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OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 15/07/19, SPi
C ON DI T ION S OF V I S I BI L I T Y
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 15/07/19, SPi
V I SU A L C O N VE RS AT I O N S
I N A RT A N D A RC H A E O LO G Y
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Conditions of Visibility
Edited by
R IC H A R D N E E R
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 15/07/19, SPi
1
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP,
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OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 15/07/19, SPi
P RE FA C E
Richard Neer
The Chicago Center for Global Ancient Art was founded in 2009 by members
of the Department of Art History at the University of Chicago. Its animating
idea is that a new research paradigm is emerging within art history. Antiquity
was, of course, one of the original topics of this discipline as it emerged in Europe
in the eighteenth century. For many years, however, art history derived its basic
research questions and its accepted ways of answering such questions from the
study of more recent epochs: the Latin Middle Ages, the European Renaissance,
nineteenth-century Paris, 1960s New York. That situation is changing: as the
discipline grows and expands, new questions and new ways of answering them
start to appear. The Center, in particular, explores two developments in recent
scholarship: an increasing tendency amongst art historians to study archaeological
corpora, and a corresponding tendency amongst archaeologists to move beyond
functionalism into “art historical” topics like beholding, iconography, materials,
phenomenology, stylistics, and aesthetics. What happens when these two worlds
collide?
We define ancient in procedural terms: wherever it is from, whenever it was
made, art is ancient if our knowledge of it derives to a significant degree from
archaeological data: stratigraphic, archaeometric, typological/stylistic, even quanti-
tative. Antiquity is, in short, a function of method. Because these methods apply
to a broad range of regions and corpora, this definition makes it possible to speak
in global, comparative terms—a comparativism, however, not so much of the
objects of knowledge as of the ways of producing and ordering them. Scholars of
ancient China, Greece, and Mexico may work with radically different materials
and possess radically different research skills, yet they all use similar kinds of data,
produce facts in similar ways. In a discipline that still partitions itself according
to nation, religion, and date (we have sinologists and classicists, modernists and
Islamists), these affinities of method provide a new, “horizontal” way to organize
research. On offer, in short, is a comparativism of method.
Perhaps the most controversial, even tendentious aspect of this program is the
apparently cavalier use of the term art. Art, we are sometimes told, is a quintes-
sentially modern concept that can be applied to older or alien materials only on
pain of gross anachronism. We do not pretend to know in advance the compass
of this term or the limits of the aesthetic. On the contrary, it is only by testing the
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 15/07/19, SPi
viii PR EFACE
methods of art history against the materials and protocols of archaeology that we
may be in a position to discover whether our questions are well formed, our
answers cogent. Like global and ancient, in short, our use of the term art is pro-
cedural, a function of method—a usage that, in its turn, enables comparison
across cultures, times, and places.
Each volume in this series examines and compares a basic concept or category
of art historical and archaeological inquiry. Unlike the widely available hand-
books or companions to standing fields of inquiry, these books do not codify or
survey well-defined bodies of knowledge. They are, instead, exploratory: at once
primers for students seeking to expand their research horizons and provocations
to specialists. They offer, in short, theory from the ground up: an apt description,
we hope, of a truly archaeological history of art.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 15/07/19, SPi
CO NT E NT S
List of Illustrations xi
List of Contributors xv
Introduction1
Richard Neer
Index147
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 15/07/19, SPi
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 15/07/19, SPi
L I S T O F I L L U S T RAT I O NS
3.10. The Pola casket, from the left, showing a church interior with closed
door and approaching devotees. 84
3.11. The Pola casket, from the right, showing a church interior with
devotees.85
3.12. The Pola casket, lid, with Christ between Peter and Paul, palm trees,
and lambs. 86
3.13. The Pola casket, lid, conjectural restoration. 87
3.14. Stone container and lid in which the Pola casket was found, from the
Church of St Hermagoras, Samagher, Istria. 88
3.15. The Basilica of St Maria Maggiore, triumphal arch mosaic with empty
throne, 432–40 ce. Rome. 88
3.16. Marble spiral columns (probably second century ce) reused for the
shrine of St Peter in the Vatican, first half of the fourth century ce,
and reused again in the Reniassance Basilica of St Peter’s. 90
3.17. Mosaic of Theodora and her entourage, from the Presbytery of
the Church of San Vitale, c.545–9 ce. Ravenna. 94
4.1. Cross-section and plan of Mawangdui Tomb 1 at Changsha, Hunan.
Western Han, early second century bce.113
4.2. Plan of Leigudun Tomb 1 at Suixian, Hubei. Early Warring States
period, fifth century bce.115
4.3. Marquis Yi’s outer coffin from Leigudun Tomb 1. 116
4.4. Marquis Yi’s inner coffin from Leigudun Tomb 1. 117
4.5. Drawing of a detail of the lacquer painting on Marquis Yi’s inner coffin. 118
4.6. Pottery coffin for a child from Zhengzhou, Henan, Yanshao culture.
Neolithic, fifth millennium bce.119
4.7. Jade bi-disk. Neolithic period, Liangzhu culture, third millennium bce.123
4.8. The “jade body” of Prince Liu Sheng of the Zhongshan principality,
from Mancheng Tomb 1, Hebei. Western Han, 113 bce.125
4.9. Detail of Dou Wan’s “jade body” from Mancheng Tomb 2, Hebei.
Western Han, 104 bce.125
4.10. The “jade head” of Prince Liu Yan of the Zhongshan principality,
excavated in Dingzhou, Hebei. Eastern Han, first century ce.126
4.11. Lacquer painting on the front side of a coffin from Shazitang,
Changsha, Hunan. Western Han, 157 bce (?). 128
4.12. Mawangdui Tomb 1: (a) top view, (b) cross section. Located at
Changsha, Hunan. Western Han, second century bce.129
4.13. Bi-disk placed on the front top of the innermost coffin in Mawangdui
Tomb 1. 130
4.14. Drawing of the silk painting from Mawangdui Tomb 1. Arrows indicate
three “ground levels” which devide the painting into four sections. 131
4.15. Detail of the silk painting from Mawangdui Tomb 1. 132
4.16. Drawing of the lacquer painting on the “red” coffin from Mawangdui
Tomb 1: (a) a narrow side, (b) a long side. 133
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 15/07/19, SPi
4.17. A diagram showing the relationship between the bi-disk and the
two dragons in the silk painting from Mawangdui Tomb 1. 134
4.18. A miniature screen from Mawangdui Tomb 1: (a) front side,
(b) back side. 136
4.19. A mural in Zhang Shiqing’s tomb (Tomb 1) at Xuanhua, Hebei.
Liao dynasty, 1116 ce.142
4.20. Drawing of a mural in Houshiguo Tomb 1 at Mixian, Henan.
Eastern Han, mid-second century ce.142
Whilst every effort has been made to secure permission to reproduce the illustrations, we may
have failed in a few cases to trace the copyright holders. If contacted, the publisher will be
pleased to rectify any omissions at the earliest opportunity.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 15/07/19, SPi
L I S T O F C ONT RI B UT O RS
Claudia Brittenham is Associate Professor of Art History and the College at the
University of Chicago. Her research focuses on the art of Mesoamerica, especially
Central Mexico and the Maya area, with particular interests in the materiality of
art and the politics of style. She is the author of The Murals of Cacaxtla: The
Power of Painting in Ancient Central Mexico (University of Texas Press, 2015),
The Spectacle of the Late Maya Court: Reflections on the Murals of Bonampak
(University of Texas Press, 2013; co-authored with Mary Miller), and Veiled
Brightness: A History of Ancient Maya Color (University of Texas Press, 2009;
co-authored with Stephen Houston, Cassandra Mesick, Alexandre Tokovinine,
and Christina Warinner).
Jaś Elsner is Professor of Late Antique Art at the University of Oxford and
Humfry Payne Senior Research Fellow in Classical Archaeology and Art at
Corpus Christi College, Oxford. He has been a Visiting Professor in Art History
at the University of Chicago since 2003, and also at the Divinity School since
2014, and was Senior Research Keeper in the Empires of Faith Project on art
and religion in late antiquity at the British Museum from 2013 to 2018. Since
2009 he has been an Honorary Foreign Member of the American Academy of
Arts and Sciences and in 2017 he was elected a Fellow of the British Academy.
He works on art and its many receptions (including ritual, religion, pilgrimage,
viewing, description, collecting) in antiquity and Byzantium, including into
modernity, with strong interests in comparativism, global art history, and the
critical historiography of the discipline.
Richard Neer is Barbara E. and Richard J. Franke Distinguished Service
Professor in Art History, Cinema & Media Studies and the College at the
University of Chicago, where is also Director of the Franke Institute for the
Humanities. From 2010 to 2018 he was the Executive Editor of the journal
Critical Inquiry, where he continues to serve as co-editor. He has published
widely on Greek art, early modern French painting, stylistics, and mid-20th
century cinema. His most recent books are; Art and Archaeology of the Greek
World: A New History, 2500–100 bce (Thames & Hudson, second, expanded
edition, 2018); Davidson and His Interlocutors, co-edited with Daniele Lorenzini
(special issue of Critical Inquiry, Winter 2019); and Pindar, Song, and Space:
Towards a Lyric Archaeology, co-authored with Leslie Kurke (Johns Hopkins,
2019).
Wu Hung is Harrie A. Vanderstappen Distinguished Service Professor of Art
History and the College at the University of Chicago, and also Director of the
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 15/07/19, SPi
Center for the Art of East Asia and Consulting Curator of the Smart Museum of
Art. He is an elected member of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences and
the American Philosophical Society, and sits on the boards and advisory
committees of many research institutes and museums in both the United States
and China. He has published widely on both traditional and contemporary Chinese
art, experimenting with different ways to integrate these conventionally separate
phases into new kinds of art historical narratives, as exemplified by two of his
most recent books, A Story of Ruins: Presence and Absence in Chinese Art and
Visual Culture (Princeton University Press, 2012) and Zooming In: Histories of
Photography in China (University of Chicago Press, 2016). Several of his ongoing
projects follow this direction to explore the interrelation between art medium,
pictorial image, and architectural space, the dialectical relationship between
absence and presence in Chinese art and visual culture, and the relationship
between art discourse and practice.
The contributors to this volume are the founding members of the Center for
Global Ancient Art at the University of Chicago.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 15/07/19, SPi
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Introduction
Richard Neer
What conditions must be met, what has to be in place, for an artifact or a work
of art to be visible as such? At some level the answer is simple: the lights must be
on. Quickly, however, the issues become more complex and turn out to vary
from discipline to discipline. Not everything is visible at every time, which means
that not every research program can see the same things. Material conditions are
certainly important, but so are perceptual capacities, technologies of visualization,
protocols of classification, and a great deal more.
Archaeology is, among other things, the science of making things visible.
It does so by digging them out of the ground; what time has hidden, the archae-
ologist reveals. The discipline is, as a result, keenly attuned to the material
conditions under which such visibility becomes possible. Those conditions can
be institutional, practical, and technological—funding, permits, and tools, be
they picks and shovels or ground penetrating radar. But the conditions that
archaeology investigates can also be historical, in the sense that, even in the dis-
tant past, visibility was neither uniform nor given. Historical agents, no less than
time, may do the work of concealment: burying things, hiding them, rendering
them variously obscure. It follows that archaeologists excavate more than arti-
facts. Equally, they excavate the conditions of each artifact’s potential visibility:
the material conditions under which entities in a past world could be conspicu-
ous and obtrusive, or recede into an unremarkable background. In short, they
excavate relations no less than things—hence, by extension, a potential stratifica-
tion in who saw what and at what time.
Art history, on the other hand, tends to take visibility for granted. Integral to
the discipline is a vast infrastructure of imaging and autopsy, from ArtSTOR to
high-quality printing to travel grants—all committed to what Michael Fried has
called “the primordial convention” that pictures and sculptures are meant to be
beheld.1 This commitment exceeds the requirements of empirical research: even
1
Fried 1998, 33. For discussion of this phrase, see Melville 1996, 178–80.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 15/07/19, SPi
2 R ICH A R D NEER
the most thorough technical documentation and the most meticulous description
will, by broad consensus, be no substitute for seeing the object with one’s own
eyes. Procedurally, archaeologists can use type-specimens to stand in for large
classes of object, but art historians typically attend to each and every instance and
its specific look (even mechanical prints and photographs come in editions and
impressions). It is as though there were something about the object of study that
required beholding, in the sense of autopsy. This “to-be-seen-ness” may seem an
essential, definitional criterion of the art historical object, but Fried’s insight is
that the visibility in question counts as essential only within specific historical
circumstances. Attending to the ways in which such works articulate a relation to
beholders helps us “to historicize essence,” that is, to produce “a narrative of the
shifting depths over time of the need for one or more basic conventions within
a pictorial or sculptural tradition.”2 Beholding—hence visibility in an extended
sense, the very interface of sensibility and comportment—is not a presupposition
but an object of art historical research.
The present volume documents four recent experiments in the historicization
of essence, under the aegis of the Center for Global Ancient Art in the
Department of Art History at the University of Chicago. Such experiments are,
in themselves, nothing new; the historical determination of the visible has been
one of art history’s major preoccupations since the days of Aloïs Riegl and Erwin
Panofsky and goes back ultimately to the Aesthetics of Hegel.3 New, however, is
the way that these experiments situate themselves at the intersection of the two
modes of visibility outlined above: the archaeological and the art historical. The
relation of disciplinary conditions of visibility to historical ones is, in each case, a
specific topic of reflection.4 Such reflection is, arguably, only possible within a
mongrel subdiscipline like archaeological art history, which might be defined as
the application of art historical research questions to corpora formed by strati-
graphic and archaeometric analysis. Constitutively interdisciplinary—or, better,
constitutively undisciplined—this subfield cuts across the traditional ethnic,
religious, and chronological categories that segregate the history of art into pagan
and Christian, Chinese and Roman, Maya and Greek. United around shared
problems of method, this second-order reflection is cheerfully parasitic on
2
Fried 1998, 33. Italics original.
3
For Panofsky and the historicization of the senses, see Wood 1991. For Riegl, see Olin 1992. For an
analysis of the Hegelian legacy in recent art history, see Pippin 2013. A particularly good recent treatment
of the historicization of the senses in art historical discourse is Davis 2011.
4
A pioneering work in this regard is Alpers 1983, on how new technologies of viewing (notably,
microscopes) produced new ways of construing truthfulness in early modern painting. Joel Snyder’s
account of how the apparatus of photography produced new kinds of visual fact is also extremely germane:
see e.g. Snyder 1980; 2002. Outside art history proper, see the discussion of scientific illustration in
Galison and Daston 2010. Bringing these topics into art criticism, see Bourdieu 1984; Rancière 2000.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 15/07/19, SPi
INTRODUCTION 3
5
Wu, Hay, and Pellizzi 2009.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Doctor Dolittle
in the Moon
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.
Language: English
Copyright, 1928, by
Hugh Lofting
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
I
n writing the story of our adventures in the Moon I, Thomas
Stubbins, secretary to John Dolittle, M.D. (and son of Jacob
Stubbins, the cobbler of Puddleby-on-the-Marsh), find myself
greatly puzzled. It is not an easy task, remembering day by day
and hour by hour those crowded and exciting weeks. It is true I made
many notes for the Doctor, books full of them. But that information
was nearly all of a highly scientific kind. And I feel that I should tell
the story here not for the scientist so much as for the general reader.
And it is in that I am perplexed.
For the story could be told in many ways. People are so different
in what they want to know about a voyage. I had thought at one time
Jip could help me; and after reading him some chapters as I had first
set them down I asked for his opinion. I discovered he was mostly
interested in whether we had seen any rats in the Moon. I found I
could not tell him. I didn’t remember seeing any; and yet I am sure
there must have been some—or some sort of creature like a rat.
Then I asked Gub-Gub. And what he was chiefly concerned to
hear was the kind of vegetables we had fed on. (Dab-Dab snorted at
me for my pains and said I should have known better than to ask
him.) I tried my mother. She wanted to know how we had managed
when our underwear wore out—and a whole lot of other matters
about our living conditions, hardly any of which I could answer. Next I
went to Matthew Mugg. And the things he wanted to learn were
worse than either my mother’s or Jip’s: Were there any shops in the
Moon? What were the dogs and cats like? The good Cats’-meat-Man
seemed to have imagined it a place not very different from Puddleby
or the East End of London.
No, trying to get at what most people wanted to read concerning
the Moon did not bring me much profit. I couldn’t seem to tell them
any of the things they were most anxious to know. It reminded me of
the first time I had come to the Doctor’s house, hoping to be hired as
his assistant, and dear old Polynesia the parrot had questioned me.
“Are you a good noticer?” she had asked. I had always thought I was
—pretty good anyhow. But now I felt I had been a very poor noticer.
For it seemed I hadn’t noticed any of the things I should have done
to make the story of our voyage interesting to the ordinary public.
The trouble was of course attention. Human attention is like
butter: you can only spread it so thin and no thinner. If you try to
spread it over too many things at once you just don’t remember
them. And certainly during all our waking hours upon the Moon there
was so much for our ears and eyes and minds to take in it is a
wonder, I often think, that any clear memories at all remain.
The one who could have been of most help to me in writing my
impressions of the Moon was Jamaro Bumblelily, the giant moth who
carried us there. But as he was nowhere near me when I set to work
upon this book I decided I had better not consider the particular
wishes of Jip, Gub-Gub, my mother, Matthew or any one else, but
set the story down in my own way. Clearly the tale must be in any
case an imperfect, incomplete one. And the only thing to do is to go
forward with it, step by step, to the best of my recollection, from
where the great insect hovered, with our beating hearts pressed
close against his broad back, over the near and glowing landscape
of the Moon.
Any one could tell that the moth knew every detail of the country
we were landing in. Planing, circling and diving, he brought his wide-
winged body very deliberately down towards a little valley fenced in
with hills. The bottom of this, I saw as we drew nearer, was level,
sandy and dry.
The hills struck one at once as unusual. In fact all the mountains
as well (for much greater heights could presently be seen towering
away in the dim greenish light behind the nearer, lower ranges) had
one peculiarity. The tops seemed to be cut off and cup-like. The
Doctor afterwards explained to me that they were extinct volcanoes.
Nearly all these peaks had once belched fire and molten lava but
were now cold and dead. Some had been fretted and worn by winds
and weather and time into quite curious shapes; and yet others had
been filled up or half buried by drifting sand so that they had nearly
lost the appearance of volcanoes. I was reminded of “The
Whispering Rocks” which we had seen in Spidermonkey Island. And
though this scene was different in many things, no one who had ever
looked upon a volcanic landscape before could have mistaken it for
anything else.
The little valley, long and narrow, which we were apparently
making for did not show many signs of life, vegetable or animal. But
we were not disturbed by that. At least the Doctor wasn’t. He had
seen a tree and he was satisfied that before long he would find
water, vegetation and creatures.
At last when the moth had dropped within twenty feet of the
ground he spread his wings motionless and like a great kite gently
touched the sand, in hops at first, then ran a little, braced himself
and came to a standstill.
We had landed on the Moon!
By this time we had had a chance to get a little more used to the
new air. But before we made any attempt to “go ashore” the Doctor
thought it best to ask our gallant steed to stay where he was a while,
so that we could still further accustom ourselves to the new
atmosphere and conditions.
This request was willingly granted. Indeed the poor insect
himself, I imagine, was glad enough to rest a while. From
somewhere in his packages John Dolittle produced an emergency
ration of chocolate which he had been saving up. All four of us
munched in silence, too hungry and too awed by our new
surroundings to say a word.
The light changed unceasingly. It reminded me of the Northern
Lights, the Aurora Borealis. You would gaze at the mountains above
you, then turn away a moment, and on looking back find everything
that had been pink was now green, the shadows that had been violet
were rose.
Breathing was still kind of difficult. We were compelled for the
moment to keep the “moon-bells” handy. These were the great
orange-colored flowers that the moth had brought down for us. It was
their perfume (or gas) that had enabled us to cross the airless belt
that lay between the Moon and the Earth. A fit of coughing was
always liable to come on if one left them too long. But already we felt
that we could in time get used to this new air and soon do without
the bells altogether.
The gravity too was very confusing. It required hardly any effort to
rise from a sitting position to a standing one. Walking was no effort at
all—for the muscles—but for the lungs it was another question. The
most extraordinary sensation was jumping. The least little spring
from the ankles sent you flying into the air in the most fantastic
fashion. If it had not been for this problem of breathing properly
(which the Doctor seemed to feel we should approach with great
caution on account of its possible effect on the heart) we would all
have given ourselves up to this most light-hearted feeling which took
possession of us. I remember, myself, singing songs—the melody
was somewhat indistinct on account of a large mouthful of chocolate
—and I was most anxious to get down off the moth’s back and go
bounding away across the hills and valleys to explore this new world.
But I realize now that John Dolittle was very wise in making us
wait. He issued orders (in the low whispers which we found
necessary in this new clear air) to each and all of us that for the
present the flowers were not to be left behind for a single moment.
They were cumbersome things to carry but we obeyed orders. No
ladder was needed now to descend by. The gentlest jump sent one
flying off the insect’s back to the ground where you landed from a
twenty-five-foot drop with ease and comfort.
Zip! The spring was made. And we were wading in the sands of a
new world.
THE SECOND CHAPTER
The Land of Colors and Perfumes
W
e were after all, when you come to think of it, a very odd
party, this, which made the first landing on a new world. But
in a great many ways it was a peculiarly good combination.
First of all, Polynesia: she was the kind of bird which one
always supposed would exist under any conditions, drought, floods,
fire or frost. I’ve no doubt that at that time in my boyish way I
exaggerated Polynesia’s adaptability and endurance. But even to
this day I can never quite imagine any circumstances in which that
remarkable bird would perish. If she could get a pinch of seed (of
almost any kind) and a sip of water two or three times a week she
would not only carry on quite cheerfully but would scarcely even
remark upon the strange nature or scantiness of the rations.
Then Chee-Chee: he was not so easily provided for in the matter
of food. But he always seemed to be able to provide for himself
anything that was lacking. I have never known a better forager than
Chee-Chee. When every one was hungry he could go off into an
entirely new forest and just by smelling the wild fruits and nuts he
could tell if they were safe to eat. How he did this even John Dolittle
could never find out. Indeed Chee-Chee himself didn’t know.
Then myself: I had no scientific qualifications but I had learned
how to be a good secretary on natural history expeditions and I knew
a good deal about the Doctor’s ways.
Finally there was the Doctor. No naturalist has ever gone afield to
grasp at the secrets of a new land with the qualities John Dolittle
possessed. He never claimed to know anything, beforehand, for
certain. He came to new problems with a child-like innocence which
made it easy for himself to learn and the others to teach.
“By smelling he could tell if they were safe to eat”