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Changing Borders : Contemporary Positions in Intermediality
Arvidson, Jens; Askander, Mikael; Bruhn, Jørgen; Führer, Heidrun
Published: 2007-01-01
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Arvidson, J., Askander, M., Bruhn, J., & Führer, H. (Eds.) (2007). Changing Borders : Contemporary Positions in
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CHANGING
BORDERS
Contemporary Positions
in Intermediality
Intermedia Studies Press

Changing Borders
Changing
Borders
Contemporary Positions in
Intermediality
Edited by
Jens Arvidson
Mikael Askander
Jørgen Bruhn
Heidrun Führer
Intermedia Studies Press, Lund

Changing Borders is volume one in the Intermedia Studies Press series,
dedicated to present perspectives in contemporary research in intermediality.
First published 2007 by Intermedia Studies Press
This online edition (2016) have images improved on pages 190 and 194.
Changing Borders: Contemporary Positions in Intermediality

Edited by: Jens Arvidson, Mikael Askander, Jørgen Bruhn, Heidrun Führer
© The authors and the editors 2007 and 2016
In digital form Intermedia Studies Press is a CC licensed book series: Attribution-

NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0. The books can be freely downloaded as PDF
files and physical books can be ordered from: www.ht.lu.se/en/series/intermedia/
E-mail: [email protected]
ISBN: 978–91–976670–9–8 (online)

ISBN: 978–91–976670–0–5 (print)
Design: Jens Arvidson

IMS logo: Örjan Bellind
Printed by: Media-Tryck, Lund, Sweden 2007

To Hans Lund
Tabula Gratulatoria
Fred Andersson Arnfinn Bø-Rygg

Lund University University of Oslo
Jens Arvidson Charlotte Christensen

Lund University Lund University
Mats Arvidson Claus Clüver

Lund University/University of Gothenburg Bloomington
Mikael Askander David Dunér

Walter Baumgartner Lars Elleström

Greifswald Växjö University
Kerstin Bergman Axel Englund

Lund University Stockholm
Walter Bernhart Fernando Flores

Graz Lund University
Helena Bodin Johan Fornäs

Stockholm University Stockholm University/Linköping University
Magnar Breivik Annette Fryd

NTNU, Trondheim Copenhagen
Henrik Brissman Heidrun Führer

Gunnar Broberg Kacke Götrick and Sven Fehrm

Lund University Lund
Jørgen Bruhn Eva Haettner Aurelius

Malmö Lund
Siglind Bruhn Jonas Hansson and Kristiina Savin

University of Michigan Lund University
Per Bäckström Erik Hedling

Tromsø University Lund University
Florian Heesch Kathleen Lundeen
Frankfurt am Main Western Washington University
Bent Holm Roland Lysell

Copenhagen University Stockholm
Claes-Göran Holmberg Elisabeth Mansén and Jonas Ellerström

Lund Stockholm
Lena Hopsch Arne Melberg

Chalmer’s, University of Gothenburg Oslo
Els Jongeneel Stephanie A. Glaser

University of Groningen University of Copenhagen
Bodil Jörgensen Schylit Jürgen E. Müller

Lund University Bayreuth
Ole Karlsson Svante Nordin and Kristina Hallind

University of Tromsö Lund
Karin och Sten Kindlundh Anders Ohlsson

Lund Lund University
Søren Kjørup Birgitta Olander

Roskilde Universitetscenter/ Lund
Kunsthøgskolen in Bergen
Tommy Olofsson
Maaret Koskinen Hjärup
Stockholm
Jesper Olsson
Morten Kyndrup Stockholm University
Aarhus University
Ulrich Oswald
Erland and Ulla-Britta Lagerroth Stockholm
Lund University
Anders Palm
Sonia Lagerwall Lund University
University of Gothenburg
Fani Parafarou
Monica Libell München
Lund
Sarah J. Paulson
Eva Lilja, Kärradal NTNU, Trondheim
University of Gothenburg
Nils Holger Petersen
Tobias Lund Copenhagen University
Lund University
Ulf Pettersson Kicki Sjögren
Växjö University Stockholm
Irina Rajewsky Cecilia and Jan-Gunnar Sjölin

Freie Universität Berlin Lund University
Per S. Ridderstad Anna Smedberg Bondesson

Lund Lund University
Valerie Robillard Johan Stenström

University of Groningen Lund University
Eli Rozik Åsa Unander-Scharin

Jerusalem Stockholm
Kristin Rygg Paul Tenngart

Høgskolen in Hedmark, Hamar Lund
Beate Schirrmacher Anders Troelsen

Stockholm Aarhus University
Turid Schjønsby Carl-Magnus Trygg

Trondheim Malmö
Bernhard F. Scholz Erling Wande

Amstelveen Stockholm
Inger Selander Ulrich Weisstein

Lund Graz
Christina Sjöblad Erik Østerud

Lund University Trondheim
CONTENTS
Editor’s foreword 13
INTRODUCTIONS TO THE INTERMEDIAL FIELD

Intermediality and Interarts Studies / CLAUS CLÜVER 19
The Reluctant Muse:
Intermediality and the Natural Sciences / KATHLEEN LUNDEEN 39
INTERMEDIAL “MUSIC” CULTURE

“To Stitch the Cut…”:
The Record Sleeve and its Intermedial Status / JENS ARVIDSON 55
Words and Music as Partners in Song:
‘Perfect Marriage’ – ‘Uneasy Flirtation’ – ‘Coercive Tension’ – ‘Shared
Indifference’ – ‘Total Destruction’ / WALTER BERNHART 85
From Operatic “Urform” to a “New Opera”:
On Kurt Weill and Musical Theatre / MAGNAR BREIVIK 95
The “Scholarly” and the “Artistic”:
Music as Scholarship? / NILS HOLGER PETERSEN 109
Bel Canto at the Californian Frontier:
The Adaptation of Puccini’s Opera La Fanciulla del West from Belasco’s Play
The Girl of the Golden West / JOHAN STENSTRÖM 129
INTERMEDIAL “VISUAL” CULTURE

Everlasting Agonies: Baudelaire and Goya
(on Les Fleurs du mal, ‘Duellum’) / ELS JONGENEEL 139
Albert Camus’ L’Étranger Revisited by Illustrators:
Visual Artists and Literariness / SONIA LAGERWALL 151
Photos, Fiction and Literature / ARNE MELBERG 179
To Frame or not to Frame, that is the Question:
An Intermedial Study of Achim von Arnim’s “Die Majoratsherren,” its Frontispice
and Robert Campin’s Mérode Altarpiece / ULRICH WEISSTEIN 189
INTERMEDIAL “VERBAL” CULTURE
Intermediality in Culture:
Thomas Mann’s Der Tod in Venedig / HEIDRUN FÜHRER 207
“Ein, ganzer, großer Eindruck füllte meine Seele”:
The Gothic Façade in German Romanticism / STEPHANIE A. GLASER 239
Still Chasing Down the Greased Pig:
Cognition and the Problem of Ekphrasis / VALERIE ROBILLARD 257
A Whale That Can’t Be Cotched?
On Conceptualizing Ekphrasis / BERNHARD F. SCHOLZ 283
TRANSMEDIALIZATIONS
Transfiguration Transmedialized:
From Miraculous Vision to Musical Mirage / SIGLIND BRUHN 323
Tristan Transformed:
Bodies and Media in the Historical
Transformation of the Tristan and Iseut-Myth / JØRGEN BRUHN 339
Principles of Rhythm:
Temporal and Spatial Aspects / EVA LILJA & LENA HOPSCH 361
The Body Expressed in Word and Image:
An Attempt at Defining Cora Sandel’s Aesthetics / SARAH J. PAULSON 377
Medium Translations between Fictional Arts / ELI ROZIK 395
Notes on Contributors 417
Index 421
Editor’s foreword
With this volume, consisting of a collection of analyses and reflections in the research
field of intermedia studies, the editors have, of course, not strived to produce a poetics
of intermediality and its theory. The reader should, rather, read the texts presented
here as a wide-ranging kaleidoscope showing some aspects of the impressive breadth
and depth of contemporary intermedia research.
There are two obvious reasons for publishing this collection of contemporary
contributions concerning intermedia research. First of all, the articles included
mark a state of the art, at least in the shape of a small sample, of the intermedial
research produced today. And secondly, the book is meant to honour our friend and
colleague Hans Lund, a crucial person in Scandinavian and Western interarts and
intermedia research.
But there is a third, and better, reason, too. Contemporary art and literature
are marked by an increased intermedial interest, and – perhaps as a result of this
– a growing amount of academic research is being done, with or without the
term “intermedial” directly attached, inside and outside and on the borders of
the “proper” interart institutions. It could be argued that contemporary academic
research is being pushed forward by the wave of (a renewed) interest in mixing the
genres and media in a veritable expression of the dream of the Sister Arts – or ut
pictura poesis. Or perhaps one should argue that contemporary art and literature
is striving to, once and for all, bury the dream of the loving relationship between
the arts? Is a paragone between the arts based on the dream of a similar existential
or aesthetic foundation, leading to marriage or fight – or are the different arts
simply internally untranslatable? No matter: any reader orienting herself/himself
in the artistic and academic landscape in the western countries will realize that
the epoch of isolated art products as well as art and media studies belongs to
the past. And the idea that musicologists, literary scholars and art historians,
to name but a few of the important scholars in cultural analysis, must live in
isolated compartments (normally called departments) seems to be on the wane:
not only as a result of economic arguments and administrative practicalities, but
most of all because the idea of the autonomous academic disciplines, born in the
19th century, must now be considered an outdated concept. Scholars and students
around the world now realize that this compartmentalisation is no longer the
most productive way of organizing cultural analysis because the obvious way of
approaching cultural artefacts and aesthetic products is to consider them as being
intermedial as a primary condition, not as a secondary fact. The oft-repeated
dictum of W.J.T. Mitchell’s saying that “all media are mixed media” has become
13
Editor’s Foreword
a commonplace, in other words.1 The institutional results of this theoretical

concept remain to be seen, though.
The idea that all media are mixed media has produced a number of important
results in the field of interarts studies, but it has also made the very idea of “interarts”
problematic. Instead of considering relations between the traditional (high) arts the
contemporary heir to interart studies has been named intermedia studies (see also
Claus Clüver’s contribution to the present volume). Finally, the spell of the “con-
cealed normativity” (see Jens Arvidson’s article) of interarts studies can be broken,
and intermedia studies can take its place at the centre of any conceivable humanistic
analysis, not only when it comes to traditionally intermedial subjects like ekphrasis,
picture books or music-word-relations in songs. One vision of intermedia studies
could be to establish intermedia studies as a kind of propedeutic element in all
educative plans for the humanities (or even wider, see Kathleen Lundeen’s article
on intermedia aspects of the natural sciences): thus, intermedial studies should no
longer be isolated as a specialised department for researchers but as a pedagogical
entrance to culture studies in the broadest sense of the word.
Thus, intermedia studies do not strive to be an interdisciplinary field, a new disci-
pline, nor even a modest continuation of the earlier interarts studies. The essential
idea behind intermedia studies is that it is the discipline underlying any conceivable
study of cultural artefacts. Needless to say, it lacks an exhaustive catalogue or an
archive consisting of the intermedia studies canon. Yet it works its way through the
entire archive of Western culture by slowly rereading the existing objects of cultural
studies, and the current volume is a small step in that direction. Intermedia studies
operate within the cultural archive and fills up the anachronistic (and illusory) gap
that exist between the disciplines.
But, the reader might argue, several crucial questions remain to be answered: first
of all a definition of “medium” is lacking in this new field formerly known as inter-
art studies. What is a medium? And as a result of this: what is multimedia, what are
composite or mixed media? Most scholars work with a rather pragmatic definition
of the concept of medium, heading on for other questions concerning the relations
between different media forms. In his introductory chapter in Intermedialitet
(2002), a textbook for students, Hans Lund suggests an efficient, if also heuristic,
schematization of different intermedial phenomena:2
1
See for instance W.J.T. Mitchell: “Beyond Comparison: Picture, Text, and Method” in Picture
Theory. Essays on Verbal and Visual Representation, Chicago; London (p. 83–107), p. 95; “Showing
Seeing. A Critique of Visual Culture,” republished on a number of occasions, most recent in his
What Do Pictures Want? The Lives and Loves of Images, Chicago; London 2005 (p. 336–356), p. 343,
350; “There Are No Visual Media” in Journal of Visual Culture, Vol. 4, No. 2, 2005 (p. 257–266).
2
Hans Lund: “Medier i samspel” in Hans Lund (ed.): Intermedialitet. Ord, bild och ton i samspel,
Lund 2002 (p. 7–23), p. 19–22.
14
COMBINATION INTEGRATION TRANSFORMATION
Interreference Co-existence Concrete poetry Verbal ekphrasis

Illustration Advertisement Sound poetry Musical ekphrasis
Emblems Stamps Typography Program music
Picture & title Songs Print picture Novel into film
Music & title Video Sprechgesang Iconic projection
Photo journalism Comics Conceptual art Words into music
Picture book Opera Picture alphabet Cinematic novel
Liturgy Iconicity Theatricalization
Posters Image containing of text
verbal signs
The division of all possible intermedial relations into this triple framework has
turned out to be an extremely useful pedagogical instrument, and the framework
has been elaborated (in a semiotic direction) by Claus Clüver and Leo Hoek, as put
together by Eric Vos (and slightly changed by Clüver as presented on page 26 in this
volume):3
SCHEMA OF transmedial multimedia mixed-media intermedial

WORD- relation discourse discourse discourse
IMAGE [relation [discours [discours [discours
RELATIONS transmédiale] multimédial] mixte] syncrétique]
distinctiveness + + + –
[séparabilité]
coherence/self- + + – –
sufficiency
polytextuality + – – –
simultaneous – – + +
production
simultaneous – + + +
reception
process transposition juxtaposition combination union/fusion
schematized text > image image | text image itmeaxgte
text-image image > text + texte
relation
examples ekphrasis emblem poster typography
art criticism illustrated book comic strip calligramme
photonovel title of painting postage stamp concrete poetry
3
Eric Vos: “The Eternal Network. Mail Art, Intermedia Semiotics, Interarts Studies” in Ulla-Britta
Lagerroth, Hans Lund, and Erik Hedling (eds.): Interart Poetics. Essays on the Interrelation of the Arts
and Media, Amsterdam; Atlanta 1997 (p. 325–336), p. 326–327.
15
Editor’s Foreword
Border cases will always trouble such a framework, and stimulate new discussions,
but intermedia studies can found itself on such relatively stable divisions.
However, intermedia studies must, we believe, at the same time orient itself
after one crucial fact, namely that such a framework expresses one grave misunder-
standing: it seems to suggest that there exists genres or media that are unintermedial.
Contemporary intermedia theory stresses the very impossibility of this view; all
media exist on borders and the view from the borderland turns out to be the most
penetrating view of the entire field giving a new perspective on the central areas of
the arts.
The very existence of intermedia studies will, undoubtedly, pose new questions
and perhaps even provoke new answers: from questions concerning autonomous
arts to questions concerning the borders of the media.
Jens Arvidson, Mikael Askander, Jørgen Bruhn, and Heidrun Führer

Lund, November 2007
16
Introductions to the Intermedial Field
Intermediality and Interarts Studies
Claus Clüver
In recent years, a sign has appeared on the backs of cars that is expected to make
an immediately recognizable statement. It is composed of a short horizontal convex
line connecting on the left with a corresponding concave line, while on the right
both lines intersect. In many cultures it would be read as the simplest and most
abstract representation of a fish. And that is how it is intended to be read; but the
message it is meant to convey is an expression of faith. Those who use the sign and
many who read it will know that it has a long history: it was used as a coded sign by
early Christians, before their faith was elevated to the state religion. It reads indeed
“fish” – in Greek; and ιχθυζ (ichthys), or more correctly ΙΧΘΥΣ, was understood
to be an acronym for what in English would be “Jesus Christ God’s Son Savior,”
in a world view in which this connection would appear as anything but accidental.
Decisive for its effectiveness as a furtive sign was its intermedial nature, which made
it possible to represent the essence of one’s faith in two easily and artlessly produced
lines. The lines are part of a system of visual representation; but the “fish” they
represent belongs to a complex mode of verbal representation tied to the spelling
system of a particular language. Several instances of the visual sign grouped together
would represent no more than a school of fish; but in isolation and in a particular
context the sign stands for a Greek word which, tied to this sign, is likewise isolated
from all other instances of “ΙΧΘΥΣ” and assumes the character and functions of
an acronym. In the particular use to which it was put by the early Christians and
for which it has been resuscitated in our days,1 the sign belongs neither solely to a
visual medium nor to a verbal medium but relies on the codes and signifying power
of both; it is an intermedia sign.
The concept of “intermedia” signs or texts, along with those of “multimedia” and
“mixed-media” texts, forms part of the instruments operated by a transdisciplinary
field dedicated to the study of “intermediality.” The term is relatively new, and
1
The contemporary function of the sign, now available in solid, mass-produced form, is of a more
public nature and addressed to believers and non-believers alike. It has had a polemical response by
the production of a sign that has added to the bottom of the fish sign four angled lines signifying
feet, in a visual short-hand asserting the theory of evolution by which sea-creatures moved to land,
in defiance of Genesis. This has apparently been met with another sign based on the many cartoons
showing the bigger fish eating the smaller: the “walking fish” is being swallowed by a bigger one
without feet but inscribed with TRUTH in large letters – which turns the intermedia sign into a
mixed-media sign, as we shall see.
19
Claus Clüver: Intermediality and Interart Studies
there are as yet only few institutions offering courses of study and carrying on
research under this label. One of the earliest “Intermedial Studies” programs was
the Intermedia studies (first called Interarts studies) at the Department of Cultural
Sciences of Lund University, created by Hans Lund in 2001.2
The transdisciplinary discourse on intermediality that has begun to establish
itself incorporates the traditions of what some fifteen years ago began to be called
“Interart(s) Studies”3 and the discussion of intermediality carried on within the
“Media Studies” disciplines as well as the more recent investigations into the “New
Media Poetries”4 based on the digital media.
“Interarts Studies” has been a growing interdisciplinary area of the humanities, still
dominated by investigations into the interrelations of literature and the other arts, but
increasingly also involved with aspects of intermedial connections between the visual
arts, music, dance, performance arts, theatre, film, and architecture, where the word
plays only a subsidiary role, or none at all. The focus still tends to be on “texts,”5 and the
preferred kind of text, and for a long time the only one, has been the kind that could be
considered a work of art. Aesthetic concerns were initially of considerable importance.
“Media Studies” have often approached issues of intermediality in the context
of communications studies, where questions of production, distribution, function,
and reception have always played a significant role. All the areas studied – radio,
cinema, television, video, and also the print media – involve multiple media and
often complex technological production processes and apparatuses. Intermediality
is thus an issue both within each of these media and in their interrelations with each
other as well as with the “arts” covered by the traditional Interarts Studies. Here, as
in the other instances, semiotics has supplied useful concepts and methods in deal-
ing with a number of crucial issues.
The “New Media Poetries,” a more recent phenomenon, usually rely on digital
technologies for their production and for the most part on the computer for their
reception. Largely based on developments in twentieth-century visual poetry, where
the concept of “poetry” assumed new dimensions, texts produced in the various genres
2
Its roots reach back to a research program in Interarts Studies originally developed in Lund Univer-
sity’s Comparative Literature Department by Ulla-Britta Lagerroth.
3
The label was internationally established by the conference on “Interarts Studies: New Perspectives”
at Lund University, 15–20 May 1995; see the selected conference papers published in Ulla-Britta
Lagerroth, Hans Lund, and Erik Hedling (eds.): Interart Poetics. Essays on the Interrelations of the Arts
and Media. Amsterdam and Atlanta 1997. I myself had used the label in my introduction to the
team’s previous volume: Claus Clüver: “Interartiella studier: en inledning,” trans. Stefan Sandelin, in
Ulla-Britta Lagerroth, Hans Lund, Peter Luthersson, and Anders Mortensen (eds.): I musernas tjänst:
Studier i konstarternas interrelationer, Stockholm; Stehag 1993, p. 17–47.
4
Cf. Eduardo Kac (ed.): Media Poetry. An International Anthology, Bristol, UK 2007, the revised,
enlarged and updated edition of New Media Poetry. Poetic Innovation and New Technologies. Visible
Language Vol. 30, No. 2, May 1996.
5
“Text” is to be understood here throughout in the semiotic usage that refers to all complex signs or
sign combinations in any sign system as “texts.”
20
of media poetry will produce visual, aural (including musical), and kinetic events in
which the word (or parts of it) in its graphic and sometimes vocal dimensions may
play a leading role or (almost) none at all. Many media (and hypermedia) texts will
assign some performative tasks to the recipient, or computer operator; increasingly,
texts are designed to be interactive to the point that the operator determines the
course of events. Entirely dependent on the ever evolving technological possibilities
of the electronic digital media, such texts are entirely intermedial; moreover, they
can be instantly transmitted to receivers all over the globe, and can be designed to
invite the interaction of a global community. New Media Poetries will inevitably
require intermedial considerations in the analysis of individual texts even when the
major interest of a study is focused elsewhere. Their connection with earlier forms
of visual poetries invites comparison of the old media with the new.
The need to reconceive “Interarts Studies” as “Studies of Intermediality” or “Inter-
medial Studies” arose both from a realization that there had been a gradual change
within the theoretical orientation and the practices of the interdisciplinary discourse
and from an approximation of the areas of Interarts Studies and Media Studies.
While discussions comparing what much later came to be considered as “the arts”
have a long history that reaches back to antiquity, serious and influential academic
studies concerned with the interrelations of the arts began to be published around the
middle of the twentieth century. Étienne Souriau’s La correspondance des arts. Éléments
d’esthétique comparée of 1947 was one of the first, equaled in impact by Susanne K.
Langer’s Feeling and Form: A Theory of Art of 1953.6 Approaching the subject from
a literary rather than a philosophical and aesthetic angle, Calvin S. Brown’s Music
and Literature (1948) exercised a seminal influence in the US. The international
“Bibliography on the Relations of Literature and Other Arts”7 which Brown collected
and began to distribute annually in 1952, eventually under the auspices of the newly
founded MLA Division on Literature and Other Arts, served the literary community
as an immediate source of information about the growing number of contributions
to this emerging field, which in 1961 Henry H. H. Remak declared to be one of
6
American readers had been introduced to attempts at organizing the universe of the arts by Theodore
Meyer Greene’s The Arts and the Art of Criticism, New York 1973 [1940], and Thomas Munro’s The
Arts and Their Interrelations, 1949, rev. ed. Cleveland 1967.
7
See A Bibliography on the Relations of Literature and Other Arts 1952–1967, New York 1968. It was
continued in annual installments by a team of contributors under the editorship of Calvin S. Brown
(until 1972), Steven Paul Scher (1973–1984), and Claus Clüver (1985-1998). The 1974 biblio-
graphy was published in Hartford Studies in Literature, Vol. 7, 1974, p. 77–96. From 1985 til 1998
published in the Yearbook of Comparative and General Literature, it covered “Theory and General
Topics,” “Music and Literature,” “The Visual Arts and Literature,” “Film and Literature” (1974–
1984), “Dance and Literature” (1985–), since 1986 with author and subject indices and partial
annotation. Bibliography not included in Vols. 39, 41, 42, and 44; Vol. 40 contains bibliographies
for 1989 and 1990; Vol. 43 (1995) contains a partial bibliography for 1991–1995; Vol. 45/46
(1997/1998) a partial bibliography for 1996–1997.
21
the legitimate domains of Comparative Literature,8 a claim tentatively confirmed by

Ulrich Weisstein in 19689 and sanctioned in 1981 by Manfred Schmeling.10
Comparative Literature was at mid-century being (re-)established as an inter-
disciplinary program designed to deal with the interrelations among the literatures
in modern (usually Western) languages which were housed in individual disciplines.
Since its beginnings in the nineteenth century, the dominant orientation of lite-
rary studies at the university had been historical. Art history was the academic
discipline devoted to the visual arts and architecture, and the study of music and
the theatre was similarly organized; all of them were more recent academic fields
than Literaturgeschichte. Earlier in the century, art history had been reconceived as a
history of changing styles, an example followed in the literary disciplines. Comparing
the concepts used in determining the visual and the literary characteristics that
indicated changes of style, the literary scholar Oskar Walzel had detected parallels
which he found so enlightening that in 1917 he published a treatise on Wechselseitige
Erhellung der Künste. Ein Beitrag zur Würdigung kunstgeschichtlicher Begriffe;11
parallels perceived in the light of this “mutual illumination” have been central to
most attempts at constructing periods and movements across artistic media.
New Criticism shifted the focus of scholarly attention to interpretation and thus to
“the poem itself,”12 to the individual text as a quasi-autonomous entity. René Wellek’s
and Austin Warren’s Theory of Literature13 (1949) provided the theoretical underpinning
8
Henry H. H. Remak: “Comparative Literature. Its Definition and Function” in Newton P. Stallknecht
and Horst Frenz (eds.): Comparative Literature. Method and Perspective, Carbondale, IL, 1961, p.
3–37. This first Comparative Literature manual published in the US consisted almost exclusively of
contributions by members of the Indiana University faculty, where Horst Frenz and Ulrich Weisstein
had begun teaching an undergraduate course on “Modern Literature and the Other Arts” in 1954.
9
Ulrich Weisstein: “Exkurs: Wechselseitige Erhellung der Künste” in Einführung in die Vergleichende
Literaturwissenschaft, Stuttgart 1968, p. 184–97; English: “The Mutual Illumination of the Arts” in
Comparative Literature and Literary Theory, trans. William Riggan, Bloomington, IN, 1973, p. 150–66.
10
Schmeling included an essay by Franz Schmitt-von Mühlenfels: “Literatur und andere Künste” in
Manfred Schmeling (ed.): Vergleichende Litertaturwissenschaft. Theorie und Praxis, Wiesbaden 1981
(p. 156–74), his manual covering six “Aufgabenbereiche” of the field. – In 1979, the ICLA had
made “Literature and the Other Arts” one of the major topics of its IXth triennial Congress; see
Zoran Konstantinovic, Ulrich Weisstein, and Steven Paul Scher (eds.): Literature and the Other Arts,
Vol. 3 of Proceedings of the IXth Congress of the International Comparative Literature Association, Inns-
bruck 1981. In the same year, “La littérature et les autres arts” was the topic of a publication of the
Institut de Formation et de Recherches en Littérature of the Université Catholique de Louvain; see
La littérature et les autres arts, Louvain-la-Neuve and Paris 1979.
11
Oskar Walzel: Wechselseitige Erhellung der Künste. Ein Beitrag zur Würdigung kunstgeschichtlicher
Begriffe, Berlin 1917, English: “Mutual Illumination of the Arts,” introduced and abridged by Ulrich
Weisstein, trans. Kent Hooper and Ulrich Weisstein: Yearbook of Comparative and General Literature,
Vol. 37, 1988, p. 9–31.
12
Cf. Stanley Burnshaw (ed.): The Poem Itself, Cleveland 1962, an anthology of poems from the
major European literatures in their original languages, with prose translations and interpretive com-
mentary by master critics.
13
René Wellek and Austin Warren: Theory of Literature, New York 1963 (1949).
22
for an approach that insisted on the “intrinsic” study of literature as the proper scholarly
activity, relegating the study of the relations of literature with the other arts, along with
other non-literary concerns, to the non-essential “extrinsic” approaches. All of this
was part of a basically formalist discourse that took the ontological status of “Art” for
granted and was engaged in defining the essence of each of the individual arts,14 which
tended to confine their study to specific academic disciplines.
But the discourse also included those voices that, while sharing most of the
assumptions of the dominant paradigm, insisted on the interrelation of the arts and
on the long tradition supporting this view. Jean Hagstrum’s The Sister Arts. The Tradi-
tion of Literary Pictorialism and English Poetry from Dryden to Gray (1958)15 traced
in its first chapter the history of the ut pictura poesis concept from antiquity into the
seventeenth century, when poetry began to count on familiarity with the manner of
pictorial representation to complete images sketched verbally; the Horatian formula
has remained a prominent theme in word-and-image studies. Gotthold Ephraim
Lessing’s strictures against that descriptive literary practice in Laokoön oder: Über die
Grenzen der Malerei und Poesie (1766),16 which were based on a distinction between
time-based literary representation and space-based plastic representation, became a
point of departure for many twentieth-century investigations into spatial properties
of literary texts and temporal aspects of visual works;17 Lessing’s essay has remained
one of the classical points of reference in the discourse.18 Brown followed his first
book in1953 with a volume on Tones Into Words. Musical Compositions as Subjects
of Poetry.19 In 1955 Leo Spitzer re-introduced the rhetorical term “ekphrasis” into
literary discourse,20 and studies of verbal representations of visual representations
have become a major area of word-and-image studies. I later proposed to extend the
definition of the term to “verbal representations of texts composed in non-verbal sign
systems,” because the objects of such representations need not be representations
and are often in other media besides painting or sculpture, and the manner of such
14
Examples are Wolfgang Kayser: Das sprachliche Kunstwerk, Bern 1948, and Roman Ingarden:
Untersuchungen zur Ontologie der Kunst. Musikwerk, Bild, Architektur, Film, Tübingen 1962; English:
Ontology of the Work of Art. The Musical Work, the Picture, the Architectural Work, the Film, trans.
Raymond Meyer with John T. Goldthwait, Athens, OH, 1989.
15
Jean H. Hagstrum: The Sister Arts. The Tradition of Literary Pictorialism and English Poetry from
Dryden to Gray, Chicago 1974 (1958).
16
Gotthold Ephraim Lessing: Laokoön oder: Über die Grenzen der Malerei und Poesie, 1766. English:
Laocoön: An Essay on the Limits of Painting and Poetry, trans. with introduction and notes by Edward
Allen McCormick, Baltimore 1984 (1962).
17
Perhaps the earliest was Joseph Frank’s essay “Spatial Form in Modern Literature,” 1945, rpt. in Frank:
The Widening Gyre. Crisis and Mastery in Modern Literature, New Brunswick, NJ, 1963, p. 3–62.
18
Most recently in Walter Moser: “As relações entre as artes. Por uma arqueologia de intermidialidade” in
Aletria. Revista de estudos de literatura (Belo Horizonte), No. 14, July–Dec. 2006, (p. 40–63), p. 42–45.
19
Calvin S. Brown: Tones Into Words. Musical Compositions as Subjects of Poetry, Athens, GA, 1953.
20
See Leo Spitzer: “‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’; or, Content vs. Metagrammar” (1955), rpt in Essays on
English and American Literature, Anna Hatcher (ed.), Princeton, NJ, 1962 (1955), p. 67–97.
23
representations tends to depend more on the function served than on the non-
verbal medium involved.21 Particular forms of ekphrasis amount to intermedial or
intersemiotic transposition, the transformation of a text into a self-sufficient text in
a different medium or sign system. Such transpositions can also occur from word
to image (e.g., certain illustrations), from word to music (e.g., tone poems, but not
songs), and from the visual arts to music and vice versa,22 besides other media. More
common, however, is the adaptation of texts to a different medium, where elements
of the source text are carried over into the target text. This can involve adapting
a narrative to the stage, or plays to the operatic medium; most film studies began
with analyses of cinematographic adaptations of literary sources. The methods and
objectives of adaptation studies have changed considerably over the decades, but
interest in this kind of intermedial relationship is unabated.
The development of film studies from investigations into the adaptations of literary
sources to the medium “film” and the shifting conventions of cinematographic repre-
sentation and narration, usually carried out by literary scholars, into a full-fledged
discipline of its own had a remarkable impact on the interarts discourse and was one of
the factors that brought about its transformation and re-orientation. Besides introducing
into the study of intermedial relations the complex considerations involved with its
modes of production and the apparatus supporting it, the interests of many film scholars
in the Hollywood cinema boosted the growing tendency in other media to broaden
the investigations beyond “high art” into areas of popular culture, ultimately to include
objects of a decidedly non-artistic nature – frequently objects that defied accommodation
in any one of the traditional disciplines because of their status as multimedia, mixed-
media, or intermedia texts. This is a situation they share with many types of cultural
production. Before presenting a quick sketch of the developments and transformations
of what had gradually become established and recognized as the interdisciplinary
field of the comparative study of the arts, developments that led to the recognition of
“intermediality” as the central concern of all such studies, I find it useful to offer a brief
introduction to the concept of multimedia, mixed-media, and intermedia texts.
Opera is one of the many areas that would not be adequately covered by the
standard practices of any of the traditional single arts disciplines. It will obviously
21
See Claus Clüver: “Ekphrasis Reconsidered: On Verbal Representations of Non-Verbal Texts” in
Ulla-Britta Lagerroth, Hans Lund, and Erik Hedling (eds.): Interart Poetics. Essays on the Interrelations
Between the Arts and Media, Amsterdam; Atlanta 1997, p. 19–33. Objections have been raised both
to the term “verbal” rather than “literary” and to the extension of the class of objects to such temporal
media as music, dance, and other types of performance. I have dealt with poems on music in “The
Musikgedicht. Notes on an Ekphrastic Genre” in Walter Bernhart, Steven Paul Scher, and Werner
Wolf (eds.): Word and Music Studies. Defining the Field, Amsterdam; Atlanta 1999, p. 187–204.
22
In May 2008, the Université Paris-Sorbonne will host an international colloquium on “Musique et
arts plastiques: La traduction d’un art par l’autre” (call for papers by Jean-Jacques Nattier, Université
de Montréal, and Michèle Barbe, Université Paris-Sorbonne, April 2007).
24
fall into the domain of musicology and music history. But an opera is a multimedia
text that is meant to be performed. One can buy and read the libretto separately or
as part of the score. To be studied as an adaptation of a literary source text and its
intertextual contexts, it will have to be approached with the tools and background
of literary studies; treated as part of the score, the libretto will be approached as a
component of the operatic text. But a full study of an opera’s reception will have
to include not only the musical interpretations it has received, but also the ways
it has been staged, and that involves everything that makes theatre a multimedia
enterprise, besides the frequent inclusion of ballet interludes. This means considering
the collaborative efforts of stage director and set, lighting, and costume designers,
conductor, choreographer, and the performers on stage and in the orchestra pit.
Scores and movie scripts and a film’s sound track can be bought separately, and
overtures, arias, and ballet interludes can be performed in concert halls or as part of
dance recitals. But as they are combined in an operatic (or theatre) production, the
various media involved – such as the décor and the costumes – function only as part
of the whole. In a comic strip, image and verbal text are distinct elements, but they
would not be self-sufficient if removed from the strip. The same would be true of
the verbal and visual elements of a poster or a postage stamp. It is therefore useful
to distinguish between multimedia texts and mixed-media texts. “A multimedia
text comprises separable and individually coherent texts in different media, while
the complex signs in different media contained in a mixed-media text would not be
coherent or self-sufficient outside of that context.”23 A comic strip is a mixed-media
text; an opera score that contains the libretto is a multimedia text.
There are, however, texts that are “constituted by two or more sign systems in
such a way that the visual, musical, verbal, kinetic, or performative aspects of its signs
cannot be separated or disunited.”24 The “fish” text described in the beginning falls
into this category, which is usually labeled as “intermedia discourse” or “intermedia
texts,” but which might better be called “intersemiotic texts” because such texts will
often be housed in one medium. Concrete or sound poems are prime examples of
this type, and they are usually read as literary texts.25
23
I first published these definitions in Swedish in 1993. See Claus Clüver: “Interarts Studies: An
Introduction” (1992); Swedish: “Interartiella studier: en inledning,” trans. Stefan Sandelin, in Ulla-
Britta Lagerroth, Hans Lund, Peter Luthersson, and Anders Mortensen (eds.): I musernas tjänst.
Studier i konstarternas interrelationer, Stockholm; Stehag 1993, p. 17–47. The unpublished English
original was circulated among colleagues.
24
This is the reformulation of my previous definition, published (in German) in Claus Clüver:
“Inter textus / inter artes / inter media” in Monika Schmitz-Emans and Uwe Lindemann (eds.):
Komparatistik 2000/2001. Jahrbuch der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Allgemeine und Vergleichende Litera-
turwissenschaft, Heidelberg 2001, p. 14–50.
25
In Portuguese such texts have also been called “textos intercódigos,” which may be the most appro-
priate term but is untranslatable into most languages.
25
Using the criteria that I had established in my “Introduction,” Leo Hoek pub-
lished in 1995 a systematic account of the relations of intermedial transposition and
types of intermedial connections with regard to word-image relations; the title of
his study, “La transposition intersémiotique: Pour une classification pragmatique,”
indicates its semiotic orientation.26 In “The Eternal Network: Mail Art, Intermedia
Semiotics, Interarts Studies” Eric Vos synthesized in 1997 Hoek’s observations and
mine in a table derived from Hoek (Hoek, p. 77), into which I have reinserted
Hoek’s terms in square brackets:27
SCHEMA OF transmedial multimedia mixed-media intermedial

WORD- relation discourse discourse discourse
IMAGE [relation [discours [discours [discours
RELATIONS transmédiale] multimédial] mixte] syncrétique]
distinctiveness + + + –
[séparabilité]
coherence/self- + + – –
sufficiency
polytextuality + – – –
simultaneous – – + +
production
simultaneous – + + +
reception
process transposition juxtaposition combination union/fusion
schematized text > image image | text image itmeaxgte
text-image image > text + texte
relation
examples ekphrasis emblem poster typography
art criticism illustrated book comic strip calligramme
photonovel painting & title postage stamp concrete poetry
26
Leo H. Hoek: “La transposition intersémiotique: Pour une classification pragmatique” in Leo H.
Hoek and Kees Meerhoff (eds.): Rhétorique et image. Textes en hommage à A. Kibédi Varga, Amster-
dam; Atlanta 1995, p. 65–80.
27
Eric Vos: “The Eternal Network: Mail Art, Intermedia Semiotics, Interarts Studies,” in Ulla-Britta
Lagerroth, Hans Lund, and Erik Hedling (eds.): Interart Poetics. Essays on the Interrelations of the
Arts and Media, Amsterdam; Atlanta 1997, (p. 325–327), p. 325–337. I have slightly changed Vos’s
sequence. The examples are (mostly) Hoek’s, who may have found “mixte” and “syncrétique” to be
the most appropriate translation of “mixed-media” and “intermedia.”
26
I cite the table because it includes “transposition” as a category and offers a

visual representation of the decisive criteria, which refer to individual instances of
the types of texts listed in the examples. It does not reflect many of the subtler
forms of word-image relations. And while it can accommodate more complex
media connections than the binary word-image relations, it is not easily adjusted
to represent the internal and external relations of more complex media, nor does
it show the complexities actually encountered in the various genres of illustrated
books. Many illustrations are forms of intermedial transposition, but are juxtaposed
to the text; in many modern livres-d’artiste and children’s books, text and image are
combined or even fused in such a way that the image (and often the text) are not
self-sufficient, often as a result of the book’s design and lay-out. But while it may be
difficult to place such a book into any one of the categories, the criteria serve to sort
out a text’s internal intermedial relations. Few texts are purely multimedial. As our
glance at the opera has shown, how we approach the intermedial aspects of a text (or
even a genre) depends on the context and the objective of a study.
The schema is inevitably static and treats the texts as objects. It shares this
approach, as Vos has shown, with the concept of “intermedium/intermedia” used
by Dick Higgins and also by Peter Frank, which presents certain classes of texts as
situated between the conventional media. “Thus the happening developed as an
intermedium, an uncharted land that lies between collage, music and the theater,”
Higgins wrote in 1965.28 This is contrasted by the dynamic view of an intermedia text
offered by Jürgen E. Müller, who (carefully distinguishing between “intermedial” and
“intermedia”) has suggested that we should “understand the indissoluble connection
of diverse media as a fusion and interaction of different medial processes”29 – without
suggesting, however, where such processes take place. Tables like the one above are
certainly useful, but this schematized format offers no possibility to indicate, for
example, the various performative aspects of text reception that I have elsewhere
analyzed with regard to developments in text production and theory-formation
during the last fifty years.30
28
Dick Higgins: “Intermedia” in Horizons: The Poetics and Theory of the Intermedia, Carbondale;
Edwardsville 1984 (p. 18–28), p. 22. Higgins published the first part in Something Else Newsletter,
Vol. 1, No. 1, 1966; p. 23–28 were added in 1981. Cf. Peter Frank: Intermedia: Die Verschmelzung der
Künste, Lecture at Kunstmuseum Bern, May 31, 1987, Berne 1987. – I have elsewhere dealt more
fully with Higgins’s concept and his erroneous assumption that he was using “intermedium” in the
same sense S. T. Coleridge had used the term over a century before; see Clüver, “Inter textus.”
29
Jürgen E Müller: “Intermedialität als poetologisches und medientheoretisches Konzept. Einige
Reflexionen zu dessen Geschichte” in Jörg Helbig (ed.): Intermedialität: Theorie und Praxis eines
interdisziplinären Forschungsgebiets, Berlin 1998, (p. 31–40), p. 38 (my translation).
30
Claus Clüver: “Concrete Poetry and the New Performance Arts: Intersemiotic, Intermedia[l],
Intercultural” in Claire Sponsler and Xiaomei Chen (eds.): East of West. Cross-cultural Performance
and the Staging of Difference, New York 2000, p. 33–61.
27
This production includes such new genres31 as the happening, not only by
Higgins’ definition an intermedia event – and not easily accommodated by any of
the traditional academic disciplines, though certainly covered by the intermedial
discourse. There are other contemporary phenomena that exceed the domains
even of such multimedia disciplines as Theatre Studies. The most complex events
of all times (though with a history that goes back to antiquity) are the opening
ceremonies of the Olympic Games, which engage all the traditional theatrical and
ceremonial media including light shows and fireworks and rely heavily on modern
technologies. Though usually not directly using video effects, they are essentially
staged for the cameras, because the activities of the hundreds of performers, the
thousands of spectators filling the stadium, and the athletes moving into the arena
behind the flags of the participating nations, as well as the ceremonies of raising the
flag and lighting the torch, are simultaneously recorded and broadcast to a multi-
lingual audience of many millions around the globe according to carefully planned
strategies (though not as painstakingly arranged and controlled as Leni Riefenstahl’s
Triumph des Willens or her film of the Berlin Olympics of 1936, both given final
shape after the conclusion of the events). There are many such genres, old and more
recent – such as religious and civic rituals, processions and parades, rallies and pop
concerts – that are entirely based on the interaction of many media and can only be
adequately approached from the perspective of an intermedial discourse, no matter
what the particular interest of a study, whether ideological, anthropological, socio-
logical, semiotic, and so forth. The interdisciplinary, intermedial approach has also
opened up access to such hitherto neglected though culturally significant genres
as carmina figurata, emblems, broadsides and even medieval plays, which are no
longer approached (and largely dismissed) with the expectations of literary drama
but understood to have served, within their specific cultural contexts and as multi-
and mixed-media productions, significant functions for the community that created
and received them.32
Broadening the field and enlarging the perspective to include these phenomena, as
well as changing the questions asked and the objectives proposed for studying them, is
only one of the transformations that the interdisciplinary discourse has undergone, and
one of the reasons for the increasing inadequacy of the label “Interarts Studies,” which
go far beyond its intranslatability into French, German, and several other languages.
I have traced these developments and transformations elsewhere in somewhat greater
detail.33 Here are a few salient points, certainly oversimplified in their sketchiness:
31
On the questions involved in distinguishing between genre and medium see below.
32
Cf. C. Clifford Flanigan: “Comparative Literature and the Study of Medieval Drama” in Yearbook
of Comparative and General Literature, Vol. 35, 1986, p. 56–104.
33
See Claus Clüver: “Interarts Studies. An Introduction” (1992/2000); “Interarts Studies. Concepts,
Terms, Objectives” (1997); “Inter textus / inter artes / inter media” (2001) – all three essays
unpublished in English.
28
1. The developments of critical theory led to a widely accepted recognition

that such concepts as “art” and “literature” are cultural constructs and not
ontologically grounded. The concept of “art” has undergone profound
changes in Western cultural history and is not universally known in all
cultures, at least not in a form comparable to the Western “arts” discourse
since the 18th century.
2. Ever since the introduction of the “ready-made” and the “found object”
(Marcel Duchamp) into the artworld and their eventual acceptance by
that world, the status of objects as “works of art” has become dependent
on the dominant “arts” discourse. “Literariness” is not inherent in a
text, it is ascribed to the text by the interpretive community.
3. Some developments in contemporary artistic production (happenings,
Pop Art) tended to eliminate the distinction between “high art” and
“low art.”
4. The critical interest in many forms of popular art shifted the emphasis
from formalist and aesthetic concerns to investigations of audiences
and their expectations and needs and to the functions served by all cul-
tural productions.
5. Theories of intertextuality led to the recognition that intertextuality
always also involves intermediality, since pre-texts, inter-texts, post-
texts and para-texts always include texts in other media. An individual
text may be a rich object for intermedial studies.
6. Neo-avant-garde creations in all the arts tended to highlight the materi-
ality of the media involved.
7. Artists have increasingly tended to work in several media and to produce
mixed-media and intermedia “texts,” many involving performance.
8. The range of materials and physical media increased vastly – everything
could be turned into “art” (sculptures made from scrap materials,
installations, earthworks, mail art, music made from all manner of
sound sources such as hair dryers). New technologies gave rise to new
art forms such as musique concrète and electronic music, holographic
poetry, bio-art.
9. The interarts discourse became increasingly media-oriented and inclu-
ded the products of the technology-based (mass-)media in its investi-
gations.
10. New art forms have begun to develop that are entirely based on digital
media and are received via the computer, either by CD’s or increasingly
via the Internet. These art forms tend to involve visual, verbal (graphic
and spoken), sound (including musical) and kinetic materials either in
separable or in fused manifestations, and are frequently interactive.
29
Once “medium” instead of “art” has become accepted as the basic category for the
interdisciplinary discourse, the interrelationship of the various media is conceived of
as “intermediality.” This is how this research area now understands the object of its
investigations, rather than as “the interrelations of the arts.” But as any dictionary
will prove, “medium” has many meanings, and several of these are involved in what
constitutes “intermediality.” “Physical media” are the means by which any medium’s
complex signs are produced, such as the body; flute, percussion instruments; the
Moog synthesizer; oil on canvas, brush and ink on paper; marble, wood; the video
camera; voice; typewriter, pen; paper, parchment, skin; etc. Corresponding “media”
employing these physical media are dance, music, electronic music, painting, sculp-
ture, architecture, video, speech, typography, writing, tattooing (although the corre-
spondences are far from perfect, for many of the physical media above are used
in several “media,” including several not listed here). Then there are the “public
media” including the traditional print media (the press) and those relying on more
complex technological means of production (radio, television, video, etc.) that are
dealt with in “Media Studies” programs. In fact, these studies tend to restrict the
term “medium” to technologically based media. But to find a general definition
of “medium” that will apply to all those listed above and all others covered by the
concept of “intermediality” has proved a difficult task. One of the definitions found
in the 1975 edition of the American Heritage Dictionary offers a traditional view:
“A specific type of artistic technique or means of expression as determined by the
materials used or the creative methods involved,” which is exemplified by “the
medium of lithography.”34 Materiality and means of production certainly figure
more prominently in the concept of “medium” than in the concept of “art”; but
the desired definition needs a less restrictive focus. Two of the definitions given in
the Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary are relevant in our context: “a channel or
system of communication, information, or entertainment” and “a mode of artistic
expression or communication.”35 The first might be more acceptable to Media
Studies, the second more reflective of an arts discourse. But is it possible to find a
formulation comprehensive enough to suit both – and is it desirable to find one?
In his book Intermedialität: Formen moderner kultureller Kommunikation (1996),
which deals extensively with the concept, Jürgen E. Müller accepts the formulation
offered in 1988 by Rainer Bohn, Eggo Müller, and Rainer Ruppert, which defines
“medium” as “that which mediates for and between humans a (meaningful) sign (or
a combination of signs) with the aid of suitable transmitters across temporal and/or
34
See entry “medium” in William Morris (ed.): The Heritage Illustrated Dictionary of the English
Language, International Edition, Boston: American Heritage Publishing Co.; Houghton Mifflin.
International Edition distributed by McGraw-Hill International Book Company 1975, p. 815.
35
See entry “medium” in The Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary. Available at: http://www.m-
w.com/dictionary/medium (2007–01).
30
spatial distances.”36 There is an appropriately greater emphasis on communication

here, but “music,” “architecture,” or “holographic poetry,” in fact all categorical terms,
refer to more than a single text. Moreover, in the contemporary media discourse
“music” covers not only the generation and transmission of musical “signs” but also
the contexts of production, distribution, and reception as well as the functions served
by the musical text and its production: and all of this can hardly be accommodated in
a single definition. Furthermore, there are great differences between media categories,
which can only be roughly indicated here. The visual media are usually indeed
categorized by the means of production (especially the traditional graphic media); but
are installations and earthworks to be thought of as media or genres? Opera would be
a medium (like theater), and likewise electronic music, but what about song? Under
what circumstances should speech and writing be treated as individual media, and
what is their relation to the verbal medium? In the absence of a single noun to designate
the verbal medium (comparable to “music” or “architecture”), should “literature”
stand for the entire medium, or should it be considered as designating a class or type
within the medium? What are the distinctions we should make between “medium”
and “genre”? Generally, “genre” will refer to a sub-category, a class within a medium.
Song is a type of vocal music; should vocal music be categorized as a multimedia class
within the medium “music” or as a separate medium, like opera? Under the rubric
of “Mixed Media” Karin Thomas lists as one of its meanings: “Collective term for
all forms of collage that expand the materials involved, e.g., assemblage, combine
painting, environment.”37 That makes installations and environments sub-categories
of collage, but is collage a medium, like lithography?
In the discourse the concept “medium” obviously comprises diverse but inter-
fused categories, which will have to be carefully sorted out only when required by
the respective research interest. A general definition is likely to require more than
one sentence; moreover, it will only arise from the construction of a relevant media
theory that would support a comprehensive theory of intermediality. This is an
ongoing project, continually affected by the development of new media. It remains
to be seen whether the emphasis will fall on the processes of communication or
on the techniques of production, or whether questions concerning reception will
assume increasing importance.38
36
Rainer Bohn, Eggo Müller, and Rainer Ruppert: “Die Wirklichkeit im Zeitalter ihrer technischen
Fingierbarkeit,” introduction to Bohn, Müller, and Ruppert (eds.): Ansichten einer künftigen Medien-
wissenschaft, Berlin 1988, (p. 7–27), p. 10 (my translation). Cf. Jürgen E. Müller: Intermedialität: Formen
moderner kultureller Kommunikation, Film und Medien in der Diskussion 8, Münster 1996, p. 81.
37
“Sammelbegriff für alle Formen einer materialexpansiven Kollagierung, z.B. Assemblage, Combine
painting, environment.” Thomas, “Fachbegriffe zur modernen Kunst: Mixed Media,” in Thomas,
Bis Heute: Stilgeschichte der bildenden Kunst im 20. Jahrhundert, Köln 1981, n.p.
38
In 2006 Iwan Pasuchin published an overview of the numerous recent German-language publications
concerning intermediality and Media Studies with a view to the concenquences of these discussions
for art and media education; see Iwan Pasuchin, “Thesen zur intermedialen künstlerischen Bildung,”
31
The conceptualization of literature as a verbal medium and the theoretical

discussion of intermediality involving literature has been largely the domain of
scholars working in Germany and Austria, several of them professors of English. A
volume edited by Helmut Kreuzer in 1977, Literaturwissenschaft – Medienwissenschaft,
was the sixth in the series “Medium Literatur.”39 According to Jens Schröter, the first
to have used the term “Intermedialität” was Aage A. Hansen-Löve, in 1983.40 Peter
Zima’s Literatur intermedial. Musik – Malerei – Photographie – Film was published in
1995,41 preceded by Intermedialität. Vom Bild zum Text, and soon followed by two
other books covering central areas of Interarts Studies but carrying “intermediality”
in their sub-titles (Peter Wagner, ed., Icons – Texts – Iconotexts. Essays on Ekphrasis and
Intermediality, 1996, and Werner Wolf, The Musicalization of Fiction. A Study in the
Theory and History of Intermediality, 1999).42 But much of the discussion was carried
on in Media Studies, with a major emphasis on film. Jörg Helbig’s Intermedialität.
Theorie und Praxis eines interdisziplinären Forschungsgebiets43 (1998) staked out a wider
area. The contributions to the volume were not geared to a common definition of the
concept; the label appears to have been applied to at least three kinds of relations:
1. general relations among the media,

2. transformations from one medium to another,
3. the combination (fusion) of media.
There can be no question that restricting the concept to the second or third kinds
is unjustifiable. Intermediality must be seen as a comprehensive phenomenon that
includes all the relations, topics, and issues traditionally investigated by Interarts
Studies. It concerns such transmedial phenomena as narrativity, parody, and the
implied reader/listener/viewer as well as the intermedial aspects of the intertextualities
inherent in individual texts – and the inevitably intermedial character of each
medium. The concept therefore extends to the literary pictorialism explored by
http://www.ikb.moz.ac.at/downloads/IKB-Thesen.pdf (accessed 3 sept. 2007). I did not have access

to Irina Rajewski’s study Intermedialität, Tübingen; Basel 2002, whose position differs from that of
J. E. Müller, according to Pasuchin.
39
Helmut Kreuzer (ed.): Literaturwissenschaft – Medienwissenschaft, Medium Literatur 6, Heidelberg
1977.
40
Aage A. Hansen-Löve: “Intermedialität und Intertextualität. Probleme der Korrelation von Wort-
und Bildkunst – Am Beispiel der russischen Moderne” in Wolf Schmid and Wolf-Dieter Stempel
(eds.): Dialog der Texte. Hamburger Kolloquium zur Intertextualität, Wien 1983, p. 291–360. See Jens
Schröter, “Intermedialität” in montage/av, Vol. 7, No. 2, 1998, p. 129–154.
41
Peter W. Zima (ed.): Literatur intermedial. Musik – Malerei – Photographie – Film, Darmstadt 1995.
42
Thomas Eicher and Ulf Beckmann (eds.): Intermedialität. Vom Bild zum Text, Bielefeld 1994; Peter
Wagner (ed.): Icons – Texts – Iconotexts. Essays on Ekphrasis and Intermediality, Berlin 1996; Werner Wolf: The
Musicalization of Fiction. A Study in the Theory and History of Intermediality, Amsterdam; Atlanta 1999.
43
Jörg Helbig (ed.): Intermedialität. Theorie und Praxis eines interdisziplinären Forschungsgebiets.
Berlin 1998.
32
Hagstrum (The Sister Arts) and Hans Lund (Text as Picture44) and to the entire ut
pictura poesis topic as well as to the “musico-literary relations” first schematized by
Steven Paul Scher,45 a schema refined by Werner Wolf (The Musicalization of Fiction
– still with the questionable focus on the individual text and without concern for
production, performance, and reception). The concept covers all the topics included
in Intermedialitet. Ord, bild och ton i samspel, the textbook edited in 2002 by Hans
Lund.46 It covers likewise the interrelations among the “old” and the “new” media
and such issues as the analog versus the digital as recently discussed by Mark Hansen,
W.J.T. Mitchell, and Bernard Stiegler, and the topic of Intermedialität analog/digital,
a forthcoming volume edited by Jens Schröter and Joachim Paech.47
Questions of transposition, transformation, and adaptation are certainly central
topics of studies of intermediality. There are indeed instances of intersemiotic or
intermedial transpositions that appear equivalent to interlingual translations;48 but
they usually serve different functions than these, and any critical approach should
consider these functions. The majority of such transformations involves much more
than the re-presentation of the decisive features of a text in a different medium, and
the analysis becomes more difficult when this occurs between non-verbal media.
Adaptation should be considered as a form of transformation that may involve
intersemiotic transposition but requires a theoretical treatment of its own. Adap-
tations of verbal texts to the cinema have induced an extensive discussion, which
includes the question whether a film is indeed a multi-media and/or mixed-media
text or whether it should be compared, in essential features, to an installation, which
is probably best read as an intermedia text. One can argue that even though parts
of a story’s dialog and plot, as well as the “characters,” may be part of the film script
(and therefore continue to exist in the same medium), once enacted and filmed,
they are no longer the same: like the words in a performed song, as a part of the new
composite text the words are not the same as the words in print.
Discussions of what Jens Schröter has labeled “Synthetische Intermedialität”
44
Hans Lund: Text as Picture. Studies in the Literary Transformations of Pictures, trans. Kacke Götrick,
Lewiston 1992. First published in Swedish as Texten som tavla. Studier i litterär bildtransformation,
Lund 1982.
45
Steven Paul Scher: “Literature and Music” in Jean-Pierre Barricelli and Joseph Gibaldi (eds.): Inter-
relations of Literature, New York 1982, p. 225–250.
46
Hans Lund (ed.): Intermedialitet. Ord, bild och ton i samspel, Lund 2002.
47
“Critics Roundtable: Mark Hansen, W.J.T. Mitchell and Bernard Stiegler on Media’s Critical
Space, with Kristine Nielsen, Jason Paul, and Lisa Zaher” in Immediacy: Chicago Art Journal 2006,
p. 82–99; Jens Schröter and Joachim Paech (eds.): Intermedialität analog/digital. Theorien, Modelle,
Analysen. Expected to be published in 2007. See http://www.theorie-der-medien.de/
48
See Claus Clüver: “On Intersemiotic Transposition” in Poetics Today, Vol. 10, No. 1, 1989, p. 55–
90. Cf. Gwenhaël Ponnau and Andrée Mansau (orgs.): Transpositions, Actes du Colloque National
organisé à l’Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail sous le patronage de la Société Française de Littérature
Générale et Comparée, 15–16 mai 1986. Travaux de l’Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail, A-38.
Toulouse 1986 (involving literature, the visual arts, and music).
33
(cf. Hoek’s “discours syncrétique”) have often had recourse to Dick Higgins’s
concept of the “intermedium,” which, as Schröter has shown, had strong ideological
implications (Schröter 1998 p. 130–35). As a noun designating a new and separate
class of medium the concept has not been widely accepted. The placement of an
“intermedia discourse” alongside the ”multimedia” and the “mixed-media” discourses
shown in the table above seems to reflect the predominant view. But questions as
to whether a film is best understood as an intermedia text, especially with a view
to its presentation and reception, are likely to be discussed long after the status of
happenings, installations, and also “bio-poems” has been (temporarily?) settled.
These are mere hints at some of the basic issues faced by a theory of intermediality.
As a concept and a label, the term has been widely accepted to designate a discourse
that has not only far exceeded the parameters of the more traditional “Interarts
Studies” but also introduced new objects and objectives, interests and concerns, criteria
and methods. The concept of “art,” however understood, has certainly not been
abandoned, even though quite a few of the cultural productions within the purview
of “Intermedial Studies” would not be considered by an “art”-oriented discourse.
While studies of intermediality have been variously institutionalized in Media Studies

and Communications Studies programs, the Humanities have only rarely offered
institutional structures for the old Interarts Studies or the new Intermedial Studies.
For a long time the work has been carried on at conferences, through publications,49
by such associations as the Nordic Society for Intermedial Studies, the International
Association of Word and Image Studies or the International Association for Word and
Music Studies with their regular meetings, and by interdisciplinary research groups
such as the Núcleo de Estudos sobre a Intermidialidade at UFMG in Belo Horizonte,
Brazil. Serious study of intermedial relations requires competence in dealing with
the aspects of the different media involved that are relevant for the topic at hand.
Until there are academics trained as students of intermediality, scholars engaging
in such work are likely to approach a topic with the paradigmatic assumptions and
the methods of their home discipline. But just as young artists tend to work more
and more in various media, the younger generation of scholars will be familiar with
the codes and conventions of several media, ranging from the traditional to the
digital, as well as the many forms of media combination and fusion that characterize
contemporary cultural production. They will look for institutional spaces where they
can become familiar with the assumptions of the developing theories of intermediality
and competent in their application, spaces that also accommodate those intermedial
phenomena whose disciplinary locus has so far remained uncertain, such as the
medieval Mass, the Olympic ceremonies, or the seemingly simple: “fish.”
49
There are a few book series devoted to such issues, and a number of journals primarily dedicated
to intermedial relations, such as Ars Lyrica, Music and Letters, OEI (Stockholm), Representations,
Word&Image, and since 2003 Intermédialités. Histoire et théories des arts, des lettres et des techniques.
34
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37
The Reluctant Muse:
Intermediality and the Natural Sciences
Kathleen Lundeen
I am not, of course, referring to Hans Lund, who to our good fortune has been
anything but reluctant in intermedia studies. Through his scholarship, Professor
Lund has brought insight and imagination to a host of intermedia subjects. No,
it is not our friend and colleague from Lund University but Urania, the muse of
astronomy, who has often been a no-show at intermedia events. As the field of inter-
media studies has burgeoned, publications and presentations in intermediality have
celebrated an impressive range of art forms, but intermedia texts in the scientific
community have frequently been missing from the celebration. Notwithstanding,
amid studies of artistic intermedia at conferences and in professional journals there
have been analyses of sign systems whose aesthetic dimension is accompanied by a
strong utilitarian component. Lund has been prominent in that particular area of
intermedia studies, exploring, for example, the semiotics of inscribed architecture.
His illuminating essay “Alma Mater’s New Face: From University Seals to University
Logos” (2005) shows how the shift in the self-markers adopted by universities
reflects the dramatic cultural change in the conception of the university and its
mission. In an earlier essay, “From Epigraph to Iconic Epigram: The Interaction
Between Buildings and Their Inscriptions in the Urban Space” (1998), he lets us
in on those silent dialogues embedded in public structures. If we follow the lead of
Lund and other scholars who have broadened the parameters of intermedia studies,
we anticipate its full trajectory into the arena of the natural sciences.
Though the natural sciences have been conspicuously absent in many intermedia
dialogues, an engagement between intermediality and the natural sciences is underway.
In 2002 the journal Configurations, a publication of the Society for Literature and
Science, put out a special issue (#1, vol. 10) entitled “Media, Materiality, Memory:
Aspects of Intermediality.”1 The issue included nine articles on a range of subjects
– models and metaphors of media, literature as a product and medium of ecological
communication, the cinematic framing of the digital image, the rhetoric of the
media, and the metaphor of the environment in media theory, to name a few. In
2005 the journal Intertexts published a special issue (#1, vol. 9) entitled “Literature
and Science: The Next Generation.”2 The five articles in that issue addressed female
robotics, the neurodynamics of figuration, evolution and performance in an Edith
1
The website of Configurations is: press.jhu.edu/journals/configurations.
2
The website of Intertexts is: languages.ttu.edu/intertexts.
39
Kathleen Lundeen: The Reluctant Muse
Wharton novel, Ezra Pound’s art and science, and military nanotechnology and
comic books. As the themes of both sets of articles suggest, the intermedia/scientific
engagement has expanded our grasp of subjects in both academic areas and has
uncovered latent dimensions in those subjects.
In spite of the imaginative ways scholars have contextualized science with inter-
media studies, and vice versa, there has been a general reluctance among scholars
to subject science – the science we depend on to keep the planets orbiting on time
– to poststructuralist critique. (Analyzing the cultural effects of science is one thing;
unsettling the terra firma of our lives is quite another.) As a result of such reticence,
the natural sciences have to some degree been insulated from the cultural effects of
Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle. Though his theory has significantly influenced
the thinking and practice of natural scientists, cultural critics – who have exposed
with relish the self-implicating representational systems in the humanities, arts, and
social sciences – have not for the most part harassed the natural sciences. Even
Foucault, whose unsparing eye sees the most instinctive human conduct as con-
trived, gives the natural sciences a pass. In his classic essay “What Is an Author?”
he distinguishes natural scientists from social scientists by arguing that only the
latter can emerge as “founders of discursivity,” writers who do not just author their
own work but create the “possibilities and the rules for formation of other texts.”
He goes on to explain that natural scientists cannot function in such a capacity
since “the act that founds [the natural sciences] is on an equal footing with its
future transformations.”3 In an elaboration on the distinction between the social
and natural sciences, he writes:
[In the social sciences] one defines a proposition’s theoretical validity

in relation to the work of the founders – while, in the case of Galileo
and Newton, it is in relation to what physics or cosmology is (in its
intrinsic structure and “normativity”) that one affirms the validity of any
proposition that those men may have put forth […]. Re-examination of
Galileo’s text may well change our knowledge of the history of mecha-
nics, but it will never be able to change mechanics itself. On the other
hand, reexamining Freud’s texts modifies psychoanalysis itself just as a
reexamination of Marx’s would modify Marxism. (Rabinow, p. 116)
Poststructuralists, lurking in the shadow of Foucault, have tended to withdraw from

analysis of the natural sciences in deference to the universal assumption that natural
scientists uncover fixed laws, which operate independently of humankind.
The exception Foucault allows the natural sciences in his critique of culture links
him, ironically, to a new breed of critics, who oppose poststructuralism altogether
3
Paul Rabinow (ed.): The Foucault Reader, New York 1984, p. 114.
40
on the grounds that the material universe is not indeterminate. One of its advocates,
Roger Caldwell, states: “Critical realism […] rescues us from the postmodernist
nightmare and restores us to reality. We cannot manage without a concept of truth.
There is (as most of us thought all along) a pre-existing external reality about which
it is the job of science to tell us.”4 Caldwell goes on to say, “A central plank of critical
realism is that science can no longer be considered as just another myth or story,” and
then proposes, “if nature were merely a cultural construct, all we would need to solve
our ecological problems would be to change the terms of our discourse.”5 Put in that
way, it seems reasonable to conclude that the poststructuralist’s over attentiveness to
discourse has led to a myopic view of the world. Those in the scientific community,
however, argue otherwise. As a friend of mine has matter-of-factly observed, in
engineering, once a problem is clearly defined, the problem is solved.
Though many outside the scientific community are inclined to revere natural
laws and see them as indifferent to the vicissitudes of human perception and social
convention, laboratory practitioners retain a measure of skepticism about such laws.
The eminent physicist and Nobel Laureate S. Chandrasekhar writes: “There is no
solid ground for the general theory of relativity […]. We build our trust on the
internal consistency of the theory and on its conformity with what we believe are
general physical requirements; and, above all, on its freedom from contradiction
with parts of physics not contemplated in the formulation of the theory.”6 The
general theory of relativity, which is presented to the public as a unitary precept, is
in fact encumbered with contingencies that signal the subtle fluctuations inherent
in natural laws.
In recent years scholars in various fields have spoken more radically of the fluidity
of natural laws. Michael Murphy, a researcher in the field of human potential, states,
“a particular state of consciousness is like a particular scientific instrument – e.g. a
telescope or microscope – because it gives us access to things beyond the range of
our ordinary senses.”7 Arthur I. Miller, a philosopher and historian, also pursues the
role of consciousness in the scientific enterprise in his illuminating study Imagery in
Scientific Thought:
4
Roger Caldwell: “How to Get Real” in Philosophy Now, http://www.philosophynow.org/issue42/
42caldwell1.htm, 2003:42 (2007–05).
5
Caldwell, p. 3. Frank Pearce and Tony Woodiwiss have argued that Foucault is a realist but not a
“critical realist.” Realists, they propose, believe that both the material universe and the social world
operate independently of thought. Critical realists, by contrast, contend that the material universe
operates independently of thought but the social world is affected by thinking. I would argue that
Foucault’s distinction between the material universe and the social world, as noted earlier in this
essay, is in fact consistent with the difference noted by critical realists.
6
S. Chandrasekhar: Truth and Beauty: Aesthetics and Motivations in Science, Chicago; London 1987,
p. 150.
7
Quoted in Nick Herbert’s Elemental Mind. Human Consciousness and the New Physics, New York
1993, p. 223.
41
Since mental imagery is a key ingredient in creative scientific thinking, it

is reasonable to discuss an IMAGination. The limits of the IMAGination
of Heisenberg’s approach are as yet unclear, and when they become estab-
lished, new vistas for mental imagery may be revealed. It is reasonable
to suggest that through the research of Poincaré, Einstein, Bohr, and
Heisenberg, the course of twentieth-century physics has merged with
that of cognitive psychology. The progress of science is linked with
transformations of perceptions and imagery – for is not the history of
science also the history of theories of perception and imagery?8
Miller’s use of upper case letters underscores his contention that scientists do not
perceive preexisting natural laws but actually create those laws in the process of
imagining – that is, image-ing – them.
The arguments of writers such as Murphy and Miller suggest that the resistance
to critical realism, which might be more aptly named “neo-empiricism,” comes, at
least in part, from fellow scholars, many of whom show no signs of wanting to be
rescued by seventeenth century philosophy. In an analysis of the science and math
that underlie the art of Leonardo da Vinci, Bülent Atalay dismisses a distinction
often made between the arts and sciences, and in the process, illustrates the role of
perception in science:
An unfortunate banality in philosophy ascribes to science the exclusive

process of analysis, and to art, the exclusive process of synthesis. The
scientist, this platitude explains, takes apart his subject. The artist, puts
it together […]. [In] reality the scientist engages in both processes, as
does the artist.9
As Atalay notes, many assume that “the scientist operates as if physical laws already
exist, in unique form, and only need to be discovered, or to be extricated from
nature […]. in reality, the physical laws no more exist in unequivocal manner than
[a] statue in [a] rough block.” He then asserts: “In the hands of different sculptors
the block is destined to yield different forms. And in the hands of different scientists
the laws are destined to emerge in different form” (Atalay, p. 19–20). Similar to
Miller, Atalay draws attention to the unavoidable mediating role performed by
scientists in the course of their research. Perception, he reminds us, is not uniform
among people but always includes an imaginative component. The laws “revealed”
by scientists are in truth shaped by scientists, who, Atalay proposes, are comparable
to creative artists.
8
Arthur I. Miller: Imagery in Scientific Thought: Creating 20th-Century Physics, Boston 1984, p. 312.
9
Bülent Atalay: Math and the Mona Lisa: The Art and Science of Leonardo da Vinci, Washington
2004, p. 19.
42
In his study Atalay notes an even more intimate correspondence between the arts
and natural sciences. The visual arts, he argues, are intrinsically complex semiotic
systems, because they reinscribe the signs of the natural universe:
When magnified one hundred thousand times, the spirals seen in the
cross-section of the microtubules of the heliozoan resemble, in scale
and shape, the spirals seen in the horns of the ram. This shape, magni-
fied another hundred billion billion times, resembles the arms of a
spiral galaxy […]. Throughout history certain numbers and ratios in
nature have been incorporated by artists into their creations. These
numbers are picked up sometimes consciously, but usually unwittingly
as subliminal messages from nature. (Atalay, p. 14–15, 58)
In sublime reciprocity, artists internalize nature’s geometry, which enters painting,

sculpture, and architecture (consciously or unconsciously); the art, in turn, showcases
nature’s intricate spirals, golden rectangles, and so on, and imprints in the mind
their intrinsic significance in the universe. The symbiosis Atalay observes between
nature and art seriously challenges any notion that scientists and artists are engaged
in mutually exclusive enterprises.
It may well be that artists also internalize nature’s physics. In 1818, John Keats,
at the age of twenty-two, made the passing remark in a letter to one of his brothers,
“there is no such thing as time and space.”10 The precocity of Keats is striking; but
even more arresting is the prescience of William Blake, who in the early 1800’s
wrote in his visionary epic Milton, “Thus is the earth one infinite plane.”11 Though
for nearly two centuries Blake’s statement was read metaphorically, today it appears
to be literally true. The theoretical physicist Brian Greene states: “there is mounting
evidence that the overall shape of space is not curved, and […] the flat infinitely large
spatial shape is the front-running contender for the large-scale structure of space-
time.”12 Interestingly, the recurring image of a “woven” universe in Blake’s prophetic
poetry resurfaces in Greene’s discussion of string theory: “Just as a microscopic ant
walking on an ordinary piece of fabric would have to leap from thread to thread,
perhaps motion through space on ultramicroscopic scales similarly requires discrete
leaps from one ‘strand’ of space to another” (Greene, p. 351). The metaphor shared
by Blake and Greene points to the gaps and discontinuities in any text, verbal or
cosmic, but more importantly it reveals some measure of intuitive understanding
between the poet and the physicist.
10
Hyder Edward Rollins (ed.): The Letters of John Keats: 1814–1822, Vol. 1, Cambridge 1958, p. 298.
11
David Erdman (ed.): The Complete Poetry and Prose of William Blake, newly revised edition, New
York 1988, p. 109:32.
12
Brian Greene: The Fabric of the Cosmos: Space, Time, and the Texture of Reality, New York 2004, p.
249–250.
43
The assumed boundary between science and art dissolves altogether in Michael
Frayn’s Copenhagen. Through an imaginative rendering of a conversation that occur-
red between Heisenberg and Bohr in 1941, Frayn presents an elegiac drama that
redefines the scientific enterprise. The three characters in the play – Heisenberg,
Bohr, and Bohr’s wife, Margrethe – relate to one another according to the uncertainty
principle so that a slice of history unfolds as a verbal equation. In a postscript,
Frayn offers a brief review of Heisenberg’s principle, which elucidates the structural
elements of the drama:
the concept of uncertainty is one of those scientific notions that has

become common coinage, and generalised to the point of losing much
of its original meaning. The idea as introduced by Heisenberg into
quantum mechanics was precise and technical. It didn’t suggest that
everything about the behaviour of particles was unknowable, or hazy
[…]. The more precisely you measure one variable, it said, the less
precise your measurement of the related variable can be; and this ratio,
the uncertainly relationship, is itself precisely formulable.13
The uncertainty principle operates as both the theme and structural logic of Copen-
hagen. Even at the outset it describes the logistics of the characters: Bohr is positioned
– fixed, we might say – at his home in Copenhagen, while Heisenberg shifts around,
deliberating over whether or not to go to Copenhagen. Frayn presents their meeting
as though it could just as plausibly have not taken place and thereby eliminates any
teleology from the drama. In Copenhagen there are no foregone conclusions; indeed,
there are not any conclusions at all.
Throughout the drama the physicists are well aware that their actual lives mimic
their theoretical lives. (With Heisenberg, of course, it is the uncertainty principle;
with Bohr, the principle of complementarity, which argues that atomic phenomena
have complementary features, both wave-like and particle-like characteristics.) At
one point in their conversation, Bohr says to Heisenberg, in reference to a ski trip:
“At the speed you were going you were up against the uncertainty relationship. If
you knew where you were when you were down you didn’t know how fast you’d
got there. If you knew how fast you’d been going you didn’t know you were down”
(Frayn, p. 24). Moments later, Heisenberg states: “Decisions make themselves when
you’re coming downhill at seventy kilometers an hour. Suddenly there’s the edge
of nothingness in front of you. Swerve left? Swerve right? Or think about it and
die? In your head you swerve both ways.” Margrethe interrupts him: “Like that
particle […]. The one that you said goes through two different slits at the same
time” (Frayn, p. 25). The notion that catastrophic events are not the product of
13
Michael Frayn: Copenhagen, New York 1998, p. 98.
44
human determination but the byproduct of incidental chance occurrences is the

disturbing logic of the play:
Heisenberg: If we could build a reactor we could build bombs. That’s

what had brought me to Copenhagen. But none of this could I say.
And at this point you stopped listening. The bomb had already gone
off inside your head. I realized we were heading back toward the house.
Our walk was over. Our one chance to talk had gone forever.
Bohr: Because I’d grasp the central point already. That one way
or another you saw the possibility of supplying Hitler with nuclear
weapons.
Heisenberg: You grasped at least four central points, all of them
wrong. (Frayn, p. 37–38)
Brooding over the drama is the suspicion that life is a random sequence of events
without intentionality. When the physicists recall the drowning of one of Bohr’s
children, any explanation for why the accident occurred slips from their grasp,
which epitomizes the dynamic of the entire play: at no point do the characters’
thoughts or remarks seem to be inevitable. Since the substance of their conversation
wavers between possibility and probability, the text of Copenhagen hovers between
script and transcript. As the script of a play, it is an imaginative construction; as an
imagined transcript of a conversation between the physicists, it has the character of
an historical text. The indeterminate nature of the text – forever wavering between
fiction and reality – leaves it in limbo, suspended between the realms of art and life.
In contradiction to Foucault, who (as noted earlier) exempts natural scientists from
poststructuralist critique, Frayn shows in Copenhagen how the discourse of natural
scientists has the reliability of quicksand.
The interplay between certainty and uncertainty is also mirrored by the temporal
and spatial frames of the drama. Though Frayn specifies the date of the action
(1941), as well as the location (the home of the Bohrs), time and space seem to be
perfunctory references rather than stable parameters. At the beginning of the play
we learn, for example, that the characters are all dead, which throws the temporal
state of the drama into question. (Are we overhearing a recollected conversation by
the characters’ ghosts, or are we listening in on the actual conversation by way of
a flashback?) Similarly, the absence of stage directions erases a clear sense of spatial
orientation among the characters, who appear and disappear on the scene without
warning, and who act and interact with one another without logistical interference.
As the drama advances to its unsettling close, the uncertainty principle emerges as
the dominant character in the play, controlling the physicists, as well as the world
they inhabit. By allowing the uncertainty principle to exert itself at every turn,
Frayn illustrates in Copenhagen the power of paradigm, showing how every aspect
45
of a person’s world conforms not to intransigent natural law but to the principles
s/he has internalized as truth.
Beneath the unsettled surface of Copenhagen is a Foucauldian question – What
is a scientist? – which is met with a decidedly un-Foucauldian answer: a scientist at
his naked core is an artist. As the drama progresses, scientific theory takes on the
appearance of an aesthetic construction; but far from celebrating the camaraderie
of science and art, Frayn portrays the disturbing implication of their synonymy: if
science has the character of improvisation, it cannot be relied on to determine the
fate of individuals or of humanity as a whole.
In a series of public lectures, published under the resonant title Truth and Beauty,
Chandra explores the affinity between the sciences and the arts, and offers a more
hopeful Heisenberg. He proposes that “in the arts as in the sciences, the quest is
after the same elusive quality: beauty” and, citing Heisenberg, defines beauty as “the
proper conformity of the parts to one another and to the whole” (Chandrasekhar,
p. 52). In two of the lectures Chandra includes Heisenberg’s description of what
he felt upon discovering the mathematical consistency and coherence of quantum
mechanics: “I had the feeling that, through the surface of atomic phenomena, I was
looking at a strangely beautiful interior” (Chandrasekhar, p. 65). In his examination
of the role of imagery in science, Miller also draws on Heisenberg to illustrate the
“interplay between mathematical symbols and mental imagery” in atomic physics, as
well as the more general “interplay between logical syllogistic reasoning and mental
images” (Miller, p. 222, 226). Miller then offers an explanation of that interplay by
quoting Heisenberg:
What quite frequently happens in physics is that, from seeing some

part of the experimental situation, you get a feeling of how the general
experimental situation is. That is, you get some kind of picture. Well,
there should be quotation marks around the word “picture.” This
“picture” allows you to guess how other experiments might come out.
And, of course, then you try to give this picture some definite form in
words or in mathematical formula. Then what frequently happens later
on is that the mathematical formulation of the “picture” or the formu-
lation of the “picture” in words, turns out to be rather wrong. Still, the
experimental guesses are rather right. That is, the actual “picture” which
you had in mind was much better than the rationalization which you
tried to put down in the publication. (Miller, p. 248–9)
By privileging the scientist’s imagination over his/her rational construction of an

experiment, Heisenberg rouses us to see, yet again, how the objective ground of
science has given way in some quarters to a subjective space.
Miller, in his discussion of the disparate pictures of an experiment, describes
46
Heisenberg’s solution to the problem of translating an idea from one medium to

another:
In 1927 Heisenberg had permitted the mathematics of the quantum

theory to decide the meaning of and restrictions on the theory’s symbols,
which are tied to metaphors of a perception-laden language. By 1935
he permitted the theory to decide the representation of the entities
that the theory purports to describe. Consequently, the course of
Heisenberg’s research had led to permitting the syntax of the quantum
theory to determine its semantics, that is, the meaning of the symbols
and the representation of the objects that the theory characterizes are
determined by the grammar or in this case the rules of mathematics.
(Miller, p. 259)
Subordinating rhetoric to math in scientific discovery would seem to be a move

toward accuracy in representation, but it does not solve the problem inherent in
representation since math, too, is a sign system inflected by culture, and numbers are
inescapably encumbered with prior associations. At a simple level, numbers acquire
idiomatic status within a culture, especially as certain events – actual or fictional
– become part of the culture’s mythology. In the Hebrew Bible and Christian
New Testament, for example, the number “seven” and its multiples connote a
perfect totality (in Genesis One, the creation occurs in seven days; in Matthew,
Jesus instructs Peter to forgive someone “seventy times seven”); “three” indicates
a completed process (after three days, Jonah is delivered from the whale and Jesus
from the tomb); and “four” and its multiples signal a visionary condition (references
to “four,” “twelve,” and “twenty-four” are prominent in Revelation). Even in our
vernacular we find instances of numbers functioning idiomatically (“the sixty-four-
thousand dollar question,” “she looks like a million bucks”). Whatever knowledge
scientists and mathematicians communicate through equations and formulae is
mediated by numbers. Whether in the earliest stages of civilization words and num-
bers enjoyed a pristine existence, untainted by cultural memory, is uncertain. Both
have a mediating function today, however, and to ignore that function allows the
ways they have been encoded by culture to go unchecked.
Miller’s articulation of interplay between media in scientific discourse, together
with Heisenberg’s musing over the conflict between those media, practically summon
intermedia scholars to bring their expertise to the problems of representation in
the natural sciences. Intermedia studies naturally engage Heisenberg’s fundamental
precept since the stability – the knowability – of one medium typically results in
uncertainty in the other. Famously, Blake’s pictorial tyger in Songs of Experience
undercuts the credibility of his rhetorical tyger. But even in those instances of inter-
mediality where the media seem to be in harmony with each other, one medium is
47
invariably read as dominant while the other is relegated to a supplemental and less
certain role. Illustrated literature abounds with subtle differences between narratives
and pictures, which impel readers to assume a tacit hierarchy between the words and
images. Intermedia scholars, skilled in analyzing the complexities of mixed media,
are well positioned to extend their analysis to the media-rich discourse of scientists,
and this is an area that deserves more of their attention.
In the 1980’s, a graduate professor of mine predicted that in the near future
traditional literature departments would go the way of classics departments and
become havens for an increasingly small group of true believers while the mainstream
study of literature would become a branch of the social sciences. Since his prediction,
literature departments have, in fact, neither been assimilated into the social sciences
nor have they become insular units for undisturbed musing (a characterization of
classics departments that is certainly not true today, if it ever was). Indeed, they
continue to thrive at colleges and universities as independent disciplinary units that
have non-threatening alliances with other disciplines. My professor was prescient in
one respect, however: though literature departments have remained solidly within
the humanities, literary scholars have continued to encroach on the social sciences.
By studying texts through a variety of cultural frameworks, scholars have closely
aligned themselves with political scientists and sociologists, and in many instances
their work has unwittingly argued that they are a breed of social scientists. If anything,
however, my professor was too modest in his prediction. Literary scholars have not
restrained their incursions to the social sciences, but, as noted at the beginning
of this essay, they have steadily moved into the natural sciences, finding biology,
physics, chemistry, etc. to be fertile fields for their semiotic expertise.
Though at many universities there are still administrative and geographical
divisions between the humanities and the natural sciences – with science and litera-
ture departments in separate colleges and often in different areas of the campus
– some universities have established interdisciplinary programs that join the two
academic arenas. Brown University, for example, has a Department of the History
of Mathematics; Harvard University, a Department of Visual and Environmental
Sciences; and Columbia University, a Department of the Philosophical Foundations
of Physics. As more disciplinary fusions between the natural sciences and the
humanities take place, it is likely that the curricula of such programs will include
courses in semiotics, which will require instructors who are sophisticated analysts
of intermedia. In time, scholars in that area, no doubt, will be regularly enlisted to
teach courses in the cultural history of science if those courses pursue what Hugo
Caviola, a scholar in the field of education, has referred to as “macro-rhetoric”:
It is […] due to the fixation of many historians of science on the

accretion concept of the history of science that the interdisciplinary
potential of […] basic metaphors has long been overlooked. If an
48
entire period can be dominated by one (or a few) shared metaphor(s)

it must be possible to lay them bare and thus integrate seemingly
disparate discourses synchronically. In order to see such metaphorical
ramifications, however, the history of science would have to give up
its obsession with sequence and chronology. Instead, it would have to
open up its perspective on the intra- and extrascientific resonance such
paradigmatic metaphors have.14
Along with examining the macro-rhetoric that influences scientific discourse, there
is a need to examine the micro-rhetoric of a language. In an epigraph to Imagery
in Scientific Thought, Miller quotes Bohr: “Indeed, we find ourselves here on the
very path taken by Einstein of adapting our modes of perception borrowed from
the sensations to the gradually deepening knowledge of the laws of Nature. The
hindrances met on this path originate above all in the fact that, so to say, every
word in the language refers to our ordinary perception” (Miller, p. 1). Language, at
least in Western culture, has an inherent empirical bias. The problem articulated by
Bohr is compounded for those whose written texts are accompanied by visual texts
since iconography is also rooted in empirical perception. Once again, it is scholars
of intermedia who are poised to respond to such dilemmas since their savvy in
aesthetic mediation is often accompanied by an understanding of phenomenology.
Many scientists acknowledge the role of perception in scientific discovery
and the role of representation in scientific reports. Miller states: “when scientists
hold a theory, they hold a particular mode of imagery as well,” and then notes,
“Examination of historical studies reveals that scientists’ willingness to change their
imagery is influenced by their research” (Miller, p. 312). What Miller does not
mention is that a change of imagery is also caused by changes in a culture’s modes of
representation. Scientific change is not propelled by scientific research alone but is
motivated in part by changes in the semiotic systems in the larger culture. Intermedia
scholars are needed to analyze the iconography of illustrations, diagrams, charts,
and formulae of scientific discourse (especially when those sign systems are used as a
counterpoint to written text). They are also needed to uncover the ways the verbal/
visual discourse of scientists both surrenders to the conventions of the existing sign
systems in a culture and alters those conventions. As noted at the outset of this essay,
the discourse of scientists, especially the nonlinguistic signs, has been granted a
large measure of immunity to poststructuralist theories of representation. But just as
music is unavoidably programmatic since we live in a world of sound, mathematical
symbols and scientific drawings are inescapably trapped in a pre-existing world
of icons. As analysts of the discourse of chemists, biologists, physicists, and other
14
Hugo Caviola: “The Rhetoric of Interdisciplinarity” in Martin Heusser, Michèle Hannoosh, Leo Hoek,
Charlotte Schoell-Glass, and David Scott (eds.): Text and Visuality, Amsterdam; Atlanta 1999, p. 50.
49
natural scientists, intermedia scholars can address such questions as: How are the
visual/verbal sign systems of natural scientists involuntarily encoded? How do their
different media resignify each other? What are the ideological dimensions of their
intermedia discourse? How do their modes of representation affect the reception of
their discoveries within the larger culture?
At present, intermedia scholars are one step behind scientists, performing the
role of cultural interpreters of scientific communication. Since a scientist’s rhetoric
is not an afterthought but an active player in the construction of scientific theory,
however, the time may well be approaching when collaborations between scientists
and intermedia scholars will be a matter of course. When that day arrives, scientists
will team up with experts in intermediality during the research process, and
through that teamwork, they will be able to develop, in tandem with their scientific
discoveries, a verbal/visual discourse that is deeply aware of its complex cultural
ramifications.
50
References
Atalay, Bülent: Math and the Mona Lisa: The Art and Science of Leonardo da Vinci, Washington
2004.
Caldwell, Roger: “How to Get Real” in Philosophy Now, http://www.philosophynow.org/
issue42/42caldwell1.htm, 2003:42 (2007–05).
Caviola, Hugo: “The Rhetoric of Interdisciplinarity” in Heusser, Martin, Hannoosh,
Michèle, Hoek, Leo, Schoell-Glass, Charlotte, and Scott, David (eds.): Text and
Visuality, Amsterdam; Atlanta 1999.
Chandrasekhar, S.: Truth and Beauty: Aesthetics and Motivations in Science, Chicago; London
1987.
Erdman, David (ed.): The Complete Poetry and Prose of William Blake, newly revised edition,
New York 1988.
Frayn, Michael: Copenhagen, New York 1998.
Greene, Brian: The Fabric of the Cosmos: Space, Time, and the Texture of Reality, New York 2004.
Herbert, Nick: Elemental Mind: Human Consciousness and the New Physics, New York 1993.
Lund, Hans: “Alma Mater’s New Face: From University Seals to University Logos” in Clüver,
Claus, Plesch, Véronique, and Hoek, Leo (eds.): Orientations: Space/Time/Image/Word,
Amsterdam; New York 2005 (p. 247–261).
Lund, Hans: “From Epigraph to Iconic Epigram: The Interaction Between Buildings and
Their Inscriptions in the Urban Space” in Heusser, Martin, Clüver, Claus, Hoek, Leo,
and Weingarden, Lauren (eds.): The Pictured Word, Amsterdam; Atlanta 1998 (p.
327–335).
Miller, Arthur I.: Imagery in Scientific Thought: Creating 20th-Century Physics, Boston 1984.
Pearce, Frank and Woodiwiss, Tony: “Reading Foucault as a Realist” in López, José and
Potter, Garry (eds.): After Postmodernism: An Introduction to Critical Realism, London;
New York 2001 (p. 51–62).
Rabinow, Paul (ed.): The Foucault Reader, New York 1984.
Rollins, Hyder Edward (ed.): The Letters of John Keats: 1814–1822, 2 Vols., Cambridge 1958.
51
Intermedial “Music” Culture
“To Stitch the Cut…”:
The Record Sleeve and its Intermedial Status
Jens Arvidson
A record sleeve is the physical enclosure of a record with the purpose of protecting it.
Most often there is also some kind of graphic art on it, which is regularly considered
to be its primacy – especially the front side graphics. Additionally, the sleeve has a
title of the recording, information about the artist, its contents and manufacturer.
All this is routinely regarded as a familiar framing for the recorded music.
Seen in a wider context the record sleeve belongs to the broader category of
intermedia aesthetics labelled “music packaging,”1 i.e. the combining of visual
and/or verbal media to enhance the experience of the recorded music. Historically,
the category of music packaging could be said to be as old as recordings of music
– what Philip Auslander describes as “recordings as material objects.”2 Included in
these objects are the piano roll, the Edison cylinder, the 78-rpm disc, the LP, the
7-inch single, the 12-inch single, the cassette, and the compact disc – and now
the “dematerialized” mp3 file.3 Even the 19th century mass-produced printed score
has been considered as the very first such material object, despite the fact that it
is not a recording (Auslander, p. 77). The printed score has also been identified
as or assumed to be the initial step towards a visual packaging of its music; hence
the illustration on sheet music has been considered a genealogy of the illustrated
record sleeve.4 The record sleeve as such – associated with the 78-rpm disc, the
LP, the 7-inch single, the 12-inch single, and the compact disc – is as old as the
gramophone record from the late 19th century.5 At that point in time the sleeve
was merely a physical protection with no real picture elements; the record sleeve as
music packaging for recorded music in the strict sense (the illustrated form), did not
1
Charlotte Rivers: CD-Art. Innovation in CD Packaging Design, Mies; Hove 2003, p. 12.
2
Philip Auslander: “Looking at Records” in The Drama Review, Vol. 45, No. 1, 2001 (p. 77–83), p.
77. Another describing term Auslander uses is “material support for the music itself,” p. 77.
3
The music video is another genre that would fit the label music packaging.
4
Nicholas Cook: “The Domestic Gesamtkunstwerk, or Record Sleeves and Reception” in Wyndham
Thomas (ed.): Composition – Performance – Reception. Studies in the Creative Process in Music,
Aldershot 1998 (p. 105–117), p. 105; Nick de Ville: Album Style and Image in Sleeve Design, London
2003, p. 16. See also: Jennifer McKnight-Trontz, Alex Steinweiss, and Steven Heller: For the Record.
The Life and Works of Alex Steinweiss. Inventor of Album Cover, New York 2000, and Eric Kohler: In
the Groove. Vintage Record Graphics 1940–1960, San Francisco; London 1999.
5
In 1887 the German Emile Berliner presented the gramophone, a development of Edison’s phono-
graph. At the end of the 19th century, this simply mass-produced round record had its commercial
breakthrough.
55
Jens Arvidson: ”To Stitch the Cut…”
appear until the late 1930s.6

For some time the musical object, the aural experience of recorded music,
was separated from its audio-visual experience in live concerts and music hall
shows. Subsequently, the musical object was and still is to some extent persistently
characterized as “an assertion of the autonomy of sound”; hence it constructs an
“audio-visual disjunction” according to John Corbett.7 The recorded music produced
its own visual lack, or what Corbett describes as a “fetishistic audiophilia” and the
listening experience became primary (Corbett, p. 84).8 As the illustrated record
sleeve emerged, it was an attempt to bring back the visual, to make amends for
the autonomy of the musical object or “to stitch the cut that separates seeing from
hearing in the contemporary listening scenario” (Corbett, p. 86). The purpose of
the re-entry of the visual, with the design on the illustrated record sleeve, was from
the beginning, and still is, to market the music and catch the consumer’s attention,
but also to artistically reflect or comment upon the music.
At this point a development can be stated: from an original audio-visual event,
through a separation of media where the mass-produced recorded music “lost”
its visuals and was made primary, to a reconnection of the visuals by way of the
record sleeve. Described with the typology of intermedial categories that Hans
Lund, Áron Kibédi Varga and others have offered,9 this development that ends with
the illustrated record sleeve is a transformation from where different media was
presented, for the most part, in an integrative instance in live concerts,10 to a situation
of combined media, co-existing and/or interrefering to each other. The situation
6
The usual description of the pre-illustrated record sleeves is “gray cartons,” made of pasteboard
and/or plain paper wrappers. There were only name of record company and retailer on these sleeves,
with no proper connection to the music provided; instead it was the label on the record that was
the source of whom and what on the record (shown through the die-cut hole in the pasteboard,
whenever there was one).
7
John Corbett: “Free, Single, and Disengaged: Listening Pleasure and the Popular Music Object” in
October, Vol. 54, 1990 (p. 79–101), p. 84–85.
8
See Dave Laing’s study of the shift from the audio-visual event to a sound without vision in: “A
Voice Without a Face. Popular Music and the Phonograph in the 1890s” in Simon Frith (ed.): Popu-
lar Music. Critical Concepts in Media and Cultural Studies, Volume 1. Music and Society, London; New
York 2004 (p. 97–107). Even a cultural critic of mass-produced artefacts as Theodor W. Adorno
approved of recorded music; he was a “gramphonic enthusiast,” according to Thomas Y. Levin in:
“For the Record. Adorno on Music in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility” in October, Vol.
55, 1990 (p. 23–47), p. 44. What Adorno saw and recognized in recorded music was the aesthetics of
absolute music, especially when the LP appeared and freed opera from its unnecessary visual enact-
ment, the drama. Theodor W. Adorno: “Opera and the Long-Playing Record” in October, Vol. 55,
1990 (1969) (p. 62–66).
9
Hans Lund: “Medier i samspel” in Hans Lund (ed.): Intermedialitet. Ord, bild och ton i samspel,
Lund 2002 (p. 9–24), p. 19–22 (see also page 15 in this publication); Áron Kibédi Varga: “Criteria
for Describing Word-and-Image Relations” in Poetics Today, Vol. 10, No. 1, 1989 (p. 31–53).
10
I am relaying here on Nicholas Cook’s argument on musical performance as an audio-visual event
that can be characterized as integrated media. See the last chapter: “Conclusion. The Lonely Muse”
in Analysing Musical Multimedia, Oxford 2000 (1998), p. 261–272.
56
signifies a reconstruction of a multimedia product of audiovisuality resulting in

a redistribution of media. This change has affected how the object listened to (the
music) and the listening subject (the listener) has been studied. Disciplines such
as cultural studies have done much study on the culture of music and the musical
object with topics of cultural commodification, popular culture, culture industry,
and ideology;11 and musicologists have concentrated on the music itself. Although
the record sleeve is positioned in the intersection between popular culture and high
culture, between advertisement and aesthetics,12 and there is, at least superficially, a
relation to the music, the study of record sleeves is almost nowhere to be found. The
research on the record sleeve as a multimedia artefact has been overlooked, showing
how it supplements the music in Derridean means and deconstructs the autonomy
of the musical object. By focusing on the record sleeve as an artefact, it could be a
help to understand how to reflect upon it in a larger cultural studies analysis.
Concentrating on the record sleeve from an intermedial point of view, the
questions are, at least from the outset, straightforward: what kinds of media
relations are there? In what way do they connect? To what extent is the record sleeve
intermedial? These questions have been extracted from what is partly at the centre
of my study: Nicholas Cook’s and Alan Licht’s different ideas of the record sleeve,
as presented in “The Domestic Gesamtkunstwerk, or Record Sleeves and Reception”
and “Record Covers as Parerga” respectively.13 Cook builds his argument from the
position of reception aesthetics; he opens up the media borders to see how the sleeve
can contribute to the musical meaning: how much of the mixed media is there? Licht
focuses as well on reception but put more emphasis on a phenomenological aspect
when he pays attention to how the record sleeve and its music as a multimedia
activity are addressed and is conceived by the receiver.14 Even though he is not stating
the question explicitly, he clearly argues for, opposingly and in a negating way, a firm
border between sleeve and music: is there any mixed media? Despite the conflicting
ideas, both Cook and Licht are interested in how the media are communicated and
11
Most studies have dealt with the recorded music, its cultural history of technological development,
the record industry, as well as psychological, phenomenological matters and values for the listener.
But these studies have not in any particular way tried to bring the music, or what ever they have
studied, together with the record sleeve.
12
I separate the traditional, philosophical aesthetics from what cultural studies is concerned with, as
Chris Barker states: “Cultural studies does, of course, make value judgements about culture. However
these are characteristically ideological and political judgements rather than ones based on aesthetic
criteria.” Chris Barker: “Aesthetics” in The Sage Dictionary of Cultural Studies, London; Thousand
Oaks; New Dehli 2004, p. 4.
13
These two authors are chosen because they are among the few that deals with this matter.
14
Differentiating Cook’s argument from Licht’s further: the former is more concerned with how the
work establishes contact with the receiver through its concrete aesthetic statements (signs), the latter
is on the lookout for how the different media actually directs and forms the receivers’ idea of the phe-
nomena of seeing and hearing “record sleeve and music.” While Cook overtly argues for reception
aesthetics, Licht does not mention phenomenology at all, but that is what his theory is based on.
57
perceived, especially concerning the question whether media borders are upheld or
not by the receiver. Consequently they contribute to an intermedial status of the
record sleeve.
Media borders must be considered when discussing mixed media. Inspired by
Jacques Derrida’s essay “The Parergon,” Licht makes use of parergon as a guiding
theory. The theory of parergon is convenient here as it offers a critical argument on
frames and boundaries of artworks, of something external that complements a work
by filling in what it lacks or to limit it.15 A parergon is “the frame, which gives the
work a border or edge,” thus Licht regards the record sleeve as a framing device for
the music – which is the ergon.16 Primarily, the parergon indicates a medium that
exists in the margins of the musical experience. But how far out in the margins?
I have taken interest in the way that Cook and Licht mark out the border of the
record sleeve towards the music. To complement the discussion on borders, I have
made use of different categories of collaborative art forms to see if they can assist in
how to think of the sleeve, as an isolated object from the music.
But before looking into details, I offer an overview of the intermedial dilemmas,
as well as some hypothesis of how the record sleeve can “stitch the cut” between what
is listened to and looked at. I will do this by problematizing the sleeve – alongside
Cook and Licht – in terms of a collaborative art form, as its rules are set up and
defined by Thomas Jensen Hines.17 Subsequently some critical points can be made
of the beholder-listener’s perception of the “image/text/music” package.
My discussion is in principal terms, conceptually oriented and concerned with
key aspects of the record sleeve. And in general sleeves for vinyl records and CDs are
treated alike (the big difference beeing mainly the size). Crucial for my reasoning is
that the listener I have in mind is or has been in contact with the sleeve; otherwise
the split is without end. The example that I in due course will engage with, the
record sleeve for the CD the CIVIL warS by Philip Glass and Robert Wilson, may
seem as an exclusive case. But I take it as paradigmatic – being neither the extreme
special case, nor the extreme of the ordinary, just exemplary.
The Process of Intermediality

What is intermediality? The question is of importance as both Cook and Licht focus
on the receiver, given that the “stitching” is not just between different media, but
also between the combination of media and the receiver.18 Therefore, the relation
15
Jacques Derrida: “The Parergon” in The Truth in Painting, Chicago 1987 (p. 37–82). See also Hans
Lund’s discussion on media borders in Lund, p. 10–11 (see note 9 for complete reference).
16
Allan Licht: “Record Covers as Parerga” in Thomas Millroth and others (eds.): Look at the Music/
SeeSound. A Sound Art Anthology, Ystad; Brösarp; Roskilde 2002 (p. 54–58), p. 55.
17
Thomas Jensen Hines: Collaborative Form. Studies in the Relations of the Arts, Kent 1991, p. 164–173.
18
The defintion of medium I am using here is “media of expression,” a distinct means of communication:
word, image and music being different media. For this definition see Werner Wolf: The Musicalization
58
between different forms of media and the listener-beholder of the music and record
sleeve must be considered in terms of perceived interaction – a process of some kind
(Cook 2000, p. 106).
Cook states that pure music is a fiction, that “the real thing unites itself promiscu-
ously with any other media that are available” (Cook 2000, p. 92). He means that
only mixed media exists, that music and record sleeve will always be connected.19
But what kind of “stitch” is at issue? Is there more than one kind? Initiating an
understanding of how this mixed media activity is, let us turn to the listening act as
described by Licht: “the record must be removed from its cover in order to be heard.
You can examine the cover while the record plays, but one doesn’t necessarily hear
a record at the same time as looking at the cover” (Licht, p. 55). This division of
attention splits up media and seems non-negotiable for Licht.
Hines’s rules of collaborative art form can offer an idea of some media relations.
His concept of a true collaboration is that it should be completed by the beholder-
reader-listener, who should see a complete work instead of its constituent parts
separately (Hines, p. 170–171). His first rule states that one should look for “the
presence of the effects of interaction,” that “each composite form is the sum of these
effects, an art form that is different from its parts” (Hines, p. 167). The record sleeve
alone could be regarded as a collaborative artistic form with its combination of
images and words, but the presence of effects becomes problematic as the second rule
states, “There can be no primary form. Collaboration subordinates each constituent
art to the combined effect of the whole” (Hines, p. 169).20 The problem is to under-
stand whether music and sleeve are “subordinated” in totality, or if one of the media
is dominant. What Hines says is that a fragmentation of a work, understood as a
partitional perception of it due to the separated media, destroys a collaborative work.
This happens unless the presence of effects is created in the recollection of the effects
of interaction from the sleeve alone, and into an imaginary field in the mind of
the listener – enacted creatively in a cognitive, contextual perception. The presence
of effects of this kind is something slightly uncontrollable and variable from time
to time (not necessarily meant in a negative way). Music and sleeve can become a
total work but not an organic whole as Hines’s theory aspires to, for which an active
audience is required – “an audience that can ‘bracket’ its expectations and alter
its ways of perceiving art works,” declared by Hines himself (Hines, p. 167). This
audience can override the diachronic situation, the problem Licht demonstrated, if
they are exposed to a multiple listening and beholding-reading experience. Being
of Fiction. A Study in the Theory and History of Intermediality, Amsterdam; Atlanta 1999, p. 35–36.
19
This does not mean that we lose conception for medium specificity. See also W.J.T. Mitchell for a
similar argument in “There Are No Visual Media” in Journal of Visual Culture, Vol. 4, No. 2, 2005,
p. 257–266.
20
Collaboration here should be understood as integrated media, a fusion of media, not simply media
in combination.
59
numerously exposured from looking at and reading the text on the record sleeve,
and listening to the record, the experiences could form a compound of its elements:
a kind of collaboration could emerge between sleeve and music in a performative
act. The experiences can create a media fusion and make the receiver equally aurally
and visually oriented.
What Hines and Licht show is that when different media are presented on asym-
metrical terms, the struggle of attention between record sleeve and music indicates
that the receiver does not always know if or how the two media meet and affect his/
her experience; the struggle of attention indicates predomination of one media, a
media hegemony or hierarchy rather than media interaction. Something substantial
is required to distinguish between a “weaker” and a “stronger” form of collaboration,
since the idea of alliance just because the music is literally placed in between images
and words on the record sleeve is a displeasing one. Moreover, the bracketing situation
will put a lot of pressure on the listener; though I think such situation exists in
reality. Intermediality is subsequently a process, as an intermedial decoding activity
extended in time. But only if it is collaboration as defined by Hines, as an ongoing
negotiation between the different media and the receiver. But how and when do we
know explicitly or objectively that the record sleeve establishes a concrete, strong
relation with the music? If we cannot know, it supposes the possibility of being
mainly an identifying and protective framing device. However, Cook has a theory:
a model of multimedia as metaphor, saying that if there is a metaphorical likeness
or an analogical linkage between sleeve and music, then a linkage of interaction
is created. Music and sleeve must be met by a minimum of requirements, sharing
some similarity, to be seen as collaborative in the act of perception.
In general, the name of the artist, band or composer, an album title and titles of
the musical compositions are presented on the sleeve as interreferences to the music.
A record sleeve can nonetheless be “complete” in itself without the music, when it
overstates or goes beyond the notion of parergon. Something would somehow be
wrong if a record sleeve did not have its music to refer to. By definition a record sleeve
always refers to music as music packaging, in complex metonymic and synecdochic
relations: the sleeve identifies the music, just as the music is identified by the sleeve
because it recognizes its need of being framed.21 A “visual mnemonic to the music
enclosed,” as Steve Jones and Martin Sorger have called it.22 The sleeve’s immediate
nearness to the music can remind the listener that, once the music is heard, by
looking at the sleeve one “hears” the music and thus the sleeve frames the music.
It signifies the music metonymically; in its indexical relation it becomes a symbol
for it. This referential displacement of the music put emphasis on the sleeve. At the
21
This it is not a tautological description as it may appear. I merely point out that the different directions
or positions that one can take towards the sleeve demonstrate differences in function and relation.
22
Steve Jones and Martin Sorger: “Covering Music. A Brief History and Analysis of Album Cover
Design” in Journal of Popular Music Studies, Vol. 11–12, No. 1, 1999 (p. 68–102), p. 68.
60
same time, the sleeve materializes the idea of listening and of music since this is its
true assignment. Therefore the record sleeve articulates its own incompleteness, as
being part of something larger; its synecdochic relation is thus, in some sense, an
integrative function. The conclusion is that the intermedial construction of text and
image on the record sleeve will always be attached to music, never free from it. How
the connection is made depends on the specific example and the receiver.
Frames and Framing: Parergonality and Intermediality of the Record Sleeve

In order to frame the record sleeve as an intermedial object, I will present an idea
of how it is represented in the literature.23 Simon Shaw-Miller states that the record
sleeve is an “obvious example of art and music in concert.”24 Regardless of this kind
of acknowledgment, the sleeve is rarely discussed as the visual element that attends
the sound it encloses. In relation to the recorded music the status of the record
sleeve is marginalized in the literature, where the music–sleeve relation is not at all
obvious (or all too obvious to be mentioned), and the relation is ignorantly dis-
placed. Understood as an “‘accessory,’ ‘foreign or secondary object,’ ‘supplement,’
‘aside,’ ‘reminder,’” as Derrida would ironically have characterized the sleeve, most
intermedial aspects are then unsurprisingly uncared for (Derrida, p. 54). When the
record sleeve appears in literature – whether it is critical writing or pictorial histories
(coffee table books) – it is regularly treated separate from the music, a treatment
that forms the discourse of the sleeve. Additionaly, the literature on record sleeves
demonstrates a clear lack of a nuanced notion of the object in question, most often
it is displayed only as a frontside and/or a backside – rarely more than that.
A record sleeve consists of a folder, a booklet, an inner and outer sleeve, the case
or carton itself, the shape, the label and other graphic remarks on the record.25 As
most of the literature ignores the sleeve as a multilayered thing, it cannot describe
what the record sleeve actually is. Its main interest is in presenting front covers, the
memorable or impact designs – as a history of pictures.26 There have been attempts to
23
Framing in the sense of framing the subject matter, as well as refering to the discursive interactions
of the implicated media. See Werner Wolf: “Introduction. Frames, Framings and Framing Borders in
Literature and Other Media” in Werner Wolf and Walter Bernhart (eds.): Framing Borders in Litera-
ture and Other Media, Amsterdam 2006a (p. 1–40), p. 2.
24
Simon Shaw-Miller: “Visual Music and the Case for Rigorous Thinking” in The Art Book, Vol. 13,
No. 1, 2006 (p. 3–5), p. 4.
25
“On” is meant literally and figuratively: a CD can include music videos, downloadable images, and
the picture-discs are vinyl records and pictures, as the image and the record grooves are made of the
same material (sometimes the record is also cut in the shape of the picture).
26
Take a look at any book that is about record sleeves, and you will see that practically every one
(re)presents crippled versions. Storm Thorgerson and Aubrey Powell symptomatically write in their
book: “[T]he music is secondary… Partially because we can’t easily put music in a book, partially
because the relationship of music to design is hard to pin down. […] All we’re trying to say is that
the connection of visual to aural, of design to music, and how successfully that is accomplished, is an
61
consider record sleeves’ word-and-image combinations in its relation to music. As

early as 1960, Olof Lennart Praesto nicely captures the concept of the record sleeve
thus:
Any categorization of the record sleeves into special groups is hardly

to be thought of, because most of the compositions are comprized of
a merging between drawn, photographed and typographic elements. It
is this cooperation between the different graphic means of expressions
that is characteristic of the record sleeve design. The greatest difficulties
from an artistic point of view is to bring these completely separate com-
ponents into artistic harmony, to balance picture against text and to
make the final composition indicate what kind of music the record
contains.27
But on the whole, literature on record sleeves is nothing but nostalgic-historical

picture book-odysseys (see note 26 for a few examples), and does not contribute to
any reflection on how the cut is stitched; instead it regularly removes the sleeves from
its usual context and re-cuts the division between seeing and hearing, attempting at
constructing an autonomized, objectified record sleeve.
The Record Sleeve as an Accessory Device?

In view of how the record sleeve is represented, I turn to the centre of my study:
the different ideas of the record sleeve that Cook and Licht represents. In “The
Domestic Gesamtkunstwerk, or Record Sleeves and Reception,” Cook writes:
It is a striking fact that the analytical programme note developed just as

words were expunged from absolute music, as if the words were repressed
in one place immediately came bobbing up in another. And when, with
arbitrary matter…” Storm Thorgerson and Aubrey Powell (eds.): One Hundred Best Album Covers.
The Stories Behind the Sleeves, London; New York 1999 (p. 9–16), p. 14–15. See more of this in
Robert Klanten, Hendrik Hellige and Tom Hulan (eds.): Sonic. Visuals for Music, Berlin; London
2004; Alan Livingston and Isabella Livingston: The Thames and Hudson Dictionary of Graphic Design
and Designers, London 2003; Frank Jastfelder and Stefan Kassel (eds.): The Album Cover Art of
Soundtracks, Boston; London 1997; Tim O’Brien and Mike Savage: Naked Vinyl. Classic Nude Album
Cover Art, London 2002; Graham Marsh and Glyn Callingham: The Cover Art of Blue Note Records.
The Collection, London 2002 (1991); Michael Ochs: 1000 Record Covers, Köln 2005 (1995) – of
one thousand record sleeves, only thirty-two are commented upon with one to three sentences, and
only sixteen examples are depicted with more than just the front side. An additional list of literature
on the topic can be found in Jones and Sorger’s “Covering Music. A Brief History and Analysis of
Album Cover Design,” where they present some similar arguments to mine.
27
Olof Lennart Praesto: “Grafik och musik” in Perspektiv. Tidskrift för kulturdebatt, No. 3, 1960 (p.
112–115), p. 113 (my translation).
62
the advent of recording, the enjoyment of music migrated from concert

hall to sitting room, the programme note was gradually transformed
into the text on the back of the record sleeve. Here, however, a third
artistic medium came into play, for the music was now literally sand-
wiched between text and image. (Cook 1998, p. 35)
Text, music and image are reckoned here as different media joined through
the sleeve; the sleeve is also independently a medium. This double definition of
“medium,” as a technical channel of communication, through which media of expression
(verbal and visual) are transmitted, is a central aspect of the record sleeve.28 More
to the point, two things can be observed in the passage above: (1) the usual text on
the back of the sleeve belongs to an aesthetic process (i.e. the historical origin in the
music through the analytical note), and (2) there seems to be no way for the enclosed
music to escape an interaction with the accompanying images and words. Further
more, Cook says the sleeve has an “anchoring function,” and is made of “semiotics
of packaging” (Cook 1998, p. 107–108). I consider these expressions as a framing
tending to an initial position, providing basic information and orientation that is
significant at the beginning of the musical reception.29 The sleeve here is understood
as preceding the musical experience. But Cook has a higher aim: he considers the
possibility of how “record-sleeve images contribute to the construction of musical
meanings,” and how they go beyond their starting point as packaging and become
an element of the artefact, or at least “the discursive framework within which the
music inside them is consumed” (Cook 1998, p. 106). This means more than initial
framings. At best, the imagery has, if it share attributes with the music, a capacity
of aesthetic significance to “translate meaningfully” into the music, which means a
relationship of inversion (Cook 1998, p. 110–111). The imagery on the record sleeve
suggests how to listen to the music. It is this kind of metaphorical transference that
forms Cook’s theoretical model of multimedia as metaphor, which is thoroughly
explained in Analysing Musical Multimedia and where he is not essentially interested
in the record sleeves as such, but in formulating a general theory of multimedia.
Cook argues that a record sleeve might be categorized as multimedia (in the sense
of fusing media), and his short analysis concludes that it is “at least next door to
multimedia” (Cook 2000, p. 74; my italics).30 This “next door” reservation is due
28
Marie-Laure Ryan describes this as “multimedia media,” as a necessary tautological description
to show that there are several media as means of expression involved, presented through a channel
of communication. Marie-Laure Ryan: “Introduction” in Marie-Laure Ryan (ed.): Narrative Across
Media. The Languages of Storytelling, Lincoln; London 2004 (p. 1–40), p. 35.
29
Werner Wolf: “Defamiliarized Initial Framings in Fiction” in Werner Wolf and Walter Bernhart
(eds.): Framing Borders in Literature and Other Media, Amsterdam 2006b (p. 295–328), p. 301.
30
In Cook’s terminology, multimedia proper is something like Hans Lund’s combination of media in
co-existence, and a combination of Claus Clüver’s multimedia and mixed media discourse. Sometimes
Lund’s integration of media and Clüver’s intermedia discourse comes close to Cook’s multimedia,
63
to the fact that it is a static, discrete juxtaposed object, not literally experienced
together with the music as in the more controllable situation of a concert. Thus he
believes that analogy better describes the relation of attributional sharing, instead of
metaphor. But he admits that if the words too are considered, there is a better possi-
bility that an instance of multimedia (intermedia) can be accomplished.
In “Record Covers as Parerga” Licht presents a different view: “Cover, jacket,
sleeve – whatever you call it, a record’s packaging is meant for identification and
protection (like a book jacket or cover, or clothing and as advertising)” (Licht, p.
55). The essence of Licht’s arguments is difficult to pin down.31 But he continues
to talk about the record sleeve as something outside the music; for him the music is
the artwork. He therefore turns to Derrida and the idea of the parergon to speak of
the sleeve as a frame. A difference in interest and attitude towards the object is made
clear here: Cook attributes another value to the record sleeve when he understands
it as an element joined together with music, just as Licht is inconsistent when he
addresses the sleeve as an identifying marker. For Licht it is nevertheless still not part
of the music, be it through verbal or pictorial elements or both – just like a frame
around a painting marks out a clear boundary between wall and picture, as it does
not enter the (visual or musical) artwork. However, he thinks the sleeve can cross the
border into the art field, which does not mean that it enters into or engages with any
intermedial relations – it only “becomes an object desirable to the collector” (Licht,
p. 54).32 Licht has difficulty in regarding the sleeve as something that actually can
interrelate with the music from the musical experience. His inconsistency lies in
the idea that sleeve and music do affect each other’s fields, but are still separated
spheres: the music is safe from visuals and the autonomy of music is secured.33 Cook
on the other hand does not guard the media borders, as he is specifically interested
in artistic relations between sounds and visuals from reception theory, how imagery
“enters into the music-aesthetic process,” of whose existence he is convinced (Cook
1998, p. 110).
Both writers regard the sleeve as a framework for the music, but Licht give the
impression of not accepting the mixed nature of sounds and visuals that records and
sleeves brings together. Though he is not entirely insensitive to the idea of visuals
and aurals being mixed, it is a bit puzzling that he states that “the frame’s design
because the process ends in fusion or union. Compare Levinson’s and Shaw-Miller’s juxtapositional/
multidisciplinary hybrid on page 75–76. For Lund’s typology of media relations, see note 9 for
complete reference, and Claus Clüver’s schema of word-image relations on pages 15 and 26 in this
publication.
31
Licht’s article is much shorter than and not predominantly as analytical as Cook’s.
32
Strangely enough, he says “only the LP cover has great potential as an art space […] Size has a lot to
do with it.” This quality “connotes a canvas more easily,” than other types of packages. That may be,
but if connoting canvas equals art then I disagree that only the LP-package has this kind of potential
if “art” here means becoming an object of its own. See below on this.
33
Rather than affecting in a two-way direction, Licht implies a one-way route: from sleeve to music.
64
is competing with sonics” and therefore “if someone is equally aurally and visually
oriented, then both the record [the music] and cover will be important to them”
(Licht, p. 56; my italic). It is puzzling because he does not mention whether the
perceivers’ orientation might be based on structural relations between the media
involved, or based on cognitive, contextual or hermeneutical interpretive processes.
It is not clear at all what justifies his thoughts, but my conclusion is that the frame
for him is just a guide and/or a rivalling medium; it does not really partake in the
reception of the music (the work). The burden is put on the receiver’s decoding
activity (and preferences), adjusting to the situation on the basis that music and
visuals are there, existing side by side, but he does not give any specification regard-
ing interpretive signals on the record sleeve.34 Though he does identify the sleeve as
a partial message-based framing in the same way as Werner Wolf explains “paratexts
which are parts of individual works and are positioned at their borders, […] material
that forms a ‘threshold’ to the main text. […] As liminal phenomena, paratexts
possess a characteristic ambiguity: they are positioned in between text and context
and belong to the ‘work’ but not to the text proper” (Wolf 2006a, p. 20; my italics).
The sharing of space between visual and sound, where they perceptually interact
and which Cook is open for, is hard to find in Licht. What would Licht say if the
recorded music was a musical ekphrasis,35 the musical interpretation of a visual
art, and the sleeve presented that interpreted painting? What if there was also an
ekphrasis present on the sleeve, the verbal interpretation of that painting? What
happens to the ekphrastic situation: does it turn into an instance of multimedia, as
an ekphrasis usually presents something absent? The sharing of space would then be
hard to disregard.
The defensive standpoint I make in Licht’s arguments, a position of guarding
media borders, might be because the disadvantage of the record sleeve as being
a diachronic, structurally separate and uncoordinated technical medium from the
music. The sleeve is simultaneously experienced with the music, but it is not synchro-
nized to its recorded music like words and pictures in a music video and an opera.
Cook is also aware of how this affects the recipients’ experience. Licht does not
refuse to problematize the different media, but the aesthetics of such juxtaposition
complicates the nature of experience and gets in his way, hindering him from the
possibility of an audio-visual friction: the visual is an initial accessory device – but
then passes the music by. Is he wrong? Cook deals with this because of his conviction
that music is never autonomous (Cook 2000, p. 72; 126–129). Is it a question of
belief and attitude? If there is any friction or media contest in Licht’s view, it lies
within the receiver; for Cook the contest lies firstly within how the media share
attributes: “the sense in which different media are, so to speak, vying for the same
34
For “interpretive signals” and other types of framing agencies, see Wolf 2006a, p. 14–21.
35
On the concept “musical ekphrasis” see Siglind Bruhn: “A Concert of Paintings. ‘Musical Ekphrasis’
in the Twentieth Century” in Poetics Today, Vol. 22, No. 3, 2001 (p. 552–605).
65
terrain, each attempting to impose its own characteristics upon the other. One might
develop the analogy by saying that each medium strives to deconstruct the other, and
so create space for itself,” but by doing this, it all “ends in meaning” (Cook 2000, p.
103). Then it is a question of reception, because what matters is the perceived inter-
action of different media (Cook 2000, p. 106). This is the definitive fusion with its
music that record sleeves can bring forth; if the attributional requirements are not
met, then the simplest intermedial form is “semiotics of packaging,” saying nothing
about the music inside, but framing it by conforming to marketing the star; and
this differentiation of what the record sleeve can do, is partly due to its occupation
in an unfixed middle position between advertising and aesthetic experience. It is
never “innocent,” and never passes the music by (Cook 2000, p. 71). Both Cook
and Licht discuss the meeting or fusion between record sleeve and music. For Cook
this friction makes something happen; for Licht it is a confrontation that results in
media moving away from each other.36
Though Licht tries to defend the autonomy of the music, he sees the sleeve as a
deciding frame: protective against the outside while it has the function of internally
unifying the work – but he still needs to see it as a conventional paratextual framing
after all – destroying and contesting musical autonomy. Licht fears media crossing,
he wants to uphold media borders with an either/or attitude towards the sleeve’s
function: either it is a harmless identity for the music, or the sleeve overstates its
parergonality and makes itself an artwork, otherwise the sleeve runs the risk of
“hurting the reception” of the music (Licht p. 56).37 This fear represents the idea that
record sleeves trample on dangerous ground and must be watched, as if images and
words on the sleeve can take over the musical meaning – but it can only “represent”
music, never become it! It also seems that, in the examinations of Cook and Licht,
the record sleeve is partly forgotten as a sleeve, as that multilayered thing I referred
to before. Both authors focus on pictures (though Cook shows awareness of verbal
elements). Licht’s definition suggests that the record sleeve scarcely transcends a
function of added value; there is no other value other than the sleeve as a cover/
picture and it is presented as an autonomous picture. Artist and designer Bob Cato
shares this view, when he states that the task for a record sleeve designer means a
handling of a product that is “real and human.”38 He claims that this product is even
36
Of course, Licht does not need to give any clues of how the specific relation between a record
sleeve and its music can interrelate. But agreed upon Werner Wolf ’s definition of intermediality, as
“a particular relation between … conventionally distinct media of expression or communication,” a
relation that consists of a “verifiable, or at least convincingly identifiable, direct or indirect partici-
pation of two or more media in the signification of a human artifact,” I cannot see any verifiable
participation, empirically observed signals between sleeve and music at all in Licht’s discussion, at
least not beyond identification marks. See Wolf 1999, p. 37.
37
Clearly it has to do with his belief that the sleeve cannot be intracompositionally part of the work,
but if it can hurt the reception of music, it must be doing something to or with it!
38
Bob Cato: “The Art of the Twelve-inch Square” in Walter Herdeg (ed.): Graphis Record Covers. The
66
more concerned with its own image – its own message on its own packaging – in
contrast to other products a designer must enfold with conviction. Hence the sleeve
is made into something detached from its true contents, an account associated with
the majority of literature on record sleeves, and accordingly Licht has put himself in
this category. The paradox is that record sleeves in this category are almost anything
but covers and identifications; the cut between sleeve and music is re-opened. Recog-
nizing this quality of independency as a feature that plays with the connection/
disconnection between sleeve and music does make the sleeve something else than
advertising material for the music, but positively not a single autonomous picture.
In any case, there can be no doubt that the record sleeve is related to the music,
whether the belief is attached to its ability of contributing to constructing musical
meaning or merely beeing an accessory device (just framing).
the CIVIL warS: A CD-sleeve that Begs to be more than just Parergon
I am looking at the pictures and reading the texts for Philip Glass and Robert
Wilson’s CD-version of the opera the CIVIL warS: a tree is best measured when it
is down. ACT V – THE ROME SECTION (recorded in 1995–99).39 The sleeve
consists of a carton, 12.5 × 14.5 × 1.5 cm. with a photograph in black and blue
of Abraham Lincoln from the stage production. Inside is a 44-page booklet with
photographs from the 1984 performance on stage at Teatro dell’Opera di Roma;
historical photographs of Abraham and Mary Todd Lincoln, Giuseppe Garibaldi
and Robert E. Lee – main characters of the opera; some of Wilson’s sketches for the
stage design; explanations that mostly concerns the music and drama; the libretto;
the plastic jewel case that contains the CD, with a picture and verbal elements
printed on it, and a picture of Glass and Wilson. This surrounds the music on the
record. This is what the record sleeve offers the beholder to view, read and consider
before and while listening (fig. 1–3).
If one agrees upon Licht’s definition of the record sleeve, it is certainly easy to see it
as a frame, physically enclosing and identifying the music. Hence he entitles his article
“Record Covers as Parerga,” to indicate a Derridean influence. Derrida’s reasoning
on parergon is a matter on the idea of framing as a bordering to let something belong
to and not belong to, to contain and not contain something essential for what it
contains. He asks: “Where does the frame take place. Does it take place. Where does
it begin. Where does it end. What is its internal limit. Its external limit” (Derrida,
p. 63). These are some central questions that forms Derrida’s deconstruction of
the frame/framing concept; his interest is principally directed towards the idea
Evolution of Graphics Reflected in Record Packaging, Zürich 1974 (p. 8–9), p. 8.

39
In the liner notes David Wright uses the term post-Wagnerian multimedia to differentiate it from
traditional opera or music-theatre, which it sometimes also is called. Wright: the CIVIL warS: a tree
is best measured when it is down. ACT V – THE ROME SECTION, Nonesuch 1999 (p. 7–12), p. 9.
67
Fig. 1–3. The outer carton of the

record sleeve, and pages 2–3
and 28–29 from the booklet for
the Nonesuch-version of the
CIVIL warS (1999), by Philip
Glass and Robert Wilson
68
that it is virtually impossibile to define a definitive boundary of things and objects.

He does not want to destroy borders; rather he wants to destabilize them. Such
questions become significant with the implication of the idea of parergon, which
is the pointing towards a “centre.” This concerns not only the CIVIL warS, but
also all record sleeves. When pictures, text and music are in front of the beholder,
surrounding him or her, no part really emerges as less involved in the “work” – the
centre that is the object questioned by Derrida (which does not mean that the media
are on equal terms). The pictures and text on the carton, the booklet, and parts of
the text and lyrics inside have caught the eye of the beholder before the listening of
the music has begun. Why try, as Licht has, to separate the pictures and text from
the music and the singing? Instead of making the sleeve discrete and isolated from
music, one should ask: what relation does this frame have to the music? Is there a
framework? Which is the work? The question is if the record sleeve really can be seen
as a parergon of the music, or even as a parergon of the record. Thinking beyond
the usual concept of what a record sleeve is, the record itself can be part of the sleeve
as it also has text and image on it (compare the ordinary view presented at the
beginning). A frame is normally regarded as an external element, not as an essential
property – that which belongs to the work’s “impermeable boundary between the
artwork (ergon) and everything that belongs to its background, context, space of
representation.”40 Are pictures and text on the record sleeve such a resistant and
solid boundary? This is the difficult intrinsic double nature of the record sleeve: it
wants to be itself, and it also belongs to the music. What is and what is not context,
is there a centre of the context? Derrida says:
The parergon stands out both from the ergon (the work) and from the
milieu, it stands out first of all like a figure on a ground. But it does not
stand out in the same way as the work. The latter also stands out against
a ground. But the parergonal frame stands out against two grounds,
but with respect to each of those two grounds it merges into the other
(Derrida, p. 61).
If a frame blends in or melts into the work, but is still not a part of it, what should
the record sleeve be regarded as? Julian Wolfreys has pointed out that the frame is
nothing in itself; it has a technical function to point at and provide interpretational
possibilities of the framed.41 Then what is its relation to the record, and to the music?
As mentioned above, the frame can be thought of as determining what should be
included in the work, to disconnect and exclude the outside from the inside and/or
40
Paul Duro: “Introduction” in Paul Duro (ed.): The Rhetoric of the Frame. Essays on the Boundaries
of the Artwork, Cambridge 1996 (p. 1–10), p. 2.
41
Julian Wolfreys: “Art” in Jack Reynolds and Jonathan Roffe (eds.): Understanding Derrida, London
2004 (p. 84–92), p. 89.
69
to control all exchanges in between.42 Exceptional cases of record sleeves only have
that function, through a mark of identification, by naming the artist and recording.
The frame is therefore, as Jonathan Bordo once defined it, “both a cultural opera-
tion of binding and a material operation of bounding.”43 If a frame has the cultural
function of bringing together and of binding through identification, but also in its
material condition doing the same (Wolfreys’s technical function), these functions,
as relations between media, should be found within a record sleeve. I define these
relations as follows:
1. Frame-as-object, pointing towards itself: Joy Division’s Closer (1980) is

visually an object in and for itself, stating its aesthetic autonomy. With a
thick cardboard sleeve – for both the original vinyl LP and the remastered
CD (2007) – it just states “Closer” accompanied with a funeral photograph
on the front. It only refers to the music and the musicians indirectly and
discretely (on the spine, the back and in the booklet of the CD; fig. 4);44
2. Frame-to-frame, pointing outwards to other sleeves in an intertextual
relation: The Clash’s London Calling (1979) refers by design of letters
and iconography of the photograph to the first Elvis Presley LP-sleeve
(1956) (fig. 5 and 6);
3. Frame-to-music as identifying mark, pointing inwards as a guiding and
referential function: virtually all record sleeves integrate this relation-
ship. The promotional CD-single called Idiot 2 – White Sleeve by The
Wonder Stuff (1993) explicitly states this relation (fig. 7);
4. Frame–music, as collaboration between picture, text and music: New
Model Army’s Thunder and Consolation (1989). Its overall design is overtly
associated with the concept of a book, of storytelling in music, with lyrics
written inside the foldout placed over the illustration (in both vinyl and
CD issues). Text, picture and music, each medium is intended to play a
part in the work and to collaborate in the aesthetic reception of vision,
sound and text. The frame is then not a frame anymore (fig. 8–9).
42
D.N. Rodowick: “Impure Mimesis, or the Ends of the Aesthetic” in Peter Brunnette and David
Wills (eds.): Deconstruction and the Visual Arts. Art, Media, Architecture, Cambridge 1994 (p. 96–
117), p. 112.
43
Jonathan Bordo: “The Witness in the Errings of Contemporary Art” in Paul Duro (ed.): The Rhetoric
of the Frame. Essays on the Boundaries of the Artwork, Cambridge 1996 (p. 178–202), p. 201.
44
As a record sleeve, Closer almost empties itself from the meaning of “record sleeve” through a mini-
malistic design. It therefore has minimal references to its content: apart from title and photograph, the
white colour drains the sleeve from the idea that there is something inside – the white as a metaphor
for “nothing,” “empty,” “blank.” Only the shape and form indicates what it is. Another record sleeve
in this category, and perhaps a more known example, is The Beatles’ The White Album (1968). This
sleeve has a thick cardboard sleeve and an all white, empty outside as well, with embossed letters
spelling “The Beatles,” and the foldout has portraits of the band members and song titles against a
white background (thus it too refers to the music and the musicians indirectly).
70
Fig. 4–8, top to bottom: Joy Division, Closer

(1980); The Clash, London Calling (1979); Elvis
Presley, Elvis Presley (1956); The Wonder Stuff,
Idiot 2 – White Sleeve (1993); New Model Army,
Thunder and Consolation (1989), frontside
71
Fig. 9. New Model Army, Thunder and Consolation (1989), pages 8–9 from the CD booklet
It is important to distinguish these functions, because if the record sleeve is

thought of as a physical frame, then it also hides itself as such within itself. As
Licht reads Derrida too literally, he sees the sleeve as something outside the music,
as a factual, decorative frame that has little to do with the musical content. Where
is the complementary understanding that Derrida has in mind in Licht’s theory of
the record sleeve? Licht does not seem to see the reasoning and particularly not
Derrida’s questioning of borders. He does not recognize that to find and to question
the borders in a true way, means that there may be collaborations between the record
sleeve and the music, the fourth function that Cook has approved of (see above).
On the other hand, when Licht sees it as sometimes becoming an “artwork” on its
own, it means a process of stepping in and out of itself as a frame, making itself its
own content instead of a threshold to the musical encounter: it becomes a frame-
as-object.45 It crosses boundaries or oscillates between the medium of frame and the
constellation of combined media. This grants it a certain autonomy.
The sleeve for the CD the CIVIL warS can demonstrate the frame-as-object,
being a frame and framing itself. It thus exceeds the “identify-and-protect” idea
Licht proposes in his definition. I will give an idea of how this sleeve can be viewed
as being a self-sufficient object, by arguing against a review of the recording written
by David McKee. In doing that, I do not oppose the idea of complementing the
music (one might say that the record sleeve has postponed its referential state). It is
the formation of the sleeve’s content that I focus upon, not the opera or the contents
of pictures and texts.
In his review, McKee comments that “it’s not your standard-issue opera and
Nonesuch [the record company] has unwittingly muddled the issue further by
45
The record sleeve cancels or makes itself invisible as a frame. It fights for its own existence.
72
omitting all of the copious stage directions, which I fear is a grave disservice to first-
time listeners.”46 Briefly, the opera “uses history freely, hopping from time period to
time period, freeing history from general chronology. [And Robert Wilson mixes]
different times and places to bring in any number of historical confrontations
‘which comment on man’s long journey toward brotherhood,’” as described by
Carla Blank.47 It is a non-narrative story inspired by the American Civil War, mixed
with ancient gods and mythological figures.48 McKee objects to “David Wright’s
booklet notes that ‘to attempt a deconstructive catalogue of these images in a liste-
ning note would rob them of the haunting effect they have as they combine and
evolve in a theater,’” although Wilson’s design sketches (see fig. 2) and few produc-
tion photographs saves it, otherwise:
listeners would have little or no idea that Lincoln is first glimpsed as a

giant (one who flies off when his singing is done) or that Lee delivers
his text while floating inside a spaceship. Ditto the comings and goings
of Hercules, as well as peripatetic processions of trees, Garibaldi taking
a seat in the audience as the action begins (then stepping onto the stage
for his aria), or the sight of Hopi Indians dancing on a bridge between
two spaceships – alien intervention plays a big part in Wilson’s stage
action. […] I rather resent the effort made to keep it under wraps,
which makes the printed text seem only more oblique than it already is
(McKee, p. 708).
McKee is right in that he knows what the performance was like and expected
an image-word presentation that was not kept “under wraps.” He is also wrong:
this version is not designed to be similar to the original performance.49 The Rome
section is “an epic music/dance/theatre/visual artwork,” according to McKee himself
(McKee, p. 707). Apart from the evident elimination of dance and theatre in the
Nonesuch-recording, the new design is the juxtaposition of historical photographs
of the American Civil War and libretto in the second part of the booklet (see fig.
3). The transformation is in scale too, since the recording is a performance that is
experienced privately and most likely repeatedly (the reason why Cook labels the
experience of music and record sleeve as a “domestic Gesamtkunstwerk”). Wright’s liner
46
David McKee: “the CIVIL wars: a tree is best measured when it is down. Philip Glass. Act V – The
Rome Section” (review of the recording) in Opera Quarterly, Vol. 16, No. 4, 2000 (p. 706–710), p. 708.
47
Carla Blank: “Notes on Robert Wilson and Anna Deavere Smith.” Available at: http://www.lib.
berkeley.edu/MRC/carlanotes.html (2007–08–16).
48
The libretto is written and assembled by Robert Wilson and Maita Di Niscemi, using fragments
from two of Seneca’s Hercules plays, and pieces written by Lee, Garibaldi, Wilson and Di Niscemi.
49
The recording was made eleven to fifteen years after the few performances that were, with a diffe-
rent cast. This is not uncommon, but here I think it should be thought of as part of a rewriting of the
total work (with no particular reference to rewriting as in a new arrangement of the music).
73
notes contextualizes the Nonesuch-recording in the first place, as the performance

is a historical event which the recording and its visual-verbal presentation is based
upon; thus the liner notes and performance photographs precede the libretto and
are probably read before any concentrated listening. Otherwise they would distract a
deepened listening and beholding-reading experience of the libretto. Here, McKee’s
critique resonates the fourth rule of Hines’s concept of collaborative form:
The subtraction, deletion, or separation of any of the constituent arts

in a collaboration destroys the form. […] Often the destruction of the
original form is carried out with the best intentions though with appar-
ent ignorance of the fundamental principles of the art forms thus pirated.
[…] Admittedly, in complex collaborations, it is difficult to reproduce
(publish, display, or perform) the total work. But this should not deter
us from insisting that the total work cannot be reduced without losing
the original (Hines, p. 170–171).
For McKee, liner notes, libretto and photographs on/in the record sleeve are no
more than incomplete framings (ornamental parergon) for the music. However, the
Nonesuch-version should not be seen as the destruction of the original theatrical
performance, but as an interpretive reworking of it on several levels: the mentioned
downscaling and the acknowledgement of its past in contextualizing and keeping
the historical theatrical performance distanced from the libretto. One consequence of
the downscaling is the differentiation made between the less autonomous form of the
theatrical performance, and the more autonomous and moveable form of the None-
such-version.50 The latter form can be linked to Licht’s idea of a sleeve as an object
creating a space of its own. The historical photographs of Mr and Mrs Lincoln,
Garibaldi and Lee, some of Wilson’s initial visual inspirations, fundamentally replaces
the imagery of the staged version and alters the work, giving rise to a presentation
of the libretto and the portraits of the historical persons that is unique to the record
sleeve. And as the study of libretto as literature is not uncommon, it should not
seem strange to consider it as a plain text here, not primarily thinking in musical
terms – but as a writing that relates to the photographs.51 The historical photo-
graphs of the American Civil War have been interpreted for the stage production
into another medium: from photographs to costumes and stage design. But now
they are the main visual source in the CD-sleeve, and supplied knowledge from the
liner notes and the photographs of the performance; the historical photographs are
50
See Áron Kibédi Varga: “Mediality and Forms of Interpretation of Artworks” in Neohelicon, Vol.
30, No. 2, 2003 (p. 183–191), p. 183–184.
51
For introductions to librettology, see Ulrich Weisstein: “Librettologi” in Hans Lund (red.): Inter-
medialitet. Ord, bild och ton i samspel, Lund 2002 p. 85–93; “The Libretto as Literature” in Books
Abroad, No. 35, 1961, p. 16–22.
74
ready to be reinterpreted, this time not by Wilson, but by the perceiver. This is how
the Nonesuch-version is presented for the CD-audience.
When considered in this light, the record sleeve should not be regarded as parer-
gonal to the music, as it does not keep things under wraps. Only because it creates
something new and being self-governing in some sense, it does not present a “veil of
secrecy” for the music; it does not lie about its past, it only pushes it to the margins.
If a record sleeve overstates its parergonality, as I would say that the CIVIL warS do,
it still can activate a complementary condition for the musical experience just as well
as words and images can be complemented by the music. The record sleeve contests
itself, having both aspects of autonomy and complementarity present, though Licht
and McKee’s difficulties of thinking complementary-wise may not be unfounded. I
will look into this in my next section, where I take a somewhat different look at the
record sleeve, asking what artistic form it is when looked upon separately.
The Artistic Form of the Record Sleeve

If we want to know how the record sleeve works as an artistic form, we should try to
understand it from the point of view of the perceived interaction of different media,
according to Cook.52 Since it always has been an art form of multimedia,53 whether
called a mixed media hybrid, combined media in co-existence, or something else, I
here make use of Jerrold Levinson’s categories of mixed media activities as different
kinds of hybrids, with Shaw-Miller’s supplemental terminology: (1) juxtaposition/
multidisciplinary, (2) synthesis/interdisciplinary, and (3) transformation/crossdisci-
plinary.54 Using these ideas, some of the record sleeve’s different features can be
revealed. An extensive description of the sleeve is to a certain extent necessary. Again,
this can explain why the record sleeve literature has focussed solely on “images,” and
not fully grasped the artistic form: a form that I identify as intermedial.
The Sleeve as a Multi-Surfaced Stage for Words and Images

Defining the synthetic/interdisciplinary hybrid, Shaw-Miller says: “In many ways
this form is the opposite of the juxtapositional hybrid art work, for here the elements
are brought together in order to mix, so that they are submerged into a third
term.55 The elements do not have a parallel existence in the same temporal-spatial
52
Also argued by Kibédi Varga 1989, p. 33, and Jerrold Levinson in “Hybrid Art Forms” in Journal
of Aesthetic Education, Vol. 18, No. 4, 1984 (p. 5–13), p. 6–7.
53
I here specifically mean multimedia as something that involves more than one medium.
54
Levinson, p. 5–13; Simon Shaw-Miller: Visible Deeds of Music. Art and Music from Wagner to Cage,
New Haven; London 2002, p. 11–29. I am aware of Cook’s dismissal of juxtapositional hybrids as a
“null category,” because it is a type where no alignments, mergings or dissolutions between media occur.
Aesthetically there is no such category; by definition it only put different media side by side, but united
media are always perceived as interacting. Therefore it is worthless as a category. See Cook 2000, p. 106.
55
Compare Cook’s expression “ends in meaning” on page 66.
75
environment… Once combined, their individual identities have been modified and
forged into a new whole” (Shaw-Miller 2002, p. 13). Thus the multidisciplinary
artistic form is where the sound, image and text are distinct from each other, not
easily coordinated, and quite unlike one that fuses or mixes its elements; the form
fits the record sleeve on the whole if put like this: the image on the front, the text on
the back and the music even more separate.
Even as “the front and the back” of the sleeve is frequently mentioned, what is
neglected is that it is a three-dimensional object, not a single picture as seen by most
writers on record sleeves. A distinction between single-surface visual communication
and multi-surface graphic design must be made here.56 The sleeve acts at first as two-
dimensional, but then brings its three-dimensional aspect into play. This forms the
structure of how words and images are arranged and experienced on the sleeve. “If
in a juxtapositional hybrid, the art forms share a temporal and spatial location but
remain in other ways distinct, and if in a synthetic hybrid each art form moves to a
middle ground somewhere between their respective individual positions, then in a
transformational hybrid, one art form crosses over into the territory of the other(s)”
(Shaw-Miller 2002, p. 17). Relating the sleeve to what is said in this paragraph
I claim it to be of a transformational form (a crossdisciplinary hybrid). Judging
by the common notion of what a sleeve is, a picture of some kind, I paraphrase
Levinson’s description of kinetic sculpture, an example of a crossdisciplinary hybrid:
“Record sleeve can be seen as ordinary picture modified in the direction of book.”57
Here exists no “purity between elements” (Shaw-Miller 2002, p. 17). In this cross-
breed there is always a dominance of one of the media involved, and it keeps its
original media identity – a picture – but incorporates it into the characteristics of
the concept of a book (a written/verbal attribute).58 In its simplest form there is a
sequential structure: the front side, with or without or as image, crosses over in a
book-like direction. Except it is neither a book nor a book cover, but the similarity
in the obsessive act of turning round, looking up or flipping through the pages of
a booklet, taking out the inner sleeve, reading and viewing the spine and label, is
there. The two-dimensionality is illusory, the booklet by its name testifies to this.
This is the principal structure or platform – the stage – that images and words have
to give in to and act upon.59 Here word-and-image constructions can vary from a
total separation for the eye between text and image, as a multidisciplinary form, to
synthetic components as in typographic elements.60 The easiest way is to see it as
56
These categories are borrowed from Philip B. Meggs: Type & Image. The Language of Graphic
Design, New York 1992, p. 98.
57
Levinson, p. 10: “Kinetic sculpture can be seen as ordinary sculpture modified in the direction of
dance.”
58
I am tempted to use terms like “sculpted” or “sculptural” picture, but that would demand further
and more complicated argumentation on temporal and spatial aspects.
59
The word “stage” implies both spatiality and temporality, why I think it is appropiate to use here.
60
It can hold the complete chart of word-image relations: co-existences, interreferences and co-
76
words and images put side by side, composed as a juxtapositional hybrid in total.
But, that would be saying that images and words that exist in a parallel temporal-
spatial situation do not interact, as if each medium is self-sufficient (see note 54).
But are they separable?
The logic and advantage of this multiple-surface design is the feeling that words
and images belongs to a larger whole, regardless of the number of communicative
layers and how much the words and images are separated (physically and in
content), because continuity is in the idea of the sleeve. Its constituent parts can
never be totally disconnected. By this logic the sleeve can be placed in the spatio-
temporal section of Marie-Laure Ryan’s “Typology of media affecting narrativity,”
as it generally uses the multiple channels of the linguistic and the visual (Ryan, p.
21). Does this quality of spatio-temporality grant the record sleeve the effect of
performing or as possessing a kind of narrativity?61 The sleeve’s images and/or words
are experienced through time and interaction. Designer Richard Hales has put it like
this: “the nature of the CD package means that the consumer is unable to see the
bulk of the artwork until it’s unwrapped. The cover should be intriguing, seducing
the potential customer with possibility of what is inside.”62 Kibédi Varga argues that
a word-and-image relation on a single object (a poster for example) belongs to the
function of argumentation and is persuasive, while a series of images, together with
words or not, tends to be interpreted as a narrative (Varga 1989, p. 35–36). This is
the crossing over in a book-like direction, the two-dimensionality of the sleeve as
argumentative, advertisement-like, and then bringing its three-dimensional feature
into play – temporalizing/narrating – especially when words and images act on it.63
The sleeve is less like a novel, and more similar to what James Elkins call spinning
stories in modern painting: “In a way, we become the creators or co-conspirators
of the story – we ’bring the narrative about’ by our aimless thoughts,” because as
references. See Kibédi Varga 1989 for a discussion on these terms, and Hans Lund’s typology of
intermedial relations mentioned on page 56 and note 30, page 63.
61
The property of “possessing a narrativity” is not the same as “being a narrative,” it simply is able
to evoke narrative. According to Ryan it is “narrative meaning as a cognitive construct,” shaped in
response by the interpreter. Ryan, p. 8–9.
62
Rivers, p. 80. The difference between sleeves for vinyl records and sleeves for CDs lies in the
formers emphasis on “iconic” pictures, due to larger size and weaker sequential structure, while the
latter reverses it and emphasizes the sequential, but conditions and abilities to “narrate” have always
been there. Rivers concisely put it: “The CD provides a slower ‘user experience’ than vinyl,” p. 23.
Nick de Ville remarks the transition from vinyl to CD and its standardized jewel case, saying that
designers of CDs altered the rules of album packaging in “reducing the emphasis on a single killer
image for the front cover” to extended visual essays which corresponds with the musical contents.
That is exactly what happens: an extension of what was already there, but he fails to show this in his
picture book-odyssey. de Ville, p. 10.
63
My argument here matches Cook’s positioning of the record sleeve between marketing and aesthetic
experience (see above).
77
with modern paintings we do not have a pre-existing text to rely on.64 John Berger
describes a similar situation on photographic stories, where “The reader is free to
make his own way through these images. […] one can wander in any direction
without … losing a sense of tension or unfolding.”65 This is how images and texts
do their work on the sleeve. The storytelling manner does not necessarily have to
be straightforward on a sleeve. Rather it is what image and text do with tension
and unfolding, conceptualizing and presenting themes, than actually having a story.
Even though we cannot find a narrated order, we tend to look for one as “habits of
reading compel us to try […] since narration continues as a temptation, as a promise
(however false), as a ‘handle’ for initial understanding” (Elkins, p. 358).66 The format
of the record sleeve, even in its most simple variety, dismantles it from being a true
single-sided and “iconic” picture, and brings it into a kind of narrative form.
Taken as a whole, the design of the CIVIL warS is meant to create a unique
narrative – actually several multimedial narratives. As mentioned before, the booklet
is divided into two parts – Wright’s introduction and Wilson’s libretto – and each
part relate to different sets of pictures, producing two distinct narratives. And then
there is the special case of Wilson’s sketches that not only act as a story of its own
production of the opera, but also participates in both Wright’s and Wilson’s mixed
media narratives. The sketch on the front of the booklet that shows the porthole of
the spaceship in which Robert E. Lee acts on stage, functions as a second introductory
image for the entire sleeve (after the photograph and title on the carton), but in
particular for Wright’s liner notes because it is in this part the reader learns about
the history of the stage production for which the sketches are essential. Then there is
the sketch that introduces the libretto, an expressionistic abstract and moodsetting
image. Thus the sketches are integrated as creative images in the Nonesuch-version.
Further more, the writing on a record sleeve has to be taken seriously, because
the word-image often produces a recognisable brand for musicians, or let its words
visualize a feeling, an impact that could not be expressed in words alone. For
example, the title the CIVIL warS is not meant just to be read. I have tried to write it
as Wilson designed it – except for imitating the “scratchy” handwriting (see fig. 1).67
I identify the design of the writing of the CIVIL warS as “design as deconstruction.”
That kind of design examines “structures that dramatize the intrusion of visual form
into verbal content, the invasion of ‘ideas’ by graphic marks, gaps, and differences,”
64
James Elkins: “On the Impossibility of Stories. The Anti-narrative and Non-narrative Impulse in
Modern Painting” in Word & Image, Vol. 7, No. 4, 1991 (p. 348–364), p. 360.
65
John Berger: “Stories” in Another Way of Telling, New York 1995 (p. 279–289), p. 284–285.
66
Record sleeves are probably more than often anti-narratives or non-narratives, as in some modern
paintings that Elkins argues for. We may detect dramas and possible stories, but cannot be sure
which one. They “make gestures of storytelling,” p. 368.
67
For an excellent and accessible overview of how to interpret such and other types of writings, see
Steven Heller and Mirko Ilic: Handwritten. Expressive Lettering in the Digital Age, London 2004.
78
as Ellen Lupton and J. Abbot Miller have explained.68 In short, how the verbal is
visually presented. The ideas that the scratchy handwriting reflects and emphasizes
could be the visuality of the work on stage, but it works just as well for the Nonesuch-
version as it should compel the beholder to think while looking at the photographs
and reading the libretto; this is as much a framing device for the sleeve itself as
the sleeve is framing and complementing the music. The title is visually “invaded”
by conflicts, just as the verbal content of civil war refers to conflict: handlettering
versus type set letters is equivalent to the subjective (emotional) versus the objective
(unemotional). This visual dramatization of the verbal is a help in understanding
the booklet that each person in the photographs and in the libretto has conflicts to
deal with. And each of the portrayed is then even better anchored to their juxtaposed
“voices” in the libretto, marked by their names, and results in complementation in
this specific context; images and words are contextually manipulated (for a similar
argument see Cook 2000, p. 105). Here the record sleeve becomes a synthesis of
media, an interdisciplinary hybrid – not a juxtapositional hybrid art form.
Concluding Remarks
My intention has been to provide an initial basic understanding of the record sleeve
from an intermedial approach. If not giving straight answers, I have problematized
how the record sleeve is able “to stitch the cut that separates seeing from hearing
in the contemporary listening scenario,” a cut that was made when recorded music
first appeared. What the record sleeve does is that it generates a space of its own:
most importantly it has a fundamental intermedial structure, upon which it creates
intermediality by means of words and images. Thus it constructs a contesting
relation with its music, which could be understood as cutting “audiovisuality”
to a condition of “audio/vision,” without falling back into the same audio-visual
disjunction as before. Though depending on the existence of similarities between
sleeve and music, audiovisuality may emerge; in a less lucid explanation, the stitch
is done in the receiver’s mind, where the input of music, images and words are
mixed. Here intermediality is more of a process. A crucial piece for a further study
of this puzzle of intermediality is Eric F. Clark’s Ways of Listening. An Ecological
Approach to the Perception of Musical Meaning. He observes that the listener always
has a pre-understanding of the music, that “music almost always has a multimedia
quality to it, and musical meaning is always the consequence of a context that is
wider than the ‘sounds in themselves.’”69 The ecological theory has to do with an
68
Ellen Lupton and J. Abbot Miller: “Deconstruction and Graphic Design” in Ellen Lupton and J. Abbot
Miller (eds.): Design, Writing, Research: Writing on Graphic Design, New York 1996 (p. 3–23), p. 17.
69
Clark, Eric F.: Ways of Listening. An Ecological Approach to the Perception of Musical Meaning,
Oxford 2005, p. 88. The ecological theory of musical meaning is a complementary approach to
semiotics, hermeneutics, and other philosophical methods.
79
active engagement of a person with its environment. Thus “sounds in themselves”

and “fetishistic audiophilia” never really exist(ed). If the multimedia or intermedial
quality is ever present in music, then the case may also be the reverse: in what way
is the record sleeve intermedial, and to what extent is it an intermedial artifact? As the
listening act is central in Clark’s theory of musical meaning, he says, “perception must
be understood as a relationship between environmentally available information and
the capacities, sensitivities, and interests of a perceiver” (Clark, p. 91). To answer the
questions above, one should undertake an ecological approach to the perception of
viewing and reading a record sleeve.
A final observation on what influenced some of my thinking struck me while
reading and looking through the literature on record sleeves. The expression record
sleeve that I have used is not unanimous; there is the more favoured record cover.
Throughout this text I have used record sleeve. I did not want to use a word that was
trapped in the immediate idea of protecting, disguising or covering something, as I
felt cover did. One could say that they are synonymous – that this is a semantic issue
– but they do have different meanings, figuratively and literally. In this context,
the majority of the literature uses the expression record cover, essentially referring
to the cover art (the front side picture). A “record cover” then is deceitful for the
reason that it is not simply about a single picture, it denies what “record sleeve”
acknowledges: while the former covers up or rejects anything else than a single-
surface visual communication, the latter uncovers a multi-surfaced stage for words and
images. Licht represents the use of “record cover,” speaking about an object as a
picture separated from music and words; it is verbally and visually expressed as such
in the literature. Cook represents the use of “record sleeve,” and he opens up for the
visual, verbal, and musical outsides and insides of the object. The use of cover or
sleeve signifies a contest of how to intermedially view this object that physically and
visually surrounds the musical object. Though in the end and in reality, there are no
record covers, only record sleeves.
In conclusion, whatever “to stitch the cut between the seeing and the hearing”
means as an intermedial process, it is something the record sleeve has to deal with
time and again. The stitch will never become a smooth suture, so as to be able to
create a natural audiovisual object and experience.
80
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Record Sleeves
The Clash: London Calling, Columbia 4601142, 1979. Design by Ray Lowry; photograph
by Pennie Smith.
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83
Words and Music as Partners in Song:
‘Perfect Marriage’ – ‘Uneasy Flirtation’ – ‘Coercive
Tension’ – ‘Shared Indifference’ – ‘Total Destruction’
Walter Bernhart
The very nature of intermedia phenomena frequently tempts critics to revert to

metaphorical language when wanting to define the various relationships that can be
found among the media. It is human relationships that lend themselves most readily
to depict such intermedial relationships and make them vividly present in our minds.
Descriptive Anschaulichkeit is a primary aim of effective communication, and the
more the communication is rooted in everyday experience the more likely it is to be
successful. As an example, the venerable tradition of ut pictura poesis is discussed
most memorably in Jean Hagstrum’s early study of the “Sister Arts,”1 and more
recent studies extend the range of ‘sister arts’ beyond literature and painting: Michele
Martinez sees sculpture and poetry as ‘sisters,’2 there is a website including another
‘sister,’ British gardening,3 and Joachim Möller gathers a whole family of ‘sisters,’
including music and architecture, illustration, film and a number of others.4
The human relations which I will use to depict metaphorically the various
relations of words and music found in songs take their cue from the title of an
essay which, incidentally, was published in the same year as Hagstrum’s book. It is
by John Stevens and is called “The English Madrigal: ‘Perfect Marriage’ or ‘Uneasy
Flirtation.’”5 It is not surprising that Stevens’s essay discusses the Elizabethan madrigal
as it was during the Renaissance period that, with the advent of Humanist rhetorical,
‘trivial’ views of music – in contrast to earlier, ‘quadrivial’ conceptions of it, on a
‘speculative,’ Pythagorean basis – words and music entered into new relationships
in vocal music. Their connection became far more intimate than it had been before
as the music was now meant to increase the rhetorical effect of the underlying text
and closely work together with the words. The most frequently quoted reference
to this new view of the relation between words and music is by Thomas Campion
1
Jean H. Hagstrum: The Sister Arts. The Tradition of Literary Pictorialism and English Poetry from
Dryden to Gray, Chicago 1958.
2
Michele Martinez: “Sister Arts and Artists: Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Aurora Leigh and the Life
of Harriet Hosmer” in Forum for Modern Language Studies, Vol. 39, No. 2, 2003, p. 214–226.
3
“The Sister Arts: British Gardening, Painting and Poetry, 1700–1832,” http://www.laits.utexas.
edu/sisterarts/sublime/index.htom (4/3/2006).
4
Joachim Möller (ed.): Sister Arts. Englische Literatur im Grenzland der Kunstgebiete, Marburg 2001.
5
John Stevens: “The English Madrigal: ‘Perfect Marriage’ or ‘Uneasy Flirtation’” in Essays and Studies,
1958 (p. 17–37).
85
Walter Bernhart: Words and Music as Partners in Song
and can be found in his preface to Two Books of Ayres (c. 1613), where he says,
referring to the new type of songs which he introduces: “In these English ayres I
have chiefly aimed to couple my words and notes lovingly together, which will be
much for him to do that hath not power over both.”6 Apart from the pride which
this shows, as Campion, significantly, was both the poet and composer of these
airs, it demonstrates that the challenge of these new songs lay in finding a complete
harmony between the two media, which Campion expresses by the metaphor of
a ‘loving couple.’ It is from this image that Stevens derives his own reference to a
‘perfect marriage’ that may be found in the English madrigal of the period, and it
will also be the guiding metaphor for my further reflections in this essay.
Of course, such a ‘perfect marriage’ of a ‘loving couple’ is likely to be more
of a vision than a case of reality: the balance is always precarious, and the issue is
well-known: is it as Antonio Salieri puts it in the title of his opera of 1786: prima
la musica e poi le parole, or is it rather prima le parole e poi la musica? Within our
metaphorical context, we may be allowed to genderize the issue and – following
traditional notions – conceive, more or less playfully, of ‘music’ in female and ‘words’
in male terms (which could be justified by contrasting la musica and il termine,
the latter synonym replacing la parola): English airs, therefore, within Humanist
aesthetics, were clearly male-dominated because the words necessarily came first and
there was no idea of prima la musica. In the hierarchy of the arts, following Plato,
poetry was top as the main instrument of persuasion and the other arts came in only
as contributing factors, enhancing the ethical and rhetorical effects of the words.
The ‘perfect marriage’ of words and music was seen to be achieved when the music
mirrored what the language said; it was music’s function to illustrate the words’
meanings, which could either be achieved in the form of ‘external mimesis’, such
as rising melodies when the words talk of rising suns or running music for running
streams etc., or of ‘expressive mimesis,’ i. e., by the musical expression of emotional-
affective states addressed in the texts. Thus, music had primarily a copying function,
and the ‘marriage’ was conceived of as ‘perfect’ when music, as the ancilla, adapted
‘herself ’ as closely as possible to the termini. Such ‘iconic’ behaviour of the music
vis-à-vis the words was seen as strengthening the ‘couple’ by having an increased,
‘redoubled’ effect on the audience.
It is interesting to observe that such a partnership, which is clearly dominated
by one of the partners, with the other one adapting herself as closely as possible, was
seen as ‘perfect.’ This may be a very pronounced ‘Victorian’ view of an ‘ideal’ part-
nership but, basically, all forms of songs in which ‘poems are set to music’ follow
this model because the source of the song are always the words, which are there first
and determine the music.
6
Thomas Campion: “To the Reader“ in David Scott (ed.): First Book of Ayres (c. 1613), The English
Lute-Songs, London; New York 1979, p. ix.
86
Yet there is also a history of emancipation in songs. As early as in John

Dowland’s songs, music started to strive for dominance, as is indicated by a passage
from Dowland’s dedication of his First Booke of Ayres (1597), which shows a telling
misreading of Plato: “So that Plato defines melody [i. e., song] to consist of harmony
[i. e., music], number [i. e., rhythm] and words; harmony naked of it selfe: wordes
the ornament of harmony, number the common friend and uniter of them both.”7
What Plato really says in The Republic (398 d) is the following: “[…] the melody
is composed of three things, the words, the harmony, and the rhythm; […] the
harmony and the rhythm must follow the words.”8 While Plato clearly puts the
words first, Dowland makes the words merely “the ornament” of music.9 Listening
to Dowland’s magnificent lute-songs will strengthen the impression that in them
the music, written by the best lutenist of his age, is more important than the words
are. Again, there is generally no contradiction or tension between the words and
the music in these songs and the ‘perfection’ of the ‘marriage’ is guaranteed by the
unquestioned dominance of one of the partners – this time the ‘female.’
The emancipation of music did not take place so smoothly in all cases. The
‘Great Tradition’ of song writing took the ambitious path of using ever more refined
musical means to become a meaning-generating instrument, the music trying to
express as carefully and exhaustively as possible what the underlying text is saying.
The canonical body of the European song tradition consists of what I have called
“interpretive songs,”10 where the musical accompaniment of the singing voice
acquires an increasingly sophisticated interpretive function vis-à-vis the text and
becomes a more and more independent agent of reflection. While in many Schubert
songs the accompaniment appears in the role of such an active partner to the text,
where words and music work as two independent agencies towards the joint goal of
making a unified statement – is this the ‘perfect marriage’? –, it is with Schumann
that the emancipatory impulse of music becomes stronger, as witnessed, among
other features, by the prominent preludes and postludes that can be found in his
songs. The music can be seen as making additional statements that go beyond what
the text by itself is saying, and we can observe a tendency in the music to start
even contradicting the words. An example frequently referred to in this respect is
Schumann’s “Die beiden Grenadiere,” based on Heine’s poem, in which the piano
7
John Dowland: “To the Right Honorable Sir George Cary […]” in Edmund H. Fellowes, (ed.), rev.
ed. by Thurston Dart, The First Book of Ayres (1597, 1600, 1603, 1606, 1613), The English Lute-
Songs, London; New York 1965, p. iv.
8
Oliver Strunk (ed.): Source Readings in Music History. From Classical Antiquity to the Romantic Era,
London 1952, p. 4.
9
For a discussion of Elizabethan theoretical reflections on song writing see Walter Bernhart: “Theorie
und Praxis der Vertonung in den elisabethanischen Airs” in Manfred Pfister (ed.): Anglistentag 1984
Passau. Vorträge, Giessen 1985, p. 245–260.
10
Walter Bernhart: “Setting a Poem: The Composer’s Choice For or Against Interpretation“ in
Yearbook of Comparative and General Literature, Vol. 37, 1988 (p. 32–46).
87
postlude comments ironically on one of the two soldiers’ misguided enthusiasm

about his Emperor Napoleon. In such a case the partners start drifting apart, and
they may become an interesting but increasingly troubled couple.11
It is along these lines that John Stevens conceives of certain forms of vocal music
as cases of an ‘uneasy flirtation’ between words and music (a term introduced in
this context by Frank Kermode). Although Elizabethan madrigals frequently show
a playful love of word illustrations (like ‘dying’ falling melodies, etc.), Stevens
sees them as particularized cases of a “crude pictorialism” which cannot outweigh
“occasional gross misunderstandings” of texts and “rhythmic insensitiveness” to the
words in the music (Stevens, p. 27). In these cases they do not really enter into a
partnership but are only superficially attracted to one another.
A case where there is even less of a true partnership established in a juxtaposition
of words and music is quoted by Thomas Morley in his Plaine and Easie Introdvction
to Practicall Musicke (1597), which contains a succinct survey of “Rules to be
obserued in dittying,” the first English manifesto of song setting. There Morley
condemns John Dunstable for the “barbarism” of placing “two long rests” “in the
verie middle of a word,” thus chopping apart the word ‘angelo – rum.’12 It is against
this kind of ‘barbaric’ and inimical practice that the whole Humanist programme
of text setting revolted.
This last example of an (unsuccessful) partnership between words and music
introduces a level of contact between the two media which has not been discussed
so far in this essay. It is the prosodic level, and the example demonstrates that an
important dimension of contact in songs between the words and the music is the
rhythmical structure, which implies segmentation, accentuation and duration. In
fact, this level was of greatest importance to Humanist aestheticians, as witnessed
by the large number of metrical treatises published at the time. It is telling that the
famous phrase by Thomas Campion, quoted above, about his aim “to couple my
words and music lovingly together,” has generally been misunderstood in terms of
a semantic, expressive congruence between the two media. What Campion really
had in mind was far more modest and practical, namely a “company” of syllables
according to their prosody. Reflecting ancient theory, he expects long syllables to
be matched by long notes and short syllables by “swift notes,” as comes out in the
passage immediately following the famous phrase.13 In order to “keep company,”
word and music must have the same “waite and due proportion,”14 i. e., they need
11
For a case study see Walter Bernhart: “An Exegetic Composer: Benjamin Britten’s Journey of the
Magi” in Arbeiten aus Anglistik und Amerikanistik, Vol. 20, 1995 (p. 123–134).
12
Thomas Morley: “Rules to be obserued in dittying” in A Plaine and Easie Introdvction to Practicall
Musicke. London 1597, The English Experience 207, Amsterdam; New York 1969 (p. 177–178), p. 178.
13
“The light of this will best appear to him who hath pays’d [weighed] our monosyllables and
syllables combined, both which are so loaded with consonants, as that they will hardly keep company
with swift notes, or give the vowel convenient liberty.“ (Campion 1979, p. ix)
14
Thomas Campion: “Observations in the Art of English Poesy” in G. Gregory Smith (ed.):
88
to share the ‘material’ basis of their articulatory, physical dimension, and it is worth
noticing that Campion does not say anything about also sharing ‘ideas’ on the
semantic level. In fact, he is well-known for condemning “such childish obseruing
of words”15 as can be found in external word illustration and as it was also criticised
by Stevens as “crude pictorialism,” quoted above. It is true that most of Campion’s
airs do not play the game of ‘expressive mimesis,’ his music generally does not try
to imitate what the words are saying ‘along the text’ as it unfolds. It is characteristic
of the simple style of airs as represented by Campion that they have a well-shaped,
memorable tune – a tuneful ‘air’ in the traditional sense – used for all the stanzas of a
song, which naturally implies that it is more distanced from and less concerned with
what the words are saying. I have called such vocal music “non-interpretive songs”
(Bernhart 1988), which implies that it is not their aim that the music should try to
match, or enter into a dialogue with, the meaning of the words. What basically holds
the song together, as a plurimedial form, is the common rhythmical ground of the
words and the music. Relating this situation to our ‘couple’ metaphor, this form of
partnership shows a high degree of independence of one partner from the other, yet
they share a common physical ground, and it cannot be claimed that one of them
dominates over the other. In fact, in these songs the words tend to be intelligible
and have their own voice raising attention, yet the music is also quite independent
and is not expected to serve the words in an ancillary function; it can develop its
melodious beauty (‘air’) in its own rights. Is this, then, a ‘perfect marriage’?
Yet, when the music in such ‘non-interpretive songs’ does, indeed, not concern
itself with the meaning of the text as it unfolds, the common ground for both
media may still go beyond the mere material basis of rhythm and articulation. It
is particularly in the ‘age of sensibility,’ in eighteenth-century song writing, that
we find an increased concern about the ‘tone’ and the ‘mood’ of a poem which
should be matched by the tone and mood of the music. This is the approach that
Goethe shared with the representatives of the Berlin school of song, which is why he
appreciated the settings of his poetry by Karl Friedrich Zelter or Johann Friedrich
Reichardt. He objected to text-oriented ‘through-composition’ as found in many
Schubert settings because, to him, it gave too much emphasis to details of word
expression at the expense of establishing an overall mood which matched the mood
of the poem. It is interesting that in this conception the rhythmical dimension of
text and music seems closely linked to the mood dimension. In Edward Cone’s
words, “Goethe […] liked to think of the composer as merely uncovering the
melody already concealed in his own rhythms,”16 so the atmospheric element of a
Elizabethan Critical Essays, Vol. 2, Oxford 1971 (p. 327–355), p. 329.

15
Thomas Campian [sic]: “To the Reader“ in Edmund H. Fellowes (ed.), rev. ed. by Thurston Dart,
The Songs from Rosseter’s Book of Airs (1601), The English Lute-Songs, London; New York 1968, p. 1.
16
Edward T. Cone: “The Composer’s Approach to the Text“ in Northrop Fry (ed.): Sound and Poetry.
English Institute Essays 1956, New York 1957 (p. 3–15), p. 6.
89
poem, which should necessarily be kept alive in a musical setting in this view, is also
inherent in the rhythm, which needs to be preserved in the song and manifests itself
in the melody (‘air’) of the singing voice. The unity of the two media in such songs
is one of tone and mood, springing from their unified rhythm, and again – as in the
Elizabethan airs of the Campion type –, apart from this unity, the two media are
independent and equal: an even more ‘perfect’ marriage?
Given this situation in eighteenth-century song of equality and semantic
independence of the two media with a common basis of rhythm and mood, it is
not surprising that it was also in this age that successful songs were produced which
did not follow the conventional model of ‘setting a poem to music’ but in which
the poem was written to an already existing tune. This practice, which became
popular with the early-Romantic ‘antiquarian’ movement of recovering national folk
traditions, produced works of a significant form of word-music combination and in
which the fact of combination of media is essential for their proper appreciation. A
case in point is Robert Burns, whose famous songs, such as “O my Luve ‘s like a red,
red rose,” are clearly misunderstood when they are seen merely as “poems to be read
or even orally recited, however effective they may be apart from the music.”17 Burns
wrote his hundreds of songs mainly for James Johnson and George Thompson,
who – with the invaluable help of Burns himself – collected the musical heritage of
Scotland.18 It is particularly interesting to note that Burns, although he was free to
write any verse he liked to go with the Scots tunes, found it hard to use English texts
for the purpose (as Thompson urged him to do, for marketing reasons), the reason
being the “wild-warbling cadence” and “heart-rending melody”19 of the tunes. So,
again, like in the Berlin school tradition, Burns tried to find a match between the
music and the words on the rhythmic and melodic levels which were intricately
linked with a particular tone that he could not find in the English language – only,
in his case, the music came first and the words followed20: another ‘perfect’ match,
this time the ‘female’ part taking the initiative?
So far it has been established that ‘perfection’ of partnership in song may either
be realized by a ‘fusion’ of the partners (where in one case the ‘male’ partner is
in command, with the other one adapting ‘herself ’ as closely as possible, or in
another case the ‘female’ dominates, in a way absorbing her partner) or by a basic
independence and equality of the two partners, on a common ground of ‘material’
and ‘atmospheric’ congruence. Yet we can observe other situations in which the
17
Thomas Crawford: Burns. A Study of the Poems and Songs, Edinburgh 1978, p. 261.
18
For an edition of Burns’s works which includes the Scottish tunes see James Kinsley (ed.): Burns.
Poems and Songs, Oxford 1969.
19
J. C. Ewing and D. Cook (eds.): Robert Burns’s Commonplace Book 1783–1791, Glasgow 1938, p.
7 (qtd. in Crawford 1978, p. 263).
20
To be correct, it was Burns’s practice to “assimilate the air before trying to fit words to it” (Kinsley,
ed. 1969, p. vi), which was common and felt legitimate with folk tunes.
90
partnership is troubled by the dominance of one partner, where in one case the
dominant partner forces the partner to adjust himself, or where, in the other case,
the partners altogether lack a common ground.
Arnold Schönberg’s and Anton von Webern’s vocal music strikes the listener
as a form of song writing in which the impulse of the music to ‘interpret’ the
underlying text is weak to non-existent. The most obvious feature of this apparent
unconcern of the music for textual factors is the frequent deviation of melodic
lines from the rhythmical and intonational patterns of the underlying language. For
example, high notes, emphatically sticking out in the vocal line, are often placed on
unstressed syllables, and generally the principles of speech declamation are widely
ignored.21 This is particularly true for Webern’s later songs and can be attributed
to the demands and restrictions of the serial technique applied in these works. It
can thus be argued that musical constructional principles override linguistic givens,
and one can equally observe that there is no tendency in these songs for the music
to respond to what the text is saying as the work unfolds. Yet, it would be hasty to
postulate that, as a consequence, the choice of text is irrelevant in such works and
that there is no essential link between the two media. Webern always made it quite
clear that he very much depended on appropriate texts for his vocal compositions to
materialize and that only the choice of a suitable text made the composition possible.
But obviously it was not the surface meaning and linguistic shape of the text that
decided on its suitability, but some more subtle element of expressivity in the text
that triggered in the composer his artistic ambition. ‘Webern takes the text into his
music by elevating it to become the mental inducement and reflected counterpart
of the composition.’22 The composer and the text must meet ‘inwardly,’23 and it
very much depends on the composer’s situational responsiveness whether a text
is able to stimulate a composition in him or not. The quality expected of a text is
an expressiveness to which the composer can relate and which is carried into the
composition by the constructional process, independent of surface congruence of
text and music.
In terms of ‘partnership’, what are the implications of such a situation? There
is no independence of the partners, and the music clearly dominates and overrules,
even forces the text on the surface level. Yet the source of energy and ultimate cause
lies in the text, and the partners thus share a common emotional ground, are even
21
See Dorothea Beckmann: Sprache und Musik im Vokalwerk Anton Weberns. Die Konstruktion des
Ausdrucks, Kölner Beiträge zur Musikforschung 57, Regensburg 1970, p. 11–16.
22
“Webern nimmt den Text in die Musik hinein, indem der Text zum geistigen Anlaß und
reflektierten Gegenüber der Komposition erhoben wird.“ (Elmar Budde: Anton Weberns Lieder Op.
3. Untersuchungen zur frühen Atonalität bei Webern, Beihefte zum Archiv für Musikwissenschaft 9,
Wiesbaden 1971, p. 10).
23
“[...] wenn Komponist und Text sich im Innern treffen, ist die Möglichkeit der Komposition
gegeben.“ (Elmar Budde: Anton Weberns Lieder Op. 3. Untersuchungen zur frühen Atonalität bei
Webern, Beihefte zum Archiv für Musikwissenschaft 9, Wiesbaden 1971, p. 10).
91
fettered to one another by that ground. Tension induced by a forceful dominant

partner is precariously kept alive by a strong, coercive basic bond between the two
partners: ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’?
When Webern’s songs cannot be called ‘interpretive’ in a traditional sense, as
they show no significant internal dialogue between the words and the music, and as,
consequently, they are only marginal cases in the long tradition of ‘setting poems
to music’, even more radical cases of ‘non-interpretive songs’ can be found in the
contemporary pop scene. Most frequently in modern pop songs a singer develops
a style of musical performance, which becomes his trademark, and applies it to the
texts he uses, which mainly serve the function of allowing him to sing (rather than
make purely instrumental music). The essential irrelevance of the texts in such songs
is not to be deplored as it contributes to the social purpose of pop performances,
and the dominance of the music is equally no harm as the music and the text share
their objective of serving the market and entertaining the masses. These partners,
with one taking the lead, are indifferent to one another but are held together by a
shared joint purpose outside their partnership.
The case is different when the text follows a purpose of its own and, for instance,
wants to send out a message of political relevance. If such a text establishes an
argument, offers vivid images and descriptions and develops a rhetorical strategy of
persuasion, it is bound to perish when it is matched with droning basses, resounding
drums and shrieking voices. One victim of such a situation was Linton Kwesi
Johnson, who combined his fairly sophisticated texts against racial discrimination
of West-Indians in England with lively reggae music and had to experience deep
disappointment when his audiences completely neglected his political message and
gave themselves away to the thrill of the music. In such a case we have two clearly
independent partners, indifferent to one another and following contradictory
objectives vis-à-vis their audience, so they become antagonists, and in this battle
the music necessarily remains victorious as ‘her’ sensual presence and immediacy of
impact are far more successful than the words’ rational grasp. Johnson talked about
the ‘destructiveness of music’ in such situations, and one may wonder why under
these circumstances the partners would ever have wanted to start such a misalliance.
The fact is that Johnson at one point stopped doing performances of this kind.24
The foregoing observations have shown that there is a wide range of diverse
relationships which words and music can establish in songs, and have established
in the course of European cultural history. They are basically of two types: either
they are primarily concerned with meaning, and therefore take their start from
24
See Walter Bernhart: “The Destructiveness of Music: Functional Intermedia Disharmony in Popular
Songs“ in Erik Hedling, Ulla-Britta Lagerroth, and Jenny Westerström (eds.): Cultural Functions
of Interart Poetics and Practice, Internationale Forschungen zur allgemeinen und vergleichenden
Literaturwissenschaft, Amsterdam; New York 2002, p. 247–253.
92
a verbal text; in such ‘interpretive songs’ the music is expected to relate itself to
the text and contribute to the generation of meaning by the joint two forces of
the song. In the other type, meaning is of lesser concern and the function of the
song is in the wider sense social, with the music usually being the driving factor;
what interests the critic in ‘non-interpretive songs’ is not so much the internal,
intermedial relationship between words and music and their meaning-generating
activities, but their combined, or separate, relationship to the outer social sphere
and the cultural environment in general. While for the former type hermeneutic
methods will be the most adequate forms of song criticism, the latter type will be
best served by sociological and cultural-historicist methods – which is not saying
that ‘interpretive songs’ may not benefit from cultural-historical perspectives, but
that any assessment which does not account for their internal meaning-production
processes fails to account for an essential dimension of these songs. Historically,
one can observe that with the decline of art song writing in the latter part of the
twentieth century and the concomitant coming to the fore of popular forms of song
writing, textual analysis has tended to find diminished application in song criticism
and ‘historicist’ perspectives have gained importance. As in social life, other forms
of partnership than ‘perfect marriages’ take the lead in song writing, and the critical
industry is well advised to face up to the situation and develop appropriate methods
of assessment.
93
References
Beckmann, Dorothea: Sprache und Musik im Vokalwerk Anton Weberns. Die Konstruktion des
Ausdrucks, Kölner Beiträge zur Musikforschung 57, Regensburg 1970.
Bernhart, Walter: “The Destructiveness of Music: Functional Intermedia Disharmony
in Popular Songs“ in Hedling, Erik, Lagerroth, Ulla-Britta, and Westerström, Jenny
(eds.): Cultural Functions of Interart Poetics and Practice, Internationale Forschungen zur
allgemeinen und vergleichenden Literaturwissenschaft, Amsterdam; New York 2002
(p. 247–253).
Bernhart, Walter: “An Exegetic Composer: Benjamin Britten’s Journey of the Magi” in
Arbeiten aus Anglistik und Amerikanistik, Vol. 20, 1995 (p. 123–134).
Bernhart, Walter: “Setting a Poem: The Composer’s Choice For or Against Interpretation“
in Yearbook of Comparative and General Literature, Vol. 37, 1988 (p. 32–46).
Bernhart, Walter: “Theorie und Praxis der Vertonung in den elisabethanischen Airs” in
Pfister, Manfred (ed.): Anglistentag 1984 Passau. Vorträge, Giessen 1985 (p. 245–260).
Budde, Elmar: Anton Weberns Lieder Op. 3. Untersuchungen zur frühen Atonalität bei Webern,
Beihefte zum Archiv für Musikwissenschaft 9, Wiesbaden 1971.
Campian [sic], Thomas: “To the Reader“ in Fellowes, Edmund H. (ed.), rev. ed. by
Thurston Dart, The Songs from Rosseter’s Book of Airs (1601), The English Lute-Songs,
London; New York 1968.
Campion, Thomas: “Observations in the Art of English Poesy” in Smith, G. Gregory (ed.):
Elizabethan Critical Essays, Vol. 2, Oxford 1971 (p. 327–355).
Campion, Thomas: “To the Reader“ in Scott, David (ed.): First Book of Ayres (c. 1613),
The English Lute-Songs, London; New York 1979 (p. ix).
Cone, Edward T.: “The Composer’s Approach to the Text“ in Fry, Northrop (ed.): Sound
and Poetry. English Institute Essays 1956, New York 1957 (p. 3–15).
Crawford, Thomas: Burns. A Study of the Poems and Songs, Edinburgh 1978.
Dowland, John: “To the Right Honorable Sir George Cary […]” (Dedication) in Fellowes,
Edmund H. (ed.), rev. ed. by Thurston Dart, The First Book of Ayres (1597, 1600, 1603,
1606, 1613), The English Lute-Songs, London; New York 1965 (p. iv).
Ewing, J. C. and Cook, D. (eds.): Robert Burns’s Commonplace Book 1783–1791, Glasgow 1938.
Hagstrum, Jean H.: The Sister Arts. The Tradition of Literary Pictorialism and English Poetry
from Dryden to Gray, Chicago 1958.
Kinsley, James (ed.): Burns. Poems and Songs, Oxford 1969.
Martinez, Michele: “Sister Arts and Artists: Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Aurora Leigh and
the Life of Harriet Hosmer” in Forum for Modern Language Studies, Vol. 39, No. 2, 2003
(p. 214–226).
Möller, Joachim (ed.): Sister Arts. Englische Literatur im Grenzland der Kunstgebiete, Marburg
2001.
Morley, Thomas: “Rules to be obserued in dittying” in A Plaine and Easie Introdvction to
Practicall Musicke. London 1597, The English Experience 207, Amsterdam; New York
1969 (p. 177–178).
“The Sister Arts: British Gardening, Painting and Poetry, 1700-1832,” http://www.laits.
utexas.edu/sisterarts/sublime/index.htm [4/3/2006].
Stevens, John: “The English Madrigal: ‘Perfect Marriage’ or ‘Uneasy Flirtation’” in Essays
and Studies, 1958 (p. 17–37).
Strunk, Oliver (ed.): Source Readings in Music History. From Classical Antiquity to the
Romantic Era, London 1952.
94
From Operatic “Urform” to a “New Opera”:
On Kurt Weill and Musical Theatre
Magnar Breivik
In 1850, Richard Wagner introduced the concept of “das Gesamtkunstwerk,” as a

path-breaking attempt towards the comprehensive integration of the arts – especi-
ally of poetry, music, and dance – into a supposedly new artistic entirety. Wagner
described music as “the sea” that both divided and united “the two extreme antitheses
of human art, the arts of dancing and of poetry.”1 In his conception of music drama,
the arts are considered as subordinate to a central idea according to which they fuse
in order to obtain a common goal. The intention of this particular kind of mediation
between the muses is a heightened artistic synthesis where the arts mutually complete
and complement each other in a sophisticated play of intermediality, in which the
limitations of the individual arts are overcome. This is why Wagner considered the
“Gesamtkunstwerk” as representing nothing less than “the artwork of the future.”
The ambition of combining all the arts successfully in one and the same work
has appeared on every occasion that the renewal of opera has been on the agenda. In
the 1920s, about three quarters of a century after Wagner’s proclamation of “the art-
work of the future,” opera was again much debated on German soil. This was the
new era that immediately followed the traumas of World War I, and Wagner’s ideas
were regarded as passé, at least by representatives of the upcoming generation of
young composers, stage directors, playwrights, and authors. Kurt Weill was among
the new German composers sharing this view. With the cultural life of the Weimar
Republic as his springboard, Weill would go on to exert a substantial influence on
the progress of 20th-century theatre music as a whole. The focus of this article is on
aspects of Weill’s views on musical theatre as an intermedial art.
Kurt Weill (1900–1950) began making himself felt in German music life during
the first half of the twenties. After the Nazis came to power in 1933, Weill – a Jew by
birth and an allegedly radical, left-wing composer dallying with jazz – had no option
but to emigrate and try to continue his career abroad. Subsequent to a transitional
stay in France, he ended up in the USA, where he soon became one of the artists
who exerted a significant impact on the development of American musical theatre.
In 1936, one year after Kurt Weill had arrived as a refugee in America, he
described “die Schaffung eines musikalischen Theaters für unsere Zeit” (the making
1
See, for instance, Richard Wagner: excerpt from the essay “The Artwork of the Future” (1850) in
Oliver Strunk: Source Readings in Music History, rev. and ed. Leo Treitler, New York; London 1998
(p. 1097–1112), p. 1100.
95
Magnar Breivik: From Operatic ”Urform” to a ”New Opera”
of a musical theatre for our time) as the goal he had been heading towards since the
very beginning of his career.2 His own application of the term “musikalisches Theater”
(musical theatre) – and not “Musiktheater” (music theatre) – is crucial for any
understanding of his contribution to the stage: He always seemed to regard musical
theatre not as a self-contained artistic genre but as an intermedial art containing
music yet based on the laws of the theatre medium. This view also implied that each
artistic medium involved contributed according to its own possibilities and limi-
tations. Hence, Weill would never believe in Wagner’s lofty ideals of an elevated
“Gesamtkunstwerk” in which the arts were supposed to combine in a way that
could transcend the inherent limitations of each of them. A simple token of Weill’s
conviction is that most of his works for the stage include some kind of spoken dia-
logue: As a rule, Weill would be reluctant to set to music anything he thought might
be said better in words.
In Weill’s writings from the late 1920s, the concept of “die Urform der Oper”
(the primeval form of opera) starts turning up, often with a reference to Die Drei-
groschenoper (The Threepenny Opera) – which is no opera at all. To Weill, “the
primeval form of opera” means the combination of drama and music found in Greek
tragedies, in medieval mystery plays, and in Japanese Nô-theatre, but also in what
he regards as music history’s first opera: Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo of 1607. In all these
cases music takes part as an integral part of the drama, however always on its own
premises. In Weill’s opinion, from the Renaissance onwards opera started departing
from the spoken drama and developed into a self-contained form culminating in
the aforementioned Wagnerian music drama. His ambition was to restore the so-
called ‘primeval’ form by re-establishing a supposedly ideal link between drama and
music where both components play mutually dependent roles according to their
independent modes of expression.3
Through his multifarious output for the stage Weill stands forth as a persistent
explorer of territory that lies somewhere between spoken theatre and traditional
opera, as also between popular music and serious music, or as his native language
would characterise them, “U-Musik” and “E-Musik” respectively.
Weill thought of himself as a musical-theatre innovator throughout most of his
professional career, and most his works for the stage should be described as hybrids of
some kind. In his oeuvre one finds a variety of designations, such as “opera,” “opera
buffa,” “Songspiel,” “play with music,” “comedy with music,” “school opera,” “ballet
chanté,” “operetta,” “biblical drama,” “musical play,” “musical comedy,” “vaude-
ville,” “folk opera,” and “musical tragedy.” Occupying a new territory between the
2
See Kurt Weill: “Was ist musikalisches Theater?” (1936), notes for a lecture, German trans. in
Stephen Hinton and Jürgen Schebera (eds.): Kurt Weill, Musik und musikalisches Theater. Gesammelte
Schriften, Mainz 2000 (p. 144–147).
3
See, for instance, Kurt Weill: “Die Alchemie der Musik” (1936) in Hinton & Schebera 2000 (p.
148–154).
96
opposite poles of theatrical forms and musical genres, Weill seemed to be convinced
that he would also be able to reach out to a new public. For him, the challenge of the
theatre medium and its audiences was always the basic point of departure. Unlike
many of his composer colleagues, Weill is reported to have been quite willing to
make extensive cuts in his music as long as the result might lead to a more idiomatic
performance on stage. “Das Tempo der Bühne” (the pacing of the stage) was a
concern that always had a prominent position in the development of his musical
ideas.4 Another consequence of Weill’s attitude towards artistic practicalities is that
his music, despite its proven resistance to the wear and tear of time, often gives the
impression of having been tailored to suit a particular public in a particular place.
After his first operatic success, Der Protagonist (with Georg Kaiser, 1924/1925),
Weill wrote only one purely instrumental work, his Symphony No 2, which was
premiered by Bruno Walter and the Concertgebouw Orchestra in 1934. As years
went by, Weill’s music-theatre achievements would include about thirty works for
the stage, starting with the lost one-act opera Ninon von Lenclos (after the play by
Ernst Hardt) of 1919/1920. Due to Weill’s untimely death in 1950, the last piece,
based on the story of Huckleberry Finn (Mark Twain/Maxwell Anderson), remained
unfinished.
Die Dreigroschenoper, which was premiered in 1928, became one of the most
successful musical-theatre works in the 20th century. Weill regarded this piece, and
works like Das Berliner Requiem (1928), Der Lindberghflug (1929), and Happy End
(1929), as preliminary studies for the full-length opera Aufstieg und Fall der Stadt
Mahagonny of 1929. All these works were the results of fruitful collaborations with
Bertolt Brecht. In the extensive Mahagonny opera Weill saw the realisation of his
ideas of what a new opera in a new age should really be.
At the time when Die Dreigroschenoper was put on stage at the Theater am
Schiffbauerdamm in Berlin, the expression a “new opera” had already appeared
in Weill’s writings for quite a while. He had started to envisage a comprehensive
renewal of the art of opera. In discussing the prospects of an operatic reform Weill
was certainly not alone. After World War I, the issue of a contemporary “opera
crisis” was frequently on the agendas of both composers and writers. In addition to
a variety of musical and theatrical considerations, historical, sociological, economic,
and political perspectives on opera were also prominent in contemporary debates.
The allegedly ‘anti-aesthetics‘ arguments associated with “Die neue Sachlichkeit”
(The New Objectivity) were of great significance to the development of music at
the time. Among the characteristics of musical “neue Sachlichkeit” were the use of
traditional forms (such as sonata and dance forms versus the through composition
favoured in late romanticism and expressionism), the predilection for “objective”
4
On “the pacing of the stage,” see Kurt Weill: “Bekenntnis zu Oper [II]” in Hinton & Schebera 2000
(p. 47–49), p. 46.
97
winds over “subjective” strings, the focus on smaller ensembles rather than the
mammoth orchestras associated with romantic music, and a decisive urge towards
narrowing the expanding gap between contemporary music and the public. The
prevalent opera traditions in Germany were rooted in Romanticism, and many of
the debates on opera were based on a conviction that the genre was in itself passé:
the genre was readily associated with cultural conservatism and pre-war bourgeoisie,
and it was thus in need of a more than comprehensive renewal in a contemporary
present that looked to an even brighter future. This overall attitude also explains
much of the anti-Wagnerian stance at the time and the many reactions against a
“Gesamtkunstwerk” that seemed far removed from the ideals of an up-to-date new
objectivity.
The views of musical-theatre intermediality, in which each artistic component
should be exploited only according to its own potentialities, must also be seen in
the light of a more general craving for objectivity. During the 1920s the Germans
saw a Händel-opera renaissance in which the baroque operatic form in itself, as well
as the old master’s brilliant capacity of displaying human affects through music,
gained considerable attention. A Händel opera seria is based on numbered sections
of recitatives and arias, not on an incessant flow of music of the kind that was later
found in Wagnerian music drama.
The reverence for ancient traditions combined with the utilization of languages
of modernity is characteristic for “Die neue Sachlichkeit” in music. In 1927, how-
ever, Ernst Krenek’s jazzy opera Jonny spielt auf (Jonny Strikes up the Band) was
hailed as something decidedly new, as a “Zeitoper” revealing the true spirit of the
time. Paul Hindemith’s Neues vom Tage (News of the Day), 1929, also became an
important representative of that particular genre. In Kurt Weill’s oeuvre, Der Zar
lässt sich photographieren (The Tsar has his Photograph Taken) of 1928 may be seen
as his most typical contribution to this field.5
In a brief autobiographical article appearing in the same year, 1928, Weill’s
thoughts on the renewal of opera were once again aired. This text, faithfully following
the instructions of Berliner Tageblatt, was designed as a lesson for twelve-year-old
children. Weill starts his lesson by pointing out that the times of (Wagnerian) gods
and heroes are over, and that music is no longer a matter for the few.6 In the field of
opera and musical theatre he presents his wishes to start from the very beginning,
and he concludes his lesson by putting forward the notion of “der gestische Charak-
ter der Musik” (the gestic character of music) as the most important result of his
work until then. This concept will be more fully discussed later. Weill gives his
imaginary pupils of 1928 a set of programmatic statements strongly resembling
a musical-theatre manifesto. The notion that “music is no longer a matter for the
5
See Susan C. Cook: Opera for a New Republic: The Zeitopern of Krenek, Weill, and Hindemith,
London 1988.
6
Kurt Weill: “Der Musiker Weill” (1928) in Hinton & Schebera 2000, p. 68–71.
98
few” can always serve as a good starting-point for a presentation of his thoughts.
What Weill stresses are the social functions of music and the conviction that music
should be a part of everyday experience. The 1920s, the formative years of Weill’s
artistic development, were times of musical experiments displaying a vigour and
variety hardly surpassed by any other decade in the history of music. “Die neue
Sachlichkeit” was part of this picture, and it was in 1923 that Gustav F. Hartlaub,
the director of the Mannheim Kunsthalle, introduced this motto on the occasion
of the preparation of an exhibition of post-expressionism art under that very title.
The title was quickly transformed into a slogan that soon spread like wildfire both
through the arts and through everyday life of the Weimar Republic.
The German musicologist Heinrich Besseler is acknowledged as the one who
coined the term “Gebrauchsmusik” in the mid-twenties.7 “Gebrauchsmusik” is not
really an equivalent to musical “neue Sachlichkeit,” although both concepts are
nourished from the same soil. To Besseler, personal participation in musical activity
should be regarded as the best way to cope with what he saw as a contemporary
passivity among the listeners, a compliance caused by a public concert system based
on outworn traditions and commercial music consumption. “Gebrauchsmusik” was
regarded as the vehicle for restoring a supposedly genuine musical “Gemeinschaft”
that seemed to have been disappearing in the course of the previous decades.
Besseler thus referred to another of the Weimar Republic’s widely cherished words:
the warm and all-inclusive “Gemeinschaft” (community), as opposed to the cold
and mechanical “Gesellschaft” (society).8
Although the functions of the arts and their societal value were discussed and
described from different angles at the time, the concept of “Gebrauchsmusik” (“utility
music” or “music for use”) is not easy to define. As stated by Paul Hindemith, once
among the term’s productive representatives, the concept is strongly connected to,
and perhaps even delimited to, the vastly expanding musical market of the post-war
years.9 The rapidly increasing amateur movement, the grand perspectives of the
newly established broadcasting co-operations, and the excitingly novel possibilities
found in the film industry played important roles in those years of artistic expansion.
However, the notion of “Gebrauchsmusik” was also used as a more general protest
against the supposedly dangerous and esoteric avant-garde; it was music explicitly
written for common use and not as what ironical critics might characterize as the
egocentric self-expression of the suffering artist. All in all, the “Gebrauchsmusik”
term proved to be comprehensive indeed. The main point seems to be that music
7
See Heinrich Besseler: “Grundfragen des musikalischen Hörens” in Jahrbuch der Musikbibliothek
Peters 32/1925, Leipzig 1926 (p. 35–52).
8
This dichotomy was based on the German sociologist Ferdinand Tönnies’ antitheses of Gemeinschaft
and Gesellschaft, which he introduced in his book Gemeinschaft und Gesellschaft of 1887.
9
See Paul Hindemith: “Betrachtungen zur heutigen Musik” in Giselher Schubert (ed.): Paul Hinde-
mith: Aufsätze, Vorträge, Reden, Zürich; Mainz 1994 (p. 131–176).
99
so described involved some aspects of musical utility combined with principles of

musical activity, both perceived in the widest sense.
In his article “Die Oper – wohin? ‘Gebrauchsmusik’ und ihre Grenzen” (1929)
Weill presented “Gebrauchsmusik” as an ideal basis for the development of a new
opera.10 His reasons lie in the conviction that high-quality “Gebrauchsmusik” aims
at combining “Kunstmusik” (art music) with what he characterises as “Verbrauchs-
musik” (consumer’s music) into an amalgamation suiting a broad and modern
musical public. The possibilities that he proceeds to discuss are founded in what in
later German terminology is described as “die mittlere Musik,” the music “in the
middle” or “in-between.” As the formulation suggests, this music tends to mediate
the polarities of contemporary music: the antagonisms of high and low, tonal and
atonal, autonomous and functional.
In Weill’s opinion, the art of opera had developed generic characteristics that
addressed a rather limited group of listeners in the modern times of which he was a
part. As already suggested, he shared this view with many of his composer colleagues.
Operatic music needed new and fertile soil, and Weill saw the fundamental
approaches on which genuine “Gebrauchsmusik” is based as really having the
potential to open doors to a wider public. He was fully aware of the dangers of
making artistic concessions on behalf of short-lived popularity, and he was cautious
to emphasise that artistic quality must always be the guiding star. For one thing,
he warned the composers of “Gebrauchsmusik” against any competition with the
makers of gramophone hits. Music is a fundamental need that must always be satis-
fied through artistic quality. Good music, including opera, should never be reserved
for the chosen few.
Weill was never part of the Schönberg school, yet he started out by applying
tonal structures and compositional principles that were not always easily accessible
to a broad public. Weill’s ambition to increase accessibility to opera and musical
theatre in general inevitably led to a revision of his own modernist musical language.
A new and more accessible style started to emerge in his music during the second
half of the 1920s. A central trait of this stylistic change was a distinct swerve towards
a more traditional tonality, combined with a highly creative use of popular-music
idioms. Weill’s inclusion of a special type of “Song” is but one remarkable result of
his development.
The “Song” appeared for the first time in the Mahagonny Songspiel of 1927,
the most direct precursor to the later, and substantially extended, Aufstieg und Fall
der Stadt Mahagonny. The Songspiel title, referring to the traditions of the German
Singspiel through a provocatively “modern” Anglo-American twist, is evocative in
itself. While a comic or romantic story containing spoken dialogue, popular songs,
10
Kurt Weill: “Die Oper – wohin? ‘Gebrauchsmusik’ und ihre Grenzen” (1929) in Hinton &
Schebera 2000 (p. 92–96).
100
ballads, and strophic arias often characterize a German Singspiel, the Mahagonny
Songspiel has neither dialogue nor any character development. The order of the
“Songs” presents a scrawny story about the destiny of a city called Mahagonny. This
experimental “Songspiel” is thus a “play of Songs” to which no spoken dialogue has
been added. Rather it has been subtracted, as if this were a intermedial work minus
one of the media. Although Weill would never write another work in this vein,11
from the time of Mahagonny the binary verse-and-refrain “Song” became a most
vital ingredient in his music for the stage, at least while in Europe. In the context of
opera this “new” melodic genre more or less replaced the traditional aria. The term
emanates from the Anglo-American language rather than from German. As already
suggested, Weill’s “Song” represents a blend of contemporary, familiar elements
related to jazz, popular dance forms, and cabaret. However, everything is done with
a decidedly modern and definitely personal twist – each song is composed in a
highly sophisticated and artistically refined way. The music strives for the fusion
of bountiful possibilities of popular identification and truly artistic elevation. In
an interview with the New York World Telegram, 1935, Weill generously attributed
the “Song” genre to Bertolt Brecht and himself. “It became very popular and was
widely used in Germany,” he says. “Our ‘Song’ corresponded, I think, quite a lot to
the genre ‘American popular song.’ It consisted of four or five verses with a refrain,
it was not, however, delimited to a fixed number of bars, as is the case with your
‘popular song’ here.”12
The most common form of American popular song, to which Weill refers above,
is based on the 32-bar AABA-pattern. George Gershwin wrote all his popular songs
according to that outline; Richard Rodger’s “Edelweiss” is typical as is Weill’s “My
Ship,” the latter concluding Lady in the Dark (Moss Hart, Ira Gershwin) of 1940.
However, Weill would never, like many of his American colleagues, stick to one
song form. One important reason is that, unlike most of his fellow composers, he
never wrote a melody before he had a text at hand. Consequently, in Weill’s music
an already existing text always decided the form of the song.
The “Alabama Song,” originally from the Mahagonny Songspiel, is typical for
Weill’s contributions to the “Song” genre back in Europe. Example 1 shows a piano
reduction of the first few bars of the refrain as implemented into the later opera-
tic version. The smoothly flowing vocal line combined with a strict, repetitive
rhythmical pattern in the accompaniment is a typical trait of many a Brecht-Weill
11
With the possible exception of certain similarities found in his so-called “ballet chanté,” Die sieben
Todsünden, 1933.
12
“Er wurde sehr populär und wurde weithin in Deutschland benutzt. […] Unser ‘Song’ korrespon-
dierte, wie ich glaube, sehr mit dem Genre des amerikanischen ‘popular Song.” Er bestand aus vier
oder fünf Strophen mit einem Refrain, jedoch war er nicht an eine ganz bestimmte Zahl von Takten
gebunden, wie das bei Ihrem ‘Popular Song’ hier der Fall ist.” R.C.B. (initials unknown): “Kurt Weill
hat sich mit 35 Jahren seinen eigenen Platz geschaffen” (1935) in Hinton & Schebera 2000, p. 468.
101
“Song.” Another characteristic feature is the falling leap in “[A-la-] ba-ma.” The
use of a descending leap at some strategic point of a melodic development is quite
frequently found throughout Weill’s entire production. This trait gives the vocal line
a sophisticated shape and at the same time some kind of extrovert singing quality
that stepwise progressions do not. Among the general Weill-characteristics in this
example are also the refined harmonic juxtapositions of major and minor. All these
traits confirm Weill’s own words: “every text I’ve set looks entirely different once
it’s been swept through my music.”13 Indirectly, this quotation also reveals Weill’s
consistent need for a good text as a muse for his music. The performance of the
Mahagonny opera makes use of both on-stage and off-stage orchestras. An abundant
use of brass and wind instruments – including soprano-, alto-, and tenor saxo-
phones – as well as harmonium, zither, banjo, and bandoneon contribute to the
characteristic sound that would become so strongly associated with Weill’s works
for the Berlin stage.
Here the first “sharks,” six girls unblushingly lead by the masterful Jenny, make a
rest before arriving in the dream-town of Mahagonny – all of them fit and prepared
to deal with the desires of well-heeled gold miners:
Example 1. Kurt Weill: “Alabama Song” from Aufstieg und Fall der Stadt Mahagonny, mm. 26–35
Music that is composed in such a vein is not superficially seductive like the gramo-
phone hit, Weill says. It is rather annoyingly discomforting. Due to its ethical and
social content it is bitter, accusing, in its mildest form ironic.14 According to the
“Gebrauchsmusik” idea, a broad and actively receptive public will in turn provide a
13
Kurt Weill in an unpublished letter to Erika Neher (1933), made available in Joanna Lee and Kim
Kowalke (eds): Die 7 Todsünden/The 7 Deadly Sins: A Sourcebook, New York 1997, p. 5.
14
Kurt Weill: “Die Oper – wohin?…” in Hinton & Schebera 2000 (p. 92–96), p. 93.
102
fresh and fruitful soil for new music. However, music’s popularity potential is certainly
not the only precondition for its applicability to the stage. Still more important is its
profound, all-embracing ability to render what Weill describes as the natural human
condition by expressing simple, human emotions (Regungen) and actions. In “Die
neue Oper” (1926) Weill writes about the transparent clarity of emotions in which
the possibilities for the emergence of a new opera are embedded, “because from this
clarity arises even the simplicity of musical language which opera demands.”15 Alban
Berg’s Wozzeck (1925) must be seen as the grand conclusion of a development based
on Wagner, Weill says. Ferruccio Busoni’s Doktor Faust (1924), on the contrary,
represents the starting point of a new fruitful period for opera, at the opposite pole
to music drama.16 This also leads back to Weill’s notion that “the times of gods and
heroes are gone” and his general wish to make “die Urform der Oper” his point of
departure. Weill’s ambitious aims must be seen in connection with the innovations,
or perhaps rather the renovations, that were taking place on the theatrical stage of
his time. In Weill’s opinion, opera might profit by successfully adhering to the ideas
of contemporary theatre, which he saw as explicitly directed towards what ordinary,
everyday human beings say and do. One ought to develop a musical idiom equally
“natural” as that of the profoundly human, spoken language of modern theatre.
On reaching this goal, music would become capable of embracing a huge range
of topics central to contemporary society. These are the true cultural functions of
a new opera. Weill’s views on the spoken-theatre medium as a guiding star for the
renewal of opera also influenced his very selective choice of collaborators. In the
notes for the original cast recording of the 1946 Street Scene (Elmer Rice, Langston
Hughes) he wrote of his continuous work towards solving “the form-problems of
the musical theatre”:
One of the first decisions I made was to get the leading dramatists of
our time interested in the problems of musical theatre. The list of my
collaborators reads like a good selection of contemporary playwrights of
different countries: Georg Kaiser and Bert Brecht in Germany, Jaques
Deval in France, Franz Werfel, Paul Green, Maxwell Anderson, Moss
Hart and Elmer Rice in America.17
15
“In der durchsichtigen Klarheit unseres Empfindungslebens liegen die Möglichkeiten für die Ent-
stehung einer neuen Oper; denn aus ihr entspringt eben die Einfachheit der musikalischen Sprache, die
die Oper verlangt.” Kurt Weill: “Die neue Oper” (1926) in Hinton & Schebera 2000 (p. 42–45), p. 43.
16
See Kurt Weill: “Die neue Oper” p. 44.
17
Kurt Weill: “Two Dreams Come True” in Joanna Lee, Edward Harsh, and Kim Kowalke (eds.):
Street Scene: A Sourcebook, New York 1996, p. 26.
103
In Weill’s opinion it was important to overcome what he saw as the musicians’

fear of truly equal collaborators from other fields of art.18 To the literary scholar
the notion of music’s capacity of expressing man’s natural attitudes may sound like
an echo of Brecht, with whom Weill had such successful collaborations. Brecht
is often put forward as the driving force in their productive coalition. There are
reasons to maintain that the influence must have been far more reciprocal than is
commonly acknowledged. In many cases it probably has to be seen as the other
way round. In a letter to Universal Edition in 1927, Weill, in the middle of his
work on the Mahagonny opera, wrote “I am working with Brecht every day on the
libretto, which is being shaped entirely according to my instructions. This kind of
collaboration, in which a libretto is actually formed according to purely musical
considerations, opens up to entirely new prospects.”19 A couple of years later Weill
went even further into the nature of their professional relationship:
Music has more impact than words. Brecht knows it and he knows
that I know. But we never talk about it. If it came out in the open, we
couldn’t work with each other any more. Brecht asks for complete sub-
mission. He doesn’t get it from me, but he knows that I’m good and
that I understand him artistically, so he pretends that I’m utterly under
his spell. I don’t have to do anything to create that impression. He does
it all himself.20
Weill’s fundamental ideas on opera should rather be seen as a continuation of

thoughts that were introduced by his highly influential teacher of composition,
Ferruccio Busoni. Weill once said that Busoni meant to him what Liszt meant
to Wagner.21 Weill was especially intrigued by his teacher’s two operas Arlecchino
(1914–16) and Doktor Faust. In Busoni’s opuses for the stage Weill saw the perfect
amalgamation of musical and theatrical expression.22
Already in 1907, Busoni, the prominent spokesman of a new classicism in music,
wrote in his Entwurf einer neuen Ästhetik der Tonkunst, translated as Sketch of a New
Esthetic of Music:
18
See, for instance, Kurt Weill: “Verschiebungen in der musikalischen Produktion,” in Hinton &
Schebera 2000 (p. 61–64) p. 63.
19
Quoted from Joanna Lee, Edward Harsh, and Kim Kowalke (eds.): Mahagonny: A Sourcebook,
New York 1995, p. 17.
20
Quoted from Lee, Harsh & Kowalke 1995, p. 95.
21
See “Der Komponist der Stunde. Ralph Winett: Interview mit Kurt Weill” (1936) in Hinton &
Schebera 2000, p. 471.
22
See Kurt Weill: “Busonis Faust und die Erneuerung der Opernform” (1927) in Hinton & Schebera
2000 (p. 54-58).
104
The greater part of modern theatre music suffers from the mistake of
seeking to repeat the scenes passing on the stage instead of fulfilling
its own proper mission of interpreting the soul-states [attitudes] of the
persons represented. When the scene presents the illusion of a thunder-
storm, this is exhaustively apprehended by the eye. Nevertheless, nearly
all composers strive to depict the storm in tones – which is not only a
needless and feebler repetition, but likewise a failure to perform their
true function.23
Weill shared Busoni’s views of the possibilities and limitations of theatre music.
As suggested earlier, from an intermedial point of view Weill’s main issue is that
music, the spoken word, and the action on stage can co-operate very successfully
indeed, but they will always have to be based upon their own, individual premises
as fundamentally different forms of art. This fact does exclude their allegedly ideal
union in a dramatic “Gesamtkunstwerk” where, in addition to the lofty goals of
artistic elevation, the musical construction is based on a web of leitmotifs, expressions
of extra-musical phenomena, and an abundance of dramaturgical functions that are
designed to support the action. The music drama’s pretended reality on the stage is
bound to remove itself from tangible reality, as far as action, words, and music are
concerned. In Weill’s opinion, music thus had to take up its fundamentally irrational
role once again. Brecht, in an essay translated as “Notes on the Opera,” wrote about
the concept of epic opera in connection with Weill’s and his own Aufstieg und Fall
der Stadt Mahagonny. “Words, music and setting must become more independent
of one another,” he claimed.24
A formal consequence of Weill’s thoughts on epic opera is that he wanted to
restore the number opera, in which the music is not evolving uninterruptedly and
incessantly from the first beginning till the very end. In accordance with epic-theatrical
principles, the function of songs and musical numbers should not be regarded as
fundamental vehicles for the dramatic procedure on stage. It should rather interrupt
the action, comment upon it, express an already established situation or a definite
stage in the dramatic development. This is also the case with the introduction of
the “Alabama Song” in the play. There may even be moments where an interrupting
or mediating song seems to be the only convincing alternative to a dead end. The
text and action on stage may thus even give certain excuses for the introduction of
music and songs. This is what Weill regarded as music’s function of irrationality in
the operatic enterprise.
Weill saw Die Dreigroschenoper, with its spoken dialogue and separated songs, as
the prototype of a renewed operatic “Urform” in the 20th century. In the Aufstieg und
23
Ferruccio Busoni: “Sketch of a New Esthetic of Music” trans. Theodore Baker, in Three Classics in
the Aesthetic of Music, New York 1962 (p. 75–102), p. 83.
24
John Willett (ed. and tr.): Brecht on Theatre: The Development of an Aesthetic, New York 1992, p. 38.
105
Fall der Stadt Mahagonny these principles were carried further to a more elaborate
musical work where each of the 21 scenes is constructed as a self-contained musical
number, as a segregated musical form in itself. Brief, mediating texts open up for
the next number.
According to Weill, music for operas should be basically equivalent to so-called
“absolute music”; it should be integrated in its own way but still be self-supporting.
The consequence of this idea is also that operatic music should be able to exist
as a self-sufficient, formal entity even outside the stage. Mozart’s Don Giovanni
and Die Zauberflöte were, together with Beethoven’s Fidelio, Weill’s favourites in
the classical repertoire of musical theatre. Weill maintained that in Mozart’s music,
often described as primarily dramatic, there is no fundamental difference between
what is written for the stage and what is written for, say, an instrumental chamber
music group.25 This has all to do with the aforementioned “gestischen Charakter der
Musik,” which should be translated as music’s capability of representing both gist
and gesture. According to its inherent character, music has a fundamentally unique
capacity that is in no way delimited to any dramatic action in space. This is certainly
one of the most important points in Weill’s thoughts on musical theatre. The notion
of “der gestische Charakter der Musik” starts appearing in Weill’s writings from the
late 1920s. Before long one finds similar formulations in Brecht’s writings as well.
Weill also uses the German noun “Gestus,” an expression that during the 1930s
would become more widely accepted as denoting the very combination of gist and
gesture.26 In Weill’s opinion, the musical gestus is what makes music particularly
suitable for a renewal of the acting art in general. He uses the term in different ways.
It may, on its own musical premises, support the action on stage, and even present
a basic gestus showing the actor’s attitude. The verbal text itself may in many cases
possess its own inherent gestus, which it is a composer’s task to reveal and set to
music. Here, the rhythm of the text is important, but by no means sufficient. One
of music’s great advantages is its ability to both determine and to fix the gist and
gestures of performance, thereby preventing all the mistakes from which Weill sees
modern theatre so frequently suffering.
In his article “Über den gestischen Character der Musik” Weill uses the “Alabama
Song” as an example of how the gestures of a text are carried out in music. In his
opinion, Brecht’s own melody, printed as an appendix to his Hauspostille,27 is by no
means artistically satisfying. It seems to render the rhythmical gestus and nothing
more:
25
Kurt Weill: “Über den gestischen Character der Musik” (1929) in Hinton & Schebera 2000 (p.
83–88).
26
In 1957 Brecht’s discussion of some aspects of the term “gestic music” were published in his Schriften
zum Theater, in Willett, p. 104–106.
27
Bertolt Brecht: “Gesangsnoten” in Hauspostille, Berlin; Frankfurt am Main 1960 (p. 155–164), p.
161–162.
106
Example 2. Bertolt Brecht: “Alabama Song,” mm. 11-14
The combination of a concern for “the pacing of the theatre stage,” the utiliza-
tion of a correctly conceived “Gebrauchsmusik” concept, the recognition of music’s
possibilities and limitations as an art, the concept of an operatic “Urform”, and “der
gestische Charakter der Musik” may sum up Kurt Weill’s thoughts and contributions
to the musical theatre of his time.
Weill’s unfortunately brief yet highly eventful career took place on both Schiff-
bauerdamm and Broadway. It is important to bear in mind that the musical-theatre
stages of Berlin and New York were based on fundamentally different premises. One
substantial challenge for a European immigrant composer arriving in the 1930s, lay
in the simple fact that the USA completely lacked any significant operatic tradition.
Accordingly, the American stage would require different solutions and divergent
ways of expression. In his newly adopted country Weill also had to pursue his career
under different cultural and economic conditions, a trivial fact that could not
be ignored. This also had a discernible influence on his musical language, which
preserved many of its characteristics and at the same time became closer to American
popular-music idioms, and on the variety of his artistic contributions.
Weill’s remarkable flexibility as a composer was deeply rooted in both his own
musical personality and in his profound recognition of the cultural functions of
opera and musical theatre in 20th-century society. Historically, Aufstieg und Fall
der Stadt Mahagonny is often regarded as the forerunner of a more dramaturgically
comprehensive Broadway-opera genre. In this field, Street Scene, written just four
years before he died, became Weill’s own path-breaking contribution. Through this
work Weill saw his dream of creating a new type of musical theatre that combined
European opera traditions and Broadway standards of popular accessibility coming
true.
107
References
Besseler, Heinrich: “Grundfragen des musikalischen Hörens” in Jahrbuch der Musikbibliothek
Peters 32/1925, Leipzig 1926.
Brecht, Bertolt: “Gesangsnoten” in Hauspostille, Berlin; Frankfurt am Main 1960.
Busoni, Ferruccio: Sketch of a New Esthetic of Music, trans. Theodore Baker, in Three Classics
in the Aesthetic of Music, New York 1962.
Cook, Susan C.: Opera for a New Republic: The Zeitopern of Krenek, Weill, and Hindemith,
Ann Arbor; London 1988.
Hindemith, Paul: “Betrachtungen zur heutigen Musik” in Schubert, Giselher (ed.): Paul
Hindemith: Aufsätze, Vorträge, Reden, Zürich; Mainz 1994.
Hinton, Stephen & Schebera, Jürgen (eds.): Kurt Weill, Musik und musikalisches Theater,
Gesammelte Schriften, Mainz 2000:
–––R.C.B. (initials unknown): “Kurt Weill hat sich mit 35 Jahren seinen eigenen Platz
geschaffen” (p. 467–470).
–––Weill, Kurt: “Busonis Faust und die Erneuerung der Opernform” (p. 54–58).
–––Weill, Kurt: “Der Musiker Weill” (p. 68–71).
–––Weill, Kurt: “Die Alchemie der Musik” (p. 148–154).
–––Weill, Kurt: “Die neue Oper” (p. 42–45).
–––Weill, Kurt: “Die Oper – wohin? ‘Gebrauchsmusik’ und ihre Grenzen” (p. 92–96).
–––Weill, Kurt: “Über den gestischen Character der Musik” (p. 83–88).
–––Weill, Kurt: “Was ist musikalisches Theater?” (p. 144–148).
–––Weill, Kurt: “Verschiebungen in der musikalischen Produktion” (p. 61–64).
–––Weill, Kurt: “Bekenntnis zu Oper [II]” (p. 47–49).
–––Winnett, Ralph: “Der Komponist der Stunde. Ralph Winett: Interview mit Kurt Weill”
(p. 470–474).
Lee, Joanna, Harsh, Edward, and Kowalke, Kim (eds.): Mahagonny: A Sourcebook, New
York 1995.
Lee, Joanna, Harsh, Edward, and Kowalke, Kim (eds.): Street Scene: A Sourcebook, New
York 1995.
Lee, Joanna and Kowalke, Kim (eds.): Die 7 Todsünden/The 7 Deadly Sins: A Sourcebook,
New York 1997.
Wagner, Richard: excerpt from the essay The Artwork of the Future (1850), in Strunk,
Oliver: Source Readings in Music History, rev. and ed. Leo Treitler, New York; London
1998 (p. 1097–1112).
Willett, John (ed. and trans.): Brecht on Theatre: The Development of an Aesthetic, New York
1992.
108
The “Scholarly” and the “Artistic”:
Music as Scholarship?
Nils Holger Petersen
This article is based on my own personal experiences as a scholar and a composer and
therefore, to a larger extent than normal in academic writing, marked by subjective
concerns and ideas. However, the aim of the presentation is to raise and discuss
a general question concerning the traditional distinction between “the scholarly”
and “the artistic” which I believe to be relevant for academic work. Taking up a
specific example − a musical composition of my own − I will raise the question to
what extent it makes sense to claim that this piece of music also can be received
as a scholarly contribution. Academic presentations are traditionally formulated
in words, possibly supplemented graphically. The present discussion involves the
question whether scholarship in principle must be limited to the media of words
supplemented by graphic figures.1 For me, the question has come up in connection
with my own activities. The article attempts to extract a general discussion on the
basis of my own individual background.
Since the 1930s, at least, the relationship between art and scholarship was
critically taken up in humanistic scholarship and the arts. In the understanding of
the philosopher Theodor W. Adorno, Arnold Schönberg’s twelve-tone music could
be claimed to bring about knowledge.2 Adorno and the novelist Thomas Mann in
each their ways contributed significantly to discussions of music aesthetics through
philosophical and fictional writings, respectively. These discussions became of im-
portance for the course of musical modernism in the aftermath of the Second World
War and belong to the general context of my personal experiences in the “new music
world” in Copenhagen in the 1960s and 70s.3
1
Obviously, music, as well as images, may be – illustrative – parts of an academic presentation.
This is not what I am thinking of here. I am concerned with the actual use of the medium music to
state a point; something that may rather be compared to the use of graphics to show connections for
instance via a scheme in order to state a theoretical point.
2
See Theodor W. Adorno: “Der dialektische Komponist” in Gesammelte Schriften, Vol. 17, Musikal-
ische Schriften IV: Impromptus. Zweite Folge neu gedruckter musikalischer Aufsätze, Frankfurt am Main
1982 (p. 198–203). The essay was originally written in 1934. English translation: Theodor W.
Adorno: “The Dialectical Composer” in Theodor W. Adorno: Essays on Music. Selected, With Intro-
duction, Commentary, and Notes by Richard Leppert. New Translations by Susan H. Gillespie, Berkeley
2002 (p. 203–209).
3
The intertextuality between Thomas Mann’s Novel Doktor Faustus (published in 1947) and Theodor
Wiesengrund Adorno’s Philosophie der neuen Musik (published in 1949) in itself constitutes an im-
portant example. However, both works on different premises take up the question of the role and
109
Nils Holger Petersen: The ”Scholarly” and the ”Artistic”
It is necessary to give a few details concerning my artistic and academic background.

I had written music since I was about 14 years old and became acquainted with the
modernistic crisis of the art of music through my studies of composition with the
Danish composer Ib Nørholm (born 1931) in the mid-sixties at the same time as
I was exposed to much contemporary music through my mother, Elisabeth Klein,
a pianist performing primarily newly composed music. Simultaneously, I studied
mathematics, worked as a mathematician for some years at universities in Denmark
and Norway, and later went into theology and humanistic scholarship concerning
the arts and the history of Christianity.
In 1980, looking − in various music books − for a quotation that could function
as an “other” in a musical composition I was working on, I happened to find a chant
melody from the Middle Ages which I used for the piano piece in question (which
I ended up calling A Plain Song).
In the years which followed, I came to perceive medieval music primarily as
the cultic musical basis out of which the art of music had developed and become
independent of its previous collective role and character of medieval music. I under-
stood this medieval music as fundamentally − even qualitatively − different not only
from the modernistic atonal music that I wrote, but as equally different from the
tonal – classical – music out of which modernism primarily had developed or from
which it had broken out. All this was seen very much in the light of the under-
standing of Thomas Mann’s composer-protagonist Adrian Leverkühn – in Doktor
Faustus – as a youth. He is still in high-school when, after a music-historical lecture,
he is referred for the following overall music historiographic construction:
The pupil of the upper school appeared to be struck by the thought,

which the lecturer had not expressed at all but had kindled in him,
that the separation of art from the liturgical whole, its liberation and
elevation into the individual and culturally self-purposive, had laden
it with an irrelevant solemnity, and absolute seriousness, a pathos of
suffering, which was imaged in Beethoven’s frightful apparition in the
doorway, and which did not need to be its abiding destiny, its permanent
intellectual constitution. […]4
possibilities (or impossibilities) of art in modern society. See Nils Holger Petersen: “Introduction:
Transformations of Christian Traditions and their Representation in the Arts, 1000−2000” in
Petersen, Clüver and Bell (eds.): Signs of Change: Transformations of Christian Traditions and their
Representation in the Arts, 1000−2000, Amsterdam 2004 (p. 1−23), p. 9−16.
4
Thomas Mann: Doctor Faustus, trans. from the German by H.T. Lowe-Porter, London 1992, p. 57.
See Thomas Mann: Doktor Faustus: Das Leben des deutschen Tonsetzers Adrian Leverkühn erzählt von
einem Freunde, Berlin 1963 (orig. Stockholm 1947), p. 65−66.
110
The “medieval” had become a different world for me, an “other” which asserted
its importance by way of the perspective it gave on the modern and the classical. A
few years later, in 1989, I wrote a music drama, A Vigil for Thomas Becket, in which
this idea was worked out in the libretto as well as in the music, and in both cases by
reference to quotations from medieval authors, very much − in my later judgement
− in line with Hans Robert Jauss’ hermeneutics of medieval literature although at
the time I had not read a word by him.5
Intuitive “artistic” experience in some measure seems to have anticipated what I
have later tried to approach in a more strict academic way. Also, the briefly described
role of the “medieval” in my music does not appear only to be found in my musical
constructions. Although I was not conscious about it at the time, this was something
to be heard in works of other contemporary composers as for instance George
Crumb (born 1929), Alfred Schnittke (1934−98), and Peter Maxwell Davies (born
1934) to name but a few important names.
The terms “art” and “artistic” are difficult to define. The changes which the
understandings and practices of art have undergone in modern times − since the rise
of a modern concept of art − may lead to define art as that which the contemporary
institutions of art treat as art.6 In other words, I do not claim the existence of any
definable inherent artistic qualities in “works of art”; even so, my use of the term is
undeniably informed by traditional uses of the concept of art in Western cultural
history, especially since the eighteenth century, and of the sensibilities to which such
traditions and practices have given rise. These undoubtedly include ideas of artistic
quality: in spite of all differences, disagreements, and − necessary − cautions, there
is probably a fairly common consensus in modern-day Western cultures that what
5
See my account in “In Rama sonat gemitus… The Becket Story in a Danish Medievalist Music
Drama, A Vigil for Thomas Becket” in Richard Utz, and Tom Shippey (eds): Medievalism in the
Modern World: Essays in Honour of Leslie Workman, Tourhout: Brepols 1998 (p. 341−58). See also
Hans Robert Jauss: “The Alterity and Modernity of Medieval Literature” in New Literary History,
Vol. 10, No. 2, 1979 (p. 181−229).
6
For the ‘modern system of the arts,’ see Paul Oskar Kristeller: “The Modern System of the Arts”
Part I in Journal of the History of Ideas, Vol. 12, No. 4, 1951 (p. 496−527) and Part II in Journal of the
History of Ideas, Vol. 13, No. 1, 1952 (p. 17−46) with several later reprints. The modern crises of the
concept of art are apparent in the history of the twentieth-century arts as discussed prominently, for
instance, in the critical works of Walter Benjamin and Theodor W. Adorno already in the first half
of the century and, of course, by many others. For recent discussions pointing to the “institutional
system of the art-world,” see Eyolf Østrem: “‘The Ineffable’: Affinities between Christian and Secular
Concepts of Art” in Petersen, Clüver, and Bell (eds.): Signs of Change: Transformations of Christian
Traditions and their Representation in the Arts, 1000−2000, Amsterdam 2004 (p. 265−292), and Claus
Clüver: “On Genres: Their Construction, Function, Transformation, and Transposition” in Østrem,
Bruun, Petersen, and Fleischer (eds.): Genre and Ritual: The Cultural Heritage of Medieval Rituals,
Copenhagen 2005 (p. 27−46), esp. p. 45−46. See also Hans Belting: Das Unsichtbare Meisterwerk:
Die modernen Mythen der Kunst, München 1998, p. 13: “Nur ein historisches Verständnis schützt
uns vor dem Irrtum, die heutigen Begriffe für universal zu halten.” [Only a historical understanding
protects us from the error of regarding contemporary concepts as universal].
111
may be subsumed under the idea of “the artistic” is rooted in personal experience
but must − in one way or another − rise above the mere personal.
A Musical Composition as a Historiographical Construction?

In the following I shall comment on a very recent musical composition of mine, a
piano piece written to be played in connection with a public talk I gave on 5 Decem-
ber 2006 in the “Theological Association” (Teologisk Forening) at the Theological
Faculty of the University of Copenhagen. The title of the piece is Coram Mozart
(Facing Mozart). The purpose is to discuss in what way a claim can be made sensibly
that something which by most people would be described as an artwork (whether or
not the same people like the piece or not) may − also − represent a historiographical
construction of a scholarly nature. The first pages of the score are found towards the
end of this essay.
I will not discuss the piece analytically, but − in that respect − only remark that
the music is based on a number of systematic devices which all relate to Mozart,
although in fundamentally different ways. My piece takes its point of departure in
a quotation from Mozart’s Adagio in B minor KV 540 for solo piano (composed in
1788). This involves a construction of a tone series derived from (the possible ones
among) the letters of Mozart’s name, i.e. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, at some point
during the piece used in a construction of a twelve-tone series which is twice employ-
ed directly: one time in a short passage based on a strict − traditional − twelve-tone
technique and once − as the conclusion of the piece − where it is harmonized in a
traditional style of a Lutheran chorale as far as that is possible (which, of course,
it is not since it is not possible to carry through a traditional tonal functionality
during one presentation of a twelve-tone series). A series of chords which have
been constructed in a similar way determines a large part of the overall structure
of the piece providing it with an aspect − although fragmented − of mechanical
construction.
The built-in stylistic inconsistencies, not only between various musical styles or
materials (quotations and other musical matter) but also within the representation
of individual musical constructions from the various traditions called upon and the
overall form of the piece incorporating such diverse materials and musical techniques,
is part of its idea: a self-contradictory system which nevertheless appears as a kind
of rounded form (or course of musical events) by virtue of its − sort of traditional
− chorale conclusion although this chorale also represents the impossibility of such
a roundedness, as mentioned. Within this – obviously modernistic – scheme, the
piece includes a number of short quotations by Mozart, mainly from the mentioned
Adagio. These are “authentic” in the sense that they are exact and only manipulated
by way of their re-contextualization, a device which, of course, is a strong kind of
manipulation. In addition, there are reminiscences of quotations built in at various
112
points. Altogether, Mozart is referred to practically throughout the whole piece but
in very different ways and degrees, some more easily audible than others.
In my understanding of music historiography, Mozart belongs to what has been
called Old Europe by the Historian Dietrich Gerhard. A few years ago, trying to
place Mozart in a long-term account of European cultural history, I wrote:
My struggle, as it were, regards the historiographic position of Mozart

in such a narrative; and the reading I propose […] places Mozart firmly
in what has been called Old Europe. This is the traditional, Christian
Europe, medieval in the extended sense of, for instance, Jacques LeGoff.
It is Europe at the same time when the individualism with which many
thinkers of the Enlightenment were concerned is being pronounced
more convincingly than ever before.7
I would like to claim that the piece Coram Mozart is a historiographical contribution
in the following sense: by way of traditional “artistic” means it represents a seem-
ingly narrative construction which highlights Mozart and the traditional Old
European culture as an indispensable alterity for a modern musical world which has
parted with the tradition in radical ways but at the same time lives off these musical
traditions although it no longer can sustain them directly. Mozart, in other words,
here plays a similar role to the one which the medieval music in the before men-
tioned musical works played. The point is that Mozart’s music for me combines
stability of form with poignant expressions of human emotions. The latter may be
found in all periods of musical composition before as well as after Mozart, but the
first separates him in a fundamental way from his successors in a way which for me
clearly places him at the end of a long music historical period from the Middle Ages
up to and including himself: my extended Middle Ages end in 1791 with Mozart’s
death. It is possible, as indicated above, to argue for this understanding of Mozart’s
music also in traditional academic ways.
As a musical construction, of course, the Coram Mozart is fundamentally different
from any traditional academic contribution. It what sense, one might ask, can such
a musical piece constitute an argument? Or, in terms of traditional scientific criteria,
is there any way in which such a piece may be falsified? In other words, is it possible
at all to relate artistic criteria or norms to the scholarly?
7
Nils Holger Petersen: “Time and Divine Providence in Mozart’s Music” in Siglind Bruhn (ed): Voic-
ing the Ineffable: Musical Representations of Religious Experience, Hillsdale NY 2002 (p. 265−286),
p. 280. See also Dietrich Gerhard: Old Europe. A Study of continuity 1000−1800, New York 1981,
esp. p. 80−88, and Jacques LeGoff: The Imagination of the Middle Ages, trans. Arthur Goldhammer,
Chicago 1988, p. 7−11.
113
History and Imagination

The mentioned question, however, does not seem to have anything to do with the
difference in medium. The same problem occurs between academic and literary
genres of verbal texts. It may be enlightening, in this connection, to make a short
detour to the question of literary treatments of historical material. The recent
debates – as well as general confusion – in the wake of The Da Vinci Code make it
clear how a confusion has appeared about how to read a historical novel, as fiction
or as history. Obviously, it contains elements of both. The question is to what extent
we can establish criteria by which to judge this genre. Aesthetic criteria for novels
are in existence – in more or less generally acknowledged ways – but fiction as
historiography often appears as a problem, in spite of recent thoughts on historio-
graphy which have underlined the impossibility of sharp divisions between the
historical and the fictional. Two statements from the American historian Hayden
White’s Tropics of Discourse sum up the problematic of factuality against individual
interpretation:
Many historians continue to treat their “facts” as though they were

“given” and refuse to recognize, unlike most scientists, that they are not
so much found as constructed by the kinds of questions which the in-
vestigator asks of the phenomena before him. It is the same notion of
objectivity that binds historians to an uncritical use of the chronological
framework for their narratives.
[…] we should no longer naively expect that statements about a given

epoch or complex of events in the past “correspond” to some preexistent
body of “raw facts.” For we should recognize that what constitutes the
facts themselves is the problem that the historian, like the artist, has
tried to solve in the choice of the metaphor by which he orders his
world, past, present, and future.8
Similar concerns about the periodization of history have been raised by a number
of historians, e.g. the previously mentioned Dietrich Gerhard and Jacques LeGoff.
Noting that the term “The Middle Ages” was a creation of the humanists of the
fifteenth to sixteenth centuries which has “been elaborated and reinforced from
different perspectives from the sixteenth century to the present,” Leslie J. Workman
has claimed that:
8
Hayden White: Tropics of Discourse, Baltimore 1978, chapter 1, “The Burden of History” (p.
27−50), p. 43 and 47.
114
[…] medieval historiography, the study of the successive recreation of

the Middle Ages by different generations, is the Middle Ages. And this
of course is medievalism.
Further, referring to scholarly historical writing as well as what traditionally is con-

sidered as part of an artistic reception in the various media, literature, the visual arts,
film, music, and even political discourses and actions, Workman maintained that:
[…] the study of the Middle Ages on the one hand, and the use of the
Middle Ages in everything from fantasy to social reform on the other,
are two sides of the same coin.9
Whereas White is primarily interested in the importance of the use of rhetorical styles
in the writing of history, i.e. introducing the idea that aesthetics influence academic
results,10 Workman operates with the idea that it is not possible to make sharp
distinctions between medievalism as found in creative or artistic representations of
the Middle Ages − for instance in films − on the one hand and the academic historio-
graphic construction of the Middle Ages or of particular parts of this “period” on
the other.11
Recently, Eyolf Østrem has discussed the relationship between the personal
history of an author and his (or her) academic construction of history in an article
which precisely makes a point out of being a personal account − of the author’s
youthful meeting with medieval music − as well as a scholarly discussion about
historiography and the idea and practice of medieval music:
[…] the integration between individual, existence, and history makes

it impossible to separate the one from the other, so that the question
whether this is a personal history or a history about the early eighties,
becomes fairly meaningless; the histories, the way they are represented,
become a web of references, where the appropriation of the Middle
9
Leslie J. Workman: “The Future of Medievalism” in James Gallant (ed.): Medievalism: The Year’s
Work for 1995, Holland, MI 2000 (p. 7–18), p. 12.
10
Hayden White: Tropics of Discourse, Baltimore 1978, chapters 2 and 3 and see also Hayden White:
Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation, Baltimore 1987.
11
See also Paul Oskar Kristeller: “‘Creativity’ and ‘Tradition’” in Journal of the History of Ideas, Vol.
44, No.1, 1983 (p. 105−113). For further discussions of “creation” as a concept between theological
and artistic discourses, discussions which are not touched upon in the present article but which
have fundamental bearings upon the notion as such, see Sven Rune Havsteen, Nils Holger Petersen,
Heinrich W. Schwab, and Eyolf Østrem (eds.): Creations: Medieval Rituals, the Arts, and Creation,
Turnhout 2007, in this volume in particular, Eyolf Østrem: “Deus artifex and homo creator: Art
Between the Human and the Divine” (p. 15−48) and Eyolf Østrem and Nils Holger Petersen: “Intro-
duction” (p. 1−12).
115
Ages in a personal project, the loss of the innocent gaze upon existence
in the early adult age (or perhaps existence’s loss of innocence during
the depressing eighties), and the fundamentally historical character of
language, slide over and into each other.12
In the article this is shown by way of a narrative of Østrem’s personal recollections

from his childhood of encountering that which was perceived as “old” through his
father’s (re)creation of Gothic letters in the snow at Eastertide, drawn by ski poles. In
the mind of the young Østrem these drawings in the snow became interchangeable
with the idea of the “medieval”, since both − to him at the time − signified that
which was very old.
The explicit point made by Østrem here mainly concerns the overlapping of the
domains of the personal and the academically historiographic. Further, however, it
is also clear that there is a relation to the aesthetic of the personal experiences of the
“old” letters and even to some kind of intermediality since the “oldness” obviously
was manifested through the style of the letters as visual figures. In the main sections
of his article, Østrem emphasizes two fundamentally different aspects which coexist
in the construction of medieval music as it has been practised in what has come to
be known as the Early Music movement: the striving towards authenticity, a striving
from a scholarly point of view, and the creative “interior” aspect of a dream of a
different world imagined in the medieval music, to some extent parallel to what I
have referred to as my own experience of medieval music above.
Altogether, the point is − as in the thought of Hayden White to whom Østrem also
refers − that we cannot separate between the personal and the scientific, and further
that this opens up the field of academia to more general kinds of aesthetic perception.
Intermediality
The suggestion of a piece of music as a historiographic contribution in itself involves
the interaction of music and verbal discourse. As a consequence, intermediality as a
concept must be dealt with.
In a discussion of the concept of intermediality, Claus Clüver has recently made it
clear that any kind of intertextuality also means intermediality because of the enormous
complexity of the various pre-texts and post-texts involved in the production and
reception of texts (of whatever kind).13 An example of such an intertextuality leading
12
Eyolf Østrem: “Interiority and Authenticity: A Glossed Medieval History About Music And The
Taste For Apples” in Universitas: The University of Northern Iowa Journal of Research, Scholarship, and
Creative Activity, Vol. 2, No. 1, (2006), an Internet Journal to be accessed at http://universitas.grad.uni.
edu. See also an earlier version in Norwegian, Eyolf Østrem: “Inderlighet og autentisitet: En glossert
middelalderhistorie om musikk og smaken for epler” in Passepartout 25 vol. 13, 2005 (p. 30−42).
13
Claus Clüver: “Inter textus / inter artes / inter media” in Komparatistik: Jahrbuch der Deutschen
Gesellschaft für Allgemeine und Vergleichende Literaturwissenschaft 2000/2001 (p. 14−50), p. 18.
116
to intermediality is at work when George Crumb in his string quartet Black Angels
from 1970 quotes the second movement of Schubert’s string quartet in D minor (D.
810) with the epithet ‘Death and the Maiden.’ Above the section which is based on
the Schubert quotation, Crumb indicated the epithet (in the original German, “Der
Tod und das Mädchen”) together with a performance indication “Grave, solemn; like
a consort of viols (a fragile echo of an ancient music).” The quotation was arranged
by Crumb with the addition of striking modernistic sounds.14
But other associations belong in the context, which would be more or less known
by different groups of listeners. In the passage in question of the mentioned Schubert
string quartet (the second movement), the composer was (also) making a quotation:
of the melody of his own song Der Tod und das Mädchen (to a poem by Matthias
Claudius). In Crumb’s case, the textual association to a young innocent person’s
confrontation with death is clearly of importance since Black Angels was written
during the Vietnam War, “in tempore belli” as stated by the composer on the score
(Crumb, p. 1). The Latin “in tempore belli” constitutes yet another intertextual
musico-verbal reference, now to Joseph Haydn’s Missa in tempore belli. Crumb has
incorporated musical, literary and religious symbolism in his quartet as stated in his
liner notes for a recording of the piece in which he also acknowledged a number
of musical quotations (including among others the medieval dies irae sequence)
as well as other symbols used in his work. Crumbs commentary is reprinted on
the inside of the cover of the printed score, actually a facsimile of the composer’s
manuscript which may well be conceived of as a consciously intermedial art work
considering the composer’s obvious fascination with and care for the visual and
verbal presentation of his music.15
In the mentioned notes, Crumb writes:
Black Angels […] was conceived as a kind of parable on our troubled

contemporary world. The numerous quasi-programmatic allusions in
the work are therefore symbolic although the essential polarity − God
versus Devil − implies more than a purely metaphysical reality. The
image of the “black angel” was a conventional device used by early
painters to symbolize the fallen angel.
The intermediality involved in Crumb’s Black Angels is pervasive and could deserve
a thorough examination. However, it is by no means an isolated example of such a
use of intertextuality in modern music.16
14
See George Crumb: Black Angels: Thirteen Images from the Dark Land for Electric String Quartet,
New York: C.F. Peters no date (No. 66304), p. 4 (no. 6 of the images, entitled Pavana Lachrymae
(“Pavan of Tears”).
15
Crumb, Black Angels; the specific pieces of information given here are found on the inside of the cover.
16
For an in-depth study of another example of the intermedial use of intertextuality, see Claus
117
The definition of a “medium” is, as is well known, no obvious matter. Claus

Clüver refers to various models designed to help clarify relations between the media
in the field of “interarts studies” (or the study of intermediality) among other things
pointing to the ambiguity of the term (Clüver 2000/2001, p. 39–44). Sometimes,
it is used to distinguish between for instance words, music, and visual presentations.
In such uses of the term it is important to note that these distinctions at least to
some extent depend on the reception: the same poster may at one point be received
as writing and at another as a picture. Sometimes, however, the term “medium” or
“media” refers to television, newspapers etc. I do not want to take the discussion any
further in this direction, but only point out that the − general everyday − distinction
between “artistic” and “scholarly” in a certain way may be taken as a difference in
medium since it regards the reception of ways or means of communication, not
by way of traditional lines of separation between “objectively” different media,
but by way of particular expectations concerning the communication in question.
This difference may be seen as similar to the distinction, for instance, between a
documentary television programme and a feature film seen in television. The latter
distinction is sometimes blurred nowadays as in the recent consciously mixed type
of television programme called a “mockumentary.”17
Intermediality and History

For a fictional narrative in a historical frame, visual and auditive means are efficient
markers of the historical. In a film, the events or the persons of the narrative are
immediately perceived as belonging to a particular period through the aesthetic per-
ception of the viewer.
Peter Shaffer’s play Amadeus (1979, revised 1980) as well as Milos Forman’s
film with the same title (1984), based on Shaffer’s play − for which the screen
play was made by Shaffer − both in different ways combine the “historical,” the
fictional narrative, and the interaction of images, music, and words in a creative
representation of Mozart. The following very short remarks are in no way intended
to analyze the complex relationship between play and film and accepted historical
accounts of Mozart’s life but only to point out how − in both play and film − visual
and musical effects and words are used to help create a semi fictional, semi historical
representation of particular aspects of Mozart’s music, of his life and death. Certain
well-known historical events were − not surprisingly − consciously changed.18 Con-
versely, in both play and film the music and − at least in the film − images of
Clüver: “Luciano Berio’s Sinfonia: The Creative Flow of a Musico-Verbal Collage” in Havsteen,
Petersen, Schwab, and Østrem (eds.) 2007 (p. 229−46).
17
Compare the definition of “media” in Werner Wolf: The Musicalization of Fiction. A Study in
the Theory and History of Intermediality, Amsterdam 1999, p. 35, and the discussion in Clüver
2000/2001, p. 40.
18
See Peter Shaffer: Amadeus, New York 1980, “Preface”, p. viii.
118
houses and costumes etc. from the time lend historically convincing sensuousness
to the representation, incorporating interpretations of some of the music (by way of
Shaffer’s “modern” commentary and descriptions put into the mouth of the other
historical protagonist, the composer Antonio Salieri). The music − in both play and
film − constitutes the basic historical reference and is much more than just illus-
tration or auditive effect. Mozart’s music could not be replaced by modern film
music (or incidental music for the play) without undercutting the delicate balance
between historical and fictional. One main reason why the play and the film can
be taken seriously also as a contribution to a historical interpretation of Mozart
(with all due reservations) is that the words and the narrative of the play and film
work as interpretative attempts at contextualizing the music. The representation is
certainly not beyond discussion, but it is relevant to discuss as a − generally speaking
− genuine historical scenario for the music and for its modern interpretation. In this
sense, Amadeus − in spite of its historical inaccuracies − may well be taken as a con-
tribution also to the academic discourse on Mozart.
The notion of “responsible historiography” discussed by the historian Richard
J. Evans in a context of postmodern attitudes to history not the least concerning
the so-called “Holocaust-denial” literature may be a tool of some help with regard
to establishing criteria for evaluating historical representations even in a situation
as discussed here with the presence of more than one medium.19 Clearly, not every
construction in a historical account appears as equally convincing in relation to
existing documents (used as “sources”), personal memories, or, altogether, the
“cultural memory” as this has been defined and discussed by Jan Assmann (and
Aleida Assmann), by which is meant what in a society has been institutionalized in
various physical as well as mental repositories for what is accepted as the cultural,
political and/or religious traditions and historical background for that society. This
cultural memory obviously goes far beyond mere words, including also images and
sounds. Even though there are only few alive in the Western cultures today who
are in a position to remember incidents of the Holocaust, collectively regulated
receptions of the Nazi regime in various parts of the Western culture have inserted
particular frameworks for historical narratives or items pertaining to this part of the
past into the cultural memory in various societies and groups, thus characterizing
each individual person’s historical perception of the twentieth century along various
dividing lines within societies, cultures and subcultures, within groups with each
their different perception of a pool of particular narratives and cultural artefacts.20
For historical representations involving artefacts of different media from the
cultural memory of some community of readers, I would suggest that responsible
historiography would first of all consist in accountability in at least one of two ways:
19
Richard J. Evans: In Defence of History, London 1997, esp. p. 233−43.
20
See Jan Assmann: Das Kulturelle Gedächtnis: Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen
Hochkulturen, München 1992, with many further references.
119
1) so that expectations of genre and style are established or rendered in such a way
as to make readers or perceivers feel confident about what to expect in terms of
imaginative non-accountable uses of the cultural memory; 2) in terms of making it
clear how and where the representation in question connects to traditional historical
narratives or artefacts which form part of the cultural memory relevant to the invol-
ved readers or perceivers.
For constructions of the kind I have tried to introduce here, for instance my
Coram Mozart, both kinds of responsibility are completely possible. The use of
Mozart’s music can be accounted for, and this is so also for the way these musical
quotations and the other musical elements of various kinds of Mozart reception
together constitute the piece. The uses of all these musical parts can be outlined
by way of historical interpretation, in a traditional discourse. But what is the point
of doing it in music if the same may be said by words? It is, of course, not the
same. What the music gives is a musical discourse which may be contextualized and
outlined verbally, but which cannot be substituted by words just as an ekphrastic
poem does not render a painting superfluous. Further, in a context of music history,
this provides a possibility for experimental historiography where a periodization or
a music historiographical construction is tried out in musical practice, something
quite different from the practising of verbal historiography.
At some level, this is not quite unlike Østrem’s cited essay with its deliberate
experimentation in which a semi-fictional literary − autobiographical − genre is
combined with an academic essay, thus not only discussing but exemplifying what
Hayden White and Leslie Workman have theorized about. This is also what I am
trying to do by mixing an artistic contribution with an academic in the present
article. This underlines what has been said: historiography is not about truth or
factuality, but about construction; the means by which it is constructed necessarily
imply the use of techniques learned from the arts. Whether the criteria for judging
if the musical historiography has been convincing have anything to do with the
artistic criteria for the musical composition is another matter which is difficult to
determine since there are no generally accepted criteria for judging a musical com-
position nor for evaluating whether an academic interpretation is convincing. I
think that there are good reasons to accept that the criteria we actually use in such
matters are not completely independent. For any particular person, the musical
sensibilities involved would be the same in both cases, and would probably be the
decisive component in the judgment.
120
Performativity and Scholarship

Erika Fischer-Lichte’s concept of performativity has its background in theatre history
although it is theorized in a broad cultural context. She distinguishes between the
concepts Inszenierung (staging) and Performativität (performativity).21 Whereas the
performativity concerns an event as something unique which even when seemingly
repeated will never be exactly the same, the staging − Inszenierung or mise-en-scène
in the terminology of Fischer-Lichte − regards the planning. The staging concerns
aspects which belong to any performance pertaining to a particular event and its
“repetitions”: what can be planned and rehearsed in advance. In theatrical and other
artistic performances, the play or the script, the choreography, the musical score, but
also the thought-through interpretations of such − most often written − “sources”
for works of art must be described as staging in this view. Oppositely, what happens
spontaneously or by chance during a performance, possibly by way of a momentary
inspiration, or, oppositely, by mistake, or because of unforeseen interactions between
the audience and the performer(s) is part of the performative aspect of the particular
event, as is the actual embodiment of the performance in terms of physicality and
personal appearance of involved performers and actual performance conditions not
planned in the staging, all of this termed the atmosphere of the performance in Fischer-
Lichte’s terminology. The notions of Fischer-Lichte are clearly based on theatrical
and other traditional situations of − more or less − public performances. However,
especially the opposite pair of performativity and staging also applies to the situation
I am discussing here concerning the production of a piece of historiography.
Usually, when discussing historiography or academic constructions, it is assumed
that we are dealing with something that has been produced in writing or at least
will lead to a written, definitive, version. The same is often assumed for musical
compositions in the so-called classical tradition. My Coram Mozart as presented
here is indeed something planned, composed, written down. A traditional scholarly
contribution as well as a musical composition seems to fall into the category of
staging in the terminology of Fischer-Lichte.
However, these − academic and artistic − productions are not only planned. Academic
publications and for instance historical accounts may come into being also through
discussions, talks – including spontaneous discussions where new insights are formed
during the launching of ideas in situations which are not controlled or thought through
in all their aspects. The staging will in many cases be a product of such a practice of
performative thought or discussion. This may then lead to a planning or a fixation of
particular points of view just as it may happen for a staging in a theatrical context. This
model would often apply to completely traditional academic work, and it will be so for
the mixed creative and intellectual ones to which I am giving particular attention here.
21
Erika Fischer-Lichte: Ästhetische Erfahrung: Das Semiotische und das Performative, Tübingen 2001,
p. 291–309.
121
Using a piece of music as an example may enhance this perspective in more than
one way. The music historian Carl Dahlhaus raised questions as “what is a fact of music
history?” and “does music history have a ‘subject’?”22 His questions have affinities to the
general historiographical discussions cited above, but are also directed more specifically
to the difficulties in the construction of music history, for instance as connected to the
question of how to understand the idea of a musical artwork altogether:
In the aesthetics that arose simultaneously and in interaction with

music historiography from the eighteenth century onwards, music was
viewed, in the Aristotelian sense, as poiesis not praxis, i.e. as the creation
of forms rather than as actions within a social environment. Conse-
quently, the fundamental category is not the “event” but the “work.”
The categorical distinction between the two can be sketched roughly
as follows. Events result from the interplay of actions based on various,
and at times conflicting, motives, imagined goals and assessments of a
given situation. Their significance lies less in themselves than in their
consequences (there is no such thing as a political “event” without
consequences). A work, on the other hand, represents − at least as an
“ideal type” − the concrete realisation of an idea in the mind of an
individual; ideally, and in contrast to political history, an intention is
realised rather than thwarted. Furthermore, the meaning of a work
resides in its aesthetic essence, not in its historical repercussions.
This however is not to say that musical events do not exist. We are per-
fectly justified in referring to a performance, in which a score, a style
of interpretation, certain institutional prerequisites, the expectations of
the audience and a sociopolitical situation all coincide, as an event, i.e. a
point at which actions and structures intersect (Dalhaus, p. 132–133).
For Dahlhaus at the time – and this may still be so for many to quite some extent
today − music history was the history of the “texts as abstracted from acoustical
realisations and social surroundings […]” although Dahlhaus maintained the
possibility to “hold theoretically that it is events, meaning acoustical occurrences
taking place within social contexts, that constitute the reality of music and not
works as boiled down into texts” (Dalhaus, p. 133). The difference, formulated in
the terminology of Fischer-Lichte, is whether to understand music as purely staged
or as importantly involving performativity. Partly influenced by Dahlhaus, music
history has lately been more oriented in reception history than it used to be; at the
same time, the idea of a musical work − and of a work of art altogether − has been
22
Carl Dahlhaus: Foundations of Music History, trans. J.B. Robinson, Cambridge 1997 (1983), p.
33 and 44.
122
criticized and deconstructed to a high extent although this has not affected the insti-
tutional frameworks for art works accordingly.23
In my Coram Mozart there is a fair amount of planning (and even calculation)
as should be clear from the discussion above. But the piece as it can be perceived is
not only the result of careful compositional planning: it is also a result of playing,
writing, and playing again. Even at the stage where I performed it (at the mentioned
event on 5 December 2006), the performance led to changes, so that the last part of
the writing down of a revised version − the one included here − occurred after the
performance. This kind of genesis is not unusual for any type of “work,” whether
artistic or academic. Staging − or planning, composing − and performativity of some
kind are quite normally inextricably linked to each other. What is characteristic for
music − and all artistic works which are meant for performance − is that it remains
difficult to say where the “work” as such resides: in the written score, in the mind of the
composer, in the minds of the listeners, or in the actual soundings of a performance?
If – as I argue – my piano piece can be claimed also to be a (modest) contribution
to music historiography, this should be thought of as a performative historiography,
not a fixed and only planned one. In certain respects a piece of music is not entirely
determined by the score as the history of musical performances shows, at least for
the modern period where recordings can demonstrate a rather impressive variety
of performances of individual pieces as well as various ideologies of performance,
as − for instance − referred to in Østrem’s account of the early music movement.24
In the case of my piece, I would like to understand it as part of a process which
is not finished. It may be taken further by way of new performances − involving
both staging and performativity − and by way of planned, staged revisions, possibly
resulting also from spontaneous performativity.
Concerning medieval music and the art of writing music which became a cultural
practice during the ninth century – for reasons which are still being discussed in
scholarship – most music historians nowadays would agree that for centuries the
writing down of a piece to a large extent must be considered rather as a written
performance of a staged “something” than as the actual composition of a piece;
especially Leo Treitler has made this point.25 Although this picture is no longer valid
to the same extent in the musical culture of the later Middle Ages and even less in
later and modern periods, such a perspective is still relevant as a question concer-
ning the notion of what it means to compose a piece of music.
As mentioned, also academic constructions – as for instance historical accounts
– may be considered as something in the process of coming into being. Each written
account may be seen as another step on the way towards new insights, new suggestions
23
See above at note 6, and the works cited there.
24
This is reflected in the account of Daniel Leech-Wilkinson: The Modern Invention of Medieval
Music, Cambridge 2002 to which Østrem also refers.
25
See Leo Treitler: With Voice and Pen, Oxford 2003.
123
of how to perceive a particular episode or part of the past. To understand a piece of

music as a contribution to an academic construction implies a strengthening of the
emphasis on the performative aspect of academic construction. The musical piece
may in a certain sense be said to only exist in performance, thus being under the
conditions of performativity in addition to its staging. This, it seems to me, is an
important point of view to bring to bear for academic work altogether: its character
of process and dependence on interaction with colleagues, listeners, readers...
Leslie Workman quoted the sociologist Morris Cohen (writing in the thirties)
for the following statement: “History is an imaginative reconstruction of the past,
scientific in its determination, artistic in its formulation” (Workman, p. 12). One
question which has been added to this − not the least by Hayden White − regards
whether we can distinguish so clearly between the determination and the formu-
lation. The musical example of this article may − in my personal, subjective judgment
− be characterized as an imaginative insertion of fragments of a particular part of
music history into a modern musical framework which is scientific in its conception
and artistic in its perception.
As already stated, the intermediality lies implicitly in the pre-texts and post-texts
involved in this process, but also in the implied interference between the verbal
accountability of the procedure and the musical nature of the resulting performative
event.
This and next page: Beginning

of Coram Mozart. Composer
Nils Holger Petersen, 2006
124
125
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sätze, Frankfurt am Main 1982 (p. 198–203). English translation: “The Dialectical
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Clüver, Claus: “On Genres: Their Construction, Function, Transformation, and Transposi-
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Heritage of Medieval Rituals, Copenhagen 2005 (p. 27–46).
Clüver, Claus: “Luciano Berio’s Sinfonia: The Creative Flow of a Musico-Verbal Collage”
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Evans, Richard J.: In Defence of History, London 1997.
Fischer-Lichte, Erika: Ästhetische Erfahrung: Das Semiotische und das Performative, Tübingen
2001.
Forman, Milos, and Shaffer, Peter: Amadeus Director’s Cut DVD. 2001.
Gerhard, Dietrich: Old Europe. A Study of continuity 1000−1800, New York 1981.
Havsteen, Sven Rune, Petersen, Nils Holger, Schwab, Heinrich W., and Østrem, Eyolf
(eds): Creations: Medieval Rituals, the Arts, and Creation, Turnhout 2007.
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1988.
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and Their Representation in the Arts, 1000–2000, Amsterdam 2004 (p. 265–292).
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and Østrem (eds): Creations: Medieval, Turnhout 2007 (p. 1−12).
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Genre and Ritual: The Cultural Heritage of Medieval Rituals, Copenhagen 2005.
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Music Drama, A Vigil for Thomas Becket” in Utz, Richard, and Shippey, Tom (eds):
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(p. 341−358).
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(ed): Voicing the Ineffable: Musical Representations of Religious Experience, Interplay No.
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Representation in the Arts, 100–2000” in Petersen, Clüver and Bell (eds): Signs of
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Rituals: The Play of Constructiuon and Modification, Turnhout 2004 (p. 1−12).
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(eds.): The Appearances of Medieval Rituals: The Play of Constructiuon and Modification,
Turnhout 2004.
Shaffer, Peter: Amadeus, New York 1980.
Treitler, Leo: With Voice and Pen, Oxford 2003.
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mediality, Amsterdam 1999.
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Year’s Work for 1995, Holland, MI 2000, (p. 7–18).
127
Bel Canto at the Californian Frontier:
The Adaptation of Puccini’s Opera La Fanciulla del
West from Belasco’s Play The Girl of the Golden West
Johan Stenström
David Belasco – “The bishop of Broadway,” as he was called – dominated the theatre
life of New York in the early 1900s. His theatrical practice was associated with Euro-
pean naturalism but had a strain of melodrama added to it. In her study on Belasco,
Lise Lone Marker maintains, “When it came to the external representation of a
play, David Belasco was a naturalist to the fingertips. Belasco himself had stated,
“The great thing, the essential thing, for a producer is to create illusion and effect.’”1
During a visit to New York in 1907, Giacomo Puccini was looking for a story with a
strong female character like Tosca. He attended a performance of Belasco’s The Girl
of the Golden West. Initially, he was not enthusiastic even though he liked the West-
ern setting. However, his friend Sybil Seligman urged him to consider The Girl, and
after having read an Italian translation of the drama he changed his mind. Back in
Italy, he started to sketch a libretto together with the poet Carlo Zangarini. In 1910
he finished work on the opera La Fanciulla del West.
In my paper, I intend to discuss the notion of adaptation in relation to the inter-
medial transformation of Belasco’s drama The Girl of the Golden West into Puccini’s
opera La Fanciulla del West.
The study of film adaptations of literary works was one of the first fields of
academic cinema studies. Sixty years of writing about adaptation have at worst
resulted in tiresome plot comparisons, and at best in advanced contributions to
adaptation theory. Notable contributions to adaptation theory in the field of film
criticism include Brian McFarlane’s Novel to Film. An Introduction to the Theory of
Adaptation (1996)2 and Robert Stam’s appropriation of intertextuality in Literature
and Film. A Guide to the Theory and Practice of Film Adaptation (2005).3 The latest
contribution to the development of general adaptation theory has been made by
Linda Hutcheon in her recently published study A Theory of Adaptation (2006).4
She is not restricted to the study of film adaptations but explores adaptations in all
kinds of media incarnations. She asks herself why there is such a demand for stories.
1
Lise-Lone Marker: David Belasco. Naturalism in the American Theatre, Princeton; London 1975, p. 59.
2
Brian McFarlane: Novel to Film. An Introduction to the Theory of Adaptation, Oxford 1996.
3
Robert Stam: ”Introduction: The Theory and Practice of Adaptation” in Robert Stam and Alessandra
Raengo (eds.): Literature and Film. A Guide to the Theory and Practice of Film Adaptation, Malden 2005.
4
Linda Hutcheon: A Theory of Adaptation, New York; London 2006.
129
Johan Stenström: Bel Canto at the Californian Frontier
“[T]here must be something particular about adaptations as adaptations,” she

maintains. One of the explanations to this pleasure of telling the same stories over
and over again “comes simply from repetition with variation, from the comfort of
ritual combined with the piquancy of surprise” (Hutcheon, p. 4). Linda Hutcheon
notices three different aspects of adaptations: 1) A formal entity or product, 2) a
process of creation, and 3) a process of reception. The third category represents
a form of intertextuality, the adaptations as “palimpsests through our memory of
other works that resonate through repetition with variation” (Hutcheon, p. 9).
Within the field of opera studies the most elaborate analysis so far is Michael
Halliwell’s discussion of the relations of opera and the novel.5 Other works that
deserve mention are Gary Schmidgall’s Literature as Opera and Herbert Lindenberger’s
Opera. The Extravagant Art.6 A Librettology or libretto study is another area where
the relationship between the libretto and its source text is studied. Patrick J. Smith,
Ulrich Weisstein, and Albert Gier have made significant contributions in this field.
In the following I intend to profit from their results.7
In the process of being adapted into the opera La Fanciulla the text of The Girl of
the Golden West has undergone the usual drastic compression. In spite of these cuts,
a summary of the content of Belasco’s source text and Puccini’s operatic adaptation
have much in common. One scene has been altered and moved by Puccini from the
fifth act of the drama to the first act of the opera. The composer also made up the
scene with the manhunt at the end and invented the final scene where the heroine
Minnie rescues her love, Dick Johnson, from death by hanging. Still, the plots look
very much the same. When it comes to a closer examination there are – of course
– many differences between text and adaptation.
Belasco’s play takes place in the harsh environment of a mining camp in the
Sierra Nevada in 1849. Lawlessness and primitive passions rule. Drinking and
gambling are the only distractions enjoyed by these lonely men far from home. The
girl Minnie is the owner of The Polka saloon where the miners gather to listen to
the minstrel singer, to drink and to play cards. They adore her and do whatever she
tells them.
5
Michael Halliwell: Opera and the Novel. The Case of Henry James, Walter Bernhart (ed.), Amsterdam
2005.
6
Gary Schmidgall: Literature as Opera, New York 1977. Herbert Lindenberger: Opera. The Extra-
vagant Art, Ithaca, New York 1984.
7
Patrick J. Smith: The Tenth Muse. A Historical Study of the Opera Libretto, New York 1970. Ulrich
Weisstein (ed.): The Essence of Opera, London 1964. Albert Gier: Das Libretto. Theorie und Geschichte
einer musikoliterarischen Gattung, Darmstadt 1998.
130
Naturalism and Opera

The rude, naturalistic language is a characteristic feature of The Girl of the Golden
West. Belasco uses idiomatic spelling to convey an impression of the base language
spoken within the mining camp. Even though the many rude expressions have been
translated into Italian in the libretto, it has not been possible to render the idiom of
the miners, the Mexican-Americans, or the Indians in a really credible manner.
It is possible to preserve the realism of the drama in the discourse of the libretto,
but when music is added, the crude atmosphere becomes somewhat smoother. As
Herbert Lindenberger has pointed out, opera tends to elevate its subject. This raises
the question of textual fidelity, so often brought up for discussion in film criticism.
At plot level, Puccini and his librettist are true to the original, but where language
is concerned they are not. “Realism does not come naturally to opera,” as Peter
Conrad says.8 In film criticism, the discussion of fidelity has often been patronizing,
reflecting the opposition between high and low culture. Antagonism between
literature and opera similar to that between literature and film does not exist, at least
not today. Therefore, the notion of fidelity seems less appropriate in a discussion of
operatic adaptations. To quote Robert Stam, “crucial to any discussion of adaptation
is the question of media specificity. […] Are some stories ‘naturally’ better suited to
some media rather than others”? (Stam, p. 16) Such a question is more relevant to
the discussion of operatic adaptation. The Girl of the Golden West is in many respects
a naturalistic drama, and it is obvious that opera has its limits when it comes to
naturalistic representation. When studying the transformation of Belasco’s drama
into opera it is necessary to take into account the generic conventions of opera and
how opera tells a story. Fidelity in operatic adaptation is literally impossible. An
operatic adaptation is by its very essence different and creates, in artistic terms, a
new original work due to the intermedial transformation involved.
La fanciulla del West and Opera’s Ability to Narrate

The success of Puccini’s previous operas rested upon his sense for effective musical
theatre, beautiful melodies, and emotional strength. With La Fanciulla del West he
chose a more or less seamless form, resembling the techniques of Wagner, late Verdi
and Debussy. As compared to La Bohème or Madame Butterfly the reduction of arias
and other closed numbers is striking. What the composer has tried to achieve is
“natural” musical declamation more or less reminiscent of the dialogue of spoken
drama.
In spite of this reduction, there are a few closed numbers. Two contrasting moods
are displayed in the arias by the sheriff Rance and by Minnie in the first act. One
follows immediately after the other. The robber Ramerrez, disguised as Mr. Dick
8
Peter Conrad: A Song of Love and Death. The Meaning of Opera, New York 1987, p. 1986.
131
Johnson from Sacramento, has only one full-length aria, “Ch’ella mi creda.” Other
closed numbers are more distinctly integrated into the plot. In the beginning of
the first act of La Fanciulla, in the exposition, a camp singer, Jack Wallace, appears
with his guitar and sings a sentimental song about the old folks at home. While he
sings, the harpist of the orchestra is playing an arpeggio. The strings of the harp
are prepared with paper in order to damp the resonance and make the sound more
guitar-like. A literal song, dance or performance within the operatic narrative is a
common phenomenon throughout the history of opera. This is, as Lindenberger
puts it, an attempt to “guarantee that music ‘refers’” (Lindenberger, p. 139). Carolyn
Abbate has named this “phenomenal” music, in contrast to “noumenal” music.9
Jack Wallace’s song is the only number of this kind in La Fanciulla.
American folk music plays an important part in Belasco’s The Girl of the Golden
West. “He brushed aside the conventional theatre orchestra and put in its place the
concertina, banjo and bones.”10 Puccini has taken advantage of this but at the same
time brought his own practice into the foreground. As in Madame Butterfly, and
later in Turandot, there are elements of quasi-authentic music in La Fanciulla. In
the short prelude a syncopated cake walk melody is heard. This theme is repeated
several times throughout the opera. During the exposition at the Polka saloon the
orchestra is playing the theme while the men are playing cards. Now and then they
repeat the words “Dooda, dooda, dooda, day.” This is a reference to one of the songs
in Belasco’s play: The famous “Camptown Races”, with its even more famous refrain
“Dooda, dooda, day.” Thematically, this song is associated with what the men are
doing at the saloon: winning or losing money. Since the cake walk-theme repeatedly
is heard while the scene is laid in the Polka saloon, it becomes a leitmotif related to
this environment.
In opera, the meaning is provided both by the words and the music. The narrative
voice of the orchestra plays an important role in La Fanciulla, as in all Puccini’s
operas. There are several other leitmotifs or reminiscence motifs. For example, Dick
Johnson, alias the road agent Ramerrez and his Mexican “greasers,” are musically
identified by a Spanish bolero. Musical mimesis occurs when the pony express arrives
and the sound of clopping horse hoofs is heard from the orchestra. During the deci-
sive card game, when Minnie and the sheriff Rance are playing for the wounded
Johnson, an ostinato indicates the sound of an agitated heartbeat. Another recurring
musical device is the whole-tone scale, often used to signify something dangerous or
threatening, quite often in connection with the sheriff. The tritone interval is heard
whenever the composer wants to convey an experience of pain or grief. The meaning
9
Carolyn Abbate: Unsung Voices. Opera and Musical Narrative in the Nineteenth Century, Princeton
1991, p. 5.
10
David Belasco: Six Plays. Madame Butterfly. Du Barry. The Darling of the Gods. Adrea. The Girl
of the Golden West. The Return of Peter Grimm, with an introduction by the author and notes by
Montrose J. Moses, Boston 1928, p. 306.
132
of the leitmotifs is coded for this particular opera, and must be interpreted within
context, while the mimetic themes can be understood more or less by themselves.
According to W.J.T. Mitchell, the iconic character of such “ ‘sound images’ is a
nonverbal form of ekphrasis. These images (onomatopoetic thundering, studio
sound effects) might be said to provoke visual images by metonymy, or costumary
contiguity.”11 Mitchell’s argument also holds true of the mimetic sound effects of
the operatic orchestra.
The Mechanics of Narrative in La fanciulla del West

In his survey of different approaches to adaptation studies, Robert Stam makes
suggestions “for dealing with the narrative, thematic, and stylistic aspects of filmic
adaptations of novels” (Stam, p. 31). One of these aspects can easily be applied to
such an operatic adaptation as La Fanciulla del West. The temporal structure of
fiction is an often-discussed question. Gérard Genette’s theory of the mechanics of
narrative has, of course, been very influential.12 In order to determine the relations
between story and discourse – “between the events recounted and the manner and
the sequence of their telling” (Stam, p. 32) – Genette has identified three principal
categories: order, duration, and frequency. The second category, duration, is of
particular interest for the study of adaptation and of operatic discourse.
According to Genette, there exist four different relationships concerning dura-
tion between story and discourse. Scene means that “the narrative discourse time
coincides with the imagined story time of the diegesis” (Stam, p. 33). In opera the
literal, “phenomenal,” song belongs to this group, for example Jack Wallace’s song in
the first act of La Fanciulla. Ellipsis refers to events of the story that are completely
left out in the discourse. In Belasco’s drama, Minnie tells the story of old Brownie
who died:
He was lying out in the sun on a pile of clay two weeks ago an’ I guess
the only clean thing about him was his soul – an’ he was quittin’ –
quittin’ right there on the clay – an’ quittin’ hard… (Remembering the
scene with horror.) Oh, he died – jest like a dog… you wanted to shoot
him to help him along quicker. Before he went, he sez: ’Girl, give it to
my old woman,’ and he – left. She’ll git it. (Belasco, p. 347)
This event is cut in Puccini’s opera. The harsh realism of Minnie’s narrative would
not be relevant to the plot-oriented discourse of opera.
The next category, summary, is related to ellipsis. Discourse time is less than story
11
W.J.T. Mitchell: Picture Theory. Essays on Verbal and Visual Representation, Chicago; London 1994,
p. 153.
12
Gérard Genette: Narrative Discourse. An Essay in Method, Ithaca, New York 1990 (1980).
133
time. Most of the events of Belasco’s play have been transferred into La Fanciulla,
but in the adaptation they have been made shorter and less elaborate. The fourth
group, pause, signifies that discourse time lasts longer than story time. This narrative
device is typical of and rather unique to the opera genre as a whole, or as Michael
Halliwell writes, “Opera […] tends always to slow down narrative time” (Halliwell,
p. 47). Wagnerian opera with its slow pace and endless melody is constantly within
this class, while the number opera with its recitatives and arias oscillates between the
scene and pause categories. This is what Lindenberger calls the stop-and-go conven-
tion (Lindenberger, p. 62). La Fanciulla as a whole employs Genettian pause while
its source text belongs to Genette’s category of scene.
The aria is one among several means by which the narrative speed of opera is
slowed down. Minnie’s first aria, “Laggiù nel Soledad,” is a short narrative in which
she recalls her happy childhood. The drama text upon which the words of the aria
are based goes as follows:
I can see Mother now… fussin’ over Father an’ pettin’ him, an’ Father
dealin’ faro – Ah, but he was square… and me, a kid as little as a kitten,
under the table sneakin’ chips for candy. Talk about married life! That
was a little heaven. I guess everybody’s got some rememberance of their
mother tucked away. I always see mine at the faro table with her foot
snuggled up to Dad’s an’ the light of lovin’ in her eyes. Ah, she was a
lady! (Belasco, p. 333)
Some of the lyrics are sung in a vivid parlando in the low or middle range of the
soprano’s voice. When the narrative moves on to emotionally more aroused content
the character of the aria changes. Wide leaps upward and high, sustained phrases
are heard. Within this aria both scene and pause co-exist. A comparison with some
of the soprano arias in Puccini’s early operas would probably show that the style has
changed from pause to a combination of pause and scene.
Musically grounded elements such as high-pitch, repetitive parts, melismas,
coloratura, sustained high notes promote the slowness of operatic narrative
discourse. A further investigation of the narrative aspects of these features seems like
an important task for a more complete understanding of the narrative discourse of
opera.
The success of Belasco’s play The Girl of the Golden West, which had its first evening
on Broadway in 1905, was due to vigorous naturalism as regards both language and
stage representation. The opening night at The Metropolitan on 10th December
1910 of La Fanciulla del West was an immense success. This was the first world
première ever held at The Metropolitan. The cast was headed by Emmy Destinn
(Minnie), Enrico Caruso (Dick Johnson), and Pasquale Amato (Jack Rance). Arturo
134
Toscanini conducted and Belasco himself was stage director. Puccini received 55
curtain calls.
After this initial triumph, the work was put on at the major opera houses in
the United States and Europe. The First World War broke out, and for a long time
La Fanciulla was not very much heard of, but during the last decades of the 20th
century the work has enjoyed a kind of renaissance.
La Fanciulla never obtained the esteem of a Tosca or a Turandot. One reason was
the new puccinian mode of lyrical declamation and lack of closed numbers: arias
and ensembles. There is only one operatic highlight in this work, the tenor aria
“Che’lla mi creda.” Another reason for the restricted success of La Fanciulla was the
happy ending. The public, used to the tragic destinies of Manon, Mimi, Tosca, and
Cio Cio San, did not expect the victory of Minnie in the final scene. One last reason
is the expansion of a new medium. During the early years of the 20th century, the
first films set in the Wild West were made, and quite soon Hollywood’s dominance
in this field was overwhelming. The presentation of the Wild West in an opera sung
in Italian seemed gradually more and more strange.
135
References
Abbate, Carolyn: Unsung Voices. Opera and Musical Narrative in the Nineteenth Century,
Princeton 1991.
Belasco, David: Six Plays. Madame Butterfly. Du Barry. The Darling of the Gods. Adrea. The
Girl of the Golden West. The Return of Peter Grim, with an introduction by the author
and notes by Montrose J. Moses, Boston 1928.
Conrad, Peter: A Song of Love and Death. The Meaning of Opera, New York 1987.
Genette, Gérard: Narrative Discourse. An Essay in Method, trans. J.E. Lewin, Ithaca, New
York 1990 (1980).
Gier, Albert: Das Libretto. Theorie und Geschichte einer musikoliterarischen Gattung, Darm-
stadt 1998.
Halliwell, Michael: Opera and the Novel: the Case of Henry James, Bernhart, Walter (ed.),
Amsterdam 2005.
Hutcheon, Linda: A Theory of Adaptation, New York; London 2006
Lindenberger, Herbert: Opera. The Extravagant Art, Ithaca, New York 1984.
Marker, Lise-Lone: David Belasco. Naturalism in the American Theatre, Princeton 1974.
McFarlane, Brian: Novel to Film. An Introduction to the Theory of Adaptation, Oxford 1996.
Mitchell, W.J.T.: Picture Theory. Essays on Verbal and Visual Representation, Chicago; London
1994.
Schmidgall, Gary: Literature as Opera, New York 1977.
Smith, Patrick J.: The Tenth Muse. A Historical Study of the Opera Libretto, New York 1970.
Stam, Robert: ”Introduction. The Theory and Practice of Adaptation” in Stam, Robert,
and Raengo, Alessandra (eds.): Literature and Film. A Guide to the Theory and Practice
of Film Adaptation, Malden 2005.
Weisstein, Ulrich (ed.): The Essence of Opera, London 1964.
136
Intermedial “Visual” Culture
Everlasting Agonies: Baudelaire and Goya
(on Les Fleurs du mal, ‘Duellum’)
Els Jongeneel
A Metaphysics of Grace
Baudelaire’s masterpiece, Les Fleurs du mal (1857), is imbued with images: portraits
of women, sketches of social characters, impressions of Paris, dreamlike and visionary
images, images of animals, of objects and abstracta. The more astonishing the fact,
however, that this volume of poetry comprises a relatively small number of picture-
poems.1 The lack of direct access to the visual arts for the general public at the
epoch of Baudelaire only offers a partial explanation for this meagre harvest. As a
well-known art-critic, Baudelaire frequently visited the big Parisian art-exhibitions
and was acquainted with many artists. Thus he certainly did not lack direct contact
with the visual arts.
The scarcity of ekphrastic poems in Les Fleurs du mal, I would argue, has to do in
the first place with Baudelaire’s aesthetics. Baudelaire considers art a spiritual mode,
a ‘surnature’ enabling the artist to escape from earthly spleen and to gain access
to higher things, “l’idéal.” Because of its liberating faculty, Baudelaire’s aesthetics,
1
The term “picture-poem” is the English equivalent of the German “Bildgedicht.” The Bildgedicht
is based on the rhetorical figure of “ekphrasis,” the depiction of a real or fictive work of visual art in
literature. See G. Kranz: Das Bildgedicht (3 vol.), Köln; Wien 1987. On ekphrasis, see Valerie Robillard
and E. Jongeneel (eds.): Pictures into Words. Theoretical and Descriptive Approaches to Ekphrasis,
Amsterdam 1998. In Les Fleurs du mal, all picture-poems refer to real works of art. Among the 162
poems of Les Fleurs du mal, only ten are generally recognized as “picture-poems”: 1) “Bohémiens
en voyage” (on two engravings by Callot); 2) “Le masque” (on a sculpture by Ernest Christophe);
3) “Duellum” (on Goya, “Los caprichos” no. 62); 4) “Une gravure fantastique” (on an engraving
by J. Haynes); 5) “Les aveugles” (on an engraving of Brueghel’s “The Parable of the Blind”); 6)
“Danse macabre” (on a sculpture by Ernest Christophe); 7) “L’amour et le crâne” (on an engraving by
Hendrick Goltzius); 8) “Les plaintes d’un Icare” (on an engraving by Hendrick Goltzius); 9) “Lola de
Valence” (on a painting by Manet); 10) “Sur Le Tasse en prison d’Eugène Delacroix” (on a lithograph
of Delacroix’ painting of the same name).
The last two poems were published in Les épaves (1866), a small collection of originally repudiated
verse, appended to later editions of Les Fleurs du mal. This inventory is based on two leading authorities
in Baudelaire-studies: C. Pichois (see his critical notes in Charles Baudelaire, Oeuvres complètes I,
Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, Paris 1975) and A. Adam (see his annotations to the Classiques Garnier
edition of Les Fleurs du mal, Paris 1972). For a detailed essay on the role of the visual arts in Les Fleurs
du mal, see Jean-Guy Prévost, Baudelaire. Essai sur la création et l’inspiration poétiques, Paris 1964. For
a short overview of Baudelairian aesthetics in the context of late-Romanticism, see my ‘‘‘Bohémiens
en voyage’: een eigenzinnig beeldgedicht” in M. van Buuren (ed.): Jullie gaven mij modder, ik heb er
goud van gemaakt. Over Charles Baudelaire, Groningen 1995 (p. 236–265).
139
Els Jongeneel: Everlasting Agonies
according to the literary critic Henri Lemaitre, may be seen as a transposition of a

“metaphysics of grace.”2 This does not imply the loss of the poetic self in mystical
contemplation. Although he frequently employs a religious vocabulary, Baudelaire
never strives for wanderings in heaven. In his poetry everything turns around the
“envol,” the moment of escape from earthly misery. Paradoxically however, the subli-
mation of the envol implies the incessant recording of past sorrow; in his poetry the
earth never vanishes from sight.
Thus Baudelaire’s poetry offers a mixture of rationality and spirituality. Art in
general, visual art as well as poetry and music, according to Baudelaire, mediates between
earth and heaven, between spleen and idéal, between the beast in man and the angel
in man. Art provokes curiosity and thanks to the intervening imagination liberates the
self of the artist from spleen by means of “envol” and “ascension.” Baudelaire inter-
prets mimesis in terms of poiesis: the response to art will always be a new work of art.
Significantly Baudelaire condemns sharply contemporary photography and several
times rebukes the Horatian adage “ut pictura poesis.”3 Rejecting realist aesthetics that
seeks to subordinate imagination to perception, he abjures ekphrastic imitation and
emulation.4 This explains why Baudelaire does not practise the picture-poem in the
strict sense of the word. When he takes a work of art as a source of inspiration for
his poetry, he is not in search for a transposition in words of the visual model. On
the contrary, he tries to convert themes, forms and colours into a new poem. He
manipulates art for the sake of a fascinating, new adventure of the imagination, and
among other things uses the apostrophe as an expressive means to patronize the outside
world and to gain insight into his inner I. I will comment on this creative process by
examining one of the picture-poems in Les Fleurs du mal: “Duellum.”
Baudelaire’s capriccio
Duellum
Deux guerriers ont couru l’un sur l’autre; leurs armes

Ont éclaboussé l’air de lueurs et de sang.
Ces jeux, ces cliquetis du fer sont les vacarmes
D’une jeunesse en proie à l’amour vagissant.
2
H. Lemaitre: ‘Introduction’ to Baudelaire : Curiosités esthétiques. L’art romantique, Paris 1990, p. XIII.
3
See ‘Le Salon de 1846’ and ‘Le Salon de 1859’ in Curiosités esthétiques, p. 115, 313–324.
4
This does not contradict Baudelaire’s search for the so-called ‘correspondences’ between divergent
sensorial impressions. In his poems Baudelaire does not strive in the first place for intermedial effects,
such as musicality or visual presence (enargeia). The correspondences are the stimulators of the poet’s
imagination.
140
Les glaives sont brisés! comme notre jeunesse,

Ma chère! Mais les dents, les ongles acérés,
Vengent bientôt l’épée et la dague traîtresse,
– Ô fureur des cœurs mûrs par l’amour ulcérés!
Dans le ravin hanté des chats-pards et des onces

Nos héros, s’étreignant méchamment, ont roulé,
Et leur peau fleurira l’aridité des ronces.
– Ce gouffre, c’est l’enfer, de nos amis peuplé!

Roulons-y sans remords, amazone inhumaine,
Afin d’éterniser l’ardeur de notre haine!5
The Duel
Two warriors have run one into the other; their weapons
Have splashed the air with glimmers and with blood.
This game, this clink of iron is the din
Of youth preyed upon by keening love.
The swords are broken! Like our youth,

My dear. But the sharp nails, the teeth gnashing,
Will avenge the traitor epee and dagger’s tooth.
– O fury of hearts ripe with ulcers of passion!
In the haunted ravine where ocelots and snow leopards gambol

Our heroes, in seizures of wickedness, have rolled,
And their pelts will be flowers to decorate the brambles.
– This gulch, this is hell, with our friends it is peopled!

Roll in it without remorse, inhuman amazone
So that the ardor of our hatred is never gone.6
5
Ch. Baudelaire: Les Fleurs du mal, éd. Classiques Garnier, Paris 1961 (1857), p. 39; 40.
6
Ch. Baudelaire: Les Fleurs du mal, éd. Classiques Garnier, Paris 1961 (1857), p. 39; 40. Trans.
W.A. Sigler: The Flowers of Sickness and Evil by Charles Baudelaire, http://home.carolina.rr.com/
alienfamily/35.thm (2000–02–06).
141
“Duellum” is part of “Spleen et idéal,” the first and largest section of Les Fleurs
du mal. In this section Baudelaire most clearly expresses his ideas on what he calls in
Pascalian terms the “double postulation of man,” the dualism in mankind of beast
and angel, as a means to escape from spleen. In “Duellum” Baudelaire obviously
exploits the beast as it manifests itself in the most fundamental of human relations,
love. He therefore has chosen as his model one of the “Caprichos,” a series of 80
subtitled etchings published in 1799 by the Spanish painter Francisco de Goya.
With his sketches, Goya intended to ‘banish pernicious superstition by giving
a good testimony of truth,’ according to the subtitle of the first image of the series.
As a committed artist working in a period of transition between Enlightenment and
Romanticism, Goya wanted to demonstrate what happens when reason is trampled
underfoot by human follies and corrupt social customs. In his “Caprichos,” he
improvises on the social caricature characteristic of the period (Hogarth, Gillray).
He also gives free reign to his satirical vein by means of subtitled comments or by
inscriptions in handwritten style.
Actually the “Caprichos’” do satirize social abuses of various kinds, such as magic
and witchcraft, prostitution and the giving in marriage of young girls, lamentable
education and the spoiling of children, charlatanry, the debauchery of the clergy,
the fatuousness of nobility, the practices of daubers and the ridiculous demeanour
of mob orators. Meanwhile the etchings breathe a dreamlike atmosphere of fantasy
and sometimes even of horror (Baudelaire calls them the “débauches du rêve,” “les
hyperboles de l’hallucination”7). They announce the romanticist preoccupation with
the fantastic products of the mind, like in the “Capricho” no. 43 (“Dreams”) for
example, that was originally meant by Goya as the frontispiece of the whole series
(fig. 1). The fabulous animals surrounding the dreamer represent the chimaeras
born of his fantasy.
Goya’s etchings belong to the capriccio genre which originated in 16th century
Italy and was based on improvisation in music, literature and the visual arts. It
became very popular during Romanticism. In the capriccio the artist follows his
own fantasy, in defiance of conventional artistic schemata. Originally the musical
capriccio consisted of an instrumental improvisation on existing musical styles
and motifs. Later on it developed into a free musical form without pre-existing
model. In literature too we encounter the capriccioso improvisation, such as E.T.A.
Hoffmann’s Prinzessin Brambilla. Ein Capriccio nach Jakob Callots Manier (1820),
and Aloysius Bertrand’s Gaspard de la Nuit – fantaisies à la manière de Rembrandt
(1842). These are fantasies or reveries that often take a work of art as starting point
and use this as a structural framework. In the visual arts, 18th century Venetian pain-
ting and engraving offer striking examples (Piranesi, Tiepolo, Canaletto).8
7
‘Quelques caricaturistes étrangers’ in Curiosités Esthétiques, p. 297 (my translation).
8
See Ekkehard Mai (ed.): Das Capriccio als Kunstprinzip. Zur Vorgeschichte der Moderne von Arcimboldo
und Callot bis Tiepolo und Goya. Malerei-Zeichnung-Graphik, Milan 1996. On the literary capriccio,
142
Fig. 1. Francisco José de Goya, “Capricho” no. 43 (“Dreams”), 1796–1797. Etching, burnished aquatint, and
burin. First edition, 1799
Baudelaire became acquainted with Goya’s etchings thanks to Delacroix who

owned some “Caprichos,” and with the help of the author friend Théophile Gautier,
who wrote an article on Goya.9 Moreover he visited the Musée espagnol founded
by Louis-Philippe in 1838, where twelve of Goya’s etchings were exhibited. In his
essay “Quelques caricaturistes étrangers” that appeared in the same year as Les Fleurs
du mal, Baudelaire gives a short description of the plate no. 62 (fig. 2) which he has
chosen as a starting point for “Duellum,” one of the darkest and most terrifying
caprices indeed:
Light and darkness play within these grotesque horrors. […] One
[plate] represents a fantastic landscape, a mixture of clouds and rocks.
Is it an unknown and remote corner of Sierra? A specimen of chaos?
see ibid., the contribution by Günter Oesterle, “Das Capriccio in der Literatur,” (p. 187–191).
9
Published in 1842 in Cabinet de l’Amateur, Vol. I, p. 337 sqq.
143
There, in the midst of that abominable scene, a heavy fight is taking

place between two witches suspended in the air. One is sitting on the
other; she is mugging her, she is breaking her. The two monsters are
rolling through the dark atmosphere. Their faces express the entire
hideousness, moral abjection and all vices that the human mind can
conceive of; their faces stand midway between man and beast, according
to an incomprehensible procedure frequently applied by the artist.10
Fig. 2. Francisco José de Goya, Who would have thought it!, “Capricho” no. 62: (“Quien lo creyera!”), 1796–1797.
Etching, burnished aquatint, and burin. First edition, 1799
Strangely enough, Baudelaire does not mention here the beast of prey beneath, whose
claws are touching the head of the overmastered witch, ready to drag her and her
torturer into the ravine. He does not quote either the ironic subtitle, “Who would
have thought it!,” a cynic comment on human relationships. The abyssal monster
makes one think of the chimerical animals escaping from the dreamer’s head in the
10
‘Quelques caricaturistes étrangers,’ p. 297 (my translation).
144
“Capricho” no. 43 quoted above, and thus may connote a fantastic context. Indeed,
Goya’s allegorizing commentary on “Capricho” no. 62 is suggesting a non-realistic
interpretation: “See here is a terrible quarrel as to which of the two is more of a
witch. Who would have thought that the screechy one and the grizzly one would
tear each other’s hair in this way? Friendship is the daughter of virtue. Villains may
be accomplices but not friends.”11 Whereas by means of the subtitle Goya still gives
human behaviour the benefit of the doubt, Baudelaire makes it his own by rejecting
the fantastic and by converting the image into a hideous setting of love-making:
“This gulch, this is hell … roll in it without remorse” (ll. 12, 14).
Goya’s witches-fight constitutes a rather provocative picture, because it represents
a fall. The pictured fall mirrors the paradoxical nature of the figurative still-moment,
an isolated instant in a sequence of events. This stirred flash of horror cries for a
story and Baudelaire, fascinated by its enigmatic appeal, has taken up the challenge,
by metaphorising and metamorphosing Goya’s nightmarish scene into a “flower
of evil,” the battle of love-making, a battle fought by youngsters as well as mature
lovers.
“Duellum” is part of a cycle of love-poems in the second part of the section
“Spleen et idéal.” The Latin title “Duellum” refers to the archetypical character
of the scene. It combines the private atmosphere of the poem, rendered by the
apostrophe to the “amazone,” the current epithet for the beloved Jeanne Duval, with
human behaviour in general. The allegorical setting is reinforced by the persistent
use of definite articles and of metonymy in the second stanza, and by the recurrent
interpretative explanations throughout the poem (of the type: a equals b, “Ces jeux
… sont les vacarmes” l. 3,“Ce gouffre, c’est l’enfer” l. 12, “les glaives sont … comme
notre jeunesse,” l. 5).
As most picture-poets, Baudelaire integrates the here and now of the picture
into a temporal sequence: in the first stanza, he stages the beginning of the battle
with soldiers and arms – “deux guerriers ont couru l’un sur l’autre” – in the second
stanza, he represents the here and now of the picture, the heavy battering by the
two adversaries, in the third he interrupts the still-moment and lets the two fighters
tumble into the abyss, in the last he prepares himself to follow them together with
his beloved.
The poem tells the story of an intensifying battle: first the innocent sexual activity
of young lovers, then the bestiality of mature lovers torturing each other, finally a
desperate and never-ending ardour and hatred. As in other love-poems in Les Fleurs
du mal (“De profundis clamavi,” “Le vampire,” “Sed non satiata,” “Tu mettrais
l’univers entier dans ta ruelle”), Baudelaire represents the tenacious battle of love as a
heavy fight, woman as a cruel machine, an implacable animal, a vampire using teeth
11
Tomás Harris: Goya, Engravings and Lithographs, Vol. II, catalogue raisonné, San Francisco 1983, p.
139.
145
and nails,12 and even the devil himself,13 her eyes as swords, her bed as hell. More-
over, we have to do here with one of the most pessimistic love-poems of Les Fleurs du
mal. In contrast with other poems, the erotic relationship ends in a cynic resignation
(“my dear”) and a desperate desire for intoxication. Thus Baudelaire appropriates
Goya’s capriccio by converting it into his own cynic vision of love. He translates
the conflict that is represented into a degenerated erotic combat. He sonorizes the
image, he narrativizes it, and makes it familiar to himself and to the apostrophized
beloved. He voids the model of its contents and transforms it into new scenery with
new instruments and creatures (weapons, brambles, several monsters).
However, Baudelaire’s ekphrastic interpretation of the engraving is not only a
moralistic response to Goya about human love, but an aesthetic reaction as well.
Love figures in Les Fleurs du mal in the first place as a possibility of what Baudelaire
calls “l’envol” (the flight), an expedient to escape from spleen. Eager to free himself
from ennui and mediocrity, the lyrical I experiments the bestial as well as the angelic
way. In “Duellum” obviously bestiality reigns. In order to liberate himself from
spleen and ennui, the I strives for the new and the unexplored and therefore is
constantly in search of a provocation, of a crossing of boundaries, in this case by
experimenting even more cruel ways of lovemaking. Cynically “Et leur peau fleurira
l’aridité des ronces” (l. 11) constitutes the only positive line of the poem. The horror
of the skinned pelts sticking to the brambles of the gulch14 is slightly attenuated by
the blossoming metaphor, which in Les Fleurs du mal generally connotes the success
of poetic “envol.”15
12
See for example ‘Causerie’ (p. 61):
[…]
Ta main se glisse en vain sur mon sein qui se pâme;
Ce qu’elle cherche, amie, est un lieu saccagé
Par la griffe et la dent féroce de la femme.
Ne cherchez plus mon coeur; les bêtes l’ont mangé.
Mon cœur est un palais flétri par la cohue;
On s’y soûle, on s’y tue, on s’y prend aux cheveux!’
[…]
Your hand gropes in vain upon my swooning breast;

What it seeks in that place, my friend, has been plundered
By the claw and the ferocious tooth of woman.
Look no longer for my heart; the beasts have eaten it.
My heart is a palace defiled by the mob,
A place of drunkenness, murder, hair-pulling cat fights!
13
See “Le vampire” (p. 37), and the last line of “Le possédé” (p. 42): “O mon cher Belzébuth, je t’adore.”
14
One could also interpret this line in a figural way : the pelts of the lovers look like flowers in the
midst of the naked brambles. For an analogous metaphor of things stuck to prickly objects, see “Je te
donne ces vers” (p. 45): “Ta mémoire … reste comme pendue à mes rimes hautaines.”
15
See for example “Bohémiens en voyage,” p. 21: “Cybèle, qui les aime, augmente ses verdures, Fait
couler le rocher et fleurir le désert” [in this poem the bohemians are a metaphor of the poet].
146
The final invitation addressed to the beloved, “Roulons-y sans remords,” refers
in Baudelaire to the restless, transgressive search for the “exotic” that we have already
mentioned. Like the other French Symbolists somewhat later, Baudelaire frequently
employs a religious vocabulary for his aesthetic experiments. The religious term
“remorse” designates commonly, in Les Fleurs du mal, the suffering in the prison of
spleen.16 Whereas hell is associated with remorse and grinding of teeth, Baudelaire
devises an insouciant dwelling on the battleground of hell. The oxymoron underlines
the paradox of the infernal paradise that Baudelaire is projecting in his poem. This
stepping into the picture is a rather modern way of responding to art. It simulates
a change of diegetic level that mirrors Baudelaire’s conception of art as springboard
toward a new aesthetic (and moral) experience. Remarkably the self-made scenery
is fixated as a perpetuum mobile in the last line of the sonnet. One could interpret
this poetic solution by Baudelaire as a genial transposition of the paradox expressed
by Goya’s etching, the paradox of the still-moment of a fall. Meanwhile one should
also take into account that Baudelaire’s aesthetics do not admit the stasis of the
image. On the contrary, they demand for a restless transcendence, the unknown
spot having become familiar and therefore expulsing the I again and again toward
other unexplored regions.
The ekphrastic translation of the engraving consists of a progressive appropriation
of the image by means of a definitional and constative style that we encounter also
in other non-ekphrastic Baudelarian poems: “Deux guerriers ont couru”…”leurs
armes ont éclaboussé”… “Ces jeux … sont les vacarmes” “Les glaives sont brisés”,
“Ce gouffre, c’est l’enfer.” Moreover, the decryption of the Goyan figures turns
out to be a kind of familiarizing presentation: the anonymous adversaries are
successively designated as ‘two warriors,’ ‘our heroes’ and ‘our friends.’ Possessive and
familiarizing too is the use of the apostrophe. The I calls the ‘amazon’ as a witness
of the event that he is staging. The apostrophe creates an ironic distance as well as
an intimacy (“ma chère,” l. 6, sounds rather colloquial) regarding the events evoked
within the here and now of the poem, and as such exceeds the ekphrastic description
of Goya’s etching.17 Many poems in Les Fleurs du mal are apostrophic. Baudelaire
uses the apostrophe as a means to conquer the extraneous and to integrate it into his
own poetic programme.
Not only the beastly fight but also the new existential scenery that Baudelaire
creates out of Goya’s horror scene reminds one of other Baudelairian infernal asylums.
The predators refer to human vices, in Les Fleurs du mal (one could interpret ‘de nos
amis peuplé,’ l. 12, as ‘peopled with the two warriors with whom we are familiar’ as
16
See “L’irréparable,” p. 60: “Connais-tu le Remords, aux traits empoisonnés, A qui notre cœur sert
de cible?” and “Moesta et errabunda,” p. 69: ‘…loin des remords, des crimes, des douleurs, Emporte-
moi, wagon, enlève-moi, frégate.’
17
On the role of the apostrophe in lyrics, see Jonathan Culler: The Pursuit of Signs, London 1981
(p. 135–154).
147
well as ‘peopled with our familiar monsters’ – the second interpretation is underlined
by the synonymy of ‘hanté’ l. 9 and ‘peuplé’ l. 12). The sterile ravine full of brambles
connotes the misery of the state of melancholy and spleen (see also ‘De profundis
clamavi’).
More than on visual imagery, Baudelaire concentrates on acoustic effects.
“Duellum” is extremely rich in assonances and alliterations. The sonority of the verses is
enhanced by onomatopoeia (“cliquetis,” “vagissant”), by inversions of sounds (“fureur
des coeurs mûrs,” “fleurira l’aridité”) and by a vocabulary containing repetitive vowels
(“vacarmes,” “acérés,” “traîtresse,” “ulcérés,” “chats-pards,” “aridité,” “amazone”).
In the sextet the echoes of the void of hell are heard thanks to a great number of
nasals (“ravin,” ”hanté,” “onces,” “s’étreignant méchamment ont,” “ronce,” “l’enfer,”
“roulons,” “afin”). Prosody is more irregular here than in other Baudelairian sonnets.
The tenacious fight is rendered by several enjambments that disturb the regular
cadence of the alexandrine (ll.1/2, 3/4, 5/6, 6/7, 9/10). Moreover the punctuation
(the semicolon in l.1, the dashes in ll. 8 and 12) does not fit the straightforward metre
of the sonnet, but rather connotes the emotive and irregular style of the prose text.
Obviously, Baudelaire is constructing ‘on the spot’ a new imaginary place out of Goya’s
image. His is a construction in progress that comes to life thanks to the expressivity of
poetic language.
Thus “Duellum” manifests the transition from representation to expression
which takes place in literature in the course of the 19th century.18 Because of the auto-
nomization of the arts that starts with Romanticism, literary language no longer
gives way to the object represented, but more and more offers expressive alternatives
which make the literary ‘substitute’ of reality more opaque. Meanwhile the literary
text opens up new ways for the imagination. Baudelaire’s picture-poems exemplify
the symbolist way in which he transforms reality into a new imaginative world, a
world in which he succeeds to survive. This is not a spiritual world – Baudelaire is
not a metaphysical poet, nor are the French Symbolists who claim him as their great
predecessor. It is an infernal or a celestial elsewhere that perspectivizes the here and
now of daily life, its emotions and anxieties.
18
On this important development in Western literature, see Jacques Rancière: La parole muette, Paris
1998.
148
References
Baudelaire, Charles: Œuvres complètes I, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade (éd. annotée par C.
Pichois), Paris 1975.
Baudelaire, Charles: Les Fleurs du mal, Classiques Garnier (éd. annotée par A. Adam), Paris
1972.
Baudelaire, Charles: Curiosités esthétiques. L’art romantique, Paris 1990
Baudelaire, Charles: The Flowers of Sickness and Evil, trans. W.A. Sigler, http://home.
carolina.rr.com/alienfamily/35.thm. (translation “Duellum”)
http://www.piranesia.net/baudelaire/fleurs (trans. C. Nilan – translation “Causerie”).
Culler, Jonathan: The Pursuit of Signs, London 1981.
Harris, Tomás: Goya, Engravings and Lithographs, Vol. II, catalogue raisonné, San Francisco
1983.
Jongeneel, Els: ‘‘‘Bohémiens en voyage’: een eigenzinnig beeldgedicht” in M. van Buuren
(ed.): Jullie gaven mij modder, ik heb er goud van gemaakt. Over Charles Baudelaire,
Groningen 1995.
Kranz, Gisbert: Das Bildgedicht (3 vol.), Köln; Wien 1987.
Lemaitre, Henri: “Introduction” to Baudelaire: Curiosités esthétiques. L’art romantique, Paris
1990 (p. I–LXIX).
Mai, Ekkehard (ed.): Das Capriccio als Kunstprinzip. Zur Vorgeschichte der Moderne von
Arcimboldo und Callot bis Tiepolo und Goya. Malerei-Zeichnung-Graphik, Milan 1996.
Oesterle, Günter: “Das Capriccio in der Literatur” in Mai, Ekkehard (ed.): Das Capriccio
als Kunstprinzip. Zur Vorgeschichte der Moderne von Arcimboldo und Callot bis Tiepolo
und Goya. Malerei-Zeichnung-Graphik, Milan 1996 (p. 187–191).
Prévost, Jean-Guy: Baudelaire. Essai sur la création et l’inspiration poétique, Paris 1964.
Rancière, Jacques: La parole muette, Paris 1998.
Robillard, Valerie and Jongeneel, Els (eds.): Pictures into Words. Theoretical and Descriptive
Approaches, Amsterdam 1998.
149
Albert Camus’ L’Étranger Revisited by Illustrators:
Visual Artists and Literariness
Sonia Lagerwall
Prelude. From Markus Raetz’s anamorphoses to literary reading

Springtime 2006. A retrospective of Markus Raetz’s work at the Carré d’Art in
Nîmes, France. Raetz is a Swiss artist fascinated with the principle of anamorphosis
and the way the spectator’s gaze and movement transform the work. Many of his
pieces incorporate verbal elements, expanding the anamorphic operation to the realm
of reading texts as well. On a plinth opposite a mirror are some fragile ‘sculptures.’
They form the English word “SAME.” In the mirror reflecting them we again read:
“SAME.” As the visitor walks around the plinth reading, the word and its reflection
stay unchanged.
A few steps away, on a different wall, there is another group of ‘sculptures.’ Here
the word reads “TOUT.” This time, however, the French word is metamorphosed as
the visitor passes: “TOUT” changes into “RIEN”; “everything” becomes “nothing.”
The two pieces – one radically resisting transformation under the eye of the
observer, the other just as radically emphasizing the change brought about by this
gaze – deal with the question of interpretation in art in a form which allows the
interrogation to encompass both visual and verbal works. So let us heed the invita-
tion and for a moment imagine what Raetz’s pieces may suggest if we make them
deal with verbal art and literary reading. Which of the two pieces comes closer to
illustrating what happens to the literary text when it is being read? Is it the first
– in which the word reads “SAME” regardless of the observer moving around it,
suggesting that the text has a fixed meaning inscribed within which stays unaffected
by the reader’s passage? Or is it the second – where the visitor participates so strongly
in the work of art that she transforms it, her passage altering the text to the point
where the “TOUT” may literally come to read “RIEN”?
Raetz’s pieces could serve, as it were, to illustrate two extremist understandings of

how meaning arises in literary texts. One, belonging mainly to the first half of
the twentieth century and the schools of New Criticism and early Structuralism,
states that meaning is a function of the text alone. The other, gaining momentum
in the 1980’s through reader-response critics like Stanley Fish, argues instead that
meaning is what a reader projects onto a text. According to the former stance the
textual structures are solely determinant and the reader pole is of no pertinence.
151
Sonia Lagerwall: Albert Camus’ L’Étranger Revisited by Illustrators
The latter stance, in turn, makes the individual reader the measure of all things and
even questions the relevance of speaking of the text as an object, given the multiple
responses the text may give rise to.
In this article I wish to defend neither of the stances described above but an inter-
mediary position, arguing with reception theorists like Wolfgang Iser and Umberto
Eco that literary reading is rather to be conceived as an interaction between the text
and the reader.1 And it is by looking at painters’ readings of literary texts that I wish
to address the issue of reception. I am interested in the impact that illustrations
may have on the reader’s perception of the aesthetic qualities of a literary text. If
literature is to have the estranging potential that the Russian Formalists saw in it, if
it is to challenge our perception of the world through the deautomatization2 of the
familiar, the text must resist the reader’s drive to apply an overly subjective reading
and yet still solicit the reader’s personal engagement. When a novel is illustrated,
another reader interposes him/herself between the text and ourselves: in many
respects, illustrating a text means nothing less than interpreting it. The question I
want to examine here, however, is to what extent the work of an illustrator can be
understood in the sense that Roland Barthes’ gave the term interpreting – serving
not to delimit textual meaning but, on the contrary, to highlight the plural of the
text and to open up multiple ways of reading it: “Interpréter un texte, ce n’est pas
lui donner un sens (plus ou moins fondé, plus ou moins libre), c’est au contraire
apprécier de quel pluriel il est fait.”3
Edward Hodnett observes that not only the choices of “aspects of text to illu-
strate” but also the illustrator’s “medium, the techniques of reproduction of the
illustrations, and the format of the book” are parameters which will affect our read-
ing of the illustrated narrative.4 Hans Lund reminds us that the visual medium
has its own established conventions which the artist may exploit in elaborating the
designs.5 According to the reception theorist Wolfgang Iser, the reading of a verbal
text is informed by textual strategies whose function it is to guide readers in their
construction of meaning. Such strategies become perceptible for instance through
the writer’s choice of narrative techniques (Iser, p. 87). When illustration is added to
a narrative, will the medium specificities of the visuals diminish the impact of such
verbal strategies and undo the rhetorics of the text?
1
Wolfgang Iser: The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response, Baltimore; London 1980 (1978);
Umberto Eco: The Role of the Reader: Explorations in the Semiotics of Texts, Bloomington 1979.
2
Victor Shklovsky: “Art as Technique” in David Lodge (ed.): Modern Criticism and Theory: A Reader,
London 1988 (p. 16-–30), p. 27.
3
Roland Barthes: S/Z, Paris 1970, p. 11. In Richard Miller’s English translation, the passage reads:
“To interpret a text is not to give it a (more or less justified, more or less free) meaning, but on the
contrary to appreciate what plural constitutes it,” Roland Barthes: S/Z, Oxford 1990, p. 5.
4
Edward Hodnett: Image and Text. Studies in the Illustration of English Literature, London 1982, p. 6.
5
Hans Lund: “Illustration” in Hans Lund (ed.): Intermedialitet. Ord, bild och ton i samspel, Lund
2002 (p. 55–62), p. 59–60.
152
Using two illustrated editions of Albert Camus’ novel L’Étranger as my cases in

point, I want to suggest that the opposite could, actually, be possible; I will consider
the illustrations of visual artists as a means of potentially strengthening the textual
rhetorics of narratives. I will argue that a painter’s images may reinforce certain
aesthetic qualities of the text and thereby help to maintain a balance between the
text’s rights and the reader’s rights.
Literariness and Genre

To understand reading as an interaction implies that one posits the existence of
textual strategies inscribed into the text, which may influence and guide the reading
in different directions. Which strategies we are sensitive to as individual readers and
actualize in our reading is, however, highly dependent on our personal repertoire, in
other words, on our prior reading experiences and our cultural and socio-linguistic
identity.
I will postulate that the more clearly we recognize the verbal text as literature, as
an artifact with aesthetic intentions, the better are the chances that balance may be
achieved between the reader pole and the text pole, and that the literary text may
exercise its estranging potential. Genre-specific traits may play a certain role here in
determining our attitude as readers. The risk that a reader will apply a non-literary
reading to a sonnet in its classic Petrarchan form is probably less than for the same
reader approaching a modern realistic novel as if it were a récit factuel.6 The form
of the sonnet would be imposing enough to alert us to the artistic intentionality of
the composition, urging us to apprehend form as significant. In messages where the
poetic function is dominant, the reader is directed to the message for its own sake, as
Roman Jakobson has argued.7 The literariness of a prose narrative is likely to be less
overt.8 Compared with poetry, the general tendency of the narrative is syntagmatic
6
I do not want to imply there is a difference in nature between literary and non-literary reading, but
rather a difference in degree. As Louise Rosenblatt puts it: “the operations that produce the meaning,
say, of a scientific report and the operations that evoke a literary work of art […] are to be understood
as representing a continuum rather than an opposition” (p. 1065). Depending on the reader’s purpose,
the reading stance is either predominantly efferent or aesthetic. In what Rosenblatt calls the efferent
stance (from the Latin efferre, to carry away) the reader’s focus is on the utility of reading, on what
can be “extracted and retained after the reading event” whereas, in the aesthetic stance, focus is “on
what is being lived through during the reading event” (p. 1066–1067). See Louise Rosenblatt: “The
Transactional Theory of Reading and Writing” in Robert B. Ruddel, Martha Rapp Ruddel, and Harry
Singer (eds.): Theoretical Models and Processes of Reading, Newark, Delaware 1992 (p. 1057–1092).
7
Jakobson’s famous definition of the poetic function of language is the following: “The poetic
function projects the principle of equivalence from the axis of selection into the axis of combination.”
Roman Jakobson: “Closing Statement: Linguistics and Poetics” in Thomas A. Sebeok (ed): Style in
Language, Cambridge 1960 (p. 350–377), p. 358.
8
Referring to Jakobson’s discussion of the paradigmatic and syntagmatic aspects of language (also
known as the metaphoric and metonymic) and their association to poetry and prose respectively,
David Lodge rightly observes that, whereas texts written in the metaphoric mode overtly present
153
rather than paradigmatic; the artfulness of the text can be better concealed in a
novel’s illusion-making fiction prompting the immersion of the reader more than
it solicits a distant reflective attitude. Poetry, Jakobson observed, “is focused upon
the sign, and pragmatical prose mainly upon the referent.”9 Consequently, the fore-
grounded elements through which the composition gives itself away may be less
manifest in a first reading of a novel than of a sonnet.
I want to discuss illustrations by visual artists as ways of heightening the ‘poetic’
aspects of the predominantly syntagmatic narrative. I will argue that, in showing the
reader to the text’s artfulness, a dimension often less overt in a novel than in a poem,
the images which illustrate a novel may highlight textual rhetorics and intensify the
reader’s aesthetic experience of the text. Accordingly, I hope to challenge the idea
that artists’ illustrations are didactically reductive when applied to longer narrative
texts while aesthetically expansive when relative to poetry.10 Illustration, I believe,
is just as capable of foregrounding the complexity of a narrative in emphasizing
aspects that we tend to think of as the text’s literariness.
My scope will be limited to French literature. In order to better contextualize the
two illustrated editions of Camus’ novel used for the analysis in the final part of this
article I will try to give a brief outline of the modern history of French illustration
before turning to the two artists’ works proper.11 As one of the most influential books
in twentieth century French literature L’Étranger, from 1942, has been illustrated
quite a few times.12 It has also been adapted to the screen by Luchino Visconti
whose film Lo Straniero was presented at the Venice film festival in 1967. The two
illustrated editions from 1946 and 1966 which I will look into here are exceptional,
not only through the care put into the editions, but also through the number of
themselves as literature, “literature written in the metonymic mode tends to disguise itself as
nonliterature.” David Lodge: The Modes of Modern Writing: Metaphor, Metonymy, and the Typology of
Modern Literature, London 1977, p. 93.
9
Roman Jakobson: “Two Aspects of Language and Two Types of Linguistic Disturbances” in Selected
Writings II: Word and Language, The Hague 1971 (p. 239–259), p. 258.
10
Cf. Renée Riese Hubert and Judd D. Hubert: “Reading Gertrude Stein in the Light of the Book
Artists” in Modernism/Modernity, Vol. 10, No. 4, 2003 (p. 677–704), p. 702: “While abundant
mimetic illustrations such as those of nineteenth-century novels prevail upon readers to adopt the
point of view of the artists, modern and postmodern graphic commentaries tend to problematize the
text and thus to complicate rather than impose an interpretation.” While the authors have initially
made an interesting statement about artists’ illustrations in general: “As a rule, artists, mimetic or
other, give close readings of the texts they illustrate and thus have much in common with critics and
translators” (p. 702), they here introduce an opposition which seems to insist, among other things,
on genre-specific traits. The passage seems to suggest that there is a necessary correlation between
the narrative genre and graphics that weaken the text’s signifying potential, a correlation which,
furthermore, increases proportionally to the number of representational images displayed.
11
Albert Camus: L’Étranger, with etchings by Mayo, Paris 1946; Albert Camus: L’Étranger, with
original lithographies by Sadequain, Paris: Les Bibliophiles de L’Automobile-Club de France, 1966.
12
Other illustrators include Edy Legrand, Alexandre Garbell, Bernard Buffet, Alain Korkos, Mireille
Berrard, Eduardo Urculo.
154
images, important enough (twenty-nine in the case of the Mayo edition, thirty-five
in the Sadequain edition) to result in visual ‘narratives’ running parallel to the text
with which they are in continual dialogue.13
Textual Rhetorics: The Text as Composition

The “primary function of the illustration of literature, Edward Hodnett states, is to
realize significant aspects of the text” (Hodnett, p. 13). But what are we to under-
stand by that term? “The most important decision an artist has to make about an
illustration is the moment of choice,” Hodnett declares, a decision concerning “the
precise moment at which, as in a still from a cinema film the action is stopped”
(Hodnett, p. 7). The artist must determine “which of the possible moments of
choice are the ones that are most significant in terms of contributing to the reader’s
understanding of the text and of reinforcing the emotional effects sought by the
author” (Hodnett, p. 8). “Ideally, Hodnett concludes, each illustration would reflect
and sustain the tone of the work as a whole” (Hodnett, p. 8). Logically, form and
content must then be of equal importance to the illustrator’s decisions.
A written text is a material object and reading is consequently always a function
of the way the text is presented in print. Hans Lund formulates it in the following
way: “[w]riting is a visual medium. It is object-like and static, permanent and survey-
able and much more dependent on physical context that speech is.”14 The book as
an object hence imposes on the reader a linear reading and allows the author an
important amount of ’composition,’ by way of textual structure as well as through
the mise-en-page. As Rudolf Arnheim has observed, the verbal text thus controls the
reader’s sequential processing of it to a degree that the visual text cannot.15
A reception theorist like Wolfgang Iser stresses that both the material selected for
the repertoire of a literary text and the way this material has been horizontally distri-
buted throughout the work is likely to influence how the reader constructs meaning
from a narrative (Iser, p. 96). The author’s choices of plot, characters, narrative voice,
themes and motifs thus belong to the textual features which may be apprehended as
‘reading directives’, or textual strategies, guiding the reading in certain directions.16
If applying narratological concepts instead, with Gérard Genette, we may consider
13
Camus’ novel amounts to less than 190 pages. Given that their series of illustrations comprise a
minimum of twenty-nine pictures, the two artists have thus been given that “adequate scope” necessary
for the illustrator to make “a full contribution as an interpreter of the text,” Hodnett, p. 21.
14
Hans Lund: “From Epigraph to Iconic Epigram: The Interaction between Buildings and Their
Inscriptions in the Urban Space” in Martin Heusser, Claus Clüver, Leo Hoek, and Lauren Weingarden
(eds.), The Pictured Word. Word & Image Interactions 2, Amsterdam 1998 (p. 325–335), p. 335.
15
Rudolf Arnheim: “Unity and Diversity of the Arts” in New Essays on the Psychology of Art, Berkeley
1986, (p. 65–77), p. 70.
16
Iser, p. 86: “the strategies organize both the material of the text and the conditions under which
that material is to be communicated […]. […] the strategies can only offer the reader possibilities of
organization.”
155
choices of genre, order, duration, frequency, mode etc.17

In discussing films based on novels, Brian McFarlane argues that elements
which are relative to the story lend themselves to transfer to a larger extent than do
elements relative to discourse, often requiring adaptation within the visual medi-
um.18 McFarlane’s dichotomy is roughly applicable to the case of illustration and
narrative as well. As a result of the picture’s medium-specific properties it would
seem that illustrators depict characters, settings, key scenes etc. with ease, whereas
rendering the discursive qualities of the text may cause them some difficulties. Since
the discursive qualities are relative to how the story is narrated, they are indeed often
medium specific. One would hardly be surprised, then, if the visual artist were to
focus first and foremost on story content when illustrating a literary narrative, and
stress referential dimensions rather than aesthetic ones.
Then again, one might also argue that it would be precisely on matters of form that
the work of the artist and the work of the writer instantly touch common ground.
Hypothetically, the artist’s natural interest in form and composition could predispose
him/her to be particularly attentive to the discursive qualities of the text and to the
organization of elements within the work which may serve as reading directives.
Though not always directly transferable into images, the discursive organization of
the text may still play an important role in the decisions and final choices that the
illustrating artist makes.19 In this respect, the pictures may be decisive in directing
the attention of the reader to textual composition.
Illustrators as Readers
As Philippe Kaenel reminds us in Le Métier de l’illustrateur, the blanks on the printed
pages of a book – the whites of the margins and the gaps between words – are tra-
ditionally spaces where the owner of the book, its reader, may inscribe personal
marks.20 Notes, scribbles or other signs of the reader’s passage may thus fill in blanks
and constitute traces of the act of reading. The same blanks, Kaenel points out, were
long the privileged place to put illustrations. This coincidence is worth emphasizing
for two reasons: first, because it reminds us that wherever there is an illustration, a
reader has passed; and, second, because, in the terminology of Wolfgang Iser, the
blanks of the text metaphorically refer to the places explicitly reserved for the reader’s
imagination and activity as a co-author. Such blanks are a function both of textual
structure – in as much as disconnections between segments have been inscribed into
17
Gérard Genette: Figures III, Paris 1972.
18
Brian McFarlane: Novel to Film: An Introduction to the Theory of Adaptation, Oxford 1996.
19
In “Structural Isomorphism of Verbal and Visual Art,” Semiotica I, Mouton 1969 (p. 5–39), B. A.
Uspensky discusses a series of examples of “[s[tructural analogies between the composition of literary
work and the organization of work of fine art,” p. 5.
20
Philippe Kaenel: Le Métier d’illustrateur 1830–1880: Rodolphe Töpffer, J.-J. Grandville, Gustave
Doré, Paris 1996, p. 318.
156
the text through ellipses, narrative order, mode etc. –, and of the individual reader’s
repertoire as this engages with the repertoire of the text (Iser, p. 196–203).
The illustrated narrative is a hybrid and this influences the semantic content of
the pictures and determines the artist’s work. The images are conceived in order to
function as a complement to the text proper, that is, in a joint discourse with the
verbal medium, never without it. Although word and image appear simultaneously
from a reception point of view in a relation of interreference, it is determining that
from a production point of view they appear consecutively, to use the terms of Kibédi
Varga.21 As opposed to “collaborative forms” where no medium is primary over the
other, the illustrated narrative installs a hierarchy between image and text in so far
as the visuals are necessarily secondary to the text in terms of production.22 Kibédi
Varga sums it up in the following observation:
What comes first is necessarily unique; what comes after can be multi-
plied. One image can be the source of many texts, and one text can
inspire many painters. These secondary series can become the objects
of comparative study, which makes us aware of the fact that illustration
and ekphrasis – in fact, all manifestations of subsequent, secondary
relations – are just different modes of interpretation. The interpreter
is never an exact translator; he selects and judges. And this, precisely,
happens whenever a poet speaks of a painting or a painter illustrates a
poem (Kibédi Varga, p. 44).
Hence, in an illustrated version the iconic code will naturally fill in some textual
blanks, just as it may create new places of indeterminacy. Certain textual strategies will
necessarily be altered in the illustrated text as compared to the original novel. Hans
Lund discusses illustrations in terms of a rewriting of the target text, stressing that
the images always operate changes in the semantic field of the text.23 Furthermore,
he strongly insists on the dialogical relationship between interreferring media: “[t]he
label influences our reading of the picture. That is obvious. But the contrary is
obvious, too: the picture and its context will always influence our reading of the
label” (Lund 1998, p. 329). In other words, Camus’ text determines the images, but
these, in turn, exercise a role on the way readers process the text. An illustrator who
decides to highlight textual composition, then, could promote readers’ awareness of
structure. Such illustrations could maybe be said to be in line with Barthes definition
of interpretation, in so far as they less impose a meaning on the text than visualize the
21
A. Kibédi Varga: “Criteria for describing Word and Image-Relations” in Poetics Today, Vol. 10, No.
1, Spring 1989 (p. 31–53), p. 33 and 39.
22
Thomas Jensen Hines: Collaborative Form. Studies in the Relations of the Arts, Kent, Ohio 1991.
23
Hans Lund: Text as Picture. Studies in the Literary Transformation of Pictures, trans. Kacke Götrick,
Lewiston 1992, p. 25; Hans Lund 2002, p. 58.
157
text in its singular composition, as a concrete object which proposes to the reader
different ways of reading it. The idea that “[o]ne text through its clarity gives access
to another,” we learn from Wendy Steiner, is intimately linked with the practice of
illustration.24 Steiner stresses the “rootedness of illustration in interpretation and
intertextuality” and states: “Hermeneutics and the interartistic comparison may
truly be called the sister arts!” (Steiner, p. 141 and p. 21).
If there is to be any sense in discussing pictures in terms of visualizing literariness,
one should be able to argue that a figurative image, all while concretizing elements
of story (an inevitable effect of representational illustration), highlights the character
of verbal artifact of the text. Instead of fixing meaning, then, the illustrations should
show the reader how the text suggests for meaning to be constructed. For a prose
narrative like L’Étranger this would mean that the images would underscore the
text’s potentially estranging qualities, ‘estranging’ the text rather than naturalizing it
as is often the case with didactic illustration.
“L’illustrateur […] ne doit voir qu’avec les yeux d’un autre...”25

Originally published in 1942, Camus’ modern classic was illustrated for the first
time in 1946 by the painter Mayo in an edition released by Gallimard/N.R.F
presenting a rich series of etchings. The second illustrated volume I want to discuss
was published in 1966 by a society of bibliophiles and it comprises a large set of
lithographs by Sadequain.26 In order to gain a better understanding of how these
two editions relate to the tradition of modern French illustration, let us begin by
looking at how the conception of illustration had evolved in France since the days
of the romantic novel.
Illustrated literary works have long occupied an important place in the history
of French edition.27 Gordon N. Ray does not hesitate to call French illustration “the
richest in the world” and Antoine Coron reminds us that in France, “since D.-H
Kahnweiler at the beginning of the twentieth century, book illustration by painters
is inseparable from the most modern literature, in particular from poetry.”28 The
24
Wendy Steiner: The Colors of Rhetoric, Chicago; London 1982, p. 141 (my emphasis).
25
Théophile Gautier cited by Antoine Coron: “The task of the illustrator is to see with somebody
else’s eyes” (my translation). Coron: “Trois termes, trois moments: illustrations, livres de peintres,
artists’ books” in Le Livre illustré, Cahiers de la Serre, No. 19 octobre 1987, Saint-Etienne: École
Régionale des Beaux-Arts de Saint-Etienne, p. 1.
26
Etching is a technique of engraving in a metal plate, which is subsequently plunged into an acid
bath that attacks the selected parts of the plate for the duration of the immersion. Lithography is a
printing technique on stone resulting from the repulsion of oil and water. Cf. L’Atelier du peintre.
Dictionnaire des termes techniques, Paris 1998, p. 96–97 and p. 194–196.
27
The first illustrated book printed in France was the Miroir de la rédemption de l’humain lignage,
printed in Lyon by Mathieu Husz in 1478. Cf. Bruno Blasselle: A pleines pages. Histoire du livre. Vol.
1, Paris 1997, p. 57.
28
Gordon N. Ray: The Art of the French Illustrated Book: 1700 to 1914. Volume I, Ithaca; New York
158
prestigious tandem of poet/painter and the conception of illustration that goes with
it and which has become consecrated through the livre d’artiste or livre de peintre,
constitute but one link, however, in the chain of modern illustrated books in France
whose beginning we may retrace to the romantic novel around 1835. If the illustrated
narrative is a rarity today, it was the dominating genre in the nineteenth century
and held its appeal for both the bibliophile societies and the main publishing houses
until at least the beginning of the 1930’s.29
The nineteenth century was the time of the democratization of reading and of
the commercialization of the book in France. Simultaneously with the illustrator’s,
the publisher’s profession was born (Kaenel, p. 318). Images accompanying the texts
played an important role in attracting new readerships. Illustration being costly,
however, publishers often opted for reissues of the classics rather than risk putting
considerable sums into untried titles by contemporary writers (Ray 1982b, p. 248).
Don Quijote, Paul et Virginie or Gil Blas, illustrated by popular talented artists like
Tony Johannot and Jean Gigoux, are among the most remarkable editions of this
era. Contemporary literature in elaborate editions did not come into vogue until the
1870’s, when relentless publishers finally succeeded in catching the interest of the
bibliophile societies. Having created the first society of bibliophiles back in 1820,
these book amateurs had long been concerned only with beautiful rare editions of
the classics. Now, limited deluxe editions of contemporary works by authors such as
Alphonse Daudet, Théophile Gautier and Émile Zola made them widen their scope
considerably.30 From 1870 onwards a great number of bibliophile societies were
created, making texts by contemporary authors rapidly become objects of specu-
lation (Parinet, p. 104). If this collector’s zeal gave an important momentum to
the book industry, the bibliophiles’ conservative choices, however, were not likely
to reform the aesthetics of the illustrated book. For that to happen the art dealers
themselves had to get involved in publishing.
From a Narrative Style to the “illustration parallèle”

Nineteenth-century French book illustration excelled in a predominantly narrative
style. An illustrator like Louis Morin could state that “Nous ne croyons pas qu’il soit
possible d’illustrer un livre plus raisonnablement que par la représentation de ses
principales scenes.”31 The “pregnant moment” as Lessing had defined it, pointing
1982b, p. xiv and Coron, p. 5 (my translation).

29
Balzac, Flaubert, France, Huysmans, Maupassant, Mérimée and Musset were the authors whose
works were most often illustrated in France between 1880-1914, all names which indicate the strong
place occupied by narratives. See Gordon N. Ray: The Art of the French Illustrated Book: 1700 to
1914. Volume II, Ithaca; New York 1982b, p. 461.
30
Élisabeth Parinet: Une Histoire de l’édition à l’époque contemporaine: XIXe-XXe siècle, Paris: Éditions
du Seuil, coll. “Points histoire,” 2004, p. 104.
31
Cited in Rolf Söderberg: French Book Illustration 1880–1905, Stockholm 1977, p. 151. “We do
159
back into the story as well as forward to coming events was the principle which
guided the illustrator’s approach.32 The graphic artist did not hesitate to work from
photographs of costumed models posing in a tableau vivant to get the gestures and
expressions of the characters right.33 The pictures, then, were clearly subordinate to
the text’s subject. Grandville’s daring attempt to turn the hierarchy upside down in
Un Autre monde was way ahead of its time; in his proto-surrealist enterprise from
1844 he had the drawing-pen tell the pencil to kindly stay at home while the pen
ventured off on a journey to assemble the images that the pencil was asked to verbally
‘illustrate’ only on the drawing-pen’s return. Twentieth century authors like Michel
Butor or Claude Simon have made this ‘commenting’ practice or ‘verbal illustration’
by a pencil an important part of their writing activity, proving, if necessary, its
literary potential.
In the 1880’s, the conception of illustration gradually moved from meaning
the “literal reinterpretation” of a text to what Kaenel calls a decorative aesthetics
(Söderberg, p. 10; Kaenel, p. 316). The “traditional anecdotal manner” of a Tony
Johannot or Gustave Doré was rivaled by the decorative style of the likes of Maurice
Denis, whose declaration “l’illustration, c’est la décoration du livre” became le mot
d’ordre for a generation of Symbolist artists such as Carlos Schwabe, Odilon Redon
or Art nouveau artists like Eugène Grasset and Alfons Mucha (Söderberg, p. 151;
Kaenel, p. 316). The decorative aesthetics of Denis meant the autonomization of
the arts in the sense that the pictures freed themselves from the text’s subject. The
illustrations were to exist “sans servitude du texte, sans exacte correspondance de
sujet avec l’écriture” (Kaenel, p. 316).34 Denis compared them to “une broderie
d’arabesques sur les pages, un accompagnement de lignes expressives” (Kaenel, p.
316).35 And in certain ornamented works of Octave Uzanne the traditional separation
between typography and graphic illustration is undone; the deconstruction of the
page allows for a perfect interpenetration of verbal and visual elements (Kaenel, p.
306 and 318).
In 1900, Ambroise Vollard, the art dealer for the impressionist painters, published
what today has become one of the most famous illustrated books of the modern
era, Verlaine’s Parallèlement, illustrated by Bonnard’s lithographs. It was with this
title in mind that the critic Clément-Janin forged the term “illustration parallèle”
not believe there is a more reasonable manner to illustrate a book than to represent its principal
scenes” (my translation).
32
“[P]ainting can only make use of a single instant of an action, and must therefore choose the one,
which is most pregnant, and from which what has already taken place, and what is about to follow,
can be most easily gathered,” Gotthold Ephraim Lessing: Laocoon. An Essay on the Limits of Painting
and Poetry, trans. E. C. Beasley, London 1853, p. 102.
33
Antoine Coron: “Livres de luxe” in Roger Chartier and Henri-Jean Martin (eds.): Histoire de
l’édition française IV, Paris 1986 (p. 409–437), p. 412.
34
“Without servitude to the text, without exact correspondence to the verbal subject” (my translation).
35
“An embroidery of arabesques on the page, an accompaniment of expressive lines” (my translation).
160
to describe the new fin-de-siècle aesthetics. Instead of being dictated by the text
the artist now let himself be inspired by it. Clément-Janin noted that the obvious
links between text and image were no longer present in the “illustration parallèle.”
Commenting on Mirbeau’s Le Jardin des Supplices, illustrated by Rodin, the critic
was stunned to find the meeting of verbal and pictorial elements “as random as the
encounter between a clock and a bottle of perfume at the bottom of a suitcase” (cited
in Söderberg, p. 151; my translation). As Rolf Söderberg puts it: “The paradoxical
aim of the new book design seem[ed] to be the expulsion of the illustrative element
from book illustration” (Söderberg, p. 151).
The development from the romantic illustrated novel with its narrative style to the
fin-de-siècle “illustration parallèle” is a considerable one in terms of aesthetics. Also,
thanks largely to the authority of the bibliophiles societies the illustrator’s profession
met with general respect at the end of the century. Works of contemporary authors
were considered worthy of elaborate illustrated editions which became collectors’
items. Modern book illustration had moved from being a means to primarily attract
the masses to reading to become a select part of contemporary edition.
The Twentieth Century: Painters and Poetry

The beginning of the twentieth century was a Golden Age of the French illustrated
book, one during which the painters were finally to supersede the traditional illus-
trators.
When in 1931, after years of continually rising prices on the market for the illus-
trated book, the speculators’ bubble burst, the crisis affected just about all players
involved. As Antoine Coron has pointed out, the editorial landscape of illustration in
France was characterized by great heterogeneity. Apart from art dealers such as Ambroise
Vollard, D.-H. Kahnweiler, Jeanne Bucher, Christian Zervos – specialized mainly in
poetry – there were also many small occasional publishers of illustrated books.36 Equally
important were the big publishing houses like Gallimard/N.R.F – among the leaders
in illustrated volumes between 1919–1931 – which had special deluxe collections for
such works and still gave an important place to narratives (Coron 1986, p. 417). Last
but not least there were the bibliophile societies. The crisis led to many of the small
publishers going bankrupt, and even major publishers of literature like Gallimard/
N.R.F put their deluxe collections on hold during much of the 1930’s (Coron 1986, p.
417). The 1946 edition of L’Étranger, illustrated with etchings by Mayo, is one of the
first volumes to be released by Gallimard/N.R.F as the publishing house again begins
to invest in illustrated books after a long period on hold (Coron 1986, p. 435).37
36
Joining the group of publishing art dealers were Albert Skira in the 1930’s and Tériade and Aimé
Maeght in the 1940’s.
37
Gallimard/N.R.F’s position as the most prestigious French publisher of belles-lettres is reflected in
161
The societies of bibliophiles were just about the only ones to remain fairly
unaffected by the 1931–1936 crisis. Indifferent to the market since they relied on
membership fees, they continued their activity and regained some of the influence
they had exercised at the turn of the century before the arrival of the art dealers (Coron
1986, p. 416).38 Among them was the Société des Bibliophiles de l’Automobile-
Club de France, founded in 1929 and the commissioner of our second edition of
L’Étranger, printed in 1966.39
Published within the close interval of twenty years (1946–1966), our two illus-
trated editions of L’Étranger thus inscribe themselves into a history of modern
French illustration which, in the course of hundred years only, had moved from a
narrative style to book illustration being primarily reserved for poetry. Poetry, we
remember from Jakobson, essentially gives priority to the message itself over the
referent. Wendy Steiner, in Colors of Rhetorics, suggests that modernist literature
and painting are indeed characterized by a shift in focus from reference to sign, or
rather, from a traditional understanding of representation to one where the text
itself becomes emphasized in its concrete dimensions, as an object (Steiner, p. 24). In
modernism, “[t]he true means of representing reality was not to represent at all, but
to create a portion of reality itself. And the way to do so was to stress the properties
of the aesthetic media in question, since these are palpable, thinglike” (Steiner,
p. 17).40 To the “significant aspects” which illustrations must realize according to
Edward Hodnett one can thus count the discursive organization and structure of
a modernist text (Hodnett, p. 13). Given the above outlined history of modern
French illustration it would hardly be surprising if the painters chosen to illustrate
Albert Camus’ avant-garde novel sought to combine representational images with a
certain emphasis on concrete literary form.
the many titles present in the catalogue of Monroe Wheeler’s influential exhibition Modern Painters
and Sculptors as Illustrators, held at the Museum of Modern Art, New York in 1936.
38
From four in 1900 their number had risen to an impressive thirty-four in 1932. Coron 1986, p. 418.
39
Among the Society’s most remarkable volumes is the Odyssée illustrated by François-Louis Schmied,
an art-deco book commissioned shortly after the Society’s founding and considered today to be one of
the finest works of its era. The Odyssée was one of the last books to come out of Schmied’s exceptional
one-man art-deco atelier before he was forced to close down in 1933. Cf. Coron 1986, p. 423.
40
Cf. p. 123: “[…] poetry, in the modernist period at least, stresses phenomenon (the work of art
as a thing, an unmediated experience of things, etc.) in order to achieve a higher realism, a more
intense experience than the mere reference of science can achieve.” Steiner continues, p. 124: “The
poetic function dominates in literature (poetry and fiction); it focuses attention on the linguistic
utterance itself (the message) rather than upon its referent, as in communicative language. […] The
fundamental trait of poetic language is its thoroughgoing iconicity.”
162
The Two Painters

The Gallimard/N.R.F edition is the only illustrated version of L’Étranger to have
been published during Camus’ lifetime. It followed only four years after the novel’s
first publication and Camus personally chose his friend Mayo to be the illustrating
artist for the volume, printed in 310 copies.41 The Greek-French painter had begun
his career under the influence of Surrealism in the late twenties. Camus and Mayo
worked together for the first time in 1944 at the Théâtre des Mathurins, when Mayo
designed the costumes and the set for Camus’ play Le Malentendu.42
When, exactly twenty years after the Mayo etchings, the Pakistani painter
Sadequain was asked to illustrate Camus’ novel again, the pictorial rendering could
not have been more different. Born into a family of calligraphers in 1930, Sadequain
was to become one of Pakistan’s most influential painters within his generation.43 In
1966, the Bibliophile Society’s choice fell on Sadequain to illustrate Camus’ modern
classic. Printed in 150 copies in an in-4° format, the volume alternates a set of
thirteen black and white semi-abstract lithographs with twenty-two figurative full-
page color lithographs, one of which is a frontispiece.44 Sadequain’s images give a
seemingly very different vision of the novel than do the Mayo etchings. Our two
illustrated editions hence invite us to make an interesting comparison of two artists’
visual renderings of the same literary text.
L’Étranger: The Narrative Stance

Albert Camus’ L’Étranger tells the story of Meursault, a Pied-Noir in colonized Algeria
in the 1930’s.45 In a language which is both highly refined and suggestive of a simple
diary, it relates his banal life. Situating the text in the existentialist movement of the
time or in a literary tradition of the absurd is highly relevant but cannot answer all
41
Les Peintres Amis d’Albert Camus, Les Rencontres méditerranéennes Albert Camus Lourmarin,
1994. Catalogue publié avec le concours du Conseil général de Vaucluse, 1994, p. 41.
42
The same year that he did the etchings for L’Étranger, Mayo illustrated a work by another friend,
the poet Jacques Prévert: Jacques Prévert and André Verdet: Histoires, Paris: Éditions du Pré-aux-
Clercs, 1946. Mayo, born as Antoine Malliarakis, also left his marks as a set and costume designer
for the theatre and for the cinema of Marcel Carné and Jacques Becker in particular. Cf. Patrick
Waldberg: Mayo, Milano: Edizioni Annunciata, 1972 and Nikita Malliarakis: Un peintre et le cinéma,
Paris: L’Harmattan, 2002.
43
Cf. Sadequain, Yunus Said (intr.), Karachi: Pakistan Publications, 1961. The retrospective
dedicated to his work at the Mohatta Museum in Karachi in 2002 attracted 85 000 visitors. It was
at the Biennal de Paris in 1961 that the young painter first caught the attention of the French and
European art scenes when he won the first prize in the category of best foreign artist. Cf. http://www.
dawn.com/2003/08/10/local4.htm (accessed on April 1, 2007)
44
The copy I have been working with comprises 2 volumes since it includes a suite in which the
black and whites are also reproduced separately. An original signed by the artist makes the lithographs
amount to 36 in all.
45
The term Pied-Noir refers to the population of European descent in Algeria.
163
the questions raised by this enigmatic text. Among its more intriguing aspects, we
must clearly count the narrative stance.
Meursault himself tells us his story: how, shortly after his old mother’s funeral, he
kills an Arab on a beach in Algiers without any apparent motive and is sentenced to
death after a parodic trial. As readers, we soon come to realize that Camus’ Meursault
is a highly unusual narrator. Despite the use of the first person narrative and internal
focalization, his discourse is void of true reflections and emotions. Where one would
expect the internally focalized discourse to give some insight into the psychology
of the narrator it consists instead of detailed descriptions of the concrete, material
world and of the way Meursault either interacts with it or perceives it. Leaving
out just about every sentimental and psychological dimension, L’Étranger radically
violates the reader’s expectations of what an internally focalized narrative should be.
The deviation from the norm is such that Gérard Genette has proposed to consider
the stance in L’Étranger not as internally but as externally focalized.46 Of course,
Genette acknowledges that a narrative “taken on by the hero”, which nonetheless
adopts “the point of view of an (anonymous) external observer incapable not only of
knowing the hero’s thoughts but also of taking on his perceptual field” is generally
“considered incompatible with the logical-semantic norms of narrative discourse.”
But the critic immediately adds:
What the “linguistic feeling,” always one sentence behind, rejects today,
it could indeed accept tomorrow under the pressure of stylistic inno-
vation. […] Cézanne, Debussy, Joyce are full of features that Ingres,
Berlioz, and Flaubert would undoubtedly have declared “unacceptable”
– and so on. No one knows where the “possibilities,” real or theoretical,
end, with respect to anything (Genette 1988, p. 126–127).
Highly innovative, the mode and voice in L’Étranger may thus be considered to
have an estranging quality for readers, whether or not they are familiar with literary
conventions. In The Act of Reading, Wolfgang Iser suggests that the choices of narra-
tive techniques and devices are essential for the textual strategies which guide our
46
Gérard Genette: Narrative Discourse Revisited, Ithaca; New York 1988, p. 123–124: “The narrative
mode of L’Étranger is ‘objective’ on the ‘psychic’ level, in the sense that the hero-narrator does not
mention his thoughts (if any). It is not ‘objective’ on the perceptual level, for we cannot say that
Meursault is seen ‘from the outside,’ and even more, the external world and the other characters
appear only insofar as (and to the extent that) they enter into his field of perception. […] In this
sense, of course, the mode of […] L’Étranger is, rather internal focalization, and the most accurate
overall way of putting it would perhaps be something like ‘internal focalization with an almost total
paralipsis of thoughts.’ Most accurate, but extremely cumbersome […]. ‘Meursault tells what he does
and describes what he perceives, but he does not say (not: what he thinks about it, but:) whether he
thinks about it.’ That ‘situation,’ or rather, here, that narrative stance, is for the moment the one that
best, or least badly, resembles a homodiegetic narrating that is ‘neutral’, or in external focalization.”
164
reading in certain directions.47 Camus’ obvious break with the logical-semantic

norms and with literary conventions constitutes what Iser calls a “minus-function”,
and as such it is an essential part of the novel’s literariness.48 Let us quickly look at
how the artists have dealt with the literary categories of voice and mode in Camus’
text, critical for the reader’s perception of the character Meursault.
If we first turn to the Mayo edition from 1946 (fig. 1–3) we notice an important
point of convergence between text and images: the pictures repeat and corroborate
the limited focalization chosen by Camus. Each of Mayo’s etchings offers what,
using a cinematographic term, one might call a ‘point-of-view shot’: the visual field
reveals nothing but what the narrator and main character Meursault sees. That the
pictures render his vision becomes perfectly clear by way of four of the twenty-nine
etchings where we actually see parts of Meursault’s body investing the visual field.
But the passage between hors-champ and champ is minimal since no more than his
hands, feet, shadow, and silhouette in the mirror are visible.49
Turning to the Sadequain edition (fig. 4–9) we find that the artist deals with
the issue of point of view quite differently. Opting for an omniscient, that is, a
non-focalized narrative, Sadequain introduces Meursault into the visual field
next to the other characters, thus operating what Genette calls a defocalization of
the perspective.50 But if we were to expect an emphasis on the physical reality of
Meursault, we have to think again. In a rather consistent manner the pictures rela-
ting to the first of the novel’s two parts represent the narrator seen from behind and
with his head turned in three-quarter profile but void of facial traits.
47
Iser, p. 87: “The strategies can generally be discerned through the techniques employed in the text
– whether they be narrative or poetic.”
48
Iser, p. 207–208: “a literary text [may] not fulfill its traditionally expected functions, but instead
use[…] its technique to transform expected functions into ‘minus-functions’ – which is the deliberate
omission of a generic technique – in order to invoke their nonfulfillment in the conscious mind of
the reader […] Modern texts fit these expectations into their communicatory structure in order to
transform them. The charge of esotericism often leveled at such texts therefore seems at least partially
unjustified, for if the alternative is fulfillment of expectations, literature would, in fact, be totally
functionless.”
49
B. A. Uspensky, p. 11, notes that “[s]ince the Renaissance the position of the artist in European
fine arts as regards the picture has been, generally speaking, external.” And he points out that it
was not unusual in “Ancient and Medieval painting” that “the artist located himself inside the
work, picturing the world around him,” p. 11–12. Compared to the internal perspective offered
to us by Mayo, this pre-Renaissance internal position, however, allowed for a vision “as if one saw
simultaneously all around oneself,” Steiner, p. 62. Commenting on Uspensky’s discussion, Steiner
makes the following observation: “Interestingly, after the Renaissance, paintings were predominantly
limited and therefore subjective views of a scene, even though they were governed by the ‘objective
laws’ of optical perspective; literature, in contrast, could comfortably link the points of view of
many characters into a composite fabric of knowledge simply by having the universal access of
omniscience. With modernism, the trend seems to have reversed itself. Literature became obsessed
with the first-person narrative and the limitations of knowledge implicit in it, whereas painting
became much more intent on an omniscient perspective,” p. 65–66.
50
Gerard Genette: Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree, Lincoln; Nebraska 1997, p. 284–292.
165
The pragmatic function of both artists’ choice to present a deliberately anonymous

character, then, is that Camus’ unconventional use of the internal focalization is
further emphasized.51 The images may hence sharpen the reader’s awareness of the
way the text deautomatizes a familiar device. In doing so, the iconic medium points
the reader towards an essential structure within the text.
Though narrated in a style which brings to mind the impressionism of a diary,
Meursault’s story is meticulously constructed. Poetic principles of composition
inform both the structural and the thematic level of the text. In poetry the play of
contrasts and parallels between constituent parts is a privileged means to convey
significance, we know from Jakobson. This paradigmatic (or metaphoric) principle
of composition is exploited at all levels of language in poetry, be it at the phonetic,
syntactic, semantic or referential level. Sound figures establish phonological coher-
ence, tropes produce analogies between signifieds, parallelism and antithesis can be
found in both syntax and thematics. Narrative literary discourse, on the other hand,
tends to give precedence to an overall syntagmatic (or metonymic) organization,
Jakobson argues. He illustrates his point with the nineteenth century realist novel
where elements are combined less on the basis of similitude and opposition than on
the basis of semantic contiguity: “Following the path of contiguous relationships, the
realist author metonymically digresses from the plot to the atmosphere and from the
characters to the setting in space and time” (Jakobson 1971, p. 255).
However, as has been noted by critics like Steiner and Lodge, the metaphorical
principle is often emphasized as a means of representation in modernist writing,
including in narratives (Steiner, p. 65–66). David Lodge has demonstrated how
poetic principles of composition have been particularly fecund for an experimental
twentieth-century prose seeking new forms and means of expression (Lodge, p.
93). In the remaining discussion of the two artists’ illustrations I will attempt to
show how the images can stimulate the reader to examine Camus’ text not only
as metonymically organized but also as composed according to such metaphoric
principles, hence foregrounding the text as an artifact.52
The verbal medium is first and foremost linearly experienced by readers. An
illustrating artist, on the other hand, may synthesize elements from different parts
of the text in the same visual image. This makes illustration particularly well suited
to illuminating the equivalences and divergences between textual segments, laying
bare Camus’ use of poetic principles like the play of contrasts and parallels as a
means to convey significance throughout the text (Jakobson 1971, p. 239–259,
especially p. 254–259).
51
According to the critic Pierre Billard, Camus agreed to an illustrated version on the condition
that Meursault was not to be represented. See Pierre Billard: “Face à face Sartre Camus” in L’Express,
Octobre 23–29, 1967 (p. 114–116), p. 116.
52
Cf. note 9 and 10.
166
The Mayo Edition: Gazes and Bodies

In approaching Camus’ novel, Mayo and Sadequain present themselves as artists with
very different temperaments and styles. Compared with Sadequain’s often expressio-
nist lithographs, the detailed, subtly naturalistic Mayo etchings seem congenial to
the objective language of Meursault. The twenty-nine etchings are distributed as
follows in the text: the novel’s two parts are each preceded by a vignette placed en-
tête (ex. fig. 1); each of the eleven chapters holds an initial bandeau (ex. fig. 2 and 3)
as well as a full-page illustration; finally, we find a cul-de-lampe, a vignette marking
the end of a chapter, in five of the eleven chapters.
We rapidly note that nature, the element with which Meursault is so intimately
connected and bestows with such vivid descriptions in the novel, is never a subject
matter in its own right in Mayo’s pictures. If the water and the sun are not iconically
foregrounded in the outdoor scenes, Mayo’s generous use of white surfaces, however,
plastically evokes the reverberation of the Algerian sun. The elements of water
and sun are never isolated from the characters represented in the pictures; nature
– harmonious or disharmonious – thus becomes a constitutive part of the human
condition.
Adopting the point of view of the narrator, Mayo privileges human subjects within
Meursault’s field of vision. It is striking that twenty-six out of the twenty-nine etch-
ings deal with human characters contextualized in a scene. The illustrations are thus
saturated with the figures, and often probing faces, of the human beings in whose
company the reader learns that Meursault repeatedly feels he behaves improperly and
is being judged: we meet the staring faces of the elderly people waking in the mor-
gue (fig. 1), the staff at the home for elderly, Meursault’s neighbors, his boss (fig. 2),
lover Marie (fig. 3), lawyer, the judges, the journalists, the audience at the trial and
the prison chaplain. These characters are always rendered at a certain distance from
the beholder. In staying close to the temperament of Meursault, Mayo’s illustrations
help to underscore the detachment of the narrator, all the while stressing the curious
gazes of people he engages with. Congenial in tone, the painter’s visual transposition
thus emphasizes the paradox of a both evasive and all imposing narrator. In having
to share Meursault’s visual field, the reader/spectator is placed in the position of the
character, invited to perceive the world the way he does.
Marie is depicted in five of the etchings and her character is given a particular
presence and aura. In perfect consistency with Camus’ mise-en-texte, we meet her
for the first time at the Algiers bathing establishment in an image which conveys
her sensuous beauty (fig. 3). The girl who is to become Meursault’s lover is shown
lying on the float in the water; she is on her back, her right leg pulled up, one hand
on her stomach, the other half open alongside her body in an inviting gesture;
turning her head to face the spectator, she delivers a radiant smile. The picture has
something of a 40’s pin up, the girl offering herself to the beholder in a flirty and
167
self-conscious pose, an impression that is heightened by the slight, yet palpable,

plunging perspective that allows the viewer to dominate the figure lying down. The
contrast with her final appearance – Mayo last depicts her at the trial, shrunk into
a sad black bust waving out of the audience and wearing an unflattering black hat
over her hair – is strong and stresses the radical change in Meursault brought about
by the imprisonment. This man, whose existence is first and foremost sensuous, is
here deprived of every physical dimension of human life and expected to put his
trust in God and the spiritual afterlife to come to grips with his death anxiety. In
the text we read that, having initially suffered not being able to hold Marie’s body
against his, Meursault eventually gets used to her absence in prison (in the same way
he has had to give up cigarettes!), finding that there is actually no difference between
a person being physically absent and a person dead.
The topics of intimacy and love and the problematics of human relationships
are examined in a complex manner by Camus, notably through the three couples
formed by Raymond and his mistress, Salamano and his dog, and Meursault and
Marie. Mayo takes care to underline this thematic parallelism and all the variations it
embodies in dwelling on Raymond and Salamano in six of his images. He represents
them alone as well as in scenes where the violence characterizing their respective
relationships is clearly foregrounded (the police knocking at the door as a result of
Raymond’s beating his mistress and Salamano seen in the staircase bent in rage over
his trembling dog). The mirroring effect which they exercise in Camus’ text is thus
further brought to the reader’s attention.
Mayo’s choice of illustration does not only highlight the important intertwining
between the North African nature and the lives of the characters, as well as the
peculiar narrative stance and the realist tone of the detailed descriptions of the
physical world; it also, while in keeping with Camus’ linear chronology, incites
a reflection on the way the secondary characters have been elaborated, either in
radical contrast, or analogy, to this strange narrator.
The Sadequain Edition: The Use of Different Pictorial Registers

If we now turn to the Sadequain edition, we find that the artist alternates between
figurative color lithographs (such as fig. 7 and 9) and black and white semi-abstract
images (such as fig. 4, 5, 6 and 8).53 Except for the black and white full-page litho-
graph placed in an en-tête position at the beginning of each of the novel’s two parts
(fig. 4 and 5), this abstract register is reserved exclusively for smaller images, namely
the eleven culs-de-lampe marking the end of chapters (ex. fig. 6 and 8). While Mayo
had rather emphasized the text in its continuity, Sadequain stresses the novel’s dual
composition. For the full-page en-tête lithographs which divide the novel in two
parts, the artist reiterates a similar theme, taking care to introduce a variation. The
53
The color lithographs are all full-page images except for three which have a double-page format.
168
white humanlike figure standing solitary as the novel begins, separated from an
animated background of humanlike figures in black (fig. 4), turns up in a slightly
different setting at the opening of the second and final part (fig. 5). The animated
black back-ground has here been exchanged for an inanimate wall with a barred
window. From themes of liberty and human relationships we move to captivity and
isolation. The white figure remains the same, but its body and position in the image
are reversed.
Repetition and modulation is also the guiding principle for the black and white
culs-de-lampe at the end of each chapter. Here the humanlike figure from the two
en-tête images, which the reader encounters at the threshold of both part one and
two, is depicted in continuously changing morphologies, its eleven modulations
ranging from abstract to semi-figurative. In these often dark, tormented images
the figure sometimes appears alone, sometimes in the midst of other figures. Some
forms may evoke an embryo twisting in a womb, others bring to mind a crucified
body or graphic characters, indeed words (ex. fig. 6). Sadequain’s eclectic influences
become clearly manifest in this series: sensitive to European modernism, above all
to Cubism and Surrealism, he is well acquainted with traditional oriental art and, in
particular, Kufic calligraphy.
By employing two different visual registers, the artist alerts the reader to variations
and changes in tonality within the text proper. These haunting semi-abstract images
suggest there is an insisting existential theme in Camus’ text (ex. fig. 6 and 8). Placed
at the end of each chapter, they emphasize the strategic place where the narrative
has been temporarily interrupted and where the reader, facing textual silence, pauses
a moment before turning the page. Setting a radically different atmosphere than
the color lithographs inside the chapters proper, they introduce a contrast which
can be said to be consistent with Camus’ writing in so far as the closing lines of
chapters are often characterized by a particularly estranging quality: for instance,
coming from a man who has just had to bury his mother, Meursault’s expression of
“joy” at the perspective to “sleep for twelve hours” at the end of the first chapter is
certainly curious, if not to say disconcerting.54 So are the closing lines of the next
chapter where we learn that “Maman was buried now” and that Meursault is thus
“going back to work, and that, really, nothing had changed” (Camus 1988, p. 24).
Still other chapters end with the narrator leaving, in his usual dry tone, the reader
to linger on poignant snapshots of human solitude. An example among others is
the end of chapter four where the cries of the old Salamano, whose dog has just run
away, are heard through the wall at night; and, “for some reason” which Meursault
leaves for the reader to sort out, the narrator comes to think of his dead mother
(Camus 1988, p. 36).
Camus’ chapter endings create textual blanks, prompting the reader’s personal
54
Albert Camus: The Stranger, trans. Matthew Ward, New York 1988, p. 18.
169
engagement and interpretative activity in a radical way. The change of visual register
operated here by the artist, going from figurative color illustration to black and
white abstract designs, is not likely to go unnoticed by readers and may incite us to
rest a while within the awkward final lines just read. Hence, Camus’ strong use of
chapter endings is made evident.
Sadequain’s two registers furthermore work in a dialogic manner. Figurative and semi-
abstract images mutually clarify each other. Perhaps the most significant examples
of how this also points to complexities in the text are the two lithographs which
portray the murder of the Arab on the beach (fig. 7 and 8). This sequence closes
the first part of the novel. The first of the two images is the color lithograph (fig. 7).
We see Meursault with Raymond’s gun in his hand, facing the Arab. In the text we
read that, having gone back down to the beach a third time, the narrator can think
of nothing but the implacable African sun flashing its fiery swords around him and
turning the sea into a block of heated metal. Meursault has been walking towards
a spring of cool water flickering in the rock behind the Arab. Sadequain depicts
Meursault with his back turned to the beholder outside of the image, and facing
the Arab who is getting up from the sand while drawing his knife. Consistent with
Camus’ words the reflection of the sun in the blade of the knife strikes Meursault
in the forehead.
The following image is the black and white cul-de-lampe closing the chapter
(fig. 8). Sketching two humanlike figures facing each other under the sun it seems to
be the black and white replica of the color lithograph described above. However, on
second view, we realize that the forms have been inverted. Where the angular aggress-
ive forms had applied to the sun in the first image, they are now used to depict the
humanlike figures. The sun in turn has taken on the round shape of the humans in
the first lithograph. The inversion points the reader to the radical confusion with
which the text evokes nature and man in the passage illustrated. On this beach,
nothing is more set in contrast than man and nature, and yet they fuse into the
same aggressor in a moment of perfect ambivalence. Textual strategies conjure the
reader to be aware of this complexity. And through their dialogic relationship the
two images reiterate the suggestion.
A Proleptic Frontispiece
The Sadequain edition is furthermore adorned with a frontispiece (fig. 9). To a
reader familiar with Camus’ novel, this frontispiece immediately announces that
here the artist’s illustrations will not be limited by the repertoire of the text but
will add new repertorial elements to the discourse. In a palpable manner we are
thus reminded that the reception of an illustrated volume will necessarily differ
from the reception of the work in its non-illustrated form. The visual transposition
170
always results in a more or less important redistribution of the textual material or

repertoire compared with the original, a change that will affect the reading strategies
presented to the reader and alter the reading process. But Sadequain goes further
and introduces new repertorial elements in dialogue with the written narrative. The
question we must ask us here is whether these additions are textually motivated and
uncover pertinent aspects of the novel.
The full-page color frontispiece opening the volume shows two male characters
turned towards the beholder; one is holding a ghastly mask in front of the other’s
face which is thus half hidden behind it. Read in the light of Camus’ text, where
religious and judicial institutions become the representatives of moral values, the
red coat worn by the older man holding the mask could bring the scarlet garments
of a cardinal as well as the red gown of a judge to a reader’s mind. Regardless of
which, the all-obtrusive presence of the mask suggests we are about to witness a
ritual, or perhaps a grave spectacle at the theatre. Do textual strategies corroborate
such a reading of Camus’ text?
The lithographs illustrating the first part of the novel all remain closely related
to the text as it reads literally. But as the second part begins, Sadequain becomes
considerably freer in his interpretation. With the same consequence with which
he had avoided representing Meursault’s face in the first part, he now depicts him
with simple facial features and externalizes the narrator’s anxiety in twisted body
positions. Elements not found within the repertoire proper of the text now enter
the images: masks, monsters, devils and various other symbolic figures which have
no direct correlate in the text turn up in Sadequain’s pictures. The kinship with the
frontispiece is obvious and the mask motive is next reiterated and varied in an image
relative to the trial. The visuals thus direct us to the ‘theatre’ of the court and to the
judicial system’s desperate effort to temper the irrational by giving it a form and a
plausible narrative.
As the trial begins, the French colonial court is far more interested in finding
explanations for Meursault’s insensitive behavior at his mother’s funeral than in
hearing about the murder and Arab victim. The portrait that is being given of
Meursault by the court is preposterous. Banal events from the first part (such as
Meursault’s declining to see his mother’s dead body, drinking café au lait and smok-
ing during the funeral wake) are evoked, and end up being given an outrageous
official interpretation by the French colonial court, an interpretation that the reader
– having experienced the scenes through the viewpoint of the narrator – recognizes as
obviously erroneous. The Camus scholar Brian Fitch has argued that the elusiveness
of the narrator, the lack of explanations or motives for his acts, prepare for a reading
process in which the reader is likely to make assumptions about Meursault during
the first of the novel’s two parts which must be reassessed in the second as they
171
become horribly explicit in the mouth of the prosecutor during the trial.55 The
court scenes, Brian Fitch argues, remind the reader of his or her own shortcomings
in trying to grasp the elusive narrator and thus function as a mise en abyme of the
reading process itself. The previously unidentified is here given a face, but it is a
ridiculous one sketched by a hypocritical legal system escaping the absurdity of
Meursault’s act by grasping at clichés and reducing the stranger to an antichrist.
Moreover, the grotesque trial shows the Christian court as no more righteous and
morally upright than is Meursault, who feels no regret for his act, only a certain
annoyance. As Sadequain adds a “poetic reading” to the referential in his images he
may be understood to be foregrounding stylistic aspects of the text: the dramatic
illustrations render concrete the distance between the banalities evoked and their
dreadful repercussions, giving an important resonance to the irony in Camus’ text.
If Mayo’s etchings supported the general atmosphere of the text, Sadequain’s litho-
graphs rather play the card of contrast. The choice of a non-focalized representation
allows the artist to be less conditioned by the subjectivity of Meursault for his images
than is Mayo. This distance with respect to the narrator results in a more analytic,
and radically interpretative, reading. We have seen how Sadequain emphasizes the
metaphoric play of contrasts and resemblances, which governs L’Étranger at both a
thematic and a structural level, by using two pictorial registers. Both within a same
register and between registers the images simultaneously repeat and modulate each
other, in a manner analogous to Camus’ own textual organization. Hence, even what
at first glance could appear as expressionist lithographs at the antipode of the language
of Meursault may end up triggering the reader’s attention to the complex symmetry
of the novel’s two parts and incite us to question our initial impression of the text as
homogeneous, in order to discover textual tensions, ambivalence and irony.
Conclusion
Through this brief discussion of a few pertinent aspects of the pictures I hope to
have given a rough survey of each painter’s particular approach to Camus’ text.
I have argued that artists’ illustrations, while necessarily changing the semantic
field of the text, may simultaneously reinforce textual strategies and highlight
the literary composition of a narrative. We have seen that important themes and
motifs in L’Étranger, as well as stylistic and narrative qualities of the text, have been
foregrounded in the images in various ways. Camus’ character Meursault defies
any reader’s attempt to ‘pin him down’ and sort him into a familiar category. In
consistency with this textual strategy, we have seen that it is indistinctness of form
that characterizes both artists’ rendering of Meursault. Although opting for different
formal solutions in adapting the mode and voice of Camus’ novel, Mayo and
55
Brian Fitch: The Narcissistic Text: A Reading of Camus’ Fiction, Toronto; Buffalo; London 1982, p. 49–67.
172
Sadequain both seem to have understood the untypical use of the internally focalized
narrative to be an essential part of its literary strategies and therefore fundamental
to the reading experience. Regardless of their actual reasons for doing so, they have
chosen to foreground this narrative device in their pictures. Here, then, the images
not only leave open a fundamental blank in the text but they encourage the reader
to take notice of it and explore it. Instead of fixing the meaning for the reader, the
illustrations stimulate one to further explore the literary text as a way to estrange
one’s own vision, as a new way of seeing and experiencing the world.
The reading experience of the illustrated narrative is a particular one. The artist
becomes the Other Reader we are constantly in dialogue with during our processing
of the text. In searching for the motivations of the illustrator we are irrevocably
referred back to the text itself. If sensitive to form, an artist’s eye may help to uncover
the work, allowing for its many complex layers to become visible and so promote a
more aesthetic reading. In that case, the illustrations could truly be said to interpret
the text for us, in the sense that Roland Barthes understood the term. Through
their various subject matters and styles, our two painters have emphasized different
textual aspects. Their works illustrate the possibility of multiple readings of the
same text which may all arise as a response to textual cues.
Fig. 1–3. Mayo, Albert

Camus, L’Étranger ©
Éditions GALLIMARD
173
Fig. 4–6. Sadequain, Albert

Camus, L’Étranger © Éditions
Les Bibliophiles de L’Automobile-
Club de France, 1966
174
Fig. 7–9. Sadequain, Albert

Camus, L’Étranger © Éditions
Les Bibliophiles de L’Automobile-
Club de France, 1966
175
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177
Photos, Fiction and Literature
Arne Melberg
What happens to the fictional character of the literary text when it is interrupted
and infiltrated by photographic images? What happens to the narrator when he/she
is transformed into photographer? What happens to fiction? No single answer can
be given to those questions; in this presentation I will instead show some examples
that only have one thing in common: the use of photos in literary texts of fiction.
And the photographic problematizing of fiction.1
The starting-point for questions like these is my impression that the boundaries
of contemporary fiction is relativized or exceeded by autobiographical life writing
and that photographic images contribute to this historical change and thereby to a
fictionalization of reality – or is it reality invading fiction? My own starting-point
for this observation has been the writings of W. G. Sebald and the frequent and
original use that Sebald is making of photos. And Sebald is by no means alone.
Two recent Norwegian examples are Espen Haavardsholm and Nikolaj Frobenius,
both publishing autobiographical novels 2004 including photos. Haavardsholm’s
Gutten på passbildet (The Boy in the Passport Photo) has of course a small boy from a
passport-picture on his cover and we understand that it is Espen himself although
he calls himself something else in the novel. Frobenius exposes himself in different
ages on front- and back-cover to his Teori og praksis (Theory and Praxis). Like
Sebald, although in a smaller scale, both writers include documentary photos and
especially Frobenius installs an interesting dialectic between the novelistic quasi-
fiction and the quasi-documentary photos. Like Sebald, both writers write about
themselves in a fictional form while problematizing the boundaries of fiction. And
both have found themselves to be targets and actors in “debates” on the relation
between literature and reality. They have defended their books as fictional novels
while exceeding the boundaries of fiction with their biographical projects and the
photographic documentation.
There is of course nothing remarkable with having photos in an autobiography.
The autobiographical image underlines the claims for reality and verifies the past,
that the autobiographer remembers from the presence of his or her writing position.
The image can be called a support for memory or a function of memory demon-
1
Due to the limited scope of this presentation I have to resist the wider implications of the interaction
photo-text that are pursued in recent anthologies like Photo-Textualities (ed. Marsha Bryant 1996)
and Phototextualities (ed. Alex Hughes & Andrea Noble 2003); or the even wider implications of
intermediality discussed for instance in the Swedish anthology Intermedialitet: ord, bild och ton i
samspel, Hans Lund (ed.), Lund 2002.
179
Arne Melberg: Photos, Fiction and Literature
strating the temporal exchange between now and then that is the precondition of
autobiography. One of my autobiographical favourites, Vladimir Nabokov’s Speak,
Memory (1967) illustrates this: already the title indicates that we meet a speaking
memory, the actively working memory of the narrator. In the spirit of Proust,
Nabokov searches and interrogates the past and has the memorized detail carry a
world – at the same time as he is the magician conjuring up this world. Memory
arranges a creative meeting between the two selves of the autobiography: the self
of Now, sitting in his American garden, remembering, thereby meeting the past
and almost forgotten Russian self. “I am going to show a few slides.” In such a casual
manner Nabokov starts a chapter in order to remind us that he, the narrator, chooses
the images, shows and arranges and constructs them.2
Fig. 1. Georges Rodenbach’s Bruges-la-mort, 1892
Nabokov also includes a couple of photos but he does not seem to slip into
fiction. The first modern example on photographic intervention in fictional text is
probably Georges Rodenbach’s Bruges-la-mort (1892; fig. 1). Rodenbach was a fin-
de-siècle-writer of some distinction, friend of Mallarmé, and his book caused some
stir including public discussions on the literary use of photos. (Mallarmé looked
forward to having living pictures in text!) Rodenbach’s book includes an array of
street photos from Bruges (Brügge), most of them showing house façades and only
one of them showing human beings. The reason for this was probably technical but
the result emphasized the theme of the book, that was based on the popular myth
of Bruges as a “dead” town, coordinated by Rodenbach with a topical plot about a
lonely man being haunted by a fatal woman, who is mysteriously connected with
2
Vladimir Nabokov: Speak Memory: An Autobiography Revisited, London 2000 (1969), p. 120.
180
the narrow streets of the town and with death. The photos converge with the fiction
while giving it an uncanny touch of death and reality.
More advanced examples turn up in the heyday of Modernism and Surrealism.
In 1928 Virginia Woolf ’s Orlando and André Breton’s Nadja were published, both
using photos but in quite different ways. Woolf ’s novel about androgynous Orlando’s
adventures throughout the Centuries may be read as a parody of biography, although
with some “serious” touches. The text is interrupted by a set of photos that underline
the parody: the photos are supposed to be related to the different historical epochs
described in the book and they are either taken from Vita Sackwille-West’s family
album or portraying Vita her-self (who was the model for Orlando) in different
costumes [fig. 2]). Interestingly, these photos were removed from later editions,
probably in an attempt to emphasize the “serious” dimensions of the novel (but they
are back again in some editions from the 1990’s).
Fig. 2. Virgina Woolf’s Orlando, 1928 Fig. 3. André Breton’s Nadja, 1963 (1928)
Breton kept revising his Nadja until the final edition in 1963 (fig. 3). Here
Breton tries to mythologize his meeting with the elusive Nadja, although it is a
meeting that is presented as authentical and a woman not only presented in text.
We meet her eyes in a photo-montage (that only turned up in the final edition)
and she is said to have contributed to the book with the childish drawings that are
supposed to illustrate her mental state. And she is given at least one line of words,
addressing the writer in a way that shows the literary construction at work: “André?
181
André? … You are about to write a novel about me.”3 It is a matter of opinion if
André really writes a “novel”: the text could also be called a biographical rêverie, an
array of memorial fragments with documentary pretensions. Photos by Man Ray
give the text a surrealistic flavour, while other photos are simple documentations
of addresses and locations mentioned in the text. In a preface to the final edition
Breton informs us that the photos, together with l’observation médicale of Nadja’s
mental metamorphoses, are the principles anti-littéraire of the book. The photos are
meant to eliminate toute description and give the impression that the text is pris sur
le vif, meaning that Breton claims to give us instant pictures, snapshots, of a reality
that really was real.
W. G. Sebald, who gave me the starting-point for this meditation, is also
problematizing literature as fiction and his extensive use of photos contributes to
this. He inaugurates this strategy in Schwindel. Gefühle (Vertigo, 1990), where he
mixes two texts of literary criticism and anecdote, on Stendhal and Kafka, with two
autobiographical stories; all four are documented in photos of train-tickets, hotel-
and restaurant-bills, passport-photos etc. Also his next book, Die Ausgewanderten
(The Emigrants, 1992), consists of four texts and here Sebald fully develops his literary
strategy: he starts in an autobiographical perspective that merges with a portrait of a
character that the narrator has met or known (fig. 4). This character is portrayed in a
mixture of identification and reconstruction, and the narrator traces the character’s
complicated and elusive history going back to the black spots of European history
from the 20th Century – and there is no shortage of these. The form is seemingly
documentary: interviews, diary notes, letters, travels, research; all of this fused in a
text that is interfoliated by black and white photos. The last chapter of the book is
characteristic: here Sebald remembers his first time in England and Manchester, his
meeting with the painter Max Aurach, but also later meetings with the same man,
who is slowly foregrounded and who finally hands over his family album of photos
to the narrator. The person and name Aurach seems like an elliptical version of the
actual painter Frank Auerbach, while “Max” is the name used by friends to Sebald
himself.4 In this way Sebald merges his fiction with reality and so to speak puts his
signature in the picture. The painting presented in a photo as made by Aurach is
certainly close to paintings actually made by Auerbach. (Maybe it is an Auerbach;
Sebald never gives references to his photos so we cannot know about their origin).
Sebald continues to develop this quasi-documentary strategy in his “English
pilgrimage” Die Ringe des Saturn (Rings of Saturn, 1995) and in the book that was to
be his last, Austerlitz (2001), being the first to be called a “novel” (fig. 5). Both contain
quite an amount of black-and-white photos, including some that are said to portray
the fictional character Austerlitz himself as a child and school-boy. Still (or perhaps
3
André Breton: Nadja, Paris 1998 (1964), p. 100. ”André? André? … Tu écriras un roman sur moi.”
4
Sebald changed the name in the English edition.
182
Fig. 4. W. G Sebald’s Die Ausgewanderten, 1992 Fig. 5. W. G Sebald’s Austerlitz, 2001
because of that) the reader feels unsure about his status: who is looking at us in the
photos that are said to be of Jacques Austerlitz? Could it be Sebald himself, who has
found some pictures from his childhood and youth?
In other words: the reader does not know if the novel Austerlitz is meant to be
an autobiographical project. Or perhaps an imaginary construction portraying a
novelistic character, who is mainly searching his own biography and history. The
extensive use of photographic documentation invites us to regard even the novel
Austerlitz as non-fictional; but we are also led to suspect that Sebald develops his
own autobiographical project through a more or less fictitious autobiographical
project. Sebald’s (or the publisher’s) calling this book a “novel” does certainly not
put a stop to the problematization of fiction with the help of photos. Between Die
Ringe des Saturn and Austerlitz he also published two books that were not designed
as fiction but are made according to the same strategy as the explicitly literary
books: a mixture of text and picture, autobiographical fragments merged with a
critical presentation of a character or a phenomenon. I am thinking of Logis in
einem Landhaus¸ a collection of literary criticism from 1998, and Luftkrieg und
Literatur from 1999: afterthoughts on his lectures on the grand theme of Germany
183
during World War II. The political essays insist on the priority of a documentary
presentation while the literary essays indulge in biographical anecdote; and just as
in those books that are closer to fiction Sebald tries to merge biography and history.
One essay is called “To the memory of Robert Walser,” who is portrayed with an
amount of photos in a text that includes the following passage, where I think that
Sebald implies himself:
Walser himself once said that he is actually always writing the same
novel, from one piece of prose to the other, a novel that could be
characterized as a “in many ways disrupted and disseminated book of
myself.” One must add that the main character, the I, in this book of
I myself, is hardly ever to be seen, but is rather spread out or hidden
among all the others passing by.5
In analogy to this we can imagine Sebald himself as “hidden” in his own text, as
“spread out” among his more or less fictitious characters in about the same way
as his character Jacques Austerlitz, who functions as a ghost in his own novel,
or to use the better French word, a revenant, someone who keeps coming back:
Austerlitz is turning up unexpectedly and without evident reason on unpredictable
junctures and settings. Sebald’s use of black-and-white photos emphasizes a kind of
revenant-motive. That is the case when he occasionally puts in a picture of himself:
in Schwindel. Gefühle as a photo of an outdated passport-photo, in Die Ringe des
Saturn standing at the foot of a Lebanese cedar, “still not knowing about the ungood
things that since have passed.”6 It is even more the case when we come to those
photos in Austerlitz that are said to portray the main character as a boy, pictures that
emphasize the ambivalence of both pictures and character. A photo of a fictional
character seems in itself to be a contradiction in terms; and in this case the fictional
character Jacques Austerlitz cannot know for sure if it is actually himself that he sees
in the photo. So how are we to know?
Jacques Austerlitz is presented as collector of photos showing excerpts from his
family album to his narrator. For both – for the narrator and his character – the
pictorial interest is taking part in the work of memory aiming to reconstruct the
past. The photos themselves are seldom remarkable, often unfocused and vague, and
this amateurish touch strengthens the documentary effect and the ghostly character.
5
W. G. Sebald: Logis in einem Landhaus, Frankfurt 2000 (1998), p. 147 (my translation). “Walser
hat selbst einmal die Bemerkung gemacht, er schreibe im Grunde, von einem Prosastückchen zum
nächsten, immer an demselben Roman, einem Roman, den man bezeichnen könne ‘als ein mannigfaltig
zerschnittenes oder zertrenntes Ich-Buch.’ Hinzufügen müßte man, daß die Hauptfigur, das ich, in
diesem Ich-Buch beinahe gar nie vorkommt, sondern ausgespart beziehungsweise verborgen bleibt
unter der Menge der anderen Passanten.”
6
W. G. Sebald: Die Ringe des Saturn, Frankfurt 1997 (1995), p. 313 (my translation). “In Unkenntnis
noch der unguten Dinge, die seither geschehen sind.”
184
According to the analysis of Mark M. Anderson they “seem to come from nowhere,
serving not as illustration of the text but as a slightly out-of-sync counterpoint, a
kind of punctuation that subtly irritates and challenges our notion of what is real,
what is fictional.”7 When Jacques Austerlitz researches his own past he describes his
work as an arrangement of photos: “What was still left to some degree I began to
cut up again and to arrange, to see it for my eyes, as in an album, so that the picture
of the landscape that the wanderer had crossed, that had already sunk in oblivion,
would emerge again.”8
When Austerliz finds a photo of himself as a child he feels “durchdrungen”
(pierced, penetrated) by the “searching gaze” that he imagines to see in the eye of
the boy (Sebald 2003, p. 268). Durchdrungen is actually a recurrent term used to
describe the effect of the gaze that seems to emanate from the old photo: “As far
back as I can see, said Austerlitz, I have always felt as if I had no room in reality, as
if I was not there, and never was this feeling stronger in me than that evening in
Šporkova, when I was pierced by the gaze of the page of the Rose queen” (Sebald
2003, p. 269).9 The picture commented upon (shown above) shows – perhaps – the
boy Austerlitz dressed up like a page and it is also used on the cover of the book.
One suspects Roland Barthes in the background with his famous distinction
between studium and punctum in his book on photography, La chambre claire
(1980) – Sebald actually refers to Barthes in an interview from 1999 concerning his
relation to photographic pictures.10 Barthes’ punctum has to do with the appeal of the
photographic picture, the expressive detail, the gaze that so to speak “jumps out” of
the picture (and makes Jacques Austerlitz feel “pierced”). When the photo is situated
in a text the documentary character is strengthened but also curiously displaced. The
photo hovers between fiction and documentation, it belongs not quite to an imaginary
realm (of death), nor to any evident reality. The photo rather shows us a revenant and
its “punctum” reminds us of past reality and while demanding new reality.
In his original and frequent use of photos in literary text Sebald develops the
autobiographical possibility of ignoring the traditional boundaries between literary
fiction and biographical reality, i.e. the very distinction that the institutionalized
understanding of literature claims to be an either-or. The pictures emphasize
7
Mark M. Anderson: “The Edge of Darkness: On W. G. Sebald” in October, Vol. 106, Fall 2003, p. 109.
8
W. G. Sebald: Austerlitz, Frankfurt 2003 (2001), p. 179 (my translation). “Was einigermaßen
standhielt, begann ich neu zuzuschneiden and anzuordnen, um vor meinen eigenen Augen noch
einmal, ähnlich wie in einen Album, das Bild von dem Wanderer durchquerten, beinahe schon in
der Vergessenheit versunkenen Landschaft entstehen zu lassen.”
9
My translation. “Soweit ich zurückblicken kann, sagte Austerlitz, habe ich mich immer gefühlt,
als hätte ich keinen Platz in der Wirklichkeit, als sei ich gar nicht vorhanden, und nie ist dieses
Gefühl stärker in mir gewesen als an jenem Abend in der Šporkova, als mich der Blick des Pagen der
Rosenkönigin durchdrang.”
10
According to Heiner Boehncke: “Clair obscur. W.G. Sebalds Bilder” in Text + Kritik, Vol. 158,
April 2003, p. 55.
185
the both-and that you find many examples of in the autobiographical and self-
presenting tradition from Montaigne onwards, including for instance Breton: the
pictures contribute to the texts being both documentary and fictional.11 The pictures
contribute to giving Sebald’s writing a ghostly character: the pictures both show and
conceal, they cross the boundaries that they imply, boundaries between Now and
Then, I and Him, reality and fiction.
On the contemporary cultural scene there are many versions of a tendency that
from one point-of view can be regarded as a fictionalization of the life-world, from
another point-of-view as an invasion of reality into fiction. The popular “blogs”
give many examples ignoring traditional boundaries of fiction as well as distinctions
between private and public, between picture, text, commentary, quotation. The
“blogs” give a web-version of a tendency that has been prominent in the visual arts
at least since the performances of Joseph Beuys in the 1960’ies: the stylization/
construction of the artist as an act and as an aesthetical event. In that way the visual
arts can approach literary fiction as demonstrated today by artists as Sophie Calle
and Tracey Emin. A comparatively early and interesting example of such tendencies
came in 1982 in the little book Dictee by Theresa Hak Kyung Cha (fig. 6); it has
now the reputation of being “cult” in the US. Cha was born in North Corea,
educated in Berkeley and Paris and tragically murdered in New York right after the
publication of the book. It is a charming and touching and upsetting book that
mixes languages (English/French), mythology, autobiographical memory, poetry,
politics, history and, of course, photos taken from the family album as well as from
historical events and from movies. Here all possible boundaries between literature
and history and image are exceeded in order to stylize a self-portrait – or perhaps we
should call it a performance of the self, the self being created in an aesthetical event.
Still, this self-portrait is not the ironic self-presentation you find with for instance
Cindy Sherman, nor an advertising of a self, rather an effort to sketch the historical
profile of a Corean exile.
A visually inspired performance of the self can obviously contribute to the extensive
fictionalization and aesthetizisation of the life-world that is going on today. (Since I
have restricted myself to literary examples I have also excluded the massive impact of
this tendency in contemporary mass-media, specially visual media). But the examples
that I have given do not unanimously contribute to such a tendency; they also show
that the literary use of images can go in the other direction, so to speak, giving the
individual experience a historical dimension and critical relevance. Sebald’s writings is
a powerful effort to develop a critical strategy combining literary and visual impulses
into a comprehensive strategy. Another example, which will be my final, is given by the
11
In my book Life Writing (forthcoming) I discuss ”both-and” as the master-trope of self-presenting
and autobiographical writing.
186
French writer J.M.G. Le Clézio with L’Africain, a book of autobiographical memories

from 2004. In 1991 Le Clézio wrote Onitsha: a novel about a boy travelling with his
mother to Nigeria in order to meet the father, who seems to be lost in mythological
phantasies about the origin of civilizations (fig. 7). In L’Africain we meet the same
story, although stripped from fiction as well as from mythology, but still with a father
who is L’Africain in the sense that he invests all his energy in escaping Europe and
finding authentical life in Africa. The novel gives a fascinating image of the meeting of
the European fantasy with the African reality as it could have taken place in the 1950’s.
Fig. 6. Theresa Hak Kyung Cha’s Dictee, 1982 Fig. 7. J. M. G. Le Clézio’s L’Africain, 2004
But the overtly autobiographical book is perhaps even more fascinating – and that
depends to some degree on the black-and-white photos that interrupt and accentuate
the text. The photos all come from the family album and are shot by the father. They
do not illustrate the text in any detail and they are never intimately personal: the reader
can barely glimpse the writer as a young boy. But the photos comment on the text and
they document the father’s intense fascination of Africa as the site of authentical life,
a fantasy that obviously is bound to break.
Le Clézio uses the photos in order to strip the fiction that he was trying out in
Onitsha. He thereby subdues the mythological phantasies and pretensions that are
prominent in the novel but he also demonstrates something that is easily forgotten
in pure fiction. His photos contribute to what I would like to call the literary task:
to remember, produce, perform and develop experience.
187
References
Anderson, Mark M.: “The Edge of Darkness: On W. G. Sebald” in October, Vol. 106, Fall,
2003.
Boehncke, Heiner: “Clair obscur. W. G. Sebalds Bilder” in Text + Kritik, No. 158, April, 2003.
Breton, André: Nadja, Paris 1998 (1964).
Bryant, Marsha (ed.): Photo-Textualities: Reading Photography and Literature, Newark 1996.
Cha, Theresa Hak Kyung: Dictee, Berkeley 2001 (1982).
Frobenius, Nikolaj: Teori og praksis, Oslo 2004.
Haavardsholm, Espen: Gutten på passbildet, Oslo 2004.
Hughes, Alex & Noble, Andrea (eds.): Phototextualities. Intersections of Photography and
Narrative, 2003.
Le Clézio, J. M. G.: L’Africain, Mercure de France 2004.
Lund, Hans (ed.): Intermedialitet: ord, bild och ton i samspel, Lund 2002.
Nabokov, Vladimir: Speak, Memory: An Autobiography Revisited, London 2000.
Rodenbach, Georges: Bruges-la-mort, Paris 1998 (1892).
Sebald, W. G.: Die Ringe des Saturn, Frankfurt 1997 (1995).
Sebald, W. G.: Logis in einem Landhaus, Frankfurt 2000 (1998).
Sebald, W. G.: Austerlitz, Frankfurt 2003 (2001).
Woolf, Virginia: Orlando: A Biography, London 1998 (1928).
188
To Frame or not to Frame, that is the Question:
An Intermedial Study of Achim von Arnim’s “Die
Majoratsherren,” its Frontispice and Robert Campin’s
Mérode Altarpiece
Ulrich Weisstein
“Jedes Kunstwerk bringt den

Rahmen mit auf die Welt”
(Each work of art is born with its frame)1
Friedrich Schlegel
“My frames I have designed as

carefully as my pictures”2
James McNeill Whistler
While I was working on an English version of Arnim’s proto-surrealistic novella,

published in the Taschenbuch zum geselligen Vergnügen for the year 1820, my
attention was called to the “Titelkupfer” (engraving used as a frontispice) which
accompanies that work in its original printing (fig. 1).3
Underneath the frontispice I have placed the pertinent passages from Arnim’s text:
Esther herself was lying on her bed, her head drooping, and her entangled
tresses trailing on the floor. A vase filled with blossoming branches of all sorts
stood nearby, as did a goblet with water from which she had probably taken
the last draught in her desperate struggle with death. […] The old Vasthi
settled down like a nightmare on poor Esther’s chest and placed her hands
around the dying girl’s neck. […] As Esther ceased to struggle for life and
folded her arms over her head, it grew darker and, out of the depth of the
room, there appeared with gentle greeting the figures of the first, pure Creation
– Adam and Eve – standing underneath the calamitous tree and, from the
1
Cited from Schlegel’s Fragmente zur Poesie und Literatur in Wolfgang Kemp’s essay “Heimatrecht
für Bilder: Funktionen und Formen des Rahmens im 19. Jahrhundert” in Eva Mendgen (ed.): In
Perfect Harmony: Bild und Rahmen 1850–1920, (the catalogue of an exhibition held, in 1995, at the
Vienna Kunstforum), Zwolle 1995, p. 13.
2
Cited by Eva Mendgen in her “Introduction” to the catalogue. See footnote 1, p. 251.
3
Taschenbuch zum geselligen Vergnügen auf das Jahr 1820, Leipzig 1821 (p. 20–83), Frontispice on p.
1, created by Wilhelm Hensel and C. Büscher.
189
Ulrich Weisstein: To Frame or not to Frame, that is the Question
sky of eternal spring overarching Paradise Regained, looked compassionately

at the girl in her mortal agony, while the Angel of Death with a sad mien, and
dressed in a gown strewn with eyes all over, wielded the flaming sword by his
side […] and waited for the moment at which to pour the last, bitter drop.4
Fig. 1: “Titelkupfer” to Achim von Arnim, “Die Majoratsherren” (see also fig. 2)
Acting on that clue, I made up my mind to undertake a close reading of that text
in the light of its illustration, and vice versa. In the initial phase of my intermedial
game, I had focused on the thematic aspects of this project5 and in the light of
that center of gravity I refrained from considering formal, i.e. largely structural,
elements. It is to redress this wrong that I now wish to ponder the applicability of
some basic concepts relevant to that issue understood both in their literal and their
figurative sense, to the novella, to its visual transcription and, by way of a tertium
comparationis, to a somewhat unusual painting dating from the 1420s: Robert
4
All quotations in English are taken from my, still unpublished, translation of Arnim’s novella, to be
published by the Edwin Mellen Press in Lewiston, NY.
5
Ulrich Weisstein: “Achim von Arnim’s ‘Die Majoratsherren’ aus neuer Sicht: Ein Interpretations-
versuch im Lichte einer bisher unberücksichtigten Bildquelle für das Titelkupfer” in: Neue Zeitung
für Einsiedler: Mitteilungen der Internationalen Arnim-Gesellschaft 3, 2003 (p. 7–26).
190
Campin’s celebrated Mérode Altarpiece now in The Cloisters, the New York Metro-
politan Museum’s Dependance in suburban Fort Tryon Park.6
For methodological reasons, what was urgently needed, to begin with, was
a reliable definition of the key term ‘frame’ in a standard reference work such as
Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, where it is said to mean “a kind of open case or
structure for admitting, enclosing or supporting things like windows, doors or
pictures”7 while another, more broadly conceived version speaks of “anything
composed of parts fitted or united together.” For the present purpose, however, the
scope of this definition had to be substantially narrowed insofar as its pragmatic
component – that which pertains to craftsmen such as joiners, carpenters and
cabinet makers – does not apply since my emphasis lies exclusively on the visual
arts. In this instance, that is to say, my points of reference will be three objets d’art
– an engraving, a literary opus and a triptych – and I must stick to a formulation
according to which a frame is, quite simply, a total or partial enclosure serving as a
borderline separating fact from fiction.
Historically, the use of frames was taken for granted following their invention, for
the purpose of installing them, in the early Renaissance, together with the pictures,
in private collections and, subsequently, in the burgeoning public museums. But a
radical change occurred in the mid-nineteenth century, when they began to play
an entirely different role either by being integrated into the picture or altogether
dispensed with. Nor must we forget that frames and half-frames exist in the other
arts (primarily literature and music) as well – a circumstance that makes intermedial
comparisons of their structural components possible or even plausible, albeit in
ways dictated by the different media. Among such compatible and/or comparable
genres, we have, especially in the pragmatic ones (fiction and drama), prologues
and prefaces with or without epilogues or postscripts, and vice versa, as well as
the Rahmenerzählungen (= framed tales), where the compartmentalization is fairly
strict. In music we have, to name but a handful of outstanding examples in addition
to such rare doubly framed Tonbilder (sound pictures) as Mussorgsky’s Pictures at
an Exhibition, operatic overtures unmatched by final ‘covertures’ and, on a much
smaller scale, arias preceded or followed by dialogues or introduced by recitatives.
In the instrumental strain of music, finally, there is Bach’s Wohltemperiertes Clavier
with its regular alternation of clearly marked off preludes and fugues.8
Before proceeding to the core of my paper, I feel obliged to touch upon a remar-
kable and relevant feature of “Die Majoratsherren” (“The Lords of the Entail”) found
both in the text of and the illustration to its climactic scene as depicted by a two-
6
The Cloisters: The Building and the Collection of Medieval Art in Fort Tryon Park, third ed., New York
1963.
7
Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, thin paper ed., Springfield, Mass. 1949, p. 329.
8
For the whole question of frames and framing see Werner Wolf and Walter Bernhart (eds.): Framing
Borders in Literature and Other Media, Amsterdam; New York, NY 2006.
191
some of designer and engraver.9 What I have in mind here is a work which, firmly
embedded in the narrative, is a painting, presumably framed, that is real enough on
the fictional level but whose dimensional data (width, height and breadth) are with-
held from the reader. (As for its frame, it will be dealt with in due time.)
The picture, whose subject matter (in German, “Motiv”) is Adam and Eve in
Paradise, thematically deviates from the stereotypical norm of depicting them as
found in the large repertory amassed by Lucas Cranach.10 In Arnim’s novella, its
actual existence is underscored by the fact that it is said to have been part of a
vast private collection, from where it was inexplicably transferred to the humble
dwelling, in the ghetto, of the female protagonist, Esther, but, after the latter’s death,
was stolen by her gipsy stepmother, the old Vasthi, who – so we are told in the brief
epilogue – sells it at a public auction and, “Treppenwitz der Weltgeschichte” (his-
torical paradox), uses the proceeds to build a factory emblematic of the dawning
Industrial Age. (One can easily gather from this description why I have called “Die
Majoratsherren” a proto-surrealistic story in which logic and absurdity clash.)
This much for the ‘objective’ side of said painting. As for the subjective one,
which dominates the scene in question, its verbal description runs as follows:
Esther sprach mit gebrochener Stimme zu ihnen: ‘Euretwegen muß

ich so viel leiden’. Und jene erwiderten: ‘Wir taten nur eine Sünde,
und hast du auch nur eine getan?’ Da seufzte Esther [...] und nahm
Abschied von dem schmerzlich geliebten Aufenthaltsorte.11
Esther, in turrn, told Adam and Eve in a broken voice: ‘It is for your
sake that I am suffering so much’, to which they replied: ‘We sinned but
once, but did you, too, commit one sin only?’ Esther sighed and, as she
opened her mouth, the bitter drop fell from the Angel’s sword into it.
What, given the apparent surreality of this scene, interests me at this point is not so
much the ambiguity resulting from the fact that the locus of Esther’s verbal sparring
with her ancestors combines the Biblical Paradise, having been lost already, with the
Miltonic one, meanwhile regained, or that we are exposed to the hallucinations of a
moribund person but, rather, a structural anomaly, namely, the seeming absence of
9
For the history of this frontispice see Renate Moering’s “Commentary” on “Die Majoratsherren”
in the section “Entstehung” (p. 1032–33) of Achim von Arnim’s Sämtliche Werke, Vol. IV (Sämtliche
Erzählungen), ed. by her, Frankfurt am Main 1992.
10
For an assessment of Cranach’s representations of Adam and Eve see Ulrich Weisstein: “Was noch
kein Auge je gesehn: A Spurious Cranach in Georg Kaiser’s Von Morgens bis Mitternachts” in Clayton
Koelb and Susan Noakes (eds.): The Comparative Perspective on Literature: Approaches to Theory and
Practice, Ithaca 1988 (p. 233–259).
11
All references to the original German text of “Die Majoratsherren” are taken from Achim von
Arnim, Erzählungen, Gisela Henckmann (ed.), Stuttgart 1992 (p. 211–251).
192
a frame out of which Adam and Eve should, logically, have stepped and which, once
their conversation with Esther was over, should have, just as logically, have stepped
back into again. I say ‘should’ because, like the ghost of Hamlet’s father, revenants
that they are, at least in this respect, they slip away unnoticed by the voyeuristic
observer as well as by the perplexed reader.
When I characterized the alleged absence of a frame in the frontispice as being
but apparent, I did so advisedly; for, although there is not the slightest trace of such
an object to be found in Arnim’s novella, in the frontispice at least the rudiments
of such a formal encasement are evident in the small segment at the upper left in
which Adam’s and Eve’s predicament is visually manifested. This small portion of
the engraving, which, measuring a scant five by six centimeters (= roughly two
by two inches) as compared with the approximately eleven by sixteen centimeters
(= roughly four by six inches) of the total space available, turns out to be neither
more nor less than an innocuous, non-descript and colorless stripe functioning as
a minimal border. On the other hand, one might argue, however, that the highly
decorative, ornamental and possibly symbolic arch-like construction at the top,
executed in the manner of the German Romanticist Philipp Otto Runge, could
be interpreted as a kind of frame. As it turns out, this procedure is in keeping with
the standard usage in the book illustrations of its time. For as, referring to the most
influential English art critic of the nineteenth century, the author of the lead article
in the catalogue of the Frankfurt exhibition puts it:
Wenn die Bilder so klein ausfallen, so etwa als graphische Illustrationen,

dass man den idealen Abstand, der Sehfeld und Bildfeld zur Deckung
bringt, nicht einnehmen kann, dann verbietet John Ruskin überhaupt
eine klare seitliche Begrenzung.12
In cases where the pictures are so small, as is customary in graphic book

illustrations, that they cannot reconcile the range of vision with the
field of vision, Ruskin altogether rules out any clear lateral boundary.
But, as a second glance at the frontispice reveals, there is no easy solution for the
framing puzzle in this case, insofar as, in contrast to the left and upper portions of
the frame, the complementary right and lower ones serve a structurally similar but
thematically different purpose; for they do not refer to the painting, which has its
own frame within the larger, all-encompassing one, but are part and parcel of the
setting, the right one being defined by a slender column which keeps the Angel of
Death and Adam and Eve apart while the bottom one belongs to a parapet on whose
12
Wolfgang Kemp’s paraphrase of Ruskin’s opinion as found on p. 21 of his essay “Heimatrecht
für Bilder: Funktionen und Formen des Rahmens im 19. Jahrhundert” in: In Perfect Harmony, see
footnote 1 above.
193
front, facing the viewer, the two tables of the Mosaic law are mounted. Here, then,
we have a second internal half-frame; but, as happens so often, and that not only in
art, two halves do not always make a whole (fig. 2).
Adam and lamp

Eve in
paradise hourglass
Angel
(picture) shelf
with
curtain sword
parapet
(inscription)
candle Vashti
book (center
foreground)
domestic altar
Esther
cup
table
Predella
cat mouse sandals
Fig. 2. Structure of the “Titelkupfer” to Achim von Arnim, “Die Majoratsherren”
Having consumed (and, hopefully, digested) my intermedial hors d’oeuvre in the guise
of a structural comparison across generic lines, involving Arnim’s stunning novella
and its correlational frontispice, I now say farewell to the Hensel/Büscher engraving
and pass on to the principal topic of this paper, a comparison, on a larger scale, also
featuring “Die Majoratsherren” but linking it to another work, namely, the Mérode
Altarpiece (fig. 3), created by the painter formerly known as the Master of Flémalle
but since identified as Robert Campin, citizen of Tournai. Such a confrontation
cannot possibly rest on thematic or stylistic grounds, and that regardless of the fact
that Arnim was a connoisseur of Flemish art13 and in a weak hour even confessed
that he would have liked nothing better than being, himself, an artist.14
13
Vide the essays “Genrebilder, Staffage” (1830) and “Antwerpen” (1831) in his Sämtliche Werke,
Vol. VI (Schriften), Roswitha Burwick et al. (eds.), Frankfurt am Main 1992 (p. 1045–1049 and
1062–1076, respectively).
14
See Arnim’s letter of December 26, 1820 to Wilhelm Grimm, as cited by Roswitha Burwick from
194
It is, however, entirely possible, or even likely, that while putting the final touches
on his novella, Arnim came to realize that the famous triptych had recently changed
hands and actually may have seen a black-and-white reproduction of it in a German
newspaper or almanac, without being able to see the original. As for the details of
this transaction, the opening sentences of the pertinent chapter in the Cloisters
handbook, give the following account:
The Mérode Altarpiece has been world-famous, an acknowledged

masterpiece. Purchased in 1820 by the Prince of Arenberg, it was later
inherited by the Mérode family, who held it for two generations. Until
it was acquired for The Cloisters [in 1956], it had been inaccessible for
decades to art lovers and art historians, though illustrated and discussed
in countless publications.15
Fig. 3. Robert Campin, Mérode Altarpiece
Even though there may have been some casual contacts, it is most unlikely that
Campin’s chef d’œuvre exerted any measurable influence on “Die Majoratsherren”;
and it is on that assumption that I pursue my goal on an analogical rather than a
literal or historical level. For the purpose of a study that is not exclusively addressed
to art historians it will be necessary to preface it with two propaedeutical questions,
namely, 1) what exactly is a triptych and how does it function and, once a satisfactory
answer has been found, 2) how, if at all, does a work of this nature lend itself to
a meaningful comparison with a verbal construct? Needless to say that in what
Reinhold Steig’s Achim von Arnim und die ihm nahestanden, Bern 1972, Sämtliche Werke, Vol. III,
p. 481.
15
Quoted from the chapter “The Spanish Room” in The Cloisters: The Building and the Collection of
Medieval Art in Fort Tryon Park (p. 185–193).
195
follows all objects should be almost automatically regarded as structural elements

whose interrelation is governed by the general character of the whole whose parts
they are. By the same token, their borders should be viewed as Nahtstellen (seams
rather than interstices) joining and, concurrently, distancing each other.
To show the feasibility, in whatever terms, of a valid comparison involving two
phenomena belonging to different artistic realms and pitted against each other, one
must begin by assigning each its proper place in the hierarchy of values established
in its own discipline. This is, in most cases, a fairly simple task but in ours a rather
complex one. Even in the preliminary stages of his endeavor, the intermedialist,
clinging to his Flying Trapeze, must, therefore, always remember that in such
matters “Vorsicht ist die Mutter der Porzellankiste” (= caution is the mother of the
China box), an expression whose equivalent in English is contested, my personal
preference being “curiosity kills the cat.”16 Before the investigator engages in
transmedial speculations which may take him to a point where a methodological
decision must be made, he should catch his breath, for initially it is hard to believe
that a prose narrative like “Die Majoratsherren” might be dubbed a triptych. I, for
one, accept that equation with the proviso that it would be more sensible to call
it a polyptych, for the simple reason that it is equipped with three instead of the
customary two pairs of outer ‘wings’ embracing the central panel. (A perfect example
of such an outsized work is Rogier van der Weyden’s Last Judgment Altarpiece (fig. 4)
as reproduced and discussed in Shirley Neilsen Blum’s useful monograph.17)
Fig. 4. Rogier van der Weyden, Last Judgment Altarpiece in the Hôtel-Dieu of Beaune
16
In an Internet discussion, listed as “Unsolved Query, English Missing” and held on May 25, 2005,
no agreement was reached on the most adequate translation of the German proverb, but “curiosity
kills the cat” was not even mentioned.
17
Shirley Neilsen Blum: Early Netherlandish Triptychs: A Study in Patronage, Berkeley; Los Angeles
1969 (p. 37–49).
196
In order to settle the issue of rank within the confines of this study, I shall begin
with the definition of “genus” – in biology a class of individual “species,” of which in
our case the winged (originally: folded18) altarpieces constitute the most prominent
subdivision. What I have in mind here is the so-called retable, in ecclesiastic
parlance “a raised shelf or ledge above the table of an altar” on which are placed
such fitting paraphernalia as candles, flowers and the sacred books needed for the
religious service, whether in church or at home – all of them to be found both
in the centerpiece of the Mérode triptych and, though much less prominently so,
on the domestic altar half visible in the Hensel/Büscher frontispice. Generally the
most sizeable and noteworthy objects of which the retable is a Träger (support) are
the altarpieces mounted upon and topping it as its crowning glory and routinely
characterized by their virtual three-dimensionality effected by the moveable hinges
(hence the German designation “Klapp-Altar”) which enables the wings, painted on
both sides (front and back) of the respective panels to be closed on weekdays and
open on church holidays.
It lies clearly in the nature of pictures that, being simulacra of the objects they
depict – vide René Magritte’s justly famous “Le trahison des images” – which,
in their blatant two-dimensionality (length and width), roughly correspond to a
written text or printed score. The pictures lack the solidity and volume shared by
realia and, in consequence, are victims of their own flatness. This is the time, then,
to remember that the two-dimensionality in painting that was prevalent in the
supposedly dark and primitive Middle Ages ultimately succumbed to efforts, on
the part of scientific-minded Renaissance artists aiming at verisimilitude, to develop
a technique capable of suggesting (or shamming) the missing depth. This method,
which, in the Italian Renaissance, came to be known as three-point perspective,
was, of course, unsuited to the graphic arts including that of book illustration both
on account of the small size and the lack of a ample surface such as is needed to
accomodate the mathematical calculations required for the basic grid.
In view of this built-in handicap, Hensel/Büscher, in planning their frontispice
(see the chart fig. 2), looked for a solution by positioning their cast of characters,
strategically but without the help of a systematically constructed grid, in relative size
among the various, partly overlapping strata (or couches) in such a way as to form
an irregular pattern of geometrical shapes arranged so as to suggest the existence
of fore-, middle- and background. The most eyecatching shape of this sort in their
frontispice is the triangle at the center of their illustration, showing the thematically
upgraded old Vasthi at its apex, with the Angel of Death and the dying Esther
forming its base, all of this as a counterpoint to the rectangular shape of the painting-
within-a-painting that features Adam and Eve. It goes without saying that, given the
18
For a definition of the diptych (= twice folded writing tablet, the Urform of all polyptychs), see the
entry on “Diptychon” in Vol. VI (Begriffe und Register) of Kindlers Malerei Lexikon, Munich 1971
(p. 241–242).
197
constellation of figures in Arnim’s novella, the Lord of the Entail, at once observer
and narrator of the scene, could not be catapulted into this scene to become part of
its framed architecture.
It is high time now to say farewell to the Hensel/Büscher frontispice and turn
energetically to the first of my two major exhibits, the Mérode Altarpiece (see fig.
3), which, as far as triptychs go, is an amazingly small object,19 measuring but 110
cm (= 43 inches) in width and but 65 cm (= 26 inches) in height and, as it were,
fenced in by one outer frame and six inner ones, four of them paired. This yardstick
I shall try to use for furnishing the proof of my pudding which, as the saying goes,
lies in the eating, by presenting a number of graphic schemata (fig. 6 and 7) whose
equivalents in Arnim’s novella will be tested shortly.
In anticipation of this move, I would like to emphasize, once again, that any
attempt to make partners out of these two strangers on the thematic level would be
tantamount to failure unless, that is, contactual ties could be ascertained. (In our case,
for instance, it would make precious little sense to bring the right wing of the Mérode
Altarpiece, featuring Joseph in his capacity as a maker of mouse traps and presumably
chaste husband of the Virgin Mary, into play, while, on the other hand, one might
well be tempted to compare the objects displayed in the ‘predella’ of the frontispice.20)
A rare – perhaps the only fully preserved – specimen of such a generic anomaly
which, precisely for that reason, lends itself to a paradigmatic intermedial study,
the Mérode Altarpiece,21 being what it is, supports my thesis insofar as its existence
greatly enhances the possibility of a meaningful comparison between a two-
dimensional work of art and a piece of literature. This exceptional type of triptych
was unearthed and labelled by Professor Blum, who, setting it off from the ordinary
triptychs and polyptychs, defines the pseudo-triptych – thus the name she assigns
to this group – by declaring that what characterizes it, though having two wings
like their better known cousins, “are not painted on their backs, have no hinges and
whose pictorial statement is therefore always visible” (Neilsen Blum, p. 4).
If one takes one’s clue from this definition, one immediately sees that such
objects, while routinely classified as triptychs, lack a number of features usually
taken for granted but the sum total of which amounts to the absence of the third
dimension, depth, and with it that of volume and, for that very reason, reduces
19
Regarding this issue and all others concerning the Mérode Altarpiece, see Felix Thürlemann’s Robert
Campin: Das Mérode-Triptychon: Ein Hochzeitsbild für Peter Engelbrecht und Gretchen Schrinemechers aus
Köln, Frankfurt am Main 1997. Additional information about that work is found in Thürlemann’s book
Robert Campin: Eine Monographie mit Werkkatalog, Munich 2002, especially p. 58–76 and 269–272.
20
Regarding the Stoff of this most unusual panel, see Meyer Schapiro’s brilliant interpretation in a
paper entitled “‘Muscipula diaboli’: The Symbolism of the Mérode Altarpiece” in The Art Bulletin,
Vol. 27, 1945 (p. 182–187), as summarized in the section “Joseph bohrt Löcher” [Joseph drills
holes”] on p. 27–30 of Thürlemann’s Taschenbuch, see footnote 20 above.
21
One little known specimen was discussed by Margaret B. Freeman in an essay published in the
Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin, Vol. 16, 1957 (p. 130–139).
198
the medial distance of the comparanda by one dimension. Speaking of the Mérode
Altarpiece, for instance, it has no hinges or, more correctly, what hinges it has are
merely painted on.
This means, however, that there was no way for these makebelieve hinges to
move the wings; and since, under these circumstances, the pictures facing the viewer/
worshipper were “always visible” there was no room for those which, judging by
the standard triptych or polyptych, might have been painted on the reverse side as
well. By meeting the requirements for the pseudo-triptych and being, as it were, all
surface and no depth, the Mérode Altarpiece would actually seem, at least in certain
ways, to anticipate the framed canvases on the walls of our modern museums and
open to the inspection, if ever so cursory, by the the spectators, who, standing in
front of paintings hung in such a way are accustomed to meeting them at eye level.
Thus, all things considered and all the evidence weighed, Campin’s singular creation
may well be viewed as the cradle or
incunabulum of such twentieth-century
pseudo-triptychs as Francis Bacon’s near-
blasphemous Three Studies for a Cruci-
fiction (1982), whose panels abound
with the disiecta membra of what seem
to be chunks of freshly butchered meat,
Otto Dix’s Die Großstadt (1927/28) and
Der Krieg (1929–32) – the latter aptly
subtitled Ein Triptych mit Predella – and
Max Beckmann’s Abfahrt (1932/33).22
As for the rest, the attempted re-
construction, in the Spanish Room of
The Cloisters (fig. 5), of the Mérode
Altarpiece’s original setting clearly
indicates that the Campin triptych
was the focal point of a private chapel
built expressly for the use of its donors,
whom one must imagine as kneeling
before it (hence the low level on which
the work is placed) and worshipping
while looking at their painted likenesses Fig. 5: Spanish Room in the Cloisters, as reproduced
in the left wing of the altarpiece. in the Cloister’s catalogue
22
Bacon’s numerous triptychs were well represented in a recent exhibition called “Francis Bacon und
die Bildtradition” (Vienna Kunsthistorisches Museum), mounted in 2003 and are reproduced in the
catalogue, which includes a paper by Verena Gramper entitled “Das Motiv der Kreuzigung und der
Bildtypus des Triptychons” (p. 324–338).
199
All this by way of an art-historical footnote largely concerned with the dialectic
of two- and three-dimensionality which plays such an important role in this
intermedial study. But now, in conclusion, I shall proceed to the actual confrontation
in structural terms of “Die Majoratsherren” and the Mérode Altarpiece. Here, then,
are the schemata (or skeletons) of these two comparanda which, when weighted
against each other, clearly demonstrate up to what point the structural analogy
between them holds and where it breaks down and, in so doing, either obscures
(claudet) or altogether negates the results of my inquiry.
A B C B B
left wing left wing centerpiece right wing right wing

outer inner inner outer
frame frame frame frame
author/ Cousin Lord of the Entail and Esther Cousin author

narrator and Lady- and Lady-
in-waiting in-waiting
Prologue Episode 1 Main action Episode 2 Epilogue

(210–215) (212–216) (216–248) (212–216) (212–216)
Fig. 6: Structural chart of Achim von Arnim, “Die Majoratsherren”
To begin with the blueprint of Arnim’s novella – the page numbers I have provided
in the chart are conforming to those found in Gisela Henckmann’s Reclam edition
of the text –, we should keep in mind that the information provided can be used for
two different and alternative readings, namely, 1) a dynamic, sequential, linear and
essentially temporal one (ABCDE), which does not concern me here, and 2) one
that is static, symmetrical (qua polyptych) and predominantly spatial (ABCBA),
which does the trick.
As for C, which makes up the bulk (ca. 70 %) of Arnim’s narrative, it offers
a wealth of material related to the supernatural experiences undergone by its two
protagonists, Esther and her soul mate, the Lord of the Entail, some of them
expediting and others deterring the progress of its action. In the former group we
have Esther’s fairly evenly spaced and framed or sometimes half-framed attacks of
social madness (“geselliger Wahnsinn”) – as is the case with those which are initiated
by the sound of a pistol shot reminding the girl of her late fiancé’s suicide but
concluding much less spectacularly – as observed and, implicitly, narrated by the
Lord, who is himself a visionary. Let me list them in their actual order:
200
1. Esther’s quasi-ritual toilette (222) assisted by a swarm of Rococo putti

milling around her dresser,
2. her ‘Mad Hatters’ party (230–231), and
3. the Masked Ball (238–239), a harrowing episode which one could
easily mistake for one of the stories featured in Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales
of the Grotesque and the Arabesque,
all of these leading up to
4. Esther’s deathbed scene climaxing in the dying girl’s visionary encounter
with Adam and Eve – a tableau that ends abruptly with the girl’s demise
and the Lord’s sudden disillusionment.
In stark contrast to these well organized and tightly structured episodes featuring
Esther, those featuring the Lord of the Entail’s countless visions betokening his gift
of second sight (his “zweites Augenpaar”), in addition to being brief, fleeting, largely
ad hoc, and but loosely framed, cover a broad spectrum of persons, objects and
events – optical ilusions (or delusions) of a madman ranging from trivial to exalted.
Viewing these seemingly random disturbances and disruptions of the narrative
line, one can easily see that at least this one segment of the microstructure of “Die
Majoratsherren” is much too complex and wilfully disorganized to fit into the
compositional scheme of a work like the Mérode Altarpiece which, having been
carefully planned and executed – can lay no claim to being, in any way, surrealistic.
left wing central panel right wing
donors Annunciation
(Mary, Gabrial,
Holy Spirit; Jesus
child with cross)
+ books (2), vase, Joseph, maker

flower and candle of mousetraps
Fig. 6: Structural chart of Achim von Arnim, “Die Majoratsherren”
201
Thus, since what is good for the goose, that is to say, for those aspects of “Die
Majoratsherren” which justify a structural comparison across medial borderlines, is
not necessarily good for the gander, i.e. the Lord of the Entail’s diffuse and distorted
world. And here my story ends, as T.S. Eliot might have put it, “not with a bang but
a whimper.”
202
References
Arnim, Achim von: “Antwerpen” (1831) in Arnim, Achim von: Sämtliche Werke, Vol. VI
(Schriften), Roswitha Burwick et al. (eds.), Frankfurt am Main 1992 (p. 1062–76).
Arnim, Achim von: “Die Majoratsherren” in Arnim, Achim von: Erzählungen, Gisela
Henckmann (ed.), Stuttgart 1992 (p. 211–251).
Arnim, Achim von: “Die Majoratsherren” in Taschenbuch zum geselligen Vergnügen auf das
Jahr 1820, Leipzig 1821 (p. 20–83).
Arnim, Achim von: “Genrebilder, Staffage” (1830) in Arnim, Achim von: Sämtliche Werke,
vol. VI (Schriften), Burwick, Roswitha et al. (eds.), Frankfurt am Main 1992 (p.
1045–49).
Arnim, Achim von: Letter of December 26, 1820 to Wilhelm Grimm in Steig, Reinhold:
Achim von Arnim und die ihm nahestanden, reprint, Bern 1972, Vol. III, p. 481.
Blum, Shirley Neilsen: Early Netherlandish Triptychs: A Study in Patronage, Berkeley; Los
Angeles 1969.
Burwick, Roswitha: Dichtung und Malerei bei Achim von Arnim, Berlin; New York 1989.
The Cloisters: The Building and the Collection of Medieval Art in Fort Tryon Park, third ed.,
New York 1963.
Freeman, Margaret B.: “The Iconography of the Mérode Altarpiece” in The Metropolitan
Museum of Art Bulletin, Vol. 16, 1957 (p. 130–139).
Gramper, Verena: “Das Motiv der Kreuzigung und der Bildtypus des Triptychons” in:
Francis Bacon und die Bildtradition. Catalogue of an exhibition held in 2003 at the
Vienna Kunsthistorisches Museum (p. 324–338).
Kemp, Wolfgang: “Heimatrecht für Bilder: Funktionen und Formen des Rahmens im 19.
Jahrhundert” in Mendgen, Eva (ed.): In Perfect Harmony: Bild und Rahmen 1850–1920.
Catalogue of an exhibition held, in 1995, at the Vienna Kunstforum.
Kindlers Malerei Lexikon, Vol. VI (Begriffe und Register), Munich 1971.
Mendgen, Eva: “Introduction” in Mendgen, Eva (ed.): In Perfect Harmony: Bild und Rahmen
1850–1920. Catalogue of an exhibition held, in 1995, at the Vienna Kunstforum.
Moering, Renate: Commentary on “Die Majoratsherren” in Arnim, Achim von: Sämtliche
Werke, Vol. IV (Sämtliche Erzählungen), Frankfurt am Main 1992 (p. 1032–33).
Schapiro, Meyer: “Muscipula diaboli: The Symbolism of the Mérode Altarpiece” in The Art
Bulletin, Vol. 27, 1945 (p. 182–187).
Thürlemann, Felix: Robert Campin: Das Mérode-Triptychon: Ein Hochzeitsbild für Peter
Engelbrecht und Gretchen Schrinemechers aus Köln, Frankfurt am Main 1997.
Thürlemann, Felix: Robert Campin: Eine Monographie mit Werkkatalog, Munich 2002.
Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, thin paper ed., Springfield, Mass. 1949.
Weisstein, Ulrich: “Achim von Arnim’s ‘Die Majoratsherren’ aus neuer Sicht: Ein Interpreta-
tionsversuch im Lichte einer bisher unberücksichtigten Bildquelle für das Titelkupfer,”
in Neue Zeitung für Einsiedler: Mitteilungen der Internationalen Arnim-Gesellschaft, Vol.
3, 2003 (p. 7–26).
Weisstein, Ulrich: “Was noch kein Auge je gesehn: A Spurious Cranach in Georg Kaiser’s
Von Morgens bis Mitternachts” in Koelb, Clayton and Noakes, Susan (eds.): The
Comparative Perspective on Literature: Approaches to Theory and Practice, Ithaca 1988 (p.
233–259).
Wolf, Werner and Bernhart, Walter (eds.): Framing Borders in Literature and Other Media,
Amsterdam; New York 2006.
203
Intermedial “Verbal” Culture
Intermediality in Culture:
Thomas Mann’s Der Tod in Venedig1
Heidrun Führer
The growing research in intermediality is not only concerned with analyzing the
transformation, integration or juxtaposition of modern multimedia products, it
explores also the relational aspect of the medium in human understanding and the
relational aspect of art (and non-art) in the historical and present culture.2 These
intermedial focuses have also led to a re-examination of classical “mono-media”-
products of art or non-art in a wider perspective wherein intermediality is seen
as relevant to culture formed by different kinds of social interactions and ways of
communication.
In this context, I reread and reinterpret Thomas Mann’s novella Der Tod in
Venedig (Death in Venice, 1911) – the allegoric story about the elderly writer Gustav
von Aschenbach and his tragic homoerotic love-death (Liebestod) – in the light of
how art and media are employed in this self-reflective narrative. Through the voice
of an omniscient narrator the implied reader learns first about the tragic fate of the
literary hero. Throughout, it is difficult to distinguish his inner focalizations from
the narrator’s in order to focus on the subjectivism of reality. The narrator points
out that the respectable middle-class bourgeois society of the fin de siècle raised
the protagonist to nobility for his heroic writing. Exhausted from his work and
suffering from writer’s block, this reputable artist travels to Venice, where in search
for new inspiration he encounters the beauty of the boy Tadzio. The writer falling in
love with this “masterpiece of beauty” is compelled to remain in Venice, the town of
romantic “beauty in decay.” The writer’s intense passion for the boy overcomes even
the pain caused by the insalubrious weather and his fear for the menacing plague
concealed by the town representatives. After having written a new masterpiece in
the presence of Tadzio, Aschenbach dies lonely, still absorbed in his dream to achieve
1
For great help with the English language and useful comments on a draft of this paper, I wish to
thank Carmen Arévalo.
2
A summary to the discussion of the term “medium” not only as a technical device but also as a
shifting conceptual frame, depending on whether the recipient understands it as a responsible body
of meaning, is given by Werner Wolf: The Musicalization of Fiction: A Study in the Theory and History
of Intermediality, Amsterdam; Atlanta 1999, p. 35–36. Cf. also Joki van de Poel: Opening up worlds.
Intermediality Reinterpreted, Utrecht 2005; David Chandler: “Processes of Mediation” in The Act
of Writing. A Media Theory Approach, Aberystwyth 1995. Hans Lund: “Medier i samspel” in Hans
Lund (ed.): Intermedialitet. Ord, bild och ton i samspel, Lund 2002 (p. 9–24), p. 19–22; Irina O.
Rajewsky: Intermedialität, Tübingen; Basel 2002.
207
Heidrun Führer: Intermediality in Culture
a stable union with this beautiful, always distant boy. The story ends with society
respectfully receiving the news of the sudden death of the noble writer.
Although Thomas Mann’s narrative does not provide the reader with an art product
belonging to multimedia, my paper raises the question of how Thomas Mann’s text
deals with a re-representation of other media such as music and images – an indirect
intermediality3 – and their role in communication. Secondly, I state that the medial
discourse within the story is combined with an aesthetic reflection on mimesis and
art. This discourse mirrors the historic controversy between the normative idealists
and their critics, such as Schopenhauer or Nietzsche, philosophers most relevant
to Thomas Mann.4 Verbal art as represented by the writer Aschenbach emphasizes
the poorness of romantic-idealistic aesthetics in favoring Platonic a-historical and
a-personal “pure form” and a moralistic and uncritical content. Verbal references
to visual arts, to paintings or sculptures, given by the protagonist and the narrator,
draw not only on a particular style and on philosophical intertexts such as Plato,
Xenophon, Schiller, Nietzsche etc., but invite the reader to ponder also Aschenbach’s
lack of credibility as artist. He blurs the borders between life and art, illusion and
reality. In the alternative aesthetic concept presented in the novella by the narrator,
art is always tied to an individual perception and as being an illusion in general.
Competing in the same medium, the narrator emphasizes the superior aesthetics
of representing the process of creation and reception of art beyond the traditional
dichotomy of true and false.5 In extending the borders of art, he also implies that
art is an act of communication between a subject minding its body and the implied
audience in a historical framework of multimedial culture. The narrator’s markers
within the fiction, both in the covert visual and verbal communication, aid the
implied reader in noticing that the fearful fate of Aschenbach the artist is a parody
of the limits of romantic aesthetics. Thirdly, I assert in this essay that the omni-
scient narrator or implied author6 of Death in Venice takes a stand in a paragone
3
Cf. Wolf, p. 41–42, 74. This form of intermediality is even called “transformational intermediality,”
a term coined by Philip Hayward, also used by Rajeswsky, p. 13–15, 206. She neglects, however, the
relevance of this form of “covert” intermediality calling it “medienunspezifische Wanderphänomene”
(rambling phenomena independent of the medium, my own translation).
4
There is no doubt about the tremendous influence of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche in Thomas
Mann’s writings along with the music of Richard Wagner, cf. for example Donald Prater: Thomas
Mann. A life, Oxford 1995, p. 113.
5
Mimesis is not only “an artistic tool to make art look like reality,” but is also concerned with the
representation of factual or ideal realities or with “distinguishing between ‘real’ (or true) and ‘fiction’
(or false),” cf. Ernest Mathijs and Bert Mosselmans: “Mimesis and the Representation of Reality: A
Historical World View” in Foundations of Science, Vol. 5, No.1, 2000 (p. 61–102), p. 81.
6
While the implied author is an abstract agent outside the narrative fiction, the constructor of the
protagonist’s world and responsible for the tension between the protagonist and the commenting
narrator, the omniscient narrator is a fictional and contemporary recipient within the narrative and
whose perspective can be outlined in its increasing ironic relation to the main character’s perception
of the world. From now on, I do not distinguish between either of the agents, as I am mostly inter-
208
debate between verbal, visual and musical representations within this aesthetic
context. Whilst Schopenhauer, in The World as Will and Representation, (1819),
gives music a prior value to verbal arts due to the capacity of music “to replicate
the experience of willing,”7 the narrator defends the verbal arts as a primary form
of communication. However, both agree that an artist who also depicts “cultural
realities”8 trough mimesis as an integral relationship between art and nature has
to enlarge the Classicistic-Romantic frame pondering the irrational quality of the
world. In The Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music (Die Geburt der Tragödie aus
dem Geiste der Musik, 1872), “a Post-Schopenhauerian metaphysical system [and]
a polemical history of Western culture,” Nietzsche aligns this irrationality with a
musical or “Dionysiac mood” in opposition to a sculptural “Apollonian mood.”9
Shifting the Borders – Indirect Intermediality

Indirect or covert intermediality questions the relationship between the dominant
medium, here the text of a novella, and the media represented within this dominant
medium, where the decisive criteria of their typical signifiers are partly missing.10
While intertextuality deals with the drawing on different texts of verbal media in
order to compose and transfer meaning, indirect intermedial relations within a text
can be outlined when different media texts, i.e. nonverbal sign systems, are verbally
represented.11
ested in the growing tension between them and the main character. This narrator tells about the
events around Aschenbach from inside the story as if they were real, a series of actual events, whereas
they are fictional for the reader to whom the events are reported. As this impersonal and omniscient
narrator is implicit and not identifiable as a character with a specific gender, I call him (or her) “he”
in the general meaning. Due to his overall perspective he is also able to “see” and report Aschenbach’s
thoughts. The narrator structures Aschenbach’s visual and acoustic perceptions and he guides the
reader towards his alternative aesthetics by stressing the effects of the tragicomic main character.
7
Rupert Wood: “Language as Will and Representation: Schopenhauer, Austin, and Musicality” in
Comparative Literature, Vol. 1996 (p. 302–325), p. 302.
8
For the term “cultural realities” see J. Mertens: “Ars imitatur naturam?” in Tijdschrift voor Filosofie
46, 1984, quoted after Mathijs and Mosselmans, p. 81.
9
Michael Silk: “Das Urproblem der Tragödie: Notions of the chorus in the nineteenth century”
in Peter Riemer and Bernhard Zimmermann (eds.): Der Chor im antiken und modernen Drama,
DRAMA, Vol. 7, Stuttgart; Weimar 1998 (p. 195–226), p. 198. Subsequent references to Friedrich
Nietzsche: The Birth of Tragedy, see the e-version, transl. by Francis Golffing; Walter Kaufmann, Ch.
16 at http://www.geocities.com/thenietzschechannel/bt5.htm. Jan. 2007. This work will be deno-
ted with BT plus the number of the chapter. References to Arthur Schopenhauer: Die Welt als Wille
und Representation (quoted usually as WWR) are taken from the ebook-version at: http://www.
schopen-hauer-web.org/textos/MVR.pdf, Jan.2007.
10
Wolf’s definition has been criticized for preconditioning a dominance of one medium, cf. Poel, p. 48.
11
For the problem of drawing lines between intertextuality and intermediality see Wolf, p. 1–3,
Clüver in this book, and the divergent position by Rajewsky. In defining “medium” generally as
“the use of one or more semiotic systems serving the transmission of cultural ‘messages’” (Wolf, p.
35–36), a reflection on the unifying of different genres within the dominant medium of the verbal
209
Thomas Mann’s novella, being a verbal medium, draws from two other semiotic
systems. One, hitherto called “genre,”12 merges epic and dramatic elements, and
the other, hitherto called “medium,” is concerned with a semantic patterning of
imagined media on the level of histoire. These are works belonging to visual arts
and musico-dramatic performances. Those visual-literary creations, in which the
two semiotic systems can not be disunited from each other, are called according
to Hans Lund iconic projections.13 And in analogy, those performative-literary acts,
referring to visual and acoustic media, are called dramatic projections. In addition,
on the level of discourse, musico-literary structures, hitherto called leitmotif,14 are
also integrated into the verbal medium of the novella launching a meta-aesthetic
reflection about the border of (“high” and “pure”) art, a structure that includes
the questioning of generic categories defining medium and genre. In other words,
the novella focuses on the main character as “a particular artist” (145)15 creating
his art through his perception of reality with a purely aesthetic gaze, divorcing the
objects from its original context. In doing so, he excludes and denounces what
might be described as “inferior” or “impure” art or as non-art. Thus, the novella
deals with the relative character of conventional borders that generate separable
semantic features. These are valuated as aesthetic products without questioning
the presumptions of aesthetical codes.16 In order to scrutinize the main character’s
aesthetic gaze, I highlight on his mental intermedial process of giving meaning to an
object by combining two semiotic systems according to his subjective intentions.
sign system is part of intermedial studies.

12
Genre is traditionally divided into three autonomous “conceptual structures that treat genres as quite
separate compartments,” cf. Joseph Farrell: “Classical Genre in Theory and Practice” in New Literary
History, Vol. 34, 2003 (p. 383–408), p. 389. Farrell assesses, however, that already the ancient poets
were aware of the instability of generic categories in spite of the “desire to believe that the practise of
ancient poets was perfectly congruent with the […] theories of ancient literary critics,” p. 389.
13
“The act of decoding a framed field of vision in the exterior concrete world of objects as if it were a
picture is called iconic projection,” see Lund 1992, p. 73. This definition includes also the projection
of three-dimensional art-products.
14
Due to the necessary restriction of this article I exclude most of the “contextual thematization
of music,” see Wolf, p. 56, regarding Gustav Mahler, Richard Wagner and in particular the Tristan
motif.
15
Original in italics, (Ch. 2). Quotations given in parentheses refer to Death in Venice and Other
Stories, trans. Jefferson S. Chase, New York 1999. As quotations of the German original, Thomas
Mann: Der Tod in Venedig, are taken from “Project Gutenberg eBook online” at www.gutenberg.
net//Jan.2007, I refer only to chapters (1 to 5).
16
This reflection about the instability of generic categories applies to all hybrid forms that lead to an
uncertainty in the reader’s expectations, in his understanding and in his acceptance of the presented
“art” product. As known at least from the activist cultural practice emerged in the mid-1970s, hybrid
forms have always had difficulties to be accepted within the normative canon of art, see Nina Felshin:
“Introduction” in But is it Art, Washington 1995, p. 9–30. A “process of change” and a “distrust of
‘closure’ may be seen at work, […] a concern with various kinds of ‘Others,’” when new forms of
artistic creations and research find their way into the public, see Wolf, p. 2. The relation between
distinctive reader-expectations and success is an explicit issue in the novella.
210
In a contrast-relation to the aesthetic perception of the main character, the

narrator of the novella depicts acoustic and visual media that Aschenbach excludes
or denounces. Aschenbach is presented both as a spectator experiencing the world
mainly through his eyes, to the cost of his other senses, and as an isolated bourgeois
writer reproducing his conceived reality as “depoliticized speech.”17 Aschenbach’s
visual perceptions are represented often in a series of static or dynamic artifacts, as
tableaux vivants or as moving pictures, also called attitudes.18 Due to the omniscience
of the narrator, the fiction provides two contrasting perceptions of an intermedial
reality. Firstly, I shall demonstrate the protagonist’s visual imagination on a chain
of three short scenes taken from the beginning of the narration; secondly, I present
Aschenbach’s iconic projections onto the most important antagonist Tadzio. Thirdly,
I note that the text offers pictorial framings of the observing omniscient narrator.
At last, Aschenbach’s and the narrator’s relation to music and sound is outlined in
a separate chapter. As we will see, it is often impossible to draw a clear borderline
between the perceptions of Aschenbach and the narrator.
Let us start by asking which media and what kind of images and sounds the
novella Der Tod in Venedig conveys and to what account, since images and sounds as
artistic and non artistic media precondition the debate on the interrelations between
the arts.
Visual Representations
In the first of three short scenes that illuminate the main character’s visual imagina-
tion19 the narrator depicts Aschenbach on his solitary walk in search for creation and
inspiration by “something exotic and disconnected” (152) in the strangely utterly
quiet surroundings of Munich. Aschenbach is absorbed in his musings about an
inspiring inscription on the wall of a cemetery, or “a formula of shimmering mysti-
cism.”20 The sudden appearance of a stranger with an attitude of being “alien and far-
away” emerging “out of nowhere,” awakens him from his day-dreaming. He stares
intently at the solitary man with “milky-white, freckled skin” standing silent and
motionless in the doorframe of a chapel, “with his grey overcoat slung over his left
17
Roland Barthes: “Myth Today” in Mythologies, ed. and trans. Annette Lavers, New York 1984 (p.
109–159). Aschenbach’s “depolitization” should be considered in the context of Thomas Mann’s
own apolitical stance during WWI, developed in Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen, (“Observations
of an apolitical man”), 1912–15.
18
With these terms Lund distinguishes between the frozen and the moving type of visual represen-
tation, cf. Hans Lund: Text as Picture. Studies in the Literary Transformation of Pictures, trans. Kacke
Götrick, Lewiston 1992, p. 44. First published in Swedish as Texten som tavla. Studier i litterär bild-
transformation, Lund 1982.
19
The following quotations without parentheses refer to pages 140–142, Ch. 1, of the translation of
Death in Venice by Chase 1999.
20
“They shall enter the house of God” or “May the Eternal Light suffuse them.” (p. 140). (“Sie gehen
ein in die Wohnung Gottes” oder: “Das ewige Licht leuchte ihnen”).
211
forearm, which he held tightly pressed just below his ribs, and a metal-tipped cane in
his right hand, against whose handle he leaned, feet crossed, with his hip.” The only
striking action of this snub-nose faced stranger, with a remarkably big Adam’s apple
and colorless eyes, is his looking intensely “out into the distance”, his “gazing down
from his height” and his “staring back” at Aschenbach “so militantly, so directly […]
forcing the opponent to avert his [Aschenbach’s] eyes, that he [is forced to] turn
away.” With a sense of shame, the voyeur, who had carefully observed the odd bodily
features of the man, immediately dismisses the object of his gaze. This wordless
visual experience triggers a lustrous daydream in Aschenbach, an “imagination” (ein
Gesicht) marked by the narrator as an “illusion” (Sinnestäuschung). Aschenbach
has a visual imagination of a timeless tropical landscape of picturesque qualities. He
perceives a mental image, a fictional world as if it were a picture, an exotic landscape
of primeval wilderness with a crouching tiger. This new mental image includes only
faint impressions of the other senses of hearing or smell. The effect of the tiger vision
is designated as “a strange expansion within him,” a “form of a visual longing.” It
forces the restless artist to a standstill as he ponders on the silent experiences “with
his head down and his hands behind his back.”21
The second form of visual representation I want to deal with refers to Aschenbach’s
perception of Tadzio, because here the visual markers in terms of pictorial or plastic
art are even more obvious. As Aschenbach carefully contemplates every line of
Tadzio’s body, he makes an iconic projection of the boy’s “physical perfection” to
“Greek sculptures of the best period” (164) or more generally to Greek mythic
figures. The boy appears to him “like a tender young god born from the depth of air
and sea – the sight conjured up mythic images” (172).22 Tadzio is depicted posing
motionless by the sea as a static artifact: “[i]t was the head of Eros, its repeatedly
skin the lustrous yellow of Parian marble” (168) or sitting in the hotel “in semi-
profile … one patent-leather-clad foot before the other, his elbow propped on the
armrest of the wicker chair, check glued to a closed hand” (165).23 Tadzio is also
projected more dynamically like an actor in moving pictures – attitudes –, when
he, in “graceful” movements, walks from one or the other side, within the frame of
Aschenbach’s sight. Inside this frame “he would rotate his body in a most charming
way, in one graceful taut twist – one leg bearing his full weight, the other extending
its toes – embarrassed at being so adorable, anxious to fulfill his aristocratic duty
21
([E]ine seltsame Ausweitung seines Innern ward ihm ganz überraschend bewußt, eine Art schwei-
fender Unruhe, ein jugendlich durstiges Verlangen in die Ferne, ein Gefühl, so lebhaft, […], daß er,
die Hände auf dem Rücken und den Blick am Boden, gefesselt stehen blieb, um die Empfindung auf
Wesen und Ziel zu prüfen, Ch. 3).
22
([W]ie ein zarter Gott, herkommend aus den Tiefen von Himmel und Meer, dem Elemente
entstieg und entrann: Dieser Anblick gab mythische Vorstellungen ein, Ch. 3).
23
(Er saß, im Halbprofil gegen den Betrachtenden, einen Fuß im schwarzen Lackschuh vor den
andern gestellt, einen Ellenbogen auf die Armlehne seines Korbsessels gestützt, die Wange an die
geschlossene Hand geschmiegt, in einer Haltung von lässigem Anstand, Ch. 3).
212
and please the visitor” (184);24 or he would silently and solitarily pass across the
dining room of the hotel (168). Several times Tadzio reacts on Aschenbach’s framing
by turning and smilingly glancing back with his “twilight-grey eyes” towards the
“watching Aschenbach.” The first time Tadzio invites the artist by eye-contact into
the subtle reality of a love-adventure on the threshold of the dining room; the last
time the boy, “an utterly isolated figure”, again “rotated his upper body, one hand
on his hip, in an elegant twist from his basic position and looked back over the
shoulder toward shore.” There Aschenbach is sitting again in a chair, “as he had sat
once before, when those twilight-grey eyes first glanced over that fateful threshold
and met his own” (218).
The third form of visual representation I am concerned with, provides iconic
projections even from the narrator’s point of view when framing the diegetic world in
sculptural qualities for “the gazing reader.” The detailed description of the stranger’s
gestures, clothing, settings and eye-contact is the narrator’s verbal cast of Aschenbach’s
ambiguous view, evoking emotions and subtly transmitting meaning without words.
Deictic terms explicitly hint at a spatial orientation in a nonverbal medium from
the particular perspective of an implied observer: According to Aschenbach’s lines of
vision Tadzio enters the room from the left side (168, 169, 170, 183), whereas the
omniscient narrator visualizes Aschenbach gazing down from a window, moving his
head to the “right” in search for Tadzio (171, 184), or trying to lift his eyes to the
level of Tadzio’s gaze. The reader follows the narrator’s lines of vision again when
Aschenbach or the boy are outlined in a romantic visual paradigm as “dreaming
into the void” (170). Christian pictorial patterns are more obviously projected onto
Aschenbach in the description of his gestures and posture as defined by illness or
sickliness. For instance, he holds his head at “somewhat of an angle, as though in
pain” (152) and he is referred to as the Christian martyr Sebastian. Deictic terms are
embedded in a communicative act when the narrator quotes and then affirmatively
reflects a “keen observer’s” comment on Aschenbach’s bodily attitude, “‘Aschenbach,
you see, has only ever lived like so’ – clenching the finger of his left hand into a
tight fist – ‘never like so’ – unclenching it and letting it dangle relaxed from the
arm of his chair” (146).25 All in all, the reader, who “gazes” through the narrator’s
comments on different point of views, is led to reflect on the fact that perception is
not absolute, but preferential, a matter of belief. The narrator encourages the reader
to question appearances and to respond to different levels of meaning by providing
an allegoric structure of mimetic playfulness, concealed to the main character.
24
([E]r lief herbei, lief naß vielleicht aus der Flut, er warf die Locken, und indem er die Hand reichte,
auf einem Beine ruhend, den anderen Fuß auf die Zehenspitzen gestellt, hatte er eine reizende
Drehung und Wendung des Körpers, anmutig spannungsvoll, verschämt aus Liebenswürdigkeit,
gefallsüchtig aus adeliger Pflicht, Ch. 3).
25
(“Sehen Sie, Aschenbach hat von jeher nur so gelebt”– – und der Sprecher schloß die Finger seiner
Linken fest zur Faust – ; “niemals so” – und er ließ die geöffnete Hand bequem von der Lehne des
Sessels hängen. Das traf zu, Ch. 2).
213
Transformation of an Audio-Visual Medium: Musico-Dramatic Performance

Taking into consideration the transformation of acoustic elements, the narrative
deals three times with musical events, divorced from Aschenbach’s aesthetic norms.
The reputable artist regards the folkloric street singers only as “a boatload of musical
pirates” presenting “profit-hungry tourist lyrics” (161). Two of these events are just
mentioned, while a transposition of a multimedial event is presented as a climax in
detail. This grotesque musico-dramatic performance acted out on the stage (terrace)
of Aschenbach’s hotel,26 is not only a form of implicit musico-literary intermediality,
“a verbal imitation of (effects) of music” (Wolf, p. 55), but even a dramatic projection
with a structural analogy to a three-act comedy: the narrated event mentions three
different parts of song performances. In this scene, the visual focus of the narration
sways between the depiction of performative acting of several actors and their audi-
torium, emphasizing the different effects of music on different listeners. On one
side, the solitary Aschenbach sits in spatial closeness to Tadzio, who stands in his
statuesque posture of feet crossed, his right hand on a supporting hip; both are
placed elevated by a balustrade and thus unified in a state of intimacy and critical
agreement. Both are in contempt of the musical event and of the spatially separated
group of the other naïve, enthusiastic guests on the opposite side of this balustrade.
These had settled with their chairs downstairs in the garden, “in a semicircle,” “to
be nearer the performers,” with which they join in with the sound of laughter. The
actors’ first number is “a searching love ballade” sung by a young woman “lending
her sharp squeak to the tenor’s sweet falsetto.” The main comedian is described as
a pale and snub-nosed stranger with a remarkably large Adam’s apple. The enter-
taining acting of the singer who “grotesquely makes the rounds, clowning and
shaking hands,” gives quality to the merely silly sound of his words and “the tooting
and jangling, the vulgar pinning melodies.” Their “indecent ditty” finishes with a
suggestive and lascivious laughter-refrain. In spite of not paying attention to the
meaning of their dishonorable words and indecent gestures, Aschenbach’s nerves
“lapped up…the vulgar melodies” (200). In his state of intoxication the emotional
arousal of music overwhelms him.
Corresponding to the musico-dramatic performance, Aschenbach’s last sensual
dream conveys the instrumental tones of tambourines, cymbals, and flutes and
the increasing howling of wild dancing animals, women, boys and men with
horns. These disturbing sounds and the assaulting odors dominate the shifting,
indistinct dream-images. In contrast to these events, both placed near Aschenbach’s
end, the protagonist appreciates the quiet and “solemn” (167) natural sounds in
the beginning of his journey: while he enjoys the soft noises of splashing water or
muffled human voices, when watching the beautiful sight of the sea (159, 160, 161,
26
For the definition of multimedial and mixed media texts, see Clüver in this book. The following
quotations referring to this scene are from page 200–202 in Ch. 4.
214
163), he is able to control the emotional power of sounds through his aesthetic gaze.
The sounds of the gondolier, his “muttering” and “hissing through his teeth,” or his
“talking in spasmodic phrases” (159) in his incomprehensible dialect, are connected
with an intensive observation of the man’s features and exaggerated gestures. The
narrator outlines a similarity between his visual appearance, his performance and
his sounds and those of the main comedian. Appreciating the soft melody of the
incomprehensible Polish language, Aschenbach even imitates the name of Tadzio
as “two melodious syllables, ‘Adgio’ or more often ‘Adgiu’ … with drawn-out u
like a call at the end” (171), sounds that reoccur in his last bacchanal dream before
his death, the “shrill cheering, too, and a certain howl like a drawn-out u – all
permeated and at times drowned out by the deep warbling of a gruesomely sweet,
ruthlessly insistent flute, which mesmerized his very innards with its shamelessly
cloying tone” (210).
The Function of Visual, Verbal, and

Acoustic Sign Systems in the Diegetic World
Despite the concreteness of the novella and the described scenes, the embedded
pictorial and phonic links have an abstract, connotative character. They expand
the semantic structure of the text and shed light on the contrasting frames between
the protagonist and the omniscient narrator. In illuminating the protagonist’s
perception of the world in its intermedial dimension, the main character’s motives
for his actions and his perception of the world can be understood on the foil of the
contemporary aesthetic discourse with its intrinsic hierarchic valuation of artistic
and non artistic media.
As a recurrent motif Aschenbach is described as the passive observer who “projects
pictorial structures onto the visual surroundings from his aesthetic distance.” This
attitude is, as Hans Lund points out, a factor “important to the transformation of
iconic projection in literary texts,” a common technique to present “people’s relations
to the world around them” (Lund 1992, p. 109, 198). Contrasting Aschenbach’s
Weltanschauung, his Platonic primacy of visual perception and his desire for
transcendental Beauty and Divine Love, the omniscient narrator presents in his
verbal images the 19th-century epistemological world-picture of Schopenhauer and
Nietzsche stressing the irrational forces beyond human minds. These forces are linked
to the compelling power of the primordial oneness and expressed in the nonverbal
medium of both body and music.27 By means of iconic and dramatic projections, the
27
“[Nietzsche’s] argument rests on the idea that there is a musical mood, a physiological state, which
precedes linguistic enunciation in lyric and tragic verse, and from which lyric and tragic verses come.
The musical, ‘Dionysiac’ mood, which he yokes to lyrical and tragic verse, is described as dynamic
and forceful, and stands in contrast to the calm and contemplative mood of the ‘Apollonian’ artist.”
Wood, p. 304.
215
narrator destabilizes Aschenbach’s neo-platonic mental images as restricted to an

idealized, rational world-view in harmony with the conventions of the bourgeois
society.28 Aschenbach fails – as a human being and as an artist – to live up to his
idealistic concept of individual autonomy, collective moral and objective truth due
to the irrepressible power of his body and its needs. In chasing the romantic illusion
of “pure” form, Aschenbach dies, having succumbed to the illusion of transcending
the earthly, as an “inferior” tragicomic rather than as a noble tragic hero. When illu-
minating phenomena beyond the border of “pure” and idealistic art, the narrator
stresses the relational aspect of art (and non-art) dependent on a historical accepted
culture. He emphasizes a complementary meaning concealed in the ugly side of
earthly life: both the body and the “impure” hybrid forms of art are more involved
in the context of the real world and contemporary communication, and are thus
able to interact on a more equal level with other subjects. These statements follow
from the argumentation below.
The Beholder Aschenbach as a Dishonest Apollonian Idealist

When scrutinizing Aschenbach’s relation to the world, the narrator labels him ironi-
cally as “onlooker” or “keen observer” several times, as he reveals the protagonist both
as inadvertent, mute and disembodied viewer who strives to control or dominate
reality with his aesthetic gaze.29 The writer Aschenbach who has lost his verbal
creativity expresses himself now in the polysemic of the visual sign system, though
striving to follow the same aesthetic taxonomy in his gazing as in his writing. This
is most obvious in his projections on Tadzio. However, already the three opening
scenes convey Aschenbach’s weakness and lack of credibility. He is more influenced
by his day-dreams and his “mental” or “suggested images” of a world beyond time
and space, than by the “presented images” of the exterior diegetic reality in its historic
condition.30 As the art world of dreams best represents the Apollonian element
according to Nietzsche, Aschenbach is outlined as an Apollonian artist. Countering
Aschenbach’s inner experiences, these non-reflected perceptional images often store,
however, the narrator’s ironic point of view, stressing the might of the Will, i.e.
28
The term “bourgeois” as used by Nietzsche embraces the connotations of reactionary unthinkingness
as well as false Christianity.
29
Aschenbach does not appreciate the relevance of other senses as signifiers meant to explain the
exterior reality. Smell is, for instance, only noticed and valuated as disgusting, as a clear indexical
sign pointing to illness and decadence, an association Aschenbach strives to ignore. Taste is not men-
tioned at all.
30
I follow Lund’s terminology of “presented image” and “suggested” or “mental image,” based on
Thomas Munro’s terms “preventative” and “suggestive factors.” Included in the first are “those ele-
ments, aspects, or qualities in the work of art which are or can be directly sensed by a normal human
observer. The suggestive include those which, as part of the work of art, cannot be directly sensed,
but can be called up to the observer’s imagination through association with the presented factors.”
Lund 1992, p. 51; see also p. 25, 77.
216
another substratum of the world beyond the representations (Vorstellung) of the

world as object of human knowledge, of the subject’s rational understanding. In his
state of day-dreaming he unconsciously perceives mental images within his interior
reality different from experiences in the exterior reality of his ascetic life of writing.
In his dreams Aschenbach expresses visually his longings and suppressed bodily
needs in the framework of Schopenhauer’s correlation between body and Will.
Since his dream images, denoted as “imagination,” “illusion” and “visual longing,”
represent absent things as present with an emotional catharsis-effect, transforming
even unpleasant emotions like fear into insatiate desire, dreams obviously point at a
meta-reflection about mimesis, an imitation or representation of reality.
The stranger’s transfixing and Tadzio’s smilingly responding eye contacts on the
threshold are both a warning and an invitation to enter into the fragile realm of
conscious mental images and unconscious dream images of the interior reality. The
result is an inversion of the intended power relation: Aschenbach is masterminded
by images and sounds coming from a realm beyond his conscious will. As a result,
the noble artist blurs the border between life and art, since he perceives reality
selectively with regard to codified standards of moral and aesthetic decorum: while
mimesis is “an artistic tool to make art look like reality” (Mathjis and Mosselmans,
p. 82), Aschenbach makes reality look like art, as he gazes on an objectified reality
measured by the aesthetic taxonomy of transcendental idealism (Truth, Beauty,
Love). Unaware of the intrinsic illusionary character of Apollonian art, Aschenbach
lives at the expense of a crucial alienation from his body and from an ordinary,
real life in society. Preferring separated and elevated places behind barriers like a
handrail, a balustrade or a window frame, he withdraws into a state of tranquil
contemplation of “formulas of shimmering mysticism” belonging to this idealistic
transmedial meaning. He transforms rather than reflects the “presented images”
of real objects in the exterior reality, when wandering with “his mind’s eye” about
these isolated objects, regardless of their visual and spatial context, that has – like the
cemetery in the first scene – a more or less obvious correlation with death.
When Aschenbach strives to control the world with his aesthetic gaze, he assumes
the role as a solitary ingenious artist. Rapt in a disinterested contemplation of the
world, the genius is the only one who – unconcerned of his real body and the limits
of (simple) realism – is able to unfold the world unseen or the lost oneness for the
“noninitiates” (147).31 He is the suffering Apollonian dreamer who – in Nietzsche’s
terms – veils reality and himself in a delightful illusion to redeem himself and the
31
In opposition to Aschenbach, Schopenhauer assumes this state of serene contemplation of the
Platonic Idea, identical with the beautiful and the sublime, as an unstable short moment, merely a
brief liberation from the Will. Moreover, Schopenhauer’s “principle of individuation,” identified as
“the primary evil” by Nietzsche, forces the genius to turn away from empirical individuation, cf. Bart
Vandenabeele: “Schopenhauer, Nietzsche and the Sublime” in Journal of Aesthetic Education, Vol. 37,
No. 1, 2003 (p. 90–106), p. 96.
217
represented society (BT: 4). Due to this assumed role of a unified, will-less subject,
Aschenbach overemphasizes cognition while he marginalizes the significance of the
emotional dimensions of his body – an unconscious power that takes on a life of its
own. While embracing purity and the eternal truth in “ethical indifference” (150)
he excludes any critical reflections about society and its representation in art. Thus,
Aschenbach gains the elevated and solitary position of a national (genial) poet of
high art and the desired everlasting fame.32 Obviously, this neo-platonic bourgeois
works with the verbal medium in the written and oral form as a selective mediator of
reality. He serves his own self-presentational needs and those of the higher bourgeois
society.33 In doing so, the writer neither faces nor represents real life in its profanity,
materiality and ugliness beyond his restrained conventions of seeing. Following
Lessing’s aesthetic universals, Aschenbach represents Nietzsche’s mediocre Socratian
or Apollonian artist, whose “stock in trade is talk of destiny and the triumph of the
moral order.”34 Even worse, Aschenbach loses his authenticity as Schillerian genius,
since he does not reflect the intrinsic illusionary character of art. He immerses him-
self in his own illusions. Already the title of his novel, “Maya,” gives away that he,
the solitary artist, striving for purity and truth, remains trapped in the “veil of Maya”
– the realm of illusion or deception due to the impersonal irrational might of Schop-
enhauer’s Will.35 Thus Aschenbach’s aesthetic lack of credibility is emphasized as he
blurs the borderline between (illusionary) art and (real) life due to his limited (or
false) perception of life, and as his acts – his love and chase of Tadzio – contradict
his philosophical and aesthetical attitude. Aschenbach confuses the ethical and the
aesthetical when he changes from a passive admirer of art (Tadzio) into an active
pursuer of him, thus losing his state of assumed disinterestedness.
Symbolically, the sight of the alleged ingenious artist is often blurred to stress
his individual limits of visual perception and, as a consequence, the limits of his
writings. On the abstract level of the meta-aesthetic discourse, it emphasizes a critical
32
Aschenbach’s conversion to the classic idealistic aesthetics in his writings is rewarded with the addi-
tion of “von” to his name. By then he had successfully advanced to the top of the elite culture that
reveres in particular the German Classicists and Romantics of high esteem like Friedrich von Schiller,
Johan W. von Goethe or Hugo von Hofmannsthal. These poets are not mentioned by name in the
fiction but are obviously referred to.
33
Aschenbach condemns explicitly moral relativity (“moral scepticism”) and individual and psycho-
logical sensibility (“sympathy with the abyss”) (146) in his mature writings, discussed in the second
chapter of the novella.
34
Jarry Clegg: “Mann contra Nietzsche” in Philosophy and Literature, Vol. 28, 2004 (p. 157–164), p. 162.
35
Schopenhauer: “A person who lives in the moment, utterly within the folds of the veil of Maya, sees
only phenomena, individual and particular objects, innumerable dichotomies: pleasure is distinct from
pain, the murderer is distinguished from the victim, yet the person seeks justice or retribution. Mired
within Maya, the superficial person, a prisoner of the will, is incapable of realizing that wickedness
is actually an aspect of the will to live, for s/he thinks such evil must be opposed to nature. In other
words, the veil of the Maya is the metaphysical underpinning of the principium individuationis, ‘the
principle of individuality,’” quoted after: http://www.schopenhauer – web.org/textos/MVR.pdf.
218
statement against Lessing’s idea of transparency, a denial of the medium, his “theory
of representation that establishes the sign by making it invisible.”36 Because of his
shortcomings in written and oral media, the mute Aschenbach starts his fatal rite
de passage with a visual confrontation of the objectified world, the eye-contact with
the stranger:37 leaving his safe position as a rational, disembodied gazer, respected
by the elite, he ends his life collapsing intoxicated, an object for the gaze of others,
in a foreign place. Aschenbach’s fate outlines the romantic formula of the soul’s
progression to self-fulfillment through suffering.
A condition for Aschenbach’s state of serene contemplation is the aesthetic distance
that protects his emotional self-effacement. Obviously, the mutual eye-contact between
him and Tadzio (or the stranger) demands a form of reciprocal relationship that arouses
uncontrollable emotions and changes the hierarchic dominance of the “minded
subject” over the “embodied object.” Given this background, the stranger’s provoking
gazing back symbolizes his refusal to be objectified by Aschenbach’s voyeurism of
stated purposelessness. On a more abstract level, it is also the denial of the established
supremacy of the mind over the body, of the established primacy of images over words,
and of the definition of art by elite culture over popular culture.
The Challenge of a Reciprocal Communication

When the voyeur Aschenbach repeatedly averts his eyes or ears in shame, leaves a
place, and immediately tries to forget, he wards off the unpleasantries of reality and
refuses a reflecting communication with “inferior” humans who insult the artist’s
dignity. Such “toxic” phenomena of reality are, for instance, the repelling stranger,
the strange gondolier, the disgusting “old fop” on the boat or the vulgar street musi-
cians, all of whom try to deliver a veiled prophesy of his fate by visual or verbal
means. The effect is an arousal of unpleasant and uncontrollable emotions, like fear
and the insatiable sexual desire, that are obviously related to his neglected body,
not to his mind. Due to the ugliness of these figures and their involvement in the
banality of contemporary life, they represent to him the depravity of society and,
moreover, the loss of Oneness. In addition, they challenge his solitary position, his
aesthetic code and his aesthetic gaze of control, as they pull him out of his absent-
minded state of contemplation, the realm of mere mind, and intrinsically unmask
the indeterminacy of his mental images as beautiful illusions. Any reciprocal form
of visual or verbal communication with those “bodies of society” would break the
36
See Liliane Weissberg’s “Review on David E. Wellbery: Lessing’s ‘Laokoon.’ Semiotics and
Aesthetics in the Age of Reason” in MLN, Vol. 101, No. 3, 1986 (p. 725–726), p. 725. Sign is meant
here both in its aesthetics and semiotic constraints.
37
This term, taken from the anthropologist Arnold van Gennep, is successfully used in literal studies
to designate man’s ritualised change from one state into another. In the case of Aschenbach’s passage it
demonstrates his changed relation to reality. Cf. Lund 1992, p. 73 and Maria Nikolajeva: “Literature
as a rite of passage: A new look at genres” in Compar(a)ison, Vol. 2, 1995 (p. 117–129).
219
“spell” of the writer’s mystifying gaze.38 Consequently, reality with sounds or visions
belonging to a different, powerful code rooted in ugliness and provocation is not
considered to be art by this artist representing the bourgeois society. Moreover, he
refuses to fix or anchor the terrifying flow of visual and verbal information by inte-
grating it in his life and in his art.
The abandoned camera on the beach witnessing the final battle between Tadzio
and his comrade Yashu39 visualizes a semantic complex symbol. This technical
medium, that, divorced from acoustic means, takes a picture distanced from the
represented object, emphasizes visual perception as preferential, due to its message
being concealed on different levels: the perceptual connotation (i.e. the identification
of the object depicted); the cognitive connotation (the recognition of the codes
linked to the objects to allow a more exact cognition of the scene depicted); and the
ideological connotation (the identification of the historical values of the image).40
When only focusing on the main character, the isolated camera hints at Aschenbach’s
failing position as a purposeless gazer unconscious of being both “contemplator and
participant”41 in a conscious act of reciprocal communication. His dualistic position
of observer and co-creator of reality is at stake, since he does not reflect the conditions
of perceptual and ideological connotations when he perceives reality. The camera,
designed as a medium to reproduce an optical object within a frame, is equivalent to
a man’s eyes; and the photographer, the master of the optical instrument of framing,
is equivalent to a man’s head, responsible for coding the exterior world as iconic
signs within the mind. Obviously, the head participates creatively in the process of
producing optical frames, i.e. mental images. The connotations are already part of the
act of production, not only of perception. The fact that the producer of the frame is
missing foreshadows Aschenbach’s death and his failing concept of communicating
through his aesthetic gaze. The verbal image of the isolated camera on a tripod by
the sea invites the reader to decode the visual enigma of this “single emblematic
scene” (“Sinnbild”) by reflecting on the auratic aspects of a photograph.
38
On the boat to Venice, Aschenbach is repelled by the looks and the words of an “old fop” (158; Ch.
3), his morally doubtful behaviour, his indignant and blurred words, and intoxicated appearance. He
wears the mask of a made-up youngster, as Aschenbach does later, and providently wishes Aschenbach
good luck in his upcoming love, a truth Aschenbach disgustedly averts from. Aschenbach even
ignores the truthful words of a respectable clerk advising him to leave pest-stricken Venice and thus
embraces the “lying society” (208; Ch. 5).
39
On an abstract level, the final fight between the boys point to Nietzsche’s aesthetic theory that art
needs the productive tension of the antagonistic power of Apollo and Dionysius; the shaping hand
of the first one gave it its form, the power of the latter gave it its depth. The creativity results from
a union of rational structure and the chaotic power of emotional arousal or in Nietzsche’s wording
– “from the Apollonian Dionysiac duality”, BT: 1. The tripod, an attribute of the camera, is a linkage
to Apollo’s tripod and a marker for his prophetic character.
40
Roland Barthes: “The Photographic Message” in The Responsibility of Forms, trans. Richard
Howard, California 1991 (p. 3–21).
41
A quotation by Wolfgang Iser, cited by Lund 1992, p. 71.
220
Building on Mitchell’s assumptions about the “relationability of image and

beholder” in What do Pictures Want, we may say that the power of the observed
object presented in the verbal image expresses its desire to “be interrogated or
(better) invited to speak.”42 Otherwise, the object overpowers the gazing subject
through its ability to arouse emotions. Instead, the “gazing reader”, situated in a
spatial relationship to the representation, is invited as an interlocutor to a verbal-
visual communication by questioning and reflecting on the shifting perspectives
dependent on the context. For instance he is led by the narrator who considers a
nameless observer’s response to Aschenbach’s gestures (e.g. his clenched fist), or by a
diegetic reader’s critical response to Aschenbach’s literary heroes. Thus, the narrator
emphasizes the influential position of an interpretant and his perceptional mode,
guiding the implied reader on the way to understanding through the complexity of
visual meaning by means of verbal signs. All in all, he counters Aschenbach’s closed
and centered perception both by anchoring it with labeling verbal comments (e.g.
about his lacking physical conditions or his intoxication) and by relaying it with
(verbal) images emphasizing the relativity of spatial and temporal contexts. This
difference unmasks the suppressed part of Aschenbach’s perceived reality: the body
as physical medium and as a consequence its emotional and sexual needs.
Mental Intermediality
Tadzio is the crucial example how exterior reality is transferred in Aschenbach’s
mental images by the means of his preconceived aesthetic codes. As he is strongly
attracted to the boy’s beauty and his educated manners, Aschenbach “conjures”
mental images of mythic qualities to project onto ordinary phenomena of daily
life. He perceives the real boy from the exterior world in an iconic projection as an
aesthetic product of visual art, in particular, in different forms of Greek and Roman
sculptures.
To make his correlation with statues of the often life-sized divine or human
figures likely, certain visual signs of the boy’s features are recognized as indexical
signs pinpointing the canonical code of Classic Style of plastic art: Tadzio’s head, his
curly hair, the tranquility and sensual perfection of the surface of his body, and his
weight-baring stance of contrapost, the rotation of his upper body, and the gesture
of his hands. To transfer a cognitive connotation, the artist makes an active, para-
digmatic choice among many possibilities deducible from the boy’s presented optical
determinacy. These identified visual similarities allow him to link the boy to classic
sculptures. This objective aesthetic correlative43 (a symbolic object conveying aesthetic
42
W.J.T. Mitchell: What Do Pictures Want? The Lives and Loves of Images, Chicago 2005, p. 49, 33.
43
Following T. S. Eliot, Judith Williamson singles out the “objective correlative” as the bridge to
deliver the transfer of meaning from an exterior referent system to an initially meaningless product.
After a while this product starts to represent these abstract ideas or feelings, even generate them
221
emotions and other abstract concepts), permits the disembodied viewer Aschenbach
the aesthetic pleasure of voyeuristic gazing at the objectified body, divorced from the
forbidden, non-aesthetic sexual desire. Like a “currency,” this generated conceptual
relationship guarantees Aschenbach not only the pleasure of a beholder of visual art,
but also promises the Ideas of Beauty, Love and Joy in the supposed framework of
a-historical aesthetics, as the Platonic aesthete is the “master of erotics (…) [who]
ascends from the love of beautiful bodies to the love of beautiful deeds and discourses,
and finally to a vision of Beauty itself from which he himself can give birth to the
beautiful.”44 He affirms his connotative link to the aesthetic framework of Romantic
idealistic style45 by designating his iconic projection with a verbal label. By entitling
Tadzio Apollo (such as Apollo of Belvedere), Eros, or Il Spinario, (the sculpture of
a peasant boy of the third century BC), he transfers an iconographical meaning to
the image. When a bi-medial message forms in Aschenbach’s mind, meaning and
myth are produced in a mental intermedial act comparable to the way messages are
conveyed in advertisements consisting of text and image. Aschenbach’s verbal labels
anchor his mind in the ambiguity of the visual image by emphasizing certain bodily
features. Even his quotations from Plato’s Symposion and Phaidros – texts of asserted
truth according to bourgeois culture – serve in the same way to anchor Aschenbach’s
understanding and to restrain his ambiguous emotions. These verbal texts extend the
meaning of the individual boy’s image with an ideological connotation by applying
a certain co-textual and cultural knowledge. In doing so, he anchors the present
with the past, one of the most important functions of myth,46 to enforce his mental
distance to the boy. Having turned the boy’s body into a mythical statuesque beauty,
Aschenbach, however, loses himself in this myth that can neither be reached nor
renounced. As a consequence of the temptation of the mask of antiquity, his flesh
gives rise to mystical feelings of perdition.
or serve them as currency. Judith Williamson: Decoding Advertisements: Ideology and Meaning in
Advertising, London 1978, p. 29–31. Roland Barthes: “Rhetoric of the Image” in Barthes Image,
Music, Text, select. and trans. Stephan Heath, New York 1996 (p. 32–51); for Tadzio as aesthetic
correlative cf. also Gary Johnson: “Death in Venice and the Aesthetic Correlative” in Journal of
Modern Literature, Vol. 27, No. 3, 2004 (p. 83–96), p. 85.
44
Richard Shusterman: “The Aesthetics” in Theory, Culture & Society, Vol. 23, 2006 (p. 237–243),
p. 237. Plato’s Symposion, consisting of six pieces on Eros and praise on Socrates, deals with a lover’s
striving for the knowledge of beauty and immortality. Cf. Ludwig C. H. Chen: “Knowledge of Beauty
in Plato’s Symposium” in Classical Quarterly, Vol. 33, No. 1, 1983 (p. 66–74), p. 66. According to
Plato the primary object of love is Beauty and the form of Beauty is identical with that of God.
45
Cf. Gunnar Berefelt: “The Regeneration Problem in German Neo-Classicism and Romanticism”
in The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, Vol. 18, No. 4, 1960 (p. 475–481), p. 476. Berefelt
reminds the reader of the arbitrariness of the terms “classical form” and “romantic content,” p. 479.
For a background see Carol Jacobs: “The Critical Performance of Lessing’s Laokoon” in MLN, Vol.
102, No. 3, German Issue 1987 (p. 483– 521), or Meir Sternberg: “The ‘Laokoon’ Today: Interart
Relations, Modern Projects and Projections” in Poetics Today, Vol. 20, No. 2, 1999 (p. 291–379.)
46
Ian Watt: Myth of Modern Individualism. Faust, Don Quixote, Don Juan, Robinson Crusoe, Cam-
bridge 1996, p. 233.
222
In the eyes of Aschenbach, the beholder, Tadzio’s body is the medium of aesthetic
communication carrying a culturally specific meaning. He sees in the boy “sculp-
tural” features and “sculptural” attitudes, iconologically coded as inwardness, pure
serenity and deeper spirituality.47 Aschenbach’s projecting him as sculptures makes
use of properties of pictorial art: to evoke the presence of an imaginary figure with
whom the viewer is invited to identify and to stress tractability as an intrinsic quality
of sculptures. While the Tadzio framed in tableaux vivants underscores the ideal
beautiful lines of tranquility as paragon and symbol of artistic harmony and cosmic
orderliness, the dynamic visual perceptions of Tadzio might not only be related to
the esteemed “Vielansichtigkeit” or many-sidedness of realistic Greek and Roman
sculptures, when the beholder actively moves around. In opposition to the normally
closed frame of paintings, the dynamic of Tadzio’s movements refer also to the open
frame of (three-dimensional) plastic arts, taking space and originating an illusion of
moving through space.48 In this context, the deictic terms confirm to the reader both
of the spatiality of the artistic medium of plastic arts and of its intrinsic narrative
(temporal) flux; facts that Lessing explicitly discussed when differentiating between
the visual, natural signs in space and the verbal, arbitrary signs in time, and when
stressing the dynamics of spatial and temporal relationships.49
When Tadzio seems to Aschenbach “beauty itself, form as divine thought, the
one true, absolute perfection, which resides in the realm of the sublime” (185),
Aschenbach refers to the ideological aesthetic veneration of Greek and Roman art
by German humanists of the 18th and 19th century such as Winkelman, Schiller,
Goethe, Schlegel, Lessing or Hegel. On the background of the idea of the (now lost)
naivety of the ancients and their unity with nature, those humanists praised the neo-
classicistic iconic patterns of the idealized male nude in Greek and Roman plastic
art as sublime beauty. The “archaic figure of idealized normative human form” was
in particular appreciated for its “dreamy retrospection of a highly esteemed past or
nature” (Johnson, p. 87) its alleged “edle Einfalt und stille Grösse” (noble simplicity
and quiet grandeur). Their features and gestures were supposed to represent the
sensory appearance of the Idea, the Platonic beauty, Schillerian pure form and the
restrained emotions.50 Apart from the supposed a-historical aesthetic implications
47
See the definition of medium as “a mode of artistic expression or communication” in The Merriam
Webster Online Dictionary, entry “medium.”
48
Intrinsic to the medium of human sculpture is its embodiment of space in opposition to painting,
and its focus on the materiality and the form of the human body, cf. Diana Konopka: “sculpture”
in Theory of Media in http://humanities.uchicago.edu/faculty/mitchell/glossary2004/sculpture.htm,
Jan.2007.
49
Lessing, emphasized also narrative sequences in images giving them a temporality very much like
that of poetry, see Frederick Burwick: “Lessings ‘Laokoon’ and the Rise of Visual Hermeneutics” in
Poetics Today, Vol. 20, 1999 (p. 219–272), p. 224, 229.
50
Sternberg, p. 307. Cf. also Schiller’s 22. Letter of his “Ästhetische Erziehung des Menschen” (1795).
223
of the “ideal of absolute transparency,”51 this historic discourse connotes a political

message: the assessment of the depravity of the contemporary political and cultural
system compared to the esteemed democratic spirit and individual freedom of the
old Greek society.
In contemplating Tadzio in the illusion of being a Greek sculpture of the god
Apollo, the boy, now generalized into the (visual and verbal) abstract meaning of a
personification of Mankind and the Divine, becomes an object of worship,52 even
Apollo himself. Thus, as an Apollonian artist Aschenbach benefits from a Tadzio
equipped with Apollonian characteristics: as the important god of poetry and the
bearer of life, light, logos, dreams and prophecy to his loved-ones, the projected
boy inspires Aschenbach to his new masterwork of supposed truth, since the writer
assumes – like one of Schiller’s naïve poets –the experience of being “miraculously
reborn” in the inspiring image of a god.53 His overwhelming jubilation is a result of
the formation of his Ego in the process of visual identification with the body (mirror
stage), leading to a sense of regained mastery of the verbal language. He experiences
the mesmerizing effect of the sublime, a manifestation that should concern the mind
rather than the body, following the tradition of Kant’s resilience and comprehensive
powers of rational thought.
Aschenbach’s writing and gazing depends on the same idealistic concept of
mimesis that gives primacy to form over content, to Beauty over reality, to sensual,
non-intellectual immediacy over critical, intellectual reflection, and to a clear and
centred perspective over shifting multiperspective images and narratives. Ignoring
the fact that any mimetic work of art always provides just “a distorted imitation of the
ideal rational Forms that constitute true reality” (Shusterman, p. 237), Aschenbach,
the artist and connoisseur of art, surrenders to the emotional power aroused by his
mental image. Blurring the borderline between art and life like Pygmalion, who
falls in love with his own creation of an ideal human being (Galathea), Aschenbach
collapses into the frame of his representation of embodied Beauty due to his increa-
sing emotional involvement. Aesthetic illusion occurs not only when the sign is
identified with the thing signified but also when the artist is identifying himself
with the thing (Burwick, p. 224).
While Aschenbach ponders the object’s autonomy, its being more an expression
of his thoughts, the object changes to a subject, gazes back and finally transforms
the former subject into a (mute) object. In order for Aschenbach to become the
51
David E. Wellbery and Robert S. Leventhal: “Review on: Lessing’s Laokoon and the Rise of Visual
Hermeneutics” in Eighteenth Century Studies, Vol.19, No. 3, 1986 (p. 424–429), p. 428.
52
Mitchell, p. 253. Cf. also Giorgio Vasari’s warnings that sculptures of human bodies are the most danger-
ous of art forms since they “elevate the human body to a status of god, reify mortal men into immortal
idols, and degrade spirit into dead matter” in Lives as Artists (1568) quoted after Mitchell, p. 248.
53
Cf. Johnson 2004, p. 85. The narrator does not outline the content of his new masterpiece in an
expected ekphrasis to emphasise the emptiness and the stereotype quality of Aschenbach’s writing.
224
object of Tadzio’s admiration, the objectified boy must become a subject and the
disembodied gazer has to convert into an object of art. Thus, in his desire to be
like the ideal, Aschenbach models his own body in the barbershop after the image
of statuesque youth and beauty with the result that he transforms in a copy of the
disgusting “old fop.” At the end, together with Aschenbach’s assumed superiority
or sense of “uniqueness,” and his self-imagination as a subject to whom the world
is given merely as an object of knowledge, also Kantian autonomy, agency and
responsibility turn out to be a most fragile and vulnerable construct. The narrator
demonstrates through Aschenbach’s fate and his writer’s block that “instability at
the juncture of self and body profoundly affects what and how we perceive.”54
Moreover, he shows that this loss of stability also influences the borderlines between
the different forms of art and media.
Meaning Generated by Intermediality

The general relational effects in perception are dramatized when the narrator
provides Aschenbach’s iconic projections with “a life of their own.”55 In stressing the
intrinsic polysemy of images, the narrator verbally stresses other visual elements of
Tadzio’s features as well as the surrounding stimuli in the intermedial context. Thus
a broader concept of mimesis is emphasized. It also implies “the process of depicting
cultural realities, those things that are real according to a certain point of view,”
provided by the cultural order and assumed “to be about reality, by re-presenting it”
(Mathijs and Mosselmans, p. 81; original in italics). Shifting between Aschenbach’s
point of view and his own, the narrator illuminates both Aschenbach’s closed frame
of perceiving and representing reality and his unconscious dependence of certain
historical cultural conventions that he re-presents. Thus, Aschenbach’s reasons for
framing are undermined, as the narrator stresses parts of the reality excluded from
Aschenbach’s cognitive perception. On the one hand, Aschenbach’s destabilization
is an effect of the discrepancy between his idealised image of himself and the world
and, on the other hand, it results from the discrepancy between his idealisations and
what he actually perceives in presented images.
This incongruence between perspectives is the basis on which the narrator modifies
and ironizes the abstract meaning that the beautiful and innocent youth Tadzio is
given by Aschenbach. In particular, his neglect of Tadzio’s contrastive relation to the
54
Stephen G. Nichols: “Laughter as Gesture. Hilarity and the Anti-Sublime” in Neohelcon, Vol. 32,
No. 2, 2005 (p. 375–389), p. 384.
55
Michael de Montaigne formulated already in 1580 the inversion of the hierarchical relation between
the creator and his art product “the work, by its own force and fortune, may second the work-
man, and sometimes out-strip him, beyond his invention and knowledge” in Essays, trans. Charles
Cotton: “Of the art of conferring” III, 8, quoted from David Chandler: “Montaigne and the Word
Processor” paper presented at Aberystwyth 1993, at: http://www.aber.ac.uk/media/Documents/
short/montword.html.June 2007.
225
nameless figures claims the boy’s reinterpretation as Apollo. This shall be exemplarily
shown from a probable identification of the anonymous stranger. Because of his
characteristic attributes (the cane, hat, cloak and traveler-like appearance), he can
– in spite of his indistinct description and the lack of a distinctive verbal title – not
only be identified as a personification of Hermes/Mercury; he might, moreover, be
recognized as an iconic projection of the Roman statue of Mercury of the 4th century
BC from the “frozen moment” of his static position (his counterbalancing body,
the posture of his hands and his feet crossed),56 when stressing the same ambiguous
visual markers Aschenbach used for Tadzio’s iconic projections. Also his posture in
an architectural frame might easily be related to the origin position of sculptures
within architecture (Mitchell, p. 169). On one crucial point, however, the stranger
differs from traditional visual representations of Hermes: he is not represented as a
young male figure, but as an old man with milky-white skin, colorless eyes, and long
teeth that suggest a skull and thus death. Evidently, the narrator does not exactly
transform a specific object of visual art as realistically and truthfully as possible, but
enigmatically imbues it with incongruous pictorial motifs that correspond to the
common symbolism of the intermedial surroundings. If the architectural context of
the man standing under the doorframe of a chapel between “two apocalyptic beasts”
(140)57 is considered within the common symbolism of a passage between death
and life, or even of an intermediary of dreams, then the personification of Hermes
– both in his role as the god of travelers and as Psychagogue, the leader of souls to
Hades, – is even made evident; the stranger-Hermes is the one who, in the abstract
context of ideological connotations, inspires Aschenbach to take his voyage, causes
his perpetual state of dreams, and – finally – his death.
The unfamiliar deviation from classical beauty of the antique sculpture of Hermes
counters the normative and clichéd view of the beautiful, harmonious and serene
Greek and Roman art, associated with the Apollonian principle of visual and verbal
art. Nietzsche extends this ideological connotation to include the Apollo-Dionysus-
dichotomy by stressing the marginalized vulgar, irrational and intoxicating forces
in Greek art and culture. The “keen observer,” not contemplating these details,
reacts bodily with an arousal of fear towards the strange appearance of the sublime,
as neither this place nor the presented image of the stranger can be related to
Aschenbach’s aesthetic codes of the beautiful. The narrator, protected by the canny
Hermes – also the god of eloquence – extends the field of his aesthetic gaze by
facing the body as the expression of the irrational Will, the “primordial oneness of
his painful contradictory nature” (BT: 5). Finally, it is the omniscient narrator who
56
There are even several “copies” in the same classicistic style actualizing aspects of the common
myth. Cf., for instance, the classical statue; in the Uffizi, Florence or the sculpture of the Roman god
Mercury by 17th-century Flemish artist Artus Quellinus.
57
These beasts – a variation of the serpents from Mercury’s caduceus – can for instance be found in
Quellinus’ statue mentioned above.
226
leads Aschenbach to death. These shifting perspectives on the allegorical level lead
to the effect that the narrative suggests a dynamic, open attitude beyond its clear
and symmetrical structure. This dis-orderliness might be related to the “Dionysiac
mood” as a representation of the Oneness within the verbal medium that tends to
puncture bordering visual and narrative spaces.
Regarding the reinterpretation of Tadzio, the narrator applies the technique of
combining several symbolic semantic levels by casting different standardized pictorial
motifs against one another to reveal Tadzio’s intrinsic relation to Hermes. Such a
“Sinnbild”58 – known as “disguised symbolism” in visual arts and as “poetic vision” in
verbal arts – extends its meaning beyond Aschenbach’s control. The narrator constructs
his counter-myth in which the representation of the natural is exaggerated by removing
objects from their historical context. Aschenbach – in spite of the ambiguity of visual
signs – is confident in his projections of Tadzio as Apollo Belvedere, Eros or Spinario
in the framework of innocence and beauty, purity and truth. The narrator’s contrasting
projections result in a conceptual relationship between Tadzio and Hermes that
destabilizes Aschenbach’s illusionary myth of a static border between (beautiful, pure)
art and (ugly, mixed) non-art. For instance, Tadzio-Apollo converges to a personification
of Hermes as he sits in a “position of his patent-leather-clad feet one before the other.”
Applying the iconological knowledge of his posture and clothing of his feet to the
visualized “pregnant moment” of art, the boy might, however, be identified as the
Mercury-sculpture by Lysippos.59 When Tadzio is explicitly referred to as Hermes-
Psychagogue in the final scene, his fixed identification undermines Achenbach’s myth
of Tadzio as the beautiful light-bearer Apollo pointing at the sea with an upraised arm.
The worshipped boy, “gliding ahead into the looming immensity, full of promise and
content,” (218) is an intermediary between the two realms. Aschenbach understands
their last eye-contact and Tadzio’s indexical gesture towards “the nebulous vastness” as
an invitation to the realm of mythos or the idealised state of Oneness limited only to
Beauty, Truth and death.60 This is the result of the diminishing distance between the
observer Aschenbach and the illusion of an art work created by him. To the narrator,
however, Tadzio’s deictic gesture emphasizes not only the spatiality of a sculpture,
58
There are several such emblematic scenes composed in the same technique of intertwining differ-
ent pictorial motifs into one iconic projection, e.g. the depiction of the St. Sebastian, martyr, who
is Aschenbach’s idol, is combined with pictorial patterns belonging of the suffering Maria: this
exaggeration ironizes Christians virtues that devalue body and life, aligned with Nietzsche’s attack
of bourgeois decadence. Thus, this reference to visual art is used to emphasise Aschenbach’s pathetic
self-image and his staging as a suffering artist, full of psychological self-constraint, and to put an
ironic distance between him and the narrator.
59
Other visual markers, like his hand supporting his check, not belonging to this particular sculpture,
extend the allegorical meaning within the same framework by applying the same technique of inter-
twining different visual patterns.
60
The allusion to Plato’s idea of ideal Beauty and Truth is also confirmed by Aschenbach quoting
Plato. Due to the ambiguity of the isolated pattern, Tadzio’s gesture allows associations to other
sculptures like the bronze statue Youth, capturing also the ancient conceptions of perfect beauty.
227
demanding that the spectator adopt of a shifting viewpoint rather than single, immobile
one, symbolized by the sitting Aschenbach; he also refutes the limits or closeness of a
pure medium when he highlights its intermedial framework, generating an enlarged
and modified meaning beyond the coherent and static Apollonian order. Instead of
being guided by Tadzio into “the idealized image of nature, an allegory for the unity
of self that has been lost” (Johnson, p. 87), Aschenbach is guided into the infinite
vastness of the sea, symbolizing the sublime Will or the primal Oneness, utterly devoid
of rationality, beauty and harmony.61 Tadzio’s posture on the borderline between
shore and deep water also supports the ideological context of being like the stranger
Hermes/Mercury, the mediator between the conscious and unconscious, between life
and death. Aschenbach, ignorant of the context and the ambiguity of artistic illusion,
does not realize the delusions of the alleged cunning Hermes. Symbolizing the divine
that can neither be fixed nor reached, this mythic god, known for his shifting shapes,
allegorically motivates Aschenbach’s fate (apart from psycho-logic). Sounds and music
are the media that illuminate the unrestrained emotional power of this strange god.
The Emotional Power of Nonverbal Media

With the same destabilising technique Aschenbach’s neo-platonic writing is
undermined by means of acoustic or mixed media. Thus, light is shed on Aschenbach
not only as he changes under the increasing influence of the Dionysiac dramatic
power but also as he generates meaning in an overt or covert intermedial process in
dependency of presupposed codes. When sounds and images are perceived as natural
(the soft sounds of water or the incomprehensible grumbling of the gondolier), they
arouse in him pleasurable feelings because he believes that these pure expressions
perfectly communicate pure emotions, unhindered by the logic of verbal meaning.62
Foregrounding the acoustic dimensions of the verbal signifiers as “word music” (Wolf,
61
The symbolism of water is not only a conceptual marker for Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, stress-
ing the irrational power of the body and the contemporary music called the “infinite melody”, cf.
Nietzsche contra Wagner, 1. The terrifying vastness of the sea is also a place of delightful horror and a
marker for the sublime by Burke, see “Sublime” in Trevor Pateman: Key Concepts: A Guide to Aesthet-
ics, Criticism and the Arts in Education, London 1991, p. 169–171. Aschenbach’s travel by boat to
Venice pictures emblematically the Socratic artist who – according to Schopenhauer’s famous allegory
quoted by Nietzsche – is able to ride calmly through the stormy life (man’s separation from Chaos)
due to the protective influence of Apollo and trusting the “principle of individuality.” This principle
is undermined by the narrator’s ironic dramatization of the travelling Aschenbach, outlined as weak
and as instinctively and indulgingly submitting to the will of the strange Dionysian gondolier.
62
The gondoliers’ shouting or grumbling in an odd and incomprehensible dialect are pointed out
by the narrator as being similar to the natural noises (or quietness) of water, a natural “language”
contrasting Aschenbach’s (artificial) artistic style of wordy writing or lengthy quoting of classical
texts. The incomprehensible words of the gondolier can be related to Schopenhauer’s assumption that
music must be prior to words when the sign comes in the (less accepted) mixed form of music and
words. There is a long idealistic tradition stating that music is the only artistic medium unburdened
by materiality and thus of heightened beauty.
228
p. 58) and entrapped by the euphoric connotation of their symbolic “Naturalness,”

Aschenbach contemplates not only Tadzio’s body cut off from its intermedial context
but also the melody of his name as isolated beautiful tones of “a” and “u” that –
“both sweet and wild” – appeal to the senses as natural, pure, unagitated signs.63 In a
changed context, however, their meaning shifts to the opposite. As neither visual nor
acoustic signs “possess a fixed or essential meaning”64 when neglecting their deictic
character, the same sounds change their (supposed absolute) meaning depending on
the narrative time and on the increasing power of the narrator’s focus. Destabilising
Aschenbach’s arbitrary conceptual relationship with a counter-myth, the narrator
correlates the sounds of the language and their forces with the metaphysical conception
of music given by Schopenhauer and Nietzsche: in their concrete, definite form,
these sounds incarnate a verbal musicality similar to the immediate expression of
the fateful Dionysiac Oneness that is responsible for the suffering of the world and
for the ambiguity of nature. Aschenbach is trapped in his illusion when the cunning
narrator shifts the arbitrary meaning of those sounds just as he has done with the
protagonist’s iconic projections. While at first Aschenbach appreciates them as a
pleasant Apollonian melody, equalling “a regular beat like that of waves lapping the
shore, a plastic rhythm,” (BT: 2) and enriching the Apollonian image of harmony and
measure, he finally senses the paradox emotions of fear and desire, as these sounds,
together with the dream images, announce the boundless dynamics of Dionysiac
cries signifying now the name of “The Other God.” Thus, the effect of these sounds
– not the sounds themselves – seems changed when they reoccur announcing now
the opposite Dionysiac might beyond Aschenbach’s conscious will. However, he
motivates this shift as he, as an act of free will, imitates these sounds in a “mimetic
desire.” In doing so, he strives to overcome the distance between the subject and the
desired far-away object, or – in Nietzsche’s wording – to touch “the Dionysiac world
substance,” understood as the musical “External Existent.”65 Playfully enlarging
the acoustic similarity of the isolated and reduced sound-pattern of “a” and “u”
to Bacchus, the Latin name for Dionysus, or even to the name of Yashu (who also
possesses other attributes belonging to the counter-world), this polysemantic sound
underlines the ideological communicative intent and the emotional effect of each
conceptual relationship. In other words, the musical effect depends on a reader or
listener who is not only involved in a process of signification of the sounds but
also in the construction of a causal network, “gained from the temporal pattern of
63
The sounds of Tadzio’s name have the effect of being the currency that “generates meanings beyond
anything that is said (and sometimes anything that can be said)” as Cook analyses the function of
music in commercials. Nicholas Cook: Analysing Musical Multimedia, Oxford 2001, p. 22.
64
Stuart Hall: “The work of representation” in Hall (ed.) Representation: Cultural Representations and
Signifying Practices, London 1997 (p. 13–74), p. 31.
65
S. Morris Engel: “An Early Nietzsche Fragment on Language” in Journal of the History of Ideas, Vol.
24, No. 2, 1963 (p. 279–286), p. 285.
229
forces we are exposed to and engaged in in reading.” (Wood, p. 321). Thus, the
sounds and images of the dream enigmatically foreshadow the tempting magic of
Dionysiac ritual shattering the Apollonian world that “is constructed on illusion and
moderation and restrained by art” (BT: 4). As Aschenbach “myopically” excludes
the sublime Dionysiac terror, encountered through visual and auditory media, his
unstable construction of individualism is destroyed by the Will, finally revealing the
truth through its excess (Vandenabeele, p. 98).
Hybrids in Contemporary Life

Aschenbach’s fate unveils the myth of a self-satisfied bourgeois culture, in which high
art excludes non-bourgeois social reality. Behind the veil of a supposed invisibility
of means, this art represents only a romanticized conception of morality, purity
and harmonic beauty as “depoliticized speech.” Aschenbach’s attitude towards other
realities is most evident when he twice pays off greedy “musical pirates,” represen-
tatives of a supposed depraved society and its folkloric culture. Offending the
representational norms of nobler people, the fine arts of formalistic romanticism
these people and their art depict aesthetically and ethically the Dionysiac otherness
revealing a truth different from the hegemonic norms of bourgeois art.
Revealing Aschenbach’s ideological assumptions, the narrator’s contrasting per-
ception of popular culture is embraced at length in a dramatic projection of a musical
comedy. Underlining the body and the music as media, the performance strongly
relies on nonverbal acts of communication to transfer its message. Contrasting
Aschenbach’s muteness and serene isolation, this dramatic projection visualizes an
interactive communication between artists and audience, and among the male and
female singers united in a grotesque love song. The audience is spatially separated
into two groups: on one side, the two solitary Apollonians, Aschenbach and Tadzio,
who in their state of “self-forgetfulness and self-destruction by becoming one with
the whole of reality” have turned into a work of art (Vandenabeele 2003, p. 100); on
the other side, the gregarious group who overcomes its individuation by uniting with
the actors both in space and in the illusion of the play. Moreover, when applying
Nietzsche’s ideological metaphysics they reconcile in their laughter both with the
Dionysiac Oneness and “this world of suffering” (BT: 9). In particular, the final
laughter-song of the main comedian, performed with exaggerated gestures, is the
climax in which a precise, rational meaning is relativized through the context of
sounds and mimicry.66 Signalising a disjunction between appearance and essence, the
66
As hilarity rarely is solitary but usually gregarious, already the social settings raise issues of inten-
tion and implication as to whether the laughter is tended at or together with someone. Thus, the
visual-acoustic signs of laughter need to be fixed by other verbal or visual signs. In particular the
disconcerting laughter “veers off into related spheres of mind-body dynamics that articulate various
forms of non-rational expression via the body.” Nichols, p. 377. Thus, neither visual nor acoustic signs
generate meaning solitarily but draw it from the context and from relative, often concealed codes.
230
orgiastic and subversive laughter mocks the hypocrisy of the self-satisfied bourgeois
culture and their intention of producing everlasting art.
This dramatic projection, a text within a text, represents a multi-media event of a
faulty folkloric performance, in which ugly “street-beggars” play out vulgar passions
of love with intensity. Instead of glorifying the formula of tragic love through artistic
Apollonian vision, the idyllic myth of fine arts, this musico-dramatic action, full
of Dionysiac symbolism of wild emotions, makes concealed cultural codes and
relations immediately perceptible as tragicomic play.67 The performance of vulgar
actors, recognisable by their goat-like features as satyrs, companions of Dionysus,
delivers – like the political and social satiric style of Aristophanes’ comedies (Old
Comedy) – a grotesque dramatic inversion of the romantic formula of insatiate
love-desire and of a love-reunion in death implying Aschenbach’s or Tristan’s fate.
The staging of white powdered faces of comic and unheroic “types” implies the
facial archetype of a comic, intoxicating Dionysiac-Aristophanic sort rather than the
esteemed serene Apollonian-Platonic sort.68 Conveying the ideological de-ideali-
zation of nature and humanity, these types, their vulgarity, their false singing and
their laughter represent another truth and art. They copy in their performance both
“the primal contradiction,” that is for Nietzsche, “the pleasurable/painful quality of
dissonance,” and also the “primal unity as music.”69
The dramatic projection consciously plays with the artistic illusion and the
subjective involvement in art as it applies an older variant of a mimesis-concept in
which the actor is always conscious of assuming a particular role.70 Even this implies
a critical hint at Aschenbach’s blurring of life and art. Including the lesser “un-pure”
forms of (folkloric) music and words, this older, devaluated genre of a grotesque
mimic art of political nonconformist style is depicted in its original hybrid form to
attack the Socratic Method or the bourgeois idea of purity and morals in art and life.
The visual-acoustic signs of the performance puncture the boundaries between art
and non-art, between dramatic and epic genres and between sublime and grotesque
styles.
The relevance of myth-making-devices, interacting with different media texts, is
stressed in contrast to hegemonic norms of the a-historical and a-personal one and
pure form. Moreover, it treats a transfer of aesthetics from sounds and visions to
fiction as part of cultural reflections discussing mimesis.
67
The “Dionysiac frenzy […] gave rise to tragedy and comedy alike” according to Nietzsche (BT: 4).
68
The Old Greek comedy with its vulgar sexual issues is positioned in the intersection between high
and popular culture. Nietzsche extols Aristophanes lauding his “profound instinct” when attacking
the more rational Socrates and Euripides at the same time.
69
Béatrice Han-Pile: “Nietzsche’s Metaphysics in the Birth of Tragedy” in European Journal of
Philosophy, Vol. 12, 2006 (p. 373–408), p. 387.
70
G. M. A. Grube: “Mimesis” in Dictionary of the History of Ideas, Vol. 3, University of Virginia
2003 (p. 225–230), p. 226 at: http://etext.virginia.edu/cgi-local/DHI/dhi.cgi?id=dv3-62.Jan.2007;
see also Han-Pile 2006, p. 384.
231
Thomas Mann’s Novella – a Covert Hybrid

In spite of its classicistic structure, Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice, representing
Apollonian clarity, contradicts the traditional idea of “pure form” both on the
level of histoire and of discourse. Revealing how dominant cultural norms become
embedded in media messages, the novella, a genre of a short narrative of highly
artistic composition and realistic content, takes a stand in the contemporary paragone
debate and attacks the limiting norms of neo-classic aesthetics by intertwining epic,
musical and dramatic elements. The conflating of different genres and media into
a covert hybrid, an un-pure form, reflects not only Nietzsche’s concept of the re-
union of both art-making deities but also the relativity of conventional borderlines
between genres and their correlation with a hierarchical ideology.71
In contrast to the prized long epic genre of the novel, this short novella has the
complex structure of the highly esteemed classical five-act tragedy.72 Furhtermore,
according to Nietzsche the tragedy is the proclaimed supreme genre “of a redeeming
compromise between Apollo and Dionysius, whereby the destruction of the indi-
vidual in his boundaries is articulated, exquisitely, within the new boundaries of
Apolline art.” The dramatic projection is constructed with three separate song-
performances similar to a three-act comedy. The group of singing and dancing
comedians convey the Dionysiac emotions and dark truth about diversity in life and
about “the destruction of its finest individual specimens” (Silk, p. 199). Braiding
tragic and comic elements and structures, the fall and destiny of the unfaithful
“heroic” individual Aschenbach is thus outlined in its tragicomic ambivalence.73
Moreover, musical elements and structures are symbolically represented not only
by the mention of sounds and music but also in the rhythmical recurrence of the
Dionysiac “types,” recognizable through their goat-like features. This group of
71
The phenomenon of impurity or hybridism has been valuated as a symptom of decadence both by
poets and critics in history, whereas tragedy has long been idealised as a paradigmatically pure genre,
aligned with an idealisation of the Greek polis, cf. Farell, p. 392 and my note 16. Well-known is
the historic discourse about the primacy of pure instrumental music over the mixed form, including
songs in symphonies.
72
Apart from the dramatic structure a fictional autobiography is also embedded in the literary genre
of a novella in the classical style of Alexandrian biography cf. Frederic Amory: “The Classical Style of
‘Der Tod in Venedig’” in Modern Language Review 1964 (p. 399–409), p. 309–310.
73
These Dionysiac “types,” that at the end are set out as a Dionysiac chorus mirroring the essential,
musical spirit of the tragedy according to Nietzsche, reoccur in the narration in different transfor-
mations of the same group of nameless figures (the stranger, the gondolier, the “old fop,” the barber,
etc.). They are visually marked by their ugliness, by their vulgar gestures and by other characteristics.
At the end they may be recognized as variations of Hermes’ shifting shapes actualizing different
mythological characteristics through the symbolism of their surroundings. The different servant
figures or the greedy musicians with their satyric features recall the power of the god of merchants
and of Dionysus. Moreover, according to a popular etymology of tragedy, tragoidia, as “goat-song,”
the goat-like figures refer ambiguously to both the tragic and the comic aspects in Aschenbach’s fate
and to the mirroring of this ambiguity in the “un-pure” form of the novella.
232
“returning strangers” can be categorized as personifications of death and are part of

the leitmotif, a literary device linked to music through structural analogy with the
purpose of unifying and of augmenting thematic implications and of overcoming
the laws of time. Belonging to the dance-of-death motif these figures reoccur in an
increasing tempo, with slightly modified attributes to amplify their meaning. As
“retarding factors of the narrative flow” (Lund 1992, p. 40), they do not only give
rhythm and structure to the narrative but also mirror Aschenbach’s influence under
the metaphysic power of music/Will.74 These figures can be read as allusive formulas
and as an inversion of Wagner’s romantic themes of spiritual love and fervent death
wish.75 Even on the syntactic level the increasing rhythm of music is mirrored in the
fact that the long clauses of epic-tragic style are reduced after the turning point into
a less high-flown style. To provide meaning, this structure needs to be recognized in
the succession and discursiveness of text (or music) by an active reader. When the
reader has an a-historical (mythological) form in mind and correlates it with isolated
historical phenomena, he applies his visual and musical literacy in an aesthetic
communication with the text.76
In spite of the importance attributed to music, this medium is not axiomatically
given priority over language or visual arts because images arouse the same emotions
as sounds. Following the narrator’s point of view, the ideological connotation of
Nietzsche’s and Schopenhauer’s conceptions is unveiled. For both, the nonverbal
medium music and its verbal “brother,” the tragedy, are the direct expressions of
the Will, the “true universal language superseding speech.” Loosely applying their
ideas in the verbal medium, the tragic plot included in the epic narrative mirrors
this “complex relationship between the Apollonian and the Dionysiac” (BT: 21).77
74
In the first long sentence at the beginning of the second chapter the complex architectonic struc-
ture is responsible for a slow rhythm. The narrator outlines in this long sentence the Apollonian
character of Aschenbach’s work and his excessive intellectualism to the cost of his suffering body,
cf. John Richard and Morthon Gledhill: Strategies in Translation. Helen Lowe-Porter and David Luke
Translations of Thomas Mann’s ‘Tonio Kröger,’ ‘Tristan’ and ‘Der Tod in Venedig’ within the Context
of Contemporary Translation Theory, Erfurt 2001, p. 68–69. For the leitmotif by Thomas Mann in
generell, cf. Agnes Schlee: Wandlungen musikalischer Strukturen im Werke Thomas Manns. Vom Leit-
motiv zur Zwölftonreihe, Frankfurt am Main 1981.
75
Stevie Anne Bolduc: “A Study of Intertextuality: Thomas Mann’s ‘Tristan’ and Richard Wagner’s
‘Tristan and Isolde’” in Rocky Mountain Review of Language and Literature, Vol. 37. No. 1–2, 1983
(p. 82–93), p. 89, 92.
76
Wolf, p. 58. In opposition to Aschenbach’s isolation of visual and acoustic phenomena, the implied
reader connects the different figures belonging to the Dionysian counter-world due to their attributes
and the meaning-giving context in a chain of Death-figures.
77
Schopenhauer values tragedy as the highest poetical art due to its ability to represent “the war
of will with itself,” the evil sides of life, and even Nietzsche believes in music as universal language
superseding speech. Nietzsche claims in his early fragment “On Words and Music” (Über Worte and
Musik), 1871, that the “word” is an inadequate instrument to express the realities they designate in
contrast to “the primal melody of the pleasure – and displeasure basis”, the manifestation of the Will.
Cf. Engel, p. 282.
233
Both the poet and the reader can maintain the aesthetic distance to Apollonian
visions and plastic arts, while at the same time they experience the mesmerizing
emotional effect produced by the Dionysiac chaotic might of music and drama. As
Nietzsche insists, by overcoming the antagonism of the gods the narrator produces
an art that generates a fleeting “truth.” Nevertheless, this might also be understood
as the writer’s obligation to represent – beyond any claim of metaphysical truth
– the “exuberance of life” encompassing mind and body, art and non-art. In contrast
to the dead, formal language of the disembodied Aschenbach, the writing process
of the embodied narrator includes, in its musicality, the knowledge of universal,
timeless forces beyond the conscious will. Thus, with his ironic attitude the narrator
underlines the necessary intellectual distance to the intrinsic illusionary character of
art that turns real phenomena into a desired (untrue) aesthetic world.78 By means
of a well structured composition the narrator unmasks Aschenbach as writer of
emotional dishonesty (in the same way Nietzsche does with Wagner).
Instead of the Nietzschian rebirth of the tragic element in music, the novella can
be seen as an attempt to regenerate verbal art by integrating the tragic and musical
elements in the epic genre. The sublime tragic pathos found both in the philosophic
framework and in Wagner’s mythological “total work of art” – carrying the romantic
middle class ideal of a healthy, natural and uncorrupted “free individual” (Siegfried)
– is avoided by means of the narrator’s irony and the integrated satiric comedy.79
Whereas Nietzsche believes that music protects art against the decadent and blood-
less Socratian art, Thomas Mann presents a text as a counterpart to music. His short
novella is a contesting response to Wagner’s predominant use of lengthy mesmerizing
music. Text composed into an artistic structure undergirds the power of rationality. In
Mann’s novella the advantages of different arts are combined in a theatrical alliance,
like an epic version of Wagner’s utopian dream. The crucial difference is however
that, in order to solve man’s alienation, Wagner promotes the unification of art and
life, while the narrator refuses to blur this distinction between them.
The novella stresses the advantages of verbal art by presenting the different
points of view of the developing tragic character, embedded in a psychological
background and unfolded throughout actions in which the change of rooms and
the course of time are constitutive elements. The hybrid structure of the narrator’s
78
Benjamin Bennett: “Nietzsche’s Idea of Myth: The Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Eighteenth-
Century Aesthetics” in PMLA, Vol. 94, No. 3, 1979 (p. 420–433), p. 423.
79
Aschenbach’s love-death changes the Tristan motif into a homoerotic relationship to focus on the
hollowed romantic aspect with the amorality of his wishes as well as on Nietzsche’s attack on Wagner
who unfaithfully emphasizes the sublime in the romantic love-death in his musico-dramatic com-
positions full of unrestrained emotions. Moreover, also the death of Gabriele Klöterjahn in Thomas
Mann’s Tristan after having played the “Liebestod”-motif from Wagner’s opera is merely a variation
of the mute Aschenbach abusing images for his unrestrained emotions. According to Nietzsche,
Wagner’s music lacks an “organic form” and his “dramatic style” aims to persuade masses by his
alluring ideas resounding in great mystic symbols hidden in “foggy distances.”
234
verbal medium “grasps the principles that make up an organic whole while offering
a reassuring sense of the mind’s powers for aggregating, sorting, and classifying the
most disparate quantities of data” (Nichols, p. 384). Thus, the catharsis effect of
being overwhelmed by the totality of the world and its vital forces depends on the
reader who imposes quieting unity on disquieting multiplicity.
This essay about the novella Death in Venice was concerned with verbal, visual
and musical aesthetics. Nestled within the philosophy of the 18th and 19th centuries,
the discourse on art, mimesis, beauty and the sublime is correlated with different
media texts. Enlarging borders of genre and style, Thomas Mann’s novella integrates
– in spite of the use of strict classical forms – other media and excluded non-
romantic topics. Art, then, exists at its best, according to this novella, not as a discrete
medium, but in an interconnection with other media. The novella includes hybrid
forms or multimedia texts, stressing their function in cultural communication and
in unmasking the idealized myth of elative bourgeois self-representation. Even if the
novella is limited to one medium, intermediality is embraced as a main source for
generating meaning and disclosing concealed ideological codes.
235
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237
“Ein, ganzer, großer Eindruck füllte meine Seele”:
The Gothic Façade in German Romanticism
Stephanie A. Glaser
The eighteenth-century rediscovery and re-evaluation of the Middle Ages opened

the way for the Romantic glorification of the medieval period as the time when
the European nations were born and when their national artistic styles flourished.1
As a result, the most imposing medieval artefact, the Gothic cathedral, stood out
as the symbol of the nation and of Art, and as such it provided inspiration for
writers and artists both in scholarly and popular domains.2 Out of this meeting
between the medieval architectural structure and the modern mind arose theories
and understandings of medieval architecture that have remained at the basis of our
contemporary understanding of the Gothic. Thus, verbal and visual representations
of Gothic architecture provide examples of the ways in which such transcriptions
impose meaning upon an existing building and reveal a particular understanding of
its structure. Rightly has Hans Lund observed, literary – and I would add visual –
representations of objects are dependent upon conventions of perception, which are
intertwined with the worldview and aesthetics of a particular socio-cultural milieu
and time.3 Accordingly, in the Romantic period correspondences between a writer’s
linguistic strategies and an artist’s techniques of line and shading can be explored
in order to more fully comprehend the meaning the Gothic cathedral possessed at
this time.
Examining the representation of Strasbourg Cathedral’s façade in Johann
Wolfgang von Goethe’s “Von Deutscher Baukunst” (1773) and in an 1812 architec-
tural drawing by Karl Friedrich Schinkel, principle architect to the Prussian king,
this study shows that Goethe’s text and Schinkel’s drawing incorporate strategies
which permit the reader or the beholder to visualize the edifice in a manner which
accords with the philosophical and political aims of their creators. Comparing these
strategies gives insight into the manner in which an architectural monument can
be verbally and visually transposed. Furthermore, in juxtaposing three media: word,
1
These points are brought out in my article “‘Deutsche Baukunst,’ ‘Architecture Française’: The Use
of the Gothic Cathedral in the Construction of National Memory in Nineteenth-Century Germany
and France” in Claus Clüver, Véronique Plesch, and Leo Hoek (eds.): Orientations: Space / Time /
Image / Word (Word & Image Interactions 5), Amsterdam; New York 2005 (p. 77–91).
2
This is discussed at length in my doctoral dissertation: Stephanie A. Glaser: Explorations of the
Gothic Cathedral in Nineteenth-Century France, Ann Arbor 2002.
3
Hans Lund: Text as Picture. Studies in the Literary Transformation of Pictures, trans. Kacke Götrick,
Lewiston 1992 (p. 63).
239
Stephanie A. Glaser: ”Ein, ganzer, großer Eindruck füllte meine Seele”
image and architecture, this study aims to offer a paradigmatic example of the types
of questions raised by intermedial inquiry and thereby illustrates the richness of
such investigation. By underlining the differences in literary and visual strategies of
representation, especially how each renders temporal and spatial relations between
the beholder and the monument, it calls attention to the reader’s and the behol-
der’s participation in these representational strategies.4 Finally, the word-image
interactions analysed will point to themes upon which images and texts concur and
expose the means by which texts and images work together to form a particular
discourse, in this case the sublime character of the Gothic and the concept of the
ideal cathedral.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe at Strasbourg Cathedral

Strasbourg cathedral loomed large in the Romantic imagination, primarily due to
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s (1749–1832) “Von Deutscher Baukunst,” written
from 1771 to 1772 and published in 1773.5 Actually a dithyramb to the cathedral
architect Erwin von Steinbach, the text’s main concern is aesthetics, and it hails
Strasburg Cathedral as the privileged product of the German genius and a powerful
example of a forgotten aesthetic which countered the neoclassical principles predomi-
nant in Goethe’s day. Structured around the description of the cathedral, the text
consists of five sections: after celebrating Erwin von Steinbach as the genial and god-
like creator in the first section and denigrating Marc-Antoine Laugier’s influential
architectural theory and with it neoclassical aesthetics in the second section, which
closes with the contemporary definition of Gothic as barbaric,6 Goethe recounts his
experience at Strasburg Cathedral. This third section is the text’s turning point and
it prepares the reader for Goethe’s discussion of “true art,” which he calls “karack-
teristische Kunst,”7 in the following section and for his call to arms in the fifth
4
I am very much indebted to Klaus Niehr’s analysis of the role of spectator and beholding within
architectural history in Gotikbilder–Gotiktheorien. Studien zur Wahrnehmung und Erforschung
mittelalterlicher Architektur in Deutschland zwischen ca. 1750 und 1850, Berlin 1999. His article
“Patterns of Behaviour: Architectural Representation in the Romantic Period” in Stephanie A. Glaser
(ed.): The Idea of the Gothic Cathedral, Turnhout; Belgium (forthcoming), has profoundly influenced
my own interpretation of the texts and images in this essay.
5
According to W. D. Robson-Scott, Goethe’s text was immediately forgotten, then appeared in pirated
editions before being “rescued from oblivion” around 1800 (Robson-Scott: Literary Background, p.
91–95). In an earlier work, Robson-Scott discusses the text’s composition and its possible dating:
“On the Composition of Goethe’s ‘Von Deutscher Baukunst’” in The Modern Language Review, Vol.
54, 1959 (p. 547–553).
6
Johann Georg Sulzer’s Allgemeine Theorie der Schönen Künste of 1771 was one of the most influential
transmitters of this idea in Goethe’s day. The idea of Gothic as barbaric was put forward in the
fifteenth century by the Italian humanists; see E. S. de Beer: “Gothic: origin and diffusion of the
term; the idea of style in architecture” in Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, Vol. XI,
1948 (p. 143–162).
7
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: Von Deutscher Baukunst. D. M. Ervini a Steinbach. 1773 (1772–3) in
240
section, where he urges his contemporaries to create a truly German art.

In the third section, Goethe the eulogist and critic of the preceding sections
portrays himself as a beholder. His narrative persona describes how, filled with the
common anti-Gothic prejudices of his day, he approached Strasburg Cathedral
only to be overwhelmed by emotions associated with the sublime: “Ein, ganzer,
großer Eindruck füllte meine Seele, den, weil er aus tausend harmonirenden
Einzelnheiten bestand, ich wohl schmecken und genießen, keineswegs aber
erkennen und erklären könnte” (Goethe, p. 99).8 Although at the text’s opening
Goethe had circumspectly evoked the sublime character of the edifice, praising the
architect’s bold accomplishment in erecting the massive stone to extreme heights
in a purposeful whole (Goethe, p. 95), here his narrative persona describes the
effects the cathedral exerts on him in terms of physical sensations: “schmecken”
(taste, savour), “genießen” (enjoy, relish), which leave no place for the intellect and
reason, for he can “by no means identify and explain” the impression the edifice
makes on him. In contraposing the emotional experience of an object with that
of intellectually comprehending it, Goethe, the crafter of the text, underscores
the opposition between true art, which springs from and speaks to the soul, and
neoclassical art, which, based on rational rules and principles, emphasized surface
beauty and was foreign to the German spirit (Goethe, p. 96). In so doing, he also
foregrounds the Romantic aesthetic, which privileged emotions and sensations over
Enlightenment rationalism.
Importantly, Goethe’s narrative stresses the physical effort involved in beholding
an edifice, for the narrative persona recounts his repeated interaction with the cathe-
dral in time and in space:
[…] how often have I gone back to enjoy this heavenly-earthly joy […].
How often have I returned, from all sides, from all distances, in all
lights, to contemplate its dignity and his [sic] magnificence. […] How
often has the evening twilight soothed with its friendly quiet my eyes,
tired-out with questing, by blending the scattered parts into masses
which now stood simple and large before my soul, and at once my
powers unfolded rapturously to enjoy and to understand” (Gage, p.
107).9
Johann Gottfried Herder: Von Deutscher Art und Kunst (1773), Stuttgart 1995 (p. 93–104), p. 102.
8
“The impression which filled my soul was whole and large, and of a sort that (since it was composed
of a thousand harmonizing details) I could relish and enjoy, but by no means identify and explain.”
I use John Gage’s translation, “On German architecture,” in John Gage (ed. and trans.): Goethe on
Art, Berkeley; Los Angeles 1980 (p. 103–112), p. 106.
9
“[...] wie oft bin ich zurückgekehrt, diese himmlisch-irdish Freude zu genießen, [...]. Wie oft bin
ich zurückgekehrt, von allen Seiten, aus allen Entfernungen in jedem Lichte des Tags zu schauen
seine Würde und Herrlichkeit. […] Wie oft hat die Abenddämmerung mein durch forschendes
Schauen ermattes Aug, mit freundlicher Ruhe geletzt, wenn durch sie die unzähligen Theile, zu
241
This passage underscores the temporal dimension of viewing, first by highlighting

its repetition in the phrase recurring in the original “Wie oft bin ich zurückgekehrt,”
and in the triple use of the adverbial, “How often” (Wie oft); and secondly by calling
attention to the different lights (“in jedem Lichte des Tages”) in which the edifice is
viewed. These two points indicate that though the act of viewing may be repeated,
the view itself is never the same.
Nor is the beholder’s position. The narrative persona recounts how he moves
around the cathedral, observing it “from all sides, from all distances.” This physical
movement corresponds to his mind’s working around the object towards appreciation
and understanding of it. As Klaus Niehr has pointed out, the position of the beholder
becomes an important aspect of Romantic representations of medieval architecture,
from Friedrich Schlegel, who recorded the proximate mineral and distant vegetable
appearances of Cologne Cathedral (Schlegel, p. 178–179), through illustrated
volumes like the Voyages Pittoresques which also portrayed edifices from various
distances and perspectives and times of day.10
By observing the cathedral in different lights and from different distances and
positions, the narrative persona’s physical engagement with the edifice ultimately
enables him both to take pleasure in and to understand rationally its grandeur and
dignity. This results in part from his repeated and manifold efforts of studied view-
ing, the “forschendes Schauen” which exhausted his eye. His remark counters what
was at the time a common criticism of Gothic architecture, that its excessive and
overwrought detail fatigued the eye, and emphasizes that it was not the façade’s
myriad details but the repeated and intense act of beholding that tired the eyes.
In this, Goethe again stresses the actual physical effort involved in viewing and in
grasping the complexity and sublimity of the edifice.
Ultimately, the narrative persona finds rest for his eye at twilight, and this
liminal, or transitional, time between day and night provokes a powerful change in
his perception. As the cathedral’s manifold details and parts coalesce into a complete
whole, the narrative persona’s emotions are reconciled with his intellect. With his
inner discord resolved, he becomes whole, reflecting the wholeness he now perceives
in the edifice. As such, he achieves a certain unity with the cathedral, and this opens
him to another reality, a vision, in fact: “the genius of the great Master of the Works
ganzen Massen schmolzen, und nun diese, einfach und groß, vor meiner Seele standen, und meine
Kraft sich wonnevoll entfaltete, zugleich zu genießen und zu erkennen” (Goethe, p. 99–100 ).
10
Friedrich von Schlegel: Briefe auf einer Reise durch die Niederlande, Reingegenden, die Schwiez, und
einen Teil von Frankreich (1804) in Hans Eichner (ed.): Ansichten und Ideen von der christlichen Kunst.
Kritische Freidrich-Schlegel-Ausgabe, Munich; Paderborn; Vienna; Zurich, Vol. 4, 1959 (p. 153–204).
Niehr discusses the importance of this in Gotikbilder-Gotiktheorien (p. 11–19) and analyses the
complexity of beholding in “Patterns of Behaviour.” Friedrich von Schlegel: Briefe auf einer Reise
durch die Niederlande, Rheingegenden, die Schwiez, und einen Teil von Frankreich (1804) in Hans
Eichner (ed.): Ansichten und Ideen von der christlichen Kunst. Kritische Freidrich-Schlegel-Ausgabe,
Munich; Paderborn; Vienna; Zurich, Vol. 4, 1959 (p. 153–204).
242
revealed itself to me” (Gage, p.107).11 The Genius of Erwin von Steinbach appears
to him to deliver up the secret of the cathedral’s construction.
Whereas the narrative persona has uniquely described the cathedral in terms of
the sublime, the medieval architect focuses on precise architectural details:
“Why are you so surprised?” he whispered to me. “All these shapes

were necessary ones, and don’t you see them in all the old churches
of my city? I have only elevated their arbitrary sizes to harmonious
proportions. How the great circle of the window opens above the main
door which dominates the two side ones: what was otherwise but a
hole for the daylight now echoes the nave of the church! How, high
above, the belfry demands the smaller window! All this was necessary,
and I made it beautiful. But ah! If I float through the dark and lofty
openings at the side that seem to stand empty and useless, in their
strong slender form I have hidden the secret powers which should
lift those two towers high in the air – of which, alas! only one stands
mournfully there, without its intended decoration of pinnacles, so that
the surrounding country would pay homage to it and its regal brother”
(Gage, p. 107–108).12
As a depiction of a Gothic cathedral, the passage is rather disappointing, for it gives

little detail besides the three prominent features of every Gothic façade: portals, rose
window, and towers. Nonetheless, it differs strikingly from contemporary descriptions
in that it makes no mention of the pointed arch, which Gothic enthusiasts praised as
its outstanding characteristic and guiding principle (Glaser, 22–30);13 and contrarily
to those which emphasized the Gothic’s bizarre, overwrought decorative elements
and lack of order or reason, this passage draws the reader’s attention to the order and
purposeful organization of the construction.
It does, however, enable the reader to visualize the edifice. The second word in
11
“Da offenbarte sich mir […] der Genius des großen Werkmeisters” (Goethe, p. 100).
12
“Was staunst du, lispelt er mir entgegen. Alle diese Maßen waren nothwendig, und siehst du sie
nicht an allen älteren Kirchen meiner Stadt? Nur ihre willkürliche Größen hab ich zum stimmenden
Verhältniß erhoben. Wie über dem Haupteingang, der zwey kleinere zu’n Seiten beherrscht, sich der
weite Kreis des Fensters öffnet, der dem Schiffe der Kirche antwortet und sonst nur Tageloch war,
wie, hoch drüber der Glockenplatz die kleineren Fenster forderte! das all war nothwendig, und ich
bildete es schön. Aber ach, wenn ich durch die düstern erhabnen Öffnungen hier zur Seite schwebe,
die leer und vergebens da zu stehn scheinen. In ihre kühne schlanke Gestalt hab ich die geheimniß-
vollen Kräfte verborgen, die jene beyden Thürme hoch in die Luft heben sollten, deren, ach, nur
einer traurig da steht, ohne den fünfgethürmten Hauptschmuck, den ich ihm bestimmte, daß ihm
und seinem königlichen Bruder die Provinzen umher huldigten (Goethe, p. 100).
13
I have analysed the importance of the pointed arch in the nineteenth century in “Lectures
sémiotiques de l’ogive au XIXe siècle” in Isabelle Durand-Le Guern (ed.): Images du Moyen Âge,
Rennes 2006 (p. 333–347).
243
the German sentence which describes the cathedral facade, the preposition “über,”
(above) directs the reader’s eye to follow the cathedral’s vertical ascension from its
portals to its rose window to its single tower, and thereby emphasizes the cathedral’s
height. “Über” also indicates the position of the rose window opening directly above
the central portal, and thus calls attention to the central axis which commands
the organization of the façade. Goethe accentuates the façade’s determined
and purposeful organization by using active verbs: the central portal dominates
(“beherrscht”) the smaller flanking portals, the wide circle of the rose opens (“öffnet”)
above it and responds to (“antwortet”) the nave, and the spire demanded (“fordete”)
smaller windows. These verbs emphasize how each of the façade’s elements actively
participates in determining the whole, and how all of the elements within the whole
require specific purposeful relations to the others. As these relations order the façade,
so they regulate the entire edifice as exemplified by the correspondence between
the rose window and the nave. This purposeful ordering results in the harmonious
proportions (“stimmende Verhältniß”), symmetry, and beauty of the Gothic edifice.
Through the persona of the medieval architect then, Goethe transfers the aesthetic
concepts which regulated neoclassical art to the Gothic façade and shows them to
be the guiding principles of a creation which supersedes all prescribed norms and
stands out as a magnificent example of a vital and creative aesthetic.
Following Erwin von Steinbach’s description, the narrative persona awakens
from his night-vision and relates how the misty light of dawn, another liminal
moment, reverses the fusion of the cathedral’s individual details and parts which he
perceived at twilight:
How freshly the Minster sparkled in the early morning mist, and how
happily I could stretch out my arms towards it and gaze at the harmonious
masses, alive with countless details. Just as in the eternal works of
nature, everything is perfectly formed down to the meanest thread,
and all contributing purposefully to the whole. How the vast building
rose lightly into the air from its firm foundations; how everything was
fretted, and yet fashioned for eternity! (Gage, p. 108).14
Whether because of the light or the medieval architect’s lesson, the narrative persona
distinguishes that the harmonious masses are animated with innumerable small
parts, each of which works purposefully together to form the complete whole,
14
“Wie Frisch leuchtet [der Münster] im Morgendufftglanz mir entgegen, wie froh konnt ich ihm
meine Arme entgegen strecken, schauen die großen, harmonischen Massen, zu unzählig kleinen
Theilen belebt; wie in Werken der ewigen Natur, bis aufs geringste Zäserchen, alles Gestalt, und alles
zweckend zum Ganzen; wie das fest gegründete ungeheure Gebäude sich leicht in die Luft hebt; wie
durchbrochen alles und doch für die Ewigkeit” (Goethe p. 100–101). (Gage, p. 108).
244
like in natural organisms.15 He nonetheless refrains from describing the edifice in

terms of its architectural elements; instead, he focuses on some commonly evoked
characteristics of the Gothic: its enormity, its elevation, its elaborate openwork
sculpture, and he gives them aesthetic value in terms of the sublime: vastness,
height, incalculable delicacy, eternity. His description of the Gothic sublime works
together with Erwin von Steinbach’s description of the Gothic’s ordering principles
and aesthetic harmonies to create a heretofore unsuspected image of the Gothic
cathedral as both sublime and harmonious and proportioned, and, on top of that, as
an architecture which follows natural and eternal principles. This turns Strasbourg
Cathedral into the prime example of “karakteristische Kunst” (Goethe, p. 102), art
which arises from and communicates with the soul.
The Gothic edifice is the kernel of Goethe’s text: it not only serves as the model
for Goethe’s aesthetic, but it lies at the text’s origin, for it appears that the initial
encounter with the edifice stimulated Goethe’s entire reflection on art and the
creative prowess of the German soul and incited him to write it down.16 Accord-
ingly, the cathedral episode is pivotal to the text both thematically, for it lays out
the components of the new aesthetic which Goethe expounds in the text’s latter
half, and in terms of the narrative persona’s development and of the narrative itself,
which moves from criticizing the neoclassical aesthetic to defending an alternative,
German one. In fact, the dream, or the vision, which lies at the heart of the cathe-
dral episode, may be considered as the turning point of the text. It may even be
conjectured that, in significant opposition to Enlightenment rationalism (i.e. the
habitat of neoclassicism) which dismissed the dream as irrational, Goethe anticipated
Romantic thought, which privileged the dream as the free realm of the imagination
and the means of inspiration, by crafting the dream-vision as the crucial scene in
the text and, ironically, making it the sole carrier of reason and rationality in an
aesthetic debate where the Gothic could be either barbaric (according to Sulzer’s
definition) or sublime (in the eyes of the narrative persona).
Situated dramatically between twilight and dawn, the dream-vision is a unique
transformative experience that alters both perception and reception. From it neither
the narrative persona nor the reader emerges exactly the same, for both end up posi-
tively appraising the Gothic. As such, it creates a caesura in the text and also produces
15
Earlier in the text, Goethe compared the facade to a magnificent tree branching out into several
boughs, many twigs and innumerable leaves: “Vermannigfaltige die ungeheure Mauer, die du gen
Himmel führen sollst, daß sie aufsteige gleich einem hocherhabnen, weitverbreiteten Baume Gottes,
der mit tausend Ästen, Millionen Zweigen, und Blättern wie der Sand am Meer, rings um, der
Gegend verkündet, die Herrlichkeit des Herrn [...]” (Goethe, p. 98-99).
16
Johann Gottfried Herder’s ideas profoundly influenced Goethe’s reflection on these topics, as
Robson-Scott has explained (The Literary Background of the Gothic Revival in Germany. A Chapter
in the History of Taste, Oxford 1965, p. 78–80), though he stresses the profound nature of Goethe’s
encounter with Strasburg Cathedral in “Goethe and the Gothic Revival” in Publications of the English
Goethe Society 25, 1956 (p. 86–113), p. 110.
245
a rupture in the narrative voice, for Erwin von Steinbach’s supernatural apparition
speaks the most important lines of the entire text. This is fitting, for Goethe sets him
up as the model of the genial artist: the mortal image of the divine creator (Goethe,
p. 95–96) and the creative genius par excellence. Erwin is, moreover, the only one
who can explain his creation and thereby counter Laugier’s theories and oppose
Sulzer, the proponent of the neoclassical aesthetic – and thus of Gothic criticism.
As we have seen, the narrative persona doesn’t – and can’t – explain the organization
of the Gothic cathedral’s constituent parts – even after the vision he remains true
to character and speaks about Strasburg Cathedral almost exclusively in terms of
the sublime. Thus someone must intervene and make the façade comprehensible,
and who better than the cathedral architect to expound its harmonies and order to
the novitiate and thereby initiate him into a new aesthetic and a new manner of
thinking about art? Moreover, Erwin von Steinbach is the only one who can reveal
his original plan for the edifice with its two majestic and symmetrical five-pinnacled
towers, “of which, alas! only one stands mournfully there, without its intended
decoration of pinnacles” (Gage, p. 107–108).
Deploring the cathedral’s fragmentary state, the architect juxtaposes this with its
would-have-been completed state: the dark, empty apertures contrast with the lofty
towers that would have been raised, and the sad single tower contrasts dramatically
with the image of two regal “brothers.” Here both the fragmentary and the complete
edifice are reconstituted. This enables the reader to envision the cathedral in two
sates, for the extant building stands out as the imperfect terrestrial apparition of a
celestial creation, an ideal edifice, existing in words and, as a consequence, in the
reader’s mind: a magnificent edifice complete with two symmetrical and regal spires.
This idea of a perfect edifice which cannot exist except in the mind of the archi-
tect presages the restoration philosophy of Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc: “To
restore an edifice is to re-establish it in a complete state which could never have
existed at any given moment.”17 In his text Goethe uses the medieval architect to
describe the cathedral as it never actually existed, except as an idea in his mind, and
this permits the beholder to fully envision the cathedral’s symmetries, harmonies
and its ordering principle.
Karl Friedrich Schinkel at Strasbourg Cathedral

The concept of the ideal or perfect cathedral fuelled the nineteenth-century imagi-
nation, informing visual and verbal representation of an academic or an artistic
nature, and influencing monumental restoration.18 The German-speaking peoples
17
“Restaurer un edifice […] c’est le rétablir dans un état complet qui peut n’avoir jamais existé à un
moment donné.” Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc: Dictionnaire raisonné de l’architecture française
du XIe au XVIe siècle (1854–68), Paris n.d, Vol. VIII (p. 14; my translation).
18
See my doctoral disseration (p. 270–276).
246
Fig. 1. Karl Friedrich Schinkel, Fassade des Münsters in Straßburger (1812). Ink, 69,5 x 50,4 cm. Bildarchiv
Preußischer Kulturbesitz
focused on Strasburg and Cologne cathedrals as “fragments” to be completed. During

the Napoleonic wars, they hailed the Gothic as a German creation manifesting the
strength and unity of the German people in the Middle Ages, which they dreamt
of channelling in order to throw off the Gallic yoke and create a sort of German
utopia. Popular during the Romantic period especially among Gothic enthusiasts,
“Von Deutscher Baukunst” played some role in this (Robson-Scott 1965, p. 91–95),
and so it is likely that Karl Friedrich Schinkel (1781–1841) knew, or at least knew
247
of, Goethe’s text.19 In 1812 Schinkel completed an elevation of Strasburg Cathedral

with two spires, a perfected edifice similar to, but not necessarily a representation
of, that in Goethe’s text (fig. 1). Besides the two crowning spires, Schinkel’s
representation shares with Goethe’s in focusing the reader-beholder’s attention on
the façade’s order, the multiplicity of detail, the play of lightness and mass, and the
verticality of the edifice.
Looking at Schinkel’s façade, the beholder confronts a rigorously organized
structure that exhibits total regularity, proportion, and symmetry. As the eye sweeps
over the façade, from the foundation to the towers, it then descends to the row of
clear, transparent window openings which constitute the façade’s third storey, it
pauses at the rose window to ascend the vertical axis back to the window openings
and to the open gallery above them, then down again to the central portal with its
great gable, in a movement which graphically echoes Goethe’s sentence structure:
“über dem Haupteingang [...] sich der weite Kreis des Fensters öffnet.” As Goethe’s
reader is directed to look at the rose, which serves as the active subject, Schinkel’s
beholder is guided by the effects of shading to focus on the rose, whose circularity
counterpoints the abundance of vertical lines, yet harnesses them in the minute
tracery of its spokes. Simultaneously, the beholder perceives the horizontal and
vertical axes that make up the façade. Constituted by the diaphanous third-storey
windows which intersect the vertical axis at the central bay above the rose, these
axes form a cross, which, even while alluding to the Christian origin and use of the
edifice, powerfully regulates the façade’s structure.
Schinkel’s shading technique also accentuates the edifice’s ascensional character.
It pulls the eye to the diaphanous window openings, which echo the openwork
towers to which they seem to belong, and thus shifts the proportions to dramatize
the façade’s verticality. His drawing portrays the façade in six tiers, three storeys in
the body of the edifice, whose height is equal to the three tiers of the towers with
their spires. Its middle is marked by the moulding above the clear window openings.
If these openings were darkened, the edifice’s verticality would be limited to the
towers; yet the transparent openings obscure the break between the tower shafts
and the cathedral’s body, making the edifice appear to ascend in a single, elegant
movement. This is heightened by the slight tapering of the edifice along the gradual
incline of the outside walls, and is further accentuated by the long, slim bays, the
myriad gables, and the crowning finials projecting upwards.
19
For discussions on Schinkel and the Gothic see Andreas Haus: “Gedanken über K. F. Schinkels
Einstellung zur Gotik” in Marburger Jahrbuch für Kunstwissenschaft, 22, 1989 (p. 215–231); Georg
Friedrich Koch: “Karl Friedrich Schinkel und die Architektur des Mittelalters. Die Studien auf der
ersten Italienreise und ihre Auswirkungen” in Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte, 1966 (p. 177–222) and
“Schinkels architektonische Entwürfe im gotischen Stil 1810–1815” in Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte,
1969 (p. 262–316); Robson-Scott 1965 (p. 232–237); Caroline van Eck: Organicism in nineteenth-
century architecture. An inquiry into its theoretical and philosophical background, Amsterdam 1994 (p.
142–155).
248
Fig. 2. Strasbourg Cathedral, west façade, (1900/1920). Bildarchiv Foto Marburg
Thus guiding the eye and emphasizing the cathedral’s verticality, Schinkel’s
careful shading also invites the beholder to marvel at the façade’s filigreed and
lacelike character created by the intricate tracery, the innumerable crockets and the
moulded finials which stand out against the darkened mass of the cathedral’s wall.
The juxtaposition of light and dark spaces brings the plethora of minutely rendered
details into stark relief and calls attention to the organization of the rich and complex
ornamentation repeated seemingly to infinity across the entire surface of the façade.
In evoking the sublime through infinity, Schinkel’s facade seems to correspond to
Goethe’s exclamation, “how everything was fretted, and yet fashioned for eternity”
(Gage, p. 108).20 Thus setting light areas against dark, Schinkel creates a diaphanous
edifice that diverges from the real edifice, as Klaus Niehr has observed.21 In reality,
20
“Wie durchbrochen alles und doch für die Ewigkeit” (Goethe, p. 101).
21
Niehr declares that Schinkel disregards the actual appearance of the edifice, and explains how
he renders transparency to give the edifice a diaphanous character: “Plastizität und Masse werden
vermittels scharf schattierender Lavierung zum Ausdruck gebracht, die durchbrochene Struktur
is anhand einer Durchsichtigkeit der Wände demonstriert. Daß letzterer vor allem auch eine
bildrhetorische Dimension zukommt, ergibt sich aus der Diaphanie von zentralem Glockenhaus
und ursprünglich erstem Freigeschoß der Türme, also Bauteilen, deren Fensterdurchbrechungen mit
249
(fig. 2) the third-storey window openings appear as dark recesses, and the windows
on either side of the rose are actually walled in.
In Schinkel’s drawing however, the darkened recesses of the portals and the
window openings beside the rose add depth to the representation, for the delicate
window tracery appears suspended inside the wall-openings, and the fine gables
with their slim supports seem to adorn the very outside edges of the mouldings. The
slim bars and intricate tracery in the bays, the diaphanous window openings and
the openwork towers contrast with the weight and mass of the shaded lower storeys,
underscoring the coexistence of lightness and solidity that Goethe saw reconciled
in the Gothic.
This skilful rendition of the façade, however, differs from reality in another
sense. As shown by the photograph, the buildings in front of the cathedral hinder
the beholder from viewing the entire façade. The drawing, however, illustrates the
whole façade and places the beholder directly in front of it, even on eye level with
it, enabling the beholder to effortlessly perceive its organization and scrutinize even
the details of its towers, which in reality would be too small and too far away to be
analyzed by the unaided eye. It thus fixes the point of view and negates all move-
ment and all observation from various standpoints and perspectives, which Goethe
emphasized as critical for viewing and understanding. Reducing thus the conditions
for viewing, which, according to Klaus Niehr, marks the beginning stage of the
scientific approach to architecture (Niehr 1999, p. 28), this drawing, a front elevation,
offers a “scientific” view that purports to objectivity and stimulates analytic thought
about the façade. Herein lies the main difference between the text and the image,
the one looks at the cathedral in terms of aesthetics, the other “scientifically.”
Thus the beholder examines the façade isolated from the architectural structure
to which it actually belongs and from an apparently unmediated perspective, seem-
ingly in contrast to Goethe’s reader, who confronts a façade that is built into a well-
reflected context and used to support Goethe’s argument for a new German aesthetic.
Goethe’s text thus mediates the reader’s experience of the edifice both through the
argument against neoclassicism and through the narrative strategy which distances
the reader from the edifice insofar as the medieval architect’s description is part of
a dream, retold by the narrative persona, in a text written by Goethe. In short, the
reader “sees” Strasburg Cathedral as an edifice that perfectly corresponds to Goethe’s
aesthetic ideals.
Yet, despite the purported objectivity of the frontal elevation, Schinkel’s represen-
tation is nonetheless equally, and if possible, more subjective than Goethe’s. We have
seen how Schinkel’s drawing diverges from or idealizes the actual edifice. Moreover,
according to Klaus Niehr, Schinkel’s drawing disregards the reality of the edifice by
presenting Strasburg Cathedral as the epitome of the Gothic (Niehr 1999, p. 28),
dunklem Raum zu hinterlegen gewesen wären” (Niehr 1999, p. 28).

250
containing all the salient characteristics which the Romantics saw in it. Not only
does it highlight the fundamental concepts Goethe put forward in “Von Deutscher
Baukunst”: verticality, the juxtaposition of lightness and mass, and the intricacy of
its stonework, and symmetry and proportion, but it reflects the evolution of these
concepts within the Romantic understanding of the Gothic as richly ornamented,
immensely high, and diaphanous.22 In short, the shading directs the beholder to
experience the edifice how Schinkel thought it should be seen: sublime in its intricate
and richly decorated structure, transparent in its lightness and elevation. In this sense,
the shading plays a similar role to the medieval architect in Goethe’s text, directing
the beholder to see and understand what he may not be able to upon confrontation
with the actual edifice. Schinkel’s method literally removes any claim to objectivity
and recreates Strasburg Cathedral entirely according to the Romantic ideal.
While Goethe reconstituted an edifice that should have been or that could have
been, but that only ever existed in the mind of the architect – and now in the
reader’s mind as an unreachable perfection –, Schinkel reconstructed the edifice,
projecting his ideas of the Gothic onto it and presenting how it could look, were
it to be “completed.” Where Goethe’s description is past-looking, finding the true
significance of the Gothic in the genial mind of the long-dead architect, Schinkel’s
representation is forward-looking, grasping the potential of the Gothic and rendering
it in an ideal way. As such, the drawing corresponds to the movement within
German Romanticism which promoted the completion of Cologne Cathedral.
For the Romantics the fragment embodied not loss, but potential, because it could
be completed and perfected, something which would at the same time, effect the
betterment and “perfection” of society.23
Conclusion: The Romantic Legacy

The forwardlooking ideal of the Gothic cathedral runs through nineteenth-century
German thought, in Carl Georg Hasenpflug’s painting of a completed Cologne
Cathedral to Lyonel Feininger’s 1919 woodcut for the Bauhaus Manifesto, “Kathe-
22
Friedrich Schlegel praised the Gothic’s abundant ornament and infinite repetition of forms (p.
179); Georg Moller’s drawings of Cologne Cathedral portray the immensity of the edifice and its
exaggerated height; Schinkel emphasized the diaphanous character of Gothic architecture in his oil
paintings as well as in his design for the light-flooded Luisenmausoleum in 1810 (Robson-Scott
1965, p. 235).
23
Tina Grütter discusses the importance of the fragment to German Romantic thought in “Fragment
und Künstlichkeit im Werk von C. D. Friedrich am Beispiel der Dortmunder Winterlandschaft mit
Kirche” in Kurt Wettengl (ed.): Caspar David Friedrich. Winterlandschaften, Heidelberg 1990 (p.
60–65). An example of the political use of the Cologne Cathedral “fragment” is Joseph von Görres’s
essay, “Der Dom in Köln” in Rheinischer Merkur, Vol. 20, November 20, 1814, in Wilhelm Schellberg
(ed.): Joseph von Görres’ Ausgewählte Werke und Briefe, Kempten; Munich 1911, Vol. 1, (p. 592–595).
For a general discussion of the relation between the Cologne Cathedral completion project and early
nineteenth-century German nationalism, see my dissertation (p. 140–146).
251
drale.” Both representations demonstrate the artis-tic legacy of the Romantic

idea of the cathedral. Hasenpflug’s (1802–1858) Der Kölner Dom. Idealansicht
in antizipierter Vollendung, also known as Idealansicht des Kölner Domes (1834–
36) portrays a gigantic, monumentalized Cologne Cathedral, whose spires rise
triumphantly above the clouds. The cathedral’s immense height and vast stature
are highlighted, in typical Romantic convention, by the miniature figures dressed
in medieval tract milling in the square at the front of the edifice. Like Schinkel,
Hasenpflug emphasizes the cathedral’s sublime character and ascension by the
myriad of vertical columns in its tracery, finials, and gables. The fine lines of the
stonework both underscore the rigorous ordering of the façade and contrast with the
cathedral’s mass to create an image of complete harmony between mass and weight.
With the mood-evoking shadow falling on the south portal indicating the setting
sun, which Herbert Rode has interpreted, in connection with the sixteenth-century
clothing of the figures, as indicating the waning of the Middle Ages,24 the painting is
evocative and its view, as its title indicates, idealized. Since only the cathedral’s choir
and half of its south tower had been completed in the Middle Ages and the edifice
had remained in that state until the 1840s, Hasenpflug’s painting shows the cathe-
dral as it never had – nor ever would – exist until its completion in 1880, except in
the plans of the architect. Thus, like Goethe and Schinkel, Hasenpflug represents
an ideal cathedral. Despite the medieval setting, his painting looks forward to the
cathedral’s anticipated existence as a perfected edifice.
In a very different way, Lyonel Feininger’s (1879–1956) “Kathedrale” captures
the Romantic ideas of verticality, ascensional movement, and transparency or the
crystalline25 in a diaphanous edifice rising upwards until its three spires touch the
three stars brilliantly shining above it. Unlike the other representations we have
looked at, Feininger did not represent an existing edifice. Yet like Schinkel, he
emphasized the linear elements of the cathedral, but abbreviated them, thereby
reducing the edifice’s complexity and intricacy to boxed geometrical forms, with
the triangle dominating.26 In his idealized representation, Feininger reduced the
Gothic to the outlines of its salient elements: spires, gables, windows, rose, keeping
its organization of front portals, rose window, spires. These combine in a dynamic
unity of mass and lightness, order and organization into an image bursting with
24
Herbert Rode: “Eine Idealansicht des Kölner Domes von Karl Georg Hasenpflug 1834–36: Ein
Beitrag zur romantischen Architekturmalerei” in Kölner Domblatt 1963 (p. 89–94), p. 90–92.
25
For a study of the crystalline from Romanticism to modernity, see Regine Prange: “The Crystalline,”
trans. David McLintock, in Keith Hartley (ed.): The Romantic Spirit in German Art 1790–1990,
London 1994 (p. 155–163).
26
In his Geschichte und Beschreibung des Doms von Köln nebst Untersuchungen über die alte
Kirchenbaukunst als Text zu den Ansichten, Rissen und einzelnen Theilen des Doms von Köln, Stuttgart
1823, Sulpiz Boisserée theorized that the triangle was the fundamental form of Gothic architecture,
both as symbol of the Trinity, and thus the tripartite structure of a Gothic cathedral, as well as the
form which inspired the pointed arch.
252
energy and movement, which clearly underscores the Bauhaus ideal of regenerating
society through the combined work of industry, crafts and the arts. Here, like in the
Romantic period, the cathedral stands as an emblem for social unity and utopia,
although by the twentieth century these concepts had different connotations than
in the nineteenth century.
Thus modulated in striking ways, the Romantic legacy of the Gothic façade
surfaces in these idealized representations of the Gothic edifice which are future-
oriented and even utopian. The Romantic idea of the cathedral, as we have seen, was
solidified by strategies that engage the reader-beholder in an act of visualizing the
edifice and understanding it in a way very different from what the beholder might
see when confronted with the real edifice. Most striking, perhaps, is the evocation
of the Gothic sublime. Both Goethe and Schinkel called attention to the vertical
structuring of the façade, its horizontal partitioning, and its underlying ordered
structure: Goethe by replicating it grammatically and linguistically, Schinkel by
sketching an infinity of vertical lines and carefully shaded ascensional elements.
Both juxtaposed mass with lightness in evoking the delicate openwork tracery:
Goethe’s narrative personal marvelling at it, Schinkel rendering it in minute details.
Both emphasized the height of the edifice: Goethe through the awestruck narrative
persona evoking its majestic size, Schinkel seemingly matter of factly tapering the
edifice and making its decorative elements seem overwhelmingly vertical. They also
put forward the concept of an ideal cathedral: Goethe reinstating it in its originally
conceived wholeness, with Erwin von Steinbach drawing attention to what is not
there, Schinkel reconstructing it and completing it with its symmetrical two towers.
Moreover, since for both Goethe and Schinkel the façade served as a synecdoche for
the entire cathedral, it becomes a perfect topos where larger concerns are brought
to the fore: Goethe used it to awaken his contemporaries to the plight of the arts
and to create a new art which would overturn and oppose neoclassical (and foreign)
norms and Schinkel “completed” Strasburg Cathedral at a time of great nationalistic
sentiment during the Napoleonic wars. Both the writer and the artist serve as a
mediator between the actual edifice and its idealized Romantic image.
Goethe and Schinkel differ, however, in their points of observation: where
Goethe emphasized the movement around the edifice and its view at different times
of day, Schinkel offered the beholder an ideal view, one that is impossible to capture
in reality. While this might have to do with the growing interest in “objective” and
“scientific” analysis that such architectural drawings were meant to offer, it might
also have to do with the possibilities and limitations of the chosen media for the
architectural transposition. We remember that in his 1766 treatise Laokoon: oder
Über die Grenzen der Malerei und Poesie – not a decade before Goethe wrote “Von
Deutscher Baukunst” – that Gotthold Ephraim Lessing (1729–81) drew the distinc-
tion between poetry’s and painting’s respective abilities to capture temporality or
253
render spatial relations.27 If the written word proved particularly apt to represent
physical and temporal displacement, and thus narrative development over time,
then the process of beholding that Goethe presents in “Von Deutscher Baukunst”
could only with difficulty be captured in an image. Not only does Goethe’s narrative
persona change his position and observe the edifice at different hours of the day,
but the cathedral architect gives another dimension to the representation. As I have
argued, the blending of these two perspectives creates the monumental change in
the narrator’s and the reader’s perception of the edifice and their ensuing reception
of it. In contrast, any movement Schinkel made around the edifice and any observa-
tion from different perspectives can impossibly be retraced. These remain concealed
to the beholder, who confronts only the beautiful, static, finished product of
Schinkel’s draughtsmanship. The question of how the visual arts could capture a
three-dimensional object would have to wait until the twentieth century for its
painterly achievement: in Robert Delaunay’s “Les Tours de Laon” (1912), Albert
Gleizes “Cathédrale de Chartres” (1912) and Lyonel Feininger’s “Kathedrale.”28
27
Gotthold Ephraim Lessing: Laokoon: oder Über die Grenzen der Malerei und Poesie, Stuttgart
2003 (1766).
28
Kevin D. Murphy discusses some aspects of the relationship between Gothic architecture and
Cubism in his article “Cubism and the Gothic Tradition” in Eve Blau and Nancy J. Troy (eds.):
Architecture and Cubism, Cambridge, Mass; London 1997 (p. 59–76).
254
References
Boisserée, Sulpiz: Geschichte und Beschreibung des Doms von Köln nebst Untersuchungen über
die alte Kirchenbaukunst als Text zu den Ansichten, Rissen und einzelnen Theilen des Doms
von Köln, Stuttgart 1823.
Beer, E. S. de: “Gothic: origin and diffusion of the term; the idea of style in architecture” in
Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, Vol. XI, 1948 (p. 143–162).
Eck, Caroline van: Organicism in nineteenth-century architecture. An inquiry into its theoretical
and philosophical background, Amsterdam 1994 (p. 142–155).
Gage, John (ed. and trans.): Goethe on Art, Berkeley; Los Angeles 1980.
Glaser, Stephanie A.: Explorations of the Gothic Cathedral in Nineteenth-Century France,
(PhD Diss.) Ann Arbor 2002.
Glaser, Stephanie A.: “‘Deutsche Baukunst,’ ‘Architecture Française’: The Use of the Gothic
Cathedral in the Construction of National Memory in Nineteenth-Century Germany
and France” in Clüver, Claus, Plesch, Véronique, and Hoek, Leo (eds.): Orientations:
Space / Time / Image / Word (Word & Image Interactions 5), Amsterdam; New York
2005 (p. 77–91).
Glaser, Stephanie A.: “Lectures sémiotiques de l’ogive au XIXe siècle” in Isabelle Durand-Le
Guern (ed.): Images du Moyen Âge, Rennes 2006 (p. 333–347).
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von: Von Deutscher Baukunst. D. M. Ervini a Steinbach. 1773
(1772–1773) in Johann Gottfried Herder: Von Deutscher Art und Kunst (1773),
Stuttgart 1995 (p. 93–104).
Grütter, Tina: “Fragment und Künstlichkeit im Werk von C. D. Friedrich am Beispiel
der Dortmunder Winterlandschaft mit Kirche” in Wettengl, Kurt (ed.): Caspar David
Friedrich. Winterlandschaften, Heidelberg 1990.
Görres, Joseph von: “Der Dom in Köln” in Rheinischer Merkur, Vol. 20, November 20, 1814,
in Schellberg, Wilhelm (ed.): Joseph von Görres’ Ausgewählte Werke und Briefe, Kempten;
Munich 1911, Vol. 1, (p. 592–595).
Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim: Laokoon oder Über die Grenzen der Malerei und Poesie, Stuttgart
2003 (1766).
Götrick, Lewiston 1992.
Murphy, Kevin D.: “Cubism and the Gothic Tradition” in Eve Blau and Nancy J. Troy
(eds.): Architecture and Cubism, Cambridge, Mass; London 1997 (p. 59–76).
Niehr, Klaus: Gotikbilder – Gotiktheorien. Studien zur Wahrnehmung und Erforschung mittel-
alterlicher Architektur in Deutschland zwischen ca. 1750 und 1850, Berlin 1999.
Niehr, Klaus: “Patterns of Behaviour: Architectural Representation in the Romantic Period”
in Glaser, Stephanie A. (ed.): The Idea of the Gothic Cathedral, Turnhout, Belgium
(forthcoming).
Prange, Regine: “The Crystalline,” trans. David McLintock, in Hartley, Keith (ed.): The
Romantic Spirit in German Art 1790–1990, London 1994 (p. 155–163).
Robson-Scott, W. D.: The Literary Background of the Gothic Revival in Germany. A Chapter
in the History of Taste, Oxford 1965.
Robson-Scott, W. D.: “On the Composition of Goethe’s ‘Von Deutscher Baukunst’” in The
Modern Language Review, Vol. 54, 1959 (p. 547–553).
Rode, Herbert: “Eine Idealansicht des Kölner Domes von Karl Georg Hasenpflug 1834-36:
Ein Beitrag zur romantischen Architekturmalerei” in Kölner Domblatt, 1963 (p. 89–94).
Schlegel, Friedrich von: Briefe auf einer Reise durch die Niederlande, Rheingegenden, die
Schwiez, und einen Teil von Frankreich (1804) in Eichner, Hans (ed.): Ansichten und
Ideen von der christlichen Kunst. Kritische Freidrich-Schlegel-Ausgabe, Munich; Paderborn;
Vienna; Zurich 1959, Vol. 4 (p. 153–204).
255
Still Chasing Down the Greased Pig:
Cognition and the Problem of Ekphrasis
Valerie Robillard
During long periods of history, the mode of human perception changes

with humanity’s entire mode of existence. The manner in which human
sense perception is organized, the medium in which it is accomplished, is
determined not only by nature but by historical circumstances as well.1
Several decades after the revival of the term “ekphrasis,” there is still a healthy debate
about the definitions of the term, the extent of its parameters, and the wider impli-
cations of the word-image paradigm.2 This debate, in which Hans Lund has played
a significant (and pioneering) role,3 is not an empty exercise because the categories
and definitions we choose invariably determine, as David Radcliffe has pointed out,
“both the relation of a discipline to its special objects of study, and the relation of the
various disciplines to each other.”4 By its very nature as an intermedial construction –
a text which simultaneously employs the “special objects” of more than one discipline
– ekphrasis continues to defy our efforts to fully explain its operations, resisting all
1
Walter Benjamin: “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” in Illuminations
London 1982, p. 224.
2
Articles written on ekphrasis are too numerous to mention here. For books specifically on the
subject see: Murray Krieger: Ekphrasis. The Illusion of the Natural Sign, Baltimore 1992; Hans Lund:
Text as Picture: Studies in the Literary Translations of Pictures, trans. Kacke Götrick, Lewiston, N.Y
1992. First published in Swedish in 1982; James Heffernan: Museum of Words. The Poetics of Ekphrasis
from Homer to Ashbery, Chicago; London 1993; G. Scott: The Sculpted Word. Keats, Ekphrasis and
the Visual Arts, Hanover; New Hampshire 1994; A.S. Becker: The Shield of Achilles and the Poetics
of Ekphrasis, Lanham; Maryland 1995; Katy Eisenberg: Ravishing Images. Ekphrasis in the Poetry
and Prose of William Wordsworth, W.H. Auden, and Philip Larkin, New York 1995; John Hollander:
The Gazer’s Spirit. Poems Speaking to Silent Works of Art, Chicago 1995; Valerie Robillard and Els
Jongeneel (eds.): Pictures Into Words. Theoretical and Descriptive Approaches to Ekphrasis, Amsterdam
1998. Siglind Bruhn: Musical Ekphrasis in Rjilke’s Marien-Leben, Amsterdam 2000; The January-
March, 1999, issue of Word & Image (1) is devoted exclusively to the subject of ekphrasis.
3
Lund’s Text as Picture. Studies in the Literary Transformation of Pictures (see full reference in above
note) has become an indispensable text in the study of intermediality. Further, his important
essay titled “Ekphrastic Linkage and Contextual Ekphrasis” in Pictures Into Words: Theoretical and
Descriptive Approaches to Ekphrasis (see above reference), p. 173–188, has broadened the scope of our
consideration of ekphrastic texts, focusing not only what is contained within the picture frame but
also the significance of their context of display (spatial contextual ekphrasis) as well as the elements
brought to bear through memory (temporal contextual ekphrasis).
4
David Radcliffe: “On the Critical Value of Categories” in Norman Bryson, Michael Ann Holly, and
Keith Moxey (eds.): Visual Theory, Cambridge 1991 (p. 260–264), p. 260.
257
Valerie Robillard: Still Chasing Down the Greased Pig
attempts, as Murray Krieger has pointed out, to “wrestle it to the ground.”5 This
is due both to the increasing complexity of ekphrastic texts as well as to the fluid
nature of the relationship between the visual and verbal arts. In the spirit of Walter
Benjamin’s above statement on the importance of historical influences on human
perception, I would like to suggest that a crucial factor in the (successful) operations
of ekphrasis is the varied and culturally determined responses of readers. Considering
the recent explosion of ekphrastic texts,6 it seems to be an opportune moment for the
field of intermedial studies to reconsider ekphrasis in the light of the new interest in
the subject sparked by literary works presently crowding the marketplace.
A new look at the functions of ekphrasis seems particularly relevant since
ekphrastic texts (and our understanding of them) have taken on a variety of faces
since their earliest use. We have proceeded from the classical notion of ekphrasis in its
original form, which was centered on the descriptive skills of the student of rhetoric
and his ability to produce the experience of enargeia in his audience, to modern
texts based on artworks which seem to do everything except “describe exhaustively”
(which is one definition of the word). These latter texts demand much more of the
reader in terms of knowledge (general and specific) and social/cultural experience. In
his study of the psychology of image-reception, Ernst Gombrich argues throughout
Art and Illusion that perception is determined by cognition.7 How much more is
demanded of a reader who must somehow “view” an artwork through its verbal
representation? By what process can the reader of a modern ekphrastic text, in other
words, be “turned from a listener/reader into a spectator”?8 When an ekphrastic text
is primarily descriptive, such as those found in the Eikones of the Philostrati (190
A.D), there is a considerable likelihood that enargeia will be achieved; however,
contemporary ekphrases operate under the assumption that works of art are familiar
or accessible to most readers and therefore description does not generally play a key
role in these texts. Considering the number and variety of ekphrastic texts that we
now encounter in our reading, it is no wonder that the terms and definitions we
devise to make critical sense of the term ekphrasis continue to fall short of the mark.
This essay will explore some of these critical stumbling blocks. In a comparative
5
Murray Krieger: “The Problem of Ekphrasis: Image and Words, Space and Time – and the Literary
Work” in Valerie Robillard and Els Jongeneel (eds.): Pictures Into Words: Theoretical and Descriptive
Approaches to Ekphrasis, Amsterdam 1998 (p. 3–20), p. 5.
6
For example, most readers and viewers are familiar with Tracy Chevalier’s Girl with a Pearl Earring,
which is based on the paintings of Vermeer and has been recently translated to medium of film;
consider also the innumerable ekphrastic poems that have been written in all languages during the
last decades, too recent to have been acknowledged in Gisbert Kranz’s Das Bildgedicht published in
1982 (see note 12).
7
Ernst Gombrich: Art and Illusion. A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation, London 1994
(1960).
8
See Bernhard F. Scholz: “‘Sub Oculos Subiectio.’ Quintilian on Ekphrasis and Enargeia” in Valerie
Robillard and Els Jongeneel (eds.): Pictures Into Words: Theoretical and Descriptive Approaches to
Ekphrasis, Amsterdam 1998, p. 73–99.
258
analysis of three poems by William Carlos Williams, I will demonstrate some of

the complex ways in which modern ekphrastic texts play on the cognitive skills of
the reader and the critical problems that arise in trying to place such texts into neat
categories. Although much has been written on Williams9 and the visual arts (and
especially on his relationship to Brueghel), this essay is a departure from these in
the sense that it does not address the ways in which Williams was influenced by the
visual arts but focuses, rather, on the ekphrastic diversity of Pictures from Brueghel
and their complex referential capacity.
Ekphrastic Diversity in the ‘Brueghel Poems’

Williams’s final volume of poems, Pictures from Brueghel (1962),10 not only engages
with paintings which were the products of Renaissance pictorial tradition but reverses
the modernist strain of the majority of his ekphrastic poems to identify Williams
with one of the early masters: Pieter Brueghel The Elder (1525–1569). Although
some critics have implied that Williams’s “Brueghel poems” were somehow less
original than his other ekphrastic poems − the artworks serving as a “crutch to com-
pensate for a failing imagination”11 − these poems are far from being facile copies,
but signal an attempt to translate what he perceived to be the essence of Brueghel’s
paintings to his own medium. Williams’s poems inspired by Brueghel are, in fact,
a small part of a large and varied body of poetic responses to the paintings of this
highly controversial artist.12 As Margaret Sullivan has pointed out, “Brueghel has
the ability to fascinate new generations… [and] each new generation develops a
9
For specific works on Williams and the visual arts, see Bram Dijkstra: Cubism, Stieglitz, and the
Early Poetry of Williams Carlos Williams. The Hieroglyphics of a New Speech, Princeton 1969; Dickran
Tashjian: Skyscraper Primitives. Dada and the American Avant-garde, 1910−1925, Middleton,
Connecticut 1975, and William Carlos Williams and the American Scene, 1920–1940, Berkeley 1978;
James E. Breslin: William Carlos Williams. An American Artist, New York 1978, and “William Carlos
Williams and Charles Demuth. Cross-Fertilization in the Arts” in Journal of Modern Literature
VI, 1977, p. 248–263; William Marling: William Carlos Williams and the Painters, 1909–1923,
Athens, Ohio 1982; Christopher MacGowan: William Carlos Williams’ Early Poetry. The Visual Arts
Background, Ann Arbor 1984; Henry Sayre: The Visual Text of William Carlos Williams, Urbana
1983, and “Ready-mades and Other Measures. The Poetics of Marcel Duchamp and William Carlos
Williams” in Journal of Modern Literature, Vol. 8, No. 1, 1980 (p. 3–22); Peter Schmidt: William
Carlos Williams, The Arts, and Literary Tradition, Baton Rouge; London 1988; Peter Halter: The
Revolution in the Visual Arts and the Poetry of William Carlos Williams, New York; Cambridge 1994.
10
The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams, Volume II: 1939–1962, A. Walton Litz and
Christopher MacGowan (eds.), New York 1978.
11
Jerome Mazzaro: William Carlos Williams. The Later Poems, Ithaca; London 1973, p. 172.
12
For example, Gisbert Kranz, in his voluminous work Das Bildgedicht: Theorie, Lexikon, Bibliographie,
Volumes 1-2, Köln 1981, lists more than thirty poems written on Brueghel’s Fall of Icarus alone.
Perhaps the best-known of these are Williams’s “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus” and W.H. Auden’s
“Musée des Beaux Arts.” Since the publication of Kranz’s work, a great many more poems on this
painting have been published in a variety of languages.
259
relationship with the work of art that is to some degree idiosyncratic…”13 The nine
poems contained in Pictures From Brueghel are widely regarded as Williams’s most
tangible translations from the visual to the verbal arts − the poems being frequently
cited in discussions on interarts semiotics where, in spite of their diversity, they
are offered as quintessential examples of ekphrastic texts.14 In order to understand
these “translations,” it is important to first consider the poet’s own “idiosyncratic”
relationship with Brueghel and to ask how his understanding of the artist informs
the complex (and occassionally puzzling) re-presentations of the paintings. There
is sufficient art-historical information to suggest that some of the similarities that
Williams perceived to exist between himself and Brueghel were most likely based
on long-standing misconceptions about the artist; many of these were propagated
by Brueghel’s earliest biographer Carel Van Mander, who wrote in his SchilderBoeck
of 1604 that “in a wonderful manner Nature found and seized the man who in his
turn was destined to seize her magnificently, when in an obscure village in Brabant
she chose from among the peasants, as the delineator of peasants, the witty and
gifted Pieter Brueghel …”15
Although Van Mander’s account helped establish this rather one-sided view of
Brueghel, more recent studies downplay Brueghel’s peasant background and empha-
size instead his association with an elite group of scholars. In Bruegel’s Peasants,
for example, Margaret Sullivan points out that, far from being a simple peasant,
Brueghel was the peer of the humanist intelligentsia − a group subscribing to the
ideological teachings of Erasmus which stressed the importance of the pursuit of
self-knowledge, submission to reason rather than passion and the possession of a
13
Margaret Sullivan: Bruegel’s Peasants. Art and Audience in the Northern Renaissance, New York;
Cambridge 1994, p. 3.
14
See, for example, James A.W. Heffernan 1993, p.152–169; Wendy Steiner: The Colors of Rhetoric.
Problems in the Relation Between Modern Literature and Painting, Chicago; London 1982, p. 73–80.
Steiner has rightly suggested that these poems, which are ‘unabashedly interartistic in their motivation
… can serve as a testing ground for structuralist and semiotic insights’ (see p. 73).
15
Fritz Grossman: Pieter Bruegel. Complete Edition of the Paintings, London (third edition) 1973,
p. 9. Most contemporary art historians have taken issue with Van Mander’s account of Brueghel’s
origins and artistic principles. Grossman suggests that Van Mander invented the story about Brueghel
going out into the countryside and recording the lives of the peasants, perhaps borrowing instead
Leonardo’s advice to artists to observe people in their daily lives and save their impressions for future
reference. Grossman relates Van Mander’s story about Brueghel and his patron watching the peasants
at their celebrations: “Here Brueghel delighted in observing the droll behaviour of the peasants,
how they ate, drank, danced, capered or made love, all of which he was well able to reproduce
cleverly…he represented the peasants, men and women … naturally, as they really were, betraying
their boorishness in the way they walked, danced, stood still or moved” (p. 42–43). Grossman also
points out that, although Leonardo’s work wasn’t yet in print, Van Mander had the means “to get
hold of Leonardo’s circulating notes” and that Vasari’s references to Leonardo most likely alerted
him to their existence. (Grossman is referring here to Vasari’s Lives of The Artists, and specifically to
the chapter titled “Life of Leonardo Da Vinci: Florentine painter and sculptor, 1452–1519,” trans.
George Bull, London 1987, p. 255–271.
260
sanity which lets “reason gaze on honest things” (Sullivan, p. 10). Sullivan goes on
to argue that, while the artists and writers of this group portrayed themselves as
sober and hardworking, the peasants were depicted as base creatures who indulged
their passions by “wallowing like animals in the midst of their vile instincts … un-
controlled by reason or piety, wasting their resources on drinking and dancing”
(Sullivan, p. 10–11).16 In translating the visual to the verbal, a poet’s understanding
of Brueghel’s social and intellectual affiliations will thus unavoidably inform the
way in which he/she reads the artist’s paintings of the peasantry − artworks that
constitute an important part of Brueghel’s oeuvre. In turn, our understanding, as
readers, of the interests and backgrounds of both painter and poet, as well as our
own (art-historical) experience will inevitably inform the way in which we read the
ekphrastic poem thus generated − the intermedial ground upon which poet, artist,
and reader meet.
Indeed, where acceptance of the “peasant theory” would imply that Brueghel’s
depictions of peasant life should be read as unbiased chronicles, the second theory
would suggest that the paintings be read ironically, the peasants depicted as
caricatures of themselves. Sullivan’s study is not the first to point out this latter
interpretation. Yet Brueghel’s paintings have evoked such diverse interpretations
that, as Fritz Grossman suggest, arriving at the truth about this painter is not a
simple matter:
The interpretation of Bruegel, the man and the work, from his day to
ours, presents a bewildering spectacle. The man has been thought to have
been a peasant and a townsman, an orthodox Catholic and a Libertine, a
humanist, a laughing and a pessimist philosopher; the artist appeared as
a follower of Bosch and a continuator of the Flemish tradition, the last
of the Primitives, a Mannerist in contact with Italian art, an illustrator,
a genre painter, a landscape artist, a realist, a painter consciously trans-
forming reality and adapting it to his formal ideal − to sum up just a few
opinions expressed by various observers in the course of four hundred
years. With the exception of the peasant, whom I think we can decently
bury, each of these views, even when apparently contradicted by another,
contains some part of the truth (Grossman, p. 50).
16
Sullivan further points out that Van Heemskerck’s print for “The Planets” did much to perpetuate
this attitude toward the peasants, who, being born under Saturn, were “ailing, avaricious, sad,
unfaithful, dishonest, sluggish, with a sensitive stomach and too fond of drink.” This image of the
peasantry was placed in opposition to those born under Mercury: the artists, doctors, writers, and
merchants who were “all honorable professional men, who do not run, shout, or jostle (and) are slim
of build, pale with honest eyes, and to be admired for their moderation in drinking,” p. 13.
261
It is clear that understanding Brueghel and his art is a complex matter. This, in turn,
makes the reader’s reception of an ekphrastic translation of the painter’s works even
more problematic: an ekphrastic writer is first and foremost a viewer, one who will
inevitably bring his/her own “truth” to pictures and Williams varies his approach to
the paintings in such a way that he depicts more than one dimension of Brueghel
and his art. Three poems from Pictures from Brueghel that illustrate this complex
and diverse relationship to the artist are “The Hunters in the Snow,” “The Corn
Harvest,” and “Haymaking.”17 As pointed out above, although all of the poems in
this volume have been referred to as “ekphrastic” in critical discussions, they are, in
fact, quite diverse in their approaches to their visual sources – each making parti-
cular demands on the perceptual skills and experience of the reader.
“The Hunters in the Snow”

The painting in Brueghel’s seasonal series which, according to Fritz Grossman,
“most exemplifies the artist’s technique of subsuming a multiplicity of Nature’s
characteristics and human occupations onto one canvas” is Hunters in the Snow
(1565) (fig. 1) (Grossman, p. 56). This painting depicts large foregrounded figures
of hunters and their dogs descending to their village which, engulfed in a stark
winter landscape, appears as a miniature cosmos of humans at work and at play. In
his poem of the same title, Williams’s translation of the painting’s “multiplicity” (in
Grossman’s words), has generated a verbal text that so closely follows the organi-
zational and material elements of the painting that, as in the works of the Philostrati,
the reader literally becomes a viewer:
The over-all picture is winter

icy mountains
in the background the return
from the hunt it is toward evening

from the left
sturdy hunters lead in
their pack the inn-sign

hanging from a
broken hinge is a stag a crucifix
between his antlers the cold

inn yard is
deserted but for a huge bonfire
17
These poems refer to (and borrow the titles from) Brueghel’s paintings which represent January
and August respectively. The other two are The Gloomy Day, and The Return of the Herd.
262
that flares wind-driven tended by

women who cluster
about it to the right beyond
the hill is a pattern of skaters

Breughel the painter
concerned with it all has chosen
a winter-struck bush for his

foreground to
complete the picture.
(Collected Poems II, 386–387)
Fig. 1. Pieter Brueghel, Hunters in the Snow (1565)
This poem, remarkable (for a modern ekphrastic text) for its ‘exhaustive’ description
of a work of art, very nearly revives the original spirit of ekphrasis. Here Williams
describes a balanced winter landscape with its “icy mountains,” “cold / inn yard,”
“wind-driven” fire, and adds a “winter-struck” bush at the center foreground −
the final touch to an “overall picture” of the season. Yet this is also a landscape
populated by human beings who hunt, cluster around a bonfire, and enjoy winter
activities. What is striking about Williams’s arrangement of objects in the poem is
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that in various ways it invites the reader to assume the position of viewer. First of
all, Williams frames his poetic re-construction of the painting by placing the word
“winter” at the top and the lines “a winter-struck bush / for his foreground to /
complete the picture” at the bottom to stress the painting’s place in the calendar
series. But Williams also builds in a “verbal frame,” as Wendy Steiner points out,
by including the word “picture” in both the first and the final lines. In this way,
Steiner argues, Williams not only offers his poem as an imitation of Brueghel’s
painting but also stresses its nature as a visual artifact to be viewed in situ (Steiner,
p. 80). It is this insistence on the materiality of the poem-as-painting that informs
the text from beginning to end. Indeed, after identifying the painting in the title,
Williams enumerates its details until, in the final lines of the poem, he focuses on
the artist himself and the very act of creation which generated the artwork: namely,
Brueghel’s considered selection and placement of a “winter-struck bush” − a formal
artistic decision imitated here in the poem by Williams’s own selection of these
details. Similarly, the poem is shot through with references to spatial considerations.
In addition to the carefully arranged effect of “the over-all picture,” Williams calls
attention to the “background” and “foreground” and “left” and “right” corners of the
picture plane (all of which refer to considered use of perspective) and to a “pattern of
skaters” (italics mine) which remind the reader that the poem is concerned first and
foremost with the plastic qualities of Brueghel’s painting.
It might be argued that Williams has described this painting in sufficient detail
to create enargeia, (in other words, that the poem’s pictorial vividness is sufficient
to bring Brueghel’s painting before the inner eye of the reader);18 yet Williams
exceeds this visual appeal by engaging the reader as active viewer through the struc-
tural organization of details which plays on perceptual dynamics. It is here where
our efforts to “wrestle ekphrasis to the ground” become interesting. In this poem,
Williams deliberately employs the dynamics of “saccadic movement,” a technique
used by the spatial arts to guide the inner eye in a deliberate manner over the surface
of paintings, a phenomenon which has been described by Christopher Collins in
“The Moving Eye in Williams’ Earlier Poetry.”19 Collins appropriates the term from
the cognitive sciences in order to explain the manner in which both the physical eye
and the inner eye explore visual space and seek to perceive shapes and relationships
– a visual response which proceeds by means of a series of optical fixations, a series of
ocular shifts which must occur so that the viewer can take in an entire image (Collins,
p. 266). The applicability of this perceptual theory to the visual arts is obvious, as it is
these optical fixations upon which visual illusion − such as conventional perspective
− depends. Yet, how might this perceptual activity function within a literary text?
18
For more on enargeia, see Jean Hagstrum: The Sister Arts. The Tradition of Literary Pictorialism from
Dryden to Gray, Chicago 1958, p. 11–12.
19
Christopher Collins: “The Moving Eye in Williams’ Earlier Poetry” in Caroll Terrell (ed.): Williams
Carlos Williams. Man and Poet, Orono, Maine 1983 (p. 261–285).
264
Through applying this theory to Williams’s “Red Wheelbarrow,” Collins has

demonstrated that saccadic shifts, whose principal indicators in verbal texts are
prepositions, operate either by fixating details within depicted objects or by relating
separate objects spatially in the poem. Furthermore, these objects, which are nouns,
when plural or indeterminate can create any number of saccades and fixations. In
a painting, these ocular shifts are guided by particular artistic techniques involving
lines, spatialization, and color employed variously by different artists or styles; in
a verbal text, the writer appeals both linguistically and structurally to the reader’s
inner eye to create this sense of perusal. While acknowledging the innate differences
between pictorial and verbal saccades (a poem at most involves textual elements
which serve to create analogues of saccades and vergences), I suggest that Williams’s
attempt to appeal to the inner eye demonstrates not only that the borders between
the visual and verbal are not as fixed as Lessing would have it, but, more importantly
for this study, that developments in the cognitive sciences have a considerable
contribution to make to understanding the process of perception in the verbal and
visual arts – and their combination within ekphrastic texts. Let’s see how this works
in “Hunters in the Snow.”
By first introducing “the over-all picture,” Williams creates the sensation of
approaching a painting from some distance, perhaps imitating the manner in which
a viewer moving through the museum might take in the painting’s entire surface for
a general first impression. In the second line, Williams immediately shifts to a close-
up view of the painting: to the mountains in the background, implying that the
reader/viewer has moved closer to the painting (the rest of the painting would at that
moment lie in the peripheral field, which is the area not focused on; Collins, p. 265).
In line 3, “the return” directs the viewer’s gaze once more to the foreground. Although
Collins suggests that saccades would normally be indicated by prepositions, it is
typical of Williams’s rule-breaking poetics that this same effect is achieved wholly by
means of the unusual syntactical juxtaposition in the third line. However, although
Williams does not grammatically distinguish one from the other, these shifts from
background to foreground, as well as the final shift from the middle-ground to “a
winter-struck bush” in the foreground, are not a function of saccadic movement but
of another kind of optical adjustment called a vergence, which, as opposed to the left
and right movement of saccades, is an adjustment for depth.
This ocular movement allows us, according to Collins, to “zoom in” on objects
at various distances from the eye − in effect, to break the pictorial plane and enter
a three-dimensional perceptual environment (the functional difference between a
saccade and a vergence is that the former involves a shift of angle to a new fixation
point and the latter a re-adjustment for depth; Collins, p. 269). Aside from the four
vergent shifts from back to front to middle-ground to front again, there are three
saccadic shifts: in lines 5–6 (“from the left / sturdy hunters lead in,” italics added);
in line 7 (“their pack the sign”); and in lines 10–11 (“the cold / inn yard…”). All of
265
these shifts involve lateral or vertical moves, but only one uses a prepositional mar-
ker. Williams’ idiosyncratic use of these perceptual dynamics invites continuous
movement of the inner eye, preventing it from alighting for more than a moment
upon any one specific element of his verbal canvas. Although the sequence repre-
sents one manner in which we might view Brueghel’s painting, the speed of
viewing, which is produced by the odd syntax and line breaks, and complete lack
of punctuation, seems orchestrated to produce in the reader a sense of continual
perusal. This detailed analysis of the visual play in the poem will inevitably lead to a
fuller understanding of its thematic concerns.
Through Williams’s analogous structuring and selection of detail, the poem
depicts most of the material and pictorial elements of Brueghel’s painting.20
Aside from the introduction of symbolic elements through the “enlargement” of
the inn-sign detail, the structural aspects of the poem has raised for some critics
a far more complex question concerning the artistic principles which lie behind
the painting. In this poem, Williams reproduces what Alan Dundes and Claudia
Stibbe describe as “Brueghel’s delight in opposition and paradox.”21 To what extent
might Williams be following Brueghel’s lead in depicting oppositional pairs? In
an extensive explication of the poem in The Colors of Rhetoric, Wendy Steiner has
convincingly argued that the opposition of figures and landscape is established in
the poem through the division of the poetic surface into thematic “bands” as well
as by the shifts from foreground to background which create an interplay between
the natural landscape and the human element. Steiner further argues that the three
diagonal bands which divide the painting by lines falling from upper left to lower
right offer “a different choice of subject matter: a genre scene of the return from
the hunt, a cross section signifying winter, and the frozen, nonhuman landscape of
nature in January” (Steiner, p. 76). Steiner posits that, rather than focusing on an
integration of human and landscape, Williams, by structurally grouping these two
thematic elements, stresses their “separateness”; she goes on to suggest that, since
the greatest part of the poem focuses on the people in the village, Williams appears
to assume the dialogical position that the painting is not about landscape at all but
about the human element (Steiner, p. 76).22
Barry Ahearn, on the other hand, argues that the oppositions we may find
in Pictures From Brueghel have less to do with Williams’s imitation of Brueghel’s
thematic concerns than they have with Williams’s own “earlier fascination with
20
By “material” I am referring to canvas, paint, brushstrokes, perspective, and by “pictorial” to
figurative elements.
21
Alan Dundes and Claudia Stibbe: The Art of Mixing Metaphors. A Folkloristic Interpretation of the
‘Netherlandish Proverbs’ by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Helsinki 1981, p. 67. Dundes and Stibbe go on to
say that Brueghel “does not stop with simply delineating oppositional pairs … [but] … is concerned
with the ritual reversal of reality.” Williams does not take his oppositions this far in the seasonal
landscape poems.
22
This argument would agree with Sullivan’s notion of the humanist quality of Brueghel’s landscapes.
266
contraries (which) has become neoclassical in its carefully measured balance.”23 In

this context, Ahearn recalls Williams’s early interest in Cubism and argues that,
in this poem, “Williams has become less interested in the divergence of images
and objects and more interested in a coherent assembly of antinomies” (Ahearn, p.
163). Ahearn is not alone in his position that the oppositions have more to do with
Williams’s style than with Brueghel’s. It is interesting to note, in fact, that many
critics would disagree with the argument that the poem is in any way dialogical. As
Joel Conarroe argues, for example, “in finding words to fit the painting, Williams
again makes no attempt to discover meaning or message. He does not interpret, but
simply records, letting his eye move over the various details (though selection itself
is a kind of interpretation), allowing the things to evoke their own resonance.”24
Conarroe may be right in saying that Williams’s “recording” of details in the manner
of a “chronicler” avoids imposing any symbolic meaning to the painting. Yet, as we
have seen (and as Conarroe would admit), an ekphrastic poem − no matter how we
define this term − implies the same acts of interpretation we find in any translation,
even in a text so tightly constructed around an artwork as this one. Williams interlaces
a number of descriptive and structural elements in an intricate pattern where each
function may be seen to be dependent on the operation of another.
By so closely following the details of the painting and by employing very specific
strategies to create the effect of enargeia, Williams has produced a verbal artifact
which comes as close to “a verbal representation of a visual representation” as we are
likely to find either in Williams’s verse or elsewhere (Heffernan, p. 3). I think that it is
safe to say that, aside from the dialogical or associative/symbolic aspects of “Hunters
in the Snow” (which would demand more of the reader at the level of knowledge or
membership in a particular community of interpretation), the descriptive elements
of this poem render some degree of visualizion a certainty. However, in the following
poem, “The Corn Harvest,” Williams seems to proceed from objectives other than
an attempt to faithfully translate the elements from one text to another and it is in
this kind of text that we are confronted with the ambiguities of ekphrasis and the
effect of these on the act of reading/viewing.
“The Corn Harvest”

Williams based this poem on Brueghel’s The Corn Harvest (fig. 2), which depicts the
summer activities of working peasants. The visual center of the painting is occupied
by a young worker who is sleeping under a tree, and nearby and to the right we see
a group of women who are seated on the ground eating their mid-day meal. To the
left of this section, a worker is leaving the wheat field while another is cutting wheat,
23
Barry Ahearn: William Carlos Williams and Alterity, New York; Cambridge 1994, p. 162.
24
Joel Conarroe: “The Measured Dance: Williams’ Pictures from Brueghel” in Journal of Modern
Literature, Vol. 1, May, 1971 (p. 565–567), p. 566.
267
and still another has discovered a wine jug hidden among the stalks. The field, over
which two large birds hover, extends into the painting’s background where it con-
verges with the green landscape surrounding a small community. As we shall see,
most of these details have been ignored in Williams’s poem.25 This raises the issue at
hand: to what extent can we say that Williams has captured and, more importantly,
communicated the essence of Brueghel’s painting? To what extent, in other words,
can we say that this poem is “ekphrastic”?
Summer!
the painting is organized
about a young
reaper enjoying
his noonday rest
completely
relaxed
from his morning labors
sprawled
in fact sleeping
unbuttoned
on his back
the women
have brought him his lunch
perhaps
a spot of wine
they gather gossiping
under a tree
whose shade
carelessly
he does not share the
resting center of
their workaday world
(Collected Poems II, 389)
25
Robert Lawson-Peebles: “William Carlos Williams’ Pictures from Brueghel” in Word and Image, No.
2, 1986 (p. 18–23), suggests that 92% of the details in Brueghel’s painting have been left out of the
poem, p. 18. Lawson-Peebles’ claim has also been noted in Heffernan’s Museum of Words, p. 157.
268
Fig. 2. Pieter Brueghel, The Corn Harvest (August) (1565)
By identifying Brueghel’s painting in the title and by pointing out in the second
line that “the painting is organized,” Williams again reminds us that we are viewing,
through his poem, a work of art which is a carefully constructed artifact. Having
thus established the ekphrastic context of the poem, Williams proceeds in the
following 10 lines to focus on the physical center of Brueghel’s painting: “a young /
reaper enjoying / his noonday rest…” (lines 4–6). The line following may be read in
two ways: the young man is either enjoying his rest “completely” or is “completely
/ relaxed.” However we choose to read the ambiguity in these lines, perhaps most
important here is the kind of rest the poem implies. Williams communicates this
through the organization of the poem’s details. Having given the first half of the
poem to the visual center of the painting, Williams introduces, in the second half,
a “resting center” which refers to its subjective space. Here, the broken syntax of
lines 19–23 (“whose shade / carelessly / he does not share the / resting center of /
their workaday world”) creates a thematic ambiguity which has interpretative conse-
quences: this rest, which is related to productive labor, may be seen as one in which
the young reaper purposefully does not partake.
On the other hand, these lines may also indicate that the reaper constitutes the
resting center of an otherwise busy harvest scene. Through the use of ambiguous
syntax, Williams lets us choose. Jerome Mazzaro, for example, has suggested that the
young man in Williams’s poem, who has overeaten and perhaps drunk too much,
269
projects the kind of “dreamy silence (which) in Williams is everywhere attacked

as being ineffective (non-action producing), sentimental, and false” (Mazzaro, p.
168). If this is so, then we might expect that these notions would be reflected in the
elements that Williams selects from the painting for re-presentation.
Although Williams focuses almost exclusively on this single image and appears
to ignore the rest of the elements in the painting, he does set up one important (and
perhaps the primary) opposition by dividing the poem in this way. Both “centers”
depict resting, yet the rest enjoyed by the women is the kind that follows hard work;
the other is one which sprawls “carelessly” and “unbuttoned” on its back. If we were
to have the painting in front of us, the half-revealed jug of wine in the left-hand
corner would be enough to alert us to the possibility that the young reaper might
indeed have been drinking too much, as Mazzaro suggests. But even without this
knowledge of the painting, the physical opposition between the two different sorts
of resting makes this clear.
Again, as Alan Dundes and Claudia Stibbe have pointed out, in Brueghel’s
paintings “one term of an oppositional pair without its complementary term is
meaningless” (Dundes and Stibbe, p. 66–67). Indeed, if Williams had intended to
ignore “the foolish peasant” moral in order to depict a genre scene, then his struc-
tural division would not make sense. Furthermore, even though the reaper’s “dreamy
silence” is not directly attacked in the poem, Williams has separated it structurally
from effective rest. As a consequence, the young reaper is isolated in the poem both
spatially and semantically. Even if Williams seems to neglect most of the signature
oppositions which Brueghel placed in his paintings, particularly in this painting’s
division into work and play, it is these structural divisions in the poem which suggest
that Williams really does intend to separate one from the other. Whether or not this
indicates an aversion to “dreamy silence” is, of course, an interpretive matter − one
which would depend on what we, as readers, know about Williams’s thematic con-
cerns in other poems and whether he intended to project the same irony which we
might argue is present in this painting.
How depictive, then, is Williams’s interpretation of Brueghel’s painting The
Corn Harvest? As pointed out above, much is communicated about Brueghel’s
painting and its position in his seasonal series through direct naming in the poem’s
title and first line. Most importantly, however, is the poem’s organization, as it is
structured in a manner that continually invites the reader to imagine that he/she is
viewing a painting, beginning with a reference to the painting’s overall organization
in the second line and then focusing on its central image. Furthermore, Williams
allows the reader to cast an eye over the surface of the painting by inviting three
discrete saccadic eye movements in the text. The first one is an indeterminate
(and prepositionally unmarked) saccade, suggested in the opening exclamation,
“Summer!” Through its explicative punctuation and isolated placement, this one
word is sufficient to suggest any number of visual associations belonging to this
270
season. In contrast to “The Hunters in the Snow,” which invites a general kind of
perusal by suggesting “the overall picture,” the inner eye movement here depends
completely on this one exclamation to suggest an overall picture, yet it serves the
same function: to invite the reader to scan for the elements that would suggest
this season. In viewing the painting itself, this perusal would involve both lateral
saccades and a vergent movement to adjust for depth in taking in the sun-glazed
fields in the upper-middle section and outward to the distant green countryside in
the upper segment. Williams immediately follows this by inviting a second vergence
to what would be the foreground of the painting by referring to the center about
which all else is “organized.” The final optical adjustment occurs in the form of a
lateral saccade to the right, unmarked by a preposition but signaled by a new line
indicating “The women…,” who are located precisely at the center of the poem.
In this way, Williams both physically and semantically establishes two centers: the
first is literal or positional, the second is thematic. Again, Williams plays on optical
perception in a manner which allows the reader to experience the organization of
the painting itself.
In addition to this kind of analogous structuring, the enumeration of the
painting’s details may, to some extent, be sufficient to appeal to the reader’s inner
eye. However, does this depiction sufficiently re-present the painting? Although the
density of Williams’s selectivity of detail here does not approach the searching explo-
ration that we have seen in “The Hunters in the Snow,” it might be argued that the
foregrounded segment of the painting on which the poem does focus contains the
central thematic and visual elements of the painting. By concentrating on this one
section, furthermore, Williams creates a certain degree of dialogical tension between
painting and poem because selection immediately implies interpretation. Yet in “The
Corn Harvest,” the new text does not deviate essentially from the painting since it
selects those details which are enlarged and foregrounded by Brueghel himself. If
we look at Grossman’s edition of Brueghel’s paintings, for example, it is precisely
Williams’s selected segment which is represented on a separate page. (This selection
is titled “Detail of the midday meal from The Corn Harvest”). Williams’s text might
be seen as just this sort of detail, chosen because it captures what the poet perceives
to be the essence − or the primary focus − of the painting.26
The selection of foregrounded detail, then, sets up a synecdochal relationship to
the painting in which the large representative segment is transferred to the new text
with most of its important structural and visual elements intact. However, are these
sufficient grounds upon which to claim that the poem is ekphrastic, in the classi-
cal sense of the term? In other words, can we say that the ekphrastic operations of
“The Corn Harvest,” which takes significant liberties with its source painting, are
26
I think that it is reasonable to assume that Grossman based his selection on the representational
importance of this segment.
271
sufficiently depictive as to create a sense of enargeia in the reader? This is where an

indiscriminate use of terms like “representation” bring us into critical quicksand,
firstly, because we have to ask ourselves what it means to “represent,” and secondly,
even if we can arrive at a definition of the term, can we be sure that the segment
selected by Williams (and Grossman) is the most “representative” of Brueghel’s pain-
ting?27 In other words, who is to say that the wine jug hidden in the wheat field is
not the crucial segment? The reader who understands the painting to depict the
opposition between “good” (working) peasants and “bad” (imbibing and slothful)
peasants would argue that the depicted segment in Williams’s poem gives us only
half of the picture. The reader who argues that Brueghel’s painting is purely a genre
scene, as Joel Conarroe has done, would regard the depicted segment as highly repre-
sentative of Brueghel’s painting (and to his wider oeuvre of peopled landscapes).
It is clear from the diversity of critical approaches to “The Corn Harvest,” that
predicting the extent to which any text will produce the “ideal” ekphrastic response
is highly problematic. The final poem to be discussed, “Haymaking,” is even more
challenging as it barely engages the painting at all.
“Haymaking”
In this poem, one would be hard-pressed to find a “detail” in any art book to match
Williams’s adaptation of Brueghel’s Haymaking (fig. 3). Instead of focusing on what
he perceives to be the essence of the painting, we find that Williams is less concerned
with rendering this particular painting into words or bringing it before the inner eye
of the reader than he is with issues which lie outside its frame. The painting upon
which Williams based this poem depicts peasants engaged in various harvest activi-
ties. The center foreground is occupied by three peasant women returning from (or
going to) their harvest labors. Behind them, peasants laden with baskets descend
into the fields and, in the bottom left-hand corner, a reaper sits on the ground
repairing his scythe. These constitute the foregrounded images and the ones which
Brueghel most strongly highlights through size, detail, and color. In the background
and outside the center of the painting, workers in the field are loading hay onto a
wagon; beyond them lies a village. In view of the dominant position which Brueghel
gives to the human element in this painting, one might expect this to be in some
way reflected in Williams’s poem. Nothing is further from the truth. As we shall
see, the poem is not really “about” the painting at all and therefore raises some very
interesting questions about ekphrastic relationships in general.
27
If, as some critics have argued, Williams identified Brueghel as a chronicler of his own time and
place, this would lead the (informed) reader to see the text as bypassing the symbolism or satire
which, as other critics argue, run through Brueghel’s depictions of peasants. Mariani, for example,
has argued that Williams himself considered satire “a cheap substitute for coming into authentic
contact with one’s place.” Paul Mariani: William Carlos Williams. A New World Naked, New York;
London 1981, p. 747.
272
The living quality of

the man’s mind
stands out
and its covert assertions

for art, art, art!
painting
that the Renaissance

tried to absorb
but
it remained a wheat field

over which
the wind played
men with scythes tumbling

the wheat in
rows
the gleaners already busy

it was his own −
magpies
the patient horses no one

could take that
from him.
(Collected Poems II, 388)
Although Brueghel’s Haymaking is the ostensible subject of the poem, it is

striking that so little of the painting itself is depicted here; more importantly, only
a small part of the poem refers in any way to the painting communicated in the
title. In fact the first half of the poem is concerned not with the artwork at all but
with the artist who created it. The first line, which seems to raise the expectation
that the poem will focus on the “enduring quality” of the painting is foiled in the
second line in which Williams makes it clear that he is ultimately more concerned
with the creative mind of the artist. Structurally, we find that the body of the poem
is appropriately “framed” at beginning and end, first by the reference to Brueghel’s
genius and then to the artist’s problematic relationship with the conventions of
Renaissance art. These lines would be (and have been) sufficient to alert a specific
reader to the possibility that the poem is perhaps not only about Brueghel but is an
273
Fig. 3. Pieter Brueghel, Haymaking (July) (1565)
oblique autobiography about Williams himself and his relationship to the poetic
norms of his own times. As Paul Mariani points out,
just as the predominant school of Eliot had tried to absorb or dismiss

Williams and had failed, so with Brueghel, Williams believed, whom
the Italian Renaissance had tried likewise to absorb. There was the old
master’s world as he’d seen it, those fields and woods and buildings put
down on canvas so that no one would ever ‘take that/ from him’ any
more than anyone could take what Williams had rendered in fiction
and poem from him (Mariani, p. 747).
The point that Mariani makes here is compelling: that Williams shared Brueghel’s
problem with critical acceptance precisely because both he and Brueghel recorded
their worlds as they had “seen it,” avoiding the stylistic dictates of the “academies.”
Importantly, the autobiographical nature of the poem is reflected in its organization.
Here, the depiction of the painting is not only highly generalized but the central
and foregrounded figures are ignored altogether. Instead, Williams focuses on minor
background details of Brueghel’s painting − gleaners, men with scythes, an unseen
wind playing over the field, and magpies which are not present in this painting at
all (although they are present in many of Brueghel’s other landscape paintings).
274
The play on visual saccades is also negligible. Here, the reader’s gaze is not invited
to follow lines or details suggested by Brueghel’s painting; on the contrary, where
the eye would, in viewing the painting itself, alight first of all on the foregrounded
figures, in Williams’s poem the eye is prevented from alighting on any one object and,
instead, hovers between multiple images of gleaners, horses and magpies, all visual-
ized within a generic wheat field. Nevertheless, as nebulous as the poem’s references
to this painting are, the text as a whole does set up a tension between painting(s)
and poem which force the reader to look beyond the visual text to some underlying
pre-text or group of texts. In this poem, Williams seems to be referring to Brueghel’s
oeuvre in general and not to this specific painting, an ekphrasis that appeals to the
knowledge or experience of the reader to make this important connection.
The above analysis of Williams’s three “Brueghel poems” demonstrates the com-
plexity and variety of ekphrastic texts, even within the oeuvre of a single writer. So
if “anything goes,” ekphrastically speaking, how can we place such a variety of texts
within a useful discursive framework? As it turns out, these poems offer a wonderful
example of the difficulty of pinning down the slippery notion of ekphrasis. As
literary texts become less dependent on (and less obvious in their references to)
their visual sources, the more the reader must supply the missing information. Yet
an individual’s subjective response to indeterminacy is impossible to predict; we can
only surmise that the (often subtle) information contained in the ekphrastic text will
have the intended effect on some readers under specific circumstances. The problem
is clear: if the definitions of ekphrasis we have on hand are not really helpful in
articulating the complex relationships that we encounter in ekphrastic texts or the
myriad ways in which they might be received by the reader, then perhaps it would
prove fruitful to look beyond the discourse of our own discipline to developments
in the wider scientific world.
New Directions
No one will deny the importance of continuing the debate about the nature of
ekphrasis, particularly in view of Benjamin’s statement in our epigraph concerning
the changeability of arts and the importance of historical change on the dynamics of
perception. But the socio-cultural debate is only one road into more fully understanding
the dynamics associated with word and image interaction. The field of intermediality
has already richly profited from the technology provided by computer sciences and
graphics, to name just one example. Indeed, it is becoming increasingly clear that the
products of investigation within the “exact disciplines” can offer meaningful insights
for research in the humanities. I would like to briefly address just a few of these
insights offered by the fields of linguistics and cognitive psychology.
Let’s begin with the contribution that the field of linguistics might offer to our
problem of definition and categorization of ekphrastic relationships. As Jiri Veltrusky
275
has argued, “the semiotics of any single art has so many aspects that at the present
stage of our knowledge it is plainly impossible to examine them all in a systematic
way. As soon as different arts are compared, the number of these aspects soars.”28 Add
to this the subjectivity of reception and we have our “greased pig.” In the 25 years
since Veltrusky made this observation, little has been done to construct a systematic
comparative framework by which to examine the relationship between the objects
of intermedial studies. For example, the very term “ekphrasis,” the subject of this
paper, has functioned as an “all-purpose” umbrella term ever since its resurrection in
the 20th century; unfortunately, this kind of general term has proven too broad to be
meaningful: however we define the term, a poem is either “ekphrastic” or it is not.
In my first attempt at addressing the problem, I devised what I called a “differential
model,”29 a typology which approached ekphrasis as a type of intertextual construct
and was organized according to clarity of reference – ranging from precise “naming,”
“description,” and “analogous structuring” – ekphrastic operations most likely to
produce “enargeia” in the reader – to more subtle references such as “indeterminate
marking” and “associative” responses which call largely on the reader’s knowledge
of art/aesthetics (see appendix). In this model, “Hunters in the Snow” would be
highly “attributive” (as it communicates its source directly), highly depictive or “re-
presentative” (since it is structurally analogous and most details of the painting are
described) and “associative” (as it addresses both thematic and symbolic elements in
the painting). On the other end of the scale, “Haymaking,” although highly attri-
butive, is minimally depictive and highly associative (as it is more concerned with
the artist and his oeuvre than with this particular painting).
This pragmatic typology, although useful in mapping degrees and types of
ekphrastic reference, did not pretend to offer a theoretical approach to ekphrasis or
take into account the ways in which reception actually takes place. It seems to me
that, since ekphrasis is first and foremost a communicative act, the next logical step
to a more complete typology would be to turn to the science of linguistics where
research into the dynamics of perception might well provide useful insights for our
own field of study. It goes without saying that literature is not an exact science and
28
Jiri Veltrusky: “Comparative Semiotics of Art” in Wendy Steiner (ed.): Image and Code, Michigan
1981, p. 109.
29
Valerie Robillard: “In Pursuit of Ekphrasis: An Intertextual Approach” in Valerie Robillard and Els
Jongeneel (eds.): Pictures Into Words: Theoretical and Descriptive Approaches to Ekphrasis, Amsterdam
1998 (p. 53–72), p. 60–62. (This development of a systematic typology was born of my own
experience in study of microbiology, in which “mutually exclusive” categorization was essential to an
understanding of the objects of the discipline.) The “differential model” has been recently changed to
accommodate the translation from verbal to visual as well and will appear in a forthcoming paper in
which I demonstrate the usefulness of the sub-categories “verbal ekphrasis” and “visual ekphrasis.” It
is not my intention here to further complicate a field already replete with terminology, but to provide
a means of categorizing visual responses to the verbal arts which go beyond “illustration” to form a
variety of ekphrastic relationships with their verbal pre-texts.
276
will always be subject to the indeterminacies of language. Add to this the experiential
diversity and cognitive difference among readers/viewers of texts, and we could
make a good case for avoiding scientific categories altogether (as is largely the case)
– at least if we insist on precise language and terminology.30 The good news is that
researchers in cognitive linguistics, most notably Eleanor Rosch, have developed
‘flexible’ categories which take into account the individual and the myriad ways that
perception takes place, proceeding from the principle that structured categories go
a long way in the ordering of experience. The resulting “prototype model,” which
organizes levels of reception in concentric circles, ranging from the most “typical” to
the most subjective, could prove very promising for the categorization of ekphrastic
response.31
Moving on to cognitive psychology: we have already witnessed in the above
explication of Williams’s “Brueghel poems” the importance of scientific investi-
gations into optics to understanding (and application to) the operations of
ekphrastic texts.32 But this is only one area currently under investigation that will
have important consequences for intermedial studies. Another promising area of
investigation in psycholinguistics is those which explore the dynamics of reading
literary texts (most specifically, poetic texts) by means of sophisticated sensors and
computer imaging, hereby following the movement of the eye by tracking the
pauses and repetitions evoked by unfamiliar, difficult, or “odd” words or ambiguous
syntax.33 These investigations have significant implications for tracing the more
subtle textual encounters of ekphrasis: those which signal an “intertext” (or, in our
case, the artwork which lies behind the poem), which Michael Riffaterre has called
“breaks in the fabric of the text”34 and which I have labeled in my own model as
“indeterminate markings.”
30
I am referring here to Gottlob Frege’s theory of scientific language, which argues for a ‘precision of
expression’ which frees scientific language from ambiguity. This, of course, has been heavily criticized
for its implausibility, both by linguists and scientists themselves. An analysis of these theories can be
found in Ora Avni’s Resistance to Reference. Linguistics, Philosophy, and the Literary Text, Baltimore;
London 1990, p.78–112.
31
See George Lakoff: Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things. What Categories Reveal about the Mind,
Chicago; London 1982, p. 39–57. I would like to thank Dr. Marjolein Verspoor, lecturer in English
and Linguistics at the University of Groningen, for making me aware of Eleanor Rosch’s work on
categories and its possible significance for Intermedial Studies. Our collaboration in this area is
currently a work in progress.
32
It is interesting to note that cognitive linguistics has provided further insights into this same process by
offering the “spatialization of form hypothesis,” which refers to a “metaphorical mapping from physical
space into conceptual space [….] more specifically, image schemas (which structure space) are mapped
into the corresponding abstract configuration (which structures concepts).” See Lakoff, p. 220.
33
The ‘sister arts tradition’ will not only offer new directions in sorting out the enigmas of intermedial
discourse but will also go a long way in engendering a truly interdisciplinary spirit between the arts
and sciences. This is research currently being carried out in the Department of Psychology at the
University of Dundee, Scotland.
34
Michael Riffatterre: The Semiotics of Poetry, London 1980.
277
These are just a few examples, but they clearly demonstrate that the ongoing
research and innovations in the exact sciences might well provide an escape from
the (often) tired discourse that circles around familiar questions and definitions,
and which tend to cloud current achievements and the further development of
intermedial exploration. Although I do believe that William James was right in cau-
tioning us that “theories are instruments, not answers to enigmas”;35 nevertheless,
making place for the “exact” sciences as equal partner.
35
Williams James: Pragmatism and Other Essays, Washington 1963, p. 26.
278
Appendix
A “differential model” of ekphrasis
279
References
Ahearn, Barry: William Carlos Williams and Alterity, New York; Cambridge 1994.
Avni, Ora: The Resistance of Reference. Linguistics, Philosophy, and the Literary Text, Baltimore;
London 1990.
Benjamin, Walter: “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” in Illlumina-
tions, London 1982.
Collins, Christopher: “The Moving Eye in Williams’ Earlier Poetry” in Caroll Terrell (ed.):
Williams Carlos Williams. Man and Poet, Orono, Maine 1983.
Conarroe, Joel: “The Measured Dance: Williams’ ‘Pictures from Brueghel’” in Journal of
Modern Literature 1, May, 1971.
Dundes, Alan, and Stibbe, Claudia: The Art of Mixing Metaphors: A Folkloristic Interpretation
of the ‘Netherlandish Proverbs’ by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Helsinki 1981.
Gombrich, E.H.: Art and Illusion. A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation,
London 1994 (1960).
Grossman, Fritz: Pieter Bruegel. Complete Edition of the Paintings, London, third edition
1973.
Hagstrum, Jean: The Sister Arts. The Tradition of Literary Pictorialism from Dryden to Gray,
Chicago 1958.
Heffernan, James: Museum of Word: The Poetics of Ekphrasis from Homer to Ashbery, Chicago;
London 1993.
James, William: Pragmatism and Other Essays, Washington 1963.
Franz, Gisbert: Das Bildgedich. Theorie, Lexikon, Bibliographie, Volumes 1–2, Köln 1981.
Krieger, Murray: “The Problem of Ekphrasis: Image and Words, Space and Time – and the
Literary Work” in Robillard, Valerie and Jongeneel, Els (eds.): Pictures Into Words: Theo-
retical and Descriptive Approaches to Ekphrasis, Amsterdam 1998.
Lakoff, George: Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things. What Categories Reveal About the Mind,
Chicago; London 1987.
Lawson-Peebles, Robert: “William Carlos Williams’ Pictures from Brueghel” in Word and
Image, No. 2 1986.
Lund, Hans: Text as Picture: Studies in the Literary Translations of Pictures, Lewiston, N.Y
1992. (First published in Swedish in 1982).
Lund, Hans: “Ekphrastic Linkage and Contextual Ekphrasis” in Robillard, Valerie and
Jongeneel, Els (eds.): Pictures Into Words: Theoretical and Descriptive Approaches to
Ekphrasis, Amsterdam 1998 (p. 173–178).
Mariani, Paul: William Carlos Williams. A New World Naked, New York; London 1981.
Mazzaro, Jerome: William Carlos Williams. The Later Poems, Ithaca; London 1973.
Radcliffe, David: “On the Critical Value of Categories” in Bryson, et. al, (eds.): Visual
Theory, 1991.
Riffatterre, Michael: The Semiotics of Poetry, London 1980.
Robillard, Valerie: “In Pursuit of Ekphrasis: An Intertextual Approach” in Robillard, Valerie
and Jongeneel, Els (eds.): Pictures Into Words: Theoretical and Descriptive Approaches to
Scholz, Bernhard F: “‘Sub Oculos Subiectio.’ Quintilian on Ekphrasis and Enargeia” in
Robillard, Valerie and Jongeneel, Els (eds.): Pictures Into Words: Theoretical and Descrip-
tive Approaches to Ekphrasis, Amsterdam 1998.
Steiner, Wendy: The Colors of Rhetoric. Problems in the Relation Between Modern Literature
and Painting, Chicago; London 1982.
Sullivan, Margaret: Bruegel’s Peasants. Art and Audience in the Northern Renaissance, New
York; Cambridge 1994.
Vasari: Lives of The Artists, trans. George Bull, London 1987.
280
Veltrusky, Jiri: “Comparative Semiotics of Art” in Steiner, Wendy (ed.): Image and Code,
Michigan 1981.
Williams, William Carlos: The Collected Poems Volume 2: 1939–1962, Christopher
MacGowan (ed.), New York 1988.
281
A Whale That Can’t Be Cotched?
On Conceptualizing Ekphrasis
Bernhard F. Scholz
When the men fell into a dispute concerning what kind of whales they
were which they saw, Larry stood by attentively, and after garnering in
their ignorance, all at once broke out, and astonishing every body by his
intimate acquaintance with the monsters.
“They ar’n’t sperm whales,” said Larry, “their spouts ar’n’t bushy
enough; they ar’n’t Sulphur-bottoms, or they wouldn’t stay up so long;
they ar’n’t Hump-backs, for they ar’n’t got any humps; they ar’n’t
Fin-backs, for you won’t catch a Fin-back so near a ship; they ar’n’t
Greenland whales, for we ar’n’t off the coast of Greenland; and they
ar’n’t right whales, for it wouldn’t be right to say so. I tell ye, them’s
Crinkum-crankum whales.”
“And what are them?” said a sailor.
“Why, them is whales that can’t be cotched.”
Herman Melville, Redburn
I.
In 1955 Leo Spitzer published an article on John Keats’s Ode on a Grecian Urn,
which, judging from a considerable number of scholarly references, has by now
become something of a locus classicus of modern ekphrasis studies.1 But in spite
of the broad agreement that it was Spitzer who reintroduced the term ‘ekphrasis’
as a genre-term into the terminological repertoire of modern word-image studies,
various attempts at defining ekphrasis, which have been made in recent decades,
have rarely if ever aimed at an explicit compliance with the Spitzerian use of that
term. Though he may thus have been responsible for reintroducing the term
‘ekphrasis’ into modern criticism, Spitzer did not subsequently become a ‘founder
of discourse’ in the sense of an author to whose writings later authors will have to
return in order to clarify their own conception of a particular subject matter.2 In
1
Leo Spitzer: “The ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’, or Content vs. Metagrammar” in Comparative Literature,
Vol. 7, No. 3, 1955 (p. 203–225); also in Leo Spitzer: Essays on English and American Literature, Anna
Hatcher (ed.), Princeton 1962, Vol. II, (p. 667–97).
2
On the notion of a ‘founder of discourse’ see Michel Foucault: “Qu’est-ce qu’un auteur?” (1969) in D.
Defert and F. Ewald (eds.): Dits et écrits 1954–1988, Vol. 1. 1954–1969, Paris 1994 (p. 789–821).
283
Bernhard F. Scholz: A Whale that can’t be Cotched?
fact, both the term ‘ekphrasis’ and the concept named by it appear to have become
so problematic of late that a few years ago an exponent of word-image studies could
suggest that “because the label ekphrasis has become so troublesome within the
forty years after its re-introduction into the critical discourse by Leo Spitzer we may
decide to dispense with it altogether.”3
II.
The expression ‘ekphrasis,’ however, was not so easily jettisoned. It is, after all, not
just an arbitrary label that one could paste on and subsequently peel off an object as
one sees fit. Rather, it is an expression with a disconcertingly varied history of use as
a terminus technicus that extends over close to two millennia during which it served
in a number of different cultural and discursive contexts. Discarding a term so rich
in historical reminiscences would not only deprive us of the possibility of recon-
structing the uses of ‘ekphrasis’ in those contexts, all of which, trivially enough,
involve the use of precisely that term. We would also rob ourselves of a valuable tool
for retaining, perhaps even rekindling, an awareness of the continuity of a strand of
Western literature that stretches from Classical Antiquity to W.H. Auden, Gertrude
Stein and beyond. And, last but not least, we would be letting go of a term, which
may shed an unexpected light on texts and contexts because of the very fact that is
has been used in so many different ways in the course of time. It is indeed much
more than just “a sort of etymological magic”4 that has kept the use of the term
‘ekphrasis’ alive through the centuries. Like several other terms and concepts first
used by Classical theoretical discourse, it has been retained despite radical shifts in
theoretical framework and in discursive context. Think of how the concept of mythos
of Aristotle’s Poetics metamorphosed into that of plot of modern narrative theory;
how Longinus’s rhetorical concept of hypsos became the epistemological sublime of
Kant and subsequently an aesthetic concept of Postmodernism; how Plato’s mimesis
first changed into Aristotle’s version of it, then turned into Renaissance imitatio,
then the vraissemblance of French Classicism, only to end up as Widerspiegelung of
Marxist Realism.
With ‘ekphrasis,’ too, we have to pay careful attention to the manner in which
that term came to name a number of different yet related concepts, and thus to
acquire a number of different meanings. Significantly enough, it acquired only
some of those meanings through definition. Most of them it did through exemplifi-
cation. Only think of how Quintilian introduces ‘enargeia’ as a defining property of
3
Claus Clüver: “Quotation, Enargeia, and the Functions of Ekphrasis” in Valerie Robillard and Els
Jongeneel (eds.): Pictures into Words. Theoretical and Descriptive Approaches to Ekphrasis, Amsterdam
1998 (p. 35–52), p. 49.
4
See Ruth Webb: “Ekphrasis Ancient and Modern: the Invention of a Genre” in Word & Image, Vol.
15, No. 1, 1999, (p. 7–18), p. 7.
284
ekphrasis by conjuring up before our inner eye a scene by the seaside at Ostia, with
an aging senator cavorting with his mistress,5 think of how Leo Spitzer exemplifies
what exactly he means by ‘transposition d’art’ by means of a close reading of Keats’s
Ode, thereby giving that expression a rather different meaning from the one
Théophile Gautier had given to it in his programmatic writings.6 Therefore, when
we decide whether a text qualifies as an ekphrasis or not, we are more likely to make
comparisons between those remembered exemplifications and the text we now
have before us, than to hold that text against the light of one or the other explicit
definition. For what we will have retained from reading Quintilian, Spitzer and
others, and what will readily be at our disposal when we have to consider whether
a text is ekphrastic or not, will not so much be our recall of definitions of ekphrasis
involving the identification of the genus, the species and the differentiae specificae
of ekphrasis. What we will be relying on much more, certainly initially, will be
the ability, acquired from our encounter with those exemplifications, to see the
similarities and differences between the text before us and the texts that have previ-
ously been called ‘ekphrastic.’ Thanks to those exemplifications a term like ‘ekphrasis’
possesses a hermeneutical as well as a heuristic potential only part of which will be
actualized as we encounter a text that is presented to us – or presents itself to us – as
‘ekphrastic.’ The term ‘ekphrasis’, like so many other terms inherited through use
in diverse cultural and discursive contexts of the past, can therefore be expected to
possess a surplus of meanings in any context in which we are now likely to employ
it. Any attempt at defining ekphrasis that were to lose sight of those exemplifications
would therefore be needlessly forfeiting that hermeneutic and heuristic potential.
III.
In Classical affective rhetoric the term ‘ekphrasis’ referred to a figura in mente that
was thought capable of allowing the listener/reader to vividly call up a scene or
an object before the his inner eye, transforming him, as it were, into a spectator.7
When the term was used in that way, paintings, statues or buildings could indeed
5
Marcus Fabius Quintilianus: Institutionis oratoriae libri XII. Ausbildung des Redners. Zwölf Bücher, ed.
& trans. Helmut Rahn, Darmstadt 1996 (1988). Bk. VIII, 3, 64; Vol. II, p. 176–7; for an overview
of the development of the concept of enargeia see Perrine Galland-Hallyn: “De la rhétorique des
affects à une métapoétique. Évolution du concept d’enargeia” in Heinrich F. Plett (ed.): Renaissance-
Rhetorik / Renaissance Rhetoric, Berlin; New York 1993 (p. 245–265).
6
On the Théophile Gautier’s concept of transposition d’art see e.g. Alain Montandon: “Ecritures de
l’image chez Théophile Gautier” in Peter Wagner (ed.): Icons, Texts, Iconotexts. Essays on Ekphrasis
and Intermediality, Berlin; New York 1996 (p. 105–118); On the place of transposition d’art in 19th
century French poetry see Klaus W. Hempfer (ed.): Jenseits der Mimesis. Parnassische ‘transposition
d’art’ und der Paradigmenwechsel in der Lyrik des 19. Jahrhunderts, Stuttgart 2000.
7
See my “Sub oculos subiectio: Quintilian on Ekphrasis and enargeia” in Valerie Robillard and Els
Jongeneel (eds.): Pictures into Words. Theoretical and Descriptive Approaches to Ekphrasis, Amsterdam
1998 (p. 73–99).
285
occasionally figure as elements of the scenes or among the objects thus called up.
But Classical affective rhetoric did not expressly single them out as objects that
needed to be considered apart from the rest. They therefore were not distinguished
from any other element that might be part of the scene that was being conjured up
before the inner eye. The inclusion of works of the visual arts in the extension of
the rhetorical concept of ekphrasis was thus contingent, and the intension of that
concept, as used by Classical rhetoric, did not involve any explicit mentioning of
such artifacts. The same is still true of the discussions of ekphrasis as a rhetorical
figure in Renaissance rhetoric.8
By contrast, the use of the expression ‘ekphrasis’ as a name for one of the writing
exercises of the Progymnasmata of Classical Antiquity appears to have entailed both
a de facto limitation of the extension of the concept of ekphrasis to works of the
visual arts, and a corresponding de facto adjustment of its intension. But this more
restricted usage of the term ‘ekphrasis’ does not appear to have been accompanied
by corresponding adjustments in the explication of the concept of ekphrasis in the
rhetorical treatises of Classical Antiquity. Such adjustments, if they had been under-
taken, might indeed have reflected the fact that now works of the visual arts, rather
than scenes and objects in general, were to be presented verbally ad oculos. They
might also have shown that the expression ‘ekphrasis’ was now being used to refer
to a descriptive text as a whole, rather than to a rhetorical figure as an element of
such a text. But adjustments of this sort apparently did not take place. Very likely
that is due to the fact that what was being taught and practiced in the writing
exercise of the Progymnasmata under the heading of ‘ekphrasis’, was still the skill
to produce examples of the figura in mente which the rhetorical treatises referred to
as ‘ekphrases’, with paintings and statues serving as convenient and ready-to-hand
but nevertheless contingent occasions for practicing that skill, rather than as objects
that were to be described ekphrastically in their semiotic specificity as paintings and
statues. If that assumption is correct, the earliest use of the expression ‘ekphrasis’
as a name for a description of a work of the visual arts rather than as a name for a
rhetorical figure would indeed have been a derivative one only. It would also have
been a use, which did not call for a matching of the newly restricted extension with a
newly adjusted explication that would have been comparable to the matching of the
use of the figura in mente called ‘ekphrasis’ in Classical oratory, and its explication in
the rhetorical treatises of the time.9
8
See Heinrich F. Plett’s authoritative discussion of Renaissance ekphrasis in his chapter on ‘Pictura
Rhetorica’ in Rhetoric and Renaissance Culture, Berlin; New York 2004 (p. 297–364).
9
For an excellent discussion of ekphrasis in relation to the Progymnasmata and the difference with
the modern notion of ekphrasis see Webb, p. 7–18. For the Classical roots of ekphrasis see Fritz Graf:
“Ekphrasis: Die Entstehung der Gattung in der Antike” in Gottfried Boehm and Helmut Pfotenhauer
(eds.): Beschreibungskunst – Kunstbeschreibung. Ekphrasis von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart, Munich
1995 (p. 143–155). For a discussion of the varieties of ekphrasis in Classical Antiquity see Jas Elsner:
“The Genres of Ekphrasis” in Ramus, Vol. 31, No. 1–2, 2002 (p. 1–18).
286
That such an attempt at matching practice and theory did indeed fail to be
undertaken is indirectly suggested by the fact that to this day ekphrasis scholars
tend to ask themselves what to do with the concept of enargeia in the context of a
definition of ‘ekphrasis’ as a name for a word-image genre. In Classical and Renais-
sance affective rhetoric, it will be remembered, enargeia (evidentia) served as the
principal defining feature of ekphrasis: if a description was capable of placing the
described object or scene before the inner eye of the listener or reader, transforming
him/her, as it were, into a spectator, it was due to the fact that it managed to achieve
enargeia. Should the achievement of enargeia therefore be retained as a necessary
and sufficient condition when the term ‘ekphrasis’ referred no longer to a rhetorical
figure as an element of an oratio, but to a descriptive text as a whole? Should that
differentia still be retained when that term was subsequently used as a name for a
specific literary genre?
Without necessarily wishing to elevate Spitzer to the status of a ‘founder of
discourse’ after all, I would like to take another look at his discussion of ekphrasis. The
problems of defining and conceptualizing ekphrasis will, I believe, become somewhat
more tractable if we contrast Spitzer’s with several recent attempts at definition.
IV.
Spitzer begins his 1955 article on Keats’s Ode with an attack on what he views as
“certain questionable habits of contemporary criticism – for instance, the tendency
to make the poetic text appear more difficult, intricate, paradoxical than it truly is.”
That tendency, he claims, involves “on the part of the critic a verbal-metaphysical
play that outmetaphysicizes the poem” (Spitzer, p. 204).10 Spitzer himself opts for
an approach that is in line with French explication de texte, which, he suggests, starts
out rather matter-of-factly with an attempt at placing a poem in the relevant con-
texts of tradition and literary genre. Hence his interest in the opening paragraphs
of his essay in ‘ekphrasis’ as a name of a literary genre that can be traced all the way
back to Classical Antiquity.
Keats’s Ode, Spitzer suggests, should be read as “first of all a description of an
urn,” and therefore as belonging to “the genre, known to Occidental literature from
Homer and Theocritus to the Parnassians and Rilke, of the ekphrasis.” Before the
backdrop of that tradition he defines ekphrasis as “the poetic description of a pictorial
or sculptural work of art,” adding that this particular kind of description “implies, in
the words of Théophile Gautier, ‘une transposition d’art,’ the reproduction through
the medium of words of sensuously perceptible objets d’art (ut pictura poesis).”And
10
The target of Spitzer’s criticism is the post-WWII New Criticism, then in its heyday, an approach
to literature, Spitzer thought, that was flawed by a shortage of historical knowledge on the part of its
practitioners, and by a tendency to invent descriptive concepts that frequently were not supported
by the texts under study.
287
he concludes his general remarks on ekphrasis with the formulation of a heuristic

question, which, he believes, we need to raise – mutatis mutandis – whenever we
attempt to determine how exactly that ekphrastic ‘transposition d’art’ has been
realized in a given ekphrasis: “Since, then, the ode is a verbal transposition of the
sensuous appearance of a Greek urn, my next question must be: What exactly has
Keats seen (or chosen to show us) depicted on the urn he is describing?” The answer
to that question, Spitzer believes, will “furnish us with a firm contour [...] of the
object of his [i.e., in this particular case, Keats’s] description itself, which may later
allow us to distinguish the symbolic or metaphysical inferences drawn by the poet
from the visual elements he has apperceived.” In the special case of Keats’s poem,
it will also “point to several uncertainties of vision experienced by the poet while
deciphering his sensuous subject matter, uncertainties that may help us ultimately
to discern which particular message Keats wishes us to see embodied in the urn and
which to exclude” (Spitzer, p. 207).
V.
It goes without saying that as far as the formal rules of definition are concerned,
Spitzer’s definition of ekphrasis as “the poetic description of a pictorial or sculptural
work of art” leaves nothing to be desired. It recognizes description as the genus proxi-
mum of ekphrasis, and it identifies two differentiae specificae, which will allow us to
distinguish ekphrasis from other kinds of description. Accordingly, a description, in
order to qualify as an ekphrasis, must be ‘poetic’, rather than, let us say, ‘scientific’
or ‘art-historical’11 or couched in everyday language or in the language of an auction
catalogue. In addition, it must refer to ‘a pictorial or sculptural work of art’, rather
than, let us say, to a natural object or an artifact of everyday use.
Also, it is easy enough to make Spitzer’s definition of ekphrasis operational.
For if we grant the historicity of concepts like ‘poetic’ and ‘work of art’, and if
we assume that it will usually be possible to determine whether a particular use
of language counted as ‘poetic,’ and whether an artifact counted as a ‘work of art’
at a specific moment in time, Spitzer’s definition of ekphrasis can be considered
sufficiently separative so as not to leave us in doubt as to whether a given description
of an artifact did count and can count as an ekphrasis.12 Thus defined the term
11
For an detailed analysis of the characteristics of several varieties of art-historical description see
James A. W. Heffernan: “Speaking for Pictures: the Rhetoric of Art Criticism” in Word & Image, Vol.
15, No. 1, 1999 (p. 19–33).
12
The ceramic artifact of the genus ‘urinal’ produced by the firm of Mott Works, which Marcel
Duchamps was to elevate to the status of a sculptural work of art by having it displayed in New York
City’s Grand Central Palace in 1917, and calling it Fountain can illustrate the separative potential of
Spitzer’s definition: a description of that urinal in a plumber’s manual would clearly not count as an
ekphrasis even after Duchamps’ epochal deed, nor would a restorer’s or an insurer’s report after an
iconoclast’s attack on the specimen on display. In the first case neither of Spitzer’s two criteria would
288
‘ekphrasis’ will be applicable as a genre term to descriptions ranging from those of

the shields of Achilles and of Aeneas in the Iliad and in the Aeneid13 to W.H. Auden’s
and Williams Carlos Williams descriptions of paintings by Breughel in “Musée des
Beaux Arts” and in Pictures from Breughel and beyond.14 Descriptions of imaginary
works of art – instances of what has become known as ‘notional ekphrasis’15 – would
not be excluded either, for Spitzer’s definition is not limited to the description of
historically manifest art works. All that is needed is that the poetic description of
a pictorial or sculptural work of art in question can be seen to satisfy the relevant
criteria for being poetic and for being a work of art, regardless of whether the work
of art thus described is real or imaginary.
But if things are that well with Spitzer’s definition of ekphrasis as it stands, what
are we meant to gain from the additional remark that the kind of description known
as ‘ekphrasis’ “implies, in the words of Théophile Gautier, ‘une transposition d’art,’
the reproduction through the medium of words of sensuously perceptible objets
d’art (ut pictura poesis)”? Are we meant to treat this addition as the formulation of
an additional third differentia specifica of ekphrasis? In that case we would have to
restrict the use of the term ‘ekphrasis’ to those descriptions, which, in addition to
being ‘poetic’ and to referring to works of the visual arts, are characterized by the
fact that they involve an instance of a ‘transposition d’art,’ a ‘reproduction through
the medium of words of sensuously perceptible objets d’art.’ Poetic descriptions of
works of the visual arts, which do not exhibit that third feature, would therefore no
longer qualify as ‘ekphrastic.’
Spitzer’s claim that such a transposition d’art, such a reproduction through the
medium of words is ‘implied’ in poetic descriptions of works of visual art known
as ‘ekphrases,’ suggests a different reading. Rather than suggesting that we should
consider ‘transposition d’art’ or ‘reproduction through the medium of words’ as an
additional third differentia of ekphrastic description, Spitzer appears to be saying
that whenever we come across a description as defined in terms of the genus and
the two differentiae of the original definition, we will be implicitly encountering an
instance of ‘transposition d’art,’ of ‘reproduction through the medium of words.’
Rather than formulating an additional third differentia of ekphrasis, Spitzer would
thus be formulating an implication of his definition. Speaking of ‘transposition d’art’
in conjunction with ekphrasis would therefore ‘only’ involve a shift of focus on
that genre. When we speak in that manner, the focus of our attention is no longer
primarily on the textual properties of an ekphrastic description and on its referent,
be met, in the second case only the second.

13
Homer: Iliad, bk. XVIII, ll. 430–end; Virgil: Aeneid, bk. VIII, ll. 625–731.
14
W.H. Auden: “Musée des Beaux Arts” in Collected Shorter Poems 1927–1957, London 1966/69
(p. 123–124); William Carlos Williams: Pictures from Breughel and Other Poems: Collected Poems,
1950–1962, London 1963.
15
See John Hollander: The Gazer’s Spirit: Poems Speaking to Silent Works of Art, Chicago 1995, passim.
289
but on its relational aspects, i.e. on the characteristic relation that links it to the
work of the visual arts that is being described and referred to. That shift of focus,
we shall see, is by no means a redundant feature of Spitzer’s discussion of ekphrasis.
For it takes us to precisely the place where the historical developments of ekphrastic
description occurred – and are still occurring –, and where the variants of ekphrasis
continue to have their source.
Spitzer’s heuristic question, which can be generalized to read ‘what exactly has
the author of the ekphrasis seen (or chosen to show us) depicted on/in the pictorial
or sculptural work of art he/she is describing?’ fits in nicely with this shift of focus
from the textual properties and the referent to the relational aspects of the ekphrastic
text. It spells out explicitly that the transposition d’art of ekphrasis involves a gaze, a
conscious encounter of a perceiving subject (‘seeing’, ‘choosing’, ‘showing’) with a
work of art. The ekphrastic text thus comes to us, its readers, as the record of that
gaze. This outspoken interest in the perceiving subject is underlined by the fact that
Spitzer never speaks of the work of the visual arts tout court, which the ekphrastic
text is supposed to be describing, but of the ‘sensuously perceptible objet d’art’,
which is thought to be reproduced through the medium of words, of, in Keats’
case, the verbal transposition of the ‘sensuous appearance of a Greek urn’, and of
the inferences drawn by the poet from ‘the visual elements he has apperceived.’ It
is thus not the objet d’art as a pictorial ‘artifact’ but as an ‘aesthetic object,’ the objet
d’art viewed, as ‘concretized’ in and through the gaze of the poet, which is being
‘transposed’ in the transposition d’art.16
Spitzer’s interest in the perceiving subject, it is true, identifies him as an author
writing before the Structuralist strictures on the authorial subject during the late
sixties and seventies of the last century. It also marks him as a ‘mentalist’ theorist-
critic of a Phenomenological persuasion17 who was not yet influenced by the so-called
‘linguistic turn’ propagated by Analytical Philosophy.18 But neither his interest in
the authorial subject, nor his adherence to mentalism need to be stumbling blocks
any longer, since in the meantime we have come to view each of those formerly
adversary positions as offering fruitful possibilities for analysis not offered by the
other, and no longer as positions that demand blind and exclusive adherence. But it
is indeed the case that one of the things that set Spitzer’s approach to ekphrasis apart
from at least some of the more recent ones is this outspoken interest in the perceiving
subject of the author and, subsequently, the reader. A number of recent approaches,
16
It is probably not accidental that Spitzer does not speak of the visual elements of the pictorial
work of art as ‘perceived’ but as ‘apperceived,’ thereby underlining, in keeping with a terminological
tradition that begins with Kant and reaches to William James and beyond, the fact that those visual
elements are not just received passively, but are actively processed mentally.
17
See René Wellek: “Leo Spitzer (1887–1960)” in Comparative Literature Vol. 12, No. 4, 1960 (p.
310–334).
18
See the representative early collection of articles edited by Richard Rorty: The Linguistic Turn:
Recent Essays in Philosophical Method, Chicago 1967.
290
we shall see, tend to focus exclusively on the relation between the ekphrastic text
and the pictorial work described, while abstracting from the perceiving subject of
both author and reader.19
What remains unaffected by the shift of focus in Spitzer’s discussion of ekphrasis
from the textual properties of ekphrasis and its referent to the relational and the
subjective aspects of the genre is the decision that ‘ekphrasis’ should indeed be used
as a name of a literary genre. That, we shall see, will turn out to be a great advantage
of Spitzer’s approach to ekphrasis, because by defining ekphrasis as a literary genre
solely in terms of its genus proximum and its two textual and referential differentiae
specificae, he can postpone attention to the many historically extant variants of
ekphrasis until after the genre has been defined safely and separatively. Many of
those variants are indeed the results of vastly divergent ways in which the relational
and the subjective aspects of the ekphrastic text can be realized, due to the fact that
the subjective gaze on the work of art to be described appears to have unlimited
possibilities. Formulating the definition of ekphrasis, as Spitzer did, solely in terms
of the concepts of poetic description and of work of art, and assigning to the study
of the relational and subjective aspects of ekphrasis a place outside and independent
of that definition, thus makes it possible to account for those variants qua variants,
and to do so without having to readjust one’s definition of ekphrasis each time a
novel variant comes in sight.
VI.
The unease with Spitzer’s usage of the term ‘ekphrasis,’ justified or not, has led to a
number of alternative accounts of ekphrasis, some aiming at alternative definitions,
others suggesting alternative contexts for discussing ekphrasis.
Thus Murray Krieger, wishing to go beyond what he considers “the narrow
meaning given ekphrasis by Leo Spitzer [...] as the name of a literary genre [...]
that attempts to imitate in words an object of the plastic arts,” posits the existence
of an “original ekphrastic impulse in the history of the verbal arts in the West,” an
“ekphrastic aspiration in the poet and the reader” that was meant to satisfy “the
semiotic desire for the natural sign, the desire that is, to have the world captured in
the word, the word that belongs to it, or better yet, the word to which it belongs.”
He therefore proposes to broaden the notion of the ekphrastic beyond its use as a
designation for a genre so as “to include every attempt, within an art of words, to
19
But, judging from a representative volume on ekphrasis through the ages about to be published, that
programmatic disinterest in the perceiving subject has by now lost much of its former rallying power.
With a proposed “focus on the question of subject formation; in particular how ekphrasis may itself
produce the viewing subject,” (Shadi Bartsch & Jás Elsner, eds.: Ekphrasis, special issue of Classical
Philology Vol. 102, No. 1, 2007, forthcoming, ‘Introduction: Eight Ways of Looking at Ekphrasis’),
Spitzer’s interest in the perceiving subject of the author and the reader of an ekphrasis formulated half
a century ago, thus appears to be more than vindicated by the most recent developments in the field.
291
work towards the illusion that it is performing a task we usually associate with an
art of natural signs.”20 It is somewhat difficult to see how Krieger’s postulate of an
‘original ekphrastic impulse in the history of the verbal arts in the West’ could either
be substantiated empirically or historically. For if it were an ‘original impulse’ we
would want to know whether we are to assume whether it only manifested itself
in the West; and if it only manifested itself in the West, we would wonder in what
sense it could qualify as an ‘original’ impulse. But if it could be substantiated, there
would be no reason why it should not readily be reconciled with Spitzer’s ‘narrow’
genre-theoretical use of ‘ekphrasis’ in much the same manner in which Aristotle’s
anthropological postulate of an original mimetic impulse – “the process of imitation
is natural to mankind from childhood on”21 – can readily be reconciled with the
latter’s own ‘narrow’ genre-theoretical use of ‘mimesis.’22 As an anthropological
universal Krieger’s ekphrastic impulse, just like Aristotle’s mimetic one, would be
situated ‘behind’ or ‘beneath’ the transposition d’art identified by Spitzer. Krieger’s
proposal, thus, despite its criticism of Spitzer, leaves the latter’s definition intact.
While Krieger thought he could discern a single and universal ‘original ekphrastic
impulse’ that is ultimately responsible for the fact that attempts continue to be
made by poets to overcome the borders of poetry and pictorial art, and to achieve
in poetry the ‘still moment’ assumed to be native to pictorial art, W. J. T. Mitchell
identifies three different stances towards ekphrasis, three “phases or moments of
realization” as he calls them, namely “ekphrastic indifference”, “ekphrastic hope”
and “ekphrastic fear.”23 As did Krieger’s single ‘original ekphrastic impulse’ all three
of Mitchell’s ‘phases or moments of realization’ amount to driving forces ‘behind’ or
‘beneath’ the production of the ekphrastic text, with “ekphrastic otherness” either
being ignored, successfully overcome, or to be feared. For our present purpose it will
suffice to take a closer look at just one of those three stances, ‘ekphrastic fear,’ and
at the manner in which Mitchell argues for its existence.
20
Murray Krieger: Ekphrasis. The Illusion of the Natural Sign, Baltimore 1992, p. 6, 9, 10, and 11
(italics mine).
21
Aristotle: Poetics, trans. Leon Golden, Englewood Cliffs 1968, p. 7 (1448b5–10).
22
It is difficult to suppress the suspicion that Krieger’s problematic postulate of an original ekphrastic
impulse might be modeled on Aristotle’s utterly plausible postulate of a mimetic one.
23
W. J. T. Mitchell: “Ekphrasis and the Other,” in Picture Theory. Essays on Verbal and Visual Represen-
tation, Chicago 1994 (p. 151–181), p. 152.
292
VII.
The locus classicus of ekphrastic fear, its “classic expression” according to Mitchell,
is Gotthold E. Lessing’s Laokoon (1766),24 which he reads as a text informed by
Lessing’s largely inadvertent acknowledgement of “the most fundamental ideological
basis for his laws of genre, namely the laws of gender.”25 It is in accordance with
his submission to those gender-based laws of genre, Mitchell suggests, that Lessing
insists on the strict observation of the boundaries of poetry and painting. In a
later article Mitchell goes a step further, and interprets Lessing’s concern with the
boundaries of poetry and painting as an expression of the latter’s fear of castration:
“Lessing’s fear of literary emulation of the visual arts is not only of muteness or loss
of eloquence, but of castration […]” (Mitchell 1994, p. 152).26 Mitchell’s text leaves
it undecided – cunningly so, one wants to add – whether the claim about Lessing’s
fear of castration is meant to refer metaphorically only to the threatened intactness
of the body of the literary work in the act of ekphrastic intercourse, or whether it is
meant to refer also literally to Lessing’s fear for his own body. But in the context of
Mitchell’s particular brand of hermeneutics that alternative may indeed be beside
the point he wishes to make.
More significant from a methodological point of view is the fact that the suggestion
offered in the earlier article that Lessing’s Laokoon was the “classical expression” of
ekphrastic fear acquires a much more specific meaning as a result of the diagnosis
offered by the later article. Laokoon, it now appears, expresses that fear not in the
sense that it would refer to it one way or another in a third-person perspective,
but in the narrow psychoanalytical sense in which the very text of Laokoon turns
out to be an expression of its author’s own fear of ekphrasis / castration. Lessing’s
24
Gotthold Ephraim Lessing: Laokoon: oder über die Grenzen der Malerei und Poesie. Erster Teil, in
Gotthold Ephraim Lessing: Werke 1766–1769, Wilfried Barner (ed.), Frankfurt/M. 1990. Mitchell
unfortunately relies for all his quotations on Ellen Frothingham’s notoriously inaccurate translation:
Laokoon: An Essay upon the Limits of Poetry and Painting (1873), rpt. New York 1969.
25
W. J. T. Mitchell: “Space and Time. Lessing’s Laocoon and the Politics of Genre,” in Iconology. Image
Text, Ideology, Chicago; London 1986, (p. 95–115), p. 109.
26
The textual basis of Mitchell’s interpretation cum diagnosis is a passage at the beginning of Section
X of Laokoon, in which Lessing mocks an earlier author on the relation of poetry and painting,
Joseph Spence, for insisting that a poet should use in his description of an allegorical figure the
same attributes, with which a painter identifies that figure: “Wäre es nicht, als ob ein Mensch, der
laut reden kann und darf, sich noch zugleich der Zeichen bedienen sollte, welche die Stummen
im Serraglio der Türken, aus Mangel der Stimme, unter sich erfunden haben?”(1990, Sect. X, p.
91, [‘Would that not be as if someone who can and may speak aloud were at the same time (i.e. in
addition to speaking) to use the signs which the mutes in a Turkish Seraglio have invented among
themselves for lack of a voice’ (my translation). It is difficult to see how Lessing’s suggestion that
a poet should use his voice if he has one could possibly be interpreted as an expression of fear on
Lessing’s part that he himself might lose his voice. In Lessing’s view there is simply no need for the
additional use of (mute) signs if you have a voice to speak. Needless to add that Lessing’s sense of
decorum would not have allowed him to make an analogous comparison with the other part of their
body which those mutes, Mitchell suggests, are also missing.
293
text thus metamorphoses from the theoretical account of the “eigenen Beschaffenheit
der Kunst, und […] derselben notwendige Schranken und Bedürfnisse” [the specific
property of the art in question, and its necessary boundaries and requirements],27
which, we thought, Lessing had in mind when he wrote Laokoon, to an largely
unintended revelation, in which the arguments that are given about the essential
boundaries of poetry and painting can no longer be understood as arguments for
and against which reasons can be given. Instead, they are now unmasked in a first-
person perspective as symptoms of an underlying anxiety.
It is tempting to call Mitchell’s diagnosis of Lessing’s presumed fear of castration,
and the reading of Laokoon based on that diagnosis, an instance of what Paul Ricœur,
with an eye to Nietzsche, Marx and Freud, a number of years ago denounced as
“interpretation as exercise of suspicion,” as opposed to “interpretation as recollection
of meaning.”28 Mitchell’s reading of Laokoon is indeed one that systematically fore-
closes the possibility of considering Lessing’s ruminations about the borders of
poetry and painting as a series of valid poetological arguments that can be put to
test independent of their author’s personal situation, and that can subsequently be
accepted or rejected on rational grounds. It is thus a reading that obliterates the very
propositional structure of Lessing’s text, and substitutes for it a symbolic structure
that prevents us from inquiring into Lessing’s reasons for his assertions, and from
entering into a dialogue with Lessing’s text. It is, finally, a reading that insists on
leveling the difference between assertion and expression, treating what are offered as
assertions about an object as expressions of a state of mind of the speaking subject,
over which that subject ultimately has no control.29
27
Lessing 1990, Sect. IV, p. 35 (my translation).
28
Paul Ricœur: Freud and Philosophy. An Essay on Interpretation, trans. Denis Savage, New Haven;
London 1970, p. 28–36.
29
Another most serious shortcoming of Mitchell’s reading of Lessing’s Laokoon should not go unmen-
tioned. As a result of failing to check Ellen Frothingham’s English translation against Lessing’s
German original, Mitchell consistently overlooks that English ‘man’ serves to translate both German
‘Mann’ and ‘Mensch.’ He thus misreads Frothingham’s “beautiful statues fashioned from beautiful
men reacted upon their creators, and the state was indebted for its beautiful men to beautiful statues”
as referring to “beautiful ancient male creators” (Mitchell 1986, p. 108). Lessing’s German original,
however, has “Erzeigten [sic] schöne Menschen schöne Bildsäulen, so wirkten diese hinwiederum auf jene
zurück, und der Staat hatte schönen Bildsäulen schöne Menschen mit zu verdanken.” Literally translated:
“Just as beautiful human beings (or: ‘humans’) brought forth (also: ‘engendered’) beautiful statues, so
the latter in turn influenced the former, and among the things to which the state (or: ‘society’) owed
to beautiful human beings were beautiful statues.” (1990, Sect. II, p. 26). There thus simply are no
‘beautiful men’ in the sense of beautiful males, nor ‘beautiful ancient male creators’ to be found in
this passage – or anywhere elsewhere in Lessing’s Laokoon, – only beautiful human beings, ‘schöne
Menschen.’ If one was looking for a true expression of Lessing’s humanism, the following quote might
serve the purpose:
Die Klagen sind eines Menschen, aber die Handlungen eines Helden. Beide machen
den menschlichen Helden, der weder weichlich noch verhärtet ist, sondern bald dieses
294
VIII.
James A. W. Heffernan prudently abstains from trying to offer a causal explanation
of the practice of producing ekphrastic texts, or of any of the historical attempts at
theoretically accounting for that practice. His proposal of a definition of ‘ekphrasis’
does not involve an explicit rejection or criticism of Leo Spitzer’s position. As he
himself points out it was meant to follow the lead of the definition offered by the
Oxford Classical Dictionary – ‘the rhetorical description of a work of art’30 – but
unlike the OCD it does not treat description as the genus proximum of ekphrasis,
and suggests representation in its place. Ekphrasis, Heffernan has it, is “the literary
representation of visual art,” or, more clearly theoretically charged, “the verbal
representation of visual representation.”31 Elsewhere Heffernan maintains that
ekphrasis “explicitly represents representation itself,” that it employs “one medium
of representation to represent another,” and that it foregrounds “the difference
between verbal and visual representation” (Heffernan 1994, p. 7, and 191, note 3).
All of these formulations suggest that Heffernan is using the term ‘representation’
as a nomen actionis, i.e. as a term referring to an activity, rather than as a nomen acti,
a term referring to the results or products of that activity, and since it is the term
‘ekphrasis’ that is being defined with ‘representation’ serving as a definiens, that use
of ‘representation’ as a nomen actionis is automatically carried over to the expression
‘ekphrasis’ also. ‘Ekphrasis’ thus no longer serves as a name for a rhetorical figure
as it had done in Classical and in Renaissance rhetoric, nor for a kind of text as it
had done in the Progymnasmata, nor for a literary genre, as it had done in Spitzer’s
analysis of Keats’ Ode. It now serves primarily as a name for a writerly activity.
bald jenes scheinet, so wie ihn itzt Natur, itzt Grundsätze und Pflicht verlangen. Er ist
das Höchste, was die Weisheit hervorbringen, und die Kunst nachahmen kann (1990,
Sect. IV, p. 45). (‘The lamentations belong to the human being, but the actions are
the property of the hero. Together they account for the human hero who is neither
soft nor hardened. He is the apex of what wisdom can bring forth and art can imitate’)
(my translation).
Needless to add that with the disappearance beautiful men in the sense of males as opposed to females
from Lessing’s text, the male-female opposition collapses, on which Mitchell’s whole argument about
Laokoon is based. (Mitchell 1986, p. 110). There are indeed a number of references in Lessing’s text,
which, with some effort, might be ordered in terms of a male-female opposition. But that opposition,
marginal as it is to Lessing’s argument, neither constitutes the central isotopy of Laokoon, nor is
it in any way congruent with the distinction of poetry and painting in which Lessing is primarily
interested. – Unfortunately the much more recent translation of Lessing’s Laokoon by Edward Allen
McCormick (as in note 55) invites the same gross misunderstanding on the part of a reader unfamiliar
with the German original: “If beautiful men created beautiful statues, these statues in turn affected
the men, and thus the state owed thanks also to beautiful statues for beautiful men” (p. 14).
30
Ironically enough, the OCD thus offers a perfect definition of the exercise of the Progymnasmata
known as a ‘ekphrasis,’ which the rhetorical treatises of Classical Antiquity fail to offer.
31
James A. W. Heffernan: Museum of Words. The Poetics of Ekphrasis from Homer to Ashbery, Chicago
1994, p. 1, 3, 191, note 2.
295
This use of the expression ‘ekphrasis’ as a nomen actionis rather than a nomen
acti is taken yet a step further in Claus Clüver’s proposal to think of ekphrasis
in terms of “verbal/literary intersemiotic re-writing, or simply the verbalization of
non-verbal texts,” and to define it as “the verbalization of real or fictitious texts com-
posed in a non-verbal sign system” (Clüver 1998, p. 49). For while the choice of
the term ‘representation’ still allows for the shifting back and forth between the use
as a nomen actionis and a nomen acti, albeit with some forcing of usage, and some
risk of terminological fuzziness, such shifting seems hardly feasible any longer with
either ‘re-writing’ or ‘verbalization.’ True, it is possible to say of a text that it is ‘a
re-writing,’ perhaps even ‘a verbalizing’ of some antecedent. But that would be an
awkwardly derivative usage at best, one that leaves the focus of attention securely on
the act of re-writing and the act of verbalization.
The fact that both Heffernan and Clüver use the formulation ‘ekphrasis is…’
when they formulate their respective definitions, rather than ‘an ekphrasis is…,’
as Spitzer had done, supports our analysis: ‘ekphrasis’ now serves as a name for a
writerly activity, which, presumably, is responsible for the typical appearance of
the texts of that genre. That obviously raises the question about the precise nature
of that activity. It also raises the question whether it will be possible to define that
activity in such a way that the numerous variants of ekphrasis, as they have emerged
in the course of time, can be accounted for.
IX.
One of the difficulties one encounters as a consequence of giving up the idea of a
literary genre called ‘ekphrasis’ in favor of an activity by that name can readily be
seen if one takes a closer look at the differences between the various formulations
of Heffernan’s definition of ekphrasis in all of which the concept of representation
serves as the focal concept of the definiens: (1) ekphrasis is “the literary representation
of visual art,” (2) ekphrasis is “the verbal representation of visual representation,”
(3) ekphrasis “explicitly represents representation itself,” (4) ekphrasis employs “one
medium of representation to represent another” and (5) ekphrasis foregrounds “the
difference between verbal and visual representation” (Heffernan 1994, p. 7).
Heffernan offers these formulations as synonymous alternatives, but they clearly
are neither intensionally nor extensionally equivalent. While replacing ‘literary’ by
‘verbal’ in (2) amounts to eliminating the evaluative aspect present in (1), and thus
allows for including art-historical descriptions under the heading of ‘ekphrasis’,
the substitution of ‘visual representation’ in (2) for ‘visual art’ in (1) focuses the
proposed definition more narrowly on the signifier of the work of visual art, while
the earlier formulation would seem to refer to the phenomenon of the work of
visual art much more inclusively, leaving it open whether the focus is to be on the
pictorial signifier or on the pictorial signified, on the combination of the two, or on
296
the work of art as perceived. The formulation ‘explicitly represents representation

itself ’ (3) narrows the focus yet further, this time by stressing that it is representation
qua representation that is being represented; the signified of the pictorial pretext of
the ekphrastic text, as well as the work of art as a perceived object have now all but
disappeared from sight. Formulation (4) narrows the focus on the pictorial signifier
yet a step further, perhaps taking matters into the realm of absurdity. For it is hard
to imagine what it could possibly mean to represent a medium of representation as
such. You can only perceive – apperceive, Spitzer would have it – and subsequently
verbally represent particular forms and objects shaped in accordance with the
rules and conventions of pictorial representation; but you can neither perceive nor
subsequently represent (either verbally or pictorially) the medium of representation
as such.32 The formulation about ekphrasis foregrounding ‘the difference between
verbal and visual representation’ (5) moves the focus on representing representation
in a different direction, thereby narrowing the meaning of ‘ekphrasis’ yet a
degree further. For while formulation (3) about ekphrasis “explicitly representing
representation itself ” would in principle allow for the foregrounding of both the
similarity and the difference between verbal and visual representation, the possibility
of representing similarity – ut pictura poesis! – is now explicitly eliminated in favor of
the paragonal view of the two arts involved in ekphrasis, which is, after all the center
of gravity of Heffernan’s conception of ekphrasis.
With each of Heffernan’s formulations of the definition of the writerly activity
called ‘ekphrasis’ thus having a different intension as well as a different extension, it
stands to reason that each of these formulations de facto delineates a different group
of texts. In some cases a group of texts delineated by one of the formulations will
be included in the group delineated by a different formulation. Such is the case
with formulations (1) and (2), where group of texts characterized by “the literary
representation of visual art” is included in the vastly larger group characterized by
“the verbal representation of visual representation.” In another case one group of
texts complements the other, as in the case of the group characterized by the fact that
it foregrounds “the difference between verbal and visual representation”, which has
its historically manifest complement in the group of ekphrastic texts that emphasize
the similarities rather than the differences of verbal and pictorial representation in
accordance with the Horatian maxim of ut pictura poesis.33
The true significance of Heffernan’s alternative formulations of his definition
of ekphrasis thus becomes apparent if we decide to view them not as attempts at
32
One obviously can represent the rules governing a specific medium of representation by mapping
them with the aid of the terms of the terminological repertoire associated with a grammatical or a
semiotic theory. But that would obviously not qualify as representing that medium in Heffernan’s
sense either.
33
For an attempt at achieving similarity of perception see e.g. William Carlos Williams: Pictures from
Breughel and Other Poems: Collected Poems, 1950–1962, London 1963.
297
formulating an elusive definition of a presumably homogeneous writerly activity

called ‘ekphrasis’, but as successful attempts at characterizing a number of noticeably
different variants of the literary genre called ‘ekphrasis’ in terms of the way in which
the relational aspect of the ekphrastic text is realized in each case. For there are
indeed cases of ekphrasis – think e.g. of Gertrude Stein’s experiments with literary
Cubism in her Portrait of Picasso34 – where the verbal text serves to describe objects
in such a way that the result asks to be read as a verbal analogue of a specific form
of pictorial representation. The sense that we are dealing with a verbal analogue of
a specific form of pictorial representation – and the reason why we may be tempted
to speak of this as ‘the verbal representation of visual representation’ – is in this
case owed to the fact that we constitute the objects described by the ekphrastic text
in an act of apperception informed by recollection: our previous experience with
Cubism allows us to view those verbally described objects as exemplifying rules and
conventions of representation that call up those of Cubist representation. This is,
of course, a rather special variant of ekphrasis, but it is certainly one that is to be
found in the extant corpus of ekphrastic texts. What is more, it is a variant that has
been very productive during the last century, so much so that we may be inclined
now to treat this particular variant of ekphrastic as ekphrasis tout court. The same
goes for Heffernan’s alternate formulation, which claims that ekphrasis foregrounds
‘the difference between verbal and visual representation.’ It similarly foregrounds
an important variant of ekphrasis. Suitably reformulated, so as to avoid the absurd
suggestion that the medium of pictorial representation is represented as such, it can
be understood to identify a ‘paragonal’ variant of the manner in which the relational
aspect of an ekphrastic text can be realized. But, like the variant delineated by the
first formulation, it, too, needs to be viewed as one variant among many that were
productive in the past or are still productive.
Read in this manner, Heffernan’s divergent formulations of ekphrastic represen-
tation can be interpreted as so many specifications of Spitzer’s concept of ‘transposition
d’art’, with each of them identifying one of the historically manifest forms of that
transposition. Rather than giving us a broad definition that would be capable of cover-
ing many, perhaps even all of the variants of ekphrasis that have been produced in
the course of time, Heffernan has thus provided us with the invaluable conceptual
tools for precisely identifying several of those variants qua variants.
X.
The definition of the writerly activity called ‘ekphrasis’ suggested by Clüver, it
appears, cannot similarly be salvaged by treating it as a definition of one or more
extant variants of ekphrasis. As it stands it is both too broad and too narrow. It is too
34
Gertrude Stein: “IF I TOLD HIM. A Completed Portrait of Picasso” in Portraits and Prayers, New
York 1934.
298
broad since, as a derivative of the ordinary language expression ‘to verbalize’ in the
sense of ‘to express in words’35 it is neither an established term of the nomenclature
of any of the text-related disciplines, like ‘description,’ ‘translation,’ ‘dramatization’
or ‘transliteration,’ nor is it a term in the narrow sense of an expression associated
with a definition in the context of a specific text-related theoretical framework,36
‘concretization,’37 ‘emplotting’ or ‘demythologization.’38 ‘Verbalization’ thus does
not tell us anything beyond its lexical equivalent ‘expression in words.’ That the
definition as a whole is too narrow becomes apparent once one realizes that it is
bound to fail in the face of ekphrastic descriptions of works of art of the type of
objets trouvées, of readymades. For it would hardly make sense to call an ekphrastic
description of Marcel Duchamps’s Fountain39 a ‘verbalization of a real text composed
in a non-verbal sign system’, and that for the simple reason that no sign-system
besides that of technical drawing was involved in its production as an object of
everyday use. But it is clearly not as an ‘text’ produced on the basis of a technical
drawing with the notational underpinning of the sign system of technical drawing,
that the urinal selected by Duchamps for exhibition as ‘Fountain’ figures in the
ekphrastic description, but as an art object constituted in and through the very act
of exhibition. That kind of constitution as an art object, however, cannot adequately
be described in terms of a ‘text composed in a non-verbal sign system’, for it involves
the express rejection of the very idea that works of art in the sense of aesthetically
validated artifacts are only ones made as such. Instead, it is suggested that they are
just as well to be found as readymades. A readymade thus acquires its esthetically
relevant sign character independent of its mode of production, rather than with
it and through it. With the introduction of readymades into the art world40 the
primordial sign character of the object of ekphrastic description tacitly assumed
by Clüver’s definition can thus no longer be taken for granted. The class of works
of art, that is to say, is no longer co-extensive – if it ever was – with the class of
‘texts composed in a non-verbal-sign system.’ Hence, with ‘text composed in a non-
35
See Concise Oxford English Dictionary, 10th ed. revised, Oxford 2002, s.v. ‘verbalize’
36
For the distinction between a term as an element of the general nomenclature of literary
scholarship and as an element of a specific terminology see Janusz Slawinski: “Probleme der literatur-
wissenschaftlichen Terminologie” in J. S.: Literatur als System und Prozeß, trans. R. Fieguth, Munich
1975, p. 65–80.
37
Roman Ingarden: Vom Erkennen des literarischen Kunstwerks, Tübingen 1968, esp. Ch. I, 11.
38
See Rudolf Bultmann: Neues Testament und Mythologie: das Problem der Entmythologisierung der
neutestamentlichen Verkündigung (1941), 2nd ed., Munich 1985.
39
See the reference to Duchamps’ Fountain in note 12.
40
See Howard S. Becker: Art Worlds, Berkeley 1982. For a similar view of what happens to Duchamp’
readymades as they are transferred into the art world see Hans Lund: Text as Picture. Studies in the
Literary Transformation of Pictures, Lewiston 1992, p. 15: “Pictorial art objects have, or are supposed
to have, a density of information that other physical objects lack. When the bottle rack [i.e. one of
Duchamp’s readymades] was moved from a bistro to an art gallery, the audience was confronted with
the demand radically to change its attitude to this object.”
299
verbal sign system’ not longer predicable of each and every work of art, a definition
of ekphrasis that insists on the quality referred to by that predicate as a necessary
quality of the object of ekphrastic description, will necessarily lack the generality it
needs to possess in order to count as a definition.
But Clüver’s definition not only runs into problems with works of art, which,
due the fact that they are readymades, cannot adequately be subsumed under the
definiens ‘texts composed in a non-verbal-sign system.’ It even runs into problems
with a large group of artifacts primordially intended as works of art and subsequently
perceived as such, but to which the predicate ‘text composed in a non-verbal sign
system’ is nevertheless difficult, perhaps even impossible, to apply. Clüver’s defini-
tion, in order to safeguard its generality, must proceed from the assumption that
each and every work of art can be understood as a text composed in a sign system.
That means that it should be possible to identify for each art form from dance to
pantomime to poetry, drama, painting, music, sculpture and, last but not least,
architecture, a unique sign system with regard to which any specimen of the art
form in question can be understood as a ‘text.’ For in order to be able to use ‘text
composed in a non-verbal sign system’ as a definiens as the definition suggests, in
order, that is, to be able to make the proposed definition operational, we must first
know whether a given work of art can indeed be subsumed under that definiens,
whether the complex predicate ‘text composed in a non-verbal sign system’ applies
to that work. And for that we first need to possess for each art form a definition of
its specific sign system.
Clüver apparently saw this problem himself when he raised the question whether
there are objects of ekphrastic description, which are not covered by his definition.
He tries to answer that question by placing the decision whether a particular ‘verbali-
sation’ does indeed qualify as an ekphrasis on the shoulders of the reader of such a
‘verbalisation’:
What kinds of objects are not covered by the definition? Does it include
the verbal representation of any building? This is not a question of
distinguishing between an outhouse and a cathedral (as a ‘work of art’);
rather, what matters is whether the building is verbally represented as
a text or as an object. This might also be true of a dance, for example:
text or event? It is ultimately up to the reader to decide whether to read
such a verbalization as an ekphrasis, a decision determined in part by
the critical use he will make of the verbal text.41
41
Claus Clüver: “Ekphrasis Reconsidered. On Verbal Representation of Non-Verbal Texts” in Ulla-
Britta Lagerroth, Hans Lund, and Erik Hedling (eds.): Interart Poetics. Essays on the Interrelations of
the Arts and Media, Amsterdam 1997 (p. 19–33), p. 26. That buildings, and therefore architectural
works of art can allude, express, evoke, invoke, comment and quote without being texts has been
argued convincingly by Nelson Goodman in “How Buildings Mean” in Nelson Goodman and
300
That solution might possibly have worked if an observational predicate or one

very closely associated with it, like ‘object presenting itself for visual perception’
or ‘object presenting itself for auditory perception’ had served as the definiens of
the definition. In that case it would have made some sense to insist that the object
presenting itself for visual or auditory perception should be represented verbally
as doing so, and that the reader, in order to be able to read the ‘verbalization’ in
question as an ekphrasis must be aware of the fact that the object represented is indeed
represented as presenting itself visually or auditorily. But the predicate chosen by
Clüver as a definiens, ‘text composed in a non-verbal sign system,’ is not a predicate
that in any way refers to the direct and sensuous knowledge, which we acquire as
perceivers of works of the visual arts. Instead, it is a predicate that is obtained only
through a strenuous sign-theoretical abstraction, and it is meaningful only in the
context of that abstraction. Therefore, if it is suggested that the ‘text composed in
a non-verbal sign system’ must be represented as a ‘text composed in a non-verbal
sign system’, that can only mean that it must explicitly be described in terms of the
relevant sign-theoretical framework, and with the aid of the terms and concepts
associated with that framework, and that the reader, in order to adequately read
the ‘verbalization’ in question, must be equipped with the appropriate knowledge
of the theoretical framework employed in both the abstraction and the description/
analysis of the object under consideration. But such a reader will not be reading
the ‘verbalization’ in question as an ekphrasis. He will be reading it as a theoretical
text, and he cannot help doing so for the simple reason that the definiens of Clüver’s
definition does not involve a predicate that refers to any of the perceptually –
aesthetically/aisthetically – relevant properties of the object described, on which
the very possibility of ekphrastic description depends. Against its express intention,
so to speak, Clüver’s mistaken definition of ekphrasis thus succeeds in drawing our
attention to the important fact that the opposition, which is the very condition
of the possibility of the genre of ekphrasis is not that of ‘verbal’ vs. ‘non-verbal’,
but that of ‘being verbally accessible’ vs. ‘being sensuously accessible.’ Needless to
add that it was precisely this opposition, which Leo Spitzer had in mind when he
adopted Gautier’s expression ‘transposition d’art’ in order to be able to characterize
the relation of the ekphrastic text to what it describes. It was this opposition, too, on
which the rhetorical understanding of the figura in mente called ‘ekphrasis’ focused
when it stressed the ability of that figure to bring about a sub oculos subiectio on the
part of the reader/listener. And it was this opposition, we shall see, which prompted
Lessing to insist that the poet describing a work of the visual arts should describe it
as a wirklicher Gegenstand, a real object, rather than as a sign.
Catherine Z. Elgin: Reconsiderations in the Arts and Sciences, Indianapolis 1988 (p. 31–48).
301
XI.
Apart from the fact that it is hardly to be expected that the production of the
extremely heterogeneous corpus of ekphrastic texts as it developed in the course
of the last two millennia could be derived from a single homogeneous writerly
activity, there is another reason for not focusing exclusively on the term ‘ekphrasis’
as a nomen actionis: the entity named by that term, a particular writerly activity
presumably capable of generating ekphrastic texts, is not as such accessible to direct
inspection. Like a rule of grammar of a language, it has no sensuous or material
properties of its own, and the fact that it was involved in the production of a text
can only be determined indirectly and in retrospect on the basis of the results which
that involvement has yielded, i.e. on the basis of the sensuously accessible material
properties of the ekphrastic text in question. That means that before we can in a
given case try to settle the question whether or not we are dealing with an instance of
ekphrasis in the sense of a writerly activity we must already have made sure somehow
or other that the text in front of us is indeed a specimen of ekphrasis in the sense of
a literary genre. The possibility of analyzing an instance of ekphrasis in the sense of
a writerly activity thus necessarily depends on the possibility of first identifying the
set of textual features that will allow for the inference that the writerly activity in
question has indeed been put to work.
Leo Spitzer’s proposal for a definition of ekphrasis, it will be recalled, was meant
to take care of identifying the textual features, which a literary work must minimally
possess, in order to qualify as a specimen of the genre of ekphrasis. Undoubtedly
there is room, even a need, for inquiring into the relational aspects of ekphrasis,
and for taking a closer look at the writerly activities that result in the production
of ekphrastic texts, especially if we wish to study the varieties of ekphrasis. But, as
Heffernan’s difficulty with settling on a single formulation for that activity suggests,
we may expect there a degree of heterogeneity that will forever frustrate any attempt
at basing a definition of ekphrasis solely on a kind of writerly activity, rather than
on a corpus of texts.
XII.
In Section VII of Laokoon. Oder über die Grenzen der Malerei und Poesie (1766) Gotthold
Ephraim Lessing offers a brief discussion of the different ways in which the relational
aspects of poetic texts that describe works of the visual arts can be realized (Lessing
1990, p. 67–78). Lessing, it needs to be stressed, does not use the term ‘ekphrasis’
anywhere in Laokoon, neither as a name for a rhetorical figure, nor in the sense of the
Progymnasmata, nor in the sense in which Spitzer was to use it as a name for a literary
word-image genre. He only speaks of the poet’s imitation [Nachahmung] of the (visual)
artist and vice versa, without, as yet, having at his disposal a genre term for the kind
of text that would result from that kind of imitation. But the distinctions he suggests
302
clearly apply to the literary genre that eventually would be called ‘ekphrasis.’42
Lessing’s goal in determining the ‘borders of painting and poetry’ mentioned in
the subtitle of his treatise was to identify for both painting and poetry the domains
where the medium-specific representational potential of each art could be realized
to the fullest, and to determine the ‘specific property of each art, and its necessary
boundaries and prerequisites’ [“die eigene Beschaffenheit der Kunst, und […] derselben
notwendige Schranken und Bedürfnisse”]. Hence his keen interest in the question
what exactly happens when the poet and the painter do not, as they usually do,
imitate nature, but instead make the work of the other their chosen object of
imitation. Within the context of the theoretical discourse of Lessing’s time, that
question could only be raised and answered in terms of the Aristotelian version of
the concept of imitation. So it is hardly surprising that behind the development of
Lessing’s argument about the poet imitating the painter (and vice versa) there lurks
an adaptation of a fundamental distinction, which Aristotle develops in chapters
1 to 3 of the Poetics, namely that between the media or means, the objects, and
the modes of imitation (Aristotle, p. 3–7 [1447a14-1448b2]). With Aristotle those
distinctions had served to highlight the differences of imitative arts as far afield as
epic and dramatic poetry, dithyrambic and music for flute or lyre. With Lessing
they will serve, slightly adjusted, to highlight the different ways in which a poet may
address the work of a painter (and vice versa), and in which a poem may refer to a
painting (and vice versa). That Lessing will not only take a look at the ‘ergo-centric’
issue of the relation of poem and painting but also at the ‘author-centric’ one of the
poet imitating the painter, and that in terms of the opposition of genius and mere
copier, can be viewed as an early sign of an approach to art and the artist that only
was to come into full bloom with the Romantics several generations later.
Lessing begins by asking what exactly one means if one says that the visual artist
imitates the poet or that the poet imitates the visual artist. His answer can be seen to
involve, slightly adjusted, the first two of Aristotle’s three distinctions for identifying
the varieties of imitation, name those the object and the means of imitation:
Entweder der eine macht das Werk des andern zu dem wirklichen
Gegenstande seiner Nachahmung, oder sie haben beide einerlei
Gegenstände der Nachahmung, und der eine entlehnet von dem andern
die Art und Weise es nachzuahmen (Lessing 1990, Sect. VII, p. 67).43
42
In Lessing’s time the term ‘ekphrasis’ still referred to the rhetorical figure referred to by Classical
and Renaissance poetics under that name.
43
‘Either the one turns the work of the other into the actual object of his imitation, or both have the
same object of imitation, and the one borrows from the other (only) the manner and mode of imita-
ting it [i.e. the object of imitation shared by poet and painter]’ (my translation).
303
Not surprisingly in view of his professed goal of clearly drawing the borders between
the arts, Lessing’s own preference is for the poet or the visual artist who will turn the
work of the other into the ‘actual object’ [wirklicher Gegenstand] of his imitation,
and who will, in doing so, be able to present himself as a genius [Genie] in his own
right, someone who is capable of displaying his autonomy as a poet and a painter
or sculptor, rather than as a mere ‘copier’ [Kopist], someone who opts for imitating
the same object as the painter while borrowing the other’s ‘manner and mode’ of
imitating that object, and who thus only imitates imitation:
Bei der ersten Nachahmung ist der Dichter Original, bei der anderen
ist er Kopist. Jene ist ein Teil der allgemeinen Nachahmung, welche das
Wesen seiner Kunst ausmacht, und er arbeitet als Genie, sein Vorwurf
mag ein Werk anderer Künste, oder der Natur sein. Diese hingegen setzt
ihn gänzlich von seiner Würde herab; anstatt der Dinge selbst ahmet
er ihre Nachahmungen nach, und er gibt uns kalte Erinnerungen von
Zügen eines fremden Genies, für ursprüngliche Züge seines eigenen
(Lessing 1990, Sect. VII, p. 67).44
Significantly, Lessing only considers the first type of imitation, the case when one
artist treats the work of the other as an ‘actual object’, as a proper ‘part of imitation
in general’ [allgemeine Nachahmung], which is for Lessing, just as it was for Aristotle,
‘the essence of his [i.e. the poet’s] art.’ Only the manner of imitating the works of a
different form of art first and foremost is thus on an equal footing with the imitation
of nature. The second type of imitation which he mentions, the case when the poet
imitates the painter’s, and the painter the poet’s manner and mode of imitation,
in his opinion hardly deserves the name of imitation. It certainly is not a ‘part of
imitation in general,’ and therefore does not participate in the essence of art either.
A few pages later Lessing comes back to the idea of imitating a work of art as an
‘actual object,’ this time not with an eye to the difference between the roles of the
poet as original genius and as mere copier, but to the manner in which a particular
poet, Virgil, addressed the work of the ‘painter’: “Der Dichter hatte das Kunstwerk
als ein für sich bestehendes Ding und nicht als Nachahmung vor Augen” (Lessing 1990,
Sect. VII, p. 74).45 The notion of the ‘work of art as an object existing in itself,
and not as an imitation’ takes up the earlier notion of the work of art as an ‘actual
44
‘With the first kind of imitation the poet is an original, with the second one he is a copier. The first
kind is part of imitation in general, which is the essence of his art, and he works as a genius, regard-
less of whether his theme [i.e. his object of imitation] is a work of another art or one of nature. The
second kind of imitation, by contrast, completely diminishes his dignity; for instead of imitating the
things themselves, he imitates their imitations, and he presents us with the cold recollections of the
traces of an alien genius instead of the original one of his own’ (my translation).
45
‘The poet envisioned the work of art as an object existing in itself, and not as an imitation’ (my
translation).
304
object.’ Lessing does not go into further theoretical detail about the meaning of the
clearly negatively charged notion of ‘work of art as imitation.’ But the examples he
offers of each of the two possibilities suggest that when the poet’s description deals
with the work of the visual arts ‘as an object existing in itself ’, there is for Lessing
no explicit attention involved to the fact that that object is also an imitation of
something else. In that case the poet’s description would therefore not involve what
Heffernan would later call a ‘verbal representation of visual representation,’ not to
mention a foregrounding of what he would label ‘the difference between verbal and
visual representation.’
Lessing’s prime example of a poet who imitated the work of a visual art in such
a way that it was treated ‘as an object existing in itself ’ and thus became the ‘actual
object’ of imitation, instead of borrowing of the visual artist’s manner and mode of
imitation, is Virgil and his description of Aeneas’s shield at the end of Book VIII of
the Aeneid:
Wenn Virgil das Schild des Aeneas beschreibet, so ahmet er den Künstler,
welcher dieses Schild gemacht hat, in der ersten Bedeutung nach. Das
Kunstwerk, nicht das was auf dem Kunstwerk vorgestellet worden,
ist der Gegenstand seiner Nachahmung, und wenn er auch schon das
mitbeschreibt, was man darauf vorgestellet sieht, so beschreibt er es
doch nur als ein Teil des Schildes, und nicht als die Sache selbst (Lessing
1990, Sect. VII, p. 67).46
What Lessing had in mind when he suggested that Virgil was describing what
is shown on Aeneas’s shield ‘only as part of the shield, but not as the subject matter
in itself ’ will become somewhat clearer if we take a closer look at Virgil’s actual
description of the shield, which prompted Lessing to this – at least at first glance –
somewhat mystifying observation on the poet’s imitation of the visual artist’s work.
Whenever Virgil provides us with detail about what is depicted on the surface
of the shield he does so by describing certain aspects of the physical appearance of
the shield, what it was made of in a particular place, and what its shape was in that
place, rather than by telling us what the various sections of the shield were meant
to depict. It goes without saying, and Lessing certainly would not have denied it,
that after having read Virgil’s account of the shield, we will actually know in great
detail what is depicted on it. But, and that is the crucial difference on which Lessing
insists, that knowledge will have been gained from a description that presents
the shield primarily as a physical artifact made and shaped in a certain way, and
46
‘When Virgil describes the shield of Aeneas he imitates the artist who made that shield in the
first sense of the expression [i.e. of ‘imitating a visual artist’]. The work of art [itself ] is the object of
imitation, not what is represented on the work of art [i.e. on the shield], and even if he also describes
what is represented on the shield, he nevertheless describes it only as a part of the shield, but not as
the subject matter in itself ’ (my translation).
305
produced from certain materials. Only in a very few places in Virgil’s text will we
find express references to the surface of the shield as to a sign depicting something,
and therefore possessing a meaning. Thus Virgil presents Vulcan, the maker of the
shield as a craftsman capable of joining form and matter, impressing the forms of
ships, weapons and landscapes into various kinds of metal, like gold, silver and
bronze.47 He does not present him as a craftsman-cum-visual artist who employs
a particular visual medium in order to be able to produce a representational work
of visual art, which, thanks to its representational properties, possesses a visually
available meaning. In thus focusing on the shield as a shaped object rather than on
what that object represents, Virgil explicitly presents Aeneas’s shield, inclusive of
what is depicted on it, ‘under the description’ of an artifact rather than of a sign:
Illic res Italas Romanorumque triumphos

Haud uatum ignarius uenturique inscius aequi
Fecerat ignipotens, illic genus omne futurae
Stirpis ab Ascanio pugnataque in ordine bella.48
The most striking example of this foregrounding of the artifact-character of the shield
at the expense if its co-present sign-character is undoubtedly Virgil’s description of
the part of the shield that depicts the Roman fleet before Actium:
Haec inter tumidi late maris ibat imago

Aurea, sed fluctu spumabant caerula cano,
Et circum argento clari delphines in orbem
Aequora uerrebant caudis aestumque secabant.
In medio classis aeratas, Actia bella,
Cernere erat, totumque instructo Marte uideres
Feruere Leucatem auroque effulgere fluctus.49
47
He thus presents Vulcan as a craftsman whose work does not fall under the strictures against
mimesis, which Plato had formulated, and which were common property in Virgil’s Rome. Instead,
Vulcan’s work is described as a case of metexis, as a work sharing the forms, rather than just imitating
them at a second remove.
48
‘But most [Aeneas] admires the shield’s mysterious mold, / And Roman triumphs rising on the
gold: / For there, embossed, the heavenly smith had wrought /[…]/ The wars in order; and the
race divine / Of warriors issuing from the Julian line’ (The Aeneid of Virgil, trans. John Dryden, ed.
Robert Fitzgerald, New York 1964). Frank O. Copley, by contrast, stresses the pictorial rather than
the artifact character of the shield: ‘There stood Italian history, Roman triumphs / portrayed by the
fire god […] (Vergil: The Aeneid, trans. Frank O. Copley, Indianapolis 1965, VIII, l.626 f.); similarly
the German translator Johannes Götte: ‘Dort bot Italermacht im Bild und Römertriumphe […] dar
des Feuers Heer.’ (Vergil: Aeneis, trans. Johannes Götte, Wiesbaden 1984, VIII, p. 228).
49
Vigil: Aeneid. Bk. VIII, ll, p. 671–677: ‘Betwixt the quarters, flows a golden sea; / But foaming
surges there in silver play./ The dancing dolphins with their tails divide / The glittering waves, and
cut the precious tide./ Amid the main, two mighty fleets engage: / Their brazen beaks opposed with
306
By claiming that Virgil describes what is represented on Aeneas’s shield as a part

of the shield, but not as the subject matter in itself, Lessing can thus be said to be
attempting an account of Virgil’s description, which will retain the latter’s own focus
on the shield as an artifact that is described in terms of its matter and its form, rather
than as a sign which possesses a meaning through pictorially representing an object.
Lessing’s own preference for a description of a work of art like Virgil’s – one
that ‘turns the work of the other into the actual object of his imitation,’ rather than
telling us what the shield signifies, not to mention imitating its manner of imitation
– would undoubtedly gain a considerable degree of (historical) plausibility if we
were to consider it in relation to the co-existence – and the unresolved tension
– in Lessing’s Laokoon of elements of an older Platonic/Aristotelian paradigm of
criticism (‘imitation’), and a newer ‘Pre-Romantic’ one (‘original,’ ‘genius’).50 For
it is clearly the fact that that newer paradigm was beginning to make its presence
felt towards the middle of the 18th century, informs Lessing’s own preference for the
poet and the painter who are able to treat the work of the other as an ‘actual object,’
thereby asserting their autonomy as poet and as painter.
Matters become considerably more complicated when Lessing returns to Virgil’s
description of Aeneas’s shield for a second time in Section XVIII of Laokoon (Lessing
1990, Sect. XVIII, p. 134–137). This time Virgil’s description does not serve to
illustrate the difference between imitating a work of art as an ‘actual object,’ and
imitating its manner of imitation only. Nor does it serve to illustrate what Lessing
sees as a corollary of that first distinction, namely the difference between a poet
presenting himself as a genius in his own right, and one offering only ‘cold remini-
scences’ of another artist’s genius, and thus presenting himself as a mere ‘copier.’ The
question to be tackled in Section XVIII is no longer what the poet is to imitate when
the object of his imitation is a work of the visual arts, whether it is the work as an
‘actual object’, or whether it is a question of imitating imitation. Now the example
of Virgil’s imitation of Aeneas’s shield must help establish a conceptual link between
the topic of the poet’s imitation of a work of the visual art as an ‘actual object,’ and
the topic of the role of time and space in the arts, which Lessing had been exploring
in some detail in Section XVI of Laokoon.
In order to be able to see how the conceptual link between those two topics is
achieved, we have to recall the specific manner in which Lessing had discussed the
equal rage. / Actium surveys the well-disputed prize:/ Leucate’s watery plain with foamy billows fries’
(trans. Dryden); Copley again stresses the character of the shield as a picture: ‘Midst all, the ocean
flowed, a band of waves / all golden and yet blue, with hoary foam; / round it, in shining silver,
dolphins swam / sweeping the seas and cutting through the waves. / The center showed the battle of
Actium – / the bronze-clad ships attacking in a line. […]’ (VIII, ll, p. 671–676).
50
For a proper understanding of context for Lessing’s denunciation of imitating imitation in the
sense of borrowing the ‘manner and mode’ of another art we need to recall a programmatic work like
Edward Young’s Conjectures on Original Composition (1759) with which Lessing was familiar, and
which he echoes with his denunciation of copying and his praise of genius and originality.
307
statue of the Laokoon group in the earlier reflections on the distribution of the cate-
gories of time and space over the arts of poetry and painting. The question then had
been how the poet and the painter should represent Laokoon and his suffering, with
each using to the fullest the possibilities offered by his own medium, while at the
same time observing the limits imposed on it as a consequence of the fact that, as
Lessing has it, painting deals with bodies in space, and poetry with events in time. The
marble statue of the Laokoon group of Greek sculptors Hagesandros, Polydoros and
Athanodoros from the 1st century BC – or a reproduction of it – had served Lessing
as his concrete point of departure for his reflections. It did so, however, not simply as
a finished, perceptually accessible piece of sculpture, but as the result of an imagined
process of sculptural realization. The ‘real’ point of departure of Lessing’s argument
that was to allow him to highlight the difference of poetry and painting with regard
to time and space, was thus the as yet neither verbally nor pictorially realized ‘myth’ of
Laocoon, the myth of Laocoon, that is, as yet unrealized in conformity with the media-
specific constraints imposed on poetry and on painting as they attempted to represent
objects in time and in space respectively. By choosing this as yet neither poetically nor
pictorially realized aggregate state of the Laocoon myth as his point of departure Lessing
could show, he believed, which aspects of that myth could best be imitated poetically
and which could best be imitated pictorially. Since Lessing views poetry and painting
as distinguished by their affinity with either time or space, there would thus be aspects
of the myth which poetry could imitate but painting could not, and vice versa.
It takes a certain effort to see that in his discussion of the constraints imposed
by the verbal medium of poetry on the poetic imitation of pictorial works of art,
Lessing in Section XVIII of Laokoon continues the line of thinking he had developed
with regard to the poetical and the painterly representation of the Laocoon myth.
For the difference studied is now no longer that of representation by two different
media. Now the difference is located within the poet’s own art, and now two
poetic imitations of two comparable objects, Homer’s poetic imitation of Achilles’
shield, and Virgil’s poetic imitation of Aeneas’ shield, serve as the concrete points of
departure of Lessing’s ruminations. But once again it is important to recognize that
Lessing’s ‘real’ points of departure are the two as yet poetically unrealized shields,
the two shields waiting in a medial limbo, so to speak, to be subjected to the media-
specific constraints of poetic imitation. The difficulty one has with seeing and
accepting the analogy between Lessing’s discussion of the poetic and pictorial imi-
tation of the Laokoon group on the one hand, and his discussion of the two poetic
imitations of two shields on the other, is undoubtedly due to the fact that it is easier
to imagine the medially as yet unrealized myth of Laokoon, which has come down to
us in numerous poetic and pictorial variants, than the verbally unrealized shields of
Achilles and Aeneas, which are, after all, known to us only and exclusively through
their descriptions by Homer and Virgil respectively.
The comparison between Homer’s shield of Achilles and Virgil’s shield of Aeneas
308
focuses on the different sets of constraints, which each author imposes on his poetic
imitation of the poetically not yet realized shield.51 As a result of this comparison
Virgil’s poetic imitation of Aeneas’ shield, which, we recall, had previously been
called a work of genius, is now found wanting.
According to Lessing, Homer describes Achilles’ shield
nicht als ein fertiges vollendetes, sondern als ein werdendes Schild.
Er hat also auch hier sich des gepriesenen Kunstgriffs bedienet, das
Koexistierende seines Vorwurfs in ein Konsekutives zu verwandeln,
und dadurch aus der langweiligen Malerei eines Körpers das lebendige
Gemälde einer Handlung zu machen. Wie sehen nicht das Schild,
sondern den göttlichen Meister, wie er das Schild verfertiget. […] Nun
ist es fertig, und wir erstaunen über das Werk, aber mit dem gläubigen
Erstaunen eines Augenzeugens, der es machen sehen (Lessing 1990,
Sect. XVIII, p. 134).52
Given Lessing’s intimate familiarity with the Classical tradition it can hardly be a
coincidence that he would describe the experience of a reader of Homer’s description
of Achilles’ shield – he is said to be an ‘eyewitness who has seen it forged’ – in exactly
the same terms in which Quintilian in his Institutionis oratoriae libri XII describes
what a reader/listener experiences when faced with an effective instance of the figura
in mente called ‘ekphrasis’: “proposita quaedam forma rerum ita expressa verbis, ut
cerni potius videantur” (Quintilianus, vol. II, bk. IX 2, 40, 286/7).53 Nor can it be a
coincidence that his comparison of Homer’s and Virgil’s descriptions of the shields
of Achilles and Aeneas highlights a quality of Homer’s description, which closely
resembles the characteristic quality of the figura in mente called ‘sub oculos subiectio’,
another name for ‘ekphrasis.’ According to Quintilian that figure occurs “cum res non
gesta indicatur, sed ut sit gesta, nec universa, sed per partis,” i.e. when an event is not
51
For an excellent modern comparison between Homer’s description of the shield of Achilles and
Virgil’s description of the shield of Aeneas see Heffernan 1994, p. 10–36.
52
‘Homer does not paint (i.e. describe, B.F.S.) the shield as finished and complete, but as a shield
that is being made. Thus, here, too he has made use of that admirable artistic device: transforming
what is coexistent in his subject into what is consecutive, and thereby making the living picture of
an action out of the tedious painting of a body. We do not see the shield, but the divine master as
he is making it.[…] Now the shield is complete, and we marvel at the work. But it is the believing
wonder of the eyewitness who has seen it forged’ (Laocoön. An Essay on the Limits of Painting and
Poetry, trans. E. A. McCormick, Baltimore; London 1984, p. 95, slightly adjusted).
53
‘A representation of events in words in such a way that one rather believes to see them than to hear
them expressed in words’ (my translation). But even if one is unwilling to read Lessing’s reference
to the reader as eyewitness as a hidden allusion to Quintilian, and thus as a round-about way of
praising Homer’s description of Achilles’ shield as a successful instance of ekphrastic description, one
can hardly doubt that this passage, if we insist on having it express something besides what it says,
expresses a delight in ekphrasis, rather than an ‘ekphrastic fear’ à la Mitchell.
309
referred to as having taken place, but as taking place, and not in its totality but in
its parts (Quintilianus, vol. II, bk. IX 2, 40, 286/7).
In Lessing’s opinion, Virgil’s description of Aeneas’ shield, though clearly inten-
ded by Virgil as an imitatio of Homer’s ekphrastic description, is incapable of
producing such a ‘believing wonder’ on the part of the eyewitness;
Der römische Dichter empfand entweder die Feinheit seines Musters hier
nicht, oder die Dinge, die er auf sein Schild bringen wollte, schienen ihm
von der Art zu sein, daß sie die Ausführung vor unsern Augen nicht wohl
verstatteten. Es waren Prophezeiungen, von denen es freilich unschicklich
gewesen wäre, wenn sie der Gott in unserer Gegenwart ebenso deutlich
geäußert hätte, als sie der Dichter hernach ausleget. [...] Die Anstalten,
welche Vulkan zu seiner Arbeit macht sind bei dem Virgil ungefehr (sic!)
eben die, welche ihn Homer machen läßt. Aber anstatt daß wir bei dem
Homer nicht bloß die Anstalten zur Arbeit, sondern auch die Arbeit selbst
zu sehen bekommen, läßt Virgil, nachdem er uns nur den geschäftigen
Gott mit seinem Cyklopen überhaupt gezeiget [...] den Vorhang auf
einmal niederfallen, und versetzt uns in eine ganz andere Scene (sic!),
von da er uns allmälig (sic!) in das Tal bringt, in welchem die Venus mit
den indes fertig gewordenen Waffen bei dem Aeneas anlangt. Sie lehnet
sie an den Stamm einer Eiche, und nachdem sie der Held genug begaffet,
und bestaunet, und betastet, und versuchet, hebt sich die Beschriebung,
oder das Gemälde des Schildes an, welches durch das ewige: Hier ist, und
Da ist, Nahe dabei stehet, und Nicht weit davon siehet man – so kalt
und langweilig wird, daß alle der poetische Schmuck, den ihm ein Virgil
geben konnte, nötig war, um es uns nicht unerträglich finden zu lassen.
Da dieses Gemälde [...] aus dem eigenen Munde des Dichters kömmt:
so bleibet die Handlung offenbar in demselben stehen. Keine einzige von
seinen Personen nimmt daran teil; es hat auch auf das Folgende nicht
den geringsten Einfluß, ob auf dem Schilde dieses, oder etwas anders,
vorgestellet ist; der witzige Hofmann leuchtet überall durch, der mit
allerlei schmeichelhaften Anspielungen seine Materie aufstutzet, aber
nicht das große Genie, das sich auf die eigene innere Stärke seines Werks
verlässt, und alle äußere Mittel, interessant zu werden, verachtet. Der
Schild des Aeneas ist folglich ein wahres Einschiebsel, einzig und allein
bestimmt, dem Nationalstolze der Römer zu schmeicheln; ein fremdes
Bächlein, das der Dichter in seinen Strom leitet, um ihn etwas reger
zu machen. Das Schild des Achilles hingegen ist Zuwachs des eigenen
fruchtbaren Bodens [...] (Lessing 1990, Sect. XVIII, p. 134–137).54
54
The Roman poet either did not feel the fineness of his model or else the things which he wanted
310
Whether Lessing’s suspicion that Virgil may not have felt “the fineness of his
model” Homer is indeed justified or not need not concern us at this point. That
“the things which he wanted to put on the shield [may have] seemed to him to be of
such a nature as not to permit their execution before our eyes” certainly comes close
to Virgil’s own assessment of the difficult task of describing what he himself calls
the “non enarrabile textum” of Aeneas’ shield, the fabric of the shield that cannot be
narrated.55
For Lessing both Homer’s description of the shield of Achilles and Virgil’s of
the shield of Aeneas equally qualify as poetic imitations of pictorial works of art.
Both also qualify as imitations of those works of art as ‘actual objects’ rather than as
imitations of the manner in which those works of art imitate, i.e. as imitations of
imitating. But the two poetic imitations of works of art as ‘actual objects’ are seen to
differ radically when studied in the light of the third criterion which Aristotle had
employed to differentiate the arts of imitation, namely that of mode of imitation.
to put on the shield seemed to him to be of such a nature as not to permit their execution before
our eyes. They were prophecies, which it would certainly have been improper for the god to utter
in our presence as clearly as the poet afterward explains them. […] The preparations which Vulcan
makes for his work are approximately the same in Virgil as in Homer. But while we see not only
the preparations but the work itself in Homer, Virgil, after he has shown us the busy god with his
Cyclops […] suddenly lets the curtain fall and transports us to an entirely different scene, whence he
gradually takes us to the valley in which Venus comes to Aeneas with the now completed weapons.
She leans them against the trunk of an oak, and after the hero has gasped and stared in wonder
at them, and felt and tried them enough, the description, or painting of the shield begins. By its
eternal ‘here is’ and ‘there is,’ ‘close by stands’ and ‘not far off we see,’ the description becomes so
cold and tedious that all the poetic beauty which a Virgil could give it was required from becoming
intolerable. Since this picture […] comes from the mouth of the poet himself, it is obvious that the
action comes to a standstill during this time. Not a single one of the characters takes part in the
description; it does not exercise the slightest influence on what follows, regardless of whether this or
something else is represented on the shield. The witty courtier who decks out his material with every
sort of flattering allusion is everywhere in evidence, but not the great genius who relies entirely on
the intrinsic strength of his work and scorns all external means of awakening interest. Consequently
the shield of Aeneas is an insertion, intended solely to flatter the national pride of the Romans; an
alien stream turned by the poet into his own river in order to stir it up. The shield of Achilles, on
the other hand, is the natural growth of its own fertile soil. […] (trans. E. A. McCormick, p. 95–97,
minimally adjusted).
55
Virgil: Aeneid, Bk. VIII, l. 829. Literally: ‘the not to be related [or: not to be described] weave [or:
fabric, build, composition]’ of the shield. Dryden has ‘the shield’s mysterious mould’ (The Aeneid of
Virgil, trans. John Dryden, ed. Robert Fitzgerald [as in note 56], VIII, l.829); more recently Frank
O. Copley has suggested ‘the shield – its fabric, who could tell?’ (Vergil: The Aeneid, trans. Frank
O. Copley, VIII, l. 625); Johannes Götte has ‘des Schildes im Wort nicht zu kündendes Kunstwerk’
(Vergil: Aeneis, trans. Johannes Götte [as in note 56], VIII, p. 228). The translator’s aim seems to have
been in each case to find a translation that underlines that the shield is an artifact shaped in a specific
manner, while avoiding the referential and representational implications of the modern notion of
‘text.’ – Keeping in mind that for a Roman poet like Virgil imitatio excluded the possibility of simply
replicating the example one was imitating, one could argue that Homer’s narration of the making of
Achilles’ shield was precisely the manner of making the shield’s non enarrabile textum ‘narrable’ after
all, which Virgil could not possibly have imitated, as much as he may have wanted to.
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Discussing that third criterion with an eye to demonstrating its role in distinguishing
forms of narration, Aristotle had suggested that
Using the same means and imitating the same kinds of objects, it is
possible for the poet on different occasions to narrate the story (either
speaking in the person of one of his characters as Homer does or in his
own person without changing roles) or to have the imitators performing
and acting out the entire story (Aristotle, p. 6 [1148a19–24]).
Lessing may have arrived at his divergent assessments of Homer’s and Virgil’s poetic
imitations of the shields of Achilles and Aeneas by reasoning along the following
lines: if one wishes to represent an artifact like a shield in the medium of poetic
imitation in the context of a narrative, one can do so either by integrating that
imitation into the narrative, as Homer did in the case of his poetic imitation of
Achilles’ shield, or one can do so by speaking ‘in one’s own person,’ as Virgil did,
whose imitation of Aeneas’ shield comes “out of the mouth of the poet,” without
being properly integrated into the narrated action of the narrative, and thus without
exercising “the slightest influence on what follows, regardless of whether this or
something else is represented on the shield.” Virgil’s poetic imitation of Aeneas’
shield, coming as it does ‘out of the mouth of the poet’ is therefore for Lessing an
“insertion” only. It must therefore be considered dysfunctional from the point of
view of the progress of the narrative. By contrast, Lessing considers Homer’s poetic
imitation of the shield of Achilles as a “natural growth of its own fertile soil,” for it
presents that shield “as a shield that is being made” by Vulcan, one of the personages
of the narrative.56
Significantly, Lessing nowhere in Laokoon mentions poetic imitations of works
of the visual arts – ekphrases, that is – as self-contained texts whose place is outside
the flow of a narrative, and which for that reason do not raise the question whether
they are narratively integrated or need to be rejected as ‘insertions.’ But the fact
that Lessing does not mention any self-contained ekphrases should not come as a
surprise. For his express interest in Laokoon was not in poetic imitations of works
of the pictorial arts in general, in ekphrasis in general, to use the modern term. As
his comparison of Homer’s and Virgil’s descriptions of the shields of Achilles and
Aeneas clearly shows, his interest in the poetic imitation of works of the visual arts
was strictly limited to the question how they should be integrated into a narrative.
Given the position about the distribution of time and space over the arts of poetry
56
For modern descriptive discussions of ekphrasis in the context of narrative – rather than a normative
one, like Lessing’s – see e.g. Shadi Bartsch: Decoding the Ancient Novel: The Reader and the Role of
description in Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius, Princeton 1989; D. P. Fowler: “Narrate and Describe:
The Problem of Ekphrasis” in Journal of Roman Studies, Vol. 81, 1991 (p. 25–35); Tamar Yacobi:
“Pictorial Models and Narrative Ekphrasis” in Poetics Today, Vol. 16, No. 4, 1995 (p. 599–649).
312
and painting at which Lessing had arrived earlier in Laokoon, his discussion of the
difference of Homer’s shield of Achilles and Virgil’s shield of Aeneas can therefore be
said to concern only the consequences of that distribution in the event that a poetic
imitation of a work of the visual arts was to find its way into a narrative. It cannot
be stressed enough that those constraints only come into the picture when the place
of such imitations in the context of narratives like the Iliad or the Aeneid is under
discussion.
In the course of his discussion of the poetic imitation of works of pictorial art
Lessing thus mentions two variants: the poetic imitation of a work of the pictorial
arts as an ‘actual object’, and the poetic imitation of the latter’s manner of imitation.
In addition he considers two possibilities in which the first variant may become an
element of a narrative: as an element of the narrative that promotes the narrated
action, and as a mere ‘insertion’ ‘out of the mouth of the poet’ that fails to do so.
With his outspoken preference for poetic imitations of works of the pictorial arts
that imitate those works as ‘actual objects’ instead of imitating only their manner
of imitation, Lessing clearly speaks as one of the Kunstrichter [critics] which he had
distinguished from the Liebhaber [amateurs] and the Philosophen in the preface of
Laokoon (Lessing 1990, Vorrede, p. 13). The same is true of his preference for poetic
imitations of works of the pictorial arts as elements of a narrative that promote its
actions over such imitations that only figure as ‘insertions’ into a narrative. Ascertai-
ning the reasons for these preferences falls outside the scope of this essay. But we
may be certain that these preferences indeed involve ascertainable reasons that have
been and still can be argued for or against; they certainly are not adequately read if
one reads them as expressions of anxieties.
For our present purpose it is sufficient to be able to see in Lessing’s account
of the differences of Homer’s and Virgil’s shields of Achilles and Aeneas a striking
illustration of the extent to which what is claimed about the representational aspects
both of an ekphrastic text and of the work of the visual arts described by that text,
is, first, a matter construction on the part of the author of the ekphrastic text, in this
case of Homer and of Virgil. That construction subsequently becomes a matter for
construction on the part of the student of ekphrasis – in this case Lessing –, who will
analyze that ekphrastic text in relation to the work of the visual arts it was meant to
describe, and in relation to the conceptual framework at his disposal. It goes without
saying that the chances of getting lost in the maze of constructions are bound to
increase considerably when, as modern students of ekphrasis, we attempt to come to
terms with Lessing’s attempts to come to terms with Homer’s and Virgil’s ekphrastic
texts, i.e. when we try to reconstruct in terms of the conceptual framework available
to us, Lessing’s reconstruction – in terms of the framework available to him – of
those two ekphrases.
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XIII.
We are thus confronted once again with the problem addressed by Leo Spitzer’s
heuristic question: ‘What exactly has the author of the ekphrasis seen (or chosen
to show us) depicted on the work of the visual arts he/she is describing?’ As the
glimpses of the poet as original genius and as mere copier yielded by Lessing’s
analyses suggest, we are also back to Spitzer’s belief that an answer to that question,
will ‘furnish us with a firm contour of the object of his/her description itself, which
may later allow us to distinguish the symbolic or metaphysical inferences drawn
by the poet from the visual elements he/she has apperceived.’ But the example of
Lessing’s handling of Homer’s and Virgil’s ekphrases also suggests that we have to
add a second heuristic question to the one formulated by Spitzer, this time a meta-
level question: ‘What exactly has the author of the analysis of the ekphrastic text
seen (or chosen to show us) of/about the relation of that text and the work of the
visual arts described by it?’
XIV.
A number of years ago Sir Karl R. Popper suggested that a field of studies should
not be treated as if it were a self-contained entity with an essence of its own, asking
for and amenable to a separative definition. Instead, it should be viewed as nothing
more definite than an “abgegrenztes und konstruiertes Konglomerat von Problemen
und Lösungsversuchen” [‘a circumscribed and (arbitrarily) construed cluster of
problems and problem solutions’]. In such a cluster the only entities that can safely
be identified are, according to Popper, the problems dealt with at any one moment,
together with the scientific traditions that are in force at the time.57 The crucial
point of Popper’s remarks on a field of studies as a cluster of problems and problem
solutions is that the character of such a disciplinary cluster must ultimately remain
a matter of open-ended debate and thus of revision.
The study of ekphrasis, it seems to me, would gain a great deal if we could
bring ourselves to view it as a field of study in Popper’s sense, i.e. as no more
than a circumscribed cluster of problems and problem solutions. In the case of
ekphrasis that cluster would have to be characterized by a considerable degree of
heterogeneity as far as the phenomena waiting for investigation are concerned:
rhetorical figures as elements of texts; ekphrastic literary and non-literary texts in
57
Karl R. Popper: “Die Logik der Sozialwissenschaften” in Theodor W. Adorno, Ralf Dahrendorf,
Harald Pilot, Hans Albert, Jürgen Habermas, and Karl R. Popper (eds.) Der Positivismusstreit in
der deutschen Soziologie, Darmstadt; Neuwied 1972 (1969) (p. 103–123), p. 108. “[…] weil es
ja ein solches Ding-an-sich wie ein wissenschaftliches Fach gar nicht gibt. […] Ein sogenanntes
wissenschaftliches Fach ist nur ein abgegrenztes und konstruiertes Konglomerat von Problemen und
Lösungsversuchen. Was es aber wirklich gibt, das sind die Probleme und die wissenschaftlichen
Traditionen.”
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their totality; ekphrases as elements of narrative texts; forms of writing, e.g. the
‘verbal representation of visual representation’; textual functions, e.g. the ‘discursive
interventions in visual culture’ investigated by Brosch;58 intermedial relations; the
emotive stances and responses towards such relations, e.g. ‘ekphrastic indifference,’
‘ekphrastic hope,’ ‘ekphrastic fear’; the subject of the author and the reader of an
ekphrastic text; the sensuously accessible vs. the verbally accessible; reasoned critical
assessments and their contextual foundations, e.g. Lessing’s reasoned preference of
Homer’s ekphrasis over Virgil’s. As far as the conceptual means are concerned that
can be employed to carry out the investigations into those phenomena, there is a
similar degree of heterogeneity: concepts, definitions, objects constituted for the
purpose of investigation, explanations in terms of causes, explanations in terms of
reasons, theories, all of them presenting themselves in a number of approach- and
framework-specific variants.
Adopting Popper’s proposal to consider a field of study as a cluster of problems
and problem solutions, we would no longer feel compelled to continue the search
for a vantage point from which to perceive a single unified phenomenon of ekphrasis
in place of the factual, and at times undoubtedly disquieting heterogeneity of the
ekphrasis-cluster. The search for such a vantage point, is seems to me, has been
the driving force behind much of recent theorizing about ekphrasis. Thus when
Renate Brosch recently praised Heffernan’s definition of ekphrasis as ‘the verbal
representation of visual representation’ as a definition that “avoids enclosing the
phenomenon [of ekphrasis] within the narrow boundaries of art and literature and
conceptualizes it as a wider discursive practice,” she did so clearly with the expectation
that the concept of a discursive practice would at long last offer the possibility of
adequately conceptualizing ekphrasis (Brosch, p. 104). But a fifteen-minute stint
of googling the web quickly will soon reveal that besides ekphrasis the following
items are currently referred to with the aid of the term ‘discursive practice’: organ
improvisation, sexual harassment, self-understanding, argument, satire, theory,
education programs, high performance sports, agency, learning disability, routine
refusal of appeals to the football referee, designing, using a vocabulary, revising,
modernizing, institutionalizing, technologizing, Americanizing, research interviews,
corrective supervision, language use as deontic scorekeeping and philosophy of
Africa. So the question that presents itself must clearly be what is cognitively gained
by conceptualizing ekphrasis as a ‘wider discursive practice.’
The answer, it would appear, can only be, that in conceptualizing ekphrasis
in this manner we avail ourselves of the possibility of raising about ekphrasis the
kind of heuristic questions, which we have come to associate with the notion of
a discursive practice, namely questions about the diverging subject positions of
58
Renate Brosch: “Verbalizing the Visual: Ekphrasis as a Commentary on Modes of Representation”
in J. Eming, A. Jael Lehmann, and Irmgard Maassen (eds.): Mediale Performanzen: Historische Kon-
zepte und Perspektiven, Freiburg 2002 (p. 103–123), p.104.
315
the participants of that practice, about the hierarchy of power that characterizes
it, about its ideological drift, and about its institutional features, to mention but a
few. But then it will indeed be the recognition of the enclosure of ekphrasis ‘within
the narrow boundaries of art and literature,’ rather than the abstraction from those
boundaries, which will provide us with the proper handle for asking these questions
about ekphrasis understood as a discursive practice. For raising those questions will
only make sense if they can be asked about a discursive practice in all its specificity,
and in its germane ‘setting in life,’ rather than in abstraction from that setting. For
the genre of ekphrasis, needless to add, the boundaries of art and literature are an
integral part of that setting in life. The cognitive gain of considering ekphrasis as a
discursive practice will therefore consist in the possibility of adding yet another set
of problems to the cluster of problems and problem solutions, which we have come
to associate with the term ekphrasis, this time the cluster of problems and problem
solutions suggested by considering ekphrasis as a discursive practice. But it will not
make the heuristic questions obtained by placing ekphrasis in a different company
superfluous.
XV.
One of the stories in Alice Munro’s collection with the title Runaway begins as
follows:
Two profiles face each other. One the profile of a pure white heifer, with
a particularly mild and tender expression, the other that of a green-faced
man who is neither young nor old. He seems to be a minor official,
maybe a postman – he wears that sort of cap. His lips are pale, the
whites of his eyes shining. A hand that is probably his offers up, from
the lower margin of the painting, a little tree or an exuberant branch,
fruited with jewels.
At the upper margin of the painting are dark clouds, and underneath
them some small tottery houses and a toy church with its toy cross,
perched on the curved surface of the earth. Within this curve a small
man (drawn to a larger scale, however, than the buildings) walks along
purposefully with a scythe on his shoulder, and a woman, drawn to the
same scale, seems to wait for him. But he is hanging upside down.
There are other things as well. For instance, a girl milking a cow,
within the heifer’s cheek.
Juliet decided at once to buy this print for her parents’ Christmas
present.
“Because it reminds me of them,” she said to Christa, her friend
who had come down with her from Whale Bay to do some shopping.
316
They were in the gift shop of the Vancouver Art Gallery.

Christa laughed. “The green man and the cow? They’ll be
flattered.”
Christa never took anything seriously at first, she had to make some
joke about it. Juliet wasn’t bothered. […]
She loved everything in the picture, but particularly the little figures
and rickety buildings at the top of it. The man with the scythe and the
woman hanging upside down.
She looked for the title. I and the Village.
It made exquisite sense.
“Chagall. I like Chagall,” said Christa. “Picasso was a bastard.”
Juliet was so happy with what she had found that she could hardly
pay attention.
“You know what he is supposed to have said? Chagall is for shopgirls,”
Christa told her. “So what’s wrong with shopgirls? Chagall should have
said, Picasso is for people with funny faces.”
“I mean, it makes me think of their life,” Juliet said. “I don’t know
why, but it does.”59
This is without a doubt an ekphrasis in the sense in which Leo Spitzer proposed
to use that term: it is ‘a poetic description of a pictorial work of art.’ Spitzer’s heuristic
question, adjusted to this particular instance of an ekphrasis, would also appear to
be applicable: ‘what exactly has Alice Munro seen (or chosen to show us) depicted
on/in the pictorial work of art – Chagall’s I and the Village – she is describing?’ On
the basis of that definition, and with the aid of that heuristic question it would be
possible to enter into a detailed and structured analysis of the stylistic characteristics
of Munro’s description, and of its purpose.
But would anything additional be gained from calling this particular passage
a ‘verbal representation of visual representation,’ an ekphrastic text that ‘explicitly
represents representation itself,’ an instance of ‘verbal/literary intersemiotic re-
writing, or simply the verbalization of non-verbal texts,’ or even an instance of ‘the
verbalization of real or fictitious texts composed in a non-verbal sign system’?
The answer to this question, it seems, must be that since Alice Munro’s ekphrastic
text does not realize any of the variants of ekphrasis delineated by those formu-
lations, these descriptions are out of place here. If we wish to understand Munro’s
text as an instance of ekphrasis the analytical tools provided by Spitzer, including his
heuristic question, would appear to be quite adequate for the task. If, in addition, we
wish to specify the ‘transposition d’ art’ realized in Munro’s ekphrastic text, thereby
identifying the relevant variant of ekphrasis, we might try to do this by focusing
59
Alice Munro: Runaway, intr. Jonathan Franzen, London 2005 (p. 87–88).
317
on the manner in which Munro manages to render verbally Chagall’s characteristic

departures from traditional representational aesthetic:
At the upper margin of the painting are dark clouds, and underneath
them some small tottery houses and a toy church with its toy cross,
perched on the curved surface of the earth. Within this curve a small
man (drawn to a larger scale, however, than the buildings) walks along
purposefully with a scythe on his shoulder, and a woman, drawn to the
same scale, seems to wait for him. But he is hanging upside down.
There are other things as well. For instance, a girl milking a cow,
within the heifer’s cheek. […]
She loved everything in the picture, but particularly the little figures
and rickety buildings at the top of it. The man with the scythe and the
woman hanging upside down.
She looked for the title. I and the Village.
It made exquisite sense.
We might also point out, as part of the reconstruction of the characteristic ‘trans-
position d’ art’ of this ekphrastic text, how Munro manages to ‘naturalize’ Chagall’s
departure from that aesthetic by placing the world depicted in accordance with that
break within the gaze of one of the personages of the story with whom we are likely
to identify: “She looked for the title. I and the Village. It made exquisite sense.”
The conclusion to be drawn from this simple example is that the notion of
‘transposition d’art’ is not nearly as amenable to generalization as are the two
elements of the definiens of Spitzer’s definition, ‘the poetic description of a pictorial
or sculptural work of art.’ There may indeed be more than one ekphrastic text,
which realizes that transposition in much the same way, as does Munro’s ekphrasis
of Chagall’s I and the Village. But that would be as unexpected as lightning hitting
the same tree twice. The immense value of Spitzer’s notion of ‘transposition d’art’
as an element of the descriptive apparatus of ekphrasis lies in the fact that it allows
us to identify the variants of ekphrasis not only in the sense of groups of texts with
similar characteristics, but also in the sense of individual and unique realizations of
the genre of ekphrasis.
318
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320
Transmedializations
Transfiguration Transmedialized:
From Miraculous Vision to Musical Mirage
Siglind Bruhn
Jesus’ transfiguration on a high mountain in the presence of three apostles, told in

the three synoptic gospels,1 is the culminating point of his public life. The pheno-
menon is described as metemorphothe, the emanation from his face and body of a
dazzling brightness produced by an interior shining of his divinity.2 In his 1969
composition for ten-part choir, seven instrumental soloists, and “very large orch-
estra,” La Transfiguration de Notre-Seigneur Jésus-Christ, the French composer Olivier
Messiaen (1908–1992) undertakes to render this visual event in musical language.
In the chapter “The Picture in the Poem: A Theoretical Discussion” from his book,
Text as Picture: Studies in the Literary Transformations of Pictures,3 Hans Lund provides
a scheme intended to define what stance the author of a secondary representation
may adopt toward a work of art that constitutes the primary representation of the
scene or story told or imagined. Lund establishes three main categories for this
relationship: combination, integration, and transformation. He defines the third
category as follows: “No pictorial element is combined with or integrated into the
verbal text. The text refers to an element or a combination of elements in pictures
not present before the reader’s eyes. The information to the reader about the picture
is given exclusively by the verbal language” (Lund, p. 9).
While the choral components in Messiaen’s Transfiguration do indeed quote from
the biblical account – in alternation with texts taken from the Old Testament, the
missal, and Thomas Aquinas (1224–1274) – and could thus be said to constitute
musical settings of verbal representations (a case of integration), I want to show
that a true interartistic transformation – or “transmedialization” – is captured in the
musical parameters of this majestic work.4
1
Matthew 17:1–6, Mark 9:1–8, and Luke 9:28–36.
2
For theological studies on the transfiguration, see particularly Barbara E. Reid: The Transfiguration: A
Source- and Redaction-critical Study of Luke 9:28–36, Paris 1993; E. W. Bullinger: The Transfiguration:
Its Historical Interpretation and Spiritual Application, London 1920; Jack Haas: Transfiguration: The
Union of Spirit and Flesh, Vancouver 2005; and Frank B. Brown: Transfiguration: Poetic Metaphor and
the Languages of Religious Belief, Chapel Hill 1983.
3
Hans Lund: Text as Picture. Studies in the Literary Transformation of Pictures, Lewiston, New York
1992. First published in Swedish as Texten som tavla. Studier i litterär bildtransformation, Lund 1982.
4
“Transmedialization” describes the creative process that applies in the step from an artistic rendering
in one medium to that in another. The best-known example is known as ekphrasis, the poetic
rendering of a work of visual art (“the verbal representation of a real or fictitious text composed
in a non-verbal sign system,” as Claus Clüver defined it in “Ekphrasis Reconsidered: On Verbal
323
Siglind Bruhn: Transfiguration Transmedialized
The Oratorio in its Overall Design

Messiaen wrote his magnificent oratorio about “the transfiguration of our Lord
Jesus Christ” in the years 1965–69, commissioned by the Portuguese Gulbenkian
Foundation. The work, almost two hours in duration, was premiered on 7 June
1969 in front of an audience of 9000 in the large hall of the Coliseo in Lisbon.
The performers were the Orchestre de Paris under the baton of Serge Baudo, the
chorus of the Gulbenkian Foundation, and among the soloists, the cellist Mstislav
Rostropowitsch and the pianist Yvonne Loriod, Messiaen’s wife. The score was
published by Alphonse Leduc in Paris in 1972. International Messiaen scholarship
has so far accorded the work only limited attention,5 a surprising response in view
of an early French critic’s assessment who likened the oratorio’s theological intention
and potential effect to the eminent Swiss theologian Hans Urs von Balthasar’s opus
magnum Herrlichkeit. Eine theologische Ästhetik,6 and the judgment of the commis-
Representations of Non-Verbal Texts,” in Interart Poetics: Essays on the Interrelations of the Arts and
Media, Ulla-Britta Lagerroth, Hans Lund, and Erik Hedling (ed.), Amsterdam 1997 (p. 19–34), p.
26. A transmedialization is thus the second part in three-tiered process from reality to its artistic trans-
formation: The first step consists of the process by which a scene or story, which may be fictitious
or real, is artistically represented in a first medium (painted, sculpted, verbally described in poetic
or prose form, musicalized, mimed, or danced, etc.). The “ekphrastic” second step takes this first
artistic representation as a point of departure for a “representation of a representation” – in the case
of musical ekphrasis, a sonic response to a work of literature or plastic art. The transmedialization
should do more than merely recast the visual image in its own language. It characteristically evokes
interpretations or additional layers of meaning, changes the viewers’ focus, or guides their eyes
towards details and contexts they might otherwise overlook.
5
A number of book-length monographs and essay collections devoted to an overview of Messiaen’s
works have appeared since the publication of the Transfiguration score in 1972, yet few of them
deal with the oratorio in any depth. Robert Sherlaw Johnson: Messiaen, London 1975/89, gives
merely a one-page overview; Wilfrid Mellers: “La Transfiguration” in Peter Hill (eds.): The Messiaen
Companion, London 1995, offers a chronological description of salient features; Harry Halbreich:
Olivier Messiaen, Paris 1980, provides brief analyses but reprints Messiaen’s comments unquestioned
and without relating them to compositional details; and Paul Griffiths: Olivier Messiaen and
the music of time, London 1985, combines a general introduction with a thorough tonal-modal
analysis of movement IX. Only Aloyse Michaely: Die Musik Olivier Messiaens. Untersuchungen
zum Gesamtschaffen, Hamburg 1987, accounts in detail for the structures, harmonies, modal
manifestations, rhythmic formations, and theological sources in every movement.
6
Alain Michel: “La Transfiguration et la beauté. D’Olivier Messiaen à Urs von Balthasar” in Bulletin
de l’Association Guillaume Budé IV/1, 1974 (p. 493–499), p. 493. The suggestion that his work
reminded someone of the great Swiss theologian whom he much admired so gladdened Messiaen that
he asked for Michel’s essay to be reprinted in the program booklet for the work’s Parisian premiere,
which took place on occasion of the Festival Messiaen organized for the composer’s 70th birthday in
November-December 1978. Balthasar (1905–1988) was one of the most important Roman Catholic
theologians of the 20th century. In his work on theological aesthetics, he restructered theology around
basic aesthetic concepts like form and beauty. Messiaen mentions Balthasar in almost all interviews
of his later years, often with explicit reference to just that work, which had appeared in French under
the title La gloire et la croix. He seems to have read the first two volumes soon after their publication
in translation in 1965 and 1968.
324
sion who in 1985 awarded Messiaen the first Kyoto Prize for Art and Philosophy
explicitly for his Catalogue d’oiseaux and La Transfiguration.7
Four movements chanted in Messiaen’s neo-Gregorian style8 provide the work’s
skeleton. They present the narrative from the Gospel according to Saint Matthew
in the Latin version from the Vulgate: verses 1–2 with the short account of what
happened, verses 3–4 with the affirmation of Jesus by Moses and Elias, verse 5 with
the theophany from the luminous cloud, and verses 6–9 with Jesus’ concluding
words to his disciples. The overall structure that Messiaen built around this skeleton
underwent a development resulting from the juxtaposition of three superimposed
ideas. Early in the compositional process, Messiaen intended to follow the sequence
of the liturgical office for the feast day of the Transfiguration. According to a sketch
found in his estate,9 the movements with gospel recitation were to be complemented
by two movements setting texts from the psalms and by a hymn and a prayer, before
the work was to close with an as yet indistinct finale. Shortly before completing
this version Messiaen reconsidered, feeling that he wanted a more symmetrically
balanced layout. Each of the gospel recitations was now to be followed by two
choral meditations on the images and ideas of the New Testament verses, resulting
in a layout in four analogous threesomes. Ultimately, however, this plan was altered
again, recast by the addition of a chorale after the second and the fourth group
into two halves of strikingly unequal length but strictly corresponding sequence.
Since the two chorales are parallels of one another in many respects, the final design
appears as consisting of two “septenaries.”10 The alternation of Gospel recitations
with meditations and chorales in the work’s ultimate format is reminiscent of Bach’s
Passions.
The eight choral meditations differ dramatically in duration and complexity,
the two longest being about ten times as extensive as the shortest, which paints a
musical picture of the transfigured Jesus’ supernatural brightness (“VI – Candor est
7
See the dedication published on the Internet page of the Inamori Foundation that awards the
Prize (http://www.inamori-f.or.jp/laureates/k01_c_olivier/prf_e.html, visited on 15 December
2005): “The greatest music composer of the 20th century. His music is the freely embraced non-
classical position, which attempted to bring contemporary expression to Catholicism. Among his
masterpieces are Catalogue d’Oiseaux and La Transfiguration de notre Seigneur Jésus Christ“ (sic).
8
In his first treatise, Messiaen describes the influence of plainchant on his melodic thinking and
gives examples for how he adapts the interval structures of Gregorian chant to his own musical
language (cf. Olivier Messiaen: Technique de mon langage musical, Paris 1944, chapter XII). The
most developed version of this neo-Gregorian style can be observed in the singing of the brothers in
Messiaen’s opera Saint François d’Assise (1984); cf. the chapter “Messiaen’s Franciscan Scenes about
the Imitation of Christ” in Siglind Bruhn: Saints in the Limelight: Representations of the Religious
Quest on the Post-1945 Operatic Stage, Hillsdale, New York 2003 (p. 360–391).
9
For a description of this sketch dating from 1966 see Peter Hill and Nigel Simeone: Messiaen, New
Haven; London 2005, p. 264.
10
These “septénaires,” as Messiaen called them, determine the practical aspects both of the two-
volume score and the arrangement of the intermission in public performances.
325
lucis aeternae”). The varying complexity is directly proportionate to the contents.

The movements that are most simply structured are the two that portray human
reactions: the prayer that God may “make us coheirs with this King of glory” (“X
– Adoptionem filiorum perfectam”) and the expression of the disciples’ sacred terror
(“XII – Terribilis est locus iste”). The first four meditations, reflections of different
aspects of the light, occupy a median position. The longest is “XIII – Tota Trinitas
apparuit”; by far the most complex is “IX – Perfecte conscius illius perfectae genera-
tionis,” which sets a passage from Thomas Aquinas’s Summa theologica in which the
doctor angelicus discusses in what way the transfigured Jesus is the Son of God. In this
essay, I wish to focus on the two central aspects and their musical representations:
the brilliant light that is the hallmark of the miraculous event, and the nature of an
apparent human revealed as the Son of God and part of the divine Trinity.
Jesus’ Brightness, a Reflection of the Eternal Light

The first aspect plays a role in all movements whose texts include words like lux,
lumen [light], splendour [magnificence], claritas [brightness], or candor [refulgence,
radiance]. This holds true for all choral meditations with the exception of no. X,
the human prayer for admittance as children of God. More specifically, the aspect
of brightness is linked to the biblical verse that serves as a kind of verbal “theme” of
this composition: Candor est lucis aeternae, speculum sine macula, et imago bonitatis
illius. The verse is traditionally sung in the Office for the Feast of the Transfiguration
as part of the Gradual, the chanting between the Lesson and the Gospel reading.
The words, taken from the Book of Wisdom (7:26), enumerate three attributes: “the
brightness of eternal light,” “the unspotted mirror of God’s majesty,” and “the image
of his goodness.”11 Messiaen had quoted the verse for the first time in 1935, as a
motto for the fourth movement in his organ cycle La Nativité du Seigneur. In the
Transfiguration, he has the chorus sing it in four of the eight meditation movements.
The settings in nos. II, V, and VI represent an intriguing development of increasing
complexity, while the brief quotation in no. XII seems to function above all as a
reaffirmation of this central aspect in the oratorio’s multi-faceted second septenary,
without exploring new musical nuances.
Both the Gradual and Messiaen employ the biblical verse in a way that entails
a silent reattribution. In the Old Testament, the phrase is part of a passage devoted
to the nature of Wisdom. The main clause, Candor est enim lucis aeternae, has no
explicit subject beyond the unspecified third person implied in the verb form est, but
it clearly refers back to the sapientia of verse 24 (Omnibus enim mobilibus mobilior
est sapientia...). In a context where the focus is Jesus, this reference necessarily shifts:
it is no longer Wisdom but He, the Son of God, who is “the brightness of eternal
11
The English wording of the biblical verses quoted in this essay corresponds with The Holy Bible.
New International Version, New York 1973.
326
light, the unspotted mirror of God’s majesty, and the image of his goodness.”
In the first choral meditation, Messiaen sets the complete verse, in two segments
heard as conclusions of the movement’s two strophes. The setting picks up the neo-
Gregorian style used for the Gospel recitation in the preceding first movement: the
texture consists of alternating groupings of voices and instruments, each of which
keeps to a continuous unison, and the interval structure with its opening B-F and
a contour saturated with tritones is directly reminiscent of the way Messiaen also
presents Saint Matthew’s account. While the verse from the Old Testament likens
Jesus to divine Wisdom, the stylistic connection links this first reflection on Jesus’
visual brilliance firmly to the evangelist’s narrative.
With its position at the conclusion of the strophes, the verse here seems to
summarize what Jesus is or what the light in which he is shrouded during the
Transfiguration shows him to be. A musical counterpart to this verbal setting is the
instrumental motif that opens each strophe as well as various smaller sections. It
acts as a spiritual complement in that it evokes, in a way that is as ingenious as it is
esoteric, the purpose of Jesus’ mission. The motif is one of hundreds that Messiaen, a
bona fide ornithologist, transcribed from bird song. Thankfully, the composer labels
such birdsong elements in the score; occasionally he even comments in his preface
on individual birds that matter to him for other than purely musical reasons. Here
too, the brief text accompanying the movement provides a first clue:
We take up the idea of light. If Christ was luminous, so will we be after

the resurrection, when we will have the gift of brightness. The voice
of the Black-throated Honey-guide, a bird from Africa, proclaims this
joyously...
As one can read in ornithological descriptions, the Honey-guide is a bird of normally

unassuming coloring that calls attention by flashing white markings and then leads
honey-seeking humans to bee nests that are otherwise hard to find. Messiaen seems
to have welcomed the bird for this trait and apparently regarded it as an allegory of
Christ who, in the sudden whiteness of his transfigured humanity, guides humankind
to the sweetness of God’s realm.
When the verse about the “brightness of eternal light” is heard again, in movement
V, the choral meditation that follows the second of the Gospel recitations, it is high-
lighted in a very different way. In this movement’s middle section, the solo cello
presents a theme that is taken up first by the chorus to the words Candor est lucis
aeternae and subsequently by various instruments. Together with a final entry in the
coda, the theme is heard seven times, interrupted and sometimes also accompanied
by birdsong. Whereas the words are shortened – Messiaen restricts the vocal line
to the first of the biblical verse’s three clauses – their musical embodiment is very
prominent, not least because it shapes a major portion of the movement.
327
Example 1: the Candor theme
Particularly intriguing is the fact that this theme is a self-quotation. The very same
contour can be found in three of Messiaen’s instrumental compositions from the
1950s: in the organ cycle Messe de la Pentecôte (1950), in Le Merle noir for flute and
piano (1951), and in the piano cycle Catalogue d’oiseaux (1958). In one of these
cases, Messiaen provides a commentary that reveals what spiritual connotations he
associates with the theme. In the seventh piece of the Catalogue d’oiseaux he relates
it to the yellow iris, a flower that Christian iconography knows as a symbol for
forgiveness. By means of this remotely defined musical signifier of forgiveness, the
composer seems to interpret the affirmation that Jesus’ visual brilliance is a reflection
of the eternal light as a component in God’s salvific plan.
The last choral meditation of the oratorio’s first septenary (no. VI) is entirely
reserved for a setting of the full Candor verse. Apart from using only a single text
– one, moreover, that was already heard twice before – this movement also differs
from all other meditation movements in the oratorio in that Messiaen keeps all vocal
segments in a single color (female voices in unison doubled by the violas), in that its
choral line uses only the pitches of the whole-tone scale (the mode based on a single
interval, which Messiaen employs rarely throughout his life and nowhere else in this
composition), and in that its structure is not the kaleidoscope of segments in ever
different scoring, rhythm, and tempo characteristic for the other movements, but
through-composed in a single impetus.
Instead of the horizontal divisions typical for other Messiaen works, we find
a vertical layering. Register, articulation, and gestures allow to distinguish five
strands:
1. The woodwinds, the gamelan trio (xylorimba, marimba, and

vibraphone), the piano, and the first violins present an uninterrupted
bird concert with twenty individually identified bird calls;
2. the solo cello contributes a passionate cadenza;
3. a trio of three other cellos adds a few gentle pizzicato utterances.
Both the cello trio’s and the solo cellos’ materials are conceived in a style
that suggests improvisation. Especially for listeners, they thus blend
with the bird concert.
4. The second violins intone a soft chord sequence that is repeated through-
out the movement. This chord sequence executes a rhythmic pattern
that also relies on (modified) repetition but does not ever coincide with
the harmonic grouping.
5. Finally there is the unison of the women’s chorus and the violas.
328
The movement’s essence is captured in these last-mentioned two strands.

Together they posit three parameters obeying their own unique laws: a melodic
contour, a harmonic ostinato, and a rhythmic phrase. In the melody, the tripartite
Candor verse is sung without interruption. It is followed after a short rest by a
repetition of the entire verse, musically fashioned as a remote modification.12 After
another brief hiatus, the chorus adds another version of the first clause.
With this structure of 3 + 3 + 1, the vocal strand provides the model for the
rhythmic phrase. In its basic form this rhythm consists of three eighth-notes follow-
ed by three dotted eighth-notes and rounded off with a single sixteenth-note; in
the numeric transcription common for Messiaen’s rhythms (where “1” equals the
smallest note value in the example, here the sixteenth-note), this corresponds to the
formula 2–2–2–3–3–3–1. In the course of the movement this rhythm undergoes
wave-like augmentations and diminutions, a development that then breaks off half-
way through one modification – in fact in the middle of an expected note value. A
graphic representation shows this better than words can:
The harmonic sequence through which this rhythm manifests consists of ten chords
that are repeated again and again in the very same order, volume, and articulation.
The tubular bells move with the rhythm of the chords, without however joining any
of the individual violin parts. Instead they pick varying pitches from each chord,
thus presenting a kind of secondary tune that sounds accompanied by a strophically
repeated chord sequence.
Owing to their different extensions, the ten-part chord sequence and the seven-
part rhythmic phrase would coincide again beginning with the 71st attack. That,
however, lies slightly outside the movement, which breaks off abruptly after 66
attacks. Those who feel that true closure would be reached only when the chord
sequence meets again with the rhythm’s original size would even have to imagine a
movement seven times the duration of the one Messiaen composed.
All this is far more than mere mathematical playfulness. With its two strands
juxtaposing parameters in three non-congruent dimensions against the background
of a bird concert, the movement is strongly reminiscent of “Liturgie de crystal,” the
opening movement of Messiaen’s Quatuor pour la fin du Temps. There, two instru-
ments, violoncello and piano, create a shimmering sound carpet – according to
Messiaen a musical image of the “harmonic silence of heaven” – above which the bird
calls of the clarinet as blackbird and the violin as nightingale soar in perfect rhythmic
freedom. The cello part consists of a 15-note melody repeated in identical rhythm.
12
The central segments, articulating the words speculum sine macula, sound rhythmically analogous; the
final segments for et imago bonitatis illius even have a tonally and rhythmically identical conclusion.
329
Against it, the piano plays a 29-part chord sequence in a rhythm that restarts after
17 note values. Once set in motion, these three dimensions – the 15-part cello line,
the 17-part piano rhythm and the 29-part chord sequence – would only meet again
in their original constellation after almost four hours. The three-minute quartet
movement thus resembles what could be called “an extract of eternity,” an idea that
is consistent within Messiaen’s many-faceted meditations on time and its cessation.
It seems that in the sixth movement of his Transfiguration, Messiaen may similarly
have wanted to lift the “brightness of eternal light” from its temporal condition, the
single event described in the gospels.
Finally, the movement’s conspicuous texture with five layers invites a comment
on number symbolism. In Christian iconography, the number five is a common
symbol for Jesus, insofar as it points both to his five wounds and to the five Greek
letters ΙΧΘΥΣ that stand for the titles defining Jesus’ sovereignty: Jesus Christ God’s
Son Savior, whereas read as an acronym they mean “fish” (a frequent code word for
Christ). Jesus’ two natures, which his contemporaries experienced sensually for the
first time in the event of the transfiguration, are mirrored here in the two melodic
strands: that of the choral line, which sounds in unison, is harmonized simply, and
can easily be grasped by all listeners, and that of the tubular bells with its accom-
panying violin chords moving according to utterly complex, absolute laws. The
three dimensions of the complex strand – the chord sequence, the rhythmic phrase,
and the mysterious waxing and waning of its note values – anticipate what Messiaen
will capture in the last of the choral meditations: that the transfiguration event is a
manifestation of the Trinity.
Revealed as the Son of God

The music of the first choral meditation in the second septenary takes up several
aspects of what was heard in the last meditation of the oratorio’s first half. Once
again, the whole movement relies on a text from a single source; once again, all
vocal segments are either sung by individuals or in unison; and once again, Messiaen
creates complex superimpositions of harmonic and rhythmic phrases.
The rather extensive excerpt stems from Thomas Aquinas’s Summa theologica,
a text the composer is reading at this time in the context of his experiments with a
“universally communicable language” made up of notes and motifs. The resulting
organ composition, Méditations sur le mystère de la Sainte Trinité, will be completed
immediately after the Transfiguration, still in 1969.13 For the topic of Jesus’ divine
sonship Messiaen chooses the following segments from Thomas’s response to his
45th question:
13
On Messiaen’s langage communicable see Andrew Shenton: “Speaking with the Tongues of Men
and Angels: Messiaen’s langage communicable” in Siglind Bruhn (ed.): Messiaen’s Language of Mystical
Love, New York 1998 (p. 225-245).
330
Adoptio filiorum Dei est per quandam conformitatem imaginis ad Dei

Filium naturalem ... Primo quidem, per propriam gratiam viae, quae est
conformitatis imperfecta; secundo, per gloriam, quae est conformitatis
perfecta ... Gratiam per baptismum consequimur, in transfiguratione
autem praemonstrata est claritas futurae gloriae, ideo, tam in baptismo
quam in Transfiguratione, conveniens fuit manifestare: naturalem
Christi filiationem testimonio Patris: quia solus est perfecte conscius
illius, perfectae generationis, simul cum Filio et Spiritu Sancto.
The adoption of the sons of God is through a certain conformity of

image to the natural Son of God. ... first, by the grace of the wayfarer,
which is imperfect conformity; secondly, by glory, which is perfect con-
formity ... It is in baptism that we acquire grace, while the clarity of
the glory to come was foreshadowed in the transfiguration, therefore
both in His baptism and in His transfiguration the natural sonship
of Christ was fittingly made known by the testimony of the Father:
because He alone with the Son and Holy Ghost is perfectly conscious
of that perfect generation.14
In the music, dual juxtapositions compete with Trinitarian structures. The move-
ment’s layout in two analogous halves is evident even to first listeners:
Example 2: the
layout of the
choral meditation
Transfiguration IX
With regard to the text, Messiaen sets out by defining three segments: A = Adoptio
to perfecta, B = Gratiam to Patris, C = quia to Spiritu Sancto. He then fits these into
his bipartite design by juxtaposing both segment A in the movement’s first half and
segment B in its second half with portions of segment C. Each segment is itself
composed in bipartite or tripartite form, and the musical structures sometimes even
14
Cf the section on the Life of Jesus in volume III of the Summa. The English translation is taken
from The Summa Theologica of St. Thomas Aquinas, literally translated by Fathers of the English
Dominican Province, Second and Revised Edition, 1920; online edition © 2003 by Kevin Knight,
visited on 20 December 2005: http://www.newadvent.org/summa/4045.htm.
331
reach across the border between the movement’s so carefully created two halves.
The chorus begins with element C1a, an excerpt from Thomas’s last sentence.
As Aloyse Michaely shows convincingly, Messiaen achieves a fascinating shift of
meaning (Michaely 1987, p. 612). At cue [8], he initially sets only the words quia
solus est. At [23]–[24] he complements this fragment with the end of the sentence,
so that we hear quia solus est, simul cum filio et spiritu sanctu. This selective quotation
changes the meaning in a significant way. While Thomas’s complete sentence, quia
solus est perfecte conscius illius, perfectae generationis, simul cum Filio et Spiritu Sancto,
must be translated as “because He [the Father] alone with the Son and the Holy
Ghost is perfectly conscious of that perfect generation,” Messiaen’s excerpt has to be
rendered as “because He alone is, with the Son and the Holy Ghost.” The first half of
the movement thus does not address “perfect consciousness of perfect generation,”
but rather the Being of the triune God. The portion left out appears, now without
any mention of the three persons of the Trinity, at the corresponding point in the
movement’s second half: perfecte conscius illius [35], taken up toward the end as quia
solus est perfecte conscius illius, perfectae generationis [50]–[52] – “because he alone is
perfectly conscious of that perfect generation.”
Framed by these two partial quotations from the same clause, the central portions
of the movement’s halves present the two sentences that deal with the concept of
grace. Each of them initially appears bipartite: the words about the Son of God are
recited in monotone by a single baritone; for the arguments regarding imperfect and
perfect conformity, the entire chorus, doubled by the solo cello as well as individual
woodwinds and homophonically accompanied by vibraphone and strings, unites
to intone a two-strophe melody. In the second half, the proportions are reversed:
the baritone’s unaccompanied chanting about baptism and transfiguration is twice
as extensive, while the return to the subject of the Son of God is much shorter,
composed as one strophe – the third – of the melody introduced in the first half.
(This is the first tri-partite form straddling the movement’s bi-partite layout.)
The remaining sentence from the Summa passage also contrasts textures in
which the vocal lines are set simply (in unison with accompanying instruments)
with others in which the orchestra leads a life that is both independent from the
choral utterances and full of symbols. While the vocal contour blends into the larger
phrase that includes the framing unison passages, the orchestra weaves an intricate
braid of three strands, which far surpasses the play of chord sequence, rhythmic
phrase and growth process found in the oratorio’s sixth movement.
The three strands occupy different registers: The lowest strand is formed by
bass clarinet, horns, violas and one half of the cello group, and reinforced by gong
strokes; the middle strand includes clarinets and bassoons, the second violins and
the other half of the cellos as well as the tubular bells; the highest strand unites the
high woodwinds with the first violins, emphasized by various cymbals. Each strand
repeats a sequence consisting of five chords that share the top pitch. Thus the chords
332
of the lowest strand (C1–C5 in the graph of example 4) move below a reiterated
B-flat, the middle strand (B1–B5) features a reiterated F and the highest strand
(A1–A5) a reiterated D. As a result this twelve-tone passage, so complex that it far
surpasses any immediate human comprehension, is firmly anchored to a B-flat-
major chord. The orchestra’s three rhythmicized chord sequences, the B-flat-major
chord ringing across them and the choral melody thus form a total of five layers.
The rhythmic source of the three orchestral strands is a phrase consisting of 17
note values, which I have elsewhere designated as Messiaen’s “rhythmic signature”15
since he employs it in every major work over a period of at least thirty-five years.16
Example 3: Messiaen’s
“rhythmic signature”
This rhythmic phrase can be interpreted in two ways. With regard to one of the key
ingredients of Messiaen’s music, “non-retrogradable rhythms” – rhythms that seem
to cancel the continuity inherent in all temporal processes by remaining identical
when read backward – the phrase encompasses five components: four palindromic
threesomes (4–4–4, 2–3–2, 2–2–2, 3–3–3) followed by a final group that describes
a growth process (1–2–3–4–8). Messiaen stresses that the phrase can also be seen as
a combination of three deçî-tâlas – rhythm patterns from various regions of India
that enchant him on account of their complete freedom from metric determinism17:
râgavardhana (4–4–4–2–3–2) + candrakalâ (2–2–2–3–3–3–1) + laksmîça (2–3–4–
8). Most Messiaen scholars are content with this exotic explanation. It is worth
noting though that Messiaen repeatedly resorts to his “rhythmic signature” in musical
representations of the humanly perceived Son of God.18 Given this preference, a
reading of the rhythm that sees it as tracing the entry of an atemporal being into the
course of human continuity, gains theological significance.
15
Cf. the chapter “Elements of a Musical Language of Faith” in Siglind Bruhn: Messiaen’s Contemplation
of Covenant and Incarnation, Hillsdale, New York 2007 (p. 41–68), particularly p. 53 and 61.
16
Messiaen’s “rhythmic signature” plays a major role in Les Corps glorieux (1939), Quatuor pour la fin
du Temps (1941), Visions de l’Amen (1943), Vingt Regards sur l’Enfant-Jésus (1944), Harawi (1944),
Cinq rechants (1948), Turangalîla (1948), Catalogue d’oiseaux (1958), La Transfiguration de Notre-
Seigneur Jésus-Christ (1969), and Des Canyons aux étoiles (1974).
17
In Technique de mon langage musical Messiaen repeatedly refers to a table of Hindu rhythms.
In each of the many interview series that have been published still during his lifetime, he repeats
the story of his discovery. As he tells it, he found in the article on India in the Encyclopédie de la
Musique et Dictionnaire du Conservatoire a comment about a collection of rhythms that a 13th-
century Indian music theorist, Çarngadeva, had compiled for his book Samgitarat nâkara [Ocean of
Music]. According to Messiaen in Musique et couleur, nouveaux entretiens avec Claude Samuel, Paris
1986, p. 80, the name for these ancient Indian rhythms, “deçî-tâlas,” can be easily translated: tâla
means rhythm and deçî means from the provinces.
18
E.g., “Amen de l’Agonie de Jésus” in Visions de l’Amen and “Regard du Fils sur le Fils” in Vingt
Regards sur l’Enfant-Jésus.
333
The way in which the three strands are derived from the signature phrase is as
follows:
• the lowest strand presents the retrograde motion of the rhythm,

augmen-ted by one half (see the enlarged and mirrored numbers in the
lower line of example 4 below);
• the uppermost strand results from the original rhythm through permu-
tation “from outside in” (first value, last, second, penultimate, etc.),19
and
• the middle strand uses the rhythm of the uppermost strand, submitting
it to another permutation, this time “backwards in zigzag” (penultimate/
last value, fourth-from-last/third-from-last, etc.).
The first passage shaped by this polyphonic play with three strand of repeated five-
chord groups moving in three derivations of Messiaen’s “rhythmic signature” is found
under cues [23]–[24]. At its end, as the upper part of example 4 shows, none of the
strands has reached any completion with regard to either the chord sequences or the
rhythmic phrases: the lowest strand has only just restarted with the first note value
while the two higher ones are halfway through the second run of their rhythmic
phrases. This might be a strange break-off, were it not for the corresponding passage
in the movement’s second half. Here Messiaen complements each chord that is left
rhythmically incomplete at the end of cue [24] with the identical chord at cue [50].
The make-up chord is given the remaining value, and both the chord sequence
and the rhythmic phrase continue from there. In this way all three strands reach a
point, one quarter-note before the end of section [50]–[51], where their rhythmic
phrases conclude together: in the lowest strand after two repetitions, in the two
higher strands after three.
Example 4: the
polyphony of the
three strands
derived from
Messiaen’s
“rhythmic signature”
19
Michaely, who explains the relationship between the strands merely as a reshuffling of the same
note values without describing the laws Messiaen applied (cf. Michaely 1987, p. 621–624), seems
not to have considered the process of systematic interversion (or permutation) that Messiaen uses
since his Île de feu II of 1950. All other studies of Messiaen’s Transfiguration with which I am familiar
avoid attempts to explain this fascinating construction.
334
A restoration of the original superimposition of the three rhythmic phrases with the
five-part chord sequences is no more in sight here than it was in the sixth movement.
Yet whereas there, in the meditation on Jesus’ supernatural brilliance, the musical
depiction of the incomprehensibility of the divine miracle was outshone in the liste-
ner’s attention by the joyous bird concert, the polyphonic web sounds here in the
very foreground and thereby gains heightened significance.
Musical Signifiers of a Visual Miracle

Messiaen’s musical language is rich in symbols. Apart from a few that only reveal
their full meaning when read in the context of his personal statements of faith, there
are many that rely on ancient hermeneutic and semiotic traditions. To begin with,
there are the gestural evocations and onomatopoeic elements. The instrumental
preludes preceding each of the four gospel recitations – and with them each of the
oratorio’s four three-movement groups – begin with untuned percussion instruments
descending in increasing volume to the very depth of the lowest tam-tam stroke:
this is Messiaen’s musical metaphor for the entry into the sphere of the divine
mystery.20 Examples of onomatopoeic music are heard in movement VIII, where
the “luminous cloud” from which God’s voice is speaking is translated into indepen-
dently shimmering string glissandi, and in movement XII, where a dramatic hush
of previously busy cluster trills and percussion rolls depicts the witnessing disciples’
holy terror.
Number symbolism, known in Christian iconography since the Middle Ages,
plays a major role in Messiaen’s work. Examples for the musical figures two and three,
which signal, respectively, the two natures of Jesus and the Trinity, are too numerous to
be listed. Particularly striking in the context of the musical representations discussed
above are Messiaen’s attempts to portray through unusual musical structures and
textures how the truth of the triune God absorbs the duality of the Son of God/Son
of Man. The ninth movement, devoted to Thomas Aquinas’s question what it means
to be the Son of God, contains two most impressive examples: one is the central
passage from the Summa excerpt, set as a choral song in three strophes that transcends
the movement’s design in two analogous halves; the other contains the three-strand
polyphonic passage divided between the movement’s two halves but continuing
in unflinching consistency, ending only after the second repetition of one strand’s
rhythm has closed together with the third reiterations of the two others. Insofar as
the orchestral strands participating in the passage can be shown to be three variants
of one rhythmic model, and insofar as their different and disjoint chord sequences
miraculously establish one major triad that resounds through the entire passage,
Messiaen seems to have composed a musical image of the triune God Himself.
20
For the many manifestations of such descents and their theological connotations see Aloyse Michaely:
“L’abîme. Das Bild des Abgrunds bei Olivier Messiaen,” in Musikkonzepte, Vol. 28, 1982 (p. 7–55).
335
The figure five as a symbol for the crucified Christ, a staple of Christian icono-
graphy, is realized in the textures with five layers found in the movements depicting
the transfigured Jesus’ supernatural brilliance (VI) and the question after his now
sensually revealed identity as Son of God (IX). Beyond its importance in the realm
of texture, the number also shapes the material: the three five-chord groups that lend
themselves to the polyphony of the three derivations of Messiaen’s “rhythmic signa-
ture” provide only one of many examples in this oratorio.
More explanation is required in the case of the figure seven, which in this
composition is not, as it is in many other works by Messiaen, employed with the
apocalyptic connotations of divine punishment and human sins (inspired by the
seven seals that unleash the humanly made disasters, the seven trumpet blasts that
bring about God’s retributive acts, and the seven bowls of God’s wrath from which
destruction is poured out over the earth at the end of time). The use of the figure
seven in the Transfiguration de Notre-Seigneur Jésus-Christ seems determined rather
by something Messiaen writes in the preface to his Quartet for the End of Time, where
he declares seven a perfect number because it characterizes the day on which God
rested and, by doing so, sanctified the preceding six days of Creation. The oratorio’s
ultimate layout in two septenaries, the choice of seven instrumental soloists, and the
fact that the Candor theme in movement V has exactly seven entries confirms this
assumption as much as does the seven-part rhythmic phrase that runs through the
meditation on Jesus’ brilliance in movement VI.
The verse from the Book of Wisdom, Candor est lucis aeternae..., emerges as the
oratorio’s central text owing to its fourfold setting. It also gives rise to the work’s
only explicit musical theme. The fact that in this theme, Messiaen quotes a melody
he has earlier identified as spiritually associated with the yellow iris, connects the
transfigured Jesus’ brilliance to the flower that in Christian iconography signals the
forgiveness of sins. A more veiled secondary allusion seems equally important: iris
is the Greek word for rainbow, that natural event in seven brilliant colors which
Messiaen celebrates so often in his music, along with what he considers its human
imitation, the stained-glass windows of Gothic cathedrals. There are many biblical
connotations of the rainbow; among the most relevant for this context are its function
as a reminder of benevolence in God’s covenant with Noah after the deluge21 and as
a simile for the brilliance of God’s presence in the prophet Ezekiel’s vision.22
Just as the bright splendor surrounding the transfigured Jesus both reveals
and veils his divine nature, so do Messiaen’s veiled musical signifiers help to reveal
21
Gen 9, 13–15: “I have set my rainbow in the clouds, and it will be the sign of the covenant between
me and the earth. Whenever I bring clouds over the earth and the rainbow appears in the clouds, I
will remember my covenant between me and you and all living creatures of every kind. Never again
will the waters become a flood to destroy all life.”
22
Ez 1, 28: “Like the appearance of the rainbow in the clouds on a rainy day, so was the radiance
around him. This was the appearance of the likeness of the glory of the Lord.”
336
impressions that transcend verbal description. The musical contour of the Candor
theme, by reminding the friends of Messiaen’s œuvre of the flower of forgiveness
and the rainbow of God’s promise, thus acts as a melodic transmedialization of the
dazzling visual experience of which the gospels can barely speak.
337
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Bruhn, Siglind: Messiaen’s Contemplations of Covenant and Incarnation. Musical Symbols of
Faith in the Two Great Piano Cycles Visions de l’Amen and Vingt Regards sur l’Enfant-
Jésus, Hillsdale, New York 2007.
Griffiths, Paul: Olivier Messiaen and the music of time, London 1985.
Halbreich, Harry: Olivier Messiaen, Paris 1980.
Hill, Peter, and Simeone, Nigel: Messiaen, New Haven; London 2005.
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1998 (p. 225-245).
Sherlaw Johnson, Robert: Messiaen, London 1975/89.
Internet page of the Inamori Foundation, visited on 15 December 2005, http://www.
inamori-f.or.jp/laureates/k01_c_olivier/prf_e.html
338
Tristan Transformed:
Bodies and Media in the Historical Transformation of
the Tristan and Iseut-Myth1
Jørgen Bruhn
The story of Tristan and Iseut has been, and still is, a central myth in the cultural
and literary history of Western Europe. According to the catholic writer Denis de
Rougemont (1906–1985), the story was a veritable “etymology of our passions”2
– and therefore the cause behind the problems of love and marriage (i.e. divorces!)
he saw emerging in the 20th century. The extremely influential myth is perhaps best
characterized by its “plasticité,”3 its openness when it comes to being reformulated
into new stories,4 and its characteristic way of confronting each new epochal ideo-
logy in particular and significant ways. The heterogeneity of the medieval Tristan-
versions is paralleled by the historical transformation of the myth in a number of
different media. The medieval oral myth whose origins are still a subject of academic
dispute was, first of all, written down in the High Middle Ages and the large number
of surviving illuminated manuscripts, where the oral myth enters an image-text-
relation, testifies to the extreme popularity of the written versions.5 After the versified
12th century stories faded away, prose-versions became widespread in the late middle
ages and the renaissance. In later epochs the myth was continuously referred to and
1
In the Spring of 2005 I taught a seminar on Tristan and Iseut with Torben Sangild at the University
of Copenhagen, and I owe a number of the insights in this article to this fruitful cooperation, in
particular concerning the section on Wagner. I am also indebted to Heidrun Führer, Lund University,
whose critical reading of the first draft of this article helped me straighten my thoughts. An early
version of this paper was presented at the NORSIS conference Bodies/Arts/Crossroads conference at
the University of Växjö, October 2005.
2
Denis de Rougemont quoted in “Preface“ in Béroul: Tristan et Iseut, Daniel Poirion (ed.), Paris
1989, p. 7.
3
See Robert Bossuad et al. (eds.): Dictionaire des lettres francaises. Le Moyen Age, Paris 1992, p. 1445.
4
Right from the medieval beginnings the core of the story showed significant differences. Regarding
the different versions, see Peter S. Noble et al. (eds.): The Growth of the Tristan and Isolde Legend in
Wales, England, France, and Germany, Lewiston NY 2003. The differences – and the common traits
– can be compared to each other in the convenient Pléiade-edition Tristan et Yseut. Les Premières
versions européennes (Daniel Poirion (ed.), Paris 1995) where 21 versions from the earliest fragments
to the more fully developed romances are collected along with shorter texts like Marie de France’s lai
(versified short story) “Chèvrefeuille.”
5
See Roger Sherman Loomis and Laura Hibbard Loomis: Arthurian Legends in Medieval Art, New
York 1966 (1938). For a more theoretically up to date discussion of the relations between text and
image in medieval manuscripts, see Michael Camille: Image on the Edge. The Margins of Medieval
Art, London 1992.
339
Jørgen Bruhn: Tristan Transformed
reformulated, and in my article I will discuss four important versions of the Tristan-
myth from 1859 until 1970.
As a basis for my historical exposé of a small number of significant intermedial
versions of the Tristan-myth I discuss a scene in Béroul’s 12th century (written)
version of the myth, which will grant me the opportunity to introduce my theoretical
reference, M. M. Bakhtin. My next step will be a discussion of Wagner’s adaptation
of Gottfried von Strasburg’s Tristan-version in his “Gesamtkunstwerk,” Tristan und
Isolde, completed ca. 1859. Thomas Mann’s rewriting of Wagner is my next object
of investigation followed by Jean Cocteau’s film L’Éternel Retour from 1943. My final
example will be Luis Buñuel’s 1970 adaptation of Galdòs’ 19th century novel Tristana.
The works are chosen from a large pool of possible examples and they illustrate
the versatility of the myth as well as the need for different epochs to highlight
the theme of love, death and betrayal. In order to focus my investigation I have,
however, chosen to concentrate on the representation of the body in the different
versions of Tristan and Iseut. My focus on the representation of the body in the
early written version of the myth and later the opera, the novella and the two films
is justified by my thesis, namely that central thematics of the Tristan-story are closely
related to the representations of the body. I will suggest that the bodies in the different
versions I have chosen function as nexus for the thematic and even formal conflicts
of the texts.
A main inspiration for this approach is the cultural theory of the Russian
philosopher and literary theorist M.M. Bakhtin (1895–1975). In particular I will
employ Bakhtin’s rather speculative (but for my purposes very useful) ideas on two
adverse conceptions of the body.6 According to Bakhtin, European cultural history
has seen the development of two different understandings of the body in the world.
From pre-historical times an ideological system with many concrete manifestations
has suppressed the material aspects of reality (and thus the human body), in order
to tempt man to orient himself towards either a long lost Golden Age or a future
metaphysical, religious kingdom. All kinds of idealist and ascetic ideologies (first
and foremost Christianity7) express this low evaluation of the body and everything
connected to the material aspects of life which are illustrated in classical art, in
literature and philosophy focusing on the mind and ignoring the material aspects
of human existence. This ideology has struggled against a directly opposite idea
focused on transgressing the traditional limits of the beautiful body. Bakhtin
defined a powerful if also overlooked culturally subversive tradition working against
the anti-materialist worldview described above, notably in his book on Rabelais
where he attempted to describe the main structural and subversive elements within
6
In the following I summarize, rather freely, Mikhail Bakhtin: Rabelais and His World, Indiana 1984
(originally published in Russian in 1965 but written twenty years before).
7
For a detailed discussion of Bakhtin’s relationship to Christian thinking, see Ruth Coates: Bakhtin
and Christianity. God and the Exiled Author, Cambridge 1998.
340
the popular world system of the late Middle Ages. Bakhtin famously stressed the
importance of one specific manifestation of the popular culture, namely the liberating
corporeal worldview lying behind the manifestations of the carnival traditions of the
late middle ages.8 In several instances in the following I will frame the representation
of the body by way of Bakhtin’s writings.
A study of the transformations of the Tristan-myth is a privileged field for
conducting intermedial reflections because of the relative stability of a few narrative
core-elements transformed in different media in different epochal constellations. I
believe – following the oft-cited phrase of W.J.T. Mitchell, that all media are “mixed
media,”9 existing either – to quote Hans Lund’s schematization – in a combining/
co-referring, integrating or transforming relationship with other media.10 But some
mixed media are, so to speak, more mixed than others. I have chosen four examples
where the intermedial relation is highly significant, and where the relation between
media has taken the form of some sort of conflict – a paragone – that can be related to
the thematic discussion of the body. In Wagner’s work, musical and verbal messages
exist in a vibrating intercutting, whereas in Thomas Mann’s text literature comes
to express the essence of music; the main intermedial conflict in Cocteau’s film is
between his theoretical concepts of the art of film in contrast to his artistic results (the
film), and in Buñuel we meet a very common intermedial relation between novel
and film, although Buñuel’s film is a very critical adaptation.
Before I begin my search for the intermedial representation of the body in the
Tristan and Iseut versions, a summary of the myth will be useful.11 Tristan has lost
his parents in childhood (his name means “sad year”) and is raised by his uncle
Marke in Cornwall. He is sent to Ireland in order to find a wife for his uncle, and
he asks for the hand of Iseut, the daughter of the King and Queen of Ireland. Iseut
8
The rather idiosyncratic ideas of Bakhtin can be reformulated in the more familiar terminology of
Maurice Merleau-Ponty. In Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology, the body occupies a central place in
the human existence, and it cannot be considered a mere “thing” among other things in the world.
The body is, alongside the mind (an untenable distinction rejected by both Bakhtin and Merleau-
Ponty) the natural centre of physiological but also mental perception, and any philosophy trying
to deny this, normally by devaluating the “body,” is bound to misinterpret the human existence.
For a consideration of the relation of Bakhtin and Merleau-Ponty, see Michael Gardiner: “The
Incomparable Monster of Solipsism’” in Michael Gardiner and Michael Bell (eds.): Bakhtin and the
Human Sciences. No last Word, London 1998. See also Sarah J. Paulson’s use of Merleau-Ponty in her
contribution to the present volume.
9
For instance in his article “There are no Visual Media” in Journal of Visual Culture, Vol. 4, No. 2,
2005 (p. 257–266).
10
I am referring to Hans Lund’s schematization of the intermedial field of research in Hans Lund: “Medier
i samspel” in Hans Lund (ed.): Intermedialitet. Ord, bild och ton i samspel, Lund 2002 (p. 9–24), p. 21.
11
My summary (based on the different versions included in the Pléiade-edition) is constructed in order
to make the observations of my article understandable – it does not cover the more or less significant
differences amongst the main medieval versions of, say, Thomas, Béroul and Gottfried of Strassburg.
341
follows Tristan to England with her maiden Brangane, who brings a magic potion
from Iseut’s mother which will unite the married couple by the bonds of love. On
the ship, Brangane by accident serves the drink to Tristan and Iseut, thus uniting
the young couple forever (in some versions, the effect of the potion is restricted
to a limited time). Iseut and King Marke are married all the same, but Brangane
secretly takes the place of Iseut in the marital bed, thus sacrificing her own virginity
for the sake of the honour of her mistress. The two lovers meet, are close to being
discovered in several instances, but are saved, most often because of clever ruses and
ingenious disguises (it is in this part of the story that different sorts of punishments
are imposed on Iseut). The lovers are forced to take refuge either in a forest where
they live a simple life or, in other versions, in a temple-like hide-out. Later, Iseut
leaves the hiding place in order to live with Marke while Tristan marries another
woman, “Iseut of the white hands,” without sexually consummating the marriage.
He visits Marke’s court under a number of disguises, until he is badly wounded,
with no one except Iseut (trained as a kind of sorceress by her mother) being able
to cure him. A messenger is sent for, who is to return with a white sail on his boat if
he is bringing back Iseut, while a black sail is to show that Iseut has refused to save
Tristan. Tristan’s jealous wife knows the secret code and she lies to Tristan, saying
that the returning ship has a black sail. Tristan gives up his spirit – and Iseut dies
when seeing her dead lover. King Marke buries Tristan and Iseut in the same tomb,
thus reuniting the lovers in death.
The Punished Medieval Body (Béroul)

The medieval Tristan and Iseut stories all concern the relation between individual
desires revolting against the norms of a patriarchal society. It is, to put it short, an
adulterous love story leading to death and therefore a discussion of the individual’s
right to gratify his or her (partly bodily/erotic) desires instead of following the
norms of patriarchal society. It is, in other words, a conflict between the total, all-
consuming love of Tristan and Iseut on the one hand, and the legal, patriarchal
(and pragmatic) idea of marriage on the other. The act of infidelity was thus an
individualistic revolt against the very norms that grounded patriarchal feudal society
of the middle ages. Logically, the body was (as it is today) the locus of birth-control
concerning the destiny of the family in such societies. It is therefore not surprising
that in the medieval versions the bodily aspect is stressed in a number of ways. The
feminine beauty of Iseut is, for instance, typical of all the versions, and Tristan’s
achievements as a hunter, warrior and musician/singer are a token of his extra-
ordinary physical capabilities, distinguishing him, of course, from the elderly King
Marke. In medieval thinking exceptional beauty signifies inner beauty and therefore
the beautiful appearances of the lovers come to partly justify their acts.12
12
For a useful overview on medieval aesthetic thinking, see Umberto Eco: Art and Beauty in the
342
But because it is basically a story of adultery the narratives also contain an important
element of bodily punishment, and in the following I shall discuss that particular
aspect of the bodily presence in an early version of the Tristan and Iseut story.
The punishment differs from version to version, but here I want to focus on one
particular scene in Béroul’s version, probably the most complete of the 12th century
Tristan-fragments.13 When King Marke has revealed the true nature of the relation
of Tristan and Iseut he decides that Iseut – his wife – should be punished in a way
that equals the crime committed. Iseut is deemed morally “sick,” that is, socially
excluded from a juridical point of view, and therefore, King Marke’s argument goes,
she ought to be infected with a real, physical disease. But not any disease will do
(because the punishment must mirror the committed crime), and therefore Marke
decides that Iseut shall be handed over to the mercy of the lepers. That Béroul chose
the lepers for executing the punishment was no coincidence: “The leper functions
as an image of the impurity, and here the queen resembles the sick. […] As an
image of suffering, of physical and moral impurity, of gluttony, because medieval
man imposed on the lepers an intemperate sexual appetite, the leper in these stories
[the medieval Tristan and Iseut narratives] is one of the metaphors of the devouring
and banned passions which placed the lovers outside the law of the society.”14 And
the leader of the lepers does not conceal the cruel aspects of the verdict: “Never a
woman will suffer a worse death.”15
The description is a violent reversal of the love-leads-to-death theme emblematic
of the Tristan-story. In this scene, the deathly “love” is disturbingly concrete. The
lepers form a marginal subculture outside normal society, which in Béroul’s text
seems to be an evil twin to Bakhtin’s (highly idealized) concept of the carnival in the
medieval world system. The “court” of the lepers, and the leper-king Yvain, forms
a world opposed to the chivalric culture of King Marke’s court (a world turned
upside down), and the sick and distorted bodies of the lepers are a sort of evil parody
of Bakhtin’s beloved idea of the “open body”: a body focused on the orifices and
entrances, on the body’s relation to the material outer world, and thus on features
like food, drink, sex and laughter (crucial elements of Bakhtin’s conception of the
late medieval carnival).16 For Bakhtin, this sort of bodily openness – though not the
one manifested in the lepers’ cruel and negative version of the carnival! – is a praxis
Middle Ages, New Haven 1986.

13
See, for instance, Jacques Ribard: Du philtre au Graal. Pour une interpretation théologique du Roman
de Tristan et du Conte du Graal, Paris 1989. The leper-scene only exists in Béroul’s version.
14
See Dictionaire des lettres francaises. Le Moyen Age, p. 1657 (my translation).
15
“Yeseut nos done, s’ert commune./Paior fin damen’ot mais une.” Béroul: Tristan et Isolde, Pléiade,
p. 35 (my translation).
16
See Jørgen Bruhn: “’Careful if Treated with Caution’: Carnevalization in Don Quijote” in Eyolf
Østrem et al. (eds.): Genre and Ritual. The Cultural Heritage of Medieval Rituals, Copenhagen
2005 (p. 187–211). I argue for a sober-minded use of the Bakhtinian carnival approach to literary
interpretation, and the critical discussion round his concept is introduced and discussed.
343
strongly opposed to any classicistic understanding of the body as being rounded,

perfect, closed, and autonomous.17
The description of the lepers’ unusual sexual exaltation, the smell of their moist
sores, the hissing sound of their voices, partly enunciating through their noses,
seems to come from an almost perversely sadistic desire on behalf of the narrator
(or the author). And these descriptions of a popular medieval category might signify
Béroul’s wish to describe the lepers as the absolute Other defining the official medieval
normality. Béroul creates the hideous and frightening representation of an Other
that is so terribly alien (i.e. non-human) that it eludes language and description.
This Other functions as a reverse-definition of the Same: the legal, mental and
social normality which even Tristan and Iseut are part of – and at the same time,
by their actions, are opposing. Or, to use the Lacanian nomenclature: the linguistic
description of the lepers crashes against the non-linguistic order of the Real, thus
creating the almost perverse efforts of the narrator to describe what is in essence
indescribable.18
But Béroul does not only distribute the representations of the body in the dicho-
tomy sketched above where the beautiful heroes confront the ugly and disgusting
villains. In addition, Béroul has construed another position, a middle position, for
Iseut and Tristan. In particular, Tristan disguises himself no less than four times (sick
with plague, a pilgrim, a jongleur and a madman),19 which seems to reflect another
side of the bodily existence of the lovers, namely, their mutability and instability.
Brangane, Iseut’s maiden, is perhaps the one who pays the highest price in one of
the numerous disguise-scenes: in order to conceal from King Marke that his future
wife’s virginity is not intact, Brangane acts as a stand-in for her mistress in the
wedding bed, thus sacrificing one of the most valuable bodily assets of a medieval
woman. These disguises function as a symbol of the lovers’ extraordinary capabilities
of setting up ruses, or to put it differently: to construct lies. But Tristan’s abilities
to assume different identities combined with Iseut’s capabilities to “interpret” them
correctly may have to do with the changing identities of the protagonists. Concerning
17
Iseut is, by the way, saved by Tristan before she enters this undifferentiated mass of sick, stinking,
rotting bodies: a vision of a mundane bodily hell.
18
I am here, indirectly, referring to two interrelated studies concerning the use of the Other in
understanding the Same: Michael Camille’s reflections on the Other in art and thinking (The Gothic
Idol, Chicago 1991) and W.J.T. Mitchell’s essay on ekphrasis: “Ekphrasis and the Other” in Picture
Theory, Chicago 1994 (p. 151–183). Among the numerous illustrations of different parts of the
Tristan-story (partly collected in Roger Sherman Loomis and Laura Hibbard Loomis, Arthurian
Legends in Medieval Art), I have been unable to find any depictions of this particular scene. Perhaps
it was, even to medieval standards and taste, too disgusting.
19
And this is only during his love affair with Isolde: before that he disguises himself in order to get
closer to King Marke, and there is an important element of disguises in the preparation of the love affair
between Tristan and Isolde; in this sense, the second – or perhaps the first – nature of Tristan seems to
be his disguises. The subjectivity is, in the words of Julia Kristeva (in Polylogue, collection tel quel: Paris
1977), perhaps still “in-process,” that is, per definition unfinished and impossible to finish.
344
these disguises, the text produces an important distinction: Tristan disguises himself
physically, bodily, whereas Iseut disguises her acts linguistically.
The lovers’ changing identities suggests that they are, in fact, not as morally
incorruptible as they may seem. Béroul wants his readers or listeners to understand
that the first impression of the two lovers – their beauty and corresponding ethical
purity – is, perhaps, only a disguise. By stressing the bodily mutability, which is a
middle position between absolute pure beauty and absolute evil, Béroul conducts a
complex interrogation of the medieval myth.
The Romantic Disappearance of the Body (Wagner)

In the middle ages, the Tristan-story was generally construed as a fight against
conventions concerning lineage and feudal power, and Tristan’s (but less Iseut’s) actions
were interpreted as a vassal’s rebellion against the lord. A decisive new configuration of
the subject matter occurs in Richard Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde in the aftermath of the
Romantic Movement. Wagner almost suppresses the question of power and lineage
in order to highlight another set of problems, marked by his personal preoccupations
and influenced by philosophical questions indicative of the Romantic period.
Wagner takes as his point of departure Gottfried von Strassburg’s Tristan-version,
and transfers it into his own form – in this instance called simply Action (Handlung,
which is later rephrased a Musikdrama or Gesamtkunstwerk). The Handlung is a
multimediatric form where words, music, set design and action coexist, either in a
fight for the overall dominance – or cooperating as parts of a collaborative form.20
The most conspicuous transformation in Wagner’s version of the Tristan-myth lies in
his radical condensation of Gottfried’s text, and we should notice what has been left
out in this extensive compression. In Richard Wagner’s Music Dramas, Carl Dahlhaus
notes that “the external action involuntarily shrunk to a few sparse allusions, and
the inner action emerged as the only important one.”21 Wagner’s brief description of
his own work is telling: After having confessed their love for each other, he says in a
letter, “the world, power, fame, glory, honour, chivalry, loyalty, friendship, all swept
away like chaff, an empty dream; only one thing is left alive: yearning, yearning,
insatiable desire ever reborn – languishing and thirsting; the sole release – death,
dying, extinction, never more to wake” (Wagner cited in Dahlhaus, p. 50).
From my point of view it is important to stress two things in Wagner’s remark.
First of all, the material or bodily dimension is reduced to a minimum in Wagner’s
adaptation; or rather the bodies of the two lovers are now part of the despised
area of the Will, according to the definition of the German philosopher Arthur
Schopenhauer. In Schopenhauer’s philosophical system, the “Wille,” connected to
bodily needs (nourishing, sexual desire, and reproduction) as well as the self of the
20
In the sense of Thomas Jensen Hines: Collaborative Form. Studies in the Relations of the Arts, Kent 1991.
21
Carl Dahlhaus: Richard Wagner’s Music Dramas, Cambridge 1996 (1979), p. 49.
345
human being must not be satisfied if man hopes to achieve happiness. In other words,
any satisfaction of bodily needs is nothing but the temporary repair of an infinite lack
and therefore it cannot lead to human happiness. The grand metaphysical system
of Schopenhauer had an immense attraction to Wagner who “was captivated by the
philosopher,” Roger Scruton notes, and he considered Schopenhauer’s system as
“quite simply the fundamental truth about the world.”22 Wagner’s fascination with
Schopenhauer’s philosophy might very well explain Wagner’s conception of the body
in Tristan and Isolde: the bodies are only stumbling blocks on the road leading to the
final, immaterial, unification of the lovers. The unification of the lovers is not the
oneness of Gottfried’s medieval ideal of love (probably inspired by a Neo-Platonic
idea of love as the regaining of the original One-ness) (see Scruton, p. 122–124).
In Wagner’s version, oneness can only be reached in death. True love cannot exist
side by side with mundane preoccupations (which in Wagner’s Tristan is consistently
referred to as the world of “Day” – in opposition to the idea of Night).23 But we should
note that the reason why the love-affair is bound to fail is not human institutions
such as the arranged marriage and the overall patriarchal structure of feudal society.
Instead, it is a metaphysical conviction, Schopenhauerian to the core, that is the
universal obstacle for love. Thus, Wagner combines Schopenhauer’s pessimism with
the typical romantic longing for the night, and from that moment on in Western
cultural history the Tristan-myth has been transformed into an abstract narrative
of universal conflicts – with a pronounced metaphysical dimension – instead of
being a direct critique of societal structures.24 The sexual meeting of the bodies
– the medieval cause of scandal – is transformed into a sublimely a-sexual union in
death.25 This is, in fact, Denis de Rougemont’s interpretation in his history of the
western idea of love.26 In Rougemont’s highly influential Love in the Western World,
the medieval Tristan-matter, and in particular Wagner’s metaphysical adaptation of
it, is considered to be a major factor in the decay of 20th century love-relations.27
22
See Roger Scruton: Death-Devoted Heart. Sex and the Sacred in Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde, Oxford
2004, p. 126.
23
The source for this day-night dichotomy is probably Novalis’ Hymnen an die Nacht, ca. 1800,
where this imagery is fully developed. See Sophia Schnittman: “Musical Motives in Thomas Mann’s
Tristan” in MLN, Vol. 86, No. 3, 1971 (p. 399–414), p. 400.
24
It would be unjust to say that Wagner leaves behind any political criticism. What I wish to stress
here is that his mature political vision is more mythical and metaphysical than directly political.
25
In opposition to this standard interpretation of the opera, Roger Scruton has recently argued that
erotic, and sexual, love is not at all absent in Tristan und Isolde. See the fifth chapter, “The Philosophy
of Love“ (p. 119–161) in Death-Devoted Heart. Sex and the Sacred in Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde.
26
Denis de Rougemont: Love in the Western World, Princeton 1983 (1939). For a less biased interpretation
of the history of love in Western society, see Irvin Singer, The Nature of Love, Chicago 1983–1987. For
a further consideration on the death drive in Tristan und Isolde, and an updated bibliography on the
question, see Linda Hutcheon and Michael Hutcheon: “Death Drive: Eros and Thanatos in Wagner’s
‘Tristan und Isolde’”, Cambridge Opera Journal Vol 11, No. 3, Nov. 1999, (p 267–293).
27
Rougemont actually ends up glorifying the holy marital vow as the only existentially mature and
346
But such an understanding of the verbal text probably simplifies the complicated
intermedial relation between music and language in Wagner’s oeuvre and in his
Tristan in particular. Rougemont’s interpretation is a typical example of the danger
that lies in overemphasizing the role of words in Wagner’s Gesamtkunstwerk.
From a musicologist point of view, Tristan und Isolde has traditionally been
considered an artwork dominated by the musical dimension – an opinion that can
find support in Wagner’s own remarks in letters and essays. According to this read-
ing, Wagner’s music is the leading aesthetic medium in the Gesamtkunstwerk, and
the music even precedes, in terms of production of the work, the text.
But according to Dahlhaus that is also an erroneous understanding of Wagner’s
praxis, and he convincingly argues that the “musicologist” interpretation of the music
as more important than the text does not grasp the major Wagnerian concepts such
as Drama. The point is that Drama does not correspond to text but is instead an
effort of words, music and dramatic action in a complicated intermedial relationship
(Dahlhaus, p. 54–55). According to Dahlhaus, the text-music relation must be
considered as having an equal but also conflictual relationship. His concept – which
I believe can be fruitful in a number of intermedial analyses beyond Wagner’s operas
– is “intercutting”: “The text and music are not simply equal in importance, which
is a truism, but their relationship in some places is better described as intercutting,
rather than one of correspondence or mutual absorption” (Dahlhaus, p. 54–55).
“Intercutting” is synonymous with the film editing technique better known as
crosscutting, and Dahlhaus’ use of this term seems to suggest that the text-music
relation may be understood as an intermittent struggle for the dominating role.
When considering Tristan und Isolde in these terms the final interpretation of the
opera can also escape the overtly negative interpretation of Rougemont. Whereas
the words (relatively) directly doom the lovers to a union only in death, beyond
the bodily limitations, the triumphant and vitalistic tones of the music seem to
contradict this pessimistic reading of the ending. A more open, imaginative and
musically sensitive reading of the relations between the “content” of the words and
the “message” of the music – and their internal relation – must be a methodologically
valid point de départ for any analysis and interpretation of the work. Considering the
“text”-“music” relation as an intercutting relationship – i.e. an intermittent changing
of dominant positions – facilitates an aesthetic and analytical interpretation of the
basic conflict in Wagner’s later creations: namely, the conflict between his pre-1848
revolutionary political ideals and his later, post-revolutionary idealization and
sublimation of his former political engagement.28
ethically sound answer to the fleeting nature of human desire. See the two final chapters in Love in
the Western World, where “the myth against the marriage” is discussed, and where a positive response
to the Tristan-myth is put forth, namely marital fidelity.
28
Philosophically, Scruton formulates this shift as Wagner’s fascination with the Left-Hegelians (in parti-
cular Feuerbach) before 1848 and his subsequent fascination with the pessimistic, idealistic philosophy
347
To sum up these reflections I may be allowed to put forth a thesis concerning the
representation of the body in relation to the intermedial relations in Tristan und Isolde
and combine it with the biographical facts of Wagner’s political preoccupations. The
radically immaterial idea of the body signifies Wagner’s political disappointment:
his forced exile due to his revolutionary engagements (fuelled by his interest in the
theses of the German philosopher Ludwig Feuerbach) is transposed to inner, emo-
tionalized conflicts between his main protagonists on the one hand and the exterior
world “of day” on the other. Wagner’s Gesamtkunstwerk produces a collaborative
aesthetic form (cf Jensen Hines) in which communication can from now on take
place in at least two “languages”: in verbal exchanges and in musical tones. In other
words, the intercutting between the utopian musical tones vis-à-vis the pessimistic
words marks Wagner’s psychological and political division between his youthful
fascination with Feuerbach and his mature interest in Schopenhauer. Thus Tristan
und Isolde exists only in the vibrant form of two intercutting media, two ideological
tendencies, and that is why the Liebestod must remain a paradoxical concept of
immaterialized loving bodies united in death.
“Patho-Comedy” in Wagner’s Sanatorium (Mann)

A new phase in the history of the Tristan-matter was opened by Joseph Bédier’s
extremely popular ”roman” about Tristan et Iseut in fin de siècle France, where
the cult-celebration of Tristan and Isolde – and of Wagner! – reached an historical
zenith. The combination of Wagner, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche enabled the
young Thomas Mann to write a long short story (hereafter termed a novella)
called “Tristan.” Mann “constructs his text upon elements of Wagner’s Tristan und
Isolde – specifically a parallel plot structure, characterization, and narrative line,
and a contrasting setting and theme”.29 In Mann’s work Tristan is transformed
into a clumsy but also cynical aesthete who meets the beautiful and easily fooled
Gabriele at a sanatorium, while King Marke is changed into the anglophile, vulgar
husband, Herr Klöterjahn.30 The medieval milieu of the Tristan-myth is turned into
a sanatorium called Einfried (punning Wagner’s house “Wahnfried” in Bayreuth)
where the decadent and unsuccessful writer, Spinell, seduces a married woman of
of Schopenhauer. See Scruton, p. 125. Henning Goldbæk basically agree in ”Gesamtkunstværk som
verdensteater: Wagner mellem emblem og tableau” [Gesamtkunstwerk as Theatrum Mundi: Wagner
Between Emblem and Tableau] in Marcel Proust og barokkens genkomst, Hellerup 2002.
29
Stevie Anne Bolduc: “A Study of Intertextuality: Thomas Mann’s ‘Tristan’ and Wagner’s ‘Tristan
und Isolde’” in Rocky Mountain Review of Language and Literature, Vol. 37 no. 1/2, 1983 (p. 82–
90) p. 82. See also Rainer Schönhaar: “Beschriebene und imaginäre Musik im frühwerk Thomas
Manns” in Albert Gier and Gerold W. Gruber (eds.): Musik und Litteratur: komparatistische Studien
zur Strukturverwandtschaft, Frankfurt am Main; Berlin; Bern; New York; Paris; Wien 1995.
30
The source behind the novella, beside Wagner’s opera, is difficult to establish but in Frank W.
Young’s Montage and Motif in Thomas Mann’s “Tristan,” Bonn 1975, p. 6–7, several possible sources
are mentioned.
348
bourgeois origin, Gabriele Klöterjahn. Even though Spinell entitles himself an artist,
he is actually only a decadent aesthete, whereas Gabriele turns out to be the real,
practicing artist. She is from the outset tubercular, thus already doomed by a disease
that finally leads her into death, either because of her flirtations with Spinell, and/or
because of her intense piano performance of Chopin and in particular Wagner’s
Tristan und Isolde.
The novella is construed around a central musical scene, ”a frigid form of seduc-
tion”31 according to one critic, where the score of Tristan is played on the piano.
Mann moves Wagner’s Gesamtkunstwerk into verbal language – but this medial
transformation does not happen without considerable difficulties, which are partly
induced by the philosophical convictions of the young Thomas Mann. “Rarely has
there been as perfect a coalescence of music with literature as in Thomas Mann’s
Tristan” claims Sophia Schnittmann.32 I will, on the contrary, argue that in ”Tristan”
music and text struggle for supremacy – and paradoxically, it is ”music”, in the
grand verbal ekphrasis of music occupying the centre of the novella, that “wins” the
battle between verbal language and Wagner’s musical score.
In “Tristan,” Mann’s irony is, apparently, without limits: everyone at the sana-
torium, guests and employees alike, are the target of Mann’s sarcastic descriptions.
Only music, exemplified by a few of Chopin’s Nocturnes (possibly symbolizing bour-
geois musical taste) and in particular Wagner’s revolutionary and radical Tristan and
Isolde played on piano, avoids the all-dominant use of irony and sarcasm from the
omnipresent narrator. Furthermore, the Tristan-matter (the myth of love and death,
mainly in Wagner’s version) is exploited by Mann in order to deal with his own well-
known Bürger-Künstler conflict. But he reworked, as I will argue in the following,
the conflict in the novella by focusing on the representations of the body.
First of all, the novella takes place in a sanatorium where extreme attention, not
to say anxiety, is attached to the body, and Mann’s rewriting of the myth exposes his
deep-rooted skepticism towards two equally questionable possibilities. These possi-
bilities are symbolized in the representations of the bodies of his two main ideological
representatives: the vulgar bourgeois on the one hand and the decadent artist on the
other. The vulgar and totally un-aesthetic Klöterjahn (Mann is making a pun on
the vulgar German word Klöter, i.e. testicles), whose fascination with drinking,
eating and chasing girls is representative of the novella’s negative position towards
mundane, bodily pleasures. But the bodily presence of Spinell (who is described
as an elderly baby with giant feet and bad teeth) is even more repellent, whereas
31
Françoise H. M. LeSaux cited in Neil E. Thomas: “Tristan in Germany Between Gottfried von
Strassburg, Wagner, and Thomas Mann“ in Phillipa Hardman et al. (eds.): The Growth of the Tristan
and Iseut Legend in Wales, England, France and Germany, Lewiston, NY 2003, p. 166.
32
See Sophia Schnittman (who coined the genreconcept “patho-comedy”), p. 399 (patho-comedy is
defined p. 400, n. 2). Karsten Witte has defined the novella as a “Burlesque” in Karsten Witte: “Das
ist echt! Eine Burleske” in The German Quarterly Vol. 41, No. 4, 1968 (p. 660–672).
349
Gabriele is vaguely idealized with one characteristic trait (one of Mann’s repeated
Leitmotifs, inspired by Wagner’s musical Leitmotifs): a distinct blue vein in her face
signifying her physical vulnerability. Thus Mann’s triangle of psychological relations
is mirrored in the representations of bodies: the ugly body of the writer Spinell, the
material gluttony of Herr Klöterjahn, and the beautiful but weak body of the artistic
Gabriele.
The artist is represented as a decadent soul in a hideous body whereas the bour-
geois is a healthy and vital body covering an empty soul. And music (in medieval
traditions considered an emblem for Tristan33) has a frightening force that goes
beyond aesthetic pleasure or psychological visions: music has a deadly impact when
it is played seriously, artistically, as does Gabriele, and so it turns out that Gabriele is
the real artist (being sensitive to art in a passionate way), whereas Spinell is a simple
dilettante playing the role of artist. Gabriele dies after having played Wagner’s Tristan,
which is her way of avoiding the two equally negative (masculine) possibilities
embodied in the equally unattractive (bodies of ) Klöterjahn and Spinell.
In Mann’s “Tristan,” music is, in accordance with Wagner’s (and Schopenhauer’s)
musical philosophy, a gate towards transcendence of the body for the select few
(Gabriele in “Tristan”) whereas Spinell and Klöterjahn are stuck in the material
world. But can we as modern readers, (and did Thomas Mann?), believe in such a
metaphysical transcendence inherent in the art of music? Mann seems to hesitate
himself, balancing instead the metaphysics of music with a genuinely bodily symbol,
that of the progeny (Klöterjahn Junior) of the Klöterjahn couple which is heavily
stressed throughout the novella. The only scene, perhaps, in the novella where
Spinell is genuinely shaken is connected exactly to his meeting with Gabriele’s baby,
the “animal-like” child (see Schnittman, p. 413): the Klöterjahn baby is as vital and
dominant as Spinell is decadent and weak. The silent encounter of Spinell and the
young Klöterjahn concludes the novella on an almost absurd irony, and with this
Mann manages to keep the novella in a state of thematic intercutting: the conflict
between the musical transcendence and the material-bodily principle (in Bakhtin’s
system) cannot be put to rest, and for the remainder of his career Mann continually
rewrites and reworks the unsolvable dilemma inherent in “Tristan.”
The Eternal Return of the “Closed” Body (Cocteau)

During World War II the Tristan-matter played an important role in occupied
France, now in yet another medium. Jean Cocteau, the poet, painter and director,
reached out for a wider audience by making a film-version of the story of Tristan
and Iseut. An important part of Cocteau’s leap from smaller circles to a kind of
mainstream-position was achieved in the casting: he engaged two star actors, Jean
33
See, for instance, the description of Tristan as an ”artist” in W.T.H Jackson: ”Tristan the Artist in
Gottfried’s Poem” i PMLA 77, Vol. 4, 1962, p. 364–372.
350
Marais and Madeleine Sologne, and the movie became an astonishing success.
L’Éternel Retour is an example of Jean Cocteau’s34 cinematographic ideas known as
“poésie cinématographique” which can be defined as “the intersection of the legend
with quotidian reality” or “the incursion of the modern world of the quotidian into
the normally timeless fable” (Grimbert and Smarz, p. 221). The clash on the level of
content and milieu between eternal myth and everyday reality is supposed to create
a dreamlike sense of heightened reality which Cocteau tries to create on the level
of film style and setting, where reality is given a poetic interpretation. The relation
between eternal myth and contemporary reality is expressed in the explanation of
the title given in the first instances of the film (in text). The Eternal Return is,
according to this introductory text, a Nietzsche term referring to the return of struc-
tures (a love story, for instance) which are beyond the conscious knowing of the
people involved.
The aesthetic of “poésie cinématographique” is comparable to avant-garde
theories of the early 20th century, notably Brecht’s Verfremdungs-effect and the
Russian Formalist’s concept of ostranenie, two concepts that aim to defamiliarize
our habitual conceptions of reality. Cocteau’s idea of a “poésie cinématographique”
was, in the 1940s, a modern solution to the problem of making the Tristan-
myth a living, contemporary phenomenon. The film mixed a modern milieu of
garages, bars, motorcars and up-to-date fashion with gothic castles and landscapes
appearing as if outside of time (in contrast to Mann’s realistic universe). The result
is a rewriting of the medieval myth in a strange and alienating context, and it thus
exemplifies Cocteau’s vision of a poetic (understood as dreamlike, non-realistic) but
still cinematographic (mimetic, realistic) work of art. The protagonists live in a
setting of dream and reality that shows the medieval nature of the contemporary
(1943) culture and, on the other hand, the continued existence of premodern castles
and landscapes: “incessantly we hesitate between the Middle Ages and the twentieth
century,” as one commentator describes the reception of the film.35 Thus Cocteau’s
utopian vision of a poésie cinematographique reaches an apex in L’Éternel Retour – at
least formally and theoretically. But the film has some rather questionable aspects,
to say the least, related to the representation of the body.
The disturbing body-politics of the film is rather obvious. The two main
characters are platinum-blonde, and the protagonists’ bodies, in particular Marais’,
expresses an idea of the body that Bakhtin called the idea of the ”closed” body in his
study of Rabelais. Bakhtin’s concept of the closed body signifies beauty, power and
34
Though formally directed by Jean Delannoy, it is nevertheless considered a work of Cocteau. For
a short discussion of the question, see Joan Tasker Grimbert’s and Robert Smarz’s ”Fable and Poésie
in Cocteau’s L’Éternel Retour (1943)” in Kevin J. Harty (ed.): Cinema Arthuriana. Twenty Essays,
Jefferson NV 2002 (p. 220–241), p. 221.
35
Pierre Dubourg (Dramaturgie de Jean Cocteau, Paris 1954) cited in Tasker Grimbert and Smarz,
p. 221 and p. 226–7.
351
stability, as expressed, for instance, in Classical sculptures of the human body. But
this ideal suppresses the real, material needs of any living human body: the desire
to eat, drink and make love, and even the more base functions of letting out faeces
and urine. The opposite ideal of the body is, for Bakhtin, expressed in a number of
rituals connected to the popular culture of the late middle ages, most blatantly in
carnivals. The carnival system according to Bakhtin focused on the openings of the
body, the channels where the body is in direct contact with the world, for example
the nose, the mouth, the anus. Cocteau’s protagonists’ bodies, on the contrary, may
remind us of some of Leni Riefenstahl’s highly aestheticized, almost sculpturesque
bodies in her famous propaganda film from the Berlin Olympics.
But the body-politics of Cocteau’s film does not only express itself in beautiful,
idealized bodies: the film even distributes heroes and villains according to racial
and/or genetic markers. Whereas the blonde and beautiful heroes act on the positive
half of the dichotomic distribution of the representations of the body, the negatively
valorized figures can be found on the other side. The negative figures are characterized
by way of bodily signs: the treacherous and violent cousin of Tristan, who tries to
poison the lovers (but gives them the love potion instead) is not only a dwarf, he
is also (with the other negatively evaluated figures of the film), remarkably dark in
hair and complexion. And “Iseut of the White Hands” (i.e. the woman married by
Tristan), is the classical femme fatale; erotic, vulgar – but in distinction to the classic
femme fatale she has dramatically dark hair.
The political content of Cocteau’s war-time activities has been a subject of
debate, partly because Cocteau was in close contact with the sculptor Arno Breker.36
Breker’s sculptures expressed masculine ideals close to Nazism (and thus close to the
imagery of L’Éternel Retour) – and he was a prominent artist, preferred by Hitler. It
is not clear whether this body-politics is a coincidence, or if Cocteau’s film simply
expressed the unavoidable guidelines of the occupant’s censorship during the war.
That Cocteau – himself gay and being on friendly terms with a number of Jews
and avant-garde artists that would clearly qualify as “entartet” in the Nazi-aesthetics
– voluntarily expressed racist convictions seems too unlikely, despite the disturbing
images in L’Éternel Retour.
For the purposes of this article I wish to stress how Cocteau’s Tristan-version can
be transposed into a modern political context by using the body as the focal point
of this (problematic) modernization. Cocteau discusses, in his cinematic work, the
possibility of an aesthetic transcendence in his project of combining “poésie” and
cinematographic “verité,” and in the final shots of the film such a transcendence
36
For a description of this relationship, see Claude Arnaud’s Jean Cocteau, Paris 2003, p. 581–
583, who notes the disturbing body-images p. 600. Arno Breker mentions Cocteau several times
in his autobiography Im Strahlungsfeld der Ereignisse, Preussische Oldendorf 1972. In Jean Touzot’s
introduction to the edition of Cocteau’s diary, Journal. 1942–1945 (Paris 1989), Cocteau’s political
preoccupations are briefly discussed p. 10–11 (with references to entries).
352
is achieved by way of a remarkable series of shots transforming the dead couple

into one, beautiful marble-like sculpture (thus entering another artistic medium, in
fact), lying on a sarcophagus while the simple fisher’s shed where they were placed
turns into a temple-like building. This is perhaps the final proof that Cocteau, in
contrast to Mann, is intent on opening a metaphysical door to the other side: an
opening marked by the passage to another medium and another dimension of life,
perhaps, whereas Mann, being led by his distinct ironic way of handling the largest
human issues, nervously lets a fat baby dressed in red and blue block the exit.
Iseut Amputated (Buñuel)

It should come as no surprise that in Europe, in 1970, the heroic and high-strung
elements of the Tristan-myth cannot be reproduced by a left-wing surrealist such as
Luis Buñuel. Buñuel adapts the novel Tristana from 1892 by Benito Perez Galdòs
(1843–1920) whose book described pre-fascist Spain.
The transformation taking place from novel to the film Tristana is substantial;37
Buñuel transformed the mildly ironical novel to a seething attack against the patri-
archal structures in general (no doubt also aiming at Fascist Spain) and Buñuel
introduced a number of very blatant sexual (Freudian/Surrealist) motives in the film.
In Buñuel’s film, the depiction of Spain (Toledo) has strong reminiscences of the
medieval Europe that gave birth to the original Tristan myth: from the urban archi-
tectural structure to the old-fashioned discipline in school and to the patriarchal
structure of the urban society.
Catherine Deneuve plays Tristana, a young woman who is taken under the wings
– and partly exploited – by her uncle, the authoritarian, elderly Don Lope (played
by Fernando Reis). Don Lope’s apparently liberal and chivalric ideals do not hold
up when it comes to treating Tristana decently. She revolts against her patriarch and
the misogynistic system he represents by running away with a young, handsome
painter. She falls ill, though, and returns to her former provider of food and lodging
(thus following an archetypical movement in the Tristan-myth) but is forced, as a
consequence of her illness, to have one of her legs amputated. Whether Don Lope
makes the final decision regarding the amputation (as a radical way of holding on to
her) remains unclear. She has to submit to her earlier suppressed role by marrying
Don Lope, and ends up being a bitter, careworn woman. In Buñuel’s adaptation of
the medieval myth (via a modern realistic novel) the female protagonist Iseut has
turned into Tristana and the film focuses on her dramatic changes. She is a suppressed
woman who is being severely punished, and who perhaps punishes herself, for her
37
Colin Partridge has translated Galdòs’ novel into English and, in the same volume, he compares
the novel and the film. See Colin Partridge: Tristana, Buñuel’s Film and Galdòs Novel. A Case Study
in the Relation Between Literature and Film, Lewiston NY 1995.
353
revolt and for her individualistic pursue of the objects of her own desire. 38
Buñuel rewrites and transforms Galdòs’ post-medieval adultery-theme in order
to stage a conflict with clear psychoanalytic overtones. Dreams are mixed with
realistic scenes and in Buñuel’s version of the Tristan-story the myth is actually de-
romanticized (thus being antithetic to Cocteau’s version). The sobering, anti-idyllic
tendency of the film shows itself, as I will show below, in the representations of the
body, once again. The bodies of, in particular king Marke/Don Lope and Tristana/
Iseut, occupies the centre stage of the movie, and in stark (but non-intended)
opposition to Cocteau’s problematic fascination with the closed, perfect, muscular
bodies.
That the body occupies an essential part of the film is clear from the first scenes,
where Tristana’s mute nephew’s compulsive masturbation is revealed, and bodily
decay is an important part of Don Lope’s rapid aging process. And it is shockingly
obvious in the transformation of the virginal and dazzling beauty of Tristana in the
first part of the movie to the grey, bitter woman of the final shots. Buñuel, in other
words, underscores the body as unruly and dominant (the compulsively mastur-
bating cousin), the body as rapidly aging (the transformation of Don Lopes and
Tristana) or the body as molested (Tristana’s beautiful leg – a synecdoche of her
overall beauty and eroticism – being amputated). All in all the body becomes a
symbol of the fragile, imperfect human condition under the pressures of aging and
the constant threat of disease and mutilation.
The Tristan-Iseut relationship in the Middle Ages was dangerous because of
its potentially socially subversive consequences to feudal (patriarchal) society; in
the modern epoch, as seen through Buñuel’s lens, love and desire have turned into
dangerous and destructive forces: exhibitionism, fear of death, the bodily maltreat-
ment and death are shown to be the gloomy dark side of any love affair caught in
the contradictions of a patriarchal society. Thus Buñuel infuses the grotesque body-
language with political implications, and the combination of irony and politics is
incorporated into a psychoanalytically inspired cinematic universe. In comparison
to Cocteau’s body politics, Buñuel has produced an anti-patriarchal political state-
ment that can only be deciphered if we concentrate on the representation of the
bodies.39
38
Donald L. Hoffman discusses Buñuel’s way of handling the Tristan-myth in ”’Tristan la Blonde’:
Transformations of Tristan in Buñuel’s Tristana“ in Kevin J. Harty: King Arthur on Film. New Essays
on Arthurian Cinema (p. 167–182). According to Hoffman Buñuel redefines the Tristan-part by
letting Tristana turn into ”Isolde” in the concluding part of the movie: “Thus, castration redefines
her, so that she becomes disidentified with Tristan and becomes resituated as a woman, Isolde of
Brittany [aka. Isolde of the White Hands, JB], the passively murderous wife.” (Hoffman, p. 180)
Besides Hoffman’s article I have not, surprisingly, been able to find discussions of Tristana’s relation
to the Tristan-myth.
39
I should stress, perhaps, that I have not come across any evidence suggesting that Buñuel refers to
Cocteau’s film.
354
The most important intermedial relation in Buñuel’s Tristana is the relation

between the (absent) literary pretext and the present cinematographic adaptation,
for Buñuel’s film is an example of a radical break with the preceding text. Brian
McFarlane examines, in Novel to Film, three possible relations between the literary
work and the cinematographic adaptation. According to McFarlane, transposition
is the relatively loyal rendering of the novel on screen; commentary describes the
situation when the original has been changed intentionally by the director, but the
adaptation is still loyal. Analogy represents considerable difference, and here the
director is actually aiming at creating an entirely new work of art.40
Compared to Galdòs’ novel, Buñuel’s film lies between commentary and analogy.
Several aspects of the novella are preserved, of course, but in crucial points the script
and the film diverts strongly from the literary pretext.41 J. Francisco Aranda has
noted some of the main differences between novel and film,42 but he curiously fails
to note the most conspicuous difference, namely the highly divergent endings of
the novel vis-à-vis the film.43 The novel ends on a note of amused and mildly ironic
wonder from the narrator: the elderly libertine Don Lope turns into a
self-satisfied bourgeois. He had never before known the burning desire

to plant a young tree; and he gave himself no rest until he had watched
the young plant take root and sprout fresh leaves. […] [Tristana learns
to] prepare two or three different types of pastry and she made them so
well, so extraordinarily well, that Don Lope licked his fingers when he
savoured them and didn’t cease giving praise to god. […]44
The bodily passion of the Tristan and Iseut story has been tamed and transformed
into an idyll with only a hint (Don Lope’s licking of his fingers!?) of the underlying
passions. And the final words of the novel therefore sound rather reassuring if also
bemused: “Could you say the two were happy? … It’s possible” (Galdòs, p. 161).
Buñuel’s ending, on the other hand, is devoid of any such illusions: the crippled
Tristana coldly watches Don Lope die, but this final revenge does not seem to give
her any comfort. Tristana is mentally and physically crippled, and not even the death
of the man responsible for her disillusion can replace her lost youth and hopeful
naiveté. As a typical adaptation, Galdòs novel is constantly present as the Other of
the film; in the parts of the film “loyal” to the novel there is a positive intercutting
40
Brian McFarlane: Novel to Film. An Introduction to the Theory of Adaptation, Oxford 1996, p. 10–11.
41
Thomas Leitch criticizes any concept of origin and originality in the relation between novel and
film in his illuminating and provoking ”Twelve Fallacies in Contemporary Adaptation Theory” in
Criticism, 45, Vol. 2 2003 (p. 149–171).
42
“Introduction“ in Tristana. A Film by Luis Buñuel, trans. Nicholas Fry, Godalming 1971, p. 7.
43
Gwynne Edwards notes the ”total contrast” of the endings in The Discreet Art of Luis Buñuel,
London; Boston 1982, p. 224.
44
Galdos, Tristana, p. 161 (in Partridge’s translation).
355
between the novel and the film, but in the final analysis the relation between film
and the preceding novel is much more aggressive. Buñuel, who was apparently a
great admirer of Galdòs,45 overrules the hopeful but ironic literary ending, and
the movie radically cuts down the “original” literary precedent in a defiant gesture
of political satire: Buñuel sexualizes the original story, and he produces an evil
Bakhtinian carnival of amputated legs, compulsive masturbation and anti-clerical
satire, and concludes the film on a note of pessimism and hatred, instead of Galdòs’
liberal optimism on behalf of the odd couple.
The intention of Buñuel’s relation to his literary precedent can of course only be
guessed at, but the reason might very well be found in the political circumstances of
the period. Whereas the novel from 1892 points to the possibility that the relationship
of the patriarchal Don Lope with the poor Tristana – that is, a modern King Marke
and Iseut – might develop into something of an idyll in the 1880s, Buñuel produces
a satirical and critical picture of Spain in 1920 and the chronological displacement
made it pass the censorship of the 1960s (when the film was conceived). But there
is no doubt that Buñuel wished to point to the crippling (with an appropriate meta-
phor) effects of the Fascist Government of 1970.
Conclusions
In my short analyses of a small selection of the innumerable adaptations of the
medieval Tristan and Iseut myth I have shown how the narrative core has moved from
one medium to another. The diachronic development illustrates, in other words, a
dialectical correspondence between substance and changeability. There is quite a
distance from the verbal myths in medieval France to Buñuel’s cinematographic
version – where Tristan is a woman! – yet a “family resemblance” ties together all the
discussed Tristan-adaptations.46
Considering the representations of the body I have touched upon above it is
possible to state (but not substantiate) a historical thesis: namely, that the represen-
tation of the body in the Tristan-versions functions as metonymical parts of the
overall epochal conception of the body. In the Middle Ages – in Béroul’s version
– the body occupies a central point upon which sexual arousal and bliss as well as
feudal punishment can be inferred. But Tristan occupies a strange middle position
because of his many disguises, which might be a kind of symbolic warning in
Béroul’s text that the moral lesson of the myth is extremely difficult to grasp. In
Wagner’s late romantic drama, on the other hand, the lovers transcend the material
45
Buñuel’s admiration is mentioned in Aranda’s “Introduction“ (p. 6) and in Partridge’s study (p.
207–208).
46
“Family resemblance“ in the sense of Ludwig Wittgenstein, where a certain likeness (for instance
among members of a family) can be established despite a number of obvious differences. See Philoso-
phische Untersuchungen, Frankfurt am Main 1969, §§ 66–71.
356
limits of their bodies in death, probably inspired by the Schopenhauerian scepticism

towards all material aspects of life. In Mann’s post-romantic version of Tristan
the bodies of the main characters are, on the one hand, the very symbols of their
bearers, but the bodies are, in concordance with Wagner’s conception, hindrances
on the way to a metaphysical unification in death. In both Wagner’s and Mann’s
cases I tried to show how the thematic interpretation of the representation of the
body – and thus of the works as such – is impossible to define because of a radical
undecidability of the “undercutting” media in Wagner or the surprising absence of
narrator’s irony in the key passages in Mann describing Wagner’s music. In the two
20th century films discussed, Cocteau and Buñuel both express important themes
through the representation of bodies. Cocteau’s closed concept of the body is on
the one hand classical, but it is also part of a system of exclusion that carries some
very unfortunate parallels in Cocteau’s political surroundings. Thus the problematic
body politics of Cocteau’s film works against the intentions of his progressive poésie
cinématographique – not to mention Cocteau’s own personal life. In contrast, the
bodies in Buñuel’s 1970 film takes part in a thematic battle concerning the lack
of freedom of the female protagonist, while the critical stance of the medieval
myths and written versions onto feudal society has been taken over by a critique
of patriarchal structures. The visual transformation of Tristana (symbolizing the
psychological transformation) is shocking: the difference between the first shots of
an innocent girl to the final images of an old embittered woman comes to express
such a critique.
Another characteristic trait of the selected examples is the relation between media.
Dahlhaus’ concept of the Wagnerian intercutting between music and words points
to a general trait in all works of art that include more than one media (Mitchell’s “all
media are mixed media”). Apart from the medieval “origin” all the works of art have
indeed proven to consist of several media: Wagner’s Gesamtkunstwerk is of course
an ostentatious example of this, and further theorized by Dahlhaus’ term inter-
cutting, which concerns the crucial relationship between words and music in Tristan
und Isolde. In Mann’s “Tristan” the intercutting between word and music is played
out in another way: Mann’s apparently monomedia novella is actually striving to
express the musical spirit through words in order to overwhelm or infuse literature
with music: this paradox comes to further define the extremely ambiguous thematic
content of Mann’s novella.
The intermedial relation is harder to establish in Cocteau’s L’Éternel Retour (apart
from the obvious mixture of visual, verbal and musical media in any film), but there
is a definite and very problematic schism between two different mindsets or even
media, namely the partly theoretical program of ‘poésie cinematographique’ on the
one hand, and the problematic representation of the Aryan Blondes that, probably
unconsciously, seems to haunt Cocteau’s film. The crucial stride between media in
357
Buñuel is clearly the one between literature and film: Buñuel unhesitatingly cuts
down all the optimistic sprouts of Galdòs’ liberal realism (and of Cocteau’s romantic
transcendence in the final scene of L’Éternel Retour). The bodies of Tristan and Iseut,
concentrated by Buñuel in the amputated figure of Tristana, cannot survive, and thus
Buñuel’s film – the version among my samples which is the most remote from the
medieval myth – remains “true” to the original violent core of the medieval myth,
which may still belong to the “etymology of our,” should I add: contemporary?,
“passions.”
358
References
Arnaud, Claude: Jean Cocteau, Paris 2003.
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Bolduc, Stevie Anne: “A Study of Intertextuality: Thomas Mann’s ‘Tristan’ and Wagner’s
‘Tristan und Isolde’” in Rocky Mountain Review of Language and Literature, Vol. 37, No.
1/2, 1983 (p. 82–90).
Bossuad, Robert, et al. (eds.): Dictionaire des lettres francaises. Le Moyen Age, Paris 1992
(1964).
Breker, Arno: Im Strahlungsfeld der Ereignisse, Preussisch Oldendorf 1972.
Bruhn, Jørgen: “’Careful if Treated with Caution’: Carnevalization in Don Quijote” in
Østrem, Eyolf et al (eds.): Genre and Ritual. The Cultural Heritage of Medieval Rituals,
Copenhagen 2005.
Buñuel, Luis: Tristana. A Film by Luis Buñuel, trans. Nicholas Fry, Godilmant 1971.
Camille, Michael: The Gothic Idol, Chicago 1991.
Camille, Michael: Image on the Edge. The Margins of Medieval Art, London 1992.
Coates, Ruth: Bakhtin and Christianity. God and the Exiled Author, Cambridge 1998.
Dahlhaus, Carl: Richard Wagner’s Music Dramas, Cambridge 1996 (1979).
de Rougemont, Denis: Love in the Western World, Princeton 1983 (1939).
Eco, Umberto: Art and Beauty in the Middle Ages, New Haven 1986.
Edwards, Gwynne: The Discreet Art of Luis Buñuel, London; Boston 1982.
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Michael (eds.): Bakhtin and the Human Sciences. No last Word, Thousand Oaks (Cal) 1998.
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tableau” [Gesamtkunstwerk as Theatrum Mundi: Wagner Between Emblem and Tab-
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land, France, and Germany, Lewiston NY 2003.
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in Kevin J. Harty: King Arthur on Film. New Essays on Arthurian Cinema, McFarland:
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Jackson, W.T.H.: ”Tristan the Artist in Gottfried’s Poem” in PMLA, Vol. 77, No. 4, 1962.
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McFarlane, Brian: Novel to Film. An Introduction to the Theory of Adaptation, Oxford
1996.
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Between Literature and Film, Lewiston NY 1995.
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1971 (p. 399–414).
Schönhaar, Rainer: “Beschriebene und imaginäre Musik im frühwerk Thomas Manns”
in Gier, Albert and Gruber, Gerold W. (eds.): Musik und Litteratur: komparatistische
Studien zur Strukturverwandtschaft, Frankfurt am Main; Berlin; Bern; New York; Paris;
Wien 1995.
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Oxford 2004.
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(p. 220–241).
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(p. 660–672).
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Young, Frank W.: Montage and Motif in Thomas Mann’s “Tristan,” Bonn 1975.
360
Principles of Rhythm: Temporal and Spatial Aspects
Eva Lilja & Lena Hopsch
The concept of ‘rhythm’ is common in descriptions of music, poetry, sculpture

and painting. Is ‘rhythm’ the same phenomenon in all these cases, or is the word
sometimes used metaphorically? We will try to answer that question from two
perspectives: Lena Hopsch will discuss the question in relation to producing a work
of art and Eva Lilja will explore this in terms of academic reception. Respectively,
Lena Hopsch will examine a sculpture by the constructivist sculptor Naum Gabo
(1890–1977), and Eva Lilja will analyse a poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti (1919–).
We regard ‘rhythm’ as an experience of the senses which determines the production
as well as the perception of an art work. While Eva Lilja will discuss spatiality in
poetry, Lena Hopsch will examine the spectator’s experience of a sculpture as one
that takes place in time as well as in space.
Rhythms act in space as well as in time. We think that the experience of being a
body in a room is basic for any apprehension of rhythm and that the basic rhythmical
figure is the dancing body. Taking this idea as a starting point, we will argue that
‘rhythm’ is a specific and not a metaphorical category in all the art forms mentioned
above. Cognitive theory points out how bodily experience shapes abstract notions,
and we believe that this is correct.1
A dancing body moves in time as well as in space. Performing a dance may be
regarded as the prototype of rhythm. The evident example here is the ‘mousiké’ of
ancient Greece – an art form where dance, music and poetry were performed simul-
taneously. The ancient choir danced while performing.2 In Antiquity the beat was
provided by tapping the foot while reciting poetry.3
Rhythm functions multimodally – in the rhythmical experience you have to
combine different types of perception, like visuality and audibility. We presuppose that
seeing and hearing mediate rhythm, but that tactility probably is the main perception
type, speaking of rhythm. This follows from our focus on the rhythm of the dancing
body. However, tactility is more complicated and has been less investigated than the
other four senses, and more than that – there is no adequate terminology to describe
it. Tactility signifies the sum of several types of perception. We have to divide it in,
at least, two kinds of perception, the tactile and the haptic one. The basic experience
of rhythm probably takes place with help of the kinesthetic sense (‘proprioception’),
1
Mark Johnson: The Body in the Mind. The Bodily Basis of Meaning, Imagination and Reason, Chicago
1987, p. 17.
2
Steven H. Lonsdale: Dance and Ritual Play in Greek Religion, Baltimore 1993, p. 6.
3
Eva Lilja: Svensk metrik, Stockholm 2006, p. 406.
361
Eva Lilja & Lena Hopsch: Principles of Rhythm
a bodily awareness situated in the memory of the muscles, which makes it possible
to determine the position of your limbs even when you close your eyes. We are using
our kinesthetic sense when we are dancing, cycling or walking.
Definitions of Rhythm
We hold that rhythm is a basic ability of all living creatures. Think of heartbeat,
breathing, sexual intercourse, walking or sleeping for example. Bodies rely on
rhythmic lapses and so does society with its working hours and timetables. This
observation implies a broad concept of rhythm, and defining ‘rhythm’ must start
with the question of arrhythmia. What is arrhythmia? The answer is that there is no
rhythm in chaos and emptiness, lacking a commanding form or Gestalt.4
The oldest meaning of the Greek word ‘rhythmos’ is ‘distinct form,’ ‘order,’
‘proportion.’ There is also an archaic meaning of rhythm as ‘pregnant, varying
form.’ Benveniste summarizes the archaic Greek concept of rhythm as improvised,
immediate, changeable form.5 The pre-Socratic philosopher Heraclitus (c. 500 BC)
speaks of: “A repose in transformation” (fragment 84 a).6 According to Heraclitus,
balance could not be achieved through rest, but through a battle between opposites.
The shift from one condition to another was the central issue for him, something
we find in his famous sentence “panta rhei” or “everything floats,” explained as “you
could never go into the same river twice” – the water is in constant flow, always
changing. We would like to propose that rhythm in a composition should not be
considered fixed, on the contrary, the experience of rhythm in an artwork is an
experience of constant shifts between the perceiver and the piece of art.
Plato (427–347 BC) gives new meaning to the notion of rhythm when he
applies ‘rhythmos’ to the motion of the body while dancing: he speaks of rhythm
as ”organized motion.”7 Plato’s definition has had its followers through history. In
other cases, the idea of rhythm as an organiser of time has come into focus. Later on,
definitions of rhythm are probably aiming at the rhythm of music. Musical rhythm
has been investigated more thoroughly, and the findings of how it works in music
sometimes have coloured the whole concept of rhythm. However, musical definitions
do not work very well when you come to other art forms, and furthermore, the anti-
que definitions come closer to modern uses of rhythm in art.
Rhythm regarded as drive and energy of motion takes place in the shift between
an artwork and its perception. The artists of early modernism were obsessed by the
notions of speed and motility. They proposed that the old idea of dynamic rhythms
4
Susanne K. Langer: Feeling and Form. A Theory of Art Developed from Philosophy in a New Key,
London 1953, p. 23, p. 32.
5
Émile Benveniste: Människan i språket, (texter i urval av John Swedenmark), Stockholm; Stehag
1995, p. 137 (our translation).
6
Herakleitos: Fragment, trans. Håkan Rehnberg and Hans Ruin, Lund 1997, p. 175 (our translation).
7
Benveniste, p. 138–39; Lonsdale; Plato: The Laws, Thomas L. Pangle (ed.), New York 1980, 665a.
362
(relations between forms) in the artwork should be replaced by the idea of kinetic
rhythms, which effects an intensification of the spectator’s perception of the artwork
– in time as well as in space. With the help of the notion of kinetic rhythm we are
able to focus on an art experience where memories of earlier experienced rhythmical
sequences blend with the present experience.8
It has usually been said that painting and sculpture are spatial art forms and that
poetry and music are temporal forms. However, investigations have shown that the
perception of work of art takes place in both dimensions contemporaneously.9 You
need time to apprehend what you see, and this adds a temporal aspect to spatial
forms. More than that, temporal lapses are structured into Gestalts, which make them
spatial. There is no dichotomy between seeing and hearing, or between spatiality
and temporality. Poems have expressive print pictures, and sculptures need time to
be walked around and looked at from all sides. Rhythms have temporal as well as
spatial qualities. Sometimes temporality will dominate, sometimes spatiality.
So far, we will describe aesthetic rhythm as follows: ‘rhythm’ in an art work signi-
fies certain aesthetic qualities that play with temporal or spatial proportions within
the perception of a Gestalt. Gestalt pressure shapes the perception of the relationship
between masses, stresses and deviations – in the sound qualities of music and poetry,
as in the visual qualities of painting and architecture. ‘Rhythm’ signifies a motion
within the (perceived) Gestalt, a play of direction(s), which includes reaching a
focus. In this play, rhythm yearns for balance. Reaching the focus means reaching
the point of balance. ‘Rhythm’ signifies both the play between balance and the devi-
ation from balance.10
Principles of Rhythm
Lately, research in prosody has distinguished between the separate versification
systems of different cultures. Gasparov (1996) has established the main systems, like
French syllabic versification or Chinese syllabomelodic versification. In Scandinavia,
we have at least three versification systems:
• Accentual versification of the fourbeat line in Norse poetry and in the

poetry of Middle Ages.
• Meter or tactus in accentsyllabic poetry 1650–1930.
• Free versification in modern free verse.
8
Lena Hopsch: Rytmens estetik, formens kraft, Thesis in progress, Göteborg 2008.
9
Peter Gärdenfors, interview, Lund, 2005.
10
Johnson, p. 75; Reuven Tsur: Poetic Rhythm. Structure and Performance. An Empirical Study in
Cognitive Poetics, Bern 1998, p. 90.
363
A versification system must rely on a certain rhythmical principle – with the addition
of a set of rules. The rhythmical principle of accentual versification as well as of free
verse relies on structured sequences in combination with powerful segmentation.
The rhythmical principle of the measured forms from the Renaissance through
romanticism is tactus or the beat.
Richard Cureton (1992) locates three so called temporalities in poetry – tactus,
grouping and prolongation. Following Cureton and Gasparov, we have classified
rhythm according to three principles of rhythm, serial rhythm, sequential rhythm
and dynamic rhythm – that is to say three basic sets of Gestalt qualities:
• Serial rhythm – tactus or beat in measured music and poetry.

• Sequential rhythm - the sequence or the segment of the phrase which is
to be found in free verse and in the hemistich of the four beat medieval
line, in music and in the surfaces of a painting, as well as in the parts
of a sculpture or a piece of architecture.
• Dynamic rhythm – the forces and directions in two- and three-
dimensional artefacts and the temporal intensification towards a focus
in music and poetry.
Below we will discuss and demonstrate how those three rhythmical principles operate
in two works, a sculpture by Naum Gabo and a poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti.
Our analyses show that a piece of art generally exemplifies two or three principles
of rhythm. For example, a drawing by Wassily Kandinsky may consist of segments
in a dynamic combination of forces, or a piece of music by John Cage or a poem by
Öyvind Fahlström may consist of serial elements in a row of segments.
Our examples below are typical for mid-twentieth-century modernism.
Sculpture – from Spatiality to Temporality (by Lena Hopsch)

We are not familiar with describing sculpture as an experience in time. In order
to experience a piece of sculpture, however, one has to move around it and take
it in from every direction. The memories of how the sculpture is experienced
from different angles become mixed with the one we currently observe. Here, I
will describe how a sculpture is built up around both spatial and temporal courses
of events.11 My theoretical discussion of time/space relations starts with Rosalind
Krauss’s discussion of Umberto Boccionis Development of a Bottle in Space (1912).
According to Krauss, Boccioni talks of: ”absolute motion” relations between the
parts of the sculpture and “relative motion” what the observer can grasp.
The constructivist sculptor Naum Gabo discusses the matter in his own way.
11
Rosalind Krauss: Passages in Modern Sculpture, Cambridge, Massachusetts 1996 (1980), p. 41, 45
and 58.
364
Gabo devoted a large part of his life to discuss the structure of sculpture in theoretical
terms. In my capacity as a sculptor I have been interested in his work for many years.
My analysis begins with a theoretical discussion followed by an analysis of Gabo’s
work, the sculpture Linear Construction in Space no 2.
Gabo uses dynamic and kinetic rhythms as concepts for analysis,12 and these I
have defined thus: dynamic rhythms deal with relationships between forms or within
a form, while kinetic rhythms focus on the observer’s own personal experience of
moving around the work thus perceiving the whole form.
The Greek word ‘dynamis’ refers to force or power. When we take a step we
generate force, this causes movement and movement in turn creates a direction.
There is a high degree of agreement as to how artists describe force, for example
according to Henry Moore: “Force, Power, is made by forms straining or pressing
from inside. Knees, elbows, forehead, knuckles all seek to press outwards. Hardness
projecting outwards gives tension, force and vitality.”13 Similarly, the Swedish sculp-
tor Bror Marklund speaks about how the sculptor has to imagine an inner force
stemming from the centre of a form. This form strives towards space and space
exerts a counterforce against this. When these forces reach their equilibrium the
dynamics of the composition are created (clearly illustrated in Marklund’s sculpture
Gestalt i storm). Forces generate tension due to them giving rise to direction, which
in turn provides movement.
What then does an artist mean by the concept of tension? Tension is created by
the force inherent in the form. By adding direction to force, movement is generated.
Wassily Kandinsky argues that the term ‘movement’ can be made more concise by
dividing the concept into tension and direction: “Tension is the force inherent in
the element; as such it is only one component of active movement. To this must be
added direction.”14
Directed tension generates the play of power of the object, which generates the
movement (energy) of the composition. “Directed tension is as genuine a property of
visual objects as size, shape and colour.”15 An object such as a square contains inher-
ent directions stemming from the centre of the square; these directions generate the
inherent tension of the form. How these inherent forces are directed in relation to
the surrounding space or the surface of the image determine if the form is in balance
or in movement. A stable square that rests on one of its sides is experienced as being
in equilibrium, while an unstable square balancing on its tip is experiences as if it
were in motion: “Oblique orientation is probably the most elementary and effective
means of obtaining directed tension” (Arnheim, p. 424; fig. 1).
12
Gabo according to Read & Martin (1957), p. 151, p.167–170.
13
Moore according to Philip James: Henry Moore on Sculpture, London 1966, p. 118.
14
Wassily Kandinsky: Punkt och linje, till yta, Varberg 1995, p. 41.
15
Rudolf Arnheim: Art and Visual Perception. A Psychology of the Creative Eye, London 1974, p. 423.
365
Fig. 1
The horizontal position indicates an object at rest, while the diagonal introduces
a quality of movement. Therefore it is not surprising that both the baroque and
modernism were interested in creating depth and movement in imagery by intro-
ducing diagonals. Theo van Doesburg in a polemic with Piet Mondrian argued that
the new era was best expressed through the diagonal. Solely through this could the
expression of movement be intensified.
In order to create dynamics of forms it is required that the artist imagines every
object or part of an object as a happening rather than as static matter. Accordingly,
the artist should not regard the relationships between objects as geometrical configu-
rations but rather as a mutual interaction. Dynamic rhythm can thus be understood
in terms of forces acting between poles.
Inspired by the spirit of his time Gabo sought a new means of forming sculpture.
He was strongly influenced by his era’s interest in movement and technological
development; a technological development that encompassed and fostered human
mobility. This was an era when there was great interest in cars, ships and not the
least aircraft. Things we now take for granted had an almost spiritual character for
people in the early twentieth century. Speed provided salvation, and people were
also inspired by encompassing theories such as Einstein’s theory on space and time.
According to this theory, matter is seen as a mobile condition instead of being static
as was previously conceived. In order to describe this feeling of movement, motion
and transformation, Gabo (like other contemporary artists such as Malevich) chose
the expression ‘kinetic rhythm,’ motion rhythm (from the Greek ‘kinein’).16
Both the word ‘dynamic’ and the word ‘kinetic’ are used in physics. ‘Kinematic’
describes how a movement develops along a line, in a circle etc. However, no study
has been made concerning the origin or the cause of the movement. In classical
mechanics, which is divided into statics and dynamics, the effect of forces on objects
is taken into consideration, and ‘kinetic energy’ is used as a term for calculating
of motion energy. ‘Kinetic rhythm’ is a concept that includes the mobility of the
subject and the experience of its own mobility in relation to the object.
Gabo argued that he incorporated kinetic rhythms in the object, which is one
aspect of the dynamic rhythm. Inspired by Cubism’s continually shifting angles of
16
Lena Hopsch: Rytmens estetik, Göteborg 2002, p. 68.
366
observation, Gabo wanted to get the observer to be in continual movement around

the object. The sculptor has described how he struggled in his work to incorporate
kinetic rhythm and time as important components. His sculptures strive toward
movement and in this manner encourage the observer to move around them. They
do this in the same way as Van Doesburg’s earlier functionalist architectural models,
which one could only experience as a whole by going round them.
By moving around in space in different ways, we are able to strengthen our bodily
awareness, for example, in gymnastics and dancing. Body awareness (‘kinesthesia’
‘proprioception’) helps us to orient ourselves in the room without the influence of
vision. This is a faculty necessary for every movement we make irrespective of if we
cycle, dance or walk. When the observer moves all the psychophysical directions of
the body are activated, up/down, right/left and in the middle.
I have chosen to use the term kinetic rhythm when I refer to the observer’s per-
sonal experience of movement in interaction with the sculpture. With the aid of this
term we can more concisely describe the experience of the sculpture as being one in
time. The observer’s movement in time reinforces what happens in the sculpture. The
dynamic rhythms of the sculpture act in interaction with the personal movement
rhythms of the observer.
In the following section I analyse Gabo’s sculpture Linear Construction in Space
no. 2 (1950) as this is a clear example of a modernist sculpture where the construction
is the bearer of the sculptural expression. This is also one of Gabo’s most loved
sculptures and it was produced in no less than twentyfive examples! (Fig. 2)
Fig. 2 and 3. Naum Gabo, Linear Construction in Space no. 2 (1950)
367
In this sculpture Gabo works by putting together two counterplaced transparent

surfaces17 which together create a negative volume of matter. He made use of this
way of working as early as 1916 in A study of a woman’s head. In both these works
space as sculptural material is the main theme. According to Gabo, in order to
express space one has to have a spherical form; therefore the outer contour of the
sculpture consists of a curved line.
The outer contour line of the sculpture can be read as a sequence rhythm where
contrasting concave and convex lines are repeated in reverse. The sculptor allows the
outer contour curve to expand and increase its volume, only to contract inwards in
the next stage. The curve speeds up and slows down going from active to passive. In
this manner an asymmetrical balance comparable with the classical sculptural figure
‘contra-posto’ with its alternation of active and passive sequences is created (fig. 3).
Dynamic rhythms are generated through inner tensions within the form. The
surrounding space appears to compact the mass of the sculpture and in the same
way the sculptural space appears to expand outwards into the surrounding room.
We can make use of the archaic Greek meaning of rhythm as ‘pregnant, varying,
form’; rhythm is maintained through inner tensions between opposites that balance
each other out.
In their multi-disciplinary experiments during the early 1900s artists were
occupied with incorporating time into the artistic experience. In order to point out
the sculptural possibilities of incorporating time in the sculptural experience, Gabo
spoke of kinetic rhythms generated by activating the personal body movements of
the observer in relationship to the sculpture. In addition, the sculptor himself moves
around during the task of developing and discovering the form of the sculpture.
Apart from the two counter-placed surfaces, the sculpture in question is
constructed of transparent nylon threads, which provide body and volume to the
space between the forms. These threads create a vibrating life at the same time
as they build up recurring octagonal shaped cavities within the sculpture. The
octagonal form coincides with the design and inherent movement of the sculpture.
The transitions between the surfaces in the sculpture generate a twisting element
inside this. Through our own physical movement we can enhance the experience of
this twisting element within the sculpture (The inner movement of the sculpture is
seen in relation to the primary directions in space; fig. 4).
Early in his career Gabo worked on the sculpture Kinetic construction, (Standing
Wave, 1920) a pole that was set in swinging motion in order to create an imaginary
form in space. However, he was not able to find motors that were sufficiently small
so as not to take the upper hand and therefore he abandoned these attempts at
17
The sculpture is made of perspex, a transparent acrylic material and threads of nylon. This version
is about one metre in height.
368
Fig. 4.
motorized forms. The concept of the twisting and vibrating movements of the
standing balance can however still be identified in Linear construction in space no. 2.
This sculpture appears to be drawn with the aid of pure space, as if it were a drawing
in the air. It provides us with a feeling of both a universe in perpetual movement and
a dancing Shiva character. No matter what we put into the philosophical dimensions
of this sculpture, it appears to be summarised by an internal octagonal figure that
provides the work with continual dynamic movement. A glimpse from a distance
is not sufficient to experience this sculpture; it invites us to observe it in movement
(space) and in time.
369
Poetry – from Temporality to Spatiality (by Eva Lilja)

The poem “Sweet and various the wood lark” completes the famous collection by
Lawrence Ferlinghetti of 1958, A Coney Island of the Mind. This poem has a meta-
poetic theme discussing the ontological status of language – a subject which was
very common at that time.
370
Looking at the rhythmics of this poem, we see that it uses all three rhythmical
principles, serial and sequential rhythm alternate in the phrases, and dynamic rhythm
dominates its printed shape. There are no stanzas to be seen, but nonetheless four line
groups may be distinguished by help of extra blanks, which divide the text like this:
Line group: 1. v 1–6

2. v 7–13
3. v 14–19
4. v 20–23
Line group 1–6 mentions the wood lark to be the first among singers putting it in
contrast to the “wild beasts.”
The next group of lines, 7–13, mentions two of the beasts, Hölderlin and Rimbaud,
perhaps the most elevated of all poets. Here they are declared beasts because they are
said to be mad. After line 13 comes the volta or the break of the poem, which now
leaves nature as well as history behind and prepares for the conclusion.
The third group, 14–19, describes the most commonly held theory of language,
the idea that there is a simple relation between language and the visible world, the
mirror theory.
The last line group, 20–23, brings the problem to a conclusion by rejecting
this relationship in a rude way, pinpointing that you may see whatever – if you are
intoxicated (or mad?) enough.
First we will investigate the audible rhythm of the phrases. Hereby we will follow
the notation beside/below. The big circle stands for prominence and the small one
for an offbeat. The oval circle notates something in between, a stress that is (for
some reason) weakened.
Below two tables can be seen. The first one indicates if the line represents serial
or sequential rhythm, the second one designates rhythmical figures, here called by
their antique names.
The notation shows the rhythm of speech. You might read the rhythm closer to
an eventual tactus, but this is not done here (Lilja, p. 545).
371
1. O o O oo / o O0 serial rhythm trochees

2. o O / oo O0O 2 segments
3. oO / OOo 2 segments bacchius
4. OO segmental rhythm spondee
5. O oo O segmental rhythm choriamb
6. oo Oo Oo serial trochees
––––
7. O oo segmental dactylus
8. oo OOo segmental bacchius
9. O oo O / O oo O 2 segments choriambs
10. o O oo segmental dactylus
11. oO oO serial 2 iambs
12. o O0 o Oo serial adonius
13. o O oo O o serial adonius
––––
14. o O oo O / OO o 2 segments choriamb,
bacchius
15. o O o O ooo O serial iambs
16. o OO oo O o segmental spondee,
adonius
17. OoOoO serial trochees
18. O ooo O oo serial trochees
19. OoO serial creticus
––––
20. O oo O segmental choriamb
21. oo OO segmental ionicus
22. oO oO / oO serial iambs
23. oO o serial iambs
The first line is said to have a serial rhythm – that is the even pulse or tactus in music
and in the measured poetry of the pre-modern period. The notation here follows the
recited rhythm, but it is easy to make a different reading, which goes
OoOoOoOo
Those four trochees determine the pronunciation of the line. The spoken rhythm of
recitation is playing with the tactus beneath.
Line 2 has a different shape. It ends up with the heavy expression “unbought
gate” which definitely resists a continuation of the falling meter of the first line. The
offbeats, ‘o,’ ‘oo,’ in the beginning of the line cannot balance the concluding threes
372
heavy syllables. The rhythm of the line is elaborated and expressive, but it follows
another rhythmical principle than the pulse of the first line. Line 2 makes a distinct
rhythmical sequence relying on the pauses – or the white spaces – which surround
it. The line breaks isolate the sequence and mark it out, and you may regard line 3
to 5 in the same way – as a row of rhythmical segments. Especially, a device like the
spondee OO in line 3 and 4 signalises sequential rhythm by definitely stopping the
possibility of a beat.
So, approximately half of the lines in the poem are in serial rhythm, half in
sequential rhythm. You may notice that the sequential free verse rhythm dominates
the first half of the poem, and that serial rhythm becomes more and more dominant
in the second half.
If we look at the table below to the far right, we can notice some expressive
figures, here labelled by their antique names. The characteristic spondee OO returns
in lines 8, 14, 16 and 21. The choriamb O oo O is the basic metron of antique
poetry. Here it turns up in lines 5, 9, 14 and 20. As part of the adonius O oo O o
it occurs still more often. The choriamb works well in both serial and sequential
phrases.
The style of the poem changes from the high brow language of cultural tradition
in the first half to ordinary speech in the second half. Additionally, the tempo changes
between different parts of the poem. The second line group – that which mentions
Hölderlin and Rimbaud – starts in a slow tempo put into sequential rhythm. The
comments on Hölderlin include one slow spondee in line 8, and the next line –
number 9 – is divided into two phrases, though rather short ones. When talking
about Rimbaud, the rhythm, which becomes more and more quick, changes to the
serial principle, reaching a full
stop after line 13. The very last
line group follows the same
curve. After the slow expressive
ionicus oo O O of line 21, the
final two lines are written in
regular iambic pentameter,
which anchors the poem in its
rash final conclusion.
So far, we have shown that
the audible temporal phrases
play with two rhythmical prin-
ciples, serial and sequential
rhythm. But dynamic rhythm
is also at work in this poem,
especially in its print picture.
Once more, let us take a look:
373
This poem is spread over the paper more loosely than was common in the year
of 1958. Both margins are loosely waving in a way that differs very much from
metered stanzas or from early free verse with its typical shape – a straight left margin
and a slightly wavering right margin.
The blanks between lines differ regarding extension. Lines 3–11 make a loftier
impression than the rest of the text, and the line group 12–19 is tighter and more
concentrated. This latter part elaborates language theory in an informal spoken
language, and here the print picture goes rather dark.
The picture differs also as regards broadness. It is rather slim in the beginning,
but especially the tight part of the third line group gets obviously thicker. When it
comes to iconicity, the poem might be compared with a fat-bellied fellow standing
– not too steadily – on his right foot. The print picture is unsteady in at least two
ways. It has two swings to the right and one to the left, as it is to be seen in the
diagram. One dynamic force hits the picture up to the right, another in the middle
of the left. Is he going to tumble? More than that, the lead-line does not fall in
the middle of the printed picture, but a bit more to the right, where the print falls
tighter and blacker. The lack of balance looks dangerous. This fellow deviates from
his point of balance, indeed.
The lead-line starts in the lovely woodlark and ends in the spider down to the
right (thereby passing through Hölderlin). In that way it catches an opposition in
the poem between the singing soul up in the air of spring and the delirious beast
in his dark hole. From a meta-perspective the lead-line connects or points out the
distance between the innocent happy singer of nature and the beast poet entangled
in his own nightmares. This opposition produces another icon with the lark up
there and the spider very much down there. However, the unpleasant spider also
pictures a small foot for the poem to stand on.
In one way the poem’s print picture resembles an intoxicated man, but it might
just as well be seen as a lark rising from the ground on fluttering wings. If you
choose the latter picture, the innocent singer will win over darkness. If you choose
the drunkard, the poem will plead for a poetics of miserable mental spaces.
It is time to conclude this reading of poetic rhythm in three dimensions. There
is an opposition between the first and the second half of the poem. In the beginning,
a swinging loftiness dominates with elaborated sequences in a solemn poetical
language. After the volta, a serial rhythm dominates and the style gets informal not
to say careless, and the black print thickens on the page.
Moreover, there is a rush in tempo from Hölderlin to Rimbaud, the former still
resting in antique figures and the latter dressed in the mechanic pulse of madness.
The same rush returns in the very end of the poem where “language and reality /
word and world” collapse into the hole of the spider. The two final lines form a
regular iambic pentameter, the most traditional metre of them all. This gives an
extra resolute weight to the final statement.
374
Here is an opposition between what is very much up – the wood lark – and very
much down – the spider. Remember, more is up, and so is goodness and happiness,
while down stands for bad things.18 God is in heaven and hell is downwards. But the
opposition up – down might just as well be seen as a connection, especially as the
lead-line catches Hölderlin on its way up or down. What is then connected?
The poem elaborates two or three ideas about poetic language. First, the mirror
theory – that language shows reality – is rejected in the same clause where it is
mentioned. Secondly, that language expresses the inner world of a person is said to
be true, but it is not appreciated – a somewhat surprising opinion to come from a
poet. The third idea has its emblem in the singing lark. Its fluttering wings up in the
air win the theoretical discussion, but, in spite of this, the delirious drunkard will
remain in the poem.
Conclusion
These two analyses show that there are temporal qualities in sculpture and spatial
qualities in poetry. The print picture of the Ferlinghetti poem has mass (text) as
well as space (the white page), both of which interact with the temporal audible
qualities. In the sculpture by Gabo, the kinetic rhythm catches the play between
dynamic and sequential rhythm in a temporal process. The patterning process of
rhythmical apprehension changes the experience of time as well as space.
Every form has a point of balance where it rests. This is seen in the Gabo
sculpture and also in the Ferlinghetti poem – in both cases this point of balance has
both spatial and temporal dimensions. Although, the sequences within the gestalt
are certainly not in rest but in conflict. In the Gabo sculpture we have an expansion
and contraction of space. In the Ferlinghetti poem the spider fights the lark, the
black print struggles with the silent white paper and a combat takes place between
tactus and the full stop spondee. All these movements create tensions, deviations and
motions within the gestalt. ‘Rhythm’ might be said to signify this happy contrast
between balance and motion, rest and conflict in works of art.
18
George Lakoff and Mark Johnson: Metaphors We Live By, Chicago; London 1980, p. 15.
375
References
Arnheim, Rudolf: Art and Visual Perception. A Psychology of the Creative Eye, London
1974.
Benveniste, Émile: Människan i språket, texter i urval av John Swedenmark, Stockholm;
Stehag 1995.
Gabo, Naum: “The Realistic Manifesto, 1920” in Read, Herbert, and Martin, Leslie (eds.):
Naum Gabo, London 1957.
Gabo, Naum: “Sculpture. Carving and Construction in Space” in Read, Herbert, and
Martin, Leslie (eds.): Naum Gabo, London 1957.
Herakleitos: Fragment, trans. Håkan Rehnberg and Hans Ruin, Lund 1997.
Hammer, Martin, and Lodder, Christina: Constructing Modernity. The Life and Career of
Naum Gabo, New Heaven 2000.
Hopsch, Lena: Rytmens estetik, formens kraft, Thesis in progress, Göteborg 2008.
Hopsch, Lena: Rytmens estetik, Göteborg 2002.
James, Philip: Henry Moore on Sculpture, London 1966.
Johnson, Mark: The Body in the Mind. The Bodily Basis of Meaning, Imagination and Reason,
Chicago 1987.
Kandinsky, Wassily: Punkt och linje, till yta, Varberg 1995.
Krauss, Rosalind: Passages in Modern Sculpture, Cambridge, Massachusetts 1996 (1980).
Lakoff, George, and Johnson, Mark: Metaphors We Live By, Chicago; London 1980.
Langer, Susanne K.: Feeling and Form. A Theory of Art Developed from Philosophy in a New
Key, London 1953.
Lilja, Eva: Svensk metrik, Stockholm 2006.
Lonsdale, Steven H.: Dance and Ritual Play in Greek Religion, Baltimore 1993.
Plato: The Laws, Thomas L. Pangle (ed.), New York 1980.
Tsur, Reuven: Poetic Rhythm. Structure and Performance. An Empirical Study in Cognitive
Poetics, Bern 1998.
Interview
Peter Gärdenfors, Lund 2005.
376
The Body Expressed in Word and Image:
An Attempt at Defining Cora Sandel’s Aesthetics1
Sarah J. Paulson
In a letter to Cora Sandel’s friend and biographer Odd Solumsmoen (9 July 1956)
the Norwegian musician and composer Pauline Hall (1890–1969) writes the follow-
ing of her friend:
Her range of interests is very large indeed – she embraces theater, ballet,
and, of course, painting with instinct and insight […] and thus she
concentrates on the posture of human beings, their physical bearing
and their movements in her descriptions, and this is probably linked to
her appreciation of dance and of human character.2
Descriptions of posture and bearing, the physiology and movements of the body are
indeed frequently used to characterize and illuminate the figures that populate Cora
Sandel’s fictional universe. But Pauline Hall’s insight into the connection between
Cora Sandel’s interest in the human body and her fascination with multiple art
forms is at least as interesting as the observation of the prominent place of the body
in her authorship.
The influence of the graphic arts on Sandel’s mode of expression is not surprising
considering that Sara Fabricius, the woman behind the pseudonym Cora Sandel,
“loved to paint,”3 worked seriously at painting for twenty years and had Paul
Cézanne as her major role model.4 Among the approximately forty extant works by
1
This article is a reworking of a presentation made at the conference “Bodies – Arts – Crossroads.
The Body and Intermediality” at Växjö University in Växjö, Sweden, 27–30 October 2005. Special
thanks to Frankie Shackelford, Augsburg College, Minneapolis, MN., for translating the article, as
well as the quoted excerpts from the short story “Lola,” from Norwegian and to Frankie B. Shackelford
and Ann-Catrine Eriksson, Umeå universitet, for their comments.
2
“Hennes interessefelt er jo meget stort, teatret, balletten og naturligvis malerkunsten omfatter hun
med instinkt og innsikt … så fester hun seg i sine skildringer mye ved menneskenes holdning, deres
føring av kroppen, bevegelsene, og det henger vel sammen med sansen for dans og for karakteren hos
menneskene.” Quoted in Janneken Øverland: Cora Sandel. En biografi, Oslo 1995, p. 301.
3
Letter to Odd Solumsmoen, Håndskriftsamlingen, Nasjonalbibliotek, Oslo, 18 August 1956.
4
Sara Fabricius studied with Harriet Backer in Kristiania and with painters such as Christian Krohg,
Lucien Simon and André Lhôte during the years she lived in Paris, see Øverland 1995, p. 120–216.
In a letter to Odd Solumsmoen (10 October 1956) she writes that she signed up to exhibit her work
at “Les Indépendants” one time, but that she changed her mind at the last minute. She also writes that
she worked at painting “av all makt, tvers gjennem alt” (with all her might, throughout everything).
“Cézanne var for mange av oss det fjerne ideal, noe uoppnåelig (Cézanne was for many of us a
377
Sarah J. Paulson: The Body Expressed in Word and Image
Sara Fabricius,5 there are twelve portraits that shed light on Cora Sandel’s literary
depiction of the body and that also indicate why representations of the body and
its movements are so central in her texts. Researchers like Hans Lund have used the
perspective of intermediality to show that both pictorial structures and qualities
characterize Cora Sandel’s authorship6 and that it fruitfully can be understood in the
classical ut pictura poesis-tradition of Horace.7 While this insight is a prerequisite for
my perspective, my intention here is to shed light on Cora Sandel’s aesthetic mode
of expression by showing how Sara Fabricius’ visual representations of the body illus-
trate 1) how the world (the body) takes on meaning and form through (physical)
apprehension of forms, colors, lines and physiognomy, 2) how (representations of )
the body can be understood as evidence of a personal style, an individual mode of
being in the world, and 3) how artistic expression reveals (the understanding of )
a situated, perceiving, embodied gaze. In other words, the portraits show how the
(represented) body becomes visible to the viewer, how the body (and the world in
general) acquires meaning and form through visual perception. An understanding of
the body as the defining element in all experience of the world can thus be said to be
a primary constituent of Cora Sandel’s aesthetics. Neither the ut pictura poesis-tradi-
tion as such, nor the pictorial aspects of Cora Sandel’s work are therefore of primary
concern here. Instead, the following “conversation” or “dialog” between image and
text is an attempt to shed light on the underlying attitudes toward perception that
precipitate the interart discourse in Cora Sandel’s aesthetics.
A phenomenological understanding of the body as fundamentally situated
forms the basis for my perspective. The body is what the French phenomenologist
Maurice Merleau-Ponty (1908–1961) calls “a situation.” Merleau-Ponty says that
the body “inhabits” the world, by which he means that the body is both perceiving
and perceived, both seeing and seen. In other words, the body is not just a concrete
“thing” which Webster’s Encyclopedic Unabridged Dictionary defines as “the physical
distant ideal, something unreachable),” Cora Sandel says in an interview in Arbeidetbladet in 1972,
quoted in Hans Lund: Texten som tavla. Studier i litterär bildtransformation, Lund 1982, p. 125. The
English translation of Lund’s book, Text as Picture. Studies in the Literary Transformations of Pictures,
Lewiston; New York 1992, does not include his discussion of Cora Sandel’s novels about Alberte
Selmer. This translation from the original Texten som tavla is therefore Frankie B. Shackelford’s.
5
Janneken Øverland refers to the “approximately 30 pictures” by Sara Fabricius that exist, Øverland
1995, p. 211. Since Øverland’s biography was published, several more paintings have been docu-
mented by art historian Anne Aaserud. Some of these are included in Anne Aaserud: Kvinnelige
pionerer i nord, Tromsø 1997, p. 77–78.
6
Lund uses the concept “iconic projections” to designate techniques that attest to an aesthetic dis-
tancing from the object of the gaze. An “iconic projection” is, in Lund’s definition, “the act of
decoding a framed field of vision in the exterior concrete world of objects as if it were a picture” and
can also be understood as “texts interpreting fields of vision in the exterior reality of the fiction as
structured pictures,” Hans Lund 1992, p. 73; 85.
7
See also Kristin Bliksrud: “Ut pictura poesis. Cora Sandel og billedkunsten” in Samtiden, No. 3,
1992 (p. 29–36).
378
structure of man or an animal not including the head, limbs, and tail; trunk.” Rather,
Merleau-Ponty states that “[t]o be a body, is to be tied to a certain world, […] our
body is not primarily in space, it is of it.”8 For Merleau-Ponty the body with its sense
perceptions is thus neither pure physiology nor sheer psychology, but existence.9 In
this view it is our experiences – our physical and perceptual confrontation with the
world – that give the world meaning. Put differently, the body and its perceptions of
time and space are the basis for all of our consciousness and knowledge of the world.
In the following, I use “body” both in reference to the physical human body as used
in the colloquial sense, including head and limbs, and in the phenomenological
sense of “situation” or “existence.” The context clarifies the usage in each instance.
Visual Perception and Representation of the Body: Sara Fabricus’ Portraits

The existing twelve portraits by Sara Fabricius include three portraits of girls, five of
women, two self-portraits and two portraits of the Swedish sculptor Anders Jönsson,
to whom Sara Fabricius was married from 1913–1927. In none of the works do we
see the entire body of the model; most focus on the head and face. As the German
art historian Rudolf Preimesberger has indicated, the face is a fundamental and
determining feature of portraiture because it can be understood as pars pro toto for
the human being and because it is our most important means of communication.10
Thus, portraits without faces do not exist.
Sara Fabricius’ portrait of the French-Breton woman Marie-Catherine empha-
sizes precisely the face (fig. 1).11 Marie-Catherine served as Sara’s maid and nanny
from 1917–191912 and was presumably a source of inspiration for the short stories
“Kunsten å myrde” (The Art of Murder) and “Flukten til Amerika” (Escape to
America) in the collection Mange takk, doktor (1935; Thank you, Doctor) in which
the invaluable housekeeper is a recurrent motif.13 Here Sara Fabricius depicts her
in her characteristic white kerchief, the “coif ” or “coëff-bléo” in Brittany (Øverland
8
Maurice Merleau-Ponty: Phenomenology of Perception, trans. Colin Smith, London 1962 (1945),
p. 171.
9
Mikkel B. Tin: ”Etterord” in Maurice Merleau-Ponty: Øyet og ånden, Oslo 2000 (p. 85–126), p. 120.
10
Rudolf Preimesberger: “Einleitung” in Rudolf Preimesberger et al. (eds.): Porträt, Berlin 1999 (p.
13–64), p. 15.
11
Anne Aaserud does not reproduce the painting in the catalog of Sara Fabricius’ work exhibited
at Nordnorsk kunstmuseum in Tromsø in 1997, but documents it as follows: “Marie-Catherine,
Redon (est. 1918). Oil on canvas, 55 x 46 cm., unsigned. Privately held, Stockholm,” Aaserud, p.
76. Reproduced here with permission of the owner. The picture is reproduced in color in Øverland
1995, p. 192 [7].
12
Øverland 1995, p. 223–227; Aaserud, p. 76.
13
Marie-Catherine is also described under her actual name in the short story “Enkle opptegnelser”
(Simple sketches) in Cora Sandel: Samlede verker, Vol. V, Oslo 1951 (1935), p. 24–42. She also
figures under her own name in the short story “Dag i november” (A Day in November) in Cora
Sandel: Barnet som elsker veier, collected by Steinar Gimnes, Oslo 1973, p. 175–185.
379
1995, p. 217). Art historian Anne Aaserud estimates that the portrait was painted
around 1918 and describes it as follows:
This is a frontal portrait of [Marie-Catherine]. The features are a bit

coarse, but the firm chinline and the eyes that look frankly at the viewer
attest to a courageous and industrious woman. She is wearing a simple
dress of dark blue-violet and the white, starched kerchief that was usual
in Brittany at the time.14
Fig. 1. Sara Fabricius,

Portrait of Marie-Catherine,
Redon (1918)
In the portrait of Marie-Catherine, Sara Fabricius has chosen to approach her

model up close, and the figure of the woman thus fills up most of the canvas. This
full exploitation of the canvas is characteristic of Sara Fabricius’ portraits and can
be considered part of her attempt to represent the individual presence demanded
by the portrait genre. The fact that the figure confronts the viewer directly with
14
“[Marie-Catherine] er portrettert en face. Trekkene er litt grove, men den faste hakelinjen og
øynene som ser uredde mot betrakteren, vitner om en modig og arbeidsom kvinne. Hun er iført en
enkel blåfiolett kjole og det hvite, stivede hodetørkleet som den gang var vanlig i Bretagne,” Aaserud
1997, p. 76.
380
her gaze may have the same function, but frontality has also been used to create
authority and dignity since ancient times. This technique, which characterizes
most of Sara Fabricius’ portraits, helps to emphasize the figure’s status as subject.
Art historian Anne Wichstrøm points out that “in general, the frontal portrait
underscores the interaction between artist and model: the person represented is
the one who communicates with the artist – viewer.”15 Thus, with her proximity
and her presence, her distinct chin and her direct gaze, Marie-Catherine emerges
as a strong and independent woman. The light blue-gray tone of her eyes, which
is hightlighted by the background, enhances this impression as the color can be
associated with steel and strength. At the same time, the blue can imply a pleasant,
sympathetic personality, since blue traditionally symbolizes such characteristics as
steadfastness, loyalty, magnanimity, wisdom and prudence.16
The background and the dark color of the dress create, each in its own way,
neutral fields that “frame” the figure’s face and neck, while the dark eyebrows and
the white areas beneath the eyes direct our attention toward the eyes and forehead.
The bright “half moon” on the forehead can be said to function as a third “eye,” and
it forms, along with the white areas beneath the eyes, a triangular field that helps
to draw the viewer’s gaze to the upper half of the face. As an “eye,” the “half moon”
contributes in creating the impression of Marie-Catherine as “seeing”; its placement
in the forehead can also indicate knowledge, insight, and prudence.17
Sara Fabricius’ representation of Marie-Catherine shows how the physiognomy
of the body can be read as a sign of Marie-Catherine’s individual mode of being in
the world, but the portrait also illustrates that the form of expression is the result
of the artist’s perceiving gaze. The portrait can be said to take the gaze as its central
theme. For the unpainted areas that break up the heavy, dark blue-violet of the dress,
the broken contours and the revised coloration18 all emphasize the way in which the
figure becomes visible to the artist, the way colors and lines and brush strokes create
meaning for her – and consequently for the viewer. Janneken Øverland touches
15
“Det frontale portrettet fremhever i alminnelighet interaksjonen mellom kunstner og modell:
den representerte er den som meddeler seg til kunstneren – betrakteren,” Anne Wichstrøm: “Rom,
kropp, blikk. Kvinneportrettet i moderniteten” in Anne Wichstrøm and Nils Messel (eds.): Portrettet
i Norge, Oslo 2004 (p. 132–151), p. 141.
16
See J.C. Cooper: An Illustrated Encyclopaedia of Traditional Symbols, London, 1978, p. 40 and
Hans Biedermann: Symbolleksikon, Oslo 1992, p. 109. First published in German as Knaurs Lexikon
der Symbole, München 1989.
17
The short story “Enkle opptegnelser” in Mange takk, doktor (1935) makes a point of Marie-
Catherine’s ability to read and write in an environment where most people were illiterate. That the
real Marie-Catherine could read and write is also mentioned specifically by Øverland 1995, p. 218,
so it seems that her literacy can be understood as a distinguishing characteristic that separates Marie-
Catherine from her surrounding enviroment.
18
Alison Aune-Hinkel underscores Sara Fabricius’ tendency to revise: “Reworked images abound in her
paintings; their forms and colorations suggest multiple revisions,” Alison Aune-Hinkel: The Art of Cora
Sandel: A Norwegian Painter and Writer, Unpublished Ph.D.-thesis, Ohio University, 2000, p.65.
381
on this when she writes that “the nuances in the colors create the pictures, not the
drawing behind them.”19 In keeping with Merleau-Ponty’s conception of painting,
the portrait can be said to “depict matter as it takes on form” and thereby to elicit
“the experience of seeing as a being in the world.”20
Fig. 2. Sara Fabricius,

Portrait of Vavi (Svanhild)
Schlyter Johnsson (1914)
The portrait of Sara Fabricius’ friend Vavi (Svanhild) Schlyter Johnsson (fig. 2),
who was a fiber artist, also illustrates how the body can be understood as sign and
how Sara Fabricius’ perception or impression of the world determines her form of
expression.21 Anne Aaserud estimates that the portrait was painted in 1914 and
19
“...det er fargenes valører som skaper bildene, ikke tegningen bak,” Janneken Øverland: ”Cora
Sandel og Paris – møtet med det moderne” in Irene Iversen and Anne Birgitte Rønning (eds.):
Modernismens kjønn, Oslo 1996 (p.112–124), p.113.
20
Jonathan Gilmore: “Between Philosophy and Art” in Taylor Carman and Mark B.N. Hansen (eds.):
The Cambridge Companion to Merleau-Ponty, Cambridge 2005, (p. 291–317), p. 299; p. 298.
21
Anne Aaserud documents the portrait as follows: “Fiber Artist Vavi (Svanhild) Schlyter Johnsson,
(est. 1914). Oil on canvas, 97 x 68 cm., unsigned. Privately held, Stockholm,” Aaserud 1997, p. 71.
Reproduced here with permission of the owner. Reproduced in color in both Øverland (1995, p.
192 [1]) and Aaserud (1997, p. 71) where the same picture is used both places. Unfortunately, the
382
points out that the blue chair that Vavi is sitting on, is the same one that is depicted
in one of Sara Fabricius’ still-life paintings.22 Aaserud continues: “Sara has chosen to
turn her slightly to the right, such that the blue chair back contrasts with the light
wall and the red-striped cotton dress with the white, open collar.”23 By turning the
figure to the right to reveal the chair’s back, Sara Fabricius makes the viewer acutely
aware of the figure’s sitting position. In other words, this technique creates the im-
pression that the female figure is sitting on the edge of the chair in a somewhat
uncomfortable position instead of sitting solidly in the middle of the seat.
The figure is “lengthened and simplified” which according to Alison Aune-
Hinkel can indicate the influence of Amedeo Modigliani. In addition, Aune-Hinkel
points out that the figure “is stylized into a flattened but textually active composition
of dappled blue, ochre, pink and violet tones” and claims – without elaboration
or explanation – that the portrait “discloses an expressive depth of character and
embodies a personal tribute” (Aune-Hinkel, p. 82). Such a comment is justified to
some degree as a closer analysis of the portrait shows. The coloration of the upper
half of the dress is generally lighter than that of the bottom half and the colors are
especially illuminated across the figure’s breast and abdomen. The light character of
the colors, the torso’s proportions in relation to the head, and the contrast in color
between the arms and the dress all direct the viewer’s gaze and attention toward
this area, which roughly fills up the middle two-thirds of the canvas. In this way,
the abdomen, embraced by the somewhat extended arms and shaped into a lap, is
emphasized as a sign. The unfinished face, with eyes that are merely suggested, also
contributes to the apprehension of the lap and arms as the most meaningful signs
in the picture.
In my opinion, this focus on the lap, which stops with the suggestion of knees
beneath the dress in the lower half of the picture and which is dependent on the
figure’s sitting position, must surely have a function. But how should the viewer
understand this? Is the emphasis on the lap surrounded by embracing arms supposed
to create an impression of the portrait’s subject Vavi as nurturing? Is this why Aune-
Hinkel reads depth of character and the embodiment of a personal tribute into the
portrait? The rounding of the shoulders and the head’s slightly downward tilt can,
on the one hand, give the impression of an introverted stance. On the other hand,
the position can help to strengthen the impression of a keen interest in the person
whom the figure is facing: indeed, the figure can be seen to be leaning slightly forward
colors in the picture do not correspond with the original, where they are less subdued and where the
blue tones are less prominent. The colors in the printed reproduction are more subdued than in the
original where the colors “glow” in a totally different way.
22
Sara Fabricius’ paintings do not have titles, but the still-life in question is referred to by Aaserud
1997, p. 68–69 as “Stilleben på stol” (Still-life on Chair).
23
“Sara har valgt å dreie henne noe mot høyre, slik at den blå stolryggen kontrasterer den lyse veggen
og den rødstripete bomullskjolen med hvit, løs krage,” Aaserud, p. 71.
383
towards the viewer, attentive to him or her. And although the eyes are unfinished,
the small, blue round-ings suggest that the figure is looking directly at the viewer. At
the same time, the figure – with folded hands resting in her lap – emanates a calm
and softness that is reinforced by the muted colors and the consistently light touch
in the use of paint and in the brush strokes.
The emphasis placed on certain individual body parts as opposed to others
reveals how Sara Fabricius’ impression of her friend takes on consequences for her
visual representation of Vavi’s body. Likewise, Sara Fabricius’ placement of the head
of the figure up at the upper edge of the canvas is a technique that indicates her own
manner of being in the world. We have seen this exploitation of the canvas in the
representation of Marie-Catherine and, indeed, the figures pervasively dominate
the canvas in Sara Fabricius’ portraits.24 Finally, Sara Fabricius’ sense perception
is indicated by the patches of color and brush strokes that create focal points of
interest in the background without disturbing the impression of the woman being
portrayed. This technique is predominant in Sara Fabricius’ paintings. Even when
the visibility of individual brush strokes is less evident, as in the portrait of Marie-
Catherine, patches of color and brush strokes form the background.
Thus, Sara Fabricius’ perspective can be understood as an essential trait in these
women. Indeed, according to Merleau-Ponty, it is on account of the perspective that
the perceived object possesses in itself a hidden and inexhaustible richness, which
constitutes a “thing”;25 an image does not show “the appearance of things”, but
it “registers an attitude, a not exclusively visual point of view, toward the world”
(Gilmore, p. 301). Merleau-Ponty claims therefore that “[a]rt is not imitation, nor
is it something manufactured according to the wishes of instinct or good taste. It is
a process of expressing.”26 In this way, then, “[a]n artist’s imagery presents a way of
seeing that reflects the artist’s embeddedness in the world, but in so doing it furnishes
neither a visual likeness of the world nor an external presentation of some internal
mental imagery” (Gilmore, p. 301). So, although a given painting may realistically
represent something in the world and express an attitude or point of view toward its
subject, for Merleau-Ponty, the representative capacity of the image is derived from
its registering an attitude and orientation toward the world (Gilmore, p. 301–302).
24
Sara Fabricius’ use of space emphasizes the subject of the portrait. The body appears mainly flat,
but a slight three-dimensionality is suggested by the contours of the knees and buttocks beneath the
dress and by the figure being turned a bit to the right so that she is sitting obliquely. In addition,
there is a suggestion of a floor that angles upwards at the bottom left of the picture and we can sense
the contours of the blue chair under the dress on the bottom right side of the painting. The ultra-
marine and lavender surface behind the figure suggests a wall.
25
Maurice Merleau-Ponty: The Structure of Behavior, trans. A. Fisher, Boston 1963 [1942], p. 186.
Quoted in Jonathan Gilmore: “Between Philosophy and Art” in Taylor Carman and Mark B.N.
Hansen (eds.): The Cambridge Companion to Merleau-Ponty, Cambridge 2005 (p. 291–317), p. 295.
26
Maurice Merleau-Ponty: “Cezanne’s Doubt” in Maurice Merleau-Ponty: Sense and Non-Sense, trans.
and intro. Hubert L. Dreyfus and Patricia Allen Dreyfus, Evanston, Ill 1964 (1948) (p. 9–25), p. 17.
384
In other words, “the artist’s style participates in a kind of exchange or debate with the
world that already exhibits a style, a way or manner of existing” (Gilmore, p. 306).
Towards a Definition of an Aesthetics

In her book Vision and Difference the art historian Griselda Pollock argues that
the practice of painting can be a place for the inscription of gender differences27
and she suggests that “proximity, intimacy and divided spaces” are characteristics of
paintings by women that suggest “the particularity of the female spectator” (Pollock,
p. 84; 85). Pollock builds on an understanding of the engendered body as difference,
on an understanding of the (female) body’s special situatedness as determining her
gaze and manner of expression. While Pollock’s conception of the body can be
reminiscent of the phenomenological understanding of the body as “situation”, her
perspective also includes the gender aspect of the body’s embeddedness in the world
that Merleau-Ponty overlooks.28 But since she does not take the unique variations
that are present in the individual woman’s (and man’s) situatedness into account,
Pollock’s perspective seems to lack nuance. Nonetheless, I consider her observations
to be relevant and interesting in this context because they cause us to reflect on how
and to what extent the gender aspect of the embodied gaze is meaningful in artistic
expression.
Based on a study of impressionist painters such as Berthe Morisot (1841–1895)
and Mary Cassatt (1844-1926), Pollock emphasizes that the female observer’s gaze,
which is directed at the represented figure, is not the gaze of mastery (Pollock, p.
87). Instead, according to Pollock, the gaze is that of “equal and like,” inscribed
into the painting by a particular proximity, and she points out that there is “little
extraneous space to distract the viewer from the inter-subjective encounter or to
reduce the figures to objectified staffage, or to make them the objects of a voyeuristic
gaze” (Pollock, p. 87). In Pollock’s view, the women depicted “function as subjects
of their own looking or their activity” (Pollock, p. 87).
Sara Fabricius’ portraits fit this description to a remarkable degree. Thus,
Pollock’s perspective can shed light on the way Sara Fabricius’ physical situatedness,
her way of being in the world, influences her perception and interpretation of reality
and the way this, in turn, has consequences for her aesthetic expression. In her visual
representations of the body, Sara Fabricius prioritizes closeness, physical intimacy,
and the inter-subjective encounter between the viewer and the person depicted.
Seen from this standpoint, her female figures appear more as subjects than as objects
of portraiture.
27
Griselda Pollock: Vision and Difference. Femininity, feminism and histories of art, London 1988, p. 81.
28
Here Pollock is presumably building on the insights of Simone de Beauvoir: The Second Sex, trans.
and ed. H.M. Parshley, New York 1989 (1952). See also Toril Moi: What is a Woman? And Other
Essays, Oxford 1999.
385
But Sara Fabricius’ portraits also show a tendency toward indistinctness and
incompleteness in the representation of the body. The freedom with which she
handles color and contours results in blurred boundaries, creates unclear transitions
from one element to another, and ties together elements that are naturally separate
– such as Vavi’s brooch and dress, which are tied together by the overlapping green.
The unpainted areas in the portrait of Marie-Catherine, as well as the unfinished
character of the mouth, and the unfinished eyes and hands in the portrait of Vavi,
undermine the impression of the human body as a physical, limited and definable
entity. Visuality and gaze are elevated to key themes through the very lack of clarity,
which both suggests and reveals, at the same time that it erases and conceals. The
unfinished aspects of the portraits can be said to refer to that which cannot be seen,
but toward which “our sensorimotor presence in the world is oriented” (Gilmore,
p. 299).
The thematization of the visual in Sara Fabricius’ portraits challenges the idea
that boundaries and edges of things exist before our senses give them meaning and
illustrates how some aspects of our experience don’t lend themselves to expression.
In this way, Sara Fabricius’ visual representation of the body can be illuminated by
Merleau-Ponty’s ideas that “to see the world is to participate in its becoming visible”
(Tin, p. 90) and that “the painter’s vision is an ongoing birth.”29 As Merleau-Ponty
writes:
Ultimately the painting relates to nothing at all among experienced

things unless it is first of all “autofigurative.” It is a spectacle of something
only by being a “spectacle of nothing,” by breaking the “skin of things”
to show how the things become things, how the world becomes world
(Merleau-Ponty 1993, p. 141).
It has been suggested that Sara Fabricius’ self-critical stance toward her own
work was the reason why she never completed her paintings (Aaserud, p. 74; Aune-
Hinkel, p. 64–65). She herself expressed this criticism as a feeling of immaturity and,
among other things, placed the blame on external circumstances.30 But although
29
Maurice Merleau-Ponty: “Eye and Mind” in Galen A. Johnson (ed.): The Merleau-Ponty Aesthetics
Reader, Evanston, Ill. 1993 (p. 121–149), p. 129. This is reminiscent of Viktor B. Sjklovskij’s idea
that the poet in the process of rendering things strange “gives us back the feeling of being alive,”
Viktor B. Sjklovskij: “Kunsten som grep” in Atle Kittang et al. (eds.): Moderne litteraturteori. En
antologi, trans. Sigurd Fasting, Oslo 2003, p. 18. According to Sjklovskij the goal of art is “to give us
feeling for the thing, a feeling that is a vision and not just a recognition […]. Art is a way of experi-
encing things as they come into being; what already exists is unimportant in art,” Sjklovskij, p. 18.
30
“Jeg følte meg inderlig umoden og var det også.” (I felt deeply immature and I was.) Letter to
Odd Solumsmoen, Håndskriftsamlingen, Nasjonalbibliotek, 18 August 1956. “Det er uferdig som
alt annet jeg gjorde, antagelig kom [min sønn] Erik i veien der også. Det ga meg jo svært meget å
tenke på at jeg skulle ha et barn. Dessuten var jeg i veien i atelieret, i Firenze hadde vi hver sitt, en
386
there is arguably something to this, I am more prone to link the unfinished nature
of her work to an aesthetic practice, such as Harald Flor tentatively suggests in a
review of the first exhibit of Sara Fabricius’ paintings:
It was probably her fear of reworking too much, the fear of losing the
fresh and immediate from the first go-round, the anxiety that the color
wouldn’t find its full range of play. This reflects insecurity as well as
self-criticism, but probably a deeper conception of what a work of art
should express as well. Can’t one, therefore, consider the unfinished
as an expression of a notion that an artwork shouldn’t close itself off,
shouldn’t act as a definitive statement for the person who encounters
it? The incomplete parts of the paintings do not only give the effect of
“silent” areas, but are often just as “vocal” as the frequently used dashes
in Cora Sandel’s literary works.31
This is well put. The use of dashes, understatement, and indirect suggestions so
characteristic of Cora Sandel’s authorship, indicate a significant insight into the fact
that some things are visible because others are not, and that the invisible thus makes
the visible emerge, as Merleau-Ponty points out.32 Furthermore, this insight can
be associated with an aesthetic practice which, precisely by appearing unfinished,
reveals a certain attitude toward the receiving party, as Harald Flor indicates: instead
of presenting a universal “Truth” by appearing to be a finished product, this aesthetic
practice opens up for co-creative reflection during the recipient’s own experience of
the work of art.
velsignet ting.” (It is unfinished like everything else I did; presumably [my son] Erik got in the way
there, too. It sure gave me a lot to think about, knowing that I was going to have a child. Besides, I
was underfoot in the studio. In Florence we each had our own, which was a blessing.) Letter to Odd
Solumsmoen, 18 August 1956.
31
“Det er vel […] det overarbeidete hun selv har fryktet, redselen for å tape det friske og umiddelbare
i anslaget, angsten for at farven ikke skal få sitt fulle spillerom. Her avspeiles så vel usikkerhet som
selvkritikk, men også en dypereliggende idé om hva et kunstverk skal utsi. Kan man derfor ikke fore-
stille seg det ufullendte som et uttrykk for en forestilling om at kunstverket ikke må lukke seg, ikke
stå som et definitivt utsagn for den som møter det? Det ufullbyrdete i maleriene virker ikke bare som
“stumme” felter, men er ofte like “talende” som de hyppig benyttete tankestrekene i Cora Sandels
litterære arbeider,” Harald Flor: “Billedkunstneren Cora Sandel” in Dagbladet 26 April 1972.
32
In this context it is interesting that some of Paul Cézanne’s paintings have unpainted areas of
canvas. In the catalogue for The National Gallery of Scotland it says about his painting The Big Trees:
“Areas of the white canvas may have been left deliberately unpainted to contribute to the picture’s
light-filled, lyrical character.” Further, it can be noted that the Impressionists often worked with
various types of sketches that they sometimes didn’t complete. Allowing the canvas to show in places
gives the impression, in keeping with the Impressionists’ view, that the painting was produced in one
sitting, that the painter has worked directly in front of a motif.
387
From Image to Text: Perception and Representation in the Short Story “Lola”
Implicitly, the verbal representations of the body in Cora Sandel’s literary texts also
express this insight. Here bodily movements function in the same way as colors, lines
and shapes do in Sara Fabricius’ paintings. Moreover, one of the major themes of the
authorship is vision (the gaze) as metaphor for insight. This is developed through
detailed descriptions of the body’s physiognomy and a sustained thematic focus on
the consciousness-raising process in the narrator and/or fictional characters that
specifically renders them “seeing” beings. In addition, in Cora Sandel’s short story
“Lola” from the collection Mange takk, doktor we also find an explicit thematization
of the intimate relationship between the “embodied gaze” or personal “style” and
artistic representations of the body. It appears, therefore, as if this short story is a
natural extension of the attempts at visual representation of the body that we see in
Sara Fabricius’ portraits.
The (female) body is the central motif in “Lola,” which not only points out the
non-mimetic quality of art, but also questions whether representations of the body
– visual and verbal – are reliable signs of human essence, of an unchanging, stable
subject. The story probably harks back to Sara Fabricius’ fifteen-year stay in Paris,
for the female first-person narrator recalls a woman who was a model for a group of
Scandinavian painters, to which the narrator belongs, who lived in Montparnasse
“in a vanished era […] before the war”:33
Splitter naken spøker hun i min erindring og gjør seg til, setter foten
frem og vrir på kroppen, smeller med fingrene som med kastanjetter,
vifter med nesevingene. En rose har hun uten videre snappet fra skålen
på bordet og stukket inn i håret bak øret. Jeg ser den nok. Hennes
freidighet er uten grenser. Hun griper efter hånden min, vil kysse den
og dermed avvæpne meg helt og holdent.
Jeg skal til å forvise henne. Ned i det glemselens dyp hun steg opp
fra. […]
Da slår hun seg på låret så det klasker.34
33
“i en svunnen tidsalder […] før krigen”, Cora Sandel: “Lola” in Cora Sandel: Samlede Verker, Vol.
V, Oslo 1951 (1935) (p. 207–222), p 209. Further citations from “Lola” will be from this edition
and give page numbers only. As earlier noted, all excerpts from the short story are translated by
Frankie B. Shackelford.
34
Quoted from p. 207: “Stark naked she haunts my memory, showing off, placing one foot forward
and twisting her body, snapping her fingers as if she had castanets, flaring her nostrils. She has
snatched a rose from the bowl on the table and stuck it in her hair behind one ear. I can see it clearly.
Her impertinence has no limits. She grabs for my hand, wanting to kiss it and disarm me body and
soul. / I start to push her away. Down into the depth of oblivion she emerged from […] / At that
instant she gives her thigh a raucous slap.”
388
The story opens in medias res with this description, which makes Lola’s insistent
presence clear. An onomatopoetic verb like smelle (“snap”) and verbs of motion like
vri (“twist”), vifte (“fan” or “flare”), snappe (“snatch”), and gripe (“grab”) underscore
the energetic movements Lola makes with her naked body. At the same time, they
contribute to the sensation of restlessness that characterizes Lola as a person. The
introductory section of the story has a predominately paratactic structure with
clauses that list movements, a continuum of actions that can actually be happening
simultaneously, while the use of commas in place of the conjunction og (“and”)
between the phrases helps to create an unevenness in the syntax. This comes across
as a breathless way of writing, a technique that produces an extra cognitive effect in
the reader.
Lola is naked, but the first-person narrator does not focus on her nakedness
whatsoever. Thus, Lola’s body is not presented to our “gaze” as a passive object for
viewing as “a nude.” Instead, Lola’s placement of her foot, her body position, and
the movements of her fingers and nostrils combine to create the reader’s impression
of her body as subject and to express Lola’s sensual, theatrical, impatient and ener-
getic personal style. The emphasis on Lola’s movements in the text creates, in other
words, the impression in the reader of an individual presence, a mode of being in
the world. Further, the accentuation on movement in the representation of Lola’s
body underlines how Lola’s individual presence takes on meaning and comes into
(the artist’s and reader’s) “view.” And finally, it reveals an artistic stance or ”gaze”
that underscores the difficulty in capturing that presence.
The first-person narrator draws the contours of a subject who is inconstant and
unpredictable, as the following ‘visualizing’35 description of Lola’s face confirms:
Store sviskeøyne har hun, innrammet av blått og svart i tykke lag, stor
lakkrød munn, bred, flat nese, et ansikt, herlig fortegnet på bredden og
35
The paragraph has visual power and can be called ekphrastic even though it does not refer to a
visual representation. Amy Golahny points out, for instance, that the Greek verb ekphrasein means
“to report in detail” or “to elaborate upon” and she explains further: “As an inserted passage, intended
to make vivid an event, personality or object, an ekphrasis does not intrinsically refer to works of
art. It does, however, indicate a verbal passage that conjures an image in the mind of the reader.
The power of the word to convey an image, of whatever subject, is identifiably ekphrastic,” Amy
Golahny: “Introduction: Ekphrasis in the Interarts Discourse” in Amy Golahny (ed.): The Eye of the
Poet. Studies in the Reciprocity of the Visual and Literary Arts from the Renaissance to the Present, London
1996 (p. 11–18), p. 12. The paragraph can be said to be ekphrastic because it has the ability to create
a particular effect in the mind of the reader, namely that of enargeia or evidentia. These rhetorical
terms refer to detailed, lucid descriptions that make a person, place or thing visible and “life-like,”
and that give the receiver the impression of being witness to that which is described, Tormod Eide:
Retorisk leksikon, Oslo 1999, p. 52; p. 65; p. 116. See also Bernhard F. Scholz: “Ekphrasis and
Enargeia in Quintilian’s Institutionis oratoriae libri xii” in Peter L. Oesterreich and Thomas O. Sloane
(eds.): Rhetorica movet. Studies in Historical and Modern Rhetoric in Honour of Heinrich F. Plett,
Boston, 1999 (p. 3–24).
389
så pudderblekt at det fanger reflekser som en hvitkalket vegg gjør det,

blir klart lysegrønt eller fiolett, eller mursteinsrødt i skyggene, alt efter
omgivelsene. Manken er tett og ullaktig, skifter i kobber og sót, lem-
mene tunge, bena to bomsterke muskelbunter. De kunne bære en stor,
kraftig kvinne, og bærer en liten, senet, sandgrå torso.36
This paragraph provides insight into how Lola exhibits and stages herself as subject
in a theatrical fashion and how she consciously manipulates her body’s appearance
with make-up for this purpose. The first-person narrator’s description of the body’s
appearance, especially Lola’s complexion and hair, illustrates how Lola’s character
changes in relation to the surroundings and situation like a chameleon. The body’s
physiognomy can, in other words, be taken as a sign of Lola’s inexplicable, incom-
prehensible, and unreliable being. This representation of the body promotes a modern
understanding of the subject by underscoring how problematic it is to establish a
definitive, unchanging, essential subject. The narrator also asks rhetorically, “Hvem
var Lola?” (Who was Lola?) and answers: “Et lite vims, som bluffet, løy og gjorde
scener, flink, frekk, hensynsløs, søt også bevares, stygg og malerisk. Et kors alt i alt,
hvem oppstyr og forvirring fulgte i sporet.”37
This emphasis on descriptions of bodily movement and physiognomy in the text
not only point to the body as “situation,” as a reflection of Lola’s personal style, but
also to an aesthetic practice that reflects an embodied “gaze” that prioritizes fluidity,
openness, and co-creative interaction. For the first-person narrator repeatedly stresses
the mysterious air and the numerous lies that surround Lola:
Hun påstår seg ha stått for Van Dongen og Matisse – i hemmelighet,

naturligvis, eftersom hennes liv består av hemmeligheter. Det er ikke
det minst trolige av alt det Lola kommer med. […] Lolas far, som skal
være død, har snart vært lege, snart ingeniør. Lolas mor derimot er til
enhver tid av gammel, spansk adel, og har egentlig begått en mésalliance.
Med en neger, skulle man tro, når man betrakter Lolas flate nese og
ullhår. Men er det noe hun konsekvent holder på, så er det sin spanske
herkomst.38
36
Quoted from p. 210–211: “Her eyes are big, soft prunes, framed by thick layers of blue and black,
her mouth painted shiny red, the nose broad and flat, a face with magnificently distorted cheeks
and so powdery pale that it picks up reflections like a whitewashed wall, turns clearly light-green or
violet, or brick-red in the shadows, depending on the surroundings. Her mane, thick and woolly,
shifts from copper to soot, her heavy limbs, two muscle-bound legs as strong as tree trunks. They
could carry a large, powerful woman, and they bear but a small, sinewy, sand-gray torso.”
37
Quoted from p. 207: “A little gadfly, who bluffed, lied and created scenes, capable, impudent, in-
considerate, sweet, too, of course, ugly and picturesque. A pain, overall, with whom commotion and
confusion followed wherever she went.”
38
Quoted from p. 211: “She claims to have stood [as model] for Van Dongen and Matisse – in secret,
390
But even though Lola “geberder seg i ett og alt som hovedperson, gjør seg ustans-
elig gjeldende,”39 as the narrator says, the text emphasizes that she is interesting
primarily on account of the commotion and confusion she causes. In other words,
Lola’s mystery is enhanced by her interaction with the Scandinavian artists that she
models for: “Over den lille flokken mennesker fra Norden har hun en besynderlig
makt. Uten protester lar de seg proppes fulle av historier, gjøres narr av og pumpes
for penger i forskudd.”40 Indeed, the adjectives used to characterize Lola assume an
interpretive gaze that sees her in relation to an “audience.”
Thus, the story of the impulsive, Spanish Lola becomes just as much a story
about the quiet Jens Olsen from Gamvik in Finnmark, who is among the painters
for whom Lola serves as model, and the picture he paints of Lola: “Tydelig er også
Jens, blå og åndsfraværende i øynene, nøysom til det fabelaktige, en drømmer og fra
Gamvik. […] Tydelig er billedet han malte, muret og skrapet og klattet sammen,
frembrakt som gjennom en rekke katastrofer, omfangsrikt og uforglemmelig.”41 In
this way, the first-person narrator stresses the human relationships and the inter-
subjective encounter in the presentation of the (female) body at the same time as
syntactic structures in the text help to create the impression of physical intimacy
and nearness.
In the short story, then, the narrator’s gaze is indirectly linked to an aesthetic
practice that parallels Sara Fabricius’ use of techniques in her paintings and that can
be seen to be representative of Cora Sandel’s form of expression. Her representation
of the body as an indefinable and surprising entity, that calls the phenomenological
understanding of body as existence to mind. Understood as an encounter between
“like and equal” subjects, Sandel’s representation of the body illustrates how she
understands artistic practice as a dialogue with the recipient. In this view, art opens
up to and turns toward a sensing and co-creating receiving party who finds its own
truth in and through its own experience of (the subject in) the work of art.
This aesthetic practice stands in contrast to Jens’. Jens’ format is, as he himself
proclaims, “det store formatet” (the large format), “kolossalformatet” (the colossal
of course, since her life consists of secrets. This is not the least believable story of all that Lola tells.
[…] Lola’s father, who is supposedly dead, has been a doctor one minute and an engineer the next.
Lola’s mother, on the other hand, is always of old, Spanish royalty and has really entered a misalli-
ance. With a black man, one should think, when one regards Lola’s flat nose and woolly hair. But if
there is anything that she consistently maintains, it is her Spanish ancestry.”
39
Quoted from p. 209: “[Lola] always acts like the center of attention, makes her presence constantly
felt.”
40
Quoted from p. 211: “She has a strange power over the little flock of people from Scandinavia.
Without protest they let themselves be filled with stories, made fun of and pumped for money in
advance.”
41
Quoted from p. 208: “I can see Jens clearly in my mind, too, with an absent look in his blue eyes,
frugal to the point of being legendary, a dreamer and from Gamvik. […] I can see clearly the picture
he painted, grouted and scraped and blobbed together, emerging as through a series of catastrophes,
expansive and unforgettable.”
391
format): “‘Naturlig størrelse e ingen størrelse,’ bedyrer han” (p. 212; “actual size is
just not big enough,” he asserts). And employing ekphrasis the narrator describes
the result of Jens’ view of art:
Jens’ Lola er en overveldende Lola, en Lola man bare har å bøye seg
for. I pudderblått og rosa, i oker og grått, i kurver og vinkler, mot en
bakgrunn, fantastisk som en drømt urskog. Sviskeøynene går nesten til
ørene, lakkmunnen likeså. Rundelig og rikelig er det for øvrig av både
et og annet, og fingertykk, svart kontur, hvor man kommer. Det er Jens’
uttrykk for Jens’ inntrykk av Lola, vakkert på sin egen voldsomme vis
og helt for sin egen skyld.42
This description of Jens’ visual representation of Lola presents an interpretation

of his art; the narrator “creates” Jens’ picture in words by emphasizing his use of
color, background and outlining. The ekphrasis illustrates a gaze that objectifies,
romanticizes, caricatures, and isolates the female body. In addition, the distinct
outlines defining the female body’s shape and size in the narrator’s representation
of Jens’ form of expression can be understood as a sign of how his gaze defines
and locks her body in place. Indeed, in the narrator’s ekphrasis Jens has oversized,
exaggerated, and underscored the body as a female object (for desire) and “thing”
with firm contours and boundaries. This art says nothing about Lola’s existence, her
“situation”, her “being in the world”; in the narrator’s representation she remains
only a medium used by Jens in his attempt to express his own feelings, which the
narrator alludes to indirectly by pointing out how the portrait emerges “as through
a series of catastrophes.”
The narrator’s verbal representation of Jens’ visual representation of the body as
“entirely for its own sake” stresses his ambitions as a painter, his need to make an
impression on others and to earn money with his art. Thus, in the narrator’s eyes
it is “an overwhelming Lola” that Jens presents to the viewer. The recipient, who
can but “yield to” this picture and be impressed by it, is, in other words, forced to
accept Jens’ interpretation as the universal “Truth” about Lola. According to the
narrator’s description, Jens’ work of art is self-enclosed and offered as a pre-packaged
“product” to be consumed.
The narrator’s verbal representation of Lola presents – in much the same way
as the verbal representation of Jens’ visual representation – the female body as
42
Quoted from p. 215: “Jens’ Lola is an overwhelming Lola, a Lola one can merely yield to. In
powder blue and pink, in ochre and gray, in curves and angles, against a background as fantastic as
the primeval forests of dreams. The prune eyes go almost to her ears, the painted mouth, too. Gen-
erous and plentiful in all aspects, and black outlines, as thick as your finger, everywhere you look.
It is Jens’ expression of Jens’ impression of Lola, beautiful in its own violent way and entirely for its
own sake.”
392
interesting, mysterious, and “picturesque.” But their different forms of expression

are explicitly bound to the differing ways in which their embodied gazes are situated
in the narrator’s portrayal. Jens’ need to impress and to create a finished product,
linked to his social background (“from Gamvik”), ambitions and financial situation,
is clearly contrasted with the narrator’s own representation of Lola, which is motivated
by Lola’s insisting “appearance” in her mind’s eye. A prioritization of text – and
therefore of indirect representation of the body through actions – over the image
and the “static” representation of the body formed by shapes and colors, seems to
lie implicitly in this contrast. However, it is possible to see this favored aesthetics as
encompassing a view of both visual and literary art. Indeed, as we have seen, verbal
and visual representations of the body create similar effects through the choices of
technique. Descriptions of bodily movements and physiognomy as well as the use
of alternating perspectives on Lola’s person fill the same function in Cora Sandel’s
short story as color and contour lines have in Sara Fabricius’ portraits. Both show the
unclear contours of a subject and thereby assist the receiver (viewer/reader) “to see.”
This technique underlines the affiliation between the two art forms. While the
viewer of Sara Fabricius’ paintings must co-construct the images, the text allows the
reader to co-create a “vision” of Lola. But in spite of the fact that the reader is initiated
into the mysteries surrounding Lola’s person and is invited to assist in the creation
of meaning, the story emphasizes how any Truth about Lola escapes not only Jens,
but the narrator and readers as well. For in prioritizing a “blurred” representation
of Lola, the text underscores the fact that the body is a fluid condition rather than
a stable, fixed entity that can be firmly defined and reproduced. In addition, the
short story demonstrates Merleau-Ponty’s idea of art as a process of expressing, as
an exchange or dialogue between the model’s and artist’s individual styles of being
in the world rather than an imitation or visual likeness of the world. In this way,
the text underlines that neither painting nor literature can objectively or adequately
capture or represent bodily experience.
”De spør om jeg var impresjonist?” writes Cora Sandel (Sara Fabricius) in a letter
to her friend and biographer Odd Solumsmoen (18 August 1956). Her answer is as
follows: ”Jeg var vel det? Jeg satt iallfall trofast foran mine motiver, men samtidig var
jeg vist ute efter noe annet som jeg uklart søkte.”43 Both Sara Fabricius’ portraits and
the short story ”Lola” imply that the “something else” that Cora Sandel vaguely was
in search of, can be so simple – and so difficult – as being able to represent that which
is ”behind” the visible, physical body (world). Perhaps it can be said that she sought
to express the body understood as existence, that witness of life which is invisible and
indefinable, that she in Merleau-Ponty’s words wanted to ”[give] visible existence to
what profane vision believes to be invisible” (Merleau-Ponty 1993, p. 127).
43
“You ask if I was an Impressionist? I was, wasn’t I? In any case I sat faithfully in front of my motifs,
but at the same time I believe I wanted something else [i.e. something other than the impressionistic
representation of the motifs] that I vaguely was in search of.”
393
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Ph.D.-thesis: Ohio University, 2000.
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Bliksrud, Kristin: ”Ut pictura poesis. Cora Sandel og billedkunsten” in Samtiden, No. 3,
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(eds.): The Cambridge Companion to Merleau-Ponty, Cambridge 2005 (p. 291–317).
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695–719).
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and Modern Rhetoric in Honour of Heinrich F. Plett, Boston 1999 (p. 3–24).
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Anne, and Messel, Nils (eds.): Portrettet i Norge, Oslo 2004 (p.132–151).
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Aaserud, Anne: Kvinnelige pionerer fra nord, Tromsø 1997.
394
Medium Translations between Fictional Arts1
Eli Rozik
Whereas it is evident that language is capable of generating descriptions of fictional

worlds (literary fiction), only under the influence of Charles S. Peirce did it become
manifest that iconic arts too are capable of generating such descriptions. Not only
the dramatic arts such as theatre, opera and puppet theatre demonstrate this ability
but, as I show below, so too do the pictorial/plastic arts. On such grounds, I explore
here the principles that explain possible translations between these arts. I suggest
that the common denominator of these iconic arts is the imagistic nature of their media;
i.e., their being grafted upon the spontaneous ability of the human brain to produce
mental images and employ them as units of a particular form of thinking.2 I also suggest
that it is this common ground that enables medium translations of fictional worlds.
The substantiation of this thesis requires a new understanding of (a) ‘fictionality,’
(b) ‘iconicity,’ (c) the function of language in literary fiction, and (d) the semiotic
nature of cinema.
a) Fictionality: I propose that ‘fictional world’ should be understood as reflecting
the spontaneous (and originally preverbal) capacity of the brain to think through creating
complex images of characters and their actions. I thus presuppose a fundamental
distinction between arts that are capable of generating descriptions of fictional worlds
and those that are not. This distinction does not overlap traditional classifications
of the arts, such as theatre, ballet and art, since some of them also feature ‘abstract’
styles that are neither capable of describing fictional worlds nor aim to do so.
b) Iconicity: Most of the arts that generate descriptions of fictional worlds are
iconic. Traditional definitions of ‘iconicity,’ however, do not consider its crucial
imagistic element. In contrast, I propose that ‘iconicity’ should be redefined in terms of
imagistic thinking and communication, thus connecting iconic media to the natural
faculty of the brain to produce images and employ them in thinking processes. I
support this definition through recent findings in neuroscience.
I also suggest that, in principle, all iconic media are capable of generating descrip-
tions of fictional worlds, with differences between them stemming from the nature of
a particular medium and a mediating creative interpretation. However, in contrast
to the dramatic arts, the static nature of the pictorial/plastic arts (e.g., figurative
painting and sculpture) pose a problem in creating separate images in contrast to
1
I dedicate this article to Prof. Hans Lund, whose contribution to interart studies I very much admire.
2
Eli Rozik: The Roots of Theatre – Rethinking Ritual and Other Theories of Origin, Iowa City 2002a,
p. 249–269.
395
Eli Rozik: Medium Translations between Fictional Arts
the dynamic nature of fictional worlds. I suggest that various conventions and/or
mechanical procedures aim at overcoming this obstacle.
c) Literary fiction: Despite the symbolic nature of language, literary fiction is
capable of describing fictional worlds because of the evocative power of words; with the
imagistic approach settling this problem too.
d) Cinema: Following Charles S. Peirce’s remark that photography is pre-
dominantly indexical,3 it is widely accepted that cinema is basically indexical. In
place, I propose that cinema is a recording of an iconic text, and, therefore, capable of
describing fictional worlds on the grounds of the imagistic approach to iconicity.4
Finally, I support my theses by analyses of fictional worlds based on Shakespeare’s
Romeo and Juliet in most of the fictional arts (theatre, opera, ballet, painting,
comics, animation, puppet theatre, still photography and cinema); and explore their
common grounds that, in principle, enable translations from medium to medium.
The Fictional World

By ‘fictional world’ (narrative), I mean here an imaginative world of characters and
their interaction, their temporary and final successes or failures, and the meanings of
their worlds. I follow thereby Northrop Frye’s fundamental distinction between two
basic modes of authorial expression: the ‘fictional’ and the ‘thematic,’ in the sense of
‘not mediated by a fictional world.’5 Frye bases this distinction on the widely acknowl-
edged capacity of the human psyche to spontaneously create fictional worlds that
reflect its innermost thoughts and feelings, as in dreaming, daydreaming, children’s
imaginative play and mythology. Furthermore, there are sound indications that
this kind of creativity reflects an archaic mode of thinking employed by preverbal
humans to ponder themselves and their worlds (Rozik 2002a, p. 249–269). In this
sense, artistic fictional worlds are embodiments of authorial thoughts and potential
descriptions of readers/spectators’ amorphous psychical states of affairs.
From the time of Aristotle’s Poetics on, there has been a vast body of studies
relating to the principles that structure fictional worlds. Although many of them
have been devoted to drama, I believe that similar principles apply to fictional
worlds in other fictional arts. Following Aristotle, I assume that beyond the amazing
diversity of fictional worlds there is a set of poetic principles that structure them,
and explain the readers/spectators’ experiences. Since the principles that structure
fictional worlds have been found effective for readers/spectators in different cultures
for millennia, it is sensible to conjecture that these reflect their archetypal patterns
3
Charles Sanders Peirce: Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce in Charles Hartshorne and Paul
Weiss (eds.): Cambridge 1965, 2.281.
4
Eli Rozik: “Back to ‘Cinema is Filmed Theatre’” in Semiotica, CLVII, No. 1–4, 2005 (p. 169–185).
5
Northrop Frye: Anatomy of Criticism. Four Essays, Princeton; Oxford 1957, p. 33–35 and 365, p.
52–54 and 367.
396
of expectation and response. Following Carl G. Jung, I employ “archetypal” in the

sense of “spontaneous (combined innate and culturally-conditioned) expectations
and responses.”6 Authors seem to be able to anticipate possible reactions, on the
grounds of experience, although not always able to fully explain them. These
principles, therefore, plausibly reflect a practical knowledge of human psychical
mechanisms, amounting to a kind of fictional “technology.” Such generalizations
are only occasionally verified scientifically a posteriori; e.g., the principle of catharsis
is consistent with empirical findings.7 I propose, on such grounds, that the five basic
structures suggested in chapter XIII of Aristotle’s Poetics reflect readers/spectators’
archetypal expectations and responses. Unfortunately, Aristotle ignored structures
that contrast them, such as those that aim at an experience of the absurd, which can
be explained by simple inversion of the archetypal ones.
I have suggested elsewhere that a fictional world reflects a stratified inner structure
of at least five layers: mythical, praxical, naïve, ironic and aesthetic, which bestows
upon it a sense of inner logic, unity and wholeness.8 I have also suggested that, on the
relational level between fictional world and readers/spectators, the former constitutes
a potential complex metaphor of the readers/spectator’s psychical state of affairs and
reflects rhetoric intent.9 I also assume that in affecting the spectator the dominant
factor is not the language/medium employed, but the nature of the fictional world.
Although this is an analytic distinction, which is not intuitively perceived, each of
these aspects of a performance-text reflects different structural principles.
The Traditional Definition of ‘Iconicity’

Charles S. Peirce first employed ‘icon’ in the context of his theory of signification and
communication, and defined it in terms of motivation on the grounds of similarity
(inter alia: II, 2.247 & 2.274-2.308). ‘Motivation’ means here that a sign can be
‘read’ through natural inference, with no need to learn the system, on the grounds of
either similarity (to real models) or contiguity. ‘Icon’ (e.g., a painted smile) belongs
in a triad that also includes ‘index,’ a sign motivated by contiguity, e.g., a real smile
indicates a state of mind (Peirce II, 2.248); and ‘symbol,’ an unmotivated sign based
on a conventional link, between ‘signifier’ and ‘signified’ in Saussure’s terms,10 e.g.,
the word ‘smile.’ Since ‘similarity’ also applies to other kinds of relationship such as
twin brothers and two peas, an icon is supposed to be first recognized as a sign, or
set of signs, and only subsequently distinguished from other kinds of signs.
The implication of the fundamental difference between iconic signs and words
6
Carl G. Jung: Man and his Symbols, New York 1969, p. 67–68.
7
Cf. Hans Kreitler, and Shulamith Kreitler: Psychology of the Arts, Durham 1972, p. 12–22.
8
Eli Rozik: “Towards a Methodology of Play Analysis – A Theatrical Approach” in Assaph – Studies
in the Theatre, No. 6, 1990, p. 43–79.
9
Eli Rozik: “Theatrical Experience as Metaphor” in Semiotica, CXLIX, No. 1–4, 2004, p. 277–296.
10
Ferdinand de Saussure: Cours de Linguistique Générale, Paris 1972, p. 99.
397
(symbolic signs) is that iconicity is nonverbal by definition. Although this implication

seemingly contradicts the capability of iconic media to describe speaking fictional
worlds, there is nothing to preclude iconic replicas of real speech acts, which also are
nonverbal by definition, fundamentally being not a form of description but a form
of action. In this sense, dramatic dialogue is a nonverbal description of a nonverbal
form of interaction, despite employing words.
The question is: does iconic similarity apply to the real or to the described fictional
world? In theatre studies, for example, there is a tendency to identify ‘iconicity’ with
‘mimesis’ in the sense of ‘imitation’ of reality and even with ‘naturalism.’ I suggest
that the notion of ‘iconicity’ is not a synonym of ‘mimesis’, but merely implies that
iconic units are read and interpreted on the grounds of similarity, however faint or
stylized, to real or mental models; e.g., a real horse or a mental image of a unicorn.
An iconic text can thus evoke a world that either resembles real life or differs from it
to various extents; e.g., science fiction. Imitation of reality is thus only an option.
In contrast, ‘similarity’ does apply to the relation between a describing iconic
text and a described fictional world. ‘Reading’ an iconic description indeed means
evoking a fictional image on the grounds of similarity; e.g., actors’ looks are meant
to indicate that characters resemble them, thus explaining type casting and even the
use of masks and make-up. This should be qualified, however, because iconic conven-
tions presuppose that, qua conventions, their features should not be attributed to
fictional worlds; e.g., a mature actor enacting a young character requires that indexes
of older age be disregarded.
The traditional definition of ‘iconicity’ on the grounds of ‘motivation’ and
‘similarity’ is widely accepted in traditional semiotics. However, while providing a
reasonable description of typical iconic units, it poses a problem in regard to some forms
of iconic semiosis, iconic conventions in particular. Conventions are characterized
by partial or total cancellation of the principle of similarity, thus precluding natural
inference and justifying their categorization as such; e.g., a description of a fictional
world through still frames displayed in linear order. The universality of iconic forms,
moreover, leads to the conjecture that their roots lie in a primeval, elementary and
vital mental faculty, to which traditional definitions of ‘iconicity’ hardly relate. In
their place, I propose defining ‘iconicity’ in terms of ‘imagistic thinking.’
An Imagistic Definition of ‘Iconicity’: from Nietzsche to Neuroscience

Sigmund Freud suggests that while dreaming the brain goes into a process of
regression: “We call it ‘regression’ when in a dream an idea is turned back into
the sensory image from which it was originally derived. [...] In regression the fabric
of the dream-thoughts is resolved into its raw material.”11 He implies thereby that
11
Sigmund Freud: The Interpretation of Dreams, trans. J. Strachey, Harmondsworth, Middlesex
1978, p. 693.
398
‘regression’ is a translation from verbal into imagistic representation; that there is a

basic correspondence between verbally formulated ideas and their respective sensory
images, e.g., between the phrase ‘red apple’ and the image ‘red apple’; and that
images are not mere perceptions, or retrieved perceptions, but employed as basic
units of thought. He also implies that thinking through images has been a pre-
linguistic method of thinking, characteristic of humankind in the early stages of
its development. Freud thus follows Friedrich Nietzsche’s insight that in dreams
the brain “is reduced to a condition of imperfection such as in the primeval ages
of mankind may have been normal by day and in waking. […] in dreams we all
resemble this savage” (Freud, p. 16–17).12 Traces of preverbal imagistic thinking
are also found in daydreaming and children’s imaginative play and drawings (Rozik
2002a, p. 270–292).
Following Freud’s line of reasoning, in Philosophy in a New Key, Susanne Langer
claims that images are “our readiest instruments for abstracting concepts from the
tumbling stream of actual impressions. They make our primitive abstractions for us,
they are our spontaneous embodiments of general ideas.”13 Furthermore, images are
“just as capable of articulation, i.e., of complex combination as words” (Langer, p.
93) Thinking is thus anchored in perception, the raw material of mental imagistic
representation. Langer suggests the following definition of thinking:
Man, unlike all other animals, uses “signs” not only to indicate things,
but also to represent them. […] We use “signs” among ourselves that do
not point to anything in our actual surroundings. Most of our words […]
are used to talk about things, not to direct our eyes and ears and noses
toward them […]. They serve, rather, to let us develop a characteristic
attitude toward objects in absentia, which is called “thinking of ” or
“referring to” what is not there. “Signs” used in this capacity are not
symptoms of things, but symbols. (Langer, p. 30–31)
In her view, ‘thinking’ presupposes two main conditions: representation of things in

the mind and manipulation of them in absentia; i.e., thinking takes place when such
representations are disconnected from actual experience. This definition of thinking
is meant to equally fit verbal and imagistic representation.
For R. L. Gregory, in The Intelligent Eye, the eye is not merely an ‘image-forming’
organ, but also one of interpretation.14 Perception is thus conceived of as the
prototype of thinking (Gregory, p. 146): the eyes “freed the nervous system from the
tyranny of reflexes, leading to strategic planned behaviour and ultimately to abstract
12
Cf. Carl G Jung: Dreams, trans. R. F. C. Hull: Princeton University Press 1974, p. 33.
13
Susanne K. Langer: Philosophy in a New Key. A Study in the Symbolism of Reason, Rite, and Art,
Cambridge 1976 (1942), p. 145.
14
R. L. Gregory: The Intelligent Eye, New York; St. Louis; San Francisco 1970, p. 12–15.
399
thinking” (Gregory, p. 13). Gregory thus supports Langer’s philosophical approach

on scientific grounds. From her perspective, “[e]yes that did not see forms could
never furnish it with images.” (Langer, p. 90) Moreover, “[t]he eye and the ear make
their own abstractions, and consequently dictate their own peculiar conception”
(Langer, p. 91).
Conceiving images as fundamental units of thought is amply supported by
recent findings in neuroscience. In Descartes’ Error, Antonio R. Damasio asserts that
having a mind means “the ability to display images internally and to order those
images in a process called thought.”15 Furthermore, whatever is not “imageable,”
including words and mathematical symbols, cannot be known and, therefore, can-
not be manipulated by thought (Damasio, p. 107). In Image and Brain, on the
grounds of digital methodology, Stephen M. Kosslyn asserts that “[i]magery [in the
sense of mental representation] is a basic form of cognition, and plays a central role
in many human activities – ranging from navigation to memory to creative problem
solving.”16 He distinguishes between ‘propositional’ and ‘depictive’ representations,
with the latter being stored in the brain spatially, like the objects they represent:
“Depictive representations convey meaning via their resemblance to an object, with
parts of the representation corresponding to parts of the object” (Kosslyn 1995, p.
5). ‘Depictive’ representation is thus synonymous with ‘imagistic’ representation.
Damasio distinguishes between ‘perceptual images’ (e.g., running your fingers over
a smooth metal surface); ‘recalled images,’ which occur when one conjures up a
remembrance of things; and images “recalled from plans of the future [that] are
constructions of your organism’s brain” (Kosslyn 1995, p. 96–7). The latter should
be conceived of as images that have been disconnected from actual experience and
become units of thought. Such images are not exact reproductions of objects, quali-
ties or acts, but a combination of faint reproduction and interpretation, “a newly
reconstructed version of the original.” (Kosslyn 1995, p. 100)
Kosslyn characterizes thinking as hinging on two properties: “First, information
must be represented internally; and second, […] information must be manipulated
in order to draw inferences and conclusions.”17 He reconfirms thereby Langer’s defi-
nition of ‘thinking’ in general, and thinking by means of images in particular.
There are, however, two problems in defining ‘iconicity’ on the grounds of ima-
gistic thinking: First, spontaneous mental images are figments of the imagination,
i.e., non-material entities, which cannot be communicated. Mental images thus
require a material carrier to enable communication of their signifying function. I
suggest, therefore, that the ‘iconic unit’ is an image imprinted on matter, such as
marble, paint and human bodies. In Saussurian terms, the imprinted image and
15
Antonio R. Damasio: Descartes’ Error, New York 1994, p. 89.
16
Stephen M. Kosslyn: Image and Brain, Cambridge 1995, p. 1.
17
Stephen M. Kosslyn: “Introduction” in Michael S. Gazzaniga (ed.): The Cognitive Neurosciences,
Cambridge 1996 (p. 959–961), p. 959.
400
the imprinted matter together constitute the signifier of the iconic unit (Saussure,
p. 99). Although it would appear that iconic conventions cancel the principle of
similarity, as suggested above, they are nonetheless images imprinted on matter, as
otherwise their presence in an iconic text would be precluded.
Second, in contrast to words, spontaneous mental images carry diffuse signifieds.
In particular, they do not determine clear boundaries between core sense and asso-
ciative peripheries, making interpersonal communication problematic. I suggest,
therefore, that in order to become an established cultural medium, iconicity requires
the mediation of language, which is the main repository of relatively controlled
abstractions in any culture. Assumedly, mediation is spontaneous because a brain
conditioned by a language naturally assigns senses to iconic units, according to the
words that conventionally categorize their models. It is precisely in this sense that
an imprinted image of an object and the verbal sentences used to describe it are
equivalent in different systems of signification. This implies that understanding an
iconic text presupposes linguistic competence. An image thus becomes a cultural
unit of signification and communication, and can be used as a unit of thinking and
description, under two conditions: material imprinting and language mediation;
e.g., an image of a verbal threat can be communicated by imprinting it on an actor’s
voice and mediated by the word ‘threat.’
The definition of ‘iconicity’ in terms of ‘imagistic thinking’ does not contradict
the traditional one because the notion of ‘image’ implies ‘similarity’ and ‘motivation’
but, in addition, (a) it connects the iconic unit to the natural faculty of the brain to
produce images and employ them as units of thinking; and (b) it expands the set of its
models to images created in the mind.
The Two-Fold Nature of Fictional Texts

Images of fictional worlds, spontaneously created by the human imagination,
cannot be communicated unless described by a language/medium that is capable
of evoking them in the minds of readers/spectators; i.e., their communication is
dependent on descriptions, although not necessarily on a specific language/medium.
Since fictional worlds are figments of the imagination any description of a fictional
world must be evocative, in the sense of producing the corresponding image of a
fictional world in the receivers’ minds. Whereas literary fiction employs language
for describing images of fictional worlds and evoking them in the minds of readers
through the associative power of words, iconic arts employ imprinted and language-
mediated images for the same purpose; with the implications being that whereas
the former actually functions as an imagistic medium, the latter afford a highly
suitable means of description of fictional worlds because their units already resemble
the evoked worlds. Indeed, the imagistic approach does not preclude the evocation
of images in the minds of receivers through non-iconic means. On such grounds,
401
iconic media and literary language contrast abstract arts, such as music, abstract
ballet and abstract art, which are non-imagistic in the above sense altogether. In
contrast to the spontaneous form of fictional creativity (such as a dream or a child’s
imaginative play), literature and iconic arts employ culturally established media,
poetic rules that structure fictional worlds, and guided contextualization in terms of
the viewers/spectators’ culture.
I claim that fictional worlds and the means of their descriptions are mutually
independent. In principle, different languages/media can describe the same fictional
world; and the same language/medium can describe different fictional worlds. This
mutual independence reflects the different principles that structure either a language/
medium or a fictional world. It is the imagistic nature of these descriptions shared by
language and iconic media that enables the translations of fictional worlds. In fact,
as we shall see below, translations are never absolute because of mediating creative
interpretations and changing cultural contexts. Moreover, the rules of a language/
medium and the poetic rules that constitute fictional worlds are not only different
and independent of one another, but also complement one another. A fictional text
is thus a combination of a describing language/medium and a described world.
Specific Differences of Iconic Media

This study aims at ascertaining not only the possibility of describing fictional worlds
by means of iconic media, each one according to its nature, and in addition to
language, but also their translatability. Therefore, while presupposing that each
iconic medium reflects the common features of iconicity, it is sensible to ponder
its intrinsic qualities that determine its potentialities and limitations. I suggest here
several dimensions of difference:
a) Imprinting matters – While all iconic units are images imprinted on matter,
each iconic medium is characterized by the nature of its imprinting matter. Whereas
some iconic arts use matters that differ from those of their models, underscoring
thereby their signifying and communicative function, e.g., painting and puppet
theatre, other iconic arts are characterized by extending the principle of similarity
to the material level, e.g., theatre and opera. In the latter, for example, images of
human behavior are imprinted on actors’ bodies, images of costume on real fabric
and images of light on real light.
b) Dynamic and static media – The specific qualities of the imprinting materials
determine a fundamental distinction between dynamic and static media. Whereas
a dynamic medium generates continuous sequences of images, just as in real life,
static media are only capable of generating discrete images and, at most, sequences
of such images. For example, whereas an actor’s body can produce a fluid sequence
of images of astonishment, fury and violence, in a comic strip such a sequence
would be described by a series of discrete frames. The fluidity of images imprinted
402
on a body means that they are linked by transitional neutral positions of expressive
organs, which both separate and link images together. It is these neutral links that
disappear in the static media, without impairing their descriptive capability.
c) Deflection of reference – Since the notion of ‘description’ implies the existence
of a referent, the question is: how is reference to a fictional world accomplished?
In describing fictional worlds iconic media usually generate images of interaction,
i.e., sequences of acts, including speech acts, which are indexes of actions.18 In this
respect, there is a fundamental difference between iconic media that employ live
actors for imprinting images of interaction and those that do not. While real acts
inherently refer to those that perform them, actors perform acts meant to refer not
to themselves, but to characters. This is achieved by performing subject signs that
identify entities other than themselves (characters), and predicate signs that describe
their actions. Elsewhere, I have termed this principle ‘deflection of reference.’19 This
principle does not apply to iconic media that do not employ live actors.
d) Specific conventions: In general, iconicity reveals some inherent constraints.
For example, because of replicating the external appearances of things, iconic media
are limited in the communication of characters’ thoughts. I suggest that such con-
straints require conventions in order to generate full descriptions of fictional worlds;
e.g., stage soliloquy. In addition, each medium reveals specific limitations that also
require compensating conventions; e.g., since in static media the fluid transition
between images on the time axis is precluded, there is a need for a convention that
can put separate images into a narrative order. Such a sequence, for example, is from
left to right for an English readership, and the opposite for a Hebrew one, implying
thereby that this convention reflects the typical order of a writing culture.
e) Aesthetic effect: Each medium enables different forms of harmony and
disharmony. Whereas iconic media that enable the replication of voiced speech
create images of harmony or disharmony on both the visual and aural levels, iconic
media that do not are restricted to only visual harmony or disharmony. In various
iconic media aural and/or visual harmony are enhanced by the addition of music,
singing and/or dancing.
Fictional Worlds in the Main Iconic Media

Although I assume that the same fictional world can be described through different
iconic media/languages, it is virtually impossible to find fully equivalent texts because,
in addition to medium differences, each description reflects a particular creative
18
J. L. Austin: How to Do Things with Words, Oxford 1980; John R. Searle: Speech Acts. An Essay in
the Philosophy of Language, Cambridge 1985; Expression and Meaning. Studies in the Theory of Speech
Acts, Cambridge 1986, p. 1–29.
19
Eli Rozik: “Acting: The Quintessence of Theatricality” in Substance, XXXI, No. 2–3, 2002b (p.
110–124).
403
interpretation and a particular contextualization in the terms of a contemporary

readership/audience. However, since my intention is to determine the possibility of
description of fictional worlds by all iconic media/languages, and their translatability,
differences of interpretation will be by and large overlooked.
I focus here on the analyses of several texts based on Shakespeare’s Romeo and
Juliet in various imagistic media/language, and speculate about additional ones that,
to my knowledge, were not used for this purpose. The number of fictional works
based on this narrative is enormous, ranging from genuine attempts to “faithful”
interpretations of the original to highly peculiar departures from it; e.g., the Guinea
Pig Theater animated cartoon (fig. 1).20 The following thus also serve to illustrate
major trends in the interpretation of the Shakespearean source.
a) The literary source – Arthur Brooke’s 3000 lines long poem The Tragicall
Historye of Romeus and Juliet, believed to have been Shakespeare’s actual source,
was first published in 1562, about two years before the bard’s birth, and reprinted
in 1587, about eight years before the first performance of Romeo and Juliet (c.
1595). Although some of the motifs had appeared in earlier literary versions, such
as Xenophon (second century AD), Massusccio Salernitano (1476), Luigi da Porta
(1530) and Matteo Bandello (1554), it is Brooke’s poem that already features the
main events in Shakespeare’s fictional world: the feud between the two families,
Romeo’s previous infatuation (albeit the girl is unnamed), the party in Old Capulet’s
home, the instant falling in love of Romeo and Juliet, their secret marriage, Romeo’s
killing of Tybalt, his banishment and flight to Mantua, Juliet’s arranged marriage
with Paris, the friar’s sleeping potion, Romeo’s tragic mistake, the lovers’ double
death and the two families’ eventual reconciliation (Brooke).
In his moralistic preface, Brooke advises the readers that his story is a good
example of the fatal consequences of becoming prey to desires and not heeding good
advice. The narrative certainly substantiates this moral teaching. Romeo and Juliet
are in love, not in the vein of chivalric decorum typical of the sixteenth century,
i.e., not reflecting respect for the virtues of the beloved, but in carnal relations; not
to mention parental disapproval. The nurse behaves as a kind of procuress, in the
manner of Fernando Rojas’ La Celestina (c. 1499), thus lending an ignoble innuendo
to their love. She actually provides all the means for the consummation of their
matrimony; and even suggests that if Juliet marries Paris she will be most fortunate
in having both a husband and a lover. Friar Laurence’s “good” advice could have
counterbalanced her services, but he makes a gross mistake in assuming that Romeo
and Juliet’s wedding will bring about the reconciliation of their families: only their
death succeeds in achieving this. He also errs in providing Juliet with the sleeping
potion, causing the opposite of what he had intended. Eventually Prince Escalus
inquires into the tragic events and passes judgment: because of his good intentions
20
Source of fig. 1 in http://www.musearts.com/cartoons/list.html.
404
the friar is exonerated, the nurse is exiled, the families reconcile, and a monument
is built in memory of the tragic consequences of the unfortunate feud.
The evocative nature of this story is made prominent by the verbal descriptions
of the circumstances of the fictional action; e.g., the descriptions of Verona (1–24),
the friar’s cell (1257ff ) and the funeral customs of Verona (2515ff ). We may con-
clude, therefore, that it is the ability of words to evoke images that makes possible the
literary description of this fictional world.
b) The play-script – Brooke’s narrative is ‘moralistic’ in the sense that it is
meant to reaffirm the values of the synchronic readership by bringing a set of
absurd events to their “logical” consequences. I claim that the intertextual relations
between Shakespeare’s play-script and Brooke’s story, his departures from this source
in particular, indicate his intention to avoid the simplicity of the source and experiment
on the structure and mood of this narrative. In addition to its dramatization, the
highly significant departures from Brooke’s story are:
1) Right from the opening scene Shakespeare sets up a definite comic mood,
clearly contrasting the tragic mood of the ending. While the fight is comic, the
Capulets’ behavior verges on the grotesque; e.g., in response to Lord Capulet’s asking
for his long sword, Lady Capulet remarks: “A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a
sword?” (I, i, 75–6). Similarly, Lady Montague too scolds her husband (I, i, 80).
These love-obstructing old fathers, clearly designed in the images of the Pantaloons
of commedia dell’ arte, bestow a sense of triviality on the feud. In general, Mercutio
and Nurse polarize the comic mood: the former with his witty and libertine remarks
and the latter with her go-between behavior. They are meant not only to provide
comic relief, but also to establish a worldly standard from which the youngsters’
poetic love departs.
2) Shakespeare stresses the innocent and immature nature of Romeo and Juliet’s
love by developing Romeo’s sudden infatuations with both Rosaline and Juliet. This
indicates that he is more in love with love than with either of them. Juliet intuits
his inconsistency and asks him not to swear by the moon, the symbol of unceasing
change: “O, swear not by the moon, th’inconstant moon,” (II, ii, 109). However,
Juliet too is not exempt from being in love with love. I suggest that decreasing Juliet’s
age from sixteen (Brooke) to thirteen years reflects the very same intent. Inter alia it
is the immaturity of the lovers that unleashes the unfortunate chain of events.
3) Shakespeare softens the illicit nature of Romeo and Juliet’s love by only
hinting at sexual attraction, in place of the consummation of their matrimonial ties
that in Brooke’s poem takes place over several months, and through the outstanding
beauty of their dialogues. Nonetheless, it is rather clear that their love reflects not a
chivalric attitude, but sheer passion.
4) The ending produces a sense of absurdity. First, against the background of
the persistent trivial feud and the lovers’ immaturity, the blindness of the friar, who
believes that their wedding will bring about reconciliation of the families, absurdity
405
is exacerbated. The same applies to the idea of the sleeping potion. His good inten-
tions bring about the opposite results. Second, the coincidental nature of Romeo
and Juliet’s death evokes a similar sense of absurdity in not gratifying the audience’s
expectations. Third, the reconciliation of the families at the cost of the adolescents’
tragic death precludes any sense of a final happy end.
5) Shakespeare precipitates the tempo of the action from several months to a few
days, thus increasing the sense of a terrifying vortex.
Undoubtedly Romeo and Juliet reflects experimental intent.21 Shakespeare evidently

tried out an unusual combination of comic and tragic moods. Initially, he created
a comic fictional world, in mood (e.g., Old Capulet) and situation (e.g., Rosaline),
which begets an eventual tragic outcome. He also experimented with the structure of
the fictional world. Against the background of a foolish feud, on the one hand, the
imprudent acts of the youngsters and the equally foolish help of Friar Laurence could
have been experienced by the synchronic audience as a manifold tragic hamartia
(error and/or flaw) that is balanced by catastrophe, which is the moralistic structure
of Brooke’s story. I am inclined to think that although this structure was rejected by
Shakespeare, its traces are still felt in his interpretation. The very young age of the
lovers, their highly poetic dialogue and their final absolute faithfulness, on the other
hand, probably led to an attitude of forgiveness and compassion, mitigating the
harsh verdict of catastrophe. However, by the same token, it could also have brought
about an experience of the absurd, in the sense of contrasting the expectations of the
contemporary spectators.
I suggest that it is not the structure of a fictional action in itself, for such struc-
tures are shared by tragedy and comedy, but its combination with a specific mood
(comic, tragic or grotesque22 that determines its genre. In this sense, the transition
from a preliminary comic mood to an eventual tragic one does not require a change
of structure on the level of action. I suggest, therefore, that Shakespeare’s experimen-
tation lies in putting in tension two different principles that structure the same
narrative material: the hamartia/catastrophe and the absurd version of the happy
end structures. Whereas the dead seriousness of hamartia arouses expectations for
an unhappy ending, the initial lighthearted comic mood arouses expectations for a
happy ending. However, the more the sympathy for Romeo and Juliet is promoted,
the more the frustration of the audience’s expectations becomes plausible. The
addition of the motif of fate (the star-cross’d lovers) could not have prepared the
audience for such an ending, and thus mitigated their disappointment (cf. Charlton,
p. 53–55).
21
H. B. Charlton: “Shakespeare’s Experimental Tragedy” in Shakespearian Tragedy, Cambridge 1948,
p. 49–63.
22
Cf. Wolfgang Kayser: The Grotesque in Art and Literature, trans. Ulrich Weisstein, New York;
Toronto 1966, p. 136–138.
406
In order to gratify the expectations of the audience Shakespeare could have

opted for Romeo’s discovery that Juliet was merely asleep. Whereas the hastiness of
Romeo’s decision logically follows from his characterization, there was nothing to
prevent the use of a deus ex machina, quite a sensible means for a typical comedy
of the period: love, parental obstruction and eventual marriage (Frye, p. 163ff ).
Furthermore, presenting the idea of the eternal union of Romeo and Juliet in death
could have compensated the sense of absurdity aroused by the actual ending, but this
romantic idea, in the popular sense, was most probably not shared by Shakespeare.
His play-script is thus neither moralistic nor romantic. I believe that he opted for
the tension between the moralistic and absurdist experience, with the latter being
dominant.
Most of the art works based on this narrative claim allegiance to Shakespeare’s
play-script. What is the reason for this widespread appeal? I suggest that it is rooted
in both its poetic excellence and the inherent deficient nature of play-scripts, which
not only allow for, but also require innovative interpretations, relevant to ever
changing audiences. Nonetheless, the current tendency is to see in this love story
the epitome of romantic love that realizes itself beyond death. This interpretative
shift can only be explained on the grounds of a far-reaching change in the hierarchy
of values, typical of present-day culture that has put love at its top and allows for
physical relations as its expression.
In many a production, such a romantic interpretation is often combined with
the sense of futility aroused by perennial conflicts, including wars, always justified
and always claiming innocent victims. This is achieved by identifying the Montagues
and Capulets as the actualized contending parties; e.g., the bilingual Israeli/Arab
co-production of Romeo and Juliet by the West Jerusalem Khan Theatre and the
East Jerusalem El Kasaba Theatre, jointly directed by Fouad Awad Nimer and Eran
Baniel, 1994, in which the Montagues were played by Palestinian actors in Arabic
and the Capulets by Israeli-Jewish actors in Hebrew. In such productions the feud
becomes central and the final reconciliation of the families is meant to be experienced
as a happy end. Such adaptations too support the principle of translatability that,
as suggested above, is based on the imagistic common grounds. Moreover, in itself,
Shakespeare’s dramatization of Brooke’s story bears witness to the possible translation
from an imagistic/evocative use of language to an iconic medium.
c) Theatre – For example, Peter Gill’s production of Romeo and Juliet at the Royal
Shakespeare Theatre, 2004, with Sian Brooke and Matthew Rhys in the leading
roles (fig. 2).23 In this production, which maintained close intertextual relations
with the source play-script, the actors imprinted images of fictional interaction on
their own bodies and deflected reference to characters, thus evoking such images in
the minds of spectators. Theatre is a dynamic medium because it enables neutral
23
Source of fig. 2 in http://www.britishtheatreguide.info/reviews/RSCrandj-rev.htm.
407
images of transitional positions of expressive organs that both separate and connect
meaningful images, creating thereby a sense of real life. In addition, this text featured
a permanent set that, although in neo-classic style, was reminiscent of the basic
Shakespearean stage.24 Elements of dilapidation in the set created a metaphor of the
horrendous consequences of the feud. The aesthetic effect was achieved not only by
the poetic nature of the verbal text, but also on visual and aural grounds.
d) Opera – For example, Guy Joosten’s production of Gounod’s opera Romeo
and Juliet at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, 2005, with Natalie Dessay
as Juliet and Ramón Vargas as Romeo (fig. 3).25 Just as in several other well-known
operas, the libretto is a romantic adaptation of Shakespeare’s play-script.26 In gen-
eral, opera is an art generated by the theatre medium in the sense of imprinting
dynamic images of characters on human actors and deflecting reference to them,
with its specific difference being the integration of music and singing into the acting.
Stage monologues become arias, dialogues – duets, and choruses – choral songs. It is
quite evident that in this art the quality of music and singing is substantially more
important than the narrative. The dramatic use of singing should be seen as a stage
convention, fulfilling an aesthetic function, because it is implied that in their own
worlds characters are not supposed to sing rather than speak. Such an aesthetic effect
is also achieved on visual grounds; e.g., set design and choreographed movement.
Moreover, in this production, on the grounds of the amply employed sky imagery
in the play-script, the set featured various backdrops showing a galaxy, the moon
and the sun (shining and in eclipse), visible through a stage-high round portal, as if
the theatre has been remodeled into a planetarium. Similar considerations apply to
musicals, further removed adaptations of the play-script such as Leonard Bernstein’s
West Side Story.
e) Figurative ballet – For example, Mikko Nissinen’s production of Romeo
and Juliet, music by Sergei Prokofiev and choreography by Rudi van Dantzig, the
Boston Ballet, 2003, with Jennifer Gelfand as Juliet and Paul Thrussell as Romeo
(fig. 4).27 In principle, figurative dance too should be seen as generated by the theatre
medium, in the sense of actors imprinting dynamic images of characters on their
own bodies and deflecting reference to them, with its specific difference being the
integration of music and (silent) dance into the acting. It is widely believed that
in this art the quality of music and dancing is substantially more important than
the narrative. The dramatic use of stylized movement should be seen as a stage
convention, fulfilling an aesthetic function, because it is implied that in their own
24
Kate Wilkinson: “Romeo and Juliet – Presented by the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-
upon-Avon. March 26 – October 8, 2004” in http://www.shu.ac.uk/emls/10-2/revwilk.html.
25
Source of fig. 3 in http://unserefotoscom.h887666.serverkompetenz.net/merker/main.php?g2_itenId=18...
26
Ronald Blum: “Gounod’s Roméo and Julliette Goes on the Met” in http://www.andante.com/
article/article.cfm?id=26199.
27
Source of fig. 4 in http://www.robertaonthearts.com/id21.html.
408
worlds characters are not supposed to dance in silence rather than walk and speak.
The aesthetic function is achieved on visual and aural grounds. I note that the
extreme aesthetic nature of ballet is most suited to the romantic interpretation of
this narrative.
f ) Figurative drawing/painting – For example, Frank Dicksee’s painting
“Romeo and Juliet,” 1884, shows the young couple kissing at the balcony (fig. 5).28
Juliet is in her dark room, the light of dawn peering forth “from the golden window
of the east” (I, i, 119), while Romeo is already on the balustrade, as they part with
a passionate kiss: “Farewell, farewell! One kiss and I’ll descend.” (III, v, 36). In the
background, there is a passion plant climbing a column, with its flower symbolizing
the instruments of crucifixion, a metaphor probably hinting at the lovers’ suffering.
In principle, being a static medium, it is difficult to see how a figurative painting
can evoke a fictional world that is essentially a complex of characters and their inter-
action on the time axis. However, although I assume that a single frame picture
cannot tell a story, it can call to mind the entire narrative of which it represents a
single episode.29 Moreover, the identification of this episode as part of the Romeo
and Juliet narrative may also evoke the events before and after it, thus inducing a
sense of time progression. This associative process presupposes the knowledge of
Shakespeare’s play, which can be presupposed for Western viewers. Although such a
picture is usually conceived of as only an illustration of a preexisting narrative, it can
also function as a prism through which such a fictional world is perceived; i.e., as
an independent text that, by intentionally focusing on a particular scene, attempts
to reflect a creative interpretation of the entire fictional world. In this painting, the
contrast between day and night, their imminent parting, their passionate kiss and the
metaphoric allusion to the Passion definitely convey a romantic interpretation of the
narrative. The extreme stylization of the picture supports this interpretation. Such
a text reflects an artist’s imprinting of a static image on canvas, with no deflection
of reference because there are no live actors who produce acts or expressions that
could have been attributed to themselves. The inability of this medium to reproduce
speech is usually compensated by pictorial conventions such as a title or drawn/
painted words within the frame. In this case, the painting relies on the viewers’
knowledge of the Shakespearean wording. The aesthetic effect is circumscribed to
visual harmony.
g) Cartoon – A single frame cartoon, in regard to a description of a fictional
world, evinces the same problem as a painting: its static nature. At most it can be
conceived of as a prism through which a known fictional world can be interpreted.
A strip cartoon overcomes this fundamental temporal limitation by the convention
of aligning still drawings in the typical order of a specific verbal culture, from left to
28
Source of fig. 5: Oil on canvas: Southampton City Art Gallery, Southampton, England.
29
Cf. James Elkins: “On the Impossibility of Stories: the Anti-narrative and Non-narrative Impulse
in Modern Painting” in Word and Image, Vol. 2, No. 4, 1991 (p. 348–364), p. 348.
409
right in the case of English, creating thereby a sequence that spatializes the temporal
nature of the fictional world (cf. Elkins, p. 350). Elkins distinguishes between the
‘order of recurrence’, (e.g., the order of the source narrative), the ‘order of telling’
(e.g., the order of the frames from left to right) and the ‘order of reading’ (Elkins, p.
350). In the case of a strip cartoon of the Romeo and Juliet narrative it is sensible
to assume that these three orders, although not necessarily, coincide.30 Nonetheless,
the strip cartoon remains a static medium because it imprints images of human
behavior without separating/connecting neutral movements. There is no deflection
of reference because the imprinted human images can not refer to themselves. The
typical conventions of this medium are speech bubbles (balloons) for speaking and
thought bubbles for thinking. The aesthetic impression is produced only on visual
grounds as by any other pictorial medium.
The animated cartoon goes even further; for example, the animated version
of Romeo and Juliet, directed by Yefim Gamburg (fig. 6).31 This production is the
product of a mechanical device that enables the recording and projection of drawn/
painted static frames in a way that makes the impression of a dynamic medium.
The imprinting of images is similar to that of static pictures. There is no deflection
of reference. The spoken elements of a fictional world are conventionally conveyed
by voice-over. The aesthetic impression is produced on the same grounds as by any
other combination of pictorial and aural media. Computerized techniques have not
substantially changed the nature of animated cartoons.
h) Sculpture – Similar considerations apply to figurative sculpture. Although
some of its typical im-printing matters, such as stone and iron, may preclude
descriptions of whole fictional worlds for technical reasons, there is nothing to
prevent a single scene from being sculpted and provide a prism through which an
entire fictional world is perceived. Moreover, nothing precludes the use of lighter
materials, not only for sculpting static images of narratives, e.g., the typical manger
scene at Christmas, but also ordered images of entire fictional worlds. Moreover,
there are animated films of puppets sculpted in wood or plasticine. An outstanding
example of animated sculptures is puppet theatre.
i) Puppet theatre – For example, Marek Becka’s production of Romeo and
Juliet, the puppet Teatro Toc of Prague, 2004, is a typical marionette version, albeit
condensed, of Shakespeare’s narrative (fig. 7).32 The performers not only operated
and dubbed, but also carved and painted the wooden marionettes. In principle,
puppet theatre should be seen as a kind of theatre medium, with its specific
difference being the use of puppets in place of human actors. Its animated sculpted
and painted images are operated thus as to create an illusion of human behavior; i.e.,
30
I have found no strip cartoon of this narrative, but refer the reader to “Shakespeare’s Macbeth,”
illustrated by Von, New York 1982.
31
Source of fig. 6 in htt://www.imdb.com/title/tt105273.
32
Source of fig. 7 in http://www.radio.cz/en/article/56026.
410
the impression of a dynamic medium. Although it is the puppeteers who imprint

images on the puppets, there is no deflection of reference because these images can
not be attributed to the puppets, unless the characters themselves are puppets (e.g.,
Stravinsky’s Petrushka). A typical convention of this medium is the puppeteer’s voice-
over. Aesthetic effects are similar to those of combined visual and aural media.
j) Still photography – For example, the photographed poster of Franco
Zeffirelli’s film Romeo and Juliet (fig. 8).33 A photograph is basically a mechanical
recording of an object and, therefore, its qualities are mainly dependent on its
object. Still photography is a static medium that reveals constraints similar to those
of a drawing/painting. Therefore, it can be either an illustration of a literary text or
a prism reflecting a creative interpretation of a whole narrative or production. In
this photograph, Zeffirelli’s particular interpretation of the balcony scene is made
prominent by comparison to Dicksee’s painting. This photograph deflects reference
because its object is a human actor enacting a character. In this case, the inability of
photography to reproduce speech is compensated by knowledge of the play-script.
Its aesthetic effect is conditioned by the same principles governing all pictorial
media.
A photo-novel of this narrative can reflect the same spatial convention of strip
cartoons: aligning still photos in the typical order of a specific verbal culture, from
left to right or vice versa, creating thereby sequences that spatialize the temporal
nature of a fictional world. In this way, it can compensate for the static nature of
still photography. This medium is nonetheless static because it imprints images of
human behavior without separating/connecting neutral movements. In this case
too there is deflection of reference because the photographed characters are enacted
by live actors. Since replication of speech is precluded, the photo-novel employs
conventions of speech and thought similarly to strip cartoons, such as speech and
thought bubbles (balloons).
k) Cinema – For example, Zeffirelli’s film Romeo and Juliet, that basically
follows the play-script, with Olivia Hussey and Leonard Whiting in the leading
roles (fig. 9).34 In principle, film is a mechanical device capable of screening single
photographic frames in a way that creates the illusion of a dynamic medium,
thus overcoming a basic limitation of still photography. Furthermore, following
Peirce, cinema is widely perceived as an indexical text, in the sense of being – like
a footprint – the mark left on celluloid by its object. However, it is an index of a
process of mechanical recording (cf. Benjamin; cf. Barthes), which does not impinge
on its textual nature: still and kinetic photography can record the visual aspects of
any object, whether text or not, without changing the nature of its object. Indeed,
‘recording’ is not a principle of signification and communication. This applies to any
33
Source of fig. 8 in http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0063518.
34
Source of fig. 9 in http://students.ed.uiuc.edu/bach/nrj24/rj1968.html.
411
kind of recording process. Cinema is neither iconic in Peirce’s sense of a photograph

being similar to its object, which is in the nature of recording. I have suggested
elsewhere, instead, that a film is iconic in the sense of its object being an iconic text
generated by the theatre medium; i.e., produced by actors who enact or, rather,
imprint images on their own bodies and deflect reference to characters in front of a
(recording) camera (Rozik 2005). It is this acting that determines its textual nature.
The difference lies in that cinema, because of being a recording, precludes the direct
experience of actors’ bodies that characterizes theatre. Furthermore, the acting is
usually performed intentionally to suit the requirements of the camera. The parallel
recording of voice (the sound track) overcomes another limitation of photography.
We may conclude, therefore, that it is the recording nature of cinema that enables
the description of fictional worlds formulated in the theatre medium.
This production reflects the director’s romantic interpretation, and maintains
intertextual relations with the source play-script, and possibly with previous theatre
and cinematic productions. Zeffirelli stresses the adolescent nature of Romeo and
Juliet’s love by casting very young actors and, for the first time, showing their naked
bodies. Because of the advantages of the cinematic camera, scenes in real open spaces
were made possible. On the sensory level, the aesthetic effect was achieved not only
by the poetic nature of the verbal text, but also on visual and aural grounds.
While silent movies are recordings of only the visual aspects of descriptions of
fictional worlds, radio dramas are recordings of only their aural aspects. In both
cases specific conventions make up for their deficiencies. Cinema combines these
two techniques of recording.
Similar considerations apply to a video recording deliberately made for this
medium; i.e., if it is a recording not of a stage production, but of actors enacting a
fictional world in front of a video camera; e.g., Eric Weinthal’s video production of
Romeo and Juliet, 1997.35 In principle, video too is a mechanical device capable of
recording the texts that actors imprint on their own bodies, including their visual
and aural components, their dynamic nature, deflection of reference and aesthetic
structure. However, like film, it lacks the unmediated experience of actors’ bodies
that characterizes theatre.
Conclusions
The redefinition of ‘iconicity’ in terms of imagistic thinking and communication
accounts for the fact that all iconic arts, whether dynamic or static, can generate
descriptions of fictional worlds. Static iconic arts overcome their inherent limitations
through either conventions, such as linear presentation of single frames and balloons,
or mechanical procedures that enable their animation. Literary fiction is capable
of describing fictional worlds due to the evocative power of words, and cinema is
35
http://www.bullfrogfilms.com/catalog./romeo.html.
412
capable of doing so because of recording imprinted images of characters and their

actions. In other words, one way or the other, all these arts can describe fictional
worlds due to their common ground being the imagistic nature of their medium/
language; i.e., their being grafted upon the spontaneous ability of the human brain to
produce mental images and employ them as units of a nonverbal form of thinking, shared
by artist and reader/spectator. This common ground also explains, in principle, the
possible translation from one medium/language to another, albeit reflecting different
interpretations, as demonstrated by the various renderings of the Romeo and Juliet
narrative. All the above examples bear witness to this translatability.
Fig. 2. Matthew Rhys and

Sian Brooke as Romeo and
Fig. 1. The Guinea Pig Juliet in Peter Gill’s theatrical
Theater animated production at the Royal
cartoon of Romeo and Juliet Shakespeare Theatre, 2004
Fig. 4. Simon Ball and Pollyana Ribeiro

as Romeo and Juliet in Mikko
Nissinen’s production, with
Fig. 3. Ramón Vargas and Natalie Dessay as Romeo and music by Sergei Prokofiev and
Juliet in Guy Joosten’s production of Gounod’s opera choreography by rudi van Dantzig,
at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, 2005 the Boston Ballet, 2003
Fig. 5. Frank
Dicksee’s painting
Romeo and Juliet,
1884 (oil on canvas)
Fig. 6. The animated

version of
Romeo and Juliet, directed
by Yefim Gamburg
413
Fig. 7. The Teatro

Toc puppet theatre
version of Romeo
and Juliet in Marek
Becka’s production,
Prague, 2004
Fig. 8. The
photographed
poster of Franco
Zeffirelli’s film
Romeo and Juliet
Fig. 9. Leonard
Whiting and
Olivia Hussey
as Romeo and
Juliet in Zeffirelli’s
film
414
References
Aristotle: The Poetics in S. H. Butcher (ed. and trans.): Aristotle’s Theory of Poetry and Fine
Arts, New York 1951.
Austin, J. L.: How to Do Things with Words, Oxford 1980.
Barthes, Roland: “Rhetoric of the Image” in Image Music Text, trans. S. Heath, London
1977 (p. 32–51).
Benjamin, Walter: “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” in
Illuminations, trans. H. Zonn, New York 1968.
Brooke, Arthur: The Tragicall Historye of Romeus and Juliet, J. J. Munro (ed.), New York 1908.
Charlton, H. B.: “Shakespeare’s Experimental Tragedy” in Shakespearian Tragedy, Cambridge
1948 (p. 49–63).
Damasio, Antonio R.: Descartes’ Error, New York 1994.
Elkins, James: “On the Impossibility of Stories: the Anti-narrative and Non-narrative
Impulse in Modern Painting” in Word and Image, Vol. 2, No. 4, 1991 (p. 348–364).
Freud, Sigmund: The Interpretation of Dreams, trans. J. Strachey, Middlesex 1978.
Frye, Northrop: Anatomy of Criticism. Four Essays, Princeton; Oxford 1957.
Gregory, R. L.: The Intelligent Eye, New York; St. Louis; San Francisco 1970.
Jung, Carl G.: Man and his Symbols, New York 1969.
Jung, Carl G.: Dreams, trans. R. F. C. Hull 1974.
Kayser, Wolfgang: The Grotesque in Art and Literature, trans. Ulrich Weisstein, New York;
Toronto 1966.
Kosslyn, Stephen M.: Image and Brain, Cambridge 1995.
Kosslyn, Stephen M.: “Introduction” in Michael S. Gazzaniga (ed.): The Cognitive Neuro-
sciences, Cambridge 1996.
Kreitler, Hans and Shulamith Kreitler: Psychology of the Arts, Durham 1972.
Langer, Susanne K.: Philosophy in a New Key. A Study in the Symbolism of Reason, Rite, and
Art, Cambridge 1976 [1942].
Nietzsche, Friedrich: Human, All Too Human, trans. R. J. Hollingdale, Cambridge 1998.
Peirce, Charles Sanders: Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce in Charles Hartshorne and
Paul Weiss (eds.), Cambridge, Mass 1965.
Rozik, Eli: “Towards a Methodology of Play Analysis – A Theatrical Approach” in Assaph –
Studies in the Theatre, No. 6, 1990 (p. 43–79).
Rozik, Eli: The Roots of Theatre – Rethinking Ritual and Other Theories of Origin, Iowa City
2002a.
Rozik, Eli: “Acting: The Quintessence of Theatricality” in Substance, XXXI, No. 2–3, 2002b
(p.110–124).
Rozik, Eli: “Theatrical Experience as Metaphor” in Semiotica, CXLIX, No. 1–4, 2004 (p.
277-296).
Rozik, Eli: “Back to ‘Cinema is Filmed Theatre’” in Semiotica, CLVII, No. 1–4, 2005
(p.169–185).
Saussure, Ferdinand de: Cours de Linguistique Générale, Paris 1972.
Searle, John R.: Speech Acts. An Essay in the Philosophy of Language, Cambridge 1985.
Searle, John R.: Expression and Meaning. Studies in the Theory of Speech Acts, Cambridge 1986.
415
Notes on Contributors
Jens Arvidson, art historian and lecturer at Intermedia Studies and Museology,
Department of Cultural Sciences, Lund University. He is also a museum assistant at
The Museum of Sketches – Archive of Public Art, Lund. He has written on inter-
medial subjects such as comics, art and museology/museography.
Mikael Askander is Associate Professor at the Department of Cultural Sciences,

Lund University, Intermedia Studies. He has a PhD in Comparative Literature. His
dissertation, Modernitet och intermedialitet i Erik Asklunds tidiga romankonst (2003),
deals with literary modernism and intermediality. In his recent research he focuses
mainly on music videos and poetry.
Walter Bernhart is Professor of English Literature at the University of Graz, Austria,

chairman of the university’s research and teaching program “Intermediality,” and
president of the International Association for Word and Music Studies (WMA). He
is editor-in-chief of two book series, Word and Music Studies (WMS) and Studies in
Intermediality (SIM). His main research interests are intermedia studies, word and music
studies, theory of lyric and rhythm studies, Elizabethan and twentieth-century poetry.
Magnar Breivik is Associate Professor at the Department of Music, Norwegian

University of Science and Technology, Trondheim. His research has been especially
devoted to early 20th-century music, and he has published articles on the music and
thoughts of composers such as Schönberg, Berg, Hindemith, Krenek, and Weill.
Jørgen Bruhn is Associate Professor, University of Växjö. He has published books

on Marcel Proust and Michail Bakhtin, articles and edited volumes on, among other
things, history of the novel, medieval literature, the concept of multicultural society,
and various intermedial problems on intermediality.
Siglind Bruhn is a music analyst/musicologist, concert pianist, and interdisciplinary

scholar presently working at the University of Michigan’s Institute for the Humani-
ties as a full-time researcher; Distinguished Senior Research Fellow at the University
of Copenhagen’s Center for Christianity and the Arts and, for the period 2004–2009,
a chercheur invité at the Sorbonne’s Institute for the Esthetics of Contemporary Arts.
She has authored fifteen book-length monographs and is a co-editor of Pendragon
Press’s book series “Interplay: Music in Interdisciplinary Dialogue.” Honorary
Doctor at the University of Växjö, Sweden.
417
Claus Clüver is an Indiana University Professor emeritus of Comparative Literature.

He has also taught at New York University and in Germany, Sweden, Denmark, and
repeatedly in Portugal and Brazil. In 2003 he was appointed Honorary Doctor at
Lund University, Sweden. Clüver’s publications include over thirty essays on inter-
mediality and interarts studies, especially on Concrete and visual poetry, inter-
semiotic transposition, ekphrasis, and representation in the arts. He is co-editor of
several volumes dedicated to intermediality.
Heidrun Führer wrote her doctoral thesis on Baroque Jesuit Theatre, Studien zu Jacob
Baldes Jephtias. Ein jesuitisches Meditationsdrama aus der Zeit der Gegenreformation,
at Lund University in 2003. She lectures at Lund University at the Department for
Nordic Languages and gives courses in intermediality at the Department of Cultural
Sciences. She has published several articles on Jesuit drama.
Stephanie A. Glaser is a research associate at the Centre for the Study of the
Cultural Heritage of Medieval Rituals at the University of Copenhagen. She also
lectures in Germany at the Ruhr-Universität, Bochum. Her principle interest is the
visual and verbal representation of the Gothic cathedral in the nineteenth century,
and in 2002 she wrote her doctoral thesis, Explorations of the Gothic Cathedral in
Nineteenth-Century France.
Lena Hopsch is a sculptor, educated at University College of Arts, Crafts and Design,
Stockholm, and Valand School of Fine Arts, Gothenburg. As a PhD student, she
also works with research and art pedagogy at the Department for Visualisation &
Modelling, Chalmer’s School of Architecture, Gothenburg. In her dissertation in
progress, Rytmens estetik, formens kraft, she deals with the concept of rhythm in the
creative design process.
Els Jongeneel, PhD, University of Groningen. She has mostly written on 20th
century interart topics and on 20th century French literature. Recently she published
“Art and Divine Order in the Divina Commedia.” Morover, she is co-editor, with
Valerie Robillard, of Pictures Into Words: Theoretical and Descriptive Approaches to
Ekphrasis (1998).
Sonia Lagerwall obtained her Master of Arts in French in 1996 and her PhD
in Romance Languages in 2004, both at University of Gothenburg. Her doctoral
thesis in French Literature, Quand les mots font image. Une lecture iconotextuelle de
La Modification de Michel Butor, examines the functions of implicit and explicit
references to visual arts in a novel by Michel Butor. Lagerwall has been teaching
French literature at the Department of Romance Languages since 1997.
418
Eva Lilja is Professor of Comparative Literature at the Department of Literature,

University of Gothenburg. Her scholarly interests are mainly in poetry, modernism,
and metrics, especially Swedish poetry from the 1950’s and the 1960’s. Her recent
publication is Svensk metrik (2006), and is currently involved in a research focused
on the aesthetics of rhythm in different art forms and media.
Kathleen Lundeen is Professor of English at Western Washington University in

Bellingham, Washington. A specialist in British Romantic literature, she has pub-
lished on Blake, Keats, Austen, Hemans, film, and intermedial art. Her book Knight
of the Living Dead: William Blake and the Problem of Ontology (2000) is a study of
Blake’s intermedial art within the context of ontology.
Arne Melberg became full Professor in Comparative Literature at the University

of Oslo 1987. He has published several works and articles on a number of writers,
philosophers, including Rilke, Proust and Montaigne. His most recent book is on
modern travel writing. Professor Melberg is currently in charge of a research project
on contemporary aesthetics, Aesthetics at Work, financed by the Norwegian Research
Council.
Sarah J. Paulson is Associate Professor at the Norwegian University of Technology

and Science in Trondheim, Norway, where she has taught Scandinavian literature
and literary theory since 1994. She has published numerous articles on Norwegian
writers such as Herbjørg Wassmo, Cecilie Løveid, Cora Sandel and Hanne Ørstavik.
She is currently involved in a larger project on contemporary Scandinavian literature
and its relation to the media and popular discourses.
Nils Holger Petersen is a composer, Associate Professor at Copenhagen University,

and the head of the Nordic Network on Liturgy and the Arts in the Middle Ages, a
board member of the Nordic Society for Interarts Studies (NorSIS), and appointed
Centre leader at the Centre for the Study of the Cultural Heritage of Medieval
Rituals (2002–2007). He has published numerous essays on medieval liturgy drama,
music and theology, particularly in the Middle Ages.
Valerie Robillard, PhD, is lecturer in the Department of English at the University

of Groningen, the Netherlands. Her research speciality lies in the field of interarts
studies, focusing particularly on theoretical approaches to ekphrasis. In addition
to numerous publications on ekphrastic relations between modernist writers and
artists, she co-edited Pictures Into Words: Theoretical and Descriptive Approaches to
Ekphrasis (1998) with Els Jongeneel. She is currently writing on theories of inter-
medial discourse.
419
Eli Rozik is Professor Emeritus of theatre studies, former head of the Department
of Theatre Studies and until recently Dean of the Faculty of the Arts at Tel Aviv
University, and he was the editor of the international journal Assaph. Studies in the
Theatre (1977–2000). He has published numerous articles and books on theatre
theory in English and Hebrew, such as The Language of the Theatre (1991) and The
Roots of Theatre (2000).
Bernhard F. Scholz is Professor Emeritus of General and Comparative Literature

Groningen University, Netherlands; retired since March 2005. Academic interest
includes word-image relations, esp. Early Modern (Emblematics) and 20th Century
(Da Vinci’s Proportional figure in Modern Advertising; Ekphrases of Johannes Itten/
Bauhaus; Concept of Ekphrasis). His recent publication is “Religious Meditations
on the Heart: Three Seventeenth Century Variants.”
Johan Stenström is Associate Professor at Comparative Literature at the Language

and Literature Centre (SOL), Lund University. He has examined intermedial
phenomena in numerous articles, and in his books on Harry Martinson and Ingemar
Leckius. He has lectured at Intermedia Studies at the Department of Cultural
Sciences, Lund University.
Ulrich Weisstein is Professor Emeritus of Indiana University, where he taught

German, English and Comparative Literature. His scholarly publications cover a
wide range of subjects. Thus, qua Germanist he dealt extensively with the works
of and authors as Heinrich Mann, Bertort Brecht and Max Frisch. He worked on
the interrelations between literature and the visual arts, as well as between text and
music, gathered in his Selected Writings on Opera 1961–1996 (2006).
420
Index
A 252n, 254n, 300, 353, 363–364

Aristotle 304, 311–312; Poetics
academic: constructions 115, 121, 284, 292, 303, 396–397
123–124; disciplines 13, 22–23, Arnheim, Rudolf 155, 365–366
28; presentation 109, 109n, 121, Arnim, Achim von: “Die Majoratsherren”
124, 129; research/studies 13, 21 189–203; Taschenbuch zum
Achilles’ shield 289, 308–313, 309n, 311n geselligen Vergnügen 189
Adam, A. 139n art 13, 20, 23, 29–30, 31n, 34, 39–40,
Adam and Eve 189, 192–194, 42–45, 64, 109–111, 110n, 117, 122–
192n, 197, 201 123, 216, 216n, 218–227, 230–233,
adaptation 24–25, 33, 129–135, 156, 233n, 235, 258–263, 269, 272–273,
272, 303, 340–341, 345–346, 287–289, 361–364, 375, 377, 387,
353, 355, 407–408; novel into 391; abstract 78, 395, 402; and science
film 15, 340–341, 355–356 40, 44, 46; as total work 59, 73n,
Adorno, Theodor W. 56n, 74, 234; autonomous 16; conceptual
109, 109n, 111n 15; high art and popular culture 24,
advertisement 15, 57, 77, 222 29, 57; verbal 267, 276; visual 264;
Aeneas’ shield 289, 305–313, visual and verbal 226, 258–260,
305n, 309n, 311n 260, 265. See also representation
aesthetic(s) 13, 20–21, 29, 39, 46, 49, artist 114, 207–210, 212–214,
55–57, 56n, 57n, 63, 65–66, 70, 75n, 216–221, 223–224, 230; Socratian
77n, 86, 97, 114–116, 118, 122, 139– or Apollonian 216, 218, 224
140, 139n, 146–147, 152–154, 153n, Aschenbach, Gustav von 207–237
156, 158–162, 173, 186, 208, 209, Assmann, Jan and Aleida 119
209n, 210–211, 214–224, 218n, 219n, assonance 148
220n, 222n, 226, 230–235, 239–241, Atalay, Bülent 42–43
244–246, 250, 276, 284, 290, 299, Auden, W.H. 284, 289
301, 318, 324n, 342n, 347–348, audio/vision 56–57, 65, 79–80, 214
350–352, 363, 378, 378n, 385, 387, Auerbach, Frank 182
390–391, 393, 397, 403, 408–412 Auslander, Philip 55
alliteration. See rhetoric Austin, John L. 403
ambiguity 65, 118, 192, 222, 227– autobiography/autobiographical
229, 227n, 232n, 269, 277n 98, 120, 179–180, 182–183,
Anderson, Mark M. 185 185–187, 232, 274, 352
Anderson, Maxwell 97, 103 autonomy 70, 72, 74–175, 150, 210n,
Apollo 220n, 222, 224, 226–228, 228n, 216, 224–225, 304, 307, 344;
232; Apollonian art 216–218, 224, autonomization of the arts 62, 67,
226–234; Apollonian mood 209, 215n 148, 160; autonomous academic
Aquinas, Thomas 323, 326, 330–331, 335 disciplines 13; of arts 16, 70; of
architecture 20, 22, 30–31, 39, 43, musical object 56–57, 64–66; text
85, 198, 226, 239–254, 251n, as quasi-autonomous entity 22
421
Index
B Blake, William 43–47; Milton 43;

Songs of Experience 47
Bacchus. See Dionysus Blank, Carla 73
Bach, Johann Sebastian: Passions 325; blog 186
Wohltemperiertes Clavier 191 Boccioni, Umberto: Development
Bacon, Francis: Three Studies of a Bottle in Space 364
for a Crucifiction 199 body 30, 165, 167–169, 171, 208, 212–
Bakhtin, Mikhail M. 340–341, 213, 215–219, 221–226, 223n, 224n,
343, 350–352, 356 227n, 228n, 230, 229–230n, 233n,
ballet chanté 96, 101 234, 293, 293n, 309n, 323, 339–360,
Balthasar, Hans Urs von 324, 324n 341n, 352n, 361–362, 367–368,
Barthes, Roland 152, 157, 173, 377–393, 384n, 388n, 402–403
185, 211n, 220n, 222n, 411 Boehncke, Heiner 185
Bartsch, Shadi 291n, 312n Bohn, Rainer 30–31
Baudelaire, Charles 139–149; Bohr, Niels 42, 45, 49;
“Duellum”/ “Duel” 139–149; Margrethe Bohr 44
Les Fleurs du mal 139–147 Bonnard, Pierre 160
Baudo, Serge 324 borders/borderlines 13, 16, 57–58,
Beatles, The: The White Album 70n 64–66, 69, 72, 191, 193, 196, 202,
beauty 46, 89, 167, 207, 215, 217, 208–211, 216–218, 224–225,
221–228, 222n, 227n, 228n, 227–228, 232, 235, 265, 292, 294,
230, 235, 241, 244, 311n, 324n, 303–304, 332. See also frame
342, 345, 351, 354, 405 Bordo, Jonathan 70
Beckmann, Dorothea 91 boundary. See frame, borders/borderlines
Beckmann, Max: Abfahrt 199 Brecht, Bertolt 97, 101, 103–107;
Beckmann, Ulf 32 “Alabama Song” (Brecht/Weill) 101,
Beethoven, Ludwig van 110; Fidelio 106 105–107; Aufstieg und Fall der Stadt
beholder 167, 170–171, 216, Mahagonny (Brecht/Weill) 97, 100,
221–223, 239–242, 246, 248– 105–107; Das Berliner Requiem
254; beholder-listener 58–59; (Brecht/Weill) 97; Der Lindberghflug
beholder-reader-listener 59, 67, (Brecht/Weill/Hindemith) 97; Die
69, 79. See also perception Dreigroschenoper (The Threepenny
Belasco, David: “The Camptown Opera) (Brecht/Weill) 97, 105;
Races” 132–135; The Girl of Happy End (Brecht/Lane) 97;
the Golden West 129–135 Hauspostille 106; Mahagonny Songspiel
Benjamin, Walter 111, 257–258, 275, 411 (Brecht/Weill) 100–101. See Weill
Bennett, Benjamin 234 Breker, Arno 352
Berg, Alban: Wozzeck 103 Breton, André 181–182, 186
Berger, John 78 Britten, Benjamin 88
Berlin school tradition 90 Broadway 107
Béroul 339–345, 356 Brosch, Renate 315
Berrard, Mireille 154 Brown, Calvin S. 21, 23
Bertrand, Aloysius: Gaspard de la Brueghel, Pieter (the elder) 139, 259–264,
Nuit - fantaisies à la manière 266–276; Haymaking 272–274;
de Rembrandt 142 Hunters in the Snow 262–263; The
Besseler, Heinrich 99 Corn Harvest 267, 269–270
Beuys, Joseph 186 Bruhn, Jørgen 343
bibliophile societies 158–159, 161–163 Bruhn, Siglind 65, 325, 333
Bildgedicht 139n. See also ekphrasis Bucher, Jeanne 161
biography/biographical 179, Buffet, Bernard 154
181–185, 393 Buñuel, Luis 340–341, 353–358; L’Éternel
422
Retour 340, 350–353, 357–358 157, 345, 348; presence of effects and
Burns, Robert 90 perception 59. See also mixed media
Busoni, Ferruccio: Arlecchino 104; Collins, Christopher 264–265
Doktor Faust 103–105 combined media 25, 27, 32, 34, 56, 59,
Butor, Michel 160 59n, 62, 63n, 72, 73, 75–76, 90.
Buuren, M. van 139 See also iconic media, intercutting
media, intermedia, medium/media,
C mixed media, multimedia
cabaret 101 comedy 96, 214, 230–232, 231n, 234,
cadence 90, 148 406–407; patho-comedy 348, 349n
Cage, John 364 comic 100, 231, 232, 405–406;
Caldwell, Roger 41 tragicomic 209n, 216, 231–232, 323n
Calle, Sophie 186 comics/comic strip/comic book
Callot, Jakob 139, 142 15, 25–26, 40, 396, 402
Campin, Robert: Mérode communication 30–31, 39, 50, 58n,
Altarpiece 189–203 63, 63n, 66n, 85, 118, 207–209,
Campion, Thomas 85–86, 88–90: 216, 219–221, 223, 223n, 230, 233,
Two Books of Ayres 86 235, 268–270, 273, 276, 348, 379,
Camus, Albert 151–177 395, 397, 400–401, 403, 411–412;
Canaletto 142 multi-surface graphic design vs. single-
capricho/capriccio 139n, 140, surface visual communication 76, 80
142–143, 145–146 composite form/text 33, 59
carnival 341, 343, 343n, 352, 356 composite media. See mixed media
Cato, Bob 66 composition 60, 62, 66n, 89, 91, 97, 100,
Caviola, Hugo 48 104, 109–110, 112–113, 120–121,
centre 14, 57, 62, 69, 190, 194, 197, 123, 153–158, 166, 168, 172, 201,
263, 267–272, 297, 307n, 341n, 349, 232, 234, 240, 311n, 323–326,
354, 365, 391. See also parergon 324n, 328, 330, 336, 362, 365, 383
Cézanne, Paul 164, 377, 377n, 387n Conarroe, Joel 267, 272
Cha, Theresa Hak Kyung: Dictee 186–187 connotation 216n, 229, 253, 328, 335n,
Chagall, Marc: I and the Village 317–318 336; cognitive 220–221; ideological
Chandrasekhar, Laureate S. 41, 46 220, 222, 226, 233; perceptual 220
Christophe, Ernest 139n Conrad, Peter 131
Clash, The: London Calling 70–71 contextual 40, 59, 65, 74, 79, 119–120,
Claudius, Matthias: Der Tod 154, 167, 210n, 257n, 315, 402,
und das Mädchen 117 404; re-contextualization 112
Clément-Janin 160–161 convention 24, 27, 34, 41, 49, 66,
Clüver, Claus 14–15, 20n, 21n, 24n, 66n, 90, 117, 131–132, 134, 142,
25n, 27n, 33, 63–64, 116, 118, 209, 152, 164–165, 210, 216, 218,
214, 284, 296, 298–301, 323n 225, 232, 239, 252, 264, 273,
Cocteau, Jean 340–341, 297–298, 345, 396–398, 401, 403,
350–354, 357–358 408–412; unconventional 166
cognition 218, 220, 257–258, Cook, Nicholas 55–60, 56n, 57n,
400. See also recognition 62–66, 63n, 64n, 72–73, 75,
cognitive 42, 59, 65, 77n, 220–221, 75n, 77n, 79–80, 229n
225, 259, 264–265, 275, 277, Corbett, John 56
277n, 315–316, 361, 389 Coron, Antoine 158–162
Cohen, Morris 124 correspondences 30, 43, 140n, 160n,
collaborative art forms/collaborations 25, 239, 244, 347, 356, 399
50, 58–60, 59n, 70, 70, 74, 97, 104, Cranach, Lucas 192
Crumb, George Peter 111,
423
Index
117; Black Angels 117 transdisciplinary 20, 28; verbal 49,

Cubism 169, 254, 267, 298, 366 50, 116, 157, 166; visual 49, 50, 156
Culler, Jonathan 147n Divine Love 215
cultural 14, 28–29, 39–41, 48, 50, 56n, Dix, Otto: Der Krieg 199; Die Großstadt
57, 57n, 70, 95, 98, 103, 107, 119, 199; Ein Triptych mit Predella 199
121, 123, 153, 186, 209, 209n, Doesburg, Theo van 366
210n, 222, 224–225, 231–232, 235, Doré, Gustave 156, 160
239, 258, 275, 284–285, 339, 373, Dowland, John: First Book of Ayres 86
401–402; analysis 13; history 29, drama 56n, 67, 78n, 129–131, 133–134,
48, 57, 92–93, 111, 113, 340, 346; 191, 232n, 234, 234n, 300, 347,
memory 47, 119–120; production 356, 396; biblical 96; literary 28,
24, 29, 34; studies 14, 57 44–46; temporal-spatial frame of
culture 14, 40, 47, 49–50, 57n, 111, 45. See also music drama, fiction
113, 119, 123, 131, 207–209, 216, dream 207, 211–212, 216–217,
218n, 219, 222, 226, 230–231, 223–224, 226, 229–230, 234
231n, 343, 351, 363, 396, 401– Duchamp, Marcel 29, 288, 299
403, 407; popular 24, 57, 219, Dundes, Alan 266, 270
230–231, 341, 352; studies 14; Dunstable, John 88
verbal 409, 411; visual 315 Duro, Paul 69
Cureton, Richard 364 Duval, Jeanne 145
D E
Dahlhaus, Carl 122, 345, 347, 357 Eco, Umberto 152
Daudet, Alphonse 159 edge. See border, frame
Davies, Peter Maxwell 111 Eicher, Thomas 32
deautomatization 152, 166 Einstein, Albert 42, 49, 366
decadence 216, 227, 232 ekphrasis 14, 23–24, 26, 65, 120, 133,
deconstruction 57, 66–67, 139n, 140, 146–147, 157, 224n,
73, 78, 123, 160 257–279, 283–318, 288n, 291n,
defocalization 165. See also focalization 303n, 309n, 312n, 323n, 344n,
Delacroix, Eugene 139n, 143 349, 389n, 392; ekphrastic fear
Denis, Maurice 160 292–293, 309n, 315; ekphrastic hope
depictive 270, 272, 276, 400 292, 315; ekphrastic indifference
De Rougemont, Denis 339, 346, 346n 292, 315; visual ekphrasis 276n.
Derrida, Jacques 58, 61, 64, 67, 69, 72 See also musical ekphrasis
Deval, Jaques 103 Elkins, James 77–78, 409n, 410
de Ville, Nick 55, 77 Elsner, Jás 286, 291
Dionysus 226–227, 229, 231–232, emblem/emblematic 15, 26, 28, 192,
232n, 233n, 234n; Dionysiac 220, 227n, 228n, 253, 343, 350, 375
mood 209, 215n, 227 Emin, Tracey 186
discourse 23, 30–31, 41, 61, 115n, 119, enargeia 140n, 258, 264, 267, 272,
120, 131, 133, 164, 170, 210, 222, 276, 284, 285n, 287, 389n
224, 232n, 235, 240, 275, 277n, 278, engraving 139n, 142, 146–147,
283–284, 287, 303; aesthetic 215, 158n, 189, 191, 193–194
218; discursive practice 315–316; Enlightenment 113, 142, 241, 245
formalist 23; interarts/intermedia/ ennui 146
mixed media 15, 24–26, 28–29, 34, ergon. See parergon
50, 63n, 208, 378; interdisciplinary estranging the text 152–153,
21, 28, 30; musical 116, 120; narrative 158, 164, 169
133, 134, 164; scientific 45, 47–49; etchings 142–144, 147, 154n, 158, 158n
424
161, 163, 163n, 165, 167, 172, 253 of 193. See also borders/borderlines
Evans, Richard J. 119 Frayn, Michael: Copenhagen 44–46
evidentia 287, 389 Freud, Sigmund 398–399
explication de texte 287 Frobenius, Nikolaj 179
frontispice 189–194, 197–198
F fusion 15, 26–27, 32, 34, 48, 59n,
Fabricius, Sara. See Sandel, Cora 60, 64n, 66, 90, 101, 244. See
Fahlström, Öyvind 364 also perceived interaction
Feininger, Lyonel 251–252, 254 G
Ferlinghetti, Lawrence 361, 364; “Sweet
and various the wood lark” 370–375; Gabo, Naum 361, 364–369, 375;
A Coney Island of the Mind 370 A Sudy of a Woman’s Head 368;
fiction/fictionalization 45, 45, 59, 109, Kinetic Construction (Standing
114, 118–120, 133, 154, 162n, 179– Wave) 368; Linear Construction
188, 191–192, 208, 208n, 211–212, in Space no. 2 365–369
218n, 231, 232n, 274, 377, 378n, Galdòs, Benito Perez: Tristana
388, 395–416. See also reality, drama 340, 353–357, 358
figura in mente 285–286, 301, 309 Galland-Hallyn, Perrine 285n
Fischer-Lichte, Erika 121–122 Garbell, Alexandre 154n
Fish, Stanley 151 Gautier, Théophile 143, 158n, 159,
Fitch, Brian 171–172 285, 285n, 287, 289, 301
focalization 164, 164n, 165–166, 207 gaze 116, 151, 167–168, 185, 210,
foreground 132, 154, 166–168, 212–213, 215–217, 219–220, 224–
172–173, 182, 194, 228, 241, 226, 244, 261, 265, 275, 290–291,
262–266, 271–272, 274–275, 318, 378, 378n, 381, 383, 385–386,
295–298, 305–306, 335 388–393. See also perception
Foucault, Michel 40–41, 45, 283 Gebrauchsmusik 99–100, 102, 107
founder of discourse 283, 287 Gemeinschaft/Gesellschaft 99
fourbeat line 363 gender 86, 209, 293, 385
Fowler, D. P. 312 Genette, Gérard 133–134,
fragment 112, 124, 182–183, 233, 155–156, 164–165
246–247, 251, 332, 339, 343; genius 217, 217n, 218, 240, 242–
fragmentation of a work 59 243, 246, 273, 303–304, 304n,
frame/framing/frameworks 55, 58, 307, 370n, 309, 311, 314
60–61, 63–67, 72, 72n, 74, 79, genre 13, 16, 20, 24n, 27–28, 28n,
114, 118, 123–124, 142, 189–203, 31, 55n, 96–98, 101n, 107–108,
191–192, 200–201, 207n, 208–209, 111n, 114, 120, 134, 142, 153–155,
210n, 211–212, 215, 217, 220, 154n, 159, 191, 209n, 210, 210n,
222–228, 227n, 234, 257n, 264, 231–232, 232n, 234–235, 261,
272–273, 276, 284, 299, 301, 313, 266, 270, 272, 283, 287, 289,
315, 332, 341, 378n, 381, 390n, 291–293, 295–296, 298, 301–303,
398, 409–412; architectural frame 316, 318, 349n, 380, 406
226; closed frame 223, 225; cultural genus 285, 288–289, 288n, 291,
framework 48; cultural function of 295; definition 197
69–70; discursive framework 63–64, Gerhard, Dietrich 113–114
69, 275; framed architecture 198; Gershwin, George 101
framed canvases 199; framed tales. Gesamtkunstwerk 73, 95–96, 98,
See Rahmenerzählungen; internal 105, 340, 345–349, 348n, 357
half-frame 194; record sleeves and Gestalt 243n, 244n, 362–364, 375
framing relations 70; seeming absence gestische Charakter der
425
Index
Musik 98, 106–107 Heine, Heinrich 87

gestus 106 Heisenberg, Werner 40, 42, 44–47
Gier, Albert 130, 348 Helbig, Jörg 32
Gigoux, Jean 159 Hempfer, Klaus W. 285n
Glass, Philip: the CIVIL warS (Glass/ Heraclitus 362
Wilson) 58, 67–69, 72–75, 78 Hermes 226–228, 232n
God/Gods 73, 98, 103, 117, 168, 211n, Higgins, Dick 27–28, 34
212, 222n, 224, 224n, 226, 228–229, Hindemith, Paul 98–99;
232n, 234, 240, 306n, 311n, 326– Neues vom Tage 98
328, 330–333, 335–337, 355, 375 Hines, Thomas Jensen 58–60,
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 89, 74, 157, 345n, 348
218n, 223, 239–254, 240n, 245n historiography 113–115, 119–123;
Goltzius, Hendrick 139n and academic construction 115,
Gombrich, Ernst 258 121, 123–124; performative 121,
Gothic 116, 239–241, 240n, 243, 123–124; periodization 114, 120;
245, 247, 248n, 250–253, 251n, personal 115–116, 119, 124
252n; Cathedral 239, 243–246, history 19, 21–22, 28, 43–44, 73,
251–252, 254n, 336, 351 110–115, 119, 122–123, 182–184,
Goya, Francisco José de 139–149 186, 232, 257, 284, 291; and
Graf, Fritz 286n architecture 240; and art 22–23,
Grandville, J.-J. 160 111, 292; and culture 29, 48, 57,
Grasset, Eugène 160 92, 110–111, 113, 209, 339–340,
Green, Paul 103 346, 348, 362, 371; and imagination
Greene, Brian 43 43, 114–116; and intermediality
Greene, Theodore Meyer 21n 118–120; and music 25, 87, 96, 99,
Grossman, Fritz 260–262, 271–272 120; and science 40, 42, 48–49; and
grotesque 143, 172, 214, 230– stage 78, 121–124, 132; of pictures/
231, 354, 405–406 illustrations 61, 154, 158, 162, 182
Hodnett, Edward 152, 155, 155n, 162
H Hoek, Leo 15, 26, 26n, 34,
Haavardsholm, Espen 179 49n, 155n, 239n
Hagstrum, Jean 23, 33, 85, 264n Hoffmann, E.T.A.: Prinzessin
Hales, Richard 77 Brambilla. Ein Capriccio nach
Halliwell, Michael 130, 134 Jakob Callots Manier 142
Händel, Georg Friedrich 98 Hölderlin, Friedrich 371, 373–375
Hansen, Mark 33 Hollander, John 257n, 289n
Hansen-Löve, Aage A. 32 Homer 287, 289n, 308–315, 309n, 311n
Hardt, Ernst 97 humanity/humanities 14, 20, 34, 40,
harmony 47, 62, 86–87, 216, 46, 48, 231, 257, 275, 327
223, 228–229, 252, 403, 409; Husz, Mathieu 158n
harmonic 102, 230, 328–330 hybrid(s) 96, 157, 210n, 216, 230–232,
Harris, Tomás 145n 232n, 234–235; juxtapositional/
Hart, Moss 101, 103 multidisciplinary 64n, 75–76, 75n;
Hartlaub, Gustav F. 99 multimedia discourse; synthesis/
Hasenpflug, Carl Georg 251–252 interdisciplinary 75–76, 79;
Haydn, Joseph: Missa in tempore belli 117 transformation/crossdisciplinary
Haynes, J. 139n 75–76. See also mixed media
Heffernan, James A. W. 257n, 260n, discourse, intermedial discourse,
267, 268n, 288n, 295–298, transmedial relation
297n, 302, 305, 309n, 315
426
I 381, 390, 396, 398, 403, 407;

as perceived 59, 66, 75, 75n
iconic code/convention 157, 398, 401 interart institutions 13
iconicity 15, 162, 374, 395–403, 412 interarts studies 19–34, 118, 395; and
iconic media 77n, 78, 86, 133, intermediality 14, 19–34; inadequacy
395–412; vs. narrative 77–78. See of the label 28; need to reconceive 21
also combined media, intercutting intercutting media 347–348, 350,
media, intermedia, medium/media, 355, 357. See also combined media,
mixed media, multimedia iconic media, intermedia, medium/
iconic projection. See projection media, mixed media, multimedia
iconic sign 220, 223, 397, 400 interdisciplinary 14, 20–21, 24,
iconography 49, 70, 222; Christian 28, 30, 34, 48, 75, 79, 277
328, 330, 335–336 intermedia(l) 13, 19, 21, 26n, 28, 32,
icons 49; mathematical symbols 34n, 55; and ekphrasis 14, 24; and
and scientific drawings 49 intermedia text 24–25, 27, 33–34,
idealist(ic) 208, 216–218, 218n, 39; as multimedia 64; as multimodal
222, 224, 228n, 340, 347n function 361; connections as
illustration 15, 24, 26–27, 48–49, “texts” 20; discourse 15, 25–26,
55–56, 70, 85, 88–89, 109, 28, 34; in scientific community 39;
151–175, 154n, 155n, 181, 185, schematizations 14–15, 26, 64,
187, 190–191, 193, 195, 197, 341; combination of media 15,
242, 250, 261, 276n, 313, 344n, 20, 30, 32, 34, 55–56, 58–59, 59n,
381–382, 386, 390–392, 409, 411 62, 63n, 72–73, 75–76, 90, 92–93,
image 23, 208, 211, 215, 217, 219–222, 95–96, 162, 186, 234, 323, 402,
223n, 224–225, 228–230, 233, 234n, 410, 410–412; media in co-existence
277n, 399–403, 405, 407–413; and 15, 56, 63n, 75, 76n, 345; media
optical frame 220; image-forming interreference 15, 56, 60, 76n, 157;
399–401; imprinting 401–403, integration of media 15, 56n, 59n,
408–410; mental 212, 216–217, 61, 63n, 95, 207, 323, 408; schema
216n, 219–221, 224, 395, 398, as useful pedagogical; instrument 14;
400–401, 413; presented 216–217, transformation/transmedialization/
216n, 225–226; suggested 216, 216n transposition of media 15, 24, 26,
imagery 42, 49, 63–64, 74, 148, 346n, 32–33, 73, 75–76, 129, 131, 196,
352, 366, 384, 408; in science 46; 207–208, 214–215, 217, 323–324,
mental 42, 46, 384; IMAGination 42 337, 341, 349, 353, 357; scholars 47,
imagination 39, 46, 140, 148, 156, 49–50; studies 13–16, 20; studies
211–212, 216–217, 225, 240, 245, as interdisciplinay field 14; vision of
259. See also history and imagination intermedial studies 14; theory 13,
imagistic thinking 395–396, 16, 29, 31, 34, 39. See also adaptation,
398–402, 407, 412 combined media, hybrid(s), iconic
imitation 140, 214, 217, 224, media, intercutting media, medium/
264, 266, 292, 302–305, 303n, media, mixed media, multimedia, text
304n, 305n, 307–309, 307n, Intermedialität 27n, 30, 32–33;
311–313, 336, 384, 393, 398 Synthetische Intermedialität 33
indeterminate markings 265, intermediality 13, 19–20, 24, 31,
270, 276–277 33–34, 39, 50, 58, 60–61, 79, 95,
indexical 60, 216, 221, 227, 396, 411 98, 116–118, 124, 179n, 207, 214,
inner eye 264–266, 271–272, 285–287 225, 235, 257n, 275n, 378; and
interaction/interact 21, 27–29, 63, cultural ramifications 50; and interarts
77, 116, 118, 122, 124, 152–153, discourse 24, 29; and interdisciplinary
179, 230, 241, 275, 366–367, discourse 21, 28, 30; and
427
Index
intertextuality 29, 209n; and literature K

32; and media harmony 47; and
media studies 32; and natural sciences Kaenel, Philippe 156, 159–160
39; and transdisciplinary discourse Kafka, Franz 182
20; and transposition 24, 26–27, 33; Kahnweiler, D.-H. 158, 161
as perceived interaction 59–60, 66n; Kaiser, Georg 97, 103
conception of 30; covert/indirect Kandinsky, Wassily 364–365
208–211, 208n, 228, 232; definition Kant, Immanuel 224–225, 284, 290n
58, 66; intermedia discourse 25, 34; Keats, John 43, 283, 285,
kinds of relations. See intermedia(l) 287–288, 290, 295
schematizations; mental 221; process Kibédi Varga, Áron 56, 74n, 75n, 77, 157
of 58, 60, 79; students of 34; studies kinesthetic/kinesthesia 361–362, 367
of 21. See also harmony, interaction/ Klein, Elisabeth 110
interact, media contest, paragone Korkos, Alain 154n
interpretant 221 Kosslyn, Stephen M. 400
interpretation 22, 25, 65, 69, 114, Kranz, Gisbert 139n, 258n, 259n
119–122, 145–146, 148, 151, 154n, Krauss, Rosalind 364
157–158, 160, 171, 198n, 240n, 261, Krenek, Ernst: Jonny spielt auf (Jonny
267, 270–271, 293n, 324n, 343n, Strikes up the Band) 98
346–347, 346n, 351, 357, 385, 392, Kreuzer, Helmut 32
395, 399–400, 402, 404, 406–407, Krieger, Murray 257n, 258, 291–292
409, 411–413; as exercise of suspicion Kristeller, Paul Oskar 111, 115
294; as recollection of meaning 294 L
interpretive songs 87, 93; non-
interpretive songs 89, 92 Lacan, Jacques 344
intersemiotic: texts 25, 296, 317; Laing, Dave 56
transposition 24, 33 Langer, Susanne K. 21, 399–400
intertext/intertextuality 25, 29, 70, Laokoon: Laocoon myth 308; Laokoon
109n, 116–117, 117n, 129–130, sculpture group 308. See also Lessing
158, 208–209, 209n, 233n, 276– Le Clézio, J. M. G.: L’Africain
277, 405, 407, 412; intermedial 187; Onitsha 187
aspects of intertextualities 32. Leduc, Alphonse 324
See also intermediality LeGoff, Jacques 113–114
Iser, Wolfgang 152, 155, 155– Legrand, Edy 154n
157, 164–165, 165, 220 Lemaitre, Henri 140
Iseut 339–358 Leonardo da Vinci 260n
Isolde. See Iseut Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim 23, 159, 160,
218–219, 223, 253, 265, 293–294,
J 293n, 294n, 295n, 301–305, 303n,
Jakobson, Roman 153–154, 307–315, 307n, 309n, 312n; Laokoon:
153n, 162, 166 oder Über die Grenzen der Malerei
James, William 278 und Poesie (Laocoon. An Essay on the
Jauss, Hans Robert 111 Limits of Painting and Poetry) 253,
Jesus 19, 47, 201, 323–328, 293–295, 302, 307–308, 312–313. See
330–331, 335–336 also Laokoon: myth, sculpture group
Johannot, Tony 159–160 Levinson, Jerrold 64n, 75–76, 76n
Johnson, Linton Kwesi 92 libretto study (librettology) 25, 74, 130
Jongeneel, Els 139n, 257n, 258n, 276n Licht, Alan 57–60, 57n, 62, 64–67,
Jönsson, Anders 379 64n, 66n, 69, 72, 74–75, 80
Jung, Carl 397, 399 Lindenberger, Herbert 130–132, 134
linguistics 275–277
428
listener 32, 57–60, 57n, 73, 79, 91, measured poetry 372
99–100, 117, 123–124, 214, Media Studies 20–21, 30–32, 34
229, 258, 285, 287, 301, 309, medieval 34, 96, 111, 339, 341n, 346,
315, 328, 330–331, 335, 345. 348, 350–351, 351, 356–358;
See also beholder-listener architecture 239, 242–244, 246,
Liszt, Franz 104 250–252; music 110–111, 113, 115–
literariness 29, 153–154, 158, 165 116, 123, 364; post-medieval 354;
liturgy 15 punished body 342–345, 342n, 344n
livre d’artiste 27, 159 medievalism 115
livre de peintre 159 medium/media 13–16, 19, 24, 30–34,
Lodge, David 152–154n, 166 39, 47, 50, 55–66, 69–72, 74–77,
Loriod, Yvonne 324 85–86, 88–91, 96–97, 101, 109,
Louis-Philippe 143 114–115, 118–119, 129, 131, 135,
Lund, Hans 13–15, 20, 24–26, 33, 152, 155–157, 162, 166, 186,
39, 56, 63, 152, 155, 157, 179n, 191, 207–211, 207n, 208n, 209n,
207n, 210n, 211n, 215, 216n, 219n, 213–215, 218–221, 223, 223n, 225,
220n, 233, 239, 257, 257n, 299n, 227–228, 228n, 230, 233, 235, 239,
323, 341, 378, 378n, 395n. See 253, 257, 258n, 259, 287, 289–290,
also intermedia(l) schematizations 295–298, 297n, 303, 306, 308, 312,
Lupton, Ellen 79 323–324n, 339, 341, 347, 350, 353,
356–357, 392, 395, 398, 401–402,
M 410–411; contest 65–66, 75, 79–80,
Maeght, Aimé 161 234; diachronic vs. synchronized 59,
Mahler, Gustav 210 64; digital 20–21; double definition
Mai, Ekkehard 142 of 63; general definition of 30; genre
Malevich, Kazimir 366 and 31; hegemony/hierarchy vs.
Mallarmé, Stéphane 180 interaction 60; physical 30; print 20,
Malliarakis, Antoine (Mayo) 154–155, 30; separation and redistribution of
158, 161, 163, 165, 167–168, 172 56–57; translation/translatability 260,
Mander, Carel Van 260; SchilderBoeck 260 395–397, 399, 402, 404, 407, 413. See
Manet, Eduard 139 also combined media, harmony, iconic
Mann, Thomas 109, 207–236, 340–341, media, intercutting media, intermedia,
348–351, 353, 357; “Tristan” 340, mixed media, multimedia, paragone
348–350, 357; Betrachtungen eines melancholy 148
Unpolitischen (Observations of an memory 179–180, 184, 186, 362
apolitical man) 211; Der Tod in Merleau-Ponty, Maurice 341,
Venedig (Death in Venice) 207–237; 378–379, 382, 384–387, 393
Doktor Faustus 109n, 110 Messiaen, Olivier 323–338; Catalogue
Man Ray 182 d’oiseaux 325, 328, 333; La
Mariani, Paul 272n, 274 Transfiguration de Notre-Seigneur
Marker, Lise Lone 129 Jésus-Christ 323–337; Méditations
Marklund, Bror: Gestalt i storm 365 sur le mystère de la Sainte Trinité 330;
Martinez, Michele 85 Messe de la Pentecôte 328; Quatuor
massmedia 29, 186 pour la fin du Temps 329, 333
materiality 30, 218, 223, 228, 264 Michaely, Aloyse 324n, 332, 334n, 335n
Maya 218; veil of Maya 218 Middle Ages 110, 113–116, 123, 197,
Mazzaro, Jerome 269–270 239, 247, 252, 335, 339, 341–342,
McFarlane, Brian 129, 156, 355 345, 351–352, 354, 356, 363;
McKee, David 72–75 and dies irae sequence 117; and
meaning 221–225, 227–230, 233, 235 historiographic construction 110
Miller, Arthur I. 41–42, 46–47, 49
429
Index
Miller, J. Abbot 79 Murphy, Kevin D. 254n

Miller, Richard 152 Murphy, Michael 41–42
mimesis 86, 89, 132, 140, 208–209, music 24n, 49, 103, 109–127, 208–211,
208n, 217, 224–225, 231, 214–215, 228–235; as pure fiction 59;
235, 284, 292, 306, 398 drama 95–96, 98, 105, 111; E-Musik
Mirbeau, Octave 161 96; emancipation of 87; jazz 95,
Mitchell, W.J.T. 13, 14n, 33, 59n, 133, 98, 101; music-aesthetic process 64;
221, 224n, 226, 292–295, 293n, 294n, music packaging 55, 60; play with 96;
295n, 309n, 341, 344n, 357; “all program music 15–16; recorded 55–
media are mixed media” 13, 341, 357 57, 56n, 57n, 61, 65, 79; reggae 92
mixed media 13–14, 19, 19n, 26n, 28–29, music-word relations 14, 85–93
31, 34, 57–58, 63n, 75, 214n, 228, musical: comedy 96; composition 109–
341, 357; and media-rich discourse 110, 112–113, 120–121; ekphrasis
of scientist 48; discourse 15, 26, 15, 65, 324n; elements 232, 234;
34; narratives 78; texts 19, 24–25, language 100, 103, 107, 323, 325n,
33. See also combined media; iconic 333n, 335; meaning 57, 63, 66–67,
media; intercutting media; intermedia; 66n, 79–80; object 56; play 96;
medium/media; multimedia signifiers 335–337; theatre 95–96,
mockumentary 118 98, 100, 103, 106–107; tragedy 96
modernism/modernist/modernistic Mussorgsky, Modest: Pictures
100, 109–110, 112, 117, 162, at an Exhibition 191
162n, 165n, 166, 169, 181,
259, 362, 364, 366–367 N
moment of choice 155. See
also pregnant moment Nabokov, Vladimir: Speak, Memory.
Mondrian, Piet 366 An Autobiography Revisited 180
Montaigne, Michel de 186, 225 narrative 24, 48, 73, 77–78, 132–134,
Montandon, Alain 285 192, 196, 200–201, 207–208,
Monteverdi, Claudio: L’Orfeo 96 208n, 223–224, 223n, 227, 229,
mood (in poem and music) 89–90 232–233, 241–241, 243–246, 250,
Moore, Henry 365 253–254, 284, 312–313, 312n,
Morin, Louis 159 315, 325, 327, 341, 343, 346,
Morley, Thomas: Plaine and Easie 348, 358, 396, 403–411, 413;
Introdvction to Practicall Musicke 88 discourse time 133–134; operatic
motivation 397–398, 401 discourse 133; story time 133–134
mousiké 361 narrator 164n, 165, 167–172, 179–180,
Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus 106, 182, 184, 198, 200, 207–209,
112–113, 118–120; Die Zauberflöte 208n, 209n, 211–212, 213,
106; Don Giovanni 106 215–216, 221, 224n, 225–230,
Mucha, Alfons 160 227n, 228n, 233, 233n, 234, 254,
Müller, Eggo 30 344, 349, 355, 357, 388–393
Müller, Jürgen E. 27, 30, 32 nature 41–43, 45; and natural science
multimedia 14, 31, 34, 57, 67n, 75, 39–40, 43, 47–48; laws of 49
75n, 78–80, 207–208, 345; as Neue Sachlichkeit, Die 97–99
metaphor 60, 63–65, 63n; discourse neuroscience 395, 398, 400
15, 26, 34; multimedia media 63n; New Criticism 22, 151, 287
multimedia texts 19, 25, 214, 235. New Media Poetries 20–21
See also combined media, iconic New Model Army: Thunder and
media, intercutting media, intermedia Consolation 70–72
media, medium/media, mixed media New Objectivity. See Neue
Munro, Alice 316–318 Sachlichkeit, Die
430
Nietzsche, Friedrich 208–209, 208n, 285–286, 289, 300, 316, 318, 361,
215, 215n, 216–218, 216n, 220n, 363–364, 377, 378n, 379n, 381n,
226–234, 227n, 228n, 231n, 232n, 382–388, 383n, 384n, 387n, 391,
233n, 234n, 294, 348, 351, 398–399; 393, 395–396, 402, 409, 411; and
The Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit poetry 293–295, 293n, 295n,
of Music (Die Geburt der Tragödie 303, 308, 309n, 311n, 313
aus dem Geiste der Musik) 209 paradigmatic/metaphoric
Nô-theatre 96 (principle) 153, 166
nomen acti/actionis 295–296, 302 paragone 13, 208, 232. See
non-art 207, 210, 216, 227, 231, 234 also media contest
novel 179, 181–184, 187 parergon 58, 60, 64, 67, 69, 74;
novella 207–211, 215, 218, 232, 234–235 and parergonal 69, 75; and
parergonality 61, 66, 75
O Peirce, Charles S. 395–397, 411–412
object 24, 27, 30, 34, 47, 58, 61, 64, perceived interaction 66, 75.
64n, 69, 70, 72, 74, 76–77, 139, See also intermediality
148, 152, 157–159, 162, 193, perception 41–42, 47, 49, 59–60, 80, 116,
196–198, 201, 210, 210n, 212, 217, 118, 119, 124, 140, 152, 165, 208,
218n, 219–221, 224–227, 229, 239, 209n, 210–213, 215, 218, 220–221,
241–242, 254, 257, 263, 265, 267, 223, 225, 230, 239, 242, 245, 254,
275–276, 276n, 284–288, 290–291, 257–258, 258, 265, 271, 275–277,
294, 297–301, 299n, 303–308, 297, 298, 341, 361–363, 378–379,
382, 384–385, 388, 399; acoustic/
304n, 311–315, 354, 365, 366–367,
auditory 209, 301; and imagery 42;
378n, 384–385, 389, 389n, 392,
and laws of nature 49; beholder-
399–401, 411–412; found object 29;
listener 58; empirical 49; in science
material 55, 155; musical 56–57, 80
42; non-reflected 216; visual 211,
objective correlative 221
215, 218, 220, 223, 301, 378–385
objets d’art 287, 289–290
performance 20, 24, 29, 33, 39, 56,
objets trouvées 299 67, 73–74, 92, 97, 102, 106, 117,
Oesterle, Günter 143 121–122, 129, 132, 186, 210,
oneness 215, 217, 219, 226–230 214–215, 222, 230–232, 315, 325,
onomatopoeia 148 349, 397, 404; performance arts
opera 15, 24–25, 27, 31, 56n, 65, 67, 20; performance of the self 186;
67n, 72–73, 78, 86, 95–107, 129–135, performative tasks/aspects 21, 27;
234n, 340, 345–348, 346n, 395–396, performativity 121–124; performed
402, 408; and epic-theatrical principles opera 25; performed song 33
105; buffa 96; epic 105; folk opera Petersen, Nils Holger 109–127; A
96; school opera 96; seria 98 Vigil for Thomas Becket 111; Coram
operetta 96 Mozart 112–113, 120–121, 123
opposition 261, 266, 267, 270, 272 phenomenal music 132–133
Østrem, Eyolf 111, 116, 118, 120, 123 phenomenology 49; phenomenological
Øverland, Janneken 377–379, 381–382 aspect 57; phenomenological
P persuasion 290; phenomenological
understanding of the body
Paech, Joachim 33 378–379, 385, 391
painting 23, 30–31, 43, 64–65, 77–78, Philostrati 258, 262
78n, 85, 120, 157, 162, 165n, 182, photograph/photography 62, 67, 70,
190, 192–193, 197, 199, 208, 223, 73–74, 78–79, 140, 160, 179–188,
223n, 251–253, 251n, 258n, 259, 220, 250, 396, 411–412; photo-novel
260–262, 262n, 264–276, 268n, 411; photo-text 179; photographer
431
Index
179, 220; photographic 78, 179–188, purity 76, 218, 227, 230–231;
411; photographic stories 78 impurity 232, 343
Pichois, C. 139n Pygmalion 224
pictorialism 32, 88–89
picture 46, 382–384, 387, 391–392; Q
as different from narrative 48; quantum mechanics (and
picture-poem 139–140, 148; picture- theory) 44, 46–47
poet 145; picture alphabet 15–16; Quintilian 284–285, 285, 309, 309–310
picture book 14–15, 62, 77; print
picture 15, 363, 373–375. See R
also Bildgedicht, ekphrasis, imagery Rabinow, Paul 40
Piranesi 142 Radcliffe, David 257
Plato 86–87, 208, 215, 222, 222– Raetz, Markus 151
223, 227, 284, 306, 307, 362; Rahmenerzählungen (framed tales) 191.
Apollonian-Platonic 231; neo- See also frame, border/borderlines
platonic 216, 218, 228, 346 Rancière, Jacques 148
Plett, Heinrich F. 285–286 Ray, Gordon N. 158–159
Poe, Edgar Allan: Tales of the Grotesque re-writing 296, 317, 350, 354
and the Arabesque 201 reader 32, 48, 78, 119–120, 124,
poem 22, 24–25, 24n, 34, 120, 139–149, 151–159, 153n, 154n, 155n,
146, 258–277, 287–288, 303, 361, 164–173, 165n, 183, 187, 192–
363–364, 370–375, 404–405; and 193, 207–208, 209n, 210n, 213,
music 24, 86–87, 87, 89–90, 92, 220–221, 223, 229, 233–235, 233n,
117; and picture 139, 140, 147, 154, 239–240, 243–246, 248, 250–251,
157, 264–269; and word 120, 139 253, 258–259, 258n, 261–262,
poésie cinématographique 351, 357 264–267, 270–273, 275–277, 309,
poetry: concrete 15, 26; sound 15 389; viewer (spectator)/reader 253,
poiesis 122, 140 393, 396–397, 401, 404, 413
Pollock, Griselda 385 reader-response (theory) 151
polyptych 196–200 readymade 29, 299–300
Popper, Sir Karl R. 314–315 realist vs. critical realist 41
poster 15, 25–26, 77, 118, 411 reality 41–42, 45, 60, 80, 86, 105, 117,
Powell, Aubrey 61n 122, 148, 162, 165, 179, 181–182,
Praesto, Olof Lennart 62 185–187, 207–208, 210–211,
pregnant moment 159, 227. See 213, 216–221, 224–225, 230, 242,
also moment of choice 249–250, 253, 261, 266, 324, 340,
Preimesberger, Rudolf 379 351, 374–375, 378, 385, 398.
prepositional marker 266 See also fiction/fictionalization
Presley, Elvis 70–71 reception 20, 25, 27, 31, 33–34,
Prévost, Jean-Guy 139 50, 57, 64–66, 70, 115–116,
principle of individuation 217 118, 130, 208, 245, 254
Progymnasmata 286, 295, 302 reception theory 152, 155,
projection 227; dramatic 230–232; 157–258, 262, 276–277
iconic 15, 210–213, 215, recognition 24, 29, 107, 220, 316, 386
221–222, 225–227, 229, 378 record cover. See record sleeve
proprioception. See kinesthetic/kinesthesia record sleeve 55–83
prosody 88, 148, 363 Redon, Odilon 160
Proust, Marcel 180 Reichardt, Johann Friedrich 89
Puccini, Giacomo: La Fanciulla reinterpretation 160, 226–227
del West 129–135 Remak, Henry H. H. 21–22
punctum 185
432
repertoire: of the reader 153, 155, 157; 193, 230, 239, 251, 252, 364–365
of the text 155, 157, 170–171 Rosenblatt, Louise 153
representation: “literary representation Rostropowitsch, Mstislav 324
of visual art” (Heffernan) 295–297; Runge, Philipp Otto 193
“verbal representation of a real or Ruppert, Rainer 30–31
fictitious text composed in a non-verbal Ruskin, John 193
sign system” (Clüver) 323n; “verbal Russian Formalists 152, 351
representation of visual representation” Ryan, Marie-Laure 63, 77
(Heffernan) 267, 295–298, 305, 315,
317; and imagery 49; in mathematics S
and natural sciences 47, 49–50; saccade/saccadic 264–265, 270–271, 275
musical 112, 119, 209, 326, 333, Sackwille-West, Vita 181
335; verbal 19, 23, 166, 192, 246, Sadequain 154n, 155, 158,
258, 267, 295, 297, 298, 300, 323, 163, 165, 167–173
378, 388–393; visual 19, 23–24, Salieri, Antonio 86, 119
27, 162, 172, 211–213, 226, 239, Sandel, Cora 377–394; “Flukten til
267, 378–389, 389n, 392–393 Amerika” 379; “Kunsten å myrde”
rhetoric 23, 39, 47–50, 85–86, 92, 115, 379; “Lola” 388–393; as Sara
139n, 152–156, 258, 285–287, 295, Fabricius: 377–388, 391, 393;
301–302, 303n, 314, 389, 390, 397; Marie-Catherine 379–381, 384, 386;
alliteration 148; metaphor 39, 43, Schlyter Johnsson, Vavi (Svanhild) 382;
47–49, 60, 63–64, 70n, 85–86, 89, Mange takk, doktor 379, 381, 388
114, 145–146, 146n, 153n, 156, Saussure, Ferdinand de 397, 401
166, 172, 277n, 293, 335, 343, 356, schema of word-image relations.
361, 388, 397, 408–409; metonymy See intermedial schematizations
60, 133, 145, 153–154n, 166, 356; Scher, Steven Paul 21–22, 24, 33
synecdoche 60–61, 253, 271, 354 Schiffbauerdamm, Theater am 97
rhythm 87–91, 101, 106, 229, 232–233, Schinkel, Karl-Friedrich 239, 246–254
324, 328–330, 332–336, 361–376 Schmeling, Manfred 22
Rice, Elmer 103 Schmidgall, Gary 130
Ricœur, Paul 294 Schmied, François-Louis 162
Riefenstahl, Leni 28, 352 Schnittke, Alfred 111
Riffaterre, Michael 277 scholarly 109–127
Rilke, Rainer Maria 287 Schönberg, Arnold 91, 109;
Rimbaud, Arthur 371, 373–374 Schönberg school 100
rite de passage 219 Schopenhauer, Arthur 208–209,
Rivers, Charlotte 55n, 77n 215, 217–218, 228–229, 233,
Robillard, Valerie 139n, 257n, 276n 345–346, 348, 350, 357; The World
Rodenbach, Georges: Bruges-la-mort 180 as Will and Representation 209
Rodger, Richard: “Edelweiss” 101 Schröter, Jens 32–34
Rodin, Auguste 161 Schubert, Franz 87, 89, 117
Rodowick, D.N. 70 Schwabe, Carlos 160
romantic 98, 100, 158–159, 161, science 40–44, 46–49, 162, 275–276,
207–208, 213, 216, 219, 222, 231, 278; cognitive science 264–265;
233–235, 234n, 239–242, 245, computer sciences 275; natural
247, 251–253, 251n, 345–350, science 39–51; social science 40, 48
356, 358, 407–409, 412; classicistic- Searle, John R. 403
romantic 209; early-romantic 90; Sebald, W.G. 182–186; Austerlitz
post-romantic 357; pre-romantic 182–183; Die Ausgewanderten (The
307; romantic-idealistic 208 Emigrants) 182–183; Die Ringe des
Romanticism 97–98, 139n, 142, 148,
433
Index
Saturn (Rings of Saturn) 182–184; Stiegler, Bernard 33

Logis in einem Landhaus 183; Luftkrieg Strasbourg Cathedral 239–
und Literatur 183; Schwindel. 240, 245–246, 249
Gefühle (Vertigo) 182, 184 structuralism 151, 260, 290
semiotics 20, 39, 48, 63, 66, Studies of Intermediality 21, 34. See
79, 260, 276, 398 also Intermedia studies, Interarts studies
Shaffer, Peter: Amadeus 118–119 studium 185
Shaw-Miller, Simon 61, 64, 75–76 sublime 43, 217, 223–226, 228, 230–
Sherman, Cindy 186 231, 234, 234–235, 240–241, 243,
Shklovsky, Victor 152 245–246, 249, 251–253, 284, 346
Sigler, W.A. 141 Sullivan, Margaret 259–261, 266
sign/sign system 19–20, 23–25, 30–31, Surrealism 163, 169, 181, 189, 192, 201,
39, 47, 49–50, 154, 162–163, 353; proto-surrealistic 160, 189, 192
209–210, 215–216, 219, 224, 228, surreality 192
291, 296, 299–301, 303, 306–307, Symbolists 147–148, 160
317, 323, 381–383, 390, 392, 397 syntagmatic/metynomic
Simon, Claude 160 (principle) 153, 154, 166
simulacra 197 syntax 47, 166, 266, 269, 277, 389;
Singspiel 100–101 syntactical juxtaposition 265
sister arts 13, 85, 158, 277
Skira, Albert 161 T
Slawinski, Janusz 299 tableaux vivants 160, 211, 223
Smith, Patrick J. 130 Tadzio 207–230
Söderberg, Rolf 159, 160, 161 temporality 223; and spatiality 76–77,
Solumsmoen, Odd 377, 386, 393 253–254, 361–376; time and space
song 14, 15, 24, 31, 33, 85–93, 100–102, 43, 45, 216, 307–308, 312, 379
105, 117, 132–133, 214, 230, 232, Tériade 161
327, 335, 408; Elizabethan madrigals text: inter-text 29; para-text 29;
88; English ayres 86; English Madrigal post-text 29, 116, 124; pre-text
85–86; popular song 92, 100–101; 29, 116, 124, 275–276; quasi-
Songspiel 96, 101; song title 70 autonomous 22; self-sufficient 24;
sonnet 147–148, 153–154 source text 24; target text 24
sonority 148 textual blanks 157, 169
sound images 133 textual strategies 152–153, 155,
Souriau, Étienne 21 157, 164, 170–172
spatiality 76, 223, 227, 361–376 theatrical performance 74
spatialization 265, 277 Theocritus 287
spectator. See enargeia, gaze, perception Thorgerson, Storm 61n
Spitzer, Leo 23, 283–285, 287–292, three-point perspective 197
295–298, 301–302, 314, 317–318 Tiepolo 142
spleen 139–140, 142, 145–148 Tonbilder (sound pictures) 191.
sprechgesang 15 See also musical ekphrasis
Stam, Robert 129, 131, 133 tragedy/tragic 135, 186, 207, 215–216,
stamp 15, 25–26 231–234, 231n, 232n, 233n, 404–406
stanza 89, 145, 371, 374 transfiguration 323–327, 330–332
Stein, Gertrude 284, 298 transformation. See intermedia(l) schema
Steiner, Wendy 158, 162, 165, transmedial relation 15, 26, 32, 196. See
166, 260, 264, 266, 276 also intermedia(l) schematizations
Stendhal 182 transposition 27, 33. See also inersemiotic
Stevens, John 85–86, 88–89 transposition, intermedia(l)
Stibbe, Claudia 266, 270
434
transformation, transposition d’art 386–387, 393

transposition d’art 287–290, vision 378, 385–386, 388, 393
292, 298, 301, 317–318. See visual: associations 270; illusion
also intermedia(l) schematizations 264; imagery 148; media
triptych 191, 195–199; pseudo- 186; miracle 335–337
triptych 198–199 Vollard, Ambroise 160–161
Tristan 210, 231, 234, 339–360 Vos, Eric 15, 26–27
truth 19, 41–42, 46, 120, 142,
216–218, 220, 222, 224, 227, W
230–232, 234, 346, 387, 391–393 Wagner, Peter 32
Twain, Mark 97 Wagner, Richard 103–104, 208,
two-dimensionality 76–77, 197–198 210, 228, 233–234, 339–341,
typography 15, 26, 30, 62, 76, 160 345–350, 356–357; Tristan und
U Isolde 340, 345–349, 357
Walser, Robert 184
U-Musik 96 Walter, Bruno 97
ugliness 218–220, 232 Walzel, Oskar 22
uncertainty principle: Heisenberg’s Warren, Austin 22
40, 44–45, 47 Webb, Ruth 284, 286
unintermedial 16 Webern, Anton von 91–92
Urculo, Eduardo 154 Weill, Kurt 95–108; “Alabama Song”
Uspensky, B.A. 156, 165 (Brecht/Weill) 101, 105–107; “My
ut pictura poesis 13, 23, 33, 85, Ship” (Weill/Gershwin) 101; Aufstieg
140, 287, 289, 297, 378 und Fall der Stadt Mahagonny (Brecht/
Uzanne, Octave 160 Weill) 97, 100, 105–107; Das Berliner
Requiem (Brecht/Weill) 97; Der
V Lindberghflug (Brecht/Weill) 97; Der
vaudeville 96 Protagonist 97; Die Dreigroschenoper
Veltrusky, Jiri 275–276 (The Threepenny Opera) (Brecht/
Venetian painting 142 Weill) 97, 105; Huckleberry Finn
verbalization 296, 299–301, 317 (Weill/Anderson/Twain) 97; Lady
Verbrauchsmusik 100 in the Dark (Weill/Hart/Gershwin)
Verlaine, Paul 160 101; Mahagonny Songspiel (Brecht/
versification: accentsyllabic poetry 363; Weill) 100–101; Ninon von Lenclos
accentual 363–364; adonius 372– (Weill/Hardt) 97; Street Scene (Weill/
373; alexandrine 148; bacchius 372; Rice/Hughes) 103, 107; Zar lässt
choriamb 372–373; creticus 372; sich photographieren (The Tsar has his
dactylus 372; enjambment 148; free Photograph Taken) 98. See also Brecht
versification 363; grouping 364; Weimar Republic 95, 99
iamb 372–374; iambic pentameter Weisstein, Ulrich 22, 74n, 130
373–374; ionicus 372–373; line Wellek, René 22, 290
group 371, 373–374; metron 373; Werfel, Franz 103
prolongation 364; spondee 372–373, Weyden, Rogier van der: Last
375; tactus 363–364, 371–372, Judgment Altarpiece 196
375; trochee 372; volta 371, 374 Wheeler, Monroe 162
video 15, 20, 28, 30, 55n, 61n, 65, 412 White, Hayden 114–116, 120, 124
viewer 118, 216, 222–223, 258, 262, Wichstrøm, Anne 381
264–265, 277, 324. See also gaze Will 209, 211, 216–218, 226,
Visconti, Luchino 154 228–230, 233–234, 345
visible vs. invisible 378, 381, Williams, William Carlos 259–278,
435
Index
289, 297; “Haymaking” 262,

272–275; “The Corn Harvest” 262,
267–272; “The Hunters in the
Snow” 262–267, 271, 276; Pictures
from Brueghel 259–260, 262, 266
Wilson, Robert 58, 67, 73–74, 78;
the CIVIL warS (Glass/Wilson)
58, 67–69, 72–75, 78
Wolf, Werner 24, 32–33, 58n, 61n,
63n, 65, 65n, 66n, 118n
Wolfreys, Julian 69–70
Wonder Stuff, The: Idiot 2
– White Sleeve 70–71
Woolf, Virginia: Orlando. A Biography 181
word-and-image studies/relations 23,
26–27, 62, 76–78, 240, 283–284,
287, 302; word-image paradigm 257
word-music relations 90
Workman, Leslie J. 120, 124
World War I 95, 97
Wright, David 67n, 73, 78
Y
Yacobi, Tamar 312
Young, Edward 307
Z
Zangarini, Carlo 129
Zeitoper 98
Zelter, Karl Friedrich 89
Zervos, Christian 161
Zima, Peter 32
Zola, Émile 159
436

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Changing Borders : Contemporary Positions in Intermediality

Arvidson, Jens; Askander, Mikael; Bruhn, Jørgen; Führer, Heidrun

Citation for published version (APA):

Intermedia Studies Press

Intermedia Studies Press, Lund

First published 2007 by Intermedia Studies Press

Changing Borders: Contemporary Positions in Intermediality

© The authors and the editors 2007 and 2016

In digital form Intermedia Studies Press is a CC licensed book series: Attribution-

ISBN: 978–91–976670–9–8 (online)

Design: Jens Arvidson

Printed by: Media-Tryck, Lund, Sweden 2007

Fred Andersson Arnfinn Bø-Rygg

Jens Arvidson Charlotte Christensen

Mats Arvidson Claus Clüver

Mikael Askander David Dunér

Walter Baumgartner Lars Elleström

Kerstin Bergman Axel Englund

Walter Bernhart Fernando Flores

Helena Bodin Johan Fornäs

Magnar Breivik Annette Fryd

Henrik Brissman Heidrun Führer

Gunnar Broberg Kacke Götrick and Sven Fehrm

Jørgen Bruhn Eva Haettner Aurelius

Siglind Bruhn Jonas Hansson and Kristiina Savin

Per Bäckström Erik Hedling

Bent Holm Roland Lysell

Claes-Göran Holmberg Elisabeth Mansén and Jonas Ellerström

Lena Hopsch Arne Melberg

Els Jongeneel Stephanie A. Glaser

Bodil Jörgensen Schylit Jürgen E. Müller

Ole Karlsson Svante Nordin and Kristina Hallind

Karin och Sten Kindlundh Anders Ohlsson

Søren Kjørup Birgitta Olander

Irina Rajewsky Cecilia and Jan-Gunnar Sjölin

Per S. Ridderstad Anna Smedberg Bondesson

Valerie Robillard Johan Stenström

Eli Rozik Åsa Unander-Scharin

Kristin Rygg Paul Tenngart

Beate Schirrmacher Anders Troelsen

Turid Schjønsby Carl-Magnus Trygg

Bernhard F. Scholz Erling Wande

Inger Selander Ulrich Weisstein

Christina Sjöblad Erik Østerud

INTRODUCTIONS TO THE INTERMEDIAL FIELD

INTERMEDIAL “MUSIC” CULTURE

INTERMEDIAL “VISUAL” CULTURE

Notes on Contributors 417

a commonplace, in other words.1 The institutional results of this theoretical

COMBINATION INTEGRATION TRANSFORMATION

Interreference Co-existence Concrete poetry Verbal ekphrasis

SCHEMA OF transmedial multimedia mixed-media intermedial

Jens Arvidson, Mikael Askander, Jørgen Bruhn, and Heidrun Führer

the legitimate domains of Comparative Literature,8 a claim tentatively confirmed by

SCHEMA OF transmedial multimedia mixed-media intermedial

I cite the table because it includes “transposition” as a category and offers a

1. The developments of critical theory led to a widely accepted recognition

spatial distances.”36 There is an appropriately greater emphasis on communication

The conceptualization of literature as a verbal medium and the theoretical