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Monday, July 24, 2017

Matters of Place: Placing Religion in Film

M. Gail Hamner explores the place of religion in film where, beyond cartography, place is relational: indexed in an at once individual and collective where, what and when. Beyond tracking actual and tangible places such as the Vatican or American West, religion in film is about what she calls affecognitive economies that offer expression for felt if unthought responses to those places. Hamner’s attention to film form, including light and sound, and to the sedimented histories of certain places further offer ways of feeling the violences that not only mark our current world filmicly but that also inundate our daily lived lives.


MLA citation format:
  M. Gail Hamner
"Matters of Place: Placing Religion in Film"
Web blog post. Material Religions. 24 July 2017. Web. [date of access] 

[These are the redacted comments I gave at the opening of the Ray Smith Symposium, “The Place of Religion in Film” at Syracuse University, March 31, 2017. The conference was graced with participants from 10 countries and 10 US states. My thanks to all the participants and to plenary speakers—Sara Horowitz, June Hwang, and Joaquim Pinto—for their high caliber writing and thinking.] [i] 

The land on which Syracuse University is built is sacred and stolen land. It is, in fact, the traditional territory of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, the People of the Longhouse who form the historic Confederacy made up of Mohawks, Oneidas, Onondagas, Cayugas, and Senecas. For some years now, faculty at S.U. are in the habit of opening conferences, lectures, and workshops with a statement like this about the stolen ground that undergirds everyday life at our university. Such collegial insistence to name the violence of the past and to note its persistence in our shared present is amplified by the current social and political situation in the United States. Weekly, if not daily, we hear about assaults and crimes against non-white and non-cis persons, groups, and bodies: incidents of minorities being told to “go back to your own country,” transgendered women murdered, Sikh men murdered, a teenaged Muslim girl murdered, another (again) African American man killed by the police and the officer exonerated, swastikas appearing on school lockers and front lawns, nooses appearing on the grounds of the African-American Museum of Culture and History, and TSA and ICE officers acting with unusual force. In early March 2017, a white supremacy group called “Vanguard America,” which carries the web address of bloodandsoil.org, organized the so-called “The Texan Offensive” in which they “put up…[white supremacist and anti-Muslim posters] at Texas State University, Rice University, the University of North Texas, the University of Texas at Dallas, Collin College, Abilene Christian University, and Louisiana State University….” 

It may not be true, but it feels as if these acts are occurring in ideological deference to the mounting Federal (and mutating) threat of deportation hanging over immigrants and refugees. And it may not be true across the board, but I would bet that the persons committing these acts wish to forget, deny, or violently erase the history of non-white presence on this land. They wish to forget, deny or violently erase the history of mass genocide of indigenous peoples, the horrors of chattel slavery, and the persistent flow onto this continent of non-white and white immigrants. In this context, to assert vociferously the history of place—to assert that any place is held together by a physical and relational matrix that brims with stories and lives, with factions and contestations, with sacred relationship, with life and death, with joy, and love, and loss—seems today a crucial and necessary act of resistance. 

Lately, I have been reflecting on film as a public, as a medium of publicness and a mediation of certain publics. By this I mean not only that a film text can be read and interpreted for its social messages, but also that the success of a film is measured in part by its success in either fitting contemporary discourse on an issue like a glove, or pushing that discourse to change. How does the history of place show itself in the medium of film? How is the sacredness of place displayed and anchored? When I think about the broad rubric of the place of religion in film, I think first about the many physical places that evoke religion or take on religious valence in certain films: churches, mosques, synagogues, and specific religious cities or monuments (e.g., Jerusalem, the Vatican, the Kaaba, statues, totems, crucifixes); the vast landscapes of the American West; national monuments; niches of memory and ritual in cityscapes or homesteads; and woodland groves or forest clearings with pools or waterfalls. 

But then my philosopher proclivities kick in and I wonder about this term place. I wonder about its capaciousness and how its wide pliability speaks also to the wide variability in what counts as historical representation and as cultural memorialization. These days in the academy place is often conjoined and opposed to space, where the latter is something logical or mathematical, while the former is more existential [ii]. Space can be Newtonian, denominating the container for experience and events. Or space can be, as it was for Kant, the a priori condition of possibility for human experience. Or we can conceptualize space vis-à-vis the grids of urban and rural territories that mapped and codified the earth’s vastness in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, when the commons was closed and private property expanded. Soon afterwards the oceans became territorialized, and the vastnesses between the planets stood as space’s final frontier. 

Place on the other hand slots into the experiential and evental. Space might be open to orienting technologies like cartography, but place orients someone or something in some specific manner. In other words, place is relational. Place is nothing in itself but is the felt suture of a where to a what and a when, that is, to the idiosyncrasies of specific histories and memories, both collective and individual. The relational construction of place calls us to attend to the power differentials deployed or suffered in one and the same place (but is it the same place?), and to record and reflect on how history and memory differently refract the winners and losers of those power struggles in the lived edges, pits, and vortices of place. Near my home here in Syracuse is an old Roman Catholic Church, the membership of which declined to the point where the parish was unable to maintain it. They sold the building and now Holy Trinity Church is the Mosque of Jesus Son of Mary. What is interesting—not completely surprising, but worthy of reflection—is that some of the former worshippers at Holy Trinity are angry that the crosses have been removed and slowly replaced by crescents. Somehow they could understand and even embrace the pragmatic consequences of generational change and a shrinking budget, but the affective charge of place, of this place as a Christian place (even as my Christian place), was too strong to keep Islamophobic anger at bay. 

All of the above can be reiterated by asserting that, like the concept of religion, the concept of place is multitudinous and richly textured. Something quite different from place vs. space, for instance, can be found in Stoic philosophy. The Stoics theorized place as subsisting between the incorporeal void and all that forms the corporeal. Place is not the void and place is not a body, but rather stands as the transition between them. Place is where bodies can take shape and do things [iii]. This sense of place as mediation and support is unfamiliar and curious, but it might be fruitful to consider it alongside particular filmic frames or in conjunction with Gilles Deleuze’s sense of “camera consciousness.” In his Cinema books Deleuze notes that the camera can function as a brain not only by tracking objects and events, but more importantly by enabling thought-felt connections that blur subject-object and the temporal registers of past, present, and potential [iv]. Aligning religion with this sense of place might lead us to consider orientations that are unthought but felt, that are not nothing, but also have not yet been actualized into material practices or structures. Put differently, the place of religion in film—when place is mediation and support—draws us to analyze how religion is not only about tracking certain named subjects, objects and events, but is also about diffuse and mutating affecognitive economies that supersede objects without superseding materiality, and that settle into lived assumptions and yearnings for the kind of significance, wholeness, or beauty that exceeds capture by the quotidian empirical. 

Do the history, memory, and power of place require bodily expression? And if so, what is a body? Are there bodies outside of place or are bodies only formed in conformation to specific places? What does it mean to be a body present but out of place? Can the bodily nature of place be sensorially formed between and across bodies, instead of felt inside of bodies? In other words, where does analysis take us if we posit that the experiences that mark space as place might be virtual or affective instead of actual and tangible? How does it matter, and what difference does it make if bodies are theorized as personal and collective (persons in and as a crowd or network or rhizome), instead of personal and singular (an individual, a self, an autologic subject)? 

Because religion entails marking persons and places in particular and various ways and for particular and various ends—though of course religion entails many other things, too—all that I have said about place and bodies pertains as well to the place or placing of religion in film. 

Consider, for instance, the many actual and tangible places that are compelling to analyze as the places of religion in film, such as the monastery in Xavier Beauvois’s 2011 release, Of Gods and Men, or the floating temple in Kim Ki-duk’s 2003 film, Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring [v]. These structures are Eliadean, built to evoke or attest to hierophanies; they are portals or places of liminality that are experienced (by characters and viewers) in ways that are both extraordinarily intimate and personal and also magnetically collective, even universal. Indeed, the interplay between the intimate and universal plays off the grim weight of norm and expectation (the monks’ vowed life in service to God; the death faced by each of us) and rippling, diffuse light of the seasons of love and life that are reflected differently by different characters, according to their understanding of and response to the histories and memories they find in and bring to these places. 

Caption 1: Xavier Beauvois, Of Gods and Men (2011)
Caption 2: Kim Ki-duk, Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter... and Spring (2003)

Consider, too, how religion is sometimes marked or placed much more obliquely and ambivalently than these Eliadean structures, for example through the eerie green computer glow in the first of Krzysztof Kieslowski’s 1989 TV series, Dekalog; through the novitiates’ rituals with and around the statue of Christ in Pawel Pawlikowski’s 2013 release, Ida; or through the ocean scene between Juan and Little in Barry Jenkins’s stunning release from last year, Moonlight
Caption 3: Krzysztof Kieslowski, Dekalog (1989)
Caption 4: Pawel Pawlikowski, Ida (2013)
Caption 5: Barry Jenkins, Moonlight (2016)
These films demonstrate how light, ritualized relationship, and elemental interaction all might evoke and play with the places of religion. They do so by each differently connecting a where to a what and a when. Each differently forms a nodule of affection that is something like a pincushion—a ‘place’ (held in practice or in memory) that receives the sharpness of the world and softens it by transvaluing it. The world’s confusion becomes the intelligence of algorithm in Dekalog; the world’s ugliness becomes Christ’s beauty and devotion in Ida; the world’s brutality becomes a place of loving touch and care in Moonlight

I think, further, of how something like Buddhist compassion is evocatively constructed through the Dalai Lama’s slowly placed gazes in Martin Scorsese’s Kundun, or how something like Christian transcendence is placed between the screen and the viewer through the music of John Tavener in Alfonso Cuarón’s Children of Men and of Beethoven’s Sonata no. 8 (“Pathetique”) in the Coen brothers’ The Man who Wasn’t There

Caption 6a: Martin Scorsese, Kundun (1997)
Caption 6b: Martin Scorsese, Kundun (1997)

Caption 7: Alfonso Cuarón, Children of Men (2006)
Caption 8: Joel Coen and Ethan Coen, The Man who Wasn’t There (2001)
Cinematography, montage, and soundtrack, patterned and sutured over the temporal arcs of the film build up and set in motion affective orientations, virtues, and ineffable hopes that work materially but non-verbally on characters and viewers alike, and that mark—or shift, or expand—the place of religion in film. 

Taking quite a different tack, consider how films can show the sedimentation of religious sensibility and practice in transversal places of social conflict such as Ismaël Ferroukhi’s 2011 Free Men (les homes libres), Abu-Assad’s 2005 Paradise Now, or Julie Dash’s 1991 Daughter’s of the Dust. These films engage the place of religion and the violence of history through the crisscrossing of precarious Muslim, Jewish, Christian, and state spaces: Nazi-held Paris in 1942; the borderlands between cosmopolitan, Jewish Israel and poverty-stricken Muslim Palestine (with a Christian “last-supper” scene thrown in for good measure); and the intersecting times, memories, objects, words, spirits, and gods connecting Africa, the Sea Islands off the coast of South Carolina, the West Indies, and the US mainland. The religious histories and practices in these films are imaged less through a place and more through the movement through places, or (and) through the collapse of one kind of place (e.g., Muslim) into another kind of place (e.g., a hiding place for Jews). In these films the visible transversality of place forms palpable affective tensions and constructs and constricts the social, political, and religious possibilities of their characters. Sometimes, too, religion is placed and moved by elemental forces, such as the rain in Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai or the wind in Yojimbo and also (but differently) in John Patrick Shanley’s Doubt, and water in all its phases in so many of Terrence Malick’s films, including Tree of Life, To the Wonder, and Knight of Cups. Here we are exposed to the material, earthy incarnation of religion as the concomitant or interruptive presence of an elsewhere or otherwise (or elsewise and otherwhere). Water and wind sculpt the places of religion as much as does landscape. 

Caption 9: Julie Dash, Daughter’s of the Dust (1991)
Caption 10: Hany Abu-Assad, Paradise Now (2005)
Caption 11: Akira Kurosawa, Seven Samurai (1954)
Caption 12: Terrence Malick, Tree of Life (2011)

Finally, sometimes the place of religion moves with a single object that does not even register as religious, like the parrot in Kon Ichikawa’s The Burmese Harp, the mask in Ousmane Sembene’s Black Girl, or the car in Abbas Kiarostami’s Taste of Cherry and Ten. The religiosity arises not from these objects themselves, and not from the spaces through which they travel, but rather from the setting of the object in the mise-en-scène and its relational and symbolic use by characters and director. In other words, objects suture the intangible (incorporeal) places of religion in film to a material but nonetheless happenstance visible object. 

Caption 13: Ousmane Sembene, Black Girl (1966)

In each of these examples, the places of religion in film are also the religiosities of place, enfolding the confluent histories, experiences of violence, and possibilities for compassion that all places, placing, and religion(s) inhere [vi]. To me, the joy and task of analyzing religion in film emerge in wrestling with difficult and unexpected senses of materiality, of place, and of religion such as the ones to which I have gestured in this post. I suggest we hold to the etymological root of perception (per + capere = entirely + to take or grasp) in order to be inspired toward analyses that entail, indeed that require grasping affectively and conceptually the interplays of tightly-held practices, beliefs and traditions with cinematic form, pace, lighting, narrativity, and mise-en-scène, in order to grant full-bodied voice and material weight to the legacies of theft, assault, agony, and other violences that arise from these material perceptions of place. Considering the suffering places of our current world, this methodology seems a necessary anchor, frame, and ballast for any discussion of the place of religion in film. 


Endnotes 

i. The list of persons and departments I owe for supporting this conference is long. Here I wish only to acknowledge the specific material, organizational, and temporal contributions of Rebecca Moody, Deborah Pratt, and Mohammed El Hamzaoui. 

ii. See Yi-Fu Tuan, Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience (Minnesota, 2001). 

iii. See Elizabeth Grosz, The Incorporeal: Ontology, Ethics, and the Limits of Materialism (Duke, 2017), 32ff. 

iv. Gilles Deleuze, Cinema 2: The Time Image, 24 (Minnesota, 1989). 

v. All images are screen-grabs I made from DVDs I own. 

vi. Laura Marks, Enfoldment and Infinity: An Islamic Genealogy of New Media Art (MIT, 2010).







Friday, June 30, 2017

A Bourdieusian Take on the Imperial Patronage of Cloisonné in Qing China

Julie Bellemare relates the imperial patronage of cloisonné objects for religious and secular purposes in eighteenth-century China to an increased taste for colorful and dazzling surfaces. She uses the ideas of Pierre Bourdieu and Alfred Gell to unpack the significance of this technical enchantment, and to clarify and complicate questions of taste, class, and ethnic identity in the Chinese production and consumption of cloisonné. Bellemare argues that the non-Chinese origins of the medium made it adaptable to the evolving needs of display and an ideal canvas for imperial decoration.


MLA citation format:
  Julie Bellemare
 "A Bourdieusian Take on the Imperial Patronage of Cloisonné in Qing China"
Web blog post. Material Religions. 30 June 2017. Web. [date of access]




Shrine with an Image of a Bodhisattva, 1736-1795. Shrine: Cloisonné enamel on copper alloy; Image: Copper with semiprecious stones, 25 1/4 x 14 3/8 x 10 5/8 in. (64.1 x 36.5 x 27 cm). Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Samuel P. Avery, Jr., 09.520a-b. Creative Commons-BY (Photo: Brooklyn Museum).


Introduction

The following thought experiment is an attempt to explain the Qing taste for colorful cloisonné objects through the patronage practices of Qing rulers, more specifically the Kangxi (1662-1722), Yongzheng (1723-35) and Qianlong (1735-1796) emperors, whose embrace of this medium warrants closer examination. It is worth noting that the Qing was a foreign dynasty with its roots in the north of China, and that its rulers considered themselves ethnically different from Han Chinese, identifying instead as Jurchen or Manchu. They conquered most of China by unifying Manchu and Mongol tribes and allying with Northern Chinese, organized into banners of different ranks. I want to explore how these rulers could have utilized cloisonné to differentiate themselves from traditional Han Chinese elites. I will argue that because it was technically difficult to produce, cloisonné was used to demonstrate superiority, while its patterned surfaces indexed the diversity at the heart of the Qing Empire. I will mainly use Pierre Bourdieu’s Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste (1984) to clarify and complicate some of these questions of taste, class, and ethnic identity in the production and consumption of cloisonné in eighteenth-century China. 

As much as Bourdieu’s detailed examination of class hierarchies and consumptive practices is relevant to these questions, the exercise of applying it to eighteenth-century Chinese society comes with several pitfalls. Importantly, Bourdieu’s project tackled the power dynamics within his own contemporary society, which do not necessarily map onto the social class distinctions of eighteenth-century China. His notion of “habitus” is particularly difficult to address. Bourdieu’s approach takes into account both social and cultural structures as well as individual practices. The former he terms “fields,” networks of relations animated and constrained by systems of power, while the latter he calls “habitus,” unconscious cultural conventions of behavior that reflect individual sensibility and agency. He states that taste is social necessity made second nature, “turned into muscular patterns and bodily automatisms”.[i] These embodied practices can hardly be extrapolated from texts alone. Ming and Qing writings about taste admittedly fall more securely within the category of “fields,” since people’s practices are difficult to reconstruct accurately within a historical framework. It is not clear whether the prescriptive writings of the literatus and arbiter of taste Wen Zhenheng (1585-1645), for instance, reflected actual practices, or if they enshrined idealized forms of consumption. It is therefore more realistic to address the normative structures of class tastes than to infer people’s actual behaviors and actions from limited or biased historical records. To this end, perhaps Michael Baxandall’s “period eye” is also a useful model for reconstructing ways of seeing and experiencing the material world in Qing China. Baxandall defines the period eye as the mental equipment a person uses to order his or her visual experience; this equipment is culturally relative and determined by the society that influences this experience.[ii] It consists of variables such as the “categories with which he classifies his visual stimuli, the knowledge he will use to supplement what his immediate vision gives him, and the attitude he will adopt to the kind of artificial object seen”.[iii] In short, it hinges on the viewer’s “cognitive style” (mental habits parallel to Bourdieu’s embodied ones) and his or her interpretive frameworks, which align (or not) with those of the artist or maker to produce either appreciation or misunderstanding. Looking at cloisonné, it appears that some members of the literati elite did not appreciate its vibrant colors and dense patterns, interpreting them as a form of gaudiness unsuitable for the austere interiors of their studios. Qing emperors, however, could have seen the complexity of these objects as technological innovations that surpassed all that had been produced in the past. This point will be developed in more detail later. 

The Production of Cloisonné 

The public furnishings [altar set] currently at the Temple of Benevolence are not good. Basing yourself on the cloisonné of the Hall of Long Life, make one set, and ensure its size matches that of the supporting table. Respect this imperial order.[iv] 

This order for a new set of cloisonné ritual vessels is a typical example of a commission to the Imperial Workshops given under the Yongzheng emperor in the early years of his reign. As opposed to his immediate predecessor and successor, the Kangxi and Qianlong emperors, Yongzheng was not particularly fond of cloisonné, yet there is evidence of his continued patronage of this medium for ritual and religious purposes. In the Qing period, cloisonné objects were used for secular purposes as wine containers or desk decorations, but they were also commissioned in sets for religious altars and sacrificial halls. Although they were mainly used in Buddhist contexts, they were also appropriate for Daoist temples.[v] Known for its colorful and variegated surfaces, cloisonné is a complex technique that requires the collaboration of several specialized craftsmen. The body of a cloisonné piece is first cast in bronze, and metal wire is then welded onto its surface, creating small enclosures (cloisons in French), that are then filled with colored enamels. The piece is fired in a muffle kiln, polished, and gilded. This process requires advanced technical knowledge, division of labor, and access to resources, all of which can only be realized in a highly organized production line. 

The technique originated in the Mediterranean basin as early as 1500 BCE, but flourished in the Byzantine Empire between the eighth and fourteenth centuries. It attained a high degree of sophistication in the Islamic world before slowly reaching China during the Yuan dynasty (1271-1368). The earliest source testifying to the presence of cloisonné enamels in China is the Gegu yaolun (The Essential Criteria of Antiquities), written by Cao Zhao in 1388. Of cloisonné, he writes: “The body is made of copper; for the decoration in five colors, molten substances are used, similar to inlay work from the Frankish Lands [Folang]. I have seen incense burners, flower vases, boxes, small bowls, and the like, appropriate for a lady’s chamber but not for the study of a scholar of cool, reticent taste” (Fig. 1).[vi] This bias against the aesthetics of cloisonné continued through the rest of the Ming period (1368-1644). Gao Lian (1573-1620) referred to it as “Muslim ware,” (dashi yao) and ranked it the worst of all kiln wares, while Wen Zhenheng saw it as too ostentatious and vulgar to put next to a painting.[vii] It is interesting that these authors saw cloisonné as feminine, foreign, or just too colorful. Generally speaking, Chinese literati tended to prefer a more subdued aesthetic, epitomized by monochrome ink painting. Color was not rendered literally, but implicit in the gradations of black ink, as Tang-dynasty scholar Zhang Yanyuan noted: “One may be said to have fulfilled one’s aim when the five colors are all present in the management of ink [alone]”.[viii] 


Figure 1. Bowl with the Eight Buddhist Treasures, Ming dynasty (1368–1644), 16th century, China, cloisonné enamel, H. 5 5/8 in. (14.3 cm); Diam. 11 1/2 in. (29.2 cm), Metropolitan Museum of Art, Gift of Edward G. Kennedy, 1929, 29.110.88.

While in the Ming dynasty, cloisonné was patronized on a small scale by the imperial court and collected by private individuals,[ix] the Qing period (1644-1911) saw an expansion of the imperial workshops and a tremendous increase in the production of cloisonné wares, which were created in workshops located in Guangdong province, and near Beijing at the Summer Palace (Yuanming yuan), where six more locations for the Enameling Workshop were added in 1741 in order to meet the demands of the imperial court.[x] Cloisonné was held in particularly high esteem by Qing emperors, who ordered large quantities of objects to furnish newly built courts, palaces, and temples. This growth is surprising, considering the aforementioned assessments of cloisonné by literati and tastemakers belonging to the Chinese educated elite. 


Taste, Enchantment, and the Imperial Use of Cloisonné 

I had started this essay by invoking Bourdieu’s concept of “habitus”—one that he applied in a specific analysis of the tastes of the “bourgeois,” “middle-brow,” and “popular” classes of 1960s and 1970s France, with correlations to relative levels of education, income, upbringing, and occupation. This class division applies remarkably well to late Ming society, which consisted of a powerful educated elite increasingly threatened by a rising merchant class. Both French bourgeois and Ming Chinese literati derived their position from their high level of education and economic power. Bourdieu defines modern, European bourgeois taste as favoring a combination of ease and asceticism, austerity and restraint, all of these seen as manifestations of excellence.[xi] This attitude is clearly present in Wen Zhenheng’s admonitions, as articulated for instance about furniture design: “[For natural tables], use pieces of thick, wide timber…hollow them out and carve them lightly with designs such as cloud scrolls and ruyi heads. They must not be carved with such vulgar patterns as dragons, phoenixes, flowers, and grasses”.[xii] This literati taste for elegance, antiquity and refinement arose simultaneously or in partial reaction to an upwardly mobile merchant class that benefitted tremendously from the increased maritime trade and economic activity during the latter half of the sixteenth century. In response to this class of nouveaux riches who could afford to purchase expensive luxuries, the educated elite began to differentiate themselves by advocating restraint in ornamentation. The lavishly carved tables derided by Wen Zhenheng were, of course, those preferred by rich merchants who favored conspicuous consumption. Just as Bourdieu’s “middle-brow” class, these tastes were often seen by members of the educated elite as an illegitimate acquisition of cultural forms.[xiii] Middle-brow and popular forms of cultural consumption, according to Bourdieu, involve the viewer and offer more direct and immediate sensory satisfaction.[xiv] In Ming China, this taste translated into a preference for lavish materials, saturated colors, richly carved and lustrous surfaces, whereas in 1960s France, it favored agreeable images such as a sunset over the sea. 

If Bourdieu’s class distinctions map relatively well onto those of Ming China, they fail to explicate the tastes of a new social class that takes power and ultimately forms the Qing dynasty. This stratum of the population is less educated than the literati elite, but nonetheless assumes political and economic power. Bourdieu acknowledges that other states of power relations can exist, resulting in a different configuration of consumptive patterns.[xv] He directs the reader to the work of Norbert Elias on eighteenth and nineteenth-century Germany, which deals with the opposition between the attitudes of the court and those of the intelligentsia. This provides an intriguing parallel for the study of the relations between the Manchu rulers and the literati during the Qing period. Elias observes the sharp social divisions and lack of mobility between the two classes, arguing that this division fostered a rift in values between the courtly “civilization,” characterized by courtesy, ceremony, and formal conversation, and the educated “culture,” defined as “inwardness, depth of feeling, immersion in books, development of individual personality”.[xvi] He quotes Goethe as an exemplar of the intelligentsia: “The people around me had no idea of scholarship. They were German courtiers, and this class had not the slightest Kultur”.[xvii] Manchus and other northerners were at a similar type of disadvantage, not having the same level of access to—or benefitting from a strong cultural emphasis on—education, as opposed to Han Chinese from the south. In the early years of the Qing dynasty, quotas were implemented to increase representation of Manchus in the palace examinations, the meritocratic system that attributed government positions according to one’s knowledge of the classics, history, and government policy. The system, operating intermittently since the Tang dynasty, favored those who could afford the right education and tutoring, and during the Ming, tended to favor Han elites from the cultural powerhouse of the Jiangnan region in south China. In order to give his bannermen a chance to compete, the first Qing emperor put forth a 40:60 Manchu to Han ratio for the palace examination, which was later replaced by completely separate sets of examinations for Han Chinese and all northern bannermen.[xviii] Even with these advantages in place, after 1655, no Manchu ever finished among the prestigious top three places in the palace examinations until 1883. Manchus possessed political and economic power, but not the same level of cultural and academic capital as the literati elite groups traditionally hailing from the south. They were regarded as culturally inferior to the Han Chinese although overt criticism of this status quo was rare and dangerous. Searching for other forms of legitimacy, Manchu rulers explored appropriating symbolic forms of literati culture such as calligraphy and classical learning to finding new sources on which to model their artistic taste. 

Even if alternative models might be more closely related to the social structure of Qing China, some of Bourdieu’s key insights are still useful for understanding imperial taste. For Bourdieu, taste is defined relationally. Consumers choose certain cultural goods over others in order to either identify with or defy the dominant aesthetic. He argues that “Goods are converted into distinctive signs, which may be signs of distinction but also of vulgarity, as soon as they are perceived relationally… a class is defined as much by its ‘being-perceived’ as by its ‘being’, by its consumption—which need not be conspicuous in order to be symbolic—as much as by its position in the relations of production”.[ixx] The Manchu rulers, as a new social class superimposing themselves on top of the existing Chinese social structure, had to find a way to simultaneously inscribe themselves within the larger continuity of Chinese aesthetics in order to gain legitimacy as rulers of China, but also distinguish themselves from these same elites in order to assert their dominance and superiority. They achieved this in part by choosing to consume cultural goods endowed with more flamboyant visual qualities, and reorganized workshop production to suit the demands of their tastes. In doing so, they reframed the perception of cloisonné and other colorful forms of material culture from a vulgar to an acceptable, or even desirable, form of display. It is also important to take into consideration the fact that the Manchu rulers were the representatives of a diverse group of northerners that also included Mongols and northern Chinese. Through diplomatic exchange and conquest, Qing emperors also incorporated Tibetan kingdoms as well as western Turkic and Muslim territories. This diversity was visually translated into several decorative endeavors, such as the construction of palaces at Rehe, and at the Summer Palace in Beijing (where enameling workshops were conveniently located). These architectural projects recreated on a smaller scale the lands conquered by the Qing emperors within large imperial parks, as microcosms of the empire.[xx] The act of naming palaces according to famous sites from China or Tibet, for instance, laid claim to the far reaches of the empire and promoted an incorporation of diversity into a single realm. What ensued in the decorative schemes of these new palaces was not a single coherent style, but an amalgam that suited the purposes of a diverse dynasty.[xxi] 

The impetus to create integrated interiors came with the Yongzheng emperor, and was brought to an extravagant level by the Qianlong emperor, who was more attracted to exotic themes from the outside world. Eclectic, ambitious, and “baroque”, the Qianlong style of cloisonné was a stark departure from most pieces produced during the Ming period. Cloisonné was an important part of the decorative schemes of the newly built palaces. As a hybrid technique that was understood simultaneously as Western, Muslim, and Chinese, it encapsulated the unifying aspirations of the Qing dynasty. This is also seen in the patterns and forms of Qing cloisonné objects, which drew inspiration from a wide array of cultural and geographical sources. Some shapes directly reference ancient Chinese metalwork, while others borrow patterns and iconographies from Himalayan Buddhism and even Italian architecture. This is represented quite strikingly in a large shrine with an image of a bodhisattva (in Tibetan Buddhism, practitioners or deities who delay their own enlightenment in order to help others achieve it), now in the Brooklyn Museum (Fig. 2). While the dragons coiling around the posts and the stylized floral decoration are Chinese, the central figure is modeled in a revival of the Pala style, often seen as a classic mode of Indian Buddhist sculpture, and the shrine’s four posts and canopy are clearly based on the baldachin of St Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican City, a sculpted bronze canopy covering the high altar and marking the location of the tomb of St Peter, created by Gian Lorenzo Bernini a century earlier (Fig. 3). This piece evinces the potential of the medium of cloisonné to take on any shape or form. Because of its non-Chinese origins, it is not constricted by centuries of normative practices, and remains adaptable to the evolving needs of display. Cloisonné is from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, which makes it an ideal canvas for imperial decoration. 


Figure 2 (above) Shrine with an Image of a Bodhisattva, Qianlong period (1736-1795). Shrine: Cloisonné enamel on copper alloy; Image: Copper with semiprecious stones, 25 1/4 x 14 3/8 x 10 5/8 in. (64.1 x 36.5 x 27 cm). Brooklyn Museum, Gift of Samuel P. Avery, Jr., 09.520a-b. Creative Commons-BY (Photo: Brooklyn Museum). 

Figure 3 (below) Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Baldachin of St Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City, 1623-34.

In addition to this semiotic malleability, Qing cloisonné exhibits technical mastery. As mentioned at the beginning of this discussion, the production process requires advanced technical expertise and access to specific materials of a high quality. The result is meant to dazzle the eye with intricate motifs, strong color contrasts, and golden highlights. In this sense, it operates on a psychological and perceptual level, achieving its effect, in the words of Alfred Gell, “via the enchantment cast by its technical means, the manner of its coming into being”.[xxii] No one looks at cloisonné and thinks, “I could make this.” The technical power to make this kind of object is beyond any viewer’s individual capacity, and becomes symbolic of the power of the emperor, enhancing his authority.[xxiii] But beyond visual enchantment, what do the dazzling displays of cloisonné achieve in the minds of their viewers? Perhaps, in addition to indexing the ruler's general prestige and wealth, they might have specific social implications as well. 

A lot of cloisonné objects were displayed in palace halls, where they would be viewed not only by courtiers but also by visiting dignitaries from different parts of the empire as well as from Europe. As part of larger decorative schemes with visually stunning patterns and surfaces, perhaps they also functioned as reminders of the complexity and diversity of the realm, and the power of the emperor to unify it, both territorially and on the surface of his objects. Upon seeing these hybrid objects, perhaps dignitaries felt both a sense of familiarity with the shapes and designs they identified with, while still being dazzled and intimidated by the foreign ones. If this were the case, the Qing style of cloisonné functioned as a simultaneously inclusive and distancing mechanism, one that could invite close relations with dignitaries of any origin, while upholding the superiority of the emperor. 

Although the imperial taste of Qing-dynasty emperors bears similarities to Bourdieu’s middle-brow aesthetic by virtue of appealing to the viewer and providing sensory stimulation, it is far more than an aesthetic of agreeableness. The Qing mixture of technological, cultural, and political power departs from Bourdieu’s framework entirely, and functions to promote the Qing ruler as a universal emperor. By fully embracing and adapting this ‘foreign’ medium to their needs, the Manchu elites found a way to differentiate themselves from the Chinese literati class. The use of different motifs and shapes of cloisonné made it familiar to a wide range of viewers, while its level of intricacy showed the Qing dynasty’s unsurpassed technical superiority, impressing on viewers the desire of the emperor to foster harmonious relations across a highly diverse empire. 


Endnotes 

[i] Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste, (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984), 474.
[ii] Michael Baxandall, Painting and Experience in Fifteenth Century Italy: A Primer in the Social History of Pictorial Style (Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), 40. 
[iii] Idem.
[iv] Qinggong neiwufu zaobanchu dang’an zonghui [Archives of the Workshops of the Imperial Household Department], Vol. 1 (Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 2005), 752. My translation. 
[v] Pengliang Lu, “Beyond the Women’s Quarters: Meaning and Function of Cloisonné in the Ming and Qing Dynasties,” in Cloisonné: Chinese Enamels from the Yuan, Ming, and Qing Dynasties, (New York, New Haven, London: Bard Graduate Center and Yale University Press, 2011), 70. 
[vi] Cao Zhao, translated by Sir Percival David and Béatrice Quette, from Cloisonné: Chinese Enamels from the Yuan, Ming, and Qing Dynasties (New York, New Haven: Bard Graduate Center, Yale University Press, 2011), 7. The use of the term “five colors” (wucai) requires some explanation. In a strict sense, it refers to a porcelain decoration technique in which colored enamels are applied over a plain background, but it also has cosmological ramifications, whereby each color is associated to a cardinal direction. The term may therefore refer not just to a set of colors, but to every possible color, just as in English the ‘four corners of the earth’ is used to mean ‘the whole world.’ “Five colors” (wucai) could therefore also be translated as ‘all colors,’ ‘multicolored,’ or ‘polychrome.’ 
[vii] Gao Lian, Zunsheng bajian, (Beijing: Shumu wenxian chubanshe, 1988), yuan 14; Wen Zhenheng, Zhangwu zhi, (Hong Kong: Dizhi wenhua chuban youxian gongsi, 2002), yuan 5. 
[viii] Zhang Yanyuan. “Li dai ming hua zhi (ca. 847),” in Early Chinese Texts on Painting, edited by Susan Bush, Hsio-yen Shih, and Hsüeh-yen Shih, (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1985), 62. 
[ix] Sun Chengze (1592-1676), a Beijing-based statesman and art collector, notes in a memoir that cloisonné pieces from the Jingtai reign (1449-57), seen as the zenith of quality, fetched the highest prices at the local antique market, indicating that antique cloisonné was valued in certain contexts outside the court. Pengliang Lu, “Beyond the Women’s Quarters,” 64. For Ming court patronage of cloisonné, see Zhang Rong, “Cloisonné for the Imperial Courts,” in Cloisonné: Chinese Enamels from the Yuan, Ming, and Qing Dynasties, (New York, New Haven, London: Bard Graduate Center and Yale University Press, 2011), 151–70. 
[x] Zhang Rong, “Cloisonné for the Imperial Courts,” 159. 
[xi] Pierre Bourdieu, Ibid., 176. 
[xii] Wen Zhenheng, from Craig Clunas, Superfluous Things, (Urbana, Ill.: University of Illinois Press, 1991), 43. 
[xiii] Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction, 91. 
[xiv] Pierre Bourdieu, Ibid., 34. 
[xv] Pierre Bourdieu, Ibid., 73. 
[xvi] Norbert Elias, The Civilizing Process, (New York: Urizen Books, 1978), 16. 
[xvii] Norbert Elias, Ibid., 21. 
[xviii] Benjamin A. Elman, “The Social Roles of Literati in Early to Mid-Ch’ing,” in The Cambridge History of China, Volume 9, Part 1: The Ch’ing Empire to 1800, edited by Willard J. Peterson, (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 381-82. 
[xix] Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction, 483. 
[xx] Cary Y. Liu, “Archive of Power: The Qing Dynasty Imperial Garden-Palace at Rehe,” Guoli Taiwan daxue meishushi yanjiu jikan [Taida Journal of Art History] 28 (2010): 43–66. 
[xxi] Jonathan Hay, Sensuous Surfaces, (Honolulu, HI; London: University of Hawaiʻi Press : Reaktion Books, 2010), 37. 
[xxii] Alfred Gell, “The Technology of Enchantment and the Enchantment of Technology,” in Anthropology, Art, and Aesthetics, edited by Jeremy Coote and Anthony Shelton, (Oxford; New York: Clarendon Press; Oxford University Press, 1992), 47. 
[xxiii] Alfred Gell, Ibid., 52. 

 

Friday, June 16, 2017

Marginal Maps: Sketching Geopieties in 16th Century Bibles

Samuel Tongue merges book history, marginalia studies, reader usage, cartography, and cultural geography to theorize the inclusion of maps as an example of biblical marginalia in 16th-century printed Bibles. By examining a specific example of a user adding their own marginal map, Tongue focuses on religious, historical and economic forces that undergird their authority, arguing that, for a certain user, these maps produce an imagined ‘Palestine,’ framing the land as stage for a divine history, while also underwriting the ‘truth’ of the biblical texts in a type of cartographical Protestant geopiety.


MLA citation format:
  Samuel Tongue
 "Marginal Maps:
Sketching Geopieties in 16th Century Bibles"
Web blog post. Material Religions. 17 June 2017. Web. [date of access]


Glasgow University’s Special Collections contains a 1537 ‘Matthews’ (Tyndale-Coverdale) Bible with some fascinating marginalia. An unidentified bird’s muddy footprints march across the beginning of the prophet Nahum, prompting questions as to where this Bible was kept during its everyday life. In addition, and opposite the title page is a hand-drawn chronological table showing the time elapsed since various biblical events up to 1651, presumably the year in which the owner wrote it in. 

However, my interest lies in the rude sketch of a Holy Land map, bearing the same graphological signature and, as is evident from placing the two Bibles alongside one another, clearly copied from a 1560 Geneva Bible: Why might the owner have perceived his bible as somehow lacking in relation to the scholarly and parabiblical material included in the Geneva Bible? What material conditions made it possible for the cartographic scribbler to complete this fascinating example of biblical marginalia? And what are the implications of producing such territorial inscriptions? 

Image 1: Copy-Specific detail of hand-drawn Holy Land Map in The Byble: which is all the holy Scripture: in whych are contayned the Olde and Newe Testament / truly and purely translated into Englysh by Thomas Matthew. M,D,XXXVII, Set forth with the Kinges most gracyous lyce[n]ce. University of Glasgow Special Collections. Photo by Robert Maclean.
Figure 2: Holy Land map from 1560 copy of Geneva Bible.
Maps in Bibles arise within a complex nexus of historical and theological contexts prompted, in no small part, by the development of print media. Travelling across the disciplines of book history (and print Bibles in particular), marginalia studies, reader usage, cartography, and cultural geography, my focus is on the inclusion of maps in 16th-century printed Bibles: why are they included and how does this intersect with what Edward Said has called an “imaginative geography,” J. B. Harley a “subliminal geometry,” and, in a particularly useful formulation, what Burke O. Long terms ‘geopiety’, “that curious mix of romantic imagination, historical rectitude, and attachment to a physical place” [i]—in this case, a distant, idealised, and constructed ‘Holy Land’? As I shall explore, these maps exist on a spectrum of imagined Holy Lands, beginning in the biblical texts themselves, moving into pilgrimage accounts and on to large, free-standing mappae mundi and broadside imperial maps, right up to contemporary Holy Land parks and guided tours of supposedly ‘biblical’ sites. In this way, geopieties are formed and informed by different types of media interaction. What I want to suggest, is that, for a certain Bible user, these 16th-century maps produce an imagined ‘Palestine’ constructed around biblical characters’ lines of movement, framing the land as stage for a divine history, whilst also underwriting the ‘truth’ of the biblical texts in a type of cartographical Protestant geopiety. 

‘Andro Duncan’ 
In terms of the provenance of this ‘Matthews’ Bible, Duncan claims ownership of the book in 1672, proudly writing on the flyleaf that “Andro Duncan is my name and for to writ think not sheam”. We are immediately confronted with the medium of the printed book and how it allows a user a certain level of interplay with the text. As Heather Jackson notes, “all the front area of a book, from the inside of the front cover to the beginning of the text proper, presents an opportunity to provide introductory material, and the first impulse of any owner appears to be the impulse to stake a claim” [ii]. This sense of ‘staking a claim’ is important and I shall explore this further below. After examining the map and the penmanship around it, it is highly probable that Duncan is the cartographic copier. I shall not attempt to construct Duncan in great detail, as a reader, actual or implied; for my purposes, Duncan serves as a cipher for the questions I want to outline and explore - I hope not to ‘sheam’ him in the process. 

The Bibles, side-by-side 
In order to get a sense of the context of Duncan’s scribbles, a brief note on the Bibles that he is using is pertinent. Duncan’s Matthews Bible, printed in Antwerp in 1537, earned its name from its ascription to “Thomas Matthew commonly taken to refer to the names of a disciple of Christ and an evangelist in order to form a pseudonym for John Rogers, a one-time associate of [William] Tyndale,” [iii] who edited what is essentially Tyndale’s work but also included Miles Coverdale’s translation of the Apocrypha. Tyndale had been executed at Henry VIII’s command only a year before the publication of this version although, with a dark irony, the Matthews Bible would form one of the main sources for the King’s Great Bible of 1539, the first authorized edition of the Bible in English. 

However, according to John King and Aaron Pratt, the Matthews version failed to “gain traction even though it furnished what became the primary basis for later versions [...]. The Matthew translation and its revisions […] were published in only nine among close to two hundred Bible and New Testament editions produced prior to the King James Bible” [iv]. With this in mind, it is noteworthy that this is the Bible that Andrew Duncan is using nearly one hundred and fifty years later in 1672 and possible reasons for this will be explored further below. 

The second Bible is the 1560 English Geneva Bible. With its thorough revisions of the Great Bible [v], in particular those books that Tyndale had not translated [vi], and its “most profitable annotations upon all the hard places” (from the title-page), this version became the household Bible of English-speaking Protestants in the 16th-century. In more outspokenly Calvinist Scotland, with its links to Geneva through John Knox and other exiles, “the Geneva Bible was from the beginning the version appointed to be read in churches” [vii] and it was actually the first Bible printed in Scotland in 1579. 

The mise-en-page of the Geneva Bible was novel: “it was printed in roman; it divided the text into verses, so as to facilitate the use of a concordance; words supplied in order to render the translation idiomatic were printed in italic; books and chapters were supplied with ‘arguments’; and summary running titles were provided” [viii]. However, for all its novelty, it also, infamously, includes extensive discursive marginal notes, “similar to manuscript and early printed commentaries” [ix] belying some of the Reformers’ protestations to let the text speak for itself. With this popular printed format in mind, it is easy to see how this version is seen as the first ‘study’ Bible to be put into the hands of vernacular readers. 

Much has been made of the textual apparatus yet little work has been done on the maps that are included in the Geneva Bible. If one lays the two Bibles alongside one another, it is clear that Andrew Duncan has compared them and decided to copy the Holy Land map into his own. This felt need is made manifest in this unique piece of marginalia, not scribbled around or into the text at the opening to the New Testament where it is bound in the Geneva Bible, but placed right at the very beginning, even before the beginning, of his Matthews Bible. But where does this map come from and what functions might it be serving for Duncan? 

Biblical Maps and the Printing of Protestant Geopiety 
Catherine Delano-Smith and Elizabeth Morley Ingram have covered this topic in fantastic detail, examining over 1000 Bibles and New Testaments, including at least one copy of every recorded 16th century English edition of the Bible. Interestingly, only 176 editions contain maps and “they occur primarily in full Bibles rather than in New Testaments” [x]. The maps are also included in Dutch, English, and German Bibles and French editions published in Switzerland or in Swiss-influenced parts of France; as Delano-Smith and Ingram make clear, “the history of maps in Bibles is part of the history of the Reformation” [xi]. 

The Holy Land map we are concerned with appeared as one of four new woodcut maps printed in Nicolas Barbier and Thomas Courteau’s French Genevan Bible (1559): “Two of the maps relate to the Old Testament (Exodus, the Division of Canaan among the twelve tribes), and two to the New (Palestine in the time of Christ, the Eastern Mediterranean for the journeys of Paul). All four maps appear to have been made specifically for this Bible and are announced on its title-page” [xii]. Barbier draws attention to the “four chorographical maps of great use and consolation” (‘quatre cartes chorographiques de grande utilité et consolation’) and explains that their purpose is “to present clearly to the reader's eye what is otherwise difficult to grasp from the text alone” (‘pour representer au vif devant les yeux ce qui seroit plus difficile a imaginer & considerer par la seule lecture’) [xiii]. These four maps “were published again, from different woodblocks, in the following year in Rouland Hall's English translation of the Genevan bible, also published in Geneva” [xiv]. This ‘set of four’, along with the addition of John Calvin’s Eden map, 

provide an exceptional example of consistency in map design. They were used as a more or less complete set by at least twenty-four different publishers for forty-eight different editions of the complete bible in nine languages in many countries for half a century. They were copied and recopied. Yet each remained to all intents and purposes identical. [xv]

As Delano-Smith and Ingram highlight, 

the maps also, no doubt, had a commercial function. Like other illustrations in the Bibles, they were a selling point as their advertisement on title pages indicates; and like other illustrations, they were costly. Publishers and printers could economise by borrowing existing map blocks or by copying prints. Such commercial restraints must explain, at least in part, the quite astonishing faithfulness of so many Genevan map copies from 1559 onwards, and their overall durability. [xvi]

The Genevan Bible is an enhanced Bible and thus eminently more marketable, targeting those users who appreciate the utility and ‘consolation’ of maps and other apparatus. But this remains a theological market – the maps also demonstrate the Protestant view of the primacy of scripture over doctrine and emphasize “both the historical reality and the eschatological promise of scripture by demonstrating its geographical setting” [xvii]. The Holy Land map serves as an illustration, supplementing the text, and adding a visual, imaginative dimension to be read with the biblical accounts. 

The commercial constraints on production and the durability of these illustrations in printed Bibles ensures that they reach a wide public [xviii] and goes some way to accounting for Duncan’s awareness of and desire to copy the Genevan map. The medium of a printed map raises some interesting questions relating to its usage however, particularly around the intersections of early modern cartographical thinking and knowledge production. 

There is much debate in book history circles over whether the development of printed material led seamlessly to the “diffusion of the Scientific Revolution of the seventeenth century, the Protestant Reformation and the Renaissance” [xix]. Some scholars make the point that the dissemination of a more ‘scientific’ cartography can be married to a sense of uniformity in print, “a vital development for reference works like maps […] [which] would have little credibility if the reader knew that every copy was unique” [xx]. Yet it is important not to overstate the case for print’s accuracy and fixity per se. As Adrian Johns has asserted, “early modern printing was not joined by any obvious or necessary bond to enhanced fidelity, reliability, and truth. That bond had to be forged” [xxi]. 

Yet, in the case of the Geneva maps, geographical accuracy is not the primary aim and it is here that we can see one of the key outworkings of the maps printed in Protestant Bibles. These maps, “as art and not just like art, became a mechanism for appropriating the (sacred) world by categorizing it in the manner approved by the religious authorities” [xxii]. The bonds that compel Andrew Duncan to sketch his map are formed from the religious, historical, and economic forces that undergird the authority of the map: even as late as 1672, this is the map that he wants as, through its repetition in printed Bibles, it is now an authorized cartography of Palestine, an aid to his own locating of the peregrinations of Jesus and his disciples across the text. 

Andrew Duncan’s Marginal Map 
Through an accident of its material production, Andrew Duncan’s old Matthews Bible opens up a substantial marginal space, providing the opportunity for what Kate Narveson terms the “imaginative control of one’s self-understanding” [xxiii]. Evelyn Tribble suggests that marginal notes on the early-modern printed page demonstrate “a territory of contestation upon which issues of political, religious, social, and literary authority are fought” [xxiv]. Yet Duncan’s scribbled map sits at a complex nexus of material uses of the Bible and he seems uninterested in contesting biblical authority. Rather, he utilises this space to underwrite received authority with his own sketched copy. Heather Jackson argues that “the Bible is a prototype of all especially treasured and pored-over volumes […]. It attracted supplementary materials, almost as an act of worship, certainly in a spirit of reverence” [xxv]. Perhaps due to the high cost of a purchasing a King James Version [xxvi], Duncan has procured a Geneva Bible from which to copy his Holy Land map and constructs this hybrid Matthews Bible. This supplementary map is a detailed aide-memoire that is a performance of his own geopiety; through his lines of ink and penmanship, he travels imaginatively and with graphological flourish across this biblical page. 

However, his marginal sketch is also central to understanding the “cartographic image in a social world” [xxvii]. The Geneva Bible, in its innovative layout and marginal apparatus, invites imitation; as Jackson notes, printed editions of “the Bible and of classical and vernacular literature provided models of scholarly annotation that readers could extend to works of their own choosing […] the book itself providing the system of organization” [xxviii]. The Geneva Holy Land map invites Duncan to reproduce it in the white space of his Matthews Bible, where he does not question its validity as a map per se, but confirms its cartographic authority as “part of the intellectual apparatus of power” [xxix]. Alongside the ownership marks, Duncan is careful to copy in the note indicating that his sketch is a ‘description of the holie land and of the places mentioned in the foure euangelistes’. This cartographic means of ‘staking a claim’ sets the scene for a geopiety that fuses an unvisited land with an ‘imaginative geography’, maintained by a combination of textual authority and widely disseminated biblical maps. This map does not stand isolated and alone; it is part of a mesh of other contemporary cartographical works, existing alongside other Renaissance and early-modern exegetical visualisations of the Holy Land: histories, atlases, and “mural map cycles designed for both sacred and secular settings” [xxx]. These maps do not function as mirrors but are producers of a specific cartographic world-view that anchors theological exegesis in an idea of the real, historical world. But this has other consequences. The woodcut map from the English Geneva Bible also depicts three 16th century galleons carving up the Mediterranean; Duncan includes one of his own, quite literally a ‘ship of the line’. In this way, this unique and reverential marginal map participates in the cartographical thinking that claims and colonises lands on paper, anticipating other lines of power, ultimately justified by a God’s-eye view [xxxi]. As John Pickles notes, “maps provide the very conditions of possibility for the worlds we inhabit and the subjects we become” [xxxii]. For the geopious subject, the biblical map is nothing less than the sketching out of the divine entering the measurable, mappable ‘real’.  

Acknowledgment: The author would like to thank Robert Maclean, Assistant Librarian at Glasgow University Library's Special Collections, for drawing his attention to the Matthew's Bible.

 

References: 
Bruce, F. F. The English Bible: A History of Translations. London: Methuen, 1963. 
Delano-Smith, Catherine. ‘Maps as Art and Science: Maps in Sixteenth Century Bibles’. Imago Mundi 42 (1990): 65–83. 
Delano-Smith, Catherine, and Elizabeth Morley Ingram. Maps in Bibles 1500-1600: An Illustrated Catalogue. Geneva: Librairie Droz S.A., 1991. 
Harley, J. B. ‘Maps, Knowledge, and Power’. In The Iconography of Landscape: Essays on the Symbolic Representation, Design, and Use of Past Environments, edited by Denis Cosgrove and Stephen Daniels, 277–312. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988. Ingram, Elizabeth M. ‘Maps as Readers’ Aids: Maps and Plans in Geneva Bibles’. Imago Mundi 45 (1993): 29–44. 
Jackson, H. J. Marginalia: Readers Writing in Books. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002. 
Johns, Adrian. The Nature of the Book: Print and Knowledge in the Making. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2000. 
King, John N., and Aaron T. Pratt. ‘The Materiality of English Printed Bibles from the Tyndale New Testament to the King James Bible’. In The King James Bible after 400 Years: Literary, Linguistic, and Cultural Influences, edited by Hannibal Hamlin and Norman W. Jones, 60–99. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010. 
Long, Burke O. Imagining the Holy Land: Maps, Models, and Fantasy Travels. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2003. 
Lyons, Martyn. A History of Reading and Writing: In the Western World. Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. 
McMullin, B. J. ‘The Bible Trade’. In The Cambridge History of the Book in Britain: 1557-1695, edited by John Barnard, D. F. McKenzie, and Maureen Bell, 4:455–73. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. 
Narveson, Kate. Bible Readers and Lay Writers in Early Modern England: Gender and Self-Definition in an Emergent Writing Culture. Farnham and Burlington: Routledge, 2012. Pickles, John. A History of Spaces: Cartographic Reason, Mapping and the Geo-Coded World. London and New York: Routledge, 2003. 
Said, Edward W. ‘Invention, Memory, and Place’. In The People, Place, and Space Reader, edited by Jen Jack Gieseking, William Mangold, Cindi Katz, Setha Low, and Susan Saegert, 361–65. New York and London: Routledge, 2014. 
Tribble, Evelyn B. Margins and Marginality: The Printed Page in Early Modern England. Charlottesville and London: University of Virginia Press, 1993. 
Watts, Pauline Moffitt. ‘The European Religious Worldview and Its Influence on Mapping’. In The History of Cartography, edited by David Woodward, 3 (Part 1): 382–400. Chicago & London: Chicago University Press, 2007. 

Endnotes: 
[i] Burke O. Long, Imagining the Holy Land: Maps, Models, and Fantasy Travels. (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2003), 1. 
[ii] H. J. Jackson, Marginalia: Readers Writing in Books (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), 19. 
[iii] John N. King and Aaron T. Pratt, ‘The Materiality of English Printed Bibles from the Tyndale New Testament to the King James Bible’, in The King James Bible after 400 Years: Literary, Linguistic, and Cultural Influences, ed. Hannibal Hamlin and Norman W. Jones (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 67. 
[iv] Ibid. 
[v] The Great Bible of 1539, prepared by Myles Coverdale, was the first Bible authorised by Henry VIII to be read in Church of England churches. Much of the material comes from William Tyndale, with Coverdale providing material missing from Tyndale’s original. 
[vi] F. F. Bruce, The English Bible: A History of Translations (London: Methuen, 1963), 89. [vii] Ibid., 92. 
[viii] B. J. McMullin, ‘The Bible Trade’, in The Cambridge History of the Book in Britain: 1557-1695, ed. John Barnard, D. F. McKenzie, and Maureen Bell, vol. 4 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 456. Notwithstanding Conrad Badius’s publication of an English New Testament in 1557 (translated by the English exile William Whittingham) which is the first English Bible to include both chapter and verse divisions. 
[ix] King and Pratt, ‘The Materiality of English Printed Bibles from the Tyndale New Testament to the King James Bible’, 77. 
[x] Catherine Delano-Smith and Elizabeth Morley Ingram, Maps in Bibles 1500-1600: An Illustrated Catalogue (Geneva: Librairie Droz S.A., 1991). xvi. 
[xi] Ibid. 
[xii] Elizabeth M. Ingram, ‘Maps as Readers’ Aids: Maps and Plans in Geneva Bibles’, Imago Mundi 45 (1993): 29. 
[xiii] Ibid., 30. 
[xiv] Catherine Delano-Smith, ‘Maps as Art and Science: Maps in Sixteenth Century Bibles’, Imago Mundi 42 (1990): 67. 
[xv] Ibid., 73. 
[xvi] Delano-Smith and Morley Ingram, Maps in Bibles 1500-1600: An Illustrated Catalogue, xxix. 
[xvii] Ibid. 
[xviii] Ingram, ‘Maps as Readers’ Aids: Maps and Plans in Geneva Bibles’, 39. 
[xix] Martyn Lyons, A History of Reading and Writing: In the Western World (Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 26. 
[xx] Ibid., 33–34. 
[xxi] Adrian Johns, The Nature of the Book: Print and Knowledge in the Making (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2000), 5. 
[xxii] Delano-Smith, ‘Maps as Art and Science: Maps in Sixteenth Century Bibles’, 77. 
[xxiii] Kate Narveson, Bible Readers and Lay Writers in Early Modern England: Gender and Self-Definition in an Emergent Writing Culture (Farnham and Burlington: Routledge, 2012), 6. 
[xxiv] Evelyn B. Tribble, Margins and Marginality: The Printed Page in Early Modern England (Charlottesville and London: University of Virginia Press, 1993), 2. 
[xxv] Jackson, Marginalia, 182. 
[xxvi] See McMullin, ‘The Bible Trade’. 
[xxvii] J. B. Harley, ‘Maps, Knowledge, and Power’, in The Iconography of Landscape: Essays on the Symbolic Representation, Design, and Use of Past Environments, ed. Denis Cosgrove and Stephen Daniels (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 303. 
[xxviii] Jackson, Marginalia, 184. 
[xxix] Harley, ‘Maps, Knowledge, and Power’, 282. 
[xxx] Pauline Moffitt Watts, ‘The European Religious Worldview and Its Influence on Mapping’, in The History of Cartography, ed. David Woodward, vol. 3 (Part 1) (Chicago & London: Chicago University Press, 2007), 395. 
[xxxi] Harley, ‘Maps, Knowledge, and Power’, 282. 
[xxxii] John Pickles, A History of Spaces: Cartographic Reason, Mapping and the Geo-Coded World (London and New York: Routledge, 2003), 5.