Der nun auslaufende Forschungsverbund “Bilderfahrzeuge – Aby Warburgs Legacy and the Future of Iconology” forschte zehn Jahre unter einem Logo, dem abschließend noch einige Anmerkungen gewidmet sein sollen. Es zeigt ein vom Wind aufgeblasenes Segeltuch, das ohne vertikalen Mast oder Bootskorpus an einem Quermast befestigt ist. Die Schlaufen sind verknotet und enden in je einer Troddel. Das Motiv zitiert ein Insignium des Florentiner Kaufmanns Giovanni Ruccellai vom Ende des 15. Jahrhunderts, das als vela gonfia seinerzeit als Symbol des erfolgreichen, prosperierenden Seehandels sowie als Sinnbild der wechselhaften Sturmfortuna gedeutet wurde, um auf das Verhältnis von Individuum und Schicksal anzuspielen
For the occasion of the Mobile Memories conference, a detail of an artwork by Berlin-based Mexican artist Mariana Castillo Deball, (b. 1975), from her exhibition Uncomfortable Objects (dOCUMENTA (13), Kassel, 2012), featured as a central image of this academic event. This artwork takes us on a journey to the past, as Castillo Deball assembles pieces of naturalia and archaeological heritage, and pulls them to the rugged and relief-like surface of the picture plane. She integrates and juxtaposes different objects of material culture: rocks of different colours and the replicas of clay artifacts stemming from different moments of the pre-Columbian era and sites of Mexico.
A row of trees, colourful and seasonal flowers, and a flock of ducks gliding by on a lake beyond the trees can be said to function as agents of emotion enhancing the figure of the Maharaja of Marwar seated on a terrace.
How do illustrations with historic Maharajas shown in luxurious, green landscapes express emotions, and where do these lie? Does their expression in the form of bountiful nature visualised in the image produce “felt” emotions in the viewer?
During the course of the exhibition “Bilderatlas Mnemosyne – Das Original” at the Haus der Kulturen der Welt in Berlin questions, arose not only about the content, but also about the mediality and materiality of the atlas. The problematic concept of the original threatens to create a new cult of genius around Aby Warburg. But perhaps, considering that tattoos of his face are already traveling across the world, perhaps this has already happened. Beyond that, however, the term “original” is in danger of developing a new aura, that now even encompasses the selected reproductions of the master. One can only imagine what Walter Benjamin would say.
Entering the exhibition about the German Neo-Classical sculptor Gottfried Schadow (1764 – 1850) at the Berlin Nationalgalerie, a visitor may expect to find at its centre the famous group of the two Prussian Princesses Luise and Friederike (1796 – 1797). Today this is Schadow’s best known work, save, one might argue, the Quadriga on top of the Brandenburg Gate, the reception of which, however, often dissolves into that of the monument it crowns.
Der unscheinbar daherkommende Band Eine Art Weltkrieg von Anselm Franke und Erhard Schüttpelz (Spector Books 2021) unternimmt den Versuch, den „meistgelesene[n] Text Warburgs und der Kunstgeschichte des 20. Jahrhunderts“ (S. 14), namentlich Aby Warburgs sogenanntes Schlangenritual, und die sich seither um diese Ausführungen rankenden – oder sollte man sagen: schlängelnden? – Diskurse wie Bilddiskkurse neu einzuordnen.
Most discussions of Aby Warburg’s picture atlas understandably focus on issues of iconography and iconology. In contrast, this blog concentrates exclusively on aspects of its material history and the photographic campaigns that guaranteed the survival of the various stages, or ‘series’ of the Atlas. Much of this history has been discussed by Claudia Wedepohl and the curators of the recent Mnemosyne atlas exhibition, Roberto Ohrt and Axel Heil, in their monumental publication Aby Warburg: Bilderatlas Mnemosyne – The Original . The present blog revisits these issues with a tight focus on the questions ‘What did the original atlas in Hamburg consist of?’ and ‘How many times was it photographed?’ While I propose a different answer to the second question than the above mentioned authors, with regard to the first one, my aim is rather to present in greater detail the basic facts. I am doing this not least to counter some misconceptions of the original presentation of the atlas in the Kulturwissenschaftliche Bibliothek Warburg (K.B.W.)
Ascending the semi-circular staircase of the Courtauld Gallery, with its freshly coated electric blue bannisters, the visitor undertakes a physically demanding and intellectually exhilarating climb through centuries of artistic production that are carefully arranged across three floors. The Gallery has recently reopened its doors with much pomp after a two-year hiatus for building renovations, welcoming seasoned and new crowds to its sleek, clean-cut spaces.
Am 11. Januar 1929 schreibt Fritz Saxl an den Schweizer Kunsthistoriker Rudolf Bernoulli, Konservator der graphischen Sammlung der ETH in Zürich: Es „ist doch wirklich sehr schade, dass der Weltspiegel nicht mehr die Welt weiter zu spiegeln beabsichtigt.” Kurz zuvor hatte Bernoulli ihm die Einstellung einer Serie von Vignetten historischer Kosmosbilder angekündigt, die er ab 1921 wöchentlich im Weltspiegel publiziert hatte. Er bot auch an, der K.B.W. etwaige Nummern, die noch fehlten, nachzusenden. So finden sich in der Bibliothek des Warburg Institute heute sämtliche Exemplare des Weltspiegels von 1921 bis 1929 als gebundene Sammlung.
Through the centuries, Persian classical tales have regaled audiences with stories narrating the lives and emotions of diverse human actors, including heroes and anti-heroes, transmitted orally as well as copied into manuscripts containing illustrations. One of the most-loved heroes of Persian classical literature is the legendary Rustam, the fiery and brave military commander and king-maker from Sistan.
The revival of certain elements such as bewegtes Beiwerk was certainly due to the “period of discovery” that Botticelli witnessed in the early Renaissance. In this period, the circulation and migration of human beings, artworks, and knowledge started to become a part of daily life. Something similar, one might add, occurred in the sixteenth century; at this time, the Portuguese merchants and, shortly after, the Jesuits arrived in China. In the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, new painting techniques, innovative compositions, new types of subject matter and renewed philosophical and scientific interests and thoughts emerged.
For the scholar, it is unsurprising to learn of two 18th century portraits, originally conceived as a pair, which nevertheless became separated, ending up over the generations in different collections. Such is the fate of many paintings, especially those on canvas, which is a two-dimensional pictorial support whose very persistence through the centuries is tied to its mobility. Combined with the durability of oil paint itself, the portability of canvas is part of what makes oil paintings desirable, valuable, even, one might speculate, so entrenched in Western culture.
We have all experienced this situation with our smartphone: While opening the photo gallery or the camera, a photograph pops up that is not familiar to us. It may be blurred, or showing a strange detail from a peculiar angle: a pavement, a staircase – if the respective image is recognizable at all. But it can also be totally black, more like an Ad Reinhardt. The more frequently we are confronted with such images (even every day, depending on the time we spend on those devices), it becomes clear that the photographer could be the apparatus itself.
An article which appeared on Saturday 13 January 1962 in the Lebanese cultural newspaper L’Orient Littéraire , co-authored by the Syrians Chérif Khaznadar (1940 –), a poet and art critic, and the painter Louay Kayyali (1934 – 1978), presents us with a visual and logical conundrum. In the lead to the article, Khaznadar and Kayyali reported a thrilling artistic discovery they had made in Damascus: in the dark and cluttered shop of a merchant in the Bab al-Jabiyyah souq the two found a painting, “a marvellous specimen of ancient Damascene art”, which they were eager to study
‘The biggest little place in America,’ was, for the novelist Henry James, Concord, Massachusetts. Sounding like a slogan for the town’s tourism board today, not to mention like a quaint expression of American pastoral kitsch, James’s phrase is meant to reference the difference between Concord’s modest size and its prominent place in history. In contrast to a current population of about 17,000, Concord was the physical site of one of first skirmishes of the American Revolutionary War in 1775 as well as the metaphorical cradle of American Transcendentalism some 60 years later.
Though the iconography of leaflets has been researched again and again – especially since Warburg – less so the political agent of their dissemination and their reception. And yet these prints with text and image, already circulating in the late Middle Ages, quite rightly deserve their poetic name: “leaflet” or “flyer”, in German “Flugblatt” (lit.: flying leaf), in French occasionally even “papillon” (“butterfly”).
From Alexander Hobe, Hamburg Institute for Social Research “Bad Europeans constructing Europe?”: Is it possible that this not entirely serious suggestion for a title of our project perfectly encapsulates some of the core problems...