Ancient Greeks as Colorists

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Colored replica, Vinzenz Brinkmann & Ulrike Koch-Brinkmann, 2003

The Ancient Greeks painted their sculptures and temples, preferring a decorated surface to the pristine marble.  “If only I could shed my beauty and assume an uglier aspect / The way you would wipe color off a statue”  is a quote by Helen of Troy in lines written by Euripides in 412 B.C., as cited in this Smithsonian article on new color replicas of Ancient Greek statues. It highlights how colors were seen as beautifying agents. One of these new replicas, pictured, is of Artemis, the Goddess of Hunt (the so-called Peplos Kore) from the Athenian Acropolis. Somehow the paint brings the stature very much into life, rendering it more naturalistic and less stiff. Traces of red, blue, yellow, and green pigments have survived in the hair, eyes, belt, and garment of the original figure. Recent examinations in extreme side light have revealed further painted decoration. Thus a new and spectacular interpretation has been made possible through the examination of the pigments. 

 

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The color reconstruction of the original Greek marble statue, executed ca. 520 B.C., allows one to imagine how different the Acropolis itself would look if painted. The white pillars, cornices, and roof–not to mention all the sculptural reliefs–would have stood out all the more to the viewer’s eyes below. Today, this bright and bold mix of colors might seem garish to modern taste. Since the Renaissance, the tradition of bare marble was respected in statuary because it was a presumably classical tradition. Although evidence exited to the contrary, of the first art historians Winkleman wrote influentially about whiteness as being the most beautiful. There were people who took exception based on historical evidence, but they were largely overruled until recent scholarship. Although incontrovertibly accepted today that much of the surfaces of temples and statuary would have been decorated, it still requires a mental adjustment to imagine colorful Classical structures.

Parthenon_Reconstruction_Painted

However, even with accurate reconstruction based on analysis of pigment traces, I wonder if the Ancient Greeks saw the colors the same way as we do today. Radiolab did a wonderful podcast on colors, and the last section focused on Homer, the author of the Illiad and the Odyssey who presumably lived 200 or 300 years prior to the Peplos Kore and other Acropolis buildings. Those two epic poems display strange conceptions of colors, such as a wine-dark sea and wine-colored oxen, and violet sheep and iron. The poems never refer to trees or leaves as green, but call honey and faces pale with fear green. It suggests to some scholars, who did further analysis, that ancient Greeks saw fewer colors. That is, they literally distinguished fewer colors of the rainbow even though their eyes received the same information that ours do today. Complementary linguistic evidence suggests that worldwide people first only saw black and white, followed by red, and then yellow and green. Blue was always last.  Homer lived in a time where he presumably only saw black, white, red, some green and yellows, but no blue. The blue that later appeared on the painted marbles of the Acropolis is called Egyptian blue today, because the expensive pigment was imported from Egypt. But what would it have looked like to Homer?

 

Would the colorfully painted Acropolis and other painted Greek marble perhaps been seen as less colorful by the original viewers despite the careful research to duplicate the original colors? Perhaps the painted decoration would have seemed much more muted, or otherwise different, than recreations seem to us. It’s impossible to know, but the idea that the ancient Greeks might have seen color differently certainly ought to affect how we consider art objects from the past.

The Future Looks Different: A Radical Break in Representations of Science

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Screenshot of the 1960 film The Time Machine

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Screenshot of 1902 film Le Voyage dans la lune

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Raoul Hausmann, Tatlin at Home, 1920, Collage

When H.G. Wells wanted to travel in time in his 1895 science fiction novella, The Time Machine, he rigged up a velvet chair with some ornate brass fixings and levers, and George Méliès sent the first explorers to the moon in his 1902 film, Le Voyage dans la Lune, by pulling the string of a (really) big canon. Think, then, of the radical break of the avant-garde from what we now call a “steampunk” aesthetic. Rather than relying on known objects in the world, avant-garde groups like the Russian Constructivists made an entirely new visual language, one that used geometric, abstract forms and principles of materialism to create a thoroughly modern language. And it can be begun with this man portrayed on the left with the large metal apparatus on his head.

Vladimir Tatlin led the way to this futurist Modern aesthetic of a “skeletal form, modesty of materials, antigravitational thrust, kineticism, and, most crucially, its creation of volume without recourse to mass” (Maria Gough, The Spatial Object). All of which can be seen in his model Monument to the Third International, below. This 1920 design for a grand monumental building by Tatlin was created in response to a call for proposals for monuments, and, more than a monument, it was also meant to be a functional building that housed the headquarters of the Comintern (the Third International). The judges shrugged off the design for a non-figurative monument, and indeed, the technology did not exist in 1920 to build this towering structure containing three internal levels that were meant to revolve at different speeds.

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Vladimir Tatlin, Model of Monument to the Third International, 1920

Meant to be an iconic modern structure, not unlike the Eiffel Tower, Tatlin’s model was hugely influential even if unrealized, notably on Alexander Rodchenko’s Spatial Constructions. The Modernist elements–abstract geometries and undisguised use of materials and construction–became the forms of Constructivism, associated with the progress of science and society to a Utopian, Communist end. This 2006 abstract short film by Theodore Ushev is also inspired by Tatlin’s Tower and uses that same language.

Tower Bawher by Theodore Ushev, National Film Board of Canada

The Death of Baudelaire

Edouard Manet, The Funeral, ca. 1867,  Metropolitan Museum of Art

Edouard Manet, The Funeral, ca. 1867,  Metropolitan Museum of Art

In early September 1867, Manet attended the funeral of Charles Baudelaire, writer and critic. Another attendee of the funeral remarked that many of Baudelaire’s circle were away from Paris on summer vacation, so that

“there were [only] about a hundred people in the church and fewer at the cemetery. The heat prevented many from following to the end. A clap of thunder, which burst as we entered the cemetery, all but drove away the rest.”

This unfinished canvas, found in Manet’s studio after his own death, is thought to depict Baudelaire’s funeral procession. Baudelaire had been a friend of Manet since shortly after the publication of the first edition of Les Fleurs du Mal in 1857. In sickening health, Baudelaire published a revised edition with more poems in 1861, and went to Brussels to give a series of lectures. There he had a severe stroke that would foretell his imminent demise, roughly two (miserable) years later on August 31, 1867 in the arms of his mother.

Felix Nadar, Charles Baudelaire in an Armchair, 1855, Musee d'Orsay
Felix Nadar, Charles Baudelaire in an Armchair, 1855, Musee d’Orsay

* The two had been joined in a prior death that inspired an artistic work: the suicide of Manet’s model found in the artist’s studio was the basis for Baudelaire’s poem “La Corde” (The Rope), which appeared in Petits poèmes en prose.