The Ficoroni Cista

This is the most famous of well over a hundred cistae (a cista is a cylindrical box for a woman’s cosmetic articles and jewelry) found in the Columbella necropolis near Praeneste (modern Palestrina), a town located some 23 miles southeast of Rome.  It dates to c. 350-330 BC.  It bears an inscription on its handle: “'Dindia Macolnia gave me to her daughter.  Novios Plautius made me at Rome.”

The typical Praenestine cistae is made of sheet bronze, with attached solid cast feet and human figures as handles.  This one’s feet are in the form of lion’s paws set on frogs.  The mounts for the feet are engraved with groups of three figures.  The handle on the lid is a youthful Dionysus flanked by two satyrs.  The lid itself depicts a hunt in an outer ring and lions and griffins in an inner one.  On the body, in a continuous frieze featuring no less than nineteen figures, and framed below by a band of sphinxes and palmettes and above by lilies and palmettes, is depicted an episode from the story of the Argonauts: the binding of Amycus to a tree after his defeat at the hands of Polydeuces.

Amycus, king of the Bebrycians, used to force passers-by to box him—and invariably beat his opponents to death.  Then Jason showed up, looking for water from a nearby spring.  Among the Argonauts were the Dioscuri—consummate boxers—so when Amycus issued his challenge, Polydeuces took him on and defeated him.  The cista shows the aftermath: Polydeuces ties Amycus to a tree as Athena and Heracles look on.  The other Argonauts rest.  Castor, twin brother of Polydeuces, trains with a punching bag.

Silver Denarius of Octavian

COIN A

Shown here is a coin issued by Octavian before 31 BC, the time of the battle of Actium, the naval conflict in which Octavian defeated Antony and Cleopatra to become master of the Roman world under the new name of Augustus.  The coin was used to pay Octavian’s troops.  But it carried a powerful message, as we will see, for those troops and for anyone else who saw the coins.  And that’s just the thing: coins have a way of getting around.

The obverse (to the left) shows the head of Octavian in profile.  Thin neck, hint of an Adam’s apple, strong cheekbones, large pointed nose: these are the characteristics of the man.  His head is bare and there is no legend, no long titles of office that one finds around the whole circumference of so many other coins of the late Republic.  The result a cleaner, simpler, more beautiful coin.  And there was more room for the portrait.  No legend meant that Octavian’s head could be larger.  We are invited to consider his features.  His forehead hair was a conscious imitation of the wavy locks associated with those of Alexander the Great in his youthful portraits.

The reverse (to the right) shows the standing, half-dressed figure of the goddess Venus.  Leaning her left elbow against a column, she holds a transverse scepter in her left hand and a helmet in her right.  Behind the column is a shield bearing a star with eight rays.

Seen in isolation, the coin suggests a connection between Octavian and Venus—and Venus not only as goddess of love but also as sponsor of warfare.  Hence her half-nakedness on the one hand, and her contemplation of the weapons of Mars on the other.

Now, the gens Iulia, the house of Julius Caesar, claimed descent from the goddess Venus (as the mother of Aeneas, who in turn was the father of Iulus, who gave his name to the Julian gens).  So when the eighteen-year-old Gaius Octavius was named heir to the assassinated Julius Caesar in 44 BC, he became one of the Julii.  He even took the name Gaius Julius Caesar, omitting the cognomen Octavianus, to stress his connection to his adoptive father (we call him “Octavian” to keep the two men of the same name distinct).  After the appearance of a comet in the sky (the sidus Iulium) during the Ludi Victoriae Caesaris of 44 BC, it was proclaimed that Caesar had become a god: later, in 42 BC, he became part of the state religion and the worship of the new god divus Iulius, the deified Julius Caesar, was introduced into all the cities of Italy.  His deification allowed Octavian to style himself divi filius, “son of a deified one.”  And that is what we read on the coin we are examining: CAESAR DIVI F. (F = FILIUS): “Caesar, son of the deified one.”  Note, too, the eight-rayed star on the shield: that is a reference to the sidus Iulium.  Octavian had been using the star for years.  So people knew what it meant.

But there is more to say about the coin.  In what follows we will consider the (controversial) reading of the coin by Paul Zanker (Augustus and the Power of Images, chapter 2).  Our coin (let’s call it COIN A) was in fact one of three denarii issued in a series, so to understand it we must look at the other coins.

COIN B

Another coin (COIN B) also shows Octavian’s portrait on the obverse, but the goddess Pax (Peace) on the reverse.  She holds an olive branch in her left hand and a cornucopia in her right.

COIN C

The third coin (COIN C) in the series shows, again, Octavian’s portrait on the obverse, but the goddess Victoria (Victory) on the reverse.  She is standing on a globe and holds a wreath in her right hand, a palm branch in her left.

There is a second series of three denarii corresponding to the three we have already considered.  Here they are:

COIN D

COIN D: The obverse shows a portrait of Pax (Peace) wearing a crown, with a cornucopia to the left and an olive branch to the right.  The reverse shows Octavian advancing in military dress, his right hand raised in act of adlocutio (a general’s formal address of his troops), his left hand holding spear over his shoulder.

COIN E

COIN E: The obverse shows a portrait of Venus wearing a crown and a necklace.  On the reverse is Octavian in military dress, his cloak flying behind him, advancing to the left, his right arm extended, his left arm holding a transverse spear.

COIN F

COIN F: The obverse shows a portrait of Pax (Peace) wearing a crown, her wings spread behind her.  On the reverse, a naked male figure (Neptune?) stands facing to the left, his right foot on the globe, his right hand holding an aplustre (ornamented stern-post of a ship), his left hand a vertical scepter.

Now we may put the coins together in their proper sequence in order to grasp what they meant.  Before the battle of Actium, Octavian delivers an address (adlocutio) to his army: the goal of his war against Mark Antony is peace (coins A and D).  At Actium, he leads his men into battle under the protection of his special goddess, Venus Genetrix or Victrix (coins B and E).  After the battle, he celebrates his victory (coins C and F) as master of the Roman world.

In the first series (A, B, C) the portrait heads are always of Octavian, and the three goddesses are shown on the reverse.  In the second series (D, E, F) it is the other way around: the portrait heads are of the three goddesses, and the figures on the reverse are Octavian—or, in the case of COIN F, Octavian in the guise of Neptune.

To understand a single coin, it is often necessary to view it in a larger context.  The coin spoke the language of legitimacy: “I am the son of the deified Julius Caesar and the rightful heir to his legacy.”  But it also offered the fighting men a program of action for the final conflict with Antony and Cleopatra: “Our goal is an end to war; we have the support of the goddess of my gens; we will be victorious!”

It is tempting to imagine these two coin series as analogous to stamps or baseball cards in our day: the soldiers could collect the coins and puzzle out their proper sequence in order to grasp the message Octavian intended—and which he no doubt spelled out when he spoke to his troops.

Dionysiac Revel by the Kleophrades Painter

This stunning Athenian red-figure amphora was decorated c. 490 by an artist known as the Kleophrades Painter—we do not know his real name.  He is named after Kleophrades the potter whose signature appears on another vase that he decorated (remember that potter and painter were usually two different artists).  Over one hundred vases have been attributed to him, in various shapes—amphora, pelike, kalyx krater, stamnos, psykter, hydria, kalpis...  The (incomplete) list shows that he preferred large surfaces for his grandiose compositions (bold relief-lines, large heads, and massive figures).

His career began c. 505 and ended c. 475—turbulent and yeasty years in the history of Athens.  These were the last two decades of the Archaic period in art history generally, but in the history of vase painting the Kleophrades Painter stood near the beginning of the new red-figure technique.  He was pupil of the Pioneers in that new technique, painters such as Euphronios and Euthymides.  (You know Euphronios as the painter of the famous kalyx krater depicting the fallen Sarpedon carried from battle by Hypnos and Thanatos.)  The Pioneers had explored new poses, new views of the body in motion.  The Kleophrades Painter, like his contemporary and rival the Berlin Painter, were the next generation, not so much daring experimenters as exploiters of the discoveries of their teachers, the Pioneers.

The pot that is the focus of this post is a pointed amphora, a shape usually meant for storage rather than display.  Undecorated, it is common; decorated, it is rare.  The ground line is a maeander interrupted by a cross in black squares, a rare motif.  Above it is a stock scene of a Dionysiac revel that goes all around the vase.

A bearded Dionysus is in the middle with an ivy wreath in his hair.  He holds a vine in his left hand and in his right a kantharos (a deep drinking cup with high vertical handles).  Over a broad chiton (long, lightweight garment, belted and with buttoned sleeve) and himation (mantle or cloak) he wears a panther pelt.  To his right and left are maenads, who defend themselves against lusty satyrs (under the handle and on the other side) with the thyrsus (pinecone-tipped staff).  The maenad on the left holds a snake.  Note the outlines of the legs beneath the diaphanous drapery.  The use of color throughout is striking—the dilute brown glaze for the panther skin, the snake, and the kantharos; the purple for the wreaths, the vine leaves, parts of the snake and the dots on the god’s ivy wreath.

The neck shows three young athletes: the one on the right carries a discus in his right hand, the one on the left holds two javelins, and the one in the middle is about to cast a javelin.  On the ground are another discus and a pickax.

“One of the greatest figures in the history of Athenian vase painting is the so-called Kleophrades Painter, who lived through the momentous days of the Persian danger, the Persian war, and the Persian defeat. His work reflects the strenuous and exalted spirit of his time. It shows that rare combination—an almost vehement joy of life and a quiet aloofness heralding the spirit of the Olympia sculptures.”  So Gisela Richter (“The Kleophrades Painter,” American Journal of Archaeology, 40/1 [1936] 100).

The Niobid Sarcophagus

This sarcophagus was discovered in a tomb built c. AD 135 outside the Porta Viminalis in Rome.  If you read our previous post on sarcophagus types, you will be able to identify this one as Western.  It has a continuous frieze, but only on three sides; the back is plain because the sarcophagus was set against the tomb wall.  Its lid slopes back toward the rear, as the side view shows (see below).  The front has a blank panel in the center (probably for an inscription) but is decorated with archer figures at each end, behind whom, at the corners, are masks.

The subject of the frieze is drawn from myth: the killing of the children of Niobe.  Niobe boasted of her fertility (Ovid reports that she had seven sons and seven daughters), going so far as to say that she had outdone the goddess Leto, who had produced only two children.  The goddess punished Niobe by sending her children, Apollo and Artemis, to kill all those of Niobe.  On the front of the lid we see Apollo and Artemis aiming their arrows.  In the frieze below the composition is framed by Niobe’s husband Amphion at the extreme left, raising his shield in a futile attempt to protect his dying son, and Niobe herself at the extreme right, who attempts to protect her youngest children.  Between the parents there is terror and carnage.  In the center is a rearing horse, whose unseated rider has been slung down before the animal.  Everywhere else are children either shot or fleeing, their pedagogues or nurses unable to save them.

This is the right side of the Niobid sarcophagus.  It shows Amphion and Niobe in mourning at their children’s tomb.  Note how the lid slopes back toward the rear.

An arrogant mother causes the death of her children.  Why would anyone choose to put such a myth on a sarcophagus?  That is a great question.  Several sarcophagi with this theme have survived.  And other sarcophagi depict similar horrors: Orestes’ murder of his mother or Medea’s slaying of her own children.  The question has often been raised of late, as scholars have begun to turn their attention away from artistic technique toward the meaning of art within its cultural context.

The Lefkandi Centaur

When the Mycenaean world suddenly came to an end c. 1200, the palaces, literacy, and the whole tradition of monumental art and architecture all went up in smoke.  Yet pottery continued to be made, though of much lower quality.  Indeed, in the period that followed, called the Dark Age (ca. 1200-900), pottery is the only constant in the archaeological record.  This period of cultural impoverishment, the Dark Age, in which there was really nothing in the way of representational art, lasted for three centuries.  Then an amazing thing happened.  Starting around 900 BC, Greek culture underwent a rebirth, a renaissance.  The pottery improved, with Athens as a major center of production.  A faster potter’s wheel, the compass, and the multiple brush were among the technical innovations. The resulting “Geometric” style is characterized by the use of triangles and rectangles, by circles and semicircles drawn with the new compass and multiple brush in dark paint on a light background.  Human figures reappear on vases.

Foreshadowing this renaissance is the famous centaur found in Lefkandi, Euboea, in 1969.  The excavators considered their find to be “the most remarkable work of Greek sculpture yet known from that Dark Age that followed the collapse of the Mycenaean civilization and that preceded the artistic revival of the eighth and seventh centuries BC” (V. R. Desborough, R. V. Nicholls, and M. Popham, “A Euboean Centaur,” The Annual of the British School at Athens, 65 (1970) 24).  Made of terracotta, it is about fourteen inches tall.  The artist used the potter’s wheel to make the hollow, cylindrical body but formed the human torso and the legs by hand.  The hole in front is one of two vents to insure proper firing in the kiln. 

Despite its large ears, the face has a human look.  There are holes the ears and nostrils.  The holes for the eyes may have held inlays of bone or stone.  His missing left hand may have held a branch or a tree over his left shoulder (note that there was an attachment there)—this is suggested by later representations of centaurs.  Tree branches are their weapons of choice.  There is a deep incision below his left knee.  As for the paint on his body, “the necklet-like bands at the neck, the panel of lattice-hatching on the chest and the mitra-like striped reserved area on the human abdomen, along with the zigzags, dog-tooth triangles and reserved lozenges on the animal body, are all probably to be seen as more decorative than representational in function” [Desborough et al. 25]).  The decoration recalls the patterns used in late Protogeometric and early Geometric pottery.

Was this a figure from myth?  Can we call it a centaur?  If so, was it a generic centaur?  Or was it perhaps Chiron, tutor to numerous heroes?  Jeffrey Hurwit thought so (The Art and Culture of Early Greece, 1100-480 BC [1985] 61.  The gash below the knee, he argued, could be an allusion to the story, preserved by Apollodorus (Library 2.5.4), that Heracles once gave Chiron an unhealable wound in the knee with one of his poisoned arrows (it was to end his suffering from this wound that Chiron ended up giving away his immortality).  In any case, the Lefkandi Centaur “is not only the first masterpiece of early Greek sculpture, it is also the first indication that the Greeks, who always told heroic tales, would eventually become obsessed by the urge to illustrate them and superintend a revolutionary change in the meaning of images.”

Types of Roman Sarcophagi

A sarcophagus is a coffin (the word means “flesh-eater”).  They were generally made of stone, sometimes of clay, and rarely of wood.  The Etruscans made sculptured sarcophagi of stone or clay from the sixth century BC; these were usually covered with a gabled lid or a reclining effigy of the deceased.  In the Roman world cremation was the normal burial practice (in cineraria or ash urns) until the beginning of the second century AD, when a dramatic reversal in their burial practice took place.  Inhumation in sarcophagi, once rare, was becoming the norm.  By the middle of the century, the use of sarcophagi was widespread.  The preferred material was marble.

Here we consider neither the reasons for this shift from cremation to inhumation (this is controversial) nor the subjects depicted on the sarcophagi and what they meant for those who made and visited them (also controversial).  Instead, we are going to look at the three basic types of second- and third-century sarcophagi, which correspond to the three main centers of their production in Rome, Greece, and Asia Minor.  The next time you see a sarcophagus from that period, you should be able to make an educated guess about its place of manufacture.

Marble sarcophagi of the second and third centuries were generally made from a single piece of marble.  And of course they had a lid.

First, the Western (Italian) type.  On Western sarcophagi only the front and short ends were carved (usually in lower relief than the front).  The back was left plain, because it was generally meant to be set against the wall of a tomb.  The lid usually had a front rising above the lid, which sloped back to the rear or was flat.  This front was decorated and often included a panel with an inscription.   There was often a mask at either end of the front.  Shown to the right is a sarcophagus carved in Rome c. 190, showing the triumphal march of Bacchus through India, representing the triumph of the deceased over death.  Note the decorated front and the masks at each end.

Second, the Attic (mainland Greek) type—made in Athens or elsewhere in mainland Greece.  The Attic type was carved on all four sides in a continuous frieze and in equally high relief, because it was not intended to be set against a wall.  Its lid was usually in the form of a gabled roof.  A sub-type features a lid in the shape of a funerary couch (kline), with a reclining effigy of the deceased on top (recalling the older Etruscan sarcophagi).  This sub-type is known as a kline sarcophagus.  Shown to the left is an Attic kline sarcophagus dating to c. 180: a married couple reclines on a lid in the form of a couch, and the frieze shows Greeks fighting Amazons.

Third, the Asiatic type.  This type resembles the Attic, except that the decorative carving on its sides does not form a continuous frieze but is divided into frames by columns.  Sometimes the figures seem to be standing in their own niches.  Asiatic sarcophagi were usually large, ornate, and in high relief.  Shown to the right is an Asiatic kline sarcophagus dating to c. 170.  The deceased woman reclines above gods and heroes in architectural frames.

Hermes & the Infant Dionysus

Hermes & the Infant Dionysus is often attributed to Praxiteles, who was a famous sculptor who worked during the 4th century B.C. It is made from Parian marble. This sculpture was found in the ruins of the Temple of Hera in Olympia, Greece.

It has a natural contrapposto, which is an Italian term for the stance in which most of the figure's weight is on one leg, its hips are twisted, and its shoulders are leaning the opposite way. It is a common stance for sculptures in the Late Greek Classical period in the 4th century B.C.

In this sculpture, Hermes is the larger than life-size figure with the contrapposto, and he his depicted holding Dionysus when he was a baby.

Even though the left arm is broken off, many suspect that he was once holding a bunch of grapes in his hand since Dionysus is the god of wine. Dionysus' arm is also broken, but it is assumed that he was reaching out for the grapes.

Tomb of Eurysaces

In a previous post on the pyramidal Tomb of Cestius, we had occasion to note that tombs could take a great variety of forms.  The Tomb of Eurysaces, built c. 20 BC, is another case in point.  Like Cestius’ tomb, it seems to have been built to attract attention.  Located just outside Rome at the intersection of two roads, the Via Labicana and the Via Praenestina, it was hard to miss.  Later it was somewhat easier to miss, dwarfed as it was by the grandiose double gateway built by Claudius c. AD 50, known today as the Porta Maggiore.

The tomb had a number of unusual features.  It had a trapezoidal footprint to fit into the angle between the roads.  Its profile was odd, too.  On a high base and within two wide corner pillars stood pairs of cylinders separated by a narrow central post.  Dividing this lower register was a horizontal member bearing an inscription.  Above it was the upper register, with three rows of large circular cavities framed by wide pilasters.  Above that, below the cornice, a frieze.  Then a roof of some sort.

The monument was made of concrete faced with travertine.  The eastern faςade has not been preserved, but a full-length marble portrait of a couple found nearby is thought to belong to the tomb.  A reconstruction is shown to the right.  Below the relief of the couple is an epitaph of Atistia, Eurysaces’ wife: “Atistia was my wife.  She was a wonderful woman, and the remains of her body are in this breadbasket."

The tomb becomes a bit less puzzling when one reads the other inscriptions and looks at the frieze.  “This is the tomb of Marcus Vergilius Eurysaces, baker, contractor—it’s obvious (apparet)!”  Why was it obvious?  For one thing, the frieze makes it clear that Eurysaces was running a large baking operation: it shows in detail the whole process: workers are depicted milling grain, sifting flour, mixing and kneading dough, forming loaves, putting the loaves into the oven, stacking the baked loaves in baskets, and weighing them in the presence of state officials.  And the cylinders in the lower register?  Kneading machines.  And the large round cavities in upper register?  Again, kneading machines, this time lying on their side, so that one could see the wooden paddles mounted on metal shafts (traces of rust in square holes attest to the presence of the metal mounts—we have evidence for such machines from Pompeii).  So Eurysaces created a monument that incorporated the tools of his trade and celebrated his success as the head of a major baking enterprise.  He calls himself a redemptor—a contractor—and this must mean that he was somehow working for the state, perhaps in connection with the annona or grain dole (i.e., distributions of food to the Roman people), or in connection with the Roman army.

Finally, a couple of caveats.  A good number of controversies surround this monument.  What was Eurysaces’ place in the social hierarchy?  Was he an ex-slave, as many contend?  Should his tomb be understood as an example of “freedman’s art?”  Lauren Hackforth Petersen questions that long-standing assumption and argues against the elite/subelite dichotomy in art history generally.  For her, Eurysaces  presents himself first and foremost as “a baker who fed Rome and as a Roman citizen himself.”  See Lauren Hackworth Petersen, “The Baker, His Tomb, His Wife, and Her Breadbasket: The Monument of Eurysaces in Rome,” The Art Bulletin 85/2 (2003) 230-257.  Another point: not everyone agrees that “apparet” in the central inscription means “It’s obvious.”  But if it does, we may begin to see Eurysaces as a bit of a jokester.  When he says that Atistia’s remains are in “this breadbasket,” the breadbasket (panarium) could refer to an urn in the shape of a panarium, or it could be a witty reference to the whole tomb.  Indeed, the whole monument has been seen as an architectural witticism.

Achilles and Penthesilea

On this black-figure Athenian amphora dating to c. 540-530 BC is depicted an episode from the Trojan War: Achilles killing Penthesilea, the queen of the Amazons who came to aid of the Trojans in their great war against the Greeks.  The figures are identified by inscriptions.  But what if there were no inscriptions?  Then we would have to look closely at the figures for distinguishing features, attributes.  The female figure is armed and wears a leopard skin—clues that she is an Amazon.  But what would allow us to guess that the undistinctive male warrior is Achilles?  And that the Amazon is Penthesilea?  The telling detail.  There was a tradition according to which—as preposterous as it may seem—Achilles and Penthesilea looked into each other’s eyes and fell in love at the very moment when he plunged his weapon into her chest!

Consider this rendition of the same scene on this Attic red-figure kylix dating to c. 470-460 BC.  The figures are usually identified as Achilles and Penthesilea because they are looking into each other’s eyes—the telling, identifying detail.  Note that there are no inscriptions to help the viewer this time.  Their absence means that the Greeks didn’t need them, either.

Peplos Kore

This is the Peplos Kore from the Greek Archaic period. The clues that let you know it's Archaic are the patterned hair in an elaborate hairstyle that looks similar to braids, the essential Archaic smile that appears on sculptures throughout the 6th and 7th centuries B.C., and the stiff stance with one foot in front of the other to suggest walking.

The Archaic period was the first period of sculpture that seemed to introduce realism. The details in the hair, the emotion in the smile, and the movement from the suggested walking all represent a form of realism that had never appeared in sculpture for the Greeks prior to this period. This is known as the Attic style which emerged during the Archaic period.

The kore is the feminine form of a kouros, and it differs because all females are clothed whereas most males are standing nude. The garment that the kore typically wears is called a chiton, a lightweight, single-piece garment, usually of linen, with buttoned sleeves and belted.  The chiton was was worn by both men and women at the time.  This kore is called the Peplos Kore because over her chiton she is wearing a peplos (a sleeveless single-piece garment, usually of wool, fixed at the shoulders with pins and belted).

The Peplos Kore was dedicated to the goddess Athena on the Acropolis at Athens in circa 530 B.C. It is made from marble and is slightly under life-size. This particular kore has small traces of blue paint pigments on parts of the garments it is wearing, and that tells us that at one point the entire sculpture was painted. Several modern replicas have been made with suggestions as to what the painted details may have looked like.