text:
Main Representation in Religion: Studies in Honor of Moshe Barasch (Studies in the History of Religions)
Representation in Religion: Studies in Honor of Moshe Barasch (Studies in the History of Religions)
Jan Assmann, Albert I. Baumgarten
The role of representation in religion is complex. While often perceived as essential, it is also associated in many traditions with the liability of idolatry and provokes iconoclasm. The essays in this volume examine the nuances of representation in religion and the debate concerning its place across a variety of traditions from the three Abrahamic faiths, to those of antiquity and the East. This volume consists of presentations made at an international conference held in honour of Moshe Barasch, art historian and cultural critic, who has done much to elucidate the light which representation and religion shed on each other. It pays tribute to Barasch by expanding the base of understanding and insight he has erected. It should be of interest to students of religion and of art history.
Publisher: Brill Academic Publishers
Pages: 381 / 386
Series: Numen Book Series 89
Transformations of the Inner Self in Ancient Religions (Studies in the History of Religions)
Jan Assmann, Guy G. Stroumsa
Of God and Gods: Egypt, Israel, and the Rise of Monotheism
Jan Assmann
buddha267
worship202
cult126
torah106
mendelssohn103
medieval92
mosaic91
est87
contemplation83
sankara82
iconoclasm74
hebrew72
als68
jerusalem67
statues66
likeness65
nicht63
milton60
icons60
vedic59
ein59
varro55
iconic55
fig55
cicero55
motif54
zeus54
kabbalah54
wird53
hindu53
buddhist53
visualization52
pagan47
anthropomorphic47
sepphoris46
une46
shakespeare45
princeton45
biblical44
sanskrit44
moshe44
barasch43
figur43
idel43
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NUMEN BOOK SERIES
STUDIES IN THE HISTORY
OF RELIGIONS
WJ.
HANEGRAAFF
LXXXIX
' ' 6 8 ' ל־
Studies in Honor of Moshe Barasch
J A N
A S S M A N N
A L B E R T
B A U M G A R T E N
' / 6 8 י >י
LEIDEN · BOSTON · KÖLN
Die Deutsche Bibliothek - CIP-Einheitsaufiiahme
Representation in religion : studies in honour of Moshe Barasch / ed.
by J a n Assmann and Albert I. Baumgarten. - Leiden ; Boston; Köln :
Brill 2000
(Studies in the history of religions ; Vol. 89)
ISBN 90-04—11939-6
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J . ASSMANN
T h e Idol in the Icon: S o m e Ambiguities
M . BARASCH
T w o Kinds of Representation in Greek Religious Art
M . FINKELBERG
T h e T r u t h of Images: Cicero a n d V a r r o on Image W o r s h i p
H . C A N C I K AND H . C A N C I K - L I N D E M A I E R
Portraits, Likenesses a n d Looking Glasses: S o m e Literary
a n d Philosophical Reflections on Representation a n d Art in
Medieval India
P. GRANOFF
Indian Image-Worship a n d its Discontents
R . H . DAVIS
T h e 'Iconic' a n d 'Aniconic' B u d d h a Visualization in Medieval
Chinese Buddhism
K . SHINOHARA
Jewish Artists a n d the Representation of G o d
H . KÜNZL F
Jewish Art a n d 'Iconoclasm': T h e Case of Sepphoris
B. KÜHNEL
Literarische u n d visuelle H e r m e n e u t i k oder die Unmöglichkeit
der Ikone Gottes
A . R . E . AGUS
T o r a h : Between Presence and Representation of the Divine in
Jewish Mysticism
M . IDEL
Representations of the Jewish Body in M o d e r n Times: Forms
of H e r o Worship
R.I. COHEN
M o n u m e n t a l Mockery: Sacred Regality and Dramatic
Representation in Early M o d e r n England
J . R . SIEMON
Pictures versus Letters: William Warburton J s Theory of
Grammatological Iconoclasm
T h e Roots of M o d e r n Iconoclasm
A . BESANÇON
T h e Absent Artist
P . SPRINGER
Iconoclasm on the 20th Century Musical Stage (Schönberg,
Henze and Glass)
W . - D . HARTWICH
Index of Names and Subjects
J A N ASSMANN
W h e n in 1996, after the conference on "Apocalyptic T i m e " , we were
discussing a topic for the 1997 conference to be held in Heidelberg,
we found out that we were united not so much around a c o m m o n
theme but around a c o m m o n friend. We unanimously agreed that
the topic we were looking for should fit into two frames at once: the
frame of "religious anthropology" which is or rather was the general
project of the J a c o b T a u b e s Minerva Center for Religious Anthropology at Bar Ilan University ( 1993-2000), and the frame of the wideranging interests of Moshe Barasch, whom we wanted to honor with
this conference. Moshe Barasch has been influential in building up
the T a u b e s Center; he was a friend of J a c o b Taubes in whose
memory this center was founded and he was from the beginning its
good spirit. Most of all, of course, Moshe Barasch is an outstanding
scholar, who won the Israel prize in 1995, got elected member of the
Heidelberg Academy of Sciences and Humanities in 1996 and is
internationally recognized as one of the leading representatives of his
field, the History of Art—reasons enough, therefore, to organize a
conference in his honor. Some of Barasch's admirers such as Carlo
Ginzburg and Hans Belting attended the conference for that reason
only and felt unable to contribute a paper to the present volume. W e
did not realize at that time that the proceedings of the conference
may appear around the date of Barasch's 80th birthday and that this
happy coincidence would turn our publication into a real Festschrift.
H a d we intended this at the beginning, we would have written to a
wide circle of Barasch's friends, colleagues and students asking them
to contribute instead of organizing a conference, to which invitation
was restricted; thus, the full range of Barasch's friends, colleagues and
students is not represented here. This history also explains why this
volume is both dedicated to Moshe Barasch and starts with a paper of
his own which he read at that conference. Barasch, it is true, never
"reads papers" at conferences but speaks without a manuscript, but if
the topic interests him he rarely resists the temptation of collecting his
thoughts into a written essay. In this case, he did not resist and, thus,
contributed to his own Festschrift which is only natural, because he not
only inspired our search for a suitable topic but also our discussions at
the Wissenschaftsforum at Heidelberg in such a way that it became very
obvious for all of us that he not only was but remained our teacher
without whose contribution and protection this collection of papers
should not come to light.
I would like to insert here, before passing on to explaining the
importance of Moshe Barasch and the topic which we finally chose
for our discussions with him, a word of gratitude for our hosts at
Heidelberg, the president of the Wissenschaftsforum, Professor Dr. Dr.
Michael Welker and Dr. Theresa Reiter, its generous and competent
director who made our stay at Heidelberg both comfortable and intellectually and socially stimulating. T h e Stiftung Universität Heidelberg
contributed a substantial sum of money to the notoriously restricted
budget of the late T a u b e s Center which allowed us to enlarge the
circle of invited speakers. This is not the place for a "necrologue" of
the J a c o b T a u b e s Minerva Center for Religious Anthropology, which
is being closed by decision of Bar Ilan University in the very days
when these lines are written. T h e r e have been three more conferences, the last one, again at the Wissenschaftsforum, on the topic " H o w
to C o m p a r e Religions" (February 2000), awaiting publication and
preventing us from indulging too m u c h in a "sense of an ending".
T h e T a u b e s Minerva Center had kindled a light and it is not the first
time that a light is extinguished. Work will go on as does Enlightenment.
Famous as he is in his chosen field of Art History, some biographical notes about Moshe Barasch may not seem totally pointless in a
publication primarily addressing historians of religion. Moshe
Barasch was born in Czernowitz (Rumania, now Ukraine; formerly
one of the most important centers ofJewish culture) in a family living
there for three generations. His grandfather introduced him into the
traditions of Hasidism, his father, an engaged Zionist, into the tradition of Haskala, the Jewish Enlightenment. As a painter, he was a
prodigal child and at the age of 12 had his works exhibited in
Czernowitz, Prague and Boston, besides being vividly interested already at that early time in the history, theory and philosophy of art.
A sponsor in New York m a d e it possible for him to visit the important
European museums and libraries until World W a r II put an end to
these studies. Even Barasch's underground activities in the Ghetto at
Czernowitz were remotely connected with art. As a m e m b e r of
Haggana, the Jewish military organization which became the origin
of the Israeli army, he belonged to Briha ("flight"), an organization
helping fugitives to leave the country. Barasch's j o b was to fake passports, at which he was so successful that none of his artifacts was ever
discovered. Instead, the police rejected the only real passport that was
ever produced during those years at the border because it did not
meet the high standards of perfection set by Barasch's passports.
Moshe and Berta Barasch came to Israel in 1948, where he took
an active part in the war of liberation. After his leave from the army
in 1949, he taught art and philosophy in several kibbutzim and
started lecturing and publishing in various scholarly societies and
journals. In the 50s, Barasch was able to resume his studies at the
W a r b u r g Institute in London and in Princeton at the Institute of
Advanced Studies with Erwin Panofsky, to w h o m he stayed related in
a close friendship. Later when he was asked to become Panofsky's
successor he stayed faithful to his tasks in Israel which began at a very
modest scale in 1956, when he was asked to teach a course at the
Hebrew University. Only two years later, however, he was trusted
with the foundation of a department for the History of Art at the
same university. This became the model for similar departments
which now exist at every university in Israel. Moreover, by his numerous publications in Hebrew, Barasch has for the first time laid the
terminological foundations in modern H e b r e w for a professional discourse in his field, and by his many lectures and essays has promoted
art and aesthetics to the rank of much debated topics in the intellectual life of modern Israel.
At the same time, the internationality of scholarship is one of
Barasch's most important principles. His students had to be acquainted with the major European languages and he helped them,
wherever possible, to a fellowship to continue their study abroad. H e
himself taught and is still teaching as a visiting professor at various
universities in the USA such as New York (NYU), Cornell, Yale,
Harvard and research institutes such as the Institute of Advanced
Studies at Princeton and the Getty Research Center at Los Angeles.
H e published eleven of his books in English and one even in G e r m a n .
In terms of the history of science, Moshe Barasch belongs within
the W a r b u r g tradition and is certainly its most prominent contemporary representative. This school has systematically blurred the disciplinary fences and distinctions between art and philosophy, religious
and social history, cultural anthropology and literary studies. Art is
seen not as an autonomous aesthetic province of culture but rather as
"symbolical form" a m o n g other symbolical forms constituting the
general semantics of a given society, culture or period. A work of art
is studied, in all its details of composition, color, iconographie theme
etc. as the result, and the "physiognomic" expression as it were of all
its technical, social, intellectual and spiritual contexts and conditions
in a way that opens new perspectives on religious backgrounds, philosophical debates, social structures or movements and cultural
changes. Just some titles of his major works in the English language
show the range of his research and of what he would call his "curios-
ity": Gestures of Despair in Medieval and Early Renaissance Art. New York
1976; Light and Color in Italian Renaissance Theory of Art. New York 1978,
2nd ed. 1980; Theories of Art from Plato to Winckelmann, New York 1985.
2nd ed. 1986, pb ed. 1985: Spanish Madrid 1991; Modem Theories of
Art I. From Winckelmann to Baudelaire. New York 1990, p b New York
1991; Modem Theories of Art II, From Impressionism to Kandinsky, New
York 1998; Giotto and the Language of Gesture. Cambridge 1987, 2nd ed.
1988, p b ed. 1990; Imago Hominis: Studies in the History of Art, ViennaNew York 1991. American ed. New York 1994; The Language of Art,
New York 1995; Blindness, London 2000.
T h e book which set us on the track of "Iconoclasm" is perhaps the
most famous a m o n g his English publications: Icon: Studies in the History
of an Idea, New York 1992. T h e reason why we finally exchanged the
title "iconoclasm" for the more general term "representation" is complex and has to do with the 2nd c o m m a n d m e n t itself. Since the 2nd
c o m m a n d m e n t , the Biblical prohibition of images, does not play a
central role in any of the papers assembled in this volume, a short
reminder may not be out of place here. T h e 2nd c o m m a n d m e n t
occurs twice in the Bible:
Thou shalt not make for thyself any carven idol, or any likeness of any
thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath or that is in
the water under the earth: thou shalt not bow down to them, nor serve
them: for I, the LORD thy God am a jealous God, punishing the iniquity
of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of
those that hate me; but showing mercy to thousands of generations of
those that love me, and keep my commandments." (Ex. 20:4-6; trans.
Koren Bible)
Lest ye corrupt yourselves, and make you a graven image, the similitude of any figure, the likeness of male or female, The likeness of any
beast that is on the earth, the likeness of any winged fowl that flieth in the
air, The likeness of any thing that creepeth on the ground, the likeness of
any fish that is in the waters beneath the earth:
And lest thou lift up thine eyes unto heaven, and when thou seest the
sun, and the moon, and the stars, even all the host of heaven, shouldest
be driven to worship them, and serve them, which the LORD thy God
hath divided unto all nations under the whole heaven.
But the LORD hath taken you, and brought you forth out of the iron
furnace, even out of Egypt, to be unto him a people of inheritance, as ye
are this day." (Dtn. 5:8-10; trans. King James' version)
T h e 2nd c o m m a n d m e n t is prohibiting the making not of images, but
of idols. Not the general term "selem" is used which corresponds to
English "image" and which is used in Gen 1:26 (man the "image" of
God), but more specific terms such as "graven image" or "cast image" which imply the notions not only of making but especially of
worshipping. Not "iconicity" is the point, but worship. T h e "making"
of such an image is considered and condemned as an act of worship.
W h a t is so harmful about images that their production arouses God's
jealousy and incurs terrible punishment? W e must read this comm a n d m e n t in the light of the first one with which it is fused in the
Catholic and Lutheran traditions: T h o u shalt have no other gods
before me. T h e 2nd c o m m a n d m e n t is a commentary on the first.
Having "other gods" means making images, and vice-versa. Making
images arouses God's jealousy, because it means worshipping images,
and worshipping images means having other gods besides the true
and only one. Every image of any celestial, terrestrial or aquatic being
turns automatically into a rival god. Generally speaking, depicting the
world means adoring it, images are made for worship or, rather, the
making of an image constitutes already an act of worship. T h e prohibition of making images is a prohibition of worshipping the world by
sculptural or pictorial representation.
It is important to note that the Second C o m m a n d m e n t is originally not about the non-representability of G o d and the essential
inadequacy of images in ensuring divine presence. T h e philosophical
idea of transcendence is not involved in the prohibition of images. It
is not their inadequacy, but their very efficiency which makes them
unacceptable in the eyes of God. Icons are prohibited because they
tend to be worshipped, and their worship is put on the same footing
with the worship of the heavenly bodies; independently of any questions of representation and meaning, images turn in the very act of
being worshipped into foreign gods in the same way as the heavenly
bodies which God has allotted to "all nations", that is, the pagans for
objects of worship. T h e images do not "represent" God or gods but
"are" or "become" other gods.
This is shown by the story of the Golden Calf (Ex. 32), which is not
only about the making of an image and the result of that making, but
also about the consequences which an image necessarily entails. T h e
story of the Golden Calf is about an image that was meant to represent God, not other gods, but that turned into another god seducing
the people to pagan worship against their original intentions. W h e n
Moses stayed so long on Mt. Sinai that the people feared he might
never return they bade Aaron to fill the void by making them "God(s)
(Elohim) who will go before us". T h e idea was to replace the vanished
representative of god by a representation of god; not of Moses and
not of some other gods, but of the same god Moses had been representing. This supposed functional equivalence of prophet and image
is very important; it constitutes the error the people were committing.
Aaron collected all the gold the people were wearing and threw it
into the fire, melted it and formed it into a calf. And they said:
"These be thy god(s) (elœ elohekha) who brought thee up out of the land
of Egypt." T h e heresy lies in the use of the demonstrative pronoun.
T o point to something visible saying "this is your god" is precisely
what is categorically forbidden by the 2nd c o m m a n d m e n t . G o d is
who H e is and cannot be represented nor demonstrated.
If we ask for what M a x W e b e r calls the "subjective meaning" of an
action, Aaron and the people acted in perfecdy good will. They did
not m e a n to turn away from J a h w e , their god, and to address themselves to an image of Baal or the Apis bull. T h e accusation should not
be apostasy but a mistake in divine representation, in the means to
assure divine presence and communication. But the subjective meaning is not what counts here. Whatever they intended, "this thing
became a sin", to quote 1 Kings 30, where the same error is reported
of King J e r o b e a m . H e made two golden calves setting up the one in
Beth-El and the other in D a n saying: "Behold thy gods, Ο Israel,
which brought thee up out of the land of Egypt." T h e sin of making
images lies not in any original intentions but in the consequences, in
what images lead to, in the temptation they exert on the h u m a n
Taken together, these two passages, the 2nd c o m m a n d m e n t and
the story of the Golden Calf, define the meaning of idolatry as the
quintessential expression of "false religion" or "paganism" both in the
sense of false worship, that is, worshipping false gods instead of the only
true one, and in the sense of false forms of worship, that is, worshipping
God in forms that go astray and that, instead of assuring His presence,
destroy the presence G o d Himself concedes. T h e y destroy divine
presence because they impose a presence and power of their own.
T h e 2nd c o m m a n d m e n t forbids the worship of the world instead
of its creator. T h e so called dominium terrae, the exhortation that m a n
should rule over the earth goes in the same direction. It is not an
invitation to exploit the world but only a warning against worshipping it. T h e worship of images is a worship of the cosmos or, to use a
word coined in the 18th c., "cosmotheism". Images are not mimetic
reduplications of visible reality but vessels of the invisible, intra-mundane powers that animate the world from within.
In the view of the iconoclasts, images idolize the world and blind
the eyes for looking beyond the world and focusing on the creator.
Instead of establishing a contact, images block the communication
with god whose presence can only be felt, to quote Stefan George,
like "air from other planets blowing". For the "idolaters", the divine
is not like air from other planets blowing, but the very air that is
blowing in this world and that makes it an abode habitable for both
men and gods. T o the iconoclasts, this being-entirely-at-home in the
world appears like blind entanglement. Idolatry means Weltverstrìckung, entanglement within the world, addiction to the visible and the
In order to better understand what is meant by "idolatry" and
what the second c o m m a n d m e n t is prohibiting, we have to reconstruct
the opposite maxim which the second c o m m a n d m e n t is opposing, the
c o m m a n d m e n t or maxim of the "iconists". This maxim, of course, is
not "make as many idols and images as you possibly can of all you see
in the sky, on earth and in the water", but, rather, "worship everything divine wherever you feel its manifestations, do not neglect any
of the divine powers you feel operative in the establishment and
maintenance of order, in the cosmos and in society as well as in your
own soul and body; never forget that you depend on this whole world
surrounding you and that this world needs to be maintained by constant care lest it would turn uninhabitable and people become strangers in a world no longer animated by divine life and order; maintain
the world in its divine animatedness by incessant efforts of imagination and articulation—iconic, verbal and dramatic." Something like
this seems to be the iconists maxim and it is understood that this
support and maintenance of cosmic life and order can only be effectuated by means of a symbolic articulation of these powers that animate the world from within and from above. T h e making of images
is to be seen as an important aspect of this constant concern of symbolic articulation which is not a reduplication of reality but a
visibilisation of order.
W h a t the cult of images is about is most explicitly stated in an
Egyptian text which was only written in the 3rd c. C E in view of
rising Christianity: the hermetic treatise Asclepius. This texts devotes
several chapters to the statues "ensouled and conscious, filled with
spirit and doing great deeds, statues that foreknow the future and
predict it by lots, by prophecy, by dreams and by many other means;
statues, that make people ill and cure them, bringing them pain and
pleasure as each deserves." (ch. 24) Images are not dead matter but
are vessels of divine presence. T h e y provide an interface between the
divine and the h u m a n worlds, between heaven and earth. " D o you
not know", the text continues, "that Egypt is an image of heaven or,
to be more precise, that everything governed and moved in heaven
came down to Egypt and was transferred there? If truth be told, our
land is the temple of the whole world". Images are the means of
bringing the divine down and making it dwell in Egypt. Images, in
the eyes of those who believe in them (let us call them "iconists")
achieve precisely what they prevent in the eyes of the "aniconists":
making G o d dwell a m o n g the people and ensuring sacred communication. Images and sacred animals are media of divine presence
which they conceive of as a kind of animation. Iconoclasm would
bereave the world of this divine animation and would turn it into
mere inanimate matter, doomed to pollution and decomposition. T h e
hermetic treatise continues by giving a vivid description of what it
calls "the old age of the world" (senectus mundi). It does not mention
the cult of images, because this theme constitutes the overall context
and has been dealt with extensively in the preceding chapter:
׳
divinity will return from earth to heaven and Egypt will be abandoned.
The land that was the seat of reverence will be widowed by the powers
and left destitute of their presence...
Then this most holy land, seat of shrines and temples, will be filled
completely with tombs and corpses...
a torrent of blood will fill the Nile to the banks and pollute the divine
Whoever survives will be recognized as an Egyptian only by his language; in his actions he will seem a foreigner.
In their weariness the people ofthat time will find the world nothing to
wonder at or to worship. This universe—a good thing that never had nor
has nor will have its better will be endangered. People will find it oppressive and scorn it. They will not cherish this entire world... a glorious
construction, a bounty composed of images in multiform variety, a multiform accumulation taken as a single thing
No one will look up to heaven. The reverent will be thought mad, the
irreverent wise. Whoever dedicates himself to reverence of mind will find
himself facing a capital penalty. They will establish new laws, new justice.
Nothing holy, nothing reverent nor worthy of heaven or heavenly beings
will be heard of or believed in the mind.
How mournful when the gods withdraw from mankind! Then neither
will the earth stand firm nor the sea be sailable; stars will not cross
heaven nor will the course of the stars stand firm in heaven. Every divine
voice will grow mute in enforced silence. The fruits of the earth will rot;
the soil will no more be fertile; and the very air will droop in gloomy
lethargy.
Such will be the old age of the world: irreverence, disorder and disregard for everything good. (Asclepius 24-26 ed. Nock-Festugière, Corpus
Hermeticum, Collection Budé, Paris 1960, 326-329, with omissions)
T h e second c o m m a n d m e n t is or comes to be directed against this
form of cosmotheism and to insist on the radical alterity and transcendence of God. Instead of making h u m a n s feel at home in the
world, it strives at estranging them from this world. "I am a stranger
on this earth", we read in a late Psalm dating from Hellenistic times,
which continues " D o not hide thy T o r a h from m e " (Ps. 119.19).
W h a t is important to establish and to maintain on earth is not "or-
der" but God's will or justice, and God's will (justice) does not belong
to the powers of this world, but has to be drawn from another source
which is the T o r a h : "do not hide thy T o r a h from me".
T h e conflict between these two positions is still applicable to our
modern or postmodern situation. Shall we insist on the radical
alterity, if not of God, then, e.g., of art which should be felt like "air
from other planets blowing", shall we continue feeling like strangers
in a world of pure worldliness, shall we, after the death of God,
refrain from worshipping anything at all?
O r should we, on the contrary, turn towards the world and insist
on the necessity of its symbolic articulation, should we again develop
a sensitivity of maintenance, care and attention with regard to nature,
to the dynamics and regularities of social, political, individual life,
should we cultivate and cherish the images and any forms of pictorial,
musical, verbal, architectural, logical, mathematical representations
and articulations that make these hidden powers, connections, flows
and energies visible, treatable, approachable and processable? W e
will never be able to unlearn the lesson that the prohibition of making
images keeps teaching us for more than two millennia: that humans
are never entirely at home in this world and are bound to "advance
in intellectuality" as Sigmund Freud has called it. But, even though
not being entirely at home in this world, we are committed to i t - and
there is something in the "cosmothcistic" idea of maintenance that is
still—or rather again and more and more—important in our time.
Moshe Barasch, in his book Icon. Studies in the History of an Idea, has
shown that the aesthetic aspect of representational art was never an
issue in the debates between iconoclasts and iconodules. T h e images
were rejected and defended, not for their aesthetic value but for their
power either to create or to destroy a link between man and god. But
he has also shown that the biblical prohibition of images with its
concept of iconic power implies an aesthetic theory of its own. It takes
art seriously in recognizing the aspect of worship in the act of making
images and the aspect of mystical power in the act of looking at them.
T h e rejection of images is not about "iconicity" in the sense of the
capacity of replicating the visible, but about power in the sense of
making the unvisible visible.
T H E I D O L IN T H E I C O N : S O M E A M B I G U I T I E S
M O S H E BARASCH
It is a strange fact that during the great iconoclastic debates, that so
profoundly shook the institutions and intellectual foundations of Europe, no precise definition of what an icon is, and what are its essential characteristics, was ever proposed. This is particularly remarkable
since the iconoclastic upheavals produced a large harvest of literary
records, both theoretical and non-theoretical. As we know, there were
flagrant contradictions in the attitudes to the icon, but apparentiy no
serious doubts arose as to what an icon is. Even such a systematic
mind as J o h n of Damascus (who influenced Thomas Aquinas and
should be considered as an ancestor of Scholasticism) attempts a definition of "image" in general, and while he uses the Greek term eikon,
he does not have the icon in our sense in mind. Obviously, then, no
need was felt for a formal definition. Both the iconoclasts and the
iconodules had a clear notion, and a mental image, of the icon. T h e y
must have known what the qualities are that make a carved or
painted image into an icon. Some questions arising with regard to
one of such qualities are the subject matter of my presentation.
Several qualities are characteristic of the typical, classic icon of the
divine. O n e of these qualities seems to be a perfect internal consistency, the total absence of any ambiguity or internal tensions in the
sacred image. T h e clear, transparently consistent nature of the icon
creates in the spectator the impression of a full manifestation of the
being depicted in the image he looks at. Mikhail Bakhtin spoke in an
interesting essay (Speech Genres & Other IMe Essays [Austin, Texas,
1986], pp. 132 ff.) of a kind of statement he called "proclamatory."
T h e proclamatory statement, "with its indisputability, unconditionality," does not tolerate equivocality. W e may apply Bakhtin's category to our subject. T h e icon is a proclamatory pictorial statement,
and therefore it must be of a perfectly unequivocal nature.
This also holds true for the spectator's attitude to the holy image.
As any other artistic "genre," the icon, too, shapes the audience's
reaction. Genres, we have been told, create in the spectator, or in the
reader, expectations of a distinct direction, and these expectations
may be decisive in the understanding of what he looks at. (E. D.
Hirsch, Jr., Validity in Interpretation [New Haven and London, 1967])
Every spectator about to look at an icon expects that the sacred
image will manifest the intrinsic wholeness and coherence of the fig-
ure or scene it represents. Similar expectations emerge from the approach to what may be called a political icon. Looking at the image
of an emperor, perhaps no less than at the icon of a god, the ancient
spectator knew what to expect, and he was not left in doubt as to
what he saw (S.R.F. Price, Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in
Asia Minor [Cambridge, 1984], pp. 170 If.).
An icon, then, has to be clear. It is clear when it is free from
ambiguity, when, if I may use such metaphor, it has only one single
level of meaning. T h e main obstacle to the icon's clarity, and the
spectator's understanding of it, is not so much an insufficient articulation, but mainly ambiguity. W h e n the spectator remains in doubt as
to who or what is represented in a cult image, when the face or the
figure he sees can be read both as those of the "true" and of the
"false" god, the image cannot be valid as an icon. But can an image
belonging to the class of icons not have more than just one level of
meanings?
Classic icons, displaying the transparent coherence typical for the
genre, emerged mainly from homogeneous cultures. T h o u g h a fully
homogeneous culture does not exist, as I need hardly stress, some
periods or cultures are more unified than others. In such periods, the
artists creating the images and the audiences for w h o m they are ereated are to a large extent drawing from the same sources and traditions, and share the same beliefs and mental images. In homogeneous
cultures, ambiguities in the reading of images are less likely to arise,
and icons are more intelligible, than in cultures that lack homogeneity. Audiences are able to assimilate the images to a high degree. It is
in these conditions that the famous dictum that "images are the script
of the illiterate" could have emerged. W h e t h e r or not that often repeated sentence correctly represents the historical reality (that is,
whether or not the illiterate audience did indeed understand the images), there was no imputing of a different, opposed identity to a holy
figure, especially to a divine image, or to a sacred scene. T h e
unimpeded readability of the icon reflects an underlying stratum of
beliefs and mental images c o m m o n to the makers and spectators of
icons.
A classic example of an icon that emerged f r o m a largely homogeneous culture (or a culture consciously striving at unity and homogeneity, at least in certain respects) is the one created by thirteenth
century religious art in western Europe. T h e imagery of High Gothic
cathedrals may be filled with a variety of tendencies in style, as has
often been said, yet it is dominated by the attempt to erect a comprehensive visual system, and to arrive at images of Christ, and of many
saints, that are of a distinct, "final" clarity. Manifestatio, it has been
said, "elucidation or clarification, is ... the first controlling principle
of Early and High Scholasticism" and of Gothic art. (Erwin Panofsky,
Gothic Architecture and Scholasticism [Latrobe, Penn., 1951], pp. 30 if.)
T h e Beau Dieu of thirteenth century French cathedrals is a striking
example. T h e appearance of this figure, so it seems, leaves no room
for doubts or ambiguities in understanding.
Important parts of the iconic imagery of Europe, however, were
created, or reached final shape, in times and societies that were split
and divided; sometimes they are the very opposite of homogeneous
cultures. T h e student of icons will note that in these societies there is
not a single dominant religion that imposes on the mental life a high
degree of unity. Several religions exist next to each other, usually in
strife and struggle. T h e records of the intellectual and emotional life
of such times, the literature and the works of art created in them, are
often more equivocal than those shaped in what we have called homogeneous societies. Now, are the conditions prevailing in such periods, mainly the close interweaving of conflicting beliefs, reflected in
the icons then produced, and are the way they were read different
from those c o m m o n in homogenic cultures? Moreover, do the religious struggles, and especially the altercations of the victorious religion with the one that is ultimately defeated, leave some traces in the
icons themselves?
In the present essay I shall concentrate on some aspects of the
shape, the reading, and the afterlife of icons produced in non-homogeneous cultures. My material will be drawn from the religious imagery in late Hellenism and the transitional period between Antiquity
and the Middle Ages. Originally I had hoped to be able to deal also
with the religious attitude to icons in some of the heretic movements
in the western Middle Ages, but the limits of a paper do not allow me
to venture into this fascinating land with all its temptations.
Without in any way attempting to outline the attitude to sacred
images in "non-homogeneous" periods, that were so often times of
upheaval and profound historical change, I should only point out one
seemingly paradox characteristic. This paradox is particularly manifest in the religious life of the time that produced the icons that will
serve as my examples. O n the one hand, some inherited distinctions,
traditionally considered crucial in the domain of religious beliefs, rituals, and visual symbols, seem to crumble away, and mental images
are transferred from one denomination to another. O n the other
hand, however, the sacred image as such does not become a matter of
minor significance. In those periods, symbols and inherited sacred
images were a matter of utmost importance to believers. People belonging to a specific faith often fanatically stuck to the details of a
Figure 1. The New Paphos Mosaic in Cyprus.
sacred image, whether they used it as amulets or worshipped it in
rituals as an icon of the divine. I shall attempt to approach this
complex, and sometimes contradictory, interaction of a fanatically
orthodox sticking to symbols, and the transfer of some holy images
from one belief to another, by a discussion of a few select examples.
T o m a n y of the questions that arise in such an investigation answers cannot readily be given. Religious struggles were carried out
not only in the field of the spoken and written word, but also in the
domain of images, and here, as the student of iconoclasm knows well,
censorship could be very thorough. It is unavoidable, therefore, that a
great deal of what I shall have to say is speculative, at least to some
degree. Yet questions should be fully formulated even if we do not
have satisfactory answers. T h e objection that very little that is fully
reliable can be known about our problems is no reason to disregard
them altogether.
A Late Hellenistic Mosaic
In the early 1980's a magnificient late antique mosaic was excavated
in New Paphos in Cyprus (Wiktor Daszewski, Dionysos der Erlöser
[Mainz, 1985]). This mosaic, a work of the fifth century A.D., is sur-
prisingly well preserved. Of the six panels of which it consists, two are
devoted to Dionysos. We are here concerned only with the panel that
shows Dionysos as a child (Fig. 1). T h e composition of this panel
consists of two halves. T h e right half shows Hermes who, majestically
seated on a (hardly visible) chair or throne, holds the infant Dionysos
on his lap. Hermes's position has an explicit air of solemnity; he is
presenting the infant to the world. A cluster of allegorical figures
surrounds this central group, each of the figures identified by a clearly
legible inscription. In the left part of the panel, a female figure (a
nymph?) is kneeling in the foreground, next to a round tub, while
another w o m a n is pouring something (probably a liquid) into it.
Here, too, allegorical figures, identified by inscriptions, surround the
two female figures. In the present discussion we shall concentrate on
the group in the right half only.
T h e modern spectator, familiar with countless representations of
the stories told in the Gospels, instantly perceives the basic affinity of
the " p a g a n " scenes represented in the Cyprus mosaic with the Christian subject of the Adoration of the Magi. Were it not for the small
wings attached to Hermes's head, we would, in fact, take his figure
for that of the Virgin, and read the whole scene as an Adoration of
Christ by the Magi. Such a m o d e r n spectator might only wonder
about who are the figures, identified by inscriptions, that surround
the central group. These figures differ in identity and general expression from the kings who came from distant lands to worship the new
born redeemer. As we know, the Adoration of the Magi emerged in
the earliest stages of Christian lore, perhaps two centuries before the
Cyprus mosaic was produced, and soon achieved a kind of canonic
formulation and wide distribution. Already the oldest Christian representation of the subject, the Adoration of the Magi in the C a t a c o m b of
S. Pietro and Marcellino in R o m e (Fig. 2), probably of the late third
century A.D., presents the core of the scene as a definitely articulated
composition that persisted for more than a millennium without essential change. (Hugo Kehrer, Die Heiligen Drei Könige in Literatur und Kunst,
II [Leipzig, 1909; reprinted Hildesheim-New York, 1976] fig. 1). T h e
many renderings of the same scene that have come down to us show
how c o m m o n this particular image was in the early Christian world.
T h e subject was especially frequent in the Christian imagery of the
countries at the eastern shores of the Mediterranean, and N e a r Eastern Christian art was more prolific in the rendering and articulation
of the Adoration of the Magi than in any other region. M o d e r n
scholarship has distinguished a specific "Syrian type" of the subject,
and has been able to describe its development and its impact on the
painting of the Middle Ages. (Kehrer, pp. 26 f f , 81 f f ) T o understand
Figure 2. The Adoration of the Magi in the Catacomb of
S. Pietro and Marcellino, Rome.
the wide distribution of the motif, it may be worth mentioning that
the Adoration of the Magi was a theme that attracted the interest of
the makers and buyers of precious objects that pilgrims carried home
from their pilgrimages to the holy places. Such objects, that would
today probably be labeled as precious tourist wares, may have conveyed something of the authority invested in them by their origin in
the "holy places." We may be sure that, then as in all ages, reverence
as well as wide interest was assured to these pieces. A famous example
of such objects are the ampullae of Monza, on which the Adoration
of the Magi is represented. T h e r e were, of course, some variations
and differences between the various types of representing the scene,
but the basic compositional type is the same all of them. In all variations, it should be stressed, the composition and particularly the central group of the Adoration of the Magi (the Virgin presenting the
Christ child) remains always surprisingly close to what we see in the
Dionysos mosaic in Cyprus.
I have mentioned these facts, well known to every student of ancient and medieval art, in order to stress the obvious: that the patrons
and makers of the Cyprus mosaic as well as the audiences for whom
it was m a d e must have been aware of the Christian subject, of its
compositional pattern and of its connotations. T h e similarity in com-
position and the affinity in expression of the Dionysos scene in the
New Paphos mosaic and the then c o m m o n image of the Adoration of
the Magi cannot be a matter of chance. This becomes particularly
manifest when we recall that there was a classic tradition of representing the birth of Dionysus that preceded the impact of Christian imagery. Hermes bringing, or offering, the newborn Dionysus to the
nymphs was represented in Naples (Fig. 3). Here the nude Hermes
dramatically hastens to bring the baby-Dionysus to the nymphs, his
fast movement emphasized by the billowing drapery. Another exampie is the cover of a sarcophagus, now in Madrid. T h e birth and
childhood of Dionysus is here rendered in several scenes. In the middie scene the actual birth (from Zeus's thigh) is rendered. T o the right
of this group, in the same scene, we see once again the nude Hermes
Figure 4. The Μαάήά Sarcophagus.
running with the newborn Dionysus towards the nymphs (Fig. 4). W e
cannot go here into the iconography of Hermes carrying the newborn
Dionysus in classical art. I should only stress that the earlier representadons mentioned are all of a narrative nature; none of them has the
character of an icon. T h e mosaic in New Paphos clearly marks a
break with the tradition of this motif in classical art. Here Hermes is
not rushing, but majestically seated; he is not nude, but wears ample
garments; the newborn Dionysus is not a helpless baby carried by
Hermes in his arms, but an upright sitting child, solemnly raising his
hands in a gesture of speech and benediction. Clearly the Cyprus
mosaic is guided by an artistic and religious tradition different from
the one that influenced the narrative representations. In fifth century
Cyprus, then, pagan artists and audiences were obviously familiar
with the Christian image.
T o grasp what such pagan adjustment to the Christian model may
have really meant, it will be useful to recall some of the conditions
that prevailed at the time and areas in which both the Cyprus mosa-
ics and the many representations of the Adoration of the Magi were
produced. W e are speaking of the centuries after Constantine's conversion, when pagan religions became first endangered and then actually oppressed. T w o events may be mentioned as indicating the
limits of the time span in the intellectual and religious life and Struggies in the eastern Mediterranean we have here in mind. T h e first
event is the forced closing down of the Sarapeum in Gaza, in 391, by
the Christian governor; the second is Justinian's order of A.D. 529,
closing down the Platonic Academy in Athens. During this historical
period, roughly a century and a half, the area we have in mind,
extending from Syria to Greece, was the scene of intense religious
conflicts, carried on both on the level of theological speculation and
on that of ritual practice, both with great emotional intensity. A profound, often orthodox, adherence of the different religious groups to
their inherited rituals, to the cult objects, and to the more or less
firmly articulated mental imagery of the respective faiths, recorded in
the pictorial motifs known from the art of the period, were emotionally highly charged. It is this emotional intensity of the various religious faiths that poses a central problem to the proper understanding
of the mosaic. We should further remind that Cyprus, placed between the great centers, between G a z a and Athens, was necessarily
also the stage for parts of the conflict. T h e mosaic from New Paphos,
produced in the period discussed, must be seen against this conflict.
For the present investigation, two features of the intellectual, religious, and emotional conditions of this period are of particular significance. O n e is the close interaction of the different groups that I have
already mentioned, the familiarity of one group with the beliefs and
symbols of the other denominations. This intertwining produced the
particular atmosphere that is characteristic of the period. T h e other is
the tenacity by which many of the groups clung to the original faith,
and the resulting struggles, that were often fierce and cruel.
T h e first point—the interaction of different religious groups, living
in close proximity to, often within, each other in many countries of
the Near East—is too well known to require restating. I shall, therefore, only make a brief remark about the second point, the tenacious
adherence of followers of different " p a g a n " religions to their original
faith. W e know that the "Christianization of the R o m a n Empire,"
particularly in the eastern parts, was a struggle that extended over
centuries, and continued much longer than we used to believe. (Pierre
Chuvin, A Chronicle of the Last Pagans [Cambridge, Mass., 1990; original French Paris, 1990]). Even if some Christian historians at the
time, such as Evagrius and J o h n of Ephesus, probably exaggerated
the numbers of people continuing their pagan religious cults (the
latter reports that he discovered many thousands of pagans in one
region, and fifteen hundered temples and shrines), it seems certain
that two or three centuries after the Christian religion became offidaily accepted such rituals were still widespread. ( J.P.N. Land,
Johannes, Bischof von Ephesus: Der erste syrische Kirchenhistoriker [Leyden,
1856]) Despite fifth-century legislation against pagan cults and their
actual persecution, pagan festivals were still celebrated in Edessa in
the late fifth century. At the end of the sixth century sacrifices to Zeus
were here still offered. (Glenn Bowersock, Hellenism in Late Antiquity
[Ann Arbor, Mich., 1990], pp. 35 ff.) Although clinging to pagan
faith, and particularly the celebrating of prohibited pagan rituals, was
a dangerous activity, especially in the last stages of Antiquity (Chuvin,
pp. 131 ff.), these faiths did not disappear. T h e tenacity of clinging to
these religions show how important both the faith and the ritual were
to these believers. W e know very little about the role images have
played in these clandestine pagan rituals. We may be sure, however,
that they must have formed part of the pagan world at the period
when the Cyprus mosaic was created.
Now I come back to the original question concerning the Cyprus
mosaic. In view of these intense religious struggles between the "pag a n " and Christian religions and the tenacious adherence, in the face
of persecutions, to the inherited faith, how should we understand the
similarity or affinity of the Dionysos mosaic in New Paphos and the
contemporary scenes of the Adoration of the Magi? Let us try and
imagine a spectator, living in Cyprus or one of the N e a r Eastern
countries, looking at the Cyprus mosaic shortly after it was produced.
Such a spectator would, of course, immediately have identified the
affinity to the Christian image of the Adoration of the Magi. At a first
glance, our spectator might well have believed that he is looking at a
Christian image representing the Virgin rather than Hermes. Only
the figures around the central group, that do not easily fit into the
Christian image, may have finally convinced him that what he sees is
the rendering of a Greek mythological scene rather than of a Christian story. Now, what would our imaginary spectator have made of
the similarity between the two scenes, the pagan and the Christian?
In describing and explaining such cross-denominational similarities, present-day historians of art often employ the notion of "influences." W h a t is usually meant by this term is that the older work or
motif served as a model for the new one. T h e artist who shaped the
later work, so it is imagined, transplants, as it were, subconsciously or
even with full awareness, the formal motifs and composition from one
complex of subjects (and their connotations) to another. While in our
research we cannot do without the assumption of "influence," the
concept as such is more problematic than may appear at first glance.
In using it, particularly for the study of pre-modern art, we should try
to see clearly what it implies
In the context of historical investigation, "influence" is of course a
modern concept. It tacitly makes several assumptions, and at least
two of them are significant for our present subject. T h e first assumption is that the feature that exerts the influence, the form or motif
taken over, can be detached from its original context without tinging
the work to which it is now applied, the work influenced, with the
contents for which it was created in the first place. Secondly, in the
concept of influences, as handled by modern art historians, it is somehow assumed that both the artist who produces the work and the
audience for which it is produced, are mainly concerned with formal
values. They either do not know from where a pattern, a configuration is taken, or they do not mind what the origin is. In such cases,
the form may said to be "neutral" with regard to former connotations.
But do these assumptions apply to the art of earlier periods? This
would be the case only when the configuration transplanted from one
cultural or religious context to another is indeed "neutral," that is,
free of emotional charge. However, when a form, a configuration, a
composition impressed themselves u p o n collective memory as part of
a certain theme, particularly as belonging to a certain religion, it
cannot be considered as neutral. In such a case the transfer of the
form or motif is not a matter of little concern. T h e very fact that it
now appears in a new context carries a message that the knowing
spectator will certainly discern.
After this brief digression, let us now return to our imaginary
spectator looking at the Dionysos mosaic in New Paphos. We have
already said that he will have identified the affinity of the Dionysos
mosaic and the Adoration of the Magi. In an interesting study, Glenn
Bowersock has pointed out that influences between paganism and
Christianity in the fifth century A.D. were really "a two-way street."
W e all have been brought up on the idea (certainly correct in its
major lines) that Christianity borrowed its central models and major
means of expression from the great cultures it termed "pagan/ 5 and
violently fought. We should recall, however, that in late Antiquity,
particularly since the fourth century, Christianity also influenced the
pagan culture and beliefs, that still vigorously persisted. Thus, in
some parts of the central piece of Greek literature in the fifth century,
Nonnos's Dionysiaca, the god Dionysus is endowed with a soteriological character that is altogether alien to this god in earlier times,
but shows basic affinities to Christian thought. (Bowersock, p. 44) T h e
Christian impact on paganism, then, could penetrate to central areas
of religion. Making the ancient G o d of vine a redeemer clearly betrays the impact of Christianty. Angels also are moved closely to the
divinity, something alien to Greek culture, but appearing in pagan
late Antiquity. (Bowersock, pp. 19 if.) Julian the Apostate introduced
into his pagan temples elements of the Christian ritual he learned in
his youth.
T h e scene in the Cyprus mosaics showing Dionysos sitting on the
lap of Hermes, or being presented by Hermes to the world as Christ
is presented to the world by the Virgin, should be understood in the
same direction. As the Christian R e d e e m e r - G o d was assimilated into
Dionysiac religion, was "paganized," as it were, by turning Dionysos
into a redeemer figure, so—we would suggest—the Adoration of the
Magi was incorporated into late antique pagan art by making babyDionysos sit on the lap of Hermes.
Such appropriation of the Christian motif by the maker of a pagan
icon, especially in the atmosphere of tension I have tried to outline,
cannot be a matter of a merely formal "influence." O n e wonders,
however, what were the motives, at this particular period and area,
for taking over a model from the other religion. Was it the desire to
assimilate into one's own religion those features of the Christian belief
that seemed so attractive to many people, or was it a distinct attempt
to usurp the Christian motif and to show that the old religion, the
pagan, is superior to the new one, and that the pagan legacy shines
through the Christian images?
As I see it, the Dionysos mosaic intends to suggest that the Christian image is now subordinated to what they hoped will be the renewed and finally victorious religion. T o be sure, this is not done in a
"proclamatory" way; it is a d u m b r a t e d rather clandestinely. In the
Cyprus mosaic this subordination is expressed in two ways. O n e way
is the explicit change in the identity of the central figures: instead of
Christ it is the Dionysos child who is presented to the world, instead
of the Virgin it is Hermes who offers the divine child for adoration. It
is a simple replacing of one god by another. This particular meaning
of the change—that the god of one religion is replaced by that of
another—comes into being, or exists, only if the spectator remembers
the former scene. Only in a two-layered reading, when you see the
suppressed Christian model together with the new pagan rendering,
does the image disclose that it is meant as a triumphal m o n u m e n t of
paganism.
T h e other way of intimating that the symbol of the Christian religion is incorporated in, and overcome by the pagan faith may be the
surrounding of the central group of the seated figure holding up the
child for adoration, that is, the motif derived from the Christian
Adoration, by a wreath of figures of a distinct pagan character, identified as mythological figures by the inscriptions. This enclosing or
clasping of the "holy" group by pagan figures, the embedding of the
originally Christian group into the new context, is a kind of insinuation of the victory of one's own faith. T h e understanding of what this
surrounding means, and hence the meaning of the whole scene in its
new context, also depends on a simultaneous experience of the mosaic's two layers, the original Christian and the new pagan. It is, if you
wish, a kind of palimpsestic reading of the work. Only in such a
reading does the borrowing and transformation of the Christian motif
of the Adoration become a manifestation of the pagans' belief in the
victory of their religion.
An Icon of God's Hand
M y next example, an amply ornamented cross, illustrates another
attempt, of an altogether different nature, to overcome the "other"
religion in the field of images. T h e cross we are now considering
forms part of a decorative relief on one of the decorated faces of the
episcopal cathedra in the Cathedral of Torcello. (Fig. 5) So far as I
know, the Torcello cathedra, and the cross carved on it, have not
been studied in detail, and hence no precise date and provenance
have been established. For reasons of style, into which I need not go
here, it is obvious that the cross is a product of the early medieval
period. We do not know exacdy where the cathedra was produced
and where its ornaments were carved. It is obvious, however, that the
original model from which the decoration was derived must have
been a work from the transitional period between late Antiquity and
the early Middle Ages. In the center of the Torcello cross a medallion
is carved, and in this medallion a raised hand, in the well known
position of the benedictio latina, is represented. T o the hand's right side
a double disc representing the sun is carved, to its left, a siclde that
depicts the moon. In the lower half of the framed field, to both sides
of the cross, two prominent configurations are seen. Although they
suggest trees or vegetation of some kind, they emerge from pedestals
which explicidy demonstrate that they are not parts of nature but
artefacts, similar in shape to the base of columns. These two trees (or
plants) bend towards the cross. In the upper part of the relief the cross
is flanked by two round floral patterns. In the present essay we are
concerned mainly with what is shown inside the medallion placed in
the center of the cross,—the raised hand, flanked by the images of
sun and moon.
Figure 5. The Relieffromthe episcopal cathedra in the Cathedral of Torcello.
Before trying to analyze the image carved in the center of the
Torcello cross, we should briefly recall something of the early history
and theological context of the cross in general. T h e history of the
cross, though complex, cannot here be retold. I should only remind
that the cross was adored and worshipped as a sacred symbol and
object in its own right, that is, even without the figure of the crucified
Christ. T h e symbol came to stand for the idea (and the person), the
cross for Christ. T h e Kreuzesfrömmigkeit, the devotion to the cross,
flourished particularly in the final stages of late Antiquity and during
the early Middle Ages; it was especially widespread in the Near East,
from which in all likelihood the model of the Torcello Cross originated. In the popular beliefs of late Antiquity, especially in the N e a r
East, the cross was endowed with a mysterious vitality; it was imagined as a living being. T h e cross on which Christ was crucified, we
read in some apocryphical texts, was walking by itself. (The Gospel
According to Peter, chs. 39-41) It was described as speaking with a voice,
"sweet and kind and truly of G o d " (Acts of John, 98).
It is natural that the adoration of the cross and its transformation
into a miraculous being was also expressed in artefacts of various
kinds. Perhaps the most impressive type of such artefacts are the
monumental crosses erected in the period of transition from Antiquity to the Middle Ages. T h e diffusion of such monuments throughout Europe is an important p h e n o m e n o n of the culture of the period.
T h e erection of monumental crosses reached its climax in the British
isles. (Arthur Kingsley-Porter, The Crosses and Culture of Ireland [New
Haven, 1931], reprinted) Hundreds of such monuments can still be
seen in situ. But as self-contained objects, not only crosses of a m o n u mental size were known. Also as small scale objects and as decorations, crosses were c o m m o n in a multitude of forms. O n e of them
were the crosses inserted into particularly important pieces of furniture. A m o n g them is probably the cross in the cathedra in Torcello.
In many of these crosses, whether of monumental or of small size,
the center, where the four arms meet, is particularly emphasized and
richly decorated. Frequently this decoration of the center assumes the
shape of a medallion. T h e most famous a m o n g the crosses decorated
in this way is the Lothair Cross; bearing in its center a precious
R o m a n cameo. So far as I know, there was no established iconographic tradition that determined, more or less rigidly, what should
be shown in the center of the cross. However, a distinct tendency can
be discerned to place at this central point of the cross an emblem of
authority, an image that evokes the idea of rulership and world dominance. T h e Lothair Cross itself is a good example. It is not just a
piece of precious jewelry that was inserted into the center of the cross,
The Lothair Cross.
it is the image of the wreathed ruler of the empire holding the figure
of victory in his hand. (Fig. 6) T h e cameo, then, carries an imperial
message, and transforms the cross as a whole into a triumphal monument. In large scale crosses, or even in those of a smaller size, where
precious cameos could not be inserted, the idea of power and ruling
the world was often expressed in the reliefs carved in the center. A
typical example is the monumental Cross of Muiredach in Ireland, a
work of the tenth century. T h e face of the cross is covered with
representations of scenes from the Last J u d g e m e n t (probably a m o n g
the earliest representations of this subject) and in the center, the
dominating figure of Christ, holding the accepted symbols of authority; he appears as a powerful, triumphant ruler rather than as a considerate judge. At least in the early Middle Ages, the image in the
center of the cross was often intended to convey the sense of rulership
and domination.
Keeping this tradition in mind, we naturally ask how the image of
the raised hand in the center of the Torcello cross should be understood? This image of the hand has the concise and, as it were, "final"
formulation, the expression of solmenity, and the air of timelessness
(the absence of any movement) that are the characteristic features of
the icon. Was the carver who shaped this hand following some articulate models? Were there icons in the shape of a hand?
T h e ancient world, perhaps particularly the period of late Antiquity, was familiar with mainly two types of images of the isolated
hand, and in expressive character as well as in function they were
altogether different from each other. O n e type of images of the detached hand (as well as of other parts of the body) are votive gifts,
objects offered to the gods and deposited in many temples and sanetuaries. Votive gifts, as one knows, often were representations of sick
organs for which one asked the gods for cure. (F.T. van Straten,
"Gifts for the Gods," in H.S. Versnel, ed., Faith, Hope and Worship:
Aspects of Religious Mentality in the Ancient World [Leiden, 1981], pp. 65151) T h e monuments of the other type were cult images, objects of
adoration and worship. As objects of worship, these monuments representing a hand also carried, at least implicitly, a message of some
kind; they proclaimed something to the believers. T h e hand in the
center of the Torcello Cross has profound affinities with the second
type of a detached hand.
T h e artistic character of the two types of hand image differs as
radically as do their aims and origins. As a votive gift, the hand is not
meant to be understood as an abbreviation of the whole figure; nor is
it the concise, compressed formulation of a gesture. From its very
beginning the votive gift was intended to portray a single organ, the
one that hurt and which one hoped will be healed. (Strangely enough,
hands seem to have been relatively rare a m o n g those votive renderings.) T h e votive hand, as well votive representations of the other
organs that were more frequently represented (such as ears, legs, female breasts, etc.) do not have a distinct expressive character of their
own; they do not even evoke the sense of pain. In style and expression
they may said to be "neutral."
T h e other type is altogether different. 111 posture of the hand, in
the precisely established configuration of the fingers, and in general
expression, the hands of the second type are distinct from those belonging to the votive gifts. Usually the h a n d as a cult object has the
character of authority, and thus it often strikes the spectator as complete, a whole being. It is of such a hand that we say that it is speaking
or pointing, and we thus endow it with an intention that makes sense
only in a whole being, and thus make it a pars pro toto, it stands for a
The Sabazius Hand.
whole figure. A m o n g the best known forms of representing the isolated h a n d as a cult object (or for use in other contexts of religious
belie!) in late Antiquity is the "Sabazius H a n d . " These objects, usually of small size, often served as amulets for various purposes, as
apotropaic signs, etc. In the Sabazius H a n d the fingers are here held
in what came to be known as the benedictio latina. T h e hand, both
palm and fingers, are covered with, and surrounded by, creatures
that were believed to be endowed with healing or protecting powers,
such as the snake and the lizard (Fig. 7). M o d e r n scholars have inter-
preted the Sabazios H a n d as a speaking hand; it indicates, one believed, the pronouncing of the benediction or of the magic formula that
protects and saves. (H.P. L ' O r a n g e , Studies on the Iconography of Cosmic
Kingship in the Ancient World [Oslo, 1953]). T h e particular configuration
of the fingers would indeed suggest that this is a speaking gesture,
known as such from R o m a n art. Whatever else the isolated hand may
mean, says L ' O r a n g e (pp. 184 if), it expresses first of all that something is spoken. Franz C u m o n t (Le symbolisme funeraire des Romains
[Paris, 1942], p. 442, note 3) understands the h a n d of Sabazius as
"une incantation rituelle ou, pour mieux dire, magique." While the
idea of power always remains in the background of a cultic H a n d ,
explicitly the hand thus rendered is an image of speaking.
W e are here not so much concerned with the precise condition
that the Sabazius H a n d represents (speaking or just raised) as with
icon-character of the image. O n e notes first that the Sabazius H a n d is
fully detached from any narrative context or frame. It does not form
part of a story, and hence it is also not expected to change in position.
It is also does not convey the sense of being a fragment of a body (as
do the votive hands), and the spectator will not look for, or even
imagine, an arm to which the hand belongs, and a figure of which it
forms part. As if to stress this complete detachment from external
context, the H a n d is usually placed on an elaborate pedestal, made
up of several rings, that totally separate it from any organic continuity. N o votive hand, we recall, is ever placed on a pedestal. In style
and expression, then, the H a n d of Sabazius has the nature of an icon.
We can conclude this brief comment by the simple statement that,
as an icon, the hand was an essential part of the mental and material
imagery of late antique pagan culture, particularly of its religion.
In early Christian imagery we know of a closely related motif,—
God's H a n d . It is often represented as it emerges from clouds, from
the rainbow, or from other configurations that indicate the sky. In the
last stages of Antiquity the H a n d of G o d was popular also in Chrisdan artefacts. It is found in a variety of media, such as medals (e.g. a
medal in the Kunsthistorisches M u s e u m in Vienna) and primarily in
illuminated manuscripts. 111 these Christian versions the H a n d of G o d
should, in fact, be read as a visual formula of speech.
But can the isolated H a n d of G o d in early Christian art be considered as an icon? In a precise sense of the term, I believe, it is not an
icon. So far as I know, in Christian imagery it never appears as
completely self-enclosed, and altogether detached from any narrative
context. Even if it is relatively isolated in form, it performs actions
that are essential to the narrative represented in the composition:
thus, it crowns the king (in the Vienna medal God's H a n d reaches
down from heaven, holding a wreath that is to be placed on the head
of the emperor Constantine) (Fig. 8), it addresses the devil (in the
eighth century J o b manuscript in the Vatican [Vat. Grec. 749] where
the divine H a n d points at the Diabolos at the opposite corner of the
page) (Fig. 9), it directs the events (in the sixth century mosaic in Beth
Alpha representing the Sacrifice of Isaac). In other words, though in
form it may be partiy self contained, or even set off from the rest of
the image by a frame, it is in fact part and parcel of the whole story.
For this reason, I think that, in a precise sense of the term, God's
H a n d in Christian art is usually not an image in itself, and cannot be
considered as an icon.
W e now come back to our object, the Torcello Cross. Is the isolated h a n d within the medallion an icon? In expressive nature, in its
concise articulation, and in the solemnity of the posture, the h a n d in
the Torcello cross does display the qualities of an icon. While I would
not dare to establish a specific derivation, say from an individual
model, I think it is obvious that in general nature it shows a particularly close affinity to the icon of the type of the Sabazius H a n d . In this
Figure 8. The Vienna medal of the emperor Constantine.
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context it is interesting to note that the Torcello h a n d is not a fragment, in the sense as are the votive hands), it is self enclosed in
precisely the same m a n n e r as is the Sabazius H a n d : a kind of artificial
pedestal ring sets it off from the rest of the field. Moreover, though
this cannot be firmly established, the spectator gets the impression
that this isolated h a n d is placed on some kind of m o u n d , thus forming
a m o n u m e n t , but at the same time also making it a cult object.
T h e complex of ideas and emotions the Torcello H a n d conveys
also seems to continue meanings that traditionally were linked with
the pagan cult image of the isolated hand. Whatever the specific
explanation, the cult m o n u m e n t has always been perceived as a suggestion of power. In this sense the prophet Ezekiel describes God's
H a n d (10:8) in the vision of the divine chariot. In the pagan religions
of late Antiquity the isolated h a n d became an emblem of supernatural might, the power to heal and protect (as in apotropaic "hands" on
the walls and doors of houses). Even in altogether secular contexts,
political and military, we also find the isolated raised h a n d as a coneise image of power and authority. In the military signa of the R o m a n
legion the isolated raised h a n d is frequent; here it is the symbol of
sheer might. Keeping all this in mind we come back to the question,
how it was possible for Christians in the early Middle Ages to take
over this well known " p a g a n " cult motif and symbol, and place it in
the middle of the cross?
As we know, the answer commonly given or taken for granted is
that the artists as well as their audiences "took over" the language of
motifs and forms inherited from the great pagan past. While nobody
would deny that Christian art did indeed take over motifs and formulae of expression from the culture ("pagan," as they termed it) in
which it grew. T h e question, however, is how in that period a Christian would have understood that an explicidy pagan motif, the isolated raised hand, was accepted by their own art, and inserted into
the center of the cross. Taking over and using an image known to
everybody as the symbol of the "false" god or of the oppressing power
cannot simply be considered as a neutral act. T h e very fact that these
pagan emblems appear in Christian icons (regardless of what they
specifically meant) must have been understood as a message. It is
difficult to believe that in an age of fanatic religious struggle, the
believers in one religion (Christianity) would use without any concern
a central image of another religion with which it was fighting a fierce
and sustained battle. T h e presence of the h a n d of the "pagan" god
has, I believe, to be understood in a more complex way than by
simply assuming the taking over of a formal tradition.
O n e possible explanation of this combination the isolated h a n d
in a cross—is to assume that the Christian artist and his patrons were
fully aware of what the symbols originally meant, and by the insertion
of the hand into the cross wanted to proclaim the victory of Christianity over paganism. T h e audience, one has to assume, did in fact
understand this proclamation, or intuitively perceive its message.
W h a t the pagans did in the mosaic of Cyprus with the Christian
model of the Adoration of the Magi, the Christians did with the
isolated raised hand, an important cultic symbol of the pagan world.
T h e r e is, however, a difference between the two ways. T h e assimilation of a motif, as we see it in the Cyprus mosaic, perhaps requires
less explicit awareness than the incorporation of an almost unchanged "alien" symbol into one's own icon. T h e latter, I suggest,
cannot be accomplished without a full recognition both of what the
incorporated symbol originally stood for, and what the incorporation
itself means. By making a well known pagan symbol part of the cross,
the cross really becomes a m o n u m e n t of victory, a veritable tropeum
cruris.
If my reading of God's H a n d in the Torcello Cross is correct, it
would constitute an interesting development of a typical R o m a n art
form, the trophy. As is well known, Hellenistic commanders had the
custom of building trophies (tropaea) out of captured weapons and
armour. But while they left it, as a piled display of captured arms,
right on the battlefield, R o m a n emperors later erected permanent
monuments to their victories, and incorporated in these monuments
representations of such "trophies" as a symbolic motif. A m o n g the
most famous is the so-called "Germanic T r o p h y " of Domitian, of A.D.
83, now on the balustrade of the capitol in Rome. (Fig. 10) Now, if
the H a n d in the Torcello Cross does really refer to, or evoke, the
Sabazius H a n d , or similar monuments, it is not only a transformation
of the pagan image into a Christian symbol (the h a n d of Sabazius
into the h a n d of Christ), but it is also enframed and enclosed by the
cross. T h e Torcello Cross is, then, a kind of m o n u m e n t to a victory.
However that may be, once again the basic condition of the audience's perception of the work should be stressed. T h e spectator could
have understood the meaning of the H a n d and the whole Cross only
if he identified the isolated hand also as a pagan cult image (or originally connected with pagan cult), and saw that it was now enclosed
in, and thus subordinated to, the structure of the cross. Identifying the
idol within the icon is the condition of understanding the latter, but it
also endows it, that is, the cross as a whole with a new meaning.
Figure 10. "Germanic Trophy" of Domitian.
Some Conclusions
T w o monuments, even if they are rich in connotations and bear
witness to important trends of the times in which they were created,
cannot provide a basis for the drawing of any final conclusions.
However, even from such slim foundations as we have presented we
can attempt some reflections that go beyond the individual works of
art actually discussed. Thus, when we ask what our monuments may
tell us about the problem of the icon in general, several points
emerge.
W h a t can be learnt even from two monuments only is, first, that
there are icons that have more than just one layer of meaning. We
have already conjured up in our mind an imaginary spectator,
whether pagan or Christian, who reads the images differently, at least
at first glance. However we may judge the likelihood of such a spectator actually occurring and behaving as we have suggested, the very
fact that we can imagine him shows that the emblems of two faiths do
indeed appear in the same icon, and can both have some claim to be
considered. In this context it is of significance that in the works we
have seen (and in the many other works belonging to similar types)
the emblem of the "other" religion, of the rejected faith, so far as it
can be identified, is not deformed and distorted. In the period from
which we took our examples, the image of the other, the "false,"
religion (whichever it may be) does not become, or has not yet become, a diabolic figure. W h e n later in the Middle Ages the opponent
of the "true" god assumes a demonic, Satanic shape, it is shown as a
distorted, ugly and repulsive figure or as a wretched little devil trodden underfoot; the original powerful tendency to make the icon fully
consistent and conveying only one single meaning is again prevalent.
W h a t the images discussed further show us is that within the icons
themselves the battle between the gods, the struggle between different
faiths, continues in many subtle ways. O n e of them is the multiplelevel icon. This is not to say that the gods of the clashing religions are
given equal significance. O n the contrary, both in the icons made for
a pagan or a Christian public the principle of controlling hierarchy
prevails. But it is only within the multiple-level icon that the symbol
of one's own religion becomes a true sign of victory, that of the
defeated religion, a real trophy.
A final conclusion concerns the spectator's part. T h e attitude of
the believer to icon, as it has been understood by the public and
interpreted by the authorities in the course of centuries, resembles the
attitude to a revelation. You bow, you worship, and if you are asked,
you may participate in the suffering of the divine or holy figure por-
trayed. But in all these cases, it is taken for granted, that you accept
the icon as it is. An icon, then, is something that is "given," it does not
depend on the spectator. T h e type of the multiple-layered sacred
image shows that the icon, too, depends on the spectator reading it,
identifying its levels, and grasping the relationship between them.
T h e portrayal of the idol within the icon enlarges the scope and the
intrinsic scale of the icon both as an art form and as a religious
monument.
T W O K I N D S O F R E P R E S E N T A T I O N IN
G R E E K R E L I G I O U S ART*
M A R G A L I T FINKELBERG
The god is sitting on a throne; he is made of gold and ivory. There is a
wreath on his head like twigs and leaves of olive; in his right hand he is
holding a Victory of gold and ivory with a ribbon and a wreath on her
head; in the god's left hand is a staff in blossom with every kind of
precious metal, and the bird perching on this staff is Zeus's eagle. The
god's sandals are gold and so is his cloak, and the cloak is inlaid with
animals and flowering lilies. The throne is finely worked with gold and
gems, and with ebony and with ivory.
These are the opening words of a long and detailed description of one
of the most famous cult statues of classical antiquity, Zeus at Olympia
by Pheidias the Athenian (5th century B.C.), written by Pausanias in
his Guide to Greece in the 2nd century A.D. (Fig. I).1 According to
Strabo, the sculptor's model was Zeus of the Iliad, and more specifically, the following verses from Book 1 : "So the son of Cronus spoke,
and he nodded his dark brows. T h e lord god's immortal hair
streamed forward from his deathless head, and he shook the heights
of Olympus." 2 Quintilian said of this statue that its beauty, together
with that of another Pheidias masterpiece, Athene Parthenos on the
acropolis of Athens, added something to traditional religion: "to such
a degree the majesty of this work was equal to that of the godhead." 3
Dio Chrysostom said that Pheidias' Zeus had the power to bring
* This paper took its final form as a result of my participation in the Heidelberg
conference. I am especially indebted to Hildegard Cancik and Phyllis Granoff with
whom the topics of this paper were most productively discussed.
1 Paus. 5.11.1-2. Here and elsewhere, I use the Penguin translation of Pausanias
by Peter Levi.
II. I. 528-30. Tr. M. Hammond. See Str. 8.3.30 p. 354; cf. Dio Chrys. 12.25-26.
That this tradition existed even before Strabo and Dio Chrysostom follows from
Polyb.30.10.6: "Lucius Aemilius, when he saw Pheidias' Zeus at Olympia, was overwhelmed, and praised Pheidias as the only sculptor who had been able to represent
Homer's Zeus." Aemilius Paulus was a Roman general who visited Greece in 167
Quint. Inst. 12.10.9 ... cuius pulchrìtud0 adiecuse aliquid etiam receptae religioni videtur;
adeo maiestas opens deum aequavit.
Figure 1. The /(eus of Pheidias as reconstructed by Fr. Adler (1892).
peace to a troubled soul, while Pausanias himself wrote: "I know the
recorded measurements of the height and breadth of Zeus at Olympia, but I find myself unable to c o m m e n d the measures since the
measurements they give fall a long way short of the impression (doxa)
this statue has created in those who see it." 4
Dio Chrys. 12.50-52; Paus. 5.11.9.
Such were the feelings aroused by Pheidias' Zeus in ancient spectators. This is not to say, however, that the temple of Zeus with its
celebrated statue was also the place where the focus of the
Panhellenic cult of Olympian Zeus was to be found. T o prove this, it
is enough to turn to the description of the great altar outside the
temple:
The altar of Olympian Zeus is just about equidistant from the Pelopion
and the sanctuary of Hera, but it lies rather forward than either of
It is built from the ash of the thighs of victims sacrificed to Zeus
... in the altar at Olympia the first step, which is called the outer circle,
is a hundred and twenty-five feet round, and the circumference of the
next step above it is thirty-two feet: the entire height of the altar is as high
as twenty-two feet. The tradition is to sacrifice victims in the lower area,
the outer circle, then they take up the thighs to the topmost point of the
altar, and burn them. Flights of stone steps lead up to the outer circle
from both sides, and even virgin girls, and in the same way women, are
allowed up to the circle, at times when they are not excluded from Olympia: but only men may climb up from here to the top of the altar. There
are private sacrifices to Zeus and daily Elean sacrifices even outside the
time of the festival, and every year, observing the nineteenth day of the
month Elaphios, the prophets bring the ash from the council-house, puddie it with Alpheius water and plaster the altar with it. And the ash must
never be muddied with any other water, etc.י
This dissociation of the altar, where the religious action as such was
concentrated, from the temple with the statue of the god inside it was
not unique to the cult of Zeus at Olympia. In fact, this was the
standard Greek practice from the m o m e n t when the monumental
temple first came into existence in the early archaic period. As
J . N . Coldstream put it, "And then, suddenly, in the great dawn after
the Dark Age in the eighth century B.C., the free-standing temple
emerges as a new architectural form. But this does not mean that
religious worship then went indoors. O n the contrary, the open-air
altar in most places remained the focus of the cult." 6
What, then, was the function of the god's statue treasured within
the temple? ׳Note that, besides the great statue of Zeus inside the
Paus. 5.13.8-11.
 ייColdstream, "Greek Temples," in Easterling and Muir, 68.
 ׳Cf. Robertson, "Greek Art and Religion," in: Easterling and Muir, 159-60:
"Certainly when monumental temple-architecture develops, the altar for sacrifice
and public ritual ... lies outside, in the temenos (enclosed sacred area), often opposite
the east end of the temple where the entrance normally was. The central feature of
the temple-interior is now a statue of the deity, and the building seems primarily
conceived as a more or less richly adorned casket to hold that treasure."
temple, Olympia abounded in statues of the god dedicated as public
or private offerings all over the sacred precinct. Thus, for example,
there was "a Zeus on a bronze base given by the people of Corinth,
the work of Mousus, whoever Mousus was... a statue of Zeus
crowned apparently with a wreath of flowers, with a thunderbolt in
his right hand by Ascarus of Thebes, who was taught by Canachus of
Sicyon," and so on. 8 W e can learn of the intended purpose of these
statues from the inscription on the statue of Zeus twelve feet high
which was erected by the Laconians on the right side of the great
temple: "Zeus Lord son of Cronus Olympian / accept this beautiful
statue: bless the Laconians'". 9 This compares well with the following:
... even the god himself bore witness to the art (techne) of Pheidias: when
the statue was completely finished, Pheidias prayed to the god to make a
sign if the work pleased him, and immediately a flash of lightning struck
the pavement at the place where the bronze urn was still standing in my
time. 10
Pheidias' Zeus was meant to please the god in exactiy the same way
as the more modest statue of Zeus dedicated by the Laconians. T h a t
is to say, the attitude expressed in the case of the great temple-statue
of Zeus does not differ in essence from that displayed towards the
other images of the god dedicated as offerings (anathemata) all over the
sacred precinct of Olympia. N o n e of them was regarded as the direct
object of religious worship, and the same holds tue of the images
offered to Greek gods in other sanctuaries, notably those of Apollo in
Delphi. 1 1
T h e fact that the statues of gods dedicated both inside and outside
the temple were regarded as offerings to the deity rather than as cult
statues in the strict sense of the word is often overlooked. Thus, in his
otherwise admirable survey of Greek religious art Martin Robertson,
although admitting that the representations of gods dedicated as offerings could not function as objects of cult proper, draws a sharp
distinction between these representations and those supplied by what
he calls "cult statues proper:" " . . . these representations of deities,
being bracketed with the other offered images, are thought of more as
simply images, objects of pleasure to the deity, 'works of art' even, less
Paus. 5.24.1.
Paus. 5.24.3. As Peter Levi notes in his commentary, this couplet was found by
the excavators of Olympia. It is inscribed on a round base of bluish grey
Peloponnesian marble and can be dated between 500 and 492 B.C. See Pausanias,
Guide to Greece, vol. 2, 270 n. 235.
O n Delphi see e.g. Paus. 10.9.1-2, 10.10.1-2, 10.13.6-7.
fully embodiments of the godhead than the cult-statues worshipped
within the temples."1· '־It is, however, highly questionable whether
such a distinction ever existed in the mind of the ancient spectator.
T h e following passage from Strabo's Geography (1st century A.D.),
again referring to Pheidias' Zeus at Olympia, is especially illuminâting in this connection:
The temple was adorned by its numerous offerings (anathemata), which
were dedicated there from all parts of Greece. Among these was Zeus of
beaten gold dedicated by Cypselus the tyrant of Corinth. But the greatest
of these was the statue of Zeus made by Pheidias of Athens, son of
Charmides; it was made of ivory, etc. 13
Although Pheidias' statue is indisputably the "greatest" a m o n g the
images of Zeus dedicated at Olympia, this does not alter the fact that
it was envisaged as only one a m o n g m a n y offerings (anathemata) to the
Now if a private offering, say the Zeus of gold dedicated by
Cypselus, was obviously meant to reflect not only the piety of the
dedicator but also his or her 1 1 prestige and wealth, it is evident that a
public offering, the category to which the great statues inside the
Greek temples invariably belonged, would reflect the piety, political
prestige and wealth of the body that dedicated it. As it happens, this
kind of dedication was the exclusive prerogative of the Greek citystate. This is why the people of Elis paid honours not only to Pheidias
himself, the creator of the Zeus at Olympia, but also to the Messenian
sculptor D a m o p h o n who repaired the statue in the 2nd century B . C . 1 ' ׳
Similarly, although it was to Pythaian Apollo at T h o r n a x that the
Lydian ruler Croesus sent his gold as a present, the people of Sparta
decided to use it for decorating the statue of Apollo at Amyclae,
because Amyclae rather than T h o r n a x was the centre of the Spartan
cult of Apollo."' But it is the case of the statue which stood within the
temple of Zeus in the city of Megara that is the most illuminating in
this connection. This is its story as told by Pausanias:
"Greek Art and Religion," 169. However, elsewhere Robertson finds it difficult
to draw a significant distinction between the colossal marble statue of Apollo dedicated by the people of Naxos in Delos, which stood outside the temple, and the "cultstatue" inside it. See ibid., 165-66.
Str. 8.3.30 p. 353. Tr. H. L.Jones, with slight changes.
The famous courtesan Phryne dedicated at Delphi the gilded image of herself
made by Praxiteles, who was one of her lovers, see Paus. 10.15.1, cf. 9.27.5.
Paus. 3.10.8; cf. Hdt. 1. 69.
The statue of Zeus was not finished when the Peloponnesian war broke
out, and in ravaging the country year by year from sea and land, making
havoc of private houses as well as public possessions, Athens reduced
Megara to the last degree of weakness. The statue of Zeus has a face of
ivory and gold, the rest is clay and plaster. They say it was made by
Theocosmus, a local workman, but that Pheidias worked with him. 17
T h e condition of the statue reflects the history of the state of Megara,
from its great ambition to rival Athens to the much more modest
proportions to which it was reduced in the course of the
Peloponnesian war. T h e great temple-statue dedicated by the Greek
city-state functioned as materialization of the state's self-image: this is
why the statues erected by Greek cities so often appear on their
coinage. Small wonder, then, that the cities of ancient Greece competed with one another to obtain the most prestigious masters and the
most costly materials for their communal dedications.
It seems, therefore, that the status of the great statue inside the
Greek temple cannot be taken separately from the status of the tempie itself, and not only because the origins of both should be traced to
the emergence of the Greek city-state in the early 8th century B . C . 1 8 It
was first and foremost the needs and the ambitions of the state rather
than the cult purposes as such that both the temple and its statue
were designed to serve. Both therefore were the vehicles of what was
aptly defined by Martin Nilsson as "civic religion." 19
This does not mean, however, that in ancient Greece there were no
images which acted as embodiments of the deity and accordingly as
the direct objects of the cult. C o m p a r e the following:
This is the reason why they [sc. the Spartans] bloody the altar with
human blood. They used to slaughter a human sacrifice chosen by drawing lots; Lycurgus substituted the whipping of fully grown boys, and the
altar still gets its fill of human blood. The priestess with the idol (xoanon)
stands beside them; the idol is small and light, except that if ever the
scourgers pull their strokes because of a boy's beauty or his rank, then the
O n the linkage between the Greek temple and the Greek city-state see de
Polignac, Culls, Territory, and the Origins of the Greek City-State.
See Nilsson, A History of Greek Religion, 224-62. Cf. also Robertson, "Greek Art
and Religion," 158: "Religion in Greece had of course other manifestations (personal, ecstatic, mysdc) ..., but it was in the service of religion in its public, civic
character that Greek artists were primarily employed."
woman finds the idol heavy and hard to carry; she blames the scourgers
and says they are hurting her: such a taste for human blood has survived
in that statue from the time of the Taurian sacrifices.20
This is the description of the cult of Artemis Orthia, one of the
central Spartan cults, the sacred image of which was claimed to be
the same as that stolen centuries ago by Artemis' priestess Iphigeneia
and her brother Orestes from remote T a u r i a (Crimea). Obviously,
this was not the kind of effect either Pheidias' Zeus or Polyclitus'
H e r a at the Argive Heraeon or, for that matter, the Amyclaean
Apollo around whom the Spartan cult of Apollo was concentrated
were meant or indeed were ever able to produce. 2 1 Yet, not conspicuous for beauty or workmanship or precious materials, the wooden
idol of Arthemis Orthia was obviously considered as both the focus
and the active participant of the cult.
T h a t the contrast between the two kinds of statues as outlined
above is not occasional can be seen by comparing the two statues of
Athene on the acropolis of Athens, Pheidias' Athene Parthenos in the
Parthenon on the one hand and the ancient wooden statue of Athene
Polias in the Erechtheion on the other.
The statue is made of ivory and gold. She has a sphinx on the middle of
her helmet, and griffins worked on either side of it... the statue of Athene
stands upright in an ankle-length tunic with the head of Medusa carved
in ivory on her breast. She has a Victory about eight feet high, and a
spear in her hand and a shield at her feet, and a snake beside the shield;
the snake might be Erichthonius. The plinth of the statue is carved with
the birth of Pandora.
But the holiest of all the images which was universally recognized for
many years before the Athenians came together out of their country
towns, is Athene's statue on what is now the acropolis, though then it was
the whole city. Rumour says it fell from heaven.... Callimachus made a
golden lamp for the goddess. They fill this lamp with oil, and then wait
for the same day in the following year, and all that time the oil is enough
to feed the lamp though it shines perpetually night and day.22
Paus. 3.16.10-11.
O n Hera see Paus. 2.17.4: "The statue of Hera is enthroned and very big, made
of gold and ivory by Polyclitus. She wears a diadem worked with Graces and Seasons; in one hand she holds a sceptre, in the other a pomegranate" etc. The
Amyclaean Apollo was an archaic bronze statue famous for the magnificent carvings
on its throne, the work of Bathycles of Magnesia in Asia Minor; for the description
see Paus. 3.18.9—19.5.
Paus. 1.24.5-7; 1.26.6-7.
T r u e , Athene Parthenos was celebrated all over the ancient world for
its beauty and fine workmanship 2 5 but, like Zeus at Olympia, this
masterpiece of the greatest Athenian sculptor was not endowed with
magic powers even remotely comparable to those emanating from its
more ancient counterpart. Pheidias' Athene was nothing more than a
magnificent offering of the city of Athens to its patron goddess: but it
was the other Athene, the one that was believed to have fallen from
heaven, that was universally recognized as "the holiest of all the images." It was this Athene who on a certain day every year was taken
to the nearest shore to be bathed in the sea; it is in her temple that the
sacred olive-tree, the symbol of the city of Athens, grew, and the
sacred snake of the goddess dwelt; and it was this Athene again whose
priestess presided over the mysterious Athenian festival of carrying
the holy objects. As Nilsson put it, "Pheidias' statue of Athena in the
Parthenon was a show-piece; the real tutelary goddess of Athens was
the old olive-wood image in the 'old temple' (the Erechtheion), which
was said to have fallen down from heaven." 2 4
"However much the picture of Greek religion," Walter Burkert
wrote, "was thereafter defined by the temple and the statue of the
god, for the living cult they were and remained more a side-show
than a centre." 2 ' In fact, there is ample evidence to the effect that, as
distinct from other ancient civilizations, the Greeks firmly distinguished between two different categories of religious images, of which
only one could be considered as embracing the cult images in the
proper sense of the word. Like the statues of Artemis Orthia and
Athene Polias, these were the ancient statues whose origins had often
been miraculous or exotic, and, again like these two, they were endowed with magic powers. Thus, the wooden idol in the temple of
Dionysus at the city of Argos and the statue of Dionysus at Patrae,
reportedly the work of the god Hephaestus, were believed to have
been brought from abroad by the Greeks coming home from Troy;
the statues of the Dioscuri at Amyclae were said to have been discovered after the mysterious disappearance of the virgin girl in whose
room the gods stayed for a night; and the wooden idols of Phallic
See the ancient sources adduced under pulchritude ("beauty") in Pollitt, The Ancient View of Greek Art, 187-88, esp. Pliny, NH 34.54: "[Pheidias made] an Athena of
such outstanding beauty that it got the cognomen 'the Fair O n e ' " (Pollitt's translation).
Nilsson, Greek Piety, 11. On a similar contrast between Polyclitus'
chryselephantine Hera at the Argive Heraeon (see above, n. 21) and the ancient
pear-wood image of the goddess see Paus. 2.17.4-5.
Burkert, Greek Religion, 91.
Dionysus worshipped at M e t h u m n a e on Lesbos and of Apollo worshipped at Epidelion in the southern Peloponnese were drawn from
the sea.21' O n e could well go m a d merely by looking at one of these
statues: this is what happened to the Spartans who first found the
statue of Artemis Orthia and to Eurypylus, the founder of the cult of
Dionysus at Patrae, when he first saw the statue of the god. 2 / These
statues could inflict punishment on those who displeased them: both
Mithridates' general Menophanes, whose soldiers threw the wooden
idol of Apollo into the sea when they were looting Delos, and
Mithridates himself, were punished by the god; the statue of Dionysus
inflicted disease and insanity on the inhabitants of Calydon; Black
Demeter of Phigalia, whose statue was that of a w o m a n with a horse's
head, punished the people for not giving her a new statue instead of
the ancient one that was burnt; Gaius and Nero were punished for
taking the ancient statue of Eros to R o m e from Thespiae, and so
on. 2 8 But these statues could also endow a person with supernatural
abilities: " T h e Magnesians on the river Lethaios have a place called
the Tunnels, where Apollo has a grotto ... the statue of Apollo is
extremely ancient and gives you physical powers of every kind; men
consecrated to it leap from precipitous cliffs and high rocks, they pull
up giant trees by the roots, and travel with loads on the narrowest
footpaths." 2 9 T h e olive-wood idols of the goddesses D a m i a and
Auxesia, worshipped in Epidaurus, Aegina, and Troezen, were believed to bring fertility to the land, and so on. 3 0
It was the statues of this kind that were looked after as if they were
living beings and, like Artemis Orthia and Athene Polias, these were
the statues that stood in the focus of the cult. Quite often, they played
the central part in the re-enactment of sacred stories, an inseparable
part of many Greek cults. This, according to Herodotus, is how the
Aeginetans behaved after carrying off from Epidaurus the holy
wooden images of D a m i a and Auxesia: "This done, they fixed a
worship for the images, which consisted in part of sacrifices, in part of
female satiric choruses; while at the same time they appointed certain
men to furnish the choruses, ten for each goddess
Holy rites of a
similar kind were in use also a m o n g the Epidaurians, and likewise
another sort of holy rites, whereof it is not lawful to speak." And
Paus. 2.23.1; 7.19.7; 3.16.3; 10.19.3; 3.23.2-4.
Paus. 3.16.9; 7.19.7.
Paus. 3.23.2-5; 7.21.1-2; 8.42.5-7; 9.27.1-4.
Paus. 10.32.6.
Hdt. 5.82-83; Paus. 2.30.4.
Pausanias added seven hundred years later: "I have seen these statues
and sacrificed to them with the same rites as are used for sacrifices at
Eleusis." 31 T h e statues of the gods Apollo and Artemis participated in
the re-e