Babel 2020

Babel A Journal of Early Modern Studies

2

3

Babel 2020 Editors-in-Chief Lea Paas-Lang ZoĂŤ Sherwin Editors Taryn Neufeld Apolonnia Perri Elsy Rytter Layout Editors Sophie Lawall Bronwyn Turnquist

Special Thanks Em Grisdale, EMSS Secretary 2019-20 Katy Weatherly, EMSS Executive Member 2019-20

4

We must recognize that all of the work and scholarship at King’s, including Babel, takes place on K’jipuktuk, in the third district of the Mi’kma’ki, which is Eskikekwa’kik. This is the unceded and ancestral territory of the Mi’kmaq people. Additionally, we work in English, a language of colonialism and oppression. The Peace and Friendship Treaties struck in the early modern period between the Mi’kmaq and British Nations are unique in that they grant uninhibited use of land resources to First Nations, rather than outlining a surrender of land. Canada, however, continues to violate the spirit peace and friendship- and the letter -Mi’kmaq access to land and resources- of these treaties.

For more information on these treaties visit www.migmawei.ca/ negotiations/migmaqtreatyrights/ Recto: Jan Davidsz de Heem, Still Life with Flowers, c. 1650-1660, oil on canvas, 90.8 x 68.6 cm, Museum der Bildenden Künste, Leipzig.

Verso: Jan Davidsz de Heem, Garland of Fruit and Flowers, c. 16601670, oil on canvas, 74 x 60cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Editors-In-Chief: Lea Paas-Lang and Zoë Sherwin Publishers: Sophie Lawall and Bronwyn Turnquist Editors: Taryn Neufeld, Elsy Rytter, Apolonnia Perri VOL. XIX (19)

5

Table of Contents Introduction Zoë Sherwin .................................................................................. 7 Justifying Pain through Philosophy in Anne Conway and the Lurianic Kaballah Jacob Hermant .............................................................................. 8 The Rhetoric of Mary: Early Modern Italian Convents and the Architecture of Virginity Isabel Teramura .......................................................................... 18 Engaging with Kant’s Ethical and Political Philosophy in Light of His Early Racial Theory Graham O’Brien ......................................................................... 28 The Paragone and The Formation of The Artist-Genius-Myth Andrew Burroughs ....................................................................... 43 Raising the Standard: An Examination of Louis XIV’s Army Under the Le Tellier Catherine Charlton ...................................................................... 52 Exploring the Mediating Forces Between the Artwork and the Art Observer: an Analysis of the Spectacle of Mona Lisa Caroline Defrias .......................................................................... 66 Rebellion and Piracy: Radical Community at Sea Isabelle Reynolds .......................................................................... 77 An Act of Artistic Voyeurism: It’s Sexy Being Included!

Ciara Gordon .............................................................................. 87 Afterword Lea Paas-Lang ............................................................................. 93

6

7

Introduction April 30, 2020.

This year’s publication of Babel happens in unprecedented circumstances. Most years, we finish the journal by the end of the academic term, get them printed, and have a launch party with all our contributors and peers. It has always been one of my favourite events of the year, and I miss it greatly as I write this from my kitchen table, where I spend so much of my time during this first wave of the COVID-19 pandemic. While I mourn our normal lives, and the loss of an opportunity to celebrate our academic work together, the early modern period and my study of it continue to be a grounding and comforting force in my life. No one knows how to joke about mortality like the early moderns, is what I always say.

However, while I and so many others do find solace in studying the past, I would be remiss to not acknowledge the potential for harm that the study of the early modern period can perpetuate. This period, especially in Europe, where King’s students tend to focus our work, was rife with racism, misogyny, ableism, homophobia, and general xenophobia. As scholars, we have a responsibility to recognize and acknowledge this history. We do this so that we may question oppressive systems, and the ways they continue to be present in our contemporary life. The papers included in this journal contend with these issues in a myriad of ways, and we have included content warnings where applicable. I encourage you to engage with the journal on your own terms, and thank you for reading!

Zoë Sherwin, Co-President of the Early Modern Students’ Society, 2019-2020.

8

Justifying Pain Through Philosophy in Anne Conway and the Lurianic Kabbalah Jacob Hermant

Anne Conway’s The Principles of the Most Ancient and Modern Philosophy synthesizes philosophical monism with Jewish mysticism in a radical reimagining of God and the world that treats individual perfection as an attainable, and inevitable, goal of all beings. Having spent her entire life plagued by severe pain and migraines, Conway’s philosophy provides her with the opportunity to create a rationally consistent worldview in which suffering is proof of the body’s theologically redemptive connection to the soul, leading to the reunification of all beings in Heaven. The Lurianic Kabbalah inspires and supports Conway’s philosophical use for her pain, as she sees her own suffering in Isaac Luria’s tragic theology. This presents the perfect foundation for Conway’s system, which sees one’s pain as means to holy ends. While Luria seeks consolation for an entire people’s trauma and alienation, Conway applies his theology to vindicate individual pain through a collectively positive theological outcome. By aligning Luria’s theology with her own Christianity, Conway’s writing becomes an attempt to philosophically justify the suffering that she experienced as a fundamental and inescapable part of her life.1 Out of Conway’s lifelong suffering comes the need to create a philosophical system that focuses on mental fortitude as a method to surpass bodily vices in preparation for a future state of spiritual enlightenment and union, thus justifying her constant physical pain.

Sarah Hutton, in her biography of Anne Conway, describes how “from her teens, [Conway] suffered from bouts of inexplicable pain,

9 the main symptom of which was an unbelievable headache… [which] grew more intense, more frequent, and more prolonged as she grew older.”2 The ever-increasing nature of Conway’s pain is crucial, as it shows that her constant exposure to natural, tangible, and medicinal solutions and cures had no effect on her physical condition. Instead, Conway’s shift to aligning her thought with the Lurianic Kabbalah sparked her goal to find meaning and sanctity in her excruciating embodied existence. Her friendship with Francis Mercury van Helmont, a medical practitioner originally hired to treat Conway’s condition, blossomed “from the fact that he had more to offer his patient than mere medicines… Van Helmont… brought with him… a panoply of new ideas, religious and philosophical, which… contributed profound changes to [Conway’s] religious and philosophical outlook.”3 The most important of these was the Kabbalah, specifically that which Rabbi Isaac Luria formulated after the Jewish expulsion from Spain. Conway discusses her own pain through Kabbalistic theology, aligning it with her Christian monism to establish a worldview that treats bodily pain and suffering as preliminary to spiritual union. As a theology that transforms the pain of an entire nation into a path to redemption, the Lurianic Kabbalah gives Conway a model on which to express her own journey to spiritually justify her pain.

The core of Conway’s philosophy is mutability, which emerges from her tripartite structure of the world and provides the foundation for approaching theological redemption through pain. Conway begins by establishing the nature of her God, who is utterly separate from His creations. The primary point of this separation is the “indifference of will” that all creatures have, but that God, whose will “is most free… without any external force or compulsion or without any cause coming from the creatures,” cannot possess.4 This is because “this indifference of will is the basis for all mutability and corruptibility in creatures.”5 If God is to possess this indifference, He would have, like His creatures, a potential for sin and corruption, which are entirely outside of the divine essence. The

10 tripartite order is a consequence of this formulation. In it, the three substances “are God, Christ, and creatures; and… these three species are really distinct in terms of their essence.”6 God, the perfect being, is wholly immutable, while Christ, the mediator, is mutable only for the better, and creatures are wholly mutable for better and for worse. All creatures have the ability to improve continually toward potential perfection, fighting negative corrupting impulses while trying to attain further “degrees of goodness” through multiple lives with “a better spirit than before.”7 If a creature instead chooses to sin, there is always “punishment, pain, and chastisement appropriate to the nature of the deed itself, by means of which evil turns back again to good.”8 For Conway, all creatures have the constant potential for goodness and perfection, despite bodily sin and fault. In this manner, creaturely mutability grounds Conway’s philosophical justification for suffering. Though Conway’s life consisted of continuous, seemingly debilitating physical pain, her visualization of the world finds in it a holy essence, as her constant bodily state becomes a temporary mode through which she can look to achieve total moral perfection.

In Conway’s model of the world, suffering acts as a conduit for morality and betterment through its representation of Christ’s passions in the created order. Since Conway treats Christ and creatures as wholly separate entities, with the former mediating between the latter and God, the mutable creatures must be able to mirror Christ’s self-betterment to reach their own perfection. Christia Mercer explains how “the Christian narrative maintains that the human soul will be immortal only if Christ suffers… Conway takes up this idea and makes it a centerpiece of her philosophy. For her, suffering is the key to moral and cognitive improvement.”9 Even before discussing the Lurianic Kabbalah, Conway expresses a deep connection between pain and theology. When she eventually discovered the Kabbalah, seeing direct connections between it and her own Christianity, Conway found a way to relate Christ’s redemptive suffering with the communal redemption that Luria saw in the wake of exile.

11 Conway explains that “through pain and suffering whatever grossness or crassness is contracted by the spirit or body is diminished; and so the spirit imprisoned in such grossness or crassness is set free and becomes more spiritual and, consequently, more active and effective through pain.”10 The necessary baseness of creatures wanes in the presence of creaturely suffering—which mimics that of Christ—turning Conway’s tormented existence into one of union with Christ and unhindered mediation with God. Mercer emphasizes Conway’s argument that “in suffering, creatures increase in connectedness and vitality.”11 The experience of suffering creates the circumstances for spiritual perfection as it aligns creatures together in life, toward a sense of collective redemption. Just as Christ’s suffering allows for the perfection of the soul, one’s pain allows for advancement toward the communal salvation of all creatures.

Conway’s use of Lurianic theology to justify her pain reflects how Luria incorporates suffering and restoration into his expression of Creation. As Gershom Scholem explains, Lurianic Kabbalah emerged as a theological response to the Jewish exile (Galut) from Spain. It attempts to create meaning out of trauma, as “by connecting the notions of Galut and redemption with the central question of the essence of the universe… [the Kabbalists] transformed the exile of the people of Israel into an exile of the whole world, and the redemption of [the Jewish people] into a universal, cosmic redemption.”12 Luria wants to rationalize Jewish suffering, just as Conway attempts to philosophically treat her own pain, finding meaning in individual suffering by relating it to the redemption of the world.

The Lurianic solution looks to the moment of Creation, seeing a radical moment of God’s concealment which then “enabled the world to be revealed.”13 This concealment is necessary for God to then “emit beams of light into the vacuum of limitation and build our world,” emanating Himself through his creations and filling them with the divine light.14 However, the creatures, referred to as the ‘vessels,’ “could not contain the light and thus were broken… henceforth, nothing is perfect… in other words, all being is in Ga-

12 lut.”15 When Luria envisions this totalizing exile, he includes God in it, and places the responsibility to restore the necessary state of divine perfection on the Jewish people “through the Torah and the commandments… [freeing] the imprisoned divine light and [raising] it to its proper level.”16 The state of exile, then, is the constant state of the world. Though it diminishes and weakens God’s presence in all things, there is still the potential to break from the grip of Galut through purposeful holy action. This is the ideal philosophical structure for Conway; by mirroring Christ’s passions with the Kabbalistic interpretation of Galut, she is able to find spiritual meaning for her suffering that was could not result from conventional medicinal means.

Conway takes up Luria’s ideas of destruction and reparation to philosophically justify her pain, arriving at a new system of thought that expresses her personal lived experience. First encountering the Lurianic Kabbalah from her friendship with van Helmont, Conway “regarded the [Kabbalah] as a source of ancient wisdom” that, at that point in its transmission to the Christian world, “was heavily Neoplatonised… [providing] endorsement for a theory of substance compatible with the nature of God, as [Conway] understood it.”17 As well, the Kabbalah’s “spiritual monism… carried with it divine sanction for a non-dualistic metaphysic… the [Kabbalah] was a vital means of endowing monism with theistic credentials.”18 Conway’s tripartite system maintains a gap between creatures and God, using the potential for mutability to differentiate between the different beings of a singular, monist substance, which the Kabbalah seems to support due to its vision of the divine light that connects all beings. From this structure emerges Conway’s use of the Kabbalah to aid in establishing a connection between pain and divine perfection, as “the doctrine of redemption (tikkun) which entails a process of restoration or purification, [provides suffering with] a purgative function.”19 The centrality of mutability in Conway’s writing directly echoes Luria, as the ability for creatures to improve their base state appears in his conception of the Jewish peo-

13 ple’s responsibility to repair the world’s imperfect state by acting in accordance with the Torah and its commandments. Conway’s alignment of Lurianic Kabbalah with Christianity joins Christ’s passions together with the totalizing form of suffering that Luria sees as fundamental to the creation of the world, forming a created order that justifies and gives meaning to her pain.

Both Conway and Luria use their idea of God to construct their worlds, using their respective physical and theological pain to arrive at an ultimate good. While Conway’s God remains a perfect ideal, making it so all creatures can desire perfection, Luria’s God suffers and retreats in Creation, requiring human action in order to reveal Himself. In Luria’s God, Conway sees the pain that is necessary for redemption, which she aligns with her own God by viewing Him as what inspires all creatures to seek perfection out of their suffering. In her analysis of the intersections between the Cambridge Platonists and Lurianic Kabbalah, Allison Coudert explains how Conway imagines that “a creature can progress towards the good without limit because God is infinite and infinitely good.”20 Conway’s God is perfect, which necessitates that His creations can better themselves infinitely. Conway forms a logical progression between her ideas of God and mutability, using Luria’s vision of God’s presence in all things as the ground for her own radical worldview.

After the “primal flaw” in Creation, the healing can begin, and Luria maintains that “Man and God are partners in this enterprise… God began the process of reparation, but He left its completion to man.”21 The state of God in the Lurianic system results in the responsibility to act toward the reparation of the world, echoing Conway’s emphasis on how creatures must work against bodily vices, using their suffering to go beyond their present state. She embraces Luria’s need for creaturely action as a response to suffering alongside her utilization of Christ’s passions in her tripartite worldview, taking up Kabbalistic divinity to formulate a theologically productive end for her pain that exists simultaneously with the centrality of Christian tenets in her writing.

14 By comparing her pain with the Kabbalistic understanding of Galut, Conway treats Luria’s methods of recovery as philosophically medicinal, aiding in the justification of her suffering. The transmigration of souls, a Lurianic idea that makes up much of the reparatory process, emerges in Conway’s writing as a way to channel one’s pain into bettering both the self and the world. Scholem explains that, through the Torah, “every man amends his own soul, and by the process of transmigration that of his neighbor… [which symbolizes] the state of the unamended world, the confusion of the orders of creation.”22 This act represents the suffering of the shattered vessels and the path to redemption through suffering, mirroring Conway’s use of pain as a step toward perfect union. Just as “all pain and torment stimulates the life or spirit existing in everything which suffers,” the experience of Galut sparks the need for the Jewish people, in exile, to liberate the world through the holiness of Jewish tradition.23 The ability for self-perfection is a result of Conway’s interpretation of pain, and in Luria’s system the Galut is necessary for the Torah to enact its restorative power. Scholem emphasizes that “every being is subject to the law of transmigration from form to form. There is no being, not even the lowliest, which may not serve as a prison for the sparks of the ‘banished souls’ seeking restoration from their Galut.”24 Conway’s spectrum of being, in which all of God’s creatures have the potential to improve themselves, takes up the Lurianic vision of the divine light’s presence in all beings, allowing one to overcome the pain of the Galut and work toward redemption. Through the transmigration of souls, Conway uses individual suffering to inspire the improvement of all beings. One’s own pain becomes a source of active theological betterment, helping oneself and the world progress toward an eventual state of perfection, giving meaning and purpose to Conway’s suffering.

The role of sin in Conway and Luria’s writing emphasizes how each author uses their pain and suffering to engage with the world, displaying how these traumatic experiences can allow one to approach divine perfection. Out of her conception of God’s infinite

15 goodness, Conway “[denies] the eternity of Hell… she [argues] that punishments are ‘medicinal’ and last for only as long as it takes to ‘cure’ the soul of its sin and redirect it towards the path of righteousness.”25 If punishments are eternal, and sinners remain in Hell forever with no capacity for repentance and improvement, then not only would Conway’s God be imperfect, but there would be no potential to work through one’s suffering toward holy ends. Conway’s soteriology is founded on a doctrine of apocatastasis, wherein the eventual perfection of the world will find all beings living in heavenly harmony. The punishments that God inflicts “tend… to [the good of God’s creatures] and to their restoration and they are so medicinal as to cure these sickly creatures and restore them to a better condition.”26 The language of medicine is critical to Conway’s presentation of sin and punishment. God’s reaction to sin is to administer a punishment that inspires a turn to self-betterment, transforming suffering into a cure for itself and directly vindicating Conway’s life of inescapable pain. In a similar manner, Luria sees the need for holy action as a result of a more primal sin, committed in the earliest days of Creation. While God worked to mend the world, it remained humanity’s responsibility to aid in the process, and “Adam’s sin [in the Garden of Eden] returned the universe, which had almost been amended, to its former broken state.”27 Though God failed to fill the vessels safely with His light, the fault ultimately belongs to Adam for God’s total exile from the world, which places the task of reparation solely on humanity, and specifically on the Jewish people. Luria takes the Spanish expulsion as “the expression—compelling, concrete, and extremely cruel—of this phase of the world before reparation and redemption.”28 The pain of the Galut is the pain of all existence, which must work to inspire religious observance in an effort to find redemption. Conway incorporates Luria’s soteriology into her writing by viewing an intimate relationship between her own unceasing pain and the universe’s totalizing exile and suffering. As a result, both of these worldviews enact redemption through trauma in order to apply meaning and justifica-

16 tion to overpowering personal and communal tragedy.

To engage with her experience of constant and intense physical pain, Anne Conway directs her philosophical and theological interpretation of the world towards an effort to find justification and meaning for her suffering. In taking the Lurianic Kabbalah as her guide, Conway understands its lamentation of a whole people’s exile, and the necessary resultant action, as mirroring her own lived experience, and even finds points of connection between the Kabbalah and her own Christianity. Conway examines a group’s historical reaction to trauma to support her own expression of the world in which suffering contains the potential for good by placing one on the path to redemption. As a result, Conway displays how one can achieve both individual and communal solidarity through shared experience, finding empathy as the core virtue of humanity’s constant striving for salvation.29 1 In

early modernity, Kabbalah became a major philosophical interest among Christians in Europe. These Christian Kabbalists, including Anne Conway and her friend Francis Mercury van Helmont, aimed to use perceived similarities between Christianity and Kabbalah to try and politely convert Jews to Christianity.

While this is certainly an aspect of Conway’s Kabbalistic leaning, this essay will be avoiding this topic in order to focus on Conway’s positive uses of the Kabbalah to strengthen her revolutionary philosophical worldview.

2 Sarah Hutton, Anne Conway: A Woman Philosopher, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 30.

3 Hutton, Anne Conway, 148.

4 Anne Conway, The Principles of the Most Ancient and Modern Philosophy, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 15.

5 Conway, Principles, 15.

6 Conway, Principles, 30.

7 Conway, Principles, 32.

8 Conway, Principles, 42.

9 Christia Mercer, “Knowledge and Suffering in Early Modern Philosophy: G.W. Leibniz and Anne Conway,” in Emotional Minds ed. Sabrina Ebbersmeyer (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012), 187-188.

10 Conway, The Principles of the Most Ancient and Modern Philosophy, 43.

11 Mercer, “Knowledge and Suffering in Early Modern Philosophy: G.W. Leibniz

17 and Anne Conway,” 195.

12 Gershom Scholem, “The Messianic Idea in Kabbalism,” in The Messianic Idea in Judaism and Other Essays on Jewish Spirituality, (New York: Schocken Books, 1971), 43.

13 Scholem, “The Messianic Idea in Kabbalism,” 44.

14 Scholem, “The Messianic Idea in Kabbalism,” 44.

15 Scholem, “The Messianic Idea in Kabbalism,” 45.

16 Scholem, “The Messianic Idea in Kabbalism,” 46.

17 Hutton, Anne Conway: A Woman Philosopher, 164-165.

18 Hutton, Anne Conway, 166.

19 Hutton, Anne Conway, 168.

20 Allison Coudert, “A Cambridge Platonist’s Kabbalist Nightmare,” in Journal of the History of Ideas 36 no.4, (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1975), 643.

21 Scholem, “The Messianic Idea in Kabbalism,” 46.

22 Scholem, “The Messianic Idea in Kabbalism,” 46-47.

23 Conway, The Principles of the Most Ancient and Modern Philosophy, 43.

24 Scholem, “The Messianic Idea in Kabbalism,” 47.

25 Coudert, “A Cambridge Platonist’s Kabbalist Nightmare,” 644.

26 Conway, The Principles of the Most Ancient and Modern Philosophy, 38.

27 Scholem, “The Messianic Idea in Kabbalism,” 46.

28 Scholem, “The Messianic Idea in Kabbalism,” 46.

29 Though outside the focus of this paper, Conway also found purpose through her eventual conversion to Quakerism. She saw the strength of the Quakers, and of the women in particular, to be incredibly inspiring, as they found joy even while living in a constant state of oppression, which Conway understood as a socially-instigated suffering.

Bibliography Conway, Anne. The Principles of the Most Ancient and Modern Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996.

Coudert, Allison. “A Cambridge Platonist’s Kabbalist Nightmare.” Journal of the History of Ideas 36 no.4 (1975): 633-652.

Hutton, Sarah. Anne Conway: A Woman Philosopher. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004.

Mercer, Christia. “Knowledge and Suffering in Early Modern Philosophy: G.W. Leibniz and Anne Conway,” in Emotional Minds edited by Sabrina Ebbersmeyer, 179-206. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012.

Scholem, Gershom. “The Messianic Idea in Kabbalism,” in The Messianic Idea in Judaism and other essays on Jewish Spirituality. New York: Schocken Books, 1975.

18

The Rhetoric of Mary: Early Modern Italian Convents and the Architecture of Virginity Isabel Teramura

The Council of Trent, convening during the years 1545-1563, aimed to evaluate and establish the values of the Catholic CounterReformation in response to the upheaval of the Protestant Reformation. Among its many reforms, the topic of enclosure for cloistered women was left until the last sessions and discussed hastily.

The resulting declarations were vague and left much room for interpretation. However one major decision was the renewal of the Bull Periculoso of 1298, which called for the strict enclosure of nuns.1 Largely, the rhetoric of the Protestant Reformation advocated for the dissolution of convents, which were cast as corrupt and unfounded in scripture.2 In Italy, however, the post-Reformation period generally saw Catholic aristocratic convents reinvigorate the practice of enclosure. Strictly cloistered life was a massive shift for the life of cloistered women, who often had social roles as teachers, doing charity work,3 or begging and trading in the city.4 The spiritual work of nuns turned inward. Convent architecture from this period exemplifies this reclusive spirit: the buildings were transformed by the construction of walls, gates, grilles, doors, covered passages, and courtyards. The transition of aristocratic cloisters from open to closed spaces was motivated by a desire to hide visibly; nuns were withdrawn from public spaces into buildings which visually gestured at their purity. I argue that this architectural transformation speaks to an ideology of visible seclusion drawn from the Protoevangelium of Mary.

The story of the birth of Mary, found in the protogospel of

19 James, narrates the conception, birth, and childhood of Mary. The narrative emphasizes the piety of Mary’s parents, who promise to deliver Mary to a temple after her infancy as an expression of gratitude to God for giving them a child. The Protogospel of Mary confirms the relationship between purity and seclusion. The narrative underlines the purity of the mother of Jesus, marking her body and soul as different from those of regular women. Enclosure and seclusion both proliferate through the text on two levels. First, we see the enclosure of bodies within walls, and secondly we see the enclosure of the purity of the soul within the borders of the body. For example, when Mary’s mother Anna finds out that she is pregnant, she is sitting in an enclosed garden. During her pregnancy, she confines herself to her room. She declares, “As the Lord my God lives, you will not walk at all on this ground until I have taken you up to the Temple of the Lord.” She then “made a sanctuary in her bedroom and did not allow anything impure or unclean to pass through her lips.”5 The narrative focus on Mary’s physical separation from the exterior world underlines her ability to retain her holy status; her seclusion is preserved through her isolation from the exterior world.

The new architectural aesthetics of Post-Tridentine convents echo this rhetoric; the construction of boundaries and visual obstructions broadcast an image of female purity contained by unbreached borders.

However, it is important to note that the convents affected by the counter-Reformation were largely aristocratic convents; while women from patrician families were enclosed by architectural renovations, poorer women remained in “open” convents. As is often the case, documents and artefacts which are best preserved and given historical legitimacy often concern the more privileged parts of any culture. Thus, it is important for me to note that my paper is concerned specifically with the impact of periculoso and the Catholic reformation on aristocratic cloistered women. I argue that the rhetoric surrounding female claustration which emerged during the 15th and 16th centuries is an expression of class as well as gender. I will

20 be focusing primarily on aristocratic convents in Florence, Naples, and Palermo. These particular convents saw many modifications during the seventeenth century, and are of particular interest as their changing designs allow for the historical interpretation of the values which lie behind them.

The aristocratic convents which I am studying in this paper existed side by side with “open” conservatories. During the 17th century, Italian convents were increasingly filled with aristocratic nuns. Many noble families strategically chose a cloistered life for their daughters, as the “dowry” to become a bride of Christ was significantly smaller than that of a regular marriage. Patrician families would devote their daughters to convents alongside significant financial support. Daughters committed to convents would usually bring a monthly allowance and some other valuable assets with them to the convent. Often, these assets were channelled towards extensive renovations which embellished the interior while simplifying the exterior.6 The aim was to remove any visual, physical, or psychological sign of the nuns from the exterior of the building to sever any connection to the exterior public. As a rule, convent architecture was markedly plain: the buildings were distinctive in their use of exterior architectural features which denied visual, mental, and physical entrance to outsiders. By extension, the nuns within had a restricted relationship with the outside world.

The denial of visual access to the convent, however, was itself an obvious signifier of the enclosure of women within. We see this in the architectural traditions surrounding nuns’ segregated choirs in churches. Specifically in Neapolitan architecture, these were separate spaces where the choir nuns—the professed nuns who had paid a dowry—viewed the church service7. These choirs were typically located above the entrance of the church so that the nuns looked directly towards the altar. These spaces were covered by elaborate mesh grilles which prevented anyone from seeing or even anticipating the nuns’ presence. Helen Hills studies several instances in 17th century Neapolitan churches where the nuns’ choir was located on

21 the opposite end of the church, above the altar. This position established more distance between the choir and the lay people below, however it was also put visual emphasis on their separation by putting them into plain view.8 Indeed, having a daughter in a convent was often socially profitable for many aristocratic families; investing both their assets and the bodies of their daughters in the institution of the convent cultivated an image of familial piety. Accordingly, the elements of architectural enclosure often attracted the public eye while denying it access. For well-connected aristocratic families, this connection to the church was a source of social power and political influence.9 These convents held the daughters of Italian patrician families, and by extension, were responsible for guarding the social reputation of these families. These daughters had been entrusted to the care of a convent rather than the care of a husband, but this did not remove the burden of regulating the nuns’ behaviour and exposure to the public. Saundra Weddle states in her article “Women's Place in the Family and the Convent: A Reconsideration of Public and Private in Renaissance Florence” that during the Italian Renaissance, young women’s behaviour was controlled in order to prevent any shame or dishonour her free behaviour would bring to the family. She states, “it was not enough for a woman to behave virtuously; she had to be believed to behave virtuously.”10 While this analysis refers to the fifteenth century, I believe that these values are still clearly articulated in seventeenth century conventual architecture, and moreover speak to the ideological context surrounding the treatment of cloistered women in the seventeenth century. By placing their daughters in convents and paying a dowry, aristocratic families were paying to ensure the safekeeping of their daughter’s chastity. More importantly, they were guaranteeing her reputation for chastity. With this in mind, we can understand the significance of these boundaries erected around convents: they were protecting not only the virginity of the women within, but also the reputations of their extended families outside.

22 Mary spends the entire story under the care of one person or another who ensures that she will not be corrupted by the wrong type of social influence. She lives with her parents until the age of three; then lives in the temple until she is forced to leave after menarche at the age of twelve; at which point she is given to Joseph for safe keeping. No matter where she lives, the boundary of the space she inhabits is strictly monitored to ensure that only the right people are allowed access. One overt example of this standard is the interaction between Mary and Joseph where Joseph sees that Mary is pregnant. His immediate reaction is not to blame her for the pregnancy but rather to take it on as a personal failure to protect her from the threatening sexuality of unwanted outsiders. He declares, “‘For I received her from the Temple of the Lord God as a virgin, but I did not watch over her. [...] Who has done this wicked deed in my home and defiled the virgin?’”11 Joseph’s statement indicates that Mary’s virginity is a state which can only be secured when she is not in contact with others; accordingly, the exposure to other people without his supervision leads to her virtue being compromised.

Mary’s purity, in effect, is predicated upon her enclosure within the boundaries of Joseph’s home. The episode forwards an ideology of containment wherein female virgins are at risk of being ‘defiled’ if they are exposed to the public, and should be maintained intact within the borders of the home.

Just as Mary’s seclusion is fiercely maintained by her protectors, aristocratic convents employed strict rules and regulations to ensure that no unwanted visitors would compromise the purity of the establishment. These rules articulated the ideology of containment demonstrated by the architecture of the building. Very few people were granted access to the building, and those who entered had to abide by strict boundaries which eliminated all unnecessary contact with the nuns. Space and activity on the part of both visitors and nuns was extremely controlled, so both populations only saw certain highly curated facets of the other. For example, in 1658 the Archbishop of Palermo declared that convents should not accept

23 visitors while the nuns were eating. A century earlier, in a more severe attitude, Pope Pius V decreed in 1570 that any person who violated the principles of conventual enclosure, either intruders or the nuns, would be punished with excommunication.12 CounterReformation attitudes to enclosure demanded the strict regulation of public access to cloistered space. Cloistered women were limited in their engagement with outsiders, and contained within highly delineated social and physical boundaries. The social isolation of cloistered women speaks to an ideology which holds purity to be dependent upon enclosure.

Indeed, a large part of Mary’s perceived piety is rooted in the purity of her environment within her enclosure. From an early age, she is treated with special care according to the spiritually significant role she was born into, passing from one closed space to another. When she enters the Temple of the Lord, she is “cared for like a dove, receiving her food from the hand of an angel.”13 The only food she can consume is fed to her by angels; the only care she can receive is from the hands of priests. Her physical experience of the world is filtered through a standard of purity. Likewise, aristocratic nuns were confined to a physical space which eliminated any physical conditions which could threaten the purity of the nuns within. For example, in the convent of Santissima Annuziata della Murate in Florence the only part of the convent which was open to lay people was the parlour, located on the bottom floor, which limited public access to the cloistered spaces above.14 These features acted together to remove any possibility of encountering the outside world; nuns moved through certain sections of the city using these parallel routes which eliminated any possible contact with the lay people who lived next to them. The policing of boundaries was not limited to the walls of the building, but existed between different populations within the convent. In Florence, Archbishop Allessandro de’ Medici declared the appropriate design for a communion grate—where a nun and her confessor would speak—should be smaller than a palm, and have a thick enough barrier of stone that

24 any sight of or physical contact between the priest and the communicant would be impossible.15 The inhabitant of an aristocratic convent existed within a space which had been engineered to eliminate any possible contact with unwanted elements; the design reinforced the doctrine of complete withdrawal into conventual life.

Seventeenth century Neapolitan and Palermitan convents safe-guarded the virginity of their aristocratic inhabitants through strictly regulated boundaries. The costly and prominent walls, grilles, passageways, and portals demonstrated that the convent was an impregnable space. In a culture where women bear the weight of their families’ reputation, these extensive architectural constructions were necessary to the security of noble families’ social status and prestige.

They functioned as a visual confirmation of their daughters’ purity and piety, for all to see. By extension, it was also unquestioned. Helen Hills remarks that the virginity protected by convents was guaranteed “not by an undignified physical inspection of the aristocratic female body, the search for the signaculum, the broken or unbroken hymen, but by enclosure—the careful sealing of the architectural clothing of those sacred bodies.”16 Just as aristocratic nuns’ enclosure proved their innocence, so did Mary’s. Any doubts of her impurity are immediately disproven by acts of God; her holiness and virginity are proved to skeptics, not by physical tests but holy testimony on her behalf. When Mary’s condition is found out by the priests of the Holy Temple, they determine Joseph and Mary’s innocence through the consumption of the “water of refutation.”17 The most pertinent example is Salome’s test of Mary’s virginity; not believing that Mary could give birth and remain a virgin, she checks that Mary’s hymen is intact. Salome suffers from a burning hand as punishment for her intrusion into Mary’s body, declaring “...I have put the living God to the test, and see, my hand is burning, falling away from me.”18 Her purity is guaranteed by her holiness and protection from God; any physical examination is a statement of faithlessness.

Early modern convents were made up of intricate bounda-

25 ries and borders which served to segregate the inhabitants within it by sex and by piety. Architecture, which often seems innocuous, functioned as a physical expression of conventual laws through the use of grilles, doors, passageways, windows, choirs, and dormitories.

These features were physical limitations to the movement and sight of the nuns who were bound within these spaces, as well as the lay people who remained outside. More significantly, these physical limitations had serious psychological effects on those who encountered them. Any possible interaction whether visual, physical, or mental, was prevented by the design of the convent’s physical space. The extensive attention paid to the security of the convents makes them equal parts fortress and convent. In the case of the aristocratic convents of Naples, Florence, and Palermo, they were effectively strongholds for the daughters of the Italian elite; an alternative to marriage which held the same, if not greater, indication of honour and piety.

This societal celebration of aristocratic families’ donation of their daughters to convents is rooted in an association between convent life and the life of Mary. Both the aristocratic women and the Virgin Mary were valued by their families as symbols of piety. This reflects the early modern Italian value system which strongly linked a family’s reputation to the behaviour of its daughters. Thus women’s behaviour was extremely regulated. Both Mary and the cloistered women were subject to social and familial regulation which attempted to maintain their purity, their value, by isolating them from the corruption which lay outside of their cloister. Both women served as symbols of virtue for those who surrounded them, a role which had immense pressure. This tension is exemplified in the behaviour of Mary’s guardians and the financial investment in convent architecture. Considering this ideological framework, the material conditions of seventeenth century aristocratic Italian convents indicate a shared ideology of enclosure which goes above and beyond the reforms to conventual enclosure proposed in Periculoso, recalling the rhetoric used in the life of the Virgin Mary. Mary serves as the

26 ultimate example of traditional female virtue, secluded and protected from any corrupting external influence. These convents used exceptional methods of spatial and social control in order to maintain the reality, but more importantly an image of purity which parallels that of Mary’s.

1 Helen

Hills. "The Veiled Body: Within the Folds of Early Modern Neapolitan Convent Architecture." Oxford Art Journal 27, no. 3 (2004): 275.

2 Carly Daniel-Hughes. “Protestant Reformation: Closing Convents, Exalting Marriage.” Lecture, Concordia University, Montreal, Quebec, March 5th 2019.

3 Helen Hills. "Cities and Virgins: Female Aristocratic Convents in Early Modern Naples and Palermo." Oxford Art Journal 22, no. 1 (1999): 33.

4 Silvia Evangelisti. "Monastic Poverty and Material Culture in Early Modern Italian Convents." The Historical Journal 47, no. 1 (2004): 7.

5 “The Proto-Gospel of James (Or, Infancy Gospel of Mary).” In The Apocryphal Gospels: Texts and Translations (New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2011), 43.

6 Hills, “Cities and Virgins,” 37.

7 Ibid., 48.

8 Hills, “Cities and Virgins,” 49.

9 Evangelisti, “Monastic Poverty and Material Culture in Early Modern Italian Convents,” 2.

10 Saundra Weddle. “Women’s Place in the Family and the Convent: A Reconsideration of Public and Private in Renaissance Florence.” Journal of Architectural Education 55, no. 2 (2001): 64.

11 “The Proto-Gospel of James (Or, Infancy Gospel of Mary),” 55.

12 Helen Hills. "The Veiled Body: Within the Folds of Early Modern Neapolitan Convent Architecture." Oxford Art Journal 27, no. 3 (2004): 277.

13 “The Proto-Gospel of James (Or, Infancy Gospel of Mary),” 55.

14 Weddle, “Women’s Place in the Family and the Convent,” 57.

15 Hills, “The Veiled Body,” 289.

16 Hills, “The Veiled Body,” 276 17 “The Proto-Gospel of James (Or, Infancy Gospel of Mary),” 59 18 Ibid., 65.

27 Bibliography “The Proto-Gospel of James (Or, Infancy Gospel of Mary).” In The Apocryphal Gospels: Texts and Translations, 40-71.

New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2011.

Evangelisti, Silvia. "Monastic Poverty and Material Culture in Early Modern Italian Convents." The Historical Journal 47, no. 1 (2004): 1-20. http:// www.jstor.org/stable/4091543.

Daniel-Hughes, Carly. “Protestant Reformation: Closing Convents, Exalting Marriage.” Lecture, Concordia University, Montreal, Quebec, March 5th 2019.

Hills, Helen. "Cities and Virgins: Female Aristocratic Convents in Early Modern Naples and Palermo." Oxford Art Journal 22, no. 1 (1999): 31-54. http:// www.jstor.org/stable/1360682 Hills, Helen. "The Veiled Body: Within the Folds of Early Modern Neapolitan Convent Architecture." Oxford Art Journal 27, no. 3 (2004): 271-90. http:// www.jstor.org/stable/20107987 Jussie, Jeanne De. The Short Chronicle: A Poor Clare's Account of the Reformation of Geneva, 1-9, 122-126, 129-133, 138-140, 140-144, 64-172. Edited by Carrie F. Klaus. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006.

Weddle, Saundra. “Women’s Place in the Family and the Convent: A Reconsideration of Public and Private in Renaissance Florence.” Journal of Architectural Education 55, no. 2 (2001): 64-72. https://www.jstor.org/stable/1425607

28

Engaging with Kant’s Ethical and Political Philosophy in Light of His Early Racial Theory Graham O’Brien

Content warning: This essay contains discussions of racism and racist philosophies Immanuel Kant, in the Groundwork For the Metaphysics of Morals and his other works of ethical philosophy, takes a universalist and egalitarian approach to humanity and morality. These philosophical claims, however, conflict with racist and inegalitarian views he upheld in some of his earlier theory; particularly, his essay “Of the Different Human Races”. Because of this conflict, scholarship has taken two notable positions on Kant’s racial theory and its conflict with his more influential ethical and political philosophy. As Pauline Kleingeld claims, in her essay “Kant’s Second Thoughts on Race”, these two positions read Kant as either an “inconsistent universalist” or a “consistent inegalitarian.”1 Before I can adequately explain my argument, however, I ought to give substance to these two positions, which will inform this essay immensely.

Beginning with the “inconsistent universalist” approach, Kleingeld writes: “The most common view is that Kant’s racism is a regrettable and appalling fact, but that it lies at the periphery of his philosophy, and that one can quite easily isolate it from the more important core of his Critical philosophy.”2 This view, as this passage suggests, seeks to divorce his earlier racial theory from his more influential Critical and post-Critical works. In particular, these scholars see such works as more relevant because they contradict with his racial theory.3 This view is, regrettably, not without issue, as

29 in 1788 Kant published both the Critique of Practical Reason and On the Use of Teleological Principles in Philosophy.4 The former, published first, stands as his first notable foray into ethics, and the second of his three Critiques. The latter is the latest point at which Kant maintained his hierarchical views on race.5 On the opposite side of the spectrum, scholars such as Charles Mills have “argued that Kant’s moral and legal theory is not universalist at all.”6 According to Kleingeld, Mills argues the following position: “He claims that Kant intends to apply the Categorical Imperative and the Principle of Right to whites only: when Kant speaks of ‘everyone’, he means in reality ‘all whites’, not ‘all humans’. Therefore, Mills argues, [Kant’s] so-called universalism is in reality no more than white egalitarianism.”7 In this manner, Mills takes the position that Kant is a “consistent inegalitarian” and that his views did not change throughout his life’s work. My position on the consistency between Kant’s texts, with regards to race, is that his later work leaves racial theory out of the equation entirely. Moreover, throughout this process I will look to Kant’s categorical opposition to slavery and European colonialism. However, because we cannot know if, at the end of his life, Kant still harboured racist views privately or not, I will not be arguing (as Kleingeld does) that Kant’s personal views moved away from racism. Before explaining the relevant portions of Kant’s ethical and political thought, however, I ought to give an account of Kant’s racial theory.

From here, I will reconstruct the groundwork of Kant’s racial theory in order to cover his thinking chronologically. First and foremost, Kant viewed race hierarchically, as E. Chukwudi Eze, as cited

by Williams, writes: STEM GENUS: white brunette.

First race, very blond (northern Europe).

Second race, Copper-Red (America).

Third race, Black (Senegambia).

Fourth race, Olive-Yellow (Indians). [...] the assumption behind this arrangement and this

30 order is precisely skin color: white, black, red, yellow; and the ideal skin tone is the “white” - the white brunette - to which others are superior or inferior as they approximate the “white.”8 As this passage shows, Kant viewed different races hierarchically based on skin colour, with the white race at the top. Eze explains Kant’s claims further, noting that Kant thought of each race as different in terms “‘of rational (and therefore, human) capacity - or the lack of it.’”9 Of these capacities, Kleingeld writes: “In 1788 [...] he claimed that people from Africa and India lack a ‘drive to activity’, and hence lack the mental capacities to be self-motivated and successful in northern climates.”10 Kant’s thought, at this point, ascribed human capacity to race, with all races in an “inferior” position to the “ideal” white race. Taking this further, Kleingeld writes: “[Kant] also added comments, such as that blacks are lazy and that Native Americans have a ‘half-extinguished vital energy’(DHR 2:438), and remarked on their respective usefulness as slaves.”11 In this sense, Kant not only claims that one’s race defines their intellect, but that a race’s capacity for intellect and agency determines their fitness for slavery.12 As Kleingeld and Williams argue, Kant seems to distance himself from these views in his later ethical and political theory, to which, we will now turn.

Kant’s conception of property, in terms of land, will eventually lead us to discussing his concept of a state. Of property, Kant claims there is an original right to land. As Williams writes: “For Kant there is, as with Locke, an original right of the common possession of the ‘earth’s surface’, which because it is a globe or a sphere requires that human beings must ‘finally put up with being near one another’ and cannot ‘disperse indefinitely.’”13 In this sense, every human is entitled to possession of the earth’s land. This did not mean that one person could claim a piece of nature as privately theirs; rather, private property requires civil society.14 Furthermore, the creation of a state allows for the ownership of private property (for our discussion, property refers to land or territory). Jimmy

31 Casas Klausen explains why individuals form into states, as he writes: Kant introduced his axiom of “unsocial sociability” and notes that each person “encounters in himself the unsociable property of willing to direct everything so as to get his own way.” Obviously, such a situation [...] would lead to violent disorder, which, Kant argues, individuals need not experience physically to understand they must leave it.15 From unsocial sociability, Kant recognizes that humans have a “propensity to enter into society”16 which is most efficiently achieved by entering into a state. In this sense, entering into a state curbs our unsociability.

So, what does Kant consider a state? Of this, he writes: “A state (civitas) is a union of the multitude of human beings under laws of right.”17 In this sense, the state is a large group of people brought together in a commonwealth (a legal authority). These states, as Kant describes them, are large communities with rightful possession of land that they make use of, and have property in.18 As such, a state is a territorial entity that groups people together under a single legal body. Moreover, Kant considers them to be analogous to individuals, or moral persons.19 As Kant explains in “Perpetual Peace”, states are: “Peoples who have grouped themselves into nation states may be judged in the same way as individual men living in a state of nature.”20 In this sense, each state ought to be considered the same way as any single human, and every state is obligated to respect the autonomy of another. Autonomy, in Kantian terms, refers to the freedom to self-legislate and not have to “submit to any external legal constraint.”21 In this way, state autonomy bears resemblance to Kant’s moral theory of autonomy, which pertains to individual persons. Of autonomy, Christine Korsgaard writes: “we should so act that we may think of ourselves as legislating universal laws through our maxims.”22 States, in a similar manner, demand this respect from other states accordingly. In fact, one might say they have a right to that respect. Right, however, is a larger concept in Kant’s theory, and requires its own explanation.

Firstly, to Kant, rights fall under a universal principle, as Chad

32 Kautzer writes: “Kant’s Universal Principle of Right, which holds that ‘an action is right if it can coexist with everyone’s freedom in accordance with a universal law, or if on its maxim the freedom of choice of each can coexist with everyone’s freedom in accordance with a universal law.’”23 As such, all formulations of right, under this principle, must respect the freedom of choice for all persons. Moreover, right is an a-priori concept, meaning it is not derived from experience, and any rational being can have knowledge of it.24 In “Perpetual Peace”, Kant outlines three forms of right, namely: “civil [...], international, and cosmopolitan (public) right.”25 These three formulations of right are all designed to maintain autonomy within, and between, nation states.

Of civil right, Kant claims that a state must be republican, and that its constitution follows three principles, as he writes: “the principle of freedom for all members of a society [...] the principle of dependence of everyone upon a single common legislation [...] the principle of legal equality for everyone (as citizens).”26 These principles ensure that citizens play a role in the decisions of “juridical law”,27 or, the legislation of a state. Subsequently, juridical laws prevent conflict between citizens of a given state. Civil right, in effect, maintains the autonomy of citizens.

Civil right, however, secures nothing on the level at which states interact with each other, for this, Kant has international right.

A constitution between states secures international right; or, in Kant’s words, “a Federation of Free States.”28 This federation, like a civil constitution, ought to secure the autonomy of a state, insofar as states are analogous to moral persons. As Kant writes: “Each nation, for the sake of its own security, can and ought to demand of others that they should enter along with it into a constitution, similar to the civil one, within which the rights of each could be secured.”29 In this manner, international right demands that the states form a federation that places external legal constraints on them, just as a civil constitution would do for the citizens of a given state. This legal constraint, as Kant implies, is “likely to prevent war” between member states.30 In joining this federation, the participating states will, just as in civil right, secure their autonomy.31 Furthermore, autonomy is just as essential to a nation as it is to an individual person.

In other words, the federation is an external legal constraint, but one that each state has, in choosing to join, self-legislated.

33 As such, the federation protects state autonomy through a series of essential provisions. Kant calls these provisions “the Preliminary Articles of a Perpetual Peace Between States.”32 Specifically, three of these provisions secure the autonomy of a state. These are articles 2, 5, and 6 (however, one can make an argument that all six articles secure autonomy).33 The second article claims the following: “2. ‘No independently existing state, whether it be large or small, may be acquired by another state by inheritance, exchange, purchase or gift.’”34 This is to say that the territory of another state cannot be claimed by another. Moreover, the fifth article claims that “‘[no] state shall forcibly interfere in the constitution and government of another state.”35 This article, essentially, ensures that the selflegislation of the state, as individual, is not tampered with by another state. This is to the extent that one state cannot step in to help cure the “internal ills” of another state.36 Following this, the sixth article also prevents states that are at war from interfering with the internal affairs of another state. As Kant writes: “6. ‘No state at war with another shall permit such acts of hostility as would make mutual confidence impossible during a future time of peace. Such acts would include the employment of assassins [...], breach of agreements, the instigation of treason [...] etc.’”37 These rules, in effect, prevent one state from disrespecting the autonomy of another, be that through conquering territory, or other means. In short, these articles, as parts of an international federation between states, guarantee the autonomy of its member states.

Finally, we come to the third form of right, which Kant calls cosmopolitan. According to him, the cosmopolitan right compliments “the unwritten code of [civil] and international right.”38 What does cosmopolitan right entail, exactly? Kant explains that the cosmopolitan right affords “Universal Hospitality” to members of the international federation.39 Hospitality, in this case, refers to a citizen’s right to non-hostile treatment when visiting the territory of another state.40 This right, however, does not permit a citizen of another state to take up residence or claim property in the host state.41 Moreover, this right, allows foreign citizens “to attempt to enter into relations with the native inhabitants” on the provision of non-hostile treatment.42 Hospitality, as Kant notes, is a “universal right of humanity”, which is to say, that this extends to all persons, regardless of their participation in the federation.43 Because hospital-

34 ity is a right, it conforms to the universal principle mentioned earlier. As Otfried Höffe explains, such rights are moral, which is to say “‘natural’” and “‘immutable.’”44 Moreover, these moral rights serve as the ground for all state (civil) laws by establishing “‘the authority of the lawgiver’”; in other words, the constitution of a state.45 In effect, this grants legal authority to states and moves us closer to cementing Kant’s state-person analogy It is from natural right that a state ought to be treated with the same moral consideration as any human. Of this, in regard to persons, Kant writes: But a human being regarded as a person, that is the subject of a morally practical reason, is exalted above any price; for as a person he is not to be valued merely as a means to the ends of others or even to his own ends, but as an end in himself, that is, he possesses a dignity (an absolute inner worth) by which he exacts respect for himself from all other rational beings in the world.46 This passage, when looked at in the light of Kant’s analogy of the state as a moral person, takes on an added implication. From this, we can infer that a state, as a person, has a certain level of dignity.

Moreover, this passage, in concert with the second preliminary article of perpetual peace, affords the state a value beyond “a price as of a commodity of exchange.”47 Furthermore, in “Perpetual Peace” Kant views the state in a similar manner, as he claims: “Like a tree, it has its own roots, and to graft it onto another state [...] is to terminate its existence as a moral personality and make it into a commodity.”48 In effect, these passages serve to both link The Metaphysics of Morals and “Perpetual Peace” as companion pieces that complete the states-as-moral-persons analogy. Following this, states ought to afford each other respect as autonomous entities that ought to treat each other as ends-in-themselves, and “never merely as a means [to an end].”49 So, bearing in mind Kant’s concepts of right and the state, how, in abstract terms, is he anti-colonialist? Of this, Williams explains that Kant’s devotes some political work to developing his own views on European colonialism.50 Referring to “Perpetual Peace”, Williams writes: “he speaks of [...] the way in which Asian, African, American and Australasian people should be approached

35 by the European visitor. Here Kant makes it patently clear that this approach should not be one of superiority but that of equal inhabitants [...] governed by right or law.”51 This is consistent with his approach to interactions with foreign peoples in The Metaphysics of Morals. Moreover, Williams explains that Kant does not have a high opinion of European colonialism, and offers a new model with higher standards for interacting with non-European peoples.52 According to Williams, Kant values “limitation and regulation” in these interactions, which conflicts with his earlier views on race.53 Of these earlier writings, Williams says: “for Kleingeld it represents an episode in Kant’s intellectual development which he leaves behind him in his final political writings.”54 In accordance with this claim, however, it is worth bearing in mind that, regardless of his racial views, Kant maintains a political “Eurocentrism.”55 This, perhaps, is something that we could forgive, as he never left his home, the city of Königsburg in (then) East Prussia.56 The best point of comparison, in order to illustrate the anticolonialist sentiment in Kant’s philosophy, is to look at the work of John Locke. Kautzer and Williams concur that Locke’s political theory, as he presents it in his Two Treatises on Government, intentionally justifies colonialism and its interests.57 To expand on this, however, Williams writes: Locke appears to have expressed few qualms about the European peoples imposing their will upon the non-white world. Locke’s labour theory of property fully endorses the industrious white settlers who bring into cultivation previously neglected territories and add to nature’s endowments by cultivating skillfully the previous untilled land. As I have put it elsewhere “colonialism and the expansion of European market society need not be added to Locke’s theory of property - they are already an integral part of his doctrine.” Locke considers colonialism “a practice that increases the ‘common stock of mankind’ by developing and exploiting the productive capacity of the earth.”58 According to this passage, Locke views colonialism as acceptable, and even good, so long as humanity makes greater use of the land.

Moreover, Europeans all have an equal right to the earth’s surface

36 and thus can lay claim to any unlaboured land.59 To Locke, it does not matter whether anyone inhabits the land or not. To him, so long as that land goes untilled, European powers are welcome to claim it as their own property through labour. To him, colonialism is more productive and ethically permissible, as it serves the greater good of humanity. Locke further justifies colonialism by claiming that invading and conquering this unused land is acceptable. Regarding colonisation, Wayne Glausser writes: “where there being more Land, than the Inhabitants possess, and make use of, any one has liberty to make use of the waste [...] [Thus, if a native population should] resist conquest of their waste land, they become aggressors in war, [and the developers may justly kill them].”60 Locke, in this “just war” theory of colonialism (and slavery) further justifies European violence against non-white inhabitants of non-European lands.

So, how does Kant’s philosophy differ from Locke? Thinking back to Kant’s “Preliminary Articles of a Perpetual Peace Between States” he claims that no state, according to his meaning of the term, may take the territory of another, so as to protect their autonomy.61 This, however, seems to only extend to states in the Eurocentric federation that Kant proposes. Yet, this does not disqualify other nonEuropean peoples from receiving the same treatment. Thinking of Kant’s Universal Principle of Right, actions taken by the state must coexist with the freedom (autonomy) of all other states, and by extension other peoples.62 Williams writes: “[Kant] does not accept a right to acquire what we can usefully exploit or take over territories that may appear empty or under-populated simply because we have expanded our labour on them.”63 In this sense, Kant’s view is the direct opposite of Locke’s as states cannot simply colonize land, work on it, and then call it theirs. This is the case, for Kant, because it would violate the right of the native inhabitants, and subsequently, infringe upon their autonomy. Moreover, the claim to property is not legitimate for a visitor to a foreign state, as Kant’s theory of property suggests.64 Rather, Kant suggests that foreign newcomers do “‘not extend beyond the conditions which make it possible to seek commerce with the old inhabitants.’”65 In this sense, foreign visitors may only attempt to seek commerce. This is in accordance with the cosmopolitan right of hospitality. According to that principle, as I explained it earlier, the only thing a foreign visitor may do is seek to create a relationship with native citizens.66 Furthermore, the

37 visitor can only rightly expect non-hostile treatment.67 Because this right is universal, it follows that it must apply to all human beings.

For Kant, the end of cosmopolitan right is to bring all of humanity under a constitution. Moreover, states ought to accomplish this without force; rather, each state must autonomously consent to the external legal constraint of an international constitution.68 As Williams clarifies: “A perspective that Kant adds that arguably has an European tinge is that these journeys and contacts should ultimately be regulated by law, and do not rule out commerce. Unavoidably Kant is Eurocentric in his outlook but not in a way that wholly disregards the merits of other cultures and races.”69 As this passage indicates, commerce, for the sake of bringing humanity closer together, is Kant’s objective. Moreover, this passage allows for a return to Kant’s discussion of race, which (for some) shows considerable change from his work in 1788 and before.

Perhaps the most obvious potential change in Kant’s racial views is his stance on slavery. In “Perpetual Peace” he outright opposes slavery as “gruesome.”70 Kleingeld, citing Kant, writes: “The principles underlying the supposed lawfulness of appropriating newly discovered [...] lands, as goods belonging to no one, without the consent of the inhabitants and even subjugating them as well, are absolutely contrary to cosmopolitan right.”71 Moreover, slavery is unquestionably impermissible in Kant’s ethical and political system, as it debases the dignity of a person’s humanity. Furthermore, slavery contradicts the second formulation of the categorical imperative, as it makes humans mere means to another’s end. As he writes: “So act that you use humanity, in your own person as well as in the person of any other, always at the same time as an end, never merely as a means.”72 In accordance with this principle, Kant must reject slavery, or risk selfcontradiction, because slavery does not treat human beings as endsin-themselves.

The claim that Kant’s ethical and political philosophy are not racially inflected is further supported by his comments on other non -white nations. Moreover, his judgements of these states are not predicated on his earlier racial theory, rather, Kant’s aim in these passages is to condemn European colonialism. Of Kant’s comments on European colonialism, Williams writes: “‘If one compares with this the inhospitable behaviour of civilized, especially commercial,

38 states of our part of the world, [the] injustice they show in visiting foreign lands and peoples (which with them is tantamount to conquering them) goes to horrifying lengths.”73 To Kant, the treatment of foreign lands by Europeans is unacceptable. Moreover, Williams suggests that Kant thought that foreign lands ought to “be treated with respect” and that Europeans had “no justification for sweeping away their rights.”74 This passage, as it should be clear, suggests that, regardless of his racial views, Kant was unwilling to deny states of people of other races their innate dignity. Doubling down on this, Kant thinks that European colonization only brings “‘the whole litany of troubles that oppresses the human race.’”75 With these remarks, Kant praises Asian states for setting limits on European access to their land, and sees resistance, by native peoples, to European incursion “as the path toward maintaining civilization.”76 Once more, Kant’s work categorically opposes colonialism and implies that Europeans (in colonizing other lands) are the people acting uncivilized.

Taking everything we have encountered in mind, it appears that Kant, at least for the sake of consistency with his major philosophical works, has moved away from his (earlier) racist views. This, however, is not to claim that Immanuel Kant did not privately hold racist beliefs when writing his later works. To claim this, without explicitly conclusive evidence is impossible and irresponsible. Rather, Kant’s philosophy seems to have left his racial theory at the door in his critical period. To some authors, like Kleingeld, this stance suggests that Kant, by his later life, seems to respect human plurality more than ever, as Williams writes: “Their independence and difference have to be respected. Here Kant accepts without reservation the plurality of the human race.”77 Kant, rebuking colonialism and slavery in his ethical and political philosophy, seems to look upon the peoples of the world in a new light to commentators like Kleingeld and Williams. However, I remain unconvinced that Immanuel Kant, the man, actually changed his racial views over the course of his life. I am not convinced precisely because we cannot

39 know for certain what Kant, beyond what he wrote, believed. Moreover, I am also unconvinced that racial theory at all plays a role in Kant’s ethics or political theory. Because we cannot know Kant’s private beliefs, I would argue that those of us working with Kant’s philosophy, or teaching it, ought to always keep in mind Kant’s racist views. Beyond this, I urge that those of us immersed in Kant should endeavour to separate the man from his system in order to repair the foul implications his racial theory has on Kantianism; this, I would say, is a duty we have to ourselves regarding the Kantian philosophical system.

Kleingeld, "Kant's Second Thoughts on Race", 583.

Kleingeld, 582.

3 Kleingeld, 582.

4 Kant, Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals, xxxviii.

5 Kleingeld,"Kant's Second Thoughts on Race”, 580.

6 Williams, "Colonialism in Kant's Political Philosophy", 583.

7 Williams, 583.

8 Williams, 158.

9 Williams, 158.

10 Kleingeld, "Kant's Second Thoughts on Race”, 573.

11 Kleingeld, 576.

12 Kleingeld, 574.

13 Williams, “Colonialism in Kant’s Political Philosophy”, 167.

14 Williams, 172.

15 Klausen, "Jeremy Waldron's Partial Kant: Indigenous Proximity, Colonial Injustice, Cultural Particularism”, 40.

16 Klausen, 40.

17 Kant, The Metaphysics of Morals, 90 [6:313].

18 Kant, 121 [6:352].

19 Keum, "Kant II: Towards Perpetual Peace or, The Dutch Innkeeper's Joke”, 2.

20 Kant, “Perpetual Peace”, 23.

21 Kant, 24.

22 Korsgaard, “Introduction”, Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, xxv.

23 Kautzer, “Kant, Perpetual Peace, and the Colonial Origins of Modern Subjectivity”, 61.

24 Kautzer, 61.

25 Kautzer, 62.

1 2

40 Kant, “Perpetual Peace”, 20.

Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 14 [6:220].

28 Kant, “Perpetual Peace”, 23.

29 Kant, 23-24.

30 Kant, 28.

31 Kant, 27.

32 Kant, 12.

33 Kant, 13-18.

34 Kant, 14.

35 Kant, 16.

36 Kant, 17.

37 Kant, 18.

38 Kant, 31.

39 Kant, 28.

40 Kant, 28-29.

41 Kant, 29.

42 Kant, 29-30.

43 Kant, 31.

44 Höffe, "Kant's Innate Right as a Rational Criterion for Human Rights”, 73.

45 Höffe, 75.

46 Kant, Metaphysics of Morals, 186 [6:434-5].

47 Kant, 186 [6:434].

48 Kant, “Perpetual Peace”, 14.

49 Kant, Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, 41 [4:429].

50 Williams, “Colonialism in Kant’s Political Philosophy”, 156.

51 Williams, 156.

52 Williams, 156-157.

53 Williams, 157.

54 Williams, 157.

55 Williams, 157.

56 WIlliams, 167.

57 See Kautzer, “Kant, Perpetual Peace, and the Colonial Origins of Modern Subjectivity”, 64 and Williams, “Colonialism in Kant’s Political Philosophy”, 166.

58 Williams, “Colonialism in Kant’s Political Philosophy”, 166.

59 Williams, 167.

60 Glausser, "Three Approaches to Locke and the Slave Trade”, 208.

61 Kant, “Perpetual Peace”, 14.

62 Kautzer, “Kant, Perpetual Peace, and the Colonial Origins of Modern Subjectivity”, 61.

63 Williams, “Colonialism in Kant’s Political Philosophy”, 167-168.

64 Williams, 171-172.

26 27

41 Williams, 168.

Kant, “Perpetual Peace”, 29-30.

67 Kant, 28-29.

68 Williams, “Colonialism in Kant’s Political Philosophy”, 168.

69 Williams, 168.

70 Kleingeld, “Kant’s Second Thoughts on Race”, 588.

71 Kleingeld, 588.

72 Kant, Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals, 41 [4:429].

73 Williams, “Colonialism in Kant’s Political Philosophy”, 168.

74 Williams, 169.

75 Williams, 169.

76 Williams, 169.

77 Williams, 169.

65 66

Bibliography Glausser, Wayne. "Three Approaches to Locke and the Slave Trade." Journal of the History of Ideas 51, no. 2 (1990): 199-216. doi:10.2307/2709512.

Hoffe, Otfried. "Kant's Innate Right as a Rational Criterion for Human Rights."

Edited by Lara Denis. In Kant's Metaphysics of Morals: A Critical Guide, 71-92.

Cambridge, UK: Cambridge, 2012.

Kant, Immanuel. Religion within the Limits of Reason Alone. Translated by Theodore M. Greene and Hoyt H. Hudson. New York: HarperOne, 2008.

Kant, Immanuel. An Answer to the Question: What Is Enlightenment? Translated by H. B. Nisbet. London: Penguin Books, 2009.

Kant, Immanuel. Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals. Translated by Mary J. Gregor. Edited by Jens Timmermann. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012.

Kant, Immanuel, and Mary Gregor. The Metaphysics of Morals. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012.

Kautzer, Chad. “Kant, Perpetual Peace, and the Colonial Origins of Modern Subjectivity.” Peace Studies Journal 6, no. 2 (2013):58-67. https://philpapers.org/ rec/KAUKPP Klausen, Jimmy Casas. "Jeremy Waldron's Partial Kant: Indigenous Proximity, Colonial Injustice, Cultural Particularism." Polity 46, no. 1 (2014): 3155. http://www.jstor.org/stable/24540227.

Kleingeld, Pauline. "Kant's Second Thoughts on Race." The Philosophical Quarterly (1950-) 57, no. 229 (2007): 573-92. http://www.jstor.org/stable/4543266.

Keum, Tae-Yeoun. "Kant II: Towards Perpetual Peace or, The Dutch Innkeeper's Joke." pg. 1-10. Lecture. March 27, 2012. Accessed April 15, 2019. https:// sc hola r .ha r var d.e d u/ f ile s/ ke u m/ f ile s/

42 kant_ii_perpetual_peace_the_dutch_innkeepers_joke.pdf.

Williams, Howard. "Colonialism in Kant's Political Philosophy." Diametros 39, no.

39 (2014): 154-81.

43

The Paragone and the Formation of the Artist-Genius-Myth Andrew Burroughs

The aftermath of arguments presented in the paragone forged dominant artistic conceptions still present to modern society. Renaissance Italy was the stage for a great upheaval in scholarship.

Practitioners of all art forms sought to utilize the malleable public consciousness to have their practice recognized among the seven humanities which represented the pinnacle of human inquiry. The paragone was a debate that compared the arts, as all art forms vied for a place among the seven humanities.1 Artists composed pieces in writing and in their respective artistic mediums to demonstrate the validity of their craft. These historic arguments were persuasive enough that they led to a reformation of the artists’ role in society.

The arguments in the paragone ranged from dissemination of fame, to fostering imaginative processes, to claiming the sheer inimitability of their form of art. A survey of the scholarship and paintings which remain from the paragone can demonstrate how certain contributions helped form what is referred to as the, ‘artist-genius-myth.’ The artist genius myth vaguely portrays the artist as a genius in solitude, who creates from pure inspiration. This essay will posit that the painter’s contributions to the paragone instilled and constructed the artist-genius-myth by emphasizing painting’s ability to create inimitable representations of natural phenomena that mimicked the divine act of creation. This essay will place emphasis on Titian and Bronzino’s works, which portray the reproducibility of poetry as evidence of its inferiority.

Before assessing the role of specific paragone arguments it is necessary to characterize the artist genius myth. The first chapter of Catherine M. Sousloff’s book The Absolute Artist: The Historiography of

44 The Concept, demystifies the artist-genius, and unpacks the historiography of the mythic figure’s creation. Her main claim is that the artist genius, and every other prevailing concept of the artist, is structured in a historical period.2 In the second chapter she argues that the artists themselves benefit from the cultural obfuscation of their identity; she makes note of the Renaissance period in particular and how artists would alter the nature of their works to construct a mythos, and embellish audience’s awe surrounding their work’s reception.3 This particular fact in conjunction with the kind of arguments which painters made in the paragone, that likened their craft to the creative powers of God, substantiates this essay’s thesis. The artist’s contributions to the paragone helped to construct the artist genius myth because their arguments described painting’s merit by discussing the painter’s divine-like creative powers and their access to unreproducible form which could reproduce not only natural phenomena, but other forms of art. The following passages will unpack a few such seminal contributions.

The two most divergent of all the competing mediums were poetry and painting. A great deal of scholarship was centered around the equality of both mediums to portray the real and suprareal, though there also were also many contentions that one ought to reign over the other.

The revitalization of antiquity during the renaissance also manifested in the paragone. Many arguments concerning the similarity of painting and poetry to convey the natural world were derived from newly translated ancient texts. Aristotle’s Poetics was fondly referred to and used as grounds for the validity of poetic representation alongside other forms of art like painting and music. At the onset of Poetics Aristotle claims, For as there are persons who, by conscious art or mere habit, imitate and represent various objects through the medium of color and form, or again by the voice; so in the arts above mentioned, taken as a whole, the imitation is produced by rhythm, language, or 'harmony,' ei-

45 ther singly or combined.4 This quotation demonstrates how Aristotle sought to compare poetry to painting in form. He articulates that poetry which is based in rhythm, meter and lyric, is similar to the utilization of color to achieve the same thematic representation. Francis Ames-Lewis calls upon the fact that Petrarch referred to Homer as the first painter.5 Renaissance thinkers called back to antiquity to substantiate their arguments because the ancients revered the poetic tradition of ekphrasis as a mode of representation, which was oral prose that verbally recreated physically present phenomena. Guarino da Verona believed painting to be weaker than poetry. His argument stipulated that painting was less effectively disseminated across distance, and could affect the lives and spread the fame of the artist less effectively.6 Leonardo and other artists would use this argument in its inverse, saying that the inimitability of the artists creation, the inability to reproduce a painting and thereby disseminate it, was what made the painter such a powerful creator.

Renaissance painters generated a slough of new painting techniques to generate unprecedented realist images. There many renaissance theorists and artists who were less inclined to believe in the equal representative capacity of painting and poetry. Though Alberti’s work On Painting asserts that painters ought to be educated in poetry, he also makes claims about certain functions of a painting which poets could not achieve. The fact that he advocated for painters to be read in poetry can also be understood in another way: that he wanted painters to be privy to the university training that poets were, and that he understood painting as one of the superior humanities. Alberti’s arguments in support of painting can be largely mapped on to the theories of Leonardo, who thought that painting was the nearest man could come to creation, which is a divine quality. Alberti writes, “The virtues of painting, therefore, are that its masters see their works admired and feel themselves almost to be like the creator.”7 This quotation demonstrates the hubris of renaissance painters. New techniques allowed for hyper realist presenta-

46 tion that captivated masses of admirers. This reception led painters to feel as though their creative powers were nearly divine. The painter was able to create works which were truly singular in their production, while the work of the poet could be recreated in print by any literate person.

The argument around the reproducibility of poetry, and thereby its inferiority to painting, was taken up by painters, who used the comparison as a motif commonly to make their point. It’s logical that the painter would advocate for the expressive and representative qualities of their art through its practice. Anglo Bronzino’s paintings from the mid-16th century portray his attitude toward poetry in relation to painting. His work often portrayed subjects with mystic looks against colorful backdrops, with works of literature either in-hand or in the foreground. His Portrait of a Young Man conveys his sentiment regarding painting. In it a man in his early 20s holds a book whose letters are indistinguishable. The background of the work is full of a lush pink tapestry and just behind it is a small sculpture. Bronzino’s use of color and the other artistic representations present in the painting seem to insinuate that Bronzino fancied painting not only to be the art form which best reproduced natural phenomena, but also was fully able to reproduce the other reproductions of nature; painting could recreate sculpture and poetry within a painting. Bronzino’s work could be classified as a metaimage insofar as it comments on the nature of representation, and the supremacy of painting to represent over other forms of art, because within a painting he could portray accurate representations of those forms.8 The relation of painting to poetry exposes the painter’s hubris toward reproduction. The painter’s argument against poetry was mainly that the poet’s work could be reproduced easily, by them especially. Lewis acknowledges this argument present in Fillipino Villani who says, “since [poets] may learn by means of study and instruction written rules of their arts while the painters derive such rules as they find only from a profound natural talent.”9 Villani’s perspective is perfectly representative of the kind of sentiment

47 which leads to the artist genius myth: the painter is the truest artist because their gift comes from god and not from labor. The painter thus represents a kind of godliness on earth in their ability to create, which creates the fetishization of the singular-artist cliche in society which knows artists as solitary and mysterious who create with skills that were bestowed and not learned.

Bronzino’s portrait juxtaposes his realist rendition of a book with the inscrutable air of the subject in the foreground, and the bright pink of the tapestry with the dull brown of the sculpture. The debate between painters and sculptors raged mostly around the use of color and the ability to create a scene. Relief sculpture offers the most direct comparative point between painting and sculpture, and is perhaps (apart from drawing) the closest of Painting’s correlates.

Relief sculpture could capture scenes like painting but with depth.

Leonardo refuted the argument that this midway between painting and sculpture was somehow better than painting because it turned painting’s three dimensional illusion of a scene into a semi three dimensional portrayal of a scene. Leonardo writes, “As far as light and shade are concerned low relief fails both as sculpture and as painting, because the shadows correspond to the low nature of the relief…which will not exhibit the depth of those in painting.”10 Leonardo’s quotation demonstrates his view that the relief sculpture’s imitation which exists half between the illusory methods of perspective painting and the three dimensional reality of sculpture, fails in both regards, and that the illusion of painting best represents natural phenomena to the eye.

Titian’s painting, La Schiavona,11 best captures the painter’s attitude toward relief sculpture and sculpture itself. Titan’s work reproduces the relief painting, further entrenching the sentiment that what makes an art good is its ability to reproduce other naturalistic art in an asymmetrical relationship. Luba Freedman’s piece “The Schiavona: Titian’s response to The Paragone Between Painting and Sculpture,” posits that the painting, “reflects Titian’s attitude on the then-popular theme on the subject of comparing the two arts of

48 painting and sculpture.”12 Freedman argues that the relief captured in the painting represents the status of Venetian sculpture in the early 16th century, which makes the painting available to be encountered entirely as an addition to the paragone. She also notes that Titian did not contribute written pieces to the debate, which also legitimates the analysis of La Schiavona as an argument itself.13 Titian’s work portrays a woman holding a relief sculpture before the viewer. The relief is a profile view of the woman holding the sculpture. Like many other such pieces which compare sculpture or poetry to painting within painting, La Schiavona creates a juxtaposition between what the painter is capable of and what the sculptor is capable of. Titian juxtaposes the drab gray of the relief against the brilliant color of the woman holding it, similar to the Bronzione discussed earlier. Titian juxtaposes mediums and their ability to portray the same object within those mediums while recreating the sculptors work in his own hand. He also makes use of depth. The woman’s hand is merely propping the relief upright but away from her body, which demonstrates another tool the painter had unique access to.

The difference in facial expressions is perhaps Titian’s bluntest claim represented in the painting. The painted woman in the back is dressed in a coy smile while the woman represented in relief is has a stony face, literally. Freedman writes, “[the smile] is the smile of a painter who feels his own superiority over his rival.”14 Titian’s greatest victory in this painting over sculpture is to refute the argument that a painting can only cover one angle of a scene. The sculptor’s work can be walked around, taken in from all angles, and thus has an infinite number of viewing points. La Schiavona shows the same face in portrait and profile, to argue that the painter can represent all that which the sculptor can. Freedman states, “Titian’s demonstration of the duality of the figure’s aspects, which can be observed at a single glance, is expounded through his juxtaposition of the subject’s frontal view with her profile.”15 This quotation exposes Titan’s potential agreement with Leonardo, who argued that part of what made a painting supreme was it’s ability to render phenomena in-

49 stantaneously to the eye.16 Titian’s work represents a figure from two angles yet the viewer doesn’t need to move anything but the eye to be exposed to the montage. La Schiavona is the representation of Titian’s work for painting in the paragone. In the interest of this argument, La Schiavona contributes another rung in the ladder toward the artist genius myth because it further entrenches the notion that the artist-proper is the painter, and that the painter is the artist-proper because they are able to recreate inimitable scapes and even other recreations of art.

Sousloff’s work which deconstructed the common conception of the artist closely aligns with the characteristics that renaissance artists used to differentiate their work from other popular forms.

Alberti’s claims in Di Pictura situate the painter’s skill next to godlycreation. Artists like Bronzino and Titian express Alberti’s sentiment in their works, by showing how the painter works in the best medium to portray natural phenomena by presenting other mediums as natural phenomena themselves. Titian and Bronzino invoke superiority over other creative forms by representing those forms within their own, alongside realist portrayals of subjects. Their works use juxtaposition to show divergences between the forms in shape, color, scope and depth. The painter’s contribution to the paragone helped to construct the artist-genius-myth because each argument put forth by painters describes their work as possible only through their hand, via divine inspiration and not training. The painter’s mystique was built up through cultural history via scholarship which aggrandized their particular role in production and their creative processes.

Claire Farago, “The Paragone,” The Dictionary of Art, Vol. 24, pg. 90-91.

Catherine Soussloff, “Introduction," The Absolute Artist: The Historiography of a Concept, 3-18.

3 Soussloff, ”The Artist in Nature: Renaissance Biography,” 43-72.

4 Aristotle, Poetics, 49.

5 Francis, Ames-Lewis, “Image and Text: The Paragone,” The Intellectual Life of the Early Renaissance Artist, 163.

6 Ibid.

1 2

50 Alberti, Leon Battista, On Painting, 61.

Figure 1.

9 Lewis, 164.

10 Ibid, 147.

11 Figure 2.

12 Luba, Freedman, “The Schiavona: Titian’s Response to the Paragone between Painting and Sculpture,” 31.

13 Freedman, “The Schiavona,” 34.

14 Ibid, 36.

15 Ibid, 37.

16 Lewis, 167.

7 8

Figure 1: Angolo Bronzino, 1503-72, Portrait of a Young Man, 1531, Oil on Canvas, 75x57 cm, National Gallery, London.

Figure 2: Titian, 1488-1576, La Schiavona, 15101512, Oil Paint, 1.2m x 1m, National Gallery, London.

51 Bibliography Alberti, Leon Battista, On Painting, (New York, Penguin Books 1956).

Ames-Lewis, Francis: “The Paragone, Painting and Poetry,” in The Intellectual Life of the Early Renaissance Artist (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000).

Aristotle, George Whalley, Aristotle’s Poetics, (Montreal & Kingston: McGillQueens University Press, 1997).

Farago, Claire, “The Paragone,” The Dictionary of Art, Vol. 24, pg. 90-91, (New York, Macmillan Publishers Limited, 1996).

Freedman, Luba, “The Schiavona: Titian’s Response to the Paragone between Painting and Sculpture,” (Arte Veneta vol. 41, 1987).

Soussloff, Catherine M. "Introduction." In The Absolute Artist: The Historiography of a Concept, 3-18, (University of Minnesota Press, 1997). http:// www.jstor.org/stable/10.5749/j.ctttt2fz.4.

Soussloff, Catherine M. "The Artist in Nature: Renaissance Biography,” In The Absolute Artist: The Historiography of a Concept, 43-72, (University of Minnesota Press, 1997). http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.5749/j.ctttt2fz.6.

52

Raising the Standard: An Examination of Louis XIV’s Army under the Le Tellier Catherine Charlton

In April of 1643, one month and a day before the death of King Louis XIII, Cardinal Mazarin named Michel Le Tellier as France’s newest Secretary of State for War.1 There could be no way of knowing that this marked the beginning of a fifty-eight-year familial control on the position that would last until the death of Le Tellier’s grandson in 1701. This paper will argue that the driving force and primary characteristic of the Le Tellier period was standardization. I will examine each Le Tellier’s headship of the Ministry for War, then concentrate on three domains which were increasingly regulated under their leadership: regimental organization, food distribution, and arms production and calibration.

The Le Tellier (an encompassing term for all three men) each held a variety of positions under Louis XIV, but it is their successive headship of the Ministry of War that best provides the thread which links the three. As such, it is worth devoting some time to explore the duties of a seventeenth-century Secretary of State for War, and the character of each Le Tellier holding this position. Each man brought unique strengths and shortcomings to the position, which influenced their impact on the army.

The Le Tellier and the Secretaryship In the seventeenth century, France’s Ministry of War was a dominating and extensive power. It boasted the largest workforce of all the French ministries, and of this domain, the Secretary of State

53 for War was ruler.2 During the reign of Louis XIV, the Secretary for War acquired increased authority and prestige.3 The expanding nature of the position became most apparent after the King’s personal rule began in 1661. When Louis XIV assumed full control of his kingdom, he immediately made alterations to the structure of control; most influentially, dispensing with the position of Chief Minister of France.4 This elimination gave the monarch direct control over the Secretary. Le Tellier benefitted immensely from this indirect promotion, and by the year’s end he had become the King’s most intimate advisor regarding domestic and military matters.5 The scope of the position was incredible. Thierry Sarmant and Mathieu Stoll observe that “les ministres de Louis XIV moururent littéralement à leur table de travail: ainsi Colbert, ainsi Louvois, ainsi Barbezieux.”6 The job was extraordinarily demanding and required a detailed knowledge of the intricacies of the military machine.

Troops had to be raised so regiments could be completed and organized. These soldiers needed to be paid, fed, and lodged.7 Intendants (high-ranking administrative officials) had to be appointed and supervised, and strategies developed.8 This responsibility required men of incredible ability, with personalities that commanded respect and obedience. Such men were the Le Tellier.

Michel Le Tellier became the Secretary for War in 1643 and remained in the position until 1677.9 His son, François-Michel Le Tellier, marquis de Louvois (hereafter referred to as Louvois) was closely mentored by Le Tellier, and assumed his father’s station by degrees. Louvois held the position jointly with his father from 1664 to 1677, after which he continued single-handedly until his death in 1691.10 Louvois’ son, Louis-François-Marie Le Tellier, marquis de Barbezieux (hereafter Barbezieux), inherited the position, which he held until his death in 1701.11 I would suggest that the Le Tellier emphasis on standardization and stability is fittingly exemplified by the family’s hold on power. Louis XIV was cognisant that the authority generated by a position could be strengthened by administrative and political conti-

54 nuity.12 He produced this in the Ministry for War by keeping the Secretaryship in the hands of one family. This was also a concern of Le Tellier and Louvois, who both managed to secure survivances for their sons.13 Continuity was maintained by mentorship from father to son, which ensured that each successor was well-trained and competent.14 To better understand each Le Tellier’s impact on Louis XIV’s army, one must examine their characters. Michel Le Tellier was a prudent man, a loyal and diligent worker with a vast knowledge of his field.15 Before becoming Secretary, he had trained as a lawyer, and served as an intendant in the Army of Italy.16 Le Tellier was an extremely competent administrator, and immediately began standardizing military practice upon his appointment to the position.17 Le Tellier’s system of reform was methodical: when considering change to military procedure, he looked to historical precedent by searching for relevant ordinances. These he adopted as the starting point for his endeavours. Once he enacted legislations himself, he would make note of criticisms, and was not averse to making modifications if he deemed it beneficial.18 He favoured compromise and believed in making concessions when appropriate. However, when it came to reform, it was the heavy-handed, bullish personality of his son which produced the most widespread and lasting results.19 Sarmant and Stoll describe Louvois as having the “presence d’un caractère de fer, d’une âme de roc.”20 Examining Louvois’ military correspondence shows his distinct style, which in turn illuminates his character. Above all, he was concise and efficient. He frequently used violent language, especially when his orders were undermined. He was often rude, and he effectively employed threats as weapons.21 His authority was clear, and those under his command yielded entirely to him.22 Unlike his father, Louvois was not inclined to conciliation or peace, having a proud and sometimes cruel nature.23 This pride, and the excessive confidence in his own ability sometimes made him unwilling to admit mistakes to the King.24 However, Louvois was attentive to the most minute of details and

55 had a vast knowledge of the administration. His temperament, which brooked no opposition, often allowed him to steamroll ahead with his plans. John Lynn best encapsulates this, writing, “Louvois dominated the army through sheer force of personality.”25 Louvois’ son, the marquis de Barbezieux, did not have power equal to his father or grandfather. Unlike them, he had not received a position on the influential Conseil d’en haut.26 Barbezieux had a good understanding of the position of Secretary, and a strong grasp of state affairs. However, like his father, he tended to be overconfident in his own judgement, and was somewhat prone in the later years of his Secretaryship to seek pleasure at the expense of his work.27 Indeed, considering the legacies of his predecessors, his tenyear hold of the position has been labelled by historians as mediocre, and he will not be a focus of this paper.28 In 1701, Barbezieux died suddenly, thus ending the Le Tellier rule in the Ministry for War.

Regimental Order under the Le Tellier When Le Tellier became Secretary in 1643, Louis XIV’s army was not well organized. Resources were not easily accessible, and standardization of arms, food supply, and regimental order was inadequate.29 Additionally, the army was rapidly becoming the largest European military force to date, with a theoretical strength of 400,000 by Louvois’ death.30 A complete reinvention of the army’s administrative procedures was required to accommodate its expanding numbers.31 The Le Tellier needed to transform the disorganised parts of the French Army by standardizing them into a coherent and well-ordered whole.

During the Thirty Years War, the French army functioned as a set of rather disorganized groups.32 From the 1620s to the 1650s, army regiments were ever-fluctuating, and tended to last only one campaign.33 Le Tellier and Louvois, under Louis XIV, sought to remedy this by creating a systematized and more permanently main-

56 tainable regimental system.34 By 1651, it was evident to Le Tellier that modifications to infantry and cavalry regiment sizes were necessary. The average company within an infantry regiment had between seventy-five and one hundred men.35 Gradually, Le Tellier lowered company size to a more manageable thirty-five to fifty men, a number which finally settled at an average of fifty men per company by the 1670s.36 This total was deemed the best suited to wartime. Le Tellier and Louvois also took the cavalry companies in hand, and during the Dutch War company sizes were lowered from one hundred to a more practical forty. By Louvois’ death, forty men per cavalry company had become standard.37 In addition to standardizing the size of infantry and cavalry companies, in 1654 Le Tellier established a regulated hierarchy of control.38 He appointed officers and placed the colonel firmly at the head of the regiment. For royal regiments, this responsibility went to the lieutenant-colonel.39 Additionally, a clear outline of numbers in individual companies was developed, and by Louvois’ death, the exact numbers of officers and sergeants per company were standardized. Moreover, a 1679 ordinance divided the infantry into field and garrison battalions.40 Each of these had specific numbers of troops, according to rank. Louvois then standardized the number of field battalions for the entire infantry.41 Thus, the Secretary and King always knew the exact numbers of men involved in military operations, which helped improve military precision.

When Barbezieux assumed the role of Secretary, a maintainable regimental system was in place.42 Louis XIV’s infantry boasted one hundred and sixty-one organized regiments, ninety-two of which were French.43 By 1691 the infantry could put eighty-seven field battalions on the line, and Louvois was overseeing 331,732 infantrymen.44 The infantry was categorized into three groups: the French Infantry of the King’s House, the Artillery Regiments, and the Infantry Regiments. Within these, there were one hundred and three free companies, twenty-three local militia battalions, and fif-

57 teen small militia.45 These had standardized numbers of ranked positions, which enabled Barbezieux to inherit a meticulously organized army.

Food Distribution under the Le Tellier An expanding army necessitated increased food production, and when Le Tellier assumed the position of Secretary it was clear to him that an ordered food supply system was vital. Accordingly, Le Tellier ordered food storage magazines to be built, rejuvenating an existing storage and supply system.46 In 1643, he appointed six men to act as Commissary Generals for Food.47 Their role was to inspect the existing food supply, as well as to organize wagons which would distribute provisions to the army on campaign.48 Here, Le Tellier drew on his experience with food supply as an intendant, and took pains to ensure that food was properly packaged to prevent spoilage.49 There were, however, financial barriers to further expanding his distribution plan, and it would be his son who was able to further develop and standardize the food distribution system.

Louvois took the existing system of food supply (including that which preceded Le Tellier) and harnessed it into a more efficient, standardized entity, capable of supporting a massive and hungry army. Much of his plan came from his father’s own drafts, and with this guidance Louvois succeeded in creating a greater number of food storage magazines, and ones of a more permanent nature than those of Le Tellier.50 Food (specifically grain) needed to be collected and stocked in the magazines, a responsibility Louvois gave to army intendants and commissaires des vivres.51 By 1672, in only seven of his magazines, Louvois was able to store grain to last 200,000 men six months.52 Louvois and Le Tellier’s efforts served to create a standardized system of food storage and distribution, thereby further regulating the upkeep of Louis XIV’s troops.

58 Arms Calibration and Production under the Le Tellier A large, well-ordered, and well-fed army was ineffective if inadequately armed. Le Tellier and Louvois understood this only too well. Louvois was especially cognisant of the situation; in a letter from 1664, he writes: “Il ne suffit pas d’avoir beaucoup d’hommes.

Il faut qu’ils soient bien faits, bien vêtus et bien armés.”53 To get an optimized performance from Louis XIV’s army, Louvois needed to equip its troops with standardized and effective arms.

When Le Tellier became Secretary, the system for arming troops with handheld weapons lacked coherence. Normally, the King sent money to captains, who in turn were personally responsible for arming their troops. These captains often turned to privatized weapon suppliers to accomplish this.54 During wartime, arms were frequently bought from cities outside France.55 This caused problems with the speed of delivery, and necessitated greater expenditures, as well as increasing the possibility of having arms seized by the enemy.

Le Tellier began the process of arms regulation in 1643, a process which would later be more fully developed by his son. He ordered officers who had not used the King’s money to arm troops to return it immediately, threatening disciplinary action to noncompliers.56 Additionally, during the Fronde, he required certain weapons merchants to receive authoritative permission to sell their wares.57 However, these regulations were mere drops of water in the ocean that was arming the French army.

To outfit a swiftly growing army, Louvois had to increase weapon production. This he accomplished by centralizing and regulating the production system. When Louis XIV began his personal reign, he was eager to reform the weapon manufacturing system. He needed production to be centralized, and to accomplish this, he had to remove himself from subordination to foreign and privatized arms sellers.58 Louis wanted complete control. Le Tellier and Louvois addressed this in 1665 by establishing a centralized system for

59 arms distribution.59 Le Tellier placed a man named Maximilien Titon in charge of the operation, under the watchful command of Louvois.60 Under the new system, weapons were manufactured, tested, then sent to a centralized store in Paris. There, the arms were tested a second time, and distributed to regiments under Louvois’ direction.61 Over time, more of these Royal Arm Stores were created, which increased the speed at which arms could be distributed. Louvois ensured that these were logically distributed geographically, usually placing them close to theatres of war so that heavy materials could be transported with less risk of damage.62 In 1668, Louvois gave Titon a monopoly on the production of arms, and introduced an ordinance abolishing privatized arms dealers.63 These measures proved to be extremely effective at centralizing and standardizing weapon distribution.

Having curtailed the unauthorized distribution of weapons, Louvois turned to arms production. Beginning in 1668, Louvois oversaw the building of factories for weapon production; the first one established in Nouzon.64 By 1688, Louvois’ factories had an annual production of fusils and muskets of approximately 60,000.65 In 1690, Nouzon’s factory alone had produced 15,879 portable arms in thirteen months.66 By standardizing and centralizing weapon production and distribution, Louvois had freed France and Louis XIV’s army from privatized and foreign suppliers, thus rendering it feasible to adequately arm their giant of an army.

While focused on weapon production, Louvois was also eager to ensure that the weapons produced adhered to a standard criterion. When Louis XIV reached his majority in 1661, there was no proper system of calibre standardization for muskets.67 Calibres of muskets were disparate, which caused a general poor performance.68 In 1666, Louvois introduced a significant ordinance addressing this issue. The ordinance acknowledged that the army’s muskets had a wide variety of calibres, before proceeding to ban the sale of muskets with barrels for ball sizes smaller than twenty to a pound.69

60 By 1668, Louvois had created a standard for the length measurements of all artillery, and he sent copies of this standard to the weapon production factories.70 In 1680, he extended the process by assigning a fixed equivalency between weights and diameters of ball calibres.71 Following this, he produced a standardized series of calibres, comprising calibres four, eight, twelve, sixteen, and twentyfour.72 This scale furthered the standardization process by regulating the types of calibres which would be accepted in the army.

Standardized Systems of Enforcement under the Le Tellier Having highlighted three domains of reform under Le Tellier and Louvois, it is worthwhile to briefly examine how both men standardized the enforcement of these and other military standards.

To enforce army procedure, Le Tellier began to regulate disciplinary procedure, while Louvois followed suit by developing a comprehensive inspection system.

Before Le Tellier, disciplinary measures in the French army were extremely individualized. It was officers themselves who determined punishments for soldiers under their command.73 The unsystematic nature of this was distasteful to Le Tellier, who favoured removing this authority from individuals, and placing it more comprehensively under the state. Le Tellier envisioned infractions being judged within the setting of a formal trial, done by a military court and adhering to a regulation code.74 So, Le Tellier set about improving the somewhat disorganized conseil de guerre.

The conseil de guerre had attended to military discipline before Le Tellier, but in such an irregular manner that disciplinary decisions still often were left to individual opinion.75 Le Tellier began to reform the system, with a primary focus on membership and procedure. In 1646, he produced an ordinance requiring the conseil to meet every two weeks to deal with discipline.76 The judges were to be garrison officers, and a minimum requirement of seven officers was established. Officers were commanded to follow specific regu-

61 lations set forth by the ordinance.77 By transferring disciplinary enforcement from private individuals to the Ministry for War, Le Tellier was able to take an unregulated entity and transform it into a normalized and consistent body.

Louvois’ character did not allow him to leave his reform efforts unmonitored. A man with incredible attention to detail, Louvois was wholly involved in overseeing the army. However, despite this careful involvement, it was clear that Louis XIV’s expanding army needed a more cultivated and extensive system of scrutiny. In 1668, Louvois began creating a standardized system to monitor and inspect the French army, with the goal of producing an all-seeing, all -knowing supervisory system.78 In October of that year, Louvois initiated his plans for a comprehensive system of inspection by commissioning a lieutenantcolonel from the King’s Regiment to travel around France and inspect the kingdom’s fortresses.79 The inspector would examine the infantry stationed at each fortress and report back to Louvois. Central to his task would be the winnowing out of old or infirm officers, to ensure that the King’s army was in prime physical condition. By 1688, the lieutenant-colonel was responsible for certifying that infantry personnel knew the correct methods of handling weapons, as by this time there had been a shift from muskets to the betterhandling fusils. In addition, he needed to ensure that the weapons being used were in proper condition.80 In 1675, Louvois created the position of Inspector-General for Cavalry, further ensuring that troop regiments were being reviewed and accounted for.81 While not as thorough as the infantry’s inspection system, the increased scope of inspection ensured that Louvois always knew the condition of France’s forces. Louvois’ inspection system was further improved under Barbezieux, and these reforms would last for the remainder of the ancien regime.82 Thus, Louvois’ inspection system gave the Secretary for War greater knowledge of the state of the army, while ensuring that new standards of organization and weaponry were being enforced.

62

Conclusion Louis XIV’s army underwent significant reform during the Le Tellier period. I have highlighted three areas of military administration in which Le Tellier and Louvois used their position as Secretary of State for War to significantly restructure army procedures, helping to make Louis XIV’s army an increasingly standardized entity.

The Le Tellier period produced more regulated regimental order, food production, and system of arms outfitting. Changes were enforced by an improved system of military supervision, including disciplinary procedures and standardized inspection. The transformation of military administration under the Le Tellier shaped the French military system into a more cohesive, better regulated entity, thus making France’s defense system more efficient and operational.

Though these reforms comprise only a few of Le Tellier and Louvois’ initiatives for the French Army, the comprehensive efforts of these men would imprint the Le Tellier stamp onto French military history, leaving a legacy which endures to this day.

Cénat (J-P) Le Roi Stratège: Louis XIV et la direction de la guerre, 1661-1715 (Rennes, France: 2010), p. 43.

2 Rowlands (G) The Dynastic State and the Army under Louis XIV: Royal Service and Private Interest, 1661-1701 (Cambridge & New York: 2002), p. 27.

3 Rowlands, The Dynastic State and the Army under Louis XIV, p. 32.

4 Ibid., p. 33.

5 Ibid., p. 35.

6 Sarmant (T) & Stoll (M) “Le style de Louvois: Formulaire administratif et expression personnelle dans la correspondance du Secrétaire d'État de la Guerre de Louis XIV,” Annuaire-bulletin de la société de l'histoire de France, 1997, pp. 57– 77. “The ministers of Louis XIV died literally at their worktable: so Colbert, so Louvois, so Barbezieux.”

7 Cénat, Le Roi Stratège, p. 41.

8 Rowlands, The Dynastic State and the Army under Louis XIV, p. 36.

9 Ibid., p. 27.

10 Rowlands, The Dynastic State and the Army under Louis XIV, p. 27.

11 Ibid., p. 28.

1

63 Ibid., p. 37.

Ibid.

14 Ibid., p. 38.

15 Bérenger (J) “Louvois Ministre d’État (1672-1691),” Histoire, Économie et Société, 15, 1996, pp. 37–46.

16 Rowlands, The Dynastic State and the Army under Louis XIV, p. 33.

17 Lynn (JA) Giant of the Grand Siècle: The French Army, 1610-1715 (Cambridge & New York: 1997), p. 68.

18 André (L) Michel Le Tellier et Louvois (Genève: 1974), p. 312.

19 Lynn, Giant of the Grand Siècle, p. 83.

20 Sarmant & Stoll, “Le style de Louvois.” “[The] presence of a character of iron, of a soul of rock.”

21 Ibid.

22 Ibid.

23 Ekberg (C) “From Dutch to European War: Louis XIV and Louvois Are Tested,” French Historical Studies, 8, 1974, pp. 393-408.

24 Ekberg, “From Dutch to European War”.

25 Lynn, Giant of the Grand Siècle, p. 82.

26 Rowlands, The Dynastic State and the Army under Louis XIV, p. 63.

27 Ibid.

28 Bérenger, “Louvois Ministre d’État.”

29 Rowlands, The Dynastic State and the Army under Louis XIV, p. 33.

30 Ibid., p. 1.

31 Ibid., p. 162.

32 André, Michel Le Tellier et Louvois, p. 427.

33 Rowlands, The Dynastic State and the Army under Louis XIV, p. 199.

34 Carles (P) “L'Infanterie du Roi de France à la mort de Louvois,” Histoire, Économie et Société, 15, 1996, pp. 57–73.

35 Rowlands, The Dynastic State and the Army under Louis XIV, p. 173.

36 Ibid.

37 Ibid., p. 175.

38 Carles, “L'Infanterie du Roi de France à la mort de Louvois.”

39 Ibid.

40 Carles, “L'Infanterie du Roi de France à la mort de Louvois.”

41 Ibid.

42 Rowlands, The Dynastic State and the Army under Louis XIV, p. 166.

43 Carles, “L'Infanterie du Roi de France à la mort de Louvois.”

45 Ibid.

46 Lynn, Giant of the Grand Siècle, p. 111.

47 André, Michel Le Tellier et Louvois, p. 372.

48 André, Michel Le Tellier et Louvois, p. 372.

12 13

64 Ibid.

Lynn, Giant of the Grand Siècle, p. 125.

51 Ibid.

52 Ibid.

53 Quoted in Bonnefoy (F) “Louvois et la politique d’armement des troupes,” Histoire, Économie et Société, 15, 1996, pp. 95–103. “It is not enough to have a lot of men. They need to be well made, well dressed and well armed.”

54 Bonnefoy, “Louvois et la politique d’armement des troupes.”

55 Ibid.

56 Ibid.

57 Ibid.

58 Bonnefoy, “Louvois et la politique d’armement des troupes.”

59 Ibid.

60 Ibid.

61 Ibid.

62 Decker (M) “Louvois, l’artillerie et les sièges,” Histoire, Économie et Société, 15, 1996, pp. 75–94.

63 Bonnefoy, “Louvois et la politique d’armement des troupes.”

64 Ibid.

65 Ibid.

66 Ibid.

67 Decker, “Louvois, l’artillerie et les sièges.”

68 Ibid.

69 André, Michel Le Tellier et Louvois, p. 356.

70 Decker, “Louvois, l’artillerie et les sièges.”

71 Ibid.

72 Ibid.

73 Lynn, Giant of the Grand Siècle, p. 403.

74 Ibid., p. 404.

75 Ibid.

76 Ibid.

77 Ibid., p. 403.

78 Rowlands, The Dynastic State and the Army under Louis XIV, p. 192.

79 Ibid.

80 Ibid.

81 Ibid., p. 193.

82 Ibid., p. 195.

49 50

Bibliography André (L) Michel Le Tellier et Louvois (Genève: 1974).

65 Bérenger (J) “Louvois Ministre d’État (1672-1691),” Histoire, Économie et Société, 15, 1996, pp. 37–46.

Bonnefoy (F) “Louvois et la politique d’armement des troupes,” Histoire, Économie et Société, 15, 1996, pp. 95–103.

Carles (P) “L'Infanterie du Roi de France à la mort de Louvois,” Histoire, Économie et Société, 15, 1996, pp. 57–73.

Cénat (J-P) Le Roi Stratège: Louis XIV et la direction de la guerre, 1661-1715 (Rennes, France: 2010).

Decker (M) “Louvois, l’artillerie et les sièges,” Histoire, Économie et Société, 15, 1996, pp. 75–94.

Ekberg (C) “From Dutch to European War: Louis XIV and Louvois Are Tested,” French Historical Studies, 8, 1974, pp. 393-408.

Lynn (JA) Giant of the Grand Siècle: The French Army, 1610-1715 (Cambridge & New York: 1997).

Rowlands (G) The Dynastic State and the Army under Louis XIV: Royal Service and Private Interest, 1661-1701 (Cambridge & New York: 2002).

Sarmant (T) & Stoll (M) “Le style de Louvois: Formulaire administratif et expression personnelle dans la correspondance du Secrétaire d'État de la Guerre de Louis XIV,” Annuaire-Bulletin de la Société de L'Histoire de France, 1997, pp. 57–77.

66

Exploring the Mediating Forces Between the Artwork and the Art Observer: an Analysis of the Spectacle of Mona Lisa Caroline DeFrias

Mona Lisa is a global icon—there exists perhaps no more renowned a work of art. She is a masterpiece by artist legend Leonardo Da Vinci and the object of a global scandal, though these are only said faintly, as if whispered through the walls. It is her placement that speaks for her, that speaks louder than these systems that make it so. Curation is the product of the history and the discourse of a piece—the physical framings are the manifestations of the mental. Yet once established, curation speaks for and furthers itself. The ideologies of importance that surround Mona Lisa translate into a curatorial system that, in turn, cements and furthers their influence, though their existence may be forgotten. Indeed, curation proliferates the status of a piece, regardless of the consciousness of the systems that incite it. Mona Lisa currently stands as a global icon apart from the ideas that make it so. It is her curation, the careful placement and special treatment, that generates the allure she presently enjoys. Mona Lisa is a global spectacle, a piece that is perhaps unparalleled in regards to its fame and this is indebted to its curation.

First, one must treat the painting—to understand the placed object itself. Oil on wood, 77 x 53 centimeters display a young woman seated. She faces the viewer, though her body is angled, presenting a three-quarter view. Her right hand is upon her left wrist, which is resting on the arm of a chair. She wears a dark, simple dress. She has no jewels or other extravagance. Her hair is dark,

67 shoulder length, and covered by a translucent veil. Her visage is soft and round, and directly encounters the viewer, though her brown eyes seem to glance to the right. Her forehead is broad—a feature her missing eyebrows enhance. She smiles.

The background, as historian Donald Sassoon describes, is a “strange and distant landscape: rocky formations, mountains peaks, hills, and valleys; on the left a lake and a winding path; on the right a river crossed by a bridge, the forlorn sign of human existence in a barren landscape.”1 Mona Lisa is not an obviously glamourous or exciting work, as Sassoon argues: by the cultural conventions of the twentieth century, she [Mona Lisa] is neither beautiful, nor sexy. The painting is not grandiose, or politically inspiring, like Delacroix's Liberté Guidant le Peuple. There is no gore, no violence. It does not tell a story. Just a plain woman, smiling a little.2 Furthermore, the palette that presents this visual information is monotonous; its mute and limited colour scheme homogenizes the piece. The work is swampy—an unintense array of yellows, greens, and browns. It is neutral—neither warm nor cold, though its layers of aged varnishes create an overarching yellow hue which cohesively unifies the piece. Mona Lisa is uniform: none of its parts stand out and demand attention. Furthermore, even its technique blends the scene. Leonardo utilizes his sfumato, a careful and smokey blending that quiets the contours of figures, which unites each component of Mona Lisa into a cohesive whole. There is a passive flow of the eye about the piece, there is no object or aspect that demands attention through harsh contrast or dynamic colour. Mona Lisa is not an aesthetically exciting work—in fact, it is quite the opposite: it is an undemanding piece.

The subject of Mona Lisa is of popular speculation.3 Mona Lisa is a portrait with an unspecified sitter. The consensus is that it is of Florentine lady, Lisa Gherardini, the wife of Francesco del Giocondo, a wealthy merchant,4 but there is no confirmation as to her iden-

68 tity from Leonardo, which inspires speculations. Sassoons posits Mona Lisa’s indeterminacy to be both intentional and consequential: The uncertain identity of the sitter adds to the interest, and empowers the viewer. Such uncertainty deliberate. Leonardo refrained from providing any of the usual clues painters used to identify who they were painting, such as getting them to hold a medallion or a symbol.5 Leonardo’s visual withholding allows one to find whatever they please in the sitter; the lack of formalized identity allows Mona Lisa to be an object of speculation. The various rumoured identities of Mona Lisa show the extent to which her ambiguous subject invites interpretation. Some believe she is Leonardo’s amalgamation of a variety of subjects to create the ideal woman, or that she is his mother, or even still that she is Leonardo’s gender swapped self portrait. The identity of Mona Lisa is, as Sassoon states, “an inexhaustible source of popular and press interest,”6 yet her doubtful identification is not enough to account for her fame. Sassoon argues that Mona Lisa’s mysteries are nothing particularly novel or exciting, for such unknown variables are common in old works of art: there are many mysteries surrounding many old paintings: doubtful attributions, inexplicable gaps in their histories, uncertainties over who commissioned them or what they represent. For instance, hanging not far from Mona Lisa, is Raphael's La Belle Jardiniere c. 150708. The origin of this much-praised painting is even more mysterious than that of Mona Lisa: we do not even know who commissioned it and how it got in the royal collection of King Francois I.7 Mona Lisa’s allegedly mysterious subject matter cannot constitute her spectacle, for if this were so, countless works would experience the same treatment. Indeed, speculations of Mona Lisa, like countless other works, exist solely within the artworld.

Mona Lisa smiles with the same indeterminacy as her identity.

69 Since her inception, her smile continues to be a point of interest—a beautiful question to marvel. Art historian Giorgio Vasari describes it as such: “in this portrait was depicted a smile so beautiful that it was, to behold, more heavenly than human, and all who saw it thought it was wonderful and as real as life itself.”8 Her smile is beautiful, and is often a question for many spectators, but this is not a primary element of the piece itself. Reflecting on Vasari’s comment, Sassoon is careful to note that in Vasari’s description “the smile is beautiful, not enigmatic or mysterious. The painting was praised because it was realistic, natural, true to life.”9 Sassoon is not arguing that Mona Lisa’s smile is not worthy or asking for contemplation, only that she is primarily a beautiful work and further questions into such nuance are historically confined to the work of art historians and not casual spectators. Mona Lisa does possess subtle qualities that upon inspection do invite compilation—Sassoon writes of this point: the sfumato technique pioneered by Leonardo, the delicate blurring at the corners of the mouth and of the eyes, gives it a slight indeterminacy. As [art historian] Ernst Gombrich pointed out in The Story of Art: we are not certain of her expression, she is smiling but not quite, perhaps she is wistful.10 Indeed, Mona Lisa and her smile dwell within a delicacy that does invite contemplation, albeit in a secondary capacity. Qualities of speculation find themselves in further engagement, within the realm of the artworld—leaving the question of why the public would continue to engage with this work and its questions. Mona Lisa is a subtle, undemanding piece that possesses the same mysteries as countless other works. What sets her apart, making public such further contemplation, is her curation. The framing of Mona Lisa is such that it demands attention from her viewers, thus extending her allure into public consumption. However, one cannot treat these structures of curation without first understanding what brought them into existence.

70 On 21 August 1911 Vincenzo Peruggia steals Mona Lisa,11 unwittingly inciting her status as a global icon. The theft was an international scandal: contemporaneous papers write “the story that the Mona Lisa has been stolen from the Louvre and a copy substituted in its place, is on the most sensational which, so far as art matters are concerned, has ever made its way into print.”12 Peruggia’s theft catapults Mona Lisa into popular imagination. Sassoon chronicles this spectacle: There was an immediate reaction which set the world press buzzing. The Cabinet met. The Director of paintings of the Louvre resigned. Parisians realised they had lost a masterpiece they did not really know they had. Many flocked to the Louvre to look at the empty space where it had been hanging. Postcards were printed, cartoons appeared mocking the security of the museum, songs were composed.13 Indeed, Mona Lisa, a work previously unappreciated by the general public, suddenly became the subject of widespread speculation. Sassoon describes Mona Lisa as the “the subject of enormous press interest”14 after her theft. Countless sources flocked to comment on this event—another contemporaneous paper wrote: “scores of writers have risen up to declare that this picture is a marvel.”15 Peruggia’s theft brought forth Mona Lisa’s status as an it is “certain [that] the theft had given the Mona Lisa substantial publicity and mass press exposure, but it did not create a stable collective memory.”16 Her theft created scandal and interest, but it was the resulting curation that generated and solidified her present day fame.

Prior to her theft, Mona Lisa was lost. She hung salon style, in a room and on a wall with dozens of other works.17 She possessed little to no spatial weight—there was little pull from the painting and much interference from the space itself,18 and as a result Mona Lisa was forgettable and easily overlooked by casual viewers. In fact, Martin Tröndle et al. posit in their study “The Effects of Curatorial Arrangements” that the audience’s engagement with a particular

71 piece depends on that piece’s placement. They postulate that a viewer’s engagement is contingent on curation and not the piece itself, stating: “it is clear that the cause of increased attention does not lie in the phenomenology of the artworks. Instead, attention is dependent on whether artworks occupy a particular position.”19 The pull of an artwork hinges on its placement. Regarding Mona Lisa, her pretheft placement diminished her engagement by drowning her in a sea of other pieces, with each vying for the viewer’s attention. As established, Mona Lisa is not a particularly grabbing piece aesthetically, and before her theft she was adrift amongst dozens of other works.

Mona Lisa’s current curation is effectively the antithesis of her initial subdued placement. Tröndle’s study finds that “it was always the first work that received the most attention,”20 that spatial primacy is key to viewer engagement. Indeed, “The Effects of Curatorial Arrangements” finds that there is a hierarchy of attention, wherein the first pieces receive the most (and the later, the least) engagement: the first artwork and, to a certain extent, the second artwork were examined by visitors in detail. Thereafter, visitor interest began to dwindle and grew weaker, independent of the hanging order. Not surprisingly, a hierarchy can thereby be deduced, in that the first painting in a relatively balanced series will receive the most attention, and this attention and the visitor’s affected state declines considerably as the visitor moves along the row.21 Pre-theft Mona Lisa could not garner substantial visitor engagement; her placement was of minimal consequence. She was neither the first nor the central work on an already crowded wall, and as such pre-theft Mona Lisa received little engagement from viewers. Post theft, however, she did. Once back at the Louvre, Mona Lisa received her own wall, a special central spot, a curatorial decision intended to showcase her return.22 She was mounted on a dramatic

72 red wall, outlined architecturally by two white panels of molding which focus the eye. There were two smaller landscapes on either side of Mona Lisa, which served to visually accent her. Certainly, her placement commanded visitor attention—as Tröndle’s study shows, “context is crucial for visitors; only when the visitors enter into a different viewing mode is the esthetic experience intensified.”23 Mona Lisa's highlighted placement was a curatorial shift that gave her an importance and communicated such to her audience. Indeed, “The Effects of Curatorial Arrangements” shows that the room or larger space a piece is situated in greatly impacts visitor attention, stating: “visitors’ shift in intensity occurred precisely upon entering Space 2 [a room with a bolder wall colour], changing the mode of perception into an ‘esthetic mode of viewing.’”24 The space in which a piece resides directly signals to, and creates in viewers, the importance of a piece. Upon entering a different space, one that is pronounced, visitors engage more critically with work. The curation that results from Mona Lisa’s theft monopolizes visitor attention.

The resulting popularity of a piece of such spatial weight is unprecedented. The Louvre estimates 6.6 million annual visitors come principally to see Mona Lisa—roughly eighty percent of its total.25 To reduce this crowding, the Louvre created a new placement, one that was even more pointed than the last. Indeed, Mona Lisa’s current, and to date final, placement is the most manipulative.

Alan Riding, in his article for The New York Times describes her prestigious position in her gallery as such: “[Mona Lisa] is accompanied by 52 works from the Venetian Renaissance, including paintings by Titian, Bassano, Tintoretto and Lotto, and others by Veronese. The Louvre has turned the gallery into the highlight of its extraordinary Italian collection.”26 She is among masterpieces, which associates and furthers her own status—within this collection of master works, Mona Lisa stands alone. Significantly, she is the sole owner of a giant wall in the centre of the space, and is the only piece to receive such treatment. Mona Lisa is quite literally the centre of attention, and as such visually grabs viewers. There is even “a tiny

73 spotlight on a shelf in front of the painting [to] compensate for reflection [from the glass that protects her] and bring out colors that were lost in the somber display of the past.”27 The space is designed in such a way as to enhance and point to Mona Lisa as a piece demanding of attention.

The large crowds Mona Lisa draws find their inception in her curation, but they in turn, maintain and further the justification for such curation. Millions flood to see her, and unwittingly further her fame and status, perpetuating the very crowd they are a part of. The sight of such a spectacle is visually exciting, Sassoon writes: The refraction from the flash of the cameras— bouncing continually from the glass [...] adds to the feeling that the object is a popular celebrity from the world of the cinema, television, fashion, and music or a member of the royal family.28 The crowds that gather to see Mona Lisa ground her importance— they make her into something of a celebrity or royalty—they produce an icon. In fact, according to Abhijit Banerjee’s psychological study, “A Simple Model of Herd Behavior,” crowds serve as great influence over a work’s perceived importance and therefore how likely one is to engage with it. Indeed this phenomena is called “herd behavior” and Banerjee shows it to be the driving force behind most decisions. The perceived popularity of an object, manifested by the crowd, leads others to make the same decision, regardless of their personal inclinations: The equilibrium decision rule in the above model is characterized by extensive herding; agents abandon their own signals and follow others even when they are not really sure that the other person is right. The first person always follows her own signal if she has one, and [...] all subsequent decision makers will also choose the same option.29 Banerjee argues that once a group of two or more people gathers, viewers are compelled to follow and abandon their own impulse or

74 signal. The curatorial structures that frame Mona Lisa need draw in only a couple of viewers for her to become the spectacle she is, and given that the structures that frame her are as strong as they are, her status as icon and the millions that flock to her are inevitable.

Curation plays a vital role in the status of a work. Physical and ideological framing impacts artworks, facilitating the understandings of a piece. How a work is treated in a gallery creates its reception in the minds of viewers. Indeed, the preferential treatments Mona Lisa publicly enjoys, such as careful containment and solo placement, serve to reinforce her importance and present Mona Lisa as a work of great importance. The crowds that gather to snap pictures and see her create her as the spectacle she is, and posit her to be worthy of the attention and status she possesses. It is the structures of curation, the physical draws and therefore speculative allure, that assert her importance more than Mona Lisa herself.

1

Donald Sassoon. ““Mona Lisa”: The Best-Known Girl in the Whole Wide World”. History Workshop Journal 51 (Spring 2001), 1.

2 Sassoon, 3.

3

See, for example: Zachary Davies Boren, "500-year-old Mystery of Mona Lisa's Identity on Verge of Being Solved," The Independent, September 25, 2015; Harry De Quetteville, "Identity of Mona Lisa Revealed, Researchers Say," The Telegraph, January 15, 2008; Derek Scally, "A Da Vinci Code Broken as Mona Lisa Identity Revealed," The Irish Times, January 15, 2008. Google “Mona Lisa identity” to see the swirl of rumours that are still in a popular subject in 21st century media.

4 Sassoon, 2.

5

Sassoon, 6.

6

Sassoon, 3.

7

Sassoon, 3.

8

Sassoon, 6.

9

Sassoon, 6.

10

Sassoon, 6.

11

Sassoon, 12.

12

“The Alleged Theft of the Mona Lisa”. Fine Arts Journal 23, no. 2 (August 1910), 122.

75 Sassoon, 12.

Sassoon, 12.

15 “The Mona Lisa Stolen.” Fine Arts Journal 25, no. 4 (October 1911), 223.

16 Sassoon, 13.

17 See Figure 1: Anonymous. Untitled. Mary Evans Picture Library, 1911.

18 Martin Tröndle, Steven Greenwood, Konrad Bitterli, and Karen van den Berg.

“The Effects of Curatorial Arrangements”. Museum Management and Curatorship 29, no. 2 (2014), 162.

19 Tröndle, 151.

20 Tröndle, 161.

21 Tröndle, 161.

22 See Figure 2: Anonymous. Untitled. Mary Evans Picture Library, 1929.

23 Tröndle, 151.

24 Tröndle, 151.

25 Alan Riding. "In Louvre, New Room With View of 'Mona Lisa'." The New York Times, April 06, 2005.

26 Riding.

27 Riding.

28 Sassoon, 2.

29 Abhijit B. Banerjee. “A Simple Model of Herd Behavior”. The Quarterly Journal of Economics 107, no. 3 (August 1992), 807 13 14

Images Cited Figure 1: Anonymous. Untitled. Mary Evans Picture Library, 1911.

76

Figure 2: Anonymous. Untitled. Mary Evans Picture Library, 1929.

Bibliography Boren, Zachary Davies. "500-year-old Mystery of Mona Lisa's Identity on Verge of Being Solved." The Independent, September 25, 2015. https:// www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/the-real-mona-lisaresearchers-think-theyve-found-the-remains-of-lisa-gherardini10516410.html.

Banerjee, Abhijit B. “A Simple Model of Herd Behavior”. The Quarterly Journal of Economics 107, no. 3 (August 1992): 797-817.

De Quetteville, Harry. "Identity of Mona Lisa Revealed, Researchers Say." The Telegraph, January 15, 2008. https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/ worldnews/1575669/Identity-of-Mona-Lisa-revealed-researchers-say.html.

Riding, Alan. "In Louvre, New Room With View of 'Mona Lisa'." The New York Times, April 06, 2005. https://www.nytimes.com/2005/04/06/arts/ design/in-louvre-new-room-with-view-of-mona-lisa.html.

Scally, Derek. "A Da Vinci Code Broken as Mona Lisa Identity Revealed." The Irish Times, January 15, 2008. https://www.irishtimes.com/news/a-davinci-code-broken-as-mona-lisa-identity-revealed-1.928567.

Sassoon, Donald. ““Mona Lisa”: The Best-Known Girl in the Whole Wide World”. History Workshop Journal 51 (Spring 2001): 1-18.

“The Alleged Theft of the Mona Lisa”. Fine Arts Journal 23, no. 2 (August 1910): 122.

“The Mona Lisa Stolen.” Fine Arts Journal 25, no. 4 (October 1911): 222-24.

Tröndle, Martin, Steven Greenwood, Konrad Bitterli, and Karen van den Berg.

“The Effects of Curatorial Arrangements”. Museum Management and Curatorship 29, no. 2 (2014): 140-173.

77

Rebellion and Piracy: Radical Community at Sea Isabelle Reynolds Introduction: Pirates Need Love Too Conceptualizing piracy as active rebellion, rather than social revolution, creates a framework by which the piratical and purposeful creation of community can be contrasted with normative social structures and power relations. For the purposes of this paper, I define community as a space and/or group which is deliberately held in opposition to dominant society. These spaces are purposefully constructed differently than their normative counterparts. In the Golden Age especially, Anne Bonny and Mary Read were sensationalized for their refusal to align themselves with the society they left—not only because of their piracy, but also due to their identities and aesthetic presentation. The community-oriented nature of many European pirates and pirate crews, and the care that they exhibited for each other, flies in the face of European capitalism, patriarchy, and violent religious enforcement. Rabbi Pirate Samuel Palache fled, with 1200 other Jewish Spaniards, to Holland during the Spanish Inquisition. As he used piracy as a weapon against Spain, as well as a way to establish and protect his community from violence, he rebelled against the oppressive violence of the home that he fled. Mistress Ching exhibits similar ideals of radical community in the face of state violence. Her use of her authority to institutionalize consent and respect for women explicitly ties her piracy to a capacity to protect the women of her community in a way that would have been impossible, were she not a pirate. As pirates often hailed from violent states themselves, they of course absorbed and replicated the cultural values of those states, but their use of piracy to rebel against

78 oppressive institutions is widespread. Pirates everywhere sought to create spaces that existed separate and apart from those to which they were once subject. All over the world, and throughout the history of piracy, pirate law and its conventions are and have been reflective of the radical community that pirates create for themselves in direct opposition to the societies from which they were rejected.

Women Pirates: Piracy as Escape

In Chapter VII of A General History of the Pirates, Charles Johnson briefly outlines the lives of Anne Bonny and Mary Read.

Despite their being specifically named and emphasized on the title page of the History’s first edition, their “remarkable actions and adventures” are relegated to twelve pages.1 The sensationalism of their existence as “female pirates” emphasizes their ‘unnatural’, single parent upbringings and cross-dressing as children.2 These parts of their stories were likely fabricated or “altered [in order] to fit into pre-existing” structures of power, and served to relegate their experiences as external to, and therefore as opposing, normal European society.3 Johnson’s description of Bonny and Read echoes that of Saxo Grammaticus in his casting of Alfhild as unnaturally using gender presentation and expression when she was a pirate. Bonny and Read, however, likely never saw or cared about Johnson’s book, nor understood their piratical lives as descending from an overarching philosophical claim about the opposition between civilization and piracy. What Johnson and Saxo notably leave out of their narratives is the way that women used piracy as a tool in order to rebel against, and escape from, dangerous and violent European society. From what little we can purport to know about Bonny—that she held status as an illegitimate daughter, that she experienced sexualized violence, and that her father “turn’d her out of doors” because of her choice of husband—she did not have an excellent time fulfilling the role of keeping her father’s house, or living as the daughter of an Attorney who could do nothing to protect her from violence in her

79 own home.4 On this basis, I situate her decision to “go to Sea with [Jack] Rackam in Men’s Clothes” as a rejection of the society which raised her, and of the social institutions of marriage and law enforced by her father.5 Her rebellion against those was in the interests of a future in which she could determine her path and shape a world for herself.

Mary Read and Anne Bonny as women pirates have been sensationalized and sexualized by media since they were first introduced to European society. This move by writers, to cast them as “unnatural women” while emphasizing their bodily femininity, directly contrasts the way they likely dressed, acted, and lived.6 Furthermore, it reflects a specific gender anxiety occuring in the 18th century which translated into a desire by society to clearly demark femininity and masculinity.7 This anxiety clearly influences the ways that women are represented and treated in Europe when Read and Bonny abandon that society for their own. The first published image of the two of them challenges the gendered society that they left: their depiction “emphasizes their ferocity [as] they stand with legs apart [...] dressed in jackets and wide legged pants, […] ready to fight".8 This is likely a more accurate representation of their aesthetic as pirates, and it destabilizes the reader’s understanding of what a woman is. They both have fled societies which do not allow them the liberty or respect to live in the world unharmed and unmolested on the basis of their gender expression. It is evident, therefore, that as they abandon their homes for a better future at sea, they rebel against the social structures which harmed and constrained their activity on land. Their reception in Europe, and the subsequent manipulation of their image, makes clear that the liberty that they had in their activity and their expression as pirates would not have been possible if they had not abandoned the constraints of European society.

80 Jewish Piracy and the Creation of Community Jewish pirates have carved out space for themselves and their communities in both European society and in the structures of Caribbean piracy. Edward Kritzler, in his chapter "Samuel Palache, Pirate Rabbi" in Jewish Pirates of the Caribbean, follows the piracy of Palache, who, having fled the Spanish inquisition and established institutional space for his community in Amsterdam, used his piratical skills as a political tool with which to take his revenge against Spanish shipping. In fleeing the inquisition, Palache not only followed a familial tradition of piracy within his Moroccan family, but participated in a construction of community which is somewhat reflective of that of Bonny and Read. As Palache experienced both “Judaism and piracy [as] dominant influences” in his life, they contextualize his establishment of a “residence in Middleburg [and petitioning of the Dutch government] to allow further Sephardic settlement”.9 He not only facilitated an alliance between Morocco and the Netherlands, but did so through his capacity as a pirate, and in the direct interests of creating institutional protection for his community—a protection which could not exist under the influence and reach of the Spanish crown. He continued to lead “pirate crews to seize Spanish ships”, endorsed by the Dutch state, and sanctioned by his newly established community in Holland.10 These piratical journeys both solidified his relationship with the Dutch crown, and thereby further entrenched the stability of Amsterdam’s Jewish community.

In the Caribbean, Jewish communities, which also formed following the Spanish Inquisition, were established and influential, especially during the beginnings of English occupation of the islands. Interestingly, the Jewish “Diaspora found homelands in many parts of the world and from some of these locations carried out piratical activities especially against the Spanish”.11 As Jamaica “had consistently been a haven for Jews in the New World”, and had had consistent relationships with the English government throughout

81 their settlement, the Jewish community there was instrumental in the protection of pirates during the English occupation.12 Jewish involvement and control within piratical activity in Jamaica was ultimately combined with British power, which eventually “broke the back of the Spanish Empire”.13 Both Caribbean Jewish piracy, and the piracy of Samuel Palache, is reflective of a radical investment in, and protection of, community through the use of piracy as a way to rebel against an oppressive and violent state.

Chinese Piracy and Mistress Ching’s Power In the early 1800s, the formidable strength and size of the pirate fleet of Mistress Ching, or Zhèng Yī Săo, while impressive and important for its existence off the “Western coast [near] Cochin China”, is not what made it rebellious or radical.14 Zhèng Yī Săo succeeded her husband Zhèng Yī as leader of an “enormous pirate fleet” in Annam.15 The success of her fleet was tied in large part to the solidarity and sense of community between the six flags under her leadership, as when “one squadron attacked, another [would come] to [its] aid”.16 Furthermore, in addition to rigidly enforced rules which are reflective of other pirate codes, Zhèng Yī Săo used her access to power and influence to prohibit sexualized violence within her fleet. As any “violation of female chastity without permission” was banned by the “Pirate Queen”, she was able to institutionalize a safety of women in her fleet which would have been categorically impossible on mainland China, within the strong “patriarchy of Confucian culture”.17 In this way, her redefinition of both acceptable behaviour and the role of women in society is a radical investment in the protection of women, and mirrors the way that Bonny and Read escaped situations of patriarchal oppression through piracy.

Zhèng Yī Săo’s actions also mirror that of Samuel Palache in that, through piracy, she gains an influence and an importance which allows her to institutionalize her community both as opposed

82 to Chinese law, and as protected under it. Her negotiation with the Chinese government to grant pardons to her entire fleet, and the success of those negotiations, indicate that her use of piracy does not reflect a desire to tear down normative society, but rather demonstrates a deep interest in the survival of the community that she cultivated in her fleet. The importance of her leadership in this project is clear as she facilitated the negotiations for pardons herself : her willingness to engage with a state that had excluded her both as a woman and as pirate is an investment in the safety of her crews over her personal pride.18 The success of her negotiations, and the subsequent blanket pardon of her entire fleet, would not have been possible without Zhèng Yī Săo’s use of piracy to destabilize social order, or without the strength of her rebellion being recognized and conceded to by the state. Like Bonny, Read, and Plache, Zhèng Yī Săo knowingly and specifically deploys piracy against normative and oppressive cultural norms. Furthermore, she deploys it specifically as a tool of liberation and of community creation.

Pirate Law: Representation, Rebellion, and Rediker In his article “"Under the Banner of King Death": The Social World of Anglo-American Pirates”, Marcus Rediker presents that piracy was an aspect of a revolutionary order of society, which pirates deliberately and knowingly created and positioned as a challenge to European power. Many of his claims reflect my assertion that choosing piracy is a way to create and contribute to a better society, however these can be attributed to Rediker “being idealistic and overly Marxist” in his depictions of pirates and piracy.19 He asserts that the average pirate was simply “an unremarkable man caught in harsh, often deadly circumstances” whose actions and life Rediker sweepingly attributes to an overarching desire to “overthrow an unjust system based on moral principles”.20 Rediker fails to take seriously the reality that, “as a royal official condescendingly observed, [pirates are] "desperate Rogues" who could have

83 little hope in life ashore”.21 Rediker ridicules this condescending comment without acknowledging that it reveals a central failure in his own argument. As he neglects to include the lives and perspectives of pirates who are not just men who used to be sailors in Europe, Rediker ignores the diversity of crews, captains, and philosophies which lead and influenced different pirates.

By positioning piracy in opposition to Western power, Rediker’s writing maintains a dichotomous relationship between the two. His focus on Caribbean and European piracy excludes the stories of Samuel Palache and of Mistress Ching, as their stories do not fit into his narrative: both of these pirates were explicitly invested in building a better future for their communities, and worked with existing states to do so. If the existence of piracy were indicative of a widespread revolution against power structures, Samuel Palache and Zhèng Yī Săo would not engage with state power to create positive change, they would reject those structures wholeheartedly. Furthermore, Rediker emphasizes the ‘humanity’ and good sense of pirates, their laws, their crews, and their leadership, but he ignores the explicit violence that many pirates inflicted on innocent people, often along gendered and racialized lines. Not only is there no overarching drive among pirates to overthrow power, but pirates often replicate said power on board their ships.

As Rediker “argues that pirates were more progressive and accepting of race than other facets of society” he identifies the space within the structure of piracy which allowed figures like Bonny and Read to pave their own path, and that Samuel Palache and Zhèng Yī Săo engaged with on their own terms.22 Rediker fails to recognize, however, that while there is “evidence to support [his claims, there is also] evidence that […] each pirate and crew was very individual”.23 Many pirates replicated the same social violence against which Rediker attempts to position them. As “[pirates are] challenging social norms and taboos”, it is easy for Rediker to posit an allencompassing ideology, but this is an idealizing and divisive move.24 His ideological positioning of pirates compromises their autonomy

84 while erasing the actual oppression and violence from which many pirates were attempting to escape. This is not a widespread or organized revolution, but radical and individual acts of rebellion for the creation of a safer community.

Conclusion: Piracy is a Path, not an Ideology Women as pirates, Jewish pirate communities, and Chinese piracy under the leadership of Zhèng Yī Săo are all indicative of the importance of piracy as an extra-societal way to create space for one’s own community. As the ease with which they moved through the world was transformed after leaving Europe, Read and Bonny both used piracy as a path to freedom from oppression and violence, and then carved out space for themselves on Rakham’s pirate ship. Samuel Palache’s experience and use of piracy is tied up in his commitment to his community and family, and he engaged with state power in order to do so. Similarly, Zhèng Yī Săo used her power as a pirate queen in order to protect women on her ships, and subsequently used that same power to engage with the Chinese government and secure the safety and security of her entire fleet.

These individuals are not indicative of an overarching revolution within all of piracy that pushes to overthrow existing state power, but are rather examples of how piracy is a malleable space for the future of one’s community, to which their acts of individual rebellion contribute.

Johnson, Charles. [Daniel Defoe]. A General History of the Pyrates. Edited by Manuel Schonhorn. Mineola: Dover Publications, (2015), Title Page of the First Edition 1724.

2 Johnson and 153 & 164.

3 EMSP 2480/HIST 2750, Lecture Slides, “The Golden Age of Piracy”. March 5, 2019.

4 Johnson, 159, 164, & 165.

5 Johnson, 165.

6 O'Driscoll, Sally. "The Pirate's Breasts: Criminal Women and the Meanings of the Body." The Eighteenth Century 53, no. 3 (2012):, 359.

1

85 EMSP 2480/HIST 2750, Lecture Slides, “The Golden Age of Piracy”.

O’Driscoll, 558-59.

9 Kritzler, Edward. "Samuel Palache, Pirate Rabbi." In Jewish Pirates of the Caribbean.

London: JR, (2009), 77 & 81.

10 Kritzler, 86.

11 Hancock, David. “Jews and the Atlantic World: Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries: Review Essay” In The Journal of Interdisciplinary History 41, no. 1 (2010), 151.

12 Hancock, 152.

13 Hancock, 153.

14 Ellms, Charles, L Barber, and Juliet Sutherland. “History of the Ladrone Pirates.” In The Pirates Own Book: Authentic Narratives of the Most Celebrated Sea Robbers.

Project Gutenberg Online, (2004), 512.

15 EMSP 2480/HIST 2750 Lecture Slides, “Asian Piracy” March 20 & 25, 2019.

16 EMSP 2480/HIST 2750 Lecture Slides, “Asian Piracy”.

17 EMSP 2480/HIST 2750 Lecture Slides, “Asian Piracy”.

18 Ellms, 565.

19 EMSP 2480/HIST 2750, Lecture Slides, “The Golden Age of Piracy”. March 5, 2019.

20 Rediker, Marcus. ""Under the Banner of King Death": The Social World of Anglo-American Pirates, 1716 to 1726." In The William and Mary Quarterly 38, no.

2 (1981), 226; EMSP 2480/HIST 2750, Lecture Slides, “The Golden Age of Piracy”.

21 Rediker, 208.

22 EMSP 2480/HIST 2750, Lecture Slides, “The Golden Age of Piracy”.

23 EMSP 2480/HIST 2750, Lecture Slides, “The Golden Age of Piracy”.

24 EMSP 2480/HIST 2750 Lecture Slides, “Asian Piracy”.

7 8

Bibliography Ellms, Charles, L Barber, and Juliet Sutherland. “History of the Ladrone Pirates.”

In The Pirates Own Book: Authentic Narratives of the Most Celebrated Sea Robbers.

Project Gutenberg Online, (2004): 512–68.

EMSP 2480/HIST 2750 Lecture Slides, “Asian Piracy”. March 20 & 25, 2019 EMSP 2480/HIST 2750, Lecture Slides, “The Golden Age of Piracy”. March 5, 2019.

Hancock, David. “Jews and the Atlantic World: Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries: Review Essay” In The Journal of Interdisciplinary History 41, no. 1 (2010): 118-20. http://www.jstor.org/stable/40785030.

Johnson, Charles. [Daniel Defoe]. A General History of the Pyrates. Edited by Manuel Schonhorn. Mineola: Dover Publications, 2015.

Kritzler, Edward. "Samuel Palache, Pirate Rabbi." In Jewish Pirates of the Caribbean.

86 London: JR, (2009): 75-92.

Lerner, Saul. "Jews and the Atlantic World: Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries: Review Essay." Shofar: An Interdisciplinary Journal of Jewish Studies 28, no. 4 (2010): 146-54.

O'Driscoll, Sally. "The Pirate's Breasts: Criminal Women and the Meanings of the Body." The Eighteenth Century 53, no. 3 (2012): 357-79.

Rediker, Marcus. ""Under the Banner of King Death": The Social World of Anglo -American Pirates, 1716 to 1726." In The William and Mary Quarterly 38, no.

2 (1981): 203. doi:10.2307/1918775

87

An Act of Artistic Voyeurism: It’s Sexy Being Included!

Ciara Gordon

Giulio Romano’s oil painting, Two Lovers (1524), is evocative as it implicates the viewer in the erotic act he depicts. The painting situates the viewer within an act of voyeurism, mirroring that of the old lady in the far right of the frame. Voyeurism implies that the act that is being observed is secluded and private for those being observed, but Romano’s painting brings the voyeur beyond observation and into the action itself. Romano implicates the viewer through his use of bright lighting, unabashed and open positioning, the figures’ gazes, and the involvement of the viewer’s own act of eroticism by the acknowledgment of the sexual content. In recognizing the sensuality of the piece, and by contemplating the two figures in this act, the viewer is imparting their own sexuality and eroticism onto the piece. Through the lovers’ exhibition, they include the viewer in their sexual act. The Two Lovers asks something of the viewer, and that is to let themselves sit in this arousal purely for the sake of pleasure. Romano does not depict the figures as engaging in an act for procreative purpose or spiritual love, but rather experiencing the empowerment of an act of desiring for the sole sake of desire.

Romano depicts the lovers and the scene brightly, highlighting the lovers against the dark canopy of their bed. The image leaves no secrets hiding in the darkness about the pair’s love affair. Using such clear lighting, Romano highlights everything going on in the painting with the intention of it being seen. The two lovers are explicitly visible, the old woman peeking around the door is visible, the bed and the sexual carvings are all visible: nothing within the painting is hiding or asking the viewer to spy any secrets in the shad-

88 ows. There may be some act of confidentiality within the story of the lovers themselves, but the dialogue Romano creates between the viewer and the painting is one of openness, not shame, about sexual pleasure. Their intimacy is not hiding but rather showcasing itself.

In Bette Talvacchia’s translations of Pietro Aretino’s sonnets in the I Modi, she translates a lover saying: “and I know that you have had great pleasure in seeing.”1 This specific line from Sonnet 1, is reflective of the relationship between the painting and the viewer; the viewer, through an act of voyeurism, is gaining pleasure in seeing the work, whether it be from regarding a piece of artwork or relating to the sexual act Romano so clearly illustrates. This well-lit scene lends itself to the act of observing on part of the viewer, as it makes it more welcoming and eye-catching upon inspection. Additionally, the size of the painting is 163cm by 337cm, making the piece essentially life sized. With such clear lighting, the height of the painting makes the scene more plausible in relation to the viewer, as they are similar in stature and visibility, thus making it easier to posit themselves within the scene. The long length of the painting also takes up the viewer’s whole field of vision, further submerging them into the scene and the reality of the lovers' open intimacy through this inviting clarity.

Romano’s candid positioning of the lovers on their bed invites the viewer into a closer relationship with the contents of the painting, delving into its sacred and profane connotations of love.

Additionally, the man and woman are both angling their bodies outward towards the viewer, hiding nothing and inviting the viewer’s gaze to linger over their unclothed figures that are spread as if on display. Even the old woman’s body who is not engaging in any sexual acts is facing towards the viewer. The slippers at the threshold point outwards, and the gaze of the cat faces the viewer and seems to be the only one looking out. All of these bodies and symbols invite the viewer to engage with the painting and its eroticism, but what is especially important is the gaze of each respective person: they all point to the sexual act except for the cat that is looking at

89 the viewer. The old woman is staring at the couple who in turn, are staring deeply into each other’s eyes. Their naked bodies are reminiscent of the non-materialistic embodiment of sacred love, even though sex was socially seen as purely procreative, and in that sense, their love is profane. Petrarch, in “Sonnet I” of Il Canzoniere, states that “from my vanities there comes shame’s fruit, And my repentance, and the clear awareness that worldly joy is just a fleeting dream.”2 Petrarch wrote hundreds of love sonnets about his desire for a woman, but reframes the pure animal desire into a reformed perspective of earthly pleasure as ephemeral, and divine pleasure as lasting. In relation to Petrarch, by painting them nude and in the form of sacred love, Romano is positing their sexual relationship and intimacy as secure and lasting. Because the object of the lovers’ desire is each other and not Christ, Romano implicitly depicts sex as an act of sexual gratification and pleasure, in opposition to the idea of sex as only a procreative earthly act. Aretino knits together the sexual act with artistry when he writes the line “I want to screw you by the book, ma’am [...] And you will say to me when I’m through that I am an artist in this sort of work.”3 This line grounds sexual pleasure within an art form that is well-known and admired by most in early modern Europe, connecting sex with talent and social acceptance. This comparison and the openness of their bodies makes sex, and Romano’s depiction of it, feel more familiar and less shameful, further inviting the viewer into the scene and the idea of pleasurable sex as something not as taboo.

Whereas the I Modi is very vulgar and explicit, the Two Lovers seems to be the precursor to images and descriptions as such. The lovers are not fully nude or mid-coitus but rather, Romano portrays them as if they are just about to engage in their pleasurable actions.

This implicates the viewer even more within the realm of sexual gratification for the purpose of pleasure as the mystery and anticipation forces the viewer to imagine what is happening, and what will happen. This encourages the viewer to project their own imagination into the piece, and situate them within the scene and how it

90 may happen. The painting implicates the viewer by including them in an act of arousal, whether through the imagination of erotic encounters or by eliciting a physical reaction of arousal. The painting, much like Aretino’s sonnets, exists “in honor of pricks who serve asses and pussies, and that are made of asses, pricks, and pussies, [thus the painting] resemble[s] you, dickhead readers.”4 Romano fosters a self-reflection within the viewer concerning sexual acts, as well as a reflection upon societal standards concerning sex and the policing of pleasure. Romano’s painting is evocative and exciting in its sex positive tone.

The sonnets in Aretino’s I Modi all follow the theme of sex as an act that is pleasurable, but also enlightening for the participants.

Similarly, Romano’s painting showcases the pleasure and the communication present in sex by creating a dialogue with the viewer.

Within the I Modi, Aretino’s sonnets allude to a lack that sex addresses. He states that “it is really true that if the scoundrels had not eaten that traitorous fruit, I know that lovers would be able to content themselves fully.”5 The sonnets posit sex as higher than knowledge and that it is knowledge itself, and thus the judgements held within knowledge, as what is preventing people from achieving the full potential of pleasure. Romano’s painting portrays the lovers in an act of pleasure where even in the knowledge of judgements that obstruct pleasure, they can satisfy themselves, even if not fully.

By painting the lovers so forthright, it is clear the lovers know the social judgements surrounding sex, but they choose to focus more on disolving these judgements through their open nature. The painting joins together knowledge and sex, religious desire and physical desire, as it is not separating sex from religion but rather is an exploration of the body’s capacity for pleasure that Aretino depicts when he says “let’s make love right away since we are all born for this.”6 Romano is showcasing sex as a positive act and something that need not be accompanied by shame, as sex, being such an intimate and vulnerable act, holds truthfulness and honesty.

Through Romano’s creation of an open dialogue of sex be-

91 tween the viewer and the contents of the painting, the work allows for an honesty that was lacking before. The painting slowly introduces the viewer to the idea that sex can be more than just a procreative action. By involving the viewer so directly in his painting, Romano fosters a collaborative shift toward the idea that sex may be for pleasure, reintroudcing a narrative of sex positivity and communication. Giulio Romano uses lighting, bodies, and viewer interaction as a way of openly commenting on sex and the positive experiences that stem from it. The evocative and erotic nature of the painting implicates the viewer in the act of arousal, and thus allows for self-reflection and the exploration of a more sex positive position.

Bette Talvacchia, “Appendix B,” in Taking Positions: on the erotic in Renaissance culture (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press,1999), pp 227.

2 Francesco Petrarca, “Sonnet I,” in Il Canzoniere.

3 Bette Talvacchia, “Appendix B,” in Taking Positions: on the erotic in Renaissance culture (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press,1999), pp 211.

4 Bette Talvacchia, “Appendix B,” in Taking Positions: on the erotic in Renaissance culture (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press,1999), pp 227.

5 Bette Talvacchia, “Appendix B,” in Taking Positions: on the erotic in Renaissance culture (Princeton,NJ: Princeton University Press,1999), pp 199.

6 Bette Talvacchia, “Appendix B,” in Taking Positions: on the erotic in Renaissance culture (Princeton,NJ: Princeton University Press,1999), pp 199.

1

Giulio Romano, 1499-1546, The Lovers, 1525, Oil on panel, 163 x 337 cm, The Hermitage, St. Petersburg.

92 Works Cited Bette Talvacchia, “Appendix B,” in Taking Positions: on the erotic in Renaissance culture (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press,1999) Giulio Romano, Two Lovers, (1524) Francesco Petrarca, “Sonnet I,” Il Canzoniere

93

Afterword The Flemish art market of the early modern period was unique among European countries. Without the strict social structure that determined the value of art, Flemish artists were more independent in their work. Of course, religious and historical paintings remained prized atop the hierarchy of genres, but painters had more of an opportunity to depict that which they found beautiful.

The cover of this year’s Babel is a beautiful 17th century still-life by Jan Davidz de Heem. De Heem is recognized by paintings such as this: luscious, vibrant still lives packed with opulent jewel-tones that shine against a dark background. The piece is relatively simple in subject, but the vivid oranges and hot pinks are instantly attentiongrabbing. I like to imagine the original owner hung the piece somewhere they could sit close-by, and study the way de Heem painted the glass vase, or notice the myriad critters amongst the foliage. This piece is one I myself would be proud to hang on my walls, and am so happy to place on my bookshelf.

Simple pleasures feel more important these days. I would be remiss to gloss over the circumstances that colour this year’s publication. As the COVID-19 pandemic keeps us “sheltering-in-place,” the space I am in, and the things I look at have become more important. I have learned to take pleasure in slow-moving mornings, the days I make my bed, and the meals I cook for my home. I feel a new closeness to the things I have chosen to decorate my space with, appreciating more and more how lucky I am to look at something beautiful. De Heem’s painting is simple, yes, but it is beautiful,

94 and I hope it is something we can take pleasure in no matter where or when.

The papers in this year’s journal, despite showcasing the variety of interests from EMSP students, all consider to one degree or another, how the early modern’s moved through spaces. Our authors explore how architectural spaces determine who belongs in them, how art changes space, and how academic work makes or takes space for oppressed populations. I chose Early Modern Studies because I sought human consistencies to feel as though our history was not as alien from us as we may think. Understanding that our spaces change our way of life is a human consistency reminds me that despite these spaces changing over time, I am only as human as those who came before me and will come after me. I implore our readers to see these consistencies in our author’s research; to use the stories of the early modern period to look closer at our own stories and spaces.

This journal, and the events run by this year’s EMSS, would not have been possible without the work of Sophie Lawall and Bronwyn Turnquist. Their passion, determination, and patience have been invaluable as my co-president and I navigated our roles.

Sophie and Bronwyn, EMSP is lucky to have you, I cannot wait to see what comes next. Thank you to my co-president Zoë Sherwin for encouraging me to take on this role, for trusting me, and for your friendship. Thank you to Taryn Neufeld, our fourth-year rep, an attentive editor of Babel, and a delight to have in meetings. To our dedicated treasurer Em Grisdale, thank you for your knowledge, your consistency, and your humour. EMSP’s legendary parties are not the same without you. To our authors Caroline DeFrias, Ciara Gordon, Isabel Teramura, Isabelle Reynolds, Jacob Hermant, Andrew Burroughs, Graham O’Brien, and Catherine Charlton: thank you for trusting us with your work, thank you for your continued effort during this bizarre period of publication. Thank you to our external editors, Apolonnia Perri and Elsy Rytter, for your enthusiasm and work on this journal. I am so proud to call you my peers.

95 Thank you to Katy Weatherly, the Early Modern Studies Program’s grandmother, and our guide through this year on the EMSS. Thank you of course to the Early Modern Studies department, for their continued willingness to support and stand by their students. To our professors, faculty, and mentors, thank you for your passion and for encouraging our interests, we could not be this nerdy without you.

Thank you to Etc. press for printing Babel. Thank you finally, to our readers, I hope you have learned something new or found something beautiful within these pages.

Lea Paas-Lang Co-President of the Early Modern Students’ Society 2019-2020

96

Early Modern Students’ Society University of King’s College, Halifax