Journal articles on the topic 'Triumphal arches'

The triumphal arches, a product of imperial propaganda, are the most famous and widespread Roman triumphal monuments. The official Roman coins illustrated on their reverse the triumphal arches located in the capital of the empire, Rome. Many of these monuments are still preserved, but some have disappeared in the tumult of history. Therefore, coins become “evidence” of the existence of these buildings when thy have not survived over centuries or allow the reconstruction of parts that have disappeared from them. The provincial coins of Lower Moesia also speak of the presence of such triumphal monuments (unknown now by of archaeological discoveries) from this border province. In this paper, some considerations are expressed regarding the numismatic evidence of the triumphal arches at Markianopolis and Tomis.

These lines adorned one of the triumphal arches built in honour of Ferdinand of Aragon's ceremonial entry into Valladolid on 5 January 1513. This event, like so many other such entries throughout Europe during the sixteenth century, was intended to recall the Triumphs of the Roman emperors, though it was also embedded in a long-established entry ritual. The ephemeral buildings all'antica, the apparati, street decorations, pageants with allegorical, mythological and historical figures, as well as music and dancing of various kinds all formed part of a royal spectacle devised according to the political process of image-making.

The arrival of Queensland's first Governor on 10 December 1859 was an occasion for celebration; in the words of Brisbane's newspaper, ‘never was welcome given with heartier zest’. As Sir George Bowen stepped ashore at a temporary landing stage in the Botanic Gardens, he was greeted with an ornamental arch, a semicircular frame covered in flowers and greenery, bearing words of welcome. This ‘triumphal arch’, as it was called, was the creation of Andrew Petrie, a pioneer settler and building contractor, and Walter Hill, the Curator of the Gardens. It was to be the first of hundreds of similar arches erected throughout Queensland for almost a century. They were a regular feature of public celebrations until relatively recent times, marking the arrivals and travels of Governors, occasional visits by royalty, the opening of major roads, railways and bridges, and, to a lesser extent, historical milestones. They ranged from grand, highly decorated structures – often the work of professional designers – erected in the metropolis for royal visits to simple arches of greenery, put up by even the smallest regional communities for special occasions, such as welcoming visiting Governors. This paper takes a closer look at these curious structures and the symbolism behind them for, as Stephen Alomes observes, public rituals provide valuable insights into Australian life, revealing contradictions between imperial loyalties and burgeoning nationalism, indigenous and derivative, traditional and modern.

The article deals with the main features of the public representation of the power images during the early Stuart Restoration. The problem is studied on the material of the solemn entry of the English King Charles II into London on the eve of his coronation, April 22, 1661. Prior to this event, four triumphal arches were built in the city center, using the main symbols and allegories associated with the restoration of the monarchy. Based on a wide range of sources (official descriptions of celebrations, engravings, poetic works and diaries), the authors study the characteristic features of the power images of the early Restoration. Firstly, an important role in the construction of these images was played by the use of the heritage of the Antiquity, mainly of the works of Virgil. England was represented as the new Rome, and Charles II was seen as the new Augustus. Secondly, like the early Stuarts, Charles II sought to present his rule as a new “Golden Age” — the era of prosperity and abundance. The latter, according to the architects of the arches, came to replace the chaos, desolation and discord of the civil wars and of the Interregnum. The symbolism of the arches helps us understand, how the legacy of that period was refracted in official rhetoric and in the minds of the Englishmen of the Restoration era. Finally, the images on the triumphal arches reflected the plans and aspirations of the new government, being a kind of “manifesto” of the new monarchy.

This work studies certain iconographic artifacts erected to celebrate the triumphal entry of the recently appointed interim Viceroy, Archbishop Diego de Morcillo y Auñón, to Villa Rica del Cerro de Potosí, on his way to Lima. Such artifacts, the magnificent triumphal arches, masquerades, a play (loa), and even an oil painting, commissioned to Melchor Pérez de Holguín, were designed in advance. Their purpose was to exalt the figure of the Viceroy by embodying emblematic artistic figures. This research proposes the reading of certain aspects of the iconographic program produced around the figure of Morcillo in order to elucidate local features and some characteristics of the creole agency in Potosí, carefully displayed in these emblems.

This paper investigates the social and theological import of Romans against the iconography of the Augustan arches, focusing on Paul’s indebtedness to Greeks and barbarians, the reconciliation of enemies, the victory of Christ on behalf of believers, and his rule over the nations. D.C. Lopez and B. Kahl investigated the iconographic evidence of Aphrodisias and Pergamon when discussing the political implications of Paul’s gospel in the Roman province of Asia. Paul visited neither city, so arguments about the apostle’s interaction with the imperial ideology of ‘victory’ depends more on the ubiquity of the Julio-Claudian propaganda than on any contact Paul might have had with those specific monuments. The Augustan arches throughout the Empire stereotypically depict the humiliation of barbarians at the sites of Pisidian Antioch, a city visited by Paul (Acts 13:14-50), as well as at La Turbie, Glanum, Carpentras and the triple arch at the Roman Forum. However, there were other iconographic motifs on the arches that conflicted with the relentless triumphal ideology of Augustus. They articulated an alternate vision of social relations between conqueror and conquered.

The celebration of the entry of the viceroy was the most lavish, costly civic ritual in seventeenth-century Puebla de los Angeles. Staged by Puebla elites to honor the viceroy, this ritual event was orchestrated to assert and display the religiosity and superiority of Angelópolis (the literary title for Puebla). Invoking the journey of Hernán Cortés, the routing of the viceregal entry through Puebla prior to Mexico City heightened the competitive spirit of the Puebla Cabildo. The Puebla Cathedral, erected on the main plaza largely under the influence of Bishop Juan de Palafox y Mendoza from 1640-49, functioned as the centerpiece and scenographie backdrop of this civic spectacle. Ephemeral, triumphal arches featuring allegorical, political emblems framed and gated the ritual entry. Designed by members of the oldest builders’ guild in New Spain, some of these arches were placed within the main portal of the Cathedral marking its role as the sanctum sanctorum of the city.

During the Siglo de Oro, the Golden Age of Spanish drama (1580–1680), the Spanish court sponsored many types of theatrical entertainments. The kings and queens of Spain enjoyed re-enactments of battles, processions using triumphal arches and cars, invenciones (scenic charades), ballets, and máscaras (masques). In addition to these theatrical forms, two major types of drama developed at court towards the end of the sixteenth century. N.D. Shergold refers to these forms as particulares, or command performances of plays from the public repertory, and festival plays: elaborate productions involving machines and Italianate scenery, which were performed on special occasions.

It was decided that a marble arch (Ianus) should be erected in the Circus Flaminius at public expense, positioned by the spot where statues have already been dedicated to Divus Augustus and the Augustan household by G. Norbanus Flaccus, together with gilded images of peoples conquered, and an inscription on the face of that arch stating that the Senate and People of Rome have dedicated this marble monument to the memory of Germanicus Caesar, since he … (account of achievements follows) … unsparing of his labours, until an ovation should be granted to him by decree of the senate, had died in the service of the republic; and above the arch there should be set a statue of Germanicus Caesar in a triumphal chariot, and at his sides, statues of his father Drusus Germanicus, natural brother of Tiberius Caesar Augustus, of his mother Antonia, his wife Agrippina, his sister Livia, his brother Tiberius Germanicus and of his sons and daughters.

This article analyzes celebrations of Russian military victories over the Ottoman Turks during Catherine II’s reign on the examples of pictures (tableaux) featured in fireworks, illuminations, triumphal arches, processions, and instances of live theater. Performing the Crimean conquest via these artistic displays, from the early 1770s—the time when Crimea first begins to appear in them—and until Catherine’s final years, served as a way of incorporating the peninsula as a part of the imperial design and of announcing the Crimean Tatar as the latest member of the Russian Empire’s supporting cast. This paper argues that Crimea’s changing status in the ceremonial culture of Catherine’s court is reflected in these tableaux with their focus on the territory (Crimea) as opposed to its people (Crimean Tatars).

Abstract Following the cessation of hostilities in Europe in 1945, a debate ensued in colonial Zambia on what was the best tribute to dedicate to its servicemen who had lost their lives in the Second World War. On the one hand, the colonial government advocated for conventional forms of a war memorial such as statues, obelisks, and triumphal arches. On the other side, African servicemen supported the idea of ‘living memorials’ in form of useful projects such as educational institutions, clinics or community centres. In the end, proponents of traditional memorials won this contest—eventually leading to the erection of a cenotaph in the heart of the seat of government. Using data from the National Archives of Zambia, this article argues that the erection of a cenotaph, was another blow to African servicemen who felt cheated by colonial authorities in the way they were to forever honour their dear departed compatriots.

The article presents carried-out research work on the artistic heritage of Vasily Stasov (the buildings that identify to the greatest degree the architect’s stylistic techniques) as determining the main trends in the development of Russian architecture from the end of the 18th to the mid-19th century, namely, the “High Classicist” style, which was predominant during this period, and the sources of historicism. In order to minimize subjectivity when analyzing the evolution of Russian architecture following the main buildings designed by Vasily Stasov, the principle of this assessment was formed. Within the framework of the creative heritage of Vasily Stasov, research was made of: a complex of shopping malls, the interior of a palace (using the example of a ceremonial office), triumphal arches (gates) (four examples), a complex of stables (two examples), food warehouses (two examples), a complex of barracks, restoration work (by the example of a cathedral in an architectural ensemble), cathedrals (two examples) and a church, a tenement house, and a palace ensemble.

Abstract Early modern culture was most fully expressed in events where materiality and textuality are inextricably intertwined: theatrical spectacles, royal parades, triumphal arches, processions, poetic tournaments, and jousts. At the other end of the spectrum, mainstream trends of nineteenth- and twentieth-century Hispanic philology—a prism through which early modern texts have been used and read for years—are part of a genealogy of thought that privileges form over matter. As a result, the radical importance of materials is frequently overlooked in the study of early modern culture. However, if we pay attention to early modern poetic and philosophical treatises, we can clearly notice the anxiety to justify the medium in which texts themselves were produced and transmitted. This article stresses the importance of materiality in two types of treatises from early modern Iberia: three sensory treatises by Oliva Sabuco (1587), Lorenzo Ortiz (1687), and Diego Calleja (1700); and three manuals of textual production by Juan del Encina (1496), Francisco Lucas (1580), and Alonso Víctor de Paredes (1680). The article sets out an argument for a materialist practice of literary criticism, a way to read early modern texts in terms of their own material theory.

AbstractFollowing the conquest of Algiers and its surrounding territory by the French army in 1830, officers noted an abundance of standing stones in this region of North Africa. Although they attracted considerably less attention among their cohort than more familiar Roman monuments such as triumphal arches and bridges, these prehistoric remains were similar to formations found in Brittany and other parts of France. The first effort to document these remains occurred in 1863, when Laurent-Charles Féraud, a French army interpreter, recorded thousands of dolmens and stone formations south-west of Constantine. Alleging that these constructions were Gallic, Féraud hypothesized the close affinity of the French, who claimed descent from the ancient Gauls, with the early inhabitants of North Africa. After Féraud's claims met with scepticism among many prehistorians, French scholars argued that these remains were constructed by the ancestors of the Berbers (Kabyles in contemporary parlance), whom they hypothesized had been dominated by a blond race of European origin. Using craniometric statistics of human remains found in the vicinity of the standing stones to propose a genealogy of the Kabyles, French administrators in Algeria thereafter suggested that their mixed origins allowed them to adapt more easily than the Arab population to French colonial governance. This case study at the intersection of prehistoric archaeology, ancient history and craniology exposes how genealogical (and racial) classification made signal contributions to French colonial ideology and policy between the 1860s and 1880s.

[Rev. of: Reading Russia. A History of Reading in Modern Russia. Volume 1. Edited by Damiano Rebecchini and Raffaella Vassena. Milano: Università degli Studi di Milano, 2020] The first volume of the collective monograph “Reading Russia. The History of Reading in Modern Russia”, is focused on the ‘long’ eighteenth century. It includes a preface by D. Rebecchini and R. Wassena to the entire three-volume edition and eight chapters written by famous researchers of Russian culture, literature and history. In the first chapters, D. Waugh considers the history of reading in the pre-Petrine period, G. Marker problematizes key issues of studying the history of reading in eighteenth-century Russia, K. Ospovat traces the dynamics of reading policy from Peter I to Elizabeth I. R. Bodin discusses the main changes in the reading habits in the second half of the century, A. Zorin demonstrates the «revolutionary» changes among the nobility due to the sentimentalism literature, E. Kislova researches the reading habits of the educated clergy, and B. Grigoryan studies the reader's image development in the Russian magazines of 1760–1830-ies. S. Franklin's chapter discusses the urban graphosphere in three different centuries: from the triumphal arches of Peter the Great, through the commercial signs of the mid-nineteenth century, he arrives at the inscriptions of the Soviet city. Overall, like the entire publication, the reviewed volume is the first major study of the history of reading in Russia, covering a long period and summarizing results of individual studies.

Este ensayo analiza cómo dos de los intelectuales criollos más destacados de Nueva España, Carlos de Sigüenza y Góngora y sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, propusieron una fórmula de gobierno para la colonia a través de un elaborado programa iconográfico, cuyo contenido se transmitió al nuevo virrey durante su entrada triunfal en la ciudad de México en 1680. Por medio de las empresas sugeridas de manera didáctica en dos arcos triunfales confeccionados respectivamente por ambos escritores, además de a través de dos relevantes obras que explicaban los símbolos y alegorías contenidos en esas edificaciones efímeras, el Teatro de Virtudes políticas que constituyen a un príncipe y el Neptuno Alegórico, se comunicaba una exhortación al Marqués de la Laguna para tomar como modelos ejemplares los elementos distintivos de la historia mexicana y de la mitología clásica en sendos casos, lo que conformaría nuevos parámetros para la dirección de la Monarquía española en Indias. -- This essay aims to study how the two most intellectually gifted creoles in New Spain, Carlos de Sigüenza y Góngora and sor Juana Inés de la Cruz came through with a political plan to enable the new viceroy, the Marquis de la Laguna, to rule the Spanish colony of Mexico in 1680. Through didactic messages depicted in two honorific triumphal arches designed by them for the important occasion of the viceroy´s entrance in the capital city, together with the thorough explanation contained in their works Teatro de Virtudes Politicas que constituyen a un príncipe and Neptuno Alegórico, respectively, the King´s representative could rule his American subjects destiny taking as a model or example the native and ethnic, elements of the New World, as well as the classical mythological items of Antiquity.

The five churches of Yǝmrǝḥannä Krǝstos, Ǝmäkina Mädḫane ʿAläm, Ǝmäkina Lǝdätä Maryam, Walye Iyäsus and Žämmädu Maryam are all built in caves in the massif of Abunä Yosef, situated in the Lasta region of Wollo. Changes in their architectural forms suggest that they were constructed over a period of several hundred years in the order listed and as such represent a significant chronological model against which many of Ethiopia’s rock-hewn churches may be compared. Until the publication of this paper, it has been universally accepted that the church of Yǝmrǝḥannä Krǝstos was built in the second half of the 12th century under the sponsorship of an eponymous king. Aspects of the church’s architecture, namely the absence of a raised space reserved for the priesthood before the triumphal arch (the bema), of any sign of a chancel barrier around it, of western service rooms, of a vestibule and narthex, and of the presence of a reading platform (representative of the Coptic ambo), of a full-width open western bay (allowing for a ‘return aisle’), and of arches carrying the aisle ceilings, all point to a date of construction around the mid-13th century. In fact, the closest parallels to Yǝmrǝḥannä Krǝstos may be found in Lalibäla’s second group of monolithic churches, Amanuʾel and Libanos. Closely associated also is the church of Gännätä Maryam. A painting of the Maiestas Domini in the south-east side room (pastophorion) of the latter suggests that the room served as an extension of the sanctuary. By the end of the 13th century, as witnessed by Ǝmäkina Mädḫane ʿAläm and the other churches built in caves, the full-width sanctuary becomes a characteristic which endures throughout 14th- and 15th -century Ethiopian church architecture. Yǝmrǝḥannä Krǝstos and Gännätä Maryam stand on the cusp of a major liturgical change which coincides with the transfer of royal power from the Zagwe dynasty to their Solomonic successors, who sought legitimacy by following Coptic practices.

AbstractThe introduction and diffusion of Italian Renaissance forms in sixteenth-century Netherlandish art has usually been described as a process initiated by artists who travelled south, adopted the new style and reaped success after their return to the Netherlands. In giving full credit to the artists and considering this phcnomenon to be a process of artistic exchange in the modern sense, art historians have wrongly disregarded the historical circumstances that caused patrons' preference for the new style. The earliest use of Renaissance forms in the Low Countries on a large scale may be observed in the triumphal decorations of the 1515 Joyeuse Entrée of Charles of Hapsburg, the future emperor, in the town of Bruges. From that moment on, Renaissance forms were used abundantly in objects which served as a kind of propaganda for Hapsburg policy, such as church windows and chimney-pieces glorifying Charles v and the Hapsburg dynasty. Antique motifs fitted well in the imperialist visual language favoured by the Hapsburg dynasty and the Dutch nobles who supported its power politics. Derived from imperial Roman monuments, these forms unequivocally alluded to the absolute power of the ancient ancestors of the Holy Roman Emperor, thus legitimizing his authority. In the author's opinion this functional aspect is one of the main reasons for the ready acceptance and diffusion of the Renaissance style in the Low Countries. One of the first artists to travel from the Netherlands to Italy was the painter Michiel Coxcie (Malines 1499-1592). He stayed in Rome from about 1530 to 1538, painting several frescoes in Roman churches which brought him recognition among Italian colleagues. Only one example has survived: the fresco cycle in the chapel of St. Barbara in S. Maria dell'Anima, which he painted between 1532 and 1534. His mastery of the 'maniera italiana', which is evident in these paintings, is highly praised by Vasari, who met Coxcie in Rome in 1532. Vasari also states that Coxcie transferred the 'maniera italiana' to the Netherlands. Upon his return to Malines in 1539, Coxcie received several prestigious commissions, of which perhaps the most outstanding was to paint cartoons for the stained glass windows in the church of St. Gudule in Brussels, with its decoration of triumphal arches glorifying the Hapsburg dynasty. His ability to work in the high Renaissance style gained him the favour of Charles v and his sister, Mary of Hungary, governess of the Netherlands, who engaged him as a court painter. In the said series of Brussels windows, a remarkable change of style regarding the use of Renaissance forms is to be observed after Coxcie started supplying the cartoons in 1541. The windows completed between 1537 and 1540 had been made under the supervision of Bernard van Orley, allegedly Coxcie's teacher. They were rendered in an early Renaissance style characterized by the hybrid Italianate motifs that were in fashion during the 1520S and 1530s. Upon Orley's death in 1541, Coxcie was appointed his successor as cartoon painter for St. Gudule. The first window for which he was responsible, the window of John III of Portugal in the Chapel of the Holy Sacrament, exhibits a distinct caesura: the architectural decoration is high Renaissance in the Vitruvian or Serlian sense and the human faces and postures are derived directly from the examples of Raphael, Leonardo and Michelangelo. After careful perusal of the documents concerning the production of the windows and study of the stylistic differences between the windows made before and after 1541 (and the related preparatory drawings), one cannot but conclude that Michiel Coxcie was the initiator of the use of the high Renaissance style in the Brussels windows. Hitherto Bernard van Orley has been credited for this, on the assumption that he designed the whole cycle, including all its ornamental details and stylistic features. Although his contribution to the diffusion of the high Renaissance style in Netherlandish art was decisive, Michiel Coxcie's return to the Low Countries should not be regarded as the principal incentive for this process. The general predilection for this style to be found after 1540 could be a consequence of the impressive presence of Charles v and his retinue in the Netherlands during that year. The emperor, who came to quell the Ghent resurrection against the central government, brought with him the style that had been used in the triumphal decorations which accompanied his entries to Italian towns during the 1530S. The influence exercised on prevailing taste by the ephemeral monuments erected on the occasion of imperial entries must have been considerable, as the Brussels windows clearly show.

Illerup – between the North Cape and the NileFor fifty years, Forhistorisk Museum in Århus and later Moesgård Museum has provided the base for the work with the finds from the river valley of Illerup, which were first published in Kuml 1951. The excavations are long since finished and in a few years the whole find will be published and accessible to the public in an exhibition.In the search for explanations and parallels to the army equipment we have covered much ground, and what might have become a catalogue of finds with selected illustrations has developed into a study of the ancient world in the centuries around the beginning of the Christian era. It is already obvious that the scholarly adaptation so far is merely the beginning of investigations to which the only limit is our imagination. Analyses of the numerous artefacts have for instance taken us to Rome, where triumphal arches and other monuments boast weapons and belt outfit corresponding to the artefacts from the wetland areas of Southern Scandinavia (figs. 1-4). Other items have their parallels in Syria, Africa, or Northern England, and an overall evaluation shows that the Illerup find holds elements that reflect the culture in vast areas, Roman and Teutonic (figs. 5-10).According to the plan, the presentation and discussion of the topics that are naturally connected with certain find groups will be finished within a few years, and only then will it be possible to tackle the investigations into the more delimited problems, which have so far arisen from the work in progress.One example of this could be the DNA analyses that have developed in such a way during the last few years that they can be used for biological material from the wetland finds. Also, metallurgic investigations of iron and precious metal analyses have been initiated. While working with the shields, the wood of both boards and handles were identified, and the results caused the planning of supplementary studies, using for instance dendrochronology. Investigation into the textile remains of the find are also expected to yield new information. The results of recent bog find research may be used successfully in new analyses of bog finds from the 19th century. Engelhardt’s publications – outstanding as they might be – are subjective in as far as Engelhardt, according to contemporary criteria chose the finds that were to be described or depicted. The selection is not representative and has led to wrong in terpretations of the find contents. These im balances should now be corrected and the old bog finds made accessible in a satisfying manner, i.e. published and republished according to modern standards. As it has also turned out that the knowledge of the preservation conditions of the same finds is limited, future work should include investigations into the present state of the find sites.To solve the tasks mentioned through international cooperation, we are now planning a centre for Iron Age research at Moesgård, where from 2003 we can exploit an established network of scholars involved in the study of the Iron Age.Jørgen IlkjærMoesgård MuseumTranslated by Annette Lerche Trolle

The present essay is mainly concerned with the coronation entries staged for James I and Charles II by the City of London in 1604 and 1661, and especially with the temporary arches made out of wood and canvas and erected to mark nodal points along the routes. These events have been the subjects of scholarship keenly attuned to their place in accessions more than usually demanding upon representations of the king’s majesty, in as much as James was the first Stuart king of England and, by the terms of hereditary monarchy, his grandson’s reign began twelve years before his coronation, at the moment Charles I’s head was severed from the neck. Here, however, the arches will explain, or emblematize, a particular way of conceiving architecture: as an assemblage of readily-dismountable parts like Lego bricks, or like a trophy, the ornamental group of symbolic or typical objects arranged for display. In this kind of architecture ‘classical’ ornament comprises, not the material realization of a stable, rational, and universal intellectual system elsewhere promoted by the early Stuarts’ patronage of Inigo Jones, for example, but what Sir Balthazar Gerbier in 1648 called a ‘true History’ of destruction and triumph, the result of more or less random despoliation and reassembly. What follows is not, therefore, directly concerned with majesty, nor with the arches’ iconography or their audiences, their place in London’s ceremonial geography, nor even their elaboration of the ‘complex relationships between two distinct but interconnected political domains’, the City that built them and the monarchy that graced them.

Abstract. The triumphal arch of Caracalla in the Roman archaeological site of Volubilis dates back to 216 AD. It was built in a strategic position at the intersection of the main roads leading to the Forum, the decumanus maximus to the east and the roads from Porte à trios baies to the west, that almost certainly was the main gate to the city. The current arrangement of the monument is the result of a restoration intervention carried out in the 1930s by French restorers. Some ancient photos witness that the monument was just a ruin in 1915, when Chatelain carried out the former archaeological excavations and, as a consequence, that it was totally rebuilt. In fact, the monument suffered wide damages provoked by the 1755 Lisbon earthquake, that affected also Morocco, which almost completely destroyed it. By means of the drawings made by the travelers Henry Boyde and John Windus, that retraced the monument thirty years before the earthquake, the original configuration of the monument can be observed and the timeline of events can be reconstructed. In this paper, the timeline of the seismic events that affected the triumphal arch is reconstructed and investigated by means of a structural analysis based on a rigid-block model. Finally, with the purpose of preventing future damage, the seismic vulnerability level of the construction is assessed with reference to its current configuration.

In his popular Romance of London (1867), John Timbs refers to Thomas Babington Macaulay's oft-repeated metaphor of a “New Zealander sitting, like a hundredth-century Marius, on the mouldering arches of London Bridge, contemplating the colossal ruins of St Paul's” (290). Originally intended as an illustration of the vigor and durability of the Roman Catholic Church despite the triumph of the Reformation, Macaulay's most famous evocation of this idea dates from 1840, the year of New Zealand's annexation; hence it is reasonable to suppose that this figure is a Maori (Bellich 297–98). For Timbs and subsequent generations, however, the image conveyed the sobering idea of the rise and fall of civilizations and in particular of England being invaded and overrun, if not by a horde of savages, then by a more robust class of Anglo-Saxons from the other side of the world.

The article discusses the staging of sovereign power of Emperor Charles VI in Ljubljana’s public spaces during the act of Hereditary Homage (Erbhuldigung) by the Estates of Carniola. To honour the arrival of the distinguished guest, who stayed in the Carniolan capital between 26 and 30 August, and again between 20 and 22 September 1728, the city authorities erected several (ephemeral) architectural artworks, such as two arches of triumph, one in front of the Vidame Gate and the other on the façade of the Town Hall. Whereas the former arch, for which Francesco Robba contributed a marble bust of the Emperor, was of permanent nature and graced the city gate until its demolition in 1791, the latter arch was an ephemeral artwork in front of the Town Hall, although a few of its sculptures have nevertheless been preserved to date. The Estates of Carniola also built a splendidly adorned “peota” boat, aboard which Charles VI left Ljubljana after the Hereditary Homage and then returned in September on his way to Graz.

AbstractDigital archaeologists claim that their practices have proven to be an important tool for mediating conflict, ensuring that the digital turn in archaeology entails engaging in current political issues. This can be questioned by analysing a copy of the Syrian Arch of Triumph. The original was destroyed in 2015. A year later, a copy was carved out of Egyptian marble; the replica was constructed thanks to digital documentation, which allowed archaeologists to create a 3D model. The arch was placed in various Western locations; however, it never reached Syria. Hybridity, the cultural and political significance of the arch’s replica and its ‘Grand Tour’ invite us to think about different interpretive layers of this artefact of ideological discourse (ontological, epistemological, ethical). In this paper, the replica of the Syrian arch will be analysed through the frameworks of post-colonial theory and technology studies. Both perspectives provide an insight into promising advantages and alarming drawbacks of such digital practices. This paper argues that the case of a copy of the Syrian Arch of Triumph on the one hand reflects the contemporary colonial technocracy in heritage politics (an ethical dimension), and on the other demonstrates that an ideological aspect of its digital reconstruction emerges from a speculative anticipation of what might constitute the universal value of world heritage in the future (an onto-epistemological dimension).

Affirming himself during the postmodern period, it is as if sculptor Kuzma Kovačić never cared about the appearance of the new artistic trend. His oeuvre does not display any inclination, not even a rudimentary interest in postmodern compiling and referencing of historical sources. The age of fragmentary visual models creaed by the idea about the loss of cultural unity which attempted to construct itself on the shards of the broken ‘art-historical vase’ did not seem to touch him at all. On the other hand, Kovačić is not a follower of the preceding modernist period which emphasized the experimental nature of art, formal and analytical models where subject matter was identified with material and technique. It seems that in his case, the call of heritage and stories from the native region had outshone any interest in being part of the chronological succession of trends and generations. Grgo Gamulin once wrote that this sculptor ‘observes and forms the seasons, sea, stations of the Cross, sermons, epistles, evangelists and saints’. It seems that he is not so much looking towards what is new on the artistic horizon as towards what the home region of Hvar, the Mediterranean and Christianity have left imprinted on the millennial physiognomy of landscape and people. Kovačić wants to direct our attention to the context of culture and tradition, but also to the structure of surface, and in this, between the private and collective, the significant and insignificant, the intimate and public, he does not see any obstacle. Equally so, he does not make a difference between the traditional representational materials in sculpture and he extensively uses trivial everyday material: cotton, glass, sponge, resin, paper, cellophane, cardboard, plexi-glass, polyester, silver and gold leaves, sand, soil, polystyrene, nails, quicklime and light. The philosophy of Kovačić’s oeuvre convinces us that nothing in the world is so insignificant so as not to have a particular role in the grand scheme of things. Thus, behind proud structures of human vanity, behind large buildings, imperial residences, triumphal arches, but also in nondescript stones of human modesty one can find the hidden wisdom of eternity. For this reason, even when producing monumental works such as the doors of Hvar Cathedral, Kovačić does not indulge in the ceremonial pomp of the glorious past. Besides, he does not belong to those who reconstruct large building complexes, he is not attracted to the monuments of earthly powers and wonders of the world which aim at the sky which remains always equally distant. On the contrary, he is fond of the scratches on the wall, a clumsy record in stone, which resist the progress of time as if by a miracle, outliving many famous palaces and dilapidated temples by its perpetuity. It can even be said that these frail impressions which defy transience impress him more than the structures envisaged and created to last unchanged forever. The doors he made for Hvar Cathedral are a good example of this. They have nothing in common with the classic Gothic-Renaissance forms. Here, Kovačić seems to address deeper layers of traditional forms, and in compact and robust forms we recognize the early Christian manner, but also that of the folks people’s touching sentimentality (and piety) which did not care for the refined rules of elite culture.Neither did Kovačić lose his head by pleasing the snobbish politicians and the newly converted believers when he worked on the so-called tasks of national sovereignty, following the late 1990s change of government in Croatia. However, it can be noticed that he moved away from the works such as “Velegorki”, “Lo, the Sea is Sweating with Blood” (“Evo se more znoji krvavim znojem”) and “The Description Of the Origins of Croatian Sculpture” (“Opis početaka hrvatskog kiparstva”) to the lyrical realism evident in his depicting of popes, saints, the “Altar of the Homeland”, Christ, The Last Supper, Franjo Tuđman and Gojko Šušak. Of course, this does not mean that he has lost vitality and potency, nor that these works are bad, but simply that he took a turn towards a certain type of realism and depiction of figures, instead of representing them as signs and symbols, as he had done before the “renascence of national sovereignty”.One of the large public projects by Kuzma Kovačić was the “Altar of Croatian Homeland” on Medvedgrad. This project, executed during the presidency of Franjo Tuđman (1994), caused much public dispute, whether concerning the restoration of the feudal burg or the idea that altars without a liturgical purpose should be erected to the Homeland. However, it was generally accepted that Kuzma Kovačić’s sculptural complex was the best that happened to this lay sanctification of the place. In spite of the drawing on the geometry of Croatian chequers, with Medvedgrad Kovačić also showed that he is neither a minimalist nor a reductionist who distils forms into geometric purism. His geometry is narrative, his cubes and glass shapes contain the trace of human hand, stamps of the ages and symbolical signs. However, his projects, connected to state commissions, were criticised by parts of the general public, not because of their insufficient artistic merit and obsequiousness to political establishment and their doubtful taste (in particular that which likes to see itself as generating projects of national sovereignty and veers towards kitsch), but because of the political context which was causing hatred. The same happened to the monumental public statues of Franjo Tuđman and Gojko Šušak which were evaluated mostly in the overheated political sphere of opinions for or against the persons portrayed. Not many, not even the apologeticists of HDZ nomenclature, considered Kovačić’s sculptures and their form. Perhaps the best example is the statue of Dražen Petrović which, unlike those mentioned, had no political context and thus did not cause any controversy. In any case, it is certain that even when working on large public statues or in churches, Kovačić is equally successful in mastering the monumental form, and in the intimistic rendition of the miniature form which represents the majority of his oeuvre (and also the best). In doing so, the dimensions themselves (i.e. large scale) do not mean that Kovačić has given up on sculpture which is inherently intimistic, compact, non-representational and which directs its power towards the core, rather than expanding into external rhetoric.

Recent conservation and restoration work on the icon of the Virgin and Child which stood on the altar in the Church of St. Nicholas at Prijeko in Dubrovnik has enabled a new interpretation of this paining. The icon, painted on a panel made of poplar wood, features a centrally-placed Virgin holding the Child in her arms painted on a gold background between the two smaller figures of St. Peter and St. John the Baptist. The figures are painted in the manner of the fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Dubrovnik style, and represent a later intervention which significantly changed the original appearance and composition of the older icon by adding the two saints and touching up the Virgin’s clothes with Renaissance ornaments, all of which was performed by the well-known Dubrovnik painter Nikola Božidarević. It can be assumed that the icon originally featured a standing or seated Virgin and Child. The Virgin is depicted with her head slightly lowered and pointing to the Christ Child whom she is holding on her right side. The chubby boy is not seated on his mother’s lap but is reclining on his right side and leaningforward while his face is turned towards the spectator. He is dressed in a red sleeveless tunic with a simple neck-line which is embroidered with gold thread. The Child is leaning himself on the Virgin’s right hand which is holding him. He is firmly grasping her thumb with one hand and her index finger with the other in a very intimate nursing gesture while she, true to the Hodegitria scheme, is pointing at him with her left hand, which is raised to the level of her breasts. Such an almost-realistic depiction of Christ as a small child with tiny eyes, mouth and nose, drastically departs from the model which portrays him with the mature face of an adult, as was customary in icon painting. The Virgin is wearing a luxurious gold cloak which was repainted with large Renaissance-style flowers. Her head is covered with a traditional maphorion which forms a wide ring around it and is encircled by a nimbus which was bored into thegold background. Her skin tone is pink and lit diffusely, and was painted with almost no green shadows, which is typical of Byzantine painting. The Virgin’s face is striking and markedly oval. It is characterized by a silhouetted, long, thin nose which is connected to the eyebrows. The ridge of the nose is emphasized with a double edge and gently lit whilethe almond-shaped eyes with dark circles are set below the inky arches of the eyebrows. The Virgin’s cheeks are smooth and rosy while her lips are red. The plasticity of her round chin is emphasized by a crease below the lower lip and its shadow. The Virgin’s eyes, nose and mouth are outlined with a thick red line. Her hands are light pink in colour and haveelongated fingers and pronounced, round muscles on the wrists. The fingers are separated and the nails are outlined with precision. The deep, resounding hues of the colour red and the gilding, together with the pale pink skin tone of her face, create an impression of monumentality. The type of the reclining Christ Child has been identified in Byzantine iconography as the Anapeson. Its theological background lies in the emphasis of Christ’s dual nature: although the Christ Child is asleep, the Christ as God is always keeping watch over humans. The image was inspired by a phrase from Genesis 49: 9 about a sleeping lion to whom Christ is compared: the lion sleeps with his eyes open. The Anapeson is drowsy and awake at the same time, and therefore his eyes are not completely shut. Such a paradox is a theological anticipation of his “sleep” in the tomb and represents an allegory of his death and Resurrection. The position, gesture and clothes of the Anapeson in Byzantine art are not always the same. Most frequently, the ChristChild is not depicted lying in his mother’s arms but on an oval bed or pillow, resting his head on his hand, while the Virgin is kneeling by his side. Therefore, the Anapeson from Dubrovnik is unique thanks to the conspicuously humanized relationship between the figures which is particularly evident in Christ’s explicitly intimate gesture of grasping the fingers of his mother’s hand: his right hand is literally “inserting” itself in the space between the Virgin’s thumb and index finger. At the same time, the baring of his arms provided the painter with an opportunity to depict the pale tones of a child’s tender skin. The problem of the iconography of the Anapeson in the medieval painting at Dubrovnik is further complicated by a painting which was greatly venerated in Župa Dubrovačka as Santa Maria del Breno. It has not been preserved but an illustration of it was published in Gumppenberg’sfamous Atlas Marianus which shows the Virgin seated on a high-backed throne and holding the sleeping and reclining Child. The position of this Anapeson Christ does not correspond fully to the icon from the Church of St. Nicholas because the Child is lying on its back and his naked body is covered with the swaddling fabric. The icon of the Virgin and Child from Prijeko claims a special place in the corpus of Romanesque icons on the Adriatic through its monumentality and intimate character. The details of the striking and lively Virgin’s face, dominated by the pronounced and gently curved Cimabuesque nose joined to the shallow arches of her eyebrows, link her with the Benedictine Virgin at Zadar. Furthermore, based on the manner of painting characterized by the use of intense red for the shadows in the nose and eye area, together with the characteristic shape of the elongated, narrow eyes, this Virgin and Child should be brought into connection with the painter who is known as the Master of the Benedictine Virgin. The so-called Benedictine Virgin is an icon, now at the Benedictine Convent at Zadar, which depicts the Virgin seated on a throne with a red, ceremonial, imperial cushion, in a solemn scheme of the Kyriotissa, the heavenly queen holding the Christ Child on her lap. The throne is wooden and has a round back topped with wooden finials which can also be seen in the Byzantine Kahn Virgin and the Mellon Madonna, as well as in later Veneto-Cretan painting. The throne is set under a shallow ciborium arch which is rendered in relief and supportedby twisted colonettes and so the painting itself is sunk into the surface of the panel. A very similar scheme with a triumphal arch can be seen on Byzantine ivory diptychs with shallow ciborium arches and twisted colonettes. In its composition, the icon from Prijeko is a combination ofthe Kyr i ot i ss a and the Hodegitria, because the Virgin as the heavenly queen does not hold the Christ Child frontally before her but on her right-hand side while pointing at him as the road to salvation. He is seated on his mother’s arm and is supporting himself by pressing his crossed legsagainst her thigh which symbolizes his future Passion. He is wearing a formal classical costume with a red cloak over his shoulder. He is depicted in half profile which opens up the frontal view of the red clavus on his navy blue chiton.He is blessing with the two fingers of his right hand and at the same time reaching for the unusual flower rendered in pastiglia which the Virgin is raising in her left hand and offering to him. At the same time, she is holding the lower part of Christ’s body tightly with her right hand.Various scholars have dated the icon of the Benedictine Virgin to the early fourteenth century. While Gothic features are particularly evident in the costumes of the donors, the elements such as the modelling of the throne and the presence of the ceremonial cushion belong to the Byzantine style of the thirteenth century. The back of the icon of the Benedictine Virgin features the figure of St. Peter set within a border consisting of a lively and colourful vegetal scroll which could be understood as either Romanesque or Byzantine. However, St. Peter’s identifying titulus is written in Latin while that of the Virgin is in Greek. The figure of St. Peter was painted according to the Byzantine tradition: his striking and severe face is rendered linearly in a rigid composition, which is complemented by his classical contrapposto against a green-gray parapet wall, while the background is of dark green-blue colour. Equally Byzantine is themanner of depicting the drapery with flat, shallow folds filled with white lines at the bottom of the garment while, at the same time, the curved undulating hem of the cloak which falls down St. Peter’s right side is Gothic. The overall appearance of St. Peter is perhaps even more Byzantine than that of the Virgin. Such elements, together with the typically Byzantine costumes, speak clearly of a skilful artist who uses hybrid visual language consisting of Byzantine painting and elements of the Romanesque and Gothic. Of particular interest are the wide nimbuses surrounding the heads of the Virgin and Child (St. Peter has a flat one) which are rendered in relief and filled with a neat sequence of shallow blind archesexecuted in the pastiglia technique which, according to M. Frinta, originated in Cyprus. The Venetian and Byzantine elements of the Benedictine Virgin have already been pointed out in the scholarship. Apart from importing art works and artists such as painters and mosaic makers directly from Byzantium into Venice, what was the extent and nature of the Byzantineinfluence on Venetian artistic achievements in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries? We know that the art of Venice and the West alike were affected by the Fourth Crusade and the sack of Constantinople in 1204, and by the newly founded Latin Empire which lasted until 1261.The Venetians played a particularly significant political and administrative role in this Empire and the contemporary hybrid artistic style of the eastern Mediterranean, called Crusader Art and marked by the strong involvement of the Knights Templar, must have been disseminated through the established routes. In addition to Cyprus, Apulia and Sicily which served as stops for the artists and art works en route to Venice and Tuscany, another station must have been Dalmatia where eastern and western influences intermingled and complemented each other.However, it is interesting that the icon of the Benedictine Virgin, apart from negligible variations, imitates almost completely the iconographic scheme of the Madonna di Ripalta at Cerignola on the Italian side of the Adriatic, which has been dated to the early thirteenth century and whose provenance has been sought in the area between southern Italy (Campania) and Cyprus. Far more Byzantine is another Apulian icon, that of a fourteenth-century enthroned Virgin from the basilica of St. Nicholas at Bari with which the Benedictine Virgin from Zadar shares certain features such as the composition and posture of the figures, the depictionof donors and Christ’s costume. A similar scheme, which indicates a common source, can be seen on a series of icons of the enthroned Virgin from Tuscany. The icon of the Virgin and Child from Prijeko is very important for local Romanesque painting of the late thirteenth and early fourteenth century because it expands the oeuvre of the Master of the Benedictine Virgin. Anicon which is now at Toronto, in the University of Toronto Art Centre Malcove Collection, has also been attributed to this master. This small two-sided icon which might have been a diptych panel, as can be judged from its typology, depicts the Virgin with the Anapeson in the upper register while below is the scene from the martyrdom of St. Lawrence. The Virgin is flanked by the figures of saints: to the left is the figure of St. Francis while the saint on the right-hand side has been lost due to damage sustained to the icon. The busts of SS Peter and Paul are at the top.The physiognomies of the Virgin and Child correspond to those of the Benedictine Virgin and the Prijeko icon. The Anapeson, unlike the one at Dubrovnik, is wrapped in a rich, red cloak decorated with lumeggiature, which covers his entire body except the left fist and shin. On the basis of the upper register of this icon, it can be concluded that the Master of the Benedictine Virgin is equally adept at applying the repertoire and style of Byzantine and Western painting alike; the lower register of the icon with its descriptive depiction of the martyrdom of St.Lawrence is completely Byzantine in that it portrays the Roman emperor attending the saint’s torture as a crowned Byzantine ruler. Such unquestionable stylistic ambivalence – the presence of the elements from both Byzantine and Italian painting – can also be seen on the icons of theBenedictine and Prijeko Virgin and they point to a painter who works in a “combined style.” Perhaps he should be sought among the artists who are mentioned as pictores greci in Dubrovnik, Kotor and Zadar. The links between Dalmatian icons and Apulia and Tuscany have already been noted, but the analysis of these paintings should also contain the hitherto ignored segment of Sicilian and eastern Mediterranean Byzantinism, including Cyprus as the centre of Crusader Art. The question of the provenance of the Master of the Benedictine Virgin remains open although the icon of the Virgin and Child from Prijeko points to the possibility that he may have been active in Dalmatia.However, stylistic expressions of the two icons from Zadar and Dubrovnik, together with the one which is today at Toronto, clearly demonstrate the coalescing of cults and forms which arrived to the Adriatic shores fromfurther afield, well beyond the Adriatic, and which were influenced by the significant, hitherto unrecognized, role of the eastern Mediterranean.

This article attempts to offer a critical account of the genealogy of ancient Greek philosophy in its bid to transcend the old ruling mythopoeic culture. With this in mind, emphasis is given more to the speculative character of Greek thought rather than its technical and detailed aspects. In my account of the origin of Greek philosophy, I use Plato’s famous pronouncement (Plato, The Republic, Tenth Book) about the great quarrel between philosophy and poetry as a context to provide my analysis. In dealing with the question at hand, I develop the following interrelated claims. First, Greek philosophy made its appearance in the struggle against the mythical background. Here, even though early philosophy tried to move beyond myth, it did not completely transcend the world of mythology. Second, in dealing directly with the quarrel, I identify two issues (problems) as the basis of the conflict: A) the essence of the divine and B) the nature of the universe. Third, I sum up my article by making the following claims. 1) Greek philosophy took the crucial step in trying to explain the cosmos (world) by introducing a single fundamental principle. 2) The transition from traditional mythology to a rational account of the origin and nature of the universe is not the work of a single thinker but the effort of many philosophers over the generations. 3) A proper account of the transition is best explained if we approach it as a result of the process of “continuity in discontinuity”. 4) Early, Philosophy is not so much about the triumph of reason and science, but the conceptualization and differentiation of mythic cultures. Thus in a way, Greek philosophy emerged along with mythic culture against ‘mythic culture’ at the same time. Keywords: physis, nomos, arche, physiology, aperion, mythology, anthropomorphic

<p><strong>Abstract.</strong> The modern 3D digitalization techniques open new scenarios on how to transmit to the next generations the state of health of Cultural Heritage (CH) buildings, paintings, frescos or statues. The final goal of the 3D digitalization is an exact replica of the acquired target, but a standard and unique technique able to digitalize artworks of different size and in different ambient light conditions is still far from being successfully ready for the CH field. Even if both laser scanning and photogrammetry can be considered mature techniques, applied with success in most of the Cultural Heritage study cases, they are limited in terms of colour digitalization and image quality in all the cases where ambient light and big sensor-target distances are crucial factors: differently to standard laser scanners, which collect colour information by the use of a coaxial camera and the distance by an IR laser source, the RGB-ITR (Red, Green and Blue Imaging Topological Radar) scanner, developed in ENEA, is equipped with three different laser sources for the simultaneous colour and distance estimation. The present work shows the results obtained applying the above-mentioned multi-wavelengths laser scanner for collecting a complete high-quality 3D colour model of “The Triumph of Divine Providence” vault, painted by Pietro da Cortona on the ceiling of the noble hall inside Palazzo Barberini in Rome.</p>

Syria is one of the world’s most impressive Cultural Heritages in terms of the number and historical significance of its monuments. Palmyra lies in the heart of Syria, an oasis in the midst of the arid desert.it could be considered as a part of this human heritage. In1980 was registered on the world and national heritage list for its huge historical importance. In addition, it was the focus of many studies and researches in the fields of restoration. Then the disaster happened, many monuments were demolished, temple of Ba’al, temple of Bael-shameen, Arch of triumph and the Castle. Lately the Tetrapylon and the Stag. Every Syrian was hurt, the whole world was hurt. The destruction of the city caused its people to become homeless and Palmyra was no longer the oasis we know. We felt pain, so we wanted to make a move, a step forward, to present a work that expresses our love for Palmyra, we organized Palmyra workshop to provide a vision for the reconstruction and revival of the historic site importance. Visions with using new idea &amp; new technology. Palmyra historical areas are considered a large open museum for heritage through history, which is the reason to treat these area as a historical protection precinct and give a vision, ideas, suggestions to the future of Palmary as a first step to preserve the historical buildings&amp; the archeological park.

<p><strong>Abstract.</strong> What remains of Cultural Heritage in Syria? And in particular in Aleppo? Aleppo, according to UNESCO, is the oldest city in the world. The first settlements date back to 12,000 years ago, the first evidence of the city to 8,000. The A. visited the city in October 2018 at the invitation of the Syrian Trust for Development. He previously went to Syria for a photographic tour in 2010. It was a unique opportunity to document some noticeable buildings and monuments, later on affected by the war. When the war began in 2012, the A. retrieved the photographs and gave them to his students, who then ran some 28 projects of Cultural Heritage items. They are small monuments or small projects, neither complete not very accurate, but sometimes they are unique for the monuments that have already disappeared. In 2017 the book <i>Reviving Palmyra</i> was published, whose main author is the Finnish archaeologist Minna Silver. The book shows the results of the surveys of some monuments of Palmyra, including the Roman theater, the temple of Bel, the triumphal arch and the funerary tower of Al-Habel. The A. made an exibition of the these projects in Ancona, Italy, and produced a video of the exibition, which was then published online. Reme Sackr saw the video and invited the A. to visit Syria. She is a Syrian woman of the Syrian Trust for Development, a Syrian NGO for reconstruction of Syria. She is responsible for the Living Heritage Program inside the Trust, in practice responsible for the reconstruction and the restoration of the monuments in Syria. So in October 2018 the A. went to Aleppo, Syria, for a second time. The present paper shows some results and comparisons for same monuments before and after the war. The objects of the survey are some parts of the Citadel walls, the entrance tower of the Citadel, the southern tower, one mosque and the minaret of the Citadel mosque. One of the first monuments to be restored will be the minaret of the Great Omoyyad Mosque in Aleppo. Some monuments, the minority, are apparently in good condition, seemingly untouched by the war. Some are badly damaged and unsafe. They must first be made sade and subsequently restored. Finally, other monuments – and these are the majority – no longer exist because they have been destroyed to their very foundations. It seems that the war, besides the population, has particularly targeted monuments, perhaps because they represent the soul and history of a people and a country. For them the problem arises whether to reconstruct or not, and in case of reconstruction with which instruments and with which technique, if there are previous findings. This is precisely the case of the minaret. Here they will try to reconstruct the monument where it was, as it was and with the same materials, with possibly the same blocks in the same position they were in. For this task, however, their identification is necessary. The minaret is the most important monument in Syria, because it is the symbol of the country. It was built in 1092, and its restoration was completed in 2007. A special commission now follows the restoration work. It is composed by public, religious and technical-scientific authorities. They are the same university professors who carried out the restoration of 2007 and now curate the reconstruction. Work began in February 2018. The minaret stones were placed in the square of the mosque. Using a crane they raised the stones one by one, then photographed them from all positions. They then proceeded to the identification stage. A computer program was created in MATHLAB^® which could carry out the first automatic selection of 6–8 possible candidates. The operator then manually selected the choosen one. Of the 1300 stones of the external face, 40&amp;thinsp;% have already been recognized. The high-resolution photographs of the A. of 2010 will help the identification. It is hoped to reach 70&amp;thinsp;%. Many blocks are no longer usable because they are broken, being limestone and therefore fragile. They no longer have the necessary resistance and will have to be replaced. A museum will be set up for the reconstruction of the minaret and the mosque. It is hoped to complete the work in two years. The surveying technique used by the A. is Spherical Photogrammetry. He published in 2018 <i>The book of Spherical Photogrammetry</i> a collection of related papers and experiences. This technique has been set up by the A. since 2006. It is based on spherical panoramas. These are cartographic representations on planes of spheres, on which the partially overlapping photographs taken from a single shooting point, are projected. Its main feature is the shooting speed. The technique is very much suitable for heritage documentation and the A. hopes to transfer it to the students of the local faculty of architecture. In this last mission, especially for the interiors, the A. made extensive use of Panono, a multi-image camera capable of covering 360°. These results prove undoubtedly that photogrammetry is an essential instrument for the 3D documentation and digital preservation of cultural heritage.</p>

The stone pupil in the parish church of Bazin (Pezinok, Slovakia) is one of the finest specimens of its kind in the territory of mediaeval Hungary. The pulpit is on the left of the triumphal arch of the church. Held by a stocky column, its parapet panels trace the sides of an octagon. The date of origin features on one of the panels as 1523 and the coat of arms at the same place indicates the client who ordered it.Despite the usable data and the high quality of the pulpit, it could hardly make its way into the canon of Hungarian art historiography evolving from the late 19th century. Drawings were made of it, it was registered in the monuments directories, but nobody lifted it into the style historical narrative before Jolán Balogh, and when it took place at last, it was erroneously dated to 1573. In her history of Hungarian renaissance art, she included it with the date 1573 in the chapter on the late renaissance (1940). She cited it rightly as an example of the survival of Italianate forms in the 16th century in all editions of the two-tome manual up to 1973. Then it disappeared from sight again. It was omitted from the university course book (2001). At last, in the renaissance volume of the series on Hungarian art by Corvina Publishers a photo of it was reproduced too (2009).Slovakian art historiography has naturally devoted more attention to it, and also read the date correctly. It is included in the four-volume monuments directory and also in the summaries. It was ascribed a salient place in the great renaissance monograph of 2009 edited by Ivan Rusina. Since the type of the book did not allow images of seals to be presented for analogy, it is worth returning to the problem briefly.The central panel of the parapet carries the coat of arms and the date 1523. In the shield there is an eagle with spread wings, looking to dexter flank. There is an arched banderole (with a rosette in the middle) in front of its crop and a tiny six-point star above its head. On the chief there is a helmet with mantling falling on either side. It is topped with an imperial mitre crown with ribbons, cross and crosier and a crest above. The elements of the coat of arms – the eagle, star and imperial crown – are identical with the motifs in the coat of arms of the Counts of Szentgyörgy and Bazin. The ancient coat of arms of the family, with the six-point star of two colours, was endorsed by Holy Roman emperor Frederic III in 1459. Enikő Spekner pointed out that Count Tamás of Szentgyörgy and Bazin already used a quartered shield in 1496 (with the star in fields 1 and 4 and the eagle in fields 2 and 3) in 1496, and so did seneschal Péter of Szentgyörgy and Bazin, too (1511). On the seal dated 1540 of Kristóf II of Szentgyörgy and Bazin – with whose death the male line of the family died out (1543) – the shield only features the left-looking eagle, and on the chief the imperial crown and peacock feathers can be seen. Changes in the use of the coat of arms cannot be accurately retraced, but the town was the property of the family until 1543 and after Kristóf II’s death it passed to the treasury. The coat of arms strongly suggests that the person who commissioned the pulpit must be sought among the members of the family still alive in 1523. On the younger Bazin line Ferenc and Farkas were alive and shared the office of lord lieutenant of Moson until 1521; the family died out with Farkas’ son Kristóf (his birthdate is not known).The pulpit received coats of white paint and thick gilding in more recent times. Its new wooden abat-voix was made in the 18th century; the medieval stone edifice must have been repaired at that time and on several occasions later. The ornamental elements of the parapet of the basket closely resemble some Italian renaissance antecedents; what may suggest the involvement of northern masters is the regular, rigid symmetry of the cherubim heads, and more emphatically the thick column holding the basket of the pulpit. Its shaft bulges midway, its capital above the necking is embellished with flutes of regularly alternating sizes; on it is a polygonal echinus with concave sides which holds the broadly spreading dense bunch of acanthus leaves. It is like a perfectly spoiled Corinthian column of bad proportions. The origin of this representative monument must be hypothesized from the direction of Vienna, even if no exact analogy can be compared with it at present. Both the network of relations of the landowning family and the geographic proximity support this assumption.

The stone pupil in the parish church of Bazin (Pezinok, Slovakia) is one of the finest specimens of its kind in the territory of mediaeval Hungary. The pulpit is on the left of the triumphal arch of the church. Held by a stocky column, its parapet panels trace the sides of an octagon. The date of origin features on one of the panels as 1523 and the coat of arms at the same place indicates the client who ordered it.Despite the usable data and the high quality of the pulpit, it could hardly make its way into the canon of Hungarian art historiography evolving from the late 19th century. Drawings were made of it, it was registered in the monuments directories, but nobody lifted it into the style historical narrative before Jolán Balogh, and when it took place at last, it was erroneously dated to 1573. In her history of Hungarian renaissance art, she included it with the date 1573 in the chapter on the late renaissance (1940). She cited it rightly as an example of the survival of Italianate forms in the 16th century in all editions of the two-tome manual up to 1973. Then it disappeared from sight again. It was omitted from the university course book (2001). At last, in the renaissance volume of the series on Hungarian art by Corvina Publishers a photo of it was reproduced too (2009).Slovakian art historiography has naturally devoted more attention to it, and also read the date correctly. It is included in the four-volume monuments directory and also in the summaries. It was ascribed a salient place in the great renaissance monograph of 2009 edited by Ivan Rusina. Since the type of the book did not allow images of seals to be presented for analogy, it is worth returning to the problem briefly.The central panel of the parapet carries the coat of arms and the date 1523. In the shield there is an eagle with spread wings, looking to dexter flank. There is an arched banderole (with a rosette in the middle) in front of its crop and a tiny six-point star above its head. On the chief there is a helmet with mantling falling on either side. It is topped with an imperial mitre crown with ribbons, cross and crosier and a crest above. The elements of the coat of arms – the eagle, star and imperial crown – are identical with the motifs in the coat of arms of the Counts of Szentgyörgy and Bazin. The ancient coat of arms of the family, with the six-point star of two colours, was endorsed by Holy Roman emperor Frederic III in 1459. Enikő Spekner pointed out that Count Tamás of Szentgyörgy and Bazin already used a quartered shield in 1496 (with the star in fields 1 and 4 and the eagle in fields 2 and 3) in 1496, and so did seneschal Péter of Szentgyörgy and Bazin, too (1511). On the seal dated 1540 of Kristóf II of Szentgyörgy and Bazin – with whose death the male line of the family died out (1543) – the shield only features the left-looking eagle, and on the chief the imperial crown and peacock feathers can be seen. Changes in the use of the coat of arms cannot be accurately retraced, but the town was the property of the family until 1543 and after Kristóf II’s death it passed to the treasury. The coat of arms strongly suggests that the person who commissioned the pulpit must be sought among the members of the family still alive in 1523. On the younger Bazin line Ferenc and Farkas were alive and shared the office of lord lieutenant of Moson until 1521; the family died out with Farkas’ son Kristóf (his birthdate is not known).The pulpit received coats of white paint and thick gilding in more recent times. Its new wooden abat-voix was made in the 18th century; the medieval stone edifice must have been repaired at that time and on several occasions later. The ornamental elements of the parapet of the basket closely resemble some Italian renaissance antecedents; what may suggest the involvement of northern masters is the regular, rigid symmetry of the cherubim heads, and more emphatically the thick column holding the basket of the pulpit. Its shaft bulges midway, its capital above the necking is embellished with flutes of regularly alternating sizes; on it is a polygonal echinus with concave sides which holds the broadly spreading dense bunch of acanthus leaves. It is like a perfectly spoiled Corinthian column of bad proportions. The origin of this representative monument must be hypothesized from the direction of Vienna, even if no exact analogy can be compared with it at present. Both the network of relations of the landowning family and the geographic proximity support this assumption.

As John Adamson outlined in his voluminous comparative analysis of European court culture, „in the period between 1500 and 1750 a „Versailles model” of a court as a self-sufficient, situated in a free space, architectonically harmonious city-residency remote from the capital city, where the king’s household and administration was located, was an exception.” The Versailles conception and „model” both architectonically and in terms of practical functioning of the court was spread and secured in the 18th century, developing into a model of absolutism which was imitated to different extents. The spectrum of the adoption of the court of Louis XIV by material and intellectual culture reached from the grand ensembles of palaces of Carskoye Selo in Peterhof, Russia, Drottningholm in Sweden and Sanssouci in Germany to several small residences of the German princes’ realms in Weimar, Hanover, and elsewhere in Europe. Analyzing the works of several researchers about the transformation of the French aristocracy into court society, a common conclusion is the assurance of the symbolic autocratic power by Louis XIV to the detriment of the economic and political independence of the aristocracy. In this context, A. de Tocqueville points at the forfeiture of the power of the French aristocracy and its influence and a simultaneous self-isolation of the group, which he defines as a „caste with ideas, habits and barriers that they created in the nation.” Modern research, when revisiting the methods of the resarch on the aristocracy and when expanding the choice of sources, is still occupied with the problem defined in the beginning of the 19th century by A. de Tocqueville: The aristocracy lost its power and influence, and by the end of the 18th century also its economic basis for its dominance in French society. John Levron defines courtiers as functional mediators between the governor and society, calling them a „screen”.1 In turn, Ellery Schalk stated that in the time of Louis XIV the aristocracy was going through an elite identity crisis, when alongside the old aristocracy involved in military professions (noblesse d’épée), the governor allowed a new, so-called administrative aristocracy (noblesse de robe) to hold major positions and titles of honour. Along with the transformation of the traditional aristocratic hierarchy formed in the early Middle Ages, which John Lough described as an anachronism already back in the 17th century, also the status of governor and its symbolic place in the aristocratic hierarchy changed. It shall be noted that it is the question of a governor’s role in the political culture of absolutism by which the ideas of many researches can be distinguished. Norbert Elias thinks that an absolute monarch was a head of a family, which included the whole state and thereby turned into a governor’s „household”. Timothy Blanning, on the other hand, thinks that the court culture of Louis XIV was the expression of the governor’s insecurity and fears. This is a view which the researcher seems to derive from the traumatic experience of the Fronde (the aristocrats’ uprising against the mother of Louis XIV, regent Anna of Austria), which the culturologist K. Hofmane interpreted from a psychoanalytical point of view and defined Louis XIV as a conqueror of chaos and a despotic governor. In the wide spectrum of opinions, it is not the governor’s political principles which are postulated as a unifying element, but scenarios of the representation of power, their aims and various tools that are combined in the concept of court culture. N. Elias names symbolic activities in the court etiquette as the manifestation of power relations, whereas M. Yampolsky identifies a symbolic withdrawal of a governor’s body from the „circulation in society”, when a governor starts to represent himself, thereby alienating himself from society. George Gooch in this way reprimanded Louis XV as he thought this development would deprive the royal representation from the sacred. In turn, Jonathan Dewald in his famous work „European Aristocracy” noted that Louis XIV was not the first to use the phenomenon of the court for securing the personal authority of a governor, and refers to the courts during the late period of the Italian Renaissance as predecessors of French court culture. What role did the monarch’s closest „viewers” – the courtiers – play in this? K. Hofmane by means of comparison with the ancient Greek mythical monster Gorgon comes to conclusion that the court had to provide prey for the Gorgon (the king), who is both scared and fascinated by the terrific sight (of power and glory). The perception of the court as a collective observer implies the presence of the observed and worshiped object, the king. The public life of Louis XIV, which was subjected to the complicated etiquette, provided for the hierarchical access to the king’s public body. Let’s remember the „Memoirs” of Duc de Saint-Simon that gives a detailed description of the symbolic privileges granted to the courtiers, which along the material gifts (pensions, concessions and land plots) were tools for the formation of the identity and the status of a new aristocrat/courtier – along with the right to touch the king’s belongings, his attire, etc. The basis for securing the structure of the court’s hierarchy was provided by the governor’s body along the lines mentioned above, which according to the understanding of representation by M. Yampolsky was withdrawn from society and placed within the borders of the ensemble of the Versailles palace. There, by means of several tools, including dramatic works of art, the governor’s body was separated from its symbolic content and hidden behind the algorithms of ritualized activities. Blanning also speaks about a practice of hiding from the surrounding environment, thereby defining court culture as a hiding-place that a governor created around himself. It was possible to look at a governor and thereby be observed by him not only on particular festivals, when a governor was available mostly for court society, but also in different works of visual art, for example, on triumphal archs, in engravings, or during horse-racings.

The article reveals for the first time what animals were represented in festive decorations of the 18th century in Russia. The author analyzes picturesque and sculptural elements of triumphal arches and obelisks, and paintings usually inserted into the city windows, as well as the compositions of fireworks and illuminations tracing the evolution of animalistic plots and images throughout the century; peculiarities of their interpretation by celebrations’ contemporaries are in focus.

King James I’s March 1604 entry into London, many recognize, departs from previous royal entry pageants through its use of triumphal arches, employment of professional dramatists, and emphasis on dialogue. But the 1604 entry also was notable for its essential print identity. Print records of royal entries were common by the time of Elizabeth’s accession, and the 1559 text commemorated the event mainly for the queen and court, listing no author. By contrast, James’s entry, staged and performed over one day, generated four different printed texts, each with a declared author or authors. This article considers how all four entry texts together produce a highly contested portrait of ideas about print, authorship, and authority at the outset of the Jacobean period.

The article analyzes the image of the Roman past of Hispanic cities, as reflected in works created after the Moslem conquest of the 8th century. Writers who wrote in Arabic had no reliable information about Roman architectural inheritance and tried to compensate for this fact by using other sources, such as prejudices, myths, legends and fantasies. Works of the descriptive genre (al-masãlik wa-l-mamãlik) demonstrate this tendency most clearly. The books written by the Arab Hispanic author al-Idrīsī (12th century) and the Persian writer al-Ḥimyarī (15th century) belong to this genre. Al-Ḥimyarī had never been to Spain (al-Andalus) but was very interested in this country and left a very detailed description of it. Both writers reflected the image of Merida in their works. This city had great importance in Roman and Visigothic times. Strange interpretations of the functions of some Roman buildings in Merida (theater, amphitheater, aqueduct, forum, triumphal arches and others) found in the work of al-Ḥimyarī were frequently taken from al-Idrīsī. The fantastic interpretation of the origin of the name of Merida (“residence of an honorable or noble man”: mashkīn ashsharīf) suggested by al-Ḥimyarī had the same source. At the same time, much better grounded information included in the work of alRāzī (written in the 10th century) was disregarded. The main cause of these incorrect interpretations was a lack of knowledge of Roman municipal life in the case of Arabic writers.

Las ceremonias nupciales reales en Polonia, al igual que en otras cortes europeas, tenían su propio ceremonial y rito. Su esencia ideológica se hallaba en los gestos, en los epigramas, en los emblemas, en los arcos triunfales, en toda la decoración, en las mascaradas y danzas, en la música y en los torneos. Tenían carácter universal, eran entendidas tanto por los habitantes de Polonia como por los que acudían a verlas y por los participantes de toda Europa. En este trabajo se analizan las relaciones entre las dos casas que dominaron el escenario septentrional europeo moderno, Wasa y Habsburgo, a través de la celebración de los acontecimientos que sancionaban su alianza, bodas y natalicios reales.PALABRAS CLAVE: Casa de Wasa, Polonia, Casa de Habsburgo, Ceremonial, realeza, relaciones dinásticas.ENTRIES, CORONATIONS AND PRINCESSES WEDDINGS OF THE HOUSE OF HABSBURG IN KRAKOW The wedding ceremonies in Poland, as in other European courts, had their own ceremonial and ritual. Its ideological essence was in the gestures, in the epigrams, in the emblems, triumphal arches, in all the decor, in the masques and dances, music and tournaments. They were universal, were understood both by the inhabitants of Poland and by those who came to see them and participants from all over Europe. In this paper we analyze the relationship between the two houses that dominated northern modern European stage, Wasa and Habsburg, through holding events sanctioned their alliance, royal weddings and birthdays.KEY WORDS: House of Wasa, Poland, House of Habsburg, Ceremonial, royalty, dynastic relations.

This paper presents four teacher educators’ stories that explore their scholarly identity development through an Academic Sandbox metaphor where Play, Tantrums, Building Castles, and Rebuffing Backyard Bullies, serve as creative constructs for describing their experiences of triumphs and challenges in academia. The authors share how a professional learning community (Faculty Academy) functioned as the safe space for “participatory sense-making” (See De Jaegher & Di Paolo, 2007) where situated agency emerged and became strengthened through the telling of the teachers’ stories (Archer, 2003; Clandinin & Connelly, 2000; Kligyte, 2011; McGann, 2014; McLean, Pasupathi, & Pals, 2007). Stories representative of each metaphorical construct are presented and discussed. Narrative inquiry served as the methodological means in which the authors examined their stories as representative events in identity formation.

In Milan the opposition Verdi vs Wagner became a well-defined cultural construction in the period starting with the triumph of Lohengrin Italian première (Bologna, 1871) up to the clamorous fiasco the opera received in Milan (1873). Through an analysis of new sources (also iconographical), mostly taken from the contemporary humor periodicals, this article aims to reconstruct the discursive context that shaped Milan rejection of Lohengrin. The premise for this archeo-genealogical investigation is that musical events cannot be separated from the discourses (in a Foucault-like sense) that frame and feed them. Another fundamental aspect that must be considered is the complexity of identity dynamics which characterizes Milan culture soon after Italian unification. As Axel Körner affirms, referring to Parma and Bologna, «the cities’ cultural representation speaks a local language as well as national and transnational language ». This is true, even more, for Milan.

In the summer of 1944, American Sergeant Paul Dorsey was hired by the Naval Aviation Photography Unit (NAPU) to capture “the Marines’ bitter struggle against their determined foe” in the Pacific islands (Philips 43). Dorsey had been a photographer and photojournalist before enlisting in the Marines, and was thus well placed to fulfil the NAPU’s remit of creating positive images of American forces in the Pacific. Under the editorial and professional guidance of Edward Steichen, NAPU photographers like Dorsey provided epic images of battle (especially from the air and sea), and also showed American forces at ease – sunbathing, swimming, drinking and relaxing together (Bachner At Ease; Bachner Men of WWII). Steichen – by now a lieutenant commander – oversaw the entire NAPU project by developing, choosing and editing the images, and also providing captions for their reproduction in popular newspapers and magazines such as LIFE. Under his guidance, selected NAPU images were displayed at the famous Power in the Pacific exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art in New York at the end of the war, and distributed in the popular U.S. Navy War Photographs memorial book which sold over 6 million copies in 1945.While the original NAPU photographers (Steichen himself, Charles Kerlee, Horace Bristol, Wayne Miller, Charles Fenno Jacobs, Victor Jorgensen and Dwight Long) had been at work in the Pacific since the summer of 1942, Dorsey was hired specifically to document the advance of American Marines through the Marianas and Volcano Islands. In line with the NAPU’s remit, Dorsey provided a number of famous rear view shots of combat action on Guam, Saipan and Iwo Jima. However, there are a number of his photographs that do not fit easily within that vision of war – images of wounded Marines and dead Japanese soldiers, as well as shots of abject Japanese POWs with their heads bowed and faces averted. It is this last group of enemy images that proves the most interesting, for not only do they trouble NAPU’s explicit propaganda framework, they also challenge our traditional assumption that photography is an inert form of representation.It is not hard to imagine that photographs of abject Japanese POWs reinforced feelings of triumph, conquest and justice that circulated in America’s post-war victory culture. Indeed, images of emaciated and incarcerated Japanese soldiers provided the perfect contrast to the hyper-masculine, hard-bodied, beefcake figures that populated the NAPU photographs and symbolized American power in the Pacific. However, once Japan was rehabilitated into a powerful American ally, and the decision to drop the atomic bomb was questioned once again in America’s Culture Wars of the 1980s and 90s, it was no longer acceptable to feel triumphant in the face of Japanese abjection and suffering. Instead, these images helped foster a new kind of belated patriotism – and a new global disposition – in which Americans generated their own magnanimity by expressing pity, compassion and sympathy for victims of their previous foreign policy decisions (Lisle).While that patriotic interpretive framework tells us much about how dominant formations of American identity are secured by the production – especially the visual production – of enemy others, it cannot account for images or viewer interpretations that exceed, unwork, or disrupt war’s foundational logics of friend/enemy and perpetrator/victim. I focus on Dorsey because he offers one such ‘deviant’ image: This photograph was taken by Dorsey on Guam in July 1944, and its caption tells us that the Japanese prisoner “waits to be questioned by intelligence officers” (Philips 189). As the POW looks into Dorsey’s camera lens (and therefore at us, the viewers), he is subject to the collective gaze of the American marines situated behind him, and presumably others that lay out of the frame, behind Dorsey. What is fascinating about this particular image is the prisoner’s refusal to obey the trope of abjection so readily assumed by other Japanese POWs documented in the NAPU archive and in other popular war-time imagery. Indeed, when I first encountered this image I immediately framed the POW’s return gaze as defiant – a challenging, bold, and forceful reply to American aggression in the Pacific. The problem, of course, was that this resistant gaze soon became reductive; that is, by replicating war’s foundational logics of difference it effaced a number of other dispositions at work in the photograph. What I find compelling about the POW’s return gaze is its refusal to be contained within the available subject positions of either ‘abject POW’ or ‘defiant resistor’. Indeed, this unruliness is what keeps me coming back to Dorsey’s image, for it teaches us that photography itself always exceeds the conventional assumption that it is a static form of visual representation.Photography, Animation, MovementThe connections between movement, stillness and photography have two important starting points. The first, and more general, is Walter Benjamin’s concept of the dialectic image in which the past and the present come together “in a flash” and constitute what he calls “dialectics at a standstill” (N3.1; 463). Unlike Theodore Adorno, who lamented Benjamin’s Medusa-like tendency to turn the world to stone, I read Benjamin’s concept of standstill – of stillness in general – as something fizzing and pulsating with “political electricity” (Adorno 227-42; Buck-Morss 219). This is to deny our most basic assumption about photography: that it is an inert visual form that freezes and captures discrete moments in time and space. My central argument is that photography’s assumed stillness is always constituted by a number of potential and actual mobilities that continually suture and re-suture viewing subjects and images into one another.Developing Benjamin’s idea of a the past and present coming together “in a flash”, Roland Barthes provides the second starting point with his notion of the punctum of photography: “this element which rises from the scene, shoots out of it like an arrow, and pierces me” (25). Conventional understandings of the punctum frame it as a static moment – so powerful that it freezes the viewer, stops them in their tracks, and captures their attention. My point is that the affective punch of the photograph is not a frozen moment at all; rather, the punctum – like the dialectic image – is fizzing with political electricity. Therefore, to suggest that a viewing subject is arrested in the moment of perception – that they are somehow captured by a photograph’s meaning – is to mistakenly understand the act of looking as a static behaviour.I want to use Dorsey’s image of the POW to push these theoretical starting points and explore the mobile dispositions that are generated when a viewing subject encounters a photograph. What most interests me about Dorsey’s photograph is the level of animation it produces. The POW’s return gaze is actually rather blank: it is unclear whether he is angry, weary, bored, insane or none of the above. But it is the viewing subject’s anxiety at such ambivalence – such unknowability – that provokes a powerful desire to name it. The visceral sensations and emotional responses provoked in viewers (are we taken aback? Do we sympathize with the POW? Are we equally blank?) very quickly become settled interpretations, for example, “his defiant gaze resists American power.” What I want to do is explore the pre-interpretive moment when images like Dorsey’s reach out and grab us – for it is in that moment that photography’s “political electricity” reveals itself most clearly.Production, Signification, InterpretationThe mobility inherent in the photograph has an important antecedent at the level of production. Since the Brownie camera was introduced in WWI, photographers have carried their mode of representation with them – in Dorsey’s case, his portable camera was carried with him as he travelled with the Marines through the Pacific (Philips 29). It is the photographer’s itinerary – his or her movement prior to clicking the camera’s shutter – that shapes and determines a photograph’s content. More to the point, the action of clicking the camera’s shutter is never an isolated moment; rather, it is punctured by all of the previous clicks and moments leading up to it – especially on a long photographic assignment like Dorsey’s – and contains within it all of the subsequent clicks and moments that potentially come after it. In this sense, the photographer’s click recalls Benjamin: it is a “charged force field of past and present” (Buck-Morss 219). That complicated temporality is also manifested in the photographer’s contact sheet (or, more recently, computer file) which operates as a visual travelogue of discrete moments that bleed into one another.The mobility inherent in photography extends itself into the level of signification; that is, the arrangements of signs depicted within the frame of each discrete image. Critic Gilberto Perez gives us a clue to this mobility in his comments about Eugène Atget’s famous ‘painterly’ photographs of Paris:A photograph begins with the mobility, or at least potential mobility, of the world’s materials, of the things reproduced from reality, and turns that into a still image. More readily than in a painting, we see things in a photograph, even statues, as being on the point of movement, for these things belong to the world of flux from which the image has been extracted (328).I agree that the origin point of a photograph is potential mobility, but that mobility is never completely vanquished when it is turned into a still image. For me, photographs – no matter what they depict – are always saturated with the “potential mobility of the world’s materials”, and in this sense they are never still. Indeed, the world of flux out of which the image is extracted includes the image itself, and in that sense, an image can never be isolated from the world it is derived from. If we follow Perez and characterize the world as one of flux, but then insist that the photograph can never be extracted from that world, it follows that the photograph, too, is characterized by fluctuation and change – in short, by mobility. The point, here, is to read a photograph counter intuitively – not as an arrest of movement or a freezing of time, but as a collection of signs that is always potentially mobile. This is what Roland Barthes was hinting at when he suggested that a photograph is “a mad image, chafed by reality”: any photograph is haunted by absence because the depicted object is no longer present, but it is also full of certainty that the depicted object did exist at a previous time and place (113-15). This is precisely Benjamin’s point as well, that “what has been comes together with the now” (N3.1; 463). Following on from Barthes and Benjamin, I want to argue that photographs don’t freeze a moment in time, but instead set in motion a continual journey between feelings of absence in the present (i.e. “it is not there”) and present imaginings of the past (i.e. “but it has indeed been”).As Barthes’ notion of the punctum reveals, the most powerful register at which photography’s inherent mobility operates is in the sensations, responses and feelings provoked in viewers. This is why we say that a photograph has the capacity to move us: the best images take us from one emotional state (e.g. passive, curious, bored) and carry us into another (e.g. shocked, sad, amused). It is this emotional terrain of our responses to photography that both Roland Barthes and Susan Sontag have explored in depth. Why are we moved by some images and not others? Are documentary or artistic photographs more likely to reach out and prick us? What is the most appropriate or ethical response to pictures of another’s suffering?Sontag suggests a different connection between photography and mobility in that it enables a particular touristification of the world; that is, cameras help “convert the world into a department store or museum-without-walls in which every subject is depreciated into an article of consumption, promoted to an item for aesthetic appreciation” (On Photography 110). While Sontag’s political economy of photography (with its Frankfurt School echo) continues to be explored by anthropologists and scholars in Tourism Studies, I want to argue that it offers a particularly reductive account of photography’s potential mobilities. While Sontag does address photography’s constitutive and rather complex relationship with reality, she still conceives of photographs themselves as static and inert representations. Indeed, what she wrestled with in On Photography was the “insolent, poignant stasis of each photograph”, and the photograph’s capacity to make reality “stand still” (111-12; 163). The problem with such a view is that it limits our account of interpretation; in short, it suggests that viewers either accept a photograph’s static message (and are thus moved), or reject it (and remain unmoved). But the moving, here, is the sole prerogative of the viewer: there is no sense in which the photograph and its contents are themselves mobile. I want to argue that the relationships established in the act of looking between viewing subjects and the objects contained within an image are much more complex and varied than Sontag’s framework suggests. Photography’s Affective MobilityTo reveal the mobilities underscoring photography’s affective punch, we must redistribute its more familiar power relations through W.J.T. Mitchell’s important question: what do pictures want? Such a question subverts our usual approach to photographs (i.e. what do we want from photographs?) by redeploying the privileged agency of the viewer into the image itself. In other words, it is the image that demands something of the viewer rather than the other way around. What it demands, of course, is a response. Certainly this is an emotional response, for even being bored by a photograph is a response of sorts. But an emotional response is also an affective response, which means that the punch carried by a photograph is as physical as it is metaphorical or visual. Indeed, it is precisely in the act of perception, where the emotional and the affective fuse, that photography’s assumed stillness is powerfully subverted.If Mitchell animates the picture by affording it some of the viewer’s agency, then Gilles Deleuze goes one step further by exploring what happens to agency in the act of perception. For Deleuze, a work of art – for our purposes, a photograph – is not an inert or still document, but rather a “block of sensations” (Deleuze; Deleuze & Guattari; Bogue). It is not a finished object produced by an autonomous artist or beheld in its entirety by an autonomous viewer; rather, it is a combination of precepts (initial perceptions) and affects (physical intensities) that passes through all subjects at the point of visual perception. This kind of relational encounter with an image not only deconstructs Modernity’s foundational distinction between the subject and the object, it also opens up an affective connection between all subjects engaged in the act of looking; in this case, the photographer, the subjects and objects within the photograph and the viewer.From Deleuze, we know that perception is characterized by common physical responses in all subjects: the movement of the optic nerve, the dilation of the pupil, the squint of the eyelid, the craning of the neck to see up close. However small, however imperceptible, these physical sensations are all still movements; indeed, they are movements repeated by all seeing subjects. My point is that these imperceptible modes of attention are consistently engaged in the act of viewing photographs. What this suggests is that taking account of the affective level of perception changes our traditional understandings of interpretation; indeed, even if a photograph fails to move us emotionally, it certainly moves us physically, though we may not be conscious of it.Drawing from Mitchell and Deleuze, then, we can say that a photograph’s “insolent, poignant stasis” makes no sense. A photograph is constantly animated not just by the potentials inherent in its enframed subjects and objects, but more importantly, in the acts of perception undertaken by viewers. Certainly some photographs move us emotionally – to tears, to laughter, to rage – and indeed, this emotional terrain is where Barthes and Sontag offer important insights. My point is that all photographs, no matter what they depict, move us physically through the act of perception. If we take Mitchell’s question seriously and extend agency to the photograph, then it is in the affective register that we can discern a more relational encounter between subjects and objects because both are in a constant state of mobility.Ambivalence and ParalysisHow might Mitchell’s question apply to Dorsey’s photograph? What does this image want from us? What does it demand from our acts of looking? The dispersed account of agency put forward by Mitchell suggests that the act of looking can never be contained within the subject; indeed, what is produced in each act of looking is some kind of subject-object-world assemblage in which each component is characterised by its potential and actual mobilities. With respect to Dorsey’s image, then, the multiple lines of sight at work in the photograph indicate multiple – and mobile – relationalities. Primarily, there is the relationship between the viewer – any potential viewer – and the photograph. If we follow Mitchell’s line of questioning, however, we need to ask how the photograph itself shapes the emotive and affective experience of visual interpretation – how the photograph’s demand is transmitted to the viewer.Firstly, this demand is channelled through Dorsey’s line of sight that extends through his camera’s viewfinder and into the formal elements of the photograph: the focused POW in the foreground, the blurred figures in the background, the light and shade on the subjects’ clothing and skin, the battle scarred terrain, and the position of these elements within the viewfinder’s frame. As viewers we cannot see Dorsey, but his presence fills – and indeed constitutes – the photograph. Secondly, the photograph’s demand is channelled through the POW’s line of sight that extends to Dorsey (who is both photographer and marine Sergeant), and potentially through his camera to imagined viewers. It is precisely the return gaze of the POW that packs such an affective punch – not because of what it means, but rather because of how it makes us feel emotionally and physically. While a conventional account would understand this affective punch as shocking, stopping or capturing the viewer, I want to argue it does the opposite – it suddenly reveals the fizzing, vibrant mobilities that transmit the picture to us, and us to the picture.There are, I think, important lessons for us in Dorsey’s photograph. It is a powerful antecedent to Judith Butler’s exploration of the Abu Graib images, and her repetition of Sontag’s question of “whether the tortured can and do look back, and what do they see when they look at us” (966). The POW’s gaze provides an answer to the first part of this question – they certainly do look back. But as to what they see when they look back at us, that question can only be answered if we redistribute both agency and mobility into the photograph to empower and mobilize the tortured, the abject, and the objectified.That leaves us with Sontag’s much more vexing question of what we do after we look at photographs. As Butler explains, Sontag has denounced the photograph “precisely because it enrages without directing the rage, and so excites our moral sentiments at the same time that it confirms our political paralysis” (966). This sets up an important challenge for us: in refusing conventional understandings of photography as a still visual art, how can we use more dispersed accounts of agency and mobility to work through the political paralysis that Sontag identifies. AcknowledgementsPaul Dorsey’s photograph of the Japanese POW is # 80-G-475166 in the NAPU archive, and is reproduced here courtesy of the United States National Archives.ReferencesAdorno, Theodore. Prisms. Cambridge: MIT P, 1997.Bachner, Evan. Men of WWII: Fighting Men at Ease. New York: Harry N. Abrams, 2007.———. At Ease: Navy Men of WWII. New York: Harry N. Abrams, 2004.Barthes, Roland. Camera Lucida. London: Vintage, 2000.Benjamin, Walter. “On the Theory of Knowledge, Theory of Progress.” In The Arcardes Project. Trans. Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin. Cambridge: Harvard U P, 1999. 456-488.Bogue, Ronald. Deleuze on Music, Painting and the Arts. London: Routledge, 2003.Buck-Morss, Susan. The Dialectics of Seeing: Walter Benjamin and the Arcades Project. Cambridge: MIT P, 1997.Butler, Judith. “Torture and the Ethics of Photography.” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 25.6 (2007): 951-66.Deleuze, Gilles. Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation. Trans. Daniel W. Smith. London: Continuum, 2003.Deleuze, Gilles and Felix Guattari. What is Philosophy? Trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Graham Burchill. New York: Columbia U P, 1994.Lisle, Debbie. “Benevolent Patriotism: Art, Dissent and The American Effect.” Security Dialogue 38.2 (2007): 233-50.Mitchell, William.J.T. What Do Pictures Want? The Lives and Loves of Images. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2004.Perez, Gilberto. “Atget’s Stillness.” The Hudson Review 36.2 (1983): 328-37. Philips, Christopher. Steichen at War. New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1981.Sontag, Susan. Regarding the Pain of Others. London: Penguin, 2004.———. On Photography. London: Penguin, 1971Steichen, Edward. U.S. Navy War Photographs. New York: U.S. Camera, 1945.

Introduction With a deluge of mouthwatering pre-publicity, the opening of The Spotted Pig, the USA’s first self-identified British-styled gastropub, in Manhattan in February 2004 was much anticipated. The late Australian chef, food writer and restauranteur Mietta O’Donnell has noted how “taking over a building or business which has a long established reputation can be a mixed blessing” because of the way that memories “can enrich the experience of being in a place or they can just make people nostalgic”. Bistro Le Zoo, the previous eatery on the site, had been very popular when it opened almost a decade earlier, and its closure was mourned by some diners (Young; Kaminsky “Feeding Time”; Steinhauer & McGinty). This regret did not, however, appear to affect The Spotted Pig’s success. As esteemed New York Times reviewer Frank Bruni noted in his 2006 review: “Almost immediately after it opened […] the throngs started to descend, and they have never stopped”. The following year, The Spotted Pig was awarded a Michelin star—the first year that Michelin ranked New York—and has kept this star in the subsequent annual rankings. Writing Restaurant Biography Detailed studies have been published of almost every type of contemporary organisation including public institutions such as schools, hospitals, museums and universities, as well as non-profit organisations such as charities and professional associations. These are often written to mark a major milestone, or some significant change, development or the demise of the organisation under consideration (Brien). Detailed studies have also recently been published of businesses as diverse as general stores (Woody), art galleries (Fossi), fashion labels (Koda et al.), record stores (Southern & Branson), airlines (Byrnes; Jones), confectionary companies (Chinn) and builders (Garden). In terms of attracting mainstream readerships, however, few such studies seem able to capture popular reader interest as those about eating establishments including restaurants and cafés. This form of restaurant life history is, moreover, not restricted to ‘quality’ establishments. Fast food restaurant chains have attracted their share of studies (see, for example Love; Jakle & Sculle), ranging from business-economic analyses (Liu), socio-cultural political analyses (Watson), and memoirs (Kroc & Anderson), to criticism around their conduct and effects (Striffler). Eric Schlosser’s Fast Food Nation: The Dark Side of the All-American Meal is the most well-known published critique of the fast food industry and its effects with, famously, the Rolling Stone article on which it was based generating more reader mail than any other piece run in the 1990s. The book itself (researched narrative creative nonfiction), moreover, made a fascinating transition to the screen, transformed into a fictionalised drama (co-written by Schlosser) that narrates the content of the book from the point of view of a series of fictional/composite characters involved in the industry, rather than in a documentary format. Akin to the range of studies of fast food restaurants, there are also a variety of studies of eateries in US motels, caravan parks, diners and service station restaurants (see, for example, Baeder). Although there has been little study of this sub-genre of food and drink publishing, their popularity can be explained, at least in part, because such volumes cater to the significant readership for writing about food related topics of all kinds, with food writing recently identified as mainstream literary fare in the USA and UK (Hughes) and an entire “publishing subculture” in Australia (Dunstan & Chaitman). Although no exact tally exists, an informed estimate by the founder of the Gourmand World Cookbook Awards and president of the Paris Cookbook Fair, Edouard Cointreau, has more than 26,000 volumes on food and wine related topics currently published around the world annually (ctd. in Andriani “Gourmand Awards”). The readership for publications about restaurants can also perhaps be attributed to the wide range of information that can be included a single study. My study of a selection of these texts from the UK, USA and Australia indicates that this can include narratives of place and architecture dealing with the restaurant’s location, locale and design; narratives of directly food-related subject matter such as menus, recipes and dining trends; and narratives of people, in the stories of its proprietors, staff and patrons. Detailed studies of contemporary individual establishments commonly take the form of authorised narratives either written by the owners, chefs or other staff with the help of a food journalist, historian or other professional writer, or produced largely by that writer with the assistance of the premise’s staff. These studies are often extensively illustrated with photographs and, sometimes, drawings or reproductions of other artworks, and almost always include recipes. Two examples of these from my own collection include a centennial history of a famous New Orleans eatery that survived Hurricane Katrina, Galatoire’s Cookbook. Written by employees—the chief operating officer/general manager (Melvin Rodrigue) and publicist (Jyl Benson)—this incorporates reminiscences from both other staff and patrons. The second is another study of a New Orleans’ restaurant, this one by the late broadcaster and celebrity local historian Mel Leavitt. The Court of Two Sisters Cookbook: With a History of the French Quarter and the Restaurant, compiled with the assistance of the Two Sisters’ proprietor, Joseph Fein Joseph III, was first published in 1992 and has been so enduringly popular that it is in its eighth printing. These texts, in common with many others of this type, trace a triumph-over-adversity company history that incorporates a series of mildly scintillating anecdotes, lists of famous chefs and diners, and signature recipes. Although obviously focused on an external readership, they can also be characterised as an instance of what David M. Boje calls an organisation’s “story performance” (106) as the process of creating these narratives mobilises an organisation’s (in these cases, a commercial enterprise’s) internal information processing and narrative building activities. Studies of contemporary restaurants are much more rarely written without any involvement from the eatery’s personnel. When these are, the results tend to have much in common with more critical studies such as Fast Food Nation, as well as so-called architectural ‘building biographies’ which attempt to narrate the historical and social forces that “explain the shapes and uses” (Ellis, Chao & Parrish 70) of the physical structures we create. Examples of this would include Harding’s study of the importance of the Boeuf sur le Toit in Parisian life in the 1920s and Middlebrook’s social history of London’s Strand Corner House. Such work agrees with Kopytoff’s assertion—following Appadurai’s proposal that objects possess their own ‘biographies’ which need to be researched and expressed—that such inquiry can reveal not only information about the objects under consideration, but also about readers as we examine our “cultural […] aesthetic, historical, and even political” responses to these narratives (67). The life story of a restaurant will necessarily be entangled with those of the figures who have been involved in its establishment and development, as well as the narratives they create around the business. This following brief study of The Spotted Pig, however, written without the assistance of the establishment’s personnel, aims to outline a life story for this eatery in order to reflect upon the pig’s place in contemporary dining practice in New York as raw foodstuff, fashionable comestible, product, brand, symbol and marketing tool, as well as, at times, purely as an animal identity. The Spotted Pig Widely profiled before it even opened, The Spotted Pig is reportedly one of the city’s “most popular” restaurants (Michelin 349). It is profiled in all the city guidebooks I could locate in print and online, featuring in some of these as a key stop on recommended itineraries (see, for instance, Otis 39). A number of these proclaim it to be the USA’s first ‘gastropub’—the term first used in 1991 in the UK to describe a casual hotel/bar with good food and reasonable prices (Farley). The Spotted Pig is thus styled on a shabby-chic version of a traditional British hotel, featuring a cluttered-but-well arranged use of pig-themed objects and illustrations that is described by latest Michelin Green Guide of New York City as “a country-cute décor that still manages to be hip” (Michelin 349). From the three-dimensional carved pig hanging above the entrance in a homage to the shingles of traditional British hotels, to the use of its image on the menu, website and souvenir tee-shirts, the pig as motif proceeds its use as a foodstuff menu item. So much so, that the restaurant is often (affectionately) referred to by patrons and reviewers simply as ‘The Pig’. The restaurant has become so well known in New York in the relatively brief time it has been operating that it has not only featured in a number of novels and memoirs, but, moreover, little or no explanation has been deemed necessary as the signifier of “The Spotted Pig” appears to convey everything that needs to be said about an eatery of quality and fashion. In the thriller Lethal Experiment: A Donovan Creed Novel, when John Locke’s hero has to leave the restaurant and becomes involved in a series of dangerous escapades, he wants nothing more but to get back to his dinner (107, 115). The restaurant is also mentioned a number of times in Sex and the City author Candace Bushnell’s Lipstick Jungle in relation to a (fictional) new movie of the same name. The joke in the book is that the character doesn’t know of the restaurant (26). In David Goodwillie’s American Subversive, the story of a journalist-turned-blogger and a homegrown terrorist set in New York, the narrator refers to “Scarlett Johansson, for instance, and the hostess at the Spotted Pig” (203-4) as the epitome of attractiveness. The Spotted Pig is also mentioned in Suzanne Guillette’s memoir, Much to Your Chagrin, when the narrator is on a dinner date but fears running into her ex-boyfriend: ‘Jack lives somewhere in this vicinity […] Vaguely, you recall him telling you he was not too far from the Spotted Pig on Greenwich—now, was it Greenwich Avenue or Greenwich Street?’ (361). The author presumes readers know the right answer in order to build tension in this scene. Although this success is usually credited to the joint efforts of backer, music executive turned restaurateur Ken Friedman, his partner, well-known chef, restaurateur, author and television personality Mario Batali, and their UK-born and trained chef, April Bloomfield (see, for instance, Batali), a significant part has been built on Bloomfield’s pork cookery. The very idea of a “spotted pig” itself raises a central tenet of Bloomfield’s pork/food philosophy which is sustainable and organic. That is, not the mass produced, industrially farmed pig which produces a leaner meat, but the fatty, tastier varieties of pig such as the heritage six-spotted Berkshire which is “darker, more heavily marbled with fat, juicier and richer-tasting than most pork” (Fabricant). Bloomfield has, indeed, made pig’s ears—long a Chinese restaurant staple in the city and a key ingredient of Southern US soul food as well as some traditional Japanese and Spanish dishes—fashionable fare in the city, and her current incarnation, a crispy pig’s ear salad with lemon caper dressing (TSP 2010) is much acclaimed by reviewers. This approach to ingredients—using the ‘whole beast’, local whenever possible, and the concentration on pork—has been underlined and enhanced by a continuing relationship with UK chef Fergus Henderson. In his series of London restaurants under the banner of “St. John”, Henderson is famed for the approach to pork cookery outlined in his two books Nose to Tail Eating: A Kind of British Cooking, published in 1999 (re-published both in the UK and the US as The Whole Beast: Nose to Tail Eating), and Beyond Nose to Tail: A Kind of British Cooking: Part II (coauthored with Justin Piers Gellatly in 2007). Henderson has indeed been identified as starting a trend in dining and food publishing, focusing on sustainably using as food the entirety of any animal killed for this purpose, but which mostly focuses on using all parts of pigs. In publishing, this includes Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s The River Cottage Meat Book, Peter Kaminsky’s Pig Perfect, subtitled Encounters with Some Remarkable Swine and Some Great Ways to Cook Them, John Barlow’s Everything but the Squeal: Eating the Whole Hog in Northern Spain and Jennifer McLagan’s Fat: An Appreciation of a Misunderstood Ingredient, with Recipes (2008). In restaurants, it certainly includes The Spotted Pig. So pervasive has embrace of whole beast pork consumption been in New York that, by 2007, Bruni could write that these are: “porky times, fatty times, which is to say very good times indeed. Any new logo for the city could justifiably place the Big Apple in the mouth of a spit-roasted pig” (Bruni). This demand set the stage perfectly for, in October 2007, Henderson to travel to New York to cook pork-rich menus at The Spotted Pig in tandem with Bloomfield (Royer). He followed this again in 2008 and, by 2009, this annual event had become known as “FergusStock” and was covered by local as well as UK media, and a range of US food weblogs. By 2009, it had grown to become a dinner at the Spotted Pig with half the dishes on the menu by Henderson and half by Bloomfield, and a dinner the next night at David Chang’s acclaimed Michelin-starred Momofuku Noodle Bar, which is famed for its Cantonese-style steamed pork belly buns. A third dinner (and then breakfast/brunch) followed at Friedman/Bloomfield’s Breslin Bar and Dining Room (discussed below) (Rose). The Spotted Pig dinners have become famed for Henderson’s pig’s head and pork trotter dishes with the chef himself recognising that although his wasn’t “the most obvious food to cook for America”, it was the case that “at St John, if a couple share a pig’s head, they tend to be American” (qtd. in Rose). In 2009, the pigs’ head were presented in pies which Henderson has described as “puff pastry casing, with layers of chopped, cooked pig’s head and potato, so all the lovely, bubbly pig’s head juices go into the potato” (qtd. in Rose). Bloomfield was aged only 28 when, in 2003, with a recommendation from Jamie Oliver, she interviewed for, and won, the position of executive chef of The Spotted Pig (Fabricant; Q&A). Following this introduction to the US, her reputation as a chef has grown based on the strength of her pork expertise. Among a host of awards, she was named one of US Food & Wine magazine’s ten annual Best New Chefs in 2007. In 2009, she was a featured solo session titled “Pig, Pig, Pig” at the fourth Annual International Chefs Congress, a prestigious New York City based event where “the world’s most influential and innovative chefs, pastry chefs, mixologists, and sommeliers present the latest techniques and culinary concepts to their peers” (Starchefs.com). Bloomfield demonstrated breaking down a whole suckling St. Canut milk raised piglet, after which she butterflied, rolled and slow-poached the belly, and fried the ears. As well as such demonstrations of expertise, she is also often called upon to provide expert comment on pork-related news stories, with The Spotted Pig regularly the subject of that food news. For example, when a rare, heritage Hungarian pig was profiled as a “new” New York pork source in 2009, this story arose because Bloomfield had served a Mangalitsa/Berkshire crossbreed pig belly and trotter dish with Agen prunes (Sanders) at The Spotted Pig. Bloomfield was quoted as the authority on the breed’s flavour and heritage authenticity: “it took me back to my grandmother’s kitchen on a Sunday afternoon, windows steaming from the roasting pork in the oven […] This pork has that same authentic taste” (qtd. in Sanders). Bloomfield has also used this expert profile to support a series of pork-related causes. These include the Thanksgiving Farm in the Catskill area, which produces free range pork for its resident special needs children and adults, and helps them gain meaningful work-related skills in working with these pigs. Bloomfield not only cooks for the project’s fundraisers, but also purchases any excess pigs for The Spotted Pig (Estrine 103). This strong focus on pork is not, however, exclusive. The Spotted Pig is also one of a number of American restaurants involved in the Meatless Monday campaign, whereby at least one vegetarian option is included on menus in order to draw attention to the benefits of a plant-based diet. When, in 2008, Bloomfield beat the Iron Chef in the sixth season of the US version of the eponymous television program, the central ingredient was nothing to do with pork—it was olives. Diversifying from this focus on ‘pig’ can, however, be dangerous. Friedman and Bloomfield’s next enterprise after The Spotted Pig was The John Dory seafood restaurant at the corner of 10th Avenue and 16th Street. This opened in November 2008 to reviews that its food was “uncomplicated and nearly perfect” (Andrews 22), won Bloomfield Time Out New York’s 2009 “Best New Hand at Seafood” award, but was not a success. The John Dory was a more formal, but smaller, restaurant that was more expensive at a time when the financial crisis was just biting, and was closed the following August. Friedman blamed the layout, size and neighbourhood (Stein) and its reservation system, which limited walk-in diners (ctd. in Vallis), but did not mention its non-pork, seafood orientation. When, almost immediately, another Friedman/Bloomfield project was announced, the Breslin Bar & Dining Room (which opened in October 2009 in the Ace Hotel at 20 West 29th Street and Broadway), the enterprise was closely modeled on the The Spotted Pig. In preparation, its senior management—Bloomfield, Friedman and sous-chefs, Nate Smith and Peter Cho (who was to become the Breslin’s head chef)—undertook a tasting tour of the UK that included Henderson’s St. John Bread & Wine Bar (Leventhal). Following this, the Breslin’s menu highlighted a series of pork dishes such as terrines, sausages, ham and potted styles (Rosenberg & McCarthy), with even Bloomfield’s pork scratchings (crispy pork rinds) bar snacks garnering glowing reviews (see, for example, Severson; Ghorbani). Reviewers, moreover, waxed lyrically about the menu’s pig-based dishes, the New York Times reviewer identifying this focus as catering to New York diners’ “fetish for pork fat” (Sifton). This representative review details not only “an entree of gently smoked pork belly that’s been roasted to tender goo, for instance, over a drift of buttery mashed potatoes, with cabbage and bacon on the side” but also a pig’s foot “in gravy made of reduced braising liquid, thick with pillowy shallots and green flecks of deconstructed brussels sprouts” (Sifton). Sifton concluded with the proclamation that this style of pork was “very good: meat that is fat; fat that is meat”. Concluding remarks Bloomfield has listed Michael Ruhlman’s Charcuterie as among her favourite food books. Publishers Weekly reviewer called Ruhlman “a food poet, and the pig is his muse” (Q&A). In August 2009, it was reported that Bloomfield had always wanted to write a cookbook (Marx) and, in July 2010, HarperCollins imprint Ecco publisher and foodbook editor Dan Halpern announced that he was planning a book with her, tentatively titled, A Girl and Her Pig (Andriani “Ecco Expands”). As a “cookbook with memoir running throughout” (Maurer), this will discuss the influence of the pig on her life as well as how to cook pork. This text will obviously also add to the data known about The Spotted Pig, but until then, this brief gastrobiography has attempted to outline some of the human, and in this case, animal, stories that lie behind all businesses. References Andrews, Colman. “Its Up To You, New York, New York.” Gourmet Apr. (2009): 18-22, 111. Andriani, Lynn. “Ecco Expands Cookbook Program: HC Imprint Signs Up Seven New Titles.” Publishers Weekly 12 Jul. (2010) 3 Sep. 2010 http://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/book-news/cooking/article/43803-ecco-expands-cookbook-program.html Andriani, Lynn. “Gourmand Awards Receive Record Number of Cookbook Entries.” Publishers Weekly 27 Sep. 2010 http://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/book-news/cooking/article/44573-gourmand-awards-receive-record-number-of-cookbook-entries.html Appadurai, Arjun. 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Dream, 2008Go to visit a friend with vulvodynia who recently had a baby only to find that she is desolate. I realise the baby–a little boy–died. We go for a walk together. She has lost weight through the ordeal & actually looks on the edge of beauty for the first time. I feel like saying something to this effect–like she had a great loss but gained beauty as a result–but don’t think it would be appreciated. I know I shouldn’t stay too long &, sure enough, when we get back to hers, she indicates she needs for me to go soon. In her grief though, her body begins to spasm uncontrollably, describing the arc of the nineteenth-century hysteric. I start to gently massage her back & it brings her great relief as her body relaxes. I notice as I massage her, that she has beautiful gold and silver studs, flowers, filigree on different parts of her back. It describes a scene of immense beauty. I comment on it.In 2008, I was following a writing path dictated by my vulvodynia, or chronic vulval pain, and was exploring the possibility of my disorder being founded in trauma. The theory did not, in my case, hold up and I had decided to move on when serendipity intervened. Books ordered for different purposes arrived simultaneously and, as I dipped into the texts, I found startling correspondence between them. The books? Neurologist Jean-Martin Charcot’s lectures on hysteria, translated into English in 1889; psychiatrist W.H.R. Rivers’s explication of a biological theory of the neuroses published in 1922; and trauma neurologist Robert C. Scaer’s interpretation, in 2007, of the psychosomatic symptoms of his patients. The research grasped my intellect and imagination and maintained its grip until the ensuing chapter was done with me: my day life, papers and books skewed across tables; my night life, dreams surfeited with suffering and beauty, as I struggled with the possibility of any relationship between the two. Just as Rivers recognised that the shell-shock of World War I was not a physical injury as such but a trigger for and form of hysteria, so too, a few decades earlier, did Charcot insistently equate the railway brain/spine that resulted from railway accidents, with the hysteria of other of his patients, recognising that the precipitating incident constituted trauma that lodged in the body/mind of the victim (Clinical 221). More recently, Scaer notes that the motor vehicle accident (MVA) from which whiplash ensues is usually of insufficient force to logically cause bodily injury and, through this understanding, links whiplash and the railway brain/spine of the nineteenth century (25).In terms of comparative studies, most exciting for a researcher is the detail with which Charcot described patient after patient with hysteria in the Salpêtrière hospital, and elements of correspondence in symptomatology between these and Scaer’s patients, the case histories of which open most chapters of his book, titled appropriately, The Body Bears the Burden.Here are symptoms selected from a case study from each clinician:She subsequently developed headaches, neck pain, panic attacks, and full-blown post-traumatic stress disorder, along with significant cognitive problems [...] As her neck pain worsened and spread to her lower back, shoulders and arms, she noted increasing morning stiffness, and generalized pain and sensitivity to touch. With the development of interrupted, non-restorative sleep and chronic fatigue, she was ultimately diagnosed by a rheumatologist with fibromyalgia (Scaer 107).And:The patient suffers from a permanent headache of a constrictive character [...] All kinds of sound are painful to his ear, and he does his best to avoid them. It is impossible for him to fix his attention to any matter, or to devote himself to anything without speedily experiencing very great fatigue [...] He has insomnia and is frequently tormented by horrible dreams [...] Further, his memory appears to be considerably weakened (Charcot, Clinical 387).In the case of both patients, there was no significant physical injury, though both were left physically, as well as psychically, disabled. In the accidents that precipitated these symptoms, both were placed in positions of terrified helplessness as potential destruction bore down on them. In the case of Scaer’s patient, she froze in the driver’s seat at traffic lights as a large dump truck slowly reversed back on to her car, crushing the bonnet and engine compartment as it moved inexorably toward her. In the case of Charcot’s patient, he was dragging his barrow along the road when a laundryman’s van, pulled at “railway speed” by a careering horse, bore down on him, striking the wheel of his barrow (Clinical 375). It took some hours for the traumatised individuals of each incident to return to their senses.Scaer describes whiplash syndrome as “a diverse constellation of symptoms consisting of pain, neurologic symptoms, cognitive impairment, and emotional complaints” (xvii), and argues that the somatic or bodily expressions of the syndrome “may represent a universal constellation of symptoms attributable to any unresolved life-threatening experience” (143). Thus, as we look back through history, whiplash equals shell-shock equals railway brain equals the “swooning” and “vapours” of the eighteenth century (Shorter Chap. 1). All are precipitated by different causes, but all share the same outcome; diverse, debilitating symptoms affecting the body and mind, which have no reasonable physical explanation and which show no obvious organic cause. Human stress and trauma have always existed.In modern and historic studies of hysteria, much is made of the way in which the symptoms of hysterics have, over the centuries, mimicked “real” organic conditions (e.g. Shorter). Rivers discusses mimesis as a quality of the “gregarious” or herd instinct, noting that the enhanced suggestibility of such a state was utilised in military training. Here, preparation for combat focused on an unthinking obedience to duty and orders, and a loss of individual agency within the group: “The most successful training is one which attains such perfection of this responsiveness that each individual soldier not merely reacts at once to the expressed command of his superior, but is able to divine the nature of a command before it is given and acts as a member of the group immediately and effectively” (211–12). In the animal kingdom, the herd instinct manifests in behaviour that impacts the survival of prey and predator: schools of sardines move as one organism, seeking safety in numbers, while predatory sailfish act in silent concert to push the school into a tighter formation from which they can take orchestrated turns to feed.Unfortunately, the group mimesis created through a passive surrender of the individual ego to the herd, while providing a greater sense of security and chance of survival, also made World War I soldiers more vulnerable to the development of post-traumatic hysteria. At the Salpêtrière, Charcot described in meticulous detail the epileptic-like convulsions of hysteria major (la grande hystérie), which appeared to be an unwitting imitation of the seizures of epileptic inmates with whom hysteria patients were housed. Such convulsions included the infamous arc en circle, or backward-arched bodily semicircle, through which the individual’s body was thrust, up into the air, in an arc of distress only earthed by flexed feet and contorted neck (Veith 231). The suffering articulated in this powerful image stayed with me as I read, and percolated through my dreams.The three texts in which I remained transfixed had issued from different eras and used different language from each other, but all three contained similar and complementary insights. I found further correspondence between Charcot and Scaer in their understanding of the neurophysiology underlying hysteria/trauma. Though he did not have the technology to observe it, Charcot insisted that the symptoms of hysteria were the result of real changes in the nervous system. He distinguished between “organic” causes of disease, and the “functional” or “dynamic” causes of such disorders as hysteria and epilepsy: as he noted of the “hystero-traumatic paraplegia” of a patient, “it depends upon a dynamic lesion affecting the motor and sensory zones of the grey cortex of the brain which in a normal state preside over the functions of that limb” (Clinical 382). He proposed a potentially reversible “dynamic alteration” in the brain of the hysteric (Clinical 223–24). Compare Scaer: “Clinical syndromes previously categorized as ‘nonphysiological,’ ‘psychosomatic,’ or ‘functional’ may be based on demonstrable dynamic neurophysiological changes in the brain” (xx–xxi).Another link between the work of Charcot and Scaer is their insistence on the mind/body as a continuum, rather than separate entities. The perspicacity of the two researcher/clinicians forms bookends to a model separating mind from body that, in the wake of the popularisation and distortion of Freudian theory, characterised the twentieth-century. Said Charcot: “the physician must be a psychologist if he wants to interpret the most refined of cerebral functions, since psychology is nothing else but physiology of a part of the brain” (cited by Goetz 32). Says Scaer: “The distinction between the ‘psychological’ and physical pathological manifestations of traumatic stress, as suggested in the term ‘psychosomatic,’ needs to be discarded” (127). He proposes that, instead, we consider a mind/brain/body continuum which more accurately reflects, “the pathophysiological, neurobiological, endocrinological, and immunological changes induced by trauma” and the bodily manifestations of disease which follow (127).Charcot’s modernity is perhaps most evident in his understanding of equivalence between mind and brain, and his belief in what we now call “neuroplasticity”. Dealing with two patients with hysterical (traumatic) paralysis, Charcot recognised the value of friction, massage, and passive movements of the paralysed limb, not to build muscle strength, but to “revive” the “motor representation” in the brain as a necessary precursor to voluntary movement (Clinical 310). He noted the way in which, through repetition, movement strengthens. The parallel between Charcot’s insight, and recent research and practice which indicates that intense exercise for stroke victims assists the retrieval of motor programmes in the nervous system, in turn facilitating increased strength and movement, is quite astounding (Doidge Chap. 5).Scaer, like Rivers before him, understands the “freeze” or immobility response to threat as a very primitive or arcane level of the survival instinct. When neither fight nor flight will ensure an animal’s survival, it often manifests the freeze response, playing “dead”. After danger has passed, the animal might vibrate and shake, discharging the stored energy, physiologically “effecting” its defence or escape, and becoming fully functional again. Scaer describes this discharge process in animals as being “as imperceptible as a shudder, or as dramatic as a grand mal seizure” (19). The human, being an animal, also instinctually resorts to immobility when that is the reaction that will best ensure survival. As a result of this response, energy that would have been discharged in fighting or fleeing is bound up in the nervous system, along with accompanying terror, rage and helplessness. Unlike other animals that naturally discharge this energy when safe, humans often cognitively override the subtle but essential restorative behaviours that complete the full instinctual response, leaving them in a vicious cycle of fear and immobility and ultimately generating the symptoms of trauma.Scaer writes, “this apparent lack of discharge of autonomic energy after the occurrence of freezing [...] may represent a dangerous suppression of instinctual behavior, resulting in the imprinting of the traumatic experience in unconscious memory and arousal systems of the brain” (21). He proposes a persuasive model of “somatic dissociation” in which the body continues to manifest a threat to survival through impairment of the region of the body that perceived the sensory messages, and disability that reflects the incomplete motor defence (100). He writes of his patients in a chronic pain programme: “We invariably noticed that the patient’s unconscious posture reflected not only the pain, but also the experience of the traumatic event that produced the pain. The asymmetrical postural patterns, held in procedural memory, almost always reflect the body’s attempt to move away from the injury or threat that caused the injury” (84).Scaer’s concept of somatic dissociation, when applied to some of Charcot’s case studies, makes sense of their bodily symptoms. Charcot’s patient P— experiences no life threat, but a shock that involves grief and shame (Clinical 131–39). On a fox-hunting outing, he mistakes his friend’s dog for a fox, accidently shooting it dead. The friend is distraught, and P— consequently deeply distressed. He continues with the hunt, but later, when he raises his fire-arm to shoot a rabbit, collapses with a paralysis of the right side (he is right-handed), and then a loss of consciousness, with consequent confused recollection. Charcot’s lecture focuses on the “word-blindness” P— evidences, apparently associated with post-traumatic memory-deficits, but what is also arresting is the right-sided paralysis which lasts for some days, and the loss of vision on his right side. It is as if the act to shoot again is prevented by a body, shocked by its former action. The body parts affected hold meaning.In the case of the barrow man discussed earlier; although he has no lasting organic damage to his legs, nevertheless, his “feet remain literally fixed to the ground” (Clinical 378) when he is standing, perhaps reproducing the immobility with which he faced the rapidly looming van as it bore down on him. His paralysis speaks of his frozen helplessness, the trauma now locked in his body.In the case of the patient Ler—, aged around sixty, Charcot links her symptoms with a “series of frights” (Lectures 279): at eleven she was terrorised by a mad dog; at sixteen she was horrified by the sight of the corpse of a murdered woman; and, at the same age, she was threatened by robbers in a wood. During her violent hystero-epileptic attacks Ler— “hurls furious invectives against imaginary individuals, crying out, ‘villains! robbers! brigands! fire! fire! O, the dogs! I’m bitten!’” (Lectures 281). Here, the compilation of trauma is articulated through the body and the voice. Given that the extreme early childhood poverty and deprivation of Ler— were typical of hysterical patients at the Salpêtrière (Goetz 193), one might speculate that the hospital population of hysterics was composed of often severely traumatised women.The traumatised person is left with a constellation of symptoms familiar to anyone who has studied the history of hysteria. These comprise, but are not limited to, flashbacks, panic attacks, insomnia, depression, and unprovoked rage. The individual is also affected by physical symptoms that might include blindness or mutism, paralysis, spasms, skin anaesthesia, chronic fatigue, irritable bowel, migraines, or chronic pain. For trauma theorist Peter A. Levine, the key to healing lies in completing the original instinctual response; “trauma is part of a natural physiological process that simply has not been allowed to be completed” (155). The traumatised person stays stuck in or compulsively relives trauma in order to do just that. In 1885, Jean-Martin Charcot lectured at the Salpêtrière hospital in Paris, including among his case studies the patient he names Deb—. She resides more evocatively in my imagination as “the lady in the carriage”, a title drawn from Charcot’s description of her symptoms, and from the associated photographs which capture static moments of her frenzied and compulsive dance:Now look at this patient [...] In the first phase, rhythmical jerkings of the right arm, like the movements of hammering, occur [...] Then after this period there succeeds a period of tonic spasms, and of contortions of the arm and head, recalling partial epilepsy [...] Finally, measured movements of the head to the right and the left occur; rapid movements defying all interpretation, for I ask you, what do they correspond to in the region of physiological acts? At the same time the patient utters a cry, or rather a kind of plaintive wail, always the same [...] You see by this example that rhythmical chorea may be in certain cases a grave affection [affliction]. Not that it directly menaces life, but that it may persist over a very long period of time, and become a most distressing infirmity [...] The chorea has lasted for more than thirty years [...] The onset occurred at the age of thirty-six. About this time, when out driving in a carriage with her husband, she fell over a precipice with the horse and carriage. After the great fright which she had thus experienced she lost consciousness for three hours. This was followed by a convulsive seizure of hysteria major, by rigidity of the limbs of the right side, and cries like the barking of a dog (Clinical 193–95).I found this case study early in my reading of Charcot, but the lady in the carriage stayed with me as a trope of the relentless embodiment of trauma in its drive to be conclusively expressed, properly acknowledged, and potentially understood. Hence the persistent pain and distress of Scaer’s MVA patients; the patients treated by Rivers, with limbs and vocal-chords frozen in a never-ending moment of self-defence; the dramatic hysterical attacks of the impoverished patients in Charcot’s Salpêtrière; and the rhythmical chorea of the lady in the carriage, her involuntary jerky dance a physical re-enactment of her original trauma, when the carriage in which she was driving went over a precipice. Her helplessness in the event which precipitated her hysteria is a central factor in her continuing distress, her involuntary passivity removing her sense of agency and, like the soldier confined endlessly and powerlessly in the trenches waiting for inevitable terrifying action, rendering her unable to fight or flee.The fact that the lady in the carriage may be stuck in a traumatic incident experienced more than thirty years before attests to the way in which trauma insistently pushes to be resolved. Her re-enactment is literal, but Levine acknowledges the relevance of a “repetition compulsion” (181), expressed originally by Freud as the “compulsion to repeat” (19). This describes the often subtle way in which we continue to involve ourselves in situations that are replays of traumatic themes from childhood—symbolic re-enactments. Levine revitalises the idea however, by focusing on the interrupted instinctual response that calls for physiological resolution: “the drive to complete the freezing response remains active no matter how long it has been in place” (111).The knowledge a traumatised person seeks is, in trauma, literally locked in the body/mind. It rises up through dreams and throws itself aggressively at one in memories that are experienced as a terrifying present. It twists limbs in painful contractures and paralyzes the limb that was lifted in defence. The fear of turning to face this knowledge locks the individual in a recurring cycle of terror and immobility. At its end-point, s/he survives in the pathological limbo of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), avoiding any arousal that might trigger all the physiological and emotional events of the original trauma. The original threat or trauma continues to exist in a perpetual present, with the individual unable to relegate it to the past as a bearable memory.It is possible to interpret such suffering in many ways. One might, for instance, focus on the pathology of an apparent system malfunction, which keeps the body/mind inefficiently glued to an unsolvable past. I choose to emphasise here, however, the creativity and persistence of the human body/mind in its drive to resolve the response to trauma, recover equilibrium and face effectively the recurrent challenges of life. As well as physical symptoms which exact attention, this drive or instinct might include the prompting of dreams and the meaningful coincidences we notice as we open our eyes to them, all of which can lead us down previously unconsidered paths. Does the body/mind only continue to malfunction due to our inability to correctly decipher its language? In relation to trauma, the body/mind bears the burden, but it might also hold the key to recovery.References Charcot, Jean-Martin. Lectures on the Diseases of the Nervous System. Trans. George Sigerson. London: The New Sydenham Society, 1877.---. Clinical Lectures on Diseases of the Nervous System: Volume 3. Trans. Thomas Savill. London: The New Sydenham Society, 1889.Doidge, Norman. The Brain That Changes Itself: Stories of Personal Triumph from the Frontiers of Brain Science. Melbourne: Scribe, 2008.Freud, Sigmund. “Beyond the Pleasure Principle.” The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud. Ed. and Trans. James Strachey. London: Hogarth Press, 1955. 7–64.Goetz, Christopher G, Michel Bonduelle, and Toby Gelfand. Charcot: Constructing Neurology. New York: Oxford University Press, 1995.Levine, Peter A. Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma: The Innate Capacity to Transform Overwhelming Experiences. Berkeley, CA: North Atlantic Books, 1997.Rivers, W. H. R. Instinct and the Unconscious: A Contribution to a Biological Theory of the Psycho-Neuroses. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1922.Scaer, Robert C. The Body Bears the Burden: Trauma, Dissociation, and Disease. 2nd ed. New York: Haworth Press, 2007.Shorter, Edward. From Paralysis to Fatigue: A History of Psychosomatic Illness in the Modern Era. New York: Free Press, 1992.Veith, Ilza. Hysteria: The History of a Disease. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1965.