Quantcast
Channel: Ancient Art Podcast
Viewing all 178 articles
Browse latest View live

19: Ancient Olympics, Part 2

0
0

Alright team, fall in! It’s coach Lucas Livingston here and it’s time for part two of the Ancient Olympics on the Ancient Art Podcast. Last time we found out about the historical and mythological foundation of the ancient Olympics. We heard a bit about the Twelve Labors of Hercules and the tragic family line of Pelops and Hippodameia, also called the House of Atreus. And we wrapped up with a teaser about funerary celebrations going hand-in-hand with athletic games.

This time we’ll continue to explore the idea of a tragic untimely demise as a good reason to hold an athletic contest. We’ll take a close look at some very early Greek artwork dated to about the time of the foundation of the Olympic games, which may suggest chariot racing. And then we’ll try to get a grip — so to speak — on the whole idea of nudity in the ancient games. So, stand up, put on your beer hats, and paint your faces, because it’s game on!

Funeral games are a big deal in Ancient Greek stories and history. Many of the foundation myths of the more famous Greek Games are centered around honoring someone’s tragic death. The Pythian Games at Delphi are said to have begun to pay honor to the nymph Daphne, who was transformed into a laurel tree to escape the amorous clutches of the god Apollo. This famous story has been captured by a lot of artists and authors throughout the centuries. Most notable perhaps are the passage from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, a collection of tales involving various physical transformations, and this magnificent marble masterpiece by baroque sculptor Bernini in Rome. And since Daphne transformed into a laurel tree, that’s why victors at the Pythian Games were crowned with a wreath of laurel. The ancient games at Nemea were held in honor of the death of the infant boy Opheltes, who was bitten by a snake while lying in a bed of celery. Hence, victors of the Nemean Games were crowned with a wreath of wild celery. And the Isthmian Games were established as funeral games for another infant boy Melikertes, also called Palaimon, who died clutched in his mother’s arms as she threw herself from a high cliff into the unforgiving sea to escape her wrathful husband driven mad by the gods. The boy’s body was brought ashore by dolphins to a pine grove at Isthmia sacred to the god Poseidon, hence a crown of pine for those victors. You see where we’re going here? These four games, the Olympian, the Pythian, the Nemean, and the Isthmian, are called the crown games, because the victors were all awarded with crowns instead of money. We also have the money games, which are found throughout the entire Greek world. Sometimes just local and sometimes huge and rivaling the scale of the crown games, like the Grand Panathenaia at Athens.

Funeral games feature prominently in literature too. Towards the end of the Iliad in book 23 we see Achilles organizing funeral games to honor the heroic death and memory of his young side-kick Patroklos. The Iliad is a fascinating archaeological artifact. Though the date of its composition is hotly debated, it’s generally considered to be in the 8th century BC plus or minus a century. For generations it was passed down not through manuscripts, but by oral tradition — by memorization and recitation for performance. It crystallized some time in the 7th or 6th century BC into the form that has come down to us today. The poem looks back to the mythological heroes of the Mycenaean Bronze Age civilization from about 1600 to 1100 BC, but it shows clear and obvious examples of the Iron Age culture contemporary to that Homer fellow (if he ever even existed, but I digress). The value of the Iliad to Greek athletics lies in the thorough description of the different events at the funeral games of Patroklos. Two events that receive a lot of attention in the Iliad are the chariot race and footrace. Here’s a great translation by Stephen Miller, author of Ancient Greek Athletics, although I paraphrase in part to keep a PG rating:

“Ajax was in front, but Odysseus was running so close behind that his feet were hitting Ajax’s tracks before the dust could settle back into them, and his breath was hitting the back of Ajax’s neck. All the Achaians were cheering his effort to win, shouting for him to pour it on. But when they were in the stretch, Odysseus said a silent prayer to the gray-eyed Athena, ‘Hear me, Goddess; be kind to me, and come with extra strength for my feet.’ So he prayed, and Pallas Athena heard him, and lightened his limbs, feet, and arms too. As they were making their final spring for the prize, Ajax slipped and fell (Athena tripped him) where dung was scattered on the ground from bellowing oxen, and he got the stuff in his mouth and up his nose. So Odysseus took away the mixing bowl, because he finished first, and the ox went to Ajax, He stood with his hands on the horns of the ox, spitting out dung, and said to the Argives, ‘Oh [crap]! That goddess tripped me, that goddess who has always stood by Odysseus and cared for him like a mother.'” (Stephen Miller, Ancient Greek Athletics, Yale University Press, 2004, page 30)

The popularity of these athletic events can also be seen in the artwork contemporary to the composition of the Homeric epics and the foundation of the Olympics, like on this Geometric Period pyxis at the Art Institute of Chicago from about 760-735 BC, with a team of four neatly assembled horses decorating the lid. We can imagine the chariot that was attached to this four-horse quadriga, or in Greek tethrippon. And also on this giant Geometric Period krater or mixing bowl at the Metropolitan Museum of Art from about 750-735 BC. On it you can see a body lying in state with mourners assembled all around, and in the lower register alternating depictions of charioteers and soldiers race along. Note that this vessel comes nearly 400 years after the Bronze Age period, but the figures on foot carry the trademark Bronze Age style figure-eight shields from centuries earlier. So, just as rhapsodes singing the Iliad and Odyssey are looking back to the mythic heroes of Mycenae, so too are the artists of this time as they decorate the Geometric style vases.

Charioteers and runners continued to be the favored athletic subjects of Greek vase painting through the Classical and Hellenistic periods. Athletic events at the Greek games can be broken up into two basic categories: the gymnikos agon and hippikos agon.

Agon basically means a game, contest, or athletic event. It’s the Greek word from which we get “agony.” Agony in its most basic sense is the strife, struggle, and sacrifice endured in pursuit of victory. Gymnikos means “nude,” so the gymnikos agon are the “nude games,” whereas the hippokos agon refer to the “horse games,” which include a few different mounted and horse-drawn races. Considering the popularity of chariot races, though, it’s ironic that they didn’t become an official part of the Olympics until 680 BC, a good century after the supposed foundation of the Olympics and after the incorporation of nearly all the nude events.

So, what’s the deal with all the nudity? Nudity in ancient Greek athletics is perhaps the most quintessentially Greek aspect to the games. It’s the equalizer of men. Competing in the nude, no one could argue that the latest Adidas nanotechnology swim suite gave anyone a leg up on the competition. Nudity preserved the essential democratic nature of Greek athletics. It also prevented preference or prejudice based on social class. All discriminating demarcations are stripped from the competitors, who must rely on their skill and strength alone. We’re all the same when stripped down to our bareness romping in the dirt, oil, and sweat. We’re all Greek citizens.

Nobody knows for sure when or how the idea of competing in the nude came about. Various ancient sources provide us with amusing accounts of loincloths falling off mid-race, only to learn that nudity supposedly provided a possible competitive edge. One common association of the nude athlete is with the ancient mythic hero. You might remember back in episode 6 on the Classical white-ground lekythos — the oil jar — we learned that the nude figure here presents an interesting duality of the youthful nude athlete and the epic hero. We also saw this more recently in episode 16 on the Metropolitan Kouros. Perhaps this noble association was also aspired to by athletes in the nude on the field at ancient Olympia. And it makes extra sense to have the nude epic hero depicted on the lekythos, because that’s one sort of jar that athletes in the gymnasium would have used to dispense oil. There are a few different interpretations for the use of oil in Greek athletics. Rubbing olive oil into your skin before a competition would give your body a lovely glistening sheen. We can attest to this from WWF ca. 1985. There could also be some sort of ritual libation significance to rubbing oil over one’s body. What might make the most sense, though, is the cleansing purpose of oil after the match. After accumulating all the sweat, dirt, sand, blood, and other filth of a match, you’d run a strigil down your limbs and the oil acted like a nice lubricant, so the grime had a harder time sticking to you. We looked a little more closely back in episode 6 at this example of a strigil from the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.

That’s about all the time we have for this episode. Tune in next time for part 3 on the Ancient Olympics as we tour the variety of athletic events, both the nude games and the horse races. Questions, comments, suggestions? You can email me at info@ancientartpodcast.org. Or visit the website and click on “feedback” at the top of the page. While you’re there, please take a minute to fill out the survey to help me get a better sense of who’s listening. iTunes reviews help get the podcast noticed, so please consider sharing the love. You can also add your comments next to each episode at ancientartpodcast.org. Thanks for tuning in and see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2009 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

]]>

20: Ancient Olympics, Part 3

0
0

Alright, welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast. It’s time to wrap things with part 3 of the Ancient Olympics. We looked at the foundation myths for the four major crown games at Delphi, Nemea, Isthmia, and Olympia. We also, ahem, exposed the concept of nudity as a quintessentially democratic Greek dynamic to ancient athletics. This time we’re getting in to the nitty gritty where we can smell the sweat and taste the dirt. Ancient athletics never felt so real. We’ll keep looking at what makes the Greek games essentially Greek and we’ll run through a survey of the different types of athletic events at the Olympics. Then we’ll go on a nice little marathon run and polish things off with some character portraits of notable athletes.

Like nudity, explored in episode 19, another fascinating quality to the ancient Greek games, which contributed to their idealized democratic nature, was how judging took place. All subjectivity was removed from judging. There were no points awarded for grace or form. Judging was done using objective standards. Who hurled the javelin furthest, who ran the fastest, or who threw his opponent to the ground first. Judges are fairly easy to spot in Greek vase painting. Just look for the guy with the big stick. We see judges calling matches to an end when a victor is declared, or sometimes intervening in a match when a contestant breaks the rules. The beauty of competing in the nude — no, this isn’t going where you think — but it’s that the aristocrat and laborer were judged alike and judgment was swift and harsh.

Most of the events of the Ancient Olympic Games are familiar to us. The earliest type of event, the only event that would have been held at the supposed first Olympiad of 776 BC, was the stadion, from which we get the word “stadium.” The stadion was basically just the ancient equivalent to the 200 meter dash. Contestants would run down the length of the stadium, which was 600 ancient feet. Funny thing is, though, the official length of a foot varied from location to location. The length of the stadium at Olympia was different from the length at Delphi, Isthmia, and Nemea. But that sort of standardization didn’t really matter to the ancient Greeks. Another footrace that was added to the Olympics in 520 BC was the hoplitodromos, where athletes would run down the stadium and back in armor, wearing helmets and greaves, and carrying shields. Again, there’s no evidence that there was any sort of standardization to the weight of the armor being carried. Similarly, in the pentathlon, one event was the long jump. Athletes would often jump with the aid of handheld weights called halteres, or halters. Halters have been excavated from different sites and periods and there’s no apparent pattern to their shape or weight. Much like a bowling ball, you’d use whatever weight works best for you. The other four events of the pentathlon, which originated in 708 BC, included the discus, the javelin, the stadion, and wrestling. You might think that’s where we get modern Greco-Roman wrestling from, but that’s just Victorian nostalgia run amok.

Similar to wrestling was another full contact event called pankration, literally “all-powerful,” the no-holds-barred ancient equivalent to mixed martial arts or the Ultimate Fighting Championship. The only illegal moves in the pankration were gouging and biting. Everything else was fair game. The idea for these rules comes from Hercules’s battle against the Nemean Lion. The lion’s hide was impenetrable to sword and spear, so Hercules was forced to grapple with it, choking the beast to death. Now, the pankration was not by definition a death match, but yes, some contestants did die. One of the most well known is Arrhichion of Phigaleia, pankration victor of the 572 and 568 Olympics. In his third attempt at an Olympic victory in 564, his opponent managed to get a good strangle hold on Arrhichion, slowly choking the life from him. But as darkness swept over him and the sleep of death crept in, Arrhichion swiftly executed one final move to wrench his opponent’s ankle from its socket. His opponent, still applying the choke hold, signaled submission to the judge. Arrhichion simultaneously became a three-time Olympic victor and slipped away into death.

We also see boxing, called “pyx,” added to the Olympics in 668 BC. And to round out the gymnikos agon, the nude games, we see the diaulos added in 724 BC. The diaulos was the second event added to the Olympics, after the stadion. Diaulos is the word for a double-flute, a common instrument from Ancient Greece. Playing on that term, the diaulos race was a double stadion, or down and back, just like the later hoplitodromos. And at the next Olympiad four years later in 720 BC, we see the addition of the dolichos, the long-distance run, somewhere around 20 to 24 laps of the stadium. It’s interesting that you can identify which race is being depicted in art based on the position of the runners’ knees and arms. If their arms are raised high up with knees high in long strides, they’re running the shorter stadion. If their knees aren’t quite as high, it’s likely the diaulos. Arms carefully tucked in to the torso like jogging, that’s certainly the long-distance dolichos. But if you’re not sure, inscriptions next to the runners sometimes provide additional evidence.

What about the marathon, you ask? The famed 26.2 mile run popular throughout the world today named after the famous ancient Greek site of the Battle of Marathon? You might be surprised to know that there was no such thing as the marathon run in the ancient world. It’s an entirely modern invention. The idea of the marathon originates from two possible stories that may have gotten mixed together in later times. The Battle of Marathon was a major Greek victory over the Persians in 490 BC. The basic story is that the Athenians sent a messenger named Pheidippides to run from Marathon to Athens after the battle to announce their victory. As soon as he arrived and shared the news, he dropped dead. But there’s no mention by Herodotus in his contemporary account of the Battle of Marathon of anyone running from Marathon to Athens to deliver the news. He does mention a messenger named Pheidippides or sometimes Philippides in some manuscripts, who ran from Athens to Sparta before the battle to seek Spartan aid. The other story that gets mixed with Herodotus’s is that the Athenian hoplite force, after defeating the Persian army at Marathon, marched at a high pace in full armor the 25 or so miles all the way from Marathon to Athens to defeat a second wave of the Persian attack. So, as I said, these two stories of two different runs eventually get mixed together to form the much more romantic account of Pheidippides, his valor, and his tragic self-sacrifice to bring news of the victory of democractic Greek heroism over the barbaric imperialism of Persia at the Battle of Marathon.

And the marathon run itself? Yeah, that was invented for the first modern Olympics in 1896 in an attempt to echo the legendary glory of Ancient Greece. As a side note, the distance was eventually standardized to 26 miles and 385 yards after the 1908 London Olympics. Today’s marathon run is not the distance from Marathon to Athens, but the distance from Windsor Castle to the royal box at the London Olympic stadium.

We’ve talked a lot about the gymnikos agon, the nude events, but what about the hippikos agon. I already mentioned that, despite all the hooplah about chariot races in art and literature nearly as far back as the Greek Dark Ages, they weren’t officially part of the Olympics until 680 BC. The first horse race to be added was the tethrippon, the four-horse chariot race, which was 12 laps around the hippodrome. But, of course, it shouldn’t surprise you any more that the length of the hippodrome wasn’t standardized from location to location. We also find the synoris, a two-horse chariot race, and the keles, a mounted horse race. As with today, it was advantageous to have as small and light a jockey as possible, but back in Ancient Greece that usually meant having a young slave boy race your prize horse. This silver coin from the Art Institute of Chicago commemorates the keles race won by Philip II of Macedon in 356 BC, father of Alexander the Great. The youthful jockey holds a palm branch, a secondary victory trophy given out at the games by this time. Philip’s name is stamped on the coin fragmented by the horse’s head. And on the other side (technically the obverse, if you want to talk numismatics) we see the god Zeus, the ultimate victor at the Olympics. Don’t forget — he’s the reason for the season.

Despite all this talk about the Olympics being the ultimate emblem of Greek democracy, there was definitely a social divide among the competitors and events. While any decent athlete could compete in the nude events, the horse races always held a certain air of snobbery and elitism. To enter in the horse races, one had to be able to afford a horse, chariot, rider, and training, which only the wealthiest of Greeks could afford. Last time in episode 19, we saw in the funeral games of Patroklos in Book 23 of the Iliad that Odysseus excelled in the footrace and wrestling match. Interestingly, though, he doesn’t compete in the chariot race, perhaps because he is one of the less affluent Greek kings at Troy and couldn’t afford to lug a team of race horses and chariot with him on a military campaign.

But this social divide didn’t prevent the masses from reveling in the spectacle of the horse races. By all accounts they were extremely popular. Popular for the masses and also as a means for political maneuvering and exploitation. The coin commemorating Philip’s keles victory ensured his fame and name would be dispersed throughout much of the Greek world. As Philip expands his outreach, he gains control of game sites, maneuvering to unify all of Greece in part through athletic competition, not as a series of disparate sacred centers and city states, but as a united nation of Hellenic people.

Hopefully this trilogy of episodes on the Ancient Olympics has whetted your appetite to delve a little deeper. If you’d like to learn more, visit the bibliography in the Additional Resources section at ancientartpodcast.org, where you’ll find a section under Greece on “the Olympics and Other Greek Games.”

©2009 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

21: Akhenaten and the Amarna Style

0
0

Hello and welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast. I’m your host, Lucas Livingston. In this episode, we’ll scratch the surface of one of the most interesting periods from Ancient Egypt, the reign of Pharaoh Akhenaten. Any enthusiast of Ancient Egyptian history will probably have heard of Akhenaten, the so-called “Heretic King,” and if not Akhenaten, then at least you’ve heard of his wife Nefertiti, arguably the most famous Ancient Egyptian woman, second only to Cleopatra. Akhenaten ruled in the 18th dynasty from about 1353 to 1336 BC. In that relatively short time of only 17 years, he radically transformed Egyptian state religion and developed an entirely new artistic iconography.

At the beginning of his reign, Akhenaten, who then went by the name Amunhotep IV, commissioned works of the traditional sort. As with many of his predecessors and successors, he built additions to the Temple of Amun at Karnak decorated in the very traditional canonic Egyptian style. But then in his second or third year he changed his name from Amunhotep to Akhenaten, which means something like the “Spirit of Aten.” So, he stripped the god Amun from his name and replaced it with Aten, the solar deity represented as a disk rather than an anthropoid god. Aten wasn’t anything new. His father King Amunhotep III already celebrated the cult of Aten, majorly elevating its status, and Aten as the life-giving power of the sun goes back at least as far as the Middle Kingdom.

The changes Akhenaten made were to more than his name alone. He outlawed many of the major cults, especially the cult of Amun, closing their temples and pissing off a lot of priests. He enforced the worship of Aten, with himself (and sometimes Nefertiti) as the sole intermediary between Heaven and Earth. He built a vast new capital city called Akhetaten, meaning the “Horizon of Aten.” Now it’s mostly rubble and sand, because it was destroyed after Akhenaten’s reign, and much of the rubble was used as filler for later additions to Karnak, but it once held huge open air temple courts where offerings were given up to Aten on a daily basis. The open air architecture was very different from the tiny, dimly lit, secretive back rooms of Karnak, Luxor, and other traditional Egyptian temples where a few special high priests would gather and perform sacred rituals enshrouded in mystery and secrecy.

This is a fragment from the Great Palace at Akhetaten, now in the Egyptian Museum in Cairo. On it we see Akhenaten, Nefertiti, and their eldest daughter Meretaten praying and making offerings to the solar disk, much like we might imagine them having routinely done those many millennia ago. Notice the subtle linear band along the top of the scene. That’s actually the hieroglyphic character pet, meaning the “sky,” further reinforcing the doctrine of open-air worship to Aten. As the giver and sustainer of life, Aten’s rays of light reach down to its supplicants and hold symbols of the ankh, the hieroglyphic character for “life,” to their noses. In effect Akhenaten and Nefertiti breath in the life-granting essence of Aten. The hands at the end of Aten’s rays remain the only vestige of anthropomorphism to an otherwise abstract divinity.

This fragment exemplifies the innovative artistic style from the reign of Akhenaten, often called the Amarna style from Tel el Amarna, the modern Egyptian name for the area around what once was Akhetaten. The Amarna revolution abandons the idealized representation of the human form, especially the Pharaoh, who, as we might remember from our discussion of the statue of Ra-Horakhty back in episode 14, was always shown as an eternally youthful, muscular exemplar of human physique. The Amarna style, however, could be described as down-right caricature, a deformation of an individual’s characteristics. Just like the cult of Aten, itself, Akhenaten’s not uniquely responsible for inventing the Amarna style. He adopts, augments, and elevates many artistic characteristics that were already making their appearance during his father’s reign.

A couple other big developments in Egyptian art that the Amarna style picks up and runs with are the representation of movement and snapshots of moments in time. More typical of Ancient Egyptian religious and royal artwork is a very static timeless quality with almost no effort to represent any kind of action among the figures. But in the Amarna style, we definitely feel a sense of movement. Expression of emotion is also a big development that Akhenaten adopts from his predecessors. Take for example this delightful royal family portrait from the Egyptian Museum in Cairo. Here we see two young princesses cuddling up in the lap of Nefertiti, one daughter affectionately touching her mother’s chin. Akhenaten playfully dangles an earring like a piñata before Princess Meretaten. Note also the comfortable reclining pose that the king takes. I mean, this is a family at leisure, or at least they’re acting like it for the camera. All the while, the life-giving rays of the Aten shine upon them. This is all quite different from classic representations of the royal family like Menkaure with his wife here at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. A beautiful piece and sure she’s holding him with some minuscule degree of affection, but you have to wonder if they slept in the same bed. Of course, then the summer 2009 issue of Kmt, the popular journal on Ancient Egypt, has to go and accuse this lovely relief of Akhenaten and his family of being a modern counterfeit, but at least we still have this very similar example in the Egyptian Museum of Berlin. Check out the article “Nefertiti’s Final Secret” by Rolf Krauss in volume 20, number 2 of Kmt.

We also see a big change to the actual stylistic execution of relief carving. The sunken relief carving of the Amarna period is rendered with deeply cut, bold, smoothly flowing contour lines. Particular attention is given to detail, especially in individual parts of the body, like fingers and toes. Remember back at the end of episode 9, “Walk Like an Egyptian,” we learned that you never see little toes in Egyptian painting or relief carving. Well, the Amarna period may be the only general exception to this rule.

What makes the iconography of the Amarna style most distinctive, however, is the unusual physiology of Akhenaten and others. Instead of the ideal physical specimen of masculinity, Akhenaten is represented with an elongated face and head, full, heavy lips, enviably slender waist, spindly limbs, a pendulous belly, and thick, rounded thighs. … And Pharaoh got back! … So, what gives? It’s like Akhenaten’s trying to mix together exaggerated masculine and feminine characteristics. There’s absolutely no evidence to back up the idea that Akhenaten may have been physically deformed, although you come across a lot of people espousing that misconception. In fact, for many many centuries, the ancient god of the Nile’s annual flood, Hapi, was represented with breasts and a pregnant belly, yet masculine attire, a typical god’s beard, and otherwise generally masculine physique. Akhenaten is adopting an iconography similar to Hapi, blending masculinity and femininity into a singular being of idealized androgyny as the sole provider to the Egyptian people, thereby legitimizing his divine right to rule.

You get a lot of theories for why Akhenaten made the changes that he did to Egyptian society, religion, and art. Most of the theories are variants on the idea that he was either crazy or enlightened. He’s frequently given credit for introducing the concept of monotheism when all the rest of the world was running around worshiping different gods, rocks, and shrubbery, but that’s just not true. Akhenaten wasn’t a monotheist; he was more like a henotheist. Henotheism is the worship of one god, while believing that others exist and can get a little bit of credit too. Even though Akhenaten preached that the Aten was the one and only god, his motivation was largely political, not religious or ideological. In the generations leading up to Akhenaten, the state cult of Amun had risen to such unprecedented heights that it almost came to eclipse the authority of Pharaoh. The temple was the administrative and financial center of Egypt, holding massive tracts of land and immense influence over all aspects of Egyptian society and national affairs. In an effort not to become a puppet of the temple, Amunhotep III, Akhenaten’s father, already started to take measures to return to the unquestionable authority of Pharaoh, and Akhenaten took it that much further. But it didn’t work. Almost immediately after Akhenaten’s reign, Amun was reintroduced as the state god, royal iconography began reverting, and the Amarna style was dying out, giving rise to the Post-Amarna Period. But this fragment, rich in iconography, expression, and eternal supplication to Aten, is a prime example of the unique, short-lived, and beautiful artistic revolution of the “Heretic King” Akhenaten.

Want to learn more? Check out the bibliography in the Additional Resources section at ancientartpodcast.org. One particularly great resource is the catalog and website to the exhibition Pharaohs of the Sun: Akhenaten, Nefertiti, Tutankhamen from 1999. You can email me at info@ancientartpodcast.org. You can also give feedback on the website and fill out a fun little survey. And why not share the love with some iTunes comments? Thanks for listening and we’ll see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2009 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

]]>

22: Nefertiti, Devonia, Michael

0
0

On October 31, 1980 at Just Above Midtown Gallery in New York City, artist Lorraine O’Grady, dressed in a long red robe, debuted her new work of performance art. On a dark stage with a slideshow backdrop and dramatic recorded narration, O’Grady enacted hypnotic, ritualized motions, like the priestess of an ancient mystery cult, incanting magicks over vessels of sacred sand and offerings blessings of protection to the projected images of the Ancient Egyptian Queen Nefertiti and her late sister Devonia Evangeline O’Grady Allen. In the piece entitled Nefertiti/Devonia Evangeline, Lorraine O’Grady confronted her relationship with her sister through the lens of Nefertiti and Nefertiti’s own apparent sister, Mutnedjmet — a relationship which O’Grady felt would have been equally troubled. O’Grady’s sister Devonia tragically died just a few short weeks after the two of them had finally begun speaking after many years of a strained relationship.

Inspired two years later after a trip to Egypt, O’Grady began researching Queen Nefertiti and her famed family of the Amarna Period. While in Egypt, O’Grady encountered a new found feeling of belonging — as the artist says in her own words, “surrounded for the first time by people who looked like me” (Art Journal 56:4, Winter 1997, p. 64). Of African, Caribbean, and Irish descent, O’Grady never felt a similar sense of kinship in her homes of Boston and Harlem. In a New York Times article from September 26, 2008, “she remembers her youthful efforts to balance what she has called her family’s ‘tropical middle-and-upper class British colonial values’ with the Yankee, Irish-American and African-American cultures around her.” Building on a resemblance that she long thought her sister had with Nefertiti, she was struck by what she saw as narrative and visual resemblances throughout both families. While pairing members of her own family with those of Nefertiti, O’Grady weaves together various narratives connecting personal stories with historical events (Alexander Gray Associates press release, 10 Sep 2008).

In 1994, from the performance piece Nefertiti/Devonia Evangeline originally composed of 65 photographic comparisons, O’Grady took about a fifth of the diptychs and framed them in an installation piece entitled Miscegenated Family Album, which has been exhibited in various galleries, including the Art Institute of Chicago in 2008. O’Grady’s work often focuses on black female identity and subjectivity, as well as cultural and ethnic hybridization. Miscegenation, in the title of the piece, is the procreation between members of different races, which was still illegal in much of the US as late as 1967, when it was finally overturned by the Supreme Court.

The ethnic identities of Nefertiti and Akhenaten have been debated in the spheres of Egyptology and African studies, with no immediate end in sight. Not quite as much as Cleopatra, but still. In Nefertiti/Devonia Evangeline and Miscegenated Family Album, O’Grady directly confronts the racism of a white-dominated, Western-European interpretation to the field of Egyptology. While the notion of a black African cultural and ethnic influence on Ancient Egypt is frequently discussed today, we should bear in mind that in 1980, when O’Grady first performed Nefertiti/Devonia Evangeline, this was still seven years before the publication of Martin Bernal’s highly acclaimed and criticized work Black Athena: The Afroasiatic Roots of Classical Civilization.

Now, I’m not saying that the sub-Saharan African influence on Egyptian civilization is definitively confirmed. It’s still a hotly debated issue with many shades of gray. Ancient Egypt was a huge nation surviving thousands of years. And during that time there was frequent contact with surrounding countries, including periods of foreign occupation. By the time of Nefertiti and Akhenaten in the mid to late 14th century BC, parts of Egypt were pretty ethnically diverse, which likely got even more ethnically diverse as the centuries led up to the Ptolemaic period of Cleopatra. I’m excited to see that the University of Manchester museum will be hosting a conference on “Egypt in its African Context” on October 3rd and 4th, 2009. You can read about the conference online. The URL’s kinda long: www.museum.manchester.ac.uk/collection/ancientegypt/conference. [As of at least 12/22/2010, this link is no longer active. Visit http://egyptmanchester.files.wordpress.com/2009/08/egypt-in-its-african-context-programme1.pdf for a PDF of the conference agenda. Visit http://egyptmanchester.wordpress.com/2010/08/07/sally-ann-ashton-talking-at-the-manchester-museum-at-the-conference-egypt-in-its-african-context-3-4-october-2009/ for videos.] So, check out the transcript at ancientartpodcast.org for the link or see my recent tweet on Twitter at “lucaslivingston.”

One point that we need to bear in mind when considering the ethnicity of Ancient Egyptians is the baggage we bring with us to the discussion. We all have a lot of baggage, but what I’m specifically talking about is the whole preoccupation with ethnicity. I don’t know about kids these days, but not too long ago when I was a wee lad, every American schoolboy or girl could tell your their heritage, breaking it down by the percentage. Blame it on the African diaspora, Western imperialism, or Ellis Island, but I would argue that this obsession with the argument over whether the Ancient Egyptians were black, white, Greek, Berber, or other is something of a modern development. The Egyptians were an ethnically diverse lot and they would have said to us “So what!?” What mattered to the Egyptians was that you were Egyptian. You don’t hear of Ancient Egyptian race riots.

The beauty of O’Grady’s Miscegenated Family Album is that it looks more than skin-deep. O’Grady draws a few parallels between her sister Devonia and Nefertiti. They both marry, have daughters, and perform ceremonials functions — one as a priestess, the other as a bride. Devonia passed away at the age of 37 before the two sisters could fully reconcile their differences. Nefertiti suddenly vanished from the written record after the 12th year of Akhenaten’s reign, around the year 1341. Back in the 1980’s when O’Grady was researching for her performance piece Nefertiti/Devonia Evangeline, the prevalent theories for Nefertiti’s disappearance involved her death or fall from grace, perhaps due to Akhenaten elevating another consort to Great Royal Wife. Akhenaten did, in fact, elevate someone else to be the Great Royal Wife at that time — his eldest daughter Meretaten.

Nefertiti may have died, or some argue that she was elevated to co-regent, like a king-in-training. Another theory is that Akhenaten’s fourth daughter, Neferneferuaten Jr., became co-regent. She’s junior, because another one of Nefertiti’s names was also Neferneferuaten, and since the co-regent was named Neferneferuaten … well, hence the confusion as to exactly who was co-regent. After the death of Akhenaten around 1336 BC, we then have king Smenkhkara, ruling just a short while before our boy King Tut came onto the scene.

Another parallel that O’Grady draws is between herself and Neferitit’s apparent younger sister Mutnedjmet. Just as the younger O’Grady was left behind after her sister’s sudden and tragic passing, Mutnedjmet would also have been abandoned after Nefertiti’s sudden disappearance, according to the theories at the time. Just to bring everything else up to current theory, contrary to popular speculation, there’s no evidence that Nefertiti’s sister is the same Mutnedjmet, who was queen to the later king Horemheb. Also the more widely accepted translation today of Nefertiti’s sister’s name is Mutbenret, which is spelled exactly the same in hieroglyphs. But those are both minor technicalities that have little to no impact on O’Grady’s overall work. The importance of Nefertiti/Devonia Evangeline and Miscegenated Family Album is that the immediate physical resemblance in the framing of O’Grady’s family members with figures of ancient history is indicative of deeper sentiment and associations. The past becomes an idealized and humanized film through which our own lives are filtered and compared.

So much comparison between these ancient and modern figures compels me to draw one comparison from my own imagination …

[…]

Keep on moon walking, Michael, in the great beyond.

You’ll find a whole lotta great links about Lorraine O’Grady and her work at ancientartpodcast.org. Click on Additional Resources and scroll down to the post prominently titled “Lorraine O’Grady.” If you’re interested in seeing Miscegenated Family Album in person, Lorraine O’Grady has posted on her own blog that it should be installed in the Art Institute of Chicago’s new Modern Wing some time in the near future, and I have an unconfirmed corroborating report from unnamed sources. But if you want to find out for yourself, over at ancientartpodcast.org among the additional resources on O’Grady, you’ll find a link to the Art Institute’s online collection record for Miscegenated Family Album, which tells you whether or not the work is on display.

You can follow me on Twitter at lucaslivingston. If you have any questions you’d like me to discuss in future episodes, be sure to email me at info@ancientartpodcast.org. You can also give feedback on the website and fill out a fun little survey. You can comment on each episode on the website or on YouTube. And if you like the podcast, why not share the love with some iTunes comments? It helps get the podcast noticed. Thanks for listening and we’ll see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2009 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

1. Lorraine O’Grady, Nefertiti/Devonia Evangeline: “Stirring sand, closeup.” 1980.
2. … “Told to swing an incense censer, she stirs sand instead.”
3. … “Instead of a ‘beef heart’ described on the soundtape, she lifts a heart of sand.”
4. … “I open your mouth for you.”
5. … “You are protected, and you shall not die.”
6. … “The voice on the tape says: ‘Mount and straddle tubs of sand, which are now touching…face audience.’”
7. Lorraine O’Grady, Miscegenated Family Album: Sisters I (L: Nefertiti, R: Devonia), 1980/94.
8. Lorraine O’Grady, Miscegenated Family Album: Sisters II (L: Nefertiti’s daughter Merytaten, R: Devonia’s daughter Candace), 1980/94.
9. Lorraine O’Grady, Miscegenated Family Album: Sisters III (L: Nefertiti’s daughter Meketaten, R: Devonia’s daughter Kimberley), 1980/94.
10. Lorraine O’Grady, Miscegenated Family Album: Sisters IV (L: Devonia’s sister Lorraine, R: Nefertiti’s sister Mutnedjmet), 1980/94.
11. Lorraine O’Grady, Miscegenated Family Album: Ceremonial Occasions I (L: Devonia as Matron of Honor, R: Nefertiti performing a lustration), 1980/94.
12. Lorraine O’Grady, Miscegenated Family Album: Ceremonial Occasions II (L: Devonia attending a wedding, R: Nefertiti performing an Aten ritual), 1980/94.
13. Lorraine O’Grady, Miscegenated Family Album: A Mother’s Kiss (T: Candace and Devonia, B: Nefertiti and daughter), 1980/94.
14. Lorraine O’Grady, Miscegenated Family Album: Motherhood (L: Nefertiti, R: Devonia reading to Candace and Edward, Jr.), 1980/94.
15. Lorraine O’Grady, Miscegenated Family Album: Young Princesses (L: Nefertiti’s daughter Ankhesenpaaten, R: Devonia’s daughter Candace), 1980/94.
16. Lorraine O’Grady, Miscegenated Family Album: Worldly Princesses (L: Nefertiti’s daughter Merytaten, R: Devonia’s daughter Kimberley), 1980/94.
17. Lorraine O’Grady, Miscegenated Family Album: Crowned Heads (L: Nefertiti’s husband Akhenaten, R: Devonia’s husband Edward), 1980/94.
18. Lorraine O’Grady, Miscegenated Family Album: Young Queens (L: Nefertiti, aged 24, R: Devonia, aged 24), 1980/94.
19. Lorraine O’Grady, Miscegenated Family Album: Progress of Queens (L: Nefertiti, aged 35, R: Devonia, aged 36), 1980/94.
20. Lorraine O’Grady, Miscegenated Family Album: Cross-Generational (L: Nefertiti, the last image, R: Devonia’s daughter Kimberley), 1980/94.
21. Lorraine O’Grady, Miscegenated Family Album: Hero Worship (L: Devonia and 14 and Lorraine at 3, R: Devonia at 24 and Lorraine at 13), 1980/94.
22. Lorraine O’Grady, Miscegenated Family Album: Sibling Rivalry (L: Nefertiti, R: Nefertiti’s sister Mutnedjmet), 1980/94.
23. Lorraine O’Grady, Miscegenated Family Album: Sisters I (L: Nefertiti, R: Devonia), 1980/94, one of set of sixteen silver dye bleach print diptychs, framed; edition five of eight, 67.3 x 95.3 cm (26 1/2 x 37 1/2 in.) each, Art Institute of Chicago: Through prior bequest of Marguerita S. Ritman, 2008.81.1-16.

1. Stela of the Royal Family, probably from Amarna, Dynasty 18, reign of Akhenaten, 1351-1336 BC, Limestone, Egyptian Museum, Berlin, 14145.
2. Chair of Tutankhamun and Queen Ankhesenamun.
3. Golden Mask of Tutankhamun, Egyptian Museum, Cairo.
4. Head of Queen Tiy, Egyptian Museum, Berlin.
5. Colossal Head of Akhenaten, Egyptian Museum, Cairo.
6. Right-hand sided tomb statue of Tutankhamun, Egyptian Museum, Cairo.
7. Statue of an unknown Amarna-era princess. New Kingdom, Amarna period, 18th dynasty, ca. 1345 BC Egyptian Museum (21223), Berlin, photo by Keith Schengili-Roberts, 15 Dec 2006.
8. Statue of King Horemheb with the god Amun, Egyptian Museum of Turin, photo by Jean-Pierre Dalbera, 14 Sep 2008.
9. Small head of a princess, probably Amarna period, Louvre Museum (E14715).
10. Statue head of a woman, limestone, New Kingdom, Field Museum of Natural History, Chicago (31713), photo by Lucas Livingston.

]]>

Lorraine O’Grady Resources

0
0

Ancient Egyptian Michael Jackson Look-alike

0
0

Ancient Egyptian Michael Jackson Look-alike:

All links last retrieved on August 30, 2009.

Online media coverage:

“Egyptian statue ‘looks like Jackson.’” Yahoo News 2009-8-8.

Gilmer, Marcus. “Michael Jackson = Ancient Egyptian?.” Chicagoist.com 2009-8-5.

“Egyptian Statue Looks Just Like Michael Jackson!” Media Outrage. 2009-8-6.

Sneed, Michael. “Did Michael Jackson model face after Egyptian bust?” Chicago Sun Times. 2009-8-5.

“Egyptian bust in Chicago museum bears eerie resemblance to Michael Jackson.” Chicago Sun Times. 2009-8-5.

Greiner, Andrew. “Busted: Statue’s a Dead Ringer for Jacko: Jackson-like bust gets attention at Field Museum.” NBC Chicago. 2009-8-5.

“The Top 3 Exhibits at Chicago’s Field Museum.” Speaking-up.com.

“Egyptian Statue Totally Looks Like Michael Jackson.” Totallylookslike.com. 2009-6-2.

“Ancient Egyptian Woman or Michael Jackson?” flickr.com by mandalariangirl. 2007-11-8. The flickr photo that started it all … or at least the one that’s referred to once or twice in the news.

Ancient Egyptian Michael Jackson. flickr.com by Lucas Livingston. 2005-7-13. Flickr photos by yours truly, Lucas Livingston of the Ancient Art Podcast.

“The Pharaoh of Pop?” Discovery Channel. 2009-8-12.

“Statue Thrills Jackson Fans.” iafrica.com. 2009-8-8.

Esaak, Shelley. “Statue of a Woman. Egyptian, New Kingdom, ca. 1550 B.C.-1070 B.C.” About.com. The only online article I could find (besides the Ancient Art Podcast) that actually has some intellectual information.

Other online articles related to Episode 23 “King Tut and Beyond”:

“Hawass says that Tutankhamun was not black.” Touregypt.net. 2007-9-26.

Yurco, Frank J. “Were the Ancient Egyptians Black or White?” BAR 15.5 (Sep/Oct) 1989.

(Full text available online here.)

YouTube and other related video media:

“Jackson’s Egyptian Statue Sings.” 2009-8-12. Silly parody on the Remember the Time video incorporating the Field Museum statue.

“Michael Jackson – Remember the Time.” 2008-3-24. Official Michael Jackson video for Remember the Time.

“Michael Jackson ~~ The Ancient Egyptian Statue.” 2009-8-6. Video from Field Museum galleries with spokesperson.

“Michael Jackson – The Pharaoh of Pop ???” 2009-8-7. Cool morphing faces.

“King Tut.” Saturday Night Live. Steve Martin’s classic 1970’s homage to the Egyptian boy king. Not YouTube, but it totally rocks.

23: King Tut and Beyond

0
0

Hey all you people out there. It seems that I’m not the only one to have noticed the crazy resemblance between that one Egyptian statue at the Field Museum and … oh … the most famous entertainer in the history of the world, Michael Jackson. The press also caught wind of the same likeness early this month and the web has been lit up with articles and blog posts. If you want to check it out yourself, I’ve put together a collection of many links at ancientartpodcast.org in the Additional Resources section under the blog post “Ancient Egyptian Michael Jackson look-alike.”

My wife and I went to the Field Museum last weekend to see the “Pirates” exhibition, and while we was there I took a few new photos of the Egyptian statue. Added bonus, we got our names stamped in Egyptian hieroglyphs, but I was a jerk and made them redo her name, because they spelled it wrong.

Like the gallery label in the Field Museum says, the statue is of a woman from the New Kingdom. That’s pretty vague, but if you look at it closely, you’ll notice that the facial characteristics and headdress bear some resemblance to the topic at hand in recent episodes, the Amarna period. Those sharp almondine eyes, deep eyelids, large full lips, high cheekbones, and exaggerated eyebrows all indicate the influence of the Amarna period following the reign of the heretic king Akhenaten. Plus the wig favors the fashion of the time.

Last time in episode 22, “Nefertiti, Devonia, Michael,” in our discussion of Lorraine O’Grady’s contemporary works Miscegenated Family Album and Nefertiti/Devonia Evangeline, we briefly briefly talked about the family of Akhenaten and Nefertiti and touched on the line of kings following Akhenaten. It gets a little confusing late in Akhenaten’s reign. Did Nefertiti rule alongside him as coregent? Was there another male king on the scene? Did one of Akhenaten’s daughters assume the throne for a while? How many kings were there between Akhenaten and Tut? These questions continue to be debated, as can be seen in the latest issue of KMT magazine, the Fall 2009 issue, volume 20, number 3, in Aidan Dodson’s article “Were Nefertit & Tutankhamun Coregents?” Your head can really spin around if you think too hard about this. It’s like trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle without the picture on the box and only half the pieces.

Looking at what we do have, though, we see evidence of a somewhat turbulent transition from heretical Atenism back to orthodoxy, but it’s not a complete return. The Amarna period has a lasting impact on Egyptian art, giving rise to what’s sometimes dubbed the post-Amarna period, or more romantically the “legacy of Amarna.”

You might be familiar with this all-too-famous throne from the tomb of King Tut, which can be yours now for only $895 plus $39 shipping and handling direct from SkyMall. The original of this magnificent work of Ancient Egyptian artistry is now in the Egyptian Museum in Cairo. There are countless spectacular things about it, but one interesting nuance to zero in on is the inscription. The chair must have been produced very early in the reign of King Tut. We can tell because he’s referred to by his early throne name, Tutankhaten, with his wife Ankhesenpaaten, third daughter of Akhenaten and Nefertiti. About a year into his reign, Tut changed his name from Tutankhaten to the more familiar Tutankhamun, which means the “living image of Amun,” and his queen changed her name from Ankhesenpaaten to Ankhesenamun, or if you’re Boris Karloff, that’s “Ankhsenamun” (1). Of course, at the time, Tut was only about 10 years old, so the notion that he made any decisions on his own other than which toy to play with today might be a little far fetched. More likely the name change was imposed on the boy king by his vizier Ay and other advisers like general Horemheb to win favor with the bitter and previously disenfranchised temple of Amun. “No, really, we were on your side the whole time. Yeah, that’s the ticket!”

Stylistically, the decoration of the chair also shows a strong entrenchment in the Amarna period, not only with the subject matter of the solar disk Aten shining down on the royal couple, but in the figures themselves, with their long slender limbs, sharp almondine eyes, large heads, elongated torsos, and cute little paunches. These characteristic Amarna features gradually soften in the arts, becoming less pronounced as time marches on. Some works of art well into the following 19th dynasty, the time of those bijillion Ramses’s, continue to show strong vestiges of the Amarna style, which we will examine in a minute, but one final note that deserves recognition is the coloration of their skin.

King Tut is represented with the customarily dark skin of Ancient Egyptian men, but so is his queen. Egyptian women are traditionally shown with lighter skin than men. The typical explanation for this is that men worked outdoors all day, so they had tan skin, whereas women worked indoors all day, didn’t tan as much, and are therefore traditionally shown with fairer skin. That argument is also usually put forth against skin color as an indicator of heredity. Well, permit me to get a little cynical, but that’s a prime example of art historical chauvinism getting in the way visual interpretation. Translation: look before you leap. There are many works of art from throughout Egyptian history where it’s safe to interpret racial type being expressed through skin color among other features. God forbid the Egyptians practiced mixed marriage as far back as 2600 BC, as evidenced in the statues of Rahotep and Nofret from the 5th Dynasty in the Egyptian Museum in Cairo. What continues to hold public interpretation back from a more realistic, diverse perspective of the Ancient Egyptians are the sweeping blanket statements that often find their way into the press, along the lines of “[Ancient] Egyptians are not Arabs and are not Africans despite the fact that Egypt is in Africa” (2). The issue’s not black or white. So, was Ankhesenamun a tomboy, spending more time outdoors than a proper young Egyptian lady should, or were she and Tut both of a more southern Egyptian heritage, closer to Nubian? Well, that’s a can of worms we don’t have time to get into, but if you want a nice synopsis of the whole issue, check out the 20-year-old article by Frank Yurco “Were the Ancient Egyptians Black or White?” in the September/October 1989 issue of the Biblical Archaeology Review or BAR. You’ll find a link to the full text article in the bibliography at ancientartpodcast.org.

And then from some 20 to 100 years after the reign of King Tut comes this Lintel and Cornice from the Tomb of Iniuia and Yui at the Art Institute of Chicago. The dating is a little conflicted. The Art Institute dates the lintel to 19th dynasty during the reign of Ramesses II, 1279-1212 BC, but most scholarship seems to peg Iniuia and Yui to the reign of Horemheb, 1323-1295 BC. A lintel is simply the top of a doorway. The cornice here refers specifically to the characteristic Egyptian cavetto cornice with torus molding. The cavetto cornice is the classic, striped, flaring top section of a doorway and the torus molding is the protruding rounded ledge between the cornice and figural decoration. The cavetto cornice and torus molding both likely have their roots in traditional reed vegetal architecture translated into stone.

This piece was originally located above a doorway in the tomb of Iniuia and Yui from Saqqara. We don’t know a whole heck of a lot about them. Iniuia is the husband and Yui is his wife. In the inscription on this fragment, Iniuia is referred to by the title “Overseer of the Treasury of Silver and Gold of the Lord of the Two Lands.” At some later point in his career, he gets the titles “Overseer of the Cattle of Amun” and “Royal Scribe and Chief Steward of the Great Palace” and Yui is referred to as the “Lady of the House, the Chanteress of Amun,” which we see on their darling little double shawabty coffin lid from the MFA in Boston, which I had the pleasure of seeing in person for the first time just a couple weeks ago and snapped this lame cell phone picture.

What we are really interested in with the lintel, though, is the Amarna influence. We see Iniuia and Yui supplicating before Osiris and Isis, their hands raised in prayer, so this is clearly after the Amarna period, since the orthodox gods have been reintroduced. But look closely at Iniuia and Yui. Notice their slender limbs, elongated torsos, protruding chins, pronounced cheekbones, sharp almondine eyes, and their little potbellies. Note also how the artists has seemingly rendered a straight line from the tips of their noses to the peak of their foreheads. These are all very distinctive traits developed during the Amarna period. Even upwards of 50 years or more after the reign of the heretic king Akhenaten, after the radical transformation of Egyptian art, religion, and society, then after the rampant, vehement, passionate movement to eradicate all traces of the previous order and restore Egypt to its orthodox religious traditions, we still continue to see a lasting artistic influence of the monumentally influential Amarna period.

Thanks to all, who have been sending feedback. I appreciate you taking the time and making the good suggestions. If you want to be part of the cool crowd too, you can give feedback on the website and fill out a fun little survey. If you have any questions you’d like me to discuss in future episodes, you can also email me at info@ancientartpodcast.org. You can comment on each episode on the website or on YouTube. And if you like the podcast, why not share the love with some iTunes comments? It helps to get the podcast noticed. Lastly, you can follow me on Twitter at lucaslivingston. Thanks for listening and we’ll see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2009 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

Footnotes:
1. Pharaohs of the Sun: Akhenaten, Nefertiti, Tutankhamen. Exhibition catalog edited by Rita E. Freed, Yvonne J. Markowitz and Sue H. D’Auria, Boston: Museum of Fine Arts in association with Bulfinch Press/Little, Brown, and Co., 1999, page 180.
2. “Hawass Says That Tutankhamun Was Not Black.” Touregypt.net. 2007-9-26. Retrieved 8-18-2009.

Image Credits

1. Statue head of a woman, limestone, New Kingdom, Field Museum of Natural History, Chicago (31713), photo by Lucas Livingston.

1. Comparison of Field Museum Statue head of a woman and Statue of an unknown Amarna-era princess. New Kingdom, Amarna period, 18th dynasty, ca. 1345 BC Egyptian Museum (21223), Berlin, photo by Keith Schengili-Roberts, 15 Dec 2006.
2. Chair of Tutankhamun, 18th dynasty, Egyptian Museum, Cairo.
3. Chair of Tutankhamun (detail), 18th dynasty, Egyptian Museum, Cairo.
4. Chair of Tutankhamun (detail), 18th dynasty, Egyptian Museum, Cairo, photo by Richard Seaman.
5. Chair of Tutankhamun (detail), 18th dynasty, Egyptian Museum, Cairo, photo by Pataki Márta.
6. Chair of Tutankhamun (detail), 18th dynasty, Egyptian Museum, Cairo, photo by Jerzy Strzelecki.
7. Golden Mask of Tutankhamun, Egyptian Museum, Cairo.
8. Cartouche of Tutankhamun.
9. Cartouche of Tutankhaten.
10. Boris Karloff as Imhotep from The Mummy, Universal Pictures, 1932.
11. Decorated Balustrade Fragment, Amarna, Great Palace, Dynasty 18, reign of Akhenaten, 1353-1336 BC, Crystalline limestone, Egyptian Museum, Cairo, JT 30/10/26/12.
12. Lintel and Cornice from the Tomb of Iniuia and Yui, New Kingdom, Dynasty 18 or 19, reign of Horemheb (1323-1295 BC) or Ramesses II, (c. 1279-1212 B.C.), The Art Institute of Chicago, Gift of Henry H. Getty, Charles L. Hutchinson, Robert H. Fleming, and Norman W. Harris, 1894.246.
13. Lintel and Cornice from the Tomb of Iniuia and Yui, photo by Lucas Livingston, 21 August 2009.

1. Wall Fragment from the Tomb of Amenemhet and His Wife Hemet, Middle Kingdom, Dynasty 12 (1976-1794 BC), The Art Institute of Chicago, Museum Purchase Fund, 1920.262.
2. Scene depicting the procession of funerary offerings from the tomb of Amenemhet, senior officer during the reign of Thutmose III, Dynasty 18 (1479-1425 BC) from The Yorck Project: 10,000 Meisterwerke der Malerei. DVD-ROM, 2002. ISBN 3936122202. Distributed by DIRECTMEDIA Publishing GmbH.
3. Head of Queen Tiy, Egyptian Museum, Berlin.
4. Shawabtys of King Taharqa, Nubian, Napatan Period, reign of Taharqa, 690-664 BC, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.
5. Statues of Rahotep and Nofret, Dynasty 4, reign of Sneferu (2575-2551 BC), Egyptian Museum, Cairo.
6. Ka statue of Rahotep, Dynasty 4, reign of Sneferu (2575-2551 BC), Egyptian Museum, Cairo, photo by Jon Bodsworth, 10 December 2007 (egyptarchive.co.uk).
7. Ka statue of Nofret, Dynasty 4, reign of Sneferu (2575-2551 BC), Egyptian Museum, Cairo, photo by Jon Bodsworth, 10 December 2007 (egyptarchive.co.uk).
8. Temple of Philae, Description de l’Egypte, Ile de Philae – A. vol. 1, pl. 18, 1809.
9. Lid for double shawabty coffin [of Iniuia and Yui], New Kingdom, Dynasty 18, reign of Horemheb (1323-1295 BC), Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, William Francis Warden Fund, 1977.717.
10. Lid for double shawabty coffin of Iniuia and Yui, photo by Lucas Livingston, 12 August 2009.
11. Bust of Queen Nefertiti, Dynasty 18, reign of Akhenaten (1351-1336 BC), Egyptian Museum, Berlin, photo by Magnus Manske, 28 December 2005.

]]>

24: Japanese Screens

0
0

Hello friendly listeners and welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast. I’m your host Lucas Livingston. This is not your usual episode of the Ancient Art Podcast. The subject of this episode is the Japanese art of the folding screen. Some of the feedback expressed a keen interested in Japanese art, so I thought I’d indulge you.

The recent exhibition Beyond Golden Clouds: Japanese Screens from the Art Institute of Chicago and the Saint Louis Art Museum is now in it’s final days at the Art Institute, from June 26-September 27, 2009. it brings together the strengths of two phenomenal collections of art. The 32 works of art in the exhibition trace the explorations and innovations in the art form from as early as the 16th century to contemporary screens of the past decade, stretching the definition of the Japanese folding screen format.

The screens in the exhibition showcase the wide variety of forms prevalent throughout the tradition, from tall screens of approximately 280 centimeters to diminutive screens like this 96 centimeter masterpiece from 1605-1610 by Hasegawa Togaku from the Saint Louis Art Museum. One finds screens even shorter than this called pillow screens used to shelter one’s head from the draft when sleeping on rather low traditional Japanese beds, and even smaller still simply to place around your fire when trying to heat a pot of tea. That gets at the heart of the function of the folding screen; that is as a wind breaker. The Japanese word for the folding screen byobu is spelled from two characters meaning “to stop” or “block” and “wind.”

Japanese screens are traditionally produced in pairs with a right and left. Generally any sort of narrative or other sense of continuity present in the subjects flow from right to left. Folding screens are also traditionally regarded as the highest form of art within Japanese culture and the greatest masterpieces of artists’ careers, like this well known pair from the Art Institute by Tosa Mitsuoki, Flowering Cherry and Autumn Maples with Poem Slips completed sometime between 1654 and 1681. It’s hard to walk through the Art Institute gift shop without tripping over some likeness of these famous screens.

Here we see two beautiful trees from opposite seasons, spring and autumn — this explosion of brilliant beauty for only a brief period of time before a powerful gust of wind or rain shower come and scatter the flowers or leaves on the ground. The blossoming of cherry trees is feverishly celebrated in Japan very much still today as the momentary beauty that heralds the new lunar year. Imagery of the natural world is a favored subject of Japanese screens, exploring the four seasons often as a metaphor for the impermanent, fleeting nature of the physical world around us and our own lives. Very Zen Buddhist concepts that make their way into the art and popular culture.

Strips of paper tied to branches of the trees are decorated with famous poems from highly regarded anthologies of the 10th through 12th centuries. The poems celebrate seasonal themes, connecting nicely with the subject matter of the screens, and give praise to the emperor, leading us to believe that this pair of screens were likely produced by imperial commission. Notice how the slips of paper are wafting in the wind, some even turned around or partly obscured. These poems were so famous to the well educated aristocrat that only a few words from any given piece were necessary for identification. And I really like the clever little visual pun that Tosa Mitsuoki made here where lovely cherry blossoms obscures part of a poem. The word that the cherry blossoms cover up is in fact “cherry blossoms.” It reads: “Since my heart is not content,/To return home after viewing/The cherry blossoms,/Around the site of their blooming/I’ll borrow a place to stay” (1).

Jumping to the end of the exhibition, we come to the magnificent installation of Okura Jiro’s series Mountain Lake Screen Tachi. Produced over a period of about 6 months during the artist’s residence at the Mountain Lake, Virginia workshop in 1990, this contemporary work of art dramatically redefines the art form of the folding screen. The artist produced a set of 16 four-paneled screens. There’s a great little video in the exhibition documenting their creation. Five of the screens are exhibited in the show; three from Saint Louis and two from the Art Institute given as a gift by the artist, himself. The other 11 are in various museums and private collections.

Among the many non-traditional features to these screens are the use of metal hinges, which swing both ways, allowing for maximum flexibility in installation. Also abandoned is the traditional painting on paper framed within a wooden framework. Here the narrow panels are made of timber, specifically black walnut selected from the Jefferson National Forest in Virginia, chosen for its likeness to the Japanese gray-bark elm often used for sacred objects in Japan. On account of Okura’s deep spiritualism, a Shinto priest presided over a ceremony blessing the trees prior to their logging. After cutting the logs into several planks of varying length, the artist and his students went to work drilling holes and chopping out bits with chisels. It’s important to emphasize that this was a group process. The pluralizing suffix tachi in the title of the work refers to this collective collaboration. The artist likened the collaborative effort of repetitive drilling and striking to the meditative recitation of holy Buddhist sutras.

Portions of the screens were finally covered with red cinnabar and black paint before a layer of gold leaf was applied almost haphazardly. Okura took no pains to smooth out the gold leaf or apply it with any great precision. In fact, the gold leaf is largely only partly adhering to the surface with portions dangling and wafting with the slightest draft. If you look closely, you might even see a flake here and there dusting the ground beneath the screens. A conservation nightmare for sure, but conservation wasn’t his motivation. Inspired by ancient Japanese statuary at Buddhist temples, whose painted surfaces have long since disintegrated exposing the natural beauty of the wooden grain beneath, Okura Jiro recognizes and embraces the impermanence of his artwork, knowing that it too will decay and return to a natural state, much as the flowering cherry and Autumn maple celebrate the ephemeral nature to the physical world. (2)

Lastly, it’s interesting to realize how the folding screen, once regarded in Japanese culture as the highest form of artistic achievement in painting, has now been adopted by other artists or dare I even say “craftsmen,” like carpenters, sculptors, and ceramicists. Another example of the changing face of the Japanese screen.

I hope you enjoyed this brief escape from the ancient world. If so, please consider leaving your comments online at ancientartpodcast.org, YouTube, or iTunes. You can email me at info@ancientartpodcast.org and follow me on Twitter at lucaslivingston. Thanks for listening and see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2009 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

Footnotes

1. Beyond Golden Coulds: Japanese Screens from the Art Institute of Chicago and the Saint Louis Art Museum. Exhibition catalog edited by Janice Katz. Yale University Press, 2009, page 37.

2. ibid. page 200.

Image Credits

1. Pheasant and Pine. Kano Koi. 1626. Saint Louis Art Museum, funds given by Mary and Oliver Langenberg, Mr. and Mrs. Richard A. Liddy, and Susan and David Mesker (105:2002). “Beyond Golden Clouds: Japanese Screens from the Art Institute of Chicago and the Saint Louis Art Museum,” cat. 5, photo by Lucas Livingston.

2. The Tale of Taishokan. Unknown artist. 1640/80. The Art Institute of Chicago, restricted gift of Charles C. Haffner III and Muriel Kallis Newman; Alyce and Edwin DeCosta and Walter E. Heller Foundation Endowment; through prior gift of Charles C. Haffner III (1996.436.1-2). “Beyond Golden Clouds: Japanese Screens from the Art Institute of Chicago and the Saint Louis Art Museum,” cat. 11, photo by Lucas Livingston.

3. The Gathering at the Orchid Pavilion. Noguchi Shohin. 1900. The Art Institute of Chicago, gift of Roger L. Weston (1996.680.1-2). “Beyond Golden Clouds: Japanese Screens from the Art Institute of Chicago and the Saint Louis Art Museum,” cat. 23, photo by Lucas Livingston.

4. ibid.

5. Bamboo with Chinese Yew and Deer with Maples. Painting attributed to Hasegawa Togaku. Calligraphy by Tetsuzan Sodon. 1605/10. Saint Louis Art Museum, the Langenberg Endowment Fund (61:2004.1, .2). “Beyond Golden Clouds: Japanese Screens from the Art Institute of Chicago and the Saint Louis Art Museum,” cat. 3, photo by Lucas Livingston.

6. Red Rash. Sasayama Tadayasu. 1990. Glazed stoneware. Saint Louis Art Museum, Friends Fund (127:1992a-f). “Beyond Golden Clouds: Japanese Screens from the Art Institute of Chicago and the Saint Louis Art Museum,” cat. 31, photo by Lucas Livingston.

7. ibid.

8. Flowering Cherry and Autumn Maples with Poem Slips. Tosa Mitsuoki. 1654/81. The Art Institute of Chicago, Kate S. Buckingham Endowment (1977.156-57 and 1977.158-59). “Beyond Golden Clouds: Japanese Screens from the Art Institute of Chicago and the Saint Louis Art Museum,” cat. 12, photo by Lucas Livingston.

1. From the Mountain Lake Screen Tachi Series. Okura Jiro. 1990. Cashew oil paint and gold leaf on black walnut. The Art Institute of Chicago, gift of the artist (2005.173.1-2). Saint Louis Art Museum, William K. Bixby Trust for Asian Art, funds given by Mr. and Mrs. Gyo Obata, and funds given by Mrs. James Lee Johnson, Jr., through the Art Enrichment Fund (50:2005.1) and gift of Okura Jiro (50:2005.2, .3). “Beyond Golden Clouds: Japanese Screens from the Art Institute of Chicago and the Saint Louis Art Museum,” cat. 32, photo by Lucas Livingston.

1. Scene from the documentary video “The Making of Okura Jiro’s Mountain Lake Tachi Screen Series.”


25: Beheaded Beauties

0
0

Welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast, bringing you the chart-topping hits from the ancient art billboard three years running now. Every month or so the Art Institute of Chicago publishes a neat little self-guide that draws connections between different works of art in the collection. You can download it or pick it up at the museum, or just keep it on your smartphone while you go around browsing the artwork. In keeping with the Halloween season, the October 2009 self-guide is called “Off with Their Heads,” inspired, as it says, “by the playfully disembodied human heads that practitioners of Victorian photocollage whimsically grafted on to animal bodies or morphed into household objects…[T]his guide reveals the bounty of beheadings in the collection, from the ghoulish to the gorgeous.”

One humorous disembodiment is a page from the Madame B Album of the 1870’s where little portrait photos of Madame B’s family were cut out and pasted onto the tail feathers of a watercolor turkey. And then the rather grisly Head of Guillotined Man by Théodore Géricault from 1818 to 1819. Supposedly Géricault kept this severed head of a thief in his studio for two weeks! On the flip side, some headless bodies include the provocative, yet disturbing 1988 sculpture of a Woman in a Tub by Jeff Koons. You can only wonder what’s at the other end of that snorkel poking out of the water. And then we come to a Roman period Statue of a Seated Woman.

The Art Institute self-guide reveals that this 2nd century marble sculpture didn’t lose its head as an accident. You can tell from the deep cavity in the neck that the head was carved separately and then attached to the torso. It was common among Roman statuary to make the head removable and interchangeable, especially with imperial statuary. In our current economic climate we can appreciate that marble was expensive. So instead of throwing away the whole statue of someone after they passed away, it made more sense simply to remove the distinctly identifiable portrait head and replace that with the head of the new emperor or whoever has just inherited the work of art, because the clothing that they wore, or in the case of the emperor, the military regalia, didn’t considerably change enough to warrant the cost of a whole new body.

If you look closely, you’ll see that the arms too were separately carved and attached with dowels, like little rods. See the holes carved into the shoulders of the woman? Dowels could be made from wood or metal and a simple analysis could tell you in the case here, but the reason for separately carved arms wasn’t so they could be interchangeable. Wipe those images of Mr. Potato Head from your mind. No, it served the very practical function of permitting them to bend a little bit. Marble along with any kind of stone has a very low tensile strength, meaning it’ll break before it bends. Wood and metal have a far greater ability to bend, so it was wise to insert dowels at points of precarious joints, like where an outstretched arm meets the shoulder. Without the dowels, the arms would have long since snapped off and would be forever lost … um … well.

Moving right along, the elaborate drapery is befitting of a goddess, perhaps Juno, the Roman Hera, or perhaps a wealthy patrician matron casting herself in the light of a goddess. As the self-guide suggests, perhaps one of the imperial wives: Faustina the Elder or her daughter Faustina II, both elevated to goddesses posthumously. Whomever the original subject may have been, it’s thought that the artist was likely looking back to the grand sculptural legacy of the Periklean Acropolis. We examined the Parthenon frieze ad nauseam in episodes 10, 11, and 12. Nearby the Parthenon, jutting out on a precipice of the Acropolis is the diminutive Temple of Athena Niké, that is Athena in the guise of Nike, goddess of victory. The Nike temple of 410 BC was once adorned with richly carved depictions of the goddess striking various poses, like the exquisite and thankfully surviving example of Nike fastening her sandals in the Acropolis Museum in Athens, or some might say unfastening her sandals as she prepares to enter a sacred space. You see how deeply carved the folds of her drapery are? There’s this almost unnatural suspension of gravity and physics. She’s definitely having a massively bad static cling day. In these figures of Nike, the desperately realistic and idealized images from the High Classical Greek era are beginning to give way to the more exaggerated and outlandishly baroque style of the later Hellenistic period. Her robe becomes almost liquid as is pours and cascades down her frame revealing the not so subtle contours of her nude physique underneath.

We see a strong stylistic influence taking place on a somewhat more prudish Roman level in the figure from the Art Institute. The drapery spilling over her leg also has this rather liquid appearance to it, like some ancient Roman wet toga contest effectively revealing her leg beneath. Her undergarment produces a sort of tidy meander at the ground level similar to the earlier Nike. Note also the belt clenching her waist and bunching the fabric. We also see a similar tight cinching of the waist on other fragmentary Nikes from the Temple of Athena Niké as well as a similar horizontal billowing of an especially large fold of drapery. The many stylistic similarities in the rendering of drapery strongly suggest that the Roman era artist of the Art Institute’s 2nd century AD Statue of a Seated Woman was indeed likely receiving strong inspiration from that pinnacle of Greek artistic achievement, the 5th century BC Athenian Acropolis.

It’s not entirely surprising that a 2nd century Roman artist would receive inspiration from the Ancient Greek sculptural tradition of six centuries earlier. Many of the artist in the Roman Empire were in fact Greek slaves. The size and scope of the Roman slave force was phenomenal. The HBO series Rome gives you some sense of the proliferation of slavery. Many of the highly skilled laborers in the Roman Empire were slaves, including artists, accountants, physicians, secretaries, tutors for Rome’s privileged children, and, get this, corporate management! So, it’s quite likely that our Roman era artist here would have received his artistic training in Greece, with many Classical and Hellenistic prototypes, including the Acropolis sculptures, serving as models.

This Statue of a Seated Woman isn’t the only beheaded beauty in the Art Institute’s Roman art collection. Here’s a lovely lady contemporary to the seated woman. This is a 2nd century copy of one of the most notable statues from the Hellenistic world, the famed Aphrodite of Knidos by the 4th century BC Athenian sculptor Praxiteles. The Aphrodite of Knidos was the nude that ushered in the era of Greek nudes. This is one of countless copies of the Praxitelean Aphrodite produced during the Roman era, which demonstrates the feverish popularity of the original work. The Aphrodite of Knidos deserves much more attention than what we’re able to cover in the short span of this episode, so we’ll just have to defer our satisfaction until next time when we’ll take a close detailed look at the fantastic history, legacy, and artistry of the Aphrodite of Knidos.

In the mean time, download “Off with Their Heads,” the October self-guide to the Art Institute of Chicago. If you follow me on Twitter at lucaslivingston, you’ll already have the link — check out tinyurl.com/aicselfguide. Also, try to visit the special exhibition “Playing with Pictures: The Art of Victorian Photocollage” at the Art Institute on view through January 3, 2010. You’ll find a nice little interview with the curator Liz Siegel in the October episode of the museum’s podcast Musecast. Thanks to everyone who’s sending the feedback and questions. You can contact me at info@ancientartpodcast.org. You can also leave comments at the website, on YouTune, and on iTunes. You’ll find the feedback form at ancientartpodcast.org, plus the nice little survey that helps me get to know more about you all and your interests. Happy Halloween and see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2009 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

Image Credits

1. Marie-Blanche-Hennelle Fournier (French, 1831-1906). The Marvelous Album of Madame B, 1870’s. The Art Institute of Chicago. Mary and Leigh Block Endowment, 2005.297.1-141.

2. Jean Louis André Théodore Géricault (French, 1791-1824). Head of a Guillotined Man, 1818/19. The Art Institute of Chicago. Through prior gift of William Wood Prince; L. L. and A. S. Coburn Endowment; Charles H. and Mary F. S. Worcester Collection, 1992.628.

3. Jeff Koons (American, born 1955). Woman in a Tub, 1988. Porcelain. The Art Institute of Chicago. Collection Stefan T. Edlis Trust, partial and promised gift to the Art Institute of Chicago, 2005.472.

4. Statue of a Seated Woman, Roman, 2nd century A.D. The Art Institute of Chicago. Katherine K. Adler Endowment, 1986.1060. Photo by Lucas Livingston, 23 Oct 2009.

11. The British Museum, Room 18 – The Parthenon Galleries (North Slip Room). Photo by Mujtaba Chohan. 8 January 2007.

12. Cavalcade. Block II from the west frieze of the Parthenon, ca. 447–433 BC. British Museum. Photo by Marie-Lan Nguyen. 2006.

13. Areopagus with the Acropolis of Athens in the background.

14. Temple of Athena Nike, Acropolis of Athens Greece. Photo by Steve Swayne, 26 August, 1978.

15. Nike adjusting her sandal from the parapet of the Temple of Athena Nike, Acropolis, Athens, Greece, c. 410 BC, Acropolis Museum Athens. [Official website]

16. Two Nikai leading a bull to sacrifice. Slab north IV, figures 10-11 from the parapet of the temple of Athena Nike, Greece, c. 410 BC, Acropolis Museum Athens. [Official website]

17. Image of Acropolis hill and Parthenon at night. Photo by Thermos, 29 June 2006.

18. Title image from the HBO television series “Rome,” 2005-2007. [Official website]

19. Galleries of Roman art at the Art Institute of Chicago. Photo by Lucas Livingston, 23 Oct 2009.

20. Statue of the Aphrodite of Knidos, 2nd century A.D. Roman copy of a fourth century B.C. Greek original by Praxiteles. The Art Institute of Chicago, Katherine K. Adler Endowment, 1981.11. Photo by Lucas Livingston, 23 Oct 2009.

26: Aphrodite of Knidos

0
0

Welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast. I’m your host, Lucas Livingston. Last time in episode 25, “Beheaded Beauties,” we explored the Art Institute of Chicago’s 2nd century Roman headless statue of a seated woman. We closed with a glimpse of the also-headless and roughly contemporary 2nd century statue of a standing nude woman.

There are a number of indicators that tell us that this is a copy of the famed Aphrodite of Knidos by the prolific Hellenistic sculptor Praxiteles from the 4th century BC, approximately five centuries earlier than the Art Institute’s copy.

The Aphrodite of Knidos has her claim to fame as being the nude that ushered in the era of Greek nudes. She’s widely considered one of the first and certainly the most famous of Greek nude female sculptures. She gets her name from, well, of course, the subject depicted, Aphrodite, goddess of love, the Roman Venus. And Knidos comes from the ancient city that purchased the statue from Praxiteles. Knidos was located on the southeastern coast of Turkey on a narrow peninsula jutting far out into the Aegean Sea. You might also come across the pronunciation [ni’dus], but that’s just plain silly.

In his work called the Natural History, the 1st century Roman historian Pliny the Elder recounts the story that Praxiteles was commissioned by two cities for a statue of Aphrodite, Knidos and Kos. So, Praxiteles created two different statues of the goddess, one traditional draped figure and then the very Avante-garde nude. Kos, the wealthier of the two cities, got first dibs and went with the less controversial draped Aphrodite and Knidos got the leftovers, although that’s really not fair to say. They still got a Praxiteles. And the world fell in love with her. This controversial nude depiction of a goddess put Knidos on the map. So stunningly beautiful was the work of art, that the goddess Aphrodite herself is said to have asked, “Where did Praxiteles see me naked?” Pliny states that, “…superior to any other statue, not only to others made by Praxiteles himself, but throughout the world, is the Venus, which many people have sailed to Cnidus to see.” People came from far and wide throughout the Mediterranean World to visit her. The citizens of Knidos set her up in a rotunda, a round chapel, so she could be equally admired from all angles. There’s an interesting account of the setting in the Amores:

“…we entered the temple. In the midst thereof sits the goddess–she’s a most beautiful statue of Parian marble–arrogantly smiling a little as a grin parts her lips. Draped by no garment, all her beauty is uncovered and revealed, except in so far as she unobtrusively uses one hand to hide her private parts. So great was the power of the craftsman’s art that the hard unyielding marble did justice to every limb….The temple had a door on both sides for the benefit of those also who wish to have a good view of the goddess from behind, so that no part of her be left unadmired. It’s easy therefore for people to enter by the other door and survey the beauty of her back.”

To add further scandal to this already controversial nude depiction of a goddess, various stories begin to emerge in the centuries following the statue’s debut identifying the famous Greek courtesan Phryne as having supposedly been the model for this sacred icon of the goddess Aphrodite. Other accounts also surface of the supposed romantic affair between Praxiteles and Phryne.

Later during the Roman era, it became vogue for sculptors to produce copies of famous works for wealthy patricians to decorate their villas. The Aphrodite of Knidos was one such statue and her image soon flooded to Roman empire. Figures based on the Aphrodite of Knidos are commonly referred to as “Knidia.” What distinguishes the Knidia from other nude representations of the goddess is the general pose, for one. She’s commonly interpreted as engaging in the rather private act of bathing and we’re peering at her with this almost voyeuristic gaze. Her right arm reaches down seemingly in a gesture of modesty. We see two small bumps on her inner left thigh where two fingers of her right hand one engaged with the thigh. That’s something of a remarkable feature to this Roman copy. The torso and at least the right arm are composed of a single unbroken piece of marble skillfully carved to produce the long curving limb structurally reinforced by its engagement with the hip. Remember from last episode’s Statue of a Seated Woman that it was common for sculptors to carve limbs and other precarious projections separately and then attach them with wooden or metal dowels, or more properly called tenons. So while the Art Institute’s heavily weathered Knidia may not be the hottie that she used to be, she’s still quite artistically remarkable. On her outside left thigh is a fairly long fragmented tab from some now lost section. Most likely the characteristic Roman period support pillar once connected with the rest of the figure at this point.

The support pillar was probably in the shape of a vessel that held the water for her bath. The evidence can be seen in other copies of the Knidia, one of the more famous being the Colonna Venus in the Vatican’s Museo Pio-Clementino. Also the Venus Braschi in the Munich Glyptothek. In her left hand she holds her drapery that she has removed for her ritual cleansing, which is now missing from the Art Institute example. Perhaps our best evidence for the appearance of the original Praxitelean Aphrodite of Knidos comes not from later copies, but from coins, like this 1916 engraving of an ancient coin from Knidos supposedly depicting the original statue. Also, don’t forget … as we’ve seen in many other episodes of the podcast, this statue, too, like so many others, was painted. The 19th century neo-classical sculptor John Gibson shocked audiences when he debuted his Tinted Venus in an attempt to recapture the Classical taste for polychromy.

As we already learned, the Aphrodite of Knidos was one of the most famous statues in her day and extensively copied during the Roman era. There are a bunch of copies existing today, and for each surviving copy we can imagine dozens of copies that didn’t withstand the ravages of time and mankind. The whole notion of a Roman “copy” of a Greek original, though, is a very loaded term that demands a little more attention. When we think of a copy, we likely think of an exact duplicate, like a photocopy. But when we’re talking about Roman copies of Greek statues, the copy in this context can more so be thought of having been inspired by the original. Putting two copies of the same original side-by-side reveal distinct differences. Often the Roman era artists may not have even seen the original, and were working from a description, another copy, or at best a tiny image on a coin. In the case of the Knidia, in the successive centuries, we begin to see some variants on the original form.

One popular variant is dubbed the “Venus Pudica” — the “modest Venus.” A particularly famous example is the Venus de’ Medici in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, Italy. Here we see both hands of the goddess posed in what are generally interpreted as gestures of modesty, the right hand now at her chest and the left hand below the waist. The drapery is gone and the vessel in this example has been replaced with a small cupid figure riding a dolphin. The dolphin alludes to the sea, out of which, according to one legend, Aphrodite was born. Check out Hesiod’s Theogony around line 175. It’s a bit gruesome, but nothing you can’t handle. You’ll find a link to the full ancient text translated into English at ancientartpodcast.org. Just click on “Ancient Sources on Aphrodite” in the Additional Resources section. There you’ll also find links to some of the other primary sources that we’ve learned about in this episode on the Aphrodite of Knidos. Aphrodite rising from the sea is perhaps most famously captured not in an ancient work of art, but in Sandro Botticelli’s the Birth of Venus from 1482-86, also in the Uffizi. The pose of the goddess by the Florentine master strongly reflects the Venus de’ Medici, which Botticelli had plenty of opportunity to study.

Despite first-hand accounts from ancient sources stating that Aphrodite is covering up her private parts for modesty’s sake, you’ll come across some revisionist interpretations of the gesture not as a shameful attempt to cover her sexuality, but rather to emphasize it. Check out, for example, Christine Mitchell Havelock’s 1995 publication The Aphrodite of Knidos and Her Successors, where the author argues that her nudity signifies her divine birth from the sea, and we’re not catching her off guard at her bath. Rather, the vessel is for ritual cleansing and renewal. So, we shouldn’t necessarily take any interpretation at its face value, even an ancient one. But it’s important to remember that our own contemporary culture can easily be a filter that shapes and guides our interpretations. And that’s what makes art the gift that keeps on giving.

Don’t forget to check out ancientartpodcast.org for image credits, bibliographic references, and links to lots of other relevant things. I appreciate your feedback and suggestions for future episodes. You can reach me at info@ancientartpodcast.org or with the feedback form on the website. You’ll find me on Twitter at lucaslivingston. And you can leave your comments on YouTube, iTunes, or on the website itself. You might have heard that the Art Institute of Chicago’s podcast Musecast has reached its final episode, but don’t worry. The Ancient Art Podcast ain’t goin’ anywhere! Thanks for listening and see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2009 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

Image Credits

1. Statue of a Seated Woman, Roman, 2nd century A.D. The Art Institute of Chicago. Katherine K. Adler Endowment, 1986.1060. Photo by Lucas Livingston, 23 Oct 2009.
2. Galleries of Roman art at the Art Institute of Chicago. Photo by Lucas Livingston, 23 Oct 2009. (photo #DSC03599)
3. Galleries of Roman art at the Art Institute of Chicago. Photo by Lucas Livingston, 23 Oct 2009. (photo #DSC03598)
4. Statue of the Aphrodite of Knidos, 2nd century A.D. Roman copy of a fourth century B.C. Greek original by Praxiteles. The Art Institute of Chicago, Katherine K. Adler Endowment, 1981.11. Photo by Lucas Livingston, 23 Oct 2009.

1. Shepherd, William R. “ Reference Map of Asia Minor under the Greeks and Romans,” The Historical Atlas, 1923, from the University of Texas Perry-Castañeda Library Map Collection.
2. “Venus Temple at the Villa Adriana in Tivoli,” photo by Jastrow, September 2006.
3. Temple of Venus at Hadrian’s Villa, Tivoli, Italy. Image from “Tivoli.” Encyclopaedia Romana. Accessed 28 November, 2009.
4. Unidentified statue of of a woman, presumable Aphrodite, in the Louvre Museum, Paris, France. Photo 20 October, 2007.
5. The Colonna Venus. Roman period copy of the Aphrodite of Knidos. Museo Pio-Clementino, Vatican, Italy. Image from “Aphrodite of Cnidus,” Encyclopaedia Romana. Accessed 4 December, 2009
6. The Colonna Venus from Paul Carus, Venus of Milo: An Archaeological Study of Woman. The Open Court Publishing Company, 1916, p. 172.
7. Head of Aphrodite, of the Aspremont-Lynden/Arles type, 1st AD copy of an original from Praxiteles. Christian mark (cross) defacing the chin and forehead. Found in the Roman Agora of Athens. National Archaeological Museum in Athens (MNA 1762).
8. Ludovisi Cnidian Aphrodite. Roman copy after a Greek original of the 4th century. Marble; original elements: torso and thighs; restored elements: head, arms, legs and support (drapery and jug). Ludovisi Collection, Palazzo Altemps, National Roman Museum, Inv. 8619. Photo by Marie-Lan Nguyen, September 2009.
9. So-called Aphrodite Braschi, 1st century BC copy after a votive statue of Praxitelean Aphrodite of Cnidus type, ca. 350–340 BC). Glyptothek, Munich, Germany, Inv. 258. Photo by Bibi Saint-Pol, 2007-02-08.
10. An engraving by Roscher of an ancient coin from Knidos, showing the Aphrodite of Knidos by Praxiteles, from Paul Carus, Venus of Milo: An Archaeological Study of Woman. The Open Court Publishing Company, 1916, p. 162.
11. John Gibson, The Tinted Venus, c.1851-6. Tinted marble, height 175 cm Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool, England (WAG7808).
12. “John Gibson: The Tinted Venus.” Encyclopaedia Romana. Accessed 4 December, 2009.
13. Modern cast in Pushkin Museum, Moscow, of the Venus de’ Medici, 1st century BC, in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence, Italy.
14. Sandro Botticelli (1445-1510). The Birth of Venus, ca 1482-1486. Tempera on canvas. 172.5 cm x 278.5 cm (67.9 in x 109.6 in), Uffizi Gallery, Florence, Italy.

]]>

Ancient Sources on Aphrodite

0
0


Hesiod, Theogony

On the birth of Aphrodite (lines 175-205):
[175] “… And Heaven came, bringing on night and longing for love, and he lay about Earth spreading himself full upon her. Then the son from his ambush stretched forth his left hand and in his right took the great long sickle [180] with jagged teeth, and swiftly lopped off his own father’s members and cast them away to fall behind him. And not vainly did they fall from his hand; for all the bloody drops that gushed forth Earth received, and as the seasons moved round [185] she bore the strong Erinyes and the great Giants with gleaming armour, holding long spears in their hands and the Nymphs whom they call Meliae all over the boundless earth. And so soon as he had cut off the members with flint and cast them from the land into the surging sea, [190] they were swept away over the main a long time: and a white foam spread around them from the immortal flesh, and in it there grew a maiden. First she drew near holy Cythera, and from there, afterwards, she came to sea-girt Cyprus, and came forth an awful and lovely goddess, and grass [195] grew up about her beneath her shapely feet. Her gods and men call Aphrodite, and the foam-born goddess and rich-crowned Cytherea, because she grew amid the foam, and Cytherea because she reached Cythera, and Cyprogenes because she was born in billowy Cyprus, [200] and Philommedes because she sprang from the members. And with her went Eros, and comely Desire followed her at her birth at the first and as she went into the assembly of the gods. This honor she has from the beginning, and this is the portion allotted to her amongst men and undying gods,— [205] the whisperings of maidens and smiles and deceits with sweet delight and love and graciousness.”

Hesiod. The Homeric Hymns and Homerica with an English Translation by Hugh G. Evelyn-White. Theogony. Cambridge: Harvard University Press; London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1914. http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus:text:1999.01.0130:card=173>

Pliny the Elder, Natural History

On the Aphrodite of Knidos by Praxiteles (XXXVI.20-21):
20. “Superior to any other statue, not only to others made by Praxiteles himself, but throughout the world, is the Venus, which many people have sailed to Cnidus to see. He had made two statues and was offering them for sale at the same time. One was clothed, and for this reason was preferred by the people of Cos who had an option to buy, although Praxiteles offered it at the same price as the other—this way he thought the only decent and proper response. So the people of Cnidus bought the Venus when the Coans refused, and its reputation became greatly enhanced.”
21. “Subsequently King Nicomedes wanted to buy it from them, promising to cancel all the state’s debts, which were vast. The Cnidians, however, preferred to endure anything rather than sell the statue. Nor without just cause, for with it Praxiteles made Cnidus famous. The shrine that houses it is completely open so that the statue of the goddess can be seen from all sides, and it was made in this way, so it is believed, with the goddess’s approval. It is admirable from every angle. There is a story that a man who had fallen in love with the statue hid in the temple at night and embraced it intimately; a stain bears witness to his lust.”

Pliny the Elder. Natural History: A Selection. Penguin Books, Ltd., trans John F. Healy, 1991, XXXVI.20-21. http://books.google.com/books?id=JvyF-8NXFbIC&lpg=PR39&dq=inauthor:”pliny” natural history&lr=&pg=PA346#v=onepage&q=&f=false>

For another translation, see also:
The Natural History. Pliny the Elder. John Bostock, M.D., F.R.S. H.T. Riley, Esq., B.A. London. Taylor and Francis, Red Lion Court, Fleet Street, 1855, Book XXXVI, Chapter 4. (5.). http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus:text:1999.02.0137:book=36:chapter=4>

[Note, the numbering of Book and Chapter notation in this edition that does not correspond with other editions. E.g. Bk. XXXVI, Ch. 20-21 in most editions equals Bk. XXXVI Ch. 4 in the Bostock edition. The advantage of the Bostock edition available through the Perseus Digital Library is that the entire text is online.]

“…superior to all the statues, not only of Praxiteles, but of any other artist that ever existed, is his Cnidian Venus; for the inspection of which, many persons before now have purposely undertaken a voyage to Cnidos. The artist made two statues of the goddess, and offered them both for sale: one of them was represented with drapery, and for this reason was preferred by the people of Cos, who had the choice; the second was offered them at the same price, but, on the grounds of propriety and modesty, they thought fit to choose the other. Upon this, the Cnidians purchased the rejected statue, and immensely superior has it always been held in general estimation. At a later period, King Nicomedes wished to purchase this statue of the Cnidians, and made them an offer to pay off the whole of their public debt, which was very large. They preferred, however, to submit to any extremity rather than part with it; and with good reason, for by this statue Praxiteles has perpetuated the glory of Cnidos. The little temple in which it, is placed is open on all sides, so that the beauties of the statue admit of being seen from every point of view; an arrangement which was favoured by the goddess herself, it is generally believed. Indeed, from whatever point it is viewed, its execution is equally worthy of admiration. A certain individual, it is said, became enamoured of this statue, and, concealing himself in the temple during the night, gratified his lustful passion upon it, traces of which are to be seen in a stain left upon the marble.”

On the polychromy of Classical sculpture (XXXV.130, 133):
Nicias, an Athenian … “who was an extremely careful painter of female portraits….It is this Nicias of whom Praxiteles used to say, when asked which of his own works in marble he placed highest, ‘The ones to which Nicias has set his hand’–so much value did he assign to his colouring of surfaces.”

Pliny the Elder. Natural History: A Selection. Penguin Books, Ltd., trans John F. Healy, 1991, XXXV.130, 133.

[Completely irrelevant to Aphrodite, but just for fun, the famous story…]
On the contest between Zeuxis and Parrhasius (XXXV.65):
In a contest between Zeuxis and Parrhasius, Zeuxis produced so successful a representation of grapes that birds flew up to the stage-buildings where it was hung. Then Parrhasius produced such a successful trompe-l’oeil of a curtain that Zeuxis, puffed up with pride and judgement of the birds, asked that the curtain be drawn aside and the picture revealed. When he realized his mistake, with an unaffected modesty he conceded the prize, saying that whereas he had deceived birds, Parrhasius had deceived him, an artist.

Pliny the Elder. Natural History: A Selection. Penguin Books, Ltd., trans John F. Healy, 1991, XXXV.65. http://books.google.com/books?id=JvyF-8NXFbIC&lpg=PR39&dq=inauthor:”pliny” natural history&lr=&pg=PA330#v=onepage&q=&f=false>

Pausanais, Description of Greece

On Praxiteles and Phryne’s relationship (Vol 3, Book X, Ch 14):
“The golden statue of Phryne here was made by Praxiteles, who was one of her lovers; but the statue was dedicated by Phryne.”

Pausanias. The Description of Greece, Volume 3. Trans. Thomas Taylor. London, 1824, p. 125. http://books.google.com/books?id=wakAAAAAYAAJ&dq=inauthor:”Pausanias”&pg=PA125#v=onepage&q=&f=false>

Note: Quote appears in the last line of chapter 14 in this edition. Other editions place this text as the first line of chapter 15; c.f.:

Pausanias. Description of Greece with an English Translation by W.H.S. Jones, Litt.D., and H.A. Ormerod, M.A., in 4 Volumes. Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press; London, William Heinemann Ltd., 1918, X.15.1. http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.01.0160%3Abook%3D10%3Achapter%3D15%3Asection%3D1>

On Phryne tricking Praxiteles to reveal his favorite work (Vol 1, Book XX, Ch 1-2):
“Leading from the Prytaneum is a road called Tripods. The place takes its name from the shrines, large enough to hold the tripods which stand upon them, of bronze, but containing very remarkable works of art, including a Satyr, of which Praxiteles is said to have been very proud. Phryne once asked of him the most beautiful of his works, and the story goes that lover-like he agreed to give it, but refused to say which he thought the most beautiful. So a slave of Phryne rushed in saying that a fire had broken out in the studio of Praxiteles, and the greater number of his works were lost, though not all were destroyed. Praxiteles at once started to rush through the door crying that his labour was all wasted if indeed the flames had caught his Satyr and his Love. But Phryne bade him stay and be of good courage, for he had suffered no grievous loss, but had been trapped into confessing which were the most beautiful of his works. So Phryne chose the statue of Love…”

Pausanias. Description of Greece, Volume 1. Trans. William Henry Samuel Jones. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1918, p. 97. http://books.google.com/books?id=olRFAAAAYAAJ&dq=inauthor:”Pausanias”&pg=PA97#v=onepage&q=&f=false>

Amores, attributed to Lucian

On the rotunda temple to Aphrodite at Knidos and the statue of Aphrodite (13-16):
“13. When the plants had given us pleasure enough, we entered the temple. In the midst thereof sits the goddess–she’s a most beautiful statue of Parian marble–arrogantly smiling a little as a grin parts her lips. Draped by no garment, all her beauty is uncovered and revealed, except in so far as she unobtrusively uses one hand to hide her private parts. So great was the power of the craftsman’s art that the hard unyielding marble did justice to every limb. Charicles at any rate raised a mad distracted cry and exclaimed, “Happiest indeed of the gods was Ares, who suffered chains because of her!” And, as he spoke, he ran up and, stretching out his neck as far as he could, started to kiss the goddess with importunate lips. Callicratidas stood by in silence with amazement in his heart.

The temple had a door on both sides for the benefit of those also who wish to have a good view of the goddess from behind, so that no part of her be left unadmired. It’s easy therefore for people to enter by the other door and survey the beauty of her back.

14. And so we decided to see all of the goddess and went round to the back of the precinct. Then, when the door had been opened by the woman responsible for keeping the keys, we were filled with an immediate wonder for the beauty we beheld. The Athenian who had been so impassive an observer a minute before, upon inspecting those parts of the goddess which recommend a boy, suddenly raised a shout far more frenzied than that of Charicles. “Heracles!” he exclaimed, “what a well-proportioned back! What generous flanks she has! How satisfying an armful to embrace! How delicately moulded the flesh on the buttocks, neither too thin and close to the bone, nor yet revealing too great an expanse of fat! And as for those precious parts sealed in on either side by the hips, how inexpressibly sweetly they smile! How perfect the proportions of the thighs and the shins as they stretch down in a straight line to the feet! So that’s what Ganymede looks like as he pours out the nectar in heaven for Zeus and makes it taste sweeter. For I’d never have taken the cup from Hebe if she served me.” While Callicratidas was shouting this under the spell of the goddess, Charicles in the excess of his admiration stood almost petrified, though his emotions showed in the melting tears trickling from his eyes.

15. When we could admire no more, we noticed a mark on one thigh like a stain on a dress; the unsightliness of this was shown up by the brightness of the marble everywhere else. I therefore, hazarding a plausible guess about the truth of the matter, supposed that what we saw was a natural defect in the marble. For even such things as these are subject to accident and many potential masterpieces of beauty are thwarted by bad luck. And so, thinking the black mark to be a natural blemish, I found in this too cause to admire Praxiteles for having hidden what was unsightly in the marble in the parts less able to be examined closely. But the attendant woman who was standing near us told us a strange, incredible story. For she said that a young man of a not undistinguished family — though his deed has caused him to be left nameless — who often visited the precinct, was so ill-starred as to fall in love with the goddess. He would spend all day in the temple and at first gave the impression of pious awe. For in the morning he would leave his bed long before dawn to go to the temple and only return home reluctantly after sunset. All day long would he sit facing the goddess with his eyes fixed uninterruptedly upon her, whispering indistinctly and carrying on a lover’s complaints in secret conversation.

16. But when he wished to give himself some little comfort from his suffering, after first addressing the goddess, he would count out on the table four knuckle-bones of a Libyan gazelle and take a gamble on his expectations. If he made a successful throw and particularly if ever he was blessed with the throw named after the goddess herself, and no dice showed the same face, he would prostrate himself before the goddess, thinking he would gain his desire. But, if as usually happens he made an indifferent throw on to his table, and the dice revealed an unpropitious result, he would curse all Cnidus and show utter dejection as if at an irremediable disaster; but a minute later he would snatch up the dice and try to cure by another throw his earlier lack of success. But presently, as his passion grew more inflamed, every wall came to be inscribed with his messages and the bark of every tender tree told of fair Aphrodite. Praxiteles was honoured by him as much as Zeus and every beautiful treasure that his home guarded was offered to the goddess. In the end the violent tension of his desires turned to desperation and he found in audacity a procurer for his lusts. For, when the sun was now sinking to its setting, quietly and unnoticed by those present, he slipped in behind the door and, standing invisible in the inmost part of the chamber, he kept still, hardly even breathing. When the attendants closed the door from the outside in the normal way, this new Anchises was locked in. But why do I chatter on and tell you in every detail the reckless deed of that unmentionable night? These marks of his amorous embraces were seen after day came and the goddess had that blemish to prove what she’d suffered. The youth concerned is said, according to the popular story told, to have hurled himself over a cliff or down into the waves of the sea and to have vanished utterly.”

Lucian (attributed). Amores. trans. A.M. Harmon (Loeb edition). http://www.well.com/user/aquarius/lucian-amores.htm>

Greek Anthology

On the goddess Aphrodite’s reaction to the Knidia by Praxiteles (VI.160):

“Where did Praxiteles see me naked?”

]]>

27: Hiratsuka Un’ichi

0
0

Welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast. Hang on tight folks as we take another excursion a bit off topic in this episode to explore the art and life of one of the most influential 20th century Japanese woodblock print artists, Hiratsuka Un’ichi. An exhibition of Hiratsuka’s prints was recently on view at the Art Institute of Chicago through January 4th, 2010. And now that the exhibition is closed, so too are the Japanese art galleries as the Art Institute prepares for a grand reopening of the newly renovated Japanese art galleries in the Fall of 2010 called the Weston Wing. So be sure to head on down to the Art Institute in the Fall and check out the new Weston Wing of Japanese art.

The Art Institute has a particularly strong collection of prints by Hiratsuka Un’ichi, thanks largely to the generosity of the Van Zelst family, who were close personal friends of the artist and his family. All the prints on display in the exhibition were given to the Art Institute by the Van Zelst family and I recently had the extreme pleasure of walking through the show with the Van Zelsts, which was pretty inspirational for this episode of the podcast.

Hiratsuka Un’ichi was born November 17, 1895 and died on November 18, 1997 at the ripe old age of 102 and a day. (You know he was doing something right.) He grew up during Japan’s Meiji era, a time of tremendous globalization for Japan and a fascination with the Western world. In this new global climate, Japan found itself facing the decision of which aspects of traditional Japanese culture to save and how Japan’s culture would be redefined in the modern world. Through Hiratsuka’s early exposure to Western art and illustrations in his school books and through the rich Japanese cultural traditions surrounding him in his youth, Hiratsuka played a pivotal role in the modernization, preservation, and revitalization of the Japanese print artform.

You might be most familiar with colorful prints of kabuki actors, beautiful courtesans, and gentle landscapes from Japan’s classical era of woodblock prints of the Floating World, the Ukiyo-e, during the Edo Period of 1615-1868. There’s a great introductory video on Ukiyo-e prints and culture produced by the Brooklyn Museum for the 2008 exhibition Utagawa: Masters of the Japanese Print, 1770–1900. You can find it online at the long URL of brooklynmuseum.org/exhibitions/utagawa and you’ll find that link in the transcript of this episode at ancientartpodcast.org.

Going beyond the art of the Floating World, Hiratsuka was one of the early pioneers of the Creative Print movement, “sosaku hanga,” established in the early 20th century. He and a few other like-minded artists adopted the term “creative” or “sosaku” for their new print style to draw two clear distinctions from the tradition of Japanese woodblock printing. One, these artists had sole creative responsibility for their works from beginning to end, breaking down the traditional triangle of designer, carver, printer, in which three wholly separate individuals or workshops were traditionally involved in the mass-scale commercial printmaking process. And the second distinction to prints of the traditional sort, in their argument, Creative prints exhibit the creative self-expression of the artist. You could say that’s not entirely unlike their contemporary early 20th century European modernist artists and the earlier Impressionists, who were both significant influences for the Japanese Creative Print artists.

But if Creative Print artists were rebels against the established tradition of Japanese woodblock printing, then Hiratsuka Un’ichi was a rebel among rebels. Many of Hiratsuka’s fellow Creative Print artists strongly reflect the influences of Western Modern artists. Works by Yamaguchi Gen and Onchi Koshiro could easily be hung side by side with Paul Klee and Piet Mondrian. Hiratsuka, however, was deeply motivated by Japan’s ancient spiritual traditions.  As a young boy, Hiratsuka was surrounded by talented woodworkers on account of his father’s lumber business and his grandfather’s architectural career. He showed an early interest for black ink on white paper with a childhood fascination for carved wooden ink stamps. In his home town of Matsue, he grew up near the famous Shinto shrine of Izumo, in whose faith a reverence for the natural world is expressed through undecorated, unpainted wooden sculpture and architecture. Hiratsuka must have picked up on that purity of natural wood and built a career expressing his spiritualism through undecorated, uncolored, black ink woodblock printing. He also considered his art to be somewhat sacred by way of its roots in the earliest form of black ink printing of Buddhist sutras, spiritual texts, and sacred imagery. In early Buddhist printmaking, the keyblock was the authoritative, sacred template designed and carved by the master monk of the monastery. Then the master’s pupils would print and color the works by hand. So by distilling his art form purely to the keyblock, Hiratsuka paid a similar respect to his own black ink printing. Early in his career, Hiratsuka experimented with color printing, but he eventually decided that color weakens the emotional power of black ink on paper. Throughout much of his life, he was also an avid collector of early black ink Buddhist prints and, notably, antique temple roof tiles, both of which strongly inspired his art. [roof tile prints]

He also experimented with various carving techniques and instruments, including the tradition Japanese straight bladed woodworking knives and also Western curved U and V-shaped chisels. Side by side, some of his prints remarkably demonstrate the different results that the different tools can produce. Many of his prints also exhibit his trademark jagged or wavy lines produced from a unique rocking technique that he developed in strong contrast to the smooth, straight, hairline details of classical Floating World prints of the Edo period. Also unconventional in Hiratsuka’s style was that he executed much of the design process during the actual carving of the block, reworking the design and changing his mind along the way. Conversely, in the traditional triangle of designer, carver, printer, once you reached the carving stage of a woodblock, the design of the final print was completely determined. Hiratsuka is well recognized for having frequently worked in very large scale, carving all the way up to the very edge of the block of wood, but later also printed in a small postcard size so his work would be a bit more affordable and marketable. Whether working in large or small scale, though, Hiratsuka’s carving technique seems to reflect the tradition of ancient Buddhist stone rubbings, another early influence of ancient spiritualism for Hiratsuka, which we also see reflected in the style of one of his most prominent pupils, Munakata Shiko.

In 1962, Hiratsuka moved to the United States to be with his daughter’s family, but this change of venue didn’t slow him down. He continued to carve new blocks and make prints based on old sketches that he’d done sometimes even years earlier. He also explored the American landscape around him for inspirationional subjects. It’s interesting seeing so many of these Western subjects rendered in Hiratsuka’s multifaceted cosmopolitan style. For all of his achievements, Hiratsuka received multiple exceptional accolades. In 1970 the Japanese emperor awarded him the Order of Cultural Merit, which had never previously been awarded to print artist. And in 1977 Hiratsuka became the first artist ever to be awarded with the Order of the Sacred Treasure. Hiratsuka Un’ichi remains a modern master, who explored ancient tradition and contemporary innovation, motivated by deep spiritualism and globalization. He broke the rules of the rigidly predefined role of woodblock carver and inspired a new generation of artists.

If you want to learn more about the life and work of Hiratsuka Un’ichi, there’s a great catalog to an earlier special exhibition called “Hiratsuka: Modern Master” from 2001. Don’t forget to head on over to ancientartpodcast.org where you’ll find the photo gallery for this episode of the Ancient Art Podcast and many more. You can also visit an online virtual gallery of the exhibition that I put together using the Art Institute’s online collection database at http://tinyurl.com/hiratsuka2009.

I hope you didn’t mind the tangent of this episode breaking away from strictly ancient art. I’m excited to report that I’ll be going to Egypt early in 2010 as a study leader for an Art Institute travel program, so we can look forward to many interesting ancient adventures after I get back.

I appreciate your feedback and suggestions for future episodes. You can reach me at info@ancientartpodcast.org or with the feedback form on the website. You’ll find me on Twitter at lucaslivingston. And you can leave your comments on YouTube, iTunes, or on the website itself. Thanks for tuning in and we’ll see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2010 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

28: Avatars of Vishnu

0
0

Hey folks. Welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast, your nifty guidebook to the art and culture of the ancient world. I’m you friendly traveling companion, Lucas Livingston.

With all the current hype about Mr. Cameron’s latest titanic piece of cinematography, the CGI-wonder Avatar, I thought it might be enjoyable for us to explore the true meaning, history, and imagery of the traditional usage of the word “avatar.” The term has met widespread usage in recent years, especially in the realm of computer gaming and virtual reality, from World of Warcraft and The Sims to Second Life. But unless you were especially literate, eastwardly spiritual, or big into Dungeon & Dragons, you might not have had the opportunity to familiarize yourself with the true meaning of “avatar.” It comes from the Sanskrit avatara, basically meaning a being, who has crossed over or come down. In essence, an avatar is a physical manifestation or incarnation of a god on Earth, which we commonly encounter in Hindu narratives.

The Hindu deity most frequently associated with avatars is the god Vishnu. Vishnu is one of the most prominent and widely revered deities in the Hindu faith.

Vishnu is one of the Trimurti, the Hindu triad, or the “three forms,” where the concepts of cosmic creation, preservation, and destruction are personified by the three deities Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, respectively. As the divine preserver of the cosmos, it’s Vishnu’s job to manifest and restore dharma, or social justice and cosmic world order, whenever it’s threatened by some malevolence. The number of avatars of Vishnu ranges among texts, but the most commonly recognized number of his incarnations is 10, known as the Dasavatara, meaning the “ten avatars.” [1]

One of the most recognized avatars of Vishnu is the hero Krishna, a popular deity in his own right and the star of the Mahabharata, a great Hindu epic narrative. In Bhagavad Gita, the “Song of the Lord,” part of the Mahabharata, Krishna relates to his friend Arjuna:

“For whenever Right declines and Wrong prevails, then O Bharata, I come to birth.
To save the righteous, to destroy the wicked, and to re-establish Right I am born from age to age.” [2]

That quote is from chapter 4 of the Bhagavad Gita as told by the great 20th century spiritual leader and civil rights activist Mahatma Gandhi. We encounter another avatar of Vishnu in the supposed last words of Gandhi, featured as an epitaph on his tombstone, “He Ram.” Meaning “Oh God,” “He Ram” refers to Rama, the avatar, king of Ayodhya, and the hero of the Hindu epic Ramayana. The Ramayana tells the tale of Rama as he battles the ten-headed Rakshasa demon Ravana, who has kidnapped Rama’s wife Sita. Ravana had become too powerful, ruling over the heavens, the earth, and the netherworld, invulnerable to all living and celestial beings, except man and animals. He was an arrogant and destructive ruler harboring evildoers. As the divine preserver of dharma, Vishnu promised to defeat Ravana on Earth manifesting as the human prince Rama, while his divine consort, Lakshmi, took birth as his future spouse Sita. Throughout his life as a man on Earth, his true identity and destiny were known by none, but himself and a few great sages.

Chronologically, Rama and Krishna are the 7th and 8th avatars of Vishnu, according to the list of ten avatars. [3] The 9th and most recent avatar is sometimes considered to be Buddha, also known as Gautama or Shakyamuni. That’s especially interesting, because, we usually encounter Buddha in, um, Buddhism, not Hinduism, but this is wonderfully exemplary of Hinduism’s traditional acceptance and incorporation of world religions. As opposed to “There’s only one god and I’m right and you’re wrong.” You could look at this as an expression of the core belief held by some that all of the many divinities of the world are extensions of a singular supreme divine force. Buddha as an avatar of Vishnu, who primarily promoted non-violence, or ahimsa, is still a popular belief among a number of modern Vaishnava Hindu organizations, including the West’s particularly recognizable, although modestly sized Hare Krishna movement. [4] Alternatively, some scholars have put forth the interpretation that Buddha as an avatar was an attempt to absorb this offshoot Buddhist heresy back into Hinduism. [5] There are always two sides to the coin.

Beyond Rama, Krishna, and Buddha, two avatars of Vishnu that we frequently encounter in art are Vishnu’s incarnation as a boar or boar-headed man, Varaha, and the man-lion Narasimha. Varaha is skillfully represented on this 11th century sandstone sculpture from Rajasthan, India at the Art Institute of Chicago. When the Earth began to sink into the ocean under the burden of all the world’s evil and corruption, Vishnu manifested as the avatar Varaha and lifted the Earth personified here as the goddess Bhudevi. This work captures the moment when Varaha and Bhudevi fall in love. Varaha gazes fondly at Bhudevi as she gently lays her hand upon his snout. Down below, his left knee bent, he rests his foot upon a lotus. Beneath the lotus are two nagas, serpent deities, who symbolize the oceans from which Varaha has lifted the Earth. And Varaha and Bhudevi live happily ever after, so the story goes. In other representations of the story, we encounter the evil demon Hiranyaksha, who kidnapped the Earth and pulled her beneath the cosmic oceans. Varaha descended into the oceans to battle Hiranyaksha for 1000 years. Once victorious, we see Varaha raising the Earth from the water.

Hiranyaksha had an older brother named Hiranyakashipu and he’s downright angry. Hiranyakashipu wanted to avenge his brother’s murder at the hands of Vishnu, so he offers many years of penance to Brahma and gains special powers in return: that he may not die indoors or outdoors, during the day or at night, nor on the ground or in the sky. He can’t be killed by human, divinity, or animal. Oh, and he also become supreme ruler of everything. So, he had a son named Prahlada, who, much to his father’s disappointment, was a devout follower of Vishnu. One day as the sun was setting and nighttime was encroaching, Prahlada, as any angst-ridden child would do, challenged the notion that his father was the supreme lord of the universe, saying that Vishnu’s the all-pervasive, omnipresent lord of everything. Hiranyakashipu points at a column in the courtyard and smugly says, “So, your omnipresent god is even in that column, there?” Prahlada says he is, at which point Hiranyakashipu smashes the column in a fit of rage. Vishnu bursts forth from the fractured column as the avatar Narasimha, not human nor beast nor divinity, but the part-man, part-beast incarnation. He grabs Hiranyakashipu at that moment of twilight, neither day nor night, lifts him onto his lap, neither ground nor air, and tears into him right there in the courtyard, a liminal space neither indoors nor outside. Crafty fellow, that Vishnu.

In this amazing 11th century black basalt sculpture from the Art Institute, we see a fierce six-armed Narasimha digging into Hiranyakashipu, stretched across his lap. The column is shown on the lower left next to his right leg. He’s also standing on another demon, who’s trying to stab him with a knife. Below the lotus flower base, we see the prostrate donor couple who commissioned the work of art, which was originally set up in a temple.

The last avatar of Vishnu to get an honorable mention here is the dwarf Vamana. As we might come to expect, a demon king had taken over the cosmos. This time his name was Bali, but he wasn’t so bad. He was the grandson of the pious Prahlada, the Vaishnava son of Hiranyakashipu. But still, that was just too much authority for one person to have. So, the diminutive Vamana requested that he could have as much land as his his little legs could cover in just three steps. Bali consented and Vamana suddenly grew to an immense size becoming the mighty Trivikrama, which means “Three Steps.” With his first step, he covered the world, with his second step he covered the heavens and netherworld, and with nowhere else to step, Bali offered his own head for the third and final step. The god was so impressed by this pious gesture that he renamed him Mahabali, meaning “The Great Bali,” and granted him immortality up in heavens.

So, one thing you could say that James Cameron got right in the movie Avatar is that the avatar in the film, Jake Sully, came to the Na’vi people in a time of great trouble. It wasn’t the character’s original intention to be their savior, but perhaps it was his destiny. Likewise, Cameron probably wasn’t even thinking of the original sacred context of the avatar when he scripted the film, but it makes for an interesting connection. And hopefully you’ve found our journey here not only enjoyable and educational, but maybe you can even impress your friends with some enlightening conversational insights as Avatar goes up for its 9 Oscar nominations at the 82nd Academy Awards on March 7th.

Be sure to check out the website at ancientartpodcast.org for the image gallery with image credits, the transcript with references, and lots of other fun stuff. I welcome your feedback and suggestions at info@ancientartpodcast.org or with the online feedback form. I’d also love to get your comments on YouTube, in iTunes, or on the website, itself. You can follow me on Twitter at lucaslivingston and on Facebook at facebook.ancientartpodcast.org. Thanks for listening and see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2010 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

———————————————————
Footnotes:

[1] The Dasavatara of the Garuda Purana is a series instructions that Vishnu gave to his animal companion Garuda, whom we met back in episode 17 of the Ancient Art Podcast. For multiple lists of the avatars of Vishnu according to different scriptural traditions, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Avatar.

[2] The Gita According to Gandhi (4.7-8).

[3] “Daśāvatāra,” Wikipedia.

[4] “Gautama Buddha in Hinduism,” Wikipedia.
See also:
“Krsna Will Accept You Anyway You Like.” Lecture given on March 31, 1974 by founder of ISKCON – A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada.
“Sri Dasavatara-stotra and Upaaya” (from Gita-govinda) by Jayadeva Gosvami.

[5] (Wendy Donniger) Wendy O’Flaherty, Origins of Evil in Hindu Mythology, University of California Press, 1976, page 203.

29: Karnak

0
0

Welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast, your guidebook to the art and culture of the ancient Mediterranean world and beyond. I’m your friendly traveling companion, Lucas Livingston.

A few weeks ago, I had the fantastic opportunity to travel to Egypt and Jordan as a study leader through the Art Institute of Chicago. It was a great trip and I met some wonderful people. A big shout out to our intrepid travel director K.C. for her tireless effort. And even though most of the destinations we visited during the trip were thousands of years old, it sure seemed like a lot had changed since the last time I had been to the pyramids of Giza, Karnak and Luxor temples, the Valley of the Kings, and the mortuary temple of Pharaoh Hatshepsut at Deir el Bahri. A lot has also changed technologically since the last time I was there back in 1997; in particular with 35 mm film giving way to digital photography, encouraging wanton abuse of photographic hysteria. If you’re not already a fan of the Ancient Art Podcast on Facebook at facebook.ancientartpodcast.org or if you don’t follow me on Twitter at LucasLivingston, you might not yet have seen the hundreds of photos I uploaded from the trip. Well, head on over to either or and check them out.

Or to keep it really simple, go to ancientartpodcast.org and click on “Resources” to see links to the photo gallery and an interactive Google map with the geotagged photos. As an extra bonus there’s also a link to interact with the photos in Google Earth. So check it out.

My visit to Egypt and Jordan provided me not only with plentiful imagery, but also with copious fodder for the podcast. I thought a good launch pad would be an introduction to the amazing Karnak temple from Ancient Egypt. There’s so much to explore at Karnak that we’ll probably need a couple episodes here. This episode will give us an orientation in and around the temple. We’ll explore its grounds and layout, some of the architecture and history, and the different divinities revered at the sacred site. In the next episode, number 30, we’ll look a bit more closely at some of the decoration, the spiritual and political function of the temple, and the overarching philosophy and symbolism of Ancient Egyptian temple architecture in general.

Karnak is located in Upper Egypt, which means southern Egypt, because it goes by elevation, not latitude. Karnak, Luxor, the Valley of the Kings, and so many of Egypt’s other famous monuments are all clustered together in an area where the Nile makes a sharp bend around a relatively mountainous region. This is location of the ancient city of Thebes, given that name by the Greeks after the Greek city of the same name. The Ancient Egyptian name for Thebes was Waset. The name “Karnak” comes from the nearby modern village of the same name, as does the name of the nearby temple Luxor (al-Uqsur, meaning “The Palaces”). To the Ancient Egyptians, though, Karnak was known as Ipet isut, meaning “The Most Select of Places.” [1]

Karnak was more or less under continuous construction from the Middle Kingdom through the Roman era—that’s like 2000 years! The most ancient sections of Karnak in the deepest recesses of the sanctuary date back as far as Senusert I of the 12th dynasty, who ruled from 1971-1926 BC. The greatest period of construction and expansion was during the New Kingdom, around 1550-1307 BC. Nearly all the New Kingdom pharaohs left their mark on Karnak in some way or another.

Karnak is comprised of three main temple precincts dedicated to different gods. The largest precinct in the center is dedicated to Amun, or more properly Amun-Ra, after the two gods became syncretized. Within that precinct are many shrines, chapels, and subsidiary temples dedicated to different gods and pharaohs, including of course the Great Temple of Amun. To the north is the precinct of Montu, the falcon-headed Theban god of war. Montu was especially popular during the Middle Kingdom, which we see reflected in the names of the 11th dynasty kings Mentuhotep I, II, and III. Mentuhotep II, who ruled from 2061-2010, is the fellow who built his mortuary temple nestled in the foothills of the western mountains at Deir el Bahri, where Hatshepsut later build her famous mortuary temple modeled heavily after Mentuhotep’s, but we’ll save all of that for another episode of the podcast. South of the precinct of Amun connected by a long path or avenue lined by ram-headed sphinx statues lies the precinct of the goddess Mut, wife of Amun and the divine mother to the reigning pharaoh.

The avenue of sphinxes jogs around the temple of Mut and then continues roughly southward lined by human-headed sphinxes all the way to the Temple of Amun at Luxor. Over the years, the city of Luxor was built up on top of the avenue of sphinxes, but there’s a massive project underway today to excavate and reconstruct the avenue of sphinxes, reconnecting the ancient complexes and displacing lots of modern day residents. So you can imagine it’s been kind of controversial.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the temple to the god Khonsu, which lies within the precinct of Amun. Khonsu or Khons is the son of Amun and Mut, so you have a nice family gathering here at Karnak, which makes a lot of sense, since temples were considered to be the mansions of the gods. So Karnak as a whole is a magnificent estate with different buildings, rooms, and wings dedicated to the divine family of Thebes. The Theban pantheon and theology has many layers of complexity on top of that, but that’s a simple perspective.

Flanking the southern side of the Amun temple at Karnak is a fantastically large open-air museum of architectural fragments covering about as much ground as the temple itself. The collection is comprised mostly of blocks that were discovered being used as filler inside the temple pylons. The pylons are those massive blocky gateways so characteristic of Egyptian architecture. Throughout the history of Karnak, not only do we see continuous expansion and construction, but we also have constant renovation and demolition to make way for what were in their day new construction projects. If an earlier king’s addition to Karnak got in the way of a later king’s plans, it was not uncommon to demolish the earlier section, and it was certainly a cost saving measure to reuse that stone, which had already been nicely quarried and shaped, which today would help you earn credits toward LEED certification.

The temple of Amun is constructed along two primary axes; one running perpendicular to the Nile and the other running parallel. The perpendicular axis is generally designated east-west and the other north-south, but the temple is not actually orientated precisely along the cardinal axes. In general, however, it was common for Egyptian temples to be orientated east-west. Many of the western Theban temples on the opposite side of the Nile face east towards the rising sun and the river, while Karnak faces west, again towards the river for one for the very practical purpose of accessibility by boat. The first pylon is about 540 meters from the Nile today (in American units, that’s about 6 football fields), but in its day there was quay or a water way connecting it with the river. All in all, the temple of Amun is comprised of 10 pylons dating from the 18th dynasty through the 30th dynasty. While construction jumped around from place to place within the temple, the pylons generally radiate outward chronologically. So the first pylon where all tourists today enter is the latest from the 30th dynasty, the second pylon is older (late 18th-early 19th dynasty), and so on.

Between the first and second pylons is an open-air courtyard. What’s neat here is that this space was outside the temple proper in the New Kingdom, so you can see some sphinx statues here that were originally part of the avenue of sphinxes connecting to the Nile. You’ll also find some unfinished columns and the massive mud-brick scaffolding that was never removed after construction of the first pylon was halted. I think it’s really interesting to see evidence like this revealing the history and development of Karnak. It breathes a little life into the ancient stone, betraying that there was frequent expansion and renovation. It’s easy to visit Karnak today and take it for granted that we’re looking at a frozen snapshot in time, but that’s not the case. As we walk through this ancient complex, we’re treading across more than 100 generations of continuous occupation, development, devotion, and human achievement.

So, there’s a tight little introduction to Karnak and Ancient Egyptian temples. I hope you’ll tune in to the next episode, where we’ll go deeper into the temple, exploring the carvings on the walls, their meaning and symbolism. We’ll recreate an Ancient Egyptian festival and then we’ll learn how the temple as a whole functions as a symbol of Ancient Egyptian mythology and spiritual beliefs.

If you enjoy the podcast and want to help support it, please consider leaving your comments on iTunes and YouTube. You can also give your feedback at ancientartpodcast.org. Just click on the Feedback link at the top of the page. And I appreciate your comments, suggestions, and questions at info@ancientartpodcast.org. Thanks for listening and see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2010 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

———————————————————
Footnotes:

[1] Wilkinson, Richard H. The Complete Temples of Ancient Egypt. New York: Thames & Hudson, 2000, p154.

30: Karnak II

0
0

Welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast. This is Lucas Livingston, the peanut butter to your jelly on our ancient journey. Last time in episode 29, “Karnak,” we just scratched the surface or strolled the causeway, as it were, on our exploration of Egypt’s largest temple complex. In this episode, we’ll delve deeper into the precinct of Amun at Karnak, deciphering ancient imagery on the walls, reenacting an ancient festival, and breathing new life into the silent ruins.

When we were last together, we wrapped up in the forecourt of Karnak between the first and second pylons looking at the unfinished columns and the leftover mud brick scaffolding of the first pylon.

Just beyond the forecourt and second pylon is the Great Hypostyle Hall consisting of 134 papyrus-shaped columns. A “hypostyle hall” is a large room with a flat ceiling supported by columns. This space and much of the temple were originally roofed. The center 12 columns with open papyrus capitals are taller than the surrounding 122 columns, forming a section where the roof was elevated above the rest, connected by windows to let in some natural light. That technique is called clerestory lighting and it’s a common feature to Egyptian, Roman, and later Christian sacred architecture.

The decoration on the walls and columns in the hypostyle hall depict ritualistic imagery, offerings of the kings to the gods, and the procession of the sacred barque–that’s B-A-R-Q-U-E–a fancy-looking model boat that held the statue of the god. On the exterior walls of the hypostyle hall and much of the rest of the temple, we see battle scenes commemorating Pharaoh’s military victories over the enemies of Egypt. Occasionally it’s an attempt at history, but more often than not it’s a publicly accessible, propagandistic symbol of Egypt’s subjugation and authority over foreign lands and hostile forces of chaos. A fairly common motif is the larger-than-life Pharaoh grabbing a throng of enemies by their hair, ready to bash their heads in with a mace. Here’s Sety I, for example, father of Ramses the Great. Notice all those little grooves where the stone has been slowly carved away by worshippers. This practice started in ancient times and continued well after the temple had ceased religious activity. Much in the same way that Ancient Egyptian mummies would get pulverized and mixed with various ingredients for magical and medicinal concoctions, visitors to Ancient Egyptian temples like Karnak similarly recognized the temple’s magical power and sought to take home a little bit of that power in a powdered form. [1] So on the outside you get big political imagery of Pharaoh smiting enemies and on the inside you get religious imagery pertaining to the action taking place inside the temple and on festival days.

Another interesting thing about this relatively common depiction of Pharaoh smiting the enemies of Egypt is that they’re quite clearly depicted with frontal faces. It’s exceedingly rare to have a frontal face in Ancient Egyptian two-dimensional art. Back in episode 9 of the podcast, “Walk Like an Egyptian”, we touched on this phenomenon with the Mummy Case of Paankhenamun. The conventions of Egyptian artistic doctrine don’t apply here in the case of depicting foreigners. It’s not that the Egyptians didn’t know how to render a frontal face. Case in point. Rather, it’s that the complex relationship of state art, hieroglyphs, and Ma’at (cosmic world order and philosophical truth) limit the use of a frontal Egyptian face in painting and relief carving.

There’s one frontal face that’s relatively common in Egyptian art, which we see here on the obelisk of Pharaoh Tuthmosis I. It’s part of a Hieroglyphic inscription. This common hieroglyph is the preposition “on” or “upon.” So, you might be tempted to say, “See, look here. The frontal face is abundant in Egyptian two-dimensional art,” but it’s important to note that this is writing. It’s language. And even though I’m constantly emphasizing that hieroglyphs and art are inextricably related, sometimes writing is writing and art is art. This hieroglyph got its 15 minutes of fame not too long ago with President Barack Obama’s visit to Egypt back on June 4, 2009. He’s actually quoted as having pointed at that same hieroglyph inscribed on the walls of the Tomb of Qar at Giza and exclaimed, “That looks like me! Look at those ears.” Now, just how many presidents of the United States could express some sort of personal identification with an African nation? Huh?

As you go deeper into Karnak temple, the rooms gradually become smaller, the ceiling lower, and the floor slightly elevated. Think of it like an obelisk lying on its side: a wide base at the front of the temple, gradually tapering to a point at the head or what’s called the “naos,” where the statue of the god Amun was kept. Only a few elite priests were permitted to enter the naos, to clothe and cleanse the god. On certain festival days, the image of the god would be carried out of the naos on his barque shrine, that fancy model boat I already mentioned. Probably the most anticipated festival at Karnak was “the Beautiful Feast of Opet,” held annually during the inundation season. The Opet festival was a celebration of the Nile flood and its symbolic fertility as people across Egypt began planting their crops. The image of the Amun was carried through the temple as everyday Egyptian gathered around gawking at the god. If you look around the Great Hypostyle Hall, you’ll see funny-looking images of a bird with human hands raised up in adoration. That bird’s the Egyptian hieroglyph for “rekhyt,” which was the Egyptian word for themselves, the Egyptians. It’s thought that that glyph indicated to the people where they were allowed to stand during the festival. [2] There’s also this nifty little alabaster block decorated with images of bound, captive foreigners and bows. They represent the “nine bows,” Egypt’s enemies, although the actual number and national identity varies. It’s thought that this block was a rest stop for the priests to place the barque of Amun on its sacred procession. [3] So by placing the barque of Amun on top of the nine bows, the Egyptians were making a symbolic statement of political dominance over its enemies. A very well known representation of the nine bows is found on the sandals of King Tut, so with every step, he was treading over his enemies. The barque’s journey during the Opet festival continued along the south axis, out of the temple, around the sanctuary of Mut and south along the avenue of sphinxes to Luxor temple. After hanging out there for a while, it was brought back to Karnak, at times on land and at times along the Nile.

The relationship of land to water plays a big role in the architectural symbolism and programmatic vision of Ancient Egyptian temples. One interpretation of Egyptian temple architecture is that it models the creation of the universe, according to the popular Theban cosmogony. According to one tradition, the cosmos began as the primeval swirling waters, Nun. From this infinite ocean emerged a mound of earth where a single lotus blossom flowered. Within that flowering lotus was born the infant god Nefertem, and from his tears all the creatures of the world were formed. There are oodles of variants to this story as different cults rise to prominence and get folded into the mythology, but regardless of the fine points, the Egyptian temple is often seen as embodying the idea of creation from the primordial swamp. The rise in elevation of the floor from the temple entrance to the naos might reflect the primeval mound of earth, a little bit of cosmic order in an otherwise chaotic watery void. Similarly, the Egyptian hieroglyph for cosmic world order, the taming of natural chaos, is a stylized mound or the pedestal upon which the image of a god would stand, ma’at, which we’ve already encountered back in episodes 2, “Mummy Case of Paankhenamun”, and 9, “Walk Like an Egyptian”. Even more to the point, the columns decorating the many courts and halls of Egyptian temples were shaped to represent a variety of lotus, palm, and papyrus plants found along the Nile, having found their origin in the primordial swamp. Temple walls, much like tombs, were also sometimes decorated with marsh scenes. And to bring it all home, there’s evidence and testimony through royal inscription that temple forecourts were actually flooded now and again by the Nile’s annual inundation, which would have tied in beautifully with the temple as a concrete manifestation of the force of creation … well, not concrete, mostly limestone or sandstone. Yeah. [4]

So, there’s a lot going on in Karnak and other Egyptian temples. Even today, in their somewhat ruined state with sun-bleached walls, fragmentary sculpture, and eroding inscriptions, these mansions of the gods offer up a very palpable, if not mystical and spiritual experience of one of the greatest civilizations of the ancient world.

Don’t forget to visit ancientartpodcast.org for the full transcript, image gallery and credits, and additional resources to this and other episodes of the podcast. If you like the podcast, how about leaving an iTunes comment. Loves my iTunes comments, and it helps get the podcast noticed. I also appreciate the feedback on YouTube, and if you have any questions or comments or just want to say hi, you can email me at info@ancientartpodcast.org or get in touch with the feedback form at ancientartpodcast.org. You can friend the podcast at facebook.ancientartpodcast.org and follow me on Twitter at lucaslivingston. Alright, it’s been fun and I’ll see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2010 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

———————————————————
Footnotes:

[1] Wilkinson, Richard H. The Complete Temples of Ancient Egypt. New York: Thames & Hudson, 2000, p 62, 99.
[2] ibid.
[3] ibid. p 157-8.
[4] Baines, John. “The Inundation Stela of Sebekhotpe VIII,” Acta Orientalia 1974, pp. 39-54.


31: Shiva Nataraja, Lord of the Dance

0
0

Welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast. In the Hindu narrative of the cosmos, the world exists in a never-ending cyclic journey of creation, existence, and destruction. As we discovered in episode 28 on the “Avatars of Vishnu,” the Trimurti, the three primary Hindu divinities, regulate this cosmic cycle. Brahma, the Creator, brings the cosmos into being. Vishnu, the Preserver, ensures the world continues on it’s path until the cycle comes to a close. And then Shiva, god of death and destruction, skin smeared white with the ashes of the cremated dead. When the world-age comes to a close, when the perfect creation is so consumed by corruption and vice, Shiva’s job is to push the restart button and send the cosmos into a fiery conflagration. From the third eye on Shiva’s forehead comes a fiery stream immolating the cosmos. And rising from the ashes, the cosmos is born again.

Shiva Nataraja, the Lord of the Dance. … [musical excerpt 1] … None of that silliness. Different Lord of the Dance, here. Shiva Nataraja is a very popular form of the god Shiva. You’ll find him all over India, particularly in the south, in chachki shops across the world, and in many different museum collections, including the Art Institute of Chicago and the Snite Museum of Art at the University of Notre Dame. In this form, Shiva embodies not only cosmic destruction but also creation, the whole cosmic cycle wrapped up into one form ensconced within a fiery nimbus or aureole, tongues of flame licking the air about him.

The aureole of fire surrounding Shiva beautifully captures the notion of cyclic creation and destruction. You can’t have one without the other. Creation begets destruction, which in turn begets creation. And fire symbolizes both destruction and creation. The destructive force of fire is readily apparent, but as a creative force … Imagine when a fire burns down a forest. Eventually from those smoldering ashes on the forest floor new life begins to shoot forth. Fire also produces something new and different. When a house burns down, you no longer have a house. You now have a smoking pile of cinders, but it’s something different. A new state of matter.

The form of Shiva Nataraja has multiple arms — generally four. Each arm has a specific symbolic function or message. In his upper left palm he holds a single flickering flame. In it’s appearance here, the flame represents the force of destruction. Opposite destruction in his upper right hand he holds a little hour-glass-shaped drum, like a bongo drum, which he uses to beat out the rhythm of life and creation. The drum also stands for sound, which is related to the primordial element of ether. Before there was anything else, there was ether, and from ether all the other elements — earth, air, fire, and water — were created, and from all of that the whole cosmos was formed.

So, between the symbols that Shiva holds in these two hands, creation and destruction are brought together by the god, unified into a circular constant enclosed within the unending swirl of fire around him. Sound familiar? Back in episode 17 on the “Alsdorf Galleries of Indian, Southeast Asian, Himalayan, and Islamic Art” we looked at Kartikeya, the God of War. There we saw a message of peaceful internal harmony achieved through the unity and balance of our inner opposite forces of masculinity and femininity through the vajra and lotus. We also saw a balance of the celestial and earthly realms through the peacock with the snake in its mouth. Shiva Nataraja expresses a cosmic balance through the union of the diametric opposites of creation and destruction.

… [musical excerpt 2] …

Speaking of balance, Shiva’s striking quite the dance pose. Go on and give it a whirl. See if you can do the Shiva Nataraja. … [musical excerpt 3] … Dance is thought to invoke a meditative trace-like state. In this case, Shiva’s dance, called Tandava, heralds his destruction of the world, from which the world is then reborn. Dance is also a creative act in that you’re continuously in motion undergoing a constant change of form and state. It’s like that old adage from the Greek philosopher Heraclitus of Ephesus, “You can’t step into the same river twice,” because it’s constantly flowing and changing.

What’s that under Shiva’s foot? In an age before political correctness, this mythological dwarf figure represents ignorance and forgetfulness of the right way to live according to dharma, the rule of law. So, Shiva’s stamping down on him, pounding out the ignorance and our inner human vices that seek to block us on our path to enlightenment. Notice his left leg, how it’s lifted up, released from the obstacle to enlightenment. And then his hand calls attention to his lifted leg, but what’s going on with that hand? If Shiva wanted to call our attention to his uplifted leg, why doesn’t he just point normally? What’s with the curious contortion of that left arm? Well, back in episode 17 with Kartikeya, we learned about “mudras,” hand gestures that convey specific messages. In the case of Shiva’s arm here, that’s a mudra meant to remind us of the swaying of an elephant’s trunk. Now, where else in the vast corpus of Hinduism do we encounter an elephant? How about Ganesha, the god with the elephant head? Ganesha, or Ganesh, is commonly known as the Remover of Obstacles, so here Shiva calls our attention to his uplifted leg, removed from the obstacle to enlightenment, while invoking Ganesha, the Remover of Obstacles. Ganesha is also the son of Shiva and his wife Parvati, so Shiva’s giving a little shout out here to his son.

The figure of Shiva Nataraja is so saturated with imagery, symbolism, and spiritual significance, that we could easily spend an hour exploring every nuance, nook, and cranny, but then I’d be the only one still listening to this podcast. So we’re going to call it a day and hope that the Lord of the Dance has inspired you to strike a pose conducive to a harmonious union to your dual natures, achieving an enlightened state of inner peace. But don’t go all celestial on me and cast off the banal worldly indulgence of listening to the Ancient Art Podcast.

Check out ancientartpodcast.org for the full transcript, image gallery and credits, and additional resources to this and other episodes of the podcast. You can be one of the cool kids too, if you add a review on iTunes or leave a comment on YouTube. If you have any questions or comments, you can email me at info@ancientartpodcast.org or get in touch with the feedback form on the website. You can friend the podcast at facebook.ancientartpodcast.org and follow me on Twitter at lucaslivingston. I hope you had fun and I’ll see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2010 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

———————————————————
Musical Credits:

[0] Opening jingle from Apple Garageband, “Jakarta”
[1] Michael Flatley’s Lord of the Dance and Monty Python and the Holy Grail
[2] Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees
[3] The Hustle by Van McCoy and the Soul City Symphony

32: Hadrian and Antinous

0
0

Hello and welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast. I’m your friendly traveling companion, Lucas Livingston. Back in episode 25 we took a gander at a beheaded beauty at the Art Institute of Chicago. The Art Institute has a few other headless wonders from the Roman era and an equal number of disembodied heads to go along for the ride. It’s like chocolate in my peanut butter.

Two particularly attractive heads are of the emperor Hadrian and his young, um, let’s say “intern” Antinous from the second century of the common era. One of the most beloved emperors in Roman history, Hadrian continued to be admired well into the Christian era. His name is perhaps most recognized today in the so-called “Hadrian’s Wall” in northern England. I say “so-called,” because that’s what we call it, not what the Romans called it. A popular tourist attraction today, Hadrian’s Wall was constructed in AD 122, in the fifth year of Hadrian’s reign. It’s generally thought that the wall at that time marked the northern frontier of the Roman Empire.

Hadrian ruled from AD 117 to 138 and is immediately recognizable from his characteristic features. Hadrian was he first Roman emperor to wear a beard, well, except for that Nero fella, but we’ll just pretend that whole episode never happened. [1] The beard then became quite fashionable after Hadrian and every Roman emperor had one, for better or for worse, up until Constantine, the first Christian emperor from AD 306 to 337. But what else distinguishes portraits of Hadrian from any other bearded Roman? Notice the deep drilling into the stone. Hadrian has a characteristic hairstyle with thick, heavy locks waving frantically. This might convey a feeling of anxiety or wildness. As one of Rome’s most beloved emperors, Hadrian didn’t need to put on heirs of a refined, sculpted aristocrat. He was an emperor of the people and his images might invoke a down-to-earth sort of feeling that the public would receive well. Imperial sculpture of the Hadrianic era also reflects a certain Classical Greek sensibility, again, in the hair, with the tight curls forming a distinctive bowl cut looking like it might just want to get up and jump off his head.

[Photo: former Governor Rob Blagojevich]

Oh, woops, wrong slide. Now how did that get in there? We see a similar rendering of the hair on certain Greek statuary, notably of Apollo.

This image of Hadrian also looks like him. That’s the funny thing about portraits. They generally look like the individuals. Imagine that! Or at least it conforms to the conventional portrait type of Hadrian invented by the Roman propaganda machine and disseminated throughout the empire. Also innovative to the reign of Hadrian is the subtle modeling of the eyes, gently drilling the pupils. Prior to this moment, Roman sculpture generally relied on paint to add definition of the eyes, as with earlier Greek and Egyptian sculpture.

Hadrian was well known for his Philhellene tendencies, and that has nothing to do with adolescents. A Philhellene is a lover of all things Greek. Among Hadrian’s many posts along the political ladder was the governorship of Greece, then a territory in the sprawling Roman Empire. Hadrian considered himself to be a subscriber to Greek Stoic and Epicurean philosophy and some historians past and present ascribe his desire for a beard to this tendency, because all good Greek philosophers wore beards. But what would good history be without controversy? Another interpretation posited by ancient historians was that Hadrian had either very bad skin or a big scar, so the beard was simply to cover that up. [2]

Despite the earlier statement above, Hadrian’s Philhellenistic enthusiasm did, in fact, extend to adolescents. Enter Antinous.

Antinous was born to a Greek family in Bithynia, Anatolia, present-day Turkey. According to one version of events, in AD 124, at the ripe age of 13 or 14, marital age for young men in Roman society, Antinous joined Hadrian’s entourage as it was passing through Bithynia. Another account was that Hadrian had the entirety of the Roman Empire scoured for most beautiful youth … and that happened to be Antinous.

For six years Hadrian paraded Antinous around as his arm candy. Then in October of the year 130, while vacationing in Egypt, Antinous mysteriously drowned in Nile. In a true-to-life unsolved mystery along the Nile, ancient historians debated whether this was an accident, suicide, murder, or maybe even a ritual sacrifice. [3] Whatever the cause and whether or not Hadrian was in any way involved, he sure didn’t let on that way. In a state of mourning of epic proportions, Hadrian’s grief knew no bounds. He named cities after the lost beloved youth, like Antinoopolis in Egypt, also called Antinoe. Medals were struck with his effigy and statues of Antinous were erected throughout the empire. Hadrian also minted coinage with Antinous’s visage. He’s one of the few non-imperial individuals ever to have their faces on Roman coins. Also Cleopatra. There’s a great coin at the Art Institute of Chicago showing Cleopatra on one side and Mark Antony on the other. And if you’re especially good, maybe we’ll take a closer look at this coin in a later episode. What’s really wonderful about ancient coinage is that you generally get an image with an inscription. So, coins of Antinous become the templates to which other images are compared for identification. This fragmented statue of Antinous at the Art Institute is representative of the images Hadrian spread far and wide.

The images of Hadrian and Antinous are stylistically similar, of the same stone and with careful, deeply carved locks of hair. Antinous turns his head slightly to the left with a bit of a downward glance, gazing off into the distance. The installation here, though, gets a gold star for curatorial choice, because Antinous appears to be looking fondly upon his emperor, suggesting the affection they shared.

Hadrian went to great lengths to ensure that Antinous would not be forgotten, including deifying the youth. Temples to Antinous were erected in his native Bithynia, Arcadia, and Athens. He was depicted as the Roman god Bacchus, god of fertility, and as the Egyptian god Osiris, god of death and resurrection. To early historians, Osiris and Bacchus or the Greek Dionysus were considered one in the same, as both cults celebrate fertility and both gods share a death, dismemberment, and resurrection mythology, but that definitely needs to wait until another episode to be explored in greater depth.

Modern scholars and connoisseurs take the whole matter of hairdos very seriously when identifying a particular image as Antinous. And we have to be careful, because our perception of what was popular in antiquity can get skewed by what has been popular more recently. Images of Antinous were crazy popular in the 17th and 18th centuries to the point that any 2nd or 3rd century figure of an unidentified, slender youth with wildly articulated hair got the name Antinous slapped on it. Why? Profit margin. What dealer would sell an image of an “unidentified youth” when he could sell an “Antinous” for twice the price? “Antinous” became a figural type, similar to how all Archaic kouros figures were once commonly referred to as “Apollo” figures, as we briefly touched on at the end of episode 16 on the Metropolitan Kouros. The more modern popularity of the “Anitnous” name has also elevated Antinous to be regarded as one of most widely preserved faces from the ancient world, which many of the West’s great museums can boast having in their collections. You also have to be wary of restorations. It’s indeed possible to have a spot-on Antinous only to discover that most of the head was carved in modern times. Case in point: the heavily restored Antinous from the Palazzo Altemps in Rome.

Images of Antinous loomed larger than the human, himself, leading to a trend in artistic convention for idealized, youthful male beauty. It’s indeed conceivable that some Antinous figures could simply be unidentified youths, or even youths in the guise of or inspired by Antinous. For example, when the rich and famous 2nd century Greek aristocrat, Sophist philosopher, and politician Herodes Atticus lost his young intern Polydeuces, much like Hadrian, Herodes Atticus commissioned funerary games and commemorative sculpture on a lavish scale. And some scholars argue that images of Polydeuces intentionally mimicked the Antinous-style to elevate Polydeuces to that same semi-divine status and to elevate Herodes Atticus, himself, to the status of Hardian. To distinguish the two, Polydeuces is generally considered to have a slightly upward gaze and a more petulant or sassy look, versus Antinous’s downward, demure expression.

With his long, luscious, deeply drilled curls cascading over his temples and forehead, a thick fringe of hair covering the nape of his neck, slender, angular features, and his downward gaze, the Art Institute’s image of Antinous fits squarely in the popularly accepted Antinous morphology. And its current installation, standing here demurely beside the proud emperor, never to leave his side, weaves a wonderful narrative of adventure, love, mystery, tragedy, and the exaltation of Hadrian’s immortal beloved.

Check out ancientartpodcast.org for the complete transcript to this and every episode, image galleries with credits, and an extensive bibliography. Increase your karma and add a review on iTunes or leave a comment on YouTube. If you have any questions or comments, you can email me at info@ancientartpodcast.org or get in touch with the feedback form on the website. You can friend the podcast at facebook.com/ancientartpodcast and follow me on Twitter at lucaslivingston. I hope you had fun and I’ll see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2010 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

———————————————————

Footnotes:

[1] Dio Cassius, Roman History, Epitome of Book LXVIII 15.5 <http://www.archive.org/stream/diosromanhistory08cassuoft#page/390/mode/2up/search/beard>. Accessed 22 Aug 2010.

[2] Historia Augusta, The Life of Hadrian, 26.1 <http://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/Texts/Historia_Augusta/Hadrian/2*.html>. Accessed 22 Aug 2010.

[3] Dio Cassius, Roman History, Epitome of Book LXIX 11.2 <http://www.archive.org/stream/diosromanhistory08cassuoft#page/444/mode/2up>. Accessed 22 Aug 2010.

Secondary Sources:

Vout, Caroline. “Antinous, Archaeology and History.” Journal of Roman Studies, vol. 95 (2005), pp. 80-96.

Musical Credits:

Ludwig Van Beethoven, Symphony #9 in D Minor, “Ode to Joy”

33: Ganesha

0
0

Welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast. I’m your host, Lucas Livingston. Back in episodes 17 and 31 of the podcast we met Ganesha, the much-beloved elephant-headed Hindu deity, son of Shiva and Parvati. There’s such a rich spiritual, narrative, and artistic tradition surrounding Lord Ganesha, that this delightful pot-bellied fella deserves some more attention. It’s especially poignant now as the annual celebration of Ganesh Chaturthi, the 11-day festival of Ganesha’s birth, has just come to a close. Based on the lunar calendar, Ganesh Chaturthi fell in 2010 on September 11-22. In this popular festival celebrated throughout much of India and in Hindu communities across the world, devotees flock to temples to pay their respect to Ganesha. Huge statues of the god are paraded through the streets with singing and dancing. Temple icons receive offerings of candy, incense, flowers, money, and food, especially coconuts and bananas. On the first day of the festival on September 11th, if you looked carefully, you might even have found some offerings placed at the feet of Ganesha in the museum galleries of the Art Institute of Chicago.

Revered as a god of wisdom, prosperity, and good fortune, Ganesha is also the Lord of Beginnings and is commonly honored at the start of an assembly, celebration, or undertaking.

He’s extraordinarily popular today, particularly in centers of urban culture and commerce both with the upper and lower classes. It was his attribution as “the god of Everyman” that led the Indian nationalist Lokmanya Tilak in 1893 to transform the Ganesha Chaturthi festival from a private household event into a grand public celebration. It was an attempt to build a new grassroots unity between the Brahmin and the non-Brahmin classes through a mutual context. At that time during India’s period of British occupation, Ganesha became something of a rallying point for the population’s nationalistic identity. [1]

The Art Institute has a few spectacular images of Ganesha on display. A couple great ones from the 10th century and the 16th or 17th century expressively represent the many-armed god dancing. You often see Ganesha getting down, and rightly so. Kids love to dance, and Ganesha’s no exception. This cheerful child of Shiva and Parvati has a rather unusual birth, which also helps to explain how he happened to get the elephant head. People of any age can enjoy exploring the story of how Ganesha gets his head in Curious Corner, an series of interactive stories and games available online and in the Family Room at the Art Institute. Check out the links section at resources.ancientartpodcast.org for the link to Curious Corner. Some listeners might also remember the kid’s exhibition from a few years ago, Faces, Places, and Inner Spaces, where you could listen to a recording of kids telling the story. [2]

The beautiful thing about the Hindu narrative tradition, as with many other narrative traditions, is that you find different versions of the same story, but the story for how Ganesha got his elephant head usually begins with his parents Parvati and Shiva. When Shiva, the Supreme Yogi, would go off on long periods of spiritual exploration and meditation high in the mountains of the Himalayas, poor Parvati began to feel very lonely at home in their palace on Mount Kailash.

“While taking a bath, Parvati washed the dirt from her body and used it to form a baby boy. As the years passed, the boy grew into a young man, who did not know his father, but loved his mother so much, that he wanted to help her in every way. One spring morning, Parvati asked her son to stand guard at the entrance to her bath. A stranger approached and tried to enter, but the young man blocked his way. In a fit of anger, the stranger attacked Parvati’s son and ripped off his head. Hearing the commotion, Parvati quickly stepped out of her bath and opened the door. There she found her son without a head and her husband Shiva, the stranger, who had returned from his long journey. Although glad to see her husband, Parvati was filled with sorrow at the sight of her son. Realizing the grief he caused, Shiva promised to replace the head with that of the first creature he could find.” [3]

So Shiva rounded up the ganas, little leprechaun-like creatures that served Shiva. “Alright, gang,” he said, “We have a task. I want you to spread out and bring back the first head you come across.” The ganas dutifully went out in search of a head and came upon an elephant. The story generally seems to gloss over what happens to the elephant, but they bring back the head. Shiva places the head upon the lifeless body of the boy, he springs back to life, and is henceforth known as “Ganesha,” Lord of the Ganas, because Ganesha is now in charge of the ganas. He’s also known as the Remover of Obstacles, because, well, not a lot is going to stand in the way of an elephant, but also ganas, much like leprechauns, can be mischievous little pranksters or good luck and good fortune. If you offer Ganesha the right puja or prasad — gifts — then he’ll part the obstructive ganas from your path.

Perhaps my favorite image of Ganesha at the Art Institute is this fabulous 11th or 12th century figure in the James and Marilynn Alsdorf Collection. It comes from the period of the Hoysala Empire of south central India (roundabouts present-day Karnataka). You can think of Hoysala as the Baroque, or almost Rococo period of Indian art, with its abundance of ornamentation and intricate detail. Note the magnificent jewelry draping Ganesha’s body, the swooping rosaries, and splendid crown. Look at his fantastic mace and I love the way the artist has rendered Ganesha’s ears with the jagged cuts, almost like bat wigs. It’s made of chloritic schist. No, “schist” isn’t a bad word. It’s a kind of soft stone, or simply soapstone. You can say “schist,” as long as you use it respectfully.

Ganesha greatly enjoys all the sweet candy prasad that we give him, and he has a real sweet tooth. You’ll often find him dipping his trunk into a bowel of small round sweets. One of his tusks is often missing. No, not because of a cavity. There are a few different stories for how Ganesha lost his tusk. One rather pious version mentions the great Vedic sage, Vyasa, the traditional author of the Mahabarata and also a character in that same Hindu epic story and spiritual work. The Mahabarata had never previously been written down. It had been passed down from generation to generation through oral tradition. Ganesha heard that Vyasa was going to recite the Mahabarata and he thought that this would be an excellent opportunity finally to transcribe the work. As it happened, though, Ganesha was the only spectator at the moment … and, well, it appeared that Ganesha forgot his pen. So what does he do? He breaks off one of his tusks and uses it as a pen to transcribe the Mahabarata. Notice how Ganesha is missing both of his tusks here. One is nicely rounded and decoratively capped like a domesticated elephant might have, reminding us of his very urban cultural context, while the other is more deliberately broken off and Ganesha is actually pinching the broken piece like a pen in one of his hands.

Another story for how he lost his tusk has Ganesha going out for a joy ride on his friendly “vahana” or “vehicle,” his rat companion, who we met briefly in episode 17.

“One evening, after eating a very large bowl of sweets, Ganesha was riding on his vehicle, the rat, when a snake crossed his path. The rat bolted away in fright throwing Ganesha onto the ground. When he fell, the impact caused his stuffed stomach to burst open, and all the sweets rolled out onto the ground. Patiently, Ganesha picked up the sweets and put them back into his belly, using the snake as a rope to hold them all in. The moon, who had seen this unfortunate accident, burst out laughing. Ganesha became embarrassed, so he snapped off his tusk in anger and hurled it at the moon to teach it a lesson for laughing at another’s bad luck.” [3]

… And in case you’re wondering, that’s where are the craters on the moon come from.

A few minutes ago we were discussing the 1893 transformation of the Ganesha Chaturthi festival. Something else significant in 1893 was the speech delivered by Swami Vivekananda at the World’s Parliament of Religions during the Columbian Exposition in the building that, one year later, was to become the Art Institute of Chicago. On September 11th, 1893, Swami Vivekananda delivered a short speech on universal tolerance of world religions and helped introduce the West to Eastern thought and spirituality. You can download the speech on the Art Institute’s website as part of the special exhibition Public Notice 3 by contemporary Indian artist Jitish Kallat. You’ll find the link at resources.ancientartpodcast.org. The exhibition on the risers of the Art Institute’s Grand Staircase displays lines from Swami Vivekananda’s famous speech in colorful LED signage. The installation opened on September 11, 2010. It juxtaposes the September 11, 1893 message of religious tolerance with the acts of global terrorism on September 11, 2001. The colorful installation further explores the world’s arguable regression from religious tolerance by using the colors of the Homeland Security threat level alert system. The exhibition will be on view until January 2, 2011. I encourage you to swing by and check it out. While you’re visiting, be sure to pay a visit to the many images Ganesha and perhaps offer him a little puja for the many obstacles we currently face.

Special thanks to the Art Institute of Chicago for the Ganesha stories from the “Faces, Places, and Inner Spaces” exhibition.

Questions, comments, suggestions? Please email me at info@ancientartpodcast.org. Connect at facebook.com/ancientartpodcast. Take care and see you next time on the Ancient Art Podcast.

©2010 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

———————————————————

Footnotes:

[1] For Ganesha’s appeal as “the god for Everyman” as a motivation for Tilak, see Brown, Robert, Ganesh: Studies of an Asian God, Albany: State University of New York (1991), p. 9. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ganesha#cite_ref-133>.

[2] Music from Curious Corner. © Art Institute of Chicago <http://www.artic.edu/aic/education/CC/>.

[3] Used with permission. © Art Institute of Chicago.

34: Haniwa Horse and Hokusai’s Ghosts

0
0

Hey people. Welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast. I’m your host, Lucas Livingston. The Art Institute of Chicago recently opened its new galleries of Japanese art called the Weston Wing. You can now explore ancient treasures of Japanese art stretching back as far as the second millennium BC up through contemporary works of ceramics, bamboo basketry, woodblock prints, and painting.

As you pass through the decorative gate to the Weston Wing, the installation starts off with wonderful earthenware vessels and figurines from the Jomon period of about 2000 to 300 BC and human and animal haniwa figurines of the Kofun era. The Kofun era of the mid 3rd to mid 6th centuries of the common era gets its name from the large mounded circular or keyhole shaped tombs that were constructed in Japan during this period. Kofun dotting the Japanese landscape contained small clay vessels, structures, and figurines known as “haniwa.” The Art Institute has a few magnificent 5th and 6th century haniwa on display, including guardian warriors, dancing figures, wrestlers, and a hen. These wonderfully dynamic and expressive objects once encircled the burials of the deceased in concentric circles on the mounded kofun tombs. At the zenith of the mound directly above the deceased is where one would find a large earthenware model house. Surrounding the house you’d find satellite houses and other figural haniwa. At the base of the mound, simple clay cylinders outlined the entire kofun, forming something of a barrier.

There are different theories about the origin of haniwa. The more elaborate figurative objects likely evolved from the more prevalent and simpler cylindrical shapes. Looking at the hen you can see the vestigial cylindrical form from which it may have derived. The clay cylinders surrounding the earthen mound could have served as a sort of landscaping retaining wall, and the name “haniwa” (“hani” meaning “clay” and “wa” meaning “circle”) might suggest that function, but their placement doesn’t entirely support that theory. They could have functioned spiritually to form a demarcating barrier between the land of the living and the abode of the dead. Fierce haniwa warriors may likely have served as guardians to protect the deceased, and other figures as forms of entertainment and accommodations in the hereafter. [1] There’s a fascinating passage about the origin of haniwa in the Nihon Shoki, one of the earliest histories of Japan composed in the year 720. The passage states than an emperor demanded that a substitute be found for the mass sacrifice and burial of live attendants upon the death of a member of the imperial household, because killing off your entire retinue of servants is definitely not economically sustainable. So the clayworkers’ guild got together and fashioned clay figurines of people and horses to be used instead. Trouble is there’s no archaeological evidence to support mass sacrifice at Japanese tombs, but it’s argued that the Japanese could have been reacting to Chinese sacrificial practices of the much earlier Shang dynasty, because at the time when the Nihon Shoki was written, the Japanese were modeling their culture in part after China. [2]

My favorite haniwa on display at the Art Institute is this 5th or 6th century terra-cotta horse. At over 30 inches tall and long, it’s quite large compared to its haniwa neighbors. Looking at its different sections in isolation, you can see how its an assemblage of simple shapes from the ceramics of everyday life — plate-like disks, doughy spheres, unassuming rectangular sheets, and cylindrical tubes. The materials, techniques, and craftsmen of early haniwa were the same as those of everyday household clay wares. But through skilled hands, simple forms combine to produce an exquisitely expressive and magnificent horse befitting of the imperial stables. Judging by the care with which this and other haniwa horse images were crafted, the animals must have been extremely prized commodities in their day.

A somewhat eerie, haunting passage from that same 8th century historical text, Nihon Shoki, suggests the sense of prestige for equestrianism and artistic pride in the haniwa horse’s lifelike quality. A man named Hiakuson was riding home on a moonlit night past the tomb of Emperor Ojin, where he encountered a rider on a magnificent red steed, “which dashed along like the flight of a dragon.” Hiakuson strongly desired to posses the glorious red steed and whipped up his own mottled horse to ride up alongside. But the mystery horse and rider “shot ahead … [and] speedily vanished in the distance.” The rider eventually stopped, turned around, met up with Hiakuson, and agreed to exchange horses. Hiakuson was overjoyed and went home to stable and tend to his new prize steed. When he entered the stables the following morning, he was shocked to discover that the beautiful red horse had been transformed into clay. When he returned to the tomb from the night before, he found his own mottled horse obediently standing there among the clay haniwa horses of the emperor’s tomb. [3]

In the spirit of Halloween, with haunting apparitions and spectral figures about, while they’re not ancient, we’ll close this episode of the Ancient Art Podcast with the woodblock prints of Katsushika Hokusai (1760-1849) from the series “One Hundred Ghost Stories” published in 1831-32. Hokusai’s probably best know to viewers and listeners as the artist of the “Great Wave off Kanagawa.” [4] While he ended up designing only five spectral emanations in this series, of which the Art Institute has four, the “100” in the name comes from the favorite spooky past-time of lighting 100 candles in a circle. After each participant tells a frightening tale, they blow out a candle. Tale after creepy tale, the light slowly dwindles, and tensions rise, while the spirits of the dead are aroused from their slumber. [5]

With deft artistry and masterful skill of the woodblock print medium, Hokusai’s ghastly ghost prints illustrate tales of undead vengeance appearing in the kabuki theater performance “Four Nights of Gothic Tales from the Pacific Highway.” A skeletal specter (Kohada Koheiji) creeps with vengeful determination through a mosquito net to prey upon his murderous, adulterous wife and her lover. On an old, worn, paper lantern appears the ghoulish grimace of Oiwa, twisted in hideous disfigurement from the poison her suspicious and adulterous husband fed slowly her. The wispy ghost of the young servant girl Okiku floats from the deep dark well where her wicked master disposed of her corpse. The master had framed her for breaking a precious porcelain plate in a set of ten. He would forgive her if she would consent to his lecherous advances, but Okiku refused and had the life crushed from her at her master’s enraged hands. Every night the master would be awakened by the cries of Okiku’s ghost from the well counting 1, 2, 3, 4 … and after reaching 9, the wailing ghost cried loud, tortured sobs of sorrow, eventually driving the master insane. I like how Hokusai included the blue and white porcelain plates in the long spectral form of Okiku’s ghost, and a wisp of speech slips from her lips. The vengeful specter rising from a deep dark well has particular resonance in Japanese horror, as inspiration in multiple books and films, including the famous 1998 film Ringu and its 2002 American remake The Ring. Now, that’s one creepy movie.

Be sure to visit out http://www.ancientartpodcast.org for images from this and every episode of the podcast, including image credits. You’ll also find transcripts for every episode, an extensive bibliography, and links to other resources. Send you questions, comments, and suggestions to info@ancientartpodcast.org or get in touch with the feedback form on the website. If you dig the podcast, add a review on iTunes or leave a comment on YouTube. You can friend the podcast at http://www.facebook.com/ancientartpodcast and follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/lucaslivingston. Thanks for listening and have a safe and Happy Halloween!

©2010 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

———————————————————
Footnotes:

[1] Mason, Penelope. History of Japanese Art. New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 1993, p. 23-28.
[2] Mason 26. Evidence for human sacrifice is found in the ancient Chinese Shang (c. 1700-1050 BC) and Zhou Dynasties (Western Zhou c. 1050-771 BC, Eastern Zhou 770-256 BC).
[3] Nihongi: Chronicles of Japan from the Earliest Times to A.D. 697. Trans. W. G. Aston. London, 1896, p. 357-58.
[4] The Art Institute of Chicago has three prints of Hokusai’s “Great Wave off Kanagawa,” each individually unique. Pictured here is 1925.3245. Compare all three at <http://www.artic.edu/aic/collections/node/11139>.
[5] Mason 315-17.

Creepy sounds courtesy of The Freesound Project, created by the following artists, and remixed by Lucas Livingston:

DJ Chronos, Horror Drone 001-006 (ID’s: 52134, 52135, 52136, 52137, 52138, 52139)
DJ Chronos, Suspense 001, 004-015, 017 (ID’s: 56885, 56886, 56887, 56888, 56889, 56890, 56891, 56892, 56893, 56894, 56895, 56896, 56897)
Sea Fury, Monster (ID: 48662)
Sea Fury, Monster 2 (ID: 48673)
digenisnikos, scream3 (ID: 44260)
thanvannispen, scream_group_women (ID: 30279)
rutgermuller, Haunting Music 1 (www.rutgermuller.nl) (ID: 51243)

35: The Lotus as a Narcotic or Aphrodisiac

0
0

Hey folks. Welcome back to the Ancient Art Podcast. I’m your host, Lucas Livingston. We’re going to have a little fun over the next few episodes with a speed round of the Top 10 Ancient Egyptian Myths and Misconceptions. And by myths, I don’t mean ancient stories. I mean things that are frequently spewed by pop culture, but are just plain wrong, distorted, or unsupported. To be clear, this is my own list. Your #1 might be my #11, but please don’t use this as an excuse to get your flame on. I’d love it if you’d share your own thoughts on other common misconceptions about Ancient Egypt, Greece, Rome, or any other ancient civilization, art, culture, history, language, or what have you. You can email me directly at info@ancientartpodcast.org or send me feedback at http://feedback.ancientartpodcast.org. You can also leave a comment on YouTube, send me a tweet on Twitter at @lucaslivingston, or touch base on http://facebook.com/ancientartpodcast.

Some of the points on the Top 10 List have already been mentioned in past episodes, but it’s nice to have them all consolidated here. So let’s get busy.

Number 10: The Lotus as a Narcotic or Aphrodisiac

We talked about the lotus in a few episodes so far in Ancient Egyptian and Hindu contexts. If you want to look that up, just head on over to ancientartpodcast.org and type “lotus” in the search box. The lotus is one of the most prevalent symbols from Ancient Egypt — as temple columns, in tomb paintings, and even among the burial goods of King Tut. As a symbol of creation and resurrection, it’s especially popular in funerary art. At the Art Institute of Chicago, you’ll find it on the Mummy Case of Paankhenamun, the wall fragments from the tombs of both Amenemhets, a fragment from the Book of the Dead, and elsewhere.

We also see lotuses in depictions of floral arrangements and ancient gardens. Some of the most amazing paintings from Ancient Egypt come from the tomb of Nebamun, an accountant at the Temple of Amun at Karnak. He died around 1350 BC in the New Kingdom. These fragments are now in the British Museum and, amazingly, the location of the original tomb of Nebamun has been lost. [1]

You often see Ancient Egyptian women holding a lotus up to their noses. This has led to all sorts of interpretations. Could it have simply been for the lovely fragrance, or might there perhaps be some narcotic or aphrodisiac quality to the plant? Where ever our own speculation might lead us, we first need to turn to primary sources. Ancient Egyptian medical papyri reveal that the lotus was consumed as an ingredient in medicines, along with such other fine medicinal ingredients as crocodile, hedgehog, and door mice, but there’s no evidence that there was any sort of narcotic effect from consuming the lotus. [2] It was also immersed in wine, along with many other ingredients, presumably to infuse some flavor or aroma, but not, as some argue, to extract powerful psychotropic alkaloids. If you look long enough, you’ll find research arguing both sides of the issue. [3]

The nail in the coffin, though, comes from the meticulously scientific 2008 study “Intoxicants in Ancient Egypt? Opium, Nymphaea, Coca, and Tobacco” by David J. Counsell published in Egyptian Mummies and Modern Science, edited by A. R. David.

But we need to step back for a minute. Just what do you mean when you’re talking about lotuses? The most popular lotus in Egyptian art is the so-called blue lotus, nymphaea caerulea. Then there’s also the white lotus, or nymphaea lotus. Both species were native to Egypt in ancient times. And then probably around 500 BC during Egypt’s Persian occupation, the pink lotus was introduced from Persia and India — nelumbo nucifera — an entirely different genus of plant. [4] Of course, the Ancient Egyptian’s didn’t split hairs, like we do. To them, they were all just seshen.

Counsell’s 2008 study looked at all three plants to detect the presence of narcotics, intoxicants, and stimulants. He even used both fresh and 2000 year old blue lotus samples. Much to the dismay of hippie and hipster Egyptologists everywhere, the study conclusively determined that there are no alkaloids — or the active ingredient found in anesthetics, cocaine, caffeine, nicotine, morphine, etc. — no alkaloids in the native Egyptian blue and white lotus. He did find high levels of bioflavonoid, which is the same compound that gives ginseng its herbal remedy property, aiding blood circulation, but not down there where you’re thinking. [5] The Indian pink lotus is a different story, though. Here the narcotic and stimulant properties are well supported. In small doses it would work like a sort of aphrodisiac, increasing the libido and enhance sexual desire, but not performance. Sorry, no ancient Viagra. But high doses would induce “prolonged and uncontrolled vomiting.” [6] So definitely not something to serve your party guests.

Well, it’s quitting time and I’m clocking out for now. Check on back soon for more of the Top 10 Ancient Egyptian Myths and Misconceptions. Spoiler alert: check out www.ancientartpodcast.org/top10 (yes, you need the “www”) for the whole list right now, but be sure to tune in to the Ancient Art Podcast if you want the meat to those bare bones.

©2010 Lucas Livingston, ancientartpodcast.org

———————————————————

Footnotes:

[1] http://www.britishmuseum.org/explore/galleries/ancient_egypt/room_61_tomb-chapel_nebamun.aspx

[2] For use of crocodile and mouse as medicinal ingredients, see pages 7 and 9; hedgehog page 9 in Parkins, Michael D. and J. Szekrenyes. “Pharmacological Practices of Ancient Egypt”. Proceedings of the 10th Annual History of Medicine Days. University of Calgary, 2001. <http://www.ucalgary.ca/uofc/Others/HOM/Dayspapers2001.pdf> Retrieved Dec. 20, 2010.

[3] For arguments supporting the psychotropic effect of the lotus in Ancient Egyptian culture, see:

(a) Harer, W. Benson. “Pharmacological and Biological Properties of the Egyptian Lotus.” Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt, 22 (1985), 49-54.

(b) Emboden, W. “Narcotic Plants: Hallucinogens, Stimulants, Inebriants and Hypnotics, Their Origins and Uses.” London: Studio Vista (1979).

(c) Emboden, W. “Transcultural Uses of Narcotic Water Lilies in Ancient Egyptian and Maya Drug Ritual.” Journal of Ethnopharmacology, 3 (1981), 39-83.

(d) See also page 8 of Parkins (2001).

[4] Counsell, David J. “Intoxicants in Ancient Egypt? Opium, Nymphaea, Coca, and Tobacco” in Egyptian Mummies and Modern Science, edited by A. R. David. 2008, p. 204.

[5] ibid. 208

[6] ibid. 209

———————————————————

Credits:

dobroide, 20061105.sniffing.02 (ID: 24974), The Freesound Project .

Iron Butterfly, “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” 1968

Karmanistic, “Hypnoscyzmn,” The Internet Archive .

Viewing all 178 articles
Browse latest View live


Latest Images