to settle in Rome. The brotherhood did not think of Rome in terms of classical antiquities but as the central holy city of Christendom with its churches and devotional images. They lived out their idealised notion of the artist monk, in the manner of Fra Angelico, by operating from the monastery of S. Isidoro, an Irish Franciscan church and college founded in the sixteenth century.  Regular visits to the Vatican lead them to revere frescoes, such as the work of Raphael and Pinturicchio.

Pforr had taken his ‘Entry of Rudolf of Hapsburg into Basle’ with him, which was then in progress during 1808 to 1810. Pforr had said that “My inclination tends towards the Middle Ages, when the dignity of man was still fully apparent. It showed itself clearly and distinctly on the battlefield as well as in the council chamber, on the market place as well as in the family circle. The spirit of these times is so beautiful and so little used by artists.” The ‘Entry of Rudolf’ shows this reverence of the medieval, as well as using the spirit of early German woodcuts. The depictions of tournaments and processions of Sebastian Munster’s Cosmography, some of the woodcuts from ‘Der Weisskunig’, Ambrosius Holbein’s decorations for title pages, and particularly Dürer’s ‘Maximillian meeting Henry VIII’ have something of the same hard, divisive outlines and heraldic design. The costumes in the ‘Entry of Rudolf’ are those of the sixteenth century, confirming the inspiration as well as showing the preference for historical atmosphere rather than historical truth. Passavant had sent Pforr, on request, a sketch of what he thought Basle would have looked like at the time of Emperor Rudolf. Pforr decided not to use it because it did not fit in with his romantic idea of a medieval town. Having said that though, the ‘Entry of Rudolf’ is much more realistic than his early sketches of knights and damsels set against vaguely Gothic backgrounds.

Pforr’s next major work, ‘Sulamith and Maria’, an allegory of friendship, was conceived in the manner of a medieval domestic altarpiece. The diptych shows Sulamith as an idealised noble lady in an Italianate landscape suffused with Mediterranean light; while Maria is shown more in the northern fashion and indoors. Overbeck also did a version of ‘Sulamith and Maria’ and called it ‘Italia and Germania’; despite its title and the fact that it depends heavily upon Pforr’s preliminary sketches, the artistic synthesis of northern and southern art of the past is less obvious in this picture.

‘Sulamith and Maria’ was Pforr’s last major work. In July 1812 he died of consumption, aged twenty four. The brotherhood left the monastery. Ceasing to be te ‘Fratelli de S. Isidoro’, they became known as the ‘Düreristen’ to distinguish their adherence to early German art from that of the ‘Carracisti’ who worked in the academic tradition. But their religious ideals and lifestyle, plus their wide cloaks and long hair, gave rise to the popular nickname of ‘Nazerenes’ and looked back to Old Testament times more than early German art. There were also several changes of membership at this time: Hottinger had already left and Giovanni Columbo, Rudolf and Wilhelm Schadow, Johann and Philip Veit, and Peter Cornelius joined.

Peter Cornelius looked upon Italy as displaying “primaeval splendour, the era of Gods and Heroes.” Cornelius was the son of the superintendent of the Düsseldorf Gallery and it is said that Peter Cornelius’ mother “carried the shrieking unruly child, even in the middle of night, into the room with the antique statues where the old Gods then showed their soothing powers.” Certainly it is true that his upbringing gave him a reverence for the past. Neither was his interest confined to classical and Italian art. He produced illustrations for Goethe’s ‘Faust’ and ‘Gӧtz von Berlinchingen’ based on Dürer’s marginal drawings for the Emperor Maximillian’s prayer book. The influence of Dürer’s drawings and engravings can also be seen as a device to increase historical atmosphere in Cornelius’ illustrations for ‘Die Nibelungen’ in 1817. On the other hand his painting ‘The Wise and Foolish Virgins’ might be said to be more influenced by Italian classical tradition and is vaguely Raphaelesque.

It was Cornelius’ idea for the Nazarenes to revive the art of fresco painting. “At last I came to what according to my innermost conviction would, I feel, be the most powerful, I would say the infallible, means of giving German art a new direction compatible with the great era of the nation and with its spirit: this would be nothing less that the revival of Fresco-Painting as it was practised from the great Giotto to the divine Raphael.” In 1815 Jacob Solomon Bartholdy, the Prussian Consul General in Rome, had the idea of having some rooms of the Palazzo Zuccari decorated to use for social occasions. (Bartholdy was the uncle of the composer Mendelssohn, who took his second name from him, and was thus distantly related to Friedrich Schlegel’s wife Dorothea.) He chose to commission the Nazarenes who decided to depict the Old Testament story of Joseph in Egypt.

The frescoes were completed in 1817, ‘Joseph and Potiphar’s wife’ being the first fresco to be done. Philip Veit, in this work, sets the figures against Italian architecture and landscape. Showing glimpses of the landscape through an architectural framework is a particularly Renaissance perspective device; this includes to a lesser extent the northern Renaissance, such as Jan van Eyck’s ‘Madonna of Chancellor Rolin’ but their inspiration is more likely to have come from things seen in the south. However Ulrich Finke relates ‘Joseph and Potiphar’s wife’, along with Veit’s other work in the Casa Bartholdy called ‘Seven Rich Years’ to the Gothic style.

Overbeck’s ‘Joseph being sold by his brothers’ was uses Raphaelesque formulas, postures and groupings and is set against an Italianate landscape; but the sentiment and human feeling with which he has imbued the figure of Joseph and the faces of the onlookers is largely Overbeck’s own creation. His ‘Seven Lean Years’ contains a mother figure with the same muscularity and severity as Michaelangelo’s sibyl next to the ‘Ancestors of Christ’ on the Sistine ceiling and is also pervaded by the same melancholy as some of the figures in that building.

Wilhelm Schadow’s work, especially ‘The Blood-stained Cloak’, has a theatricality reminiscent of the Baroque. But it lacks Baroque and rococo gaiety which, say, the ‘Seven rich years’ might be said to have. Peter Cornelius’ ‘The Interpretation of the dreams of Joseph’ and Luca Signorelli’s fifteenth century altarpiece, ‘The Circumcision’, share a similar focussing of figures upon a throne and the presence of floor patterning. But the connection may be slight, the floor patterning of Signorelli might be better compared with ‘Joseph Recognised’ by Cornelius. The similarity is again one of feeling, rather than there being a case of wanton plagiarism. As such, the frescoes give an overall impression of similarity to those of Raphael. The Nazarenes came into contact with, and greatly praised, Raphael’s frescoes at the Villa Farnesina and particularly in the Vatican.  The frescoes in the Vatican had recently been reopened to the public after the Pope’s return from France. The vividness and striking purity of colour in the Casa Bartholdy frescoes must be Italian in inspiration: both from Renaissance frescoes and in their common source – the light and landscape of Italian scenery.

At this time Johann Scheffer von Leonhardschoff, Carl Phillip Fohr, Franz Horny and Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld joined the Nazarenes. The Casa Bartholdy frescoes brought a wave of admiration and recruits, as well of course, as criticism and enemies. Goethe’s attitude was ambivalent, but in the main he condemned the Nazarenes as ‘klosterbrudisierende, sternbaldisierende Unwesen’. The Nazarenes were in good company, composers like Beethoven and Schubert also earned the epithet of ‘nonsense’ from Goethe. Yet on the positive side, albeit slightly sarcastic in tone, Goethe stated, when handed drawings by Cornelius and Overbeck, that “this is the first time in the history of art that important talents have formed themselves backwards, by returning into the mother’s womb and thus founding a new artistic epoch.” Inevitably an overstatement but it encapsulates the approach of the Nazarenes more precisely than anything written by their championing critic Schlegel.

Another product of the success in the Casa Bartholdy was the encouragement of the Marchese Carlo Massimo to commission the Nazarenes in 1817 to paint the walls of his garden house. The themes were to be from Dante, Tasso and Ariosto. The idea for a room based on Petrarch was dropped. Cornelius chose Franz Horny to collaborate with him on the Dante room. According to Keith Andrews, “Dante’s Divina Commedia had been rediscovered, particularly in Germany, as part of the medieval Renaissance and had been reinterpreted as a cornerstone of the Romantic edifice.” Cornelius embarked on a design for the Dante ceiling, which shows a complex linearity reminiscent of his work for ‘Faust’, ‘Gӧtz von Berlichingen’ and ‘Nibelungen’ though this is partly an illusion created by its unfinished state.

He left the Casino Massimo project in order to decorate the Glyptothek in Munich. Ludwig, who had visited and stayed with the Nazarenes in Rome, had become King and ordered buildings to be built in the style of Greek temples, Byzantine and Romanesque churches, and Gothic houses, as they were thought to represent the moral superiority of past civilisations. Old techniques like mosaic and the encaustic method of wall painting were revivied. The Glyptothek, which Cornelius had been called away to decorate, was to house Ludwig’s collection of antique sculpture.

Meanwhile Philip Veit undertook the ceiling of the Dante room. Veit, spurred on by his stepfather, Schlegel, succeeded, however, only in producing a stiffer and less ambitious design in the manner of Fra Angelico. Plagued with doubts about his ability, Veit then, too, abdicated from the project. Finally Joseph Anton Koch was persuaded to finish the room. Although primarily a landscape painter, he knew the Dante poems well and had designed a ‘Dante and three beasts’ as early as 1805 or 1806. The finished article, ‘Dante asleep, threatened by wild beasts and rescued by Virgil’ was a variation on the same design. His ‘Inferno’ and ‘Purgatory’ took on a distinctly medieval northern style when one compares them with his landscapes, which are almost invariably in the classical mould; for example his ‘Heroic Landscape with Rainbow’.

In the room at the opposite end of the garden house Overbeck was to illustrate Tasso’s ‘Gerusalemne Liberata’. He chose the historical events of the beginning and end of the crusade for the two end walls. ‘The Preparation for the Siege of Jerusalem’, in particular, has an authentic feel and necessitates a knowledge of construction of mobile siege towers. But the window wall, inner wall and four ceiling panels show idealised fantasies; for example the allegorical figure of Jerusalem, modelled by his wife, which is conceived within a Gothic framework. One of the surrounding panels even has knights fighting a medieval dragon in the manner of Pforr’s early ‘St. George’ sketches. The picture of ‘The archangel Gabriel ordering Godfrey de Bouillon’ also carries idealised figures and landscape, like that of the ceiling. It is an idealisation which has an honourable historical heritage, the most directly applicable example must be the then recently restored Pinturicchio frescoes in the Vatican. Though these frescoes lack the vivid, sometimes strident, Arcadian clarity of Overbeck’s landscapes. When the Marchese Carlo Massimo died early in 1827, Overbeck felt released from his contract and Joseph von Führich had to complete the frescoes. His ‘Rinaldo and Armida on the Battlefield’ was a completion of Overbeck’s design, but his ‘Rinaldo’s Disenchantment of the Magic Forest’ and ‘The Crusaders at the Holy Sepulchre’ add little except a slightly more theatrical approach and a limited use of historical architecture in the latter piece. The preparatory drawings of Führich, however, show painstaking planning and include some excellent portrait drawings of the new Principe Massimo and his family.

The middle and largest room, to illustrate scenes form Ariosto’s ‘Orlando Furioso’, was finally assigned to Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld. Schnorr had not originally intended to stay log in Rome. He looked forward to the day “when we shall have established a German ‘Rome’ in our own country.” Yet he acknowledged that the German artists were never felt more German than when they were in Rome. Schnorr was the only Nazarene to remain Protestant. According to Finke: “Overbeck had executed his frescoes in the early German style. Cornelius had achieved in his a synthesis of late Gothic and Italian Renaissance, but Schnorr was the only one to succeed in reformulating in a personal and convincing manner the formal doctrine of the Renaissance.” The battle scene on the ceiling, for example, combines foreshortened figures with echoes from Uccello to Raphael and Tintoretto. But the arrangement of the panels on the ceiling gives an illusionistic sense of depth in the Baroque manner. Both in the ceiling, and in ‘The Army of Charlemagne in Paris’, battle costume, shields and flags increase the historical atmosphere. In ‘The Army of Charlemagne in Paris’ there is also the architectural element, giving a sense of historical buildings. A figure of a lady carrying a bundle on her head seems to be derived from a similar figure carrying a vase in Raphael’s ‘Burning of the Borgo’. Karl Friedrich Schinkel, when he saw the room, thought of Schnorr’s frescoes in direct comparison with ‘old pictures’: “The Schnorr frescoes in the Villa Massimo are by far the finest; the colour, if not finer or more stylish, is even stronger than in any of the old pictures of the best period as they appear to us today.” David Scott, a Scottish painter, visiting the rooms ten years later, concluded that the two rooms “from Tasso and Ariosto, by Schnorr and Overbeck, are quite a treat – they are perfectly old romance.” The atmosphere of ‘old romance’ in Schnorr’s room was thought to be the most effective of the three rooms because it is the only one which has the artistic unity of a single creator.

The frescoes in the Casino Massimo are traditional in very much the same way that the frescoes are at the Casa Bartoldy. They are vaguely Raphaelesque and influences can be seen from other fresco artists, notably Pinturicchio. But the Nazarenes’ influences run from Medieval to Baroque and from North to South. This was, in a conscious effort, to revive the art of the present by using its past. David and the Neo-Classicists were attempting a similar, and probably more effective, reform in painting at this time. But there is a fundamental difference between the two. David, as did artists like West and Copely, took historical events, often contemporary ones of historical significance. David, especially, revived art by using classical maxims, such as the removal of any unnecessary background detail and decoration. The historical content is in the subject only. Few artists, other than the Nazarenes, took conventional subject matter from religious texts, such as Old Testament stories, and gave them historical atmosphere in their aesthetic or art historical style. In ‘history pictures’ there is often a conflation between historical subject matter and historical atmosphere. The Nazarenes were indifferent to the former but the latter, “the intermingling of the old forms” (Herder), was crucial to them. This utilisation (not plagiarism) of aesthetic history is why Overbeck considered himself a history painter, why Führich ends his sketch book with a list of ‘history groups’: and how the Nazarenes attempted to revive “the enfeebled art of painting”, in short, by the use of historical atmosphere.

Copyright Adrian Annabel 1981

The Wild Places

The threads connecting these wild places are pretty tenuous. Even the definition of wild is subjective as it isn't necessarily the absence of man-made structures. Some of these landscapes are man-made or at least man interfered and their traces are as fascinating as their natural history. There is a loose geological and geographical theme that progresses through this book but even this connection is more about the contrasts and differences. All this is irrelevant because it is beautifully described in MacFarlane's dynamic and evocative use of shining similes and point perfect prose. Some people complain we have too many nature writers. Not me, but there are certainly some that excel. Robert MacFarlane is one, and another is his friend Roger Deakin who's passing is poignantly noted in this book. I don't want to spend a night out on a mountain in the face of a storm but even my geriatric daytime perambulations are enthused by this book which celebrates the sheer otherness of the UK's animal, vegetable and mineral diversity.

Rising Ground

 

For a self-confessed "boatie", who's natural habitat is noodling up Fal creeks, Philip Marsden has a real sense of the majesty, natural history, spiritual and industrial curiosity of the South West uplands of the UK. I felt a great deal of empathy with him as he settled into his new home (or avoided it) and roved from Glastonbury in Somerset to his current home county of Cornwall. The myths, the history and the characters of this county are endlessly fascinating and completely bypassed by the beach tourists and surfers. This is the real Cornwall... well, part of it anyway...there are some nice wet bits as well.

Oceanic art styles

 

Two Polynesian art styles

The Cook Islands

The fishermen’s gods of Rarotonga can be taken as stylistically representative. The body is heavily built and squat, with the head, abdomen and knees protruding. The head is large in proportion to the body, and the chin pointed. The eyes are carved as large oval reliefs, having an arc at the top to represent the eyebrow, and a mouth conceived in a similar fashion to show the lips and tongue. A simple extension of the line running down the centre of the forehead forms the nose. The shoulders are raised, flat and square, and the hands rest on the abdomen. The latter seems to be characteristic of Polynesia. The same treatment of the facial features occurs in staffgod fragments from Rarotonga, although the volume of the sculptures has been reduced by the thinness of the staff form. Below the large head, figures alternate in full-face and profile. The profile heads each have a penis projecting from the throat. The staff as a whole often terminated with a penis. Fan handles and canoe prow and stern boards sometimes show the same stylisation of the human form as the small figures of the staffgods. These small figures also seem to be the basis for the largely abstract carvings from Mitiaro, and Mangaia ceremonial adzes. Other fan handles, though, are closer in style to simplified fishermen’s gods, placed back to back in a symmetrical composition, joined at the feet, buttocks, shoulders and heads which are swept backwards.

Tahiti

Like the Cook Islands, figures from Tahiti have squared shoulders, hands placed on abdomen, which, with the head and knees, projects; occasionally the eyes and mouth are represented in the same fashion. But the figures are more rounded, and not carved in great detail. The fly whisk handles are surmounted by back to back figures, but they are sometimes quite angular and abstracted. They have sharply pointed chins, abrupt angles at the knees, elbows and shoulders, and the arms are fused where the hands would be. The knobs on the head, which appear like eyes, represent topknots of hair; while the eyes are represented by down-slanting cuts below. Below the figures are usually a series of discs, the large disc at the base of the handle may also be carved with figures. The tops of ivory whisk handles tend to bear less relation to the human form but can be related to a figure doubled over backwards. Some wooden fly whisk handles have a single, crudely carved figure without arms, or with arms suggested by incised lines, and the legs are not always separated. But these still display the squatting posture, pointed chin and the other characteristics above in Tahiti free standing sculpture.

 

Two Melanesian art styles

The Solomon Islands

The canoe prow heads (musumusu) have small high craniums, often with a conical headdress, heavy projecting jaws, with a wide mouth and teeth, large eyes and a long nose with large nostrils. The jaws, eyes, large earrings and other planes are often outlined with shell inlay or white paint. The importance of the head is emphasised by small arms projecting beneath the jaw. Skulls are built up into face shape with hardened black gum, decorating with pearl shell inlay or white paint like the canoe prow figures, or with tridacna and cone-shell rings, and sometimes with the hair of bleached bast fibre. Small figures are made in two head types: (a) large and rectangular and (b) rounded and oval, with two braids of hair. Both have short, heavy legs bent at the knee. On Treasury Island they have large, bulbous crania, short faces with straight-cut brows, long aquiline noses and short chins. Figurines (kasai) on handles, painted red, black and white, have a wide, low cranium and a flat sharp-chinned face typical of Bougainville. There are also half-length spirit figures which are crudely carved and hollow, to fit over the upper half of the body. Life size figures in soft wood tend to be female and highly naturalistic. They are stained and polished black, but the eyes and hairline may be picked out in white. Shields are inlaid with small pearl shell fragments in a red and black mastic base, representing human figures with elongated torsos, faces and decorative forms which emphasise the shape of the shield.

Iatmul of New Guinea

The most prominent feature of the masks (mei) is the nose, which extends to the chin, and often represents an animal. Both those from the West and East are fairly slim and tall, but because the Eatern ones are slightly broader and flatter more decorative attachments are made: such as paint, shell, boar tusks, rattan or reed. The Western Iatmul masks have sharply undercut brows. Skulls are built up with clay or gum, shell, hair, fur and fibre. A forehead band of opossum indicates that the person portrayed was a good headhunter. The face is painted with designs that might have been used in life. The canoe prows were mostly carved with crocodile heads. Large communal canoes, used for raiding, display a woman and a bird as well as a crocodile. Debating stools, which were never used to sit on, are generally anthropomorphic; the figure part being more highly finished than the stool part. The figure usually has small legs turned out at the knees, a bulbous stomach, and a large, slightly elongated, head. There is sometimes deep engraving on the heavy pectorals, representing scarification. Undercut brows and a cross-ridge on the head, possibly representing a feather ornament, is characteristic of Western Iatmul debating stools. Suspension hooks are sometimes carved with a head at the top and an unspecified creature below. Again, a contrast can be made between the tall, thin heads with prominent brows of the West, and the shorter, broader, flatter more oval heads of the East.

 

Hawaiian and New Ireland art

Hawaii

Hawaiian Kava bowls sometimes have two figure supports with thick legs, upturned heads, wide eyes and nostrils, and a large mouth with prominent teeth. Their religious carvings, too, tend to be muscular and have fierce expressions. Temple images from the Kona coast are characterised by the elaboration of the hair with its two downward seeps, figure of eight mouth, extended nostrils, and eyes located off the face in the hair, following its shape. It has a protruding jaw-mouth-tongue complex, and the head is thrust forward from the top of the muscular chest, surmounted by a serrated headdress. The body is broken up into angled planes and rough-hewn adze marks are deliberately left on. The legs and arms are slightly bent. Small portable stick figures also have a squat muscular body, thick bent legs and forward thrusting head; but tend to be more rounded, smooth, and do not always carry the distinctive head shape of the temple images. Freestanding images, slightly larger than the stick figures, are more naturalistic, though muscular, and have pearl shell eyes, human teeth and human hair.

New Ireland

The ulis figures of New Ireland often have a similar fierce expression to the Hawaiian temple images but are not so monumental, either in size or overall impression. The ulis figures are solidly built, sometimes bearded, have a large phallic protuberance, breasts, and large, squarish, heads. Most New Ireland carvings, particularly in the North-West, are associated with the malaggan memorial festivals for the gods, the distant dead and the recent dead. Single figures, series of figures forming high poles, a variety of masks and frieze-like reliefs are used in the display, which is subsequently destroyed. Representative forms are often surrounded by geometric forms. Both the tall poles and the masks are built up with shell, bark-cloth, fibre, wood and paint upon a framework. The large carved masks often have perforated side pieces, protruding, square jaw, hooked nose, low brow and elaborate headdress with a proliferation of different materials. Red, white and black are the dominant colours, but yellow and blue is also used.

The mixed media and elaborate decoration of New Ireland contrasts strongly with the Hawaiian sculpture where surface decoration, engraving and painting is very restrained; the emphasis being on sculptural form. But the Hawaiian feather cloaks and wickerwork heads decorated with red, yellow and black feathers are more comparable. These heads have figure of eight mouths with shark or dog teeth, large eyes of inlaid pearl shell with wooden pupils, broad nose and sometimes human hair. But whereas the Hawaiian objects can be viewed individually, the malanggan objects are meant to be viewed as a whole, and in performance. Only the ulis figures and the small, simple chalk figures, and isolated details of the malanggan can be said to have a general, but unremarkable, parity.

 Copyright 1981 Adrian Annabel

Moari Architecture

 

One would expect the chief form of Moari architecture to be some sort of temple structure. The carved meeting house is a sacred place, but its primary function is not to worship gods. Nor was Moari architecture immediately “polluted” or “debased” by European contact, the larger structures could not have been built without the social and economic changes which Europeans effected. But that is not to say that their buildings are missionary structures; they reflect, specifically, Moari cosmology and culture.

Originally the population was largely nomadic. Hawkesworth mentions family groups of fifteen to twenty people, and Forster observes that these groups would build and leave temporary huts where they travelled. However these groups sometimes retreated into pas or fortified villages, which evolved as the standard mode of settlement by the time of the initial European influence from 1800 to 1850. The pas were strategically situated on a hill or headland, and made use of palisades, ditches, earthworks and fighting platforms. Although the houses would often be quite crowded on the artificial terraces, the areas may be divided to retain the identity of individual groups. With the cultivation of the sweet potato the pa became less and less a retreat in times of trouble, and more permanently lived in. The largest of these villages could accommodate thousands.

Unfortified settlements, called kainga, of five or six houses, continued to be used occasionally in the nineteenth century. The family unit generally consisted of one to four houses (whare) which were basically just places to sleep. There would also be a cooking shelter (kauta) over an open fire and earth oven (hangi), a rubbish dump, and possibly one or two roofed storage pits (rua). Some of the whare would be three-sided shelters, but the more permanent ones would be one room, door and window in the front wall, and a stone lined hearth. In the colder parts of New Zealand the floor may be at a sunken level. They were usually less than ten feet by six feet and built of poles and thatch, with piles of bracken supporting plaited flax mats for furniture. Each major settlement had a marae: an open space for formal assembly and ceremonials, for entertaining visitors, and often for communal eating, talking, working and recreation.

Remains of early structures are few and far between, mostly door lintels. One of the earliest carvings to survive was found in a swamp near Kaitaia. Its exact function is not known. Skinner thought it may have been part of a mortuary structure. It was probably not a conventional lintel since it appears to have been carved to be seen from more than one angle. The composition is basically that of a lintel but the style is distinctive, portraying a large head with legs and arms. This seems to suggest that it is either Eastern Polynesian in origin or it is just much earlier than the classic Moari door lintels. The more typical door lintels (pare) are composed either of three frontal human figures (tiki) and six spirals or a single human figure flanked by an interlocking profile form (manaia) or spirals with full manaia figures at each end.

It has been suggested that the thinness of the manaia figure may be the expression of a lizard, or bird monster cult, but there is no evidence for this other than their initial impression on the Western eye. If the manaia form is connected to its mirror image it forms a fuller face. After all it is not surprising that the profile should be used. Most of the carving is applied to a two-dimensional architectural element so the two views that are most likely to be flattened out are the full frontal and the profile. The central figure in the pare is often female and, if flanked by other figures, they in turn are often male. In both cases, in early pare, their genitalia were emphasised. With the arrival of Christian missionaries and their attitude to explicit sexual forms the sex of the pare figures became more ambiguous. More often than not a subsidiary human figure would be placed between the legs of the main figure in the wall panel carvings.

The pare compositions are invariably symmetrical, and the spirals serve to lead the eye from the central figure to the manaia and back again. On the East Coast a maze of dismembered forms are sometimes used to connect the tiki and manaia. In all the pare the tiki are carved in high relief, the manaia in lower relief and the interlocking forms lower still, so that the more objective the form is the greater the prominence it is given. The pare were painted with red ochre mixed with shark oil.

The pataka, or storehouse, was where the community valuables would be kept. Polack referred to the pataka as the powaka which is the same word that was used for the family carved box. Sometimes the valuables, taonga, would be huia feathers; it is not impossible that the pataka developed from the powaka or waka huia. With increasingly settled communities, accompanied by the economic and social impact of the first Europeans, groups became larger and the symbolic expression of their unity in collective valuables similarly became larger. The paepae, or threshold beams, are comparable to the pare in composition, but here the manaia are turned inwards towards the central figure. The maihi, bargeboards, often have a whale motif and a series of manaia who appear to be dragging the whale towards the apex. This may be an expression of luck in fishing and hunting, and of the fecundity of nature. The Kuwaha at the apex is thought, with its large hands, to represent fertility and rewarded labour. Embracing couples, which often adorn the amo, are more explicit symbols of sexual fertility.

The kinship structure of the Moari is based on identification with ancestral canoe tribes arriving on the island or from internal migration. Moari architecture is built upon the social and religious structure of the society and so is best seen in context. The whanau (family unit) is much smaller than the iwi (canoe tribe). The whanau holds children and property in common and is answerable to a group of whanau or hapu (sub-tribe). There are three classes of people in the society: the chiefly Rangatira, the common people (the tutua) and slaves captured in war and used for the most menial tasks (taurekereka). Most couples were monogamous but chiefs (males) were polygamous. Occasionally a chiefly woman would also have more than one husband. Couples were usually endogamous, ie. marrying within the tribe, and the wife would typically go to live in the husband’s house.

With the influx of European weapons the pa became obsolete. Other changes included the common potato largely displacing the sweet potato and, more importantly for carving, steel tools replaced the stone adze and chisel. The craftsmen were called tohungas, or skilled persons, and usually came from the Rangatira class, as were the warriors. Woodcarving was regarded as a sacred occupation which could influence the gods and the spirits. It was part of the communal insurance of tribal welfare. The apprenticeship for tohunga was long, and conducted in the whare wananga (schools). The students would meet masters during the winter months, working from sunrise to noon.

A high ranking person and his family often used to live in whare puni. Among the Tuhoe it was an unembellished structure with no interior carving, plain posts, but sometimes a few carved exterior panels. The whare whakairo, or carved meeting house, may have superseded the whare puni and taken on extra functions. With a settled life, larger social groupings, and more capable tools, the second half of the nineteenth century saw the emergence of the whare whakairos. They required co-operation on a large scale – to fell, dress and transport timber, paint rafters, prepare decorative panels, thatch the roof and so on. Quantities of food and prestige items had to be accumulated to pay the workers as building was not regarded as a menial task. On the contrary a chief would pride himself on how much he could give. Meanness would not only entail loss of prestige but would jeopardise the quality of the work. Economic sacrifice was essential for the gaining of mana, fame, power and prestige.

Another key concept for Moari architecture, and related to mana, is tapu, meaning sacred. The creation of canoe paddles or domestic bowls could be done openly but for more serious and sacred work, such as a carved house, certain rituals had to be observed. Both the carvers and the carving were subject to tapu – the origin of our word taboo. The carvers, for instance, were not allowed to prepare food, especially cooking. To do so would destroy the mana of the thing they were creating and that behaviour was regarded as tapu. The cooked food would become something noa (non-sacred or profane). Food cannot be taken into the house of a superior, for example, and eating would more normally take place in the open air or in special huts segregated according to class and sex.

Similarly space inside the whare whakairo is divided into tapu and noa areas, usually longitudinally, to allow for different functions. Hamilton describes a house where a guests would sit on the right side and slaves on the left by the door. There also seems to be sexual divisions, for example in work on the house. The males carve the pou, which are representative of ancestors and are curvilinear, use hard materials and are mostly painted red. The females weave the tukutuku panels, which are decorative and rectilinear, naturally in soft materials and are typically coloured alternating yellow, black and white. As the pou and tukutuku panels alternate with each other along all four walls this is clearly not used as the basis of sexual division of space for use within the building as this would be impractical. A more likely hypothesis for allocating space conceptually might be found in thinking of the house as a prostrate ancestral body. The ridgepole represents the spine, the rafters as the ribs and the barge boards (maihi) would then be seen as the arms with the raparapa as fingers.

According to Best, in Moari thought, ‘the right side of the body is the male side, the tama tane, the strong and lucky side. It stands for vigour, health, virility, life. The left side is the female side, the tama wahine, the weak, listless, unlucky side and represents death…’

This corresponds in part with the division of space in the whare whakairo observed by Anne Salmond. The side with the window is tapu, it is the important side; associated with men, visitors and death. The side with the door is noa, is regarded by male society as unimportant and is associated with women, locals and ordinary life. Accordingly, if a local man, even if he is a chief, sleeps in the place then he would sleep in the kopa iti, in the the corner by the door, because it is te pakitara whaniti or the unimportant side. A visiting chief would be honoured by sleeping in the iho nui, in the corner by the window which is te pakitara whaanui, the important side.

Death, according to Salmond, is associated with male characteristics and a funeral coffin would be placed in te pakitara whaanui. In contrast Best describes the vagina as representing destructive energy and cites the goddess Hine-nui-te-po who brought death into the world. This leads to a slightly schizophrenic approach to death as its female agent is the one who takes away and gives back life. In this sense the female side can never be totally tapu as the funeral rites are too important and sacred. Yet tapu can be associated with some female activities such as menstrual blood. Moari religion, as other religions, is riddled with ambiguities and paradoxes. Perhaps it would be unrealistic to expect otherwise.

There is also a certain amount of confusion as to where the vantage point is for saying which is the right side and the left side of the building. You could view it looking back to the door from the inside,  on the outside looking in from the door or either facing the other way. If, as Salmond suggests, the concepts of tapu and noa are older than the image of the building representing the ancestral body then not only does the vantage point become less clear but also the anthropomorphic elements are seen as later additions to the original spiritual conception of its internal space. Salmond offers no evidence other than ‘I have heard it said’, and, on this basis, attempts to explain the contradictions as recent invention. In fact it is just as likely that contradictions indicate original, if independent, sources, and that a recent invention concerning the use of space, in order to be credible, would have to fit the rest of Moari cosmology more tightly than it does.

It may be established that the sexual division of traditional Moari society is not merely a case of stereotypical tasks with men hunting, fishing, building and fighting while the women weave, cook and gather food and fuel. There exists a symbolic and ritual differentiation. The presence of women during carving would violate its mana and was a serious offence. But there were many rituals which had developed to alleviate such violations, in fact ‘profane’ women were essential in order to bring the process of tapu into operation. When a building is completed a woman has to step over the threshold before the building can be used. Also, it must be remembered, most door lintels have a central female figure with exaggerated genitalia, sometimes in the act of giving birth, so that anybody entering or leaving the house is discharged of harmful spirits on entry and good spirits contained on exit.

The whare whakairo acts as a sort of power station of benevolent ancestors as well as a visual record of the tribe’s mythology. It is easiest to illustrate the latter by example. Te Mana o Turanga is in the Whakato at Manutuke, near Gisborne. It was completed in 1883 but includes carvings from the mid-nineteenth century. The carving on the back wall is of Ruawharo who states his claim to the mana of Turanga. Underneath him is the effigy of Kiwa, a rival, thus representing Ruawharo’s claim to the mana at the expense of Kiwa. In one hand Ruawharo holds a circlet of greenery which is an esoteric symbol of mauri tangata (power over men), mauri whenua (dominion over wide areas of land) and mauri korero (mastery of the aural traditions). An important function of the whare whakairo is the sponsor’s prestige.

But the building also honours the whole of the Rongowhakaata tribe and Moari tradition in general. The freestanding figure at the apex of the gable (tekoteko) represents Timata from whom are descended most of the chiefs’ families of Whakato. The figure also stands on a head (koruru) representing Rongowhakaata, ancestor of the tribe. On the more general level are the primordial ancestors Papatuanuku and Ranginui (the earth mother and sky father). This panel shows the story of creation, which Panaterangi caused by forcing Papatuanuku and Ranginui apart.

As well as mythological figures there are semi-mythological figures like the culture hero Maui. Several panels show his exploits to help mankind, including the one in which he perished by attempting to kill the goddess of death Hinenuitepo by entering her body via the womb. Several of the stories about historical ancestors are improbably embellished, such as the story of Pouranguhua who flew on the great bird of Ruakapanga. But this is not necessarily the result of excessive reverence, some stories involve the amusing humiliation of an ancestor. One of the panels shows Ruawharo and Tupai who, on their travels made love to Timu’s wife, Kapua, and, as punishment, suffered the fate of a powerful laxative. Other panels represent living people; one is Ihu who, for his persistent interference in finding out how the work is going, is portrayed with a huge nose.

Another is a pakeha, Agnew Brown, with his dog. The portrait of Agnew Brown, and some of the ancestors, is done in a naturalistic style which contrasts with the classic Moari adaptation of the human form to fit the panel. The latter is symmetrical, has a figure of eight mouth with prominent tongue, eyes slanted upwards to the outside. The hands are placed on the abdomen, the short legs bent outwards, spiral forms on the knees and shoulders, and tatoos on the disproportionately large head. The self-portrait of the master carver Raharuhi Rukupo is in the latter style apart from the head, since a portrait is intended.

Moari architecture is an aesthetic and visual phenomenon but is seen to best advantage as a logical system of thought embracing all aspects of life. Even if the the logic sometimes appears a little tortuous. The whare whakairo, in particular, is designed to serve social functions; not the least of which is to symbolically express that society. It demonstrates chiefly power and prestige, as well as being a communal effort. Both the building and its creation are linked with the polarity of tapu and noa in Moari thought, with sexual roles, and, to a lesser extent, class roles. Death, too, in the commemoration and continuation of genealogy, and in the utilisation and placation of spirits, is important. The whare whakairo is a consummation of cosmology, social structure and visually recorded heritage – the shapes of the parts are more easily understood with the whole in view.

Copyright 1981 Adrian Annabel

Bibliography

Te Mana o Turanga – Leo Fowler

Te Ao Tawhito: A Semantic Approach to the Traditional Moari Cosmos – Anne Salmond

Aspects of Symbolism and Composition in Moari Art – Michael Jackson

Art and Life in Polynesia – Terence Barrow

The Great Carved House, Mataatua of Whakatane – WJ Phillips and Dr. JC Wadmore

The Moaris before 1800 - ?

The Origins of Moari Art: Polynesian or Chinese? – SM Mead

The Sculpture of Polynesia – Allen Wardwell

Gossip from the Forest

Sara Maitland takes us on a series of walks through forests and woodland (yes, there's a difference) interspersed with modern reinterpretations of classic fairy tales. The latter reminds that all fairy tales are adapted and changed for their age from Grimms onwards. Nice evocation of the effect of place and awareness of the environment on story telling and myth making. The forests are from all over the UK with particular emphasis on Scotland and the Scots/English border. The fairy tales, though, still seem Tuetonic and evocative of the Black Forest. Therein lies our common heritage and with a sprinkling of Disney it has become global and universal. 

Bodhisattva and Buddha

 Oriental Wood Sculpture

 

There exists in the Sainsbury collection two, seated, Buddhist wood sculptures. One from Japan, a Buddha Amida of the Kamakura Period (13^th to 14^th century AD). The other is from China, a Bodhisattva of the Yuan dynasty (13^th to 14^th century AD). In other words the two sculptures are from the same date, in the same material, and are inspired by a common faith. It might be expected, therefore, that the two figures would be aesthetically and technically very similar. Such a view, however, though credible, necessitates a closer examination of the two figures to see how their respective traditions relate, if at all.

The Chinese have a long history of wood sculpture, dating from the pre-Buddhist period onwards. But it is with the advent of Buddhism that their sculpture takes on much of the stereotypical characteristics one normally associates with religious figures of this type. The seated Buddha, with its dyana or yoga posture, illustrates Enlightenment gained by following the path of asceticism. However this Chinese figure is a Bodhisattva rather than a Buddha. A Bodhisattva is one whose essence has become intelligence: a Being who will in some future life (not necessarily the next one on the samsara or long cycle of birth and rebirth) be born a man who will escape samsara to obtain Buddhahood.

Buddhist art is a religious art and so it is the religion that explains the postures. The figure’s right arm is missing, up to just below the elbow, so it is difficult to define its position. Its mudra or arms may be in the Bhumisparsa position. This means “Earth-touching” or “Witness”; it refers to the episode under the Tree of Wisdom, when Sakyamuni (the original Buddha, who’s name was the historical figure of Gautama Sakyamuni around whom the myths arose) called the Earth as his witness during his temptation by Mara. In other words his hand may have been turned palm inwards and pointing downwards as though touching the ground. However this is a posture more usual for a Buddha than a Bodhisattva.

The figure’s asana or legs seem to be in the Maharajalila or Ardha-paryanka position. This could be roughly translated as ‘royal-ease’: one leg is vertical, the other horizontal. The right arms rests on the right knee further emphasising this casual attitude but it seems curious that a Bodhisattva should take on the posture of an indolent monarch. Furthermore there are no kingly attributes, such as a crown, to justify that interpretation. It is probably more likely that it is simply a variant of the Lalita position: one leg up, one horizontal, though without its foot resting on the opposite thigh. The positioning of the feet is a little confused, anyway, by the right foot being broken off. But, because of the Maharajalila overtones, it may well be an Avolokitesvara Bodhisattva rather than a Maitreya.

The wood on the Chinese figure shows traces of lacquer and gilding. Buddhist images are usually painted or lacquered or covered with gold leaf. The painting might take as long as the carving. First seams and cracks would be covered with fabric or paper, then the entire surface would be covered with gesso. (In Japan, the gesso, called gofun was made from baked seashells crushed into a powder and mixed with water.) The gesso would then be burnished down and painted. Gold leaf was used extensively, either for covering the entire figure or, in the form of kirikane, for highlighting certain decorative details. In this case the positioning of the gold fragments suggests that it was completely covered. This negates the idea of a wood aesthetic; though such an aesthetic did exist it was reserved for sandalwood and fine fruit woods.

On first appearance the Chinese Bodhisattva looks to be carved from a single block. This is the ichiboko technique. Several cracks, which look like joints, are irregular and therefore just splits in the wood. But where the right arm has broken off there is a central hole which indicates the presence of a joint. This is substantiated by the fact that it is a limb sticking out and would have required a much larger original block. Also it would have been impractical, since the line of the grain would have made a limb cut from the same block extremely fragile. (Splits occurring along the grain not against it.) Nevertheless the bulk of the figure could be said to have been created using the ichiboko technique.

The Chinese figure seems to be wearing only an undergarment called antaravasaka, tied at the waist with a girdle. He may be wearing a thin outer garment or mantle (sanghati) but it is by no means as full as that of the Japanese Buddha. The hair is less stylised on the Chinese figure and is tied up at the centre to form a bun. The chest also shows greater modelling, particularly on the ribs, than the Japanese figure. The Chinese figure bears an elaborate necklace as well as several bracelets, while the Japanese one has only a simple neckband. In both the ears are enlarged and extended as a sign of divinity and superior knowledge. The left arm of the Bodhisattva is straight against the body, as if in postural support though not actually supporting the figure. Both figures are actually supported by cutting off the natural contours of the body at the base and making them completely flat. The base is larger on the Japanese figure making the most of the large amount of drapery at base level.

The Buddha has, as one might expect, what has become known as a Buddha or dhyana posture; the left hand, palm forwards, rests on the left knee and the other hand is raised, palm forwards, is a gesture of welcome. The hands are clearly articulated and detailed down to the fingernails. The one hand that is left on the Bodhisattva is club-like and very poor, but this may be due to damage. The feet of the Japanese Buddha are not shown. The eyes are shown by simple lines, with long eyebrows, a long nose and central spot on the forehead. On the Chinese figure the eyes are indicated by lines but are surrounded by a convincing eye bulge. The nose is shorter but the eyebrows similar. The shape of the face is longer and more rectangular than the rounded Japanese face. The Chinese rectangular face is typical of early Yuan, so the figure probably dates from the first century of that dynasty.

The Japanese figure has traces of what looks like gilding; if so, it is surprising that there is only mention of the red lacquer in the catalogue of the collection. The way the drapery is cut in deep folds is similar on both figures, especially if one compares their respective left knees. There is greater emphasis upon frontality in the Buddha; the Bodhisattva is, in a sense, more three dimensional in that it has a greater number of satisfactory viewing points. Yet despite this the Buddha gives an overall impression of being more naturalistic and subjectively exudes a tranquil, devout, meditative air which the Bodhisattva lacks. Despite the fact that the wood does not look as though it would have been visible in either case there is virtually no sign of the tools the carvers used. They must have been worked using sophisticated chisels and so on, then smoothed off on all surfaces without destroying the deep cutting of the original carving.

Images of the Buddha Amida or Amitabha are generally gentle and compassionate, like the Japanese one, as he offers salvation to those who believe in him. Raigo paintings of the Kamakura period are quite similar to the sculptures, though they show him accompanied by angels and bodhisattvas, descending to earth to receive the faithful. The Amida Nyorai, or Butsu as he is often called, is the Buddha of the Western paradise, and is symbolic of eternal life and boundless light. As the chief deity of the Jodo sect, which flourished during the Kamakura period, he forms a popular subject.

Chinese precedent can be seen for the Buddha as far back as the Tang dynasty, early seventh century. There is a wooden Amida of the same size which used to be in the Tai-ssu Temple of this period, and which sits in the same dhyana mudra and asana position. But it was not until the opening years of the Kamakura period, around 1200, that this image received its classic Japanese formulation. The sculptor credited with this development (the An-ami style) is Kaikei who, together with his brother Unkei, was a major innovative force at this time. Kaikei was a devout Amidist, his religious name was An Amida Butsu, and the Buddha in the collection must derive, directly or indirectly, from the ‘Kei’ school of sculpture. Indirectly is more likely. Taking Kakei’s Amida as example, the figure looks like a ‘progression’ of two or three generations though remarkably similar.

The dent in the centre of the headdress of the Japanese figure probably held a round, decorative feature of a different material, possibly a jewel. It is too small and shallow for it to have been attached at this point to the halo or aureole (funagoko) of a larger Buddha. Even so, it might have been part of a larger Temple composition of several figures. The figure has been constructed in the joined wood or yosegi technique. Although it is impossible to know without handling the object, the blocks are probably hollow. Six blocks are discernible: the torso, the right arm and thigh, the left arm and thigh, the legs and drapery, plus the two sections of the head. The hands may also have been added.

Japanese and Chinese culture had reopened contact in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, after centuries of alienation. Friendly visits had been resumed; Japanese student monk began to visit China on pilgrimages to the ancient centres of Buddhist worship. It is not unreasonable to assume that what they saw, and mementos they brought back, could have influenced Japanese Buddhist art. But it would still be the Sung, rather than the Yuan, style that would be most in evidence in the ancient shrines. In a sense the An-ami style of the Japanese figure is in opposition to the naturalistic, unidealized portraits that fill much of the Kamakura period. But having noted that, it might be worth repeating that the Japanese figure gives a greater overall sense of naturalism than the Chinese Bodhisattva. This naturalism corresponds to contemporary thought in Japanese Buddhism. The Shinran and Nichiren sects tried to demystify Buddhism and apply it to the common man and, for the first time, woman. The Sung period (AD960-1279) in China shows some of the same religious trends and, consequently, some of the same emphasis on realistic human features and non-idealisation.

It would seem that the Kamakura period in Japan was more influenced by the previous Sung period in China than by the contemporary Yuan period. Generalisations are always suspect but, as far as such generalisations are valid, China seems to be the initiator of style and Japan the perfector. It is not unknown, but it is rare for Japanese work to influence Chinese. The two figures are from the same period and religion and probably performed the same ritualistic function. They probably had altars placed before them, on which incense would be burnt, and sacrificial food and wine displayed. The Buddha Amida, in particular, would serve as an intermediary between the person or people and the deity concerned. The Bodhisattva might have been part of the entourage of such a deity. But despite both bearing “Oriental” characteristic, not to say “Buddhist” characteristics, the two figures show different priorities in detailed modelling: the hair and chest in the Chinese, as opposed to the hands and extensive drapery of the Japanese figure. The facial structure varies, which is an aesthetic rather than racial variation. The two figures display different attitudes to the viewing of their three-dimensional form. Above all, they display different techniques, the sophisticated yosegi technique when compared to the Chinese ichiboko technique. There are cross-currents between the two traditions, and it would be a mistake to artificially divorce them, just as it would be a mistake to underestimate individual artistic creativity in forcing them into an unnatural harmony.

 Copyright 1981 Adrian Annabel

Second half of St Francis cycle

 

The second half of the St. Francis Cycle, Assisi

(frescoes 15 to 28)

 

Since Vasari, and before, the frescoes in in the upper Church at Assisi have been associated with the name of Giotto. Since then doubt has been cast on this attribution, and the possibility of it being a Sienese painter or a member of Cimabue’s school discussed. More credibly the first and the last three frescoes of the cycle have been associated with the St. Cecilia Master; but it is not the purpose of this essay to discuss the historical basis of attribution to certain artists, but to compare the frescoes of the second half of the cycle individually in an attempt to establish the presence of different hands.

The shading and modelling on the face of St. Francis is basically the same from the ‘Sermon to the Birds’ through to the “Stigmatisation”. The St. Francis of ‘The Appearance at Arles’ is difficult to compare because it is seen from the front, yet the highlights round the cheekbones and forehead can still be seen. The others, particularly 16 and 17, are remarkably similar; they all show darkness around the eyelids and mouth and strong light on the nose. The posture of the head is also fairly consistent. The monk who accompanies St. Francis in 15 is echoed in the monk at the table in 16, especially the slightly parted mouth, sharp nose and the shape of the eyes. Though the wrinkles and hairstyles vary. The monk seated in the foreground of the ‘Confirmation of the Rule’ is much closer to the figure in 15. He shares the same deep wrinkles on the forehead, the way he is wearing his hood and is displaying an air of anxiety. This mood seems to have been transferred to St. Francis in 18, though one or two of the monks also show it, and they have the deep wrinkles at the side of the eyes which the monk in 15 also demonstrates.

The architectural elements of 16, 17 and 18 form a distinct compositional unit. 17 is seen centrally, with 16 and 18 projecting towards 17 with exaggerated perspective. This does not seem merely to be a concession to the standard viewing point of the bay (which in this case would be between 18 and 18 anyway) but a conscious design feature, necessitating a single designer. It is curious that 19 does not fit into this scheme but seems out on a limb. Its own architectural elements are much more schematic, and plain, when compared with the detailed and decorated architecture of 16, 17 and 18. Fine detail can also be seen in the tablecloth of 16 and the curtain screen and stepped throne of 17. The landscape of 19 has more similarity with 14, and, though the trees are also slightly like 15, difference in subject matter does not seem sufficient to explain the variations. The drapery of 19 is not so clearly modelled in large, obvious folds as in 15, 16, 17 and 18 but this may be partly deterioration. So, despite the similar portrayal of the face of St. Francis, 19 appears to be by a different artist to both the preceding and following frescoes.

The feathers of the Seraphic Christ in 159 are fairly similar to those of the angels in the ‘Death of St. Francis’ but there the comparison ends. The composition is more crowded, the faces less individualised and the point (or in this case points) of interest are stubbornly central. However some of the monks seated and facing inwards are reminiscent of ‘The Appearance at Arles’. In terms of composition 20 relates well to 22 (the ‘Funeral of St. Francis’), in that both have the same figure of the now hooded St. Francis lying in the centre with a crowd above it and images above that. The portrayal of the dead St. Francis is very much the same in the next bay, in 23. This fresco demonstrates a competent grasp of architecture in all its detail. The figures on the façade of S. Damiano are comparable with those at the top of 21. The naturalistic tree is in stark contrast with the trees of 19. Detailed decoration of cloths in 23 to 25 is again evident, and the shape of the bed, and particularly the figure lying on it, in ‘The Dream of Gregory IX’ are similar to the ‘Dream of Bishop Guido’. The architecture in the frescoes 20 to 25 uses Roman arches, whereas in 15 to 18 the Gothic arch was used. In 25 there are some well painted and expressive heads which seem irreconcilable with the uniform and slightly bland heads of the crowd scenes. This might be explained by the use of the assistants in crowd scenes, smaller groups tend to show more expression; another example is the monks surrounding Brother Augustine in 21.

The last three frescoes from the third major group. Their most distinctive feature is impossibly slim, tall, rectangular architectural settings. The decoration on clothes and drapery is just as elaborate, but it is used less frequently. In 26 (the ‘Cure of Giovanni d’Ilerda’) the bed is different from those in 21 and 25, though the head of St. Francis in 25 is quite similar to that of 26, 27 and 28, but his beard is slightly shorter and utilises less modelling of shade. The angel in 27 (the ‘Confession of the Revived Woman’) is very different from the angels of 20 who are proportioned like humans. The buildings in 28 (the ‘Freeing of the Heretic – Pintro d’Alifia’) are probably meant to be Trajan’s Column and the Septizonium in Rome, though the figures they carry are not particularly classical in dress. In all three scenes the modelling of faces seems more confident and there is an attempt to show character and age; in 27, for example, we have the first child.

None of the frescoes in the second half of the St. Francis cycle look wrong together in the same church. But there are some discrepancies which cannot be explained by artistic creativity and different subject matter. Broadly speaking these discrepancies form two barriers to similarity so the frescoes form three groups in all. From 15 to 19, from 20 to 25 and from 26 to the end. But, on closer inspection, 19 does not relate well to any of the other frescoes and the group from 20 to 25 also has some significant internal variations as well as similarities with what has gone before and will come after. Inevitably, where the divisions come is partly subjective, but the fact that they exist at all is hopefully established.

 

The Portrayal of Emperors in the Reichenau Manuscripts

 

Such a study presents the distinct problem of having a technically non-existent subject. If one follows the writings of CR Dodwell, particularly CR Dodwell and DH Turner’s ‘Reichenau Reconsidered: A Reassessment of the Place of Reichenau in Ottonian Art’, there are no portrayals of Emperors in the Reichenau manuscripts. This is simply because the manuscripts have mostly been reattributed to other schools and places. The portrayals in question, then, will be treated as a group, irrespective of the Reichenau question, in an attempt to show homogeneity. However, this is not to underestimate the role of aesthetic antecedents, but merely to proceed from general characteristics of such ruler portraits to unusually close similarities.

The ruler portrait is rarely designed to be an accurate portrayal of an individual, or at least the more important intention is to show an ideal of a ruler. This necessitates the additional element of subject powers and, sometimes, members of court, in order to show the act of ruling. The ruler is thus usually shown in the middle of the picture with his accessories, often as personifications and symbols, which provide a frame around the central point of focus. The Emperor is sometimes further emphasised by a distinction of size from his subjects. This is not an uncommon feature in art generally, but it may have a fairly direct precedent in late classical art. For example the size of the Emperor in relation to his subjects on the Column of Marcus Aurelius or on the silver Missorium Theodosius in Madrid. Another method of distinction which may have been carried over into Ottonian art is the idea of having the Emperor seated on a throne and his subjects standing in attendance, as in the Arch of Constantine.

The Carolingians had had a tradition of ruler portraits, accompanied by allegories of empire, representations of ecclesiastical and secular dignitaries, homage bringing nations and the hand of God placing a crown upon the Emperor’s head. Most of these characteristics are evident, for example, in the Emperor in Majesty, from the Codex Aureus from St. Emmeram, of  the school of Charles the Bald, made around 870. This miniature also has the throne framed by a canopy or baldachin, which is reminiscent of late Byzantine manuscripts. On a Byzantine ivory relief Christ is shown crowning a German Emperor and Queen in the same manner as late Ottonian miniatures of Christ crowning King Henry II, before he became Emperor, and his Queen. The frontispiece of the Bible of San Callisto belongs to the same type of representation, this time without the hand of God, as are most of the representations in the Reichenau group.

The idea of distributing a composition over two facing pages, with tributary nations approaching the Emperor, might be said to stem from the Roman ‘Notitia Dignitatum’ which was copied in Ottonian times in the Trier circle. There was a 5^th Century copy of it in the Cathedral of Speyer. But, in general, Carolingian art is the most direct influence on Ottonian art; Roman and Byzantine influence, though great, can, in many cases, be traced through Carolingian. Although this is not the case with the direct early Christian influence on the work of the manuscript artist known as the Gregory Master.

Such elements of composition that have already been mentioned with the Carolingian manuscript, the Codex Aureus, can be seen in the Otto III Christomimetes from a Gospel book presented to the Emperor by Liuthar. This is thought to have been made around 1000 and is now in the Central Treasury at Aachen. Otto III is crowned by two subject Kings and the representatives of church and state. In its concept of government by divine right it may refer to St. Augustine’s commentary on Psalm 90. Otto III is enthroned in a mandorla, like Christ in Majesty, accompanied by symbols of the evangelists. The veil across Otto’s breast, and therefore heart, may be a scroll and refer to the inscription surrounding Liuthar on the opposite page: Hoc Auguste Libro Cor Deus Iduat Otto (With this book, Otto Augustus, may God invest thy heart). Although the idea of imperial christomimesis is not far removed from Byzantine ideology, no Byzantine Emperor would be represented in the daring manner of Otto III. In art the Byzantines rarely placed the natural in such a supernatural context.

Three other Reichenau Emperor portrayals, whilst sharing general elements with what had gone before, also have remarkable similarities with each other. One is a miniature of Otto II receiving the homage of the four parts of the empire:- Germania, Alemannia, Francia and Italia. It is from the Registrum Gregorii, produced around 983 and presented to the cathedral of Trier by archbishop Egbert. The codex is now lost, but two miniatures from it are in the Stadtbibliothek at Trier and the Musée Condé at Chantilly respectively. The former is a representation of Pope Gregory. The second Emperor portrayal is of Otto III receiving the homage of the four parts of his empire:- Slavinia, Germania, Gallia and Roma. It comes from the Gospel Book of Otto III and was probably made between 997 and 1000. It was given as a gift to Bamberg Cathedral by Henry II and is now in Munich. The last is again Otto III receiving the homage from the four parts of his empire. This one is the Bamberg Prachthandschrift fragment from a Liuthar manuscript.

The Registrum Gregorii shows the Gregory master’s grasp of form beneath the draperies, his handling of space and subtly graded tones. In some ways his style derives from late antique art: J. Beckwith relates the Emperor to a portrait of a Theodosian prince. The Gospel of Otto III shows some of the same attention to detail, there is even an attempt to show different facial tones, but is a move towards greater angularity and geometric abstraction. The Bamberg fragment, on the other hand, while superficially closest to the Gospel of Otto III, is handled with a softness more reminiscent of the Gregory master.

In two of the portraits – the Registrum Gregorii and the Bamberg fragment – the architectural settings are almost identical. They have baldachins supported by patterned columns and two-tiered acanthus capitals. Each tiled roof is crowned with a single, simple, decoration while the spandrels have recessed panels. Both artists have made the baldachins look slightly awkward by an only partially successful attempt at showing the canopy to be three-dimensional. The platform thrones have high curved backrests with growling lion heads at each end. A cloth has been draped over the backrests and in each case falls in the same, heavy, regular folds. The poses of the Emperors are almost exactly the same. The sceptres and orbs which they hold are also nearly identical. Their clothes, both in overall design and the way in which the cloth hangs, are very similar. In colour and pattern, however they differ.

The Emperor in the Gospel of Otto III differs from the others in drapery, despite having similar designs on the chest and right arm. His sceptre terminates in a bird design and he holds the orb away from his chest. The positioning of the feet also differs, but in general he shows much the same seated, frontal posture. The base of the throne is different and, in fact, is very close to the stool of Gregory in the Registrum Gregorii. In both cases the growling lion heads are at the top of the stool (since they have no backrests) and have animal paws at the base. This means that it is also close to the stool of Mark in the Gospels of Ste. Chapelle but this miniature lacks the similar roofs above the figures which Gregory in the Registrum Gregorii and Otto III in his Gospel book have in common.

The Gospel of Otto III follows the same compositional theme as the Bamberg fragment. The ecclesiastical and secular dignitaries, in particular, have much in common. The faces, hair styles and colours, as well as costume are the same. The poses of the rear figures are identical while those of the front pairs differ slightly. The personifications of provinces are basically of the same design in the Gospel of Otto III and the Bamberg fragment. But in each case the figure is changed. For example the receptacles for gifts are in three areas approximately the same but are in a different order. The drapery is softer in the Bamberg fragment and is, in that sense, more reminiscent of the Registrum Gregorii. Two of the crowns on the Bamberg fragment are closer to the Registrum Gregorii than to the Gospel of Otto III. But the provinces in the Bamberg fragment are, in general, a fresh portrayal, with the same composition as the Gospel of Otto III.

These three manuscripts, as well as the Otto III Christomimetes, fall within a larger tradition of Emperor and ruler portraits. This tradition can be traced through Roman art, Byzantine art and most directly through Carolingian art, as in the Otto III Christomimetes. But of greater importance is that the portrayals in three frontispieces, in the Registrum Gregorii, the Gospels of Otto III and the Bamberg fragment, form a closely linked stylistic unit. The compositions have only one major difference, that between the Registrum Gregorii and the other two. In general impression, and in many of the details, they can be seen as variants of a single iconographic idea.

Copyright 1981 Adrian Annabel