Journal articles on the topic 'Worthington Memorial Church of St'

This paper reconsiders the role and value of the St. Andrew Kim Dae-Geon Memorial Church and his grave site in the Mirinae Shrine, currently recognized as a special place of pilgrimage for Catholics in Korea. The Mirinae area is the place where the remains of Father Kim Dae-Geon were relocated after his martyrdom in 1846. To commemorate this, the St. Andrew Kim Dae-Geon Memorial Church was built in 1928 by his grave, and his relics and image are enshrined within. This research examines the value of the church and his grave site from three perspectives: first, the historical value related to Father Kim Dae-Geon; second, the architectural value of the Memorial Church; and third, value from the sense of place (or genius loci) of the church and environs. The role and architectural value of the building and site were examined through a literature review, an archival investigation, and a visit to the site. This research is about interpretation of the church and Father Kim Dae-Geon’s grave site in the Mirinae Shrine—not only the building itself, but also its sense of place, beyond the historical research focusing on the person.

John Hunter died in 1793 and was buried in the vaults of the church of St Martin-in-the-Fields, London. In 1859, the vaults were required to be cleared and Hunter's coffin was found and his remains were reinterred in Westminster Abbey beneath a memorial brass. In the course of research on several such memorials in a Worcestershire village church, a letter was found that a clerk, having misread the writer's signature, consequently misfiled. Following this lead, it is now possible to tell something not only of the genesis of Weekes's statue of Hunter but also of the making and cost of the brass over his grave.

The work of Santiago Calatrava is characterized by biomorphic imitation combined with engineering thought, an approach that has made him one of the foremost and renowned architects of contemporary times. The architect employed principles of symbolic imitation and historical resonance. The main form, in this project, for imitation was taken from the icon of the Virgin Mary with a Child, which the architect skillfully transformed into the silhouette of a church, while the idea of geometric analysis of the Virgin's Face with a halo inspired the creation of the plan. The principle of historical resonance is ubiquitous in the project, from the orientation of the church and adherence to liturgical traditions to the incorporation of distinctive elements from existing cultic objects of Byzantine sacred architecture. On the other hand, the architect did not overlook modern challenges and needs. By utilizing advanced technologies and creativity, the author and his studio adeptly use light to emphasize important elements of the structure in the interior and create a unique appearance of the church from the outside during the dark hours of the day. Indeed, the illumination of the church at night is another idea of imitating the church candle as a symbol of God's presence. Functionally, the church is equipped not only with liturgical spaces but also with areas that will serve the community and as a memorial to the tragedy of September 11. These volumes are harmoniously integrated by the western façade and have important visual connections with the Park of Freedom and the memorial complex itself. St. Nicholas Church in New York should be singled out as a successful example of the symbiosis of tradition, modern technologies, and the author's creative approach.

If the measure of the man is reflected in the circle of his friends then Sandy Morton is impressively out-size. The turn-out for his memorial service was large and varied and the prevailing mood was warm and pleasingly nostalgic. Sandy would very definitely have enjoyed it. The choice of St George's Church, Bloomsbury was appropriate and fitting as was the relaxed reception later in the British Museum's Islamic Gallery. Sandy's presence could be felt appreciatively basking in the gentle tide of warm reminiscences as friends, family, and colleagues mixed easily and exchanged anecdotes and memories. The mood was light and relaxed and it contrasted with the more respectfully sombre memorial service which had combined hymns, Persian verse and eulogies from his brothers, William and James and colleagues Narguess Farzad and Charles Melville. In St George's the atmosphere was reflective and emotions were heightened. Even Charles Melville's courtly and measured address cracked and stumbled as a particularly poignant memory broke through his famously unflappable façade. Emotional but not oppressively so, the service reminded us of our loss but also informed us of our gains and the many ways Sandy had entered and enriched our lives.

This article considers the perhaps surprising centrality of sculptural engagements with Afghanistan and the broader north-west frontier of the Raj during the century after the Battle of Waterloo. The article ranges across a broad array of commemorative media, from standing white marble figurative statues and portrait busts, through allegorical mourning figures and memorial brasses, to High Church religious sculpture and scenes of biblical history. It argues that sculptors never really settled on a sculptural iconography for Afghanistan, in spite of drawing on key photographic and print representations of the region, but that the very malleability of the genre of Anglo-Afghan monuments in St Paul’s might itself have collectively represented a necessary linguistic, conceptual and personal mobility on the north-west frontier of the Raj.

The paper is dedicated to the scientific publication and commentary on the construction and painting of the Epiphany Cathedral in Kostroma Epiphany Convent of Anastasia (CIR4010) in 1559-1562/63. The Cathedral was built with the blessing of St. Macarius, Metropolitan of Moscow, on the initiative and at the expense of Hegumen Isaiya (worldly Shaposhnikov) and the monastic brothers, as well as on the donations made by Prince Vladimir of Staritsa and others. The paper states that the Cathedral was consecrated by Archbishop Nikandr of Rostov on June 8, 1559, on the day of the namesake of Feodor, son of Ivan the Terrible, and the consecration ceremony was of a Church-state character. The inscription contains unique information, which has not been preserved in other sources, about the attachment of particles of the relics of St. Theodore the Black, Prince of Yaroslavl and his offsprings David and Konstantin in the antimins of the consecrated Church, as well as the fresco painting of the Cathedral, produced in 1562/61. Thus, the published inscription is a unique monument of memorial epigraphy, reporting both information on the architectural and art history of Kostroma in the late 1550s to the early 1560s, and containing important material about reverence of St. Theodore, Prince of Yaroslavl, and his offsprings in Kostroma land.

Focusing on John Bacon the younger’s monument to Jane Russell, this article illuminates death and memorialization in early nineteenth-century British India, with a social history focus regarding issues of gender and family. The monument in its first iteration was lost at sea in a shipwreck, and a later replacement is still in situ in St Mary’s Church at Fort St George, in the former Madras Presidency. The narrative arc traces the life cycle of a memorial to a young woman whose husband and father were leading English East India Company employees, including its commission by correspondence, execution in the metropolis and transport to the Indian subcontinent. Russell’s death and its commemoration in visual and material culture were, it is argued, a family affair on various interpretative strata, including but by no means limited to the iconography of her marmoreal ‘deathscape’.

ABSTRACTThe Edge Anglican church (originally St Alban's) in the northern Hobart suburb of Claremont has above its main altar a triptych stained glass window, a memorial to Robert Falcon Scott R.N. New information suggests that the designer/manufacturer was Auguste Fischer of Melbourne, a close associate of the church's architect, Alan Cameron Walker of Hobart. The window was promised by Mrs Edith Knight at the laying of the foundation stone of the church in July 1913, five months after Scott's death became known to the world. Lady Ellison-Macartney attended the ceremony. She was Scott's sister and wife of the recently appointed governor of Tasmania, Sir William Ellison-Macartney. Other members of Scott's family were also living in Hobart at the time. The Ellison-Macartneys and their daughter Esther attended the dedication of the window on 17 October 1915. Admiral E.R.G.R. Evans, second in command of Scott's expedition, spoke to The Royal Society of Tasmania on 29 March 1930, on the topic of Scott's last Antarctic venture.

St Joseph's Catholic Church, Morrinsville, was designed in 1958-62 by Doug Angus of Angus, Flood & Griffiths of Hamilton. Built in 1964-65, the design was radical, had simplicity in form both externally and internally. The simple external upturned parabola defied the level of innovation and detailing, creating both the exterior and interior form with the use of pre-stressed concrete ribs, and pre-cast panels between. The parabolic form was 49' 6" in height, designed by engineer Thomas Flood. The 8,000 sqft church accommodated 600 people. It was said to be New Zealand's largest single-pour concrete roof of the time. The Modernist interior was of a grand scale with the specially-designed fittings - only seen by parishioners. And this was part of its demise. The scale was for a cathedral not small-town New Zealand. Regionally significant in terms of architecture and engineering technology, an iconic Waikato church, and the work of an important Modernist architect and engineer, yet it was demolished in 2014. In the Waikato, at the same time as the church was being designed, the new regional theatre and "town hall" was on the drawing board of architect Aubrey de Lisle, of White, de Lisle and Jenkins of Hamilton. The Founders Memorial Theatre opened in November 1962, inspired by Coventry's Belgrade Theatre, which was the first civic theatre built in Great Britain after World War Two. The 1,249-seat theatre, built a decade before Christchurch Town Hall, has hosted international performers of note to local theatre and music productions within its "gently sloping wood panelled confines." Jazz great Louis Armstrong arrived for shows on 20 March 1963, but due to payment issues he almost didn't play at all. From Louis Armstrong to Cilla Black in 1965, to the home of the Finns, the theatre for over 60 years has been the focus of many from the new teenagers of the 1960s to classical music and the performance of the young ballet students. Closed in 2016 from lack of maintenance and ongoing strengthening, with the Hotere mural removed for the new Waikato Theatre, the interior now only used in the dark for police exercises as its fate awaits. Two very different cultural interiors – a cathedral for faith and a "cathedral" for performance – a church and a theatre.

This paper provides an analysis of the relief block with the Crucifixion scene preserved in the St. Martin’s parish church in Jawor, an important town in the Duchy Jawor-Świdnica in the 14th century. According to the 17th century’s written sources the relief was originally located on the wall of the church’s cemetery mortuary, however the primary written source pertaining to the artwork in question is the inscription running along its three sides. The slab commemorates Johann Sapiens and his family. It is the earliest preserved pictorial epitaph in Silesia and in this part of Europe. Its votive purpose is stated. Moreover, a passage referring to biblical texts as well as formulations, which entered into the consecration rites of churches and altars, provide a premise to interpret this family memorial and epitaph, at the same time, also as an ossuary foundation memorial. These circumstances allow searching for possible models and references in places where the pictorial epitaph found favourable conditions for development already at the dawn of its existence as a type of sepulchral monument. At first sight, Thuringia with Erfurt seem the place geographically closest to Silesia, where stylistically and typologically related artworks have been preserved. However, the crucifix depicted in the relief from Jawor turned out to be rather typical for the contemporary Silesian sculpture too, in contrast to the assisting figures of Virgin Mary and St. John. In consequence, the references and sources of inspiration applied in the process of creation of the assisting figures in relief from Jawor should be searched in western territories of Silesia or having regard to the possibility of drawing inspiration from much older portable microplastic objects as, for example, Byzantine or Romanesque ivory.

Generally speaking, paleochristian memoriae have emerged out of the funeral traditions of the pagan world of Antiquity with its particular expression of the cult of deceased, sustained with the culture that had come out of Christian theology and aesthetics. It came together withnew architectural forms some of which were characterized with cross-like forms, not only as a general symbol of new faith, but also as the spatial projection, model after which one had to build. It is defined by two axes that cross at the right angle, the framework of the overall architecturalcomposition, factor of building’s extension in its entire length and width, as well as the height of the building that is dominated and marked by a dome. This particular structure of the building expresses its own essence, memorial use and the Christian paradigm. Through form and function, these buildings have become a distinguished phenomenon of the Christian civilization, valued in the architecture from the late antiquity to Romanesque period.Mature form of the space intended for the cult of the deceased, particularly when small cruciform churches are in question, is remarkably expressed in the preserved chapel of St. Lawrence, widely known as the mausoleum of Galla Placidia, one of two identical buildings once located at the ends of the narthex of the Ravennate church of the Holy Cross. The lower space of Theodoric’s mausoleum in Ravenna is also cruciform, however one should also remember emperor Justinian’s cruciform tombin Constantinople church of the Holy Apostles. It was demolished in the 15 century, together with the whole complex, and is known only through historical sources.Together with the Ravennate memoriae, such tombs could have – directly or indirectly – influence the formation of the cruciform memoriae in the Adriatic cultural landscape from Late Antiquity to Romanesque period.This paper elaborates the group of approximately fifteen buildings that demonstrate – through their forms and funerary functions – perseverance of particular cruciform plan of a memoriae within the Adriatic ambiance. A particularly numerous group is that of southern Istria, which consists of the Pula cathedral baptistery, two chapels by the basilica of Sta Maria Formosa and St. Mathew’s chapel in Pula, that of St. Catharine on a nearby islet and the supposed cruciform church of St. Andrew on an island in front of Rovinj. To such a concentration of the paleochristian memoriae one should link two early-mediaeval chapels, that of St. Clement in Pula and St. Thomas’ near Rovinj. The latter’s forms were already commented by Ivan Matejčić to follow and repeat paleochristian features. Among these features there are three protruding apses similar to those of St. Catharine’s. Therefore, it seems that the forms and themeasures of pre-Romanesque chapels were taken from those of the nearby Byzantine buildings, rather than from the distant Carolingian examples in Italy or France. Earlier and later southern Istrian memoriae are treated here as a typological group with emphasized regional features and continuity. Their forms differ only in some less important details, e.g. facades being either flat or articulated with lesenes. Their common features are, on the other hand, elementary architectural composition, spatial structure that consists of four branches and the dome hidden in the drum, as well as their dimensions and proportions. An element ofparticular interest is the octagonal upper part of the dome on Pula baptistery, that on St. Catharine’s on an islet in front of Pula as well as one on St. Andrew’s on an islet in front of Rovinj. These are probably reconstructions of the older solution. Within the supposedly later construction, there is a dome, a trula, as Pietro Kandler has named it, relating it with the Longboard architecture. It is carried by squinches.This solution is, actually, the Byzantine tradition in the area of Ravennate influences. A similar dome is constructed above the cruciform chapel consecrated to St. Mary Mater Domini (Theotokos), built next to the church of St. Felix and Fortunato in Vicenza, in 6 century. It seems that the same tradition was followed by very similar buildings, Paduan chapel of San Prosdocimo, and the memory erected by Santi Apostoli in Verona. On the other hand, St. Clement’s in Pula did not have a dome of such type and this church had yet another significant difference from the other Istrian chapels, the rectangular extension of areas in front of the apses. Another example that stands out from the group is the church of St. Euphemia at Saline bay in Lim channel. It is an Early Romanesque chapel with three apses at the rear. Lateral branches are reduced; they are much shorter than the front one, and give an impression of a transept rather than cruciform branches, as in other churches of the group. The upper part of the walls give no evidence of neither vaults nor a dome.Differently from the typological unity of the paleochristian and early mediaeval Istrian memoriae, those in Dalmatia show significant variability of the theme, already noticeable at the physiognomy of the earlier examples. For instance, the small baptistery in Baška on the island of Krk is an orderly cruciform building with relatively short branches and unarticulated flat walls, similar to Pula baptistery. The ground plan of St. Martin’s on the island of Cres is considerably different. It was a considerably larger building, probably in a memorial function related to a nearby villa rustica. It also has the rectangular extension in front of the apse, like St. Clement’s at Pula. Its walls show no traces of vaulted constructions. In a later phase, it was probably used as a parish church, like some examples of Dalmatian triconchal churches. A particular articulation of the walls, different from all of the Istrian and Dalmatiancruciform memoriae, was that of St. Cyprian’s chapel at Gata. Its short branches are rectangular on the outside, while on the inside they have inscribed round apses. Therefore, the outer surfaces have narrow round niches as relief of the thickened angles. Memory of the Holy Cross at Nin also has a round apse inscribed in the rectangular body of its rear branch. However, it is flanked by two smaller protruding apses, i.e. three in total. Other branches are vaulted with a half-dome on angular squinches that are also constructed below the drum with the dome inside. Ivo Petricioli has long ago suggested that its proportions indicate influences of the early mediaeval Byzantine architecture. This is further corroborated by its outer surfaces articulated with shallow niches. These features do not appear in Carolingian architecture, so it seems that the Holy Cross should be dated into the 10th or the 11th century. It also should be related tothe influences from nearby Zadar - contemporary capitol of the Byzantine Theme of Dalmatia - with the church of St. Vitus whose features, both general form and details, are of the same type of the building. Furthermore, they should be compared with the chapel of St. Donatus at Kornić on Krk Island. This small church is of apparently different groundplan, but one could still consider it a cruciform type. Its front and rear branches are rectangular, and there are indications that the rear branch had a round apse inscribed, similarly to the memory of the Holy Cross at Nin. However, its lateral branches are relatively small round apses, protruding from the sides of the chapel. Among them, there is a relativelyspacious central section with the dome constructed on the squinches. Miljenko Jurković has plausibly dated the church in 12th century, while I believe that it confirms the continuity of the paleochristian cruciform type of the Christian memory in Istria and Dalmatia from Late Antiquity to theRomanesque period. This is proven by some contemporary constructions, such as the chapel of an unknown title at Crkvina near Kašić, near Biljani Donji, that has also been dated in Romanesque period. In spite of some individual differences all of the memoriae compared in this paper, both groups are assembled by numerousness and similarities of both cruciform plans and funerary functions. Also, the influence of Adriatic Byzantine centres, particularly that of Ravenna, Pula and Zadar, is noticeable in formation of the regional characteristics of memorial architecture in the cultural ambiance of Istria and Dalmatia, within the context of long-lasting continuity of its forms and functions, from Late Antiquity to Romanesque period.

The primary objective of this research is to address the research gap in the conservation of heritage buildings in Canada by integrating Historical Building Information Modeling (HBIM) as a tool. The proposed study aims to develop an enhanced framework for the preservation of historical buildings through the utilization of HBIM and 3D-scanning technology. As a result, the research aims to generate a comprehensive database comprising various families of models while also incorporating strategies for point-cloud clustering data. The significance of this research lies in its potential to contribute to the conservation and restoration process of historical buildings. Currently, there are a lack of standardized approaches and comprehensive databases for accurately documenting and reproducing historical buildings. By integrating HBIM and 3D-scanning technology, this research will enable the creation of highly accurate three-dimensional virtual models, consisting of millions of points, which will serve as a comprehensive dataset for the restoration of heritage buildings. The findings of this research will benefit multiple stakeholders. Preservation architects, conservationists, and heritage professionals will gain a valuable tool for documenting and analyzing historical buildings with a high level of precision. The comprehensive database and framework proposed in this study will facilitate decision-making processes during the restoration and preservation phases, ensuring that the original architectural elements and materials are faithfully reproduced. Additionally, policymakers and governmental organizations involved in heritage conservation can use the outcomes of this research to establish standardized guidelines and regulations for the preservation of historical buildings in Canada. Ultimately, the broader community will benefit from the enhanced preservation efforts, as it will contribute to the cultural and historical identity of the nation, fostering a sense of pride and connection to the past.

The oeuvre of the sculptor Paolo Callalo (Venice 1655-1725) is a paradigmatic example of how the oeuvres of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Venetian sculptors have been expanded, supplemented and revised during the last twenty years. Until Simone Guerriero’s ground-breaking article of 1997, Paolo Callalo was almost completely unknown. In his search for Callalo’s earliest preserved work, Simone Guerriero suggested that Callalo was responsible for the stipes of the altar of St Joseph, featuring the relief of the Flight into Egypt flanked by two putti which are almost free standing, which was made between 1679 and 1685 for San Giovanni Crisostomo at Venice. However, another significant sculpture can now be added to the catalogue of Callalo’s early works: a memorial monument to the Bishop of Nin Francesco Grassi (Chioggia, 3 October 1667 – Zadar, 29 January 1677) which is located on the left presbytery wall in the Cathedral of Santa Maria Assunta at Chioggia. As we learn from its commemorative inscription, the monument was commissioned by Paolo Grassi, the nephew of the deceased who was a prominent member of this aristocratic family from Chioggia. The Grassi (de Grassi) family produced as many as three bishops of Chioggia: Pasquale (1618-1639), Francesco (1639 -1669) and Antonio (1696-1715) who was a brother of Francesco, the Bishop of Nin, and a great-nephew of the first two. The monumental memorial to the Bishop of Nin Francesco Grassi in the presbytery of Chioggia Cathedral consists of a rectangular marble plaque topped with a semi-circular pediment with two reclining putti. Immediately below, two more putti are depicted flying and drawing a curtain in front of an oval niche containing the bishop’s bust, the commemorative inscription and the bishop’s coat of arms set in a wreath. All the elements of this excellent work point to Paolo Callalo’s hand. The bishop’s bust was most probably created posthumously by relying on one of the portraits of the bishop as a source model. It depicts him as having a somewhat square face with a lively mouth opened in a melodramatic way and as having probing eyes with emphasized pupils, all of which characterize Callalo’s sculpting technique. A direct parallel for such a physiognomy can be found in the 1686 sculpture of St Michael in San Michele in Isola at Venice. Two remarkably beautiful and skilfully modelled putti which are drawing the curtain can be connected to the putti on the stipes of the altar of St Joseph in San Giovanni Crisostomo at Venice, but also with a putto on the keystone of a niche on the 1684 altar of St Teresa in the Church of the Scalzi. The richly draped marble curtain being drawn by the two flying putti is an example of Callalo’s thorough knowledge of contemporary sculptural innovations and trends in Venice. He could have seen a similar curtain on the 1677 monument to Giorgio Morosini in San Clemente in Isola at Venice, which belongs to the oeuvre of Giusto Le Court, the most important Venetian sculptor of the second half of the seventeenth century. That Callalo was no stranger to this type of decoration is also demonstrated by one of his later works, now sadly lost, the contract for which set out the terms for the sculptural decoration of the high altar in the old Venetian church of La Pietà. In 1692 Callalo agreed to make for this high altar ‘a curtain out of yellow marble of Verona being held by putti’.The stylistic analysis of the memorial to the Bishop of Nin Francesco Grassi indicates that it was erected in a relatively short period of time after the bishop’s death in 1677. It seems highly likely that it was made in the early 1680s or around 1686 at the latest because in that year Callalo made the statue of St Michael in San Michele in Isola. The memorial to the Bishop of Nin Francesco Grassi in Chioggia Cathedral is the first monument on the left-hand side of presbytery wall which would in time become a ‘mausoleum’ of the Grassi family. Around the same time or perhaps somewhat later, the Bishop of Chioggia by the name Francesco Grassi was honoured posthumously with a memorial containing a bust portrait that can be attributed to Giuseppe Torretti (Pagnano, 1664 – Venice, 1743). This group of episcopal memorials in the presbytery of Chioggia Cathedral ends with 1715 when Alvise Tagliapietra (Venice, 1680 – 1747) made the tomb for Bishop Antonio Grassi while he was still alive.Callalo’s Dalmatian oeuvre is relatively modest and consists of the following works so far identified as his: two marble angels set next to the high altar in the Parish Church at Vodice and four music-making putti at the sides of the high altar as well as those on a side altar in the Parish Church at Sutivan on the island of Brač. However, Callalo’s hand can also be recognized in a statue from a large-scale sculptural group which adorned the altar of the Blessed Sacrament in Zadar Cathedral. The altar structure was built by Antonio Viviani in 1719 while Francesco Cabianca (Venice, 1666-1737) carved the majority of the altar’s rich sculptural decoration. At the centre of the altar is a niche with a relatively small marble statue of Our Lady of Sorrows with the dead Christ in her lap. It is difficult to find a place for this marble Pietà from Zadar in Francesco Cabianca’s catalogue especially with regard to his Pietà above a door in the cloister of the Frari Church at Venice in 1714. Compared to the Zadar Pietà, Cabianca’s Venetian Pietà displays a number of differences: a crisper chiselling technique, a certain roughness of workmanship, robust bodies as well as a different treatment of the figures’ physiognomies and drapery. However, the Pietà from Zadar can be added to the catalogue of Paolo Callalo’s works. The carefully modelled figure of Our Lady of Sorrows and the soft drapery which spreads outwards in a radial fashion around her feet can be compared to the statues of Faith and Hope on the altar of the Blessed Sacrament in Udine Cathedral, which was made after 1720. The statue of the Risen Christ on the tabernacle of the aforementioned altar from Udine provides a parallel for the modelling of Christ’s body and, in particular, his face with a restrained expression. The same can be said for the Risen Christ on the tabernacle of the Parish Church at Clauzetto, which I also attribute to Callalo, as well as for earlier, more monumental, examples such as the Christ from the 1708 altar of the Transfiguration in the Parish Church at Labin.Callalo’s memorial to the Bishop of Nin Francesco Grassi in Chioggia is an important indicator of his personal stylistic development. He transformed his stylistic expression from the robust energy of this ‘youthful work’ at Chioggia to the lyrical poetics characterized by softness which can be seen in his late work, the Pietà on the altar of the Blessed Sacrament in the Cathedral of St Anastasia at Zadar. It is likely that future research in Venice, Dalmatia and the rest of the Adriatic coast will expand Paolo Callalo’s already rich oeuvre and confirm the important place he holds in Venetian sculpture as one of its protagonists during the late Seicento and early Settecento.

The article introduces for the first time the authentic text of the marriage allegation, compiled by the clergy of the Holy Mother of God-Odigitrievsky Church in the city of Kuznetsk in preparation for the wedding of Fedor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky and Maria Dmitrievna Isaeva on February 6, 1857. The original of this document has not been preserved, as it probably burned down during a fire that occurred in the Kuznetsk Church in December 1919. In the biographical literature, the text of the marriage allegation, which dates back to a handwritten copy made around 1916 by the priest of the Odigitrievsky Church, Nikolai Rudichev, is preserved and now stored in the Memorial House of F. M. Dostoevsky in Semey (Semipalatinsk until 2007). In 1916, it was published with a number of inaccuracies by the priest and local historian B. G. Gerasimov in the now-missing publication “Siberian chronicle.” In this article, the marriage search is reproduced from a photocopy of the lost original, which was made in 1910 and is now stored in the Literary and Memorial Museum of F. M. Dostoevsky in St. Petersburg. The signature autograph of the writer under the text of the marriage allegation makes it an official personal document, which warrants the inclusion of the marriage allegation in the main body of the Academic Complete Works of the writer, in the “Official letters and business papers” section. A significant part of the article contains the polemic with the hypothesis of Siberian local historians M. M. Kushnikova and V. V. Togulev, who believe that the said marriage allegation was removed from the Church archives and destroyed before the fire of 1919. They believe that it was done in order to hide the forgery contained in its text, which makes Dostoevsky’s first marriage illegitimate. While agreeing that the document really did contain forgery, the author of the article relies on the then-contemporary legislation in proving that the conclusion about the illegality of the writer’s marriage is a great exaggeration, and the hypothesis about the seizure and destruction of the marriage allegation has no serious grounds.

В статье сделана попытка осветить такую немаловажную тему, как реакция Поместного Собора 1917-1918 годов на известие о казни Николая II (1868-1918 гг.). Автором рассматриваются прения, которые состоялись на Соборе по вопросу служения панихиды за бывшего царя. Также в статье проведён анализ проповеди Святителя Тихона (Белавина) (1865-1925 гг.), который даёт нам представление о позиции Патриарха по данному вопросу. This article tries to consider such an important question as the reaction of the Local Council of 1917-1918 to the news of the execution of tsar Nicholas II (1868-1918). The author considers the debates, which took place on the Sobor on the issue of service of memorial for the former tsar. The article also analyzes the sermon of St. Tikhon (Belavin) (1865-1925), which gives us an idea of the position of the Patriarch on this issue.

The dominant historical narratives of twentieth-century architecture present the 1930s as the period during which Modernism's claim to be the architectural style of the century was consolidated and when the new architecture began to spread across the globe. In New Zealand, as in the rest of the world, this master narrative has tended to obscure the significance of buildings constructed in more traditional styles. The five New Zealand buildings included in the RIBA's Centennial Exhibition, International Architecture 1924-1934, were not, however, the latest examples of Modernism in this country, but relatively conservative designs, including Cecil Wood's Arts and Crafts inspired St Barnabas's Church at Woodend (1932). Wood's building forms part of an extensive group of small country churches built throughout Canterbury and North Otago during the 'thirties. These include Wood's St Paul's, Tai Tapu (1930-31) and Herbert Hall's St David's Memorial Church at Cave (1930), although by far the best know is RSD Harman's Church of the Good Shepherd at Lake Tekapo (1935). These small, unpretentious churches, many built with assistance from a government fund initiated to stimulate the construction industry, made use of modern materials, especially reinforced concrete, but their mode of expression remained conservative. They were often embellished with furnishings executed in the traditions of the Arts and Crafts movement. In most cases these churches were important statements of local identity while at the same time expressing the diverse cultural origins of those who built them. In style they were invariably Gothic yet within that dominant idiom considerable stylistic diversity was achieved. For both architects and their clients Modernism, with its emphasis on internationalism and the machine, was unable to express the rich veins of meaning which such buildings were required to embody. Yet as expressions of the uncertainties of the time, their conservative aesthetic values, their reassertion of pioneering roots and of an enduring local identity were as significant as Modernism's confident assertion of a better, essentially urban, future. At a time when the approaching Centennial events of 1940 was stimulating a reassessment of the country's past, these buildings also acted as powerful statements of consolidated achievements.

AbstractIn 1625 the Monastery of St. John's in Haarlem, which housed the local Order of the Knights of the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem (Hospitallers), was dissolved. The property, including a large collection of paintings, passed to the City of Haarlem, which claimed all the monasteries in the district of Haarlen as compensation for damage sustairted during the siege and rebellion against Spain. In the monastery's archives, now in the Haarlem Municipal Archives, memorial panels are menizoned fourteen times. Nine of thern occur in three inventories of 1573, one in a testament of 1574 and the rest in the Commander's accounts of 1572, 1573 and 1574. In the case of six of the thirteen items there is no description of the representation at all; one is simply said to depict a number of persons. Four of the six other items are Passion representations. Like The Last Judgment, such themes are in keeping with the functiort of a memorial panel. The description of one epitaph as 'in laudem artis musiccs' is not sufficiently clear to give an idea of the representation. More information is available as to the patrons or commemorated persons. All of them seem to have been members of the Order of St. John: four panels were memorials to commanders, three to ordinary hospitallers and one painting commemorated the founder of the monastery. All were priests. Nothing in the archives suggests that the church contained memorials to non-members of the order. This must nonetheless have been the case: a 'Liber- memoriarum' compiled in 1570 indicates that numerous memorial services were held for the laity, many of whom apparently chose St. John's as their last resting-place. It is thus highly likely that memorials for these worshippers were placed in the church. A 1572 inventory of St. John's Monastery makes no mention of memorial panels, probably because the contents of the church were not listed. After the monastery had been destroyed during the siege of Haarlem, three inventories were drawn up: one of the ruined monastery, one of the items - mainly paintings which were moved to Utrecht, and one of the property taken to the Sint Adriaansdoelen, the temporary home of the order after the destruction of the monastery. Only in these three inventories are epitaphs mentioned. The inventories of 1580 and 1606 were drawn up by order of the City, the claimant to the mortastery's propery. They make no mention of private possessions, not even those of the members of the Order. The 1625 inventory, drawn up after the death of the last inmate, only mentiorts the painting that was bought by the convent to be placed on the grave of its founder. Epitaphs which were not orderend by the convent were probably regarded as private property, and passed to the heirs prior to 1625. Exact dates cannot be ascertained. The author has identified two epitaphs and a painting coming from St. John's. It is not clear whether the small painting of Mary, her cousin Elizabeth and Commander Jan Willem Jansz. (1484-1514) (Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, Weimar) is (part of) an epitaph or a devotional painting (ill. 2). The 1572 inventory mentions a picture of Jan Willem. It is not described, but the painting in Weimar is a likely candidate because of its small size (72 x 50). The 1573 inventory of the property in the Adriaansdoelen lists a wing of the epitaph of 'Heer Jan', but again, the representation is not described. The 17thcentury genealogist Opt Straeten van der Moelen described the four family coats of arms on the painting, but said nothing about the representation or where he saw it. It was possible to identify the Hospitaller in the Weimar work because of the armorial shield hanging on a tree behind the kneeling figure. The arms correspond with what Opt Straeten van der Moelen described as the arms of the Hospitaller's father, and with a wax impression of Jan Willem Jansz.'s arms (ill. 1) on a document of 1494, now in the Haarlem Municipal Archive. The date and painter of the picture are not known. In the series of portraits of the Commanders of St. John's Monastery in Haarlem (Frans Hals Museum) is a second portrait of Jan Willem. In this, the seventeenth portrait in the series (ill. 3), he is grey-haired, in contrast to the Weimar painting, in which he is depicted with black hair. Jan Willem Jansz. was born in about 1450. In 1484 he was elected Commander of the order, a function which he held until his death in 1514. The Bowes Museum, Durham, owns a triptych of an Entombment (ills. 4 and 5). On the middle panel is a kneeling Knight Hospitaller; on each of the side panels are four persons, arranged in pairs. One of them, on the right wing, is another member of the Order. Coats of arms can be seen on the prie-dieu's behind which three of the four couples kneel, and on the back of the panels (ill. 6). Comparison of these arms with the one on the seal of Philips van Hogesteyn, Commander of the Order frorn 1571 to 1574, suggests that this is his epitaph (ill. 7). The memorial panel is mentioned in the 1573 inventory of property in the Adriaansdoelen. In 1570, before becoming prior of the monastery, Philips had a 'Liber memoriarum' compiled which contained the names of his grandparents and parents. His grandmother came from the Van Arkel family, whose arms bore two opposing embattled bars. This coal of arms facilitated identification of the couples on the left wing. The grandparents are kneeling behind the last prie-dieu - the Van Arkel arms are on the heraldic left of the shield. In front of them are Philips van Hogesteyn's parents. It is harder to establish the identity of the people on the right wing, but the couple kneeling behind the prie-dieu are very likely Philips' brother and sister-in-law. The woman behind them could be his sister. The brother and sister are mentioned in his will, which he made in 1568. However, it is not clear who the Hospitaller on this panel is. It could be an unknown member of the family, but it is also possible that Philips van Hogesteyn was depicted in the triplych twice, first simply as a member of the family on one wing and again, later on in life, on the middle panel as the most important patron. Besides this painted epitaph, an elegy on Philips van Hogesteyn, written bij Cornelys Schonaeus, headmaster of the Latin school in Haarlem, has been preserved. This poem only mentions the effigy of the late Philips in front of the 'worthy reader' - not a word about his family. The 1572 inventory lists two separate portraits of Philips. It is not known where he was buried, nor has it been possible to establish whether his epitaph, with or without the elegy, or a portrait plus an elegy were ever placed on his grave. The painter is not mentioned by name anywhere either. Philips van Hogesteyn took holy orders in 1553. Assuming that he was 17 years old when he joined the Order of St. John, he would have entered the monastery in 1544. If this assumption is correct and he is portrayed twice on the triplych, it could have been painted any time from 1544 on. The reason for the commission must remain unanswered. In the Catharijneconvent Museum in Utrechl is a triptych with a Crucifixion. On the left wing is a kneeling man in a chasuble and stole, and on the right wing a Hospitaller (ill. 8). Today the outsides of the panels are empty. In the catalogue of an exhibition of North-Netherlandish painting and sculpture before 1575, held in 1913, however, the vestiges of the armorial shields -- four on each panel - are mentioned. Apparently this is an epitaph for a member of the Oem van Wijngaarden family, brought to Utrecht in 1573. The Hospitaller is Tieleman Oem van Wijngaarden, who was living in St. John's Monastery in Haarlem at the beginning of the 16th century and died in 1518 person on the right-hand panel appears to be Dirk van Raaphorst -- also known as Dirk van Noordwijk. The Utrecht triptych is identified here as the Van Wijngaarden epitaph from St. John's Monastery despite the fact that the description of shield I on the right-hand panel does not point towards the Oem van Wijngaarden family. Thanks to the fourth shield on the same panel, still in fairly good condition in 1913, it was possible, by dint of invenstigating Tieleman's family, to establish him as the person portrayed on the right-hand panel (see Appendix II). Dirk van Raaphorst of Noordwijk was a canon of St. Pancras' Church in Leiden. He probably owed the name 'van Raaphorst of Noordwijk' to the fact that he was called after his maternal grandfather. For the same reason, the armorial shields on the back of the lefthand panel are not arranged in the usual manner but inverted, i being the mother's arms, II the father's (see also Appendix III). Dirk van Noordwijk was a nephew of Tieleman Oem van Wijngaarden (see Appendix IV). He died in 1502. In 15 18 Tieleman was buried in the same grave in the church of St. John's Monastery. This memorial panel, too, prompts several questions. It is not clear why distant relatives, whose deaths moreover were sixteen years apart, were commemorated on the same panel. Neither the painter nor the dale of the triptych is known. However, perhaps the source of Tieleman's portrait can be established (fig.9). The features in this portrait bear a marked resemblance to those in the portrait of the Hospitaller on the Van Wijngaarden epitaph in Utrecht. Despite publications on individual North-Netherlandish memorial panels, no scholarly examination of the total number of known pieces has yet been initiated. The author is preparing such an examination, which may yield more insight into the customs pertaining to the corramemoration of the dead and the place accupied by memorial panels.

Tatev monastery is one of the famous historical, religious-cultural centers of medieval Armenia, whose epigraphic inscriptions have great importance for the study of the history of South Caucasus. Numerous inscriptions are preserved on the walls of churches and memorial monuments of the monastery and many of them remain unpublished. A mirror-writing epigraphic cryptography is preserved on the exterior southern wall of St. Paul-Peter Cathedral of the monastery, whose decipherment has been the main occasion of this publication. The inscription reveals the names of bishops Anton, Stepanos and Father Kirakos – most likely visitor-donors who came to the Tatev monastery as pilgrims and made donations, for which their names were awarded to be mentioned on the walls of the church as the “Book of Life”. As a result of this discovery, the number of Armenian mirror-writing cryptographs (which are known from various Armenian monuments: Kurtan, Tanahat, Sevanavank, Litchk, Haghpat, Old Shinuhayr etc.) has been increased.

Из истории традиции почитания и создания народного мемориального музея святителя Луки (Войно-Ясенецкого) в Тамбове. В статье осмысливается история создания народного мемориального музея святителя Луки (Войно-Ясенецкого) в Тамбове как логичное следствие традиции почитания святого, зародившейся ещё в момент его пребывания на тамбовской кафедре. Основной тезис исследования аргументируется фактами, выявленными в ходе изучения архивных и нарративных свидетельств. Используется также музеологическая методика, которая позволяет составить представление о тамбовском периоде жизни святителя на основе выявления и атрибуции меморий. Способом сохранения и популяризации духовного наследия святителя являются проекты, программы, гранты, конференции, экспозиции и выставки, приуроченные к знаменательным датам, связанным с периодом служения архиепископа-хирурга на тамбовской кафедре. Тамбовский период жизни архиепископа Луки (ВойноЯсенецкого) положил начало процессу возрождения церковной жизни, а также стал периодом расцвета профессиональных и духовных талантов святителя, общественного признания российским и международным сообществом. Конфликтный характер взаимоотношений тамбовского чиновничества и архиепископа расценивается как результат принципиального несходства в понимании роли Церкви в жизни народа, а также недостатком проработанности правовой основы деятельности православного духовенства в период кратковременного потепления отношений между государством и Церковью в 1943-1946 годах. Как сакральный мемориал православной истории тамбовского края нами осмысливается Покровский кафедральный собор г. Тамбова, в котором самим архиепископом были собраны святыни из многих закрывшихся храмов, где нашли приют верные последователи Патриарха Тихона, где была создана духовная среда, обеспечившая сохранность традиционной православной духовности. Создание народного музея являет следствие воли Божией о пастыре, отдавшего себя служению страдающему народу. Народнические устремления усматриваются: в выборе профессии, бескорыстии служения в госпиталях и земских больницах, сопричастности народной беде в годы многолетних ссылок и пр. На основе нарративных и архивных свидетельств уточнена и скорректирована информация, собранная первым биографом святителя - М. Поповским, посетившим Тамбов весной 1971 года. В целом, мемориализация как способ сохранения и популяризации духовного наследия является перспективной темой научного исследования. From the history of the tradition of veneration and creation of the Folk Memorial Museum of St. Luka (Vojno-Jasenetsky) in Tambov. In the article the history of creation of the Folk Memorial Museum of St. Luka (Vojno-Jasenetsky) in Tambov is analyzed as a logical consequence of the tradition of veneration of the saint, which originated at the time of his tenure in the Tambov Cathedral. The main thesis of the study is argued with the facts revealed during the study of archival and narrative evidence. A museological methodology is also used, which allows one to get an idea of the Tambov period of the saint's life on the basis of the identification and attribution of memorials. Projects, programmes, grants, conferences, expositions and exhibitions timed to commemorative dates related to the period of the archbishop's service to the Tambov Cathedral are a way to preserve and popularise the spiritual heritage of the saint. The period of life of Archbishop Luke (Voyno-Yasenetsky) in Tambov marked the beginning of the process of revival of church life, and also became a period of flourishing of professional and spiritual talents of the saint, public recognition by the Russian and international community. The conflicting nature of the relationship between the Tambov bishop and the archbishop is seen as a result of a fundamental misunderstanding of the role of the Church in the life of the people, as well as a lack of a legal basis for the activities of the Orthodox clergy during the brief warming of relations between the state and the Church in 1943-1946. The sacral memorial to the Orthodox history of the Tambov region is the Intercession Cathedral in Tambov, where the holy relics were gathered by the Archbishop from many closed churches; where the devoted followers of Patriarch Tikhon found shelter; where the spiritual environment which preserved the traditional Orthodox spirituality was created. The creation of the People's Museum is the result of God's will for the pastor, who gave himself up to serve the suffering people. His people's aspirations can be seen in his choice of profession, his selfless service in hospitals and zemstvo hospitals, his involvement in the suffering of the people during the years of exile, and so on. The information collected by the first biographer of the saint, M. Popovsky, who visited Tambov in spring 1971, was specified and corrected based on narrative and archival evidence. On the whole, memorialisation as a way of preserving and popularising spiritual heritage is a promising topic of scientific research.

That we may freely and consistently persevere in our intention … we will that … all and each of ours shall make a vow never to seek directly or indirectly nor to allow others to seek … that except the Chief Pontiff to whom alone we humbly beg to be subject, any religious order whatsoever or any person whomsoever or any bishop or any one else appointed by the Pope to visit us, should have us so committed to his charge as to exercise over us authority, power, or jurisdiction.(Memorial of Mary Ward, translated from the Latin original, Archivum Romanum Societatis Jesu, Anglia 31, 11, pp. 675-685).The above are strong words, even from a forthright Yorkshirewoman, and they are almost startling when one considers how submissive, personally, was their author to all authority in the Church. But, in this Memorial, Mary Ward describes the constitution she envisages for her Institute. The firm lines she draws are even more accentuated in her Third Plan of 1622: ‘We most humbly beg that the entire hierarchical structure of this work should depend entirely on the Holy See and not on any other authority’. Another document headed Reasons why we may not alter makes it clear that the proposals admit of no compromise. The genesis of this attitude is not far to seek. Mary Ward considered she had received divine intimation that she was to undertake some new work to the greater glory of God and for this she was to follow St. Ignatius’ Society of Jesus with its direct responsibility to the Holy See. Sr. Immolata Wetter points out that Mary Ward’s ideas were further sharpened by the contemporary situation of the Catholic Church in England: ‘adherence to the primacy of the Pope distinguished the English martyrs and confessors of the faith. For their loyalty to the Vicar of Christ these brave men and women suffered restrictions both in public and private life.

The tomb of St Peter under the Vatican basilica was one of the most famous, although mysterious, shrines of Europe. The actual object of worship was a tiny plot on which memorial structures and altars had been erected in sequence, but this fact became known only after the archaeological excavations of the 1940s. In the Middle Ages, the tomb of Peter was regarded as a forbidden, inviolable shrine. The legends developed that included fictitious information about the structure of the tomb. During the Renaissance, the liturgical and ceremonial space of the Vatican basilica, now the principal temple of the Pope, underwent subtle changes making the shrine even less accessible. With the development of the “papal monarchy”, the basilica became the ‘throne of Peter’, and the apostolic tomb, by now regarded as the foundation of the church, was perceived by some Roman humanists as the heart of the universe. The altar over the tomb became the centre of New St. Peter’s, but while the temple was being built, some members of the papal curia began to doubt the actual existence of the sacred grave. These doubts, dangerous as they were for the ‘papal monarchy’, contributed to the consolidation of its sacrosanct status, along with reverence for the shrine, observance of the ancient tradition and the ideological importance of the tomb.

In 2019, Baroque murals were discovered in the Franciscan Church of the Holy Trinity in Karlovac, specifically in the chapel constructed in 1748. Initially, the chapel was dedicated to St John of Nepomuk, but in 1904, the dedication changed to Our Lady of Lourdes. The chronicle of the Franciscan monastery (Archivium) in Karlovac preserves the decision of the Karlovac cavalrymen to choose St John of Nepomuk (1746) as their patron saint. Subsequently, the Franciscan guardian and friars requested permission from the general of the Karlovac Generalate to construct a chapel, and the request was sent and approved in the same year. A memorial plaque placed at the chapel’s entrance, engraved with the year of construction (1748) and the names of the donors, Feldmarschall Joseph Maria Friedrich Wilhelm Hollandinus von Sachsen-Hildburghausen and the “Illyrian” cavalrymen, also mentions their commander (cohortis chiliarcha), Maximilian Josef Baron Mittrowsky von Mitrowitz und Nemyschl. His coat of arms, name, and military rank (Vice-Colonello) are represented inside the chapel. The Karlovac Archivium further notes that the murals in the chapel were completed in 1749. Fragments discovered in the upper section of the wall and in the dome allow for a partial reconstruction of the paintings: on the south wall, it was St John of Nepomuk in front of King Wenceslaus (Václav IV), on the opposing north side, the Martyrdom of St John of Nepomuk, and in the dome, the Heavenly Celebration of St John of Nepomuk (?). Analogies with paintings from the 1740s in Štepanja Vas (1744), the Ajman castle near Škofja Loka (1739–1746), and Skaručna (1748) indicate Franc Jelovšek (Mengeš, October 4, 1700 – Ljubljana, May 31, 1764) as the artist. Veneration of St John of Nepomuk after his canonization (1729), particularly promoted by the Habsburg rulers, was part of the cults and religious practices known as pietas Austriaca, adherence to which was increasingly seen as a sign of loyalty to the dynasty, crucial during the wars of Austrian succession.

A memorial for Mary, Queen of Scots, and for two of her ladies-in-waiting, Barbara Mowbray-Curle, wife of Gilbert Curle, a secretary of the queen, and her sister-in-law, Elizabeth Curle is kept in St Andrew's Church in Antwerp (Belgium). The monument was founded by Barbara's son, Hippolytus. After the execution of the queen the ladies left England and settled first in Paris and afterwards in Antwerp. The article concentrates on the two sons of Barbara, who became Jesuits. Little is known about the elder, James. He died in 1615 in Spain, probably still a Jesuit student. The younger one, Hippolytus (who died in 1638), acted as a manager in the Scots College in Douai (France). He is praised as one of the principal benefactors of the college. More particularly the article comments on the testament he drew up when he joined the Jesuit order in September 1618, of which an authenticated copy is kept in the Scottish Catholic Archives. It offers a telling insight into the situation of the Curle-Mowbray family in exile. It reveals also the family's major concern: the restoration of Catholicism in Scotland through the training of a suitable clergy.

The phenomenon of early Christian triconchal churches on the Adriatic has already been noted in the scholarly literature. A separate study ‘Le basiliche cruciformi nell’area adriatica’ was published by S. Piussi in 1978, followed by N. Cambi with the 1984 publication ‘Triconchal churches on the Eastern Adriatic’. However, both scholars include triconchal churches in the typological group of ‘cruciform basilicas’ or treat them together with the churches which have three apses with spaces between them placed along the nave. However, because of their specific morphology consisting of the closely placed conchs and a large number of such examples in the Adriatic area, it seems justified to treat them as a separate typological group. These churches had originally been funerary chapels, but many of them subsequently grew into congregational spaces with complex liturgical functions. In addition, among the triconchal churches it is possible to discuss separately the type of a small triconchal cella without a nave, but sometimes provided with a narthex, as form which is different from similar chapels with a long entrance arm in front of the sanctuary. Based on this difference, it is possible to establish a different terminology which classifies cella trichora as the simple trefoil type, and triconchal churches as the more complex type. The latter is relatively numerous in the territory of late antique Dalmatia. The title of this paper stems from those buildings. However, they originate in cellae trichorae. Thus, in the introductory section I am discussing examples of these cellae in the Adriatic and the connection between their appearance and funerary traditions in the Mediterranean in general. The beginnings of Christian funerary architecture in Dalmatia are found in the grouping of round cellae in the cemeteries of ancient Salona, as known from N. Duval’s works, and in the presence of conchs next to the memorial chapel at Muline which was studied by M. Suić. I deem that the early Christian triconchal churches were created through the crystallisation of the forms present in the groups of funerary cellae in such complexes; cella trichora being the simplest form and triconchal church a more complex one. However, both are generically tied to the Roman tradition in pagan and early Christian funerary architecture. On the other hand, early Christian trefoil structures in the majority of examples stand next to the rustic villa which in itself speaks in favour of a private funerary function. Thus, it is important to assume that cellae trichorae and triconchal churches in the beginning represent early Christian memorial chapels, independent of the subsequent development of the complexes which enveloped them.Thus, the memorial chapel at Muline on the island of Ugljan is part of a larger funerary complex. It is still the most thoroughly researched group of early Christian buildings erected next to a Roman rustic villa in Dalmatia. Apart from a similar example at Brijuni, the Muline complex is crucial for the consideration and interpretation of the origins and development of Christianity in late antique rural areas on the Croatian coast of the Adriatic. It reflects the developed Christianity in the urban setting of Zadar. The owner of the villa was obviously a rich citizen who had a memorial chapel erected on his estate for a deceased person about whom we know nothing. The chapel nave is square. Two deep semicircular apses are found at the back; in the southern one was a sarcophagus. The second sarcophagus was buried under the pavement in the nave. Next to the façade was a protyron, a vestibule with a porch resting on two columns. A courtyard was subsequently added in front of the façade and provided with additional cellae around it. According to Suić’s analysis, it seems that the first layer of the memorial chapel was built in the fourth century. At that time it lacked a crystallized form of somewhat later triconchal churches on the Adriatic. Two original conchs at the back stand slightly apart. The third cella next to the back was subsequently added to the north wall. It has a rectangular ground plan similar to those around the courtyard. All this speaks in favour of a gradual multiplication of cellae around the original memorial, a process similar to that at the cemeteries in Salona. In this paper, I am discussing the phenomenon of early Christian and early medieval triconchal churches on the Adriatic. In doing so, I am only considering those which have three conchs along the sanctuary wall. Based on their form, function and date, I classify them into five groups.The first group one consists of relatively early, small cellae trichorae. They had originally been funerary chapels on private estates. The remains of these memorial chapels have been preserved in various locations along the Adriatic coast: from those at Concordia Sagittaria near Aquileia, Betika near Pula, to those at Gata near Salona and Doljani near Duklja. Older examples have been dated to the late fourth or to the first half of the fifth century, which seems to be the date of the formation of this type of Christian memorial.In the second group are somewhat more complex triconchal churches which, unlike the cellae, have a long nave in front of the sanctuary. They are found in the territory of the Roman Dalmatia and therefore referred to by the author as Dalmatian. Unlike the cellae trichorae, which in their original form do not have a long entrance arm preceding the sanctuary conchs like a nave, triconchal churches are characterised by this very element in the front part of the chapel. In this respect they are spatially more developed than the basic, cella trichora type, and thus probably represent a somewhat later variants of trefoil memorial chapels. It seems that the triconchal churches at Dalmatia were mostly built by the late fifth century or in the early sixth century.The third group consists of those churches from the second group which were transformed from the initial funerary chapels into complex triconchal basilicas. Similar to other types of original memorial chapels which were subsequently transformed into congregational churches in Dalmatia, these too were remodelled in mid-sixth century. Thus, by being enveloped by a ring of subsequently added rooms, some triconchal churches were transformed from the original memorial chapels into public congregational churches furnished with liturgical annexes, among which were baptisteries. Baptisteries in particular witness about the nature of the remodelled triconchal churches and newly created complexes, with a trefoil structure at the core. They indicate an increase in conversion of the population which probably caused the building of such structures. Of course, a similar development was shared by other types of originally private chapels in the time when churches were being built after the model of complex basilicas. However, in Dalmatia, there are no examples of such buildings before the age of Justinian i.e. before the second third of the sixth century. It is likely that the mentioned conversion occurred in this period. With it, many older churches, including triconchal churches, became cores of new complexes. Based on the examples of such a development, it is possible to speak convincingly of pre-Justinianic origins of the initial form of Dalmatian triconchal churches.The fourth group is formed by pre-Romanesque triconchal churches. Their morphology differs from early Christian triconchal churches, and they are represented by two subgroups of interesting early medieval churches in Dalmatia. In the first one are numerous centrally-planned buildings while in the second are two longitudinal structures. Both subgroups are characterised by a sanctuary with three semicircular apses. In the centrally-planned buildings they are placed radially and their axes originate at the centre of the rotunda. Thus, they were not arranged in a cruciform way towards the sanctuary as it had regularly been the case in early Christian cellae trichorae or triconchal churches, where the axes of the lateral apses are perpendicular to the axis of the central apse. However, the three conchs grouped at the sanctuary are a crucial spatial feature in the buildings of the first subgroup so, in principle, they can be referred to as triconchal structures. In this group are the church of Holy Trinity at Zadar and a number of Dalmatian hexaconchal churches, as well as the rotunda at Ošlje. In the second subgroup are the longitudinal churches of Holy Saviour at Vrh Rika near Cetina and the church at Lopuška glavica, both near Knin. These two churches have a long nave in front of the sanctuary, and three conchs along the sanctuary wall, as was the case with early Christian triconchal churches. However, the axes of the lateral conchs are not perpendicular to the axis of the main apse but are placed radially. The nave in the church is significantly wider than the diameter of the main apse. The original layout of the church of St Donatus at Zadar, as a free-standing rotunda, was probably created in the in the eighth century. All other pre-Romanesque triconchal churches in Dalmatia have been convincingly dated to the period between the mid-ninth century to the early decades of the tenth century.Finally, the fifth group consist of the Romanesque trefoil churches. These are small, cruciform cellae which have a short entrance arm at the front and three conchs grouped around the core at the back. The front usually rectangular and the conchs are semicircular. They are vaulted with semi-domed vaults. Above the core is a round drum with a dome. Two of those cellae are almost completely preserved and of particular interest due to the intersecting vault ribs below their domes. Stylistic characteristics of these buildings indicate the early Romanesque architectural features of the twelfth century. All other medieval triconchal churches in this group probably also belong to the wider Romanesque period.Finally, regardless of all similar spatial forms in antique and late antique secular buildings, it should be pointed out that the cellae trichorae and triconchal churches originated as Christian memorial chapels, inspired by the gglomerations of the earliest funerary a chapel installed in early Christian cemeteries. The triconchal shape of these chapels originated in these agglomerations and remained related to the funerary and memorial character. It can be concluded that the triconchal churches in Dalmatia were formed with relation to that character and that they persisted from the early Christian time to the mature middle ages. Perhaps it might be naive and mistaken to interpret the morphology of later buildings as being directly influenced by the earlier. Pre-Romanesque rotundas display a variety of triconchal forms which were not known in early Christian architecture of Dalmatia (except the hexaconchal interior of Zadar Baptistery). Nonetheless, polyconchal spaces of early medieval memorial buildings were furnished with a triconchal sanctuary of the same shape as those in early Christian triconchal buildings, and witness about the funerary function in the pre-Romanesque period. The Romanesque trefoil churches, however, recreated the original type, not as direct replicas of early Christian triconchal forms, but through their function, while their shape grew out of the reformation spirit of the great church reform in the Romanesque period. Thus, Dalmatian triconchal churches illustrate a continuous need for private memorial chapels which does not necessarily have to be triconchal but this particular shape has been discussed here because of its peculiarity. Already in the early Christian period, some trefoil structures outgrew their function of a family chapel to become churches for a larger community. That is why they were accompanied by additional liturgical functions and annexes necessary for monastic or parish churches. By this, they were transformed into complex basilicas with additional spaces while the original triconchal structure, situated at the centre, became the church, quadratum populi, sometimes surrounded by a series of interconnected rooms which served as an ambulatory. This might point to the possibility that in some cases the old funerary function of the original memorial chapel could have continued together with the new liturgical rites in the newly formed complex basilica as a congregational church. These changes did not take place in the medieval memorial structures although some hexaconchal churches and the octaconchal church at Ošlje were provided with new annexes soon after the initial building phase, and that added to the rotunda of St Donatus at Zadar included a gallery.

The text was prepared as a response to a collaboration proposal of dr. Mislav Čavka from the University Hospital Centre Zagreb to the Memorial Centre Faust Vrančić, the institution that I work at. The collaboration would concern the potential analysis of the remains of Faust Vrančić that are buried at the church Sv. Marija od Milosti (Church of St. Mary of Grace) in the village of Prvić Luka on the island of Prvić near Šibenik and that would be conducted with the approval of the parish vicar, Božo Škember. The purpose of the text is to clarify the circumstances surrounding the death of Faust Vrančić, details related to the execution of his will, interesting facts related to his burial, opening and robbing of his crypt as well as the facts about his physical appearance. The analysis of the remains of Faust Vrančić could help us gain new insights into his life and death, which would shed a new light to his biography. Therefore, we need these data in order to use them as a background for further investigation. The relevant analysis could reveal facts such as: his height, the diseases that he suffered from, the cause of his death, if he suffered any bone fractures, his nutrition habits and his dwelling places (this part of his life is well documented, but it would be interesting to see if the biographic data match with the results of the paleoradiological analysis). Eventually, the bone analysis would tell us how he looked like and we would be able to compare the results of the forensic facial reconstruction with the only known “official” portrait of Faust Vrančić.

Публикуются письма известного историка, богослова, государственного и общественного деятеля к его другу, переехавшему незадолго до этого из Франции в США. Письма хранятся в Бахметевском архиве Колумбийского университета. Главное место в них отведено характеристике условий публикации книги А.В. Карташева «Воссоздание Святой Руси», что позволяет четко воспроизвести организационно-финан-совый контекст ее выхода в свет. В предисловии к публикации отмечается важность для понимания замысла и значения содержания книги общественно-политического, церковно-религиозного и академического контекстов, лишь намеченных в письмах. Среди других тем корреспонденции, значимых для изучения истории Свято-Сергиев-ского богословского православного института и биографии А.В. Карташева, публикатор выделяет изменение состава учащихся в институте и его роль в подготовке свя-щенников для православных церквей, а также вакации историка, использовавшиеся им для написания итоговых книг по истории Русской православной церкви и о Вселенских соборах. Особо отмечается мемориальное осмысление историком прошлого института, с которым оказалась неразрывно связанной его судьба в эмиграции. Letters of a famous historian, theologian, statesman and public figure to his friend, who had recently moved from France to the United States, are published. The letters are kept in the Bakhmeteff archive of Columbia University. The main place in them is given to the characteristics of the organizational and financial contexts of the publication of A. V. Kartashev’s book Reconstruction of Holy Russia. The preface to the publication notes also the importance of socio-political, church-religious and academic contexts, only outlined in the letters. In their totality they will allow to understand the author’s intention and the meaning of the book’s content. Among other topics of the correspondence that are significant for the study of the history of St. Sergious Theological Orthodox Institute and the biography of A. V. Kartashev, the publisher highlights the change in the composition of students at the institute and as a result of this its increased role in training priests for Orthodox churches, as well as the historian’s vacation, which he used to write the final books on the history of the Russian Orthodox Church and on the Ecumenical Councils. Finally, the publisher underlines the special significance of the historian’s memorial comprehension of the past of the institute, with which his fate in emigration was inextricably linked.

The transformation of the symbolic space of the city of Halych from the second half of the 20th century to the beginning of the 21st century is investigated in the article. The work is based on the analysis of archival and historical documents, field materials collected by the author through the method of participant observation during the 2022–2023. The symbolic space term is used currently in various scientific studies: in cultural anthropology (O. Hrytsenko, H. Bondarenko), in semiotics (R. Barthes), in urban studies (E. Soja, R. Čepaitienė and others), in Ukrainian sociology (V. Sereda, O. Obukhova). The planning and architecture of the city, its landscape, toponymy, monuments as well as the elements of external design of the streets, squares and buildings are used together to create a symbolic space, where collective memory, identity and social dynamics of local communities are formed. In the 1930s, the places of worship have dominated in the urban space of Halych: the Greek-Catholic Church of Christmas (the 14th century), the Roman-Catholic Church of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, St. Volodymyr’s Orthodox Church, the synagogue and the Karaite Kenesa, thus reflecting the ethnic and confessional structure of the population of the city. Part of the walls of Halych Castle is preserved on the Castle Hill, being the evidence of the historical significance of the city. The process of communization has started after the incorporation to the Soviet Union (September, 1939): streets and squares are renamed, Soviet monuments are erected. The places of worship are destroyed or reequipped. The Church of Christmas has become an Orthodox one forcibly and the only active. Participation in parades and meetings to commemorate the Soviet holidays has become a common practice for the population. A tradition to lay flowers at the monument to Lenin by the newly wedded couple has appeared. The central part of the city is a zone of official, formal events of ideological matter at that time as well as the Halych Castle remains a favourite place of family, youth leisure, the space for informal intercourse. Essential transformations of the urban public space of the city of Halych start after Ukraine has gained independence. In 1990 the monument to Lenin is dismantled and the central square of the city has got the Christmas Square name. In 1988 a monumental equestrian sculpture to King Danylo Halytskyi has appeared there. The process of streets’ renaming continues. New churches and chapels (over 20) are built, a number of commemorative plaques and monuments to the participants of the Ukrainian national resistance, public and cultural figures of the city and the region (about 10) have been placed on municipal houses. Nine memorial annotation plaques are dedicated to soldiers died in the Russian-Ukrainian war. Christmas Square today is the main symbolic space of the city, a place where various activities and communications take place (both public and private). Halych Castle continues to occupy an important place in the cultural life of the city. Many significant scientific and cultural events representing Ukrainian historical and musical heritage occur here, influencing the formation of the identity of the local population.

В статье художественная форма песнопений в честь свт. Петра Московского рассматривается в пространственном контексте гробницы святого в некрополе Успенского собора Московского Кремля. Уникальный комплекс фресок в алтаре Успенского собора (1479–1481), окружающих раку с мощами святителя в жертвеннике, автор интерпретирует как часть пространства памяти/locus memoria, в котором доминирующими являются образы «нетления вечной жизни». Прослеживается связь погребально-меморативной образности с музыкально-поэтическими текстами службы митр. Петру на 21 декабря. Материалом исследования послужили нотированные списки XV–XVII вв., включающие в состав чинопоследования стихиры-славники на «Господи, воззвах», на стиховне и на хвалитех. Анализ поэтического текста и музыкальной ткани показал, что как художественная структура песнопений, так и иконографическая программа росписей ориентированы на единую меморативную семантику, в которой ведущую роль играют эсхатологические мотивы. Сложная организация роспева подчеркивает поэтические формулы, характеризующие святого не столько как духовного пастыря и предстоятеля Русской Церкви, сколько свидетеля грядущего Царствия Небесного, воскресения мертвых и преодоления законов материального мира. Автор делает вывод о том, что визуальный, музыкальный и ритуальный аспекты почитания святого в пространстве его гробницы представляют собой длящийся во времени «иеротопический проект», возникший на волне ожидания конца света в последней четверти XV века. The article is devoted to the consideration of the artistic form of chants in honor of St. Peter of Moscow in the spatial context of the saint᾽s tomb in the necropolis of the Assumption Cathedral of the Moscow Kremlin. The author offers an interpretation of a unique set of frescoes in the altar of the Assumption Cathedral, created in 1479–1481 and surrounding the shrine with the saint᾽s relics in the altar, as part of the space of memory, or locus memoria, in which the images of “incorruptible eternal life” are dominant. Further, the article traces the connection of funeral-memorial imagery with the musical and poetic texts of the service of Metropolitan Peter on December 21st. The notated lists of the 15th–17th centuries, which include stichera glorifying on “Lord, cry out”, on verses and on praises, served as the material for the study. The analysis of the poetic and the musical texts showed that the artistic structure of the chants is oriented towards the same memorative semantics, in which eschatological motifs play the leading role, as the iconographic program of the altar paintings. The complex organization of the chant, built on a system of vocalizing fragments, emphasizes the poetic formulas that characterize the saint not so much as a spiritual shepherd and primate of the Russian Church, but as a witness to the coming Kingdom of Heaven, the resurrection of the dead and overcoming the laws of the material world in the space of “resurrection”. The author concludes that the visual, musical and ritual aspects of the veneration of the saint in the space of his tomb represent a “hierotopic project” lasting in time, which arose on the wave of anticipation of the end of the world in the last quarter of the 15th century.

The article presents the results of the author's research on the formation of an inclusive urban space by means of landscape architecture; the legal framework is considered; the main principle of creating a network of barrier-free pedestrian routes in the space of the middle city is determined (the principle of "frame on the frame"); methods of implementing barrier-free (delimitation of pedestrian-transport traffic; zoning of pedestrian parts of the street with combinations of different types of paving by texture and color and others). Based on the analysis of world theoretical and practical experience, the means of implementing barrier-free (paving, gardening, decorating, etc.) have been determined and a number of examples in European cities have been provided. An algorithm for the formation of inclusive urban space in buffer zones of the second category of indirect multifunctional use of cultural heritage objects located in Ukraine has been proposed. Recommendations on the adaptation of public spaces to form an inclusive urban space within buffer zones have been provided. According to the specifics of the architectural and landscape organization, the most difficult is the category of buffer zones "non-direct multifunctional usage" (according to I. Korotun). As this zone covers historical city centers, historical city areas and other areas occupied by residential and non-residential buildings thus, the priority function in this aspect arises the safety and comfort of people, and the Memorial Protection Object Facility acquires a secondary role. In Ukraine, 4 out of 8 World Heritage sites have buffer zones of non-direct multifunctional use ("Kyiv: St. Sophia Cathedral and nearby monastery buildings, Kyiv-Pechersk Lavra, Church of the Savior on Berestov" (1990); "Ensemble of the historical center of Lviv" (1998); "Residence of the Metropolitans of Bukovina and Dalmatia" (2011) and "Historical Center of Odesa" (2023)). An analysis of world experience in the formation of an inclusive urban environment revealed that the main methods of implementing this approach are the creation of a network of barrier-free pedestrian routes in the space of the city center. Within the buffer zones, this can be done through: the delineation of pedestrian-transport traffic; zoning of pedestrian zones with combinations of different types of landscaping, decoration and types of paving by texture and color; selection of paving and equipment colors in accordance with the scale of buffer zone development; arrangement of unhindered ways of pedestrians movement by leveling surface differences taking into account the security requirements of a particular site.

This article analyzed the post-World War Two reconstruction of the public spaces that had been devastated during the conflict. Mostly focused on the Chisinau urban area, we examined the ways in which the communist ideology and the socialist-modernist school of thinking influenced the reconstruction process. It has often been postulated that the main trait of the new political regime was the discrimination against the old conservative society by means of secularization and dismantling of the sacred. In the aftermath of the war, this trend was relatively limited, whereas during the Khruschev’s ”thaw”, it significantly gained momentum. As an example, the statue of Stephen the Great, representative for the Moldavian national spirit, was brought back to Chisinau, but the central positions had been already reserved for two symbols of the communist regime: the statue of Lenin and the Victory Square. During the 1970s and 1980s, other monuments representative for the party ideology and discourse continued to be unveiled, one such example being the equestrian statue of Gr. Kotovski. Except for the statues of Lenin, Marx and Engels, most of the communist additions to the public space in Chisinau still stand to this day. It was there that the first celebration of the victory over Nazi Germany occurred, in 1965. Ten years later, a majestic memorial complex honoring the same event was to be inaugurated. In line with this, most of the non-metropolitan towns or villages, no matter how marginal, erected a statue of a soldier or at least a commemorative plaque in memory of those who lost their lives against their will. The urban plan itself was altered without any consideration to the street outlines that appeared in the plans of A. Șciusev. This practice was pursued in parallel with a demolition campaign in which the old town buildings and narrow alleyways, influenced by the Oriental style, were pulled down. The top position in the list of monuments that were lost at the time is occupied by the St. Ilie church. However, a section of the pre-war Chisinau, along the upper central boulevard, survived. It consisted of original or reconstructed imperial Russian and interwar Romanian buildings. A change in style occurred during the 1970s and 1980s, when the downtown area witnessed the addition of modernist buildings, tightly clustered and in obvious conflict with the spirit of the old town. In addition to that, their functionality was disproportionate to the role of the small republic. It was after the independence that the process of urban space degradation gained momentum, and some neglected buildings were lost. Meanwhile, some other buildings went through the validation process without any consideration to their contextual harmony. Planned with very little concern for artistic and architectural value, these new additions contribute to the already eclectic and highly inharmonious spirit of the city.

Although a rare occurrence in late medieval cemeteries, vessels have been found on almost all major sites of the period, such as Novo Brdo, Trgoviste, Reljina Gradina and the churchyard of St Peter?s near Novi Pazar, the churchyard of St Nicholas? at Kursumlija, the churchyard of St Stephen?s at Milentija near Brus, Mali Zvecan, Mirijevo, Vinca. Vessels occur in different places, both on top of and in graves. Fragments of pottery and glass vessels are relatively abundant in layers of earth filling burial pits and chambers, and in those immediately overlaying burial pits or gravestones. The available data make it possible to recognize almost all functional types. The most frequently found pottery shapes are larger liquid containers - jugs and pitchers, and apparently there have also been many pots, both hearth cooking and glazed (figs. 1-3; 5-9). Recognizable among the glass vessels are bottles, usually those with long fluted necks and biconical, as well as infrequent icon lamps. The data about the vessels found buried with the deceased is much more detailed. Such finds are recorded at Macvanska Mitrovica (fig. 10/3), Brestovik (fig. 13/3), Mirijevo (fig. 4/1), Vinca (figs. 4/2; 10/4), Stragari near Kragujevac, Milentija near Brus, round the church of St Peter near Novi Pazar, at the monastery of Konculic (fig. 13/2) and the monastery of Gradac. The relatively plentiful and diverse vessels discovered at the cemeteries of medieval Trgoviste are especially illustrative (fig. 10/2, 7). The available descriptions of vessels and archaeological contexts provide a general impression about the types of vessels recorded in the cemeteries of a late medieval and early modern date in the central Balkans. Glass bottles as a rule were laid in graves, while earth-fill layers, apart from bottles, contained plentiful shards of drinking vessels. As for the bottles, two types were registered: biconical and those with long fluted necks (figs. 10; 12/1). Among the glass fragments there were parts of bottles with a ring around the neck and a ribbed body (Rippenflaschen), generally known in domestic scholarship under the term Panik type bottle (fig. 10/8). Also identifiable among the recovered glass fragments are drinking vessels of several types, beakers with small or large prunts (Nuppenbecher and Krautstrunk) and ribbed (Rippenbecher), common especially in the 15th and 16th centuries (figs. 12/1, 3, 5, 6). There are also pieces with a blue thread applied around the rim and body, similar to the examples from Stalac reproduced herein (fig. 12/3). Quite rarely found are drinking vessels of cobalt blue glass, which are mostly small, except for a few examples of up to 14 cm in height, which is also the height of the abovementioned bottles. Apart from Venice and Dubrovnik (Ragusa), glassware was imported from Hungary. The discovered pottery vessels show a greater diversity, mostly in terms of shape. In addition to liquid containers - jugs, pitchers and beakers, there occur bowls, pots and even apothecary vessels. A vast majority belong to the Serbian ware of the 14th and 15th centuries. Most are glazed, and frequently painted with spirals, bands and blotches in white, green and dark brown or decorated with simple sgrafitto patterns, such as the finds from Novo Brdo (fig. 1), St Peter?s (figs 9; 13/1, 4) and the monastery of Gradac. By far the most interesting of them is the beaker from Konculic with an openwork edge around the base (fig. 12/2), which is commonly found in glass beakers of the same period. Deserving of particular attention are three cylindrical ceramic bottles from Novo Brdo (fig. 2). The presented material allows us to recognize the central issues surrounding the occurrence of vessels in the cemeteries of the 14th to 17th century in Serbia. Given the small number of recorded cases, the presence of vessels in graves as grave goods appears to have been utterly sporadic. Being based on the processed and published results, and given the small number of systematically investigated and analyzed cemeteries, however, such a conclusion should be taken with caution. In most cases, the vessels were laid beside the head of the deceased, usually on its left, rarely on the right side, and only exceptionally next to the legs or the upper body area. On the other hand, the amount of fragments discovered in cemeteries is generally large, as shown, for example, by a cursory insight into the excavation records for the site of Novo Brdo. This discrepancy is surprising and makes us think over the character of the finds, but we shall not get closer to an answer until we have detailed context analyses done and the material systematized and statistically processed. When it comes to shapes, liquid containers obviously predominated - glass bottles and ceramic pitchers, followed by glass and ceramic drinking vessels, while ceramic pots and bowls occurred in graves only rarely. The vessels are mostly small. The glass bottles are between 14 and 15 cm in height on average, except the specimen from Mali Zvecan, which is more than twice as high (36 cm). The cups show similar heights, between 10 and 16 cm. The ceramic pitchers and pots are also small, with a height usually not exceeding 16 cm. Judging by the available data, it appears that shards of larger vessels were found on top of graves (bowls, pitchers, jugs, pots), apparently brought for the memorial ceremony held at the grave, while graves usually contained small vessels, usually bottles. Apart from Serbia, the occurrence of vessels in cemeteries has also been recorded in the surrounding areas. Given their very distinctive context and character, the finds from Bosnia draw particular attention, as well as those from Croatia, where they are concentrated in the broader area of Split. This overview makes it plain that the vessels laid in graves differ little from ordinary household utensils. Moreover, all can be classified as typical of the 14th to 17th century - Venetian, Dubrovnik and Hungarian glass, and the ceramic kitchen and tableware produced locally, in Serbia. For the sake of comparison, we draw attention to similar vessels discovered on fortress, settlement and monastery sites, such as Stalac, Belgrade (fig. 14), Studenica, Mileseva, Trgoviste, Trnava near Cacak. The presented examples, combined with all previously gained insights, clearly demonstrate and corroborate the assumption that the custom of laying vessels in graves in the central Balkans was an uncommon but long-standing phenomenon. Unlike earlier periods, when it was pottery vessels that were almost exclusively placed in graves, from the 14th century on the ratio of glass to ceramic vessels, mostly bottles, pitchers and beakers, becomes virtually equal. Judging by the find-spots and other known information, in the late medieval period the custom of laying vessels in graves was confined to a few areas along the Danube, Morava, Ibar, Drina and Neretva rivers. These areas, in the hinterland of Dubrovnik, in Herzegovina, Bosnia and Serbia, are associated with major caravan routes, which is relevant in our considerations of the glass finds. As it appears from the examples from all aforementioned areas, the only difference of some significance concerns the type of glass vessels used in funeral rituals - bottles in Serbia and Croatia, and drinking vessels in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Even though this seems to give grounds to assume certain regional variation in the custom of making offerings to the dead, at this point any conclusion would be highly conjectural, especially if based only on the available archaeological data. As shown by ethnological research, the custom, also sporadic, survived in Serbia and Bulgaria until the late 19th century. The analysis of the vessels from late medieval and early modern cemeteries has revealed a number of features common to the central-Balkan region, but also some regional variation. However, given the proportion of processed specimens in the entire recovered material, the assumptions and results presented here should only be taken as preliminary. The fact that some manifestations of the custom are still obscure reduces some of the previously proposed interpretations to little more than unfounded speculation, which is fertile ground for manipulation. Apart from analyzing the archaeological material, what is needed therefore is a thorough study of other aspects of the issue, above all the phenomenon of burials topped by slabs and stecci, and funerary practices at large.

The article demonstrates the peculiarities of the artistic sculpture of the Virgin Mary in the sculpture of the late XIX-first half of the XX century. The main positions of the restoration program and the course of its implementation are revealed. The plastic nature of the folds and compositional principles suggest that the sculptor worked in the mid-XIX - early XX centuries. The textural and petrographic properties of the stone are the basis for the assumption that the author worked in the village of Demnya because the complex of the church of St. Nicholas and the one analyzed in the article have many similarities. Comparing some of the sculptures of famous authors of the late Baroque and Classicism, we can identify fundamental similarities: portrait features, execution of tears, and the nature of the image of the lips, feet and hands. In the sculpture of the Mother of God from the village of Dobryany, Horodok district, the influence of the works of Peter Viitovych, Leonardo Marconi, Vuytsyk, Plishevsky and Soltys is noticeable. The works of these authors are characterized by realism, careful expression of the anatomy of the human body, true depiction of movement and clear composition. Before the restoration work began, the white stone sculpture was in poor condition. Below the figure, on a memorial plaque, it is written that masters from the village of Demnya restored it in 2000. 5 layers of whitewash were found on the sculpture. The sculpture in the village was whitewashed with lime in honour of holidays and solemn events. Initially, the figure was not covered with paint. The figure of the Virgin was divided into two parts. The lower bullet with the snake and the feet was broken off from the rest of the body. These parts were previously fastened to an anchor made of black iron and cement. Anchor slashed hard and spread the stone. As a result, the folds of the dress and previous masterpieces were peeled off at the bottom. After a thorough examination, non-professional fastening of the folded arms was revealed. There were inaccurate traces of cement additions and cracks in the places of glueing. A profiled base was also glued to the ball on a dense layer of cement. In general, due to the colonies of bio-growers and large areas of whitewash, the work lost its aesthetic appeal and symbolic content. The first stage of restoration consisted of the layer-by-layer sounding of limestone. After opening the limestone, the object was dry cleaned. Dry cleaning was done with scalpels, nylon brushes, and small brass and steel brushes, not durable places were tapped with a chisel in order not to damage the original surface of the stone. When the lime filler was poorly removed, the method of wet cleaning was used, a detergent solution dissolved the lime filler. The detergent solution was applied with a flute brush and the fluffy surface was cleaned with a nylon brush. The detergent solution is made for better penetration of surfactants into the pores - soap softens the surface of the water, which helps to dissolve the dirt in the pores of the stone. Subsequently, the stage of structural strengthening of the stone was performed. To achieve this goal, the organosilicon hardener Remmers KSE 300 was used. The solution was applied with a brush. To crystallize the organosilicon hardener a technological break was taken for two weeks, moving on to the stage of glueing parts. Bonding of elements took place with the help of epoxy glue from TENAX. Before applying the glue, the elements were coated with a 3% alcohol solution of polymer "Paraloid B72". The upper and lower parts of the sculpture were attached to epoxy resin and two stainless steel rods. The lost fragments of the folds of the Virgin's clothing were made of fibreglass reinforcement attached to the holes of the stone with epoxy glue. After completing the stage of glueing the sculpture, the addition of lost elements was performed. A mineral carbonate solution was used. After a two-week technological break, the stage of toning the supplemented parts began in order to achieve organic homogeneity of the figure. The next step is to cover the stone with a long-acting biocidal solution. At the end of the restoration, the work should be covered with lime water to even out the overall tone of the sculpture. The sculptural composition of the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary from the village of Dobryany, Horodok district, is of great artistic and historical value. During the restoration of the sculpture the compatible materials were used as well as generally accepted and original restoration tools, which will allow the exhibition of the work of art in an authentic place near the chapel., After returning the work to its holders, it is recommended to exhibit it under an architectural cover to prevent the aggressive effects of precipitation and the negative changes in temperature and humidity in autumn-winter.

In 2011 a stained-glass window commemorating Blake’s three-year residence on the Sussex coast was consecrated in the parish church of St. Mary’s, Felpham. A Norman building dating to c. 1100, St. Mary’s is a short walk from the thatched cottage that Blake and Catherine occupied between 1800 and 1803. The Blake memorial window was commissioned by St. Mary’s parish council in 2007 and was funded by the generous contributions of Felpham parishioners and Blake enthusiasts and by donations raised through local charitable events celebrating the 250th anniversary of Blake’s birth. The window was designed by the artist Meg Lawrence, whose work also includes painting with an egg-based tempera medium on wood panels, a medium similar to the one that Blake used, with animal glue and gum Arabic as the binding agents instead of egg, for some of his 1799 illustrations of the Bible.

AbstractIn addition to being witnesses of a vanished past, ruins refer to the former building and tell the story of its destruction. Two ruins, which can also be described as memorial sites, can exemplify different strategies of dealing with these material remnants: the destroyed synagogue of Worms and the St Nikolai Church in Hamburg. The destroyed synagogue of Worms was rebuilt as a symbol of the history of the Jewish community prior to 1933 and as a memorial to the Holocaust. In contrast, the St Nikolai Church in Hamburg was left in ruins which constitute a memorial for the air raids as well as a reminder of the Nazi crimes. The following article will reflect on these different strategies and on the reactions and perceptions of the visitors. Furthermore it will try to reveal the different levels of meaning and the interconnectedness of the memories of the German-Jewish past, the Second World War and the Holocaust.

The oldest recorded history of the hexaconch rotunda of St. Mary de Platea in Trogir is associated with the memorial text preserved in two versions (Daniele Farlati, Petar Lučić). The written note provides information on the builder (restorer) of the church at the beginning of the 8th century, a relative of Severus the Great – the leader of the citizens of Salona who settled in Split in the 7th century. The author evaluates the validity of this note: he discusses the directions of previous research, transmission of the text, historiographical interpretations, and the archaeological, typological and stylistic context of the church. Through analysis he concludes that the memorial text is not of early medieval provenance; instead he gives a new proposal for its origin: it belongs to the artificial tradition shaped by the older historical narratives within the communal elite of Trogir in the 15th century, which was turned into a written text in the 16th century. He also defines the rotunda of St. Mary as an early medieval building from the beginning of the 9th century (without older phases) which was transformed into a communal church (ecclesia communis) of Trogir in the high Middle Ages. The author attributes to the text the function of creating the illusion of communal patronage of the church in continuity since the early Middle Ages.

This essay combines life writing with meditations on the significance of walking as integral to the ritual practice of pilgrimage, where the individual improves her soul or health through the act of walking to a shrine containing healing relics of a saint. Braiding together insights from medieval literature, contemporary ecocriticism, and memory studies, I reflect on my own pilgrimage practice as it impacts the land itself. Canterbury, England serves as the central shrine for four pilgrimages over decades: 1966, 1994, 1997, and 2003.The act of memory was not invented in the Anthropocene. Rather, the nonhuman world has taught humans how to remember. From ice-core samples retaining the history of Europe’s weather to rocks embedded with fossilized extinct species, nonhuman actors literally petrifying or freezing the past—from geologic sites to frozen water—become exposed through the process of anthropocentric discovery and human interference. The very act of human uncovery and analysis threatens to eliminate the nonhuman actor which has hospitably shared its own experience. How can humans script nonhuman memory?As for the history of memory studies itself, a new phase is arguably beginning, shifting from “the transnational, transcultural, or global to the planetary; from recorded to deep history; from the human to the nonhuman” (Craps et al. 3). Memory studies for the Anthropocene can “focus on the terrestrialized significance of (the historicized) forms of remembrance but also on the positioning of who is remembering and, ultimately, which ‘Anthropocene’ is remembered” (Craps et al. 5). In this era of the “self-conscious Anthropocene” (Craps et al. 6), narrative itself can focus on “the place of nonhuman beings in human stories of origins, identity, and futures point to a possible opening for the methods of memory studies” (Craps et al. 8). The nonhuman on the paths of this essay range from the dirt on the path to the rock used to build the sacred shrine, the ultimate goal. How they intersect with human actors reveals how the “human subject is no longer the one forming the world, but does indeed constitute itself through its relation to and dependence on the object world” (Marcussen 14, qtd. in Rodriguez 378). Incorporating “nonhuman species as objects, if not subjects, of memory [...] memory critics could begin by extending their objects to include the memory of nonhuman species,” linking both humans and nonhumans in “an expanded multispecies frame of remembrance” (Craps et al. 9). My narrative—from diaries recording sacred journey to a novel structured by pilgrimage—propels motion, but also secures in memory events from the past, including memories of those nonhuman beings I interact with.Childhood PilgrimageThe little girl with brown curls sat crying softly, whimpering, by the side of the road in lush grass. The mother with her soft brown bangs and an underflip to her hair told the story of a little girl, sitting by the side of the road in lush grass.The story book girl had forgotten her Black Watch plaid raincoat at the picnic spot where she had lunched with her parents and two older brothers. Ponchos spread out, the family had eaten their fresh yeasty rolls, hard cheese, apples, and macaroons. The tin clink of the canteen hit their teeth as they gulped metallic water, still icy cold from the taps of the ancient inn that morning. The father cut slices of Edam with his Swiss army knife, parsing them out to each child to make his or her own little sandwich. The father then lay back for his daily nap, while the boys played chess. The portable wooden chess set had inlaid squares, each piece no taller than a fingernail paring. The girl read a Junior Puffin book, while the mother silently perused Agatha Christie. The boy who lost at chess had to play his younger sister, a fitting punishment for the less able player. She cheerfully played with either brother. Once the father awakened, they packed up their gear into their rucksacks, and continued the pilgrimage to Canterbury.Only the little Black Watch plaid raincoat was left behind.The real mother told the real girl that the story book family continued to walk, forgetting the raincoat until it began to rain. The men pulled on their ponchos and the mother her raincoat, when the little girl discovered her raincoat missing. The story book men walked two miles back while the story book mother and girl sat under the dripping canopy of leaves provided by a welcoming tree.And there, the real mother continued, the storybook girl cried and whimpered, until a magic taxi cab in which the father and boys sat suddenly appeared out of the mist to drive the little girl and her mother to their hotel.The real girl’s eyes shone. “Did that actually happen?” she asked, perking up in expectation.“Oh, yes,” said the real mother, kissing her on the brow. The girl’s tears dried. Only the plops of rain made her face moist. The little girl, now filled with hope, cuddled with her mother as they huddled together.Without warning, out of the mist, drove up a real magic taxi cab in which the real men sat. For magic taxi cabs really exist, even in the tangible world—especially in England. At the very least, in the England of little Susie’s imagination.Narrative and PilgrimageMy mother’s tale suggests how this story echoes in yet another pilgrimage story, maintaining a long tradition of pilgrimage stories embedded within frame tales as far back as the Middle Ages.The Christian pilgrim’s walk parallels Christ’s own pilgrimage to Emmaus. The blisters we suffer echo faintly the lash Christ endured. The social relations of the pilgrim are “diachronic” (Alworth 98), linking figures (Christ) from the past to the now (us, or, during the Middle Ages, William Langland’s Piers Plowman or Chaucer’s band who set out from Southwark). We embody the frame of the vera icon, the true image, thus “conjur[ing] a site of simultaneity or a plane of immanence where the actors of the past [...] meet those of the future” (Alworth 99). Our quotidian walk frames the true essence or meaning of our ambulatory travail.In 1966, my parents took my two older brothers and me on the Pilgrims’ Way—not the route from London to Canterbury that Chaucer’s pilgrims would have taken starting south of London in Southwark, rather the ancient trek from Winchester to Canterbury, famously chronicled in The Old Road by Hilaire Belloc. The route follows along the south side of the Downs, where the muddy path was dried by what sun there was. My parents first undertook the walk in the early 1950s. Slides from that pilgrimage depict my mother, voluptuous in her cashmere twinset and tweed skirt, as my father crosses a stile. My parents, inspired by Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, decided to walk along the traditional Pilgrims’ Way to Canterbury. Story intersects with material traversal over earth on dirt-laden paths.By the time we children came along, the memories of that earlier pilgrimage resonated with my parents, inspiring them to take us on the same journey. We all carried our own rucksacks and walked five or six miles a day. Concerning our pilgrimage when I was seven, my mother wrote in her diary:As good pilgrims should, we’ve been telling tales along the way. Yesterday Jimmy told the whole (detailed) story of That Darn Cat, a Disney movie. Today I told about Stevenson’s Travels with a Donkey, which first inspired me to think of walking trips and everyone noted the resemblance between Stevenson’s lovable, but balky, donkey and our sweet Sue. (We hadn’t planned to tell tales, but they just happened along the way.)I don’t know how sweet I was; perhaps I was “balky” because the road was so hard. Landscape certainly shaped my experience.As I wrote about the pilgrimage in my diary then, “We went to another Hotel and walked. We went and had lunch at the Boggly [booglie] place. We went to a nother hotel called The Swan with fether Quits [quilts]. We went to the Queens head. We went to the Gest house. We went to aother Hotle called Srping wells and my tooth came out. We saw some taekeys [turkeys].” The repetition suggests how pilgrimage combines various aspects of life, from the emotional to the physical, the quotidian (walking and especially resting—in hotels with quilts) with the extraordinary (newly sprung tooth or the appearance of turkeys). “[W]ayfaring abilities depend on an emotional connection to the environment” (Easterlin 261), whether that environment is modified by humans or even manmade, inhabited by human or nonhuman actors. How can one model an “ecological relationship between humans and nonhumans” in narrative (Rodriguez 368)? Rodriguez proposes a “model of reading as encounter [...] encountering fictional story worlds as potential models” (Rodriguez 368), just as my mother did with the Magic Taxi Cab story.Taxis proliferate in my childhood pilgrimage. My mother writes in 1966 in her diary of journeying along the Pilgrims’ Way to St. Martha’s on the Hill. “Susie was moaning and groaning under her pack and at one desperate uphill moment gasped out, ‘Let’s take a taxi!’ – our highborn lady as we call her. But we finally made it.” “Martha’s”, as I later learned, is a corruption of “Martyrs”, a natural linguistic decay that developed over the medieval period. Just as the vernacular textures pilgrimage poems in the fourteeth century, the common tongue in all its glorious variety seeps into even the quotidian modern pilgrim’s journey.Part of the delight of pilgrimage lies in the characters one meets and the languages they speak. In 1994, the only time my husband and I cheated on a strictly ambulatory sacred journey occurred when we opted to ride a bus for ten miles where walking would have been dangerous. When I ask the bus driver if a stop were ours, he replied, “I'll give you a shout, love.” As though in a P. G. Wodehouse novel, when our stop finally came, he cried out, “Cheerio, love” to me and “Cheerio, mate” to Jim.Language changes. Which is a good thing. If it didn’t, it would be dead, like those martyrs of old. Like Latin itself. Disentangling pilgrimage from language proves impossible. The healthy ecopoetics of languages meshes with the sustainable vibrancy of the land we traverse.“Nettles of remorse…”: Derek Walcott, The Bounty Once my father had to carry me past a particularly tough patch of nettles. As my mother tells it, we “went through orchards and along narrow woodland path with face-high nettles. Susie put a scarf over her face and I wore a poncho though it was sunny and we survived almost unscathed.” Certain moments get preserved by the camera. At age seven in a field outside of Wye, I am captured in my father’s slides surrounded by grain. At age thirty-five, I am captured in film by my husband in the same spot, in the identical pose, though now quite a bit taller than the grain. Three years later, as a mother, I in turn snap him with a backpack containing baby Sarah, grumpily gazing off over the fields.When I was seven, we took off from Detling. My mother writes, “set off along old Pilgrims’ Way. Road is paved now, but much the same as fifteen years ago. Saw sheep, lambs, and enjoyed lovely scenery. Sudden shower sent us all to a lunch spot under trees near Thurnham Court, where we huddled under ponchos and ate happily, watching the weather move across the valley. When the sun came to us, we continued on our way which was lovely, past sheep, etc., but all on hard paved road, alas. Susie was a good little walker, but moaned from time to time.”I seem to whimper and groan a lot on pilgrimage. One thing is clear: the physical aspects of walking for days affected my phenomenological response to our pilgrimage which we’d undertaken both as historical ritual, touristic nature hike, and what Wendell Berry calls a “secular pilgrimage” (402), where the walker seeks “the world of the Creation” (403) in a “return to the wilderness in order to be restored” (416). The materiality of my experience was key to how I perceived this journey as a spiritual, somatic, and emotional event. The link between pilgrimage and memory, between pilgrimage poetics and memorial methods, occupies my thoughts on pilgrimage. As Nancy Easterlin’s work on “cognitive ecocriticism” (“Cognitive” 257) contends, environmental knowledge is intimately tied in with memory (“Cognitive” 260). She writes: “The advantage of extensive environmental knowledge most surely precipitates the evolution of memory, necessary to sustain vast knowledge” (“Cognitive” 260). Even today I can recall snatches of moments from that trip when I was a child, including the telling of tales.Landscape not only changes the writer, but writing transforms the landscape and our interaction with it. As Valerie Allen suggests, “If the subject acts upon the environment, so does the environment upon the subject” (“When Things Break” 82). Indeed, we can understand the “road as a strategic point of interaction between human and environment” (Allen and Evans 26; see also Oram)—even, or especially, when that interaction causes pain and inflames blisters. My relationship with moleskin on my blasted and blistered toes made me intimately conscious of my body with every step taken on the pilgrimage route.As an adult, my boots on the way from Winchester to Canterbury pinched and squeezed, packed dirt acting upon them and, in turn, my feet. After taking the train home and upon arrival in London, we walked through Bloomsbury to our flat on Russell Square, passing by what I saw as a new, less religious, but no less beckoning shrine: The London Foot Hospital at Fitzroy Square.Now, sadly, it is closed. Where do pilgrims go for sole—and soul—care?Slow Walking as WayfindingAll pilgrimages come to an end, just as, in 1966, my mother writes of our our arrival at last in Canterbury:On into Canterbury past nice grassy cricket field, where we sat and ate chocolate bars while we watched white-flannelled cricketers at play. Past town gates to our Queen’s Head Inn, where we have the smallest, slantingest room in the world. Everything is askew and we’re planning to use our extra pillows to brace our feet so we won’t slide out of bed. Children have nice big room with 3 beds and are busy playing store with pounds and shillings [that’s very hard mathematics!]. After dinner, walked over to cathedral, where evensong was just ending. Walked back to hotel and into bed where we are now.Up to early breakfast, dashed to cathedral and looked up, up, up. After our sins were forgiven, we picked up our rucksacks and headed into London by train.This experience in 1966 varies slightly from the one in 1994. Jim and I walk through a long walkway of tall, slim trees arching over us, a green, lush and silent cloister, finally gaining our first view of Canterbury with me in a similar photo to one taken almost thirty years before. We make our way into the city through the West Gate, first passing by St. Dunstan’s Church where Henry II had put on penitential garb and later Sir Thomas More’s head was buried. Canterbury is like Coney Island in the Middle Ages and still is: men with dreadlocks and slinky didjeridoos, fire tossers, mobs of people, tourists. We go to Mercery Lane as all good pilgrims should and under the gate festooned with the green statue of Christ, arriving just in time for evensong.Imagining a medieval woman arriving here and listening to the service, I pray to God my gratefulness for us having arrived safely. I can understand the fifteenth-century pilgrim, Margery Kempe, screaming emotionally—maybe her feet hurt like mine. I’m on the verge of tears during the ceremony: so glad to be here safe, finally got here, my favorite service, my beloved husband. After the service, we pass on through the Quire to the spot where St. Thomas’s relic sanctuary was. People stare at a lit candle commemorating it. Tears well up in my eyes.I suppose some things have changed since the Middle Ages. One Friday in Canterbury with my children in 2003 has some parallels with earlier iterations. Seven-year-old Sarah and I go to evensong at the Cathedral. I tell her she has to be absolutely quiet or the Archbishop will chop off her head.She still has her head.Though the road has been paved, the view has remained virtually unaltered. Some aspects seem eternal—sheep, lambs, and stiles dotting the landscape. The grinding down of the pilgrimage path, reflecting the “slowness of flat ontology” (Yates 207), occurs over vast expanses of time. Similarly, Easterlin reflects on human and more than human vitalism: “Although an understanding of humans as wayfinders suggests a complex and dynamic interest on the part of humans in the environment, the surround itself is complex and dynamic and is frequently in a state of change as the individual or group moves through it” (Easterlin “Cognitive” 261). An image of my mother in the 1970s by a shady tree along the Pilgrims’ Way in England shows that the path is lower by 6 inches than the neighboring verge (Bright 4). We don’t see dirt evolving, because its changes occur so slowly. Only big time allows us to see transformative change.Memorial PilgrimageOddly, the erasure of self through duplication with a precursor occurred for me while reading W.G. Sebald’s pilgrimage novel, The Rings of Saturn. I had experienced my own pilgrimage to many of these same locations he immortalizes. I, too, had gone to Somerleyton Hall with my elderly mother, husband, and two children. My memories, sacred shrines pooling in familial history, are infused with synchronic reflection, medieval to contemporary—my parents’ periodic sojourns in Suffolk for years, leading me to love the very landscape Sebald treks across; sadness at my parents’ decline; hope in my children’s coming to add on to their memory palimpsest a layer devoted to this land, to this history, to this family.Then, the oddest coincidence from my reading pilgrimage. After visiting Dunwich Heath, Sebald comes to his friend, Michael, whose wife Anne relays a story about a local man hired as a pallbearer by the local undertaker in Westleton. This man, whose memory was famously bad, nevertheless reveled in the few lines allotted him in an outdoor performance of King Lear. After her relating this story, Sebald asks for a taxi (Sebald 188-9).This might all seem unremarkable to the average reader. Yet, “human wayfinders are richly aware of and responsive to environment, meaning both physical places and living beings, often at a level below consciousness” (Easterlin “Cognitive” 265). For me, with a connection to this area, I startled with recollection emerging from my subconscience. The pallbearer’s name in Sebald’s story was Mr Squirrel, the very same name of the taxi driver my parents—and we—had driven with many times. The same Mr Squirrel? How many Mr Squirrels can there be in this small part of Suffolk? Surely it must be the same family, related in a genetic encoding of memory. I run to my archives. And there, in my mother’s address book—itself a palimpsest of time with names and addressed scored through; pasted-in cards, names, and numbers; and looseleaf memoranda—there, on the first page under “S”, “Mr. Squirrel” in my mother’s unmistakable scribble. She also had inscribed his phone number and the village Saxmundum, seven miles from Westleton. His name had been crossed out. Had he died? Retired? I don’t know. Yet quick look online tells me Squirrell’s Taxis still exists, as it does in my memory.Making KinAfter accompanying a class on a bucolic section of England’s Pilgrims’ Way, seven miles from Wye to Charing, we ended up at a pub drinking a pint, with which all good pilgrimages should conclude. There, students asked me why I became a medievalist who studies pilgrimage. Only after the publication of my first book on women pilgrims did I realize that the origin of my scholarly, long fascination with pilgrimage, blossoming into my professional career, began when I was seven years old along the way to Canterbury. The seeds of that pilgrimage when I was so young bore fruit and flowers decades later.One story illustrates Michel Serres’s point that we should not aim to appropriate the world, but merely act as temporary tenants (Serres 72-3). On pilgrimage in 1966 as a child, I had a penchant for ant spiders. That was not the only insect who took my heart. My mother shares how “Susie found a beetle up on the hill today and put him in the cheese box. Jimmy put holes in the top for him. She named him Alexander Beetle and really became very fond of him. After supper, we set him free in the garden here, with appropriate ceremony and a few over-dramatic tears of farewell.” He clearly made a great impression on me. I yearn for him today, that beetle in the cheese box. Though I tried to smuggle nature as contraband, I ultimately had to set him free.Passing through cities, landscape, forests, over seas and on roads, wandering by fields and vegetable patches, under a sky lit both by sun and moon, the pilgrim—even when in a group of fellow pilgrims—in her lonesome exercise endeavors to realize Serres’ ideal of the tenant inhabitant of earth. Nevertheless, we, as physical pilgrims, inevitably leave our traces through photos immortalizing the journey, trash left by the wayside, even excretions discretely deposited behind a convenient bush. Or a beetle who can tell the story of his adventure—or terror—at being ensconced for a time in a cheese box.On one notorious day of painful feet, my husband and I arrived in Otford, only to find the pub was still closed. Finally, it became time for dinner. We sat outside, me with feet ensconced in shoes blessedly inert and unmoving, as the server brought out our salads. The salad cream, white and viscous, was presented in an elegantly curved silver dish. Then Jim began to pick at the salad cream with his fork. Patiently, tenderly, he endeavored to assist a little bug who had gotten trapped in the gooey sauce. Every attempt seemed doomed to failure. The tiny creature kept falling back into the gloppy substance. Undaunted, Jim compassionately ministered to our companion. Finally, the little insect flew off, free to continue its own pilgrimage, which had intersected with ours in a tiny moment of affinity. Such moments of “making kin” work, according to Donna Haraway, as “life-saving strateg[ies] for the Anthropocene” (Oppermann 3, qtd. in Haraway 160).How can narrative avoid the anthropocentric centre of writing, which is inevitable given the human generator of such a piece? While words are a human invention, nonhuman entities vitally enact memory. The very Downs we walked along were created in the Cretaceous period at least seventy million years ago. The petrol propelling the magic taxi cab was distilled from organic bodies dating back millions of years. Jurassic limestone from the Bathonian Age almost two hundred million years ago constitutes the Caen stone quarried for building Canterbury Cathedral, while its Purbeck marble from Dorset dates from the Cretaceous period. Walking on pilgrimage propels me through a past millions—billions—of eons into the past, dwarfing my speck of existence. Yet, “if we wish to cross the darkness which separates us from [the past] we must lay down a little plank of words and step delicately over it” (Barfield 23). Elias Amidon asks us to consider how “the ground we dig into and walk upon is sacred. It is sacred because it makes us neighbors to each other, whether we like it or not. Tell this story” (Amidon 42). And, so, I have.We are winding down. Time has passed since that first pilgrimage of mine at seven years old. Yet now, here, I still put on my red plaid wollen jumper and jacket, crisp white button-up shirt, grey knee socks, and stout red walking shoes. Slinging on my rucksack, I take my mother’s hand.I’m ready to take my first step.We continue our pilgrimage, together.ReferencesAllen, Valerie. “When Things Break: Mending Rroads, Being Social.” Roadworks: Medieval Britain, Medieval Roads. Eds. Valerie Allen and Ruth Evans. Manchester: Manchester UP, 2016.———, and Ruth Evans. Introduction. Roadworks: Medieval Britain, Medieval Roads. Eds. Valerie Allen and Ruth Evans. Manchester: Manchester UP, 2016.Alworth, David J. Site Reading: Fiction, Art, Social Form. Princeton: Princeton UP, 2016.Amidon, Elias. “Digging In.” Dirt: A Love Story. Ed. Barbara Richardson. Lebanon, NH: ForeEdge, 2015.Barfield, Owen. History in English Words. Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans Publishing, 1967.Berry, Wendell. “A Secular Pilgrimage.” The Hudson Review 23.3 (1970): 401-424.Bright, Derek. “The Pilgrims’ Way Revisited: The Use of the North Downs Main Trackway and the Medway Crossings by Medieval Travelers.” Kent Archaeological Society eArticle (2010): 4-32.Craps, Stef, Rick Crownshaw, Jennifer Wenzel, Rosanne Kennedy, Claire Colebrook, and Vin Nardizzi. “Memory Studies and the Anthropocene: A Roundtable.” Memory Studies 11.4 (2017) 1-18.Easterlin, Nancy. A Biocultural Approach to Literary Theory and Interpretation. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 2012.———. “Cognitive Ecocriticism: Human Wayfinding, Sociality, and Literary Interpretation.” Introduction to Cognitive Studies. Ed. Lisa Zunshine. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 2010. 257-274.Haraway, Donna. “Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Plantationocene, Chthulucene: Making Kin.” Environmental Humanities 6 (2015): 159-65.James, Erin, and Eric Morel. “Ecocriticism and Narrative Theory: An Introduction.” English Studies 99.4 (2018): 355-365.Marcussen, Marlene. Reading for Space: An Encounter between Narratology and New Materialism in the Works of Virgina Woolf and Georges Perec. PhD diss. University of Southern Denmark, 2016.Oppermann, Serpil. “Introducing Migrant Ecologies in an (Un)Bordered World.” ISLE 24.2 (2017): 243–256.Oram, Richard. “Trackless, Impenetrable, and Underdeveloped? Roads, Colonization and Environmental Transformation in the Anglo-Scottish Border Zone, c. 1100 to c. 1300.” Roadworks: Medieval Britain, Medieval Roads. Eds. Valerie Allen and Ruth Evans. Manchester: Manchester UP, 2016.Rodriquez, David. “Narratorhood in the Anthropocene: Strange Stranger as Narrator-Figure in The Road and Here.” English Studies 99.4 (2018): 366-382.Savory, Elaine. “Toward a Caribbean Ecopoetics: Derek Walcott’s Language of Plants.” Postcolonial Ecologies: Literatures of the Environment. Eds. Elizabeth DeLoughrey and George B. Handley. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2011. 80-96.Sebald, W.G. The Rings of Saturn. Trans. Michael Hulse. New York: New Directions, 1998.Serres, Michel. Malfeasance: Appropriating through Pollution? Trans. Anne-Marie Feenberg-Dibon. Stanford: Stanford UP, 2011.Walcott, Derek. Selected Poems. Ed. Edward Baugh. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1997. 3-16.Yates, Julian. “Sheep Tracks—A Multi-Species Impression.” Animal, Vegetable, Mineral: Ethics and Objects. Ed. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen. Washington, D.C.: Oliphaunt Books, 2012.

No início, o autor desvincula a Eucaristia da compreensão “objetivista ecoisificante” própria da Teologia do 2o milênio, reinserindo-a no contextomistagógico da patrística; e refere a riqueza etimológica e a amplitudesemântica da Reconciliação. Depois, discorre sobre o tema inspirando-seem São Tomás, que distingue três sinais em cada Sacramento (rememorativo,demonstrativo e prognóstico). Ora, a Eucaristia recorda a Reconciliaçãorealizada pelo Pai por meio de Jesus, que “cobre a totalidade dos indivíduos,dos povos e das coisas”; e recorda-a, ao evocar a comensalidade includentede Jesus. Sendo sacramento, a Eucaristia realiza a Reconciliação, porquetorna presente e real o corpo sacramental de Jesus (1a epíclese) e, pelacomunhão neste corpo sacramental, transforma a assembléia em corpoeclesial, uma comunhão de pecadores reconciliados (2a epíclese). A Eucaristiaanuncia, “para além da história, a Reconciliação plena de todas as pessoas,do cosmos”. Anuncia uma Igreja que deve viver reconciliada para que possapedir: “Reconciliai-vos com Deus!”, uma Igreja aberta à hospitalidadeeucarística em vista da verdadeira intercomunhão eclesial. Anuncia “aimportância do encontro em torno de uma mesa”, anuncia que a Reconciliaçãoexige conversão, pois só assim se superam as alienações e conflitos nosindivíduos, nas relações, na sociedade. “Pela força mesma de sua naturezasimbólica”, a Eucaristia anuncia que a tarefa de reconciliar é “mais futura eutópica do que realizada e vivida”.Abstract: At the outset, the author distances himself in the presentation of theEucharist from the “objectivistic and material” mode of understanding, typicalof the theological usage of the 2nd millennium, and inserts it in the mystagogicalcontext of the Patristic tradition, and makes reference to the rich etymologyand a wider semantic spectrum of Reconciliation. Furthermore, he delves intothree distinguishing signs of each sacrament, such as memorial, demonstrative,and prognostic, as he refers to St. Thomas. Applying these aspects to theEucharist he states that this sacrament commemorates the Reconciliation ofGod the Father through Jesus Christ on behalf of humankind. Thus the body ofChrist is the center of convergence of those who receive the sacrament of theEucharist (1st epiclesis) by sharing among them the gift of God’s Reconciliation(2nd epiclesis). Moreover, the Eucharist makes known to the whole wide worldthat full reconciliation is bestowed upon every person and therefore announcesthrough the Church that all those who receive Holy Communion have accessto the source of God’s reconciliation in this world as effectively and enduringwithout end.

The 1900s and 1910s were a prime era for the growth and empowerment of cadet corps within Australia. Private schools in particular sought to build on a newfound spirit of nationalism following the Federation of the colonies in 1901 by harnessing enthusiasm for the nation and British Empire, and by cultivating a martial culture among their predominantly middle-class students. The principal tool harnessed in that cultivation were the school cadet corps, and the most visible symbol of those corps were their uniforms. By focussing on the cadet corps in the private schools of Sydney during this era, this article will explore the emphasis placed on cadet corps uniforms and argue that uniforms were the central element used cultivate a sense of identity and esprit de corps. When considered within the context of broader cadet corps activities, this will further demonstrate the power of uniforms as an instrument of cultural inculcation. The Federation of Australia in 1901 ushered in a new environment of national defence anxiety amongst the new nation’s middle-class citizens. The drive to Federation itself had partly been fuelled by colonial concerns regarding defence, and, in the new century, the newly federated states sought to work together to allay their combined concerns (White 114). But government policies were only one of the many ways the middle class were preparing the nation. Within the education system, middle-class private schools became a key instrument in preparing middle-class boys for their future as leaders of the nation in politics, business, and, of course, in the military. Within those schools, the cadet corps were utilised to instil core middle-class values of discipline, self-sacrifice, and responsibility in boys. As early as 1900, Sydney Grammar School authorities were proposing the resuscitation of their cadet corps following the rise in military spirit due to the Boer War (The Sydneian "Editorial", 1). The subsequent growth in both national and imperial defence-consciousness over the following years resulted in 100 boys forming a petition requesting the formation of a cadet corps in 1907 (The Sydneian "The Cadet Movement", 12). Within a year, the boys’ request was granted. With this type of enthusiasm from boys, the cadet corps increased in strength throughout the private schools of Sydney during the 1900s. Where they had already existed, they now commanded greater prestige, and where a school previously had no cadet corps, one was soon formed. In 1911, Compulsory Military Training commenced in Australia for all youths aged between 12 and 26, with a view to creating a citizens’ militia. Thus, militarism was a marked element in the new nation’s first decade. The changing nature of society during the 1900s also led to changing images of the ideal citizen, and understandably, of the ‘ideal middle-class boy’. Martin Crotty argues that in the 1900s, Australian middle-class society stressed that ‘fighting for one’s country is the peak of personal achievement and the epitome of manliness’ (9). Crotty goes on to examine the perceptions of middle-class manliness throughout the 1900s and 1910s, where masculinity was defined as the soldier serving his country, and the ‘manliest’ thing a person could do was to fight and die in war. Within this context, then, it is no surprise that private school boys welcomed the cadet system openly and were prepared to adhere to the discipline and the drill that went with it without a fuss. At St. Ignatius College, the school magazine Our Alma Mater reported in 1909 that ‘with enthusiasm on the part of the Corps, and attention to details by the officers, both commissioned and non-commissioned, the College will be in possession of a really fine corps of the future defenders of the Commonwealth’. Cadets were seen as a partial answer to middle-class fears about the defence of Australia. The cadets would provide strong, disciplined, and willing officers in an army if it was needed for the defence of country and empire. It would also make decent men of the boys, curing them of the slothful habits of modern youth. The Newington reported during the first year of Compulsory Military Training that in a year’s time we shall see a great improvement in the appearance and physique of those who have never hitherto had any instruction in the art of bodily discipline and culture. The slouch and roll so much in vogue amongst a certain class of boys will have disappeared, we hope, and a manlier, firmer walk have taken their place. (December 1911, 171) The Newington succinctly conveyed the hopes of all the private schools of Sydney, irrespective of denomination. Much has been written about the history of the cadet corps within the Australian historical literature. Craig Stockings’s The Torch and the Sword remains a seminal work in the field due to its broad focus on the general cadet movement in Australia. Beyond this, most scholarly works focus either on a specific cadet corps, specific location or region, specific theme, or on a specific period.1 However, relatively scant attention has been paid to the importance of their uniforms, and when uniforms are mentioned, it is usually only briefly and in passing. Given the centrality of the uniform to the culture and identity of the cadet corps, this is a surprising gap in the scholarship that this article seeks to address. The military uniform is ‘a relatively recent phenomenon’ (Tynan and Godson 10). While uniforms appear as far back as antiquity, their widespread adoption over the last couple of centuries is due to a convergence of social norms and technology. Towards the end of the eighteenth century, the increasing numbers of public servants meant that more civilians were uniformed whilst performing their duties (Williams-Mitchell 61). Tynan and Godson argue that ‘as state, society and nation converged towards the end of the nineteenth century uniform became part of a modern culture increasingly concerned with regulating time, space, and bodies’ (Tynan and Godson 6). The development of a regular military occurred within this space and can be seen as of part of the development of the stable nation state (Hackett 61). Standardisation of dress for large professional armies was enabled by technological developments brought about by the industrial revolution. Mass production of apparel meant that uniforms could be quickly produced and at a lower cost. In addition, the social culture of the late Victorian and early Edwardian eras in the British Empire was reflected in the material culture of their uniforms. During the First World War, military uniforms tended to be influenced by civilian fashion, while during the Second World War ‘a much more systematic approach to military uniforms could be seen’ (Craik 49). Uniforms have a psychological and social significance beyond identity. Uniforms legitimise the power of both the state and of the person wearing the uniform. The uniform seeks to overlay the image of the institution onto the person, obscuring the individual beneath. Uniforms have a power beyond just the outward appearance, they also affect us as individuals, shaping ‘how we are and how we perform our identities’ (Craik 4). This was recognised by utilitarian reformers at the turn of the twentieth century who ‘saw in the military body an efficiency that could usefully be transposed to civil society’ (Tynan and Godson 11), thereby shaping the populace’s inner as well as their outer selves (Craik 4). Further uniforms are about appearance, maintaining high standards of dress and a sense of belonging (Williams-Mitchell 111). Uniforms are instrumental in the creation of an esprit de corps (Langner 126). Being in the military is seen as more than an occupation, it is a vocation (Hackett 9), and to don a uniform communicates one’s sense of purpose. Part of this is achieved through the maintenance and correct wearing of the uniform, the discipline involved setting a moral high bar for others to measure themselves against. The use of school uniforms, particularly within the private school system, had been established by the end of the nineteenth century. While the addition of a military uniform for student cadets may at first seen incongruous, there are clear reasons why these uniforms would be appealing. Up to and during the First World War, British army officers were ‘still the preserve of young men of good social standing’ (Hackett 158), an association which no doubt appealed to schools whose remit was to prepare young men for leadership positions within society. Further, military uniforms were traditionally seen as an inherently masculine dress, with a ‘close fit between the attributes of normative masculinity as inscribed in uniform conduct and normative masculine roles and attributes’ (Craik 12-13). In Australia, wearing the cadet uniform elevated the schoolboy to a member of the Australian defence force and he was treated as such (Wise 132). As a symbol of government, the uniform endows the wearer with the authority of that same government (Langner 124). Throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the various cadet corps that emerged from Sydney’s private schools were formed to fulfil a variety of middle-class priorities. But by the 1900s, rhetoric had shifted to emphasise that the cadets were instilling discipline into boys and preparing youth for the defence of Australia and the British Empire. They were also used as a means to express school pride and identity. The stern militarism surrounding most of the cadet activities allowed the instructors to impress upon cadets values of discipline, duty, and sacrifice and to promote romantic illusions of warfare, and, above all, the idea that war was an adventure. Cadets were also taught that their training was preparation for war. Rifle practice, drill, skirmishes, camps, hiding behind trees and running around hills to attack the enemy from behind, using bushes as cover to sneak up on the enemy (all while in uniform) – these were the tactics of modern warfare. And cadets were left in no doubt that they would become the officers of the nation’s defence forces when needed. Throughout the conduct of all of their activities, the cadet corps uniform served as a constant visual reminder of that message. Boys generally wore variations of dark green uniforms with a slouch hat, and at times carried rifles with either blank or live ammunition, depending on their purpose. Some schools used ethnic and cultural traditions and social links in the formation of their cadet corps which was also reflected by varieties in their uniforms. For example, the cadets at Scots College were sponsored by the New South Wales Scottish Rifles (later the 30th Battalion, New South Wales Scottish) and based its uniform on that of the Rifles. It consisted of a slouch hat with a red hackle and blue and gold puggaree, a serge jacket in the Scottish tradition, and kilts from the early 1900s until all uniforms became regulated under Compulsory Military Training in 1911. From the time a boy put on his cadet uniform to the time he took it off he was treated as part of Australia’s defence force, and no longer simply a student at school. The uniform, then, became the prominent visual marker of that shifting role and identity. J. McElhone of St. Joseph’s College wrote in the school magazine in March 1911 that ‘when we don our uniforms, and are armed with rifles, we shall then commence to take a soldierly pride in ourselves’. While in uniform the boys were expected to act like soldiers, and their instructors (also in uniform) treated them much like soldiers, with high standards of drill, discipline, and order maintained. Indeed, throughout the 1900s, the cadet corps commanded as much prestige as the rugby and rowing teams. Cleanliness, discipline, and good order during public parades were met with salutations and praise. Success in competitions with other schools in shooting or tug-of-war or other cadet activities was similarly recorded with pride. As with rugby or rowing, the honour of the school was at stake, a matter reflected in Sydney Grammar’s ruminations over the re-formation of its cadet corps in 1907. One of the school’s primary concerns was the risk of losing the honour of the school by having an unsuccessful and ill-disciplined company. The Sydneian reported in August 1907 that if a new S.G.S Cadet Corps should disgrace itself in public by slovenly drill, as it certainly would, if recruited from the “wasters” and little boys, then the Trustees would be blamed for taking a hasty step without gauging the real wishes of boys and parents … . Any New Cadet Corps must maintain the fine traditions of the old one. It must be the pride of the School – our chief object of out-door interest. All sports must give way to it, rather than that the corps, once formed, should fail. By the early 1900s Newington College and the Kings School both had reputations for the quality and conduct of their cadet corps and it was this reputation that schools such as Sydney Grammar hoped to emulate with the formation of their own cadet corps. The ‘wasters’ and the ‘little boys’ were not required. The cadet corps would bring honour to the school, the nation and empire. The peak expression of this pride came in wearing their uniform for public ceremonies. For example, at St. Ignatius College, the cadet corps served as a funeral cortège for the funeral of a master, Fr. Patrick Keating, in 1913.2 The Newington cadet corps formed a Guard of Honour for the State Governor, Sir Harry Rawson, in 1905 (The Newingtonian, March 1905, 188). As the Guard of Honour the Newington College cadet corps’ duties were extended when they were required to fix bayonets in order to keep back the crowd from the main door of Sydney Town Hall where the Governor was inside (The Newingtonian, March 1905, 188). Whilst it may seem remarkable to have teenage boys keeping crowds back from the door with rifles with fixed bayonets, in the cadet corps of the 1900s this was expected when the circumstances required; the cadets were not looked upon as immature boys, but rather as responsible and disciplined soldiers, and they were thus treated accordingly. Great crowds lined Sydney’s streets to watch the Sydney private school cadet corps parade on special occasions, and, for many youth, being seen in uniform was an exciting and memorable experience. The experience of being one of the estimated eighteen thousand cadets who marched past the Governor-General, Lord Denman, on 30 March 1912 in Centennial Park, with parents, teachers, and government and military officials watching attentively would have been one of great pride (Naughtin 142). In formation at parades, the cadets were required to be in perfect order, buttons polished and shoes shining, as government and military officials inspected them and their uniforms. Boys without complete uniforms were not allowed to attend, as they would reduce the appearance of the company. Orders were given sharply by officers to fix and unfix bayonets, march in precise line, and perform specific manoeuvres, each carried out by the cadets, it was hoped, in unison. At times, the cadet corps throughout the private schools were addressed by the Inspector-General of the army, the Governor-General of Australia, or by their headmaster, each reminding them the responsibility that each one had to their cadet corps, to their school, and to their king and country. They were told that the many hours of drill required of them was teaching them the ‘very valuable and necessary lessons of life’ (The Newingtonian, December 1911, 171). They were told that to be effective soldiers they needed to be disciplined, do as they were told by their officers, and respond to orders swiftly. Thus, these cadets were learning not only the attributes of an officer, but of middle-class society in general: respect, presentation, and acceptance of the rules of society. The cadet corps uniform also helped reinforce notions of duty. Although, prior to 1911, the cadet corps were voluntary, private schools strongly urged all students to join as ‘no true Australian can fail to regard it as his duty to fit himself, as far as he is able, to be of service in the case of a call to defend his country’ (The Torch-Bearer, April 1908, 89). School magazines regularly reported on cadet activities throughout the 1900s and 1910s, including frequent references to the fine appearance. Certainly with boys practicing drill on football fields and outside class windows it must have been difficult for some of those boys who were not cadets not to notice, and be impressed by, the presence of one hundred of their fellow schoolmates carrying their rifles, in military uniform, and in perfect order. For the students who had joined the cadet corps this sense of duty became paramount. They were inundated with rhetoric praising their dedication to the cadet corps and the sacrifices they made by being a cadet. The Sydneian asked cadets to ‘consider your Corps first. It is your duty as “Soldiers of the King”’ (E.A.W. 19). The Torch-Bearer in April 1908 made a similar point: Every boy should remember that by becoming an efficient cadet he is carrying out a duty which he owes (1) to his country by rendering himself more capable of fighting in her defence. (2) to his school by helping to send out a corps that will do her as much credit as cricket and football teams and crews have done in the past. (3) to himself, by undergoing a training which will benefit him body and soul.3 Cadets absorbed this sense of duty, believing that they were honouring their school, their country, and the British Empire. Soldiers of the King they certainly believed they were, at least in the Protestant schools. The boys would be ‘toughened by a soldier’s hard training and learn to bear the pinch of sacrifice and bear it cheerfully’ (The Torch-Bearer, April 1911, 251), unlike their peers who had not joined the cadets who were regarded derisively as ‘civilians’ (The Torch-Bearer, October, 1908, 50). Thus, in an era of growing nationalism and militarism, the cadet corps of the private schools of Sydney grew as a symbol of middle-class values. The most immediate visual representation of that symbolism was the cadet corps uniform. When boys put on their uniform, they experienced a change in their demeanour, their identity, and their sense of duty. It had an instant impact on how they saw themselves, and how they were treated by others. These ideas were inculcated into boys throughout their training, and records from across the Sydney private schools suggest that the boys eagerly embraced those lessons. The cadet corps uniform, then, was a valuable tool in the moderation of behaviour and the instillation of core values. References Craik, Jennifer. Uniforms Exposed. Oxford: Berg, 2005. Crotty, Martin. Making The Australian Male: Middle-Class Masculinity 1870-1920. Carlton South: Melbourne UP, 2001. E.A.W. "The Cadet Corps." The Sydneian Dec. 1909: 18-23. Hackett, John. The Profession of Arms. London: Sidgwick & Jackson, 1984. Langner, Lawrence. "Clothes and Government." Dress, Adornment and the Social Order. Eds. Mary Ellen Roach and Joanne Eicher. New York: John Wiley & Sons, 1965. Naughtin, Michael. A Century of Striving: St. Joseph's College, Hunter's Hill, 1881-1981. Hunter's Hill, NSW: St. Joseph's College, 1981.. Our Alma Mater. St. Ignatius College magazine. Midwinter 1909. St Joseph's College Magazine. Mar. 1911. Stockings, Craig. The Torch and the Sword: A History of the Army Cadet Movement in Australia. UNSW Press, 2007. The Newingtonian. Newington College Magazine, Mar. 1905. ———. December 1911 The Sydneian. "The Cadet Movement - Past and Present." Aug. 1907: 7-14. ———. "Editorial: The Proposed Resucitation of the Cadet Corps." May 1900: 1-2. The Torch-Bearer. Sydney Church of England Grammar School Magazine, Apr. 1908. ———. Oct. 1908 ———. Apr. 1911 Tynan, Jane, and Lisa Godson. "Understanding Uniform: An Introduction." Uniform: Clothing and Discipline in the Modern World. Eds. Jane Tynan and Lisa Godson. London: Bloomsbury, 2019. White, Richard. Inventing Australia: Images and Identity 1688–1980. Routledge, 2020. Williams-Mitchell, Christobel. Dressed for the Job: The Story of Occupational Costume. Poole, Dorset: Blandford Press, 1982. Wise, Nathan. "The Adventurous Cadet: Romanticism and Adventure in the Cadet Corps of the Private Schools of Sydney, 1901-1914." Australian Folklore 29 (2014). Notes 1 For several key examples focussing on this period see Martin Crotty, Making the Australian Male; Thomas W. Tanner, Compulsory Citizen Soldiers (Sydney: Alternative Publishing Co-Operative, 1980); David Jones, ‘The Military Use of Australian State Schools: 1872-1914’ (Ph.D. Thesis, La Trobe University, 1991); John Barrett, Falling In – Australians and ‘Boy Conscription’, 1911-1915 (Sydney: Hale and Iremonger, 1979); Nathan Wise, ‘Playing Soldiers: Sydney Private School Cadet Corps and the Great War’ (Journal of the Royal Australian Historical Society 96.2 (2010)); Nathan Wise, ‘The Adventurous Cadet: Romanticism and Adventure in the Cadet Corps of the Private Schools of Sydney, 1901-1914’ (Australian Folklore 29 (2014): 127-141). 2 St. Ignatius College Archives, photo ‘Fr. Patrick Keating’s funeral leaving St. Mary’s, North Sydney, for Gore Hill Cemetary, 1913’. 3 The Torch-Bearer, Sydney Church of England Grammar School Magazine, Apr. 1908: 90. The Torch-Bearer uses the double synonym that the cadet corps were both like a sporting team and a military unit. This supports an argument of D.J. Blair’s ‘Beyond the Metaphor: Football and War, 1914-1918’ in The Journal of the Australian War Memorial 28 (Apr. 1996) that sport, particularly team sports such as football, and war were very similar. Sport assisted in the creation of the ideal man, and one best suited for military training, as it enhanced values of ‘loyalty, courage, self-discipline, and teamwork’ that would be required in war. This argument is further supported by the competitive nature of the cadet corps as examined in chapter four.

As I round the corner from Church Street onto Vesey, I am abruptly met with the façade of St. Paul’s Chapel and by the sudden memory of two things, both of which have not yet happened. I think about how, in a couple of decades, the area surrounding me will be burnt to the ground. I also recall how, just after the turn of the twenty-first century, the area will again crumble onto itself. It is 1759, and I—via my avatar—am wandering through downtown New York City in the videogame space of Assassin’s Creed: Rogue (AC:R). These spatial and temporal memories stem from the fact that I have previously (that is, earlier in my life) played an AC game set in New York City during the War for Independence (later in history), wherein the city’s lower west side burns at the hands of the British. Years before that (in my biographical timeline, though much later in history) I watched from twenty-something blocks north of here as flames erupted from the twin towers of the World Trade Center. Complicating the situation further, Michel de Certeau strolls with me in spirit, pondering observations he will make from almost this exact location (though roughly 1,100 feet higher up) 220 years from now, around the time I am being born. Perhaps the oddest aspect of this convoluted and temporally layered experience is the fact that I am not actually at the corner of Church and Vesey in 1759 at all, but rather on a couch, in Virginia, now. This particular type of sudden arrival at a space is only possible when it is not planned. Prior to the moment described above, I had finished a “mission” in the game that involved my coming to the city, so I decided I would just walk around a bit in the newly discovered digital New York of 1759. I wanted to take it in. I wanted to wander. Truly Being-in-a-place means attending to the interconnected Being-ness and Being-with-ness of all of the things that make up that place (Heidegger; Haraway). Conversely, to travel to or through a place entails a type of focused directionality toward a place that you are not currently Being in. Wandering, however, demands eschewing both, neither driven by an incessant goal, nor stuck in place by introspective ruminations. Instead, wandering is perhaps best described as a sort of mobile openness. A wanderer is not quite Benjamin’s flâneur, characterised by an “idle yet assertive negotiation of the street” (Coates 28), but also, I would argue, not quite de Certeau’s “Wandersmünner, whose bodies follow the thicks and thins of an urban ‘text’ they write without being able to read it” (de Certeau 93). Wandering requires a concerted effort at non-intentionality. That description may seem to fold in on itself, to be sure, but as the spaces around us are increasingly “canalized” (Rabinow and Foucault) and designed with specific trajectories and narratives in mind, inaction leads to the unconscious enacting of an externally derived intention; whereas any attempt to subvert that design is itself a wholly intentional act. This is why wandering is so difficult. It requires shedding layers. It takes practice, like meditation.In what follows, I will explore the possibility of revelatory moments enabled by the shedding of these layers of intention through my own experience in digital space (maybe the most designed and canalized spaces we inhabit). I come to recognise, as I disavow the designed narrative of game space, that it takes on other meanings, becomes another space. I find myself Being-there in a way that transcends the digital as we understand it, experiencing space that reaches into the past and future, into memory and fiction. Indeed, wandering is liminal, betwixt fixed points, spaces, and times, and the text you are reading will wander in this fashion—between the digital and the physical, between memory and experience, and among multiple pasts and the present—to arrive at a multilayered subjective sense of space, a palimpsest of placemaking.Before charging fully into digital time travel, however, we must attend to the business of context. In this case, this means addressing why I am talking about videogame space in Certaudian terms. Beginning as early as 1995, videogame theorists have employed de Certeau’s notion of “spatial stories” in their assertions that games allow players to construct the game’s narrative by travelling through and “colonizing” the space (Fuller and Jenkins). Most of the scholarship involving de Certeau and videogames, however, has been relegated to the concepts of “map/tour” in looking at digital embodiment within game space as experiential representatives of the place/space binary. Maps verbalise spatial experience in place terms, such as “it’s at the corner of this and that street”, whereas tours express the same in terms of movement through space, as in “turn right at the red house”. Videogames complicate this because “mapping is combined with touring when moving through the game-space” (Lammes).In Games as Inhabited Spaces, Bernadette Flynn moves beyond the map/tour dichotomy to argue that spatial theories can approach videogaming in a way no other viewpoint can, because neither narrative nor mechanics of play can speak to the “space” of a game. Thus, Flynn’s work is “focused on completely reconceiving gameplay as fundamentally configured with spatial practice” (59) through de Certeau’s concepts of “strategic” and “tactical” spatial use. Flynn explains:The ability to forge personal directions from a closed simulation links to de Certeau’s notion of tactics, where users can create their own trajectories from the formal organizations of space. For de Certeau, tactics are related to how people individualise trajectories of movement to create meaning and transformations of space. Strategies on the other hand, are more akin to the game designer’s particular matrix of formal structures, arrangements of time and space which operate to control and constrain gameplay. (59)Flynn takes much of her reading of de Certeau from Lev Manovich, who argues that a game designer “uses strategies to impose a particular matrix of space, time, experience, and meaning on his viewers; they, in turn, use ‘tactics’ to create their own trajectories […] within this matrix” (267). Manovich believes de Certeau’s theories offer a salient model for thinking about “the ways in which computer users navigate through computer spaces they did not design” (267). In Flynn’s and Manovich’s estimation, simply moving through digital space is a tactic, a subversion of its strategic and linear design.The views of game space as tactical have historically (and paradoxically) treated the subject of videogames from a strategic perspective, as a configurable space to be “navigated through”, as a way of attaining a certain goal. Dan Golding takes up this problem, distancing our engagement from the design and calling for a de Certeaudian treatment of videogame space “from below”, where “the spatial diegesis of the videogame is affordance based and constituted by the skills of the player”, including those accrued outside the game space (Golding 118). Similarly, Darshana Jayemanne adds a temporal element with the idea that these spatial constructions are happening alongside a “complexity” and “proliferation of temporal schemes” (Jayemanne 1, 4; see also Nikolchina). Building from Golding and Jayemanne, I illustrate here a space wherein the player, not the game, is at the fulcrum of both spatial and temporal complexity, by adding the notion that—along with skill and experience—players bring space and time with them into the game.Viewed with the above understanding of strategies, tactics, skill, and temporality, the act of wandering in a videogame seems inherently subversive: on one hand, by undergoing a destination-less exploration of game space, I am rejecting the game’s spatial narrative trajectory; on the other, I am eschewing both skill accrual and temporal insistence to attempt a sense of pure Being-in-the-game. Such rebellious freedom, however, is part of the design of this particular game space. AC:R is a “sand box” game, which means it involves a large environment that can be traversed in a non-linear fashion, allowing, supposedly, for more freedom and exploration. Indeed, much of the gameplay involves slowly making more space available for investigation in an outward—rather than unidirectional—course. A player opens up these new spaces by “synchronising a viewpoint”, which can only be done by climbing to the top of specific landmarks. One of the fundamental elements of the AC franchise is an acrobatic, free-running, parkour style of engagement with a player’s surroundings, “where practitioners weave through urban environments, hopping over barricades, debris, and other obstacles” (Laviolette 242), climbing walls and traversing rooftops in a way unthinkable (and probably illegal) in our everyday lives. People scaling buildings in major metropolitan areas outside of videogame space tend to get arrested, if they survive the climb. Possibly, these renegade climbers are seeking what de Certeau describes as the “voluptuous pleasure […] of ‘seeing the whole,’ of looking down on, totalizing the most immoderate of human texts” (92)—what he experienced, looking down from the top of the World Trade Center in the late 1970s.***On digital ground level, back in 1759, I look up to the top of St. Paul’s bell tower and crave that pleasure, so I climb. As I make my way up, Non-Player Characters (NPCs)—the townspeople and trader avatars who make up the interactive human scenery of the game—shout things such as “You’ll hurt yourself” and “I say! What on earth is he doing?” This is the game’s way of convincing me that I am enacting agency and writing my own spatial story. I seem to be deploying “tricky and stubborn procedures that elude discipline without being outside the field in which it is exercised” (de Certeau 96), when I am actually following the program the way I am supposed to. If I were not meant to climb the tower, I simply would not be able to. The fact that game developers go to the extent of recording dialogue to shout at me when I do this proves that they expect my transgression. This is part of the game’s “semi-social system”: a collection of in-game social norms that—to an extent—reflect the cultural understandings of outside non-digital society (Atkinson and Willis). These norms are enforced through social pressures and expectations in the game such that “these relative imperatives and influences, appearing to present players with ‘unlimited’ choices, [frame] them within the parameters of synthetic worlds whose social structure and assumptions are distinctly skewed in particular ways” (408). By using these semi-social systems, games communicate to players that performing a particular act is seen as wrong or scandalous by the in-game society (and therefore subversive), even when the action is necessary for the continuation of the spatial story.When I reach the top of the bell tower, I am able to “synchronise the viewpoint”—that is, unlock the map of this area of the city. Previously, I did not have access to an overhead view of the area, but now that I have indulged in de Certeau’s pleasure of “seeing the whole”, I can see not only the tactical view from the street, but also the strategic bird’s-eye view from above. From the top, looking out over the city—now The City, a conceivable whole rather than a collection of streets—it is difficult to picture the neighbourhood engulfed in flames. The stair-step Dutch-inspired rooflines still recall the very recent change from New Amsterdam to New York, but in thirty years’ time, they will all be torched and rebuilt, replaced with colonial Tudor boxes. I imagine myself as an eighteenth-century de Certeau, surveying pre-ruination New York City. I wonder how his thoughts would have changed if his viewpoint were coloured with knowledge of the future. Standing atop the very symbol of global power and wealth—a duo-lith that would exist for less than three decades—would his pleasure have been less “voluptuous”? While de Certeau considers the viewer from above like Icarus, whose “elevation transfigures him into a voyeur” (92), I identify more with Daedalus, preoccupied with impending disaster. I swan-dive from the tower into a hay cart, returning to the bustle of the street below.As I wander amongst the people of digital 1759 New York, the game continuously makes phatic advances at me. I bump into others on the street and they drop boxes they are carrying, or stumble to the side. Partial overheard conversations going on between townspeople—“… what with all these new taxes …”, “… but we’ve got a fine regiment here …”—both underscore the historical context of the game and imply that this is a world that exists even when I am not there. These characters and their conversations are as much a part of the strategic makeup of the city as the buildings are. They are the text, not the writers nor the readers. I am the only writer of this text, but I am merely transcribing a pre-programmed narrative. So, I am not an author, but rather a stenographer. For this short moment, though, I am allowed by the game to believe that I am making the choice not to transcribe; there are missions to complete, and I am ignoring them. I am taking in the city, forgetting—just as the design intends—that I am the only one here, the only person in the entire world, indeed, the person for whom this world exists.While wandering, I also experience conflicts and mergers between what Maurice Halbwachs has called historical, autobiographical, and collective memory types: respectively, these are memories created according to historical record, through one’s own life experience, and by the way a society tends to culturally frame and recall “important” events. De Certeau describes a memorable place as a “palimpsest, [where] subjectivity is already linked to the absence that structures it as existence” (109). Wandering through AC:R’s virtual representation of 1759 downtown New York, I am experiencing this palimpsest in multiple layers, activating my Halbwachsian memories and influencing one another in the creation of my subjectivity. This is the “absence” de Certeau speaks of. My visions of Revolutionary New York ablaze tug at me from beneath a veneer of peaceful Dutch architecture: two warring historical memory constructs. Simultaneously, this old world is painted on top of my autobiographical memories as a New Yorker for thirteen years, loudly ordering corned beef with Russian dressing at the deli that will be on this corner. Somewhere sandwiched between these layers hides a portrait of September 11th, 2001, painted either by collective memory or autobiographical memory, or, more likely, a collage of both. A plane entering a building. Fire. Seen by my eyes, and then re-seen countless times through the same televised imagery that the rest of the world outside our small downtown village saw it. Which images are from media, and which from memory?Above, as if presiding over the scene, Michel de Certeau hangs in the air at the collision site, suspended a 1000 feet above the North Pool of the 9/11 Memorial, rapt in “voluptuous pleasure”. And below, amid the colonists in their tricorns and waistcoats, people in grey ash-covered suits—ambulatory statues; golems—slowly and silently march ever uptown-wards. Dutch and Tudor town homes stretch skyward and transform into art-deco and glass monoliths. These multiform strata, like so many superimposed transparent maps, ground me in the idea of New York, creating the “fragmentary and inward-turning histories” (de Certeau 108) that give place to my subjectivity, allowing me to Be-there—even though, technically, I am not.My conscious decision to ignore the game’s narrative and wander has made this moment possible. While I understand that this is entirely part of the intended gameplay, I also know that the design cannot possibly account for the particular way in which I experience the space. And this is the fundamental point I am asserting here: that—along with the strategies and temporal complexities of the design and the tactics and skills of those on the ground—we bring into digital space our own temporal and experiential constructions that allow us to Be-in-the-game in ways not anticipated by its strategic design. Non-digital virtuality—in the tangled forms of autobiographical, historic, and collective memory—reaches into digital space, transforming the experience. Further, this changed game-experience becomes a part of my autobiographical “prosthetic memory” that I carry with me (Landsberg). When I visit New York in the future, and I inevitably find myself abruptly met with the façade of St Paul’s Chapel as I round the corner of Church Street and Vesey, I will be brought back to this moment. Will I continue to wander, or will I—if just for a second—entertain the urge to climb?***After the recent near destruction by fire of Notre-Dame, a different game in the AC franchise was offered as a free download, because it is set in revolutionary Paris and includes a very detailed and interactive version of the cathedral. Perhaps right now, on sundry couches in various geographical locations, people are wandering there: strolling along the Siene, re-experiencing time they once spent there; overhearing tense conversations about regime change along the Champs-Élysées that sound disturbingly familiar; or scaling the bell tower of the Notre-Dame Cathedral itself—site of revolution, desecration, destruction, and future rebuilding—to reach the pleasure of seeing the strategic whole at the top. And maybe, while they are up there, they will glance south-southwest to the 15th arrondissement, where de Certeau lies, enjoying some voluptuous Icarian viewpoint as-yet unimagined.ReferencesAtkinson, Rowland, and Paul Willis. “Transparent Cities: Re‐Shaping the Urban Experience through Interactive Video Game Simulation.” City 13.4 (2009): 403–417. DOI: 10.1080/13604810903298458.Benjamin, Walter. The Arcades Project. Trans. Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin. Ed. Rolf Tiedmann. Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press, 2002. Coates, Jamie. “Key Figure of Mobility: The Flâneur.” Social Anthropology 25.1 (2017): 28–41. DOI: 10.1111/1469-8676.12381.De Certeau, Michel. The Practice of Everyday Life. Translated by Steven Rendall. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984.Flynn, Bernadette. “Games as Inhabited Spaces.” Media International Australia, Incorporating Culture and Policy 110 (2004): 52–61. DOI: 10.1177/1329878X0411000108.Fuller, Mary, and Henry Jenkins. “‘Nintendo and New World Travel Writing: A Dialogue’ [in] CyberSociety: Computer-Mediated Communication and Community.” CyberSociety: Computer-Mediated Communication and Community. Ed. Steve Jones. Thousand Oaks: Sage, 1994. 57–72. <https://contentstore.cla.co.uk/secure/link?id=7dc700b8-cb87-e611-80c6-005056af4099>.Golding, Daniel. “Putting the Player Back in Their Place: Spatial Analysis from Below.” Journal of Gaming & Virtual Worlds 5.2 (2013): 117–30. DOI: 10.1386/jgvw.5.2.117_1.Halbwachs, Maurice. The Collective Memory. New York: Harper & Row, 1980.Haraway, Donna. Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene. Durham: Duke University Press Books, 2016.Heidegger, Martin. Existence and Being. Chicago: Henry Regnery Company, 1949.Jayemanne, Darshana. “Chronotypology: A Comparative Method for Analyzing Game Time.” Games and Culture (2019): 1–16. DOI: 10.1177/1555412019845593.Lammes, Sybille. “Playing the World: Computer Games, Cartography and Spatial Stories.” Aether: The Journal of Media Geography 3 (2008): 84–96. DOI: 10.1080/10402659908426297.Landsberg, Alison. Prosthetic Memory: The Transformation of American Remembrance in the Age of Mass Culture. New York: Columbia University Press, 2004.Laviolette, Patrick. “The Neo-Flâneur amongst Irresistible Decay.” Playgrounds and Battlefields: Critical Perspectives of Social Engagement. Eds. Martínez Jüristo and Klemen Slabina. Tallinn: Tallinn University Press, 2014. 243–71.Manovich, Lev. The Language of New Media. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 2002.Nikolchina, Miglena. “Time in Video Games: Repetitions of the New.” Differences 28.3 (2017): 19–43. DOI: 10.1215/10407391-4260519.Rabinow, Paul, and Michel Foucault. “Interview with Michel Foucault on Space, Knowledge and Power.” Skyline (March 1982): 17–20.

In February 2021, during the third COVID-19 lockdown in the state of Victoria, Australia, artist Shaun Wilson used the teleconferencing platforms Teams and Skype to create a slow cinema feature length artwork titled Fading Light to demonstrate how innovative creative practice can overcome barriers of distance experienced by creative practitioners from the limitations sustained during the COVID-19 pandemic. While these production techniques offer free access to develop new methodologies through practice, the wider scope of pandemic lockdowns mediated artists with teleconferencing as a tool to interrogate the nature of life during our various global lockdowns. It thus afforded a pioneering ability for artists to manufacture artwork about lockdowns whilst in lockdown, made from the tools commonly used for virtual communication. The significance of such opportunities, as this article will argue, demonstrates a novel approach to making artwork about COVID-19 in ways that were limited prior to the start of 2020 in terms of commonality, that now are “turning us all into broadcasters, streamers and filmmakers” (Sullivan). However, as we are only just becoming familiar with the cultural innovation pioneered from the limitations brought about by the pandemic, new aesthetics are emerging that challenge normative traditions of manufacturing and thinking about creative artefacts. Teleconferencing platforms were used differently prior to 2020 when compared to the current pandemic era. Throughout the 2000s and 2010s, there were no global gigascale movement restrictions or medical dangers to warrant a global shutdown that would ultimately determine how a person interacts with public places. In a pre-pandemic context, the daily use of teleconferencing was a luxury. Its subsequent use in the COVID-19 era became a necessity in many parts of day-to-day life. As artists have historically been able to comment through their work on global health crises, how has contemporary art responded since 2020 in using teleconferencing within critical studio practice? To explore such an idea, this article will probe examples of practice from artists making artworks with teleconferencing about pandemics during the COVID-19 pandemic. Discussion will purposely not consider a wider historical scope of teleconferencing in art and scholarship as the context in this article explicitly addresses art made in and commenting on the COVID-19 pandemic using the tools of lockdown readily available through teleconferencing platforms. It will instead concentrate on three artists addressing the pandemic during 2020 and 2021. The first example will be There Is No Such Thing as Internet from Polish artists Maria Magdalena Kozlowska and Maria Tobola, “performers who identify as one artist, Maria Małpecki” (“Pogo”). The second example is New York artist Michael Mandiberg’s Uncle Bob 85th Birthday via Zoom 3:00-4:00PM, August 16, 2020 (#24), from the series Zoom Paintings. The third example is Australian artist Shaun Wilson’s Fading Light. These works will be discussed as a means of considering teleconferencing as a contemporary art medium used in response to COVID-19 and art made as pandemic commentary through the technology that has defined its global social integration. Figure 1: Maria Małpecki, There Is No Such Thing as Internet, used with permission. There Is No Such Thing as Internet was presented as a live stream on 7 May 2020 and as an online video between 7-31 May 2020 in the “Online Cocktail Party with Maria Małpecki” at Pogo Bar, KW Institute for Contemporary Art, Berlin by Maria Małpecki and curator Tomek Pawlowski Jarmolajew (“Pogo”). The work represents a twenty-minute livestream essay created in part by a teleconferencing video call performance and appropriated video streams. This includes video chat examples from Chomsky and Žižek, compiled together through intertextual video collages which The Calvert Journal described as a work “that explore[s] identity and different modes of communication in times of isolation” (De La Torre). One of the key strengths of this work in terms of teleconferencing is how it embraces the medium as an integral part of the performative methodology. To such an extent, one might argue that if it was removed and replaced by traditional video camera shots, which do feature in the video but are not the main aesthetic driver, the Metamodernist troupe of Małpecki’s videos would not perform the same critique of the pandemic. So, for Małpecki to comment on isolation through the Internet requires video calls to be central in the artwork in order for it to hold the cultural value it embeds through the subject. The conceptual framework relies on short segments to create episodic moments reliant on philosophical laments relating to each part of the work. For example, the first act unfolds with a montage of short video clip collages reminiscent of the quick-clip YouTube browsing habit culture from the pandemic to expedite an argument that indeed, there really is no singular internet. Rather, from this, what we are experiencing is arguably something else entirely. From here we move to the second act titled “We wake up in a different room every morning. We wander in a labyrinth where most doors are already open” (Małpecki); but as Małpecki comments, “sometimes our job is to shut them”. The sequence evolves into a disorientating dual screen sequence of the artists panicking to what they are viewing on screen. What this is exactly remains unclear. It may be us as the audience or something else as Malpecki holds their webcam devices upside down to provide an unnerving menage amidst the screams and exacerbations that invites spatial disorientation as a point of engagement for the viewer. As we recognise that video call protocols during the pandemic are visually static and that normative ‘rules’ of video calls require stabilised video and clean sound, Małpecki subverts these protocols to that of an uncomfortable, anarchic performance. It's at odds with the gentility of video call aesthetics which, in the case of this artwork, is more like watching a continuous point of view shot from a participant on a roller coaster or an extreme fairground ride. As the audience moves through each of the eclectic acts, this randomness laments a continuity that, sometimes satirical and at other times sublime, infuses the silliness and obliqueness of habitual lockdown video viewing. Even the most mundane of videos we watch to pass the time have become anthems of the COVID-19 era as a mixture of boredom, stupidity, and collective grief. Małpecki’s work in this regard becomes a complex observation for a society in crisis. It eloquently uses video calls as a way to comment on what this article argues to be an important cultural artefact in contemporary art’s response to COVID-19. Just as Goya subverted the Venetian pandemic in the grim Plague Hospital, Małpecki reflects our era in the same disruptive way by using frailty as a mirror to reveal an uneasy reflection masked in satirical obscurity, layered with fragments of the Internet and its subjective “other”. Figure 2: Michael Mandiberg, Uncle Bob 85th Birthday via Zoom 3:00-4:00PM, August 16, 2020 (#24), used with permission. Conversely, the work of New York artist Michael Mandiberg uses teleconferencing in a different way by painting the background of video calls onto stretched canvases mostly over the duration of the actual call time. Yet in doing so, the removal of people from inside the frame highlights aspects of isolation and absence in lockdown. At the Denny Dinin Gallery exhibition in New York, The Zoom Paintings “presented in the digital sphere where they were born” (Defoe). Zoom provided both the frame and the exhibition space for these works, with “one painting … on view each day [on Zoom], for a total of ten paintings” (“Zoom”). Describing the works, Mandiberg states that they are “about the interchangeability of people and places. It’s not memorializing a particular event; it’s memorializing how unmemorable it is” (Mandiberg; Defoe). This defines an innovative approach to teleconferencing that engages with place in times when the same kinds of absence experienced in the images of peopleless Zoom video calls mirror the external absence of people in public places during lockdown. Uncle Bob 85th Birthday via Zoom 3:00-4:00PM, August 16, 2020 (#24) is time stamped with the diaristic nature of the Zoom Paintings series. These works are not just a set of painting subjects interlinked through a common theme of paintings ‘about Zoom backgrounds’. They, rather, operate as a complex depiction of absence located in the pandemic, evidently capturing a powerful social commentary about what the artist experienced during these times. In doing so, it immediately prompts the viewer into tensions that conceptually frame COVID-19, whether that be the isolation of waiting out the pandemic in lockdown, the removal of characters through illness from the virus, or even a sudden death from the virus itself. The camera’s point of view illustrates an empty space where we know something is missing. At the very least the artist suggests that someone nearby once inhabited these empty spaces but they are, at present, removed from the scene or have vanished altogether. On 16 August 2020, the day that the painting was made, the New York Times estimated that 514 people in the United States died from COVID-19 (“Coronavirus”). When measured against a further death rate peaking at 5,463 people in the United States who died on 11 February 2021, the catastrophic mortality data in the United States alone statistically supports Mandiberg’s lament as to the severity of the pandemic, which serves as the context of his work. Based on this data alone, the absence in Mandiberg’s paintings intensifies a sense of isolation and loss insofar as the subjectivity embedded within the video call frame speaks to a powerful way that contemporary art is providing commentary during the pandemic (“Coronavirus”). Art in this context becomes a silent observer using teleconferencing to address both what is taken away from us and what visually remains behind. This article acknowledges the absence in Mandiberg’s paintings as a timely reminder of the socio-devastation experienced in the pandemic’s wake. Therein lies a three-folded image within an image within an image, not unlike what we see in Blade Runner when Deckard’s Esper Machine investigates the reflection in a mirror of someone else, and no more vivid than in Van Eyck’s Arnolfini Portrait. From a structural point of view, we witness Mandiberg’s images during its exhibition on Zoom in much the same conceptual way. In this case though, it is a mirrored online image of an image painted from a video call interpreted online from a recorded image transmitted online through teleconferencing. Through similar transactions, Shaun Wilson’s utilisation of video calls is represented in Fading Light as a way to comment on COVID-19 through the lens of Teams and Skype. The similarities of Fading Light to There Is No Such Thing as Internet stem obviously from the study of figuration used as the driver of the works but at the same time, it also draws comparison with Mandiberg’s stillness as represented in the frozen poses of each figure. At a more complex level, there is, though, a polar opposite in the mechanics that, for Mandiberg, uses video to translate into painted subjects. Fading Light does the opposite, with paintings recontextualised into video subjects. Such an analysis of both works brings about a sense of trepidation. For Mandiberg, it is the unsettling stillness through absence. In Fading Light it is the oppressive state of the motionlessness in frame that offers the same sense of awkwardness found in Mandiberg’s distorted painted laptop angles, and that makes the same kind of uncomfortableness bearable. It is only as much as an audience affords the time to allow before the loneliness of the subject renders the Zoom paintings a memorial to what is lost. Of note in Fading Light are the characteristically uncomfortable traits of what we detect should be in the frame of the subject but isn’t, which lends a tension to the viewer who has involuntarily been deprived of what is to be expected. For a modern Internet audience, a video without movement invites a combination of tension, boredom, and annoyance, drawing parallels to Hitchcock’s premise that something has just happened but we’re not entirely sure exactly what it was or is. Likewise, Małpecki’s same juxtaposition of tension with glimpses of Chomsky and Žižek videos talking over each other is joined by the artists’ breaking the fourth wall of cinema theory. Observing the artists lose concentration while watching the other videos in the video call scenario enact the mundane activities we encounter in the same kinds of situations of watching someone else on Zoom. However, in this context, we are watching them watching someone else whom we are also watching, while watching ourselves at the same time. Figure 3: Shaun Wilson, Fading Light, used with permission. The poses in Fading Light are reconfigured from characters in German medieval paintings and low relief religious iconography created during the Black Death era. Such works hang in the Gothic St. Michael’s Church in Schwäbisch Hall in Germany originally used by Martin Luther as his Southern Germany outpost during the Reformation. Wilson documented these paintings in October 2006, which then became the ongoing source images used in the 51 Paintings Suite films. The church itself has a strong connection to pandemics where a large glass floor plate behind the altar reveals an open ossuary of people who died of plague during the Black Death. This association brings an empirical linkage to the agency in Fading Light that mediates the second handed nature of the image, initially painted during a medieval pandemic, and now juxtaposed into the video frame captured in a current pandemic. From a conceptual standpoint, the critical analysis reflected in such a framework allows the artwork to reveal itself at a multi-level perspective, operating within a Metamodernist methodology. Two separate elements oscillate in tandem with one another, yet completely independent, or in this case, impervious to each other’s affect. Fading Light’s key affordance from this oscillation consolidate Wilson’s methodology in the artwork in as much detail as what Małpecki and Mandiberg construct in their respective works, yet obviously for very different motivations. If the basis of making video art in the pandemic using teleconferencing changes the way we might think about using these platforms, which otherwise may not have previously been taken serious by the academy as a valid medium in art, then the quiet meaningfulness throughout the film transcends a structured method to ascertain a pictorial presence of the image in its facsimile state. This pays respect to the source images but also embraces and overlays the narrative of the current pandemic intertwined within the subject. Given that Fading Light allows a ubiquitous dialogue to grow from the framed image, a subjective commonality in these mentioned works provide insight into how artists have engaged innovation strategies with teleconferencing to develop artwork made and commenting about the current pandemic. Whether it be Małpecki’s subversive pandemic variety show, the loneliness of Mandiberg’s Zoom call paintings or Wilson’s refilming of Black Death era paintings, all three artists use video call platforms as a contemporary art medium capable of social commentary during histo-trauma. These works also raise the possibility of interdisciplinary Metamodernist approaches to consider the implications of non-traditional mediums in offering socio-commentary during profoundly impactful times. It remains to be seen if contemporary video call platforms will become a frequented tool in contemporary art long after the COVID-19 pandemic is over. However, by these works and indeed, from the others to follow and not yet revealed, the current ossuary provides an opportunity for artists to respond to their own immediate surroundings to redefine existing boundaries in art and look to innovation in the methods they use. We are in a new era of art making, only now beginning to reveal itself. It may take years or even decades to better understand the magnitude of the significance that artists have contributed towards their own practices since the beginnings of the pandemic. This time of profound change only strengthens the need for contemporary art to preserve and enlighten humanity through the journey from crisis to hope. References Blade Runner. Dir. by Ridley Scott, Warner Brothers, 1982. “Coronavirus US Cases.” New York Times, 27 Mar. 2021. 28 Mar. 2021 <http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2020/us/coronavirus-us-cases.html>. Defoe, Taylor. “‘It's Memorializing How Unmemorable It Is’: Artist Michael Mandiberg on Painting Melancholy Portraits on Zoom.” Artnet News 10 Nov. 2020. 19 Mar. 2021 <http://news.artnet.com/exhibitions/mandiberg-zoom-paintings-1922159>. De La Torre, Lucia. “Art in the Age of Zoom: Explore the Video Art Collage Unraveling the Complexities of the Digital Age.” The Culvert Journal, 5 May 2020. 19 Mar. 2021 <https://www.calvertjournal.com/articles/show/11788/online-performance-art-polish-artist-maria-malpecki-digital-age>. Goya, Francisco. Plaga Hospital. Private Collection. 1800. Małpecki, Maria. There Is No Such Thing as Internet. Vimeo, 2020. <http://vimeo.com/415998383>. Mandiberg, Michael. Uncle Bob 85th Birthday via Zoom 3:00-4:00PM, August 16, 2020 (#24). New York: Denny Dinin Gallery, 2020. “Pogo Bar: Maria Małpecki & Tomek Pawłowski Jarmołajew.” KW Institute for Contemporary Art, 7 May 2020. 19 Mar. 2021 <http://www.kw-berlin.de/en/maria-malpecki-tomek-pawlowski-jarmolajew/>. Sullivan, Eve. “Video Art during and after the Pandemic: 2020 Limestone Coast Video Art Festival.” Artlink, 2020. 19 Mar. 2021 <http://www.artlink.com.au/articles/4885/video-art-during-and-after-the-pandemic-2020-limes/>. Van Eyck, Jan. Arnolfini Portrait. Canberra: National Gallery, 1434. Wilson, Shaun. Fading Light. Bakers Road Entertainment, 2021. “The Zoom Paintings.” Denny Dimin Gallery, 12 Nov. 2020. <http://dennydimingallery.com/news/virtual_exhibition/zoom-paintings/>.